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pharawee · 5 months

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Gather around, fellow BL aficionados, it's time for part four of my Pit Babe novel commentary.

(And if you want to catch up, here are parts 1, 2 and 3.)

A word of warning: since I'm pretty far into the novel now (every post summarises five chapters) expect heavy spoilers, plot twists and revelations.

Oh, and omegaverse shenanigans. So many omegaverse shenanigans. You've been warned.

Also, a small warning for talk about and the aftermath of SA. As usual, please take care. 💜

Now, where were we? Oh, yeah: Way is the big bad enigma and he's been hypnotising Babe all this time - but gently (tm) because, you see, Way really, really loves Babe so that makes it all right...

Yeah, no. Get fucked, Way.

Currently, Way is still passed out on the floor, but as soon as Babe has come to terms with whatever the hell just happened, Charlie (who came to Babe's rescue just in time, remember?) offers to wake him up.

How? Oh, that's easy. He can put people to sleep at will. It's one of the many powers he absorbed from other powered alphas. That's his whole thing: he steals powers and just keeps them - like Rogue in X-Men but without any of the downsides. And as long as he's alive, the powers stay with him, never to return to their previous owner. Unless they die, in which case Charlie loses that particular power forever. Which in turn means that if Charlie dies... but keep that in mind for later.

Oh, and another one of Charlie's powers: changing his scent at will. Goddammit, Charlie.

As for how he knew that Babe was in danger? Jeff told him because he can see into the future. X-Men omegaverse, here we go.

But anyway, when Way wakes up he's confused because the last thing he remembers is SAing his supposed best friend. Now there's Charlie staring daggers at him, and one very angry Babe. Since Way is pathetic (but not the good kind) he attempts to explain: yes, he's actually Babe and Charlie's adoptive brother. Their father sent him to lure Babe back home and, well, get him pregnant. That was ten (10) years ago.

But, you see, Way is such a nice guy (tm), he didn't want to force Babe! Instead, he set out to ruin him for everyone else, thereby making it impossible for him to grow or heal or trust or love. Whenever Babe met someone he connected with, Way swooped in to poison his mind. And whenever Babe recoiled from that new connection, he turned to Way - the only person he could 100% trust. Or so he was made to believe.

So the Babe we meet at the beginning of the novel (and series) isn't really Babe at all. It's the version of Babe Way wants him to be - and for what? For ten years of pining and mindfuckery? What the hell kind of plan is this?

Oh yeah, the kind that gets you punched in the face. Thank you, Babe, you're really speaking my mind here.

And this is the part where the novel really shines because it doesn't just gloss over the implications of abuse. It doesn't leave Way's many empty apologies uncommented:

"I know what I did was unforgivable. I—" "Did you just realize this? Are you like this because I found out just in time?" Babe's voice boomed as anger flared in his heart. No matter how hard he tried to suppress it, he couldn't. "When I'm unconscious, you can assume it's okay to do it, right?" "I didn't want to do it at all…" "I don't care!" Babe shouted. "The point is, I don't want it! And you have no right to do this to me!"

But when Way's attempts to nice-guy himself out of his predicament don't work, he tries to shift the blame onto Charlie. Because Charlie lied too and, after all, didn't Way warn Babe about him?

Yeahhh, he's still trying to manipulate Babe. Way isn't sorry at all, he's only sorry he's been caught. Or, as the novel aptly puts it:

For Way, this might be like a love confession. But for Babe, it was no different from admitting his crimes.

But the novel doesn't leave it at that.

"So what's next?" Babe asked in a calm voice. "Should I thank you?" "What…" "I asked if I should thank you because you didn't rape me?" [...] "Should I thank you for not forcing me to bear your child?" "Babe…" “Even for my life, my body, and everything about me, I still have to wait for your mercy?”

And that's that. Ten years of (false) friendship have been erased just like that.

Really, I'm sorry for adding so many quotes but this whole chapter is just perfect in its blunt directness. It excels in giving Babe back his autonomy - the very thing Way has taken from him.

We'll return to our regularly scheduled omegaverse shenanigans after this bit:

"Did you know that every time you said that [there was never anyone suitable for me], it made me feel like I didn't deserve anyone's love?" [...] "And it's as if the only love I can receive is love from you…" Babe's sobs were so loud that his voice trailed off, but he took a deep breath and continued talking: "…but you never asked me what I really want." [...] "You only care about your own desires. You want to have me. You want to have children. You tried to make me love you and then agree to have children with you. Even though you always knew that I never wanted to have children." "I know you don't want to have children. And I know why," Way replied with a look that seemed to understand. But Babe knew that he didn't understand anything, not at all. "But because I know. That's why I want to change your mind." "It's not your job to change me."

And then, when Way has the audacity to try and hug him, Babe throws him over his shoulder and slams him right onto the floor, and even Charlie is like, damn, guess for a moment there I forgot how amazing Pit Babe is.

Damn right he is!

Later that night, things are winding down and Charlie insists on staying with Babe - just to make sure he's all right. Because unlike some people (!) he actually knows when to give Babe some space, and so he settles down on the couch in the living room while Babe stays in his bedroom.

But, understandably, Babe can't sleep. There's too much on his mind, none of it particularly good. He misses Charlie and, really, he's in dire need of an emergency hug.

It's Babe who approaches Charlie (only of course Charlie knew all along because he has super hearing now and he heard Babe's tossing and turning. Goddammit Charlie). They reconcile and it's really sweet because, in stark contrast to Way, Charlie's apology is heartfelt and reassuring and full of compassion. He also knows that Babe has been through a lot, so when Babe engages in their usual ritual of make-up sex, Charlie is hesitant:

Babe is so strong that he can lift bigger people and throw them to the ground. But believe me, no one is mentally strong enough to not be hurt by dirty things like that.

I just love how clear and concise the novel is on this part.

Anyway, they talk it out and Babe says that he wants to try anyway. What follows is a really sweet sex scene (but don't worry, Babe's still getting railed by his daddy to his heart's content - some things just don't change). There's talk about wild horses. I don't know why and honestly I'd rather not dwell on it.

Meanwhile, Way is being chewed out by Khun Tony (aka everyone's least favourite adoptive father). He's quite a bit upset but, honestly, what did he expect? He's the one with the stupid plan in the first place. Why did he even agree to let Way pine into Babe's general direction FOR TEN YEARS until he maybe catches feelings? The dude can hypnotise people! Just order him to do his evil immoral job!

But anyway, it's too late now. Babe's powers are already gone so breeding him (whyyy...) is pointless. Tony has a new target now: Charlie.

To my immense relief even Way is like, ew.

But it matters little because daddy dearest has contigency plans in place (and where were these plans TEN YEARS AGO - worst evil alpha breeder ever!). He orders Way to leave X-Hunter and return home immediately - and who knows, once Charlie is out of the picture Babe might end up as leftovers for him. Okay then.

In happier news, Charlie wakes up the next day with Babe's hand on his, well, little Charlie. I'm not being a prude here, that's what Babe calls it. It's a whole conversation, followed by - you guessed it - more sex.

Something is different this time, however. Without hesitation, Babe tells Charlie that he loves him, and then he asks him to be his boyfriend - to which Charlie eventually agrees. More sex happens. Actually, all of this happened during a blowjob which is very on brand for Babe. Things get disgustingly cute when Babe realises that this is the first time they're ~making love~ as boyfriend and boyfriend. This leaves him incredibly shy. Thanks to Way's meddling, he never had a boyfriend, after all. This is his first time being in love, and it's exactly as adorable as it sounds. Only with more mindblowing sex.

This includes sex in Charlie's supercar after a training session right on the racetrack (again I ask, have you even seen the interior of a racecar? How? Where? And who's cleaning this up? The mechanics??) as Jeff and Alan watch from afar.

"Why don't the two of them get out of the car?", Jeff said quietly as he looked at Charlie's car which had been parked near the finish line for a while and he saw no signs of it coming down.

Oh, my sweet summer child.

But yes, I'm happy to report that Jeff and Alan are probably going to be a thing in the novel too. This Jeff isn't a mechanic though. He doesn't even study engineering but oceanography (because he likes the ocean even though he's never seen it - live your dreams, my dude!).

As they sit and bicker, Jeff is suddenly struck by what seems to be another vision of the future. Whatever it is, it can't be good because it makes Jeff cry. Uh-oh.

He asks Charlie to meet him at his condo, and Charlie immediately notices that something's wrong. Only this time it's not Babe he needs to worry about. It's all of them.

I'm worried too but mostly for my own sanity.

Remember when I first explained about Tony's evil breeding program? Ah, those were easier, more pleasant times. Because now Tony figures that if he can't get an enigma to impregnate Charlie, he'll just get Charlie to impregnate an omega (because apparently there's a 50% chance that the baby will be an alpha with special traits - why is this novel explaining Mendel's laws of omegaverse inheritance to me?) .

Jeff is an omega.

And this is what Jeff saw: if they don't act now, at some point in the future Tony will have Charlie and Jeff brought back "home" and use aphrodisiacs on them (one up for the trope counter!). Jeff will get pregnant and as soon as their baby is born Tony will dispose of both Jeff and Charlie. This will cause Babe to seek revenge and get killed in the process.

What did I just read?

The novel keeps this from us for a while, and just casually mentions that Charlie isn't overly worried. He even finds the time to be jealous when one of Babe's old acquaintances shows up to Charlie's next race. They argue. The race starts without them reconciling, so naturally that means Charlie has an accident during the race.

It's bad enough that he's transported to the ER. But as the whole team anxiously awaits any kind of news, Babe realises in dawning horror that his heightened senses are slowly returning to him. He can hear Charlie's slowing heartbeat and the doctors fighting to reanimate him.

He listens as Charlie is pronounced dead.

The novel then cuts to Charlie's funeral which is only attended by a handful of people, mostly members of Team X-Hunter. Babe does not cope well at all but at least he's got Alan and Jeff to take care of organisational things.

Speaking of Alan and Jeff. These two have grown quite a bit closer. Close enough that Jeff asks Alan to let him take a look at Charlie's crashed car. The police are already investigating but Jeff wants to see for himself. Hm.

Meanwhile, Babe is alone at his condo, going through several stages of grief all at once (really, it's heartbreaking but so is the length of this post so I'm trying to keep things short). He's interrupted during the bargaining stage by someone knocking at the door. It's Way and he's come to offer his help. Babe might be grieving but he's not stupid, and so they meet up at a coffee shop nearby.

Way all but confirms that Charlie's accident was Tony's doing. What he meant to do was incapacitate Charlie but unfortunately Charlie died. OOPS. What a brilliant plan, really.

Seems like even Way has had enough of Tony's evil schemes so he's banded together with another enigma in order to bring Tony down. Said enigma is actually Tony's eldest "son" who seems to have escaped from his control to do his own (financially very successful) thing and bide his time until Tony eventually slips up.

That enigma is none other than Pete.

That's right. Pete and Way have teamed up to bring down Tony, and they're asking Babe to help them. Babe tentatively agrees.

While this is going down, Jeff visits some random uncle's secluded house. He's greeted by none other than Charlie (now somewhat worse for wear but very much still alive) who's faked his own death with the help of a man named Reval. Charlie feels guilty for lying to Babe again but they can't involve him in this: once hypnotised, he's still under Way's influence (uh-oh...) and could risk all of their careful planning.

Their plan? Getting rid of Charlie's powers before Tony can get to them.

This is where Reval comes in. He also has powers: he can somehow disconnect an alpha (or omega or enigma, I suppose) from their powers - which is apparently a very difficult and time-consuming process (and would otherwise kill the alpha), especially with someone with as many powers as Charlie.

Why does Reval do this? Oh, he's Babe's real father who's been in hiding until now out of shame and guilt (and some memory loss). Surprise!

Also, very convenient. 🤡

#pit babe #pit babe the series #pit babe spoilers #bl meta #pit babe meta #jane watches stuff #these are getting longer and longer #but i'm invested now and if you're still reading this then so are you probably

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dnihallofshame · 1 month

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Welcome to the DNI Hall of Shame. This is a blog for DNI lists that are confusing, vague, aggressive, impractical, or super picky. It's meant to shine a light on the pointlessness of DNI lists, and hopefully with some laughs here and there! :)

Run by Bean.

🌺 FAQ: 🌺

Can I submit a DNI list?

Yep! Just use the "submit" button. You can send a screen grab or text. Please censor all usernames and handles.

What kinds of DNI lists are accepted?

You can submit a DNI list if it contains one or more of the following things:

Death threats or wishes

"General criteria" or "etc"

Name-calling, dehumanization, or pejoratives

Things that are impossible to confirm from looking at someone's blog, or that isn't always readily apparent in casual conversation, such as age, gender, ethnicity, what media they like (which is not always the same as what they post on their blog), what they ship (see previous), or if they're a racist/TERF/etc

Terms that are defined incorrectly (such as defining proship as "pedo apologists")

Conflating interest in a fictional scenario, relationship, or character with "supporting it" in real life

Purity culture or kink-shaming rhetoric

It tries to check as many performative, common-sense boxes as possible

A ridiculously long list of criteria in general

Check out some posts on this blog for examples!

What isn't accepted?

Screen grabs with visible usernames/handles

DNI lists that only say "minors DNI"

What happens after I submit a DNI list?

The admin will review it and queue it for posting. Depending on how big the queue is, your submission may take a while to appear on the blog. Please be patient! The admin will add commentary on why the submission is "hall of shame" worthy if it's not provided.

Can I put multiple images in the same submission?

Tumblr only allows you to upload one image on the submission page, but you can add the urls of other images in the text field. They will all be posted together. Please ensure the urls work prior to sending, so the admin can view them!

Why must usernames/handles be censored?

This blog operates on a strict no-harassment and no-brigading policy.

Are all submissions anonymous?

Yes! All submissions are posted as fresh posts without any identifying info. The initial submission page may ask for your username or email, but this won't be published.

Why are DNIs pointless?

Many blogs have explained this in much greater detail, but DNIs shift the onus of curating your internet experience onto other people, and makes your comfort other peoples' responsibility. They are based on the faulty presumption that you can control what others do online. You can ask people for courtesies, but they'll interact if they really want to - or if they simply don't see your DNI!

On that note, DNIs are very ineffectual on sites like tumblr, where posts are meant to be shared all over the place, on many different blogs - yet all of those interactions still show up in the original poster's notes, even if many of the people creating the notes are on OP's DNI. The definition of "interact" also changes between people, making it even harder to pin down an exact meaning and thus, how to conduct oneself. Some people define it as following and commenting on their blog, while others define it as simply leaving a "like" on some random person's reblog of a post, way off in the other corner of tumblr.

All of this is why it is better to practice healthy blocking, and simply state you will block certain people, as opposed to telling them not to interact with you, when they may not even see your DNI. After all, this site is designed for quick post sharing, and no one is going to check blogs every time they like or reblog a post... Even if they themselves have a DNI. Admin has lost track of how many people listed them in their DNI, but liked and reblogged their posts anyways!

Admin info?

Admin is in their late 20s and has been in fandom for over 15 years. No nonsense, practical, critical thinker! Here for a good time, and to poke fun at some of the super ridiculous things people get up to on social media these days.

Tags below the cut.

basic criteria death wish how could you know long performative purity culture vague wrong definition not a dni answered

#new blog #tumblr #dni #proship #anti censorship #pro ao3 #social media

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mania-sama · 3 months

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with every line, a comedy (03)

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Fic Summary: The people of Sumeru had not experienced dreams for the past five hundred years. Lesser Lord Kusanali then abolished the Akasha system and returned the wonders dreaming to her people.

However, there are complications that arise with freeing the brain’s unconscious activities. Nightmares start to haunt those that had previously repressed traumatic memories in order to cope.

Kaveh, on the other hand, begins sleepwalking. Alhaitham tries to fix the problem before someone gets hurt.

Or; Kaveh has nightmares and sleepwalks. Alhaitham dreams and deals with the emotions he holds for his roommate.

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03 - planning without acting, steadily becoming what i hate

Dear Wormwood - The Oh Hellos

wc: 6,000 | Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own

Kaveh did not greet Alhaitham in the morning. He locked himself in his art studio, and the most he acknowledged of Alhaitham’s existence was when he thanked Alhaitham for bringing him a cup of black coffee. This time, Kaveh didn’t try to hide his exhaustion and absolutely wretched mental state, instead opting to push Alhaitham away by being aloof.

Normally, Alhaitham wouldn’t be so easily deterred. But he had work and Archons-dammit he was the Acting Grand Sage, so he couldn’t just not show up anymore. They really needed to find a new Grand Sage soon.

Alhaitham arrived in his office thinking about how Kaveh had taken a shower before Alhaitham had awoken, if his wet hair and scrubbed face was anything to go by. Yet he had been able to see dry bits of blood remaining underneath his fingernails.

That was something he occupied himself with as he worked through document after document, sat in meeting after meeting, and talked with countless people about various subjects that somehow all had nothing to do with selecting a new Grand Sage to take his place. He really, really hated his job.

Kaveh it was, then. He stamped a document and thought about the careful manicures Kaveh put himself through and scarcely managed to drag Alhaitham into. His fingernails were always sharp and clean, each one evenly cut to match the rest on his hands. On some occasions, he put enough care to adorn his hands with rings and ornaments that Alhaitham would say looked ridiculous on anyone else.

They looked good on Kaveh, so he had kept his thoughts to himself. Not that his comments would’ve deterred Kaveh from wearing such adornments, but rather that Alhaitham hadn’t felt the need to make strong commentary on a topic that he was contradicting himself in. It would be the impulsive route to take.

Alhaitham wasn’t the only one that thought this way in any case. He didn’t care to listen to others opinions, but when he was running errands with Kaveh or eating dinner with him at a nice restaurant, it was nigh impossible to ignore when the architect would get comments on his appearance. They ranged from his rings and nails to his face and hair. While Kaveh didn’t wear make-up, he did have an extremely extensive skin care routine.

The ointments and bottles were strewn all over the bathroom. Alhaitham had constantly nagged Kaveh about the clutter once upon a time. It didn’t take long for Alhaitham to learn that there simply was no taming the beast. As soon as it would get organized, it would descend into chaos the very next day.

His hair was different. It wasn’t that he didn’t try to do anything with it — he still used shampoo and conditioner — the process in caring for it was lackluster in comparison to the attentiveness he applied to his skin. The hair situation was this: he had naturally shiny, lustrous, soft blond hair. It was as true of a fact as the sun rising to signify daytime and the moon rising to signify nighttime.

Alhaitham wasn’t jealous of it. As a matter of a fact, he admired the way Kaveh kept up with his body as well as he did; he made sure to eat his vegetables, work out six out of seven days of the week, and drink eight full cups of water a day. Ever since they’d started living together, Alhaitham has only seen Kaveh falter in his routine a handful of times.

It was no wonder, then, that people constantly reminded Kaveh of his beauty. He had even received the title of Epitome of Beauty. Kaveh didn’t preen with the compliments, and the only time he ever reacted was when Alhaitham commented on his appearance himself.

Kaveh’s hair hadn’t smelt like the shampoo he used. His fingernails were dirty, and his face lacked a normal shine that came after he had applied various creams to his face directly after showering. It wasn’t the physical aspect of it that concerned Alhaitham; it was the fact that Kaveh hadn’t brought himself to do any of his routine at all.

If Alhaitham hadn’t brought it to him, he didn’t think Kaveh would’ve had his morning coffee, either.

Alhaitham stamped another paper and abided his time until he could leave the office and track down Lesser Lord Kusanali. He had another meeting to attend, a stack of papers to read through, and then he would be free to spend his remaining hours as he pleased.

He supposed that was the difference between him and a true Grand Sage. Most sages would stay afterhours to work on extra projects to improve mundane aspects of civilian and darshan life. They would load themselves to the brink of mental collapse and barely have any free time to live a comfortable life.

Alhaitham was no such sage. He moved through the motions of the meeting and skimmed through the stack of papers until the moment the small hand marked the beginning of a new hour. He made it a point to complete the most important document early on and delegate anything he possibly could onto other scholars and sages in order to work more efficiently, so that left him with the ability to not work overtime.

Good. Now he had to find his Archon and put an end to these sleep-walking disturbances.

The first place he checked was the Sanctuary of Surasthana. The large, green half-globe carried the sound of his lone footsteps from one side of the sanctuary to the other. It wasn’t necessarily a surprise that Kusanali wasn’t there, but he had hoped that she would be for convenience's sake.

On his way to the House of Daena, he ran into Tighnari. Well, ran into wasn’t the right way to describe it. He passed by the Forest Watcher while treading down the fourth flight of stairs. Even though he worked out as often as Kaveh, Alhaitham was beginning to feel each step burn his calves. Tighnari, for his part, seemed unaffected.

“Alhaitham!” Tighnari called, making sure to put himself in front of the Scribe to prevent him from breezing past him. Damn Tighnari and his acute awareness of Haitham’s behavioral patterns. He and Cyno were insufferable in that way. “Have you seen Kaveh around?”

Alhaitham looked at him, considered the time he would waste by idling with Tighnari, and decided that it wasn’t worth it to avoid the conversation. Tighnari would only drag him back by the scruff of his collar and demand an answer. “Last time I saw him was at the house this morning.”

The Forest Watcher hummed and said, “He was supposed to meet me for lunch earlier today, but he never showed. Do you know if there was an emergency he had to attend to?”

Kaveh hadn’t gone to lunch with Tighnari. Not only that, but he hadn’t sent a letter or messenger to let Tighnari know that he wouldn’t be able to make it. Very uncharacteristic of him; if there was anything that Kaveh cherished more than his work, it was his friends.

“I haven’t seen him all day. I wouldn’t know,” Alhaitham responded monotonously, though his mind was picking apart the new information. If he hadn’t gone to lunch, it was likely he hadn’t eaten. The Scribe would have to pick up food on the way home.

Tighnari nodded resolutely, but his eyes were calculated and narrow. “Very well. I’m concerned for him, and I’ve just finished my lecture, so I’d like to accompany you to your home to check on him if he’s there.” Normally when someone said they’d like to do something with someone else, they were really asking if it would be okay to do that thing with that person. When Tighnari said it, he wasn’t asking. He was going to do it whether it inconvenienced Alhaitham or not.

“I’m not going home yet. Go on your own,” he said. When Tighnari crossed his arms leveled him with a stare that would soon turn into an unavoidable scolding — since the Forest Watcher was fluent in Sumerian sign language — Alhaitham continued: “I’m looking for Lesser Lord Kusanali.”

