#that paranoia was proven correct

[bread-wizards]

I think that Orym actually does doubt Imogen, but this isn't a thing that is unique to Imogen. Orym doubts all of them to an extent, because paranoia is something he struggles with (and this is continuously reinforced by the story).

It's not a 'good' thing that he should never get over, nor is it an immoral character flaw that proves he actually hates Imogen. However it's also not something I think he can get over as long as the threat of having to possibly fight his friends exists.

"I have all the faith in the world in you guys, all of you. And I have also spent time thinking how to neutralize each of you."

[specialagentartemis]

Something always fascinating to me is the "character who thinks they're in a different genre" phenomenon. The theme of the story you are telling determines what the right and wrong actions to take are; but the characters, reacting in-universe to the situation, don't know what story they're in, and the exact same responses can be what saves you or damns you depending on what kind of story the author is telling and what the story's message is about what life is like.

In Wolf 359, Warren Kepler approaches the mysterious and powerful aliens with threats; he kills their liaison and tries to position himself as a powerful opponent. However, he's shown to be wrong and making things worse: his preemptive aggression is unwarranted and unhelpful and bites him in the ass. The aliens want to communicate and understand humanity and share our music. It's Doug Eiffel, the pacifistic (and kind of scaredy-cat) communications officer who loves to talk and share pop culture, who talks to them and understands that the aliens are scary not because they want to kill us but because they don't understand the concepts of individuals and death. Talking to them, communicating with them, understanding where they're coming from and and bringing them to understand a human point of view, is what succeeds. Openness rather than suspicion, trust rather than aggression. Kepler thinks he's a dramatic space marine protecting the Earth from the alien threat by showing them humans are tough and can take them, but that's not the kind of story this is.

Conversely, in Janus Descending, Chel is in awe of the strange and beautiful alien world around her. She wants to touch it, understand it, get up close to it. When she sees a crystal alien dog, she wants to befriend it, despite Peter's warning. But when she gets close to it, extending her arm in greeting, it attacks her and drags her down into the cave to try to eat her. This sets the inevitable tragedy in motion. Suspicion is warranted; trust will get you killed. Because this is a sci-fi horror, with a major running thematic reading about how racism and sexism will destroy your brain and your society, and how the people who think they're too smart to be prejudiced don't see their own prejudice and will end up ruining the lives of the people they still don't fully see as equals, this kind of trust that Chel shows this strange alien is tragic. However it is also a horror story where there are very real hibernating space snakes ready to wake up and eat the fresh meat that has landed on their planet, and by being too trusting Chel has accidentally introduced herself to one.

Kepler, suspicious and ready to shoot any alien he doesn't understand, would likely have survived Janus Descending; Chel, with her enthusiasm for learning about and meeting aliens, would have been a wonderful and helpful member of the Wolf 359 crew.

In a similar manner, in Alien, Ellen Ripley yells to the rest of her crew not to bring the attacked crewmember with the alien on his face back on the ship and into the medical bay, you don't know what contamination that thing might have; she's ignored. She tells them not to let the crewmember out of quarantine even though he seems fine; she's ignored again. Ripley is the one person protesting this isn't safe, we don't know what's going on, and she is consistently ignored, until an alien bursts out of her crewmate's chest and then eats everyone and Ripley is proven to be right and also the only survivor. (And it turns out that the science officer consistently overriding her protests was an android sent by the company that contracted them, and said android was given orders to bring the alien back so the company could study it and do weapons development with it, try not to let the crew find out about it, and kill them if he had to in order to do so!)

Ripley's paranoia and mistrust of the situation was correct, because Alien is a space horror and the theme is in space no one can hear you scream (also corporations consider you expendable).

Conversely, in All Systems Red, we have a damaged and almost-combat-overridden Murderbot being brought back into the PreservationAux hab medical bay after being attacked by other SecUnits. Gurathin becomes the one person protesting this isn't safe, we don't know what's going on, he doesn't want to let Murderbot out because it's hacked and probably sabotaging them for the company contracted their security and sent it with them. Gurathin thinks he is the Ellen Ripley here! He is trying to warn his teammates not to make a dangerous mistake that will get everyone killed!

However, All Systems Red is a very different story than Alien, and Murderbot is neither a traitor on behalf of the company to sabotage them and steal alien remnants for weapons development, nor a threat to the humans - it's a friend, it's a good person, and it wants to help them against both companies willing to screw them over. Trusting it and helping it is the right thing to do and is what saves their lives. Gurathin is proven to be wrong.

If everyone on the Nostromo crew had listened to Ellen Ripley, they would still be alive (except Kane. RIP Kane), because this is a horror story about being isolated and hunted and going up against this horrifying thing that wants to kill and eat you and just keeps getting stronger. If everyone on the PreservationAux team listened to Gurathin, they would all be dead, because this is a story about friendship and teamwork and trust and overcoming trauma and accepting the personhood of someone very different from you.

Same responses. Different context. And so very different moral conclusions.

Warren Kepler was about how the brash violent over-confident approach to things you don't understand is wrong, and that openness and developing that understanding between people is what's important; Chel was about the tragedy of trust destroying a Black woman who wanted so much to believe in a world that could be kind and beautiful. Ripley was about a woman whose expertise and safety warnings were ignored and brushed aside and everyone who did so died because of it; Gurathin was about how even justified fear shouldn't mean you make someone else a scapegoat and mistrust them because they seem scary.

Sometimes you're in the wrong genre because you need to be, because the author is trying to show how not to react to the situation they set up in order to build the mood and the theme they're trying to convey.

[lovingdabeessss]

*clears throat* WHITE ROSE HASNT HAPPENED BECAUSE THEY ARE SIMPLY NOT DOOMED ENOUGH

The most consistent thing about RWBY is that in order to be in a romantic relationship the relationship MUST be doomed explicitly

Jaune and Pyrrha only kiss after she knows she’s ABOUT TO DIE

Ren and Nora only get to kiss during an argument where ren slightly expresses his paranoia and reasons he refuses to be with her, then he immediately gets proven right and then Nora gets almost electrocuted to death

The only reason clover and qrow get to flirt for essentially EVERY scene they have together is that they’re EXPLICITLY doomed (it’s about how their individual relationships with luck have led them to be intensely loyal to authority. Qrow in a sense of gratitude, clover in a sense of privilege. they’re both the best huntsman of where they were and most trusted warriors of their leaders. however qrows life has had his team fall apart and has gotten the appropriate amount of disillusionment from ozpins lies. This is what saves him. But clover has been left to be doomed to death because he cannot believe a system he was built for could be anything but inherently correct. Qrows misfortune had saved him clovers luck killed him. And despite how hard anyone could’ve tried their was never anything that could have saved him from being gods most perfect soldier. Or idk something like that I don’t think about them enough)

Tai summer and raven. Raven was always going to leave to go back to her tribe. Summer was always going to be murdered by Salem. Tai was always going to be left. They all knew they all probably tried to deny it. They all walked backwards into their own narrative. Their ship name is apparently str crossed lovers. Which is genius.

Ruby and penny got their whole thing because penny died TWICE and now she’s permanently haunting ruby’s lil narrative so good for her

and that’s why chronic runaway and abandonment issues personified are CANNON SOULMATES (I could go on several rants I adore them)

So yeah if you want them to be cannon they just have to be more doomed but it’s kinda hard for that cause they had a little reversed doomed situation where they’re relationship was always going to get better because they were kinda enemies at first

Anyway good luck to whiterose shippers I wish you all a very happy only team partners that haven’t kissed yet

[kastlequill]

ii/v. ‘til my pulse loses time: pulsus bigeminus

pairing: kyle gaz garrick x f!reader word count: 1.4k synopsis: the second time you save gaz tags: whumptober, broken bones, blood and injury, wound tending, hurt/comfort, medic!reader, 4+1, no y/n warnings: war ao3: read here ← prev | next →

II.

The first time you left the base’s vicinity to operate out in the field was under less than ideal circumstances.  

You’d been stitching up a deep laceration across the chest of an infantryman when your radio crackled to life. On the other end of the comms, Captain Price had informed you of his squad’s status after a particularly nasty ambush near a series of steep cliffs not too far off from the medbay. While Sergeant McTavish and that lieutenant had managed to avoid the worst of the damage, one Sergeant Garrick was currently still stuck under several large bits of debris. Before the captain tried pulling him free, he wanted medical personnel to be on standby. 

So here you were, staring at a pile of rubble, wondering just how far below laid the man out of whom you’d dug a bullet some weeks ago. 

“Have you been able to contact him, Captain?” you asked so as to fill the silence with something, anything other than your unrelenting thoughts of paranoia and worst-case scenarios. 

Price nodded, his hands grabbing onto the collar of his tactical vest. “Affirmative. We checked in just before you arrived.”

“Put him on the line.”

