#T: Old Adversary
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Kickstarting a book to end enshittification, because Amazon will not carry it
My next book is The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation: it’s a Big Tech disassembly manual that explains how to disenshittify the web and bring back the old good internet. The hardcover comes from Verso on Sept 5, but the audiobook comes from me — because Amazon refuses to sell my audio:
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/the-internet-con-how-to-seize-the-means-of-computation
Amazon owns Audible, the monopoly audiobook platform that controls >90% of the audio market. They require mandatory DRM for every book sold, locking those books forever to Amazon’s monopoly platform. If you break up with Amazon, you have to throw away your entire audiobook library.
That’s a hell of a lot of leverage to hand to any company, let alone a rapacious monopoly that ran a program targeting small publishers called “Project Gazelle,” where execs were ordered to attack indie publishers “the way a cheetah would pursue a sickly gazelle”:
https://www.businessinsider.com/sadistic-amazon-treated-book-sellers-the-way-a-cheetah-would-pursue-a-sickly-gazelle-2013-10
[Image ID: Journalist and novelist Doctorow (Red Team Blues) details a plan for how to break up Big Tech in this impassioned and perceptive manifesto….Doctorow’s sense of urgency is contagious -Publishers Weekly]
I won’t sell my work with DRM, because DRM is key to the enshittification of the internet. Enshittification is why the old, good internet died and became “five giant websites filled with screenshots of the other four” (h/t Tom Eastman). When a tech company can lock in its users and suppliers, it can drain value from both sides, using DRM and other lock-in gimmicks to keep their business even as they grow ever more miserable on the platform.
Here is how platforms die: first, they are good to their users; then they abuse their users to make things better for their business customers; finally, they abuse those business customers to claw back all the value for themselves. Then, they die:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys
[Image ID: A brilliant barn burner of a book. Cory is one of the sharpest tech critics, and he shows with fierce clarity how our computational future could be otherwise -Kate Crawford, author of The Atlas of AI”]
The Internet Con isn’t just an analysis of where enshittification comes from: it’s a detailed, shovel-ready policy prescription for halting enshittification, throwing it into reverse and bringing back the old, good internet.
How do we do that? With interoperability: the ability to plug new technology into those crapulent, decaying platform. Interop lets you choose which parts of the service you want and block the parts you don’t (think of how an adblocker lets you take the take-it-or-leave “offer” from a website and reply with “How about nah?”):
https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah
But interop isn’t just about making platforms less terrible — it’s an explosive charge that demolishes walled gardens. With interop, you can leave a social media service, but keep talking to the people who stay. With interop, you can leave your mobile platform, but bring your apps and media with you to a rival’s service. With interop, you can break up with Amazon, and still keep your audiobooks.
So, if interop is so great, why isn’t it everywhere?
Well, it used to be. Interop is how Microsoft became the dominant operating system:
https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/06/adversarial-interoperability-reviving-elegant-weapon-more-civilized-age-slay
[Image ID: Nobody gets the internet-both the nuts and bolts that make it hum and the laws that shaped it into the mess it is-quite like Cory, and no one’s better qualified to deliver us a user manual for fixing it. That’s The Internet Con: a rousing, imaginative, and accessible treatise for correcting our curdled online world. If you care about the internet, get ready to dedicate yourself to making interoperability a reality. -Brian Merchant, author of Blood in the Machine]
It’s how Apple saved itself from Microsoft’s vicious campaign to destroy it:
https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/06/adversarial-interoperability-reviving-elegant-weapon-more-civilized-age-slay
Every tech giant used interop to grow, and then every tech giant promptly turned around and attacked interoperators. Every pirate wants to be an admiral. When Big Tech did it, that was progress; when you do it back to Big Tech, that’s piracy. The tech giants used their monopoly power to make interop without permission illegal, creating a kind of “felony contempt of business model” (h/t Jay Freeman).
The Internet Con describes how this came to pass, but, more importantly, it tells us how to fix it. It lays out how we can combine different kinds of interop requirements (like the EU’s Digital Markets Act and Massachusetts’s Right to Repair law) with protections for reverse-engineering and other guerrilla tactics to create a system that is strong without being brittle, hard to cheat on and easy to enforce.
What’s more, this book explains how to get these policies: what existing legislative, regulatory and judicial powers can be invoked to make them a reality. Because we are living through the Great Enshittification, and crises erupt every ten seconds, and when those crises occur, the “good ideas lying around” can move from the fringes to the center in an eyeblink:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/12/only-a-crisis/#lets-gooooo
[Image ID: Thoughtfully written and patiently presented, The Internet Con explains how the promise of a free and open internet was lost to predatory business practices and the rush to commodify every aspect of our lives. An essential read for anyone that wants to understand how we lost control of our digital spaces and infrastructure to Silicon Valley’s tech giants, and how we can start fighting to get it back. -Tim Maughan, author of INFINITE DETAIL]
After all, we’ve known Big Tech was rotten for years, but we had no idea what to do about it. Every time a Big Tech colossus did something ghastly to millions or billions of people, we tried to fix the tech company. There’s no fixing the tech companies. They need to burn. The way to make users safe from Big Tech predators isn’t to make those predators behave better — it’s to evacuate those users:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/18/urban-wildlife-interface/#combustible-walled-gardens
I’ve been campaigning for human rights in the digital world for more than 20 years; I’ve been EFF’s European Director, representing the public interest at the EU, the UN, Westminster, Ottawa and DC. This is the subject I’ve devoted my life to, and I live my principles. I won’t let my books be sold with DRM, which means that Audible won’t carry my audiobooks. My agent tells me that this decision has cost me enough money to pay off my mortgage and put my kid through college. That’s a price I’m willing to pay if it means that my books aren’t enshittification bait.
But not selling on Audible has another cost, one that’s more important to me: a lot of readers prefer audiobooks and 9 out of 10 of those readers start and end their searches on Audible. When they don’t find an author there, they assume no audiobook exists, period. It got so bad I put up an audiobook on Amazon — me, reading an essay, explaining how Audible rips off writers and readers. It’s called “Why None of My Audiobooks Are For Sale on Audible”:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/25/can-you-hear-me-now/#acx-ripoff
[Image ID: Doctorow has been thinking longer and smarter than anyone else I know about how we create and exchange value in a digital age. -Douglas Rushkoff, author of Present Shock]
To get my audiobooks into readers’ ears, I pre-sell them on Kickstarter. This has been wildly successful, both financially and as a means of getting other prominent authors to break up with Amazon and use crowdfunding to fill the gap. Writers like Brandon Sanderson are doing heroic work, smashing Amazon’s monopoly:
https://www.brandonsanderson.com/guest-editorial-cory-doctorow-is-a-bestselling-author-but-audible-wont-carry-his-audiobooks/
And to be frank, I love audiobooks, too. I swim every day as physio for a chronic pain condition, and I listen to 2–3 books/month on my underwater MP3 player, disappearing into an imaginary world as I scull back and forth in my public pool. I’m able to get those audiobooks on my MP3 player thanks to Libro.fm, a DRM-free store that supports indie booksellers all over the world:
https://blog.libro.fm/a-qa-with-mark-pearson-libro-fm-ceo-and-co-founder/
Producing my own audiobooks has been a dream. Working with Skyboat Media, I’ve gotten narrators like @wilwheaton, Amber Benson, @neil-gaiman and Stefan Rudnicki for my work:
https://craphound.com/shop/
[Image ID: “This book is the instruction manual Big Tech doesn’t want you to read. It deconstructs their crummy products, undemocratic business models, rigged legal regimes, and lies. Crack this book and help build something better. -Astra Taylor, author of Democracy May Not Exist, but We’ll Miss It When Its Gone”]
But for this title, I decided that I would read it myself. After all, I’ve been podcasting since 2006, reading my own work aloud every week or so, even as I traveled the world and gave thousands of speeches about the subject of this book. I was excited (and a little trepedatious) at the prospect, but how could I pass up a chance to work with director Gabrielle de Cuir, who has directed everyone from Anne Hathaway to LeVar Burton to Eric Idle?
Reader, I fucking nailed it. I went back to those daily recordings fully prepared to hate them, but they were good — even great (especially after my engineer John Taylor Williams mastered them). Listen for yourself!
https://archive.org/details/cory_doctorow_internet_con_chapter_01
I hope you’ll consider backing this Kickstarter. If you’ve ever read my free, open access, CC-licensed blog posts and novels, or listened to my podcasts, or come to one of my talks and wished there was a way to say thank you, this is it. These crowdfunders make my DRM-free publishing program viable, even as audiobooks grow more central to a writer’s income and even as a single company takes over nearly the entire audiobook market.
Backers can choose from the DRM-free audiobook, DRM-free ebook (EPUB and MOBI) and a hardcover — including a signed, personalized option, fulfilled through the great LA indie bookstore Book Soup:
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/the-internet-con-how-to-seize-the-means-of-computation
What’s more, these ebooks and audiobooks are unlike any you’ll get anywhere else because they are sold without any terms of service or license agreements. As has been the case since time immemorial, when you buy these books, they’re yours, and you are allowed to do anything with them that copyright law permits — give them away, lend them to friends, or simply read them with any technology you choose.
As with my previous Kickstarters, backers can get their audiobooks delivered with an app (from libro.fm) or as a folder of MP3s. That helps people who struggle with “sideloading,” a process that Apple and Google have made progressively harder, even as they force audiobook and ebook sellers to hand over a 30% app tax on every dollar they make:
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-another-audiobook-that-amazon-wont-sell/posts/3788112
Enshittification is rotting every layer of the tech stack: mobile, payments, hosting, social, delivery, playback. Every tech company is pulling the rug out from under us, using the chokepoints they built between audiences and speakers, artists and fans, to pick all of our pockets.
The Internet Con isn’t just a lament for the internet we lost — it’s a plan to get it back. I hope you’ll get a copy and share it with the people you love, even as the tech platforms choke off your communities to pad their quarterly numbers.
Next weekend (Aug 4-6), I'll be in Austin for Armadillocon, a science fiction convention, where I'm the Guest of Honor:
https://armadillocon.org/d45/
If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this thread to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/31/seize-the-means-of-computation/#the-internet-con
[Image ID: My forthcoming book 'The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation' in various editions: Verso hardcover, audiobook displayed on a phone, and ebook displayed on an e-ink reader.]
#pluralistic#trustbusting#big tech#gift guide#kickstarter#the internet con#books#audiobooks#enshitiffication#disenshittification#crowdfunders#seize the means of computation#audible#amazon#verso
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DCXDP FIC IDEA: The Dauntless Matchmaker
Danny Fenton is short on cash. He has been short on cash almost all his adult life, but usually, he can pull through untill the last minute before breaking and asking his family for help.
It's a pain in a half trying to find a job that is flexible enough to accommodate his "Health" issues.
He needs time off to keep his agreement. See back when he was sixteen, he realized that the ghosts that had been bothering him were all trying to challenge him for his power.
At first he looked like easy prey- being new and all- but the more fights he won the more his reputation rose and that made the ghosts attack less frequently.
They just became harder since the big guns wanted a crack at him. Danny proposed that the fights be in neutral grounds- the ghost zone- since fights in Amity Park were ruining his haunt.
Haunt Rights were highly protected and respected in the Infinite Releams.
His adversaries agreed under the condition that Danny responded to the battles within two hours; otherwise, they would haunt him in the human world.
Ghost fighting in the Infinite Releams to keep the ghosts busy, and nowadays, only the strongest bothered him like a bi-weekly challenge from dead beings that don't understand scheduling.
It worked out.....until he couldn't explain why he was missing so often in the human world. With the help of some friendly ghosts, he was able to fake a diagnosis of some muscle disorder and has been living with the excuse that he would go MIA because of it. He missed a lot.
Often enough to have almost every job he's gotten to fire him.
This brings him to his current problem. Yes, Danny can argue that he has a disability but to do so would mean having someone look into it and realize it's not real.
So when Charlie from the Tea MadHouse tells him not to bother returning tomorrow after a four-day-long battle, he can only sigh and turn in his tea maker apron.
He might have to call his parents to ask for help on this month's rent. That's a bitter pill to swallow.
If only there was a job that he could do that had no problem with him taking multiple days off without notice.
"Pardon me. I need a moment of your time." a voice calls out. Danny twists around, turning his neck slightly downwards to meet the green-eyed stare of a young boy.
"I have a proposition for you. My elder brother requires a fake lover to fool our family butler into thinking that he has moved on from the heartbreak of his last disastrous relationship. Not that anyone could blame Dowd for ending things with Drake. In any case, seeing as I have witnessed your unemployment, I figured you would do well for the job."
Danny blinks "I'm sorry?"
The kid pulls out a wad of cash. Danny can practically hear the ca-ching sound surrounding the boy as he raises a brow.
He gapes as the youth slaps the cash into his hand without so much as a blink.
"Do we have an accord?" The boy asks while Danny slowly turns the money in his hand.
"Whatever you say, temporary in-law," He says after flipping through the bills only to realize it's a hundred-dollars. A quick count of how many he's been handed causes his eyes to almost pop out of thier socket.
It's more then enough for this month's rent-hell he has some left over for at least four months!
"Excellent, we are expected at dinner. If Drake acts surprised to see you merely tap the table six times, then four. He shall fall into line and build off our lie."
Danny scrambles after the kid, nodding to himself. "Six, then four. Got it. Ugh, does the dinner have a dress code?"
It sounds like it would since a young boy just gave out hundreds like it was nothing. Danny would feel bad showing up in an old pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt.
Maybe he has a formal shirt somewhere.
The boy's green eyes flickered to him, then his watch on his wrist. "An impressive observation. Pennyworth will not be impressed by a poorly dressed paramour. We have time to purchase a suit. Come along."
Danny has no idea how someone so small can walk so fast. He feels his breathing is coming in quick bursts, but the boy doesn't seem winded at all. He winces when the boy enters a well-known suit place that is very pricey. "Is this coming out of my pay?"
"No. This shall be covered by the company card," The strange child says, holding up a black card with a quick flick of his wrist. At the sight of it, two store attendants appear at their side, offering assistance. Danny has never seen such power.
"W-wait we have a company card?" He shutters, overwhelmed by the attendant pushing him into a changing room and a light blue suit in his arms.
"Yes. However, you have a limit on what can be spent with it. I shall review the details later regarding your medical, dental, and vision benefits."
"I GET DENTAL?!"
"Of course. America's ridiculous health programs will mistreat no employee of mine simply due to lack of funds. " The boy scoffed, sounding offended by the very idea.
Danny doesn't care how long he needs to pretend to be this boy's boyfriend, and he'll sign a contract right now.
_______________________________________
Damian waited for Fenton to finish trying on all the suits the personal sellers had pushed onto him. He personally thinks the light blue was the best but it doesn't hurt to try other options.
They need Fenton to look his best to woo Drake and get him to stop acting so pathetic.
Yes, Dowd had broken up with him for reasons Damian is unaware of, nor does he care enough to find them, but Drake has had plenty of people break up with him before and remain on good terms with him.
Just look at Brown.
Drake had also always bounced right back after the breakup, usually because he would get tied up in either work at Wayne Industries or Red Robin.
Yet, for some reason, unlike all the others, Dowd leaving has not only been messy it also threw Drake into a downwards spiral.
He has refused even to get dress- walking around in a bathrobe and fluffy slippers- eating ice cream and sobbing over photos of Dowd for hours on end. He taken a leave from Wayne Industries and mostly stayed on monitor duty as Red Robin.
At other times, he plays sad songs and watches romance movies with a dead look in his eyes. Usually there were crumbs of some unknown spicy chips all over his face too.
Really it was unseemly.
It's been four months of this, and Drake does not seem to be getting it together. Damian had researched online, and all of the articles indicate that he should have felt better by the third-month mark.
He would have left the fool well alone only Pennyworth is beginning to worry. And Damian refuses to let Pennyworth worry over something fixable.
His research showed that a "rebound" was highly recommended (if done correctly), in the healing process of a breakup. Drake refused to find one, so Damian assigned himself the task of finding one for him instead.
He considered Drake's past lovers' looks, interests, and personalities. Then creating a list of what was considered a good candidate he wandered around Gotham in search of someone who would be a perfect rebound.
His efforts led him to Tea MadHouse- a tea shop with a surprisingly good coffee menu- where Daniel Fenton worked. Over three weeks, Damian had watched him, categorizing the pros and cons that Drake would find within Fenton, and concluded that he would be perfect.
The fact Fenton has lost his job now only worked in his favor. He'll convince Drake that Fenton is a decoy for Pennyworth - since Drake was getting fed up with all the hovering- and he would never notice that the real target of this fake relationship would be Drake himself all along.
Fenton will woo him, sweep him off his feet, make him forget Dowd and ride off into the sunset with Drake none the wiser. It was full-proof.
Damian will make Drake rebound on Fenton, even if he has to throw the idiot at the other teen. He is getting awful tired of the concerned glances whenever Drake slumps his way into a room.
No other reason. He certainly didn't care about Drake that much nor did does he lay awake at night wondering how Drake is doing now that he does not have someone to hold him.
Drake doesn't sleep well alone.
"How do I look?" Fenton stepped out of the booth wearing the light blue suit. It made his eyes pop and framed his body well.
Yes, muscular. The body of a boxer. Drake will lose his mind over those biceps.
"Ravishing." He tells the nineteen-year-old. Damian barely bites back a smirk as Fenton flushed, painting a pretty picture. Drake enjoys talking his lovers up, and Fenton will do well to receive plenty of compliments. "Let us be off."
Drake won't know what hit him.
#dcxdpdabbles#dc x dp crossover#dead tired#The Dauntless Matchmaker#Damian Wayne really said if you want something done right do it your self#Danny went along cause Damian has that much of a commanding presence#hes also poor and needs the job#Tim is in the trenches from Bernard leaving him
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A spectre is haunting Europe — the spectre of communism. All the powers of old Europe have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre: Pope and Tsar, Metternich and Guizot, French Radicals and German police-spies.
Where is the party in opposition that has not been decried as communistic by its opponents in power? Where is the opposition that has not hurled back the branding reproach of communism, against the more advanced opposition parties, as well as against its reactionary adversaries?
Two things result from this fact:
I. Communism is already acknowledged by all European powers to be itself a power.
II. It is high time that Communists should openly, in the face of the whole world, publish their views, their aims, their tendencies, and meet this nursery tale of the Spectre of Communism with a manifesto of the party itself.
To this end, Communists of various nationalities have assembled in London and sketched the following manifesto, to be published in the English, French, German, Italian, Flemish and Danish languages.
