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equestrianwritingsstuff · 3 years

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Drowning 6 pretttttry please. Your writing is amazing, honest to god. Wish I had your talent. Keep writing!!!!

Thank you for the ask and lovely message ❤

Drowning Part 6

Masterlist

This one is a tad different that the other parts, some segments are in from Supervillain's POV which are very vague because they are meant have an altered state feel to them. You also learn a lot about Villain and Hero's past in this one.

@shydragonrider @asrasmysoulmate

Warnings: unreality, wheelchair, schizophrenia, elecric shocking, hallucinations, hate towards another, possessiveness, restraints, drugged whumpee, sick whumpee

Supervillain emerged from whatever fluid contraption held him in place. His body went numb, pins and needles filling every limb, every muscle like wildfire.

But, nearly as quick as he broke the surface, he fell back in...

Falling...

His body seized up, a ringing in his ears... then he hit solid ground, his body going slack. Nearly immediately, he felt conscious of the tubes and moniters embellishing him like ornaments and garland on a Christmas tree.

His lead-filled mouth yanked open on its own free will, trying to force a scream out, but his tongue only managed a hoarse whimper.

He jerked his head about, finding it laid nearly on a pillow, but another trap locked his head in. He clenched his hands, but his body was already falling back into the sea- all feeling washed away by the waves.

Sand. He felt sand in his body, dehydrating and numbing, as consciousness was snatched away from him once again. The tubes faded, as did the traps- leaving Supervillain with an empty void.

He had a sense, but couldn't remember what happened in brief moments of waking like this. He hardly recognized the difference between unconsciousness and consciousness and if he did, it wouldn't matter. He never could escape. Never could escape the agonizing water in and around his body.

All he could do was fall.

Fall back into the water.

《~~》

"Mistakes are always forgivable, if one has the courage to admit them," a voice spoke. Hero had given up on trying to tell apart the various differences between the countless heroes and doctors that spoke to her on a daily basis. Trying to just intoxicated her mind with a weird feeling of displeasure and annoyance that couldn't be placed. It was right in between her eyebrows, where she would have a unibrow if she didn't wax it all the time in highschool.

"Do you know who wrote that quote, Hero? Hmm?"

Hero didn't respond. Why would she? It gave her no clearance, no escape, no epic prison break that one may expect from such a person of stengths and wits. She just sat there, limbs tied to the ground by unrelenting steel, her head angled to watch the suffering man on the bed slowly fade away with persistent illness and everyday drugs.

"Bruce Lee," the speaker answered the question after quickly realizing that Hero wasn't going to.

Hero tuned out of the conversation, leaving it as background noise as she studied the scene in front of her. Supervillain was hooked up so many moniters, it was as if he was in a coma. Hero twitched her jaw. Maybe he was. The ventilation and feeding tube stuck all the way down his nose and mouth, opening it forcibly, definitely made that thought come alive.

Hero did this a lot, zoning out whenever someone tried to talk to her. Her once vibrant personality and optimism was dampered, replaced by a dull depression. Even Villain, who watched Hero daily, was getting nervous of this rapid decline in attitude- not that Hero knew of her betrayer's thoughts and emotions. To her, in this foggy hole of misery, Villain was an outcasted shadow, adding depth to the painting, but never a main topic. Heck, if she didn't concentrate, she didn't even see the light shade on the white surface.

There was only Supervillain.

But even that has changed, and not just in the extra moniters and tubes, but her whole aspect of him. He was the cause of her pain, he was the cause of the insufferable cloud that ascended over her.

There was no fondness in the way she viewed him anymore, just resentment. The deepest kind of resentment that could also be described as despising.

But even that was an understatement.

One day, a movement drew Hero out of her hate-filled thoughts and back into reality. It was Villain, playing with something by her wrist.

"Back off," she snarled, her voice sounding unnaturally deep and cracky.

"And so she speaks." The glint in his eyes revealed the sarcasm that his monotonous voice hid. "How are you Hero?"

Hero snarled, raising her lips in an animalistic manner, but didn't reply. Once her wrist was let go, the unused muscles allowed it to flop aimlessly against her equally thining thigh. She was fed yes, a vile piece of bland, moist garbage that gave her body its much needed vitamins, minerals, and nutrients, but lack of use degraded the once hefty muscle.

Villain worked on each of the restraints. Each arm fell limp as her legs splayed out, thankful for the break from the locked position they were kept in. When her head was let free, it flopped, her neck unable to keep it up.

Villain steadied her, putting his hand unceremoniously against the base of her neck. Hero squirmed, aware of her vulnerability.

"The door with the exit sign is unlocked," he whispered, so close to her ear that Hero cringed.

At first, her brain using its old habit, began to block out his words, but suddenly stopped and rewinded, shoving them back to the front of her mind.

Unlocked...

She could get out.

Villain helped her into a nearby wheelchair and was about to wheel her away when a strand of her empathetic nature fought against the newfound distant demeanor.

"What 'bout Supervillain?" She asked, her voice a weak whisper.

"This is for you," Villain replied casually grinning down at Hero, happy that she was back to somewhat normal.

Hero sunk into the plushy cushioning of the seat and looked at Supervillain's still figure and snarled. Ha, he didn't get to leave. She did. She got to escape the inhumane confines that kept her bound up like a trapped goat.

He didn't. He could now pay for his crimes.

Yet, as stubborn as this thoughts of retribution sounded, they weren't. That sympathizing portion of her protested against the new arrangement. And, being the stronger of the two opposites, it left her tongue in forms of coherent words.

"I won't leave him," she said, her heart bursting. Whether the internal explosion was due to anticipation or exaltation, it don't matter. It felt natural, like herself.

"You really don't have a choice."

"Why do you want me free?" Hero asked.

"This place is the definition of boring."

Hero was silent and contemplated Villain's statement. He really didn't care about her levels of bore and joy, never did. Any interaction or any relationship that the two once cherished was borne of platonic care of the other's well-being. Nothing too deep, and barely held any real intent. Are you alive? Are you dead? Were the only two questions that brought along any vowels of conversing.

It was weird, abnormal. Hero might've even went as far as to say suspicious.

But it was also promising. Very, very promising. It held the possibility of freedom that the chair did not.

But he was Villain. He did not have one ounce of good will or honesty in his cold veins. He was a liar, a cheat, and as much as she would've loved to call them friends, it was close to impossible. They couldn't build a relationship off of trickery as much as the two once wanted to.

This was a scheme, a lie, to get to Hero and make her mess up. Mess up and then she gets hurt.

Or worse, Supervillain does.

That thought stood out from the rush of others in her brain for it held an interesting style to it. As close as she was to the old Hero and away from the shadow that "choosing who gets hurt" made her into, she wasn't it yet.

Not yet.

"Boring, but I am alive," Hero retorted, rolling her eyes as well as the stiff rectus muscles in her eyes allowed.

"That is otherwise obvious." Villain placed a hand on the barred door that only purpose served as an aesthetic.

"Yeah, in a way I suppose, but Supervillain isn't."

"He's breathing."

"He sleeps all day and when he does manage to wake, he passes out almost immediately. I need to stay with him!"

"You do nothing but glare daggers at him. You are released dear."

"No, you are not helping me escape from this damn place!"

Villain was silent, paused in the motion of pushing the door open.

"Amidst your utter hate for him, you still have the decency to protect him; Hero there is nothing to protect. With one simple flick of a switch, he is dead," Villain pointed out, turning to Hero with tears in his icy blue eyes that Hero once found gloriously gorgeous. Ones that she used to gaze into as they fought, unable to tear herself away. She lost many fights that way by being too distracted to actually land a punch.

But the innocence of that gaze was really just hiding the fact that Villain was a scandalous bastard- only giving half-truths and fake emotions about everything.

"Then why do you give him the serum. You guys know that I won't hurt those civilians," Hero pointed out with a shrug.

Villaim remained silent and wheeled Hero out of the room.

《~~》

Supervillain seemed to always arouse when the nurses swarmed him to administer the vile liquid that plagued his veins with nauseating adrenaline. He felt the hot- not warm, but scorching hot- drug enter his veins.

But it wasn't the beginning, the actual pain of the procedure, that caused Supervillain his horrifying misery. It was afterwards and he wasn't thinking of the dizzying fatigue that usually pushed him into another deep sleep, but the memories it brought.

Some were nostalgic, others taut with grief. Others held regret while some even had remnants of agonizing torture he once endured.

Or gave.

But they were never happy, nor comforting to any degree.

So, when a reverie of kind touch swarmed Supervillain's sensations, his lethargic heart started to pump in rocket speed, motorizing the boat to accelerate...

"Go to sleep."

Hero's voice. One that brought him so much comfort. Hands scratched at his scalp and he felt his heavy eyelids drop.

"I'll be hear when you wake up," Hero lulled, humming softly as the sweet scent of vanilla hit Supervillain's scent receptors. He smiled, the tiniest of grins and nuzzled his nose into her warm, fleece sweater.

But, even delirous as he was, in the back of his head, Supervillain knew this was a vision. A hallucination. The model of schizophrenia that the drug brought upon his mind.

But it was just so real.

So he gave in, purposely allowing himself to be washed away by the unreality of the dream.

Because he loved it. He loved the touch as if it was actually real.

A warm figure slid next to his body wrapping its- her- arms around his shivering body. Phony yes, it gave stability as the fatigue pushed itself to its maximum.

As consciousness dripped away, Supervillain hummed slightly, happy with the feeling.

《~~》

Hero's hand buzzed over the door, considering the possibilities of opening it, but in the end, she blatantly refused.

"No," she said, her old self returning. "I am not going to leave Supervillain."

Villain's eyes widened, chin shaking.

"You care for him?" He asked, voice slightly elevated like a flute's pitch. Such a change from the droning audibles that usually slugged off his tongue. "Like actually."

Hero's brows crunched together as she read Villain's new face expressions. Blond hair draped down to his pointed eyebrows where it slightly curled. Tears seemed to well in his azure eyes.

"Are you crying?" Hero asked, scoffing, but in reality, she cared.

Cared a whole bunch.

"It's just," Villain stepped forward, leaning down and resting his hand on Hero's shoulder. His other hand balanced delicately against the holster of whatever weapon he carried.

Suddenly, without warning, his hand shot up and an bolt of electricity flashed through her body. Hero fell forward, screaming and withering on the floor.

Villain leaned forward, breath warm against her sweaty cheek. "You are mine Hero. I won't ever let you hold, or care for Supervillain again," he growled, bringing thr taser back to Hero's neck. "Goodnight, my love."

The electric shock came again, and the world descended into blackness.

#supervillain whumpee #hero whumpee #villain whumper #retrained #hero x supervillain #hero whumper #heros and villains #delirious whumpee #drugged whumpee #shizophrenia

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slythergirlimagines · 4 years

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Just Us With Some Hugging -Part One

Prompt: Prompt #1- Fake dating with Prince Zuko!

@darthsokaaa thank you for your request! I hope I did it justice! Who doesn’t love some Prince Zuko;) Masterlist

Just Us With Some Hugging- Part 1

You and Zuko had been close since birth. Your mothers had been best friends and the closest of confidantes, and because of this you had spent nearly every moment of your life with Zuko. As you grew up, Zuko became a trained fire bender and you became a trained warrior. Even during his exile, you were checking up on him through letters.

It had been nothing to pick his side over Ozai’s, and easier still to join forces with him against Azula to place the rightful Fire Lord on the throne. As soon as Zuko was crowned, he named you a member of his personal council. For three years, everything had remained somewhat peaceful, and Zuko and you had fallen right back into your friendship as if you’d never spent any time apart.

That’s why when Zuko had all but manhandled you into this conference room, you didn’t expect anything unusual. Maybe an important meeting, or just some time to catch up and talk. Never in your wildest dreams could you have predicted that he would ask you to pretend to be his girlfriend.

“What?” You say, blinking in shock.

“Y/N, it would just be for the duration of the Peace Celebration. Just a short little weekend, nothing much.” His face is a little flushed, his cheeks a light pink. Zuko has always struggled to ask for help, particularly anything dealing with emotions. Anxiously, he starts rubbing the back of his neck.

“I know it’s a lot, but think about it! We’d get to have a fun trip to Ba Sing Se. And it’ll be a fun party! We’ll get to see everyone again, they’re all coming this time.” He gestures with his hands. It’s almost endearing.

You’d be lying if you said the idea didn’t have any appeal. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen any of the Gaang. After the war, everyone had spread out and getting together had been nearly impossible. This would be the first Peace Celebration that everyone would be able to come to.

If you were extra honest with yourself, the idea was appealing for another reason entirely. Somewhere along the endless years of friendship, you had fallen in love with Zuko. Maybe it was seeing his growth as a person, or maybe it was his devotion to Fire Nation and righting Ozai’s mistakes. Maybe it was just that he was the single most attractive man you’d ever seen.

Regardless, you were in deep. And that was really the reason that you couldn’t say yes, as much as you might want to. You knew if you let yourself get that close to Zuko, it might ruin everything. Your friendship with Zuko was one of the most important aspects of your life, and you would never forgive yourself if you let your own feelings ruin what you all had.

“Zuko, I really don’t think...”

“You know, I’m kind of the Fire Lord, I could command you.” He says quietly. His voice is huskier than normal, and heat instantly floods your face.

Why was he doing this to you? It wasn’t fair that he was able to do...well to do that! He had no idea how much power he held over you, how you would do anything for him. And now that he had asked like that, there was no way you could say no.

Something in your expression must have given away your broken resolve, because Zuko’s face breaks into a huge grin.

“Thank you!” He exclaims, jumping up and happily running around the table to throw his arms around you. He’s warm, like all fire benders are, and hesitantly you hug him back and tuck your head under his chin. You’ve never been particularly affectionate friends, but the embrace doesn’t feel as unnatural as it probably should.

“I haven’t even said yes yet.” You grouch. You can feel the reverberations of Zuko’s low laugh in his chest. It’s too much, being in his arms like this.

“I know you.” Is all he says in reply. His words send warm tingles down your spine. With a final sigh, you pull away from Zuko, breaking the hug.

“Why do you need me to do this again?” You ask. Your eyes trace over his face, memorizing the contours and lingering on his scar. He used to act so ashamed of it, the scar he never asked for. Now he wears it like a badge of honor. You knew his troubles stemmed from his perceived lack of honor, but you can’t help but feel he was wearing his honor the entire time, right here on his face.

“I told you. Uncle drives me crazy with his matchmaking. He keeps telling me that ‘A single tea leaf makes the worst tea.’ Or something like that. I don’t even know what he means!” Zuko throws his hands up in defeat, breaking your trance. You snort, but don’t comment. Frustrated as he may be, Zuko loves Iroh.

Zuko had briefly mentioned the matchmaking to you before, but he had always played it off as a joke. You had no idea that Iroh was being so serious about it, or that it bothered Zuko so much.

“Why don’t you just tell him that you’re too young to settle down? You have a Nation to run, after all.” You interject.

Zuko looks at you and rolls his eyes.

“You know Uncle. He never listens when it comes to this stuff. I told you about the girl in Ba Sing Se he made me date!”

You force down the irrational swell of anger that builds in your chest. Zuko had mentioned the date in one of his letters, and it had bothered you for reasons you never wanted to think about.

“We need to talk logistics here.” You recross your arms. “What’s our story? How are we going to pull this off in front of our friends and your uncle?”

Zuko begins rubbing the back of his neck. The sleeves of his red robe fall down a few inches, and you quickly avert your eyes before you’re caught staring.

“I don’t think it will be too hard.” Zuko says. He’s too nonchalant about it all, which is mildly infuriating. He sees the irritated look on your face and hurries to explain. “I mean, we’ve been friends forever and we’re always around each other. It was bound to happen right?”

Your heart stutters and nearly stops. Did you hear him right?

Zuko clears his throat.

“I mean for story purposes that is.”

“Right.” You say. There’s a long awkward pause. You’ve never been comfortable with silence, so you hurry to break it.

“So one day we just decided ‘This is it.’ And I jumped your bones?”

The sarcasm lightens the mood, and Zuko laughs. His amber eyes twinkle in the light, like they’re shining.

“How come you jumped my bones?” He teases.

“We both know I’d have to make the first move, you’d never do it.” You challenge him.

A weird static energy settles in the room, reminding you of Azula’s lightning. Zuko has never looked at you so intensely. You swear the air is crackling.

“Right.” He says, and is it your imagination or are his eyes flickering to your lips?

The spell is broken by one of Zuko’s men opening the door.

“My Lord, I’m sorry to interrupt...” He trails off, looking between the two of you.

You and Zuko both notice the lack of space between you, and jump apart.

“Right, no it’s fine.” Zuko says, clearing his throat and gesturing for the man to come in.

You take the opportunity to leave while you still have some dignity left.

“Oh, and y/n?” Zuko says before you’re out the door.

“Yes, Zuko?” You ask. You hope the blush isn’t too noticeable on your face.

“I’m glad you said yes, because I already told Uncle last week.” His face splits into a cocky grin, and his scar crinkles.

Your infuriated scream echoes through the whole palace, mingling with his delighted laugh.

_____________________________

You’re already reconsidering this arrangement by the time you reach Ba Sing Se. Zuko looks astoundingly good when he’s more relaxed, and there’s no way you’ll be able to control yourself like this. Today he wears the clothing of a fire nation commoner. The deep red is striking against his skin and dark hair. It also highlights his scar and the amber of his eyes.

Ba Sing Se is gloriously overdecorated. There are flowers and banners covering every visible inch of the city, and they blend together in a colorful blur as the train moves through the city. Zuko smiles, face turned toward the glass, eyes taking in all the festivities. It’s been too long since you’ve seen him look so peaceful.

He turns from the window and catches your expression.

“What?” He asks, self-consciously.

Your voice is too soft when you answer him.

“Nothing. Ba Sing Se looks good on you.”

You have no idea where your boldness comes from, as Zuko shifts uncomfortably under the complement. Before you can tease him about it, he switches topics.

“Ok, so we’re really going to have to sell this thing, aren’t we?” He starts, making you roll your eyes.

It’s a typical Zuko move to save the panicking until right before. You had already done your fair share of freaking out, and had already done your meditation. You were a lot calmer about it all than you expected to be.

Of course, you knew that would probably change the moment you had to start pretending, but for now you were ok.

“Meditate Zuko. Deep breaths.” You tell him, giving him a gentle kick to the shin. He rolls his eyes, but takes the advice anyways.

“It’s going to be okay.” You tell him. “We just have to be us with some hugging. Or handholding. They know us and they know how we behave normally. We just have to act natural.”

Zuko nods, and a strand of black hair falls in front of his eyes. He flicks it away, and then settles deeper into his seat.

“Just us.” He says.

“With some hugging.” You amend.

He cracks an amber eye open and you shrug at his expression.

“It’ll be weird if we don’t touch each other at all.” You say.

“I didn’t know you had such a deep desire to touch me.” He says, with extra emphasis on the word “touch.”

Your body begins to tingle again. This has been happening more and more frequently with Zuko, where one of you says something with a double meaning. The electricity settles in again, but is broken by the abrupt stop of the train.

An enthusiastic stewardess comes to escort the two of you off the train. She’s pretty and she notices Zuko immediately.

“Welcome to Ba Sing Se!” She chirps happily, more at Zuko than you. You can’t help your irrantional flare of jealousy.

Zuko, noticing your aggravation, slings an arm over your shoulders and smirks.

“Yes, sweetheart. Welcome to Ba Sing Se.”

You give him a hard elbow to the ribs, and laugh at his grunt of pain.

Iroh is waiting with open arms when you get off of the train. He immediately takes Zuko off of your hands, and tries to smoosh Zuko as close to his body as he can. Zuko does a very un-Zuko thing and hugs back with as just as much force. It warms your heart to see them interact. Iroh breaks the embrace and hugs you next.

“It’s so good to see you both again!” He says. “And with such happy news.” Iroh wiggles his eyebrows and winks at the two of you.

“Uncle!” Zuko groans, throwing his hands up exasperatedly.

“Sorry, Sorry. Couldn’t help myself, y/n.” Iroh chuckles.

“It’s ok!” You try to say brightly, but it comes out breathy. If you don’t get it together, you’ll expose your own lie before anyone else can.

Zuko takes your hand in his, and shoulders both of your bags on his other arm. You do everything you can not to think about the fact that Zuko’s incredibly warm hand is wrapped around yours. You definitely don’t think about what this hand has done before, or what it could do if it wanted.

“Uncle, where are we staying?” Zuko asks.

For once you’re grateful to the heat of Ba Sing Se, for it camouflages the fact that you’ve started to sweat.

“We’ve set up a lovely house for you two and all of your friends! You’ll all be together.” Iroh says, bouncing around.

“Is anyone here yet?” You ask him. You can fight the excitement bubbling up inside you. You hadn’t seen your friends in a long time, and soon they’d all be here!

“Everyone but Aang and Miss Katara.” Iroh says. “They’ll be here later.”

You have an extra pep to your step as you wind through the streets of Ba Sing Se. Zuko laughs at your enthusiasm, and squeezes your hand. Iroh notices and practically starts glowing. A stab of something goes through you as you think about the lie you’re telling, but it all fades away as you let yourself enjoy the moment and the warmth of Zuko’s hand.

_________________________________________

In an effort to keep peace and spread good will, Ba Sing Se had been selected to host the annual Peace Celebration- a celebration honoring the peace ushered in by the Avatar, the end of the war, and the continuing efforts to preserve it. Ba Sing Se had been the natural choice to host the whole affair. Not only was it the biggest city, but it was the most neutral. And Ba Sing Se certainly knew how to throw a party.

You and the group were currently sandwiched tightly around a table. The whole Gaang was here. When you had arrived at the house, it had been a nonstop hug fest. Everyone had been so glad to see each other. Toph had taken you to your room across from hers, while Sokka had taken Zuko to his. You had fully expected the shakedown from Toph about your relationship, but she had said nothing. That scared you more than anything, because it could only mean she was waiting for the right time.

Zuko had told you about Toph’s ability to sense lies, and you had been privileged enough to see it first hand. If anyone was going to figure out your secret it was Toph.

You had wanted to get Zuko alone and tell him about your fears, but there hadn’t been time. Aang and Katara had arrived and then everyone had to get ready for the party. Now you were all here, and it was basically life as usual. Except for the fact that you were anxiously waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Katara and Aang were making eyes at each other, Sokka and Toph were competing to see who could hold their liquor better (Toph of course was winning), Zuko and Iroh were engaged in a discussion of the rebuilding of Ba Sing Se, and that left you and Suki to make awkward conversation.

You admired Suki a lot, but you hadn’t really gotten to know her well. Both of you had been sitting in silence. Suki takes a slow sip of her drink, and twirls the edges of her short brown hair.

“So you and Zuko?” She asks, nodding her head at the arm Zuko had wrapped around your shoulders.

You take a long sip of your drink, and then nod.

“Yeah.” You say quietly.

You had been waiting on pins and needles all night for this. Toph had yet to spring her trap, and Suki’s question seemed to catch the attention of the entire table.

“Yeah! Tell us how that happened!” Sokka says, half of his drink spilling over the rim of his mug. Like Zuko, Sokka has grown into a man since the war, well a childish man but a man none the less.

“Well...” You start.

“It just happened.” Zuko interjects, saving you. You start to take another sip to finish your drink. “And then y/n jumped my bones.” He laughs.

The surprise of his statement chokes you, and you start coughing. Zuko breaks into carefree laughter, and starts patting your back. The Gaang quickly joins in laughing, except for Toph, who cocks her head and stares with unseeing eyes at Zuko.

“I’m...going...to....murder....you.” You tell him, as you try to catch your breath. Zuko smiles warmly at you, and reaches up to smooth a piece of hair behind your ear. Your heart skips a beat, as he catches your eyes with his.

Toph and Sokka resume their contest, and you sigh with relief. Maybe she’ll be too drunk to tell or care if you’re lying. Zuko catches your eyes again, and it’s all you need to know that you guys are on the same page. Crisis momentarily averted.

“Come on, let’s dance.” Zuko says, pulling you away from the table.

“Zuko? Dance?” You hear someone mutter behind you.

“Zuko, if we act too different they’ll find out!” You hiss at him when you’re a distance away from the table. You try desperately to wiggle out of his grip.

He ignores you, and seamlessly incorporates you with the other dancers.

“I just want to dance with my girlfriend.” He bends his head down, whispering in your ear. “Is that too much to ask?”

He has a wicked grin on his face when he pulls away, and you would give anything to be able to bend him across the room.

“It is when you never do that! You never danced with Mai.” You point out, and then instantly regret it. Mai was a sore spot with Zuko. You watch as Zuko freezes, losing his buoyancy from earlier.

“I would’ve. She always said no.”

You shuffle closer in your embrace trying to offer him some comfort. You always put your foot in your mouth.

Zuko and Mai’s breakup had been awful. The relationship had been bad for a year, but when it finally came to a head, it had been explosive. Zuko had been positively horrid to deal with for weeks.

“Oh.” You say like a genius, but it isn’t really your fault that you can’t speak in coherent sentences with him holding you like this.

“Yeah.” Zuko says, and you know that if you don’t act now he’ll brood for the rest of the night.

“Well I’m a hell of a better dancer than Mai, so you’ve definitely upgraded.” You say flippantly.

Zuko smiles at you and pulls you closer.

“I certainly did.” He says.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, your close proximity, or the fact that Zuko has just told you that you are an upgrade from your biggest rival, but something in you snaps. Without warning, you find yourself leaning up and pressing a kiss to Zuko’s lips.

(A/N: I’m doing a part 2! This just seemed like a story that needed to be broken into two parts! Let me know if you enjoyed it and don’t forget to submit a request if you want me to write something! I do write for multiple fandoms! I��m currently working on my other requests so keep an eye out for those this week! You should be able to see all the fanfiction I’ve written by clicking on my tag slythergirlimagines)

#slythergirlimagines #zuko x reader #atla #atla fanfic #zuko #iroh #katara #aang #sokka #toph #fire lord zuko #fake dating #fanfic #avatar the last airbender #prince zuko #prince zuko x reader #prince zuko x you #zuko x you

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soveryanon · 4 years

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Reviewing time for MAG183!

- I’m not sure I can manage to put it into words quite right but: sounds-wise, this episode’s domain didn’t feel mind-blowingly new, it wasn’t something that felt “Oh! I’ve never heard something like this before!”? But the echoes, grinding and scratching were timed so well, giving so much strength and gravitas to the conversations, that it perfectly scratched an itch. I could hear that there was something close to Jon and Martin, that it was big, and mostly deserted, that it stood eerily in the overall wasteland, that they were two people alone against a whole world, a whole machine with gears and a mechanism ready to crush anyone?

- I LIVE for artist!Martin giving his commentary and overall throwing shade at the Fears’ taking of artistic licence liberties:

(MAG183) MARTIN: Oh, bugger off! ARCHIVIST: Everything all right? MARTIN: Oh, no, what e–, what e–, what even is that? It, it’s like Escher ate a bad cathedral and threw up everywhere.

He had shown interest in the Stranger’s carousel upon learning that the statements had been a poem, but shots fired for that tower, uh.

- Jon and Martin were so cute starting the episode! Their quick banter was adorable!

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: It’s a building. A tower. … In a sense. MARTIN: Oh yeah? A–and what sense might that be? ARCHIVIST: [FAINTLY OMINOUS] … The Tarot sense. MARTIN: [SPLUTTERS WITH LAUGHTER] Really? ARCHIVIST: Wha–? No? Sorry, it… felt like a good line…! MARTIN: No, no, it was, I just… I dunno, I… [FOND EXHALE] You did the look, and…! It’s fine, sorry.