The captain unclipped a hand-held radio from his waistband and tossed it your way before turning around to convene with his remaining men. You raised the device to the level of your chin, pressed the button on its side, and spoke.

“Sergeant Garrick,” you greeted, tone clinical and matter-of-fact. “Can you hear me?”

A cough sounded through the static. “Nice to hear a familiar voice, Doc.”

You almost snorted at that; familiarity wasn’t exactly the first word you’d use to describe your professional relationship with the guy. The two of you hadn’t exchanged more than a few acknowledging gestures since that day his comrades dragged him into the clinic. In fact, until this very moment, you’d thought he had forgotten all about the interaction, reducing you to a mere vagueness in his pain-hazed memory.

It appeared, however, that the sergeant remembered plenty enough. While he had managed to stay out of trouble—and thus out of your orbit—during this past string of weeks, the pit in your stomach had never quite left.

Your initial premonition had proven correct. Injured again. Through no fault of his own, yes, but establishing fault was hardly important when it came to life and death.

“How are you faring down there? Try and rank your pain on a scale of one to ten.” While you waited for him to respond, you began to set up your equipment, digging for your stethoscope, for bandages and gauze. Once everything was to your satisfaction, a quick wave of your hand brought Captain Price back to the site, ready to excavate the final member of his team.

“Feels like a bloody mountain of rocks just fell on top o’ me, how ‘bout that?”

Damn soldiers. Always difficult, always stubborn. “A number, Gaz.”

“Between a three and a four,” he relented after a few beats of silence. His voice sounded strained despite his efforts to conceal the truth of his current state. “But no rush, yeah? The quiet’s not so bad.”

You handed the radio back to the captain, with whom you shared a look. Freeing Gaz was your highest priority; there’d be no more delays.

Price signaled for McTavish and the one called Ghost to approach the rubble, and, together, the three of them got to digging. Their gloved hands lifted debris, methodically removing boulders and slabs of earth in a way that would minimize the risk of it all toppling down. It was arduous work, but involving heavier machinery might do more harm than good.

Ten minutes into the unburial, they located him. Pinned beneath stone, in an air pocket—alive. McTavish and Ghost relieved the crushing weight, enabling Price to grab Gaz by the arms and drag him towards an open spot of land. There, he tried to sit upright, eager to become of use, but a single stern if I catch you moving before the medic gives the all clear, I’ll make your arse clean latrines for the next month, hear? from his captain had him stilling.

As you knelt closer to the wounded man, those brown eyes swiveled to meet yours, trapping you with their alert intensity. Dirt was speckled across the bridge of his nose, appearing more like a patch of constellations than grime, and a cut crusted with dried blood ran through his left brow. Dust clung to his lashes, exhaustion deep set in his face, and yet he looked. . .

Good. Too good, considering where he’d been for the last hour. Not the most professional observation, sure, but you were only human.

The longer you maintained eye-contact, the more recognizable the reverence in his stare became to you; it wasn’t uncommon for soldiers who’d been separated from their environment, from their very atmosphere, to view the mortal world as heaven itself once they returned. That same sentiment was now infused into his gaze, shining with wonder, like he had just found the answers to his life-long questions, had just stumbled upon eternal paradise.

The kiss of the wind, the hug of the sunlight, the confession of the birdsong. A utopia; Eden.

“Happy to see the sun, Sergeant?”

A flicker of confusion replaced the awe in his expression, but it was gone so quickly you questioned if it’d even been there in the first place. “Right, the sun, yes, that. Bloody ecstatic.”

Gripping his shoulders, you assisted him in moving from a supine to an upright position, your efforts careful and gradual. The amount of buckles and straps and zippers that constituted his tactical vest were unnecessarily complicated, in your opinion, which made freeing it from his body too damn difficult. After a minute of watching you struggle, Gaz took mercy on you; he brushed aside your unsteady hands, swiftly unclasping the vest and pulling it over his head with a wince.

The motion drew your attention to his face. You assessed his clenched jaw, the pronounced frown line between his brows, the strained muscles and bulging veins in his neck—all physical signs that did not particularly bode well.

“I’m going to check if anything’s broken. Is it alright if I feel my way around?” At his nod, you brought your fingers to his sternum. “This may hurt.”

And so began the routine of poking and prodding and pressing. He inhaled sharply when you touched along his midsection, over his ribs, but he waved off your whispered apology, motioning for you to continue your examination. Even through his clothes, you could discern what felt like misaligned bones, which was to be expected.

You leaned slightly away to retrieve your stethoscope then guided its ends into your ears, wanting to listen to his lungs. Carefully untucking his shirt from the waistband of his cargo pants, you slipped your hand beneath the fabric and rested the auscultatory device against the skin of his back.

“Take a deep breath in for me. Hold it. Then slowly, slowly breathe out.”

Ever the soldier, he heeded your directive, his chest filling with oxygen. No crackling noises, and his respirations sounded regular, so you concluded that he had avoided puncturing a lung. Thankfully.

However, that still left the matter of the tenderness you’d felt in his torso as well as the fractures his ribcage had sustained.

“His ribs,” you diagnosed, withdrawing your hand from his heat, hanging the stethoscope around your neck, then rising to your feet to better address the captain. It unnerved you, the height difference between you and every single one of these men, and you thus had no desire to further add onto that preexisting disparity by staying on the ground. “They’re almost certainly broken, but we’ll do an x-ray to confirm. The good news is that the recovery should be quick and easy. He’ll be field-ready in no time at all.”

Price nodded, and the majority of his concern ebbed away, frown lessening. “But?”

“But.” There’d always be a but in this field. No good could come without being joined by the bad; they were a package deal. “The bad news is he’ll have to visit the medbay at least once a week so I can monitor how it’s healing.”

If you had fully turned around to face him then, you would’ve seen the sly grin that now illuminated his features, the glint that entered his eyes. Alas, you did not, and so his following words caught you off-guard, bringing heat to your cheeks.

“Seems we’ve got awfully different definitions of bad news, love.”

tbc.

[platinumrosetail]

runaan x dom male reader story. The reader is a moonshadown elf and dragon hybrid and very overprotective of runaan. When runaan got captured reader saved him and was very scared for runaan

Oooh interesting a hybrid reader, alright let’s get on with the request shall we? 😁

Warning: noob author, male reader, and others.

Character: runaan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and runaan were husbands; he was a full blooded moon shadow elf while you were a hybrid of a moon shadow elf with a dragon, and because of your dragon half you were very overprotective of him and those you deemed family and friends.

You of course try your best not to go overboard as you knew runaan could take care of himself but there’s always that paranoia that something could happen while he’s on a mission.

Your paranoia was proven correct when he and his group went to katolis to kill their king and heir after what the humans did to the dragon king and his heir as revenge.

You just kept on getting a unease feeling about this particular mission your husband is on and decided to follow them just to make sure you’re wrong but you in fact made the right choice as you found runaan captured in a dungeon.

Before you could save him it seems the one who captured him came back so you left but still kept close by just in case you needed to do something to save runaan.

After making sure that the coast was clear you came out began trying to get him out of the chains. Runaan tries to get you to leave before you get captured as well but you have him a stern look that meant ‘no more’ as you needed to be quiet and quick and you don’t want to leave him there any longer no matter what he says and as long as you two are together then you’d be just fine getting captured you told him.

After you got him out of the chains and cell you immediately flew back home on your wings that you have from your dragon half. After you two got home you cuddled and held him close as you almost lost him if the one who captured him decided to do something that you don’t even want to think more about. Runaan let you as he knew what you were going through as he wouldn’t be able to see you if you hadn’t found him and free him from the cell.

(A/n: hope y’all like it!! This honestly came to me super ease which I’m glad for 😁 anyway I think that’s it so hope y’all have a wonderful day/evening/night!!)

[lloydfrontera]

Seriously, I shouldn't ignore this weird feeling that grips me at times these days. It was rare that such a hunch was wrong. It's something that we all develop after years and years of living and trying to survive. It's sort of like a big data file of life. I think this gut feeling is quite credible.

babygirl intuition may be a thing but i think what you have is anxiety with a healthy dose of ptsd :/

but the most tragic thing is that he's right, the universe is literally out to get him, so he's constantly getting his pessimism validated which only makes him even more wary and cautious of the future because every time he's thought something was about to go wrong he's been proven correct. he's literally the embodiment of the 'is it paranoia if i'm right about it' quote.

[importantdestinydefendor]

Azar was appointed the highest military rank in Maar (I know you gave it a name but you were considering changing some names so does that include the title?) at a very young age, 22 if I recall, though you said you might change that. Nonetheless, she was very young when she got the rank. You said it was a matter of survival for her. I assume it has something to do with her half-Maaren half-Parsian lineage, as she'd be half foreign in Maar. Did something happen to facilitate her scrambling to rise through the ranks? Was she discriminated against? Were her relatives (evil aunt?) involved in that? Oh and how old is she actually, by Pars era 320? 22?

