#the base will work. on account of the [UNINTELLIGIBLE]

[youssefguedira]

finished totk holy fuck

[cemoras27-but-writing-this-time]

Obsession Rejected Part 1

Hi, I wrote again. this is about the rejected soulmate Au that I saw on @im-totally-not-an-alien-2

Warnings: Unhealthy behaviors, Yandere Danny, off screen character death, obsessive and possessive behavior. Let me know if I need to add more and I will be adding more as the series goes on.

Please read carefully and safely.

Word Count: 1000

Ao3: here

Tim Drake was only 10 years old when he made what was probably the worst mistake of his life. Who knew just one word could change everything.

‘Stop.’

He never would have written it if he had any idea of what would come of it. But he wrote it, and to be fair to Tim, he was under a lot of pressure. Between school never challenging him, his lack of friends his age, and most recently his promotion to Robin. 

Being a vigilante was dangerous work. Hell the main reason he was one was because another had died. Of course he didn’t want to hurt a potential partner by being forcefully ripped away from them by the cold hands of death, rather deciding to reject his soulmate. 10 year old Tim Drake thought it would be so much less painful. He knew cutting off a soulmate could be painful on both sides, but every account he found also said that rejection was better than the death of a soulmate

It was one account by an unhappy couple. They weren’t even really soulmates. They weren’t exposed until a week after the deed was done.

At 10 years old Danny Fenton decided that the universe must hate him. How else could he explain the pain? The pain stemmed from one little word between the constellations carefully and painstakingly drawn on his arm. It was the worst thing he had ever experienced, only rivaled by his own death; but even then the hole he felt when he woke up that night trumped his death.

It was so sudden too. Danny was asleep when it had happened and the only person who would have comforted him was away! Jazz was sleeping over at a friend's house that night! He went to his parents that night but they didn’t do anything. Just hugged him, and told him to go back to bed and that they would talk in the morning. They forgot. Brushed him off and went down to the lab to tinker with that stupid portal!

Jazz came home that afternoon to a sobbing little brother and held him. She tried to argue with their parents that this was a massive deal, but they brushed her off too. Said that Maddie was fine when she broke her bond with their uncle Vlad in college. 

She was fine. Vlad wasn’t. There's a reason he's like that.

Later when Danny was 14 the portal that sucked away his parents attention was completed and it didn’t even work. I practically ruined his and his sister’s childhoods and it had the audacity to not even work!

It did work. He made it work. He turned it on.

Danny had spent a lot of time down in the lab before the accident, back when he still wanted his parents approval their love. He listened to their ramblings, about how ghosts are not sentient, about how they are pure evil, about how they are only driven by instinct and impulse. They were so wrong about most things, but they did nail a few. 

Like how ghosts are prone to impulsive, and sometimes even intrusive thoughts. But it's not because they are so unintelligent that they don't have any higher understanding other than base needs, it's because they are beings of emotion. The same goes for Halfas like Vlad and Danny. 

Leaving his original haunt was not a part of Danny’s plan. He never thought it would happen. After all it’s his haunt. But when everything came crashing down he knew it was time. 

Jazz had died. She was caught in the crossfire of a fight between some ghost and the GIW. he didn’t remember, he was too lost in his grief to fully recall what happened but all he remembered was screaming. And that the other ghost didn’t make it out. He made sure of it.

Tucker and Sam had moved on. Both to larger cities than Amity Park. Tucker even found his soulmate there, some fancy IT guy. But eventually they lost contact with him.

He was starting to get unstable. They could see it but they had no idea how to help. He was starting to act like Vlad. To Amity Parkers they could see that Phantom was getting more and more irritated, that he wasn’t as kind as he used to be. The press always loved to rag on him and tell the public how dangerous he is.

So he left. He didn’t take anything, just turned off the portal and created his own and flew. He was unwanted.

But he knew he couldn’t fly forever, he needed a haunt. He had his lair in the Zone, but he needed a living world counterpart. Then he found it. The ideal universe for him. The world he found was situated relatively close to his keep so he had easy access to it and it felt right. Like Clockwork dragged it over there himself.

But in his special little universe he decides to make his Haunt. Nothing fancy, just his little space, in what has to be his favorite city he’s found. Gotham. The dark city was full of ambient ectoplasm, the gothic look reminded him of Sam, and Wayne Industries reminded him of Tucker. And it was full of empty buildings no one would think twice about. So he created his own little nest. But something was wrong. He was missing something. 

His obsession. He was missing his obsession. Jazz was the only thing he could reliably feed his obsession with, and with her gone it was only a matter of time before he started to fade. His gaze drifted to his arm, ‘Stop’ still engraved in black pen. His soulmate.

Danny rises from his curled form and fades out of visibility, core quietly humming as it searches for the ghostly claim of his soulmate. Danny refused to be alone again.

And nothing short of shattering his core would stop him from having his soulmate, rejection or not.

[admiral-mason]

SAGAU x Roblox Doors Part 2

Play the original game here (make sure to have a Roblox account first).

Whenever you visited, you told the entities about your friends in Teyvat. Their behaviors, favorite pastimes, etc.

Figure wanted to see your world the most. Being the closest entity to a human, he wanted to taste something good, unlike all of those other adventurers and the expired wine they had to drink.

Figure can also notice your presence and only your presence thanks to your divine aura.

Jeff also kinda wanted to visit your world to sell things, and El Goblino wanted to try and play Genius Invocation TCG with Bob.

You created an angelic form for Guiding Light using some of your divine capabilities. They now resemble a male guardian angel wearing blue holy robes and possessing large wings of the same color.

Rush and Ambush can manifest hands to grab things.

Screech just uses his tentacles.

El Goblino and Jeff can see dead players, but only if they're affiliated with you due to your divine status.

All the entities eat, and they have a secret little dining room to do so. Much of their food is based on the food seen in America during the 1950s.

Rooms 45 saw you and the archons suffer the first Ambush encounter. You told them how he works and how deadly he can be. Unfortunately, Venti goofed up and didn't hide in time when he rebound.

"Agh!" He fell to the floor, his face petrified at Ambush's jumpscare. A skull with an "X" for its right eye and a slash on its left eye popped upon Venti's head. "Huh?" He asked.

"You're considered 'dead' Venti. You're still here with us, but you can't do anything. You're basically a living ghost that can still interact with us." You said, demonstrating how your hand practically went through his body.

"Aww…" he said. However, Ambush decided to remain, manifesting two glitchy hands and giving Venti a bottle of wine. He made an unintelligible noise which you understood perfectly.

"He says sorry." You said, looking at Venti who said bottle of wine with a cheeky grin before taking it. "I told these guys about you, so they know how to react to you all."

Venti drank some of the wine as he saw you all move onto room 49. "It's not dandelion wine, but I'll take it!"

"This room's different than all the others, your grace," Ei said, moving on over to the receptionist's desk and finding more fuel for her lighter. She then heard unsettling noises belonging to a creature of sorts from room 50.

"Be prepared for a bit of a tough puzzle, guys." You said, before scrounging the area for more gold you can get. You then opened the double doors of room 50, revealing a library.

Then, the Figure revealed itself. Instead of walking to the right side of the library, however, it decided to stop, staring right at you. Ei and Zhongli were internally terrified at the sight of this entity. However, you simply waved at it. It took some time to process your response, tilting its head to its side, but then it waved back with its right before stalking around the left side of the library.

You got into a crouching position and instructed the other two archons to do the same. "Okay, listen carefully. I call this entity the Figure. He's completely blind, but every other sense of his is heightened. We'll have to crouch to prevent him from hearing us." Venti, hearing this news, stayed silent as he just continued to watch you guys survive this entity.

You moved to the left side of the library as the other two followed, sneaking to a bookshelf. You grabbed a book that was slightly sticking out of the bookshelves and had a brighter color. "Look out for these books, guys. There are eight of them. Each book has a shape and a correlating number within its pages, and they will be our keys out of here. You two get the books, I'll handle the rest." You were about to walk off, but not without some parting words. "Do be careful though. If Figure hears you, he's not going to stop pursuing you. Hide in a closet and control your heartbeats, he has a great sense of it all…"

As Ei and Zhongli went to gather the other seven books, you snuck on over to the receptionist's desk in the room and picked up the code paper, which was being emitted by Guiding Light. "Hello there, friend. Sorry I couldn't properly say hi." You felt a hugging sensation around you as an invisible Guiding Light's physical body hugs you and lets you go. You then promptly started finding some more books yourself, finding only one before you saw Ei and Zhongli walk on over to you.

"We have the books, your grace," Zhongli whispered to you. "Good. Follow me." You lead them to the exit of the room, which was up a few stairsteps and was locked by an absurdly giant lock. You asked for the books as you deciphered the code.

"Let's see here…" You looked through the books with the needed shapes which went in the order of circle, square, triangle, rhombus, and x. The code was 51527. You clicked the green lock on the side of the door as the door unlocked. Figure suddenly rapidly approached the exit as you and the archons watched as the door shut on him.

"Good job, guys! We're halfway through!" You exclaimed. "But stuff should get harder from here on out."

At room 52, you guys had arrived at Jeff's shop. ""Hey, our Amigo's back!" El Goblino exclaimed. "Bob, look! Y/N's back!" You simply went up to the duo at their table and headpatted the red goblin. Bob just stayed still as usual.

"Zhongli, Ei. How much gold do you have?" You asked the two. "I think I have around 300, your grace," Zhongli answered. "250, I think." Ei followed suit. You had around 227. "Damn, Zhongli's finally not broke for once," Venti said, floating around you all.

You walked up to Jeff. "Let's see your stock of items here… Oh, wait." You put 100 of your gold into Jeff's tip jar and he headpat you with one of his tentacles. You then looked at the items being sold, which were vitamins, a flashlight, a lockpick, and a crucifix.

"Buy whatever you choose, guys." You bought the crucifix as Ei bought the lockpick and Zhongli bought the flashlight. Venti, meanwhile, decided to interact with El Goblino.

"I s- I- I seen a weird creature, düd. Looked like Seek, but like… purple and weird. Ask Bob, he'll tell you!" The red goblin said, as Venti turned to Bob, who simply said nothing. "I guess he's too tired to talk today." The red goblin added.

Rooms 53-66 were mostly just searching for stuff alongside encountering the infirmary room. Screech came to visit sometimes but he always had to back off. However, Ei was looting one of the drawers within the infirmary and saw a little black spider. It suddenly jumped at her, knocking her to the floor as she shrieked.

"Ei, what happened??" You noticed the spider on the floor, staring at Ei. "Oh, hello there Timothy!" You said to him, and he waved at you before scuttling off. "Sorry, Ei. Timothy likes to scare people."

"Hopefully, he doesn't show up again." She said. Venti was trying his hardest to not laugh at the electro archon.

After a long while, you guys reached the Courtyard. It was still raining and thundering as usual. "It looks oddly beautiful compared to the rest of this hotel," Ei said, and then the Eyes appeared. A mass of eyes clumped together, if you stared at them you would take some damage. Zhongli looked at them but stared away quickly.

"Alright, hold my hands and don't look up," you said to the two alive archons. "They can't harm you if you're not looking," you added as you lead the two into the greenhouse.

"Alright, guys. This is where things get really tricky. Nearly everything is dark, so use those light sources well." Zhongli pointed out a patch of green on the floor.

"Those are Snares, Zhongli. Don't step in those else you risk dying to Rush since he appears quite often here." Carefully navigating the first room, you heard Rush's noise as soon as you stepped foot in the next room. Zhongli managed to hide in time, but Ei got stuck in a Snare.

"Agh! She said, trying to free herself." You simply pulled out your crucifix and stared at the door. When Rush came, a sigil resembling the Seal of Solomon appeared underneath them, and blue chains clung to his gray body. He screamed as he was dragged into the ground, banished for now. Zhongli and Venti stared with shock as they saw how powerful the crucifix was. Was it a divine device you created?

Ei, after freeing herself, clung onto you. "Thank you thank you so much, your grace," she said. You simply stared at her, smiling. "It's fine, those Snares can give someone quite a tough time."

With your guidance, you and your archon friends made it to room 100, where you guys were met with a storage room. You all kept walking until you reached a room with two large doors with a lever to open them, alongside an exit sign on top of them. There was also a locked door, which you knew contained the circuit breaker puzzle.

"Ei, use your lockpick on that door's lock." She did as you told, and you walked up to the lever, pulling it down to open the large doors. These doors lead to a lift in the hotel where you guys would escape, but Figure was guarding it. He ran down the staircase as you ran to the two archons.

"Into that room, now!" You hurried into the circuit breaker room while the archons followed suit. You all waited for a while until you were sure Figure was away from you guys.

"Now, we gotta go find some switches to get that circuit breaker working." You pointed to the circuit breaker on the wall. "Look for tiny gray boxes with a tiny switch on them. They can be anywhere, and Figure is prowling, so be careful."

You walked out as the three of you split up. After a while of crouching and searching in areas of the electrical room, the three of you made it back to the circuit breaker and put in the switches.

"Now… we look at what I consider to be kinda brutal." You stared at the area where you guys came into the main electrical room segment from. Figure came running down to catch you guys, but then an exposed wire set a puddle of oil on fire. He ran right into the said fire, and then he panicked until he fell out of the window. Zhongli and Ei winced at the scene as you completed the circuit breaker puzzle in under a minute.

"I'm still the expert technician I am." The lift was now working, but then Figure came running around again. "GET TO THE LIFT!" You shouted, grabbing the two archons as the three of you hastily to into the lift. "So close!" Venti said. When you guys got into the lift the figure banged on the door, as the three of you headed down.

"Well, you guys. We did it." You said to the two archons, sitting down. "Now… we wait for the part that might scare you guys." You said to the two who had bewildered faces. Suddenly, the Figure jumped on top of the lift and severed its cable. He then fell into a mineshaft-like area as you guys fell down into nowhere…

…Or so Ei and Zhongli thought. The lift slowed down, and it stopped in front of a wooden wall. The lift doors opened, and then the wall slid aside, revealing the room from the beginning. Venti's skull icon above him suddenly disappeared.

"Nice job on your first attempt, guys." You said, congratulating Zhongli and Ei. Venti walked in front of you and pouted. "Alright, you cheeky little bard." You give him a hug as you noticed a blue glow. You broke the hug as you turned to face the Guiding Light.

"Are you and your friends a bit hungry, perhaps?" It asked. You gave it a physical form of a guardian angel, similar to the statue seen in the courtyard. "Are there any sweets there?" Ei asked. "Hmm, we do, in fact. I think Figure's preparing a chocolate cake." Ei's eyes instantly lit up at those words.

"Alright, we'll stop by for some food." You said as Ei looked at you, her smile becoming warmer. The Guiding Light lead you all to a secret wall inside of the reception desk where you find the key to room 1. Within said wall was a massive room containing a kitchen, bar, and a bunch of various tables.

Venti instantly rushed towards the bar. He found Rush organizing bottles of wine using two materialized hands. "D-Do you mind if I get a bottle?" Venti asked in a slightly scared yet cheeky tone. Rush grabbed a bottle and put it next to Venti. He then slipped over a written piece of paper that read "YOU'RE FRIENDS WITH OUR FRIEND. THIS WINE BOTTLE IS FREE OF CHARGE. :)" Venti looked at Rush, who held out a hand for a handshake. The two of them shook hands as Rush went back to work and Venti drank his wine.

Ei, meanwhile, rushed over to the kitchen. She saw how the figure was just sitting on a chair waiting for something in the oven, and she could smell the chocolate aroma from it. The figure walked up to her and wrote on a piece of paper. Once he was done it read, "you can have a slice when it's done baking."

"You really would?" Ei asked. The figure only nodded, going to a cabinet and taking out a bit of chocolate. He gave the entire box to her with a piece of paper saying, "Y/N told us how much you like sweets. You're his friend, so have this." Ei simply said nothing as she started devouring the first half of the chocolate bar.

You and Zhongli simply ate Salisbury steaks that Screech gave to you using his many tentacles. Timothy also decided to rest on your shoulder. "This food is certainly not anything that I have had in Teyvat, your grace, but I like it."

"Glad you do, Zhongli. Perhaps we can bring some of it to Teyvat once we go home."

[utouchmycookie]

I was briefly considering redoing a very old Percy Jackson fic I found that was terribly written but had a great plot. It was my own, to clarify, and from the era of Wattpad that was filled with ---line breaks--- and naming these dots: •. The era that I remember for having an account called Leo and the Whale Watchers that would call out, "WHALE" in the comments whenever this -_- emoticon showed up in a fic they were reading.

Anyways. This fic was probably eight-ish years old, and since then I have learned many things. I am using that knowledge here. FYI: I am not assuming anyone here doesn't know biology, I am just putting it here so anyone who doesn't has access to it without research.

Taxonomical Ranks are used to assess relatedness and group species together. From most vague to most specific we have: Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, and Species. Scientific names are always Genus species. For reference, the taxonomy of a human is Animalia, Chordata, Mammalia, Primate, Hominidae, Homo sapien.

This is all to say, I have officially made a list of what Oceanic Animals would actually be the equivalent of, based on behavior and phylogeny (def.: relatedness of distant species based on most recent common ancestor), as someone studying to become an ethologist (def.: a scientist who studies animal behavior) and mammalogist (def.: a scientist who studies mammals). Gotta be flexible in this career field, Individuals.

Without further ado:

Dogs - Pinnipeds! Seals/Sea Lion/Walruses

Phylogeny: Like all marine mammals, Pinnipeds shared a land mammal ancestor that went back into the water. Pinnipeds are thought to share an ancestral species in the Carnivora order that diverged into modern day weasel-like creatures aside from the Pinnipeds.

Behavior: Pinnipeds have been used to help with an assortment of tasks for generations. Although they've never been tamed (def.: consistently willing to work with humans) in any larger amount than small, captive populations (def.: a group of individuals of the same species generally isolated from others of the species for whatever reason), they've shown willingness to work with humans and intelligence akin to that of their fellow "higher order" carnivorous mammals like dogs. However, they are more social than cats or bears.