Martin being IN LOVE and appreciating Jon’s cuteness! The return of Jon showing that he’s an occult/horror nerd! We had seen in season 2 that he was generally very knowledgeable about anything related to the supernatural, and in season 4 that he was into Neil Lagorio’s movies, I’m happy to get another trace of it!

(MAG076) MELANIE: So I came here to dig a bit deeper. ARCHIVIST: Really? Our… our library is extensive, but it’s hardly focused on the Second World War. MELANIE: No, but the most detailed description of the crash that I could find came from the report of a man called William W. Hay. And later in life William Hay… ARCHIVIST: Became a noted occultist, whose memoirs and researches were only ever published in a heavily edited form. And we have unexpurgated copies. MELANIE: Exactly.

(MAG136) ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Statement ends. Hm. Neil Lagorio… You ever see any of his work? DAISY: No. Not really into films. ARCHIVIST: Oh, they were… Well, let’s just say that it’s not a complete shock there was something unnatural to them. Didn’t know we had copies in the Institute, though; let alone original cuts. [CHUCKLE] Records indicate they [PAPER RUSTLING] ended up in… Artefact Storage. DAISY: Probably best that they stay there. ARCHIVIST: … Yeah. Yes, of course.

But SOB x2 since:

* Tower-in-the-tarot-sense meaning ominous stuff… and change. (While Jon knew they would soon come face to face with the choice to take the route through Martin’s domain.)

* Crying over the fact that we’ve seen and learned quite a few outside-of-the-job aspects of Jon this season, comparatively to the previous ones? He’s cute! He’s making jokes! He mentioned his student days a bit in MAG165, and visiting Upton House as a kid in MAG180! And this is happening when the world has been forked over and Jon&Martin certainly won’t survive together past MAG200, which means they have at most seventeen episodes together remaining. Martin, and we alongside him, are seeing so many different, more casual aspects of Jon, and it’s at the end of things…

- I really like how information bounced around in this episode? It felt even more dynamic than usual, quickly shifting depending on some reaction, or going from an association to another:

(MAG183) MARTIN: What, what’s the deal, though? Parts of it almost look like– ARCHIVIST: The Institute. MARTIN: Yeah…! ARCHIVIST: Yes. [INHALE] It makes sense, after all it was… built on the ruins of what Robert Smirke constructed…! MARTIN: Smirke? … What, no! But, but, surely he’s– ARCHIVIST: Dead, yeah, I mean, yes. [CHUCKLING] Very much so! This place is… an homage, shall we say. A monument. To him, and those like him, who tried to… categorise the world with themselves at the centre. In so doing, constructed the architecture of its suffering…!

Ohohoh about Martin feeling like the tower looked a bit like the Institute, and Jon drawing similarities through Smirke – the Institute being built on the ruins of a Smirke building, and the current domain being dedicated to people like him. The Institute is coming closer and weighing on their minds, isn’t it? I really like that Martin immediately worried about Smirke potentially being alive-ish, since:

(MAG138) MARTIN: “The Eye has marked me for something, of this I have no doubt. My… humble hope is that it may be a swift death, an accidental effect of your own researches, which I once again implore you to abandon. It is likely too late for me, but I will not…” [PAPER RUSTLE] Uh… [INHALE] The, hum… The letter ends there. Uh… Ap–apparently Robert Smirke was found collapsed in his study that evening, dead of, uh… [FLIPPING THROUGH PAPERS] Apoplexy. Mm. I–I don’t know how the letter reached the Archives, I mean… Well, I can guess, but…

… he had read Smirke’s last words before he died. (But Martin has seen enough by now to know that there is always a risk for people to not have actually died; on that front, we’re safe, Jon confirmed! Loving Jon’s chuckle: ah yeah, no, Smirke, “very much so” dead from Jonah.)

(Also loved the “[those] who tried to categorise the world with themselves at the centre” shade: yep! That’s West-Eurocentrism and Smirke’s little gang for you!)

- About the way the world works now since the Change, I’m curious about Jon’s wording as “the architecture of [the world’s] suffering”, since it’s echoing the title of Smirke’s statement, “The Architecture of Fear”: my understanding is that right now, the world is mostly running on a loop of people’s fears => feeding and shaping the landscape => which hurts people by turning those realised fears against them => squeezing the fear out of them => feeding the landscape, etc.

What is quite curious is the status of Smirke’s taxonomy in the current world. Jon went off on a rant about how Smirke and people who attempted to classify had been wrong all along because it was meant to fail… while he himself has persistently been using the very same classifications during this very season:

(MAG166) ARCHIVIST: Look, we can talk about it later, we’re– coming to a… “domain of The Buried”, and [STATIC RISES] I would really rather… […] God, I hate The Buried. [DEEP BREATHS] … End recording.

(MAG172) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] “Knowing”, “seeing”… i–it’s not the same thing as… understanding. Every time I try to know what The Web’s plan is, if it can even be called a plan, I see… a hundred thousand events and causes and links, an impossibly intricate pattern of consequences and subtle nudges, but I–I can’t…! … I can’t hold them all in my head at the same time. There’s no way to see the “whole”, the, the point of it all. I can see all the details, but it doesn’t… provide… context or… intention. I suppose The Web doesn’t work in knowledge, not in the same way.

(MAG173) MARTIN: That’s the avatar for this place? ARCHIVIST: Callum Brodie, thirteen years old. He guides the children through their fears of The Dark.

(MAG174) ARCHIVIST: I’m not entirely sure what you were expecting, it’s The Vast. The clue is in the name! MARTIN: Yes, all right…!

(MAG176) MARTIN: … Besides, I thought The Hunt was meant to make you go faster. ARCHIVIST: Depends on the type of pursuit. [INHALE] Besides, the chase isn’t… really the point of this particular place.

(MAG177) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Bad therapists. Let’s just say it’s the fear of bad therapists, filtered through The Spiral. BASIRA: That’s… a lot more nuance than I’ve gotten used to since everything went wrong. ARCHIVIST: Yes, well. The Spiral is nothing if not insidious. […] You just heard what The Spiral does to people, you can’t… trust her.

“constructed the architecture of [the world’s] suffering” kind of implies that they did manage something, even if it doomed the world? Is it specifically about Jonah using the division into 14 in his incantation? We’ve seen that that one had limitations, since The Extinction also got there anyway… But at the same time, true that at this point, we would still force-apply Smirke’s labels to anything anyway.

- Loved Jon sounding awfully pedantic and (fake-)poetic at the same time:

(MAG183) MARTIN: [SIGH] Bit of a mouthful. ARCHIVIST: Would you prefer I described it as a… “cascading recursion of shifting arrogance and hubristic dead-ends”? [STATIC RISES] [THE DOOR CREAKS OPEN] [CONSTANT HIGH-PITCHED FREQUENCY] HELEN: I would. [FOOTSTEPS] [THE DOOR SHUTS] [STATIC FADES] MARTIN: [SIGH] Hello, Helen.

AND HELEN HAVING THE BEST ENTRANCES. It also cleared up something for me (unless I had already realised it and forgot about it since then): the high-pitched sound we hear when she’s around is the mark of Helen and Michael, not of the corridors – if the door is open or characters are inside of the hallways, we’ll hear some of the usual crackling static, but we heard it rise when Helen arrived and fade when the door shut behind her (and same thing with her departure, it was briefly heard when she opened the door).

- Shots fired, MARTIN PLEASE:

(MAG183) MARTIN: [SIGH] Hello, Helen. Might have guessed you’d be into weird architecture. Very much your area of expertise, no? HELEN: Hmm, depends! Would you describe “petulant poet” as your area of expertise? I am weird architecture.

And Helen went equally incisive on that one, but also UUUUUH WAS IT A SPECIFIC REFERENCE TO PETER’S COMMENT ABOUT MARTIN…

(MAG158) MARTIN: I’m… saying no. I refuse! Game over. [KNIFE CLATTERING ON THE GROUND] PETER: Martin, this is not the time for petulance; there are bigger things at stake, here.

This was the only time someone referred to Martin as (acting) petulant… I mean, Helen not missing one second of MAG158 wouldn’t be surprising (she did tell Jon at the end of MAG157 that she would be enjoying the show), but ;; Little chilling when remembering Elias-Peter-Martin in the Panopticon and Martin refusing to kill Jonah there…

- I was right to suspect that Helen might have been unable to know where Jon&Martin were over their stay at Upton House, and that she wouldn’t be pleased about it!

(MAG183) HELEN: Anyway, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you, but you both just vanished. ARCHIVIST: Aaah… Right, I see…! HELEN: I was so looking forward to catching up after that whole Basira and Daisy thing, but then, pfft! You both disappear. I’d be very keen to know how you managed that little trick. MARTIN: Why, it caught us by surprise too, I mean, we, we actually ended– ARCHIVIST: [FIRMLY] We found somewhere to rest. That’s all. MARTIN: … Oh, yeah. Ah, yes, hm. HELEN: Fine. Be like that. I can appreciate the particular pleasure of a kept secret. ARCHIVIST: I’m sure you can.

* Salesa’s zone seems to be protected as long as you don’t physically find it? I wonder how Annabelle managed to find it, still, since Jon only become aware of that blind spot when they arrived nearby; how did she become aware of it in the first place? Did it feel like a hole in the world’s web?

* Awww for Jon keeping the secret and conveying to Martin that they should keep quiet about it ;w;

* AHAHAHHAHA for Jon’s “aaah”, which was absolutely a mischievous grandpa sound. Jon ready to cause trouble, with a smug smile on his face.

- … I love how Helen could observe that the dynamic of the exchange was slipping out of her control (Jon&Martin knew something that she didn’t, didn’t feel threatened by her, and Jon was amused to keep it out of her reach) and immediately tried to go for the throat again:

(MAG183) HELEN: Anyway. Such a shame about Basira and Daisy. I was really rooting for them to make up. MARTIN: [SPLUTTERS] Since when? What happened to– I mean, how did you put it… a, “a quick shot to the back of her head, and then back in time for tea”, or whatever?

Martin: Forgive and forget? NO, RESENT AND REMEMBER AHAHAHAHAH.

Direct reference to the fact that Helen indeed ~offered her door to Basira~ to quickly get to Daisy and execute her:

(MAG177) HELEN: I can offer a shortcut. Take you right to that murder machine you call a partner. MARTIN: Basira… Jon can’t go through Helen’s doors, we, we couldn’t come with you. HELEN: Basira is a strong, independent woman. She doesn’t need you two holding her hand. Anyway, it’ll be dead quick. Two minutes, door-to-door, quick shot to the back of Daisy’s head, and we’ll be home before you know it!

Laughing that Martin added the tea mention (Martin, you single-track minded tea-aficionado), but I’m glad that he remembered it full well to throw it in her face; it wasn’t even a personal attack towards Martin, it was something Helen tried to do to Basira, I’m glad that Martin is still absolutely offended about it ;w;

- I felt like Jon and Helen had two definitions of “what we want”: Helen potentially talking about quick, short-term wants (even if they turn out to be self-destructive), while Jon was more about well-thought decisions and choices?

(MAG183) HELEN: [EXASPERATED SIGH] Oh, give over. I was obviously just prodding her, trying to make a point. She didn’t want to kill her. ARCHIVIST: What we want doesn’t matter much these days. HELEN: Oh, [RASPBERRY NOISE], nonsense. What we want is the only thing that matters these days. And Basira wanted to join Daisy. ARCHIVIST: She made her choice. HELEN: With your assistance. ARCHIVIST: It was still her choice. HELEN: [SIGH] What a waste. ARCHIVIST: No. [INHALE] It wasn’t.

There have been a lot of discussions about “choices” and “wants” throughout the series (with big moments in MAG092, MAG117 and MAG147), so it felt a bit nice that Jon seems to have reached a point where he could draw a line between both? Jon, Martin and Basira didn’t want this world, don’t want the way it operates and what it inflicts on them; it doesn’t mean they can’t weigh options and make specific decisions – Basira, to honour her promise to Daisy and kill the monster she had become; Jon, to not smite for revenge (and Martin, to face his own domain).

I LOVE HOW JON WAS FIRM ABOUT BASIRA’S CHOICE MATTERING ;w; It once again reminds me of Martin’s line to Simon: “I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever.” (MAG151); the little things, the individual existences and choices, their own stories, still having value in the expanse of the universe…

- Martin! It’s a delight to see him so firm, having faith in Basira although he’s been so worried for her:

(MAG179) ARCHIVIST: Martin, this is what she needs. MARTIN: No, no! I–it’s…! BASIRA: It’ll… MARTIN: It’s completely– […] … We’re not doing this. BASIRA: [SOFTLY] Martin. Please. [SILENCE] MARTIN: … [SIGH] You’d better look after yourself. BASIRA: I will.

(MAG180) ARCHIVIST: How are you doing? About… MARTIN: Yeah, yeah. Yeah. I’m… I don’t know. I’m–I’m not sure how to feel; just… pressing on, you know? ARCHIVIST: I do. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Do you think she’ll be okay without us? ARCHIVIST: Oh, she’s made it this far. MARTIN: … Yeah. I just worry.

(MAG183) MARTIN: Basira is… She’s going to be okay.

And then pointing out that he was involved in the discussion too and that he wanted to know what the other two knew already and not be kept out of the loop:

(MAG183) HELEN: Oh. Is she? Do you want me to tell you what she’s been up to while you were “resting”? Where she is right now? ARCHIVIST: You don’t need to. I already know. MARTIN: I don’t. [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: She’s currently moving through, uh… “The Void.” [STATIC FADES] Hungry shadows drifting in the dark. She’s been there a long time now, struggling to find the path. MARTIN: But she will? ARCHIVIST: I think so. HELEN: Yeah, she does always seem to manage, doesn’t she? It’s impressive. Although a little bit… tempting at times.

I’m not absoooolutely sure about Basira’s status: is “the void” a space between domains, or is it a Dark domain that Basira is having trouble finding the exit of, since unlike Jon, she can’t just “know” the paths? I suspect the latter but I’m not 100% certain. If it’s indeed The Dark, that’s a close to home one for her, since she had a few brushes with it over the course of the show – the Section 31 expedition to save Callum Brodie, leading to Rayner’s death and Basira’s decision to quit the police, her research to find out more about the People’s Church of the Divine Host (as shown in season 3) and her overall worry about them, which allowed Elias to convince her that they would attempt another ritual in Ny-Ålesund, leading to her discovering what “Rayner” was and travelling there with Jon, finding Manuela and the Dark Sun mid-season 4…

;ww; for Jon having faith in Basira, too… And the fact that once again, Basira has it a bit rougher than Jon&Martin (Jon had already told Martin that it had been a difficult journey for her, before they reunited). Helen does have a point that Basira seems to manage to find her way out in general: she had successfully escaped The Unknowing on her own, she had survived The Flesh’s attack on the Institute, she had pursued Daisy in the apocalypse… Basira has already gone through Helen’s corridors (offscreen at the end of MAG143, to return to the Institute), I’m YIKES about Helen implying that it would be “tempting” to grab her. (… But at the same time, why hasn’t she done it already, if she is capable of doing it? It might be a bit more complicated than that?)

- … I love Martin, I love that he was RIGHT to point out that Helen had just waltzed in to try and steer chaos:

(MAG183) MARTIN: Look, Helen, what do you even want? Okay, you keep turning up like a bad penny and, honestly, it, it seems like it’s… it’s just to be a dick! HELEN: Gasp! I am trying to be friends, Martin. Forever is a long time. And I occasionally like to have some company that isn’t… screaming. MARTIN: … What do you even think friendship is? HELEN: I dunno, do I? The only personhood I have is from someone I ate.

It feels like Helen has REALLY tried hard to make up for the weeks(?) she couldn’t find Jon and Martin? She went extra-hard on them: first with Basira, then implying to Jon that he had manipulated her into killing Daisy, then pointing out that Basira was not safe at the moment and still at risk of falling prey to other Fears (including herself), then trying to mock Martin about his domain, trying to guilt-trip Jon for not having told him about it yet, and when she finally managed to get Martin shocked and upset… job done, byebye.

Is it that she’s trying to get Jon so riled up he ends her? “Helen” used to like Jon and to turn to him (MAG101: “Helen liked you so… there’s a lot to consider. But I will help you leave.” / MAG115: “Before, talking to you made Helen feel better.”), before she was absolutely Down With Doors And Murders (MAG146: “We do what we need to do when it comes to feeding, don’t we? … Don’t we, Archivist?”), is it a remnant of that? Or is it really just an attempt at confusing Jon and Martin further, feeding from them Spiral-style?

- More about Martin’s domain later, but the reveal was BRUTAL, and yet not coming out of nowhere; we knew he had one, we knew he had almost been trapped in the Lonely house in MAG170 and the question was whether or not it had been (/was still) his domain once Martin got freed from it, but there was also the question of how Martin was able to walk in the apocalypse unharmed (was it due to Jon’s proximity, Martin’s connection to The Eye as an assistant, etc.), and Basira’s own status after Daisy’s death… so, yay! Answers and clarifications, and as usual, nothing feeling like a plot-twist, just things that make sense, and that we already had most of the information about!

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: Martin… MARTIN: Are there people, Jon? ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: Are there people in my domain? ARCHIVIST: Not many. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Do you need to do your… your thing? Make a statement about whatever’s going on in there? … I could use a moment to think. ARCHIVIST: Sure thing. Yeah, I–I’ll… [INHALE] Yeah. [EXHALE] [BAG JOSTLING] [DEPARTING FOOTSTEPS]

Sobbing a bit about Martin’s priorities (“Are there people, Jon?”) and Martin asking for a quick me-time. It wasn’t ice-cold, Martin turned it into something useful for both of them (expecting that Jon would have to give his statement anyway), but aouch, he sounded absolutely shattered inside while blank on the surface…

- Yes, yes, yes, reminder that Smirke’s categorisation is arbitrary and just like the Doctor’s theory, sometimes just doesn’t work, because it’s trying to force-apply rules and a classification over something that resists it (and because the classification is not perfect from the start), but hey, that’s most theories and classifications out there anyway, so: Escher reference, the functioning of the Tower reminding me of the Great Twisting, and the reasonings sometimes reminding me of Gabriel’s work (MAG126), plus Helen popping by – it was Spiral stuff, right?

Well! I felt like it looks like Spiral, but the Doctor’s fears by themselves:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: “But it is not the fall that terrifies him, not the pain of the impacts, but the fact that none of them should be there. That it doesn’t make sense, and it must make sense, there must be a system, there must be, because if there isn’t– [THE BODY LANDS WETLY] He lands with a heavy smack onto rough limestone, and lies still, his body twisted and broken. He knows it will knit itself back together, slowly, painfully, as it always has before. But the thought of starting over, of composing yet another theory, fills him with a deep dread.”

… are more something I would identify as Eye (fear of a truth) and Hunt (fear of having to return to the start, to have to elaborate a new theory from scratch, again and again, of being trapped forever)?

It was really reminiscent of Smirke thinking back over his life, his hubris and the pride of being the one who would have found the answer, to the point where he would reject reality if it didn’t match his taxonomy (refusing to, well… do what you do with a theory: change, or evolve and perfect it when its flaws are pointed out):

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “I believed then, as I still believe now, that these places I saw were the Powers themselves, expressed in their truest form, far more entirely than any ‘secret book’ can claim. And if, as I came to believe, the Dread Powers were themselves places of a sort, then surely with the right space, the right architecture, they could be contained. Channelled. Harnessed. So yes. Hubris. Not simply in that, I suppose, but in believing that those I brought into my confidence shared my lofty goals. […] Would you have me separate The Corruption between insects, dirt and disease? To, to divide the fungal bloom from the maggot? No. No, I… stand by my work. And thus, we must conclude that the only explanation is a new Power, created from what was once others, yet also distinct. And if such change is possible, how then can any “true balance” be achieved through immutable, unchanging stone…?”

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: “If they are feeling very confident, they may lean down and stretch a curious tongue beyond their chipped teeth and rotten gums, desperate to add another sense to their observances – more evidence to support their declaration of what the world must be. […] They must simply study and learn, if they are to escape the labyrinth. They will be the first to escape. The one who sits in the central chamber cannot remember his name. But he knows that people called him “doctor”. He made sure of that; to ignore it would have been the greatest disrespect, and he will not be disrespected. […] He knows, for a fact, that this is the central chamber because he is the one sat here. […] They’ll all remember him forever, the first to escape the Monument. His name will be hallowed with the greats: Doctor, uh… Doctor…”

Same old pride, Leitner knew that well too (MAG080: “But I think, in my heart, I dreamed of my work becoming known. That ‘The Library of Jurgen Leitner’ would stand as a symbol of courage and protection. Hubris.”) and Gerry didn’t have many nice things to say about it (MAG111: “Flamsteed, Smirke, Leitner. Idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing.”). Loved how the statements came for Smirke’s life and was absolutely ruthless about it – but maayyybe a bit too ruthless, even? Jon didn’t express much sympathy for “fools like Smirke” either, and this is a rare case in season 5 where I find that the statement was a bit lacking in empathy for… people who were technically victims. I mean! Insufferable pedantic academics sure are a type, they’re really not having the worst life out there, but it makes me feel a bit weird, with season 5’s overall tone, that the episode had that vibe of “serves them well, they’re insufferable” about people who were technically still trapped in a domain and suffering from it?

… I still laughed a lot about the Doctor vs. Professor rivalry and how they solved their argument:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: “The doctor that lies on the floor has recovered, just enough to laugh. ‘You’re still working on mineral theory? How painfully outdated.’ A flash of genuine fear crosses the face of the professor at this dismissal, before he picks up his chunk of granite, and begins to smash the doctor’s head in, yet again.” [SOUNDS OF BRUTAL PEER REVIEW]

Academia unleashed.

(- OKAY, I HAVE TO CONFESS that when the character could only remember his title as “Doctor”, with Smirke having been mentioned earlier, my mind just jumped to Doctor Fanshawe… ;; He had left a strong impression on me, okay.)

- ;w; Over the fact that Martin got his me-time and that it was enough: he was clearly tense, but he came back with direct questions and knew what he wanted cleared up…

(MAG183) MARTIN: Finished? ARCHIVIST: Yes. MARTIN: Good. … I need you to explain something to me. ARCHIVIST: All right.

- I can’t believe that Martin Global Heartthrob Blackwood made The Eye FALL FOR HIM too:

(MAG183) MARTIN: How do I have a domain? That doesn’t make any sense. ARCHIVIST: It’s like I said. [INHALE] Everything here is either watcher, or watched. MARTIN: [SIGH] Subject or object, yes, I know, we’ve been over this. ARCHIVIST: Well, you’re a watcher, Martin. You worked for the Institute, you read statements, The Eye is… fond of you. You’re not getting thrown into your own personal hell, which means…

Jane, Peter, Simon, Elias, Salesa, Annabelle, now Beholding – do you have any limit, Martin.

!! I’m excited over the fact that Martin’s entanglement with Beholding stuff was acknowledged! Comparatively, Melanie had read 2 statements (MAG086, MAG106) and Basira 1 (MAG112). Meanwhile, Martin had read 12; plus, although Tim, Melanie, Martin and Basira had taken (… or tried to take) one live statement each in MAG100, Martin had also taken 3 additional full statements:

MAG084, Adrian Weiss (Corruption) MAG088, Enrique MacMillan (Buried) MAG090, Ross Davenport (Flesh) MAG095, Luca Moretti (Slaughter) MAG098, Doctor Algernon Moss (Dark) MAG100 (live), Lynne Hammond (Desolation) MAG104 (live), Tim Stoker (Stranger) MAG108, Adonis Biros (Lonely) MAG110, Alexia Crawley (Web) MAG134, Adelard Dekker (Extinction) MAG138, Robert Smirke (Eye) MAG142 (live), Jess Tyrell (Buried, Eye) MAG144, Gary Boylan (Extinction) MAG149, Judith O’Neill (Extinction) MAG151 (live), Simon Fairchild (Vast) MAG156, Adelard Dekker (Extinction)

With Simon highlighting that Beholding had compelled him through Martin:

(MAG151) SIMON: Hm! No wonder I’m so sympathetic to The Lonely. You know: this really is a place for self-discovery, isn’t it? [CHUCKLE] “Statement ends”, I suppose! MARTIN: Uh… I’m sorry? SIMON: Oh! Nothing, just my own hubris. I should have known. When I came here, I said to myself: “Simon,” I said, “you’re going to answer this young man’s questions, but you’re not going to give The Watcher a statement. You’re better than that.” But it’s a hard one to resist, isn’t it? You get in the flow of talking about yourself, and it all just… tumbles out. MARTIN: Mm, does seem like it.

Elias might have been eyeing him as back-up Archivist, too (although since then, we’ve learned of his bet with Peter which would have already been running at the time – it might have been that Elias mostly wanted to ensure that Martin wouldn’t die during the Unknowing because he’d be needing him afterwards):

(MAG116) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] What about Martin? MARTIN: What about me? ARCHIVIST: He should stay behind. MARTIN: What?! ELIAS: Really. MARTIN: Why? ARCHIVIST: Too many people might attract attention. MARTIN: No, no, I can help, I’ve been reading the statements! ELIAS: … Quite right, er, probably best he does stay behind. BASIRA: What, so you have a backup if Jon doesn’t make it? ELIAS: I’m sure that won’t be necessary.

Martin did a lot of research, read these statements aloud, took live statements, was hinted as a potential replacement; tape recorders have spawned around him like they do with Jon, even outside of statements, and Martin had been exceptionally kind towards them on multiple occasions; there had been that little moment of Martin somehow knowing that Jon was alive back in season 3 (MAG088: “It’s the not knowing, you know? I mean, Jon’s still alive. Not sure why, but I’m sure of that. But Sasha, I…”), shortly before we had learned about Jon’s own Knowing powers developing; we don’t know why and whether that was Beholding or The Web or something else, but Martin had been able to know how to get Jon out of the Coffin in season 4:

(MAG134) PETER: What does puzzle me, though, and I mean that genuinely, is… why you were piling tape recorders onto the coffin, while Jon was in there. [PAUSE] It’s a question, Martin, it’s– it’s not an accusation. MARTIN: I don’t know. And I just… felt like it might help. He’s always recording, I thought… it–it might help him… find his way out. PETER: Interesting. Were you compelled? MARTIN: [SULLEN] … I don’t know. … M–maybe? I–I, I definitely wanted to do it… PETER: But? MARTIN: I’m… I’m not sure where the idea came from. PETER: You should watch out for that. Could be something dangerous. MARTIN: Sure.

… And Peter’s whole plan relied on the fact that Martin was initially touched by Beholding:

(MAG134) PETER: [BREATHES] I’m still working out some of the kinks. But I believe I have a plan. However, it requires this place, and it requires someone touched by The Beholding. Elias was, perhaps unsurprisingly, unwilling to help.

(MAG158) PETER: It’s quite simple, really…! I want to use the powers of this place to learn about The Extinction: what it’s doing, where it’s manifesting. Then we can stop it. MARTIN: And you need me for this? PETER: Correct! Without a connection to The Eye, any attempt to use it would likely end… very messily indeed! But thankfully, it just so happens that you hold such a connection. MARTIN: So that’s it… Both “lonely” and “watching”. PETER: You must admit you’re the perfect candidate. MARTIN: I suppose I am.

Beholding baby!! Now coming in an additional Lonely flavour.

- Mmmmmmmm… The way Jon put it, it seems that Beholding is consciously rewarding its servant and:

* It could be Jon trying to make sense of something else, that he doesn’t understand? Gertrude didn’t think that the Fears were able to “think” at all (MAG145: “Sometimes, I think They understand us as… little as we understand Them. We don’t think like They do.” “I’m not actually convinced they “think” at all.”); reward&affection could be primitive enough feelings for a blob of terrors to work out (Martin fed Beholding as an assistant by reading statements => Beholding grants him things in the hope of getting fed even more?), but I don’t know, I can’t help but wonder if this is just Jon humanising the Fears a bit too much? It’s curious that Beholding got “fond” of Martin precisely when Jon himself fell in love with him – could Jon’s feelings have influenced Martin’s position in the apocalypse, could Jon be having a bit more power over the landscape than he realises?