(It's a lot of questions, I know, and I know you usually don't like spoiling stuff but it's been weighing on my mind since I saw you mention “it was a matter of survival for her” and I just have to give it a try.)

Finally getting around to this.

I'm so happy that I'm not the only one who has Azar brain rot and that you all love her as much as I do!

So, small correction. Azar is 100% Parsian.

She does have family in Maar but only through second degree. The sister of her father married a Maaren farmer and built a family there (a pretty big one... I should maybe make a separate post for that). And it is at their, like, inn/tavern/farm in the village Rus where she grew up after being brought to Maar by said sister and, to some extent, Vahriz when she was one year old.

Now to the question that sparked your ask, probably.

Her "evil" aunt was part of the reason. Vahriz knew her when they all were young (or rather when he was young and they (also meaning Daryuns dad and Azar's mom) even younger) Their families were friends since their fathers were old friends.

So, a little spoiler for the AU, Azar's "evil" aunt (she does have a name, will do a post/poll about that later maybe with a few options)  was the one who killed Azar's mom. That's why Azar lives in Maar right now as her dads sister and Vahriz thought that she was safer there than in Pars. But that was proven false when the "evil" aunt ambushed Rus and gave Azar her first scar on her back (she tried to protect a few children in a church during the raid) when Azar was very young. After that the aunt attacked one more time and scared Azar's uncle (the farmer).

So  Vahriz brought her to the capital of Maar, Visgard, to receive proper training and that's when Azar became a squire. Vahriz felt guilty that he failed to protect her so he was very strict with Azar's training. He was so strict in fact that he exhausted her and brought her to her absolute limits. Others thought that Vahriz was maybe even too extreme. It was a very rough and hard time for Azar but for Vahriz, it seemed necessary. So she can protect herself with utmost certainty because he knows he won't always be there and he does still have a nephew he also has to look after. He basically drilled her and that's why she rose through the ranks so fast.

In the end it was Vahriz paranoia and guilt that drove her up the ranks so fast. A lot of people lost their lives the day Azar's mom died and Vahriz swore to protect and take care of Azar. But he failed in his eyes - twice. So he taught her everything he knew, drilled it into her, so she had a chance of survival when she came face to face with her aunt.

And due that and her vast skill set she proved herself to be a capable knight and leader. So she got appointed Almennt (I won't change the name for this one as in georgian it would be called generali and that does not sound serious at all (I do not say that as to mock the language, mind you. It just doesn't fit Azar at all)). I will probably change her age at the time to 23. Seems more fitting

And since we are at the topic of age and you asked how old Azar is in Pars era 320 (for those who don't know - that is our current time in ArSen) - she is the same age as Narsus, 26. She would probably be a few months older than him. So it has been three-ish years since her appointment.

(I hope I have answered everything you wanted to know!)

If anybody has other questions that you want to be answered regarding Azar/Firelight AU or any other OC I had mentioned or shown - my inbox is always open! I will write if it is something I won't answer if I regard my answer too spoiler heavy.

Edit: forgot the discrimination part. I have not really thought about that yet but considering where Maar's citizens originally came from it would be highly hypocritical. But there were (and still are (this time out of jealousy)) probably some squires and knights who were discriminating against or at least hated her due to King Farzin showing interest in her and sometimes training her personally alongside Vahriz. She probably got more discrimination against her with being a woman in one of the highest ranks in Maar since all of her predecessors were men.

[thatbennybee]

Viva and Branch are kinda weird to me i feel like they get along only in one front and thats safety they both kinda have a similar story in terms of They Saw Their loved one leave them behind or die in front of them and they both in some terms secluded themselves but Viva seemed happy with it seeing how her colors aren’t muted or anything if anything as we saw she is still like Poppy

Branch was secluded by his choice and he was miserable while Viva was happy in her own little cage yet seeing them interact (while just for a little) i don’t really see how they get along outside of probably paranoia

If i can put it in words lets say Branch and Viva can both do Ballet Street Style lets say Viva and Branch (Grey) both do it perfectly but stay in a spot not letting them go and move but when Branch got his colors he uses more space being more free while Viva stays still (if that makes any sense)

Idk i just dont feel like Viva fits sure i love Poppy has family but i hate that she’s… there like she was added like last minute

No... Viva definitely fits, she was just rushed. Viva is a parallel to Poppy in the same way that JD is a parallel to Branch. ☝️🤓 It's quite clear she is.

Viva is the result of not having someone like Branch in her life to make her see that her way of life, while temporarily effective in keeping other safe, was still not being free nor happy. JD is the result of what Branch would be like without meeting someone like Poppy. Someone who was headstrong enough to change their worldviews. Viva and JD didn't have that person.

The whole point of Branch and Viva having that one candid moment was important.

We have no idea if Viva was grey at some point or not, but regardless, that's not a fair point because the entire Pop Village went great for a short period of time and they're all fully vibrant, including Poppy. Branch was grey for like 20 years and has permanent effects from it, big difference.

Viva could've been grey and just gained them back like anyone else. I don't see how that's a point. 🤔

Moving on—

Branch wears his heart on his sleeve and openly talks about the bad things in the world, Viva hides hers so she doesn't have to think about the bad things and forces herself to think only about the good.

Poppy does the same thing in Trolls 1 and tried to force positivity through Trolls 2 and both times, it backfired. The difference is that Poppy had negative reinforcers that changed her behavior and thought process, while Viva was somewhat given positive reinforcers to stay where she was.

By that, I mean that she believed that hiding and staying that way would keep them safe. It was effective, yes, but she wasn't growing or changing because she was essentially proven correct. Meanwhile Poppy had a mindset that only worked within her sheltered bubble of life, but when her worldview was challenged, she had no idea how to handle it and choked.

Viva chokes too when they all leave her and her worldview is shattered when told that life outside isn't how she remembered it.

Branch is pretty candid when talking to viva and how he heavily relates to her, but shows her that there's other ways for her to grow. I don't see how Branch healing mentally would make it so Branch & Viva couldn't get along.

I think having someone who understands your fears better than anyone else world actually make it easier for them to bond and for Viva to heal in a way that is healthier than refusing to talk about it.

Branch and Viva could bond in ways other than safety, it's quite clear that Branch has no problems being silly or having a good time when he wants to.

He literally says it directly to Viva that he used to fear the world like she does, but he doesn't anymore. He's not that same person overly obsessed with safety and fear of the unknown. He just knows when it's a time to be serious and when isn't and he can take it easy.

Poppy has learned this lesson herself considering how she was quick to see that Viva wasn't being serious and focusing when asking her important questions. Viva just didn't really get the air time to learn the right lesson and it sucks. :[

Anyways, Branch having a level head and having a more serious approach than his peers doesn't mean he can't just have a good time and I feel like that could actually be a really good lesson for Viva to learn. You can want everyone to be safe, but also know when to reel it back and see that everything will be okay.

I think him and Viva would get along really well once she stops putting on the persona of being overly happy when she's not and is honest about what she's been through. I think he'd be able to find creative and familiar ways to bring her back into Pop Troll society without overwhelming her. They're all survivalists after all. :]

[theknightmarket]

Act 1 | Scene 6 - Pick Your Poison

It felt like Wilford was intentionally staying away. You didn’t know how he found it out, but he had been vacant from a stool at your bar for long enough that it couldn’t have been a coincidence. He was somehow aware of the revelation you’d had – or, at least, he was aware of your want to talk to him – and the subject was bad enough that it stopped him from showing up altogether.

That was your theory, anyway; the last month hadn’t been normal enough for you to consider yourself fully stable, and there was a high likelihood that Wilford was just plain busy. Your paranoia was seriously causing you some issues in other parts of your life, so why wouldn’t it go all out and take over the business side too?

On the other hand, your general experience with the man told you otherwise. He had never mentioned a job, let alone anything about his life that wasn’t disguised under layers of smoke and shadows, and he was sat in front of you enough that you hoped he didn’t have to work in the morning.

You were surprised that the whole looping scenario didn’t have consequences, anyway; in your opinion, you handled the aftermath of it quickly and efficiently, and, also in your opinion, that wasn’t good. Something utterly insane like the day going in circles seven times over wasn’t supposed to be processed that easily. The human brain wasn’t built to comprehend things that messed with time and space, but yours decided that the best course of action was to make a bowl of pasta and then fall asleep for ten hours until your alarm told you to open up the bar again. You supposed bouncing from shift to shift wasn’t doing you any favors, but it wasn’t affecting your ability to complete orders. How, you had no clue. To your knowledge, your skills should have plummeted, but they stayed in tip-top shape, as proven by the dozens of people you were presently serving in quick succession. It wasn’t that you hadn’t been given the time, either, because there were definitely the slow hours that had you standing behind the bar like a mannequin in a showroom.