Cats - Octopi

Phylogeny: These guys are very distantly related. Very distantly related. They only share a Kingdom - Animalia. However, octopi being invertebrates hardly makes them unintelligent.

Behavior: All types of cats are related at the Family level, and although we're mainly focusing on Felis catus - the domesticated cat - all cats are pretty behaviorally similar. They're mostly independent (although Felis catus, like all other cats, will often have overlapping territory - but territory differs wildly from home range despite their interchangeable usage by media - and lions lives in prides), they love boxes, they are attracted to catnip, and they're aggressive ambush predators. Octopi are individualistic, will fit through anything bigger than their beak, love to mess with humans, and are aggressive predators.

Horses - Whales

Phylogeny: These guys are probably way more related than you realized. Both are mammals, and although they are different Orders, that's more a matter of evolution than lack of relatedness. The most recent true terrestrial ancestor of all modern whale species (which, btw, include both baleen - Sub-Order: Mysticete - and toothed whales - Sub-Order: Odontocete -, and the Odontocete Family of Dolphins - Delphinidae - include Orcas/Killer Whales) was an Artiodactyla, which is the still existent Order horses (Family: Equidae) fall under.

Behavior: Horses have very high emotional intelligence and a distinct hierarchical system due to their very sociable nature that's incredibly similar to whales. For one, both species are matriarchal - or led by elder females - and both have a distinct male leader who seems to be in charge of breeding (in general. Animal groups tend to be far more complex than people give them credit for). Both tend to be migratory.

Birds - Turtles

Phylogeny: I'm going to blow. Your. Minds. Based on genetic comparisons... There is actually only one marine species on here more closely related than these two. Genetic comparisons have shown that scientists made a crazy mistake due to basing phylogeny in phenotypes (def.: physical appearance). The fossil record indicates after amphibians came lizards, and snakes are variations of lizards that have slowly speciated in their own direction. Meanwhile, turtles (including tortoises - all tortoises are turtles, not all turtles are tortoises) and crocodiles/alligators/caimans speciated in another direction, with a more recent common ancestor to bird than to lizards.

Behavior: I've never owned a bird, but I know a bit about them. However, no one has studied sea turtle behavior outside of egg-laying much yet, but I can see a sea turtle having a likeness to them.

Reptiles - Fish

Phylogeny: We just covered Bird/Reptile relatedness, and while we're going backwards here... Fish are more related to reptiles than sharks.

Behavior: I imagine owning a fish in the sea is rather like owning a reptile on land. Especially since while most of my icthy-based knowledge is freshwater, I do know there are a species of fish found in coral reefs who farm, and reptiles just give me a similar vibe.

Ferrets - Otters

Phylogeny: Full-disclosure, these guys are super related. Both are in the Family Mustelidae, and in the Sub-Family of weasels. By taxonomic standards, their relatedness is akin to that of a human and gorilla, or dog and wolf. Btw, they are thought to share a more recent common ancestor with Pinnipeds than bears, but because they both evolved from that common ancestor that is thought to still be in a more bear-like form, we leave it at that.

Behavior: Otters and ferrets are similar in the ways dogs and wolves are similar.

Goats - Sharks

Phylogeny: Okay. They're more related than cats and octopi at least?

Behavior: Everyone calls sharks sea-puppies, but like... Goats are very puppy-like. Can confirm, 10/10. I stand by my decision here.

Cows - Sting- and Manta Rays

Phylogeny: See above.

Behavior: Cows are grass puppies, especially when they're calves. They hang out, love scratches...

A Phylogenetic Tree I drew to show relatedness:

[ashbrat488]

Sliding Into Home - Calahan Skogman AU - One Shot

"Kenzie! Are you ready?"

Brook's voice cuts through my thoughts as I sit staring at myself in the mirror. I turn to my closest friend and assistant with a sigh. "I hope so." I stand up to follow her out of the room as I smoothed her hand over my blonde ponytail. My stomach filled with butterflies as we walked down the long tunnel toward the field. I had graduated top of my class with a Sports Management Degree and yet they had me running their team's social media accounts. It wasn't what I was wanting to do, but I now worked for a Major League baseball team which is more than I could have hoped for right out of college.

I knew very well that my father being the head coach was the reason I had the job, to begin with. I was used to being under-appreciated and undervalued. People saw my blonde hair and blue eyes and pretty face and automatically write me off as shallow and unintelligent. I scoff, shaking my head as I listen to myself complain about being too attractive. Pretty privilege is a real thing that I knew well, but just like everyone else, I had my own trouble based on how I am perceived by other people, men especially.

I stop at the end of the tunnel, the light and noise from the stadium filling my senses as my heart beats erratically in my chest. "Do I look okay?"

Brook chuckles, handing me my phone as she rests her hand reassuringly on my arm. "You always do, babe. Just breathe. This is easy shit. I have a few of the guys lined up to chat with you with Calahan last since it's his first MLB game."

"Right... I can't believe my dad is starting him on his first game."

"Have you seen him pitch?!"

I roll my eyes as Brook grins, her brown eyes more amber in the sunlight. "Of course I have. I am good at my job, Brook." Calahan Skogman was just fresh out of college as well and had been tried to be recruited by more than a few Major League teams. We were lucky he wanted to play for his hometown team here in Milwaukee though.

She laughs, nudging my shoulder as she leans toward me. "And have you seen how hot he is?"

"Fuck off, Brook." I hear her laugh more as I chuckle and we step out onto the field as the team practices. Brook fetches a few of the men, one at a time as she helps me to film small interviews with them for the team's social media accounts. I turn as a shadow approaches me and I see Calahan stalking toward me. At 6 foot 4, he was the tallest member on the team, and even in my heels, he towered over me as I barely reached his shoulders. His shaggy hair which could only be described as hazel was peeking out the sides of his hat. The normally dirty blond hair appeared brown sometimes and almost red in the sunlight as did the fuzz of his five o'clock shadow. His blue-green eyes also hid under the shadow of the bill of his hat but I could see them roam over my body as he approached; from my blue heels to my skinny jeans and custom jersey with my last name and my lucky number 13.

He finally reaches me, standing beside me as he plasters on a fake smile. He has never managed to warm up to me, just like the rest of the team since I graduated and my father insisted I accept a job within the club. "Hello, McKenzie..."

"Calahan Skogman! It's so great to have you on the team this year. And this is your first ever MLB game and you're pitching. Are you feeling the nerves a little bit?"

"Um..." He shuffles slightly as nervous energy radiates off him. "Sure, I am a bit. I'm always a little bit nervous before a game, no matter where it is. I just try to drown out the noise and focus on the mission at hand and try to remember that Scott wouldn't have placed me here in starting position if he didn't believe in me."

"That's so great, Calahan. Well, we all believe in you and we're all happy to have you here." I watch him nod, giving a small smile to me and the camera before we hear someone yelling behind him.

"Head's up!"

I turn around just in time to find Calahan's large right hand in front of my face encased around a ball that had almost hit me. He turned to me, his eyes as wide as mine as my heart beats painfully in my chest. He brings his left hand up to my arm as his face softens slightly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Are you okay?" I look down at his right hand as he moves the ball to his left hand, and he opens and closes it a few times, obviously in a bit of pain. He only nods, not really looking at me as some of the other guys call him away.

***

"Girl, that vid of Calahan saving your life is blowing up all over social media. That mixed with the win today, the Brewers are the talk of all the sports networks."

"Good, then I'm doing my job. And he didn't save my life. Let's not be dramatic..." I follow her into the bar, both of us in short dresses and heels as we are immediately spotted by some frat bros at the bar when we approach.

"Can I buy you a drink, darling?"

"No thanks." I don't bother looking at the man the voice belongs to as I scan the bar to find some of the team members in the back, nursing some beers and yelling, and having a good time. My eyes catch briefly on those blue-green eyes once again hidden under the bill of his hat before Brook nudges my attention back to her and she hands me a shot glass.

"What's the point of being hot and having guys want to buy you drinks if you never accept?"

I roll my eyes, my mouth and throat burning from the alcohol before setting the shot glass back onto the bar. "Because they never do it just to do it. They buy you a drink because they're expecting something. Whether it just be attention, or something more."

"You're so negative, Kenzie. You expect all guys to be dicks, that everyone is out to get you."

I shrug, turning around as I feel someone's presence behind me. A tall, obviously drunk, college guy saunters up to me. "Hello, beautiful..." His eyes roam down my body greedily, falling on my breasts before finally dragging them to my face.

"No."

"I haven't even asked anything yet..." He smirks, leaning one arm on the bar, moving closer to me as I back up slightly into Brook.

"Doesn't matter, the answer is no." I turn away from him as I feel him grip my arm hard, pulling be back around to face him, my chest pressed against his. "Just fuck off."

"Dude, leave us alone..." Brook tries to break the guy's grip as he sneers at the both of us.

"Why you being such a fucking bitch? You come in here as a fucking tease in your short dress and then you blow me off without even a smile."

"I don't have to give you a smile or anything else." I bring the heel of my shoe down hard on his toes, making him grunt as he only grips my arm tighter, causing me to wince.

The guy is thrown back as another shadow looms over me, and Calahan places himself between the drunk guy and Brook and myself. "She told you to leave her alone. Keep your fucking hands to yourself."

"Fuck off dude, this doesn't concern you." The guy pushes Calahan back hard enough to knock the cap off his head before Calahan brings his fist up to crush against the guy's face.

I groan, grabbing his hand and pulling him back as the guy falls to the ground and his friends surround him. "Cal!" I drag him back to face me as the other team members approach us. "Get the fuck out of here before you lose your baseball career before it even starts." I push him back as he shakes his head and the guys drag him out of the bar. "Fucking cavemen, I swear to god."

Brook laughs, handing me Calahan's hat that fell to the ground in the middle of the scuffle. "He left his hat. We should get out of here too, Kenzie."

***

I stand with the hat in my hand as I wait for the door to open. Finally, an obviously annoyed Calahan opens the door wearing only boxers. His hair hangs in his face as he runs his hand down his bare chest to his tight abdomen, his hand sliding over the ridges of his muscles as he clears his throat. "I um... I brought you your hat," I stutter out as I drag my eyes up to his, handing him his hat. "You dropped it at the bar."

"Thank you. I love that hat, I was worried I lost it forever." He offers me a small smile before tossing the hat out of my view and I give him a small nod, turning to leave. "That's it? Don't I get a thank you?"

"For what?" I scoff, turning back to him quickly, stepping toward him as he stands up straight, crossing his arms over his chest. "For being a fucking buffoon and almost ruining your career over a stupid drunk college boy?"

"How about saving your life? And then for saving you at the bar."

"I could have handled myself just fine without your interference."

"Oh yeah, it looked like it..." He rolls his eyes, shaking his head in obvious disgust. "Just another spoiled princess just like I thought you would be."

"You don't know anything about me!" I spit, pushing him back hard, both palms flat on his chest as he chuckles, barely moving as I turn away from him once more. This time I feel a large hand grip the back of my neck, forcing me back toward him, pleasure surging down my spine as I feel him crush his mouth hard against mine. I try to push against him but instead succumb to his force as I feel his tongue penetrate my mouth, seeking out mine. I can't help the moan that escapes my throat as he pulls me into his apartment, slamming the door shut behind us. With his hand still on the back of my neck, his other hand goes to the back of my thigh, pulling me up to him as my legs wrap around him and my shoes fall onto the ground. "What are you doing?" I manage to mutter when he pulls his mouth away to nip at my neck, carrying me further into the apartment and plopping me onto his bed.

"You got me kicked out before I could find a girl to bring home, so you'll just have to do..."

"I'll have to do?! That's not a proper proposition or seduction," I scoff, standing up as he smirks down at me, amused.

"You've made it all the way into my bedroom and you seemed to like it when I was kissing you..." He brings his hand up to gently cradle my chin as he slowly rolls his tongue over his lips. "We both know there's some sort of chemistry here between us. It doesn't have to go beyond sex. In fact, I prefer it that way. I can't much stand you otherwise."

"Funny..." I quickly consider the proposition as he cocks a brow, dropping his boxers to the ground and my eyes fall down to where his cock already stands heavy between his legs. "Fuck..." I can't contain the obvious staring as he brings his hands up to my shoulders, pulling the straps of my dress down to fall onto the floor.

"That's the plan... now stop talking..." He demands, gripping my throat as he dips down to kiss me hard once more as he pushes me back onto the bed with him on top. He keeps his mouth sealed over mine as I feel him pull off my panties, which were soaking already, a low fire burning deep inside my core.

I don't say anything as he reaches over to grab a condom from the nightstand, leaning back on his knees. His eyes lock intensely on mine as he rips open the foil to roll the condom onto his cock. He leans over me once more to press his mouth to mine as I feel his large hands come up to palm my breasts, moaning as I push up into his touch. He pinches the nipples, pulling on them and causing me to whimper as it sends jolts of electricity straight to my pussy. It clenches in anticipation as he releases my nipples, pulling back. I gasp as he grabs my waist, turning me away from him as he pulls my hips up to his.

He pushes into me hard as I gasp, the stretching almost painful as he doesn't stop, pulling out and pushing back in with a loud grunt. "Don't expect me to go slow or easy on you," he growls out as I whimper a response and he grips my hips, my knees barely grazing the bed as he pumps into me hard and fast just as he promised.

He runs a hand up my spine between my shoulder blades as he pushes me into the bed. Though I had never had someone so rough with me during sex, there was a certain sort of primal surge now buzzing through me as he used me. Pleasure coursed through me with every thrust, causing me to become louder and louder as he groaned.

Calahan leans forward to wrap his hand around my throat to pull me up on my knees, never losing rhythm as he pulls my back up against his chest. "You feel better than I thought you would, princess..."

I can't help but growl slightly at the endearment that sounds like an insult as he brings a hand up to my mouth. I clamp my teeth down on his hand as he hisses, his other hand gripping my throat harder until I let go. "Don't... call me princess," I barely spit out before I pain surges in my shoulder as he sinks his teeth into my skin, pain dissipating into pleasure. My head falls back against his shoulder as he moves his free hand down between my legs. "Cal..." I whimper as I hear him growl, dragging his tongue up the length of my neck to my ear, pulling my lobe into his mouth as the low burning fire explodes inside me. The grip of his hand on my throat tightens as the orgasm rocks through me, prolonging it as I faintly hear him panting and grunting behind me. He finally releases me and I collapse onto the bed, face down with a grunt.

"Don't call me Cal. It's Calahan or nothing," he barks as he crosses the room and slams the door to the bathroom. I roll my eyes, rolling onto my back to stare at the ceiling as my heart races. The sex was better than I would ever care to admit, even if now I was beginning to feel the bite on my shoulder. I groan, sitting up to stare at the bathroom door as I hear water running, regretting coming here. I knew it was a mistake to sleep with one of the players and that I would never be taken seriously if it got out that I had. I stand up, stumbling slightly as I quickly pull on my panties and dress and grab my shoes, leaving the apartment before he comes out of the bathroom...

Potential for a full story 👀

[floyx]

Can you describe a decentralized social media platform?

Online communication was an option only for those who could access the network. Nevertheless, the development of Floyx’s decentralized social media platform has made online interaction more convenient for a larger group of people. Decentralized social media networks enable a democratic process as they shift decision-making responsibility among users and not only companies. It will allow individuals to participate in and influence the decision-making process. People are free to communicate their thoughts, sentiments, and emotions, as well as themselves.

Decentralized social media offers us benefits that make our daily lives easier. It helps us to determine privacy, which is one of the benefits. Through this process, these companies cannot take your data and use it for any purpose. The other benefit of the system is that the power is scattered. Sharing power promotes more transparency and accountability. Such a decentralized social media platform offers an allowance for the development of platforms that suit the users so that people can come up with their own rules and maintain them. Floyx has come with this exceptional technology of the Web3 social media platform.

However, there are a few dis-benefits as well. It also has some problems (challenges). Floyx could be made less user-friendly than its rivals. It also lacks resources or support, which is necessary to address this situation. One negative is that working on a decentralized blockchain needs both time and energy. Moreover, we can host it on the internet freely for everyone, but we cannot assure its success.

The web is like a playground where we all get to play, and there is no boss. So, such platforms are like this, as they also do not give power to one group but provide the opportunity for everyone to express themselves.

Principles of a Decentralized Social Media Platform:

User Control: The best thing about decentralized social media is that you are the one who holds all the power. What you post online, your data, your posts, and your identity belong to you. Thus, you can choose whom to show at the post and the reason you prefer. It is a little like your personal online area. From there, you are in control.

Privacy Priority: The protection of data gains importance on these platforms. Your data, messages, and photos, which are crucial to you, are in a safe and encrypted form, just like in the protected guard, so that no one can access them. It is distributed across several locations, which makes your data hard to follow.

Censorship Resistance: These systems are arranged in a decentralized manner and are resistant to censorship and content control, which traditional means of delivering content may offer. A content policy is usually created by an audience to guarantee the preservation of transparency.

Interoperability: They aim to design an open and connected ecosystem that will allow all users from any network or platform to communicate without compromising their private data.

Community Governance: Therefore, several governance patterns allow for the involvement of users in decisive spheres, including upgrading the platform, moderation of posts, or decision-making.

Benefits of Decentralized Social Media:

Enhanced Privacy and Security: Imagine being the vault owner of your data. This platform is based on decentralized networks. It uses powerful encryption techniques for this purpose. Encryption scrambles your data into random symbols, making it unintelligible for anyone, like a secret language that only you and those permitted understand. Distributed storage ensures that your data is not centralized in just one location but scattered across multiple locations and, therefore, more vulnerable.

