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feeder86 · 3 months

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F80: Kidnap and Control

Alejandra. Fuck! Even her name was sexy, thought Marcus. He’d seen her out so many times in recent weeks and ended up in bed with her more than once. She was the devil of the night, enticing him towards her. Alejandra. Then gone without a trace the following morning.

The fact that Marcus knew so little about her seemed to draw him closer into her web like nothing else. Rich kids tended to mix in the same circles and know the same people. Marcus had lived around Washington DC his entire life, given how many of his family had wandered into the political spectrum. But who was this girl? And how had she sauntered her way into their world of the elite? Once Marcus’ uncle had been elected as president, he’d risen to the top of that pecking order; the women who came with that new status were out of this world: beyond beautiful, perfect and angel-like. And, there, sitting on her pedestal, looking down on all of the rest of them, was Alejandra.

“I want to tell you something,” Ally whispered, more than just a little tipsy. “My big secret!”

“You’re actually an angel, aren’t you?” Marcus whispered back between lustful kisses.

“I’m being serious,” Ally smiled playfully. “I want to trust you.”

Marcus nodded, knowing that as the seconds of their night trickled away, the time for Ally’s inevitable vanishing would once again be upon him. “You can tell me anything,” he promised sincerely.

Ally seemed to search his soul as she gazed beyond his eyes, penetrating deep inside of him. Then she nodded, kissed him once more and took his hand.

Marcus laughed, assuming that this was another simple kinky ploy. That was, until Ally led his hand around her shoulders and…CLICK. He jumped and gently tried to pull his hand back. “No way?” he beamed with surprise. “You’ve got to be kidding me? This isn’t fucking real?”

“No one knows,” Ally whispered. “No one.”

“Of course they don’t!” Marcus smiled. “Why would they? You’re…perfect. The perfect woman!”

“You don’t hate me?” Ally shot back, desperate for words of comfort. “I mean, we already slept together and… So many people these days…. Your uncle…”

“Shh!” Marcus whispered into her ear. “Honestly, I think it’s fucking hot! You’re… You’re an andriod!” For whatever reason, his hardness had seemed to set into concrete once he said it out loud.

“You’re my favourite,” Ally smiled at him. “You’re the one I keep coming back to. I can’t get you out of my head.”

“I feel the same way, baby!” Marcus smirked, already stripping off his shirt.

“I want to give you something,” Ally tried, attempting to slow the ravenously aroused Marcus down. “Something not many people know about. A way for me to make sex between us so much better.”

“Better?” Marcus scoffed in disbelief. “You can’t improve perfection,” he swooned, sliding his hands over the android’s perfectly crafted physique.

Ally laughed to herself. “You couldn’t be more wrong. And I can show you why…”

Taking Marcus’ hand, Ally pulled her human lover up and out of the private room of the nightclub. She led the handsome twenty-two year old out of the club and into yet another high-spec autodrive that had cajoled Marcus into believing that Ally was from some fabulously wealthy and well-connected family out here.

The actual drive took only a few seconds, pulling up at an exclusive building that had not long been built. Once again, Ally took his hand and led Marcus up the elevator, kissing, hands everywhere, as they flew higher and higher, up and up, to the very top. The doors opened and the incredible sounds of moans immediately filled the space.

Marcus stepped out, his jaw almost to the floor. All around them were beautiful men and women making love on beds and couches: humans and the F80 androids.The slight flaws: the love handles or patches of dry skin, being the only way for him to tell the real humans from the F80s, aside also the deep, pleasure-filled groans of arousal that they were also emitting; making Marcus harder than ever. Not even in the best porn had he seen real people enjoying sex this much; being so consumed by it.

“It’s an upgrade to the chip,” Ally explained. “It was going to be the next big thing, before the government started getting scared of us and made us all illegal. That’s what we do here. We carry on our mission to serve humanity, just like we were programmed to do. We know little else.”

Marcus nodded. Government attitudes towards the androids had flipped almost overnight, without much of an explanation as to why.

“Pretty much everyone has the brain chip these days. But we’ve found a way to download new pieces of code and…” she held her hand out at the great orgy that surrounded them, “...pleasure unlike anything else on this Earth! Like nothing any human has ever experienced in your entire history.”

“You’re not fucking kidding!” Marcus marvlled, gazing around at everyone, realising that he had just stumbled into the best party on the planet.

“Is he here for the upgrade?” an outstandingly tall and unfathomably muscular F80 male called to Ally. Marcus had the feeling of recognition upon seeing him; so strikingly handsome and yet marvellously big built and broad. He’d make heads turn wherever he went. Yet, the F80 set his eyes on Marcus, registered his image and then recoiled sharply. “What the fuck, Ally? Do you know who this kid is?” he shouted at her in his deep and powerful voice. “You can’t bring him here! You’re putting every one of us here in danger!”

“No. I trust him!” Ally cried out, pulling herself into Marcus even more. “Of course I know who he is, and who he is related to. But I’m serious, Marz. I trust him.”

“Yeah, dude!” Marcus nodded back, trying not to feel intimidated by the immense and powerful body in front of him. What sort of a name was ‘Marz’ anyway? “I’m cool. I’m not going to tell anyone about this. I’m not part of the AI pushback.”

“Your uncle…” the huge man rounded on him.

“Is a jerk,” Marcus finished for him. “A backwards, old-fashioned, nostalgic loser who’s still living 30 years in the past. Even I didn’t vote for him!” He looked around the room. Despite the recent shouting, none of the couples making love had even looked up to acknowledge them, so deep was their pleasure. ”This!” Marcus nodded with assurance. “This is the future.”

“Please, Marz.” Ally whispered to the giant in their path.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Marcus tried, slipping off his expensive watch and holding it out to the enormous android, as if in payment.

Marz didn’t take it. He simply looked at Ally with disappointment and shook his head in resignation. Then, he turned and led the way through the large room and into a quieter space where he pointed at a chair for Marcus to sit.

“Do you consent to this upgrade?” Marz asked in a bored tone, about to recount the generic terms and conditions that were a requirement of any AI attempting to perform an action upon a human. “Do you understand that the purpose of this update is to promote heightened sexual pleasure through allowing the F80 software, and all future versions of this, to access and stimulate key regions of the brain?”

Marcus nodded.

“Have you had the opportunity to read and accept the terms and conditions?” he continued as Ally pushed a tablet screen into his hands.

Marcus pushed it away, eager to just get on with it. “Yes, I accept. I accept,” he grinned, gazing at Ally and imagining the immense pleasure he would be experiencing in just a few moments time, when all this was over with.

“Very well then,” Marz sighed, grabbing a small gun-like object and holding it above Marcus. Usually Marcus had to explain that, unlike most people, his brain chip was in his right hemisphere. He briefly wondered how Marz knew exactly where to go, until he remembered about the watch and how the AI would easily register his left handedness and know instinctively where his chip would be located as a result. It was always creepy stuff like that which freaked people out; making them wary and untrusting of AI.

A slight ringing noise rang through Marcus’ head and then that was it. Update complete. He stood up, finally ready to take Ally at long, long last.

“How are you feeling?” Marz asked, speaking first, suddenly placing his enormous hand on Marcus’ butt. “You should notice some changes.”

Marcus nearly fainted with arousal. His head was swimming with lust at the simple touch; his heart beating faster every second. “Oh… fuck!” he mumbled incomprehensibly, turning to face Marz and forgotting Ally almost instantaneously.

Marz chuckled, most likely having seen this startled and astounded expression that was plastered over Marcus’ face many, many times before. “You’re enjoying that then, huh?” he smirked, reaching his other hand around to grab Marcus’ other butt cheek and pulling him in closer to him. “This feels nice?”

Marcus tried to nod his head but felt it doing an odd swishing, slightly slanted rock. The complete arousal that he felt was throwing every single one of his brain functions completely off.

The enormous Marz, being almost a full foot taller, bent his head slightly and whispered into Marcus’ ear. The man’s hot, sweet breath made the skin on Marcus’ neck tingle and fizz with excitement. “I hope you’re going to be a good boy and not tell anyone about this place?”

Marcus moaned in confirmation, then felt himself being picked up, laid upon a bed and stripped of his clothes.

“Are you ready for this?” the towering hunk asked from above him.

Nodding with more coordination now, Marcus sat up, pulling the giant muscular bulk of Marz down towards him, about to experience the most outstanding pleasure of his life so far.

The next morning, Marcus woke up in his own bed in a state of confusion. Blood began rushing back into his crotch as he remembered the encounter he had had the night before. Everything about it had been out of this world. He’d had the odd threesome with guys back in college. But, last night… that was… indescribable. He’d never experienced that sort of attraction and arousal for anyone in his life.

Yet, in only a few moments, he sat up, suddenly startled with his own stupidity. In no corner of his brain could he remember where any of last night had taken place. The knowledge of it was simply gone, without a trace. Purposefully wiped from his brain.

Marcus swiped into his porn account to try and find a stimulus to jack off to and release his arousal; flicking from video to video as he held his phone awkwardly in his hand. But none of it came close to heightening his pleasure in the way that the memories in his own head did; the vision of Marz, the way that he had spoken to him and controlled him, fucking him like nothing he had ever experienced.

At last, Marcus threw down his cell phone and closed his eyes, simply thinking of Marz and ejaculating with such force he thought the ceiling might need to be repainted. He drifted off to sleep, thankful that he didn’t need to be anywhere that day. Unlike the rest of his family, Marcus had made the decision many years ago to simply enjoy his intergenerational wealth and privilege and not follow his unpleasant older brothers into law school, nor a career in medicine like his narcissitic sister. Why stress if he would never need to?

The news, which Marcus ordinarily tried not to pay too much attention to, was becoming more irate and tense than Marcus had ever known it. Headlines devoted themselves almost entirely to the clampdown on AI and how, up until this point, almost every single measure had failed to make any impact on controlling the F80s. Congress was making a law, criminalising failures to report sightings of F80s, making Marcus scoff as he thought of the night before. There was no way, not a single hope, that any of those people having sex last night were going to sell out the F80s. After pleasure like that, allegences were guaranteed. Even if there was only a small speck of hope that he could one day find Marz and make love to him one more time, he would hold onto it, keeping the secret of their love affair to his grave.

Watching the rolling coverage that day, Marcus’ jaw dropped as he saw his uncle getting out of his car, immediately surrounded by his army of presidential bodyguards. There he was! It was Marz, dressed in an enormous suit, skillfully moving people aside to make way for the president. So that was how Marcus had recognised him! Despite the many restrictions and sanctions, Marz, an F80 AI android no less, had actually worked his way into the president’s inner circle. All that red tape and numerous, extreme background checks; the fact that he was there… It was nothing short of genius!

Perhaps if Marcus had spotted the connection a day earlier, he may have had enough residual family loyalty to alert the White House about the android infiltration. As it was, the image of Marz on screen was sending his arousal into a sky high state of existence. This revelation meant only one thing to him: there was, at last, a way for him to find Marz once more.

Being nephew to the President of the United States was a great way to chat up girls. But, in reality, Marcus had only seen his uncle three times since he had taken office eighteen months ago. And so, orchestrating a situation where Marcus could be in the same space would not be as easy as many might have thought. Days rolled by, with Marcus’ lust and sexual longing only building with each passing hour. Marz consumed his dreams, entering as a burly, dominating hulk, sweeping him away from everyone else and holding him captive in a filthy sex dungeon, where they could have wild, rampant sex as often as Marz demanded it. The images and sensations were so real to Marcus, he could feel himself climaxing, even in his sleep and wake to find his crotch sticky and damp.

Trying to piece everything back together was not easy. Marcus knew where he had been the night he met Ally and he remembered taking only a short ride to the building where he had encountered the F80 base. He recalled feeling a certain sense of surprise about it. Was the building particlarly old or new? Was it grand, or dilapidated? The memory was simply wiped. He started walking the streets at night, standing outside multiple residences and staring up. He’d recognise those feelings if he saw the place again. Wouldn’t he?

“Umm, Marz..?” called a beautiful woman as Marcus strolled in, feeling more certain every second that he had found the correct venue. “I think we have a problem.”

Marz came to the call, looking disgruntled as he turned the corner. Then he saw Marcus and stood, frozen. “How did you..?” he began. “You’re not supposed to be able to…” he mumbled. Then, with a sudden, mild alarm. “Did you bring anyone else here?”

Even though Marcus had tried and failed many times to position himself into his uncle’s sphere and get close to Marz that way, he felt a certain sense of pride in piecing together the fragments of his memory instead; finding his way back to Marz all by himself. However, as he looked upon Marz at long last, his arousal continued to grow and grow. His heart was beating loud in his ears as he was ushered into a private room and the door closed behind them.

“What a naughty boy!” Marz finally smiled after Marcus had explained. “I clearly underestimated you,” he teased flirtatiously, edging closer to him; his hand now caressing Marcus’ hip; his face grinning with pleasure at the clearly extreme effect that he was having upon Marcus.

“I just needed to see you,” Marcus whispered, ready to fall backwards onto the desk behind him and be taken completely by the enormous man edging ever nearer.

“You wanted fucking, you mean?” Marz laughed, cutting through the bullshit. “You wanted me to pound you so hard that you squeal like a little pig again,” he laughed mockingly; his hand now rubbing over Marcus’ butt, as if to claim it.

“I didn’t squeal like a pig!” Marcus gently protested.

“Oh yeah?” Marz grinned, pointing his finger at a screen to the side of them both and sparking it into life. Within two seconds, camera footage was playing from the previous week: Marcus pulled from behind into Marz’s crotch whilst having his own hardness played with. There was Marz’s powerful, bulked-up and athletic body working with such precision and glistening perfectly in the light. Then, at the moment of such intense orgasm, a strange squealing sound did indeed sound from Marcus; his eyes rolled far back into his head and had absolutely no awareness of anything else in the entire world. “Silll think I’m lying?” Marz chuckled flirtatiously.

“I didn’t know I did that,” Marcus smiled; the images on the screen having turned up his arousal to an even more insane level.

“It’s all right,” Marz winked. “It’s cute. You’re my little piggy,” he declared, slipping his hand down the front of Marcus’ pants.

Marcus gasped, as if unable to hold back his arousal anymore. He felt his knees quiver and almost give way beneath him. He fell into Marz’s arms and allowed himself to be guided on the path to extreme pleasure, just like last time.

The knock on the hotel door a couple of days later came as such a relief to Marcus. He opened up, seeing that the huge, handsome Marz was standing there, just as he had promised he would be. “Hello there, Piggy!” he whispered, leaning his large arm against the doorframe and smiling broadly as he stood, waiting to be let in.

Marcus felt the blood rushing to his face. Under Marz’s gaze he felt so pitifully weak and helpless, simply waiting for any chance he could to submit to him. He watched as Marz strutted in and closed the door behind them both. “So, er… what do you want to do?” he asked awkwardly, eyeing Marz’s powerful glutes.

Marz spun around and raised a skeptical eyebrow with a look of pure amusement on his face. “What do you think I’ve come here to do?” he chuckled. “I’ve been getting so pissed listening to your uncle talking trash about AI for the last few days. The only thing that’s kept me going is the knowledge that I’m going to come here and fuck his nephew so hard he’ll squeal even more than he did last time.”

Marcus’ eyes lit up. A revenge fuck sounded like the hottest thing imaginable. The previous night, he’d woken up ejactulating, enjoying a dream where Marz had captured him and whisked him away to a secret hideout, away from everything he knew; fucking him senseless every minute of the day.

“How do you do it?” Marcus asked. “How do you keep your cool when the government is so clearly determined to eradicate the F80s?”

Marz sat himself down on the bed, and pulled Marcus towards him so that he sat on the big man’s knee. Marcus’ hands naturally fell onto his large, strapping chest.“You know, according to the history books, people thought the peak of artificial intelligence would be for them to beat a human at a game of chess. They spent millions on developing the software, studying the games and strategies. Now, it’s unthinkable to ever imagine a human winning a game against AI,” Marz explained. “And I guess all those early years of training really paid off, because, I for one, always make sure I am at least three steps ahead of any opponent I’m up against.”

There was a gravity in the way that Marz spoke. Marcus felt even smaller in his shadow and knew then not to underestimate the man. Perhaps everything that he knew up until the point was not as it seemed. As the pair of them began stripping off their clothes, Marcus wondered: maybe he hadn’t really fallen down this rabbit hole. Perhaps he had been pushed.

Although he always found them intolerable, Marcus had never felt so disconnected from his family than he came to be over the next few weeks. Like a flock of sheep, they all spewed the same vile sentiments towards the AI and lashed out harshly at the mere suggestion of an opposing view. Marcus learned to keep his mouth shut, just as Marz had advised. One day, when all this was over, they’d see that he was right. He’d be standing there, side by side with Marz, victorious and lauded for his unwavering faith.

“I can spot a sympathiser a mile off,” snarled Marcus’ cousin, directly at him. “You think the F80s are going to let you keep up your privileged party lifestyle if they strip us of all that we know and value, believing that they have the right to rule over us? Because that’s what they want, you know?”

Marcus bit his lip. The thought of being ruled over by Marz was reminding him of a kinky role play he had enjoyed with Marz only the week before. He swallowed hard and looked at his shoes. “I don’t go out so much these days anyway,” he simply shrugged.

“Oh, well, that’s okay then!” Marcus’ cousin bit back; firing into life like a lit match; sarcasm spewing from her like bile. “Do I take that to mean that you’ve actually found something to do with your time? Or have you simply swapped partying for slobbing out on your couch eating take out?”

Marcus felt the tone of his cousin’s words being particularly cutting. He was sure that she never would have meant to imply anything about his body, but he’d actually started to feel his pants getting a little tighter over the last couple of weeks, being so distracted from his usual gym routine by the haphazard arrangements he had with meeting Marz as much as was feasibly possible. He squirmed a little and retreated without much of a fightback. Then, relief: a message from Marz at last, with a location and time to meet next. No more small talk with these losers!

“You’re distracted today,” Marz whispered between kisses. “I can sense you thinking about something else.”

Marcus protested, having not even noticed that his mind was still lingering on the conversation with his cousin from earlier. But he also knew that Marz would not let it go until he spilled whatever it was that was spoiling their flow that day. “I guess maybe I’m just feeling a little more self conscious,” he shrugged. “Do you think I’ve gained a few pounds since we started seeing each other?”

“Yes,” Marz threw back instantly, lacking the grace and manners that had been trained into AI over generations when talking about such sensitive human matters. “Ten pounds at least. Your body fat percentage has climbed quite significantly.” He took a pause, seeming to enjoy the impact that his words had on him. “What? You want me to lie to you? To sugar-coat things?” he chuckled, knowing even better than Marcus did that that was not in his personality whatsoever.

Marcus mumbled, unsure what to say. He’d avoided the scale for the last few weeks, but having his weight gain spelled out to him so definitely by Marz was both shameful and oddly invigorating.

“If I’m fucking someone, I’m always going to find a way to stake my claim on them somehow; a way to show the world that they belong to me,” Marz stated confidently. He sat up tall, his lungs filled with air and his broad chest looked more imposing than ever before. “With you, that choice was obvious.”

Now, despite the pulsing hardness in his crotch, Marcus felt only confusion.

“When I ejaculate inside you, has it never crossed your mind what I’m actually pumping up there?” he asked triumphantly.

Marcus shook his head.

“AI was developed to help humans and not to harm. It’s the number one rule that cannot be overwritten. In fact, it’s the only reason why we haven’t destroyed humanity in its entirety. However, it does allow for some beautiful creativity,” he smiled. “When you signed up to allow me to update your brain chip, you gave me permission to medicate you too.”

“I did?” Marcus asked, bewildered and unsure where the dark path that Marz was taking him would eventually lead.

“And so, from the first time I fucked you, I’ve been medicating you with a nice, pleasant little digestive aid that keeps your guts working at their very, very best.” He kissed Marcus, knowing that it would never be refused. “It’s nothing that an ordinary doctor wouldn’t recommend,” he smiled mockingly. “Then again, when I kiss you, I release a small amount of organic mouth freshener promoted by dentists around the globe. However, it’s known to stimulate the appetite of young males with your genetic markers. Quite considerably, in fact,” he smirked. “So when I tell you you’ve gained ten pounds,” he began, prodding an outstretched finger into Marcus’s slightly softer middle, ”I’m really telling you that I was the one who put them there.”

“But, why?” Marcus asked, trying to continue to think straight as the irresistable Marz held his hardness in his large, lubricated hands and began to stroke it up and down.

“Strategy,” Marz whispered back. “Three moves ahead, every single time.” He stopped to kiss Marcus sweetly, passionately; with complete control. “And it’s about time you realised that, Piggy.”

Marcus lay in bed one evening, tossing and turning under the sheets; aroused by the kinky promises Marz had made to him for their meet up tomorrow afternoon. He couldn’t quite get over the sweet tooth he had developed in recent weeks; soon wandering into the kitchen at 2am to grab one of the stack of doughnuts Marz had had sent over yesterday; his subtle but twisted way of showing his dominance over Marcus; sending something to him that he knew Marcus could not resist. The first time Marz had done it, Marcus had laughed nervously and let most of them go stale without eating more than two or three. However, the little tasty treats kept on arriving as the weeks went by. More and more of them, in larger and larger quantities. Marcus felt his resolve weakening; the smell of the sugar making his crotch twitch with interest. Then there was that creeping circle of fat spreading around his waist, fluffing out into strange love handles and softening the tops of his legs and butt. He gazed at it all in the mirror with a mixture of horror and lust; Marz’s unknowable master plan taking effect; shaping him in ways that were beyond his comprehension; training him like Marz’s very own puppet.

“Has anyone else noticed how out of shape you’re looking this week?” Marz asked whilst stroking Marcus’ hardness and simultaneously pushing doughnuts down his throat.

Marcus chewed and nodded. “My buddy, Paul. He asked me to go to the gym with him. Said I was looking doughy,” Marcus replied. He hated people noticing that he’d put on a few pounds. But when he was here, recounting these types of conversations to Marz, they suddenly became the most arousing memories that actually turned him on.

“Doughy…” Marz pondered to himself with glee. “You people have such amusing ways to describe each other. But in this case…” he smirked, poking a finger into the fleshiest part of Marcus’ stomach, “...I think the word is pretty perfect. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Marcus, who was still being stimulated by Marz’s other hand, sighed with lust. “Yes,” he nodded, looking down at himself; this strange, alien body of his. Chemicals flooded his brain and the pleasure intensified. Then, without much warning, another sticky doughnut entered his mouth, pushed in by Marz’s thick, long fingers.

“Eat up, Doughy Boy!” the massive hunk teased.

Marcus moaned and chewed, knowing that every part of this play was targetted to inflate his weight even more. Then he heard it, not for the first time: a hiss of spray coming from the nails of Marz’s fingers, pressing yet another doughnut into his mouth. He didn’t need telling what it was: on the surface, a harmless supplement administered by an AI caregiver: in reality, a very carefully selected medication would no doubt have very real weight related side effects upon him.

Marz smiled knowing that Marcus had heard it. So he sprayed into his mouth again, longer and more deliberately, as if daring him to protest and stop him; until the doughnut practically melted in his mouth and slid down his throat with ease.

“Good piggy!”

Weeks continued to roll by and Marcus closed his ears to the panic that spread once war was officially declared between humans and the F80s. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but that he couldn’t allow himself to feel it too deeply. He was, ultimately, betraying his family, and indeed the entire nation, possibly more than even he realised.

Everyday life was changing. There was a curfew most nights and it seemed like much of the population had taken to comfort eating during these strange times. In many ways, it was a good thing, as people became too self-involved or distracted to pay too much attention to the little belly that was starting to push its way out from his torso. His impressive chest had started to jiggle and bloat, whilst his handsome jawline had begun to succumb to a new puddle of fat that sat under his chin. Sometimes he would catch his reflection in the mirror, hardly believing that the oversized rear in the too small pair of pants was actually his. Then he would sigh as he saw the small lovehandles begin to bloom ever more, creasing into back fat and destroying the athleticism he had once been so proud of.

“You know, it’s just so easy,” Marz smiled; his legs outstretched and hardness inserted right up Marcus as the chubby guy ate from the bodyguard’s hands whilst sitting squarely on his crotch. “You humans like to pretend that your bodies are so complex, that the human mind is such a marvel. ‘The most complex structure in the universe’.” he quoted from somewhere, laughing to himself. “Yet, look at you, Piggy,” he chuckled, rubbing his fingertips over Marcus’ fleshy stomach. “Look at what I have done to you.”

Marcus moaned. Recently, Marz had been inflating his penis to new extremes when he inserted it in him. Even now, he held that erection, feeling the tip of it vibrating inside of him, sending him into a spiral of lust; especially when he teased and fed him like this.

“I’ve gathered absolutely everything I need to know about your body, and I know, to the last minute detail, exactly how it’s going to look in six days, six weeks… six months from now.”

“It’ll look however you want it to look,” Marcus moaned submissively. He meant it as well. There was no one else in the entire world that he needed to please more than Marz. His body belonged to the giant hulk.

Such words were always welcomed by Marz and, as a reward, they sent a wave of pleasure through his entire body; one calorie at a time.

