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whumpiary · 3 years

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content warning: strong dubcon vibes, implied future noncon, abuse of power, alcohol use

It wasn’t often Christopher chose Cassius to accompany him to a party like this one. Champagne on trays and chandeliers from the ceiling. Men in nice suits, women in gowns.

Usually, when Christopher wanted Cass at an occasion, it was a private one. Weekends to the cabin. Trips out on the yacht. That sort of thing. Particular affairs.

Public events were usually the role of one of the other charges. Harley or Nicky or Jackson or Len. One of the bright young thing types that exemplified the kindness and generosity of a wealthy benefactor like Christopher Bergen. Which was… decidedly not the sort of bright young thing that Cassius was. Or that Christopher wanted him to be, most days of the week.

But it’s a particular kind of people, at a party like this. A particular mix of friends and colleagues. Ones who found Cass’ occasional salacious comments charming instead of vaguely scandalous. That didn’t mind so much when Christopher’s hand slid from his charge’s shoulder to his waist halfway through the night. When a fond look turned into a fond kiss.

The first couple of hours had been vaguely torturous, Cass listening again and again too the discordant pulse of for the love of God leave me alone paired with, “Paul. Lovely to see you, how’s that daughter of yours?”

Cass knows his role. Be pretty. Be beguiling. Be distraction or attraction, depending on the opponent. Be a reason to extend conversation as readily as a reason to cut conversation short.

Some things you paid for with money. Other things you paid for with attendance. And Cassius was here to make the slog of it less painful.

In the corner now, though, no one bothers them. In the corner now, they’re playing a game. One of Christopher’s favourites. One that Cass is getting better at.

“So what does he want?” Christopher says, nodding his head to a man by the fireplace in a grey check suit. He’s listening intently to another man talk, red wine in his hand.

Cass hums, reaching out. Tasting. Assessing. It’s always kinda interesting, feeling out other people’s desires. Particularly new people. He shrugs. “He wants to leave. But he wants that other guy to like him more.”

Christopher’s hand traces idle circles into the back of Cassius’ shoulder. Drifts lower and across his spine as Cass leans forward, “I would too, that’s Carl Egerton. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Remind me to introduce you. He’s good for reputations. Has a ridiculous amount of sway in the media.”

Cassius thinks about asking why he of all people would need to know someone good for reputations. But he tucks the thought away before it can escape and make things... complicated. Christopher’s been saying more and more things like that recently. And Cassius mostly just does his best to ignore them.

Christopher inclines his head again, “And what about him, across the way, what does he want?”

A younger man in a deep blue shirt talking to a woman in a tight red dress. Hard to tell from here if the dress was sequinned or just simmering. It’s pretty, either way. She’s pretty. The man talking to her has noticed too.

Cass wrinkles his nose up, “Wants her. In a thirsty kinda way too. It’s gross.”

“And does she want him?”

“Not really,” Cass shrugs. “She might go for him but mostly she just wants food. She’s hungry.”

“In that dress no wonder,” Christopher comments, eyes dropping.

Cassius watches the woman’s bangles shift on her arm as she raises a hand to tuck dark hair behind her ear. He can’t hear them clink together from here but he can almost feel the cool weight of them, like shackles, on his own wrist.

“What does that feel like to you?” Christopher muses, after a moment, head tilting as he looks at the woman. “I’ve always wondered. When someone else wants food, or gets hungry. Does that make you hungry too?”

Cassius hums and semi-shrugs. “Not really. Doesn’t work like that,” he says. It doesn’t not work like that either. But it’s different. “It’s more like… a tug.”

“A tug?” Christopher says playfully, dragging his boy fractionally closer with a tug to his waistband. Cassius shoots him a look and snorts a laugh, swatting his hand away.

“No, not like that. It’s more like…” Cass trails off with a sigh. He reaches his hand out to play with Christopher’s lax fingers, with the gold and black signet ring he wears on his index finger. “Like the difference between hearing a song and having one caught in your head.”

Christopher hums and turns his hand up as Cassius’ fingertips trace the line of his palm. “What an interesting analogy.”

They keep going like that, through different people around the room, chatting in between. At some point, Christopher’s hand finds its way to his lower back, sneaking under the hem of his shirt there, delighting in the thrill and heat of hidden skin against skin.

“Him?”

“Attention. He’s hoping they find him funny:”

“Those two?”

“For him to stop speaking.”

Christopher keeps getting distracted from his own game part way through, stopping instead to tuck a lock of hair behind Cassius’ ear or smooth out the collar of his shirt with hands that linger.

“What about them?”

“Mm… too far away. It’s muddy.”

“Interesting.”

Cass lolls his head back to rest against the back of the couch, head resting on Christopher’s outstretched arm.

He’s had just enough champagne that his head feels light and lovely, limbs loose, cheeks warm. Booze softens the edges. But it makes everything more dangerous too. Makes the pulse and twist of wants around him louder and more tangible. And at the same time, muddier. Harder to predict.

He soothes himself with the weight of Christopher’s hand trailing up his thigh. With the feeling of Christopher’s beard brushing his cheek as the man whispers in his ear. With what’s being whispered. With the low, thrumming wants that are slowly curling into needs.

He skims the room as Christopher amuses himself. Across a waiter handing out a tray of miniature desserts, across the woman in the red dress from earlier, across a man with a face nearly the same shade who keeps glancing at them. Cass huffs a laugh, tilting his head to the side to get a better look and earns a kiss to the length of his neck. He hadn’t intended it as an invite but Christopher hums happily and it works.

“That man wants to talk to you,” Cassius murmurs, nodding in the direction of the red-faced man, who was trying determinedly now not to look directly at them, hand fidgeting in his pocket.

Christopher pulls back, following Cassius’ gaze, only to all but rolls his eyes when they land.

“What a shame for him that I am so thoroughly occupied,” he murmurs, turning back. Cass laughs the same way liquor fills a glass.

“Who is he?”

“Timothy Lyndon,” Christopher says, leaning back in close, pressing a kiss to the corner of his boy’s jaw. He’s never this affectionate in public. Never this overt. Cassius shifts his shoulder back, pressing against the crushed velvet of the couch.

“And what does he do?”

“Wave his money around and get on my nerves, mostly.” Another kiss, closer to the jugular.

“Investor?”

“Theoretically,” Christopher murmurs with a hum, and Cassius laughs again as the breath of the word traces along the side of his neck, down the collar of his shirt, wraps around his neck like the ghost of a hand.

Cass hadn’t been picked for his ability to charm a politician or small talk with an investor. He’d been picked because he made for the prettiest decoration. The status symbol with the most charming features and the wittiest side comments. The loveliest lovely thing.

He let’s it stretch out for another few minutes, closing his eyes to enjoy the buzz of the room and his head and the hands.

“Can we go home yet?” Cass sighs, hand coming up to run Christopher’s jacket lapel between his thumb and forefinger. He pouts, making the sort of petition that usually appeals, “I want to go to bed. Get these clothes off.”

Christopher hums in thought, eyes caught on something over Cassius’ shoulder. Christopher has the fucking prettiest eyes. Clear blue, flecked through with a little gold, a single dark freckle by the pupil on the left. Story book eyes. There’s something dark and darkly curious in them now.

“Hmm. Shortly,” Christopher says, absently in delayed response. “I’ve got one last mark for you, if you’re up for it.”

Cassius tilts his head to the side, cheek brushing against Christopher’s sleeve. He hums. “Go on then.”

Christopher points to whatever he’s looking towards with a smile, “That man there. What does he want?”

Cass sighs and picks his head up, looking over his shoulder to focus on a man seated by himself over by the bay window. Dark hair and light eyes. Perfect picture of well dressed. Looking directly at them.

Cassius reaches out. Tasting. Assessi-

He flinches back. Recoils. Shrinks. Christopher’s eyes flick to him with an expectant smile, those story book eyes warm and fond. Cass clears his throat, half smile on his face as he meets but can’t hold Christopher’s gaze. “He wants, uh... He wants a lot of things.”

Christopher laughs, soft and bright. “So coy, darling boy. That’s not like you.”

Cass shrugs, eyes on Christopher’s lapel, instead of his face, playing at apathy, “I’m bored with this game, it makes me dizzy.”

Christopher smiles at him, full of fondness and craving and something else that Cass refuses to give a name to. He tilts his head, expression warm the way an open flame is, “We’re not leaving until you tell me what he wants, my love. I’d endure one last round if I were you.”

Cassius holds his keepers gaze for a moment longer before he yields. He turns his head to look back at the dark haired man, now raising a hand to a server to get another drink before he looks back to them. Cassius doesn’t need to reach out to feel the want. His mind is tethered to it. Nearly hungry for it. Or not quite hungry maybe.

Just a tug.

“He wants my company for the night,” Cass mutters, barely enough volume to be heard over the chatter of the room.

Christopher smiles with a little noise of agreement, hand coming up to smooth Cassius’ collar. “And what else?”

Like he doesn’t know. Like he isn’t wanting the exact same fucking thing.

There’s no room in this conversation for any kind of plea. Any kind of bargaining or hesitation or fear. Cass folds it all up. Puts it away. Before the feelings make things complicated.

“He wants to hurt me,” he says evenly. He takes a breath, feels the tug grow stronger, says it again. “He really wants to hurt me.”

Christopher hums as though surprised. Cass would bet his contract twice over that he isn't.

“Does he now?” Christopher says, eyes never leaving the man in question. His smile could be honey, could be poison, could be prayer. “Well, then, darling boy. You better go and say hello.”

#dubcon cw #abuse of power #intimate whumper #cassius #christopher #implied or referenced noncon

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drax-is-inthefandom · 3 years

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Divergence of Faith

Chapter 1: The Basement

By the time the clock struck 6 in the morning, the last light in the Lake house was finally turned off. Barbara Lake, a current medical student and recently divorced mother, had finally finished her theoretical career jobs, after a full day of housework and schoolwork, she could get a modest three hours sleep before having to wake up to make breakfast for the day .

Funny that Saturday morning, she would not sleep just a couple of hours as she was used to, but rather that a little one with disheveled hair and bright blue eyes had been in charge of sabotaging her alarm to make sure she slept as much as necessary. By the time the sky was turning to warm orange hues, Jim Lake Jr was already awake and active, ready to take on as much housework as a 6-year-old could do - all because Mommy could finally take a break!

Breakfast was the main thing, because a growing child just like his mother, a future doctor, had to eat well. From under his pillow he pulled out the magazine page he had ripped from his last visit to the dentist and as fast and quiet as he could go downstairs, he ran to the kitchen to collect all the ingredients that were in the magazine recipe.

It was an omelet, something he could easily do without causing a fire, lately he was helping his mom in the kitchen and taking on more and more chores in food preparation, so he was confident that there would be no problem at all with him taking care of breakfast for the day by himself.

Confident and with a smile on his lips, Jim turned on the coffee pot so that when his mother woke up he could receive her with a cup of hot coffee along with the omelet. He could already imagine his mom rested, eating without falling asleep at the table and without having to worry about having to clean or do any other chores. He could even take care of lunch if necessary! Today he just wanted her not to worry about a thing.

He was in the middle of whisking the eggs when he heard something that brought him out of his fantasies. A strange noise.

He leaned out to the stairs, his ears sharpening to make sure his mom hadn't got up. Nothing, absolute silence.

There was nothing in the living room either.

"It's nothing" He said to convince himself, it was still early and maybe his head was playing a trick on him for getting up early. Obviously the darkness that was still in the house and that did not allow him to see anything through the windows was not causing him any paranoia to be hearing noises, clearly not.

But then he heard the noise again, this time louder and accompanied by what sounded like falling boxes.

Now he was sure where the noise was coming from. The basement.

His first impulse upon hearing such noise from the place of his house that he was most afraid of was running towards the stairs to look for Mom, to seek her protection in her arms and between her sheets. But hearing her light snores through her door, just as he was about to turn the knob to enter, made him stop.

He was supposed to be doing this to get her to rest, it was supposed to be a surprise, if he ran with her because he was scared of a noise, his whole plan would be ruined. He released the knob and went back downstairs.

Again he heard noises coming from the basement.

He gulped.

“I am a big boy. I protect mom now. ” With shaky legs, Jim returned to the kitchen to take what he considered a good weapon against whatever was in the basement: the largest metal spoon in the drawer.

Armed with his spoon and accumulating as much courage as he could on his little chest, the boy slowly approached the door that led to the basement to turn the door handle with trembling hands, fearful that his movements would alert any monster behind it and get himself attacked the moment he opened it. He raised the spoon in front of him when the door was finally open, shrinking and closing his eyes to avoid seeing his enemy in the face, as if the metal utensil was enough to scare him.

A few seconds passed and nothing seemed to eat him, so he opened his eyes.

He only found the darkness of the steps. He breathed again, not realizing that he had stopped doing it, he sat on the first step with the spoon firmly against his chest, waiting again for something to happen.

Again, nothing.

"You can do this, Jim." He took a deep breath, inflating his chest with it in a gesture of pure determination, and began to descend slowly, one step at a time and without removing the spoon away from himself. He kept his eyes open, waiting for them to adapt to the darkness in order to find any sign of what that noise had been, his ears until now only caught the light grinding of the wood under its weight as he advanced.

He was already halfway up the stairs when he finally saw something. What he saw almost made him throw the spoon out of fear, but again, as if it were a sword worthy of a knight, he raised it in front of him, threatening whatever was staring back at him.

"W-Who's there?"

He could swear it, yellow eyes were staring at him as intently as he was staring at whoever was the owner of those eyes. But he was sure it wasn't remotely as scared as he was. The growl that answered his question could assure it to him.

"W-Whoever you are, I-I'm not afraid of you!"

It was a raccoon, it must be a raccoon, whenever a strange noise was accompanied by bright and threatening eyes that stared at him from the forest, his mother always showed him that it was just a raccoon. This could not be different.

"I'm not afraid of you either"

Only that raccoons didn't speak.

He wanted to scream but the words were drowned in his throat, it had closed as a maximum security vault, with all the fear he was feeling his head only managed to tell his body to do one thing. He threw the spoon directly at the owner of those yellow eyes.

"What is this?" But his strength as a 6-year-old boy was not enough to cross the entire basement space to where the invader seemed to be, the utensil was halfway, in a neutral point of both where the light of the corridor still entered but the absolute darkness of the rest of the room began.

Jim felt himself shaking as he saw a hand approaching from the darkness, a blue hand. If he was not paralyzed before, now he was fused with the steps.

After the hand, an arm appeared, then another hand and little by little the body of the owner of those yellow eyes was revealed. In just seconds, the invader was fully revealed, all in order to smell a spoon he used to serve the stews.

It was ... A strange creature, clearly it was not a raccoon. Its skin was blue, but it had no texture of fur or scales or ... or skin, it was too smooth and firm. What was it made of? Another thing that drew attention more than the color of its skin, were the horns on its head, it had two pairs, two small on the top and some larger that waved slightly to the sides, they were a color similar to ivory. On his shoulders it also seemed to have protuberances, but they were not horns, they were slightly more translucent, it was noted by how the light that entered the basement interacted with these. Crystals? And… did he have more on his back?

"What are you?" He thought he had thought about it, but seeing the invader raise his head from sniffing the spoon to focus on him, he gulped at his loose tongue.

"Something you shouldn't be seeing" From the tone in which the blue creature spoke, it showed that he wanted to sound intimidating, aggressive, but even a small child like Jim could notice the shame that the slight tremor in his tone betrayed him.

"Then why am I seeing you?" He wasn't attacking him and seemed more interested in the spoon than in him, curiosity overcame any fear he had been feeling until now. He was a boy with a nascent streak for adventure. Could you blame him?

"... Because I failed to go unnoticed to enter your house" Now yes, the shame was more obvious. The invader dropped to his butt on the ground, taking the spoon in his hands to continue sniffing it.

"Why did you come into my house?"

"Because the sun is already rising" And the question that Jim was going to ask, was swallowed by the surprise of seeing the invader taking a bite out of his spoon, making half of the utensil disappear from a bite as if it were a simple caramel.

"... Do you have more of that? It was delicious.” It took him to see how the entire spoon was devoured so Jim could even remember how to speak.

"Uh ... I don't think my mom would like to know that you ate a spoon, if I bring you something else she may worry that she has lost kitchen utensils" A pout from the blue invader was his answer and Jim couldn't avoid a giggling, he puffed out his cheeks in a similar way to Toby when he was throwing a tantrum and it was a funny sight for him.

"Why are you laughing? Do you want us to fight? ” And his laughter died as soon as he saw the invader putting himself into a position similar to that of a bull ready to charge a bullfighter, he even moved his foot as they do to signal that it will take the hit! Jim moved his hands in frenzy, he was not very excited about the idea of getting rammed with those horns that he had on his head.

"Nononono, sorry, sorry ... You reminded me of a friend, that's all"

"... Did I remind you of one of your fleshbag friends?"

"... Fleshbags? Uh ... Yes, Toby may be a little… stuffed, but it's not to call him that”

"... Stuffed? No, I meant that all of you humans are fleshbags, you are a fleshbag”

"I am not a fleshbag!"

"Yes you are!"

"Not!"

"Yes!"

Now it was Jim's turn to pout, forgetting that he was in the basement, forgetting that his only light was coming from the open door into the hallway, he got up from the step where he was sitting and with a firm step, doing his best imitation to how he saw his mom acted when someone made her mad, he walked over to the blue invader and stood in front of him.

"I'm not a fleshbag, don't call me that"

His challenge position was quickly captured but he did not receive the answer he expected, until now the invader had remained sitting or walking on all fours, but seeing him stand in front of him with such bearing, made him respond in the same way. With a push of his arms, he got up and planted in front of Jim, puffing out his chest with the intention of appearing bigger, that even without that, he was at least a head and a half taller than the 6-year-old boy, and that without counting the horns.

"Well, humans are fleshbags, so that's what you are, fleshbag"

The two little ones held their gaze, blue eyes against yellow eyes, neither wanting to give his arm to twist in that silent challenge.

Their staring war lasted long enough that they had to look away to blink, both leaving their eyes dry for not wanting to give up. Jim was annoyed, but oddly, the invader laughed.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Because I did not expect to see a child stand in front of the great Draal, fleshbag"

"My name is not fleshbag! My name is Jim! Jim Lake Jr!”

"Then we already know the other's name, Jim"

A snort came from Jim's lips while Draal only laughed.

Funny that this would not be their last fight, because what these little ones did not know is that their innocent interaction would be the key point for a radical change in the both of their worlds.

A change that only time would tell what kind of path will take. Positive? Or negative?

The divergence of fate had only just begun.

#Divergence of faith #tales of arcadia #fanfic #draal the deadly #jim lake #trollhunters #drax writes #I wrote this almost a year ago #And I DO PLAN IN FINISHING IT

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iwrestlenow · 3 years

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Many More To Die - Chapter 2

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 2)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Names are powerful things--and after ten years, Logan's has acquired quite a bit. The restoration of his power is something he has to fight viciously to keep secret...But he's not the only necromancer who's in hiding. Above his head, Roman is being introduced to the people of the Kingdom's as his father's successor--but someone in the shadows is coming for the royal house of Sanders, of which Roman is part.And Logan will not stand for someone laying figurative hands on anyone that belongs to him.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), future Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: lots of death because necromancy, slash, and more to come as I figure it out ‘cause it’s late and I’m tired. In this particular chapter, CW for angst--I’ll post what kind at the end if you want to avoid spoilers, but I’m warning because for me? It’s a triggery subject. Be safe, you’re all so sweet and ILU.

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1025, A.A.

“Berry?”

Logan was yanked from a sound sleep by the utterance of his name—not the sound, but the feeling of it. Crawling around inside his skull like ants, static electricity shocking his neural pathways and the core of his essence. It was red strings and his first meal after that one stretch in the dungeon's blackout cells after he punched the guard that dislocated his shoulder.

Logan Berry. Logan Berry. The gift from his guardian angel was two years old at this point...and Logan was starting to wonder if it was more than just a small reminder of his personhood, to keep the harsh world around him from breaking his spirit.

Sitting up, Logan rubbed his eyes and reached for his glasses where they sat on the floor beside his pallet. When they had finally given them back to him two weeks after his arrival, the right lens had been all but shattered. The guard who had returned them—the same one who injured him—smiled far too wide for Logan's liking, inciting the attack that had gotten him punished.

“I am awake.” he announced softly, sliding his glasses on and rising from his pallet to approach the bars of his cell. Squinting in the low torchlight, he searched...

A point of bright yellow sunlight, slit down the middle by a reptilian pupil gleamed in the shadows before the body it was attached to came into view. Swiftly, it was joined by another eye, very much human and dark as chocolate. A sweep of hair as black as Logan's own fell across his forehead, and the torchlight gleamed across the burnished surface of the scales that covered half of the young drake's face and neck.

“Of course.” the drake shot back dryly, not quite managing to hide the sibilant accent inherent to his species. “That's why you were snoring.”

“What do you want, Janus?”

The eighteen year old Janus narrowed his mismatched eyes at Logan—but quickly gave up on trying to look intimidating. He hardly needed it, being not only older, but the son of the captain of the guard.

“A favor.” he admitted, sparking enough of Logan's interest to banish the last of the cobwebs lingering in his head. Janus didn't like being indebted to anyone—and, to that end, usually came to Logan for favors, as Logan was always perfectly willing to trade his assistance for some commodity, be it books, food, or the repair of his glasses.

“What is the favor?” Logan asked.

Janus said nothing for a long moment, staring into Logan's face...no, not his face. Squinting, he realized Janus was quite deliberately avoiding direct eye contact by focusing on a point just above Logan's eyes, somewhere around his forehead.

“Janus?...”

Shutting his eyes, Janus ducked his head.

“I...need a name.”

“A...what?”

“A name, all right? Like the one you picked for yourself.”

Logan was startled by that request—he told no one about the boy who came to him, claimed he made up his own surname to replace the Name that was stripped away. Some of the guards disliked it, stirring fresh retellings of the legends of the Lazari: necromancers with the power not merely to raise the dead, but craft true, living souls from sheer force of will.

He even heard some new ones about the Animata: a theoretical balance to the Necromata, magic practitioners that could manipulate life the way necromancers manipulated death. From the stories Logan overheard while pretending to sleep with guards outside his cell, the Animata had been wiped out by the rise of the Animator, the First of the Necromata, leading to his rise and attempted enslavement of the Kingdoms. With the Animata gone and unable to keep the balance in check, the king had been forced to slay the Animator and had outlawed necromancy soon after.

All stories, of course...but over the last two years, as his name wormed through his brain the way the power of the prison mages had, it sometimes made him wonder. After all, mythology and legend served two functions in human history: explaining natural phenomenon that were not yet understood, or hyperbolic retellings of one or many actual events.

So the prison guards talked, wondered if Logan had designs on restoring his own Name through the adoption of a new one—but Janus, for all his trust issues and ilicit dealings, was an intelligent boy with a good head on his shoulders. He wasn't one for fanciful stories—only those that he could tell in the name of manipulating others.