String identified:
A ct atg — t ct c. A t a t t a aac t c t ct: a Ta, ttc a Gt, c aca a Ga c-.
t at t tat a t c a ctc t t ? t t tat a t ac t ag ac c, agat t aac t at, a a agat t acta aa?
T tg t t act:
. C aa acg a a t t a .
. t g t tat Ct , t ac t , t , t a, t tc, a t t ta t ct C t a at t at t.
T t , Ct a atat a a a tc t g at, t t g, c, Ga, taa, a a agag.
Closest match: Flueggea virosa isolate bfs chromosome A3
Common name: Whiteberry Bush, White-Berry Bush, White Berry Bush, and, I shit you not, White Berrybush
(image source)
#tumblr genetics#genetics#asks#requests#sent to me#communism#plants#flowers#berries#bushes#whiteberry bush#white-berry bush#white berry bush#white berrybush#HELP MEEEEE GET ME OUT OF HEREEE
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Haven't had a chance to talk much about the Ginyus yet, so here we go. Talking about the Ginyu Tokusentai/Ginyu Force/Dairy Special Forces requires putting them into context with the greater Dragon Ball universe around them.
Something that has always been incredibly limiting for Dragon Ball's worldbuilding is that, despite much of the brand being about presenting Goku with new ladders to climb, Goku doesn't climb ladders. He leaps from ladder-top to ladder-top.
What this means is, Toriyama had a tendency to be hyperbolic with the challenges Goku was presented. Toriyama doesn't pit Goku against powerful foes. He pits Goku against the most powerful foe, then has to sit back and figure out another arena for Goku to go fight the champion of.
This creates issues of perspective. We don't get to see a lot of development of the worlds Toriyama creates because Goku only shows up to fight the Very Most Powerful Guy and then leaves. And this also means we don't get to see what being the Very Most Powerful Guy means relative to people who are not.
If you followed Dragon Ball Super, you might have noticed that issue with the Tournament of Power. The way the story leaps straight from "Multiple universes exist" to "Goku vs. The Strongest in Universe 6" and then to "Goku vs. The Strongest Guy in the MULTIVERSE!" without even stopping to breathe.
What is that universe even about? Who knows? But this guy sure is their STRONGEST GUY. And that's something that's been with Dragon Ball... honestly, since all the way back at the 21st Tenkaichi Budokai when his second arc adversary was the Earth's legendary ultimate martial arts master.
The whole concept of aliens enters the Dragon Ball universe by way of Raditz introducing the Strongest Alien Race in the Universe.
Shortly after that, Goku is fighting the Strongest Saiyan, who is technically referred to as Strongest in the Universe... right up until a retcon introduces the Planet Trade Organization and Goku fights Frieza, the Actual Strongest in the Universe For Realsies.
So. Yeah. It's hard to get a sense of perspective for how powerful our guys are when they leave Earth because they only ever brush elbows with outlier titans.
But to give some idea, we already know that Earthlings are considered to be a pretty weak species.
Raditz's arrival retroactively explains Goku's destructive Oozaru transformations. This thing?
This is the Doom of the Earth. The planet-killer meant to exterminate every last human being on this planet. Boy, sure would be fun to be in the ring with that, huh?
It's also clearly touching down outside of the ring so I don't know why this wasn't a ringout. Since when is the waiting room's rooftop considered part of the stage? But I digress.
When Goku was three years old, his Oozaru was measured to be sufficient to slaughter this world. That is how weak Earth is on the scale. By contrast, Namek is considered to be one of the more powerful worlds. Vegeta describes Namekian fighters as "extraordinary".
That's something we get to see for ourselves, when Extraordinary Namekian Fighters happen to Frieza Force soldiers like a typhoon.
This is what's considered extraordinary on a standard galactic scale. These are three warriors from one of the stronger races in the universe tearing apart soldiers whose job is to exterminate races. Once they start fighting, Dodoria reads their battle powers as 3,000.
For comparison, Raditz was said to be equivalent to a Saibaman at 1,200. We never got a read on Nappa but he found the idea of Kakarot being at 5,000 unbelievable enough to go into denial, and he shit himself over 8,000.
So, with that in mind, we can understand that these nameless Namekian nobodies are pretty fucking tough, well within the realm of Saiyan ability. They're also familiar with advanced martial arts concepts like ki suppression that the Planet Trade doesn't understand.
There's probably a reason why, despite Namek apparently being well known to the Planet Trade, nobody's seen fit to gentrify this one yet. This is a fight Frieza's more elite forces can win, to be sure. But also, there are easier pickings to be had.
And then we have the Saiyans, said to be the most powerful race in the universe. Raditz, a loser scrub who doesn't know a thing about martial arts, is able to thoroughly humiliate Goku and Piccolo in terms of sheer stats, even after Goku's been trained by Popo.
This guy is the Saiyan equivalent of Appule. Goku's been personally trained by God's right-hand attendant, and Piccolo is the reincarnation of God's evil counterpart; These are not humans of this planet, but two guys who demonstrated five years ago that they're in a realm beyond the humans.
And this loser is still doing this to them. This is what a low-rate Saiyan looks like.
And this is what a Saiyan elite looks like:
Like I said, we're never given an official reading on Nappa but he found 5,000 BP to be ridiculous for Goku to have and 8,000 to be unthinkably terrifying. The Daizenshuu pegs him at 4,000, but they also peg Piccolo at 3,500 which would mean Piccolo and Nappa are closely matched.
I don't know about you but I don't see it. But that may just be me.
In any case, this gives us a general understanding of how powerful the races of the universe are. Earthlings weak. Namekians strong. Saiyans strongest. And then there's outliers.
Throughout the universe, there are... mutants. On rare occasions, an individual is born to a race who have vastly, unbelievably, ridiculously, stupidly tremendous ki.
The Planet Trade employs these mutants for their upper staff. Zarbon and Dodoria are mutants, as are the Ginyus and even Frieza himself. Especially Frieza. The reason we've never gotten elaboration on Frieza's race is because Toriyama didn't want Frieza's traits to be taken as indicative of a whole people.
According to interview, Cold was born with abnormally high power and cruelty for his race, and these traits were passed down to his son Frieza. Whatever species they came from, it is nothing like them.
They're not the only ones. The Planet Trade collects and employs these uniquely ultra-powerful mutants for its elite forces. The Saiyans are the strongest race in the universe, but these mutants are the strongest individuals in the universe.
To grasp how powerful these guys are relative to the rest of the universe, we need to talk Saiyans again for a moment. Raditz? Raditz was the yardstick for what the bottom-tier of Saiyans was. He made Earthlings look like trash, but he would have been eaten alive by those unnamed Namekian warriors.
However, a Saiyan's true strength lies in the Oozaru. Goku as an Oozaru was meant to be able to reduce the standing population of the Earth to 0. Raditz, as an Oozaru? Would still have gotten his teeth kicked in by Vegeta, the Saiyan super-elite. He is so ridiculous, he could win a straight fight with the planet-killing Oozaru.
...I mean, not after being beaten within an inch of his life and taking a Genki-Dama to the face, he can't. But if Vegeta were still at the top of his game, this would be a very different fight.
Meanwhile, the Ginyu Force.
So. Yeah. By the time we get to them, we are far beyond the ordinary limits of the universe. Saiyans are the strongest race, and Vegeta's pressing up against the limit of Saiyan ability. He's one Zenkai away from breaking through the Saiyan ceiling. Goku already has.
And these mutants they're up against are the most powerful freak aberrations of unexplained super-ki ever to have occurred anywhere in space.
IIRC it's never directly stated but for reference, Broly would probably be considered a mutant. Whether he is or isn't, he makes as a pretty solid equivalence. These guys are to their respective races what Broly is to Saiyans. What Uub is to humans.
This is all vital context for understanding the way the Ginyu Force fights.
Because.
Like.
You need to understand.
These guys suck.
On purpose.
From a technical standpoint, they're not good fighters. They're sloppy. Poorly trained around big showy moves that are meant to look cool. Style over substance.
This is because they can get away with it. They are the most powerful beings in the universe; Powerful on a scale that is an order of magnitude beyond everybody else that exists. Even the Saiyans look like shit next to these mutants.
Saiyan super-elite hits Recoome with everything he's got right in the face at point-blank range.
And the mutant takes it like a fucking champ. Vegeta's about to be killed by a man who keeps pausing to do this.
The Ginyu Force is badly trained on purpose. Which isn't to say that they're trained to lose fights, but rather that they aren't trained to compete with an equivalent rival. They can afford a martial style focused entirely on showmanship because there is no competition for them. They're too powerful to ever lose fights. Nobody else in the known universe even compares to their mutant might.
Which, as previously noted, is something Frieza is also afflicted by, in different ways. There is no reason for the Ginyus to hone their skills the way the Earthlings do because. Like. Who's going to challenge them? They're naturally born into being top of the field by a wide margin. They're going to auto-win every fight they ever involve themselves in, so their idea of self-improvement is centered instead on looking as cool as possible while they do it.
This is precisely what the Muten-Roshi worked so hard to prevent Goku from becoming.
Something else I mentioned before is that Trunks demonstrates his serious goal-oriented nature by never naming any of his techniques. He has some distinct and identifiable moves, but none of them have a formal name that he shouts out when firing them. He's here to get the job done, not to show off.
The Ginyus are in the opposite boat. They know they can't lose fights, so they are absolutely, 100% here to show off. They name the shit out of their techniques.
Flying knee? Nah, bro. That is a Recoome Kick.
Running in and throwing a punch? Nuh-uh. Recoome Mach Attack.
Lobbing a ki blast at the opponent? Crusher Ball.
These basic attacks are given huge, flashy names. And, I need to specify, they're English names. Moves like the Kamehameha or Taiyoken or Sokidan or Makankosappo also have names but they tend to be Japanese names with descriptive meanings.
Turtle Destruction Wave, signature move of the Turtle School of martial arts.
Fist of the Sun, an intense blinding art.
Winding Ki Bullet, a remote-operated bullet of ki that Yamcha can manipulate how he likes.
Demon Piercing and Killing Light Gun, a Mazoku technique that pierces and kills.
This is not the same thing. These guys are screaming exotic English words to look cool while throwing hands. "RECOOME KICK!!!" Recoome screams in English as he throws a kick.
There is only one other character in Dragon Ball who fights like this.
That's right. Recoome Kick is the same kind of thing as Satan Miracle Special Ultra Super Megaton Punch. All shouted in English as well. The Ginyu Force is what Mr. Satan would be if he was as formidable as the world believes he is.
They're showmen, even moreso than the Earthling martial artists who were born for a tournament stage. Hell, some of Recoome's moves are inspired by pro wrestling.
They are the ultimate demonstration, both of the unquestionable might of the Planet Trade's human resources, and of the absolute waste that is the Planet Trade's capitalist philosophy towards martial arts. The PTO doesn't train warriors; They scout the strongest guys their money can buy and give them marching orders of "Get 'em." Their super-elites are no exception.
Except the Captain.
Much like Vegeta was with Nappa, Ginyu is the only one who gets it. He sees Goku's reading and immediately assesses that Goku's suppressing his ki. Ginyu knows his shit. He's just never drilled this kind of information into his soldiers, opting instead for cool-looking battle poses.
It makes sense that he understands ki suppression. He's Frieza's highest-ranking officer, and Frieza is the universe's unparalleled master at ki suppression. The lengths Frieza has gone to for the sake of suppressing ki....
But he hasn't taught it to his men. They're learning flashy modeling poses instead of martial arts.
I guess I can see the logic. Powerful as they are, why would it matter? Those three extraordinary warriors earlier were also suppressing their ki, but a range of 1k to haha actually 3k doesn't mean shit to the Ginyu Force. If nobody's true strength can match them then why waste time on tactical study?
But unlike his soldiers, Ginyu himself has the spirit of a martial artist. He doesn't waste time on battle poses or scream "GINYU FLYING PUNCH" in English when he throws a punch or do elaborate two-minute windups for his signature moves.
He's even pretty good at reading people. Ginyu lowballs Goku at 60k before the fight, but reassesses after he's traded blows with Goku a few times and estimates 85k instead.
Goku's official non-suppressed Battle Power at this point in time is 90k. So 85k is a pretty fucking good estimate for a guy who can't sense ki. Ginyu knows his shit. He's as reliant on tech as the rest of the PTO but he's experienced enough to have a strong understanding of what various levels fight like.
This is especially impressive when you remember that he's never fought someone at 90k before. Remember, further up, when he first judged Goku as 60k? He was getting excited about his lowball 60k estimate and saying he's never had a chance like this before.
If he's never fought 60k, he's certainly never fought 85k. He just. Knows enough about how lower levels fight that he can apply that knowledge and extrapolate to higher levels. It's an impressive estimation that demonstrates his experience. Ginyu isn't just the second-most powerful guy in the Planet Trade. He's the best martial artist in the Planet Trade, bar none.
He's also got a... theoretically cool ultimate technique that utterly sucks in practice: Body Change.
He may be the best martial artist in the Planet Trade but he's got nothing on martial arts master and analytical counter-fighter Son Goku. It takes Goku no time at all to realize that Ginyu's technique sucks. He doesn't know how to fight with Goku's ki.
Ginyu-Goku thinks this body will give him 180k BP because that's what he read on the Scouter when Goku used the Kaio-ken. But not only does Ginyu not know how to perform Kaio-ken, he doesn't even know how to use Goku's ki at all. It's not his. It doesn't work the same way. In Goku's body, Ginyu's reduced to a distressing 23k BP when Jeice reads him.
He's not just failing to put out Kaio-ken power. He's getting his teeth kicked in by Krillin. It's embarrassing.
I've heard the theory go around that Ginyu started out weak and worked his way up via Body Changing anyone that was ever stronger than him, but I'm not convinced that's the case. Because this right here? This seems like a critical flaw. It's hard to believe he'd be entirely ignorant of this drawback if he's ever seriously used this technique before.
Ginyu being incompatible with a Body Changed host's ki doesn't seem like something an experienced Body Changer would need Goku to explain to him. In practice, the hypothetically awesome technique is bad for reasons Ginyu wasn't able to foresee, not unlike when Tenshinhan brought Shishin no Ken/Multiform to the 23rd Tenkaichi Budokai. Or Goku's first time attempting Super Saiyan 3 in a living body. Cool in theory but a massive fucking oversight costs him the entire fight.
This seems more likely to be something Ginyu, the only real martial artist in his crew, developed in his own time and showed off to his men. Something he's never actually stress tested, that he's been sitting on and waiting for an opportunity to use in the field.
Whatever the case, it pins an unexpected and interesting capstone on the Ginyu Force. They're a group of clowns who can get away with clownishness because they were born into unparalleled privilege. And they're led by a shockingly well-educated and capable martial artist who's never worked the kinks out of his ultimate technique for lack of adequate competition in a universe that could rarely hope to ever challenge even his weakest man.
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A Haunting
dannymay day 26 art/fic switch
dp x dc crossover
1905 words
Danny was so done with Skulker. It was one thing to chase him and try to catch him to hang his skiing above the mantle, but it was a totally different thing to yeet him into an alternate timeline/dimension. Danny didn’t really care which. And he was extra annoying about it too.
Skulker had been chasing Danny through Amity when a natural portal had opened up. Danny had been distracted and Skulker had used the opportunity to grab him and throw him through the portal,
And that was it.
And so here Danny was who knows where, who knows when, for who knew how long. Well, Clockwork knows but that’s the equivalent of no one knowing because the Ancient doesn't know how to communicate.
Maybe Danny should sick Jazz on him to teach him the importance of communication. And also sick her on Skulker to teach him that it’s rude to launch your adversaries into unknown portals.
But first things first. He was hungry and required sustenance, preferably the greasy kind.
Invisibly and intangibly he floated down to search for some food. Just in time to miss a bat swooping down onto the roof.
=-=-=-
Red Hood had been in the middle of…persuading one of Falcone’s members to talk when he saw a flash of green in the corner of his vision. He tossed the man aside and turned to see a crack in the sky the same color as the Lazarus pits open up above an abandoned apartment building. He could just see something falling through before the crack in the sky closed up.
He was moving before he really thought about it.
It took him less than 5 minutes to land on the building's roof but as far as he could see there was nothing.
He hesitated for a moment before reaching up to his com.
“Oracle, I need you to pull up any feeds around the old Adam Apartments.”
“What am I looking for?”
“You’ll know when you see it.”
“What do you mean… oh. I’m patching everyone else in.”
“What is it, Oracle?” came NItghwing’s voice amidst the sounds of fighting.
“Hood spotted an anomaly over the Adam Apartments. It looked like a Lazarus Pit.
There was silence for a moment, then…
“What do you mean a Lazarus Pit!?”
“Are there any League members nearby?”
“Do we know where Talia is?”
“Are you sure Hood saw a pit?”
“Quiet! Hood tell us what happened.: came B’s voice.
“I was doing some business when I spotted a green tear in the sky. Something or someone fell out but when I got to the building I couldn’t find anything.”
“Alright, Nightwing heads over to Hood’s position and help investigate. Oracle, keep looking through any nearby cameras. Everyone else, stick to your normal patrols and keep a lookout for any other anomalies.
A chorus of ‘yes, sirs’ and ‘will do , B’ sounded before the coms fell quiet.
=-=-
After Danny had eaten, a burger he had to swipe because apparently money was different in this dimension, he decided to explore. After all, there wasn’t much he could do except wait for a natural portal to show up. He stopped a few crimes because why not. And, he had to admit, it was hilarious to spook people with his slightly more eldritch form. Though, the muttering about another bat was confusing.
After flying through the shadier parts of town he came across some large mansions. And, well, Danny had always wanted to try his hand at haunting.
-=-=-
Danny had only just started exploring the mansion and he had already found out that the owners were either furries or vigilantes. Then again, this was a different dimension. Maybe everyone here had secret basements and furry costumes. Danny shouldn’t assume. Then again again, his parents had a secret basement (kind of) and he was a vigilante (kind of). So, he totally had the right to assume. And judge. Who dressed up like bats and traffic lights?
Though, it would be cool to have a whole big lair with lots of gadgets instead of just hiding things under floorboards and in walls.
At least now he knew why the criminals he scared kept muttering about bats.
But now it was time to start haunting!
-=-=
Time knew he should be in bed. Had been told repeatedly that he should go to bed. Had been threatened that if he didn’t go to bed there would be consequences. But, well… he was technically in bed. Even if he wasn’t sleeping, or resting, he was sitting in bed. That had to count for something. Besides, he’d sleep as soon as he finished updating this case file. Maybe. He reached for his cup of coffee (decaf if anyone asked) and went to take a sip. But nothing came out. Tim frowned; he was sure he had just refilled it recently. That’s why he kept the secret coffee maker in his closet. He looked away from his computer to his cup and his frown deepened. His coffee was frozen.
