#thread 275 .

[ollieinoue]

The Quad sometime early November [ @mari-zuko ]

Ollie sat down on a bench next to Mari, staring at her very intently until she looked over at him, and gave her a smile. "Hi," he said, a little overly sheepish. A little too demure. The way he got when he was about to ask a favor of someone. "I was wondering if you weren't too busy… if we could talk about something. It's kinda important. And like actually important. Not the sort of important where I'm about to ask you to break me into your art classrooms so I can steal some clay because I really want to squish my fingers into it -- like it's actually important." Though he would really like some clay to squish his fingers into, they could address that later. He glanced around, deciding the quad was bustling enough that nobody would be able to really over hear or notice them at the moment. Much better than meeting in some silent secret area. "Do you know anything about the school's security cameras? Like… anything at all?"

[ppushable]

276 times i died for you

jean kirschtein x fem!reader / oneshot / wc: 9.0k

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Love. Of course I love him.

(YOU'RE OBSESSED WITH HIM.)

I'm infatuated.

In which my dreams come true. (IN WHICH YOU LIVE IN A FANTASY.) In which I kill myself this many times over. For *him*.

This time around, it will all work out.

IT WILL ALL WORK OUT!

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ao3 tags:

this has been sitting in my drafts for months because it's edgy but what the hell sure / Reincarnation / Angst / Unrequited Love / Implied/Referenced Abuse / reader is kind of a loser / no y/n / Hurt No Comfort / Reader-Insert / POV First Person / Present Tense / Inner Dialogue / Self-Hatred / Implied/Referenced Suicide / But its chill / Reader Is Crazy / reader is obsessed / you freak / Bad Ending / Cross-Posted on Wattpad / Cross-Posted on Tumblr

hi!

i'm not really sure what culminated in this? maybe i woke up a touch more delusional than usual.

reader has her flaws but don't we all. (killing-yourself-275-times-for-a-fictional-man kind of flaws. also she's a total loser. but i think a lot of you guys can relate.)

you reincarnate, you fail, rinse and repeat. the sections are pretty short. that's pretty much all of it.

also up on ao3 and wattpad

enjoy, as always <3

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prologue

The clicking of the keyboard. The rhythm of my fingers against the caps, words a constant steady stream from my mind to the glowing document. It comes so easy to me, recording the thoughts and desires that have been running through my mind for so long they’ve eroded a deep cavern through my consciousness. Fancies and yearnings that have since become a fundamental part of me, threaded into the fabric of my being. Same fandom, same character, same love.

“And then I just… understood. How it’s the little moments you hold on to the most.” And then he grins.

“Maybe,” I murmur, swiping my thumbs over his palms, “it’s the other way around.”

He blinks. “Yeah.”

Losing my train of thought, I lean back dangerously in my chair. It’s one of the swivel ones that can go way back, but I’ve fallen over before. I lean back as reality comes rushing in, flushing away the comforting warm waters of fantasy.

Rent’s due next week. Fuck, I have to work today. Did I make a lunch? Well, whatever. Maybe I should call in, haha. When’s the last time I cleaned the floor? Laundry? Should I fix the AC or just buy another one? Need to call the mechanic about that weird noise in the car. And renew my license before it’s too late. I need to wash dishes before I leave. I need to keep track of my income. I need to start thinking about my retirement. I need to I need to I need to—

The computer screen whisks out of view as my stomach lurches from its safe spot — I’m falling, fuck! My body prepares for a landing

that never comes.

Nothing comes.

I can’t hear the buzzes and sighs of background noise I didn’t even register until they’re gone.

I can’t see, I can’t open the eyelids that are supposed to be there, can’t search for the light.

I can’t feel. The breeze against my skin, the tickling of my hair on my face, the weight of a human body.

I can’t breathe, but I have no desire for air, nor pain from the lack of it.

Everything is… still. Paused, stale, bated. Nothing.

Am I dead? I’m dead, aren’t I?

Never would I have expected this. All the jokes and profound thoughts lying in bed, thinking about what lies beyond without fear. Well, I’m fucking fearful now. Everything is over, nobody will know who I am, I’ll never amount to the person my younger self would have imagined (but who am I kidding, I never would have), the shift manager will curse my name when I don’t come in, my computer is still running, the state they will find my body in is nothing short of deplorable. I’ve squandered my chance.

Did I… do what I wanted in life?

Did I? Did I?

No, I never did what I wanted. I only ever did what made me comfortable.

And the realization eats away at me, turns me into a yawning cavern mouth that leads to naught.

I just wasted myself.

OH WELL.

It is what it is, right?

IT IS WHAT IT IS.

At least I was happy when I was writing.

AT LEAST.

I could’ve had it a lot worse.

YOU COULD’VE.

I could…

YEAH?

That voice wasn’t always there. That echo of my internal monologue. Unbearably loud yet inaudible. Identical in nature, so seamlessly me that I haven’t been noticing that it’s not.

I’m not alone.

YOU’RE NOT.

And it’s this that makes me feel as if I should be afraid, if I had the body and capacity to do so.

IT’S HARD TO BE SCARED WHEN YOU’VE NOTHING LEFT TO PROTECT.

What is this, some kind of joke? Am I already going crazy?

NO.

I don’t know where I end and when… that begins.

IT DOESN’T MATTER.

Oh my god.

And then it’s quiet.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WERE TRULY HAPPY?

Was I? What kind of question is that?

YOU WERE, WEREN’T YOU, WHEN YOU WERE WRITING THOSE STORIES.

I… was happy. Happiness isn’t a constant state of being, it’s— it comes in little moments. I was happy enough.

DO YOU WANT A CHANCE?

… What?

DO YOU WANT TO LIVE IN A FANTASY?

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1st reincarnation - modern au

I nearly fall over when I’m slapped in to this body, and I nearly collapse again when something bumps into me. But my fall is broken by something soft and hard and solid.

“Woah… there.”

Neon lights, stale and heavy air. Out of reflex I suck in a huge breath. Puke and alcohol and bad breath and sweat and body odour. Silhouetted bodies writhing before me, all around me, in tune to the gaudy noises blaring from all corners of the area that’s supposed to be music.

I’m at a club. I’m alive and in a club.

“You okay?”

And that voice…

I spin on my heel, nearly tripping — since when was having a body so difficult? — and he’s there.

Jean. Jean Kirschtein.

The man I’ve been fantasizing about since the sixth grade, the man I’ve broken keyboards writing for, the man I’ve loved over a thousand lifetimes. It’s him.

I know things about you that you don’t even know about yourself. I’ve fucked you. I’ve killed you. I’ve had your children. I’ve seen you at your very worst and cheered for you at your best. I’ve held you as you breathed your last breath, my name on your tongue, and you’ve done the same for me.

And now you’re here, in this club, with me… drunk out of your fucking mind.

Real. Real. Your eyes, unfocussed, the strands of your hair against the light, your posture. Just as I’ve described, hundreds of times over, except no words can truly begin to explain the entity that is you.

“Why are you staring? Like what you see?”

And that voice.

LET’S DANCE.

I push my palm flat against his broad chest, I’m fucking touching him, and bring the rest of my body closer. And dance.

I was never much of a dancer. I’m still not. But if I let it all get to me, the music, the vibration of the ground of others’ feet, the feeling of Jean against me… I don’t have to worry at all. My body moves without discretion, and the music and noise envelopes me completely.

I notice too late that he’s gone. So I stop. And it doesn’t take long to find his tall frame poking out of the crowd in another part of the club.

He’s bathed in a red light, dazed, but not drunk-dazed. In-love-dazed. And I would know, because I’ve imagined and written that expression so many times before.

Only it was always directed at me, the reader, and not the girl he’s looking at right now. The girl who dances without care, the girl who is more beautiful, stronger, the girl I could never hope to be.

No. This isn’t happening.

Blood in my mouth — I’ve been biting the inside of my cheek. There’s nothing left inside except a sinkhole, one that yawns impossibly wider with every second and threatens to take me over entirely. Breath comes shaky. That’s supposed to be me. That’s supposed to be me! Right?

Right?

She twirls with this unearthly kind of grace and Jean takes her hand midway, leading her through the action, and end off in a close embrace. And it’s like it’s scripted.

They lean in closely for a delicate kiss.

A friend — Connie — approaches.

They break it off nervously.

End script.

I mean, who am I kidding? Of course he would go for her. She’s perfect, and I’m just… the warmup. Someone jostles into me from behind and now there’s nobody to catch me; I land hard on the linoleum, arms numbly blocking my fall. Fuck. Fuck. My hands curl into little fists, collecting grime. What the hell am I doing here? Who the hell do I think I am?

Eager, blissfully unaware feet land on my dress. I need to go. I can’t stay here.

But when I try to stand a sudden swell of bodies comes rushing in and knocks me back down. Well, fuck you then, just let me die here.

A high-pitched, obnoxious laugh reaches my ears. With another quick look-around I heave myself up. Damned if I die here. Before anyone else has the chance to move me I haul myself to the wall and stick to it.

The two of them and Connie are gone now.

I just… my only chance.

Look at me, playing the heartbroken maiden.

Bathrooms… I shuffle along the wall until I find it and slip inside.

Contrary to everything else, it’s brightly lit in blue. The sinks are decently clean and the stalls, for the most part, appear empty. It sounds empty, anyways. The music here is muffled and echoey; even the smallest movement seems to be exemplified by the tiled walls.

I enter the closest one and lock the door, sitting on the seat even though a thousand people’s asses have touched it. Whatever.

When I saw you here before…

What am I doing here.

Couldn’t look you in the eye…

Who the hell plays this song at a club?

You looked like—

The door bangs open; feet barge in. A feminine gag, a stall door smacking against the wall. More gags, vomit slapping the toilet water, an acrid stench.

“You’re okay! You got this…”

That’s a guy’s voice. How sweet, he came to the bathroom to help her out. Maybe I should pop out of here and yell at him. Haha.

Gently, so as not to make noise, I press my palm flat against the door.

They’re probably taking a cab or something. Leaning against each other in the backseat while Connie gabbles on about whatever to the driver. I smile for about a second before I have to clamp my lips between my teeth again.

I’m not their friend. I’m an imposter. (Among us!) I’m the one that fantasizes in the dark of their companionship. Writing all the time. I’m… well, frankly, I’m a creep.

And I’m a weirdo…

Holy fuck.

YOU GIVING UP?

No.

AND HOW DO YOU SUPPOSE YOU FIND THEM?

Go away. How did this happen?

YOU’RE THINKING IN LOOPS.

It’s not a big deal.

RIGHT.

Shut up. It’s not a big deal, I can just come back here. Maybe it’s a slowburn.

OR MAYBE SHE’S ENDGAME.

DID YOU SEE THE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER?

JUST LIKE HE’S SUPPOSED TO LOOK AT YOU.

IF YOU THINK THAT’S PLATONIC YOU’RE KIDDING YOURSELF.

Let me think. Just let me—

The stall door suddenly jolts as if hit from the outside; my hand comes flying off.

What—

“OPEN IT.”

What?

“OPEN IT.”

The voice in my head. That’s the voice in my head, someone’s talking with it—

“OPEN. IT.”

I stare at the latch.

“YES, THERE, RIGHT THERE.”

Fuck. Fuck, this is the moment Jean swoops in and saves me—

“OPEN THE DOOR. NOBODY IS HERE TO SAVE YOU.”

The puking couple—

“I WON’T ASK AGAIN.”

I try to swallow. Open. I raise my hand — when did my fingers start trembling? — and unlatch the door.

Cli-cli-click.

It swings open to… a brunette with puke dribbling down her chin.

…!!?

Oh my fucking god.

What the hell is this?

??!

“STAND UP.”

I do, leaning heavily against the wall.

“COME.”

We walk to the sink. She pulls something out of her purse. A needle.

My voice is but a tremble. “What?”

“IF YOU WANT ANOTHER CHANCE, YOU HAVE TO DIE.” She mimics inserting the needle into her arm. “THIS IS ONE WAY.“

“I can’t do that. I don’t do that.”

She turns fully to meet my eye but I drop my gaze. “IF YOU INSIST.”

“Wait, no—”

On the marbled counter is a pocket knife.

What if I don’t want to die?

“WOULD YOU RATHER LIVE LIKE THIS? IN THE SHADOWS, WATCHING ANOTHER LIVE YOUR DIRTY LITTLE FANTASY?”

THINK ABOUT IT. HAVE YOU TRULY DONE ANYTHING WITH YOUR LIFE EXCEPT PRETEND?

Stop.

“TAKE THE BLADE.”

When I look into the mirror, she’s not there.

Death by blood loss.

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92nd reincarnation - canon

Breathe. Breathing in. The human scent.

Temptress is the smell, reeking over the wall, always unreachable.

But now… wall is now open now… and the smell… the smell. The presence of man.

Cannot control myself

cannot.

GOD, YOU’RE A REAL BEAST.

Others push and shove. Claustrophobic between… buildings. Buildings crumbling on my shoulders.

The humans try. They buzz around like birds. But more of them are crushed into red pulp under my feet. More of them scooped up and put into my mouth. More, more, more. Warm and writhing and in my mouth, crack open.

It’s right. It’s the right thing. I do it again and again. The only right thing.

Another bird-human, buzzing up to my face. Too slow, I cannot grab it. Too fast, it soars closer.

Prick! Eye! It pricked my eye! But I close it, and it’s stuck. The prick is stuck in my eye.

I take it and put it in my mouth. Crack open.

More bird-humans now. Fast bird-humans. Screeching. Pricking.

DID YOU SERIOUSLY JUST EAT HIM? I HOPE YOU CHEWED.

Too fast. Too fast!

“Bastard! You’ll pay!”

Bird-human… who…

“You’ll fucking pay!”

Bird… Jean? Human? On my back. Crack. Bird—

Jean?

Chest feels prick but no bird-humans are in it. Mouth doesn’t crack. Mouth makes noise. Mouth says…

“…Jean.”

Prick!

“I’m sorry.”

Death by spinal cord injury.

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165th reincarnation - canon

Nobody told me the steam would make noise.

It doesn’t come in puffs, but continuous streams, each with the force of a newly-awakened geyser, raw with festering rage.

His voice is nearly inaudible over the hiss that just about renders me deaf, just a strained whisper.

“Here! Over here!”

Out of complete reflex I bring my hands to point at the behemoth bone structure that is Eren and shoot. I don’t hear the ODM but feel its mechanic workings against my lower back, the painful tightening of the straps against my skin, the pressure in my head and gut as I’m jerked forward. The horror and chaos of the world shooting past.

I’m coming…

Someone screams again and I’m yanked forward, limbs and neck snapping back uselessly, painfully, the back of my head hitting my spine. Pulled like a yo-yo. Straps digging into skin. Everything turns into a whirl of heat and steam and sky and blackness. Everything mixing together as my brain and eyes, most trusted, can’t comprehend what’s going on around me. Can’t tell up from down. The breaths I try to take in are sucked out before I get a chance to replenish my increasingly burning lungs. It’s too tight. It’s too fast. I can’t— I can’t move.

The cord… a bone titan grabbed my cord…

Fuck,

   fuck,

      fuck, 

I’m getting closer,

it hurts,

I’m getting closer!

Fuck!

!!???!!!

The impact, as much as I might try, I can’t brace for the impact. With a crack! I hit the bone chest-first, and in that little moment before the pain inevitably comes I know it’s all… punched in and wrong inside and bad bad bad.