Perhaps that was why he felt some measure of shame or embarrassment for asking Logan this favor? There was clearly some...unidentified emotion behind the request, and Logan wasn't particularly good at coping with emotional issues. He highly suspected that, when he still had a Name, he had been essentially the same.

“...I want to be allowed to keep books in my cell.” He hadn't meant to say anything indicating agreement—but the words fell out of his mouth without any conscious permission.

Janus's head snapped up sharply. This time, he met Logan's gaze with an intensity that was decidedly threatening.

“That's all?” he asked, squinting after a long moment. “No...commentary?”

Logan shrugged. “You know I do not care for sentiment. Your obvious flirtation with it, in this situation, does not interest me so much as what I can gain from the moment of weakness on your part.”

“Are you sure you're only fourteen? You sound way too much like my grandpa sometimes.”

Logan rolled his eyes, declining to rise to the bait. Instead, he gave the matter what he felt was a comically superficial amount of consideration.

“Hart.” he finally decided.

Janus raised an eyebrow at him, mismatched eyes losing focus for a moment before he nodded to himself.

“That...works surprisingly well.” he mumbled, seemingly more to himself than anything. Refocusing on Logan, Janus straightened and once again resumed his attempts at exuding as commanding a presence as he could manage.

“You'll get your books.” Janus assured him. “I always pay my debts.”

“Past performance indicates this is an accurate assessment. Hence my request.”

“Oh...go back to bed.”

“Gladly.”

********** 1033, A.A.

“Ladies, lords, non-binary royalty, and all of my valued subjects!”

By the gods, I'm going to throw up.

Roman stood behind the curtain on the balcony, his heart in his throat. Every part of him was screaming to run, to hide, to sink into the floor and vanish through sheer force of his desire to not be there—to push Remus out to take his place when the king made his proclamation. Already, he could feel the weight of his impending responsibilities threatening to crush him, the world narrowing and the walls closing in...

He couldn't do this. He wasn't ready. He wasn't smart like Remus or as patient as his father, he wasn't commanding enough—he couldn't be king.

But he would be. One day.

Peering through the curtain, he saw his father turn...and though the pride in his face only made the terror worse, at the same time...

He could do this. He had to.

Smiling, King Thomas Sanders IV extended a hand towards him in silent encouragement. It was the same hand he offered to those subjects that knelt before him at court to have their grievances heard, the same hand he offered to both Roman and Remus as children when they felt shy or had fallen down while playing...

...or leading him back into the house when he was out to hunt a Lazari...

“I give you your future king—Prince Roman Sanders!”

A hand fell to his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Give 'em hell, Ro Bro!” Remus hissed gleefully in his ear.

It was strange, but some of the weight lifted itself off of Roman's shoulders, with his brother's hand there instead as he stepped out onto the balcony and into the sunlight.

For a moment, it was...magical. The ghost of Remus's fingers pressed into his shoulder, his father's hand curling warm around his nape—the people of the Kingdoms below, smiling and cheering in a symphony that filled his lungs as readily as it filled his ears, turning his heart into pure starlight.

For a moment, basking in his father's pride, his brother's confidence, and his people's love—he didn't just feel like he could do this, he knew that he could.

For a moment—that was all he got before his heart stopped beating.

It happened suddenly, but somehow it felt as natural as breathing. The tension of that missing engine powering the body and soul, the inability to draw breath. It was the peace of sleep, the flow of one step into the next while walking down an evenly paved road—he knew something was wrong, and yet he could not escape the manner in which it felt so normal.

Standing there, dying in front of the very kingdom he was meant to serve with no rhyme or reason for it.

Let it go...it felt so right, it felt proper.

As his vision began to dim, and the hand he'd raised to wave to the crowd started to fall by his side, he felt the urge to fight sliding out of him, eyes already slipping shut...

Easy as existing. Getting dark, time to sleep.

Until he heard a sigh next to him that was chilling.

The king.

Death no longer felt so inevitable, nor did it feel right. It was wrong, but...it was inside him, twisting and warping to form words that echoed inside his head. Something was slipping into the void left behind by the absence of a heartbeat, speaking to him in the Reaper's voice...

The necromancer.

**********

Logan was only aware of it in passing—however, Logan wasn't supposed to be capable of even that, and had to take such painstaking care to make sure that no trace of his magic could be felt anywhere. He had to keep the fact that he had power hidden, had to beat back every trace of it.

So he was aware of his magic, far more than he was aware of the distant stars that were the lives of every creature within the palace and beyond.

And the feel of his power waking, straining towards death? That hit him hard, made him focus on that awareness of what was happening.

“Lo? You okay?”

Logan spun in his seat and stood, stalking up to the bars of his cell. It was little more than a voice in another house, reaching him barely through thin walls and great distances...but it was growing closer, crossing that distance, too close too close too close...

“Logan? You're scaring me.”

Patton was at his side, watching him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Someone is killing the king.” Logan breathed.

“What? How can you possibly know that?” Patton hissed.

Logan opened his mouth...and nothing came.

Until that voice, hollow and honeyed, was suddenly in his house and in his veins and in his...in his.

For the first time, Logan understood why the Necromata were so feared—why he was locked below ground, why he had no Name of his own and why it was so desperately important to make sure no necromancer could ever practice their art.

The moment he sensed that foreign power encroaching on something that belonged to Logan alone, everything was chilling instinct and cold, calculating fury. The power swept up and took over, took action to reclaim what was being stolen.

The king was dying, but so was the Green Man.

Logan's last rational thought before an eerie blue light swallowed up his eyes and the power wiped his mind clean was that, if the Green Man was close enough to the king, he might actually be able to save them both.

********** The necromancer in the dungeons. Roman could feel it, he was certain of it...it felt cold and airy, thick morning fog swirling through his marrow yet rendering his mind strangely clear. It was familiar, not all that different from the way it felt when they touched in Roman's dreams.

The necromancer was there. He was...helping Roman.

You have to get to the king.

He didn't know, even after all these years didn't realize who Roman was, and that was the way it ought to be, and yet...he was warning Roman, he was--

The wrongness of it filled his chest in the space of a blink, filled his lungs, forced breath into his body. The fight squeezed every muscle, including his heart, in a steady rhythm that started his blood moving again. Roman tried to clutch at his chest, but he couldn't.

He felt cold all over, but his body was working, warring with some outside force, struggling to stay alive.

His body was no longer his to control, he realized with a rush of fear. The necromancer...chill fog, thick and light and clear, in his head and his veins and his heart...

Roman's body was turning, his head swiveling around, obeying an order he did not give.

The necromancer was animating him now, manipulating his every move—and all Roman could do was stand there and let it happen--

Go.

...Father!

This time, when he tried to move, his body obeyed him, his will and that of the necromancer uniting as one.

He rushed forward, reaching out...

In just enough time to catch the king as he fell, a corpse gone cold by the time the both of them reached the ground. ((CW: parental death--but this IS a necromancer AU. Just keep that in mind. XD))

#cw: angst #cw: death #sanders sides #ts logan #ts roman #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #ts morality #logince #necromancer au #thomas sanders #ts fanfic #this is all the artist's fault i'm just a hapless writer that stumbled across it #my name is liz and i swear to god i will fic again #no betas we die like men

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dirt-cup-draco · 4 years

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Harry Potter x Reader - Missed Connection, Second Chance

hey! could I request a little harry x reader fic where harry's all insecure and shit and one day the reader is like drooling over some other cute guy that she's never noticed before and he's sad™

Harry walked into potions and immediately he was in a sour mood. Not because Snape stood imposingly at the front of the class, staring down his nose at Harry, but because you were not in your normal seat. Instead you were across the isle, sitting next to some boy.

A boy that wasn’t Harry. Harry had been crushing on you for a while, had even gotten the guts to ask you out to Hogsmeade but you thought he only meant as friends and so to save him from embarrassment, Ron and Hermione had tagged along. Why didn’t you see him the way he saw you?

Admittedly, Harry had gotten used to the attention his scar brought, but beyond that he was a decent quidditch player and that seemed to be a driving force of attraction in this school. Above all of that, he had been friends with you for years and felt he knew you, and you knew him, better than anyone else. Not even Ron and Hermione knew him quite like you did.

Now, you had an uncanny ability to read Harry. Any little change in tone or expression and you were asking him what was up or telling a punch line to a joke he had begun. It made him feel as if you two had a connection but maybe you hadn’t realized it yet.

Was his hair too messy? You seemed to like dark haired guys, that should be working in his favor though... Maybe he wasn’t muscular enough? He had always been smaller, living underneath your aunt and uncle’s staircase would do that to you. He had bulked up a bit in his teen years, eating more now that he was at school, getting rest and playing quidditch. Besides the constant near death experiences, he would say he was a pretty average guy. So why didn’t you like him?

Maybe that was it. Was Harry too much? He was always getting into something and you had expressed your worries about him. You didn’t want your friend to die, understandably. Harry scowled and let Snape’s nasally voice roll off his shoulders as he got stuck in his own mind. Potions passed, the occasional giggle coming from your seat as you flirted but other than that Harry wasn’t paying attention.

You caught up with him in the hallway after he had left though and you had jogged right up, a bright smile on your face. “Guess who has a date next weekend? You get three guesses and ‘Ron’ and ‘Hermione’ are the wrong answers,”

“Oh, so Neville is going on a date? Good for him,” Harry sassed but you just laughed, bumping into his side. “Who is the guy?” He couldn’t help but ask and his heart clenched at the way you lit up.

“Michael Corner, he’s a Ravenclaw,”

“Right, the bloke in our potions class,”

“That’s the one,” You smiled and Harry couldn’t help but smile back, bumping you back as you entered the great hall with him, sitting with Hermione and Ron. The rest of the day seemed to go by quickly but that night Harry lie awake long into the night, wishing you were going out with him instead.

The day of your date you spent every second getting ready. Michael was a sweet kid, shy. He was reserved but funny and you hadn’t really noticed him before now but you were glad you had caught his eye in potions and sat next to him. By the end of class you had asked him out and you were looking forward to it. It had been a while since you’d gone on a date.

You felt like no one was really interested in you so you were always the one asking guys out. You didn’t mind, but you just wished that someone would have the guts or at least the desire to walk up to you and ask you out. You tried not to focus on that though as you put all your effort into looking your best. It was for you as much as it was for your date. You felt your best when you looked your best.

You arrived at the Three Broomsticks five minutes early and patiently waited for Michael. You weren’t known for your patience however and so when ten minutes had passed, you ordered butterbeers for the both of you. You were certain that he wasn’t going to be longer now, he was only five minutes late. Yet, five minutes late turned into twenty and twenty turned to thirty and you were finishing your third butterbeer, you had to order another so you didn’t look pitiful sitting there all on your lonesome. Finally you decided he wasn’t coming.

Sighing you got up, a little disappointed but not utterly surprised. It had happened before. You always got excited for dates, maybe you came on too strong and it scared them off? Michael hadn’t seemed the type though and you were saddened. Rosmerta gave you an understanding smile as you took your leave. It was dark and cold and you were too upset yet to go back to Hogwarts so you took a walk through Hogsmeade. Snow was beginning to fall.

“Y/N?” You heard someone called out and your heart jumped in your chest. Maybe Michael really had come after all! Yet when you looked you came face to face with Harry Potter himself. He was out of breath but searching your face with a mix of anger and... determination?

“Oh, Harry, Michael just left.” You began to lie. “I told him to go ahead since I wanted to walk for a bit. What are you doing here?”

Harry looked surprised but then gave you a pitying look. “I saw Michael in the castle... He never showed did he?” You bit your lip and tried to stifle how you were feeling.

“No,” You tried to simply say but your voice cracked with the rest of your defenses and you were sniffling, a few rogue tears trailing down your cheeks as Harry drew you into a hug, your frozen nose pressed against his chest. “Why didn’t he come? Am I not good enough?”

“Don’t you ever say that,” Harry said sternly, hand rubbing calm circles into your back. “He’s a coward and a git. Anyone would be lucky to go on a date with you, he missed his chance with the most amazing witch I know,”

You let out a weak chuckle and pressed closer to Harry’s warmth. “Thanks, you’re biased though,” It was somewhat of a joke but Harry was pulling back, hands cold against your cheeks as he forced you to look at him.

“Please know I am serious when I say this: You are brilliant and lovely and the most beautiful girl I have ever met, seeing you and being around you is the highlight of my day. I’m not biased, I just see your worth.”

You were finding it hard to continue to stay under the intensity of his gaze. You were positive you had never seen him look at you this way before. It was one of the rare times you couldn’t read him like a book. His thumbs stroked absentmindedly at the apples of your cheeks and you continued to stare back at him as the snow clung to his eyelashes. You were speechless.

“I mucked it up the first time,” Harry began again as he looked to the sky, silently asking for help. “But if idiots are going to keep breaking your heart I’m going to have to put an end to it by going out on a limb that might hurt our friendship,”

“What are you going on about?” You asked, now a bit worried. “You’re not going to do anything to Michael, are you?”

Harry laughed a little, helping him relax as you smiled a little. “No, I won’t. I’m just going to ask you right here, right now, on a proper date. Last time I chickened out and we went to Hogsmeade as friends. I don’t want to go as just friends. Y/N will you go on a date with me?”

You stared at Harry in thinly veiled shock. That was the last thing you had expected. You were positive now that that was why you hadn’t been able to read him. You would never guess in a million years that Harry had feelings for you. You didn’t realized you had yet to say anything until Harry was letting his arms fall heavy to his side, a disheartened look on his face.

“Yes!” You blurted out as he opened his mouth, probably to apologize, you guessed from the way his eyes were bouncing around to look at anyone but you. “I’ll go on a date with you,”

He broke into a grin and swept you into his arms, spinning you around and nearly slipping on the snow as you squealed in alarm but then burst into laughter as he righted the both of you.

“Y/N, one more thing,” Harry said, as you had both started walking towards Hogwarts. “I won’t hurt MIchael but if Fred and George prank him tomorrow, you won’t get mad, right? Just theoretically,”

You snorted and you were glad Harry had come. He really did always know how to make you happy. It seemed like you had always been staring at the wrong guys when the one closest to you was clearly the best choice. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind,” You shrugged but there was a mischievous glint to your eye that told Harry all he needed to know.

In a split second decision, you slipped your hand into his as a small sign of thanks. You were delighted to see that the small action had him speechless as he stared at your intertwined fingers.

After so many missed connections you were finally glad you had opened your eyes to the one you had been right in front of you this whole time.

#OUR FIRST HARRY #I love it #And I am excited #harry potter #harry #harry x reader #harry potter x reader #ask #request #anon ask #fluff #angst #mostly angst #drabble #pining

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graigoo · 4 years

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Jivin’ Bones (Chapter 1)

Summary: The above world isn't what Sans thought it would be, not that he had ever given it much thought. With all his old friends busy living their own lives, even Papyrus away from home more often than not— Sans is left to entertain himself. Bored, he turns back to the Underground. To the broken machine hidden in the back of his workshop. In the process of fixing it, the machine malfunctions and sends Sans into an alternate world.

Thrust into a harsher reality, Sans must survive long enough to find a way back home... while being pursued by a version of himself that's all too interested to know who the new skeleton in town is.

Inspired/Influenced by Sooner or Later You’re Gonna be Mine

Pairing: Bara!Mobfell Sans/Sans

Warnings: Mature, Graphic Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter One

Sans sighed, he huffed, he chuffed.

He lay on the couch, eyes straining as another raunchy comedian sauntered across the TV. The small square box’s glow was bright and the contrast between it and the dark living room was enough to pain his eyes. He rolled over on the couch to face the back of it, both to escape the light and because he was no longer enjoying the comedy special marathon. Raunchy comedians were the worst. Absolute party poopers. Why if Sans were in that crowd, he’d boo the bozo off the stage.

Anyone can spout swear words and point to their nether regions. It takes real comedic talent to get a crowd going with just one’s wit and line delivery. A talent Sans prided himself on, though he admittedly had a preference for puns over everything else.

There had been a time, when the monsters had first come to the surface, bright eyed and full of hope, that Sans had considered a career as a comedian. Touring the world, exploring, teaching the humans what monster comedy was all about. But then he’d really got to thinking about it, talked it over with his brother. And realized it would be… a lot.

He’d be on a schedule, have to actually plan the shows, constantly be moving based on where the crowds are and not where he wanted to be, not to mention having to workout contracts and payment. Too much work so soon after coming up from the Underground and Sans was too tired to be bothered.

Or at least that’s what he had told Papyrus.

He couldn’t have very well told his brother that if he became a professional comedian, then he would have to leave their newly settled home and that they wouldn’t see each other nearly as much. And after spending almost the entirety of his life caring for his younger brother, Sans was reluctant to leave him. For anything. The younger skeleton was a magnet for trouble and danger seemed to follow him wherever he went. Who knew what the hyperactive monster would get up to without Sans around to curb his enthusiasm?

That, and his brother’s dusty remains having slid through his trembling, segmented fingers enough times to be counted on both hands, might have also played a role in his unwillingness to leave his brother behind. Just a small one. Nothing major.

Knowing that Sans’ decision to stay in this little, cozy, do-nothing town was linked entirely to his desire to stay by his brother’s side, would make said brother feel guilty.

Just chalk another mark on the board next to the thousand other ones that represented all the things he couldn’t tell his brother.

Sans groaned as another curse-word laden joke boomed from the TV. Such poor taste, so low brow.

It didn’t suit their new little house, the same as their old, only with more windows. Papyrus, for whatever reason, loved the sun and raved about their home having natural light sources. Sans hadn’t seen the appeal, but was never the argumentative type, least of all over windows. Though he had wanted to mention how easy windows are to break in to. How human children were known to throw rocks through monsters’ windows, graffiti their walls, tee-pee their trees.

Mean spirited pranks that just spoke to how terrible human-surface-world comedy truly was.

Hundreds of channels and somehow the one that used to play in the Underground topped them all.

Tired as he was, lazy as he prided himself on being, the TV would be no distraction tonight. It was late, his brother was out on a patrol, having eagerly and early on joined the human police force. Their version of a guard, a much more boring version. With stricter rules, uniforms, and a harsher schedule. Too much work to join and not enough entertainment value to bother.

Undyne had taken to it immediately, though her more violent tendencies had somehow led to her never making it past the rank of police technician. A dumb name for a rank, because she didn’t actually work on anything technical, like the name suggested. She just helped kids and old humans cross the road, and handed out the occasional parking ticket.

Going from Captain of the honor guard to babysitter, and she wasn’t even bothered by it. Which probably had something to do with the street she regularly patrolled being directly across from the school Alphys taught at. Another step down, from royal scientist to middle school teacher.

The monster kingdom had fallen apart almost immediately after reaching the surface, the integration into human society easier than anyone had thought possible. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a jumbled mess of working parts left behind in the Underground. One no one seemed in any hurry to fix.

Being on the surface didn’t mean they could take it easy. There was more work that needed to be done.

It was just a pain being the only one to remember it needed doing.

The bother of it all didn’t stop him from smiling, even as another horrid joke came from the TV, threatening to put a damper on his already soggy mood. He slid off the couch and picked up the remote, pointing it threateningly at the glowing box.

“Sorry to cut you off early,” he said to the TV comedian. “But you’re not even remotely funny.”

Sans chuckled at his own joke, too tired to give it the proper guffaw it deserved.

“I’d telly you in person,” he continued at the screen. “but I got places TV tonight.”

That got a proper laugh out of him, at the same time the audience started roaring. Sans took a bow then clicked off the television, leaving the white glow from his eye sockets as the only light in the house.

Sans allowed his laughter to carry him out of the living room and to the front of the house. If he couldn’t focus on TV or hang with his brother, then there really was nothing for him to do in the above world, at least not this night. It was too late for anything to be open, and too early to try and get some sleep. That strange in-between that always came after midnight.

So instead he’d do the work no one else remembered needed being done.

Sans closed the door behind him as he stepped outside, only to shiver and shove his hands into his coat pockets. Even after spending so long in Snowdin, Sans still wasn’t a fan of the cold. Not like his brother, who acted like it didn’t affect him at all, the younger skeleton more susceptible to the heat than the cold. To the point that his brother wore crop tops in the winter.

Maybe the cold affected Sans differently because he was already such a chill guy.

Sans snorted, only to cringe as cold air filled his skull. Didn’t stop his smile, or laughter. What would he be if he couldn’t laugh at himself? Sans one funny-bone, is what he’d be.

His snickering was cut short as the first snow of the season began to fall. Looked like it was going to be a white one this winter. He held a hand out as if to catch it, but before a flake could land in his palm, he teleported.

Pop.

Sans landed outside town next to a great big, blue welcome sign.

Welcome to Delta| Population: Growing

Grinning, he nodded at the sign. “Sorry, didn’t notice you there.”

Without waiting for a rebuttal, he teleported again. This time he landed at the base of Mount Ebott, the soft pop of his teleportation the only sound to be heard for miles. Well, except for the howl of the wind. Looking up he could see a storm coming, the moon slowly being eclipsed by dark clouds. The lack of luminescent light made the forest ahead of him appear even darker. Good thing he wouldn’t be traversing it.

That’d be a real pine in the neck.

With another pop, he teleported to the mountain’s summit.

Being so high up, looking down at the shining city down below the mountain, only made him wonder how a human could possibly fall from such a height and survive. Every time, he questioned it. Flowers weren’t so soft that they could cushion a body. He had theorized that it was actually the barrier that cushioned the human’s fall. It hadn’t parted to let her through, but rather bent forward from the power of her soul, her fall had been slowed by the barrier pushing back against her decent, until the she fallen too far for the barrier’s magic to follow. The little human had pushed through just close enough to the ground to survive.

Or, so Sans theorized.

If he cared enough, which he didn’t, he could always ask Frisk directly what her fall had been like. That was more along Alphys’ line of work, though. Sans had stopped bothering with the barrier years before the human girl had fallen into their lives.

No, his own line of research was much more… theoretical.

With one last look Delta City, sans teleported again.

Pop.

He landed just outside the ruins, his magic enough to get him past the Underground’s entrance, but not all the way to Snowdin. Not that he was in a hurry to arrive or return home. With his brother always patrolling or tired from always patrolling, Alphys and Undyne occupied by their own love lives, and Toriel busy reconnecting with Asgore and raising Frisk—There was no one to miss him.

The corners of his smile twitched, but didn’t drop. Work would distract him from those unwanted and unnecessary thoughts. He had no reason to be anything but content. To have everything every monster in the Underground had ever wanted now possible and only then start to pull a frown…

Well, it wouldn’t be very ice of him.

Sans chuckled just as he teleported to the main entrance of Snowdin.

Pop.

He sighed a contended sigh at the familiar sight. Or, mostly familiar. The town was dark, all the homes and shops empty, abandoned not long after the barrier trapping the residents in the Underground had been lifted. The only light in the town came from its own natural luminescent glow and the decorated tree at the other end of the town. Not even the welcome sign was lit. He’d call it a real ghost town, but he doubts even Napstablook would live here. No one did anymore.

And Sans couldn’t blame them. Even if he would have been perfectly content to spend the rest of his days in the little town, he never expected his brother or the other residents to share his same sense of hopelessness. All from an incident that occurred well before he and his brother had moved to Snowdin.