-=-=-
Dick was staying at the manor over the weekend to help finish up a case which would probably now be delayed because of the Lazarus green anomaly that had been spotted. Oh well, that was a worry for tomorrow. Right now he was ready for a nice hot shower to relax his muscles and then a good sleep before waking up to a delicious Alfred made breakfast.
After walking out of the shower he found his window open. Dick frowned. That was strange. He was sure the window had been closed. He shrugged, it was probably one of his siblings. He closed it and went to pull his sleepwear on. He was about to turn his lamp off when he saw that the window was open. He narrowed his eyes. He closed it again and watched it, but nothing happened. He turned towards his bed when he heard the window opening. He turned quickly but there was no one there and the window was open again.
-=-=-=
Damien had just laid down when his door creaked open.
“Who is it?”
No one answered. Damien huffed and got up to close the door. It was probably Drake or maybe Todd. Regardless, Damien thought as he walked back to his bed, he would find out who and would show that they shouldn't mess with an Al’ Ghul.
His door creaked open again and Damien growled as he stalked open and slammed the door closed. Before he could turn around the door creaked open.
Damien inspected the door but couldn’t see how someone would be opening it remotely.
He closed it again and when nothing happened headed back to bed. Had just closed his eyes several minutes later when the door opened again.
=-=-=
Jason had debated going to his safehouse but, and he wouldn’t admit this to anyone except maybe Alfred, he was nervous. Anything related to the Pits made him nervous. He didn’t want to fall back into a murderous rage. So, he’d stay at the manor just for tonight.
He still felt a little off. The Pit felt like it was stirring, but he didn’t feel angry. It felt like the Pit was calling out to something. Jason tried to ignore it as he made his way to his room where he hung up his leather jacket. Which promptly fell down. Jason rolled his eyes and picked up, he shivered his room felt colder than usual. He hung his jacket up and turned around only to hear it fall again. He scowled. If one of his brothers had done something…. But no, the hook looked normal and his jacket was fine.
But it wouldn’t stay hung up! Everytime he hung it up it promptly fell back down.
Well fine! If it wanted to lie on the ground then it would stay there. He was going to bed.
-=-=
Bruce was typing up tonight's report on the Batcomputer when the screen shut down. He frowned, The Batcomputer wasn’t supposed to randomly shut down. He turned it on but when he clicked on the report it opened up a video with some music video with some guy sign ‘never gonna give you up.’ Bruce scowled harder and clicked out and went back to the file. But this time when he tried typing no matter what keys he hit the only words that appeared on screen were the same lyrics.
He sighed. This was undoubtedly one of his kids trying to get him to go to bed. But just in case.
“Oracle, is there anything wrong with the Batcomputer?”
“Not that I can tell. Oh wait.”
Bruce tensed.
Oracle sounded like she was laughing.
“What is it?”
“It looks like someone activated the “Rick Roll Procedure.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about, it was probably one of the boys.”
“Oracle, what’s the “Rick Roll Procedure”?
“Sorry, B. Got to go.” she signed off.
Bruce grunted. Fine, he’d go to bed, if only to please Alred.
=-=
Alfred was in the kitchen beginning preparation for tomorrow's breakfast. The scone dough was ready, all he needed to do was add the apples and then he could b=put it in the fridge to bake tomorrow. When he reached for the bowl containing the pre-cut apples his hand found nothing. He turned and saw that the bowl of apples had been moved farther away and a bag of chocolate chips had been placed near his mixing bowl. Alfred raised an eyebrow and went to retrieve the apples, but just as he reached it the bowl slid further away.
Alfred froze. He looked around the kitchen but didn’t see any of the boys. But his eyes caught on an odd shimmer in the air near the apples.
Well then.
“Hello, there. I was unaware we had a guest. If you’ll allow me to take the apples I’ll make another batch of scones with chocolate chips.”
Nothing happened for a moment, but the bowl of apples slid towards him.
“Thank you very much.” Alfred said before returning to his work. He’d let Master Bruce know tomorrow morning that they might have a new family member soon.
=-=-=-
The next morning at breakfast there was much glaring and staring at one another through squinted eyes trying to establish guilt.
Finally, Damian spoke up. “Alright, which of you kept childishly opening my door?”
“What are you talking about? The real question is who messed with my coat hanger?” Jason said, pointing his fork at Damian.
“Well someone kept opening my window.”
“And someone froze my coffee.”
“What are you boys talking about?” Bruce said, setting down his newspaper.
“Someone’s been messing with things around the manor and it wasn’t me,” Jason said.
“We’re being haunted!” Dick said with way too much enthusiasm.
“What?” Bruce asked, sounding somewhere between confused and concerned, a common occurrence when it came to his sons.
“Are you discussing our guest?” Alfred asked as he came in carrying two plates of scones. “It is thanks to them that we are having both apple cinnamon and chocolate chip scones.”
A clamor arose.
“What!
“Who?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“What is their purpose here?”
Alfred cleared his throat and everyone fell silent. “Perhaps, they’d like to introduce themselves?” He looked toward the back corner of the room, one eyebrow raised.
Everyone turned to stare just as a floating figure materialized. “Hi, I’m Danny, you’re resident Casper.”
#dannymay2023#danny phantom#danny fenton#dp x dc au#dc x dp#dp x dc fanfic#day 26 art/fic switch#danny haunts wayne manor#bruce wayne#dick grayson#jason todd#tim drake#alfred pennyworth#alfred is a little liminal#he can see dead people#kind of#damien wayne#danny gets yeeted into gotham#will of course eventually be adopted#danny is a little shit#chaotic danny fenton#long post
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Hola, Sgiandubh.
Mordor no debe estar muy contento con esas fotos que publicaste. Nos acusan de publicar recibos antiguos cuando hay un avistamiento Tait y, ahora, BIF y sus seguidores se dedican a rebloguear antiguas entrevistas donde ella hablaba del prometido "sin nombre". Ya se encargaba el magazine de turno de editar el texto añadiéndolo para que no quedara duda de su identidad.
Como ese bloguer de IG que ha cambiado la secuencia de fotos y no ha publicado las que han causado tanto revuelo pero si se ha dedicado a seguir insultando a las #shipperscrazies. Manipulando la información real que hay disponible.
Si eso no es reunir a las tropas para tranquilizar los ánimos no sé qué es 😆
Dear Rallying the Troops Anon,
Me alegra mucho que Mordor no esté contento con estas fotos, por supuesto. La idiotez colectiva del Otro Lado es contundente y menospreciar al adversario - la peor estrategia que pueda imaginarse.
But without further ado, let's translate your comment:
'Hi, Sgian-dubh,
Mordor must not be very happy with the pictures you posted. They accuse us of posting old receipts every time there's a Tait sighting, but now BIF and her followers are busy reblogging old interviews where she talked about the 'unnamed fiancé'. The magazine had already dutifully edited the text, adding to it so there would be no doubt about his identity. Just like that Instagram blogger who changed the order of the pics and did not post those that caused so much commotion, but who did continue to insult the #shipperscrazies. Manipulating the real information that is available.
If that is not rallying the troops to calm things down, I don't know what is 😆.'
Well, then - LOL. As I just said: I am very glad that these pics irritated the shit out of Mordor, of course. The collective idiocy of the Other Side is blatant and of course, belittling the adversary - the worst possible strategy.
But remember (hahahahaha), darling: double standard is a paramount policy of the Best Fans and the Only Ones, FWIW. They feel they have a license to do just about everything: repost things when reality bites and people begin to realize maybe things are not just as black and white (but rather more than fifty shades of grey, LOL). Insult people who dared question their honesty and/or intentions, with a ferocity that says a lot about their unsavory mob. And also play the ostrich, when people come to them with info like this very recent one:
The reactions are just priceless:
Sure, Jan, wherever you'd live (a 500 people village, somewhere, I suppose). Because social and business dinners happen on Saturday nights, since the dawn of humanity (where is McIdiot, on that Saturday night, since it's all so social/business? rehearsing Smooth Operator with Blonde Bambino?). And yes, of course, 'pictures or it did not happen' (it did happen before, btw, albeit with chaperones, but never with the multi-millionaire, successful music producer!), on that we agree, and it's rare - this round's on me. That being said, it's priceless to read (and almost hear) those banshee shrieks: 'They are not romantically involved!!!!!!!!!!!!' I spat my Coke, again and remembered this wonderful Terry Pratchett quote:
'Multiple exclamation marks,' he went on, shaking his head, 'are a sure sign of a diseased mind.'
So, as you can see, that rally cry was also very, very far away from being efficient. As Cambronne famously said at Waterloo: merde!
One last thing and please try and not hate me for it, since I might have misunderstood what you really meant: there was no editing, as far as I know, of that interview BIF reposted. That name was always there, but once more, never uttered by C and just added for context by the journalist, when she wrote her paper. See for yourself:
Reading that last phrase tells the whole story: 'finding time that suits both their schedules is also proving challenging'. ROFLMAO. For Christ's sake, the 'intensely private' one ain't no Quincy Jones! And this is how you just know Tatler sugarcoated a very bland, unenthusiastic interview. A very common practice.
Salud! Don't be a stranger, Anon. You inspire me. 😘
PS: that banshee shriek was completely unnecessary. Anon just said they were 'catching up', nothing more (which immediately makes me think there was something more about it). Nobody suggested anything romantic. Pavlov's dog will always react to the stimulus, though. And thank you, querida, for the heads-up. 😘🙌
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My updated MCYT fanfic worldbuilding!
Both for anyone who’s interested in how I imagine the minecraft sphere so to speak works and for linking to my ao3 page, here is my MCYT worldbuilding! Long post ahead! I've been working on this for a long time and it's actively being worked on as well, but here's the current version!
Gods and sentient beings
Basic information
Only multiple gods together or one of the elder gods can truly kill a god. Lesser beings (demigods or a single other god) could kill their vessel but not destroy their seat so to speak. When their vessel is killed their essence just kind of floats around the deep void until they find a next suitable vessel. This act of seemingly killing a god and taking part of their power is referred to as diminishing them.
Respawns and souls
You can generally respawn infinitely, but it slowly eats away at your soul. And at some point you don’t respawn anymore. This is generally the same as dying of old age, but it’s not uncommon for very heavy pvp players to die younger because their soul is ruined by continuous respawns.
When your soul hits a certain point of damage it passes on into Kristin’s domain. This is where souls recover and combine into new souls, which is how new players are made/born.
Good gods
There was at least one being called the Elder God. They created the other gods and the prime players. These days they have disappeared, and nobody seems to know where they are.
Kristin is the goddess of Life and Death. But most mortals only see and refer to her as the Goddess of Death. She along with many of the other gods were created by the two elder gods. She resides over the domain of life and death. Watching over souls as they recover, get born, slowly tear apart and return to her eventually.
Her main adversary is the god of Chaos. She’s not a fan of the Watchers either, because their grey morals grate against hers. Phil is an ex Watcher, but defected and joined Kristin. They fell in love. Most of Kristin's angels were originally mortals. On very rare occasions, when someone died in a certain way which really captures her attention she might decide to ask them to join her ranks. This is how Scott became an angel of hers. A few of her angels are kids of other angels.
Evil gods
Evil gods are evil as currently defined by human/Kristin's definition.
The god of the demons is the god of chaos. Has been diminished once or twice before. This is why he can only create demons with the power level of Watchers instead of demons at the level of demigods.
Maybe there's just more demons than angels which would give him the appearance of having more people under his control, thus appearing to be as powerful as Kristin even though they would not be. Makes sense as demons can also possess people and thus hide among mortals. Maybe angels need Kristin's power to detect possession which would account for why Phil can't detect Dream.
The god who ascended Techno. The original bloodgod, and when Techno "killed" him (killed his vessel with the help of Phil cuz who else, which diminished his power and spread some of it to Techno) He took on the title of the blood god, even though he technically is only a demigod, not a true god. He was ascended Techno to groom him into his next vessel. Unfortunately he didn’t account on Techno becoming friends with the Angel of Death.
The god of Corruption. Ties into the sculk. With the elder gods being gone he weaved a web of corruption until he managed to sneak it in into the next update behind the back of the good gods.
Demigods
Ascension
Any god can ascend a mortal to become a demigod. But it's a violent act and will usually completely kill off the world the former mortal was inhabiting. And it hurts. A lot. The combination of these factors is what made Eret's ascension so bad. Because usually the newly ascended demigod will wake up with their god. But Eret didn't. They woke up alone in a dead realm.
Cults can try to get a gods attention to get them to ascend one of their own to demigod status. Really, no good gods will respond to these rituals. They usually involve mass sacrifice.
Gods can also just choose to ascend a living mortal, but again, this is not often done and when it is, usually only by evil gods. That's what happened to Techno.
Kristin works in a different way. When mortals die she sometimes (very rarely) offers them to become one of her angels. Her angels are demigods, but due to being in her service they are referred to as angels.
Demons are demigods aligned to the god of Chaos.
Banishment
Banishment of a demigod only works if the demigod is on a physical plane like a world, the void or the deep void. If a demigod is in the inbetween however… funky shit happens. The effects can vary. But total amnesia of the targeted demigod is one of them.
Watchers, voidwalkers, prime players
A representation of one of the highest ranked Watchers (drawing by @the-uk-is-jk)
The Watchers were at war with the Voidwalkers for a while. It ended when the Watchers massacred them. Xisuma and EX are considered to be the only survivors. Watchers are creatures that were created by the elder gods with the sole purpose of watching the worlds they created. This would mean they were maybe created before the gods, and just kind of stuck around after. They possess strong powers of code manipulation. Junior Watchers, or Watchers in training have purple wings. Full Watchers have purely white wings. Elder Watchers have multiple. The highest ranked Watchers don’t bother to maintain a humanoid form, instead existing purely as beings made of eyes and wings. They are feared by most mortals.
Voidwalkers are beings that lived in the End. They were also created by the Elder gods, kind of as an experiment before they created the prime players. They were at war with the Watchers until they got massacred by them. Hoping something to End and Aether is a Voidwalker expression, though older immortals have been known to sometimes adopt it as well.
Prime players were the first players created by the Elder Gods. It’s unknown how many there are, since they tend to stay in hiding. What sets prime players apart from normal players is that respawns have no effect on their souls and that they don’t age. Meaning they are functionally immortal. There are ways to kill them, but no normal mortal could easily get them to stay down so to speak.
Players
Players can become admins through training. Not everybody has the natural aptitudes to become an admin. Everyone can access the code of the world if they learn how to, but utilising it wrong can be the end of someone. Admins have the power to create worlds. Everyone above the power level of a normal player can. The difference is that some beings (Watchers) make the choice to not do this. Gods and some demigods reside in their personal worlds with practically impenetrable firewalls. The more powerful a being the more control they have over creating worlds and the less likely they are to make mistakes.
Worlds
At it’s core worlds, players and everything else are code. Code is the foundation of everything.
Worlds are generally connected to hubworlds. Travelling to other worlds usually happens through these. Hubworlds can vary from simple planes with rows and rows of portals to massive cities where people live, interspersed with portals. It’s not uncommon for kids to get dumped on hubworlds to fend for themselves. They often end up banding together, since hubworlds are pretty often fairly hostile places to live in due to the lack of admin oversight. Kids like this are generally called children of the hub.
Hubworlds take a lot of power to create and to keep safe. They are usually created by a whole group of admins.
Besides travelling through official portals there are ways to jump to other worlds. This is why you can protect your worlds with whitelists. They take the form of physical barriers in the code surrounding worlds. Think of it like a satellite defence system around a planet, combined with a literal wall of fire in some cases. Worldhoppers are players who make a habit of jumping from world to world without portals. Often these are players who grew up in the hub and learned admin magic through other people. They basically break into other worlds and thus aren’t always seen as the best people. Most worldhoppers are friendly though. Hubkids often end up worldhopping, at least during their teenage years until they find a place to settle down or until a mistake tears their soul apart.
Sometimes worlds connect themselves to each other through rifts. Nobody knows how these occur, and they can’t really be controlled. Maybe gods could control them, but nobody below them.
There is something called being worldlocked. Its generally something the Watchers do to worlds as a punishment. It involves messing with the code of the world and all the people on it. Leaving them unable to leave the world and unable to contact anyone outside of it. A lot of locked worlds eventually devolve into chaos due to the isolation, with people turning on each other. Dream worldlocked the DreamSMP.
Improper coding of a world can lead to the world getting corrupted. What happens to corrupted worlds varies, but generally they completely destroy themselves and everyone on it. EVO got corrupted, less due to Grian making mistakes but more due to being an experimental world surrounded by experimental worlds that were corrupted. The Watchers helped the process along as a punishment for Grian.
Hardcore worlds are worlds that lock you out when you die. You simply can’t enter them anymore, only view them through your communicator. Dying in them is also way harder on your soul, so players are weary of playing in them too much.
On "space"
Space is kind of the Void. You have the void in which world reside. But if you keep flying up you will not hit the true void. Your would simply slow down. The stars are other realms visible in the void.
The void and the deep void
The Voidwalkers lived in the void before they were all killed by the Watchers.
The void is split between two almost subrealms? You have the void layer which contains normal, player made/controlled worlds and the layer that contains the end. Called the high void and the low void? Names are a work in progress. The membrane between the high void and the low void is fairly thin, which is why end portals are an easy way to access it.
The Watchers reside in the deep void. Which is almost inaccessible to normal players. To get to it you need to travel through the inbetween.
The inbetween
The inbetween is the space between the void and the deep void. It is incredibly hard to access, and even harder to competently navigate. Normal mortals would simply tear their soul apart trying if they recklessly attempted to do so. Gods have limited influence in this realm.
On exorcising players
Sometimes players can get overtaken by things. Vexes are the most common, though there are other things. Glitched “networks” like mycelium or more recently, the sculk that was added by the god of chaos in an update.
Zooming in more on the Vex. The Vex aren't fully sentient like players or more-than-players are. But they aren’t quite mobs either. They exist in a space between categories, but have a strong desire to achieve… more. The way they try to achieve this is by trying to possess vulnerable players. They don’t often succeed, but when they do they will try to take over servers and hubworlds. They kind of function like a computer virus. Overtaking a player and ‘overlapping’ their code with their own Vex code manipulation.
Sculk and Mycelium work a little differently. They are more so connected through a hivemind. A sculk block is the same as a warden is the same as a shrieker is the- you get the point. The sculk is not an individual block. And it has one goal. To spread. To overtake more of a world. To overtake more players. Similar to Vex it will latch on to a player and ‘overlap’ their code with its own.