“Oh,” Tighnari said with a flick of his ear. “I just saw her in the Grand Bazaar. She’s been busy with everyone asking her questions regarding their dreams. Is that what you are going to her for?”

“Sure,” Alhaitham replied curtly because he didn’t want to reveal more about Kaveh’s situation if he didn’t have to. He wasn’t particularly interested in his own dreams, though if they continued to run in a negative trend then he would have to seek out advice in order to correct it.

Alhaitham pushed past Tighnari to continue down the steps, and of course the Forest Watcher followed. “What have your dreams been about?”

“No.”

“I’ll ask Kaveh when I speak to him,” Tighnari replied easily. Alhaitham didn’t grant him the satisfaction of a response. “It’s good that you’re going to see Kusanali. I have a few questions for her myself regarding the nightmares Collei’s having.”

For the first time in their entire friendship, Tighnari piqued Alhaitham’s interest twice. “Is she okay?”

“I knew you cared about her,” Tighnari said with a teasing smile. “She will be, eventually. Her dreams have been memories from her past, but ones that she had subconsciously forgotten. I’m no stranger to trauma responses, so I know that they are particularly traumatic for her to have repressed them for so long.”

It was a possibility that her and Kaveh’s situations were extremely similar. Alhaitham’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. He blamed it on hunger.

“Does she talk about them?” He asked. If she was holding it in, it would be a point to his theory that Kaveh was dreaming of his distressing memory due to not telling Alhaitham the contents.

“After some convincing, yes. It’s hard for her to relate all the details for obvious reasons,” Tighnari said, “but she tries. I fear there are more memories that she’s going to dream about, and I don’t want that to interfere with all the progress she’s made in healing from her trauma.”

Alhaitham compared and contrasted Collei to Kaveh. There were two key differences:

One. She was reliving at least two separate memories. Using Alhaitham’s current hypothesis, Kaveh was only dreaming of one.

Two. She talked about her dreams in at least a little bit of detail. Kaveh did not do as much as utter a word and, for a while, denied remembering his dreams in the first place.

Alhaitham did not have enough information on Kaveh’s dreams to tell if the memory he was living was one that had been repressed or not, though the probability was high. The fact of it being traumatic went without saying: his leg had been severely injured, his fearful reactions, and current aloof manner were indicative enough.

Based on what he gathered, Alhaitham decided that the differences were not major enough to overshadow the glaring similarities. “How has this affected her when awake?”

Tighnari gave him a squinted glance as they stepped onto the lowest level of Sumeru City, joining the afternoon crowd. “Collei’s trying to hide it, but she hasn’t been faring well. She’s been irritable, quiet, and skittish, and she’s having trouble eating.” He paused, and then asked, “You’re oddly interested. Are you having nightmares as well?”

“It’s none of your concern,” Alhaitham said.

The Forest Watcher clicked his tongue. “It’s Kaveh, isn’t it?”

Alhaitham sighed irritably. There was only one person that could control a conversation with Alhaitham, and it was Tighnari. Despite the many experiments Alhaitham had conducted, he still didn’t know how Tighnari kept doing it.

“Alhaitham, is Kaveh okay?” The Forest Watcher asked. His voice was colored with uneasy tension.

“Don’t ask me questions you already know the answer to.”

They walked into the Grand Bazaar and before Tighnari could respond, they spotted Lesser Lord Kusanali on the stage. She was talking one on one with a man Alhaitham didn’t recognize, and resting along the edge of the platform were various items piled together. Gifts for the Archon.

Kusanali didn’t seem to notice them until Alhaitham made his way onto the steps of the stage, ignoring everyone around him that tried to get his attention. Behind him, Tighnari apologized on his behalf to each one of them. Alhaitham couldn’t care less. He was off the clock and didn’t have to respond to people if he didn’t want to.

When she saw them, her eyes widened which caught the attention of the man. He looked behind him, saw the Acting Grand Sage, and quickly bowed his head to Kusanali. Flustered, he said, “It- it looks like the Grand Sage needs you. We can continue this another time, yeah?”

“Oh, you don’t have to go, it will only take—” Kusanali tried, but the man was already retreating down the flight of stairs. Tighnari even tried to whisper an apology, but he was too far gone to hear it. “Ah,” she sighed and shook her head. “Good afternoon, my Scribe, Forest Watcher Tighnari.”

Her hands were wrung together in front of her, and her head was tilted ever so slightly. If she was overworked from her busy schedule, she didn’t show any signs of it.

“Likewise, Lesser Lord Kusanali,” the Forest Watcher returned. His tail slightly swished back and forth, almost hitting Alhaitham in the process. “We’ve come bearing questions concerning the nightmares of our friends, Kaveh and Collei.”

The Dendro Archon wasn’t surprised. She nodded and said, “A lot of people have been having trouble with nightmares. Since it's been years since many people in Sumeru have dreamt, the subconscious has been unable to properly process certain information, so there has been an extremely high rate to have them. I’m sorry for this; I rushed to deactivate the Akasha and didn’t realize what kind of effect it would have on you all.”

Her disappointment and regret was completely genuine, and her bright green eyes were downcast to her wiggling fingers. Tighnari opened his mouth to mend her sorrow, but Alhaitham beat him to the punch.

“I was in the room when you shut down the Akasha system. I know there was no better way you could have accomplished your goal,” he said. “You should not regret doing what is right for your people.”

“Thank you, Alhaitham,” she said with a strained smile. Tighnari’s face was scrunched up with shock as he looked at Alhaitham. The Scribe didn’t return the favor. “I happen to be familiar with both of your dreams, as well as Kaveh and Collei’s. Since you are Dendro Vision wielders, I am more attune with your bodies and subconscious than everyone else. Think of it this way: every person’s mind is a box. In order to get inside, I have to first unlock the box. For most people, they require the right key to be placed in a padlock, and I have to search to find one that fits the mold. But Dendro wielder's boxes are bound with a code that I already know the numbers to.”

For some reason, this caused Tighnari to start. “You’ve seen… all of our dreams?” He asked, his voice pitched higher than it was before.

“Yes,” she replied innocently, which strongly contrasted the horrified look on Tighnari’s face. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, I—” Alhaitham understood now. It was kind of funny, actually, to watch Tighnari’s face grow red and his ears press back into his hair. “Maybe… refrain from looking into mine in the future?”

Though she nodded in compliance, Kusanali clearly didn’t know what the issue was. “I don’t mean to intrude. I noticed that many of you were having dreams causing adverse emotions, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t causing injuries to yourselves. I don’t like to wake you from them, though. As I’ve told Alhaitham already, I don’t believe I should be cutting off your dreams before you can fully experience them considering how long you’ve gone without them.”

Alhaitham cleared his throat. “That’s what I’ve come to ask you about today.”

“Oh, Kaveh,” she murmured, her face drawn together apologetically as she moved her arms with her words. Sign language likely came easy to her for this reason, Alhaitham thought. She already talked with her hands. “When I observe dreams, I usually don’t have to go all the way in. I can observe from afar. However, Kaveh is actively blocking me out. After I unlock his box, his entire dream is surrounded by a glass wall that I can’t bypass. I can see through it, but that’s all I can do.”

An impassable glass wall. How was Kaveh able to accomplish this, but not Collei? The first conclusion he came to was age: since Kaveh was older, his memory-dream had an overall different behavioral pattern than Collei’s. Other than that, he felt a little stuck. It’s one thing to not willingly tell Alhaitham about his nightmare, and another to be able to block the literal god of dreams.

“I’m working on how to find a solution, but for now I’m going to have to interrupt your sleep until I can wake him myself. I’m sorry,” she said.

Alhaitham shook his head. “Don’t be. Someone needs to keep him safe.”

“Safe? Is Kaveh in danger?” Tighnari asked, ears perked back up now that the attention was off of him and his dreams.

Kusanali nodded. “Like Collei, he’s been reliving a memory in his dreams. He’s developed a severe case of sleep-walking from it.”

“So his sleep-walking patterns are a direct reflection of his dream?” While it was useful information, gaining the knowledge wasn’t as gratifying as Alhaitham thought it would be. Kaveh was clearly trying to escape something.

“For him, yes. Unfortunately, there isn’t much I can tell you without breaching Kaveh’s privacy,” she said. Then, she reached out her hand to touch her fingertips to Alhaitham’s. Her unclipped nails pressed gently into the back of his hand. “But he needs you, Alhaitham. Until he lets me in, I can’t help him.”

Her eyes were big and doey, and Alhaitham’s heart beat at an irregular pace. “He won’t talk to me,” he said quietly.

“I’m not surprised. I’ve seen what’s happened in his memory. It…” she trailed off to take a shuddering breath. “I wish I had been there for him when it happened originally. No child should have gone through what he had. And Tighnari,” she said, turning to the Forest Watcher with her water coating her eyes, “the same goes to Collei. I’m sorry for everything she has gone through.”

Tighnari nodded in acknowledgement, but he left the conversation for Alhiatham to continue. The Scribe took Kusanali’s small hand into his own with a tender grip. “Is there anything more you can tell me?”

Blinking away her tears, she shook her head. “Let him tell you what he wants you to know. If I reveal anything to you prematurely, it will only make him retreat further into his shell. More than that, I don’t want to betray his trust. He’s been taken advantage of enough in his life.”

Alhaitham dropped her hand from his hold. He couldn’t think of anything more to say, though his mind was racing to process all of the words Kusanali had said. The Archon was empathetic, and she felt for her people more than Alhaitham had for anyone in his life. Nearly crying over Kaveh shouldn’t have bothered him the way it was.

Seeing his silence, Tighnari finally spoke his peace. “Do you have any suggestions on how to help Collei and Kaveh with their nightmares? Since most scholars of the Akademiya are so new to dreaming, everyone has the same questions as I do without any answers.”

“There isn’t a solution to nightmares,” Kusanali said, placing a finger to her chin. It was a motion she did whenever she was thinking, and Alhaitham had gotten used to the habit after working with her to disable the Akasha and gradually reframe the Akademiya. “They are like a virus that has no medication. The best you can do is provide comfort and support until they pass.”

Tighnari frowned but he bobbed his head in acceptance. “I thought you might say something like that. Is there a way to prevent Kaveh’s sleep-walking?”

“No, not until the nightmares end. It’s also possible he’ll remain a sleep-walker for the rest of his life,” she remarked. “Alhaitham, all you can do is lock the doors and put away sharp objects so he doesn’t injure himself.”

What good that did last night, he thought. Blood had coated every part of his roommate’s body, and he’d appeared so fragile.

“Thank you for all your help, Lesser Lord Kusanali. We’ll be heading off now,” said Tighnari while lightly tapping Alhaitham with his tail. “If you need any help, we’ll always be here for you.”

The Archon smiled and giggled softly. “Please, call me Nahida.” “Of course. Goodbye, Nahida,” Tighnari waved and retreated to the steps. Alhaitham followed closely behind, nodding to Kusanali as his nonverbal farewell.

In an effort to calm his mind and body and organize his thoughts, Alhaitham took off his hearing aids and held them safely in his hands. He walked in a separate direction from Tighnari, not caring whether or not the Forest Watcher lost him in the city.

He breathed deeply. Alhaitham did not often get nervous or overworked, but the sounds of the crowd and press of bodies a little too close for comfort was taking its toll. Coupled with the Archon’s commentary on Kaveh’s dreams, his hands were left to shake and his lungs to constrict. His heart was banging against his chest, desperate to jump out and leave blood all over the ground.

Overstimulation was an old friend that he didn’t introduce to people.

Alhaitham separated the new information into two categories: information on Kaveh’s dreams and information on how to help Kaveh.

In the first category, Kusanali had said three things of importance:

One. Kaveh was blocking out Lesser Lord Kusanali. It wasn’t clear how he was managing, nor how to bypass the mental wall.

Two. His dreams were directly influencing his sleep-walking behavior.

Three. The memory he was dreaming about was from his childhood, and was particularly traumatic. Based on Kusanali’s reaction, it’s more likely than not the same situation as Collei’s: a previously repressed memory suddenly remembered.

In the second category, he learned two things:

One. He couldn’t stop the nightmares nor the sleep-walking.

Two. He had to remove sharp objects and lock as many doors as he could. The issue was stopping him from breaking more windows to escape the house.

Kaveh was stubborn. This wasn’t a revolutionary discovery of any sort; anyone who had any sort of intellectual conversation with the man would come to the same conclusion in a matter of minutes. His will to prevent anyone from knowing about his memory was stronger than Kusanali’s Dendro Vision connection. Getting Kaveh to open up about his past was going to prove more difficult than he originally thought.

Perhaps he should take inspiration from when they reconnected after Kaveh built the Palace of Alcazarzaray, where Kaveh had been drunk for days on end and spilled out his guts to Alhaitham in a haze.

No. That wouldn’t do. Intoxicating Kaveh intentionally while he was undergoing high amounts of stress would encourage his alcoholic behavior.

Alhaitham ordered in sign the food he planned to bring home to Kaveh, and Tighnari — who had rejoined him at some point during his wait in line — translated back and forth for them.

Alhaitham didn’t know how to comfort people. He knew how to glean information and how to manipulate a conversation in his favor. He wasn’t good at supporting like Kusanali suggested he should do. How he got Kaveh to talk about his parents, along with his guilt and depression, had come from a mixture of long nights with alcohol and deadlines and self-induced injuries.

It was quiet reassurances and physical affection that Alhaitham wasn’t comfortable with. He wasn’t comfortable with supporting people.

But he could try. Alhaitham knew he would die in a burning house if Kaveh was still inside.

Thus, he revised his hypothesis: Kaveh’s dreams were an extremely traumatic, repressed childhood memory that more or less didn’t concern his parents, was a source of immense pain and grief, and wasn’t something he should work through alone.

As Tighnari grabbed Alhaitham’s order, the Scribe put his hearing aids back on.

“Are you okay now, Alhaitham?” Tighnari asked, his eyebrows furrowed together and eyes squinted with worry. The Acting Grand Sage didn’t respond, causing the Forest Watcher to chuckle lightly. “Good. I’m sure Kaveh will appreciate that you did this for him.”

— If he was even home. He could be off satisfying his addiction again, avoiding both the nightmares and the client he was no-doubt trying to please.

They walked in silence back to Alhaitham’s house, keeping up a brisk pace as the crowd died down with the sun. Alhaitham was once again struck by the epiphany Kaveh put him through last night: why did Alhaitham make him the exception?

Alhaitham still did not have an answer. His mind was blank, like a chalkboard that had been wiped clean. Tighnari handed him the bags containing his and Kaveh’s food, and he considered asking Tighnari his thoughts on the matter.

Instead, he said, “It was Cyno, wasn’t it?”

The Forest Watcher looked at him with confusion, mouth opening to question him before he remembered his interaction with Kusanali. His ears pressed back against his head and the hairs on his tail spiked straight up in the air. He sucked in a painful breath. “I’m never doing anything nice for you ever again,” he hissed.

“Good riddance,” Alhaitham replied. Tighnari groaned, and for the rest of the walk his face didn’t lose its bright flush.

They didn’t knock at the door. It was locked, interestingly enough. Kaveh usually forgot to lock the front door when he went out, so either he never left the house after Alhaitham did, or he remembered for the first time in three months to lock up behind himself.

Tighnari gazed at the top half of the front door. “What happened to the window?”

“Kaveh,” said Alhaitham.

“Oh.”

Surprisingly, the blanket he’d tied over it was still intact. He thought Kaveh would have replaced it with a board or at least something sturdier than cloth that could blow away in a harsh wind.

They walked inside and were immediately greeted with the sight of massive papers, ink, and paint spread out across the living room table and couches. In the center was Kaveh, sitting on the floor and hunched over a blueprint. He didn’t move at all to the sound of Alhaitham and Tighnari entering the room.

“We have an art studio for this, you know,” Alhaitham called. It wasn’t uncommon for Kaveh to do this. When a client was particularly picky, Kaveh ended up having so many designs and blueprints that usually took up one or two extra rooms.

The architect responded with a low whine, still keeping his eyes and hands on the paper in front of him. His hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, and splotches of black ink stained his skin and clothes.

“I see you’ve been busy,” Tighnari mused. For a moment, Kaveh didn’t react. Then his head shot up, eyes wide, and dropped his pen. His eyes were bloodshot, and dark circles showed his exhaustion and stress. More than that, he hadn’t groomed himself any more than what had been able to accomplish that morning.

Hastily, Kaveh stood up, stumbling and narrowly avoiding the papers by his feet. His body trembled slightly. “I missed our lunch. I’m so sorry, Tighnari, I really mean it. I… I got caught up in work,” he motioned around himself, his voice set at a morose tone. “And I completely missed the time. How can I repay you?”

Tighnari dismissed the question with a wave of his head. “I’m not upset, I just wanted to check on you to make sure you had eaten.”

Kaveh pressed his palms together. “I appreciate it, but I’m fine, really.” “I brought you back fish rolls from Lambad’s,” Alhaitham said, holding the takeaway bag in the air.

“But you’re right, I didn’t eat,” Kaveh hurriedly amended, carefully stepping through his hand-made chaos to reach the fish rolls. When he reached them, Alhaitham only smelt ink, paint, and sweat rolling off of Kaveh. No trace of food nor alcohol.

He was barely able to hold the bag as they made their way to the dining room, and it took all of five seconds for Kaveh to tear into his fish rolls when they sat down. Alhaitham was slower with his food, though usually they ate at relatively the same speed. Tighnari didn’t have any food. Alhaitham guessed the plan was to eat and stay the night at Cyno’s house since that’s what Tighnari ordinarily did when he came into the city.

The Forest Watcher and architect held small talk while Alhaitham finished eating, talking mainly about the design Kaveh was working on and the lectures Tighnari was teaching in the main city for the time being. Eventually their conversation came to Collei when Tighnari off-handedly mentioned her staying with him and Cyno while he was in Sumeru City, since he didn’t want to leave her alone in Gandharva Ville.

“Oh? I thought she was doing well since her recovery from Eleazar,” Kaveh commented, his elbows on the table and chin resting in palm. Despite eating a full meal, he didn’t look any better than he had before.

“Physically she has, but this whole dreaming thing has really rattled her. She’s having nightmares of her past, horrible memories that she had repressed,” Tighnari said. “I’d rather be there for her in case it happens again.”

Alhaitham watched as Kaveh held his breath for one, two, three seconds. His face didn’t falter or change. Then the architect continued with ease. “Poor Collei. These dreams were meant to be a momentous occasion, but alas, what brings one person joy must then bring another sorrow. For everything that she’s gone through, she deserves a bit of peace.”

The Forest Watcher nodded and shifted in his seat, flicking one ear back. “Speaking of which, how have your dreams been?”

Alhaitham suppressed a groan. Though for his part, Kaveh didn’t show any signs of distress. “I haven’t remembered them all too well, unfortunately. Haitham’s had better luck than me.”

Taking the attention off of himself, Alhaitham noted. Such an obvious attempt wouldn’t pass by Tighnari, but he knew their friend couldn’t press too hard without revealing all that he heard from their conversation with Lesser Lord Kusanali, who had explicitly wanted them to not tell Kaveh all that they knew.

“I’m told you’ve been sleep-walking. Are sure everything’s okay?” Tighnari asked, smiling knowingly. Kaveh’s head whipped back to Alhaitham fast enough to give him whiplash. The glare he received only made the Scribe roll his eyes.

Kaveh grit his teeth and spoke to Tighnari while looking at Alhaitham. “I have been, and it’s awful. I’ve already managed to break our window, but I’m sure he’s already told you about that.”

The Acting Grand Sage stabbed at his butter chicken calmly. Damn you, Tighnari.

“He didn’t tell me anything, really. It came up in conversation and I figured it out on my own. Plus, those puncture wounds say it all,” he amended. If he thought that was going to forgive him of his previous transgression, Tighnari was sorely mistaken. “Are you taking any measures to prevent that from happening again?”

Slowly, Kaveh nodded. “I found a restraint that I’m going to use. The hope is that I won’t know how to untie a complicated knot while asleep, but I won’t know for certain until tonight.”

“Interesting,” Alhaitham commented. “Tighnari didn’t know he could use restraints until his dreams started, either.”

Polishing off the last bit of his plate with content, Alhaitham reveled in the sound of dead silence.

“You know, I’m starting to get hungry,” Tighnari’s chair squeaked against the floor as he pushed himself from the table. “I’ll take my leave. Goodbye, Kaveh.”

“Uh, bye, Tighnari?” Kaveh called uncertainly.

“You can’t blame him for being in a rush,” contended Alhaitham, just loud enough to make it to the foyer. “He’ll be eating really well tonight.”

The front door slammed shut.

Kaveh huffed in exasperation, standing up less aggressively than Tighnari had. “Could you try being civil for once in your life? He’s not going to come by here for another year because of you.”

“Good,” Alhaitham said, gathering their plates as Kaveh threw away the takeaway bags. “How much longer are you going to be working on that commission?”

“As soon as I possibly can– the client is quite urgent on the matter. No real deadline, but I’ll likely have the proposal approved and final design by the end of the week.”

Alhaitham glanced at the front door, where part of the blanket had come undone from Tighnari’s rude departure. “We need a new window.”

“Can’t you get it yourself? You’re not doing anything every afternoon,” Kaveh grumbled, returning to his spot on the floor. There was only one clear spot on all of the couches combined, supposedly where Kaveh was sitting before he moved to the ground. Alhaitham preferred to read in the living room, but today seemed like an office day.

Lightly imitating his roommate’s voice, he said, “You’ll complain that I didn’t get the right kind of window, it doesn’t match perfectly with the other windows, and it doesn’t fit correctly into the door frame.”

“I don’t sound like that! And yes, I have no doubt you will get the wrong kind of window! But not by accident! You’ll do it on purpose just to make me upset!” Kaveh exclaimed, his lips pulled backwards in the way he always does when they argue about nonsense.

“We’ll go together in a week from now,” Alhaitham decided. “Happy?”

“Very!”

Kaveh’s shoulders were raised as he put his head back down over his work, and Alhaitham stood there for a second longer than he should have. Despite the wonderful performance Kaveh put forth, Alhaitham was able to see straight through the facade. Not only was Kaveh stressed over the deadline of his commission, the burden of his nightmares and sleep-walking was still heavily weighing on his shoulders.

However, Kaveh had work to do and a tight schedule to work under. He didn’t have the time to get into a real argument with Alhaitham about nightmares and childhood memories, not when it would inhibit his work. Additionally, he’d already made a plan to keep himself safe at night.