It had taken Frisk threatening everything in the Underground to snap him out of his funk. Fighting the human over and over- and had he been a more narcissistic skeleton, Sans would have said it had filled with determination.

Then, one random reset, the fighting had stopped.

Sans had thought maybe Frisk had hit her head the last time she fell into the Underground. He hadn’t been, and still wasn’t, willing to ask her too many questions about it, should they reawaken some deeply buried memories. Like every reset prior, he had stayed mostly in the background, watching her choices, and for once the human refused to fight. Even with her life on the line, she hadn’t fought. It was enough to make him cautiously optimistic that Frisk would, at the very least, stop dusting his brother.

Not that he ever really remembered her doing it the first time, or second, third, fifth… But he knew when a reset occurred. The knowledge came to him as a feeling, no concrete evidence, but each time his spine would tingle, and the strongest feeling of déjà vu would strike his skull, feeling almost like a physical blow. It would leave him dazed for only a moment, but it was enough to let him know something wasn’t quite right. Conversations he never remembered the words to would repeat, and he would go through the motions of a normal day. Knowing that everything would reset and nothing anyone did really mattered made it really hard to take anything, anyone, seriously. He’d grown lazier by the day, thinking each one would be the day he stopped trying. But then he’d find his brother’s dusty remains, the pain a fresh wound every time. He never remembered enough to stop the murder from happening, never enough to change the outcome.

Then Frisk had stopped dusting monsters and started befriending them. Each reset that followed, she had come back friendlier and more determined than ever, making something he daren’t called hope build within him. The resets hadn’t stopped until she succeeded in breaking the barrier, at least twice, he thought. Not sure why it took two times, but he never asked.

It wasn’t important and Sans didn’t want to chance another reset.

He breathed out an amused sigh and started his lonely walk through the town. Only slowing as he passed Grilby’s. The place had closed soon after the barrier had broken, and he hadn’t seen the flame monster in a long time because of it. Like with most of Sans’ friends, they’d never been close enough to talk when not physically around each other. Certainly not close enough to share future plans and goals.

Two things Sans never had anyway. Unlike everyone else in the Underground, it seemed. They all had been so excited and hopeful, everyday looking up and thinking about what they would do once the barrier was down. Not that Sans had begrudged them their hopefulness. They just didn’t know what he knew. And Sans had been determined to keep it that way. Anything to keep that hopeful spark in his brother’s bright eyes.

Shaking his head, Sans continued walking. The years he had spent just existing were behind him. Not that he thought anything really mattered, it could still all go away one day. But while there was still some sort of motivation inside him, he would use it.

Gotta make up for lost time, and all.

Sans stopped in front of his and Papyrus’ old home. Looking at it with a wistful kind of longing. It’s interior was exactly the same as the one they lived in now. Save for one thing.

Instead of going in through the front door, Sans walked to left side. He placed a bony hand on the yellow wall and dragged his digits along it. The sound of wood scraping against something hard followed his movements. He didn’t stop until he came to a vertical parting in the wood, unnatural, but so thin as to be unnoticeable. Pulling back from the wall, he reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a silver key.

He opened the door, covered with wood and painted to blend with the rest of the house, and walked inside, closing the door behind him. The entire process made no sound, the door itself was silent, as it had needed to be. He hadn’t wanted to alert his brother to the existence of what lay inside.

Lest his dear brother become curious, lest he learn of Sans’ research. At first it had been to cover for his own lack of knowledge. That he was essentially trying to teach himself theoretical physics would have been too out of character for Papyrus to let go, and Sans would have been left with no choice but to tell him everything. He couldn’t lie to his brother, but he didn’t have to so long as the younger skeleton never asked questions.

The lights, attached to a sensor, clicked on as Sans walked further inside his small workshop. Tiled purple with blue walls, it was too small and sparse to be called a lab. Barely any tools and one piece of broken machinery in the back, covered by a blue tarp. Though, could a machine be called broken if it had never worked to begin with?

He’d built it not long after he and his brother had moved to Snowdin and his secret workshop was completed. He’d pursued the task with a fervor he’d not known himself capable of. That after it was completed, it hadn’t worked, was probably where his slacker attitude had first started. He barely remembered why he was building it, anyway. He had a name and a feeling.

W.D. Gaster and guilt.

Both confusing, where was the guilt coming from and who was W.D. Gaster? Sans still didn’t know, but he knew it had something to do with the blueprints he had found in the Hotland labs during his brief stint as an assistant to the head scientist there. Though, he had never worked for Alphys and she couldn’t recall at all his time there or just where the blueprint had come from. But he had the badge to prove he had, indeed, worked there. Alphys hadn’t been able to explain it and he hadn’t pressed the issue. Though, maybe he should have.

The most Alphys had been able to do at was tell him the strange text written on the blueprint was wing dings. Meaning it was almost impossible to translate accurately. She had then politely told him she wouldn’t be needing his assistance and fired him from a job she didn’t remember him having.

Sans hadn’t thought anything of it until he had gone home and discovered the photo album. Filled with pictures of himself and his brother during their younger years. And one single picture of himself, Alphys, and a skeleton he doesn’t remember knowing. Even now, the face was a blur, and if not for the photo, he would have forgotten it completely.

Whoever this W.D. Gaster was, the blueprints had something to do with his disappearance and... it was probably Sans’ fault he was gone.

It was the only explanation he could think of for the guilt. The guilt that had led to the generally lazy skeleton to teach himself theoretical physics, to create an underground workshop, to build a machine he had no idea the function of. And still didn’t know, because when he’d finished building the thing, it hadn’t worked. It had blinked, blooped, then shuttered off.

He’d given up then, with the intent to maybe, one day go back to the machine once the demoralization that came with failure lessened.

Then a human had fallen into the Underground and the cycle had begun. And how could he focus on fixing the machine when nothing he or anyone else did mattered?

Now that the barrier was down and everyone had started their new lives, the resets had stopped; there was no excuse not to continue his work. What else was he doing with his life? Nothing, and it was hard to enjoy himself with the guilt that W.D. Gaster was lost somewhere, not enjoying the freedom of the above world because of something Sans had done.

W.D. Gaster? More like W.D. Guilt.

Heh.

Sans chuckled to himself and pulled the blue tarp off of his machine. It was gray, cylindrical, nothing fancy. At least, not on the outside. There were different colored nobs and dials, it looked like every other high-tech science machine Sans had ever seen inside of Alphys’ lab. The only difference being the inside. It was just… a mess, a jumble of wires and pieces Sans still wasn’t entirely sure the function of.

Even though he had no idea what it did, after so many years working on the machine, it was very gear to his soul.

He’d been coming back every few days since moving to the above world. Though, it had taken some time before he actually mustered up the energy to begin working on the busted machine again. It was something to do, at the very least. Kept his mind off how empty home felt with Papyrus at work more often than not.

With that thought, he began his work. Using the few tools he owned, stashed away in cabinets in the wall, to pry open the back of the machine. He needed to see what had caused it to power off mid function. He’d already made the hypothesis that it was wiring related, just going through every single wire in the back of his machine was taking longer than Sans had anticipated.

He took his time, making sure every wire was connected properly, that the right kind of wire had been used. That nothing was crossed or had come undone. He didn’t keep track of time as he worked, not that he was ever one to do so even when timing mattered.

Eventually he came to a green and blue wire he thought had been mistakenly switched around during the building process. It was good a guess as any, and switching them around and trying to turn the machine back on wouldn’t hurt. Not like the thing could work worse than it already did… Well, it could explode, but Sans wouldn’t let the thought burst his optimistic bubble.

Chuckling to himself for what felt like the tenth time that night, Sans switched the wires, stood from his crouched position behind the machine, and turned it on. Time to test his luck. Heh.

At first, nothing happened. The machine sat quiet as it always has. Then he heard the telltale sounds of a machine booting up. The whir of fans and the hum of power going through its cables.

He watched, almost excited, as the machine’s knobs and buttons began to light up. His eye-sockets widened, however, when the machine started to shake violently. It rocked on the floor, scratching the tile and buzzing in a way that definitely sounded dangerous.

Thinking quickly, Sans reached for the machine’s short power plug, intent on pulling it out. But as his digits got close, electricity burst from the outlet, striking him, causing him to hiss and shake his hand. Smoke started to seep from the machine’s seams, dark clouds poured from where the back panel was open. A high-pitched ringing started to emanate from the machine, loud enough to be painful. Sans covered both his ear-holes, not that his bony hands were very effective in keeping the sound out. Seeing sparks come out of the open back panel was what finally convinced Sans he needed to leave. He’d flip a breaker in the house to cut the power, come back with a fire-extinguisher… Something he probably should have already had in the lab.

Oh well, live and learn- or burn, in this situation.

Sans gathered his magic to teleport, but just as he felt the area around him shift, the machine exploded. Heat blew past him, through him, Sans felt as though he was being torn apart. He shouted, clutching around himself as though to hold himself together. Teleportation had never been so painful. His body was being pulled into a thousand different directions. His teeth rattled like they were going to fall out. Just as he could feel the tips of his fingers disintegrating into dust—

Everything went white.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh, man. Did anybody get the number of that bus? Because Sans felt like he’d been run over, backed over, a real case of navicular homicide. Only Sans was still alive… probably.

He wiggled his fingers just to see if he could. They moved, then he did the same with his toes. They moved as well as they could inside his socks and slippers. Not really wanting to, but knowing he needed to, Sans forced his eye-sockets open. It took a minute for his magic to flare up and the whites return to his eyes. And when they did, his vision was blurred. All he could see was darkness. He blinked a few times, and slowly his sight returned.

The first thing Sans noticed after regaining his vision was the snow. It was falling hard around him, cold and wet. He shivered, then winced. He felt like he’d been in a fight, or several, but the familiar feeling of a reset was thankfully absent, so likely not.

“Phew,” Sans sat up and rubbed his skull. “That was some guilt-trip.”

Maybe he’d teleported far enough to strain his magic. It was possible, a fight or flight thing after realizing the machine was going to explode. He took in his surroundings, blinking in confusion; they were familiar. Looking around, he could tell he was still in Snowdin, so he hadn’t teleported too far away. What confused him was that the particular view of Snowdin he was looking at could only be seen from inside of his old home, from the front. But he wasn’t in a home. There was no indication that there had ever been a house where he was sitting.

Sans rubbed his skull again, aw crud, had he blown the house up? Not that they were using it anymore, but when Papyrus found out he was definitely going to explode. And Papyrus had such a booming voice when he was mad; might be better for Sans’ developing skull-ache to just wait for his sibling to find out on his own. If he ever did. As far as Sans knew, his brother didn’t have any plans to go back to the Underground anytime soon. Good. Gave Sans time to come up with a banging excuse.

Groaning, Sans pushed himself to his feet. He almost frowned at the realization of what an explosion would really mean.

No more workshop. No more machine. No more blueprint. No more photo album. No more badge.

Without that blueprint, there was nothing for him to go off of to build a new machine. Without the photo album, he was bound to forget why he needed to build it in the first place. Without seeing the wing dings printed on the blueprints, he’d forget what the W.D. stood for. Without his old badge he’d forget that he ever even worked at the Hotland labs…

Eh, there were worse things in life. Sans shrugged the realization off, taking the opportunity to brush fallen snow off his shoulders and the top of his skull. Must have been laying in the snow for some time to get this covered. And besides, maybe with everything else, the guilt would fade too. Not a bad turn of events.

Shivering, Sans shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

Yeah, definitely nothing to lose his cool over.

Snowdin was colder than he ever remembered it being. Darker too, now that he thought about it. The tree at the end of town wasn’t on meaning there was nothing to provide light, what with the faux-clouds up above covering the natural luminescence of the Underground. His explosion must have knocked the power out, blown a fuse or something.

Oh well, a problem for another day. Right now, Sans was cold, and his mood wasn’t doing so hot either.

He was too tired to teleport, so he was forced to walk through the snow. Passing by empty houses that somehow looked more abandoned than when he’d first arrived. The dark will do that sometimes, he supposed. Again, he found himself slowing in front of the old bar he used to frequent. After the night’s disappointments, he could really go for a drink. The ketchup he had back in Delta just didn’t cut it. Even the expensive stuff tasted off, like the humans focused on the tomato and garlic flavor over the vinegar.

Sans looked over at the bar, smile forlorn, only to do a doubletake. The sign wasn’t lit up, but through the windows he could definitely see a light emanating from the back of the bar. And if his theory about the power being out was true, then there was only one monster bright enough to be seen from the outside.

Sans laughed at his good fortune. Looked like Grilby was back in Snowdin. Probably to grab anything he’d left behind, or close up for good, or maybe he, like Sans, had felt the cold call of nostalgia.

Either way, it wouldn’t be very cool of Sans to pass by without at least a hail and farewell.

Chuckling, Sans stepped forward and pushed the front door open.

“Bonejour,” he loudly greeted the flame monster, taking the opportunity to show off how he’d learned to make puns out of other human languages. It had been almost a year since he’d last seen the bar owner, and Sans planned to use the opportunity to fire up some of his favorite flame puns.

The lack of a reaction was the first sign something wasn’t quite right with the bar owner. Though, it really should have been the second. How could he have missed that the light coming from the back of the bar was purple. The monster at the back, behind the bar counter was purple. Grilby? Was Grilby purple now? The monster on the other side of the bar, paused with one hand in the air, holding a dust cloth over the dirty bottles on the rack.

Looked like the bar owner had been in the middle of cleaning up. The bar itself was covered in cobwebs, there was dust on every surface, and he couldn’t even make out what the bottles in the back on the bar rack were, they were so filthy. Surely so much dust and dirt couldn’t have accumulated in less than a year? Sans had gone an entire year without cleaning his room before, and it hadn’t looked half as bad as Grilby’s bar did now.

“A skeleton? But I thought…” Sans heard the flame monster mutter to himself.

A single eye-socket rose as he looked his friend up and down. Something was up, was off-color with the whole situation. Purple flame, run down looking bar- even Grilby’s attire was different. A long black coat with a white-furred collar, a red tie.

But then, the human world was known to change a monster; hue was Sans to judge?

“They’ll want to know…” The flame monster muttered again, and Sans decided it was time to join in on the conversation.

“Grilby?” He questioned, walking forward until he came to a stop in front of the bar counter, hopping up to sit on a dirty bar stool. It’d be difficult to talk if he didn’t; he was only just as tall as the counter itself.

“And if I am?” The flame monster snapped in response, as if irritated to be interrupted. “Who are you? What are you doing out past curfew?”

Grilby stared at Sans like he wasn’t glad to see him and the cold reception would have hurt, had Sans let it. Instead he just shook his head, perplexed by his old friend’s odd behavior. He sure sounded like Grilby, well, except for the attitude. But what was that about a curfew?

“Funny,” Sans laughed awkwardly. Grilby had never been one to crack jokes, though Sans supposed he could appreciate the attempt. Because that’s what this had to be.

“I don’t see how,” Grilby said, turning to face him fully. “Some strange skeleton I’ve never met before comes into my bar after hours, after curfew- and you think it’s funny?” There was a suspicion that couldn’t be faked in his old friend’s tone, and it shook Sans to the bone.

“Grilby…” Sans said. “… Don’t you recognize me?” He asked, trying to tone down his confusion.

It was apparently the wrong thing to ask, though, because the monster’s purple flame burned higher in anger. Even a different color, Sans recognized the signs of friendly fire headed his way.

“Don’t play games, skeleton.” Was the flame monster’s response.

Sans started to sweat, and it wasn’t just because Grilby was burning hotter than Sans had ever seen him burn before. “C’mon, I used to come here all the—”

“Are you trying to implicate me?” Grilby accused, cutting Sans off.

Implicate? In what, Sans wanted to ask, but he got the feeling more questions would only add fuel to the fire.

“Woah there pal, don’t go getting all hot under the collar.” Sans said, palms up to indicate he didn’t want any trouble. “You don’t know me, I got it.”

A theory started to form in the back of Sans’ skull, though he didn’t like it. The machine he had built had something to do with time, that much he knew. What if when it had blown up, the force of the explosion had thrown him back in time? Far back enough that it was before he and his brother had moved to Snowdin. Back far enough that Grilby still had trouble controlling his heat, was going through a purple phase, and was terrible at customer service. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing that had ever happened to the skeleton. But he would need more time to think on it. Heh.

Plenty of time for a drink then. After all, when else would he ever have an opportunity like this?

“You got any ketchup in this place?” Sans asked, a blatant attempt to change the topic. “I’m usually more talkative after I’m good and sauced.”

Grilby groaned, but his eyes were no less suspicious than before, and without another word, the bartender turned away from him and back to his dusty bottles. Movements slow, contemplative.

Under his breath Sans muttered “Well, that backfired.”

Grilby’s flaming head snapped around to glare at Sans through impossibly narrow eyes, to which the skeleton only shrugged. If he remembered right, it had taken some time for the fire monster to come around to Sans’ particular char-isma. Maybe even further back in the timeline, Grilby had been an even bigger hot head.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Grilby started. “But since you are here…” Grilby turned back around to face him, seemingly calmer than before. A single bright finger was raised, pointing off to the side of the bar counter, and Sans’ gaze followed that finger. It was pointing to the left, where a small metal container held napkins, salt, pepper, mustard, and—Ketchup!

Grinning, Sans stretched for it, not above placing a knee on the counter top in order to reach his delicious drink. Ha, even years in the past and Grilby knew to keep the good stuff on tap. The bottle was glass, looking a lot fancier than Sans was used to. But it didn’t matter, ketchup was ketchup.

As he reached for it, the flame monster continued talking.

“Drink all you want,” Grilby told him, that suspicious tone ever present. “Just don’t leave until I return.”

That only elicited another shrug from Sans. “Sure thing, pal.”

Where would he go? His home was gone, the town empty save for the bar. It was cold outside, and like always, Grilby’s was the warmest place to be in Snowdin. The ketchup was lukewarm, just how he liked it, and just for a short while Sans could pretend like he wasn’t probably thrown back in time and that everything was still as it once was. Before a small human had come to the Underground, before the resets, before the surface world had brought everyone closer together while simultaneously drifting them apart.

Wow, that almost brought a frown to his face.

And if that wasn’t a sign he needed some ketchup, Sans didn’t know what was. Deciding tonight was one of those nights, he unscrewed the top.

“Maybe when you get back, we can ketch-up.” Sans said with a wink in the flame monster’s direction.

Grilby grunted in disgust then disappeared to the backroom of his bar, the door closing behind him, sign tacked to it, stating employees only, swinging from the momentum.

Once again Sans shrugged, not really getting the fire man’s problem. Maybe he was just embarrassed to have his bar seen in such a dingy state. If this Grilby had known Sans, he would know that the skeleton was the last monster to judge another’s cleanliness. But as Grilby had yet to meet Sans… or had met him, but at the wrong time? And probably won’t remember meeting him once everything was said and done—Sans didn’t really hold the curt behavior against him.

Forgiving skeleton that he was, Sans wouldn’t make a tissue of it.

Ahahahaha-ha-ha-haaaaah…

Without hesitation, Sans knocked back the ketchup bottle and chugged. A comfort drink if there ever was one. Or so he thought. The vinegar taste was stronger than he remembered, the whole taste an almost unfamiliar tang. If not for the distinct texture, he would have questioned what he was drinking. Was this really ketchup? Sans slammed the half-empty bottle back on the table, coughing and glaring at the fancy bottle with mild, amused annoyance. That sure was some strong ketchup. What did Grilby do, drown the tomatoes in vinegar? Heck, if Sans had wanted to get plastered, he would have asked for a shot. Not that he was the type for it.

With one digit, he pushed the bottle further away. His smile never wavered, even as the vinegar burned down his throat, heating his chest in a painful way. He placed a hand over his white shirt, feeling to make sure his ribs weren’t actually melting. Mean as it might be to think, but if all of Grilby’s drinks were like that, it’s no wonder the bar was empty. It had probably taken a while for Grilby to figure out the right tomato past to vinegar ratio. Good thing Sans was here to set him down the right path early.

Though, would anything he did now affect the future? Until he knew more about just what had happened, he would need to be careful not to let too much slip. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about running into himself here. Maybe—

The sound of a door opening pulled Sans from his own theorizing thoughts, and he waited for Grilby to come out of the back room so Sans could give him some well-meaning criticism. He waited, but the fire monster never stepped out. Actually, now that he was looking, the door to the back room had never opened. At the exact time Sans noticed, a breeze blew into the bar from behind him, causing him to shiver. Cold.

Had Grilby gone out the back and come back in the front? Maybe flame monster had needed to cool off.

Sans turned his head, ready to greet Grilby with a joke, only to stiffen at what he saw. Cold sweats rolled down Sans’ face and the chill from the wind sank into his bones. And in that moment, Sans didn’t think he could have moved even if he wanted to.

Even after living in Snowdin for so long, Sans had never been frozen in fear before. And if asked, he would never admit that might be what was happening to him now. And he definitely couldn’t say why.

It definitely couldn’t be because, standing in the bar’s wide doorway, was a massive monster. Tall and wide, the monster nearly took up the whole of the door frame. It blocked out most of the town’s natural luminescent light, creating a shadow that stretched from the entrance of the bar to just where Sans was sitting. He swallowed down nothing, the icy chill of the monster’s red stare having long since put out the burn in his throat.

Outside of King Asgore, Sans had never seen a monster so large. Though, why should it matter? Sans had always been on the short size, so height alone was never enough to intimidate him. In fact, Sans couldn’t remember a time he had ever felt intimidated. The ability to teleport and knowledge of resets had really taken the thrill out of life.

Not content to stand in the doorway, the large monster walked forward, the wooden floor creaking under its weight with every step. It didn’t take long for Sans to get a better look at the monster. The skeleton monster.

He was tall, taller than Papyrus. Wider than him too. Was he bigger than W-w… Gaster had been? The memory of the skeleton was already so vague, he can’t possibly begin to know. What if he was Gaster? Had he been thrown back in time too? Or did he just exist in this time period unrelated to the machine’s capabilities?

The monster was staring at him like he didn’t believe what he was seeing and Sans couldn’t help but do the same.

The strange skeleton’s clothes did nothing to distract from his impressive size. And they said black was supposed to be slimming! Sans blinked just to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. Because not only was the skeleton the largest Sans had ever seen, he’s also the best dressed out of… well anyone he had ever known. And Sans was good friends with royalty.

A black undershirt, shining like it was made of silk. The sleeves were up to the skeleton’s elbows with the top two buttons undone. A fashion choice, or had the guy left in a hurry? If it was the latter, Sans didn’t want to know the reason why…

Okay, he did, but that was only because it could possibly have something to do with his presence in the bar and Grilby’s disappearance to the backroom.

The only thing covering the undershirt was a dark red vest with thin black pin stripes. It looked tight on the skeleton’s massive body, and Sans doubted it was the most comfortable outfit. What with the dress pants, the belt, and black dress shoes with laces? Didn’t matter that they looked fancy and expensive with their red and gold accents—The monster would have to bend over to tie them. No level of fashion was worth that.