* … If Beholding is rewarding its servants, that doesn’t bode well for Elias. WELL, no, I mean: it might mean that Elias is having a Great Time as a Beholding acolyte, which means it doesn’t bode well for my desire to see Elias get absolutely wrecked and wrong about being the “king of a ruined world”. I want him to have miscalculated, damnit! x’D

- I’m having so many feelings over Martin himself being unsure of what he wants, whether it’s better to know or to remain ignorant…

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: It’s like I said. [INHALE] Everything here is either watcher, or watched. MARTIN: [SIGH] Subject or object, yes, I know, we’ve been over this. ARCHIVIST: Well, you’re a watcher, Martin. You worked for the Institute, you read statements, The Eye is… fond of you. You’re not getting thrown into your own personal hell, which means… MARTIN: [QUIETLY] That one of them belongs to me. But that’s… Ho–how can I be a “Watcher”? I, I didn’t even know it existed! ARCHIVIST: But you’ve suspected for a while now, haven’t you? MARTIN: Maybe? But that’s not “watching”! ARCHIVIST: Do you want me to tell you about it? MARTIN: No. … Yes. N–no, no, I don’t know, I don’t know. [SIGH]

Is it a remnant of his discussions with Tim in season 3? He’s basically gone the reverse of Tim about it:

(MAG098) MARTIN: Y’know, I think he thinks that the distance keeps us safe, you know? Like, like, if he just makes sure that we’re not involved, we’re somehow fine. TIM: He’s an idiot. Look, we didn’t know what that door was, and it still trapped us. Ignorance isn’t going to save anyone. MARTIN: No, I mean, you’re right, I guess.

Martin has seen enough to know now that ignorance doesn’t protect anyone, but also that knowledge can be used as a weapon – that the horrors are just made to hurt. I feel like, in his situation, noping out of Jon’s statements was one of his only ways to assert his boundaries (which had been denied from him — and from others — for a long time)? But here, the situation is different; it’s about Martin’s own involvement, he knew the knowledge would hurt anyway… but it’s also his load to bear? To at least face what is happening, since he’s benefitting from it, since he’s been made complicit (without ever wanting to)? It still goes perfectly with the exploration of exploitative and oppressive systems: Martin, unknowingly and unwillingly inflicting hurt, still being in a better situation than others… while not being directly responsible for it, not wanting to benefit from it. It really makes me want to see Jon&Martin find a way to reverse or improve things, to get people out of the domains or giving them the keys to escape them, and I don’t know if I can even hope something about this ;; (On the Jon&Martin front, things are so good; but it still feels so unfair for… everyone else.)

- Martin having a domain and being classified as a “watcher” finally explains why he hadn’t been impacted by the apocalypse since the Change! He had been able to get out of the domains’ grasp even when he wasn’t around Jon (he had fallen behind at the end of MAG163, he wandered around in the Web’s theatre, he left Jon alone for most of the statements), and there was still the question of… how he was still surviving without eating, and at the same time wasn’t (at least as far as we knew) trapped in a domain:

(MAG161) MARTIN: [MIRTHLESS HUFF] What about food? ARCHIVIST: What about it? When’s the last time you thought to eat, o–or even felt hungry? MARTIN: [FAINT] What…? Wha… Uh… I don’t know. ARCHIVIST: No. Whatever is sustaining us now doesn’t need us to eat. MARTIN: That… that can’t be possible– ARCHIVIST: It’s a new world, Martin, the natural laws are whatever they want them to be. And I suspect they don’t much care to keep humanity fed and watered.

I was wondering if it was Jon’s influence, or Martin being “trapped” in Jon’s domain, and Jon had also alluded to the possibility that they were themselves trapped in their quest towards the Panopticon:

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: “Free” doesn’t really exist in this place. MARTIN: Apart from us. ARCHIVIST: I suppose. I–in a sense, though… [CHUCKLING] how much of that is because we are trapped in our own quest to– MARTIN: Okay, let’s, let’s not dive into another… ontological debate right now, not here. ARCHIVIST: Fair enough.

And Jon had even specifically told Martin that he had a domain, shortly before Martin got almost imprisoned in the Lonely house:

(MAG167) ARCHIVIST: We all have a domain here, Martin. The place that feeds us. MARTIN: Oh. [PAUSE] Where’s yours? ARCHIVIST: [MIRTHLESS CHUCKLE] I mean, we’re… traveling towards it. MARTIN: Oh! Right, obviously. [CHUCKLING] Duh. Hum… What about me? ARCHIVIST: … Would you… like me to… ? MARTIN: No, no. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. ARCHIVIST: … Okay!

(MAG170) ARCHIVIST: I, I didn’t want to… look too ha–, I–I–I promised I wouldn’t… know you, and, and with the fog in all–all the rooms, I’ll, I just, I lost y–, I… I–I’m sorry. MARTIN: It’s okay. ARCHIVIST: … No, I… I tried to use the… to know where you were, but… it was… You–you were faint. It was so strange, i–it took me so long just to find you…! [RUSTLING OF CLOTHES] MARTIN: Jon, it’s… okay. I promise it’s okay. This place tried, it really did, and honestly I… I wanted to believe it. But I didn’t. ARCHIVIST: This… “place”, i–it… [STATIC] My god…! […] I, I just… I wanted to make sure that you knew what this place was. MARTIN: It’s The Lonely, Jon. It’s me. ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Not anymore. MARTIN: Hm! No. [LONG INHALE, EXHALE] No…! Not anymore.

And alright, that finally answers it: the Lonely house wasn’t his domain, wasn’t meant to be (but he was susceptible to it, got almost trapped in it as a “watched” although he eventually managed to reject and break free from it). His own domain was elsewhere, and Martin himself was amongst the “watchers” all along; Martin is living a bit like Helen in this apocalypse, having a fixed domain, but able to navigate elsewhere.

Aouch for Martin, since he had been encouraging Jon to smite domains’ rulers as soon as he discovered that Jon could do it; it was already murky territory for Jon himself (if the “avatars” and “monsters” just deserve to die, what about Jon?), it was awful with Callum (Martin himself drew the line at smiting a kid)… but now, we know it was directly including him, too, and that he had been fed through people’s pain all along. No wonder Helen had encouraged the smiting so hard, if she already knew they were kind of neighbours…

… Double-aouch for Jon, because he had offered twice the option for Martin to stay elsewhere, permanently:

(MAG170) ARCHIVIST: M–Martin, if you… did; i–if you wanted to forget… a–all of it, stay here and just… escape. I… I would understand. MARTIN: … N–no…! It’s comforting here, leaving all those… painful memories behind, but… It’s not a good comfort, it’s… I–it’s the kind that makes you fade, makes you… dim and… distant.

(MAG181) ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry, I… It would have been nice to stay. MARTIN: [WISTFULLY] Yeah… I’d almost forgotten what it was like, you know? A bit of peace, eh! ARCHIVIST: I mean, you could have… MARTIN: No, don’t say it, Jon. You know I never would. I–I can’t just “forget” about all the people out here! Besides, I’d rather be trapped in a post-apocalyptic wasteland with you than spend one more moment in paradise with her.

And Jon probably didn’t know what Martin’s domain was exactly, back then, since we heard the knowing static kick in when he described the domain in this episode? But he probably knew, already, that Martin having a domain didn’t mean that he belonged to it as a victim, but as a ruler, and that it would hurt Martin so much. (“No one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most! … Even me.”, indeed ;;)

- I AM HAVING SO MANY FEELINGS OVER THE DESCRIPTION OF MARTIN’S DOMAIN…

(MAG183) [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: It’s a small domain. A swirling mix of The Eye and The Lonely. Inhabited by a few lost souls whose fear is not of their isolation or their agonies, but that no-one… will ever know of them. That they shall suffer in silence, and be mourned by nobody. That’s why you can’t really see it. It’s why even if we do travel through it, you won’t be able to see… any of the people trapped there.

… It reminds me so much of what Martin probably experienced in his own flat, when Prentiss besieged him for two weeks and Martin was unable to contact anyone, and nobody came to check on him? Did Martin’s domain grow from his own old fears…?

It also reminds me a bit of Naomi’s brush with The Lonely:

(MAG013) NAOMI: The fog seemed to follow me as went and seemed to swirl around with a strange, deliberate motion. You’ll probably think me an idiot, but it felt almost malicious. I don’t know what it wanted, but somehow I was sure it wanted something. There was no presence to it, though, it wasn’t as though another person was there, it was… It made me feel utterly forsaken.

Overall, the description is extremely… typical from what we’ve seen of The Lonely: there was Naomi’s misadventure, Ethan disappeared and nobody even claimed his backpack (MAG048), Yetunde Uthman had “disappeared a year ago. And nobody noticed” (MAG150)…

(But from that description alone, it doesn’t sound very Beholding, despite what Jon said? I’m curious about the Eye aspect of it…)

- Can’t believe that Martin canonically turns out to be the Lonely Eyes love(hate)child, gdi. It really was a custody battle in MAG158.

- Extra-sad that Jon warned Martin that there was meaning in the fact that Martin didn’t know anything about his domain, and wouldn’t even be able to see people in there… It’s just so cruel, both for them, and for Martin, to learn that he’s been unknowingly contributing to their misery (because they fed him and he didn’t even know about them)?

Pretty sure that Martin will stay with Jon to hear that statement, at the very least ;; (Or could he ask for something more? We’ve seen Jon extracting Breekon’s statement in MAG128, I wonder if he could put something into someone’s head like Elias had done, allowing Martin to give that statement himself…)

- I’m wondering about Jon’s own domain, too, now! He said they were heading towards it, so it’s either the Panopticon, the Institute or the Archives, or a mix of those… or something close to it, on their way to it. If Martin’s domain is a mix of Lonely&Eye, is Jon’s pure Eye? A mix of the 14/15? A Web&Eye mix, given Jon’s own personal fears?

I know that Jonny (lovingly) called out the obsessive classification in this episode through Jon, who went off on a rant about the “neat little boxes”, but he’s still using the Smirke classification this season:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: It’s a small domain. A swirling mix of The Eye and The Lonely.

(AND IN THIS VERY EPISODE… Jon…)

- On the one hand: feeling directly called out by Jon’s rant about how the divisions between avatars/monsters/humans/victims wasn’t and isn’t working, that reality escapes that division because it’s much more complicated than this:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: [HEATED] Avatar isn’t a thing, Martin, it’s not–! It’s just a word. A word used by… fools like Smirke to try and sort everything into neat little boxes, to reduce the messy spray of human fear into a checklist: Human, avatar, monster, victim. Only now, now, there’s a binary. There’s finally a clear dividing line and… [SIGH] Well. I’m sorry you’re not happy with which side you’ve ended up on.

(It felt especially relevant with Callum Brodie: could we really tell that he was an “avatar” when he was still a freshly wounded kid, even if a tormentor himself?)

On the other hand, well, that was still a useful distinction to have to identify servants, and mostly, I’m not extremely convinced by Jon arguing that there is now a Clear BinaryTM in the new world, between the “watchers” and the “watched”, since:

1°) Helen herself explained the dichotomy to Martin (MAG166: “And so, there are now exactly two roles available in this new world of ours: the watcher, and the watched. Subject, and object. Those who are feared, and those who are afraid.”). Given that she mostly tries to confuse them… that’s a red flag.

2°) Despite Jon defending that binary, we’ve run into plenty of examples of things… not fitting into that new classification. He himself acknowledged that Basira’s status wasn’t established yet; we’ve seen Salesa, protected by his camera from the chaos; Jon has been unable to know about Georgie and Melanie, only hypothesising that they might in what-used-to-be-London; Martin, a watcher, could still have fallen prey to another domain… That’s already a lot of special cases around that “clear dividing line”…

3°) Somethingsomethingsomething about how it’s in Beholding’s best interest that Jon believes in a clear, unchangeable, dividing line which serves Beholding’s own interests. If things feel fixed and unchangeable, then there is no point trying to fight against it or find a loophole, right?

Given that a Watcher can get trapped in another domain… does that mean that it could be the case for Jon, too? We got a threat of it in MAG172, when Jon began to give the statement of the following act – if Martin hadn’t interrupted him, would Jon have ever been able to stop?

- Confirmation that Daisy had “trapped” Basira in her Hunt! I was suspecting it since Jon’s first wording:

(MAG164) MARTIN: Is Basira alive? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] MARTIN: Is she… in… o–one of these places? [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: She’s alive. Out there, not… trapped in a–a hellscape, but… moving. [STATIC DECREASES] Hunting. She’s… she’s looking for Daisy. She’s a few steps behind.

(MAG183) MARTIN: … What about Daisy? Or Basira? ARCHIVIST: Daisy carved through the domains of others. Basira… well… In a very real way she was a sufferer in Daisy’s domain. Maybe the only one. Hunting, following, hurting. Now Daisy’s dead, she’s… free. Sort of. She’s inherited something of Daisy’s ability to move through the other domains. For now, she’ll… feed off what she sees in them. As to whether the Eye ultimately gives her a domain of her own… I don’t know yet.

* And now, Basira seems to have a peculiar status… Is it because she killed Daisy? Is it because she killed the ruler of her domain? Jon explained that a ruler’s death didn’t change much for the domain itself, but maybe it operates differently if a victim kills a ruler (… they become the new ruler?)

* Another reminder that Jon cannot see the future.

* Big Eyeball didn’t immediately give Basira a domain, but Martin got one. I see that favouritism, uh. (Joke, it does make sense given how Martin recorded a lot of statements and had worked at the Institute for years and years.)

- I love how Jon managed to explain why he hadn’t told Martin everything, and how Martin… indeed agreed that Jon had been mostly trying to respect his wishes about not knowing ;; It’s true that Martin had been adamant about not hearing much of the horror:

(MAG163) MARTIN: J–Jon, enough! Enough! [STATIC FADES] … Please don’t tell me these things. ARCHIVIST: I… I’m sorry, I– There’s just so much! There’s so much, Martin, and I know all of it, I can see all of it, and I– It’s filling me up, I need to let it out! MARTIN: I’m sorry, but tough. Okay? Tha–that’s not what I’m here for. [VOICE IN THE DISTANCE: “No… No!”] MARTIN: I can’t be that for you, I–I just can’t.

(MAG167) MARTIN: Oh! Right, obviously. [CHUCKLING] Duh. Hum… What about me? ARCHIVIST: … Would you… like me to… ? MARTIN: No, no. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. ARCHIVIST: … Okay!

(MAG183) MARTIN: You didn’t tell her any of that. ARCHIVIST: I didn’t think the metaphysics of her place in the fear ecosystem was something she’d be particularly interested in at that moment. MARTIN: Fair. But you seem very reluctant to tell anyone any of this stuff. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I did try, right at the start, but y–you didn’t seem to want to talk about it, so I didn’t push it. It’s hard, I have so much knowledge but… how do I decide what people want me to share, and what they never want to know?. MARTIN: I guess that makes sense.

But Martin seems to acknowledge that indeed, Jon had been trying his best about it…

(And now, I wonder if there is still other stuff that Jon hadn’t told Martin, in the same vein…)

- First choice for Martin:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I was going to bring it up at the crossroads. Inside. I only just realised we would be going this way. […] MARTIN: I guess that makes sense. … So what did you mean about the crossroads? When you were talking to Helen. ARCHIVIST: It’s a maze in there, something between a, a Rubik’s Cube and a Magic Eye picture. I can find us the way through easily enough but… well. For us, there are two ways out. Two paths to London. MARTIN: What are the choices? ARCHIVIST: One would be a long, winding route, we’d see a lot of horrors, but remain… personally untouched. MARTIN: And the other is my domain. ARCHIVIST: Eventually. It’s a shorter path, with faces we know along the way. Including Helen. MARTIN: I thought Helen was her domain, wi–with all the doors and that? ARCHIVIST: She is, but she has a… position within this pseudo-landscape, like any other. MARTIN: O–okay. [INHALE] So, so, I mean, I suppose we’ve got to do that one, right? ARCHIVIST: We don’t have to, w–we–we could just– MARTIN: What, what? We could, we could dodge around it? Take the path of denial? I guess, but… what is it you keep harping on about? “The journey will be the journey”? [SIGH] I mean… It’s pretty obvious that this one is my journey.

! Glad that Martin didn’t hesitate and immediately understood what it was about – that it mattered to do it that way, that Martin had to face it, that this is how this world works. No hesitation about it. He got a demonstration with Basira, but still, he was quick to accept it.

I’m expecting a few episodes before Martin’s domain, so… with the overall rhythm of the season, they might reach the Institute by MAG189? And Hill Top Road during Act III?

- Since Jon mentioned that the path Martin ended up choosing had:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: Eventually. It’s a shorter path, with faces we know along the way. Including Helen.

I wonder about those “faces we know”, since we’re running super-low on ~avatars~. Different options:

* Institute staff. Rosiiiie?

* Melanie&Georgie. A bit unlikely, given that Jon had trouble knowing what was the deal with them, I feel?

* Since Helen will be there, people who gave live statements to Jon and were trapped in his nightmare zoo. I’m mostly thinking about this one, especially since Jon’s “No one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most! … Even me.”… (And if it’s about an internal and metaphorical journey, I feel like having to face people that Jon hurt, first unaware (he didn’t know about the nightmare zoo when he signed to become the Head Archivist), then partially unwilling but still doing it (he felt guilty about it but still hid it, still chose self-preservation instead of warning the others about it), would have its place…)

- In the same fashion, who is trapped in Martin’s domain? Unrelated people? Live statement-givers? (;; I’m thinking of Jess, who had the misfortune of being compelled by Jon and of giving a statement to Martin…)

… Given that it’s confirmed to be a “journey” for Martin too, I can’t help but squint at Jon’s wording, because. “Faces we know”. The only thing we know of Martin’s father is the fact that he looks like Martin… (MAG118: “The thing is, though, Martin: if you ever do want to know exactly what your father looked like… all you have to do is look in a mirror~ The resemblance is quite uncanny. The face of the man she hates, who destroyed her life, watching over her, feeding her, cleaning her, looking down on her with such pity–”)

- I’ll be having Annabelle’s words stuck in my head (ha) for a long time but:

(MAG181) ANNABELLE: Don’t worry, Martin. We’ll meet again. Hopefully when you’re feeling a little bit more… open-minded…! MARTIN: I wouldn’t count on it. ANNABELLE: I would. MARTIN: [SIGH]

… Was it a reference to Martin learning about his own domain and about how the world operates, his place in it? I think that Martin might be even more resolved to turn the world back at whatever cost, now that he knows that he is himself sustained by fear…

(LISTEN, THIS IS ABSOLUTELY HOW WEB!MARTIN CAN STILL WI–)

- !! Footage of Martin saying “I love you” for the first time ;w; I love how it was the thing he was certain about, both a slight decompressing joke and a true statement, a reminder that he has faith in Jon, that he has something to cling to?

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: If you’re sure. MARTIN: … I’m sure I love you. [FOOTSTEPS] ARCHIVIST: I love you too. [FABRIC RUSTLES] Let’s go.

(He had mentioned that he was “in love” in MAG170, I’m happy to hear him telling Jon, too!) And the fabric RUSTLED, SO LONG AND SO HARD, AND AT LEAST TWICE!! I love how the tension from right before and after the statement had faded by the end of the episode ;w; Rollercoaster of little emotions…

MAG184’s makes me think of something Leitner had said (more lore about the Fearpocalypse?), and of Vast and Corruption… with very different vibes. If Corruption, and keeping in mind that Jon has announced that they will be encountering “faces [they] know along the way”, it cooould contain Jordan Kennedy, the exterminator from Pest Control…? Especially given that both Jon and Martin had met him (Jon took his live statement, and Martin pleaded offscreen for him to get them the jar of Prentiss’s ashes to comfort Jon).

(Yessss, I am absolutely aware of the irony of still using Smirke’s categorisation after another episode in which we were told again that it is bollocks, but if Jon himself still occasionally labels the domain as one of the 15, so can I ♥)

#long post/#tma liveblog #mag183 #tma season 5 #the magnus archives #tma spoilers/

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bigolegay · 3 years

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I have yet to see a single version of The Turn Of The Screw (Apart from The Others, which isn’t so much a version as Inspired By, for the liberties it takes) which doesn’t feel forced in some way, or unnatural, or in which I have any sympathy or feelings of good will towards Ms Clayton.

I’ve started The Haunting Of Bly Manor, and idk I just feel like so far the acting for Ms Clayton, Flora, and Miles is iffy at best, unbelievable at worst.

Also, as a Brit, the recent retelling of the story from a US perspective (with both this and The Turning) always ends up making certain things... fall flat? Like there’s no real understanding of the importance of Class in the story, and the way it changes how each character interacts with the others, or why Bly Manor feels the way it does to Ms Clayton. Class is an important part of the story, it explains the anxieties about Miles being influenced by Quint, it explains the distance between Ms Grose and the children, it explains a lot of Miles’ character. The horror aspect of The Turn, in my opinion, is not the ghosts - it’s anxiety surrounding working women and the way they interact with Class and Sexuality.

The fact that The Turning had all American actors in Ireland and did not address that at all was fucking weird, and whilst THoBM hasn’t done anything as foolish as that, it does still have the lack of depth or nuance when it comes to exploring Class. Plus, the filming location is obviously not the UK, as the rooms and halls are far too large (especially, in fact, for a historical manor house, which are mostly buildings built on buildings built on buildings, and thus are often higgeldy piggeldy, with narrow halls and hodge-podge rooms), the flora and fauna is also found in the US rather than the UK, and whilst all of this could be considered nit-picky, for a British audience it means that the story loses potency. I know that they need those big, open spaces so they can throw in a shadowy figure in the background, but I really don’t understand why they don’t just throw the whole thing into America if that’s the case?

If there isn’t going to be an analysis of Class anxiety, of the space that Working Class people take up in Upper Class homes, the Upper Class fear of the dilution of their progeny by Unsavoury (read: working class) Characters and Vice, then why bother keeping it in it’s original setting? Why not try to convert the entire story into an American setting, replace Class anxieties with social phenomena more poignant and understandable to an American audience??

idk I know literally no one wants to read my angry mini-rant about the appalling quality of most TTotS adaptations (except maybe @marzipanandminutiae? I know you had a low opinion of The Haunting of Hill House, have you given the second instalment of the anthology a go?) but if I don’t get this off my chest I’m going to explode.

(Also, side note, the best acting in this series so far has 1000000% come from Rahul Kohli and T’Nia Miller. They’re excellent.)

#我说得 #i'm venting i guess?#*takes all of my anger over things I cannot change (my visa process)#and dumps it on a tv show*

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desroundtree · 4 years

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Realizations and Accountability

Time for some interesting talk about taking responsibility for some of the pain I’m in. Not laying blame, just taking responsibility.

So I��m calling myself out.

There are things I do that aggravate the conditions I have. Though most of these things are pretty much habits I need to break in order for this journey to be a bit easier. Accountability is a word I hear a lot. Not only to movements or causes but I have heard and seen a lot of people hold others accountable - so it’s time to set some very realistic goals and grasp the very real concept of accountability.

As hard as this is, I am going to eat better. At one point in this journey I was completely grain free and I felt a lot better. Being in quarantine kind of tampered any continuation on that path when all I wanted to do was drink alcohol, eat cake and cry. I’m not saying any of those things changed EVERYTHING but I now know that these slight changes in my diet can change things in a big way. I’m committed to reducing the amount of grains in my diet, I haven't had a drink since May and unfortunately cake has turned to a Three Musketeer obsession, which is not great but is slightly better.

As much as exercise is recommended, when I’m in pain all I want and need to do is lay down, shower or cry. I don’t even write because it permeates every word, action and feeling I portray. It makes me unhappy to be away from my family, and it makes me unhappy for them to see me suffer, it makes me unhappy to sleep all day and stare blankly into the darkness at night. It makes me depressed in a way words don’t quantify. I know and believe exercise will help with this aspect of my journey. I have walked when I can in order to get some much necessary sunlight but also to be able to feel like my body can still move. But there are days I simply don’t do it. I feel like I can’t, like it’s not worth it, like it does nothing but make things worse. And there are days I don’t do it because I flat out don’t want to - the depression is too bad, the pain keeps winning. That can’t happen anymore if I expect or want my body to heal. Yoga at least twice a week is my goal, along with my daily meditation in order to try to relate and release the things I am struggling to let go of.

Stress is a huge issue for me. Anger and guilt too. I work on it weekly in therapy and just when it seems like I have it figured out, the lessons just fade when something out of my control happens. Lately, it's been pretty aggressive battles with Misophonia during what feels like a great time of construction upheaval in the neighborhood around me. Including inside my physical house. The stress stems from everything and I’m aware of that but it’s really hard not to worry about every damn thing all the damn time.

We exist in such a turbulent place for someone with mental illness, so I can’t imagine how people are calm, cool and collected. Nothing has changed for me since March. The panic hasn't changed. The dread hasn't subsided. Maybe it's because I was in Brooklyn when going to the grocery store was considered a scavenging mission and the sirens meant nothing but death and suffering. Unfortunately the memory that has served me well in the past has become my enemy. Images replay in my head though I have not seen them on purpose, disappointment in so-called leadership has left me in a constant state of fear, and to be honest there isn’t a day when I feel like I’m not stressed to the maximum capacity that my mind, and body, can handle. To me, that’s a sad thing. There is joy but there is also intense thought of how and what and why and who. All the time.

I am angry. I know I am and I know I have a right to be. But when I recall times when the pain didn’t reside in my body like a tenant - I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t carrying this baggage, this nonsense, this disappointment. I was feeling free and in a place where good things were not only welcomed but deserved. Right now, I’m in a place of turmoil. The constant barrage of complete nonsense from the outside world has been deafening and then altering. I feel as if I absorb it all and just wait for the right moment for people to understand just how angry I am.

It’s funny because I can’t pinpoint when the anger became a major problem but I can say you can narrow it down to 2016. Naturally, I believe I am an angry person, not angry but I have a short temper. I can be confrontational with the best of them and my words are always sharp and calculated. Death by a thousand cuts is and has always been my strategy. It’s unfortunate but true. It’s a hard and unique relationship to understand. But anger is something that isn’t unfamiliar.

I try not to react from that place but lately it’s impossible for me to control. I don’t want to go into reasons why I am angry with the world but I can explain why I am angry with my situation. I have Lupus, an incurable autoimmune disease that’s complications will probably kill me and I’m pretty damn angry about it. I have fibromyalgia so I’m in pain constantly lately and this has robbed me of time with my family as I just wasn’t well enough to move from my bed, cook dinner or even have conversations. It makes me angry that something I can’t control has complete control over me. Don’t say it doesn’t, it does unfortunately. In order to attempt to help with this I’ve attempted a meditation practice and it’s in its infancy so I will withhold judgement until it’s fiddling around in my brain convincing me that it's ok to save quiet for me in that crowded space.

Memories have also become a problem. COVID19 has changed me and it’s affecting my health - and I haven’t even caught the virus. The paranoia surrounding catching it is enough. I am struggling and holding on to memories I think I won’t ever make again. It settles like a sadness I can’t get rid of. It is tied to everything and I feel like I’m going to have to learn to exist in this weird uncomfortable life after COVID19 and try to accept that change has happened and we are all in it. I have to try to accept the selfishness of those around me. I have to accept that the only people I am responsible for are me and my family, even though I want to save the world.