All in all, you were more confused by your lack of appropriate reaction than confused by the actual events in the first place. The only true problem laid in your lack of answers, which prompted you to devote every second that you weren’t actively interacting with patrons to scouring the area for the pop of pink you had become so accustomed to. Time ticked by, every second another square inch searched, until you looped the crimson walls and started back at the front doors. 

It was a tedious endeavor, that was for sure, but there was nothing else you could do with your time, and you needed something to distract you from the growing numbness of your legs. A large influx of customers had passed you through, a tidal wave that battered the cliff face once and then ducked back into the ocean, around half an hour before. All of their drinks had been served, so you were simply waiting for calls for a refill or bill. 

You didn’t tend to make conversation with the people sitting at the main bar – you only spoke to Wilford on that first night because you were young, dumb and broke. It had only been a month ago, of course, and two of those were still correct, but it was the dramatic thought that counted. Regardless of your current state, it was no less true that the only reason you took the leap with anyone else was because of that random choice to make conversation. In the more recent times, you strayed from building relationships with your patrons, the only olive branches you gave being the odd question about work to your night-shift regulars. You didn’t think you were on first-name basis with anyone who didn’t have suspiciously similar faces.

Your eyebrows furrowed and you leaned forward against the bar subconsciously as you desperately tried to remember that line. No matter how unprofessional it was, you couldn’t help but worry your cheek between your teeth. Catching the muscle on the pointier bits hurt slightly but you were too focused to actively stop yourself. The shadows of the bar seemed to engulf the edges of your vision, and the music faded out, the end of a movie’s credits that trailed into nothingness. It was absolutely killing you that the common phrase wasn’t coming to mind.

But then you made eye contact with the man who had walked through the door, and it appeared in your mind like headlights in fog.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Because, with barely a glance needed to find an empty table in relative solitude, a very familiar face made you grind your teeth.

Was one normal day too much to ask for? Just one, just 24 hours of serving drinks, taking cards, and cleaning tables, that was it. The smallest indication that you were more than a higher power’s plaything.

Such a thing didn’t come, and so, instead, you began to inspect your new patron. The face was the same, obviously, but his hair was slicked back in a fashion that reminded you more of a yellowing family photograph than an actual living person. Paired with the small sketching of a mustache above his lip, you weren’t entirely sure he wasn’t from an album in your childhood home’s attic.

You might have made more mental comparisons had you not been slapped in the face by his outfit. The sight of a crimson suit knocked the wind out of you, made you breathless in the face of worries and fears and suspicions that bubbled to the surface. You desperately tried to force them back down, but the fancifulness was already buried under your skin. The face that you had seen on half a dozen other people suddenly became a comfort to you – the ones you already knew weren’t like that, because the most likely culprit was Dark but you had long since dismissed him as an option, so this man had no real reason to be a risk, and if he was, it wouldn’t affect the relationships you had built, right? They didn’t have to be connected, not necessarily. Worst case scenario, best case scenario, okay case scenario—

You breathed in and then breathed out. You were making it a bad habit to spiral in the middle of a shift, and it didn’t help when you couldn’t even muddle through your own thoughts to find what you were really worried about.

Ignoring your thundering heart, you took your frozen body around the bar and up to the table that the man had sat himself down at.

“Good evening, sir.” The words tingled on the end of your tongue, frostbite overtaking the practiced greeting.

Not that it mattered, considering the response you got was hardly warm; a look tossed your way and then tossed the other way, followed by some vague gesture that you thought must have been in the terms and conditions for wearing a suit. 

“Pauillac de Latour, thank you,” he spoke, just as smooth as his order. You could have benefitted from a please, but a brief interaction was a merciful one, and you were barely keeping yourself from scouring every inch of that jacket for a hint of its origin.

So, after a firm nod, you marched back to the bar and searched the shelves for the wine bottle. The 1977 wasn’t one you took out often – owing to its frankly ghastly price and a name that was pronounced even worse – but it was a big buck day when you did. Hell, with that order, you could have shut down the bar the second he handed you the money, and that thought terrified you. If you were distracted by the mere image of the suit, how were you going to serve him well enough that he would want to return? It was like getting a shark to bite at your bait, but the tug of the line threatened to pull you into the waters with it. You couldn’t let him get away, your personal grievances be damned.

You placed the wine bottle in a bucket of ice and carried it as carefully as you could to the table again. The little stand you saved for very important – very intimidating – patrons went with you, too, until you situated everything just as it was meant to be. You went through the motions, asked if he wanted to taste it first, poured the glistening burgundy into the glass in front of him, and spared as much of your mind as you could to keeping your breathing steady.

But something about your act was off. You didn’t know what it was exactly, but the man noticed that the façade you put up wasn’t the normal waitstaff formality. As you drew the bottle away from the wine glass, he curled his hand around the stem and stared straight into your eyes. Searching.

“Don’t you recognize me?”

The line snapped – you were in the water now – the shark was circling you. The shark, in fact, looked you up and down, smoothly bringing his eyes along the collar against your neckline, the lapel of your vest, the few creases on your shirt that stood stark against the crispness. Had you not been so occupied with appearing calm, you might have cracked a smile at the suspicion he was regarding you with, as if you weren’t the one on the edge of losing it.

To combat some of the tension, you replied, “Yes, sir, I do.” And it wasn’t a lie; you were seeing that face – that just so happened to belong to five other people – a whole lot. You weren’t going to admit that, though, because that would cost you a customer or your freedom, depending on how crazy he thought you were.

Nevertheless, the answer seemed to quell a portion of his suspicions. Not all of it was gone by the time he nodded and waved you off again, but, whereas his vision had been entirely clouded with doubt, some of it gave way to a certain… understanding? Acceptance? A realization that it wasn’t what he thought it was, but he still didn’t know what it actually was.

That was good enough for you, and he granted you a cue to leave, so you gratefully took it. You made your way back behind the bar as quick as you could without raising more questions, just in time to take the order of the next person who walked through the front door.

You struggled through the interaction, incredibly thankful for your autopilot skills, as you made the drinks and surveyed the room. The darkening sky owed to a table or two packing up, and they arrived at the bar to pay their bills in quick succession. Pleasantries were exchanged, ‘come back soon’s and ‘have a nice night’, even a smile that you forced until the door swung shut behind the last group. Anything to keep up the image of a collected bartender while that suited man was watching you.

Back where you normally stood, you grappled for something to do, something to occupy your hands and mind with, and you found the ever-present collection of dirty glasses. It was roughly nine o’clock, but a Tuesday was never busy after the rush of after-work drinkers. Currently, the bar was draining of its occupants, with only a group at one of the booths, a couple along the wall, and the man you were trying to ignore.

Surprise, you weren’t doing a great job of it.

The biggest offender to your heart rate was his graceful scribbling. His hand covered what he was doing, but your brain lunged at the prospect of a notepad, refusing to let go until you found out what it really was. Every time he shifted, your eyes darted to him as though a gun had gone off, and you tracked the movement of his hand from his glass to his lips. When it was empty, he refilled to its capacity, a process he repeated until he placed the empty bottle upside down in the sloshes of melted ice. You were aware of each and every time this happened, and it only occurred to you to be concerned when his gaze finally drifted from you.

You were wary of him, and a less shameful person would have admitted to a touch of fear still lingering in your heart, but that didn’t mean you could have no other emotions. Worry was quickly becoming one of them, not of him but for him. This kind of behavior, it simply wasn’t healthy.

With that thought in mind, you stashed your suspicions in the back of your mind and walked out from behind the bar. You made towards him as though you were simply going to remove the bottle, and you were planning to make light conversation as you did so, but he beat you to it.

“Are you sure you recognize me?” he asked. His tone was less conspiratorial, this time, and took on more disbelief.

Although the concern was still present, it was pushed next to your suspicions; he didn’t look how you thought he had. From as far away as the bar, you supposed the dim lights might have made him seen more despairing than he actually was. It was probably some kind of media influence, going so far as to see him as a tragic, brooding soldier, reminiscing on his past through the window, instead of just a man getting lost in his thoughts.

Either way, the skepticism was more worthy of focus than your misunderstanding – and that meant you could experiment a little. After all, if Wilford wasn’t there to answer your questions, you were going to have to dig for them yourself.

“After the weeks I’ve had, I should hope so, sir,” you responded, angling for him to notice where he was. The others had taken some encouragement, too, and you hoped it would be easier this time.

Your idea seemed to be confirmed when he said, “You aren’t reacting like most people.”

Now was the time to engage in your favorite tactic: lying.

“It’s been explained to me.”

“The concept?”

His eyes narrowed, and he pushed the wine glass further away from him, the few drops of liquid still in there slipping against the wall.

“Well, I started to get suspicious after the third—” You had to keep it vague, in case you were wrong, but it seemed to be working, “—but only a few days ago was it explicitly stated.”

