#I think it's important that the tragedy walks hand in hand with the hopeful message

[ratasum]

I think what hits me, time and time again, is that the tragedy isn't in the actual act of killing the dragons, per se. It's that they were born with such love and purpose, and somehow lost their way. To the point that there was no walking back from it. That their own mother said that there was no other way- the only answer to save their world was in their deaths.

Tyria is healing in the wake of the loss of the Elder Dragons. Even after all the pain and fear, the world will recover. We already know Orr was healing, as early as S3 when we reached Siren's Landing. I'd assume other areas are similar, even if we haven't seen it directly.

And it is still a story of hope. That so long as we stick together, keep moving forward. One foot in front of the other. We can succeed and, ultimately, survive.

But hope came at the loss of children whose mother couldn't have known how her loneliness would shape the world, and her own end.

[hollyhomburg]

Prey Animals (2)

—  Pairing: Yoongi x Jin, Yoongi x reader, Bts x reader

—  Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, Enemies to friends to lovers, Angst with a happy ending, Hurt and Comfort,

—  Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.

—  Words: 8.6k

—  Warnings: funerals, referenced violence, threats of violence, organized crime, manipulation, angst, hurt/comfort,

—  Check in at the end for my notes on this chapter! —

(Last Chapter)

While Betas are valued for their level heads, they are also valued primarily as secret keepers.

Yoongi is probably the best secret keeper in the whole state, maybe the whole country even. Yoongi keeps his family’s secret so well that he doesn’t even let himself think it most days.

It only bothers him when he remembers. Yoongi does not like remembering where he came from, he does not like remembering his blood family. Not his found family, not the pack. I get that it’s confusing, but ‘blood family’ couldn’t be more accurate when it comes to talking about the people that Yoongi is genetically related too.

They’re the ones that painted Yoongi’s hands with blood when he was barely old enough to drive a car, who taught him how to kill and get away with it. But getting away with murder is child’s play to the largest organized crime family in the continental united states.  

Alphas, Betas and Omegas. In the family- everyone has their place. Everyone has their spot in the hierarchy. As a beta, Yoongi won’t be expected to pop out heirs like an omega- or cultivate the family business like an alpha. He won’t be expected to mate because betas don’t mate the same way that alphas and omega’s do.

Beta mating bites are too strong- people say. They make you go crazy, it’s not worth the risk. People have died from them.

There’s only one person that Yoongi would ever want to give his mating bit too anyway and he’d never risk it. Not when Namjoon is right there- ready and wailing to carry Seokjin’s soul the day they met. They’ll wait a few years for propriety’s sake. But Yoongi has always known that he’d never know what it feels like to be mated to someone else.

Never. 

Being a beta born into a mafia family is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand- Yoongi is `-expected to have little to no involvement in most of the violence. Tradition orders that the betas shouldn’t sully their hands with blood, drugs, and gunpowder. 

Their job is much much more important than that.

~-~

(6 years later, 120 days before, Yoongi)

Like with most good tragedies, this story starts with a death and a secret. I’ll leave it up to you to decide which is which.

For Yoongi, coming back to the family feels like walking into a nightmare.

Despite his derision and hate for where he came from, Yoongi’s always been able to wear the mask. He finds himself putting it on to a snug fit the day of the funeral. He got into the hotel late last night and the tiredness weighs on him as does the unanswered text messages from his pack. The tiredness drags him down down down, past his grief and past his hopes for a future that involves any sort of permanent happiness as he stares out the window of the car, spotted with dark beads of rain.

His phone dings.

Jinnie (12:34): Hey! Could you let me know that you got in safe? Joonie’s going a little crazy lol.

He can still smell Jin faintly on him from their last hug at the train station only 18 hours ago. All he has to do is close his eyes to feel like he’s standing right next to him. The memory is both painful and sweet. Yoongi doesn’t have the heart to wash away the pack’s scents quiet yet.

He doesn’t know the next time he’ll have Jin’s scent on him. He should savor it while he can.

Yoongi knows better than to hope that this will be just a brief diversion. He can’t lie to Jin or tell him the truth, so he opts to say nothing instead. To leave the texts un-answered, read receipts off. Maybe he’ll answer tonight- when he’s gauged the situation and how risky it might be.

Yoongi already misses the pack, feels their absence from his side like a physical wound. He doesn’t know how other beta’s do it; every time he turns, he expects to see one of them. Body already screaming in a touch starved language of humming skin and aching muscles. Had it been just yesterday morning that he’d woken up in Tae’s arms with Jungkook nuzzling into the small of his back? Is he only 24 hours removed from it? Why does it already feel a lifetime away?

Yoongi can’t believe that it’s over, can’t respond to the text, can’t resist making any message sound like goodbye. Can’t accept that for all intents and purposes, they’ve already said goodbye.  

There’s a very good chance that none of them, Jin nor Namjoon or any of the 4 other members of his pack will ever see him again.

For what it’s worth, Yoongi didn’t want to go.

He’d paused at a hotel to drop his bags off this morning, but the lady at the front already knew him by name and had a reservation ready for him before he’d spoken two sentences for her. The calling card on the bed paired with an Armani suit had let Yoongi know that one house was already hoping to earn his favor.

His Korean is rusty- but not rusty enough that he can’t read the neat lettering.

The Choi family cordially invites you to dine with them next Saturday. Please take this gift as a gesture of our good will and enduring friendship.

He’d tossed the card back onto the bed and sighed. They couldn’t have waited one day before trying to court him?

The suit is stuffy, but it compliments his mask well enough to be necessary as he makes his way up the steps of the cathedral. He can walk like one of them and talk like one of them and can wear their consumes. But it will never fit right. The sneer on his face or the emptiness in his eyes is just an act. The guards at the front do not stop and ask him who he is. Anyone who’s anyone knows Yoongi’s face.

Arguably- he’s the most important alive person alive at the funeral. 

He’s given a wide birth. Those who know who he is hide their whispers and shock behind velvet gloved hands and the curl of their teeth.

The closer he gets the more he feels his persona drape over him like a shroud. He knows how his eyes look when he tilts his face downwards and lifts his lip in a soundless snarl. He knows how to look like a threat and act like they expect. Yoongi is a god among men, Yoongi will offer them no salvation or chance at hope. Just like with God; if they want something from him, they’ll have to earn it through devotion.

And even then, he might not give in.

He lets his angry scent roll off of him in waves- a warning before he wades through the sea of people. A hundred or maybe two all in black. His scent is Oceanic and briny, the sea of people part around him giving him a wide berth. Yoongi has always smelled like sea salt when angry. The sweet chocolate of his scent going bitter and yucky. They expect it from him. Betas have more important things to do than attend funerals, more important things to grieve than family members. Betas belong to no one and everyone.

Not all of the hatred or derision is faked. Yoongi does not like these people.

He hasn’t thrown up because of a dead body in years, but the matching caskets almost do it to him. Their cold faces, the sallow almost grey black tint to their skin. Powdered and dotted with morticians puddy to turn their cheeks less hollow. The makeup powdery but very opaque. They turn his stomach as he pays his respects. No one bothers to approach him until he’s stopped kneeling. He lingers, unwilling to surrender himself up to the dogs quiet yet.

The Don of the family and his beta are smaller in death. His salt and pepper hair falls flat, his dark suit baggy. The beta’s long grey hair is braided over her shoulder the same way she wore it when she was living. They are two sides of the same coin. The leading and legal bodies of the family, now resting peacefully.

There is no one kneeling besides Yoongi to pay his respects. Not yet.

They wait for only a heartbeat before they descend.

He gets more than a few tearful hugs and reunions. Yoongi loses track of how many people drag him in for a hug or kiss his forehead, bending low to rub their noses against his knuckles as is tradition. Some of them look vaguely familiar, some of them look vaguely like him, round faces and small lips, hawklike eyes that glimmer with more familiarity and less fear. The aunties and the omega’s have their faces covered in dark veils. Red lipstick hidden behind gauzy silk.

“Cousin!” Someone calls above the others. Yoongi turns slow like it’s barely worth his effort to greet this person and yet he finds himself smiling when he sees who it is. The mask cracking.  

Jongho is less chubby than the last time that Yoongi saw him. Less of a little kid with the habit of following the older cousins around and more of a young man. A young alpha judging from the strong woodsy scent that clings to him. During their teenage years, he’d made a habit of trailing after Yoongi like a little duckling because Yoongi was the only one who didn’t tell him to get lost (or worse).

At least before he’d been sent away. It’s good to see him, to see a kind smile on his face, the warmth and curiosity in his brown eyes- lighter than the usual deep brown of the family.