They couldn’t talk about it tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps, if the architect had spare time.

Alhaitham ignored the tight feeling in his chest and retreated into his office, escaping the sight of puncture wounds staining pristine skin and ink clumping strands of blond hair together. Hair that hadn’t been washed that morning, nor had been cared for at all throughout the day. Nails that hadn’t been filed and cleaned. Blood on the cuffs of his pants that must have been from a reopened scab. Ruby eyes that were guarded, dulling any of his real emotions and hiding his turmoil.

Kaveh was naturally beautiful and charismatic, so it wasn’t obvious to most when he wasn’t caring for himself. Alhaitham noticed, though. He always did.

The Scribe pulled out a thick book he had been reading, an ancient text documenting the progression of agriculture and irrigation in King Deshret’s civilization, and sat down on the loveseat. His hearing aids didn’t pick up any sounds from the living room. Alhaitham shifted restlessly.

He was used to listening to Kaveh’s pencil strokes next to him as he read books on ancient civilizations.

#fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #genshin fanfic #genshin impact fic #genshin impact #genshin alhaitham #genshin fic #genshin fanfiction #genshin kaveh #alhaitham #kaveh #alhaitham x kaveh #kaveh x alhaitham #kavetham #kavehtham #genshin kavetham

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ashxketchum · 8 months

Text

Happy Birthday @sincerelytan 💙💚 Thank you for being a supportive friend in the fandom, and a fun. energetic presence in my life outside of it for these past few years 🫶🏻

This is very rushed and last minute, but I couldn't go the day without posting something for you! I hope you enjoy reading it, and that you had a great day today! Wishing you another amazing year ahead 🥰

[post divider by @/cafekitsune]

Contrary to what most people believed about her, parties could be intimidating for Mimi. She liked attending them no doubt, but throwing one always sucked the life out of her and yet, she could never step back and let anyone else take charge because unfortunately with her, planning an event gave her a kick like nothing else ever could. But once that phase was over and the party actually came to be, you'd easily find Mimi running around making sure every guest was comfortable, that the cutlery was spick and span, the flowers fresh, the drinks flowing and the food ever ready to be consumed. And as much as she tried to keep things simple, as her friends often advised her, it was impossible for her to not get carried away by the flow and then suddenly you'd find her running across Tokyo looking for an ice sculpture centrepiece under the warm August sun.

Today she managed to take things slow however, or so Yamato had remarked when he'd woken up and stepped into the living room which was also the venue for the day. Since then Mimi couldn't fight the gnawing feeling that she hadn't done enough. She went around the house checking and rechecking all the preparations, almost as if she was looking for a fault because if Yamato was satisfied by something then her standards were definitely not being met.

"Today isn't about you, Meems."

She stopped fiddling with the white and blue roses that adorned a large glass vase kept in the centre of the room. While she was grateful for Yamato's help with shifting around the furniture in the room so she could decorate it appropriately for the party, she knew she could do without his dry commentary.

"I'm perfectly aware of that." She rolled her eyes at him and began to check the ribbons she'd tied around the chairs that circled the centre table.

"Hilary specifically said she wanted to keep things minimal." Yamato did not seem to get the hint that she wasn't in the mood to talk to him right now.

"And I have kept things minimal-"

"But you're still fussing around like something's missing!" He insisted, narrowing his blue eyes at her from across the room.

"I am not!" She lied, moving away from the centre table to inspect the various vases of every size and shape she'd decorated the rest of the room with, "I'm just running the final checks."

"For the past two hours?"

"Well you never do something like this, so you don't know how careful one needs to be with the checks."

"Sure." His wry tone grated against her ears but she paid it no heed and continued moving around the room, "Do you even know what time it is?"

Now those words caught Mimi's attention. Having replaced their living room wall clock with an art piece as decoration and with her phone left behind somewhere in their house, she had no idea just how long it had been since she'd started the preparations. She rushed to where Yamato was standing as he held up his phone screen for her to see the dreaded digits displayed starkly across it.

The girls would arrive in less than two hours and Mimi was still in her pyjama shorts.

"Oh my god-"

"Relax, I prepared the bath for you,” Yamato said, a small yet deeply smug smile flashing across his face as he patted her head to help keep her emotions at bay, “You go in and I'll set out the clothes while you bathe."

"But…but Yama kun, I - I think I forgot to decide what I'm supposed to wear…" Mimi could not hold back the choking sob that surfaced in her throat as the realisation dawned on her. She’d been so busy buying the right decorations and planning the right menu, that she’d ignored a few things on her checklist for the week, one of which included planning an outfit for this party. But before she could begin to panic, the sound of laughter broke her train of thought and she fixed a glare at her boyfriend who stood in front of her clutching his stomach while his eyes were squeezed shut.

"Stop laughing! This isn't funny!"

"It truly is.” Yamato managed to speak in between chuckles, “The great Mimi Tachikawa forgot to pick out clothes for a party. They need to put this on the news."

"Shut up, you're not helping!" She shrieked as both her hands flew to her head. She could feel an impending panic attack rise in her chest as an image of all her friends showing up earlier than she expected and her receiving them in the clothes she’d slept in last night appeared in Mimi's mind. But before she could begin to pull out her hair, she felt a strong grasp around both of her wrists as Yamato sternly took her hands in his and kept her sanity at bay.

"Okay, okay, let's get you to your closet." While his tone hadn’t lost its humour, he still sounded softer than before as he tugged at her hands to get her to follow him.

Maybe it was the sound of Yamato’s low humming, or the sensation of his warm palms wrapped around hers but as they walked towards the bedroom, Mimi was able to take a few deep breaths and began to feel calmer. Once they were in the closet, she felt more in her element surrounded by the colourful sight of her clothes lined up perfectly and the scent of the flowery fabric that enveloped the roomy walk-in closet.

“What was the theme again?” Yamato asked as he gently let go of her hands and began to skim through the clothes on the left side of the closet.

“White and blue,” Mimi muttered as she took to the right side, surely with the two of them searching they’d be able to find something in this enormous collection of hers.

Even with her back to him, she could feel that Yamato was trying his best to bite back on making a sarcastic joke, the impatience radiated off him like a rippling wave as he rustled through her clothes. Knowing that they didn’t really have much time to spare, Mimi wanted him to stay focused so she turned around with folded arms and decided to get over the teasing as quickly as possible.

“What?” She asked flatly, almost making Yamato jump at the irritation in her tone.

He turned his head back to meet her eyes and a smirk immediately graced his lips as he pulled out a hanger and dangled it in front of her, “I’m guessing you want to wear something much more sophisticated?”

Mimi rolled her eyes and snatched the white and blue striped bikini piece from his hand, throwing it in the back of the closet as the sound of his satisfied snicker filled the air.

“You’re supposed to be helping.”

“I don’t believe there’s any harm in showing up to a party wearing a bikini, in fact, I will support your brave act by keeping my hands all over you mmph-”

The sequinned blazer she’d grabbed off the rack hit Yamato right in the face, drowning the rest of his sentence as Mimi tried to fight off the warmth spreading across her cheeks.

“You’re supposed to be helping.” She reminded him, turning her back to him so he wouldn’t catch her blushing.

She heard the sound of sequins hitting the floor but could not catch whatever Yamato grumbled under his breath. On another day she might have humoured him, put on the bikini just to tease him and see how far he would take the joke before succumbing to his own embarrassment. But today they were short on time for such games, even if the thought of Yamato's hands all over her body refused to leave her mind.

“Here you go, this is white and blue,” Yamato stated triumphantly so she turned again to look at what he had picked out.

It was an old dress of hers, one she’d forgotten she even owned. A white beach dress with blue spaghetti straps that were tied into a bow behind the neck. The style wasn’t too flashy but not completely plain either, it would be perfect for today’s event since someone else would be the star of the party and Mimi didn’t need many eyes on her. As glad as she was that Yamato had managed to dig this out from the depths of her collection, she was a little surprised by the feat too.

“How did you find this? I don’t think I’ve worn this since high school…”

“I gifted you this, so of course I know where it’s kept.” He shrugged in response as if this was obvious enough.

Mimi tried not to grin too widely as she stepped closer to him and took the dress from her hands, “So you were searching for this right from the start?”

At last, a tinge of red appeared on Yamato’s face as he stuttered out a reply, “O-of course not. I only remembered because I caught sight of it over there,” he said as he vaguely gestured towards the back of her closet, not doing a good job at keeping his emotions hidden.

“Awww, Yama-kun you’re such a softie! Do you remember where I’ve kept every present you’ve given me till date?” Mimi squealed at him, knowing that he would rather the earth swallow him than accept that he was extremely cheesy when it came to stuff like this.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Aren’t you getting late by the way?” He pulled out his phone again and avoided looking at her as his whole face turned a dark shade of red under dim, closet light.

Mimi promptly linked her arms with his to make sure he wouldn’t rush out before her, “Maybe, but I would like to talk more about whether you have a little diary where you cutely scribble all these details about our relationship-”

“Ah the water must have gotten cold by now, let me go and check the bath for you!” Yamato squeaked as he somehow untangled himself from her and dashed out of the closet.

Mimi giggled as she followed him out, a glance at the clock in their bedroom reminded her that she was getting late but she was sure the girls would forgive her once they heard about the new cheesy trait of Yamato she’d discovered.

#mimato #digimon #digimon advenutre #digimon adventure tri #yamato ishida #mimi tachikawa #digimon fanfiction #mimato besites 💚💙#graphics : mine #graphics : digimon #writealot

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fairydares · 1 year

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fuck it, new fic. let's do this.

(there's a 'keep reading' line so don't worry, this isn't too long.)

Title: Chasing Tails (AO3 Link) (Chapter 2) (Chapter 3)

Fandom: Fairy Tail

Rating: E (Explicit) because I'm almost positive there will be eventual smut. I'll be clearer about this as I actually decide what I'm going to write lol. Overarching Warning for Graphic Depictions of Violence.

Categories: 2nd gen fic; adventure, humor, romance, fluff, and angst in approximately that order. i guess.

Pairings: Nalu, Gruvia, Gajevy, Jerza, Miraxus+Fried (don't know what that ship's called sorry), Chendy, Sting/Yukino, Baccana-- next gen has pairings, too, but I don't want to reveal those yet.

Tags/TW's: The first chapter contains UFC/MMA-esque violence as well as some implied street violence. There may be more TW's I need to add later, but I honestly haven't written the whole story or decided everything, so that's all I can give you for now. I'll do my best to tag appropriately as I go.

Summary: It’s been almost 12 years since 17-year-old Layla O'Neil was found living alone on the streets and put in foster care, and she likes to think she’s done a pretty good job of forgetting the past. She doesn’t remember her birth family, the name “Nashi [*1] Dragneel,” or where she heard the absurd stories she told the police who found her. Stories about Wizard Guilds, flying cats, and–most cringey of all–her self-proclaimed status as a “Fire Dragon Slayer.”

But the past becomes pretty impossible to ignore when it confronts her in the form of some middle-aged, pink-haired stalker who won’t stop calling her the ridiculous name she’d nearly forgotten, and trying to convince her to come back to “Fairy Tale.”

Oh, and claiming to be her dad.

Like Layla doesn’t have enough problems! The last thing she needs is some delusional freak following around. Especially one who’s starting to make her want to take his hand…

Yep, this is a Second Gen (and therefore post-canon) fic. The idea took root and just would not let go. I’ll warn you ahead of time that the premise is somewhat dark. That said, I’m the kind of writer who likes (and tries to write) stories with sad beginnings, hopeful middles, and triumphant ends. I don't want to give too much away, but you shouldn't expect major character deaths or anything like that, though their may be some forms of lightly implied abuse.

Feel free to reblog, make your own additions with commentary, whatever. I'm quite lax with stuff like that. Hope this was comprehensive enough, and that you enjoy!

Chapter 1: Dragon-Slaying Aliens

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“That’s correct…a world that exists independently from the one we know. And, unfortunately, a world that’s begun losing its Magic…unlike here, in Edolas, Magic is a finite resource. Without limits on its use, it will one day disappear forever.” -from Episode 78, “Edolas”, (English dub, ~00:09), Carla’s line [*1]

------------------------------------------------------------------------------To say this mission had gone sideways was a big-ass understatement, and even Natsu had to admit it.

It had started well enough. A relatively small mission. Not even S-Class! Puny wannabe Dark Guilds like the one Shirotsume needed dealt with–what was it called? Bony Jewel or something? Anyways, they were a dime a dozen, these days. Hell, Natsu was pretty sure he and Happy took out, like, a billion of them in the past seven years by pure accident. So how the hell was he supposed to know that this time, he’d get blasted to another world–one even Team Natsu hadn’t wound up in?

And he was positive they’d never been here. He may have had a bad memory (something he’d begrudgingly been forced to actively acknowledge as he grew into a man) but he was sure he’d have remembered somewhere that made him feel this bad. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t use his Magic. If it had just been that, this might have been fun. Hell, a lot of the worlds Team Natsu had visited–even Edolas–had been fun.

This one sucked.

If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought he’d been transported to the future–one where FACE had been activated and all the Magic had been dissipated. Because it had felt, truly, like all the Magic was being sucked out of him. When he’d woken up on the forest floor, he’d felt as if he was dying. His lungs had burned with each breath (and not in the good way). His limbs had felt like lead when he tried to rise.

He’d quickly realized that couldn’t be the case, though. Even if the Dragons hadn’t destroyed FACE, if all the Magic had been sucked from Earthland he’d have Magical Deficiency Syndrome. He’d either be down or in forced into his END form.

He’d wandered around the small forest he’d woken up in alone, trying to focus through the stink and noise he was only capable of perceiving through what felt like about a hundred layers of thick blanket, and calling for his best friend as long as he could. It hadn’t been long before he gave up and left; Happy had never shouted back (something he considered fortunate, at this point; hopefully Happy was back in Earthland) his stomach was trying to eat itself, it was dark–and, worst of all–he still couldn’t use his Magic. At all.

Actually, scratch that: the absolute worst part was when a glance at his (as usual) bare shoulder showed him that his guild mark had vanished. It was just gone. So was his scarf, and so was his Mini Communication Lacrima. Obviously, his guild mark and scarf were bigger deals personally, but the Mini Comm was a bigger loss in immediate, practical terms. After That Day, seven years ago, Laxus–now Fairy Tail’s Master–had started putting Navigation Enchantments on everyone’s Comms so that anyone who went missing could be traced. There was a 3D map of Earthland and Edolas visually tracking everyone’s movements in the Master’s Office. It could even find them in Edolas.

Now, Natsu’s was nowhere to be found. No one would be able to find him, wherever he was, and any hopes of contacting them were obviously dead in the water, too.

He was gonna have to find his own way back, somehow. He only prayed his scarf was somehow back in Earthland, and that Happy had grabbed it for him.

As he hobbled down the weird, too-neat walkway he’d found, he had to believe that whatever was preventing him from using his Magic was what kept him from sensing anything beyond the general–the stink, the sound, the pain, the hunger. Normally, with his better-than-normal resilience and enhanced strength, his pain would have mostly taken care of itself by now. Usually, making himself move helped. Now, it seemed to be making things worse.

After finding the pathway, he’d kept shouting for his little buddy a whole bunch of times, but all he’d gotten were several loud verbal confrontations and one physical one. He’d expected to beat the massive brute towering next to the smaller woman beside him–and he had. But it hadn’t been as easy as he’d expected. His movements had been slower than normal. His limbs had felt like lead. His strength had been lesser. Every time he tried to call up his Magic, a wave of dizziness and lethargy had overcome him. It was like he’d feel the rushing up inside of him only to sputter to coldness at the last second; he hadn’t seen so much as a spark since he’d woken up.

In the end, it was only experience and determination which had allowed him to level the much larger man, and hard-earned wisdom which had seen him running from the screeching woman and the gun-wielding, uniform-wearing soldiers her screeching had drawn. Yet the punch he’d taken to the nose had made it bleed and the kick to the thigh had made him limp.

It wasn’t just that his Dragon senses had vanished, making him woozy, making it difficult to stand and excruciating to move. His strength was gone as well. Not even sealstone would have weakened him this much.

He’d wandered, now, for what felt like several hours. The number of Magical Vehicles around were astounding–astounding, and nauseating; just looking at them made Natsu want to vomit. The one good part of having an empty stomach was that he had nothing to give up. He meandered in a stupor, through unbelievably thick crowds, dodging Magic Vehicles and their honking, and glaring down anyone who yelled at him for not understanding something, occasionally barking back to scare them off.

He’d never been so disoriented, and the worst part was that deep down, he knew that there was no one to blame but himself.

Lucy and Happy had asked him, point-blank, if the Quest he’d chosen had anything to do with his search for their long-lost daughter and kitten.

It had. Of course it had.

However, Natsu had denied it. Because if he hadn’t, he and Happy wouldn’t have been able to leave right then. Lucy would have forced him to bring someone else along; she was busy taking care of their son, Luke; the Perve-sicle was already out on his own mission/search for Juvia, and Erza was away, which meant he’d have had to ask someone outside Team Natsu.

No thanks, he’d decided, covering up the fine print on the mission request with his fingers before holding it up to Lucy’s nose.

Now, as he snarled at yet another person yelling at him for being in the way, Natsu was starting to consider the possibility that he just maybe should’ve been more upfront, and even that he should–perhaps–have waited for the stripper to get back before taking on Bony Jewel or whatever alone.

But how the hell was he supposed to have known it would end up like this?! It had been going fine–in fact, it had been going great! A couple opponents had offered a real challenge before their Master had shown up. Natsu had been laying down brick in that fight, too. Yet when the guy had been on his last legs, he’d whipped some creepy, sparkly rainbow skull from nowhere (now that he thought about it…that might have been what the Guild was named for!) and shot one last attack. One so big, Natsu had been unable to dodge–though, of course, he’d made to both block and finish the fight with an enormously powerful Fire Dragon Wing Attack.

Based on his current predicament–he had to assume it hadn’t worked. Even though the skull had shattered in the heat of his flames at the last second, the blast had still hit him. His one consolation was that he was pretty sure his little buddy had heeded his final warning to get back. So he was almost definitely still back in Earthland.

It had taken Natsu several pathetic attempts to stand. Getting here felt like a blur. Now, he had no idea what he was doing. What he should do. Their money had been in Happy’s knapsack, and without his precious nose, finding food was basically impossible anway.

Man…Lucy’s gonna kill me, he grumbled internally, grunting at another group who shouted at him for bumping into him.

Okay, yeah, maybe he should’ve been honest. Maybe he should’ve waited. But how could he do that when the lead was so good? When there was even the smallest chance he might finally find Nashi [*]?

At the thought, his footsteps halted temporarily. He ducked his head, bangs shadowing his eyes. He balled his fists at his sides. The thought of the missing daughter he’d never stopped searching for never got easier to bear.

It was the worst thing that could happen to a parent, to lose their child. Something he wouldn’t have wished on Fairy Tail’s most vicious, evil enemy. He and Lucy understood that too intimately. Still, he didn’t let himself get bogged down, not when it might hold him back, not when it might keep him from finding her. Seven years, she’d been gone. Her, Wendy–so many of their nakama and allies. Time had neither hindered nor halted his search for any of his missing comrades, but especially his little girl. She’d be twelve, now. He’d gotten better with birthdays and anniversaries when he married Lucy. He’d woken up and started crying on April 14th this year, the same as his wife.

Still, even on that day, he’d spoken of her. When he was with Luke, Lucy, and Happy, he talked about it. He talked about how he’d find her and Harley–Happy and Carla’s kitten–how they’d be a family again. He spoke of the future to give it power, just like Igneel had taught him. Just like he’d taught his own kids. Wherever Nashi was, he was sure she must be doing the same; speaking of how she’d find them again, the same as he strove to find her.

But he couldn’t continue his search (covert or not) until he got home. So getting home was definitely at the top of the to-do list. Right after eating.

He kept walking.

Wherever he’d wound up was seedy, dark, yet strewn with lights that made paths across his newly-sucky eyes when he looked at them directly. Gross and smelly, too. The people he’d just bumped into started shouting back at him, something about bumping into someone’s girlfriend, and he huffed irritably. Normally, he’d never back down from a challenge like this, but believe it or not, he was too lost, confused, hungry, and tired to deal with another fight–not when the injuries he’d sustained from the previous one were still hurting this much.

It was humiliating. He’d always been the type of person who refused to back down from a fight, no matter how outmatched he was. These days, a lot of fights were honestly pretty boring for him. Erza would always be scary, and Gray was admittedly pretty strong (if not badass enough to stand up to him, or so he would always insist). He could proudly admit to having achieved (at least) Gildarts-level strength without the clumsiness to make him dangerous.

Now, he was balking out of fights with people who weren’t even using Magic.

There was something viscerally terrifying about how much his injuries were troubling him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t limp without worsening whatever injury that asshole had doled out on his knee. His nose felt bigger than his head.

He stumbled on, brooding.

The guy whose girlfriend he’d bumped into got louder, closer. Obviously, the freak wasn’t gonna let it go. Cursing, he started hobbling more quickly, turning the next corner. To his relief and curiosity, bright lights, loud voices, and a huge crowd–littered with food stands he might be able to beg food from–appeared. He made his way into the thick of it, ignoring the shouts behind him, and ducked and wove between people. It took him several seconds to realize he was still trying to find food by his nose, which barely even freaking worked. Frustrated, he turned his attention to the source of the light, which seemed to focus down on whatever sat in the middle of the crowd.

Curiosity shoving past the numbness and hunger, Natsu pushed his way towards it.

“Ow!”

“Hey!”

“Watch it, freak!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Natsu grumbled. “Watch your damn selves!”

He still felt like shit, but the crowd was oddly invigorating. As he crashed through the thickest (front) lines of the crowd, more lights came on while the darkness behind him fell deeper. Natsu winced, blinking. It took him a few moments to register what he’d stumbled upon: a roundish sort of stage, elevated a few feet off the ground and bordered by some kind of chain-link cage thing. Two corners were open to be entered, but fended off by some big dudes in black suits, holding back the crowd.

“WELCOME, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” boomed a voice that came from everywhere and nowhere at once, making Natsu flinch again and the crowd start chattering loudly.

Match? Natsu wondered despite his disorientation and exhaustion, thinking of the Grand Magic Games. He shoved aside every stranger who tried to take his place at the front of the audience, looking around with wide, curious eyes, shoving his gnawing stomach to the backburner.