More striking than the clothes was the skeleton’s smile, it was wide as Sans’ own, though much less welcoming. Sharp teeth were clenched together, a single gold tooth glinting in his smile. It was the most threatening smile Sans had ever seen. Did it even count as a smile at that point?

The monster certainly didn’t look like any scientist Sans had ever seen. But then, Sans doubted he looked very scientific at a glance.

Their staring contest was broken first by the stranger, who had come to a full stop directly in front of Sans, the monster’s shadow completely covering his much smaller form.

The stranger chuckled, then asked, “and what have we got here?” The voice was deep, rough, but jovial. Sounding like he stepped straight out of one of those old mobster movies Frisk loved to watch.

The friendly tone gave Sans hope that in spite of the monster’s intimidating appearance, he didn’t want a confrontation. All good then, as Sans wasn’t sure what fighting the strange skeleton would do to the future timeline, if anything he did in this timeline mattered at all.

Them both being skeletons, Sans went for his tried and true classics when answering the most likely rhetorical question.

“Tibia honest,” Sans responded with a forced chuckle. “I’m not really sure, myself. You pa-tella me.”

Not his finest work, but Sans cut himself a break. It had been a while since he’d had to joke under pressure. His bone-saw was rusty, so to speak.

The large skeleton only continued to stare at Sans; his smile replaced with a look of confusion. What, had the monster never heard a joke before? Sans’ puns weren’t that bad, he’d definitely told worse. He tensed, prepared to teleport if the stranger turned violent. Only for it to be his turn to look at the other skeleton in confusion.

The monster had started to chuckle, a low menacing sound, then he placed his large hands on his stomach and threw his head back, bellowing the most guttural and intense laugh Sans had ever heard. The skeleton laughed, and laughed, and laughed, his large body shaking from the force of it. He showed no signs of stopping and for a moment Sans wondered if the guy had snapped. His jokes tended to do that with the more violence prone monsters.

Then the stranger wiped an invisible tear from his eye-socket, sucking in a breath and straightening back up. Those red eyes almost looked warm and Sans thought maybe he could make a friend out of this monster. Maybe it would mess with the timeline, but Sans doubted it. He suspected nothing he did in this time would affect the future. Besides, what was the alternative? Ignore the skeleton? That would be a level of rude Sans wasn’t comfortable with, and Papyrus had nagged better manners into him than that.

“Got a real funny-bone, don’t-cha?” The skeleton asked, voice wheezy from how hard he had been laughing.

Sans shrugged and leaned back against the bar; legs spread and posture loose. Intentionally appearing more relaxed than he felt. It never hurt to be underestimated. Literally.

“I’d say yes, but I haven’t got the nerve,” Sans responded casually. The urge to laugh at his own joke was strong, but Sans’ will was stronger. Once he got started it was hard to stop, and laughing too hard would leave him vulnerable. And until he was sure of his situation, he couldn’t afford that luxury.

Something the larger skeleton didn’t seem to worry about, as he laughed once again, shorter than before, but no less unnerving. Heh.

The stranger grinned down at Sans, and it was an unsettling enough look that Sans had to second guess his own ever smiling choice. Not that he could help it, most of the time. There was just too much comedy to be found in the world. Even now, with a six foot something skeleton towering over him, Sans couldn’t help but imagine how hilarious they must look from the outside.

“You’re not from around here, are ya?” The stranger asked, sounding sure of himself.

“What makes you say that?” Sans answered the other skeleton’s question with a question of his own.

Another question he never should have asked, Sans realized too late. The larger skeleton took it as an excuse to place both his hands on the counter behind Sans, caging him in. And had those teeth looked any less sharp, Sans would have snickered at the attempt of intimidation. The tough guy routine was always a funny one to witness. Though, the one usually trying to pull it off was his brother, and not some giant skeleton who looked like he could snap bones with just his jaw strength.

The strange skeleton’s good humor from before was gone, though the smile stayed. It was just too bad for the stranger that Sans’ wasn’t the type to be intimidated. He’d only ever felt threatened during one recurring fight in his life, and big as he was, this skeleton would never measure up to it.

“Now let me make something clear—I’m the one who asks the questions here, capisce? You cooperate, and maybe you’ll get out of here alive.” The stranger threatened with a smile that was too close for comfort.

“Whatever you slay, buddy.” Sans joked.

The other’s eye-sockets narrowed, and he lifted a large hand as if to strike the smaller skeleton. Sans tensed, but the movement toward his face was too slow to slow to be meant for a blow.

“Somethin’ about you seems…” The stranger ran his thick bony fingers over the top of Sans’ skull, the touch light and very unwelcome.

“What—what are you…” Sans was taken off guard and seconds away from teleporting. He’d never been one to shy away from touch, but something about the way this skeleton ran his digits over Sans’ skull really rattled his bones.

“Humerus me,” the skeleton responded, still sounding amused.

Sans laughed nervously; the whole thing was too strange to be funny. Well, almost. Everything was funny in its own odd way. Curfews, giant skeletons- turns out Snowdin was a crazy place before he and his brother had showed up. One day Sans would look back on this and laugh. One far, far away day.

For now, he just stayed still, allowing the stranger to turn his head this way and that, run his large hand over the back of Sans’ skull. Feeling him like he’d never seen one before. What, did the guy never look in a mirror? Sure, he looked a lot more textured than Sans, but still.

“So smooth,” the stranger murmured.

It was the perfect opportunity to interject with a joke. Being called smooth was such a comedic opening that he’d be remiss to let it slip by. But before he could get a word out, his jaw was gripped tightly and tilted upwards, forcing him to look directly into the larger skeleton’s eye sockets. They glowed a menacing red, the light reflecting off the sharp gold tooth that was all too visible.

Was the threatening look intentional? Why would a monster, outside of the royal guard, ever bother to appear a threat? Could… Perhaps…

More credence was being given to his back in time theory. Back far enough that he ended up in a time right after the war with the humans had only just ended? It would explain Grilby’s tense behavior and the lack of patrons in the bar. From what he’d read at the Libraby, Snowdin had taken several decades to really take off, most monsters preferring the warmer temperatures or water areas. Not until overpopulation in the capital had monsters begun venturing out into the colder regions. Even then, Snowdin had never been the most populated of towns. With such a low population, it didn’t even qualify as a village. With a population of less than one-hundred and fifty, it was technically a hamlet.

But then, Sans had never been one for labels. If the citizens of Snowdin wanted to call their home a town, what did he care? It just added to the town’s quirk. A great, interesting, place to live.

Why did they ever leave?

That’s a bad thought and Sans quickly cast it out of his mind. He was usually so careful about what thoughts and emotions he allowed himself to feel. Must be the cold, it was chilling his sense of humor.

The strange touch stopped and Sans didn’t bother trying to stop his sigh of relief. He couldn’t very well let the monster think his touch had been wanted, welcome, or appropriate.

“Definitely not from around here,” the other skeleton whispered to himself. Though, not quite soft enough for Sans not to hear, if that was even the intent.

“You look like you crawled out of a dumpster,” the stranger grinned at him, eyeing the smaller skeleton up and down like he thought the clothes he wore came from a dumpster too.

Sans’ own eye-sockets narrowed. He had a snarky quip ready to go— And you look like you escaped from a balloon factory— but he thought better of it. Not because he was intimidated, but because if a fight did start, Sans only had the one jacket. If it got torn during a fight, the chances of finding another like it in his size were extremely low. And it was cold outside.

So, he shrugged, maintaining his nonchalant façade.

“A skeleton’s gotta sleep where he can.” No joke that time, after the complete disregard for Sans’ personal space and disrespect toward his threads, Sans’ didn’t think the monster deserved his material. Mostly because the stranger seemed to actually enjoy it. Which would have been a welcome change of pace had it been literally anyone else.

“That I hear,” the stranger responded. Like Sans sleeping in a dumpster would be some normal, everyday revelation. “What I’m not hearin’, is why I haven’t ever seen you around before.”

That same deep, menacing timbre from before returned and Sans’ couldn’t stop his flinch at the abrupt shift in tone. What was this monster’s deal? One minute he was laughing at Sans’ jokes, the next he was getting too touchy and acting all threatening, the red in his eye-sockets glowing brighter.

“You know every monster?” Sans asked, a sarcastic edge to his voice.

“From Snowdin- and every skeleton, yeah.” Was the quick rebuttal. “And you’re not from here.”

Sans, not about to argue, simply replied, “I’m from out of town.”

“Way outta town, I take it. What’s a daisy like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“Daisy?” Sans parroted. If there was joke, Sans didn’t get it.

“You’re wearing’pink, ain’t ya?”

“… Yeah?” Sans said, waiting for the punchline.

“So that makes you a daisy.” The other skeleton replied with a nasty grin. Was it an insult, then?

… Sans didn’t get it, but out of respect for the art, he chuckled anyway.

Which was, once again, the wrong thing to do.

The large skeleton growled and Sans almost felt annoyance at the rapid change in attitude. One minute, everything was rosy, the next, he’s pushing up daisies. What in carnation was going on?

“Now listen here, you little daisy— That’s the third time I’ve repeated myself, and I’m not a man who likes repeatin’ himself.” Faster than Sans could follow, the larger skeleton summoned a sharp bone with his magic, and pointed it under Sans’ chin with a level of speed he hadn’t thought someone so big could possess.

“Now I’d hate to cut such a pretty face, but you won’t want me repeatin’ myself a fourth time.” The tip of the bone pricked the underside of Sans’ jaw. “Usually it’s three strikes and you’re out, but I’m lettin’ you take one more swing.”

The larger skeleton’s speed was interesting, the whole situation was interesting. It was something new. Being called pretty was new. But the threats? Sans eyed the stranger with an air of boredom about him and simply responded, “I’m more of a basketball man, myself.”

Then, unperturbed, he placed a bony hand over the one currently holding a knife to his face.

“You first, buddy,” Sans said. He was always one to hold what he knew close to his chest, and if the stranger wanted to know who Sans was, well, all the more reason not to tell. The whites of his own eyes glowed brighter, though the other skeleton didn’t seem to notice. The monster once again barked out a laugh, then looking at Sans like he didn’t believe what he was seeing, what he was hearing.

“… You don’t know?” The stranger asked, like Sans should know.

Some ego on the guy, no wonder he was so big and wore such restricting clothes. He needed them to contain all that hot air.

“You must’ve had that dumpster locked tight if you’ve never heard of me before.” Just as quickly as it’d appeared, the bone dagger was wisped away in a cloud of red smoke.

“No wonder you don’t have any manners, you haven’t a clue who you’re dealin’ with, do ya?” It was said so matter-of-factly that Sans wondered if he had somehow overlooked the large skeleton in the history books.

“The name’s Sans, Sans the skeleton.” A hand was held out to him. “And you, lil’ daisy?”

Sans soul thudded in his ribcage, the large hand was directly in front of him, but he could no longer see it. Everything was a blur as those words played over and over in his head.

Sans, Sans the skeleton. Sans. The skeleton.

Sans.

Anything the larger skeleton—Sans said after was drowned out by the buzz in the back of Sans- his, skull. His smile waivered as the answer to his situation rattled around inside his skull. If only it would stop bouncing around, he’d know what to do.

“Take my hand, lil’ daisy.” It was an order said through sharp, clenched teeth. Whatever humor the other Sans had been getting out his lack of knowledge was apparently disappearing.

Just like he was about to. Haha.

Before his smile could fall, Sans teleported.

Pop.

To the mountain’s summit, completely covered by snow.

Pop.

To Mount Ebott’s base, the forest behind him looking gnarled and dead.

Pop.

He landed heavy in the snow. It was too dark and he was too far from the city’s welcome sign to read it. But he didn’t give himself time to collect his thoughts or to regain his usual cool. And though his smile was still stretched across his face as he stumbled forward, it was painfully forced. A wretched, familiar feeling of hopelessness was filling him. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt since those first few battles in the castle corridor. And given the circumstances, it didn’t make sense.

It was just a name, his name, so why did it fill him with so much dread? Like he was being faced with a problem that had no solution. Just like the resets all over again.

Sans stopped in front of the city’s welcome sign, hands on his knees, out of a breath he didn’t need. The sign was red instead of the familiar blue. Its paint was chipped and the edges rusted. It was obviously old and not well cared for. However, the black words written across it were clear, looking freshly painted. The strength in Sans’ legs gave way as he read the sign, his knees hitting the snow as he looked on with wide eye-sockets.

Welcome to Fell City | Population: Shrinking

~ End

AN: This will likely be the longest chapter of the fic, on account of all the exposition I had to fit in. I want to explore OG Sans' character with this, focusing on his wants, his intelligence, and I think the perfect foil to match up against Sans is Sans himself.

Feedback is welcome and appreciated.

1900s Slang:

Daisy - None too masculine

#kustard #underfell sans #sans #mobfell #sancest #bara sans #underfell #jivin' bones #jivin' bones 1 #my writ

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mere-mortifer-writing · 5 years

Text

Dean Winchester/Reader ❧ Sweet Apology

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader; Dean Winchester/OFC Word count: 4874 | Chapter 1 of 3 Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content Tags: Fluff & Smut, a smidge of Angst; Misunderstandings; Porn with Feelings; Arguing; Reader has a crush on Dean Summary: The plan was to watch a movie in Dean's room, but without Sam to help her feel less awkward, it's no surprise that she ends up saying something stupid - and make Dean think she dislikes him, of all things, when she has a gigantic crush on the guy. They start yelling at each other, soon enough they're kissing, and then - well, Dean's bed gets put to good use. It kind of sucks, though, that as soon as they're done Dean puts his clothes back on leaves her like nothing happened. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am. Well, not really. He's just absolutely clueless. I swear, if these two don't open their mouths and talk...

Beta’d by @mostly-shawn and @aingealcethlenn - Thank you so much for the help <3

Read on Ao3 | Chapter Two coming soon

❧ Chapter One

So, to summarize: she’s eating Fruity Loops, in an underground bunker, at the same table as two certified living legends in the hunting community. The monster hunting community, may she remind you in case you lost the memo.

She is, apparently, very good at identifying and theoretically killing said monsters – although God forbid they ever ask her to join in on the action. She admires Sam and Dean for what they do, but she's fine staying behind the scenes: rummaging through old lore books and giving herself a headache is as far as she'll go. She has proven herself useful in multiple occasions, so no shame there.

Sam confessed to her, on the one memorable occasion when he had drunk enough to be tipsy, that he was more than happy she has to interest in hunting.

"It's my life and I love it", he said, "but it sucks all the ass and you shouldn't do it. Everyone fucking dies. If you got hurt I'd be sad about it for at least six months straight. I'd grow a beard and all." "What would Dean do?", she asked in morbid curiosity. "'Dunno, drink and throw every chair and lamp he sees on the ground, maybe? He does that a lot. Just - never hunt, okay?" "I'll do it for the sake of your poor furniture", she responded, and she never changed her mind.

Sorry, sometimes the crazy hits her all at once, and she needs to do a recap of the situation. Where was she? Oh, right: she was looking at Dean. (What else is new?)

Dean's sprawled on the wooden chair like a bored king, dead guy's robe at least two sizes too big on his broad shoulders. It's one of those rare instances where he slept well the night before, and he looks cozy and relaxed and roughly fifteen years younger than yesterday.

She's trying so hard not to openly stare at him that her cereal got all mushy in the meantime.

"Are you sure Jody can deal with this on her own?", Dean is saying, oblivious to her thoughts. "Seems to me like she's already got her hands full, with the girls and all."

On the other side of the table, Sam sips his coffee and nods. "Yeah, hopefully, it'll be just the one werewolf. I told Jody to call us if she finds out there's more going on."

"Hopefully there's not. Oh!" Dean slaps a celebratory hand on the table and grins. "That means we've got the day off! We could take advantage of that Netflix subscription we pay for." "Garth is paying – we're just leeching off of him. And I actually wanted to go for a run. Wanna come?" "Ugh." "Yeah, I thought so. You two can start without me, though. I'll join you later."

Oh, the mental image that double-meaning evokes! But it’s more of a private joke with herself that anything – she likes Sam, obviously, if only because she's a straight woman with functioning eyes, but she doesn't have a crush. He’s tall and kind, and objectively attractive but he’s not…

Her eyes fall on his brother's long fingers tapping on the table, his strong wrist peeking out of the robe’s sleeve, and she feels her stomach tie in knots.

He’s not Dean, alright?

She didn’t ask not to have eyes but for him, and yet here she is: all moon-eyed over his wrist, of all things.

Someone shoot her; it’d be a mercy killing at this point.

Dean turns to her, all bright-eyed in his good mood. "What do you say, movie marathon? We could stay in my room, get comfy on the bed." Well, now, that makes her legs clench tight together under the table. She knows she’ll have to answer very quickly because in a second she’ll start overthinking and find some excuse not to join Dean. In his bedroom, on his bed. Something she has never fantasized about, no sir. "Yes? Yeah, why not!", she exclaims, just a tad too loud. Oh my God, at least try to play it cool. Sam smirks from behind his cup, and she wonders for a moment if this "morning run" of his isn't just a ploy to leave her alone with his brother. Then Dean winks at her, and all other thoughts fly out of the window. "Awesome. Come on, I'll even let you choose the movie."

❧ ☙

"I'll let you choose, he says," she huffs to herself. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror looks back at her with mild panic in her eyes. "Like that's not agonizing or anything."

God, she just wishes Dean didn't make her so damn nervous. How long has she known the Winchesters for? A year? She's even living with them, she should be past all – she clenches her fists, trying to calm herself – this. And still, Dean makes her heady and rattled just by looking at her for too long. She needs to get a grip.

While she brushes her teeth and washes her face, she settles on Kill Bill – which a) she knows Dean hasn't seen in years and b) should hopefully keep her attention away from his closeness. On his bed. Where she will also be.

God help her.

She walks out of the bathroom up to Dean's room. He's already propping his laptop on a bunch of pillows at the foot of the bed, humming a Metallica song under his breath. His eyes shoot up to her when she arrives. "Hey! Did you choose the movie?", he says. He's still as carefree as she's ever seen him, but there's something in his voice that was missing during breakfast. A note of – weariness? Hope? She can't decipher it. "Don't tell Sammy I said, but I could sit through a chick–flick without bitching too much if you wanna watch one.” And if that isn’t proof he has a martyr complex... "Actually, I was thinking Kill Bill?" He beams up. "Oh hell yeah, haven't seen that one in ages." He finds the movie and hits play, settling down against the bed frame. She notices that he got rid of the robe and is now sitting in only a t–shirt and grey sweatpants. Oh please, no, she thinks, already feeling desperate. Fucking grey sweatpants, tight and revealing in all the right places, inviting her to look down, down...come on, just take a peek-

She gingerly sits down at the opposite end of the bed, eyes straight ahead. Despite the distance, she can smell Dean’s cologne (and what the fuck did he put cologne on for?), fresh and manly and very attractive – so much so that she forgets to focus on the film. She's acutely aware of his presence beside her – of the warmth radiating from him, of how little space and layers there are between their bodies. She also notices him glancing at her from time to time, even though her gaze stays fixed on the computer screen. Is she acting weird? Is that why he's looking at her? She's literally just sitting there, but maybe there's something on her face, or she's breathing too loud…that has never happened before, but who knows–

"I don't bite, you know?" She's almost startled by Dean's voice interrupting her manic line of thought. He's now openly watching her, the small smile on his lips a mix between tentative and reassuring. "You can come closer if you want to. You're almost off the bed." She laughs nervously – damn, way to put her on the spot. But he’s right: she’s all bunched up on the corner of the bed, shaky hands hidden under her legs. "I, uh, didn't want to make you uncomfortable, that's all." What the fuck does that even mean? One of Dean's eyebrows shot up his forehead, and his smile turns disbelieving. "Me? You're the one that looks like she has a gun pointed at her head." Her whole face heats up in embarrassment. He knows she's timid, and anyone who even glances in her direction knows she's head over heels for him – why does he have to put attention on it? "I'm just out of my depth here, you know I'm shy–" "Shy?" he interrupts her. "We've known each other for a year! And we both know you're not like this with Sam."

Also very true, much to her chagrin – Sam has this puppy-dog aura to himself that makes him look smaller and non-threatening, at least when he’s in the company of friends. Dean...Dean doesn’t seem to have an off-switch, he’s always very unapologetically himself. Even when he’s acting like a total dork, he fills the entire room with his presence.

The mortification of being called out like this is making her eyes water, and Dean's unfaltering eye contact is not helping. "It's different with Sam," she tries to explain. What can she say without giving too much of her feelings away? "Why? Have I done something bad to you?" he asks. “You’re always so – so skittish with me, it’s like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Dean has the most expressive eyes she has ever seen, and try as he might his feelings are always starkly clear on his face – like now, settling over the vibrant apple-green like an ugly shadow; disappointment and plain sadness. She really, really doesn't want to hurt him, and trips over her own thoughts in an attempt to say I'm not uncomfortable, I'm just in love and bad with feelings – but how to say it without spelling it out?

"It's nothing you've done,” she tries, “it's just – you."

Oh, God. That came out awfully wrong.

Dean scoffs, breaking the eye contact to look at everything in the room but her. "Yeah, I figured," he snickers, "Could have just said no to watching the movie, then, sweetheart. You shouldn't have to spend time with people you dislike." Dislike? She almost can't believe the irony of the situation. "Dean, I don't dislike you, that's not what I meant." "You just said you have a problem with me as a person! Listen,” – he passes a hand over his mouth, like he does when he needs a second to find the words – “Listen, I don’t know what you heard about me, okay? Sometimes hunters pass through here, and maybe you got wind of some rumours. I’m the first one to admit I can be a douchebag from time to time, but they don’t know me. Hell, half of them I don’t even consider friends! And I thought, you.. well, whatever. You can go back where you came from if living with me is so damn unpleasant! ” Well, ouch. That one hurt. She stands from the bed, raising her voice to hide how close she is to tears. They could have spent a nice day together, watching movies and eating popcorn from the same bowl or something, and then she had to go ahead and ruin everything. And he's being so stubborn, God, but what else is new? "Dean, what – rumours? You think this is about your reputation or something?” “I don’t know! You fucking tell me.” “Why do you wanna argue? You were in such a good mood two minutes ago-" "Yeah, I really was." He jumps off the bed and walks around it until he's face to face with her. "Excuse me if seeing you all – all scared of me kind of killed the mood!" "What? I'm not scared!" "Then why the fuck are you on the verge of tears right now?" "'Cause I'm sorry," she shouts to match his tone. He's standing so close; it's unfair how much it affects her. "I don’t find you scary, okay? I’m sorry I made you think that!" "Yeah, well, I’m sorry, too,” he shouts back. “Then why are we yelling?” “I have no idea!”

