#that she is no longer trapped in this hell. that her past experiences have shaped her into a formidable amazingly strong young woman

[flydotnet]

Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me requests according to this marvelous card! (Red cross is the completed prompt, character headshots are prompts I’ve already filled).

Stairs, a taser, Yuto's fist, and more stairs. What do they all have in common?

Oh look, this is my yearly Arc-V fanfic where I'm ignoring most of canon because who gives a fuck about the Arc-V canon past, like, the Synchro arc (YMMV) lol. Anyway, this is a catharsis fic where I combine all of my other vague changes to the canon so that stupid ship only me still cares about in 2023 A.D. and also where the stupid parasites are easily removable by a good dash of Raidraptor magic. This fic can also be called "the floor is actually writing the Duel" because I didn't want to burden myself with how godawful the Parasite archetype is, especially since I can't just copy-paste a Duel from canon. The one I'd have to plagiarize really... isn't that good too, we're just all biased because Yuto is badass.

The title is a bilingual pun between the English "volatine", which is a synonym of "explosive" or "unstable", and the French "volatile", which is a term used for birds. Y'know, like Shun. He's the two meanings of the word "volatile". The word was, in fact, invented to trip my foot over during translation classes and also for Shun Kurosaki from hit "lowest ratings on Nico Nico Douga" anime Yu-Gi-Oh Arc-V.

Speaking of my favourite bird-wielding edgelord, post-Xyz Shun is always kind of weird to write too. He's not the same abrasive bastard I keep remembering as, but then I'm afraid I'm writing him too soft. I kind of tend to forget he's that angry, that destructive in huge part because of his bonds to other people. I don't want a Draco in Leather Pants situation, God knows I've bitched about when it was happening with Revolver VRAINS. Just... think that in this timeline I'm never describing Serena and he stuck around for much longer, like at least through Synchro, character dev' happened, or something, idk

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Volatile

Summary: Serena snaps back to reality in the middle of a Duel, only to quickly realize her spirit is fighting herself(?) and her body is fighting a rib-clutching Kurosaki. Nothing about this adds up, yet there she is, not even in control of her own body anymore.

Or: Shun came across a possessed Serena before his sister after losing her track back in the Xyz Dimension, this is the consequences of that forced encounter.

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh Arc-V Characters: Serena, Shun Ship: Peregrineshipping (pre-rel)

Wordcount: 3K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo​

AO3 version.

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Serena wakes up on both her feet to the smell of gunpowder and the heat of a reactor.

 Recent wartime experiences as a well-groomed doll turned soldier turned renegade have shaped her in a way that she doesn’t question how she got there, let alone why, and only on what’s in front of her.

She’s in harm’s way, so she sidesteps to avoid a chunk of shrapnel.

She’s near fire, so she steps backwards to avoid getting burned, or worse, outright set ablaze.

She’s in the middle of a Duel, which means she’s in the middle of battle, and needs to focus. Alas, no experience has prepared her for what she sees on the blade of her trusty Disk – and decidedly feels like a stranger to her own deck.

 She doesn’t recognize most of the cards she’s playing. Most of them are bearing garish bugs clad in colours that only push her eyes far away, which she don’t quite pay a mind to. They’re mostly Monster cards, with the exception of a set Trap card and a Spell one that’s still active. It seems to affect an archetype known as “Parasite”, which she’s never played nor even heard of. Why the hell did she play that, before seemingly going to sleep? How did this even happen to begin with?

It only dawns on her then to look up, only to see a semi-familiar face that, if it had organic eyes, would have absolutely been staring daggers right into hers. Mechanic wings, reactors, the smell of ruin and gunpowder. No, there’s no mistaking it, she’s watched it ravage through opposite fields before, in person, on a screen… No doubt about it, it’s –

 “Rise Falcon,” an even more familiar voice tells in a hoarse but firm tone, “reduce those bugs to—”

“Wait!”

Arm already risen in front of him, the individual on the other side of the field stops with a frustrated frown.

“What is it? Afraid of defeat?”

Her head hurts.

“What’re you doing, Kurosaki?! We’re on the same side!”

He tilts his head backwards just a little, one of his eyes twitches. He’s almost showing teeth now.

“I asked you that before you forced my hand into this bullshit.” He sounds so hurt, in a way that she hasn’t heard in so long, and her chest starts choking her too. “Don’t take me for stupid, asshole.”

It’s a downright migraine that she’s now stuck trying to shove back.

“What do you mean? I just… Why would I do that?”

His expression immediately softens.

“You were under the control of that… thing,” he points to the Parasite Queen in front of her, “and almost pushed me off that tower. Then you challenged me to a Duel.”

This sounds like an utter fantasy; but if there’s one thing Kurosaki doesn’t do, it’s lying, even to those he doesn’t trust, so there must be a rational explanation for this.

“What para—”

Don’t resist, Serena. Be a good girl.

She clutches her head now. What’s this voice? How did they get inside her head?!

“Serena?”

You’re my slave, now. Be a good girl and fight the Xyz remnant in front of you.

“Shit, Serena, snap out of it!”

And just like this, she loses contact with her own body.

 It’s an awful feeling of dissociation, drowsiness and loss of control. Her foot don’t touch the ground anymore, leaving her floating inside her own consciousness. Her eyes don’t look where she wants them to go, more fixated on the cards than on the guy in front of her, for worse and no shade of better – because even through the haze of her controlled mind, Serena hears it, the wheeze and the rasp of his voice.

 “You little pest,” her voice groans once even her cords have given back into the parasite’s clutches. “Back to you it is, bird boy.”

Kurosaki remains silent, the deep-set frown on his face enough to speak for him. Only now does she see, through the haze of glazed eyes, how battered he truly is, an arm wrapped around his chest and a trinkle of blood going down his cheek.

“I’m not leaving you in this state, not again, so don’t go thinking you’re out of the woods.” He clenches his teeth, spits back venom, “I’m not letting any of this fly by.”

He makes it sound like he’s here to save her – which doesn’t make sense. Kurosaki wanted to save Ruri, his other friend and his homeland. She wasn’t on the list. (Although Serena would’ve given her all to save him would have their places been the opposite, because she seeks redemption, because she wants to be a heroine, because she cares for Kurosaki less like a brother and more like a—)

“Oh, charming knight in armour, here to save the damsel in distress!” It chuckles. “You sound so full of yourself, for a miserable bug! You’re not the big bird of prey you think you are! Or did you abandon me back there? Didn’t just you faint from some small debris?”

“Tch.” He settles back into a deadpan. “I detach one Overlay Unit from Rise Falcon…”

 It wasn’t small debris – it was a lot more than that. She watched him run to save a girl he knew from her trauma and whatever her own homeland was trying to pull off in the middle of a Tag Duel, and only thanks to Kaito’s help was she able to finish them off before it was too late. She was scared beyond her mind’s comprehension, back there, but unable to realize until much late how much that had been; because there was no time.

No wonder why Kurosaki was so volatile. He hadn’t processed much of anything. Even now, she doubts he has.

What’s also no wonder to her is why she got so scared back then and a part of what’s grounding her to her body despite the phantom pain. She wants to do the right thing and stop this Duel from continuing any further. She doesn’t want to continue being a puppet for whomever infected her in Academia, her first and alleged only home for so long. She can’t hurt Kurosaki. She’s supposed to reunite with him and help him.

 And yet the Duel continues on without her, card after card sent to the Graveyard, Life Point after Life Point lost. Her “other self” has resorted to continuously bringing Monsters back from the dead to slap parasites on them, despite being unable to actually get a let up on Kurosaki despite having the upper hand in terms of cards on the field. He’s using all of his tools, constantly switching gears.

“You cheat,” that voice says. “You can’t beat me all on your own, can you!”

Kurosaki doesn’t reply, doesn’t even look like he’s hearing her.

“Action Magic: Miracle.” He smirks. “You could use them too, if you weren’t a coward.”

“You’re the coward, using you Lancers’ precious cards. You’re only delaying your oh so pathetic demise, Xyz remnant.”

To her surprise, even if it feels like it shouldn’t be anymore, Kurosaki chuckles at that.

“Oh, yeah, you’re definitely not there. The Serena I know wouldn’t say crap like this.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Obviously.”

 The other her destroys Kurosaki’s field with Magic, builds its side with more parasites, all summoned in various ways her dizzied mind can’t keep up with. The Queen squirms, ever so content with the suffering on the field, and she has to watch the one person she’s gotten attached to pay the price for what’s absolutely, by now and without question, her own rash decision making. She was made prisoner and now tortures other people.

She wouldn’t have wanted to put anyone through this to begin with, let alone him. No, of course Kurosaki isn’t the only friend she’s made along the way (that’d erase Yuzu, and Tsukikage, and Yugo…), but she’d lie if she said they hadn’t gotten strangely close to each other, the Xyz renegade and the former golden child of Academia turned against them. The groomed soldier and the one who had to become one to survive. It’s awful, it makes all too much sense.

 Another turn ended and he’s back to kneeling on the ground, hanging on by a thin thread of 200 LP.

“Oh-oh, having trouble standing up now, are we?”

“Shut it.”

“Hmph, I see you’re as unpleasant to talk to as always. You build yourself up so much yet struggle to do anything of substance once confronted. How does it feel, to be so useless, in the end? To be so powerless in the face of adversity?”

Kurosaki doesn’t respond, once more, only getting back to his feet.

“Tch. I set one face-down card and end my turn.”

 Serena’s heart skips a beat when she sees what card it is, as brief as it is. The name is blurry, so is the picture, but the chuckle of self-satisfaction that escapes her is enough to be weary of what’s about to happen; and if that wasn’t enough, then knowing it’ll absolutely decimate both of their fields but at the cost of his LP first would do more than the job.

She has one turn to get control of her body back, if not less. It’s a Magic card, so it has less chance to be activated on Kurosaki’s turn, but it’s not enough reassurance in this game of minds and prediction. If she doesn’t do something before it’s too late, he’ll suffer the consequences; and that she simply cannot let happen. He’s already struggling to breathe as is.

 “I activate from my hand Rank-Up Magic, Absorbing Soul Force. I pay half my Life Points to Special Summon Rise Falcon back to my field.”

“Then I’ll just destroy it again! You can’t win!”

“Shut up, I’m not finished. I Overlay Rise Raptor as Xyz material to summon two Ranks above its four.”

“Oh, of course, you Xyz users can’t get enough of your stupid Ranks. Come at me, I’ll just bury it six feet underground if need be!”

“Prideful falcon, spread your wings dyed in the blood of heroes, advance through the path of revolution! Xyz Summon, come forth! Rank Six, Raidraptor Revolution Falcon!”

“What’s the difference between that and the previous one? None, they’re all scum! Low filth of the Earth!”

Oh, a lot, but she’d rather let Kurosaki explain – who remains unfazed, if silently furious.

“I activate Revolution Falcon’s effect. By using one Overlay Unit, it can attack all of my opponents’ Monsters, once each.”

“Its Attack is inferior to Parasite Queen’s! Are you birdbrained?!”

Is he going to pull off the same thing he did back then?

“When this monster battles one that was Specially Summoned, that monster’s Attack and Defence become zero!”

But it scoffs and laughs, oh so amused by what’s in front of it, and she won’t have it let have its way. She’s putting an end to this battle that wasn’t meant to be now, no matter what. She’ll get back in control, at long last.

“Too bad for you, I’m ready! I activate—”

If she doesn’t do anything, this is going to be the bitter end—

No, I won’t let you!

“It’s over!” Serena screams with her own voice, finally, back in her body. All she has to do now is to…

Give it back to me!!

The pain is searing and it’s hard to think clearly, but one though is strong enough to pierce through it all.

“I’m not going to let you take over!”

“Serena?!”

She rises her hear to see an obviously concerned Kurosaki.

“Do it!” She yells at him, about to throw her own cards to the ground. “Finish this off!”

The voice screeches and burns inside his mind, claws its way out of a bottomless pit, everything burns burns burns.

He nods, takes a breath, and screams, “Revolution Air Raid!”

 And like it did the first time they saw each other, exchanged what could barely qualify as words, bombs explode to destroy their common enemy. Every single parasite on her field disappears in a blaze, the sky turns white. She almost loses consciousness, doesn’t withstand the knockback of the wind; but gets up soon enough, ignoring tremors in her legs, to at least realize something has moved inside her head.

She can’t quite worry over that yet however, because as soon as Cross-Over disappears, he falls to his knees.

 As if she hadn’t spent so long in her own pain, she rushes to his side, legs lighter than a feather. She doesn’t catch him per say, but decides to support him, concern tainting her every thought. From up close and through her own eyes, it’s evident that he’s taken quite the beating, a bruise already blossoming on the side of his neck and leftover hints of half-healed injuries speckle the few parts of his skin he leaves visible.

“Are you okay?” She asks, frantic, afraid she’ll lose him again.

Kurosaki doesn’t reply, exacerbating her pulse, but she soon feels something getting pulled from her ear. To her shock and disgust alike, through another dizzy spell, she watches him splatter an enormous bug under the sole of his shoe.

“You’re back, Serena?” He asks, his voice even raspier than it was before.

“Y-yeah. I was… controlled by that thing, wasn’t I…?”

“I think so, yeah. Scared the shit outta me.”

 She too has trouble getting her breath back, but before she loses all strength, she drags the both of them to lean against the nearby wall. Exhaustion is sitting heavy on her limbs, despite an urge to keep on – and she can only guess Kurosaki, because he’s struggling to get up yet trying so hard to, is feeling the same.

It’s always been difficult to know what he thinks, because he’s so quiet, so closed-off and so off-limits to everyone but two people he hasn’t found again yet. What is even going through his mind, right now?

Wait, did he just say he was scared?

 “You didn’t seem like it, though… Scared, I mean.”

“Only when you pushed me off the edge. After that, I was just focused on getting you back.”

His voice is gravely, his head is lulling on his shoulder, and it’s all too close to her, too warm, too welcoming. They’re soldiers in the jaw of the enemy, goddammit, is she this tired—

“Why didn’t you give up on me? I almost killed you, Kurosaki.”

He gives her one long, tired stare.

“You weren’t yourself.” He looks to the side next. “I wasn’t going to lose someone else again.”

“Am I really this important to you…?”

“What do you think the answer to that is?”

Dumb question… but it’s such a hard thing to believe. God, he surely sees her as his sister, or as a placeholder for her until Ruri is safe and sound again, that’s got to be it. She isn’t naïve enough not to know that now, that the world has never revolved around her and especially not his. (If only it didn’t hurt to think about).

“It’s hard to know, with you. I was your enemy at some point. You hate Fusion.”

“You’re not responsible for my homeland’s destruction, nor for Ruri’s disappearance. That doesn’t matter anymore.” He smiles a little, sends her back to flutter. “Plus, you did save me before. I was only paying you back so I don’t owe a debt.”

“We’ve talked about that, didn’t we? I was only seeking you for my own selfish gain. I said awful things to you, parading them as truth. I wasn’t exactly doing you a favour.”

He frows so, so deeply.

“Can’t you accept that I give a shit about you, or do I need to break a rib again?”

 Her blood immediately ices over, adrenaline replacing it shortly thereafter.

“Did I break something?!”

“I don’t know,” he says with an undignified uncertainty that doesn’t sound like him and stabs her as a result. “It’s not like I was in that good of a shape before coming here.”

Right, the debris, the rushed recovery process, the turmoil of questions never answered… No rest, all stress. It’s taken its toll on all of them.

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault if you’re in that state.”

“Skip the apology. I don’t want to hear it.”

“If I had been stronger, I wouldn’t have been infected by that… parasite.”

Vague memories she wants to ignore of a crazed man inserting something inside her mind, shivers that follow. It only ends when she feels pulled to him.

“I’m just glad you’re not gone.”

She nuzzles closer, for a moment uncaring of the dimensions, the Professor, the Lancers – all that matters is that they now breath together, that she doesn’t hurt him anymore, that they’re companions once more. It’s selfish. It’s insane. It’s easy.

“I’m relieved to see you again,” is all she replies. “We should… get going, though, shouldn’t we?”

“We should, yeah.”

She gets up, still dizzy and dazed, but nonetheless stable enough to give him her hand with a smile of her own. To her relief and joy alike, he gives it back to her as he takes it, gets to his own feet… and tilts forward just enough for her to catch him in her arms. If their worlds weren’t at stake, at the moment, she’d have relished in it, or let herself get overwhelmed by so much touch, so much closeness.

“I’ll support you,” she says, unsure of the extent to which she means it.

“I guess it’s fine, if it’s you.”

 She doesn’t comment on it, yet in silence can barely contain all of the thoughts that dance through her mind. Instead, like the level-headed companion she wants to be, she pushes that aside and focuses on the way his arm sits on her shoulder, of the one she has wrapped around his wrist, and not to aggravate his breathing. She can decide what to do with her feelings once everyone is safe and back home, when she won’t have to feel bad after a moment of reprieve. For now, they have a world to save.

And there’s nobody she wants to do it with more than the guy who’s just saved her.

[nagito-kissmaeda]

Yandere Komaeda Headcanons submitted by Chaos under the cut (y) Warnings: Slight nsfw, yandere behavior, stalking, mention of suicide, masturbation (not very explicit.)

Yandere Nagito probably wasn't very Yandere before you came along. The unlucky boy was probably still the funky little creep to his classmates as always but as soon as you step through the doorway of 77-B's classroom then he kind of just thought, "Oh, they're pretty." And continued with his day. He didn't think too much of you.

If you were an ultimate who walked into the classroom, he wouldn't have thought much of it besides the idea that "YoU wErE sPrEaDiNg HoPe 😩"

If you were a reserve course student, on the other hand, he would think he is slightly superior. So, if you talk to him he'll feel like he's better than you but won't say anything except under certain circumstances (ex: You ask him for his opinion of you, his opinion on reserve course, that kind of stuff. At least, he's honest :/) But keep in mind, he only really acts like this when you two first meet.

After getting to form a friendship with you (however that happened, I'll leave that up to you), his crush on you takes shape quickly.

He mostly just did small stuff that made it obvious that he liked you (whether he realized it or not.) If you weren't around he'd be asking everyone in sight if they knew where you were. He'd linger uncomfortably close to you whenever you two were together. The unlucky boy also tended to...✨follow✨ you.

Bestie, run while you still can 🏃‍♀️💨 because after he kidnaps you you're gonna be more like ♿

(I guess that's assuming you can run at all...sorry if I offended someone ._.)

When you two are hanging out, he eventually opens up to you about his illnesses and past. All of what he told you would probably be a lot to process so the only thing you can think of besides, "I'm so sorry that happened to you," is that you just hug him. Now he's shocked. You're both shocked. wOAH! Nagito doesn't move at all during the hug and probably forgot to breathe because c'mon...homie hasn't received any form of physical affection for God knows how long. He's drawing a total blank and the first words that spring to his mind are, "I'm going to marry them."

You cannot tell me this man doesn't want to get married one day. Yes, his luck sucks fat juicy butt but it's just something he craves and can be selfish about. Nagito's opinion on his want for having a spouse goes back and forth, like how the fitness gram pacer test works (I bet some of you don't even know that this is something outside of a meme lol.) He probably got this desire from seeing how bad his parents' relationship was.

Nerdy headcanon stuff you don't have to read: So, it isn't canon that his parents had a bad relationship but I imagine that they did because Nagito mentions that his mom had never complimented him and he gained a massive inheritance after his family's death. Let me explain my logic on those. Nagito's mom probably never complimented him because she didn't like or want him. I also headcanon that his parents were in an arranged marriage which is why they were so rich and why I think they had a bad relationship, because let's be honest, not all arranged couples are comfortable with one another. The arranged marriage also could've been the reason why his family was wealthy, it could have had to do with business and work. So to wrap it all up, Nagito's parents are rich because of an arranged marriage and they don't really like each other and they had a kid that neither of them wanted so now it's a broken family with a fucked up kid. I know that sounds like a stretch but that's why it's a headcanon and not actually canon lol.

After that one hug, that's when he truly sees you as some sort of ethereal Deity that he was sure he was going to wed in the future (Hell, he'd probably settle for right there, right now.) He no longer cared if you were an ultimate or not because now he saw you as something even greater. Of course, he still views himself as scum but even scum has desires that they are willing to do anything for.

After Nagito had come back to his dorm, the realization hit him that if he was going to marry you, he would have to be worthy of your hand in marriage. So, he prepares. By that I mean he starts stalking you a lot.

You two were already friends on social media so you probably didn’t dwell too much on it when you found him accidentally liking old posts. He’d go on your socials and scroll through it looking for every little bit of information he could find on you. Sometimes he'd strike gold and other times he'd dig up dirt. Nagito began talking to you a lot more so he could gain some information on your likes and dislikes. You only assumed that he was more comfortable with talking to you now because he confided his troubles in you but in reality he was planning your future life with him. Once in a while you'd invite to your dorm whether it was for hangouts, study sessions, or just sleepovers (he absolutely LOVED it when you brought those up.) The only opening he had to steal stuff is when you went to the bathroom and when that happened all he'd do every single time is go to the closet, grab another one of the pillow cases that the dorm provides, and switch them out with your current ones. When the pillowcase stops smelling like you then he just sticks it in the school's laundry basket where things like bed sheets, pillow cases, and blankets that belong to the school go.

After weeks after weeks of obtaining bits and pieces of information on you such as food you like and dislike, what your family is like (If you/your oc has one), your favorite movies, music genres, and clothing, etc., He eventually realized that he lacked three more things. Romance, experience, and…"performance."

The one thing he absolutely needed to learn first was "How to kiss." Even though no one sees his search history besides him, it was still very  embarrassing to put those words on his computer. He typed those three letters into the google machine and ta-da! A wikihow page and a YouTube video were apparently his best options. He opted for the latter and watched as a lady and her boyfriend demonstrated how to perform different types of kisses. Intimate and sexual. He feels awkward just watching this and he feels like he should practice but...on what? Luckily for him, there is a perfectly good pillow lying on his bed.

...This was definitely weird. His chapped lips were pressed against the plush pillow as he imagined he was french kissing you. This doesn't seem like the greatest method but Nagito doesn't seem to have any other choice.

The pillow in front of me was wrinkled and slightly wet from where I had last kissed it. It felt beyond awkward to kiss a pillow and imagine it was your future partner. I couldn't imagine them walking in on me as my face was buried in a pillow while moaning out muffled noises. It would be far too embarrassing but, I've faced worse. Practice should continue or else my mouth will never come as even a fraction of pleasure to my love. I approach the pillow and lay, stomach down, on my bed again. While this has been an awkward situation, my insides are starting to feel like they're on fire! It's probably just the thought of Y/N floating around in my brain. I take a deep breath before cupping my hands at the corners of the pillow and diving my mouth towards the pillow once more. I start off with a short kiss but continuously start moving my lips against, what I imagine to be, their lips. I move my bottom lip more often than my top. Imagining I'm trapping their lips against mine. Just the thought of trapping them makes me grind my hips against the mattress a little. Even though I'm soft I still let out a little whimper. Does Y/N even like it when their partner makes noise? I wasn't able to find any information on what she likes in bed so...with my luck, I'll just leave it to chance. My kisses get more sloppy and desperate. I begin swiping and swirling my tongue against the pillow thinking about just what it might feel like to make out with them. Their hot, wet mouth pressing up against mine while our tongues rub against one another in an attempt to touch each other. I moan seemingly too loud at that thought and start humping the bed. Everything feels so hot.

Maybe combining kissing practice and "performance" practice would be a good idea.

Once he starts performance practice, his browser is constantly on sex related websites. But more on the education side...he wants to know how to make you feel good and how to make himself last longer. Once in a while, he does go on the hub though so he can pretend it's you and him having sex on the screen. He tries his best to look for ones where it sounds like you or looks like you. He prefers the ones where it sounds like you so that way he could just close his eyes and imagine you and him are together. 

Just a random bonus I thought I'd add in: He got a boner during class once and sat there for like ten minutes just waiting for it to go away. So he just ended up palming himself through his pants and struggled to not make any noise. He liked to imagine you were under the desk pressing your face against his clothed crotch and just rubbing your face around that area. Luckily, he came without letting a single noise slip past his lips. Unluckily, Nagito cums a lot. So everyone could see the enormous wet spot on the crotch of his pants when class was dismissed.

He happens to have a weird habit of doing domestic and soft things with a hint of creepy. For example, one of his favorite things to do as of recently is print out a picture that has your face in it, tape it to his pillow, and fall asleep cuddling it. This sounds fine if you two were dating but… you aren't. He'll give it kisses, cuddle with it, fall asleep with it, and, of course, it's what he uses during his performance practice. He also enjoys eating meals with it and watching movies while cuddling it too. He perceives it all as practice for when you two are wed.

I'm going to assume you aren't an oblivious idiot and just say that you probably began to notice how weird he'd get around you. You tried distancing yourself a little bit but enough to still stay friends. He noticed the change in how often you'd hang out with him and his anxiety skyrocketed. Nagito would feel he had only a couple choices left. And that was to kidnap you, get rid of any obstacles that didn't allow him to spend every waking moment with you, or just flat out kill you so that way no one could have you. He already knew he wouldn't be able to even breathe without you so he'd likely kill himself as well in the process.

Author's Note: I'll probably be discontinuing that one Nagito x reader chapter 2 because I wasn't able to finish it before the school year started and I was just dissatisfied with the chapters BUT! I do have plenty of headcanons on yandere Komaeda! Message me if you want some far more nsfw headcanons because I have a lot for this guy.  I'm also very open to crackfic oneshots.

[rebellconquerer]

oooh, could we get 9 (you're in love with her) for the prompt meme. bucky and sam talking about sarah?

Here you go Anon, angst and feels. Will be crossposted to AO3. Technically a missing scene from In The Woods Somewhere, it'll be a little confusing if you haven't read that. Also it's a bit long.

Sam is worried. He’s trying very hard to hide it as he saunters down the gleaming walkway that leads to the Wakandan apartment they have set Bucky up in for his recuperation, but the fact remains that he is just a bit…worried.

The after had been worse than he expected. After Sarah had left, after Shuri had figured out the deprogramming, after they had started the process. He'll be honest, he hadn't been around much the first time. A mix of him not really knowing or trusting Bucky when this happened before (and vice versa), combined with Steve's almost obsessive need to shelter and protect Bucky then.

Still, the deprogramming had gone about as well as could be expected and Sam had remained with Buck until midway through the first week when major cities across Europe had started to be attacked by some weird environmental monsters. Hill, and then Fury himself, had reached out to say that the kid, Spiderman or whatever, had the situation under control and that they would call in reinforcements if they needed it. So Sam had stayed with Bucky for the first couple of days after the deprogramming as they were testing it to make sure it took, then some tv nutjob had leaked the kid's name.

Very few of the Avengers bothered with secret identities, but the kid was like 15 or something, so Hill had requested Captain America come help out with PR, ensuring that no one believed a teenager could be one of the Avengers.

Sam had said no initially, obviously, but Bucky had insisted he was fine and didn't need a babysitter. Had even managed to say it without that crazed, trapped animal look behind his eyes he got sometimes, so Sam had jetted off to New York for a few days. He had gotten exactly two texts from Bucky during that time. One that said 'I'm fine, mom' on day one and a thumbs-up emoji on day three.

Then Sarah had called him, trying to be all relaxed and casual as she fished for what the hell was going on in Wakanda cause Bucky hadn't spoken to her or responded to her since she left. As ancient as the dinosaurs though Buck may be, he damn well knows how to use a phone, and him deliberately cutting himself off is… concerning.

He comes to the right apartment number and knocks, then waits, then knocks again. Still no response. Sam frowns. He knows he's in there. Shuri told him they've still been monitoring his vitals and that he had requested a bit of time to himself in the aftermath, but he wasn't in the clear yet so she knew where he was.

Sam pounds on the door again.

"Buck, it's me. You gonna open up?"

Silence.

"Ok, Bucky, here's the thing, you either let me in or I'm calling Ayo or Shuri to override this lock… come on, man. Please." Sam whispers at the door, knowing Bucky's advanced hearing will pick it up.

He doesn't want to call in reinforcements and doesn't want to invade Bucky's space if it's not necessary, but as he mentioned before, he's worried.

He waits for one, then another overly long minute before the door finally opens.

Bucky looks like shit. His hair is messy and greasy. His blue eyes stand out as bright spots in the pallor of his face, broken only by the intense, almost bruise-like dark circles under his eyes. His cheekbones don't stand out as much as they did when Sam left so at least he was gaining back the weight he had lost, but he's standing with a blanket around his shoulders, hunched in and holding himself like the feral creature he hasn't been in years.

"Buck?-"

"You wanted to see me, you've seen me. Can you go now?" Bucky says flatly, eyes glinting with the acerbic 'fuck off' his lips haven't yet formed.

Oh hell no.

Sam slips his foot in the door just as Bucky goes to close it, preventing it from shutting. When Bucky pulls the door back open, Sam slips inside, pushing past Buck as quickly as he can.

Bucky growls, closing the door behind him and turning a glare on Sam.

"No please, come in. I'm definitely in the mood for visitors." Bucky says sarcastically.

Sam glances around the room. It's a lot like the first apartment they all stayed in together. Floor to ceiling windows cover one whole wall, the kitchen is immaculate, clearly unused, like most of the rest of the space, save for the couch where the cushions have been left haphazardly on the floor.

"Buck. What the hell is going on here?" Sam asks, voice coming out much softer than he intended. Bucky'd been in rough shape when he left, but he had been clearly on the mend. That was the only reason Sam'd even agreed to go help out.

"Nothing. I'm fine. I don't need you here." Bucky grits out, that muscle in his jaw flexing.

Sam stares for a minute then sighs. He's starting to get it, the lines of pain that seemed to carve through Steve whenever Bucky had pushed him away. It's hard for Sam to see the desperate way Bucky is holding himself while still pulling away, and Sam hasn't been his lifelong best friend.

"Look Buck, you're entitled to a couple bad days, but I'm going to need you to convince me that this is a par for the course breakdown and not something worse 'cause we've had a monumentally rough couple of weeks," Sam says clearly.

Bucky holds his gaze for a long moment before the harsh lines of his face seem to soften and he ducks around Sam, heading back to the couch.

"Like I told you, I'm fine." He mutters as he moves. "It's just… the come down from the deprogramming is a bitch, ok?"

Sam frowns, following him to the couch and sitting next to him.

"Would you like to elaborate, Buck?"

Bucky sighs, scrubbing both hands through his messy hair.