“FIGHT FANS! ARE YOU REAAAADDDDYYYYY??!!! ”

Fight? Natsu thought, perking up, conveniently forgetting his injuries in a burst of excitement. Several people started chattering at the crack of the loud voice that was everywhere and nowhere, making Natsu look around even more fervently.

“BECAUSE THIS LONG-WAITED MATCH-UP IS… ABOUT…TO…BEGINNNN!!!”

The cheering got louder, the shoving got more aggressive, and Natsu got more aggressive right along with it. He’d be damned if he was going to miss a good fight. Besides. He needed to see what the Magic here was like. He was being smart. So ha! How about that, Lucy?!

“INTRODUCING: OUR FIRST FIGHTER!” the voice shouted while Natsu continued to elbow and shove, anticipation rising. Music rang out, a dude’s loud, snarly voice backed up by a bunch of deep bangs and booms which had Natsu trying to decide if what he was listening to was awesome or fucking awful–nope, definitely fucking awful. For the first time, he was glad he couldn’t hear properly since he got here.

A light flashed at one corner, drawing his eye. “UNLIKE HIS OPPONENT, THIS FIGHTER IS WELL-ESTABLISHED IN THE SEMI-UNDERGROUND OCTAGON! HAD HIS PERFORMANCES BEEN FORMALLY JUDGED WHILE THE UNDERGROUND WAS STILL ACTIVE, HE WOULD LIKELY HAVE LONG-BEEN PERMANENTLY DISQUALIFIED! YET, IN SPITE OF A CONTROVERSIAL CAREER, HE HAS REMAINED A STAPLE OF THE SEMI-OCTAGON FIGHTING WORLD FOR TWO YEARS!”

“Er, feels kinda harsh?” Natsu muttered to himself, sweating slightly. Though he didn’t really get what “controversial career” meant.

“WHILE THIS IS NOT FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE, DUE TO HIS HISTORY, MANY WILL NO DOUBT VIEW HIM AS REIGNING CHAMP AND DEFENDER! INNNNTTRRROOODUUUCCCINNNG… ‘MAD BULL’ MATTHEW BRON!”

A door Natsu hadn’t even seen was slammed open as if it had been kicked, and an enormous man–even bigger than the one that had managed to tag Natsu just a little bit ago, a man built like that potato head guy from Lamia Scale, and actually bearing a similar-shaped bald head–appeared, yanking off headphones and chucking them over his massive shoulder one of the lackeys who’d followed him out. The much shorter guy jumped, barely catching them and fumbling a lot once he had. “Mad Cow” or whatever grinned maniacally as he stormed for the ring, dark eyes wild.

The response from the crowd was mixed but mostly positive, Natsu quickly noticed as he glanced around. His eyes skated quickly over the group next to him (which was booing, unlike most of the crowd) then returned his focus to the stage-circle thing. He could see well enough, he was glad to note, even if his vision was nowhere near as sharp as it was back on Earthland. Big Guy took his place at the corner of the ring and immediately started pacing, lifting tree-like arms and roaring as he did so. Meanwhile his lackey scurried for the bit of protected corner behind him, trying to shout for his attention and getting nowhere as he continued to pace.

Natsu quickly decided he didn’t like the looks of this guy, intro aside. He was the type of asshole Natsu lived to knock down a peg, and despite his injuries and exhaustion, Natsu found himself appraising the big bastard, hands twitching. Sure, he wasn’t in the best shape, but since when had he been one to turn down the chance to kick some ass? It was more a reflex than anything. For about the billionth time since he’d landed here, he tried conjuring up some fire only to curse internally as all he got for his efforts was a wave of dizziness and a wash of helplessness.

“NOW FOR OUR CONTENDER,” the voice boomed. “SHE’D ONLY BARELY ENTERED THE UNDERGROUND BEFORE IT BECAME THE SEMI-UNDER, BUT WAS ALREADY MAKING WAVES! THIS FIGHTER HAS SPARKED INTENSE DEBATE ABOUT WHETHER WOMEN SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO FIGHT MEN–IN ANY OCTAGON!” More mixed din. Natsu frowned in confusion. Was it for the other fighters’ safety or something? Because someone should ban Erza from contributing to the guild hall violence. Oh, yes. That was a great idea. He’d have to bring the idea up to Gray when he got home.

“BUT IT’S DIFFICULT TO ARGUE WITH HER HANDY VICTORIES!” the voice boomed. “THANKS TO HER NEARLY-UNBROKEN STREAK OF INSANE WINS, SHE HAS BEEN NICKNAMED THE THE ‘PHOENIX’, ‘UNDERDOG’, ‘TENMEN’...AND HER PREFERRED NICKNAME…”

A new song started, and this one was undeniably cool, in Natsu’s opinion. Something hard, fast, and catchy, punctuated by an angry-sounding woman singing something about “not giving a damn” about something or other. The door at the opposite end of the ring swung open. A girl came swaggering out, and Natsu froze.

“THE DRAGONESS, LAYLAAAAA O'NEEEILLLLL!!!!”

It wasn’t his daughter. It couldn’t be. Her name wasn’t Layla. Her name was Nashi. His Nashi would be twelve, and this girl was in her late teens–maybe even her early twenties. The fact that her fighting nickname was “The Dragoness” was a nasty coincidence, but that’s all it was. This couldn’t be Earthland’s Nashi.

But it was this world’s Nashi. Of that, there was no doubt. And Natsu couldn’t make himself take his eyes off her, couldn’t even make himself blink as he stared, ignoring the cheering and booing all around him.

A couple strands of unruly pink hair at her bangs had broken free of their tight braids, as adorable and predictably unpredictable as his little girl’s. They clung to her forehead, bouncing as she strutted towards the monster still pacing, practically frothing at the mouth, and Natsu vaguely registered the sound of several peoples’ alarmed murmuring. If he hadn’t been so distracted, he’d have understood; she was about half the guy’s size and about -50% as insane-looking.

Not scared, though.

And…she looked like Lucy. She looked so much like Lucy that it hurt. He could still remember times when he’d call his little girl’s name, she’d turn around, and he’d gasp–because it really was like an adorable, wild little pink-haired Lucy turning to look up at him, her whole face lighting up like he was the greatest thing in Earthland. The memory choked him up, a feeling he’d gotten used to over the past seven years. He swallowed hard.

But that wasn’t Lucy’s smile. Natsu felt like he had seen that smile somewhere but he wasn’t particularly interested in thinking about it all that deeply, because what mattered was that it was her smile, his little girl’s, big and toothy and unmistakable–a little lopsided, the corners of her lips characteristically curling.

It hit his chest like a shot from Zeref, making him briefly clutch at his waistcoat’s dirtied fabric.

Natsu knew, firsthand, just how similar other worlds’ versions of his loved ones could be to his. Hell, Edolas Lucy had chopped off her hair to make it a little easier to distinguish herself from Earthland Lucy.

That didn’t make it hurt any less to suddenly see another world’s Nashi– Layla, this one was called. That was Nashi’s middle name. It made sense, when you thought about it. Names were one thing that seemed to sometimes differ slightly between worlds, as he’d learned on the 100-Year-Quest [*3]. Her canines were sorta sharp, maybe, but they weren’t Dragon Slayer sharp, like his and daughter’s. Besides. Edo Nashi and Fireball’s canines were a tiny bit sharper than normal, too.

It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be. Looking at her still felt like being punched in the chest by Erza. Yet he couldn’t stop watching as the music, cheers, and boos faded, she stripped off her sweats (to much catcalling and whistling) to reveal a black sports bra/shorts getup sort of like “Mad Bull’s” shorts, revealing a body packed with much more muscle than any of Fairy Tail’s women would’ve allowed themselves to accumulate. She looked pretty badass, he decided.

The voice that was everywhere and nowhere boomed on:

“NOT ONLY A CHANCE AT THE UPCOMING TITLE ON THE LINE, BUT–POTENTIALLY–THE FUTURE OF MIXED SEMI-UNDERS. TWO CHALLENGERS, SQUARING OFF FOR A CHANCE AT THE SEMI-FINALS. THIS IS A GIGANTIC CULTURAL MOMENT IN THE HISTORY OF THIS SPORT… ‘MAD BULL’ MATTHEW BRON VS. THE ‘DRAGONESS’ LAYLA O'NEIL!”

“‘Dragoness’ is fucking right!” Mad Cow or whatever roared while he hugged one arm across his chest, grinning ferally at his much smaller opponent. “Here hoping some man will look at you, fugly?!”

Several people in the audience laughed. Even the announcer chuckled. Meanwhile, Natsu’s blood boiled. On some level, he knew he needed to separate himself from this. From this fight, from this “Nashi.” Especially when he was this powerless to do anything about any of it. But it was impossible to listen to someone say that to another version of his daughter and not have every protective instinct in his body flare, especially when the spectators apparently thought it was fucking hilarious.

However, her grin didn’t even flicker. “Like you’re one to talk!” she cackled. “You look like Popeye fucked Bigfoot!”

Natsu didn’t flinch at the language like many people in the audience seemed to. In fact, he found the disapproving murmurs confusing. The other guy hadn’t exactly been polite, but he hadn’t gotten the same reaction. Still, a solid number of people were laughing their asses off, including the group next to him which had booed Mad Cow.

He also had no clue what the hell she’d just said even meant, but the way Mad Cow’s smile dropped off his face, a handful of people started howling with laughter, and the commentator’s chuckles cut off abruptly was enough to make Natsu grin.

Some random guy in some sort of black, collared uniform entered the arena, signaling to the loud, annoying commentator. Unlike her opponent, no one had followed This Nashi into the arena; she was all alone. So she ran back to her own bit of protected yet empty corner and threw her clothes and a water bottle over the chainlink fence, then ran back towards the middle of the arena. There, she hopped up and down, shaking out her arms. Stretched them above her head.

“OUCH!” The commentator finally seemed to recover, though he sounded somewhat vexed. “WELL, ONE THING’S FOR SURE, THE CHALLENGER CAN TALK GAME…WHETHER SHE CAN LIVE UP TO IT IS ANOTHER QUESTION.”

“God, I fucking hate when Hansis commentates,” the guy next to Natsu muttered, his friends snorting in agreement. Then he glanced at Natsu–only to double take. “Oi, are you related to the Dragoness or something?!” he asked, eyes on his hair.

“Uhhh…” Natsu chuckled nervously, feeling himself start to sweat. He may have been what Erza would (and frequently did ) call an “impulsive idiot”, but he had no clue how to explain that he was the father of her other self. “Something like that.”

“Whoa, seriously?!” The guy’s friend leaned around him to look at Natsu with wide, shining eyes, then continued, “I won’t ask anymore, ‘cause obviously you’re trying to protect your identities or something, but that’s so cool! We’re huge fans!”

“Hmm…” Natsu said, scanning their apparel–t-shirts and hats emblazoned with her face and silhouette–and what looked like homemade signs of her name, written in fiery letters. “I can see that…what is this, exactly?” He asked this while looking around at the lights, spectators, an unfamiliar kind of money being exchanged and counted between several people.

Natsu tilted his head, blinking. “No?” he said.

“The semi-underground tournament?” the only girl in the group said, eyes almost as wide as her friend’s. When Natsu only continued to look confused, she said, “What, do you live under a rock?! You’ve at least heard of MMA, right? Mixed Martial Arts?”

He perked up at this. “Like a fight?! Hell, yeah! How do I get in on this?!” He grinned, cracking his knuckles, his earlier scuffles and empty stomach completely forgotten.

“YOU DON’T!” the entire group shouted, eyes bugging.

The dude who’d first started talking to him huffed, sweating slightly. “The ‘semi-underground’ octagon used to just be called ‘the underground fights,’” he explained loudly, Natsu still having to lean in to catch what he said with his new, bad ears over the increasingly excited din. “It was illegal, but, like, illegal in the ‘everyone knows but won’t squeal’ way, you know?”

Natsu nodded, fully getting this. After all, how many times had soldiers arrested him only for Queen Hisui to let him off with a finger-wag. Of course, his luck on that front had run out seven years ago…

“The feds finally cracked down on it,” the guy continued, “but didn’t prosecute any of the fighters. Now, it’s called the ‘Semi-Underground’...it’s got no weight-classes (which is why the Dragoness can fight big dudes like Mad Bull). All genders are free to compete and fight each other. It’s a bit more for entertainment than pure fighting prowess– that was different, before,” the guy added with a wistful tone. “But still! You can’t just go waltzing into the octagon, you know? Back in the basement where this used to happen, you could’ve gotten away with that, but now you’ve gotta work for it, you know? Seriously, do you live under a rock or something?”

Irritated, Natsu opened his mouth, but his response was cut off when a loud voice–not as loud as the announcer, but still–redrew all their attention to the ring. “Alright, fighters,” the black-collar guy said into a microphone which was smaller and not as loud as the commentator’s, quieting the audience. “We’ve been over the rules. Protect yourself at all times. Follow my instructions. We’re going to have a clean fight, you hear me?” He glared at Mad Bull, but This Nashi was the only one who dipped her chin in recognition. Natsu’s eyes narrowed along with hers when her opponent refused to acknowledge the guy’s words. “Now, touch gloves at this time, and come out ready to do this!”

Both fighters instantly danced away from each other. Black collar guy scowled. Both the commentator and the audience made sounds like “ OOOOOOOH!”

“NO TOUCH!” came the commentator’s gleeful voice, “I REPEAT, NEITHER FIGHTER TOUCHED GLOVES, AND SO FAR, NEITHER ARE REALLY MOVING FOR EACH OTHER–”

“SAY YOU’RE PRAYERS, BITCH!” Mad Cow roared. “YOU’RE DEAD MEAT!”

“BRING IT!” This Nashi roared back, and Mad Cow lunged, swinging in immediately with a big, dramatic overhand hook that would have knocked her out immediately if she hadn’t skated out of its way. It took about three similar exchanges for Natsu to sag in disappointment.

“Oi!” he shouted, utterly let down, “Where the hell’s the magic?!”

“Geez!” the guy next to him laughed. “The fight’s only just started: give them a minute to warm up! Then we’ll get to see the cool stuff.”

“What, they’re not allowed to use it at first or something?” Natsu asked, still staring as This Nashi fended off huge, devastating blows raining down from above and leapt back from the powerful kicks, eyes narrowed and expression tight.

“...Er, what?” the guy asked.

“Magic–duh!” Natsu huffed, flickering wide eyes between the guy and This Nashi, who was now darting backwards around the round-ish ring, still fending Mad Cow off, weaving and ducking with a speed few could hope to match. “You know?! Fire, Ice, Celestial Magic…?

The guy stared at him for a second along with his companions, all of whom were also sweating. It was then that Natsu knew:

Something more was going on here. Something he didn’t understand. This place…wherever he was, it was like Edolas. Not now, but back when he, Lucy, and the others had gone there. Magic didn’t just not exist, here; was some kind of… taboo on it.

“Oh, sorry,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. Trying to keep his voice as quiet as he could over the crowd, he continued, “I didn’t mean to say something that would get you in trouble...”

The group’s only response was to sidle away from him surreptitiously, glancing at him and sharing looks with wide eyes. Natsu was thrown for a loop once more. Ooo- kay, talk about overly-suspicious. Were there guards listening in on their conversation or something? As discreetly as possible, with his hand still at the back of his head, he looked around, eyes narrowed.

Yet…he saw nothing to warrant their suspicion. An unruly crowd…and an astonishing lack of guards. At the Grand Magic Games, there’d always been a ton of guards. Way more than he wanted to be there, honestly. Did this have something to do with the whole “underground” thing?

He looked at the group again, then realized something important: it was him they were looking at nervously. Nervously, and like…he was crazy or something.

It had taken time, but the years had made Natsu wiser–cooler–about situations like this. Even as his stomach sank with the realization that getting home was going to be a much harder task than he’d initially realized, he acknowledged that he’d need to be careful about mentioning Magic here. Dropping his hand, he forced a small smile at them then turned his attention back to the arena, where Mad Cow continued to chase This Nashi around the edge of the arena. Meanwhile, his mind continued to reel, loud to himself and no one else.

“–IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE SHE’S CAUGHT IN A CLINCH, HERE, AND THEN OUR NIGHT WILL BE OVER!” the commentator was blaring. It was sort of surprising, how easily he’d been able to tune out when Natsu’s ears were registering so little. “I HATE TO SAY IT–” (Based on the glee in his tone, Natsu doubted that.) “–BUT HOWEVER MUCH OF AN EXTRAORDINARY FIGHTER SHE IS, SHE’S STILL A FEMALE FIGHTER. HER OPPONENT HAS WELL OVER A HUNDRED POUNDS ON HER [*4]. AND, AGAIN, I HATE TO SAY THIS–BUT THERE ARE JUST PHYSICAL BARRIERS NO CHICK FIGHTER WILL EVER BE ABLE TO OVERCOME! RIGHT NOW, THIS IS A DOG FIGHT, AND NOT ONE SHE CAN KEEP SCRAPPING IN! SHE’S NOT GOING TO COME OUT AS THE ‘UNDERDOG,’ THIS TIME–”

“Man, she’s getting her ass beat!” someone from the group broke the awkward silence as This Nashi was swept aside by a blow that caught the guard at her ear.

“Maybe she’ll make a comeback!” another guy said, tremulous but hopeful, as a log-like shin crashed into her stomach.

“She definitely will!” the guy who’d first spoken to Natsu said, though there was a distant note of doubt in his voice as she barely reeled from an arrow-fast straight right.

Despite the awkwardness of their last interaction, Natsu couldn’t help appreciating these people, who were so devoted to this world’s Nashi. He decided to end their night more positively. “Is that what you think?” he asked in a somewhat bored tone, eyes on the girl still gliding backwards, dancing away from the hits and kicks or else blocking them. He felt, rather than saw, the group’s eyes jumping to him, some of them quickly leaping away only to dart back.

“What do you mean?” the first guy ventured when he said nothing else, edging a little closer once more.

Natsu crossed his arms over his broad chest, eyes thinning as Big Boy brought down a hailstorm of fists on This Nashi’s head. His eyes tracked the way a particularly big hit caught her forearm–but only barely, seeing as she’d slid out of the enormous range even as she blocked. Just like he’d thought…

His stomach churned uncomfortably. It was eerie and cruel, how much her movements and the memories aligned–

“OUCH! That hurt, Daddy!” After the exclamation, Nashi began grumbling, vigorously rubbing her forearm where his fist had just him.

“Woops!” Natsu chuckled sheepishly, “My bad!”

Despite the fact that she was still rubbing the arm he’d tapped with a light hit, the little girl who barely came up above his knees scowled.

It was midday, now. In their front lawn; his and Happy’s house, now much larger with the rooms he’d added for Lucy and their kids.

“But–” He grew serious. “–you think your enemies will take it easy on you, Nashi? You think they’ll give you a break because you say ‘ouch’?”

She dropped her arms to her sides and scowled–pouted, really. She was so cute, he couldn’t have kept his lips from quirking into a grin if he tried. Strutting forward, he planted a hand on top of her head, rubbing the unruly locks. He only grinned wider when she turned her scowl/pout up to him. “Sorry, kiddo, but they won’t!”

Lucy would have lost her mind, if she saw the interaction. Natsu could just hear her now: “NATSU, WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?! SHE’S FIVE! BE CAREFUL, WOULD YOU? BLAH BLAH BLURGH BLAH– !”

He never really got Lucy, when she acted like that. Nashi was a Dragon Slayer, like him. She could take much more than a normal human, but would never learn that she could if he didn’t show her! Not to mention that Igneel had been way tougher on him, when he was five. Besides, he didn’t want his kid to be some weakling! What father did want that?

Not any good ones, that was for sure. Especially not when their kids had Nashi’s determination and drive.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he apologized again, still rubbing her head affectionately. “But you’ve got to understand…if I hurt you, it’s because I know your enemies will hurt you the same way…I don’t want it to surprise you. I want you to be able to fight back, still. You do still want to be a big-time Dragon Slayer, don’t you?”

She stared up at him dubiously, but the smile caught on quick. She’d never been able to resist smiling back at him.

“...Yeah,” she admitted finally, feigning reluctance.

He lifted his hand off her head, cupping it around his ear and leaning down towards her. “What was that?!” he shouted. “I couldn’t hear you…what was it you want?!”

“I–pfft–I WANT–” Her small smile turned to a grin–the big, corner-curled grin only his daughter ever could or would achieve. The one that always melted his heart.

“I WANNA BE A DRAGON SLAYER!” she managed to roar through her grin. “NO–I MEAN, I WANNA BE THE STRONGEST DRAGON SLAYER EVER!”

“HELL YEAH, YOU DO!” he roared back, the pride managing to make his chest burst even as he squared up again, preparing for more training. An adrenaline only teaching one’s prodigy could spark electrocuted his system. “IF THAT’S REALLY TRUE, THEN COME ON, NASHI! YOU’VE GOT MORE IN YOU! I KNOW YOU DO!”

“OH YEAH? WELL I DO! I GOT WAY MORE IN ME!” She dropped into the stance he’d taught her, grinning for everything she was worth. The sun illuminated her smile.

He somehow managed to grin even more widely. “Right, then listen up!” he commanded. “When Dragon Slayers fight, they got one big advantage: they can take a whole bunch of hits–then still get up. So that’s exactly what you’re gonna do.”

“...Huh?!” The little girl’s eyes bulged out of her head. “You’re sayin’ I’m gonna let myself get hit?!”

“Well, not too hard,” he elaborated. “And not too much…you’re just gonna play defense for a while, see?” He moved for her, throwing a fist much more slowly than he normally would have. Automatically, she wove away, eyes wide on his face. His right fist was followed by his left, then a kick–all too sluggish to be real. She easily moved around and blocked all of them. “This way,” he continued, throwing another kick. “You can learn the guy you’re fighting, how step, how they breathe…”

“How they step…how they breathe…” she repeated to herself in a murmur, eyes flickering all over his body as he continued to pantomime a real fight. Natsu couldn’t help but grin. Nashi was a distractible kid, but when it came to fighting, she was always on the ball.

Natsu didn’t mind one bit when Lucy blamed him for that.

“...how they fight,” he finished.

“...how they fight!” she whispered.

