#when I finish my fucking fanfic

[aphel1on]

neuvillette's lore is actually insane. we all took one look at him and went "haha dragon🫵" but i significantly underestimated how big of a role he would play. he's the incarnation of the original hydro sovereign. he took back his rule right under the heavenly principles' nose. he's the one handing out hydro visions now (not even because he has to, he doesn't, he just grew so fond of humanity that he chooses to). he gave away the hydro gnosis bc he straight up doesn't need it. he's planning to DETHRONE ALL OF THE ARCHONS (in a few hundred years, when the traveler's not around to see it, so it won't be awkward for them). he's kind and soft-spoken. he's full of vengeful rage. he's a father to hundreds. he found his purpose after feeling lost for 500 years. skirk pulled him aside for a super-secret convo and when he saw us again he immediately spilled the tea. as far as i can tell, he spawned into existence fully formed. no other character can fucking compare

[dismas-n-dismay]

Me after reading a typical wtfoctagon fic (it literally is a master class in lesbian writing)

[savoytrufflephd]

The questions of Laurent’s being and behavior…

I have been informed, via @thickenmyblood’s asks (since mine were apparently not set to accept anonymous asks – which I have now changed) that my opinion about HIUH Laurent’s character is incorrect. I have been informed that he’s abusive.

My PhD isn’t in English (though it is in the humanities), but my wife was an English major and she has often told me that interpretations aren’t right or wrong, but they are stronger or weaker in the sense that they are supported by the text.

So, let’s go…

First things first. Let me be clear about the following:

The question of whether or not Laurent is abusive in this piece of fanfiction has no bearing whatsoever on whether any person you know in real life is abusive.

Similarly, any arguments that Laurent can change or that Laurent deserves a second chance have no bearing whatsoever on whether any person you know in real life can change or deserves a second chance.

Neither HIUH nor any fic should be taken as a life advice manual. Just because there are therapists in this fic does not mean that @thickenmyblood is a mental health professional or your therapist.

I am also not a therapist, nor am I trying to give you life advice when I speak of my enjoyment of HIUH.

But if I were to give you life advice, it would be this: If a piece of fanfiction makes you so angry that you feel the need to send abusive anonymous comments to the author and/or ask that author to pass on your comment “correcting” the opinion of a reader writing about that story, you should probably stop reading that fic. It is clearly not good for you. Metaphorically speaking, you are in an abusive relationship with that fic and you should end it. Write the story off and move on.

Okay, that said, the question of whether Laurent is abusive in HIUH is probably more of a series of questions:

Has HIUH Laurent engaged in abusive behaviors?

If so, do those abusive behaviors necessarily indicate that he is and will always be an abuser?

If not, what evidence do we have that HIUH Laurent can and will stop engaging in abusive behaviors?

If HIUH Laurent stops engaging in abusive behaviors, what reasons, if any, does HIUH Damen have to return to the relationship despite past abuse?

BONUS:

A. Is an HIUH Laurent who harms Damen through abusive behavior mischaracterized relative to the canon source material?

B. Is an HIUH Damen who chooses to be with Laurent despite past abuse mischaracterized relative to the canon source material?

1. Has Laurent engaged in abusive behaviors?

Yes. Although we are limited by a potentially unreliable narrator (Damen), who does not believe Laurent is abusive, we are clearly and intentionally both told and shown in the text that Laurent has engaged in abusive behavior. We are told when Neo explains as much to a skeptical Damen:

“Then you must know I’m only trying to get a feeling on how educated you are on the subject of abuse between romantic partners.” “But why ? I just told you Laurent and I never—” “Do you know what emotional abuse looks like, Damen?” “Yes.” “Give me a definition.” It’s hot in the room, all of the sudden. “It’s… making someone. Feel bad.” “It’s consistent and repeated humiliation,” Neo says. “Gaslighting. Manipulation. Verbal abuse can sometimes overlap with this. Have you ever experienced this while in your relationship with Laurent?” “We weren’t abusive.” “Did you insult each other?” “No,” Damen says. It was so long ago, it was a lifetime back. He can’t remember. “It’s—not like that. Humiliation? We never—” “You’ve said that sometimes Laurent made you feel as though the things you were feeling were inadequate.” You’re being a fucking idiot, Laurent had said about the pink sweatshirt. “What if he was right?”  “It’s never right to invalidate your partner’s feelings.” “We weren’t abusive.” “Damen,” Neo says, the soft caress before a blow. “What if we think about it from—” “There’s nothing to think about. I’m telling you, it wasn’t like that. How the fuck did you get to that conclusion? Because I complained about us arguing?” Neo ruffles his notes. “Contempt. Shame. Hurt. That’s what abusers thrive on. There’s quite a lot of those things in here.” “Laurent’s not an abuser,” Damen snaps. “Maybe not, but he grew up with one, didn’t he? These are learned traits.” Damen folds forward as though to vomit. That’s—He’s made a mistake. They argued, they yelled, they said things they didn’t mean, but they never hit each other or threw cutlery at each other’s heads. They went to bed angry, and Damen slept on the couch, and there would be rolling eyes and huffs and annoyance in the following days, but that’s not—Laurent is not— You’re sweet, Damen had said, hand to Laurent’s cheek. A sweetheart. He remembers meaning it, remembers Laurent not liking it. He also remembers Laurent’s sweetness, scarcer in the end and cloying in the beginning. Breakfast in bed, letting Damen pick what show to watch, giving up half his trail mix bag because he knew Damen liked the dried fruit pieces most. You’ll do great, you always do great. A protein shake prepped and ready to go, peace and quiet the nights before important court days. But also bigger things, biggest things. There was—and sharing a bed, and curling up under Damen to read, and letting Damen carry Nicaise up the stairs, and holding his hand under the table as firm functions, and kissing just to kiss, just because, just— He’s explained Laurent wrong.

And we are shown in the moments when Damen and Laurent talk and Damen expects a belittling response from Laurent:

“There are,” Laurent starts, stops. Starts again, “I didn’t.” He has both elbows on the table, which he used to despise. Tables are for cutlery and food, not limbs. Something about the way he rubs at the skin under his eyes makes Damen’s stomach cower as if expecting a blow. “Agnes recommended it months before you—came back. It wasn’t my idea.”

“I met him?” For once, Laurent doesn’t mock him for his question. “It was at that school play I couldn’t go to. The one Nicaise got that huge part in.”

“I want to know when the twenty-four hours are up,” Damen says, loudly, too loudly, “so we can go to the police station and report him missing. For fuck’s sake, Laurent, will you stop ? He could be seriously hurt, and you’re sitting here, berating me about the way I phrased a question. Do you even give a shit about him? Do you even—” He cuts himself off when he sees Laurent’s expression. Like he did last time with Nicaise, Damen braces himself for what’s to come, goes over the list of things Laurent can hurl at him, tries to minimize the inevitable damage. The comment will be about Nikandros, about his soft childhood in Ios, about the time he tried to discipline Nicaise by himself and ended up covered in vomit.   Nothing happens. There’s only Laurent, turning his face to the side so Damen can’t stare at it any longer. In the silence of the car, Laurent’s breathing shakes.

“Is his name really Dog?” Laurent says, sitting down next to Damen. Between them, the two cups of coffee and the small pile of croissants both steam. “I didn’t believe Nicaise when he told me.” “I,” Damen starts, lie ready on his tongue, and stops. It’s very meta. “I’m not good with names.” Laurent picks up his coffee instead of agreeing with Damen. Instead of mocking. The space between their bodies is comfortable enough—they’re not touching, not even their knees or thighs. They’re not looking at each other either, not with the entire park stretching green and busy in front of them.

2. If so, do those abusive behaviors necessarily indicate that he is and will always be an abuser?

I take this to be one of the major points of contention on the part of the angry readers. As you can probably guess, I don’t think the text suggests that Laurent in inherently abusive. Besides the stuff coming in my answer to question 3, we have several reasons to believe that Laurent’s abusive behavior is the product of particular circumstances rather than a generalized personality dysfunction.

We know, and Neo just reminded us above, that abusive behaviors are learned behaviors. We know Laurent was abused in multiple ways before he was able to leave his uncle’s house. We know that he is still very young and that it has not been that long since his uncle’s trial. We know he has not been comfortable talking to Damen about his abuse, which gives us reason to believe he still experiences a great deal of shame. That shame is hinted at here:

“He respects you,” Laurent says before Damen has made up his mind about the yelling. “He looks at you and sees a standard to meet. Normalcy. It’s hard to disappoint people you respect. Especially people like you.” “Like me.” “You do things your way. Everyone else does them wrong.” “That’s,” Damen starts. The absolute inaccuracy of the phrase leaves him hanging. “What the fuck?” Laurent ignores him. “He doesn’t respect me, and he also knows I have no room to judge. It’s different. We’re—it’s just different.”