I carry the pain in the muscles of my back and shoulder like the weight of the world is truly there. My legs and feet ache like I’m taking the steps I wish I was for the change we need and must demand in this country. My arms hurt as if they’ve been forced into the very unnatural position you’ve seen many protestors experience as they are arrested for exercising their constitutional rights. My wrists and hands ache. But most of all, the pain I carry in my heart makes it feel impossible to get better or it makes me feel selfish for wanting to feel better when other people weren’t given the same choice.

The emotions that feel bottled up just push at my skin to break free. The words sit on my fingertips that ache with all the ideas, anger and love they feel unable to express. I’m finding space for that too - and I’m hoping therapy will also allow me an outlet to discuss things I carry that anymore. I’m hoping it will give my mouth the freedom to save my heart.

I can feel better, that doesn’t mean I am better and that’s something a lot of people who don’t have chronic or mental illness understand. Everything changes the way I feel and unless I walk around in a bubble there is no way for me to block out the world. I don’t have the privilege nor would I ever want to exist in a world where I’m numb to everything around me. So I feel everything with all of my being and that has done nothing but hurt me physically. All of the pain results from holding onto things that are mine, not mine and everyone else’s.

So in order to be accountable, I have to stop that too.

Things take time. I know that and holding myself accountable won't be easy. I know there will be days when I want to eat like shit or have one too many tequilas. But I can now say that I am accountable for those things and instead of walking around wondering why I am sick, I am going to understand the part I play in exacerbating my illnesses. It's time to understand that not everything is easy, but it doesn't always have to be hard if I can do the right thing - for myself.

Right now accountability is key.

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let-it-raines · 5 years

Text

Rising from the Ashes (17/?)

When her husband died, Emma wasn’t sure that she could ever move on. He left her with a broken heart and a baby who was only three-months old. It’s enough to take most people down, to make them not want to keep going, but Emma Swan isn’t most people. She’s stronger than she has any right to be. And after years of heartache, she’s found ways to move on…one of those being in Neal’s best friend, Killian Jones.

As she’s always known, however, things are more complicated than they ever seem to be.

Rating: Mature

A/N: Remember that thing I said about a happy ending? They’re (and you guys) are getting one💜

Soon! I’m sorry to those I mislead! I didn’t realize that. Oops. They’re getting one when the story is over, I promise 😘

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

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Tag list: @ultraluckycatnd @jamif @artistic-writer @cs-forlife @qualitycoffeethings @resident-of-storybrooke @captainsjedi @captswanis4vr @teamhook @ekr032-blog-blog @mayquita @bmbbcs4evr @wellhellotragic @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld @shady-swan-jones @snow-into-ash @andiirivera @mariakov81 @shireness-says @kristi555 @facesiousbutton82 @superchocovian @jonirobinson64 @thejollyroger-writer @tiganasummertree @snowbellewells @blowmiakisscolin

“How does that make you feel?”

She cuts her head to look at Dr. Lawrence and the way she’s tapping her pencil against her notebook, the one where she most likely writes down “Emma Swan is crazy” over and over again. It’s what she would write down if she were her own therapist because damn, sometimes she is crazy.

“Isn’t that a little cliché to ask me how that makes me feel?”

She sighs, her shoulders heaving the slightest bit, and she rolls her eyes. She likes Dr. Lawrence. She really does, but sometimes all she wants to do is take that notebook and rip it into pieces. She’s been coming here for two months now, since late February, and April isn’t bringing her any new revelations. Not that she thought therapy would. She just wanted to talk to someone else who wasn’t so emotionally invested in her life, to talk to someone who won’t get hurt by the things she has to say. They’re not all great, and she’s only a little ashamed by that. That’s what she’s supposed to be working on though.

“It is, yes, but I think it’s a legitimate question to ask when you’ve been circling around saying that it bothers you that Killian hasn’t proposed yet.”

Her lips press together in a firm line, a sour feeling settling in her stomach and making it twist into something that has to be unnatural. Feeling this way has to be unnatural. “I did not say that.”

“Not in those words, but you did.”

She sighs again, unable not to, before falling back on the couch and rubbing at her eyes, most likely making her mascara run and create some kind of weird, smoky eye raccoon look. This is a really uncomfortable couch, the cushions almost like rocks. Shouldn’t the thing be more comfortable? Aren’t people supposed to feel comfortable in here? That’s a thing, right?

“I’m not,” she starts, not really sure where the words are going as she uncovers her eyes and looks up at the paneled ceiling. They should do that in the living room. It’d look nice. “I’m not upset that Killian hasn’t proposed. Us getting married has never been a top priority for us, you know? We love each other, and a piece of paper and a diamond ring isn’t going to make us love each other more.”

“But it is more of a commitment.”

“Technically, yeah. With the whole legal aspect and all. I don’t – I don’t know. I want to marry Killian. I really, really do. And I know he wants to marry me. He’s had a fucking ring for at least five months now, had to have had it for a few months before that, and he’s never asked me.”

“You’ve had a lot going on.”

She chuckles darkly, her stomach untwisting and sending that unpleasant feeling to her throat so that she feels like she could vomit all over the hardwood floor in here. That would probably be an extra fee that insurance doesn’t cover. “What? You mean like my dead ex-husband coming back from the dead, having to explain to him ‘hey honey, I moved on from you and am in love with your friend and can’t make you happy like that anymore. By the way, I realized most of our marriage was shit, but I can’t harbor any resentment toward you because you’re a hero and the father of our kid and have been through more bad things than I thought possible. Plus, you know, I did love you at one point and you’re a nicer guy now.’”

She finishes her words on a long breath, her shoulders releasing some of their tension, before she twists her head to the side and looks at Dr. Lawrence furiously scribbling notes down. Great, she’s probably going to get put into a mental institution now. Can her therapist do that?

Probably not.

God, she has got to get a grip.

And stop on the way home and get something for dinner so her mom isn’t forced to feed her when she picks Henry and Ada up from her house. Killian’s working late on some project with Robin that she cannot wait to be over. She swears that it’s aging him by ten years some days. He’s always so tired and stressed. Sometimes she wonders if he needs a new job, one that’s less stressful and reminds him less of his time in the Navy, but whenever she brings it up, he always says that he’s happy there and that the money is good. She believes him, but it doesn’t keep her from worrying about him and wanting to work on the stress that’s in his shoulders and between his brows.

Dr. Lawrence still doesn’t say anything, and for some reason this bothers her enough to make her keep going, to keep rambling.

“And I guess…things have calmed down now. It was like I was walking a tightrope for a long time, and I wasn’t allowed to trip or fall, you know? Because if I did, things fell apart. I had to be strong for Henry and for Ada. I had to be strong for Neal too. And Killian, even when we were going through that…even when we were going through that rough patch. But I failed, you know? I felt so lost and helpless. Sometimes I felt worthless, which is not an uncommon feeling for me but recently, it wasn’t a usual one. It took me a long time to get over Neal’s death, to get over being abandoned again, and Killian just made me feel so – he made me feel solid. Happy. Good. He was there for me when I felt like I had no one. He listened to me cry over my husband’s death. He listened to me cry over raising a baby alone. He listened to me. And he let me be me, which was something I didn’t have a lot.”

She smiles to herself thinking of it all, of all of the times Killian has been there with her and for her throughout the years, all the way back to them meeting in Oceania and him making her laugh. He’s always making her laugh.

“He’s my best friend on this planet. I can be myself when I’m with him, and he has held my hand through the shitstorm that have been parts of my life, even when I didn’t want to let him. I love him, you know? And I’m badass, by the way. Just thought that needed to be said. I’m badass and totally could have made it on my own, but Killian…with him I get to be strong and independent while also having that hand holding mine for comfort and support. He’s made my life so much better. He’s given me Ada, and really, he’s given me Henry too. So, yeah, I guess I am bothered by the fact that he hasn’t proposed yet. I’m worried that maybe he’s changed his mind again. I shouldn’t really. I know he loves me. He doesn’t let me doubt that. I just…I want to be with him fully. Hell, I want me to not have a different last name than both of my children. I want to marry him, and yeah, a part of me is worried that he doesn’t want to marry me, that everything with Neal has made our entire relationship be altered.”

Once the words are out, she knows that she can’t take them back. She doesn’t want to take them back. This is…this is her life and her emotions and she needs to feel them. It feels really good to say all of that, and honestly, she wants to say more. She wants to talk more about Killian and more about Neal. She wants to go back to what they were talking about last week and how Neal’s moving has affected everyone, especially Henry. She wants to talk about how terrified she is being a parent and putting her kids in such stressful, life changing situations.

She wants to talk.

But the clock on the wall says she only has ten minutes left, and she figures that Dr. Lawrence has to have something to say or else she’s been writing on that notepad for nothing.

She reaches up to wipe her eyes, to wipe away the tears that have been furiously falling without her permission before her hand lands on her pendant. She’s going to have to make herself look less puffy. She doesn’t even remember when she started crying.

“I think Neal coming back has altered your relationship,” Dr. Lawrence begins, and Emma sits up on the couch, straightening out her shirt and her back as she sniffles. “How could it not? Besides the emotional trauma and joy of having him be found alive, it’s completely changed your life. You and Killian are no longer parents to Henry alone. You share that responsibility even if the two of you carry the load. Your ex-husband is no longer a dead man. He’s a real human being with thoughts and feelings that aren’t always going to be perfect, so you have to adjust to that too. For as much change as you’ve been going through, Killian has been going through something too. You have to give him the emotional time to adjust as well because while I don’t know the man, I do know that he cares about you and is probably putting your feelings above his.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe Killian thinks that you’re not ready yet, that he thought you were still going through too much emotional upheaval until you two talked about it a bit – ” she looks down at her notebook, eyes seemingly searching for something “ – two weeks ago.”

Ah, so maybe she does actually pay attention.

“Does that really count as talking, though? I literally just hinted around at it.”

She smiles. “But it’s a start.”

-/-

“Henry, you have got to put your shin guards on so that we can go.”

“I can’t find them,” he shouts back over the railing.

“Of course you can’t,” she mutters to herself, rolling her eyes a bit as she looks down at Ada who is currently banging her hands against the wall and giggling to herself. Kids are so damn weird sometimes. She doesn’t understand what the purpose of banging her hands against the wall is, but if she’s about to have to go upstairs and help Henry find the rest of his soccer uniform, she can’t leave her down here by herself despite how much baby proofing they’ve done.

Her entire house is metaphorically wrapped in bubble wrap, and Ada still manages to find ways to nearly kill herself just by exploring.

This is terrifying.

How is Killian not back from his run and the grocery store yet? He’s already supposed to be here so they can go to the fields together like they’ve done every Saturday this spring. He already missed their usual breakfast, so he really needs to show up soon. Maybe he’s stuck in traffic or there was some kind of freak watermelon accident and there are watermelon all over the road. Or maybe he ran into someone he knows. She doesn’t know, and even though she really shouldn’t be angry at him right now, she’s had a bad morning and needs him.

And she misses him. He’s here, always right here, but he’s felt so distant lately, so far away. She felt so good after her therapy appointment on Tuesday, like she was ready to talk to him and finally fix things and have all of her emotions centered, but she’s barely gotten a chance to talk to him in the three days since. Both of their jobs have been busy, the kids have been insane, and then she had to deal with Neal cancelling his trip into town this weekend. She understands, really, but Henry understanding is different. He misses his dad, and if the hour long phone call last night is any indication, Neal misses Henry too.

Her life is a constant ebb and flow of being all together and all falling apart.

No, her life is good. She’s just been stressed the past few days. That’s all.

“Come on, bug,” she sighs, stepping toward Ada and picking her up, wondering when in the world this kid got so heavy. Ada lets out what has to be an actual, blood curdling scream and starts thrashing around while Emma carries her up the stairs. “Ada, shhh, it’s okay. We’re just going upstairs. You don’t have to have a meltdown.”

That somehow only makes things worse, the cries going up another decibel, and she resigns herself to this as she walks down the hallway into Henry’s room. There are clothes scattered everywhere, his notebooks spread across the floor. When in the world did his room get to be such a mess? He has to clean that tonight or tomorrow. It cannot stay like this.

“I can’t find them,” he whines again, tossing a pair of shoes out of his closet, the pair of converses landing on one of his books.

“Have you checked in your bag?”

“That’s the first place I looked.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he shouts, coming out past the doorway and running his hands through his hair, yanking at the brown strands. “Why is Ada so loud? Make her stop.”

“I’m trying, kid.”

“Try harder.”

“Hey, no,” she says sternly, trying not to yell to escalate the situation, “you do not get to tell me what to do, especially not being loud and harsh like that. I understand that you are upset and can’t find your shin guards and that your sister is being really loud. I get that. I don’t like it either, but yelling isn’t going to solve any of our problems.”

“Ada is yelling.”

“Henry,” she sighs while Ada lets out another loud cry. Shit, this is not a good day. It’s not even ten in the morning yet. “Ada is a baby. She can’t really talk. You know this. I’m going to text your dad and ask if he knows where your stuff is.”

“How would my dad know if he doesn’t live here anymore?”

Her stomach drops for a moment before she realizes that she used the wrong term for Killian. It’s usually not confusing, but sometimes it’s so easy to slip up like that.

“Your daddy,” she corrects. “I’m going to text your daddy.”

“Killian is not my daddy. He’s my step dad.”

Her stomach really does drop then, a heavy anchor weighing her down and making it nearly impossible for her legs to stay steady and her arms to stay strong against a still wailing Ada, even if her cries are beginning to calm down. What did…what did Henry just say?

Why did he just say that Killian isn’t his daddy? She knew that sooner or later he’d feel too old to call Killian his daddy, that he wouldn’t always call him by the name he started calling him when he was five, but he’s not supposed to be calling Killian his step dad. Yeah, that’s pretty much what he is, technically, but that’s also not what he is. He’s his dad. He’s the man who raised him, and Henry should never think otherwise when that used to be all he knew.

“Where did you learn that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Henry.”

He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest while his lips curl downward. Does she have the most dramatic kid in the world? Probably not. But he seems to be going for that title today. She’s just waiting for him to start crying or throwing things. Or hopefully not throwing things. That would be a disaster.

This day is kind of a disaster.

At least she hasn’t gotten to the point where she has to take away Henry’s games yet.

“My dad told me that’s what Killian is.”

Motherfucking hell.

She’s going to start crying.

And throw something.

Maybe throw Neal. Definitely throw Neal. He’s bigger than her and hundreds of miles away, but she could get it done. She could. Absolutely. All of those stories about mothers raging to protect their children – one of those is going to come true after she figures out what the hell is going on. Neal wouldn’t have told Henry that. He wouldn’t have. But then why would Henry have said that? He obviously knew he wasn’t supposed to tell her before she pushed him into saying it, so he was probably trying to protect his dad.

But why would Neal have told Henry that in the first place when they explicitly told him over and over again that this is how their family situation works?

It must be some kind of misunderstanding. It has to be. Neal wouldn’t do that, and if he did, it has to be a mistake, a slip of the tongue. She’ll call him later and get it all straightened up. It’ll be fine. Right now she really just has to focus on Henry and this situation and getting him to his soccer game.

Swallowing the gulp caught in her throat, she puts Ada on the ground, figuring that’s probably all that she wants to stop this crying, and squats down so that she’s at eye level with Henry, reaching up to brush his hair off of his forehead while he stares at her with those watery chocolate brown eyes.

“Kid,” she whispers quietly, curving her lips into a small, hopefully reassuring smile while she keeps pushing his hair back, “I need you to listen to me, okay?”

Henry nods his head up and down, his little shoulders heaving while Ada has managed to make her way to Henry’s bed and is holding herself up on it. At least she’s not banging on the door.

“Killian is your daddy. You can call him Dad if you want to, if you feel too old to be calling him Daddy. That’s okay. You are a very special kid, and like I’ve told you before, you get to be lucky enough to have two dads who love you and care for you more than anything in the world. Not every kid gets that like you do.”

“But Dad told me when we were on the phone that Kil – that my daddy is my step dad. Like how Ella has a step mom.”

She doesn’t know how to explain this. It was easier when Neal was dead, which is a horrible thing to think. But Henry understood it much more easily then. He embraced it more. Now he’s older, though, and has an entirely different situation for his life.

She wishes Killian were here. He’d help and know what to do and know what to say despite the fact that this would break his heart even more than it’s breaking hers.

“It’s…it’s grown up things. I,” she sighs, running her free hand through her hair and trying to think while her thighs begin to ache from this position. “You know how when we told you about Ada being born, we told you it was because Mommy and Daddy loved each other and that helped to make her?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, back when your dad and I were married, we loved each other and made you so that we could love you.”

“I know.”

She smiles at him again, making sure that her eyes don’t leave his except to glance over to Ada as she plops down on the ground and starts messing with some of Henry’s books. Thank God she’s stopped crying. That was miserable. Her entire life was about to implode in the span of five minutes.

“But then your dad disappeared, and I didn’t have him to help me love you or me anymore. But your daddy came along and he fell in love with me and with you. And he was around to help you learn how to walk and talk, just like he is with Ada. He took you to the pool to go swimming and to the playground. He went to all of your school plays and all of your birthday parties. He tucked you into your bed at night and read you stories, and he’s spent so much time loving you and me and your sister that I don’t think we can even imagine how much he loves us.”

Henry nods his head, and she desperately hopes that he understands. She doesn’t understand how to explain this without scarring Henry for life about sex when he is so not ready for that. She knows that some parents are fully open with their kids about things like that, but it’s not her parenting style.

“So he and my dad are the same?”

“Y-yeah,” she sputters, knowing that she needs to attack this conversation with a better plan later but thankful that things have seemed to calm down. “They’re the same. They’re both your dads, and they both love you so much that I bet your arms don’t even stretch out that far.”

Henry sticks out his arms to test the theory out, and she can’t help but chuckle at that. He has such childlike innocence and faith for someone who keeps having his life changed and uprooted, and even though she still feels like a frayed wire right now, she knows that she has a set of good kids in her life.

Leaning forward, she wraps Henry up in a hug and holds him as tightly as she can without smothering him. He hugs her right back, and she feels a little of the lead that’s in her stomach dissipate.

“Come on,” she says as she pulls back, “we’ve got some shin guards to find and a soccer game to go to.”

They find the shin guards in the kitchen of all places, and even though they have to practically sprint across the fields to get to his match, they make it in time. She knows a lot of the other parents there, a lot of them have kids in Henry’s class, but she prefers to sit under this tree in the shade with Ada. It’s at the corner of the field, so she still has a clear shot of Henry and he does of them.

Emma: Where are you?

Emma: We’re already at the fields. Hope you get here soon!

Emma: We’ve had quite the morning. Can’t wait to tell you about it later.

She puts her phone down on the blanket and pulls Ada back to her so that she can adjust her hat on her head, making sure she’s totally shaded while she slathers more lotion on her.

“Mama,” Ada babbles, grabbing at her necklace with enough force that she could snap it. Emma has to immediately grab Ada’s hand and move it away before twisting the necklace around so that Ada can’t see the diamonds. “Mama. Mama. Mama.”

“What?” she laughs, scrunching her nose up when Ada tries to grab at it too. “Baby, you’re driving me crazy today. Nothing makes you happy, and you’re going to either rip my nose off or break the necklace your daddy gave me.”

Ada giggles at that, like it’s the funniest thing in the world, and Emma can do nothing more than shake her head as she continues to get Ada’s arms with lotion. She’s wearing a United jersey with Jones written across it that Killian got her. He’s so extra sometimes, and this is a prime example of it.

She kind of loves that.

Plopping Ada down on the blanket in front of her, she snaps a picture of her back with the soccer field in front of her, and sends it off to Killian, hoping that he’ll answer this one since he hasn’t answered any of her other texts and calls. She’s trying to ignore that and convince herself that it’s fine, but there’s this weird, sinking feeling that’s stayed with her all day. Maybe it’s the stress, or maybe it’s something else entirely.

Emma: Henry’s number one fan!

The rest of Henry’s game (or is it match? She’s really not sure.) goes by pretty quickly. He’s at the age where the kids are actually pretty competitive, so it’s not so much all of them running around and kicking balls in the wrong goal as it is them legitimately trying to win the game. Not quite as cute as it used to be, but Henry likes it. That’s all that really matters.

“Did you see me kick that goal?” Henry gasps when he runs over to her after the game, his hair covered in sweat and grass stains covering his knees. “It was awesome.”

“It was awesome,” she agrees, holding her hand up for him to high five him before holding Ada’s hand up so that she can do the same, even if it’s not with quite the same impact.

“Where’s Daddy?”

“He got called into work,” she lies, not too sure how to handle this situation. That seems to be happening a lot lately. “He’ll be home later, though.”

The smile that was on Henry’s face instantly fades, the upward curl twisting down. “He didn’t see my game?”

“No, kid. He didn’t. But he wanted to.”

“He promised that he’d come to all of my games.”

“I know,” she laments, bringing him into her side. Poor kid. Both of his dads have bailed on him this weekend, and she knows that if it’s just today, it won’t mess with him too badly. But if it’s…if it keeps happening, well, it can’t keep happening. She won’t let it keep happening. “But sometimes things happen that make us break our promises. I’m sure your daddy is so sad about not getting to see you score that goal.”

“Yeah,” Henry sighs, his shoulders sagging forward as she starts to pick up all of their stuff so they can walk to the car.

It doesn’t take long even navigating through all of the kids and parents, and soon enough she’s driving out of the soccer complex and on her way home with the kids so that Henry can get showered and Ada can take her early afternoon nap. The music cuts off in the car as a phone call comes in, and she hits the button on her steering wheel to accept Neal’s call, leaving it on speaker since he’s probably calling for Henry anyways. Good. If he can’t fly home this weekend because of work then at least Henry will have this.

“Hey, Neal,” she greets, pulling up to a stop light and inching closer to the car in front of her.

“Hey, Ems. How are you?”

“Good, good. We’re on our way home from Henry’s soccer game. Kid, why don’t you tell your dad what you did today?”

“I scored a goal,” Henry shouts from the backseat, his voice far too loud. “It was really cool. Avery kicked the ball to me, and I kicked it right past the Dragons’ goalie. She couldn’t stop me.”

“That��s awesome,” Neal laughs. She can practically imagine the smile on his face, and it makes something in her heart settle thinking of how much Neal is here for Henry even when he’s physically away.

-/-

“Come on, Emma, push.”

“I can’t,” she cries, holding onto the handrails over the bed while a contraction roars through her body, making all of her limbs shake as she feels herself shutting down, feels her will to keep going fading. “I can’t do this by myself.”

“I am right here, Hon,” one of her nurses soothes, holding onto her hand even though Emma doesn’t know her name. She should know her name. She’s the woman who is by her side while she delivers her son. If she’s the only one going to be here, Emma should know her name. It’s too painful to ask. “You’re doing just great. So is your baby. His heartbeat is so strong, yeah. He gets that from you.”

“He’s okay? He’s still doing okay? This isn’t – this isn’t hurting him, ah, too much?”

Her nurse squeezes her hand, holding on tightly as she watches people move between her legs. She’s officially had her vagina stared at by more people than she ever thought would stare at it, and even though she doesn’t want to think about that and what’s happening right now, it’s all that she can focus on.

If she doesn’t, she’ll think about Neal.

He should be here.

He should be here holding her hand and helping her through this.

He should be here to hold his son when he’s born.

He should be here.

But he’s not. He can’t help it. He’s training. This is what he has to do. This is his job. He’s helping so many other people, and that’s what she has to remind herself. That’s what she has to keep repeating over and over again as she suffers through labor. Why did no one tell her how much this hurts? They did, but it was in broad terms. It wasn’t like this. It was never described like this. Everyone always glossed over it and told her that it would be all over and she’d have her baby in her arms and that everything would be okay.

How is this okay?

How is any of this fucking okay?

She’s by herself.

She’s alone and has no one here but this nurse who she still doesn’t know the name of to help her. Neal isn’t here. Ruth isn’t here. Neither is David. Or Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret would be good at helping here. She’s been through this. She’s so soothing even when she’s annoying and pushing all of her opinions on Emma.

She doesn’t even have any friends here. All of her friends are mostly Neal’s friends, and she doesn’t know any of them well enough to ask them to be here.

Why didn’t she make more friends? Why didn’t she keep some of hers from freshman year? She had friends, didn’t she? She had people she talked to and got lunch with. She knows that she did. She had to.

She’s been alone for so much of her life, but right here, right now, is the last place she ever thought she would be alone.

She can’t do this. She can’t. It’s too much.

Maybe she’s not meant to be a mother.

She can’t be one.

How could she when she didn’t have one for most of her life?

“I can’t be a mother,” she cries, tears stinging hotly behind her eyes while her contraction begins to wane. She knows it’s only a brief moment of reprieve. Her son is almost here. She knows that he is, that has to be. She’s been suffering in here for too long for him not to be here soon. She needs him to be here. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, Sweetie,” the nurse promises her, rubbing her thumb over her knuckles. Neal always does that, and it’s so damn soothing. She misses him. He should be here. She can’t stop thinking that. He should be here. “You can be a mother. It’s just scary right now, but you’re doing great trying so hard to help this boy come into the world.”

“But I’m alone,” she whispers, the words barely escaping her lips before they get captured by a sob, one that moves her shoulders and makes her vision completely blur.

She’s alone.

She thought she finally wouldn’t be, but she is. She’s alone and terrified.

But she’s been alone for most of her life, and the sad truth is that she knows how to deal with it. She knows how to deal with handling things by herself, how to deal with pain and happiness, with loss and with celebration.

She knows.

So she can do it. She can get through it. She has to.

She can be a mother.

She can be a mother for this kid. Maybe even for herself too.

Her eyes haven’t seen this kid outside of a black and white picture. Her hands haven’t felt him move except for the hard kicks to her ribs that have taken her breath away. Her arms haven’t held him except when she’s cradled her bump at night.

She doesn’t know anything about this kid, but she knows that she loves him. She knows that she wants to be his mom and to be there for him for every day of his life.

She knows.

This is her son, and she can do this.

And she does.

Even with the epidural, it’s possibly one of the most painful things she’s ever experienced, and she knows that doesn’t go away anytime soon. All of the books told her that about the recovery. But there was no way they could tell her the pure joy that she feels holding this red, squirmy baby in her arms. He’s beautiful. He’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen in her life, and she made him with her body.

She and Neal made him.

They’re parents. They’re freaking parents.

She can’t wait to tell him, to let him know that his son is here, but right now all she wants is to spend time with her boy, to get to hold him and never let go.

She’s never letting go.

“Hey, Henry,” she sighs, rubbing her finger across his cheek while he looks up at her. He has Neal’s nose. She always thought people who could tell who a baby looked like when they’re born are crazy, but her kid has Neal’s nose. “I’m your momma. I am. You are so precious, and I love you so damn much. I’m pretty sure you don’t understand what I’m saying, so that curse is just between you and me, okay? Yeah? Just between you and me. Your daddy never has to know.”

“You did a great job,” her nurse sighs as she stands at the door. “That’s a good baby with a healthy mom.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, leaning her head back against the pillow. It feels so comfortable, but she’s not ready to go to sleep quite yet. “It really means so much to me to have had someone to hold my hand throughout all of that.”

“It’s certainly not a problem.”

“Hey, what’s your name? I’m sorry I didn’t ask before. I was kind of busy.”

“Ingrid.”

“Thank you, Ingrid.”

Ingrid walks out of the room, and she turns all of her attention back to Henry and the roundness of his eyes, the dark lashes. He’s so bald, but he’s got this one little patch of dark hair. He’s beautiful. Just beautiful. And not crying, which she thinks she likes most of all.