The titan doesn’t stop dragging when everything blooms into fresh agony, it hurts, it hurts, it’s all wrong inside it hurts it’s wrong I’m hurting someone please help me please fuck I’m hurt someone get me help help help

And then it all… goes still. And the pain comes back in a fresh new wave. Breaths come now, ragged and holey and painful, I don’t want to look at myself, my grimed hands scratching at the bone I’ve landed on, searching for purchase so I don’t fall off. Which, frankly, would be a better fate. I’ll let go and start again. Yeah. Yeah…

It hurts. If I could scream, I would.

“Hey!”

Fuck, not now. I swear my nails are splitting. Is my chest… wet? Not now…

But he appears anyways, despite it all, always despite it all, in the familiar garb of canon and that brushed-aside hair that’s screwed over to hell and back, eyes wild and pupils dilated, mouth wired in an unreal smile. Painful to look at. Falling to his knees at my side.

“Hey, look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay, alright? Alright? Hey!”

The way he speaks, so desperately. The way he looks around for help. The way he sees none, because how could there be any, so he focusses back on me.

Helpless.

Absolutely helpless.

“Hey…”

There’s a different peal to his voice now.

“Look at me, would you?”

But I am…

“H— hey. Come on. You— you’re strong, huh?”

Oh, Jean.

My breaths come a lot shallower than before and my muscles burn with the effort. Jean notices, it seems, from the way he cranes in close, blotting out the steam-scattered light. “Don’t…”

What happened to the proud, selfish boy who was hellbent on joining the MPs? The one who laughed at others’ misfortunes and bragged about his feats, the one who started more fights than he could finish. The man in front of me now is crestfallen; everything is falling apart, and here he is trying to comfort even a small part of it. Holding back a tsunami with his trembling, bloody hands.

Thanks, Isayama…

When I try to inhale deeper, I only inhale faster. Nevertheless I open my mouth like I have so many times before, croak out the words because it’s natural.

“I love you.”

And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, he’s confused.

Confused. Not relieved, or heartbroken. Completely, utterly, childishly confused. He smiles, though his expression is just about splitting in half.

And that’s how I know.

“I— I love you too.”

LIAR.

Death by internal bleeding, blood loss.

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274th reincarnation - past

June 16, 1921 2:04 PM

“Can you believe it’s been three years since the war ended?”

I look over at Sasha from under my veil. “I really can’t.”

“And now you’re getting married.” She giggles like a schoolgirl behind the basket of flowers in her gloved hands. “Oh! The music’s starting!”

The knells of the organ behind the curtains in front of us rip through me like a wave. It’s happening. It’s finally happening.

I’m getting married to Jean Kirschtein.

It was a rough ride. Getting with the times, learning how to housewife, staying up late reading and re-reading the odd letters sent home from my… friends. Yes, they are truly my friends.

I’ve been living here for over seven years.

I haven’t heard that… voice in over seven years.

I’ve been alive for over seven years.

Perhaps the toughest part was the war. Watching Jean and Connie and Eren and Armin and everyone else disappear, never knowing if they would come back.

Most did. The expected ones.

At least Sasha is still alive.

But we still have to get through the depression, not to mention the second war. Provided this is… a strictly historical account.

But enough of that.

Erwin offers his remaining arm to me and I take it. Another technicality.

Without restrain, I grin.

Today will be the best day of my life.

July 30, 1921 7:43 PM

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

My breaths come in small, doglike pants as he towers over me, silhouetted by the socket light behind him, still swinging from when he clipped it with his fist.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, okay?” He’s trying to be quiet, trying to suppress the screams he had let but a few seconds ago. “I just— you know how I get angry, right?”

Breathing but never getting any air.

“Fuck, would you look at me?!”

July 31, 1921 10:08 AM

“Don’t mean to pry, but you look like hell. What’s gotten into you?”

I look up from the tea I’ve been stirring for the last… I don’t know. Children scream in the background and the sun beats relentlessly on the concrete around us. “Just a little tired is all, Connie. I haven’t had a great sleep lately.” Not a complete lie.

He smacks his lips. “You were doing that research stuff again, huh?”

“Research stuff?” Sasha pipes, looking up from her eggs.

“Yeah, this little cheese—” he points at me with his spoon— “is hellbent on buying a whole farm. Isn’t that something?”

One of many, Connie.

“Can’t say I blame her.” Putting another scoop of eggs into her mouth, Sasha raises her eyebrows haughtily. “Your own unlimited supply of food? Fancy that.”

“Of course you would agree with her,” Connie mutters.

“Nothing wrong with having a little— a little cush to fall back on,” I smile.

“Don’t be a bunny. Nowadays, we’re all rich men.”

“And women!”

For now. Provided this is a strictly historical account, it won’t be long until the economy’s going to crumple in on itself. I’m just making preparations, because I’ll be damned if any of you die during the depression.

I just don’t know what to do about the second world war. The tea leaves swirl with my spoon. And Jean…

“By the way, where’s your other half?” The buzzed man blurts, jolting me from my unborn stupor. “Don’t suppose you came out here all the way on your own?”

“I took a cab— a boiler with Reiner.” I smile again, heart fluttering. “Jean’s out with his father today.” Again.

“Father, eh,” he muses. “Never heard much of the guy. What’s he like?”

Connie’s eyes are imploring and innocent— well, as innocent as they can be for a war veteran.

Jean’s father. There’s a reason he wasn’t around in the canon.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say breezily. “Only what little I hear from Jean. You know. Men.” The last statement is mostly directed at Sasha but she’s looking at Connie. He doesn’t respond right away.

“Well.” He puts his hands on the table. “This ol’ grifter could stretch his legs. What’dya say we take a little walk by the water?”

June 16, 1924 3:06 PM

Armin had bought me a carry-on bag for my birthday. It’s heavy and leather, perfect for carrying paperwork. Something that belongs in an antique shop. It’s funny. Even after ten years of living in the past, I still find it hard to call it my present.

Also, it’s our third anniversary. That is, of Jean and my wedding. Three years… together. I purse my lips and focus on the road.

Prep, prep, prep. That’s been my entire life these past few years. Of course, given the day and age, it hasn’t been easy. But it’s possible, and that’s what matters. What’s become of my hard work? I run my thumb along the waxed leather of my bag. Gardens, seeds, non-perishables, connections with experienced farmers… Really, everything I think I need for self-sufficiency. But who even knows. If it all ends up going south…

Truthfully, I don’t know if I’m doing the right things. I know that in five years everything goes down, but that’s about as far as my history knowledge takes me. I’ll just have to keep as much real money on me as possible and prepare for the worst. Just enough for my friends to get by. They think I’m crazy sometimes, but they’ll understand.

All that aside, I somehow got myself into real estate. Do I know what I’m doing? No. But I’m making bank.

God, I really miss Google.

But hey, I’m making it big! Even if it’s technically cheating, I learned and studied and did everything on my own. It’s a little surreal, sometimes. I would never have made it this far in real life.

Real… life. What was I doing all that time?

This world has turned me into a completely new person. I’m— I could be really happy. Except for the promise of impending doom. That, and the man I live with.

It’s our third anniversary. So why, whenever I remind myself, do cold drops of dread form in my organs?

What a stupid question.

I turn into the familiar driveway. Our driveway. Of our house. That we bought with my money. That’s the only reason he keeps letting me do as I please.

Killing the engine, I step out of the car. I hardly expect Jean to do anything for our anniversary, or even remember. I… I don’t know where it all went wrong. The war? The times? The lack of his mother and presence of his father?

Me?

I don’t know.

In any case, I bought this tin can for us. For our special day. The flowers by the path leading up to the door are big and strong, full from the rains of spring and soaked in the sunlight of early summer. Beautiful little things.

I raise the key to the keyhole and pause.

Maybe a note would do. A little memo stuck to the drivers’ seat. I don’t even have to go inside. There’s a million other places I could go for a million different reasons. I could avoid him altogether.

But it’s our anniversary and I might as well… be present. Right?

I grip the bag strap. Right. Right. It’s the right thing to do, given my… history.

Jean Kirschtein. I know him. It’s fine. Fuck it.

I slip the key in and swing open the door.

The bar of light from outside illuminates a strip of the wooden floor. Empty. Okay. I slip off my shoes—

Shoes.

Those… are not my shoes, or Jean’s. And we never put our shoes down outside the carpet.

No. The drops turn into a flood of cold terror. No, no, no. No, I’m just assuming the worst. I slip off my shoes and pad to the bedroom. If I’m employing stealth, I’m not doing it on purpose.

The hall splits off into three. Bathroom, closet, bedroom. A dead end, decorated with a small, discoloured blotch from Jean’s knuckle all those years ago.

Silence. My insides, suddenly much heavier than they’re supposed to be. Wake paralysis.

How many times have I stood here? It… fuck.

Fuck, no, no, no…

If Jean is truly having an affair, wouldn’t it be best if I never found out? Slowly, carefully, I lay my palm against the wallpaper. Fuck.

So the only reason I’m here is to save my friends from the inevitable.

‘My friends’ being… what? A hallucination?

No. They’re just from another universe. AU. That’s— that doesn’t make them any less real.

ARE YOU DOUBTING AGAIN?

No, no, no, no… My nails scrape against the hardened paper. No. I’m going to stay for them. It doesn’t matter about Jean or about me or about if they’re fucking real or not. I’m staying right here. No. I’m happy here. You can’t convince me to leave. No.

HAPPY? YOU’RE HAPPY AS LONG AS YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO DO. BUT WHAT AFTER?

Well, I have my business—

AND IF IT FAILS? IF YOU FAIL? WHAT, ARE YOU JUST GOING TO GIVE UP?

PICTURE THIS. YOU GO BANKRUPT AND LOSE ALL YOUR ASSETS. WHAT THEN?

I would get them back—

YOU WOULD GIVE UP. FACE IT, YOU ALWAYS TAKE THE EASY WAY OUT.

No—

EVEN IF IT MEANS ABANDONING YOUR FRIENDS.

That’s not true.

THEN WHY HAVE YOU ALREADY KILLED YOURSELF TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FOUR TIMES? HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU LEFT THEM FOR DEAD?

YOU GOT LUCKY THIS TIME AROUND AND YOU’RE STAYING FOR THE LUXURY.

Shut up.

NICE HOUSE, NICE CLOTHES, FREE TIME, NEW CAR. IN ANY OTHER SCENARIO YOU’D BE OUT OF HERE.

I worked hard, I fucking earned my right—

YOU GOT LUCKY. YOU WOULDN’T LAST A WEEK LIKE THIS A BEGGAR.

The door swings open.

The door fucking swings open, and the man’s beefy frame is uncovered and on full display.

Blond.

Tall.

Sweaty.

The taxi cab driver, Reiner.

In the bedroom with my dearly wedded husband.

I… can’t do this.

Reiner breathes a curse under his breath and squeezes past me.

I stand there for a moment. Not moving, not averting my gaze from where Reiner’s eyes used to be. Knowing he’s laying there in bed, the dark shadow in my peripheries. He doesn’t move, either.

Somehow, he still knows that he fucked up. Irrevocably.

SO, YOU THINK HE’S TOPPING?

When I speak, my voice is steady, cleared of knots. “I’m doing this for my friends.”

End scene.

November 6, 1935 8:37 PM

The storm isn’t letting up, but we’re warm inside by the fireplace. Sasha and Connie are playing Jenga, except it hasn’t been invented yet, so it’s just ‘stacking blocks.’ I just brushed it off as something I played in my childhood, which is technically the truth. I couldn’t help myself — they always play Jenga.

Armin is reading in a barely audible murmur to Eren and Mikasa, the inseparable trio, their reflections against the snow-covered pane.

Erwin and Hange are trying to do something with the radio, Levi inputting periodically with mild annoyance (at the device. He’s not one for these ‘newfangled things’).

Annie’s trying to teach Reiner how to knit, but his big hands keep getting in the way. Needles click together awkwardly and often drop altogether, clattering on the hardwood. Christa and Ymir sit nearby and the latter spares no insult when it happens.

At the opposite end of the room, I’m curled up in Jean’s arms.

We have more than enough to keep us for the next six years.

I did it.

And if I close my eyes and try to forget, if I try hard enough… I can be so happy.

September 9, 1938 7:47 AM

The doctors are impressed. To be fair, I’ve been crushed, diced, torn apart, and chewed into pieces. You should be impressed.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Kirschtein. It’s a beautiful baby boy!”

It looks just like its father.

I’m going to be sick.

March 8, 1938 4:36 AM

The clock keeps ticking. It’s always ticking. Marco unlatches and starts to whine, and I coo in somewhat of a comforting voice. Jean doesn’t stir.

He never stops crying. It starts as a shrill call and builds up until his lungs empty and his face turns a belligerent shade of red and I’m afraid and somewhat hopeful he might die, but he stutters, sucks in air in choking steps, and does it all over again, building up in volume until his cries are raw and throat-burning and every cycle makes my brain rattle in its jelly cage. Over and over and over and over and over and over…

I’ve lost all my assets. We’ve moved into a crumbling apartment that might be a little bigger than our old living room. The clock never stops ticking.

“Shh, you’re okay,” I murmur, but to whom is a mystery. None of us are okay.

Marco cries anyway and it’s high time I start too.

Why? Why why why?

I did everything right, so why did everything go so wrong?

Sasha died that winter in 1935. How? Speared through the stomach by an angry bull. She just wanted to see the calf.

The irony of it all is… I take a deep breath, of sweat and mold. It’s inevitable. The narrative is going to kill them all, no matter what I do.

Jean stirs behind me, pulling the sheets as he turns away. “Shut up!”

I don’t know what to do anymore except wait.

Wait for the draft.

October 30, 1940 7:10 AM

“Um. Goodbye.”

Jean’s looking sharp in his uniform.

“Wave bye-bye to Daddy,” I croak. Marco only stares.

His Adam’s apple bobs, indicative of swallowing. I wonder what he’s feeling right now. Sad? Regretful? Fearful? How many times have I relived this scenario under such different circumstances?

“Goodbye,” he says again with a note of finality. I stare at his nose, his brow, his ears, perfectly as I described them, but never his eyes, and move on.

“Goodbye, Armin.”

He smiles with his mouth and big blue eyes that should never see the horrors of what lies before him. “Goodbye. And goodbye to you, Marco.”

“Don’t forget to write.”

“I’ll write every day.”

I smile. “Take care of the boys for me.”

He huffs a little in amusement. “That I will.”

Eren’s standing next to him. I wait until he’s done saying goodbye to Mikasa before coming in. “Goodbye, Eren.”

“Don’t you ‘goodbye’ me,” he grunts. “Everyone’s so gloomy. I’m coming back, whether you like it or not.”

I smile. No, you’re not. “I expect you to follow through with your word, then.”

“I will. Right after I take care of those bastards.” He sticks his fingers within arm’s reach and Marco grabs on as he wiggles it. “‘Till we meet again.”

“Don’t forget to write.”

“Yes, mother.”

I bump his shoulder. Next.

“Goodbye, Connie.”

The man turns upon hearing his voice and melts into a small smile. It never was quite the same, quite as full, after Sasha’s passing. “Goodbye.” The second half of the word drowned out by the horn of the approaching train.

Oh, Connie. You shouldn’t have to go out there again. I bite the inside of my lip. None of you should.

I open one arm and he takes me up on the offer, engulfing us with his familiar, comforting embrace; his warmth, the roundness of his chest, the way his ribs move as he breathes, the realness of him. Perhaps for the last time.

“I’ll miss you. Write to me.” I swallow down the waver that threatens my voice. “Good luck.”

He smiles, waves to Marco. “I’ll see you later.”