We also know that Laurent is specifically and intentionally not abusive toward Nicaise. We have seen that he has been absorbing a ton of anger, vilification, derision, denigration from Nicaise almost entirely without complaint and without lashing out at Nicaise in return. In fact, after the breaking of the paperweight, when Laurent feels that he might not be able to avoid reacting in a way he will regret, he calls Damen to safely remove Nicaise from the situation. Having taken the lock off Nicaise’s door for reasons many parents would no doubt consider justified, he realizes it was a mistake:

Damen doesn’t look down at the twisted little bolts on the floor. “Actually, you should watch this part in case you ever want to dismantle it again.” “I won’t.” Damen rubs his sleeve over a weird spot on the knob. “You’re betting a lot on Nicaise’s hypothetical good behavior.” “It was dumb, taking the lock away as punishment. I…” Laurent’s thumb glides over the edge of the glass. It traces a full circle before stopping and going white, digging in. His jaw twitches like he’s munching on something. “Privacy shouldn’t be a reward.” “Wasn’t this about safety? He locked himself in, wouldn’t come out or reply when you called…” Laurent’s reply is slow to come. After a while, Damen stops expecting it to come at all. He goes back to testing the lock—twice, waiting for that click sound—opens the door, closes it, and rattles the knob a bit. Just to be sure. “My uncle made it about safety too,” Laurent says. “Locks on doors were for adults. Not children.” The lonely ice cube in his glass floats around aimlessly, not quite touching its confines. “The first to go were the bedroom locks. What if there’s a fire and you can’t get out? What if someone breaks in through the window and—well.” Laurent smiles, small and ugly. “That kind of thing. You know.”

He ensures that Nicaise sees a therapist, meets with that therapist regularly, and follows professional advice about putting Nicaise on medication.

Laurent also maintains a strong friendship with Ancel, whose judgment the text has taught us to trust, through Damen’s evolving relationship with him. Laurent is capable of non-abusive, non-superficial relationships.

3. If not, what evidence do we have that HIUH Laurent can and will stop engaging in abusive behaviors?

From the moment we see Laurent interact with Damen in the present of this story, he is trying to treat Damen better. Not because he thinks he can get back together with Damen, but because he realizes he needs to make a relationship with Damen possible for Nicaise. We have already seen above that most of the time when Damen expects Laurent’s ridicule in this story, he does not actually receive it. In very stressful conversations, when Laurent does lash out, he now tends to pull back or even to acknowledge and apologize:

Coffee. Damen takes two long sips, trying to rinse the bad taste out of his mouth. They’ve had arguments in public before, probably louder than this one. For some reason, the thought isn’t as comforting as Damen would have once found it. They broke up to be better than they were together, didn’t they? They should be better. Except this doesn’t feel better. Or different. Laurent says, “That was out of line.” Now, cooled off, Damen feels clammy. Wobbly. He knows Laurent is right, and yet the thought of sitting through a reprimand makes him want to melt away. “It was.” “I—apologize.” Damen looks up from his coffee to Laurent’s profile. He’s facing the wrong way, Damen thinks stupidly, because the window is to their left. “You apologize.” Half a question. “Go ahead,” Laurent says. “Rub it in.” Damen doesn’t want to. Nausea is curling around him, closing in. “I was out of line too, so.”

And we know now that Laurent has thought through some of his past behaviors toward Damen:

“I was angry at you,” Laurent says, “all the time. Sometimes it was justified, but when it wasn’t I just—I found ways to justify it. That wasn’t fair. Of me.” Damen’s palm is numb around the glass. “Why were you angry?” “Nicaise.” “Justified,” Damen says. “And the rest of it?” Laurent is facing him again. “Paschal says I have a tendency to expect the worst from everyone. Especially you. You’d make comments, and I’d think you were being cruel instead of…” “Instead of what? Ignorant?” Laurent doesn’t reply. “That makes no sense,” Damen says. “We never argued about me being fucking sadistic. We argued about you acting like some things were obvious and I was simply too much of an idiot to get them.” “I never thought you were an idiot.” “You said it often enough.” “I’m—sorry,” Laurent says. “It doesn’t change anything, but—even if you had been the biggest idiot in the world, you didn’t deserve…” A blinking spree follows. “I’m sorry.”

We know that Laurent is still in therapy, and we know that he has been talking about his relationship with Damen there because Paschal has suggested couples counseling for them. And Laurent has invited Damen to do that couples counseling, showing that he wants them to build a better foundation for their relationship  going forward.

4. If HIUH Laurent stops engaging in abusive behaviors, what reasons, if any, does HIUH Damen have to return to the relationship despite past abuse?

Damen is deeply in love with Laurent. At the beginning of the story, he is in denial about this fact, but the uncontrollable flow of his thoughts still shows us how much he feels the loss of their relationship. Once he and Laurent are speaking again, seeing improvements in their communication, and experiencing moments of comfort and fun in their interactions – and once Laurent has broken up with Maxime – Damen admits to himself that he wants to be back together. Neo, as usual, prompts the self-recognition:

“I’m asking you to think about what life might look like in two years,” Neo says, “for you and Laurent. Time does not only pass for you, Damen.” A smile, crinkling the corners of Neo’s eyes. “That’d be ideal, wouldn’t it?”  Two years. Damen sits with the question for a while, looking at it, prodding it. In two years, Nicaise will have gone away to college. Maybe Laurent will move, relocate, start over somewhere closer to Vask. He’ll post about his new life on Instagram, or details of it will make it to Damen as second-hand gossip. They could still be friends, over text or the phone or fucking letters, Damen thinks, yet there’s something bitter in the back of his throat, filling up his mouth like vomit. Maybe Laurent will date again. Probably. Most likely. And Damen— When he looks up from the armrest, Neo is looking straight back.  Damen can’t say it. Earlier today, as he typed his last email of the day at the office, he kept drafting a plan for today’s session. He’d explain his argument with Laurent, then the party at Ancel’s, then the way he keeps looking at Laurent in all the wrong lights, in all the wrong ways, and still finds himself wanting to kiss him. Neo would make a disapproving face, maybe, but it would be easy to brush off; anyone that doesn’t know Laurent would find it hard to understand how easy it is to want to kiss him. Except that isn’t all Damen wants. What Damen wants isn’t a settling of the score, a cleaning of the slate. He doesn’t want to do it once for old times’ sake, or twice out of gluttony. He doesn’t want to make any long-distance phone calls, write any letters, see any pictures on Instagram of Laurent and someone that isn’t him. He doesn’t want things to stay like this, in this careful antiseptic stage. He doesn’t want them to be friends. “It’s not what I want,” Damen says, at last. Neo leans back into his chair. He rolls his wrist once. “You think it’s what I should want, right? Letting go and all.” “I wouldn’t say that,” Neo says. “Should and shouldn’t are very loaded words. It also doesn’t matter what I think you should or shouldn’t do, in general. What is it that you want, since we’ve already established what it is that you don’t?” Don’t make me say it out loud. “I want,” Damen starts, and stops. The words look so stupid, jumbled inside his head. I want him back, like Laurent is a toy someone took away and won’t return. Like Damen is a child, begging. Don’t make me say it.   Seconds trickle by, piling into a minute. Then two. “Do you want to be in a relationship with Laurent again?” “I thought I already was,” Damen says. “A friendship is a kind of relationship. You said that.” Neo closes his eyes, keeps them like that for a while. “I did, yes. Let me rephrase that—do you want to be in a romantic relationship with Laurent? Again?” There is no loophole this time, no two-meaning word Damen can latch onto. The truth sits heavy in him, not on his chest but somewhere deeper, inside a little crevice between some (probably important) organs. Saying no would be lying, saying yes would be diminishing.  “I want things to be good,” Damen says. “That’s all.”

And in chapter 19, Damen is brutally honest with himself about how, even after everything, he still wants Laurent:

“You meet new people,” Neo says. “You go on dates, make new friends, find new interests. Despite what you might think right now, Laurent isn’t your only option. Dare I say, Laurent might not even be your best option.” The room is dark, darker than it was when the phone call started, but Damen’s eyes hurt like he’s been staring at a ball of light for too long. Everything hurts in a strange, modest way. A throb here, faint. An ache there, heatless.  “I don’t want other options,” Damen says. “Well.” “How fucked up is that?” “Pretty fucked up,” Neo says. It makes Damen stop blinking. “Luckily, you’re already doing therapy. It’s only bound to get less complicated from here on. Or more, depending on how you look at it.” “I don’t even wanna look at it, to be honest.” “Then don’t. Take time off, let things cool down, think about what’s been said… No one is asking you to choose right this second.” It’s not that anyone is asking. It’s that it feels like he’s already made his choice. 