He started speeding up his movements. Let her orient before he lit up his fists. She mirrored him, flames igniting her much smaller fists. Their dance became even faster “That’s it, Nashi!” he praised as she leapt back from a kick, only letting it clip her shoulder. “Get into the flow of it! Read my movements! Remember, breathe, and–”

“She’s reading him,” he murmured, voice softer than he’d meant it to be. “Fending him off and waiting for the right moment; his hits are only clipping her.” His hunger was catching up with him again, as was his pain. He ached. He wanted to sleep. And…

…It hurt. It hurt too much. Knowing it wasn’t his Nashi…that just made it hurt more. Each hit, each block, each flash of those brown eyes…they felt like shards of glass piercing his heart.

I can’t stay here, he realized.

“What was that?” the girl in the group asked, venturing closer to him.

His heart was heavy, sinking as he watched the girl. Embarrassment washed over him as he realized that had been a stupid thing to say in the first place. This wasn’t his Nashi. She wasn’t using what he’d taught her because he hadn’t been the one to train her. Hell, she probably wasn’t even gauging her opponents’ movements; she was probably fighting for her life, here.

She would lose.

“Nothin’,” he replied thickly, dropping his arms even as he watched the girl roll away from a rather impressive and extremely long-ranged crescent kick, not even the man’s big toe catching her at all. “I was wrong…enjoy the rest of the fight, guys.” He used the ensuing beat of silence to stare–for just one more second–at the girl. This world’s version of his girl.

Without thinking, he went to heft up his backpack, only to sigh in quiet defeat–the exhale almost visible even in the warm air–as he remembered it wasn’t there; he was just a weakling in this world. That’s why his back (and whole body) felt so heavy.

“Oh, you’re leaving?” the first guy who’d spoken to him said as he turned away, pushing back through the crowd. His tone was an odd mixture of relieved and disappointed. Natsu said nothing, merely waving.

Overhead, the booming voice–which he’d tuned out during the competition–continued to sound off. “–AN ADMITTEDLY UNBELIEVABLE DODGE, BY ,” it said, clearly shocked, as Natsu pushed past a woman who was obviously excited to be moving closer to the arena. “BUT THE NEXT FLURRY OF BLOWS LANDS, ALTHOUGH IT APPEARS SHE’S BLOCKED MOST OF THEM–”

“YOU’RE DONE, BITCH!” roared Mad Cow, so loud that he managed to drown out the commentator–who went silent, anyway. This made Natsu pause, his brows knitting with fury.

It doesn’t matter, he reminded himself. She’s not your daughter. He refused to look back, forced himself to take another step, then another. She’s just some fighter from another world who’s, apparently, out of her league. She’s not–

A loud slam, like a body falling on a mat. “SHE’S DOWN! I REPEAT, ’S DOWN!”

Natsu smirked. “See, dumbass?” he murmured to himself.

“IT’S ALL OVER, FOLKS! SHE’S–”

All of a sudden, a fleshy CRACK rang through the air, followed by an enormous chorus of gasps and cries of surprise from the crowd. A deafening silence ensued.

“... HOLY– UNBELIEVABLE!” the commentator managed. “A KICK FROM THE GROUND–AND O’NEIL'S BACK ON HER FEET! THEY’VE GAINED GROUND FROM EACH OTHER, AND MAD BULL–MAD BULL IS NOW TRYING TO RECOVER!”

Despite himself, Natsu slowed even as he urged himself to keep walking. Even as he continued to force himself not to turn back. Looking back is only a distraction. It’s not Nashi. That is not Nashi. It’s not–

“Man, I really hate guys like you, you know that?”

The seething voice was what made him stop, closing his eyes. There was just…something about it. A growl. A fire. Something that punched right back into his memories:

“Remember, breathe, and keep your eyes on my chest! That way, you can see my whole body at the corners of your eyes!” A combo, one which he pumped more speed and power to than before–throwing her off on purpose.

“Oof!” she grunted as she landed on her butt.

“There, when you fall– that’s when you make your comeback! Now that you’ve watched your opponent, and tricked him into thinking you’re down– now is when you get back up and blow them away! That’s how a Dragon Slayer fights! That’s how a Fairy Tail Wizard fights!” She stared up at him with huge eyes, shining with admiration, and flushed cheeks.

He grinned.

“So?! Get up! Always get back up, Nashi! I’m not asking the impossible of you–you can do this! I know you can!”

“I–I will!” she scrambled to her feet, fists blazing with gold heat as she lunged for him. “I’ll always get back up! No matter what, I’ll–”

His chest seized. He clenched his jaw, knowing he needed to make himself keep walking, but unable to do it. Even as people churned around him, trying to push past him, he found himself shoving them off, refusing to move from exactly where he was. One foot planted in front of the other. Half-hovering. Eyes still closed.

Whatever just happened had quieted the crowd, an anticipatory sort of silence that made him clench his fists, eyes still closed.

And then, Natsu’s world flipped upside down:

“You didn’t even bother to study my previous fights, did you?” Her growl carried across the hushed crowd. “Tch, typical…if you had, you’d know: You’d know I always get back up!”

His eyes flew open.

He whirled back around and watched, wide-eyed and world rocking, as the pink haired girl rose. Rolled her shoulders against her ears, one at a time. The grin was gone, a heavy, intimidating scowl having taken its place as she recovered, getting her feet back underneath herself, her stance back in place. Her nose was wrinkled in fury. Her eyes burned.

Natsu’s lips parted on a gasp as he stared.

Mad Cow scoffed, hunched and rubbing his chin with a hand like a mitt. Natsu guessed that This Nashi must’ve caught him there–probably with a kick, given the size difference. That must have been what made the crowd react with shock. They were recovering now, though, getting louder.

“And why the fuck would I bother to do that?!” Mad Cow shouted, dropping his hand. “I don’t need to! Every guy you’ve faced could’ve beaten you easily if they’d quit acting like even more of a little bitch than you! You shouldn’t fucking be here anyway…fucking birds, knowing dudes will take it easy on you so you can take advantage of it and collect the reward…well I’M NOT ONE OF THEM!” He roared the last part. The bitter fury in his voice was a kind Natsu was familiar with.

“Studying what you can find of your opponent’s fighting style–that’s basic! And you wanna sit here and bitch about how I don’t deserve to be here, you lumpy-headed fuck?! ”

“The FUCK you just call me?!” McCow snarled back.

“YOU HEARD ME, SHITWIT!”

“THAT’S IT!” the man shouted. “I’ve had it! I was gonna take it easy on you, but–”

“THAT’S MY LINE!”

It seemed that was both their limit.

They flew at each other. But now, everything was different, and Natsu doubted that anyone without a trained eye and fighting experience like him could recognize it.

Apparently, the commentator was one such person: “THIS IS–THIS IS INCREDIBLE!” the voice boomed, full of disbelief, as the girl caught the fist rocketing towards her face with a hard elbow, making Mad Cow let out a roar of pain. She kicked away an arm flying towards her head, and launched a sidekick at his now-uncovered stomach–one that landed hard. She built on the damage, bearing down on him as he stumbled backwards, tripping over his own heels. A right roundhouse followed by a left to his head. Despite the fact he was obviously disorientated, he caught the first one– blocked it and tried, unsuccessfully to catch her foot–but not the second, which cracked into his ear and made him stagger, her chasing him and hammering him with surprisingly powerful blows. Each one of her hits accumulated speed and strength.

The commentator picked up again, saying something or other about “striking machines”, but Natsu didn’t hear. His eyes were wide, now, and glued to the girl cracking her shin into her opponent’s nose, teeth bared. The expression on her face…the fire in her eyes…the speed of her hits…her fighting style…it was like he’d begun watching the fight currently happening through one eye and a stream of memories through the other, his breath going still in his lungs–

“–No matter what, I’ll always get back up!” screamed the little girl, running forward and hammering him with fiery strikes, kicks, and even elbows. They’d only just started elbow work. Natsu staggered back with each good combo she landed. He put in the effort to make it look convincing, pride swelling within his chest.

“That’s it! Build on it! Faster…harder! C’mon!”

This Nashi slipped underneath and into one of Mad Cow’s big overhand hooks, the corrected trajectory of his fist barely skidding over her shoulder as her right fist tore up, slamming into his chin. Even as his eyes rolled and he staggered backwards, her expression was so mutinous it was almost funny.

But as good as the uppercut was, it turned out to be a set-up:

“LOOK AT THIS COMBO…CROSS, HOOK–WHOA! AN ABSOLUTELY DEVASTATING LEG KICK! CLASSIC MUAY THAI-INSPIRED COMBO FROM TURNING–”

“FUCKING BITCH–!” Mad Cow roared, but his opponent cut him off with a voice like thunder.

“I’M THE BADDEST BITCH YOU’VE EVER MET!”

“I’LL ALWAYS GET BACK UP! I WILL! I’M GONNA BE A GREAT DRAGON SLAYER, JUST LIKE YOU! NO–I’LL EVEN BEAT YOU, ONE DAY!” Nashi took a deep breath, and Natsu grinned, allowing the pause in the fight, because he knew what was coming. The catchphrase both like his and not. Inspired by him, but all her own.

Her fists blazed brighter than ever. The sun illuminated her grin.“JUST WATCH ME, DADDY! DON’T EVEN BLINK! BECAUSE I’VE–”

“–GOT A FIRE IN ME THAT YOU’LL NEVER PUT OUT!”

Mad Cow’s eyes were wild with fear as he desperately swung for another, big lead cross–one which spelled his downfall. The Dragoness leapt off her left leg–her back leg. Her right shin cracked into his already dipping head.

He fell forward and bounced off the mat, limp as a ragdoll, while the audience screamed all around him.

Even as the giant fell still, she made for his prone form, fist raised, but didn’t fight at all when the black-collared man appeared seemingly from nowhere, grabbed her around the waist, and practically threw her away. Instead, This Nashi– The Nashi skipped backwards, smirking, and raised a wrapped fist.

And that was the realization which thundered through Natsu, now gaping up at the victorious, pink-haired fighter stalking towards the edge of the cage: not This Nashi. The Nashi.

After seven, grief-filled years, Natsu Dragneel was absolutely sure he had just found his daughter.

*1. Yes, there will be quotes from the original series (the anime dub, sub, or the manga depending on whichever version I like best) at the beginning of each chapter. HOWEVER. The quotes are not spoilers and are often only tangentially related to my plotline. The one for this chapter, for instance, is specifically about Edolas, but is not actually true of the world where Natsu has landed.

*2. Yes, I know the canon Edolas Nalu child is “Nasha.” I decided on “Nashi”, instead, for reasons which will be explained later.

*3. Sorry in advance, but I pretty much kept what little I remembered/liked from 100YQ and ditched everything I didn’t. Same with the original story, but way more with 100YQ. Idk what it is but even though I’ve read the whole thing, 100YQ has this unique quality where a lot of what happens slips straight out of my mind as soon as I’ve read it. In one eye, out the other. So you’ll just have to roll with me, sorry.

*4. Real-life inspiration for Layla (/Nashi) comes mostly from Ronda Rousey, whose biography I read and happen to have on hand, along with Kaoklai Kaennorsing (especially his fighting style). Those are the two main ones. If you’ve read My Fight, Your Fight, you’ll understand how Layla (/Nashi’s) personality is inspired by her–especially as you go on. I highly recommend looking up the Thai kickboxer/Muay Thai fighter Kaoklai Kaennorsing. He has been called the Giant-Slayer because he did, in fact, defeat opponents who had over 100 pounds on him. Watching his fights is just an incredible experience. Other inspirations include Rose Namajunas, Connor McGregor, and some others. There are also several fictional inspirations including and outside Fairy Tail which I won’t bore you with (some of them I’m sure fellow anime fans will be able to guess lol).

#nalu #fairy tail #natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #nashi dragneel #nasha dragneel #gruvia #gajevy #jerza #fan fiction #fanfiction #2nd gen #post-canon #if this is wonky i'll fix it tomorrow. too tired now.#nalu fic

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mx-piggy · 8 months

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Almost forgot it was new Futurama day until I came across a post about it. Thank you, random Tumblr user. Spoilers ahead!!

I hadn't really expected much from Related to Items You've Viewed, and it was probably one of the episodes I had the least excitement for. But, I really was pleasantly surprised! It's not in my top 10 Futurama episodes of all time, but it's pretty strong on the whole compared to the other episodes of this revival. I can definitely see people not liking it by virtue of the fact it's basically 'the Amazon episode' (not to be confused with the Amazonian Women episode, Amazon Women in the Mood) and plenty of fans will go into it not wanting to like it, but I personally came out of it thinking it was pretty decent! With the last topical episode (the crypto episode), I saw some people on here dislike it just because it was 'about crypto' and they were like 'crypto episode bad', because they equate topicality with being bad, even if the way the episode did it was pretty unique and clever. And, it's valid not to like something. But, some people on here have such unnuanced opinions it's kinda laughable.

Like I said, I think everything about it- story, humour, sci-fi concept, characters- are all very strong, compared to, say, Children of a Lesser Bog, that was very strong character-wise but had some story issues at the beginning, or the Impossible Stream, which had some really funny jokes but had a sci-fi premise I found kind of boring.

Admittedly, I'm only vaguely familiar with Amazon and the poor treatment of its workers, but I think this was a decent commentary on it; if you're more informed about this kind of thing, feel free to correct me. Even if Amazon and the invasive nature of our devices is kind of an overdone thing and seems kind of late to be seen as fresh in a 2023 Futurama episode, I still think it simultaneously worked as a story within the Futurama universe as well, if that makes sense? Like, even if it is meant to be a commentary on Amazon, I think you could watch it without having much knowledge about Amazon and it still works as a Futurama story, too? No idea if I've articulated that in a way that makes sense (I tried!) I think that the sci-fi premise of the warehouse being able to expand on its own was pretty neat and worked with the commentary they were making.

Outside of the Amazon stuff, the story was pretty standard but it was still enjoyable, at least for me as a Freela fan. It's great to see the writers committing to Fry and Leela's relationship, and I think it was natural for them to do a story about Bender being jealous of them (I'm also a Freeler fan, if you couldn't tell). I think it was fun for them to go and rescue Bender from the Momazon warehouse, and I like that, throughout the episode, the characters really do care about one another. Fry being so concerned about Bender was really sweet.

I think these really nice character relationships elevates this revival over a lot of the episodes in the Comedy Central revival, which, at times, felt pretty mean-spirited. I really like how this revival is very sincere in the character relationships it protrays.

My only major issue with the episode is the fact that I don't think Mom had as big of a presence as she did in the original run, and she felt under-utilised. I wished we'd gotten an interaction between her and the Professor- I love their dynamic and it felt odd that they didn't really interact. I'm hoping that we get to see more of her because she's one of my favourite recurring characters, and I'd love to see them build on the reveal in Bender's Game that the Professor is Igner's father.

But, that's a very minor issue! The episode was really funny, had some really good character dynamics, and I really liked the sci-fi premise! Also, I adore the Moon setting as a fan of the Series Has Landed, so it was neat to see that again, as well as the Luna Park mascot. Also, shout-out to the Moon conservative and his three robot daughters.

There are so many good jokes in this episode I won't list my favourites this time.

Overall, I think this might be my second favourite episode of this season, with first place going to Children of a Lesser Bog (which I adore despite those expositional issues that I've complained about every week since lmao). That said, I'm really prepared to enjoy episode six, because Johnny 2 Cellos said on his podcast with Toonirific Tariq (Cartoons that Curse; go check it out if you haven't already) it was his favourite episode of the revival out of the first six episodes (he had early access to them all) and I trust that man's Futurama opinions. After my disappointment with Parasites Regained, it feels really good to be so positive about this episode!

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besidesitstoowarm · 1 month

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Davies era recap?

sorry i've been procrastinating on this one so bad. i spent three weeks in costa rica thinking about jurassic park. tbh i don't know what to say about the specials or the era overall that i haven't said already

nine feels so beautiful post-time war, traumatized and snappish but also light and warm and kind. he was once a father and grandfather and now he is neither but he is still a doctor!! s1 feels so much richer after having seen "day of the doctor" tbh i know how we got here! it was hard, agonizing, impossible choices. yet he's still here, and he chooses love every time. a coward. he would rather doom the entire universe as long as it kills him too; he cannot survive another genocide. he can't see it happen again. if he can't prevent it, he just wants to not see it. i love nine so much

and then ten. ten is more built from nine than ANY other regeneration i can think of. ten is rose, he's bad wolf, he's nine. he's the echo of donna, of tentoo. ten is someone struggling to find his place between "where he's already been, as remembered by rose" and "where he is destined to go, via donna" like he is so dragged along by fate. mf is a full on greek tragedy, he does NOT know what is going on

that's what makes the specials such a wreck (good/bad). when he was with rose, they were a painful but understandable match. with martha, kinda middle ground. with donna, it was fate. after them? after tentoo, after the most important woman in all creation? he's adrift. he clings to randos, he tries to be the hero so hard. and he fails. he trips and cries and sobs like a huge loser, over and over again. i do love him (and tennant is fully failed by 2/4 specials) but he's unraveling! little baby duck imprinted on their mommy who is gone. what's left, after that? martyr/savior complex and dubiously gay shit, i guess

tennant is a marvel, i have to say this. eccleston too, in different ways. davies has such a wonderfully human touch with these characters, iirc moffat draws a lot from fairy tales while davies pulled a lot from modern social commentary. jack is... something, but it was a different time. ten/master is sooooooo much. this era ended more than a decade ago

all in all, davies era is beautiful, it's decadent. it's complete nonsense bullshit a good chunk of time, but i don't think that's a negative; doctor who is like star wars to me, where i truly genuinely believe it's at its best when it's kind of bad. i mean, late 60s is MY era of who. base under siege nonsense galore. farting aliens. doctor who should be bad, in order to be good. i mean this, genuinely. attack of the clones is great. you get it

i feel more comfortable leaning into this ending knowing what comes later; knowing that davies comes back, knowing that ten becomes fourteen eventually and cleans up his shit, knowing that donna gets a better, more complete ending. it's honestly hard to say what i would think about this era without knowing about the 60th; i do think "journey's end" is a nonsense bullshit episode that is nonetheless very fun to watch, however cruel an ending it is for donna. very grateful we got a redux. moffat is writing for this new davies era too i'm so excited i want to throw up

anyway! excited to re-enter the moffat era but davies had so much sway over the new tone of the show, so much feels so dated but there's no denying the impact his episodes had at the time. there were cat people. it was thematically consistent. god i love it all so much. quel domage!

#doctor who #besides its too rewatch #season wrap #special #era wrap

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sweetsoursugarcube · 2 years

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Tag Game: Reveal Your Blogging Style

Hehe thanks @cosmicsnufkin for tagging me, when was the last time I played a game?

Bold what applies to you (I babble in the parenthesis)

different blogs for different interests OR all-in-one blog // (I got an aesthetics blog but it's basically dead because I got lazy)

default theme OR custom theme //

one username till death OR change username according to mood/obsession // (I changed my ao3 username once, but my tumblr hasn't changed)

round avatar OR square avatar //

personal avatar OR fandom related avatar //

thematic consistency between header image and avatar OR who gives a fuck //

reblog without tags OR reblog with tags //

category tags only OR personal commentary in tags // (I also meticulously categorize my shit both on tumblr and ao3, get a girl who can do both)

like+reblog OR only reblog // (I used to always like+reblog but then I once tried to "clean up" my likes on tumblr and had severe anxiety about it and now I don't like stuff as much even though "cleaning up" my tumblr likes is like the most useless thing I could spend my time on and I will never do it but just in case... it will make clean up easier)

replies allowed on posts OR replies switched off //

askbox open OR askbox closed //

anons allowed OR anons blocked //

respond to every mention in replies OR be a hermit // (I respond to almost every reply. I do my best. I really do)

a quiet observer and enjoyer OR initiate conversation with an unknown blogger// (I do both and have always done both. Mysterious woman working in mysterious ways. If I've initiated, your names was drawn from a bowl Hunger Games-style)

send ask OR send message on chat OR converse with people in replies // (I rarely send chat messages unless we're friends)

blog from computer/laptop OR blog from phone // (why pick one?)

personal posts OR fandom posts only // (If you follow me, you know me and the void are friends and I tell them things)

have a well organised filled queue OR post intermittently and make it everybody else's problem OR post daily like it's a 9 to 5 // (who remembers my neat queue??)

likes and following displayed on blog OR likes and following hidden //

Bonus game, what does your username mean:

I wanted a username that mirrored the online-persona I was going for, cute and candy-like but not just cute. I didn't want it to sound like a drug, but I ended up with something like that anyway. Sweetsoursugarcube is pretty funny to say too. I thought about changing it to my ao3 username when I rebranded, but I still felt weirdly attached to my personal street drug nonsense at the time. I guess it's not as important to me anymore as it used to be, I kind of projected what I wanted my identity to be when I was younger and couldn't express myself irl. Now that I feel safer openly being myself outside my online spaces it doesn't matter as much anymore. I guess the only thing stopping me is that I'd have to go around and change links and stuff for every ao3 work and uhhhh no thanks, it's whatever.

My tumblr is so dry these days because I'm lazy. I should follow some new blogs, but I've been putting it off for so long it has turned into an Impossible Task. If you follow me just consider yourself tagged, these things are fun!

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autumnalwalker · 6 months

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Empty Names - 19 - Shire

Author's Note: In which Sullivan continues to follow the background plot that was established back in Chapter 6 and runs into a couple of characters that have been mentioned a couple times before but only now have shown up "on screen." Back down to a more reasonable length after the last couple of chapters, as Sullivan's tend to be. Also, we're now just past one year since Chapter 1 was posted, so that's a bit of a milestone, I suppose. Didn't quite reach the "chapter every other week" schedule I originally planned, but between the average chapter length having basically doubled since I started (Chapter 18 was longer than 1 through 4 combined) and the three side-stories, that's averaged out to about 2,600 words a week this past year on Empty Names which actually isn't too far off from the pace I originally tried to set for myself on this project. That said, I do plan to get Chapter 20 out before I take another hiatus. I like keeping these chapters in sets of four for the POV cycling. See the tags for more spoiler-y commentary. Word Count: 7,354 Content Warnings: Fantasy fight scene violence. An interrogation. A building being blown up.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

On the eastern side of the Atlantic is a country with royals Sullivan had never bothered to pay much attention to since arriving on this world, having had more than his fill of royalty as a child. In that country is a county called something-or-other-shire that Sullivan paid little attention to the name of beyond musings about if old John ever had any idea how much those books of his would impact the collective consciousness and influence the sorts of worlds anchored to this one. In that county is a quaint little village that Sullivan did pay enough attention to memorize the name of as part of an address on a slip of paper that burned after reading. In that quaint little village is a picturesque little brick house surrounded by other picturesque little brick houses that Sullivan has been paying a great deal of attention to for the past week and change. In front of that picturesque little brick house is a hedge that Sullivan is fairly certain no one else is paying attention to. Inside that hedge, Sullivan is in the middle of a phone call.