They both fall silent. Her mind is trying to process what the fuck just happened, why was she shouting in the first place when Dean is right there, not even five inches away – eyes bright and fiery because of the argument, the hard line of his mouth relaxing as his expression changes. He looks down at her lips. Her breath catches in her throat. She feels paralyzed by how intensely she wants him at that moment, stuck between throwing caution to the wind or fleeing before she makes a fool of herself. But Dean hasn’t moved away, has he? If anything he’s inching closer, and he's looking at her like, like he, too…

Dean leans in and kisses her, a soft sigh leaving his nose when their lips touch. He's so warm, is her first thought. Warm and big and solid against her, so much more substantial than in her fantasies – where he holds her just as tightly, kisses her just as deeply. Her hands tremble slightly as she goes to cup his face. God, it's happening for real. She bites on his full bottom lip with urgency, and he tugs her closer by the hips, pushing his tongue in her mouth. He’s not so much aggressive as he’s ardent, burning fast and bright on her skin like he hasn’t much time left – or like he’s waited too long, and he’s hell-bent on making himself unforgettable.

She isn’t sure she would like the pace, was he anyone else. But oh God, he’s not anyone else, he’s Dean – and she wants, she wants, she wants him and won’t make excuses for liking this. Teeth, bruises, too-sharp nails; warm breaths mixing with hers, his fingers digging in wherever she’s softer and warmer.

She passes a hand on the short hair at the nape of his neck, and she can feel goosebumps rise on his arms at the feeling. Dean gives her one last peck on the lips before hiding his face in the crook of her neck – he releases a shuddering sigh that makes her shiver, and nips at the skin behind her ear. His big hands settle on her legs, squeezing and palming the back of her thighs until she's raised to her tiptoes. "Hold on, baby," he says and picks her up from the ground. Wrapped around his waist, she can feel his erection pressing on her core – and she's never felt emptier and needier than right there with Dean, hard and panting, ready to fuck her against a wall. "Oh God," she moans, and desperately paws at Dean's shirt to get some skin–on–skin contact. He raises his face to watch her and chuckles at her efforts, grinding with more and more insistence against her. "I know, I know," he hums, "I gotcha." He smiles that boyish adorable grin he sometimes does, and she's overwhelmed by both the rush of affection for him and the desire pooling low in her belly.

She's about to say something undoubtedly stupid that would ruin everything – she has the three words already formed on her lips, but they turn into a gasp when Dean twists around and lets her fall on the mattress. The cold sheets underneath her give some clarity back. Not that she keeps it for long, with Dean crawling between her open thighs, hair all fucked up by her hands. He gives her a long caress from her knees up to her waist and smiles again. "Always wanted you in my bed." Is this actually happening?, she thinks, incredulous. "Wh–Yeah?" "Why do you you think I proposed we watch something here?" He winks at her. "Sam wasn't home...I dunno, I felt lucky today." "...and then we ended up yelling at each other a bunch", she adds. Dean huffs a laugh and leans down to kiss her, deep and long enough she forgets what they were even talking about. "Doesn't that just count as foreplay?" "I don't think so, no." Dean beams at her, eyes glinting with something dangerous. "No? How about this, then?", he says, and licks a hot strip on her neck before sucking a mark there. The sharp feeling of his teeth on her sensitive skin makes her back arch closer to his chest. "Or this?" One of his hands sneaks under her shirt, slow and teasing. Dean's fingers splay wide on her stomach on their way up, and she's never hated a piece of clothing more than her bra when it stops the contact. She wants everything off, wants to feel him really touch her. "Oh, fuck," she gasps. "Dean– Dean, take this off." He groans against her collarbone, voice low and rumbly, before leaning back on his knees. "Mmh, yeah. Yes, ma'am. Can you roll over?" The thought of Dean pressed long and wide along her back makes her toes curl, and she gladly turns around.

She realizes Uma Thurman is still swinging her katana on the computer screen, so she takes a second to close the laptop. There's the swishing of fabric behind her, probably Dean shimming out of his sweatpants and shirt while she can't see him. She goes to undress as well, but two warm hands on her hips stop her. "No, wait, I wanna do it," Dean says. “‘Kay?” Oh God, this man is gonna be the death of her. "Yes, please."

Dean scoots closer, his knees on either side of hers, erection pressed on the small of her back. He briefly hugs her to his chest while he leaves a kiss on her hair, squeezing a bit before he lets her go. She swallows back a whimper at the feeling – not because it brings any real pleasure, but because of Dean's unguarded desire behind the gesture. He’s slowed down the pace, maybe for her benefit, maybe for his own. God, she's there, with Dean. Unbelievable. She wants him so much she could cry.

Nuzzling her neck, he helps her take off her shirt, and then – faster, cause he's seductive, yes, but also earnest and enthusiastic – he unclasps her bra, and it falls on the bed. She gets why he asked her to turn around, conscious that her shyness would, at least at first, follow her even in bed: like this, she can't see him watching, and her instinct to hide from him is stifled. Not that she had nothing to worry about: Dean just sighs softly and cups her breasts in his hands, a smile splitting his face at how soft and hot her skin is.

Her leggings go next, tugged down roughly by herself, 'cause suddenly she really, really needs to be naked so he can touch her everywhere. She leans forward on the bed, face pressing on a pillow as she shimmies out of her pants. Dean huffs a laugh behind her. "These are very sexy," he comments, hooking his fingers on the edge of her underwear. Which is ridiculous, cause she has on the most boring pair of black undies ever produced. Goes to show with how little Dean is pleased. Instead of taking the last piece of offending clothing off, he slides two fingers up and down her folds, pushing in a little through the fabric. "So wet already," he says, “and I haven't even touched you yet." His voice has gone low and rumbly and that, coupled with his fingers, makes her that much wetter. “‘Cause I want you,” she mumbles in the pillow, stating the obvious. She rocks backs on his hand, inviting. “You know, I-” “Yeah, baby?” Oh God, he called me baby, she thinks a bit hysterically. She bites back the embarrassment and tries to find somewhere the courage to finish the sentence. “You know, I - I think of you when I touch myself.”

There it is, out in the open. Just how ridiculously attracted to him she is.

His movements stutter; when she angles her head so that she can see his face, she finds him already watching her with such intense, naked longing in his eyes, she has to feel proud. It’s getting to her head, feeling wanted like this. “What?” he asks, finally sliding off her underwear. He’s already naked, and as soon as the panties hit the mattress she pushes back until she’s flush with him – his erection is pressed in the cleft of her ass, getting smeared with her wetness when she starts undulating her hips. “What- fuck,” Dean tries again, distracted by what she’s doing. “Mmh, what do you think about?” God, she’s burning up, and she’s so damn empty without him inside of her. “I don’t know, uh - Your fingers?” Dean circles an arm around her and sneaks his hand down her belly until he can touch her clit, middle and forefinger forming slow circles in time with her hips. “Yes, yes like that, fuck,” she gasps. She decides, there and then, to tell him a secret.

“One time, one time we were at that diner together, Sam and Cas were there as well...And you had that red shirt on, and you must have spent some time on your hair, ‘cause it was – I don’t know, Dean, you were just so beautiful. I was sitting right in front of you. You were flirting with the waitress, and I thought, I thought ‘God, what if I took my shoe off, and slid my foot all the way up his leg and then, when he looks at me, confused, pretend I’m not doing anything?’ And I kept thinking about it, ‘cause you weren’t looking at me anyway. What if I made you hard, there in public, but you had to keep your face straight and not react? And then, what if you grasped my ankle under the table like a warning to stop, but you still pushed back to have more friction, blushing that pretty red when Sam asked you if were okay? And you know what, Dean?” She pauses a second, lost in the fantasy and the feeling of his hands on her. “I would have stopped without a word. I would have left you there, wouldn’t have even acknowledged what I was doing by glancing at you – I would have stood up, with you still hard in your jeans in that cute, family-friendly diner, and I would have said “Sorry, gotta powder my nose” or something just as stupid, to look even more annoyingly innocent – and then I would have gone to the bathroom. And waited for you to follow me, so you could fuck me in one of the stalls, my hand on your mouth to keep you quiet, hoping against hope that no one would come in, or hear us, or interrupt us before you could cum so deep inside me I would have felt you for days-”

Dean moves away from her, one hand to keep her still. “Okay, okay, that’s- that's enough for now." His free hand is at the base of his dick, squeezing a bit as he calms down. He’s breathing fast, lips bitten red and freckles standing out against the flush on his face. He is, quite possibly, the hottest thing she has ever seen. And she did that. “You little- I think I remember that day, fuck. That’s what you were thinking? Jesus.” He briefly rummages in the bedside drawer and comes back to the bed with a condom. “Is like this okay?” he asks, and helps her up from where she was sprawled on the bed. She considers whether or not her legs will hold her up in this position, and figures that after that spiel she deserves to be a bit of a pillow princess – Dean will hold her up if he needs to. With those strong, muscular arms of his. Mmh, God bless his biceps... So she hums “yes,” and hooks her feet around his calves to feel him closer.

She looks back at him as he goes in, and more than the feeling of Dean sliding into her, she'll never forget how his eyes flutter close in a pained frown, like it feels so good it hurts; like he’s somehow surprised by the pleasure. And then he moves, and her eyes just close on their own at the feeling. Everything’s just burning hot – Dean inside her, his hands touching everywhere on her body, his forehead pressed between her shoulders when he leans down. “‘Missed this,” he mumbles on her skin. “I always forget how good it is.”

Which would be, was this a different setting, an unwelcome reminder of how many women have been under him before her. Right now, with him groaning and moaning in her ear? She couldn’t care less.

The pace picks up - and, really, Dean’s a very proportionate man, and, in that position, he goes too deep for comfort. At a particularly hard thrust, she whimpers in pain. “You okay?” he asks, worried fingers moving the hair out of her face. “Yeah, ‘s okay. Just-” “I hurt you,” he interjects, and helps her up. “Get closer to the headboard? Alright, let’s try it like this.” On her knees, with her arms balancing her weight on the wall, the angle changes drastically. Dean slides back into her, this time pressed on her in a long line from shoulders to knees, and hooks his chin on her shoulder. “Better?”

“Way better,” she says, and smiles at his happy sigh.

There’s not much she could tell you about the rest, not without interrupting herself every two seconds by grinning and blushing. It just feels good. It feels amazing. Dean’s experience is evident in his every move, and he doesn’t let her forget for a second exactly who’s she with – in that too-hot bedroom with weapons decorating the wall, giving a memory foam mattress a run for its money. She says his name probably too many times, and some ridiculous praise comes out of her mouth once in a while, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind; he bites her neck too hard, at one point, and it hurts but she loves it, the proof that he has lost himself completely in her body. And Dean builds her up and up, with his voice and his fingers and his cock, until she shudders and cums around him.

She briefly loses sense of time, feeling only Dean thrusting into her faster and deeper and with a faltering rhythm – when she comes back to herself, he’s slipping out of her with a groaned “Jesus Christ.”

She lies down on her back, panting as she watches him throw away the condom in a small bin beside the bed. All those good chemicals that come with an orgasm are making her feel more naked than a simple lack of clothes – Dean turns back to her, and she has the impression that he can see right through her skin and bones; that all the feelings that surely will scare him off are sprawled out on the bed like heavy, uncomfortable blanket.

She feels both amazing and scrubbed raw at the same time. She really needs Dean to take her in his arm before she starts crying, which is becoming more and more probable by the second.

Instead, his attention falls on his phone, bleeping away on the bedside table. “Twelve messages?”, he says when he picks it up. They’re from Sam, which becomes obvious when he reads them instead of chucking the phone at the end of the bed; she watches him frown as he scrolls down. “Ugh, fuck. It’s Sam; Jody apparently needs back up after all. Five werewolves? Well, shit.”

She doesn’t say anything and busies herself by sliding under the blanket.

She doesn’t like to think of Jody in danger, but she likes even less where this is going. Dean is putting his boxers back on, and clean clothes from his drawer. Oh, wow, look at all that flannel. Does he have an endless supply or something? “I gotta go,” he explains. No shit, Sherlock. “Hey, it was awesome,” he tells her as he puts a belt on, nonchalant as if he was talking about a very good burger. “Just- awesome. Shit, I’m so late already, Sam’s gonna bitch all the way to Sioux Falls. See you in a few days?” She nods, a bit jaded by the sudden change in scenario – from one with Dean naked in bed with her to one where he’s leaving as if nothing happened – and he smiles and winks at her.

And then he’s gone.

Maybe she spends the next hour on the verge of tears, hugging his pillow and watching the rest of Kill Bill as a distraction, but that’s not really any of your business. She gets up, eventually, and puts her clothes back on even if the bunker is empty. She does what feels like a walk of shame back to her room and straight to her shower. She washes off, with her favourite lavender-scented soap, all the signs of the past few hours off of her skin. Like it was a random guy. Like it was just a one-off.

Thank you very much, ma’am, it has been fun while it lasted.

“I gotta go.”

Well, alright. Goodbye stranger, then.

❧ ☙

I hope you guys enjoyed it! I cherish every comment and reblog, feedback really motivates me to keep writing <3 I especially appreciate comments on characterization, I tried to keep Dean as IC as possible :) Let me know what you think!

Tags from @spnfanficpond‘s Tag List under the cut - apologies if I tagged someone who’s not interested in Dean/Reader’s by mistake!

If someone wants to be tagged in the next chapter, let me know <3

@aprofoundbondwithdean @manawhaat @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @nichelle-my-belle @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @notnaturalanahi @bkwrm523 @deanscarlett @roxy-davenport @impala-dreamer @samsgoddess @frenchybell @deandoesthingstome @deansleather @curliesallovertheplace @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname @waywardjoy @mrswhozeewhatsis @imadeangirl-butimsamcurious @kayteonline @supernatural-jackles @wevegotworktodo @quiddy-writes @supermoonpanda @deanwinchesterforpromqueen @chaos-and-the-calm67 @memariana91 @plaidstiel-wormstache @teamfreewill-imagine @chelsea-winchester @fandommaniacx @castieltrash1 @supernaturalyobessed @ruined-by-destiel @winchester-writes @evilskank-inthemegacoven @clueless-gold @bennyyh @winchestersmolder @maraisabellegrey @faith-in-dean @deanwinchesterxreader @winchester-family-business @winecatsandpizza @there-must-be-a-lock @cas-backwards-tie @emoryhemsworth @just-another-winchester

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wolfish-impulse · 4 years

Text

The Crest of the Goblin King

PROLOGUE

"And remember, should you ever need us–“

“Yes, should you need us-“

“I do need you, Hoggle.”

“Y-You do?”

“At certain times in my life, for no reason at all, I need you.”

“Well... Why didn’t you say so?”

As the girl, his irritating little labyrinth victor, had fun with her friends – dancing, laughing, dressing up and talking – he sat outside her window, balanced on the limb of a tree, unbeknownst to all in their giddiness, wings fluttering at his sides in his owl form as he balanced himself.

But there was one who saw him through the pane of glass.

Hogwart gazed at him from around the arm of the girl, expression dark despite the happy or nervous one he had shown to the girl for the past several hours. His expression voiced exactly what he felt in his heart.

She wasn’t the one. They had gone through everything – luring her to the labyrinth, setting up trap after trap to keep her away from her prize, to keep her there with him, their future Queen – and yet she turned out to be the wrong one.

Of course, he had experienced the familiar allure one often does when encountering their soulmate, yet it was... wrong. Muddled, as though wearing off. Her scent always carried the musty aroma of magic that had been fading for centuries; sweet, but in the way that fruit cake is sweet and a little too wet.

He was confounded. After centuries of tracing many different types of Sarahs, from all nationalities, to his labyrinth, never had he gotten as close to finding his intended Queen as he had with Sarah Williams.

Shaking himself, he took off into the night, heart and head conflicted. He needed advice. With his resolve cemented, he allowed his form to be swallowed into the night and stars, returning to his realm, the sun just rising above the horizon, the Goblin castle visible in the distance.

He needed to speak to his father. The older fae would know what was happening.

———————————————

“Jareth,” his mother greeted warmly, reaching out and placing her delicate pale hands on his biceps and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He allowed himself to be comforted momentarily, but couldn’t hide the boiling frustration in the icy depths of his blue eyes.

A similar set of blue eyes looked back at him, concern on her beautiful face. She looked as though she hadn’t aged a day past twenty, but he knew. His mother didn’t have long in this world. She was a prisoner of the Underground, just as they all would be one day; trapped in endless time. Any attempt at breaching the Aboveground would result in her death, unblemished skin turning to dust.

“Mother.” He greeted, shoving all dark thoughts save one from his mind so as to not worry her. “Where is he?”

“In the garden.” She smiled, though it barely reached her eyes. He had spiked her curiosity, her motherly instinct taking over. He repressed a sigh. “There’s something wrong. What is it?”

“It’s...” He gnashed his teeth. “My soulmate.”

She gasped, hand flying to her mouth, icy eyes wide. “You found her?”

He sighed and lifted a hand, running it through his long blonde hair. He didn’t often display this sort of vulnerability, but in the presence of his parents, in the privacy of their home... He allowed himself this rare opportunity.

“Not exactly. That’s why I came to see him. I’m hoping...” He trailed off. Even just discussing his dilemma with stilted words was painful, like they were being extracted from him like a bad tooth. How did he think he was going to be able to even broach the subject with his father?

She nodded, though, perfectly understanding and warmth swelled within him. His mother truly was a remarkable woman; even in his father’s stories, as the older fae recounted his courtship of his soulmate, when she was still human, she carried an elegance and intuition about her that was rare. He hugged her close, simply because he could, and relished in the comfort she offered him merely by being there.

“We’ll figure this out, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”

———————————————

All it took was one step into the garden for the older fae, his blonde head lifting and tearing his focus away from the glowing orchid he was kneeling beside, to recognize he wasn’t alone. Jareth, in turn, bent over and bowed gracefully, extending his arm in respectful salutation.

“Something’s happened.” The fae stood and turned to regard his son. While the Goblin King was unearthly beauty, his father represented more of the unearthly terror that the der erlkonig instilled in German folklore for so many years. His features were long, pointed, and sharply angled. Just as many of their folk appeared; Jareth was unique in his soft features, given to him by his human mother.

“What happened?”

“I met her.”

The fae across from him straightened and clasped his hands behind his back, regarding his son with his full attention.

“Yet there’s something wrong.”

“It was... nothing like what you described. There was a hint, but it was like she was dirtied. Her scent was off; faint, hard to track.”

His father stroked his chin in thought, turning and sitting on the ornate wooden bench in the clearing, green eyes bright.

“Perhaps she was merely in contact with your intended. Their scent rubbed off on her?”

“I tracked each and every person she was close to, though that was very few. She only had one companion, aside from a mutt.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“Hmm...” Though the sound carried a strain of concern, his father’s eyes were growing brighter, intrigued by a true mystery. “That’s very interesting.”

Jareth clenched his jaw. That was one thing about his father that always managed to ignite his patience in flames; his father was aggravatingly cryptic. He felt like he had to pull the slightest explanation out of him.

“Meaning?” He crossed his arms over his chest, cocking his hip to one side.

“Well, I have a theory for what may be going on... But understand it’s merely a theory.” He spread his hands. “An incident of this manner has never been recorded in our history.”

Anxiety spiked within him and he took a step toward the fae. “And?”

“Theoretically... you could have been drawn to her not because of her, but who she’s meant to be. Or rather, what she’s meant to offer.”

His brow furrowed quizzically. “I don’t understand.”

“All I can guarantee you, son,” the fae stood and approached him, placing what was supposed to be a comforting hand on his shoulder, “is that you’ve got a while longer to wait.”

Jareth turned away from the older one’s pitying gaze and hissed in frustration, ignoring as his father returned to his wife’s side.

“And Jareth,” he turned at his name, looking up to his parents who stood gazing down upon him, his father’s expression mostly unreadable except for the playful smirk he wore, his mother loving, “don’t lose her. You may be surprised at what you discover.”

———————————————

The years passed on remarkably slowly for the young Goblin King, as he sat upon his throne and watched the labyrinth’s lone victor carry on her life Aboveground. He had taken his father’s advice, but as the time went on found himself questioning it. There was nothing particularly special about the girl, except for the bizarre weak scent of magic on her being. The scent of mine, mate, one. Yet so very, very not.

Kicking his leg in boredom, barely concealing impatience, he gazed upon her form as she dressed for the day. Though she very frequently complained about life being unfair in her younger years, she had grown to respect that life truly was unfair — perhaps due to her experience in his labyrinth — and had chosen to take the high road and accept it. Even after she faced trial after trial — the passing of her father and step-mother in a car accident, her younger brother being willed under her care, taking on three jobs and a school career so she could provide for the young boy, attending her mother’s funeral when the woman she had spent her entire life considering her idol contracted terminal cancer — she kept her chin up and trekked on. He found it all incredibly dull. Her streak of rebelliousness had faded as she matured. She truly was not meant for him in the slightest.

Yet as he observed her movements, robotic in the way that she was internalizing her obvious anxiety attack as she strapped on her heels, he wondered if his father had gotten it wrong. Was she meant to be his? Was his reaction to her just not as strong as his father’s was for his mother? He had never seen a couple so emphatically obsessed with one another as his parents were for each other. Perhaps their love was a once-in-a-century situation. It didn’t mean he would experience the same thing. Maybe this was all he had.

And maybe, just maybe, he had completely blown it by doubting himself and imagining a life where he would have a love as passionate and devoted as his parents did. Maybe he would live out the remainder of his long, long days alone, as he watched her fix her hair and her childhood best friend — only friend — place the veil atop her head.

Sarah Williams, the only person in history who had conquered his labyrinth, was getting married.

To some unattractive, whiny, manipulative brute of a man who didn’t even give her a second glance.

It was a staged event, of course, as she knew to carry on a decent life for herself and her young brother — who had just entered his pre-teen years — would be to secure herself a husband to provide for them in the ways he knew how.

The bump of her stomach through the white gown she wore was evidence enough of the true reason for this charade.

Young Sarah, though she was in her mid-twenties now, was with child.

#crest of the goblin king #fic #labyrinth #alternate universe #past: mxf #current: mxm #past: jareth/sarah (one-sided)#current: sarah/omc #current: jareth/omc #age difference #soulmates #ongoing #warning: sarah has a kid #jareth has plans

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silenthillmutual · 5 years

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pride month day two - rainbow

When he thinks of Mondo, he thinks of rainbows.

Or, well, no; that isn’t, strictly speaking, correct. But it is an easier way of saying that he associates him with every color, all at once, as if he’s been surrounded in kaleidoscope vision.

He thinks of Mondo’s lips stained red with too much food dye he used in their attempt at a bake sale. Half of the proceeds were meant to go to charity and the other half to cover costs for them to do something as a club - go to Pride in the city, meet up with the GSAs from other schools, go to lectures on queer studies - but the more garishly-colored snacks didn’t sell.

Their rainbow gimmick failed. Too obvious, maybe. There were people who didn’t care, because sweets were sweets; and there were people, even, who enthusiastic about the food because of its color. But more often than not, people would show mild interest until they caught onto the theme and recoiled, cringing.

And it was making Chihiro cry. The rainbow theme had been their idea.

Kiyotaka hadn’t really known what to say to cheer them up. He’d never been good at comforting himself, let alone others. So he’d said, “Maybe they have an allergy to red food dye!” knowing that it wasn’t true.

