#and some of these people are so fucking vicious about it its not only toxic as shit but it feels like you cant say anything right if you
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The Aftermath
Summary- Near death experiences have a habit of changing relationships.
Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. DUBCON due to persuasion. Female reader. Arguments. Bigotry/Islamophobia. Discussions of near death experiences/trauma. Dark-ish/toxic Billy. Fingering. P in V sex.
Author's Note- Okay so I've never actually seen the show in its entirety because it's not available in my country so I'm working off the wikia and what I've seen in scenes. Please forgive any mistakes/misinformation, he looked too sad and pathetic not to write for. Full link below :)
She doesn't bother to knock when she arrives at Billy's flat, storming inside with little regard for his privacy. He had given her a key not long after he moved in, promising that she could come over whenever she wanted, though she isn't sure this is what he had in mind at the time.
She makes her way passed the trash building up at the front door, forcing her way inside and finding him exactly where she expects to, lounging on the couch with some football game playing on the TV. He sits up when he spots her in the doorway, the smile that graces his face when he sees her slowly fading when he catches sight of her expression. She is sure it is a storm, her anger obvious, but she doesn't give him a chance to speak first.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
He looks at her blankly for a moment before a realization seems to come over him. "Lana told you then?"
"Yeah, Lana told me. What the hell were you thinking?"
He rolls his eyes, pushing forward to grab the beer bottle sitting on the coffee table and taking a swig. Her eyes catch the cuts on his knuckles, the opposite hand covered with a bloodied bandage, and watches the skin between his brows crease when the abused skin stretches. "Why does it matter to you? It's not like anyone was there anyway, was there? And you can't tell me they didn't deserve it."
"Why does it- Billy, you're not this stupid."
In all the years she's known him, she has never known him to be cruel. Quiet and insecure, surely, but never vicious. She almost hadn't believed Lana when she had called her, informing her of the one man attack he had pulled at the butcher's. It seemed so entirely out of character from the friend she had always known it nearly scared her, hearing about how he had destroyed the storefront for the crime of being owned by a Muslim family. But more than fear, it made her skin crawl, a disgust for him she had never felt toiling in her gut.
She isn't an idiot. She knows how he has been struggling lately. From his breakup with Becky to his consistent unemployment to his family ragging on him to make something of himself. Nothing has been easy for him as of late but she never would have expected him to let his rage out like this.
"If you only came here to bite my head off about it, save us both the trouble, yeah? Lana already beat you to it."
"So you don't regret it at all? Any of it?"
She wants him to say yes. And not just for the criminal record he has now contracted for it but for the guilt of screwing over innocent people. She wants him to prove that he is still her friend, to believe that he hasn't fallen down this path without so much as a blink.
He does little to assuage her fears. "What do I have to regret about it?"
Her disgust increases tenfold with that- she is grateful for it, as it manages to cover the pain of his confession- and she feels her face contort. "Why would you do it? What was the point?"
"They're the reason the world has gone to shit. It's 'cause of people like them, their whole fucked up religion. They're the animals here, not me."
She physically recoils at that, not bothering to hide her repulsion now. "Jesus Christ, Billy."
"Well I don't expect you to understand it. You're too nice, got a fucking bleeding heart for every poor bastard that walks past ya. It's 'cause of people like you that Nick and I-"
That catches her attention. "Nick? Was someone else with you when you went to the butcher?"
His face drops as if he realizes he has said something wrong but he still shakes his head as nonchalantly as he can manage. It isn't indifferent in the slightest. "Nah. Just my friend."
Read the rest here
#billy Washington x reader#billy Washington x fem!reader#billy Washington x you#billy Washington smut#billy washington trigger point#billy washington#trigger point#trigger point 2022#billy Washington fanfic#billy Washington fanfiction
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Cobweb Summer: A Modern! Aemond Targaryen x Reader fic
Aemond has liked you since he met you, so much so that your room in the Targaryen summer estate has an adjoining bathroom to him. He supports your indie Perfume and Cologne brand and makes sure you get invites to every red carpet event his family can pulls strings with. Aemond wants nothing more than to give you his mother's ring one day. the only problem? You've been in a PR stunt of a relationship with his older brother for the past two years, and you've just caused a public scandal. aegon x reader, aemond x reader
A/N, Warnings, etc: this came to me in a dream but im only gonna continue if like, people like this lol. drinking, smoking, toxic relationships, cheating, tmz is its own warning, this'll get explicit later
Aemond swipes up on the app for twitter, sick of all of the judgement and commentary he sees, and most of all, pictures of you. It’s not you that he minds, it’s the fact that in said pictures you’re wrapped around Aegon and smiling and showing off diamonds he draped you in accompanied by vicious rumors of infidelity and gold digging. It’s just as you said would happen, and he contemplates venmoing you a courtesy five to accept your inevitable ‘I told you so’ rant later tonight.
BOSS BABE AND OLD MONEY: RECIPE FOR DISASTER? (Link: popcrave)
Of course Y/n would try to disgrace the Targaryens, she was a STARFUCKER at the end of the day.
… tarnishing the Targaryen name…
Countless other tweets using words to describe you that make Aemond want to commit some terroristic crime. No one should speak about you like that, even if you called it ahead of time.
It’s almost exactly what you said they’d say when he found you on the balcony Saturday morning.
You looked beautiful, you always do, but this time in a perfectly disheveled way. You’re barefoot on the balcony of your bedroom, make up smeared, hair wild, your Vivienne Westwood dress from last night bunched up and wrinkled, your collar of necklaces askew and more than a few had turned so the clasps were resting along your throat. You were smoking one of his cigarettes, staring down below.
“Rough morning?” Aemond remembers asking, and now feels stupid for even saying anything. It wasn’t like you to look anything other than put together. He’d come to your room that morning to find it empty, which was not unusual, ready to flop himself on your bed and smoke and chat shit before breakfast like he was doing every morning this summer.
You looked at him, eyes red and rimmed with unshed tears, and something in Aemond broke. He’d seen you angry, seen you throw glasses and screech and threaten to stab his brother with your Louboutins. He’d held you in a way a boyfriend’s brother probably shouldn’t while you, hungover, did a social media wipe to purge Aegon’s reputation of the night before.
“Wanna watch the beans dry with me?” you asked. What the fuck? Aemond, puzzled, looked down below the balcony, and sure enough there were baked beans dumped onto the hood of Aegon’s white Range Rover.
“Why beans?” Aemond asked, knowing it was probably deserved.
“Lysa informed me that once they dry you have to get the entire paint job redone,” you say, “But it’s been like two hours and they still look wet.”
“Hmm,” Aemond couldn’t think of something to say. He had no doubt Aegon deserved whatever got his car covered in beans. Aegon was always doing something.
“Lysa also informed me that she found Aeg this morning in bed with Baela’s plus one,” you rolled your eyes, and Aemond noticed how pretty your make up from last night looked, even if smeared.
Last night had been your birthday celebration, a bacchanal of a fancy dress party on the grounds of the Targaryen summer estate, a sprawling castle with a lake. You’d picked fairy tales as a theme, everyone in corsets and embellished Rococo era frocks and wings and suits of armor. You’d blown out the candles with your supposedly loving boyfriend and took pictures for the press and everything looked perfect. It wasn’t uncommon for you and Aegon to sleep separately, in fact, it was so common Alicent made sure you had your own room in both the regular house and the summer estate, which Aemond was sure you had to be thankful for.
Apparently despite the party, all was not well, which was no surprise when it came to Aegon doing his part. Aegon had a habit of pulling these kinds of stunts, but never so publicly disrespectful as to let you and the maids find out. You were fine with indiscretions, as you had told Aemond once, but not with humiliation or disrespect. He could have someone’s on the side of this sham of a public relations stunt, as long as he didn’t make you look like a fool. You hadn’t had yours, whether it be from actual affection or just laziness, Aemond didn’t know. Which he figured was odd, as he thought he knew you well. You were his friend first before all of this mess, as it was.
“I’m sorry,” he offered, and he remembers how you scoffed at him.
“Why? It’s not like you would fuck someone at my birthday party,” you ashed your cigarette dangerously close to his hand where it rested on the stone railing.
It was unsurprising when Aemond hit his older brother in front of the guests after breakfast.
In the aftermath of the weekend, all of the revelers have left, and Aegon in his ruined Range Rover having gone back to his penthouse in King’s Landing again to pretend to work from home for the firm. It’s not that Aemond hates his brother, he as quite a bit of love for him, but Aemond lost any desire to go clubbing or on a boys weekend with him once this arrangement between you and he began, and his temper has been more than erratic.
Aemond knows you’re probably reading all of this, probably distracting yourself from work and making yourself sick. He pushes himself off the couch in the main parlor and takes himself through the seemingly endless corridors, through his bedroom, through your shared bathroom, and into your bedroom. He only needs to look up, to the little lofted study Alicent had contractors build for you; Alicent has quite the affection for you, most likely because of your importance to at least two of her children, and because the two of you gossip like fiends about your shared favorite authors.
“I told you so,” you say, not even bothering to look away from your macbook, absolute venom in your tone.
“What would you have me do? Kill my brother? Kill Isla?” He asks, quickly climbing the little spiral staircase with his long legs, “You say the word, I’ll do anything for my oldest friend.”
You don’t make any comment about how realistically you’re the only friend he has that he isn’t related to.
“Who’s Isla?” You ask, only now looking at him.
“She’s…”
“Oh,” you realize, “Never say that name again.”
Aemond grimaces.
“C’mon,” he motions, urging you up from where you sit cross legged on your chair. You stay put, turning back to your phone. You unlock it and pull up your messages, then thrusting your phone into his hand.
It’s a thread of texts between you and his brother.
Aegon’s Number: TMZ will back off if I give you my mother’s ring, is that what you want?
Your Number: That ring is Helaena’s. I want to break up.
Aegon’s Number: Helaena gets MY family’s ring. I’ll give you mother’s family ring. It will look nice in your perfume ads.
Your Number: Charming, really Aeg. I told you not to humiliate me and you could not even do that. This arrangement is over, I’ll say it was amicable.
Aegon’s Number: What will the tabloids say about you and your little start up when we break up but you’re still deeply enmeshed in my family? Don’t forget that reputation matters to you.
Your Number: Don’t forget I am Aemond’s friend first, you are a business partnership.
Aegon’s Number: I love you too!
Aemond hums, scowling as he hands your phone back to you. He despises his grandfather and father for a moment, for putting you through this.
Had he known that bringing you home for his birthday after meeting at a professional development course would mean you being subjected to Aegon for two years now, he would have never brought you.
“Let me get you out of here,” Aemond offers, hoping a dip in the lake or a game of croquet will bring you some joy.
“Can’t,” you sigh, “I’m doing damage control.”
You point to the screen, a bunch of analytics pulled up and at least thirty tabs open.
“Can I keep you company then?” Aemond asks. You shrug noncommittally, and turn back to your laptop.
Aemond gathers a bunch of pillows, and lays on his stomach amidst them on the floor. Silence settles peacefully between the two of you, and it’s genuinely nice.
Aemonds phone vibrates, and reluctantly, he reaches for it.
Reading the notification, he realizes this is probably the last moment you and his family will have peace for quite a while.
He decides against showing you his phone.
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also sorry to send two asks in a row but do you ever consider the moral dilemma ricks have if they genuienly develop feelings like (prepare for a ramble i am SO sorry)
"i fell in love with myself, from another universe" THATS GOTTA POSE AT LEAST SOME MENTAL INSTABILITY. how would you feel if the most beautiful person youve ever met (personality wise at least) was a slightly different version of yourself, or if you were cloned and suddenly you developed feelings??? how would that even work??? imagine the judgement too bro that would be insane
AUTOSEXUALITY???? does it even matter if your partner looks ridiculously similar to you or not??? i think part of the reason why opposites attract a lot of the time is because genetic diversity gives an evolutionary advantage but in a scenario when thats completely thrown out the window how does that work? would prime and c137 rick have the same genetics??? Hefhv.dnbabmvvjdk
i think too much my thinking has thonked its last thunk
DUDE WGAT NO WAY YOU FUCKING HIT ME WITH A CRISIS AFTER MY DAY COSPALYING @ SCHOOL 😭😭/lh (<= written when I first red that)
I THINK ITS PART OF THE APPEAL like Ricks find the world around them so futile and disgusting they resort to settle with the only people who share the same hyper specific views of the world as them. In my opinion, it’s where most of Prickcests conflicts comes from, Prime likes C137 for his brains and his ability to solve problems in a way that’s different enough for him to not have considered it but can’t possibly understand why he cares so much about anything else than their relationship and it’s kind of the same for C137, he’s extremely smart and autistic so being understood and feeling seen is kind of his grail. Prime gives him just that plus the thrill of being a little bit fucked up in the head.
But we’re talking about general rick4rick relationship not… Their frustrating particular case lol although I can’t help but mention them since Prime (in the garage talk) explained so well the perks of only being around other version of himself. As a Rick the things you love and hate the most are yourself, it makes up for such interesting conflict because trying to ignore someone’s toxic traits is impossible and trying to mold them into the idealized version of them you got in your head is straight up manipulative. The vicious circle of stubbornness and love and hope and escapism leading to rick4rick relationship always violently falling apart is so fascinating to me and you completely understood one of the key elements for why it’s this way…
THANK YOU cinna, thank you for sending this ask it literally rearranged some of my atoms, shook my whole world and bursted a door open in the back of my mind
#prickcest#rickcest#rick sanchez#rick and morty#i love the concept of autosexuality because imagine loving parts of yourself so deeply you can imagine a future build only with yourself#as in like an entity that separated from you but identical and even mirroring you#although I think for ricks it’s more of a sapiosexual deal#(even if intelligence is an arbitrary social construct#)#they’re ricks#they share their definitions of intelligence yknow#YOU THUNK THOUGHTS ARE SO INTERESTING TO ME#GRHHH I LOVE YOU AND I HOPE I WAS ABLE TO BRING YOU SOME MORE MATERIAL TO THINK!!!!#ade rambles
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💙- Vent. TW suicide baiting mention, lots of cussing. Replies of any kind OK, idc just need to put this out there
We're a DID system, professionally diagnosed. And we just need to get this off our chest - The DID/OSDD is the single most toxic, hateful, exclusionary, and controlling community we've ever interacted with. That includes communities for every other demographic we occupy (queer, autistic, personality disorder, etc) and every single subculture / fandom we've been apart of as well. .
First of all, the anti-endo shit. Despite being [partially] traumagenic and heavily disordered, we're passionately supportive of endos. And oh boy you better believe that means we get excluded and harassed right away. We've been told to kill ourselves, been told we're lying about our diagnosis and trauma, been told we deserved our trauma, that they hope it happens again, etc. All for the crime of *checks notes* believing that people can determine their own subjective, internal experiences :|
Pretty much all other forms of syscourse are awful too. The fact that there's been entire blogs on here dedicated to trying to spot fakers. The fact that having too many alters or fictives, or not having enough, or not being able to afford a diagnosis, or having weird system experiences, can all get your fakeclaimed. The fact that now people are debating over whether or not OSDD-1a "counts" as a system.
The entire community is absolutely obsessed with controlling how others identify and what qualifies as being a system. They attempt to put boundaries around how severe your trauma has to be, or what age the trauma happens at. They're genuinely willing to look a trauma survivor in the face and say, "Well actually, since your trauma happened when you were 10 years old its impossible for you to be a system, teehee sorry, your own internal experiences don't matter <3".
They think that psychiatrists are the be-all-end-all of every neurodivergent experience Ever, despite how psychiatry has historically been wildly racist, sexist, queerphobic, and just generally suppresses people who don't fit into the norm.
They also try to dictate what recovery looks like for literally everyone, that you should want final fusion. Or if they're ok with functional multiplicity, that you should want to have as few alters as possible, and that they all have to be as normal as possible. Introjects are told that being close to their source is inherently anti-recovery. Every kind of system experience is treated as inherently pathological and something that should be fixed.
And yeah, I know that this obviously not applicable to everyone in the community. Some of these statements are relatively niche arguments, but they're all real ones I've actually seen people debating over. And more importantly, the community fosters these kinds of shitty awful takes because the entire community is built around control and exclusion. It keeps getting taken further and further entire more and more systems are being squeezed out, and only the few Acceptable systems remain.
Thank god we have the plural community, which obviously has it problems too, but the DID/OSDD community is so vitriolic, so vicious towards the "wrong kind" of trauma survivors, and so exclusionary that it is entirely antithetical to recovery and healing as a system. Its so fucking awful, and I hate it more than anything.