Then they leave, and I’m there on the platform, and I should’ve brought a heavier coat because a sudden chill breaks through.

YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO GET SENTIMENTAL. JUST KILL YOURSELF!

I hug Marco tighter to my chest and find Mikasa.

November 6, 1940 10:10 PM

The silence is just about settling in my gut like a cold stone. No footsteps or loud breathing or high-pitched whining in the apartment today. Marco is actually asleep today.

For now, it’s just me and him.

Silently, I move to the radio and switch it on.

—joining the war effort despite his extensive injury, here at the East coast we see Commander Erwin and his secon—

I shut it off.

Maybe now’s the chance. My opportunity to get away from it all. While Jean’s out, I can just… up and leave. I have five years. How hard can it be to fake you and your infant’s deaths in the 1940s, in the middle of the war, no less? I can scrape up what I have left and write a will. No, that’s suspicious… well, maybe not too suspicious. I’m sure the men had to do it too, so it wouldn’t be too far-fetched—

“Mama?”

Heart sprinting, I spin on my heel. There’s Marco, chubby little fist curled against the corner, hobbling forward in his striped onesie that looks almost black under the dim light. “Ma-ma?”

This… has never happened before. He’s never walked forward like this.

Marco takes one step forward—

bom

—and his head slams against the floor.

He doesn’t move.

And as much as I might want to, neither can I.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale… “Mar…co?” Inhale. The wooden edge of the radio bites into my fingers. “Marco? Marco?”

The— our— my child stirs, putting his hands flat on the ground and lifting up his heavy head.

There’s a dent in his forehead.

His mouth opens, little pearly teeth gleaming.

“POLO.”

My arms tremble, weak and static.

No.

No.

“Get out.”

Marco flexes his fingers with none of the childlike clumsiness of a toddler. “YOUR CHILD IS ALREADY DEAD.”

“Get out.”

“DARLING…” He steps closer and I shrink into the radio as if I can phase through it, as if I’m a vapour. “SO ARE YOU.”

Death by stroke.

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

275th reincarnation - band au

Screaming. The rise and swell of voices like an ocean wave of titan proportions, light flashing and glaring from every possible angle as if illuminating a microscopic specimen casting bizarre and animated shadows everywhere I dare look, the sweat, the hollowness of the ground below me, the way it vibrates. The weight of a bass guitar slung over my shoulders.

The weight of thousands of eyes pinpointed on me.

“Aaalright, Toronto!”

The crowd screams louder at Connie’s mechanically projected voice blasts through the loudspeakers that poke through the crowd, echoing through the dark and damp and open air. 

“You ready for this one?”

Rise and swell. Individuality chewed into a paste and spat back out into the dedicated mass whose cries pierce into me. Into us. Connie — alive and breathing, alive — separates from the mic and shoots me a grin, skin already glaring with sweat. My hands come up, brushing the electric strings of the bass; a metallic shriek replaces the sound of the audience.

No. No, no, no, not this. Not this.

The first step is the hardest, breaking the ice that seals me to the raised stage. The rest come easy and before I know it, before I can get in a single coherent thought the crowd and the lights and the sounds are all behind me, and I’m running into the dark pocket of solace that leads offstage. Somewhere. Quiet. Away.

Hardly do I make it into some pitch-black equipment room and attempt to shut the door behind me before I’m intercepted and the door swings wide open again.

“Hey?”

Guitar strap half-over my head, I freeze.

“What’s going on?”

I dump the instrument on the ground and turn slowly. Brown strands turned red near the edges from the backlight, large, concerned eyes that are hardly visible yet distinguishable. Always distinguishable. Hell, I’d be able to tell her apart from a million plastically altered faces engineered to look just like her.

“Sasha.”

She scans me up and down, analytic, whole, and the single action makes me want to crumple in on myself. “I knew the new schedule was too much,” she murmurs, and I want to hug her. “Damned director never listens, though.”

I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, and I’m sorry I’m going to leave you again.

“Do you think you can get through this one concert? Then you guys'll have a break before we tour the US.” She smiles as if it's the most normal thing ever, as if she's not a ghost or absurd or a figment of my imagination. “I'll make Reiner buy us something really nice to eat, too. I hear the maple syrup here is good.”

How can you talk about maple syrup? How many times have I watched you die, powerless? How many times have I died without you? Can't you see the blood on my hands? Can't you see the blood on my hands? And you're talking about maple syrup?

“Are you—”

“I'm sorry.” The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I'm kidding myself. I'm stupid and weak and delusional and I never grew up past sixteen because I’m here. Despite everything I’m here. How many times now? I’m here. I’m—”

Everything wound up so tightly inside me like a coil snaps as the anchor is thrown overboard, chains clinking and echoing in the hollow frame called my body. The anchor is never going to touch ground. It’s just going to keep falling, violently accelerating, spewing out every piece of sea gunk and sewage caught in the rusted metal links, endlessly, and I find it in myself to smile because I really don’t know what else I’m supposed to do, I can’t scream, I can’t run, I sure as hell can’t cry. I sputter like an old car because my intestines unwind at Mach fuck.

“This is a secret between you and me, okay?” And vaguely I know I’m sullying her, I’m turning her impure, I’m exposing her to my indulgent sin, but since when did sinners care about that? “I need to kill myself.”

Connie’s voice is somewhere, muffled, trying to appease the crowd. Sasha is still. “What?”

“Jean. I need to kill myself so I can have a chance with him. I need to.” And the sound that comes out of me next is somewhere between a cough and a sob and it makes me feel so shitty I step toward her, the idea of comfort. “This is it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay?” And I touch her and squeeze her shoulder so hard with my strangely calloused fingers that it probably hurts, but she doesn’t flinch.

“Hey... Look, you’re not gonna do that!” she chuckles, and I’ve written her enough to know it’s a fake one, a nervous one, one she keeps tucked away in the deepest parts of her only to come out for emergencies. Glaring emergencies, and that’s how I know she cares so much. “Uh— Jeanboy? He’s such an asshole. You’d want his horse face carved onto your grave?”

Why did I write her like this? I should have made myself detestable. A piece of scum hated by the entire universe, because that’s what I am, a detestable piece of scum that leaves everyone behind over selfish pursuits. Hate me. Hate me. You’re like this because of me.

“You’re... not gonna do that. Right? You don’t— there’s other guys, you know? Or girls!” She pulls out the emergency laugh again and it’s a siren to my ears. “You have so many options! Thousands— no, millions of fans! You don’t have to settle for—”

“You don’t understand. Nobody will understand.” I cough again. “I know I sound like an edgy thirteen-year-old. I— I am edgy! Look at how I’m dressed!” The bracelets and bangles on my arm jingle when I jerk it and now she twitches. Something crashes in the background. “The fact is, you’re not real! The band isn’t real! Everything you know, your life, your friends, the world you live in, is just a figment of my fucking—”

“Calm down. Hey. Calm.” And she says my name and I’m sure it leaves a wound on her tongue. “Look, I think we need to take a break. Let’s shut this concert down, and—”

“You were never there for me.”

She stops talking.

“You were never there for me because you always died first.” My other hand flies to her shoulder before I fall over with the weight of whatever just came out of my mouth. What, what. Wow. I really am a piece of shit! So hung up over Jean. Is this love or something else? Something sinister? Should I have gone to therapy? And here I am destroying the best thing that’s ever happened to me— who am I kidding?

She’s only here because I made her. She should be somewhere else, enjoying korean barbeque. No, she shouldn’t exist at all. She never told me this was okay. I just took her and ran with it. I made her like this. I made her care for me and now I’m kicking out the bricks of her foundation that I laid down so painstakingly, one by one. But the anchor’s falling and nothing can ever stop it. “Sasha. You're never going to fit in. You're right when you think that Connie or Jean or Marco — is he alive in this one? — you're right when you think they don't actually like you. They think you're annoying. And no matter how many crazy jobs you take up— no matter how many you take you'll never really find a place to fit into this society. You should just go home and work in a convenience store because you're embarrassing yourself and your family.” The last sentence ends with an upward turn like I'm asking a question. “You're socially stunted, and…” I taste blood. “I'm sorry you exist.”

She's just a blur because she was never real in the first place. “I'm really fucking sorry.” She's just a blur because the salty tears leak into my mouth. Land ahoy, we're anchored.

“Sweetheart…”

“I need you to hate me.”

Warm hands brush away the hair that falls onto my face. “I could never.”

“That's the pro—”

“What the hell is going on?”

The voice, the rough-around-the-edges arrogant melody lined with a faint hum of baritone. My muscles petrify at the sound.

“Jean—” Sasha starts.

“Hey, we have a concert to do, yeah?” The light is almost completely blotted out now because he's here. “We need you out there.”

“Jean, give us, like, five minutes.”

“We don't have five minutes.” His steps come closer and suddenly there's light again. “What's going on?” Against my ear. “Tell me.”

Bzzzzzz. The whine of a mosquito. That's hysterical. Uproarious. A mosquito, here? Here? Here.

It's here.

It's time!

I've done more than enough here. I need to go. I need to go back to nothing. So without turning my head, I say, “I need to go,” and release Sasha. But Jean's big hands hold me back.

His hands. He holds me in place. What have those hands and I been through together? Every vein, every wrinkle, every tendonous ridge. How many times have we escaped death? Caused it? How many times have I seen them clasped in shaken, silent prayer, praying to an invisible god for a mercy that will never, never come? How many times has Jean wrapped himself up in those hands, clinging to the last semblance of ignorance and bliss and sanity left in his curled-up body?

"Back on stage, right?"

His hands. On my shoulders. Not painful, not gentle, but a third neutral option that somehow hurts the more than of both of them. Friendly.

“I’d rather you hate me, too.”

“What?”

Fuck, who cares? I’ll just kill myself and start over! “Back then. You acted like you loved me when you just hated me. But even then!” Like magnets my eyes lock into his and I nearly puke. He’s so close, I might blush. “Even then! Ha! You still stuck around for me! You screamed, you ignored, you fucking cheated on me with Reiner—” at this his face contorts— “but you still stuck around. You did love me. You always fucking loved me, and— and even if Marco was never born, you still would have stuck around.”

His eyes narrow into slits. “Don’t fucking say his name.”

I smile. “That was our child, by the way, but it’s not like you’d know, or care, because he’s dead. And you don’t exist anymore. And you know what! I should have killed your dad. I should have taken a cab right after you and went to his house and fucking stabbed him.”

“What the hell are you on—”

“Jean.” Sasha makes a motion and he grimaces.

“Concert’s off.” He snaps his head up as the light is blocked out once more, but not as much as when he stood there. The cords in his neck pop. “Concert’s off!”

“What’s—”

“Damn it, Connie, just go tell the audience.”

“But we need you guys—”

“Connie!”

I touch the side of his face and his pupils roll back to me.

“Veggie omelet. Your mom made it for you since you were little and it’s your favourite food.”

“What?”

“It’s also the only thing you’re able to cook, but you know, if you applied yourself, you can be a great cook. Michelin-star level. When you were six you fell off a swing and broke your arm but you told everyone you were fighting off a robber. Your dick curves a bit to the left. Your greatest fear is being abandoned. You can’t stand the idea of being left by people you thought you loved, which is kind of understandable, like I get where that comes from. You’re a big sleeper and a bed hog. You always take up as much room on the bed as humanly possible. Sometimes when you stand up you can’t move right away because the blood drains from your head too quickly. You say you’re a cat person but you love all animals and you think the discourse is stupid. Sometimes you get sad when you see a show you used to watch on TV as a kid but you would never admit it. You saw an emo kid once and seriously considered dying your hair black because you thought it would give you a glowup.” And here the torrent is corked.

Jean is shelled. Thrown overboard. He doesn’t lean in to my hand where I touch him; he treats it like an alien. “What are you doing?” 

“You guys? What’s going on?”

There she is. Holding her guitar, disheveled, perfect, framed in the erratic backlight. There she is. “Connie said the concert’s off? Is that true?”

Bzzzzzzz…

It flies so close to the side of my head my eardrum might rupture. Batting around the air with its tiny wings. The crowd screams. It lands on the back of my hand and sticks there when Jean tilts his head away, his beard brushing against my palm. My hand hovers.

“Are you happy?”

The mosquito doesn’t move. Jean moves his lips but says nothing.

“Is this what you wanted?”

It whines again, the slapping of its wings spelling out a rhythm, words that I only hear from the inside of my head.

YOUR LIFE IS WHAT YOU MAKE OF IT, it buzzes. MAYBE YOU’RE THE PROBLEM.

“You just want to see me suffer. You took me from my life and put me through all this. Psychotic piece of shit.”

“Is she okay?” someone says through a wall of water.

YOU HAD EVERY OPPORTUNITY TO GO HOME.

“How could I?” The force of my words might blow the insect away but I bring it closer anyway.

“You guys go back… stage… take care of it…”

“After what you showed me? How can I go back? You showed me what happiness could be but you hang it on a string above my head. Are you a sadist? Is that it? You— you like seeing me miserable? You wanna see me cry?”

I CAN MAKE YOU FORGET.

FORGET EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS. ALL YOUR LIVES. FORGET ABOUT HIM ENTIRELY, AND THE SERIES AS A WHOLE.

WHAT THEN? WOULD YOU DO IT? WOULD YOU FORGET EVERYTHING AND RETURN TO YOUR OWN LIFE?

…

WOULD YOU DO IT?

My hand trembles.

I NEVER MADE YOU MISERABLE. YOU ALWAYS WERE MISERABLE. AND YOU ALWAYS WILL BE.

YOU SHATTERED THE FIRST TIME YOU SAW HIM WITH SOMEONE ELSE AT THAT DANCE CLUB. BECAUSE YOUR EGO IS WEAK. YOU SAW HIM WITH SOMEONE ELSE AND YOU JUST COULDN’T STAND IT. YOU JUST COULDN’T LET HIM GO, SO YOU PLAY THIS GAME OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

“Oh, fuck you. Fuck you.”

TOO BAD YOU’RE TOO MUCH OF A COWARD TO TRULY KILL YOURSELF.

I slam my hand against the wall and it stings, it hurts my bones.

YOUR DESIRE TO FULFILL AN IMPOSSIBLE AND SELFISH SCENARIO IS OVERCOMING YOUR HUMANITY.

I do it again. It’s just a small brown stain.

YOU’RE LAUGHABLE.

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

YOU KNOW AS WELL AS ANYONE ELSE.

The metal stands fall over when I crash into them. “Where are you?” Spit landing on the corner of my mouth.

THAT’S WHY YOU ALWAYS WROTE THOSE STORIES.

Warm, strong hands wrap around my shoulders.

HIM, AND AN IDEALIZED VERSION OF YOURSELF.

“Die!”

NOT YOU. NEVER YOU. ALL 276 TIMES.

“Hey!”

And the world becomes nothing before I’m slammed into the wall. By Jean.

YOU DON’T LOVE HIM. YOU LOVE THE IDEA OF BEING WITH HIM.

“What the fuck?” Jean snarls. “Are you on something?”

YOU LOVE THE IDEA OF FULFILLMENT. OF BEING WANTED.

“Fucking talk!”

WHY DID YOU STICK AROUND FOR SO LONG?

The pressure in my shoulders suddenly increases tenfold and I swear my bones creak under the sudden weight. Jean’s eyes are wide, his teeth, previously bared, now gleam as his lips curl into a cold upward crescent. His jaw unhinges and he speaks.

“BECAUSE YOU’RE JUST A SAD PERSON.”

I’M JUST A SAD PERSON!

Death by strangulation.

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

epilogue

I went back home. I finished falling out of my chair, and that was it.