Exorcising players from any type of possession is possible, but a nasty process. First of all it requires someone with at powers at least akin to a voidwalker or a prime player. Then they basically have to tear the Vex, sculk or mycelium from the player line by line. Piece by piece. And it hurts. Especially when the player regains enough awareness to recognise that they are being hurt by someone they know, but not why or how. Removing sculk can leave scars akin to burn scars.
#flyingraven oc#hermitcraft#mcyt#dreamsmp#qsmp#fanfiction#Watchers#philza minecraft#philza#kristin#kristin minecraft#voidwalkers#technoblade#grian#worldbuilding#fanfic#minecraft worldbuilding#minecraft
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Lady Maria vs Keeper of the Old Lords
In the depth of the pthumerian's tombs, Lady Maria always feared to encounter an adversary with the ability to control fire.
Not just a common foe with a mere fire paper no, but a being capable of channelling their own energy or blood to ignite a blade, a pyromancer. The protectors of the old lords or of the antics kings and queens of their people.
She always had fascination yet a grand fear for them. People aren't sure why a fearless warrior like her would be so destabilised at their evocation or when rumours to have seen one would went to her ear.
But in the end, she managed to overcome one of her biggest fear. She faced the fire and ash warrior and save her companions!
She took a decision. She won't let herself be hold back by this part of herself and scare her so much, anymore.
A few headcanons :
Yes I headcanon Maria is born a pyromancer. The first since about her grand grand grand (grand?) parents. Her blood is very powerful for offensive use. (Way more powerful than a normal human trying to used a Chikage as well, for exemple). So yes she could ignite her blood from her living under certains extreme conditions.
She never really learnt how to control it/how to make it take fire on demand properly and she didn't wished too (plus if she can't control it her family isn't gonna ask her to used it!). She don't want to use her own blood as a weapon, as a mean to hurt people. She don't like this and she almost feel like a monster or a weapon with such abilities.
Still, she was quite curious about the legends of the pyromancers protector of the great ones. Compared than the "shadows" of the queen she should have become.
Her abilities through her blood but it's is very similar to the shadows of Yharnam/beast possessed soul/keeper. Like the description said for the keepers they had to go through a ritual to obtain their power. But they are much older, those rituals take place before pthumerians crown themselves leaders.
Back at byrgenwerth the students gang did encounter a shadow of Yharnam once, during hm training we'll say. Everyone was fine in the end but Maria was quite shock and scared by the experience. It reminded her what she could become and the role her peers wanted her to have. A shadow.(= bodyguard who can do dirty work). Still, she even used her own blood to distract the shadow so they could run away, knowing maybe it would recognize her as not an enemy. Everyone found that a bit weird a t first but they figure that Maria do know some pthumerian/cainhurst rituals so that pass and almost no one suspect anything.
After she got her master degree at Byrgenwerth, she went to the East a couple of months to do a mission for Cainhurst. She got her Rakuyo over there as well. When she came back she got offered her hunter outfit and joined the hunter/ healing church. Not long after they went to Central Pthumeru...
Maria and a few hunter had to fight the beast possessed soul and again it scared her. Afterwards she understood she couldn't let her fear of pyromancer hold her back or people could be severely hurt.
So afterwards they discover the keeper of the old lords, Maria fought it and defeat it. She got injured and was quite destabilised but she made it. She was gift her chalice afterwards and got THE blood transfusion + a baptism + being officially a part of the hunter/church.
So besides her very close family (royal family include) nobody knows about her ability for a huge while. I think you can understand why.
Ok she did tell Gehrman accidentally. But there were more important things she told him at the same time too so he didn't pay that much attention to it on the moment. And after all, 'that you can make fire or not with your blood doesn't change who you are Maria!"
Laurence in the contrary kinda loose it when he learn about it XD he found it absolutely incredible! Compared to her. But he managed to tell her it wasn't a curse but a gift and it shows she must be special for the great ones! She did appreciate that.
I know the idea of Maria vs keeper of the old lords have already been done by a few people but it's just so good! I believe there's many possibility for a story! In term of action or even characters.
#bloodborne#fantomette22art#my art#lady maria of the astral clocktower#lady maria#keeper of the old lords#chalice dungeon#bloodborne headcanons
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It's a well worn topic at this point but the imminent release of The Marvels has me thinking about how militaristic the Marvel Cinematic Universe is, with Monica Rambeau aka Photon, a habour patrol member in the comics, reimagined as a captain in the US Air Force.
She follows Hawkeye, who was changed from an argumentative former circus performer with a heart of gold (a character so staunchly against lethal force he once revoked his own wife's Avengers membership because she sort of, maybe, subconsciously allowed a villain to fall to his death) into a hard-nosed black ops assassin.
Sam Wilson/ Falcon made his celluloid debut as an army man with twin submachine guns attached to his wrists. It’s a far cry from his print counterpart’s introduction as a social worker by day who uses his skill at falconry to protect his neighbourhood.
If we allow the argument that modern cinema goers are accustomed to a sprinkling of realism to make their superheroes palatable (and it’s a strange argument really- why should realism be a desirable quality in summer blockbuster escapism?) then what actually constitutes “realism”.
Sure, a man who learnt uncanny skill with a bow and arrow growing up with a travelling show couldn’t possibly hold his own alongside Hulk or Thor in the real world (and, yes, there isn’t a Hulk or Thor in the real world; as I say, this is a strange argument), but if he learned those exact same skills in some kind of military context then that somehow passes the bar for realism? The sinister upshot is that these children’s heroes become more warlike just as, globally, they reach more children than ever before.
Increasing the realism of superhero stories only serves to make them problematic. DC Comics' Batman, who is the frequently subjected to “realistic” treatments, is the prime example. If, in real life, a billionaire tooled himself up with the best weapons and body armour money can buy and began dispensing violent “justice” with no accountability, then of course that wouldn’t be a good thing. If they wore a costume with pointy ears and started calling themselves “Batman” then of course we would question their sanity. But Batman isn’t real; it’s a story. Nobody thinks The Muppet Show advocates animal cruelty. Quite the opposite, if anything. ("Not unless they're watching it", as Waldolf once heckled) Yet if a filmmaker decides they’re going to make a “grounded and realistic” remake where Fozzy is played by a real live bear wearing a pork pie hat and spotty necktie, then that's a whole other story. Suspend your disbelief and superheroes are less like the police or army and more akin to volunteers and activists, doing what they can with what they have to improve the lives of those around them. Their actions take the form of crime fighting only because that’s what makes for exciting colourful adventure stories for children.
In the MCU, even Marvel’s poster boy, Spider-Man (another champion of non-lethal solutions, known for his compassion even to his enemies and who possesses an enduring appeal to young children) is given a literal sheen of the military-industrial complex in the form of “Stark Tech” armour, replete with military grade strike drones. Tony Stark even thought to equip his 15 year old protégé-cum-child soldier with an “Instant Kill Mode”. In a moment played for laughs in Spider-Man: Homecoming, Spider-Man rejects his on-board AI's attempt to activate this feature but seems untroubled that such an option exists and, indeed, come Avengers: Infinity War, he voluntarily deploys it. It’s not clear if Spidey actually does kill any of his alien adversaries, but it seems reasonable to assume that one doesn’t say “Activate Instant Kill Mode” without the intention of ending lives. Fans are expected to smile or applaud as Spider-Man says these words, recognising the call-back to Homecoming, rather than find it a gross misrepresentation of Marvel’s most beloved character or an alarming depiction of a children’s favourite.
The MCU Avengers as a whole are a US government “initiative “. The reluctant superheroes need to be cajoled into putting their differences aside for the greater good by army top brass Nick Fury. In a tweak from the source material, the ‘H' in Fury's organisation, SHIELD, stands for ‘Homeland’, making SHIELD as explicitly American venture as opposed to it being ostensibly intergovernmental in the comics.
There is a comic book precedent for this military take on Earth's Mightiest Heroes in the form of The Ultimates, a 2002 series by the British team of writer Mark Millar and artist Bryan Hitch. The Ultimates ,however, was satire. Millar was an unreformed lefty of the old school – someone who has boasted of voting Brexit for left-wing reasons, someone who once appeared on Russia Today as a guest of George Galloway. The Ultimates took swings at the gung ho jingoism of post 9/11 America. Captain America's “Surrender!!?? You think this letter on my head stands for France?“ is not supposed to be a badass one-liner, but rather a parody of the kind of things US media outlets were saying as Jacques Chirac proved less keen than Tony Blair to follow George Bush in bringing gunboat diplomacy to the Middle East. As Millar commentated at the time:
“The Ultimates is completely different because it's a character-driven piece and (something only a few people have noticed) my attempt as a left-wing writer to tell stories about an essentially right-wing concept and cast. It's very much the Anti-Authority, if you will. Captain America and so on are fully-paid members of the US military machine and this means a very different book and approach from a gang of slightly arrogrant, left-wing, superhuman utopians like The Authority ".
Wildstorm Comics' The Authority, which both Millar and Hitch worked on (although not together), was a precursor to Ultimates, featuring a team of similarly “any means necessary” heroes, albeit with a left-wing bent. The Ultimates does have something of The Authority’s utopian streak; Nick Fury and Tony Stark genuinely want to make the world a better place for everyone. It’s very idealistic – what if the head of the military and the biggest tech billionaire actually had the people’s best interests at heart? – and arguably closer to true superhero ethos (basically “with great power there must also come great responsibility “) than those characters more pragmatic MCU equivalents.
Yet, as Millar's one time writing partner Grant Morrison (who actually ghost-wrote at least one issue of The Authority under Miller’s name) observed in Morrison’s major nonfiction work, Supergods, the likes of The Authority, The Ultimates and, by extension, the MCU represent a “capitulation” to the view “that it was really only force and violence that got things done and not patient diplomacy, and that only soldiers and very rich people had the world figured out”. If the MCU is realistic, then it’s a sad indictment of the real world where the heroes are the ones with the best tech, the best guns and no compunction about using them.
Regardless of intent, The Ultimates left a door at Marvel’s “House of Ideas” just enough ajar to allow a malign notion to creep in: “These soldier superheroes are pretty cool. What If they were like that all the time? Wouldn’t they be more popular then”?
Certainly the navy SEAL aesthetic Bryan Hitch brought to the costumes (replacing the colourful tights and capes with pouches, straps and body armour) was soon adopted by superhero tv and film productions even pre-MCU. In fact, Hawkeye's journey from carny to commando mirrors the changes in superhero attire. Most famously, Superman's appearance with the red “overpants” derives from that of circus strongmen, but seeing any photography of early to mid 20th century carnival and circus performers makes it clear the early superhero creators had them in mind when they first put pencil to paper.
In an interview (found in Marvel Spotlight: Captain America, published in 2009) Hitch related how he showed an initial Ultimates drawing of Captain America with a machine gun to Grant Morrison, which Morrison then “described as the most obscene Captain America image [they’d] ever seen”. (NB: Morrison has since adopted gender neutral pronouns). Perhaps Morrison said this with glee, in on the joke with their friends, but in the years since, Cap with a gun became a common sight, even in family-friendly movies (where it was divorced from the irony of The Ultimates).
By a 2015 interview, Morrison lamented the fact that “the Avengers work for the government, and it's been like that since Mark [Millar] did The Ultimates” and said they were “bored with the idea that the best superheroes can represent is some aggressive version of the military. [...] They're supposed to be champions of the oppressed, they help ordinary people, they make things better for people. They don't prop up our grotesque, doddering culture of war and aggression”.
That same year Morrison introduced a new comic book superteam in the pages of The Multiversity. Pointedly the text likens this group, named “Justice Incarnate”, to a “cosmic neighbourhood watch” rather than any formal military or law-enforcement institution.
Millar himself reunited with his Authority collaborator Frank Quitely to create the comic Jupiter’s Legacy, which comes across in part as an apology for The Ultimates and all it begat. It concludes with the protagonists, Chloe Sampson and Eddie "Hutch" Hutchence taking up superhero mantles and promising not to make the moral compromises of their predecessors:
“No more bowing to authority and insitutions. No more deference to people in power”.
“There's a dignity in public service we mistook for old-fashioned, and a humility in having a secret identity, living among the people we protect.“
The Avengers, Marvel’s breakthrough billion dollar box office 2012 movie, by contrast, concludes with Iron Man dropping a nuclear bomb on the “Chitari”, an invading alien army and it seems likely this influenced Morrison’s comments on modern superhero stories.
In Supergods, Morrison
describes their childhood dread of nuclear weapons. The child of “ban the bomb” activists, the “gruesome hand-drawn images of how the world might look after a spirited thermonuclear missile exchange” which illustrated their parents anti-nuclear literature struck terror into the young Morrison. Therefore they seized upon superheroes as being an idea powerful enough to counteract – and overcome – the idea of the bomb.
“It’s not that I needed Superman to be “real,” I just needed him to be more real than the Idea of the Bomb that ravaged my dreams”.
Within the narrative of the movie, Iron Man takes the only option available to him to save New York. Destroying thousands of alien lives to save thousands of human ones. But The Avengers isn’t a documentary; the scriptwriters could have written a satisfying denouement which didn’t involve mass murder. They could at least have included some words of regret by the heroes over what it took to win, acknowledging that killing is not the ideal solution. Instead the Avengers trade banter and eat shawarma, collective conscious clear.
There is a moment in another Grant Morrison work, Final Crisis, which always brings the MCU to mind. In Final Crisis #3, drawn by JG Jones, (published in 2008, the same year the MCU began) “evil gods” from a higher plain of existence have been reincarnated on Earth. In order for the Justice League to counter this threat, a “draft for Superheroes” is implemented. Green Arrow (a Batman-a-like character who was subsequently reinvented to embody the countercultural sentiment of the late 1960s and has since served as the social conscious of the superhero set) responds to receiving his draft notice thusly:
“If anybody falls for this authoritarian, militaristic crap, it’ll prove I’m absolutely right about absolutely everything!... “
Cue the next page, where the drafted heroes have gathered en mass (including Green Arrow, impotently shaking his fist.)
Such an assemblage of characters in usually a triumphant moment in a summer "event" story, but here is framed as a sign that evil already has it’s hooks into reality. This world has fallen to the darkness and the superheroes who inhabit it are too morally compromised to realise it.
#the marvels#mcu#the avengers#grant morrison#mark millar#bryan hitch#the ultimates#marvel#dc comics#the authority#opinion#long form#comics#movies#superheroes#superhero#spider man#mcu critical#marvel critical#mcu criticism
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CS AU: The Law of Surprise (1/3)
Summary: The Law of Surprise: a custom as old as humanity itself. The Law dictates that a man saved by another is expected to offer to his savior a boon whose nature is unknown to one or both parties. In most cases, the boon takes the form of the saved man's firstborn child, conceived or born without the father's knowledge.
A/N: This is NOT a Witcher AU. Want to make that clear from the get go. The idea for this fic WAS inspired by the show, however. I’m not sure if the Law of Surprise was a show/game creation or if it existed before. Regardless, this fic is my spin on the concept and will be posted in three parts.
Much love and thanks to the @cssns mods for keeping this event going year after year! A HUGE shout out to my artist @eastwesthomeisbest for the AMAZING pieces she made to accompany my fic. Go give her ALL the flails! Finally, all the hot chocolate, rum, and grilled cheese sandwiches for my amazing betas @ultraluckycatnd and @kmomof4. LOVE YOU LADIES TO BITS!
Rated T (for now) / Also available on ao3 and ff.net / buy me a coffee / add to tag list / Curious? Come Ask Me!
Part One
Smoke billowed from the hull, choking the air as steel clanged around them. Shouts and screams echoed across the deck that was coming apart beneath their feet.
“The King! We must save the King!” Liam bellowed over the melee, dispatching a man who, up until a few days ago, had been one of their brothers-at-arms. No sooner had the man’s body hit the boards than another rushed forward to take his place, challenging the traitorous sea captain whom they had expected to aid them in their mission, not take up arms against them.
“Brother!” Killian cried out, moving through the throng towards Liam with slashes of his cutlass clearing the way.
“The King!” Liam commanded once more. “Get to the King! That’s an order!”
Killian’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword and he swallowed past the instinct to ignore such an order. Notes of black powder, brine, and blood filled his sinuses as he took in a fortifying breath and turned away from his captain in search of His Majesty King David. Through the soot laced plumes, the dying breaths of a ship that would soon find itself on the bottom of the sea, Killian could see King David fending off multiple assailants with sword skills that had become legend. Movement through the swirls of ash caught Killian’s attention and his stomach dropped. Lurking behind the King was an unseen assassin, and Killian had but a few seconds to launch himself between his would-be sovereign and certain death.
The force of their meeting blades jarred Killian, but he held firm. Applying a few less than savory tactics to give him the upper hand, he made quick work of the assassin then threw himself into the fray, defending the King as they fought side by side until the remaining adversaries lay dead.
“Y-You,” King David panted, his chest and shoulders heaving from his exertions as he tried to catch his breath. “You serve my… my father, King George.”
“Not any longer, Your Majesty,” Killian told him. “Once we learned of George’s treachery against Queen Snow, we could not stand idly by and accept such orders.”
“We?”
“My brother, Captain Liam Jones, and those of us who chose to follow good form rather than betray a treaty made in good faith.”
“Lieutenant!” one of their men shouted. “Captain says we must abandon ship at once!”
“Too right!” Killian called out, grasping the King by the arm. “Time to go, Your Majesty.”
The planks they’d used to board the crippled vessel were just coming into view when the ship lurched and began to list violently. Grabbing onto the rigging, Killian prompted King David to hoist himself up onto the gunwale.
“Here!” Killian shouted, forcing a length of rope into the King’s hands. “Take this and swing over. Our men will catch you!”
“What about you?”
“There’s no time! You must go, Your Majesty. Now!”
When the King attempted to voice his protest once more, Killian gave him a firm shove, forcing him to cling tightly to the rope as his feet lost purchase with the side of the ship. The sight of the King being hauled to safety was the last thing Killian saw before the deck beneath him gave way. Agony ripped through his wrist where the rigging was still wrapped around it. The weight of his body and the vicious twisting of the rope as it held to the cleats it was knotted upon effectively severed his hand, dropping it into the flood waters below with a sickening splash that preceded the rest of Killian’s body as he desperately tried, and failed, to grab onto the railing with his remaining hand.
Sea water filled his mouth, still open from his screams of pain, and forced its way down his throat. Panicked, he reached out, hoping against hope to make his way out of the collapsing hull, determined it would not become his tomb. Through the vanishing streaks of sunlight, Killian watched in horror as crimson began to surround him. His own blood, freely flowing from the shredded remains of his wrist, colored the frigid waters as his consciousness started to wane and black threatened to overtake red. Something brushed his side, and with the last vestiges of his strength and wits, Killian noted it was a barrel, still sealed and buoyant, making its way back towards the surface with the line and hook that had once secured it within the hold still attached. Scrambling, he secured the hook to the straps crisscrossing the front of his uniform and prayed the sea would not yet claim him, giving into the oblivion that was proving too much to overcome.