“Your hair is so long!” is the first thing he says, but after some coughing behind him, and the appearance of his father, a stout well-groomed man with eyes that can never quite hold their viciousness, Jongho falls into a deep bow.

“The Choi family hopes that you’ve enjoyed your gifts, Beta-sshi.” Yoongi sets a hand on his shoulder, drawing him up. Jongho seems to remember himself, looking away, failing to meet Yoongi’s eyes.

“Don’t you want to see how well your gift fits?” It’s too hard for Yoongi to resist indulging his young cousin. He reminds him so terribly of Jungkook. At the prodding Jongho prattles on, hands skimming up and down the sleeves and appreciating the fine silk of Yoongi’s suit. Going on about FIT and how he’s been promised a semester or two there, after things have calmed down.

After things have been decided.

Yoongi isn’t surprised that these tid bits are met with a glower from Choi senior. A constant shadow to their conversation. Fashion isn’t a major becoming of any would be leader- better business or international relations. Choi seniors glare is so disapproving that Yoongi almost want to snap at him.

Let the pup have his fun.

Yoongi likes him- but just like with all his family members Yoongi cannot trust Jongho on principle. But it’s hard not to want to know him. This cousin who was once a chubby haired youth is now a strong alpha, teenaged, barely 20. Yoongi congratulates him on presenting as an alpha (as is expected, condolences would have been offered if he presented as an omega. Yoongi hates it.)

Eyeing him up and down, Yoongi admits that they might have been rivals in another life. They’re close enough in age, but Jongho still wears the bright eyes of a child eager to please.

Jongho is not the eldest alpha in his family, but he is one of several elder siblings and cousins in the Choi family (the moniker he greeted Yoongi by was just that- a name to call him. They’re not related by any blood that Yoongi is aware of). Yoongi’s not surprised that Choi senior seems to have selected him to meet Yoongi first. He’s the Choi families obvious choice for Don. He’s by far the most measured of his siblings, the most controlled and the most intelligent.

Last time Yoongi saw the eldest Choi son, Geumjae was trying to rip his throat out. Yoongi has no idea if he’s still alive.

It’s clear Choi senior hasn’t forgotten this show of impropriety. Clapping Yoongi on the back so hard his knees start to buckle. “He’s scored in the upper percentile for college entrance exams, and he has excellent extra-carriculars. He did student government and student counsel at his private school and-” Yoongi cringes, but nods along. He can’t expect every family not to treat this funeral like a job interview even if it is a little grating.

And Yoongi is the first to admit that leading the family is a job that requires more than brute force.

Yoongi passes along his thanks and holds out his arms for them to see the fit. “My mother picked out the color, she-” his eyes flicker up to Yoongi’s face, and Yoongi sees a bit of hesitancy there.

Jongho’s father claps him on the back again and derails the conversation, “He’s a good alpha, always knows when to listen to his elders.” Yoongi resists the temptation to roll his eyes at the obvious ass kissing.

The Choi’s let him go but not before getting an official acceptance of the dinner invitation extended to him. Yoongi wades through the crowd, searching aimlessly. There are hundreds if not thousands of people packed tight to pay their respects. Reporters and camera’s too- because not all of the families’ businesses are illegitimate.

All members of the family have pinned roses to their lapels as a sign of respect so it’s easy to pick them out of the crowd. White for the omegas and red for the alphas. The omega youth who hands them out at the front desk eyes Yoongi upset, unsure which to give him, hand shaking as he flutters between white and red. 

“It’s fine really- I’ll just take a white one-”

“I’ve got you.”

A woman steps up to him from the crowd gathered, the only one brave enough to disturb his peace. Yoongi isn’t immediately able to place her Family name or her face. She plucks a red lily from a nearby bouquet and tucks it into his breast pocket. Smoothing out the fabric after she’s done. Fussing with it. The delicate flower drops rusty red pollen onto Yoongi’s suitcoat.

Alphas don’t fuss, but she is one- judging by her scent and the red rose pinned to her own suitcoat. Female alphas don’t always dress like men, but this one does. Her tapered slacks, charcoal suitcoat, and dark blouse ripple like water when she moves. She smiles up at him delicately. Her smile is well trained and gives nothing away. It is neither genuine nor fake. “We didn’t think you’d be coming until later.” 

“Neither did I.” Yoongi admits carefully. But why should he hide it. He doesn’t want to be here, and they all know it.

There is nothing in her eyes- nothing at all that tells Yoongi what kind of mask she might be wearing. She’s got long hair, silver, dyed from the roots that poke out from the perfect middle part. it doesn’t take Yoongi any time to place her scent- it’s so strong.

Peppermint- it almost has a numbing effect on his nostrils. An artificial edge that cuts the sweetness and makes it more alpha. It takes him second of searching her face before he recognizes the tuck of her chin. 

“Moon Byulyi.”

She smiles tensely, dropping into Korean out of formality. “It’s been a while Beta-sshi.”

Moonbyul is someone he remembers well. From a shared childhood spent running around in too tight tiny stuffy suit jackets at formal occasions like easter and Christmas. Playing underneath tables for hide and seek and tag. Moonbyul was one of the few pups that was brave enough to talk to him. That wasn’t cautioned against being his friend or overly encouraged to gain his favor by the power-hungry parents. Yoongi would never have called them friends back then- because you aren’t friends with people outside of your house- not without it being risky. But a certain kind of knowing respect hovers on the edge of her smile.

Even as a pup, he’d been infamous. In the cathedral, people whisper, pointing him out in the crowd to their companions. Red lips hidden behind velvet gloved hands. He’s allowed to cause a commotion- there is no one left to tell them off for their blatant disrespect of the dead. No one left to remind them of tradition.

Yoongi lets them stare.

Just like with Jongho, Moonbyul was sent away before presentation. Many families choose to send their children away from the mafia life after elementary school. Before their scents start to lean either sweet or musky. Before anything starts to hint at if they’ll be an alpha or omega.

Those formative years can be a little bit dicey, with everyone’s scent and hormones changing every few days. New instincts provoking fights and spats with anyone who comes too close. Presentation provides Improper and dangerous volatility in a family like theirs. It’s better to whisk the next generation away for a private and more dedicated education.

Alphas are taught to fight and kill and bleed; omega’s are taught to simper and preen and scheme. They’re educated just like the rest of the population, sure, but the family requires a more thorough sort of learning.

Yoongi hardly remembers when his older left. He only remembers when Geumjae had come back smelling like smoke and fire and rage.

Scents are as individual as a fingerprint. Omega’s and Alpha’s don’t get theirs until they go into their first heat or rut but Beta’s scents present immediately upon birth. The other sub genders smell uniform in a soft milky pup scent. A smell ingrained into people’s brains and instincts that nudges the impulse protect and provide and nourish.

Yoongi had started to smell like chocolate on the third day after he was born.

There are boarding schools and private little compounds that the family keeps where unpresented pups can have a more dedicated education away from the prying eyes. Yoongi hasn’t seen Moonbyul since just after she turned 13.an early age for presentation by any standard. Although the year’s stretch between them she’s still the same. The mischievous lilt to her words is subdued here. She looks more serious; she looks as tired and as anxious as they all feel.

 That much he can tell is not faked.

She should be more careful to hide her emotions. She’s a head of house after all.

They are no longer children chasing after brightly colored eggs and wishing for sweets. To show any weakness is dangerous for her and her pack. One of them hovers on the edge of her elbow, smaller and shorter but no less bright eyed than Moonbyul herself. She’s an omega from her garb, her dress is long, flowy, and black. Her hair is cut to her chin, atypical for an omega. She knows better than to speak here. Moonbyul stands almost infront of her, tall, nearly posturing.

She doesn’t need to bother, there is only one person in this room that Yoongi’s even a little bit afraid of.

“Have you seen my brother?” She makes a noise, glancing behind him.

Yoongi tries to turn before Geumjae can get too close, but he’s too late. 

There are crow’s feet beginning to pull at the corners of his eyes. That’s the first thing that Yoongi notices, and the fact that he’s armed despite given the clear orders not to be. The lines of his harness visible just under his well-tailored suit. He registers only that before the broad-shouldered man pulls him in and Yoongi’s nostrils fill to the brim with the scent of burning things. Not the smell of cooking or firewood- but the smell that buildings get when they burn, acrid and metallic.

Geumjae must be nearly 33 now, but the stressors and finer points of ageing seem to have spared him for now as he pulls back and gives Yoongi a beaming smile, bright eyes calculating. Aware that the rest of the family is casting glances at the two of them many more times than is socially acceptable.