“I think you and I are going to be good friends, kid,” she tells him, letting him grasp onto her finger. “Like, you eat food from my boob, so it’s pretty much a given that we’re going to be close. Just saying. My body has gone through a lot for your existence, and I expect some good mother’s day gifts someday. Your daddy knows what I like. Oh, I can’t wait for you to meet your dad. You’re going to love him. He’s so funny. I bet he’ll make you laugh all of the time, yeah? But not as much as me. Don’t tell your dad, but I’m so much funnier than him. He has no idea.”

Throughout the rest of the day, nurses and doctors come in and out to check on both she and Henry. She knows that she takes a lot of naps, but it’s all a bit of a blur for her as some of the pain starts to kick in and she struggles getting Henry to eat. Once he does, though, she feels like infinitely less of a failure. It’s a weird feeling, being so devastated by something that’s really not in her control, but she has to keep reminding herself that she’s not going to be perfect at this and that things are going to go wrong. Hell, so many have already.

But Henry is here and healthy, and that’s all that matters. That’s always been what matters.

“Thanks for making me not be alone anymore, kid.”

-/-

Neal and Henry talk for the rest of the ride home, but really, it’s mostly Henry going on and on about his game and saying the same things several times while Neal pretends it’s brand new information to him. When she pulls into the garage, the door shutting behind them, she switches the call to her phone so that she can talk to Neal for a little bit while she sends Henry inside to take his shower, hoping that he’s actually going to wash himself instead of simply standing under the water.

“Thanks for calling him today,” she tells him as she rocks Ada back and forth in her glider, hoping that she’ll fall asleep soon and not have another meltdown. “It was kind of a big day for him, and you have no idea how much that means to him.”

“Of course. He’s my kid. Just because I’m not at home anymore doesn’t mean I’m not going to be there for him.”

Her heart lurches, practically dropping to the pit of her stomach, and she has to hold back the tears that are threatening to push through. That’s literally all she’s ever wanted since the day Henry was born.

“That’s good,” she sniffles, adjusting Ada in her arms. “You’re a good dad. You’ve done such a good job adjusting to being a parent to an eight-year-old who likes to talk back and who you can’t just cuddle with to make them stop crying.”

Neal hums on the other end of the line. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You sound a little upset.”

“I – ” she begins, almost ready to spill all of her thoughts to Neal, but she bites her tongue to hold herself back. She’s not about to share how upset she is with Killian with Neal. That’s pretty much asking for disaster. She knows that they have a good relationship, a good friendship, but they’re not the kind of exes who talk about their love lives with each other. Not in graphic detail. They talk about Henry and the movies and old times. She doesn’t tell him her intimate thoughts, not anymore. “It’s been a long day. The kids had me about ready to pull my hair out.”

“Killian didn’t help?”

“He got called into work,” she lies, telling Neal the same one she told Henry earlier. Killian will call soon. He has to.

Neal clicks his tongue.

“What?” she asks, watching Ada’s eyes flutter closed.

“Nothing.”

“It’s obviously something, Neal. I know you. You click your tongue when you have something to say.”

“It’s just that, well, shouldn’t Killian be around for Henry’s soccer game?”

“Sometimes things come up.”

“That’s still a shitty thing to do.”

She huffs, all of that anger from this morning returning as the memories flood back to her brain. How in the world did she forget that she needed to talk to Neal? It’s like she got lulled into some kind of false sense of security and didn’t even realize it.

“You missed his game today too, Neal. For the exact same reason.” She doesn’t know if Killian is at work right now, but that’s what she’s going with. Something must have happened for him not to be here. “And we are far too old to be playing petty games over who is being a better parent to Henry. By the way, where the hell do you get off telling Henry that Killian is his step dad?”

She can feel her voice begin to raise, so she gets up from the chair and puts Ada in her crib, hoping that she’ll fall asleep quickly. When she exits the nursery, she can still hear the shower going, so she walks down the hall and into her bedroom, moving to the bathroom so Henry will be less likely to hear her talk. She can’t begin to count the number of arguments she and Killian have had in the bathroom. They don’t yell too often, but she doesn’t want Henry to hear any of it when they do argue.

Neal still hasn’t said anything, so she asks again. “Why did you say that?”

“I didn’t,” he finally says, his voice completely even.

“Henry told me that you did.”

“He’s a kid. He says crazy shit.”

“He’s a smart kid who only says things when he’s learned them somewhere else. Just admit to it so we can talk about it. It’s already a tricky situation, so we don’t need it to get worse.”

“What’s tricky about it? He’s my kid, and Killian is pretty much his step dad. I mean, you two aren’t married, so not really. But I figured that made it less complicated.”

Less complicated her ass. Why is he being such an ass about this? This is not him, not anymore.

“First of all, he is Killian’s kid too. I have never let Henry think that you’re not his dad. You are. That’s something I’ve made a priority for him to understand ever since he was old enough. But you cannot take away Killian’s right to him as well. Killian helped me raise him, Neal. For most of Henry’s life, Killian has been Henry’s dad too. That doesn’t just change.”

“Well, it’s not my fault that I wasn’t fucking around to raise him.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You might as well have, going on and on about Killian this, Killian that. Fuck, Ems. He’s not the greatest man in existence. You don’t have to put him on a pedestal.”

“I don’t.”

“Please,” he scoffs, and she feels acid swish in her stomach, twisting around as she settles down on the countertop next to the sink, her legs like jello beneath her. “You so do. Ever since I’ve come back it’s been all about Killian and the life you share and the daughter you have, like our marriage was absolutely nothing to you. I bet you didn’t even consider taking me back.”

“What the hell is your problem today? I’m trying to talk to you about our son to make sure that he doesn’t get confused, and you decide to be nasty to me? No, Neal, I didn’t really consider taking you back. Life moved on. It changed. But don’t you dare for a second think that I didn’t go through hell trying to figure out how to deal with things when you came home. I nearly lost my mind trying to handle everything. I care about you. You’re my friend, and I tried my best. But there’s no way you could have expected me to drop everything to be with you when I spent years grieving you.”

“I would have done it for you.”

“Bullshit. I loved you, but you never loved me in the same way. I didn’t realize it at the time, but now I know.”

“I think you’re making a mistake being with Killian.”

“I think you’re making a mistake trying to talk to me about this when it’s really none of your business.”

“If it affects my son, it is my business.”

She scoffs, bewilderment inching its way over all of her skin, gooseflesh rising. How fucking dare he try to turn this on her, try to gaslight her. This is what he’s always done. He’s always tried to steamroll her like this. She thought he’d changed, that he’s tried to be better, so why is he being like this? He shouldn’t be like this anymore.

“You know what affects your son, Neal?” she asks, her voice cold even to her own ears. “His dad fucking with how he thinks of one of his other parents. No part of that is okay, nor will it ever be okay. Don’t do it again.”

She hears him say her name on the other end of the phone, but she hangs up before he can say anything else. He’ll call back. She knows that he will, but she’s done with that conversation. It was ridiculous, in every single way. She knew it wouldn’t be comfortable bringing up the whole step parent thing, but she didn’t think it would ever turn into…that.

What the hell was that?

Neal hasn’t talked to her like that since he found out that she and Killian were together. It was harsh, but she understood in a way. Now though, she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand why he would be rude to her life that, why he would try to make her think that she’s doing something wrong by being with Killian, to make her think that she’s a bad mother. It’s how he used to talk to her, but it’s not how the man she’s known as talked to her ever since he came back.

It’s not supposed to happen like that anymore.

All she wants to do is cry, but she’s too tired to cry. If she starts, she may not be able to stop. It’s all too much. Today has been too much for her, and she still doesn’t know where Killian is, what’s going on with him. In the back of her mind she thinks that maybe she should be calling hospitals to make sure that he’s not in one, but something in her gut keeps her from doing that. She does text Mary Margaret and David, however, hoping that maybe one of them will have the answer.

She needs to know, and worry is slowly covering each inch of her skin.

“Mom,” Henry calls, stepping into her bathroom.

“Yeah, kid?”

“Can you make me a hot dog?”

“Sure,” she sighs, giving him a watery smile and wiping away at her eyes. “Let’s go do that.”

The rest of her day is spent with her kids, trying to entertain the both of them with games and movies, even going outside to play on the play set for awhile. She never hears from Killian, and only Mary Margaret texts her back to say that she hasn’t heard from him and that David’s got a busy day at work and probably won’t get back to her until his shift is over. It bothers her, makes her practically sick to her stomach, but she can’t focus on it as she focuses on making sure Ada and Henry have a good day.

It’s what she has to do if she’s doing this alone today.

That night, after she’s got Ada in her crib, she walks to the next room over and into Henry’s. They both cleaned up in here a bit today, so she doesn’t step over any legos or sharp objects as she crawls into his bed behind him, wrapping her arm around his waist and holding onto her son like her life depends on it.

Maybe sometimes it does.

“What are you doing?” he mumbles, still flipping through one of his books.

“Cuddling with you because I love you so much.”

He squirms, but he still settles into her. “I love you too.”

“What are you reading?”

“Matilda.”

“That’s a good one.”

“I know. I like it. She has magic.”

She nods her head and settles it down onto Henry’s shoulder, reading behind him while he mumbles some of the words out loud. She doesn’t know how she got a kid who loves to read when she remembers hating it at his age, but she’s really thankful for that.

She’s thankful for Henry and how he changed her entire life for the better on the day he was born, how he brought magic into her life in a time that was so dark that even the stars seemed to disappear, blinking out one by one until there was no light left.

Except for Henry. He has always been the light.

“Did you know I love you?” she whispers to him.

“Yeah, you already said that.”

“I know.” She kisses his cheek and holds him a little closer. “It’s just that I love you and Ada so much that sometimes my heart can’t contain it, and I have to keep telling you so that you know how much I love you, how much I’ll always love you forever.”

“I love you and Ada too,” he says simply. She knows that he means the words, but they don’t have the same emotional depth that her words do. Good. He doesn’t need to feel how she’s feeling, like her heart is threatening to break into pieces over how much she loves him.

“And your dad and your daddy love you too. So much more than you even know.”

“I know. Mom, you’re making it hard to read my book.”

Emma chuckles, kissing his cheek again before she shifts out of the bed, figuring that she’s smothered him enough for tonight. Just because she needs to time with him doesn’t mean that he wants it. “In thirty minutes your light needs to be off and you need to be asleep, okay?”

“Whatever.”

“Henry.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Night, kid. Thanks for making me feel like I have real magic in my life.”

“Goodnight, Mom.”

She closes his door behind her and makes her way downstairs, quickly checking on Ada on her way. The house is quiet, only the sounds of the air conditioner running and the refrigerator making ice filling the space. Usually she’d crave something like this. She’d crave having peace and quiet and not having to worry about anything for a little while. She can fix herself a cup of hot chocolate and settle down in front of the television to watch whatever she wants. Those are the nights she craves sometimes, but now that she has one of those, she wants none of it.

All she wants is for this day to be over, possibly for this day not to exist. Frankly, it sucked, and she knows that not everything will be fixed when she wakes up in the morning. She’s still pissed at Neal. Like, if he were home she would probably have the urge to punch him pissed. She’s worried about Henry and how everything is impacting him. She’s already emailed Dr. Hopper today, but sometimes she’s worried that him going to therapy and them trying so much to give him a good life is not enough.

Sometimes she worries that she is not enough.

That she’s not enough for her children.

That she’s not enough for Killian.

He has only made her feel that way once in all of their time together, and she doesn’t hold it against him, not anymore. She understands everything that he was going through. But right now, today, she needs him, and he’s not here.

She falls asleep on the couch, and when she wakes, it’s to a twist in her neck and a twist of the front door handle, Killian coming inside as quietly as possible. At first, she’s relieved that he’s okay, that he’s home, but then she remembers the absolute hell that she’s been through all day without him by her side, without him answering any of her calls.

“Where have you been?” she whispers. She thought the words would be louder, harsher, but she finds that she can barely get them past her lips.

Right now she’s just relieved that he’s okay, that his heart is still beating within his chest.

“Why aren’t you asleep, love?” Killian asks her, stepping into the bright light of the living room so that she can see the red rim around his eyes. “You should go to bed.”

“I’d really rather know why you ignored all of my calls all day long.”

“I’ll tell you in the morning.”

“Damn it, no,” she yells, this time the words coming out as she sits up further on the couch, “tell me now. I’m done being pushed around today. You have been gone. I have been worried. Henry has been worried, and you walk in here at two in the morning telling me that we’ll talk later. No, that’s not how this works.”

Killian nods his head while his lips press together in a firm line. He looks exhausted and like he’s been crying, and beneath all of her anger, she feels the worry for him that she’s felt all day. “You’re right,” he sighs, his lashes landing against his cheeks as he looks at the ceiling before his gaze finally finds hers. “I’ve got some things to talk to you about.”

#rising from the ashes #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan #captain swan fic

102 notes · View notes

dingberg · 4 years

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Hey, I was wondering if the characters you make are for your own campaigns, or campaigns you play in. You inspire me to create my own unique characters and I was wondering if you had any tips on how to incorporate "complex characters" into a campaign. I feel like I'd just get on the DM's/Player's nerves...

First off, thanks for being the first person to ever send me an ask on here, lol. And you have no idea how happy I am to hear that I inspire you in any way, let alone to make your own characters and go above and beyond the call of duty with them. Apologies in advance for the massive response. I can be an extremely long-winded person when it comes to things I’m passionate about.

Anyway, all the characters I’ve made for D&D have been for player roles…never been a DM myself (but maybe some day). Unfortunately, your fears about getting on the DM’s / other player’s nerves by playing weird, complicated characters aren’t exactly unfounded. The DMs I’ve played with could talk your ear off with stories about the difficulties they’ve had dealing with my shenanigans. But despite all the trouble I cause, the DMs and players I’ve played with still really enjoy playing with me and love my characters (or at least that’s what they tell me). Here’s what I’ve learned from my experiences as far as your concerns of being able to flex your creative muscles and still get along with the other people who have to put up with you. These rules apply to any situation, but they go double for playing weird characters.

Rule #1: COMMUNICATE WITH YOUR FELLOW PLAYERS AND ESPECIALLY WITH YOUR DM.

This is probably the most important rule. It’s essential that you learn what the people you’re playing with are and are not ok with and to make sure you’re all on the same page. Because playing a nonstandard character not only puts added challenge on yourself, but on everyone else that has to play around you as well. So make sure your fellow players and especially the DM know exactly what they’re in for with your character and that they’re completely ok with it before committing to anything. And be willing to make concessions for them as well if they’re not comfortable with anything. Sometimes people will be apprehensive to go along with something they’re not used to, especially if they don’t have much reason to trust you won’t screw it up or do it for the wrong reasons. And there are things you can do to help ease those fears, but don’t push too hard, especially on your first time with a group.

The first proper campaign I was ever in, my DM wanted to limit it to only human characters for the first go around because most of us were inexperienced and he didn’t want to take any chances. But I wasn’t really too interested in the setting and felt I needed something to anchor my interest. I was really interested in homebrewing (still am) and had a slime character (Chu) who I designed for another non-D&D project but unfortunately got left on the cutting room floor, so I wanted to give her a chance to shine in this new setting. I don’t necessarily recommend anyone going this ham on their first campaign, but I’d been writing and designing characters for years before I picked up D&D, so I felt pretty confident that I could pull it off.

I knew homebrewing a completely custom race on my first campaign was definitely going to raise a lot of red flags, so I wanted to make things as easy as possible for the DM and help him feel comfortable that I knew what I was doing before asking him to trust me. I first asked what the setting was and made sure this character would actually fit naturally without compromising what the DM had already set up. Then I thoroughly studied the guidebook for the system and setting we were playing in and wrote up an entire guide going through every aspect of how this character would function both in terms of mechanics and lore (which years later turned into my Slime Guide that I’ve posted here). Then I pitched it to the DM to see if he’d even be ok with the idea, then sat down with him to go over my guidebook together and figure out what needed to be changed or rebalanced. When that was all approved, I talked to the other players and told them what I had in mind and asked if they were all cool with it, which they were. So we went ahead with it and we all had a blast with that campaign (literally…a lot of stuff blew up, my poor slime girl was traumatized).

You don’t necessarily have to go to such extreme lengths yourself, but just communicate with the others, make sure they’re ok with what you want to do before you do it, and be willing to make concessions and work with them to make sure everyone’s happy, because D&D is a collaborative effort and it’s not very fun for anyone if some people aren’t having a good time.

Rule #2: Try to put as much of the strain of dealing with your character on yourself and not on other people as possible.

Coordinate with the DM and the other players to figure out what their general plans are. Make sure you’ve got a character that will logically fit in with the party and the world they’ll be adventuring in, and will at least mostly get along with their fellow party members. Nobody wants to have to play babysitter and hold up the adventure or force their characters or world to behave in a way that’s unnatural or metagame-y to try to come up with some reason for the one character who doesn’t gel with anyone or make sense as a member of the party to not just follow the logical path and split from the party. Don’t be afraid to let your characters fight and have disagreements with other player characters here and there, but your characters should always have something that makes them fit into the party naturally and binds them with their fellow adventurers enough to overcome almost any fight or disagreement. Hell, I’ve had multiple situations where my character had a falling out with the party and almost left. But I always have at least one thread that will bring my character back on their own in case the rest of the party doesn’t naturally bring my character back themselves. Never put the onus on the DM or other players to keep your character in the party unless you’re prepared to lose that character.

Similarly, you don’t wanna play a character that’s just not going to fit in with the setting and will ruin the immersion for everyone. If you want to play a cyborg in a medieval fantasy setting, you need to have a good reason for it that everyone else is completely on board with. If your party is on a grand quest to help the local dwarf community raise money to build an orphanage, it’s probably not a good idea to play a character who despises dwarves and/or children. And if you want to play as a monster character in a setting where the average person is hostile towards monsters, your fellow players had better be playing some pretty chill dudes, and your character had better have some way to pass the time they’ll spend sitting out in the woods while the rest of the party heads into town to get supplies unless you’re real good at disguising your monstrousness or think you can outrun the crowds armed with torches and pitchforks (this actually happened to one of my characters, fun times).

Rule #3: Just follow basic etiquette and have fun.

It’s alright to make mistakes and accidentally step on someone’s toes every now and then. It happens to the best of us. Just establish at the outset that you first and foremost just want to have a good time with everyone and get along. Clearly establish your own boundaries from the start and respect other people’s. Make it clear that you’re willing to listen to complaints and concerns and work with people to resolve them before they get out of control, and absolutely make sure you behave in a way that people will be comfortable with bringing this stuff up to you and talking about it without fear of hurting your feelings or causing a negative reaction.

Basically, as long as you consider the feelings of your fellow players and DMs, do a good job of communicating, and make sure everyone is on the same page as far as boundaries and what they want out of the experience, you’re gonna be solid. Because even if you do screw something up, everyone should understand that it was just an honest mistake and know that you’ll learn from that mistake and fix it for next time.

It’s all about building trust (giving and receiving). Because people who trust that you know what you’re doing and have the best intentions in mind are gonna be a lot more willing to let you try out your crazy ideas and play along with them. I almost exclusively play weird, nonstandard characters and early on, every character I pitched was met with an exasperated “Oh my god, why do you do this to me?” from my main DM. But I consistently followed these rules, proved that I know how to make and play fun characters that have a positive impact on the campaigns they’re in, and built up that trust with my group. And now everyone has a blast playing with me and interacting with my characters. I’ve even inspired some of my friends to flex their creativity and delve into the weirder side of character creation.

Sorry again for the light novel, lol. I hope this helped you and anyone else that took the time to read all this. And I’m always open to answer questions!

#ask #advice #dnd #dnd character #d&d #d&d character

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nix-that-rad-lass · 5 years

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A letter to my father

I know this is something you probably don’t want to hear… well, read… and i know that you’ll most likely thing i’m too young, too dumb, too immature, to know this… but, as you know, it is innate, it is biological, and it’s something i can’t change.

As much as I wish i could change, to be normal, and be who you want me to be, i can’t.

And i just hope that you’ll accept me as i am.

So, with that said… i’m gay. Lesbian. Homosexual. Whatever you want to call it. I’m a girl that likes girls. And nothing is going to change that.

I know you’ll bring up many things to try and justify why that can’t be, but i’ve thought and felt long and hard for years in silence, through pain, through tears, and so i will have to justify myself to you.

That’s why I'm writing this. Because I'm not brave or strong enough to say it all to you. Because i know you’ll question, poke, and prod me until I can no longer think clearly. Because i know that you will hear what I say but you will not truly listen until it is written out before you.

You say i’m too young to know.

I say that I am at a good age to know. Some people know much earlier, some much later, and homosexual women tend to have a harder time figuring it out than homosexual men because women are socialized from a very young age to only like, want, need men, to only want to cater to their needs. I have been questioning myself for years. I began thinking of women as more attractive than men around age 8- something I thought was normal, since I thought I was comparing myself to them. At age 9, I concluded that I just like women because I am one, and I understand them more than men. At 10, i heard in a song the word ‘gay’, and i learned what it meant. It meant people who like the same sex. For two years, i thoroughly questioned myself, interrogated my own mind, and tried to find out what it is about me that makes me different. I told myself that the boys i wished to pursue friendships with because of shared interests were because i was romantically attracted to them. I told myself that I found women attractive, but I could never be with one because it was abnormal and wrong. I let myself get looped into toxic and even abusive relationships with boys in an effort to force myself to be straight. I forced myself to dissociate, to put on a mask, and pretend to be someone else. I allowed those boys to hurt me and violate me far beyond what was okay because I thought I deserved it, because i thought that if they touched me enough i would come to enjoy it and i would be turned straight. The mindset I had adapted as an effort to avoid shaming you, to avoid shaming myself, and to avoid getting called weird and wrong, a freak, ended up hurting me most in the long run. I let them touch me, ridicule me, hurt me because i thought it was normal. I thought it would change me and make me normal. I’ve been outspoken on my views regarding homosexuality for so long because i was trying to prove something to myself. The words that so often left my mouth were the same words that made me feel disgusting, wrong, broken on the inside. One of my worst traits has always been being overly vocal about my deepest insecurities, allowing it to come across as a false sense of pride and courage. It was my coping mechanism.

You say it is changeable.

I say that it is not changeable. Sexuality may be fluid to some degree, waning and waxing over time, as we age, and as we live, but it is impossible to up and change one’s own orientation.

You say that I cannot be gay because i have been with boys in the past.

As I struggled to figure myself out, I also tried to force myself to be straight. I did what was expected of me- to crush on boys, flirt with them, play hard to get, date them, whatever it was to be seen as “normal”. In my effort to fit in with the majority, I allowed myself to get roped into terrible relationships. From emotionally draining long-distance, to ethically wrong flirting with a boy that was far too old for me, and reaching the worst lengths with the one that tore me apart inside and out. I told myself it was normal. I deserved it. That they would make me normal, turn me straight. When I realized that I couldn’t brush my attraction off to the side, I began to identify as bisexual, then pansexual as i was beginning to be ridiculed by friends that bought into the trans activism that overwhelmed the media. I tried to erase the homosexual part of me and replace it with something more acceptable- being bi, so I was at least open to being with a man.

The pain I have caused myself is far greater than I would ever have imagined, and far more than I believe you can fathom.

You say I am too inexperienced to know.

I say I have been through enough hurt, pain, isolation, self hate, and self pity to be able to know. I say I have been through trauma unspeakable and shameful that I am terrified to tell you about for fear of being cast off, for fear of being ridiculed and tossed away. I fear that should you know all of what has happened, all of what I have allowed to happen you will be far too disappointed in me to ever want to accept me as your daughter, to ever be able to be proud of me.

All I wanted was to make you proud and happy, to follow the path you want for me. I’m sorry I cannot do that.

You say it is unnatural.

I say that it is natural, as proven by years of studies in psychology, biology, and zoology. Psychology states that homosexuality is a natural phenomena, of unknown origin possibly relating to genetics, heredity, and/or environmental factors. Biology shows that there is a biological factor that makes homosexuality an innate possibility that some are born with. Zoology states that homosexuality is a naturally occurring behavior observed and recorded in upwards of 1,500 different sentient animal species, many of which are highly intelligent birds and mammals.

You say it is immoral.

I say that no natural activity can be declared immoral for in nature there is no such thing as “right” or “wrong”, “moral” or “immoral”- there is only survival and death. And homosexuality has proved to be a biological benefit to many species, as means of strengthening bonds between pack-mates, and/or providing parents to orphaned young. Therefore, to a degree, homosexuality is not only normal, but also beneficial. Of course, in modern society, many people have become obsessed with wanting to be able to cry and whine about their nonexistent problems that they will pretend to be gay or lesbian in a feeble attempt to get attention.

You say it is a choice.

I ask you, after all you have now read, if you do still firmly believe that this is a choice. That all of the pain I have put myself through to please others, to please you, has been the result of a choice I made. I ask you why you so firmly believe anyone would choose to put themselves through this. I ask why you believe someone would want to go through life, ostracized, persecuted, and hated over a choice. I ask you why you believe why millions of people are killed over their “choice”. Love is not a choice. You of all people should know that.

Who you love is not a choice- the only choice in love is whether or not you will accept it and allow it to flourish.

A common misconception regarding homosexuality, one that is most prevalent in your age group (38-55), is that homosexuality revolves solely around sexual interaction.

However, I ask you- does your heterosexuality revolve only around the act of intercourse? Or is it hinged upon the fact that you are only romantically, emotionally, and physically attracted to the opposite sex?

Homosexuality is not wrong, disgusting, inappropriate, or otherwise unacceptable.

Homosexuality is the same as heterosexuality in all aspects except the biological sex of the people involved.

Gay and lesbian people wish only to be able to love the same as straights do. They, myself included, wish to be able to freely be with a lover, be able to go on dates, hold hands, and be accepted, even seen as cute by others, the same as straight folk do. We wish to be able to love freely without being seen as inherently dirty, wrong, disgusting, sexual, or otherwise negative.

Gays and lesbians wish only to be allowed to love and be loved in the same way heterosexuals are so easily allowed that simple thing.

We wish for little to nothing more than being able to be together safely, to be able to marry their lover, and to not be hated, ostracized, humiliated, persecuted, or even killed for who they love. In America, we have far fewer deaths due to one’s sexual orientation, but many other countries are far less fortunate in that homosexuality is a crime punishable by castration, torture, and inhumane death.

I am lucky to be in America as I am, but yet I still do not have the privilege to freely be with who I want to be with. I do not have the freedom to be who I am without odd looks, the fear of pain, the fear of abandonment by my own family.

All I ask of you is to accept me as I am, love me, and to stand for not only me, but all of my brothers and sisters around the world that are hurt far worse than I am for being themselves. For being gay.

Gay is not a bad word.

Lesbian is not a bad word.

Gay and lesbian are not identities. They are realities of myself and many others.

I only hope you will understand this and seek to help me and others struggling with themselves.

With love,

[my name]

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365daysofsasuhina · 5 years

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[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Fifty-Two: Impossible ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: Of Monsters and Men ] [ AO3 Link ]

In Hinata’s world, there really isn’t anything left she can call impossible. Monsters? Real. Magic? She can use it. Vampires, she knows, aren’t just works of fiction. They’re as tangible as she is, though...most people wouldn’t think someone like her is real, either.

And one of them won’t stop following her.

There was the incident in the alley when they met, and she...accidentally manipulated him. Though, to be fair, he was trying to wipe her memory. Not that there was much point. She knew about the ones who call themselves Nightwalkers long before she met either of those men that night: the one who saved her, or the one that tried to kill her.

Then he’d just so happened to run into her again at the train station when she’d gotten separated from her friends. At that point, she pretty much assumed he’s been keeping tabs on her. A little...unnerving, but if he wanted to hurt her, he’s had plenty of opportunity. And he knows what she’s capable of...

It might be a little foolish, but...maybe she feels a little safer with him around. Probably not what most rational people would think, but...well, Hinata’s terms of rational have shifted a great deal from the norm.

