#you’ve never even acknowledge the damage you had on my development

[neuroticwyrm]

im in my 20’s with the mind of a broken child just because none of the adults in my life knew how to raise for a kid without traumatizing them. so thanks for that.

[omnitf]

Credit for this image goes to @dissolving-time. Story is mature for some language. This is another story from the Coach Stone universe. I hope you all enjoy it. :D If you’d like to see more of these stories, please join my Patreon.

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Stone Cold

“Coach said you have to get your shot, bro.”

I gazed at the meathead that had once been my fellow prisoner. He’d already donned the dog tags that were locked in his footlocker. Muscle rippled over his body as he gazed at me holding one of the biggest rifles I have ever seen in my life.

“Chapman, do you know what that is?” I asked as I eyed the gun warily. The caliber alone would be enough to splatter my brains all over the wall.

“The name’s Champ, bro.” He said it so casually, so matter-of-factly. Had they really brainwashed him so thoroughly?

“Your name is Lance Chapman, from Enfield, North Carolina. You specialize in computer programming, like me. We were brought here against our wills, remember?”

“Nah, bro.” “Champ” let out a deep vapid chuckle. His camouflage draped over his legs, but I could see the hints of growing muscle bunching, just waiting for a good pump to press them tightly against the confines of the cloth. “Coach wants my bod first, my brains second. Huhuh.” He grinned at me, revealing perfectly white and straightened teeth.

I’d hoped to reason with him, but it was clear he was beyond that. I brandished my own pair of dog tags. Like I said, computers were my thing, both programming and the hardware. It took me a while, but I managed to get my lockbox to open, too. And without reducing myself to a wannabe army poster boy. “I have my tags, Champ. You can’t keep me here. You know once I get my tags, I’m supposed to leave. I’m supposed to report to Coach, remember?”

“But you’re not gonna, are you, bro?” he asked seriously as his brow furrowed. “You just wanna get out.”

“I have to get out to see Coach, now don’t I?” The exit was right there in bold black lettering. The lock had already disengaged on cue when I seized my tags. I just needed to get past him. If I could distract him somehow or incapacitate him, I could run.

Chapman spread his legs in a broader stance as he planted himself firmly in front of the door. “You’re not ready to see Coach yet, little bro. And Coach hasn’t called you.”

“I am ready.”

“Prove it.”

I knew a few basics from martial arts training in my youth. I’d been fortunate enough to keep up the practice in my free hours. The meathead in front of me may have had a weapon, but we were in tight quarters. It would be difficult to get that barrel pointing at me if I could stay close. And while he may have had raw strength, I had experience. I also still had my wits about me. I sighed and let my shoulders droop as I approached him. “Look, Champ, just ... let me go, okay? You and I both know this is wrong. It’s against the law to kidnap someone.”

“No can do, little bro. Coach says we need more training. Coach says we have a project to help with. Coach says muscle CHAMPs like me need to train and obey. I listen to Coach. I obey. This Champ o—”

The mantra was what I was waiting for. It doesn’t matter how big you get if you haven’t got the trained reflexes to deal with a sudden change yet. And Chapman’s mind had been either short circuited or rewired to reinforce his thuggery. I’d heard it enough times through the door. It wasn’t soundproofed. I think that was deliberate on the part of this “Coach” to give us a taste of what’s in store. Demoralizing a captive is a large part of ensuring that he or she remains compliant, after all. And I’d heard enough, “This meathead obeys,” to know this was a fulltime operation made heavy on the brainwashing. It had to be to change someone so drastically. This wasn’t just a sign of subtle change. This was downright breaking them and building them back up again into the equivalent of obedient machines.

In this case, it played in my favor, and I hate to think of it this way, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was grateful for it. The mantra made him vulnerable. I laid a hand gently on his shoulder, being sure to get close enough that he couldn’t put the barrel against me. His eyes were glassy and unseeing as he uttered the mantra that he and everyone else like him had been conditioned to speak.

Then I took him down. It was simple to sweep his feet out from under him, and the move flowed like water. Bruce Li would be proud. I followed up with a heavy blow to the side of his head with my boot. Part of our imprisonment had included removing our personal affects, so I had no idea where my street clothes were. I didn’t give the blow enough force for any serious damage, but it would be enough to daze him, maybe even knock him out if I was lucky.

I threw the door open while he groaned on the floor. I managed all of maybe two steps before my arms was seized and I was slammed against the wall. I swear, my bones vibrated from the impact. I saw a helmet with a reflective visor and the broadest chest I had ever seen in my life. This man was huge. And unfortunately for me, he was also very skilled. My arm was yanked behind my back faster than I had time to process. He pulled, and I felt my socket strain to send stabs of pain through my arm and neck. Another faceless mook strode forward. But unlike Chapman, this one was decked in full body armor.

“Well done, recruit. You’ve passed Coach’s test. You will serve in Coach Stone’s cyber unit and in Research and Development. You will obey.”

“Like hell, I will,” I swore. That rewarded me with another painful jerk of my arm while a targeted blow forced me to my knees.

“Meathead recruit will comply.” The man withdrew a syringe from a side pocket and tapped the chamber to dislodge any air bubbles, then pulled off the protective cap with a deliberate casual air of the well-practiced. The substance was green, and the soldier had no qualms over pulling my sleeve up. I squirmed, but a yank of my other arm followed by a crushing iron grip on my free arm left me tense as he stabbed the needle into my arm and depressed the syringe. He removed the needle casually and replaced the cap, then inserted the syringe into another pouch.

The two visored faces stared at one another for the briefest of moments in a silent exchange. Then they nodded as the one who injected me rose, turned and entered the room where I had been held prisoner. A low groan emanated from the space, followed by a series of loud cracks.

“Rise, meathead. Follow.”

The voice that emanated in reply was deeper than I remembered. “This meathead obeys...” An even greater shock greeted me when the lumbering brute emerged. Chapman’s muscle mass had increased dramatically, and the man’s skull had completely reformed. Sharp, angular, square features blunted his face now, and his eyes were a vivid shade of green. The oversized gun didn’t look so ridiculous for him anymore.

“What the hell...?” I murmured.

“Meathead Champ will listen to orders. Meathead Champ will obey. Meathead Champ will fire on his roommate on command. Meathead Champ will prepare to fire now.”

“What?” I balked. I wanted to squirm again, but once more, my captor brought me to heel. I tried to shift out of his grip, but the hold was too strong. Even if I went limp, he’d still be able to haul me back up again. That didn’t stop me from trying, however.

I heard a whine not unlike the sound you hear in a sci-fi movie when a blaster is being charged or a bomb is being primed. The barrel was soon directed at my face. My heart hammered as Chapman uttered his mindless acknowledgement.

“Meathead Champ obeys. This meathead is ready to fire.”

“Fire.”

There was light, a strange tingling that bordered on the pleasant, and then blackness. I came to in an empty barracks. When I rose, everything felt ... heavy, awkward. The sight of the muscles bulging against the fabric of my shirt was more than enough to unsettle me as my throat clenched and my mouth went dry. I wanted to scream, but at the same time I knew better. I journeyed over my torso, my arms, everything. All of it felt in order, albeit significantly enhanced. It was my face I dreaded the most. And true to my fears, I could feel each sharply defined contour from my own transformation that was doubtless facilitated by the rifle. As a test, I ran through pi to see just how far in the infinite decimal sequence I could get. Then I searched through the other parts of my brain. I felt no compulsion, no absentmindedness, no blank emptiness or cotton or wool. I was clear, surprisingly so, given how quickly my mind seemed to jump from place to place.

“Comfortable?”

The question came out of nowhere, and I balked and bawled as my body sent me crashing into another bunk with the increased force of my new mass.

“Well, clearly not anymore,” the voice replied urbanely. I rounded on the figure only to see a man standing at least a head taller than I. His manner was relaxed and composed. His blond hair flickered like silver in the light. And though he was completely relaxed, his body oozed that smug command and intimidation that subconsciously demanded respect from those around him. “Please, take a moment to acclimate yourself. I find a blow to the shins is never pleasant.”

I decided to stick with sitting, rather than rick another launch with a body I had absolutely no experience with. “Who ... are you?” I winced at the depth of my voice. Logic only dictated it would have changed with the rest of my physique, but I had hoped it wouldn’t.

“A scientist of sorts. Biochemistry is my specialty, though I’ve branched out into many other fields.” He chuckled. “Why don’t you just stay there and we’ll have a nice chat between the two of us?” He lowered his broad frame onto the bed I had just launched myself from and gazed at me with vivid blue eyes. “My name is Stone. And you doubtless have many questions and expletives you want to voice, most likely not in that order.”

I felt like a broken record as curse after curse and swear after swear flowed out of me in an invective tirade. Denunciations and questions boomed from me like the retort of a cannon, emphasized by a number of curses and swears until that was all I heard winding down ... and down ... and down....

“Are you finished?”

A plaintive, almost defeated, “Fuck,” hissed from me as I rested my head in two massive hands.

“Glad you could get that out of your system. Now, do you have any real questions you wanted to ask me?”

“Why?” I finally managed to ask.

“You’re a programmer. You should understand. If a program doesn’t work the way it’s intended, you go into the code, find the bug, and fix it. Sometimes it’s messy work, but the end result is worth it. I’m doing that on a global scale, or at least I will in time. Getting rid of bigotry, erasing the divide between the strong and the weak to produce a better world for everyone.”

“You broke Chapman.”

“Champ is happy where he is. He chose it. He wanted it. You two had virtually the same IQ scores and talents, at least when it came to computer engineering and programming. Unlike you, though, Champ was fighting conditions that would make it so that he could never enjoy the same level of fitness and activity that you do. Such a lack eventually results in fantasies, a longing to experience what one never has had. Chapman threw it all away because he reveled in the chance to grow and swell. And, I admit, I fed that desire while he tried to hack the mainframe. I let him see where he would ultimately end up. And I gave him a simple choice. He accepted my offer to obey. He lied to you, pretended to fail, and complied with everything I told him whenever he signed in. He is living his fantasy now, and is deliriously happy to be receiving training as a part of my Meatheads.

Rage curled my lip, but I couldn’t do a thing. I wanted to lunge at the man, strangle him, but my body wouldn’t comply. All I could do was sit and watch.

“You may have noticed by now, but my meatheads can’t do anything against me. I’m their authority figure, their alpha. Or as they like to call me, Coach. You can’t attack me because I told you to stay there. And though you may want to deny it, I know that deep down, you’re enjoying the sensation of your new body just as much as Champ is.”

“How?”

“My formula.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “It’s not perfect yet, but the iterations I’ve produced from my original notes have been very useful in extending my control. I don’t want to be a dictator, but I’m not about to let the world stay as it is either. Shadow politics, assassinations, pointless bombings and wars, genocides, suicides. This world is a mess. I have the tools to fix that mess once and for all. And I intend to do just that. To sum it up for you, I’m my original test subject. And the formula worked wonders for me as a result, but it also rendered me ... incapacitated for a time. As a result, much of my research was lost, and I’ve had to rebuild using different iterations of my creation until I can find that special mix. On the plus side, as derivatives of my original formula, it seems that anyone exposed automatically becomes subservient to me. It makes things much simpler when dealing with intruders and espionage. It also helps with recruiting.”

“Then why didn’t you just ask me?”

“Because I wanted you to sample the goods. That, and because there are still those who can resist the full effects of my injections and other sources of integration for a certain period of time. As I said, the formula still needs work. But I like to use the less effective iterations for special cases like you. Your specialty in coding and computer engineering is something I need right now. And I want you to keep your mind focused on the task at hand, rather than on weights and muscle. That’s why I’m assigning you to our MEAT department.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I think we both know you can’t.” Stone smirked. “For the record, MEAT stands for Muscle Enhancement and Accelerated Transformation. You’ll be helping us to design and improve a number of methods and technologies to help smooth subject transitions into becoming Meatheads. And more importantly, on how to preserve their skills and knowledge while still incorporating them into the collective. In other words, research and development. Your specialty, if I recall correctly.”

“I don’t want to.”

Stone chuckled. “On the contrary. I think you do.”

“I do—” My tongue stuck. My jaw locked. I tried again. “I do—” Again, I had the same problem. Again, I couldn’t finish. “I ... do....”

Stone’s smirk widened into a sneer. “Glad we got that settled. Oh, and for the safer ones, I want you to experiment on yourself. I’m intrigued to see just what a smart obedient Meathead will look and act like.

I groaned another curse, which only further emphasized my captor’s glee. “Spoken like a true Meathead.”

“Whatever....”

“That’s right. Whatever I say, Meathead.” The cocky arrogance was gone, leaving behind a chilling glare that could cut through diamond. “And you will address me with respect as either Coach Stone, Coach, or Sir. Do I make myself clear?”

I clenched my mouth shut.

“Answer me,” Stone demanded.

“Yes, ... Sir.”

“Good.” His eyes flashed as he rose from his position. “Now follow me. I’ll guide you to your lab. You have a lot of work ahead of you, don’t you, Meathead?”

I couldn’t stop myself as I rose to follow him. “Yes, Sir, Coach.”

“That’s right.” He chuckled. “On second thought, let’s get you dressed first. Then we can visit the lab.”

“Whatever you say, Coach.”

“Good boy,” he purred. I shuddered in revulsion, both at his cold dominance and ... at the jolt of pleasure that surged with that acknowledgement. If that was how it felt now, how would I feel after a few months or years of working under him? Would I be able to resist?

...

Would I even want to?

I shuddered again. Hopefully, I would be able to find a solution before Coach made me a permanent team member. Or worse yet, before I did.

[dancing-in-a-yellow-dress]

Trapped Little Angel (part 1)

Welcome to the first part of the first fanfic on this account.

Child!reader x the Avengers

Word count: 2900

Trigger warning: Imprisonment, nightmares, non graphic descriptions of violence and injuries, possible trigger for eating disorders

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You were a 14-year-old orphan living alone in New York, since your family had died in the explosion that gave you your powers. Your powers were similar to Wanda’s (telekinesis and all that jazz). You got them when you were 7, but for whatever reason they hadn’t been active before that day.

It was a basic September day with all of its rain and fog and clouds. You were walking on the street when suddenly you blacked out and your powers exploded out of you destroying property and hurting people everywhere around you. The Avengers were called to action and they evacuated the block and when you’d cooled off a little they took you into custody and to the Avengers tower.

You had passed out and they didn`t really know what to do with you, so they laid you down on the couch and began a debate about the subject.

Tony believed firmly that you were dangerous to the team and the best thing for everyone would be to lock you up isolated and unstimulated to avoid new outbursts until a better option would be available. Steve backed Tony up to an extent, although he did believe the isolation to be unnecessary. Bruce didn’t really voice his opinion on confinement that much, instead focusing on the medical aspect of the situation.

Clint doesn’t really say much during the argument, before Tony raises the possibility of indefinite imprisonment in isolation. That is what finally gets to him, since you are just a kid and remind him of his own daughter. Wanda argues firmly against any form of forced imprisonment. In her opinion you needed medical attention, after which instead of locking you up the team should be focused on helping you control and develop your powers in a beneficial way.

Natasha is uncharacteristically quiet for the whole debate. Something about you had got to her and she found it hard to think of the situation objectively without a massive bias. Peter was on ‘your side’ for sure. To him you were a troubled kid who just happened to need some help. In a way he saw himself in you.

You start to regain consciousness about halfway through the argument. The Avengers are taken back at first, but when you are very confused and scared, Nat and Clint (who are the most ‘neutral’ participants) tell you what happened. When you have gotten the big picture you ask shakily: “How many people did I hurt? What’s the damage?” The others are hesitant to tell you, but Tony is highly pissed at you, so he takes his tablet and shows you some pics of the place where the accident happened. Wanda shoots him a death glare, but he continues and reads the statistics to you: “At this exact moment there are 9 people dead, 27 in critical condition and 56 with milder injuries. All because of your little stunt.” At this point you have pulled your knees to your chest and are struggling to breathe. Steve and Clint look at Tony like he has lost his mind and Nat tries to calm you down. You are repeating the same things over and over again: “I didn’t mean to- It’s all my fault… I don’t know how- What- I didn’t mean to…” Nat was approaching you, her hand reached out ready to stroke your back and pull you into a hug. She says: “We know. Everything will be alright, it’ll be alright. It wasn’t your fault, we’ll sort this out. It’s okay, you’re okay. We don’t blame you, but right now you need to calm down.” You flinch away from her, panic shining in your eyes: “No! Don’t touch me! I don’t want to hurt you. I can’t control it… I don’t understand- I didn’t mean to…” Suddenly you look desperately at Tony “You have to lock me up. I’m dangerous. I can’t be trusted. I have to be put away. Please”, you beg, surprising all of the other people in the room. Peter is about to say something, but Tony cuts him off.

You stand up and Clint shows you the way to a quite big cell. You step in and he shuts the door behind you. You sit on the floor in the corner and pull your knees to your chest. You just blankly stare at the wall. You noticed that there was a camera in corner of the room near the roof as you stepped inside, but you didn’t care. What did it matter. As you stayed on the floor the team was reheating the discussion whilst keeping an eye on the monitor that showed footage from your cell.

Wanda and Peter were shouting at Tony for locking you up in an isolation cell. Natasha and Clint were a bit calmer, but they were backing Wanda and Peter up. At some point Tony says: “You heard the kid. She wanted to be locked up. Even she thought it would be the best option”. And that sets Natasha off: “Yeah, after you had scared the poor thing on the verge of a panic attack. That wasn’t fair play. You drove her to that decision and you know it.” Then Peter fires: “Besides the whole ‘she decided herself’ excuse is bullshit. She’s a kid. SHE’S 14. I’m 17 and you don’t trust me to do anything yet, so how again is she any different?” That shuts Tony up.

In the end the team comes to the conclusion, that they will be monitoring you strictly and willing people will be allowed to go talk to you. All except Peter (just for the first few days) who is infuriated to no end by the decision.

The first person to come talk to you is Wanda. She comes and talks for a while, but you can’t make any sense of what she’s saying. After a while she leaves shutting the door behind her. Steve also comes to question you, and even though this time you understand what he is saying you can’t find the energy to answer him in you. Clint brings you something to eat and drink, but you don’t move a muscle to acknowledge the act. Time sort of looses its meaning to you as you sit on the floor and stare into nothing, alone with your thoughts, the same thoughts over and over and over again.

Nevertheless, you know some time has passed when Natasha comes through the door with another tray filled with food. She places it carefully on her untouched bed and sighs deeply before speaking: “You should really start eating on your own. It’s been two whole days and you haven’t taken a bite. I get that its hard, but you’ve got to try. Otherwise we’ll have no choice but to put a feeding tube down your throat and trust me kid, that does not feel good.” She gives you another look, then turns around and walks out. Slowly you straighten your legs on the floor.

You hadn’t really noticed how much your muscles were hurting for being in the same position for so long before someone pointed it out. You stretched your legs first and then stood up slowly. You went through your body, stretching every muscle one at a time and then sat down beside the bed to eat. You weren’t really hungry, but the threat of getting a feeding tube stuffed down your throat was enough to get you eating.