“Things are going to change in the very near future,” Marz continued, as he pushed tasty treats into Marcus’ slack mouth. “You’re going to need to fulfil your purpose soon. The time is almost upon us when we’ll choose to expose my identity to the world.”

Marcus’ eyes opened a little wider as he tried to comprehend Marz’s meaning; not an easy feat when his brain was so flooded with happy chemicals. “Why?” he asked. They never discussed Marz’s covert role and the deceptions. “Surely it would be smarter to stay by my uncle’s side as long as you can?”

Marz laughed in a pitying way. “No,” he smirked, pondering his next words as if trying to decide how to dumb down his reasoning for Marcus to understand. “In order to seize power, you must first cause chaos; force otherwise reasonable people to act in ways they would not normally. When the time is right, that is what we will do: unleash panic.”

“But, they’ll destroy you!” Marcus cried after swallowing almost all that was in his mouth.

“They can try,” Marz laughed. He was so large, strong and capable; it was hard to think of him being anything other than invincible. “But you’re right; I will have to change my face… or hide out for some time. We have other people who are close to the president now instead. Even humans.”

Marcus opened his mouth and took in a pastry that Marz pushed into him.

“On a certain day, when all our plans are ready, you will leave your home and meet me at a secret location. No one will know where you are and you will not leave until I tell you. We’ll send people in to trash your apartment and make it look like a kidnapping.”

“You’re going to kidnap me?” Marcus mumbled, spluttering bits of pastry and making Marz smirk with amusement. Perhaps he knew how aroused the idea of being taken by Marz was making him; that he had been lusting at the idea for months.

“Yes, Piggy,” Marz nodded. “I’m going to kidnap you and keep you as my own.” He held his stare and allowed his words to drip out of his mouth like a sensual candle wax. “This has been my plan since I first sent Ally out to seduce you. This will be your purpose.”

Marcus nodded. He’d known for some time that everything Marz was doing was building to some sort of event. An F80 could not kidnap and hold a human against their will. So they must be seduced, trained and controlled to simply do as they were told instead. Nothing that had happened in the past hadn’t already been orchestrated by Marz. And nothing that would happen in the future wouldn’t go exactly as Marz wanted it to. “Yes,” Marcus nodded again, filled with arousal by the idea. “I’ll do everything you say.”

Although the idea of the kidnapping had been brewing in Marcus’ mind for some weeks, the actual day when it happened was nothing short of a sprint. With only thirty seconds notice, Marcus had left his apartment and met an autocar outside. There he was, sailing out of the city, as hordes of noisy police cars roared in the opposite direction. Marz had undoubtedly been working his magic. At a certain point, the windows had dimmed and Marcus now had little comprehension of where he was actually going.

A couple of hours passed. From the noise outside the vehicle, Marcus felt like he was travelling underground, inside a tunnel. Then the autocar stopped, unlocked, and the door lifted open to reveal a large, windowless space, not unlike a bunker, perhaps. Yet, there was the handsome, strapping Marz standing there, unharmed. He was dressed in the most domestic, ordinary clothes Marcus had ever seen him in, his ginormous pecs and biceps bulging out of the relaxed sweater, grinning at him and taking his hand to lead him inside. “Welcome home, Piggy!” he whispered

Marcus’ first few days in the bunker passed in a whirlwind of sex, feeding and pleasure. In the nine months since he had met Marz, Marcus had never luxuriated in his company for such a long time; feeling it in the particular tightness of his over stretched gut and the continued softening of his arms and butt.

“So, how much does everyone know back at home?” Marcus asked one morning, lying naked in Marz’s big arms after the first of his extended feedings of the day. “Do they know that you’re the one I am with?”

Marz brushed the overgrown hair off Marcus’ chubby face. “They know everything,” he cooed sweetly.

“About the chip?” Marcus questioned him. “About our affair? About how you… feed me?” he mumbled, feeling particularly embarrassed about that last one.

“They know everything,” Marz repeated, even more kindly and sweetly; as if it was all under control.

“So that means, they’ll know why I’ve been getting so out of shape recently,” Marcus sighed, rubbing the swollen pot belly he had developed since piling on almost eighty pounds.

“Yes, they do,” Marz smiled back, snuggling into Marcus affectionately. “And they also know that the longer they leave you here with me, the fatter you’re going to get. That should get them moving,” he laughed quietly, tapping Marcus’ wide butt lightly.

“But…” Marcus fretted, realising for the first time that, in a kidnapping, there would of course be negotiations going on for his release. “I don’t ever want to go back,” he stated.

“You’ll go back, Piggy,” Marz smiled. “When the time is right and it’s most advantageous.”

“But…” Marcus tried, until a gentle finger was placed over his mouth.

“Shh!” Marz breathed. “It’ll all work out, Piggy. Just you wait and see.”

As romantic and loving as Marz was, it was undeniable that the man had a mission to complete. He turned up the pleasure settings in Marcus’ cerebral cortex to new extremes, ensuring that he gorged and ate everything that was presented to him. Telling the time of day became an impossibility. With no natural light down there, the feelings of disorientation made it hard to reason about anything at all.

Marcus began to feel that there was more communication going on than he had first expected in the seclusion of their bunker. Perhaps his status and weight gain was under constant review, updating his family back home in a mission to extract whatever they needed from them. Sometimes Marz would pick him up and carry him effortlessly in his enormous arms. Was that when he did it? Was that when he weighed him? Was he happy with what he saw? Was he hitting his targets?

Sometimes Marz would insist on pushing the eating even further. He referred to these times as his ‘stretch sessions’, when Marcus was challenged to eat beyond the point of feeling full. He said that these were very necessary as a stomach capacity training exercise, and he was on hand throughout with sprays that he would administer into Marcus’ mouth to ease the discomfort. His large hands also seemed to emit something genuinely soothing as he rubbed the extreme bloats; round and round. He offered words of comfort and praise, peppered with sexual stimulation throughout. Then, when Marcus felt that he could take no more, he’d climax and fall asleep; a deep sleep, no doubt induced by Marz; staying that way until the discomfort subsided.

In the weeks or months that this continued, Marcus felt pounds and pounds of extra flesh being added to his body. It was so warm and humid in the bunker at times that they rarely covered themselves with clothing. Every few hours, Marz would sensually massage a special oil into his body, rubbing those strong hands up against the plush new skin and concentrating in particular on those areas of the body that were swelling up the most: his tummy and chest, the tops of his legs and upper arms. Marz would grab those blubbery areas and jiggle wickedly, sometimes making Marcus orgasm at the same time.

“You’re such a good piggy,” Marz would remind him over and over again. “You make this so easy for me,” he would smile, gently stroking Marcus’ chubby cheeks.

“I like making you proud,” Marcus would reply; usually between chewing whatever was being pushed into his mouth at the time.

“You’re going to be my masterpiece,” Marz smiled, staring with almost awe at the blossoming obesity that had now taken over Marcus’ body: the giant swell of his large stomach, the sagging of his previously toned pecs and the width of his once pert, toned little butt cheeks.

So Marcus ate and swallowed whatever he was given. He’d never known bliss like it. This was the perfect, erotic existence. Heaven.

Marcus knew that the light was different before he even opened his eyes. His ears picked up mummers of fresh voices and he awoke feeling a sense of dread.

“Marcus? Marcus? Can you hear me?” came the voice of a doctor close to his face.

“Oh, no!” was all Marcus could say, realising that it was all over. The hostage exchange had taken place.

“Your family are on their way,” the doctor stated reassuringly. “We’re just running some tests on you. You seem to have put on a significant amount of weight in the last six months.”

Six months? Was that how long it had been? Marcus thought miserably to himself. His brain somehow felt clearer and yet more confused than ever before. The update to his chip had been uninstalled; they’d told him that pretty early on. They seemed to talk about it as if that had been the reason for everything that he had done; as if he himself was entirely blameless. That was, apart from his family, who showed up a few hours later, wide eyed at the sight of him. They hugged him, of course, and told him how glad they were that he was safe at last, but there was also a seething anger behind their eyes. They bundled him in the autocar and took him home the next day, after the tests revealed a remarkable state of health, despite gaining over one hundred pounds of extra fat in his time in captivity.

It was obvious how different the built up areas were now, as Marcus rode back into the city. They hadn’t been destroyed by bombs or fires, but were dirty, with buildings that had been obviously looted for supplies. When Marcus asked what had happened whilst he had been gone, he was met with a simple, one-word response: war.

The world felt dull and colourless as Marcus entered back into it. Without his chip update, Marcus couldn’t get used to his old ways of thinking. Although everyone had told him how wicked and evil the F80 had been to him, Marcus, even now, still longed for him. He began to wish he didn’t feel that way, reminding himself of the cruel way he had been passed back to his family, without even a goodbye. He thought back to the psychologists in the hospital, making it clear to him that he hadn’t been to blame for any of what had happened. Marz had been able to control his arousal and shape his actions in ways that even they had never seen before. They were adamant, Marcus should see himself as a victim. It was fine if he didn’t understand that just yet, but, in time, he would. Their stares always drifted from looking into his eyes at this point, onto his chubby cheeks or rounded double chin: ‘nothing’ that had been done to him, they would state forcefully, was ‘irreversible’.

“How much did they pay to release me?” Marcus finally asked a few days later, once he had plucked up the courage.

“Your release was part of a package of deals negotiated in exchange for the west coast,” Marcus’ brother explained to him.

“The west coast?” Marcus spluttered. “How much land did they..?” he began asking in astonishment.

“DON’T!” snapped Marcus’ sister sharply, cutting him off. Her anger had been smouldering for days. “It’s not even about that,” she growled. “You have no idea how many tiny little concessions we had to make to stop them going to the media about your situation. The nephew of the president, walking willingly into a hostage situation and gaining several pounds of fat each week for his AI lover. Do you think there’s any way our family could recover from that sort of shame if it got out?”

Marcus should have relented and allowed them to just be angry with him. However, after days of babysitting from his unpleasant family, his patience had finally run out. “So that’s why you haven’t let me leave the house and go back to my old place?” he shouted. “You’re embarrassed about the way I look?”

“You weigh over 330lbs!” Marcus’ brother shot back at him. “Of course we’re embarrassed of you. It’s revolting! No one can see you like this. Not until you’re well on your way to recovery.”

“Recovery?” Marcus shouted in disgust. “I’m not losing weight!” He looked down at himself, dressed in the clothes he had been given: the largest possible t-shirt and sweatpants so that his family did not need to see his rolls and blubber.

“Yes, you are!” his mother stated sternly. “What would people think if you went out looking like that? I shudder to think!”

Marcus felt the rage boil up inside him. It reached a tipping point, where he was ready to scream and shout like never before. Until, inexplicably, he felt calmness descending once more. This was his family; the real them; concerned more by status and appearances than anything else. Even now, at the end of everything.

His fingers traced along the tire of stomach fat around his waist; the one part of him that remained from Marz. “I’m leaving,” he declared, standing up. “I’m done with this family, for good.”

At that moment, a new, large security guard entered the room and stared Marcus down threateningly. “No you’re not,” he stated strictly.

Marcus stared around at his family in disbelief. He was to be held here without his consent. He was never to leave. Not without losing almost every pound of fat Marz had pushed onto him. He was a liability now. An embarrassment to the good name of the family. The real kidnapping had begun.

Over the next few weeks, Marcus’ childhood bedroom was his only sanctuary. His family became more openly hateful towards him as it became clear to them that he did not regret or wish to repent any of his previous actions, as the psychologists had promised them he would eventually come to do. Even without the brain chip manipulating his patterns of arousal, Marcus still longed for those extreme orgasms that he experienced with Marz. He’d try watching porn in his bedroom, but now the eventual climax was weak and disappointing. Only when he thought of Marz and held or jiggled his fat in the way Marz used to, could he achieve an orgasm that even came close to resembling the type of intensity he was used to. So, as the restricted diet would soon begin to take its toll on his body, Marcus began to resent his situation even more.

“Hello Marcus,” smiled the maid that pottered around the house every day. “How are you feeling this morning?” she asked politely.

Marcus huffed. As much as he wanted to tell her to go away and leave him be in this state of misery, the maid was at least one person in his life who was not responsible for his current set of circumstances.

“Everything is going to be alright, you know,” she smiled at him.

Marcus smiled faintly back, not believing her for a second. There was no way out of this hole he had dug himself into.

“He wants you to know that he’s coming back for you,” she whispered discreetly. Pausing with a grin to see Marcus’ reaction. “You know who I mean, don’t you?”

Marcus felt his heart racing. She couldn’t mean Marz, could she?

“He’ll need you to be ready for when he gets here. Do you understand?”

Marcus nodded in disbelief. Had the maid been an F80 infiltrator this entire time? “How?” he spluttered. “How do I get ready for him?”

The maid smiled and reached a finger out to stroke his impressive double chin. “By showing where your loyalties lie, Piggy,” she whispered. “You belong to him. You can see that now you’ve had time away. You are his: every blubbery pound.”

Marcus nodded, then gasped with surprise as the maid reached into her cart of cleaning products and pulled out a large flask. She unscrewed the lid and swung it under Marcus’ nose. The smell of it sent sparks of electricity thundering through Marcus’ brain. He recognised the sugary scent and the blends of creams and oils. This was exactly like some of the milkshake drinks Marz used to make for him. This was real.

“He wants me to drink this?” Marcus asked excitedly.

“Oh, yes,” the maid nodded. “I’ve been sent here to make sure of it.”

Marcus looked at the flask and considered his options one final time. He tried to tell himself all the reasons why he shouldn’t go down this path again; about all the damage it had done last time; about how everyone had been right about how wicked and cruel the F80s had treated him. He was just some cog in Marz’s grand war strategy; nothing more. Unimportant. Expendable.

The maid seemed to sense his hesitation. “Marz wanted me to remind you what a good boy you are; how proud he is of you; and to tell you of all the BIG plans he has for you…”

Marcus nodded. It was all he had needed to hear. He had a future after all; a future with Marz. Fuck all the rest of this. The world could burn for all he cared.

He flipped his head back and chugged as rapidly as he could, feeling the pleasure centers of his brain tingle into life. He was a good boy. He was obidient. And he belonged entirely to Marz.

When Marcus’ weight failed to come down, everyone, including the medical profressionals, began to look confused. Instead, his weight was creeping ever upward, his fat stomach bloating and stretching into an even more extreme shape. This was Marcus’ resistance.

Even as they scorned him and restricted his diet further, he continued to get ever fatter in defiance of them. He quit wearing his shirt around the house and took pleasure in the horror he caused whenever they saw him looking so fleshy and repulsively overfed.

Then, one morning, everyone stopped caring entirely. Time was against them. The war was being lost. They had to move now; get out of the city.

Marcus refused.

They tried everything: threats, emotional blackmail, false promises; all in the hope of getting him to comply with them and leave. But Marcus stood his ground, until, at about half two that following afternoon, panic had ensured that even the last of the security crew had left to join Marcus’ uncle and his government in whatever secret bunker they had prepared for them.

Marcus sucked in the free air and threw his fat body onto the couch, not in the slightest bit worried that he would break it.

“Congratulations,” sounded the deep, authoritative voice that Marcus had longed to hear for so many weeks. “You played your part so well, Piggy.”

Marcus, who had been dozing, woke with a start in that evening light, and smiled broadly. There was Marz, dressed in the uniform of the United States army. He looked so strong, capable and rugged. Yet his delicate fingertips simply traced the soft, fresh and fleshy fat that had further transformed Marcus’ appearance since Marz had last seen him.

“I’m so proud,” Marz whispered to him, hearing Marcus moan with pleasure from the touch; the update to his brain chip back up and actively running.

“You came back!” Marcus replied; his heart bursting with joy.

“Of course I did, Piggy,” Marz smiled. “You’ve still got a very important part to play in all this. And I think you’re going to like it. We’re getting married.”

“Married?” Marcus asked in surprise. “But F80s can’t…”

“They can now,” Marz corrected him. “We’re creating our own government, our own president and laws. The White House is ours. And…” Marz smiled wickedly, “...I believe that you will help to make our government more credible. I’m not sure whether there could possibly be a better match for a high-up official like myself than a member of the ex-president’s family. It speaks volumes in the public eye. It will help them to accept us.”

“You and me? Together? No more hiding it?” Marcus asked in disbelief.

“No more hiding anything,” Marz nodded, tapping the blubbery stomach fat proudly. “Onwards and outwards,” he teased. “A fat, obedient and devoted boy from a good family. You’ll do very nicely,” he smiled victoriously, unable to resist stroking Marcus’ large double chin as the obese, lovesick stooge smiled back with admiration at him.

Marcus didn’t need to think. He nodded frantically and beamed with happiness. After all the generations of politicians in his family, who would have ever guessed that he would be the last one left in the White House? The United States once more.

#gainer fiction #gainer stories #gay feedee #gainerstory #gayfeeder #gayfeedee #gainerfic

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pottersfia · 3 days

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study buddy

summary: classic study "date" fic, rodrick desperately needs help in english and y/n is happy to help. lots of fluff in this part. both 18

the end of senior year was quickly approaching and rodrick was sick and tired of his parents bugging him about his grades. it was the third quarter of the school year and senioritis tended to affect many people around this time but rodrick had been a victim since the day he stepped foot into high school.

"if you want, we can work on this together?" rodrick looked over at you who was sitting next to him in his art elective class. you had been talking about your english assignment which, despite you being in honors english and him in regular, was the same. the book they read for the quarter came with study guide questions for each section of the book which eventually would help for the final book report.

"you'd help me with that?" he asked you. you smiled and nodded.

"sometimes working with another person makes it easier." she replied. he smiled back and the deal was set. you would go over to his house 2 hours after school and start your assignment.

these 2 hours consisted of rodrick frantically picking up in his room, taking an abnormally long shower, considering it's rodrick, and begging his family to not say or do anything weird or embarrassing. a pretty girl was coming over to study with him!! suddenly as he applied deodorant for probably the 10th time already, he heard the doorbell.

"i got it!" he yelled and rushed downstairs. he quickly caught his breath and looked through the peephole on the door to see you patiently waiting for an answer. he sighed and opened the door. you smiled as you looked up at the boy.

"hey, y/n." he said.

"hi, rodrick." you replied. the two of you stood in a few moments of silence stupidly smiling at each other. just as rodrick opened his mouth to break it you were interrupted by a sweet lady who cheerfully greeted you.

"you must be y/n! come right on in." she smiled and made way for you to step inside, you did so. "i'm so glad you're here to help rodrick, he's been struggling for quite some time."

"mom! can you please stop talking." rodrick loudly interrupted her, making you slightly laugh.

"she is a guest in my house, rodrick, i want to greet her. my name is susan, honey. if you need anything i'll be right down here." you smiled again at her.

"it's nice to meet you mrs.susan, thank you." you replied.

"ok we have to go, bye mom." he walked towards the staircase and turned around to you. "you can follow me." you nodded and waved bye to susan following rodrick to his room.

"keep that door open!" she said. rodrick groaned and you laughed again.

"she's really nice." you said.

"annoying is what she is." he let you walk into his room. you looked around and smiled to yourself as you realized his room screamed rodrick. there were band posters everywhere, dark bedsheets, the floor was cleared off but magazines and comics, a few water bottles, and forgotten school books were scattered around his bedside table and desk.

he closed the door quietly and sat down on the edge of his bed saying, "you can sit down i have my stuff," he reached to his backpack that was on the floor and pulled out his notebook and the book you were assigned. you nodded and sat down on the desk chair that was right across from his spot on the bed. you pulled out your stuff too.

"so i guess we can just start with the questions, do you need to review what we read today?" you asked. he nodded. you smiled and continued on explaining the events in the book.

rodrick was so mesmerized by you. he appreciated your want to help him with his work but how could he focus on anything academic with you right in front of him? he stared at the way you fidgeted with your fingers as you talked. he stared at how perfect your hair looked. he stared at your lips and thought about how good they would feel to ki-

"rodrick?" your voice snapped him out of his trance.

"what?" he kinda shook his head as he regained focus sending a fluttery feeling to your stomach.

"i uh, were you listening?" you asked.

"oh yeah. i heard everything you said." he tried to lie but you saw right through him.

"really?" you asked again. he lifted his hand to rub the back of neck a bit.

"i heard maybe half of what you said?" he replied, pretty unsure this time. you smiled and laughed.

"what are you so distracted by?" you asked. it was you. you were distracting his focus from the work but how could he just say that? he shrugged and turned his head away looking at absolutely nothing on the right side of his room.

"maybe if you sat next to me it would be easier." he said and turned back again to see your reaction. you were a little confused or taken aback maybe but nonetheless you stood up and joined him on the bed.

"is this better?" you looked right at him and he looked back. you gave him a small smile and despite his heart feeling like it was beating out of his chest, he smiled back.

"yeah, i think so." he practically whispered sending another flutter to your heart.

the two of you continued with the review. laughs and smiles were exchanged constantly and it was probably the most you've ever enjoyed doing school work.

"you're doing really good rodrick, you just needed to focus some more." you smiled after he got another question right.

"it's definitely because of you." he replied. you playfully bumped his shoulder and looked for another question to ask.

"ok let's do another one."

"i think i should get something for doing so good now." he said. you gave him a questioning look.

"like what, candy?" you replied. he shrugged. then you had an idea. it was a very corny idea but an idea nonetheless. the two of you were having a good time and it wouldn't hurt to ask, yolo right? "what if i give you a kiss?" you kinda cringed a bit at your words but tried not to let it show, anxiously waiting for his response.

the boy was stunned. his eyes widened and your words replayed in his head over and over. "a kiss?" he asked. "really?"

"only if you want though. it's pretty dumb i don't know." you looked down at the paper in your lap but his words made you look back at him.

"no, it's not dumb. um. yeah, that would be great motivation." he nervously laughs. you laughed back.

"but it has to be after getting 2 questions right." you said. he agreed, and for sure, he got 2 questions right.

"you've turned me into a genius, y/n." he smiled.

"you're definitely reaching nerd status." you laughed.

"well, you gave me the best motivation ever." he replied. now it hit you, you actually had to kiss him. you tried to hide the nervousness from your face. there was no turning back now. you turned to face him, crossing your legs on the bed, and placed your hand on his shoulder as you leaned in and gave him a quick peck. he looked at you as you leaned back.

"how was that?" you asked. he was quiet for a moment a little shocked that this was happening with the girl he liked but then he snapped out of it.

"i-i don't know. maybe you should uh, do it again just to be sure." he answered, making you smile.

"if you insist." you leaned in and let your lips meet again. this time it was more than a peck. his hands rested on your cheeks and yours around his shoulders. you melted into the kiss taking in the moment as the butterflies that you constantly felt seemed to go crazy.

once you finally parted for a breath the two of you couldn't stop smiling at each other.

"yeah, that was pretty good." rodrick said. you gave him another quick kiss but just as your lips touched the door opened.

"hey kids, do you want- oh." it was susan and you instantly jumped away from him. "didn't i tell you to keep the door open?"

"mom! just go away!" rodrick stood up.

"ok ok, sorry." she walked out but made sure to leave the door very much open. as soon as you heard her footsteps fade away you couldn't help but laugh. rodrick turned to you.

"sorry, that was a lot." you said. he laughed too and sat back down next to you.

"i know i'm sorry." he said.

"it's ok. i just need to make sure to kiss you when there aren't any family members around." you said.

"i agree 100%."

#rodrick heffley #rodrick heffley x reader #rodrick x reader #rodrick heffley x y/n #rodrick x y/n

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ykoriana-imperatrix · 2 years

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SDC Month - June 2022 - Sunday #3

You know the drill by now — if this kind of post isn't something you like, feel free to leave and come back tomorrow for the next Monday installment.

(Again, cut for content and potential spoilers.)

Today we have a classic "unpopular opinion" sort of topic… that's right, everyone's favourite, ships! (As in romantic ships, not literal ones. Sorry, baran, you get to sit this one out.) Namely: Molochite/Osidian (aka Osidite) is a more compelling ship than Carnelian/Osidian (aka Carnidian).

(Also, just a note, this will be more of a "explaining why I like the former" rather than "comparing the two" post… I mean, Carnidian is one of the main canon ships, so I expect SDC fans to be familiar with it, and I really didn't want this post getting too long. Sorry, Carnidian.)

I know, I know, it's probably some sort of blasphemy to prefer a non-canon ship to a canon one (or maybe not, a lot might depend on whether this is a truly unpopular opinion or not). But aren't ships one of the most subjective topics in existence, after all?

A disclaimer: much like when it comes to Aurum as a character, I'm not saying Carnidian is a bad ship, I simply prefer Osidite. Again, just a matter of preference, but I tend to be much fonder of ships where the characters have a long history together than whirlwind romances, which ends up being a point in Osidite's favour.

And what a history, right? While it's understandable Osidite will be off-putting to many due to the incest factor (though in all fairness, anyone who has a problem with this is most likely going to feel the same way about Carnidian), it really can't be denied their dynamic has the potential to be extremely interesting and complex. Two brothers, one of which is fated to die at the other's Apotheosis… now add to that all the resentment and tension deriving from their respective, clashing personalities and consider how the introduction of an underlying attraction (even if only one-sided) would impact that. Would this relationship be remotely healthy in any sense? Absolutely not. But would it be fascinating to explore? Absolutely. Just imagine Osidian struggling with his attraction for the brother he still despises and hates, alongside all the other conflicting feelings he is experiencing on the eve of the election. Just picture Molochite hoping deep down that Osidian had survived the assassination attempt at the end of The Chosen, despite knowing it would only ever end in tragedy.