"Best as I understand it, it's like coming down from a high or something. There are a lot of biochemicals involved in the process and the washout… well it sucks." He shrugs. "Plus the process itself is like opening Pandora's box up here," he mutters, tapping the side of his head. "It leaves me… what I mean is it makes me-"

"Your nightmares get worse." Sam finishes for him. Bucky doesn't look up, doesn't say or do anything really.

Sam huffs. "Why didn't Shuri tell me? I expect this bullshit from you, but from her?"

Bucky goes very still, continuing to avoid eye contact. It finally clicks.

"She doesn't know, does she? You never said and… neither did Steve. That's why the two of you were hold up on that little farm for so long after. For god sake, why the hell didn't you say anything Buck?"

Sam doesn't try to hold back the frustration bleeding into his voice.

"That child has more than enough of my pain on her hands. She doesn't need any more. And I'll remind you… I never expected to have to do this again." Bucky finishes softly. Sam's anger deflates as suddenly as it started.

They sit in silence for a minute, Sam watching Bucky, Bucky pretending that Sam isn't watching him until Sam finally breaks.

"Is this why you haven't spoken to Sarah? She called me, you know, said you'd been ducking her calls."

Bucky's expression changes minutely then and if Sam hadn't known him as well as he does, if they hadn't been basically living in each other's pockets for the last year, he wouldn't have recognized it: a quick flash of guilt.

"Buck, what's going on in that head of yours?" Sam asks seriously. "Didn't I tell you if you break her heart I'd break your legs?"

Bucky huffs out a bitter laugh. "Actually the last I heard on the matter you said you'd kill me if I hurt her but we'd be ok. Way to send mixed messages by the way buddy."

Sam can't sit still any longer. This whole experience is surreal. God, he needs a vacation. He strolls over to the kitchen, filling a glass with water for himself and another for Buck. He places the second glass in front of Bucky and backs up to lean on the counter, careful not to hover.

He takes a long drink, draining half the glass in one go as Bucky just stares at his.

“How was New York?” Bucky eventually asks.

Sam shrugs. “Went okay. No one is quite ready to call Captain America a liar to his face, even that piece of shit blowhard.”

That earns him a small smile from Bucky. “You think it’ll hold?”

“Well, they’ve got Pepper, Rhodey, Hill and Fury against them. I’m not sure much could stand up to that team long term so I wouldn’t worry about it.” Sam replies. Bucky isn't going to succeed in changing the topic, but maybe going the long way around will help.

They drop back into the silence. “I think Shuri is gonna let me go in a few days. The deprogramming seems to be holding.” Bucky finally says, still staring unblinkingly at his water.

Sam sighs. “You ready to come back to Delacroix?”

Bucky makes an uncomfortable-looking face, a strange cross between constipated and in pain. “I-I was actually going to go back to New York. Haven’t been home in a while, you know,” he says carefully.

Sam frowns.

“Alright Barnes, cut the crap. My nephews have been worried about you, Sarah is worried about you. What are you thinking-”

“I’m thinking that maybe this is the time to let it… let it die.” Bucky interrupts, eyes flicking up to Sam, a hard look on his face.

Sam just stands there, gaping at him for a minute.“The fuck do you mean, let it die?”

That unearthly stillness that Bucky usually carries in his frame starts to fray. He stands up, pacing to the window. “Sarah and I had a fight the night before I agreed to let Shuri do the deprogramming,” he says, then just leaves the sentence hanging.

“Yeah, the whole goddamn world could have guessed that." Sam prompts. "You’re stubborn as hell. If she got you to reconsider it wasn’t with sweet nothings whispered into your ear.”

Sam watches the tips of Bucky’s ears go a little bit red as he ducks his head at that. He really doesn’t want to know any details about whatever memory that triggered. Bucky still doesn't continue.

“So what, are you angry with her?” Sam asks.

“What? No! Of Course not!" Bucky responds, turning to face him. He still looks weary and a little… lost.

"She said… she said she didn't think I wanted this life. That I hadn't gotten to choose it and so I was too comfortable throwing it away." Bucky mutters staring at the floor.

Sam frowns in confusion. That was harsh. Probably entirely truthful, but harsh nonetheless. And Sarah said he was tough on Buck.

"Ok…" Sam prompts again.

"She said I needed to think about what I wanted to live for. What future was worth fighting for because without that I'd always be … stuck." Bucky goes quiet again and Sam's frown deepens.

He doesn't get it. Doesn't get what Bucky is trying to tell him. "Ok, so you did that and decided that she isn't in that future?" Sam tries, keeping his voice as flat and without judgment as possible.

Bucky doesn't look at him, just keeps staring at the floor between them, the expression on his face pained. Sam watches him clench and unclench his teeth, the muscle in his jaw jumping. But still, Bucky says nothing.

It's Sam's turn to pace. He pushes up off the counter, walking closer to Bucky as he rubs at his temple. He's tired and stressed and he's been through too much in the last 3 weeks to play decoder with Bucky and his-

He comes to an abrupt stop beside the couch. The gears in his mind grinding to a halt so suddenly he thinks you should be able to hear them shrieking.

He turns to face Bucky, eyes tracing over the tight lines of his body as astonishment slides in under his skin, under his breastbone, and behind his eyes. How had he not seen it before? How had he not noticed?

“You’re in love with her.” he breathes out, the acknowledgement hitting like a brick. Bucky goes absolutely still as Sam stumbles back a few steps, sitting heavily on the arm of the couch.

“That’s what this is about. You’re in love with her and you’re afraid.”

“Look at me Sam, look at me?!” Bucky's voice is raspy, hollowed out. Sam lifts his gaze and meets Bucky's eyes.

“I’m a mess. On a great day, I’m a fucking mess. Most days I feel like I'm barely holding on to who I am because of what I am. On a bad day?” Bucky looks back out the windows, eyes going unfocused. “I shouldn’t be in love,” he whispers flatly. “What right do I have to get this after all the carnage I have caused. What right do I have to bring someone else into the hell that is my life.” He sighs then and leans back on the window, sliding down the glass to sit on the ground. The movement is slow, achingly so, making him look every one of his 107 years.

Sam slips from the arm of the couch coming to sit on the ground facing Bucky.

“This isn’t you Buck." He whispers. "This is the deprogramming and the night terrors. This is the lack of sleep and bone tiredness talking. This isn't you."

Bucky laughs, the sound empty. "Isn't it? Are you sure about that? Because I'm not."

"The two of you have been going great. You haven't been afraid before now, is this all fallout because of what happened, because Buck, you can't let that asshole Novikov take her from you."

Bucky lets out a slow breath, tilting his head back against the glass and staring at the ceiling, face blank. "Too good. It's been too good." He mutters and the last piece of the puzzle falls into place for Sam.

"She told you, didn't she? She told you she loves you."

Bucky's eyes flick down to his, expression sharp. "She told you what she was going to do?" Bucky asks, suspicion clear in his tone.

Sam shakes his head. "She didn't have to. You forget I've known her a lot longer than you have. I know what my sister looks like when she's in love."

He has one of those moments where he wishes Steve were there because he feels he would know what to say to help. But that's not really true. He'd watched Steve stumble through enough of these conversations to know he would be just as lost. Not that it matters. Steve's gone now. Left them both.

"It was fine when it was just you, right? When you'd be the only one risking anything? But it’s different now you know that she’s as far in as you are.” Sam mutters.

Bucky’s staring at the ceiling again, face blank. “That’s not it. I’m not afraid. I’m just seeing things clearly for the first time in a long time.” he mumbles.

Sam’s lips twist into a rueful smile. Clearly? Bucky hasn’t been this muddled in a year. “You know I almost flunked out of Pararescue training?” Sam asks, trying a different tact.

Bucky looks over at him, frowning confusedly. Sam nods slowly, looking down at his hands.

“I got referred by my prior C.O. Spent 2 days in the air over the course of the first week and decided it was not for me. I mean, it was madness, right? Jumping out of a plane with nothing on but some wings someone else had made?”

Bucky smirks. “That’s real hard to believe, Sam. You’re a natural.”

Sam shakes his head. “Nah, Riley was a natural. Took to the skies like a duck to water.” Sam can still hear the excitement in Riley’s voice after his first jump. How he could barely catch his breath to talk because all he wanted to do was laugh and grin.

“Went back to my C.O. Told him thanks for the recommendation but… I couldn’t do it. He fed me this bullshit story about how some scientist somewhere had done some experiment, right? That they gave a group of people some glasses that flipped the world upside down.” Sam looks up at Bucky to find him staring back at him, blank look retreating, intense blue eyes focussed.

“The first two days everyone was walking around bumping into things, begging to be let out of the experiment, but by the end of the third day, they had all adapted. Their world was normal again. He told me to give it three days, and I did.”

Bucky purses his lips and looks away, letting the meaning of the words sink in.“You realise you’d already been there for more than three days, right? You said it was the end of the first week.”

Sam huffs out a tired laugh. “Man, do you ever get tired of being a pain in the ass?” he asks.

Bucky slips into that small, sad smile he wears so well. “All signs point to no,” he mutters back.

“It’s been a long fucking month, Buck. I’m not saying you’re wrong or you’re right, but… just give yourself a moment to adapt to your new normal before you go making any drastic decisions.”

Bucky doesn’t respond for a while, but then he nods slowly, still refusing to look at Sam.

“And honestly, Buck, no jokes this time. Whatever happens, I’ll still be here. You don’t have to be alone.” Sam says as clearly as he can.

Bucky finally looks back over to him. “Guess Steve was right leaving me to you.”

It’s Sam’s turn to look away, laughing. “Nah. He left us to each other,” he replies easily.

“We’re probably giving the punk too much credit. Like he ever thought ahead in his whole stupid life… but… the same goes for you, you know. I’ll be here as long as you need me, for whatever that counts as.” Bucky says.

Sam looks up at him, their eyes meeting and he can’t help but smile, relaxing the tension a little. “So you love her, huh? You realise she’s just a less pretty version of me. This is tantamount to you declaring your undying love of me.”

Bucky lets out an honest to God laugh. “You ever get tired of being so in love with yourself?” he fires back.

Sam shrugs, pushing himself up off the ground and reaching a hand out for Bucky. He looks at it a moment before he grabs on and Sam pulls him to his feet, wrapping one hand around his shoulder and leading him back to the couch.

“Well honestly, someone has to be.” Sam jokes.

Bucky laughs again

[mikauzoran]

The Ascendancy of The Plan ™ (re: Mikau’s WIPs)

So, I feel like I’ve gotten a lot accomplished in the past few months since I last did one of these status updates. Most of the stories I ended up writing were much longer than anticipated, and I’ve had a lot of ideas just pop into my head that I hadn’t originally been planning, so this list isn’t going to look very different from the last one, but I promise that I have accomplished things, and there are some new projects in the works. ^.^;

I’m currently posting the final chapters of Among the Wild Things and Betting Against the House. Below is a list of works I have planned for the coming months. Let me know what sounds interesting or what you’re excited for.

Anhedonia: When Adrien Met Marinette: (Adrienette, post-reveal/pre-relationship, roommates) So, I’m taking a screenplay writing class, and we’re studying the scripts of several movies to get a feel for how the writer evokes different cognitive responses from the audience. One of the movies is When Harry Met Sally. I’ve never seen this movie, but apparently it’s about two friends finally ending up together after some trials and tribulations. It’s about never giving up on finding love and happiness...only I’m feeling depressed at the moment, and I don’t want to hear about true love because I’m lonely and despair of ever finding someone to share a life with. So I’m using my feelings to write a story. ^.^ Naturally. XD

It’s post-reveal/pre-relationship Adrienette. They’re roommates, and there’s been a misunderstanding because Marinette didn’t tell Adrien how she felt about him after she found out he was Chat Noir, and he’s told her that he’s over her because he thinks that the only way to preserve their friendship (since she’s already turned down his advances as Ladybug, so, obviously, she wouldn’t want him as Marinette either). It has a happy ending, and they straighten things out because I still believe in finding true love and happiness. XD I’m a sap like that, and these two deserve happiness.

Ladrien Present: (Adrienette, Ladrien) I’m still trying to write a story where Ladybug brings Adrien’s birthday party to him. ^.^; I have half of it written (the Adrienette half), and I have an outline for the rest. I just...need to sit down and make myself write it. I’ve seriously been procrastinating on this one. I don’t know what my deal is. -.-;

Marichat Prompt: This is an overflow prompt I received as part of my Productive Procrastination Prompt Giveaway. It’s about Chat Noir visiting Marinette and it somehow coming up in conversation that Marinette has always thought of Chat as a player. For some reason, this makes Chat really angry because he can’t stand her in particular thinking that about him. I thought this story out a couple months ago, but I didn’t write it down, so now I’ve forgotten, and I’m going to have to think up the plot all over again. XD

Alyadrino Prompt: Someone sent me an Ask that said, “Snuggle party makes me imagine what if nino and alya accidentally did to adrien what luka and marinette intentionally did to him in shades 12″, and I thought, “…Oh, all right. Why not?” I had a basic outline of what I wanted to do with this story a couple months ago, but I didn’t write it down, so now I have to figure it out all over again. Oh, well. I have the basic idea, I think.

Lukadrigaminette: At the beginning of the month, I thought, “I should do Valentine’s Day stories!” I ended up writing a Marichat one, and then I had this idea. It’s not Valentine’s Day related, so I decided to shelve it for later. So, several years ago, my friend and I concocted this scheme to bake for our respective crushes and win their hearts that way. It’s a really fond memory for me, and I’m turning it into a Lukadrigaminette story. Luka and Kagami join forces to bake for Adrien and Marinette in order to win their love.

Plagg and Wayzz Prompt: I got a comment on one of my stories that said, “Can you do a top wayzz bottom plagg one? Preferably in universe and in human form. Doesn’t have to be smut.” First I thought, “What the bloody hell?” because it was a comment on a Lukadrien story, and that’s all it said, and I thought, “Well, that’s random.” I’ve never really written Wayzz before, but this gave me the idea for a story where the team is up against an akuma that somehow separates them from their kwamis, leaving the heroes unable to detransform and the kwamis in defenseless human form. What I came up with really doesn’t have anything to do with the prompt other than Plagg and Wayzz will both be in human form. It will probably just end up being a Lady Noir identity reveal piece, honestly.

Supportive Adrien Lukadrien One-Shot(?): I haven’t actually pinned this story down well yet. ^.^; I was just thinking that I wanted to write something where Adrien is the one supporting and encouraging Luka, since I typically write Luka being a supportive presence for Adrien. I was thinking that the scenario could be that Luka is feeling down because Marinette still loves Adrien and things aren’t going well between Marinette and Luka, so Adrien takes Luka on an outing and confesses his love and they live happily ever after or something.

The only thing is that a different scenario is trying to creep into this story. It’s really weird. It’s post-Papillon defeat, and Adrien is twenty-four (Luka is twenty-six). He’s been in kind of rough shape the past few years since his father was arrested and he lost his family and home and fortune. He couldn’t finish university, and he’s been travelling around, trying to find work and make a life for himself. He ends up back in Paris, broke, and auditions for a band because he happened to see a flyer advertising for a new lead vocalist. It just so happens that it’s Luka’s band, and Luka ends up finding out about Adrien’s situation and taking him in and feeding him...but that scenario is just more Luka taking care of Adrien, and that’s not what I wanted to write. XD It also feels like multiple chapters, and I don’t want to go there. Oh, well. We’ll see what happens.

Adrien Trapped in AU-Land: (Adrienette, canon universe featuring AUs) My idea is based off of a writing prompt submitted by @graaythekwami on the @miraculousfanworks Discord server: AU where all the characters wake up in a different AU every chapter, fully remembering what happened in the last AU. My idea is for Chat Noir to get hit by an akuma (probably named Escapist or something equally dumb ^.^) who traps Adrien in a series of alternate realities (AUs) until he realizes his feelings for Marinette and manages to break free.

L’Amour de Loin: (Lukadrien, post-Papillon defeat, Félix wingman) I did a sneak peek for this here. This was one of the two “Winter Lukadrien Pieces” mentioned on my last status update. Adrien is living in London with his aunt and cousin three years after Papillon’s defeat and arrest. He’s in rough shape and hasn’t kept in touch with anyone from Paris. One day, he gets a text from Luka out of the blue, and they rekindle their friendship. Félix acts as wingman to ensure that it turns into something more.

Adrienette Hanahaki: Awhile ago I did an ask game about a trope I’d like to try writing, and the one I came up with was Adrien with Hanahaki disease (The one where you start coughing up flower petals due to unrequited love making flowers grow inside your lungs). I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided I’d like to actually write this story. My basic outline is: Adrien starts showing symptoms, and Gabriel badgers him about whom he’s in love with, and Adrien just blurts out, “Marinette!” And Gabriel threatens Marinette into dating Adrien, and they start fake dating but then fall in love.

Happenstance and Magic: Marichat May 2019. Marinette and Chat Noir adopt kittens together, and Adrien tries to get Marinette to see that he’s not perfect but still a worthwhile person deserving of her love.

I’ve been thinking about this one, and I think I’m going to cut the number of prompts I actually use. Once I’m done with the other stories, I want to sit down and make a more thorough outline of what I want the story to be and which prompts I’m going to use to get me there.

The Seduction of Adrien Agreste: This is part of the Springtime in Wonderland (Daisy/Jabberwocky) series. It deals with Luka and Adrien experimenting with physical intimacy to see if they can reach a compromise where Luka and (asexual) Adrien are both comfortable and have their needs met.

Things Currently on the Backburner:

The Rejects Club: Predominantly Marichat with Adrienette. Chat Noir and Marinette unexpectedly grow very close very fast as they open up to one another after Marinette overhears Adrien seemingly dismissing her as a romantic prospect. Identity shenanigans at farcical levels ensue.

I can’t really deal with Rejects right now. I’m feeling super overwhelmed by basic life stuff, so I don’t really have the mental or emotional energy to put into a story where I don’t know how many more chapters there will be until the end. I’m thinking that what I have planned will take at least another one or two hundred thousand words. This thing is just so massive, and I’m not in good enough mental heath to deal with it right now.

Springtime in Wonderland: Yeah, no. See the paragraph directly above. This is another one that’s going to take another couple hundred thousand words to complete, and I just don’t have the stamina in me right now. I’d rather focus on smaller projects that actually feel attainable. I’m trying not to burn myself out.

And that’s it for the moment. I’m sure I’ll come up with plenty of other stuff between now and the next time I do a status update post, but is there anything that you’re particularly interested in? Let me know what you’re thinking.

Thoughts? Feelings? Suggestions? Opinions? ^.^

[bellatrixobsessed1]

From Chin To Yon Rah (Part 40)

Sometimes she doesn't recognize herself. Especially not these days, not with her hair still shorter than usual and her belly so swollen. Not with the clothes she now wears and the makeup that she doesn't.

She has felt this so many times before but she hasn't done so in such a long time. And, spirits, the disconnect has come back with a vengeance. For some reason it is more noteworthy today. Maybe it is a product of silence and too much time to think while Atsu is in school and Hajime is at work. Maybe she should go into town and find something to do, someone to talk to instead of dwelling on the disjoint between her body and her mind.

Maybe she should set off to find something that reminds her of the old her. But then it becomes a matter of balancing--finding something that takes her back to herself but without dragging up the demons she has been fending off for so long. She lays against the pillow with a long and drawn out sigh, her fingers absently brushing over the bump. Not for the first time she wonders just who the hell she is; she wonders if Azula and Rikka truly are one and the same or if she has severed Azula away. She wonders if it would be a bad thing if she had--Rikka is significantly easier to love. Rikka hasn’t any past to feel or misdeeds to regret. But Azula has plenty. And sometimes Rikka feels the pains of them. There is no severance, not even the possibility of it, she decides.

Decide as she might, the disconnect still lingers in her mind, even when logic has already deduced that Azula and Rikka can never be separate. Even when logic deduced that they share not just a face and body but one mind no matter what name she puts to it.

She wishes that logic could be enough to ward off the feeling. She sits herself upright, if she lazes around any longer, the baby will begin its restless kicking. It always does. But swollen ankles and feet don’t exactly inspire her to get up. She sighs and pushes herself up anyhow.

She had every intention of going out for some fresh air but she finds herself sitting in front of the mirror. It should have been only a brief thing, a simple task. All she had to do was run a brush through her locks and dress herself. She gets as far as taking her sleep shirt off and reaching for her day clothes.

She should know better than to get anywhere near a mirror when she feels any manner of a disconnect and yet she had trusted herself to stand before one. Her grip on the shirt slackens. This time she is alone in the reflection. This time she can only lock eyes with herself. This time she will hold that stare until she has forced the disconnect away.

She finds that staring just doesn’t cut it and so she holds up her hand, if only to make sure that her reflection will do the same. Not that it hasn’t given a perfect imitation of her every gesture so far. Of each twitch of her hand and each flicker of an expression.

She touches her hand to the mirror, meeting the fingertips behind the glass. And when simply seeing the motions imitated does nothing to bridge the disconnect, she touches her cheek. Her reflection does the same. She brushes her fingers over the opposite hand, runs them through her hair.

She feels along the bump, she thinks that she can feel the baby stir. She thinks that she can feel reality slipping more securely back into place. And so she feels for her pulse. Holds her fingers there for the longest time just breathing. Inhaling and exhaling until security returns. And in the steady rhythmic beat, she does come back to herself.

It isn’t just logic that tells her that she and Rikka are not separate. It isn’t just logic that tells her that Azula isn’t an invader in Rikka’s body. She can feel it now, her mind does belong to the body it inhabits.

She is glad that Hajime and Atsu aren’t there to catch her standing topless and seemingly pointlessly in front of the mirror. Granted, Hajime has grown used to some of her more disorganized behaviors.

Azula finishes dressing her body and brushing her hair. Finishes grooming herself. There is no Rikka and Azula. There is only Azula and the false name she had applied to the the real mind and person behind it.

She double checks that the house is locked before slipping quietly out the door and into town. It would do her well to talk to a stranger every now and then.

That day she learns that she can help herself.

.oOo.

"Dad and I are going hunting, come with us?"

In less than ten words her life changes again. She hadn’t realized that things can change so startlingly fast. She is used to the much more gradual sort. Regardless of speed, she doesn’t know how many more changes she can take. How many changes like these.

She is cold, so very cold…

She still struggled to stuff herself into so many layers of clothing. One large sweater and a first coat are easy enough but Sokka always had to help her tug on the overlaying parka and that morning was no different. She thinks that he enjoys doing so, he always ruffles her hair before flipping the hood over too far over her head. As she had done every time before that she had pushed the hood out of her eyes and swatted him with all of her might--it was ineffective between the padding of her own gloves and the layers that Sokka was buried under.  He had laughed so hard and she thinks that Katara might have even stifled one before going back to scorning the firebender’s very existence.

She wonders if Katara is as worried about her as she is worried about her father and brother. At the very least, if she is worried at all. Even slightly. Sokka hasn’t laughed in a while…

Hakoda had placed a spear in her hand. “It’ll be easier than taking your gloves off every time you want to firebend.” She respected his sharp thinking. At least she knew that she wasn’t hunting alongside an incompetent man. But sometimes all the competence and quick thinking in the world isn’t enough to trump circumstance.

The goal was to sack a few arctic hens and maybe a puffin-seal or two. “You bag it, you skin it.” Hakoda remarked at the end of his lesson in spear throwing. She couldn’t imagine that it would be too much harder than aiming lightning. She remembers wondering if the man was joking about making her skin her catches. “I’ve skinned an animal before when I was in the grasslands, I can show you how if you’d like.”

Her jest was well received. The man had given her a sturdy pat on the back, a gesture not unlike Sokka slinging his arm over her shoulder. “I think that you’ll be a great help today.” The man had nodded. “We’re going to be hunting for the whole village. Us and Bato and his crew.”

And with those words they had bid Katara a goodbye. With those words they had begun a hunt that should have been successful. A hunt that was in the beginning.

She is bleeding so much. Or she would be, had the cold not sealed her wound by freezing the blood. Sometimes her life replays itself in her mind. She supposes that, in the end, she had shaped herself into a decent person. The sort that will be missed...

Between the three of them they had taken down seven arctic hens and one puffin-seal. Sokka carried four of the hens and she three. At least until the puffin-seal fell. It had been her shot, her killing blow and she wanted to carry the thing. “Firebender pride is one mighty force.” Hakoda had rolled his eyes. She thinks that she had earned a certain respect in lifting the creature. It was heavy without a doubt, heavier than her by some ten pounds. Maybe fifteen. But her determination had a weight of its own, a significantly heftier one.

Her arms still ache from the endeavor. She would have let Hakoda carry it if she had known that she would need her energy to carry Sokka. She wonders how much respect his father would have had for her if they hadn’t gotten separated.

Truth be told she wishes that she hadn’t taken the seal down so fast. They wouldn’t have had any extra time if she hadn’t. Sokka wouldn’t have been able to make his proposal if they had hunted even a few minutes longer.

“There’s a glacier that I’d love to show Azula, can we go dad?”

“I don’t think so, Sokka. Not today.” He had pointed to the sky. Azula thought that the world looked somehow dimmer. Dimmer in the same way that fog mutes a landscape.

“We still have a few hours.” Sokka had insisted. “I think that she would really like the glacier.” He turned to her. “It’ll be the second prettiest thing you see in the tribes--third if you count me! You’ll love it I promise.”

And maybe she would have if she had gotten to see them. She wishes that she would have been more adamant in her refusal.

They had made it to the glacier. “I’ll wait for you out here.” Hakoda had propped himself up at the mouth of the icy architecture. Mistake number two.

She wonders if the man had entered the glacier to look for them. To warn them to stay put until the storm passed. Maybe that would have been smarter but she had dreaded the idea of getting sealed away in there in the Water Tribe equivalent of a cave in. Dreaded the notion of being trapped under miles of snow and ice. She had practically dragged Sokka out into the open of the tundra. Mistake number three.

She had been such a fool to trust her inexperienced, fear-driven instincts over Sokka’s decade of experience and the knowledge that had probably been passed down to him since birth.

All those years ago, the tides might not have commanded her ship, but the frosty winds certainly command the tundra and everything that walks within it.

_________________________

For those of you wondering how Azula carried a seal, we will pretend like puffin-seals are like subantartic fur seals which, on average, weigh around 110 pounds. Azula is a strong lady, I firmly believe that she can lift that much. Fight me if you disagree. (ง'̀-'́)ง

[fmdrorinarchive]

━━━━━━  𝖆 𝖓𝖊𝖜 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖆𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖘… 💋 〈  Below the cut is an intro for Michelle Chae of Chroma // Please 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖙 to plot, and thanks for reading !!  〉

𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋-𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖚𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓.

Hi again, friends !! This is Boone ( 19+ / MDT / HE & HIM ) and you may recognize me as the typist behind Vive’s maknae, Yoo Rioh. I’ve decided to bring in another muse! Like Rioh, Michelle’s just starting out in her career and I can’t wait to see her grow. ♡ To find out more, please read onwards !! I can’t wait until she gets to meet all of your muses !! Oh, here are a few trigger warnings to look out for if you continue to read: mentions of drug addiction and parental abandonment; mentions of slut-shaming and misogyny.

𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖈𝖐 𝖋𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖘.

MICHELLE RORIN CHAE,  b. 19990620

BORN & RAISED IN VALLEY GLEN, CA

FORMER COMPETITIVE FIGURE SKATER

BC ENT / CHROMA & CHROMA EMBER

SUB VOCALIST, SUB RAPPER, VISUAL

𝖋𝖚𝖗𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖎𝖓𝖋𝖔.

RESEMBLES KIM MINJEONG ( WINTER ) OF ÆSPA

SHE STANDS AT A MODERATE 163 CM ( 5 FT, 3 IN )

CISGENDER FEMALE, USES SHE / HER PRONOUNS

GEMINI CANCER CUSP, YEAR OF EARTH RABBIT

HETEROFLEXIBLE, KINSEY SCALE #2, CURIOUS

𝖉𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖉𝖎𝖛𝖊.

TRAJECTORY /  Michelle was born in Valley Glen, CA to David and Heesun Chae—the owners of a struggling restaurant in their neck of the woods. As a kid, she trained to become a figure skater, but when her father bailed on her and her mother because of a drug addiction, she couldn’t afford the expenses for coaching, etc. so she retired from it for now.  /  Instead of being able to truly enjoy her youth, she had to pick-up after school jobs in order to help her mom with bills, and for awhile, her only source of comfort was spent with guys that showed her affection. Her relationships with boys grossly gave her the title of a “whore” to her peers, so she sadly didn’t have many friends to lean on in high school.  /  Originally traveled to Korea to earn a nursing degree from SNU, but got scouted by BCE on her first day—prompting her to drop out of school to focus primarily on training. This enraged her mother as the plan was for her to become a nurse so they no longer had to worry about money.  /  After only a few months of training, she’s selected to debut as a member of Chroma. OTHER FACTS /  Not mentioned in her biography is the fact that she grew up in a fairly religious family. Mom and dad were raised Christian, so they raised their daughter the same. She was never into church, though. She always felt as though she was being judged harshly by the others in attendance. Hell, she even thought that of her mother quite often. Her style was never as pristine as her mom would’ve liked and no one understood her interests in the occult, in anime, in video games, and so forth. By the time she was eighteen, she stopped showing up to service altogether—which her mom didn’t like, but respected nevertheless.  /  She still likes to skate in her spare time... but she doesn’t really have any nowadays. You’d think that she’d be in the dance line due to her past in performance, but since she stopped skating, she’s lost a lot of her flexibility and power. She hopes to improve though!  /  She’s never had many close female friends, so she looks forward to hopefully bonding with her members as they grow closer. This is something she wants to change about herself a lot. INSPIRATION /  For Michelle, I pulled a lot of inspiration from a few different characters from television series, mainly Cassie Howard from Euphoria; Manuella “Manny” Santos from Degrassi: The Next Generation; Tessa Campanelli from Degrassi JH / High; and Britney Orton from We Are Who We Are, among others!

𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖞.