~/~
The room was still. Too still. And bright with sunlight. The serenade of cooing songbirds, the swishing of skirts, and the flutter of wings too big to belong to the nesting swallows were within earshot.
Killian groaned and willed his eyes to open, though he had to squint past the assault of the sunbeams streaking in from the windows. Just as he’d deduced while coming out of his stupor, he was no longer on a ship, but in a stone room with many windows and a number of cots filled with others who, like him, were suffering from a variety of injuries. Killian had almost gotten up the courage to inspect his own grave wound when a shifting presence seated at his bedside snapped his attention to the person keeping vigil.
“Y-Your Majesty?” Killian croaked, stunned by the fact Queen Snow would be the one in attendance at his sick bed. “What? How?”
“Shh,” Her Majesty soothed, waving one of the healers over. “You have been unconscious for some time.”
“Surely you have not been at my side this entire time.”
The Queen chuckled. “No. Your brother and I have been taking it in turns.”
“Why on earth would you--”
“You saved my husband’s life. Ensuring you survived your injury seemed like the least I could do.”
His injury. His hand. Killian clenched his eyes tightly and swallowed back the bile his anxiety was threatening to send up his throat. The Queen took his remaining hand and leaned in to softly murmur words of comfort into his ear.
“The fairies did all they could, but with your hand lost to the sea they could not…” She paused, her voice strained and filled with compassion as he finally opened his eyes and lifted his head so he could take in the bandage wrapped remnants of his left arm. “You had already succumbed to fever by the time the ship returned, and while their magic was able to tend to the wound, the trauma you sustained made it difficult for them to apply the full measure of their powers. Now that you are awake, you can begin to…” Again, her voice trailed off, most likely distressed by the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. “Lieutenant, look at me,” she insisted, squeezing his hand a bit tighter until he complied. “You will survive this. Your brother tells me there is none as resourceful or as a stubborn as his little brother, so I know you will manage to adjust in time, and with the fairies aiding you in your convalescence--”
“Younger,” Killian choked out, a sob catching in the back of his throat. When the Queen’s brow pinched together, her head tilting in perplexity to his response, he clarified, “Liam knows I abhor being referred to as his little brother. I prefer younger.”
A smile twitched at the corner of her lips - lips as red as roses, or so it had been said in the tales chronicling her and the King’s storied love - and the corners of her eyes crinkled affectionately as she yielded, “Younger.”
“Your Majesty,” the young fairy she had waved over when he’d first awakened timidly interjected. “I should tend to Lieutenant Jones now. Would you also like me to send word to Captain Jones--”
“No, I shall inform him,” the Queen replied. With a sigh she stood from her seat and allowed the fairy nurse to take her place. “See that you comply with everything they request of you,” she commanded Killian, her gaze turning regal and unrelenting until he nodded his agreement. “Good,” she said with a warm smile, one that tilted further upwards into a teasing smirk as she vowed, “I promise to look back in after Captain Jones has had his chance to fuss over you.”
“Perhaps your fairies ought to put me out of my misery now,” Killian groaned, the prospect of Liam hovering by his bedside, relentlessly questioning the fairies’ work while issuing his own commands of healing and restoration upon his little brother making him wish for the sweet abyss of sleep once more.
~/~
It had been the rumors of poisoning that had first started the brothers Jones to question their allegiance to King George. Whispers of a treachery that would ensure Queen Snow’s line ended with her had begun to spread and with it, the suspicion of their King’s true character. Killian had suggested King George might not be the noble and just ruler they had first thought when signing on with His Majesty’s Navy after being freed from indenture when the ship they served sank in a storm, but Liam would not hear such slander. It was not until the rumor had been confirmed by Lancelot, a soldier turned traitor they had been tasked with capturing, that Liam finally accepted that which Killian had tried to convince him.
King George had poisoned Snow White. Cursed her during his toast at the wedding that was supposed to unite their two kingdoms - an added benefit to the true love she’d found with George’s son, Prince David. It was not love, either for his son or new daughter-in-law, that filled the King’s heart that day, though. George had wanted revenge, he wanted to punish them both for going against his wishes, for robbing him of a union with a more prosperous kingdom, so he had Snow’s goblet dosed with a potion that rendered her barren and unable to produce an heir, a fact he revealed to them after he’d returned to his own kingdom, thereby nullifying the treaty they’d made in good faith before the wedding.
Lancelot had not only provided them with the truth about their King, but confided in them his knowledge of a plot the sovereign had conspired against his own son. The newly crowned Misthavian King’s life was in danger. Before George had dispatched Liam’s crew to go after Lancelot, he’d commissioned another ship to lay in wait, sure that King David would sail to confront his father about what he had done. Their orders were to waylay King David’s vessel and see to it the ship went down… with no survivors.
Without a moment to spare, the brothers Jones had rallied their men, calling upon them to reject the traitorous King and instead take up arms in the service of the noble King David, and set a course towards the location an ambush would most likely take place. Luck had been on their side, arriving just as King David’s ship had begun taking on water.
During his many weeks of convalescence, Killian learned that upon returning to Misthaven, King David had accepted the allegiance and oaths of fealty from those who had defected. In addition to new loyalties was the boon of acquiring George’s most prized ship, the Jewel of the Realm, of which he had insisted Liam remain captain once the damage she’d sustained in battle had been seen to.
Both Liam and Queen Snow kept Killian apprised of the war that was now in full swing, and the lieutenant would be lying if he said he was not eager to join his brother in the fray once more. His injury (and his own stubbornness), however, was delaying such a desire from becoming reality. Though healed to the best of the fairies abilities, it was Killian’s determination to rehabilitate and acclimate to his new reality without any magical assistance that slowed his progress. All that changed, however, when he heard the news that repairs had been completed to the Jewel, and Captain Jones was being called forth for his first mission under their new sovereign.
“Are you sure?” Tink asked, again. “You’ve been doing so well without it.”
“I will not let my brother sail into dangers unknown without me to watch his back,” Killian growled. “You’re the one who kept insisting I was making things too difficult for myself, so just perform the bloody magic so I can present myself to Their Majesties at my brother’s side!”
Tink gave him one last assessing look, then sighed. Holding out her wand, she sent a cascade of magic over him, altering the dominance of his muscle memory from his left side to his right.
“There,” she said. “All you were able to do with your left hand before, you will now naturally experience with your right.”
Killian clenched and released his right hand, then wrapped it around the hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip. Drawing it, he cut the air around him with metallic swishes, marveling at the ease with which he instinctively maneuvered it with his previously weaker hand.
“We still need to determine the attachment you wish to have fashioned for your brace,” Tink reminded him, but Killian waved her off.
“Later.”
Returning the sword to its scabbard, Killian straightened his appearance. “Have they assembled?”
Tink peered over the gallery’s balcony wall that overlooked the throne room. “The King and Queen are just now being seated. They’ll be calling for your brother momentarily.”
“Then I’d better hurry,” Killian quipped, shooting Tink a quick wink. After a few steps, he stopped and turned back, grasping the fairy by her shoulders and pulling her in for a tight hug. “Thank you,” he murmured before pulling back and placing a quick peck on her cheek.
Tink rolled her eyes. “Go,” she said with half a laugh, and Killian did not have to be told twice.
“What do you think you’re doing out of the infirmary?” Liam questioned when Killian made it down to the hall outside the throne room just as the Royal Usher appeared to announce their entrance.
“You didn’t really think I’d let you go on this fool’s errand without me, did you?” Killian needled with a hint of cheek.
“It only becomes a fool’s errand when a fool joins it,” Liam shot back, stifling the smile twitching at the corners of his lips.
“Precisely,” Killian agreed, waggling his brows in Liam’s direction. “Your involvement alone has seen to it.”
A chuckle rumbled through Liam’s chest and he slapped his brother good-naturedly on the back. “We’ll see what His Majesty has to say about it. I suppose you’ve earned at least that.” Turning to the usher, Liam requested, “Please announce our arrival to Their Majesties.”
Nodding, the usher signaled the guards who pulled open the large wooden doors.
“Captain Liam Jones and Lieutenant Killian Jones of Their Majesties’ Royal Navy!”
Killian kept stride a step behind his captain, focusing on his breathing and the rampant beat of his heart the closer they got to the dais. Though he’d had the pleasure of becoming acquainted enough with Queen Snow to no longer be nervous in her presence, this was the first time since shoving the King off the gunwale of his ship that Killian had been in the imposing man’s presence. Following Liam’s lead, he bent low at the waist when presented and awaited acknowledgement from his sovereigns before straightening to attention.
“Lieutenant Jones, how wonderful to see you,” Queen Snow greeted with a warm smile. “Though, I confess, we had not expected you.”
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Killian offered. “I hope you forgive my impudence, but once I learned of the commission placed upon the Jewel, I could not, in good faith, sit idly by whilst my captain and fellow sailors answered the call of duty.”
“And do you feel as though you are fit for duty, Lieutenant?” the King inquired, assessing him with a stern glance that flicked to the brace that covered his blunted wrist. “We’ve been kept apprised of your progress, and it was my understanding you had refused magical assistance.”
“It’s true, Your Majesty,” Killian replied. “I was resistant to it, but I have since relented.”
In his periphery, he saw Liam’s head jerk slightly towards him, his eyes darting to the side as he remained at attention in the presence of their commander and king.
“I see,” the King said, his expression growing pensive as he shared a look with his wife. “And you are adamant in your request to join your captain?”
“I am, Your Majesty.”
“And you, Captain? What have you to say about your Lieutenant’s request?”
“I leave such matters in Your Majesties’ hands,” Liam responded with the diplomacy he’d been taught, until a flicker of something passed over his features and he dared to add, “but there is no other I would rather have by my side whilst completing this mission than my lieutenant.”
Killian fought against the proud grin pulling at his lips and lifted his chin a bit higher as he awaited the King’s response.
King David cast his eyes towards his wife who gave a demure nod before he turned back and stood, surprising the assembled court.
“Then I suppose we have no objection,” he commented. “However, there is something that must be done first…” He held his hand towards a squire stationed next to the platform. The lad approached, a broad sword laying flat across his palms, and presented the weapon to the King who grasped the hilt as he motioned for Killian to step forward.
“Kneel,” King David commanded, and Killian, knowing he was the final deserter of King George’s service who had not undertaken a new oath of fealty, did as he was commanded. The weight of King David’s sword rested against Killian’s shoulder and his eyes never wavered from his sovereigns as he was asked, “Do you, Killian Jones, in good faith and without deceit, pledge your fealty to this kingdom and to the Sovereign Family who governs it? Will you, to the best of your ability, faithfully serve those who may call upon your duty as well as those who are in need of your charity? Do you vow to never cause harm to those to whom you have sworn your allegiance and that you will honor your accords so long as they are honored in kind?”
“I do,” Killian answered tightly, his throat constricted from the swell of emotion rising up within him.
King David lifted his sword and repositioned it to Killian’s other shoulder. “Then in addition to accepting your allegiance, and in accordance with the practices and traditions of this land, I not only recognize your selfless bravery in saving my life, but offer you a boon in addition to my gratitude.”
Killian’s brows pinched together and he felt the tips of ears go red. Other than the Queen’s remarks after he’d regained consciousness, nothing more had ever been mentioned regarding his actions that day in battle. He had simply been doing his duty; never would he have imagined a public ceremony, much less a boon.
“It gives me great pleasure to bestow upon you…” the King continued, his Adam’s apple jumping as he swallowed hard, “The Law of Surprise.”
A flurry of murmurs erupted throughout the throne room. Killian’s lips parted in shock and his brother had to assist him back to standing.
The Law of Surprise. A windfall whose nature is unknown to the parties involved. Whatever treasure or lands or blessing the King had yet to become aware of, but destiny had already designed for him, would actually be Killian’s to claim, the value of which could be innumerable.
Vaguely, Killian was aware of the order that the hall be cleared as the King offered the lieutenant his hand. Accepting the gesture, he managed to croak out a quiet ‘thank you’.
“No. Thank you,” Queen Snow replied warmly, having joined the men from the dais. “Both of you. This Kingdom is forever in your debt.”
“And I am in yours,” King David declared, releasing Killian hands. “Until the Law of Surprise is fulfilled. So…” Reaching into his robes, the King produced a scroll, sealed with the Sovereign stamp. Handing it over to Liam, he continued, “Take all precautions to keep yourselves safe during this mission the Queen and I am tasking you with. These orders are to be kept under seal until you are ready to depart from our shores. We cannot risk anyone finding out.”
“I understand, Your Majesty,” Laim replied, taking the scroll and giving a reverential bow of his head. “Come, little brother,” Liam prompted, slapping Killian on the back. “We have our orders and must ready the Jewel.”
Killian stumbled, his body slow to obey, still too overcome by what had transpired. Bowing to their Majesties, Killian was about to follow his brother out of the hall when the Queen surprised him once again by throwing her arms around him and giving him a tight hug. Words seemed to get caught in her throat for a moment, and Killian sensed there was something she wished to say, but then thought better of it.
When she finally pulled away, she took his hand in hers and imparted, “Take care of one another and return home as quickly as you can.”
“Aye,” Killian answered with one last nod of his head. “Until we meet again, Your Majesty.”
~/~
Awaiting them on the deck of the Jewel was a large trunk with a smaller satchel set atop. Liam gave the order to prepare to set sail, and the crew busied themselves with their tasks, ignoring the parcels as best they could.
Liam motioned Killian towards the captain’s cabin, and once they were below they began to inspect the King’s orders together. Having grabbed the satchel on his way down, Killian opened the latch as his captain broke the sovereign seal on the scrolls.
“Star charts?” Liam murmured, inspecting the first parchment closely. “I've never seen these constellations before.”
“And I’ve never seen markings like this,” Killian added, showing his brother the golden sextant that had been hidden away in the satchel. “To what strange land are we headed?”
Liam set aside the star chart and began to read the official missive. “We're going to a new land, brother,” he said excitedly. “One that requires… a pegasus sail in order to reach it!”
“A Pegasus sail?” Killian replied, incredulously. “Is that what the trunk aboard deck contains?”
“Aye!” Liam answered, his eyes continuing to scan their orders. “A sail woven from the feathers of one of the last remaining pegasus.”
“Legend has it that horse could fly.”
“Indeed.” Liam looked up from the scroll, his eyes as big as saucers. “So can we. Our orders are to fly to this new land and stop King George’s men from obtaining a weapon.”
“What sort of weapon?” Killian snatched the parchent from Liam’s hand and began reading the orders for himself, even as his captain continued to relay them.
“A plant.”
“A plant?” Killian parroted, snidely. “His Majesty wishes us to cross realms for a plant?”
“All King David knows is that George also has a pegasus sail, and plans to use it to send men to obtain that plant, which, according to the fairies, can be used as a weapon capable of terrible destruction.”
“So, what? Does he wish for us to capture the plant for ourselves?” Killian did not much like that plan. He would gladly fight his enemies, but his code demanded he fight fair. The only weapon he knew of that came from plants was poison, and the idea of using such a tactic was underhanded and loathsome. Was it not George’s use of poison against Queen Snow that had caused them to defect from the kingdom of their birth in the first place?
“No,” Liam assured him. “We are to stop George’s men from retrieving it, burn their sail, and once we’ve returned, burn ours as well, so no one can ever venture there again.”
Killian relaxed his posture, relief flooding him, along with a measure of guilt that he’d ever doubted King David and Queen Snow's intentions.
Doubts that were further laid to rest when one of the men called down from the hatch, “Lieutenant! A parcel has arrived for you. From Her Majesty the Queen!”
Both men made their way back up, and Killian took the parcel from the sailor’s hand. It was heavy and odd-shaped, with a letter attached. Handing off the parcel to Liam, so he could open the note, Killian shook out the page and read:
Dear Lieutenant,
Tinkerbelle informed me you had yet to choose an attachment for your brace. I hope you will forgive my presumption, but I thought this might be a suitable option.
The wrapping crinkled as Liam opened the parcel, exposing a shiny, silver hook, the base of which had been refashioned to fit the mechanism within his brace.
It is the very hook you used to strap yourself to that barrel, which ultimately saved your life that day. It is my hope that this hook will bring you the same favor each and every day you wear it, as it did the day you brought favor back into my own life when you first employed it.
Yours,
Queen Snow
The entire ship had gone silent, with only the snapping of the sails and splash of waves against the hull daring to compete with the Queen’s words. Sun gleamed off the surface of the hook, still held in Liam’s hand, and Killian swallowed tightly as he took it in his own. Holding it up, he considered how this seemingly inconsequential piece of equipment had changed the course of his life, and with the Law of Surprise still owed to him by the King, the greatest of those changes were as yet unknown to him. Queen Snow was right. He could think of no other attachment that would be more fitting for whatever the fates might have in store for him.
Positioning the hook into the end of the brace, he gave it a firm turn until it clicked into place, restoring a piece of himself he never thought he’d get back. Clearing his throat, Killian shifted his posture, bringing himself to full height, faced his brother, and asked, “What are your orders, Captain?”
Liam’s eyes filled with pride, but he maintained his composure in the face of their crew. “Deploy the Pegasus sail and begin charting our course, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, aye,” Killian acknowledged before addressing the crew. “Get ready to set sail, mates! Make speed!”
~/~
Killian’s boots sank into the damp sand as he followed Liam up a small hill, heading away from shore. Behind him, the rest of the scouting party fanned out, their eyes cutting through the vegetation ahead for any sign of inhabitants. Dense jungle crept towards them with towering trees and lush ferns obscuring any view they might have into the island's heart. Once they made it to the top of the berm, Liam turned to instruct his men and Killian followed suit. No sooner had Liam opened his mouth than a voice spoke up from right behind them.
“Are you two lost?”
Whirling back around with his sword drawn, Killian was astounded to find an adolescent youth staring at them curiously. Where the devil did he come from?
“You look lost to me,” the boy said with a smirk as he lazily perused the men before him, seemingly undeterred by the many swords pointed his way.
“Identify yourself, boy,” Liam commanded.
“I'm Peter Pan,” the boy stated. With a sweeping hand, he gestured towards the island and added, “I live here. Who are you?
Liam studied the boy for a moment more before sheathing his sword and signaling the rest of the men to do the same. “Captain Jones,” he replied before gesturing towards Killian. “And this is my lieutenant. We're here by order of the king.”
Killian secured his own sword, unnerved by the way the boy’s eyes lingered upon him, especially his hook, before responding to Liam’s statement.