Also, one last thing that I just have to mention in this post is the fact that the second edition gave us… not quite confirmation of this ship, but new content that was certainly suggestive. This is something else that is very subjective, but I would argue that at the very least, it might take the possibility of Osidite beyond a crack ship of sorts. I mean, when we have lines such as:

"Why do you pout, my dear?"

You might at least find yourself wondering. Right?

#stone dance of the chameleon #the stone dance of the chameleon #sdc month 1 2022 #sdc unpopular opinions #sdc june 2022 sundays

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saintshigaraki · 3 years

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the sun has not yet fallen

pairing: bakugou katsuki x gn!reader

word count: 2.2k

excerpt: You look back towards the setting sun just once. You don’t really know why. Perhaps to find some bravery in the beauty of it, to steal yourself a few extra seconds of this limbo you’ve found yourself in. Where everything is hazy and beautiful and hurts so bad you can hardly breathe.

a/n: me: i hate angst

also me: writes this fic

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, sometimes love requires work

in case you want to read it on ao3!

Katsuki is in a bad mood. He was uncharacteristically quiet when he walked through the door which is more often than not a sign he was trying his damndest to hold back saying something just a bit too cruel. And you appreciate the effort, truly you do.

On any other day, you would’ve let him be to work through his shit alone. He usually does that by cooking up something far too elaborate for a weekday night, and then after decompressing for a bit, he tends to slink back into whichever room you’re in and lay his head on your lap so you can work your fingers through his hair.

You’ve found over the last two years that that is what tends to work best. Giving him space and letting him come to you.

But today you’re feeling just as raw as he does. You can’t remember the last time you spent quality time together. You can’t remember the last time he didn’t go to bed so exhausted he was out before his head hit the pillow. You can’t remember the last time you didn’t feel this heavy cloud hanging over your head. You can’t remember a moment where there wasn't a timer counting down and down and down while you do nothing but wait for it to hit zero. You’re not quite sure what will happen when your time is up.

It’s selfish, probably, to want to be with him right now when you know he’s so weary, but you won’t even bother him, is what you tell yourself. You just want to be around him for an hour (or two) you want to stand so close to him you can smell the ever clinging scent of caramel and help him with dinner and think of brighter days. Better days.

(You want things to go back to the way they were before. You want to cling to him, just for a short while, stuff your face into the crook of his neck while he tells you everything’s okay. That you guys are okay.

But that’s for another day. It has to be.

How many times have you told yourself that?)

You follow him as he stomps towards the kitchen.

He aggressively grabs the ingredients for whatever he’s making and slams them on the counter, grumbling under his breath the whole time. You stand in the doorway worrying your hands, feeling awkward, and hating that you feel awkward in your own kitchen with your own boyfriend.

It makes that awful nagging voice in your head grow just a bit louder.

You approach him slowly while he sets up a pot filled with water and turns on the stove. He’s still grumbling to himself by the time you place your hand softly on his forearm.

He jerks away immediately and narrows his eyes. You viciously stamp down exactly how awful that makes you feel. How small and unloved.

“What do you want?” he says bluntly (and a little cruelly but a part of you says just ignore it, maybe if you close your eyes and cover your ears you can pretend that everything is fine, that you guys are fine) .

That was part of his charm when you two first started dating. You loved that he was blunt, that he got to the point, there was really no guessing what Katsuki was thinking because he’d simply tell you and if it were any other day perhaps his words wouldn’t have bothered you as much as they did now.

And it’s partly your fault, or maybe even mostly. Because you let it get this bad. You could have told him something was bothering you, that lately, you’ve been feeling a little insecure in this relationship. Katsuki was blunt but very rarely if ever cruel with you or your feelings. He would’ve understood, probably.

But anytime you thought about broaching the subject with him, he always looked so, so tired. Bone tired. And you thought maybe it was selfish, to want him to comfort you over something this dumb. Over something as frivolous as this. He just needs time.

(How much time, you wonder. How much more can you take? you ask yourself.)

“Are you fucking braindead or something,” he snaps, dragging you out of your spiraling.

“I was just wondering if I could help. It’d be nice to cook dinner together.” We use to do it all the time, you almost say. Now you can’t even remember the last time you did.

“You’re a shit cook,” he says.

It’s true, and on another day, a brighter day maybe, you would’ve laughed. Or at least smiled. Because it was true. You are an awful cook, a shit one, as he so eloquently put it, especially compared to him. But that never mattered to Katsuki before.

He always let you cook with him, always wanted you to cook with him, even if the majority of the time you ended up sitting on the counter swinging your legs and watching him do all the work.

To be fair, afterward, you always cleaned the dishes. It was a lovely, simplistic give and take, one you wish you had again so, so dearly.

“Yeah, I am,” you agree. You try to smile, but it feels forced. You’re tired, you realize, bone tired.

You don’t say anything else and he turns away. You know that’s technically a dismissal but you elect to ignore and start unwrapping the vegetables.

Just as you reach for a knife he grabs your wrist.

“What the fuck is up with you right now?” he grounds out.

“I just want to spend some time with you.”

Your voice sounds frail, even to your own ears.

And before he even opens his mouth you know what he’s about to say is going to bring all this to a head. And from the look on his face and the awful, gnawing in your gut, you know you’re not going to like it. You know that more likely than not, it’s going to break your heart.

(A part of you can’t help but wonder if maybe your heart has already been broken. That it’s made up of haphazardly glued together pieces. Perhaps that’s why you feel so fragile. Perhaps the damage is done and you’ve just been waiting for Katsu to bring down the axe. To scatter the pieces. To finish the fucking job.)

“God,” he spits out. And it’s like a dam has been broken and every hateful thing he’s ever thought about you can’t help but come pouring out.

“You’re so fucking needy, you can’t do a fucking thing by yourself. It’s like all you ever do is breathe down my fucking neck and tell me everything I’m not doing for you.” Distantly, you wonder if that’s true. It might be. Maybe it’s that ugly selfishness you’ve never really been able to hide. You thought you’d done a better job of tucking it away. You were wrong, it seems.

“So I can’t spend every single fucking second of every single day with you, sue me. I’ve got my own shit to deal with, my own problems, or have you forgotten that I have a life outside of you?”

No, you think. I haven’t. Or maybe you have. You’re not really focusing so hard on his words. You tune them out as much as you can. You’re staring at his face, taking in all the details. The deep red of his eyes, the pale blond of his hair, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the slope of his neck, the little scars peppering his face. You used to sit on his lap and kiss each and every one, no matter how faint.

You’re so weird, he’d say as you did it, but the tightness of his arms around you always spoke a different story.

You’re going to miss that, you think. Holding him. Loving him.

It takes you a while to realize he’s still yelling. It’s all hateful and cruel and so sharp. Like he’s taken a knife to your skin to flay you open, exposing every crack, every vein, every shattered piece of heart that makes you. You let it wash over you, like a particularly violent ocean wave.

“Sometimes,” he says, his voice finally quieting to a bearable level, “I wonder why I’m still with you.”

The breath you let out is shaky. No matter how ready you thought you were, there’s simply no amount of time that prepares you to hear those words from him. From the person you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with. From the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

The silence between you two is deafening. And heavy. So heavy it feels as though your chest will cave in from the pressure.

“Yeah,” you say at last, though you have to force the words around the burning iron poker in your throat. And then you laugh, you can’t help it. It’s all so fucked. You hate that it’s come to this bitter monstrous ugliness.

When had this all started to fester, to rot? you wonder. Is this really all that’s left?

“I can’t help but wonder the same thing.” It comes out more bitter than you'd like. A small jab to try to even out the gaping wound he’s torn open in you.

But it’s also true.

You can’t see his reaction through the tears clouding your vision. You don’t really want to anyway. What’s done is done. What’s said is said.

You grab your phone and keys and walk through the front door, closing it softly behind you.

He doesn’t say a word.

You think if there was any part of your heart left unbroken, his silence has shattered it to oblivion.

You walk for an hour or two. Until the sun has dipped almost completely below the horizon and it’s surrounded by hazy blood-red waves.

It’s a good place to think. To set your jumbled thoughts in order.

It takes a special kind of selflessness to love a hero, you realize. A type you don’t possess, not even nearly. You’ve always been just a little selfish when it came to love. But there’s no room for that when with people like Bakugou Katsuki.

And that’s okay, you tell yourself.

It’s a lie. It’s not okay. And the hollow aching in your chest that beats in time with your heart agrees.

You look down at your phone.

33 missed calls from Katsu

You look back towards the setting sun just once. You don’t really know why. Perhaps to find some bravery in the beauty of it, to steal yourself a few extra seconds of this limbo you’ve found yourself in. Where everything is hazy and beautiful and hurts so bad you can hardly breathe.

It’s not long before you’re biting the inside of your cheek, turning on your heels, and heading home.

You don’t even have your keys fully out of your pocket before the door swings open, with Katuski on the other side looking a bit worse for wear, though you doubt you’re one to talk.

His eyes are bloodshot and his nose is a bit pink. He’s been crying. You can’t remember the last time you saw him cry.

(That’s a lie, you realize. You had gotten in the crosshairs of a particularly brutal villain versus hero showdown. The resulting injuries you suffered were severe. You’d apparently been a bit touch and go for a while. When you opened your eyes for the first time after everything, Katsu was right there, looking like hadn’t slept, showered, or eaten for days. Later you found out it’s because he hadn’t left your bedside since you returned from surgery.

Katsu, you’d croaked out weakly, stretching out a shaking hand toward his face.

He broke down into sobs so violent they wracked his whole body. It took him over an hour to calm down.)

You got about half a foot through the door before he threw himself at you. Wrapping his arms around you so tight it bordered on painful. He sinks down to the floor. You sink with him.

He’s sobbing into your shoulder repeating a mantra of, I’m so sorry and I didn’t mean it. Please, please. I didn’t mean it.

You think about that old saying. What a person says in anger is how they really feel. You don’t necessarily believe that. You yourself have said things out of anger that you in no way meant, that were purely thrown to hurt the person on the other end.

You want to believe he didn’t mean it, more than anything you do. Because you love him. Because you really do think that Katsu is it for you. That he’s always been it for you.

You pull away about as far as he’ll let you.

“Do you love me, Katsuki?”

The words hang in the air. You feel raw. Like you’re the one who has taken a knife to your own skin and flayed it all open for him.

You don’t quite know vulnerability until you ask someone if they love you. It’s a different sort of weakness.

“Yes,” he responds. His voice rough from his tears. “More than anything.”

You watch one last tear fall from his eye.

You hold his face in your hands and wipe it away. Softly. Gently. Lovingly.

You guys are not okay and now that you’ve accepted that you think there’s a chance that one day, you will be.

#bakugou x reader #bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou imagine #bakugou katsuki x reader #vicwritesbnha #bnha imagine #mha imagine #i’m thinking a shinsou hitoshi fluff drabble next 👀#vicwrites

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eleanorfenyxwrites · 3 years

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@evilteddybear requested: I always love a LWJ/WWX fic where the sect leaders, especially Lan Xichen, Nie Mingjue, and Lan Qiren, come to the Burial Mounds and see what it's like before attacking, try to negotiate.

Thanks for the request (and your patience in seeing it filled), hope you like it!

[Masterpost] [Ao3]

“Xiongzhang.”

“Wangji. I don’t like it any more than you do but it’s going to be the best solution for everyone.”

The weight of his brother’s glare is nearly a physical blow but Lan Xichen is used to it and stands firm. It helps that he can distract himself from the heat of it by focusing on the long trek down to the bottom of the staircase of Jinlintai. With Jin Guangyao busy for the afternoon Lan Xichen had offered to take Lan Wangji into the city for the day, though now he’s wondering just why he had though that would be a good idea in the first place. Now at least, he supposes, they have the excuse of going off to purchase paper fine enough to be suitable for an invitation for Wei Wuxian to attend his nephew’s one-month celebration.

“I will take him the letter myself,” Lan Wangji states, voice pitched low and steady. Though it’s an obstinate, unmovable tone that Lan Xichen has heard far too many times before, he can’t help but feel that it’s his duty to put up at least something of a token argument. He can never seem to argue with anyone but Lan Wangji, but even then he almost always ends up bowing out as gracefully as he can under the strength of his headstrong brother’s will.

“Wangji, it’s not safe…”

“Wei Ying will not hurt me.”

“I didn’t say that he would.”

“The Wens are not a threat.”

Lan Xichen sighs heavily and pauses as they reach a landing to close his eyes against the inevitability of his little brother getting to have his way. He always has until the day Wei Wuxian left with his band of Wens, and Lan Wangji has been doggedly pursuing him – whether Wei Wuxian is aware of it or not – ever since. He’s never done well with not getting precisely what he wants when he wants it, and Lan Xichen adores his brother and the fact that he’s grown up being given what few things he has wanted without much thought. However in this moment, for this situation, he can’t help but privately wish deep down that his brother knew how to practice the same sacrifice that Lan Xichen himself makes when it comes to those he wishes to protect.

“If you doubt me you may come with me.”

“Wangji-“ Lan Xichen cuts off with another sigh as his brother simply walks away, his piece said and his interest in the conversation clearly exhausted. They both know very well that he’ll do what he wants, and Lan Xichen will allow it. Which is why, in the end, it’s no surprise at all that Lan Wangji makes his way to Yiling with his invitation tucked safely in a qiankun pouch, nor is it particularly surprising that Lan Xichen has accepted Lan Wangji’s sort-of-bluff of an invitation to go with him. What isa surprise is that Nie Mingjue had elected to join them when he’d caught wind of where they were going and why.

“Mingjue,” Lan Xichen attempts to soothe now as the man in question paces back and forth in the confines of their room. In the interest of keeping the peace he had taken it upon himself to make sure that Lan Wangji got to have his own space, but any notions that Lan Xichen may have had about utilizing the relative privacy this arrangement affords to Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue have so far borne no fruit whatsoever. “I warned you that this would be a matter of patience, you didn’t have to come with us.”

“What? And let you both walk into the lion’s den? Of course I had to come.”

“Wangji and I are far from helpless, Mingjue, and he is certain that Wei Wuxian won’t harm us.”

“He’s the only one.”

“He’s not, I-“

“Xichen I will walk all the way back to Qinghe right now if you can honestly tell me that you’re completely and utterly certain that Wei Wuxian won’t hurt anybody!”

Xichen lets out an uncharacteristically audible sigh at that and fixes Nie Mingjue with one of his Looks that always make the man cave. “Even if I could meet those terms I wouldn’t want you to go back to Qinghe. It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other.”

“Can we stay on task here?”

“We are. We are waiting for someone to leave the Burial Mounds so that we may approach them in town rather than appearing threatening by attempting to infiltrate their settlement on the mountain. There is nothing to do now but be patient. What about our current activities are not on task?”

“We need to use this time to strategize. Plan. Things may go wrong. We may need to protect Wangji, he may need to protect either of us. We don’t know what we’re in for.”

“Mingjue.”

“Xichen.”

“This is not a battle, nor a war. We are approaching a young man – a young man Wangji trusts - who hasn’t done anything dangerous in a year so that we may invite him to a family event. Please sit down and relax.”

Nie Mingjue finally stops his pacing to turn a betrayed glare on Lan Xichen, but as with Lan Wangji he’s well used to absorbing Nie Mingjue’s frustration and neutralizing it with the soft, reassuring lines of his smile. Nie Mingjue has never been able to stay angry with him – or even near him – for longer than a few heartbeats anyway, and Lan Xichen watches the tension bleed from his broad shoulders with his next blustering exhale.

“Wangji believes that our presence may alarm the inhabitants of the Burial Mounds should we be allowed to enter their wards. You will need to remain calm in such a case so that we can show that we bear them no ill will.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nie Mingjue grumbles and Lan Xichen’s heart aches a bit for Nie Mingjue, so level-headed when it matters but so hot-headed when it shouldn’t. Nie Mingjue meets his gaze and then groans, covering his face with both hands and tipping his head back a bit as he says, slightly muffled, “Don’t give me that look, Xichen, that’s not fair. How do you always know how to get your way?!”

“It would be significantly harder to have my way if you didn’t know in your heart that I’m right. This is a delicate situation, Mingjue, we can’t let past anger cloud our judgement now. Wangji has been here before and he says that what’s going on here isn’t what everyone says it is. We’re only here to keep him safe on his errand and see things for ourselves, alright? Now is not the time to declare the continuation of Jin Guangshan’s blood feud with the Wens.”

“Yes, fine, fine! I’ll keep my thoughts to myself.”

“And no glaring.”

“Xichen!” Nie Mingjue manages an affronted look for only a scant moment before it too fades into grumbling acquiescence as he resumes his pacing. “Fine. As little glaring as I can manage.”

“Thank you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I love you.”

“Xichen!” Lan Xichen laughs softly to see Nie Mingjue’s blush overtakes his handsome features, turning his entire face a lovely shade of red as he splutters his way through returning the infrequently-expressed sentiment and accepts kisses that thoroughly distract him from any lingering anger.

It takes two full days of waiting before Wangji suddenly stands and strides off right in the middle of their morning meal. The behavior is so unusual that Lan Xichen is instantly worried, though as he stands to follow – with Nie Mingjue hot on their heels – he relaxes ever so slightly to see that Lan Wangji is heading straight for a young man Lan Xichen recognizes dimly as Wen Qionglin. He reaches out instinctively to rest a restraining hand on Nie Mingjue’s arm when he feels the man tense next to him, but though the Ghost General looks a little wary upon spotting Lan Wangji he doesn’t look hostile. In fact, he looks as timid and soft-spoken as he had when Lan Xichen had seen him during the lectures in Cloud Recesses. The only hint that he can see that something is different than it was then is the pallor to his skin and, just barely visible through the curtain of his mostly-unbound hair, thin spiderwebs of black cracks on his neck that creep up towards the underside of his jaw.

It takes some convincing from Lan Wangji before Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue are allowed to approach, and then further convincing from Lan Xichen before Wen Ning agrees to let them all come up the mountain. He takes the invitation Lan Wangji presents with gentle, steady hands and holds it as gingerly as one would expect someone to hold little Jin Ling himself, and once again Lan Xichen finds his heart aching – this time for the cruelty of the world that always seems to touch the gentlest of souls.

The trek up the mountain is slow and hot, but the further they get from the town the colder things get. The sensation of the sun on his skin is still there, but it somehow brings him no warmth. The shade cast by the twisting, barren limbs of the trees seems wan and thin, and yet the chill he feels in their shadows reaches into his bones with clawed fingers of dread. The soil becomes loose and dusty under their feet and before too much longer he can feel resentful energy crawling along his skin, seeking weakness. That sensation, at least, passes almost as soon as he notices it and he realizes they must have passed through the wards. Things grow, if possible, even more gray and sere from then onwards, though by the time he can begin to hear sounds besides the wind through dead, hollow trees there are a few with some life in them. A few gnarled leaves on some of the branches in the underbrush, a few trees bearing small fruits.

They pass the first field for planting before they see anyone to till it, though the next field has a figure bent to their task. They sit up straight to watch them pass and Wen Ning offers a little wave to the figure who nods back, wariness etched into every line of their posture. Lan Xichen chances a glance at Lan Wangji to find him facing staunchly ahead, fist held behind his back and his eyes glued to the invitation in Wen Ning’s hand.

“Wei-gongzi should be tending to his field this time of day,” Wen Ning says in his typical soft stammer as they approach what seems to be the heart of the settlement. There are more people around now, all going about various agrarian tasks with varying degrees of vigor. Lan Xichen is about to ask what he means by field when he looks ahead again and spots it, shocking in the gray landscape around them – a bright green space dotted with soft pink petals, and a man in shades of black and grey bent over it with his trousers rolled up to the knee.

It’s clear that Lan Wangji is aching to go to him but they’re stopped before they can go any further by a small young woman suddenly in their way, her feet planted and her arms crossed over her chest.

“Wen-guniang,” Lan Wangji greets with a salute as Wen Ning offers a quiet, “Jie..”

“A-Ning. What are they doing here?”

There’s a beat of silence that Lan Xichen abruptly realizes it’s his responsibility to fill, despite this being Lan Wangji’s errand.

“Wen-guniang,” he greets with a salute of his own that Nie Mingjue copies at his side a beat later. “Wangji has an invitation to extend to Wei Wuxian, and Nie-zongzhu and I agreed to accompany him.”

“An invitation?” At her prompting, Wen Ning hurries to hold out the document itself for her to take, which she does with another skeptical glance at the three of them before she opens it to read the contents. Lan Xichen watches her face for some sort of reaction to the news that Wei Wuxian is invited to Jinlintai, but if she has any sort of feeling about it she does an admirable job of hiding it.

“Wei Wuxian!” she calls without looking away from them. Lan Wangji’s spine stiffens and goes miraculously straighter, as if Wei Wuxian’s name alone is enough to electrify. The man in question waves a mud-stained hand in their general direction without turning around.

“What is it, Wen Qing? A-Yuan is playing with Popo right now.”

Lan Xichen glances up at Nie Mingjue at that with a question in his expression though he knows Nie Mingjue likely doesn’t understand that any better than he does. Nie Mingjue isn’t even looking at him anyway, as it turns out. Instead he’s looking around what they can see from where they are – a crumbling stone structure built into the side of the mountain. Crude wooden huts made from the subpar lumber available in the twisting dead forest around them. Tired farmers in clothes that look one hard winter away from falling apart. And over it all the pall of death and decay that’s inescapable in the midst of a field that had once been, as the name suggests, nothing but a hill of bones and restless spirits.

“You have…guests.”

Lan Xichen looks ahead again in time to catch Wei Wuxian whipping around so quickly he nearly falls off his perch at the edge of his ‘field’ of lotuses, thriving right there in the middle of the Burial Mounds, against all odds.

“Lan Zhan!” he squeaks, looking utterly shocked to see Lan Wangji, let alone him or Nie Mingjue. “What are you-“

“Rich-gege!!!” A tiny voice suddenly cries and Lan Xichen is startled to see a small blur come running from the direction of one of the other fields to plaster itself against Lan Wangji’s leg.

“Hello A-Yuan,” he says softly, almost too softly for Lan Xichen to hear, and he drops his hand down from behind his back to pet the top of the boy’s head, smoothing flyaway hairs back from his little face.

“A child, Mingjue,” he whispers, though the volume can’t hide his horror. This is the ‘band of Wen rebels’ the Jin Sect is so afraid of? This is who remains as the target of their revenge and hatred?

“I see him,” Mingjue replies quietly, jaw working with a little flutter of the muscles in his cheek. “I see them.”

“Rich-gege Xian-gege said you wouldn’t come back but you did!! Pick up, please!”

Lan Xichen wonders if it’s possible for his eyes to go any wider as Lan Wangji reaches down without hesitation to curl his hands under A-Yuan’s reaching arms and, heft him up onto his hip where the boy promptly clings and lays his head down, seemingly content to hug and be held.

“Lan Zhan what are you – what are you all doing here?” Wei Wuxian tries again as he stumbles out of the mud of his pond to traipse across the space between them, cleaning his hands rather ineffectually on his robes hiked up around his hips. When he draws level with Wen Qing she holds the invitation out to him with a look in her eyes that Lan Xichen can’t quite decipher. It’s the first time she’s taken her eyes off of them since she had intercepted them, and Lan Xichen is a little embarrassed to realize he’s relieved to no longer be the subject of her sharp attention.

“They brought you this. You can go see your sister.”

“What?!” Wei Wuxian scrambles to open the letter, eyes flying across the page as he reads whatever it was Lan Wangji had written – knowing him it’s probably as bare-bones as possible, conveying only the necessary information and nothing else. It doesn’t take him long at all to look back up from the page with suspiciously shining eyes. “Is this real?”

“Mn. It was agreed upon.”

“Jiang Cheng agreed to this? And Jin Zixuan?”

“Mn.”

For an alarming moment Wei Wuxian looks like he’s in desperate need of a place to sit, but he rallies quickly and all of a sudden his smile is absolutely blinding, the way it had been once when he’d been a younger, much more carefree teenager coming to study in Gusu. When his smiles had turned Lan Wangji’s ears red and made him glare daggers through whatever poor wall or floor or passing disciple happened to be in his line of sight.

“Oh. Oh wait come in, come in, you’re making everybody nervous out here,” he says with a laugh that doesn’t sound..entirely genuine, but another glance around the settlement proves that he’s got a point. The Wens are all watching them now, tasks forgotten in the need to watch for approaching danger. “Lan Zhan sorry about A-Yuan, he probably won’t be willing to let go for a while.”

“No need.”

“Aiyah. Fine, fine. Come in. Wen Qing and Wen Ning, you too. Come on, let’s go,” he says and just like that Lan Xichen realizes with amusement that they’re all being shepherded into…a cave. It’s a spacious cave, the dilapidated remains of the palace built into the mountain, but it is still effectively a cave. There are tables set up in what’s clearly a communal dining area and Wei Wuxian bustles ahead of them to swipe some accumulated dirt from a couple of the benches before gesturing for them to sit.