It didn’t help. “I just feel bad, that all this food is going to go to waste,” they said, rubbing at their eyes.

“The hell it is! If no one else buys ‘em, Taka an’ I’ll eat ‘em all!” And Mondo glared at him from behind Chihiro’s back, giving Kiyotaka a look that said, very plainly, that there was no room for argument on this front.

And both their mouths were stained bright red for several days after, drawing Kiyotaka’s attention away every time they spoke.

(And pink, if you count it - he thinks of how Mondo blushes, almost angrily, hand on the back of his head and looking as far away as he can. It’s not a reaction he invokes, not yet. But he thinks he’s learning.)

Orange, he thinks of leaves falling, crumbling under their shoes as they stand by the fountain and wait for everyone else to show up.

He’s not expecting Mondo to be on time - or, actually, he’s early, the first person to arrive after Taka. He nods to acknowledge Kiyotaka’s presence, and immediately finds something else to focus on, standing in the same space without actually sharing anything.

Taka’s staring at the leaves skating by on the pavement when he sees shoes drawing closer to his own. He doesn’t look up before the arm comes over around him, feeling himself encased in heavy fabric, pulled against a warmer body.

“You shoulda worn more layers,” Mondo chides him, managing to sound irritated despite the offer being unprompted.

“I don’t understand how you’re so hot, when you have so little on!” he says, and (pink) watches Mondo flush at his choice of words.

He doesn’t fix them.

Yellow makes him think of the sun. Don’t most people? The brightest, the first noticeable, caution signs, lights before they turn red.

And how Mondo always runs them.

The first time he does it, Kiyotaka nearly has a panic attack, but it turns just as soon as they pass the mark and he can’t say for certain that Mondo had time to react. It’s been hard enough to get Taka on his motorcycle. He’s just nervous, he tells himself. They both are.

But the fourth time - it’s a habit.

“You need to slow down when the light goes yellow!” he shouts over the din.

Mondo promptly ignores him. Taka’s hands around him tighten on reflex.

Green is (go) the color (go!) of (go!!) the carnations Taka grows as a project for one class. They have meaning, significance, and he names them all for men he has admired in his life. Many are politicians, a few scientists, one performer, and...

(Mondo.)

(Pink. That’s the color his face is right now, even on his own.)

Teal is new. Or maybe, it’s old. It’s the color of the ocean, that Taka has known and never seen in person until they meet up during spring break, one day to exist as friends and a club before school starts up again.

And he’s never seen it before. He’s been to smaller rivers, never to bigger bodies of water. Not himself, always in textbooks, theoretical, the same way their futures seem to be.

It makes him melancholy that they even need this. That they are gay-straight alliance lacking in allies. That for all the good they try to do, they are one club at one school and they make about as much difference as the seashells Leon is trying to skim across the water.

He sits in the sand, unmoving, watching the tide wash up on the beach, wondering what it would be like to feel it on his feet.

Mondo sits next to him, pokes his side where his skin is most sensitive.

“Dude,” he says, “You’re sweatin’ bullets. Why doncha take off ya shirt?”

Without thinking, Taka replies, “Because I don’t want to share my scars.”

This is the first person he’s told. And he hadn’t meant to - this was a secret - this was something Mondo could hate him for, could lose interest in whatever it is that pulls them back together whenever they occupy the same space.

But when he watches the waves crash, bubbling in white foam, he just hears “Oh, okay.” He doesn’t feel the sand shift the way he might on chairs or beds, but he does feel skin hitting his, their knees knocking together where Mondo shifts until they’re touching thigh to thigh. “I’ll just sit here with you, then.”

“Don’t you want to go into the water?” Taka asks.

“Do you?”

He answers with the same immediacy, unconsidered but comfortable. “Not with everyone else.” He doesn’t ask Mondo for a clearer answer, but the arm stretched behind him, hand by his hip - that’s teal, the color of the waves he watches and wonders what it looks like at night for just two people.

Blue is --

the color of --

his bedsheets --

(Pink, his face when they wake up, when they realize they fell asleep with the movie on in the background and he has spent the night dreaming of kissing him -)

Purple is the color of bruises. Mondo’s bruises. Taka’s bruises. Leon’s bruises. Makoto’s bruises. The bruises even on their seniors who had just been walking past, had seen what was happening and didn’t hesitate to jump in and help.

And it’s the color of his face. He’s amazed at the bruises on the back of his knuckles. He’s never hit someone before, didn’t know what he was doing. He knows the basics of self-defense and nothing about rage. He’s exhilarated -

And then immediately, he’s nauseated. He hurt another person.

“They deserved it,” Mondo tells him, hanging over his shoulder, watching him stare at his hands. They’re shaking, now.

Leon (let it never be said Leon Kuwata was discouraging) claps him on the back (he smiles, he can’t see it but Taka knows he does) and says, “I’m proud of you, man!”

Purple is what he expects his father’s face to look like when he comes to bail him and his friends out for disturbing the peace and --

“You did the right thing,” he hisses, so his coworkers can’t hear.

They only know his father for the heavy-set eyebrows that make him look angry, but Taka knows him better.

Violet...

(pink) that’s the color of his (pink) eyes, as he is (pink) trying to focus, a little tipsy on Taka’s (pink) face. They are so (pink) soft, where they look at him every time (pink) they look at him, especially now, when they are (blushing, that blush just accentuates the violet in his eyes) being dared to kiss. They’re the (pink) same color when he pulls away, and (pink) even brighter when Taka says, “I want the same dare.”

#nori talks #more unrepentantly sappy shit #ishimondo #ok to rb #writing exercise #nori writes #this is. hm! not good. sorry.#but it's good to let yourself write poorly! and get it out of the way.#homophobia implied #icarus.docx #mine

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stevenuniversallyreviews · 5 years

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Episode 110: Onion Gang

“No more weirdo friends.”

There have been a handful of Steven Universe episodes that I only watched once, didn’t like, and didn’t watch again until reviewing them for this project. Time has been kind to many of them: I’ve come to appreciate Ronaldo (especially in Rising Tides, Crashing Skies, which I was super down on) as well as Say Uncle and The New Lars. I don’t necessarily love all these episodes now, but they’re a lot better than I once thought.

But yeah sometimes my first impression is right on the money.

Onion Gang is the most boring episode of the series by a country mile. The show has meandered before in the likes of Cat Fingers, Steven’s Lion, and Open Book, but these stories at least resolve in interesting ways. Looking forward, Escapism has even fewer words than Onion Gang, but it’s designed to simultaneously add to Steven’s many ordeals and act as the calm before the storm (and it’s also, y’know, watchable; silence can be a good thing, ask any episode of Samurai Jack). But Onion Gang is relentlessly uninteresting throughout.

The glacial pace isn’t helped by comedy bits falling flat at a rate that’s almost impressive. I try pretty hard to find things I like in episodes I don’t, but there’s literally nothing here for me. That is not easy. Especially considering how much of a sucker I am for Onion, slapstick, and weird goofy side adventures. This should be right up my alley, but hoo boy is it not.

Still, I’ll give it a try: the most generous reading of Onion Gang is that it focuses on Steven misunderstanding Onion, and if you squint, you can draw a parallel between his assumptions about Onion and his assumptions about Rose (both silent, mysterious figures in his life) being proven wrong. False narratives are a recurring theme in Steven’s arc, and another one pops up here. But even if that broadest of strokes is an intended connection, it doesn’t stop Onion Gang from being a catastrophe.

The only Onion Pal that leaves any impression is Garbanzo, and the impression is that Garbanzo is the worst character the show has ever produced. Villains like Kevin and Aquamarine are horrible, but that’s the point. Irritating secondary characters like Ronaldo and Lars have actual depth, and otherwise further the plot and are reliable for decent humor at times (it’s a shame that only one of them grows, but still). Garbanzo is a kid who shouts the word “Garbanzo” as if this is inherently amusing, and uh that’s it. The joke isn’t funny the first time, and doesn’t become funny through brute force repetition. It’s just annoying.

Squash, Soup, and Pinto are...there? They mostly exist for the gag of Steven naming all of them, a continuation of his unusually domineering presence in Onion Gang. Because oh yeah, on top of everything else this is a dreadful Steven episode. It’s not Sadie’s Song, because his presumptuous attitude doesn’t cause actual harm, but this is a bad look on a hero whose powers are supposed to be based on empathy. His narration of Onion’s actions mostly acts as another gag, and like Garbanzo, it’s not a funny one, but that doesn’t stop the episode from repeating it ad nauseam.

Steven’s weird behavior doesn’t stop there. The overlong go-kart scene ends with Steven seeing Garbanzo spray ketchup on himself, then instantly forgetting he saw this and openly wondering if Garbanzo is hurt. Which makes this the dumbest Steven has ever been. It makes zero sense that he would be bamboozled by something he saw faked with his own eyes, to the point where the gag itself becomes confusing: this would be like if he saw Amethyst eat his dinner then asked where his dinner went, it requires Steven’s intelligence to plummet so perilously that it confounds what we’re supposed to find funny about the joke in the first place.

But the most bizarre misfire by far is Steven declaring that he’s “the lonely boy with no friends his age” when Connie Maheswaran exists. She’s busy (as is the underused Peedee), but our hero makes the flying leap that this means he’s utterly friendless. This is a kid defined by his ability to make friends. He saves the ocean once and the planet twice by making friends. The entire show hinges on his fundamental friendliness. This plot point is ludicrous, even when we take into account that Steven is being annoyingly melodramatic.

A nitpick, but one that fuels the Ronaldo-level conspiracy theorist in me, is that Connie was prepping for school in Buddy’s Book and is attending school in Mindful Education, so if she’s shopping for school supplies in Onion Gang then either she’s doing it super late (which doesn’t sound like something she or her mother would ever allow) or this episode, which mind you is stated to take place as summer ends, should've aired between the two Connie episodes. The conspiracy theory is that Onion Gang would’ve looked even weaker when shoved between two episodes about what good friends Steven and Connie are, so it got moved to settle between two Crystal Gem stories.

I think that it’s theoretically possible to make a good episode that evokes unambiguous pathos from Onion. But considering the character works because he’s this strange, menacing force of nature in an otherwise pretty normal population of humans, I’m not sure he’s a character that needs the depth. Onion Friend hit a sweet spot of making him grow a little, but maintain his creepy charm. Onion Gang goes further, but in doing so removes everything interesting about Beach City’s resident weirdo. Gone is the kid who two episodes ago was robbing the arcade with a crowbar and a bandit mask. Here instead is an odd but sensitive kid whose mischievous friends somehow render him less mischievous than usual. It’s bad enough to have a boring episode, but a boring episode with Onion as the focus? Again, it’s almost impressive.

There’s no reason to watch this episode instead of any other Onion-centric episode if Onion is your jam. There’s no reason to watch this episode instead of any other Steven-centric episode barring Sadie’s Song if Steven is your jam. There’s no reason to watch this episode instead of rewatching Last One Out of Beach City if being charmed by friendship is your jam. There’s no reason to watch this episode instead of Buddy’s Book if thematic resonance in regards to false narratives is your jam. There’s no reason to watch this episode instead of any episode of Craig of the Creek if kids playing outside is your jam. Only watch Onion Gang if you’re a glutton for punishment.

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

Part of me wants to rank this higher than Fusion Cuisine and House Guest, where I find more insulting mischaracterizations. But both of those episodes have enjoyable elements that are weighed down by lousy depictions of Connie and Greg; Garnet’s a riot in the former, and there’s a sweet song in the latter despite being muddled by context. Whereas there are no real bright spots in Onion Gang. It’s an unbearable eleven minutes that I’m never going to watch again.

Sadie’s Song is worse because it’s the worst Steven episode in the series and it misses the mark so much, and it’s important to Sadie’s arc so it’s harder to skip, which makes me resent it more. Island Adventure is worse because its moral is that abuse is a reasonable method of communication. But that’s all that’s stopping Onion Gang from reaching the very bottom.

The good news is that this is it for my No Thanks list, and while I might’ve had a bit of fun dissecting why I dislike Onion Gang so much, it bears saying that 6 stinkers in 180 episodes and a movie ain’t shabby.

Top Twenty

Steven and the Stevens

Hit the Diamond

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

Last One Out of Beach City

The Return

Jailbreak

The Answer

Mindful Education

Sworn to the Sword

Rose’s Scabbard

Earthlings

Mr. Greg

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Beach City Drift

Winter Forecast

Bismuth

When It Rains

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Ocean Gem

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

Warp Tour

The Test

Future Vision

On the Run

Maximum Capacity

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

Keeping It Together

We Need to Talk

Chille Tid

Cry for Help

Keystone Motel

Catch and Release

Back to the Barn

Steven’s Birthday

It Could’ve Been Great

Message Received

Log Date 7 15 2

Same Old World

The New Lars

Monster Reunion

Alone at Sea

Crack the Whip

Beta

Back to the Moon

Kindergarten Kid

Buddy’s Book

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Love Letters

Reformed

Rising Tides, Crashing Tides

Onion Friend

Historical Friction

Friend Ship

Nightmare Hospital

Too Far

Barn Mates

Steven Floats

Drop Beat Dad

Too Short to Ride

Restaurant Wars

Kiki’s Pizza Delivery Service

Greg the Babysitter

Gem Hunt

Steven vs. Amethyst

Bubbled

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

Super Watermelon Island

Gem Drill

Know Your Fusion

Future Boy Zoltron

No Thanks!

6. Horror Club 5. Fusion Cuisine 4. House Guest 3. Onion Gang 2. Sadie’s Song 1. Island Adventure

#onion gang #steven universe #su #steven universally #review

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officerjennie · 5 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Naruto Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Itachi Series: Part 2 of Raffle Stories Summary:

There's plenty of conversations they've never had. At least now they finally have one that's been long coming.

Story written for @something-like-air, who was one of the raffle winners!

Ko-Fi || Commissions

It had been slower than usual at the tower. Tobirama scratched out his signature for the umpteenth time, hardly focused enough on what he was doing to read his own handwriting, it becoming nothing but a blur in his vision. His window had been left open to cool his office, and with the pleasant respite of the wind came the sounds of distant laughter from the academy, children safe and at play in the village only a decade or so old. It set his heart at rest in a way he’d never known in his own childhood, and a rare smile touched his lips, papers rustling as he shuffled them in place and reached for yet another form to sign.

A light knock on his door paused his hand, chakra flaring up in a beckon for his unexpected guest to enter. Unexpected yet hardly unwelcomed, quill placed carefully to the side as his door clicked shut once more.

“Hokage-sama, I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Is this a professional visit, then?” He’d asked time and again for the other to call him by his name, not his title. But it seemed even Itachi had been affected by the stubborn vein in his heritage, refusing to honor his wishes and insisting on distancing himself from those around him. No matter that they’d welcomed him years before - that he was more family than anything else by now.

He gave a polite smile as he shook his head. “I hope a personal visit isn’t unwelcome. If it is, I could always come back later.”

“You’re already here. Might as well stay.”

Itachi gave a single nod, walking further into the office to stand in front of the open window. He said not a word for quite some time, content enough to stare out at the village below. The breeze blowing the few loose locks of his hair as he leaned forward, more at peace now than Tobirama had seen him in months.

He had to reconsider that thought, frowning as he did so. Years, actually. He’d be hard pressed to think of a time he’d seen Itachi more at peace than at that moment, overlooking Konoha, the scent of plum blossoms in the air around them.

Really, it should have been a pleasant sight. But instead it set an ache in Tobirama’s chest that he couldn’t quite place a name to, and any thought of continuing to work in the quiet around them faded away. He pushed himself up and away from his desk, moving to stand close to the Uchiha.

“Do you miss it? Your Konoha.” Tobirama wasn’t entirely sure he had the right to ask, despite considering himself to be one of Itachi’s closest friends. He found himself too curious to keep the question to himself, though a strange and rather vocal part of himself still feared the answer.

“How could I not?”

He couldn’t help but scowl at that. Quite the opposite of what he’d wanted to hear, no matter that it made sense. There was no doubt little here that resembled Itachi’s time, and as someone who had relocated from his home territory only a few short years after Itachi had been found on the outskirts of Senju land he could at the very least sympathize in some fashion.

Saying as much would probably be a disservice to Itachi’s struggles. Tobirama still had his family, small as it was, and though his life had certainly changed by leaps and bounds he hadn’t been thrust into a past generation against his will. Instead of expressing either his admittedly selfish disappointment or his lacking understanding he merely inched closer, letting their fingers brush together in a way that could almost be accidental if the both of them didn’t already know better.

They still hadn’t taken any time to discuss his rather foolish behavior that night well over a month ago. At least he knew never to indulge in his brother’s sake again, no matter the occasion, if he didn’t want to spew his embarrassment in the middle of the street while literally hanging off the man he’d been pining after for years.

It was a sad sort of solace to find Itachi knew little more than he did when it came to matters of the heart, seeming to shy away from any hint of discussing it. Perhaps he wanted nothing more than friendship, or perhaps he needed time to get his thoughts in order. Either way, Tobirama would understand, despite the deep ache pulsing in his chest at the former possibility.

That vein of thought only reminded him of one more painful. He didn’t retract his hand, only because Itachi made no move to shift away, but he did focus firmly on the rooftops stretching out below. Still shiny and new, a village on its first legs and expanding every day.

“Do you know much about my hiraishin?” They had never discussed the technique before, but it’s hardly like they’d discussed ever second of Itachi’s life. Barely any, as much as it bothered Tobirama to not be trusted with the information. It was possible Itachi had studied or used his jutsu before coming to their era.

That hypothesis was disproved a second later as Itachi shook his head, shifting his gaze ever so slightly to look at him. “I had heard of it, of course. One great shinobi from my time was famous for using it.”

“Oh?” A trickle of pride and curiosity distracted him for a moment, more than glad that at least one of his techniques had survived - more than one, since he’d seen Itachi use his kage bunshin on a few occasions. Though the importance or significance of his own jutsu creations was hardly the point he was trying to get at. “I was actually working on the technique earlier this week, attempting to improve upon it, and it occured to me it might be of use to you.”

Itachi cocked his head in the way he always did when curious about something, one hand resting against the windowsill while the other still hung next to his own. “I was under the impression you were hesitant to teach others that particular jutsu. Was I wrong?”

“Not entirely, no.” Apparently, Izuna’s insistence on learning his jutsu and subsequent whining when he said no had spread quite far. It would have had to for Itachi to know about it, since he was usually so far out of the gossip loop - a feat of its own considering how much time he spent with Hashirama, whose ear was all but glued to people’s doors when it came to personal matters.

A habit he would’ve personally knocked out of the idiot if it wasn’t so beneficial for shinobi to collect intel. Better to encourage what few useful habits his brother had, no matter how trying or obnoxious they might be at times.

His brother was beside the point. As was his continued annoyance and bafflement at how persistent his old rival was about learning his jutsu. And even if the topic he was trying to discuss might be difficult for the both of them, Tobirama couldn’t exactly avoid it forever, especially considering he’d already gotten Itachi’s attention.

“I’ve actually started to research further into fuinjutsu theory, specifically some of the seals used in that technique.” Children could be heard playing in the streets below, some still too young to be trapped in the academy’s classrooms. It was difficult to tell at a distance, but if Tobirama squinted he could see a few as Uchiha children, pale skin and dark hair, laughter bubbling out as they chased after the others ahead of them. He wondered not for the first time who Itachi might have left behind, what family might be aching from his absence. “Scientifically speaking, space and time are the same thing. Well. Not entirely, that’s a simplified version of the explanation, they’re more equal parts of a larger whole that interact with each other but still. The concept works the same either way.”

He was rambling a bit. Using his sciences as a crutch for conversation, like he always did when nervous. At least Itachi never seemed to mind, though Tobirama wasn’t sure he always followed. Itachi might be intelligent but no one’s intelligence translated to every topic.

Now even his thoughts were rambling. Forcing them to come to a halt and get back on track, he half turned towards the other, crossing his arms to hide his fists.

“Theoretically speaking, if I can move through one, I’m already moving through the other. It simply becomes a matter of how one bends either space or time.”

“Bending time?” That certainly had Itachi’s attention. It was difficult to tell his reaction beyond surprised though. His eyes were squinted so far he looked a little displeased by that was a typical expression for him, his vision already poor and the bright sunlight no doubt helping that little.

“It’s only theoretical,” he clarified. Though in scientific theory space/time was a single concept, in practicing fuinjutsu it wasn’t that simple. Still, he’d managed to find a way to bend one half of space/time to a limited degree, and with enough research he was certain he could bend the other half as well. “I just thought you might be interested, since you, well.”

They’d never discussed Itachi’s life prior to his appearance. Not much of it, not nearly enough to get a good grasp on what he’d left behind. But Tobirama wasn’t a fool when it came to people - a bit emotionally backwards if he was being honest with himself, but far from completely ignorant. He recognized that distant look Itachi got sometimes for what it was, his insistence on remaining formal with even those close to him making it even more obvious.

“Messing with time isn’t a hobby I’d like to acquire. Thank you for the consideration still.”

Tobirama frowned over at his companion, not entire sure if he was surprised or not by that answer. Itachi had always been a bit modest but he usually accepted help when he needed it nowadays, especially after Hashirama had smothered the habit into him through his illness.

“You miss your Konoha.” He shouldn’t push this. Didn’t want to, hated the idea of pushing someone so important to him towards a different path, one he couldn’t follow him down. But he knew if he kept this from Itachi it would rot him from the inside out, and he forced himself to speak past his own reluctance. “You wouldn’t have to miss it anymore. It’d hardly be a hobby if you only used it to get back home.”

“I suppose you’re right about that. But Konoha hasn’t been my home for many years anyway.” Something shadowed his face then, there and gone in an instant, and he was turning towards Tobirama before he could think on what it might have been. “It might be time I settle myself into a new home.”

“You’re leaving?” He couldn’t stop himself from grabbing Itachi’s wrist, ignoring the startled look it earned him. No matter that he’d just offered him a way to leave, a way to leave their time altogether, hearing him say that… “What reason do you have to leave us? Did something happen? Was it…?”

“Ahhh, forgive me, Tobirama-san. I should have made myself more clear.” Itachi shifted a bit under his gaze but made no move to pull his wrist away, keeping his eyes focused just off to the side of Tobirama’s. A habit he’d noticed in a lot of Uchiha sans Madara, never quite meeting the eyes of their fellow shinobi unless challenging them. “What I meant was that I planned to settle here, in this time. There’s little waiting for me elsewhere, and you’ve all been more than welcoming.”

“Okay. So it wasn’t- okay. Good.” It was perhaps a bit of a leap for him to assume his uncouth confession might have driven Itachi to want to leave the village but it had been on his mind earlier. Something they really needed to discuss eventually if only for his sanity’s sake, though the gods knew it would be a double edged conversation - speaking on it might be a balm of sorts, but discussing any sort of feelings would leave him rigid and uncomfortable for the rest of the day at the very least.

“...Tobirama-san, may I be forward with you?” Whatever Itachi wanted to say had him hesitating, a barely noticeable twitch to his nose giving his nerves away. “I’ve been giving some consideration to what you said about...well, I thought that, since I’m making a home here already - I don’t have much experience with this sort of thing.” “You asked if you could be forward.” He shrugged, more than happy for the distraction from his own thoughts. “Just be honest and spit it out.”