“The king, huh? We don't have any kings in Neverland,” he informed them, then smugly added, “just me.”
“That's funny,” Liam deadpanned whilst pulling a folded piece of parchment from his vest pocket. Shaking it open, he held it up in front of the boy. “We seek this plant.” He gave the boy a moment to look at the drawing. “Now tell us, boy, where can we find it?”
Ignoring Liam’s demand, the boy plucked the parchment from Liam’s hand and inquired, “Your king sent you for this plant?”
“You know it?”
“Dreamshade?” the boy replied, his brows high upon his forehead with a glimmer Killian did not much care for sparking in his eyes. “It's the deadliest plant on the island. Your king is really ruthless.”
“It’s not like that,” Killian countered. “King David sent us here in order to prevent that plant from falling into the ruthless hands of King George. We’re here to safeguard it, not exploit it.”
The boy flicked his eyes up from beneath his brows, and the sinister smile pulling at the corners of his mouth made Killian’s blood run cold.
“Funny,” the boy drawled. “They said the same thing.”
A battle cry rang out from the treeline, followed by the sounds of foliage being snapped and trampled by a dozen or more men rushing from the brush. King George’s men descended without warning, having clearly arrived at the island before them with enough time to set up an ambush. Killian drew his cutlass and threw himself into the fray, clashing swords with an enemy whose blade was smeared with a black, sticky substance he did not recognize.
Though outnumbered, King David’s men were able to make short work of George’s. Killian surmised they must have made land on the opposite side of the island and were therefore already fatigued from their trek through the jungle, giving King David’s men the upper hand. When Killian managed to disarm the opposing captain, his hook pressed against the man’s throat as he gave the order of surrender, George’s remaining men all threw down their weapons and sank to their knees.
“Tie them up,” Killian ordered as he scanned the beach for the treacherous boy who had clearly aided in the ambush. He did not find the little miscreant, but did see his brother wincing at the water line, his hand clamped over his arm as blood oozed from beneath his fingers.
“Liam!” Killian cried, rushing to his brother’s side. “You are wounded!”
“It’s nothing,” Liam said, attempting to wave him off. “Merely a flesh wound.”
Unable to keep his balance, Liam practically fell into Killian, who wasted no time in tucking himself under his captain's arm.
“Starkey!” Killian called out, gaining their bosun’s attention. “See that the prisoners are transported back to the ship in the other dinghy. I’m taking the captain back to tend to his wound.”
“Aye, aye!” Starkey replied, ordering two of their men to accompany the captain and lieutenant back to the Jewel.
By the time Killian managed to get his brother back on board and safely within the captain’s quarters, Liam’s complexion had become sickly pale and his skin clammy. When Killian insisted on seeing the wound, Liam muttered something about Killian fussing like an old woman.
“Let me see!” Killian barked in command, taking his brother aback enough that he complied.
Rolling up his sleeve revealed a nasty gash on his forearm, but more alarming than the blood were the black streaks running along his veins beneath his skin.
“What the devil?” Killian muttered, examining the pattern branching up Liam’s arm.
“I think it was… whatever they had… coated on their… blades,” Liam said, his breathing clearly labored. “Some sort of… poison, perhaps?”
Poison.
“Dreamshade,” Killian exhaled on a panicked breath before launching himself towards the cabinets at the far end of Liam’s cabin. “There must be a cure,” he said, rifling through the bottles of potions and elixirs the fairies had supplied them with. “An antidote or magical healing potion that can--”
“Oh, you won’t find a cure in there,” a voice quipped from behind him.
Spinning around, Killian found himself face to face with the demon boy they’d met on shore. Pan.
“He'll die as soon as the poison reaches his heart.”
His callous tone had Killian seeing red. Grabbing the boy by his tunic, Killian slammed him against the steps that led up to the helm, hook at his throat as he demanded, “Tell me how to save him!”
Pan appeared more amused, excited even, than terrified, and merely hummed before confessing, “There is a way to stop him from dying.”
“Tell me,” Killian snarled, releasing Pan and taking a step back so the boy could procure something from his belt.
“Pixie dust,” Pan stated, holding up a pouch that somehow shimmered despite its dark leather exterior. “Powerful stuff, and easily capable of curing any ill. Even dreamshade.”
Killian reached out to take the pouch, but Pan toyingly pulled it away. “I must warn you,” he said in a tone of mock seriousness. “All magic comes with a price, and this dust is no exception. Don't use it unless you're willing to pay.”
“Whatever the cost. Whatever you want. It's yours,” Killian agreed.
Pan held his gaze for a second more then handed the pouch over. Killian wasted no time. After righting his brother, who was nearly slumped off his chair and unconscious, he pulled the pouch open with his teeth then poured the contents on the festering wound that was nearly black as pitch. The glittering substance shone brightly as it reacted with the poison, forcing Killian to shield his eyes.
“Brother!” Killian shouted, shaking Liam’s shoulders and willing him to wake up. “Brother!”
Jolting awake, Liam sucked in a deep breath and swallowed thickly, his eyes casting about as he got his bearings. “That's captain to you,” he croaked out cheekily when his eyes landed on Killian, attempting to assuage his brother’s concerns. Getting to his feet, he let Killian help stabilize him as he asked, “What happened?”
Relieved to see the ruddy vitality return to his brother’s cheeks and no remnant of the vile dreamshade clogging his veins, Killian chortled, “It doesn't matter. Let's pay the boy and be on our way.”
“What boy?” Liam inquired, prompting Killian to turn circles within the cabin.
“Boy!” he called out, unnerved by the way the brat seemed to appear and disappear into thin air. “What do you want?” he called out again, when suddenly, from overhead, shouts began to bellow on deck.
“Is that…”
The acrid scent hit Killian at the same time as his brother and their heads snapped towards each other as they exclaimed, “Fire!”
Scrambling up the hatch steps, they were met with chaos as the crew floundered helplessly under the flying embers of the pegasus sail, its golden plumage being consumed by flames.
“What is the meaning of this!” Liam shouted. “Who is responsible for--”
“I decided what I wanted,” a now familiar voice stated from behind. “I want this ship and a crew to serve it… and me. That’s my price.”
Dread laced with fury washed over Killian. Stepping forward he towered over the demon boy and through clenched teeth declared, “No. I never agreed to--”
“Whatever the cost. Whatever you want. It's yours,” Pan parroted his own words back to him, a self-satisfied smirk twitching at his lips that made Killian’s blood boil.
“I cannot pay you with something that is not mine to give.” Sweeping his arm out towards the men, he said, “These men’s lives are not mine to barter, and are therefore exempt from having to pay the debt I alone owe.” Casting a glance towards his brother, Killian swallowed hard before turning back to the boy. “It was my brother’s life you spared, so it is my life… my service alone that--”
“No!” Liam shouted. “Killian, don’t be a fool. None of us shall pay such a price.” It was now Liam who loomed over the boy, who appeared as bored as ever. Drawing himself up to full height, Liam commanded, “You may have taken our sail, but that does not leave us without means to leave this place.” Calling out over his shoulder, Liam bellowed, “Lieutenant! Take a contingent of men and retrieve George’s sail. Starkey! Take this miscreant to the brig.”
Killian wanted to argue, unable to shake the feeling of dread the boy’s presence wrought over him, but before he could voice his concerns Pan issued his own warning.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Captain. Your brother made a deal for the island’s magic, and all magic comes with a price. You would be wise to honor the cost.”
“Your cost is too high,” Liam sneered. “I won’t see any of my men forced into your servitude, especially my brother, simply for my sake.”
“Very well, then,” Pan quipped with a shrug. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Liam scoffed and turned his back on the boy. Setting his sights on Killian, who still had not made a move to carry out his earlier order, Liam opened his mouth to issue it again when his face purpled and a choking sound emitted from the back of his throat. Killian watched in horror as his brother collapsed, the sprawling blackness of the dreamshade once again snaking its way up the veins of his neck.
“Liam!” Killian rushed to his brother's side and gathered him in his arms. “No! No, no, no, please!”
“I did warn him,” Pan drawled in a taunting tone. “He should have paid up when he had the chance.”
“Let me pay,” Killian begged. “The deal was struck between us. You and me. I’ll stay in exchange for my brother’s life and our men’s freedom. Save him, return them all to our kingdom, and I’ll remain here. In your service. For as long as you wish.”
“And the ship?”
Killian hesitated. The Jewel wasn’t truly his to give, but surely their Majesties would value the lives of their subjects over a vessel they’d only acquired in battle.
“Aye. The ship as well.”
Crouching down in front of the brothers, Pan’s indifference to the gurgles and gasps of dying breath from the elder sprawled prone in the younger’s embrace only heightened Killian’s terror as the boy stated, “Ten years.”
“What?”
“I want to make sure the terms are clear this time,” Pan clarified. “Ten years of service from you and this ship, with no interference from your brother or your kingdom.” His cold eyes shifted down to Liam’s, which were wide and bloodshot with panic. “If you make any attempt to rescue your brother or take back this vessel, I’ll consider the deal forfeit… as well as your lives. Yours, your brothers, and anyone else who mettles. Deal?”
“Yes,” Killian agreed, desperately. “We have a deal.”
“Captain?” Pan inquired of Liam, who could only nod his consent, though reluctantly. “Excellent.”
With a wave of his hand Liam’s malady was lifted, but before Killian could assist his brother back on his feet, Pan flicked his wrist again and Liam, along with the rest of the crew, disappeared before his very eyes.
“What have you done with them?” Shooting to his feet, Killian grabbed the brat by his tunic and began shaking him violently. “Where have they gone? Tell me!”
“Relax,” Pan replied. “I’m keeping up my end of the bargain.” Turning his head, he nodded towards the far end of the coastline. “There. Your brother, fellow crewmen, and captives are there.”
Killian’s head snapped in the direction of Pan’s gaze, and he loosened his grip on the boy as a ship, King George’s ship, came into view as it rounded the coast. The main sail was not the golden color he’d expected, knowing George’s men had also used a pegasus sail to reach the island. Instead, a sail blacker than night whipped briefly until it caught the winds, billowing out towards the sea.
“What sort of dark magic…” Killian murmured beneath his breath, but the question was cut short when he witnessed the vessel begin to lift out of the waters. Scrambling to get a better view, Killian pulled his spyglass from where it was usually stowed at the helm and peered through the lens. Across the expanse he caught sight of his brother, peering back at him through his own glass. Killian’s heart constricted in his chest. He had not even the chance to say good-bye. Had not been given the opportunity to set his affairs in order. There was so much he'd wished to say, so much he’d wanted his brother to know and to impart upon others who had become important in his life.
Tinkerbelle, the other fairies, Queen Snow, King David. What would they think about the deal he’d struck? What would become of his brother and the other men when they returned without the fleet’s prized vessel? Would they be punished? Demoted? Would his actions become a millstone around their necks for the next ten years?
As the levitated vessel grew smaller and smaller, making its way through the skies, Killian could only pray that the fact that they’d been successful in thwarting George from obtaining dreamshade would be enough to satisfy the king. When at last he lost sight of the ship within the clouds, Killian lowered the spyglass and heaved a despondent sigh while choking back tears. Though he may not know the plight Pan’s service might bring him, nor the response of the king when Liam returned, one thing he did know was Misthaven’s war with King George was far from over, and he would not be there to protect his brother, fight for his sovereigns, or prove he was worthy of the boon the king had already gifted him. A boon that would go unclaimed and unfulfilled.
He supposed he ought to be grateful the Law of Surprise did not work in reverse. He would not wish this misfortune on anyone.
“There, there,” the voice he’d already come to hate patronized. Killian stiffened when the bastard approached, standing beside him and gazing out upon the Neverland waters. “Is it really so bad?”
Killian did not respond. His years of indenture taught him to hold his tongue, and though he was loath to be back in a position of servitude he would shoulder the burden and play the part of compliance, unwilling to give the demon any recourse that might alter their deal and prolong his sentence.
Wiping away the vestiges of the emotional farewell to his former life, Killian straightened his posture and faced his new master. “The ship and I are at your command. What are your orders?”
Pan smiled, a sickening expression that made Killian’s stomach churn, and circled his quarry. “I do have an errand for you, but I’m afraid it must wait until my shadow returns.”
Killian’s brows scrunched in confusion, but he said nothing.
“Until then…” Pan halted his steps and squared himself off with Killian, his hands clasped behind his back as he rolled onto his heels. “I think a makeover is in order. For you and the ship.”
“A makeover?”
“Indeed.” Snapping his fingers, Pan’s smile grew broader as Killian was knocked off kilter. Steading himself, he realized his entire wardrobe had changed. Gone were the crisp white linens and gold embroidered navy wool of his uniform. In their place was a pair of buttery soft black leather pants, a billowing, smoke-hued blouse beneath a silver garnished, corseted leather waistcoat, and an adornment of rings and pendants.
“What the devil?” Flicking his bewildered eyes to Pan, he balked when the boy extended a can of paint and brush towards him.
“Here,” he said. “I’ve seen to your makeover, you can see to the ship’s.”
“And what, exactly, am I to make over?” Killian asked through the tick in his jaw.
“Her name,” Pan declared, as though the answer were obvious. “You no longer sail the Jewel of the Realm,” he informed Killian. “From now until your service has ended, she’ll be known as… The Jolly Roger.”
Killian swallowed the bile creeping up his throat, his fist clenching at his side. “So you mean to make me a pirate.”
Pan’s gaze flicked down to the hook braced at the end of Killian’s left arm, then slowly scanned its way back up. “Oh, I think you and I both know there’s a part of you that’s always been a pirate. Now the exterior and occupation will match the man beneath.”
Anger sparked within him. How dare the little devil associate his hook, gifted to him by the Queen for what it represented to them both, with something as vile and villainous as piracy. “You know nothing about me,” Killian seethed.
“Perhaps not,” Pan shrugged. “But we’ve ten long years together. I imagine we’ll come to know one another quite well by the end of this… arrangement.” Setting the paint at Killian’s feet, Pan’s tone hardened. “Ready your ship, Captain. It’s a pirate’s life for you. For the next ten years at least.”
Killian balked at the boy’s sudden disappearance, then gave himself a moment to come to terms with all the demon had said. He was right. For better or worse, this is the deal he had struck. Picking up the can and brush, Killian made his way to the bow and with a heavy heart, rechristened the Jewel.
Later that evening, with the ship’s main sail infused by a spectre Pan referred to as his shadow, it was not the Jewel of the Realm that departed Neverland. No. The Jolly Roger set sail to complete her first mission. A mission to transport orphaned, abandoned, and truant boys from a lawless place called Pleasure Island back to Neverland. A mission carried out not by Lieutenant Killian Jones of Their Majesties’ Royal Navy of Misthaven, but by the blackguard who would come to be known as the scourge of the seas, a villain whose soul would be described as being as black and depraved as the sail he hoisted. The fearsome and reviled pirate, Captain Hook.
Part Two
Tagging the Curious Crew: (add to tag list)
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#csff#cs ff#csfic#cs fic#cs au#cssns23#captain swan#enchanted forest au#neverland au#captain duckling#the law of surprise#words by hollye
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A world where there exists a mindwipe medical procedure called "severance" to separate the consciousness of their employees between their lives at work and outside of it. One severed employee, Kim Dokja, gradually learns that he, too, is capable of being loved.
a match made in a room adjacent to heaven by urielapologist [9k]
in an astonishing show of stupidity, kim dokja, a streamer, decides to seduce the final boss of the vr fantasy game three ways to survive in a fantasy world. spoiler alert: the final boss is not, in fact, an npc; he’s an actual streamer who has apparently been on the receiving end of kim dokja’s flirtations for months– also while streaming. what fun!
'O Captain, My Captain by jokebear [T, 5k]
“Do you think you’ll get to have your happy ending someday, too?”
Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t look at Shin Yoosung when he answers, “I can’t promise anything.”
Perhaps even these words are too much to say to a child. Barely even 13 years old, Han Sooyoung had reminded him. Barely 13 years old, he had reminded himself, after, later, perhaps a couple lifetimes too late.
Pride and Proximity: The Psychological and Physiological Consequences of Increasing Propinquity to an Adversary by 06151126 [T, 12.8k]
after failing his dissertation defense, kim dokja finds himself spending more time with the person he hates the most.