Surprise flashed across his face, and he sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over another. You were looking down on him, but that position gave him a control over the conversation that made you wonder why there was control to be had in the first place. He stared at you like you had just spilled the secret to a crime. Briefly, you internally celebrated your oh-so-amazing guessing skills. What you had guessed, you didn’t actually know, but you were hoping for him to loosen up and drop some clues.

And then the corners of his mouth dropped, and he asked, “What are you talking about?”

While it was nice to be on the receiving end of mental doubt, you weren’t a fan of getting caught in a lie. You were good at getting into them, but getting out? That was a whole other skill set that you did not possess. Your only option was to take a stab in the dark.

“The others, sir,” you answered slowly. “Is that not correct?”

The nervousness that crept into your voice wasn’t helping your case, and you knew that, but it was difficult to save face when he paused with his eyes locked onto yours. He was going to call you out on your blatant lie, there was no getting out of this one. You really needed to stop ruining your chances with patrons, especially with the ones who paid for one of the most expensive wines you carried. It was going to be the end of you one day.

The man’s groan pulled you out of your thoughts – spiraling, again – but you were half sure it wasn’t anything against you.

“God, no!” he spat, absolutely disgusted with whatever he took your vague reference to be. “No, no, no. I’m talking about my celebrity status, not—” His eyes slid away from you, “—just no.”

With your theory half-confirmed, you let the subject drop and, in exchange, picked up a new curiosity.

“Celebrity?”

He floated his hand around his face, but the only reference you had for that was the five other people who had that same face. Apparently, they were a touchy subject for him, though, so you were going to have to find something else to go off of.

You delved into the depths of your mind to find some recognition from earlier times – something less recent, and not tied to your patrons in any way. It was difficult considering you weren’t an avid socializer, and most of your adulthood was spent working to get the funds for your own place. You didn’t have enough spare money or time to engage with celebrity culture.

The suit wasn’t an option to give you the hint you were looking for; you weren’t up to date on the world of the rich and famous, but you trusted yourself to recognize a red suit flashier than the sun itself had you ever saw one. Unfortunately, nothing came up under that. You moved on to his hair, but that only brought up the war-era photos again. There had to be some other defining feature.

It only took a second for you to fully realize, and it came not from his physical appearance, but the overwhelming smug aura that danced around him like a perfume.

When you were thinking back to your past, you stayed in the recent five years, but, when broke through the mental barrier you had put up between the decades, you fished the memory that you were searched for from the murky waters and into the present.

You caught his comment of, “I’m surprised you didn’t confuse one of the others for me.” You also caught the unsubtle spite in his tone, but the roll of his eyes would have let you know regardless.

You had only ever seen a couple of Mark’s movies, owing to your family’s hatred of pop culture, so you were lucky to have recognized him from a short scene you just so happened to retain in the midst of unfamiliar accents and illegible subtitles.

“That French movie?” You paused to let the title come to you. “L’avernir.”

This was a moment of genuine shock for him, pure and alone. His eyes widened and he leaned back in his chair even further, adjusting his position as if to give himself time to react.

He nodded slowly, “Yes, that’s right—” Then he pursed his lips, “—but you don’t have an accent.”

“Oh, no, I’m not French, sir, I just grew up watching foreign media and then it bled into my adult life,” you explained.

“Can you speak it?”

“If I tried hard enough.” It definitely helped when you were dealing with tough customers and could curse them out without losing a tooth. You might have demonstrated the skill, but you were aware of conversations wrapping up at the group on one of the larger tables.

“I’ll have to check up on that,” Mark chuckled, a strangely velvety sound that made you wonder if it was an effect of the wine. “It’s uncommon for someone to recognize me not for my American movies.”

“You have a lot of them?”

“Of course. You don’t get where I am with a couple of knock-off Ghostbusters plots.”

You shared a smile at that, despite your cardinal sin of never having seen Ghostbusters, but you understood the sentiment.

“And where are you, for you to be in the Astral?”

Tentative with your question, you were half-expecting him to shoot up in surprise because he didn’t know where he was. It was sad, really, and the wave of relief that went through you when he didn’t was even sadder.

“I just left a shoot,” he answered, with a casual tone that you were grateful for. “God awful script, really, but I’m sure I can save it. The director wants sixty different angles for the same line, and none of them go together. I’ll go from angry to miserable to playful in the space of one ramshackle scene.”

Theatre wasn’t your forté, much less big screen acting, but he managed to make you frown from his words alone. You were suddenly glad you weren’t a devoted movie-goer if that was how the good ones went down.

“And this is something you’re passionate about?” you asked, while you checked the other couple in your peripheral.

“Not at all.” The bluntness knocked you back into focusing on him, but he didn’t wear the grimace you expected. Instead, he grinned and answered your silent question, “It’s the money.”

It was shallow – utterly and completely shallow – but you would be a hypocrite if you berated him for it. The whole ‘don’t do something just for the cash’ thing was a nice moral, but it was a fairytale one. Unrealistic at best, dangerous at worst. That ideal had rotted away on your sixteenth birthday, and you thought you were all the better for it.

You thought you were. 

You were.

“I hope it works out well for you then.”

With a respectful nod and most of your curiosity gone, you took a step back, but Mark stopped you in your tracks.

“Oh, before you go,” he trailed off, so you were left to interpret the swirl of his wine glass.

You acknowledged his request and returned to the bar, where you also took care of the larger group that had lined up to pay their bill. After they left and the door was closed behind them, it was only you, Mark, and the couple, the latter of which looked to be getting ready to leave themselves. Getting out the second bottle of wine was a quick task, made even quicker by Mark waving away your attempt to pour him another glass. Instead, he grabbed the neck of the bottle, handed you a credit card, and then adjusted the lapels of his suit. The elegant process surprised you, given he had drunk an entire bottle of wine in the space of a couple hours and, apparently, had no intention of stopping there. It also worried you; you didn’t know how he was getting home, but there was no way he was in a state to drive himself.

You kept your thoughts to yourself as you left to charge the card, though, not wanting to appear presumptuous, especially not to a patron who bought over a hundred dollars’ worth of wine. Just the idea made you balk.

Mark didn’t bat an eye at you handing it back, he just rose from his seat with the egregiously expensive bottle in hand.

“I think you’ll be seeing me more often,” he said. He smiled that same smile from before, seeming completely sober.

“I’m glad to hear that.” You joined your hands at your waist. “Thank you for coming.”

He waved over his shoulder as he started walking, and you could have sworn he was deliberately matching his footsteps to the beat of the music. He even managed to let the door swing closed on the final piano key, as if it were his own little credits song.

You huffed to yourself. With an actor like him, you were probably more right than wrong. Almost as if to support your suspicions, a white square left on the table drew your attention.

This time, you didn’t stop yourself from chuckling, because what you had thought to be a notepad for him to nefariously scribble down your every move was, in reality, one of the napkins from the holder on the table. On it, in handwriting that struggled between a talent for cursive and the unhelpful texture, was a signature.

You pocketed it – if only to have something to laugh at when you were feeling down – and then continued to clean up the table until the couple left behind were ready to pay their bill.

When that time came, you sent them on their way with a smile. The quicker they left, the more time you had to prepare for the following day. The massive paycheque from Mark meant that you could afford to deliver less than perfect customer service in exchange for focusing on your lovely disappearing act, because you were going to get your answers from Wilford even if it killed you.

Or, if the need arose, the sugar-coated magician himself.

AO3 Link - List

[clicheantagonist]

WiP Wednesday

(extremely late, like at least half a year lmao oops)

Thankies for continuing to include me in y'all's tags: @socially-awkward-skeleton @josephslittledeputy @aceghosts @adelaidedrubman @shallow-gravy @derelictheretic

From Feel Good Drag ('The Boys' AU)

It feels like filler but I promise its not. I needed to post this before the bits I really wanna delve into for plot reasons.

"Can't bribe me with money, can't shower me with shame. Another killer from a broken home, until you come on me with manic fame. You wanna know about it? Well I'ma be fucking with you every time. Story broken, you're behind. Yeah, when you ask about it? You can rest assured I'll give you my best side. Seems we all have friends to find.” - Avenged Sevenfold, “Natural Born Killer”

“So, I’m sensing you’re havin’ some doubts. About me.” Alex decides to just say it, if she lets him sit and stew in his own thoughts that might lead to paranoia, and that may not be good for her. She’s noticed Butcher’s gotten quieter, and she’s caught him looking at her like she’s a puzzle to be solved, like she’s not what she seems.

‘Fair play to him, really. His instincts are very good.’

“That right?” Butcher asks, looking up and tipping his head against the wall, watching her from the opposite side of the room. Alex snorts an amused note and rolls her eyes.