Because nothing is impossible in her world.

Either way, she doesn’t expect to see him again so quickly. Quickly as in three days - well, nights - later. Mostly Hinata finds herself surprised because...she’s not in any danger. She’s just having coffee at a little place just off campus. Sure, she’s alone, but it’s quiet, and well-lit. Regardless, she looks up from a book she’s reading for a literature class to find herself no longer alone.

Across from her, slipping in the seat with unnatural grace, the vampire from before lets arms fold atop the table.

“...um...hi…?”

He doesn’t reply, just...looking at her. Surprisingly, he’s rather well-blended, wearing attire maybe a little conspicuous...if only because it’s more akin to a hipster than anything else. And there’s the fact that he’s stupidly pretty.

She’s always wondered why that is...maybe she’ll get the guts to ask him someday.

“...do you, um...n-need something?”

“Just checking in. Had anything happen since I saw you?”

“No...things have been normal. Human normal, I mean,” she adds, the latter tone a bit dry. “And here I thought maybe you were s-stalking me.”

“Afraid I don’t have the time for that. I’m an Enforcer, remember?”

“Then h-how did you find me when I needed help at the train?”

“I’d been looking for you. But I can’t do that all the time, Hyūga.” He doesn’t add any sort of suffix, just using her surname. “That being said, you do have some priority. You’re the only confirmed witch I know of. I need to keep an eye on you.”

“...why?”

“Because up until recently, I thought - like most - that your kind were a myth. Encountering you should have been impossible.”

“Welcome to realizing almost nothing is impossible.” Realizing she’s not going to get any reading done until he leaves, Hinata marks her place and sets her book aside. Instead, she lets hands curl around her coffee to warm them. “...but that still doesn’t tell me why I’m important.”

Glancing to their surroundings suspiciously, Sasuke murmurs, “Because even one of you is a huge threat to us. Especially if you’re as strong as you seem to be.”

...huh. Should she be flattered?

“In varying times of history, the three kinds of sentient beings - humans, Nightwalkers, and witches - have been at varying odds with each other. It changes from place to place. Here in Japan, your kind - known as miko back then - were actually our allies. But humans feared it, and outlawed your practices. Witches were forced to abandon their ways or be arrested...or worse. Granted, it’s not as bloody a past as other countries. Parts of Europe had all-out war between humans and Nightwalkers. Japan just...let two aspects fade to myth after busting up the bonds between miko and ‘kami’. Some miko, however...were less reverent of us, and more seeking to control or harness us. Obviously there’s not as many devout followers of Japanese folklore now. We’re not in as much danger...but we could be.”

Hinata just gives him a pout. “I’m not about to try and turn you into a slave. I’m just trying to live a normal life. Which was going fine until I ran into that j-jerk the other day.”

“Sadly, there’s plenty of jerks.” Sasuke leans back, folding his arms loosely and looking to her thoughtfully. “...but that can be said for both sides. Hunters aren’t as common in Japan as they are elsewhere: humans that hunt us as monsters. Want to kill us. Some witches threw in their lot with them. Hence...needing to be careful. Not,” he cuts in, raising a hand against her retort, “that I suspect you. But you do prove that a threat could be out there. The old miko are not extinct as we thought they were.”

Hinata’s head bows for a moment, thinking. “...sadly, I...don’t know of anyone else like me. My mother is dead, and...my sister has never said anything about it. Our father was...adamant about trying to stamp it out of us. I tried not to use it...against you was my first attempt.”

“Which makes it all the more impressive, given what you managed.”

“All I know is that my bloodline did have some miko in it. I don’t know how wide-spread, or if anyone else in my family has the ability. Mine is all I can confirm, but…I guess you can follow the family tree if you need a place to start.”

“I have a few other officers doing so. And checking old records for any other families tied to the old ways. For now, those are our only leads.”

Silence falls between them, both clearly lost in their own thoughts. Hinata...isn’t sure what to think. It might be neat to find more people like her - maybe they can teach her more about her abilities, and how to use them. But...well, at the same time, she’s been trying to avoid that part of herself: a part her father told her was nothing but trouble and danger.

And admittedly, so far, he’s been right. She’s been almost killed!

...but she’s also, apparently, made a new friend. Or...so she thinks. At this point Hinata doesn’t know if Sasuke counts as a friend, but at least he seems to be an ally. A very...unorthodox one. But then again, her ancestors claimed to speak to gods. Befriend them. Some texts even talk about them wedding kami. And while she can’t know if gods exist, she does know Nightwalkers do, and may be - at least in part - who her family used to convene with. So...maybe she’s just striking up old traditions.

Completely by accident.

“...do you want some coffee?”

Her question comes out of nowhere, but...well, they are sitting in a coffee shop. It seems a little strange to do so and not have a drink of some kind.

To her surprise, Sasuke’s lips twitch. “...I might. I have a long shift ahead of me. Caffeine isn’t as potent to us as it is to humans, but it can’t hurt.”

Having broken the silence, Hinata taps fingers idly against her mug. “...so, is...is there anything I need to, um...do?”

“Not really. At least, not yet.”

“Are you going to just keep showing up randomly?”

“Probably.”

“...isn’t that dangerous?”

“Of all the Nightwalkers kinds, those like mine blend in best. As...tempting as humans are, I’m disciplined. And our appearances - even when Shifted - aren’t that different from a human. Just red eyes, and a few other little details. I’m well-practiced in blending in. I’m not afraid.”

“...even if this breaks a...a mandate?” She’s...pretty sure that’s what the laws are called.

“You’re not a Daywalker. While some argue witches are humans, just with additional abilities, the terms are clear. Mandates are old, and written with the old terms. You’re not a Daywalker: you’re a Twilightwalker. I’m not breaking any rules,” he assures her. “What? Want to be rid of me?”

“It’s just, um…” How to explain…? “...no one else knows you. They might start asking questions if - if they see us together?”

“Just tell them I’m a friend from some other avenue of life. Make something up. Lying isn’t hard unless you think about it too much,” he teases, smiling just a tad again.

“B-but you’re…?”

“I’m what?”

“You...you don’t look…” Oh gods, how to phrase this… “You...aren’t really the sort of person a person like me would really be...friends with.”

“...meaning?”

“You’re too...too…!” Her face heats, not sure how else to make it clear. “...you’re too attractive!”

That earns a blink. “...I can’t help that, it’s an adaptation.”

...he completely missed the point.

“It’s...a what?”

“Vampires - classically, anyway - would need to lure humans away to feed on them without getting caught. And the one thing humans trust above anything else? Beauty. Pretty people aren’t suspicious: they’re alluring. Distracting. Humans get lured in, and by the time they realize something is amiss...it’s too late. Don’t worry about it - people might notice, but they’ll be too busy gawking to question it.”

Before she can stop it, Hinata pouts.

“I’m not saying I’m out of your league - I’m saying I look the way I look for a reason. I’m also saying not to worry about it. You look fine for a human - you’ve got that cute babyface thing going on.”

“B-babyface?!”

“Your face is round. Kinda soft. You almost look like you could be in middle school, let alone university.”

...okay, this is getting weird. “...well what about you? You look like you’re my age, but how old are you really…?”

“Guess.”

“N-no!” What if she offends him?

That earns a snicker. “I’m actually pretty young for my kind. I’m almost seventy.”

Hinata can’t help but jolt, making him laugh.

“...anyway, I better get going. Just wanted to check up on you.”

“What if, um…”

“Hm?”

“What if I need to get ahold of you?”

Sasuke blinks...and then pulls out a cell. “What’s your number?”

She gives it, jumping as her picket buzzes.

“That’s me. Just...try to save it for emergencies, okay?”

“...okay.”

With that, Sasuke stands, heading for the counter. “I think I will get that coffee. Keep outta trouble, witchy woman.”

Her cheeks puff with another pout.

Sasuke just grins, getting his drink before leaving with a mock salute.

...this can’t be her life, can it? But, then again…

Nothing is impossible.

Oh my goodness, a post at just after ten. This is new! xD Another piece in my original Nightwalkers verse. Expanding a bit on the last two pieces in this verse (day 44 before this, and day 35 before that). Apparently Sasuke's going to be keeping an eye on Hinata. But I don't think any of us mind ;3 She'll get used to it, don't worry. Until then, we'll just have to see him keep flustering her. Anyway, I gotta get some other things done, and I think I'm getting sick Dx So, calling it a night here. But, as always, thanks for reading~

#hyūga hinata #uchiha sasuke #sasuhina #of monsters and men [ au ]#365daysofsasuhina

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curestardust · 5 years

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if you want: you enjoyed the original season and wouldn’t be annoyed by some more unusual elements / love Teko and Pikari’s relationship / wanted some more insight into the side-characters

This is Amanchu’s second season, I’d suggest reading my review of the first one (x) cause I’ll be addressing most issues I brought up there.

So, based on reviews you will see that fans of the original series were dissappointed in this one but ironically that was the thing that made me hopeful. So what was different?

Diving truly takes a backburner in this season and we mostly only get to see it when it has to do with Teko’s advancement in diving. Which I was fine with now, I learnt to lower my expectations regarding this aspect from S1.

The biggest change in Advance was something I don’t think I’ve ever seen a purely slice-of-life anime do which is the introducing of supernatural elements. These scenes are almost always shown through dream sequences. The very first time they used it, it felt a bit quirky and interesting and didn’t really feel like it was that out of the norm as it could’ve been explained away in a way to fit the universe. However, a bit later they went all out on it with group dreaming, an actual ghost and some sort of weird time travel/paradox thing. This was also an entire arc and took up multiple episodes.

My opinion of this direction seems vastly different from normal fans’ of the series as I actually liked these scenes. As I mentioned before, I didn’t think that the side characters were interesting enough to carry whole episodes on their backs and this change of rather putting them into situations and learning about them through their actions was much more fun for me and I’ve grown to like the rest of the cast more.

To wrap up: the artstyle and animation was great as usual and the dream sequences gave great opportunities to show us unique and interesting visuals. The music was more or less the same as season 1 with a bit more variety instead of purely instrumental tracks. The new characters managed to spice up the show just enough to keep things interesting. They also used the quirky “emoji faces” and “personal ticks” much less here which was a breathe of fresh air for me. ( and Teko and Pikari were literally so fucking gay and I fucking love these girlfriends uwu.) One negative for me would be that almost every time charcaters talk they need to say something “deep” and ”philosophical” which just made conversations very unnatural and stilted.

However, if you were in LOVE with the original season of Amanchu! you may not enjoy this. The experience of this season is vastly different from the original. [7/10] (x)

Recommend: HELL Yeah! | Yes | Eh??? | Nope | This anime killed my parents

if you want: RANDOM/meta/violent humour / cute girls???

I do not wish to talk about this much as Jashin-chan is a quite unremarkable anime.

Our setting is that Yurine (who’s a witch but not?) summons Jashin, a demon from hell, but can’t send her back. The only way for her now to go back to where she came from would be to kill Yurine.

Err...yeah, that’s it. We also have the recurring cast Medusa and Minos, Jashin’s friends from Hell who come to hang out, and Pekola, an angel who has lost her halo and can’t go back to heaven.

This is supposed to be a dark comedy I guess. Each episode consists of 2-3 short stories. Almost all of the anime consists of the same things: Jashin trying to kill Yurine, failing and then getting horribly punished for it (with cartoonish gore and all), Jashin spending all her money that she gets from Medusa and/or hurting Medusa’s feelings and Pekola being hungry...

This anime has apparently garnered quite a fanbase and even got renewed for season 2 (which I’ll have to watch cause of my perfectionism sigh) but really I’m pretty sure you could find much better stuff similiar to this out there. The animation is ok, the music is ok, the characters are ok, the humour is ok...just O K. Nothing that’d warrant the average viewer to spend time watching it.

(Oh, and I was bored out of my mind throughout the whole thing...the only saving grace is that characters are cute and that there was no fanservice) [5/10] (x)

Recommend: HELL Yeah! | Yes | Eh??? | Nope | This anime killed my parents

if you want: close-knit main female cast / beautiful visual presentation where it counts / somewhat complex and interwoven story / really good (musical) numbers

This anime is very, very difficult to put into words but I’ll try.

Our main cast consist of 8 (then 9) girls who all study at a quite well-known art school where they teach actors for theater (Class A) and all the background work needed for putting up a show (Class B). Our focus will be on the aforementioned girls from Class A who, based on the how things play out, are the best in their class.

And I know, I know. 9 main characters for 12 episodes! Well, that’s where the anime first shines as by episode 3 or 4 you can more or less recognize everyone and by the end you can also name them all and know something about them! From watching quite a number of 1 cour anime with huge casts I know how hard this is to achieve so I can only applaud SKRV.

So a bit about the story. Our first main character is Karen who’s one of the more lacking in this group. Suddenly after long, long years of studying abroad her childhood friend Hikari shows up at her school which gives us some flashback and one of the driving forces of the anime. The 2 made a promise that they’ll become stars together after seeing a play of Starlight (more on that later). However, it turns out they have something standing in their way.

This is where SKRV turns from a faux slice-of-life to a...not sure what to call it. Karen accidentally stumbles upon a lift in school which takes her down to a hidden stage where she sees 2 of her classmates fighting with weapons. These are the auditions. The winner will become the “star” what all stage girls desire.

And this is where I’d like to talk about the play enveloping the story, Starlight. This play is put on each year by the students. Each year, to show how much they improved through the same play. However, you’ll notice that the play and its story gets mentioned a LOT. And that is for a reason. I refuse to go into it much cause it’s best to experience it yourself. The play appears in 3 places: the stage, life and the auditions.

Each audition is special and woven into the story in a very intriguing way. An episode usually starts with 1 or 2 characters inner struggles and problems. The anime goes about in a normal slice-of-life way about these until we get to the audition process. These are the climax of the story and the episode. Each audition is a revue, an act from a play. While the girls are fighting with weapons, the outcome isn’t dependant on their physical strength. The revue acts as a conclusion to the girls’ inner troubles.

Shoujo Kageki Revue Starlight is a somewhat abstract anime. It gives you pieces of information in small doses and lets you connect most of the puzzle pieces so there’s quite a bit of “what’s going on???” in the beginning.However, the music usage, the visuals, the story and the end result is what I’d call “artistic” and it’s rare to find stuff like this nowadays. (Plus, there’re numerous ships skksks) [9/10] (x)

Recommend: HELL Yeah! | Yes | Eh??? | Nope | This anime killed my parents

#dusty reviews #Shoujo Kageki Revue Starlight #Amanchu #Amanchu!#Amanchu! Advance #Amanchu Advance #Jashin chan Dropkick #Dropkick On My Devil!

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staringatthetwinsuns · 6 years

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On writing Luke Skywalker as a character with a disability (meta thoughts)

Inspired by this post and the immensely thoughtful reblogs that go with it, I am going to try to consolidate my thoughts, advice, pet peeves, and feels about writing Luke Skywalker as a character with a disability (and perhaps touch a bit on Anakin/Vader). This is something I've actually spent a lot of time thinking about, and I don’t see it talked about very often, but now that I know I’m not the only one who thinks about it, I thought I'd try to share my perspective at least and start a conversation. Please feel free to add to, question, or outright argue with anything here.

First, a disclaimer: I am not an amputee, a doctor, an occupational therapist, or anyone else with relevant personal experience. I have personal reasons for caring deeply about this, but the most important ones are probably just wanting to see my favorite character written well and wanting to see diverse characters represented in fiction in general, so. Take this as you will.

Also, I will say in advance that I mix person-first language ("person with a disability") and identity-first language ("disabled person") here, because I know there are people who prefer both.... apologies/warnings in advance if you strongly dislike or are triggered by either.

So, first things first, and this is really just general writing advice that could apply to any disability or ANY aspect of a character's appearance… to what extent is is even necessary to address Luke's prosthetic hand in fic? The post I linked to above was really talking about art, and in that case, I suppose you do have to make some sort of choice—to draw Luke with a natural-looking hand like he had in ESB, a black glove as in ROTJ, or a metal hand like in the sequel trilogy. In fic, however, it doesn’t always need to really be addressed at all. Again, this goes for ANY aspect of a character’s appearance, and the golden rule is: Would the POV character (the character whose point of view we are in at the moment) notice or care at this particular moment in the story? You know how it feels weird when you read a bad YA fantasy novel and the narrator says something like "I looked at him with my brilliant purple eyes, which perfectly accented my flawless ivory skin"? That’s unnatural because actual people (even teenagers, shock! horror!) don’t really go around thinking about their own eye color or how flawless their skin is (unless they're incredibly unlikable, and then why would we want to read about them?). They’d be slightly more likely to be thinking about it if their skin WASN'T flawless and that zit they found this morning was bothering them, etc. Cardinal rule: don’t mention anything the narrator or POV character wouldn’t logically be thinking about at the time.

So, whether you even need to mention Luke's hand at all probably depends on a number of factors: Whose POV are we in? When does the fic take place? (Luke's going to be more aware of his new hand between ESB and ROTJ, for example, than decades in the future.) Does anything specifically happen that reminds the POV character of the fact that his hand's a prosthetic?

Which brings me, I suppose, to the next thing: Whether it even counts as a disability at all and the fact that, EVEN IF IT DOESN'T, you still can't really ignore it as if his hand just magically regenerated.

So, first. Is having an amazing cybernetic limb in the Star Wars universe a disability? I say a cautious yes… or at the very least, it's a medical condition on the same level with say, wearing glasses or contacts or having a hip replacement or something in the real world?

I do think it depends on a lot of factors though, and movie canon, at least, doesn’t give us a lot of answers. We don’t really know how much feeling Luke has in his hand… pressure/pain is established, but what about heat or cold? Does it hurt at all (aside from pain sensors)? Is it stronger, weaker, less flexible (more flexible? That's a bit hard to imagine?) etc, than his other hand? I think it PROBABLY counts as a disability and at least counts as something that would affect his daily life in AT THE VERY LEAST small ways. More on that later.

I don’t actually remember what Legends had to say about any of this but again, movie canon doesn’t give us a lot. Here are some of the things I appreciate fanfic writers thinking about, though. (For the record, I am GUILTY AS HELL of overlooking some of this stuff myself in certain fics though, so don't feel bad if you have too… just suggestions for things we probably SHOULD be considering!)

1. How different is the sense of touch or the range of movement in Luke's prosthetic right hand, compared to his left hand? Does it affect the way he does things? Does he favor one hand over the other in certain situations because of this? Does this change as time goes by and any differences become his norm? (I'd personally think there'd be some difference… not necessarily better or worse, but different, and that over time it would definitely start to feel normal.)

2. How different does it look or feel to other people? 1980s-era special effects aside, look at the rest of the technology in the universe. Look at your own hand for goodness' sake. I can’t imagine it’s a perfect replica. Like, I can see the bones and veins in my hand. My fingernails get too long and split and have ragged cuticles. There's no WAY that anyone would even WANT a prosthetic hand that realistic, so. There's got to be some difference. Especially in a romantic or sexual situation, especially fairly soon after ESB, it seems weird not to mention this. I HAVE seen fics that addressed the body temperature issue, either by having the other character be surprised that his hand WAS warm or stating that it wasn't? I guess I personally don't think that heating would be a priority and that it might therefore be cooler than his other hand? Again, definitely not always necessary but, in certain scenes might be important and gets sometimes ignored.

3. There is no f-ing way that Luke’s hand actually ages, so… while I agree that the "Oh all the skin just fell off" idea is stupid, what DOES he do as he ages? Go for the metal model because it doesn’t look the same anyway so it doesn't MATTER if he ages? Get the skin updated to look more like whatever age he is now? Just… have a random 22-year-old-looking hand even though the rest of him is 50?

4. Regardless of whatever you go with for #3, either the entire hand or some of its parts must need replacing over time. Anyone who thinks people use the same prostheses for 30 years doesn’t know anyone who actually uses one (or hasn’t known them for very long, anyway), and even if you play the "advanced technology" card.. want to show me a 30-year-old car, airplane, or space shuttle that has NEVER HAD A PART REPLACED EVER? Can he do the maintenance himself (one-handed? Well, at least he has the Force?) or does a medical droid need to do it, etc?

5. What does the REST of the galaxy think about this? The only canon instances of ableism I can think of are Obi-Wan’s "more machine now than man" in ROTJ, and Dooku's not-so-nice thoughts about Anakin's arm in the ROTS novelization (although Palpatine obviously feels differently in the same scene), but… on the whole is there any stigma attached, or not? If so, is Luke more like "screw it," or is he somewhat self-conscious? What do Leia, Han, Chewie, Wedge... whoever else is in the fic, think? I mean, seriously... imagine a loved one losing a limb. You might not CARE (you shouldn't CARE, in the sense of loving them less or differently, and I don't think any of the above characters would either) but it would still be a thing to get used to?

6. Back to technical stuff, just how much of his arm IS mechanical anyway? Definitely seems to be more than he actually lost to Vader. (This Quora post is fascinating.) Again, usually not relevant since Luke never wears anything but long sleeves after ESB (which is a travesty; look at those ARMS on Dagobah), but… might be relevant if he’s naked in your fic? ;)

7. Related to #6, how obvious is the point where the synthskin meets his natural skin? This could probably be barely noticeable (theatrical makeup experience FTW?) but, might not be? Is this the reason he always wears long sleeves? XD I can't imagine synthskin can tan or grow hair or anything, right???

Okay, so assuming you've put the thought into your headcanon for the above (I… really hadn’t either until recently though, and my fics are all inconsistent so… no judgment either way), let me come back to this "minor thing that affects your life in small ways" thing.

I don’t really get the impression that, with Luke anyway, this particular fandom pays TOO MUCH attention to his prosthetic hand to the point where it feels like a fetish. I have read a COUPLE of fics that felt icky that way, but many more involving Anakin/Vader. If anything, it gets kind of over-ignored as a perfect replacement that is exactly like his biological hand in every way.

That's just not possible. It's not. And even if it WERE scientifically possible (in a very cyberpunk-ish world, no less) would anyone BOTHER to make a cybernetic hand with ugly veins, scraggly cuticles, and age spots?

So. Even if you don’t consider it a disability, it’s a THING. I don’t think my wearing contacts is a disability, but I still can't open my eyes underwater, and if I nap in the afternoon my eyes get dry and gunky, and if I drive somewhere and lose a contact I legally and literally CANNOT drive home (never happened but, anxiety FTW?), and don't forget that one time I lived through a major earthquake and all the supermarkets ran out of food because the roads were closed, you better bet I was worried about what would happen if I ran out of One Day Acuvue before the courier services opened back up (actually go to an eye doctor and get that awful glaucoma test? *shudder*). Similarly, someone who can walk normally on an artificial hip or knee isn’t disabled in the same sense that someone who uses a wheelchair is, but they still set off metal detectors and can’t sit comfortably in certain positions. It may or may not be a major thing, but it is a thing… and it does seem weird to me that a lot of writers seem to treat Luke’s hand as a perfect replacement when it CAN'T BE. For example:

1. It's metal in his body. I’ve translated enough medical documents to know that THAT IS A THING. Metal detectors, MRIs, whatever… there are times when metal vs. organic material is a thing.

2. He can't possibly have the same fingerprints, if he has any fingerprints at all. It MIGHT be possible for a planned amputation but… that hand was lost. Any biometric-type military clearance Luke has now has to be reset/redone. Finger vein identification etc. is probably a no-go period. (NEW THOUGHT: Unless the Alliance had his fingerprints on file... doesn't REALLY match up with the rest of the technology of the world, but... cool possibility?)

3. Maintenance. Especially considering if he’s going to live on a water planet with exposed mechanical parts with no one else to help him do maintenance if needed *side-eyes Rian Johnson*

4. Ongoing pain? This is a headcanon of mine anyway. From what I understand, phantom pain comes from the brain sending out signals to a limb that is no longer there, and getting no response. Since Luke’s hand DOES have feeling, I don’t think he’d have that kind of ongoing issue, BUT. I do think there’d be pain right after he got it (again, talk to anyone who’s had a joint replaced?) and I kind of imagine his hand aching whenever he was reminded of Vader or of losing it. Not a necessary thing to work in, I suppose, but that’s a headcanon I use a lot.

5. Identity as a disabled person? I have seen this addressed in some fics, and I agree that it might not have a place one way or the other in a story that has nothing to do with disability, but… I do sort of see Luke being especially compassionate to other veterans or victims of the war, and to people with disabilities in general, maybe especially because he now knows that’s something he shared with his father? I also like it when fics address the fact that not everyone in the galaxy has access to what I assume was the top-of-the-line model for the Alliance’s biggest hero, at that Luke might feel guilt about that, or at least a desire to help others?

6. Vanity/self-esteem? Luke doesn’t seem like a hugely vain person to me but… would he be at all self-conscious about meeting someone new and getting the awkward questions? Does he tell the truth, and if so how much of it? Or does everyone just already know? (That wouldn’t necessarily be LESS awkward though?) Like everything else, this probably depends on when the fic is set.

7. Is there anything he’s not supposed to do, like get wet (especially without the skin, oh dear sequel trilogy)???

I guess on the whole I see Luke as a not-vain person who probably wouldn’t care THAT much about appearances (except everyone does a little, right?), but I do think his hand would be a constant reminder of Vader, for better (after ROTJ) or worse (between ESB and ROTJ). I don’t think it would be as life-changing as losing a limb in the real world today, but I also don’t think he’d go months (or even a day really) without even thinking about it, with zero changes to anything whatsoever.

I think it’s really important that the technology in Star Wars is shown to be helping and healing people, rather than just blowing things up. I LOVE that people have taken that ideal version of a prosthetic limb and made strides toward actually creating it in real life. But I also think that just ignoring the fact that Luke IS a character with a disability (however rendered-minor it is by said technology) does a huge disservice to the character and to diversity in pop culture in general.

So… long story short, I’d love to see more fics that did address this, even if it’s casually and in passing. While there are certainly situations in which the best choice is "it doesn’t matter in this scene," if anything I see Star Wars fics going too far in the other direction… not really considering this as a part of the character and the world?

#meta #luke skywalker #writing fanfic #meta thoughts #disability in fiction #disability in fanfic #star wars #star wars original trilogy #meta thought #cybernetics #disability #representation #not an expert #just a writer #friendly debate welcome

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taetae-tea · 6 years

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The One (Part IV)

Part III <- Part IV –> Part V

Genre: Hybrid!Taehyung, (soul)mate!Taehyung, Fluff, Angst, smut

Paring: TaehyungXreader

Word-count: 3,5K

Warnings: Abuse, unjust, anxiety, force, animalistic feelings, panic-attacks, indication of mating, a dilemma to chose between heart or mind

Summary: You’ve never liked the idea of hybrids, since it’s straight up abuse from a owner to a hybrid, they aren’t treated like humans. But what happens when your boss gave you a hybrid as a gift?

A/N: Hope y’all are having a great christmas xx Enjoy this next part of The One <3

Masterlist

What happened in Pt.III of The One

‘I want to be with you, marry you, have kids with you, go to thin and thick with you. Everything ___-’

‘Give me 2 days, 2 days to let me think about it all. Don’t force me, don’t try and effect my answer because we both know you will win it that way. I want to solve this problem with a proper mind-set.’ You say as you look up at his beautiful eyes, twinkling by just the mere touch of your hand on his back, torso against yours.

‘Okay ___, I’ll wait.’

‘I don’t want him anymore. He just fucking disobeyed me.’

The middle-aged woman huffed loudly into the speaker. Taehyung flinched away by the harsh tone, sad and scared that he couldn’t fully comply to his owners wants. He didn’t meant to react like that to her, he just found a threesome with 2 complete strangers going too far. He isn’t a whore, he still had that much of a respect for his own body.