His brother looks exactly like he did the last time Yoongi saw him, taller than Yoongi and meatier. Wide shoulders and a tapered waist that says alpha. But their faces could be identical if it wasn’t for the scar crossing his eye and his mouth perpetually twisted into something like a snarl. They look similar enough that they’ve been mistaken for twins before.

He pulls Yoongi close with a hard hand at his neck digging into his scent gland and Yoongi resists the urge to flinch. Geumjae forces them to embrace, the picture of brotherly affection and comfort as he presses Yoongi’s face into his shoulder. Mouth pressed to ear hidden in Yoongi’s hairline so that no one can hear what he has to say or read his lips.

There are no hello’s, no farce, just straight to business. The lily remains between them- crushed by the sudden hug. All beauty here is short lived.

“I hope you’re not planning to change anything Yoonie.” Geumjae says the childish nickname with a sickly-sweet lilt to it. “It’s been so long since we’ve all seen you that you’re practically an outsider. There’s a lot you don’t understand. You should let your older brother teach you how things work again.” 

Yoongi can’t pull away or else risk making a scene. No matter how much his burning scent is sticking in his nose and making him want to gag. Geumjae’s expensive suit reeks of rich cologne, at odds with his scent. Geumjae smells and acts like wildfires and burning houses; destructive and unpredictable.

Geumjae knows of Yoongi’s only weak spot. 

His arms around Yoongi’s body remain ridged and vicelike, hand threading through the back of his hair in a clutch that is much more intimate than is necessary. Geumjae has always been stronger than Yoongi- has always been the alpha. Yoongi pushes against his chest, but Geumjae holds firm.

“All this talk has me thinking- if you died, I guess we’d have to invite your little pack, right? The pictures I’ve seen of them look so delicate and unprepared. Your pack omega seems like the type I’d love to sink my teeth into.”

Yoongi’s blood goes cold, and he starts to push- visibly at Geumjae’s chest. Recoiling from his touch and from what he insinuates. He doesn’t stop there

“I wonder why you didn’t bring them. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were afraid of us getting our hands on them.” He pulls back, smiling. It’s not friendly- more of a bearing of teeth. Geumjae must have had implants put in because his canines seem sharper than should be normal.

“But luckily, I know we’ll never have to find out.”

These threats are not hollow. Yoongi knows better. Yoongi does his best to school his face into a somber frown. Nodding like Geumjae has just said some words of wisdom. He’s not really agreeing- all of this, every inch between their bodies and the lack thereof- is done for the presentation of it all.

His choice is the furthest thing from his mind. Every moment all he can feel is wrong wrong wrong. Wrong to be here- wrong to be away from the pack- has Jungkook had a seizure yet? Is Jin worrying after his unanswered text? What song is Hoseok listening to over the radio? How did Namjoon’s surgery go- the one that he was worried about and felt underprepared for. What about Tae and his book? How did it end. How how how? How can he keep his brother away from them?

The phone in his pocket burns. And he knows the texts from the pack will go unanswered. Yoongi will be too afraid to reply.

Yoongi casts a look at the ceiling. The rosette windows in the vaulted ceiling shine in all their colors, but they offer no word of God.

(Yoongi knows better. God only listens when you speak through sin.)

~-~

(5 Years ago, Yoongi and Seokjin)

The thing about working with someone is that you spend a lot of time together.  It’s kind of hard not to grow attached, kind of hard not to be friends.

Over the next three weeks before his birthday, Seokjin spends a total of 126 hours with Min Yoongi. He comes to learn that he likes the cinnamon coffee cake over the plain ones, that he likes vanilla latte’s over matcha- that he thinks it tastes like dirt.

They become friends quicker than Jin expected, quicker than he necessarily wants- seeing as Jin’s kind of shit at keeping them- and hasn’t made a single friend in the last 3 years that he hasn’t lost. What’s the point of picking up something only to lose it later?

Seokjin doesn’t want to be Yoongi’s friend, but it happens that way anyways.

Seokjin resists the urge to watch Yoongi, waiting for him to take a sip of coffee (black, americano- but with a secret spoonful of matcha, the color of it disguised by the extra dark roast) Seokjin waits, watching his prank play out in his peripheral vision. Tensing every time Yoongi gets even a little close to where it’s cooling. Yes, almost, there-

“Uhm? Excuse me?”

Seokjin almost flinches at the customer, tapping his hands on the countertop impatiently- but not impatiently enough. A businessman, alpha, pale gray suit baggy at the waits. A faint blush on his cheeks. “What can I get for you?”

“Your number would be good to start,”

“Uhm” Seokjin barely resists the urge to cringe and hide behind his notepad. He’s not on the market- but he’s not off it either. Seokjin does not respond, just waits until the uncomfortable silence festers long enough, for the alpha to just reply to his order.

Seokjin is very very picky. Picker than he should be maybe- as an omega of his standing.

Yoongi notices, bypassing His (sabotaged) coffee, polishing the chrome of one of the espresso machines glassy. He waits until the alpha is gone, the door to the coffee shop tinkling closed before he asks.

Yoongi is always doing that. Waiting until they’re alone to speak. Seokjin wonders if it’s a habit or a beta trait.

 “What’s with you today? Usually, you’d have a line or something.”

Seokjin’s mouth quirks beyond his control. “What was it that I said last week?”

“Treating omegas that way you do won’t make your father love you?”

“Your knot is not big enough to act like that.”

They double over into laughter, and the skim of Yoongi’s hand up his back as he passes behind to put in another tray of muffins (mass market, made from mixing oil and water into bags of grey brown mix) in the oven is so tender, so thought out that Seokjin almost melts.

“You should put more chocolate in them” he says, and Yoongi pauses, hums thoughtfully and reaches past him to get the chocolate chips, adding another quarter cup to the batter. Yoongi is always making the chocolate muffins- mostly because Seokjin is always eating them.

The café is full of the smell of melting chocolate, and it’s not just from the muffins. But from Yoongi too. Yoongi’s scent is so pleasant, Seokjin catches himself raising his nose to catch it on the air when the other isn’t looking.

“But seriously. You always have a reply, what’s up?” Yoongi doesn’t look at him when he says it, instead directing his attention to mixing in the chocolate chips into the batter. He’s not very good at it, gets a bit of glossy brown on the countertop. Seokjin doesn’t have it in himself to complain. Seokjin knows he’s trying to make Seokjin feel more comfortable, more open by not looking at him.

Any other person doing that would make Seokjin feel manipulated or backed into a corner. But it’s different with Yoongi.

The two of them linger there, looking out the wide windows. The rain that falls that casts the streetlights all drippy. The cloudy sky up above offers no shooting stars or wishes, not even the moon put there like a single burning wick of a candle. Nothing in the sky, no burning, no joy, only wet.

“Today’s my birthday.” Seokjin finally admits, voice soft and quiet. It won’t be his birthday for much longer, the clock already reads 11:32. They’ve got less than a half hour left. And Seokjin did not cry today- his only goal. Not presents or blowing out candles and love. None of it.

He’s tried of crying. Tired of being alone too.

“Fuck” Yoongi stops stirring the metal bowl, setting it down softly before he leans against the counter. “Why didn’t you tell me, would have gotten you something or some shit-”

Seokjin hums, stirring his coffee hard, turning the wooden rod through the crust of extra sugar at the bottom. Seokjin always likes things extra sweet and extra warm; he wonders how long it will take Yoongi to realize there’s a reason for that. That he’s trying to fill a family sized hole in himself that the wind whistles through. Like a ripped sail on a ship.

When Seokjin looks over Yoongi looks if not genuinely upset then a little devastated. It shocks Seokjin enough that he stands up a little straighter, color to his cheeks that has nothing to do with the stoplight outside as it goes from yellow to red.

The muffins ding, and they’re ready, piping hot, the chocolate all melty at the top like Seokjin likes. “Hang on I know they’ve got- here.”

Yoongi leans over, he’s got a lighter, and Seokjin isn’t sure what for. It’s white, has initials on it. There is a crappy pink birthday candle sticking out of the muffin. It’s too early to take the muffins out of the tray and it’s melting onto the countertop. But when Yoongi says, “Make a wish,” Seokjin closes his eyes and blows.

He’s not really sure what he wishes for, but when he opens his eyes, Yoongi is smiling.

They share half of it each, and Seokjin feels so warm he has to take off his sweater. Yoongi licks the chocolate from his fingers. Seokjin watches and looks away. Nervous.

They play Seokjin’s favorite music while they mop the floors, and Yoongi does his best impression of that one alpha rapper than everyone likes.

“You like seriously like music, right?” Seokjin says, sitting on the countertop and swinging his feet because there’s no one here and it’s almost 2 am. They pretty regularly only have one or two customers that come in mid-week. Why their boss insists on keeping the shop open and two of them there at this hour- Seokjin has no idea.  