“I’ve given it some thought, and I think you might be right about us being, well. Compatible. Assuming you’re still interested, maybe we could…?”

“Right. That. Yes, that would be acceptable.”

He hoped none of his emotional panic was showing. It occurred to him then that he still had ahold of Itachi’s wrist, and it took little more than loosening his grip before he had the other’s hand instead. “Acceptable.” Itachi’s mouth quirked ever so slightly, black eyes alight with amusement. It was easier to ignore his own awkwardness and squeeze Itachi’s hand instead of talk further, wondering briefly if it was normal to feel so light and grounded at the same time during such moments.

Neither of them got much time to ponder it any further. The door to Tobirama’s office swung was flung open with all the lacking grace that usually announced Hashirama’s arrival, the living stump himself already mid boisterous sentence, his loud voice echoing in the room around them when he paused to stare over at the two at the window.

“You’re holding hands.”

Tobirama immediately dropped said hand at Hashirama’s statement, taking a half step back to put space between them. “Shouldn’t you be doing something? Talking to the elders, spending time with your children? Sparing? Anything other than being here?”

“But you- you were holding hands! With each other!”

“Anija, I swear to the gods that if you don’t drop this right now I’m drafting you into doing paperwork.”

“Why would you be…” It was sheer horror watching the dawning understanding spread across Hashirama’s face. Soon he was beaming so bright it was blinding, and Tobirama turned instinctively to steady his stance for the crushing hug he knew was coming their way.

Sure enough, Hashirama flung himself at them, blubbering on about having a new little brother and wanting nieces and nephews. It took all of Tobirama’s willpower not to hiraishin away from the embarrassing display, but in the end he figured it was better to get it over with now rather than to put it off for later.

Itachi had the patience of a saint when it came to the man child, giving his back an awkward pat before standing still and accepting his fate. There was a hint of disbelief to his tone whenever he spoke to Hashirama, as there always was whenever anyone spoke well of his company - something Tobirama knew not the source of even after all their years of friendship.

Yet another topic they’d never had the chance to discuss. He reached forward to hold the other’s hand loosely once more, grateful that Hashirama was far too distracted with his own nonsense to notice the soft glance shared between them.

Maybe he knew little about Itachi’s past. And maybe he’d never know any more of it, considering how secretive Itachi was by nature. But he could accept that as a simple fact as long as he had a chance of standing by his side and being a part of his future instead.

#ItaTobi #itachi #tobirama #fanfiction #mywriting #thank you raffle story #bless you for choosing my ultimate rarepair for this #these two are awkward but i love them

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hope-for-olicity · 5 years

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I have been thinking, like so many people this week, about rage. Who I’m mad at, what that anger’s good for, how what makes me maddest is the way the madness has long gone unrespected, even by those who have relied on it for their gains.

For as long as I have been a cogent adult, and actually before that, I have watched people devote their lives, their furious energies, to fighting against the steady, merciless, punitive erosion of reproductive rights. And I have watched as politicians — not just on the right, but members of my own party — and the writers and pundits who cover them, treat reproductive rights and justice advocates as if they were fantasists enacting dystopian fiction.

This week, the most aggressive abortion bans since Roe v. Wade swept through states, explicitly designed to challenge and ultimately reverse Roe at the Supreme Court level. With them has come the dawning of a broad realization — a clear, bright, detailed vision of what’s at stake, and what’s ahead. (If not, yet, full comprehension of the harm that has already been done).

As it comes into view, I am of course livid at the Republican Party that has been working toward this for decades. These right-wing ghouls — who fulminate idiotically about how women could still be allowed to get abortions before they know they are pregnant (Alabama’s Clyde Chambliss) or try to legislate the medically impossible removal of ectopic pregnancy and reimplantation into the uterus (Ohio’s John Becker) — are the stuff of unimaginably gothic horror. Ever since Roe was decided in 1973, conservatives have been laboring to roll back abortion access, with absolutely zero knowlege of or interest in how reproduction works. And all the while, those who have been trying to sound the alarm have been shooed off as silly hysterics.

Which is why I am almost as mad at many on the left, theoretically on the side of reproductive rights and justice, who have refused, somehow, to see this coming or act aggressively to forestall it. I have no small amount of rage stored for those in the Democratic Party who have relied on the engaged fury of voters committed to reproductive autonomy to elect them, at the same time that they have treated the efforts of activists trying to stave off this future as inconvenient irritants.

This includes, of course, the Democrats (notably Joe Biden) who long supported the Hyde Amendment, the legislative rider that has barred the use of federal insurance programs from paying for abortion, making reproductive health care inaccessible to poor women since 1976. During health-care reform, Barack Obama referred to Hyde as a “tradition” and questions of abortion access as “a distraction.” I’ve spent my life listening to Democrats call abortion a niche issue — and worse, one that is somehow repellent to voters, even though support for Roe is in fact among the most broadly popular positions of the Democratic Party; seven in ten Americans want abortion to remain legal, even in conservative states.

You can try to tell these Democrats this — lots of people have been trying to tell them for a while now — but it won’t matter; they will only explain to you (a furious person) that they (calm, wise, knowledgeable about politics) understand that we need a big tent and can’t have a litmus test and please be reasonable: we shouldn’t shut anyone out because of a difference on one issue. (That one issue that we shouldn’t shut people out because of is always abortion). Every single time Democrats come up with a new strategy to win purple and red areas, it is the same strategy: hey, let’s jettison abortion! (If you object to this, you will be told you are standing in the way of the greater progressive project).

I grew up in Pennsylvania, governed by anti-abortion Democrat Bob Casey Sr.; his son Bob Jr. is Pennsylvania’s senior senator now, and though he’s getting better on abortion, Jr. voted, in 2015 and 2018, for 20-week abortion bans. Maybe my rage stems from being raised with this particularly grim perspective on Democratic politics: dynasties of white men united in their dedication to restricting women’s bodily autonomy, but they’re Democrats so who else are you going to vote for? Which reminds me of Dan Lipinski, the virulently anti-abortion Democratic congressman — whose anti-abortion dad held his seat before him. The current DCCC leader, Cheri Bustos, is holding a big-dollar fundraiser for Lipinski’s reelection campaign, even though it’s 2019 and abortion is being banned and providers threatened with more jail time than rapists and there is someone else to vote for: Lipinski is being challenged in a primary by pro-choice progressive Democrat Marie Newman. And still, Bustos, a powerful woman and Democratic leader, is helping anti-choice Lipinski keep his seat for an eighth term. So I’ve been thinking about that part of my anger too.

Also about how, for years, I’ve listened to Democratic politicians distance themselves from abortion by calling it tragic and insisting it should be rare, instead of simply acknowledging it to be a crucial, legal cornerstone of comprehensive health care for women, people with uteruses, and their families. I have seethed as generations of Democrats have argued that if we could just get past abortion and focus instead on economic issues, we’d be better off. They never seem to get that abortion is an economic issue, and that what they think of as economic issues — from wages and health care to housing and education policy — are at the very heart of the reproductive justice movement, which understands access to abortion to be one (pivotal!) part of a far broader set of circumstances that determine if, when, under what circumstances, and with what resources human beings might have and raise children.

And no, of course it’s not just Democrats I’m mad at. It’s the pundits who approach abortion law as armchair coaches. I can’t do better in my fury on this front than the legal writer Scott Lemieux, who in 2007 wrote ablistering rundown of all the legal and political wags, including Ben Wittes and Jeffrey Rosen and Richard Cohen and William Saletan, then making arguments, some too cute by half, about how Roe was ultimately bad for abortion rights and for Democrats. Some like to cite an oft-distorted opinion put forth by Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who has said that she wished the basis on which Roe was decided had included a more robust defense of women’s equality. Retroactive strategic chin-stroking about Roe is mostly moot, given the decades of intervening cases and that the fight against abortion is not about process but about the conviction that women should not control their own reproduction. It is also true that Ginsburg has been doing the work of aggressively defending reproductive rights for decades, while these pundits have treated them as a parlor game. As Lemieux put it then, it was unsurprising, “given the extent to which affluent men safely ensconced in liberal urban centers dominate the liberal pundit class,” that the arguments put forth, “greatly understate or ignore the stark class and geographic inequites in abortion access that would inevitably manifest themselves in a post-Roe world.”

Or, for that matter, that had already manifested themselves in a Roe world.

Because long before these new bans — which will meet years of legal challenge before they are enacted — abortion had grown ever less accessible to segments of America, though not the segments that the affluent men (and women) who write about and practice politics tend to emerge from. But yes, thanks to Hyde and the TRAP laws and the closed clinics and the long travel distances and paucity of providers and the economically untenable waiting periods, legions of women have already suffered, died, had children against their will, while columnists and political consultants have bantered about the necessity of Roe, and litmus tests and big tents. In vast portions of this country, Roe might as well not exist already.

And still those who are mad about, have been driven mad by, these injustices have been told that their fury is baseless, fictional, made of chewing gum and recycled copies of Our Bodies Ourselves. Last summer, the day before Anthony Kennedy announced his resignation from the Supreme Court, CNN host Brian Stelter tweeted, in response to a liberal activist, “We are not ‘a few steps from The Handmaids’ Tale.’ I don’t think this kind of fear-mongering helps anybody.” When protesters shouted at Brett Kavanaugh’s confirmation hearings a few weeks later, knowing full well what was about to happen and what it portended for Roe, Senator Ben Sasse condescended and lied to them, claiming that there have been “screaming protesters saying ‘women are going to die’ at every hearing for decades” and suggesting that this response was a form of “hysteria.”

It was the kind of dishonesty — issued from on high, from one of those Republicans who has inexplicably earned a reputation for being “reasonable” and “smart,” and who has enormous power over our future — that makes you want to pull the hair from your head and go screaming through the streets except someone would just tell you you were being hysterical.

And so here we are, the thing is happening and no one can pretend otherwise; it is not a game or a drill and those for whom the consequences — long real for millions whose warnings and peril have gone unheeded — are only now coming into focus want to know: what can be done?

First, never again let anyone tell you that the fury or determination to fight on this account is invalid, inappropriate, or inconvenient to a broader message. Consider that this is also what women and marginalized people are told all the time about their anger in general: that they should not express it, not let it out, because to give voice to their rage will distract from their aims, undermine them; that it will ultimately be bad for them. This messaging is strategic. It is designed to get angry people to keep their mouths shut. Because if they are successfully stifled, they will remain at the margins, isolated, alone in their fury. It is only if they start letting it out and acting on it and working in tandem with others who share their outrage that they might begin to form networks, coalitions, the building blocks of movements; it is when the anger is let loose that the organizing happens in earnest.

Second, seek the organizing that is already underway. In the days since this new round of state abortion bans have begun to pass and make headlines, secret Facebook groups have begun to form, in which freshly furious women have begun to talk of forming networks that would help patients evade barriers to access. Yet these organizations already exist, are founded and run by women of color, have long been transporting those in need of reproductive care to the facilities where they can get it; they are woefully underfunded. The trick is not to start something new, but to join forces with those who have long been angry about reproductive injustice.

“Abortion funds have been sounding the alarm for decades,” said Yamani Hernandez, who runs the National Network or Abortion Funds, which includes 76 local funds in 41 states, each of them helping women who face barriers getting the abortion care they need, offering money, transportation, housing, and help with logistics. Only 29 of the funds have paid staff; the rest are volunteer-run and led with average budget sizes of $75,000, according to Hernandez, who said that in 2017, 150,000 people called abortion funds for help — a number up from 100,000 in 2015, thanks to the barrage of restrictions that have made it so much harder for so many more people. With just $4 million to work with, the funds were able to help 29,000 of them last year: giving abortion funds money and time will directly help people who need it. Distinguishing the work of abortion funds from the policy fights in state houses and at the capitols, Hernandez said, “whatever happens in Washington, and changes in the future, women need to get care today.”

And whatever comes next, she said, it’s the people who have been doing this work for years who are likely to be best prepared to deal with the harm inflicted, which is a good place for the newly enraged to start. “If and when Roe is abolished,” said Hernandez, “the people who are going to be getting people to the care they need are those who have largely been navigating this already and are already well suited for the logistical challenges.”

The fights on the ground might be the most current and urgent in human terms, but there is also energy to be put into policy fights. In 2015, California Congresswoman Barbara Lee authored the EACH Woman Act, the first serious congressional challenge to the Hyde Amendment, which came after years of agitation and activism, especially by All Above All, a grassroots organization led by women of color and determined to make abortion accessible to everyone. Those who are looking for policy fights to lean into can call and write your representatives and candidates and demand that they support the EACH Woman Act.

Rage works. It takes time and numbers and a willingness to express it, but it is among the most reliable catalysts of social and political change. That’s the story of how grassroots activism can compel Barbara Lee to compel her caucus to take on Hyde. Her willingness to tackle it, and the righteous outrage of those who are driven to end the harm it does to poor women and women of color, in turn helped to compel Hillary Clinton to come out against Hyde in her 2016 primary campaign; opposition to Hyde is now — for the first time since it was passed in 1976 — a part of the Democratic Party’s platform.

In these past two years, fury at a Trump administration and at the Republican Party has driven electoral activism. And at the end of 2018, the Guttmacher Institute reported that 2018 was the first year since at least 2000 in which the number of state policies enacted to expand or protectabortion rights and access, and contraceptive access, outnumbered the number of state restrictions. Why? Because growing realization of what was at stake — and resulting anger and activism, pressure applied to state legislatures — led representatives to act.

Of course: vote.

Vote, as they say, as if your life depended on it, because it does, but more importantly: other people’s lives depend on it. And between voting, consider where to aim your anger in ways that will influence election outcomes: educate yourself about local races and policy proposals, as well as the history of the reproductive rights and reproductive-justice movements. Get engaged not just on a presidential level — please God, not just at a presidential level — but with the fights for state legislative power, in congressional and senate elections, all of which shape abortion policy and the judiciary, and the voting rights on which every other kind of freedom hinges. Knock doors, register voters, give to and volunteer with the organizations that are working to fightvoter suppression and redistricting and expand the electorate; as well as to those recruiting and training progressive candidates, especially women and women of color, especially young and first-time candidates, to run for elected office.

You can also protest, go to rallies. Join a local political group where your rage will likely be shared with others.

Above all, do not let defeat or despair take you, and do not let anyone tell you that your anger is misplaced or silly or in vain, or that it is anything other than urgent and motivating. It may be terrifying — it is terrifying. But this — the fury and the fight it must fuel — is going to last the rest of our lives and we must get comfortable using our rage as central to the work ahead.

#abortion rights #politics #power #the body politic #women #reproductive rights

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bluewatsons · 6 years

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Daniel P. Thurs, The Scientific Method is a Myth, Discover Magazine (October 28, 2015)

It’s probably best to get the bad news out of the way first. The so-called scientific method is a myth. That is not to say that scientists don’t do things that can be described and are unique to their fields of study. But to squeeze a diverse set of practices that span cultural anthropology, paleobotany, and theoretical physics into a handful of steps is an inevitable distortion and, to be blunt, displays a serious poverty of imagination. Easy to grasp, pocket-guide versions of the scientific method usually reduce to critical thinking, checking facts, or letting “nature speak for itself,” none of which is really all that uniquely scientific. If typical formulations were accurate, the only location true science would be taking place in would be grade-school classrooms.

Scratch the surface of the scientific method and the messiness spills out. Even simplistic versions vary from three steps to eleven. Some start with hypothesis, others with observation. Some include imagination. Others confine themselves to facts. Question a simple linear recipe and the real fun begins. A website called Understanding Science offers an “interactive representation” of the scientific method that at first looks familiar. It includes circles labeled “Exploration and Discovery” and “Testing Ideas.” But there are others named “Benefits and Outcomes” and “Community Analysis and Feedback,” both rare birds in the world of the scientific method. To make matters worse, arrows point every which way. Mouse over each circle and you find another flowchart with multiple categories and a tangle of additional arrows.

It’s also telling where invocations of the scientific method usually appear. A broadly conceived method receives virtually no attention in scientific papers or specialized postsecondary scientific training. The more “internal” a discussion — that is, the more insulated from nonscientists —the more likely it is to involve procedures, protocols, or techniques of interest to close colleagues.

Meanwhile, the notion of a heavily abstracted scientific method has pulled public discussion of science into its orbit, like a rhetorical black hole. Educators, scientists, advertisers, popularizers, and journalists have all appealed to it. Its invocation has become routine in debates about topics that draw lay attention, from global warming to intelligent design. Standard formulations of the scientific method are important only insofar as nonscientists believe in them.

The Bright Side

Now for the good news. The scientific method is nothing but a piece of rhetoric. Granted, that may not appear to be good news at first, but it actually is. The scientific method as rhetoric is far more complex, interesting, and revealing than it is as a direct reflection of the ways scientists work. Rhetoric is not just words; rather, “just” words are powerful tools to help shape perception, manage the flow of resources and authority, and make certain kinds of actions or beliefs possible or impossible. That’s particularly true of what Raymond Williams called “keywords.” A list of modern-day keywords include “family,” “race,” “freedom,” and “science.” Such words are familiar, repeated again and again until it seems that everyone must know what they mean. At the same time, scratch their surface, and their meanings become full of messiness, variation, and contradiction.

Sound familiar? Scientific method is a keyword (or phrase) that has helped generations of people make sense of what science was, even if there was no clear agreement about its precise meaning— especially if there was no clear agreement about its precise meaning. The term could roll off the tongue and be met by heads nodding in knowing assent, and yet there could be a different conception within each mind. As long as no one asked too many questions, the flexibility of the term could be a force of cohesion and a tool for inspiring action among groups. A word with too exact a definition is brittle; its use will be limited to specific circumstances. A word too loosely defined will create confusion and appear to say nothing. A word balanced just so between precision and vagueness can change the world.

The Scientific Method, a Historical Perspective

This has been true of the scientific method for some time. As early as 1874, British economist Stanley Jevons (1835–1882) commented in his widely noted Principles of Science, “Physicists speak familiarly of scientific method, but they could not readily describe what they mean by that expression.” Half a century later, sociologist Stuart Rice (1889–1969) attempted an “inductive examination” of the definitions of the scientific method offered in social scientific literature. Ultimately, he complained about its “futility.” “The number of items in such an enumeration,” he wrote, “would be infinitely large.”

And yet the wide variation in possible meanings has made the scientific method a valuable rhetorical resource. Methodological pictures painted by practicing scientists have often been tailored to support their own position and undercut that of their adversaries, even if inconsistency results. As rhetoric, the scientific method has performed at least three functions: it has been a tool of boundary work, a bridge between the scientific and lay worlds, and a brand that represents science itself. It has typically fulfilled all these roles at once, but they also represent a rough chronology of its use. Early in the term’s history, the focus was on enforcing boundaries around scientific ideas and practices. Later, it was used more forcefully to show nonscientists how science could be made relevant. More or less coincidentally, its invocation assuaged any doubts that real science was present.

Timing is a crucial factor in understanding the scientific method. Discussion of the best methodology with which to approach the study of nature goes back to the ancient Greeks. Method also appeared as an important concern for natural philosophers during the Islamic and European Middle Ages, whereas many historians have seen the methodological shifts associated with the Scientific Revolution as crucial to the creation of modern science. Given all that, it’s even more remarkable that “scientific method” was rarely used before the mid-nineteenth century among English speakers, and only grew to widespread public prominence from the late nineteenth to the early twentieth centuries, peaking somewhere between the 1920s and 1940s. In short, the scientific method is a relatively recent invention.

Percent of all magazine articles with the phrase “scientific method” in the title. (Source: Periodicals Content Index)

But it was not alone. Such now-familiar pieces of rhetoric as “science and religion,” “scientist,” and “pseudoscience” grew in prominence over the same period of time. In that sense, “scientific method” was part of what we might call a rhetorical package, a collection of important keywords that helped to make science comprehensible, to clarify its differences with other realms of thought, and to distinguish its devotees from other people. All of this paralleled a shift in popular notions of science from general systematized knowledge during the early 1800s to a special and unique sort of information by the early 1900s. These notions eclipsed habits of talk about the scientific method that opened the door to attestations of the authority of science in contrast with other human activities.

Such labor is the essence of what Thomas Gieryn (b. 1950) has called “boundary-work”— that is, exploiting variations and even apparent contradictions in potential definitions of science to enhance one’s own access to social and material resources while denying such benefits to others. During the late 1800s, the majority of public boundary-work around science was related to the raging debate over biological evolution and the emerging fault line between science and religion. Given that, we might expect the scientific method to have been a prominent weapon for the advocates of evolutionary ideas, such as John Tyndall (1820–1893) or Thomas Henry Huxley (1825–1895). But that wasn’t the case. The notion of a uniquely scientific methodology was still too new and lacked the rhetorical flexibility that made it useful. Instead, the loudest invocations of the scientific method were by those who hoped to limit the reach of science. An author in a magazine called Ladies’ Repository (1868) reflected that “every generation, as it accumulated fresh illustrations of the scientific method, is more and more embarrassed at how to piece them in with that far grander and nobler personal discipline of the soul which hears in every circumstance of life some new word of command from the living God.”

In Public Discourse

Under such conditions, it was no wonder when some people asserted that the “greatest gift of science is the scientific method.”

In his 1932 address to journalists in Washington, D.C., physicist Robert Millikan (1868–1953) informed his audience that the “main thing that the popularization of science can contribute to the progress of the world consists in the spreading of a knowledge of the method of science to the man in the street.” Educators especially promoted the scientific method as a way of bringing science into the classroom. Before the educational section of the American Association for the Advancement of Science in 1910, John Dewey (1859–1952) charged that “science has been taught too much as an accumulation of ready-made material with which students are to be made familiar and not enough as a method of thinking.” In 1947, the 47th Yearbook of the National Society for the Study of Education declared that there “have been few points in educational discussions on which there has been greater agreement than that of the desirability of teaching the scientific method.”

As science became a more powerful force in modern society and culture, thanks in part to invocations of the scientific method, growing numbers sought to take advantage of its prestige. This was especially important for social scientists, who were often seen as scientific pretenders. John B. Watson (1878–1958), the central figure in the behaviorist program, agreed in 1926 that psychology’s methods “must be the methods of science in general.” That same year, the Social Science Research Council retooled one of its subgroups into the Committee on Scientific Method. A conference held under its auspices eventually generated the massive Methods in Social Science. Journalists who looked to social science as a guide during the 1920s and 1930s also turned to the scientific method. In 1928, George Gallup (1901–1984), the founder of the Gallup poll, completed a dissertation at the University of Iowa on “An Objective Method for Determining Reader- Interest.” Two years later, he presented an article called “A Scientific Method for Determining Reader-Interest.” In both cases, he advocated examining newspapers along with readers, noting their reactions.