💙 - Vent
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I was just about to go to bed. I was thinking about all the time ive spent the last few weeks with my friends. We talk, we play games together, we stream, we watch videos and trade stupid memes. We support each other. Then I had a realization.
A bit of backstory first, for anyone who doesn't know (how could you not? I never shut up). Growing up, my dad worked all the time to provide for us, so I spent all of my time with my mother and sister. Over time, this developed in to "I dont know how to interact with guys." I mean, I do. Now. As long as its not the hypertoxic, hyper masculine nightmare that I have abhored since I was young.
I have always hung out with girls. In school, 4 of my closest friends were girls. I was always surrounded by a group of girls. I'd rather sit with them. Yeah, I know they can be toxic and vicious and gross too. But for whatever reason, I can talk to girls in a way that I can't talk to guys. (There are always exceptions to the rule, and yes, a couple of my dearest friends are guys, and we can vibe)
Anyway, on to my realization. A large portion of my friends are trans. There is an inside joke about this that is way too funny, and I still giggle when I think about it. Some of my friends I knew before they figured out that they are trans, some I met just after, and some have been on HRT for a time.
I have surrounded myself with people who have every right to be angry, to hurt others, to hate the world. Not for who they are, but for how they are perceived and treated. What the US government is doing might be the most disgusting thing I have heard about since the 1930s. My friends have been spat on, they cant go outside as themselves, some have been verbally and physically attacked. And every other trans person has to live woth that thought every day. They have every right in the world to want to destroy people like me. Cis, White, American males who have grown up knowing little to no hardship (I do whine a lot, but that's for the other bits of my blog) and being happy and comfortabla and feeling at home in my skin.
But they don't. They aren't mean. They are warm, and genuine, and wholesome, and caring, and doting, and loving. Every single trans person I know, without fail, is a lovely human being.
From personal experience alone, they have gone out of their way to make me feel included, and important. They help me when I need help, they spend time with me, they do things that I'm interested in and talk about my topics of interest. They support me in new and ever expanding ways. And they're happy to do it. Its not false, they aren't trying to get something out of it. In all reality, I dont have a lot to offer and I'm pretty clear about that when I start talking to new people.
They are just kind. I can't say for sure why that is, but I strongly suspect they get up every day and see the hatred aimed at them and consciously decide to be a positive force in the universe, even when they're being beaten down.
I am awe inspired. I want to be a better person and a better friend because my friends are so good to me. And frankly, I dont deserve them.
I was a terrible fucking person just 5 or 6 years ago. All the usual tropes apply, I'm not going into it here. If you care enough ask in the comments.
But for all of that, and yes, I have talked with each of them about what a PoS I was, they still show me love and kindness. I dont deserve friends like that, but I will forever try to earn the love and respect they have shown me.
Please, if you can, please hug your trans friend for me today. Because none of mine are close enough, and the only thing I want in this world is to show them that they are genuinely loved. And who doesn't like hugs?
Growing up, I had friends. Who doesn't? Some were good, some were better, some were bad. But what I never had was a family. And that's exactly what this is. I hate calling it a found family, because I didn't "find" them, they saved me. We are together, as a cooperative group for the betterment of each other and the world around us.
I will endeavor every single day to make the world around me better, and try to show the genuine compassion and caring my family has shown me, to others.
That joke? My handle across every single platform is Fox, in one manner or another. I have adopted it, and for all intents and purposes it is me. Foxes like eggs. Its a small thing, but when my friend said it to me, I thought my heart exploded. I was allowed to be included. I am included, I'm not secondary or tertiary, I'm not on the sidelines. I may forever be the wallflower of the family, the one who is willing to walk behind everyone else because the sidewalk isnt wide enough, but I will forever sleep better because you let me be part of the family.
I have unconsciously surrounded myself with people who will show me patience and kindness, compassion and love. I might not have gotten enough of that growing up and that's why I searched it out. But I have found the place I belong, and it's only fair that everyone else does too.
I say this all the time, but I hope its not too old. Thank you for letting me be a part of your lives, letting yourself be shared with me. I love you so dearly (this goes for all of my family and friends, but i bet you already knew that) that my heart feels it might burst.
And seriously, go hug your trans friend today. Just pick one, give them a warm, attentive hug, and when you pull apart, tell them you love them. Dont ever stop telling your friends you love them.
I generally dont farm interactions, it feels cheap. I mean this with all sincerity: tell me about your trans friend in the comments. I dont care if its one sentence or one thousand, I want to hear something you love about them.
So for once, new rule: do interact, do comment and repost. I want to hear about them.
💚
#actually autistic#transgender#trans rights#wholesome#found family#appreciation post#thankful#i finally feel like i belong#long post#hugs and kisses#stronger with support#support
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I was recently asked if there was ever a time I thought “I’m too old for Newsies” or just refused to acknowledge its existence. The answer is yes.
I joined a fan group for the movie not long after I graduated high school (2002/2003), I’ll admit I came off as awkward and obnoxious but there were middle schoolers who were downright annoying. The whole point of the group was just to geek out and have fun, write fan fiction, hold little contests, and discuss this movie. One of the administrators formed a hate boner for me and proceeded to bully and threaten me, encouraged others to do the same. Then came the blacklisting that led to me leaving. I was run off a fan page for liking a character in a Disney movie, see if you can figure that one out because I still can’t. It went from exchanging cards that had things like “never change the sweet person you are” to seeing me as some kind of toxic bitch. I found out later, I was not the only victim of this vicious treatment, this particular administrator was out of control.
I tried to hold onto Newsies by continuing my little obsession over on MySpace but the damage was done. The soundtrack was replaced with emo/punk music, Jack Kelly was replaced with the likes of Billie Joe Armstrong, Jared Leto, and Gerard Way. I didn’t watch the movie for nearly a decade. I found out years later that said administrator was a huge Bumlets fan, on that group there was a “Biggest newsboy fan of the year”, the entire group voted and she always got Bumlets fan except for one year I did. That’s when she decided I had to leave the group. From the attitude shift toward me I quickly figured out she said shit in late night chats and that’s why people so easily went along with the blacklisting. I wasn’t the only one in that stupid fucking group who liked Bumlets but because I won that dumbass contest she had a massive bitchfest. The other administrator liked Spot and I clearly remember other people getting voted as the biggest fan, it wasn’t just her every year. So my question is, how does this affect your life? Will you be refused a full time job because you’re not the biggest Bumlets fan of 2005?
After I graduated college I was moving boxes and came across my Newsies DVD. I at first had no interest in watching it again, I actually thought about putting it in the “sell” box but I sat down and watched it. That’s when I realized it wasn’t the movie that dished out all that mental/emotional abuse years earlier. There was such a flood of memories that came back, why I loved and embraced this movie, why I walked away from it, I was overwhelmed. In recent years I have come in contact with a lot of people from the group because I seriously have zero interest in holding grudges. Those individuals did what they did, I was hurt for a period of time, but it’s been 20 years since all that happened and at this point it’s just a memory.
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idk man i dont wanna say anything but i gotta dump these thoughts out, theyre driving me crazy
its long and rambly so idk, warning?? :/
edit: oh my god it was so much fucking longer and a bunch of stuff i said isnt there that might change how someone might want to reply to this, bc apparently theres a fucking tag limit tumblr didnt notify me of when i reached it i want to CHUG CLOROX FUCKING CHRIST
and i said not to reblog, PLEASE instead send asks or reply to the post at the end so guess i gotta say that here now thanks tumblr you fuck
#all these people acting like Sean has changed into some kinda bad person or whatever are so exhausting#not that theyre starting drama or anything but theyre acting like hes changed so much#i.. have been watching him for like 5 years and i havent noticed any ''bad changes'' thatd warrant so much '':/'' attitude from people#hes gotten more mature & hes not stressing himself over every little opinion/thing?#and any person you talk to that thinks hes ''changed'' will say ''thats not it!!! thats not the point!!!!#and then the things they claim are bad are... mostly nitpicky things?? or theyre completely misunderstanding or smth along those lines#or making things out to be bad when they arent?#or some of them are still dragging on about issues that are out of his control or he just.. rlly doesnt need to worry abt much?#theres very very very few things ive seen pointed out that Actually make sense to me#and some of these people are so fucking vicious about it its not only toxic as shit but it feels like you cant say anything right if you#disagree with them. :/ or they act like ur fucking stupid for not seeing whatever bs they see?#and some people just do nothing but fester in their beef w him and talk about it 24/7#like if youre not having a good time or dont enjoy him anymore let yourself move on#AND PEOPLE GET SO OFFENDED BY THAT WTF#THERES NO PROBLEM W SAYING THAT#ITS NOT ''OH YOU HATE HIM GTFO''#ITS SAYING ''DONT LET YOURSELF BE UNHAPPY- IF THINGS ARENT CHANGING OR ONLY GETTING WORSE IN YOUR OPINION THEN#DONT FEEL BAD FOR MOVING ON''#like some people are sticking around and theyre super unhappy and just... unnecessarily volatile abt this stuff#acting like they expect Sean to read their stuff specifically and if he doesnt hes being ignorant and pretending nothing is wrong or some sh#and some people dont even put their issues in the tag for the sake of keeping the tag free of discourse which i respect but#you cant Do that AND expect him to see your stuff or address whatever youre talking abt? esp your posts specifically?#and then theres the people that get pissy when you call their shit discourse#like... its an opinion that not everyone agrees w- its.. technically discourse#not drama- discourse#drama is just all around gross and yikes#discourse is like.. opinions and stuff that are usually strongly believed and theres usually 2+ sides to an issue#ofc people can turn discourse into drama and often do but its not like.. instantly nasty#discourse- while often super intense at times CAN be civil#whereas drama is straight up bs thats a nightmare to be involved in
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Surely, Surely Not
tw // major character death, descriptions of violence/gore
A creative transcription/interpretation of Tubbo’s execution and the aftermath
Collaboration with @hyalinepandora
He’d been straightforward and direct with his words, directed to the gathered festival-goers. There was no humor to his tone, only an honest attempt at sincerity as he welcomed the festivities.
He felt terribly ill when Schlatt laughed.
“Wh-what’s wrong, Schlatt?” He had a feeling he knew. He didn’t want to. It took all his control not to stare down Wilbur and Tommy, to keep himself from trembling.
Was it time? Was it time for the festivities to begin? He held the president’s stare.
“No, it’s just-” Schlatt sighed, rolling his neck, snapping forward the lapels of his suit, picking away some non-existent fiber that had gone awry. “-I was just thinking about it, Tubbo. You know how we like to have fun.”
“Yeah, we like-” He cut to the chase. “What’s up, Schlatt.”
He felt Quackity’s gaze bore into the back of his neck. He straightened.
Remain steady. You’ve done nothing wrong.
Still, it felt difficult to breathe. The air was thick with danger and it pressed down on his chest. He curled his hands into fists, keeping them from shaking. He was not scared. But he was more anxious than he’d ever been.
Surely Schlatt wouldn’t kill him. He’d never raise a hand against him- he was his right hand man. His protégé. And surely he didn’t know about his work with the Pogtopians. He was- he tried so hard to be discreet about it. Of course he was safe. Schlatt trusted him. He’d never given him reason to doubt.
“You got anything else in the speech?”
Tubbo’s eyes darted frantically, a huge, shaky smile cracking over his face as he finally decided. Schlatt’s tone was so intimidating, confrontational, and he was not safe.
“No! No, let the festival begin.”
He wanted to collapse with relief. His knees shook as he watched Wilbur sweep away under the cover of darkness- it was so difficult to see him. He was out of danger. He was safe. His shoulders slumped. He moved to make a run for it, before he was caught in the detonation of Manburg, and was stopped by an iron grip on his shoulder. He flinched.
“You done with the speech?” Schlatt repeated. Tubbo was so still. He slowly nodded, unnerved by the warning in Schlatt’s voice, his flinty gaze. The torchlight was extinguished by them, he noticed.
“Y-yeah, I’m done with the speech, Schlatt.”
“...Alright.” Schlatt shrugged, voice dismissive. When he spoke again, his voice was hardly more than a murmur, business-like and factual.
“Here, uh, Quackity, take some of this.”
“What are you- what are you-” His words lodged in his throat, burning.
Surely not.
Schlatt passed Quackity concrete. The powder was so bright, it was like a flame in the night. It was unnaturally yellow, such a clear color despite the darkness, the starkness of it churned his stomach. He loved yellow. It was happy. It was peaceful. It was sweet and warm. But this was a warning. It was a hazard. Radiation! Toxic! Danger! Get away! Hazardous material! He tried to tear his shoulder from Schlatt’s grip. It was futile.
Schlatt held him by the shoulders as Quackity placed concrete around him. His grip had always been a little too tight.
“Schlatt, what are you- Schlatt. Schlatt!”
It hurt his eyes to look at so much yellow. The blackstone absorbed the light, the concrete reflected it, and it was a screaming ‘warning’ sign. It was dangerous. It was poison. It was a toxin. He breathed in the dust. Schlatt released him once he was encased. Everything happened so quickly, he was frozen to the earth. Panic rose in him, warring with his sense to remain composed.
Stay straight! Remain level-headed! See the people! They all see you, they’re all watching you! You’re the main attraction! You’re the festivity they came to see! Go out with a bang, Tubbo! Give them a show worth remembering!
“Schlatt, what are you doing?”
He threw himself at the fence, desperate to wrench it away, but it failed to give out.
Look at you, an animal! You’ve gone rabid and desperate! A lamb to the slaughter! Look how they’ve caged you like a beast! You’re an animal, Tubbo! See your horns! Never cry, never show weakness! What will your people think! Look, how they’ve trapped you like an animal! An animal! A sheep in wolf’s clothing, you are! A two-faced, double-lived spy!
So many lessons, so many criticisms and conflicting tips.
Hurry, Wilbur. He was so self-reliant, but here he was, reduced to desperation, dependence in what he was certain was his execution. Confusion rose from the audience. They didn’t know what was happening.
“Schlatt?”
Neither did he.
“Uhm, Schlatt? Schlatt?!”
Water dampened his suit as the concrete was made to solidify. Schlatt didn’t answer him, mumbling into the microphone incoherently. Tubbo tried his best to come across as knowing what was happening, like this was just a joke, a prank they were pulling on him. It was such a show, an attraction. He tried to add laughter to his voice, though no one was making jokes. This was not a joke. He chuckled nervously.
“Tubbo? Tubbo, I’ll cut to the fucking chase, alright?”
“Tell ‘em! Tell ‘em, Pres!” Quackity chimed in, so delightfully vicious. So he would do nothing to prevent this, either.
“What? Wha- What?” His voice came out so shaky and nervous. He laughed breathily, trying to sound relaxed.
This couldn’t be happening. Surely not.
“Tubbo, it-” Schlatt cut himself off, sighing. Tubbo shouldered the wall, finding it unyielding. With Schlatt now standing in front of him, eye-to-eye, Tubbo let the forced laughter leave his voice.
“Schlatt, Schlatt. I can’t get out, Schlatt.”
“And I mean it- it really sucks, having to say this, right here in front of everybody.” The president took a step back, so Tubbo could feel the head of one hundred thousand eyes, every single voice silent. Their voiceless whispers hurt his ears. He couldn’t possibly meet every gaze, couldn’t plead with them all. They were motionless. Unresponsive. Stagnant and watchful and compliant.
You’re letting this happen?
“And it’s kind of awkward.”
“Schlatt, I can’t get out!”
Schlatt pressed on, indifferent to his protests. Somewhere, between the static of his thoughts and Schlatt’s voice, he heard a softer protest in the crowd begging to free him, but the plea missed its mark.
“Tubbo- Tubbo. I know what you’ve been up to.”
“Yeah? Yeah, what have I been up to?” It was a demand. He was afraid, and he was stupid.
“What are you talking about?” And there went the demand, and he cursed himself for sounding afraid. Quackity chuckled as Schlatt mocked the question.
“Oooh, ‘what have I been up to,’ he says. ‘What have I been up to’.” Schlatt’s laugh was nothing short of villainous, Quackity’s laugh echoing the sentiment.
How could he know?
“Schlatt, I’m actually- I’m actually trapped in here, Schlatt.”
“You’ve been CONSPIRING! With the- with the IDIOTS, with the TYRANTS, that we KICKED OUT OF this server. That we KICKED OUT OF this great country. Months ago.”
His heart dropped.
How does he know.
“Tubbo, I don’t know, ah, I don’t know if you know this, but treason-”
“I don’t-”
“-Treason isn’t exactly, ah-”
“I think-”
“- a respectable thing around here. I know what you’ve been doing- IT ALL ADDS UP, buddy.”