User Empowerment: Think about owning your kingdom, but this time digitally. On some platforms, you may find that you do not have much say. And with others, you become the boss! Whether it's about a video, photo, or saying hello online, you can choose what you share and who you are. You get extra points for your participation in community life. It means everyone will take part in the decisions and how things operate.

Resilience to Censorship: Vision yourself in a world in which such a kingdom has reached such a point that no one ruler can manage it all. Some platforms are like that. They give you the right to express yourself in whichever manner you prefer. Now, it is easy to express your vision without restrictions relating to regulations or politics. Everyone's voice is important!

Motivated Participation: Decentralized platforms serve as a new way of earning money through activities you perform. Maybe you are good at making things or are talented at assisting others. On these platforms, you get something in return for being a member. It is like someone paying you to play games while helping others.

Interoperability and Data Portability: Imagine that your digital stuff easily moves around as you do. Some sites let you take your stuff with you every time. It is just like having a school backpack with all the items you love the most, and you can bring it wherever you are going, even to a new site!

The Future of Decentralized Social Media: In the future, maybe we'll face a shift in how we use social media. For instance, many users are struggling to regain their voice and privacy as the internet they feel (the lack of control) becomes their unwanted reality. They are afraid that they may lose their privacy, and then their views might be mumbled.

But there's hope! Some creative people are trying to design new social media platforms like “Floyx” that give users more empowerment. This is how they work: they use decentralization. It not only empowers the involvement of people by allowing them to have more say in what goes on, but it also helps make things fairer. As technology develops, these latest Web3 social media sites start gaining popularity. They care a lot about empathy, fairness, and seeing that everyone is the same. As a result, these platforms may grow in popularity in the future, with an increasing number of people using them.

[seo411]

Sound Masking Offers a Privacy and Productivity Booster

In most workplaces, controlling sound is a challenge - but a challenge worth taking on for facility managers. Part of the difficulty is the expense involved with acoustic materials. Creating sound barriers and outfitted surfaces with acoustic material is costly and may require significant alterations to the space. Sound masking technology is an alternative to sound blocking or absorbing materials. It works by blanketing areas with background sound - an invisible fence through which private conversations and distracting noise cannot pass. The Modern Office is Full of Noise Distractions Sound masking solutions are effective in a variety of places, but they're most often found in office buildings. That may be due, in part, to how distracting the modern workplace is. Research developed by UC Irvine found that the typical office worker is interrupted every 11 minutes by noise. And for some workers, it takes more than 20 minutes to get back up to the same working speed. These interruptions can damage your company's bottom line, even if they appear harmless in isolation. It's different for every employee, but the average worker is losing around 5 percent of their day to audio-based distraction. The more employees your company has, the more those productivity losses add up. Adding a sound masking solution to your facilities may save a lot of time in lost man hours. Speech Privacy is a Major Concern for Employees and Companies, but it's Difficult to Find The other sound-related challenge facing many workplaces is speech privacy. With open offices the standard for professional work, it's nearly impossible to find a place where private conversation can be had. This isn't a trivial issue, either, as worker surveys like the University of Sydney's shows. More than half of the surveyed cubicle and open office workers stated that they were dissatisfied with the speech privacy in their workplace. Only professionals with a private office had a positive impression of their workplace's speech privacy. In professional settings, it's best to keep private conversations private. Many of these conversations, if overheard, could give HR migraines. More importantly, conversations between employees may include sensitive information that your company is legally required to protect. If your organization is regulated or supported by any of the following entities: - HIPAA (Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act) - GLBA (Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act) - HCAHPS (Hospital Consumer Assessment of Healthcare Providers and Systems Survey) - FERPA (Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act) Then it's of paramount importance that employees have the comfort and privacy they need to exchange critical information. Sound Masking Technology Can Create a Comfortable Audio Environment Creating that comfortable, private space for workers is possible with sound masking technology. Sound masking solutions are simple in design, with steady audio piped through a series of emitters installed throughout the building. These emitters are essentially speakers that can output white noise or pink noise. For most applications, noise that resembles rushing water or wind is the preferred option. However, sound masking systems can be tied to your facility's larger audio system, so it can be used to output music or deliver announcements. The primary goal of sound masking is to make human speech unintelligible over shorter distances. In other words, if a conversation would normally be heard 60 feet away, sound masking may reduce that distance down to 15 feet. Every system can be calibrated for a different "radius of distraction," or the distance at which human speech can no longer be picked up. Ideally, emitters are evenly distributed throughout the floor and in high enough volume to ensure 100 percent coverage. Complete coverage is important because it will interfere with how uniform the system sounds. And if the sound masking solution itself becomes a distraction, that defeats the purpose. The Difference Between Direct and Indirect Sound Masking There are numerous sound masking solutions on the market, and most of them can be placed in one of two categories - direct and indirect sound masking. What's the difference? - Direct-field systems - With a direct masking solution, the emitters are installed in the ceiling itself and broadcast the audio directly into the workspace. The primary benefit of direct-field solutions is that they can be easily zoned. Facility managers can set the level of audio masking in different spaces, which allows for a custom radius of distraction. - Indirect systems - An indirect solution places the speakers above the ceiling tiles, in the building's "plenum" where cabling conduit and HVAC components lie. This means the emitters remain invisible, so workers cannot pinpoint where the masking audio is coming from. This can help ensure the system does not become a distraction. During operation, indirect systems cast the audio upwards, toward the ceiling deck. It then reflects and diffuses through the ceiling and into the workspace. The diffuse nature of indirect audio masking makes it easier to create the uniform sound that installers are going for. Where Can Sound Masking Solutions Help? While sound masking technology is an ideal fit for any office space, there are plenty of other applications. They include: - Meeting rooms and huddle rooms - Research laboratories and engineering labs - Educational settings, such as libraries and testing rooms - Hotel reception areas - Spas - Hospital and clinic patient areas - Banks - Call centers - Courtrooms and high security facilities - Airports - Churches Certified AV Integrators Can Help Design and Install Sound Masking Solutions While sound masking technology is simple from a hardware standpoint, installing it isn't as simple. A single project may involve installing dozens of emitters in the ceiling - or above it. Proper emitter spacing and configuration is essential, too, so installation is best handled by a trained hand. Certified AV integrators have the expert personnel on hand to oversee sound masking system design and installation. With a certified integrator's assistance, your organization will have no trouble identifying what features to look for in a solution, and which system comes with those features. An AV integrator can also layout the system, install it, and provide ongoing support, ensuring it remains viable for years after installation. Read the full article

[vermillioncrown]

just reread your fic today and had a funny thought. how wild could shuangfeng lore could go if yunxun & zhou le end up together in the future? their weekly slapfests are already an ongoing meme, wonder if the sect will see it as the revolutionary romance™ of the century - they're the less shameless, more vitriolic/emotionally raw WangXian

(hot damn i love seeing ppl rereading 👋)

a degree of it will be meme-y and cracky, but as ridiculous as dbd is i don't think it's crackfic (i hope it doesn't come across as that)

so if the events happen so that zyx and zxz get together, it would be impossible to make them be together in a meaningful way if their current relationship doesn't evolve

no way will zyx want to be with or stay with a person they didn't like. hate-fucking is not a thing - if they hate someone they do not want to be near that person. unattractive physically and emotionally

zxz, as much as the animosity between him and zyx is played up in dbd, is not that kind of drama-shitstirrer that would involve himself in something also messy and unresolved. i hoped to convey in mrts that he prefers straightforward things, he doesn't grok zyx's 21st century-heavy mannerisms that shine through, no matter how much they try to assimilate. based on hints in dbd, a spark of attraction/fixation is there

i have another big fight/argument planned out (unafraid to say it bc it's part of the main plot so i always knew it was to be written, unlike other interpersonal things)

if they get together, the tension between them would be toned down a lot. the slapfests will be more in jest, bc there will be established mutual understand of each other. they don't have to agree w each other's thought patterns, but no longer will they take each other in bad faith.

likely newer shuangfeng members would be like "oh zhu-qianbei and zhou-qianbei don't get along, they'll never agree" "they refuse to be in the same place at the same time, why would they even agree?"

older shuangfeng members that have been Through It will know some fucking unintelligible communication, syncing of braincells happens between their two shixiong and

"this one's plans accounted for zhou-shixiong's stubbornness, and -"

"hmph, that zhu yunxun does whatever he wants regardless, here's how we work around that -"

as the next-in-line for shuangfeng leadership

also while they're not shy, given the strength of emotional connection that would need form between them for a relationship... security of such would leave them feeling no need to be outwardly demonstrative.

they will be the rival professors in the department that you didn't realize were married

[youssefguedira]

3, 5, 11, 14, 29? 👀👀👀

thank you!! <3 <3

3. what's your favourite fic that you've written?

complicated question. iron maiden joe has a special place in my heart on account of how long it took me to write and everything else, but there are parts of it i do wonder if i couldve done differently. i love hades au very much also i think the first fic has some of my best. for diabolik house of stone is my most beloved. also the entirety of angels in my time is really important to me. and if i ask you to stay makes me feel very [UNINTELLIGIBLE] so i don't have a particular favourite

5. what's a fic idea that you've had that you'll never write?

realistically it's unlikely to happen but i DID have a lil joenicky coffee shop au with a twist planned out in my head for a while based off a prompt post i saw on here. in which they've remained enemies / rivals / It's Complicated for a really long time, and after a few years of zero contact joe runs into nicky who has a coffee shop now. very silly. lot of fun tho. who knows it might happen some day now that i have free time again

11. do you have specific playlists for writing fics?

i do not! but most of my larger fics do have some kind of music attached to them even if the connection is just for me. iron maiden joe even has an actual playlist, though it needs editing and is a bit of a mess. so even if i didn't have the playlist for a fic there's usually a song i've linked it to in my head (in the case of one of my wips it's an entire album but that's a special case)

14. if you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which would you pick?

half of my writing process is Daydream About Character In Situation so i end up thinking about this a lot. iron maiden joe tho because there's some scenes that are really vivid in my brain, but this also applies to lotr au and other assorted fics, so who knows! in terms of diabolik one of my current wips i think would work really nicely

29. share a bit from a fic you'll never post or a scene that was cut from an already posted fic.

here have some zelda au (breath of the wild edition) because realistically. it's not getting posted any time in the near future but i HAVE written this part so

In one of the chairs, with her back to Nicolò, sits a woman. He cannot see her face, but the crown that rests upon her grey hair is enough of an indicator of her identity.

“Nicolò di Genova,” the woman says. “Please, sit. Let me see you.”

Nicolò obeys, crossing over to the closest of the armchairs and taking a seat. The woman turns to face him.

Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. She’s old, and wears a fine cloak with intricate patterns embroidered on its sleeves, a small sapphire set within her crown. Her hands are folded on her lap. Her voice is soft, but commanding nonetheless.

“I assume from your expression that you do not recognise me,” the woman says.

“I’m sorry,” is all Nicolò can say to that.

“Don’t be. We were told to expect it, though I imagine you would not even if your memory were intact. My name is Layla al-Kaysani,” she continues, and something tugs at Nicolò’s memory, clouded as it is. “Queen of Hyrule, or what is left of it. I have been waiting for you for a very, very long time.”

[cryptiql]

riptide

pairing: dabi/m!reader

warnings: smoking, some mildly suggestive flashbacks + detailed descriptions of drowning. as always, please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3

words: 4.9k

a/n: welcome to the sequel of smoke signals. perish :)

dabi made a mistake. the knowledge sits in the bottom of his stomach like a lump of lead; his innards twisting into a knot whenever the memory of you crosses the expanse of his sleep deprived mind. the burns under his eyes might as well be bags, but they aren't large enough to bear the weight of his guilt. it isn't much better sitting on his shoulders, but the repercussions of pain are what keep him from letting it go, and that's exactly what he wants. no—it's what he deserves. he deserves the feeling like his head is going to burst; the ache in his spine from too many hours spent hunched over himself with a bottle clutched between his shaking hands; the burning intensity from overuse of his quirk. the extra inches of marred skin serve as reminders of what he did, but it's not half as satisfying when the pain doesn't last.

he wants to scratch at the wounds until they ooze that bitter garnet liquid; until he's suffocated by the metallic scent and forced to endure as the taste of blood engraves itself on his tongue when he chokes on it. he wants to suffer—the slower the better—because not even the strongest alcohol can cleanse his sins, nor the stench of his regret.

dabi made a mistake. it won't be the last time, he's able to admit, because his ego is too shriveled from the lack of your warmth, and his heart yearns for the passion of your kiss that still lingers on his lips. when the loft echoes with fragments of the city's ambience, drowning him in an incessant racket, he longs for the lighthouse. this place is infested with selfish ingrates, scuttling about in search of the next outcast to torment, and it makes him wish he still had that safe space at the shore. your siren song was a drug to put him at ease, and now he is without it, and the withdrawal has taken effect.

he knew this would come to pass. dabi overdosed on your love; your affection; your everything; all while watching the consequences unravel at a snail's pace, almost as if he were being teased by the inevitable end. he let it happen. he did this to himself, so he won't shake his hands at the sky, cursing gods he doesn't know exist; as if they would concern themselves with the faults of men like him.

he knew this would happen.

but then, so did you. you had to have known by the empty space in your bed where he used to lay; by the dates that kept getting postponed and the meaningless promises made to make up for them; by the shortage of visits, even just to say "hello" before he dropped from the face of the earth once more. if this were true, it meant that you were suffering just the same—nay, more than him, by forcing yourself into a state of compliance whenever he told you it was time for him to go. dabi could pretend like he didn't see your fingers twitching; resisting the urge to reach out for him; just as he could pretend like the rivulets of tears on your cheeks did not exist, though they begged to be swept away by him. god, he wants to hold your face again, noses brushing together and your dreamy sighs melding with his raspy laughter.

he had told himself that you wouldn't deter him from his goal, but even that seems like a pipe dream now. he feels like an underachiever, chasing a future that can't be set in stone when he already had you, which should have been enough. dabi realizes that the flames of his own passionate desire for freedom have burned you in the process, and it hurts more than he can put into words. you were always better with words, he reminisces, tracing the coffee stained parchment sitting in his pocket.

dabi has long since stopped reading the letters you sent, but he still carries them with him wherever he goes. they anchor him to both earth and sky; the reality that he's lost you, threatening to swallow him from under his feet; and the hope that he'll find you again, one day, after all this is over. "and just what do you think you're doing?"

you can see his reflection in the stove's glass sheen, his mouth drawn up into a devious smirk as he leans on the bedroom doorframe, clad in nothing but his briefs from the previous night. the purplish burns scaling his collarbone and abdomen give him a roguish look that—if you possessed no self-restraint—would normally have you lunging at him like a starved beast. you manage to smirk back at him, subtly shaking your hips while opening the stove door to pull out the doughy mound of bread inside. to your delight, you hear him grumble something not-so family-friendly before he snakes his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. you had never once thought that the feeling of staples against your skin would feel so good, but now you can hardly imagine being without it, and you immediately melt into dabi's touch.

he breathes softly in your ear, chuckling when you flinch in response, goosebumps stippling your flesh. by the way your cheeks puff out in embarrassment, he should take that as a sign to stop, but fuck, your pouting is just too cute for him to resist, especially when your worship-able body is basking in the afterglow of dusk. you keen when dabi starts peppering your shoulder blades with kisses, but nearly dropping the pan causes your senses to return, and you whisper a plea. luckily, he appears to be in a merciful mood, because he relents his onslaught of affection to rest his chin in the crook of your neck.

when he finally notices what you're making, he can't help but squeeze you tighter.

"is that a cake?"

you turn to give him a peck on the nose, which is rewarded with a halfhearted snap of his teeth just millimeters from your mouth.

"that'd be right. though, i'm astonished you know which way is up after last night." your sing-song tone of voice spurs him to squeeze your thigh, and you would have shooed him away if not for how much you liked it. dabi murmurs something unintelligible, the vibrations shooting straight down your spine, and proceeds to remove himself from you in order to better observe the baked delicacy.

"mm. what's it for?" he asks, discretely swiping a bit of the pink colored icing from the bowl to his right. sweet, but not sickeningly so.

you are none the wiser when dipping a spatula into the contents and smoothing it over the cake, a soft smile playing at your lips.

"you never told me when your birthday is, so i'm taking a wild guess. figured i'd whip this up as a surprise, but you woke up earlier than i suspected." dabi swears that his heart is about to burst from behind his ribcage, and all because you're too goddamn perfect. you may as well be a priceless work of art in museum that he's been prohibited from touching. however, the fading marks on your skin signify that he's done more than just touch, and he takes pride in the fact you can't seem to move further than two steps in any direction without faltering.

"i know angel food cake is your favorite—" dabi silences you with a kiss; bruising and passionate; and takes the spatula from your hand, blindly setting it aside on the counter. your protests are short-winded as he lifts you from your behind before promptly turning the oven off and spinning on his heel. he's memorized these halls well enough to not bump into anything during his trek back to the bedroom. you pull away, albeit with a hint of reluctance, just to glare at him.

"what about the—" dabi kisses you again, and while you don't seem too happy about being interrupted twice in a row, the shared heat between your bodies distracts you from being upset.

"you're off by about two months, doll. besides, i think i'd much rather have you as a late birthday treat."

dabi clenches his jaw at the memory, his knuckles whitening with how tenaciously he grips the tattered fabric of his jeans. the league's new base is just as rundown and close to crumbling as he feels, but his despair is masked by the rage that overpowers it. why couldn't you have been a normal couple? why couldn't dabi have grown up with a father who loved him; with a quirk that didn't gradually destroy him and without the resulting scars that made him a hideous monster in the eyes of all who saw him? why couldn't he be as beautiful on the inside as you said he was on the outside? why couldn't he just be happy, after all this time?

why? why? why?

dabi finds his answer hidden in the ashen battleground strewn with rubble and remnants of burnt remains. he finds it in the fear of his victims' expressions before the snare of death claims them in a flourish of blue inferno. it's written there in bold, ichor dripping from his fingers as they smear the message with red.

the privilege of living a normal life is, and always will be, beyond his reach. murder does not warrant mercy, and the only person willing to give it to him is miles away, still desperate for him to come back.

as fate would have it, you and dabi lived worlds apart, but you still look at the same sunset; the same array of stars forming constellations that told stories of your life shared together. they replay in his head like a record stuck on repeat, and only when the song ends does he find himself back in the clutches of his childhood trauma, rather than your embrace.