During the early 1900s, references to scientific medicine, scientific engineering, scientific management, scientific advertising, and scientific motherhood all spread, often justified by adoption of the scientific method. Amid the spread of totalitarianism in the 1930s and 1940s, the ability of the scientific method to sustain a balance between an open and a critical mind foreshadowed a true “science of democracy.” Consumers in a new, advertising-driven marketplace encountered less high-minded examples in books such as Eby’s Complete Scientific Method for Saxophone (1922), Martin Henry Fenton’s Scientific Method of Raising Jumbo Bullfrogs (1932), and Arnold Ehret’s A Scientific Method of Eating Your Way to Health (1922). Eby, for one, never spelled out his complete scientific method. But he didn’t need to. Like the swoosh on a Nike shoe, the scientific method only needed to be displayed on the surface.

Lasting Value

After the middle of the twentieth century, the scientific method continued to be a valuable rhetorical resource, though it also lost some of its luster. Glancing back at the graphs of its rise in public discussion, we can see a fall as it became the subject of increased philosophical criticism. In 1975, Berkeley philosopher Paul Feyerabend (1924–1994) assaulted the very notion of a singular and definable scientific method in his Against Method, suggesting instead that scientists did whatever worked. Educators, too, began to express skepticism. The 1968 edition of Teaching Science in Today’s Secondary Schools lamented that “thousands of young people have memorized the steps” of the scientific method as they appeared in textbooks “and chanted them back to their teachers while probably doubting intuitively their appropriateness.” Such scrutiny cast the scientific method as narrow and brittle, depriving it of its rhetorical utility.

At the same time, the technological products of science, which had begun to invade everyday life, promised a more effective symbol of science and a bridge between the lab and the lay world. Now, instead of new scientific fields, we find biotechnology, information technology, and nanotechnology. Appeal to new technologies available in everything from electronic devices to hair products has also become a staple of advertising. Likewise, modern intellectuals routinely make use of technological metaphors, including allusions to “systems,” “platforms,” “constructions,” or “technologies” as general methods of working. “Technoscience” has achieved widespread popularity among sociologists of science to refer to the intertwined production of abstract knowledge and material devices.

Still, the scientific method did what keywords are supposed to do. It didn’t reflect reality — it helped create it. It helped to define a vision of science that was separate from other kinds of knowledge, justified the value of that science for those left on the outside, and served as a symbol of scientific prestige. It continues to accomplish those things, just not as effectively as it did during its heyday. If we return to a simplistic view, one in which the scientific method really is a recipe for producing scientific knowledge, we lose sight of a huge swath of history and the development of a pivotal touchstone on cultural maps. We deprive ourselves of a richer perspective in favor of one both narrow and contrary to the way things actually are.

#scientific method #criticism #history #science #perspective

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Project 7

Course code and name: MSJ11342 Public Relations Research Project Name: Publicizing Video Games in Bangladesh Project Type: Research Paper Project Date: Summer 2019 Project Description: As part of our public relations course, we decided to write our final thesis on publicizing video games. Not all video games can be considered E-sports. The participatory competitive games are the one termed as E-sports, and our aim is to place E-sports under the umbrella term of traditional sports. In the first part of the thesis, we defined the terms of E-sports and how it is related to the PR workplace. We reviewed various articles and journals to show how PR can be used to boost the ever growing market. We focused our research on Bangladeshi gaming places, like the Toggi. In recent years there has been a boom in Bangladeshi gamer space, our research intended to show an efficient way for PR experts to navigate it. We showed the relevant data of gamers and how they interact in public gaming spaces. Project Objective: Project Justification: In recent years E-sports has become a billion-dollar industry. PR professionals always need to stay relevant to the market. Our purpose of choosing the E-sports section was precisely that, we wanted to create new ventures for the PR experts. As one of the fastest growing markets of this century, E-sports has huge potential. The PR experts can benefit greatly from the expanding market.

Publicizing Video Games in Bangladesh

Students Name & ID: Wangkhem Thonglen Thio - 172012065 Arpan Nuel Thigidi - 163012035 Maimuna Sauda - 163012004

Degree: Undergraduate Supervisor: Ashfara Haque Submission Date: September 1, 2019 Table of Contents Subject Page Abstract ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 3 Chapter 1 Introduction ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 5 Research Question(s) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 5-6 Operational Definitions --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 6-7 Chapter 2 Literature Review ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------8-9 Chapter 3 Theoretical Framework ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 10 Methodologies ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------10-11 Chapter 4 Instruments or Materials -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 12 Procedure ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------12 Data Analysis -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------13 Discussion & Findings---------------------------------------------------------------------------------13-15 Chapter 5 Limitations --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------16 Conclusion---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------16 References ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------17

Abstract

This research will investigate and explore the upcoming gaming industry being set up in an underdeveloped country like Bangladesh. This study will examine the effectiveness of video games and how the public relation’s internal communication style is doing to make good images of video games in Bangladesh. Good images, because video games are quite known to the old generation as violence and time waste. So, this research will reveal the relation of the public and video games and how it was publicized before and hopefully give more ways to publicize it better by educating the public about the video games. The rise of the video games worldwide in many different platforms is the main reason for this research. This study will prove that there is an increase rate of youth gamers in Bangladesh. The main focus of this study would be the country being an underdeveloped country handling this rate through public relation communications. This research will indeed cover the different platforms coming to Bangladesh like E-sports LAN tournaments and Virtual Reality. Through qualitative research, we focus on a specific group like school students who can afford a computer and observe. We case-studied the previous gaming events that took place in Bangladesh and observed the amount of students coming every year. Through an interview with a Bangladeshi upcoming gamer who went international for tournaments, the study showed the changes Bangladesh needs to have to compete with other countries. After completing this research, people of Bangladesh would understand the good and the bad sides of video games and how to publicize video games in an educative way. The focus is to make a good impact on the youth to understand that it is just a game and it shouldn’t change their principles. The significant theoretical and practical implications of the findings are discussed.

Key Words

Video Game Public Relations Gaming Platforms Toxicity and Violence Gaming Career Gaming Tournaments

Acknowledgement

First, we would like to thank our university (ULAB) for giving us the opportunity to work on such a rare research like this one. We would also like to thank our faculty Ashfara Haque for leading us the whole time being, without her it would have been impossible to work on it as there has hardly being any research based on publicizing gaming in a developing country like Bangladesh. Our respectful madam has given us a huge support and guidelines from her expertise to make this research come true In the beginning, it was beyond thinking if we could make it through or not as there has been hardly made any research related to this topic. However, mam did not give up on us. She was there to fix any kind of problem which occurred during our work. She even gave us a lot of references and how to write it in proper ways to build a good research proposal. Her guidelines have made our research complete.

Chapter 1

Introduction First, we need to understand the concept of E-sports. Not all video games can be considered as a E-sports. Competitive games like CS:GO, Dota 2, Rainbow six siege are the most popular E-sports games. As a PR person, we need to find our audiences to figure out of which class of people play these types of games. Obviously, the majority is young people. Therefore, what developers can do is, they can start booth camping in universities and other institutions to make gaming events where students can participate based on their favourite games. Gaming has always been a negative side for parents these days as they only know it's a waste of time. However, it's not a lie for most of the games. According to a study, playing games can help us reduce stress and also keeps our brain sharp to work more strategically. Most people in our country play video games just for fun and out of boredom. Therefore, video gaming addiction is a very serious problem as it is time consumable and sometimes a bit toxic for us. So, what can a PR person do to solve this issue? In 2017, a big gaming event occurred during December, called a Bangladesh gaming expo 2017 including some special features with gaming competition. Most interesting part was game-project showcasing, where game developers developed their game by staying there for 3 days. Besides, there was some cool gaming features like VR (Virtual Reality) gaming which is so far the biggest VR gaming in the world. That was the last time this gaming expo held in our country. So, if we want to arrange this type of event again in the future, we need to add some more interesting ideas along with gaming competition. The youth in Bangladesh will soon reach a certain age of wanting to play games. And soon enough, they will find out about gaming careers. The rise of gamers in Bangladesh will definitely increase so more events will be organized by many organizations from here or outer country. And recently, there has been many toxicities around the gaming community of Bangladesh. A fight broke out in the Dota 2 Bidding Tournament Finals. This research took that as a main reason to study and continue for this topic. Thus, why this research is very important for the study of publics and the organizers. The purpose of this study is to bring a clear path for the PR organizers in Bangladesh in the near future. This research will expect to achieve less toxicity and violence revolving around the gamers and the society can finally accept it as other countries do. The problems and the case studies will be stated briefly in the entire research paper.

Research Question(s) VR Gaming, E-sports tournaments are big names in the gaming world. In the midst of chaos and dreams, a society will always have to disagree to agree on something. Gaming is also the future and also an addiction to everyone. So the research question is to state the initial purpose of gaming to the public. How can a PR organize or campaign an event based on gaming when it’s considered toxic by the society? And since E-sports is going huge, it’s no doubt, hitting Bangladesh won’t be long. How can an underdeveloped country like Bangladesh take on a huge thing like E-sports tournament?

Operational Definitions Entertainment Software Association (ESA): The Entertainment Software Association (ESA) is where the major players of the video game industry work together to support the bright future of video games. Personal computer (PC): Personal computer is the most used platform for video gaming. Competitive Intelligence Unit (CIU): Competitive intelligence (CI) is the action of defining, gathering, analyzing, and distributing intelligence about products, customers, competitors, and any aspect of the environment needed to support executives and managers in strategic decision making for an organization. Phi Delta Kappa international (PDK): Phi Delta Kappa International is a US professional organization for educators. Its main office is in Arlington, Virginia. It was founded on Virtual Reality (VR): The definition of virtual reality comes, naturally, from the definitions for both ‘virtual’ and ‘reality’. The definition of ‘virtual’ is near and reality is what we experience as human beings. So the term ‘virtual reality’ basically means ‘near-reality’. This could, of course, mean anything but it usually refers to a specific type of reality emulation. E-Sports (Electronic Sports): E-Sports is basically competitive video gaming competition and it is nowadays considered as most popular indoor sports. DOTA-2 (Defense of the Ancients): Dota-2 is the most popular E-Sports game around the world and has the biggest E-Sports events every year with large amount of prize pool. Ultimate Fun Factory Limited: Ultimate Fun Factory is currently the biggest gaming zone in our country. Also it is South East Asia’s biggest vertical gaming zone. Bashundhara City: Bashundhara City is one of the largest shopping mall in our country and most popular in Dhaka.

Chapter 2

Literature Review Entertainment Software Association (ESA): More than 166 million, US adults play video games. Their r analysis showed that 90% of American parents consider the games their children play, 75% of Americans have at least one gamer in their household. Among them, more than half use smartphones, 52% use PC and 49% is dedicated game console. Furthermore, it showed that 79% gamers believe it provides mental stimulation and 78% believe games provide relaxation and stress relief.

Hugo Juarez (Relaciones Públicas)- The evolution of Public Relations for the video game industry in Mexico. El Horizonte in Mexico has reported in a survey that there are 68.7 million Mexican gamers (at the end of 2017), which shows that it has increased for about 15.1% compared to the previous year including all types of gamers, from casual to hardcore, with smartphones the main access to the titles. The CIU said that the country’s national gamers choose Microsoft, with its Xbox, followed by PlayStation (Sony) and Nintendo.

Author,Juan Carrillo Marqueta and Ana Sebastian Morillas (Mexico)- Marketing Hero. Las herramientas, comerciales de los videojuegos, “The letter goals can be divided into permanent and conjunctural’’ - Generally, they are used to communicating call a video game console brand (Xbox, PlayStation, Switch), or a particular production house (Capcom, Nintendo, Electronic Arts, Square Enix). They seek to generate a permanence in the consumers' minds. They want to create positive brand judgments in the press. Unlike the permanent, these serve to promote the image of a video game or new console. They focus on describing the particular characteristics of that title or console. They seek to generate direct sales. Over the years, the amount of advertisements in popular video games has increased.

US researcher Peter G. Lindmark (2011), Cleveland State University - “A Content Analysis of Advertising in Popular Video" - Game production costs have skyrocketed in recent years. Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, for example, cost between $40 and $50 million to produce, with a total budget of $200 million including advertising and marketing (Fritz, 2009). With the costs going up to produce video games due to the increase in, technological realism, along with the desire to reproduce reality down to ads in certain genres (such as sports games), reliance on an ad-based model, seems like a logical step for the industry which can help offset production and marketing costs." Games” Aaqib Hasib (2018), The Daily Star (Bangladesh) - A Beginner’s Guide to Competitive Gaming in Bangladesh - “Offline games are abundant, and what excites the masses now are online multiplayer games. While the Western World has embraced esports, even after an initial reluctance to do so, here in Bangladesh there is no proper esport scene. That is to imply, that while competitive gaming exists in Bangladesh, there are no Electronic Sports League (ESL) or “The International” level tournaments taking place here.”

The similarities from the recorded studies were that all the games are increasing alongside the people. An increase of people playing games in every country. The involvement of earning money through games bring lots of changes on the people. In Bangladesh there is no current percentage record for video gamers neither there is any international gaming scene. But still some gamers from Bangladesh went outside to participate international gaming tournaments. The biggest gap of our research is we couldn’t find any data or research about video gaming in Bangladesh except this “The Daily Star” article. Our research will hopefully try to fill up this gap and collect much more information as we can. From all the previous studies, the only theory that can be said is that they depended highly on amounts so they have done Quantitative researches for surveys and statistics. And the theory they used are mostly rhetorical theories on all these studies that’s been written.

Chapter 3

Theoretical Framework The research type we are using is Relationships Management Theory. As it promotes the view that PR provides value to organizations and publics. We call PR as management, we need to hold some events based on video games. In order to communicate with the gamers and to motivate them more. At first, this research type was supposed to be Rhetorical Theory but decided to do Relationships Management Theory because this had better advantages. Supposed we will be doing an official E-sport tournament, we will need to bring materials and sponsors from other partnered countries. For this very purpose, Relationships Management Theory is very important. In 1995, captured in Center and Jackson’s observation, “The proper term for the desired outcomes of public relations practice is public relationships. An organization with effective public relations will attain positive public relationships.” So we need to find an organization that has a good positive relationship with the public. Like how Bashundhara City is funding Fun Factory and Toggi World. The most important part will be that our research theory will be different than the other ones where they used Rhetorical Theory to do an event for gaming.

Methodologies The research type we are using is Qualitative research. We could have used Quantitative research too for collecting the public’s opinions but that has already been done by most of the case studies we have studied so we wanted to bring something new to the research by content analyzing and a personal interview. Case Study - research and journals based on the topic, find the lacking and importance of this research, to have closure look at a professional gamer from Bangladesh. We will also monitor and discuss with a group. All the methods that will be used will be given briefly in the Data Analysis section.

Method Tools We came up with straight forward questions for the interviews. Q. When did you start planning for the Fun Factory idea? Q. Can you tell me about yourself and then tell me how your gaming experience started and how it is going now? Q. Can you also say the pros and cons of the growth of gaming in this country? Q. Did you guys do any research before making Fun Factory? Q. What do you think about the violence and toxicity surrounding the gaming community in this country? Do you think that the toxicity will rise high if e-sports tournaments come to Bangladesh? Q. Okay, recently there was an incident right? Between two players in Finals. So what tournament was it? And who organized it? I won't mention the player's names in our report though. Q. So what do you think about the toxicity and violence roaming around video games? Won’t it affect your Fun Factory gaming platforms?

Chapter 4

Instruments or Materials For the instruments, we used 2 phones for the individual face to face interview. A pen and a note copy for writing the questions and answers down. A home computer for researching on the selected group. University computers for online library.

Procedure Qualitative research’s main part is to discuss with a group for the topic and doing an interview with some people of interest and will help with information for your proposal. I have interviewed 2 people that is necessary for information for the proposal. 1 of them would be the Bashundhara City’s Fun Factory CEO and the other 1 would be a professional gamer who plays in The Council for E-sports tournament. We asked questions that were only required for our main topic and purpose. And then I have monitored and discussed with a group for information. I have joined with the ‘Dota 2 Community of Bangladesh’ and its admins to answer some questions that happened in the Dota 2 Bidding Tournament Finals. The interview with Aiman “L3N” Iqbal, a professional gamer who started a gaming career with the team ‘The Council’ gives us his insights on the toxicity and violence in E-sports. Aiman Iqbal gave us some wholesome and purposeful information we needed to work for our PR campaigning for a tournament. Aiman also mentioned about how VR is the new genre that is taking games to a whole another level. He acknowledges different gaming platforms and sportsmanship. He later on stated that The Council will keep on growing in other countries and that is how they can help Bangladesh. This interview had some ‘opinions’ and ‘feelings’ based questions for more in-depth information. We have also discussed information with the Facebook group of Dota 2 Community of Bangladesh. The admins gave us an insight to the group and the rules were strict on no toxicity and no violence. The admins of the Dota 2 Community of Bangladesh accepted us to join their group and also gave us time to answer a question that was necessary for the research. The admins were Raahib Reza, Saif A. Rakib, and Akib Khan. The interview with the Department Head of Toggi World and Ultimate Fun Factory, Shabaz Prince, gave us insight details on different gaming platforms.

Data Analysis The admins of the Dota 2 Community of Bangladesh accepted us to join their group and also gave us time to answer a question that was necessary for the research. The admins were Raahib Reza, Saif A. Rakib, and Akib Khan.

Q. Okay, recently there was an incident right? Between two players in Finals. So what tournament was it? And who organized it? I won't mention the player's names in our report though. A. It was the Dota 2 Bidding Tournament Finals. Some really dumb stuff happened that ignited great drama but we did well to make certain that it will not certainly never take place again. The organizers were honestly the admins from the Dota 2 community of BD (referring to the Facebook group of Dota 2 players), they worked very hard for that tournament and showcased it brilliantly to be honest. The decisions were wise, just and pretty fair to all. All in all, it was a good time and definitely almost ruined by the drama which has ironically become a meme now. Location happened at the AGL Lounge. From all the data we have collected and after analyzing them, we have found the answer to our research questions. We have come to the conclusion that anyone in Bangladesh with money would do anything for video games based entertainment if the organization of the entertainment can do it big. So if we want to develop an official E-sport tournament in an underdeveloped country like Bangladesh, we can actually work on it. First, we have to get an organization to work with us for funding or providing us materials. Then we have to make the organization contact with the video game companies that we will need for the tournament. Then we have to wait for the responses. We will use a PR strategy team to carry out Relationships Management Theory with our stakeholders and the public. For the toxicity and the violence surrounding the E-sport tournament, we will make sure we follow what the admins did in the Bidding Tournament Finals and give a stricter rule. Like ‘no racism will be allowed’ phrase. By seeing the amount of people in Bangladesh that loves Fun Factory, we can estimate that our official E-sports tournament won’t fail when it comes to the audience. Then we can make more gaming teams like The Council and we can give them a professional gaming career.

Discussion & findings

From our research we have found that the people who goes to Bashundhara City shopping mall 76% of them go there for only entertainment purposes (Ultimate Fun Factory, Star Cineplex, Toggiworld). From this 76% of the people 45% of them only visits Star Cineplex and 24% people goes to Ultimate Fun Factory and the rest is Toggiworld and the others. Ultimate Fun Factory is the biggest gaming zone in our country. Ultimate Fun Factory has many types of gaming platforms like Arcade, VR, Laser Tag, indoor sports zone etc. We found out that from all these platforms, Laser Tag is the most played game platform. Pros of the growth in the gaming community - A passion that's recognized. Great Mind-strategy competition An accepted community for people to indulge in Many kinds of people bring various talents into many kinds of games, watch out! Entertainment and even at times, educational.

Cons - Can be a distraction People have a bad stigma attached to it. Difficult to understand and time consuming.

Chapter 5

Limitations While collecting data for our research proposal, we faced many difficulties. One of the main barrier was, we couldn’t find any research document from our country. Because video games are so underrated here and parents still think this as a negative impact on their children. We searched online there wasn’t not a single research about video gaming other than gaming events. When we searched it on google only gaming shops popped up. We only found one article called ‘Beginners Guide to Competitive Video Gaming in Bangladesh’ published by ‘The Daily Star’ which was very useful. In this article it talks about a Bangladeshi gamer who participated many competitive gaming events and how Bangladesh organizing proper gaming events by overcoming so many obstacles. This article also featured some pro gamer’s opinion about most popular competitive games in our country. Since there was not enough research query about video games in Bangladesh, we had to collect information from outside of the country through online journals. We went through ‘JSTOR’ online library and found some important research articles about video games which helped us to complete our research. Furthermore, we took the interview of Department Head of the Ultimate Fun Factory and Toggi World ‘’Shabaz Prince’’. We reached out to him through link. First he told us to meet on Thursday (29.8.19) but due to our extra classes, we could not meet him that day. So he gave us another date to take his interview, which was on Friday (30.8.19) and it was raining heavily.

Conclusion The findings of the current study on publicizing gaming in Bangladesh has brought us to the decision that it will improve the knowledge about gaming and how it can and cannot harm to every users and others. Our research will provide the importance of gaming and knowledge for future generation as the whole world has gone digital. It will be very useful and will play a vital role to make the country’s relations stronger with other countries as everything has been turning into technology based and there has been several surveys from other countries. Therefore, it will play a great role for future.

References

Michael R. Ward (University of Texas at Arlington) - Video Games and Adolescent Fighting (August 2010), Source: The Journal of Law & Economics, Vol. 53, No. 3, pp. 611-628, Published by: The University of Chicago Press for the Booth School of Business, University of Chicago and the University of Chicago Law School (JSTOR) Royal Van Horn-Violence and Video Games2 (Oct., 1999), Source: The Phi Delta Kappan, Vol. 81, No., pp. 173-174, Published by: Phi Delta Kappa International (JSTOR) National Science Teachers Association-Video Games and the Brain (April/May 2008), Source: The Science Teacher, Vol. 75, No. 4, COMMUNITY COLLABORATIONS, pp. 19-21, Published by: National Science Teachers Association (JSTOR) Mark D. Griffiths-Playing Video Games Seems to Have Few Serious Acute Adverse Effects on Health (May 11, 2002) Source: BMJ: British Medical Journal, Vol. 324, No. 7346, p. 1159, Published by: BMJ (JSTOR) Johanna Gustafsson (2017-01-03) (Academy of Business, Engineering and Science, Halmstad University Halmstad, Sweden)- Do users think in-game marketing is effective? Kuss, D. J., & Griffiths, M. D. (2012). Internet gaming addiction: A systematic review of empirical research. International Journal of Mental Health and Addiction, 10(2), 278-296. Broom, G. Casey, S. and Ritchey, J. (2000) Toward a concept and theory of organization–public relationships: An update. In Ledingham, J. A. and Bruning, S. D. (Eds.) (2000) Public relations as relationship management: A relational approach to public relations. Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, Inc. Essays, UK. (November 2018). Relationship Management – Key Theories. Retrieved from https://www.ukessays.com/essays/business/relationship-managment-key-theories-5773.php?vref=1 Chartered Institute of Public Relations (2006) www.cipr.co.uk Accessed 5th May 2006.

Learnings and reflections: This project taught me to research efficiently and find relevant literature on any given topic. I learned to communicate and research efficiently in a group. This project was also valuable in teaching me to write efficient and precise research papers.

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