Tubbo cowered from his voice. His horns scraped on the walls and the sound ricocheted in his skull.
“The fucking TUNNELS, your- your ABSCENCE from GREAT EVENTS- you walked off in the middle of this one!”
Tubbo had nothing to say. He couldn’t defend himself. It was true.
“Uh-” “You walked off in the middle of this one, Tubbo. Don’t try and tell me you’ve done nothing wrong.” His voice was so accusing, angry, and he wondered if Schlatt was hurt that he’d betrayed him. He didn’t regret it.
“Because everyone sees it! I sees it with my own two fucking eyes, what you’ve been doing.”
He was speechless. Schlatt watched him expectantly, but there was no rebuttal to be given. He stuttered and searched for something to say, but he came up empty. Schlatt met his gaze with such intensity he felt his eyes burn. Maybe it was tears. Schlatt sighed.
“Do you know what happens to, uh, traitors, Tubbo?”
“No…?” But he did. The knowledge scorched his chest. It was so silent. Tubbo’s ears rang. Schlatt turned, faced the audience with a grand gesture and grin, a grin that quickly soured into a horrible grimace.
“Nothing good.”
Tubbo slouched against the wall for support.
“Hey, uh, Technoblade! You wanna come up here for a second?” “Come up here, come up, Technoblade. Come up to the podium.” Quackity only ever served as Schlatt’s echo.
Tubbo’s eyes widened. Of course, Technoblade! His ally, the only one who could save him. He thought there was no hope, he thought he was to be shot like a dog, but there was hope in the gallery, adorned with a crown and tusks. He quickly advanced as Schlatt continued speaking.
“Let’s just send a message real quick. We like to send messages around here.” Schlatt looked around for agreement, continued on with a few uneasy nods.
“Now that we got Tubbo here in this- in this-” He cut himself off with a low, delighted chuckle. “In this Tub-box.” Tubbo grit his teeth, clenched his jaw. He really was just a spectacle. He shied back from the derisive laughter.
“Look him right in the eyes.” Techno positioned himself in front of Tubbo, his eyes dark and untelling. Tubbo had no idea what he felt despite his nervous laughter.
Please stop this.
“Tubbo, as the enemy of the state, and as, uh, perpetrator, to these, ah, these awful, awful people…”
Tubbo stuttered, stared death in the eyes as realization grasped his heart in talons.
“Technoblade, please, please, if you would, if you would be so kind.”
“What- what are you asking, Schlatt?”
The voice of the blood god was terribly innocuous , awfully anxious. Everyone knew exactly what Schlatt was asking.
“Take care of this traitor.”
Technoblade paused, and Tubbo saw his hesitation.
Don’t do it. You won’t. You wouldn’t. Surely not. Technoblade was armed to the teeth.
“Technoblade, we’re running on a tight schedule.”
“I don’t know what you’re asking, Mr. President.” They were all playing dumb. Schlatt chuckled.
“Listen, I mean, we- I only call you in for special favors. I mean, we go way back, right.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“This man-” Schlatt gestured to Tubbo. He shrank away. “-this man needs a special favor.”
And there was Quackity, now, finally shouldering his way in.
“Wait, Schlatt, what are you actually talking about?” Perhaps finally, he realized what was going on, what Schlatt’s intent was. Perhaps now he would help.
“Techno, I need you to take him out.”
It was too late.
Protests finally rose out, loud and overwhelming as it was made clear that this was not a prank, it was not a joke. It was an execution. And Schlatt’s patience ran thin.
“I NEED YOU TO KILL TUBBO, on this FUCKING STAGE RIGHT NOW. And MAKE IT HURT.”
It was so silent, it was almost comedic. Techno stuttered, took a step back. The audience shouted, roiled and revolted, but were silenced by Schlatt’s furious response.
“I'LL HAVE NO TRAITORS IN MY GODDAMN COUNTRY, ARE YOU KIDDING ME? MY RIGHT HAND MAN.” He slowed down, panted and wheezed as he caught his breath and composed himself, straightened his tie as silence again stifled the audience. Schlatt turned to Tubbo, and he wedged himself in the corner.
“Tubbo. I’d rather rule alone than with you.”
Tubbo didn’t know why it hurt so much to hear.
“Fuck it. I can’t even look at you.” Schlatt turned away with a disgusted jerk of his head.Shock was a hell of a drug. It rendered Tubbo mute, and he gave up. Death stood in front of him, pressure surrounding him as closely as the concrete surrounded Tubbo, and Tubbo could do nothing but look him in the eyes as he teetered between decisions.
Surely not. Surely not. Surely not. Surely not. He kept repeating it, over and over, a death hymn, because surely not. Surely not, Techno would not kill him. Surely not. They were on the same side. Surely not. But he watched anxiety flare behind his eyes as he was overwhelmed, as he strained and crashed and finally snapped, and again he told himself, surely not. This was not happening, surely not. Schlatt wouldn’t kill him, surely not. This was not disbelief, surely not, but rather the truth. Tommy wouldn’t let this happen, surely not. Wilbur would not let this happen, surely not. Surely they would save him. Surely. Surely not.
Quackity approached Schlatt, cautious, careful, as though he was approaching a dangerous animal. Truthfully, Schlatt was dangerous. Unpredictable. His wicked horns all but proved it.
“Schlatt, are you sure? I mean, I mean, he’s jailed! I think that’s enough for him.”
“We could just imprison him,” Technoblade agreed, but Tubbo gave up hoping.
“Not enough.” Schlatt was firm in his decision and insistent in it’s fulfilment.
“Schlatt, are you sure?” Quackity repeated. Tubbo appreciated the effort, but knew Schlatt would remain steadfast. “He’s jailed!”
Schlatt ignored him.
“Technoblade!”
Tubbo stared his ally down.
“Technoblade…” Technoblade pulled back the bowstring.
“Are you going to do it?”
Surely not.
Tubbo grew frantic. “Technoblade? Tech- Technoblade!”
“You gonna make an example out of him?” Schlatt’s tone suggested no other option. Tubbo trembled as the crossbow was held to his forehead, yelped as Technoblade took a swipe at him with a pickaxe.
“Technoblade! Technoblade!”
“Tubbo.” Technoblade’s voice was soft. Some god of death indeed, pliant to a mortal’s will, the executioner of another’s hand. And yet his life still laid in his blade, his firearms and his own resolve. Tubbo hardly dared to breath in his direction. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be executed. He was at his indeterminant mercy.
“Tubbo, I’m sorry.” Tubbo didn’t need to hear anything else before he frantically clawed at the walls, desperate, terrified as it dawned on him that his fate had been decided.
“I’ll make this as- as painless and colorful as possible.”
“What the hell?!” Schlatt’s laughter rang in his ears, and Tubbo was enraged that he was reduced to this, that his death was a show to him.
“Tubbo, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Tubbo.”
He didn’t have time to shut his eyes when the first rocket shattered his skull.
Surely not.
It wasn’t quick. He was left thrashing for several seconds before he was put out of his misery.
Surely not.
He was blown away by such a beautiful death. It was so bright. A flare of light, searing his skull, beautiful and savage and vivid.
Surely.
He understood now why Schlatt chose that yellow concrete. He understood fully.
The blood- his blood- lay against it so stark, so vibrant in color and shade, glistening against the sunny cheerfulness of the backdrop.
Yellow, like the sun, rising over a landscape of death, of dripping, dripping blood. Dancing in the true sun, the sun that was setting on his time alive, his life fading away, his viewpoint from the sky watching the shadows grow as blood coated the true sky.
His body sank to the floor. If there was even a head on it- he didn’t know. Technoblade pulled another firework into the crossbow, He turned and fired it into the crowd, satisfaction on his face as more blood stained and people cried out.
Tubbo sat there, in the sky. Watched as his eyes dimmed to nothingness- and suddenly- there was weight to his body again. Suddenly, there was darkness.
Suddenly, he sank.
His body hurt. His face was on fire. Blood was pouring from his mouth- his nose- his eyes-
If they were even there. Tubbo flopped onto his back and writhed, screaming himself hoarse at the pain.
God, the pain.
His hands were slick with blood- he wanted to press them to his face and stop the flow, but it stung so bad he only shrieked more.
“Tubbo!”
A body thumped to the ground beside him, another following suit.
“Oh my god.” Gentle hands grabbed at him, lifting him up so the blood flowed down- his airways clearing as he sobbed and hissed in pain.
“Tommy, get me water.”
Shuffling. “Now.”
“Wilbur?” He coughed. “Wilbur, is that you?”
“Yes-” His voice was fading in and out- fuzzy and gentle. “It’s me- Stay awake, Tubbo. Stay with me.”
“I’m not.” Tubbo realized his words slurred and tried to make them clearer. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good. Thank you, Tommy.” A singular hand left him, ghosting over his face- which still screamed, the pain was unbearable, rendering him useless, unable to function. He winced.
“It’s not too bad, Tubbo.” Wilbur’s voice was calm, cutting through his confusion and agony. “It looks like being dead healed up the… interior damage. Although.”
“A-al…” Tubbo faltered.
“Your eyes.” Wilbur said, softly. “They’re- They’re unsalvageable.”
If Tubbo had any more energy to cry- he would have. He would have sobbed until he couldn’t anymore. Him? Blind? He merely made a noise of acceptance in the back of his throat.
Tubbo sat there for a moment longer, the shock of his eyes being gone… forever- momentarily overshadowing the pain.
He zoned back in when he heard Tommy’s voice.
“-I think I have- here, you can borrow this, Wilbur.”
There was another silence, then Wilbur’s grip tightened on his shoulder.
“This might sting. You’ll be okay. Tommy is right here.”
“Tommy?”
Tommy’s hand closed around his own, warm, strong. He tried to imagine Tommy’s face, a gentle smile- blonde hair- the stupid, red bandanna- but failed. All he saw was darkness. All he would ever see was darkness.
Darkness.
#tubbo#schlatt#quackity#technoblade#wilbur#tommy#clingyduo#dreamsmp#mcyt#dream smp#dsmp#tommyinnit#wilbur soot
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Leech Lord - Nobody loves me like you
It was so late it felt like time itself had passed out, that void somewhere in the AM between being tired enough to fall asleep where you stand and feeling the nervous energy of dawn approaching.
The air in the Mechanicum was crisp with night chill when the E-Dev in her pocket vibrated, and Saint Ur-Machina's heart sunk in her chest as she grimaced under her welding mask. No need to check who it was, she'd known before he'd even sent the message.
The God-King was angry.
She sighed, rubbing oily hands into oilier overalls, and frowned at how pointless a gesture trying to clean them had been at all, picking bits of filth out from under her nails as she leaned against the rough wall of the hangar. Pointless maybe, but a distraction, and Seifa needed one of those right now.
The God-King was angry with himself, and that meant the people he cared about the most would take the rage.
The workfloor clock read 3:56AM where it hung from the rafter above her station, clunky ticking echoing across the empty bay. No one but her still working, and she shouldn't really have been there either considering the hour, but that had stopped feeling like it mattered a long time ago. She was always there now. Always working, like she haunted the place. Funny, she used to be so good about managing her time...
The welding mask threw a cloud of sawdust as it bounced across the floor towards the machine she'd kicked it at. She didn't even know what to call the horrible thing that loomed in front of her, some juggernaut of sleek metal she'd been ordered to run performance checks on, jagged lines illuminated by the sickly floor lamps she'd arranged around its skeleton.
Warmachines. Unnamed projects with stacks of paperwork marking them as highly classified, Troy's insignia and the same word she kept seeing over and over in confidential documentation - Uroboros. Tasted like a bad idea, reeked of poor decisions, and she'd always sniffed those out like a Skag.
What the hell did Seifa A'Rosk know about warmachines anyway? They used to build Technicals here, outriders. COV custom Cyclones for stream events, this wasn't what she signed up for, none of it was. Managing the engineering crew should never have shifted into whatever the fuck THIS was.
The steel monster in front of her bled oil silently into the sawdust, refusing to give an answer. Whatever this was, it was for Gods and Sirens, and that was a world she wasn't part of, not really. She wasn't a Saint, she was just a ghost, caught repeating the same mistakes over and over till she faded away.
The E-Dev in her pocket vibrated again, and she tapped the back of her head against the plate steel wall, trying to convince herself she wasn't ready to vomit as she squinted up towards the hangar's ceiling, lost to the night murk the lights around her couldn't quite cut through.
She figured she should answer, making him wait was just going to make this worse.
Jak-Knife had already warned her, a curt ping earlier today to "sstay ou t of his way it s bad seiifa". Ven too when he'd dropped by in the afternoon with the excuse of worrying about if she'd eaten yet and half a bag of something spicy and dripping in grease. He'd said the Cathedral staff were noose tight and whispering nervously about an incident a few hours before, something had gone wrong in a talk with visiting sponsors - with the twins. Word on the rumour mill was it had nearly turned vicious, the suits looking ready to brick themselves as they'd all but ran through the meeting room's doors after Troy had flung them open hard enough to unhinge one, and according to priests who'd been on hand? Tyreen had really embarrassed him.
Sei had winced as Ven explained, both painfully aware of this behaviour pattern and what it meant for everyone he was close to. Why the God Queen had been going out of her way to put her brother down in front of high-value clients recently was impossible to guess - no one could really get into her head or understand her decisions lately, but this wasn't the first time, and if anything it was getting worse. Little insults. Little knife-sharp jokes that weren't jokes at all, and mockeries masked behind a paper thin smile like it made them less deadly. She'd imply he was a burden, or undermine his expertise in ways so cleverly worded that the officials would have no choice but to laugh awkwardly as Troy seethed while his twin continued with negotiations.
Today she'd apparently told him to make himself actually useful and fetch their guests some drinks, right in front of servant crew and moments after he'd finished a grueling breakdown of growth projections and profit expectations for this quarter to a rapt audience. It's hard to tell if him snapping had actually surprised her or had been exactly what she wanted, but the staff who'd been there were terrified, and insisted the Vault Mother had looked genuinely shocked when the desk he threw had missed her head by barely a few inches.
He'd stalked out of the meeting and vanished into the upper cloister, and now it was the middle of the night and her E-Dev pinged for a third time.
She closed her eyes and tried to breathe out the fear coiling through her ribs in a shaky exhale. She knew exactly what was happening, it was the same as always with him. Enraged, dripping with self-loathing, and lost somewhere in that toxic mood somewhere between vicious and pitiful - looking for something to hurt, looking for a way to vent the pain as he paced like a snarling monster, muttering like he was arguing something with himself, a back and forth of accusations and desperate apologies to something no one else could see.
Tyreen couldn't eat him alive with her powers but she could do it with her words... and maybe that's what had changed. Maybe she'd realised a new way to control her twin with manipulations that left him so emasculated and damaged in confidence that he wanted to tear something he loved apart just so he could turn the hatred on himself after.
Of course it was going to be her.
The same dance every time now, the same frustrating steps that she'd memorised by this point, trying to break him out of his deadly spiral as he'd rant at rave at her, till he'd attack her somehow, then skulk into the shadows when he was done foaming at the mouth, leaving her to carry everything he'd piled onto her shoulders - the threats, the hate, the aggression, only to beg for her forgiveness the next day and be ignored.
He'd spend a week desperately apologising, showing how much he understood how pathetically wrong what he had done had been, sending ridiculous gifts to the mechanicum where he knew they'd have to be accepted under his sigil, reassure over and over in messages that it wouldn't happen again, that he'd just been under so much pressure, that he'd just snapped, that it wasn't right and she hadn't deserved it and how much her friendship mattered.
The E-Dev pinged one last time, and Seifa straightened, dusting off her overalls and adjusting the toolbelt slung around her waist.
God-King Calypso demanded a sacrifice - self harm masked as a blade he'd lash at someone he loved so it would cut him all the deeper. She'd take it, better her than someone else. She could handle him.
She always had.
It was raining again, felt like that hadn't stopped at all this month. Pandora had wet seasons, it's just that the water never seemed to go anywhere. The acrid dust absorbed it almost as fast as it could fall, but in the city it flooded the streets as it rushed down gutters. Neon light reflected from gaudy signs in pools of colour that swam across the uneven paving stones as she slowly made her way towards the Cathedral, a waterproof canvas thrown around her shoulders protecting from the downpour.
Even at this time of night, the city was still alive. It never really stilled anymore, too many deals going down in alleys and money changing hands in clubs for it to ever actually sleep, and as she picked her way past huddled locals far too engrossed in their own business to pay her any mind, Seifa wondered when it was things had changed like this.