“You didn’t tell me,” Damen says before he can think not to. “Tell you what?” “How bad it was.” Laurent’s thumb traces the t in team. It’s a bit crooked, even from Damen’s perspective. “It was pretty bad,” he says, slowly, “before you came back. Things were better once he started seeing you again.” “You call that better?” “Yes,” Laurent says.  I would have come back, Damen thinks, if you’d told me. Except it’s not true; he would have come back for much less. He’s here now, sitting across from Laurent in this mediocre coffee shop, talking things out, making an effort, thinking of reaching out to finally, finally, hold Laurent’s hand.  It’s strange, looking at Laurent and knowing he’s the only other person on earth that feels the same way he does. Where else would Damen go? Who else would he talk to? No one will ever get it, not the way Laurent does. And Laurent knows it. He must, or else he would not be sitting here either. There is only this, Damen thinks. At least for him, there will only ever be this.

So there is that. Damen is hopelessly devoted to Laurent. But that doesn’t make getting back together with him a good decision. Love would not be a good reason to return to an abusive relationship.

Another NOT good reason would be Damen believing the fact that he made mistakes cancels out Laurent’s harmful behavior. The text makes that explicitly clear through Neo:

Neo’s pen hops; a period appears at the end of a sentence. “Apologies can be hard to navigate. It’s sort of like… You’ve wronged me, and you know that you’ve wronged me, and now you’re apologizing for it while expecting me to forgive you. It’s quite a lot to put on a person.” “There are degrees to wrong,” Damen says. His chair feels smaller, like it’s locking him in instead of holding him up. The armrests keep getting in the way of his elbows. “And it’s not like I didn’t have stuff I had to apologize for too. I don’t get why you’re trying to make this seem like a bad thing.” “I’m not.” “Then why—” “Do you think you deserved an apology from Laurent?” Damen leans back and back and back, until his shoulder blades find something solid. Did he deserve…? He’d wanted one, once. In Nikandros’s guest room, with only beige and white and terracotta everything around him, he’d had staring matches with his own phone. He’d thought Laurent might call, at the very beginning. Apologizing. Begging. But Laurent never did. “Yeah,” Damen says.  Neo’s head begins to tilt. “You don’t sound too sure about that.” “I am sure.” “All right,” Neo says. “Why do you deserve an apology?” “I told you already. He treated me like I was an idiot.” “How?” “How—what?” “How exactly did he treat you like you were an idiot? What were his actions towards you?” “I,” Damen starts, but something in Neo’s face makes him pause. “He’d say things when we argued.” “Such as?” “That I was an asshole.” Neo nods. “And how did you feel when you heard him say that? Did you feel like it was fair?” “I felt like he was an asshole,” Damen says. “Sometimes.” “Whereas now you feel like he was right?” He was right about Nicaise. And maybe about Ancel, too. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” “I don’t want you to say anything,” Neo says. “I’m just trying to get you to think about things from a different perspective. Laurent apologized, which is an important—not to say crucial—step in rebuilding any kind of relationship. But it seems to me that you’re holding onto this newly found belief that because you acted a certain way, because you made mistakes, you somehow deserved the way he treated you throughout the last stages of your relationship.” “That’s not what I think,” Damen says.  “All right. Then you think you deserved the apology because the way he treated you was wrong.” “Yes. But…” “But…?” Damen’s face feels hot, the heat lodged right over his molars. “Doesn’t it kind of cancel out? Like, we both fucked up.” “Those are two different issues,” Neo says. “So no, they don’t cancel out. What he did to you and what you did to him are obviously connected, but someone doing something wrong or bad is not an excuse to do the wrong or bad thing back to them.” Neo gives his pen a tap. “Or it does, I suppose. It depends on your belief system. But you don’t strike me as an ‘eye for an eye’ fan.” I don’t want any eyes, Damen thinks. 

I interpret the failed second try (or second strike) of Damen and Laurent’s relationship to have been somewhat based on the “cancel out” reasoning from above. The “cancel out” and move past approach  did not work because they failed to address the many insecurities, communication failures, and problematic patterns that plagued the first time around. A discussion with Neo (again) makes this clear. Damen hasn’t yet learned to listen to what Laurent is saying without letting his insecurities and anger get in the way:

But Damen isn’t in Laurent’s position. You’ll never get it, Laurent had said about Nicaise. Maybe it’s true. “I get why he did it. I’ve been thinking, and it’s not—I get it. Nicaise being embarrassed, wanting Laurent in the room because he was the least angry of—” “I don’t think that’s why,” Neo says. “Or at least, that’s not what you’ve just told me Laurent said about the whole thing.” “What?” “Laurent talked extensively about roles. Did you notice that?” “No.” “He presents himself as the scapegoat for Nicaise’s anger, while you’re the one Nicaise admires and wants to impress.” Tap, tap, tap. Damen imagines Neo’s fingers flying across the keyboard. “It seems to me Nicaise wasn’t concerned about the different intensity levels of your—as in, yours and Laurent’s—anger. He knew you were both angry.” “Laurent was better at handling it.” “Was he?” “I couldn’t stop thinking about the guy,” Damen says. Guys, his brain supplies, helpful as ever. “I still can’t. Even now, I know it’s not—that’s not important. I was yelling at Nicaise. I wasn’t listening.” “And that’s why Nicaise didn’t want you to go with him to the clinic?” Damen closes his eyes. He needs to repaint his ceiling, do something about the lack of texture there.  “Laurent said something about abandonment,” Neo tries. A nudge. “You’ve mentioned Nicaise doesn’t do well with change, that he’s got a tendency to latch onto routines and people. Do you think it might be possible that he was trying to preserve the relationship he has with you?” “By keeping me out of a medical examination room.” “Yes.” “That’s what Laurent said.” “Well,” Neo says. “It sounds plausible.”

Damen wanted magically for them to be over their past:

“Right,” Damen says. “You don’t do should and shouldn’t. I forgot.” “Are you upset?” Are you angry with me? “I don’t know,” Damen says. “We were supposed to be past this, and now it’s out there and I can’t—we can’t—” “How were you supposed to be past this, if this had never been discussed before today?” “You said it’s impossible to discuss everything.”

So, I don’t think it’s a strong interpretation of the text to say that @thickenmyblood is trying to present Damen in an unfairly negative light in order to excuse Laurent’s much worse behavior and thereby make it okay for them to get back together. Cancelling out isn’t what the HEA of the story is set up to be about.

That said – and given the fact that Damen is still in love with Laurent – what GOOD reasons might Damen have to try the relationship again?

For one, he is beginning to understand better what the fights with Laurent about Nicaise were about. Moreover, they have now explicitly acknowledged that they are co-parenting Nicaise and Laurent has expressed a clear commitment to them parenting Nicaise as a team.

For another, Damen has a much improved understanding of the role of therapy and the complexities of mental health. He has a long ways to go on this front, but I don’t think we’ll see him dismissing or belittling Laurent’s mental health needs. Moreover, Damen has ways of addressing his own mental health needs and talking things through with a person who doesn’t share his triggers and emotional investments around Laurent.

For a third, he has made a commitment to working through their issues in therapy and has concluded that he trusts Laurent to try just as hard as he will to repair and strengthen their relationship.

Crucially, Damen has also learned to stand up for himself when he feels Laurent is implying that he is incapable of understanding things. This means he can point it out and Laurent can recognize when he is retreating into a defensive, harmful pattern. This also allows Damen to indicate that something isn’t obvious to him and to ask Laurent to explain it kindly and clearly. I think that is the only way they can reconcile their very different life histories and relationships to social normativity.

ONCE AGAIN, believing this about HIUH Damen relative to HIUH Laurent does not mean that I believe this is something all (or even very many) real life people who were previously in unhealthy relationships should aim for or could achieve.  

Which brings us to our bonus questions:

A. Is an HIUH Laurent who harms Damen through abusive behavior mischaracterized relative to the canon source material?

No, in fact, this is not a mischaracterization. Laurent abused Damen in canon. He took him as a slave. He sought Damen’s public humiliation. He had Damen whipped to an extent that would have killed most other people. He placed Damen in a situation that (for almost any other person) would have resulted in a violent public rape. He also forced Damen to engage in public and non-consensual oral sex. Later, when he understood Damen more emotionally and was feeling insecure or threatened, he lied about his feelings and motivations out of shame and self-hatred and with the aim of hurting Damen enough to drive him away.