I closed all my online accounts. Ao3, Tumblr, Instagram. All my words and my connections.

I never had that much merchandise in the first place but I trashed it all. Leaving empty spots.

I cleared my camera roll. All the little doodles on scrap pieces of paper left lying around. I scrubbed out every trace of it.

I haven’t heard the voice since and I’m a little afraid to admit I miss it.

How many years have I spent there?

It doesn’t matter.

In the end it didn’t burn my memory. It’s fine. It’s fine.

I found a man. A real one. He’s nice. He likes ice coffees and sports cars. He doesn’t want kids and that’s fine. The only kids I’d want to have anyways are with— they’re with—

I wouldn’t want to have kids with anybody. It’s fine.

He’s a brunette but he dyes it blond. I never asked him to stop. I think it looks good on him anyways. I love him with all my heart and I know he loves me back.

We live in a condo by the 7-11 just like the one from—

I don’t know any convenience stores like this one.

We have a dog. A chocolate lab called Sasha. He loves hot dogs. My man says it’s a Russian name that means “defender of mankind.”

I think that’s sweet.

He calls him “defender of hot dogs.” I think that’s sweet, too. I love him a lot.

When we walk across the street, hand in hand, he suddenly lets go and shoves me aside. Squealing of tires. Plastic crushing. Out of instinct I reach for my ODM—

I don’t reach for anything.

I fall to the ground empty-handed.

Where we were standing there’s a truck. It’s a big one and it blocks out the sun. I can’t see him. I’m stuck to the ground. The drivers’ door opens and—

Nobody steps out. Nothing is there.

I want to puke.

“DO YOU WANT TO LIVE IN A FANTASY?“

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

okay we're done! i already kind of regret posting this but that doesn't really overcome the shame of posting anime boy x reader does it. oh well. sorry to everyone who's here for daily jean i'm never gonna stop doing this shit

[spaceorphan18]

The Rogue and Gambit Project : The Muir Island Saga

The first time we see Rogue and Gambit on the same page together is the cover of Uncanny X-Men #275 - which was one of those VERY SPECIAL ISSUES that put everyone on the cover. No, this is not a part of the Muir Island Saga -- but belongs to the previous arcs (Savage Land and Space Shenanigans). Still, it's pretty cool to see them on the cover together.

So, here's the thing about the Muir Island Saga - the next arc of the comics - despite dealing with the same adversary, and spending time with the same group of people, we never see Rogue and Gambit mix. In fact - (something I'll point out in detail in a minute) - it's almost comical how much they seem to be ships passing in the night. It's almost as if it's done purposely.

I know that years (and years and years and years) later - we'll get a retcon of their first meeting. And I really thought a lot about whether or not I should talk about that here... and, not to disappoint some of you, but I'm not going to (for now). Because I kind of want to tackle this project from a chronological point of view. To experience things as they were happening without the added layers of what we'll get next. And the retcon kind of, gets into a whole lot of issues I don't want to dig into yet. So, I promise, I'll talk about Kelly Thompson's Mini when we get there, we're just... a very long way off from that.

In the meantime, the thing about this arc that's so fascinating is trying to pinpoint how they could meet. And when. And why. And thing I keep coming back to is... comics don't make a whole lot of sense, y'all.

Let's dive in...

Uncanny X-Men #278

The whole premise of The Muir Island Saga is that the Shadow King wants to get out of the Astral Plane and kind of brainwashes the residents of Muir Island (including the X-Men) in order to do it. Don't ask me to make sense of it, I'm just the recapper!

The real purpose of the whole thing is to reshuffle the line, which had been in such flux up until this point. The X-Office was getting ready to launch the new Adjectiveless X-Men book, and Chris Claremont was getting ready to depart after 17 years of being the sole author of X-Men. Things were definitely changing and this saga finally gets all the pieces to where they need to be.

As an aside, I do find it fascinating that the beginning of Rogue and Gambit's relationship coincides with all of these changes. Not only is the decade changing, but X-Men's status quo is about to be really shaken up after being a relatively steady book for a very, very long time. It's just kind of neat that the endings and beginnings happening on an external level are also happening with our characters as well.

Uncanny X-Men #278

For some context, after the destruction of the mansion after the Inferno crossover, and after remaining X-Men all ended up going through the Siege Perilous after the Australian era, Muir Island, home of (brilliant scientist and ex-Xavier lover) Moira MacTaggart became the home of a new (and short lived) group of X-Men. I can only assume that's why Rogue returned here after her little side adventure in the Savage Land.

Though I should point out that Rogue has ZERO idea who is alive and who is dead other than the people who are already on the island. I kind of wonder what her future plans would have been if the other X-Men never showed up. Anyway... though, there really isn't any full explanation as to why Rogue went back to Muir Island other than they had no intention of writing her out of the book, and they needed all the X-Men to be in one place.

How does she feel about the events of the Savage Land? What really happened with her and Magneto? The answer is -- who cares, we're done with that plot now and moving on until another comic book writer decides to tug on that loose plot thread. :P

Uncanny X-Men #278

What is important to know that the Shadow King is mind controlling everyone. And... he does so with Rogue by making out with her after she's been in the shower? What??

Look, I'm not going to claim this stuff makes a whole lot of sense. But I can fanwank it a little...

The Shadow King's whole deal is that he's trying to corrupt everyone and bring them to their most evil (because, you know, that's what evil villains do). And with Rogue - he plays on her sense of touch. Back in the old days, Rogue used kissing as her primary way of stealing people's powers. And on top of that, one of her deepest rooted struggles (as of obvious statement isn't obvious) is the fact that she isn't able to have physical contact. So the Shadow King is tapping into both of those things, and, as the whole 'temptation' quote insinuates - him letting her give into her desires allows him to brainwash her.

Now, do I really believe she'd be enticed this easily? Can the Shadow King have that deep a hold on anyone? That is for you to decide, fair reader.

It's at least my interpretation. Honestly, I think there's a bigger part of me that wonders if they really just wanted to see Rogue making out with someone because because they can.

Meanwhile, on the opposite page, guess who is landing with the rest of the X-Men who just returning from space? That's right, everyone can relax. Gambit has arrived. ;) They're now in the same place... so if we can only get them to the same panel...

Uncanny X-Men #278

Alright guys, time to play the logistics game... these two panels are on opposite pages. Gambit, fresh off his plane, ends up running into Multiple Man - and they have a little fight. Meanwhile, Rogue runs into Wolverine and Jubilee - and they have a little fight. Are you following me? Good! Cause it's going to get crazier from here.

Also, let's keep track of Rogue's clothes because... ooff, yeah, the continuity is worse than the story line.

Uncanny X-Men #279

Before I get into it - I need to state that Uncanny X-Men 279 is the issue where Chris Claremont just up and quit during the middle. He'll be back to wrap up his run in the new X-Men book (that we'll get to after this) but I'm sure the nonsense going on in the X-Office didn't help the clarity of this story...

Anyway, the next time we see either Gambit or Rogue is here... in the next issue. What happened between Rogue and Wolverine/Jubilee? How did Gambit handle Multiple Man? Who knows! But now Gambit is with Wolverine and Jubilee and Rogue is nowhere to be seen.

Also - that's the third 'bang, you dead joke' in, like, five issues. Good lord, Claremont, if this wasn't your final Uncanny issue (for now) I'd say give it a rest. I will say, though, I almost included the entire three pages of Wolverine/Jubilee/Gambit because they are that delicious, and easily the best thing about this entire arc.

Uncanny X-Men #279

On the next page, we see Rogue again - where she is taking on Forge. Note the wardrobe change? Did she have time to add more clothes after her 'fight' with Wolverine? Is any of this making sense yet? No? Okay... onto the X-Factor issue...

X-Factor #69

This is literally the next time we see Rogue - after Forge shoots her with a ray gun that stops the mind control. Did the ray gun just change her outfit as well? Was the previous outfit too evil?? Or was it just that artists Andy Kubert and Whilce Portacio just have zero communication when getting these issues out? (Honestly, I do not blame the artists - I do blame editorial though.)

X-Factor #69

Meanwhile, where is Gambit you ask??

Alright, guys, this is where we're at -- Forge has un-mind controlled Rogue, Wolverine, and Banshee. Meanwhile, Gambit, Psylocke, Jubilee and the Muir Island peeps are still under the Shadow King. And now X-Factor (the original five X-Men - Cyclops, Jean Grey, Iceman, Angel, and Beast) are now involved. All of them are running around the island. Only, it's X-Factor who finds the rest of the mind controlled - not Forge and crew...

Also, in case you'd like me to make it more confusing, Mystique has arrived in disguise (with Nick Fury), while all this mind control is doing wonders for Charles Xavier's son, Legion, who is about to go a little crazy.

Uncanny X-Men #280

Classic cover is classic. Also, Rogue still has more of her clothes! Don't grow too attached to them.

Uncanny X-Men #280

See, I told you not to get too attached to Rogue's clothes. Apparently, when Legion went crazy and caused an explosion, it blew off all her clothes. Miraculously, no one else had this issue. I guess Jean just used her telekinetic powers to keep hers on.

Uncanny X-Men #280

And on the other side of this really not very big island is the B-team. B for brainwashed. Yes - the two teams are going to meet! Yes, a big, huge battle is about to ensue!

Uncanny X-Men #280

Gambit is going to take on Wolverine (for the 100th time it seems) while Rogue will take on Strong Guy. Every non-brainwashed X-Man is going to take on every other brainwashed X-Man. Except for Rogue v Gambit. We don't get to see that. They do not share any panels together. Not even in the big group scenes. None. Nothing. Absolutely zero.

They just knew it'd be too much...

(Honestly, I am a little curious as to why this was. It almost does feel intentional at this point.)

Anyway, the battle ends. The Shadow King is vanquished (for now) -- and has the hilariously villain closing line of "No!!! I WAS SO CLOSE!!" And all that's left is to wrap up this little ditty...

Uncanny X-Men #280

I just need to talk about Rogue's clothes again. Her panties are barely hanging on by a thread, but her gloves are perfectly intact. How convenient.

Anyway, the last line of this comic reads: The End, and The Beginning. How appropriate...

Here we are, guys. The first issue where Rogue and Gambit end up on panel together. Are you ready for this??

Let's talk about X-Factor #70

X-Factor #70

Most of the issue revolves around Xavier trying to get into Legion's head while the rest of the group is either waiting around in the hospital room or tying up loose plot threads around the island.

So... how much time has passed? It's unclear - but enough that Rogue's had enough time to find some clothes that have not been ripped to shreds.

Anyway - one of the loose plot threads is dealing with Mystique's "death" that happened ages ago. Turns out she faked it and had been pretending to be Val Cooper for a while now. Rogue had seen news of the "death" and this is their reunion.

Great, now that that's squared away, we get one of my favorite sequences in comics... the chain letting everyone know that Xavier is okay ;)

X-Factor #70

Idk why, but I love this little sequence. I love the random 'no smoking' sign. I love Gambit freaking Polaris out. I love that Jubilee just does not give a shit. And I love that Rogue doesn't seem to either.

Anyway... now to the moment y'all have been patiently waiting for...

I present to you -- Rogue and Gambit's first on panel moment!

X-Factor #70

It's sort of anticlimactic, isn't it?

While Xavier's - what do we do with fourteen X-Men - is rather iconic, the art here is... meh. I'm so glad Jim Lee is going to redesign a lot of the characters. Gambit just does not look good in the yellow costume (also, he does not have his headsock on here for some reason). Meanwhile, even Rogue looks a little off here (though this is the X-Factor book and not Uncanny).

And... we're left with a bunch of open questions. Just how did Rogue and Gambit meet? What was their first interaction like? What is their dynamic at the very beginning? As I said before -- Kelly Thompson will one day answer these questions -- both brilliantly and unbelievably.

If you were looking for any kind of set up going into the relaunch, I'm sorry to say that what I've laid out for you is what we've got. So, introductions are open to interpretation...

My own version...?

Gambit: *speaking flirtations French to Rogue* Rogue: Wolverine - who is this? Wolverine: Storm brought back some Cajun leftovers from her time as a de-aged thief. Gambit: How about a kiss, chere? Rogue: How about I punch you?

And thus a dynamic was born. ;)

Next up: We're finally going to really get into it with X-Men #1-3!

[lou-bonfightme]

"Oh, well, in that case, I suppose we will need to reschedule swimming," Lou said, very seriously, his mouth pinched down in a frown as he caught Hades' eye.

"Nooooooo!" Opal whined. "The appointment is swimming!"

"Ah, I see. Do not worry, the water isn't going anywhere. Sunscreen is important to protect that pretty face of yours."

Opal huffed, but she also smiled at the compliment. "Oookayyy, but hurry!"

"Next time, I believe, suncream should be applied before leaving the house," Lou mused to Hades as Opal wiggled through the rest of the sunscreen application.

"D'accord, are you ready?" Lou asked once Hades finished. He clapped his hands together, then lurched forward to catch Opal across the stomach as she darted for the water. "Remember the rule?"

"Hold hands!" She reached up above her head with both hands so Lou could take one and Hades the other.

"Oui. That is very important, Caillou," he said to her as he took her hand. "You must always go in to the water with an adult, okay? Until we tell you otherwise."

[outfit, minus the cap ofc lou would never be caught dead wearing a baseball cap]

@trip-downtheriverstyx

Under The Sea || Loud+Opal

[dhrmonth]

Dramione Month Daily Roundup

Here is the Day 17 roundup of Dramione Month works! ⏳✨ 

AO3 Links:

The star we couldn’t keep by Marijoshi: G, 713 words, 1/1 Chapters

The Tenuous Threads of Friendship and Desire by Tippilo: E, 4,007 words, 1/1 Chapters

Day 12: Fake Dating by Brittles_06: M, 1,629 words, 1/1 Chapters

Day 11: War Opposites by Brittles_06: T, 275 words, 1/1 Chapters

Day 17 - The Hunger Games by Peaches_on_Waffles: G, 426 words, 1/1 Chapters

Day 10: Idiots in Love by Brittles_06: T, 258 words, 1/1 Chapters

Only the Ribs Remain by goldengirlwrites, paigetopage: NR, 8,850 words, 2/? Chapters

12 Fail- Safe Ways to Woo a Witch by Hyemi_28: M, 2,664 words, 1/1 Chapters

The White Rose by Serpent_Sortia: E, 1,825 words, 1/? Chapters

Hold You Through the Night by galaxy_skies: T, 1,205 words, 1/1 Chapters

Day Sixteen - 12 Fail-Safe Ways To Woo A Witch by Peaches_on_Waffles: M, 1,177 words, 1/1 Chapters

Drips and Drabs by augustaoctavia: NR, 8,846 words, 8/? Chapters

Day Fifteen - Advanced Rune Translation by Peaches_on_Waffles: M, 749 words, 1/1 Chapters

Day Fourteen - Romance Tropes Free Day by Peaches_on_Waffles: T, 387 words, 1/1 Chapters

Downfall by Diffindo by dramionelover1997: E, 2,047 words, 1/1 Chapters

Tumblr Posts:

Art by omniluci-estumbra (Also on Twitter and Instagram)

Art by arfisrar (Also on Instagram and Twitter)

Art by sophiesstreet (Also on Twitter and Instagram)

Twitter Posts:

Art by softkombuchart (Also on Instagram and Tumblr)

SocMed by nissasxnotes

Fic by brittan50044144

Fic by helleonore1

Ficlet by brittan50044144

Ficlet by PeachesnWaffles

Art by efaidyiel

Ficlet by Bookish_clf (Also on Instagram)

Ficlet by nottkaro

Ficlet by nothing_devils

Art by aplthree (Also on Instagram and Tumblr)

Drabble by UnaOrion

Ficlet by arborlibrary27

Ficlet by phiasabanana

Fic by MissusBWrites (Also on Instagram)

Ficlet by missmuwrites

Drabble by TheOther_Lore

Ficlet by magicalsydney

Fic by thisisntdd

Ficlet by mspolapotter

Ficlet by grangermalfoy07 (Also on Instagram)

Instagram Posts:

Art by elliemess.art

Art by sisiwako

SocMed by nox.malfoy

Fic by catmintandthyme

Art by mira.sool_art

Fic by hyemi28_fanfictions Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Art by rubleroo

Art by saintmlfy

Art and ficlet by papercranesandapples

Art by sisiwako

Fic by galaxy__skies (x-posted to AO3)

[aroeddiediaz]

20 questions for fic writers

Tagged by @cal-daisies-and-briars , @jesuiscenseedormir , @diazsdimples

How many works do you have on ao3?