“Yeah, I’ve got like, 6,000 songs on my phone.” Seokjin scoffs, endeared. Yoongi is exactly the kind of person to brag about something like that. Seokjin’s feet hit swish back and forth.

“You better not have given iTunes all that money.”

Yoongi grins, tipping an imaginary hat. “Nah- it’s a pirates life for me.” Yoongi continues to sweep at the floor while Seokjin watches. “You’re like, really bossy for an omega. Thought they were all supposed to be like, docile?” Yoongi moves onto mopping the entry way and Seokjin switches to the booth seat so that they don’t have to shout to keep talking.

Seokjin snorts. Instead of parrying Yoongi’s words, Seokjin settles into the booth, pulling his knees to his chest until he can feel the pleather through the hole in his shoe. “You go to school for it? The music?”

“No, I ugh-” Seokjin watches Yoongi brace himself for disappointment or judgment. “I didn’t go to college.”

Seokjin’s fingers stop their drumming. “Good, it’s a waste of time.” Betas don’t really need to go to college to be successful, the same way that alpha’s don’t need to dress or preen or maintain themselves to gain respect. Seokjin skirts by, doing the bare minimum for an omega. It would be different if he were female. If his reproductive organs had presented him as anything other than male at birth. Men are alphas until proven otherwise and women are omegas until they decide different. It’s only his rotten luck that his presentation came with a heat and not a rut.

“What you’d go for then?” Yoongi asks, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

“Psychology.”

“Why don’t you do that then?”

Seokjin shrugs, “can’t get a job that pays more than this without my masters, can’t pay for my master’s without this job but-” It’s Seokjin’s turn to brace himself. “It’s so so expensive, and my student loans are already a lot-”

“Nah I get it; your family wouldn’t like help you or something? You seem like a good kid; do they know that?”

“I am older than you.” Seokjin scoffs, reminding him. “And besides, what family?”

They haven’t gotten to the dead parent’s thing yet, but they will one day. Yoongi looks up and stops his mopping. The water drips onto the dirty linoleum. Instead of contesting with Yoongi’s bereft look Seokjin replies quick. It’s still his birthday for another 10 or so minutes. And he’d rather not talk about his parents.

“Did your family like not approve of you doing music or did they want you to be a doctor or something?”

Beta’s usually become doctors, or CEO’s or managers or anything. Seokjin can already tell that their boss likes Yoongi more than him. There’s a sour lilt to his voice, a pout there. Seokjin bets Yoongi gets paid more than him.

That’s okay, Seokjin’s instincts tell him. He needs it to eat more- his legs are so skinny.

But instead of saying what Seokjin expects, Yoongi just looks back at him, his dark eyes mirroring his misery. He scoffs parroting Seokjin’s words back to him.

“What family?”

Seokjin is a lone omega, a dangerous thing to be in the city these days- or at least that’s what the news has him and everyone else believing. Enough omega’s go missing that it makes the news. Picked up off of street corners or otherwise, they just vanish. The only thing that keeps Seokjin from being one of them is luck and the fact that he’s taller than most omega’s and broad enough to pass for a scrawny alpha.

Yoongi turns away from their mutual grief, stilling when he see’s what’s outside.  

“It’s snowing.”

 It’s early for November but neither of them says it, they move, abandoning their posts for a second to go out and watch the gentle flakes flickering down.

���First snow!” Seokjin says, and Yoongi grins. The snow is brief, melts the second it hits the concrete. But it’s a good thing, because it means that neither Seokjin nor Yoongi has to walk home in the rain.

When they return inside, Yoongi takes a sip of his coffee and makes a face. Seokjin laughs so hard that he has to clutch at his stomach.

It’s an even better birthday when they have to depart for their respective apartments for the day and Yoongi hands over his flannel and says that he won’t take no for an answer. At least he’s wearing a long sleeve unlike Seokjin. It settles Seokjin’s instincts so well that he sways. His fingers quickly making sweater paws on account of how long the sleeves are.

“Like this one a lot, whenever you wear it.” Yoongi’s hands linger on the flannel. Seokjin’s wrist. He does up the button. Seokjin lets him.

“You can keep it, as a birthday present.”

Seokjin huffs, shakes his head, “I said I like it when you wear it, giving it away defeats the purpose.”

Yoongi’s hands go tight in the fabric and then relax, and his voice takes on a husky quality. Breath billowing out in the cold. They’re standing close enough that all Seokjin can smell is chocolate.

“Then you can bring it back to me when you get tired of it.”

The first night shift ends and the second begins, Seokjin and Yoongi go their separate ways. Seokjin walks past the same alpha’s from the night before that and the night before that. And like usual Seokjin tenses, readying himself to be catcalled. His fingers tangling in the arms of Yoongi’s sweatshirt as he braces himself for it.

But it doesn’t come, it’s like the alphas take one whiff of Yoongi’s scent on the air and their eyes slide over Seokjin as he scurries past.

Seokjin pauses at the end of the block, at the edge where streetlight becomes shadow, and looks back.

~-~

It doesn’t take long for the two of them to put two and two together (no- not like that, although that takes predictably less time too).

The alphas Seokjin passes on his way home from the coffee shop never bother him as much when he’s wearing something of Yoongi’s. The beta’s scent clings to his clothing like an invisible shield- keeping Seokjin from harm. Seokjin mentions it offhand once and from then on Yoongi makes sure he’s got something, his gloves, his hat, his jacket, everything. Just so that Seokjin gets home safe.

It doesn’t mean anything at first, that Seokjin is under Yoongi’s protection- but after a few weeks that starts to mean a whole lot more.

Seokjin has never believed that betas are particularly special. He attributes most of societies reverence to just foolish mythos and childlike mystery. But even he has to admit that It’s almost spooky the way that the alpha’s unwanted attraction and attention slides over him like he’s slippery, like he’s a mirage, a specter- but only if he’s wearing Yoongi’s scent.

Seokjin always draws attention- for the way his shoulders swivel and the pretty omegan curve to his hips and face. He's pretty, he's always been pretty. He was glad of it as a teenager and in college. An apex predator for his beauty alone.

But all the prettiest flowers have poison hidden at the root.

That prettiness felt more like a threat the older he got, and now when he walks home from his closing shift at the café it’s always on the edge of his mind. Seokjin is lucky but plenty of omegas aren’t. He's been followed home before. He lives in the bad part of town. Yoongi does too- but living in a bad part of town means something different when you're an omega. 

They share things, like mittens and hats and button-down coats, not because they’re the same size but because Yoongi is…soft. Yoongi is fond of Seokjin, and he shows it in the way he talks, the way he’s always touching Seokjin on the elbow or the shoulders. They’re careful. And if Yoongi where an alpha- Seokjin would hate it. If Yoongi where anyone else- he’d hate it.  

Yoongi never mentions any friends or lovers, there are no other scents but his that cling to his clothing. After a while Seokjin doesn’t ask. It’s so not cool to ask after the affairs of a beta, you have to be nonchalant.

They go through most of November and the start of December like that, dancing around each other, each shift ends with one of Yoongi’s sweatshirts or coats or scarves folded there on the countertop, covered with coffee rings and crumbs from chocolate cupcakes- waiting for him.

Over time, Seokjin gets used to Yoongi's quirks. Like how he always makes Seokjin drink's with too much sugar and is always ducking back into the office at the coffee shop whenever the phone rings. So much so that Jin starts to associate the sound with his new co-worker. His new co-worker who makes him laugh and feel like he's 14 not 24. His new co-worker whose also his friend and asks Seokjin to come with him to see the tree lighting in the center of town. They pack in like sardines and go, see each other the next day and it’s not boring. Yoongi doesn’t get bored of Seokjin. He doesn’t.

He makes Jin feel like it's not too late for him just by looking at him and saying. "Smart kid like you, though you'd be out of this city by now." 

"I am older than you, you know." 

"Still a kid- you've got chubby cheeks." A pinch to them that has Jin’s face warming. A flush that could melt any spring.

With Yoongi’s scent on him, Jin isn't as much of a target for harassment. It irks him- that a beta is worth their respect but an omega isn’t. All it takes is just Yoongi's pheromones to settle the thugs and gang members he passes on street corners and make him invisible.

Seokjin wants to be invisible most of the time- mostly on social media which he keeps relatively blank. He's worried about what his old friends might think of his lack of social life, the lack of likes on his selfies that he always deletes after an hour anyways. He's scared of his aunts and uncles calling and asking how he's doing and has he found a job yet? Is he really applying himself as hard as he can? How could a cushy college in America not set him up for success? 