“What’s on your mind? Think I’m workin for the other team?” Alex asks, unfolding her legs from underneath her and stretching, leaning back on her hands in the second bed. Alex was not about to live like someone on the run, so she didn’t really mind putting them up somewhere hospitable.

“D’you trust easy?” He asks her bluntly, and her lips twist up in a lopsided smirk.

“Oh God, no. But my inquiring mind wants to know. Maybe I can dispel some of your fears?” Alex offers, knowing if they have any chance at all of dethroning Homelander and Vought, they need to be on the same page and able to trust each other enough to not be preoccupied thinking about a betrayal. Alex is keenly aware of the dangers that come with seeds of distrust.

Butcher scoffs.

“Yer a ghost, love.” He tells her empathetically, as if trying to drive the point home with that single vague sentence. Alex tips her chin and raises her brows, inviting him to elaborate.

‘Humor me.’

“All yer official documents say Alex Shepherd died a U.S. Marshall, back in ‘99. But tha legend of ‘er haunts tha biochemical unda’ground. And Alice Sterling’s too borin’ ta be tha real you. ‘ow on Earth can I trust ya?” Butcher asks her, tone well controlled as he casts her a look that says he knows she’s too smart not to understand where he’s coming from.

“You did your homework. Very thoroughly. I’m impressed.” Alex praises, genuinely taken aback that Butcher had managed to find enough about her to reach the correct conclusion so quickly. She and Wesker had crafted her alias(es) (and death) very well, but Alex is attached to her identity – it was just paperwork to her, erasing her trail.

“But all of that’s just proof of how good I am at what I do. And we know that’s why you reached out. You needed a proven professional.” Alex replies, expression relaxing into an easier little smile, resting her head on her right shoulder.

Butcher makes a grumbling noise that sounds annoyed – perhaps he’d say ‘chuffed’, in the negative sense – but he doesn’t seem angry. Alex finds his moods and their sudden shifts fascinating. He’s such a stark contrast to Wesker’s eerie controlled calm she’s so used to.

“However, if you’re as thorough as I think you are, you already know I’m very reliable – its hard to keep clients in my business if you fuck them over. I didn’t only do my husband’s dirty work.” Alex reminds knowingly; she is well aware of her reputation in her professional circles – she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t proud of her ability to juggle Wesker’s daunting/dangerous requests and her own independent clients during their busiest years.

Butcher watches her thoughtfully, his expression largely remaining the same, save for a few twitching muscles in his neck and jaw.

“Yer good at that.” Butcher tells her with a knowing little smile, pointing in her direction.

“And I wasn’t even trying.” Alex replies, taking a little joy in the situation – while counterproductive, a little naughty part of her always enjoys when she makes people nervous/wary/uncomfortable.

“You know more about me than I know about you; surely that’s somewhat comforting?” Alex adds, filling in Butcher’s silence.

“Ya ‘avent asked.” Butcher shrugs her off, leaning back against the wall.

“Would you be honest if I did?”

“Depends.” He shrugs.

Alex smiles – that answer, at least, was honest.

“I’m not gonna put you on the spot, don’t worry. People tend to get comfortable tellin’ me weird shit. You’ll let me know eventually.” Alex tells him, amused by the quick confused expression on Butcher’s face.

‘Occasionally, dear heart, all you can do is be patient. So you must be patient.’ Wesker’s voice reminds Alex, from some distant, private corner of her mind.

[plussizefantasia]

Thank you so much Again for all those drabbles ❤️

They Really made my Day..

And for Moon knight I can imagine Nr. 1 And 14. (Marc Spector in front)

And i sure it wont be trashy, because you dont write like that, i love your style of writing ❤️

Sending so much love and hugs And thank you Again 💋

Coming Home

Pairing: Marc Spector x reader

Summary: You leave Marc to keep him safe, and he comes to take you home.

Word Count: ~700

A/N: I've never written for any of the Moon Knight boys before but I actually really like how this turned out! Thanks for all the requests during this drabble marathon, I've got a few new ideas for full fics that I'd like to write and more desire to get some of my WIPs wrapped up!

He had always said you were paranoid. Coming from him though, it meant absolutely nothing to you. Marc Spector was the picture definition of paranoia and you wouldn’t be taking any shit from him on that front.

Maybe he had a point though. A deal gone wrong had put you on the first plane out of Cairo and to some random little town in the Midwest. You had used all your contacts up getting documents faked, new bank accounts anything to get you off the grid. You were good at what you did, when you didn’t want to be found you wouldn’t. But no matter how good you were Marc was better, especially when it was you on the line.

You and Marc had a complicated relationship, you loved one another that was never in question, but your astonishing commitment issues and Marc’s never-ending stream of trauma had caused issues between the two of you. You would do anything for him and vice versa but sometimes you just couldn’t stand the man. He had told you about Steven about a year into your relationship, the two of you had never met but you did everything you could to reassure Marc that it was okay, this didn't change the way you felt about him. He didn’t want to seem vulnerable and you understood that so you never pushed. But you left, you didn’t want to put either of them in danger so you packed up what you needed, left Marc a note telling him not to come looking for you, and left.

It was a random Wednesday when you woke with an intense feeling of dread in your stomach. You were tempted to pack up and move along based on that feeling alone but, something told you that that would be a bad idea, plus you didn’t have any more favors to call in.

Your feeling was proven correct when someone kicked out your door in the middle of your dinner. You immediately reached for the gun stashed under the Ikea dining set that had come with the palace and pointed it at the intruder.

It took you a moment to fully register the sight in front of you. It was Marc, but he was dressed in some ancient-looking supersuit, with a moon-shaped blade in his hand.

“How did you figure out where I live?!” You yelled at the man you hadn’t seen in months not lowering your weapon. Marc did a quick scan of your apartment and stored his blade back in his weird chest cavity thing.

“It wasn’t easy.” he tried to joke

“That’s kind of the point dick-head.” You scowled in his direction

“Why are you in the middle of nowhere anyway” he tossed back at you. Slowly making his way toward you and lowering the gun in your hand. You let him.

“I enjoy the view.” you deadpanned at him.

“Ha. Ha,” he dryly replied.

“What are you doing here anyway?” 

“I’m here to take you home.” 

“And where is that this time” you questioned him, knowing the habit of moving around that the two of you shared.

“London, I have a place. And a fish.” You sighed deeply and made your way to the bedroom without a word.

“Where are you going?” he called after you, making no attempt to follow you.

“London apparently,” You returned with a black duffle bag full of the things you couldn’t replace. You stopped walking and faced Marc “I missed you.” You weren’t looking for a reply, you knew you wouldn’t get one.

Marc just lifted the corner of his lips into what you considered to be a smile. He leaned down and grabbed your bag in one hand, offering you the other.

Taking his hand in yours the tension in your chest eased. You might still be in danger, hunting and selling artifacts would never be a completely safe career anyway but you knew that Marc would do anything to protect you. After all, if he would follow you to the Midwest, he would follow you anywhere.

“So are we going to talk about the weird suit?” You tried.

“No.”

“Okay.”

[flipping-the-coin]

[Patient Report: OP-7845-91653]

[Authorization Requirement: Alpha]

[Document Status: Sensitive - 99% preserved]

[Listed Authorized Individuals: Primal Steward Ratchet]

[Overseeing Medical Personnel: - Primary Physician: CMO Ratchet - Secondary Assistant: First Aid]

[Session: #001]

═════════════════

I was called to perform an emergency checkup on patient OP-7845-91653 roughly half a groon after mid cycle. The call was sent by the patient's Conjunx [Note: Conjunx status still not legalized] and I arrived within the following twenty Kliks.

Upon arrival the patient's Conjunx was rather hostile but escorted me into the residence [Note: Residence unregistered - cannot be listed]. Signs of an intense and frantic struggle were evident within the hab in large part due to the damaged furnishings and the various claw marks on the walls. Initial observations led me to consider extreme paranoia and schizophrenia as possible mental ailments.

The patient was in a catatonic state upon my arrival. He was practically feral and curled up in a ball in the center of the living room. He remained unresponsive until I attempted to begin repairing the wounds he inflicted on himself in his madness. Possibly due to the tools or my presence, he flew into a rage the moment I attempted to work on his injuries. The patient needed to be pinned by his Conjunx and sedated by me in order for any sort of progress to be made.

At that point I tended to what wounds I could and then spoke at length with the patient's Conjunx about what symptoms he presents on a regular basis. According to what information I was given, patient OP-7845-91653 will be a long term care project. He suffers from extreme paranoia, minor schizophrenia, partial bipolar disorder, extreme PTSD and trauma, stimuli sensitivity, dissociation, and field management disorder of the third degree. The source of these issues has so far proven to be because of [Subject: Optimus Prime - See file for affiliation description].