This place had been a shanty town, hadn't it? When she'd arrived to take over the engineering division there had been maybe one, two thousand COV followers camped around the cathedral in rickety shelters. Bandits mostly, erecting camps and functional living quarters with expertise alien to any outsider. It was a city now, fuck, it was a metropolis. She'd overseen the building of half of the major apartment systems in the inner ring around the holy quarter, so how did it still feel like it had grown of out nowhere?
Sei huffed out a steamy breath into the chill night air as the cathedral began to come into view, bass music and laughter fading as it was swallowed into the drumming of the rain on the buildings she left behind her.
She used to be so proud when she saw it, the awesome majesty of its twisted spires and jutting angles framed against the rocky outcrop that loomed behind it. Nowadays it just looked like something grotesque, a mirror of what it contained maybe. The COV was rotting from within, and everyone knew the source.
She'd been warned by friends more willing to face the harsh realities of the twin's decline that time was running out.
Tonight, tomorrow, a week from now, it didn't matter why it was going to happen, just that it would, and as much as she hated admitting it to anyone, Seifa knew she wasn't strong enough to do this much longer.
He was killing her.
Anything could set him off now, it was constant. Numbers under-performing this week, an underhanded comment from Tyreen that tipped the balance, not enough sleep, too many stims, not gaining weight, an article mocking his appearance, anything. It could have been any of them he had summoned, her, Ven, JK, the why or who was inconsequential because the desired outcome was always the same.
Troy wanted to hurt himself, not them, but he didn’t know how. The pressure would build and build till he broke down, lost logic, went wild-eyed and shaking in barely controlled rage. He hated being Troy Calypso so much there were times he wanted to tear his own skin off, he'd told her as much on nights alone and open in shared sadness, but there was no escape. It was this, or starving in a manner she couldn’t even comprehend, and when he'd asked before if maybe that would be the better option?
...She'd not known what to say. She'd failed him then, tripping over the words catching in her lungs as he desperately waited for an answer that would make sense of things, and she'd never been able to give one. Just sat next to him as they both sank deeper into the trap of their titles and the horrible reality that there was no clear way out.
He was waiting in the throne room for her, just like she'd imagined. Pacing back and forth across the dias as the city light streamed through the stained glass windows, glinting sharply off the rattling gold spines his ritual gear was decorated with as he moved.
She'd stood in silence, watching, trying to catch what he was asking himself as he'd snap a muttered retort in spite, but not able to ever make out the questions. Like an animal snared in gilded chains she figured, or something else maybe - an idol pretending to be something living? A shiver had ran through her as she waited for him to turn his frantic attention to her, quietly waiting for the blow to come. No one had even been there to greet her or open the doors to the throne room, they were ajar, the staff knowing better than to risk being in his presence when he was like this... she smirked, knowing better than her, anyway.
He'd shifted attention to her so smoothly it felt like the rant he'd been hissing to himself just continued directly into her as he'd turned, beckoning her closer with a quirk of those horrible claws. She'd bit her lip and swallowed down how much that enraged her, being summoned like a fucking dog when this man so often made clear he viewed himself as dirt in comparison to her, but months of dealing with him had tempered the reaction. Easier to go along with it, placate him, nod and let him vent out the bile till he realised how much of a fucking asshole he was and came crawling back later.
It was the same dance as usual, the exact same steps. She could feel where he was going with each shift in direction, jumping topic to topic in an attempt to place blame and becoming more enraged with each simple refute she could offer. She never made it easy, that wasn't her nature in the end, she'd calmly reply back to each accusation with logic that left him shaking harder as the fury built, like a caged predator or roid-mad Psycho desperate to attack but not getting the opening. She could play this game for hours, long enough to make sure he worked for the satisfaction, even if it left her exhausted.
She'd always been petty, after all.
He threw snarled jabs at Mechanicum performance, raised complaints that she knew weren't true, accused "concerns" about output she could disarm easily, the same as always, till suddenly he shifted.. and everything went wrong.
She could handle him with spines raised and teeth bared, she could stand unflinching as he aimed blows that he never really landed, but she hadn't been prepared for him to suddenly relax. He'd stood straight, rolling the weight of the prosthetic on a shoulder all casual and friendly like suddenly he wasn't seething under the grin his snarl melted into, and she'd felt a jolt of fear. This was something new, this was something... worse, she could feel it like electricity crackling up her spine, and for the first time that night her heart began to pick up a stuttered pounding as cool sweat beaded down her back. He took a step closer, and for just a second, there was a question flittering across the back of her mind that screamed something she couldn't ignore before it vanished into her practiced calm.
For a split second, Seifa questioned if this was Troy.
"You know, it's funny, Sei..."
She opened her mouth to warn him to stop, the atmosphere was at fever point, he was going to go too far, something in how terrified his eyes looked against he vicious curve of his smile sent panic through her chest.
"Troy" her voice cracked "Come on, Troy you know you shouldn't keep going, this is -"
He cut her off with a tsk and raise of a bladed finger, bending to lower his face closer to hers from where he towered above her.
"Rude Seifa, I was talking."
He was near enough to feel the body heat glowing from his chest, and her voice choked in her throat as the point of a talon tapped gently against her nose as if he was chiding some kid.
"Funny isn't it?" He cooed, and it wasn't.
"You used to have so much time for me, didn't you. We used to really spend time together..." the lack of his stutter was a warning she knew him too well to ignore.
"... but nowadays you're so desperate to get out of my presence that I can literally see your skin crawl while you're forced to be around me. It's happening right now Sei... ain't it."
That was a lie, and she wanted to slap his hand away from where it pointed towards her chest, push him back towards the throne behind him and tell him how stupid an attack that was. She's always had time for him, she gave him infinite time, she gave him so much of herself that she'd been crumbling, she wanted to tell him the truth of it, that how much she gave him had been killing her, but she couldn't, he didn't give her the chance.
"You've got allllll the energy in the world for your little friends though, don't you. You've got laughter and happiness to pour all over them, fill them up with, show them how much you care, but not me, not anymore. And you know, that's got me thinking recently!"
The smile was fake but the monster behind it wasn't. He may as well have been snarling, and she was fully aware he wasn't really attempting to hide that at all.
He stepped a fraction closer again, close enough for her to reach and press a warning hand against his chest as he leaned further down to meet her eyes, the veneer of his calm cracking under the weight of the now haggard, panting breathes he whistled through that vicious smile, the terror in his eyes. She didn't understand any of this, why was he so afraid when it was him pressing this onwards, why was he so panicked when the act was so calm? His skin was like fucking fire under her hand and the push she gave to try and move him back did nothing.
"Made me realise, maybe I was never your friend really - maybe I was just something you held onto like a lifeline in the storm of your shitty life choices, huh?" She felt tears rise, this wasn't fair, this was too real now, this was being aimed at his friend not his employee, but he wouldn't stop.
"Taken for a ride while you lead me on all these years. That would explain it, right? How much you got for them, how much you'll give them, when I'm just a burden to you. Or..."
His mouth was next to her ear and she wanted to beg him to stop before it was too late, before he did what she knew he was about to do. To stop before he decimated everything, but the words were caught behind the sob she refused to let spill as he drove the knife home with one last twist.
"Maybe the real problem here Seifa, is they are more than friends, hmm? Because that's your real operation method, isn't it. That's how you get what you want, everyone knows it. Maybe they met your standards, but you just never saw me as good enough to fuck."
The crack of his jaw against her fist echoed through the stone throne room for long enough to make the silence that came after all the more horrible.
She remembers that, that noise and the pain ripping through her hand in burning waves, but she doesn't really remember the rest.
She doesn't fully remember what she saw, the flash of those glaring, monstrous eyes that burned down on them both as Troy reeled in horrified shock, cradling his face in confusion like he couldn't understand why she'd just hit him, she doesn't remember the flicker of Siren wings or the laughter that echoed somewhere in the back of her mind but made no sound.
It's a daze. Whatever he whispered pleadingly after, teary-eyed and shaking, she didn't hear.
She doesn't remember leaving and how she stormed down the Cathedral halls and into the freezing night air, doesn't remember who saw her or if clergy had been there. Doesn't remember the way she'd mindlessly picked towards the hi-rise Ven's quarters were in before realising she was walking the wrong way, or how effortlessly she'd flipped the ignition in her ship, or how prepped she'd been to jump out of Pandora's orbit soon as she hit safe distance, doesn't remember any of it.
But the pain in her hand and the look in his eyes after, she fucking remembers that.
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Horror / Six: The Musical AU (X Reader) || Headcanons
Explanation: So all the songs are being sun by different readers with different Henry’s (The Horror Villains of course) instead of one Henry. I think its pretty straight forward apart from that! I hope to make a second part to this where the readers actually meet up and complain about their times with their respective horror villains. This is fun XD Had the idea a couple months back and I posted it and one blog commented saying Six is their favourite musical, so this is basically for me and them haha XD
Character Included: Michael Myers, Chucky / Charles Lee Ray (And Tiffany Valentine), Bubba Sawyer, Norman Bates, Mayor Buckman (And Harper Alexandre) and Jason Voorhees.
Warnings: Murder of the readers (By respective Horror Villains and a non-explicit difficult birth in Bubba’s), birth / pregnancy, toxic / abusive relationships, sexual harrassment / maybe rape (All You Wanna Do- Buckmans), language, suggested mother / son grossness (Norman and Norma of course).
I laugh in the face of those who would subdue my mad ideas.
‘No Way’ (Reader as Catherine of Aragon): Michael Myers as Henry
My name's Catherine of Aragon
Was married 24 years
I'm a paragon of royalty, my loyalty is to the Vatican
So if you try to dump me
You won't try that again
You were in a, of course, very unequal relationship with the shape of Haddonfield. He saw you one day, was completely taken by you, and decided to let you live. He would come by and use you however he liked, kill the people you loved when they got your attention over him, etc. Like any other Michael Myers x Reader.
And, years and years later (Because it’s not like Michael finds someone every day that he gives even a bit of a shit about like he does - did, - you) he comes upon a new person. Someone he, like he was you, is drawn to.
And he tries to drop you like a hot potato.
And this infuriates you. You are not about to let go! He has ruined your life! You have no friends, no family, no life, because of him! All you have, is (regrettably) him and you are going to be his for the rest of your life. That’s what he wanted, that’s what the bastard’s going to get.
(Many, many years with him has caused your courage against him to grow spectacularly. You can say nearly anything to him)
|- ‘You must agree that, baby, in all the time I been by your side
I've never lost control’
‘I've put up with your sh- like every single day’ -|
You give him one more chance- if he can tell you one thing that you have done to him to legitimately hurt him… then you’ll leave willingly.
…
But he has nothing. And he doesn’t care.
|- ‘You got me down on my knees
Please tell me what you think I've done wrong
Been humble, been loyal, I've tried to swallow my pride all along
If you can just explain a single thing
I've done to cause you pain, I'll go
No?’ -|
//
|- ‘You wanna replace me? Baby, there's
N-n-n-n-n-n-no way
You made me a wife, so I'll be queen 'til the end of my life’ -|
He ends up strangling you to death when you won’t shut up.
‘Don’t Lose Your Head’ (Reader as Anne Boleyn): Chucky / Charles Lee Ray as Henry (And Tiffany as Catherine of Aragon)
I'm that Boleyn girl and I'm up next
See I broke England from the church
Yeah, I'm that sexy
Why did I lose my head?
Well, my sleeves may be green but my lipstick's red
Chucky and his filthy ass catches sight of you. Young, French and vivacious and he’s got heart eyes on the spot. He wants you, but he also doesn’t really want to lose Tiffany.
So... yeah, you end up living with them both for a while and its very awkward and a very hostile situation.
|- ‘Here we go
(You sent him kisses)
I didn't know I would move in with his misses
(What?)
Get a life
(You're living with his wife?)
Like, what was I meant to do?’ -|
You don’t like it. No one likes this. Chucky! Make up your mind!
|- ‘Three in the bed and the little one said
If you wanna be wed, make up your mind
Her or me, chum
Don't wanna be some
Girl in a threesome
Are you blind?’ -|
Tiffany is of course Catherine, and the fandom (The people of Britain for the sake of this AU) loves her (As we all know), so when you come along and insult her because Chucky is now your man (Supposedly.) and of course you two aren’t getting along with each other in the first place because of him … you get a bad name.
|- ‘Ooh, why hasn't it hit her?
He doesn't want to bang you
Somebody hang you
(Wow Anne, way to make the country hate you)
Mate, what was I meant to do?’ -|
When eventually Chucky is able to grow the balls to boot Tiffany out (My heart hurts writing this, trust me), he pulls a ‘Once a cheater, always a cheater’ kind of shit and has no loyalty to you or respect for the sanctity of your relationship, and starts having one night stands here, there and everywhere. He tries vaguely to tell you you’re being silly and that’s not true- but he has lipstick on his shirt collars and perfume smell all over him.
Its not a nice living condition.
So you, still very much being the vivacious bitch that he ‘fell in love with’, go and flirt with some other guys. Just to make him a teensy bit jealous! I mean, its not like he’ll really care, right? You just wanna spark the fire again!
|- ‘Henry's out every night on the town
Just sleeping around, like what the hell?
If that's how it's gonna be
Maybe I'll flirt with a guy or three
Just to make him jell’ -|
But he finds out as planned… and is p i s s e d. He threatens that if you do that again, he’ll fucking kill you.
You, not going to let him talk to you like that, flirt with one more man. Just to be disobedient.
|- ‘Henry finds out and he goes mental
He screams and shouts
Like so judgemental
You damn that witch
Mate, just shut up
I wouldn't be such a b-
If you could get it up’ -|
And you find out that he very much meant it when he said he would kill you.
|- ‘And now he's going 'round like off with her head
(No)
(No)
Yeah, I'm pretty sure he means it’ -|
‘Heart of Stone’ (Reader as Jane Seymour): Bubba Sawyer as Henry
Jane Seymour the only one he truly loved
(Rude)
When my son was newly born, I died
But I'm not what I seem or am I?
Stick around and you'll suddenly see more
You were an intended victim of the Sawyers, but like with Stretch, Bubba crushes on you instead. The difference here, is that you see the gentleness to him compared to his brothers, and how scared he is when one of them yells at him, and all the other little signs that he’s not as vicious or evil as his first impressions might convey. You have a big, brave heart, and you realise right there that its death and cannibalisation or understanding and caring for this man and you choose to love.
|- ‘You came my way, and I knew a storm could come too.’-|
//
|- ‘You've got a good heart
But I know it changes
A restless tide, untameable’ -|
So you take his hands in yours, all shaky and meaty as they are, and promise him that you will never leave him. You’ll protect him. You’ll take any mess he and his family can throw at you- you’ll always be with him. Your promise.
|- ‘But I took your hand, promised I'd withstand
Any blaze you blew my way
'Cause something inside, it solidified
And I knew I'd always stay’ -|
And he believes you, of course. Its so nice to be looked at so softly, especially by someone as pretty as you.
I- ‘You can build me up, you can tear me down
You can try but I'm unbreakable
You can do your best, but I'll stand the test
You'll find that I'm unshakeable
When the fire's burnt
When the wind has blown
When the water's dried, you'll still find stone
My heart of stone’ -|
And you prove yourself. You prove over and over again that no matter what he, or the twins, or Drayton, or even Grandpa throws at you- you’ll survive and you’ll stay, and you’ll never stop looking at him in that lovely soft way.
|- ‘You say we're perfect
A perfect family’ -|
You get pregnant of course because everyone in the Sawyers / Hewitts family has a breeding kink and you can’t tell me otherwise, and the birth is of course very difficult because Drayton isn’t about to pay for hospital bills. So you’re in their home, in all the mess and the dirt and with no sort of aesthetic, and…
|- ‘Soon I'll have to go
I'll never see him grow’ -|
You don’t make it. Your babies born fine and healthy, and you bring another strong Sawyer boy to the family, but you’re gone.
‘Get Down’ (Reader as Anne of Cleves): Norman Bates as Henry
Ich bin Anne of Cleves
Ja!
When he saw my portrait, he was like
Ja!
But I didn't look as good as good as I did in my pic
Funny how we all discuss that but never Henry's little-
So, one day, Norman decides its time to properly settle down (Long after his mother… ah… ‘dies’) and get a partner, and because there isn’t really anyone around where he lives to date or, even, who wouldn’t get creeped out by him and his taxidermy, he turns to online dating.