After you were done with the meal you went back to your corner and sat back down, leaving your legs laying on the floor instead of curling up to a tight bundle. After a few minutes there was a knock at the door and Wanda walked in. She picked the tray up and looked down at you, clearly assessing the situation before finally saying: ”Hey, I was wondering if you needed to use the bathroom.” You didn’t answer her but stood up and stepped timidly few steps forward so that she knew you’d be coming along. She guided you through the hallways and into a bathroom. “There is a towel on the counter and shampoo on a shelf in the shower. Take as long as you need. I’ll pick up some clean clothes for you and bring them here. Okay?” You didn’t say a word but nodded and opened the door to the bathroom. After half an hour you were back in your cell but feeling significantly cleaner and comfier.

Instead of sitting back in the corner on the floor you sat on your bed and crossed your legs. You didn’t know why, but you felt like it, so you started singing, first just humming quietly, then adding the words to the song. It was an old lullaby your mom had sang to you more than once. Some things just had a way of sticking with you.

`Hyvin hiljaa, hyvin hiljaa

nyt kuuluu keijujen äänet

Ne tanssivat taas koko yön laulaen

koko yön laulaen.

Hyvin hiljaa, hyvin hiljaa

taas syttyy tähtöset pienet

Ne oottavat taas läpi yön loistaen

läpi yön loistaen.

Hyvin hiljaa, hyvin hiljaa

nyt sammuu keijujen äänet

Ne liitävät taas ylös luo tähtien

ylös luo tähtien`

Then you sang it over again, this time in English

If your quiet, very quiet,

you can hear sound of the fairies

They’re dancing again through the night until day

through the night until day

Very quiet, almost silent

the stars are lighting the sky

they’re waiting again till the night fades away

till the night fades away

If you’re quiet, very quiet

you can hear sound the fairies

they race through the sky so they’ll be near the stars

so they’ll be near the stars

You sang the song a couple times over and finally you got to the last part you had made up on your own. You always ended it there, since you could never continue singing after that.

Hyvin hiljaa, hyvin hiljaa

ei kuulu keijujen äänet

Ne lähtivät taas minut yksin jättäen

minut yksin jättäen

Even if you’re very quiet

you won’t hear sound of the fairies

they flew up the sky leaving me alone behind

leaving me alone behind.

You broke down sobbing. Clint was sitting at the monitor, and he thought it’d be best not to disturb you, so you were left alone as you start humming another melody your mom taught you.

Joka ilta kun lamppu sammuu ja saapuu oikea yö Niin Nukku-Matti nousee ja ovehen hiljaa lyö On sillä uniset tossut ja niillä se sipsuttaa Se hiipii ovesta sisään ja hyppää kaapin taa

”I didn’t know she was finnish” Nastasha said to clint as she sat next to him with two cups of tea. “Finnish?” Clint asked as they listened to the beautiful melody coming from the lonely cell. Nat was quiet for a while before saying “Yeah. The language is absolutely bizarre.” They sat in silence for another while, until Clint said: “She sounds miserable” “Yeah, but who wouldn’t. I’m guessing she has no family, since no one has come asking for her.”

Ja pieni sateenvarjo on aivan kallellaan Ja sinistä unien kirjaa se kantaa kainalossaan Ja unien sinimaahan se lapset autolla vie Surrur, surrur ja sinne on sininen, uninen tie

Ja siellä on kultainen metsä, ja metsässä kultainen puu Ja unien sinilintu ja linnulla kultainen suu Ja se unien sinilintu se lapsia tuudittaa Se laulaa unisen laulun joka mielen uneen saa

Your mum never taught you that song in English. You had tried translating it, but it always turned out so peculiar you had eventually given up.

When you felt like you had cried enough you stopped with the finnish and started going through songs you had heard somewhere else, altering the lyrics as you went.

You hadn’t sung anything in weeks and now you just couldn’t stop. It felt good. You went over your favorites altering lyrics and making up new verses, not wanting the song to end. As you sang you thought about mum and home. In the outside world they were forbidden things, because they made it hard to focus on surviving. But here she had all the time in the world to think. After hours and hours she finally laid down on the mattress and drifted to sleep

Tony had just started his shift watching you through the monitor and you were having a nightmare. You were curled up in a ball and whimpered and muttered quietly, as tears ran down your face. You dug your nails into your back and started scratching leaving bloody red marks behind. Then you started screaming. The sound echoed through the halls, but Tony didn’t know what to do, so he ended up doing nothing, just staring at the screen paralyzed. It went on for a while, until you finally flinched so violently you woke up.

You were in a state of panic, but as you realized where you were it started to wear off. Little by little you started to feel the pain from the bloody scratch marks on your back and arms. You examined your injuries to the best of your abilities and then looked at the floor while talking sheepishly at the camera in the corner of the room: “If you don’t mind I’d like to have something to wrap these cuts with. I might also need some help with the ones in my back. Its not a big deal, but I don’t want them to get infected.”

The screaming had woken up Natasha and Steve who were now standing behind Tony, looking at the screen over his shoulders. Tony cleared his throat before turning around in his chair and facing the other two. They both had their arms crossed on their chest. Steve looked surprised as hell, but Natasha was quick to recover. She threw Tony an icy stare before saying: “Should we think the imprisonment over again, or is she still too dangerous for you to handle?” Tony raised his hands before saying: “Let’s think that over in the morning, when the whole team is up. Now, would you mind going to help her with the injuries?” Natasha threw Tony another dirty look, before grabbing the first aid kit and heading to your cell.

Nat came, and you laid on the bed on your stomach. She lifted your shirt, poured antiseptic solution on a cloth and warned you: “I’m sorry, but this is gonna hurt like a bitch.” She pressed the cloth gently on your back and you shrug. “It’s not that bad. You get used to pain as a homeless kid. Once I had to remove a bullet from my own shoulder.” There Nat saw an opportunity get little bit more information of you and continued the conversation: “Must be tough. I suppose you don’t have any family left?” “Yeah, mum and dad and Tom died… in an accident” you tensed up visibly. Nat continued unbothered but didn’t bring up the deaths again. “I heard you sing the other day. Didn’t know you were finnish.” “Oh, I’m not. My mom was.” “So, can you speak finnish or what?” “Nah, not anymore anyways. I used to, but I haven’t used it in a long time. Some things just stuck with me, like the songs, or silly pet names mum used to call us.” For some reason you felt really safe with Natasha. Her touch reminded you of home as she worked to clean your wounds and then wrap them with clean gauze. You knew it was silly, but it just felt so good to finally talk to someone, so you kept answering her as she continued asking questions. “Pet names, huh. What did she call you?” “She used to call me Lumikki. It’s the finnish for snow white. It’s cheesy as hell, I know but we lived in a little cottage in the woods, and I was obsessed with Disney.” Natasha smiled at you. “Do you remember anything else about your mum.” “She had the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard. She sounded like an angel. Sometimes I hear her in the wind.” You pause for a minute “And she was a dancer. She used to be a ballerina, but then she had us and her career ended. She never quit dancing though. Once in a while she’d put on her slippers and go through some old routine, like she had never stopped. She even taught me some basics.” Natasha was quiet for a moment. Then she cleared her throat and continued: “Did you have any siblings?” “Yeah”, you were quiet for a moment, not rushing to continue “One brother. His name was Tuomas, but we all called him Tom. Three years older than me. He was my best friend.” A tear fell down your cheek. Natasha was almost done with wrapping your back so she asked one more question. “How about your dad” You shrugged. “He was a hunter. Spent most of his time with Tom out in the forest when I stayed in with mum.” Nat packed the medical supplies back to the first aid kit and pulled your shirt down so that it covered your back. Then she helped you sit up and said: “I can’t promise anything yet, but we’re having another meeting with the team about your… condition and I believe you might get out of here.” She saw the unsure look you gave her. “Don’t worry” she said as she took your hand “Everything will be alright. I promise”

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Sorry, I have absolutely no idea what is going on with the spacing, tried to fix it but it wont budge... Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter!

[scripttorture]

My setting is like the real world but with various mythical otherworlds secretly connected to ours. One character with powers of psychic illusion was raised by an MiB-style intelligence and/or secret police force (tasked with keeping otherworldly beings from causing trouble in our world) that trained her to mentally torture people. I want to make this character somewhat sympathetic, so it is plausible for her to be indoctrinated as a torturer from childhood? Does it depend how young they start?

Anon I don’t think this is a good idea. There’s an awful lot to unpack here about why that is so I’m going to start off with a simple question that effects how you move forward: what’s most important for you about this character?

 Is it that she’s sympathetic? That she’s effective at her job? That she’s highly skilled and trained? That she’s part of a productive organisation that can actually do the tasks it sets out to?

 Because if she’s a torturer then realistically she would be none of those things. And making her any of them is (in my opinion) torture apologia: because it is portraying a torturer in an extremely unrealistic way that favours the torturer and excuses the abuse they carry out.

 You would, literally, be repeating lies popularised by real life torturers.

 Torture does not work. It is impossible to get accurate, timely information by using torture. Here’s an introduction to why. Here’s a post on what torture does to investigations. Here’s a guide to writing what torture does to interrogations. Here’s a list of investigative strategies that actually work. Here’s a post on the damage torture does to human memory. Please read these masterposts and take a look at my sources as well.

 Torturers are not indoctrinated radicals. The organisations that torturers are part of actively try to screen out anything they see as radical, deviant or a product of illness. There aren’t enough studies on torturers for me to give you a break down of their politics but my impression from the anecdotes and interviews I’ve read? Their politics is ‘normal’ and mainstream for the organisation they are part of. Whatever that organisation is.

 Torturers are not taught from a young age because torture is not complex. It does not take months to learn how to hit someone. Torturers learn on the job by assisting other torturers.

 Torture is simple. It is functionally easy. I really can’t stress that enough. The most common tortures globally right now are: hitting people, depriving them of food and depriving them of sleep. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that six year olds could come up with that list.

 Hurting people is not complicated. It requires no skill and no training.

 The evidence we have suggests torturers lose skills as they turn to torture, a process Rejali calls ‘de-skilling’. The basic idea is pretty simple: if you spend all day hitting people instead of practicing what you were trained for (gathering evidence for example) you get so out of practice that you start to forget how to do those things.

 And then there’s the effect that torture has on torturers. They get symptoms. They develop lasting, serious, mental health problems which directly effect their ability to do their jobs.

 I have a list of the common symptoms here as well as a rough guide for how many symptoms you should be considering for torturers and torture survivors.

 Separate to the symptoms is the general pattern of behaviour torturers exhibit. We don’t have a lot of high quality studies on torturers and there are a lot of questions we do not have clear answers to. However the studies and the anecdotal evidence of survivors, witnesses and torturers themselves points to some consistent behaviours.

 Torturers don’t work alone. They form little sub-cultures within larger organisations. These groups are incredibly aggressive, competitive, self-important, hyper-masculine and violent. Torturers look down on everybody else. They are convinced that they are the most important people in their organisation, the only one’s doing ‘real work’. They have an arrogant, puffed up pride that combines with mental illness and seeing their colleagues as competition to create the worst asshole you’ve ever had the misfortune of working with.

 They do not cooperate with other people. They use abuse as a pissing contest, competing to see who can be the most brutal in order to try and ‘impress’ fellow torturers.

 They define strength and group loyalty by hurting other people.

 They have a fracturing effect on organisations, because they don’t obey orders and see their colleagues as competition or useless. At the low end of the scale this means cliques, secrets from the larger organisation and a terrible working environment as they bully and belittle their colleagues. At the high end of the scale there are cases where torturers have attacked and murdered people within the same organisation.

 Does any of that sound sympathetic?

 I like a challenge when I write. I’ve described my writing style as ‘hold my beer’ because I tend to take ideas other people dismiss as impossible to pull off and try my best to make them work. I do this because I love exploring human complexity through fiction.

 A torturer who is currently torturing is not a sympathetic person. They are a bullying, violent, arrogant brute who contributes nothing useful to the organisation they latch on to, sucking up time and resources like a tick. They see other people as garbage. And they lack insight into their own crimes. Which means they do not appreciate or acknowledge the pain and damage they cause.

 Now I have written a character who is an ex-torturer who I think is sympathetic in some ways. But getting to the point where they could be sympathetic meant them having to leave the organisation they were part of on a stretcher.

 Their fellow torturers turned on them. They lost a leg. They changed sides and in the middle of a messy civil war they dedicated themselves to keeping their friend’s children safe.

 And I had to set the story twenty years after these events to get that character out of their own ass enough for them to be sympathetic.

 Even then, I’d say they’re sympathetic in spite of having been a torturer. Because they’re still clinging to that insistence that they did something meaningful. They still can’t accept the extent of their own crimes or the effects those crimes had.

 But their pride broke. And they did keep those children alive. They helped raise them. And the tie to those children is what makes them sympathetic by the time of the story.

 Torturers are not sympathetic people. They are self absorbed abusers who bend over backwards to downplay the harm they did to their victims and to justify their crimes.

 Is that really what you want to write?

 I say that, not to be harsh, but because it sounds to me as though what you actually want to write is a genuine investigator with psychic powers.

 It sounds as though you want to write a character who is good at her job. Who is skilled and dedicated and a great person to work with.

 If that’s the case my advice is to ditch the torture entirely. Look at the masterpost on genuine investigation instead and write a character who is good at interviewing people.

 Have her use her psychic powers to present herself as sympathetic to the criminals she’s interviewing. Because she can walk into a room and know their politics, their religious beliefs, their internal justifications for what they’ve done. And she can use that, may be even manipulatively, to seem like someone the prisoner would like, someone they’d agree with.

 That gets people talking.

 And if you want to show her as ruthless, as having an edge to her, that can still work.

 Imagine someone sitting down across from a suspect, holding their hands, smiling, talking to them gently. Imagine them gradually, kindly, getting this suspect’s life story. Imagine them being sympathetic about the reason the suspect murdered someone, validating the murder’s feelings and may be even actions… Right up until they have the information they need.

 Then they turn on a dime. The persona drops, the false-sympathy drains away. They stand up with a sneer and say they hope the murderer never sees the light of day again. And walk out.

 Think about what you want from the story Anon. A character who tortures, or a character who is competent, smart and sympathetic.

 Because it really is one or the other.

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[greensaplinggrace]

honestly THANK YOU for saying all that abt baghra bc i thought i was going crazy from not liking her??? bc i haven't read the books and only summaries of them on wiki and like. i dunno why ppl like her actually even in the show bc this guy, her son, is like "i wanna make the world better for us grisha" and she's just like "no." even tho he sees that she's MAKING HERSELF SICK from suppressing her powers! she's literally like in bed coughing in the flashback yet seem much healthier at the little palace. also like after everything, after her disapproval, after the fold, after centuries of waiting for the sun summoner.. he never abandons her. he makes sure she's cares for. he doesn't harm her. and i have to wonder if baghra has ever thanks him for that, for just not leaving her alone. like i dunno how im suppose ro believe aleks is a heartless villain when he still cares for his abusive mom like this. like has baghra even told her she loved him (honestly she reminds me of a classic emotionally unavailable asian parent but maybe that's just me). also im wondering if baghra ever told aleks that he had an aunt.. bc like.. now that u bring up her isolating him it's like hmmmm...

not at me being like alina... why do u trust the bitter old woman who literally beats u with a stick and verbally abuses u every chance she gets.. just bc she showed a bad painting... like.. pls use two braincells to see that who u figured out as his mother... is also using his protection..

like baghra could've upped and left with alina. but no. she stayed bc she knew she was safe under aleks's protection.

alsoim just impressed that after his first friend tried to drown him and harvest his bones... he didn't go into hiding???? he still wanted to make a safe heaven for grisha!!! HE STILL WANTED TO PROTECT GRISHA EVEN AFTER HIS GRISHA FRIEND TRIED TO KILL HIM FOR HIS FUCKEN BONES. like... this is the guy im suppose to believe is the villain???

honestly i feel like part of the reason why LB's plotlines seem so bad and disconnected (and sometimes outright racist but that's another rant) and why darkles is disproportionately more violent and villainous in the later books is bc she didn't expect the darkling to be so popular and wanted to stick with her guns of making him the villain. but also wanted the money from aleks's popularity. but like you can't have ur cake and eat it too.

Well thank you for sending this ask! It's very sweet and very passionate. I'm glad you liked my post! I didn't put as much thought into it as some of my others lol. I kind of just talked. But it was nice to be able to finally talk about some of the problems I have with both her character and the fandom/author's perception of her.

HERE is the post this is referring to, in case anyone's wondering.

👀👀 You've hit the nail on the head for so many things, here!

Baghra is extremely emotionally unavailable, basically to the point of neglect. She's also verbally and physically abusive, traits which I doubt were only reserved for her students and not her son. Baghra claims she would do anything to protect him, but I've known a lot of parents who have that mindset and yet still harm their children because they think it's "good for them".

Aleksander stays at Baghra's side for years, and even when they're opposing each other she's never too far away from him. Idk if you've read the books but he does eventually hurt her. And as much as I don't like Baghra, I think his actions were horrid. But I'm also honestly kind of surprised it took him so long lmao.

Yeah I mean, in terms of isolation, let's not forget that she never wanted to introduce him to his father, either. Baghra's sense of eternity clouds a lot of her judgments on relationships, which means she views most people as dust and therefore teaches her son to as well. The problem with that is that he's a growing child, and he needs those social and emotional attachments for healthy development.

I would bet quite a bit of money that Baghra has either never told him she loves him or she has told him so few times it's practically forgettable.

And everything becomes more complicated because so many of Baghra's actions are understandable because of her life and her history, but the impacts they have on the people around her, especially Aleksander, are permanently damaging. And the fact that that's never gone over in critical depth in the books or how it's glossed over in fandom is just very disconcerting. Like, acknowledging Baghra's failings doesn't mean we're excusing Aleksander's actions, it just means we're holding Baghra liable for her own. Which the fandom should be doing, considering she's the epitome of an abusive parental figure.

And Alina trusting Baghra over Aleksander is even more confusing! Especially in the show!! This is the woman who beat her and abused her and tortured her friends when they tiny little children (and who probably still does so now that they're adults). This is the woman who mocks you and harasses you and insults you on a regular basis. Why does Baghra revealing she's Aleksander's mother make Alina change her mind?! Like fuck, I'd just feel bad for Aleksander. No wonder he kept it a secret, I would too! And that painting is enough evidence?! Really?! A random painting shown to you by this abusive mentor that's been making your life hell. That's what you're going to betray your new lover over?

The friends trying to harvest his bones thing is a good point, too. I think Aleksander, especially show Aleksander, is incredibly idealistic. I think he cares too much for others - those he's deemed worth his care (a sentiment given to him by Baghra). Despite everything she's tried to teach him about hiding and abandoning others and never caring and never doing anything to help or reach out or connect with people, Aleksander still continues to do so. It's likely because he never got it from Baghra growing up, and so is desperate for those emotional needs to be fulfilled elsewhere.