"dabi? dabi!" his trademark scowl automatically takes place when a finger prods and pulls at his cheek, the familiar voice of twice shaking him from his deep contemplation. jin has been so unfortunate as to suffer minor scorches from the ravenette's flames, on account of him being too bothersome at the wrong moments, and so he instantly backs away at the first indication of danger brewing in the air around him. with how on edge he's felt lately, he really should have gone on a walk to relieve some stress, but the looming knowledge that he can't go to the lighthouse would only ruin the trip.

dabi is fully prepared to smack jin's hand away until he sees what he's holding. he'd recognize that handwriting anywhere, and even without it, the scent of saltwater and freshly baked bread clings to the paper, altering him of yet another one of your efforts to communicate with him. dabi feigns indifference towards the object; quite the contrary to his thinning patience as twice waves it above his head excitedly.

"you've got mail! who's is from? probably a useless nobody! or maybe a secret admirer? but who would admire you?"

to his dismay, the commotion has grabbed toga's attention, and she veers over to their location with a giddy grin on her face. she all but drapes herself over dabi as he snatches the letter from jin, and it doesn't help his struggle when she clings to him like a koala. after a bout of kicking and shoving, he manages to break free of her grasp, grimacing at her lengthy, high-pitched whines of disapproval.

"and can you believe hawks was the one to deliver it? i didn't take him for a carrier bird. . ."

dabi doesn't hear the rest, nor does he intent to, because he's already making his way to the nearest exit with haggard breaths. whoever calls out for him and whatever they say are the last of his concerns right now, and they're abruptly cut off when he slams the door behind him. the summer heat wills beads of sweat to paint his forehead, but he soon finds comfort under the shade of a tree, cicadas buzzing noisily overhead. he would sooner keel over and die than thank the birdbrain hero for catering to him—and by extension, you—but now that the note is there, begging to be read, he can't help but feel some sort of gratitude.

"i need you to do something for me."

the bristles of hawks' feather hover over dabi's pulse in a threatening manner, but he feels no more in peril than he would at the cruelty of a baby chick. he knows the number two hero won't harm him, at least not without regretting it later, and this is the perfect time to use that to his advantage. hawks narrows his eyes at him, nose wrinkling in accord.

"why would i do anything for you after that stunt you pulled?" he snarls, and dabi almost has to laugh at the drastic switch in personality. the way he presents himself to the public is a true contrast compared to the persona only he and the league have had the pleasure of seeing.

"because if you don't, everyone will know you've been fraternizing with the enemy, and we wouldn't want number two falling off his high pedestal, now would we?"

this time, dabi audibly laughs when hawks' guise wavers. the other grits his teeth, slowly withdrawing the feather and allowing it to fall limp at his side. he revels in his victory, short though it be, and reaches into his pocket to procure a letter marked with your name and address. putting your location at the disposal of a hero isn't something he's proud of doing, but it's all he has left, and he doesn't have the resolve to tell you directly.

coward, his conscious mocks as he holds it out for hawks to take. the winged man stares at it with befuddlement, his movements stalling here and there when he seizes the paper between his thumb and pointer finger. dabi tuts lightly but menacingly, yanking hawks towards him by the wrist and igniting his quirk to leave a faint mark there.

"you're gonna deliver this for me, no questions asked. don't you dare open it."

despite the clear uncertainty, hawks took heed of the ominous demand and carried it out later that night. he had not expected a young man with tear-stained cheeks to greet him at the door, much less the endless babble of 'thank you's as you took the letter with shaking hands.

dabi hadn't wished for you to send one back, but the ongoing stream of them was considered fair, after he'd left without much of a trace. still, he had promised himself that he would never read them, for fear of it opening the wound inflicted by having to say goodbye.

dabi can't understand the sudden change of mind for the life of him, and yet, he finds that he doesn't care whether it opposes every rule he set to keep you safe—to keep himself safe. he tears open the envelope and slumps against the tree trunk, bark and leather grating together as he hesitantly unfolds the parchment, briefly shutting his eyes as a last act of resistance to the helpless cry from within; longing for the familiarity of your poetic words. instead of the delicate precision that was to be anticipated, dabi stared down at your messy scrawl, a carnal fear rising from within and causing his throat to clamp up. the memories begin to flash at a faster rate, like an old-timey picture film. dabi has just finished putting the kettle on to boil when hears the floorboards creak, followed by the sound of your slippers shuffling across the floor. he snickers, remembering that the only pair you have is the one he bought you; a well worn match that looks oddly like cloud bunnies. you've made sure to exemplify how much you love the gift by wearing them around the house on rainy or lazy days, all paired with a wistful smile. this morning is no different as you worm your way under dabi's hold and press your face into his chest, a satisfied groan escaping you when he cards his fingers through your hair and scratches the scalp.

the robe you wear is half-hanging from your shoulders, which makes for an enticing view from where dabi stands, but he simply kisses the crown of your head and continues waiting for the pot to simmer.

"did you hear that noise?" you slur, just barely discernable over the kettle's shrieking. dabi quirks a brow in question as you rub the leftover grogginess from your eyes, tiredly nodding at the back window.

"little past midnight, i think. coulda sworn i heard somethin' rifling around in the trash." dabi squints at this new information while eyeing your appearance. the dark circles and intermittent yawning indicate a lack of sleep, and if he weren't there to keep you steady, you might collapse onto the floor as a snoring heap. if it really disturbed him, he should have woken me up, he thinks, pulling you closer with an ever-deepening frown. you snuggle up to him as if it's second nature, sleepily giggling away when his digits stray too close to your side.

"s'probably raccoons, but if you're worried, i can stay longer just to make sure." you look up at him with nothing short of pure, unbridled adoration, cupping his face and squishing it gently, to your own entertainment. after a moment of consideration, you shake your head.

"nah, you're probably right."

the feeling hits dabi like a tidal wave, dragging him below the raging surface; far below where the light of day cannot touch. it suffocates him and brings rise to the sickening taste of bile on his tongue, but he doesn't have time to spare in throwing it all up, so he swallows it. withered patches of grass crunch under his feet as he peels himself from the tree and breaks into a dash, sparing your letter the flames fueled by his anguish as to let it drift in the breeze, the single sentence written on it already engraved in his mind.

it wasn't raccoons.

dabi doesn't care what shigaraki will have to say about this when he gets back. the only thing he cares about is that you'll still be alive to say anything to him when he reaches you, and that whoever has invaded your home is willing to die for what they've done, or what they're currently doing, and fuck—he isn't even sure if this is you calling for help or not, but he can't risk being right.

the distance between the base and the lighthouse feels lightyears apart, yet simultaneously at arms length when dabi is running at speeds he hasn't ever been able to achieve before. if he stumbles at any point during his sprint, or if he happens to bump into an unsuspecting civilian on the street, he doesn't notice. the resonant thumping of his own heartbeat is all that he can hear as he thanks the gods for the flow of traffic being so spaced out, otherwise it would be near impossible for him to reach you in time.

in time for what? he has to ask. dabi doesn't even want to think about the repercussions, but the scenarios arrive in rivulets despite the mental trapeze he goes through to push them down, and they only continue to grow into oceans; darker, colder and harboring thoughts too gruesome for even someone of his caliber to handle. he won't realize until much later that he'd forgotten to put on his disguise, but the way people ogle at him with fear and disgust does not suppress the need to protect you.

even now, he can sense the pressure building behind his eyes, though it's more painful that it used to be. dabi hasn't cried in months, and it shows by how unabating the rivers of blood trickle from his skin grafts, despite his feverish attempts to stop them. look at yourself, holding together by a thread and weeping in public like a child whose lost his mother in the crowd. it wouldn't have come to this if he had stayed.

something shifts in the scenery; a distinct line drawn between the city and its neighboring countryside; but it makes no difference to the impending peril that looms ahead. the closer he gets, the sooner he'll find you waiting for him, dead or alive. dabi staggers, his breath hitching at the thought, as well as the harsh sting of pain that erupts when his knee collides with the gravel below. he pushes himself forward in little time, a strangled yell ripping his throat raw as his vision settles on the top of the lighthouse, peeking over the hillside. you have to be there—you just have to. he isn't done with you yet, and you're sure as hell not done with him.

the earth is damp beneath his feet, and it soaks through the canvas of his shoes whilst he darts past the boulevard and onto your property, crying out to you. surely, you must hear him. surely—

dabi practically hurls himself at the front door, his blood running cold when it opens for him effortlessly and swings ajar to reveal the living room, upturned and scattered with broken bits and pieces of furniture. there's no sign of you or whoever did this. the oakwood flooring groans under his weight as he barrels down the hall, peering into every room, beneath your bed and any other place where you could be hiding. nothing. his search ends in vain at the front doorstep, where he stands hunched over and dry heaving. no, no, no. you can't be gone.

"y/n!" he shouts. his only response is the crashing of waves against the shore and the incessant cawing of seagulls. for a moment, dabi forgets how to breathe, and then the ability returns to him; his legs aching horribly as he rushes to the beach. the arrangement of rocks is sporadic at first, but they gradually form large clumps the further he carries on, urging him to squeeze between the narrower openings. it comes with some difficulty, but at last he is able to hobble onto the sandy coast and rest his sights upon the vast sea. he can recall when seeing its murky blue sea would have put him at ease, but now it only causes his senses to be clouded with distress.

"y/n!" the once calm ripples rise into rolling billows that drench the shoreline in frothy heaps of algae, wreckage and blood. it curls and disbands within the ocean to pollute its cerulean hues with ones of scarlet red, and just like that, dabi's heart sinks like the titanic. he'll never forget the sight of you, face-down in the water; your favorite shirt slashed to shreds, clinging to your body as nothing more than a tattered mess. dabi wades into the water until it reaches his ankles, completely numb to its freezing temperature as he sinks down to hoist you up. he rests you on his thighs and presses his lips onto yours with urgency, shortly pulling back so that he can thrust his palms upon your chest and push. he doesn't care to remember how many times he repeats this, but when he finally sits back on his haunches to release a stifled curse, the feeling of dread has only just begun to take control.

you've never looked so pale.

a guttural sob wrenches itself past his grinding teeth as more tears arise, dappling your cheeks like raindrops. it wracks his body and sends forth a surge of agony to course through his veins. dabi cups your face with a shaking hand, the other secured around your waist while he kisses you, his erratic pleas falling upon deaf ears.

"come back. . .come back." his bawling ceases to end, no matter the abrasive pain blossoming in his gullet.

"c'mon, doll. where's that sweet voice of yours?" his thumb strokes your bottom lip as though beckoning you to speak. when nothing follows, he makes a pathetic sniveling sound mixed with something broken; a blubber or whine, he does not know. the burden of your lifeless form causes the reality to set in; a dagger piercing his insides and twisting as to drag the most blood-curdling screams from him.

dabi loved you, and he wishes he had the strength to say it when you were still there. it was only within the presence of his own demons that he was able to utter his affections; curled into himself and waiting for a reply that would never come, carried on the wind that bit his skin. he loved you because you held him like a child when his father hadn't even the heart to acknowledge him as his own. you spoke his name—his real name—as though the blood on his hands was not there; like you had washed it away yourself through acts of tenderness that he did not deserve.

and now you're gone.

you're gone, and—

dabi's entire body jolts with a start, a familiar heat dancing across the grafts of his marred skin. a faint blue glow radiates from his fists, which are tightly fastened the weighted blanket that lays crumpled atop his legs. he lets go with a shuttering gasp, observing the black smudges that reside where his flames once were, then blinking owlishly at his surroundings. the room is shrouded in darkness, all save for the bedside table to the left of him that is dimly lit by a flickering oil lamp. that, and the spaces illuminated by the moon's brilliance, showering the floor with multicolored spots as it glistens through the stained glass window. something slots into place, but all it does is send dabi's mind into overdrive.

where is he? where are you? are you really dead? everything hurts.

his nails drag down the length of his arms, seeking some sort of comfort in the pain that blooms there. it doesn't last long, however, when the bed suddenly dips, and a soothing warmth is placed on the small of his back.

"touya?" you croak, your words lingering with the remnants of sleep. dabi—no—touya, swears that he could cry again, right then and there. his eyes flit over your torso, where several scars in varying sizes have desecrated the skin. as he idly traces the pink lines, one final memory surfaces from the depths of his subconscious. him, desperately pounding your sternum; the last threads of denial snapping in tune; and you, coughing and spewing both curses and whatever seawater that had clogged up your lungs. touya held you in that same position for hours, listening as your ragged wheezing turned into hiccupping sobs. hauling you inside had been no easy feat, and having to hear your muffled groans while he stitched you up by the crackling hearth was no better, but the evening after had been pleasant.

you could not recollect the face of the intruder, and with such little information to go off of, touya was left to wallow in self-loathing for love he had almost lost. no amount of therapy could prevent the following nightmares and panic attacks, but in time, the rekindling of your relationship was proved successful, and dabi was prepared to repay you for the moments where you consoled him.

it wasn't just a dream. it had all happened, and yet here you were, alive and well.

a pensive look crosses your features when you note how quiet touya is, and you take it as a sign to break the tension with a tried-and-true method from the past. he doesn't resist as you coo softly, pulling him under the covers and wrapping yourself around him, a garbled tune fleeing from past your lips before you press them to his shoulder. you trail the faintest of butterfly kisses along his neck, his jaw, his cheeks and so on. the anxiety coiled in touya's chest starts to untangle, leaving him as a trembling bundle of nerves in your arms as you shush him, your nimble fingers carting through his hair.

if he weren't so tired, he would have laughed at how the tables have turned; with you cradling him in the way he's so used to doing. still, not even he can deny that it feels nice to be held like this.

"s'alright sweetheart. i'm here. . ." you whisper, and the effect is instantaneous. touya stills as he inhales the scent of buttercream and fresh pine that wafts into the bedroom, his eyelids fluttering shut. all he can hope for is that your presence will drive away any nightmares that foreshadow his well-needed rest, and that when he wakes up in the morning, you'll still be at his side.

dabi made a mistake, and thousands more will come to pass, because underneath the grit and grime that makes up his callous exterior, there is a human being; struggling to survive and struggling to please, just as much as the next. but he'll never leave you again. he had promised you as such with the band of gold now encircling your ring finger, and as long as he lives, he'll never break it.

[nazyalenskyism]

Take My Hand, Wreck My Plans

Summary: A Zoyalai fic based on the prompt: “Some angst and comfort. Some reunion after a very, very long time.”  send me a promt and i’ll write you a blurb

           “Do you see her?” Genya called out, scanning the waves of people disembarking the ships on her tiptoes. It had been months since Zoya had been stationed in the Wandering Isle, a position she had specifically asked him for before the war had ended as they walked through the streets of Ketterdam. Despite Genya’s insistence that Zoya not leave, the two of them had known that it was a necessity. They were too close to crossing a line that they couldn’t afford to, and they had silently agreed that distance was the only way to remedy the problem. Nikolai had known that leading the country into a peaceful era was going to be taxing, but he hadn’t imagined how difficult it was going to be without Zoya at his side. He had come to rely on her, not only for matters of the state, but for matters of the mind too, and ever since she’d left all those months ago, he’d only felt the discontent in his heart grow. He thought he could temper his want for Zoya if she wasn’t constantly at his side, but he’d come to learn that there was a reason for the famous saying, ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’, being so popular. Nikolai could hear his general’s voice in his ear, could picture the roll of her eyes at the confession, how she would threaten to call Tolya into the room so that the two could lament over forlorn poetry while she got drunk with Tamar, Genya and Nadia. Saints, he missed her.

            “It’s dropped anchor late,” Nikolai called back, slipping his timepiece back into his pocket, brushing his fingers against the cool velvet ribbon before turning to Genya. “And besides, it’ll take them a bit to disembark and--”

          “Nikolai,” Genya gasped in response to a sudden commotion at the gangplank. Nikolai’s head snapped up spotting the daub of blue silk descending down the plank, supported on either side by First Army soldiers. Zoya.           “Move,” Genya yelled, elbowing her way through the crowd, Nikolai hot on her heels. If the sickly pallor of her face and droopy lids of her eyes weren’t alarming enough, the way that she crumpled into his arms was and matted blood in her hair were. 

          “Commander Nazyalensky? Zoya?”           A low, unintelligible groan sounded from her lips and Nikolai’s heart dropped. What had happened to her? At Genya’s command, he laid Zoya out on the ground, letting Tamar assess her condition. Tamar’s hands hovered over Zoya’s form, and after a long moment, the Heartrender spoke. “She should be fine, but we need to get her back to the Dacha, we need more healers.”

          Genya grasped at Tamar as Nikolai carefully lifted his general into his arms, “is it that bad?”           “She’s lost a lot of blood, it’s a messy and difficult process that I don’t want to try in the back of the carriage. She should be okay.” 

          “She has to be fine. I can’t lose her too.” Tamar squeezed the other girl’s shoulder at the words before hopping into the driver’s seat with Tolya, briefing him on the situation while the others settled into the coach.           “Come on, Nazyalensky. Hold on a little while longer,” Nikolai whispered as they tore down the road, Zoya’s unconscious form limp in his arms, Genya’s shaking fingers curled into the blue silk of her kefta, as if she could force Zoya to stay with them.