B. Is an HIUH Damen who chooses to be with Laurent despite past abuse mischaracterized relative to the canon source material?

Damen fell in love with Laurent after all that abuse because he came to understand its source and because he saw other sides of Laurent that were caring and honorable and expressed a commitment to achieving justice, even if not by fully honest means. He came to understand Laurent as a survivor, even before he became aware of what exactly Laurent had survived. He stuck with Laurent through all of Laurent’s attempts to push him away and fought for what should have been an impossible relationship. And throughout this process, he learned about his own naivete and to question key elements of his upbringing, like the quest for war glory and the belief that “perfect treatment” justified slavery.

Captive Prince is a seductive and enthralling trilogy. And we willingly suspend any disbelief about whether Laurent’s trauma can truly be overcome simply by Damen’s noble nature and magical healing cock.

Why not do the same for HIUH? (Or, you know, just stop reading it.)

Although I do think Maca may owe us some healing cock. Just sayin’.

[ifwebefriends]

Trying to fight off the Magnus Archive obsession brain worms for the time being because that show and the characters Do Things to my brain

[mamuzzy]

When i reach 1000 posts in my drafts I will drink a beer like a boring normal person and attempting to play videogames without probably telling anyone that it happened because there is nothing to be celebrated about that I can't keep up with my friends OCs and fanfictions so I save them to be when I actually have time and energy to read them with full brain capacity. (yes i triggered myself into sadness. don't worry about it.)

[queerweewoo]

When there's now this thing in your life, a new thing between you and another person, a thing you can't quite put your finger on to be able to try and describe it.

When you start to become so comfortable with this person that they start to become your person, and before you're really aware that anything has changed between you, you've just suddenly become one hundred percent theirs.

When you then get so close to that person that you don't really realise that things have shifted so significantly between you, because it's so infinitesimally and yet so dramatically all at once, and because everything just feels so damn right all the time and exactly the way you feel things are supposed to feel, so why would you ever think about changing it?

When it dawns on both you and that person—maybe one of you gets there before the other, maybe both at the same time?—that the two of you have moved on from being just friends and are morphing into something else, so seamlessly and with such ease that you don't have to question it, because it is just a thing that sort of is now.

When your touches become lighter, lingering things, softer and warmer and more frequent than before, and occurring much, much more and in a very different way than with anybody else in your life.

When you and your person and this thing that you now share become more wanting and more needy, and yet somehow so unerringly steady, and also so wonderfully and assuredly grounding and immovable, all as one, all at the very same time.

When together, you become more.

When you find you have found your way to your person, and to this thing, the thing that you now mold and nurture and that molds and nurtures you, slowly; unwaveringly; absolutely; discovering that it's helps you to move in new ways and to unfold as a person, to breathe, to settle into yourself.

When you have this thing (all of these things) in your life and realise that this is it, this is the thing they've been writing about throughout the ages.

When you realise that this thing—your thing—is a thing called love.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

fuckfuck fuck i need to make more physical crafts i need to create tangible things that i can hold with my two hands and put it somewhere i can See It and think Wow. I Made That.

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

The finale! Post script will be uploaded right after this, fair warning it's a damn long one lol

Thank you for reading this far, this chapter is called "Where All Permanence Rests". Enjoy!

Edit: I forgot to add the final poem before, it's fixed now!

Page 67 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde���, parable 18:

The village people, hearing of the hunter’s fall, Find before them, the Blind man and the Beast, Yet they do not look with malice, they do not fear, As the veil has been taken away, their eyes see truth, That this is no Beast, but a man. The Beast, the Cursed Man, He does not rejoice, for the Blind Man has seen him justly, When all saw a monster.

Isla,

I don’t think I’ve ever written an actual letter, like this. Certainly not in circumstances like these. But this is the most secure way to contact you. I shouldn’t talk to you at all, if we’re being honest, but… I couldn’t just leave without a word.

In the following weeks, or days (depending on when this letter will reach you), you will receive news that John MacTavish is dead. And for all intents and purposes, in all ways but physical, I am dead.

I’m writing this to apologize, and to thank you. 

Simon never thought he would return to Mexico by his own volition. Even before Soap, he refused to take jobs anywhere near Central America.

Only Johnny could give him enough strength to be here.

It also doesn’t hurt that they’re not here to fight the cartel.

“déjennos en paz!” a man screams further down the cobbled street. ‘Leave us alone.’ 

From the American-accented shouts that follow, the man’s pleas are ignored, “donte esta el Irani?!”

A woman joins the man, screaming that they don’t know. Simon continues sneaking past dark roofs. They can’t afford to attack just yet - their target has far too many soldiers in their disposal at the moment.

A couple of shots ring out, making his steps falter. The woman screams in anguish. He closes his eyes, attempting to not sink into the familiar embrace of cold indifference, like his instincts tell him to.

Being more than a weapon has its downsides.

“Ghost?”

“Johnny. Solid?” Simon answers on their private comm line, his partner’s voice relieving some of the uncomfortable ache cinching at his guts.

“Aye. Think I can see ye.”

He looks around for a moment, finding the red skull mask across several rooftops, crimson barely visible in the low light, “did you find any sign of the Vaqueros?”

Simon can almost feel Soap’s frustration from here, “negative. Only thing Ah’m seeing are American bastards and fucking corpses.” he grunts, “feels like the Hunter all over again…”

“Focus, Sergeant.”

“I am, LT.” he watches Soap’s form disappear between buildings, “gonna get on the ground, search for anyone we could rescue.”

“Copy, I’ll keep an eye on Graves.” Simon clicks off, knowing they both need the silence. 

I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better brother to you. That I couldn’t take my head out of my arse and simply live a normal life, be normal. I think I never learned how to. But you deserved better. Could you tell maw I’m sorry as well? I don’t think I’ll make it to Christmas in the next… However long I have left to live.

Don’t worry about me (I know you always do, and always will), this is why I wanted to thank you.

After you called, on the day I got the notice of the eviction… I realized I couldn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t pretend I was fine, couldn’t keep this same, soul-crushing monotony, day in, day out.

Laswell contacted them two days ago, asking them to land in Las Almas and keep an eye on an American PMC called “Shadow Company”. They came to Mexico to collaborate with Mexican Special Forces to capture an Iranian and his stolen missiles. On paper, the citizens of Las Almas shouldn’t have been involved at all.

Graves and his Shadows move to another building, where several men have been rounded and lined up against a wall.

Reality never seems to match what’s on paper, when it comes to wars.

The Shadows lift their rifles, and shoot the civilians.

They don’t know what made Graves turn. But that’s not Simon and Soap’s job to figure out. Their only interest is to minimize civilian life loss and rescue the Vaqueros, the Mexican soldiers the Americans betrayed.

A weak voice on the other side of the block catches his attention. Simon makes the split second decision to take his eyes off Graves and investigate.

“No- let her go!” a woman, a mother, screams at a Shadow ripping a child away from her.

The kid in his arms cries, “Mommy! Mommy!”

“What do you think you’re doing, I’m with the police-!”

Simon catches another soldier moving to shoot, and in a flash, he takes hold of two throwing knives, and buries them deep within the Shadows’ throats.

The policeman and his family look at the soldiers fall with horror and confusion. Simon jumps down, revealing himself.

“Find a vehicle, and get out of the city. The Americans are not going to stop until they find what they want.” he grounds, staring at the cop’s eyes.

The mother asks shakily, “what- why are they doing this-?!” but the cop pushes her and the child, nodding grimly to Simon.

He climbs back up not a moment later. A voice in his mind tells him this maneuver might’ve costed him his cover, but alongside it, Simon doesn’t feel regret. He has learned to appreciate any win, no matter how small. And for those people, it is not small.

So I ran. I can’t tell you to where. I can’t tell you what I found there.

But I can tell you who I met. He’s… fuck, how could I describe him?

He was such a cunt at first, you would’ve ripped him a new one. But I learned he was also running away, in his own way. That he’s been running for a long, long time. And when I met him, when we actually started working with each other…

I felt like I was alive for the first time in a year.

“Ghost” Johnny startles him from thought, “found a Vaquero. Yer…?”

“Sergeant Major Rodolfo Parra. Who are you?” a farther voice barely comes through the radio.

“Soap. Laswell sent us.”

“Kate Laswell? Are you with Shepherd?!”