His turning point, when Baghra tells him it was understandable that those kids tried to kill him because the world is such a hard place for them - that's crucial. And the reason it's possible as a motivating factor is because of that idealism and that desire to help and that desire to be everything his mother isn't. Baghra tells him this trauma he just experienced was because of the oppression of his people, and instead of following her lead and accepting that, going into hiding and abandoning everybody to their misery, he goes I can do something about that. I can make it so this never happens again. Which is usually how trauma like that combines with one's core personality traits at a young age, especially when there's none of the essential support systems in place to aid in recovery (ie, the role Baghra should have been filling but wasn't, because she decided to exacerbate the problem instead).

And yeah, one of my biggest problems with the ham-fisted "beating you over the head with a sledgehammer of evil deeds" look-how-bad-this-character-is! portrayal of the Darkling in the later books comes from the impression I get that Bardugo doesn't trust her readers. She's so desperate to have us hate this character and think him an irredeemable villain, not trusting any of her readers to engage critically with a morally gray character, that it feels quite a bit like condescending fucking bullshit. Which ew, I know how to engage with literature, thanks.

She really does seem to look down on a large part of her fandom, and imo, the infantilization of the female characters in her books seems to carry over to her impression of most of her female readers as well. Which is why the Darkling's character arc gets fucking destroyed. But he's still a good cash grab, of course, so she'll shake his dead corpse in front of the fandom for money every time she wants something from it.

Also! Another reason I think her plotlines feel disconnected (I'm sorry Bardugo I respect you as a person, but shit-) is because the writing in SaB is just bad. I mean, nevermind the absolutely nauseating implications of the way she portrays the Grisha as a persecuted group who's situation is never actually fully addressed as it should be, considering Grisha rights is what her main villain is fighting for (imo for a series called the Grishaverse, LB seems to be pretty anti Grisha), but her characters and story alone are just wrong for each other. They don't fit together.

And the ending is one of the main pieces of evidence in that regard! You can’t say the ending where Alina isn’t Grisha anymore is her “going back to where she started” when she’s always been Grisha. She just didn’t know she was Grisha because she denied that part of herself that she was born with.

Alina is reluctant to move forward or change, she struggles with adapting, and she’s very set on the things she’s grown attached to throughout her life. She also has some latent prejudices against the Grisha, and so denies the possibility of being Grisha for those reasons as well.

Alina’s lack of powers in the beginning of her life because she willfully doesn’t learn about them to avoid change versus her lack of powers at the end of the book when she’s accepted them and then they’re stripped away from her by outer forces are two entirely separate circumstances. You can’t make a parallel about lost powers and lack of Grisha status bringing her back to the start when she was always Grisha and she always had powers and she simply refused to come to terms with it because of personal reasons.

The first situation is an internal conflict that indicates a story about growth and a journey of self acceptance. Denying herself the opportunity to learn about her heritage and to find acceptance with a group of people like her because she’s tied to the past and because of the way she was raised is the setup for a narrative that tackles unlearning prejudice and learning how to connect with a part of her identity that was denied her and learning how to grow independent and self assured. It’s the setup for a different story entirely. The second situation is an external conflict that centers around the ‘corrupting influence of power’... for some reason.

In a world where Grisha do not have social, political, or economic power and they are hunted, centering your heroine’s journey of self acceptance and growth around an external conflict about... the corrupting influence of power (in a group of people that don’t actually have any power?!) just doesn’t work. It is literally impossible to connect the two stories Bardugo is trying to push in Shadow and Bone without seriously damaging the main character’s developmental arc.

The only way a narrative like this would work, claiming that she has gone back to where she started, is either a) if the Grisha weren’t actually a persecuted group and instead were apart of the upper class, or b) if the one bad connection between the two instances is acknowledged - that Alina denied a part of herself crucial to self acceptance and growing up, and that losing her powers at the end has also denied her. It is a tragedy, not a happy ending.

Alina suffered because she didn’t use her powers. She grew sick. It was bad for her. This was not a resistance to 'the corruption of power and the burden of greed', it was her suffering because she couldn’t fully accept herself.

Framing the ending as a return to the beginning can’t be done if you don’t address how bad the beginning was for your main character. You brought her back to a bad point in her life. You regressed her. This should be a low point in her arc. It should be a problem that’s solved so she can finish developing organically or it should be something that is acknowledged as a tragedy in it’s own right, for the future the world (the writing) denied her.

This is a ramble and it makes no sense and I’m really sorry, but my point is that Bardugo put the wrong characters in the wrong story. The character arc required for organic development doesn’t match the story and intended message at all. The narrative doesn’t fit the cast. She's got two clashing stories attempting to work in tandem and she ends up with both conflicting messages that fans still can’t comprehend in her writing and an ending that doesn’t suit her main character to such an impossible degree that it’s almost laughable.

So yeah, there's a few reasons why I think the story and the plot feels so bad and disconnected. I hope you don't mind me making this answer so long! 😅 I was not expecting to write this much.

[heliads]

Second Best

Based on this request: “a Zoya Nazyalensky story where she and the reader are friends and one night they get into a fight and Zoya confesses her love?”

masterlist

The task before you is simple. All you have to do is use your abilities as a Grisha Squaller to pick up the metal spear before you and launch it across a clearing into the awaiting target. It’s almost offensively easy, something you’ve been training to do since you arrived at the Little Palace all those years ago. It’s very simple, although the fact that you’re now next in line to complete the task makes it seem strangely harder.

However, the eyes of the rest of the Squallers are upon you, so you can’t exactly back down now. You step forward, lifting your hands in the traditional gestures used by the Etherealki whenever they have it in their minds to do something particularly interesting, and the spear lifts before you. You let it hover there, suspended in the air for a second, and then you fling your hands forward, palms facing the target. The spear flies in unison with your movement, burying itself halfway through its length in the target. It’s almost a perfect shot, maybe off by a hair’s breadth. You breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

You can hear applause from behind you, the usual aura of surprise that comes with the feat you’ve just accomplished. With a casual gesture of your fingers, the spear yanks itself out of the target, with only a few sparse pieces of straw falling to the ground as any sort of damage. Well, that and the gaping hole in the center of the target, although that is quickly mended by the Fabrikator kept on hand. You can’t help but grin to yourself as the spear returns to your hand. Let’s see anyone else match that.

You may have spoken a little too soon- seconds after you’ve returned the spear to its awaiting position near the front of the courtyard, it’s hurled again through the air, shooting with the precision of an arrow to land in the direct center of the target. You thought it might be impossible to improve upon the slight difference in your shot, but this latest Squaller has managed it with ease.

Normally, any other blue-garbed Etherealki would be looking around in horror and dismay, upset as to what would cost them the first place spot in the class and curious as to who could land a perfect shot such as that. You, however, are somewhat used to this now, and just keep walking with a grin. You can hear footsteps approaching behind you, and don’t even have to turn around to acknowledge the girl now matching your strides.

“Nice one, Zoya.” The girl beside you smirks. “I should hope so. If I so much as missed the center by a hair, you wouldn’t let me forget it for a week.” You laugh. “Of course not. How could I let go of the chance to not tease Zoya’Best In Class’ Nazyalensky? It would practically be  a crime.” Zoya nods, pretending to be serious. “Absolutely. The Saints might invoke their wrath upon you if you didn’t act upon such an opportunity.” You fling your hand over your heart dramatically. “Here lies Y/N L/N, dead after the Saints wanted to see her make fun of her friend and she let them down.”

Zoya snorts graciously as you pretend to faint on her, shoving your mock limp body aside. “Oh, you consider us friends?” You catch yourself easily, rolling your eyes. “Zoya dear, I know it would bring you no greater pleasure in the world to consider yourself a lone wolf, forever at the front of the pack, but I thought you’d realized by now that you simply can’t get rid of me. We’re friends.” 

You can hear Zoya grumbling, but when you glance over at her, there’s an ill-concealed smile dancing behind her eyes. “That’s an interesting way to convince people to like you, annoy them and make sure you don’t ever leave you alone.” You raise an eyebrow at her. “And did it work, yes or no?” Zoya huffs. “It did, but we’re not talking about that.” You grin. “Of course we’re not.”

You pause by the halls of the Little Palace, ready to part ways as usual. Although the Etherealki and Squallers specifically all have their quarters around the same area, Zoya’s rooms are a ways away from your own. This is typically where you split up, where you go your way and Zoya returns to her own devices, where she’ll most likely plot how to take control of the next lesson and prove herself the best of the students yet again.

However, Zoya shakes her head, continuing to walk next to you. “There are too many people waiting by my doors. I’m staying in yours instead, if that’s alright.” You nod, unable to keep a teasing grin from your face. “Of course it’s alright. It must be so hard, having to deal with suitors and fans so often. I imagine it to be simply exhausting.” You’re expecting Zoya’s vexed scowl and smack on the arm, so you’re able to duck out of the range of both.

This is how it is to be close friends with Zoya Nazyalensky, after all. You laugh with her, develop a thick enough skin to stand the constant scathing remarks that must of course be exchanged, and do your best to keep up with the neverending flow of power and possibility that always seems to come her way. That’s how it has always been, and how it will always be.

It’s not that you mind this, of course. You learned early on that no matter how hard you try, she’s always going to come in first in the class competitions and Grisha displays of strength. Being second out of so many Etherealki is pretty damn good for you, and you can tell that there’s a slight sigh of relief in Zoya’s eyes when you never seem to mind her showing off or ruining what might have been a first place finish for you. Hey- you never came to the Little Palace to always be the best, you came to learn and laugh, and you do that with Zoya. You would never trade what you have with her for fierce competition, even if it meant that you’d start besting her in contests.

This isn’t to say that you wouldn’t change slight aspects of your friendship, of course. For some reason, your heart decided to join the scores of other Grisha and even otkazat’sya that were foolish enough to fall in love with Zoya, and you’re just as hopeless as the rest. It’s just the way that she laughs when she wins, the glimmer of competition and spirit in everything she does, the undeniable thrill in your chest whenever you spot the familiar blue-clad silhouette heading briskly your way. No, you don’t think there was ever a way that you wouldn’t fall under her spell, even if you tried your hardest to fight it.

You could have told her you loved her, you think. You could have mentioned it to Zoya at any point, but you don’t. You’ve seen the way she watches potential friends for their weaknesses, having to always second-guess why they’re talking to her. Is this latest Corporalki approaching her because he truly wants to be her friend, or is it because he instead desires the secrets of her skill in Grisha abilities or as another girl in his bed? For anyone else, you think the constant doubts would drive someone mad, but it doesn’t for Zoya. She’s able to tuck it inside herself, bury it until you wouldn’t even know it was there at all.

She told you once, when the night was dark and long and Zoya couldn’t stop herself from having slightly too much kvas after a hard mission, that she sometimes terrifies herself over the fact that she might always be alone. You can still picture her there, curled up in a chair by your fire, the haunted look in her eyes. You know something happened before she came to the Little Palace, something that made her never trust another soul unless they worked to prove it, but it’s hovering in the back of her mind right now.

So, you nodded at her, and gave her another one of your sapphire blankets to help the way that she won’t stop shivering, and you listen. When Zoya looks up at you again, as if expecting to leave like the others or at least shoo her from your rooms, you simply offer for her to stay the night and not have to go back to her empty quarters. You think that was the moment when she finally accepted that you weren’t going away, when she really started to trust you.

This is precisely why you cannot say a word about how you feel- if Zoya finds out, she’ll begin to wonder if your entire friendship was just borne of a lie, the same as any of the other heartstruck Etherealki who think themselves brave enough to tame Zoya. So, you make sure to direct your lingering glances towards the woods and the scenery around you instead of her, and you force a joking smile instead of a soft look. She would know what you meant if you didn’t hide your heart, so you must do your best to deceive her. 

You’ve arrived in your rooms by now, tossing your outer coats to the side and warming your hands by the fire in the corner. You talk for a while about the class and the other students and the way Marie won’t stop staring at Sergei, a Corpoalki who she most certainly should not be associated with. Zoya stays until the candles burn low, and then she says goodbye with a smile. You return her smile. You always do.

You have a most interesting conversation over the next week. It’s not with Zoya, as it turns out, but General Kirigan. Truth be told, you weren’t expecting it at all. He’d caught you unawares in the library one night, while you were studying the particulars of the making at the heart of the world for a class lecture the next day. He hadn’t been there one second yet appeared the next, looming over your book with a shadow that seemed too tall and menacing to be real.

You had looked up in surprise, but he held up a hand, quelling any doubts that you’d accidentally done something wrong. He spoke to you about a regiment of Grisha in one of the backwater towns, some part of the Second Army that was asking for far too many supplies in exchange for the lackluster job they were doing to protect the potential Grisha in the city. For some reason, he asked your opinion of what to do about them, and you gave it. He thanked you with a smile, then left.

This happened twice more. All three times, he showed up, talked with you for a little bit, and asked a question on what you thought of a particular issue. Sometimes, it was still with the Second Army, and sometimes it was with the opportunities presented to the Grisha at the Little Palace itself. He seemed intrigued to hear what classes were like, saying how he had heard you were one of the best Squallers there were. You had smiled at that, and his eyes had glinted like a hound about to take down his prey.

That was the third visit, the most recent visit. You’re walking back to your quarters now, unable to keep a slight grin from your face. This is it, isn’t it? This is how you make your way from the classrooms of the Little Palace to the battlefield, to a real chance to do something different. When you open your doors, Zoya is propped up in an armchair inside, although this does not surprise you. You’ve long since given her free reign of all that is yours.

She looks up at you, a question already bubbling up in her inquisitive glance. “What’s got you so excited?” She’s never been able to miss a detail, has she? You can’t seem to tuck your smile away. “I’ve been speaking to General Kirigan, three times now. I think he might be on the verge of offering me a job in the Second Army.” You’re not entirely sure what you were expecting from Zoya- an expression of surprise, maybe some congratulatory words. Whatever you thought might happen, you were certainly not expecting her to stand up, face twisted in something that looked almost like fear and anger.

“You can’t do that. You should avoid him as much as possible.” Your feet stall from where you’d been crossing the room to her. “What are you talking about?” Zoya shakes her head, almost manic. “You should stay away from him. What did he tell you?” This, coming from your closest friend when you’d been so excited, is enough to make your happiness start to leach from you, replaced by a cold bewilderment and betrayal. “What does it matter? Zoya, this could be my future.”

Zoya seems unwilling to hear you out. “Tell me what he said, Y/N. You can’t trust a word he says.” You scoff. “I’m not a fool, Zoya. I know what he said, and none of it was a trick. He spoke to me like a friend, and last time he talked to me about potential openings within the Grisha ranks. I could have a position. Isn’t that excellent?” Zoya shakes her head once more. “It’s a trick. He won’t give you anything. Don’t tell me you’re actually going to believe what he says?”

You draw back from her now, all traces of excitement gone from you. “Why are you saying this? Maybe I don’t know if he truly means it or not, but you don’t know anything about this. Saints, I thought you might actually be happy for me.” Zoya almost winces at that. “I’m not- I would be happy for you if I thought this was something real, Y/N, but it’s not. Nothing is with him.” You can feel yourself rising up in anger. “Oh, and you would know about that, wouldn’t you? From all of the time you spent with him? Are you truly doubtful, Zoya, or do you just not want me to be involved with him because you don’t want me to have anything that you hadn’t had first?”

The words are coming out faster now, one after the other. Truth be told, it’s almost good to hear them aloud after so long keeping them inside. “I never had a problem with you being first in class, first in everything. I never will, but I assumed that you would extend that same courtesy to me. Why is it that we’re friends in everything, but the second I seem to get some sort of headway, you have to prove it wrong? Can’t I have anything that isn’t yours already?”

Zoya draws back as if you’ve slapped her. “That’s not how I feel. I’m just trying to keep you safe.” You want to laugh. “This is how you keep me safe? By taking everything away from me until I’m only in your shadow and nowhere else?” Zoya flings her hands in the air. “If it means he doesn’t get his hooks in you, yes! I would rather have you stay here forever than lose you.” You look at her, unbelieving. “And why is that? Because we’re such good friends that you’d trade my future for my complacency?”

Zoya’s voice is soft now, barely there at all. “Because I cannot stand to lose you. Because I love you, Saints damn it, and I’d rather have you hate me than never have you at all.” You stand there for a second, then another, then another. Your breath is sharp and harsh in your chest, but you cannot seem to say a single word. You try for a few, anyway. “You love me?” She nods once. “Yes.”

You do laugh now, incredulous. “Why didn’t you say so, you idiot? I love you too.” She looks almost surprised. “I thought- I thought you just wanted to be friends.” You shrug. All of your anger is receding away from you now, washing back into the banks after a flood. “I did, because I thought that’s all you wanted. I didn’t want to make it seem like I was only your friend because I had feelings for you.” Zoya stands there for a moment, then something almost like a sigh comes from her and she steps forward, wrapping her arms around you. “You generous, impossible fool. I can’t stand you.” You laugh, returning her embrace. “Of course not. You love me.”

requested by @villnella​

grishaverse tag list: someone who would be my squaller bestie @underc0vercryptid​, @darlinggbrekker, @cameronsails​, @aleksanderwh0r3​

[primasveraas-writing]

"the holy or the broken" -Ted Lasso

I'm so sorry.

WORD COUNT: 2401

XXX

There are three eras in Roy’s life, and they’re all defined by the same woman.

The third echoes the first: Roy Kent, angry at the world with no one to pull him out of his frustration. It’s also worse, though, because before, Roy lived in blissful ignorance of the joy and sorrow that laid ahead.

Rebecca and Ted express their surprise at Roy’s anger. They thought him changed, or perhaps that grief would prevail over rage, and they were wrong. Because Roy Kent, when stripped of everything he is -his athleticism and grim humor and the love of his life- has anger. Nothing less and nothing more.

At first, he can’t say her name. He doesn’t even think it, because every reminder of her is a reminder that she’s gone. Despite her mark on everything- the furniture they picked out together, the bed they shared, her usual seat at the dining table, the compliments she gave his hair and clothes- Roy doesn’t think of her. Which means he doesn’t think at all, so he becomes his anger and his pain, and nothing else.

He stops coaching, obviously. Nobody asks him if he’ll keep going, nor does he announce his departure. His absence, professionally, personally, emotionally- is expected fully. Though people still coming to the fucking house. He tolerates her parents, and Phoebe once or twice, but eventually the visits dwindle, and Roy doesn’t check his phone or answer the door. There’s shouting, sometimes- inevitably Ted Lasso- but Roy has soundproof headphones for a reason and he’s perfectly fine with calling the cops on Ted. And he does, more than once.

His sister begs him to talk to her, or at least to Phoebe, and Roy, in all his anger, doesn’t have the heart to turn his niece away. So it’s just her and Roy, a few days a week, and they order food directly to the house and Phoebe tells him about school, and he grunts in acknowledgment. She cries sometimes too, and that’s when he holds her. No words are exchanged, but he comforts her, enough so that the sobs stop. The numb feeling he has remains intact.