01.  On the surface, Michelle’s reasonably pleasant to be around. She has a deep interest in people, especially those she’s close to, so if you’re a friend of her’s, she genuinely wants to know all about you and deeply cares about how you’re feeling / doing. Some might perceive this high level of intrigue as romantic, and she’s... not ever really going to confirm or deny those types of feelings. She’s a huuuge believer in love and doesn’t want to end up like her parents, but also has no idea what she’s doing when it comes down to it. She didn’t have the best example to look up to, so you know. 02.  Michelle’s really talkative, and she’s witty, and she knows how to charm the pants off of most people, and while that’s loud and present in her character, she also has many faults. For one, her emotions are really strong and her mood is easily affected by others and events that occur in day-to-day life, so she has a tendency of being moody. That, and she also isn’t the best “rule follower” either. Does she care that there’s a dating ban in place for she and Chroma? Absolutely not. Did she experiment with drugs and alcohol in high school when they were forbidden to her? Yes. She’s not the best at making decisions, but she believes that taking risks shape better people... even if that belief’s a little skewed. 03.  Some people say that she might be a little too “sweet” for her own good sometimes and she’s prone to getting her heart stomped on, but she’s not all that innocent. While she’s a huge believer in love, she’s not exactly good at it. She enters in and out of relationships all the time, and she loves the honeymoon phase, but whenever it starts to get too “real,” she gets nervous and bails. Abandonment issues FTW? A very strong possibility. 04.  She’s also empathic to a fault on occasion. It’s easy for her to pick up on the emotions of others and it’s hard for her not to carry them on her shoulders. She’s had a difficult time learning that boundary for herself, and well, at this point, she doesn’t even realize that it’s a thing. Mother taught her how to be kind and nurturing towards loved ones, but she can take it to a degree that isn’t healthy for anyone—especially if love / romance is involved. 05.  Her chattiness can sometimes land her in trouble, but that’s because she has a hard time filtering what she says. Her mind runs a mile a minute and her speaking patterns are similar, so sadly, she can’t control what comes out of her mouth sometimes... pray for her.

𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖉-𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖘.

01.  If I were to make any sort of “claim” on what I imagine her voice sounding like, it’d be a lot like J from STAYC, maybe with a little mix of fromis_9′s Seoyeon. There’s a delicate husk there, and it’s a little lower than the others, but it’s extremely recognizable and unique. That is her biggest asset as a singer and rapper. She’s not had enough time to truly make drastic improvements to either skill given her short stint as a trainee, but she’s working really hard to get better and doesn’t want to be seen as just a pretty face forever. 02.  Dance-wise, she’s actually pretty strong—just nowhere near as trained as Chroma’s dance line. Due to her extensive background in figure skating ( and a little bit of ballet ), she’s got a really natural gracefulness to all of her moves; a fluidity that allows for strong body rolls, etc. Additionally, she focuses on clarity and sharpness, angles, as that’s what she’s most familiar with. Michelle also has great control of her hip-area and often adds variations to moves using her hips. If I were to select a reference, I’d say Oh My Girl’s Arin and TWICE’s Mina. Some of her faults are that her movements are often too light and soft, so whenever power is needed, she lacks strength there. She also has a tendency of making choreography look a little “sensual” without necessarily intending to. 03.  Loooves when people call her Mish or Chelle/Shell. Honestly, she adores nicknames—both giving and receiving them. She’s also a heavy user of pet names in conversation, but tries her best to stop if people are uncomfortable with it. 04.  Michelle’s typically not afraid of making her affections known, even early on. She’s the type that’ll definitely hit on you if she thinks you’re handsome / attractive, and goes with the flow if the person responds positively. If she gets really cozy with you, she can come off as clingy in the beginning, but that typically subsides with time. That’s applicable to both her friendships and her romantic relationships. 05.  Her public image is similar to that of Alice in Wonderland and Snow White—beauties with fair skin and wide eyes; imaginative and curious; trapped in purity and sweetness; soft, feminine, and delicate—but with a slight “edge” because of her rapping and quick wit. It’s hard for her to keep up with it all the time—especially when she’s a bit different personally—and she’s barely starting in her career. She hopes it evolves over time. 06.  She’s decided to go by her Korean name as an idol because it made the most sense, to be honest. Though, a few other stage names tossed around were: Chelle, Wooah, Hayan, Rozy, and Baekseol. In the end, she’s happy she’s just Rorin or Michelle to everyone.

𝖕𝖑𝖔𝖙-𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘.

This section will be updated when her plots page is complete. Please look forward to it !! I’m getting it done as fast as I can. In the meantime, I’m happy to brainstorm and look over your muses’ plots pages too !! ♡

[fragileizywriting]

friends (part two)

AO3 | Start Here | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

This… this is not fun.

He wants to be in bed with Marinette.

He wants to be under the thick covers on a cold and freezing morning and curl into her warmth and never leave. Is it the cat part of him, or the demon part of him that means this? After all, demons don’t like the cold— it burns through the hellfire that covers their soul and makes them all almost insufferable. His dad, too, is inconvenienced by any amount of freeze— he doesn’t get snippy but he’s seen the way that frown has transformed his father’s face into a disgruntled god.

But cats are no different, either— making it a habit to curl up in the warmest place and hide until it’s warm enough to move. Winters are hard for Chat when he’s not in hell, and Marinette always teases him for him retracting into his cat form almost for days at a time, trying to use his fur to keep the frost from seeping into his body. The cold and Chat Noir do not do so good.

Whatever it is that makes him hate this, he listens to it, souring his mood by thinking of all the things he’s missing without Marinette near.

Why hadn’t they just invited Marinette along? It’s not like she doesn’t ever come with them sometimes. She enjoys the experience of being on Luka’s boat, even if it is to collect ingredients on her own, and Chat Noir has always very much enjoyed her company. If Luka’s feeling up to it, which he often is, he goes collecting for her. Marinette’s list is never that long, given that she stocks up on everything she can get her hands on, but sometimes she’s in need of more.

Algae, rocks, a specific crystal that regrows every two weeks or so. Snails, any bottom-feeders that Luka can lure and trap for her, and definitely whatever type of ocean or lake plant she’s looking for. Every time Luka resurfaces with a new item, Marinette is so quick to smile and so quick to thank him, turning and spinning around on the deck to show Chat the new item before she puts it in a jar for storage.

But without her, this whole fishing moment is just… exhausting.

Truly, of all things he’s done in the past week and a half— this takes the cake as both the most mundane and the most unnecessary thing to do.

He’s built fence posts, he’s seen his mother and almost passed out from dehydration— he’s seen his father and gotten his whole world tilted onto its side and backwards— not to mention the bite marks and suture in his skin. He’s kissed Marinette— done more than just that, actually— and finds himself rubbing at the tattoo on his chest the more and more he thinks about being away from her. The seal burns purple against his hand, reminding him that he’s far from his witch’s magic, and that his entire body and soul misses her.

Today’s fishing is just too much.

Luka agrees with him— he knows it— because the naga’s eyes are closed as the sun beats down on their shoulders, warming their skin and bodies to the point of laziness. Chat can barely keep his eyes open, looking out to the lake, his eyelids getting heavier and heavier as the sun continues to bake them alive.

Just their luck. The two people who struggle the most to focus when there’s a patch of sun are now subjugated to an entire afternoon of it— what he wouldn’t give to just transform into his cat form and lounge for the rest of the day, yearning to be in his witch’s lap as she pets through his fur.

“Why is it so sunny?” Chat complains into the silence, trying not to close his eyes for too long. This is perfect napping weather— all he has to do is just rest his head and… “Of all days for it to be ridiculously sunny.”

“It’s good for the festival,” Luka answers, looking just as out of it as he is. It’s laughable, of course, that a water creature such as Luka would absolutely go frozen stiff at the prospect of baking under the sun. Even though he’s not a snake— or at least, that’s what Luka always argues whenever he brings it up— he certainly acts like one. He looks ready to lay down and coil up, let his blood be warmed up by the sun, and stay that way for days.

“What’s going on with the weather this week?” He sniffs, not exactly stopping himself from laying back down on the deck of Luka’s boat. The Liberty doesn’t even budge under their weight— she’s a solid, heavy barge that is more long than tall— it offers barely any protection from the elements coming from the sky. It’s a floating platform, essentially, which is perfect for nagas who frequently spend most of their time in the water and have a tough time climbing up the sides of their boats from how slippery they are— and the boat is also long enough to house a superfluous amount of nagas, as well as their long tails comfortably, should they feel the need to curl up instead of letting their tails hang off the boat.

And it fits the fish as well.

Lots and lots of barrels of fish.

“The constellations are starting to move.” Luka answers, almost sounding a bit too serious. The tip of Luka’s tail sways in the water with the gentle current that is too soft to genuinely make a dent in the barge’s lazy course to the middle of the lake. His plumes open instinctually wherever his tail meets the water— a sway of fins that only come out when there is enough moisture. He is more sea serpent this way, than an actual snake— and his tail glitters with sparks of gold underneath the clear water. Fish swim by next to him, curious as to whose fins are swaying like a tree in a breeze, and Chat Noir admits— even if it’s to himself and safely away in his head— that he understands why nagas consider themselves sea serpents instead of just snakes. “There’s a celestial storm coming. Did you not know?”

“This sounds like a horoscope,” Chat doesn’t let the idea settle into his head. “Celestial storm? Don’t pull at my tail, Luka. You won’t believe that my parents are gods, but you’ll believe in celestial storms?”

He snorts. “No one believes you when you say your parents are two divinities.”

“At least it’s more believable than hearing you talk about how a ‘ tornado will come from Orion—’ or ‘ an earthquake has been predicted because of Antares—’”

Luka smiles good-humouredly. “Idiot, nothing of that sort. Naga use constellations to guide themselves across the sea, you pruned lion.”

“‘Pruned lion’,” Chat mutters, resting his clawed hands against his chest. Rubbing and rubbing and rubbing away at the seal. “I’ll show you a ‘pruned lion’.”

“There’s not much paper we can use on the sea. Clay is a good substitute, but they’re too heavy when using as maps, so we navigate by using stars. We can tell when stars aren’t in their place,” Luka continues, as if he’s barely heard him. “And they are most definitely not in their places. Just last night, eight northern constellations moved closer south.”

Chat’s feet dangle off the edge of the platform that makes the Liberty, and his toes sink into the water. It’s lukewarm, heated by the sun that beats down and down and down, but much easier and cooler than the damp and still air above.

He has half a mind to dunk himself body and whole into the water just to cool off, but knows that his hair will dry in the shape of a dandelion if he does that, so it’s a stern no. There’s no way in hell he’s going to worry about how his hair dries while trying to fish with a naga by his side. Besides, getting ready for the festival will take him a lot longer if he has to tame his hair— he doesn’t mind getting brushed by Marinette when she corners him, but his fur usually snags into knots and it’s painful. “Fine, fine. I believe you— you don’t need to get all technical on me. I’ve just never heard of a celestial storm before.”

“Probably not, since you don’t need to use stars to see like we do. The celestial storm just brings indication that there will be a large magical gathering soon— it’s nothing inherently serious.”

Interesting. “You mean like the festival?”

“Exactly. It’s something to be cautious of, that’s all— it just ends up confusing lots of naga who are trying to travel somewhere new for the first time. There might be a lot more naga at the festival than usual, since the stars are pointing in this direction.”

“That’s not too bad— no one has anything against your kind, anyway. Witches and magic-users from all places are coming here to see the infamous Ladybug, after all— they want to get her good wishes on behalf of my mother— so it’s not like a big deal to see more of you.”

There’s laughter in his voice. “‘The one who can cast good fortune on even the sick and the dying’, yes, I know. But unfortunately, no— the magical gathering isn’t the reason for the stars warping. It’s something bigger than that. Bigger than her. Constellations only move when sages or gods show up.”

Well. Well well well. He doesn’t really need to think about it, now does he?

“How long have they been moving?”

“They only started four days ago.”

“Have they shifted back?”

“No.” Chat doesn’t need to look at him to know that there’s a question forming on his face. He knows Luka too well by now. “Your questions are oddly specific for someone that never heard of this storm before.”

“Well, good to hear. You don’t need to worry about all that— but thank you for the confirmation.” He spreads his good arm out as far as he can reach it. He ends up hitting Luka in the chest, and the naga hisses out, startled— but other than that, they match each other by slowly cooking in the heat. Luka’s heartbeat is slow against his palm, and Chat has no real reason to pull away, so he just leaves it there on his jacket. “Everything will go back to what it once was after the festival.”

“I thought you said you didn’t believe in horoscopes. Why are you fortune-telling?”

“Because my dad isn’t going to set the festival on fire just because he’s up here.” Maybe. There’s a strong likelihood he won’t, given that he’s already caused too much mischief.

“Right, right. Your ‘father’. You think Plagg is here?”

“The stars said so, didn’t they?” He flashes a smile, even though they’re not making eye contact. It’s instinctual to try to get a rise out of the man sitting next to him. “Relax. I won’t let him set fire to things— Marinette’s been making all of those charms for the past three months, it won’t go to waste.”

“Remind me to get a handful of them, since I’m going to be spending most of it next to you,” The driest thing in the world is hearing Luka’s voice go flat. “The last thing I need is to catch fire from your terrible luck.”

“Wh— rude. I don’t have bad luck, that’s just a myth— but I’ll gladly walk underneath a ladder for you in order to give you what you deserve. Anyway, I thought you were going to find yourself someone new to fancy? What was the whole point of the molting?”

“The two people that I actually cared to court are currently taken. I’m not disappointed, but I’m rather bored of humans otherwise.” Luka’s breath deepens as if he’s falling asleep at the idea of spending that much energy finding someone else. “If someone were to approach, I’ll at least give them the benefit of listening, but you won’t find me looking for new people.”

“You’d make a good familiar to whatever witch shows up to you tonight,” Chat oof!s hard when Luka’s hand does the exact same and hits him on the chest. He snorts on instinct, thinking a second or two longer on the idea. “Do you have an animal form like I do?”

“I’d rather not tell you, just in case you get ideas. But I would hope that she would like me for more than just a pet, unlike Marinette.”

He ignores his comment. “Most magic users can create some sort of animal form for themselves, no? Humans can’t, but I’m sure a naga could. Are you sure you don’t have a snake form?”

“I’m still not telling you the answer.”

“I’m imagining a faceless witch wearing you like a scarf as she brews,” For some reason, he imagines a white snake wrapped around a neck, even though Luka’s tail is very much blue. “You’d be happy getting to laze around while your lady works.”

“I should give it a try with Marinette one day. You wouldn’t mind sharing, would you, kitty-cat? After all, she doesn’t mind sharing you with me.”

“Funny.” He tries his best not to laugh, but he’s weak to the comedy of this whole day. It’s beyond painful to keep the laughter in, of how this day has been just another bizarre domino in the whole scheme of the week.

“It’s good to hear you laugh,” Luka sighs. “I was beginning to worry you actually hated me. Ever since this morning you’ve been snippier to me than usual— you’re not actually worried I pose a threat of some kind, do you?”

Wait. “Are you insecure?”

“You two are my closest friends.” Luka doesn’t meet his eyes when Chat lifts up from his spot to look down at him with furrowed brows. “After Adrien passed, I didn’t have many people, you know.”

Wait. “Hold on, you knew Adrien that well?”

“I didn’t know you knew who that was.” Luka raises a brow.

“Marinette talks about him.” Never mind the other things…

“He was my first friend when I was very young.” He shrugs, still giving Chat the stink eye like he doesn’t actually believe him. “Naga aren’t as scary as people think, but humans are prejudiced to their own kind all of the time, so it’s not hard to believe that they won’t be to nonhumans too. Adrien brought me into the friend group before he got sick.”

Adrien, Adrien, Adrien. Always Adrien, isn’t it? “Was he the closest friend you had?”

“Probably. Nino and I were always really good friends, back in the day. But Marinette and I got rather close after Adrien’s passing. I would see her almost every day if I decided to stay nearby.”

Oh. Oh. “No wonder you were so uncomfortable with the idea of her moving a demon into her house.”

His eyes go flat. “A girl I liked suddenly bringing a demon home? Anyone would’ve been worried.”

Chat can’t force himself to stop chuckling. “I guess I can see why you were… not the nicest person to me at first.”

“She’s never been afraid of you, but I think that just made me even more worried.” Luka gestures towards Chat’s direction, as if that helps explain better. “It doesn’t take much brainpower to realize what a Ladybug needs a Chat Noir for. Forgive me for not buying the little nonchalant act between the two of you, but I can read the little pearl like the back of my hand, after all.”

“So you know about the miraculous cure.”

“Yes. Anyone with reading eyes can put two and two together, kitty-cat. Information isn’t kept that hushed about it.”

He ignores the needling smile gracing Luka’s features. “How well exactly did you know Adrien?”

“Well enough to know that his sickness was strange. His death was stranger. The smell on Marinette’s clothes was horrid, when she’d ran into me in the woods while stricken with grief and crying. We were all terrified by it, obviously, but Marinette seemed to be the most affected— probably because she was the one to try to see him the day he died. Nino, Marinette, and I were the most affected.” He sighs. “I don’t think Nino’s ever actually talked about it that much, but they were best friends.”

“Smell.” Chat winces. “What smell?”

“Same smell that’s coming off your stitches on your arm. I recognize the smell of hellfire anywhere, it sticks to my nose for weeks. I’ll never forget the first time I smelled it sticking to Marinette’s clothes.” Luka laughs bitterly. “Running down the path in the woods towards the ocean like she was crazed. Death clinging to her dress like she was his daughter.”

“Hellfire. You smelled hellfire? Are you sure?”

Luka’s looking at him curiously, now. “I’m positive. What’s on your mind?”

Adrien’s room had been covered with the smell of… hellfire? That’s just further proof that something definitely happened— one more thing pointing to his own relation to Adrien. One more damning evidence that his past life could be tied to Marinette’s wish. If only he could get his memories back to actually prove it as fact, though…

He flattens his ears across his head, looking back out on the water. “Don’t— don’t mention this to anyone what I’m about to tell you. Promise me you won’t. This can’t start a crowd.”

Luka’s eyes turn to gold as he squints. “Of course.”

“Marinette and I found out that there could’ve been foulness in his death. Odor or otherwise.”

The naga pauses. “Are you saying a demon of some kind could’ve been the reason for the smell?”

“I don’t want to tell you something only for it to be wrong later, but the basic answer is that Adrien most likely didn’t die from an illness after all.” He licks his lips.

“You’re saying that Adrien’s father might have summoned a demon for some reason?”

“No. I have no idea what it could be, but, if there was hellfire involved, there’s definitely something to do with hell in this poor boy’s death. We don’t have all of the information yet, but I think it’s a little bit more difficult than just pointing fingers.”

Luka’s quiet for a long time. There are gears turning in his head too, no doubt, trying to piece together all of the information. “Gabriel could… most likely be at the festival tonight.”

His head snaps up. “What? He will?”

“A couple of my kind saw his ship sailing close by the shore and where our dens are. He left— or, rather, fled, now that there’s an implication that he could’ve been responsible for something to do with Adrien— town years ago, and never came back. It’s been completely silent from him, deciding to even move countries, but I think he’s here for a blessing of some kind by a Ladybug.”

“Shit.”

“Agreed.”

“Shit.”

Luka sighs. “It’s just speculation, of course. I have no idea if he even knows that Marinette is Ladybug, never mind the fact that he might not be stopping by after all. He could just be here to visit family friends, and is using the festivities as a genuine and good excuse. What will you two do? Confront him?”

“I don’t know.” Chat answers honestly. “I genuinely don’t know. My dad doesn’t know much of the story, either— and he’s usually on top of his game on paying attention to these types of things, but got distracted the day it all happened. It’s not often you hear of a human getting caught in the crossfire of hell matters— but we’re all stumped, so it’s not like we can pin it directly on Gabriel with no reason. I’m going to need more information.”

Luka is surprisingly not as agitated with the whole thing as he’d expected. He’d expected surprise, or confusion, not genuine contemplation like he is now. The naga hums at the back of his throat, attempting to piece things together himself. “Do you think Adrien is still out there, maybe?”

“Well… He’s not dead,” Well. Are demons considered alive in the first place? Is this a moral or philosophical question? At what point is Chat Noir even considered alive? And if he really was Adrien, would he consider Adrien to be dead in this case? Rebirthed as Chat Noir? His head hurts. “As far as we know. Maybe in a sort of limbo state. What a mess.”

“This sounds a lot more confusing than I thought it would be. I can’t imagine this is any easy on the two of you. Adrien was my best friend and it’s hurting me to hear about it, I can’t imagine what it’s doing to the little witch.”

“She’s been… a little bit confused about it, too. I can’t wait for the festival and get her to relax about it— yesterday it was nonstop. The both of us, honestly, need to stop thinking about this for just a bit. You and I should keep an eye out for Gabriel just in case. I don’t know what he looks like, but, anything that’ll get us closer to the truth I’ll do it.”

But Luka’s smile is kind, and Chat can sense he’s trying to skirt the subject away and get him to think of other things. “Sure. I didn’t have plans, anyway, so that’s fine. And I’m sure you two managed to distract each other at some point yesterday, right?”

“By the grace of my mother,” Chat mutters under his breath. “This entire week has been monstrous to us, Luka. Every day has been a discovery, I don’t even know what to do or how to handle it. Not to mention that even my father thinks you and I are a good match together, did you know that? The amount of years I’ve aged each day in this disaster of a week would’ve turned a human into dust by now.”

Luka turns, belly-side down, hiding away his pale under-scales in favor of showing his long blue-and-diamond-patterned back. He ends up dunking more of his tail into the water, and those ghost-like fins blossom from underneath his scales like a billowing sheet. The water is hazy from all the glittering gold and those glossy, feathery fins. “Perhaps I’ll listen more often to what you have to say about your family, after all. Is he truly the king of the underworld?”

“Shut up,” Chat really can’t stop himself from laughing, because he doesn’t have any emotional handle on any of this. “If you have any luck, you might see him visit the festival and actually find out. Maybe I’ll have all my friends meet him, so that you all can stop making fun of me when I say it.”

“What in the world is the king doing here?”

“Visiting his son, you noodle.” He slips his eyes shut.

Ah, this is more natural territory for them both, isn’t it? He can almost feel how easy it is for the two of them to slip back into banter. “Careful, now. You’re implying that I’m tasty.”

“And also very easily chewable, what do you think about that?” He’s bit into Luka’s tail a few times, and each time he’s felt how the muscles had shifted under those hard scales. It’s amazing his teeth can even penetrate the scales from how genuinely hardened they are, but he supposes that anything is possible with a jaw strength like his. He cracks back open one of his eyes, looking at Luka, who continues to just look at him with humor swimming on his face. “Hey, how come you aren’t fishing?”

“I am fishing, you idiot.”

“Bullshit. Where’s your fishing pole?”

“I’m not fishing with a pole today.”

“What?” This gets Chat Noir to sit back up, looking around. He blinks hard in the sunlight, willing his eyes to focus without hurting his vision. His pole at the far end of the barge is completely still, resting in a small divot carved into the boat, the fishing wire still swaying with nothing grabbing onto the bait. He narrows his eyes at the single pole, looking around for Luka’s, which is no doubt somewhere on the boat, only to come up with nothing. “Have you been using your net this entire time?”

“And if I have?”

“I thought we said no fishing with nets this time.”

“We said no fishing with Marinette this time.” Luka’s eyes are absolutely vibrant and gold as Chat Noir turns to look back at him in the eyes. He looks a little bit more awake than he does, but that’s probably because Luka’s cooling off in the water with most of his body in it, while Chat continues to bake. “You and I get too distracted around the little pearl, you especially more now. And the festival needs fish— the last time I went pole fishing with you, I got a hook stuck in my dorsal fin.”

“That was your own fault, noodle.”

“Again with calling me tasty,” Luka sighs. “Honestly, Chat Noir, it’s a miracle Marinette’s fallen in love with you when you’re so keen on flirting with me, instead.”

“At least I don’t injure myself while flirting with her, and don’t realize that my hook was next to one of my fins before trying to cast out my line.” He rolls his eyes. He remembers the nasty gash, and how the translucent fin had bled for what looked like to be far too long for a simple cut, and how Marinette had spent so long carefully stitching the feathery membranes back together with suture, willing for the fins to heal. There’s a scar still left behind on that fin, but it’s hard to see unless he’s close enough to really look at the little veins and how they’re slightly wobbly.

Luka snorts. “Of course, of course.”

“That’s what you get for flirting with my Lady.”

“So childish. You’d think I’d be allowed to talk to a good friend of mine without her familiar puffing up his chest.” Luka sighs, unraveling his jacket on the waist. The pearls on his sleeves shine all sorts of colors as his shoulders shift, and he folds the garment carefully with his long claws. Every bead is delicately sown in, and he knows that Marinette has obsessively looked over the pattern work, as well as the stitchwork, with amazement and gluttony.

Would she be happy if he bought a naga jacket for her? Maybe in a dark red color, or a white as similar as Luka’s and a red sash? Something pearlescent, though— a plain white jacket wouldn’t match the paleness of her skin. It would look as if she’s wearing nothing at all.

“Loverboy, I’m going to go check up on my net. Stop swimming in your thoughts and focus on fishing. Cast yours as well, won’t you?”

He registers that he’s been drifting off into thought, rubbing at his tattoo across his chest, still thinking of her. He thinks about what Luka’s said for a little while, trying to remember if he’d been making a point, only to realize: “I didn’t bring mine.”

“Use my spare, then.” Luka laughs. “I’ll be back in a second— try not to get lonely, kitty-cat, okay?”

Luka slips off the boat entirely with a gentle splash noise. Chat watches with mild interest as Luka’s long and elaborate tail starts to plume again, filling out with all sorts of fins now that he’s entirely in the water, disappearing under the boat into the shade where no doubt many fish are hiding. He reminds Chat very dimly of a betta fish, with how gentle and fanish the fins are. No doubt that naga are incredibly good hunters in the water, but Chat Noir can’t help but wonder why they look so delicate and so easily tearable once they’re subjected to a humid environment.

He looks back to the empty barrels behind him with a sigh. Maybe his mother will bless him with good fortune, although, in all honesty— it’s doubtful. Very doubtful. He’s just going to have to do this by hand, it seems, to which he sends a quick prayer to his father— hopeful that instead of blessing him with good luck, he gives Luka enough bad luck for him to win.

And maybe he’ll be able to stop thinking of it for a few more minutes, too.

She finally finishes with the first stack of charms when Alya ends up knocking on the door. There’s a breeze gentle enough to kiss her cheeks brushing up against the windows— she’s let the panels of the house open enough to catch the draft. It’s light, as gentle as a cloud against her skin as she works, and barely stirs the fire from its slow attempt to reignite from the coals. The breeze is good for her heart, she supposes— every once in a while stopping in her attempt to complete her task in order to bask in how content she feels.

Her heart is full.

Of thoughts of Chat Noir, of thoughts of them, of thoughts of being happy. The thoughts she hadn’t given the chance to breed and fester are suddenly in full swing in her chest and mind, allowing her to gaze longingly out the window, wondering about him. There are many things to do in order to get the festival up and ready, and many of them will have to be done at the fields on the other side of town, but she’s certain that she’ll be able to finish a second or third stack of charms before she has to slip out of the cottage and go start the physical preparations.

Alya’s here to collect her, no doubt, just like Luka had said she would.

She’s brought Nino along, too, and Marinette is quick to grin and pull the two close enough to smother them into her shoulders. “Hello!”

“Hello there, Mari!” Nino twirls her, pressing their foreheads together. As like many people in her life, Nino is much taller than her— he makes up for it by bending his back as much as possible to be at her height. “I haven’t seen you in so long. How have you both been?”

“We’ve been well,” She laughs, cupping his cheeks with her hands. He lets her, eyes squinting behind his glasses, looking at her with friendly affection. “Much much better now, recently. The rain finally letting up is much better for the farm— oh, but I’ve missed you both. When was the last time we spoke?”

“Far too long.” He muses, breaking away enough to allow Alya to crush her into another hug. Her friend’s arms are warm, and comforting, and so definitely sweet. Living in the cottage away from town is mostly good, and allows her to work on her potions in peace— but it doesn’t allow her to see her friends as much as she wants to. The two of them are always so busy running their tavern, and renovations to Marinette’s own shop have made her daily check-in to their eatery almost impossible. “Where is Chat? Don’t think I forgot about him— I haven’t seen him in forever, either. Where is that cat?”

“Out fishing with Luka, unfortunately. They’re at the lake, if you’d like to go join them?”

“Absolutely not,” Nino breaks out into laughter as he unlaces his boots. “The last thing I need is to be caught in the crossfire between the two of them. It’s usually fine, I enjoy their banter and their desperate attempts to find reasons to touch each other without making it weird, but I’m trying to look my best for the festival.”

“And I’m sure you can’t do that when you’re in the middle of getting your hair scorched off.” Marinette can’t stop laughing.

“You and everyone else,” Alya rolls her eyes, letting go of her so she can breathe and not cough into her sleeve. Alya hugs like she has a vendetta. “What are you trying to look good for, anyway?”

“The more presentable I look, the more likely people are willing to give us tips in the end, my dearest.” He waggles his brows. Oh, the two of them are so lovely— Marinette watches with a yearning and heartful gaze as Nino bends Alya back in his arms, dipping her low, a firm arm underneath her waist. Even with only one shoe on, and his feather in his cap dangling dangerously low to brushing against their faces through the entire action, he’s nothing short of having heart eyes for the woman in his arms instead of dissolving into giggles like Marinette is. “I may be a good player, but we all know that only the truly most handsome get the money at the end of the day.”

“Then it’s good fortune for us that I have the most handsomest man in the world by my side,” Alya smiles so warmly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Oh, the two of them— Marinette is helpless to give a little sigh at how perfect the two of them are. “We’ll be rich in no time.”

Love. Love love love.

By far one of the most important things that Marinette has ever been able to witness firsthand is the way the two of them look at each other— her heart is ready to explode. She hasn’t touched the cookies in a couple of days, still trying to get the bitter taste of love sick out of her mouth and away, and looking at the cookies gives her a slight nausea, but the core principle is still there.

Love.

She’s so giddy and warm.

“Oh! Come on, come into the house for breakfast, join me at the table. I’ll get a new pot of tea out, does that sound good?” It’ll be good for her, too— it’s a good thing she has those herbs on hand, or else she would be worried about any developments in her body she isn’t ready to have— the problem now, of course, will be to make sure neither of them pick up on her dropping additional leaves into her cup. Alya is persistent and keen and notices just about everything there is to notice, which means that unless she’s genuinely distracted by Nino, it’ll be impossible to dissuade her from asking questions.

Marinette readies herself, turns to the kitchen, and beckons the two of them to finish unlacing their boots while sitting the iron kettle on the oven to heat.

“Awh, I’m sorry, Mari. We’ve already eaten breakfast,” Nino has to help Alya, of course, because her petticoats are far too long and her stays are too thick with boning for her to bend properly for her feet.