“You’re still hung up on that?” Sullivan says into his phone while keeping his eyes fixed on the house across the street. “You’ve had two other jobs since then that went off without a hitch.”

“A child got hurt on my watch,” his friend’s voice says from the other end of the line.

“Not a child,” Sullivan corrects, “a thousand year old vampire necromancer who walked it off after a decent meal. You’re being too hard on yourself again. From what I read in the techie’s report, you stopped it from being worse than it could have been.”

“But it could have been better.”

“I doubt that. I know you. You did everything you could have done.” Sullivan’s voice softens. “You’re already the best, you don’t need to be perfect. No one can be, so stop tearing yourself up for not meeting impossible standards.”

“But-”

“Hey. Take the win and move on. What’s done is done, so no point in dwelling on it.”

“Right. Just got to keep moving forward down the road.” His friend forces a laugh at their own pun.

“You got it, but maybe take a rest every now and then. You have people working for you now. Let them handle some of the cleanup every now and then.

“Sure,” his friend says in a tone at odds with the word. “So, how’s the stakeout going?”

“Mind numbingly boring,” Sullivan says, adjusting his crouched posture inside the garden hedge. “If no one takes the bait by the end of the week I’m calling it.”

Sullivan has been watching the alchemist Lachlan Whelan for over a week now, ever since getting the address on the safehouse the paranoid little man had holed himself up in. Sullivan had hoped that leaving him untouched as bait for whomever Lachlan had faked his death and blown up his own lighthouse laboratory to run away from to come finish the job, but so far nothing.

Sure, just asking Lachlan who was out to get him was technically an option, but Sullivan was fairly certain he would do something inconvenient like try to run again the moment he found out his hiding place had been compromised. No, far more efficient to let the bait remain ignorant while on the hook.

Or at least it would be if the fish were competent enough to find the bait.

“If it took you this long to find Lachlan, maybe anyone else looking for him already gave up? They might have even simply assumed he died when his lighthouse blew,” his friend suggests.

A reasonable conclusion, if not for the fact that Sullivan had intentionally leaked the location in certain circles likely to attract interest. He’d left that part out of his regular check-ins with his friend. They wouldn’t have approved.

Breaking into Lachlan’s safehouse and rummaging through his things without leaving a trace, however, was the sort of thing that Sullivan’s friend simply assumed he would do one way or the other. This particular safehouse had been one of Eustace’s cheaper offerings, short on magical defenses and trying to make up for it by location; out of the way but in just populous enough of a mundane area that any flashy attempts at forcing entry would risk a masquerade breach. Moreover, Sullivan had been practicing the fine art letting himself into places he shouldn’t since the tender age of seven (only two years less than he’d been practicing the fine art of letting lives out of bodies via knife wound), so that part had been easy enough even without the changes Carnette had made to him.

Not that doing so had yielded much more new information than watching the house from the outside. The few alchemical supplies Lachlan had salvaged in his flight from his erstwhile home and laboratory had been locked in a safe and gone untouched. The one notebook among those supplies was nothing but formulae and theorems. Lachlan himself seemed to be going a little stir crazy without his work, but didn’t even have the good courtesy to talk aloud to himself for Sullivan to eavesdrop on while standing just outside of his peripheral vision. He just spent every day pacing back and forth, distracting himself with the safehouse’s supply of yellowed books and degraded VHS tapes that hadn’t been updated since the nineties, and slowly eating his way through the supply of canned goods that might have been slightly newer. After a couple days of interior observation, Sullivan had given up and gone back to hiding in the surrounding foliage to watch for visitors and/or hitmen.

“I’d like to think that anyone capable of a low-footprint large-group teleport and wiping out entire smuggling rings without leaving a trace would be a little more thorough,” Sullivan says.

“Assuming that it’s even the same group.”

“Yes, yes, assuming th- Gonna have to call you back. Someone just showed up. Take care of yourself.” Sullivan hangs up without giving his friend a chance to respond.

It’s actually two someones walking up the sidewalk toward the unassuming safehouse, and they’re not any of the local residents that Sullivan now knows by sight after the length of his unsleeping stakeout. The woman in front is of a middling height, similar to Sullivan’s own. Auburn hair loose down to the shoulders, purple-framed glasses, beige knit sweater, red scarf, blue jeans. Checking an old model flip phone as if verifying the address. Some niggling familiarity about her appearance that Sullivan can’t quite place.

The second woman, walking stiff-backed one pace behind and a shoulder-width to the left, towers head-and-shoulders over her companion - no, her superior, unless Sullivan misses his mark. Silver hair pinned back in an elaborate bun, expressionless face, amber brooch pinned to a white cravat, dress of maroon so dark it’s almost black with so much frills and lace that it leaps out of the realm of antique and into the territory of gothic.

Sullivan blinks through his filters and the taller woman’s face takes on a porcelain sheen and the ball-jointed segmentation of her hands becomes apparent. Another blink and the next filter reveals the leash of metaphysical strands linking the two women heart-to-heart. A witch and her arcane doll? Sullivan didn’t think they had those in this world cluster. No, far more likely to be a superficial similarity born of convergent evolution. More likely an unorthodox familiar bond with a construct. Either way, he suspects that once the mage is dealt with (witch, wizard, or otherwise is hard to say without seeing her in action) then that should cut the puppet strings on the doll and make for easy pickings.

Sullivan produces a knife and licks the venom onto it that Carnette modified him for at his request. The venom had been his idea of a gift for his friend; something to put their mind at ease knowing he had a less murderous option for dealing with problems. And his own little joke about how often he’s been called a snake and a spider in his time. One prick and the mage should fall into an easily manageable sleep while he drags her and her doll into the safehouse for a group questioning session with Lachlan. Quick and quiet before the two of them even know what’s happening and before any nosy neighbors take notice.

Too bad he and his friend had had their falling out over what happened with Carnette before he could show the venom off for them.

But that’s in the past. Now, in this present moment, Sullivan’s skin ripples and writhes from that which is beneath it. The mage and her doll are nearly upon the doorstep. He steps forward out of the hedge, warping space and crossing meters in a single step, ready for his knife to caress the front of the mage’s exposed neck ere his foot falls.

The world jerks sideways and suddenly his feet are dangling above the ground as porcelain fingers obscure his view and a glyph-etched glowing palm covers his mouth.

The hand gripping his face then proceeds to brusquely introduce the back of his head with the ground.

He feels the pavement crack beneath him and knows that if he still had a skull these days it would have shattered. From between the doll’s fingers he glimpses the surprised face of the mage above him harden into determination. She claps her hands and the blue sky turns mauve, the concrete beneath him goes smooth, and water seeps up from the ground until it’s several centimeters deep.

The doll silently lifts Sullivan’s head just enough to slam it back down into the stone again before dragging him over grinding dirt, pebbles, and roots, scraping away skin and sending up a spray of blood-free water all the way. The mage speaks a word he can’t make out through the water in his ears and the color of the glow leaking out between the doll’s palm and his mouth shifts to an angry red-orange. Heat grows on his lips for a quarter second of warning before his head is engulfed in a jet of flame that instantly evaporates the surrounding water into a cloud of steam.

The doll releases its grip on Sullivan’s face and steps back from his unbreathing body while the rest of the interminably large puddle sloshes back in to fill the boiled-out space around him.

Sullivan counts the seconds to give the two of them just enough time to suspect he might be dead before standing back up. He makes a show of it, letting his body go totally limp with the intent of being as unnerving as possible when he bends first one knee and then the other to get his feet flat on the ground before raising himself up simply by straightening his legs in defiance of the sort of leverage the human musculoskeletal system should be able to provide from that angle. He allows his arms to hang and his head to loll back as he rises with deliberate slowness.

Six gunshots ring out in rapid succession just as his waist starts to bend forward again. Six bullets trailing comet tails of brilliant green light tear holes in his chest and chunks out of his shoulders. They fail to knock him back down.

The punch to his still-regenerating face from the doll doesn’t.

Rude.

Some people simply have no taste for the theatrical it would seem.

Sullivan rolls his punch-imparted momentum into a backwards somersault to return to his feet just on the other side of the dissipating steam cloud from where the doll’s foot stomps down just a little bit too slow to catch him on the ground again. At this point he’s given up on drawing out the steam-shrouded sight of that which lies beneath his skin pulling his ruined head back together. Just not the properly receptive audience for that sort of intimidation. A pity, but a curious one. Particularly when paired with his bullet wounds being just a hair’s breadth slower to close than normal.

He flicks his wrist to produce one of the bullets that went into his chest and inspects it while sidestepping the doll’s continued silent onslaught. Silver and engraved with runes of divine blessing. He searches his memory of Carnette’s infodumps, trying to match a tradition or magic system to the carvings and the light that had trailed behind them when fired.

And then the steam cloud fully disperses and he realizes that he’s in the middle of a forest clearing instead of in front of a picturesque little brick house surrounded by other picturesque little brick houses. A forest beneath a mauve sky and uniformly sunken into a handsbreadth of water.

Curious. He should have felt a teleport, even if he was distracted at the time. But wait a moment; that great fallen log there is in the same place as the hedge and fence separating the safehouse from the street should be, just like the safehouse itself has been replaced by an oddly squared-off hillock.

Ah, that’s it! A witch’s barrier. A temporary small-scale phase shift for avoiding Masquerade breaches by staying out of mundane sight and limiting collateral damage to muted bleed-throughs into analogous structures. The surrounding treeline is most likely the space’s border. Cross it and he would be back in the “real” world.

Sullivan utters an understated “Huh,” that is all the acknowledgement he’s willing to give of being impressed. Not many mages could manage a barrier more than a meter or two across with so short a casting time. Even fewer could keep casting additional spells while maintaining it.

Additional spells?

Oh bother.

He turns his attention back toward the mage as she is saying the final words of an incantation in an eldritch tongue. It’s an invocation, almost a prayer - definitely a witch then, not a wizard - to Ftagxurshagaalga’k. Which one was that again? Carnette had namedropped so very many of the more common and relatively safe eldritch to draw power from with over the years.

A spectral web weaves itself between the surrounding trees and the drowned ground beneath Sullivan’s feet and snaps into as much reality as everything else in the barrier, ensnaring him in place.

Oh right, Ftagxurshagaalga’k, the Spider Mother.

Sullivan tries to cut the web with the knife he still hasn’t dropped this entire time, but can’t quite get a good angle with his wrist bound as it is. That which is beneath his skin stirs, space warps, and then the web snaps space back into its proper shape, leaving him where he started. Void Without, he’s grown sloppy. Was it these past few years of inactivity with both his friend and his wife gone, or the near-decade of being nigh-immortal? Probably both.

He sighs and looks back to the witch who’s now standing with a glowing-chambered magnum revolver trained on him while speaking a new invocation, this time in one of the anchor world’s local languages (hardly worth the effort to tell them apart with translation magic in play). Her flip phone from earlier is now hovering just below the gun’s barrel and projecting floating symbols around the witch as a digitized holographic grimoire. Some of those symbols anchor themselves to the gun, acting as aiming reticle and enchantment both. Others float around the witch’s head, keeping arcane runes and lines of text in view for easy focus and reference.

The thought crosses Sulllivan’s mind that Lacuna could learn a thing or two from this one.

“O Green World, answer this mere traveler’s call.

Rise up so that we might bury this unclean thing.”

The doll backs off of Sullivan, keeping itself between him and its mistress as thorny vines sprout from the ground and begin working their way up and around his legs.

“A little overkill with the bindings, don’t you think?” Sullivan chimes as recognition of techniques finally clicks. “Say, is that Appalachian Greencraft blended with Rhode Island Esoterism? What a deliciously counterintuitive syncretism.”

“She’s not a wizard,” the doll intones in a hollow monotone.

“I can see that,” Sullivan croons, “I know a witch of few peers when I meet one.”

“Then you should expect better,” the doll says, “than for her to monologue.” The slight tilt of its head and mid-sentence pause somehow gets across all the smug satisfaction that its emotionless voice fails to.

“Pierce and purify, be sweet and swift the fall.

Even that which knows not death still may feel your sting.”

The vines grow higher, climbing his torso and ensconcing his arms. If he still had a normal perception of pain the digging thorns would probably be agonizing.

“What, am I not allowed to pay my respects to one who’s gotten the best of me? I would think one such as you would love to hear your mistress complimented. I mean, a tradition of magic with a long history of binding and casting out the eldritch and blended with teachings from a school dedicated to calling upon it and drawing it in? It would be a feat even if they both hadn’t fallen largely out of practice for the better part of a century.”

Suddenly the doll is gripping Sullivan’s wrist, crushing it through the layers of webs and vines. In response, he drops both the second knife that had just appeared in that hand and the knife he’d been holding in the other since the beginning.

The doll leans in close to Sullivan’s ear. “Do not think you can distract us with your prattling.”

“O Green World, by my blood and breath forestall.

Starlight of the Dark Forest nevermore must sing.”

The vines ascend Sullivan’s neck and wrap themselves around his head, leaving him almost completely encased and blinded.

“So, about that…” comes his muffled voice from beneath his living green bindings.

In the unnatural quiet of the witch’s barrier that follows the spell’s completion, the sound of a pin dropping into the shallow water may as well be another gunshot.

Sightless as he momentarily is, Sullivan contents himself with merely imagining the look on the witch’s face as she and her doll turn to look at the bulge in the vines where one of his hands is now making a fist around a round object.

“Fire in the hole.”

To the witch’s credit, her vines are a strong enough binding that the grenade only obliterates Sullivan's right arm, half his face, and a large chunk out of his torso where his lung ought to be. Even still, what vines and webs aren’t burned off of him are blasted away. The thought that, due to the cloud of vaporized water and kicked up earth and shrapnel, the witch and her doll won’t be catching more than confusing blurred glimpses of the inky shapes moving from within to weave back together what was lost pleases him. Even back in the old days of lurking in shadows without a drop of magic to aid him, he’d always thought that a little bit of obfuscation went a long way towards dramatics. Yes, so much better to let the darkest parts of their imagination fill in the gaps in their perception as they frantically try to keep track of him when he darts and leaps around the doll’s attempts to catch him again. Better to keep them guessing as to if that was a third knife he just drew from somewhere and removed three of the doll’s fingers with or if he recovered one of the other two. So much more fun that way to hear the gasp he finally manages to elicit from the witch as he emerges blade-first from the cloud of debris whole and pristine once more save for his clothes.

Really though, this was nothing. Carnette had been far rougher with him than a mere mundane grenade ever could be.

Space warps in a familiar way once more but, for once, not around Sullivan. The witch’s form blurs in front of him and with a pop and splash of displaced air and water she swaps places with the doll. Sullivan drops his lunge into a slide to pass beneath the jet of flame spewing from the doll’s outstretched palm and come up behind it.

Sullivan leaps up. The doll spins around. A rising slash of a knife towards the back is met with a descending chop of a hand towards the wrist. The knife drops from the left hand to the right. The right hand moves in an arc. That which is beneath skin ripples and writhes. Space warps. The world jerks sideways. Porcelain fingers grip a face. The arc of the right hand completes. Knife blade meets ball joint. A hand of porcelain is severed. A left hand of flesh rips it from the gripped face and flings it back toward its reeling owner.

Sullivan dashes across the sunken glade, spraying up water behind him as he bobs and weaves his way between the ectoplasmic tentacles rising from beneath the surface. He slips through the curling grasp of the last tentacle, closes in on the summoning witch reading from her spellphone’s projections, and readies his knife with a smirk for what will be the final stroke of this invigorating little spat.

The witch blurs. Space warps. Air pops. Water splashes. The knife is thrown backwards. The doll’s elbow comes down. Sullivan’s faces crashes into the ground. Six gunshots ring out. Six comet tail impacts pierce the water and light up six points of a hexagon around his fallen form. Water rushes inward. Water rushes upward. Sullivan is carried upwards. The column of water freezes.

Everything goes still.

Sullivan, suspended in ice, most of all.

Through frosted eyes he can see the witch and her doll standing side by side in front of him. The witch’s lips move but he cannot hear the words. Focusing on her exhausted face, recognition tugs at the edge of his awareness once more. Where has he seen this woman?

Something - someone - else touches on the edge of his awareness but slides off, unable to find purchase. Just as well that his face is already frozen into a bemused smirk. The witch will have to try a whole lot harder than that to get inside his head.

After a few more failed attempts at mental communion the witch gives up. The doll steps forward with a palm glowing red-orange and touches thumb and forefinger - its only two remaining digits - to the ice in front of Sullivan’s face and rotates them in a circle. The ice melts away to form a window just wide and deep enough to allow him to speak once more. Or rather, just enough to allow him to answer questions.

“What,” the witch pants, “and who are you?”

“Sullivan Bridgewood, nee Prince, nee quite a few other things,” Sullivan purrs. “The Golden Death, the Xanthous Reaper, or any other morbid epithet you care to name involving that slice of the color spectrum. Beloved husband of the dearly departed sorceress Bridgewood. At my service.”

The witch’s eyes that had been struggling to stay open shoot wide. Good. She knows his reputation.

“And… oh, Assassin In Yellow… were you here to kill me or… the man in that house?”

“Neither.”

“Neither?”

“Neither.”

That shocked look of surprise and confusion layered on top of tired eyes. That’s it! Oh yes, a most familiar resemblance indeed, now that he’s looking for it.

“Then why…”

“Did I attack you? So I could ask you why you want Lachlan Whelan dead,” Sullivan lilts into a dramatic pause before adding, “Morgan Tucker. And if I might add, you look considerably younger than your photos. Nary a wrinkle or gray hair on you.”

“And how do you know her?” the doll interjects. Clever toy. Initial acknowledgment of a Name by a companion is a loophole around most nominal theft that leaves the owner relatively safe in the future.

“Oh, I do my research,” Sullivan answers. “Although I may need to apologize for my overeagerness getting in the way of initial recognition. Depending on your answer of course.”

“Stand down Stella,” the witch - Morgan Tucker - says. “I’m not here… to kill... anyone. But I do… have reason to believe… someone is after him. And…”

“And you think that we’re both here for the same reason then,” Sullivan finishes for her. “Well, in that case, how about you let me out of here, I’ll get you that antidote, we’ll all go inside, and have a nice long chat with our alchemist friend to clear up this whole misunderstanding.”

Morgan slowly blinks at him, struggling to understand. Or to stand at all for that matter.

“What antidote?” the doll - Stella - asks.

Sullivan grins wide and gestures downwards with his eyes. Morgan follows his gaze to the gash on the leg of her jeans and the cut on the calf below, barely deep enough to break the skin.

“Oh, f-”

The witch falls to the ground. Sullivan drops to his feat. The sky turns blue. The forest, the water, and the ice are gone.

A picturesque little brick house remains.

*******

“Because I’m a both a witch and a marine ecologist,” Morgan explains, one antidote and one introduction to a very nervous alchemist later. “When someone drops a parasite-infested kaiju-class dragon corpse into the ocean I take notice. Once I found out that a presumed-dead potential witness was both still alive and in hiding, I couldn’t not follow up on it, especially after any enquiries through official channels got repeatedly stonewalled. Although knowing now what you’ve told me I’m hardly surprised at that. The powers that be in Crossherd always clam up about anything involving Culescu. So, your turn Mr. Whelan. Are you ready to share what you know about this supposed ‘pulse’ that happened right before the dragon and the ship appeared?”

The four of them, Lachlan Whelan, Sullivan Bridgewood, Morgan Tucker, and Stella Platina are seated around the safehouse’s dining room table. A cheap chandelier buzzes overhead with old incandescent bulbs to make up for the cold iron shuttered windows. Stella holds the severed pieces of her hands together, patiently waiting for the golden glue on them to dry. Morgan looks expectantly at the alchemist while drumming her fingers on the table in a rolling motion. Sullivan fusses with the tattered remains of his shirt and vest, wishing Carnette had given him clothes capable of regenerating as well as his body, but knowing full well why she didn’t. Lachlan shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

The alchemist is another case of autogenesis being less than pleasant to those highly susceptible to it. The dangers of embodying an archetype too fully, Sullivan supposes. Whereas his three uninvited guests are all older than they look, he’s far younger. Barely into his forties, according to Sullivan’s background checking, and he already looks like a parody of wizened age. Deep wrinkles upon wrinkles. Scattered wisps of white hair that barely even left him with the ghost of a beard, much less anything on top of his head. A spine bent into an inverted J from countless hours bent over instruments, scrolls, and tomes. Eye sockets grown cartoonishly large in his skull to better drink in the secrets of the universe only to be locked into a near perpetual squint from reading rare ancient formulae too fragile and precious to expose to anything brighter than a dim candle flame. Frame shriveled and shrunken to gnomish proportions. Only his teeth and the steadiness of his hands seem to have been spared the ravages of extreme conformity to a role he on some level associated with strange centenarian hermits.

“I’ve already told you,” Lachlan starts, “I’m not going to say anything about -” he practically chokes on whatever word he was about to say “- whatever it is you think you’re talking about. You could ask me all day and it’s not -” he stops and seems to reconsider his words yet again, as he’s repeatedly done for the entire conversation up until now. “Just don’t.”

“Then what about the people whom you’re hiding from?” Morgan asks. “Please, let us help you Mr. Whelan. Whatever they have on you or whatever you think you have to fear from them, you’re in the presence of some of the few people who can almost certainly protect you.”

Well, someone thinks highly of herself. Normally he would have gone for saying that he’s the one the alchemist should be more afraid of, but this is a job on his friend's behalf.

“And if it’s a matter of compensation,” Sullivan adds, “that can be easily arranged. A new laboratory, perhaps, once this has all blown over? Constructed assistants to lend extra hands that will never try to steal your secrets?” He stops himself short of telling Lachlan to name his price. Even implicitly putting anything of Carnette’s collection on the table is a last resort. And it’s only even that for his friend’s sake.

“There is nothing. Nothing at all. That you could offer me to make me - to make me say what you want to hear,” Lachlan says, increasingly agitated. “And threats won’t work either. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to collect what little is left of my things and activate this place’s escape hatch now that you two have compromised it. Safehouse my arse.”