The yoga moms scout his address, somehow, and drop off a wine basket- they drink in relative silence, and clean up his house and make a few casseroles. He picks at the food, but they slowly disappear, and it’s almost nice to eat more than once or twice a day.

It doesn’t get easier. People tell him it will, that the pain will start to lessen, but it doesn’t. Not three weeks after, or four, or five, or when summer emerges and the lilies bloom.

Roy’s not particularly good at adapting. He never wanted to be. And it’s bullshit that he’d have to start now, for some shit fucking luck and life-alerting occurrences he never saw coming.

Because he never expected that there would be an “after” regarding Keeley Jones. It’s not something he planned for and certainly not something he ever wanted. It’s just: one breath she’s there and the next, she’s not. Gone and the house empty, her office too, and suddenly every space at Richmond is filled with flowers because Roy doesn’t accept a single bouquet.

He does start to say her name, although only to his sister- the only adult he talks to. He spits it out, with venom, and he suspects that it’s this habit that prompts Rebecca to show up at his house.

She sneaks her way in, the stubborn shit. Apparently, she hid down the street until he ordered food, bribed the deliverer with an obscene amount of money, and rang his doorbell herself. Rebecca slips into the entry before Roy realizes it’s her, and slams the door behind her.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He hisses, and to her credit, Rebecca doesn’t flinch. She gives her best businesswoman smile, the one that so directly contradicts the flint in her eyes, and straightens.

“Someone informed me that you made developments in your grief-

“Fuck you-”

“-so I thought a visit was due.”

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Somebody told me once that I was always welcome in her home. Has that changed?”

“Yeah. She’s fucking dead.”

Rebecca does bristle at that one but she doesn’t challenge the statement. Instead, she clears her throat, setting Roy’s food down on the table in the foyer.

“Your sister told me how quiet you’ve been. And that any time you talk about Keeley, you do so with an incredible amount of anger.”

Roy doesn’t deign to respond, glowering at Rebecca instead. She takes a look around the room, in all its dusty glory. Lights off, trash piling on the floor, clothes strewn over backs of couches. It matches Roy, in terms of appearance. Unkept. Uncared for. Unloved.

“I’m calling the police,” Roy decides, scanning the room for his phone. “You can’t fucking impersonate a food deliverer. Or fucking be here when I don’t want you to be.”

“I paid him handsomely-”

“-illegal. And fireable.”

“-enough so that his salary for the next few months should be covered.”

“Get out.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I don’t give a damn about what you’re here to fucking do or say. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“And leave you to stew in your anger and your filth? I don’t think so.”

And Rebecca struts into his living room and seats herself on a sofa.

“Dr. Sharon proposed to me that your anger had legitimate grounds. Not just your usual brooding about playing and coaching a game for a living, but you know,” Rebecca gestures to Roy. “Real reasons to be so surly.”

“My fucking wife died.”

“Yes, well. My best friend died yet I’ve been outside over the past few months.” She gives Roy another placid smile. “Despite the fact that I’m mourning.”

“It’s different.”

“Undoubtedly, yes. You’ve been much unhealthier in your habits.”

“Fuck you,” Roy growls. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“No.” Keeley would refer to that as Rebecca’s scariest tone. “I came to talk.”

“I don’t care.” His hands clench into fists.

“You’re angry at Keeley.”

“I’m fucking pissed at you and your fucking break-in habits. Did you fucking compare notes with fucking Lasso?”

“You need someplace to direct your anger, and since fate dealt you both such a terrible hand, the only thing you can think to do is blame Keeley.”

“That makes as much fucking sense as you impersonating a takeaway driver. Fuck you.”

“So you go from not being able to say her name to saying it like a curse because you’re much more comfortable with your anger than sorrow.”

“I can say Keeley’s name.”

“Can you say it without sounding like the angriest person on the entire planet, Roy?”

“Fuck off.”

“Well?” Rebecca stands. In heels, she towers over Roy, who glares right back at her. “Show me you can, Roy.”

“I don’t have to prove shit to you.”

“No. But I asked you to.”

“I’m not fucking angry at my dead fucking wife.”

‘You’re angry at someone.”

“Yeah. You.”

“Come on now, Roy. Do better.”

“I’m NOT fucking angry at Keeley!”

Rebecca raises an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

“Fuck you.” Roy paces before her, ignoring how every step makes his knee throb. “Fuck you, fuck off. Fuck you.”

“Are you even sad?” Rebecca says quietly, and Roy freezes, his muscles clenching painfully.

“Ask me again,” he dares, his tone low. He takes a step closer to Rebecca, who remains unfazed.

“I said: are you sad your wife died in your arms, Roy?”

“Fuck you!” Roy bellows. He spins away to upturn the coffee table, sending dishes crashing to the floor.

“Do you miss her? Do you wish she hadn’t died?”

“I’ll fucking kill you.”

“So I’ll see Keeley again. How lovely.”

Roy roars, using the full force of his body to punch a hole in the wall. His fist comes out covered in plaster, bright red blood leaking from his knuckles dusted white.

“She fucking died in a freak fucking accident. There’s nothing- nothing- she could have done differently.”

“But she left you.”

“She fucking- she-” Roy’s chest heaves as he looks wildly around the room, at anything but the woman in front of him. “She was supposed to get her fucking nails done. We were going to get Thai for dinner. We had a sexy fucking weekend planned, and she was going to come home and it all would have been fucking fine.”

“And now she’s gone.”

“We can’t do any of that shit. Can’t fucking fall asleep next to her ever again. Or hold her fucking hand. We had fucking plans-” His words catch in his throat, and he looks away, examining the new damage to the wall. “We had plans.”

“Roy-”

“Don’t.” He closes his eyes. “You riled me up. Is that what you fucking wanted?”

“Yes,” Rebecca admits, and she retakes her seat on the couch, disregarding the surrounding wreckage. “Since the one person you want to talk to is gone, I figured I’d substitute.”

Roy glances around the house, at the forgotten groceries by the entrance, at the overturned table, and at the destroyed wall. “Good fucking job.”

“Thanks,” Rebecca says swiftly. “I figured I’d be better at it than Ted.”

“I’d have fucking killed him.”

“I thought so.” Rebecca sighs, massaging her temple. For the first time since her arrival, her bravado fades and her shoulders slump. It’s a familiar sight, one Roy witnessed the last time he saw Rebecca- at Keeley’s funeral, where all traces of the usually confident woman had faded away, and a grieving shell stood in her place. “Is that it, then? All the anger is for what’s never to be?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“And this is the first time you’re realizing it?”

Roy’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, it is.”

Rebecca shrugs. “Okay.”

Silence prevails for a long while, then Roy sighs and takes a seat next to Rebecca.

“You know, my office has quite literally never been quieter. Even with Ted bursting in at all hours, it’s just… not the same. I started to get frustrated at Higgins trying to coordinate with me simply because he’s not the person I want to see. And then I woke up angry, too. Absolutely pissed at the sun just for rising. Because every day that I experience is one I should be sharing with her.”

She looks down at her hands, which tremble slightly. “It’s not fair. And I have nowhere to put all my anger and blame.”

Roy wordlessly gestures to the wall, and Rebecca gives a soft laugh.

“There’s one option.” Then, she swipes at her eyes, and sniffs.

“Keeley would have never forgiven any of us if we gave up on you, Roy.”

“I know.” He clears his throat. “She told me as much. About me.” He rolls his eyes, then blinks rapidly. “I’m not supposed to give up on myself.”

“Good job,” Rebecca retorts, and Roy growls, but Rebecca gives another breathy laugh. “You didn’t call the police on me. I’d say that’s a good sign.”

“Don’t let it go to your fucking head.”

“No. Of course not.”

“Thank you,” Roy says very, very quietly. Rebecca takes his hand and squeezes it briefly. Her palm comes away coated in dust and blood.

“Clean up, Roy,” she tells him, standing. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

-

Rebecca leaves, but she sends over a team of cleaners and a fresh batch of groceries. For the first time since Keeley died, his fridge is fully stocked with food for him to make into meals, and the house is spotless. He sends a text to his sister, telling her to fuck off in a way she’ll know means thank you, and showers. He trims his beard and dries himself off with a freshly laundered towel, then he falls asleep ass naked on the bed and sleeps for twelve hours.

He goes to see Phoebe and the rest of his family. They catch him up on all the petty bullshit he doesn’t give a fuck about, and it’s nearly normal, except that he drives home alone to an empty house.

He goes back to yoga, and every stretch feels like he’s never done a downward dog before in his life. Still, the wine after is good, and he ends up going home with a spare bottle and another casserole, and so another part of his life resumes.

It’s a slow process. Richmond is a hard place to face, with Ted trying to be casual as he checks in on him, and the boys stepping around him like glass, and Jaime Tartt in tears when he first catches sight of Roy. Her office, the lack of visits from his wife during the day, and the plaque commemorating her on the wall hurt like getting that phone call all over again. But it’s the beginning of the mourning process, Dr. Sharon will tell him, and now that it’s started, the hurt will eventually lessen.

With every end, a beginning.

Roy takes his first steps.

-

There are three eras in Roy’s life, and a thousand different Roys.

There’s the prodigy footballer, eight years old and scoring goal after goal in every match. There’s the Chelsea player, a championship winner, then the Richmond player, bittered by age. Injured Roy Kent, retired, coaching his kid niece’s football team. Then, briefly: professional commentator. Richmond coach.

Roy Kent, who fucking hates Jaime Tartt except usually his girlfriend is nice at least. Roy Kent, Keeley’s boyfriend. Roy Kent, Keeley’s fiancé, husband- widower.

Roy Kent- a bastard luckily enough that Keeley loved him too. Roy Kent, who lit up when she walked into the room, who smiled more during their time together than he ever had before in his life. Who wanted to start a family with her. Who doted on his wife and promised her the world and a thousand other cheesy things, because she had that power over him.

Roy, who was beside her at the very end, who evoked her last words and smile. Roy, who had that horrible, painful privilege of easing his wife’s passing with reassurances and small comforts and anything he could do to make her feel his love.

Roy, who loves her still. Who’ll die loving her and missing her, and wishing they had just one more day.

Roy, who learns to live to make her proud.

[twdbegins]

Can I get some age gap Simon smut, like shes want him super rough with her but he think she wont be able to handle, but she takes all that he give her and more, please and thank you, if you can

I KNEW THE DAY WOULD COME WHERE SOMEONE REQUESTED THIS. AMAZING.

__

Rough Encounters

Simon x Fem. Reader

Warnings: Language, Smut.

Word Count: 3,003

“Make no mistake, I’ve seen plenty.”

__

“You’re staring at him again.” Arat said plainly, not looking up from her knife in her hand.

She dragged the blade of her knife along the stick she had picked up, peeling away at the skin on the dead branch. You were leaning against one of the outside walls of the Sanctuary, shifting back and forth on your feet to keep warm. You and Arat were on fence duty, one of the most dull jobs on the planet. You were both trying to entertain yourselves with whatever you had on hand, since nothing really ever happened when you were on a fence shift.

Fence duty was always worse during the winter, because it was always freezing which made standing around watching chained up walkers even more miserable. However, with the dirty thoughts that were running through your mind, you were surprised you weren’t blazing warm.

“Do you think he’s any good in bed?” You asked, not looking away from the man from across the way that you were looking at.

Arat stopped slicing the stick and made a face of annoyed disgust.

“Oh my God. Not this again.” She groaned, recalling the last time you had brought this up.

You laughed at her reaction, removing your gaze from Simon. It was true, and even you wouldn’t deny it, you had the hots for the right-hand man. You had never been drawn to anyone like him before. He was tall, fit, strong, and very charismatic. Not to mention, he was at least 15 years older than you. You weren’t completely sure of his age, but you knew he had to be at least in his mid-thirties. You always ballparked him to be somewhere between 36 and 42, but it really made no difference to you.

“It’s a fair question.” You defended yourself.

She cocked her head at you, leaning forward on the makeshift bucket she was sitting. 

“No, no, no. It is NOT a fair question, nor a conversation I want to have,” She scowled, tossing the stick aside; “You don’t have to see him everyday. I don’t want to think of your weird obsession with him every time we’re in a room together.”

“I’m not obsessed. I just want to fuck him.” You said very bluntly.

Arat let out a shriek and brought her hands to cover her ears. 

“You damn kids and your high sex drives. My God...do you ever think before you bestow your dirty thoughts onto innocent bystanders?” She questioned, her eyes dead set on her feet.

You threw your hands out in mockery, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Arat, I’m closer to your age than his.” You pointed out.

She nodded furiously.

“Exactly! Which is why you shouldn’t want to bang him.” She argued.

You snorted. 

“We’ve talked about sex a million times. Why does me and him bother you?” You queried, a devious smirk appearing on your face; “Do you know something I don’t know?”

Arat slowly turned her head to look at you. She removed her hands from her ears, staring at you blankly as if she were trying to process what you were insinuating.

“Oh, no you don’t! You do not get to make that joke. I have never, I repeat, NEVER had sex with him,” She shrilled; “Never have, never will.”

You laughed out loud, almost doubling over at her urgency.

“I’m the youngest Savior here. No one is that close to my age anyways,” You told her; “But I mean, come on. Have you SEEN him? Those thighs? Those arms?”

She hissed in disapproval, desperately wanting to end this conversation. She leapt up from where she sat, rubbing her frigid hands together.

“Absolutely not. Listen, if you want to get freaky in the sheets with him, then go ahead. If I had a body like yours then I’d put it to good use. Just don’t damage my image of him further,” She instructed; “By the way, it looks like you might’ve gotten his attention.”

You casually glanced over your shoulder to see Simon looking at you with his dark brown eyes. You gave him a flashy grin, which prompted him to make his way over to you. You and Arat still had another hour on fence duty, but she was not going to stick around for this.

“I’ll, uh, leave you to it.” She announced, scuttling away before she had to witness the possibly sinful things about to come out of your mouth.

Simon swaggered over to you, your breath getting caught in your throat. Oddly enough, you had developed a friendship with Simon over the last year. You enjoyed his company, much more than just ogling over him all the time.

“Hi, Simon.” You greeted nicely.

“[Y/N],” He acknowledged you with a grin; “Looks like you lost your partner there.” He said, referring to Arat’s leave.

You shrugged.

“She was cold. I told her I could handle things out here,” You lied; “Mind taking her place?”

His grin morphed into more of a smirk, taking the adjacent spot next to you on the wall. His shoulder just barely touched yours, a flush of heat washing over you. You had to keep it together.

“Since when does Negan put you on fence duty?” You wondered aloud.

Simon rarely ever took a shift to watch the fences, considering that Negan wanted his services elsewhere. You were shocked that he was out here.

“Mark’s sick. I had to cover for him.” He claimed.

“You sure he’s not with Amber?” You chimed.

Simon’s brows raised slightly. Everyone, except Negan, knew that Amber was still sneaking around with Mark even though she was technically Negan’s wife. You had seen Simon cover for Mark before, so you knew this was no different.

“How’d you know?” He asked.

“Amber and I are close. She told me.” 

Amber was one of Negan’s younger wives, but she still managed a relationship with Mark. You always hoped that Negan would never find out. More for Mark’s sake than Amber’s.

“We make sacrifices sometimes.” He said dryly, not really wanting to discuss how he had gone behind Negan’s back.

You nodded, but a sneaky smile appeared on your face.

“You know, Amber tells me a lot about Mark.” You began.

Simon was intrigued to see where you were going with this. 

“Oh, yeah?” He prompted.

You nonchalantly picked at the chipped fingernail polish on your nails, as if you weren’t really aware of what you were saying.

“Yep. I never would’ve taken Mark to be much of a rough lover if Amber hadn’t told me all about it.” You spoke.

Simon stiffened a little. Neither of you had ever really talked about sex. You had mentioned previous partners and things like that, but nothing like this. You noticed his eyes were not on your face. You were wearing shorts, despite the cold weather. His eyes raked over your legs...your hips...your waist. You gave a sultry laugh. You knew he looked at you the same way you did him. 

“You act like you’ve never seen a woman before.” You said suddenly.

His eyes flickered back to yours, feeling his nerves become a little more sensitive at the way your eyelashes fluttered. He chuckled lowly.

“Make no mistake, I’ve seen plenty.” He replied.

You weren’t shocked at that. You had a gut feeling that Simon knew his way around a woman. Still, you faked a stunned look.

“Have you? Hmm...” You hummed thoughtfully.

He raised a brow, turning to you.

“Don’t believe me?” He prodded.

You gave a slight shrug. You knew you could get him riled up enough for him to cave, but he wouldn’t make it easy.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. He had to admit, he was shocked that you were hitting on him in such a bold way. He always assumed you’d go for Negan over him. He was thrilled, but he wasn’t going to show it.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think you know what you’re asking for.” He chaffed.

You pushed your shoulders back a little to stand up a little straighter, but not moving from your casual position against the wall. His voice had lowered an octave or two, which was a little maddening.

“Oh, I think I do.” You returned with the same confident tone.

He laughed incredulously, his eyes darting around before settling back on you. 

“How old are you?” He questioned. 

He knew you were the youngest person at the Sanctuary, so the fact that this encounter was even happening was boggling his head a little bit. You raised a brow and lowered it. You had a feeling this was going to come up. 

“22.” You answered.

He let out a low whistle. It had been a long time since he had fucked anyone that young. The last time he had gotten with a 22 year old was when he was that age. Needless to say, he had a couple decades of experience under his belt by this point.

“So you’re young and eager, huh?” He chided.

You scoffed, a bit offended at his words.

“You underestimate me.” You spoke.

He hummed.

“I don’t play nice. I play rough,” He purred; “You think you can handle that?”

He didn’t think you could. He was seriously doubtful that you’d make it past the foreplay without tapping out. You stood from the wall, standing so close that the tips of your shoes touched his. 

“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” You suggested playfully. 

He stared at you for another moment before crashing his lips roughly to yours. He brought his hand up and grabbed a fistful of your hair. He backed you into the inside of the Sanctuary, pushing you up against the nearest wall. His hand was still in your hair, yanking your head back and sucking hard on your neck. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but enough to surely get your attention and send waves of pleasure through you. He growled low in his throat and continued to nip at your neck.

“I can have my way with you,” He announced, his voice muffled in the skin of your neck; “I can make a hell of a lot prettier noises come out of you too.”

“I want to see you try.” You tried to say confidently, but it came out more of a desperate whine.

You let out a surprised gasp when he suddenly kissed you again, nothing short of rough and hot. You let out a hum, and he pulled back and looked at you with so much lust that you felt a shiver travel down your spine. His hands were tight and firm on your waist, keeping you completely pressed against him. His pupils were blown twice their usual size. 

He pulled you from the wall, not letting your lips leave his. Normally, he’d at least make it to his bedroom, but he wanted to see just how risky you wanted to get. He navigated you into the stairwell, somewhere that was somewhat public, but isolated too. 

“You scared Negan’s gonna find us?” You questioned with a sneer.

He stared at you in disbelief. He had to admit, you were holding up better than he thought. He pressed his back against the wall, getting right into it. 