Simon grinds his teeth, “we’re not under anyone’s command, Parra. Not military.”

“You’re… you’re mercenaries?” he can hear Parra curse under his breath, “is it just you two?”

“Aye” Soap answers, “Laswell hasn’t burned ye yet - she asked us to help ye.”

The Sergeant Major seems to sigh in relief, hopelessness coloring his next words, “I’m glad. Though… no.”

He sounds more assured when he speaks again, “my soldiers and Colonel have been captured by Graves. I’ll need any help I can get to rescue them.”

“You got it.” Simon rumbles, “any intel on their location?”

“Negative. Alejandro has a safe house outside the city, I might be able to find out if we get there.”

“Alejandro?” Soap asks.

“My Colonel.” Parra says, noticeably sadder than before.

“We’ll get him back, mate.” Soap attempts to comfort, “Ghost, still got eyes on Graves?”

Simon internally grimaces, “...negative. Had to help some civvies.”

He didn’t expect the pride in Johnny’s voice, but in hindsight he should’ve, “understood. Ye see the church tower from here?”

Simon looks at the far distance, a tall building lit by an orange glow towers over the city, “affirm. Lets RV there.”

“Aye. Keep yerself safe.”

“You too Johnny.”

I don’t know how, but I have the feeling me and him were meant to meet. Not in a soulmate kind of way… I’ve been feeling things like that a lot, since I ran. Like this is where I would’ve always ended up being.

You will not meet me again, most likely. Me and him… Just our presence will put you in danger. There’s a reason they had to kill us both on paper. Can’t tell you what we’re doing that required that, but you know I was never one to stick to things like “rules” and “laws”.

We’re not alone in this, we have allies, people that want to do good, but are stuck in a system that refuses to change to do that good. I wish you never experience the amount of evil truly festering this world, and we are fighting so you never will.

He begins combing the streets for Graves’s trail, mostly tuning out the conversation between Soap and the Sergeant Major. From what he does listen to, Graves’ betrayal seemed to come out of nowhere - they had successfully disarmed a missile not a day prior, having interrogated a cartel lord who aided the Iranian.

They were so close to finishing the mission. Which is why, when the Shadow commander turned around and stabbed them in the back, only Parra managed to shake off the shock and escape.

Graves is still on the hunt for the Iranian, convinced he’s hiding in Las Almas, while also searching for Rodolfo. It won’t look good for business if he can’t wrap up things cleanly, Simon muses darkly. He had enough encounters with PMCs in the past to know how they operate.

He eyes a group of Shadows standing around a couple of fresh bodies, all seemingly focused on their comms. 

After a few moments, one of them answers to whoever is ordering them, “I’m here with a few others, sir, we can go search the area for the Mexican.” the soldier pauses to hear the response, “yessir! Let’s go, they spotted him at the northern plaza!”.

The group instantly starts sprinting, Simon following while radioing to Soap, “Johnny, Shadows heading to the northern plaza, said someone saw Parra!”

He hears the Sergeant Major through Soap’s comms, “mierda!”

Simon has to jump over an alley when the roof he’s been running on ended, “I’m on my way to you, can you hold them?!”

Soap huffs in a way that tells him he has something up his sleeve, “we’ll smoke up the plaza, they don’t know Ah’m here.”

He can just imagine Johnny’s sharp grin under his mask, “going undercover, hm? A man after my own heart.”

“Always, Simon.” Johnny whispers, just for his ears. Simon ignores the way it makes a shiver go down his spine.

Up ahead, a plume of smoke rises between buildings. Soap leaves his comms on, letting Simon hear how Johnny takes hostiles down one by one, going quiet until his cover is blown.

In the streets below, more and more soldiers funnel towards the plaza. Simon grits his teeth, pushing his legs to run faster. He will not let Johnny enter a losing fight, not if he can help it.

The shooting abruptly stops, making his heart still. A few moments pass before he can hear Soap’s voice growling, “let him go.”

He can hear the Shadows laughing, a churning noise grating on his ears. Simon slows, keeping to the swaths of darkness.

A half circle of Shadows formed in the plaza, Parra and Soap facing them. In the center, a shadow holds a pistol to a young boy’s head.

Simon doesn’t even attempt to swallow down the disgust that rises in his throat.

“No can do, pal. Drop your weapon and give us the cowboy, or the kid gets hit.”

He drops behind the Shadows, knife slipping down his sleeve silently. With careful steps, he closes in on the center soldier, while Parra curses at them.

Over the soldier’s shoulder, he meets Johnny’s eyes. With no words, they communicate. He waits for Soap’s signal, watching his Sergeant lower himself. To the Shadows, it seems like he’s bending down to place his SMG on the ground, but Simon can almost feel the tension coiling within Soap’s muscles, readying himself to fight.

“Alright, Alright!” Soap shouts, “I’m dropping my gun, just let the boy go.”

Johnny nods minutely. Simon strikes.

In a motion he’s done a million times before, the knife swings in an arc before burrowing into the Shadow’s neck. Simon doesn’t waste any time pushing the body aside, grabbing the young boy and pulling him back.

Soap snarls, righting his gun and spraying bullets to his left, clearing a path for him to take the kid and shove him into cover.

He swings around, ducking under a hostile’s incoming knife, unsheathing one of his own and easily stabbing it into the underside of his jaw. He throws it at another attacking soldier, noticing Soap and Parra being pushed back into a corner.

One of them gets the jump on Soap, the two falling to the ground in a struggle. His heart leaps to his throat, where it shouts, ‘Johnny!’

Simon takes a rifle off of a body, inhales to steady his breath.

Focuses his rage on the targets and shoots.

He drops the gun, rushing to Soap. The bodies on the ground don’t move.

A fast-paced chant screams in his mind ‘where is Soap is he broken is he dead have you failed him-’ 

“Ngh… Steamin’ Jesus, this fucker’s heavy.” Johnny grumbles, shoving the body covering his off.

Simon stares at him for a moment, before dropping to his knees and pulling him up. He searches for injuries on Soap’s body before two gentle hands stop him.

“Ah’m good, mo chridhe. Solid.” Johnny’s hands don’t let go, instead caressing his bloody palms.

An unexpected wave of emotion crashes into him, filling his lungs with warmth. He doesn’t know if it was the split second moment where he thought Johnny might be dead, or the gentle way he’s now comforting him, somehow always knowing when he’s panicked.

Maybe it’s all of it, that makes Simon blurt out, “I love you.”

And Johnny, despite having the majority of his face covered, looks up at him with so much care, blue eyes almost glowing behind the red mask.

Those eyes crescent with joy, Johnny pushing his forehead to bump against Simon’s in affection.

“I love ye too, Simon.”

And Simon finds himself thinking, that this is what he was meant to be.

Fighter.

Human.

Loved.

I’ll be trying to write as much as possible, but if this is the only letter you’ll ever get…

Just know that if I died, I went down fighting, and I went down with him. And I couldn’t have been happier with the way I lived.

I love you so, so much.

-J.M.

Page 100 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 20:

Where is your destination, now that the curse has been lifted, The Blind Man asks, with nothing but kindness on his tongue. I have no place to belong to, the once-Beast answers, Nowhere, but the path I walk with you, my fallen knight. Then we shall travel together, until we return to the earth, And perhaps, if God is to be so merciful, The paths we take will always, and forevermore, Be only by the side of the other.

[robin-with-a-pen]

Fic Idea: Dazai tries to write the ending to the third book in the series Oda was reading.

Oda wanted to leave the mafia and become a writer, he never got the chance. Dazai, in Oda's memory, writes the story Oda was never able to write.

[rotisseries]

worst thing about getting into bsd rn is my trusted sources telling me that the fanfic fucking sucks like ok WHAT am I supposed to do when I finish this then

[sameschmidtdiffname]

"Oh, I'm gonna update my masterlist real quick. This won't take long :)"

It's been three hours. My eyes hurt. I don't remember English. I still have shit to edit, but fuck it. I'm done for tonight. Enjoy the new details, pookies. It cost me my fucking soul.

[wwillywonka]

.

[happyk44]

what if Percy had a Roman Older sister stormy seas kid who, after learning/realizing that Percy was crushing his nature, decided that it was her holy sisterly duty — make him blossom, to surrender to his stormy sea.

she uses various tactics of mental manipulation, presses with all her might, awakens triggers, adjusts stressful situations.

And in the end, in tartarus, Percy [whose consciousness is pretty exhausted by her] still can't stand it and takes Achlys under control.

only unlike the canon, Annabeth fails to appeal to his humanity and Percy is happy to torture Goddess....