‘Yes, replace him immediately.’

Tears began to form in his eyes again. He fucked it up, he wasn’t supposed to fuck it up again. He never intended on disappointing her, not at all, but he thought it was reasonable to place his boundaries there. Fuck, why can’t you do anything right?

The 2 days were like hell. Everything just felt as if you were placed into a big dark place, gloomy and somewhat scary. You’ve been isolating from Taehyung as much as you were able. You had sticked to your own words, you really wanted to know if this would be the right choice, to be with him and you of course had to check if you were able to have another human being in your house.

Financial, it could work. You made enough money to afford another human in your house, that’s nonetheless why you stayed at that company after all. It was fucked up, the way they treaded woman and lower-standing people in the company. You’ve accepted the reality a long time ago and lived through it, what ended up very good for you. Eventually, they saw how your presence in that company could be good for them as well and despite you being a woman, they still needed you on certain aspects. That’s how you got several promotions and you began to earn more money.

Normally you would invest your extra earned money to save it up, but you could also invest that money into Taehyung’s presence.

Now, that being settled, you had to go to the next problem, your family and friends. How in hell could you explain to them that you were about to be with a hybrid for the rest of your life? You couldn’t possibly do that. They wouldn’t accept him, not when he doesn’t work at least.

It made you wonder though, what if he was specialized in something else than being a hybrid? The company Hy-tech doesn’t exist that long, maybe 5 years or so. That means, he has been doing something else before becoming a hybrid. Maybe he is able to have a real job, to earn some money. And thinking back to your new-found friend, Emma, he will be needing something that keeps his thoughts off of you during your work-hours. You know a hybrid can’t be away from their mate very long, not longer than a few hours, so that had to mean he needs to busy himself in the remaining time.

Emma: Hey! It’s Emma again. I was wondering if we could maybe meet up, talk face to face :)

You cock your head slightly, surprised that she is willing to really meet up with you, despite not knowing you. Maybe a talk with her could help indeed. A day has already past after all and you did not yet found an answer for Taehyung. Though your body screams constantly for Taehyung’s presents, warming up every time he is in the same room and your heart aching every time he isn’t. You long for him, so much, you feel so attached to him already, though you’ve only known him for 3 days. It looks unnatural, but it feels so right. Your head still tries to get you to look at the reality. How can you love something that isn’t even a real human? Yes, he does deserves human rights, but you aren’t the kind of person to really share your life with something like him, a hybrid.

You: Yes, that sounds like a great idea :)) I’ve been conflicted these few days so this might freshen up some things.

Two hours later, being 3 o’clock precisely, you were at the same little café you were with your best friend a few days ago. You’ve always liked the little café, since the service there is great and the atmosphere around there is so cozy. Emma luckily lives near your city, being one hour away with the car, so she didn’t mind coming to your town at all. She was actually very excited to meet you, since there aren’t many people being mated with an hybrid, having the same problems she is facing or went through.

‘___? That’s you right?’ You suddenly hear from behind and you turn around to be meet with a really pretty girl. She has long wavy hear, long lashes and such a pretty figure. You couldn’t really hide your amazement of her appearance as you began to stare, making her giggle in response. ‘Don’t fall in love with me, my kitten will kill me if some other person would drool all over me.’

You began to giggle in response, somewhat amazed by the confidence she wears. You like people who are very strong on their own, not scared to talk their mind. It’s admirable, really.

‘Yeah, it’s me, then you must be Emma.’ You say while standing up and taking her hand to shake, having a rather humorous turn in your little action. The both smiled at each other, feeling a new bond created. You both pulled away and sat across from each other.

‘Was it a long trip?’ You asked, being polite and genuinely interested. She shook her head. ‘It was quite enjoyable actually, I never really get the chance to really get out of that house.’ She chuckles. You cock your head to the side, asking her silently why she wouldn’t be able to get out.

‘Ahh, that. Well I told you already actually. Jimin never leaves me alone I swear to god.’ She huffs, chuckling after. You connected the dots vastly and realized that Jimin is probably her panther-hybrid, her mate. You nod to yourself, remembering the little talk you had with her over text. She had told her hybrid became incredibly clingy and you personally don’t mind clingy, but you still need to be able to focus on your work. Though, if you had to be honest, you wouldn’t mind having someone to rip you away from the torturous homework you need to finish every friday evening.

An ober walked up to your table, wearing an handsome smile as he asked you for your orders. You, like always, ordered for a strawberry milkshake, knowing it’s one of their best drinks they sell. Emma did the same, after you recommended the choice of drink of course.

‘But, what I wanted to ask-.’ Emma began. ‘why are you having difficulties lately? With your mate I mean?’ She asked, curious to why you actually wanted to meet up. You sigh slightly, looking down at you lap. Hearing the words ‘your mate’ felt so good to hear. It’s as if it’s supposed to be like this.

‘It’s not my mate yet.’

She frowns as she leans in. ‘Why not?’ Her tone was quite worried too, probably now understanding why you are frustrated-looking. She had noticed it the moment she sat across from you. She scanned the bags under your eyes and the pale(ish) skin. She found it odd, but concluded that it might be just the way you look. It seemed that she was wrong about that after all and that you have been having sleepless nights these 2 days.

‘I don’t know if this is what I want yet.’

She nods, understanding completely what you mean. She has had the same problem in the past, not knowing if she really would want Jimin in her life like that. Though she was very much in love and attracted, she still didn’t know if that was the right thing to do. It’s probably common to feel like that when you’re about to share your life with someone else, not only hybrid focused. But, having a hybrid to share your life with, meant that there were more changes than with a normal marriage. Your affection and communication with each other are all so different from a normal human couple. But, it’s not in a bad way, it’s actually so nice, feeling one with your partner. You understand each other ten times better once you are mated.

‘I have one tip for you in this matter, follow your heart, not your head.’

‘If I did that, I would be mated to him already. My body is literally screaming for him.’ You sigh, looking down at your milkshake, which has been served a few moments ago.

‘I said heart, not body. Look if his personality complies perfectly with yours. That’s the only thing that matters.’

Her words had sticked with you. She was right, you should listen to your heart, not anything else. If your personalities won’t match, it isn’t the right thing to be his mate.

There was also something else that had sticked with you during your way home and which got you blushing while thinking about it. The mating process.

‘The what process?’

‘The mating process, silly.’ She laughs, slightly blushing as she looks down at her lap. You frown, now being the one to lean in.

‘What is it precisely?’

‘The way you will be mated.’

‘And that is...?’

She sighs, looking around if anyone would hear before leaning closer to you. You don’t know where the dramatic reaction is for, but she surely knew how to get one scared within seconds. What if you had to undergo some weird rituals?

‘It’s with sex.’

You blink a few times, trying to understand what she just said before almost jumping out of your seat. You were surprised to say the least. You knew that there was some kind of thing you had to undergo, of course, but you naturally thought he simply had to bite you. It does explain why your body reacts the way it currently does in the presence of Taehyung. It wants to get mated and if that meant sex, it will make it known right away.

‘It’s not only the sex, he will have to bite you to connect your souls. It hurts so much, but it will be worth it after. You will feel so connected.’ She tells the story as if it’s some dream coming through. For you it’s not a dreams coming true, it’s most likely a unexpected and uncertain dream coming true.

You quietly shook your head, chuckling to yourself in disbelieve. If you didn’t yet have any uncertainty, it surely exists now.

The rest of the day went quite fast. You’ve had a great time with Emma and you made sure to see each other another time.

When you came home, you could hear some noises from the kitchen. You look at the clock, eyes widening when you noticed it was already 6 pm and Taehyung would be needing to eat.

You sprinted at the kitchen, scared that Taehyung is experimenting with stuff that might hurt him. But, when you walked inside, Taehyung is happily swaying his tail around while cooking something that smells... delicious. You are quite taken aback, surprised that Taehyung was able to cook so well, judged from the smell that lingered around the room. But then again, Taehyung had a life before being a slave of that company, maybe he had to cook often or was he even graduated from a culinary school.

‘I made us some dinner.’ He announced as he hadn’t turned around to look at you. You could feel the happy atmosphere around him, making your mood to lighten up immediately. You nod in response, though he probably couldn’t see you. You slowly walk up to him, scared that your body might fuck it up again by letting know your growing affection already, but you still wanted to see what he is cooking. When the food came into your view, you were even more surprised. He is preparing tomato soup, self made and probably put together by the few remaining vegetables which were left in your fridge. You normally don’t really cook for yourself, maybe some eggs or pancakes once in a while, but you never really have enough time to prepare something more difficult at night.

‘Where did you learn to cook?’ You finally ask, deciding on letting go of your pestering question which have been sticking to the back of your mind. You swiftly look at his face to analyze any frowns, scared that you might pulled another trigger, but you were happy to be met with a soft smile from his side.

‘Cooking is actually the only thing they decided to keep within my system.’ He said, spoon stirring through the hot liquid inside the saucepan. His words seems sad, but when you look closer, you notice something light within his tone. It’s as if he’s grateful to be able to remember how to cook. He is grateful for something you shouldn’t be grateful of. You can’t be happy when the only thing you can do is cooking. And of course, they would let that within his system, it could be handy to have a hybrid which was able to cook.

‘Don’t get sad about it ___, I’m okay.’ He said as soon as he feels your downy-atmosphere in the air. He could feel it in his heart too, when the anger slowly began to boil again.

He at first was quite confused to why you got angry so often. Every time he told you something about his past, it seemed as if he touched a weak part of your emotions. Over the years, he came to accept his fate and let himself drown in all the lies he got told and eventually didn’t see reality anymore, so it wasn’t weird when he didn’t understood certain emotions from your side. But, in some way, your emotions were effecting him. Like you were waking something up within him. He dared to take his own initiative and to look up into your eyes. If it was with anyone else, he would still be as submissive as ever with his owner, but you are different, obviously.

‘I actually enjoy cooking so much.’ He noted, sighing in content. You sighed along with him as you showed a little smile across your face. Though your hate towards hy-tech was still visibly growing, Taehyung’s words still didn’t fail to reach through your hatred and to slowly calm you down, returning your thoughts back to him.

‘Then you should cook more often, if you like it this much.’

You took a step back from the kitchen counters and began leaning over onto the table across the room. You began to admire his back-view for a little bit. His wide shoulders are so pleasingly beautiful and you could see the veins on his arms disappearing in the sleeves of his sweater, which were folded up to his elbows.

When your gaze began to trail southwards, you became amazed by the yellow and goldish tail with a brown fluffy bundle of hair at the end of it, it was slowly swinging from the one to the other side, showing he is feeling comfortable and at ease.

You sigh to yourself again, pleased with your view and sad at the same time, because you can’t hold him like the way you want to hold him right now.

‘You know that you just have to ask if you would want a hug right?’ He says, chuckling when he hears you gasping in response. You sometimes totally forget he could feel everything you feel, so also your urges and needs. You felt it sometimes from his side too, mostly when you were showering and you could practically smell his arousal. You hated those moments, since you almost wouldn’t be able to just let him fuck you right against those tiles.

‘N-No, that’s not needed.’

You could hear him chuckle again, followed by a glance back at you, eyes slightly dark and a smirk quite visible. Your body had an instant reaction on his behavior, heating up quickly in an affectional way. You’ve been trying to avoid these moments the past few hours, to keep your head straight and to focus on the real problems for a second. But, sometimes your body seemed to fail you and you couldn’t stop yourself from pressing you thighs close against each other, wetness forming at your center, just like now.

‘Hmm, it suddenly smells a lot more delicious here.’ He mutters, very much happy with the reaction he got out of you. You gulp, pupils already blown wide and skin aching for his touch already.

‘So sensitive for me...’ he sighs in delight, knowing you could hear him.

Then your legs suddenly gave out on you, being too affected from him and body now literally screaming for his attention, mostly his teeth to make you his mate. He was quick to catch you from falling, now also shocked himself of the reaction you had on him.

‘Fuck, sorry.’ He feels quite guilty for making your body ache like that and when he touches your skin, he almost burns himself by how hot you are. When his gaze traveled down to your center, he notices a big wet spot on your trousers and he immediately smelled that it’s your arousal dripping onto your clothes. Though he felt himself getting turned on, his worries got the best of him and began lifting you off the ground and brought you to the living-room, laying you down on the sofa.

‘What can I do?’ He asks, brows furrowed and scared he might really have broken you this time, tail also furiously wiggling around as he feels very uncomfortable by your current state.

‘Fuck me, Taehyung.’ You breathe out, finally losing it. His breath hitches and his tail stopped moving, now his fluffy ears twitching when he felt himself getting quite nervous. You can’t stop yourself anymore, you need his body right now to stop the constant feeling within you. Your body screams, your heart screams and your head now also screams to let him take you.

‘No, ___, you’re not in your right mind. Please think about this a little longe-.’

You stopped him by grabbing his hand, guiding it immediately to your trousers, wanting him to ease your ache you are feeling. He bites his lips, not knowing what to do at that very moment. He knows you are losing it right now and that you aren’t exactly at the right set of mind. But, on the contrary of those thoughts, his erection only began to grow more and more, his own needs taking over his mind.

‘Please Tae...’ you sigh, both of yours and his hand now sliding into your pants and letting him cup your clothed heat, showing how wet you are for him. You could see his eyes flicker, black and red eye-colors taking turns. You knew he was very much conflicted on what to do and you knew, if you only got him a little more closer, you could have him to mate with yo-

Taehyung suddenly ripped his hand out of your pants, immediately standing up and turning around. He almost sprinted away from you, back to the kitchen and locking himself into that room, leaving you alone and aching.

Although all his senses told him to take you right then and there, he knew that you had to be in your right mind for this decision. A human blinded by lust will never make the right decisions, although it was your body making you crazy, he still knew that he shouldn’t take advantage of that. He wants you to choose fairly and to choose for the person he is and not because of your body.

But, this decision has to be taken quickly, because looking at his calendar, his heath will arrive in a day or 3. The pills they got him will certainly not work on a guy in heath with his soulmate in the same room. So, let’s just say, you need to get mated quickly or he needs to get out of that house before hell takes over and he quite literally won’t be able to hold himself back like that anymore.

Hope you enjoyed this one! Love y’all <3

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skia-oura · 6 years

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Orange Lilies, 9/12?

A/N: I actually finished this in 3 days, but let it sit a couple so I could go through it later. 5 days is soon enough, I think.

Bentley has two conversations with Dr. Fantino, whose research is probably not netting them the results they want. Dipper and Torako have their own talk with a very protective mother, and Dipper realizes that maybe he was ignoring some important calls.

Prologue // Previous // Next

Ao3

8k, so shorter than last time but still a significant read!

Chapter 8: Dr. Fantino Conducts an Actual Interview

“So where are we going?” Bentley asked, shuffling along on weakened legs. They’d stopped being so strict about knocking him out and prohibiting all human interaction. It might have been because he’d become prone to bouts of paralysis, where he stayed in one position and stared out into nothing, consumed with the overwhelming feeling that he couldn’t move, that he was frozen in place. Bentley knew he wasn’t actually paralyzed, but also his brain and body were having fights these days and Bentley was out of control more than he was in control. Moving around was therefore a bit of a pleasant surprise.

He held no illusions as to how that pleasantry was going to end.

“You’ll see,” the nurse guiding him said. Bentley was almost offended by how absolutely non-threatening the nurse was. It was like Bentley wasn’t thought of as a problem. To be fair, it was mostly true. He didn’t even have footwear, and it was hard to be intimidating without shoes. And shuffling. And also sometimes trapped in his own head.

However, Bentley was content to let the misperception regarding his capabilities lie, just in case things changed and he needed the upper hand. He didn’t know how much he could accomplish with a weak body and without anything to draw sigils with, but there had to be something, eventually.

“I’ve never been out here awake,” Bentley said instead. He was starving for conversation that wasn’t with himself, and the pale, hollow walls of wherever they were were as good a conversation starter as anything. They felt unnatural, like there was really nothing there even though they were solid. Bentley had reached out and touched one just long enough to tell it was there.

“I know,” the nurse said. He had dark eyes and a thin, straight nose. They never really met Bentley’s, never really even did more than glance at Bentley’s face. He kept his hand splayed out between Bentley’s shoulderblades, touch professional but not overly pushy. Bentley was kind of ashamed at how much better the contact made him feel. “But now you are, I guess.”

Bentley hummed. “It’s weird.”

“Yeah,” the nurse sighed. “Yeah, it’s really unsettling. All right, so, here’s where we’re going! You’ll be alone inside that room, but you’ll be monitored.” The nurse looked like he might say something but bit it back with a complicated expression on his face that Bentley was in no shape to decipher.

“When am I not monitored?” Bentley asked, dry, because it was one of the few ways he could distract himself from the frigid anger he felt at every dehumanizing aspect of his treatment. He hadn’t physically peed in so long he missed it.

The nurse laughed awkwardly, and opened the door set into the walls. The door felt more tangible, more actual, than the hallway surrounding them. Bentley nodded his thanks and stepped in, his hospital gown swirling around his knees. The door shut, and locked, behind him. Bentley leaned against it and surveyed the room.

It was bigger than the hole they’d shut him in, but maybe only twice as much. The space was relaxing, but also unnerving after so long—however long was—in his own room, big enough for two twin-sized beds and nothing more. This space even had a table in the middle, and enough room to walk around it comfortably. Bentley blew his bangs, now past his nose, out of his eyes. The room smelled a little old, which was odd in a place that smelled only like absence. The reason for that, Bentley realized, was because there were some things on the table: a disfigured stuffed bear, an old tuba, a strand of gaudy beads, a very outdated piece of technology that Bentley didn’t even recognize, a beautiful vintage vase, and a pink bat with nails and screws hammered into it. It took Bentley a moment to realize what was happening.

Once he started laughing, it was very, very hard to stop.

“Wow,” Bentley wheezed. “You’re pulling this shit out? This unscientific crap? A reincarnation test for babies? Am I a fucking baby to you?”

There was silence from the room around him, but this was a kind of test, so it wasn’t really too farfetched to assume that Fantino, somewhere, was watching. Listening. It burned Bentley to think it. He shifted focus.

“That’s just rude. Are these even real, or just fakey-fake replications?” The bat definitely was; the lack of barbed wire was a dead-giveaway. Bentley, breathless with mirth, staggered over to the table to look at the objects further. He picked up the bear and laughed at its grotesque face. Dipper would get a kick out of it. “What the fuck kind of show are you running here? A weird stuffed animal? Art? Musical instruments?” He tossed the bear back onto the table. It landed on its side, back to him. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? So shut in your books you don’t even talk to people. Don’t know how to conduct an interview? Did you even get the right documents to conduct these dumbass experiments? Probably fucking not.”

Bentley picked up the weird technology, thin and lightweight. There was a seam around its edges, and he pried it open like a book. It wasn’t, though. One side was blank but cracked. The other side was covered in a series of keys with characters, some of which he recognized as being familiar. It almost looked like a letter-input board. Maybe it was; they couldn’t have always been holographic and keyed to react to human fingertips. He pushed one of the keys and it depressed slightly. He felt nothing for the object but vague curiosity, born mostly of boredom. He tilted it. The cracked side reflected his own face back at him.

Bentley stared, stunned into silence.

It was hard to see, a little. The reflection was dark, somewhat indistinct, but he could tell a few things. His hair was longer, down to his shoulders—it was one thing to know that it had grown so much, and another thing to see it. Wiry stubble glanced down the sides of his face and covered his chin, the skin under his nose—he’d always been awful at facial hair. His face was thinner, and his collarbones more prominent above the neckline of his gown. One eye looked a lighter than the other. When he blinked, something weird happened with it, something he wasn’t sure how to qualify. His skin seemed mottled. When he looked down at his arms in slow panic, his skin seemed the same as before on first glance—except, except there was uneven coloring on his upper arms, indistinct because it was so close to his face.

It was suddenly hard to breathe.

The electric book, weird keyboard and all, slipped from his hands and fell to the floor. It cracked, enough to break beyond repair but not to the point of shattering. Bentley didn’t really even see it. Something inside him was frozen. He teetered on the edge between control and disconnect, fingers senseless, arms limp, knees trembling with the urge to just stop.

“What are you doing to me?” Bentley said, finally. He felt faint. There was a lump in his throat like he was going to scream. The sound of old tech cracking continued to ring dull in his ears, an echo that lived too long. “What are you doing to me?”

His mind whirred and stood still simultaneously. Why was Fantino physically changing him? What purpose was this even for? Was this another layer of revenge for…for what? Bentley thought. The lilies, he remembered. The curse had worked? Was this all revenge porn for Fantino to jack off to?

“What do you even want?” Bentley whispered. To his horror, he’d begun to cry. His breath hitched, and the world blurred a little.

For a long moment, there was silence. Then, from the ceiling, Fantino spoke, smooth like wet ice across polished marble. “Many things,” they said. “Your cooperation would be appreciated, Bentley Farkas.”

“Cooperation?” Bentley echoed, dumbly, like he didn’t have a Masters and wasn’t one of his profession’s leading experts. He stared at the broken tech on the ground, actually looked at it. Tears dripped down his face, hot, forced out by rapid blinking. The edges were jagged, white light from overhead glinting off the cracks, dipping into the innards of the machinery to illuminate hints of its constitution: faded wire, razor-thin circuitry dulled by age and dust, copper riddled with oxidation.

“Tell me what I need to know,” Fantino said. “Let me do my research. It would be revolutionary, to study a Mizar during their lifespan.”

“Revolutionary.” Bentley, like he was moving through tar, glanced from the computer to the exquisite vase, to the nailbat that closely resembled Torako’s. It was, he remembered somewhat dully, supposed to be Mizar’s. It was supposed to be his.

“Yes. So, if you might, please choose the object that calls to you the most—I do not mean to ridicule you, I mean only to exhaust every possible avenue of research in an endeavor to support my claims.”

Silence. Then, Bentley stepped over the broken tech. He scraped the sole of his foot against one of the jagged edges on the upstep, but didn’t actually care about the pain or the blood that was inevitably starting to flow out of the ragged cut. Everything was too muted, lost in static. Bentley reached, and pulled the bat to him by the handle. The nails screeched against the table’s interface, and the hovering functions in the legs flickered and burst into momentary static.

The bat was heavy.

“Good,” Fantino said. “Is that what calls to you most? Feel free to take your time. You know as well as I do that accuracy rarely makes friends with haste.”

Bentley didn’t answer. He hefted it, arms shaking a little, turned to face the vase. It was beautiful. Bentley stared at the red-breasted swallows painted into its sides. Their figures flew unmoving, static against the pale background. Soft splashes of blue lit them brighter, the contrast between warm and cool and light and dark striking. The motion they created though, drawing the eye here and there, was as elegant and fragile as the vase itself.

Without a word, Bentley swung the bat into the vase and shattered it all across the room. Ceramic shards hit the walls; some bounced off, others stuck before dropping, and a rare couple actually impaled the wall and stayed there, light glancing sharp off their stress-fractured edges.

Fantino didn’t speak from the ceiling anymore.

Bentley staggered forward a couple steps. He dropped to his hands and knees in a pile of shards. The edges sliced into his skin, and he started to cry again at the pain, harder than before. He curled in on himself and brought his hands closer, shards dragged under the shadow of his body with the motion. Bowing his head enough that his hair dragged across the mess he’d just made, he drew his arms in and sobbed.

When the nurses came in to collect him, he had run out of energy. He went willingly, limply, like he had cried himself silly. To be fair, he had. Bentley was honestly exhausted, emotionally and physically. The cuts on his hands and knees and feet really, really hurt, even after they were cleaned and healed shut into thin scabs that may or may not eventually scar.

There was triumph in him, though, sharp with rage and urgency. Bentley was going to get out of this place, and he was going to make Fantino pay.

Dipper was stubbornly refusing to reconsider the notion that it would be fine if Alcor the Dreambender showed up, unannounced, in the middle of somebody’s home at two in the morning. Yes, he had kind of torn through a series of impressive, specifically anti-demon wards in the process of blipping in. Yes, the walls and the ceiling (it took dedication to complete such an intricate spiral ward like that) were smoking and glowing with pinprick embers. And yes, there was also a tall woman in a silky nightgown and bathrobe brandishing a shock stick at him and Torako. Nevertheless, this had clearly been a good idea—the wards on the ceiling had just proven it. That’s the level he wanted his expert ward consultant on. Maybe he’d chewed through them in no time at all, but he’d still had to chew, at least.

He was also inordinately pleased to notice that Olla Sussally’s mother was not, in fact, a Pacifica reincarnation as he had feared. She wasn’t anybody he knew. Perfect.

“Get out of my house,” the woman snarled, eyes bright despite having just woken up, squinting only a little from having snapped the lights on. Another point in her favor was how fast she’d woken and cornered them in her living room. Smart woman. Good instincts. Dipper liked her, even though part of him was side-eyeing her threatening posture and thinking, how dare she.

“Di—Alcor, this was a really bad idea.”

“Hello!” Dipper said. “We need your brain.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, the woman gripped her shock stick tighter, aura shocked purple with fear and streaked orange with anger.

“What the fuck, Alcor,” Torako said. She squeezed his hand really tight. When he glanced at her, she was still holding the tumbler that’d had her alcohol in it. Judging by the smoke, it had burned out at some point. “He means that we need your help with a professional question. Ma’am. If it would please you.”

Dipper made no such promises. He wanted this to go smoothly, but if Olla’s mother refused, then he would do what had to be done. Bentley was not safe. Bentley was not with him. Even Soos’s mother would not stand in his way.

“It does bloody not please me,” Olla’s mother said, an edge in her voice that was both fear and incredulity. “You are both trespassing.”

“I’ve been in your house before. I was invited,” Dipper said, mostly to remind Olla’s mother of the point that she already knew, judging by the glorious wards he’d just smashed to pieces. They were still flickering with blue and red, but the embers were slowly dying.

“You’re not invited now. You are in fact uninvited forever.”

“I’m also not a vampire. You can’t keep me away like that.” He smiled a little, smug, and made sure to put in an edge of his own. It was dangerous. He was dangerous, and Olla’s mother should be groveling. She should be giving him everything he wanted, now, without hesitation because he could crush her under his pinky like a mite.

“Holy shit, Alcor,” Torako said. She shoved the smoking glass at him and stood in front of him. Taken off guard, he almost dropped it in his confusion, then blinked at the back of her head.

“Huh?”

“I’m really sorry for this,” Torako said. “My friend was kidnapped about a week ago. The police couldn’t do anything and I got desperate. But there’s something that’s blocking us from finding him, and we found out it’s something to do with wards, and Alcor doesn’t get his reward until we make sure my friend is safe so he’s a bit…overenthusiastic, and I promise you I didn’t know we were coming here until about two seconds before it happened.”

Murky grudori suspicion crawled around Olla’s mother’s shoulders, tangling in her bushy hair. “So?” she said, but Dipper saw her knuckles grow a little less white on the baton.

“You owe us nothing,” Torako said. “I have nothing to give you except my thanks, or maybe about ninety bucks because that’s all I have in cash right now and my backpack seems to have been forgotten—” she tried to step on his shoe, but Dipper moved it out of the way and decided that floating a little might be his best course of action “—but I really, really need your help. My friend is in danger, and has been traumatized again, and I just want him to be safe and at home.”

Olla’s mother stared at them. Dipper could tell her heartstrings had been tugged on, but she was still firm, still angry and scared, probably for her child in the other room. Somehow, Olla still seemed to be asleep.

“Why should I help then?” Olla’s mother straightened, wary dark eyes on Dipper. “You brought a demon into my home. You have trespassed at two in the morning. How do I even know you’re telling the truth? Why should I care?”

Torako’s shoulders slumped. She didn’t answer.