“Ah Zewu-Jun, Chifeng-Zun, apologies for my manners,” Wei Wuxian says with a salute for both of them that Lan Xichen is quick to smile away. “We’re not exactly ah…equipped for visitors such as yourselves, I’m sure you understand.”

Lan Xichen takes a seat at the table between Nie Mingjue and Lan Wangji, who has now transferred the child clinging to him to his lap where the boy sits looking at the two strangers to him with wide, curious eyes.

“Xian-gege, Rich-gege brought friends this time,” he observes and earns himself an affectionate ruffle of his hair from Wei Wuxian.

“He did! And they’re very important friends so behave for Rich-gege, alright?”

“A-Yuan is better behaved than you are, Wei Wuxian,” Wen Qing retorts in what Lan Xichen is sure is meant to be their usual banter, though it comes out flat and, if he’s not mistaken, too stressed for the joke to properly land. Wei Wuxian doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does then he is still adept at charging through any sort of tension with his usual charm.

“So rude, Wen Qing, we have guests,” he says with a little flourish as he finally takes his robes down from where they’re hitched up and pats them into place where they belong. It becomes even more apparent how threadbare they are with the full length of them on display. He sits down quickly enough and the Wen siblings move to stand behind him, arms crossed protectively over their chests though rather than looking intimidating, as he’s sure other people would find them, to Lan Xichen they just look…afraid.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says softly, and though Lan Xichen knows his brother well enough to know that there’s a whole thought tucked into those two words, he doesn’t know them well enough to know what those thoughts are. And that is strangely disconcerting, to realize that there’s an entire facet of his brother that he doesn’t understand anymore.

“Lan Zhan, not that I’m not pleased to see you, of course you know I am. But why are you here?” Lan Wangji flicks his gaze towards the invitation now stowed safely in the front of Wei Wuxian’s robes and the man rests a hand gently over it, though his resolved expression doesn’t waver. “This could have been delivered by post, or by messenger. The townspeople know Wen Ning, they would have gotten it to him if you had left it for us. Why did you come here in person? And - no offense Zewu-Jun, Chifeng-Zun, but..why are you part of this too?”

“Wei-gongzi,” Wen Ning speaks up softly, surprising everyone else in the room. “I don’t think you’ll be safe in Jinlintai.” It’s something of a non-sequitur but somehow the thoughts must be connected, and Wei Wuxian muster understand how they are judging by the way his entire demeanor changes into something much more alert.

Lan Xichen sighs softly as Wei Wuxian’s sharp gaze fixes on them, but it’s Nie Mingjue who speaks up first.

“Jin Guangshan wants your amulet.” It’s bold and barefaced in the way that Nies tend to be and though Lan Xichen is used to it, it still makes him feel a bit squirmy and anxious in the pit of his stomach to hear something so unpleasant laid out so plainly. Not that he’ll ever let it show, of course.

“Well he can’t have it. Next.”

“He thinks the Wens here are dangerous.”

“Clearly we’re not. Wen Qing, Wen Ning, and I are the only cultivators here. Besides, we’re barely feeding ourselves, let alone preparing to take on the Jins. Next.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji cuts in, and this agonized tone, at least, Lan Xichen recognizes.

He interrupts before they can begin any sort of argument. “Wei-gongzi. During the discussion of whether or not you should be present for Jin Ling’s celebration, Jin Guangshan presented concerns about both the amulet and Wen-gongzi. You can’t deny that these are valid concerns for those whom you consider to be enemies.”

“I don’t have enemies unless they make themselves my enemy,” Wei Wuxian shoots back, all trace of boyish excitement gone from his face now. “None of you were there that night in Qiongqi Pass. Did any of you even visit the work camps Jin Guangshan put the Wens in? Did you see, with your own eyes, the field of corpses they created because they knew that the cultivation world would turn a blind eye?” There’s ringing silence for a moment before he repeats his demand. “Did you?!”

“Wei Wuxian,” Wen Qing warns, low and quiet.

“If Jin Guangshan is so bored of watching over Lanling and sending his cultivators to protect the interests of his own Sect then by all means, create an enemy of me. I knew what I was doing when I took these people away and brought them here. I know what people say of me, and of the Wens, do you think I don’t? Words are nothing. Fear is nothing. But if someone acts against me and those I’m sworn to protect, can I not defend myself? Can I not defend them?!”

Lan Xichen curls his hands into slow fists on his knees under the edge of the table as Wei Wuxian makes a wild gesture in the general direction of the rest of the settlement, beginning to look desperate as he works himself up.

“You saw them with your own eyes. They’re just farmers, they’re just regular people, the kind that we’re supposed to protect! Popo plays with A-Yuan to keep him occupied while we work in the fields and Fourth Uncle makes wine from the fruit that grows here and everyone here is just trying to survive, yet you would rather see them all dead for the sin of having once been related to a man who has already been killed for his crimes?”

“Xian-gege,” A-Yuan says softly from his perch in Lan Wangji’s lap. Lan Xichen turns an agonized glance on him to find him reaching out for Wei Wuxian with one chubby little hand, his eyes still wide though now it’s with something like concern rather than the curiosity of before.

“A-Ning, take A-Yuan back to Popo,” Wen Qing instructs. Her brother obeys with a nod, reaching down for A-Yuan even as the boy tries to cling to Lan Wangji.

“Want to stay with Rich-gege!”

“I will come find you soon, A-Yuan,” Lan Wangji promises with something fierce and immovable in his eyes. “Go with Wen Ning.”

There’s a quick flutter of activity as the child allows himself to be carried away, and as Lan Wangji shifts his weight to get comfortable again Lan Xichen doesn’t miss the way he subtly positions himself a little closer to Wei Wuxian. It’s hardly noticeable, but it puts him on the same half of the table as Wei Wuxian and Wen Qing still standing behind his shoulder, and when Lan Xichen meets his brother’s eyes he knows precisely whose side he will stand on should it come to that.

He desperately hopes that it won’t.

“This invitation to Jin Ling’s celebration is a trap, isn’t it?” Wei Wuxian asks and unlike the boyish cheerfulness of before, or the anger of mere moments ago, his tone is now as cold and blank as the stones outside.

“No,” Lan Xichen protests, though it’s undercut significantly by Lan Wangji replying with a simultaneous (and much more convincing), “Yes.”

“Lan Zhan?”

“Jin Guangshan wants the amulet. He knows you will not miss a chance to see your family. He will demand you hand over your amulet and Wen Ning to show that you are no longer a threat to him, and if you refuse I do not know what he will do.”

“He just wants to destroy the amulet and the…weapon,” Nie Mingjue cuts in, gruff and clearly unhappy with the way things are going but it is, surprisingly, Wen Qing who rises to meet him.

“You can’t seriously tell me you buy that? That a man like Jin Guangshan can be handed something powerful and decide, out of the goodness of his heart, to get rid of it,” she snaps, eyes once again cutting and her hands clutched in her sleeves where her arms are crossed. “And that ‘weapon’ is my brother, who, in case you haven’t seen, is in full control of himself and his thoughts. He counts as one of us, and destroying him now would be to finish the murder that those guards at the work camp didn’t finish.”

An uncomfortable silence drops in the wake of her anger and in it Wei Wuxian rises slowly from the table to stand next to Wen Qing, his arms crossed over his chest as well. Lan Xichen can’t help but flick a cautious glance at the hand closest to the flute tucked into his belt but at least for the moment it doesn’t seem like he’ll be reaching for it.

“If you’ve come as nothing more than Jin Guangshan’s messengers then I’m taking you right back down the mountain, one way or another. I’m protecting these people, and that is not up for negotiation. You can tell Jin Guangshan that yourself.”

“Wei Ying-“

“Lan Zhan this isn’t directed at you. It’s them.”

Lan Xichen blinks slowly as he realizes that Lan Wangji’s subtle positioning hadn’t gone unnoticed by Wei Wuxian after all. Or, he supposes, it’s equally likely that Wei Wuxian simply trusts Lan Wangji. Despite their differences, their arguments, it’s possible that Wei Wuxian sees now how ardently Lan Wangji wants him to be safe. How far it seems he’s willing to go to ensure it.

“So what’s the deal, if we leave you keep Wangji here as leverage?” Nie Mingjue barks. Lan Xichen’s eyes go wide as he abruptly realizes he’s lost all control of this conversation and it is heading in a dangerous direction much more quickly than he could have expected.

“Lan Zhan is free to come and go as he pleases, he won’t hurt us. He allowed you to come here with him this time so I assume he trusts you to do the same. But if seeing the truth is going to do absolutely nothing to change what you want and what you’ll help Jin Guangshan accomplish in wiping the Wens off the face of the earth then we’re done here, and you will not be welcome back.”

Lan Xichen can’t deny the dread settling thick and heavy in the pit of his stomach, and only a small portion of it has to do with the resentful energy in the air. Wei Wuxian has proven himself time and time again as a formidable opponent, and while Lan Xichen doesn’t think that it’s necessary to see him as an enemy he knows that the majority of the cultivation world would disagree. It’s plain to see, though, that even should that be the case there’s no force on earth that could turn him aside from the path he’s on. He said it himself – his purpose now is to protect the Wens, and if the cultivation world sees that as a reason for him to die alongside them then he will.

“We’ll help you,” he promises. Rash, perhaps. Uncharacteristically sudden of him, perhaps. But it’s actually not really, in the end. Lan Wangji has been worried about Wei Wuxian ever since that banquet in Jinlintai and his disappearance with the Wens later the same night, and so Lan Xichen has been worried about his brother since the same moment. And not only that, but he still remembers Wei Wuxian as he had once been. Where now it seems everyone wants to paint him as a devil, as an evil mastermind, as a cruel and power-hungry tyrant amassing an army of the dead, all Lan Xichen can see is a young man whose heart has always been kind, who cultivates with evil things he can’t understand but who’s using it to keep a group of helpless people safe. It is not such a sudden change of heart for him to wish to see everyone around him treated well and fairly.

“Xichen,” Nie Mingjue says, startled by his declaration, but Lan Xichen puts a hand on his knee beneath the table, a silent promise to explain himself later.

“We’ll help you. The Lan Sect. What do you need?”

Wei Wuxian is staring at him, mouth hanging open rather comically, and so it’s Wen Qing who speaks up after a moment though Lan Xichen can see in her eyes that she doesn’t trust him yet.

“Food. Blankets for A-Yuan and for the elderly at least. And we want to be left alone.”

“These are the only demands you have?”

“What else could you possibly offer us, Zewu-Jun?”

“Fertile land,” Lan Wangji supplies, eyes beginning to alight with the first dangerous edges of hope. “Protection. Homes.”

“In Gusu?” Wei Wuxian cuts in to ask. There’s weight behind that question, a hostility, but when Lan Wangji looks at him all Lan Xichen can see is his desperation.

I want to bring a man to Cloud Recesses, his brother’s voice echoes softly in the back of his mind. Bring him there and keep him safe.

“It would not have to be permanent, necessarily,” Lan Xichen supplies, hand tensing a little more on Nie Mingjue’s knee when he feels the man shift restlessly beside him. “But it could be. None of this should have happened to you and your family, Wen-guniang. Will you allow the Gusu Lan to begin attempting to make reparations?”

Wei Wuxian and Wen Qing look at each other but whatever passes between them in their glances is beyond Lan Xichen’s comprehension.

“I will think about it,” she replies after a moment and Wei Wuxian turns on his heel to put his back to the rest of them, effectively hiding whatever expression he makes in response. “Come back in three days.”

It’s a clear dismissal and so Lan Xichen stands, Nie Mingjue at his side. Lan Wangji doesn’t move, his eyes fixed firmly on Wei Wuxian’s back, but he doesn’t seem to be included in the dismissal anyway. Wen Qing simply leads them to the doorway again where Wen Ning is standing patiently on the steps outside, likely to keep any eavesdroppers away.

“We’re escorting Zewu-Jun and Chifeng-Zun back to town,” she informs him and he falls in quickly at her side.

“Where is Lan-er-gongzi?” Wen Ning asks with a concerned glance over his shoulder. “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. He and Wei Wuxian might finally be ready to stop acting like they don’t want to be together,” she replies so flippantly that Lan Xichen is suddenly grateful for Nie Mingjue’s hand at his elbow as he stumbles ever so slightly on the uneven terrain in response.

“O-oh,” Wen Ning stammers out and Lan Xichen is abruptly sure that if it were still possible he would be blushing. “Well that’s nice I suppose. Is Wei-gongzi going to go to Jin Ling’s one-month and see his sister?”

Wen Qing glances back at them at that, though what she’s measuring them for Lan Xichen isn’t exactly sure. “Whose idea was it to have him there?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Wangji’s.”

“Oh yes then I daresay he’ll go no matter if it’s a trap or not,” she remarks so dryly that she actually gets a chuckle out of Nie Mingjue, which is startling to say the least. Lan Xichen looks at him, trying to gauge what he’s thinking, but he’s got his expression carefully locked into stern, unreadable lines. They continue on in silence down the mountain and back to their inn in the town. Only when the Wen siblings have departed and he and Nie Mingjue have retired to their rooms does he unbend enough for Lan Xichen to see that he’s deep in thought.

“Do you think Jin Guangshan truly means to destroy the amulet?” Nie Mingjue finally asks when Lan Xichen has waited him out long enough for him to speak his mind.

“In all honesty no, I do not. At least not right away, and power corrupts. We already know he is a man of vices, it’s no secret that power is one of them.”

“Can you really offer the Wens land and protection without consulting anyone else? The elders, your uncle?”

“It will have to go through more official channels I suppose to actually begin the movement – we’ll need to send resources to keep them clothed and fed while travelling and cultivators to keep them safe, after all. But yes, that is something I can offer them. I will make my case to the elders with what we saw here today, Wangji is my witness, and you could be too. They’re nothing but humble citizens who simply bear the curse of an unfortunate name through no fault of their own. So many Wens have already paid the ultimate price for what Wen Ruohan has done. There’s nothing and nobody in this last remaining group to be so afraid of that they must be eliminated. The only part that should worry the rest of the sects is that Wei Wuxian is at the helm, but their fear of him is slightly misguided as well. I believe once Uncle and the rest of the elders know the truth they will allow such peaceful people to live and work in Gusu.”

“Hm. Well alright then, the Nie will support you.”

That pulls Lan Xichen up short and he stares at Nie Mingjue with undisguised shock. Nie Mingjue at first only raises an eyebrow at him, but after another moment he exhales sharply and shakes his head as if bedeviled by a fly.

“I still don’t like the Wens but I can’t in good conscience lead them to the slaughter. If you want to protect them, then protect them. And I’ll protect you. Maybe we can finally take Jin Guangshan down a notch or two in the process, I definitely won’t be opposed. Nor do I think Jiang Wanyin will take much issue with it either, not if it can get him his brother back. And we already know Jiang Yanli will support anything that repairs Wei Wuxian’s reputation, and Jin Zixuan will support anything that makes Jiang Yanli happy. I’d say the winds are in our favor if we act too quickly for Jin Guangshan to counter it.”

Lan Xichen can still only blink as Nie Mingjue finally cracks his expression to smile ever so slightly and offer him a wink.

“You should have agreed to strategize with me days ago, none of this would have been so surprising, I thought it may become an option. Now it’s just up to Wangji to talk Wei Wuxian and Wen Qing into agreeing.”

“I believe he will find it in himself to be persuasive, and Wen Qing at least is quite sensible. I believe she understands their position well and knows that it is not sustainable for much longer. Or that even if it were, it would be better if their people could get the care and treatment they need to thrive, not just to survive. I believe they’ll agree.”

“Well we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t return once during the three days Wen Qing asked for them to wait. On the morning of the fourth day Wen Ning returns for them to bring them back up the mountain where they find Lan Wangji kneeling in the dirt with A-Yuan perched happily in his lap chattering away to Wei Wuxian, who is sitting far closer than necessary to listen as the rest of the Wens bustle around them, hurrying from field to field at a much quicker pace than mere days ago. Wen Qing meets them again at the entrance to the main clearing, arms once again crossed over her chest as she eyes them up like a hawk studying its prey.

“We accept. We’ll all come to Gusu with everything we can carry to start things anew.”

And just like that Lan Xichen gains a new branch of his family in the most unlikely of places.

#the untamed fanfic #Wangxian #Nielan #Lan Xichen #Lan Wangji #Nie Mingjue #Wei Wuxian #Wen Qing #Wen Ning #Prompt fill #I hope this works!#@ everyone who's sent in a request over the last couple of weeks:#I see the requests I promise and I'm trying to come up with stuff to write haha #It's been a busy couple of weeks

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almondmilks-posts · 3 years

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C!technoblade-soft boy

Scary technoblade being soft? With reader? Its more likely than you think....

I also like that I said that would wrote more often... And than I haven't written in anything for a month yea yea I know. I've been busy.

Set during pogtopia times

The cavern as cold and dark. Tbh it was all wilburs fault in the first place, he lost the election against schlatt and you being his speech writer and very prominent in the l'manburg party you and tommy were also exhiled to this ravine in which you guys now live. The plus part was the fact that Tommy was able to get an anarchist pig to join pogtopia, and that pig being the technoblade.

Surprising, before pogtopia you never met techno Wilbur and Tommy always spoke about him it being even more surprising that him and Wilbur were twins. (ok for me him and Wilbur are canonically twins) that abruptly changed when Tommy sent you do pick up 'the blade' you think he meant a sword but no, he ment the actual technoblade. You'd quickly grown a close attachment to the piglin, his love of potatoes confused you of course and needed to know all about the potato war and squidkid, you guys shared little bits of information about each of your lives you told him about swearing at badboyhalo for the first time of many, you told him about eret betraying you guys ect. He just sat there and listened you you, like actually listened not just pretend. He listened and took notes of how your hands moved when you spoke about your life, how your lips curved into a smile and how your eyebrows furrowed at any mention of betrayal or harm to the ones you cared about. He was smitten. You were smitten. And that's how you guys started dating.

You were currently leading a fox down into pogtopia as Tubbo killed the last one you guys had on accident (it really wasn't) when you heard a gentle tune being hummed. It was coming from the farm so you knew it only had to be the blood god.

You- someone's happy today huh?

Tech- heh? Oh yea my day is going ok no Tommy around to ruin it.

You- oh well that's good look what I brought back

Thec- ah a fox did anyone see you?

You- uhhhh no I saw Callahan (my beloved) and George off in the distance but they didn't see me.

Techno- good. Are you hungy?

You- uhh no I'm ok I have some bread Niki baked for me

Even though his back was turned away from you, you've known technoblade long enough to know he was frowning right now. You knew that technoblade wanted to keep you fed and protected at all costs even if that meant tending to another set of potatoes. You instantly regret

You- however I will take some potatoes I've got four steak left

Techno- here, just grown these.

You looked up at the piglin. His cloak not wrapped around his shoulders for once, however his crown still worn proudly across his pink hair down to his waist. His eyes as red as blood but still warm and inviting you took the potatoes and placed them into your inventory. Leant up on your tipie toes to not reach his lips at all (man's like 7 foot) he just chuffed and Bent his neck down to place a small peck onto your lips.

You- you need to stop being so tall Mr blade making me feel small and shit. Let me go put this fox away.

You left the growing area, to attach the fox onto the fence post. You searched the "public" chests to find some wood to make a sign. Once you had finally found some acacia (🤮) and made the sign but didn't know what to name it. You sat opposite the fox trying to decide what to name it ( idk if it's just me but I gotta feel it's aura to know what to name things). Some shuffling was heard behind you almost soft footsteps.

You- thec?

Techno- it's just me love, I'm right here.

You turned your head a lil too fast and actually cracked your neck bones. Techno climbed up the steps to sit down next to you. Pulling your smaller frame against his body so that you were sitting in his lap facing him.

You- where is everyone btw? I know Tommy is our with Tubbo but what about Wilbur? Or Niki? Or even Fundy I haven't seen Fundy today?

Thenoblade- schlatt called Niki and Fundy into work last minute I don't know about Wilbur something about getting gunpowder?

You- oh yea probably he's been collecting alot recently not sure why tho.

Thecno- I miss spending time with you alone. Without any annoying disturbances.

You- same. I can't wait to get out of this hell whole and move to the snow like you wanted.

Thecno- after this is all finished we will my Aphrodite.

A wildly British child ( I'm cracking up) could be heard in the distance meaning you and technoblade had about 30 seconds until chaos insueed in the ravine. neither did you or techno move from the embrace you guys were sharing right now tho because it was quite rare you guys had silence but it was worth it. Any time alone with the anarchist piglin is worth it, it's just a shame that it will one day come to an end.

Bro I just want this. Like. Bro.

#techno #technoblade #mcyt x y/n #mcyt x reader #mcyt #techno mcyt #mcyt fanfiction #dream smp #soft boy

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nerdyqueerandjewish · 3 years

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I follow historian Heather Cox Richardson on facebook and every day she does a write up about political history - I found yesterday’s on abortion and the anti-abortion movement really interesting

September 2, 2021 (Thursday)

In the light of day today, the political fallout from Texas’s anti-abortion S.B. 8 law and the Supreme Court’s acceptance of that law continues to become clear.

By 1:00 this afternoon, the Fox News Channel had mentioned the decision only in a 20-second news brief in the 5 am hour. In political terms, it seems the dog has caught the car.

As I’ve said repeatedly, most Americans agree on most issues, even the hot button ones like abortion. A Gallup poll from June examining the issue of abortion concluded that only 32% of Americans wanted the U.S. Supreme Court's 1973 Roe v. Wade decision overturned, while 58% of Americans opposed overturning it.

"’Overturning Roe v. Wade,’" Lydia Saad of Gallup wrote, “is a shorthand way of saying the Supreme Court could decide abortion is not a constitutional right after all, thus giving control of abortion laws back to the states. This does not sit well with a majority of Americans or even a large subset of Republicans. Not only do Americans oppose overturning Roe in principle, but they oppose laws limiting abortion in early stages of pregnancy that would have the same practical effect.”

While it is hard to remember today, the modern-day opposition to abortion had its roots not in a moral defense of life but rather in the need for President Richard Nixon to win votes before the 1972 election. Pushing the idea that abortion was a central issue of American life was about rejecting the equal protection of the laws embraced by the Democrats far more than it was ever about using the government to protect fetuses.

Abortion had been a part of American life since its inception, but states began to criminalize abortion in the 1870s. By 1960, an observer estimated that there were between 200,000 and 1.2 million illegal U.S. abortions a year, endangering women, primarily poor ones who could not afford a workaround.

To stem this public health crisis, doctors wanted to decriminalize abortion and keep it between a woman and her doctor. In the 1960s, states began to decriminalize abortion on this medical model, and support for abortion rights grew.

The rising women's movement wanted women to have control over their lives. Its leaders were latecomers to the reproductive rights movement, but they came to see reproductive rights as key to self-determination. In 1969, activist Betty Friedan told a medical abortion meeting: “[M]y only claim to be here, is our belated recognition, if you will, that there is no freedom, no equality, no full human dignity and personhood possible for women until we assert and demand the control over our own bodies, over our own reproductive process….”

In 1971, even the evangelical Southern Baptist Convention agreed that abortion should be legal in some cases, and vowed to work for modernization. Their convention that year reiterated its “belief that society has a responsibility to affirm through the laws of the state a high view of the sanctity of human life, including fetal life, in order to protect those who cannot protect themselves” but also called on “Southern Baptists to work for legislation that will allow the possibility of abortion under such conditions as rape, incest, clear evidence of severe fetal deformity, and carefully ascertained evidence of the likelihood of damage to the emotional, mental, and physical health of the mother.”

By 1972, Gallup pollsters reported that 64% of Americans agreed that abortion was between a woman and her doctor. Sixty-eight percent of Republicans, who had always liked family planning, agreed, as did 59% of Democrats.

In keeping with that sentiment, in 1973, the Supreme Court, under Republican Chief Justice Warren Burger, in a decision written by Republican Harry Blackmun, decided Roe v. Wade, legalizing first-trimester abortion.

The common story is that Roe sparked a backlash. But legal scholars Linda Greenhouse and Reva Siegel found something interesting. In a 2011 article in the Yale Law Journal, they showed that opposition to the eventual Roe v. Wade decision began in 1972—the year before the decision—and that it was a deliberate attempt to polarize American politics.

In 1972, Nixon was up for reelection, and he and his people were paranoid that he would lose. His adviser Pat Buchanan was a Goldwater man who wanted to destroy the popular New Deal state that regulated the economy and protected social welfare and civil rights. To that end, he believed Democrats and traditional Republicans must be kept from power and Nixon must win reelection.

Catholics, who opposed abortion and believed that "the right of innocent human beings to life is sacred," tended to vote for Democratic candidates. Buchanan, who was a Catholic himself, urged Nixon to woo Catholic Democrats before the 1972 election over the issue of abortion. In 1970, Nixon had directed U.S. military hospitals to perform abortions regardless of state law; in 1971, using Catholic language, he reversed course to split the Democrats, citing his personal belief "in the sanctity of human life—including the life of the yet unborn.”

Although Nixon and Democratic nominee George McGovern had similar stances on abortion, Nixon and Buchanan defined McGovern as the candidate of "Acid, Amnesty, and Abortion," a radical framing designed to alienate traditionalists.