He meets you there. You own and run your own hotel in the next state over, you don’t mind his taxidermy at all, and your profile picture looks… hauntingly familiar (If you look nothing like Vera Farmiga go by the original movie- she was but a skeleton there so she really could be anyone).
|- ‘Sittin' here all alone
On a throne
In a palace that I happen to own
I'm not fake 'cause I've got acres and acres
Paid for with my own riches’ -|
And you two get along great over messages! You online date for a good year before Norman proposes you elope and come to live with him! You think you’ve known him long enough, and you trust him!
So you fly right over, and he meets you at the airport, and…
He’s disappointed.
Like, ‘sorry, nah, you don’t look enough like mama so this isn’t gonna work’. In a more fidgety, quiet, subdued kind of way though. He’s so awkward with communication that he even suggests that you doctored your profile picture.
I- ‘You, you said that I tricked ya
'Cause I, I didn't look like my profile picture’ -|
And, understandably, you’re p i s s e d, and disgusted! But ya’ll already got married over the internet, so theirs no stopping that! This is your husband. You realise you’ve made a huge mistake and go right back to your home and your hotel to get divorce papers drawn up.
You’re the queen of your own fucking castle, who needs him?
|- ‘I'm the queen of the castle
Get down, you dirty rascal
'Cause I'm the queen of the castle’ -|
You are understandably, very very mad. And you say some things to Norman about he and his mother, that… may be true… but that he certainly doesn’t appreciate.
When you finally get the papers, and you’ve been separated long enough for it to be legal, you go back to the Bates Motel to get Norman to sign them and stay over a night. You’ve calmed down enough that you’re able to have a pleasant conversation with him, and you decide that you’re too tired to take the plane back home right away so you take up Normans offer to stay in one of vacant rooms (*Cough* So you basically have the run of the place. Or they do. *Cough).
Norman is also pretty calm about the whole thing as well, like you! But… Norma, is still seething.
You don’t wake up the next morning.
‘All You Wanna Do’ (Reader as Kathrine Howard): Mayor Buckman as Henry (And Harper as Thomas)
Prick up your ears, I'm the Catherine who lost her head
(Beheaded)
For my promiscuity outside of wed
Lock up your husbands
Lock up your sons
K. Howard is here and the fun's begun
Right, so, you haven’t had good luck in love throughout your life, so you decide to give up on boys entirely.
|- ‘So I decided to have a break from boys
And you'll never guess who I met’ -|
… And meet a man, not much later. A man in power; A mayor. A man who’s been married before and has a beard (So you know; He’s a man. XD No little boy.). This is of course Buckman. He calls you love, and you get a job in Pleasant Valley that keeps you comfortably busy. You feel like, finally, you’re where you belong. You feel fulfilled- no committed relationships are necessary.
|- ‘Globally revered
Although you wouldn't know it from the look of that beard
Made me a lady in waiting
Hurled me and my family up in the world
Gave me duties in court and he swears it's true
That without me, he doesn't know what he'd do
He cares so much, he calls me love’ -|
But then Buckman tells you that he cares about you. You have a connection. He doesn’t feel just ‘friendly’ feelings towards you- he wants more. And, though you are a little disappointed that your solitude didn’t last, you decide that he’s decent enough (’He is rather kind to me, and he does makes me smile a fair bit’, you try to reason with yourself that this is a good idea) and so you start to go out. Its not long before you’re married.
|- ‘So we got married
Woo…’
Woo…’ -|
But being married to him isn’t easy. Not at all. You’re not use to politics; There are so many rules now, and he’s always too busy to help. And the rest for Pleasant Valley are a bit… odd. And you just don’t fit in. And this is wear Harper (Thomas) comes in.
|- ‘With Henry, it isn't easy
His temper's short, and his mates are sleazy
Except for this one courtier
He's a really nice guy, just so sincere
The royal life isn't what I planned
But Thomas is there to lend a helping hand
So sweet, makes sure that I'm okay
And we hang out loads when the King's away’ -|
And he’s so lovely and caring towards you (Never more then when Buckman leaves for business in other towns), helping you through the transition from your old life to this one. He’s a good friend, to you. And that is most definitely all he is, on your side of it. A friend. You don’t feel attractions towards him at all apart from that, and he doesn’t try to make any moves. Its wonderful!
|- ‘This guy, finally
Is what I want, the friend I need
Just mates, no chemistry
I get him and he gets me’ -|
… Until one day when Buckman has been away for a month, he tells you he cares about you. You have a connection. He doesn’t feel just ‘friendly’ feelings towards you- he wants more.
|- ‘He says we have a connection
I thought this time was different
Why did I think he'd be different?
But it's never, ever different’ -|
Lets just say one things leads to another, despite you at first turning him away and saying no. He’s so insistent, and a little scary, and you’re lonely because your husbands’ has been away so long, and… something happens that you regret and feel gross about.
|- ‘Squeeze me, don't care if you don't please me
Bite my lip and pull my hair
As you tell me, I'm the fairest of the fair
Playtime's over.’ -|
You tell Buckman when he gets home, and you watch as every bit of warmth and love in his eye disappears, just like that.
Its not long after that that his jealousy and betrayed rage takes over… and… you die with a rope around your neck and your feet swaying above the ground.
|- ‘Playtime’s over’ -|
(Alternatively, Sheriff Hoyt as Henry and Thomas as Thomas)
‘I Don’t Need Your Love’ (Reader as Catherine Parr): Jason Voorhees as Henry (Your last love was Jason when he was alive)
Five down, I'm the final wife
I saw him to the end of his life
I'm the survivor Catherine Parr
I bet you wanna know how I got this far
I said I bet you wanna know how we got this far
Do you wanna know how we got this far then?
So, you’re like the leader of the ‘Slashers Ex Squad’ because you, unlike the others, survived your time with Jason. This is because Jason did, truly, love you (To an extent- not enough to let you go and live your life without him or be free). None of the others really did. Not like he did.
|- ‘Became the one who survived’ -|
Your story:
You and Jason had an adorable little 11-year-old puppy love relationship when he was alive. You were his only friend, and he had it bad for you because of it. Pamela loved you, too.
When he died you were of course devastated, and years later when you were 30 (Making him also thirty- not that you know that. You still think he’s dead at this point) you’re taken by the need to go back to Camp Crystal Lake and pay your respects to your childhood love / friend. Its just one of those nostalgic days.
When you go, and you set flowers down by the lake, Jason catches sight of you. He thinks about killing you… but then your features start to make sense to him. He recognises you, and for the first time since his mother was killed, he feels his heartbeat speed up and swell with hope.
Jason of course kidnaps you then, and keeps you hostage for himself. He missed you. He doesn’t want to survive anymore time without you. You’re all he has left!
… After you realise that this is Jason Voorhees, you quickly learn that this Jason is, of course, not the boy that you cared, and care, so deeply about. He’s done horrible things, and he is never going to stop; And frankly, deep inside… he scares you.
But its not like you can leave him! He would never let you, he’s made that clear. You are all he has, and now, he is all that you have.
|- ‘I don't have a choice
If Henry says "it's you", then it's you
No matter how I feel
It's what I have to do’ -|
So you write a letter to the old Jason (And your old life), saying goodbye, in admittance to the fact that you’ll never be able to get away from this new Jason. This is you letting go of your freedom and any preconceptions that anything will every be the same- with Jason, or otherwise.
|- ‘It's true I'll never be over you
'Cause I have built a future in my mind with you
And now the hope is gone
There's nothing left for me to do’
'Cause I have built a future in my mind with you
And now the hope is gone
There's nothing left for me to do’ -|
You never stop hating him for how he’s changed (How he’s taken your Jason away, and wont even attempt to go back) and how he’s stolen away your freedom.
|- ‘I'd say "Henry, yeah it's true
I'll never belong to you
'Cause I am not your toy, to enjoy till there's something new
As if I'm gonna give up my boy, my work, my dreams
To care for you"
"Ha, darling, get a clue”
But I can't say that
Not to the king’ -|
You eventually die of natural causes at, like, 60.
#Horror Villains x Reader#Horror / Six: The Musical AU#Horror#Horror Villains#Six: The Musical#Jason Voorhees x Reader#Jason Voorhees#Mayor Buckman x Reader#Mayor Buckman#Norman Bates x Reader#Norman Bates#Bubba Sawyer x Reader#Bubba Sawyer#Chucky#Chucky x Reader#Charles Lee Ray x Reader#Charles lee Ray#Tiffany Valentine#Harper Alexandre#Michael Myers#Michael Myers x Reader#Headcanons
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I don't want to start fights, but don't you think you may be going way too far with the salt? It's one thing to not be happy with the way a show ended(and so many people think S5 was great, so you are in a huge minority already), but to insult the showrunner because *one* ship didn't become canon is going too far, mate. Catradora was there from the start, and Catra had an amazing redemption arc. Then again, I am just one person, so idk. Anyway, thanks. -Callum.
I actually respect Noelle Stevenson a lot: bringing a show like She-Ra all the way to its conclusion, producing seasons 1-4 (which are in fact really good), working hard for BLM, all while being out and proud in an industry that still has plenty of bigots around - these are legitimate achievements that are worthy of respect.
However.
1) I don’t give a shit how many people liked S5. I am allowed my own opinions on my own blog. If you don’t like my opinions the block button is right there. Telling me that a lot of fans like the season is an irrelevant data point because my opinions are not subject to majority vote.
2) Catradora was part of the disappointment that was S5, but it was far from the only thing. The strong ensemble cast, one of the best things about the show, is underused; every redemption arc is utterly weightless (Catra’s isn’t the worst but it’s still badly undercooked, of which more later), Glimmer and Bow are barely relevant despite the BFS being the show’s actual beating heart (I know Noelle says Catradora was supposed to be the heart but it’s never felt like that to me), everything related to Catra and Adora’s relationship feels forced, out-of-character and clumsy, the resolution is tied to a bullshit save-the-world button with unclear results, long-running elements like Adora’s family or the Catra/Shadow Weaver parallels are ditched in favour of coming up with dumb answers about what Greyskull means, and the writing is just kind of bad.
It has good elements - I loved the Star Siblings, I liked having Entrapta actually deal with the consequences of her actions, Melog and Wrong Hordak were good additions, and “Peril of Peekablue” was excellent, on par with something like “Mer-Mysteries” - but the season was considerably worse than all the others.
Like, I actually went into S5 going “The most likely outcome here is Catradora canon, but hey, maybe this will be the season that sells me on it” and it wasn’t. It really, really wasn’t.
3) Catradora was there from the start, but it was also badly done from the start and S5 did not meaningfully improve it. It’s actually my go-to on how not to tell an enemies-to-lovers arc because the “enemies” part is really prolonged, heavily emphasised, toxic, unpleasant, emotionally wearing and vicious and the “to” is super rushed and clumsy (of which more in the next bullet point). From "The Promise” to the end of season 4, there are no moments where Catra and Adora’s emotional connection does anything to soften the hostility; if anything, it makes Catra worse because it adds a really cruel and personal note to the whole thing.
Then S5 executes on it badly because it relies heavily on papering over inconvenient events and character development instead of trying to build organically on what has happened before. Catra telling Adora, “You never gave up on anything, not even me,” is my go-to example of this, because she did. It was the S3 climax and a huge moment for Adora’s personal arc! And then the show even reinforced it by having Adora throw a robot directly at Catra’s face with pretty unambiguous intent to kill, or at least severely wound, in "Flutterina”. But it’s not dealt with; instead, we get one questionable line of dialogue about pretending it never happened. Having Adora admit she was wrong to give up on Catra and swearing never to do so again could have been a really powerful moment, but instead of trying to do anything with the thing we saw happen onscreen, it’s just shoved under the rug. It’s bad writing and a huge waste of interesting potential. (It’s also bad planting and payoff; we get the setup in S3, the reminder in S4, and then it’s outright retconned away.)
4) Catra’s redemption arc is actually kind of bad. It’s not as bad as Hordak’s, which I only barely consider a redemption arc because it’s super truncated and he never admits to even doing anything wrong, but it’s bad.
First, it’s super fucking rushed. Literal years of seething, constantly building resentment disappear offscreen; there’s never a point where she meaningfully grapples with it or comes to realise that being “Shadow Weaver’s favourite” was also a hellish experience just in different ways. She does her one big redemptive act, gets forgiven instantly by everyone (including Adora, for whom it feels badly out of character given the aforementioned giving-up, her suspicion in “Princess Prom” before Catra had even tried to ruin her life once let alone six times, etc.), and her resentment just...vanishes in one hand-hold. It was her defining personality trait and the underlying cause for most of her time as an antagonist; it really should have been, you know, dealt with, instead of just forgotten. It does try to deal with her anger issues and problems expressing vulnerability, but that’s like saying that now that Azula has agreed not to torture small animals everything is fine; it’s far from the deepest issue here and pretending otherwise does the character and the show a disservice.
Worse than that, nothing she actually did feels like it means anything because the show just shoves it all under the rug. I’m not asking that she spend an episode personally making it up to each person she’s harmed a la Zuko, not least because after her participation in the sack of Salineas that’s more episodes than a long-running daytime soap opera, but at the very least using her actions in seasons 1-4 for something could have led to some really interesting scenes and good character moments and all that potential is instead just wasted. Angella’s death is just plum forgotten despite how important it was last season; the parallels between Catra’s actions in “White Out” and Horde Prime’s chips are never explored; the Shadow Weaver parallels the show’s been building for four seasons and explicitly stated in the graphic novel tie-in are just ditched and nothing ever comes of them; everyone who might not forgive Catra in under five minutes is mind-controlled until the season is almost over, contributing to the sidelining of the strong ensemble cast. It just feels like they didn’t know how to square Catra’s actions in seasons 2-4 with how they wanted her arc to end, so they just opted to pretend those actions never happened, and as a direct result the whole mess lacks texture and weight and doesn’t feel like a satisfying development for her story. It never feels like she’s dealing with the consequences for her actions, because her actions don’t have consequences.
Noelle once said that the driving question for Catra was “what happens when you’re the toxic friend”, and now we have the answer: nothing. Catra faces no long-term consequences for being the toxic friend. Perfuma’s one minute of being angry is the longest gap between Catra seeming sad and Catra getting forgiven. Nothing she did matters in the long run except in the sense that she’s kind of sad about them in aggregate. None of her bridges are burned so badly they can’t be fixed. And that’s a bad answer, because in real life when you’re the toxic friend people do refuse to forgive you instantly when you say sorry. Relationships do get trashed so badly they never recover. The pain you cause matters, and the traits that made you the toxic friend take work to overcome...unless you’re Catra, in which case the pain you cause suddenly stops mattering and your issues can be dealt with in under an hour offscreen.
Or at least, that’s my attitude. Like, if you liked the season, I’m not saying you’re an idiot or have bad taste. But I hated it. It could maybe have been good if it had been two seasons, actually allow Catra’s arc to breathe instead of speedrunning the whole thing, done more with the ensemble cast etc., but what we got was a rushed mess and telling me that “lots of people liked the rushed mess actually” is not relevant to that assessment.
(Just as a side note, if you really don’t want to start a fight, I’m not sure sending passive-aggressive asks to the tune of “have you considered that your opinions are Wrong actually and mine are Right” is the best way to go about it.)
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Febuwhump Day 6: Insomnia
notes that probably no one is reading but i am putting in anyway:
- this little drabble thingy takes place before all of my other febuwhump writing, so Mara is telling the truth about not having seen Jude.
-Jamie is very important and also i love her :)
CW: nothing i can think of!
Jamie’s not exactly beautiful. It takes a long time for most people to figure that out, because she’s so striking, but Mara was with Jamie long enough to know. It’s not the nicest train of thought, and Mara knows she should be better than this, but when she’s feeling small and mean, she can’t resist. And now that Jamie’s texting her for the first time in months, Mara gives in to her bitchy little worst impulse, pulls up the contact photo, and looks with critical eyes.
It’s the hair that does most of the work. Jamie’s hair is red, red, red. Not orange or strawberry blonde or even auburn; Jamie’s hair is red like no one’s ever seen. The color is true and deep and absolutely natural, and the long wavy locks are so long they almost reach her waist. Jamie looks like the photo on a box of dye at a CVS. People stop her on the street sometimes to ask what she does to it. Poor shy Jamie hates that, keeps her hair tied up in a bun or a braid almost always. It’s still impossible to ignore. It still makes people turn their heads when Jamie walks by; it’s the kind of thing that convinces strangers she’s absolutely stunning. They’re not wrong, because the hair itself is stunning, it’s just that once you get past the hair, Mara knows, Jamie is just sort of…plain. Nothing hideous, but nothing special either. Her eyes are nice enough. Blue. But her nose is kind of hooked at the end, and her skin is sort of sallow. She’s skinny. Not much else to her.