#i love sharing these#had to title it as ‘orv’ instead of ‘joongdok’ bc one of these is not like the others lmao#orv fic#omniscient reader's viewpoint#yoo joonghyuk#kim Dokja#joongdok#orv#fan fic#fic rec#twy rec
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Guinevere "There is always a choice" Pendragon is unironically the strongest character in bbc merlin.
why?? because she knows how to say no!! not only to those around her but to herself as well. gwen's strength as a character comes not from her eventual status as queen, but to understand and utilize the information given to her and then choose accordingly regardless of fear mongering. in a story where the villain is the narrative/cycles of abuse gwen wins against the underlying adversary every. single. time. where every other character with major plot points literally fails at this so hard it either results in their own moral demise or their literal death, gwen tanks through the challenge and even gives others hope where there seems to be none
every other character is controlled by some sort of fate,, arthur is told by the disir that "he has always been known" and that the fate of camelot is doomed unless he embraces the old religion, he's also born a prince and knows his entire life is laid out for him, merlin is told that he must help to bring magic back to the lands if arthur is to live and camelot of be successful, and morgana is first plagued by visions of the future (which as we learn in merlin that knowing the future does nobody any good) and then is told that emrys will be her doom.
gwen,, is just gwen :), yes other people know of her fate and purposefully try to mold it but she herself isn't fully and because she is free of the narrative cage, instead of being pulled to and fro by the other characters whims, she fortifies her own beliefs and through trial and anguish learns that nobody is coming to save her from cycles of fear except herself
(very obviously there are time when gwen is put in the damsel in distress situation, but to me it's the type that megara from hercules is in: "i'm a damsel, i'm in distress, have a nice day :)" )
let's look at lancelot and guinevere's relationship specifically and how their character thesis parallel each other and how it plays into her being better than everyone else
when lancelot arrives he and gwen immediately hit it off,, they're infatuated with the other and think of the other often having romantic moments and lingering touches before he eventually leaves without saying goodbye in the first season. lancelot is in my opinion the antithesis to gwen's character, not because he is guided by some bigger fate (because so are merlin and arthur) but precisely because he is also someone technically "free" of that narrative cage.
lancelot came to camelot because he wanted to be a knight, when he found out he couldn't be, after shenanigans and committing identity theft, he left and eventually became a sell sword as he had "no other choice",, when they eventually break out he leaves gwen again after learning arthur has feelings for her instead of fighting for her telling merlin: "she has changed him forever but some things are just not meant to be"
taking away her choice, but also confining himself to the gilded cage of fate for what he thinks is for her but really was for him
lancelot is not the only character who does this, in fact almost all of the bbc merlin character do:
merlin has times where he repeatedly goes to gwen and tells her about his dilemmas where he talks about how dismayed he is that he doesn't have a choice where gwen then repeatedly reminds him that he actually does have a choice,, these interactions flow on through merlin to arthur where the closer merlin is to gwen he remembers that he always has a choice to do the right thing and only reverts back to "i have no choice" as the seasons go on and they distance themselves
is sort of a reverse of merlin, arthur the closer he gets to gwen, is further introduced to the idea of free will,, specifically in his love life when he knows that he will have to marry one day and goes from telling gwen that they could never actually happen, to outright marrying her in front of king and country not because gwen pushed him to, but because she gave him the confidence to be the king he could be and realize he didn't want to spend a life bound to destiny (not that he had much of a choice tbh)
morgana and gwen are so interesting to me because she was a character who tried to fight against destiny,, but also clung to it like the future was a solid thing and let her hatred consume her because of fate, like when fighting gwen in s4ep13,, gwen asks why she despises her so much and morgana replies "it's not you it's what you will become",, like even in fighting against fate morgana doesn't even question of what she is seeing is set in stone she just assumes it is and acts according like (does that make sense??)
gwen has her own prejudices and anger, by the time s5 rolls around she is wary of magic and has seen it destroy so many of her loved ones and those she's supposed to protect as queen. but like,, her constant determination not just to do the right thing because so many of these characters believe they are, but to reminder others and herself that "you always have a choice" saved not just her life but all the other characters lives multiple times
in fact camelot was often in its most critial danger when gwen wasn't there, either physically or mentally,, the only thing that could be done to stop the positive effect she had was to literally brainwash her and even that took so much effort because even under extremely psychological abuse gwen refused to give in to morgana's torture and only broke when her brother literally died in front of her
(i also could make an entire post on the SCRAPS. that the bbc gave us on gwen and elyan's relationship and their reaction to choice)
anyways gwen solos hope this makes sense <3
#some guy talking#bbc merlin#bbc guinevere#guinevere pendragon#arthur pendragon#morgana pendragon#bbc lancelot#parallels and theme#im just yapping fr#merlin meta
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Event: Be My Valentine 2023 (Edition: White Day)
Pairing: Reo Mikage x fem!Reader
Prompt: "In my defense, they didn't have a smaller teddy bear in stock. Hope you have some space in your bedroom"
wc: 1k
a.n: I am working on the requests! Here is some sweet Reo. Since Japan's "Valentine's Day" is kinda split between Valentine's and White Day, I made this one a White Day version which is the female receiving a gift from the man.
There were long chunks of time that Reo was away.
You were unable to travel with him this time, due to your class schedule and upcoming midterms. The university wouldn't allow your professor to reschedule the exam to allow you the time needed to fly overseas for Reo's game. It was frustrating but the two of you made it work with lots of phone calls and face chats whenever Reo had the chance.
Even if it was only a few short minutes, Reo claimed that he couldn't survive without hearing the sound of your voice and seeing your pretty face.
You'd settled in for the night, having ordered take out for a late night dinner. The remnants were littered across the coffee table in front of the couch that you lounged on, scrolling through social media before you inevitably fell asleep right there.
The doom scrolling was interrupted with a goofy photo of Reo popping up on the screen, the sound radiated out that he was calling.
"Reo!"
"Hey, baby! I was afraid you might be asleep at this hour." His face was incredibly close to the screen, filling the whole space. You were supposed to be asleep; you had an eight am class but Reo was fully aware that sleep meant little to a college student.
"Not yet. I have to get my daily dose of your face before I can sleep. Nagi's new girlfriend is such a doll and took a ton of awesome shots from the game." You'd quickly become friends with her, spending an ample amount of time conversing about the best friends and bonding over being soccer girls.
Reo laughed, gaze shifting ever so slight away from the phone as he walked. "You'd be pleased to know that she wore that awful shirt with our faces plastered on it to remind all the fangirls that I'm still yours."
"Oh my god! She actually wore that?"
"With a huge grin. Nothing embarrasses that girl."
This was how it was. If you closed your eyes, you could immerse yourself in his voice, imagining that he was here in the room with you. He continued to spill all the details about the game, the juicy ones that no one could see just watching.
You've known Reo since childhood. You'd been there when his parents told him that his future was set by them, and seen how it had affected him. It wasn't until he started playing soccer that Reo finally came into his own. He started doing things for himself, things that truly made him happy.
That included confessing to you. He was a mess that day, an adorable, blushing mess.
"What's got you smiling so happily?" Reo asked, drawing you out of your memory and back to the present.
"You, obviously." Perhaps it was the day that made you so nostalgic. It was impossible to miss all the couples and love in the air. Every commercial on the television was an advertisement for White Day.
"Baby, don't tease me! My heart can't take it."
A loud knock at the door interrupted.
"Hang on. Someone's at the door." How annoying. You were certain you hadn't ordered anything, so it was probably you're fussy neighbor. She hated any kind of noise, stating that she could hear your headphones leaking through the walls. Crabby old bitch.
But when you jerked the door open, ready to give her a peace of your mind, you were greeted with a peculiar sight. Instead of a wrinkly old woman, it was a giant, brown teddy bear.
"Wha-"
"Happy White Day, baby!"
It surely sounded like his voice on the other side of the monstrous sized bear. You caught a glimpse of his messy purple hair sticking up over the shoulder.
Several seconds passed in silence. You felt like a soda can being shook up, about to explode. The lovely gift turned into an adversary, in the way of you being in the arms of your love. Wrestling the heavy bear away and letting it crumple to the floor, you launched at him. "Reo!"
He easily caught you, embracing the full body hug. His strong arms holding you up, your legs latched around his waist. "I missed you, too. Was afraid I wouldn't make it in time. Traffic from the airport was a mess."
You grabbed his face and kissed him, savoring the taste of his lips. Time apart truly did make the heart grow fonder. "You jerk!" You finished your passionate kiss and landed a soft punch to his shoulder.
"Ouch!"
"You absolute-" How he'd managed to pull this off, you couldn't fathom. "God, I love you so much!" Your heart was flipping in your chest. The adrenaline pumping through your body. "I can't believe you're here."
Reo was proud of himself for pulling this off. It had taken a lot of work, and convincing the head coach to allow him this trip between games was hard won. "I'd do anything to see that gorgeous smile on your face."
As if you needed a reminder of how smooth his was, Reo easily carried you and the bear inside. Lingering in the hallway might summon the neighbor and he didn't want this elated mood to drop even a smidge.
"I love the bear, too. Even if he's triple my size."
"In my defense, they didn't have a smaller teddy bear in stock. Hope you have some space in your bedroom," Reo replied, setting you on the counter in the kitchen. His hands slid over your thighs, simply glad to have you in front of him.
You were the same, unable to keep your fingers from running up and down his biceps. His kisses were soft, lips barely leaving yours to take a little breath and then tasting you again.
"I suppose he'll have to take your spot on the bed. Don't worry, the floor is very comfortable- ah!"
Your teasing invigorated Reo to attack your sides, tickling you into a fit of hysterics. Your laughter was infectious, one of his favorite sounds. He loved being on the field, competing on a stage, but this was what filled him with true warmth and passion.
You.
"Welcome home, Reo."
"I'm glad to be home to you." The visit may be short, and soon he'd be back on an airplane to rejoin his team, but every second until then, he promised to spend with you, exchanging kisses and giggles
#blue lock#blue lock reo#reo mikage#reo mikage x reader#reo x reader#blue lock x reader#blue lock fluff#bllk#bllk fluff#white day
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Bento Confessionals | Tamaki Amajiki
Word Count: 3395
Setting: Amajiki Tamaki x gn!reader; SFW; short, tsundere reader
Content Warning(s): cursing, mention of gore/blood/head wound
Summary: as a recovery quirk, it is your duty to care about the well being of your patients, t-that's all this is! You caring about a reoccuring patient, and wanting to minimize your own quirk inflicted symptoms. T-that's all! Y-yup! N-not because you like him, or anything!
[not my art, credit goes to the artist!]
Fingers threaded through rice, delicately rotating your wrist as the scowl met your brow. Idiot, you practically hissed.
Your cheeks burning as you told yourself to focus on the task at hand. This rice requires a thorough rinse, as well as rest time. Then, you would need to focus on preparing the rest of the bento. The mountain of ingredients undeniable for the amount of work ahead of you. You wouldn’t have to do this if he wasn’t so accident prone. The bend of your left arm tender as you filled the rice maker with practiced hands. Your family kitchen warm and glowing, your dad occasionally peeking in to check in on your progress, you had wanted to tell yourself that it was because you had received permission from Principal Nezu to spend the weekend at home. The U.A. dorm’s kitchens were adequate enough, but not for what you had in mind. No, the occupation hazard of your father as a renowned chef, his own quirk Hyperosmia garnishing him quite the crowd. The ability to sniff out potential hazardous materials ensured the highest quality, and even offered him the rare licensure to prepare puffer fish, awarded only to fugu chefs. It was clear success would be more likely here, under his direction. The best results within grasp, except... you wanted to tell yourself that he was just happy to see you, but there was a certain knowing smirk that your father quipped. The way his cheeks raised knowingly causing his eyes to squint with glee. Unable to escape his gaze. “You look so much like your mother right now,” he had teased with affection before you threatened him out of the kitchen. This is different! You flared, feeling your nostrils wiggle in annoyance, the heat reaching your cheeks as you glared down at your left arm.
The telling signs of bruising both old and new tender to the bend of your elbow. Small noticeable indentures piercing the flesh, revealing the frequency of needle usage. Yes, this was different. It wasn’t that. It was for you. Not him. Well, the food was for him, but the intention was to ward off any unnecessary blood loss. You repeated, the growing agitation rising in your features. The way your thoughts wandered to his last visit to Recovery Girl’s office.
His visits weren’t as often as they used to be. When you had first started U.A., his visits were practically daily. His anxiety giving way to open opportunities for well, a lot of blind sides if you were being honest, and the high competition of U.A. ensured that any adversary that faced him in sparing practiced seized the chance to raise their level. The very first time your paths had crossed was in your first year. Assigned to a different class, you had been in the middle of your own practice before Present Mic had burst into the practice grounds, screaming at your instructor, urging him for assistance. A recovery quirk, any recovery quirk would have done—Recovery Girl had been away from the school, and they needed someone just to stop the bleeding. Up your hand went, and the next thing you knew, he had snatched it and charged off to the nurse’s room, his rush leaving you without a clue of what was going on, or what to expect.
The scene had been a lot more gruesome than you had imagined it would be. Blood meddled in indigo hued- hair. The gore of flesh marred unidentifiable lieson. The mess of spiky wayward hair making it difficult to locate the source of the bleeding. Gauze stuck at odd ends, a panicked attempt to slow the contusion. The wave of nausea that hit you, as the inflicted patient looked up at you with equally wide eyes. Red tipped elven ears and uncoordinated waves of his hands. Mumbling something about he wasn’t worth the trouble. He’s sorry. Don’t mind him, even attempting to squish his face into the corner of the bed to hide his face, his blood loss making him confused. His unaware of sense of his surroundings landing him falling forward into your chest. His skin felt clammy to the touch, pallor touching his already pale features, and his breathing was rapid. Struggled between murmured horrified whispers, anxiety? Agitation? Oh god, Hypovolemic Shock, you had told yourself. Present Mic stating that your job was to simply starve off the symptoms until the ambulance arrived to retrieve him for immediate care. Doing your best to thumb your way through his locks, he had begun to swat you away. The red of his ears horrified. If it had not been for a fellow classmate, a blonde that stood much taller than you with a sunny disposition holding him down, you would have never been able to find the source of his bleeding, but as soon as you had located it, you instructed Present Mic to raid Recovery Girl’s desk, an adventure none had dared to tread. A scalpel would have been ideal, or perhaps even a razor, but when he presented you with scissors meant to ease bandages off of students, you accepted that obviously, Recovery Girl hadn’t much need for blades in her office. She could simply smooch the wound away, and so, you accepted it. Expecting you to clear the clumsily gauze from his head, Present Mic had released a banshee wail as you dug the scissors into your arm. Biting back the agony as you flayed your arm, digging forth to produce a sizeable amount of blood. The inflicted patient having lost a sense of struggle, growing more and more unresponsive by the moment, the blood that held him looking up at you with his mouth dropped as he kept the boy from falling from the bed. The thought of potential blood pathogens hadn’t crossed your mind—despite how many times Recovery Girl had drilled it into your head. You simply ran on instinct, guided by adrenaline. Activating your quirk, Cascade. Utilizing the blood that you had garnished from self-inflicted laceration, and forcing your own blood onto his abrasion. You did your best to expedite the healing process.
Yes, it had been some time since he had visited Recovery Girl’s office. In time, he had grown, well not more confident. Time had taught you that his horrified response to your assistance the first day you met was in fact, not agitation brought on by blood loss, but rather, a manifestation of his own anxiety. Rather, he had grown more capable of utilizing his quirk. Gathered the ability to respond, his reflexes had vastly grown, or perhaps he had managed to crawl out of his head enough to actually activate it appropriately—whatever the case, it had been some time since you had a visit from him. Which left you with a with a sense of melancholy. On one hand, you were relieved not to have to utilize your quirk as much (although there would always be the need, you had discovered that through blood donation, that your quirk remained active, and thus you were able to supply a reserve of quirk attained blood), but you felt almost... abandoned. You had gone from near daily visits in your first year, occasional drop ins in your second year, and now rare moments of passing in your third year. He had come a long way--- you both had, but why did you miss the struggle he put up. If anything, you should have especially been pleased to have been rid of him. Treating someone with such a low opinion of themselves was difficult, especially when they refuted the care, and yet, when he appeared in front of you, thankfully for a check in at Recovery Girl’s insistence. Shot, he had been shot? Gritted teeth as you cursed him out. His head bowed in apology, not bothering to argue. In fact, he had agreed that he had caused unnecessary stress to that of his Pro-Hero Fat Gum, and that of his companion, Red Riot. Especially for a wound that didn’t seem to exist (you had only realized after you had been far to willing to slice open your arm once again, next to the scar you had claimed at your first encounter, Recovery Girl smacking you with her cane at your over eager response). The blush as she examined him, stethoscope pressed to his bare chest, as you adverted your eyes. Gah, why was this pissing you off so much. Doing your best to jot down the observations she had made on his chart, pencil pressed firmly in your hand. Watched his even breathing, bore witness that there had not been a single scrape across his delicate features. His sugilite eyes catching yours, widening, and quickly adverting. Passing his own blush to you, causing you to practically growl. What? WHAT? What was with that?? Y-You were only doing your job! H-how dare he act like you were- were doing something s-scandalous! D-Doesn’t he know that this is your job? Y-you do this every day… Shock spreading through your features as the pencil snapped between your fingers. Your shoulders dropping as Recovery Girl’s knowing giggle filled the room.
From his charts, you had learned that his quirk was activated by digestion. The DNA breakdown of what he consumed would become available for him to borrow for the duration it remained in his system. N-not that you had read his chart specifically, it was common practice to review them after each visit r-regardless of who the patient might have been. Which was how you had found yourself, agonizing over vast ingredients. Layers of unusual compounds at the ready, the opportunity to seize your father’s kitchen haven given you access to quality ingredients, and his unnecessary insistence on poking in when something had begun to smell too done. Braised oxtails simmering in soy, well apparently not enough soy sauce your father had murmured from the living room. “D-Damn it,” you hissed. T-this was only because the sports festival was near. Y-yup! That was it!
“Watch your mouth,” your mother growled back, her temper only cooled by your father’s gentle reassurance as he whispered something in her ear. A rare occasion, normally by now she would be pursuing you with a ladle. Instead, she merely scoffed at his words before waving herself away, decidedly stepping off on to the veranda to be rid of your cursing at boiling pots, flared at the gross way octopus tentacles wiggled under your fingers, and the resistance the clams had put up in response to your prodding.
If he’s just going to make comments like that, why doesn’t he just cook it himself, you had thought frustrated. The knowing response of a father who had cared for a stubborn child for all of your seventeen years warm at the kitchen entrance, his hand caught on the noren curtain. “It means more coming from the heart. You can do this,” he reassured. Comforting and knowing, as gentle as the hands that had guided you in the kitchen over the years, you fought back the burn on your cheeks. Y-You were only doing this to prevent yourself from suffering from another bout of anemia. N-no other reason, but damn it if you didn’t swat away your mother’s insistence to help. Her sighing saying that if you were really that frustrated, she wouldn’t tell your father--- nope. Her assistance hadn’t been born out of annoyance for the way your furrowed at the pots and pans before you, and admittedly, a trait you had received from her, but rather the late hour, but the rather familiarity from having once stood where you were so many decades before. A young girl in love with a boy who treasured food, and desperate to catch his attention, b-but this was different, you told yourself as you worked into the late hours. Layer by layer, your over eagerness to avoid anemia, strictly anemia as you packed a three-tiered bento to the best of your abilities. Mindful of the necessary rice, of the sushi you had delicately prepared, teriyaki flavored chicken feet, gyoza packed with a unique blend your father had recommended, kaarage with the hint of lemon, tender ikayaki with a delicate sauce composed of squid ink, blistered shishito peppers, and a variety of vegetable sides. Because somehow, once you started… it just didn’t seem enough. After all, this was your blood at steak, right? Right. Blissfully unaware of the exquisite meaning of the crane that decorated the top of the box, told yourself you would only rest your head for a moment before inevitably dozing off at the kitchen table.
“Ah, [F/N],” your mother sighed, “why is this child like this?” The warmth undeniable in her eyes as she glanced at you from the kitchen doorway. Your father pressed his forehead against her temple.
“Wonder why,” he had laughed warmly before setting himself to work. Carefully coating your shoulders in a spare blanket before carefully handling the bento as though it were glass. He wrapped it tenderly. Remembering the day he had been presented a bento, sneaking in a few slice of prepared variety of articianal jerkies he had crafted made from squid, clams, octopus, and even puffer fish. He had intended it to be a promotional item for his restaurant, but recalling the gusto you had demonstrated when you had burst into his restaurant, asking to utilize ingredients of a variety of properties. The way you had listened intently to the details about the ingredients, but even going so far as to question the properties of the sources they had been derived from, he was reminded of the child that had eagerly hung to his apron all those years ago. Shy, but determined, caring, but stubborn, yes. His little one had grown up so much, and this seemed so much more important than any promotional campaign, he had concluded as he folded it into the fabric of the bento.