          The next few hours were a blur in his mind. As soon as the carriage stopped, the Tolya offered to take Zoya in his arms but Nikolai refused to leave, carrying her to his chambers. For once his head was clear of anything but the situation at hand. They’d lost so much, they couldn’t afford to lose Zoya. He couldn’t bear to lose Zoya.           He stood by the window as the healers got to work on his general, applying their training in the small science to replenish her blood and heal her wounds. Nikolai knew that the Corporalki were more than capable, but he knew as well as anyone the potential for things to go wrong, no matter how good the odds were. 

          Nikolai was brought a basin of water to wash off with, a stack of urgent letters, and the reports from the crew of the ship and their account of the events that had left Zoya in this state. Once he’d read the reports, he sent the letters away, nothing was more urgent than this.           After what seemed like an eternity, Tolya sent the healers away, stating that he and Tamar could finish the job themselves, but he knew the reason they did this. It was because Zoya would’ve hated to appear vulnerable before this many people, she would probably admonish them all after she woke up for having the audacity to view her in her injured state, despite being her closest friends. It was when they were alone, Genya in one corner of the room, Nikolai in the other, with the twins standing over Zoya when the silence was broken once more.           “You’re not allowed to let her leave again.”           He scrubbed a hand over his face before turning to Genya, “even if I tried, do you think she would listen? Zoya Nazyalensky takes orders from no one, we all know that.”           “Don’t let her look for reasons to leave. Give her a reason to stay. ” Before Nikolai could fully process the meaning behind her words, a low groan caught their attention. “Nikolai?”           I’m here, he wanted to say, but for the first time in his life, apprehension held him back.           “Where’s Nikolai,” she mumbled again, writhing enough to disrupt the twins’ work. He was at her side in an instant, sinking onto the mattress and taking her reaching hand in his.           “I’m here,” he whispered, brushing her hair back from face, watching the crease in her brow ease as she unconsciously leaned into his touch. Her movements stopped, her body relaxing back into sleep, and Nikolai felt his heart tighten at the way she curled into him.           He felt stares from their friends, but no one said anything aside from Zoya’s occasional calls from him whenever he stepped back to let the twins continue their work. Every time she called, he was there, brushing back her hair, holding her hand between his, murmuring words of encouragement he knew she wouldn’t hear or remember. Around twilight, Nikolai realized that his friends had left them, the quiet of the room felt suffocating now that they were alone. It felt wrong that she was the one injured and asleep while he watched over her, for months their positions had been reversed, and while he hadn’t missed being chained to his bed every night he had missed the time it had given him with her. She had been the first thing he saw in the morning, the last thing he saw at night for months, and he hadn’t realized just how much he missed what that particular practice of theirs had given him.           He slowly pulled his hand from hers, easing into a chair at her bedside. “I’m sorry I let you go,” he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment before he heard her voice.

          “Nikolai?”           “I’m here,” he replied, helping her into a sitting position, and filling up a glass of water for her before settling down himself.           “You’re really here?”           “I know it’s hard to believe, as handsome as I am, I’m not a dream.” He smiled at her irritated exhale, “long time no see, Nazyalensky. You’re looking as darling as ever.”

          “You look worse. Much worse than I remember.”

          “I know I must be devilishly handsome in your fantasies, but a day spent tirelessly at your bedside may have me looking a little worse for wear, I’ll admit.”           “Where are we?” Her dark lashes fluttered against her golden cheeks, voice hoarse but the colour seemed to have returned to her face.  

          “Udova. The twins said that you needed more Corporalki to help stabilize you. You lost a lot of blood.”

          “This is your ancestral estate?”

          “Given how my father is Fjerdan, I don’t think it’s technically mine.” 

          “You used to come here as a child?” faint amusement lit her eyes, “baby Nikolai reigning terror on everyone, or holed away in the library, reading books until you couldn’t see straight?”           “Both.” 

          “Of course, I would expect nothing less.” A lingering silence followed her words, neither sure of exactly how to proceed.           “How are you feel--”

          “You look tired,” her hand reached out, and before he could react, she was cupping his face softly, thumb gently stroking along his cheek. “Have you been sleeping?”           “Yes.”

          Her stern gaze met his eyes, “your lies don’t work on me.”

          “First you’re immune to my charm, and now my lies. Keep this up and you’ll put me out of business, Nazyalensky.”

          Zoya’s hand dropped suddenly, her whole body recoiling at his words, leaving him to shudder from the absence of her warmth. Was she so horrified at the mere idea of being charmed by him? Nikolai sank back into his chair, unsure of how to proceed. Zoya sat staring down stubbornly at her intertwined fingers, and he couldn’t take it anymore, he needed answers. “What happened out there? You almost died Zoya.”

          “I was protecting the crew.”

          “You were unnecessarily throwing yourself in harm's way and you know it. I got the report from the Captain, he said that they would’ve made it safely to port without your heroics.”

          “I had no choice! It was either me or them.”           Nikolai laughed humorlessly, running a frustrated hand through his hair, an action he had repeated countless times today. “That’s not true and you know it. Four years as Commander of the Second Army, of working with me and you couldn’t come up with an alternative? Do you get joy out of nearly getting yourself killed?”

          “No,” she hissed. “You would’ve done the exact same thing without a moment of hesitation, don’t act like you wouldn't have.”

          “It doesn’t matter what I would’ve done. What matters is that you shouldn't have done it in the first place.”

          “I’m a single soldier, I’m expendable. The intel we gathered, my unit, the crew, they weren’t. It was an easy choice, one I’d make again.”

          “For Saints sake, you’re not expendable Zoya!” he burst out. Why was she so convinced that she was? 

          “I was there to lead them--to protect them. If you’re worried about being down a general, you know there are more than capable replacements for me, Nikolai. ”

          “You’re not replaceable! I don’t need anyone else. I need you, Zoya!” The words were breathless, and once they were out he couldn’t reel them back in.

          His words hung in the air before she began to nod slowly, as if she had been expecting the outburst, “as your general.” It wasn’t a question, but it was. 

          “Yes, but it’s more than that.” Why was he having such difficulty saying it? How did he explain the all encompassing nature of his feelings to Zoya? Brave and beautiful Zoya, with her eyes hesitantly, maybe even hopefully trained on him?           Nikolai wanted  to take her into his arms and explain that ever since they’d been dragged into the Fold by Saints, he had felt a connection to her, that he could taste the ice wine they shared on quiet nights, smell her signature scent of wildflowers on the wind wherever she was near. He wanted to tell her that he felt a connection between them, as palpable as a golden thread binding them together, and wondered if she felt it too. Nikolai desired to tell her that at her departure, he had felt like the thread had been pulled and pulled until he couldn’t breathe, only for it to suddenly snap back like an elastic at the news of her return, an overwhelming sensation of longing overtaking his senses. He wanted to tell her that when he first saw her today, it had felt like someone had pierced his chest with a lance, an agony rivaling only what he’d felt when being impaled by the thornwood that day in the Fold, the same day he’d felt his fate be irreversibly bound to hers. He wanted so much, he couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward in his chair, uttering words he could never take back.

            “I want you. I want you all the time, Zoya.”

            “You want me, but will you have me? Are you not bound to your duty as king to choose the best person for your country?” To anyone else her face would appear impassive but he knew the way her eyes widened slightly, the way her lips parted, when she was holding her breath, afraid to hope that something was true. She wanted it to be true.

            “If my country and I are one and the same,”  he began, taking her hand in his, “then I shall only give it what it most deserves, and hope I am worthy of it too.”

            “Can you let yourself do that?”           “A king can do as he pleases, can’t he?” She turned away at those words, and Nikolai reached out, cupping her face and bringing her gaze back to him. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t stay. I thought we both knew what was right at the time, and it’s clear that we were both wrong.”           “Go on,” she whispered, her shining eyes locked on his.           “I don’t want you to leave again. I want you here, by my side, for as long as time will let me, if that’s what you want.”           “What are you proposing?” Her hand slid up to his and she leaned further into his touch.           “A coquettish courtship, a exuberant engagement, a whirlwind wedding and when all that’s said and done,” he angled his head towards hers, “hopefully many, many years of peaceful and quiet companionship.”           “Sounds perfect,” Zoya breathed, her gaze trained on his lips, “except for one thing.”           Nikolai pulled back, afraid that he’d alarmed her, “what?”           She wrapped her arm around the back of his neck, pulling him down towards her, “you expect me to believe that a single moment with you will be quiet.”            “I can think of several ways you can shut me up if I ever get to be too much. I think you’ll find that I am easily--” Zoya crashed her lips against his, and despite the harsh words she always seemed to have readily on hand, he felt her smile against him. For once in his life, Nikolai let himself relax, knowing that the rest of the world would still be there when they were ready to face it, together.

[omercifulheaves]

Favorite Monsters - The Trioxin Zombies

From: The Return of the Living Dead, written and directed by Dan O'Bannon. You know what's wrong with zombies today? No personality! None of the social commentary of Romero's pitiful revenants. None of the wonderful grottiness of the Italian knock-offs. Nada. Just swarms of snarling, gray monsters that blur together and serve as little more than cannon fodder for our manly man heroes to mow down while they muse "maybe man is, like, the real monster, dude." I try not to be all "Back in my day..." but one can't help but weep at what has become as the genre upon revisiting something like The Return of the Living Dead. Positing a world where Night of the Living Dead was a fictionalized account of what happened when experimental chemical  245-Trioxin stirred up trouble in a local morgue, The Return of the Living Dead -- itself originally intended to be a direct sequel to Night based on a novel by Night’s co-writer John Russo until Alien screen writer Dan O'Bannon came on the project and threw out everything except the title so as not to step on George Romero's toes -- continues with that screwy meta-approach through out, especially when it comes to how it handles the film's undead hordes. 

Think removing the head or destroying the brain will put them down for good? Not hardly, seems like nothing short of burning them ashes will put down these revenants for good and that itself comes with its own host of problems. (A throughline in Return’s dark humor is built around how any attempt to fix things just makes the situation several magnitudes worse.) Used to seeing zombies being these slow, unintelligent shamblers? Not these ghouls. They speak, they're fast, they're agile, they're aggressive and they're smart enough to set ambushes and will even use police and ambulance radios to order some zombie take out. Early on a character in the film asks "YOU MEAN THE MOVIE LIED!?" when burying a pick axe into a zombie's brain just leaves you with a squirming cadaver stuck to the floor and that phrase seems to be the entire ethos the film operates under. And yet, as much as Return's zombies deviate from the Romero model, like all good send ups and deconstructions, there's an greater understanding of the material they're thumbing their nose at than you'll find in a million straight faced knock-offs. Like Night, Return is a movie about how Alpha Male posturing means jack and spit (and as the man said, Jack just left town), having good intentions and being young pretty and in love won't save you from a horrifying fate, and boy oh boy, are the Proper Authorities Not Your Friends. This extends to the zombies themselves. Something that I feel has been lost in a lot of zombie fiction today, as it's been slowly taken over by meat headed survivalist fantasies is there was always an underlying amount of pity to how Romero's work viewed the zombies. They're dangerous yes but there's clearly something sadly pathetic about them. The human machine has broken down and fallen apart. You can see a similar thing here. While more feral, Return's zombies are just as pitiable as a captured one reveals that they're little more than amped up junkies, needing to feed on the brains of the living to temporarily stave off the pain of their existence. These things didn't ask to be returned to some mockery of life by some idiots who tried to cover up a mistake rather than own up to what happened and now everybody's going to suffer for it. But none of this would work as well as it does if the zombie make up and effects weren't up to snuff. Designed by comic artist William Stout, we've got an undead horde that looks like it could have walked out of the pages of an EC horror comic. (Honestly, Return's aesthetic is more true to EC Comic's than some official EC comic adaptations. See also: Romero's Creepshow.) There's civil war soldier zombies, half-an-old-lady zombies, midget zombies, punk Linnea Quigley zombies, zombies that look like they walked out of a bog, walking skeletons, and of course, the piece de resistance, the Tar Man, a pile of walking sludge and bones that leaves you wondering what holds that thing together. There's a bit late in the movie where somebody knocks its head clean off with the baseball bat and it lets out a confused roar *even though it doesn't have a head* as it flails about. It's pretty funny. There were a bunch of sequels to Return of the Living Dead. Other than Return of the Living Dead 3, which was really more of a rejiggered Re-Animator sequel, they're all pretty bad. Watch this one.

[sabradips]

Space Jam: A New Legacy – Sabra Sweepstakes

Space Jam: A New Legacy – Sabra Sweepstakes

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[thegrandkinghimself]

who is oikawa tooru?

i guess that’s a weird way to start off a post, considering just how popular oikawa is in this fandom. i’m absolutely certain that he’s still one of the most popular characters if i can take the #oikawasear trend on twitter a couple of weeks ago seriously. (i will be mourning that iwaoi is no longer the top ship in this fandom. it’s devastating to me on a personal level). and i can’t say that i’m any different, either, otherwise i wouldn’t have made this blog or this post. but i guess the reason i’ve been itching to write this is because i’ve been in this fandom--and more specifically, a fan of oikawa--for about four or five years now. i devour the content available, and i can assure you that i’ve read too many of the fanfictions on ao3 to be healthy, and never before have i seen a character whose characterization is so hotly disputed. 

and i get it. he’s a complex person. he’s kind of awkward in that there is a very clear disconnect between his outward personality and who he is alone. it’s a very hard balance to strike, especially when you consider just how much conjecture goes on in his characterization among fans and in discourse. he’s really easy to project and certain traits, correct or otherwise, are amplified based off how authors perceive him. there’s plenty of presumptions that can be made based on his on-screen actions/thoughts/beliefs that can be taken to some very logical conclusions. 

but i’ve also seen people write him in ways that don’t strike me as particularly truthful. he’s type casted into stereotypes that don’t do him justice, or made into something that is vaguely like oikawa, but not quite. in the following post, i’ll be trying to dispel misunderstandings of his character, if only for my own sanity. 

tl;dr i think that oikawa is chronically one of the most misrepresented characters in fandom and i want to fix that

exclaimer: i am solely an anime-watcher; i have seen snippets of the manga and therefore have a general idea of what is going on.

let’s establish some very very basic stuff. just to keep it simple, i’m not going to talk about anything beyond what has been published via the anime (as of season four). 

Oikawa Tooru | 及川徹 

gender: male

d.o.b.: 1994.7.20. or 20 July, 1994

height: 184.3 cm

weight: 72.2 kg

occupation: high school 3rd year, class 6

position/number: setter, 1 (captain)

here’s something that’s never pointed out: oikawa is in class 6 which, if we go off the trend of every other school in haikyuu!!, means that he is in a college preparatory class aka he’s pretty dang smart. it’s not confirmed or anything, but it a. follows the trend of every other class 6 student and b. is the highest class available among seijoh 3rd years (classes 5, 3, and 1). don’t get the idea that he’s dumb or unintelligent, or even that his strengths only lie in the classroom because that would be a gross understatement of his skills.

anywho. 

generally speaking, i like to start with the building blocks of his personality because there’s so much room for assumptions. here are the things that i think make up his core personality:

intelligence/knowledgeable: not only academically speaking, but he’s also well-versed in people. he knows how to play them--what will make someone more confident, more doubtful, what will help his teammates succeed. clearly, oikawa is very knowledgeable in human thought patterns. or he’s dedicated a lot of time to knowing them. 

loyalty: of all of oikawa’s traits, i think this one gets talked about the least, but we know it to be true. we make jokes about “you should have come to shiratorizawa” but it really shows you exactly how loyal, how much trust, oikawa has in this team that he has spent three years shaping. he never stops believing in the work that he has put in, and especially the hard work that his teammates have put into their volleyball. 

hardworking: one of the most well-known things about oikawa. most fans already know that his white knee pad is actually a knee brace. ‘nuff said. i salute you, good sir. 

insecurity: oikawa’s insecurities are perhaps his most notable trait. in a sense, he’s sort of the underdog--so good, but never quite good enough to accomplish what he’s set out to do. and we know that he’s struggled with his doubts since junior high, literally since he was 12 or 13, and that’s informed all of his character from the moment he ran into ushijima. oikawa is someone who is defined by his insecurities. 

oikawa is a lot of things. he’s introduced as someone who is very flamboyant--he’s built up by kageyama as the best setter, his senpai literally and figuratively, his initial shots are all of smug smiles and easy, unfaltering swagger in the face of this new team. even his theme, all rambunctious brass and jazzy, is meant to be all in your face, here’s the big boss! he’s someone who is petty and silly and seems to favor shallow conversation. but he’s oikawa, so there’s a surprising amount of depth in the little time that we have with him. there’s a reason that, in any other franchise, he’d probably be the protagonist.

he is someone full of contradictions. he’s childish and he spends time with a bunch of girls and is very clearly someone who likes to project a certain image of himself to the public (see: his cute lil’ humming run after his yell in s4e23 to make him seem kind of normal). but he’s also spent a lot of time with himself. in fact, if we take the few scenes we have of him alone and his bedroom (bare, spartan, meticulous) into account, oikawa actually is much more solemn and/or serious than the image he projects. he’s comfortable in the silences between all the white noise. he’s alright just being with iwaizumi. he allows himself to dwell on the past and his shortcomings, while also looking forward to the future. his ambition and passion to improve drive him, but his past failures weigh him down. they haunt him.

personally, i think that he’s naturally a pretty silly guy when given the chance. it’s not just for show. iwaizumi would even corroborate this à la oikawa’s introduction speech in s1. he likes having fun when he can with his friends. if we assume that oikawa is most himself with iwaizumi, then we definitely know that’s the case (see: “are you my mom, iwa-chan?”), and there’s nothing wrong with that. but i think that the most basic traits of his character, combined with his experiences in volleyball, have pushed him to be this person who is mired in doubt. it’s forced him to go down a path where something that he once loved for the fun of it has now become the source of his ire. it’s really just that simple. maybe in another life, things would be different and oikawa wouldn’t have to struggle as much. but that’s really just a part of the human experience, isn’t it? and, in all honesty, would we really love oikawa as much without all his vices?