27!

What's your total ao3 word count?

61,537

What fandoms do you write for?

Currently I’m pretty much exclusively a 9-1-1 writer, but in the past I wrote a lot of Flarrowverse (do they still call it that?). I also have published fics for Fantastic Beasts and a few anime (Given, Haikyuu, Saiki K). Given the number of Bnha wips i have locked away in the vault it’s amazing I don’t have anything published for that.

Top 5 fics by kudos:

(I am omitting all the Flarrowverse fics in my top 5 on the basis that they were written in high school and I’ve changed as a person, and they probably only beat out on the numbers due to being up for years longer)

1. Kabe-Do’s and Kabe-Don’ts (Given, 861 kudos)

2. You’re Not Special (Saiki K, 598 kudos)

3. How Eddie Learned To Stop Worrying And Embrace The Kitten Life (9-1-1, 327 kudos)

4. The Boy Formerly Known As Miracle (Haikyuu, 277 kudos)

5. Under The Hood (9-1-1, 275 kudos)

Do you respond to comments?

Yes!! As many as I can!

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

This probably has to be The Crimes of Queenie Goldstein, in which Queenie is put on trial for her actions during the war. Don’t @ me but Queenie turning traitor was bu far the most interesting part of the Crimes of Grindelwald (the only interesting thing, really). There could be such an interesting story between her and Tina if only JKR would let the movies out of her grasp.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Fuck, idk if I have a happiest ending fic, a lot of them tend to not have that much story arc. (A lot of established relationship fluff or smut lmao). I guess if I had to pick one it would probably be How Eddie Learned To Stop Worrying and Embrace The Kitten Life.

Do you get hate on fics?

Not since that one anti-olicity fic that I wrote while deep in the trenches of Flarrowverse discourse, which I totally deserved :/. I have regrets. Also I should probably orphan/delete that one if I haven’t already. In my defense, high school. I have learned.

Do you write smut?

Yea lol. I think my 9-1-1 stuff has been almost exclusively smut. Idk how it happened. (I do know how it happened smut is fun to write)

Craziest crossover?

I haven’t published any of my crossover fics :( none of them have been complete enough. I have many many unfinished RotBTD wips that have never seen the light of day though.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Who would steal my stuff? Lol

Have you ever had a fic translated?

One time someone offered to translate one of my fics into Russian but idk if that ever actually happened.

Have you co-written a fic before?

Nope

All time favorite ship?

Right now definitely Buddie! Percabeth holds a special place in my heart though <3

What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

Ok. After the end of the Heroes of Olympus Series, but before Trials of Apollo was announced, I tried my own hand at writing the sequel that was clearly coming based on all the loose threads in the final book. It was going to be a Solangelo quest to save the Oracle of Delphi from Python, while Akhys tries to poison Percy to turn him into an evil god(?). Half the details have been lost and I desperately want to remember them, because I haven’t attempted anything nearly as cool or ambitious since then. The first 5 chapters are posted on my ao3 (Will Solace and the Oracle’s Cry) and I still think high school me had the most interesting characterization of Will out of everyone else on the internet at the time. Even if it is still very 2015.

What are your writing strengths?

I think I’m good at getting into the heads of different characters. Understanding their motives and weaknesses.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Editing.

Lmao I have a lot of weaknesses but I definitely struggle the most with trying to look back on or change things I’ve already written, even when it’s necessary.

Also my tendency to just drop fics if I stop working on them for too long. Rip to my wip graveyard.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

That’s a minefield I’m not willing to play in. Unless it’s Chinese. Very limited amounts of Chinese. Or like, a pet name or phrase that’s already ubiquitous in fandom so I’m not risking anything.

First fandom you wrote in?

Percy Jackson!! That Will Solace quest is the first thing I ever wrote! I definitely had a tendency to jump into the deep end with new hobbies lmao. Like my first ever cosplay that took me 3 years to complete.

Favorite fic you've written?

I think my favorite fic is always going to be the one I’m currently working on writing. But I am very proud of the silly little dramatic ironies in In Hindsight, which I wrote entirely over one long lunch the day after 7x04 broke me. Also I have to shoutout Teacher’s Pet, that one ruler spanking fic nobody ever reads because it’s Eddie/Ana lmao. I enjoyed putting in a bunch of tiny incompatibilities between them. So, uh, I guess my favorite thing in my own writing is dramatic irony?

Tagging: @aspecbuddie @pirrusstuff @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @lemonzestywrites @your-catfish-friend @inkmortal-trash389 @evanbegins s @wildlife4life @eddiebabygirldiaz @epicbuddieficrecs @kitteneddiediaz @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @coatedpanda16 @nicotinewrites @estheticpotaeto @babytrapperdiaz @snowviolettwhite @wikiangela

[curiositasmundi]

[...]

Anche il giornale La Vanguardia di Barcellona (Spagna) ha comunicato che non utilizzerà più i propri account su X, sostanzialmente per gli stessi motivi del Guardian: «Le idee che violano i diritti umani, come l’odio per le minoranze etniche, la misoginia e il razzismo, fanno parte dei contenuti distribuiti su X, dove diventano virali e occupano la maggior parte del tempo degli utenti per guadagnare più soldi dalle inserzioni pubblicitarie».

Mercoledì anche il giornalista statunitense Don Lemon, tra i più seguiti con oltre 1,5 milioni di follower, ha lasciato X segnalando che la piattaforma ha di recente cambiato i propri termini di servizio in modo che eventuali contenziosi legali siano gestiti nei tribunali del Texas, dove c’è una maggiore probabilità che finiscano sotto la responsabilità di giudici di orientamento conservatore. Lemon era stato licenziato dalla CNN lo scorso anno, aveva accettato un’offerta da Musk per fare un programma su X, ma alla fine Musk ci aveva ripensato e Lemon gli aveva fatto causa per non avere rispettato gli accordi del contratto.

Sempre mercoledì l’attrice Jamie Lee Curtis ha disattivato il proprio account X e ha segnalato la propria decisione su Instagram pubblicando un breve messaggio: «Dio, concedimi la serenità di accettare le cose che non posso cambiare. Il coraggio di cambiare le cose che posso. E la saggezza di capire la differenza».

Pochi giorni prima aveva annunciato che non avrebbe più utilizzato X anche il regista messicano Guillermo del Toro, segnalando che avrebbe iniziato a pubblicare con maggiore frequenza sulla piattaforma concorrente Bluesky, dove da qualche tempo si trasferiscono quasi tutti gli utenti che smettono di usare X. Non ci sono stime ufficiali, ma secondo alcune rilevazioni almeno 100mila persone solo negli Stati Uniti hanno disattivato i propri account su X il giorno dopo le elezioni. Bluesky ha invece guadagnato milioni di utenti negli ultimi mesi, molti dei quali provenivano da X ed erano delusi dalla presenza ricorrente di account che facevano propaganda per Trump.

Bluesky ha di recente confermato di avere raccolto oltre un milione di nuovi iscritti dallo scorso 4 novembre negli Stati Uniti e nel Regno Unito. Il social network, che esiste dal 2021, ha per ora più di 14 milioni di utenti, comunque una frazione rispetto agli oltre 200 milioni di iscritti a X e i circa 275 milioni di persone che utilizzano Threads, il social network molto ispirato a X gestito da Meta e collegato a Instagram.

[...]

[tossawary]

I usually grab my AO3 stats for my own personal record-keeping and celebration of achievements on December 31st / January 1st (end of the year) and on August 19th (the day I first started posting), but I was out of town this year on AUG 19 and kept putting it off. (I feel like I've been so, so spacey and busy this year.) So, I'm posting them now! What's a month between me and my blog?

Since my last check-in, I wrote and posted... "Stepping Up" (90,263 words), "First Contact" (7,166 words), and "if words could make wishes" (31,424 words). The "Scum Villain Stories" series is now at 1,216,156 words and 24 fics, which will make "Servant to a Different King" lucky number 25, it seems.

I don't write for the stats and don't track them outside of these little "hey, I should acknowledge the passage of time so it doesn't fall into one big blur" posts, but I think it's neat to take them and hold them up against both specific (SVSSS) and general fandom preferences. (Which fics attract clicks in which fandoms? Why? Why not? It's fun to speculate wildly and possibly wrongly.)

Hm, I really should write more rarepairs so I can broaden and continue my amateur, extremely biased, essentially useless data analysis of these things... (joking) or so I'll say to defend my decision to forcibly drag everyone onto an unusual rarepair ship with me someday (intended humorously, but I am seriously interested in exploring some rare pairings for their own sake). I'll be like a reverse-kraken. Instead of monstrously dragging sailors off the ship and into the depths of the sea, I'll be scooping innocent beach-goers from their swimming and putting them on my boat.

User Subscriptions: 1,924 Kudos: 59,584 Comment Threads: 13,690 Bookmarks: 21,036 Subscriptions: 7,573 Word Count: 1,223,304 Hits: 802,844

pride is not the word I'm looking for (408,395 words) Subscriptions: 1,215 Hits: 230,634 Kudos: 6,410 Comment Threads: 4,439 Bookmarks: 3,165

A Child Once (100,736 words) Subscriptions: 1,214 Hits: 109,140 Kudos: 6,892 Comment Threads: 1,447 Bookmarks: 2,650

Stepping Up (90,263 words) Subscriptions: 1,042 Hits: 61,069 Kudos: 3,987 Comment Threads: 1,516 Bookmarks: 1,704

hey, share the weight a little (70,355 words) Subscriptions: 527 Hits: 46,467 Kudos: 3,616 Comment Threads: 1,537 Bookmarks: 1,689

dreams that had never come true (13,824 words) Subscriptions: 260 Hits: 37,087 Kudos: 4,554 Comment Threads: 314 Bookmarks: 1,498

Babe in the Woods (19,265 words) Subscriptions: 625 Hits: 30,039 Kudos: 4,006 Comment Threads: 328 Bookmarks: 1,423

Catch a Falling Star (121,938 words) Subscriptions: 72 Hits: 29,499 Kudos: 1,876 Comment Threads: 429 Bookmarks: 1,098

Sit With Your Soul (61,447 words) Subscriptions: 836 Hits: 27,528 Kudos: 2,905 Comment Threads: 588 Bookmarks: 1,555

Nothing to Me, Nothing to You (59,893 words) Subscriptions: 267 Hits: 26,823 Kudos: 1,921 Comment Threads: 424 Bookmarks: 779

love to the ones I've never met (82,834 words) Subscriptions: 277 Hits: 25,488 Kudos: 1,768 Comment Threads: 711 Bookmarks: 405

it must follow, as the night the day (26,341 words) Subscriptions: 385 Hits: 25,302 Kudos: 2,375 Comment Threads: 247 Bookmarks: 753

forgiveness for whose sake? (47,712 words) Subscriptions: 164 Hits: 22,299 Kudos: 1,600 Comment Threads: 710 Bookmarks: 274

Horns (11,284 words) Subscriptions: 91 Hits: 19,189 Kudos: 2,814 Comment Threads: 133 Bookmarks: 970

every haircut I've ever had has been a bad haircut (5,689 words) Subscriptions: 33 Hits: 16,013 Kudos: 2,572 Comment Threads: 87 Bookmarks: 540

anxiety and caffeine are having a cockfight in my brain (1,772 words) Subscriptions: 32 Hits: 14,554 Kudos: 2,750 Comment Threads: 71 Bookmarks: 485

if words could make wishes (31,424 words) Subscriptions: 236 Hits: 13,928 Kudos: 1,205 Comment Threads: 275 Bookmarks: 304

ever wonder if the person in the puddle is real (6,842 words) Subscriptions: 49 Hits: 12,559 Kudos: 1,552 Comment Threads: 53 Bookmarks: 166

this point of pale light (18,435 words) Subscriptions: 27 Hits: 9,868 Kudos: 838 Comment Threads: 61 Bookmarks: 333

the ability to remain sober and gracious (4,383 words) Subscriptions: 11 Hits: 7,346 Kudos: 1,055 Comment Threads: 33 Bookmarks: 199

you had me at hello (5,156 words) Subscriptions: 53 Hits: 7,055 Kudos: 985 Comment Threads: 49 Bookmarks: 73

System Icons (2,701 words) Subscriptions: 38 Hits: 6,665 Kudos: 411 Comment Threads: 25 Bookmarks: 253

Absolutely Ineffable (10,058 words) Subscriptions: 31 Hits: 6,633 Kudos: 906 Comment Threads: 48 Bookmarks: 269

The Red Cabinet (7,536 words) Subscriptions: 35 Hits: 5,499 Kudos: 767 Comment Threads: 36 Bookmarks: 165

but that’s fine because I like a hot mess (3,408 words) Subscriptions: 4 Hits: 3,332 Kudos: 521 Comment Threads: 22 Bookmarks: 135

Scum Villain Relationship & AU Request Stickers 2021 (2,345 words) Subscriptions: 8 Hits: 2,427 Kudos: 245 Comment Threads: 14 Bookmarks: 19

Scum Villain Valentine's Day Cards 2021 (578 words) Subscriptions: 4 Hits: 2,388 Kudos: 352 Comment Threads: 26 Bookmarks: 37

First Contact (7,166 words) Subscriptions: 34 Hits: 2,093 Kudos: 446 Comment Threads: 50 Bookmarks: 70

MXTX Pride Flag Character Stickers 2021 (1,524 words) Subscriptions: 3 Hits: 1,920 Kudos: 255 Comment Threads: 17 Bookmarks: 25

[bratshaws]

through the hourglass 312. brb x oc

a/n: bada bing bada boomccc(comments and reblogs are super welcome and encouraged!)

pairing: plus size!oc x rooster

warnings: none uwu

goodness gracious (pls read this one to know more what this fic is about!!)

chapter

1/

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/302/303/304/305/306/307/308/309/310/311

(pls let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! )

taglist: @mirandastuckinthe80s @roosterschanelslut @wiipes @lcahwriter @novastories @gretagerwigsmuse @frenchtoastix @lizzie-rdj @fanboyluvr @atarmychick007 @comebacktoearthpls

@peachiicherries @mak-32 @lizziespidiepridie @roosterswifey @ollyoxenfrees @piceous21 @sqrlgrl22 @hofficoffi @lexhalstead3 @lorilane33 @legendarydreamersharkparty @luckyladycreator2

@emilybradshaw @louisahale @leobabbyyy @booklover2sblog @ktjmac @graciereads @bigpoppajes @taytaylala12

@caitsymichelle13 @becks-things @caatheeriinee07 @fanboyswhore9 @jesfreedark @katiemcrae @lilmonstrjedi @hobiismyhopeu @teacupsandtopgun @insominac23 @gh0stsgoodgirl @mygyn @chavivaelisheva @kmc1989 @enchantingharmonyalpaca @callsign-magnolia

-

How was he going to do this? Should he talk to Cyclone? No he needed proof or else the vice-admiral would toss this away.He sat alone in his bunk, towel on his shoulders since he just left the shower, allowing the solitude to reach his thoughts.