Yoongi makes Seokjin feel the opposite of invisible. Yoongi makes Seokjin feel... special in a way he’s always craved. Chosen. When he gives him his jacket, when he bumps their shoulders on the cold nights. Stands closer so that some of his warmth gets shared by Jin. "It's cold," he says, voice a low gravel. A true gentleman, his thick jean jacket held out.

"But you'll be cold on your walk home too." 

"Doesn't matter, I'd rather the warmth went to you." 

Yoongi gives him his flannel, his hat, his everything just so that Seokjin can feel a little bit safer on his walk home. How many layers of fabric and viscera separates Jin’s heart from Yoongi’s scent? How many?

And then Seokjin’s twice yearly heat hits, and he doesn’t see Yoongi for nearly 5 days.

He wakes up one morning in early December and it feels like someone’s holding him under warm water. An ache in his chest that’s so visceral he checks his ribs for wounds. But the wanting is there, ever present, a phantom limb.

Heats are just another vestigial trait left over from shapeshifting times. No one can shift anymore- but the more animal side like the scents and heats and secondary genders still remain. Seokjin usually doesn’t go into heat until the spring as is usual for most omegas. Something in his body must have confused Yoongi’s warmth for the change of the seasons.

Seokjin’s heats have always been brutal.  

A fever is pretty typical as far as heats go. He’s got some cramping along with the mess and honey sweetness between his legs that goes untended too and under enjoyed. Unlike the bone deep exhaustion that has him wanting to swath his body in soft blankets and nest the day away

And do little else but fuck and breed, but Seokjin’s so annoyed by that he hardly touches himself.

Breeding season is a fire that never ends. A particular sexual hunger that cannot be sated by Seokjin’s hands alone. Beyond the violent need for sexual attention, he finds himself reaching out for hands that aren’t there, nosing at his sheets for a scent he finds in mittens and an old flannel. His dreams are a tangle of slick, pleasure, chocolate muffins and big hands.

On the second day he thinks to check his phone and finds a text from an unknown number.

Unknown (12:28): Please make sure you eat something.

A pause then, where sweat beads on Seokjin’s forehead and he whimpers out through the next wave of wanting. Omega cock hard and straining against the nest, loose with Yoongi’s things dotted along the barrier. Smelling like chocolate.

Seokjin bites them just to taste, blunt omega teeth sinking into the fabric. Hungry and Helpless.

Unknown (12:28): Let me know if you need anything.

It’s too much to offer for strangers and too much to offer for just friends. Seokjin resists the urge to call and talk to him, but just barely. Probably sparing himself from some helpless begging and friendship ending embarrassment.

It feels like someone’s scraping out the inside of his uterus with rusty tongs. Going through a heat without a partner feels like being touch starved only worse- like he actually is wasting away because there isn’t anyone holding him. If people could starve from lack of love Seokjin would. His heat is mistimed, too early, most of the time Jin takes a suppressant to make sure it doesn’t come.

Jin tries to ignore what it means at first. Unable to meet Yoongi’s gaze when he sees him after. How do you explain to a beta that being around them, feeling safe with them, was enough to make your heat come early? It doesn’t help that he’s unable to return his clothes like usual- due to the slick-soaked state they'd been in. Much to his pink-cheeked shame.

Jin’s a little thinner, a little gaunter because eating during a heat is always a little hard- when the wanting strikes so completely that other needs are pushed out. Yoongi cooks him up a whole tray of chocolate muffins and makes him sit through the whole of his shift on his first day back. Sets his jacket over Jin’s shoulders when he nods off in one of the booths around midnight and lets him sleep until a half hour before their manager is supposed to show up.

Seokjin is already awake when he comes close. Jin has his eyes closed; head tipped against the vinyl back of one of the booth seats. Resting his eyes. “No one’s taken care of me in a long time you know.” When his eyelashes flutter open, Yoongi is looking at him. There’s no one in the coffee shop on account of how early it is, the clock in the corner is red, flashes that it’s close to three am.

“No one’s looked after me in a long time either.”

Seokjin’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek. “I could do it.”

Yoongi just huffs and hands him a cup of coffee. It’s made just the way that Seokjin likes it. Jin takes a sip of it and hums, licking his lips. Yoongi watches. Eyes flickering down and then to Seokjin’s eyes.  

“We’ll see about that.” 

And then Seokjin’s basement apartment floods and half his stuff gets ruined and Yoongi offers his couch and shit- the rest is basically history.

Christmas passes and they cut off a branch from a tree at the park and stick it in the only empty corner of the apartment, hanging pilfered and stolen ornaments from the shop on the branches. And they get each other necessities like socks and a new pair of shoes for Jin with their limited extra funds.

But things are easier now that there’s just one apartment. And they won’t have to stress for long because both of them get raises before valentine’s day. Yoongi will hardly let Seokjin sleep on the couch for weeks at a time and his bed was big enough for the two of them. 

It was winter they could save on heating if they just got a little closer. A little snuggling never hurts anyone right? Seokjin doesn't need to ask if Yoongi's lonely- if he's got someone. Yoongi defies what Seokjin knows of most betas; usually elusive and unwieldy, uncommitted and cold. If Omegas are like moon's and alphas are like sun's then beta's are like comets, coming into orbit every now and then. 

But Yoongi is not a cold icy rock that throws Seokjin the barest hint of affection. On the contrary, Yoongi's always so warm. 

“Last snow.” Yoongi says, standing outside of the coffee shop wearing Seokjin’s sweater- so big on him that it falls to his mid-thigh. Yoongi’s legs aren’t so skinny anymore. His kiss tastes like the cold, cold lips and warm big hands, and Seokjin wonders how he ever worried. How fate ever let him wonder when there was this waiting for him.

There are 6 other people waiting for Seokjin, he just has to be patient.

There is something about a pair of arms that you know are meant to hold you and keep you safe. Something unnamable that blocks out all reason and fear and leaves only hope. Seokjin feels it the second he sinks into Yoongi’s strong arms and feels that heat, the heat of belonging. Maybe it’s strange that he’s older. Maybe it’s strange that Seokjin wants him and not the countless other knot-head alphas society says an omega should end up with. Beta’s and omega’s are not supposed to be enough for each other.

By the time he’s saved enough for a deposit for a new apartment Seokjin never wants to leave and Yoongi would never make him. Now Seokjin grabs Yoongi’s flannels not out of pure safety but because he likes having the beta’s scent close. It's like sea salt and chocolate. It conjures up warm nights around a bonfire at the beach with s’mores.

They do that on the weekends, a low-cost date night because they can’t afford anything better but it’s better than any fancy dinner at Nobu or the steakhouse. Just because it’s them. And Seokjin makes Yoongi perfect little sandwiches of love and marshmallow, and Jin eats only the chocolate out of them cuz really- that’s his favorite part.

They’re a pack even if it’s just the two of them. Seokjin tells himself he can be happy with just this even though every day on his walk home he wonders if Yoongi will still be at their apartment, always worried that today is the day that Yoongi’s just- gone. It makes his face when he opens the door, the shy smile and the open arms- that much more delicious to behold.   

There are horror stories of that happening everywhere- My beta was fine until he wasn't. My beta left our pack on a random afternoon- said he had a job lined up across the country. I came home and my beta had another alpha in our bed, and I couldn't even be angry- that's just how betas are after all. Do you ever think it's fucked up? How they don't have to be faithful to one pack.

You can't be angry. Betas are biologically designed that way. Just be happy you're in his roster.

Beta's always stray. Seokjin knows that and accepts it as a fact before Yoongi's even officially his boyfriend. It's not like Seokjin's not allowed to date other people either, it's socially acceptable for an omega- with a beta or not- to look for an alpha. But Seokjin doesn't date. He doesn't date anyone once he and Yoongi become a pack. It would feel weird, to bring someone into their orbit. 

It doesn’t escape him that Yoongi puts their next apartment in Seokjin’s name the first time they decide to move- just in case he needs it. Yoongi wouldn’t be so unkind as to leave Seokjin without making sure he has a roof over his head. Seokjin looks for the hints of others. Other scents on Yoongi's clothes, and any suspicious absence. But there's nothing, nothing that hints that Yoongi's got someone else.  

Omega's are biologically inclined to seek out alpha's. Especially omega's in their prime like Seokjin. Seokjin never thought he’d be the one to change first, to want more first.

But then he meets Namjoon in a Laundromat of all places. (Really?Who meets their soulmate in a fucking laundromat?)

(Next Chapter)

~-~

(Read the first Version of this story Here)

Notes:

- Ahhh the little pre-section in this chapter. Definitely one of the ones that I thought about cutting out of the story especially because it has so many like- references to Namjoon and he isn’t a character we’ve been introduced too yet.