When they return through the gates of death and Percy has recovered at least a little physically, his sister comes to him.

She smiles, her smile is almost natural, almost soft and sincere, as if she really loves Percy as her little brother.

And She hugs him.

perhaps her hugs from the outside seem tender and loving, but Percy feels that he is drowning, he feels that he is lost in the sea, he is completely helpless like then in Alaska and he is terribly cold, her body seems colder to him than Alaska.

he feels that he is completely at her mercy.

She briefly presses her lips to his forehead, her bitter salt burns his wounds.

— my younger brother, — she says in a lively, warm voice, — congratulations, you have finally blossomed.

Percy snuggles up to her and cries.

She got her way.

he broke down.

[my God, I got carried away too much..]

Ohhh that's great and painful 🙌

It would be difficult for her to achieve in canon since Percy was only in Camp Jupiter for like. A day 😂 But 🤔🤔 maybe as a travel buddy out of the Wolf House to California? Works better, I think, since Neptune's stormy children would struggle with teamwork due to the social aspect. Cohort members are reluctant to team up with them as well, because they'll often leave teammates behind or be unbothered by capture. So I imagine they're often kept out of Camp Jupiter/New Rome, or, back in the day anyway, regulated to reconnaissance due to its solitary nature.

Amnesiac Percy stumbling across a girl who is just like him and finding kinship. From your description, she's one of the stormy kids who doesn't have SzPD, but carries enough traits of it that she ditched her journey from the Wolf House to Camp Jupiter. Would rather be alone near the ocean than surrounded by people forced to engage.

She senses a suppressed storm inside him. She knows he's different. She can feel it, but can't tell what. Assumes that he favours fresh water versus the storm, and decides that it won't do. Any idiot can turn salt water to fresh water, pull clean water from sludge, sense drinkable liquid nearby.

Dangers are everywhere. He needs to embrace the storm to survive. Fresh water is fine, but he only needs enough for himself. Worse comes to worse, he can just yank it from monsters, from people. In order to do that, he needs to let go and let himself be swallowed by the uncaring depths.

Percy doesn't remember anything but Annabeth. Even past her, there's a gut feeling that other people - forgotten others he tries so desperately to push through the haze to remember - wouldn't be happy if he became nothing but violence. His sister's words make sense as they travel. She does show him useful things. But she scratches at this itch he knows he's been keeping back, even if he can't remember why.

Something in the back of his head calls out for kindness, reminds him to be good. He doesn't recognize the voice, but it's familiar to him, warm and loving, and it's what make him hold back. Why he simply draga her away and apologizes to whoever she ticked off, instead of baring down into a fight like the adrenaline in his veins pumps for.

He knows pissing people off is not intentional with her. Making kids cry in the bus terminal isn't purposeful. It's clear she knows certain social niceties. However, the grand scale of them is beyond her. Combined with her general indifference, she often says or does things that carry unintentional way. Her brows will furrow, like she doesn't know why they're angry or upset.

She is a blank slate most of the time. Any expression shown is confusion or mild annoyance. After just a few days of travelling with her, Percy knows her apathy is not an edgy facade. He's sure she could watch him be tortured and feel nothing. That she might sit by and observe if it kept her entertained. Unless it turned on her, or maybe if she grew bored, it wouldn't stop by her hand.

He doesn't want to be that person. Or at least the voice in his head, the image of Annabeth, the sense of connection in the pit of his stomach don't want him to be that person. Still, he's sure he likes feeling things. Having a favourite burger is better than his sister's "it's just food" opinion because she finds no enjoyment in eating. Feeling has to be better than endless apathy.

Sometimes, though, he's not sure about that. When there's a dam in his chest he's constantly building up. His lack of memory makes knowing why he has to hold his emotions behind the dam hard, but he tries anyway. He knows that the dam is important to Annabeth, important to the foggy other two. He knows the dam is what keeps him good.

His sister isn't stupid though. She's been around people long enough to know how to get them to do things for her. She's not often manipulative, never truly has a reason to be so, she just doesn't care about people enough. But it was useful when she was younger and needed to get people to go away.

The thing about being the perpetual wallflower is that people talk without noticing her standing in the shadows nearby. Secrets abound. There's minimal to no pleasure in the outcome - aunt and uncle screaming because of dual betrayals, other little girls throwing themselves at each other with fists - but it's better than being unentertained and still feeling nothing. At least this way she can focus on something, other than her persistent internal silence.

She knows her brother's lack of memories will make him easier to train. While the girl will be useful in her aim to get Percy to relax, Annabeth confuses her. She's never understood what love is, or why it's important. The word always felt wrong in her mouth. Luckily her mother was understanding. It was spoken very little to her, and her mother never needed any word back. Only other family members demanded the response. They didn't care for her empty tone.

Her vague sense of admiration and gratitude for her mother's defense of her abnormalities was likely the closest she would ever get to feeling love.

Still, she know the emotion is important to people. Friendship, families, lovers - all types of connection that people crave. They will bend easier to the whims of those people. They will soften themselves. They will toughen themselves. They will change.

Both her and Percy are as unrelenting as the sea. They are as stubborn as the bull sacrificed in their father's honour. Forcing Percy's hand is much harder than she'd like. Anhedonia creates a lack of internal motivation to follow through on her goal, but luckily she's been good at forcing herself to do things she has no drive to do.

Turning Percy's gaze away from the inland water, now bottled and caged for vast consumption, to the untamed and thriving sea is the first true goal she's had in a while. Where other kids dreamt of becoming astronauts or doctors, she simply shrugged away the question.

Directionless, the teachers had said every year until she'd been taken to the Wolf House. Doesn't show her full potential.

Certainly those words carry no weight now.

They have closed in on California by the time she sees the first twitch in Percy's gaze. She stands by while he fights. While smaller and seemingly younger monsters do not engage with her, monsters are an unavoidable nuisance. She learnt young how to get rid of them. Bursting blood splattered across grass and trees.

She was five years old when the newspaper of her town reported on spontaneous combustion after she'd been threatened in the park. The Mist made the monster fall in and out of view. When it had exploded, it looked like a little old lady. It was in the aftermath, when people kept asking her if she was okay, and other kids were crying out of shock and fear, that she first realized she was not normal. Both as a mortal, and a person.

Unfortunately for everyone else, she didn't care.

Percy is panting. The monster is fast. Whenever Percy gains the upper hand, it dives towards her. In a rushed follow, Percy loses the upper hand and she steps away from the fight. The cycle continues repeatedly. Percy knows her well enough by now to realize she will not participate until threatened. She wonders if he's upset by that. Other people would be. The kids she had been journeying with after the Wolf House had been.

But Percy never shows bother with her. Perhaps it's his unbreakable skin. Without scratches left behind, it must be easier not to care if she helps out or not.

Nonetheless this battle has carried on longer than it should. Displeasure burns across Percy's face as he chases the monster away from her. In her peripheral she can see another monster coming up. It ignores Percy and the clash of metal to creep closer to her. Partially hidden by the shadows from the trees, it keeps low to the ground.

She's not afraid of dying. Her death is incoming with every passing day. Dying now or later means nothing to her.

Percy disagrees.

She doesn't flinch when monster blood and flesh hit her. Percy's enraged yell echoes in the air, even after he's clenched his teeth shut. His arm falls languid to his side, the tip of his sword scraping the ground. His own monster is nothing but blood on the ground and blood on his person.

The thing they never say about monsters is that only a clean kill instantly dissolves into dust. Pulling their blood outside their body leaves behind a messy corpse. Over time it will dissolve. The skin and all still attached to it goes first, then any guts that had been severed. Then the blood.

She cocks her head as Percy stares at his bloodstained hands. Depersonalization is not unfamiliar to her. She often does not see herself in the mirror, does not recognize the sound of her voice. It's mild. At least she thinks it is. She can reocognize the confusion in Percy's face. The way he flexes his fingers like he's seeking acknowledgement that his hand is his, fingers following his commands.

It never works.

But she doesn't tell him that. This is the first stage of accepting the sea. They were not made for dry land, yet they were banished to it. Forced to walk with spindly legs instead of swimming with strong fins. Smooth skin instead of strong shells. They are not supposed to feel at home in these bodies.

"You should do that next time," she says as Percy clenches his fist and drops his arm. His eyes have cast away, and he does not address her when she speaks. "It will go faster."

He snorts. "Or you could help?"

She cocks her head. "Why? I'm not afraid of dying."

He twists to face her. Upset at her words is clear in his face. Her words hold back her true reason. Yes, she is not afraid of dying, but he is afraid of her dying. He does not want it. And that makes him weak.