“Oh? That’s alright. I think I have something you both will enjoy snacking on while I continue working on my stuff.” Marinette grins when they finally make it to the table. She moves the charms away and clears most of the space for there to be enough room for the three of them— she drops the unfinished charms into a corded bag, for now, tying the little string. “So. Do you remember the lover cookies?”

“Do I? The same cookies that made Nino realize that he did, in fact, have feelings for me?”

“Hard to imagine a time that you two didn’t date,” Marinette giggles. “But yes, those exactly.”

“I always knew I loved you,” Nino pouts. “My problem was I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Telling me ‘I love you’ would’ve been enough, you know.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Nino sighs. “We were all so caught up with the loss of Adrien that I didn’t know how to do anything.”

Marinette stops wiping at the table with her apron. Alya and Nino always remind her that she’s not the only one who misses their old friend. She never wanted to bring Adrien back because of her love— she wants to bring him back for everyone’s sake. Luka, Nino, Alya— their friends miss him. So dearly and so much— and talk about him as if he’s simply moved town, instead of being gone forever— but she’s never actually… explained that she plans on bringing him back. And now with the complicated mess of Chat Noir possibly being Adrien…

Oh, her head hurts. Just when she thought she could survive five more minutes not thinking about this tangled web. It’s as difficult to navigate as Plagg’s magic.

“Right, yes— I remember.”

“Mari?” Alya tilts her head, looking at how she massages her temples. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes— yes I’m okay. I just wish he were here.” Marinette smiles small, trying her best to ignore the way the seals on her ears burn. The two of them look at her with knowing gazes— they know she’s consumed some of the cookies herself. What they don’t know is that her heartache is actually pointing in an entirely different direction… or, perhaps, the same direction after all— just the person has a different name now. “I miss his laughter. I miss him— so I made lover honey cookies a couple of days ago, but I’m still in the process of making more, along with the charms. Would you two like to try them?”

Nino looked pained. “Are you making them for the festival?”

“Just in honor of our friend,” Marinette shares a private smile with herself. “It was his favorite, after all. It’s almost been ten years since he’s been gone.”

Alya’s eyes widen, looking down at the plate that Marinette puts in front of her with wide eyes. “Oh, how interesting. A cat shape?”

“Chat’s idea,” Marinette eagerly waits for them to try some, smiling a little bit wider. The cookies don’t snap in their mouths— still moist enough and sweet enough that it’s more of a chew than a crunch. The two of them hum appreciatively as Marinette takes a bit of time to pat off her apron clean of dirt. “What do you two think? Still good?”

“This tastes wonderful.” Alya sighs. “How is it that you make things taste like a whole fantasy? I feel like I’m biting into a cloud.”

“Guess it’s just part of my luck,” She giggles. “What do you think, Nino?”

“I think that, if I weren’t already with Alya, I’d confess my love to her on the spot all over again.” Nino’s face pinks. “This cookie is so strong. Did Chat try some?”

“He did.” She tries to hide her blushing and focuses instead on some dried-up flour on the edge of the table. “We both got love sick from all the cookies we ate. We probably ate a whole batch and a half, honestly— don’t do it. You’ll get overwhelmed with love.”

Alya hums with the cookie in her mouth, sharing a look with Nino. “Oh, really?”

“There’s no need to act all mysterious,” She shies, hiding her hands behind her, wringing her fingers through the laces of her apron. She looks to the single fire lily in the vase, how beautiful the blossom’s orange petals are, smiling to herself. “The cookies don’t make you feel love, but rather just amplify the feeling, and you two definitely know that. It wasn’t hard to put the context of his purring together with why we were getting overwhelmed.”

“Y—” Their eyes widen. Alya gasps. “So— he— you—”

Are there stars in her eyes? It feels like there are stars in her eyes. “We… talked about it.”

And other things. Lots of other things. Where was that bag of herbs, again?

“Chat Noir finally managed to confess?” Nino has to sit down from shock. “Holy hell!”

She sets out three tea trays, ignoring the way Alya looks at her knowingly when she sprinkles ginger root into one of the porcelain cups. Alya will accost her for that one later, that much is certain. “Wait, you— uhm. You knew?”

“Everyone does! Everyone knows that your familiar’s affections for you are much more than just friendly. Chat Noir has always— always— had his eyes on you, and has never concealed it.” Alya rolls her eyes. There’s a glitter in her smile, something that wasn’t there before, just proving to Marinette that she is absolutely going to get hounded the moment the two of them are alone. “I didn’t even need gossip for that one. His eyes follow you everywhere.”

“Oh. So, everyone, huh?” She blushes.

“Anyone with eyes can tell, yes.” Alya takes a seat next to Nino. She grabs for another cookie, nibbling on the tail, “Everyone could tell your affections for him, too. I was hoping something good would come out of it. Good to see that everything is well, in the end!”

“So are you two… together?” Nino doesn’t let Marinette steam behind her hands for very long. “Actually actually?”

“Uhm— well— I hope so. I think so. We talked about it—” Alya’s snorts cut her off, hiding a ‘yeah, and more’ under her breath. Marinette steams harder. “Uhm— and I really do think we’ll be together for a long time.”

“Is that even allowed for demons?”

“I don’t think we’re breaking any rules,” She rubs at her earlobes. Yet another thing to consider… “Uhm. Maybe I’ll have to talk to him about it. Who knows? He could be fine, considering his father—”

“Is 'the king of hell'.” Alya curls her smile. “And so, with a kiss, Marinette has accepted his propaganda.”

They have no idea how confusing it gets, do they? To know that Chat Noir could absolutely be telling the truth, and furthermore— the shenanigans that Plagg caused? She snorts behind a hand, thinking of how to even begin breaching the topic of a god stopping by to prank a witch and his demon son. Even if he really isn’t the king of hell, he’s certainly showing that he’s living up to the name… she can’t stop giggling. “Let’s hope he’s telling the truth. Why don’t you two enjoy some more cookies while I work on more of my charms? Or should we go to the field now?”

AO3 | Start Here | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[alexandrablake]

ombrophobia

word count: 1,668 warnings: this one’s a heavy one. allusion to suicide, major character deaths, language, went on a rant about how i feel when my anxiety is really bad, typical cm violence. all around angst. a/n: yeah, idk, kind of a vent writing. partially inspired by curtains close by @kermitsaysgayrights

ombrophobia (noun): an abnormal and persistent fear of the rain, often caused by negative past experiences.

Maybe it started all those years ago. The water rushing, spilling, overflowing onto her bathroom floor, her sister's body encased in it. It wasn’t the dripping that made her freeze, it wasn’t the dripping that terrified her, but it may have been the dripping  that was the beginning of the end.

She was a young girl the first time it happened and the novelty of the billowing clouds that loomed over Roslyn's fresh grave was lost on her. It was straight out of cinema, the way the sky opened up, rain pouring over the grieving party’s shoulders. 

And, back then, she considered it Roslyn’s final goodbye. She too was shedding tears over her grave, reaching out in the only way she could to take some of the weight off her family and friends. 

Years flew by, rainstorms drowning the world out every so often. She grew up with the rain, the cold, humid Pennsylvania air beckoning it. She got used to having an umbrella tucked away in her bag, she got used to games being cancelled because of poor weather, she got used to the feeling of wet hair plastered on her neck as she walked down the sidewalk.

She never got used to the gloom.

Her father died junior year, heart failure taking him from her grasp. She’d sat by his pristine hospital bed, surrounded in the flowers of well-wishers, and stared out the window. Tear-shaped droplets of water slid down the glass, racing each other to the bottom. They left tracks, bars between her and the world without grief. 

The funeral four days later was all of the same. The world around her was drowned out by the sound of water hitting earth. They’d rushed the burial, none of them wanting to stay out too long in the November rain. Far quicker than she’d wanted, her father was whisked away from her.

She was starting to get sick of the rain.

College was a breeze. Away from her mother, her house, her memories, she could forget what she’d left behind. Afterwards, she moved even further, finally finding something she wanted to do, hoping, praying, that the distance between her and her old life would finally cease the downpour. 

It did for a while. When it rained - and it did rain - there was no burden for her to carry. She’d open her umbrella, step outside, and act like nothing was wrong, because for a while, nothing was. It was easy to pretend she was okay when all she had to do was turn away from the ever growing storm cloud hanging over her. 

Her phone didn’t have disuse in the months after Elle’s resignation. Storms happened for days on end in her absence. Every time a bright flash flew across her view, she had to restrain herself from calling. 

Reid’s kidnapping was her first clue that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as okay with rain as she thought she was. They’d sat in that hellhole for days, eyes glued to the screen, wishing for just a tiny hint of how to help him. She’d locked herself in the bathroom, eyes averting from the tub, and stared into her own eyes in the mirror. The storm clouds had rolled into the horizon of her life. 

They’d rescued him, but the damage was done to them both. He’d hid his trauma in the depths of his mind, locked the door, and threw away the key. It was a disaster for another day for Spencer. She wished she had that luxury. 

Gideon left, leaving behind rolling claps of thunder. It was dark when Spencer had called her that dreary morning, informing her that their team member was gone, and he wouldn’t be returning. She’d hung up the phone, no tears in her eyes, but the sound of water on her window filled her ears. 

Sometimes, when it was just her, she allowed herself to cry at the sight of rain. After she was reassigned, it rained for two weeks straight, a ceaseless downpour filled her life. Will had sat by her side, arms wrapped around her shoulders, whispering words of reassurance into her hair the first time she broke down in his presence. He didn’t ask questions, as he himself had demons when it came to storms, and for that she was forever grateful.

It rained when she got off the plane after the call. For the first time she had seen rain in months, she’d wished it had been under better circumstances. Prentiss was missing, and so was a piece of herself. She didn’t carry an umbrella so the water would mingle with her salty tears. 

The conversation that she and Hotch had about Emily’s fate had taken place on a bus stop bench, the smell of fresh precipitation floating into their noses. Her hands shook when he reached to help her up, and she didn’t know if it was because of the day’s events or because she knew that her wall against the rain had a large crack in it.

Ironically, it didn’t rain at the funeral. But, god, did it storm in the aftermath. Through his tears, Reid didn’t notice hers. He didn’t notice how her gaze lingered in the collection of water on her windowsill. He didn’t notice how the shoulders his head lay on shuddered. He didn’t notice the incessant whispering that she was doing in an attempt to reassure herself. 

It was the universe laughing at her. “Oh, Jennifer Jareau is sad? Make it rain.” She knew what rain meant symbolically, she remembers that much of high school English. Yet, this was real life. Why the hell did a dark cloud just seem to be following her?

Then Will died. The explosion. Emily’s wordless apology that she couldn’t get out because of her wounds. The lack of a band on her finger. And the fucking rain. 

She had to sit with her child’s arms around her and explain over the torrent that his father was dead. His tiny fingers clutched around her ringless ones told her that he understood what she was telling him. Her eyes fell upon a picture of Rosalyn, and it was all she could do not to scream. 

Henry had insisted on wearing one of Will’s ties to the funeral, a dark blue one with the outlines of clouds on it. Fitting. Her team and what was left of their families gathered around the casket, droplets ricocheting off it as it was lowered into the ground. This time she didn’t leave early.

She sat by his headstone for what seemed like eternity before a gentle hand was laid on her shoulder. Her mother attempted a smile and murmured something about how she was going to get sick from staying out in the rain and cold. She didn’t care. 

Emily left and it rained. 

After Alex Blake retired for good, the shaking really started. Rain rolled in, and the fidgeting followed. She couldn’t sit still, not without panic rising in her chest. She was trapped in a rainy day, never escaping, no more shoulders left to cry on, no funds left to draw out of. 

Penelope tried and failed to help her. When it rained, she delivered bright flowers and had her favorite music echo throughout the hallways, a desperate attempt to drown out the sounds of the cascades on the roof. It was almost comical, but she knew Garcia was just trying to help, and for that she was grateful.

She’d sat on the couch that resided in the former office of Derek Morgan, leg bouncing, nails digging into her palm. Reid joined her every now and then, but the memories of what was no longer oozed from the walls and it was just too much for him sometimes. It was the nail for the coffin she’d lied in since she was eleven.

Little over a year later came the hammer. It was after a bad case, and the image of the girl screaming for her help danced across her vision. There was no one there to comfort her, and so she sat on the bottom of her steps, muffling her cries so she wouldn’t wake up Henry.

Her phone rang. Several times. She ignored it the first few times because there was no way she’d be able to have a functioning conversation, not with the way tears were streaming down her cheeks and air caught in her throat. But she answered when the calling kept coming.

Aaron Hotchner was dead, a collision on the freeway. The other driver hydroplaned, losing control of his car, and ran straight into Aaron. They pronounced Hotch dead on the scene, but Jack, who was riding in the passenger seat, had escaped without much harm. 

And the rain kept pouring.

There was no one to call, no one to inform, except for his brother, who didn’t seem to care too much that his own flesh and blood had just left this earth. The now orphaned Jack was placed permanently in his aunt’s care, and it seemed all too soon that Aaron Hotchner’s legacy had been washed down the storm drain. 

Because it was someone she loved, it rained at the funeral. Hotch was buried in the same cemetery as Will, close enough that if she squinted through her wet lashes, she could make out the outline of his headstone. It was a peaceful location, the spot next to Haley’s under a tree. 

But it was just drowned out by the rain.

There was nothing she could do to stop it, it was the weather, and honestly it was her fault for choosing a state with such dreary weather. But it chased her and it chased her and it chased her until she was cornered. She was cornered in a maze of grief, of loss, of heartbreak. And there was no way for her to escape.

The rain always found her.

[veiliisms]

what shape does your pain take?

A picture. 

A single image reminding you of someone or something you've lost, something you don't want to live without. You can't seem to move on, to accept life has changed, to live again. You're trapped in the picture, in the past. Maybe this was a lost family member or friend, maybe this was a sickness that isn't going away, maybe this was sinking into depression. But you can't help but remember how life was before, how life after will never be the same, and can't help but feel that nothing in the future will be able to fill the hole the past left. Nothing lasts forever... Right?

tagged by: @museatory and @scarlctta (thanks! this was fun!)

tagging: idk, yoink it and tag me im curious.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, bloodspeckledraphael!

For @bloodspeckledraphael, who asked for, among others, Hogwarts!AU. I hope you like it! 

Summary: Gryffindors are thoughtless and dumb but have the best parties. Ravenclaws know their shit but they are boring. Slytherins are either ruthless snobs or overly protective. And Hufflepuffs? Hufflepuffs are all just dull.

You don't need to know the Harry Potter series to read this but there are some references for fans. 

Vaguely inspired by 'Draco Malfoy, It's Your Lucky Day' by faithwood: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359705

There is this challenge for authors to summarize their stories but in a bad way. Here, it would be this: What would a group of teenagers do if trapped in the middle of a dangerous, magical forest? Discuss ethics.

Warnings for: AU, as this Hogwarts isn't exactly like the one from the Harry Potter series. There is swearing, light angst, a bit of violence, and one blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to suicide. Not betaed. 

*****

How to Add Ethics to the School Curriculum 

“Who?” repeats Lydia. 

Stiles knew it would be difficult but this is getting ridiculous. “Derek Hale.”

“And where is he now?”

Stiles grimaces and flicks his hand in his direction without looking.

“That's a Hufflepuff table,” says Lydia haltingly.

“Because he's a Hufflepuff,” explains Stiles. “Captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team?” he tries, looking at Jackson. 

Jackson stares back, his face grave. “I hoped it was just a matching name,” he says to Lydia. 

“Stiles... Are you sure you like him?”

Stiles frowns at them. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“No,” says Jackson. “No, you don't. Just — look.” He pauses, searching for arguments. “What about Scott?”

“What about Scott,” echoes Stiles. 

“I thought you two were dating?”

Stiles makes a face. “I keep telling you we're friends.”

“Slytherin and Gryffindor, friends,” mutters Jackson. “Just saying, dating makes more sense. Hatred turned to passion and all that.”

Stiles stares at him. “Scott is dating Allison.”

Jackson shrugs. “You'd hardly be the first one in a polyamorous relationship.”

Stiles tries to wrap his mind around the cultural differences. Gay relationships, sure. Polyamorous relationships, go ahead. Slytherin and Hufflepuff, no fucking way. 

“Well,” he starts, “it's not. And Derek likes me back, okay.”

“Saving grace,” mutters Lydia. “He'd have to be blind as well as stupid not to.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “You won't detour me with a backhanded compliment. Derek's not stupid.”

“Stiles,” Lydia sighs. “He's a Hufflepuff.”

Stiles turns to Jackson.

“They are all stupid,” says Jackson. “Gryffindors are thoughtless and dumb but have the best parties. Ravenclaws know their stuff though by Merlin's beard, they're boring. But Hufflepuffs are all just dull.”

Stiles tries to process this. “What about Slytherins?”

“Clearly, we're the only ones worth anything here.”

“Fine. We'll just spy on this Derek,” decides Lydia. “We need more data.”

“You’re making it sound like I asked you to spy on Derek even though I'm against that.” Stiles frowns. “I won't pay you for that.” He considers. “Well, that depends on the information but... I mean, ethically...”

Lydia raises her eyebrows. “We care about you, Stiles,” she says, “not about ethics.”

* * *

“Playing quidditch instead of preparing for tomorrow's Potions, Captain Hale?” asks Stiles, smirking.

Derek smiles at him. “Stiles. I hoped you'd come.”

Derek's honesty is incredibly effective. Stiles feels his cheeks grow hot and clears his throat. “Hoped? You want me to beat you at quidditch again?”

“You didn't beat me at quidditch, Stiles,” replies Derek. “You've abused all the rules.”

“I won, though. And I've never said I was going to obey the rules.”

“You agreed to play quidditch but whatever you did... That wasn't quidditch.”

“Yeah, well, all rules are negotiable.”

“Including potion rules?” asks Derek, looking at Stiles from under his lashes. 

“Obviously not,” says Stiles, half offended at the mere idea, half distracted. 

“Speaking about Potions — I saw Leaping Toadstool growing nearby Whomping Willow.”

“We should get it for Baruffio's Brain Elixir,” says Stiles, excited.

Derek beams. “Right? I don't think the team understood my excitement, though.”

“Clearly, they don't deserve you.”

Derek drops his eyes, smiling.

“And imagine Slughorn's face when he hears that we found Leaping Toadstool just laying around. He always complains about the lack of funds for the ingredients.”

“I thought we could tell him about it, yeah...”

“To cherish the glee? You’re evil, Captain Hale.” Not the most suitable place for the title in the context but Stiles can't help it. He loves seeing Derek blush at the words and always looks for a way to add them in.

“No, he may want to know the place to search for that himself. I mean, Leaping Toadstool often grows in groups, right?”

“Well, we can have different motives,” says Stiles and imagines Slughorn's shock and misery. “The result will be the same.”

Derek looks up at him as if about to ask something, but then there's a whizz and Stiles barely moves in time to avoid it. “Jesus, what was that?”

Derek keeps his eyes on him longer than normally. Stiles knows it's his choice of words, always a bit strange for those born in wizards' world but he won't change it. It's one of his quirks that Derek seems to like.

“Boyd has found a spell to make the Snitch more erratic. We use it sometimes during practice.”

Stiles shakes his head. “How does he find those spells?”

“He reads odd books at the library.”

Stiles laughs. “You mean those from the Restricted Section?”

Derek doesn't reply.

Stiles' eyes widen. “Seriously? I have to go sometime with him.”

“First, you can't prove anything. Second, it's not that exciting. He just reads.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Of course not,” Derek lies.

Stiles licks his lips, fully aware of Derek's attention. “Friday at midnight next to the library?” 

Derek regards him for a second. “It's a date.”

Stiles grins.

They hear some voices and turn.

“Why is Jackson flying to the Forbidden Forest?”

“I think he's chasing the Snitch,” says Derek. “Erica and Boyd are with him, I need to-”

“I'm going with you,” decides Stiles at once. He takes the broom and searches for Lydia. “Lyds!” he shouts. “Need you!”

After a while, Lydia catches up to them, taking a broom someone left behind after the practice. 

“What's going on?”

“Jackson is going to the Forbidden Forest,” explains Stiles. “I don't think I could get him to turn back by myself.”

Lydia nods. “Good call.”

“Does this happen often?” asks Stiles, turning to Derek.

“We usually stop the Snitch before it goes too far,” replies Derek. “Arresto Momentum is powerful enough for that.”

“Right,” says Stiles. He's still getting used to the way everything is solved with magic, and if that doesn't work, more magic. 

“Jackson!” cries Lydia suddenly and speeds up, flying past them.

They both turn to see Jackson falling from his broom to the ground, Boyd and Erica flying down after him.

They lean forward, focused only on getting to the rest of the group as soon as possible, and duck to the ground. Stiles feels something odd for a second, his skin turning cold, but he dismisses the sensation, resolved to manage the crisis at hand. 

“What happened?” asks Derek, landing next to him. 

Erica is kneeling next to Jackson and mutters a spell, putting her wand to his head. 

Jackson looks up with a frown. “Bloody hell,” he mutters. “I could've sworn there was a wall or something — I just couldn't go through,” he says. 

“Are you okay?” asks Lydia. 

“I'm fine.”

“He will be fine,” confirms Erica. “He just needs to rest a little. I saw a lot of guys falling like that during quidditch.”

“Is that what you Hufflepuffs do?” smirks Jackson. “Practice falling down?”

“It comes in handy,” replies Erica, ignoring his sarcasm. 

Stiles hears a swish right next to him and moves away from the ball. “Oh, for the love of-” he starts, incredulous, “what's this thing still doing here?”

Derek takes out his wand to stop the Snitch but it changes the course suddenly and the spell falls flat. He tries again and it drops to the ground, now still.

Boyd puts it in his pocket and raises his hand, suddenly freezing it in the air. He takes out his other hand and they move as if against a wall.

“What the-”

Erica frowns and takes a broom to fly off to the side just to suddenly stop. She moves in a different direction to be stopped again, and again. They seem to be surrounded by invisible walls.

Stiles sees a movement from the corner of his eye and looks up. 

“Hey, guys!” says Scott, suddenly flying in and landing next to Stiles. Allison appears next to him, not quite as excited as beaming Scott. “So what are we doing in the middle of the Forbidden Forest?”

“We're trapped,” replies Lydia.

* * *

“Can't we just cast these red flares, Periculum?” suggests Scott. 

“We can't be sure someone at Hogwarts will notice us,” says Erica. 

“But we can be sure we'll be noticed by everything in here,” says Allison. “It's not a good idea, Scott.”

“Maybe simply — Evanesco,” tries Boyd. The barrier doesn't vanish. 

“Actually,” says Lydia slowly, “I've been preparing a spell just for times like this.” She closes her eyes, focusing, and after a beat, a small smile appears on her face. She raises her wand and says, “Expecto Patronum!”

Something similar to a cat — a kneazle, remember Stiles — appears, sitting tall and dignified, waiting for Lydia's orders.

“So that's what you've been doing,” realizes Stiles. “I thought you were preparing a horrible attack on me.”

Lydia smiles proudly and says to the kneazle, “Go find the closest professor and tell him we're trapped here and need help. Be quick!”

The kneazle goes off to the side just to stop suddenly. It tries to go through again but visibly can't.

“It works on the spells, too,” says Derek quietly. “So we're in what seems to be a cube as there's a sort of ceiling. It's rectangular in shape, ten steps on the short side, about twenty steps on the long side. None of us seems to leave, even though we all entered without a problem. There are no holes or breaks.”

Silence settles between them.

“Exactly,” says Jackson suddenly. “A hole. A break. There must be something,” he adds, walking to the far side and starts checking it inch by inch. 

“I wonder how big is the range of the Accio spell,” wonders Boyd. “We'll need something to drink and some food.”

“I tried summoning my cookies from my hometown back in California but they never reached Hogwarts,” supplies Stiles.

“That may have something to do with Hogwarts' wards,” replies Lydia.

Stiles stares at her. “You mean, they did fly all this way just to be stopped before reaching me?” He looks to the ground, crestfallen.

“Boyd left his stuff on the quidditch grounds,” says Erica. “I'll try getting it. I mean... if this barrier doesn't actually stop all the spells.”

She casts a spell and they all look up, waiting.

Nothing happens. 

“Well. We have an answer, this barrier does stop all the spells.” Erica sighs and reaches for her bag. “Do you still remember this spell stealing the drink from the closest person you don't like?”

Boyd nods and casts it, touching the bottle Erica supplies, with his wand. More water appears inside.

“What a dumb spell,” comments Lydia, shaking her head. “We can just use Aguamenti, you know.”

“Now we can survive at least 3 days,” says Allison. “That's how long people survive solely on the water with no major damage,” she adds when everyone looks at her.

“What about — Finite Incantatem,” says Erica, touching the barrier with her wand. “Nothing. Figures this shit would be advanced.”

Derek frowns. “Wait. We all entered here together with the brooms. Boyd's ball came in, too. But none of us or the things that entered can leave.”

Lydia looks at him sharply. “Anything can come in, but nothing can leave.” She pauses. “And we're in the middle of the Forbidden Forest.”

A horrible realization dawns on them. 

“I need something to note,” says Stiles. “I know some spells to protect us but we need to keep check of them.”

Boyd mutters something and says, “Tell me the spells. I'll take note of them.”

“I'll help you,” says Allison. “I know some spells against magical creatures.”

“Well,” starts Scott. “That's not what I expected coming here.”

“How did you know where we are?” asks Derek.

“I saw you flying through when I was going to the quidditch field to train with Allison.”

“I heard that,” says Stiles. “Train with Allison, huh? How ambitious.”

“Have you cast Impervius already?” asks Lydia. “Then do it now. Also, you weren't much better.”

“Well, you weren't either!” calls Stiles. “You only came because you like to ogle sweating Jackson!”

Jackson smirks but keeps checking the invisible walls. “At least there's something to ogle.”

“Lydia totally implied I was good looking!”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Oh, she implied it?”

“You were there when it happened!” 

“Protego,” says Lydia. “Remember to cast this one, too.”

Stiles huffs out but starts working with Boyd and Allison while Jackson goes on checking the invisible wards, keeping them inside. 

“You know, for a Hufflepuff you're surprisingly good at hiding your feelings,” says Lydia, turning to Derek. 

Derek grimaces. “So you noticed I'm jealous of your relationship with Stiles,” he says quietly. “What do you want?”

“To assess whether you're good enough for him.”

“Go ahead, then, assess,” shrugs Derek. “By the way... You said that Boyd's spell was stupid,” he says. “Well, look at this one. It's stupidly fancy.”

Boyd is taking notes of the spells cast by writing them in the air in different colours and moving at his will.

“I like this one,” says Lydia. “The notes will be visible even in the darkness but the sun is setting now and we'll want more light. But we shouldn't advertise our presence here... Does anyone know any invisibility spells?”

No one replies.

“I tried learning some but they're all too difficult,” says Derek. “There's one — it's not invisibility but rather escaping attention. Not hiding your presence but diminishing it.”

Lydia narrows her eyes at him. “Why would you learn a spell like that?”

“To escape talking to people,” says Derek bluntly. “But I don't know if it will work on magical creatures and animals.”

“Won't hurt to try,” shrugs Lydia. 

“But won't that hide us from the people searching for us?” asks Erica. 

“I doubt anyone has noticed yet,” replies Lydia. “It's too early and we all know each other here — the others will think we've sneaked out together on purpose.”

Derek casts the spell, closing his eyes. This is the first time he uses the spell on anything other than himself and it takes more focus than he expected — the space is big to wrap his mind around. 

“So — light spell or vision in the darkness?” asks Lydia. “What's more efficient? What's more effective? Oh, this is difficult. I'll write my next essay for Charms about that.”

“So what do we do now?” asks Scott. 

Erica shrugs. “Think, I guess.”

* * *

“I'm bored,” complains Scott, laying on the ground.

“You’re in the middle of the Forbidden Forest,” reminds him Derek.

“And I'm bored.”

“Think of all the creatures out there,” suggests Erica. “Does that help?”

“...yes.”

“We're running out of ideas,” says Stiles. “Any other protective or defensive spells?”

“Did you cast Stealth Sensoring Spell?” asks Derek.

“No,” replies Boyd, checking his floating notes.

“What's that?” asks Stiles.

“It detects those under magical disguise.”

“Are we gonna need that?”

“Are you sure we won't?”

“That's fair,” nods Stiles.

Derek casts the spell.

Erica looks to the side, frowning. “Did you guys hear that?”

“No,” mutters Jackson, still inspecting their confines. “Busy.”

“You know what would be more productive?” says Stiles. “You should learn casting Expecto Patronus from Lydia. I bet your Patronus would be so slimy it would slip through somehow.”

Jackson flips him off but doesn't pause in his work.

“No, seriously. I heard that again. Like, barking? Or uh, howling,” says Erica.

Derek tenses. “About that — did we cast an auditory spell?”

“No,” says Boyd.

Lydia casts Silencio quickly. Just as she is about to tuck off her wand, they see a wolf.

“Fuck,” says Stiles, cutting the silence.

“Okay,” says Derek quietly. “Take out your wands, slowly.” He does so himself and without looking away, asks, “What can you tell us about wolves, Allison?”

Allison takes an audible breath. “They are deadly,” she replies. “They won't hesitate to attack and kill. Also,” Allison pauses, as if pulling herself together, “this may be a person. A werewolf.”

“So. Silver?” suggests Stiles after a beat of silence. 

“You and your Muggle ideas,” says Jackson with contempt. “Silver doesn't kill werewolves.”

“Well,” starts Lydia, “it can hurt-”

The wolf jumps but is stopped by the shield spell. It growls, its teeth shining. 

“The barrier won't withhold it for long,” says Allison. “We have to think of something.”

“Fire,” says Derek. “Fire can kill almost anything.”

“It may not be enough,” warns Lydia. 

“Bully spells,” says Stiles. “We all know those shitty spells. Ears to kumquats, pimples, suspension by the ankle, legs dancing against your will.”

The wolf walks to the side and jumps just to be stopped again. 

“If we cast all those at once, it may work,” says Allison. 

“That's cruel,” says Scott. 

“It's our chance to survive.”

“Choose the spell,” says Derek. “I can cast Incendio.”

“Immobulus,” says Allison. 

“Rictusempra.”

Lydia shoots Stiles an incredulous glance. “You want to tickle it?”

“It's effective, okay?”

Lydia sighs. “Stupefy.”

The wolf jumps again, startling Erica. “I can only cast Furnunculus Curse!”

“So that he'd lose his beauty and retreat in shame?” asks Jackson. “Bat-Bogey Hex.”

“You’re disgusting,” mutters Erica. 

“Reductio,” chooses Boyd. 