and maybe this is getting into speculation, but i don’t think it’s a difficult argument to make that oikawa is really mature. he’s introspective. i say introspective because the revelations that he’s had in regards to his own strengths and weaknesses--those are things he’s had to confront and deal with since he was in junior high (starts at 12 years of age). it takes someone with a lot of maturity and self-awareness to realize those kinds of things about himself.

and he’s stronger than he gets credit for. most people depict him as a crybaby, but he’s really not. he doesn’t cry or give up in the face of ushijima or kageyama’s unfettered growth and successes, he doesn’t cry when faced with defeat. oikawa is there to support iwaizumi in his own doubt as ace, and lend support to his teammates. and oikawa doesn’t get stuck on the what-ifs or has-beens. driven by his infamous ambition, he looks forward to the future. 

it’s kind of a double-edged sword. it’s pushed him this far--he’s put in this much effort to be one of the best in the prefecture--because of his competitive spirit, but it’s also something that has caused him serious injury. oikawa’s motto (”if you’re gonna to hit it, hit it until it breaks!”) is the very epitome of this mentality. it’s a message to work hard to finish what you started, but i also think that you could interpret that hard work breaking you, too. he’s steadfast—obsessive, really—to the point that oikawa will let his passions break him before he would ever give up. it’s the point of all the strife in his life, because he would never have the problems he does if he were even a little less enamored by this sport. 

and you really have to wonder where he would be without ushijima and kageyama as his obstacles. his drive will always be there, that is an intrinsic part of him, as are the standards to which he holds himself, but you really have to wonder just how good oikawa would be if he didn’t have such direct competitors. this is an incredibly important question to ask about kageyama and oikawa in particular. yes, oikawa does loathe ushijima: for his disregard for oikawa’s decisions, for his disregard of oikawa’s loyalty, for his flippant attitude of seijoh, who oikawa has poured his blood and sweat into creating. but ushijima is an opposite hitter. oikawa is a setter. those are two very different positions with little crossover. but with kageyama--that is a clear rivalry. they push each other to be better, made all the more potent by their differences as players; one setter’s growth as a player directly impacts how the other performs in each subsequent game. seijoh’s defeat by karasuno in season 2 just feeds into oikawa’s drive for the future. he has not intention of giving up. a light was lit under him, pushing him forward, to do better, to be better. 

this is something that has been pointed out in a different analysis (linked below) but, narratively speaking, oikawa is kageyama’s foil. their interactions inform their characters and are a major cause of tension in their development. their relationship is really the most complex in the story that i have noticed, and is something that has not been appreciated enough. the iwaizumi-oikawa thing has been expounded and studied in every facet possible (i love the alexander the great/hephaestion allusions), but it’s true that kageyama has impacted oikawa the most. they begrudgingly respect each other’s talents, what it is that they bring to the court, while also envying what the other has in spades that they do not. in oikawa’s case, his strength clearly lies in his interpersonal relationships--his ability to intuit exactly what his teammates need to be at their best. kags is just a fount of overwhelming technical skill who has a really hard time getting to know those around him. living up to the standards that oikawa places on himself, in tandem with kageyama threatening his position as setter, leave oikawa floundering, fearing his own incompetence against opponents who are naturally much better than he. so he’s left with the knowledge that maybe his best isn’t good enough, but he still continues on anyway. he pushes himself past a seemingly unreachable threshold just to go toe-to-toe with this monster. it’s the purpose of his character--to tell this story of the ordinary v. the extraordinary--and it is perhaps the most relatable arc that a story like haikyuu!! can tell.

their connection naturally causes oikawa to seek out help, seen in the flashback scenes where he is talking to an unspecified coach/adult. that coach’s words then become the creed upon which oikawa plays, maybe even more than what iwaizumi has taught him, and is the final push that completes oikawa’s character arc in s2ep24. that change in mindset allows oikawa to see kageyama’s unbridled talent not as an obstacle but as a challenge. it’s very nuanced, but it makes all the difference. it’s why, following seijoh’s defeat, oikawa has the audacity to declare to kageyama and ushijima his plans for the future. in a sense, karasuno and kageyama and ushijima have won the battle but not the war. it’s the tipping point in his story and, more than anything, what makes oikawa so compelling. we have seen what has led up to the change, but now we want to know what he’s going to do to meet that challenge. what will he be doing beyond the story when he is no longer relevant to the narrative? we don’t know the details at this point, but we know that oikawa’s love and ambition for volleyball have been reaffirmed in this moment. 

but to bring it back, the kags-oiks connection also makes us question what it is we are watching, makes us as the audience think: what qualifies someone as a genius? are there any limitations to what that genius can do? what can ordinary people do in the face of those geniuses? 

these are questions that exist beyond the reality of sports and transverse into other disciplines. for me, those are very real questions that i have had to ask myself as a musician. i have dedicated nine, almost 10, years to my practice but there are still 10-year-olds who are just better at it than i ever will be. part of it is time and practice to be sure, but some of it is just innate. and i think the more appropriate version of those questions would be this: what qualifies someone as a prodigy? are there limitations for prodigies? what can we do in the face of prodigies? 

oikawa is a genius player--he knows the ins-and-outs of his sport better than anyone, and he can accomplish great feats that others in his same position can’t. but even with all that veritable experience and skill, he is ultimately still overtaken by a prodigy whose talents seem endless. it’s why he can hate ushijima but fear kageyama. one is something he can actively fight against, the other is inevitable. 

and really, i think that’s the beauty of oikawa tooru, why he’s so beloved by the fandom, even years after he has stopped being relevant to the narrative. beyond the fluff and goofiness and hijinks, there’s someone there who is really, truly, human. 

an aside with much less significance/why do people think this??

so here’s one thing: even though oikawa has fangirls, i wonder what he actually thinks of them. for one, it’s only natural for anyone to be super flattered if people think you’re hot stuff. that’s just... i don’t think he’s weird if he pays attention to them. but i think that people are conflating his being kind to them to being genuinely egotistical due to the attention. actually, i think these are opposing ideas and a contradiction of who oikawa is. when you’re an arrogant person, you think that you deserve all the attention you’re getting and you’re not going to bother with the people who worship you.

but that’s not at all what oikawa does. he’s rather kind to his fans. i would never say that he’s self-effacing, but knowing what you’re worth is different from being pompous. and think about it. it’d be a real jerk move for oikawa to not say nice things to them and thank his fangirls when they spend time, energy, and effort to make him food and see his games. he would just be a genuinely awful person if he didn’t at least give them thanks. it’d be more alarming if he didn’t talk to them, at least in my opinion. more than anything, we should consider this: why is it that oikawa has the fan club and not anyone else on the seijoh team? i’m sure a part of it is because he’s attractive and the captain of a team, but i think it’s more than that, too. we see these interactions from other perspectives, but i think that reflects more on those around oikawa than oikawa himself if they don’t understand why he acts the way he does with those girls.

another thing: i don’t think that anyone can question that oikawa is very pretty, or handsome, or whatever descriptor you would like. it’s prevalent in fandom (see: pretty setters squad), but he is also the only person in canon to be acknowledged by other characters as being particularly good-looking. maybe the miyas count at this point? i’m not sure. but i don’t really understand where people get the idea that he is particularly focused on his appearance, though. there is literally no indication of that from the material that i have seen. and maybe he uses that to his advantage with his fangirls, but i highly doubt that, in all honesty. i think that it’s fun to imagine him being into these things as a hobby, but it irks me greatly when i see that people spend time saying that oikawa wakes up extra early just to fix his hair or slather on foundation/concealer just to look presentable. 

he’s a teenaged boy who clearly has other things that worry him, he’s a full-time student, and volunteers to coach at lil tykes volleyball classroom in his free time. he wouldn’t have time to spend on his hair or makeup. and we even seen in the hanger tooru special that he even wakes up looking like that. 

he is au naturale, my friends. and we even know how little he gives thought to his own body, if you take into account his knee brace. for oikawa, his body is merely the medium through which he can accomplish his goals. we even have evidence of this when we see oikawa up all night studying karasuno game play or via his knee brace. he doesn’t know how to stop or understand when enough is enough. he breaks himself if there’s no one to watch him. 

also, just... how would makeup work, logistically speaking? i don’t wear makeup, but i’m thinking that foundation and concealer and hair product would be, um, really bad. like, it’d run down his face and stuff. also, it’d probably get into his eyes, too? seriously. i’m not against oikawa wearing makeup in the slightest cause he’d be even prettier, but we know that oikawa would absolutely not jeopardize his chances in any way. 

thank you for reading this long-winded, probably awful look into my favorite character of all time. and i do mean that. he is my favorite character in all of media. which, like, says a lot when he’s competing against the casts of a:tla, call me by your name, and my actual favorite book, the song of achilles. after all of that, if you would like another (better) analysis of oikawa’s character, i suggest this reddit thread: https://www.reddit.com/r/haikyuu/comments/94irsi/character_analysis_16_oikawa_tooru_discussion/ 

[innuendostudios]

Here’s How to Radicalize a Normie, a video essay on how the Alt-Right and their fellow travelers recruit. Clocking in at 41 minutes, 6756 words, 633 individual drawings, and 27 sources (including three full books), it is by far the longest and most heavily-researched video in The Alt-Right Playbook. I am very tired.

It took so long to put this behemoth together that my Patreon started to dip. So, maybe a little more than usual, if you want to keep seeing videos like these, please consider backing me on Patreon.

Transcript below the cut.

Say, for the sake of argument, your friend Gabe is starting to worry you.

Gabe’s always been just, you know, a regular guy. Not very political. He likes video games, sci-fi, comics, Star Wars, and anime. White guy shit. The only offbeat thing about him is you suspect there’s like a 20% chance he’s a furry. For all intents and purposes, Gabe is a normie.

But recently Gabe’s been spending a lot of time on some radically conservative forums, and listening to radically conservative podcasts, and picking some radically conservative arguments with you and your friends. You never would have expected this, not from Gabe, and, given the speed it’s happened, it’s worrying to think where it might be headed.

How have the Alt-Right gotten their hooks into your friend?

If you’ve ever known a Gabe, this video is for you. Here’s How to Radicalize a Normie.

Step 1: Identify the Audience

What you need to know before we begin is: around 2013, the Nazis went online.

Hate groups in the US, as tracked by the Southern Poverty Law Center, had been growing in number since the noughts, but, between 2012 and 2014, they dropped by almost a quarter. Patriot groups dropped by over a third. However, hate crimes stayed about the same. Radical conservatism was not shrinking, but decentralizing. Still radical, still often violent, but now full of white nationalist nomads unlikely to join a formal organization.

This didn’t make them harmless. What it did was protect their asses from the typical hate group cycle: getting the public’s attention, making allies in conservative media, swelling their numbers, and then eventually disgracing themselves with failures, infighting, and, often enough, members committing horrific acts of violence, which come with social and sometimes legal consequences for all the other members.

So the Alt-Right and their fellow travelers these days don’t so much have members. They have hashtags, followers, viewers, and subscribers. This insulates them from their own audience. If Gabe, as a member of that audience, were to go out and commit a crime on their behalf, there’d be little doubt they had a hand in radicalizing him, but it’d be very hard to claim they told him to do it. On some of these sites, where Gabe spends hours and hours of his day, he’s never created an account or left a comment; the people radicalizing him don’t even know he’s there.

This distributed nature is what makes the Alt-Right, and the movements connected to it, unique. (You may remember a notable proof-of-concept for this strategy.) Doing almost everything online has, as compared with traditional hate movements, dramatically increased their reach and inoculated them from consequence. The trade-off, as we will see, is a lack of control.

And so we come to Gabe.

Gabe exists at the intersection of the kinds of people the Alt-Right is looking for - straight white cis men who feel emasculated by modern society, primarily, though they do make exceptions - and the kinds of people who are vulnerable to recruitment. Gabe fits the first profile in that he got bullied in high school, and often feels he has to hide his nerdy side for fear of getting ridiculed. The Alt-Right also has success with men who can’t get laid or recently got divorced or feel anxious about an influx of non-white people in their community. These things can make one feel like less than the confident white man they’re “supposed” to be. And it’s the closest they will ever come to being minoritized.

Regarding the second profile, it’s important to know that Gabe is not categorically different from you or me. He’s a cishet white dude - his problems are not unique. There isn’t a ton of research into the demography of the Alt-Right, but there may be a higher-than-average chance Gabe has a history of being abused or comes from a broken home. You don’t know if it’s true of Gabe, he’s never said. But most abuse survivors don’t become Nazis. The things that make people like Gabe recruitable tend to be situational: it happens often during periods of transition, as dramatic as the death of a loved or as benign as moving to a new city. Things that make people ask big life questions. Gabe has concerns like economic precarity, not knowing his place in a changing world, stressful working conditions. In other words, Gabe is suffering under late capitalism, same as everyone, and it’s entirely plausible he could have gone down the path to becoming a Leftist.

This is not to make an “economic anxiety” argument: the animating force of the Far Right is and always has been bigotry. But the Alt-Right targets Gabe by treating his “economic anxiety” as one of many things bigotry can be sold as a solution to. It is their aim that, when dissatisfied white men go looking for answers, they find the Alt-Right before they find us.

Step Two: Establish a Community

Were Gabe pledging an old-school hate movement, there would probably be a recruiter to usher him into an existing community. But that’s the kind of formalized interaction modern extremists try to avoid. Online extremism has many points of entry, and everybody’s journey is unique, so rather than be comprehensive we will focus on what are, in my estimation, the two most common pathways: the Far Right creates a community Gabe is likely to stumble into, or infiltrates a community Gabe is already in.

The stumble-upon method has two main branches, one of which is just “Gabe ends up on a chan board,” which we’ve already done a video about. The other is kind of the polar opposite of 4chan’s cult of anonymity: Gabe ends up in the fandom of a Far Right thought leader.

These folks are charismatic media personalities (that’s charismatic according to Gabe’s tastes, not ours; I don’t understand it, either). These personalities may gain traction on any number of platforms, from podcasts to reportage to blogging, though the most effective platform for redpilling is, and yes I am biting the hand that feeds me, YouTube. They may get Gabe’s attention through fairly standard means, like talking about or even generating controversy to get themselves trending, while some of the more committed will employ dubious SEO tactics like clickbait, google bombing, and data voids (just pause for definitions, we don’t have time).

What they tend to have in common, especially the most accessible ones, is that they don’t present themselves as entry points to the radical Right. In fact, many did not set out to be Far Right thought leaders, and may not think of themselves as such (though they are often selling products, of which the Alt-Right are among their biggest purchasers, and it’s not like they’re turning the money away). How they present is the same way anyone presents who wants to be successful on social media: accessible, approachable, authentic. The face-to-face relationship a budding extremist forms with their recruiter or the leader of their hate group’s local chapter are here folded into one parasocial relationship with a complete stranger.

Why this person appeals to Gabe is they’re not selling politics as politics, but conservatism as a kind of lifestyle brand. They rely heavily on criticizing or ridiculing the Left: feminists are oversensitive, Black people unintelligent, queer folks doomed to loneliness, and trans people insane; I dunno if it’s a coincidence that these are all things Gabe thinks about himself in his low moments. By contrast, they don’t sell conservatism as having sounder policies or a more coherent moral framework, but that abandoning progressive principles and embracing conservative ones will make Gabe happier. Remember, Gabe isn’t looking for white nationalism or misogyny, what he wants is the cure to soul-sickness, and these friendly micro-celebs are here to offer a shot of life advice with politics as the chaser. It is extremely important that politics be presented as a set of affects, not a set of beliefs.

The second pathway is infiltration, which is its own beast. Media personalities sometimes become gateways to the Right almost by accident: they do something edgy, a part of their audience reacts positively, and, facing no real consequence, they do it more; this leads to further positive reinforcement from conservative fans, the rest of the audience acclimates, and the cycle repeats, the personality pushing the envelope further and further based on what flies with their increasingly conservative audience. In this way, they become a right-wing figure by both radicalizing and being radicalized by their audience.

Infiltration is deliberate.

The Far Right will reliably target any community that has 1) a large, white, male population, 2) whose niche interests allow them to feel vaguely marginalized, and 3) who are not used to progressive critique of said interests. This isn’t to say progressive critique doesn’t exist, or hasn’t been baked into the property from the beginning, but that it has been, so far, easy for white guys to ignore. As such, progressives within that community probably don’t talk politics much, and women and minorities are perfectly welcome to post, same as anyone, but just, you know, don’t, don’t make identity politics, you know, like, a thing.

Given Gabe’s proclivities, he’s probably already in a number of fan communities where he can geek out and not get teased. And this is where the Far Right will go looking for him

Communities are at their most vulnerable to infiltration at times of political discord. This can happen naturally - say, a new property in the fandom has a Black protagonist - or it can be provoked - say, a bunch of channers join the forum and say provocative things about race to get people arguing - or both. Left to its own devices, the community might sort out its differences and maybe even come out more progressive than they started. But, with the right pressure applied in the right moment, these communities can devolve into arguments about the need to remove a nebulously-defined “politics” from the conversation.

The adage about bros on the internet is “‘political’ means anything I disagree with,” but it’d be more accurate to say, here, “‘political’ means anything on which the community disagrees.” For instance, “Nazis are bad” is an apolitical statement because everyone in the community agrees. It’s common sense, and therefore neutral. But, paradoxically, “Nazis are good” is also apolitical; because “Nazis are bad” is the consensus, “Nazis are good” must be just an edgy joke, and, even if not, the community already believes the opposite, so the statement is harmless. Tolerable. However, “feminism is good” is a political statement, because the community hasn’t reached consensus. It is debatable, and therefore political, and you should stop talking about it. And making political arguments, no matter how rational, is having an agenda, and having an agenda is ruining the community.

(Now, it is curious how the things that provoke the most disagreement tend to be whichever ones make white dudes uncomfortable. One of life’s great, unanswerable mysteries.)