And, and, and there’s nothing wrong with her, of course, but she’s not as pretty as everyone thinks. Mara concludes it all over again after staring into the familiar smiling face on her screen, and the knowing soothes some bitterness deep in her chest. It’s not nice, thinking these things. It’s not right. But it brings Mara some small, vicious satisfaction, which she tells herself she’s earned.
It also takes her mind off the contents of Jamie’s text, if only for a little while.
Hey, have you heard from Jude at all lately?
There are a thousand different replies itching in Mara’s fingers. No, I haven’t fucking heard from Jude. You know we haven’t spoken in months. I kind of think you know why, too, and if you cared about me at all you would tell me what’s going ON.
That’s when Mara’s thoughts turn pathetic, as they always do. Something. Anything. Please god just tell me anything. If it got her some answers, she wouldn’t even care about how pitiful she sounded.
Mara growls, throws her phone at the couch.
Okay, so maybe she’d care.
Okay, so maybe what’s most tempting of all is a clean, simple, fuck off.
It takes a good few minutes of careful breathing before Mara is ready to let that one go.
All of that is anger, of course. Anger that would feel so, so good to express, to spit right out at Jamie – but beneath the anger there’s worry. A creeping fear. Why is Jamie asking her if she’s heard from Jude? Mara wants to believe that Jamie is insecure about Jude coming back to Mara, but…but what if it’s something worse? They’re in a dangerous line of work. Jude could be shortsighted, could be reckless. Anger is one thing, but the worry on its heels is a different monster altogether. It occupies Mara’s thoughts.
It’s not Mara’s business anymore, is it? She and Jude broke up. They haven’t spoken in months. If Jamie and Jude are so close now, then let Jamie worry about it. Let Jamie figure it out. It sounds great, in theory, just letting it go and moving on.
But Mara can’t. Letting go lasts as long as Mara can distract herself with cooking dinner and reviewing session notes and showering, but when she lies down to sleep, there’s no escape. When she lies down to sleep, Mara is left staring at the ceiling, obsessing over that text.
She’s had trouble sleeping since high school. Mara has a routine she sticks to religiously, one of those things that doctors swear will prevent this kind of night. Sometimes, though, even putting down her phone and reading a book and listening to soft music isn’t enough. Sometimes, Mara is left staring at the ceiling, well past midnight, thinking about Jamie, thinking about Jude.
Jamie thinks Jude might be with Mara, or at least talking to her. Does that mean something? Does that mean Mara might get an explanation, or to see Jude again? Is Jamie jealous? The bitter, mean part of Mara hopes so. The bigger part of Mara just wants to get some sleep, because her head is fuzzy and her eyes are stinging from continually swiping open to the white glare of her phone.
But no sleep comes.
It’s a little past 1 am when she finally can’t resist anymore, when she finally replies, and if Jamie reads something into Mara’s timing, well, fine.
No.
Jamie writes back within minutes, even though Mara knows she usually goes to sleep early. Nothing?
That’s what no means, Jamie.
Sorry.
The little gray dots pop up, disappear, pop up, disappear. Mara stares at them with morbid fascination. It just keeps getting later, and somehow, she’s never felt less tired. Her eyes burn from staring at the screen, but her mind is buzzing, buzzing. The text comes in. I’m just worried. We haven’t seen her around here for a while.
That makes Mara swallow hard. She flops back against her pillow, thoughts racing overtime. How long is a while? What kind of work do they have Jude doing, anyway? She’s supposed to be helping rescues in safehouses. That’s it. They all know she’s too impulsive for much else, likely to get caught in a fight or shoot her mouth off when she really shouldn’t. Goddamn stupid, impulsive, beautiful righteous Jude.
Mara finds herself on her feet pacing tight circles around her apartment. She’s been so good for so long, keeping all those stray thoughts of her ex out of her head. Now they overwhelm her – Jude’s eagerness, her bright eyes, her godawful sense of navigation, the dimple in her left cheek. Lib work is dangerous, no matter what way you spin it, so what does we haven’t seen her in a while fucking mean? Mara’s been angry and she’s been hurt, and it’s been brewing for months, but when she’s confronted with the idea of Jude in trouble, all that disappears. When she’s confronted with the thought of Jude in danger, all the fight drains out of her as neatly as a glass tipped on its side. Her knees feel weak, and she sits down on the bed again. Jude. If Mara was with her, things would be different. If Mara just knew where she was, could keep an eye on her…
Mara keeps staring at the unhelpful little words on the screen as if they’ll relent and change into something different, better, something that can give her peace of mind. Nothing changes, and she sets her jaw and forces a response, because she’s angry and afraid and she can’t just leave it there, not knowing.
Well, what happened? Aren’t you looking out for her?
I am.
Almost immediately afterwards, I mean, we are. Whatever. Just let me know if you hear from her, okay?
We are. Mara snorts darkly as she reads that, Jamie’s poor attempt at acting innocent. Sure, Jude has other friends, but Jamie is something else. Something more. Jamie is the reason Jude broke up with her. Mara knows it, even if no one will admit anything outright.
Hand coming up to scrub against her temple, Mara heaves out a sigh, and with it, forces down all the toxic, confused fury she wants to spit through the phone screen. When the anger abates, she feels suddenly exhausted, and more than a little afraid.
She reads the text again, focuses on the important part. Just let me know if you hear from her, okay?
Sighing, Mara taps out a response. Yeah. Try to keep her safe, okay?
Another almost instant response. I will.
Anger can’t be long denied, and upon seeing Jamie’s text, it bubbles back up under Mara’s skin. Really? Really, Jamie thinks that she can look after Jude? Mara and Jude dated for a year with no problem, and then as soon as Jamie entered the picture, things went south. Now that it’s just Jamie and Jude, things have gone to shit. So a promise from her doesn’t mean a whole hell of a lot.
Mara taps out a message but never sends it, even though she hardly sleeps two hours that night. Time drags by, and she tries to distract herself on the Internet, but over and over she clicks back to her conversation with Jamie, to read the words she wants to send but knows she shouldn’t.
Really, Jamie? You’ll keep her safe? Because it doesn’t sound like you’re doing a very good job.
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1-11 Scott/Posey Stans always try to deflect criticism of the way Scott McCall is written in Teen Wolf by claiming that ANY attempt by a fan, a viewer, or a critic of holding Scott to a level of behavior that one would expect of a character who is a main and the self-proclaimed hero of the show is “racism”. Except that their accusations don’t make any sense whatsoever, because Scott’s canonical shitty actions and behavior don’t stem from his race (or canonical lack of thereof.)
Okay hun, this is a doozy, so I’m putting it under a Read More.
2-11 Scott McCall is mean. He’s mean to Stiles, he’s mean to Allison, he’s mean to Derek, he’s mean to Peter, he’s mean to Cora, he’s mean to Lydia, he’s mean to Jackson, he’s mean to Erica, he’s mean to Isaac, he’s mean to Malia, he’s mean to Malia, he’s mean to Kira, he’s mean to Liam, he’s mean to Chris, and he’s even mean to Theo (“You are barely even human!”) Scott McCall is deliberately rude to the Hales, Boyd, Ethan, Danny, Hayden, Jiang, Tierney, and Melissa.
3-11 Scott McCall deliberately USES, INSULTS, HUMILIATES and DEHUMANIZES people in ways that demonstrate that he is fully aware of what he’s doing. Scott McCall deliberately disregards other people’s needs in order to fulfill his own. Tyler Posey being half Mexican doesn’t change the fact that his fictional character Scott McCall is a whiny coward and an abusive piece of trash,
4-11 and that his so called ‘defense squad’ enjoys the power fantasy that Scott can be cruel, can lie, can assault, can lash out, can violate other people’s boundaries, bodily autonomy and consent, can commit premeditated murder, can break the law without impunity, can dehumanize, can gaslight and victim blame his friends to his heart’s content and no one should ever hold it against him
5-11 In both the production and in some Scott supremacist fanfics, there’s often the premise that people are evil and in the wrong if they call Scott out on his bullshit or hold his toxic behavior against him. Take Season 1. As much as the Scott McCall defense squad brigade love framing Stiles and Derek getting shit done and prioritizing people’s life over Scott’s jealous fits and temper tantrums as the height of depravity
6-11 Scott/Posey Stans consciously and steadfastly ignore all the cruel things that Scott says and does throughout the seasons, such as “How much Adderall have you had today?” OR “What are you trying to do?! I just made first line! I got a date with a girl who I can't believe wants to go out with me and everything in my life is perfect! Why are you trying to ruin it?!” OR “The hunters had a reason to slaughter your entire family and pack”
7-11 (As an aside, it’s amazing to me how Fanon rewrites Scott as this brilliant thinker and strategist and mastermind who is so much smarter and better than everyone else in every way even though Canon Scott spends the entirety of Teen Wolf doing absolutely nothing except get his ass handed to him by everyone, whining about wanting to be popular/get his dick wet/play lacrosse, screaming at his friends and girlfriends, being utterly useless when left to his own devices,
8-11 and planning to bite Stiles against his will because he doesn’t know what to do. But I digress.) Or take Season 5. In the rain argument in Lies of Omission (5x09), Scott McCall’s hypocritical, dehumanizing speech to Stiles is one of the meanest, cruelest, most disgusting manipulations I have ever seen a television character deliver to another television character they supposedly cared about. It’s victim blaming and gaslighting at its vilest.
9-11 And, of course, the Scott McCall defense squad focuses exclusively on the idea that Stiles didn’t behave “the right way” in that scene (AKA taking Scott’s bullshit without clapping back like Scott wanted and demanded), and cannot entertain for one moment the idea that Scott provoked that response by dehumanizing Stiles and by accusing Stiles of being a violent, dangerous, inhuman monster and serial killer based on Theo’s words alone.
10-11 After all, it’s part of their power fantasy. Scott being “abandoned” and “mistreated” by his “ungrateful” friends serves another type of fantasy: the poor oppressed martyr. It doesn’t matter why Scott is abandoned or who is leaving Scott, it’s all about Scott McCall’s right to own people and demand his friends’ love, friendship, loyalty, sympathy, forgiveness, obedience and devotion without having to account for his own abusive behavior.
11-11 And that’s Scott Stans’ point: Only Scott McCall Is Important and Damn Derek/Stiles/Liam/Other Teen Wolf character for having a life and motivations that don’t revolve around Scott! To them (and to Canon Scott), the pack exists not to serve all its members, but to serve and validate Scott McWhinyCall. Because, after all, that’s what antis want for themselves – validation in the face of shortcomings and bad behavior.
Wow, that was a lot of anger. Do you feel any better after venting that? I really hope so, it honestly looks p cathartic. Okay, I apologize in advance if I don’t come across as quite so passionate, I’m kinda bleh today and I already used up all my righteous fury in an earlier post, so I’ll do my best.
I honestly understand the worry about people disliking Scott as having racist motivations. As I said in another post, there aren’t a lot of Latino (wait, I read somewhere to use latine? Should I use that instead? I’ll use that, someone correct me if I’m wrong. The thing also said latinx was not great bc of pronunciation issues? I’m not educated enough on this. Halp, please.) Latine protagonist characters in popular television, especially for teen dramas like Teen Wolf.
Intentional or not, written into the show or not, Scott is half-latine. His mother is a latine woman. We don’t see them speak spanish or take part in any specific cultural traditions, but that doesn’t make him white. Yes, his character was written for a white guy, but Tyler Posey is the one who got the part and we can’t strip him of his heritage just because the show originally meant for Scott to be white. My husband is almost always mistaken for white, even though he’s also half-latine, but that doesn’t make him any less latine. There’s little enough representation as it is, and if we start being picky about whether characters were ‘intended’ or ‘written’ as POC, everything will just fall to shit.
Plus, as a white person, I have literally no rights to decide that Scott’s white. I’m cool with that. Would prefer to just stay in my lane, if I’m honest.
With Scott established as being a POC, it’s totally reasonable for other POC and fans of Scott to be worried that those of us who don’t like him have that opinion because of either passive or active racism. There are a lot of occasions where Protags of Color were either liked less, or actively disliked for just being ‘not white.’
It also doesn’t help that Scott is one of very few “good” Characters of Color in TW (whether we agree or not, he is presented as a ‘good guy’). We have Boyd, who dies in 3A and doesn’t get much character developement in the meantime, and Kira, who sticks around for a while, then has to leave because of ‘losing control’ which is apparently a very common stereotype for POC, especially within Fantasy or Supernatural settings. Other than them, the other POC are either bad guys or just morally dubious. I’m not sure where Deaton falls on the scale either.
I understand it being frustrating to some people for us to take one of the few “good’ characters and see him/describe him as a villain.
It’s important for white people, and honestly, anyone not latine (because even POC can be racist against people who aren’t their race) to be self-aware and analyze the various reasons why we dislike Scott and make sure that we aren’t accidentally being passively racist. Just because we’re sure we aren’t, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t double check. And if we find we are, then it’s up to us to correct that mindset and educate ourselves. There is no shame in learning that you have not great habits or mindsets and working to fix them. That’s how growth works.
It’s equally important that when we’re writing fic, we watch how we portray him and the other POC in the show. I’m not saying we can’t write Scott bashing fic. Fuck knows that I’ve written plenty of Bad Friend Scott McCall fic, and I don’t intend to stop. But we still need to be self-critical and make sure that we’re not writing Scott (or the others, please assume from here on out I’m saying Scott and the others) into racist stereotypes.
We shouldn’t reduce him to just a “Yes” man, or make him constantly submissive, or constantly vicious and angry and mean for no reason. It’s one thing to write him as doing something bad or cruel and making it realistic for the story. It’s quite another to have him just randomly pop in to say “fuck you” and hit someone (I’m not referencing something specific here, I’m just saying dumb stuff).
Honestly, I don’t know enough about this and I’m not really entitled to go into too much more detail. Instead, I’d recommend that even if you don’t think you’re hating Scott for racist reasons, still read This Post about racism in fandom/fanfic. When I read it, it was both reassuring and intimidating. I have anxiety, so I’m usually worried about doing things for ‘the wrong reason’ even when that’s not actually my reason for doing the thing. Reading this gave me a clearer view of my own thoughts, and it honestly made me feel a little more comfortable with my own mentality because it gave me a structure to think about and consider when I’m worried that I’m doing something racist. It’s worth the read.
I’d also like to reiterate the suggestion on that post, to check out the blog Writing with Color, which is a great resource for writing Characters of Color. It doesn’t have as many resources for fanfiction writing and the grey area involved in writing characters that your reader already knows, but their ask box is closed at the moment, so maybe when it opens again someone’ll send in an ask about it (If I actually remember to, I’ll do it myself, but that’s unlikely, so if one of you feels so inspired, please do so and help a fic writer out!)
Now.
I cannot speak for every single fan of TW who is anti-Scott in some way. Obviously not. But, I can speak for myself and for the experiences I’ve had within the fandom.
My issues with Scott are many and complex and a lot of it is intrinsically connected to issues with the writing of the show in general and with the creators and the calls they made.
In all the conversations that I’ve had with other fans, I’ve never seen anyone list Scott’s race as a problem. I’ve never seen anyone talk about how they wished he were more submissive or more obedient. Maybe that he would listen to actual adults once in a while, but not that he be unreasonably obedient of white characters. I’m not all-knowing on the subject of racist stereotypes, but nearly every complaint I’ve seen was based on details from the show and specific moments and dialogue, not just a general disgust with his existence.
Furthermore, for all the anger I see directed at those of us that prefer Stiles, Derek, or even Peter, I’ve also never talked to anyone who liked those characters who wasn’t willing to admit that there were plenty of points in canon where they fucked up or did something wrong. Again, I don’t know everyone in fandom, so maybe there are people who won’t admit those things, but they aren’t in the majority.
I personally hate the way I see Scott treat people in the show. I hate the really vicious things he says and does and the chronic lack of self-awareness or growth. Even worse, the way the show excuses his behavior, be it intentional or not, has soured a lot of other parts of the show. The clearly impulsive moments that could easily be excused by him being a really stressed out teenager make me a lot more frustrated than they would, had I not known that he would never get better. That he would never stop saying things like that.
I can’t even make myself enjoy the genuinely sweet moments with him and Allison or him and his mom, etc. I might hate that he left Stiles’ messages unanswered and skipped an entire day of school during a crisis to hang out with Allison, but I would’ve liked to enjoy their banter, the soft moments between them that are actually really nice. I can’t though, because so many other things about his character have ruined that for me.