“Scott?” prompts Derek. 

“Langlock.”

Lydia turns to him. “How is tongue sticking to the roof of mouth going to help in-”

The wolf jumps and Allison shouts, “Now!”

The effect is a bizarre mix of colours, whirling together — there are flames, appearing and disappearing into bats, soon disintegrating. The wolf lets out an odd sound, something between a growl and a whine. 

They all take a step back but now, the wolf is barely an arm's length away from Derek. 

“Tarrantallegra!” cries Stiles but the wolf escapes the spell only limping. 

“Stupefy!” tries Lydia again. 

“Take the brooms,” orders Derek. “Fly up. I'll take care of it.”

“Fuck, Derek, this is no time to-”

“Now!” shouts Derek, cutting Stiles off. 

Erica and Boyd are already flying up. “Reductio!” casts Boyd again. The spell hits the wolf but has barely any effect — it's still big, even compared to a large dog. 

Allison finds a stone and with a spell, turns it to the one with sharp edges. “I can transfigure it to silver but I need time,” she says. “If we manage to drive it through its heart-”

“I can buy you time,” says Derek. 

Allison and Scott go up, Scott choosing to hover low, ready to jump in at any moment. 

“Stupefy!” casts Lydia again but the wolf is already jumping at her. 

“Protego!” cries Jackson. 

The shield is enough to slow down the wolf, enough so that he doesn't reach Lydia's hand. They fly up, out of the wolf's reach. 

“Go,” says Derek to Stiles, who has two brooms in hand now. “Please!”

Stiles looks at him a while longer, not understanding, but then goes up. “Immobilus!” he shouts. 

The spell hits the wolf and it is momentarily still. 

“Incendio!” casts Derek again.

The flames go up; he can barely watch. The wolf jumps, then retreats. Derek can't tell what's happening anymore. He's not quite there when Allison shouts, “Ready!”

Derek doesn't know if it's a coincidence or knowing each other well enough to communicate with just looks, but Stiles and Scott cast Immobilus again together. 

It's enough for Allison to fly in and thrust the silver right into the wolf's heart. 

Erica flies down to her immediately and casts Vulnera Sanentur, healing her hand. 

Lydia tries to stop the flames but only a few sparks come out instead. Her wand is broken from the wolf's attack. 

She allows herself a curse with a sigh. 

Boyd stops the flames and they are all on the ground again. 

“I thought that Ravenclaws were boring,” admits Jackson suddenly. “I take that back.”

Allison huffs out a weak laugh. 

“So, you think we could eat this?” wonders Jackson. 

“I'm gonna puke,” says Erica. 

Jackson rolls his eyes. “We may as well use all this meat.”

“That could be cannibalism,” says Allison. “We don't know if it was a wolf or a werewolf.”

There is silence as they process this information. 

“It's still dead, though,” rationalizes Jackson. 

Scott inspects the wolf. “Wow. My mum will never believe this.”

“Why wouldn't she?” asks Boyd. 

“She's a Muggle,” explains Scott. 

Jackson looks at him. “So you're a Mudblood?”

“Isn't that a slur?” asks Stiles. 

“I think it was reclaimed,” says Erica but she doesn't sound sure. 

“I'm fine with it,” shrugs Scott. “Although I'm not sure if it applies to me because my father was... is a pure-blood wizard. So I'm half-blood or something.”

“Huh. You don't have much experience in quidditch, though,”  Jackson points out. 

“He wasn't there much when I was growing up. Although he gave me a broom for my birthday once… But I guess the Ministry of Magic have figured it out because it wasn't working.”

“But your mom knows about magic?” asks Stiles. 

Scott shrugs again. “Kind of.”

Jackson isn't listening anymore. “Your — your hand,” he says in a changed voice. 

Derek finally looks away from the charred body of the wolf to turn to him. Jackson is pale, staring at the sleeve of Derek's robe. 

“Derek,” says Lydia, “you're bleeding.”

Derek drops his eyes. “I'm fine.”

Erica heals his hand and bandages it with Ferula, not looking at anyone. 

“You were bitten by what could have been a werewolf,” says Lydia, staring at him. “You could be-” she draws in a breath, “you could be turned.”

“I'm fine,” repeats Derek. 

“What's going on?” asks Scott. 

“Is that a problem?” Stiles looks around, puzzled. “It's not a full moon tonight, Derek's still human, and he says he's fine.”

“Werewolves kill whatever is around them once in their wolf form,” says Jackson. “They are not human anymore. They are just beasts.”

“He's right,” says Derek, looking at Stiles. “And I'm fine because I can't be turned. I'm a werewolf.”

* * *

“You knew,” says Lydia, looking at Erica and Boyd, who nod. 

“I know the situation of lycanthropes is better now than it was,” starts Allison. “But how come we have a student at Hogwarts who turns into a bloodthirsty, killing beast once a month?”

“I get the Wolfsbane Potions,” replies Derek. “Professor McGonagall knows about me.”

“Oh, so at least you're wealthy,” Lydia points out. 

Derek flinches as if struck.

“I don't see the problem,” says Stiles coldly. “Derek clearly has it under control. There haven't been any incidents — at least that we know of — and he's been here for a few years already. Really, the only thing it changes...”

Derek knows what's coming. He can't look at Stiles.

“Is that I need to become an Animagus quicker than anticipated.”

Lydia ignores him. “Did you want to become a werewolf?” 

Derek tries to understand Stiles' response and is a bit late in answering. “No. I... it was an accident.”

It was Peter's curse, already changing their lives, but they didn't know it back then. 

“Did you kill anyone?” asks Allison. 

“No.”

“Then, again, I don't see a problem,” says Stiles. “Look, we have more pressing matters at hand.”

“Agreed,” says Erica. 

Lydia looks at Derek a beat longer, then nods. “Fine.”

Jackson isn't convinced. He looks at Stiles. “You do realize lycanthropes still aren't treated the same as humans. There are still some who think they are more beasts than anything.”

“Oh, so there's prejudice.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “How novel.”

“Stiles,” starts Allison, “he could kill anyone here once turned. Just — think about this.”

Stiles looks right back. “There are some people who kill even without being turned.”

Allison looks away. 

“Sorry to interrupt, but should we bury the body?” wonders Boyd. 

“First, can anyone cast the Homorphus Charm?” asks Lydia. 

There's no reply. 

“Just to be sure, we should wait for someone to confirm it was a wolf and not...” Allison trails off. 

“I agree,” says Erica. “I don't want to move it just yet.”

Derek casts a fairly strong Protego spell on the body, trying to keep his eyes on it without seeing anything. 

Allison takes a step back from the group and feels the barrier behind her back. She slides down to the ground, suddenly feeling exhausted. 

“What do you need?” asks Scott, sitting down next to her. 

“It's not fine,” bursts out Allison. She winces and lowers her voice. “When you're human, you have a choice. But once you're turned, you can't control anything. You may slip one time and it's enough.”

“I know,” says Scott quietly, although he doesn't. 

“My mom knew there was no choice. She knew it was all useless. She had the right to end her...”

Scott moves closer to her, bringing his arm around her. 

“So, what, she was wrong?” asks Allison. “She just gave up?”

Scott doesn't answer. He knows that Allison, as well as many others around him, is more reflective, prone to consider different ideas. He wonders if there's a downside to it, if there's overthinking. He wouldn't know. 

Allison sighs and draws her knees closer, hiding his face. “Thanks,” she mumbles. 

If there was a crisis, it seems to have passed. Scott finds her hand and tightens his grip on it. 

For a few minutes Allison just sits there with closed eyes. She doesn't listen to the hushed conversations around, especially the one between Stiles and Derek.

Finally, she feels ready to open her eyes again. She turns her head and sees a small spider on the other side. “Oh, hello,” she murmurs, managing a smile. “I wouldn't go ahead if I were you. Come on, turn around.” She watches as the spider comes closer. “No, really, you still have a chance... Oh, you poor thing,” she sighs. “You’re trapped here with us now.”

“I once tried a spell to communicate with spiders,” says Boyd. 

Allison looks up, finding him also leaning against the barrier. 

“It was weird.”

Allison stares at him for a beat longer. She didn't expect anyone would talk to her after the thing with Derek but then again, Hufflepuffs can be odd like that. “That sounds interesting.”

Boyd shakes his head. “It was just weird.” 

Allison is waiting for details so he says, “You know Polyjuice, that changes your body to that of someone else? It works similarly, except what changes is your mind. For a few seconds I wasn’t really human anymore, my mind was that of a spider.” 

They sit in silence for a beat when Allison chuckles suddenly. “It'd be nice to have you in Ravenclaw.”

“Uh, no,” starts Boyd, “I didn't want to join you guys. When the Sorting Hat gave me a choice I said Hufflepuff and here I am.”

Allison can't quite conceal her surprise. “Why didn't you want to join?”

Boyd shrugs. “My family wanted me in Ravenclaw.”

Allison blinks but doesn't press for more. The sorting to the houses is believed to be one of the most important events, a turning point in life. It leads to the arguments dividing the family, accusations of betrayal even though the decision is hardly the student's. She got lucky with the Ravenclaw; they are basically accepted everywhere. Yet even during her first dinner at the common table there were some students unhappy with the choice. 

“Yes!” cries out Jackson suddenly. “I got it! It's right here,” he says, turning to them. “I knew there had to be a place where the barrier wouldn't work as well!”

Derek stares at him in amazement. “I admire your determination,” he says honestly.

Jackson scoffs. “How did you think I became the quidditch captain?”

Derek doesn't reply, startled. For him, it came easily: he's always been athletic and Laura loved playing quidditch. It was enough. 

“Wow, awesome,” says Stiles flatly. “My palm barely fits through.”

Allison shrugs. “At least it's enough for the spider...” she trails off, looking at Boyd.

“We can't be sure it'll work,” cautions Boyd. “And even if it will, it may take too much time.”

“It's better than nothing,” replies Allison.

Boyd grimaces. “Right.” He turns to the rest and says. “I know a spell to communicate with spiders. Anyone wants to try?” he asks without a trace of hope.

Two hands fly up immediately. “Me!”

“Me! Totally!” joins Stiles.

Boyd frowns. “I didn't expect volunteers,” he says. “You do realize there's a chance that something will go wrong enough to change your mind irreparably?”

Stiles' hand goes down. He glances at Scott. “Uh, dude.”

“Talking to spiders! Like Spiderman, Stiles!”

“I know,” says Stiles, putting his hand on his arm, “and I'm right there with you.”

“And you wonder why I thought you two were dating,” says Jackson. 

That catches Derek's attention. He looks at Stiles, rolling his eyes, and Scott, frowning, and then, of course, feels Lydia's stare. 

Allison comes closer to the group. “Scott...”

“Well, someone has to do that anyway, right?” reasons Scott.

“It's too risky,” says Derek. “What else can we do?”

“Turn this spider to a giant one, attach a note to it with our whereabouts and make it attack Hogwarts,” suggests Stiles. 

“That's mixing spells. We don't know how they would interfere with each other,” replies Lydia. “Also, it's so inelegant.”

“Not to mention there's animal suffering,” says Allison. 

“This is potential human suffering versus potential animal suffering,” replies Derek. 

“I don't see the problem,” says Scott. “Boyd did this spell once already and he's fine, right?”

“Yes, but what if something goes really wrong?”

“Actually, I can use Incarcerous to subdue Scott,” says Erica. “I, um. I forgot about this spell.”

“I don't like this,” says Stiles. “Lyds?”

Lydia doesn't reply. 

“We don't have much choice,” starts Derek. “But that doesn't mean any one of us has to risk this much.”

“Risk landing at St Mungo's, for example,” clarifies Boyd. 

“It's not that easy to be admitted to St Mungo's, though,” says Derek. “It's a big hospital but they don't have many in-patients, those are rare cases. Usually, people can figure something out, learn to live with their curse and so on.” He realizes the others are staring at him and shrugs. “Just a... fun fact.”

Even Boyd has a hard time not cringing. 

Derek turns to Lydia, tired. “You understand escaping other people now?”

“Yes,” replies Lydia, ruthless. 

“Look, I already did the spell once myself,” says Boyd. “I don't want to repeat it but...”

“Then don't,” says Scott. “I really want to try it. Also... I don't know how else I could help you guys.”

“You don't have to help us,” replies Allison. 

“That's true,” inserts Erica. “You have no obligation here.”

“I want to,” says Scott, simple and earnest. 

“If anything happens — I'll figure something out,” says Stiles. “I promise.”

Scott nods. “I know. I trust you guys.” 

“Just — don't hold it against me if you do end up at St Mungo's,” says Boyd. 

Scott beams at him. “No promises.” 

“One more thing,” says Allison. “What are the possible adverse effects?”

“Sensitivity to touch, liking for meat, aloofness,” lists Boyd. “The spell should last about 5 minutes.”

Scott considers the words. “That doesn't sound that bad.”

“It really does,” says Stiles. 

Allison hugs Scott. “I'm counting on you if anything's off,” she says to Erica, who nods. 

Boyd raises his hand. 

“Lower your wand,” says Derek. “You never direct a spell at someone's head unless the spell tells you to. Point at his stomach or chest. You lower the risk of degrading his mind this way.”

“How come you know that stuff?” asks Jackson. “You want to work at St Mungo's or what?”

Derek can't hold back a grimace. “I'd have to work with people all the time, no way.”

“Then why?”

“He doesn't have to answer,” says Stiles. 

“It's weird. And suspicious.”

“Or personal,” says Stiles. 

“My last name is Hale,” says Derek, looking at Jackson. “That's why.”

Jackson stares at him, frowning, before remembering the name. “So not everyone in your-”

“No,” Derek cuts him off. “And I'd rather not talk about it.”

“So it was personal, huh,” says Stiles. 

“You don't know? There was the Hale fire-”

“Why are you telling me?” asks Stiles, incredulous. “What part of not talking about it don't you understand?”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “I know, so you may know as well.”

“No thanks. It's really not your decision to take.”

Derek looks away. He knows he'll need to tell Stiles about his family — it changed him too much to be ignored. The fire was just a start, leaving only him, Laura, and uncle Peter, the slow spread of the curse, fighting with it, admittance to St Mungo's... but he still needs more time. 

Boyd raises his wand again and opens his mouth. 

“Wait!” calls Scott. “I need to-”

“What, you got scared?” drawls Jackson. “You, a Gryffindor?”

“Are you seriously trying to manipulate him?” asks Stiles. “That's low. Do you want to take his place?”

“I would never risk my mind for you,” scoffs Jackson. 

“You wouldn't even risk that much,” replies Stiles. 

“No, guys,” Scott cuts in, “what am I supposed to say?”

“What?”

“What should I say to the spider?”

The group stares at him. Stiles groans, Erica laughs, and Allison sighs. 

“Maybe something like, this is a trap, there are humans who can't leave, they need help. Say that to other spiders and try to get help?” suggests Derek, grimacing. 

“How can we be sure spiders even want to help humans?” asks Stiles. “Maybe they'd be happy if we all died.”

“Not that it matters right now,” starts Erica, “but I can't believe we don't have ethics classes at Hogwarts. Like, seriously.”

“That's too much information,” says Allison, biting her lip. “Spiders aren't really social, they can communicate but it's not as developed as it could be. Also, they can process information but they do it... slowly. It's too complicated.”

“Just say that there is a danger here and we need help,” says Lydia. “Maybe even simply 'danger here' will suffice.”

“Yeah, that sounds better,” agrees Derek. 

Scott nods and Allison hugs him before he goes to stand before Boyd again. 

Boyd takes a deep breath and casts the spell.

* * *

Boyd observes Scott. At first, he appears completely still, just looking at the spider. But if he looks closer, Scott is doing all kinds of bizarre, small movements, twitching his fingers, twisting his lips, minutely shifting his body. He seems focused, but also blank, nor entirely there — it's disturbing. The spider suddenly moves, producing a line of silk. Scott moves to touch it and brings the finger to his lips, appearing to taste it. 

Boyd risks a glance at Allison but she doesn't seem shocked, although she is pale and the grip on her wand is too tight. 

It's strange to think he must have looked like Scott when under the spell. He was alone, chose an isolated spot. Now that he thinks about it, the whole thing was incredibly risky — he was stupid. But that was right after Christmas at his family with all the arguments around his sorting to Hufflepuff, again. He barely talked to other Hufflepuffs for a while, having mixed feelings. He chose this spell because he knew that's what a Ravenclaw would like to know. He needed to show himself that he was good enough for Ravenclaw. It was his decision to be in Hufflepuff and he doesn't regret it. But he could have gone to Ravenclaw.

Scott puts his hand down and the muscles on his face move slightly. The spider turns and gets through the barrier. 

“The spider left,” says Boyd.

Scott stares ahead, unseeing.

“Scott?” says Allison softly. “Are you okay?”

Scott takes a breath and hums, sighing. “Fine.”

“What's your name,” demands Stiles.

“Scott McCall.”

“How much is two plus two?”

“I... four?”

“Is that a question or an answer?”

“Four. Answer,” says Scott slowly. “I think.”

“Who is the president of the US?”

Scott frowns, turning to him. “I don't know.”

“Who's the best quidditch player of all time?” asks Allison.

“Ginny Weasley,” says Scott.

“Something's wrong with him,” says Jackson. “The best quidditch player was obviously Draco Malfoy.”

Scott seems to regain fully his attention to the present. “No way! It was Weasley — she was both a great Chaser and a pretty good Seeker.”

Jackson is ready to continue arguing so Derek steps in. “Okay, I'm sure they were both great in their own right,” he starts, conciliatory. He's heard this kind of discussion too many times. 

“Are you sure you're alright, Scott?” asks Erica.

“Yeah. Just... tired, I guess.”

“Come on,” says Allison, tugging him to the side and guiding him down to the grass. She lays his head on her lap.

Erica searches through her bag. “Here,” she says, walking to Scott. “You should eat some chocolate.”

“Oh,” starts Jackson. “I didn't get any after I fell...  Casual house discrimination, huh.”

“It had nothing to do with you being a Slytherin but all to do with you being an asshole.”

“You do realize it's your fault we're trapped here.”

“For God's sake, I was joking!” says Erica, rounding up at him. All at once, the atmosphere deteriorates. 

“It's never a joke,” replies Jackson. “It's always a test.”

“It was a joke! I'm not a Slytherin, I'm a fucking Hufflepuff! I thought it was obvious that you should leave the ball alone. But you kept chasing it and we were too far away to stop it.”

“You challenged me.”

“I was joking,” repeats Erica. “Jesus. You need to learn to let things go.”

“Is that your team's device, let it go?” drawls Jackson. 

“You’re such a dick,” mutters Erica and walks away. 

“And what were you even doing there in the first place?” asks Jackson suddenly. 

“We stayed after the practice,” says Erica. 

“Boyd isn't on the team,” says Jackson and turns to glare at Derek. “What kind of captain are you? He'd be a perfect Beater.”

Derek shrugs. “He doesn't like rivalry.”

Jackson looks at Boyd, incredulous. 

“Quidditch is fun as a hobby and hobby only,” explains Boyd. “I have no intention of spending more time on it.”

Jackson stares at him, visibly trying to understand and failing. He turns away, deflating. “You make no sense.”

Erica shrugs. “You make no sense either.”

Stiles is the first to break the silence. “We should think of a better reason for coming to the Forbidden Forest than chasing a ball.” 

Jackson glares at him. 

“Just saying.”

Boyd sits down next to Erica, who leans against him. 

“Oh, are you two a thing?” asks Stiles, curious.

“Do you want me to ask the same about you and Derek?” asks Boyd. 

“...no,” admits Stiles. His fingers beat an off-rhythm on his robe. “So... I'm going to assume you aren't dating but you see a chance to redefine your relationship.”

“Is that how it is between you and Derek?”

Stiles won't blush. “I'm talking about you and Erica.”

“If you keep this up, you won't be able to talk about anything.”

Stiles knows how to choose his battles. He tactfully retreats and turns to Erica. “You were born in a Muggle family, right? I could tell from the way you speak.”

Erica sighs but gives him a smile. “Yup.” She answers his high-five and adds, “And I'm never coming back there.”

Stiles' smile tenses on his face. He turns away, feeling awkward. Erica seemed at ease sharing that information but Stiles has no idea how to react. He's lucky enough to have his dad, who may not understand much about Hogwarts, but still let Stiles go, recognizing how excited Stiles was about the opportunity. 

He's relieved from replying by Lydia.

“So what are we doing now? We have discovered the hole in the barrier. That gives us more possibilities.”

“It's not a hole,” Jackson reminds her. “The barrier still works there, it's just weaker. You can still feel resistance when moving through. Actually, we can start unweaving the spell.”

“That could take hours,” says Stiles. 

“All the better to start now,” replies Jackson, taking out his wand. 

“I'd help you but I don't want to risk using my wand now,” says Lydia. 

“We can help,” says Erica, glancing at Boyd, who nods. “Anyway, there's this spell to make you smaller, right?”

“It's too risky. We can keep it in mind but we're not desperate enough for it just yet,” says Derek.

“Yeah, potions are usually considered to be safer,” muses Stiles. “What?”

“There's a potion to make you smaller, too,” says Derek.

“Yeah, Shrinking Potion. But it takes a few hours and we don't have ingredients.”

“The greenhouse isn't that far from here,” says Erica. “We can try to Accio some of them and prepare them here.”

“Isn't the greenhouse closed?” asks Stiles.

“Yeah, theoretically,” says Erica. “Like the library's Restricted Section is restricted.” At Stiles' look, she says, “There are many spells to keep something out of reach. If the professors chose to use weaker magic, that itself tells you something.”

“I agree,” says Boyd. “Yeah, there is some weird stuff in the library but it also offers great knowledge. If anyone's interested, they won't really have a problem getting there. This rule is more of a warning than a real prohibition.”

“I like that justification,” says Stiles. “May use it sometime.”

“Don't mention me, though,” says Boyd. 

“You'll be my anonymous source,” decides Stiles. “Anyway, you think the greenhouse works in the same way? No, it doesn't matter. We're trapped. We have the right to look for unorthodox ways to get free.” Stiles goes through the list of ingredients in his mind. “There must be some caterpillars here, but what about leech juice and rat spleen?”

“Stiles,” starts Erica, “we're in the Forbidden Forest. We just need to catch those and prepare them.”

“Yes, it will be only disgusting,” says Boyd casually. 

“I'll help you with the potion,” says Lydia. 

Stiles blinks at her. “I thought I'll be working with Derek.”

Lydia raises her eyebrows. 

“I mean, we have more experience.”

“Oh,” says Boyd lightly, “you have more experience?”

“I'm just saying — we have Potions together. We work well together.”

“Tell us more about the things you do well together, Stiles,” says Erica. She would look politely interested if it wasn't for the glint in her eyes.

“Oh, God. Just get me daisy roots for the potion, if you will,” utters Stiles.

“They will,” assures Lydia. “In the meantime, you two should, ah, prepare.”

“Really, Lyds?” says Stiles, betrayed. “I hate you.”

“It's too much fun,” she explains, unapologetic.

“And you!” Stiles rounds up to Derek. “Say something!”

Derek shrugs. “Erica and Boyd had the right to needle you with the questions after you've done the same.”

“That's not what a good boyfriend would say.”

Derek stares at him. “I wasn't aware I was a boyfriend.”

“Merlin,” groans Jackson. “I thought we were trapped in the middle of the Forbidden Forest like in some second rate horror, not watching a bad rom-com.”

“It's slow-burn, too, so I'd say it's more of a soap opera,” says Erica.

“Daisy roots,” repeats Stiles, his face burning. “Now.”

* * *

“We should all go to the Diagon Alley,” says Lydia suddenly, waking Jackson next to her. They are all tired by now, sleepy. “I need to repair my wand... or find a new one.”

“All right,” agrees Derek immediately. It's a good excuse to meet Stiles but Lydia just gives him a somewhat pitying glance. 

“Yeah, sure,” says Stiles. 

Lydia sighs. 

Jackson makes a face. “I don't particularly want to meet up with... Fine,” he relents under Lydia's gaze. 

Erica turns to Boyd who shrugs. “Why not?” she says. 

“You look different,” says Lydia, regarding Erica. “I mean, there's something different about your face. I can't describe what exactly but...”

“Ah, shit.” Erica sighs. “I forgot to refresh my charms.”

“You've been wearing charms all this time?”

“I always do.”

Lydia narrows her eyes. “I've never noticed.”

“Yeah, well, that's the point.”

“Show me.”

Erica shrugs. “It's not like I have anything better to do.” She takes out her wand and gets comfortable, as possible as it is, leaning against a tree. “So the first thing is to figure out your goal. Now, if we were to be found, we'd want to lower the punishment, and it may help to look more vulnerable and innocent.”

Lydia looks at her, surprised. “That's deception, isn't it? I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to value the truth.”

“I don't do that for pleasure. I don't like influencing people like that. But everyone already treats me like another weak, poor Hufflepuff girl so I may as well use it.”

Lydia is about to say something when Stiles sighs heavily. “Welp, it's done.” He looks at the acid green Shrinking Potion, then turns to Derek. “It was a pleasure working with you, Captain Hale.”

Derek huffs out a laugh and looks at Stiles from under his lashes. “The pleasure is all mine.”

They shake hands; the touch lingers. 

“They aren't doing anything, not really, and yet it makes me so uncomfortable,” says Jackson, staring at them. “Like, they have this atmosphere.”

Stiles raises the potion threateningly. “You want to try this shit?”

“I do,” says Scott.

Stiles drops his hand. “Oh my god.”

“Scott, you've already helped once,” says Lydia. “It's enough.”

“Well, someone will have to do this sooner or later,” reasons Scott. “And I think it'll be fun. It makes you small, right? It's exciting!”

“Was talking to spiders fun and exciting, then?” asks Boyd flatly.

Scott loses some enthusiasm. “No. But this doesn't work on the mind, just on the body.”

“Theoretically,” says Stiles. “We can't be sure how it's going to work.”

“I trust you,” states Scott.

“But I don't trust myself!”

“You guys said that elixirs are safer than spells, so I'll be fine.”

“It doesn't work like that, Scott,” says Allison.

“Well, the chances of something going wrong are lower,” says Lydia.

“But if something goes wrong, it goes horribly wrong,” says Derek.

“So it's fine,” repeats Scott. 

“No, it's not!”

“This really makes you think about the Gryffindor complex,” muses Erica. “Hero complex.”

Jackson shrugs. “Why are we stopping him, anyway? Let him sacrifice himself, I mean, that's only convenient for us.”

“See?” cries Stiles, turning to Scott. “That's reason enough not to do it!”

“Scott,” starts Allison, “you know that I won't stop you. Whatever you decide, it's your decision. Just — think about it. You don't have to do this. Please.”

Scott regards her for a while. “Thank you. But I still want to do this. I know this looks stupid to you, or thoughtless — but we have to do something, don't we? And out of everyone here, I'm the best person to try this way. No offense.”

“Only some taken,” says Jackson.

“Okay, but... Providing you, or someone else, drinks this elixir,” starts Erica, “what then? You leave, and what? You're not trapped anymore, just lost in the Forbidden Forest and stuck in a too-small body.”

“We could Diminuendo one of the brooms so that Scott can fly on it,” suggests Lydia.

“I hate to admit it, but it doesn't seem like we have any better idea,” says Derek. “That still doesn't mean you have to do this, Scott.”

“I'm good,” replies Scott, straightening. “I'm ready.”

“Any fun facts?” asks Jackson, turning to Derek.

“He's not your encyclopaedia,” shoots Stiles, defensive.

Derek sighs but turns to Scott. “Drink slowly,” he advises. “Give it a bit of time, the change will be confusing at first. Maybe Allison could give you the broom and take you through the barrier.”

“All right,” says Scott, bringing the potion to his lips. “Here it goes.”

* * *

“Again!” cheer the Gryffindors.

Stiles is getting tired of how noisy and full of energy they are, but they were the ones to provide the beer and all the food. Gryffindors get oddly creative when bending the rules for food and parties is involved.

“So I totally got small,” says Scott, grinning, “like, as big as a palm. 

Erica turned the broom smaller for me but it was still a bit too big, awkward to fly. I flew up to try and find Hogwarts... But couldn't see anything.” Scott pauses, dramatic — it makes Derek, sitting next to Stiles, smile. “The height really changes your perspective, you know? I couldn't figure out where I was, where to go. So I flew back down to try to find the rest of the guys so they'd help me or something but I couldn't find even them! I was just circling over the Forest, looking for the signs of humans. And suddenly, I saw something. But it wasn't human.”

Someone gasps and Stiles rolls his eyes. He notices Jackson doing the same and is so offended at the idea of any similarity between them that a chocolate frog manages to jump out of his hand. Derek catches it in the air and gives back to Stiles, and Stiles is just... gone. Utterly done. Something must show on his face because Derek looks at him, their hands touching, the time seems to stop-

“It was a centaur,” says Scott and the Gryffindors make all kinds of noises, breaking the moment. “And he saw me. Pretty cool guy,” says Scott, considering. “Although a bit odd. He knew something was going on because of the spiders — and who knew the spider spell? Boyd!”

Everyone turns to Boyd, cheering on him and giving a round of applause. Someone gives him more beer that Boyd obediently drinks. 

“So here I am, flying on a broom next to Firenze's ear and asking him to take me to Hagrid. We went to the castle to find Professor McGonagall but met Slughorn on our way so all four of us went to the Forest. Still, finding the exact spot wasn't easy... I guess Derek's escaping attention spell worked!”

Now Derek's in the centre of attention, the Gryffindors whooping around him.

“By the time we found the rest of the guys, I was normal height again. The timing was perfect, Stiles!”

“That wasn't my doing, that's just how long the Shrinking Potion works,” says Stiles but is drowned out by cheering Gryffindors. Someone pushes more chocolate frogs at him. “Oh, that's nice, I can make more potions.”

“Earlier, we were wondering what to say once found. And it was awesome,” says Scott, grinning. “I mean, some suggested just telling the truth...”

There is booing and Erica shakes her head, incredulous. She, Boyd and Allison wanted to tell the truth if found by the right people. Who was 'right' was also discussed. 

“But Lydia decided that we should pretend that we've heard the howling and finally decided to find out if it's true that there are werewolves in the Forbidden Forest. Which made us sound like stupid teenagers on a dare-”

“Which was the truth,” says Erica. 

“But Lydia said that the moral responsibility will have to be borne by people who allowed the spread of the rumour — the professors.”

Stiles can almost feel the wave of respect directed at Lydia. She gets applauded for the idea.