Sullivan leans over and puts a hand on the back of Lachlan's chair to keep it from scooting away from the table.

“Now now, Mr. Whelan,” Morgan says, “are you really so sure you want to be so dismissive about the efficacy of threats in front of an accomplished witch and an infamous assassin?”

Lachlan quails, shrinking back into his chair. Sullivan stands up, steps behind him, and slides the chair in closer to the table, pinning the shriveled little alchemist between the two.

“You bleeding idiots!” Lachlan shouts. Frustrated, not terrified. How curious. “I’m tr-” More choking on words. “That w- You can’t - Idiots, the both of you!”

Morgan and Sullivan look from Lachlan to one another, back to Lachlan, back to one another.

Stella looks up, staring at some spot on the white popcorn ceiling.

Morgan slaps a palm to her forehead.

“Goddesses, Green, and Void, we are idiots, aren’t we?” Morgan says.

“You said it, not me,” Sullivan replies.

“It’s so obvious.”

“A classic really.”

“Why didn’t we see it sooner?”

“I would have expected better from a witch of your calliber.”

“I would have expected better from Bridgewood’s trophy husband.”

“Touché.”

“The most annoying kind of curse.”

“Or contract.”

“The one you can’t talk about.”

“Even worse than the one you can’t remember.”

“Are you familiar with the telepathy loophole?”

“Invasive, but effective.”

“It’ll be for his own good.”

“And you’re not worried about inducing geas rejection syndromes?”

“Eh, he seems to be fine despite us figuring this much out from his hints.”

“This is why I love working with anchor world mages.”

“Hold him still for me, please?”

“Since you said please.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, but why not have your doll do it?”

“Because someone broke her hands and the glue’s still drying.”

“And again, touché.”

“Want him unconscious?”

“It’ll work better if he’s awake.”

Lachlan looks up in what is finally fear at the two discussing him as if he weren’t there.

Stella continues to stare at the ceiling.

“What are you two talking about?” He tries to wriggle out of Sullivan’s grasp on his shoulders. “What are you going to do to me?”

“I’m sorry Mr. Whelan,” Morgan says, flipping open her spellphone, “I really am, but you will literally be safer not knowing.” The phone projects a floating text display of an invocation to yet another eldritch being above the kitchen table. “Normally I’d tell you not to resist in order to avoid accidental damage, but in your particular case you’ll be wanting to resist at least a little bit to avoid long term side effects.”

“You’ll just have to thread the needle on this one,” Sullivan suggests unhelpfully. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Reaching across to place a hand on Lachlan’s forehead, Morgan continues, “Now, I really do apologize, but this next part is going to be unpleasant.”

*******

Five minutes later Sullivan and Morgan are standing over the unconscious body of Lachlan laid out on a couch with a pillow under his head and a blanket draped over him.

Stella is still staring at the ceiling.

“There, he’s all comfy after you’ve rifled through his brain until he passed out,” Sullivan says. “Now would you be so kind as to share what you saw in there?”

“Men in suits,” Morgan says. “Corporate, maybe government, or at least someone playing the part. Nothing to identify who they worked for. They showed up on his doorstep almost a year ago with a box, a briefcase full of geass-enforced NDA contracts, and an offer. Sign the contracts, don’t ask questions, and allow them to install the device in the box in his lighthouse, and in return the people they represent would provide generous pay, delivery services for whatever he wanted to spend that pay on, and whatever ingredients and reagents he might desire for his experiments.”

“And of course the implication was that if he didn’t agree, he wasn’t someone that anyone would miss.”

“Exactly. But when this device of theirs gave off that ‘pulse’ the guy you rescued described and made a ship show up and immediately wreck, his conscience caught up with him and he called your friend, Road. While you lot were out playing coast guard - seriously, though, good work on that - he was already getting everything ready to bug out.”

“At least that corroborates that this mystery ‘pulse’ exists. Any idea what it was?”

Morgan shakes her head. “I wish. Lachlan might have been a fairly talented alchemist, but he was no mage, and I’m limited to whatever he was able to sense about it. I just know that it’s strange he was able to sense it at all. Best as I can describe from his perspective is a cross between a deep soundwave and a static charge, but it definitely originated from that device, whatever it was. And before you ask me to describe it to you, memory doesn’t work like a video camera. It’s more impressions than true visuals and as far as Lachlan was concerned it was simply weird computery bullshit that he was getting paid not to think about or question and probably burned with his home. Same goes for the men in suits. If he were the kind of guy to pay attention to what people’s faces looked like, he probably wouldn’t have holed himself up where he’d hardly ever have to look at them.”

Sullivan rolls his eyes. “Fine then, what impressions did he have of whoever it was that sent him running?”

“Later that night, after you all had left and he had watched the dragon and ship had fully sunk down into the ocean and become my problem, some two dozen paratech combat robots ported in through a temporary bridge outside his perception filter ward and started making a beeline for the lighthouse that they shouldn’t have been able to see unless they already knew it was there.”

“Robots? That doesn’t make any sense. You’re sure it wasn’t just people in armor?”

“Eh, they looked like robots to Lachlan, and local paratech’s catching up pretty fast to offworld imports these days and full magic constructs have been around forever.”

“No I mean I patched a monitor into the perception filter ward that detected them enter and leave. The last I checked, no one in this world cluster had cracked the level of synthetic sapience required to have triggered that monitor; not that’s able to survive for more than a few days on this anchor world anyhow.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Morgan counters, “Stella’s definitely a person, metaphysically speaking, even though she didn’t start out that way.”

Just superficial convergent evolution then. A pity, that. Sullivan and his friend hadn’t spent much time passing through the empty spaces of that world cluster full of dolls on their way to this one, but the embracing of not-a-personhood that defined that cluster’s magic had always struck him as a potentially merciful end state if his friend’s condition ever truly devolved into a worst-case scenario. Having a local dollmaker of that sort on hand would have made for a comforting insurance policy.

“Speaking of your doll, what’s she doing over there?” Sullivan asks, gesturing to where Stella is still staring at the ceiling.

She doesn’t respond to him.

“Stella,” Morgan prompts.

“There is a disturbance some distance up,” the doll answers in her hollow monotone. “I am attempting to determine if there is something above us or if it is merely interference from the safehouse’s defenses.”

“As you were then,” Morgan says. “Let me know when you make up your mind.”

“Doll,” Sullivan says, “when did you first notice that disturbance?”

No response.

“Stella,” Morgan prompts again.

More silent staring at the ceiling.

Morgan shoots Sullivan a sidelong glance.

“Stella,” Sullivan addresses the doll, slathering on politeness sweet as rotten honey, “would you kindly tell us when, precisely, you noticed this disturbance? Please.”

“Shortly after Lachlan Whelan called you an idiot,” Stella answers without taking her glassy eyes off the ceiling. “Roughly zero point one zero two five seconds before either of you made a verbal acknowledgment of your realization of his condition.”

Well, that’s not a good sign.

Sullivan spins around on his heel to face Morgan. “Tell me,” he demands, “that you weren’t followed.”

“Excuse me?”

“Were you followed?”

“Not that I could tell.”

“Not good enough. Yes or no. Can you say for sure that know one else knows you’re here?”

Morgan’s lips start to form a “yes,” but she hesitates. “No. Not with how you got the jump on us.”

She was absolutely followed and any minute now, whoever followed her will probably make their move, and he has no idea what it will be other than most likely violent. Normally he’d welcome the complication, but if the witch and alchemist get hurt his friend will surely beat themself up over not having been here to help and the techie would be devastated.

Void Without, he hates playing the good guy.

Sullivan grabs Lachlan off the couch and slings him over his shoulder.

“Leaving. Now,” Sullivan says, already walking towards the safehouse’s kitchen where the stairway down to the basement bunker is.

Morgan, recognizing a red flag when she sees one blatantly waving, follows, but not without question.

“What did I miss?” she asks.

“Lachlan broke contract,” Sullivan answers as he passes back through the dining room, past Stella, “or at least came close enough when he clued us in to trigger an alarm.”

Morgan makes a gesture and Stella stands up to follow to the basement stairs, still keeping her gaze fixed on a point somewhere above the safehouse’s ceiling.

“That tip on Lachlan’s location you followed to get here was bait,” Sullivan continues. “I leaked it to draw in whoever might want to find him and tie up loose ends, but instead I caught you.”

He fiddles with the lock on the vault door at the bottom of the staircase. Lockpicking is so much more inconvenient one handed. Morgan reaches over Sullivan’s shoulder into the unconscious Lachlan’s pocket and produces a key. Sullivan takes it and opens the door to reveal the interior of a concrete-and-steel box nearly the size of the upper house itself

“But if our men in suits had the same idea,” Sullivan conjectures as he strides past cots, a freestanding shower, a safe, and a pile of canned goods stacked in a shape only the exceptionally bored could imagine towards another door on the far side, “then it would have been in their best interest to wait and see if someone else took the bait and then kill the two birds with one proverbial stone. Good thing all of Eustace’s safe houses come with -”

“Barrier! Now!” Stella interrupts.

Morgan claps her hands and the bunker beneath the safehouse becomes a cave strewn with mushrooms and moss.

In the same moment, Stella raises her hands, palms up, and a glowing purple dome forms around the four of them.

In the next moment everything is swirling dust.

The moment after that a sound that is to thunder what thunder is to a pin drop catches up with perception. Only being both a half-step out of reality and behind a shield keeps Morgan’s and Lachlan’s eardrums from rupturing in a bloody mess. Or the rest of their bodies for that matter.

The moment after that the golden glue holding Stella’s hands together melts away and so does the shield.

The following moment of stinging dust and falling stones is the longest yet, but the shield has already done its job.

Sunlight from a mauve sky begins to filter through the dust to reveal a crater where once there was a cave beneath a hillock.

“What the actual hell was that,” Morgan manages, more exclamation than answer.

“Figure it out later,” Sullivan says. “As I was saying. Single use, one-way self-collapsing emergency bridge to a secondary location comes with the safehouse. If we are very lucky and you are very good at what you do, then you might be able to rip what’s left of it open and get yourselves out of here before whoever did this -” Sullivan waves an arm at the sudden lack of a safehouse - “realizes you three aren’t a fine mist.”

“You say that as if you are not joining us,” Stella observes while Morgan closes her eyes in focus.

“I’m not,” Sullivan replies and then thrust Lachlan into Stella’s arms. “While you lay low, I’ll be reaching out to some contacts of mine to manufacture some convincing evidence that you definitely weren’t here today. I’ve got my own methods of making sure things don’t trace back to me.”

“I’ve got it,” Morgan says, opening her eyes. A point in space behind Sullivan that had also been behind a door a minute ago begins to twist, setting the dust about it into a swirling vortex. Morgan bends down and picks up her doll’s hand and fingers from where they’ve fallen once again.

“Wonderful. I already know where that portal leads, so I’ll be catching up with you later.” Sullivan’s skin ripples and writhes from that which lies beneath it. “Oh, and one more thing, give your niece a call once this all blows over. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you and share what she’s working on these days.”

“How do you know about Lacuna?”

It’s difficult to keep a solid crescent of a cheshire smile when the rest of your flesh is writhing, but oh so worth it.

“She works for me.”

Space warps and takes Sullivan beyond the edge of the witch’s barrier.

*******

“In conclusion,” Sullivan says over the phone to his friend, “I’ll be back in a few days and in the meantime we don’t breathe a word of this to the techie.”

“She deserves to know.”

“Eventually maybe, but for now she has plausible deniability if anyone comes around asking questions. I checked her phone and flight records, and the last time she had contact with her aunt was before you recruited her. It’s the safest thing for her.”

“Since when do you care about keeping people safe?”

Since it’s for your sake more than hers. Since anything tracing back to her means tracing back to you. Since anything happening to her would mean you blaming yourself.

“Since you made her into an asset to preserve and invest in.”

“Promise me this isn’t just another one of your stunts of holding back vital information for the sake of a dramatic reveal.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Always. Now then, I’ve got documents to forge and paper trails to obscure. I’ll see you soon. Take care of yourself.”

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

#writing #original fiction #urban fantasy #web novel #WIP #Writeblr #Empty Names #serial fiction #writing practice #writers on tumblr #creative writing #literature #prose #writers #novel #fantasy #fiction #my writing #emptynameswriting #Excited to have Lacuna's Aunt Morgan finally show up.#I've been looking forward to writing this chapter for a while now.#I think this is the most blow-by-blow I've done of a fight scene so far.#Morgan and Stella were originally characters that I played in a “Monster of the Week” TTRPG campaign.#That version of Morgan in a lot of ways was a bit of a prototype for how I eventually came to envision Lacuna.#She and Stella are also a little bit of a Jotaro Kujo/Star Platinum reference.#Halfway through writing this it occurred to me that much has been said of self-taught anchor world mages having a tendency to be assholes #and in trying to reconcile that with my vision for Morgan (a self-taught anchor world mage) we got the telepathic interrogation of Lachlan.

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kudamono94 · 9 months

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Hello everyone! As promised in my last post I made prior to the premiere of the 1st episode of the new Futurama revival, I have decided to share some of my favorite screenshots I took since watching it myself~ That said, I have seen some of these scenes already shared but I still wanted to post all of what I had taken in one place for myself just for fun, so if you see something in this post that you’ve already seen 1000 times by this point feel free to ignore lol

Tbh I’ve never tried live blogging anything before, let alone tried to edit and share screenshots I didn’t plan on keeping for myself, so I hope these turned out okay! I did my best to clean them up and crop to what I wanted, so if they don’t show up well I apologize in advance ^^;

Otherwise, if you’re interested in reading past this point, I hope you enjoy what I have to share as well as what little commentary I have to accompany my pictures :3

Okay, so just to get this out of the way first and foremost, while I have seen mixed reviews in regards to the first episode, imo I honestly thought it was pretty good! A lot of the jokes definitely landed and even had me laughing out loud, and with the easter eggs scattered throughout combined with seeing all of these characters once again, I couldn’t stop smiling at several points just because I was so happy lol

That said, while I wouldn’t say this is up there as one of my fav episodes of all time in the series overall, I say it definitely did what it set out to accomplish as far as bringing the series back after 10 years off the air in terms of animation, voice acting, etc. So to anyone that felt as if The Impossible Stream was a let down, I would recommend giving it a few episodes into the new season before coming to a solid conclusion on whether the revival lives up to the hype or not/forming a firm opinion on the new season as a whole. Again, as far as plots are concerned, this episode isn’t anywhere in my top 10 list, but at the same time, it was pretty good and served as a nice welcome back to long time fans since 2013 when Meanwhile aired, so I want to believe things will only get better from here~

Any who, with all of that out of the way, on to the screenshots:

1. First, Idk if this has been pointed out already, but since I haven’t seen anyone else post this, I thought I’d do it myself~ I honestly thought this was pretty cute lol, and considering that the new season is on a streaming service as opposed to tv (meaning that they most likely can have both the OP and ED be as long as they want without it being cut off by ad time), I hope they include new stuff like this in the OP in addition to the cartoons being displayed on the jumbo tv Leela always crashes into again :)

2. This scene right here was too cute for me~ I love these two so much, and I’m so happy to see them again :3 They just want each other to be happy, and it’s precious :3

Also Fry looks so adorable here (´◡`) Look at him!

3. I know this scene speaks for itself, but still enjoy this quote none the less :3

4. If I had a nickle for every time one of my special interests was cancelled because of corporate incompetence/bad judgement, I’d have at least 2 but it’s weird it happened twice - let alone that it happened to two shows that technically aired on the same block (I.E. adult swim, Metalocalypse I’m looking at you :( ).

And yes, I know this is prob a jab at streaming services like Netflix but I think my point still stands, you know? I wish things were different but...

5. Hey, at least we’re getting Futurama AND Metalocalypse back this year, right? I guess that’s a small victory, at least for me? Idk, the fact both these series ended back in 2013 just to be revived in the ye old year of 2023 seems like fate to me tbh, so if the latter’s direct-to-dvd film does well, here’s hoping it can get picked up on Hulu alongside Futurama so I can get back into my high school era~ In the meantime, have this which reminded me of the revival campaigns I have seen over the years dedicated to bringing these 2 wonderful shows back:

Too bad Leela’s not a Dethklok fan :(

6. I figured we’d see Calculon come back sooner or later, but I sure as hell wasn’t expecting him to return like this in the first episode no less XD That said, I’m not a huge fan of either him or the Robot Devil, but this scene was gold~

And last but not least:

Once I learn how to make good quality GIFS, this is the first scene I’m uploading as a GIF ｡^‿^｡

7. Oh! Speaking of Calculon, over these past 15+ years of my life, I had always figured he was either Bi or Pan, so alongside my ship with him and Bender potentially being given more fuel, it was nice to see the writers had the same idea :3 In this house we stan a Bi and/or Pan Calculon~

And let’s not forget about this:

Idk man, I think I might reconsider my Calculon dislike if this continues O////O Never thought I’d say that after reaching my 20s but ye, this was pretty good

Also, this scene was another gem in my opinion:

Technically, yes

Bender x Fry x Leela parallels aside, it’s always nice to see this as a multi shipper~ Keep in mind, as well, that this was originally also written BY BENDER HIMSELF, so ye, a lot to talk about another day

8. I almost choked on my drink watching this lol Looks like the old man yaoi group of Farnsworth, Hermes, and Zoidberg has trouble in paradise (this is a JOKE, pls don’t take this seriously!)

His face is priceless XD

9. Finally, I know this last scene was prob meant to be a tongue-in-cheek joke about both reboots and the writers, but at the same time all I could think of was that one quote from Fry in When Aliens Attack when Leela asked him about his script writing? Idk if it was mean to be a call back to this scene too, but was I the only one reminded of this during the end? Also, Bender sure is one to call the kettle black XD

Compare these exchanges and see what I mean:

And that’s about it tbh, so if you’ve read this far, thank you so much! As thanks, here’s some bonus screenshots of Leela and Fry being cute, and I can’t wait to post again about next week’s episode :3 Have a great day and good night~

#Futurama #Kudamono94's Texts #To everyone who decided to read this through all the way thank you so much!#I'm hoping that I will get better at this as we go along with the season #so pls bare with me lol #Also please feel free to use any of these photos if you want! Again like I said before I'm still not 100% these are all good quality but I #tried so if you see anything you like go right ahead and feel free to use as you like! Just pls give me credit if possible is all I ask ^^;#See everyone next week~

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lagren0uille · 2 years

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US-plaining is not enough. To the Western left, on your and our mistakes

The point of view of Ukrainian researcher Volodymir Artiukh, published by an alterglobalist group. Translated from ukrainian to english by Julia Kulish, read here.

Here in the post-Soviet world, we learned a lot from you. By ‘we’ I mean atomized or loosely organized communist, democratic socialist, left anarchist, feminist scholars, and activists from Kyiv, Lviv, Minsk, Moscow, Saint-Petersburg, and other places that are plunging into the horrors of war and police violence. After our own Marxist tradition underwent sclerotization, degradation, and marginalization, we read commentaries on Das Kapital in English. After the Soviet Union collapsed, we relied on your analysis of the American hegemony, neoliberal turn in the forms of capital accumulation, and Western neo-imperialism. We have also been encouraged by the Western social movements from alterglobalism to the anti-war protests, from Occupy to BLM.

We appreciate how you tried to theorize our corner of the world. You have correctly pointed out that the US helped undermine the democratic and economically progressive options of post-Soviet transformation in Russia and elsewhere. You are right that the US and Europe have failed to create a security environment that would include Russia and other post-Soviet countries. Our countries have long been in a position of having to adapt, make concessions, agree to humiliating conditions. You have done this with sympathy verging on romanticization, and we have sometimes condoned it.

Amidst Russia’s shelling of Kharkiv, however, we see the limits to what we learnt from you. That knowledge was produced under the conditions of the American hegemony, which has reached its limits at Russia’s bloody-red lines. The US lost its ability to represent its interests as common interests for Russia and China, it cannot enforce compliance with military power, and its economic leverage is shrinking. In spite of what many of you claim, Russia is not reacting, adapting, making concessions anymore, it has re-gained agency and it is able to shape the world around it. Russia’s toolkit is different from that of the US, it is not hegemonic, as it relies on brute force rather than on soft power and economy. Nevertheless, brute force is a powerful tool, as you all know from the US behaviour in Latin America, Iraq, Afghanistan and all over the globe. Russia has mimicked the coercive infrastructure of America’s imperialism without preserving its hegemonic core.

And yet, this mimicry does not mean dependence. Russia has become an autonomous agent, its actions are determined by its own internal political dynamics, and the consequences of its actions are now contrary to western interests. Russia shapes the world around, imposes its own rules the way the US has been doing, albeit through other means. The sense of derealization that many commentators feel – ‘this is not happening with us’ - comes from the fact that the Russian warring elites are able to impose their delusions, transform them into the facts on the ground, make others accept them despite their will. These delusions are no longer determined by the US or Europe, they are not a reaction, they are creation.

Having faced ‘the impossible to imagine,’ I see how the Western left is doing what it has been doing the best: analysing the American neo-imperialism, the expansion of NATO. It is not enough anymore as it does not explain the world that is emerging from the ruins of Donbas and Kharkiv’s main square. The world is not exhaustively described as shaped by or reacting upon the actions of the US. It has gained dynamics of its own, and the US and Europe is in reactive mode in many areas. You explain the distant causes instead of noticing the emergent trends.

Thus, it strikes me how, talking about the dramatic processes in our corner of the world, you reduce them to reaction to the activity of your own government and business elites. We have learnt all about the US and NATO from you, but this knowledge is not so helpful anymore. Maybe the US has drawn the outline of this board game, but now other players move the chips and add their own contours with a red marker. US-centric explanations are outdated. I have been reading everything written and said on the left about last year's escalating conflict between the US, Russia, and Ukraine. Most of it was terribly off, much worse than many mainstream explanations. Its predictive power was nil.

This is not to accuse the Western left of ethnocentrism, this is to point to their limited perspective. Overwhelmed with the fog of war and psychological stress, I cannot offer a better perspective. I would only call for help in grasping the situation in theoretical terms while incorporating insights from our corner of the world. US-plaining is not helpful to us to the extent that you think it is. We also need an effort to emerge from the ruins of eastern Marxism and the colonization by the Western Marxism. We make mistakes on this way, and you may accuse us of nationalism, idealism, provincialism. Learn from these mistakes: now you are also much more provincial and you face temptations to resort to simplistic Manicheanism.