He needed a plan—something concrete to address the growing tension within the squadron. The encounter with Mark had left Rooster with a gnawing sense of unease, and the need for proof became more apparent. Without tangible evidence, any accusation against Mark might be dismissed, and Rooster couldn't afford to let the internal discord persist.

He opened a drawer beside his bunk, retrieving a small notebook and a pen. As he flipped through the pages, he paused at an empty one. Rooster began jotting down his observations, creating a timeline of the incidents involving Mark.

His mind traced back to the encounters in the locker room, the condescending remarks, and the private conversations. Rooster scrutinized each detail, searching for a way to connect him to the breach.

Fuck he was nervous.

He never dealt with stuff like this before. Annoying pilots? Sure. Possible threat that could ruin a lot of lives? Never.

Rooster continued to document his observations, creating a meticulous record of each incident. His thoughts drifted to the cryptic conversation Mark had with McAllister. It was a potential lead, a thread to pull, but Rooster needed to approach it cautiously. He considered talking to McAllister directly, seeking more information without revealing the gravity of the situation.

But he also wanted to make sure McAllister wouldn’t be harmed if he did talk…he rubs his chin, still thinking about what he should do. How do you prove that a pilot, a Lieutenant just like he was, was involved in such a thing?

Rooster's fingers drummed on the notebook as he mulled over his options. The weight of responsibility bore down on him, and he couldn't afford to make a misstep. 

He decided to start with McAllister, someone he trusted and who had inadvertently given him a glimpse into the mysterious conversations. Rooster closed the notebook with a snap, tucking it away, and made his way to find McAllister.

The squadron's common area was relatively empty as most pilots were still wrapping up post-mission tasks. Rooster spotted McAllister reviewing some mission data on one of the computer terminals. Approaching quietly, Rooster cleared his throat to get McAllister's attention.

"McAllister, can I have a word?" Rooster asked, keeping his tone low-key to avoid unnecessary attention.

McAllister turned toward him, after jumping in surprise a hint of surprise in his eyes. "Sure, sir. What's up?"

“Not here, follow me.”Rooster motioned toward a quieter corner of the room, away from prying ears. Once they were a bit secluded, Rooster leaned in, his expression serious. "You mentioned Mark and the breach,what did you get?"

McAllister's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of nervousness crossing his features. He hesitated before responding, "Well, sir, recruit Haltzman and I were talking after the mission, and he seemed... agitated. He mentioned something about the breach, but he didn't go into specifics. I asked him why and…he said that Mark was bothering him about it."

Rooster's brows furrowed as he absorbed the information. "Did Haltzman mention anything else?" Rooster asked, his voice low and focused.

McAllister shifted uncomfortably, glancing around to ensure no one was eavesdropping. "He said Mark was pressuring him to share information about the breach. Haltzman seemed spooked, sir, like he didn't want to get involved. At all."

Rooster processed the revelation, his mind racing with the need to connect the dots. "Did he say how Mark approached him? Any specifics about their conversations?"

McAllister nodded, recalling the details. "Haltzman mentioned that Mark cornered him in the locker room after the mission. He wanted to know if Haltzman had overheard anything about the breach, and when Haltzman didn't give him any answers, Mark got... intense."

“Did he hurt him?"

McAllister shook his head. "No, sir. He just scared him. But he didn't want to say too much. I didn't push him, didn't want to make things worse for him."

"You did the right thing, McAllister. It's crucial to handle this delicately. We need to gather more information before taking any action."

Fuck.

McAllister glanced around, ensuring their conversation remained private. "Sir, I don't want to sound paranoid, but do you think Mark might be involved in the breach somehow?"

FUCK

Rooster sighed, rubbing his eyelids. "I don't know, McAllister. But we can't ignore anything. We need to find out more, discreetly, without tipping our hand."

"I'll keep my ears open, sir. If I hear anything else, I'll let you know," McAllister assured.

"Good. Stay vigilant, McAllister. We can't afford to underestimate the gravity of this situation," Rooster emphasized. "And for now, let's keep this between us. We don't want to create unnecessary panic until we have more concrete information."

McAllister nodded in agreement. "Understood, sir. I'll be careful."

As Rooster walked away from the conversation, his mind raced with thoughts and strategies. The need for evidence became even more crucial, and Rooster realized he had to tread carefully to avoid any potential backlash.

He noticed the Daggers sitting together and he beelined over to his friends, leaning down to the table and muttering a ‘a word?’.  Payback and Jake shared a look before standing up, then Phoenix tried to be as subtle as she could, busying herself with her watch while Bob followed behind them, adjusting his glasses.

Rooster led the Daggers to a quieter corner of the hangar, away from the prying eyes and ears of the squadron. He leaned in, his voice low but firm. "Alright, listen up. I need your observations, discreetly. Something's off with Mark, and it might be connected to the breach."

The Daggers exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from casual to alert. Payback, the intuitive one, spoke first. "What happened, Rooster?"

“Too much.”

Rooster quickly briefed them on McAllister's encounter with Haltzman, emphasizing Mark's suspicious behavior and the potential connection to the breach. If they were surprised…they didn’t show it.

Phoenix crossed her arms, snorting. "I knew it."

“You did?”

“Well…I had a feeling.”

Rooster raised an eyebrow at Phoenix. "You had a feeling? Care to share?"

Phoenix leaned against a nearby crate, her expression thoughtful. "Mark's been acting strange for a while now. I thought it was just the stress of the missions, but if there's something more..." she says, “Besides we wouldn’t do that shit.”

Jake chimed in, his voice low and serious. "...what should we do then?”

Bob adjusted his glasses, a glint of determination in his eyes. "I'll discreetly check the network logs, see if there's any unusual activity that might be linked to Mark. If he's involved in the breach, there could be a digital trail."

Payback crossed his arms, his expression grim. "I'll talk to the recruits, see if anyone else has had strange encounters with Mark. We need to gather as much information as possible."

Rooster nodded, appreciating the initiative of his team. "Be discreet, and don't escalate the situation. We need to find out what's going on without causing a panic. Jake and Nix, what will the two of you do?"

Jake glanced at Phoenix before turning his attention back to Rooster. "I'll keep an eye on Mark during the next mission. See if there's anything unusual in his behavior or actions. If he's involved in something shady, I might be able to pick up on it."

Rooster nodded in approval. "Good plan, Jake. Just stay subtle and don't provoke anything. We need evidence, not confrontation."

Phoenix, her arms still crossed, chimed in. "I'll help Bob." and that was it, “What about you,Rooster?”

Rooster sighed, running his hands through his hair. "I'll talk to Vice-Admiral Simpson. Inform him about the situation without revealing our suspicions. We need his backing if we're going to investigate this properly."

The Daggers dispersed, each embarking on their assigned tasks  and Rooster? Rooster made his way to Vice-Admiral Simpson's office, and he had to elaborate on a few things.

-

Beatrice could feel the earth sticking to her gloves as she dug into her garden, digging enough to create a little hole in her front yard so she can plant the newest addition to her plant family: begonias!

It was one of Shells’ gifts…as in the plant she got thinking she’d care for but didn’t, so she gave it to Bea. Shells was still in her house, being a great babysitter for the babies and the dogs by napping on the couch with the twins on her chest and Nicole on her stomach all the while being surrounded by Jack and Eleanor.

Meanwhile, Jolene was lying next to Beatrice’s feet outside, keeping her company.

The sun bathed the garden in a warm afternoon glow as Beatrice continued planting the begonias. She carefully placed each seedling into the soil, patting it gently to secure their place. The occasional chirping of birds, and the distant sound of laughter from down her street made this a perfect day.

Truly.

Rooster was safe while deployed, the kids were safe, she was safe…

Nothing could ruin her day.

“Hello Beatrice.”

Miranda.

Beatrice’s back straightened up like a rod as she kept her eyes forward, clenching the hand trowel tight and not turning around to greet the woman but muttering a “Hello,Miranda.”

Miranda's voice held a peculiar mix of sweetness and a subtle undercurrent that hinted at something unsettling. Beatrice's pulse quickened, but she maintained her composure, focusing on the begonias before her.

"What a lovely garden you have," Miranda commented, her footsteps approaching.

"Thank you," Beatrice replied, her tone polite but distant. She continued to work on the begonias, avoiding direct eye contact.

Miranda, undeterred by Beatrice's reserved demeanor, circled around to face her. Dressed in a flowing, elegant dress that seemed almost out of place for a casual neighborhood encounter, Miranda observed Beatrice with a piercing gaze.

"Begonias,hm?" 

"Yes, begonias," Beatrice replied, trying to keep her voice steady. She could sense Miranda's eyes on her, probing and searching for who knew what. "They're lovely plants."

Miranda smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Lovely indeed. Such delicate flowers, yet resilient. A fitting choice."

Beatrice continued her work, planting the last begonia with a deliberate focus. She saw Jolene move forward and place herself between the two women, with her back against Beatrice’s, keeping her eyes on Miranda.

"How’s Rooster doing in his mission?" Miranda said, her voice carrying a note of feigned concern. "Good?"

“Yep. How’s Mark? Good?”

“Oh, I don’t have to worry about Mark.” Miranda tilted her head, her gaze unwavering. "He’s an amazing pilot,after all."

Beatrice suppressed a sigh, her patience wearing thin. "That's good to hear. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some gardening to finish."

Miranda stepped closer, seemingly unfazed by Beatrice's attempt to create distance. "You know, Beatrice, I've always found gardening to be such a therapeutic activity. A way to nurture and tend to something, watching it grow and flourish."

Beatrice shot her a sidelong glance, her tone cautious. "It is. It helps clear the mind."

Miranda's eyes narrowed, the facade of friendliness slipping for a moment. "Clearing the mind can be a double-edged sword, Beatrice. Sometimes, it's better to confront the things we'd rather avoid."

Beatrice tightened her grip on the hand trowel, her patience fraying. "I'm not avoiding anything, Miranda. Now, please, I'd like to be alone."

Miranda's smile returned, as if she hadn't just veered into unsettling territory. "Of course, dear. I won't keep you. Just remember, should you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. We're neighbors, after all."

Beatrice licked her lips, then tilted her head “...you know Miranda.” she looks up at the woman, Jolene’s head turning to look at Beatrice, “...Rooster is a great pilot too.”

Miranda's expression remained calm, but there was a subtle tension in her posture. "Of course, Beatrice. Rooster is indeed skilled. But sometimes, skill alone isn't enough to navigate the challenges life throws at us."

Beatrice shot her a quizzical look, her suspicions growing. "What challenges are you talking about, Miranda? "

“Well I–’

“Do you know our challenges Miranda?” Bea stood up, placing a hand on Jolene’s head when the pittie tried to move forward “Do you know what me and Rooster went through before?”

Miranda's facade faltered, a flicker of discomfort crossing her features. Beatrice's direct question seemed to catch her off guard, and for a moment, the poised demeanor cracked.

"Beatrice, we all have our struggles," Miranda replied, her voice attempting to regain its previous composure. "I meant no offense. I only offered an ear should you ever need to share your burdens."

Beatrice crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing as she studied Miranda."I appreciate the offer, Miranda, yet again" Beatrice said, her tone measured. "But I don’t understand what you want here, you think I’m not aware? Do you think I’m dumb?"

Miranda's composed facade wavered further, and a subtle bead of sweat formed on her forehead. Beatrice's direct confrontation seemed to have rattled her, and she took a step back, her eyes momentarily avoiding Beatrice's probing gaze.

"Beatrice, you misunderstand me," Miranda said, her voice a touch strained. "I never implied—"

Beatrice raised an eyebrow, unyielding. "Then what did you imply, Miranda? You come into my garden, talking about challenges, offering an ear. What's your game?"

Miranda took a steadying breath, attempting to regain control of the conversation. "There's no game, Beatrice. I'm merely expressing neighborly concern. We're part of the same community, after all."

‘Are we?”

It was like a vocal slap against Miranda who just stared flabbergasted. “It’s the…fourth time you say stuff like that, and honestly, I don’t buy it. I don’t like how you think I should flaunt Rooster’s abilities against Mark, I know that’s your plan.”

"Beatrice, I assure you, there's no ulterior motive. I'm here as a concerned neighbor," Miranda stammered, her eyes darting around as if searching for an escape route.

"Concerned neighbor, my foot. I–” she pauses, “...I love Rooster. I love him. And he’s not a trophy I toss around…he’s my husband, he’s the one man I’d break bones for…his happiness and wellbeing are what matter to me…so if you are here trying to…I dunno, be weird, you should go.”

Miranda's attempts at maintaining composure fell apart like a house of cards in a gust of wind. Beatrice's raw honesty, fueled by her love for Rooster, had dismantled any facade Miranda had tried to construct. The air between them crackled with tension, and Miranda, for the second time, seemed genuinely unnerved.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Beatrice. I'm not here to—"

"Don’t lie to me," Beatrice cut in, her eyes unyielding. "I can see through the act. Whatever game you're playing, it won’t work. Rooster and I have been through enough. We don't need someone stirring up trouble."

Miranda's eyes darted around again, searching for a way to salvage the situation. The serene facade she usually wore had crumbled, revealing a woman who was uncomfortably out of her depth.

Beatrice took a step closer, her gaze unwavering. "I love my husband, Miranda. He means the world to me. I won't let anyone jeopardize our peace."

Miranda swallowed hard, a nervous tic playing on her features. "Beatrice, you're misunderstanding. I have no intention of causing any trouble. I—"

"Save it," Beatrice interrupted, her tone firm. "I don't know what your game is, but I won't entertain it." Beatrice turned away, focusing her attention back on the begonias. Jolene, sensing the tension, remained vigilant by Beatrice's side, her eyes never leaving Miranda.

Miranda, flustered and off-kilter, struggled to regain control of the narrative. "Beatrice, I assure you, there's no ill will. I'm only here to—"

"You've said enough," Beatrice replied, her voice unwavering. "I think it's best if you leave now."

Miranda hesitated, her eyes flickering with a mix of frustration and anxiety. "I—"

"Now," Beatrice reiterated, her gaze piercing.

Miranda, realizing the futility of the situation, nodded reluctantly. She turned on her heel and made a hasty exit from Beatrice's yard, leaving behind a trail of unresolved tension. Beatrice watched her go, shoulders finally relaxing as she just allowed herself to drop on the soft dirt…and groan out.

She’ll have to talk to Rooster.

[htmljaslene]

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this skin was optimized for google chrome, but should work just fine on other browsers. please dm me if you are interested in this skin! more previews and sale inquiries will be entertained via dms, or through my support server on discord please check out more previews under the cut!