“And then Erica gave her best performance. She really convinced us that's exactly what happened.”

“Yeah,” drawls Erica, grinning, taking in all the attention, “I was good.”

“She was so good that something weird happened. Slughorn just — broke down. He had a complete meltdown, started apologizing. It turned out the spell trapping us was his doing, except he's never meant for any students to get caught up. He just wanted to get more ingredients for his potions.”

“Yeah, I actually felt bad for him,” says Erica, “so I told Professor McGonagall the truth.”

In the silence that follows Erica is once again the centre of attention.

“What?” says Scott dumbly.

“Well, she obviously didn't believe us so she invited me to her office earlier. I told her the truth. It's not like she would have accepted anything else,” she explains. “Also, I really felt bad for Slughorn. Oh right,” Erica grins suddenly, self-satisfied. “We may have a new class next year. Ethics. No need to thank me.”

“No one was going to,” says Jackson.

“I think it will be interesting,” argues Allison.

“I actually agree with Jackson,” says Scott. “By the way, if it wasn't for Jackson, we'd still be trapped. He was the one who found the place where the barrier was weaker and started unfolding the spell.”

The Gryffindors drink to his name. Someone gives Jackson Bertie Bett's Every Flavour Beans which he puts away immediately.

“It was also his idea to have a party at Gryffindor,” says Stiles pointedly.

“Well, why did you listen to me?” complains Jackson.

“I suppose we can leave now,” says Lydia. “Stiles, you have our permission to date Derek.”

“Wha- I don't need your permission!”

“Obviously,” agrees Lydia, “but you wanted it. Derek, I'm keeping an eye on you.”

“Yeah, well...” Derek looks around and frowns. “If Erica and Boyd hadn't sneaked out already, they'd say the same to you. Probably.”

“But still!” says Scott. “The one who was the best was Allison! She totally saved us all from the wolf.”

Stiles can't hear his thoughts over the noise at this point. Allison was impressive, it's true — it turned out they haven't killed a wolf... but it wasn't exactly a werewolf, either. It had no human form, only a wolf one, but was much stronger compared to a normal wolf. Stiles heard some muttering about a guy called Lupus, who was supposedly involved. 

He turns to Derek and they silently agree to get out.

Derek mutters something, moving his wand surreptitiously and suddenly confetti appears around them, further exciting the Gryffindors and turning their attention away. 

Stiles and Derek shrink away, soon climbing out of the Fat Lady's portrait. 

“I think I've heard something about fireworks,” says Stiles. 

Derek looks at him, startled. “Now I'm worried about them,” he admits. “Should we go back, just to make sure they're okay?”

“Allison's with them, they'll be fine,” dismisses Stiles, walking with purpose. 

Derek goes after him. “You have somewhere you want to be?”

Stiles turns to him with a smirk. “I have a date.”

Derek huffs out a laugh, remembering it's Friday night. There's an odd feeling in his stomach as he follows Stiles. They seem to be alone, it's quiet and dark around.

Stiles spins to the corridor leading to the library and Derek comes with, turning the corner. He almost walks into Stiles, who is now standing still, waiting for him — all at once they end up oddly close to each other. 

Stiles opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He licks his lips nervously and tries again. “Tell me — tell me it's okay,” he says quietly and moves even closer, enough for his lips to almost touch Derek's. At first, both are still, uncertain, wavering, but then Derek presses this inch more.

The kiss is short and sweet but Stiles still feels as if he ran a marathon. 

Derek stares at him, his eyes too green. “I promise I'll try to be a good boyfriend,” he says suddenly.

Stiles grins. “Finally caught up, huh,” he teases, as if confident. 

Derek rolls his eyes and takes a breath, ready to argue, but Stiles pulls him closer for another kiss. 

There's no hesitation this time. Derek goes with him willingly. 

[reneeofthestars]

At What Cost

A D&D short story

*       *       *

Another fissure split the stone wall to the left, sand spilling into the vast chamber. The slanted slate floor had disappeared completely as sand burst from the crumbling walls of the temple, cascading towards the center of the chamber, where it tumbled into a yawing pit.

Malnissa spat out sand and pulled her bandana over her mouth and nose as she stumbled again. Coarse grains rubbed against her skin, caught in the folds of her dark clothes and held beneath her studded armor. It was taking all her concentration not to be swept away, but her limbs moved like lead. The fight with the scorpion construct had exhausted her, and there’d been no time to rest.

She tried to call out, but the rushing sand was so loud, she could barely hear herself think. Three of her companions had galloped past on the sand striders they’d stolen. None of them bothered to stop their mechanical horses and help her. She cursed them, then cursed again as she lost her footing. She scrambled to right herself, briefly touching the rapier at her hip.

Her bag and bow could be replaced. But the rapier – with the open eye on its pommel – was irreplaceable. A burning bush had given it to her. She hadn’t thought anything of it until the weapon started speaking in her mind, calling itself Watcher.  

Of course, the rapier itself might not be necessary anymore.

She could barely make out the archway across the chamber that indicated the exit. There was still one hallway after this door – or was it two? She couldn’t remember. Ahead of her, a dark, flailing shape caught her eye. Dug. The scrawny half-orc was making as much progress as she was. So, their companions had abandoned both of them. She would remember that. If she made it out of here alive, that is.

One of the remaining pillars was a little ways off, and Malnissa struggled towards it. If she could just reach it, she could rest for a minute, come up with a plan. Her vision blurred as she lurched through the rushing sand, her muscles ached. It may have taken minutes, or seconds – all Malnissa knew was the moment her hands hit stone, and her fingers dug into the grooves of the carved pillar.

Gasping, she hauled herself to the side of the structure, so the cascading sand pushed her into the stone. It was the only thing keeping her from being sent tumbling into the abyss. Why there was a pit in the middle of a chamber, Malnissa didn’t want to know.

Dug’s green skin stood out against the yellow sand, still trying to high-step to the exit. Malnissa’s gut twisted as she saw just how far the archway still was. Her legs burned with exhaustion, and the sand was still tumbling from ever-growing fissures in the walls. There was no way she could make it.

Well… no way she could make it alone.

She felt the rapier at her side, its weight a reminder, an offer. She’d already called on him once today, and wasn’t sure if he’d appreciate being bothered a second time; she still wasn’t quite sure what being fiend-pact involved.

But Malnissa was desperate.

“Any bright ideas?” she spat, directing her attention inward.

There was a moment of silence, then a voice spoke. It was the strangest feeling; it sparked in her mind like a lit coal, and her mind felt crowded. I do have an idea, yes, it said. The voice was less friendly than when he had called himself Watcher, but he had no reason to deceive her anymore. He was K’dol; a pit fiend, a powerful entity of the Nine Hells. At least, that’s what he’d told her, right before she agreed to give him part of her soul and to act as a vessel, in exchange for his power and protection. He’d proved useful time and again; so far, it was a fair exchange.

I can get us out. But I used most of my strength to fight the scorpion guardian of the temple. I need to draw more power.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

I need you to secure the power I need.

“Okay, sure, good!” Malnissa yelped as she almost lost her grip on the pillar. “What do I do?”

Kill the one called Dug.

Malnissa froze, her feet almost swept out from under her. “What?”

He is useless. He will not make it out of this temple, no matter what happens. We may as well use his death to our advantage.

Malnissa held on to the pillar as she watched Dug flounder in the sand ahead of her.

You are an assassin. Consider this another job.

Yes, she was an assassin. But the blundering half-orc hadn’t wronged her. In fact, he’d proved quite useful in numerous situations. And he was the only one who knew of her pact with K’dol. Malnissa didn’t have many morals, but she drew the line on killing people she considered friends.

She gritted her teeth. “No. Thanks for the offer, but I’ll figure out something myself.”

Hm. Interesting. Something in K’dol’s voice made her hair stand on end. He sounded… displeased.

Malnissa took a deep breath, eyeing the distance between herself and the next pillar, wondering if she could tie a rope to an arrow, then shoot –

Unfortunately, K’dol hissed, I am not willing to be trapped down here for the next thousand years waiting for the next adventurer to find your corpse.

Suddenly her mind split with fire, a searing presence forcing its way into her consciousness, she felt herself being pushed aside, she lost her grip on the pillar, everything went white –

Then there was darkness.

  K’dol awoke again.

This time, though, he felt drained. Taking control used an absurd amount of energy. Or perhaps it was the half-elf that was exhausted; she was being pushed to her physical limits in this place.  He had already controlled her once today, with her permission, to help slay the temple guardian. Taking possession by force – though his will was far stronger than the mortal’s – had drained him even further.

Now, there was no choice. Dug must die.

Buffeted on all sides by sand, K’dol hauled himself – Malnissa’s body, but it was his, for now – a bit higher onto the pillar. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he whistled; a shrill, piercing sound, muffled by the sand.

The moments ticked by, and K’dol began to wonder if any remained, when a stand strider finally trotted into view. The horse-like construct easily crossed the terrain, halting beside him. K’dol mounted it easily and took the reins, and the cascading sand no longer bothered him. The construct galloped forward, and K’dol drew the rapier. It had served as an adequate vessel, but Malnissa served better.

Dug must have sensed him coming. He twisted around, his thin face screwed in concentration. His beady eyes travelled from the rapier in K’dol’s hand to his face. Almost drowned out by the sound of falling sand, Dug uttered a knowing, “Oh.” before K’dol plunged the blade into his chest.

Immediately, the half-orc’s lifeforce snapped out of his body, and K’dol seized it, drawing it in as it crackled through his essence, invigorating him. It was a fraction of the power he could possess, but it would do for now.

He withdrew the rapier, the blade stained with blood. Dug’s lifeless body keeled over, immediately swallowed by the sand and swept away into the pit.

K’dol raised a hand to his head, adjusting the hood, and bumped against two small horns protruding from the skull. Malnissa kept them hidden beneath the cowl, but they had grown. It felt as though they mimicked his own horns – when he was in his true form, that is.

He smirked. She had been so willing to accept his offer. It had been clear from the beginning that she had no experience with the arcane, or with anything beyond this plane. Malnissa had no idea of the power he was capable of. And K’dol had every intention of using that to his advantage.

K’dol took the reins and swung the sand strider’s head around. He couldn’t maintain control of his host indefinitely, but he had a little while left, and he was interested in one of her companions. The warlock seemed keen to invoke old powers, and K’dol had some old friends among the Elemental Lords that would pay dearly to have a living host. He intended to offer the warlock an introduction. And if he refused, K’dol would simply take his lifeforce.

K’dol had waited long enough. It was time to begin putting his plan into motion.

[fireproofheart]

Endgame Speculation

So I accidentally wrote a three page essay.

Tldr:

Caleb is consecuted,

the city(tm) is full of evil mages doing blood sport who want to unlease the chained oblivion,

Molly and Lucien are totally separate souls,

The empire knows more than it should about the beacons and the city

Ok so I decided about ten years ago that the astral city was actually where the souls that are stored in the beacon exist while they’re waiting to be reborn. Initially, I’d thought that they’d find Molly there, but clearly his body is already up and running. Anyways I think the city is some kind of phantasmal double of Aeor that they created to store the souls of mages who had reached umavi. Now I know there’s been lots of talk of a god killing weapon, but what if it’s that all these super powerful mages souls are in the city waiting to be unleashed. And then if you take to alpha and alpha to be a reference to the rebirth cycle (I go into that in this post) “We trek 'til homeward bound we be” makes sense as something like we drag ourselves through life after life through the rebirth cycle until we reach enlightenment and head back to the city and I think Lucien has figured this out, but Vess hadn’t (remember she was so close to figuring out the book).

I also think it’d be fun if the mages do actually have a god killing weapon up there but what they have is that they think they’ll be able to control the chained oblivion (I don’t think they actually can) but like what if they want to set it free so that it will destroy the divine gate and go kill a bunch of gods so that they can ascend? They might not even think that they can control it, they might just be banking on becoming gods and being able to defeat it.

So like what if there’s all this talk about umavi and perfecting your soul in the Dynasty, but that’s not it at all. What if it’s actually go through lives until you get powerful enough that the mages in the city are like oh hey come on in. We also know sometimes if you go through too many of these cycles you can go nuts. So like I wonder if the black city mages are just nerfing people who get too powerful and who aren’t good candidates to join them, or if they’re like trying to shape a world they want to come back to.

Like maybe ‘umavi’ is really just a shitty club running around hunting shit, like Halas had dreadnaught chained up in his basement essentially and also was messing around with using astral projection to achieve immortality, so why wouldn’t other mages be doing similar bullshit? We know something related to the city is hunting through the planes like Vokodo was Terrified. And if these beings are so enlightened why would they be sitting on top of like some kind of literal hell and engaging in blood sport??  Also what if the wizards knew it would be a hell city so they're all asleep and everyone who wasnt prepared to go is having a miserable time being hunted through an otherwise empty city? And this also works with Matt’s themes about false gods and blind faith!!

So, If we follow the line of thought about the city, it makes sense that the beacons are ancient Zemnian artifacts, created by the mages to ensure their immortal life. Halas was obsessed with immortality, so I think this tracks. I also have a suspicion that nine eyes is related to the governing structure that the mages used pre-calamity, possibly like a Cerberus Assembly type deal, like one for every school of magic.

Anyways! I think at least one of the assembly members possibly more have figured that out and that’s what they’re actually trying to do with the beacon. I think that initially, the assembly thought that the beacon was the ancient weapon, but I think they’ve realized it isn’t. So I think Trent is trying to recreate the consecution process so that they can continue using the rebirth cycle. That man has made some weird comments that hint about immortality, like how he doesn’t ever plan to leave his office, how he wants caleb to kill him etc. I think this raises the possibility that he’s already figured out consecution I also think it’s an interesting possibility that Trent himself is consecuted and has the memories of a pre calamity wizard, but probably the only way that’s possible is if he wasn’t that powerful, otherwise he’d know all these secrets the Empire is trying to decode.

I think what he is doing is looking for Zemnian kids who might be consecuted souls. We all know Trent loves to fuck with memories, he does this shit constantly. So he’s picking up kids he thinks might be cycling souls and trying to extract or trigger their memories while he trains them to be loyal to the empire, so he can command some real powerful mages. I think it’s also very possible that some of the experiments he ran on them were to try and discover or recreate this consecution process. We know he was up to some Bullshit, but not what exactly. We also know that he’s doing all this when they’re teenagers, which is when their memories are supposed to be returning.  

My guess is that only Caleb is actually one of the souls from the city. Also it’d be super fun if he was the soul of Mr. Destruction council member because I think that’d be a fun motive for Trent to be beating destruction magic into him (aside from the practicalities of course). But if Caleb is consecuted, it explains his dream when he slept near the beacon. Where he saw a dark sphere, which I think was the city, and multiple versions of himself. Matt  also  particularly said there were 17 selves which is a high number of rebirths (the bright queen has like 8 and shes starting to lose it) which goes to my theory that he has a super powerful soul. Also aligns with Trent telling him that ‘he has unlimited potential, unlike Astrid and Eodwulf’. And another thing he saw which tends to get overlooked, is a flame and when he looked at it, it felt familiar and overwhelming and he had to stop focusing on it bc he could feel all of his selves pulling at him. Which brings me to my next point.

Trent said that he traumatized Caleb to help him grow and that man basically never lies, he just talks around the truth. He also said that he thinks Caleb could be an assembly member and that other assembly members have been through similar situations. In the Dynasty, the memories don’t come back automatically, it’s just little flashes and then you have to have someone train you to remember your past lives. But the Empire doesn’t know about that process bc its super secret, so they have this other one that uses trauma to trigger the memories.

So I have two thoughts, one that maybe this works for some of the other souls that have gone through it, but if Caleb is one of the Pre Calamity assembly members who had reached a state of ‘umavi’, there was too much information coming through and his mind broke. And now he can’t access those memories at all, not because they’re magically supressed, but because they’re too wrapped up in his trauma. He started freaking out a bit in the dream when he felt the souls pull at him and looked into the fire and I think until he deals with allll that, he’s not going to be able to remember, if he ever can.

Or! I think it’s also possible If his soul was up there in the party part of the city and was like oh hi I don’t feel like hunting people for spORt anymore and got reborn on purpose and actively doesn’t want to remember.  Who really knows.

But if this is the case and Trent was trying to run that process, it would also makes sense as to why he would keep Caleb around for that long in the asylum if he was still trying to dig them memories out. If the second possibility is right it also provides an interesting possibility that the woman in the asylum went nuts when she healed his mind, because if she tried to heal the second part and his soul was actively resisting and lashed out… like heyooo. Caleb being secretly super powerful and evil in his soul, but choosing to act against that also is a nice tie in with the themes around identity that we’ve seen so far.

Where do Vess and Lucien come into this?

I think Vess is trying to release the souls from the city and hadn’t quite figured out how. I think that she used Lucien as a test run for being the nonagon and sent his soul to the astral plane to go into the city using the book and then as part of the ritual, cut the tether to his body so he could go off and do whatever. So it tracks that he killed Vess if he thought that she tried to kill him/did kill him/didn’t tell him that he could die or whatever. It also wouldn’t surprise me if she was prepared to be the nonagon herself even at that point, but wanted to use Lucien because the risk of death was so high.

So anyways, the ritual failed technically, because an ‘umavi’ mage didn’t pop into Lucien’s body to come tell her how to release the souls (possibly by unleashing the chained oblivion lmao) When you cut someone’s tether, they die instantly so I think she did that, a soul didn’t appear and she went fuck ok so that didn’t work. They tried to resurrect him, didn’t work, so they left. But I think the ritual did work in a way. I think they called a soul from the city, just not the one they  wanted and it took longer than they’d expected.

So Molly wakes up, has no memories of this nonsense, because as he said the entire time he was alive, whoever he was before isn’t him. And if the souls can’t interact with other souls there and they think it’s an empty hell city what if that’s why Molly came back saying empty because that’s how it seemed to him??

So Lucien accidentally gets stuck wandering around with all the other trapped souls. And what if that speaks to Lucien’s motivation to try and bring them all back. Like he’s been wandering around the shitty part of the city for years while Molly was up and running and the black city mages have promised him that he won’t have to go back there if he brings them back to the material plane. So I think Lucien mostly knows how to do this and like maybe needs that book for the technicalities, but I also think he’s going to Aeor to go find another beacon to use for the ritual. And obvi when Kree resurrected Lucien, he actually came back this time because his soul was willing and Molly’s wasn’t.

So I think Vess was trying to figure out how the ritual had failed, but I think after the nein told her about Molly and shit, she’s probably figured out that really the only piece she was missing was how to get the soul she wanted.  I think that missing piece is probably a beacon and that you could possibly use them to communicate in a way or draw the specific souls from the city. But I think it took her too long to figure it out because the beacons are super important to the peace effort, and I don’t think she’d be able to sneak off with one right now, so I think she was going to Aeor hoping to find another one. I think if she had, she would have become a vessel for an umavi mage and she would have learned how to bring back the city and I think right now, we’re in danger of Lucien doing exactly that.

My final point is that a lot of people have been saying it feels like we’re getting into the endgame of the campaign with the stuff that’s happening now. I agree. I also think it would be very tidy if Matt had wrapped Molly and Caleb’s story arcs around each other to end the campaign. Also having them defeat the literal past, the assembly and possibly a god would be a baller way to end it.

[mousehole5000]

 this is it... the final post.... 226 through THE END!!!!!

this shit with mu qing and the river of lava is SOOOO dramatic im loving it

oh my god theyre on a FUCKING bridge of course they are okay let’s go boys

“You’re right. We’re alike. You think me odd, I think you to be rather weird too.” - so what im getting from this is that xie lian and mu qing are the only characters in this book with working gaydar okay yup got it this checks out

god... the fact that xie lian is ready to be like “look mu qing we can just forget about the past it doesnt matter we dont have to be friends i know you dont like me but im not gonna let you die over it” and then mu qing is like “.... god i really do admire you huh”

“You...certainly...are rather amazing. You’re...also...a better person...than me. Long story short, I...very much wanted...to become your f-f-friend.”  - going to think about this for the rest of all time im about to become utterly unintelligible im overcome with emotions

“And, at the end of the white silk band, Feng Xin was gripping Ruoye with one hand while the other was holding on to a steel-faced Mu Qing, and he shouted towards him.” - the fucking IMAGE of this im gonna cry this is everything i could have asked for im so happy also mu qing dangling there like “ welp. guess ill live“

“Feng Xin was almost burnt by that pillar of fire, and he shouted in outrage. “WHAT’S WITH THIS BAND OF DOG SHITS, ATTACKING PEOPLE WHILE THEY’RE DOWN, SO VILE! FUCK YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY!” Xie Lian responded, “IF THEIR ENTIRE FAMILIES ALL LOOK LIKE THAT, YOU SURE YOU WANT TO FUCK THEM??” - theyre so funny!!! and theyre best friends!!! theyre joking together now in the middle of all this i could cry theyre back!!!

“Using sticks as arrows, he held the bow with one hand and used his teeth to bite back the bowstring.” - no clue how practical this is but okay archer boy. hot

i actually have so many little quips between the three of them highlighted but we’d be here all night if i included them all. im literally so delighted by this omg worth the wait

“Each sabre strike slashed to the bone. It wasn’t like Xie Lian had never seen Hua Cheng use the sabre before in the past, but his style had always been easy and leisurely, nonchalant and casual. Rather than say he was handling a weapon, it was more like he was toying with a small knife. Yet those blade marks were filled with killing intent. It was easy to imagine just how skilled the one exchanging blows with him was, and how perilous this battle.” you have no idea how mad i was when i read this and thought we missed witnessing the fight between hc and jw omg

“Behind him, Feng Xin muttered, “Dear fucking god, may all the gods and buddhas grant their blessings, that better absolutely be Crimson Rain Sought Flower, otherwise he’s gonna go mad!” “Stop your rubbish,” Mu Qing berated. “We’re all the gods and buddhas ourselves and we can’t grant shit, just keep up with him! Look at the stumbling way he’s running, he’s gonna trip and fall to his bloody death before he even sees the man!” - okay i know i said no more quips but this is literally too funny i just wanted to read it again

“ However, for whatever reason, that vicious ghost, in its muddled state, took that large group of live mortals under its wing and fled for many days. In the end, they were still surrounded by millions of ghosts, trapped in a dead end, and it was going to be eaten along with those humans.” [...] “That vicious ghost almost made a move against those humans, but for some reason, in the end, it didn’t. It instead used one of its own eyes as the price to forge a blood weapon. That vicious ghost was already forcibly hanging on with its last breath; after digging out its eye it should’ve broken apart completely. Yet somehow something had shocked it, and it instead woke to its senses completely. “ - THIS IS AMAZING ARE YOU KIDDING ME???? IS THIS ALL WE GET ABOUT HIS GHOSTLY LORE?????? HUA CHENGGGGGGGG

“What a terrible offence, his old habit had come out, and he quickly apologized. “I’m sorry! You don’t have to listen to me!” Hua Cheng, however, only smiled happily. “Everything gege tells me is the best advice, so why wouldn’t I listen?” - this isnt the fucking time afjdkfjsdkl they really never stop

“So you can hold the illusion of a perfect Crown Prince of Wuyong to face and dismiss the Jun Wu now. Isn’t that your objective? Did you think I don’t know what you’re thinking?” “THAT’S NOT IT!” Guoshi cried. “Stop getting tied up in right and wrong, victories and defeat, I’VE NEVER THOUGHT THAT WAY BEFORE!” - jun wu only being able to see xie lian as his successor and believing that thats all anyone else sees too... okay

honestly this whole final showdown was a blast i cant put everything in but it was so much fun to read. the DRAMA the LAVA the SHOUTING t

“Hua Cheng had poured too much spiritual power into him. There really was too much, so much that it was completely outside the amount the cursed shackle could withstand.” - okay.... okay... the love you give will set you free... okay....

“With Jun Wu in his grip, he carried both their bodies and forcefully slammed into the incomparably-solid rock wall! He used all of his power in this smash, and in the rumbling and crashing of rocks, he also heard the sound of something breaking.” [...] “A moment later, Jun Wu suddenly asked, “That move. What is it called?” “...” Xie Lian raised his sleeve and wiped away the blood on the side of his face. “Shattering boulders on the chest.” YES!!!!! YES!!!!! xie lian actually lived that life!!!!!! i loved this detail so much

“After a moment of silence, Xie Lian took off the bamboo hat carried on his back, took it in his hand, and covered it over Jun Wu’s face.” - xie lian... good... another detail i love. a hat that protects from the rain, given in a moment of need, even to someone who has caused you hardship... we do not forget the kindness granted to us

“There was gratefulness, there was shame, there was heartache, there was wild joy, but above all else, there was incurable love.” - :pleading: i wish it was just that easy tbh. “i have to tell you about the worst parts of myself” “ive already seen them and i dont care i still love you“ truly the dream

“ It’s been so long since anyone listened to me talk, won’t you stay? Don’t...actually do this. I won’t be able to take it. Twice, it’s been twice already! I really don’t want there to be a third time!!!” - the bit about just wanting someone to listen to him talk... xie lian... :(

emily corpse bride moment.... i knew it had to happen.... butterflies.... death and rebirth.... inevitable

xianle trio bickering about ruoye..... mu qing complaining but not letting anyone else fix it... im so happy

“The Rain Master sat down on the spot, looking like she was going to perform a passing service for her. After all, Xuan Ji was the only one left of the Kingdom of Yushi besides herself.”  - xuan ji you sure the hell were... a character. this little moment tho..... yushi huang... many thoughts

“ Who hasn’t made promises, or swore to the mountains and the seas when they were young? Talking of affection, of love, of forevers. But, the longer I hang around in the world, the more I understand, something like ‘forever’ is impossible. It’s never going to be possible. Having it once was already good enough. No one can truly achieve it. I don’t believe in it anymore.” - jian lan im happy for you bummer it didnt work out with feng xin but yeah that was looooong ago. also this quote me same mood kin but its chill. having it once was already good enough

although yeah tbh if theres anyone who can have a forever like that... it would be a ghost and a god

fasdfjadklfj GOD... pour one out for ling wen.. but is that not the truth of this world? the one can be pardoned for being good at paperwork that no one else wants to do? isnt that the plot of the shawshank redemption?

okay but the fact that all xie lian’s friends come to visit him while he waits for hua cheng is making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.... fengqing coming together to try to get him out of the house but get scared off by his cooking... amazing

“Last time, they spent eight hundred years running towards each other. This time, it only took an instant to fall into each other’s embrace.” - im completely unaffected by this. im not lying i swear (i am lying im very emotionally affected)

okay i love this final wrap up chapter party its so fun. mu qing moving on from the broom thing!!! good for him!! the beggars get their reward!!! the fun ghost city chefs!! SQX!!!! and he xuan is?? here too??? he’s hungry??? fjadlkfjsdl

“The grounds that Feng Xin and Mu Qing had just swept were once again filthy from that giant crowd of muddy feet. Mu Qing gripped his broom, looking like he felt someone had infected him with fleas, and his eyes were wide.” - me when my dad comes into the kitchen when ive just finished washing dishes i get it king

the little folklore bit... fun!!! oh my god its over..... :(

that was really fun i had a blast reading it and on the whole really liked it i WISH soo badly that hua cheng had gotten more outside of being cunty and devoted even tho those are both important i just wish there was more about like how he got by during those 800 years and like did he ever have doubts? what shaped his worldview was it all xie lian or was it his experience as a mortal as well? why is he so mean to e’ming? theres bits and pieces here and there and i know it was already SO long but that really would have been great if there was more about hc cuz tbh by the end, at least for me, the hualian relationship didnt actually feel as fleshed out as the xianle trio relationship like i still liked hualian’s dynamic and it was really sweet how much they clearly really liked each other and  everything but i kind of wish some of the other subplots had been dropped or diminished in favor of more hc development i think that would have been cool

but anyway thats some of my thoughts and i really did enjoy the hell out of book 5 that was a riot and uhhh thanks to everyone who read these or commented *lends you spiritual energy through a high five*

[imagine-darksiders]

Would make a short of Strife rescuing a tiny human? Please ?

Short?

Hi guys, so I was writing this reply when it suddenly occurred to me that I’ve been neglecting you and I owe you, at the very least, a 6000+ word, Strife centric Christmas present. So although it’s isn’t a Christmassy piece per se, it all I have at the moment. 

Thank you so much for being patient with me. XXXX 

—

The photograph stands on a tiny, pink dresser, its edges cut back just enough so that it fits inside a silver frame, out of which peer three humans, their grinning faces never changing as they keep a quiet vigil of the bedroom and its otherworldly visitor, who – in turn – finds his sharp gaze frequently returning to the little, paper snapshot.

A pair of eyes, golden and glowing in the lightless bedroom, screw themselves shut tightly for a moment as their owner heaves a sigh and tries not think about what had happened to the trio of humans. He especially refuses to dwell on the youngest; the little boy in overalls and wellington boots who rides happily on his father’s shoulders in the photo, but who also so, so closely resembles the tiny, emaciated corpse twisted up in a wardrobe nearby.

These are the moments during supply runs that Strife hates the most – where he stumbles across the sad, broken remains of humans, all whilst he rummages through their homes and helps himself to what was once theirs with his only consolation being the humans back at the maker tree, who would survive just a little longer thanks to his pilfering.

If he thought too hard about it, he would be troubled, and the horseman could not afford that. Best to put it from his mind and move on, as he always has. As experience has taught him.

Peeling his eyes open again, Strife turns his back on the photograph and continues stuffing a dishevelled, cuddly pony into one of the leather pouches that hangs from his side.

’Just the essentials,’ he reminds himself before every supply run. ’Food, water and ammunition being top priority.’

But then, Ulthane had brought that kid to the tree and she’d cried all night, asking where her caretakers were and complaining how she couldn’t possibly sleep without a ‘Mister Bear’ and…

The horseman strokes a finger over the toy’s stringy mane before he withdraws his hand and fastens the pack up again, safely sealing it inside.

’In this instance’, he reasons, ’a soft toy is an essential.’

Besides, he’s already gathered plenty of food for today at least, and if he doesn’t get back soon, Ulthane and the other humans will start to worry where he is.

“Where Jones is,” he corrects himself aloud with a bitter frown.

He’s beyond the point of believing they’d care about Strife the horseman in the same manner they care about his human disguise.

Casting one last, solemn glance at the corner wardrobe, Strife once more finds himself fighting to put the humans’ fate from his mind.

It was so much easier when he thought – as many other species still do – that humanity was little more than a savage society with no ambition beyond killing and consuming to survive. Then, he actually met the little species and found everything he thought he knew about them to be a lie. His eyes had been opened, and he’d been left sadder, but wiser.