For the time being, the patient will need to be put onto strong medication to dull his severe responses to external stimuli. My current prescription is sedatives [Chemical composition YD-7869], sensory blockers [Patch type SUO-3602], and therapeutic exercises [Sensory Adjustment Therapy - Type 90897]. My assistant will deliver the prescription medication within the next cycle and report on any changes in the meantime. The patient's next checkup will be in a stellar cycle and will continue to have similar checkups regularly until confirmed to be more stable.

[Personal Note: I never thought I would live to see the day when the face I knew so well could be contorted in such fear. Optimus never showed such expressions, he was always stoic and controlled in every action and word. Orion though? Whatever happened to him while he was sharing a frame with Optimus... it damaged him so deeply that I fear he may not recover.

He is... terrifying to say the least. The friend I knew before the war seems all but gone now. It is my hope that with time I can fix this... that I can ensure what little remains of Optimus is kept safe and preserved. I know this is not the correct way to think of my friend, but how can I not? He looks so much like Optimus it makes my tanks churn.

I may not be the best Doctor for this case. I cannot remain impartial like this. However at the moment I am quite possibly the only Doctor on Cybertron who can handle a situation this severe. So for the time being... I will endure and do what I can. Its what Optimus would have wanted, and it is what I owe my old friend after everything, even if his Conjunx is a mech I would rather see shredded bit by bit publicly.]

═════════════════

[Assistant First Aid's Report:

Medication was delivered without issue! Mr. Pax's Conjunx was a bit scary, but thankfully he took the package and didn't do anything else. I wasn't able to get a good look at the situation so far, but maybe next time I deliver a package I can check up on Mr. Pax properly.]

[marshmallowprotection]

Hello, its me again telling the story of my beef with Cheritz for how they completely shoved Saeyoung's trauma under the rug.

It still feel angry and resentful that even in his own timeline his trauma and his mental condition was not addressed at. all.

Many of his decisions were not healthy for neither himself nor Saeran but it was bcs he didn't know any better. He knew he had to make a difficult decision and he did it.

As his mc we weren't allowed to do anything for him even when we could see how he clearly didn't care for himself.

Seeing Saeyoung doing everything alone all throughout Saeran's recovery was really hard for me. Perhaps because I relate to him so much, I could feel what he must've been going through. Always on an edge trying to make the correct decision so that nothing falls apart. Seeing Saeran in such a way must've been so unbearably hard for him but he had to stay strong for the both of them ignoring all the feelings of guilt, shame, anger, self loathing and so much more filling him to the brim. Making sure that Saeran is safe no matter what. Also completely ignoring his own health in the process.

Saeyoung should've had an arc dedicated to him at least starting to unlearn his trauma. I know it would've taken time but I didn't mind, they already addressed everyone else's trauma. They could've definitely gone another mile for him and involved mc too.

This is just something I always struggle with as a Saeyoung MC. Whenever I play any route or after ending or backstory or literally anything in the game. Nowhere is Saeyoung's trauma addressed and validated. It's implied but never addressed. Rather treated as a noble sacrifice on his part. Pain that he would happily take on for Saeran's wellbeing because he is just so selfless. But that is so wrong, there is so much guilt and trauma behind it and it feeds into his extreme paranoia making him unable to see that he is not only holding himself back from healing but Saeran as well.

I felt so useless throughout the whole sequence. I just wanted to be there for him in any way, be it bringing them something to eat or just sharing a simple phonecall with Saeyoung asking him how things are going, to let him talk about his feelings. But we were just made just spectators unable to do anything but see them.

I'm sorry for dumping this onto you, I saw your post about Saeyoung's parentification and had so many thoughts I wanted to share. I knew Saeyoung had deep rooted trauma that made him completely disregard himself and his needs but didn't have a word for it. You explained it perfectly. And I appreciate you for that. These aspects of him are hardly ever talked about so I was really happy you did.

So even if you might disagree with me on this, but I believe Saeyoung deserved to have an arc to unpack his trauma. Alas it's not possible anymore.

Thank you again Kait 🫶

I'm not a Saeyoung MC by any means, but that doesn't mean that I don't love him and want better for him. I love him like a brother and I have a hard time seeing him suffer over and over again when he has the ability to reach out and ask for help in his route and subsequent after ending.

I get why he does what he does, and I've had the time to understand him as a person to know why he made a lot of... well, reckless choices in the name of doing the right thing. He knows that sometimes, there is only one option, and it's taking the road that's just a little less worse in comparison to the other road you could take. That's just the way it works sometimes, and there isn't another way around it. But, in most situations where Saeyoung is suffering—

He could've gotten all the help in the world if he asked for it. He has trust issues and he's fraught with paranoia, but the RFA will not give up on him no matter what. If he asks for help, he'll get it. That's been proven countless times. But, it's his trauma that makes him deny the help every time. He doesn't want to help himself. He wants to help his baby brother. That's his reason for living.

But, he doesn't need to be selfless to the point where he suffers, and I wish—I wish so often—that Saeyoung could've been allowed to have a lot more agency over his trauma, as well as the ability to talk about it and confront it. He deserves love and to be helped the way he helps his family. He shouldn't deny it. He shouldn't run away from it. That's a huge narrative arc of his route and we all know it.

The Secret Ending could've done well to have added that to his MC. Something, anything, just a snapshot of MC trying to help him and him taking that help. Even if that help was as small as bringing him dinner to share with Saeran. It makes sense why he would be wary of MC being around Saeran or Saeran being around MC just on the off chance that it would be traumatic, I get his reasoning there and I'm sure many Saeyoung MCs don't blame him for that.

But, MC needed the ability to do something. That is probably one of my only pieces of blunt criticism when it comes to that. Saeyoung is someone who just promised to be honest, open, and clear with you about his feelings and identity. I'm not saying he shouldn't regress or struggle, because God knows he would fall into old habits, but where in the hell is the scene where Saeyoung has a goddamn meltdown in MC's arms because he is so tired of being strong?!

Something! Anything!

For the love of God, allow Saeyoung the opportunity to heal from his trauma in a healthy way, and grant him the chance to be vulnerable with the person he loves more than anything because that's what the Saeyoung MCs want! Saeyoung, you've been fighting long enough. I think it's time to rest. You don't need to be the only one who carries a burden on his back. Let's carry this fear, together.

[kindheart525]

All this oracle nonsense was starting to get in Swift’s head. He tried not to let it get to him, but it did anyway. He was starting to wonder what fate could possibly have in store for him, if “fate” was even a thing. It was all hypothetical, of course. He didn’t really believe it.

Prophecy’s warning to him was something about being dispossessed, something with a fool’s gold bar. What could that possibly mean? An extreme weather event washing his home away? Losing money over some bad decisions?

No, it was impossible. There was nothing even remotely suspicious in the weather forecast, Swift had checked…not out of paranoia, of course. Plus, he was responsible with his money, unlike a certain coworker of his. She must have gotten his prediction mixed up with Lemon’s.

Not that Prophecy really had anything to do with it. Once again, it was an unlucky coincidence. It had to be.

Still, the whole thing consumed Swift’s thoughts more than he would have liked, so much that he couldn’t even get through a simple grocery trip without thinking of her—

“Augh!”

Swift found himself suddenly pushed back like he had run into a wall, as another voice cried out in frustration. In his paranoid state he hadn’t been watching where he was going; he quickly realized it was another pony he ran into. His vision was a blur as his fellow shopper went down with him, their paper bag crumbling between them, until he finally saw who it was.

Prophecy.

“Oy gevalt! My olives!”

She was the first to spring up, lamenting the jar of olives that had now spilled across the ground beyond hope of salvage.

Then she took notice of the stallion who did this.

“Hello, Swift Valor.”

Her tone was even and civil, but she was annoyed. Both that he had spilled all her groceries and because their last interaction had been so sour.

“Sorry, uh—let me help.”

Swift started hastily picking up her bagels as soon as he could get up, honestly feeling a little bad for being part of this mess. But he was also pissed that coincidence had brought him to this mare, once again.

“Thank you.”

Prophecy accepted his help, straightening out her bag and stuffing some more of her groceries into it.

She almost reached for a bagel herself, but she pulled away, not wanting to make any more physical contact with him after that run-in.

“Ugh, the olives are beyond saving. But I suppose I’m not surprised, I sensed something inconvenient would happen today.”

“What an unfortunate coincidence.”

Sorry for being such an inconvenience.

Swift thought sarcastically, taking her comment as a jab against himself. Out loud, he made sure to emphasize exactly what this was—a coincidence.

Probably.

“How are your friends doing? Golden Opportunity and Lemon Wedge?”

Of course she remembered.

“They’re not friends, they’re coworkers.”

The stallion corrected her in light of recent events driving them apart, summoning a sanitizing wipe with his magic to clean her food off. 

“And they’re just fine. Same as always.”

He lied, not wanting Prophecy to know what had really been happening.

“So they’ve been emotionally and financially stable?”