[theunkn0wn-0]

The Gift of Immortality DRAGON BALL STORY: Insert Reader

GENDER-NEUTRAL READER ✕ DRAGON BALL CHARACTERS

╰➤ ⌈ 𝑰𝑵𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑴𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵… ⌋ ╰┈┈➤ This is a FIRST PERSON POV story for the reader, Y/N, M/C. ╰┈┈➤ Instead of (Y/N), I use [First Name] for your name. ╰┈┈➤ Enjoy the story, have fun.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER: 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑳𝑶𝑮𝑼𝑬 — 𝑯𝑼𝑴𝑨𝑵𝑰𝑻𝒀 | 5 FIRST CHAPTER: 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑳𝑶𝑮𝑼𝑬 — 𝑩𝑰𝑹𝑻𝑯 | 1

TRIGGER | CONTENT WARNINGS: COMPREHENSIVE & GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION WRITING OF HEAVY SELF-HARM, MENTAL ILLNESS, DISORDERS, & HEAVY ANGST!!! Mentions of MURDER, BLOOD, DEATH/DYING & PROFANITY!!!

001 | Hope

❝Do you ever get a little bit tired of life? Like you're not really happy but you don't want to die. Like you're hanging by a thread, but you gotta survive.❞

•◉◓���◓◉•

YEAR: 2351 ⌋ 275 YEARS LATER | AGE: + 1 MILLION YEARS OLD

        The alleyway was shrouded in darkness, the only illumination coming from flickering streetlights and the moonlight casting long, eerie shadows. My nimble fingers closed around the cold metal of the assault rifle; a weapon recovered from the lifeless grip of a government-hired assassin.

I had been ambushed not moments before; I had just succeeded in dismantling a human trafficking ring as a mission in the city I was in, but I was attacked by those hunters from the government.

They never stopped hunting me. Nor did I stop from helping people even just a bit.

Now, with the assassin's body at my feet, with haste, I rummaged through the assailant's garb, seeking any trace of surveillance or tracking devices. In the dim light, my hand darted into pockets and bags. I took out a small syringe from one of the pockets, its amber, fiery hue catching the glow of distant streetlamps.

It was a drug named Somnus. It is an amber liquid that is injected via a syringe and has the effect of rendering the victim unconscious for long periods of time which are days through a week. It can cause the person to regain consciousness at certain points, but their body is not awake. They are trapped within a prison of immobility, but can hear, smell, and feel everything that is being done to them. When the effects finally wear off, the body remains paralyzed for hours before finally recovering fully.

It bore the insignia of BioThera, a chilling reminder of the power they held over me and those horrible experiments.

They never forgot about me. And I never forgot about them.

With a decisive toss, I sent the syringe colliding against the wall, its fragile vessel shattering into a kaleidoscope of shards, its contents spilling onto the pavement. The acrid scent of its contents mingled with the blood and the lingering stench of the alley, assaulting my senses. The threat was neutralized, I turned my attention to the fallen assailant. No tracking device was found, yet paranoia gnawed at the edges of my mind.

I chose to demolish the entire body.

With resolve, my hand outstretched, I summoned a surge of energy, channeling it into a glowing orb that crackled with power. Its incandescent glow illuminated the dark alleyway; I unleashed its wrath upon the fallen assassin, the resulting explosion sending shockwaves reverberating through the narrow passage.

The force of the blast pushed me back, but I stood firm, adrenaline coursing through my veins, heightening my senses to the looming hazard, and the scent of burning flesh reached my senses. I couldn't linger, not with the authorities surely on their way drawn by the commotion; I propelled myself into motion.

Each footfall echoed against the cobblestones as I sprinted, my muscles coiling with tension as I prepared to take flight; I propelled myself forward. As I ascended into the night sky, the rush of wind whipped against my face, chilling me to the bone.

High above the city, I soared, every heartbeat thundered in my ears as I clutched the rifle tightly, scanning the horizon for any sign of pursuit. Questions gnawed at my mind; doubts clawed at my resolve.

If an assassin managed to find me, how many of them are there in the city? No. This country I was in.

The uncertainty fueled my determination to vanish into the night, to move into another country or continent for another base far from those hunters. Once again.

I was dead wrong to think they would just let me be.

It's been a relentless pursuit, stretching over two and a half centuries. Two hundred and seventy-five years of living like prey, always looking over my shoulder, always on the run.

Since the sealing a way of King Piccolo, the world had moved on, rebuilt itself, and advanced in technology. But for me, it only meant more sophisticated means for them to track me down, leaving me in an endless state of paranoia.

It's nearly impossible to disappear in the world I live in today.

In the aftermath of King Piccolo's destruction, BioThera, the company that once held traces of my DNA and the secrets of my abilities, was reduced to rubble. Yet, somehow, I believed Ethan Kane managed to preserve fragments of my existence, likely preserving some record of me, ensuring my perpetual pursuit enough to tip off the government.

Ethan and Victor Arrenberg were long gone, but their legacy persisted, each generation passing down the knowledge of an immortal being, a freak of nature. Each successor was eager to claim the prize of capturing me. But I eluded them all. I have bases across the globe, like breadcrumbs leading away from the hunter's trap.

Yet, even in my bases, peace was a fleeting illusion and dream.

The night had melted into a luminous blue canvas, stretched endlessly across the horizon. Hours melded into one another, the sun ascending its throne in the sky, casting its radiant warmth upon my weary frame.

I didn't sleep. I couldn't sleep.

I pressed onward, cradling the assault rifle in my clenched fist. With each passing moment, my eyes scanned the landscape below, vigilant against any prying eyes or tracking devices.

My gaze roamed the terrain below, a patchwork of verdant fields, undulating plains, dense forests, and rugged mountains. Islands dotted the coastline, their presence a cunning ruse to confound my pursuers.

Among its verdant landscapes and untamed wilderness, I hoped to find respite, if only for a fleeting moment in this continent I arrived. Into the heavens, I soared, ascending into the wispy embrace of clouds that veiled my movements from prying eyes.

Approaching Mount Paozu, my heart quickened with anticipation; I skirted past the bustling metropolis of East Capital City. Streets below bustled with activity, a symphony of hovercraft and flying cars zipping through the air with effortless grace.

Amidst the towering structures, holographic billboards flicker to life, casting displays of colors onto the polished surfaces. Though the cityscape dazzled with its technological marvels, I remained wary; I knew the risks all too well. Technology was already vastly improving too much for me to completely avoid cities like these. 

With a surge of energy, I propelled myself forward, the rush of wind whipping against my skin as I accelerated toward my destination. Time became a blur, a fleeting whisper in the endless expanse of the sky, as I soared past startled birds, their frantic cries echoing in my wake. Yet, onward, I pressed, driven by a primal instinct to survive.

As I approached my destination, soaring past majestic mountains, their peaks kissed by wisps of cloud while sprawling plains stretched out like an endless tapestry below. I glided through the lush valleys and verdant meadows, the landscape unfurling beneath me like a vibrant tapestry.

I descended into the embrace of a lush forest, the verdant canopy stretching above like a protective cloak. Navigating the dense foliage with practiced ease, I deftly through the dense foliage, weaving between towering trees and elusive wildlife, my senses attuned to the subtlest of movements.

I weaved between the colossal trunks of old trees, their sprawling branches casting intricate patterns of shadow upon the forest floor. The air was thick with the scent of earth and greenery, a heady concoction with a sense of peace as the forest grew denser with each passing moment, stretching into eternity.

The path ahead vanished into a labyrinth of boulders and tangled undergrowth, each step fraught with the risk of stumbling into unseen pitfalls. I skirted past moss-covered boulders and treacherous cliffs, my senses attuned to the subtle shifts in the landscape.

Yet, amidst the encroaching darkness, a beacon of light beckoned me forward. I parted the clinging vines that obscured my path, emerging into a sun-dappled clearing, and a sense of familiarity washed over me. 

Here, nestled in the embrace of nature, stood my base: a humble cabin, weathered and worn with a riot of greenery and blossoms. Nature had reclaimed the structure as its own, vines and flowers weaving around its timeworn walls, camouflaged by the lush vegetation that surrounded it.

Adjacent to the cabin lay a neglected garden, its once-tidy rows now overrun with wild growth. Fruit trees bowed beneath the weight of their harvest, while wildflowers danced in the gentle breeze. Wild animals frolicked the overgrown foliage. Birds flitted among the branches, their pleasant songs filling the air with a symphony of sound.

Here, in Mount Paozu, I found comfort in the simplicity of life, a fleeting reminder of days long past. Memories flooded my mind, a bittersweet reminder of a time before I discovered my immortality and being hunted down by the government, weighed heavy on my shoulders.

With a heavy heart, I acknowledged the truth that had long haunted me: I was truly alone in this world, a solitary figure adrift amidst the currents of time. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the forest floor, I couldn't help but wonder if true comfort would ever be within my grasp.

"Kill yourself! It's the only way..." "End this torment [First Name]!" "It would be nice to see our loved ones on the other side."

"End it," the voices whispered and screamed in a relentless chorus that echoed within the depths of my mind, a constant reminder of the torment that plagued me. Yet, I resisted, knowing that death offered no solace in a life bound by immortality.

My mind, a battlefield strewn with the remnants of sanity, with each whispered taunt, I steeled myself against the onslaught, clinging to the fragile threads of sanity that bound me to this world.

My main focus was to survive and keep my sanity intact as long as possible.

Landing before the weathered door of my long-abandoned cabin, retrieving the key from its hiding place, I unlocked the door while lowering my ki energy. With a click, the wooden door creaked open, welcoming me into the shadows of my sanctuary.

A sharp crack shattered the stillness of the forest, a bullet whistling past my ear with deadly intent. I recoiled instinctively, arching my back, my senses on high alert as the acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air.

Fuck. I had forgotten about the trap I had set.

I realized with a grim sense of irony, as the trap I had set to deter unwelcome intruders. Regaining my composure, I retrieved the shotgun nestled within the confines of my cabin.

Gripping the shotgun in one hand and the assault rifle in the other, I stepped cautiously into the dimly lit interior of my cabin, the echoes of my footsteps reverberating off the walls, the floorboards creaking beneath my weight. 

Weeds and wildflowers sprouted through the cracks in the wooden floor, while plastic-shrouded furniture lay dormant, preserved against the ravages of time. Pots of verdant life dotted the room, their fragrant blooms filling the air with a sweet mix of scents.

A soft chirp broke the silence, a lone bird nestled on the rafters, its presence a welcome distraction from the solitude that enveloped me as I made my way to the kitchen.

I might as well pass out from exhaustion for staying up awake for days. But...

Sleep remained a distant dream, a luxury beyond my grasp, as the fear of being attacked and captured loomed large in my mind. Nightmares, cruel and unforgiving, haunted the recesses of my subconscious, each one a harrowing reminder of the horrors I had endured.

I dreaded closing my eyes, surrendering to a world of fear and uncertainty. I dreaded the thought of waking up to find it all had been a dream, that I was still trapped in that sterile lab, subjected to endless experiments and torment.

With a heavy sigh, I set my guns on the dusty dining table, the corners of my old cabin cloaked in cobwebs, making a mental note to clean my base later.

Summoning a flicker of a small sphere of my ki energy within my fingertips, I ignited the lanterns scattered throughout my kitchen, their warm glow casting long shadows upon the worn wooden floors.

Crouching before the hearth, I kindled a modest fire, its crackling flames a beacon of warmth in the chill of the night. With the fire ablaze, I set about preparing my evening meal, getting a pot from my cabin to fill up with water.

As I ventured outside to gather fruits or vegetables from my garden, a sense of unease lingered in the periphery of my thoughts. Loneliness was my constant companion, yet paradoxically, I was never truly alone.

The paranoia that hung heavy on my shoulders, the constant state of fear and alertness of my surroundings, and the raging emotions of my trauma engulfed me inside, the desperation, the longing for peace.

The outside world hunted me while my mind tormented me within the confines of my hideouts. No one could understand the weight of my burden, the tumult of emotions I carried, and the suffocating isolation of being hunted both inside and out.

Still, I fought. 

Pausing by a small pond, I filled my pot with water, though paranoia continued to linger at the edges of my consciousness. Returning to the confines of my cabin, I brewed myself a pot of coffee, the rich aroma filling the air. The pot of water steamed over the flames, its gentle bubbling a soothing melody amidst the quiet solitude.

I clung to what shreds of sanity remained, knowing that to lose them would be to forfeit my humanity. The fear of losing myself entirely, of becoming the monster people perceived me to be, drove me to keep fighting. I refused to become the monster they painted me to be, a creature devoid of humanity, a mere tool to be wielded at their whim.

Gazing out the window, night descended in earnest; I watched as the moon cast its silvery glow upon the forest canopy, a silent sentinel in the night sky. I settled at the dining table, brushing off the dust. I took a sip of my coffee, took a bite of the carrot that I had grabbed from my garden, and cleaned it.

The bitter tang of coffee mixed with the sweetness of the vegetable upon my tongue was an odd combination to eat, yet it didn't matter. It was something to eat to satisfy my thirst and hunger, my eyes lingering on the empty chair opposite me, a silent reminder of the loneliness that plagued my existence.

I cast a glance at my guns as I lifted the cup of coffee to my lips. The world around me seemed to fade into silence, save for the soft rhythm of my breathing. Even the chirping of the lone bird that had taken refuge within my cabin had fallen silent, its gentle snores a lullaby in the stillness of the night.

All I yearned for was not only joy but to be recognized as a human being, to reclaim the dignity that had been stripped away from the day I was captured.

I am human.

Flawed, yes.

Broken, perhaps.

But human, nonetheless.

And as long as that flicker of humanity remained, I would continue to fight. For my freedom. For my sanity. For the right to be seen, not as a monster, a freak, a thing, a tool but as a human. I would continue to save people, to prove them wrong I am not a monster, not a tool even if the government or anyone does not see it or deny it.

"But you're growing tired, aren't you? Why don't you take a rest... forever." "It would be nice to see Lascell and Jiro again." "Your mother, your friends you made along the way," "End this torment! END IT!" "So why don't you end it forever?"

The voices echoed a cacophony of whispers and hollers that tore at the edges of my sanity, each word a dagger to my already fractured mind.

My head throbbed with the weight of their indictments, their relentless onslaught pushing me to the brink of despair. They spoke of death as a release, of surrendering to the void in search of peace.

Yet I was too stubborn enough to not listen to them for a moment. The voices would taunt, their words laced with venom and malice.

"Come on, you know better than death itself is mercy than living." "You will lose everything if you keep doing this, what will you become now?" "A monster."

They hissed, the word echoing in the caverns of my mind. With a frustrated snarl, I gripped my cup of coffee tightly, the ceramic warming my trembling hands.

My gaze fixed upon the guns strewn across the table before me. The voices taunted and jeered, their words a cacophony of self-loathing and doubt.

"Let yourself go and give us peace—"

"I know but are you fucking stup—" I caught myself mid-sentence, the absurdity of arguing with voices that existed only in my mind momentarily grounding me in reality. "Who am I even talking to? There's no one here!" I spat, the sound of my voice ringing hollow in the empty cabin.

The voices grew louder, their cries piercing the fragile veil of my sanity. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the ceaseless racket that threatened to engulf me.

Yet, there was truth behind their words. Emotions long suppressed surged to the surface, a tempest of rage, frustration, and despair threatening to consume me whole.

I seized one of the guns, bringing the cold barrel and pressed it against my temple. My heartbeat thundering in my ears, and my grip tightened on the gun, as my finger hovered over the trigger.

"Shut up!"

With a sudden surge of desperation to get rid of or silence the voices, I pulled the trigger.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

YEAR: 2351⌋ ONE WEEK LATER - MAY 8 ⌊ Papaya Island

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

        With a cautious sip of my drink, I walked out of the market, my features concealed beneath a disguise I wore. The sun beat down upon me, its rays diffused by the tinted lenses of my sunglasses. It had been a tumultuous week since my last breakdown.