Humans had been treated like dirt for so many centuries.

And he hadn’t really cared.

Deciding that he’s spent more than enough time among ghosts, Strife steps back over the bedroom’s threshold. 

Moving towards a set of rickety stairs, he reaches out to place a hand on the banister when he suddenly freezes in his tracks, his keen senses honing in on a sound coming from somewhere further down the landing.

A scuffle, then a snort followed by the scrabble of claws on a hard surface.

For several moments, the horseman remains at a standstill as he listens with rapt attention to the pants and growls he’d pin to a Goreclaw, if he had to take a wild guess.

The damn thing sounds as though it’s stuck. That, or it’s looking for something. Either way, it will be sufficiently distracted and chances are likely it doesn’t even know a horseman is in the vicinity.

Mercy’s grip sticks invitingly up from within its holster and Strife runs a thumb over the smooth surface, thinking.

He could just leave. It is only one demon after all.

But then…

The horseman’s mind drifts back to the little body in the wardrobe and his jaw immediately sets.

No way in Hell is he about to let that thing get at it. Dead or not, a kid doesn’t deserve to be reduced to marrow by a hell-dog. Strife could spare him that, at the very least.

Shaking his head and wondering when he’d become so sentimental, he draws his pistol and steps back onto the landing. Following the sounds of guttural snarls, he stalks through the crumbling apartment until he comes upon a broken doorway, torn off its hinges at some point by a hand greater than a human’s. Strife halts just shy of the entrance and presses his back up against the wall before inching his head around the corner, golden eyes narrowed dangerously as he scans the room beyond.

Far be it from him to err on the side of caution but he is curious to know what the demon is up to. His earlier assumption had been spot on. It’s a Goreclaw alright, currently in the midst of trying to shove its long talons underneath a chest-of-drawers, teeth snapping and drool flying from its snout.

“What the Hell are you doing?” he wonders quietly, observing while it retracts its foreleg and presses its nose up to the slim gap beneath the furniture.

He’s only ever seen the dogs get this excited when they’re on the trail of prey.

For a split second, the horseman’s blood runs cold at the thought of a human being trapped under there, though he soon shakes that notion off. No matter how tiny, there isn’t a human alive that could stuff themselves underneath there. Not with barely two inches of space between floor and wood.

Through the window, he’s distantly aware that the sun is no longer shining through a gap in the curtains, having sunk well below a building on the opposite side of the street, heralding the swift approach of night.

Aware that he’s burning daylight, and desperate to put a bullet in something, Strife obnoxiously clears his throat, rounds the corner and aims a cocksure grin at the startled demon when it whirls about to face him.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says cheerfully, “Just wanted to stop by and tell you, there’s something on your face.”

A roar of outrage shatters the relative peace as the demon crouches, ready to pounce. It barely manages to plant its hind legs however, before a bullet tears out of Mercy’s chamber and buries itself directly in the Goreclaw’s skull.

“Ope, never mind, I got it,” Strife gloats, a smirk lifting his lips. The demon crumples to the ground, gurgling and twitching for a moment until it eventually lays still, dead on the floral print carpet. “Huh…I was hoping that’d be a little more satisfying.”

With his grim duty taken care of, the horseman turns on his heel to leave. However something nags at the back of his mind and he stops mid-stride, a frown pulling at his brows.

Just what had that demon been so desperate to get at?

Beneath his helm, Strife chews pensively on his lip, turning back to face the unassuming chest of drawers. After a moment’s deliberation, he gives in to curiosity, a newfound trait he wholly blames on the humans he’s been sharing a tree with for the past several weeks. Every one of them has a penchant for sticking their noses into strange situations, and it seems their behaviour has rubbed off on the horseman somewhat.

An obnoxious huff escapes Strife as he grabs each side of the dresser and picks it up effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a feather and moves it aside to peer down at the dustless rectangle that had been left in its wake. It isn’t long before his sharp gaze lands on something out of the ordinary, a patch of colour in the otherwise murky grey.

“What the?…” Dumping the chest of drawers down to his right, the horseman squats to get a better look at what appears at first glance to be just another child’s toy.

“All that fuss for a doll?” he wonders aloud, reaching slowly down with a finger to prod at it.

Just then, before he can utter anything further, he almost jumps out of his skin as the ‘doll’ springs to life.

Rather, it suddenly leaps to its feet and darts sideways, gunning straight along the wall’s skirting with two, little legs pumping along like a steam engine.

“Hey! Woah there!” Caught off guard, Strife doesn’t think before he shoots out a hand towards the fleeing creature.

It can’t quite skid to a halt in time to keep from colliding with the horseman’s gauntleted palm that abruptly slams to the ground in front of it, and with a soft ‘plink,’ the human-shaped thing collides with his hand and falls back onto its rump so jarringly, Strife can’t suppress a wince. “Oooh, sorry about that,” he says, wasting no time in pinching his thumb and forefinger against the collar of a thin, brown shirt and plucking it up off the floor. “Now, what do we have here?”

Dangling his prize in front of his silver helm, he squints, head tipping to one side so he can get a good look at what he’s caught.

He very nearly drops it again when he realises what he’s peering at.

It’s a human. A boy, to be precise, and a fairly young one at that, clothed in nothing more than a ratty shirt and a pair of equally dishevelled shorts that hang low on his waist, too baggy to fit on his near skeletal form. They’ve even been tied in place by a strip of green twine.

Hanging limply from the horseman’s grasp, the little human tries to work his shirt loose, twisting this way and that but impeded by violent trembles that wrack his body. Realising that thrashing is doing him no good, he opts to reach up with miniature fists and attempt to tear the shirt free, tiny grunts leaving even tinier lips.

“You’re a human!” Strife blurts out, eyes flashing interestedly.

At the sound of his booming voice, the boy flinches and cries out, abandoning his prospects of escape in favour of clamping both arms over his head and curling in on himself, a meagre method of protection against his titanic captor.

Standing back up to his full height, the horseman continues to study his handful whilst planting his free hand on a cocked hip. “Well damn me, I didn’t think human kids could get this small,” he murmurs. Suddenly, his ears perk up at the sound of a diminutive squeak that emanates from the boy currently hanging from his fingers. ”What was that, kid?”

Shivering, his arms still shielding his head, the tiny boy swallows and raises his voice loud enough to be heard. “I-I ain’t a human!” he claims shrilly. Then, after a small pause, he adds, “And I ain’t no kid neither!”

“Not a human, huh? Well, you sure look like one.” Strife chuffs and raises a claw-tipped finger, prodding the boy in his stomach and eliciting a squawk of indignation. “Sure sound like one too…Kind of on the skinny side though, aren’t you?”

His words cause the boy to turn rigid and his arms peel back slightly to give Strife a view of ebony hair and wide, brown eyes. “What…what’s that s'posed to mean!?” he whimpers, “You’re not gonna…you’re not gonna eat me, are you!?”

“Mmm, haven’t decided yet,” the horseman playfully responds, tapping his chin in mock thought. “Doesn’t look like you’ve got much meat on you…Then again, I am pretty hungry.”

Behind his mask, he grins, though the expression promptly blinks out of existence when he notices a wetness has gathered on the boy’s cheeks.

“Uh oh.” That wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d been sure human kids loved jokes! Hell, Ulthane had playfully threatened to eat some of the younglings back at the tree and they’d all thought it was a great game, even laughed their heads off when he made a slow swipe at them with one of his meaty paws.

“Oh, hey, no – I – Ah, damnit.” Like a flipped switch, Strife’s tone loses its teasing lilt and slips to something gentler. “Hey, ease off the waterworks, okay, pint-size? I was kidding.” Borderline desperate, the horseman lowers his catch into a sturdy palm and lets go of his shirt, even smoothing down the back of it with the pad of a careful finger for good measure although as he does, he becomes aware of just how prominently the boy’s spine protrudes. Human anatomy varies, sure, but that doesn’t feel right.

Jerking away from the encroaching finger, the ‘not’ human swipes furiously at his eyes, smearing tears across reddened cheeks. In spite of the horseman’s reassurance, he doesn’t appear convinced, eyeing the palm beneath him with about as much trust as he’d give a hungry snake, half expecting it to spring to life and squeeze the soul out of him. Truthfully, he hasn’t seen much of the world, even before monsters fell out of the sky, but he knows enough to tell that this metal-clad behemoth is most assuredly not human.

Human eyes don’t glow like liquid gold.

In the meantime, Strife gives himself a mental kick for making the child cry.

“So, uh,” he clears his throat awkwardly, “You… got a name, kid?”

“What do you care?” the boy sniffs, all pretence of bravery made redundant by his trembling, “You’re just gonna drop me or – or squash me or something.”

Drawing his head back, the horseman frowns. “C'mon, you’re like – what? - three inches tall? Be kind of a dick move for me to hurt someone smaller than my thumb.”

Cautious surprise flickers across the youngster’s face and he swipes the back of a wrist under his nose, chin lifting to shoot a suspicious squint at his captor. “But…but ain’t you one of them demons?”

Strife bristles despite his best efforts. “Do I look like a demon to you?”

Ducking his head, the boy gulps but still balls his hands into fists and squeezes out, “Well, I dunno… You big'uns all look alike from down here.” He risks a mistrustful glare at Strife’s luminous eyes. “Like monsters.”

Apparently the Horseman has been spending too much time around humans because that sent an unpleasant pang bolting through his chest.

“Yeah, well…Speaking from experience, not everyone who’s bigger than you is a monster, kid,” he murmurs gently.

The boy blinks, caught off guard by the sober tone of voice he hadn’t expected to hear from this gargantuan, metal man. All his life, he’d had drummed into his head the mantra that if a big one caught him, they’d more than likely kill him. And those that didn’t would shove him in a jar or underneath a microscope - that last one had happened to his great, great grandfather. Or so he has been lead to believe.

And yet so far, there’s no jar, no microscope, and although he knows it’s far too early to be letting his guard down, the longer he goes without becoming a sticky mess under the heel of a boot, the more his nerves relax the strangle-hold they have on his heart.  

Outside, the city grows steadily darker and with the absence of sunlight, a chill seeps its way through the broken window.

Drawing up his knees and hugging them to his chest, the boy falls victim to an involuntary shudder.

“Cold?”

The suddenness of the giant’s voice reverberating overhead causes him to jump and snatch his gaze up from where it had wandered down to his shoeless feet. On impulse, he blurts out a stubborn, “No,” and clenches his jaw shut again to stop it from quaking.

Strife raises an eyebrow and though his skepticism is hidden under a helm, it manages to saturate his voice. “Uh huh. I can see you shivering, kid.” Slowly, his fingers creep a few centimetres closer to the boy. 

“I told you, I’m not a kid,” his handful mutters, “I’m nearly eleven.”

A snort of laughter bursts out of Strife before he can catch it, earning himself an icy glare. “Now, I’m no expert,” he chuckles, bouncing his hand slightly, much to his passenger’s horror, “But I’d’ve said eleven was well in the range of what a ‘kid’ oughtta be.”

“Kids can’t take care of themselves,” the boy explains, agitated, “I can.”

Strife draws his head back in mock surprise. “Oh hoh! Can you now? S'that why I found you seconds away from becoming a demon’s snack?”

Huffing, the boy averts his gaze from the dazzling yellow eyes overhead and mumbles, “I’d have been fine.”

“Whatever you say, half-pint.” The corners of Strife’s lips tilt up as he inspects the boy’s grumpy pout. “You know, you’re pretty feisty for such a little guy. Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to go picking fights with demons a hundred times your size?”

Despite his far larger stature, the horseman can pinpoint the exact moment he’d said the wrong thing. The word 'parents’ has barely slipped off his tongue before the boy’s eyes suddenly clamp shut and his back goes rigid against Strife’s fingers. Understanding dawns at once and the horseman’s eyes lose some of that preternatural glow as he exhales softly through his nose. “Oh….Your folks’re not in the picture anymore, huh?”

Face now pressed into his knees, the boy shakes his head.

“Was it a demon?”

This time, Strife receives a slow nod, confirming his suspicions.

Blowing out a puff of hot air, he scratches at his neck and offers, “Damn. I’m…. sorry, kid.”

What else could he possibly say?

“…Hamish.”

Strife blinks, lifting the youngling closer to his eyes and peering down at him. “What’d you say?” he murmurs, giving the boy a gentle nudge with his thumb in the hopes of coaxing the words out again.

Luckily, he’s rewarded when his passenger finally looks up at him with a pair of drooping, brown eyes, their edges tinged red. “My name,” he tries, louder this time, “It’s not kid. It’s Hamish.”

The metal mask does little to conceal its wearer’s pleased grin.

“Hamish, huh?” He decides not to make a fuss about the tears rolling down the kid’s cheeks. “S'good to meet you. Name’s Strife.”

Confusion sweeps across Hamish’s features and he carefully extracts himself from his knees, scrubbing away the fresh teardrops. “Strife?” He hesitates for a moment to scrunch up his nose even further, and the horseman can’t help but notice that when he does, he bears an uncanny resemblance to Yarin after the humans tried explaining the concept of a computer to him. Strife’s grin widens of its own accord at the fond memory whilst its wearer waits patiently for Hamish to finish scrutinising him.

Eventually, the boy appears to come to some sort of conclusion as he huffs and rubs tiredly at one of his eyes, though Strife suspects it has more to do with not wanting to meet the horseman’s gaze when he says matter-of-factly, “That’s a weird name.”

Glad that his little acquaintance has at least stopped crying, Strife feigns offence. “It’s a Nephilim name,” he explains, “and - for the record - how do you know I don’t think Hamish is a weird name?”

The boy gulps, apparently mistaking the giant’s playful banter for real displeasure, after all, he had just insulted an unstoppable behemoth’s name. Eager to move the conversation along, he stammers out, “U-Uh, what’s a…a nephilim?”

The horseman, making note of Hamish’s renewed trembling, softens his tone. “A Nephilim is…It’s, uh…” Something stops him mid-sentence. Is he really about to tell this kid about the Nephilim? A brutal race of bloodthirsty, world-conquering titans? Of which Strife himself was a member? The horseman clamps his mouth shut. What if explaining who the Nephilim were prompts Hamish to start asking questions? Creator forbid the boy discover that the man holding him in his palm was one of four responsible for the total eradication of their own species.

With a hard blink, Strife focuses back on Hamish and notices the boy’s eyes are nervously darting all over his mask. The suffocating spell of silence had lasted longer than the horseman intended. Thinking quickly, he stumbles over an answer that he hopes will satisfy the boy. “It’s…Well, s'just what I am.”

Perhaps it’s only because Hamish has spent his entire life keeping his existence a secret, but the giant’s vague response doesn’t bother him half as much as it ought to. He gets it. The man probably doesn’t want anyone knowing about his existence. Hamish finds the feeling is mutual.

So, instead of calling Strife out on his blatant avoidance, the boy simply offers him a nod and says, “I knew you weren’t human.”

“Ha, only when I need to be,” the horseman chimes secretively, and before Hamish can ponder what he means by that, he’s unexpectedly bounced up into the air, letting out a startled yelp before he lands in the centre of the giant palm again.

“Anyway,” Strife begins, shooting a cursory glance out the window and wincing upon finding it utterly obscured by the ink of night, “There’ll be plenty of time to get to know each other once I get you to safety.”

Hamish’s fingers twitch against the tough gauntlet, a trickling cold slipping into his stomach. “Wait, what?”

“Well, today’s your lucky day, kid!” Strife puffs out his chest and jabs it with a thumb, proudly declaring, “I am gonna take you someplace safe.” Pausing for a moment to let that sink in, he watches the boy’s eyes grow wide, feeling a sense of accomplishment at seeing what he imagines can only be excitement, so he carries on, “It’s warm, away from demons, there’s lots of humans and enough food to last you a lifetime.” He stresses his point by poking Hamish’s belly with a careful fingertip. “By the looks of things, you could use a good meal. So, what do you say? How’s that sound?”

The boy remains silent for several seconds as he processes what he’s being told.

Then, to the horseman’s shock, rather than elation or relief, he’s met with a face full of horror and before he can ask what’s wrong, the boy leaps unsteadily to his feet and bellows, “NO!” at the top of his lungs.

Taken aback, Strife snaps his other hand up to close Hamish in a loose fist when it looks as though he’s about to jump off the horseman’s palm. “Hey! Easy there! What’s the matter?”

Hamish begins pounding ardently on the fingers holding him hostage, kicking his legs to no avail. This hulking stranger wants to take him away from his family home – the place he’s lived and loved and known his whole life - and dump him with a bunch of humans? Not a chance. “Let me go!” he cries, terrified at the prospect of being uprooted, “I’m not going with you!”

Baffled, the horseman tips his head to one side and frowns at the ferocity behind each blow on his metal gauntlet. “Stop that, you’re gonna hurt yourself!” He reaches up and catches one of the boy’s arms, holding it gingerly between two fingers. “Why don’t you want to come with me?”

“Because! This is – It’s my home!” Hamish all but sobs, pushing furiously at Strife’s metal thumb.

“Kid, this is gonna be your tomb if you stay here much longer,” the horseman tries to reason, “I mean, look at you, if a demon doesn’t get you, something else will. You’re skin and bone.”

“I’d rather take my chances out here than be surrounded by humans!” Hamish gives a final heave before collapsing over the enormous thumb, with one arm still held above his head, caught in a firm but gentle grip.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Strife almost laughs aloud at the thought of the humans at the tree hurting anyone. Three of them had actually cried after they discovered a dead bird outside the entrance. But even still, he has to put the boy’s mind at ease. At last relinquishing his hold on the skeletal arm, he sighs, “Listen, kid. Nobody’ll hurt you, okay? They’re good people. Besides – no offence – but I think they’ve got more important things to focus on than antagonising you.”

Unfortunately, Hamish either isn’t listening, or he just doesn’t care.

Glancing up at the giant, fresh tears streaming in a never-ending torrent down his face, he puts on the bravest voice he can muster and yells, “I’m staying here!”  

“No, you’re coming with me.”

“No, I’m not! You can’t make me!”

Golden eyes flash brightly at the challenge. “Oh, you don’t think so?” Strife smirks, and without warning, begins to lower Hamish towards one of the pouches on his belt.

As soon as he spots where he’s headed, the boy’s struggling becomes increasingly wild. “No, no, no!”

“Sorry, kid,” the horseman murmurs, steeling his heart against the frightened wailing, “M'not leaving you here.” Using his free hand, Strife fumbles with the pouch’s leather strap and is just about to get it open when Hamish suddenly cries out, “Wait, wait! Just – I’ll go with you, okay? Just stop!”

The horseman pauses, considering the boy for a moment before lifting him back up to his helm. “What’s up? You claustrophobic or something?”

Little fingers dig imploringly into the gaps of Strife’s gauntlet as Hamish shakes his head. “No, I – I just…If you have to take me, then….at least let me get my things first.”

“Your things?” he echoes, squinting down at the kid and noting, with some semblance of relief, that he’s no longer putting up a fight. “Where are they?”

Shrinking underneath the giant’s dazzling stare, Hamish swallows noisily but manages to raise a shaking finger and points it over his shoulder. “In the walls.”

Puzzled, Strife glances to where he’s indicating. “You….lived in the walls?” He sees Hamish nod from the corner of his eye.

“There’s an, um…like a little crack in the skirting board, over there.”

Once again, the horseman follows a tiny finger as it points down to the bottom of the wall, where there is indeed a hole, just large enough to grant entry to a mouse, or perhaps someone else who stands just a few inches off the ground.

For several seconds, Strife deliberates the situation, his gaze flicking between the dark window, the hole and Hamish until eventually, he blows out a huff and shakes his head, turning back towards the doorway and lowering the boy to his hip once again. “Sorry, kid, but whatever it is, it can’t be that -”

“There’s something in there that belonged to mum and dad!”

Strife’s steps falter and he squeezes his eyes shut with a sigh.

Sensing his captor’s hesitation, Hamish prods, “Please? I don’t want to leave without it! It’s all I have left of my family…”

Family. The word plucks insistently at Strife’s heartstrings and he briefly laments the younger, colder version of himself that wouldn’t have flinched if he’d heard it. For some time, the horseman wrestles with himself, teeth grinding together until at last, he lets out a groan and stomps over to the hole in the wall. “Alright, fine.” Pausing to lift the boy up to his mask again, he levels a stern glare at him and adds, “But you gotta be in and out of there in one minute, okay?”

Hamish’s face brightens and he squirms restlessly as Strife lowers himself onto one knee and places his hand on the ground.. “O-okay, mister!”

Barely even waiting for the appendage to stop moving, Hamish all but dives off as soon as the fingers uncurl themselves, landing on the ground and haring for the wall, but before he can get too far, he finds himself jerked to a halt when the waistband of his trousers is pinched between two, enormous fingertips. Craning his head back, he stares anxiously at the horseman, flinching when a gruff voice booms, “I mean it, kid. In and out.”

“I-I got it!” Hamish replies hurriedly, desperate to put some distance between himself and the metal giant.

After giving him one last, calculating look, Strife finally relents, letting the boy go and leaning back to watch him scurry into the wall as fast as his little legs can carry him. Snorting softly, the horseman eases back onto his haunches, content for the time being to wait for his discovery to reemerge. “And here I thought I’d seen everything,” he muses.

——-

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Strife, a similar thought is occurring to Hamish as he races through the intricate maze of tunnels his ancestors had dug out of the house’s stone foundations. Spiderwebs threaten to catch the boy’s flimsy shirt and hold him back, but a lifetime of memorising every twisting, dust-choked tunnel meant that Hamish could navigate his way through each obstacle without even having to slow down. In almost no time, he’s scaled up the wall’s interior and burst through the tiny, wooden door that leads to his family home.

Slightly winded, Hamish takes a moment to collect himself, peering about at the candlelit kitchen and trying to decide where best to hide because he has no intention of going back to the clutches of that giant. To do so would be in complete violation of everything his family had ever taught him, and if he could do nothing else, at least Hamish could carry their lessons with him. Perhaps his mother would even be proud of him for tricking the giant into letting him go free, had she still been alive. Pressing his lips together, Hamish slumps heavily against the doorframe and exhales roughly through his nose, determined not to cry again.

All of a sudden, his whole world shudders as a thunderous boom hits the wall beside him, threatening to knock him off his feet. Crying out, Hamish drops instinctively to his knees whilst two more booms follow the first, one after the other, rocking the entire foundations of his home and raining dust down into his already grubby hair. Fear of being crushed by falling debris compels him to move, so he crawls across the still shivering room, every now and again having to doge pots and pans that are flung from their hooks on the ceiling until he gets close enough to the kitchen table to throw himself underneath it.

Then, as soon as they’d begun, the booms stop and everything grows silent, save for the clinking of a cup that rolls across the ground before coming to a stop just beside Hamish’s hiding spot.

“Hey, kid! You get the stuff yet?” Strife’s muffled voice calls from outside.

To his irritation, the horseman sounds entirely oblivious to the abject terror he’d just put him through – is still putting him through. Unaware that he’s balled his hands into fists, Hamish aims a harsh scowl at the wall, behind which the voice had come from and, in as brave a tone as he can summon, yells, “GO AWAY!”

There’s a pregnant pause, a heavy stillness that hangs in the air like a lead weight over his head and Hamish is just beginning to wonder if Strife had actually obliged him, when the horseman’s voice cuts through the brick again, considerably softer this time. “You know I can’t do that, little man.”

The boy scoffs aloud. “Yes, you can,” he retorts, “You just have to turn around and leave.”

“Hamish.” The pointed use of his name isn’t lost on the boy. “I am trying to look after you. Now would you come back out here so I can actually do that?”

The voice sounds closer now, as though Strife is speaking directly next to the wall outside his hiding spot and Hamish realises too late what a stupid move it had been to shout and give away his position. So, with lips pursed and arms crossed, he offers the horseman a stubborn silence. A full minute passes before he hears a low sigh from the other side of the wall.

He expects Strife to continue banging on the wall until the sound becomes so annoying, it drives him out. He expects the horseman to at least pretend to leave, then snatch him up again the second he steps from the mouse hole. What Hamish doesn’t expect, however, is for the wall of his kitchen to suddenly explode inwards.

A cacophony of sound beats on his eardrums and in a desperate bid to avoid being deafened, Hamish throws his arms over his head and presses himself into the floor, his scream swallowed by chunks of plaster and brick showering down all around him. When the dust settles, he still doesn’t move, not even when silence is all he can hear aside from the blood pounding through his eardrum.

Then, movement. Not from Hamish, but from the gaping hole that has appeared in the brick and cement, exposing his kitchen – his home – to the world outside. Choking on the fear that weighs down on him as surely as the ceiling above, Hamish raises his head and peeks out between trembling arms to see a colossal fist slowly dislodge itself from the tight confines of his kitchen wall, fragments of which tumble down around it, plinking off metallic plating and leaving a coat of dust in their wake. With a final tug, the fist breaks free, retreating enough so that what little light is left can spill through the gap and illuminate the hovel. As Hamish watches, too rigid with anxiety to move his limbs, a familiar pair of luminous, yellow eyes loom out of the dust and peer inside, swiftly finding him cowered underneath the kitchen table. Their gazes lock and they stare at one another, the boy’s eyes widening as a direct contrast to Strife’s, which narrow at the sight of him.

“You know, I don’t appreciate being lied to,” the horseman grumbles before adding curtly, “I thought we had a deal?”

Pinned helplessly beneath that glare, Hamish attempts to shuffle backwards further under the table, though his limbs have locked up and refuse to cooperate with his intentions. However, his mouth hasn’t suffered the same petrification. “I-I don’t make deals with giants!” The words tumble out before he can catch them. “I’m not going, so just!- Just leave me alone!” As he speaks, he continues to shimmy away until he emerges from beneath the table, all the while his every move is followed intently by an unwavering, yellow gaze.

An entrance to one of the many tunnels his family had built into the walls is just to Hamish’s left – shrouded in darkness and invitingly safe. If he could just reach it, he’d be able to disappear into the brickwork.

Taking a fairly solid guess on the boy’s next course of action, Strife growls out a warning steeped in thinly veiled concern. “Come on, kid. Don’t make me do this.”

With the deliberate slowness of one who doesn’t wish to provoke a predator, Hamish gets to his feet and in utter silence, they stare each other down, one defiant and the other dejected.

Then, the horseman eyes squeeze shut just for the briefest of instances, as if in pain.

It’s all the opening Hamish needs.

Like a rabbit with a fox at his heels, he bolts sideways in a mad dash for the tunnel entrance, his mind fixated on one thing only: Escape.

Although he’d always been the youngest family member, he could boast an impressive swiftness, outpacing even his mother and father as they raced through the apartment in playful capers.

His father had once said that Hamish’s speed would keep him safe.

His father was wrong.

The enclosed doorframe comes within reach and another round of adrenaline fizzes across his brain at the the tantalising prospect of freedom, so close it puts a hopeful smile on his face. He would not be made to leave his home. Fingers grasp the wooden edge of the door and Hamish readies to propel himself those last, precious few feet through the gap. He’s so focused on where he’s going, he doesn’t notice the rush air that whizzes past him, nor that it’s soon followed by a large, ominous shape sliding past his body in the darkness and curling into his path. However, he does notice when he slams against a solid wall of metal and leather - a wall that begins to gently scoop him backwards, away from the door, away from the safety of the apartment’s labyrinthian tunnels and straight towards a home-wrecking giant.

“No!” he shrieks like a banshee as strong fingers fasten around his midsection, ensuring him that this time, there will be no escape. The horseman will not be duped again. All too soon, Hamish finds himself dangling back in front of that avian mask and shying away from the palpable disappointment radiating from beneath it.

“Okay,” the low, unimpressed voice chimes, “I can tell there’re gonna be some trust issues between us.” Before continuing, Strife holds an admonishing finger up right in front of the boy’s face. “But you need to understand that you can’t just run off like that, kid! What if you’d gotten hurt?”

Reflecting on what he’d said, the horseman has to suppress a shudder. ’Shit, I’m starting to sound like Death.’  

“What do you care if I get hurt!?” the boy challenges, “You’re the one who’s kidnapping me!”  

Bridling at the accusation, Strife sets his jaw and snaps, “You got duskwings in your belfry, kid? I’m trying to protect you!”

“I don’t need you protecting me! I was doing just fine on my own!” Hamish bellows, balling his hands into fists and throwing them wildly in the direction of Strife’s mask, more as a show of defiance than anything else. He’s borderline hysterical now, barely sucking down enough air to keep himself conscious during the throes of panic.

Meanwhile, the horseman watches his display, taking in the boy’s skinny frame, the shorts that barely cling to his narrow hips, the dark bags hanging under his eyes and the grime covering his skin and clothes. “No,” he says with an air of finality, “You weren’t.”

There’s no further opportunity for Hamish to retort because he’s promptly swept in a downwards arch towards the horseman’s pouches once again. No amount of pleading, thrashing or crying garners a reaction out of the stone-faced giant who has turned a deaf ear to his tiny captive. Only when he lifts the flap of his frontmost pocket and lowers Hamish inside does he speak, simply to say, “This is for your own good.”

The boy’s backside touches something soft and fuzzy and he balks, inadvertently grasping at the fingers that unfurl from around him, as though they would pull him out of the very prison they’d slipped him into. The last thing he sees before his world is plunged into darkness is a now familiar pair of amber eyes gleaming down at him and pulling a whimper off his lips.

—

Strife expels a hot breath as he fastens the clasp on his pouch and finally allows himself an indulgent second to relax. Then, giving the bottom of the pouch a few, gentle pats, he turns once more towards the pitch black hallway, smirking when a minuscule foot kicks against his palm. 

[lobster-mobster-aq]

A Deep Dive Into the SAO I Thought I Was Watching

Read below the cut or here.

Have any of you ever read or watched a thing and thought it was well written and executed? Have you ever looked back a few years later and realize that you put way more thought into that piece of media than the author did? That perhaps maybe it was more of an accident that it was enjoyable than any real skill from the author? That the themes and symbolism and characterization weren’t really what you thought they were at all? That the elements that you thought were interesting and unique where just copy pasted from things that did them more cleverly but you just didn’t realize because you just hadn’t seen those things in other pieces of media before?

That was me with Sword Art Online.

The first part of season one at least. I unironically loved it. It wasn’t like I thought that it was perfect, but there was just something about it that I really enjoyed. I couldn’t help but wonder why people were so hard and down on it. It was a bit stupid but honestly name one anime fantasy show (or I guess SAO was technically sci-fi) that wasn’t stupid in some regard. And then there came the Alfheim arch and I um…kind of realized what everyone was talking about. I still held out for a bit. This was adapted from novels after all. Clearly they just rushed this part in order to get it to be the correct number of episodes.