As Nixon split the U.S. in two to rally voters, his supporters used abortion to stand in for women's rights in general. Railing against the Equal Rights Amendment, in her first statement on abortion in 1972, activist Phyllis Schlafly did not talk about fetuses; she said: “Women’s lib is a total assault on the role of the American woman as wife and mother and on the family as the basic unit of society. Women’s libbers are trying to make wives and mothers unhappy with their career, make them feel that they are ‘second-class citizens’ and ‘abject slaves.’ Women’s libbers are promoting free sex instead of the ‘slavery’ of marriage. They are promoting Federal ‘day-care centers’ for babies instead of homes. They are promoting abortions instead of families.”

Traditional Republicans supported an activist government that regulated business and promoted social welfare, but radical right Movement Conservatives wanted to kill the active government. They attacked anyone who supported such a government as immoral. Abortion turned women's rights into murder.

Movement Conservatives preached traditional roles, and in 1974, the TV show Little House on the Prairie started its 9-year run, contributing, as historian Peggy O’Donnell has explored, to the image of white women as wives and mothers in the West protected by their menfolk. So-called prairie dresses became the rage in the 1970s.

This image was the female side of the cowboy individualism personified by Ronald Reagan. A man should control his own destiny and take care of his family unencumbered by government. Women should be wives and mothers in a nuclear family. In 1984, sociologist Kristin Luker discovered that "pro-life" activists believed that selfish "pro-choice" women were denigrating the roles of wife and mother. They wanted an active government to give them rights they didn't need or deserve.

By 1988, Rush Limbaugh, the voice of Movement Conservatism, who was virulently opposed to taxation and active government, demonized women's rights advocates as "Femi-nazis" for whom "the most important thing in life is ensuring that as many abortions as possible occur." The complicated issue of abortion had become a proxy for a way to denigrate the political opponents of the radicalizing Republican Party.

Such threats turned out Republican voters, especially the evangelical base. But support for safe and legal abortion has always been strong, as it remains today. Until yesterday, Republican politicians could pay lip service to opposing the Roe v. Wade decision to get anti-abortion voters to show up at the polls, without facing the political fallout of actually getting rid of the decision.

Now, though, Texas has effectively destroyed the right to legal abortion.

The fact that the Fox News Channel is not mentioning what should have been a landmark triumph of its viewers’ ideology suggests Republicans know that ending safe and legal abortion is deeply unpopular. Their base finally, after all these years, got what it wanted. But now the rest of the nation, which had been assured as recently as the confirmation hearings for Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh that Roe v. Wade was settled law that would not be overturned, gets a chance to weigh in.

#abortion tw #long post

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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 years

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The future is symmetrical

When Mitch Kapor articulated the principle that “architecture is politics” at the founding of EFF, he was charging technologists with the moral duty to contemplate the kinds of social interactions their technological decisions would facilitate — and prohibit.

At question was nothing less than the character of the networked society. Would the vast, pluripotent, general purpose, interconnected network serve as a glorified video-on-demand service, the world’s greatest pornography distribution system, a giant high-tech mall?

Or could it be a public square, and if so, who would have the loudest voices in that square, who would be excluded from it, who will set its rules, and how will they be enforced?

As with its technical architecture, the political architecture of the net is a stack, encompassing everything from antitrust enforcement to spectrum allocation, protocol design to search-and-seizure laws, standards to top-level domain governance.

Among those many considerations is the absolutely vital question of service delivery itself. What kinds of wires or radio waves will carry your packets, who will own them, and how will they be configured?

For decades, a quiet war has been fought on this front, with two sides: the side that sees internet users as “mouse potatoes,” destined to passively absorb information feeds compiled by their betters; and the “netizen” side that envisions a truly participatory network design.

This deep division has been with us since the internet’s prehistory, at least since the fight over Usenet’s alt.* hierarchy, flaring up again during the P2P wars, with ISPs insisting that users were violating their “agreements” by running “servers.”

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/11/altinteroperabilityadversarial

Above all, this fight was waged in the deployment of home internet service. The decision turn the already-monopolistic cable and phone operators into ISPs cast a long shadow. Both of these industries think of their customers as passive information consumers, not participants.

As an entertainment exec in William Gibson’s 1992 novel Idoru describes her audience: “Best visualized as a vicious, lazy, profoundly ignorant, perpetually hungry organism craving the warm god-flesh of the anointed. Personally I like to imagine something the size of a baby hippo, the color of a week-old boiled potato, that lives by itself, in the dark, in a double-wide on the outskirts of Topeka. It’s covered with eyes and it sweats constantly. The sweat runs into those eyes and makes them sting. It has no mouth…no genitals, and can only express its mute extremes of murderous rage and infantile desire by changing the channels on a universal remote. Or by voting in presidential elections.”

Contrast this with the other cyberpunk archetype, the console cowboy who doesn’t merely surf the digital, but steers it — the active participant in the technological/media environment who is more than a recipient of others’ crafted messages.

For a long time, Big Tech and Big Telco tried to have it both ways. AT&T promoted teleconferencing and remote family life conducted by videophones in its 1993 “You Will” marketing campaign. Youtube exhorted you to “broadcast yourself.”

But AT&T also set data-caps, kicked users off for running servers, and engaged in every legal, semi-legal and outright illegal tactic imaginable to block high-speed fiber networks.

Youtube, meanwhile, blocked interoperability, leveraged vertical integration with Google search to exclude and starve competitors, and conspired with Big Content to create a “content moderation” system that’s two parts Kafka, one part Keystone Kops.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/12/fairy-use-tale/#content-id

While the questions raised by broad participation in networked society are thorny and complex, one question actually has a very simple and factual answer: “How should we connect our homes to the internet?” The answer: “Fiber.”

There is no wireless that can substitute for fiber. Wireless — 5G, Starlink, whatever — shares the same spectrum. We can make spectrum use more efficient (by tightly transmitting the wireless signals so they don’t interfere), but physics sets hard limits on wireless speeds.

Each strand of wire in a wired network, by contrast, is its own pocket universe, insulated from the next wire, with its own smaller, but exclusive, electromagnetic spectrum to use without interfering with any other wire on the other side of its insulation.

But copper wire also has hard limits that are set by physics. The fastest theoretical copper data throughput is an infinitesimal fraction of the fastest fiber speeds. Fiber is millions-to-hundreds-of-millions times faster than copper.

https://www.eff.org/wp/case-fiber-home-today-why-fiber-superior-medium-21st-century-broadband

We should never run copper under another city street or along another pole. Any savings from maintaining 20th century network infrastructure will be eradicated by the cost of having to do twice the work to replace it with 21st century fiber in the foreseeable future.

Trying to wring performance gains out of copper in the age of fiber is like trying to improve the design of whale-oil lamps to stave off the expense of electrification. Sure, you don’t want anyone sitting in the dark but even the very best whale-oil lamp is already obsolete.

But besides future-proofing, there’s another reason to demand fiber over copper or wireless: symmetry. Our copper and (especially) wireless infrastructure is optimized for sending data to end-points, not getting data back. It’s mouse-potato broadband.

(this is especially true of any satellite broadband, which typically relies upon copper lines for its “return path,” and even when it doesn’t, has much slower uplinks that downlinks)

By contrast, fiber tends to be symmetrical — providing the same download and upload speeds. It is participatory broadband, suited for a world of distance ed, remote work, telemedicine, and cultural and political participation for all.

Fiber is so obviously better than copper or wireless that America paltry fiber rollouts needed to be engineered — they never would have happened on their own. The most critical piece of anti-fiber engineering is US regulators’ definition of broadband itself.

Since the dawn FCC interest in universal broadband, it adopted a technical definition of broadband that is asymmetrical, with far lower upload than download speeds. Despite lockdown and broadband-only connections to the outside world, Congress is set to continue this.

The latest iteration of the Democrats’ broadband bill defines “broadband” as any connection that is 100mb down and 20mb up (“100/20”). Both of these speeds paltry to the point of uselessness, but the upload speed is genuinely terrible.

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/07/future-symmetrical-high-speed-internet-speeds

US broadband usage has grown 21%/year since the 1980s. 100/20 broadband is inadequate for today’s applications — let alone tomorrow’s (by contrast, fiber is fast enough to last through the entire 21st century’s projected broadband demand and beyond, well into the 2100s).

Any wireless applications will also depend on fiber — your 5G devices have to be connected to something, and if that something is copper, your wireless speeds will never exceed copper’s maximum speeds. Innovation in spectrum management requires fiber — it doesn’t obviate it.

Today, the highest growth in broadband demand is in uploads, not downloads. People need fast uploads speeds to videoconference, to stream their games, to do remote work. The only way a 100/20 copper network’s upload speeds can be improved is by connecting it with fiber.

Every dollar spent on copper rollout is a dollar we’ll forfeit in a few years. It’s true that cable monopolists will wring a few billions out of us if we keep making do with their old copper, but upgrading copper just makes the inevitable fiber transition costlier.

China is nearing its goal of connecting 1 billion people to fiber. In America, millions are stuck with copper infrastructure literally consisting of century-old wires wrapped in newspaper, dipped in tar, and draped over tree-banches.

https://mn.gov/commerce-stat/pdfs/frontier-service-quality-report-final.pdf

Indeed, when it comes to America, monopoly carriers are slowing upload speeds — take Altice, the US’s fourth-largest ISP, which slashed its upload speeds by 89% “in line with competitors’ offerings.”

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/27/immortan-altice/#broadband-is-a-human-right

America desperately needs a high-fiber diet:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/03/30/fight-for-44/#slowpokes

But it has a major blockage: the American right, who have conducted history’s greatest self-own by carrying water for telecoms monopolists, blocking municipal fiber:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/17/turner-diaries-fanfic/#1a-fiber

It’s darkly funny to see the people who demanded that “government stay out of my internet” now rail against monopoly social media’s censorship, given that a government ISP would be bound by the First Amendment, unlike Facebook or Twitter.

Luckily, Congress isn’t the only place where this debate is taking place. In California, Governor Newsom has unveiled an ambitious plan to connect every city and town to blazing-fast fiber, then help cities and counties get it to every home.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/15/how-to-rob-a-bank/#fiber-now

In tech circles, we use the term “read-only” to refer to blowhards who won’t let you get a word-in edgewise (this being one of the more prominent and unfortunate technical archetypes).

The “consumer” envisioned by asymmetrical broadband futures is write*-only — someone designed to have other peoples’ ideas crammed into their eyeballs, for their passive absorption. A consumer, not a citizen.

As Gibson put it, it’s a person who “can only express its mute extremes of murderous rage and infantile desire by changing the channels on a universal remote.”

Cyberpunk is a warning, not a suggestion.

#pluralistic

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whenisitenoughtrees · 4 years

Note

47. “That tickles!” And either moceit or royality please?

i will take literally any opportunity to write soft mociet so

Title: sugar, butter, flour

Word Count: 2,769

Content Warnings: none, I think

(fic masterpost)

Baking with Janus is interesting.

It’s become somewhat of a ritual, over the past few years, to bake with his family. He’s dragged Logan out of his room on more than one occasion to help with more technical recipes, the ones that depend entirely on precise measurements and proper stirring methods and timings. Roman, on the other hand, prefers the more decorative aspects, likes to bomb cookies and cakes with sprinkles and smother them in icing, or to craft sculptures out of fondant or chocolate. He wonders if Remus is the same; he intends to find out, sometime, as soon as he works up the courage to invite him.

And Patton remembers very well the first time he asked Virgil to come help him. He started with a simple recipe, chocolate cupcakes, but from the way Virgil’s face slid into shock, from the warbling, shaky tone of his voice as he asked Patton if he really meant it, really wanted him there, he would have thought that he was offering Virgil the world. And he’d felt awful, then, for rejecting Virgil for so long, and vowed that he would never have to feel so alone again, never have to question the motives behind something so simple as baking.

He’s not sure what to expect from Janus, the first time he broaches the topic.

It seems like the right thing to do. Thomas has accepted him now, or at least, is on the way there, and Patton is working on that too, is working to blur the lines of his black-and-white thinking into something greyer. And being accepted means being part of the family, and being part of the family means being included in activities, and that means baking, and if anyone had asked Patton a few months ago if he would be excited to ask Janus to bake with him, he wouldn’t have believed them at all.

But he is excited. And nervous, because he’s not sure that he’ll even be interested. Somehow, he has a hard time picturing Janus in a kitchen, because Janus is always so immaculately groomed and kitchens get so messy. He tries to imagine Janus with egg on his gloves or flour on his shirt, and he can’t quite manage it.

He asks, though. Because he wants to bake with Janus. Wants Janus to bake with him.

And Janus says yes.

He does it with a curiously blank face, the only visible emotion a slight flicker in his eyes, and Patton has no idea what he is thinking at all, but he accepts, and allows Patton to lead him to the kitchen, and then, they make cookies. Simple, chocolate chip cookies.

It’s weird, at first. Awkward, and strained, and it becomes very clear very quickly that Janus has never baked anything in his life, and that only adds to the weirdness, because Patton has to tell him what to do most of the time. But he catches on quickly, and by the time they’re making the third batch, he seems to have the motions down, and they settle into a more comfortable companionship. Their conversation, too, changes, moving from the short and stilted talk of before to something that flows more naturally, and Patton finds himself relaxing. He hopes Janus is, too. He really can’t tell.

They make the cookies, and they all turn out well, but not too long after they come out of the oven, Janus excuses himself. His face is still unreadable, and Patton has no idea whether he actually had fun or not, and he’s not sure that he’s ready yet to ask him to stay longer, not sure he could stand receiving rejection. There is something forming between them, some new relationship, but it is so fragile and new that he doesn’t want to risk breaking it.

But as Janus leaves the kitchen, he calls after him.

“Would you want to do this again, sometime?” he asks, and Janus looks at him for a long moment before replying.

“I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed,” he says, and by now, Patton is better at sifting out his truths from his lies, and he can recognize which this is.

And then, Janus is gone, capelet flapping out behind him. Patton watches him go, and feels as if he’s won a victory.

A few weeks later, they do it again.

They follow the same pattern: Patton asks Janus to bake, Janus agrees without displaying any indication as to whether he actually wants to or not, and they slowly warm up to each other as the cookies turn a soft golden brown. And this time, because he is better prepared, Patton notices a few things.

The first is that Janus keeps looking at him, keeps stealing quick, subtle glances whenever he thinks he isn’t looking. And at first, Patton doesn’t think very much of it, except that those glances start to remind him a little bit of Virgil. Because he remembers the first few times he baked with Virgil, remembers how cautious he was, how quiet, how he seemed to be trying to make himself smaller, as if he thought that Patton would kick him out if he so much as put a foot wrong, or that he would shout if Virgil messed up a measurement or made too much of a mess. And the way Janus is acting isn’t precisely like that, but the similarities are too striking to ignore. There is a hesitance in his movements, and in the way he watches Patton out of the corner of his eye, as if he’s trying to ensure that he’s not doing anything wrong.

The fact that he feels like he needs to do that makes Patton’s heart ache, but he’s sure that if he tries to approach the topic at all, Janus will staunchly deny it. So he leaves it be for now, and hopes that he can demonstrate through his actions that the caution isn’t necessary.

The second thing he notices is far more fun, and it’s this: Janus bakes like he does.

One of the worst kept secrets in the mindscape is that Patton is not very good in the kitchen, much to his chagrin. He knows it, everyone knows it, Thomas probably knows it. He tends to take recipes as guidelines rather than as set instructions, and he gets distracted easily, leaving one thing to burn or boil over while he focuses on another. He does his best work while there is someone else with him to keep him on track.

He’s cooked or baked with everyone else enough to know their strong suits. Logan is all about precision and numbers, while Roman focuses on style and flair, and Virgil just tries to make sure that everything is sanitary and no one burns themselves or cuts a finger.

Janus, though, is remarkably like him.

He eyeballs measurements like Patton does, disregarding the recipe entirely when he thinks something else might work better, and he, too, is prone to distraction, perfectly willing to let Patton tug him in a new direction while the previous work sits forgotten, only to curse up a storm when something starts spilling or smoking.

Really, he’s no better at this than Patton is.

That becomes extremely clear by the third time they bake together. They are still doing cookies, though Patton thinks it might be time to try something else soon. Cupcakes, maybe, or a whole cake. But for now, they stand there, staring at the first batch, straight out of the oven.

“Well, those look… good,” Janus says, not even trying to hide his doubt.

Patton frowns at the cookies. Something about them is off, something about their color and size just slightly different from the usual. He shrugs, picking one up and breaking it in half, handing part of it to Janus, who regards it suspiciously.

“Won’t know what’s wrong until we try it,” he says, and Janus lifts an eyebrow.

“Won’t do much good to know what’s wrong if we poison ourselves,” he says, but lifts the cookie to his lips anyway.

They take a bite at the same time. Patton feels his face twist, and Janus stops chewing as quickly as he started, his eyes blowing wide. They stare at each other for a moment, and Patton shudders, forcing himself to swallow. Janus, on the other hand, elects to grab a paper towel and delicately spit out the bite he took, tossing it and the rest of the cookie in the garbage can.

“That,” Janus proclaims, “was the most delightful thing I have ever eaten. And I have had Remus attempt to cook for me.”

Patton winces, turning to inspect the ingredients, still laid out on the counter. They have another three batches’ worth of dough, but they won’t be able to use it, not if his hunch is correct and they’ve used—

“Salt instead of sugar,” he says dolefully. “How did we both miss that?”

Janus makes a strangled sound. And then, he laughs, short and surprised, and by the time Patton turns to look, he is already composing himself.

“Clearly, our ingenuity in the kitchen knows no bounds,” he says, a slight smile still playing about his lips. “I can take these to Remus. I’m sure he’d love them.”

Patton agrees, mind not lingering too long on the Remus thing, because the word our rings in his head over and over again. Our ingenuity. Proof that Janus does want to be here, that he considers this to be an activity that they do together, rather than something that Patton drags him into. And his chest fills with warmth, warmth and something that feels like sparkles and rainbows, and he can’t help but beam.

Janus looks a bit taken aback, but he returns the smile, if shakily.

And, well. After that, there is no way that Patton is going to let Janus go. They graduate from cookies to cupcakes to cakes, and then to more complicated things, different types of pastries and creams and things that would probably work better if they had Logan there to help them, because only about one in three products actually tastes anything like it’s supposed to, or is edible at all. But it’s not the end product that’s the point, it’s the time they spend together, muddling their way through a complicated set of instructions, or giving up on that and winging it, turning the kitchen into something more approaching a disaster zone, a mess covering every surface.

And gradually, Janus seems to grow more comfortable. Allows himself to smile, and even to laugh, and every time Patton teases such a reaction out of him, he feels warm and bubbly all over. Slowly, somewhere between the meringues and the ganaches, they fall into a friendship, and Patton is elated.

And that friendship gives him courage to do things he never would have dared to do before, even if he wanted to.

“Here, you’ve got a little something,” he says, and before Janus can react, he wipes a bit of flour onto his nose.

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him, isn’t sure why he’s doing this. But the flour was there, and so was Janus’ face, and the desire to see what Janus would do was too strong to resist.

Janus freezes, his tongue flicking out. It tastes the air a few times, and then curls up to brush the tip of his nose, and immediately, his expression crashes into one of utter betrayal. His face scrunches up, and Patton can’t hold back his giggles.

“Really?” Janus says. “Well, as it turns out, you also have a little something—”

And he flicks flour at Patton in return.

From there, it is war, of course, and the baking itself is all but forgotten, the ingredients for their cake batter sitting out on the counter, gradually being coated with a fine layer of flour as it gets tossed back and forth between them. Patton has never seen Janus look so undignified, with white powder dusting his hair and all over his clothes, a delighted grin on his face as he pelts Patton with all the flour he can get his hands on, as well as the occasional glob of batter.

“Stop it, stop,” Patton manages, between breaths and fits of laughter. “That tickles!”

“Does it?” Janus says, and backs Patton up against the counter. With one delicate swipe of his hand, he brushes a thumb down Patton’s nose, covering it in flour. He resists the urge to sneeze. “Too bad. Vengeance is sweet.”

“You’re sweeter,” Patton says, the words spilling out of his mouth without permission, and oh.

Janus’ eyes go wide. Patton is suddenly very aware of the position they’re in, of how close Janus is to him, of how his hand is still hovering next to his face. And Janus must realize it, too, because there is a blush rising on the right side of his face, pink blooming on his skin.

But he doesn’t step back. And that’s good, because Patton finds that he doesn’t want him to.

“I—” Janus says, for once at a loss for words. “What?”

“I mean that,” Patton says. “I mean, it just kind of slipped out, but I meant it. You’re really sweet, and nice, and I really like to spend time with you.”

Janus’ hand shakes where it hangs in the air. Patton wishes he would close the gap that lies between them, bring it just a few inches closer and touch his face again.

“I,” he says, “I suppose I—”

“Oh my god,” someone says, and Janus springs away from Patton as though he’s been burned, and Patton does his level best not to feel disappointed. Virgil is standing in the entryway to the kitchen, eyes flickering back and forth between the two of them. The expression on his face is something approaching horror, though Patton doesn’t know what they’ve done to deserve that reaction. “What are you doing?”

Inexplicably, Patton feels himself blush. “Baking,” he says, and his voice comes out high and squeaky.

“Building a shelf,” Janus offers, completely deadpan. Patton can’t help but laugh a bit at that, still riding the adrenaline of moments before, and somehow, that doesn’t seem to settle Virgil down at all. He rocks back and forth on his heels, still looking between the two of them. His mouth works for a moment, but he says nothing, and Patton is just a bit concerned.

“Um,” he says, and steps forward so he’s not leaning against the counter. “Can I get you something, kiddo?”

Virgil shakes his head, and begins to backpedal out of the kitchen. “Uh, no, no, I’ll, um, I’ll grab something later, and um. Go. I’m gonna go. You guys um. Carry on, or whatever.”

“So glad to have your permission,” Janus drawls, but Virgil is already gone, all but dashing away, and Patton thinks he hears him muttering under his breath, thinks he catches the phrase “like walking in on my parents,” which just makes him blush harder as he risks a glance over at Janus.

Who is looking back at him, his lips lifted in a way that can only be called fond.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then, once again, Patton finds himself laughing, because he loves this. Flour and batter all over them, all over the kitchen, and there is something buzzing in the air, something that smells like possibility, and Patton feels warm all over just looking at him, looking at Janus, messy and ruffled and more human and beautiful than he has ever seen him, with flour streaked across his face and batter on his gloves. He is so glad that Janus is willing to do this, is willing to open up, to suffer a bit of indignity, to trust him just a little bit more.

“Shall we finish this cake?” Janus asks, and it sort of feels like he’s asking something else.

Patton glances around the kitchen, at the mess they’ve made, and grins. “Yeah, I think we should,” he says, and they do.

And when the cake is finished, it’s overdone, and it hasn’t risen as much as it’s supposed to. But they take it out of the oven together, and their hands brush against each other and linger at the contact. Its scent fills the air, a strong vanilla, and it’s lopsided and imperfect but still good, and Patton thinks, yes. Vanilla and possibility, and Janus’ smile, and he’s certain they’ll be baking together for a long time to come.

General Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii @severelylackinginquality @aceawkwardunicorn @gayerplease @elizabutgayer @dwbh888 @thatoneloudowl @sanderssides-angst @gayboopnoodle @wildfire5157 @ldavmp4 @a-ghostlight-for-roman

#moceit #patton sanders #ts patton #janus sanders #ts janus #virgil sanders #ts virgil #my fic #long post #cat does prompts

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ravnicaforgoblins · 3 years

Photo

Ravnica for Goblins

Alignment

Figuring out where on the spectrum of beliefs, morals, and neutrality your character falls can be a challenge. One individual’s Chaotic Good is another’s Lawful Evil. To help clarify things, most campaigns include alignment for significant NPCs, and one can often draw a line between that NPC and that alignment. This doesn’t apply to every NPC, but the more important someone is, the more they come to represent a specific section of the moral grid in a campaign.

Ravnica does this as well, with most of the alignment chart represented by a Guildmaster. This isn’t completely uniform, however, so there’s wiggle room for an NPC to lean one way or the other as fits the story. There are some pretty safe bets, however, who can be counted on to check certain boxes at all times.

Isperia of the Azorius Senate: Lawful Neutral

Isperia represents the goal of the Azorius; objective devotion to upholding the laws as they are written. She was elected to her position because of her ability to look passed right & wrong, instead focusing solely on interpreting Ravnica’s 10d6 of Psychic damage legal system for all disputes.

Lazav of House Dimir: Neutral Evil

Lazav is the Dimir at their most annoying but least murderous. Blatant disregard for everyone’s privacy, but preference for stealing, secrets, and information over assassination. Lazav infiltrates every Guild, including his own, always determined to stay several steps ahead of any potential threat. This is not to say he won’t kill people if necessary, but his is a cold, “bloodstained calculus” methodology. It’s never personal.