You can gather where this is going: a community that doesn’t tolerate progressivism but does tolerate Nazism is going to start collecting Nazis, Nazis whose goal is to drive a wedge between the community and the Left. Once the Left acknowledges, “Hey, your community’s developing a Nazi problem,” the Nazis - who are, remember, trusted, apolitical members of the community who might just be kidding about all the Nazi shit - say, “Did you hear that, guys?! Those cultural Marxists just called all of us Nazis!” Wedge. Similarly, any community members who say, “but Nazis though” are framed as infiltrators pushing an agenda, even if they’ve been there longer than the Nazis have. They get the wedge, too.

This is how fandoms radicalize. They are built as - yeah, I’ll say it - safe spaces for nerds, weebs, and furries, and are told that the Left is a threat to their safety. Given a choice between leaving a community that has mattered to him for years and simply adjusting to the community’s shifting politics, the assumption is that Gabe will stay. This assumption is right often enough that a lot of fandoms have been colonized.

What is true of both of these methods - Gabe finding the Right or the Right finding him - is that Gabe does not come nor stay for the ideology. He’s here for the community, the sense of belonging, of being with his people, of having his fears validated and his enjoyment shared. The ideology is simply the price of admission.

Step Three: Isolate

There is a vast, interconnected network of Far Right communities out there, and Gabe is, at this point, only on the periphery. In order to keep him in, they need to disrupt his relationships to other communities, and become, more and more, his primary online social space. Having made this space hostile to the Left, they now seek to break his connections to progressives elsewhere in his life.

This is hard to do online. The whole appeal of moving radicalism to the internet is that your away-from-keyboard life doesn’t have to change. You are crypto the moment you log off. Some thought leaders will encourage their audience to cut ties with Family of Origin, or “deFOO,” but, even then, they can’t monitor whether the audience has actually done it the way an in-person movement could. And so alienating Gabe from the Left is less controlled, and, consequently, may be less total. How much Gabe isolates is up to him.

But the vast majority of Far Right media presumes an alienation from the Left. Part of conservative bloggers and YouTubers making the Left look pathetic is doing a lot take-downs and responses. This is a constant repetition of the Left’s arguments for the purpose of mockery, and, for Gabe, it starts to replace any engagement with progressive media directly. He soon knows the Left only through caricature. It also trains him, if he does directly engage, to approach the Left with the same combative stance as his role models. (For reference, see my comment section.) And this is only if he doesn’t partake in one of the many active boycotts of “SJW media.”

In addition to mocking the Left’s arguments, they also, curiously, appropriate them. This is one part sanitization: liberal centrism is more socially acceptable; indeed, many figures on the outer layers think of themselves as moderates, even as they serve as gateways to radicalism. But, also, many of Gabe’s problems could be addressed by progressive leftism, so they sell him racist, sexist versions of it. Yes, there is a problem with workers being underpaid and overextended, but the solution isn’t unions, it’s deporting immigrants; yes, there is a chronic loneliness and anger to being a man in the modern age, but it’s not because of the toxic masculine expectations placed on you by the patriarchy, it’s women being slutty; yes, wealth disparity does mean a tiny percentage of elites have more influence over culture and politics than the rest of us combined, but the problem isn’t capitalism, it’s the Jews. And it’s hard for Gabe to reject these ideas without, in the process, rejecting the progressive ideas they’re copied from; the Right’s “take the red pill” is, to the untrained eye, similar to the Left’s “get woke.” (Or, at least, the bowdlerized version of “get woke” that is no longer specifically about race which came to fashion when white people started saying it, grumble grumble.)

Take the red pill or reject them both; either is a step to the right.

As this rhetoric slips into his day-to-day conversation, even as seemingly harmless “irreverence,” it may strain relationships with people who are not entertained by this shit. Off-color comments about race and gender can certainly be wearying for female and non-white friends, which can lead to a passive distance or an eventual confrontation [“why is everyone but me so sensitive?!”], which only seem to confirm what his reactionary community says about liberal snowflakes. If he says these things on social media, he may get his account suspended, and, if he comes back under an alt, you can bet his new reactionary friends will be the first to reconnect, applaud the behavior that got him banned, and repeat should he get banned again. A few cycles of this and he’s lost touch with everyone else.

Also, his adoption of the insular, meme-laden terminology of this community makes him less and less comprehensible to outsiders.

Over time, sources of information get replaced with community-approved ones: conservative news, conservative YouTube, conservative Wikipedia if he’s really committed. The Algorithm soon takes note and stops recommending media from the Left. He stops watching shows with a “liberal agenda,” which usually means shows starring women and people of color. Now, there is evidence that the human mind responds to fictional characters similarly to real people, and that consuming diverse media can decrease bigotry in ways roughly analogous to having a diverse group of friends, which is one of many reasons we say representation matters. By consuming a homogenous media diet, Gabe stymies his ability to have even parasocial relationships with anyone who isn’t a cishet conservative white dude or one of their approved exceptions.

To the extent that any of this happens, it happens at Gabe’s discretion and at his own chosen pace. It has not been forced on him, only encouraged and rewarded. But the fact that it hasn’t been forced can make him all the more willing to accept it, because it seems safe to consider; even though his life and social circle are changing to accommodate, he does not feel committed. But many Gabes have walked these halls, and, if they close the door behind them, there’s nowhere left to go but down.

Step Four: Raise their Power Level

(...and they say we ruined anime.)

Consider the ecosystem of the Alt-Right as layers of an onion, with Gabe sitting at the edge and ready to traverse towards the center. (No, I’m not just going to reiterate the PewDiePipeline, though, if you haven’t seen it, go do that.)

The outer layer of the onion is extremism at its most plausibly deniable. Without careful scrutiny, the public-facing figureheads could pass as dispassionate, and the websites as merely problematic rather than softly fascist. It is valuable if Gabe believes this as well; that, at this stage, he believe the bigotry is simply trolling, the extremists an insignificant minority, and any report of harassment faked. That he believe where he is is as deep as the rabbit hole goes. And that he continue to believe this at each successive layer.

People in the deepest crevices of the Alt-Right self-report getting redpilled on multiple issues at different times in their journey to the center of the onion. If Gabe’s first red pill is about the SJWs coming for his free speech, he’ll think that’s all anyone in his community believes; there’s no racism here, people are just making a point about their right to use slurs. Then, when he gets redpilled on the white genocide, he’ll laugh at those Alt-Lite cucks who tried to sweep the race realists under the rug, and at himself for having once been one, but acknowledge that those channels and websites are still useful for onboarding people, so he won’t denounce them. At the same time, nobody takes those manosphere betas seriously.

And this process is reiterated with every pill swallowed: gender essentialism, autogynephilia, birtherism, Sandy Hook truth, pizzagate, QAnon if he’s really out there. The heart of the onion is typically the Jewish Question, but these can happen in any order, and in any number. But each layer sells itself as being, finally, the ultimate truth. Each denies the validity of the others; the layers ahead don’t exist, they’re made up my liberals, while the people behind are asleep where you are now awake. That’s why they chose “the red pill” as their metaphor: take it, and everything will be revealed. That’s why it cozies up with conspiracism. But what’s supposed to follow is that this knowledge help Gabe in some way, and it doesn’t. Blaming immigrants doesn’t actually fix the economy, and hating women doesn’t make men less lonely. But, having been alienated from everything outside the onion, once that sinks in, the only recourse on offer is to seek out the next pill.

And pills are easy to find. Those within the network have laissez-faire relationships, even as they, on paper, disavow one another. When they need a source or a guest host, they aren’t going to go to the Left; they’re going to feature each other. The Left is the enemy; their ideas are beneath consideration, and the only reason to engage them is for public humiliation. [Shapiro’s book.] But you can interview “western chauvinists” and that doesn’t mean you’re endorsing them, just, you know, it’s fine to hear ‘em out, nothing should be off-limits in the marketplace of ideas. Besides, Nazis are apolitical.

And because these folks keep showing up in each others’ metadata, regardless of what they say, Google thinks there is definitely a relationship between the guy “just asking questions” and the guy denying the Holocaust. Gabe is softly exposed to many flavors of conservatism just slightly more radical than he is now, and is expected, at the very least, to not question their presence. This is an environment where deradicalizing - listening to the Left - would be sleeping with the enemy, but radicalizing further? You do you, buddy.

Gabe’s emotional journey, however, is somewhat more complex. If you’ve spent any time reading or watching reactionary media you’ve probably noticed it’s really. fucking. repetitive. It’s a few thousand phrasings of the same handful of arguments. Like, there’s only so many jokes about attack helicopters! But these people just crank out content, and most of it’s derivative; the reason to pick one personality over another isn’t because they say something different, but because they say it differently. Gabe just picks the affect it’s delivered in.

Repetition dulls the shock of the most egregious statements, making them appear normal and prepping him for more extreme ideas. Meanwhile, the arguments themselves? They’re not good. (BreadTube will never run out of shit to debunk.) They are repetitive because they’re not good. They’re mantric. A good argument you only need to hear one time; if you can follow it, internalize it, and explain it to someone else, you know you’ve understood it. But a bad argument can’t convince you on its own merits, so it will often rely on affect. This can be the snappy, thought-terminating cliche, or the long, winding diatribe that sounds really sensible while you’re hearing it but when someone asks you for the gist you can only say “go watch these 17 videos and it’ll all make sense.” Both these approaches are largely devoid of content, but, gosh, if they don’t sound sure of themselves.

And that mode can be very persuasive, but it doesn’t stick the way a coherent argument does. It needs to be repeated, the affect replenished, because the words matter less than the delivery. There needs to be a steady stream of confident voices saying “we’ve got this figured out and everyone else is stupid” or Gabe’s gonna notice the flaws. They are not well-hidden.

And the catch-22 of returning to that stream over and over is that these communities are stressful even as they are calming. People afraid they will die virgins go to forums with people who share and validate that fear, and also say, “Yes, you will die a virgin.” People afraid Syrians are coming to kill us all watch videos by people who share and validate that fear, and also say, “Yes, Syrians are coming to kill us all.” Others have already pointed out that rubbing your face in your worst anxieties is a form of digital self-harm, but I need to you understand the toxic recursion of it: Gabe is going to these communities to get upset. Every emotion is converted into anger, because sadness, fear, and despair are paralyzing but anger is motivating; Gabe feels less helpless when he’s pissed off. And so, while he’s topping up on reassuring nonsense, he’s also topping up on stress. And, being cut off from everything outside the network, the only place he knows to go to release that stress is back to the place that gives it to him. It’s a feedback loop, pulling him deeper and deeper on the promise that, at some point, relief will come.

It is a similar dynamic that keeps people in abusive relationships.

When someone in Gabe’s community makes a racist joke, they are presenting Gabe with a choice between the human interaction of laughing with his friends and his societal responsibility not to be a fuckin’ racist. And not laughing seems ridiculous; everybody’s friends here; no one’s getting hurt; this is harmless. And so the irreverent race joke draws a line between the personal and the political, and suggests that one can be safely prioritized over the other. One way to look at radicalization is being asked to stick with that seemingly innocuous decision as the stakes are raised incrementally: first with edgier humor, and then comments that are funny because they’re shocking but you couldn’t really call them jokes, and then “funny” comments that are also sincerely angry, but, in each instance, since he laughed with his bros last time, it stands to reason he should keep favoring the personal over some abstracted notion of “politics.”

This is why the progressive adage “the personal is political” is among the most threatening things you can say in these spaces.

I’m not trying to make a slippery slope argument. Most of us who laughed at edgy jokes when we were teenagers didn’t grow up to be Nazis. It is a slippery slope in the specific context of being in community with people trying to radicalize you. Gabe is a lonely white boy in need of friends, and laughing at a racist joke is personal, while not laughing is political. Staying in a community that has Nazis in it is personal, and leaving is political. The personal is what brings people together and the political drives them apart. (The “only if some of them are bigots” part of that sentence is usually lopped off). There’s this joke on the internet that nerds perceive only two races: white and political. Following that logic, what could be more apolitical than an ethnostate?

They are banking on his willingness to adapt his beliefs to suit an environment that meets a need. That same need can be satisfied by white nationalism. There are few things more seductive to people who doubt their own worth than being told you are valuable simply for being white. And you can sub in male, cis, straight, allosexual, or able-bodied. It just takes priming: by the time Gabe officially embraces bigotry, he’s already been acting like a bigot for months. The red pill is simply the moment he says it out loud.

Change Gabe’s surroundings, and you change Gabe.

Step Five: ???

The final step in a traditional extremist group would be getting a mission. But that is one thing the Alt-Right can’t do. Once you start giving clear directives, you can’t play yourselves off as a bunch of unaffiliated hashtags and think tanks; you are now a formalized movement accountable to its followers, and can be judged and policed as such.

To my mind, Charlottesville was an attempt to become such a movement, taking things offline and getting all the different groups working collectively. And, as so often happens when these people get in the same space - especially with no official leaders or means of control over their members - it backfired. Their true colors came out before they were ready and a counter-protester lost her life.

This would be the point where, historically, an extremist group starts to disintegrate. Their veneer of respectability gone, they’re now hated by the public, the media wants nothing more to do with them, and everyone not in jail turns on each other or goes underground. This is also the point where the liberal establishment says, “My job here is done,” and utterly fails to retake control of the narrative, allowing the next batch of radicals to pick up more or less where the last one left off.

But to an already-decentralized group like the Alt-Right, Charlottesville was bad but eminently survivable. People retreated back to the internet, with its code words and anonymous forums, but that’s where much of the work was already done anyway. The platforms where they organized kept tolerating them, the authorities still didn’t classify them as terrorists, and any disgraced figureheads were replaced with up-and-comers.

The major change in strategy is that it doesn’t seem anyone has tried to formalize the Alt-Right since.

So where does that leave Gabe? He’s gone through this whole process of largely hands-off indoctrination - and I should stress his journey may look like what we’ve outlined or it may look different in places, this video is not comprehensive - but now he’s swallowed every pill he cares to, he blames half a dozen minorities for everything he sees as wrong with the world, and no one will give him anything to do. You’ve got this ad hoc movement frothing young men into a militant fervor and then just leaving them to stew in their own hate. Should we really be surprised at how many commit mass shootings?

This is a machine for producing lone wolves.

Leaving men to take up arms of their own volition is a way of enacting terror while being just outside the popular conception of a terror cell. There are also, of course, more classic militias that will offer Gabe clear directives - they’re recruiting from the same pool. And Gabe may stop short of this step, settling in a middle layer that suits him or finding the inner layers too extreme. But violence is the logical conclusion of an ideology of hate, and, should Gabe take this step, he can approach violence in the same incremental fashion he approached conservatism.

He can start with yelling at people on Twitter, and then maybe collective brigading, DDoS attacks, sharing dox, leaking nudes, calling their phone numbers, texting them pictures of their houses from the sidewalk. These acts of cruelty become games of oneupmanship within his community. All this can start as far back as Step 2, and get more intense the deeper he goes. Some people join explicitly partake in harassment and violence the way Gabe joined to talk about anime.

But this behavior can serve as a kind of buy-in. The Left and the feminists and the LGBTQs and the Muslims and the immigrants are all, within his community, subhuman. You’ve maybe heard the conservative catchphrase “feminism is cancer”; well don’t treat cancer by having a respectful exchange of ideas with it, but by eradicating it down to the last cell. Cruelty against the Left is framed as righteous.

From any other perspective, posting someone’s bank information is something you might feel ashamed of. Which creates a psychological imperative not to consider other perspectives. A thing that keeps people in is staving off the guilt they will reckon with the moment they step out. Gabe is also aware that anything he’s done to the Left could be done to him if he leaves; some communities even keep dox on their members as insurance. And the things he’s been encouraged to do to the Left will likely make him feel that the Left would never take him now; the radical Right is the only home he’s got. Harassment becomes another tool of isolation.

Steadily, options for Gabe are whittled down to being a vigilante or a nihilist. There are periods of elation: moments the Alt-Right feels it’s winning - or, more accurately, the people they hate are losing - are like cocaine. They are authoritarians, after all. But the times in between are mean and angry. They are antisocial, starved of emotional connection, consuming incompatible conspiracies that may at any point run them afoul of one another, devoted to figureheads who cater to but cannot risk leading them, and living under constant threat of being outed to the Left or turned on by the Right for stepping out of line. Gabe took this journey for the sense of community and purpose, and, but for the rare moments everything goes their way, the Alt-Right can’t maintain either. They can only keep promising his day will come, a story he could get from a $5 palm reading.

The feeling there’s nothing left but to kill yourself or someone else is so common it’s a meme.

But there is always a third option: Gabe can leave.

Pre-Conclusion: For Fuck’s Sake Do Not Make Gabe Your Whole-Ass Praxis

Before we continue, I want to state plainly that Gabe went off the deep end because he found a community willing to tell him that, because he is a cishet white man, the world revolves around him. Do not treat him like this is true.

If a fraction of the energy spent having debates with America’s Gabes were spent instead on voter re-enfranchisement, prisoner’s rights, protections for immigrants, statehood for DC and Puerto Rico, and redistricting, Gabe’s opinions, in the societal sense, wouldn’t matter. Reactionary conservatism is a small and largely unpopular ideology that is only so represented in our culture and politics because they’ve learned how to game the system.

And I get it. Those are huge problems that are going to take years to address, where, if you know a Gabe, that’s a conversation you could have today. And, if you think you can get through to him, it is worthwhile to try. This is a fight on many fronts and deradicalization is one of them. But it is only one, so please keep it in perspective. It sends an awful message when we spend more time trying to get bigots back on our side than we do the people they are bigoted against.

Your value as a lefty does not hinge on whether you can change Gabe’s mind.

Conclusion: How Gabe Gets Out

He may just grow out of it. These communities skew young, and some folks hit a point where hanging with edgy teens doesn’t feel cool anymore.