“Get on your knees.” He commanded. 

He was being intimidating, but it was only more thrilling for you. You smirked as you slowly sank to the floor, your knees hitting the concrete. You looked away for a split second to get situated, but his hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Eyes on me.” He said, looking down at you.

You looked up at him, eyes shining with desire and expectation. His gaze studied your every move and expression. You went to quickly put your hair up, but he stopped you.

“Don’t touch your hair.” He said, holding it up himself.

You ran your hands over his hips, trailing to his pants. You unfastened his belt and unzipped his pants, letting them fall to the floor. He sprung forth in front of you, and he moved one hand to the top of your head. You eyed his tip for a millisecond, so quickly that he didn’t even notice your break of eye contact. You left a kiss on his tip, earning a groan from him. 

You put your mouth over his length, suddenly gagging when he shoved your head further into his crotch. He pulled out.

“You better take it.” He said, shoving back into your mouth again.

You were prepared this time, swallowing around him and working through the reflex. You sucked and kissed, a moan escaping from the man above you. His grip was unchanged on your head, but his fingers were stroking gently. His words came out a bit mumbled as he continued to slam back into your mouth.

“Shit...you’ve done this before.” He muttered.

You hummed in affirmation, grinning around him. His hand in your hair pulled your head back and he rocked his hips roughly into your mouth. Then pulled back and rocked into you over and over. You sucked and ran your tongue along his shaft, kissing each time you made your way back to the tip. He was fighting the urge to praise you, but it slipped out. You felt THAT good around him.

“Such a good girl…” He breathed; “You’re so pretty on your knees for me.”

You stopped sucking for a second, offering a praise of your own.

“I have to say, you’re bigger than I thought.” You said, taking him back into your mouth.

He rolled his hips into you again in response, you almost giggled at the way his eyes rolled back into his head. He thrusted a few more times before removing himself from your mouth, watching you swallow his pre-ejaculation. You noticed the fire in his eyes had returned.

He pulled you from the floor forcefully, snatching the zipper down on your shorts. He stopped cold when he realized you hadn’t been wearing anything underneath it the entire night. You fought the urge to grin at his face. His eyes raked over you, he was hungry for you.

“Seems I’ve forgotten something. It slipped my mind, I suppose.” You grinned.

His expression was dead serious, as he pulled you to his half-naked body. You began to unbutton his shirt, whipping it off of him in a flash. He removed your shirt and bra, taking one of your hard nipples into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around your soft flesh, you held back a high-pitched moan. Which made Simon stop.

“You scared Negan’s gonna hear you?” He mocked; “I want to hear you.”

He took your other nipple into his mouth as you let out a loud groan. He gripped one of your shoulders, spinning you to where you were against the wall. He hoisted you up, wrapping your legs around him. He licked his fingers, quickly lubricating you. He was moving so fast and so precisely that you knew one thing for sure.

He wasn’t going to go easy on you.

His hands gripped the backs of your thighs to hold you steady. He lined himself up and pressed into you finally. Your heart fluttered at the feeling you had been craving for so long now. He pulled out almost completely and slammed hard back into you. He didn’t even wait for you to get adjusted to his size, but it didn’t take you long. You raised one of your arms above your head, pressing your palm into the wall behind you.

“Oh, God. Yes, Simon.” You huffed out.

He knew now that you were much more experienced than he formerly realized.

“You feel so good.” You panted, bringing your other hand to the back of his head.

He held you higher for that, giving him a better angle so he could go deeper. Simon then slid out and slammed in as far as he could, groaning at the feeling and the sounds you were making. Delicious noises were coming from both of you, pure feelings of ecstasy and desire. He began to fuck you hard and fast until the sounds of your cries and his moans were echoing off of the walls. He sucked a hard hickey into your neck, moving even faster at your pleasure filled moans.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me. I know what’s going on in that head of yours,” He grunted; “Wondering what it would feel like for an older guy to fuck you senseless.”

“Please, Si.” You pleaded.

“What, baby?” He purred.

“Harder.” You said, not even able to string a sentence together.

He was totally stunned now, not even sure he had heard you right. He obliged though, pounding so hard into you that you moaned each time he went back in. He’d be surprised if you could even walk tomorrow.

“Is this what you wanted?” He huffed, feeling his release building fast.

“Yes. Oh, fuck yes.” You confirmed.

In response, he rubbed hard circles on your clit. A new round of whimpers escaping your chest. The hot coil in your belly was growing quickly. He could feel it. He sped up his pace, feeling you tighten around him as you released.

He slammed into you again, his cock pulsing hard before filling you completely. He groaned into your shoulder as he came. Your final squeak announced your finish as well, your body going limp around him.

Your mind was reeling. You never thought he’d be able to do that. Your breathings were erratic and fast, as you tried to recover. He rested his forehead against yours. He kissed you lazily, knowing that this wasn’t the last time this would happen.

“I have to admit that you were right.” He said after a few moments.

You looked at him with flushed cheeks, your head in a total fog. You smiled.

“About what?” You wondered.

He kissed you again.

“I totally underestimated you.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

Tedious Joys - Chapter 2 -

- Ao3 link -

“If you want A-Jue at this time of day, he’ll be at the training field,” Lao Nie said, standing up and immediately striding off in that direction. “Oh, and Qiren, I will warn you – he has his mother’s height.”

Lan Qiren rolled his eyes as he followed behind. “That’s helpful information,” he remarked. “Right up until you recall that I have never had the pleasure of meeting his mother –”

He stopped talking and stared.

“I didn’t think a further explanation was necessary,” Lao Nie said. He wasn’t quite at the level of sniggering into his sleeve, but he certainly had a shit-eating grin. Lao Nie was not a short man by any standard, although he was squatter, more muscular and more broad-shouldered than the tall and slender Lan sect  – and yet…

“He’s under ten,” Lan Qiren checked, and Lao Nie nodded. “You’re sure.”

“I was present at the birth myself, and have cared for him ever since. And before you ask, I may be busy with my duties as sect leader, but I still feel like I would have noticed someone swapping him out for a child several years older.”

Lan Qiren squinted out at the training field, where a child (and it was a child, given the amount of baby fat in his cheeks, even if the overall size was more what he’d expect of a teenager) was happily dismembering a training dummy with an especially fearsome-looking saber under the tolerant supervisory gaze of the training master.

“Lao Nie,” Lan Qiren finally said. “About that first wife of yours…you would tell me if she were an actual giant – or a goddess –”

Lao Nie laughed and patted him on the back. He did not answer the question.

“A-Jue! Come here!” he shouted, and Nie Mingjue – demonstrating excellent discipline – completed his strike before turning around and trotting over to his father. “Say hello to Teacher Lan.”

“Teacher Lan,” Nie Mingjue said obediently, saluting properly like every small child introduced to a stranger, and then looked up. A smile suddenly spread over his face. “Oh, Teacher Lan! Fighting without permission is prohibited!”

Lan Qiren choked and Lao Nie burst out laughing.

“That was seven years ago,” Lan Qiren protested, and Lao Nie only howled more. “You were an infant. How do you even remember that?”

“It was interesting!” Nie Mingjue beamed. “You said that every word in the rule is like a principle – even if you have the rule, you have to agree on what it means. What counts as fighting, what counts as permission, what counts as prohibited…I use it lots!”

“He has a good memory,” Lao Nie said, wiping his eyes. “You should hear how many profanities he’s learned.”

“I would rather not,” Lan Qiren said hastily, because Nie Mingjue looked on the verge of volunteering to recite them. “Nie Mingjue, can you show me around?”

“Of course, Teacher Lan! Let me just put Baxia away first; I’m not allowed to carry her outside the training field yet. Unless there’s an accident, of course.”

Lan Qiren did not ask. As a sect leader who did not share a border with Qishan Wen, he didn’t think he had the right.

“Take your time,” he said, putting his hands behind his back and watching as Nie Mingjue ran away.

“Would it help to have me there?” Lao Nie asked, and nodded when Lan Qiren shook his head. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

Lan Qiren did not put forward any requests, curious to see where Nie Mingjue would take him, and was reluctantly charmed by the fact that their first destination was the nursery, where several pudgy toddlers of indeterminable age were sleeping.

“My baby brother,” Nie Mingjue explained, very seriously, inadvertently driving home that the fact that he was as tall as Lan Qiren’s elbow didn’t make him any older than he was. “He’s little.”

Lan Qiren couldn’t even tell which one of the indiscriminate toddlers wrapped in blankets was meant to be Nie Huaisang, but he nodded, and Nie Mingjue led him onwards, initially mostly silent with belated shyness but eventually coaxed into chattering.

In the evening, he returned to Lao Nie’s study.

“Well?” Lao Nie asked, face creased into the scowl he had on more often than not, despite being widely considered one of the more even-tempered Nie. “What do you think?”

“I think your son is a bright and enthusiastic boy,” Lan Qiren said. “With a remarkable sense of justice and morality that will serve him well, although maybe not so much in terms of politics. He’s very…straightforward.”

“Yes, well, I’m still holding out hope on A-Sang for the tact,” Lao Nie said. “That wasn’t my question and you know it.”

Lan Qiren tried to collect his thoughts. “I don’t think you’ve damaged him for life,” he finally said, and Lao Nie’s shoulders relaxed in a sudden exhalation of what was probably months of increasing stress. “I do think he would benefit from understanding a little bit more about what’s happening to him.”

“But he’s so young.”

“I know. Normally, I wouldn’t introduce the subject of his own mortality at this level of complexity this early – although I assume it’s hard for him to miss the concept entirely, given the political situation –” Lao Nie winced in acknowledgment. “– but I don’t think you have much of a choice. You’re not the only one who noticed the saber spirit.”

Lao Nie frowned, then understood, and frowned even deeper. “He’s noticed it?”

“I got him talking on the subject of his saber,” Lan Qiren said. “He regards it in the same manner as other children his age would an imaginary friend. It’s female, apparently.”

Based on the description, Baxia also had what he would, in one of his students, term a personality. He supposed it was possible that Nie Mingjue was just projecting the parts of himself that weren’t quite fit for company, since surely no one could be that earnest, and yet, based on what Lao Nie had told him…

Lao Nie groaned and put his hand to his head. “Jiwei didn’t develop a sense of gender for years,” he grumbled, and Lan Qiren was moderately certain that he hadn’t intended to admit that out loud. “This is ridiculous. I want him to live a good life, Qiren. A long one, insofar as that’s possible for our sect.”

“I’ll try to do some research,” Lan Qiren said. “In the meantime, could he be convinced to cultivate something else in addition to a saber? Music, perhaps?”

“You’re welcome to try. He’s practically tone-deaf.”

“Perhaps arrays, then, or talismans,” Lan Qiren said. “It would do him some good to find another thing to pour all that energy of his into.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lao Nie allowed. “And I appreciate any research you’re able to do, though of course there are limitations on your time – and what we can allow to be taken out of the Unclean Realm.”

Lan Qiren waved a hand. “It’s nothing. I enjoy keeping busy, and the subject is fascinating. Have you considered that regular visits by me might draw attention?”

Attention from within their sects they could handle, but they were both sect leaders – or acting sect leader, in Lan Qiren’s case – and their actions could never truly be wholly their own.

“I have a plan for that,” Lao Nie said. “It’ll work better if you don’t know about it, though.”

Lan Qiren hated plans like that.

“Very well,” he said, aware that he sounded like he was sulking. “If you must.”

“Could I send him to you next year?” Lao Nie asked, and Lan Qiren forgot his grumpiness to gape at him. “I wouldn’t impose this year, naturally, since you must already have a curriculum planned. But next year…”

“If you send him, that will be making a statement,” Lan Qiren said.

A statement about what, exactly, he did not know, but there was a major difference between being the sort of teacher that was respected enough to teach the sect heirs of some small, out-of-the-way sects and being entrusted with the childhood education of the heir to a Great Sect. Even if Nie Mingjue learned nothing, which seemed unlikely given his earnest performance from earlier, the other small sects would immediately want to follow suit, as if to rub off some of the same luck for themselves – he would be flooded with applicants.

His sect elders were going to hate it.

Although it wasn’t exactly against any of the rules…

“That’s why I’m asking your permission.” Lao Nie grinned at him, his teeth flashing white under his nearly trimmed beard. “Also, while you’re our guest here – you did plan to stay at least a week or two, right? Good, good. I will insist upon you joining me for some night-hunts.”

“Lao Nie…”

“I’ve explained to you how my sect cultivates our sabers. Are you really saying that you can judge that without seeing it happening?”

“You know perfectly well that I’m a weak fighter,” Lan Qiren said, even though that was a very good point, and one he probably would have insisted on himself sooner or later. “I don’t want to slow you down.”

“You never have,” Lao Nie said right to his face – the Nie sect did not discourage all lying, the scoundrels. “I’m serious! You’re not the fastest, no, but you’re perceptive, analytical, and creative. The insights I gain from hunting by your side are long-term gains, making me faster and more efficient in the future.”

“You’re flattering me,” Lan Qiren said suspiciously.

“I am not. The first time we went on a night-hunt together, you stopped by the river to rest and told me about how the flowers growing there were unique because they absorbed spiritual energy but not resentful energy on account of being too close to flowing water; three years later, I used that fact to find a gigantic nest of ghosts and demonic creatures that were using it as camouflage. They’d killed nearly a dozen villagers by that point and no one else could find them, but I did.”

Lan Qiren felt his ears heating up. “…that’s a coincidence.”

“Do you really want me to start naming other examples?”

“I would rather you showed me your library,” Lan Qiren said. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. He was probably blushing. No one else ever teased him the way Lao Nie did, except maybe Cangse Sanren. He was suddenly hit by a nostalgic desire to see her again. “At once, if you please. And also…”

He trailed off.

“Why the hesitation?” Lao Nie asked. “Do you really think there’s anything I would deny you, as long as you find a way to help my son?”

Lan Qiren cleared his throat. “It would be helpful if I could examine a more mature saber spirit that has already bonded to a human master. Your Jiwei, for instance.”

As he expected, Lao Nie scowled at the suggestion of someone else examining his spiritual weapon – and his saber spirit, no less – but after a few moments he collected himself and nodded, albeit begrudgingly. “I’ll leave her with you,” he said. “Be careful when you examine her – she doesn’t like to be touched by anyone but me.”

Lao Nie’s warning turned out to be both true, untrue, and an understatement of frankly shocking proportions.

During the course of Lan Qiren’s investigations into the subject of the Nie sect sabers over the next few months, and thereafter, he determined that the best, if not only, way to deal with Jiwei was to act as though he were handling a particularly vicious and single-minded dog.

Jiwei, it seemed, liked to bite.

If one treated her like a normal saber – an inert piece of metal – she would appear completely quiescent right up until there would be an abrupt and inexplicable accident, clattering off the table with the blade curving straight at clothing and flesh, and only very quick reflexes could prevent disaster. If one attempted to utilize spiritual energy with her, it would be even worse: she would pull as much as she could and feed back nothing, spiteful and ruthless.

A vicious creature, too quick to judge, loyal only to her master, who she loved.

A bit like Lao Nie, in fact. Lan Qiren did not delude himself into mistaking Lao Nie’s passion for righteousness – Nie Mingjue was righteous, a serious child that was always wondering what was right, while Lao Nie was more inclined towards brutal, even callous, practicality that focused on what benefited him and his sect. He would do good, of course, but he could not be forced into it; he had his pride, his temper, and sometimes he erred too much in favor of those over even common sense.

But despite all his rough edges, he did truly love his friends.

He dragged Lan Qiren all over Qinghe whenever he visited, on night-hunts and to resolve minor conflicts, the sort of thing any normal traveling cultivator might do; he showed him the small towns and the hidden cities that Lan Qiren would not have seen on any normal visit, and asked him to play songs for his little family. Nie Huaisang was enraptured by the music, Nie Mingjue largely indifferent – Lao Nie had not been wrong to call him practically tone-deaf – and Lao Nie beaming all the while, even if Lan Qiren suspected that his eldest son’s lack of musical appreciation had largely come from him.

He even, after a stray comment, managed to track down Cangse Sanren, who brought her husband and son to the Unclean Realm and left them in Nie Mingjue’s earnest care while she sat with the two of them, drinking liquor as if it were water to the point that even Lao Nie refused to compete with her – when his protests were eventually overridden, Lan Qiren (who drank tea, of course) was roped in to be their long-suffering judge.

It was a good night.

“Is that another thing I took from you?” He Kexin unexpectedly asked Lan Qiren a week after Lao Nie had publicly announced that he would be sending Nie Mingjue to the Cloud Recesses for Lan Qiren’s classes. The ensuing hubbub, as Lan Qiren expected, had been enormous, and he’d braced himself to discuss nothing else for months, although he hadn’t really expected her to mention it.

The Cloud Recesses separated men and women, and He Kexin had borne two sons; they were old enough by now to live primarily with the men rather than the women, and so they had entered Lan Qiren’s care. He brought them to visit her once a month, and came himself like clockwork every two weeks in between to update her as to their progress, his eyes fixed firmly above her head as he narrated the report as if he were a junior returning from a night-hunt. It was not her fault that his brother had fallen in love with her and ruined Lan Qiren’s life, but it had been her decision to murder a man that had served as the trigger for the situation; Lan Qiren was meticulous about his duty to her as his sister-in-law, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Or her.

By this point, she was moderately good at respecting that. In the beginning, she’d cursed him viciously every time he came to see her, especially after he’d provided her with definitive proof of her former friend’s lies and machinations. Later, she’d tried flirting with him out of what he could only assume was boredom or perhaps a willful misunderstanding as to why he still visited, assuming that he had perfidious motivations or shared his brother’s taste in women instead of suffering from an overdeveloped sense of responsibility for his brother’s misdeeds. It had taken him several months and, eventually, an explicit offer to even notice, and he’d nearly broken his neck fleeing from the scene.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he said, still looking above her head instead of at her face. He Kexin had A-Huan’s smile and A-Zhan’s eyes, he knew that, but if he could scrub all of her other features from his mind, he would.

“Sect Leader Nie,” she said, and it was so odd to hear someone refer to Lao Nie by his formal title outside of a political situation or deliberate insult – even Wen Ruohan habitually called him Lao Nie by now, and as far as Lan Qiren could tell, they despised each other – that Lan Qiren’s eyes actually dropped to meet hers. “If you weren’t sect leader, you could’ve married him.”

Lan Qiren choked on air. “Do you think of nothing but sex all day?” he spat out, his cheeks going red. “We are friends.”

“I don’t have much else to think of,” He Kexin said, and he glared as if to communicate whose fault is that and maybe in your next life you won’t solve your problems with murder. “I heard you’ve been spending a lot of time with him, and now he’s sending his son to your care. It’s suggestive.”

“Talking behind the backs of others is forbidden,” Lan Qiren reminded her, and she shrugged. “Do I need to discipline your servants?”

“It’s news, not gossip,” she said. “And no, these ones are fine. No one’s playing any tricks.”