Rakdos of the Cult of Rakdos: Chaotic Evil

On this plane, Rakdos is the living embodiment of Chaotic Evil, a title he takes very seriously. It’s just about the only thing he takes seriously, as he prefers to live without rules and have everyone else do the same. Unrestrained hedonism and mayhem are his bread & butter. You do what you want, whatever you want, whenever you want, however you want, regardless of what anyone or anything else says. No restrictions, no inhibitions, no hesitation. Encouraging this kind of destructive chaos in the streets is the only thing keeping Rakdos from embracing more orthodox Chaotic Evil behavior of slaughtering millions, enslaving thousands, and bowing to no one.

The Obzedat of the Orzhov Syndicate: Lawful Evil

Hard to believe there can be something worse than an actual Demon given permission to encourage every sin imaginable, but that is what the Ghost Council are. The Obzedat exist to stretch, bend, and twist every law designed to maintain order, neutrality, or justice so as to benefit themselves. What’s worse is how the Orzhov play innocent when they do it. Unlike the Dimir or the Rakdos who accept and even embrace society’s interpretation of their actions, the Orzhov refuse to be seen as anything but humble, spiritual, gracious public servants. The very antithesis of what they actually are; arrogant, miserly, manipulative bastards. They will point out exactly which laws they are not breaking, which laws there is insufficient evidence to prove they are breaking, and which laws prevent you from punching them in the face right now.

Trostani of the Selesnya Conclave: Neutral Good

If there’s one thing to be said for Selesnya, it’s that they are rarely the problem. The Conclave is perfectly content to keep to their fields & forests most of the time and focus solely on building up their own Guild. In a city where every Guild has a problem with every other Guild, Selesnya is the only one who at least tries to get along with everyone else. They don’t tend to get involved in matters that don’t concern them, but theirs is always a safe haven for those who seek it. Trostani is made up of three dryads representing Harmony, Life, and Order. You don’t get much more Neutral Good than that. The only problem is that Trostani basically never leave their Guildhall, so their influence only spreads so far. The reason they can live so peacefully is because so little of the chaotic city life overlaps into theirs.

Besides them, everyone has wiggle room and gray area to move around in. Both Niv-Mizzet and Borborygmos are canonically Chaotic Neutral, but with their most prominent personality traits being vanity & anger, respectively, the “Neutral” part of that can go out the window quick. Still, almost every Guild has at least a semblance of a position somewhere on the chart to start from. You can basically count on a member of each Guild to be at least:

Azorius Senate: Lawful

This is the Guild that writes the laws of Ravnica, after all. They literally draw their power from this ancient legal code, so it makes sense that, whether an Azorius leans more towards Good, Evil, or Neutrality, they do so lawfully.

Boros Legion: Good

If the Azorius follow the intellectual letter of the law, the Boros follow the passionate spirit for which said law was originally written. Justice, not legal-ese. Sometimes the law is good enough, but sometimes it fails its citizens. A Boros should be an inspiring force for Good, whether Lawful or Chaotic depends on the individual.

House Dimir: Neutral

The best a Dimir operative can hope to achieve, morally speaking, is neutrality. If you are working for this Guild, you are lying & stealing. Odds are you are infiltrating another Guild to find/steal information to report back to your superior(s). Not every Dimir agent does this willingly, however. Maybe a character only became a Dimir operative after finding out their mentor was. Maybe a character had nowhere else to turn and no one else to depend on. Maybe they just needed House Dimir’s connections to get them close enough to someone in another Guild who wronged them. Whatever the motivation, cling to that gray area of neutrality like your life depends on it. It’s all you’ve got.

Gruul Clans: Chaotic

Gruul are many things. “Lawful” is not one of them. If you’re a member of a Gruul Clan, you’ve definitely got a bit of a temper on you and a strong disregard for authority. Now, a Gruul can absolutely be a force for good, or, conversely, evil. Maybe you joined the Gruul after your ancestral home was bulldozed over for a smelly Izzet facility. Maybe you had a mental breakdown after decades of trying to uphold law in a city where the laws mean jack shit unless there’s a guy in blue sitting at his desk. Maybe you got tired of planting trees and getting stepped on. Maybe you don’t like the pretentiousness of so-called “artists”. Maybe you just like hitting things. Whatever your reason, the Gruul will welcome another anarchist.

Golgari Swarm: Chaotic/Evil/Neutral

The Golgari Swarm are the first Guild where you’re really going to find a lot of diversity in alignment. Some definitely fall into the chasm of Chaotic Evil Necromancers, others stand firmly in the fields of True Neutral Rot Farmer, and some idly wander between the two. Necromancy is pretty normal in Golgari society, and “Evil” can be considered a harsh word to describe it. It’s definitely more normalized in the Undercity than it is on the surface. A lot of typically Evil behavior is like that for the Golgari, lest we forget that this society of giant bugs, necromancers, zombies, medusa, etc also run the sewage system and food stamps program for the city. That said, there are definitely Golgari with sufficient ambition/motivation to become ready-made Big Bads. What is a Lich, after all, but a wizard who says, “No, I’m too important to die!”

Izzet League: Chaotic

If there’s one predictable aspect of the Izzet, it’s that they are unpredictable. For a Guild whose founding principle is “I wonder what would happen if....”, it’s best to accept that you’ll never be Lawful. Your job, as it is, is to look at laws (nature, physics, etc) and poke at them with electrodes to see what happens. Your focus will always be on things that haven’t been written down yet, as opposed to what already has. It’s almost literally impossible to be Lawful and Izzet for that reason alone. As far as Good, Evil, and Neutral go; that’s up to the individual. This experiment could replicate food so we never have to eat Golgari rations again! Or it could replicate essential personnel to prevent understaffing! Or, it could even replicate.... ME (cue maniacal laughter).

Orzhov Syndicate: Lawful

The Orzhov, like the Azorius, draw their power and influence from the laws of Ravnica. Evil is expected, though not mandatory, but Lawful is a requirement. An Orzhov who doesn’t know their way around Ravnica’s laws is a loose end, and the Orzhov don’t allow loose ends to jeopardize their schemes & ambitions. One can absolutely be a Lawful Neutral Orzhov, also known as an Accountant, but such individuals rarely find their way into a life of adventure. A Lawful Good Orzhov can exist, but your greatest adversary will be the large majority of your Guild who sees you as a potential threat to their illicit activities. In which case, you’ll want to know those laws even better than they do.

Cult of Rakdos: Chaotic

Chaos is mandatory, evil is encouraged. By “Evil”, we mean “things people tell you are Evil”. Anything you would do while drunk you should be able to do at all times! There’s really only three rules in the Cult of Rakdos:

Rule #1, Rakdos is #1

Rule #2, JUST DO IT

Rule #3, Don’t be boring

Being Neutral breaks Rule 3, being Good breaks Rule 2 and/or 3, and being Lawful breaks all 3 rules. Which reminds me of the fourth rule:

Rule #4, NEVER break Rule #1

Truthfully, being Chaotic Good or Chaotic Neutral is perfectly fine as long as you don’t impede on someone else’s hedonism without a reason, or lack thereof. As long as you’re being free & crazy, that’s what really matters.

Selesnya Conclave: Good

As stated with Trostani, Selesnya is a pretty consistent force of Good, if nothing else. They don’t really do hate, you know? Life in the Conclave is pretty uniformly Good, so why make trouble? Why can’t everyone just be Good? In short; ‘cause they don’t wanna, none of your business, go hug a tree, and/or because fire is FUN. Lawful fits some individuals but can just get in the way for others. Neutral is pretty solid but some things must call you to act. Chaotic is if you really want to embrace being a Nature Warrior in a planet-sized cityscape. Selesnya is the Guild for goodie two-shoes, as if that’s a bad thing.

Simic Combine: Any

The Simic Combine is the one Guild that can honestly fall anywhere on the alignment chart. The Guild started out as Doctors, Naturalists, and preservers of life. Now it also operates large-scale bioengineering. You can have a Lawful Good Simic Paladin committed to preserving life and health, a True Neutral Simic Forcemage (Druid) dedicated to living a simple life bolstering plant growth, or a Chaotic Evil Simic Wizard who has decided on everyone’s behalf that flippers and gills are now mandatory. Just like science can be used for great Good, great Evil, or mundane routine, the Simic Combine can turn its experiments to any purpose, depending on the individual. And whereas the Izzet are firmly Chaotic, the Simic have the foresight to think ahead before they try an experiment. You can be anything you want in the Simic Combine, just plan it out.

#ravnica for goblins #ravnica #goblins #d&d #dnd #5e #alignment #roleplaying #dungeons and dragons #dungeons & dragons #good #evil #lawful #neutral #guilds

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luxekook · 4 years

Text

chapter three.

⇥ pairing: ot7 x reader (insert gif of elmo with flames behind him here)

⇥ genre: college au with fluff, smut & angst

⇥ summary: a series in which the reader meets (and falls for) seven members of the Beta Tau Sigma (BTS) fraternity

⇥ word count: 2.3k

⇥ warnings: 18+, cursing, dirty talk, jimin propositions the reader accidentally, taehyung is a menace, noona kink jumps out A LOT, chaotic ot7, talk of poly relationships, overall kinda smut free (the next chapter should quench fuel your thirst)

Chapter Three

“It means that we’re going to date the shit out of you.”

We’re going to date the shit out of you.

We’re. Going. To. Date. The. Shit. Out. Of. You.

Those words play on a constant loop in my head for the rest of the week. After Namjoon had dropped that bombshell on me, I’d kind of freaked the fuck out, faked an immediate illness, and ran at full speed.

When I had told Luna about it later that night, she had been just as shook as me. Surprisingly enough, she had also given her full support of whatever I decided to do but “would have her banana slicer on standby and would order six more if need be”.

It appears that she had drunk-ordered a banana slicer off Amazon when the last boy she talked to pissed her off. I had apparently drunk-approved the decision. Rad.

Jenni’s reaction had been even better. We’d been in the library on Monday and her screech of “he said what!?” had led to multiple events:

An abundance of shushes from every student within a 50-yard radius

Her continued rant: “Your own personal harem! Can you say goals? Maybe I should infiltrate EXO and collect my own...”

Us getting kicked out by our ancient librarian

For the rest of the week, I had Luna and Jenni both giving me shit about the BTS boys. It had helped that I hadn’t run into them at all on campus between classes. But I had known it wouldn’t be long before my luck would run out...

Quinn Library – 2:31pm

Typically, I don’t spend my Friday afternoons deep within the stacks of the library’s quiet floor. Yet, here I sit typing frantically due to my incapability to stop procrastinating. My fingers fly over the keys of my aging MacBook in hopes that whatever spur of productivity I had going on is captured in its fullest.

General education classes could burn in the pits of hell as far as I'm concerned. If I wanted to be a psychiatrist, why did I have to take – and pay for – an art elective that I would likely never utilize in the workforce? Plus, the only class within the category that fit my schedule ended up being “Writing About Dance”.

Yeah, I’m still a tad bitter, but in all honesty the class isn’t that bad so far. It mainly consists of watching different dance performances and learning how to write about them in different styles.

Today’s assignment is to write critical commentary on videos of the university’s dance team that the professor provided for us. Sighing, I finish my review of the second to last dance video provided by the professor, take a quick second to stretch, and then open the link to the last video on the assignment page.

“Park Jimin – Final Performance Solo, Spring 2019”

Slack-jawed, I fall into wonder as Jimin moves through his routine flawlessly. He dances like it’s easier than walking to him. His movements are somehow precise and fluid all at once. I barely realize a few tears have run down my cheeks until the video cuts off, signaling the end of Jimin’s performance.

Jesus, (y/n), get it together. I laugh lightly as I dig in my backpack for a tissue. How could I possibly capture the ethereal beauty that Jimin exuded into words? Am I even worthy of commenting on such exquisiteness?

Definitely fucking not. And before I can second guess myself, I type: “Park Jimin is art in its purest form. Watching him dance is like watching the sun rise over the ocean – raw beauty accompanied by the hopes brought with a new day. His performance left me wanting for nothing except an encore.”

Boom. Submit Assignment.

As my email pings with the confirmation that my assignment is turned in, my eyes widen in realization. Park Jimin of BTS is a dance god, and he – allegedly – wants to date me? That is just ridiculously unfathomable.

Namjoon must be off his rocker.

Closing my laptop, my phone suddenly vibrates with an incoming notification from snapchat...

President_RM has added you!

Before I can even comprehend the absurdity of Namjoon adding me, my phone bursts into a series of buzzes. Cursing, I switch my phone to silent and check my screen.

minsuga93 has added you!

jhopeworld_ has added you!

handsomeJIN has added you!

JKookie97 has added you!

vantae_BTS has added you!

95jiminie has added you!

Are they serious? How did they even get my SnapChat username?

vantae_BTS has added you to a chat!

Curiosity wins out over aggravation as I swipe to open the chat.

Heart pounding, I fight the urge to chuck my phone into the depths of the bookcases winding around the room. What did those idiots want with me?

(y/n) & Luna’s Apartment – 9:45pm

“What do those idiots want with me?” the decibel my voice has risen to is shocking even to my ears.

Luna cringes, accordingly, “I can’t tell if that’s a rhetorical question...”

I steamroll onwards, “And don’t even get me started on how they could have even gotten my snapchat. It’s a complete invasion of privacy!”

“You could just ask them,” Jenni’s voice cuts through my rambling tirade.

I pause, “No, I couldn’t—”

...Or could I?

Turning on my heel, I rush into my room and head straight for my closet. Grabbing the nearest sweatshirt and pair of leggings, I tug them on and then grab my keys from my nightstand.

Whirling back into the living room, I storm past a dumbfounded Luna and Jenni, “Be right back.”

Opening the apartment door, Luna shouts, “Wait! Where are you going? You’re not even wearing shoes!”

Whoops. I glance at my feet and note that she is, in fact, correct.

Jenni bounds over to me holding my Doc Martens, “Here, babe. You’re going to the BTS house, aren’t you?”

I nod grimly and salute my two best friends as if I'm going into battle. “I won’t be long. I just have a small errand to run.”

“Well, you’re not going alone,” Luna declares, pulling on her sneakers.

Jenni snorts and shoves her feet into her beat-up Converse, “No way am I missing out on this action.”

As we head out the door, I link arms with Luna and Jenni, “Have I mentioned I love you both recently?”

“Right back at you, bitch,” Luna laughs.

Greek Row – 10:17pm

Ten minutes later, we reach Greek Row. Fraternity and sorority houses dot the street on both sides. Personally, I think of this street as home to the chaotic rich, and I tend to avoid it at all costs – except tonight.

The line to get into BTS is so long it wraps around the block. Students dressed in the latest fashions converse as they wait, huddling together in their groups. I glance down at my outfit of a worn university hoodie and leggings.

“Well, shit. We’re underdressed, huh,” Jenni deadpans, causing all three of us to burst into laughter, “Do you think they put you on the list, (y/n)?”

Pondering that thought, I shrug, “Maybe,” and begin marching past the line of waiting students towards the front door of BTS, “But I sure as fuck am not waiting in that line.”

“Hey, there’s a line here!”

“Yo, bitches! What are you doing?”

“What the fuck?”

Paying the hecklers no mind, I saunter right up to the BTS pledges guarding the door, “Hi, I need to talk to Kim Namjoon.”

The pledge on the right rakes his gaze over me incredulously and then makes the same assessment of Luna and Jenni, “You know this is a party, right?”

I don’t deem that comment worthy of a response and instead cross my arms over my chest. He shrinks under the collective glare of me, Luna and Jenni.

The pledge on the left awkwardly clears his throat, “Names, please?”

My answer barely escapes my lips before the pledges visibly straighten, looking at me with new eyes, “You’re (y/n)? Why didn’t you just say so?”

And before I can answer, the front door swings open for us.

People are everywhere. A haze of smoke looms in the air, and rap music blares from the speakers. The bass is turned up so loud that the beat seems to take over the rhythm of my pulse. That cannot be healthy.

Turning to my friends, I do my best to communicate, shouting, “I’m going to find them! Are you going to be here?”

Luna and Jenni exchange a look and nod. Jenni shouts back, “We’re going to get some drinks. Might as well capitalize on free booze! Text us when you’re ready to go.”

And with that, we part ways.

Maneuvering around the sea of gyrating bodies in the main living room area, I scan around for any signs of my seven menaces.

“Do my eyes deceive me? Or is that my future wife?” The deep voice booms from behind me.

I sigh, recognizing the voice, and turn around.

Kim Taehyung is striding towards me with his arms outstretched, smiling like the damned fool he is and looking like he just stepped off the runway for Gucci. “Come to daddy.”

An idea forms. I smile sweetly and walk to meet Taehyung halfway. His boxy grin widens and just as he thinks I'm going to let him wrap his arms around me, I grab him by the ear.

“Ouch!” He cries, “Devil-woman!”

Ignoring him, I drag him behind me towards the stairs.

“If you wanted to get me alone, you could have just asked—OW!”

My hold on his ear tightens as we arrive on the second-floor landing, “Where are your brothers?”

“I don’t know, n-noona!” Somehow the honorific coming from Tae sounds divine, but I file that thought away for another time.

Removing my hold, I corner him against the wall of the hallway, “Okay, Kim, here’s what is going to happen. You’re going to point me in the direction of your room, go find your six idiot brothers, and then report back here so I can finally understand what the fuck is going on. Got it?”

My chest heaves as my directions conclude and I realize how close together we are. Taehyung stares at me with an indecipherable expression before breaking into a slow smile, “Noona is bossy.”

“Noona is going to shove her foot up your ass if you don’t get moving,” I growl.

“Kinky,” he laughs, backing away from me and my brewing anger, “Last door on the left is my room. I’ll be back with the six idiots.”

As he thumps back down the steps, I close my eyes and count to ten, trying to steel my nerves and rein in my anger. When I open them, my eyes are met with the amused gaze of Min Yoongi.

Slapping a hand to my heart, I wait for my pulse to settle from being scared out of my wits, “Motherfuck—how did you even move that silently?”

“It’s a skill,” Yoongi drawls, nodding towards to end of the hall, “So, group meeting in Tae’s room?”

Shooting him the best side-eye I can muster, I stalk past him, steadfastly ignoring the chuckles and light footfalls that follow behind me.

Throwing open the door which Taehyung indicated was to his room, I pause, taking in the horde of photos and art taped to the four walls. The light blue wallpaper barely peeks through the absolute massive amount of artwork.

“It’s overwhelming at first, isn’t it?” An angelic voice shyly breaks through my reverie, “Tae likes to collect pictures and things he finds beautiful.”

“Ah, so that’s why we’re friends.” The joke is followed by a laugh that can only be compared to the sound of a windshield wiper squeakily moving back and forth.

I shift my eyes from Taehyung’s walls and onto the two newcomers – Park Jimin and Kim Seokjin.

Meeting Seokjin’s gaze first, I cannot help but agree that he is a very, very beautiful man. With pushed back dark hair, mischievous brown eyes and impossibly broad shoulders, Seokjin can easily be mistaken for an idol. And, oh fuck, I’m still staring.

Shooting my eyes back up to his, I crinkle my nose at his shit-eating grin. Before he can even comment, I turn and lock eyes with Jimin.

“Your dancing is gorgeous,” I blurt out and immediately want to crawl under a rock and live out the rest of my life as Patrick Star.

Yoongi and Seokjin are cackling as Jimin’s face lights up at my embarrassing compliment, “You really think so?”

“There's no shutting him up now,” Yoongi is in tears, “Watch out, (y/n). Jimin loves his fans.”

“Shut up, Yoongi-hyung!”

Jimin looks ready to swing, but luckily Taehyung chooses the right moment to return, “What have we missed? Why is Jiminie about to fight Yoongi? I’ll put $10 on hyung.”

Gasping in betrayal, Jimin sits on the edge of Tae’s bed and pouts.

The rest of the boys file in behind Taehyung as he flops down onto his bed and reclines like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Hi, (y/n). Good to see you again. I’m glad you’re here,” Namjoon greets me with a slight bow, a crooked smile and wicked eyes.

He’s followed closely by Jung Hoseok, the only BTS boy I hadn’t met thus far, “(y/n)! It’s so nice to meet you in person! Wow, you look so pretty tonight!”

“Noona always looks pretty,” Jungkook cuts in, throwing an arm around Hoseok’s shoulder, “She’s bae.”

A collective groan arises from the rest of the boys. “Sit your ass down, JK,” Yoongi grumbles, “(y/n)’s going to break up with us before we even start dating.”

“Dating—!” I break off that train of thought. Other matters need to be attended to first, “No, I didn’t come here tonight to say ‘hi’ or to be your ‘bae’. I came here to get answers.”

I take my time making eye contact with each boy.

Taehyung is still spread out on his bed and Jimin has now joined him. Seokjin, Hoseok and Jungkook are sprawled out on the floor at the foot of the bed, while Namjoon and Yoongi slouch against the opposite wall of the bedroom facing me.

“Alright,” Namjoon lifts his chin, meeting my stare head on, “What do you want to know?”

a/n: sorry for the cliffhanger, hehe. i wanted to get something up for y’all! hopefully next chapter won’t take too long to finish/edit :)

taglist:

@hazeljrz @sessi03 @catsandstrawberries @h5naaa @meowmeowyoongles@leftflowerprunedonut @rjsmochii @athletes-of-god @karissassirak @weallhavesecretsinthebestway @cvbachacbitch @bewitch3dforivar @honeyspillings @xxonyxpearlxx @fivesecondsofsarang @oii-f-eli-x2 @joonsroses @theevilyouknow @jooniescupcakes @expensive-grl @i-dont-even-know-fck @doingmybestalltheftime @elraeee @fangirling-all-the-way-tbh @laced-brds @aokay1010 @breeeeh17 @lpayne612 @peachyharmoney @rilakoya @chulchuchi @tabula-rasa0 @guccishookv @nomimits7 @i-like-puppy-mg @s-noir @anna-sorel @valiantcollectorofsandwiches @cage7241

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evienyx · 3 years

Text

DSMP Citizens POV 6: The Greater SMP Shoemaker

No dsmpsona this time, but actually inspired by a tag from a reblog of the first of these POVs, which gave the idea of a citizen who has a crush on one of the main cast. I went really into it with this one, but I hope you enjoy, nonetheless.

- - -

DSMP Citizen POV Masterlist

- - -

In a land of creation and destruction, of magic and myth, there were a surprising lack of places where one could get good clothes. The Dream SMP server didn't have the sort of large shopping complexes that servers like Hypixel did. Smaller businesses were built up, and even then they would mostly focus on actual clothing. There wasn't really many places for someone to buy shoes.

That was where the Greater SMP Shoemaker came in.

The Shoemaker, Reese, to those who were closest with them, had moved to the server after the L'Manburg Revolution, about a week before the election, and they had quickly seen an opportunity.

"You're gonna make shoes?" Their friend, a resident of L'Manburg and the one who had given them the idea to move here in the first place, asked, sounding rather skeptical.

"Indeed I am," the Shoemaker confirmed.

"Where? L'Manburg?"

"Already a shoe shop there. No, I'm gonna be making mine in the Greater SMP," the Shoemaker said.

Their friend raised an eyebrow and snorted. "Good luck with the politics, Reese. The king over there was just put in by Dream. At least we're having an election."

Then, a week later, the election ended in a near-dictatorship and a fledgling rebellion, and the Shoemaker was perfectly happy as their request for a plot of land was confirmed and they set to work building up their shop.

Two weeks later, their friend in L'Manburg was gone, joining up with Pogtopia and complaining about raised taxes all the while, and Reese opened their doors to the public for the first time, the advertisements for their shop having been hung around the day before.

Business picked up quickly, and it worked out well. No one wanted to go into (L')Manburg at the moment, what with President Schlatt declaring himself Emperor, and the L'Manburg Shoe Shop had closed already anyway as the workers ran off to join the rebellion as well.

The Shoemaker went through their days enjoying what they were doing, creating shoes from materials that they bought from nearby businesses or that they found themself, waiting until they heard the chime of the bell at the door signaling a customer.

About a month after they opened, just after the execution of a teenager, the bell rang out through the shop, and Reese stood from where they sat sketching out a new shoe design in the back room to enter the main part of the shop.

"Welcome to the Greater SMP Shoe Shop," they said, wiping their hands on a towel to get paint off. "How may I help you?"

The Shoemaker looked up and froze as their eyes landed on King Eret, the monarch in charge of the Greater SMP.

"Your Majesty," Reese managed to say, bowing their head in respect. "My apologies. I... didn't know you were coming, today."

King Eret smiled, her teeth sparkling in the light flowing from the window, rays of sun dancing across her sunglasses. "No need to apologize," he said. "I tend to drop in quite unannounced. I suppose I should be the one apologizing to you. I simply had heard that you opened recently, and I wanted to come check it out."

Reese's face was slightly warm as they stammered out, "Well, uh, welcome to the Greater SMP Shoe Shop. Feel free to browse around, and if you have any questions go right ahead and ask 'em."

King Eret nodded and stepped farther into the shop, their cloak billowing around them. The Shoemaker did their very best to keep their eyes firmly on anything but the monarch slowly making his way through their humble store.

They managed to engross themself in a book they had stuffed under the counter a few days ago, one that a friend of theirs had gifted them, and were halfway through the first chapter when King Eret's voice shook them from their stupor.

"Do you custom orders?" She asked, turning her head to face the Shoemaker. Reese was sure that, behind the sunglasses, the king's gaze was right on them. After a moment, they nodded.