- I just realized that I use the word ‘court’ to try and describe what the Choi family was trying to do to Yoongi. And you know that’s not exactly what they were trying to do to him like- they where certainly not trying to entice him to be a part of their pack- but it’s close enough!

- It’s important to me that you know the specific smell I’m referring to, the scent Geumjae has is the smell that housefires have. I saw my grandparents’ house burn down to the ground once, fire smells different when it’s memories that’s burning.

- Originally when I was first writing bily- I just looked up the name of Yoongi’s brother and was like- ‘woo there we go’ and thought nothing of it but going forward with this version I want to be clear that I think of him as more of August d- this version of Geumjae is identical to Yoongi besides the scar! If it were ever made into a movie I think Yoongi and Geumjae should be played by the same actor and edited parent trap style.

- (SPOILER) you’ll notice at the very end of Yoongi’s section where he’s wondering what the pack is doing at that moment- he doesn’t mention or wonder about jimin. That is because Jimin is actually directly above him in the cathedral with a gun trained on Geumjae but! You’d never know that unless you had already finished the story! Just a little tidbit that only makes sense if you look at everything closely.

- Did you notice the hyyh reference? Yoongi’s lighter?

- I just realized that Yoongi parrots Seokjin’s words when he’s talking to the m/c from this chapter to chapter 12 the “I could do it” I could love you, I could be your person! Ah the beauty of unintentional parallels (my brain is like a record skipping. The same wishes and dreams on repeat where I write out the same tenderness again and again, hoping that something will stick, like flesh made flame, like sugar made sweet and friendship bracelet made bond).

[aajjks]

TPOL!JK

you let him walk away and although your feelings are hurt, you don't chase after him or anything. after a few minutes, you go back inside to bid jungkook's mother goodbye before you and your mother are gone for good. although ji-ae is smiling, jungkook is visibly hurt and it confuses his mother because she thought he would've felt better had he got to hold you one last time. after jungkook's 31st birthday, you don't travel to korea again and remain in your little bubble up north where you're happy and better off without jeon jungkook in your life.

truth is, jungkook wanted you to stay and you know it too but the two of you are better off without each other.

maybe some soulmates are better apart than together and it just so happens that the two of you are that pair that--

*knock* *knock*

"oh, hello yerin. how can i help you?"

"hi, i was coming by to ask if you wanted to sign this card for y/n. her mother passed away"

another four years pass and your mother had unfortunately passed away after fighting a long battle of lupus. one moment you were laughing with her and the next, she was out cold in her sleep. it was you who found her laying there and you've been going through it on your own. yerin doesn't expect jungkook to go up and see you but she knows that your mother was fond of jungkook, so she guessed it would be okay to share the sad news with him except he was at the building and not in his penthouse.

"oh my God! is-is she okay? well, i'm sure she's not okay but how is she holding up?"

"not so good. i'm heading up to switzerland soon but i was hoping you and jungkook could sign this card to send your condolences"

"well, jungkook isn't here but i can sign it for him if that's okay

"sure" says yerin while handing ji-ae the handmade card with a touching message on the front. she signs for both her and jungkook and when she was finished, yerin thanks ji-ae and heads off to catch her flight to you. meanwhile, ji-ae rings jungkook's phone, and after three rings he picks up.

"hi kookie, it's important and it's about y/n. maybe i shouldn't tell you this while you're at work. yeah, i'll tell you when you get home" but jungkook insists his mother tell him the matter with you.

"jungkook...her mother passed away. yerin is giving her a card i signed for you so you don’t have to go up there”

He doesn’t know what to say to his mother, that can’t be true. Your mother- no… eunji was perfectly healthy the last time he saw her.

“M-Ma… how’s yn doing???” He knows that you’re probably very devastated by the loss, Jungkook is at a loss for words himself, his mother is very upset, he can tell by her somber voice but all he cares about right now is you.

He should’ve been with you through this.

“Umm I think we should go to Switzerland and pay our respects to her… a-and I think yn needs us!” He says, no matter what he feels towards you right now, he needs to be with you at such a time of tragedy.

Him and his mother take the next flight and are on their way to see you. All through the flight his mind is stuck on you, Jungkook knows how much you always loved your mother.

And how much you were attached to her, you must be broken, he feels so bad.

Jungkook and Ji-ae are now in Switzerland and as beautiful as it is… it soo feels so… somber. “Did you confirm the address with yerin?” Jungkook and Jiae are on their way to see you.

And his heart is heavy with grief.

His mother nods and after a few hours of the drive, they are right infront of your house. “Mama…. She respects you a lot… I hope your presence will be able to comfort her a bit..” he says, fixing his long coat and he gives a look to his mother.

And then they’re both knocking at your door.

“U-Ummm yn? I-It’s Jungkook.”

[teddy06writes]

sorry to request yet another one, but you are such an amazing writer. Could I possibly have a romeo and juliet type story where reader is sleepybois sibling and is in love with either poly dream team (dream,George,sapnap) or just george xx

dream x george x sapnap x reader + sleepy boys x sibling!reader

trigger warnings: swearing, yelling, character death, Wilbur being a dumbass

premise: you are one of Philza’s children, and have fought for L’manburg’s independence, we follow your secret romance with the enemy, of course, this tragedy knows no happy ending

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You carefully dropped down over the side of the L’manburg wall, ducking into a roll before standing up and dusting yourself off, starting to sneak away.

A hand clamps around your forearm, pulling you around the side of a tree.

You hold back a yelp, instead turning with a smile, whispering, “Mr. Sapnap we simply must stop meeting like this.”

“And what? You’d have us march through your gates announcing ourselves to your brothers, I think not.” Nick chuckled.

“Well, I suppose that would put a damper on things.” You grinned, pressing a kiss to his lips.

He fit your hand into his, pulling you along as you started for where the others would be waiting, “Especially when they are so against our dear Dream.”

“To be fair, he was against us.” You argued.

“But no more.” The man himself pointed out, stepping out of the shadows, rising his mask enough to press a kiss to your knuckles.

“Because we continued to fight? or Because you wanted an excuse to talk to me without it being over a declaration of war?”

“I believe it was because Tommy gave up his disks,” George offered, leaning in to place a kiss on your cheek, “Hello dearest.”

You sighed, “Phil gave him those disks. They were one of the only things to survive the blast.”

Behind the mask you could tell Dream’s face fell, and he started to turn away, “I- we did what we thought was right.”

“Blowing up my country was what you thought was right?” You challenged, crossing your arms, “You even had the audacity to cheer as my head was separated from my body by the sheer force.”

“Here we go again.” George muttered.

“We didn’t know you then! Things have changed! You and your people are free now!”

“That does not change our history.” You said indigently.

“What about when Sapnap burned the forests? That’s part of your history too yet we don’t see you yelling at him!” Dream exclaimed.

You sighed, “The forests were replanted with his help, and he has shown remorse, and regret over his actions.”

Surprisingly Dream wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, “If that is what I takes to gain your trust, then I am sorry. I hope my past mistakes do not haunt you any longer.”

Reluctantly you wrapped your arms around him, smiling as the other boys joined the embrace.

After a few moment Dream pulled away, “c’mon, we may even have time for a proper date.”

~~

“An election?” You questioned, “But your already the president.”

Wilbur grinned, “But I put myself in that position, if we do it this way everything is fair!”

You glanced down at the papers littering his desk, “Wil I don’t see how this makes things fair, I mean,” You picked up the note book where he’d been witting makeshift ballots, “Closing the ballots early? The people will only have one option! How is that fair?”

“Actually, I’m running as well.”

You turned to see Quackity entering the office, “You? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The man frowned, “Well, I figure if Wilbur here gets a chance to do it fair why shouldn’t I?”

“We’ll be able to beat him easily.” Your brother quietly assured you.

~~

“You alright love? You seem stressed.” Nick said quietly.

You sighed looking up at the sky, “Wilbur plans to hold an election. He believes we can over take Quackity and Swag 2020, but now Fundy and Niki have made there own party as well.”

George turned, propping himself up on his elbow, “That doesn’t sound good. If he’s already in charge why does he need to be re elected?”  

“We put him on the throne, Tommy, Tubbo, Niki, Fundy and I. He wishes to be there fairly with the support of the people.”

Dream hummed, “Do you think he could win?”

“It’s possible,” You sighed, leaning back against Nick, “But campaigns have been tricky, Tommy managed to dig up Jshlatt. They though he could help, but now he’s trying to make a claim to having a spot on the ballot.”

“I thought he was dead.” George said.

You laced your fingers through his, “Well now he’s just a drunk who’s running for president. God I hope it was just a joke.” You muttered the last part.