He may become disillusioned after the movement fails to deliver on its promises.

He may become disillusioned if something goes wrong in his life and his community isn’t there for him, if he feels they like his race and his gender but don’t actually care about him.

He may be shocked if he sees the Alt-Right at its worst before being appropriately conditioned. Charlottesville was a step too far for a lot of people.

His community may turn on him for any perceived unorthodoxy, and he may leave out of necessity.

He may be separated by circumstance from the community - a trip with no internet, hospitalization, arrest - and not be able to top up on the rhetoric. This may lead him to question his beliefs.

His community may disappear, either tearing itself apart or getting shut down by authorities.

He may have incidental contact with populations he’s supposed to hate, and have trouble reconciling who they are in person with what he’s been told about them. In his community, people bond over shared intolerance, but, suddenly, being tolerant helps him make friends. (This is one reason the Alt-Right has made a battleground of the college campus.)

He may form or revisit relationships outside the network, people who can offer him the connection he’s been looking for. This may reintroduce outside perspectives. More importantly, it rekindles his ability to have healthy relationships at all, something the Alt-Right has estranged him from.

As with recruiters, it seems these “escape hatch” relationships can sometimes be parasocial; coming to respect a public figure who is on the Left, or is critical of the Alt-Right.

Someone he is close to may compel him to choose, “me or the movement.” A lot of young men leave to save a romantic relationship.

Hearing stories from people who’ve already jumped may help; there aren’t a lot of public formers, and some raise suspicions as to their sincerity, but it is getting more common, and may be the closest we get to exit counseling for the Alt-Right.

He may become aware of the ways he’s being manipulated, or have them revealed to him, maybe because he stumbled into BreadTube, I dunno. Knowledge that you are being indoctrinated is no guarantee it won’t work - you are not immune to propaganda - but it can help one resist.

And he may revisit a core belief system that used to guide him, be it religion or social justice or a really wholesome fandom, and be reminded of the identity he used to have.

Moments like these, in isolation or in aggregate, can inspire Gabe to jump. They are also good times for friends to intervene. The reach and the impunity that comes with the internet means it has never been easier to fall into reactionary extremism. It has also never been easier to get out. People who exit skinhead gangs often fear for their lives; for Gabe, there’s a chance getting out is as simple as going to a different website. Much of his community does not know his name or his face and he may not important enough to dox.

What doesn’t get Gabe out - not reliably, not that I have seen - is an argument with a stranger who proves all his facts wrong and his ideology bunk. Facts don’t always work because facts don’t care about his feelings. This was about staying in a community, and holding onto an identity, that mattered to him. It was about belonging, and that is something a rando from the other side of the culture war can’t give him and probably shouldn’t be responsible for.

The theme here is human connection. Before he can do the work of disentangling himself, and facing the guilt of what he’s believed and maybe done, he has to know there’s somewhere for him on the other end of it. That the Right hasn’t ruined him. They’ve told him all of history is groups fighting each other over status, and, without his clan, he’ll be an exile. He needs a better story.

I don’t know that lefty spaces are ideal for this, in no small part because bringing someone who’s a bit of a Nazi but working on it into diverse communities is… questionable. And it probably wouldn’t be good for him, either; having just gotten out of a toxic belief system, he’s going to be deeply skeptical of all ideologies. In a perfect world, people who care about Gabe could build for him - to use a therapy term - a holding space. Someplace private - physical or digital - where Gabe can work out his feelings, where he is both encouraged and expected to be better but is not, in the moment, judged. That comes later. It is delicate and time-consuming work that should not be done in public, but we find these beliefs, built up over the course of months or years, tend to fall away very quickly with a shift of environment. Change Gabe’s surroundings and you change Gabe.

But, instead, a lot of people who jump are functionally deprogramming themselves, which is working for a lot of them, but it’s haphazard, and there are recidivists.

If you don’t personally know a Gabe, or have training as a counselor, you may not be in a position to help him. Possibly there are things you can do to disrupt the recruitment process or prevent infiltration of spaces you’re in - I’m looking into it, but talk to your mods - but, elephant in the room: meaningful change will require reform on the part of platform holders. Tools to disrupt this process already exist and are being used on groups like ISIS, but they’re not being used on the Alt-Right because they try oh so very hard not to get classified as terrorists (and also any functioning anti-radicalization policy would require banning a lot of conservative politicians, so there’s that...).

But what makes our story better than theirs is that the fight for social and economic justice, though it is long, and difficult, and frustrating, when it works, it fulfills the promise the Right can’t keep: it materially make people’s lives better. I am not prone to sentimentality, or to giving these videos happy endings. But one thing we have that the Alt-Right doesn’t is hope.

[funkzpiel]

Peace Offering | The Witcher

I wrote this over the course of spring/early summer 2020, I believe, and I’ve been so excited to eventually share this with you all. This was my piece for the first zine I’ve ever had the pleasure of participating in - @thewitcherzine​ - It’s been so surreal to see my writing manifest in something physically. Such a cool experience.

PEACE OFFERING (AO3 LINK) Fandom: The Witcher Pairings: Alludes to Geralt/Yennefer, hints of Geralt/Jaskier Summary: Every day is the same. Geralt wakes. He takes care of his farm and his horses. He works, he eats, he goes to sleep. Dark hair against a modest pillow, plain eyes staring up at the ceiling - quick to fall asleep. But always all too aware of this strange, gnawing thought that something is wrong, something is amiss. There is something to be worried about, he is certain of it; but when he wakes, nothing is wrong. The day begins again. He takes care of his farm and his horses. He works, he eats, he goes to sleep. He is just an ordinary man with an ordinary, peaceful life... Isn't he? He's happy... Right? Then a man comes hurdling out of the field, bloodied and screaming. And nothing is quite so peaceful anymore. [a/n] huge thank you to @rospeaks and @crocro-dyle - who both reviewed this piece multiple times with painstaking care to help get it to the right word count for the project. You two are angels. Thank you so much.

Happiness was a fickle thing. By all accounts Geralt should be happy. He was healthy, in his prime. He owned farmland, bred horses, and enjoyed a sustainable life. He hadn't been called to war. He needed no sword to protect his property. In fact, he was tucked in a corner of the kingdom that had known nothing but peace. Yet on pleasant days when the sun carded warm fingers through his dark locks and across suntanned skin, Geralt found himself standing on his porch and frowning. Beside the wolf in his heart that had glutted itself on peace there was another wolf. A haggard creature, with gold eyes and snowy fur, demanding vigilance. A wolf with fangs sharpened by lessons from a hard life he had never known and did not understand. It said this was too good to be true. Monsters would come. Villagers would turn on him. No peace lasted forever.

Days like that, Geralt closed his eyes, took a breath, and forced one step to follow another, working until that wolf was too tired to do anything but fall resentfully asleep. The horses helped ease his mind, grounding him with velvety muzzles and nosy lips searching for treats. Time passed like that, slow and sleepy. The sun would rise, he would work, and it would set again. On and on, peaceful and content like a piece of crockery on a shelf.

A perfect existence until it finally tipped over.

His peace was shattered, sudden and unexpected, when a man stumbled out of his grain one day like a specter, arm mangled and pleading, “Someone help me, please!”

Spooked, the horse he was working with tried to rear back. As he hushed it, Geralt felt that scrawny wolf in his chest lift its head from thin paws as though it had been waiting for this. His heart thrummed, but Geralt felt strangely invigorated by it. He settled his horse and helped the man into the house. He sat him on a chair, opened his triage kit, and asked, “What happened? Is it still outside?”

Whether it was beast or man, the danger needed to be dealt with. The stranger was waxen from blood loss and fear, his answer carving an ominous feeling into the room. “Whatever they were, they stayed with the bodies.”

A startling list rattled off in Geralt’s mind. Stabilize the wound. Wash up, secure the horses, and grab an axe. Destroy the man’s blood trail to prevent anything from following it back to the farm. But most startling of all was the realization that for the first time he felt at home in his own skin. Though his peace was shattered, he felt whole.

✨✨✨

Amber eyes flickered open, heavy and hazy. His Cat Eyes Potion had worn off. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, echoing morosely. A cave... He felt gnarled wood beneath his weary fingertips, digging into him uncomfortably. He was cradled in the base of a tree then... His skin itched and ached, and there was an unsettling sensation of being attached to something.

The desire for sleep rolled over him, as vicious as the death-chill of a blizzard. He felt as though he were bleeding out, but he felt no crusted wounds, no weeping gashes. He needed to move, to break free of whatever was burrowed into his skin.

‘Stay awake,’ he ordered himself; an echo of Vesemir’s training. ‘Stay awake.’

A gentle hand – or what felt like one – brushed back sweaty white locks and murmured, “It needn’t hurt.”

Unbidden, his eyes closed again, gone before he could register that the hand had felt like bark and clay and stone.

✨✨✨

The next day, confident that the stranger – a merchant named Gil – could travel, Geralt saddled a horse to take him to the nearest town for better medical attention than Geralt could provide. Despite how neat the stitches appeared, he was no healer. Gil had been hesitant on the road at first, clinging nervously to Geralt's back, but as time passed and nothing sprung from the forest to ravage them, Gil’s sweating eased and his fingers became less claw-like in Geralt’s shirt.

The town was too small to be a proper city, too big to be inbred. It welcomed a decent trade and hosted the occasional royal. It was known as a sleepy, peaceful place, and today was no different. As they ambled down the main road to the town’s healer, delicious smells wafted from the inn along with a strangely familiar tune. It made something itch in the back of Geralt’s head.

“Oh, I love this song. Too bad it’s not the original bard singing. Not quite as good, but I can’t imagine a fellow like him performing here,” Gil said, “But y’see, maybe that’s a sign. Maybe that’s what we need right now.”

“What’s that?” Geralt asked as he dismounted carefully. The singer was too distant now to make out the words, but the melody haunted him. He patted a flat hand against his horse's shoulder only to freeze as Gil answered, “A w—h-r,” the word garbled and unintelligible, yet striking him like lightning spearing a tree and he—

✨✨✨

Geralt gasped, chest heaving like a man emerging from a frigid undertow. He knew that song. The voice had been different, but he knew that song. The words lingered as though Jaskier were singing it right there.

“Toss a coin to your witcher,” a voice groaned like falling timber. Fingers brushed Geralt’s temples, and in his mind something combed through memories like a breeze through willow reeds, stirring up images of cornflower eyes and merry singing. “He’s happy. Doesn’t that bring you peace? Have I not done enough? Ssh. Just a little longer now.”

An urge to flee rose in him, and yet his body couldn’t answer. He knew this beast, but the name eluded him. All he could recognize was that he'd die before he’d ever have the chance to apologize. That regret sank his heart like a stone.

He succumbed once more to the dream.

✨✨✨

After he left Gil with the healer, Geralt mounted his horse, preoccupied by a nagging sensation that he had forgotten something important. He paused to restlessly look back toward the healer’s home before dismissing his anxiety as the result of an eventful night. He just needed to tuck into a big meal, catch up on sleep, and everything would return to normal.

He passed the inn, doors open and bustling. The bard was singing something energetic and unfamiliar now. People milled around, mindful of his horse, as he headed for the edge of town.

A sound caught him.

Distant humming, followed by a babe’s gurgling laughter and a strange scent. That itch returned, and in his chest that scrawny wolf stirred, snarling. He reined in his spooked horse as he looked for the source. He knew that smell. That song.

The wind slowed, meadow grasses halting mid-sway. The townsfolk blurred in the streets. In a yard nearby, black and white linens fluttered on a clothesline, caught in that same eerie force. Geralt watched with bated breath, lungs aching, as the linens parted to reveal dark hair and smooth skin. A woman perched serenely upon a bench, her smiling visible behind the curtain of her hair. Tiny hands reached for her from within the bundle in her arms. The smell of lilacs dogged him though none bloomed nearby. Something sturdy and indescribable yanked at his chest, leading straight to her like a boat fastened to a dock, one useless without the other.

“...You flee my dream come the morning. Your scent: berries tart, lilacs sweet. To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy,” she sang, notes drifting and pleasant, yet the words didn’t seem to fit. Her gaze lifted slowly to meet his, and Geralt was pinned beneath its mournful weight. “Of violet eyes, glistening as you weep.”

“Yennefer,” he said unbidden, her name slipping free as the world stilled and every sound fell away to nothing. She held his gaze, that dreamlike smile radiant on her face but her eyes, oh her eyes, pleading with him to wake.

He needed to wake up. To fight. To survive whatever had him – roots, digging into his skin, leeching him slowly while he slept – and return to them. Both of them. To apologize before a witcher’s end robbed him of that too.

How do you wake from a dream? You die. By the gods, how he hoped he was right. His hand reached for his dagger. Palms calloused from years of fighting and hunting, not tending to horses, clenched around the hilt. He lifted the knife. He closed his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have struggled, witcher.”

He opened them to find Yennefer gone. He lowered his knife in a daze, taking in the empty village, the stillness, the silence, and finally his captor. A little girl, blue eyes too big for her face and long ashen hair like her mother’s.

“When I heard of the wish you made to spare the life of the insect who nearly enslaved my brother, I knew retribution was necessary. But you outsmarted my brother honorably, and so I offered you a peaceful death,” Ciri said. Without ever having met her, Geralt knew it was her as keenly as he knew that he was a witcher. “I gave you everything you wanted. A normal life. Happiness and success for your friends. No burdens, no child surprise. You could have died happy. You still can.”

A peaceful death. Not many witchers had the chance. Nearly none, in fact. But thinking of Vesemir, thinking of the pride and purpose he drew from training lads to survive and in taking care of Kaer Morhen, Geralt wondered what happiness truly was. Because it wouldn't feel like this.

“Tempting offer,” he admitted. Tempting to lie down and accept the dream for what it was: an easy way out. But he thought of Jaskier and Yennefer. How they looked when he pushed them both away. Of Cirilla, lost and alone. He knew what it felt like to be abandoned, to have your home and family stripped away. The importance of the people who took you in after. “Afraid I can’t.”

Ciri watched him with startling coldness. “So be it.”

Geralt gasped violently as he woke. Above him a glowing mist illuminated the cave, the tree cradling him, and the vines piercing his skin like a web of veins, sapping him slowly and steadly lest the well dry too fast. It was a Djinn. Without a master to subdue it, it was free to feast insatiably upon the lifeforce of mortals. It had used the dream to pacify him as it drank its fill. Geralt kicked himself for not realizing sooner.

“Remember that you chose this, Geralt of Rivia. You chose pain,” it rumbled like a rockslide, so deep it rattled Geralt’s bones. A misty hand dug into the earth, and from the bedrock a dozen more hands of stone emerged to latch onto Geralt. A D’ao, Geralt realized. A spirit of the earth rather than air like its brother. With the aloofness of a man stepping on an ant, those stone hands clenched. Geralt felt bones grind and creak. He clenched his jaw and quashed the panicked voice chanting, “I’m going to die,” as he reached for the training that Vesemir had drilled into him.

Igni would ignite vines, but not stone. Quen would crush him beneath his own barrier. There would be no influencing an Ancient with Axii. He had but one recourse left.

It was an effort to reach for his Signs, but he managed Aard. It burst the stone from his limbs. The Djinn howled. With a giant hand it tore Geralt from his prison of vines, casting him across the cavern. Something cracked as he hit the wall. Spots erupted in his vision. He slid to his ass, hands falling lank.

The mist drew near, the image of something humanoid taking shape under writhing vines and stone. Its booming voice reached Geralt in fits and pops, ears ringing. It raised a giant fist to crush him, yet Geralt cracked an exhausted grin.

He had just enough to cast this one thing: Yrden. It seared him to his bones to do it, and for a moment he thought it would not be enough. But a purple halo gripped the Djinn fast despite the trembling of the witcher’s hands and the slowing stutter of his heart. Geralt panted as enraged screaming filled the cave, pressing in on him from all sides.

“I’ve caught you, D’ao,” Geralt wheezed. Unconsciousness loomed, but he persisted, fueled by the lulling notes of Jaskier’s song, Yennefer’s violet eyes, and a child's beseeching gaze. “I’ve bound you to this realm.”

It didn’t matter that his trap wouldn’t last long. The Djinn was bound. The honor of the Ancients would handle the rest. Around the D’ao, Yrden flickered erratically but held.

“Make your wishes, witcher,” it snarled, the sound rattling inside Geralt’s skull.

“I wish to be healed,” Geralt said, and with an angry hiss magic cocooned his body until his heart steadied and his bones reknit. He sucked in a grateful breath, his spell strengthening as the pain ebbed.

“I wish for a truce between myself and all Djinn,” he said, and this time the D’ao howled until crumbles of stone pelted the ground; but none touched Geralt. Not while he was still the Djinn's master.

Had he asked for protection, it might have harmed him in some second-hand way. Had he asked it to leave, it might have sent another in its stead. But a truce was undeniable. He was not going to die. It was a heady realization, but most of all, it revealed what he had been content to ignore for so long. His path was suddenly bright, the way made clear for him.

“I wish to know how to find those to whom I am indebted,” he finally said. For he owed apologies to Jaskier and Yennefer, and to Ciri so much more. The Djinn ceased its howling and the air around them stilled. Geralt felt the D’ao’s heavy gaze upon him.

“Honorable…” the D’ao mused as his Yrden slipped away, and without further fanfare so did the Djinn. The tree wilted, the cavern now empty and unremarkable. The D’ao was gone.

In its place sat a certainty in Geralt’s chest that if he went west, he’d find Jaskier. That if he went northeast, he’d find Yennefer. That if he went to the epicenter of those two points, he’d find a small child with ashen hair and blue eyes, wading through the chaos of the world to find him. Like the stars above, those points rotated slowly in his heart. No matter which way he turned, he knew how to reach them. Their hearts shone in the darkness, illuminating what he hadn’t understood for so very, very long: Happiness was what you made of it.