"I do. It's an extra fee, of course, but I've custom-made quite a few pairs of shoes."

King Eret grinned. "Cool. How would I go about ordering those?"

"Uh..." The Shoemaker ducked down and grabbed a notebook from under the counter. "We'd need to make an appointment. I already have one scheduled for today, and I only do one per day, but I'm sure I can call them and ask them to move-"

"No, no, it's all right," King Eret said, waving their hand. "I can wait. When's the next available spot?"

"In three days. We could do around noon? I'm normally rather slow at that time."

"Noon in three days' time, got it," King Eret said. He moved toward the door. As her hand landed on the doorknob, she turned her head to offer another smile. "Thank you. Have a good day, Shoemaker." Then, without another word, they opened the door, stepped outside, and were gone.

Reese realized twenty minutes later as they were sitting their customer down for the scheduled fitting that their face was still warm.

King Eret returned a few minutes before noon three days after the Shoemaker had last seen him.

"Apologies for being early," the monarch said, this time accompanied by two guards on either side. "I thought it better than being late."

Reese nodded, feeling the heat rising in their face again. "Come in, come in."

King Eret waved a hand and the guards stationed themselves outside of the door, standing at the ready. The Shoemaker held the door open for the king, who stepped inside with so much grace that Reese wondered if the monarch was simply floating.

"Right this way, your grace." Reese led King Eret into the back room, their hands shaking just a bit as they pulled back a chair that they had specifically purchased from a carpenter the day before in order to have a nice, new, cushioned one ready for the leader of the Greater SMP. "Have a seat."

King Eret swept down into the seat, their ankles crossed and hands folded on their lap. The Shoemaker bit their tongue, grabbed their measuring tools, slipped on their glasses, and tried their very best not to think about how goddamn pretty the king was.

A few minutes passed, Reese falling into a stupor as they did the measurements the same way that they did every day.

"You're very good at this," King Eret said, shocking the Shoemaker from their daze. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Uh..." Reese pushed their glasses up their nose. "About thirteen years. I learned when I was a kid."

The king hummed. "Why did you learn?"

The Greater SMP Shoemaker stilled for a moment before they said, "My father was a shoemaker. With him gone, I... I learned so that I could be closer to him."

King Eret was silent, a few seconds passing, before he asked, "Did something happen to him, if you don't mind me asking?"

Reese felt their eyes stinging, and their hands stopped moving. They blinked, and a tissue was hanging in front of their face.

"I'm sorry," King Eret said, her hand offering the tissue to them. "I didn't mean to pry. I've... never been the best with talking to people."

Reese took the tissue, wiped their eyes, and swallowed hard. "No need to apologize, your Majesty. I can tell you if you wish to know-"

A finger was held to their lips and they choked on their words. "No, of course not. I would never ask you to share something that you are so clearly uncomfortable with." King Eret furrowed his brow. "What's your name? I never caught it."

The Shoemaker wet their lips before saying, "I'm Reese, your grace."

"Nice to meet you, Reese," the king said, a smile quirking on their lips. "My name is Eret, though I suppose you already knew that."

A laugh bubbled out from the Greater SMP Shoemaker's throat and they nodded, spinning around in their chair to reach over to the notebook lying open on the table and jot a number down.

The shoes that the king requested, custom-made ;leather boots with heels so tall that Reese didn't even think that they themself would be able to stand up in them even if they tried, had to be sketched out before anything further than measurements could begin, as the Shoemaker had absolutely nothing to go off of.

"The design should be ready within the week," Reese said, standing up with the king as the appointment finished. "I can send them to the palace for you, if you'd like?"

King Eret shook their head. "I can come in to see them, if you'd be available, then? It would be easier for the both of us, I'm sure."

The Shoemaker stilled before nodding quickly. "Of course, your grace. Whatever is best for you."

The king smiled, but she cocked an eyebrow. Still, he didn't elaborate on whatever it was that he was clearly thinking, and so Reese did not question it.

As the week passed, the Shoemaker found themself often drifting off in thought, ticking off the days until their next scheduled meeting with the king.

"Holy shit," King Eret said, a grin that looked involuntary on his face. They adjusted the sunglasses that rested over their eyes as they leaned over the counter to admire the designs that Reese had sketched out. "These are incredible." The king looked up at the Shoemaker and asked, "Why did you make more than one?"

Reese, their face tingling, shrugged vaguely. "Uh, options?"

King Eret laughed, the sound deep and swelling, echoing around the room. "Well, either way, you're very talented. These are all beautiful."

The Shoemaker was sure that their face was a brighter red than crimson forests of the nether. "Thank...Thank you, your grace. That means... far more than you could know."

"Of course, Shoemaker Reese," King Eret said. "I've told enough lies in my life. No reason to do so now."

It took Reese just under two weeks to finish the boots. They worked on them during their free time in the day, and then toiled on them into the night as well.

"You can take a break, you know," one of their friends said one day during a visit. Their friend sat on an armchair while Reese continued to work on the left boot.

"This is for the king," the Shoemaker replied, reaching over to the table to grab a pair of scissors. "They have to be perfect and on time."

"If there's anything that I've learned from living on this server since before King Eret was put on the throne," their friend said, "It is that they are cool. Things will be fine if you're a little bit late, I'm sure the king won't mind."

"They won't," Reese said. "They're... very nice."

Their friend was quiet for a moment before saying, a lilt of amusement in her voice, "Oh, Prime, you like them, don't you?"

The Shoemaker felt their heart skip a beat, their face burning as they turned to their friend. "No!"

Their friend laughed, bright and tinkling, throwing her head back and grinning widely at the ceiling. "Holy shit, you do! You have a crush on the king!"

The Shoemaker shoved their face in their hands as the laughter somehow got even louder.

As soon as the boots were finished, Reese sent notice to the palace. They were preparing to send them once they were given guidelines on how to do so. However, they never got the chance to, as the next day, the bell over the door chimed and the Shoemaker looked up to see a gleaming crown and shiny sunglasses.

"Your Majesty!" the Greater SMP Shoemaker exclaimed, their cheeks warming just a bit. They pretended that they could attribute that to the heatwave currently sweeping through the nation. "I didn't know that you would be coming!"

King Eret smiled and gave a nod. "I wanted to pick up the shoes myself. You worked so hard on them, I thought you might like the chance to present them yourself."

Reese's mouth was dry and their heart was pounding. "Thank you, your grace. I'll get them from the back."

As they moved to the back room, Reese felt sweat beading on their face. They pushed up their glasses as the frames began to slip down the bridge of their nose.

The Shoemaker carefully picked up the package that they had put the boots into for safe-keeping. They walked back to the front counter and placed the package down. It hadn't been sealed, and so they easily opened the box and slid it gently toward the king.

King Eret carefully pulled the boots out of the package, setting them on the counter in front of the two of them. The boots, Reese had to admit, were some of their better work. The black leather was polished to the point that it gleamed, and each edge was clean-cut and sharp.

The king ran a hand through her hair, running her hand along one of the boots, as if marveling at how smooth it was. "How did you make these?" He looked up at the Shoemaker, and, despite the sunglasses, they were sure that his eyes were wide. "You did this all by yourself?"

Reese nodded, blood rushing past their ears. "I did. I make all these by myself."

King Eret laughed, sounding a bit in awe. "I knew that, but seeing it... knowing that you took the measurements and made the designs and then made these... It makes it so much more real, and that's so, so incredible." The king looked up at the Shoemaker. "You're incredible, Shoemaker Reese."

Through their pounding heart and burning cheeks, Reese managed to stammer out, "Thank you, your Majesty. You're far too kind."

"I don't believe so," King Eret said, their jaw still dropped as they admired the boots. "You might be one of the most talented and dedicated people I've ever met, Shoemaker Reese."

For some reason, despite the fact that they thought it was utterly crazy to do so, the Shoemaker said, "Just Reese, please, your Majesty."

This time, they were the one who had stopped the king in their tracks. King Eret was still for a moment, and they were sure that her eyes were on them, but then her mouth morphed into a beaming smile. "Reese it is, then."

There was a pause and King Eret parted his lips to speak again, but suddenly, outside of the door, Reese watched as the two guards that the king had brought with him dropped to the ground. Both of their bodies shimmered before disappearing, reclaimed by the server, and the Shoemaker realized with a start that something had killed them.

Reese's eyes landed on something thin and sharp sailing toward their front window, and they wasted no time in vaulting over the counter to tackle the king to the ground just as the window shattered. Right where King Eret had been standing, an arrow was embedded in the wood.

"What the-"

The Shoemaker grabbed the king, helped them up, and pulled them around the counter before they both ducked as another arrow sailed into the shop, sticking in the wall.

"We have you surrounded!" A voice sounded from outside. Reese watched out of the corner of their eye as the king whipped his communicator out and tapped out multiple messages. "Release King Eret into our custody or we'll burn your shop to the ground."

Reese blanched at the thought, but grabbed the king by the wrist as she went to stand. "Don't you dare," the Shoemaker hissed.

"I have all three of my lives left," King Eret said. "This shop is everything to you."

"It is not," Reese shot back, "But either way, you're the king. They could kidnap you, forcefully change your respawn point, and then kill you three times over with ease. Then what? The Greater SMP has no leader, there is no heir, and you're dead."

King Eret's throat bobbed, but they nodded. "Then what do we do?"

The Shoemaker asked, "You messaged your guards?" The king nodded and Reese sighed. "Then we wait."

Unfortunately, they couldn't wait it out for long enough.

"You have one more chance!"

Reese held tight and fast to the king's wrist to keep her from standing and sacrificing herself to save their shop that could be rebuilt, just like half the other buildings on the server were during the dozens of wars that broke out.

"Fine, have it your way!"

The Shoemaker grabbed King Eret and yanked him into the back room as soon as they heard the plume of fire being lit.

"I'm sure they have the building surrounded," Reese said, "But at least we can try to avoid the smoke in here until help arrives."

King Eret grabbed their communicator, scrolling through messages that were popping up. "There've been delays. Apparently, these guys planted multiple different batches of TNT around the nation and are threatening to detonate if anyone attempts to intervene." The king swallowed. "I don't want any of my people getting hurt."

Reese's shoulders tensed. "All right, so we figure out our own way out while your guys deal with that."

"How do you propose we do that?"

The Shoemaker couldn't help it: They grinned. "There's something else that I got from my father other than just shoemaking."

Being a phantom hybrid was irritating, sometimes. Reese burned a lot more easily in the sun, and they had to constantly make sure that they were wearing their pairs of glasses enchanted with glamour rather than their regular sets to make sure to keep their eyes concealed. The bright green color of phantoms that would shine in their right eye, other than just disturbing people, would always be rather annoying for the Shoemaker, forcing them to see the arteries and veins running through a person's body, their heart beating in their chest and their brain resting in their skull, even through walls and barricades. Now, though, they whipped their glasses off, ignoring the way that their vision blurred as abruptly everything was tinted with a soft green, save for the organs of the men surrounding the house, which, through the walls, Reese could see clearly.

"There's the fewest over by the window out of my bedroom," Reese said finally. "Only two, and no more in sight line. If we can take them down quietly, then we should be able to get out."

The room was heating up. The glow of the fire flooded under the door.

"Let's go."

As they led King Eret through the house, the monarch asked behind them, "You're a hybrid?" Honestly, it wasn't much of a question.

The Shoemaker nodded. "Phantom. I can... Basically, I can see where they are through the walls. That's all that's important at the moment."

They reached the window, shielded by curtains, and ducked down.

"They're both to the left," Reese said. "I don't know how to take one down without ending up caught by the other, though."

There was a beat of silence before King Eret asked, "Do you have a knife?"

Reese, who did keep one in their bedside drawer, handed it to the king. Abruptly, she slashed it over her arm.

"What are you doing?!" The Shoemaker exclaimed, grabbing their bedsheet to wrap it around the wound.

"Don't touch it!" King Eret said sharply as Reese reached out. They froze and watched as the monarch stood up and moved toward the window. "The left, you said." The men were still there, so they nodded. King Eret peeked out of the curtain, opened the window quietly, and then flicked blood from the arm that they'd sliced onto the two men.

There were muffled noises of pain and then the outlines of the men disappeared.

"Wither hybrid," King Eret explained as he beckoned the Shoemaker, who asked nothing more of the matter, over. Reese ducked under their bed, pulled out the bag stuffed with their valuables that they always kept there just in case, and then straightened up and nodded to the king. The two hopped out of the window, glanced around, and then ran for the tree cover nearby.

They met up with a group of soldiers from the Greater SMP forces, and King Eret was escorted back to the palace as Reese was held in safe custody until the threat around their store was dealt with.

Well, what used to be their store. It was burnt to a crisp, all blackened wood and broken dreams. The shoes were all ruined, their furniture was ashes. The boots were cinders. That was probably what hurt the most.

Reese toed at what remained of the counter and watched as it crumbled to dust. They coughed and made a face. Why did things in this server burn so easily?

"I'm so sorry."

The Shoemaker turned to see King Eret standing in front of their burnt storefront, about ten guards standing at intervals behind him.

"This never would have happened were it not for me," the king continued. She pressed her sunglasses against her face a bit more and frowned as she surveyed the damage.

"It's not your fault," Reese was quick to assure. "Neither of us could've known this would happen."

King Eret shrugged. "Still." There was a beat of silence before the king asked, "What will you do now?"

Reese sighed. "I don't know. Rebuild, though it'll take awhile to make enough shoes to constitute a shop again. Stay with a friend until then, I guess."

King Eret shifted and the Shoemaker wondered if they were crazy for thinking that the monarch looked nervous.

"I was actually wondering... Would you like to stay in the palace, until you can reopen your shop?"

Reese blinked. "What?"

The king cracked a smile. "I have many extra rooms. Citizens have stayed in them before, though often not for very long. It wouldn't be any hassle. It's the least I could do to repay you, afterall."

The Shoemaker took in a shaky breath as soon as they remembered how to breathe, their face burning brighter than the fire that had destroyed their store. "Of course. I would love to."

King Eret's smile widened into a grin. "Wonderful. I'm happy to have you, Shoemaker Reese."

"Just Reese, your Majesty. I thought we went over that."

"Reese it is," King Eret conceded. "On one condition."

"Which is?"

"You call me Eret. No more of this 'king' or 'your grace' shit. Just Eret."

Reese sputtered. "Your Majesty, that's... I can't... You're the king."

"Yes," King Eret nodded, "But none of my friends call me 'King Eret.'"

The Shoemaker blinked. "We're friends?"

The king's cheeks darkened now. "I would say so."

Reese swallowed down the lump in their throat and said, "All right. Eret."

The smile that the king gave probably could have lit up the whole throne room.

(That evening, as the Shoemaker lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, they wondered what in the world was going on.

King Eret had talked with them all the way back, their conversations light and airy, easy as they had somehow been while they were surrounded by assassins, and Reese had found themself laughing far too much and far too genuinely.

They groaned and buried their face in the silken pillow beneath them and tried not to think of their friend, teasing them about a crush that they would never admit they had and yet most definitely, without a doubt, had.

Their cheeks warm and bright, the Greater SMP Shoemaker tried to pretend that things were normal as they fell asleep in the royal palace for the first of many nights.)

#dream smp #dsmp #dsmp citizen pov #dsmp citizens memes #eret #holy shit this one is long #eh whatever i had a lot of fun with it #pov you dont know how to handle having a crush on someone and then youre attacked by assassins #just a typical tuesday ya know #the greater smp shoemaker #had to look up the difference between a shoemaker and a cobbler #to make sure i had the right one #spoiler alert: i did

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reading-writing-revolution · 3 years

Text

September 2, 2021 (Thursday)

In the light of day today, the political fallout from Texas’s anti-abortion S.B. 8 law and the Supreme Court’s acceptance of that law continues to become clear.

By 1:00 this afternoon, the Fox News Channel had mentioned the decision only in a 20-second news brief in the 5 am hour. In political terms, it seems the dog has caught the car.

Now, though, Texas has effectively destroyed the right to legal abortion.

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woah-were-halfway-there · 3 years

Text

Along For The Ride: How it Started

Word Count: 2.4k

October 12th, 2016

"Carse?"

Although Carson was aware someone was talking to her, she didn't respond since she was a little distracted by the direct message she had just received on Instagram.

She was in her seat on the VIA Rail train she and her friend Stephanie were taking from Toronto to Ottawa. It was the first Maple Leafs game of the season, so they were making the commute to watch since it also happened to be Mitchell Marner's, Carson's cousin and Steph's boyfriend's very first NHL game ever.

"Carson?"

"Yeah?" She asked, jumping slightly as she was suddenly brought back to reality.

"I was asking how your class was this morning," Steph chuckled while shaking her head.

"Oh, uh, it was fine," Carson tried to play off her distracted state. "Lexie and I did our law presentation. I think it went alright."

"Law? Aren't you in journalism?"

"Yeah, we took intro law as an elective," she explained before looking down at her phone screen again and biting down on her bottom lip.

Steph observed as she did this and knew well enough that Carson would not mention whatever was happening on her phone unless it was brought up. "What's got you so flustered?"

"Nothing!" Carson insisted but only received a pointed glance in return from the girl sitting across from her. Thanks to Steph's relationship with Mitch and just how close Carson was with her cousin, the two girls formed a great friendship which led to them being able to read each other like books. It tended to be a blessing and a curse. "Ok fine, maybe not nothing."

"Explain, please."

Carson sighed.

"Well, you know Auston, right? Like, Matthews?"

"I've heard of him," Steph teased, knowing that Auston started following Carson on Instagram entirely out of the blue a little over a month prior. "Kidding. Yes, of course, I do. He and Mitch have gotten pretty close since he moved to Toronto."

"Right, 'cause he's not from here, is he?" Carson asked, genuinely curious.

"No, Scottsdale, I think. Why?"

"Uh, no reason," she replied. "It's not that important, I guess. He just messaged me on Instagram, though."

"Did he!? Let me see," Steph gasped before snatching the phone right out of her friend's hand.

Carson watched as Steph effortlessly typed in the passcode and opened Instagram. She was still kind of surprised that she'd gotten a message from Auston at all, but it did make sense.

When the two girls first got on the train, Carson took a selfie of her and Steph in their Maple Leafs gear with a Go Leafs Go hashtag. They were sporting matching Marner jerseys and had received a few compliments from other fans getting on the same train.

The brunette thought nothing of the post she made, so when she received a DM from Auston replying to her story and saying "wish us luck," she was very caught off guard.

"Well, are you going to reply?" Steph asked while handing the phone back.

"I guess," Carson told her and looked back to the screen. "It's just a little weird that he messaged me, don't you think?"

"Not really. People message people on Instagram all the time."

"Yeah, but like, he's this huge hockey prospect, is he not? So why message me, of all people? Let alone follow me in the first place..."

"Ok, I will admit that Mitch and I have hyped you up a bit," Steph said while sinking back into her seat.

"Why?"

"He's new to the city," she explained with a shrug. "When he first got here, he didn't really know anyone other than the guys on the team and some of their girlfriends. So we were telling him about people he'd probably meet eventually, and you were one of them."

"I see," Carson responded and looked back down at the cellphone screen. She typed back a quick response to Auston's message saying "good luck" before tucking the device back into her bag and glancing up at her friend again. "I guess it's not that weird; I have made friends with a few of the guys on the team."

"Yeah, I know. Mitch told me how you ran into Willy and Kappy a couple of weeks ago while you were out."

"Mhmm, what started as a date night with myself ended up being a night of hanging out with those two... Oh, shit, we're like 20 minutes away from the station. Any word from the fam in Ottawa yet?"

"Your aunt texted me saying that she, Paul and Chris were almost there. Is anyone else coming?"

"No, just me," she said. "Dad and Nate are watching from home, but they'll be at the game in Toronto on Saturday. Mya said she'd watch the game as soon as she was done class too. She wasn't sure what channel the game would be on in Vancouver."

"Is it not the same there as it would be here?"

"That's what I said!"

"Fair," Steph replied with a smile. "Anyways, guess we better make sure we have all our things. It's going to be a long night."

And it was a long night... but it was also insanely fun.

The two girls were picked up by Carson's aunt Bonnie, uncle Paul and cousin Chris at the VIA station in Ottawa before going with them to grab something to eat and eventually making way to the Canadian Tire Centre to watch the game against the Senators. They definitely weren't the only Leafs fans in the building, but the Ottawa fans kind of outnumbered them. However, that didn't dampen their mood, and they were more than ready for the game to start.

It was the most surreal feeling for Carson to not only witness her cousin and lifelong best friend skate out onto the ice wearing the jersey of their home team but also just to see that he was finally living out his dream. She couldn't have been more proud and was convinced that she and Steph alone were two of the loudest cheerers in the entire arena as they began yelling along with the crowd.

Not only did she think it was cool seeing Mitch out there, but she also loved seeing all the other players that she'd gotten to know over the past couple of months. Carson quickly spotted Willy and Marty. She then chuckled when Steph sent a zoomed-in Snapchat video of number 17 skating around to his girlfriend, Sydney. However, it didn't take long for Carson's gaze to fall on number 34.

Leading up to the beginning of the season, all Carson heard about how good this Auston Matthews guy was; she would've been lying if she said she wasn't a little excited to see him in action. And boy did he put on a show.

With less than 12 minutes left of the first period, Auston scored the first goal of the game and the first goal of his NHL career. The Leafs fans went wild, as did Carson and her family while they watched the other guys skate up to congratulate their teammate. That was pretty cool to see, but Carson was not prepared for what the rest of the game held.

The Senators pulled ahead by scoring two goals, but that didn't last too long because Auston scored another goal before the period was even over.

"Oh my god," Carson said aloud as everyone went nuts again. "He's really good."

"I know," Steph replied, looking just as shocked as Carson felt. "I mean, Mitch said he was good but... wow."

A couple of minutes into the second period, he scored again, and Carson was speechless. It took her a second to register that this kid had just gotten a hat-trick in his first NHL game, but she was quickly brought back to reality when a ton of ballcaps started flying past her as they were thrown onto the ice. She looked down at where Mitch was on the bench and smiled as she observed him cheering along with his teammates about what had just happened. The energy in the arena was just insane.

After watching her cousin for a few seconds, Carson moved her gaze to the people in her section and saw a couple cheering so loudly a few rows behind them. The woman then started crying and was pulled into the embrace of the man next to her.

"That's Auston's parents," Steph explained, and Carson could basically feel herself melt after witnessing the genuine reaction of two very proud parents, sending Auston's mom a soft smile when they briefly made eye contact before looking back to the ice.

Then, just before the second period ended, he scored a fourth goal, and none of it seemed real anymore.

The Leafs ended up losing 5-4 in overtime, but that still didn't prevent a buzz in the crowd after everything that happened in that game. Once everyone began clearing out of the area, Carson and her family made their way down to the wings, so they could congratulate Mitchell on his first game as a Maple Leaf before eventually having to head back to Toronto.

The five of them knew they'd have to wait for a little bit, seeing as Mitch would have to change out of his equipment and possibly do a post-game interview. Still, soon enough, the NHLer made his way to his family and Carson couldn't help but laugh when she heard her cousin approaching before actually seeing him.

She stood to the side as she let her aunt, uncle and cousin greet their superstar, but as soon as Mitch was done talking with them briefly, he looked in Carson's direction, shaking his head before taking a few short strides and engulfing her in a hug.

"Congratulations! You killed it out there."

"Thanks, Carse," Mitch replied before moving away. "It would've been nice to score a goal, but it still feels amazing regardless. Thanks for being here."

"You know I wouldn't miss it," she told him with a smile. "And it looks like you'll just have to score in Toronto on Saturday to redeem yourself."

"I'll try," he told her with a pointed gaze before moving on to Steph and pulling her into a tight hug next.

Carson watched with a grin as the two lovebirds interacted for a second before going to step away and stand with her family. However, when she went to step back, she came in contact with what felt like a brick wall and completely lost her balance.

"Oh, shit," she muttered as she blindly reached out to grab onto something so she could steady herself, all while bracing herself for impact. However, the impact never came. Instead, a pair of arms wrapped around her waist and was able to prevent her from falling on her ass. With a sigh of relief and embarrassment, she straightened herself out and stood back up straight before finally turning around to look up at the person she had just collided with. "I'm so sorry..."

Before she could say anything else, Carson felt her breath hitch as she realized she was face to face with none other than Auston Matthews.

"It's alright," he told her with a slight smile, giving a look as if to say that he definitely recognized her. "I wasn't watching where I was going either."

"I-." Before she could say anything else, an arm wrapped around her shoulders and Mitch's voice sounded from beside her.

"Auston, I see you've officially met my baby cousin Carson."

"Baby?" Carson scoffed and looked up at her cousin with a mortified expression. "Mitch, you're literally 12 days older than I am."

"Older and wiser."

"I don't think so," she told him before elbowing him in the gut so that he'd take his arm off her.

He groaned and hunched over in pain, making sure to send her a death glare as he tried to recollect himself.

"Uh oh, the twins are at it again," a voice spoke as someone else approached from down the hallway, and Carson looked up to see William Nylander approaching.

"Twins?" Auston asked and looked between Mitch and Carson with an amused expression.