I met your step-mother once, her mother had said weeks before the wolves came. They were sat at opposite ends of the living room. Her mother was reading a book. She was doing a puzzle. The TV was on, background noise soft in her head. I asked her why she was worshipped as goddess of the depths, when she was already titled as goddess of the sea and salt water. Surely, the sea included the depths. Why the specification?

She did not respond. It was unnecessary for her mother. Whenever someone spoke of how long it took for her to first speak, her mother simply rolled her eyes and told them that her daughter took after her father. Speaking was not important to him. Of course it would be unimportant to her.

He drowned me, she said, her mother went on. It is what the ocean does. If it loves you, it will keep you. She was once sunlight and warm, but then she took his hand and he dragged her down to darkness and crushing pressure.

Her mother had laughed. It was a melodic sound, one of the few things that let her feel. According to her mother, her father felt the same way about his lover's laugh. A recluse by nature, his children were fewer than others, and only ever born to those who could ignite something in him. He didn't need to know what the feeling was. He just had to know he was feeling.

Did he want to drown you? she had asked.

Her mother snorted. No. If he had, I would have run. Drowning is death, my little guppy. When you find what you love, you will kill them to keep them. When you find what you hate, you will kill them to make them go away.

She had pushed a piece into place and considered her mother's laugh. Can I drown you?

Not yet, guppy, her mother said. But one day, you may.

She knows that Percy does not want to drown her. He does not covet her the way their father covets their step-mother, the way the ocean clings to skin even as people surface and depart across warm sand. He wants her to live because he is fresh water survival and miraculous rains in the heat of summer. For that, he cares.

The ocean is an uncaring thing. It drowns what it wants, even if those who drown, who are dragged to the depths where the world is frozen and dark and crushing, fight valiantly, fight desperately. It kills without mercy. It doesn't care if you suffer in the choke of water in gasping lungs, in the slow sink of vessels, in the salty residue and reflective surface that burns skin under the light of the sun as they float aimless across the waves.

With the bursting kill, the bloody residue, Percy is one step closer to understanding that.

"Did you know they still feel things?" she asks. She pulls the blood from her face and lets it splatter against the mess in front of Percy. "They don't truly die until they are fully dust, and have returned to Tartarus."

He twitches at her words. But he doesn't grimace the way the others had when the daughter of Mors told their group the same thing. He isn't destroyed by her words.

He sighs, a little sad. "Sucks for them."

She thinks that if she were normal, she'd smile. The sadness was minimal. Not like her journeying group. They had been disgusted by her actions. Then distressed by what was said afterwards. They told her to keep the kills clean, unless there was no other choice. Even monsters didn't deserve to suffer endlessly, they had said. She didn't understand the point. So what if they suffered? The battle was won quickly. They could carry on.

They had complained about morality. Complained about ethics. Complained about the blood on their clothes.

It was rude. She was not immoral. Although minimal, she has beliefs. Ethics were followed, even if she did not understand the point. Did she not help them when they needed it? Even when their loss would mean nothing to her. And blood was easy to remove. Another thing she helped with despite her indifference to their state of being, pulling blood off their clothes and skin and hair, just as she was doing with Percy.

He scratches the back of his neck when she's done. "It is easier," he says slowly. Even as she begins to walk off, he stays where he is. His eyes are trained on the blood on the ground. "Isn't it?"

"Yes," she says. "Messy, but fast." She shrugs. "And we can remove the mess, so it's inconsequential."

He pulls his eyes away and caps his sword. It slips into his pocket as he jogs to her. "Right." His voice is soft. His gaze is distance, unfocused. His words aren't meant to be heard. Without thought, they are spoken aloud as he finally begins to acknowledge his true nature. "Inconsequential."

--

Traveling through Tartarus sucks. Both Percy and Annabeth are suffering, but Percy knows their suffering isn't made equal. For starters, Annabeth isn't a child of the Big Three, and is not related to any water deities. Where the river water sucks for both of them, water is water. Relief exists in each gasoline sip. It's disgusting, but in addition to healing his wounds, it wakes him up, gives him a little more energy. Annabeth only becomes tired with every healing but nasty swallow.

But Annabeth doesn't have to struggle with his sister's voice in his ears. With the memories of killing monsters with a firm blast of blood and guts. Once they had been accosted in the street. They drew the monster away into an alley, then Percy reveled in the drench of blood across his skin. There was something invigorating about the wetness.

The homeless man they had woken up when they ran in stared at them in horror. He didn't move or make a sound, but flinched violently when Percy turned and caught sight of him. And for the life of him, Percy couldn't care. He just pulled monster blood off him and carried on.

He was aware, though, that his indifference the man's horror was not the same as his sister's. It was only after his memories came back that he realized. She was Neptune, the cruel and uncaring sea. He was Poseidon, the vicious and tortuous ocean.

She had no emotions. Or rather could not feel them inside her. But where her default was apathy, Percy's was anger. Poseidon had always come across as kind when he and Percy interacted, but Percy knew enough stories about his dad to know he was not the best person. Like Neptune, like his sister, Poseidon didn't care about other people. At least not people that didn't matter to him.

His sister had left him when they closed in on the Bay Area. She didn't say why, but she often didn't give reasons why. She just wished him well, a social rule she had probably memorized, and left.

It was a weird goodbye.

You don't want to drown me, she had said before she left, when they had sat down in the grass of a park to share one final meal together.

He had squinted at her, burger halfway to his mouth. Well, yeah. Why would I?

She stared at him. Her looks always made him feel exposed, as though he was a fish she was cutting open and gutting. Was she seeing things in him? He knew that he could see things in her. She was an open book. A sketchbook though, pages empty. A few of the pages had drawings, marked in pen.

What kind of book did she think of him as? Sometimes he felt like a novel. Middle grade language, and simplified, hinting at harsh topics but never following through, never thinking about them again. Like his want to die, a desire that is rapidly growing the longer they spent in Tartarus. It's harder to push back those thoughts than normal. But even more so, the anger. The rage.

Judging from his sister and himself, that is the difference between Neptune and Poseidon. Neptune is the uncaring sea people speak of. He will drown you, he will let you live, he will float you on a piece of driftwood with no goal in mind. If you fight to live, if you give up and die - it doesn't matter. It means nothing to him. What happens is what happens.

Poseidon is the moody ocean. One minute gentle waves, the next a hurricane. There is no warning. He laughs at toddlers splashing with floaties bigger than their heads and he laughs at drowning passengers fighting to stay afloat in the cold icy waters. He attacks when he's angry, and he can turn angry on a whim. He'll torture you. He'll break you. Then he'll turn soft and happy at the sight of a goldfish in an appropriate tank. People do and don't matter. It depends.

Neptune is without feeling.

Poseidon feels far too much.

The further they walk through the hot painful plains of Tartarus, the more Percy wishes he couldn't feel anything at all. Rage bubbles up in him like a geyser. Annabeth is suffering. It's his fault for not noticing the web, it's the fault of the crew for not helping pull her up. It's the fault of the gods, of the fates, for putting her in this situation after she had already helped save the world the year before.

Anyone else in her cabin could've suffered. It's not like they did as much as she did in the war, suffered as much as she did. Luke was her big brother, her first crush, someone who protected her. She had to watch him change. Had to deal with the constant betrayal. Had to watch him die in front of her.

Why couldn't it have been Malcolm?

Stop, Percy thinks. You're angry, but you're still a good person who doesn't wish harm on other people.

Is he? He doesn't feel like it. After his sister left and he later carried Juno into Camp Jupiter, her influence moved to the back of his mind. It was easy to be good with Hazel and Frank, easy to be good on the ship. But now, with his anger rising fast, the dam holding back the flood creaking under the weight, she was back, echoing in his ear subtle words and reminders.

At the time, he hadn't put much stock into the weird things she said. Now her cryptic montone speech chimes in his brain, like a successful download on a computer. Feel the air, the humidity, she'd say. How does it serve us?

The humidity is a weapon, a threat. The thick water in the air weighs heavy on other people, leaving them sluggish, tired, but keeps him upright and strong. He tries to utilize that one, in the heat of Tartarus, but the exhaustion makes it difficult.

Not all the echoing is useful. Some tempt him to break, to let the dam fall apart. The ocean doesn't hold back. Ships that challenge the sea become crushed beneath its waves. A spill flows as it wants, unbothered by what it leaves behind.

It hurts. He wants to hold back, to let the ships he destroys float on the surface. If he spills, he wants to stay put, be swept up with one swipe of a towel. But does he? The dam holding everything back pushes against his chest, a reminder of the truth.