Venturing into the heart of a small town, I stride cautiously along the bustling streets. My goal was simple for coming into this town on Papaya Island: get the necessities I needed and vanish without a trace; the last thing I wanted was to draw unwanted attention upon myself.

I needed some items and food for a short time until I fixed my garden and grew more edibles for the long run, as well as purchasing some drinks in my favor, knowing I had been only consuming water from a fresh lake or pond.

It was a very rare circumstance when I ventured into town, a necessity born of survival rather than choice. The prospect of starvation or succumbing to dehydration loomed ever-present, I understood I would go even more insane if I kept killing myself and suffered more.

Just like that incident during those damned Witch Trials. Locked up and dying over and over again.

Navigating through the streets, I wanted to find a secluded corner where I could make my departure unnoticed, my mind racing with the urgency to get out of this island and go back to my base in Mount Paozu.

As I traversed the bustling thoroughfare, the rhythmic hum of passing cars mingled with the cacophony of voices that filled the air. Anxiety gnawed at my insides, yet I maintained a façade of calm not wanting to draw attention as my heart pounded within my chest.

Ahead, a gathering crowd caught my attention, their voices rising in excited chatter. Initially intent on avoiding the commotion, curiosity soon got the better of me as I drew closer, a voice cut through the clamor.

"Come join us for the 23rd World's Martial Arts Tournament! here you get the chance to fight the world's best fighters!"

The very mention of it sent a thrill coursing through my veins, igniting a spark of excitement within me. I paused in my tracks, my gaze drawn towards the source of the commotion; my senses heightened as I surveyed the diverse array of individuals before me.

Memories of battles long past flickered in the recesses of my mind, a primal yearning for the thrill of combat, not just for survival, but for the sheer joy of it, the chance to push me beyond my limits, to reclaim a sense of pride and purpose that had long eluded me.

After all, I have been, beyond, disrespected, tortured, and ripped away from my dignity.

I found myself drawn to the opportunity to fight in the tournament, a glimmer of hope and joy kindling within me; I could not only find some happiness that I longed to have after being hunted down and fighting for survival out of fear.

But an escape from my cruel reality, a fleeting moment. A distraction. A break from the constant struggle for survival, a chance to recover a portion of sanity and find a sense of normalcy, even if just for a moment.

Yet, beneath the surface of my excitement, a gnawing sense of apprehension ground at my resolve, casting doubt upon my decision to partake in the tournament.

What if the government would find me here? What if they had dispatched hunters in this tournament?

"All fighters who wish to enter the tournament must register today! Please be aware that if you fail to register today, you will be unable to participate in tomorrow's qualifying rounds!"

As the announcement echoed through the crowd, I pushed aside the tendrils of fear, clinging instead to the hint of hope that danced just out of reach. It had been a week since I had relocated to a distant continent, to hide and run away from the government and BioThera. There was still time; time to formulate a plan, to take this brief moment of freedom and escape.

Just a moment of rest without fear. Just having a moment of joy, a sense of being a human.

With a deep breath, I joined the queue, my heart pounding in my chest as I wrestled with conflicting emotions. As I inched closer and closer to the registration desk, my mind whirled with possibilities, a maelstrom of hope and dread swirling within me.

Nothing will go wrong, once I have a plan and execute it, and leave.

This is a chance to... escape, a moment of a break, no longer hearing those voices, just forgetting about the fear for a moment, maybe having a portion of peace.

Everything will be fine; nothing will go out of the window.

Right?

•◉◒☆◒◉•

NOTE: THIS TAKES PLACE DURING DRAGON BALL (first series) IN THE Piccolo Jr. Saga.

Finished: March 09, 2024

PREVIOUS CHAPTER: 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑳𝑶𝑮𝑼𝑬 — 𝑯𝑼𝑴𝑨𝑵𝑰𝑻𝒀 | 5 NEXT CHAPTER: 002 | 𝑩𝑬𝑻𝑹𝑨𝒀𝑨𝑳𝑺 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑾𝑨𝑲𝑬𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮

LINK TO THE BOOK [WATTPAD]: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 — 𝙳𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗 𝙱𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 If you're interested in stories like these, here is my 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

[zeldaelmo]

What work of yours has the most hits?

Still Stolen Kisses with ~38k hits. If we're talking about this year, it's The Promise with ~12k hits.

What work of yours got more feedback than you expected?

One Stitch at a Time, I guess. It's not that I didn't expect it to get read, but I didn't expect so many people to comment daily on it. The fic has incredible 275 comment threads, that's the most on all my fics.

A few people also said that my Advent Calendar story has become part of their Christmas routine and I still think daily about that. 🥹

Favorite title you used

Superglue 😅

[skygifs]

PELIN KARAHAN GIF PACK**

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[racingliners]

AO3 Wrapped 2024

Tagged by @alpinelogy, @brawngp2009 & @monacotrophywife. Thanks friends!!!

Also I'm just about on the other side of my annual festive season brain shutdown, hence why it's taken me forever to do this

Works Published: 9, plus I added some chapters to Life In the Fast Lane. Considerably up on 2023!

Subscriptions: 275 total work subs, 27 total user subs (Which I have no idea how it compares to last year, but I'm pretty sure The Rules of Strategy bumped the work subs figure a lot)

Kudos: 579 (2024 total), 1,229 (overall total)

Comment Threads: 98 (2024 total), 230 (overall total)

Bookmarks: 185 (2024 total), 375 (overall total)

Word Count: 97,567 (2024 total), 605,435 (overall total)

Hits: 9,399 (2024 total), 28,887 (overall total)

Top 3 Fics By Kudos

The Rules of Strategy - 167

This Must Be a Mistake - 123

No Mistakes With You - 94

Top 3 Fics by Word Count

The Rules of Strategy - 54,180 (multi-chapter, ongoing)

No Mistakes With You - 8,149

Slowly, And Then All At Once - 5,525

Top 3 Ships

Lewis Hamilton/Sebastian Vettel - 3 works

Jenson Button/Andrew Shovlin - 2 works

Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel; Jenson Button/Sebastian Vettel; Rubens Barrichello/Michael Schumacher; Jenson Button/Lewis Hamilton - 1 works each

Top 3 Tags

One Shot - 4 works

Fluff - 2 works

Friends to Lovers - 2 works

[ryttu3k]

2023 Tumblr Top 10

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Q:

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[thequeendomhq]

NAME. Fharzai AGE & BIRTH DATE. 275 & May 16, 2748 AC GENDER & PRONOUNS. Cismale & He/Him NATIONALITY. Lysaran SPECIES. Druid ( Dreams ) FACTION. N/A OCCUPATION. Druid Ambassador to Queen Mordecai FACE CLAIM. Josh Heuston

biography

( tw: n/a )

Fharzai's distant gaze was always attributed to childish wonderment. He had his head in the clouds, so there was nothing of importance behind his eyes. Those notions made it difficult for others to understand his gifts, or realize that Fharzai was already becoming acquainted with his abilities. No one realized how observant he was since he was misunderstood to be a flighty, unfocused brat too quiet for his own good. How could they think otherwise? Fharzai only came alive in their dreams.

His family caught on first, though it was the frequency with which the lost him that finally clued them in. Almost always he would end up at the Tower of Olympia, staring up at it as if enthralled. It happened so much that they had to consider whatever was happening in their house went beyond vivid dreams. When they slept, Fharzai would present in their dreams ready to play almost nightly. One night, his parents decided to embrace the experience. Instead of assuming their dreams were false machinations of their resting minds, they took everything for face value. They looked upon each other, their other children, and Fharzai in this dream state as if it were reality. In the morning when they woke, they asked him about the games they played which he more than excitedly raved about. The way he spoke as if the events just happened confirmed what they experienced was no mere dream. Their son was gifted in the mystical arts of the mind.

Suddenly, his fascination with the Tower or the offputting, prescient turns-of-phrase he was prone to toss out made sense. Fharzai had been chosen by the Weave to touch its threads as many enlightened witches had before him. His parents began to bring him to the Tower daily to explore the lower floor and maybe pick up a thing or two in the library. They petitioned the Sitters to provide Fharzai the guidance they couldn’t with each visit but were met with the same skepticism they once held. Fharzai didn’t weave new patterns like a witch would, but after many meetings and fantastical dreams of their own, even the Sitters had to conclude that the child was gifted. However, his calling was not to the Tower but instead to the Veil.

Fharzai was young and couldn’t understand, though the witch whom he would come to call ‘teacher’ explained it as well as they could to his parents. Being Dúnedain meant they would have to allow their son to belong to balance or his gifts would vanish. They resolved to let go so as not to interfere with fate, but it was Fharzai who clung to Eterna. He loved his family, friends, and teacher so dearly, but he also loved his magic. For years he contented himself with whatever instruction his teacher could provide as the call of the Arches grew louder with each passing day. Fharzai’s sleep became tumultuous when his mind ventured beyond. The signs cast shadows over the dream realm paths he normally walked, reminding him that the threads of fate would not wait for him.

Eventually, Fharzai had to heed his teacher’s warning and set out to follow the thread tugging on his spirit. He’d had enough dreams and visions to understand the signs, and now that he was no longer ignoring them his path seemed clear. He started at the Standing Stones, a site that spoke to each of his senses. That visit was his first time coming to the monument, and yet it felt safer than his home. Still, the Mist did not speak to him then. Fharzai understood, he simply wasn’t ready to peer further. There were things he needed to experience and learn before he could even begin his test, but he felt grateful nonetheless to witness a relic of his destiny with his own eyes. From there, Fharzai set out on a pilgrimage across Lysara, visiting each location of druidic stones. He knew he wasn’t just traveling to read the inscriptions, his visions conveyed a much grander weave pattern for his journey. Fharzai needed to learn about the world around him and the people who lived there. He communed with nature, ate with strangers, and opened his spirit to life itself. His dreams were vivid and grew in power each night as Fharzai came to embrace all that he was. By the time the Arches called him to their threshold, he was ready to venture into the Mist.

And so he did, only to be told his travels had amounted to little in the Veil’s vision. A taunting voice from a dream existing in the peripherals of his senses compared Fharzai to a plate pretending to be a bowl, teeming with liquid that threatened to spill over. It wouldn’t be enough to pour the contents out. The plate needed to be shattered and reformed to serve its true purpose. Fharzai was warned, and he agreed, so his trials in the Mist began with devastating intent. All of the Dúnedain required harsh teachings to be centered in the balance of the Veil, but those born to the Circle of Dreams needed to be more resilient than most. Fharzai would see more and travel further than most, the bounds of the spirit by far less stringent than those of the flesh. Walking the same lines as Manannán would be no easy feat, and his psyche would need to endure far beyond his natural lifespan.

Fharzai was made to confront every flaw and insecurity, his foils laid bare before him as tests he had to overcome. He had resisted the call and was made to answer for that too through confessions of every selfish desire he harbored as the Mist took him in, resulting in even more trials for him to overcome. Threads of Fate shot out from the Mist in every direction, showing Fharzai innumerable possibilities for the paths he may walk. Each vision conveyed a different future, however, their common thread was the burden each entailed. No matter the fluctuation, Fharzai was expected to carry the load of ensuring balance no matter the toll on him. This test had him live countless druidic existences against the most impossible odds. One lapse in judgment was all it took to disrupt the order of that thread’s tapestry, so failure meant starting over until he got it right. He couldn’t falter, because Fate would need Fharzai to be a bastion of light against the Dark Ones.

Again and again he was tested until the man he was had been chipped away, leaving only a proper Keeper of the Mist. Fharzai could see beyond, extend his heart, and do so all without becoming overly attached. His lot was to guide the world towards peace, progress, and prosperity and once the Mist released him he knew he would perform his duties well. But first, he needed time to grieve. All Fharzai could do at first was lay in the grass, stare at the sky, and weep. How many lifetimes had he seen? How many connections had been tied to his soul? How many had been severed in the end to serve as a stepping stone to his development? What darkness would he have to combat before his days ended? How much time had passed beyond the Arches while he was re-educated? Fharzai obtained by the trees surrounding the stones that his body had slept for a few seasons, nourished by the earth beneath him in that time even though his mind had endured eternities. After many sunrises, he found the resolve to carry on and perform his duties as a Dúnedain, leaving the Arches to resume his solitary travels to spread the sentiments of peace the Mist had taught him.

For years Fharzai lived as a nomad, following nature’s signs to various destinations all over Taravell. He met so many people and saw a great deal of different things. With mastery of his Circle, his spirit could travel even further when he slept, extending his reach to even those where his type of magic was rare. Through dreams, he could soothe souls and ease hearts, not to mention the signs he received while exploring the dream realm were by far more vivid than anything the natural world provided. Fharzai saw everything, more than he could ever hope to truly understand, but he never forgot a sign. Years, even decades could pass before a vision of his became relevant, but his mental capacity had grown in the Mist. Though he was haunted by what the Arches showed him, Fharzai intervened in every conflict he came across, affecting small-scale change by working strife into peace for any his consciousness could reach.

Of course, there were dreams of his own when he opted not to travel and simply rest. Many filled with the fantastical creations of the dream realm, others filled with signs from the Veil directing his path, but multiple nightmares combined the very darkness Fharzai witnessed in the Arches with fresh terrors. Fharzai couldn't tell if they were grim signs of their own or simple manifestations of his dread interfering with his fate, but they served their purpose. The shadows cast over his spirit reminded him that he wasn’t divine or omnipotent, he was simply a Dúnedain, a single agent of Fate. There were times when his dream-walking couldn’t assuage the worst impulses of the strangers he touched or his efforts to quell strife went in vain. People were plentiful and varied, so there was no guarantee that he had the right things to show or say to them. That was the hardest lesson that Fharzai had to learn. His duty wasn’t to solve every little issue, it was to maintain balance. If darkness intended to fester in one place then sometimes the best solution was to foster growth for light somewhere else. He wasn’t born to perform miracles, he was born to maintain order across nations. Sometimes he wasn’t equipped to solve every anguish, especially those born naturally from the mortal condition.

Detachment came easy over time which increased his skills of observation. Fharzai could see the signs of conflict from miles away, though learned to intervene only when the threads of fate appeared troubled. He would provide clarity and then leave, over and over across all of Taravell. Eventually, the signs brought him back to the Tower of Olympia where his long journey started. Decades had flown by and Fharzai was a completely different person from the child who used to run around the ground floor envying witches. His teacher had passed, his siblings had aged and started families of their own, a new Queen sat on the throne yet the Tower remained unchanged. Fharzai hadn’t felt a pull so strong since the Arches first called to him. Eterna would be where he settled for a time, all signs told him there was great work to be done in the city where he’d been born.

Fharzai’s gifts were once again recognized, though as a fully realized Druid he had an easier time proving himself to the witches of the Tower. In no time at all he held a private audience with the Queen, and after hours of conversation, he was welcomed as an advisor into her court. Over time, he fostered deeper trust and understanding, demonstrated by his dedication to her queendom. Their values aligned and Fharzai interpreted signs across the Queenlands that positioned the Tower as a stronghold of light at that point in time. He was a servant of the Veil and gave his loyalty to the balance of fate above all else, but Fharzai has remained in Eterna for hundreds of years faithfully at the behest of generations of Elysian Queens. His position has provided him a great deal of influence over policy, granting him the ability to usher in peace to the Queendom at large as well as surrounding areas during his diplomatic missions. From the Tower, Fharzai can continue to extend his reach as fate demands which he views as imperative. No matter how many minds he soothes or conflicts he settles, the visions of darkness never leave him completely. He knows something is coming, his dreams are never wrong.

personality

+ compassionate, generous, dutiful – aloof, cryptic, invasive

played by zen. est. he/him.