You face a challenge of reacting to a war that is not waged by your countries. Given all the theoretical impasses I alluded to above, there is no simple way to frame an anti-war message. One thing remains painfully clear: you can help deal with the consequences of the war providing assistance to refugees from Ukraine no matter what skin colour or passport they have. You can also pressurize your government into cancelling Ukraine’s foreign debt and providing humanitarian help.

Do not let half-baked political positions substitute an analysis of the situation. The injunction that the main enemy is in your country should not translate into a flawed analysis of the inter-imperialist struggle. At this stage appeals to dismantle NATO or, conversely, accepting anyone there, will not help those who suffer under the bombs in Ukraine, in jails in Russia or Belarus. Sloganeering is harmful as ever. Branding Ukrainians or Russian fascists only makes you part of the problem, not part of the solution. A new autonomous reality emerges around Russia, a reality of destruction and harsh repressions, a reality where a nuclear conflict is not unthinkable anymore. Many of us have missed the tendencies leading to this reality. In the fog of war, we do not see clearly the contours of the new. Neither do, as it seems, the American or European governments.

In this reality we, the post-Soviet left, will have incomparably less organizational, theoretical, and simply vital resources. Without you, we will struggle to survive. Without us, you will be closer to the precipice.

#imperialism #leftism #current events #western centrism

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ghostbustermelanieking · 3 years

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7 or 11 jmart for the kiss prompts??

thank you so much for the prompt!! asdfgghjkll i swear i didn't mean to post a post 200 separation fic on the same day as you (i was actually working on this last night).

this is a version of the scenario i wrote in love letters where martin and jon are separated after 200. but there is absolutely no need to read love letters to understand this.

warning for discussion of the panopticon scene in 200, and for a moment of jon wishing for the Eye to return (limited to the first section).

7. “I’ve missed you” kiss & 11. “I almost lost you” kiss

Waking up without Martin almost feels like dying all over again. That horrible moment where Jon opens his eyes in the hospital, on the other side, and doesn't see Martin… he'd take being stabbed a dozen times over this.

When he wakes up and finds Martin gone, he thinks he's lost him. That Martin's died, that he's trapped on the other side buried in rubble, dead because of Jon, and Jon's survived somehow when he really doesn't deserve to… or that Martin's alive, maybe, just maybe, but he's somewhere else entirely. One of the other worlds Annabelle spoke of, or their original world—which maybe Jon should hope for; Martin would have the others, assuming they survived, and he'd be safe from the fears, safe from whatever horrible things they've unleashed on this world with one quick motion of a knife.

Jon should hope for this, that Martin is safe and that he has the others. But he's selfish, and they promised together, and he misses Martin with everything in him.

He's at a hospital in London, he figures out eventually. The hospital closest to where the Magnus Institute was, in another world. The nurse reports that they found him on the site where Millbank Prison used to be, and isn't that weird? And that they found him there alone. (Jon's throat closes up at that, his eyes stinging, and he pretends he's tired so the nurse will leave, so he can cry in peace.) Martin wasn't with him. Martin didn't come through.

But after a few days lying in the hospital with nothing but his thoughts, nothing else to do, Jon starts to question this. They have no idea how this all works, the tapes and the Web and the crack between the worlds… Surely he wasn't the only one to come through. Annabelle Cane thought she'd come through or die, and if Jon came through… and they didn't find her where they found Jon, either. (Of course, maybe Annabelle ran off before Jon was ever found, but somehow Jon suspects she wouldn’t. She strikes him as someone who likes to be at the center of things.)

If there's a possibility that Annabelle came through, and landed somewhere differently than Jon, then there is a possibility that Martin came through, too. That he is somewhere, here, and maybe he is alive.

It's a small possibility. But Jon clings to it with everything in him.

He can't Look for Martin ( or for Annabelle, really). The Eye is gone. If it is here in this world, it has left him. Jon tries to be grateful for this, and a part of him is—he's been reaching for humanity for so long, all while sinking further and further into something he never wanted, he should be beyond grateful that it's gone, that he is alive and can live, without fading, somewhere else. (Although a part of him insists it doesn't matter if Jon hasn't made it.) But after so long with the Eye as a captor, a safety net, a part of him he thought he couldn't cut away… trying to live without it is strange. It hovers like a phantom limb, something severed by the gaping scar in his chest. He keeps reaching for it, for the horrible comfort of Knowing, and he hates it, but he wants it back deeply. Wants it because he knows he could find Martin with it, just maybe. He keeps thinking, Give it back, just for a moment. Thinks, I'll use it to find Martin and then I'll let go, I won't ever again, I hate it but I need it, I NEED to find him…

It doesn't come back. If Jon is ever going to find Martin, he'll need to do it on his own.

He asks all the nurses and staff, anyone he comes in contact with, if they've ever met a Martin Blackwood. Asks if there's anyone in his files with that name, or a name like it, begs the nurses to please look around for anyone like that. No luck there. Jon asks for a phone book and gets an odd look; he guesses phone books are out of fashion in this 2018, too. He can't do much while he's in the hospital, and he's about to give up hope on making any progress until he's been discharged.

But then he manages to get a hold of a laptop. After days of asking, a nurse offers to lend him one, if he promises to keep it quiet, and not to exert himself.

Jon searches the Internet for hours. There are dozens of Martin Blackwoods, actually, more than he ever could've guessed, and none of them seem to be Martin. He has to consider the fact that Martin may not have existed here—just like Jon didn't exist here, or doesn't seem to have, before they woke up. Which will make it nearly impossible to find him using the Internet—using anything, until Martin has been here long enough to establish a paper trail—if Martin was ever even here in the first place…

Desperation. Panic. Jon's last resort is to write a letter. To write down every single thing he's wanted to say to Martin, the things in his head when he woke up, the things in his head when he realized Martin wasn't here. He writes it all, says the things he knows only Martin would know, so Martin will know it's him if he ever reads it. And then he spreads it across the Internet. Posts it every single place he can think of. Every social media site. A lot of forums that are frequently visited. Comments on blogs he thinks Martin might read. Anywhere he can think of. He even prints off copies and mails them to every address he can think of that Martin might be at: his Prentiss flat, his post-Prentiss flat, his mum's care home, Upton House, the safehouse. He puts his real name on it, at the very top, and Martin's, hoping that if Martin is searching on the Internet, it might come up…

Jon's desperate. He'll try anything, any desperate, silly scheme like spreading a love note all over the Internet. Anything to get Martin back.

By the time Jon leaves the hospital, his letter has gone viral. Plastered all over the place. There's people picking it apart, speculating about whether it's real, calling it an excellent work of fiction, speculating it's all a joke. There's even some commentary from other Jonathan Simses and Martin Blackwoods, swearing it's of no relation to them.

None of it is what Jon needs. He checks every iteration obsessively: every comment, repost, retweet. None of it is Martin. None of them are Martin.

He's still looking. Every single day, he looks, in places beside his letter and its hundred iterations. He searches as far as he can, in every record he can think of. He tries to find places in London that he and Martin frequented—the ones he can find. He even goes back to the Institute, or where it should be. It isn't there, of course. Probably never was. Jon can't decide whether to be relieved or disappointed.

It's all he can do, to look and to keep hoping. It's all he can do.

It's hard, being alone again, after so long always being at Martin's side… They'd craved space sometimes, and they'd had it, he supposes, but now… Weeks without Martin, one, two, three weeks, and it's excruciating. Jon had said together at the end, he'd promised , and he'd tried so hard to believe it, and now he's here, impossibly, alone.

He has nightmares almost every night. Nightmares of the Panopticon and the end of the world, the ritual, words forced up through his throat—being at the center of the Eye, at the center of the world with Jonah Magnus at his feet and Martin dying in his arms. Martin forcing the knife into his chest. Jon hasn't dreamed of anything but the statements of others for so long, and he'd thought he missed it, but now… He wakes up almost every night shaking and crying, reaching for Martin. Like clockwork. He thinks he'd do anything for a dream that isn't his, a dream that's not an endless reminder of what he's done.

He checks the forums. He searches in familiar places. He lies in bed and thinks of Martin, tries to look for Martin, silently begs for help from anyone who might be listening (the Web, the Eye, anyone). Nothing works. Nothing.

The reminders come like clockwork: Jon might be looking for no one, might be shouting out to someone who isn't there. Martin might be dead. It might be too late to get him back.

Three weeks in, Jon finds a comment on the original forum, the original place he posted the letter on that first day. A comment from an m.blackwood .

Jon reads it with his heart in his throat. Trembling with hope. Unable to hope completely. There's a dozen different things it could be besides him.

The comment says I thought you were dead. It says, I'm sorry. It says, I love you, says, I'm coming.

Jon's chin trembles, his eyes stinging. He fumbles at the keyboard with shaking fingers to instant-message m.blackwood, types out his address immediately, without thinking. (He has to type it out three times before he gets it right, his hands are shaking so hard.) And after that, I miss you. Even though he said it in the letter, even though it might not be Martin—it could be someone else fucking with him, a troll or whatever it's called; it could be the Web or the Stranger, luring him into a trap. But Jon doesn't care. He doesn't care. If there's any chance, any chance it's Martin…

The reply comes a few minutes later: I'm coming. I'm so sorry. I miss you too. I'm coming right now. And Jon wipes his eyes, presses his face into his hands, and allows himself to hope.

An hour and a half later, someone is buzzing for his flat. Jon runs so fast to the door that he almost slips and falls in the hall, hits the button with entirely too much force and breathes, " Martin? " into the intercom.

Silence for a moment, long enough that Jon starts to wonder if this is just some random person he's practically sobbing down the line at. And then a voice answers, tear-choked: "Jon?"

Jon nearly collapses with the weight of this voice, Martin's voice. He leans hard against the wall, his eyes burning, and says, "Martin, I-I'm buzzing you in," wiping his eyes frantically.

He doesn't move from the door, stays leaning against the wall like it is the only thing keeping him up, until he hears a tentative knock on the other end. And then he's yanking it open, as hard as he can, and on the other side is Martin. Not something pretending to be Martin, not another Martin Blackwood, but his Martin. His Martin, standing there with the faded marks of bruising, his left arm in a cast and a new scar across his forehead, tears pooling in his eyes. Martin. Jon can't breathe for a moment, can't move, can't go to Martin because it doesn't feel real, none of it.

And then Martin's saying, "Jon?" and bursting into harsh, frantic sobs. And Jon's rushing forward. He's rushing forward and letting Martin collapse in his arms, gripping Martin tightly, his fingernails digging into Martin's shoulders, his face pressed into Martin's neck. He's trying to hold on without squeezing or holding too tight, in case Martin's hurt worse than he knows—he's saying Martin's name over and over again, a senseless litany into Martin's skin: Martin, Martin. He's crying, too, hot tears dotting the fabric of Martin's shirt. He's burrowing as close as he can, pulling Martin into him, desperate to feel every part of him—it's him, he's here, it's Martin, they haven't lost each other.

Martin's holding on just as tightly, trembling in Jon's arms where they've sunk to the ground, right in Jon's doorway. He's crying so hard, it's difficult to understand what he's saying, but eventually Jon begins to make it out. He's saying I'm so sorry. Again and again, muffled into Jon's hair: I'm so sorry.

"No," Jon says, suddenly desperate. " Martin. No." He pulls back to look Martin in the eye, to try and wipe the tears off of Martin's face (even though he is crying, too). Leans up to press a kiss against Martin's forehead. "Martin, please, please… p-please don't apologize, please…"

"I killed you," Martin chokes out, his eyes shut, his dark lashes wet against his cheeks. "I killed you, Jon, I hurt you, a-and I… I thought you were dead, wh-when I woke up here, w-without you, I thought I'd never see you again, because of me… "

"I thought I'd lost you, " Jon says, quietly, through his own tears. He wipes the tears from Martin's face again and again. "A-and it really would've been my fault, because I lied to you, I-I was the reason you were up there… Martin, please. "

" Jon. " Martin tugs him a little closer, burrows closer still, his face pressed into the juncture between Jon's shoulder and his neck.

"It's okay." Jon kisses Martin's forehead again, his temple, his cheek, the top of his head. "Martin. Martin, it's—you're here, it can all be okay now…"

Martin leans up abruptly to catch Jon's mouth with his. It's salty and lingering and desperate, every single thing Jon has felt in these long horrible days without Martin, every single kiss he wanted to give Martin while he was gone. Jon sinks into it, gripping Martin as tightly as he can, gripping onto his shirt, kissing Martin fiercely, with the panicked relief of being alive, of finding each other again.

Even when the kiss finishes, they don't let go. They stay there, clinging to each other in the doorway, leaning against Jon's open door. Martin's still crying, still trembling in Jon's arms; he says, I missed you too, I missed you so much; Jon says, Martin, I missed you every single day. Every single moment.

Martin whispers I love you against Jon's hair. Saying it back is as easy as breathing.

#tma fic #mag 200 #jonmartin #the magnus archives #post 200 #i wrote this #i might write more fics in this specific 200 scenario. like especially if i wanna write something where they talk things out

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eulangelo · 3 years

Text

callout for @genderfluidlucifer

google docs

tw for transmisogyny + TERFs + emotional manipulation

Transmisogyny

Lucifer is a huge transmisogynist who will complain 24/7 about how TERFs hurt the ace community, but the moment @randomclustermissile , a trans girl (who is not an exclusionist at all) tries to point out transmisogyny in inclusionist circles (in the most vague and general way possible, without pointing fingers nor calling anyone names) Lucifer will immediatly jump to block her and so they did with me (another inclusionist) and i have to suppose to everyone else who agreed with that post, even arriving to vagueing about us in private group chats to suggest that we were “sympathizing with exclusionists”. all because we dared point out transmisogyny in inclusionist circles. lucifer is TME but apparently they think they’re the authority on TERFs and their talking points but actual trans women are not, according to them, since this is the stuff that they would go and spew to other people. (screenshots from @enbyoctoling)

here’s more examples of Lucifer (again, a transmasc person) going deep in detail about how according to them, TERFs/SWERFs hate aro/ace people and are an active threat to us

1. link

[Image ID: Three screenshots of a post by Genderfluidlucifer. The first screenshot is of a paragraph that reads, "Hey. So I can actually answer this. Anon your commentary about how you thought terfs would approve of sex repulsed aces is sort of it. Except...not. Basically terfs hate ace people for not wanting sex in the approved by terfs way. Terfs are actually extremely interested in [forcing] amatonormativity onto everyone. Because for as sex negative as terfs are...they don't want to actually acknowledge or change the fact that amatonormativity is at the root cause of rape culture and misogyny."

The second screenshot is a zoomed in section of the post that reads, "So yeah no I have NO idea where exclus allies are getting this idea from that terfs would even remotely care about the sexual rights of ace people. Terfs generally hate any sexualities in the LGBTQ+ acronym that aren't LGB because they can't force a gender binary onto those sexualities. At least, not as easily. That's why it's actually a massive sign of someone who doesn't call themselves a terf being a crypto terf if they use the term LGB in a positive manner. Along with the term SGA, as it is deliberately exclusive of nonbinary and not inherently SGA centric queer-aligned sexualities. /END ID]

link to the full post, these are just excerpts but the whole thing is just a very long rant about how TERFs hate ace people and so on (i think it’s worth noticing that although the actual post is kinda long, trans women are never once brought op in a conversation about TERFs issues and the only time transmisogyny is mentioned is not relevant to the conversation)

2. link

[Image ID: A screenshot of a reblog by genderfluidlucifer. The original poster is nothorses. It reads, "Because apparently I have to say it: Testosterone is not a 'violent' hormone. It doesn't make you 'more aggressive' or a worse person, it doesn't make you 'dangerous,' or 'toxic.' Transmascs do not need to be 'warned of the dangers of T.' We do not need to spend our transitions terrified that we're going to become a danger to those around us - that HRT is going to turn us into a monster.

Everyone experiences mood swings during hormonal shifts (pregnancy, menstruation, menopause, estrogen HRT, etc.) and while you might have grumpy moments or feel anger/frustration that you need to learn to handle differently, that doesn't make you a bad person.

Testosterone can change the way you access/process emotions somewhat, but if you're already thoughtful about how you handle your feelings and treat others, you're going to be fine. It's normal to lash out on occasion, by accident, then apologize and work to do better. It doesn't make you a bad person. Everyone on HRT is prone to this, and everyone experiencing hormonal changes is prone to this.

Getting HRT should be positive and affirming; you should not have to spend your entire transition terrified of becoming a monster."

The post then has a reblog by captainlordauditor that reads, "The big danger of T is that needle ouchy." /END ID]

here’s them reblogging from known transmisogynist user @nothorses (once again, the irony that a post about how testosterone is seen as the "aggressive hormone" does not mention transfem at all which are literally the main victims of this rethoric in the first place)

3. link (1), link (2)

[Image ID: Two screenshots of posts by genderfluidlucifer. The first screenshot reads, "Queer exclus: We're not repackaging terf rhetoric! Saying that is transmisogynistic! Also queer exclus: Remove the plus from LGBT!" and has tags that say, "I will pay these people to grow some god damn self awareness. Imagine being this dense. Queer discourse." The post has 15 notes.

The second screenshot reads, "Honestly it is so stupid and frustrating to see ace exclus continue to deny that the ace discourse was started by terfs. Proof was given countless times. And a big name terf like galesofnovember even admitted to starting it. Those of you who demand proof but ignore all of this never wanted proof to begin with." and is tagged with, "ace discourse. The post has 38 notes. /END ID]

heres another two post of theirs conflating TERFs with ace exclusionism

4. link

[Image ID: A screenshot of a reblogged post by furbearingbrick. The original poster is boxlizard, Lucifer's old account. The original post reads, "By the way for people still in denial about it, here's galesofnovember, a terf, admitting that she intended to start the ace exclus movement. She's taking credit for it. Normally if the victims of this behavior weren't ace/aro or other queer identities y'all be ready to rightfully lynch her. But since it's us, y'all just still wanna stamp your feet and go, 'Nuh uh!' instead of acknowledging facts." The part that says, "admitting that she intended to start the ace exclus movement" is a link to a galesofnovember post.

There is then a reblogged addition from furbearing brick that reads, "archived versions of the receipts" and has two links to the webarchive. The tags read, "Bringing this back since it's apparently still relevant. Terfism mention. Aphobia mention. Queerphobia mention. Blocklist." and has 1,455 notes. /END ID]

this is their post that ive already talked about but basically they found a 52 notes post made by a TERF in 2012 and this one person said "i dont know why i dont get to be the princess of the anti-ace-brigade" and apparently they are convinced that this means TERFs started the ace exclusionism movement and that this is one of their goals. which is insane when TERFs in real life only care about making life miserable for transfem people first and foremost.

5.link

[Image ID: A screenshot of a reblog by genderfluidlucifer. The original poster is yu-gay-fudo. It reads, “Just in case you happen to be unaware, some of the “radfem lite” they post to warm you up to their rhetoric, just off the top of my head:

- Ace/aro exclusionism

- Bi exclusionism or claims that bi people are “less queer” bc of “straight passive privilege”

- Saying you have to be dysphoric to identify as transInvalidating nonbinary people

- Calling queer a slur regardless of context, saying people can’t identify as queer, and saying that it can’t be reclaimed

- “Mogai hell”, “kweer”, or otherwise mocking less common labels and claiming they are “just cishets who want to feel special”

- Excluding sex workers from feminist discussions or claiming that sex work is inherently evil

- Basically anyone who thinks they can determine what other people identify as”. The tags read, "queerphobia tw. twerfs tw. no id." and has 70,727 notes. It was reblogged on March 22nd, 2021 /END ID]

another example of conflating radfems to things that, while wrong, have little to nothing to do with them because being a radfem, again, is something very specific that has all to do with transfem oppression.

Emotional manipulation

Lucifer has done nothing but block, break boundaries, spread lies and vague about people, some of which were even mutuals with them knowing they would see the posts. when confronted about it Lucifer's only answer was "just say you hate me and block me" but they actually ended up blocking everyone first, making it impossible for anyone to set some boundaries with them or even just to calmly confront them about anything.

[proof: Io(popncourse) and Lucifer had a disagreement in a shared discord server, which prompted Lucifer to vague Io in a vent post. Io confronted them, as being vagued is one of buns triggers, to which Lucifer initially agreed to delete the vent post, but then proceeded to victimize themself and immediatly blocked Io. later on, Jude(malewifedeckard) was confronted by Lucifer, then after Jude told them “I’m worried that you’ll vague me just like you did with Io” they proceeded to block Jude and vagued about him too. when Io made a post (which was not a callout, it was just bun setting buns boundaries) explaining what Lucifer did, Lucifer immediatly jumped to victimize themself, acting like they were being called out and straight-up lying, even going so far as to say that no one tried to hear them out, which is a blatant lie if you consider the aforementioned Io and Jude’s attempts at doing so, with Lucifer immediatly blocking and cutting ties with the both of them. ]

(screenshots taken by @popncourse and @malewifedeckard)

as seen in the proof above Lucifer’s behaviour is not ok because they don’t accept any kind of confrontation and immediatly jump to blocking, and after blocking, they'd immediatly go and vague about the people who confronted them pacificly, spreading more lies and painting themself as the victim and even arriving to say “no one hears me out at all” which is simply not something you can say when you block people who are trying to hear you out in the first place.

this is by no means an invitation to go and harass them, send them hate or anything like that. i absolutely don’t want anything even remotely hateful or negative to be sent their way after this post.

this post was only made because:

1. as an ace person who fully supports the inclusion of aspec identities in the lgbt+ community i don’t want to support an enviroment that costantly downplays transmisogynistic oppression in order to be taken seriously. there are hundreds of ways to make aspec activism without acting like we(as in TME aspecs)are the victims of a system that seeks for the annihilation of transfemenine people in real life everyday. i especially don’t want to support TME individuals who act transfem-friendly but then block any transfem who tries to speak on transmisogyny without a second thought.

2. Lucifer’s behaviour has hurt two friends of mine and i don’t want to associate with someone who actively breaks people’s boundaries without taking accountability when messing up.

3. i cannot associate with someone who spreads lies about me accusing me of sympathizing with exclusionists all while having me blocked so that i can’t see it nor defend me. they complain about people not hearing them out but they’re the very first person who does not try to hear people out, and instead jumps to spread baseless rumors. this is not someone i can nor want to associate with.

(image descriptions provided by @malewifedeckard)

#genderfluidlucifer #transmisogyny tw #terfs tw #ask to tag #txt #long post #ok to rb

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