He doesn't want to hold back anymore. When the Arai came down with their curses, the first slash of their sharp talons against his skin had him wanting to shove them down to the very bottom of the ocean, hoping they stayed alive to suffer as they were crushed into shattered bones and squashed organs. He wants to spill, to flood. To open the dam.

He has morals, he knows the ethics of the world. The rules. But deep inside, his morals are fluid, and the rules don't matter. Nothing does. He feels lawless, beholden to no one and nothing.

Except for the girl stumbling at his side. Except for his mom waiting for him to come home. Except for his best friend pleading for him to stay safe.

They're the only ones that matter.

You don't want to drown me, his sister had said.

He finally understood what she meant.

After this was all over, when the world had righted itself once again, he was going to drown Annabeth, drown Grover, drown his mom. Keep them far below where no one could find them. A protective breathable bubble. Limited space, no way to be out of sight.

In the meantime, the want to drown every threat that approached them is strangling him. He wants every enemy to be obliterated into blood and guts, wants to watch them suffer for even daring to come near them, daring to threaten his girlfriend.

The itch he'd been holding back for years is relentless. Closing in to the front where he cannot escape it. It would be so easy to scratch, he knows it would. But Annabeth. Grover. His mom.

I am a good person, he thinks with gritted teeth as Akhlys argues with Annabeth. The goddess is easy to manipulate. It's not a shock considering her purpose. Still, her agitated shrieks directed at Annabeth makes his blood boil. They need her help. So Percy adds a patch of duct tape to the cracking dam inside him, and repeats, I am a good person.

They follow her warily to the opening of the void of endless night and shadows. The sight of Annabeth withered like a mummified corpse finally exposed to daylight cracks the dam even more. He hastily does his best to apply more tape, caulk, cement paste - what he can to patch up the holes before they leak.

His blood is cold. His stomach turns knots. Dread, despair, distress - it all drips into the threatening waters inside him. The raging waters kiss the edge of the dam with every forceful push of their tides. The threat of a spill burns him.

But he's out of supplies. He can't make the dam higher. He can't patch any more holes.

He grips Annabeth's hand, and makes a joke. It doesn't land as well as he wants. The hole it leaves behind is dug deeper by Akhlys' response, and then again by her cackling betrayal. He wants to run, to keep the dam steady, stay moral, stay ethical, stay good.

But the itch burns now, a rash at the front of his skull. Riptide makes no effect when he slashes at her. His sister's words echo in his ear. The feeling of bursting blood. The ease of it.

Annabeth charges at the goddess, screaming right in her ear. Akhlys startles. Using the distraction, Percy ducks away as best he can. Smoky legs are difficult to maneuver. His sword is useless. Annabeth is faster than him. It's amazing. It's infuriating. It's confusing.

A sea of emotions drip-dropping into the dam. The edge of the dam wets. Little beads of water forms against the concrete. As his mind vibrates ways to defeat the goddess while he's effectively out of commission, Percy trembles.

He yells out uplifting words. Enraged the goddess turns on him. Poison sap flows all around him. The fumes burn his nose. His head turns fuzzy. The itch is the clearest thing left behind. So loud and demanding. The beads of water on the lip of the dam grow bigger.

Water is water, he thinks. The ocean is salt water, but hadn't Percy controlled fresh water before? Controlled lakes, streams, rivers? Controlled blood? Water is liquid. The ocean is liquid.

Poison is liquid.

He had never focused on the water in the monsters. It had just been an explosive burst the first time, and he carried it over each time. Built up the feeling, focused on them, and let go like Mentos in a soda bottle. He hadn't thought much of it. More focused on the complex feelings it left behind. But that's what it was, wasn't it? The water in their bodies, the blood in their veins, the liquid he could sense.

Offhandedly, hs sister had mentioned they could sense water when it was nearby. Sometimes he did, after gym when he was tired, sweaty, and thirsty. His gut pulling him in one direction to his water bottle tucked into his backpack, or the water fountain. But there were background senses. Other gut feelings.

Poseidon is god of the sea. But people see the sea as water, and water is water.

As a crack in the dam forms, chips of concrete falling into the abyss, the growing tide of poison around him stopa. Then violently recoils back towards the goddess. She shrieks and stumbles away, but it encircles her like a cage.

You can't bottle the sea, Percy thinks as he stands. How dare you fucking try.

The goddess chokes on poison fumes. The dam cracks some more. The beads of water on its lip wobble precariously now. They've grown to reach both sides of the dam's concrete lip. His heart hammers as he watch Akhlys gag and crumble to the ground. His sister's voice echoes in his ear. The itch burns.

And finally one droplet wobbles over the edge of the dam and falls down in the abyss.

Everything shatters.

Akhlys suffocates as he pushes her gagged drool back into her mouth and drown her throat. Her dripping nose plugs back up. She claws desperate at her chest. The poison pulls up her thighs and stomach, lancing around her chest. It burns away the fabric of her clothes, leaves behind thick welting wounds.

He gives her a repreive of breath.

Then starts again. Poison flows through veins. It wraps around her lungs, it replaces her golden blood. The ichor flows fast out of her. Distantly he can feel Annabeth grabbing him, can hear her beg him to stop, but the sound of the flood drowns her out.

Why should he stop? Why shouldn't he drown her? Why shouldn't he rake up the water pressure of the blood in her veins and watch her bones be crushed? Why shouldn't he break her bones and destroy her muscles by pulling out the blood inside them? Why shouldn't he fill, her lungs with mucus so each torturous breath he gives her is as painful as the suffocation?

He takes hold of every possible source of liquid, anything that has a speck of water inside her body and turns it on her. The itch quells with every forceful flow of anger out of him. The flood destroys her.

Good. If she wants to be misery so bad, she should know firsthand what suffering feels like.

He doesn't stop, even when it's so clearly over. He toys with her shattered body like a dolphin with a blowfish. But eventually he relaxes. The flood has turned into a gentle trickling stream. The dam begins its rebuilding.

He exhales slowly and turns to Annabeth. Concern hits him fast. To anyone else, it's be emotional whiplash but for him, it's just how he is. As moody and ever shifting as the sea.

Dried tear tracks stain Annabeth's deathly appearance. Even her empty eye sockets are welled with tears. Her hands clench his arms, nails digging into flesh. As he fusses over her, her hands detach slow. Her arms fall limp to her sides. She doesn't flinch or push back when he pulls her in to a tight relieved embrace. She doesn't say anything, even though he can tell there's so much she wants to say about what happened.

But she holds him back just as tight.

Percy clings to that like a lifeline.

[active-mind-15]

Ayo. I think. I mighta just finished the latest chapter of Accidental Siblings. 😳

[letapollojusticesayfuck]

smile for the camera (and keep your fingers crossed) Chapter 2: Interrogations, Interviews, and Impromptu Not-A-Dates

So instead of the food trucks, he’d bought a sandwich and a soda from the convenience store (and maybe a magazine too, shut up, he needs the physical proof that yes, he had in fact kissed Klavier Gavin). He’d also bought a pair of nondescript sunglasses and a baseball hat, in the hopes that he’d have a good enough disguise to head back to the office without being recognized. What Apollo Justice had failed to account for, however, was the fact that unlike in the movies, paparazzi aren’t stupid.

Well. Whoops! Didn't mean to take so long to post this chapter, but...here we are, more than a whole year later. Hopefully the chapter's interesting enough to make up for it?

In all seriousness, thank you so much to everyone who's read, commented, and reminded me that there are people out there waiting for the continuation of the story. Somehow I thought I'd already posted the start of this chapter?? Maybe I just thought about doing it so much that I thought it had happened already.

But anyway...I'm going to make sure the gap between this chapter and the next is significantly shorter--you guys deserve to not have to wait for annual fic updates, lmao

As ever, huge thanks to @cubedmango for providing some incredible spot art! And for understanding the "oops, what do you mean i didn't post that?" moment I went through like two weeks ago.

[lagomort]

wait you met your gf writing lazytown fanfic lol????

Yeah. If you sort LazyTown fanfics by hits, uh... there we are. #1 and #2. Sugar Plums and Talk is Cheap.

My girlfriend @gunsforeyes is #3 on kudos, though. Slot #2 when you sort by kudos is taken up by @edgebug's fantastic (like a hero) in the half-light. Very well deserved given they're a great writer, though. If you want to read some vintage Lazytown fic I think they were big on my old fic rec lists.

But yeah. Me and my girlfriend have been together for 6 years now and only got together because we talked about my Lazytown OC. Robbie Rotten gay blessings etc.