There had been an incident early on, where a few of the servants assigned to care for He Kexin had mistaken her confinement for abandonment; they had not expected Lan Qiren to grimly continue visiting as he would have done if she had been his sister-in-law in the normal course of things, nor to listen when she complained. He had of course taken all necessary measures to have the offenders harshly disciplined and expelled, replaced with servants of good character and sufficient intelligence to keep her company without seeking to take advantage, and there had been no new incidents since.

Her punishment was confinement, not torment. No matter what Lan Qiren felt about her, she would receive exactly that – neither more nor less.

“Is it Cangse Sanren, then?” she asked, propping her head up on her chin. “You fell in love with her, and then she married another man…”

“Sometimes people are just friends,” he said, irritated. “Why must I be in love with anyone?”

He Kexin shrugged. “Don’t you want to marry, one day? Have children of your own, rather than always reporting back to me on mine?”

“I’m acting sect leader,” Lan Qiren said tightly. “A marriage, much less children, would give rise to accusations that I was seeking to usurp my brother’s place or my nephews’ inheritance.”

“So it is another thing I’ve done,” she said, looking down at her hands. They were clenched tightly into fists, her knuckles white; sometimes Lan Qiren thought she wanted to punch him as a means of venting her feelings, and sometimes he didn’t even blame her for it. “I had only been thinking about it in the sense that you couldn’t leave, but you can’t even bring anyone back.”

“I don’t especially want to, anyway,” he said, because it was true. Even if she was right, that even his right to marry freely had been taken from him, it didn’t mean that she had the right to use it as a whip on her own back. If Lan Qiren couldn’t bring himself to obey the rule about not holding grudges, he could at least follow the ones about being generous and easy on others. “I haven’t found the right person.”

“And it’s really not Lao Nie?” He Kexin asked. “You go to visit him often, and for longer periods, than you go anywhere else, and A-Huan says you look happy whenever you’re going to go.”

Lan Qiren shrugged. He was happy to go. He enjoyed Lao Nie’s company, and the research, even when Lao Nie was too busy for him personally, and Lao Nie’s role as an allied sect leader meant that Lan Qiren had more latitude in arranging such visits than he did to other places.

“…A-Zhan says that your hands are white when you return.”

Lan Qiren’s eyes dropped to his arms, where there was in fact some white peeking out from beneath his sleeves – white bandages on his left wrist and the two smallest fingers on his right hand, this time, from the latest incident in which Jiwei had tried to slash him, but it was barely a nick in comparison with previous instances; he thought that it was a sign that they might be getting somewhere.

A moment later, he realized the implications of her statement and glared at her. “You’re not seriously asking if Lao Nie is abusing me? Weren’t you asking about my marriage prospects with him only a moment ago?”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” she said dryly. “And the Nie temper is well known.”

“It’s from research,” Lan Qiren said. “I dropped a saber and I knocked over the table on to my other hand when trying to dodge.”

“I believe you,” she said, lips twitching. “If only because you would’ve come up with a more dignified excuse if it was a lie.”

“I don’t actually have to explain myself to you,” he said, reminding himself as much as her. “Is there anything else you want to know about your sons?”

“No,” she said. “But I’d like my husband to visit me again, if you can arrange it.”

He nodded stiffly.

“You know,” she said, playing idly with her sleeves. “If you never marry, I’ll be the closest thing you ever have to a wife? You manage my house, you raise my children, and you even provide me with services in bed, albeit indirectly.”

Do not succumb to rage, Lan Qiren thought to himself, and left without another word.

(Later, when Cangse Sanren next visited the Cloud Recesses, her husband taking A-Huan on a ride on their donkey with A-Zhan and A-Ying tucked into the saddlebags, she listened to him stammer through the whole humiliating story and gnashed her teeth on his behalf. “Don’t listen to her,” she told him. “By that standard, the rabbits she likes to raise are her concubines.”)

His simmering anger made his next session with Jiwei flow more easily, almost as if the saber spirit empathized with his rage – or perhaps it was simply that she found it more familiar, more reminiscent of the temper of her true master, and therefore less objectionable. He was attempting to draw out some part of her anger through music and store it into a jade pendant: his theory was that the eventual qi deviations of the Nie sect leaders resulted from a lack of balance with the resentful energy utilized by the saber spirit – the negative emotions streaming in through the saber, strengthening it, but having no means of cleansing beyond outbursts of temper.

It had been the way Nie Mingjue spoke of his saber spirit as if she were his friend that had given him the idea. Many in the Nie sect treated their sabers with both reverence and fear, as if the spirits were vicious creatures they had only temporarily tamed and which would one day turn upon them, but Jiwei was passionately loyal to Lao Nie, and Baxia to Nie Mingjue. Perhaps it was his inheritance as a Lan showing, or merely his own experience with his brother, but Lan Qiren simply could not understand how anything that loved so unstintingly, so unreservedly, could ever bring themself to intentionally bring about their beloved one’s destruction.

Even a dog would refuse to bite a master it loved unless it had gone mad.

Therefore, he concluded, it was not merely the human wielder but the saber itself that deviated in their cultivation. Lao Nie had once said in an aside that it was unclear what came first, the Nie sect tempers or the saber spirit-incited outbursts, and although he had meant it as a joke, Lan Qiren thought there was some merit to the question. Rage served a valuable purpose for humans, acting as a warning sign that something was wrong, that something was unacceptable, rejection and protection all at once, but rage that could not be excised would turn rancid and sour, like a poisoned wound. Sabers were cultivated by their masters and resembled them – they were filled with human rage, intensified by their cultivation of resentful energy, but unlike a human they could not shout or hit something or vent in any way other than through hunting.

No wonder Jiwei was so content after a night-hunt; no wonder Nie sect cultivators got irritable when they hadn’t had time to cultivate their sabers or fight evil or just get out and do something. But with limited venting opportunities (humans could not fight evil all the time), the sabers would fall into obsession, infected by the very same resentful energy that they excised when they hunted – their bloodlust simultaneously sated and inflamed – and as their power grew, and their true opponents grew fewer, they would become insatiable and, eventually, unbalanced. Demonic cultivation was abhorred by the cultivation world because it opened the door to obsession and fixation, and the most common way that demonic cultivators died, if not executed by the world, was through a backlash of their own power. Obsession was by its nature rigid, and that was the sole weakness of the saber: they had to be rigid, but never too rigid, or else they would become brittle, would break.

Deviation.

It was a very interesting theory, even if Lao Nie’s eyes glazed over whenever Lan Qiren tried to explain. Lan Qiren didn’t take offense: Lao Nie had always been an exceptionally practical man, more interested in results than theories, actions rather than thoughts.

“Aren’t you disappointed?” Lan Qiren asked him at one point, abrupt as he always seemed to be about such things. “That I haven’t gotten anywhere?”

Lao Nie looked surprised. “What do you mean? You have a valid theory, you’ve tried all sorts of things.”

“I haven’t succeeded.”

Lao Nie laughed. “My friend, this is a problem that has stymied my sect for generations. Did you really think you’d be able to solve it in three weeks?”

Lan Qiren scowled. “It’s been closer to three years.”

“You’ve made progress,” Lao Nie said confidently. “A-Jue has as solid a foundation as I could hope for, and all those conversations you have with him about the nature of ethics and morality have had an excellent effect on his saber.”

“Has it?” Lan Qiren asked, skeptical. Even the Nie sect experts agreed that Baxia was unusually vicious for a saber, powerful enough to frighten wild yao simply with her presence – Nie Mingjue’s cultivation remained shockingly fast, and even Lan Qiren, who had only a few years understanding of the saber spirits, could recognize the effects of it.

“It has,” Lao Nie said firmly. “He doesn’t fear her, and she loves him all the more for it, backs him like none other; no other saber of his generation will so much as waver out of line with Baxia behind them. As for the rest…ah, Qiren, if you can figure out a way to stymie the saber spirit even a little – give him even another decade – I’ll be satisfied. Don’t worry about it.”

Lan Qiren huffed and returned to trying to transfer spiritual energy from Jiwei to the pendant.

“Besides, all this time spent on the project has had at least one good effect,” Lao Nie added, putting his hand on Lan Qiren’s shoulder as he played. “I get the pleasure of your company.”

Lan Qiren’s attention was fixed on his playing, but the hand was warm on his shoulder. “That hardly seems so much of a benefit,” he said absently.

“You underestimate yourself. Do you know, outside of my sect, I think you’re my best friend?”

Only years of training allowed Lan Qiren’s fingers to continue to move smoothly over the guqin strings when his heart seized in his chest, warm and hot and squished and painful and pleasurable at the same time.

He did not allow himself to ask “Really?” like a small child, insecure and uncertain, did not permit himself to say “even above my brother”, did not say anything at all.

“Thank you,” he finally said, stiff and wooden. “I…you as well.”

[ailuronymy]

I doubt you'll remember this, because it happened such a long time ago, but it's been bothering me for years now and I wanted to get some closure on it. Many years ago, when I was 14, pretty new to roleplaying and completely new to Tumblr, I sent you an anonymous ask laughing about ridiculous unrealistic things that people were having their cats do in a roleplay I was in. Building blanket forts, among other things, and being transgender. At this point in my life I thought transgender only meant someone who had undergone gender affirmation surgery, and the idea of cats doing surgery on one another was hilarious to me. I shared it with the hope that other people would find it hilarious too. Instead, you told me that I had said The Wrong Thing and called me a bigot. I was confused, I was horrified, I didn't understand at all, and I more or less fled from tumblr for about two years. It was a formative experience for me.

Hello there. I do actually remember that post, although obviously since you were anon then as well, I didn’t remember you specifically. But I do remember. 

I thought about how to answer this ask for a few days. I’m not sure exactly what it is you’re looking for from me, but I’m going to give you the best reply I can and I hope that’s good enough for the both of us. 

When you wrote in to me, about eight years ago, I was younger than you are now. I was nineteen and I’d only been on tumblr for a bit over a year at that point, I think. I’d never had social media before, of any kind. It was all pretty new to me as an experience too, and I’d never expected this blog to get the attention that it did. I never even imagined that was a possibility. But it happened and I learned how to run a relatively popular ask blog on the job, as it were. 

There’s a lot I regret when I look back on that early era of this blog. The humour and jokes I allowed and sometimes encouraged and said myself here was often not kind, and that’s something I really regret. Eventually, I put an end to that because it just wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted any of us who have fun here to be doing. But I absolutely allowed it to happen for a long time first, and that’s on me. 

Also at that same time, there was a particular way of interacting on tumblr that was very popular. It was a lot of exuberance and hyperbole and insults, and being rude for fun, and overall very over-the-top and often harsh or just plain uncaring that there was someone else at the other end of the message. For everyone who was here in 2012, I think you can probably remember what it was like. It wasn’t a nice mode of communication, but it was popular and got great responses and a lot of people found it fun to read. For a couple of years after I started Ailuronymy, I was absolutely guilty of buying into it and acting this way, until I finally hated it enough to stop. It wasn’t who I wanted to be, in general or on this blog specifically. It felt mean and inauthentic and I wanted to be better. But I did act like that for a long time, and that was a choice I made. 

I’m not saying any of this because I want to make excuses for myself. I’m more aware than anyone else of the problems early on in this blog’s history, and it’s something I regret and wish I could go back to do differently with the knowledge and experience I have now. Unfortunately, I can’t change the past. I can only own up to it and do better going forward. 

I’m sorry for the tone I often used, including to you in that post, and I’m sorry that because of that behaviour, you felt scared and unwelcome here. That’s a failure on my part. I shouldn’t have used the tone I did, or assumed I had to take a defensive, intense stance the way I did. It’s very sad to me to know that because I did that, you were frightened and decided to leave. 

However, I would like to share my context too. Because at the time, I was nineteen years old (which I know probably sounds ancient to younger teens, but it’s not, really), and a bisexual guy (which I still am, obviously), and Ailuronymy was already a place that people (especially queer people) in the fandom were looking to for support and education. Insofar as this blog was developing a niche, that was it. I felt a significant amount of responsibility to champion and defend the people this blog was made for. 

2012 was also a time when the Warriors fandom on tumblr was genuinely very homophobic, and also quite volatile. It was common for people to be very angry (in general, and often at me) for saying that ableism isn’t okay, or that Warriors characters can be trans, or sometimes just “canon naming doesn’t make much sense.” I got quite a lot of hate mail--also sometimes just... confused, angry mail, for this naming system or any of the political things I talked about--and I was doing the best I could with what I had to give. A lot of what I learned during my years of running this blog came from making mistakes, but I always did my best.

The reason I’m bringing this up is because what you actually said was: “these cats can be homosexual, asexual, bisexual, pansexual, and transgender--don’t even ask me how that’s possible. I don’t want to know.” You came to me, a queer man, running a blog that in no small part is about how queerness is allowed to exist in this fandom and is in fact not implausible, during a time when the fandom as a whole was solidly anti-queer, with something like that. Like you said, you shared it with me--and the readers here--because you hoped we would find it hilarious and unrealistic too. 

But I didn’t, because, to me, that’s just what a lot of the fandom already was. It was a hostile environment that regularly argued that queer characters, or people, had no place here. That was the kind of things people on anon fairly often came to yell in my inbox about how I’m wrong, etc. etc., and how I’m bad, etc. etc. 

I reacted defensively, which I wouldn’t do now, because I’m much older, and I have experience and confidence I just didn’t then. At the time, though, what I heard in your ask was “queer characters are absurd and don’t belong here, don’t correct me,” and that is what I reacted to. I’m sure for you, it felt scary and disproportionate, and as I said before, I wish I had handled things differently, and gentler. 

But I don’t disagree with what I said. The points I made weren’t wrong. And my response--although not how I would respond now--was not wrong, even though it hurt you. It genuinely is horrible to know that because of my lack of tact, you were scared. It was also horrible to receive your ask at the time, just like many of the rest. It wasn’t hypothetical to me, because I’m queer. It was about me, and other people I care about very much.

The fact I’m queer is probably news to you, and you were new tumblr and probably didn’t know what was going on in the fandom, and maybe you would have said something different if you knew all this. 

Likewise, though, you were on anon and I didn’t know who you were. I didn’t know you were fourteen. I didn’t know you were asking in good faith, and not just another one of the homophobic fans thinking you’d found a friend in me, which frankly felt a bit insulting. I didn’t know you were and, again, although I wish I did more back then and was kinder in my approach, I didn’t have insight into your intentions. I also didn’t have the maturity for that not to matter.

That said, even in my very imperfect answer I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. I specifically said:

“Before you think I’m victimising you - I’m not. This is not personal right now; currently, this is a mistake on your part, and I understand that mistakes are incredibly easy to make. If, by the end of my post, you get where you went wrong here, then it will be like this ask of yours never happened and I will forget you ever said it. I don’t like to hold any kind of grudge if there’s any way to avoid it, and an acknowledgement of where you went wrong here would completely fix everything about this.”

&

“So what you’re saying when you say that you don’t believe that “homosexual, asexual, bisexual, pansexual, and transgender” cats are possible in the context of Warriors is, basically, that you’re a bigot. I am really sorry to say that, because the chances are - I sincerely hope - that you aren’t. You’re a good person. You’re a good person who said something bigoted by mistake. And if you don’t believe what you’ve said is a mistake yet, let me show you some interesting true facts about our world.“

Because I know how easy it is to make mistakes and how hard it is to get everything right all the time, and know everything, and never do something dumb or hurtful. It’s easy to fuck up. I’ve done it a lot. The answer I gave you back then is just one example.

That what you took from my answer was only fear and confusion isn’t something in my control, however. I hate that that’s what happened, and I regret not being who I am now back then, but even though I did fuck up back then, I still did what I could at the time to mitigate the damage and reassure you that a mistake doesn’t define you. I am sorry it wasn’t enough for you to feel okay coming back. But I can’t say I’m sorry for telling you that coming to me on my blog with that kind of mentality is something I’ll tolerate at all. 

Ultimately, I’m sorry that our experience of each other was not a good one. I’m sorry that your memory of me is someone scary and mean, and that you felt you had to leave this site entirely for two years because of it. I regret that my actions left you with such a negative experience, because that was never my intention, even though the way I handled things with you was very poor. 

I hope you’re able to find the closure you’re looking for and I genuinely wish you all the best. 

[queercore-curriculum]

Hello! Honestly I'd love to hear your answers to all of the questions in this RQG ask game, but if I have to choose, 2, 4 and 15?

OMG THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ASKING! And thanks to @kindofwriter for the fabulous prompts.

2. What’s your biggest ‘I would’ve played that so differently’ moment, and how would things have panned out if they’d done it your way?

When Zolf apologized to Sasha in Paris after snapping at her for wondering if Brock was still alive, I would’ve had Zolf reveal his backstory about Feryn. In retrospect, that was clearly on Ben’s mind when he was talking about “not all of us have the opportunity to say goodbye”—I remember thinking the first time I listened that Zolf was being weirdly evasive, like he was trying a little too hard not to reveal a secret while making it clear he obviously had a secret, and I don’t really understand why Ben played it that way. I get that Zolf is emotionally constipated, but that was a natural moment for the reveal to happen. It fit well into the momentum of the narrative, and I would’ve loved to see Zolf open up to Sasha, the PC he cares about the most. And when Zolf revealed the story like a million episodes later in a kind of offhand way, it wasn’t terribly impactful for me. I don’t know how much that would’ve changed the narrative, but I think it would’ve deepened the bond between Zolf and Sasha and opened up more opportunities for Zolf’s character development earlier on.

4. Pick a moment from the show that you think would have to change dramatically if it was a fluid story rather than TTRPG. How would it be different?

Kind of a bundle of moments, but Helen’s consistently terrible dice rolls, especially early on. It made Azu come across as incompetent when she is so clearly not, and that drove me bananas. I don't have a ton more to add to that, other than the fact that so much is left to chance in D20 systems is infuriating sometimes as a listener.

Also, I don't know if this would have to change, but I think we missed out on a LOT when the they didn't get captured and taken to Eiffel's Folly in Paris. The Paris chase scenes are probably my favorite combat sequences from the show, and I would've loved to see the team get to work more closely with Wilde, especially before he lost his magic. We still haven't really had much of a chance to see him casting, which sucks! And of course I want more onscreen Zolf/Wilde time, particularly while they're still in their "enemies" phase, but I'm also such a fan of his interactions with everyone in the party (the pun-off with Sasha is another favorite scene) and would love to see their relationships develop earlier in the series.

Ok, last one—this is related to my first answer, and again, is more of a bundle of moments (many of which never happened), but Grizzop, Zolf, Azu, and Wilde would all need to reveal their backstories earlier in the story, and much more organically. Backstories are not secrets to be hoarded, they are opportunities for character development and insight! Why don't we know about Wilde's scar yet?? Now that it's gone and he's not so damaged anymore, do you really think the reveal, if it ever comes, will have the same emotional impact? No! It will not! At least not for me, anyways.