The boy shared glances, Nick hazarding, “What happens if someone else wins?”

“Well, I suppose it wouldn’t change much for me, technically I hold no office other than managing my brothers and the campaign, it’d shift me further out of public eye, but, I think Wilbur wouldn’t handle it well.”

Dream began to trace shapes into your open palm, “Well, with you in charge of the campaign I doubt your brother will fail.”

You smiled, “Let’s hope so.”

A few hours later, as the sun began to disappear beyond the hills of L’manburg you stood up from the picnic, bidding your lovers farewell, “Wilbur’s meeting starts soon, and I’ll be missed.”

After a few traded kisses you started back through the woods toward L’manburg, sneaking back in through a gap that had never been fixed in the wall, pausing at your house to change back into your L’manburg uniform before hurrying off to the white house.

“Your late!” Tommy called sharply as you entered Wilbur’s office.

“I lost track of time working on the last of the posters.” You pulled the rolled up tubes of paper from the bag you’d grabbed at the house as well.

Wilbur took the tubes as Tommy looked at you skeptically, “Yeah, doing that and what else?”

“Well I was talking to Phil today telling him about the election,” You sat down next to Tubbo, “But not much else.”

Wilbur sighed, dropping a flyer on the table, “We have more important notion to discuss, it would seem that Shlatt is serious about this.”

You grabbed the flyer, looking over the bolded, ‘Shlatt 2020′ and then back at Wilbur, “This can’t be real. I thought you closed the ballot.”

“The people favor him enough to allow him a spot on the ballot.” Tubbo sighed.

“We still stand a chance though,” Tommy said quickly turning to Wilbur, “Right Wil?”

Your older brother hesitated, wavering for a moment, before nodding, “Yes. Yes of course.”

~~

“(y/n) I must ask you some thing.” Wilbur said as the meeting ended and Tommy and Tubbo headed out.

“Yeah?”

“Why do you sneak out?” Your breathing hitched but he continued, “Who are you meeting? What are you hiding? Who do you talk too from- from the SMP lands?” His voice turned to acid at the last words.

“I don’t go anywhere, outside L’manburg. Other than for walks in the forest on occasion.” You lied.

Wilbur examined your face, as if searching for something, “Fine then. Don’t tell me, I will find out sooner or later.”

He strode out of the room, leaving you to pull out your com tablet, privately messaging Dream, ‘it might be a bit before I can see you guys again’

‘:(’

You rolled your eyes quickly typing, ‘Wils getting suspicious, I’m just trying to keep you safe’

‘george also says :(’ Was all you received in reply, so you quickly put the tablet away, heading out of the office and out to the street.

You took a deep breath, looking back at the podium, ballots would be collected tomorrow, and then everything could change.

~~

“Last night, before the last of the ballots were collected, Mr. Quackity of the SWAG 2020 party made an agreement with Mr. Jshlatt of the SHLATT 2020 campaign, that if neither party won the popular vote, they would combine there votes, creating a collation.” WIlbur announced.

From your place to the side of the stage you froze, fear coursing through your veins.

“And so, the combined percentages of SWAG 2020 and SHLATT 2020, bring the coalition to 46% of the popular vote.”

Your heart pounded in your ears, feeling Tommy freeze beside you.

“Which means, the coalition government of SWAG and SHLATT 2020, have won the L’manburg election, by 1%.”

The world seemed to slow as parts of the crowd erupted into cheers, Quackity jumped around on the stage yelling as Wilbur slowly moved away from the podium, out of the corner of your eye, near the back of the stands you see your boyfriends all looking down, but you paid them no mind, instead looking Shlatt dead in the eye as he grinned maliciously at you, before turning to address the crowd.

Wilbur tugged you and Tommy away from the stage, “We’re citizens tonight.”

Shlatt leaned over the podium as you took seats near the front of the crowd, “Well that, was pretty easy.”

You felt your brothers grip your hands, as you stared up at Shlatt.

“You know what I said when I announced this campaign? I said ‘things are gonna change’ I looked every citizen of L’manburg in the eye and I said ‘you listen to me... this place will be a lot different tomorrow.”

He smirked down at you, “So let’s start making that happen. My first decree as president of L’manburg- as EMPEROR! Of this great country!”

Your breathing hitched, “Is to revoke citizenship-! Of TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot, and (Y/n)! Get them out of here!”

Suddenly it seemed as though every weapon in the city was trained on you as Tommy dragged you up out of your seat.

Wilbur was yelling at you to run, but you remained frozen on the spot, turning to look at the podium one last time before following your brothers, only a few steps behind, most of the crowd beginning to disperse

Some one practically screamed your name, and you turned in time for an onslaught of arrows to bury themselves in your body.

The last thing you saw before crumpling to the ground was Dream, Nick and George rushing toward you.

Shlatt strode off the stage, trying to move closer to your body only to be blocked by Dream’s outstretched sword.

He peered around where George had flung himself over you, “I want them out of here as soon as they respawn.”

~~

You woke to someone pressing a damp cloth to your forehead, and excruciating pain spreading throughout your body.

Your eyes flicked open, looking around at the cave you found yourself in, in confusion. When you tried to sit up a gentle hand pushed you back down, “Don’t, you only respawned fully a day ago, you're too weak for that.”

“What’re you doing here?” You groaned.

Technoblade chuckled, “I heard someone say rebellion.”

You looked at him confused for a moment before he elaborated, “This is Pogtopia, cause apparently Wilbur can’t go more than a few months without establishing a new country. Tommy found the cavern after they were ran out of L’manburg. Tubbo is working with Shlatt to hunt you guys down, and Wilbur is trying to start a plan to get the country back.”

“How’d I get here? my bed is all the way in L’manburg.”

Techno grabbed one of the baked potatoes he’d brought up to your room, offering it to you, “That’s the thing I was meanin to ask ya, is there a reasonable explanation as to why it was the Dream Team who brought your body back here? All dramatic and not wantin to leave?”

You face flushed and you turned your head away from him, “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.” You brother said, moving to lean back against the wall.

You giggled nervously, “I guess it technically started when L’manburg was still fighting for independence...”

You told him of the strange glances during war councils, the way Nick had stopped in his tracks when he saw the way you looked forlorn at the burning wood, the way George found ways to sneak you trinkets signed ‘from someones special’, and the way you were never in any real danger during many battles.

You recalled your first real meeting with Dream after you had gained independence, the way he’d seemed so different then than at the signing of the peace treaty, the way that You’d received help replanting the forests, and the quiet still moments shared by the channel George almost unaware of your being there.

It was the first time you had really spoken about your lovers to anyone, and though it took a weight off your shoulders it added another as Techno subconsciously pulled out his axe and began to sharpen it.

“They wouldn’t hurt me, and the conflict that we shared was between the SMP Lands and L’manburg, not us.” You finished quietly.

Techno looked at you quizzically, “Your telling me Dream, the Dream, Mister Manhunts and smp and god among men Dream, would willingly put away his conflicts, his gains, his leverage, just for you?”

“For all of us.” You said firmly.

“That why he kept Tommy’s disks?”

“Tommy willingly gave up those disks for the country.” You muttered.

Your older brother ignored you, “That why he openly endorsed Shlatt as soon as your back was turned?”

You froze, pushing yourself to sit up, even as it made your head spin, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Shlatt’s key endorsement, you know, the endorsement given to the guy who was suppose to endorse Wil?” He watched as your face fell, before quietly starting out of the room, “I won’t tell either of them, but if Dream loses a life cause you find out it was true, don’t look my way.”

You fished your com tablet out of the pack that was lying next to your cot, ‘we need to talk.’

~~

“(y/n)! Thank god your okay!” Nick exclaimed, throwing his arms around you.

You hugged him back before turning to face Dream, “Why did you endorse Shlatt?”

He opened his mouth to say something but you cut him off, “And I don’t want a denial or an excuse, or- or any of that. I just want to know why you did it. Why you didn’t tell me?”

Shakily Dream pulled off his mask, looking you in the eye, “I didn’t mean to do anything that would hurt you. Technically I never publicly endorsed him, he took a piece of advice and ran with it to the people. If I had known he was going to do that I would’ve never talked to him in the first place. If I had known he was going to exile you, if he was going to take one of your lives I would have killed him where he stood with no hesitation.”

The mask shook his hand, and George gently took it from him, lacing there fingers together encouragingly.

“I know I fucked up talking to him but if he goes near you, or tries to get you exiled further, or anything like that, he’ll be dead. I- I will do what it takes to help you get L’manburg back.”

You bit your lip, still partially holding on to Nick, “Why did you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to add to the stress.”