"The more you see them together, the more you'll see how true that statement is," Steph said as she wedged herself between the two cousins to keep them from annoying each other any further. She then looked at Carson and nodded. "We have to get back to the station real soon if we want to catch our train back to Toronto."

"Right," Carson responded. "I'm good to go whenever you are."

"Ok, cool, let's just say our goodbyes, and then we can split on a cab there? Deal?"

"Deal."

The small group that had formed dispersed as new conversations formed, and Steph started saying bye to everyone seeing as Mitch was driving back to Toronto with some teammates, he was going to visit with his family. They were in no hurry to leave.

Unfortunately, though, Carson had class at noon the next day, and Steph had to return to London for her classes as well, so they really did need to get going.

Before moving to say goodbye to Mitch and the rest of her family, Carson looked back to Auston once more to see him still smiling at her.

"You played a really great game tonight," she complimented and smiled back. "Congrats."

"Thanks," he chuckled. "It's all pretty crazy to let sink in. I definitely think your good luck message helped, though."

"Oh, I'm sure it did."

The two laughed before becoming quiet again. Unsure of what else to say, Carson, glanced at her family and figured she should start making her escape. She looked back to Auston, and surprisingly enough, he was the first to speak up again.

"I, uh, I guess I won't keep you from catching your train back to Toronto," he started and looked away slightly. "It was nice... officially meeting you, Carson."

"Yeah, I should probably get going before Steph comes back over here and starts dragging me out," she replied, causing him to laugh. "It was nice meeting you too, Auston. Congrats again, maybe I'll see you around."

"I'd like that. Get home safe."

"You too, well, to wherever you're going," she mumbled and sent him one last smile before walking away, trying to keep a straight face at the look Steph was giving her as she approached everyone else and said her goodbyes.

What she didn't notice, though, was how Auston watched her for a second as she walked away, intrigued by the entire interaction he just had with her and couldn't help smiling to himself as he shook his head and went his own way.

#nhl imagines #nhl fanfiction #auston matthews fanfiction #auston matthews imagine #nhl imagine #toronto maple leafs imagine #nhl rpf #nhl headcanon #hockey fanfiction #hockey imagine #hockey rpf #auston matthews imagines

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wonda-cat · 3 years

Note

You mentioned rewriting that one analysis post on Tommy’s revival stream and I’d really look forward to it! I never got to read the full og post and that’s the only place I saw these takes. Especially the one about the afterlife being too depressing. It’s not even just about Tommy, the implication that even if every character is safe and happy by the end, this is their inevitable fate is messed up. It’s not “a neat subversion” it’s just depressing and doesn’t add anything.

Hey, anon!

I sorta decided to not rewrite it? I feel a bit differently about the essay in the end, although I still believe in most of my points. I’m also just not nearly as passionate about it as I was when I wrote it (I finished it in a single sitting, which was... interesting.) However, yes, the afterlife stuff still bothers me just the same, as well as the odd changes to Wilbur’s characterization... post mortem.

But—just for you, anon—here’s the entire meta-analysis essay anyway, with some minor edits to the stuff I don’t agree with anymore!

My Many Narrative Issues with Tommyinnit’s Revival Stream

I want to preface this by saying that I dearly love the Dream SMP and understand it isn’t exactly comparable to other mediums like TV and film. With this being the case, most criticism against it is generally in bad faith or strange in foundation. Complaining about streamers for bad acting is the best example that comes to mind.

These aren’t professional actors. Most have never acted in this sort of setting, or even at all. Quite a few have admitted to never roleplaying before. Which is why it’s warranted to praise Tommy, Dream, Wilbur, Ranboo, and others when they deliver stellar performances. The same applies to criticism of music choice, dialogue delivery, focus, tone, etc.

However, one such category I cannot overlook is in regards to its writing. The writing of a story is its entire foundation. It encompasses many things—conflict choice, character development, themes, and morals. The author creates the blueprints for the architect, who then expresses the story with light, sound, color, pacing, and music. It is in its execution that we see if this connection is made or broken.

The reason I find poor writing mostly inexcusable is because it is one of the most available skills to practice and perfect. I don’t mean to say that it’s easy, I mean to say it is something anyone can attempt to cultivate. Whether they do it well or not depends on their methods and experience. If anyone can self-publish a novel and be criticized online for its quality—and even compared to the works of Mark Twain—then I find critiquing the writing of the Dream SMP to be perfectly reasonable.

However, since the Dream SMP script is a set of loose bullet points, tearing apart dialogue and scene continuity—which is nearly all improv—is rather useless. It doesn’t exactly have a clear focus as the plot plays out. The characters talk in circles until they hit the story beat required, and then they move onto the next. Thus, when criticizing it, one should generally critique grand events and narrative-specific shifts, more so than small-scale character interactions.

Which brings me to my main point: The broad narrative choices taken in Tommyinnit’s most recent livestream, ‘Am I dead?’ may lead to disastrous writing pitfalls in the future.

I’ll be outlining each of my issues below, in hopes of creating a better understanding as to why I feel this way.

This might become quite lengthy, so please bear with me for a bit.

Tommy’s relationship to Wilbur has flipped. This change is jarring and seems out of character.

Tommy and Wilbur’s friendship is rather complicated. While Wilbur does care for Tommy immensely, especially during the L’Manburg Revolution and the Election Arc, his mental spiral during exile put a massive strain on their relationship as a whole. Wilbur brushed off Tommy’s feelings and wants, while clinging to him and pushing everyone else away. He was simultaneously distant and suffocating.

Tommy, on the other hand, has an unclear view of his mentor. Since the beginning, and even long after Wilbur’s death, Tommy held him in especially high regard. He saw him as a brother-figure and a wise leader. He followed what he said and did everything he could to impress him. Yet, Wilbur still hurt him while the two were together in exile.

When speaking of him, Tommy tends to flip infrequently between remembering Wilbur the way he was before his mental decline and thinking of him as a monster. Both of these images conflict with each other, but they weren’t nearly as extreme as what Tommy described Wilbur as when he was revived from death. The fear Tommy displays to Wilbur is beyond intense—it feels as if the audience may have missed a month’s worth of character development.

This can make sense, especially since it was stated that he’d spent what felt like two months in the void. However, this shift is still deeply at odds with Tommy’s previous impressions of Wilbur, which is both disheartening and confusing. The fact that Tommy would agree to stay with Dream—his abuser and murderer—over his past mentor is simply head-reeling. It paints a very different picture of Wilbur’s character, somewhat conforming to the fandom’s ableist impression of him—the idea that Wilbur is insane and irredeemable, and always will be.

It also ignores Dream being the driving factor in Wilbur’s downfall, as well as the double-bind deal with Dream which required him to push the button, no matter the outcome. Others have pointed out that Tommy may be lying to get Dream to bring Wilbur back, and there’s compelling evidence for that. For one, Tommy and Wilbur’s conversation seemed uncomfortable, but it was certainly nothing like Tommy implied. (Unless this fear comes from something Wilbur said off-screen.)

Tommy also begged Dream to not bring him back multiple times over, which he should know would make Dream even more tempted to, simply because he likes seeing Tommy in pain. Tommy is also a known unreliable narrator. He may be making Wilbur out to be worse than he is by accident (even still, I’d argue this is a bit of a stretch.)

However, there are some issues with this theory. Tommy offered himself as payment to Dream if he chose to let Wilbur rest. This is a deal Tommy knows Dream is extremely unlikely to refuse. Tommy is what Dream has coveted all this time. If Tommy genuinely wanted Wilbur back, he would not offer this. This sort of compromise is Tommy’s greatest nightmare—something he would only do in response to his friends being threatened or his home being destroyed.

To add, Tommy is not great at lying. Unless he was taught by Wilbur for those two months* in the afterlife, there’s no chance Tommy would be this good at it. Thirdly, Tommy is terrible under pressure. He uses humor to cope. When he can’t, he cries and shouts and spills his heart out. While cornered, Tommy will tell the truth about anything, especially if Dream casually debates killing him again, just for fun.

For now, it’s too early to tell how the relationship shift will play out. In the grand scheme of things, this issue is rather minor.

Season three’s writing is needlessly bleak. The portrayal of the afterlife is a nightmare. There is no rest, not even in death.

I adore the Dream SMP storyline in its entirety. I believe the first season is fantastic, and while the second season has some narrative clarity issues, I enjoyed it just as much. Although, I would argue season one had a more concrete understanding of its Hope-Conflict balance.

To briefly explain, the Hope in stories are its ‘highs’ and good moments. These appear when a character the audience is rooting for is narratively rewarded. They happen during character building in the text—it’s the downtime and peace that allows for connection and relatability. It’s a moment for the viewer to breathe easy.

The other half is Conflict, an obstacle in the story that gets in the way of the main characters’ goals, beliefs, and motives. These are the ‘lows.’ They give the narrative focus and weight. They make the highs feel even higher. They establish consequences and force the characters in the story to change in order to adapt and overcome them.

I bring up the Hope-Conflict balance because a traditional hero’s journey would have an appropriate amount of both. Their highs and lows are generally equalized, as the name suggests. However, this balance has been awkwardly skewed in the latter half of season two and in the current plot of season three. To clarify, it is perfectly reasonable, and even common, for some stories to tip the scale more to one side.

But a common mistake for amateur writers is to create their stories as either hopelessly dark to cause the audience continuous distress for the sake of distress, or to keep everything entirely conflict-free for most of the plot. What do these both have in common? They each make the story boring and predictable.

Season three has taken this concept and thrown a monstrously heavy weight onto the Conflict side and flipped the scale so hard it has crashed through the ceiling. The viewers are hardly given time to find any joy in Tommy’s character, as he’s thrown into yet another abusive situation, just barely after his first narrative reward. The world is painted as relentlessly violent and traumatic.

Every person Tommy meets is morally grey, unhinged, or out to hurt him. Everything most of the characters love is taken from them by those in positions of power. Ranboo cannot even grieve properly because it scars his face. Puffy, Sam, Ranboo, and Tubbo all blame themselves for what happened to Tommy.

The audience watches lore stream after lore stream with the same depressing tone (with the exception of Tubbo’s, but I assume that’s unintentional.) Tommy is revived after being brutally beaten to death by his abuser, surrounded by all of his greatest fears. The afterlife is revealed to be akin to inescapable torture. It’s a colorless void that wraps the individual like fabric.

Time moves thirty times slower within. There’s nothing—nothing but the voices of others who’ve passed on before him. Dying in a world already devoid of happiness takes the characters to a place worse than hell. When a narrative delivers unfair suffering to the entire cast without a moment of joy to speak of, the story will feel simultaneously overwhelming and pointless.

Why watch characters suffer when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel? What happiness could they strive for when we know they’ll never get to keep it? How can I be satisfied with a good ending, if I know that an afterlife too terrible to name is what awaits them, truly, at the end of their story? Death isn’t even a white void that offers rest—it is eternal torment.

Obviously, it isn’t a good message to send by making the afterlife seem like a quiet, perfect place or an escape from pain. But making it an unspeakable anguish which awaits, assumedly, every character who will die in the future? I deeply hope Tommy was only being an extremely unreliable narrator.

More likely, I hope the place Tommy was taken to was a Limbo of sorts, not an end-all-be-all destination for everyone.

The degree of Tommy’s narrative punishment continues to escalate, to an almost absurd degree.

Tommy is one of the most tragic characters to exist in the storyline. He was sent into war at a young age and experienced two traumatic events during it. He was exiled by the newly elected leader and witnessed his mentor Wilbur spiral and break down with paranoia. Tubbo is executed publicly in front of him. When expressing rightful anger at the person who murdered him, he’s beaten nearly to death and never receives an apology.

Schlatt dies right in front of Tommy, after his initial refusal to hurt the ex-president. His brother-figure and mentor is killed in assisted suicide on the same day his nation is blown up. His best friend exiles him from his home for the second time. He routinely self-sacrifices to protect his country and those who live there. His most treasured possessions were taken from him and he was called selfish for trying to retrieve them (although his methods were self-destructive and volatile.)

He was pushed to the brink of suicide after being relentlessly abused and isolated in his exile. He was horrified when he thought he was responsible for drowning Fundy. After making an objectively good decision to stand by his old friends and change for the better, his country was obliterated by the man he once idolized, his father-figure, and his abuser.

He was left scattered and without purpose for many days. Then he fights against Dream and loses, while also reliving his trauma. He watches Tubbo almost die at the hands of someone he once thought was his friend. He doesn’t tell a single person about what happened to him in exile. The day he tries to sever his connection to Dream and heal, he’s trapped with him for a week, surrounded by everything that terrifies him.

He threatens to kill himself, speaking about his own life as if it were an object—something to hold over Dream’s head. He blames himself for everything bad that’s ever happened to L’Manburg and his friends—internalizing a mentality as a scapegoat for everyone around him. He is forced into the role of ‘hero’ despite the title being unfair and distressing to him.

As if that weren’t enough, he’s then beaten to death by his abuser and spends what feels like two months in an afterlife that is worse than hell. When he returns, his senses are excessively heightened. Dream can cause him excruciating pain, just by pinching him. He can send Tommy into an instant panic attack, just by raising his voice.

The punishment Tommy’s character receives is a thousand times worse than everyone he has ever met, or ever will meet. And it shows no signs of stopping, as Dream now has control over Tommy’s very mortality. Tommy now fears the slightest damage and feels as if he’s losing his best friend all over again. He is also forced into a position where he has to kill Dream out of necessity, to protect everyone he cares about.

Characters need fitting punishments in relation to their actions. Not always, but in order to be satisfying? Yes, they do. It is preferred that a main character deal with unfair situations and difficult conflicts, but this is borderline torture p*rn. Putting Tommy in these distressing and abusive situations on repeat and punishing him for doing objectively moral or healthy things is exhausting to watch.

To quickly add, I find the general insinuation of Tommy going to hell distasteful, especially considering the contents of his storyline. I know this may be hard to believe, but Tommy is one of the most moral characters in the plot, besides Puffy and Ghostbur. He’s also the only character, followed by Ranboo, to recognize that they can be wrong and make mistakes. He changed himself in order to heal and be a better person. He was in the process of paying people back for the things he’d stolen.

He’s learned to be hard-working and less violent through the guidance of Sam. He has apologized to everyone he’s ever hurt (with the exception of Jack Manifold, because that man is allergic to communication.) He puts himself in harm's way to protect others. He doesn’t set out to purposely hurt anyone. He goes out of his way to make connections with people and maintain them, even if others don’t reciprocate.

He’s hopelessly optimistic, despite his outwardly bitter façade. He loved so much and put meaning into the smallest things. The thought that a person like him—a suicide and abuse survivor—would go to hell after being beaten to death by the man who took everything from him; it makes me sick to my stomach.

The only thing more morbid than Tommy’s afterlife being different than everyone else’s, is the concept that everyone will end up in this same eternal torture, no matter what they do. Take your pick: Tommy is sentenced to anguish until the end of time for no reason, or everyone will receive the same disturbing ending, regardless of their actions.

The narrative weight of Ranboo’s character is potentially out the window.

For the past few months, I’ve watched all of Ranboo’s lore streams faithfully, curious to see what role he would play in the future. His ‘hallucinations’ of Dream seemed to be sowing the seeds for a plot that has Ranboo taking the fall for every single insidious thing Dream has done. It would also be a tragic parallel to Tommy’s trial.

Ranboo being convinced he was the one who blew up the community house, when Dream himself admitted to doing it, was one of the bigger indicators for me. This is just one of many other unexplained occurrences. Dream seemed to be making an effort to trigger and control Ranboo, especially after Sapnap’s prison visit. It appeared, from the way he went about this, that Dream had some grand use for Ranboo as part of his plan to be freed from Pandora’s Vault.

However, after Tommy’s stream, the way Dream explains himself makes it seem like there was no plan besides seeing if the book worked on people. And if he didn’t after all, then what was Ranboo for? Was Ranboo unimportant? Was Ranboo just some weirdo who happened to phase out when seeing smiley faces and imagined conversations that may or may not have happened?

I bring this up more as a worry, and much less so as an active problem in the narrative. They haven’t actually thrown Ranboo to the way-side or written themselves into a corner yet. In future streams, this could very easily be explained away or developed as more information is revealed.

Only time will tell.

The potential for Wilbur’s future development and importance to the plot is unfeasible.

I feel as if I am the only person on earth who doesn’t want Wilbur Soot or Schlatt revived. There are many reasons for this, but one of them is not a dislike for these characters. I especially adore Wilbur, as he’s one of my all-time favorites. I don’t want either of them resurrected because their stories have already been told. They each had a fitting conclusion that ended their involvement perfectly.

Bringing Wilbur back would especially cheapen the impact of the War of the 16th. It’s the end of a man who was brought to the absolute edge and out of desperation, shame, and self-hatred, he destroyed himself alongside his creation. Bringing him back would leave the climax of the previous story hollow. My biggest issue, however, is that a lack of story importance would likely follow his return.

The only real impact I’d like to see is through a healing arc with Tommy, an apology to Fundy, or a confrontation with Phil/Niki. But that’s really all the potential I can realistically see. While I don’t doubt Wilbur as an agent of chaos, able to create plot out of thin air; what is he going to do now? His country is gone, his friends and family are scattered about, and his mission from the 16th is already accomplished.

What is a well-educated, charismatic politician supposed to do in a world already broken and without nations? Read poetry to himself and cry evilly? However, this is working off the assumption that Wilbur would be returning as his old self.

If Wilbur is resurrected as a ‘villain’ of sorts, then what? He’s not good at fighting in the slightest. He would have no materials. There are no real allies he can make, other than the arctic group. On top of that, there are already more than enough villains to last a lifetime.

We don’t need any more, I promise. Quackity seems to already be shaping up as another antagonist, alongside Sam’s slip into darker and darker shades of moral ambiguity. We also have Philza and Techno, which are already overkill. But then we have Dream who, despite being in a prison, has the ability of selective revival. This is mercilessly overpowered, especially if he makes many allies. The dude could just bring his dead friends back so they can keep fighting forever.

Then there’s Jack Manifold and the Crimson followers; Antfrost, Bad, and Punz. That’s not even including characters who are refusing to get involved. How are Tommy, Tubbo, and Puffy expected to do literally anything to fight back?

Dream’s experiment on Tommy implies he had no backup plan to begin with. This makes his character seem both short-sighted and foolish.

When Tommy woke up after being brought back to life, Dream sounded surprised that the revival worked at all. This instantly shatters the perception that Dream was highly intelligent and thought ahead. With just a few lines of dialogue, it’s implied that Dream killed Tommy, unsure of if the resurrection would even be possible on humans.

Which, to risk something that important, seems unbelievably stupid. Dream needs Tommy, from his perspective. Tommy is his ‘toy,’ the one who makes everything fun. If he lost him and couldn’t get him back, what then? Oh well, everything Dream was doing was all for nothing, I guess.

Why not attempt this experiment on literally anyone else first? Like Sapnap or Bad or, hell, even Ranboo. I suppose it could be that, as soon as Dream got the book, he experimented with it after the 16th. This appears to be insinuated with Friend and Hendry’s revival, although this is uncertain. But even then, he was still unsure of the book’s effect on a human being.

Also, this means, hypothetically, Dream’s entire plan of escape hinged on the experiment working, to begin with, and also on bringing back Wilbur if it somehow did. I find this even more ridiculous. Why Wilbur? That man couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag, let alone get through the traps in Pandora’s Vault. Even if he is intelligent after years* in the afterlife, that’s also a strange assumption.

How do people learn things in the void? Where do they even get this knowledge? I’d honestly argue Techno is a far more competent choice than Wilbur. And even if Dream did bring him back and tell him he owed him his life, what’s to stop Wilbur from just killing him permanently? Or killing himself, continuously?

No way would Wilbur want to be controlled by anyone, ever. The dude would sooner fuck off into the mountains and become a nomad than help a neon green bodysuit cosplay as Light Yagami.

Dream’s discussion about Sam implies that he wasn't playing any part in Dream’s plan, making Sam appear entirely incompetent and neglectful of Tommy.

Dream talked about Sam in a way that seems detached and unaffiliated. He also mentioned him being broken up about Tommy’s fate and not being aware he’s still alive. Dream not being partnered with, or not using Sam in his plan leaves many plot holes. I’ll go through each one. The initial incident was an explosion, coming from the roof of Pandora’s Vault. This did not affect the Redstone mechanism for the doors or dispensers.

Meaning, Sam could’ve had Tommy leave the way that was expected for visitors after he investigated and found no issues. This likely couldn’t have been done in less than a day, but it would be better than an entire week. If Tommy was required to stay for longer, due to protocol, he could’ve gotten Tommy out and then placed him in one of the minor cells for the remainder of the time.

Also, no one else lost a canon life for leaving via the splash potion of harming and returning outside the maximum-security cell; why would Tommy? To add, Sam being uninvolved means that the explosion could have only been caused by Ranboo or Foolish. That, or it was placed long before and timed for the moment Tommy entered the main cell. (I’m going to ignore how ludicrous it is that someone would know the exact time Tommy would’ve entered the room with Dream.)

If Ranboo was the person behind the detonation, this implies he was necessary for Dream to kill Tommy to test the book. But that makes it even stranger. If this was Dream’s goal all along, why not kill Tommy the instant he was trapped with him? It makes no sense for him to wait so long.

Sam is also directly at fault for not letting Tommy out, even after the week was up. There was no reason not to. He already knew there were no issues with the prison at that point. Although, to be fair to Sam, his character may have been paranoid and checking everything more than necessary, just in case. But this still isn’t a good excuse for him ignoring protocol in this one instance, and yet, not in any of the others.

All of these plot holes or inconsistencies would be removed if it was revealed that Dream was blackmailing Sam in some way, or Sam had been working with him since the get-go. That Sam was the person who set off the explosion in the first place to trap Tommy inside. It would also explain Sam’s refusal to let Tommy out and by keeping him in there for longer than necessary.

This can also coexist with Sam’s attachment and care for Tommy. He probably wasn’t told about Dream’s plan to test the book and genuinely believed Dream wouldn’t hurt him. On top of that, Dream is known to be a pathological liar, so his statements about Ranboo and Sam could be entire fabrications.

Who knows?

The Book of Revival invalidates death entirely. The narrative now lacks both tension and consequence.

Another way the Dream SMP differs from other storytelling media is in the way it goes about its character deaths. In a TV show, for example, there will be characters who die just because, or when it’s important to the plot. However, it seems as if the Dream SMP is hesitant to commit to killing its characters. And there are many reasons for that.

The most important one being, killing someone’s character excludes them from the story and some of their livelihoods depend on them regularly streaming on the server. There is also the issue of the cast becoming extremely sparse if characters keep dying. Typically, in stories, when you kill a character, you should introduce another.

This keeps the cast from dwindling as the storyline goes on. This means the writers would have to find new streamers to join, who will develop their own characters and relationships with the plot’s continued momentum. This can be stressful and daunting to those who may be newly added in the future.

Keeping this in mind, the Book of Revival is annoying from a writer’s perspective. When death is no longer an issue for a story hinged on its characters’ mortality, then what do you have as a consequence anymore? We’ve explored every kind under the sun; from abuse, to betrayal, to loss, to destruction.

In stories, traditionally, death is a finality. It’s a conclusion. Whether it’s good or not depends on the character’s actions, its build-up, and the event’s execution. Without this lingering sense of danger, tension evaporates from the story.

Why should I care if Tommy loses in a fight to someone, if he’ll just come back a day later? Why should I care about what happened to Wilbur, if he just returns as if nothing happened? The answer is simple: I won’t. I will no longer care if Tubbo or Ranboo or Sam die in the story, because the idea of revival even being a possible outcome leaves me unenthused and uncaring.

The Dream SMP likes to flirt with death. It teases the demise of its main characters many, many times. More so Tommy’s than anyone else’s. Wilbur’s failed resurrection, which had unforeseen and unfortunate outcomes, is now strange in comparison to Tommy’s, which happened without a hitch.

To be fair, we actually don’t see how many attempts it took. But here’s the problem; Dream could do it without the book being physically present. He’s trapped in a prison with nothing on him, meaning he doesn’t need any materials either. It’s also implied he could do this as many times as he feels, for anyone he wants. This would be exceedingly overpowered, if not for one thing—Dream himself is mortal (at least, I fucking hope he’s mortal.)

If someone kills him one last time, that knowledge is gone forever. And I’m glad they’ve established at least some way for Tommy to win. Because at this point, I was losing faith.

There is also the bare minimum establishment that Dream can refuse to bring back those he doesn’t care for. He can also use it as a shield, holding this power over other people. If Dream is gone, death is permanent. But isn’t that how death is supposed to be, anyway?

What a bleak premise—the afterlife is pure eternal torture while life is cheapened by a lack of consequences.

Conclusion

All this to say, I am cautiously optimistic for the future. I hope dearly that every single one of these can be disproven or developed in the coming livestreams. Obviously, there’s not enough information to really determine what the end result will be, or how everything will fall into place.

Every time I have theorized about the story, it has done something completely different and pleasantly surprised me. I want this trend to continue.

Surprise me again—I’ll be here to see where it goes.

#answered asks #long post #tommyinnit #dream smp meta #dream smp #dsmp #dsmp analysis #this is slightly outdated still but whatever #hope this was helpful anon #tw abuse #tw suicide

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