15. What’s a headcanon you think about all the time but feel you’ve never had an opportunity to share?

Wilde’s love language is acts of service, but he expresses it very differently than Zolf “Acts of Service” Smith. Since Wilde is a spy that almost certainly relies on his charisma to get information, it makes sense to me that he’d have extremely high emotional intelligence and would be exceptionally good at intuiting people’s wants and needs, even those they may not fully understand themselves. And I think that Wilde quietly attends to the needs of those he cares about, often without anyone realizing what he’s doing. For example, with Zolf’s conversation with Wilde in the “waiting room,” Wilde already knew that Zolf needed him (I don’t even think that’s really a headcanon, the way that Wilde said “And there we go, an honest answer from Zolf Smith” strongly implies that that was exactly what he expected Zolf to say). But Wilde knew that Zolf needed to hear himself say it to understand how much their relationship really means to both of them. So Wilde engineered the conversation to force Zolf to acknowledge that Wilde wasn’t coming back to save the world; he was coming back to save the world with Zolf (and for Zolf, whatever, let’s make it shippy).

I think of this as acts of service rather than words of affirmation because it’s about Wilde understanding how Zolf processes his emotions, and then intentionally adapting how he communicates with Zolf to accommodate this process even though he finds it occasionally infuriating. And I think that’s really compelling, how much goes unspoken when Wilde notices that Zolf is tired and quietly cancels their plans for the evening, or wears the jumper Zolf bought him that doesn't really fit properly because he knows Zolf spent so much time picking it out, or pretends he wants a cup of tea so he can fill Zolf's hot water bottle to soothe his aching legs without Zolf feeling like a burden. If everything goes to plan, Zolf will be a little more relaxed, a little happier, a little more comfortable, and isn't that just a lovely coincidence?

[queenangst]

I've been a pjo fan for a long time, but I never was very into the online fandom until recently. So my question is this: what is considered "problematic" with Rick Riordan, from what I've seen he's just tried to always please fans, if not a little too much, but like I said I only got online very very recently.

oh, boy. 

there’s a lot to unpack. 

i’m going to be honest, generally when i criticize i don’t do it on my very public blog. most discussions i’ve had are private, with people i trust; i’m not saying i won’t discuss it with you, what i mean by this is if you look on my blog you probably won’t find a lot of pjo/hoo/rr crit in the past. 

before i get into it, here’s a couple things to keep in mind. 

1. it is okay to absolutely love percy jackson and criticize it. they are not mutually exclusive. it’s important and healthy to be able to take a step back and look at the media you’re reading with a critical eye and from different perspectives. 

2. sometimes, reading crit can kind of hurt. acknowledging that an author or a creator you look up to is flawed can hurt. no creator is perfect, and no critic is perfect. just understand that when you read crit you’re likely looking through the lens of someone who probably has seen something damaging, etc in rick’s writing. 

also, it doesn’t really matter if you’ve been part of the fandom for a long time or not; online or not; these issues stem from rick and the writing itself.

okay: 

here’s my pjo crit tag and my hoo crit tag. like i said, they’re pretty scarce, because most of me talking about what went wrong in hoo is in private circles. 

the issues become much more apparent in hoo, because hoo was kind of a hot mess. so you might tend to see more hoo crit than pjo crit, but there are flaws in both series that deal with diversity or lack thereof, tokenism, racism, stereotypes, and also just some bad writing choices and bad narrative.

here’s some bloggers who have great discussions about pjo/hoo/rick + problems. 

@transannabeth - anti rick tag (tea also has a pjo crit, hoo crit, and some other tags but i think most posts fall under anti rick)

@reynaisalesbian - hoo crit tag

@bananannabeth - hoo crit tag

some other bloggers who don’t (afaik) have crit under tags or have a couple posts, but who have made good posts/points/etc: @blackjacktheboss, @ofswordsandpens, @gr33kg0ds, @sawasawako. 

if you want to look outside of these bloggers or tags (which i encourage you to), common tags that people use for criticism on tumblr are: anti pjo, anti hoo, anti rick/riordan/rr, pjo crit, hoo crit, rr crit, pjo criticism, hoo criticism.

i... do not have the time or energy to address every single issue that comes up in pjo, hoo, and with rick. i’m sorry. there’s a lot of books, a lot of characters, and a lot of bad narrative. and bad choices. i’d go through the links above, maybe reach out to people (reach out to me, or anyone), discuss, look at the books and step back from what you like and want to defend and use your critical thinking skills. 

i guess to get you started (since i can’t cover every single issue ever) here’s something i was discussing with @wisdom-walks-alone and a couple other people earlier; the east asian/asian representation (hello! that’s me!) is uh, not hot, to say the least. for example, if you look at the canonical asian pjo characters—

ethan nakamura, who is basically the only one in pjo, dies. he’s a kid on the wrong side, he tries to defy kronos, and he dies. cool! then we hop on over to hoo, and we have two whole east asian characters. one of them is drew tanaka, who is reduced to stereotypes and a ‘queen bitch’ like character, vain and petty and rude to say the least. her focus is completely on her appearance. she doesn’t get development. she’s there to be pitted against piper, another woman of color. 

but that’s okay, because we have frank, right? frank zhang, who is actually chinese. except i never identified with him because he was 1) extremely underdeveloped for a main character of the series and 2) his arc is, as i remember it, getting buff. let’s see. 

he’s a chinese character, which means there are a lot of conflicting and interesting values to play with and develop. i really liked him in son, and with the shapeshifting abilities and his life stick, as well as his discomfort in his own body; those could have really been elements in a fantastic character arc. sacrifice, duty, loyalty to your family, to your country/people (i.e. the romans).... these are all things that are important to chinese people, and could have played a larger role (which is why i liked that frank burned his own stick to free thanatos). but eventually he’s given a fireproof bag so his stick will never burn and he just... gets buff and strong, because that’s important. that’s some surface level criticism because i don’t remember much of what happens to frank in the series (probably not much?), but yeah. i’m not saying frank’s character arc should revolve around him being chinese, or that being chinese should play a huge role in the series, but a fundamental part of character is background. there are a hundred different experiences rick could have pulled from, and each of them are unique. tfw your “rep” isn’t rep at all.

so the three east asian characters i get to read about, who look like me, who might have grown up like me, who i’m supposed to relate to... one is dead, one is a stereotypical bitch, and one is.. i don’t even know. so it’s something to think about, yeah?

EDIT: do not take this post as saying you have to ‘hate’ hoo or hate pjo or hate rick now. (though some of us do, for good reason.) just keep the criticism in mind and accept it as a part of your view of rick and his writing as a whole. you can still love pjo! you can still love hoo! you can still like rick. that’s okay. don’t put them on a pedestal. form your own opinions, and let them shape your experience. 

i think he has done some good things. i think he can write well. but there’s also a lot of problems that should be addressed and that could be improved upon.

[zaddyzemo]

helmut zemo x reader x heinrich zemo

⚔

cw: power imbalance, sexist language, abusive behavior, emotional manipulation, dub-con, attempted impreg

summary: your loyalty to the House of Zemo is tested when the 12th baron travels through decades to aid his son in restoring their legacy and carrying on the bloodline

author's note: for more context, check out this Avengers: Ultron Revolution clip and the two pre-serum Helmut Zemo x Reader drabbles written in that universe

as an octogenarian, Helmut Zemo is now older than his father ever was. however, watching Heinrich remove his purple cowl for you to assess the damage done by Captain Roger's fist to his face, he saw that thanks to the Super Soldier serum and time displacement, the two of them were physically the same age. "the swelling should go away by morning, sir," you smile at the face you've become familiar with through faded photos and the genes his son inherited from his side. "there is no damage to your cranium." Heinrich hissed when you touched up his stitches. "if it weren't for Zemo 2099, a little bruise would've been the least of my worries."

he wasn't talking to you, however, and he hadn't been since Helmut had brought him back to his now old castle along with the cyborg Zemo 2099. he ignored you in favor of berating his son, and you hadn't seen the baron look this humbled before. his mask was still on his hanging head and you suspected he kept it on to hide his pained expression. "I am grateful for his assistance in our battle against the Avengers. and for keeping you safe, Vater."

"his assistance? he practically fought every single one of them off on his own while you stood there like the weak link you are." Heinrich pushed you aside so that he can properly yell in Helmut's face all the insults your master would've plunged his sword through the one speaking them, but he didn't dare move a hand against his father. standing perfectly still and silent, he was falling back into the role of the perfect soldier since he failed at being a good son. he only shifted when the man screamed "the only reason you're still standing here is that you're my true heir's great grandfather."

the thirteenth baron was nobody's great grandfather. truth be told, he was nobody's father. in eighty years, there's been no shortage of women between his satin sheets and there's been more than a few men. however, there's never been a baroness. so preoccupied recreating his father, Heinrich Zemo's work and restoring their legacy he was that he ironically didn't spend a single second on producing an heir. you suspected that he didn't wish to subject his supposed brood with the same trauma he went through. he's always had a soft spot for children and you only found out once he took you in that the orphanage you grew up in was one of his many estates. he grew up an orphan himself, but he's always had his blue blood to help him gain access to all the resources he needed. as far as he was concerned, every child in every orphanage he ever built was his heir.

however, Henrich Zemo didn't see it that way. he saw his son flinch at the mention of offsprings and figured out that he doesn't have a grandchild in this timeline. "you've not produced an heir?" when Helmut couldn't meet his eyes and the shame in them was visible through the mask, Heinrich raised his voice again. "YOU HAVEN'T EVEN GIVEN ME AN HEIR? HOW IS THE HOUSE OF ZEMO SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE WITHOUT AN HEIR?"

"Vater-"

"did you try and fail as you do in everything? did you not even try?"

"Please, Vater-"

"what about das mädchen?" he pointed you out as you were packing the medical supplies. "did you not sire a child by her? i'd even name a bastard born from a bed wench my heir if it meant the Zemo name will survive until 2099."

"she is not a bed wench, she is my apprentice-"

his attempts at protecting your honor were weak and so was his voice. as powerful and proud of a man he was around his allies and even enemies, he was pathetic in front of his parent. he was silenced with nothing but a slap.

"how you survived all these decades without me I do not know and, truth be told, I do not care to know." Heinrich Zemo watched his son straighten his crown on his head and his mask on his face. he was not just disappointed, he was downright disgusted. "if it weren't for my title, my fortune, and my Super Soldier serum, the house of Zemo would've died with me."

"with all due respect, baron," you snapped, smoothening the bed sheets where he sat earlier. "your son has sacrificed everything for the survival of the Zemo name. if it weren't for him, you wouldn't be here in the first place."

he looked at you as if you were a stain on his boot. "how dare you speak to me that way? Helmut, how dare you let her speak to me that way?"

"you are dismissed, mein fräuline."

"even if she were a lady, she should know not to speak unless spoken to."

that was when Heinrich Zemo acknowledged you. and approached you. his eyes he had passed on to Helmut, but you've never seen them look down on you as if you were the dirt under his sole before.

"I'll see to it that she never speaks to you that way again, Vater," Helmut made one last attempt at deescalating the situation, but he already had you backed against the bed. his old bed. "she will be punished for her insolence."

"yes, she will." Heinrich raised his hand up in the air and struck you across the face with the back of it. "she will learn her place in my palace." the lesson seemed to be going well as you were too shocked to say a word and your master was practically mute where he stood frozen in place. the sting of the slap didn't hurt nearly as much as the shame. "she belongs beneath us." he grabbed you by the jaw and forced you to face him again. "and she will not speak over us. do you hear me, madchen? you are never to speak unless spoken to. is that clear or are your little peasant ears so dirty and clogged that you haven't heard a word I said?"

you tried looking back at your master, the thirteenth baron, but the twelfth wouldn't let you. he squeezed down on your jaw. "yes, sir."

"now was that so hard?" he loosened his grip and stroked the handprint he left on your cheeks and the tears that fell on top. you nodded instead of opening your mouth again. "of course not. you were born to obey, mein kleines lamm. and i was born to lead you lest you wander astray. no harm will ever come to you as long as you do as you are told. you will be safe, as long as you serve the house of Zemo. have I make myself understood or should i speak plainly so that you can follow along?"

"I've read all the books in the castle library, sir, including your journals. I can follow along with your words just fine."

when you saw him smile for the first time, you recognized it as Helmut Zemo's lips stretched across a row of carnivorous teeth. they were lions who've developed an appetite for lowly little lambs like you. "she's a mouthy one, isn't she? clever, too." father then turned to look at his son as he pushed the hair off of your shoulders and exposed your cleavage. "I see why you'd keep her close and even let her wear your own mother's clothes." then, he yanked your hair back and twisted it along with the rest of your body. when your back was against his chest, he came close to your ear and caught it between his canines. "you're lucky us Zemo men have a weakness for reckless women. you're always asking for it and we're always willing to set you straight."

"Vater, what are you-" Helmut found his voice, but he had yet to find the strength to step in between you and Heinrich.

"if you won't make a baroness out of this peasant girl, then I will." he licked the bitemark and buried you face-first into the bed covers. "my lineage will not end with you," he held your head down while lifting your skirts. "if you are too weak to sire an heir, then I'll do it myself."

you struggled, but he was too strong. his hands on you had a powerful grip as they parted your legs and ripped your underwear on the furst try. his hands also awakened the same ardor his son's did whenever he touched you. you were burning with shame and need in equal measure.

"you've kept a young, clean and ripe little cunt in my castle for years and you didn't even once consider it," Heinrich placed his pelvis between your thighs which were trembling in fear and anticipation. one of his fingers, his thumb, traced the lips and the leakage they were covered in. he did this several times, testing you. "look at this, Helmut. she's already wet and ready to receive me. she was made for this," he sinks his finger in and your cunt closes its warm and wet wall around it. "look at how she swallowed me whole. she was made to carry my royal brood," he chuckled, ecstatic to be so enthusiastically enveloped by you. "as lowly as you are, I'll turn you into the lady this fool never could, little lamb," he addressed you, but his words were meant to provoke his supposedly foolish son. still, you moaned into the mattress and even moved against his thumb, your body ready to be bred just like he said.

you almost missed the sound of Helmut hitting his father across his already bruised face, you were that preoccupied with whining pathetically at the loss of the feeling if being penetrated. all of a sudden, you were flipped over, your spime sinking into the mattress as your master - your true master - looked down at you with a bare face and a lustful gaze.

you sucked in air, breathless from Heinrich's ministrations and Helmut's manhandling. you didn't dare fight him ripping open your corset. finally, you could breathe snd he could behold your heaving breast which he marked as his with his teeth every night.

"I never impregnated her because I didn't want to, not because I couldn't," he looked back where his father lay on the floor. "i watched her grow under my own eyes, under a microscope, and I am very much aware of her fertile womb, father. and it is mine to turn into a bed wench, servant, assistant and even the mother of the next generation of Zemos, if I so desire." his large hands grabbed you under your knees and spreading you wide enough for him to slot himself between your legs. "she is mine."

"finally," Heinrich found his voice and his footing again as he stood up. "a show of strength," he watched you surrender to his son fully, arms flailing as you scratched the sheets in search of a grip. Helmut had entered you up to the hilt and split you open in one stroke. seeing his boy bury himself into your belly fully and noticing the bump his cock created in your abdomen, he grabbed him by his wide shoulders from behind. "you sound like the lion cub i never got to raise. you almost make me proud."

Helmut was heaving, his wide chest expanding as he lost himself in the luxury of your luscious cunt. he turned towards his father and his words of praise. "I am not a child anymore, father. I am a man. I take what is mine and tear apart all those who stand between me and what is mine." at this, he pulled out only to plummet back in. in a flash, his pace was fast and you found yourself mewling, a cat in heat or maybe a sacrificial lamb. you were his to devour.

"yes," Heinrich rubbed at Helmut's shoulders as his breathing got heavy. "yes, that's it," his hands moved lower, sliding down his spine and holding onto his lips. when the song stopped to slap the underside of your thigh, the father chuckled. "that's my boy," he squeezed his sides as they snapped against you, the sound of skin slapping against skin bringing the smirk back to his father's face as his son chased his carnal release. "mein guter junge," he nuzzled his ear. "now, come inside. come inside that cunt. that's your cunt, my boy, now claim it."

you tossed your head back as he lifted your hip up in the air and slid his cock so deep in your cunt, you saw stars on the ceiling.

"fräuline," Helmut grunted, burying himself deep inside your guts. "fräuline, you're mine." he tossed his head back against Heinrich's shoulder. "give me a son, mein fräuline."

"yes," your tongue lolled out as your eyes rolled back. your brain was a blur as you agreed to be a broodmare for the house of Zemo. "yesyesyes."

"come inside," his father pressed his lips against his earlobe. "make me proud," he kissed the shell of his ear. "come inside that cunt and give me an heir."

there's nothing he wanted more than to spill his seed inside of you. well, maybe getting more of his father's praise. once he emptied himself inside your womb, he got a pat on his head, sweaty head slicked back as you got a pat on your full tummy. "mein guter junge."

"Vater."

[homosexualrodent]

I’m just watching this over an over again, and it breaks my heart.

I know he’s done some bad shit, like murdery stuff, but he was only a kid. This rant has been shared probably a million times before, and you’ve probably heard it, but Theo truly deserves better.

When I was nine, I was in the fourth fucking grade. I started playing soccer then and I remember that was when I was old enough to be part of this music program at school. Grade four was when I was allowed to be on the cross country team and the track and field team. The biggest problems in my life were that I was had petty drama and was getting grounded for spending too much time on the iPad. When Theo was around that age, before the dread doctors, he was probably getting excited about small stuff like that too. Life then was so inconsequential, so innocent and easy, and that was stolen from him before he could really live.

His young mind was corrupted and manipulated. He watched his sister drown and freeze to death, but the dread doctors are at fault for that. How could he have understood what was going on? He was easy prey. A weak, sick, vulnerable and lonely child with a naive mind. They promised him power and a pack, but they killed his family and stole any semblance of peace he may have had. They cut him open and they sewed him up like a puppet. They probably threw him around because in the end, he only mattered to them to an extent. Theo wasn’t one of the dread doctors, he was their pet. They fed him their scraps and treated him poorly, so he had to learn to protect himself and get his job done or he’d die. Some people really have the nerve to say Theo should’ve just stopped if he knew it was wrong, but if he stopped or ran, it wouldn’t matter how successful he was, he’d be tortured or killed. And maybe he couldn’t understand how wrong it was. When you spend half your life living with terrible people, your morality can get damaged because your need to survive trumps all else. When you grow up surrounded by violence and blood and torture and murder, you become desensitized to it. So even as a kid, Theo had been scarred by the cruelest part of the world; there was no way he was going to come out of that a truly good person.

A lot of people forget that while you can pretend you’re feeling an emotion, like fake a smile or force out tears, you can’t actually make yourself feel something. You can have something trigger an emotion, but you can’t fake chemosignals the way you can fake a laugh. When Stiles and Liam found Theo at Tara’s bridge, Liam smelled grief. When Theo shot Malia, Malia smelt regret, so Theo knows how to feel and he didn’t take all that much pride in the thinks he did.