It isn’t okay to attack people for disliking a character and throw around such charged words like “racist” and “abuse-apologist” or anything else. First off, this is fiction, and we all need to keep that in mind. These are not real people we’re talking about. Secondly, calling someone racist because they disagree with you (unless they are actively saying/doing something actually racist) isn’t okay and it isn’t an adult way to deal with things.
Someone not liking a character doesn’t automatically make them racist. Someone happening to prefer a white character over a Character of Color doesn’t automatically make them racist. Sure, they might have passively racist motivations that even they don’t realize. But it is not up to strangers to come yell and call names without proof. There are plenty of reasons that have nothing to do with race (Not saying “i don’t see race.” I’m saying “Not About Race”) that I like Stiles over Scott, ranging from the fact that he’s physically more my type, to sharing a neurological condition with him, to just preferring Dylan O’Brien as an actor because he makes me fucking cry every time he cries on screen.
What’s important is that we self analyze and check ourselves and our opinions to make sure that we aren’t falling into the racist habit of disliking Characters of Color for no real reason. But that isn’t something that other people can do for us, and it’s not their place to tell us what we think.
Calling a stranger racist for saying they hate Scott’s behavior in the show doesn’t do anything for racial equality. It just makes people stop listening to the word ‘racist.’
There are times I seriously get frustrated with TW to the point of considering not watching anymore. Of closing my blog and stopping reading fanfic entirely because every single time I read a fic where Scott’s a ‘good guy’ or a ‘good alpha’ or where Derek is glad to be a beta again because he likes following Alpha Scott, I get squicked so badly I have to click out and just sit there for a second to settle.
I can’t disentangle the things he does/says in the show from the fic.And I’ve written Good Friend Scott McCall fics. I have multiple wips where he’s either a decent person or he grows from being a dick to being a decent person. With my own work, I know that there’s an awareness to his behavior in the show and an active intent to rewrite/fix his behavior so that he is a nice person. With other people’s works, I don’t have a guarantee (unless it’s mentioned in tags or author’s notes, and I don’t expect people to have to explain themselves that way), and it personally makes me uncomfortable to read something when I don’t know if the writer actually sees Scott that way. It’s a personal preference, and one that I stick to pretty strictly.
Scott brings me no joy, and with him as the main character, I’ve come perilously close to cutting myself off from the most welcoming, loving fandom I’ve ever been a part of (except the Merlin fandom, but I don’t blame anyone who can’t compete with them. They’re fucking magical.).
But I’m still here. I still love, if not the reality of the show, then all the potential I see in it when I watch. I love watching Derek and Stiles interact with each other and with the other side characters. I love seeing the glimpses of Boyd that we get, the tiny scenes of Erica, the snarky moments with Isaac. I even like Kira, though I haven’t seen a whole lot of the show where she’s in it/genuinely can’t remember it (I can’t even remember how far I’ve seen total, but I don’t think it was past S4, and I haven’t seen past S2 in months and months) and she spends most of her scenes with Scott, which just....kind of ruins the scenes for me.
That’s the glory of fandom though, of media in general. I don’t have to like Scott. I can love Derek and Stiles instead and I can choose not to read fics where Scott is a major player or an Alpha at all. I can read fics where Kira’s part of the pack without Scott ever getting involved, and see her interact with everyone else. Or fics where Boyd never dies and watch him bake or read or play lacrosse with the pack.
I can curate my own experience, whether that means blocking tags or users or filtering fics, or just straight up skipping certain scenes/episodes of the show itself.
I cope with my frustrations by coming on this blog and ranting about it. Yeah, this is a public space, but it’s also a space people choose to view. If they don’t like my opinions, they can block me or unfollow me or all of the above. They don’t have to read it, just like I don’t have to read any of their pro-scott stuff.
I also read fic that does explore how Scott’s behavior is problematic and cruel sometimes. Fic that either erases him or turns him into the villain, I find fun and interesting and the relationship between him and Stiles cracking into pieces is something I find extremely cathartic, so I read it pretty much every chance I get (though, i’m so picky about fics I read, you’ve no idea).
I also write fic. I write the most mushy, self-indulgent sterek fic and Stiles-centric fic and and Scott bashing fic that I can possibly write. It’s a joy and a therapy all its own. Fuck, I’m rewriting the entirety of canon for fuck’s sake and I’ve made so many changes that at this point I honestly have issues remembering what happens in the show, bc I rewrote the damn thing.
At the same time, Scott fans are gonna write their power fantasies. They’re gonna write anti-Stiles stuff and anti-Derek stuff, and whatever else tickles their fancy. They’re gonna make their own rant posts and gifsets. And to be quite honest, I don’t give a single flying fuck. I already have those tags filtered out on Ao3. I don’t follow any pro-scott tumblrs. That shit doesn’t show up for me most of the time, unless it’s not tagged properly, and even then I just click out, take a second, and move on.
No one is required to like or dislike specific characters, and it’s unfair of anyone to tell us otherwise. Fandom is built on choice. The choice to disagree with canon, or to re-envision it altogether, or to love it entirely. No one can take that away from you. So long as you aren’t hurting anybody, just keep doing you, friend. I’m here for you to vent to when it gets to be too much.
<3
#personal#go for it#anti-scott mccall#meta ramblings#Anonymous#rant#much love#I didn't mean to sound so preachy#oops
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Thoughts on the Meghan&Harry interview from a young Brit:
1) Meghan is stunning.
2) Why would you not research the most famous family in the world before marrying into it? Most people Facebook their other half’s family - let alone if it was the royal family!
3) Seems like a normal rift between family members with the bridesmaid dresses that was blown up by the UK media. I feel like Oprah is digging too much into it, Meghan mentioned multiple times that she has forgiven Kate.
4) British media is an embarrassment, imagine slandering someone over avocados. Meghan summed it up well Hero VS villain storyline.
5) Kind of feel like Meghan could have avoided most of this by researching the Royal Family however, can you blame a young woman in love?
6) Okay but Liz inviting Meghan to keep warm is cute!
7) Meghan being stuck in the house is exactly what happened with Diana, heartbreaking to see it happen again.
8) Very true there - they were quick to nip things in the bud when Andrew was a pedo but leg Meghan get slandered.
9) Americans please read into how the succession line works. Archie will not have a title until Charles becomes King due to the fact that he is the Queens great grandson who is too far down the line. That’s normal. However, he should still receive protection (before they left the royal family). I mean Meghan, it is their right to take it away...
10) She’s got a point about the tradition there although a lot of Brits saw that as going against what has been tradition for a while hence the backlash.
11) Oprah, babe, he was not not given a title because he is part black, he wasn’t given a title because of how the succession line works.
12) I bet it was old Charlie boy who talked about Archies skin colour, what a dick.
13) I think the danger of this is the whole royal family is gonna be painted as racist when that’s not the entire truth. The monarchy as an institution is built upon racism but it doesn’t mean every individual member of the family is racist. The Royal Family, mainly the queen I’m referring to here, blessed the marriage knowing full well they will have children. In my view it was one of the dickhead white guy uncles in the family.
14) I get upset when I receive criticism online for something, I can’t imagine how Meghan would feel knowing media of a whole country is slamming you constantly for no reason.
15) Meghan being denied help is classic Royal protocol, smile and wave and pretend we are okay. If you’ve seen the crown you know how the family covered up mental ill and disabled family members. Shameful on the part of the Royal Family, think they need a shake up and realise we don’t expect them to be perfect - seeing they hurt makes them more relatable.
16) Meghan talking about hiding her emotions is exactly what happened with Diana and it’s truly heartbreaking.
17) The Royal Family think they can scare people into silence, I’m glad they’ve spoken up - I hope the family reform rather than the monarchy split up.
18) Harry looking at that bump is AWWWWWW
19) ITS A GIRL!!!!!! Yay very happy for them
20) I think the line between family and business it’s dangerously blurred in the Royal Family.
21) Harry made a good point - risk and threat hasn’t changed they should be protected. However, British protection is paid for by British tax payers so why should we pay when they don’t live here?
22) British media is vicious.
23) I’m concerned about Harry in that sun, please use sun screen hun.
24) ‘This is just how it is’ is a very dangerous way to live.
25) I genuinely think the Queen is gutted about the situation and really loves Meghan and Harry but she is forced into the role of being Queen - again the line bearer family and business is blurred.
26) Prince Charles is just, wow, he is such a privileged tosh. I can’t stand him. Dear Americans, the British truly hate Charles.
27) Normalise emotions especially ill mental health in all families! I think that’s a British thing.
28) Very sad to see how the Royal Family are kept so closely under view that they couldn’t even stand up against racism. However again, would you not rather stand up against racism than be part of it? It’s a very tricky conversation this and if we are never involved we’ll never know how deep it goes. I think Oprah summed it up well, one can’t survive without the other.
29) 100% believe jealously played a part. The Royal Family really need to take a hard look at themselves and figure out what they find is more important. Meghan shined and they didn’t like it - exactly the same as Diana.
30) Megxit is kinda smart ngl. But Meghan has a good point though, she left everything for him - why would she manipulate him? However, I do thing she deeply miscalculated how much the royal family needs from you as a person. Also the whole national anthem thing there, again I think that’s a mistake on Meghans behalf - although there should be some support. Again, I like Prince Harry’s honesty. I think a lot of Brits are annoyed because Meghan didn’t follow British customs and behaviour however, it’s not her fault if she didn’t receive that support.
31) From a British point of view, I think some people are upset with Meghan purely because she’s an American who has shaken up the British Royal Family, I can’t lie that annoyed me to begin with but I only had the British media to rely on.
32) Again, I truly believe the Queen wants to try and be a grandmother but is forced into the role of queen.
33) Also, Charles can fuck off imagine ignoring your son when he’s struggling so much.
34) ‘Do what they’re told’ - I think again the people around the Royal Family call the shots and the members of the Royal Family are just the puppets and face of it all. I think the difference should be distinguished and taken into account.
35) The media portrayed it as family vs family when in fact it was family vs business. It’s sad really when you look at it all.
36) Harry’s charity and military work should be kept as his. He put in that work, he should be given the glory.
37) Royal children really miss out on decent childhoods however I do think Kate and William are trying their best.
38) I think space with William is good, William is going to be king one day and is going down the route that Harry found toxic.
39) I think there were mistakes made on both sides of this argument but it was made tragic by the disgusting British media.
40) I’m going to end on this - you can still see Harry is conditioned not to answer truthfully, you can see how difficult he finds it to answer these questions with honesty. It goes to show there is a bigger power behind the scenes and these members are born into and conditioned to act a certain way.
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okayo so continuation of the excerpt i posted wayyy back about bendis and nasar, IF YOU HAVEN’T READ IT YOU WILL UNDERSTAND NOTHING NADA RIEN DU TOUT (find it under the where stories go to die tag) (+completely IGNORE the shitty worldbuilding you’re just here for the feels) (++ this is still somewhat relevant since even though the story has drastically changed, the characters are still the same so i guess i could almost call that a AU) (+++ it gets violent at the beginning)
One day, when she’s practicing touch, she notices the scars. There’s one on her stomach and one on her chest. There’s one on her cheek and one on her ankle. She’s happy— no, at peace with them. Because they’re a reminder. Of what she lost and what she gained. They’re a reminder that she survived. A reminder that she lived and that she will keep living. They’re a goal. They’re a promise.
One day, when she’s practicing sound, she hears something she doesn't like. At all. Nasar left this morning and she’s alone in the forest where everything but the trees and the birds is quiet. He told her to stay put but. She hears it and she can’t unhear it.
“...from the institute… bad shape but good batch.”
“Boss will be pleased… the Bel kid and his…”
“...magic users? Damn, kids these days.”
“Right? Look at all the good it does them.”
There’s something like a struggle, a harsh sound and a whimper. And she knows. She just— she knows. But Nasar is not here and she can barely walk ten minutes without falling face first on the ground. And this is a forest with trees and roots and— and there’s nothing she can do and it’s been a while since she last felt so helpless she almost forgot the hows and the whys.
The footsteps and the voices get clearer and— and she does something stupidstupidstupid but she can’t. She can’t help it. She hopes Nasar will get there before they get close enough but he doesn’t. She thumbs at the little blade he gave her (“To protect yourself.”) and wonders how he’ll feel when he finds her dead body. When they pass by the trees she’s hiding behind, she lunges. Her war cry is cut short when a foot hits her in the chest and she hits a trunk. It hurts but she gets up and focuses on the sounds. There’s a harsh laugh, nothing like Nasar’s and she doesn’t have time to separate and analyse and compartmentalize because there’s a hand in her hair and it yanks. She’s dangling from the ground and trashing and snarling and— and maybe she’s crying, too, because her scalp is burning and it hurts.
“There’s a wild one. Look at that. Very… feral,” someone says in her face and she doesn’t think and just— She doesn’t know how because she’s a kid and they’re a grown adult but. She didn’t let go of the blade and they don’t seem to care and. She plunges it in flesh. Again and again and again and for as long as it takes for them to let her go. “Fucking… hell. What— What the fuck,” the voice says, and then, seething, “What the fuck.”
The threads— she thinks there might be four people. She’s not sure. She doesn't now because there’s a fist in her gut and she falls to her knees. Someone is laughing and it’s mean. She wants Nasar. She wants. She wants. But there’s a fist in her face. Again and again and again. And she can’t hear anything but the blood in her ears and her bones breaking and. And she thinks about Nasar and how he will find her dead body.
But then. Then. The voice without a voice, the presence. Greedy, with its grudges. The magic. Hers.
did you forget that you were born in blood
did you forget that you were born in war
did you forget that you must live
Her threads. They feel alive and she forgot about them like one forget about one’s body. It’s here, always, but. One only remembers when it hurts.
And so, they lunge, too. Wrap themselves around the toxic ones and yank, too. They slither around a hand and two. They slither up, up, up an arm and two. And they crush. They crush and she thinks she can hear the bones breaking. They crush and she thinks she can hear the screams. They crush hard, unforgiving and she feels the how dare you. There’s a bundle of them crawling up a leg, a torso and then a neck. The snake-like threads yank and the crack echoes through her bones. She wants to throw up and she wants to black out but there’s another one.
did you forget that you were born for blood
did you forget that you were born for war
did you forget that you must live
They weave their way to a foot, they yank at an ankle, at a knee, they yank at a whole damn pelvis and for good measure, they wrap themselves around a neck and crushcrushcrush until there’s nothing left to crush but blood and bones.
She throws up. She throws up and she’s shaking and crying and she can’t hear anything but the headache pounding in her ears. Her body hurts. Everything smells like blood. Her threads smell— feel like blood as they wrap around her with nothing of the vicious killing intent from before. From a moment ago. They wrap around her limbs gently, like a caress. They wrap around her body and she throws up again. They wrap, wrap, wrap until they’re a mockery of the cocoon she likes to make with Nasar’s.
She doesn’t know how long she stays like that. She doesn’t know. But something touches her and she lashes out like an animal with no escape route. She trashes and trashes and trashes until she notices everything still hurts. She trashes because she can’t hear and she can’t see and she doesn’t— Hands take a hold of her own and bring them to a face.
There’s a long nose and lots of eyebrows. There’s a beard and some wrinkles. She realizes there’s threads, too. Sharp but somehow soft. She sobs and goes limp in Nasar’s arms. Her own threads are still wrapped around her and she knows they’re healing her. She wishes they wouldn’t. Because she doesn’t like them. She doesn’t. She doesn’t. She doesn’t. She doesn’t. She— She shudders as she remembers what they did (what she did?).
She doesn’t know how long she stays like that. Wrapped in her threads and his arms. She’s being spoon fed and drinks greedily from a flask. She sleeps a lot but does not dream. She moves only if she’s moved and can’t think much. When she wakes, however briefly, she hears voices like they’re behind a wall or in a bottle. There’s two. One familiar and one unknown. Sometimes she thinks she can feel something wet but warm nuzzling at her cheek. She wants to reach out. She wants. She wants. She— she sleeps.
When she wakes up for good and her threads go back to hide in her body, there’s voices. Nasar’s and someone else’s. Her head is pillowed on something warm and. And there’s fur in her mouth and in her nose. She sneezes. And the nuzzling is back. She wants to reach out, so she does. It’s a snout. A tongue licks at her wrist. There’s pointy ears and she’s sure there’s a tail around her middle. It feels like a dog but she can’t be sure.
There's a hand in her hair and she flinches. She flinches so hard and ugly that the creature yelps. "Hey, hey," it's Ringo Nasar, her friend—protector—bounty-huntermurderer— her friend and his voice is soft when he says it's me. It shakes a little when he says you're fine. She grabs his arm and clings so hard and ugly that the man yelps. He yelps and she laughs. It's a small sound full of tears and relief and something like love. It sounds like a thank you and she hopes he hears it. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, soft, gentle, kind— kinder than most things, kinder than she deserves maybe.