She already knew.

“Well, not exactly,” Swift admitted begrudgingly. “Golden’s pet died and Lemon lost a pretty big bet a while ago. Both very unfortunate incidents.”

“Ah. Just as I predicted,” Prophecy nodded to herself. “Please, send them my condolences.”

She was never happy to see her bad visions come to pass; she was merely a messenger for it all. So she meant it, but Swift saw a passive-aggressive smugness.

“This has nothing to do with your predictions!”

Swift finally blew his top.

“How can you really know it was more than two awful coincidences? That ferret was not young, and Lemon is terrible with money anyway. Anypony could have seen this coming, you know, with actual observation. Plus, nothing has happened to me, so you can’t say you’ve been proven right yet.”

“Yet.”

Prophecy emphasized, not being able to help from smirking a little.

“Wha—no, that’s not what I mean!”

Swift started to panic, realizing what he had said.

Damn it! She’s getting into my head!

“There’s still time for you.”

“Statistically unlikely, but okay.”

But then Swift stopped her.

“Wait! Ugh…let me at least make up for the olives. Sorry for snapping like that.”

He produced a clutch of bits out of guilt. Though he was convinced he was right in what he said, the attitude was still uncalled for. Even he knew this.

“I accept your apology.”

She took his bits and his words graciously, but didn’t leave him with the satisfaction of forgiveness. Especially not after he basically insulted her profession to her face, again. Instead she offered a warning.

“Hopefully you still have plenty for security. If you’re so convinced my vision won’t come to pass, you can make sure it doesn’t.”

But Swift brushed her off like always.

“Sure, Prophecy. I’ll see you around.”

And he went on with his day, feeling strangely vindicated by this encounter. He was right: she was just getting into his head. Now that they met again, he could see she was trying to mess with him.

Plus, if her visions really were true, then those olives had cost quite a bit. He would have to give up a couple of his more expensive groceries to make up for it; in a way he was already “dispossessed” just like she foretold. He could certainly make a solid argument for it.

That meant his prophecy had already come to pass, hypothetically. He was safe now. Right?

~~~~~~~~~~

Previous (for Swift): Spilled Salt Previous (for Prophecy): Gentle Sheen Next: Hanging Horseshoe

Background by BonesWolbach

[anxiously-sidequesting]

Actually, I think we also need to know more about Ambrose.

But like more specifically, there's this one character trait of his that I find super interesting and that I feel should be explored more. I think this old man struggles with feelings of desperation and put under extreme pressure, makes rash decisions based on what feels correct to him at the time

So like, remember when he pulled The Wizard (us) from Earth and basically gave us a speech while we were still barely conscious that he'd been trying to summon heroes from many different planets like 12345678 times, and somehow since we were his first successful choice, a (probably) 8 year old child, he was like "OMG OKAY GOOD you're perfect fam. Go kill a warlord for me"

And this isn't even me being mad this is actually Very Funny. An old man kidnaps a child from their home Forever and like 7 minutes after we wake up, Ambrose leads us into ambush and goes "Go ahead young wizard, Kill Them :)"

It really makes you think how.... actually desperate Ambrose was at that point, to go through such extremes to defeat Malistaire (and YES these are extremes, subjecting an untrained child immediately into danger)

(KHRYSALIS SPOILERS) And if you guys remember (and if you reached Khrysalis), during Morganthe's memories Ambrose took a risk as well and expelled Morganthe after she tried to beat Malistaire's ass in a magic duel but lost. Even though you can keep in mind this was through Morganthe's eyes and she was proven to be an unreliable narrator and going through a BUNCH of confusing shit at that time, it's pretty interesting how Ambrose is considered to be the Main Bad Guy in that situation, not Malistaire. WHICH MAKES SENSE, given in that specific memory, Ambrose stepped in only to literally expel Morganthe (the teenager with horrible at-home issues) while he only gave Malistaire (the actual adult who should know better than to attack an upset child) a slap on the wrist. Back to Ambrose, I theorize this was also a rash decision based on fear and pressure and paranoia, because he noticed how much Morganthe was changing and sensed the """darkness""" (it's called trauma Ambrose) in her heart, and compared to Malistaire, who only seemed to be the "capable and responsible" teacher that hadn't lost his wife at the time, Ambrose saw that the more major threat was Morganthe and before she could do anything worse, decided to nip the problem in the bud right away

AND KEEP IN MIND THIS IS ALL SPECULATION, but once you actually start to put the pieces together, Ambrose seems to be less of a "wise and all powerful man of magic and kindness" and more of a "regular man in extreme situations making snap decisions that may or may not end well". Ambrose kind of gives me that "the ends justify the means" vibe about him and I actually dig it!!! I think that's an extremely interesting part of his character that gives him more dimension and he's no longer just "wise Dumbledore mentor" guy. He's pressured, he's scared, he's tired, and now he's willing to do just about anything to keep people safe even if that means endangering others and I really wish Kingsisle dove deeper into that part of him more

[8bitsupervillain]

Higurashi When They Cry Hou Ch. 2 Watanagashi pt. 7

I had typed up a big post of thoughts and theories about things that were eventually proven correct within a couple hours of typing it out. Unfortunately for me my computer decided to blue screen and restarted taking everything I had written to the void. Always save kids. Every time you type anything in a document save it. Otherwise it'll be killed by the capricious whims of the machine.

The main thrust of what I had written was that clearly this is Mion pretending to be Shion, in an effort to show Keiichi her more feminine side. Which seems pretty obvious, even our dumb as a brick protagonist had figured out that much. But also I posited the idea that there is indeed an actual Shion, just that instead of this sweet idealized girl she would actually be a bit of a "cooler" character. Not like in a cold, villainous way (initially), but rather in a James from Twin Peaks, Ace Rimmer "look how cool they are" kind of way.

Is that too obscure of a reference? It's probably too obscure of a reference.

Like, say a gang of obscure martial arts otaku decide to cause a ruckus in this restaurant.

Sometimes I like to just post the lines that amuse me. The meeps, for instance.

Keiichi showing more introspection and inward thinking than a large number of people on the internet unfortunately. You ever look at the conversation regarding most anything on twitter? Ghastly.

That's what it was! I was trying to remember for the life of me what I had written, but I was blanking on it. This interaction here where "Shion" talks about how she got dinged in the head by the riot police was what sealed it for me that while there is definitely a real Shion this Shion is just Mion putting on an act. Because in Onikakushi it's mentioned that Mion had been arrested for civil disobedience multiple times, and that she had led protests against the dam project. There's also the fact that earlier in this chapter Mion herself explicitly says that Shion and the rest of the Sonozaki family lives outside of Hinamizawa. It's just Mion and her grandmother in Hinamizawa itself, so it's crazy that Shion who doesn't live there would've been involved in the protests.

Which then led to me wondering how much of what happened in Onikakushi has happened generally. Obviously the second half of the chapter where Keiichi goes insane with paranoia and murders Rena and Mion doesn't happen. But the dam project still occurred, the murder, and the people who were "demoned away" probably all still happened, Rena going off the rails and smashing her schools windows happened too if I had to guess.

Anyway, after a short version of the Hinamizawa dam incident gets told to us Keiichi is invited by Shion to an all you can eat dessert event. And also a romantic stroll with Shion?

Hell yeah bro. More so the first part than the second, but I'm not much of a drinker.

It's always the relatively innocuous statements that plant the seed of doubt in my head. I'm beginning to suspect that Ooishi might not be such an upright heroic figure as the game claims he ostensibly is. It's never said he's on the up and up, it makes it quite clear he's not exactly an upright and moral policeman, but the first chapter gave the impression that he's generally a good guy. Or that's the trick, and he's actually evil.

Also I don't know how noticeable it is to everyone else who has read this, but there are times the narration switches from a third person voice to a first person one. Whenever the story is following someone not Keiichi it generally uses the third person wording, but sometimes it slips and uses first person language. Part of me wants to assume this is all a part of Ryukishi's wild ride, but really it's probably just a small mistake I'm making a mountain out of.

I've mentioned before that I don't know how much of the TIPs stuff is actually relevant to the ongoing narrative, but this entire sequence with Ooishi really instilled in me the idea that he might be more villainous than the first chapter made him seem. Onikakushi made him seem like he might be a bit underhanded and willing to sacrifice others in his attempt to bring the cult of Oyashiro down. This meanwhile, it starts with him acting in a way that's more defensive of the delinquents who were getting surrounded by the townspeople of Hinamizawa, but really starts to impart a sense that this is all just sort of a game to him. He seems more than willing to sacrifice these kids when it becomes clear he won't be getting anything out of them. Especially the part where the other officers seem to act as his henchmen when they tried to leave.

So yes to be clear my theory stands that everyone except for Keiichi might be the villains of this entire story. Even then I'm not a hundred percent sold on Keiichi's innocence.