Dipper reached out to comfort her, then stopped, hand half-uncurled. They still were—they hadn’t talked, he realized, not really. And with how Torako wasn’t giving the whole truth, how she was shouldering the responsibility for finding Bentley, for summoning a demon in order to, Dipper wasn’t sure how to act. Whenever they’d played summoner-and-demon, it had been to strike fear, not to beg for help.

He pulled his hand back, looked back up at Olla’s mother. Her soul was only vaguely familiar, in the way that many souls were—her life had brushed against his, at some point, at some several points in the past, but they had never interacted. Dipper didn’t know how to interact with her. He didn’t know what buttons he might push. He didn’t know her soul, he didn’t know her at her core, and she was utterly set against him.

If Dipper were more honest with himself, he would realize that he was useless here.

“If you can’t give me a good answer, then get out.”

Torako took a deep breath. She straightened up, and said, “My friend is being tortured as we speak by somebody who only cares about results. I can’t leave him in their hands. If you won’t help me, point me to somebody who will. I will leave. So will Alcor.”

Dipper would leave, he thought. Then he would come back and take what he needed, damn the consequences.

Olla’s mother snorted. “Why would I set you on somebody else?”

“Good question,” Torako said. She crossed her arms, shoulders tight. “I don’t know you. I can’t give you good answers. I have not eaten in nearly ten hours, and in the past week I have slept less than a third of what I should. If you’re not going to help, let me know already so I can figure out what to do.”

“Fantino’s house’d be a good place to start,” Dipper said, mostly to cover his back just in case he did need to come back and make Mrs. Sussally tell him what she knew, but also because decimating everything that person owned would be great stress relief and still appealed to him.

Olla’s mother lowered the stun baton. “Fantino?”

Torako dragged a hand down her face. “Yes. Just found out six hours ago. Don’t think it’s their house, but Alcor is going to take any chance he can get.”

Mrs. Sussally stared at them a couple beats longer. Her expression was as though they’d suddenly grown horns, or maybe like Dipper had suddenly become human without intending to. He looked down at himself just to make sure—nope, still floating, still claws, still suit fashioned out of air and spite and fear.

“Dr. Vallian Fantino?” Mrs. Sussally asked.

“Uh,” Torako said. She scratched the back of her neck, one arm wrapped around her stomach. Her aura turned confused, with bright splashes of blinking cerkan hope fizzling underneath. “You know them?”

Mrs. Sussally pressed her lips together hard enough they went pale. Then, with a sigh, she gestured to the couch. “Sit down, I have to get something. If you move out of this room, I will know.”

With one last hard stare at Dipper, Mrs. Sussally turned and left the room, wrapping her robe tighter around her form as she went. Dipper looked back at Torako, then lay a careful hand on her shoulder. Her aura was turning desaturated again in exhaustion.

“Come on,” he said. “Sit down, okay?”

“If I sit down,” Torako said, “I might actually fall asleep.”

“I’ll keep you up, don’t worry,” Dipper said. He pulled her to turn towards him, and she followed. Soft, he brushed a thumb over the arch of her cheek, really saw the dark circles under her eyes for the first time. She closed her eyes, leaned in just a little.

“I just want him home,” Torako said. She swallowed, visibly, and Dipper could see tears starting to seep out from between her eyelids.

“Me too,” Dipper said. He couldn’t bring himself to say that it wasn’t worth ruining herself over, because it was. It was worth ruining himself over. They both knew it. Bentley would argue otherwise, but he wasn’t there to do it, was he?

Dipper guided Torako to the couch and had her sit down. She set the tumbler, a little dark from the alcohol burning away, on the ground by the couch. He considered sitting right behind her, on the back of the couch—old and worn, but obviously well taken care of—but decided that Torako would appreciate not aggravating Mrs. Sussally more than necessary, and settled down next to her.

Dipper kept an eye on Torako the entire time they waited, and took to poking her when it looked like she was about to drop off. By the time Olla’s mother came back, Torako looked about ready to take his head off. Dipper almost wanted her to try.

“You are positive it was Dr. Vallian Fantino?” Mrs. Sussally sat in the chair opposite, a wide tablet in her hands. Dipper noted that the stun stick was hanging from her bathrobe tie.

“Yes,” Torako said. “My…friend had a memorable run-in with them once. I remember them. They seem to have remembered my friend.”

“And you said that you were being blocked by wards?”

“Presumably,” Dipper said. Olla’s mother gave him a look that was half-fear, half-consideration, and all-suspicion. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m very powerful. It takes a lot to keep me away from something I want.”

Olla’s mother looked up at the charred ceiling, then down at him. “I’m aware,” she said. She looked back at Torako. “I need to make a deal for this information.”

Dipper straightened and did his best to keep a grin off his face. Finally, they were getting somewhere!

Torako nodded. “What are your terms?”

“He,” Mrs. Sussally pointed at Dipper, “will not enter this house once he has left it, nor will he approach my daughter outside of it ever again, not even if she calls him.”

“Even when she’s an adult and can make her own decisions?” Dipper asked, pressing his lips shut. “That seems unfair. This concerns her, so shouldn’t she be here to make that call?”

“She is my daughter,” Mrs. Sussally said, chin tilted up, expression fierce. “I will not compromise on this.”

“You can’t control her,” Dipper said. “What happens if she summons something…less forgiving? I might be the only thing that could save her.”

“Your ego is showing,” Torako said. She turned to Mrs. Sussally. “What he means to say is that your daughter’s life is hers. If she wants to be stupid and summon a demon, then make sure she’s at least summoning a demon who won’t try to swindle her out of her soul for her homework? Just a lot of ice cream.”

“She is my daughter,” Mrs. Sussally repeated, fiercer.

“Okay,” Torako said, holding up her hands. “So, just to make sure, these are the terms: In return for Alcor the Dreambender never entering this house once he has left it, for him not approaching your daughter outside of it even when she calls him. In exchange, you will give us any pertinent information regarding your knowledge of Dr. Vallian Fantino, and whatever your connection to them is.”

Mrs. Sussally looked between the two of them, eyebrows furrowed. She ran her fingers down a braid, and her pink-painted fingernails glinted in the living-room’s lights. Finally, she nodded and held her hand out. “Deal.”

Torako took her hand, shook, and before they could let go Dipper had slid his hand on top of theirs, blue fire flaring up to bind them all in agreement. Mrs. Sussally jerked, but didn’t withdraw until Dipper had settled back into the couch.

The three of them sat there, the transition from deal to business awkward to navigate when one party’s house had been essentially invaded. Dipper tapped his feet against the floor, but it didn’t seem to spur either of the other two into motion. He opened his mouth to speak. Torako gave him an alarmed look, and rushed to fill the silence. Rude.

“So why did Fantino’s name…why did you ask if we were sure?”

Mrs. Sussally nodded and fiddled with the tablet. It lit up, white light glancing off the bottom of her jaw. “The reason I ask is this.”

She flicked up a message so that it was visible to them, hanging in thin air between her and her intruders. Torako leaned forward. Dipper only needed to glance at the letter to know what its contents were. Justification filled him to the point of bursting.

“I knew you were perfect,” Dipper purred. Mrs. Sussally looked a little disturbed.

“You were asked to make the wards?” Torako said, after a few moments. Her eyes had regained a measure of sharpness, and she straightened in the face of this new discovery. “Why? What happened?”

Mrs. Sussally lay the tablet flat on her lap. Her now braided hair shifted as she leaned into the back of her chair. “My husband works for a firm that specializes in construction based around warding, runeing, and increasingly sigiling,” she said. “I have taken commissions through them from time to time. My husband’s boss contacted me to ask if I would be interested.”

“Then why not take the job?” Torako asked, leaning forward. She pointed at a number in the letter. “It’s a substantial sum.”

“That surprised me too,” Mrs. Sussally said. “But as it’s an experimental process, and as there’s a non-disclosure agreement attached, it makes sense. And I didn’t go because it’s in another country, and I’d need to be on-site in order to figure out how to inscribe the wards. Monitoring can be done remotely, but I would have to be there to actually ensure that the correct ratios of energy were used to install the glyphs. Besides, I have other commissions that I can do here, and watch over Olla while she goes to school—which seems to be entirely warranted.” She cast a meaningful glance at Dipper.

Dipper frowned. “Then why disclose the commissioner’s name at all?” He asked, jabbing a claw at one of the instances in which the Asshat’s name was mentioned.

“Company policy,” Mrs. Sussally said. She downsized the letter, and then pulled up another couple of pictures, this time of the ward-building in process. Dipper whistled—they were so intricate that you couldn’t even see where specific chains began or ended, and variation in size was pretty tricky to pull off effectively. They were set into and around an otherwise plain doorframe, cold grey and utilitarian black.

“How do we work around the wards, then?” Torako said, squinting. “I’m not really fluent, but I can tell that there’s some kind of password involved to get into the pocket dimension.”

“I don’t know the password, so I can’t help you,” Mrs. Sussally said. “You would have to get it.”

“What about knocking the wards down?” Dipper asked. He tugged his collar a little. “Wouldn’t that do the trick?”

Mrs. Sussally raised her eyebrows at him, a little derisive. Maybe not as perfect as he’d hoped, but you know, she was doing what they needed so he was happy enough. “Knocking the wards down would collapse the dimension they surround,” she said, the amateur left unsaid but heavily implied. “Which, if your summoner’s friend is in there, would be going against the terms of your agreement. You can’t just do to these wards what you did here.”

“Right, we find somebody who knows the password.” Torako nodded, then pointed at one picture. “This is the exterior of the building?”

Mrs. Sussally nodded. “It’s apparently somewhere in Kabul.”

Dipper sat up straight. “Kabul?” he asked.

“My husband can’t tell me exactly where.” She paused, then narrowed her eyes. “Do not go to him for answers.”

Dipper would argue that that hadn’t been part of the deal, but he suddenly remembered that Batoor had called for him. Several times. If Fantino was in Kabul, and Batoor was near Kabul…

Dipper stood up. “We have to go.”

Torako, when he looked, was staring at him. “What.”

“We have to go. Right now. Immediately. Yesterday.” Hopefully Batoor was okay; the more Dipper recalled the summons, the more he thought that there was urgency encoded in the summons. Fuck.

“Oh my god.” Torako stood, however. “Thank you, Mrs…”

“Sussally,” Olla’s mother said. “You’ll be leaving then?”

“Yes. I apologize for coming in like this, but I suppose we’re going on to the next stop.” Torako smiled, thin. Dipper flared and flapped his wings in irritation that everything was taking so long.

“At least it’s almost six there, then,” Mrs. Sussally said. “I hope you don’t take this wrong, but I don’t ever want to see you again.”

“Yeah, no, I understand,” Torako said. She turned to look at Dipper. “I don’t exactly…”

“Lock of hair,” Dipper said. Torako rolled her eyes.

“I’m going to be bald by the end of this, then,” she said. “Fine. Lock of hair to get us to wherever is next.”

Dipper grabbed her hand, threw a salute at Mrs. Sussally (belatedly remembering that it was possible that the meaning of that particular gesture had changed since the last time he’d done it), and then they were in Batoor’s bedroom at a less ungodly hour in the morning.

It was not all that surprising to find himself, a few light-dark cycles later, in a room with the person who’d kidnapped him in the first place. Bentley pressed his healed palms to the table, stared at the backs of his hands. The mottling was growing more distinct, skin growing lighter or darker or staying the same in blurry patches. He wondered if it was just cosmetic, or if there was something else wrong with him that he just couldn’t tell. Vitiligo didn’t bother him. How it happened, if it had further consequences, kind of really did.

“I took your advice,” Dr. Fantino said, across from him. Bentley glanced up at the other person; carefully styled hair, straight back and immaculate blouse cut fashionably close to their body, a datapad Reader in one hand and a stylus in the other.

“Clearly not,” Bentley said. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Dr. Fantino neither smiled nor frowned. Their dark eyes were square on Bentley with a narrow intensity that made Ben a little nervous. “I consulted several acquaintances on research protocol in regards to sentient beings. It was suggested to me that I conduct an interview, or a conversation. Hence, this.”

He hummed, looked back down at his hands. He turned them over. The palms were also starting to become patchy. “I don’t suppose anything was said about gaining permission to conduct interviews, or the signing of the appropriate contracts?”

Bentley was ignored. “So, for the record, would you state your name?”

“You know my name,” Bentley said. He looked at the ceramic shard on the table between them, wondered how fast he’d have to act in order to drive it into Fantino’s throat. Wondered if it was even possible; there might be some sort of shield between them, preventing Fantino from coming to harm. If they were smart, there would be one.

“Humor me.”

Bentley sighed, leaned back. “Bentley Josh Farkas,” he said. His bangs were down to his lips now, and with nothing to tie them back, were a constant annoyance. He was seriously considering the possibility that he was stuck somewhere time flowed differently, and it would partly explain why Alcor hadn’t busted in to get him out already.

“How old are you, Bentley Farkas?”

“Good question,” Bentley said. “Last I knew, I was twenty-seven, but time here is a bit funny, isn’t it?”

Dr. Fantino nodded. “Observant, but I would be more surprised had you not taken note of that. Yes, it does run faster here than outside. How close were you to twenty-eight?”

Well, it was better than running slower. Recent missing cases were taken more seriously than year-old ones. Bentley pressed his hand to the table again, felt the vibrations from the placement field echo dully against his fingertips. “Around four, five months,” Bentley said.

“Not quite yet, then,” Dr. Fantino said, and made a note. “Bentley Josh Farkas, twenty-seven years old. Your parents?”

Bentley’s hands curled into fists. He tried to keep calm. His head swum. “What about them?”

“Their names and ages, please.”

He bit into the side of his mouth, hard enough to draw blood and—the sudden realization that he could have done that earlier, that he had a writing medium at his fingers, was enough to lend him the presence of mind to answer. “You are cruel.”

“No,” Dr. Fantino said. “Simply following protocol. For the record, please.”

When Bentley looked up at Dr. Fantino, their face was as stone-blank as usual. The urge to scream nearly choked him.

“My mother’s name was Soo-jan,” he said, voice thick. “She died when I was a baby.”

There was a pause. “Your father?”

Anger flared in him with all the force of putting potassium metal in water. “You bastard,” Bentley said, standing up suddenly enough that the chair behind him spun away. “You bastard, don’t make me say—”

“Please refrain from emotional outbursts,” Dr. Fantino said. They tapped an input board up from the table’s surface, and suddenly Bentley found himself sitting back down again, pressure on his legs to keep him from standing.

Bentley let out a frustrated sob despite his best efforts. Dr. Fantino said nothing. It took several moments for Bentley to press the whirlwind of feelings inside him down far enough to speak again.

“Please,” he said, something in him breaking at resorting to begging. “Don’t make me say it.”

Dr. Fantino paused before speaking. “I understand. Then, Mr. Farkas, please tell me if the following statement is accurate: Dr. Philip Farkas passed away nearly two years ago, at the age of fifty-three.”

Bentley swallowed past the lump in his throat. His hands were shaking. “Yes.”

“And what were their professions? Those of your parents, that is.”

“Mom was an. Explorer. Dad researched.” Bentley pressed his lips together and glared over at Dr. Fantino. “Are you just finding new ways to torture me, or what?”

Dr. Fantino sighed. It wasn’t a sigh of sympathy, or of frustration. It was like—like they were experiencing something senselessly, mildly annoying. “I suppose we could delay the questions related to your parents,” they said, and scrolled down their Reader in a couple of quick finger-flicks. “Then, could you detail your first memory for me?”

Bentley stared. “How is that delaying questions related to my parents?”

Dr. Fantino pressed their lips back at Bentley, looked him in the eye. “How am I supposed to conduct my research when you are vetoing all of my questions?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be conducting this research in the first place,” Bentley said. The pressure had lifted off his legs, so he shifted in his seat.

Finally, Dr. Fantino’s face spasmed in frustration. Their eyes narrowed and the hint of a sneer pulled at their nose. “It is happening,” they said, “whether you like it or not.”

“Clearly,” Bentley said. His tears were clearing. “But, just for the record, I do not consent to anything that happens in here.”

“The record will of course be doctored before presentation to any relevant parties,” Dr. Fantino said, like he routinely fudged evidence to his advantage. Maybe he did. Bentley had never read Dr. Fantino’s papers, but he’d listened to enough of Torako’s frustrated mumblings about them, back before she’d shifted from an academic approach to something more practical. “The truth is all that matters.”

Bentley looked down at the table, stared at his bare feet through the energy field. His nails were only short because he kept peeling them that way, driven by nervous energy and the need to be able to control something. “What even happens after this?”

“After the research, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Bentley swung his feet. The chair was just tall enough that he couldn’t touch the floor, whereas Dr. Fantino could. What a dumb power play; it was like Dr. Fantino didn’t realize that Bentley lived his life surrounded by taller people, and therefore with his feet constantly off the floor. “What do you think’ll happen after this?”

“There are contingencies in place,” Dr. Fantino said, which explained absolutely nothing.

“Contingencies,” Bentley said, dryly. “All right, Dr. Fantino. Whatever you say. What proof do you actually need, anyways?”

Dr. Fantino glanced down at their Reader. “Did you, or did you not, curse me to be burned by orange lilies whenever I touched them?”

Bentley raised one eyebrow. His fingers twitched. The urge to pick up the ceramic shard, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand but big enough to fill it, intensified. “Empty words,” he said.

“Did you, or did you not?” Dr. Fantino twirled the stylus between his fingers and stared Bentley down.

“…Yes, in the heat of the moment.”

Dr. Fantino nodded. “Let the record know that I, Vallian Fantino, am in fact now incapable of touching orange lilies with my bare hands without suffering serious burns.”

“Circumstantial evidence,” Bentley said.

“Enough to prove a connection,” Dr. Fantino said. “Now, did you, or did you not, profess to me that you were a reincarnation of the soul known as ‘Mizar,’ as in the Mizar related to the infamous demon Alcor the Dreambender?”

“If I did,” Bentley said, “it was the words of a grieving son.”

“Words spoken in heightened emotions are usually true,” Dr. Fantino said. They tapped the stylus against the edge of the datapad, stared Bentley down.

Bentley stared right back. “Usually,” he said. “Not always.”

“In this case, then?”

He tilted his chin up. “Not true,” he lied.

“Then why say them at all?” Dr. Fantino asked. They tilted their head.

“Is that why you don’t like to emote?” Bentley asked instead. “You don’t want to tell the truth?”

Dr. Fantino did not look impressed. “Your fairy-fingered assessment is not accurate, as those usually are. No, emotions can cloud the mind, and I prefer to do my work with a clear head. I resorted to magical surgery to ensure that I would never again face such a debilitating handicap, and it has worked to my favor ever since.”

Bentley felt about as impressed with that answer as Dr. Fantino looked impressed with him. What an idiot. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, which hummed momentarily louder as it shifted its weight-bearing settings. Bentley closed his eyes.

“If that is all,” Dr. Fantino said. “Please, recount for me your earliest memory.”

“What do you want out of this, anyways?” Bentley asked instead. There was an annoying glimmer in the corner of his left eye, even when it was closed and all he could see was the backs of his eyelids.

Dr. Fantino let out a frustrated sigh. “Would it please you to answer a question for a question then, you insufferable human being?”

Bentley had lots of things to say about how he didn’t feel like he was being treated very much like a human being at the moment, but he wasn’t sure that would go over well. Fantino could take it as admission of being Mizar, somehow. With their determination… “Sure, I guess” he said. He crossed his arms and didn’t do Fantino the dignity of even being looked at.

Fantino made him angrier and sadder and blanker all at once.

“Then please: what is your earliest memory?”

Bentley chewed at the inside of his lip, on the side opposite where he’d already bitten through the inner skin. “I guess when I was three, we went to the ocean during summer. I saw something shiny in the water and grabbed it before my dad could stop me. It was a man-of-war.”

“So your earliest memory is of a hospital,” Fantino said.

“No, just. Blue. And shiny. And curiosity, and then pain.” Bentley cracked open one eye and had the satisfaction of seeing Dr. Fantino shift back a little. “What do you want out of this?”

Dr. Fantino set down the stylus, then the datapad, and folded their hands on the table. Bentley glanced at the glimmering in the corner of his eye. It was concentrated along the edges of the ceiling.

“I want to tell the truth,” Dr. Fantino said. “I want to be known for telling the truth. The money gained in such a venture does not hurt, but I do not require it, really. The acclaim…that is what I want.”

“And you resorted to kidnapping to get acclaim,” Bentley said, both eyes open. Fury wrapped around his heart and squeezed. It was, momentarily, a little hard to breathe. “Kidnapping and torture and unconsented body modification.”

Dr. Fantino’s eyebrows lifted. “I will concede the kidnapping charge, but the other two I have done by no means.”

“Bullshit,” Bentley snapped. He didn’t stand up, but he sure fucking wanted to. “First off, what do you call that deal with Alû then?”

“My turn first,” Dr. Fantino said. “Do you have any odd dreams? Of lives not your own, of course.”

“No,” Bentley snarled, “because there’s no space for any past life dreams with all the shit crammed in my head from being trapped by Alû for fuck knows how many days.”

“Before Alû, then,” Dr. Fantino said, eyes narrowing. Their posture, already straight, straightened even further.

Bentley slammed his hands on the table. “No means no, you pale-faced dung-eyed sadistic piece of—”

Dr. Fantino raised their hand. Bentley froze, mid-motion, eyes wide. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t—

Dr. Fantino lowered their hand and Bentley’s shot up to his throat. He curled in on himself, hyperventilating, breath coming in not enough to ease the ringing in his head. Dr. Fantino said something, but Bentley couldn’t hear it. Heartbeat jackrabbit-fast in his neck, fluttering against his fingers. Throat dry, having been right on the edge of dry from not being given something to actually drink. Teeth buzzing, reverbrating with the force of his breath and the tears in his eyes and the bloodflow rushing faster and faster.

It took him a long time to come down from his panic attack. It left him limp, and tired, and unable to think well. He stared at the ceramic shard on the table, the sloppy sigils drawn on in blood with an even tinier shard.

“Again,” Dr. Fantino said, softly, “please refrain from overt emotional outbursts. Insults are completely unprofessional.”

Bentley would have laughed if he hadn’t just finished freaking out over being unable to control his own body. As it was, he couldn’t even muster up a scoff, or a sob, or anything.

“As for Alû,” Dr. Fantino said, “It was a necessary part of the plan, for reasons beyond your own acquisition. Unfortunately, the demon proved…unwilling to release you, and as such measures had to be taken. Alû will not trouble you, nor anybody else, ever again.”

He looked down at his hands again and tried to focus on breathing. All he wanted to do was sleep for several more hours, Bentley realized. He didn’t want to be there anymore. He wanted to be home, with Torako and Dipper, cuddling all the hurt away. And if he couldn’t have that, then he wanted to be alone.

“So, next.” Dr. Fantino picked up their stylus and datapad. “What records we have of Mizars speak of vibrant personalities and colorful lifestyles. How do you fit into this pattern? Are there other Mizars we have missed throughout history due to their not fitting the profile, so to speak, of their preincarnations?”

It took energy that Bentley didn’t have to look Fantino in the eye, but he did. “I don’t know,” he said.

Dr. Fantino frowned.

“I study sigils,” Bentley said, bone-deep exhaustion weighing him down. “Not Mizars. You’d—have more luck, if Dad were. Still.” He closed his stinging, watering eyes.

“I see.” Dr. Fantino said. “A Preincarnation test seems to be the next step to take, though I had wished to avoid the attention that kind of purchase would bring. Perhaps Lloyd would be willing to arrange it for me. In the interim, we will continue our interviews and medical assessments. Your question?”

Bentley almost didn’t respond, but he needed to know. He needed to. “Why…this.” Bentley gestured to all of him. “The changes. To me.”

“Ah.” Dr. Fantino blinked. “Those were not intentionally done to you. It seems to be an unexpected side-effect of spending all your time in this place—a pocket dimension, mind you. The rest of the staff show no adverse side effects, but they are not in here the concentrated periods of time that you have been.”

Horror bloomed in Bentley, soft-edged but persistent. The dots were not hard to connect. “You. You put me in an unstable pocket dimension,” he said.

Dr. Fantino did not reply, but instead was staring closer at Bentley. “It is possible, theoretically speaking, that given the reason you have been put in here, that the skins of past Mizars are showing through. Passing the barrier of the soul to imprint themselves on the body—yes, that does warrant more investigation.” They began to scribble something on the Reader, mumbling to themselves. Bentley was struck with a sick, terrible sense of déjà vu. Philip had done that. He had muttered to himself while researching. It had been something Bentley loved about his father. It had been something Torako had picked up, from time to time.

Bentley wanted to throw up.

He didn’t mention the similarity to Dr. Fantino.

“The next question I have,” Dr. Fantino said, “is a bit of a personal indulgence, but why orange lilies?”

Bentley gathered the shard in his hands, masking the motion as bringing his hands together to rest his head on. He breathed, in and out. Everything ached, inside and out.

“You could have chosen anything. My theses, your fathers, things that were actually important to either one of us, but. Orange lilies? A flower? One that I would never have touched without there being a good reason for it? I don’t profess to hate easily, Mr. Farkas. The only thing that drove me to gather them again was sheer academic curiosity, so answer me—why orange lilies? They are significant, I understand, but why?”

Bentley stood, slowly. He turned around and shuffled to the door. It was getting easier to walk. Didn’t hurt as much.

“Mr. Farkas?”

“I’m done,” Bentley said.

“Mr. Farkas, I do not believe you quite understand the situation here—”

“I’m done today.” Bentley set his forehead against the door and tried to open it despite knowing it wouldn’t. “I’m tired.”

“Answer my question. Why orange lilies? Are they so significant to Mizars that—”

“No,” Bentley said. Fucking Mizars. He turned his head to look at Dr. Fantino, sitting so proper at the table. The previous resemblance he’d seen to his father, to Torako, vanished in the face of such rigid posture. “No I—you came to remember my father. After he died And you threw hate at him. And me.”

Dr. Fantino frowned. “However—”

“I hated you for that. I hate you for that. That’s why I said what I did.” Bentley turned back to the door. “I was angry. Now I’m tired. Let me go.”

Dr. Fantino was quiet, for few long moments. “Very well,” they murmured. The door opened, and Bentley was escorted down the curiously blank, intangible-tangible halls, back to the door that opened to his own matchbox of a room.

It was only there, laying on the bed, hooked up again to the IV and the EKG and new hydration and nutrition patches slapped on his stomach and chest, that Bentley realized several things. He turned the ceramic shard over and over in his hands and considered it.

A notice-me-not sigil. A simple chain that formed durability. They had been hard to make, for more than the reason he was using something sharp to write using his own blood. It was like there had almost been too much power. Simple would be better.

The dimension was unstable. Pocket dimensions, in and of themselves, were unlikely to be unstable; the technology had simply progressed too far to allow shoddy and unknowing workmanship. That meant some experimental magitech was being implemented. Not sigils; the dimension would have long collapsed. Runes, maybe? Bentley closed his eyes, head aching, and tried to push past it. If not runes, then…wards.

Bentley smiled a little to himself. Wards. Wards weren’t really finicky, but if they were supporting a pocket dimension, and doing whatever else, they would be strained, hence Bentley’s hopefully only cosmetic physical changes. He knew sigils like he knew the scars along Torako’s knuckles, left hand, like he knew the glint of Dipper’s eyes right before he pounced, like he knew their bodies curled on either side of his. And sigils? Sigils, especially overpowered ones, were very, very good at breaking other magic.

Maybe he wouldn’t make it out, Bentley thought, but if he timed it right—if he caught Fantino in the pocket—it would be enough.

It had to be enough.

#transcendence au #orange lilies #tau related #tau fic #my fic #bentley farkas #torako lam #dipper pines #alcor the dreambender #ensemble cast

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