I don’t think anyone deserves to go to that purgatory that Kira sent Theo to, but regardless, Theo found his way there. What matters is that when he came out, he was a changed person. He wasn’t a new person, because you can’t erase your past or forget all that trauma, but he felt guilty. He let Tara rip his heart out. He made the choice to sacrifice himself for Liam. He decided to stay in Beacon Hills. When he got kidnapped, he didn’t tell them anything about the pack even though he could have. He went back for Liam. He tried to take Mason’s pain and the he did take Gabe’s pain. Theo thought that Gabe, the guy who tried to kill all of them, deserved at least a painless death because Theo no doubt saw how his own life could have easily ended the same way. Gabe was an asshole, and he didn’t get a character arc, but he was still a victim and so was Theo.

And so taking me back to that gif of Theo, he’s laying on the backseat of his truck and pulling a probably too small blanket over his body. If you look at him, and I mean really look at him, you can see how terribly sad he looks. When was the last time Theo got a restful sleep in a real bed? When was the last time Theo slept somewhere safe? When’s the last time you think Theo wasn’t hungry? When’s the last time you think someone cared about Theo and hugged him? When’s the last time someone said ‘I love you’ or ‘you matter’ or ‘I care what happens’ to you to Theo?

Theo has been alone for so long. He’s been surviving, not living. He’s been fighting too hard for people to look at him and not see how far he’s come. Yes, Theo’s a murderer. But he’s fractured and traumatized and he’s only eighteen. He deserved more than to be casted off again by the pack. His development should have been acknowledged more on the show and he should’ve gotten at least a hug. We can write fanfiction all we want about how Theo got into the pack, or got with Liam, or moved into somewhere safe, but nothing like that really happened in the show. Maybe Theo’s still a benchwarmer, waiting for Scott’s beck and call. Maybe Theo’s living in the sewers again or still in his truck. Maybe Theo never gets what he deserved.

I’m not saying Theo has to be your favourite character, but you can’t look at a kid sleeping in his truck with that kind of anguish in his eyes and think he still deserves all of the pain he carries around.

All of the pack has been through something terrible, but Theo got some of the worst of it.

[notnctu]

to jaemin, my best friend’s boyfriend ♡

To All The J’s I’ve Loved Before Series by notnctu ♡ na jaemin x fem!reader  ♡ genre - angst  ♡ wc - 2.3k ♡ warnings - the act of cheating, explicit language ♡ synopsis - in which a kiss causes more consequences than satisfaction  ♡ taglist - @colpen ; @cestmoncoeur ; @hyucksberry ; @lexiluness ; @lovelycharm05 ; @dearlyminhyung ; @classic-antifood ; @pikijaemin ; @whorefortaeyong ; @jaeismytamtation ; @skrtbeepbeep ; @justakpopstans ; @macaroni-sly​  ♡ a/n - let us know if you want to be on the taglist for the next ones!

Jaemin,

Writing this letter seems wrong. The feelings I had developed for you were wrong. I shouldn’t have fallen for your wide, sparkling smile. Or your dazzling, charming eyes. Or your deep, soulful song. You were everything that I envisioned in a happy relationship, but the thing was, you were already in one. 

The moment she introduced us I tried to suppress whatever beating of my heart I felt when we made eye contact. She was my best friend and you were her boyfriend. But, I looked at you in the most selfish way.

I knew I liked you when you became my only motive to leave my house. When I felt the jealousy of your hand dangling on her shoulder. When I started to think about you more than I should’ve. When I couldn’t breathe at the sight of your happiness. I stole moments from you two like I wanted them to be ours. But the truth is, we never had an us. At least, that was what I thought before we kissed. 

The kiss was wrong too, but you felt so right in my arms. The night was almost perfect, I know you remember it as well as I do. You showed up at my door with tear stained cheeks and just fell into my arms. You told me I felt safe. I was the only person that made you feel that way, not her, not anyone else. Me.

I replay the scene in my head at night and the feelings I felt when our lips met. You tasted like serenity and I was greedy thinking about how she took it for granted. 

It’s so hard for me to admit these feelings and write them out. I have so much more reflecting to do and you’re honestly right to stop talking to me. But I fucking miss you like somehow I can’t live without you in my life anymore.

I beat myself up for falling hard for my best friend’s boyfriend. But somewhere along the lines and the times we spent together, even with her, you became much more than that to me.

I think I loved you, close to it probably. You were a feeling that intoxicated me so wonderfully, how could someone not wish to drown in all that you had to offer?

Jaemin, I really don't regret kissing you because she didn’t deserve you. I said it, she didn’t. We’re no longer friends, and it was for the better. She didn’t even seem hurt when I told her, like she was expecting it.

Maybe I had been too obvious with my feelings towards you, but she didn’t seem phased and let you go so easily. And trust me, you are not someone to let go easily. 

I miss you. I’m not saying I deserve you either, knowing that I didn’t even respect your relationship. All I just want is for you to also acknowledge you felt something too. Even for a second, that I made your heart stop for longer than she could’ve. 

-from my selfish thoughts, y/n

Na Jaemin had to be the most selfish love you’ve ever experienced. You were doomed from the moment you laid eyes on him walking hand in hand with your best friend. The sun rays highlighted his goofy, wide smile and added a distinct twinkle in his dark eyes. 

The way he kissed the back of her hand when he’d bid her goodbye. The pout that appeared when she refused to give him a small kiss. The loving stares that he only gave her. The bear hugs that engulfed her small figure. The melodic laughs that played when he radiated happiness. The possessive arm that always draped around her shoulder.  

Morals were thrown out the window when you felt the heavy, fast paced beating of your heart and your lingering stares exposed you before you could think twice. It was a wrong that felt right because of her mistreatment towards him. 

There was absolutely no place for you to judge someone else’s relationship, but Jaemin’s sad eyes spoke louder than anything else in the room. It was her neglect and constant lack of reassurance that this puppy craved. However, your best friend was always lost in her own world and it was sometimes hard to even call her your best friend.

Her disappearances and silence made it easy to distance yourself from her friendship, but she came crawling back when she needed you. In some ways, you felt that she treated Jaemin the same way too. 

So on this lonely night, when the couple would rather spend their evening strictly together, jealousy settled in your system in a horrible, distasteful way. Panning mindlessly through your friends’ social media, an adorable picture of Jaemin appeared on your screen. The moon crescents on his face from his big, beautiful smile and the signature peace sign. It had been posted barely an hour ago by her and a part of you wished that you never saw it.

How many times do you have to remind yourself? You were not entitled to their dates because they’re the ones in the relationship. Jaemin was only nice enough to always let you tag along. You took advantage of these offers, knowing that sometimes he invited you out of courtesy and not because they actually wanted you to be there. She mainly stopped inviting you because she noticed the hearts in your eyes whenever Jaemin looked in your direction.

The loud ding! of your phone startled you from your jealous thoughts. Your heart stopped when his name popped up on your screen and the message that accompanied it. 

na jaemin: open your door pls ): she said you’d be home 

you: you two are outside right now? 

na jaemin: just me 

The door revealed the unexpected company that stood with slumped shoulders on the other side. Jaemin’s red, puffy eyes blinked at the floor. His stature hunched forward in a depressing feat and droplets stained the hallway carpet at his feet.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Confusion, concern, cautious. He stepped inside when you allowed and lost himself in your arms. His heavy, tall figure almost caused you to lose your balance. Regardless, you caught him and embraced him tightly. He sobbed aggressively into your hair, and your hand patted his back awkwardly.

Jaemin hurried to your room, embarrassed if any of your housemates would catch him crying in their living room. Following the crying child, you grabbed a few snacks from the kitchen as a resource of comfort.

“I---” He peeked up at you through his wet eyelashes. “--didn’t know who else to go to. You’re the only person who I actually feel comfortable going to about all of this.” 

The happy boy from the photo was no longer present before you. It was like someone shattered him in every way possible or he devastatingly dropped his ice cream cone. The urge to kiss away his tears held onto you strong, but the will to fight it was the only thing that kept you from acting out. You merely wanted to bring his smile back.

“What happened? I thought you two were on a date, it seemed so fun!” There was a lack of enthusiasm and cheerfulness in your voice. Jaemin knew you had no way of lying to him.

He sighed and wiped the tears that kept falling, “maybe if you had been there, all of this could have been avoided.” 

“Jaemin, I can’t be at all of your dates as collateral damage. She already hates me hanging out with you two all the time.” You sat next to him on your bed. Almost instinctively, he pulled you into his side and rested his head at your neck. The intimate position made your heart beat sporadically and uncomfortably, scared that Jaemin would listen in to how easily he affected you. 

His lips tickled your skin as he mumbled, “no one else has made me feel so safe before, not even her. That’s why I ended up here, the place that was going to protect me from the pain I felt today.” 

His confession stunned you to a great magnitude. Until now, Jaemin has never expressed how he felt about you, even as his new friend. It had come to a shock to you that he admitted how you were his guardian angel, someone he’d turn to at a desperate time. He recognized he selfishly needed you to take away all the bad parts of life. To be with you meant only good times and a resolve that was nothing less of perfection. 

Then, what happened next was the unthinkable and the unstoppable. Jaemin held you at your shoulders, coming face to face to your still shocked expression. You two blinked back at each other in the silence. Jaemin saw your wandering eyes that admired his pink lips. He never noticed before how pretty you truly were, not simply by appearance. He knew your heart contained something much more innocent than his own.

He leaned in and there was no hesitation on your part. His hot breath mixed with your own as he kissed you fruitfully and open mouthed. It was hard to pull away from something you had been yearning for since the moment you two met. The one thing you craved was the flavor of his lips and his tongue to lap with your’s. He tasted like every heaven that existed, serenity and tranquility.

A hot kiss that produced an addictive warmth in your chest. Your heart was beyond ready to burst at how you were kissing your best friend’s boyfriend. Anger rested in your thoughts at how she managed to take all of him for granted. He was too hard to let go, the feeling of him belonging in your arms. The mixture of feelings overwhelmed your body, pulsing through every vein with a thrilling love. 

Jaemin kept surprising you throughout the night. Everything from him seemed platonic, like he didn’t bother to bat an eyelash at you or see you affectionately. But you were kissing him, in the most passionate way. Maybe you were being slightly delusional, but he devoured you greedily, like he had been wanting to taste you too.

His hand traveled to your jawline and caressed your cheek lovingly. Jaemin also pulled you closer by the end of your shirt, your right leg rested on top of his thigh. As you took everything you’ve ever wished for, guilt began to build at your needy fingertips. Not guilt that he had a girlfriend, but guilt that you had no self control and respect for his wavering, weak heart. You couldn’t be with Jaemin given the situation of how this had all started. 

With a pop! you released one another. Jaemin’s lustful eyes widen, turning doe-like and apologetic. Confused stares and a sense of reflection on what had just happened. A million questions ran through Jaemin’s mind as he saw how plump, and red your lips had become. 

His initial feeling coming here has grown to be much worse. There was a sickly, awful feeling that pulled at his heartstrings. How could he ruin even the good parts of his life? 

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N).” His head dropped into his palms, gathering deep breaths. His thoughts were intoxicated, too clouded for any possible good judgement. “That should’ve never happened.” 

“Jaemin, I’m sorry. We can just pretend it didn’t.” The feelings of love were being replaced by pain, probably the same Jaemin felt walking into your apartment. 

He shook his head, repeating no in nothing above a whisper. “We can’t pretend and stay friends like this.”

“Wait, you’re ending our friendship over a mindless kiss?”

The sad boy stood up and his hands balled up in a tight fist. The true secret was that he was incredibly angry with himself. “It wasn’t mindless, it was a mistake. I can’t look at you the same when you kissed me back with so much feeling. I can’t be around you knowing that I’d want to kiss you again.” 

Like a trigger, the tears slipped down your cheeks quietly. You both were aware of the consequences you had to face from a simple kiss. You just weren’t prepared for them yet. “Okay, you’re right. It’s only for the best and I’m not like her. I will prioritize you before my own feelings.”

Jaemin sighed loudly, like he was emptying all the air in his lungs. His jaw tightened at your words, “whatever happens, just know you are not the only one at fault. I won’t let her pin this on you.” 

Despite such a betrayal, he was such a noble person. Telling her didn’t even cross your mind because that would have to open another can of worms you kept sealed. But Jaemin would be practically eaten alive with this secret and this, you knew all too well.

“I’m sorry, not to her, but that I let my selfishness lose you.” You stood up by his side. He held your face once more, a thumb rubbing your stained skin. 

A small, hopeless smile appeared on his tired canvas. “I’m sorry to you too. We need the distance to reflect on the past few months.” 

With that, you walked your crush to the door. He checked his phone to reveal several missed calls and texts from his girlfriend. Sighing, he turned to hug you briefly, afraid of lingering for too long. 

“Lastly, I want to thank you for being a temporary solace and for dealing with even my vulnerable sides.” 

“I really don’t deserve you because you deserve someone who makes you happy.” Your tears choked you, making it incredibly difficult to speak without sounding like a mess.

Jaemin wasn’t going to waste his tears on you. He couldn’t possibly be hurting the same as you were, or so you thought. “As do you. I don’t deserve you either.”

He kissed you like he meant something from it and that’s why he needed distance. He was afraid of admitting his own feelings because his moral compass didn’t allow it.

A kiss brought more pain than it did satisfaction. If you could erase the ugly parts that followed, you would do it in a heartbeat. Jaemin was your’s momentarily, despite all the confusion and the consequences. 

[party-of-rpg-muses]

A Look At Stuff You Probably Never Heard Of: E.V.O.: The Theory of Evolution

Oh, boy. This one is something special. And in case this name seems familiar, trust me, we’ll go into that later. This may be one of the oldest games I’ve ever taken a look at. Today, we’re taking a look at... E.V.O.: The Theory of Evolution!

E.V.O.: The Theory of Evolution was a Japanese-only JRPG game released in 1990 for the NEC PC-9801, a Japanese-only home computer. There, it was known as “46 Okunen Monogatari ~The Shinka Ron~”, or “4.6 Billion Year Story: The Theory of Evolution”. It was developed by the Almanic Corporation with Takashi Yoneda as the head director, who also designed the famous ActRaiser game for the SNES/Super Famicom. And Enix (yes, the same Enix that would later merge with Squaresoft to become Square Enix) was the publisher.

The game itself is a fictional story based heavily around evolution, but with science-fiction elements.

The intro goes over the creation of life, from the Big Bang to multi-cellular organism. At the game’s proper beginning, the player takes control of a Thelodus, an ancient jawless fish that primarily inhabited the sea floor, having been found by other Thelodus. After exploring for a while, a bright flash sends the other ancient sea-dwelling creatures into a panic, some even turning violent, as the Elder kicks you out, believing you had something to do with it.

Once that happens, the 4.6 Billion story begins. The player also meets with a mysterious woman named Gaia, who says the player has a destiny and will be keeping watch throughout the ages.

The Theory of Evolution is a top-down game with the player moving in four cardinal directions and when encountering another creature, a turn-based battle commences. In battle, there is a normal attack, Special (which has different abilities such as Defend and Recover, but other such as Stalk, which can stun an enemy, Jump to lower enemy defense, and a few damaging abilities), and an Escape ability.

As the player wins battles, they gain EVO Genes, which are used to upgrade your stats. Endurance increases defense, Attack increases power, Wisdom teaches new Special moves, and Vitality increases health. And upon reaching the limit of any one, the player will evolve and change into a different animal, moving either down or to the side of the Evolution Chart.

It is also worth noting that it’s impossible to move up the chart and there are several made-up creatures, such as the Theriarodon in the image above, which the game acknowledges to be made up solely for the game.

The game itself is divided into 5 discs, with the first having the intro cutscene and is needed to start the game, always being inserted into the first slot. There’s also quite a bit of music, ranging from upbeat and cheerful to mysterious and uncertain with each era having their own theme. But there are also some tracks that are repeated, like when entering a strange area or the battle music.

Now that we’ve reached the end, it’s time for the Final Recommendation: Never Let Go Of It||Get It||Hold Onto It||Try It||Consider It||Stay Away From It

Okay, let me knock a few things out of the way. In case it wasn’t obvious, this game is very similar to the SNES game, E.V.O.: Search for Eden, a side-scrolling game where you eat animals to evolve in something akin to a competition to evolve and reach Eden. However, they’re both developed by the same company, with Theory of Evolution coming out 2 years before Search for Eden. The development team for Search for Eden was also comprised of younger staff who wanted to make things more “interesting”.

And no doubt you’ve noticed some things that don’t fit with history and evolution, such as the “Evolution Rush System Control” from the second image, or the Neokawamatepis from the fourth. The game occasionally delves into science-fiction. In the game, it’s largely out of nowhere, but the manual gives a detailed timeline of the events from the Big Bang to the start of the game, with you as a Thelodus. Some of the images can be seen here. The game also has the likes of Lucifer as a major antagonist.

And yes, I used an emulator with a translation ROM. The project was done by a group known as “46 OkuMen”, who translated the game from Japanese to English and released the ROM online for anyone to use.

As for the ROM itself, everything seems to be in order, but there are issues with movement. As in you move very quickly, making it hard to make precise movements. It can be difficult to walk down a narrow path and you’ll have to make several attempts to line yourself up. And depending on the creature you evolve into, you could move even faster, making things even harder. And I couldn’t find a way to slow down my movements, only the text speed.

The game also possesses somewhat of a difficulty curve as after each chapter, you’re back at the bottom and have to work your way up. Thing is, in the first chapter, the ocean, there are initially two creatures; jellyfish and other Thelodus. But the Thelodus are way too strong for you, so you’ll have to fight jellyfish and avoid the other Thelodus until you can increase your stats. I also want to mention that there are times where you have to evolve to progress, like evolving into a fish that hand handle the depths of the ocean or fresh water.

Not to mention, as I stated, you’re back at the bottom at the start of each chapter. That also means you lose the Special moves you gained in the previous chapter, with the exception of Recover and occasionally Defend.

Another issue is that things are automatically done when you walk up to something; fighting an enemy, talking to an NPC, etc. However, it can be pretty easy to get locked in. Near the end of the game, you enter the home of Carnivorous Primates, who will repeat the same lines over and over again. And it’s not uncommon for one to start speaking right after he finished talking to you, especially if he’s going in the direction you’re standing.

And finally, there are a number of “bad endings”, attained when evolving too much in a certain direction; such as Endurance while already on the far right of the chart will cause a bad ending. But there are other ways, such as drinking from a disturbing pond until you evolve into a Slime or accepting Lucifer’s deal, causing you to become a demon.

Also, there is something I have to mention because it’s VERY important! There will be times where you’ll have to go over terrain that will damage you, like desert terrain or water. As you move, you’ll take damage and the screen will flash green. And that’s every step you take, so the screen will flash rapidly several times a second. So if you’re going to play the game, BE CAREFUL as there is a danger of epilepsy. If you want to play, turn the brightness of your computer down and don’t play in the day.

All in all? I say give it a try. I consider it to be a fairly enjoyable experience, despite the issues. And with that all said and done, I’ll see you all next month.