You had little recollection of how you had fallen asleep at your family table. Bewilder to wake to hear your mother muttering about having a child who sleeps like this as she turned over a grilled fish. Tsking her tongue as she did so, Your eyes widened to the bento before you, already prepared for the day. “Oi, you,” your mother asserted, the slight annoyance in her voice, “You had better not be doing this at school. If you catch a cold, who will take care of you, hm?”
“I-I don’t--,” you started, only to be interrupted by your father, sitting opposite of you at the table.
The sip of his coffee, “your mother laid out your backup uniform. She made sure to iron it, and found your favorite accessory at the back of your drawer so you could loo---“.
“OI!” Your mother practically bellowed. “You, hush” she jabbed chopsticks at your father. Ignoring the light chuckle, he released into his mug before turning her attention to you, “and You! Gyou look like a kuwazu nyobo. Do you have a mouth hidden under that mess of hair? Confessing like that, hm? Go brush!”
“D-damn it! It’s not like that!” You retorted.
The gentle tap of your father’s coffee cup against the table as he flipped through his culinary magazine, completely unbothered and unmoved by the morning commotion “you’ll be late.” The draw of your eyes to the kitchen clock before the horrifying realization that he was in fact correct jostling you forward. A flurry of clothes tossed about, discarding your casual clothes. Wiggling into your school uniform, tugging at the buttons of your collar. Hopping on one foot to secure your socks. You would have forgotten the bento if it were not for your mother chastising you at the door. Bidding her farewell before slamming the door behind you. Missing the exchange between your mother and father. One recounting how they lively the house feels when you are home, and the other asking if they’re prepared to hand you over to someone else. The small smile tucked at your father’s lips. “He’s a nice boy,” he whispered, to only himself. Recalling a customer who stopped by for jerky from time to time, a unique quirk to harness his meals.
Oh, you had fought yourself for some time. Thanks to your father’s insistent on time, you had THANKFULLY arrived before the masses. Securing enough time for an internal dialogue dispute between yourself. One part of you too petrified to leave the bento on his desk—what if it was the wrong desk? What if it was confused for a c-confession? I-It wasn’t like that! Before inevitably giving in, the rage of your embarrassment forcing you to slam down the bento. DAMN IT. The sudden realization you may have thrown the dishes together on accident, damn it damn it damn it. You hissed to yourself as you skyrocketed out of the classroom. Your own curiosity, well maybe sense of shame, drawing you back to the classroom door. Peeking as students filled in. Stating that you simply needed to see Haya to ask a question. Ducking from Haya’s view as she entered the classroom, realizing that you didn’t have the courage to fumble through some horrid excuse to your erratic behavior. On bent knees, peeking between the crack of the classroom door as you watched Amajiki Tamkai stare down at the bento. His eyebrows noticeably drawn as he wiped his head each and every way. The giggle of classmates witnessing his obscured behavior. Mirio grinning as he patted his friend’s back. Hado’s eyes sparkling, her joyful cheer obvious as she encouraged him to open it.
“I-It must be a mistake,” he had muttered, considering scooting it to the desk next to him.
Mirio shook his head, gleeful as he pulled at the fabric. “This is your desk, it’s for you!”
“P-poison?” he whispered, tempted to settle for the corner of the classroom, but Mirio’s hand was firm at his shoulder. Poison, your mouth dropped. S-sure, your cooking skills required some fine tuning, but poison? W-What?
Hado shook her head, “Ah, Tamaki, it’s not poison, silly! It’s a declaration of love!” The hearts practically dancing around her as your face dropped from where you snooped. N-no it wasn’t! Your heart pounding as the red of his cute elven ears began to burn. His eyes shifting nervously as Hado prodded his side, begging him to open it. The burn spreading form your cheeks to your ears before finding its mark down your neck.
His fingers were trembling, fumbling with the fabric as Mirio and Hado leaned over his shoulder. Both enticed by their friend’s situation. The affection and pride clear on their faces as they glanced over the many offerings. The size of the bento clearly… too much. Y-yup too much. N-no! Not too much! This was your blood at stake after a-all. “I-I can’t eat all of this,” he muttered as his hand found his lips. His shoulders raised up. Your heart nothing more than a pounding in your ears. A small smile drawing to your lips… a-adorable.
Mirio thumbing through the various… jerkies? Dad, your hand cupping your own mouth now, unable to hear their interaction further. Tamaki’s shy expression growing and threatening to become a puddle. Warm and affectionate, c-clearly thinking it’s more than---
“Hmm? Amajiki?” Haya stopped by his desk. Her red short hair tilted from view, Her skirt ruffled slightly as she quipped an eyebrow, her fingers pinching at the fabric beneath the bento curiously. Leaning forward to inspect it closer. The faint green gingham prints evident, and the little teddies that were scattered across the fabric having drawn her attention, “Isn’t this [L/N]’s?”
OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. You thought with horror. Haya, that traitor! The undignified squeal you released, scattering backwards before landing on your bottom. Quick to snag your bag and hall ass towards the nurse’s room, your hide away. Leaving a tornado mess in your wake, flutter of papers, shaken windows, a real mess. As The Big Three watched your retreat. Amajiki’s eyes widen and mystified. Hado and Mirio stifling a laugh, and Haya, that traitor, stating plainly, “not exactly discreet.” Only when you had made it to the safety of the confines of the nurse’s room, did it occur to you… you would have to retrieve the bento at some point. Sliding yoru back down to the floor, hands capturing your eyes as you hid the blush from sight, and ignored Recovery Girl’s obvious concern. W-what was that? H-how is he so… CUTE?
T-Tamaki had clearly misunderstood the s-situation! R-right? Just a m-misunderstanding...
#bnha x reader#boku no hero academia#tamaki amajiki#tamaki amajiki x reader#suneater x reader#bento confessionals
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Number Twenty-Six
TW: Broken bone, blood, knife, general angst, violence, wounds, me not editing
Rain pattered against windows covered in months, maybe even years worth of accumulated dust, leaving dirty tracks streaming down glass, obscuring the hero's vision. The flickering, half-dead light bulb hanging from the ceiling wasn't much help either, but they didn't have any better options.
Still, it bothered the crime-fighter that they couldn't see everything properly, that no matter how hard they focused, they were still at the mercy of whatever could be lurking in the dark shadows. It meant they were vulnerable, and in their line of work, that idea went hand in hand with a horribly violent death.
They sucked in another careful, measured breath, ignoring their racing heartbeat, the tightness in their chest and the gash across their leg, blood slowly snaking across the torn, battered skin, staining their makeshift bandage, a scrap of an old towel they'd found here a dark crimson. It was what they had trained themselves for; to act like pain, anxiety, anything that could be an obstacle to the ruthless efficiency they were expected to exhibit was nonexistent.
There was no shattering of glass, no creaking of doors or anything of the sort, just a soft ruffle of fabric that one would never be able to discern from another eerie noise produced by the flimsy windows flapping back and forth in the wind, except if they were the hero, senses turned up to a hundred. Their grip tightened on the throwing knives in each hand, contracting and relaxing their muscles rhythmically to steady their nerves. A rush of adrenaline was simply a reflexive function of the body. That was all it was. All they told themselves and wished to believe.
"You know you only heard me because I wanted you to," a lazy, taunting voice drawled. That invoked a completely different emotion in the hero, but the only change to their appearance was a slight clenching of their already tight jaw, and an almost imperceptible tension of their muscles.
Villain scoffed, still concealed somewhere in the shadows, but their tone clearly showed they weren't interested in hiding. "Still quiet? I mean, I admit I wanted to give you a good scare, but you're already terrified into silence this fast? Shame."
The hero could feel the villain's warm breath against their skin in phantom sensations that were all too familiar and yet still horribly foreign. They couldn't see them, thanks to the criminal's powers. They didn't just make them invisible; they helped the criminal move without any sound, without disturbing anything they touched even if they ran straight into it, provided they were still using their power.
Hero's own ability paled in comparison; telekinesis, except they could only move things they saw, so their usual tactic of using an opponents limbs against them was useless against their adversary, who could just bloody disappear if they wanted to.
The villain finally showed themselves, grinning from ear to ear with nothing behind those wicked, emerald eyes. They weren't even wearing a mask, too vain and too proud to care, yet again, their abilities were their mask. And they'd told the hero before that they were one of the few people who knew what they looked like, an awfully intimate piece of information they'd simply said in that distant manner of theirs.
But the hero was not here to dwell on the villain's sentiment; they were here to stop a threat, to seize a target and bring them to justice. So, they maneuvered their body into a fighting stance, readying their knives for throwing, as they would have with any other enemy.
Hero pounced on their target, tackling them to the ground, but Villain disappeared from right underneath their body, letting their form crash into the ground, flimsy, wooden floorboards smashing in the process.
Cursing and lifting themselves upwards, the hero whipped around, listening for any noise the villain would allow them to hear because when it came to the hero, they liked to "Play with my food before I eat it, darling," they'd crooned, another dark, hollow smile across their face.
Soon enough, they felt strong arms bracketing around them, one of which slithered up their figure till cruel fingers wrapped around their neck, slowly increasing pressure on their trachea till the hero's breathing constricted, coughing and wheezing and flailing in the villain's grasp.
In their quest to humiliate the crime-fighter as much as possible, the villain hadn't been able to keep up their power for too long while still touching the hero, reappearing again. Their nemesis wasted no time in seizing the chance, breaking one of the villain's arms with their telekinesis with a resounding crack.
Only for the bastard to laugh in their face. "After all this, you're still going soft on me?" they mocked, absolute scorn dripping from their tone.
"I just don't want to waste all my energy," the hero shot back, trying their hardest to convince themselves more than they were the villain.
Hero's face was outwardly calm, no quirk of the lips or creases on the forehead, their gaze just as empty as the villain's. But the slight clenching of the jaw, the way their hands tightened subtly on the blades; all these small, inconspicuous signs of the hero's tension didn't go unnoticed by the villain.
"Your little, brave face is so cute it almost makes me feel bad for wanting to end you," Villain purred, dissappearing just shy away from the hero's blade, the steel cutting a perfect straight-line through the fabric of their expensive shirt.
Hero's blood boiled, all pretences of indifference dissappearing from their face as they let out a nearly inhuman snarl, as several of the capillaries in their nose burst as a result of all the increasing pressure, a streak of red running down their visage. They were so goddamn sick of the villain and their exhuasting mind games.
They got the idea of using their power to throw obstacles in haphazard parts of the room. If the villain was forced to waste their energy on objects they tried to go through, especially when injured, the hero would finally be able to end this.
Finally, their nemesis had reappeared, leaning against a wall, their arm twisted in a horribly grotesque angle, and for the first time since the beginning of this ridiculous fight, the villain actually looked tired, shoulders slumping, having depleted almost all of their energy. Still, something defiant burned in their eyes, the intention to destroy written all over their features.
Unfortunately for them, though, the hero was at their heels, kicking them backwards so that they were flush against the wall, the crime-fighter’s good leg preventing them from escaping. "You know I'll just disappear again, but you really like torturing yourself with this, don't you, doll?"
Every pet name, every time the villain touched them, whether deliberate or accidental, felt like poison was being forced down their throat, spreading into their system like a wound that only continued to fester and grow.
They stabbed their blade somewhere near the villain's collarbone, ripping through skin, a dark carmine pooling around it as the muscle fibres were torn through, making their enemy howl out in pain. Some part of them wished to twist the metal stuck in their nemesis's body, just to test how much they could make them scream.
But that dark fragment of them that resided in a soulless corner of their mind quickly had its voice muffled as déja-vu washed over them in a nauseating wave.
The villain sank to the ground, a lost, faraway look in their eyes, full of an emotion the hero couldn't discern. "It wasn't personal," they said softly, "but this is personal, isn't it?"
Two weeks ago, the hero had gotten daring, a little cocky even. They'd pinned the villain against the wall with their leg, their warm breath like a summer breeze, caressing their enemy's skin, as their hands toyed with the fabric of another one of the villain's elegant tops. They pulled them closer, ready to whisper those three heavy words as they pressed a kiss to the villain's cheekbone, the hero's skin feeling like it was on fire with the passion.
Except the villain had twisted a knife into their abdomen before the hero's lips had even touched their skin, walking off like nothing had happened, their eyes hollow again, as though the hero was a fool, and this was all so obvious.
"It's never personal with you," the hero choked out, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, the treacherous wound on their leg reopening completely as they fell down.
Villain's eyes still held that unfocused look. "It wasn't at first," they clarified, sucking in a sharp breath and wincing as it disturbed the knife in their flesh, "you were a target. I was told to knock you off the board, out of the game, and I was never told how. I was so sick of hiding in the shadows forever, so I showed myself; what difference would it make if I'd kill you anyway? I thought we were both just testing the waters, trying to pretend these fights could be anything more. You weren't wearing your heart out on your sleeve," the criminal reasoned, raising their hands in a placating gesture so that the fuming hero would let them finish.
"But then that look in your eyes changed, your touches lingered more, and I wanted more. So that time in the alleyway, I realised I was no longer experimenting. But I couldn't have it. Stuff like this is not meant for people like us. So I ended it. Because that's all I know how to do."
Something entirely raw flashed across the villain's features as they leaned in closer to the hero, ignoring the stinging, the pain of their fractured arm; the breathlessness as they continued to lose blood, and their hand cupped the crime-fighter's jaw, their thumb stroking across it delicately. "You make me vulnerable," they whispered as their fingers skirted down the hero's neck, rubbing an old knot that seemed to tighten every time they were anxious.
Except instead of a shiver and a soft sigh as they relaxed into the touch, telling the villain they were magical, the hero let out a whimper, wrenching their eyes shut as furious tears streaked down their face. "Do you really wish to hurt me that much? You've already broken me, Villain, or what's left of me. You don't need to do any more!" they snapped.
"I just want you. Do you think if I wanted to kill you, I would leave you any chances? You know my ego is only a pretence, right?" the villain attested.
The hero's diamond-hard gaze softened as they carded their fingers through the villain's hair, closer to dark silk than anything else. "Stop hiding in the dark, then. We can both make it out of here alive. No one cares for our civilian identities," they reasoned, trying to sound as logical and rational as everyone else saw them.
Everyone but the villain, that is. Hero's desperation was not lost on them, and that realisation had pulled another choked sob out of their throat.
"You make me vulnerable," the villain repeated, voice laden with conviction, "and it used to scare me, yet now, I want nothing more," they finished, and for the first time since the hero had met them, the villain's eyes were wet with tears.
They hooked their good hand into the hero's, and both of them helped each other up.
Love, much like fire, can light up one's world, letting a comforting warmth seep through their form, mesmerising to any onlookers with its wild beauty. Yet, at times, it could be dangerous, its flames licking the skin of whomever falls victim to it. But just like fire, its vitality is of priceless value.
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#prompt#hero x villain#enemies to lovers#angst#romance#whump#tw broken bone#tw blood#tw knife#tw violence#tw wound#writing#fiction#writers on tumblr#female writers#bittersweet#natalia's writing#snippet#hero/villain
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(@ashpkat I finally started working on this again.)
“I don’t suppose you have a plan to sit through an interview for the Daily Planet, do you, Mr. Hunt?”
Callum Hunt’s grey eyes flicked to the reporter — he was right, it was America’s Prodigal Son, their (literal) golden boy Superman, although, of course, in disguise as a regular everyday citizen — and then back to his champagne-filled glass, deciding that after an entire evening of forced social niceties at a gala he hadn’t wanted to host, he, quite frankly, deserved to spit the first rude thing that came to his mind at his . . . he took a long sip of his drink . . . one-sided workplace adversary. “Not from you, Stewart.”
Aaron, to his credit, simply took the barbed words in stride, pulled out the chair across from Call, and seated himself. His every movement was infuriatingly beautiful and gracefully-inhuman, hell, the man himself was infuriatingly beautiful, he looked perfect, he acted perfect, he was perfect. God, how Call hated him.
Aaron steepled his fingers together, “Well, I’m the only reporter from the Daily Planet here right now.” He had the audacity to smile. His teeth were as white and straight as he was.
“So I suppose I just imagined Tamara Rajavi clinging to your arm earlier as you entered the building?” It took Call a moment to find the bronze-skinned woman wearing a camera around her neck and the brightest red dress he’d ever seen. She stood by the punch fountain studying her half-emptied glass as if it where the most interesting thing in the world, although Call thought the behavior had something more to do with fending off the handsy old man she’d just manage to pry away from her body than a genuine interest in crystal glassware.
“Tamara’s here as a photographer, Jasper called in sick.” Aaron said, following Call’s gaze with his own. His golden brows furrowed.
“Excuse me,” he got up from the table hastily, leaving his notebook and pen behind. “I have to go . . . help her before she punches someone.”
He wove through the crowd of people easily, as if it were second nature, as if he had grown up inside the rings of Gotham’s high society instead of on a farm in rural Kansas. Call’s eyes lingered on the other man’s retreating back longer than he wanted to admit, thoughts tumbling through his head, before he forcefully turned his attention back to the table and the champagne in his hand. Call sucked in a hissing breath at the sight of black ink spilling from the pen Aaron had left uncapped, staining the pristine white tablecloth. He grabbed the pen, and then, after a moment of reflection, dragged the notepad over to him as well.
———————————————————————
When Aaron had finally returned, Tamara Rajavi trailing in his wake, he’d found his pen capped and set in an emptied champagne glass, the cotton tablecloth splattered with dry ink, and a series of paragraphs scribbled across yellowing paper in a tight, looping scrawl. The reporters had mingled some more, gathered their things, and then left, Tamara driving, Aaron studying the handwritten papers.
“Well,” Tamara said, “at least we know he’s still a dick.” She took a quick swig of her lemonade. “On the clock as a superhero or not.” Lounging on Aaron’s rickety couch, heels discarded, blood-red dress with its plunging necklace exchanged for an old t-shirt and soft shorts, hair unbraided, and eyes halfway closed, she looked very comfortable. Aaron was glad for his friend, even if he wished he could feel some of the same solace.
“I thought he was remarkably civil.” Aaron responded, posture knife-straight as he typed into his word processor. The dim light blurred across his face in the otherwise dark room.
“You would.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, have you looked in a mirror lately? Your Mr.-Goody-Two-Shoes. You like everyone, even when you shouldn’t.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“That’s what I’m here for, Superman.” Her words were slurred, sleep dragging her down into its embrace.
#magisterium#magisterium series#the magisterium series#callum hunt#call hunt#aaron stewart#tamara rajavi#jasper dewinter#dc comics#dc comcis crossover#inspired by superbat#coworkers to lovers#friends to lovers#(one-sided) enemies to lovers#calron
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