At once, she remembers what she did, what her threads— what they did. She shudders. Hard and uglyuglyugly— Two lives. She took two lives and she's not sure she can ever forget the sound of breaking bones and the feel of someone else's blood on her threads. She took two lives and Nasar will not have to find her dead body. She took two lives and she lives.
She feels like throwing up but has almost nothing in her belly and knows it would be a really bad idea to puke on Nasar's cloak. She prepares for a word vomit instead but— "You don't have to talk about it now," he says and she remembers the dog-creature-familiar and the unknown voice. She reaches for sharp silver threads and it soothes raw wounds. "The dog is Remus," he says, "the kid is Valko."
There's some angry sputtering and a he's a wolf and she remembers the two lives she took and the three lives she saved. It’s not very much but it’s hers and the boy’s and his familiar— his familiar. It hurts to even think about and she buries deeper in her friend—protec— her friend’s chest. Her threads are somewhere she can’t see, chastise in a blind spot as she clutches harder at the silver ones. She can see the wolf’s and almost reaches out when she remembers the warm and fuzzy feelings his nuzzling brought but. She’s good where she is and the warm and fuzzy feelings are there, too.
Later, when she lets go of her friend but never of his threads, and everyone is settled around a fire, she notices the boy’s. They look like brimming, boiling water made of anger, desperation and sadness. She’s sure they taste like it, too. But they also look drooping and mopping and something like a pout. It’s both funny and miserable to look at them and she wonders if the boy knows they’re green. Instead, she asks, “What is the Institute?”
The threads quiver. “It’s a school for people like us,” he says and she knows he’s not looking at her, “there’s two in the land alone. A dozen in the country.”
“Do they— do you—”
“Thank you,” he says quickly, quietly, like it burns him, like it frees him, “thank you. I— we wouldn’t… There’s things far worse than death out there and— and we would be it if you didn’t— if you hadn’t…” The threads flutter, quaver. The threads say everything he cannot. Then, he huffs a little laugh and his threads say just how fake it is. “Soft magic is a real pain. Not very useful against— against anything.”
She waits for a bit or two because these are words she ever only heard in passing. “Soft magic?”
“Yeah,” he pauses, “have you never— I mean. Ah,” he sighs when Nasar’s threads sharpen in her hands, “they categorize magic. At the Institute. More like, umbrella terms or— whatever. Soft and hard magic at both ends of the spectrum. Intermediate’s in the middle.”
She doesn’t ask him to demonstrate. She wants to but she doesn’t because it feels like he’s embarrassed or ashamed or both and she doesn’t like it. His threads seem flighty at best and she doesn’t want to scare them— him— away. “What did… what happened? What did it look like?” she asks because there’s no way she can ever know but she wants to so desperately it hurts her brain.
He explains. He explains how he saw everything, half-dazed, half-unconscious. He explains the threads (“They were orange.”) and the deaths (“They crushed until— until they didn’t.”). He explains how they came from right in the middle of your chest and how they wrapped themselves around her after. He explains the magic in the air (“I think I still got some stuck in my lungs.”) and how it was so potent it froze him in place. How it was so potent he could do nothing but watch you (kill-destroy-annihi—). Nasar says it was so potent he knew from a mile away how much trouble she was in.
When they go to sleep that night, all she can think about are her orange threads and the silver ones and the greens and the familiar’s. Before she falls asleep, she wonders if Paprika’s threads would have felt as kind as her and as brave, too. She wonders if Miss Cyn’s are warm and soft and like a smile. She wonders where the dead threads go.
Nasar takes it upon himself to see the boy and his familiar home safely. He surprises her every day and she likes him more each time. They travel far, far away from the forest and the stinky towns and the boy grabs her arm when she trips over roots. He grabs her arm when there’s a tree ahead and he grabs her arm when she stumbles over thin air. His familiar hovers behind and nudges her in the right direction when she wanders off the path. Nasar doesn’t say anything but he guffaws when it ends in flailing limbs and a three bodies pile on the ground.
When they stop to rest and Nasar helps her work on her braille, the green threads are curious and they watch over her shoulder as her fingers work the letters. When they stop to rest and Nasar lands her Little Death, the green threads are interested and they watch as she tries and fails to juggle the heavy weapon around. When they stop to rest and Nasar tells her about the smell of ships and seas and ropes, the green threads are thoughtful and they watch as she asks questions she didn’t know she had. The green threads are curious and interested and thoughtful but the boy is distant and aloof and stiff.
So she asks him if he knows braille and when he answers with a I don’t need to she hands him her book and gives him directions. She asks him if he knows anything about swords and when he answers with a some she demands he teaches her. She asks him if he ever saw the sea and when he answers with a no she tells him what she thinks it looks like. The green threads are content and the boy slumps a little.
They become friends and he tells her about his familiar. He tells how he awakened early and how the wolf didn’t find him for a long while after that. He tells her about the day he did and how it was the best of them all (“Like all the wrongs were righted. Like it made sense.”) and how they never parted from each other since. He tells her how much he loves him (“He’s like a limb. Or— a soul, yeah. Like my soul.”) and how he thinks he would die without him ("If anything were to happen to him…I don't want to think about it.").
She listens carefully and wants to tell him how he would live instead. She wants to tell him how he would feel cut in half and how his thoughts would feel lonely sometimes. Instead, she tells him about Ringo. She tells him how much of a good teacher he was to Nasar ("Because he protects.") and how he gave him Little Death even though it was his. She tells him how she thinks he's dead and how much she's sad about it ("Why?", "I would like to thank him.", "...Why?", "Because he gave me Nasar."). She tells him I miss someone I never met and how she will have a sword named after him someday.
The familiar— Remus— is always near. His threads are fluffy and she wants to pet them but doesn't ask because threads are special and a familiar even more so. It doesn’t keep her from the cuddle fest and she's grateful. He lets her talk to him and even though he never answers, she knows he is listening. He lets her lay close at night and it keeps the frowns and the nightmares at bay. He lets her pet him and be clingy and laughs in his ears and she feels warm.
One day, Valko decides that you can't keep walking into trees every other minute and that he's going to do something about it. He decides she needs a stick or a cane or something and she tells him yes, I do but ends up with a branch instead. He asks why she doesn't have one yet and she says she never really thought about it until now (silver threads tremble with something like shame and she reaches out). She tells him how she doesn’t like crowds much and how towns are difficult to deal with (green threads shake with something like intrigue and she recoils a bit). He tells her oh, so that's why we're in the middle of fucking nowhere and she says mind your language.
The day before they reach the Institute, he tells her about his magic. He tells her it's soft and meek and his voice is small and dejected. He tells her about shifters and a dad who wasn't one. He tells her about a boy who was supposed to be a wolf. He tells her about genetics and she's a little confused. At the end of it, he tells her just how funny he thinks it is that his familiar is a wolf but he can never be. He shrugs against her shoulder and tells her he got the sense of smell and hearing and— everything, I have everything but the wolf.
"You have the wolf," she says.
His thread feels fond when she grabs one, but there's longing there, where she thumbs at its middle. It's a little bit rough but all kind of soft. "I know."
She tells him about his threads. She tells him they're green and how she thinks they're more like moss than leaf but can't be sure because she forgot the little things. She tells him she hopes he looks just like they feel, half-tree, half-child. He tells her I am fourteen, thank you very much and what the hell. She laughs and tells him about birds and nests and he says duh. She tells him how trees can be homes. She tells him how they can be red and gold but she likes them green best. She tells him trees can look old when they're young. She tells him they can be damaged or marked or cracked but can never be moved. He says holy shit, I am a tree and she smiles warm and soft.
When the Institute is in front of her, she's surprised. They went around cities on their way but she thought the school for people like her (child—murderer—magic-user) would be in one. She's wrong. She's terribly wrong and they find themselves in the middle of fucking nowhere ("Shut it!") and green threads are restless. There's a pair of them in front of what she thinks are gates. They look muted somehow. Blurry. A not-even-a-color white.
She realizes she never asked how Valko found himself in the hands of slavers and why he was so far from home. She realizes he never told her. She realizes she never asked if he was alone before her and why he fakes laugh so often. She realizes she doesn't know him very much and she's sad.
They leave him with the muted threads and snot on his jacket. The wolf gets a hug and a lot of thank yous and apologies and petting. They wait until he's let in. They wait until she sees his threads for the last time.
That night, when she's settled in Nasar's cocoon and thinking about a boy and a wolf, she says, "The Institute. Didn't it— didn't it feel odd to you?"
The silver threads tighten around her, "Wait, do you mean the part where they send children to war or was it more about the titanic fortress?"
"...but. We're not at war."
He sighs like it pains him, "There's always a war somewhere, kid."
"Is it— is it like a military? Because those were downtown all the time and Miss Cynn always said they were like leeches but I never understood what that means because I don't know what a leech looks like or what it is—"
"They’re like vampires, they suck blood and happiness out of you."
"—and they were not really nice to the children and women but they were always nice to the drunk men pissing on Madam K’s shoes. I think that one is fair because Madam K was kind of mean sometimes and if they hadn’t pissed on her shoes, I might have—"
"That’s very bold of you."
"—but. Valko was not like that. I mean… I don’t think he was."
"He was not like that. And yes, like a military," he sighs like it burns him, "Young magic-users are given the one-in-a-lifetime opportunity to learn how to harness, how to control, how to— how to optimize themselves, yeah," he chuckles lowly, "with the best teachers in the world."
"Do you— do you mean for them?"
"Bendis. This world will take every chance it gets— every last one of them— to walk all over you. And these kids… these kids are running out of luck."
"Do you mean luck or—"
"I mean luck. Those people... Bravery means death. Recklessness means death. And not in a Greater Good way but in a look-how-wrong-they-were way. The only way out is… deserting. Which is— it’s a terrible idea."
"Why?"
"Deserters are hunted down. Once you get in, you can’t get out. If you were to leave... ", he sighs like it haunts him, "I— he never asked."
"...We didn’t, either."
His threads buzz with confusion and regrets and protector-friend-protector-prote— They hum with a sort of disquiet she never felt from him before. "I know."
"...You know a lot about them."
"Mh. People seldom differ, kid. Give them power and they will abuse it. It's really that simple."
"What does seldom means and how—"
They stop in a quiet inn, and Nasar leaves in the morning. She decides she has things To Do Today. She takes the branch with her and only runs into thirty two people (to whom she asks directions every time) before she finds the library. The librarian is harder to find still but when she asks her if they have any books in braille, brown threads brighten considerably and she hears a smack and a woman's voice says it's your lucky day! before it leads her to an empty section of the room. There's three books and one of them she already has. She's almost certain another one is about pirates but the last one. The last one says universal spellbook and she reads until she can't. She doesn’t understand everything and when she does it's about rankings and soft-hard-intermediate and category and— she steals the book.
When Nasar comes back and his threads are clean but he smells like blood, he tells her good job and helps her decipher the book. He tells her what he knows about magic ("Everyone has it. There's a hereditary thing going on and awakenings rituals everywhere.") and she levels him with an unimpressed look. He tells her what he thinks he knows ("There's something like neutral magic— the one out there, you know? Not inside us. The magic of the trees and the seas. The one we don't incubate until it implodes, yeah?”) and she goes for his neck. He tells her the spellbook is what we can do with it and she gasps so loud because I didn't know that. Why didn't I kno— "The only way to learn this stuff is through institutes. Or whatever-council approved tutor. This is just a book of spells. Nowhere does it tell you how to— how to cast them. It tells you plenty about their nature but not the way you need to— to work the magic. Universal means for everyone. But everyone is too big a number."
"But people must have tried—"
"They do try. All the time. Sometimes they die trying and they're lucky. Sometimes they get caught and— It's ugly."
She reads the book still. She reads it until she knows the twenty six spells ranked between the letter F and the letter D. She reads it until she knows the difference between soft and intermediate and hard ones. She reads until she knows their categories and common uses and her brain itches. She reads. She reads. She reads. Until the day she doesn’t.
It's late and she's waiting for Nasar in another smelly inn room. When he comes, she has a pillowcase tied around her head and cotton in her ears. He takes her hands from the book and presents them with a cane. It's long and sturdy and nothing like the branch that broke after fifteen minutes a few days ago. She cries a lot. But mostly, she smiles until she can’t.
Walking becomes easier but she makes sure to be as good without the cane as she is with it. It's difficult and it takes time but she wants a sword named Ringo. It's difficult and it takes time until she remembers her threads (orange-murderer-magic) and decides they might be useful. It's difficult and it takes time because she remembers the bones and blood and death on them and how it stuck for days. It's difficult and it takes time but they're like eyes who can see everything she can't.
At night, she dreams about a boy who was supposed to be a wolf and the wolf who is like a limb. She dreams about a tree overrun by moss and a sword without a name. She dreams about a woman with a soft smile and calloused hands who is so kind she tells an orphan girl to run, run away before— and she never remembers how it ends. She dreams about silver threads and spellbooks and institutes and child-soldiers. She dreams about green .
They leave this town and the next, and she's got a book under an arm and a cane in her hand. She asks Ringo Nasar for more books about magic and his threads are not very happy but he asks when's your birthday? and she gets a book about bloodlines. She asks Ringo Nasar when's your birthday? and when he says I'm not sure she decides to give him one like Miss Cyn had for her. She realizes she doesn't know what to get him because Ringo Nasar does not like many things but Little Death and Bendis. But he gets a knife she found under a mattress and a stolen book about pirates. He gets hugs and kisses on the face and his laugh is so loud it echoes in her heart.
They lull themselves to sleep with whispered stories of a girl and her sword. She tells him how the sword saves the girl every single time and he tells her how the girl saves herself. He tells her how the girl becomes sword in the end and she tells him how the sword becomes him.
The fire crackles at the night and her threads reach out. Tentative. Hesitant. They reach out. And there's no violence in the way orange wraps around silver. And there's no wrath where it weaves its way up, up, up. But Nasar stiffens and she thinks she might have done something wrong even if she didn't mean— But then his threads answer. They answer. They— she doesn’t know how he's doing it, if he's doing it, but his threads intertwine with hers and she thinks. She thinks she might be feeling his soul.
It feels like his threads and his sword and his leg. It feels like rainy days in shitty inn rooms and cold nights in the woods. It feels like it's known too many ends and not nearly enough beginnings. It feels like both the wielder and the weapon and how sometimes they're the same. But it feels like cocoons and laughter and comfort. It feels like all the pieces that make Ringo Nasar and more.
“You feel like the sea,” he says quietly. And she thinks she understands.
She wakes with the sun and notices a new thread. It’s a little odd looking but she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t mind because it starts in her chest and ends in his. And it feels like chosen birthdays and hushed voices.
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Hey, so curious. You use to make salt au's with characters, like New Friends au, but you said you stopped doing that. What was the main reason that you stopped making the salt au's?
Ah,
I remember riding the chameleon salt train to the station. It was fun to salt on things. It was just an au or two, nothing too serious. I thought that there was no harm that could come from it.
I remember a bit after Oblivio came out. An episode I LOVED, there was just so much salt. I couldn't grasp it. Why were people mad? Oblivio was a good episode. It had good fluff, the character writing was on point. But some people still salting on it.
But like my mindset before, its just an opinion, an au or two with salt won't hurt.
I remember reading a prominent au at the time that popped up just after the episode and I realized, wow this was really salty. It was really off putting.
But again, I thought, its just another alternate take. This won't impact things... right?
Now I don't know if maybe I just opened my eyes to the truth or that AU was the inspiration for a movement. But all the salt au’s after just seemed to be just as vicious and mean as that one. The salters seemed much more bold, if people even mentioned liking Alya or Adrien at that time, 12 death threats Minimum. A lot of these blogs were younger fans that just got into the series... only to be told by angry adults how awful they are for supporting “Abusive monsters”. Suffice to say it was Highly fucked up
Seeing it all go down, seeing just how popular those salt aus got. How people treated Marinette as this puppet to exact their hatred on the characters... It felt like Bile in my gut and I just... I just didn't feel comfortable with it.
The show wasn't perfect, and I still hold criticism and criticizing characters within reason is fine. Heck, I love joking about certain characters. But I cant bring myself to make character related salt au’s. I refuse to become toxic over it. I won't ever tell someone they are wrong for liking a character.
#gale rants#sorry about going a bit far on that anon#ml#ml fandom salt#ml salt on salt#salt on ml salt#I am not mentioning the au#but it was bad
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