*sigh*

But this isn’t going to be another essay about why SAO is…not objectively great. To be honest I still really like the first part. I recognize at this point, since I don’t really like anything else by Reki Kawahara that it is more chance and luck that I like the first part of season one of SAO than the fact like I like his writing. No, what this essay is going to be is an analysis on the show that I thought I was watching. A deep dive into the themes and ideas that I had assumed this show was about. I put tons of thought into watching the show, somewhat in defense of all the complaints it was getting. No guys, you have to realize, its actually good. Okay, here we go.

 Our world has been shaped by electronics. The fact that the internet exists has completely and radically changed our culture. The way we communicate, the way we think, and the way we experience relationships have all changed dramatically due to it. There have been many pieces of media that have explored it’s affect on culture, some mourning the change, some fearing it, and some embracing it. Today I want to talk about a show that touches on all three.

Sword Art Online, at it’s heart, is a show about how the things that happen online, in the digital world, mean something, whether those things be positive or negative. Any of us who have met people, or have internet friends, been bullied, or spent time in a video game have probably been told that it doesn’t count, since it is online. They’re not real friends, why bother spending time decorating a fake house in a game, it’s all just fake, why don’t you go outside and experience real life?

SAO is an unassuming, light hearted stab at that argument, and it does it by making the digital world a horrifying reality.

The premise of SAO is by no means unique. People get stuck in a video game, in this case the name of which is Sword Art Online, because the game is online, and they fight with swords. I’ve seen this trope before, you’ve probably seen this trope before, but SAO is the first time I’ve ever seen it where the stakes feel so real. Where the fun fantasy game takes on the harsher sides of real life, striping away the sense of safety that online interactions usually have, you don’t die for real, you have the ability to pretend to be someone you’re not. If the characters die in the game, they die in real life.

The main character is Kirito. Total loser nerd, real “you just don’t understand me” otaku, can’t talk to real people type. At first the main character throws himself into the world, instantly getting close to people and participating with others, becoming fast friends with another person Klein. Kirito seems to not care about his image, just loving to live in the world. Others buy the fact that he is an emotionally mature, competent, and cool individual.

Then blood drips from the ceiling of the game and some creepy, giant, cloak dude announces that you can’t log out of the game, and if you die in the game you die in real life. That the only way to escape the game is for at least one person to clear all one hundred levels. Akihiko Kayaba, the creator of the game, has for some reason no one can figure out, trapped everyone there. Oh, and also you no longer look like what you chose your character to look like, you are yourself. The aspects of the digital world, the safety net, the training wheels, are off.

Kirito flees. In the face of having to interact with people without the veneer of playacting, he falls into old habits, withdrawing into himself because he’s too scared to interact with people, he’s frightened of real human interaction. He puts on a front, claiming to himself it’s because he can’t be held back by the weaker characters, that the reason he flees from real human interaction is because he needs push himself to the limits of his character, and he can’t do that with all the dead weight. But it’s clear that’s just the lie he tells himself to cover up the truth. He, like many people, can’t stand his own self, and the internet was a good way to hide who he really was. He abandoned the connections he made at the start of the game, and he never fully repairs some of them. Klein was set to be a close and important friend, instead he becomes, at most, a distant acquaintance.

Kirito goes about his life, keeping himself from others, becoming incredible at the game, putting himself on a pedestal and telling himself that’s why he can’t interact with the riff raff, because he’s better than them. He is set apart from them because of his skill, and not because he has horrible interpersonal skills and doesn’t know how to actually interact with people without a false persona to hide behind. But then one day, he finally breaks, and a rag tag team convinces him to join their guild.

And everything goes to shit and everyone dies except Kirito. And these people are dead, for forever. This isn’t just something where they can log into the game again. Real relationships can hurt, because the consequences will have lasting effects, your can’t just log in later with a new avatar and start over. True, the consequences of a real relationship usually isn’t that the people you’ve come to care about die horrific deaths, but the point is still made. This world, which Kirito had entered in the hope of escaping a reality that he hated, had all the things of the real world he had been trying to escape. The fear of connection, the fear of being known. Even if he is a skilled and talented person now, instead of some hopeless loser good at nothing, somehow all the pain of real life still followed him. It doesn’t matter, this wish fulfillment is shallow, it doesn’t fulfill the wishes that Kirito actually cares about.

So Kirito withdraws even more, more convinced than ever that the only way to return to his reality, to get away from the hell that is the game is to set himself apart. Still playacting the part of some noble and untouchable genius, too advanced and cool to deal with the riff raff. He has a couple other adventures, where he denies himself real human interaction and keeps a cool appearance. Never getting too close to the people he interacts with. He keeps them at arms length. They look on at him as some distant and noble hero that can’t be understand, and Kirito wants to keep it that way, so that no one can meet the real him, the him that is weak, and pathetic, and a loser, and doesn’t know how to talk to people. Let them think he’s quite because he’s thoughtful, not because he doesn’t know what to say, let them think that he’s too far above them to form a connection, not that he’s terrified of vulnerability.

But then he meets a girl. She goes by the name Asuna and she just, kind of, doesn’t seem to get it. She just sort of acts like an actual person, and doesn’t seem to get the memo that she’s supposed to treat Kirito like some anti-hero loner. From an interaction that he actually had with her earlier on in the game, Kirito knows that she didn’t have much experience with video games before SAO. She has come into her own though, and she’s come into her own by acting like a reason person. In a way, she represents the exactly opposite of Kirito. Kirito hides his true personality and feelings behind a bit, because this world is too real to him, has all the aspects of real life he fled from. Asuna treats SAO like a game. She’s a pragmatic person who just wants to defeat the final boss so they can get out and get back to her real life. She doesn’t feel like the relationships here are real. Sure, they could lose their lives, but everything else is fake. The people you meet, the time you spend, just all twiddling your thumbs. Fake, not real, just a silly pass time for silly people.

This difference is driven home at the end of the show, where Kirito shares his real name, and asks what Asuna’s is so that he could find her. Surprised, Asuna says that she has been using her real name. The whole time, Kirito had been playacting a character, where as Asuna had just been herself.

They filled in a void in each other. Asuna get’s Kirito to really interact with people again, instead of keeping them at arms length, and Kirito helps Asuna see that the relationships you form online do matter, that, even in a silly game, the things you do and the people you meet have a lasting effect even when you log out.

There are a couple of arcs where Kirito and Asuna interact. The arcs continue to explore the idea of the difference between the importance of the digital world and reality. Including one of the best arcs of the entire show, where Asuna and Kirito have to solve the mystery of how people are dying in a safe zone, an area of the game where people aren’t supposed to die.

Kirito and Asuna predictably fall in love. Kirito showing Asuna that the relationships formed in the digital world do actually mean something real, and Asuna bringing Kirito out of his edge lord shell that he made for himself, to reveal that in truth he’s kind of an awkward dork. Once they actually fall in love the show takes an interesting turn. Their relationship looks nothing like that of two teenagers both experiencing a romantic relationship for the first time. It looks like an idyllic old married couple. They even do get married and adopt a child in the show. At first glance it may seem too unrealistic, but was actually one of the most clever character developments about the show. This development was meant to show case the effects that living in a “fantasy world” had put on these two young people.

Both Asuna and Kirito were living in the kind of world that teenagers dream about. What had been a fantasy and a form of escapism for them both was now reality. And it was awful, when the fantasy world had real stakes and real consequences. So what do these two do when they fall in love? They create for themselves another form of escapism. That of an old suburban married couple. In a way their marriage is an act, a way to lessen the stress of living in a dangerous world. Just two simple people, living a calm, unexciting, but never the less content life, because they had each other. The show never addresses how aware they are they that they are in fact acting out a part. Do they realize that they are playing parts? Or have they convinced themselves this is how a normal couple acts. The show never really gets into it, merely using this time to show how desperate the two are for a “normal” life, after the pain and horror of their escapism becoming reality. These few episodes, where they take a vacation after getting married, more clearly illustrate how much they have suffered more than any dramatic wailing, or desperately pained speeches they could give. Every moment they snuggled in bed, made food for each other, and took walks in the forest, spoke of the desperation they felt, even if it was for only a little, to get as far away from the world that they lived in.

After Kirito and Asuna live their escapist fantasy of being an old married couple we come to the climax. They are only on level seventy-five of one hundred, but they still barely pass. During it though, Kirito finally realizes something.

The person who had designed the game and trapped them all in there, Akihiko Kayaba, was playing. Kayaba was playing a character with all the skills, one of the best players in the game. Kirito realizes that Kayaba is living out his own fantasy, that this world was created, not for some grand purpose, not for a political statement, or to accomplish something grand. Simply to live out his fantasy. Who Kayaba is as a person is never really explored, all we know about him is that this world was for him, a way for him to make reality the world he always wished to live in. A world where he was important, a world where he was the leader and people respected him, and he lead others bravely.

Kayaba becomes the final boss, and predictably he is beaten after a grand fight of a lot of sword thrusts and sparkle animations. Once Kayaba is defeated, the world begins to slowly fade, as if to reaffirm that, yes, without Kayaba alive, the world has no purpose, since it was created for him.

Kayaba even speaks with Kirito and Asuna. A meandering, pandering discussion, where Kayaba tries his best to hold onto some remnants of the man he was pretending to be. We see a brief glimpse of the kind of limp, spineless jerk Kirito would have become if he hadn’t grown up. We see Kayaba in his real form, not his game avatar, but still he speaks in vague poetic language, he talks about having a dream about a city in the sky and makes his base and selfish desires to be important sound like some noble hope. He claims he “doesn’t remember why” he trapped them all in there. In a way that’s true. Because until the very last moment, SAO was real to everyone trapped in there, except for Kayaba. He had the power to change things, to hack the system, to live as a god. For him, the game was his personal fantasy manifest into reality.

After Kayaba dies, and is defeated, he realizes this, and covers his own disappointment of his project with his pretty language. He didn’t “forget” he just realized that it was pointless. None of the attachments he ever made were real, the life he led in the game had, for him, merely been a game. The only real moment was when he let Kirito kill him. He could have hacked the system and made it so he didn’t die in real life but he didn’t, in some desperate attempt to live something real as the world he had created crumbled apart.

Kayaba leaves, and Asuna and Kirito promise they will find each other in the real world. They will meet the real versions of themselves. What they experienced in the digital world was real, and they will cling to it in the real world too.

The world continues to fade, and then Kirito wakes up. His real body thin and weak. The show ends with him getting out of bed and walking through the hospital. No epilog, or final comments. We don’t know if Kirito is looking for someone specific, or simply looking to tell someone he is now awake, he’s come back, and he’s ready to become the real him.

…

But that wasn’t the end of the show and every episode after that one just reaffirmed the fact that I probably thought a bit more about the themes and the characterization that Reki Kawahara did. He seems like a nice enough guy but…after reading some of the books and watching more of the material, I don’t think he meant most of what I just described. Maybe a bit of the whole, what you do in the digital world matters and is real, but not much of anything else. I’m thinking that Kirito was supposed to be taken literally, not as an antisocial teenager terrified of real connection putting on a front. I’m pretty sure that the relationship between Kirito and Asuna wasn’t supposed to be seen as a form of escapism fantasy, and that they actually weren’t putting on a front when they acted like an old married couple. Also I might have read way more into Kayaba’s motivation than I was meant to.

At the end of it all, I still like the first part of season one. I like my interpretation. Yes there are still problems with the pacing, the end feels like it just sort of…happens, instead of getting to it naturally. Kirito just, suddenly realizes the truth. The second half doesn’t carry nearly the weight it should in terms of “holy shit this world is real if you die in the game you die in real life” which lessens the strength of the themes. There are, of course, a few other small things I thought could be changed, but that’s not really what this article is for. Perhaps in a way this is my defense for liking that part of SAO, or at least an explanation for why I’ve watched it multiple times even though I’m not fond of the rest of the franchise.  

 Bonus:

This isn’t really big enough to have it’s own post so I’m just gonna put it here, the way SAO ends in my head.

This, of course, takes place at the end of the first part. Pretty much everything stays the same all through the credits as Kirito takes his painful and slow time walking down the hospital hallway. Then the music end, and instead of going black, we see Kirito stop. He looks to his side, where one of the hospital doors are open. Inside the room is a frail looking girl staring at a NervGear helmet, her hair is chestnut brown. She looks up and her eyes go wide as she sees Kirito. We switch back to Kirito, his eyes are also wide. They tear up the slightest amount, and a faint smile touches his face.

We cut to black.

The end and nothing is ever done with this franchise again.

[moonlightheretic]

Chapter still unknown FULL (or is it?) WIP NSFW (it gets dark ya’ll)

“Where are we?” I struggled to find my bearings in this dark tunnel. The ground seemed unstable, pebbles shifting underfoot. My hands reached out in a blind haste for something solid to guide me through the dark. The walls practically disintegrated at my touch and nearly caved inwards. I did not feel safe. This place was one wrong step away from total collapse. I stumbled, my feet slipping into the rock ridden path, his hand caught my arm.

“You do not need to know.” He answered simply, pulling me to my feet.

It was becoming his go-to reply for everything I asked. I wasn’t satisfied with it. He watched my struggle and called flame to his hand, the hollowed cave’s secrets scattered into the shadows cast by the wiggling ignition. “You have stripped me of my weapons and most of my dignity. Do you mean to strip me of basic information as well? Am I so scary to you, Dread Wolf?” I challenged. Bitterness chewing through my words.

“They elected you as Inquisitor, not for your skill in battle alone. You are formidable. In any case, there is no benefit in informing you, it will make little difference. You will activate this one, as done previously.” His voice dipped into the octaves of an order.

“Where are we?” I pressed. “I want to know what you will destroy.” I stood firm, shoulders squared, refusing to tread further. He turned to face me, the blaze in his hand distorting the shadows across the planes of his face.

“When has any truth of my plans comforted you? Or perhaps, any truth at all? You live, stuck in a halcyon that never existed and you yearn for its return.”

“And who painted that pretty picture for me? This impressive hiraeth? A lie built on lies, a tower, and then brick by brick, a rotunda, and finally, a castle! What a beautiful empire you raised. Such an artist as you perhaps, should have erected that on Skyhold’s walls.”

We dove into a thick silence, neither of us giving in. I could almost see him biting his tongue, any remark quelled by fledgling self-control. He took a breath and smiled.

“You evade blame almost as skillfully as you evaded me, ah, but then again, where are you now?” He tilted his head, his left brow raised. “I wonder, what more dances have you that I not discovered yet?”

“I believe it was you who taught me to dance, Solas. I cannot take credit for my skills, when I have the master in front of me.” I gestured to him.

A muscle in his neck twitched and the fire cradled in his fingers strengthened significantly, staining his skin red.

“There is work to be done. Enough.” Even though the fire was causing us both to sweat in this enclosed space, his words were of pure ice.

We advanced upon this hovel, a crumbling crooked crevice of rock and stalagmites, dripping with Maker knows what. His steps were full of confidence and prior knowledge, muscle attuned with memory. He maneuvered past the tight angles with experience. He had been here before, perhaps?

“Whose bright idea was to locate an artifact in this dreadful place?” I snapped, as I was compelled to duck when a bat screeched by my head. Ah, but if a bat made its home here, surely there was an additional entrance to this hollowed nightmare.

He answered me with a chuckle and then reassured, “It isn’t far. Have patience, Inquisitor.” Ah, so he was no longer angered by my words, or had he folded the displeasure up and saved it for later?

I grabbed his illuminated jaw and snapped his head towards me. “Patience? I waited for you! With each year passing no more than a decade of drought! I have been patient, Solas.”  I wasn’t expecting a simple comment to provoke such raw emotion into my words, but there I was, fingers digging into the flesh of his jaw.

Solas’s eyes crept over my face, tracing every detail with his heavy gaze. “And so you have me.” He remarked gruffly and shrugged me off. A small draft tingled against my skin, the blooming flame flickered and listed, perhaps a vein in this stone body led to freedom, after all. But, I could only see what his flaming palm afforded me.

I felt it before I saw it. The anchor reacted, fizzling, smoke-like, and churning the air around it a greenish hue. My first reaction was to recoil and hide it within my cloak. Solas’s armored arm slithered into the fold of my cloak, the fabric hissing against his metal arm guards. He held onto my throbbing hand, pulling it from its hiding place, cool fingers calming my shivering ones, he presented it to the artifact before us.  Mist entrapped light uncoiled around the artifact, as if we had woken it from a long slumber, its light stretched and billowed in flight, like a flag caught in the wind and it rippled and convulsed, as if it was rejoicing. A warm welcome, indeed. A statue loomed behind, a winged and headless figure of a woman. Mythal. She was immured in this foul place, a feeling of sorrow washed over me.

“We are within the Vimmark Mountains.” He informed, sullen and remorseful, his eyes lingering on the statue.

A mountain chain, opportunity screamed into my mind. Then we could be in the vicinity of Kirkwall or even Ostwick, or rather, it was also possible we were somewhere in between. What mattered the most was the very fact that we were under a mountain.

“Surely, this place has significance.” I argued, playing along, with my eyes following his.

“Indeed.” He whispered.

Solas closed his palm and in doing so, snuffed out his flame. We were bathed in a greenish and golden light, I stole a glance, his mouth set in a hard line, eyes devoid of emotion, and in doing so, he gave me nothing. Unreadable. He was skilled not only in magic, but also, in masking his intentions. He was undeniably powerful, but so was I.

My heart hammered in my chest, possibly my only chance at stopping the Dread Wolf lay within these simple and faulty rock walls, carved out by water. Maybe, I did not need my little dagger, for it, could not compare with a mountain.

The next set of actions were to be done without instruction, as they were no different than the times prior. But this time, everything would be different. Hesitation would no longer best me.

I neared the artifact, Solas stepped behind me and observed. I lifted my hand and waited, the artifact pulsated with green waves of light surging upwards, and revealing thousands of tiny eyes glaring back at us in this aphotic sanctuary. Fucking bats.

I felt my release and I moved closer to it, the lights brightened in response, and I wondered, could I not only activate the artifact with the anchor, but also destroy it? Hell, I could bring this entire cave down and trap him in, weaponize our very surroundings…and so I did. I had only used the anchor’s power as much as I required of it, in the past, I was too careful to abuse it. That some calamity might befall myself and others if I used it for anything but its intended purpose, but what I needed most was in fact, calamity, itself.

I opened a rift right into the very center of the artifact. In less than a blink of an eye, it exploded into a shower of glass and stone, its ancient powers reveling in the new found freedom. In an instant, the small pocket of this mountain, shuddered and began to collapse, as the rift twisted it into its own shape, pulling and knotting, then thrusting and flailing. The bats flew to an escape as dust, stalagmites and murky water rained down, then chunks of rock plummeted downwards until the very ceiling threatened to fold in like a deck of cards. I tried to avoid the falling debris as the area shook, thunderous and vengeful. I could hear the bats, screeching in terror and I made my way to follow them.

“Moon’Hwa!” Solas roared. Eyes lit, his hands invoked a barrier, though as the mountain piled high, he was struggling to hold it. He gritted his teeth and grunted under the weight, too preoccupied to stop me, for if he let go, we would surely be buried. So this was his limit. I crawled along the ground, my back was pelted with rocks and earth. I covered my head with one hand and dug through debris with the other. He fell to his knee behind me, his gaze burning a hole in my back. The consequences of my actions stopped ricocheting from my body, I peered upwards to realize that his barrier was stretching, enveloping me within its safety.

My heart clenched and I dared to look back at his face. The barrier wavered and he gasped, rocks shimmied through, bouncing off of his pauldrons. His eyes squinting, and I thought I saw the shimmer of tears catching on his lashes, the veins under the skin of his neck and face enlarged as he strained to keep the barrier solid. A stalagmite jabbed into his cheek, drawing a bloody trail down his face. I comforted myself as guilt pulled at my sleeve. I needed to be ruthless, the world depended on it. He saw me as an asset. An important one, if not for the anchor, would he not let me drown in stone and earth? I steeled myself within this resolve. Thus, I needed to get the anchor as far away from him as possible. I pushed onwards and the barrier flickered as it followed me, or rather, it kept one step ahead, an encouragement to go further. Guilt sent its timely reminder and I bit into my lip to keep from turning back. You are leaving him to die. An enormous section of rock slammed into the barrier, it blocked where the humble draft of air whistled through. That meant, the only way out was the Eluvian. I gulped hard, facing disappointment. It would have to do.  Dal’nim will lose her father.

“Be quiet!” I seethed, shaking my head in an attempt to be rid of its voice.

It was becoming hard to breathe, the same air I breathed before filtered into my lungs and I quickened to the eluvian, a beacon in this turbulent darkness. Bats dropped to the barrier, sliding around me in a freefalling current of death. I inched closer, my fingers breaching its fluid reflection, the barrier wavered and as I pulled myself in, the tiny collapsing cavern was blasted with blinding blue light. The noise was…indescribable. My ears rang and ached as I was pushed into the eluvian by the blast, flying head first into the sanctum. I was followed by pieces of rubble, stalagmites, and a multitude of dead bats. The eluvian grumbled and screeched against the green tile as it too was shoved forward, denting it in the process.

I scrambled to stand, collecting my wobbly legs and propelling them to move, I clutched onto the eluvian, and with all my strength I heaved my weight into it, I screamed as the heavy golden oculus resisted my nefarious machinations. With one last heave, I pushed it into the bat littered floor and it shattered as if it were glass. The pieces flung everywhere, slicing my face and hands, the twinkling shards then seemed to dissolve, pooling into a clear and shimmering liquid at my feet. I did not wait around to discover what would happen next. My feet pummeled against the same elaborate green tile, I did not know where I was going, and I only knew that in this matter, distance was a friend. It was blur of gold and green, this place, I threw myself into eluvian after eluvian, until I could find something with the semblance of familiarity. I needed to find Dal’nim. She and I could be free of this place. I could contact Iron Bull, we could go to Rivain. The anchor will kill you. A sobering reminder. All hope gained, was lost in an instant. I…could cut it off, but, my eyes glow with its power, its infection could be septic? Oh, what was I going to do? There was so little I knew. My left fizzled and sparked emerald, free of Solas’s control.

I picked eluvians randomly, changing directions at will, his agents stopped and stared, I charged into them, not caring who I knocked over. It seemed that they simply did not know what to do with me. Perhaps, I had even been veiled as a secret from them. In any case their reaction time was cut short, because once I was within eyesight, I was already gone. I stopped to catch my breath, my chest heaving. This labyrinth was endless, eternal even. My palms stuck to my knees as sweat dripped from my face, not only sweat, no, but tears. They poured from my eyes, a deep mournful cry belted from my stomach. My fists clenched into the fabric of my trousers. I had more than likely killed him. No! I couldn’t stop to grieve. I had to leave! I needed to find Dal’nim! Priority reminded me.  I stood straight and stepped forward, I nearly tripped as my foot caught the edge of sunken tile.

The tile beneath my feet waned, breaking off and splintering into the damp soil. A large gust nearly wiped me from my feet and howled in my ears, I held on to the fragment of a statue to my right for dear life and my hands slipped against its wet surface. Cool droplets coated my face and hair and I turned to see what commanded such a force. A siege of water surfed upon the wind, upwards, over the edge of the cliff side before me, like a waterfall in reverse. A perpetual haze clung to the air, broken pillars and archways framed this place, half shrouded by the mist. This area felt wrong, like I wasn’t supposed to be here, let alone know of it. Old Oaks careened off the cliff, hanging by their roots, as if they, themselves, wished to be elsewhere. Otherwise, this space was devoid of life, but it did not feel empty. This island in the sky, a mere token of a once larger chain, wasn’t particularly large, its counterparts were scattered elsewhere, dipping into the horizon as black dots. Perhaps it was meant to be forgotten? My eyes completed a wide sweep of the island. There was no other eluvian than the one I emerged from. Was this a dead end? My only hope was in the distance, an area still mysterious, as it was outstanding in comparison to everything else this place offered.

A crypt nearly swallowed by erosion and mist, dwelled behind archways and pillars. My steps were chosen carefully, and I swapped from pillar to pillar leading into it, hanging on with all my might when the windy tsunami blew into me. Perhaps there was an eluvian lurking inside? I looked behind me before entering into this forbidden dwelling of the dead, a chill slithered into my bones, every muscle screaming I turn around, flee from this miserable place. But my desire to escape compelled me to ignore those sensations. Torches blazed upon my entry and I nearly jumped out of my skin, bravery almost forgotten. The braziers illuminated the stairway that descended into the depths of the unknown. My only companions were the buoyant echoes that bounced from my steps. My palms sliding flat along the golden walls, a steady reminder of what surrounded me, solid and strong, I could lean my weight into them without worry.

The braziers ignited as I passed by, this place was slowly drawn back to life. With each step taken, a noise loudened just a bit more, a wailing. Though, it did not originate as the result of the wind that labored against the crypt’s exterior. Odd. The landing of the stairs opened into a single room, it was unremarkable, except for the eluvian placed in the center and an exquisite golden recurve bow and full quiver leaning against it. But this reflection, this swirling picture it painted was not of me, nor was it of the room that sheltered it. I approached it, curiosity luring me in no different than a moth to flame. My fingers brushed its liquid like appearance, causing it to ripple, its image stayed the same. A thrashing figure, whom appeared to be female was tied to a massive tree, yet her head was…distorted. As if she wore some type of gargantuan crown that all but consumed her head. Her screams reached me and a gasp erupted from my throat when realization slammed into me.

Those were arrows. Countless arrows driven into her skull. She seemed to be trapped in unfathomable agony. I could not even see her face, for there were so many. How she managed to still live was …disturbing more than it was remarkable. She was a living pin cushion. She squirmed, her legs twisting in the grass, her head rolled from side to side, searching for a release from the pain and she wailed into the void, a haunting noise that echoed throughout the room. She should die. She deserves to die. It was like watching my mother all over again. I felt sick, what was this horrifying depiction? I was entranced, empathy surging like a rapid. I pulled my dagger from my boot and stepped in, gooseflesh punctuated my skin and my hair stood tall. Wait—

Blue light engulfed the humble room, and the taste of blood pricked at my tongue. I was thrown, a force splitting me from the suffering sight before me and I landed in a heap, limbs locked in place, I was physically held to the floor by an unseen force. The air knocked from my lungs, I found it challenging to breathe, and I stained against the invisible chokehold. The anchor’s light vanished as it was sealed.  

“S-Solas!” I winced, air pushing out of my lips with a wheeze.

“Inquisitor, I must thank you.” His voice rang overly cheerful, pulsing with falsehood, his expression read differently. Eyes alit, sharp and unashamedly bright, the blue light trailed him as he turned to face me.

“You were most forthcoming with your intentions for me. I gave you the floor and your performance was…inspiring.” He shook his head, his face embellished with drying blood and dirt. “If my hands weren’t preoccupied with saving you, I would have clapped. A pity that your plan ultimately failed.” His words ending with the cold tone of finality.

I faced my defeat with a retort and growled despite my predicament, “How did it feel to have a mountain fall on you, Solas?” My emotions swirling in an unending whirlpool of despair for my failure and…relief, shameful relief.

“How did it feel? Ask the mountain. Although, you would face a difficult time finding it. I believe as of now, it stands below sea level.” He smirked and faced the eluvian.

He picked up the ostentatious bow and a single arrow from the quiver ruled in shadow, there was a slight shake to his hands, besides his haggard dirt/blood stained face and rock pelted armor, it was the only evidence that hinted at the event that befell him earlier.

“You left me to die when Corypheus besieged Haven! I was YOUR scapegoat! You are nothing but a coward.” The memory, along with rage found me, my mind fumbling with excuses.

“You’ve sacrificed more for the greater good of your cause, have you not? Your rage is misplaced, Vhenan. At one time, you were gladly complicit!" Solas argued, "As I am sure you are starting to remember." "Yes, at one time, I was gladly stupid." I retorted. "I thrived off of your praise alone, the Inquisition taught me I didn't need it."

“Yes, the same Inquisition that now terrorizes Ferelden and the Free Marches, searching for you. How wonderful of a teacher.”

“As were you, if my memory serves me right.” I seethed. “Though, I cannot claim to know what is real anymore.”

His left arm held the bow aloft and he seemed to ignore me, the light from his eyes illuminating its exquisite carvings and jeweled features, I had honestly never seen a bow so beautiful. It looked like it didn’t belong here, like it didn’t belong to this time. Solas nocked an arrow onto it, then to my horror, he took aim at the tortured woman, his right eye closing as he concentrated. He pulled back, deliberate and graceful. The arrow took flight, into the eluvian. I gasped when I heard the impact, I wished I could have covered my ears when her cries of agony hit me. I couldn’t understand how the poor female had any available space left on her head.

“Inquisitor, I must warn you not to wander in this place, for there are areas you may not return from, much like these arrows." He instructed.

“Who is she? What did she do?” I asked panicking, dismissing his warning.

“She numbers among they who killed Mythal. A crime for which an eternity of torment is the only fitting punishment.” He reached for another arrow. “They? Have you more prisoners? Why not kill them?” I reasoned.

“The first of my people do not die so easily, as you can see.” Another arrow flew coupled with another cry of agony. He navigated around my question, I knew not to ask more on the subject. This man had more walls than a gated palace.

“I assume that applies to you as well.” I pried, agitation digging in.

His smirk returned for the briefest of moments, before a deep melancholy was ushered in by his dipped brows and frown. He observed the bow in his hand, his fingers gripping it until his knuckles nearly turned white. “Andruil killed her with this bow. A fine gift, bestowed upon her by Mythal, herself. Yet, it ended in an act of greed, further sullied by lust for blood and power.” His head shook gently and he set the bow down, leaning it against the eluvian.

“When the veil is torn down…wont the Old Gods be freed?” Panic rose in my throat like bile.

“I have plans.” He pulled his hands behind his back and watched the suffering Andruil before him, eyes glassy and reflecting the writhing figure in his view.

“I-I didn’t think you were…I never thought you were capable of-“ I stuttered, the weight of his words plunging me into a deep ocean of fear. Did he imprison the other Old Gods in their own chambers of agony? Just who was Fen’Harel?

Andruils anguished cries bled through the eluvian, and staring into it was a God in the figure of a man whose eyes were gleaming with pride.

Last line credit goes to my friend AYSIA

Yeah I realize its not done. Like there needs to be a flashback for the opening yada yada.