“Also, you said Wilbur was getting suspicious, and you stopped talking to us for two days.” George pointed out.

You nodded, quietly rubbing at your eyes, “Uh, yeah, uh, so Techno knows.”

Nick stiffened, “What?”

“Technoblade knows about this- uh- us.”

“T- Technoblade, your brother, as in, The Technoblade, Mister violence, and blood god and technoblade never dies,  knows about us?” George gulped.

“He only threatened Dream, so don’t worry?” You said sheepishly.

Nick chuckled, “Wonderful, that means we get out with our heads and Dream gets to fight to the death.”

“I don’t see how that’s fair.” Dream pouted.

“Maybe I just thought it better to threaten you cause I know if I tried to take the other ones you’d come for me anyway.” Techno said, striding into the clearing.

The boys sat there looking at him for a moment before he sighed, turning to you, “You better get back inside ‘fore Wil goes insane. An’ you guys better clear out before Tommy sees you and goes berserk.”

Reluctantly your boyfriends nodded, quickly muttering goodbyes and leaving, only slightly in fear of Techno, and you turned to your brother with a sigh, “He can’t keep me locked up forever.”

“He’s worried. Paranoid even, thinks Shlatts gonna send someone to kill you again,” Techno explained, guiding you back towards one of the entrances of the cavern, “The stress is getting to him.”

~~

The days spent in Pogtopia began to blend together, the only memorable ones being the ones that were spent sneaking out and seeing your lovers, though you never excepted to see one of them within the cavern itself.

You had come down one of the narrow walkways of your new home, and when Tommy had grabbed your wrist, hissing “Dream is here! And he’s going to help Wilbur blow up L’manburg!” you were not nearly prepared to see him handing Wilbur a rather large bag.

Wilbur grinned wickedly, “This is perfect.”

“Wilbur,” Your little brothers voice was shaking, “Give me that tnt.”

Dream drew his sword, holding it up almost lazily in Tommy’s direction, “I’m going to have to step in on this one Tommy.”

You could see him smirking under the mask as you pushed Tommy behind you, “Wilbur what are you doing?”

“What needs to be done.” He said coldly, “If I can’t have Manburg no one can have Manburg!”

“And you think blowing up our home is the right move?” You said cautiously.

There was something different in Wilbur’s eyes, “No survivors.”

Techno watched this from his spot on the wall, “Wilbur I think we need to have a discussion, things like this take time to plan. (Y/n) why don’t you escort our guest out.”

You nodded sharply, starting towards the back of the cavern, “This way green boy.”

As soon as you got outside the cave you grabbed his wrist, shoving him against the rock wall, “What the fuck are you thinking?”

The now lopsided mask reviled his cocky smirk, “Shouldn’t this be the other way around?”

“Shut the fuck up! What are you thinking?”  You hissed.

“I’m helping you get back your L’manburg!” He sounded all too happy about it.

“By siding with him? He’s gone manic Clay! He’s fucking insane!”

Dream winced at the words, “He’s your brother. You have to side with him.”

“My brother is gone. I side with that man because I am loyal to my family, so long as Techno and Tommy are with him I am. If there was ever a time for you two to ever get along it would not be this.” You backed away from him.

“(y/n), I’m just trying to help.”

“I know,” You said softly, turning back to the cave entrance, “I’ll see you soon.”

~~

“Wars tomorrow.” George said quietly.

You nodded, carding your hand through his hair, “That it is.”

The month had passed quickly, and after the incident at the festival, and then Quackity’s meeting with Shlatt you seemed to have blinked and the eve of war was upon you.

You had snuck out, now spending your last night before the world changes again with your boys, huddled up together in one of the castles parapets. (It had been quite a shock to you when Dream dethroned Eret)

“We will be on different sides, how will this even play out?” Nick asked.

“Only time will tell.”

Dream, mask long since forgotten to the side, bit his lip, “(y/n), George, I want you to stay out of the fighting.”

“We can handle ourselves.” You argued.

“It’s George’s job to stay neutral, and you’re on your last life. None of us want to lose you.” He said softly, looking over Nick’s head at you.

“I will fight for my country. No one will stop me.”

“Even if Phil came back and told you not too?” Nick asked with a chuckle.

“Well-” You laughed, “I suppose it would depend.”

A while later, you began to head back to Pogtopia, your boys insisting on walking you back.

Upon reaching the cave you kissed each of them, “Until we see what tomorrow brings.”

They gave similar goodbyes, and you darted back into the cavern.

Coming around the corner someone grabbed your wrist, tugging it hard, and you came face to face with Wilbur, “Where the fuck were you?”

“uh- o- out.” You stuttered.

“Out with your boyfriends?” He taughtened, dragging you down through the cavern, past the new rooms that had been carved out recently, “When were you planning on telling us of this little fling?”

“What are you talking about?” Tears sprung to your eyes.

“Oh I know all about you and Dream and Sapnap and George! You and your fucking betrayal! Why the fuck would you try to betray me? I’m your brother!” He exclaimed, practically throwing you into a newly constructed cage.

You dug your nails into your palms, “Wilbur, please.”

“I know it was them who disconnected the TNT, who you keep sneaking out to meet, who you were conspiring against me with!” He locked the cage and you caught a glimpse of Techno, leaning against a wall looking down.

“Wil I never conspired against you!”

“We’ll see about that.” He hissed, “You’ll stay here until this is over. I may fail at regaining my L’manburg but I will not fail to kill those men.”

As he strode away you looked to Techno, “Techno what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry.” Was all he managed before hurrying away.

Tears began to stream down your cheeks as you looked around the abandoned alcove of the cavern, there was no getting out of this.

Quietly you pulled your com tablet from your sleeve, sending a messege to Phil, ‘dad I need help, Wil’s gone insane’

~~

You leaned against the bars of the cell, Pogtopia’s few members had long since left for the battle, and you were still here, trapped where Wilbur had left you, none of your boyfriends were responding to your pings, feeling utterly hopeless.

“(y/n)?” A yell echoed through the cavern.

“Phil!” You called desperately, “I’m in here!”

A few moments later your adoptive father appeared in the doorway, shocked upon seeing the locked cage and your tear stained cheeks, “(y/n).”

You nodded as he quickly began to work at the lock, pulling you into an embrace as soon as the cage opened.

“Dad,” You hiccupped, fighting back a new wave of tears, “He’s insane! He’s gonna try to blow up Manburg again! And he’s gonna try to kill them!”

“Who is?” He asked gently.

“Wilbur! He’s gone mad!”

Phil pulled away from you to look you in the eyes, “Are you sure?”

You nodded, sniffling.

Phil took a deep breath, looking around, “Okay, you get down to where they’re fighting, you try to keep Wilbur distracted once it’s over, I’ll try to think of something to stop the tnt.”

You nodded, quickly forcing yourself up, running out of the cavern.

You hurried through the woods, pushing yourself to go faster, making it to the crest of the hill as people flooded out of the van, cheering, people of Pogtopia, L’manburg and the SMP lands alike.

You charged down the hill, not seeing Wilbur standing to the side.

“Dream! Sapnap! George!” You yelled.

They turned to see you running at them, relived to see you okay, still not understanding the cryptic things Wilbur had been saying.

“(Y/n)-” Dream was cut off a yet another arrow planted its self in your back.

“Love?” You whispered, before crumpling to the ground.

They rushed forward, but it was too late, you were gone, and George early screamed, burring his face in an expressionless Nick’s shoulder.

Dream looked up at Wilbur, whos cross bow was still raised, utterly broken, “What the fuck have you done?”

[midnightsconspiracy]

Out Of The Blue

Out of the Blue - @midnightsconspiracy

Summary: After experiencing a hard day at work, your boyfriend decides to treat you to some of your favourite things. Although he may or may not have another surprise in store for you

Warnings: Non-Major Character Death

Word Count: 1683

Requested: Yes!

'What about one in which one of them had a horrible day at work and the other found out and decided to prepare a little surprise to make the day better? Just fluffy thing?'

A/N: Keep sending in your requests whilst my inbox is open and drop me a message if you're bored, id love to talk to some of you about Chicago PD, Med or Fire!! :)

Masterlist

Working at Chicago Med was stressful, to say the least. Every day was filled with what felt like hundreds of patients, running around to make sure you were taking care of them to the best of your ability. For the most part being an ED doctor with fulfilling, seeing people come in sick and come out good as new. But other times it was draining, either from being swept off your feet every minute of the day or doing all that you could for a person and it still not being enough. That was what had happened today.

You were content as you entered the ED that morning, having spent the night at your boyfriend’s. Everything about your relationship was absolutely perfect, with everyone around you noticing your positive change of mood since getting together with Hank. Walking towards the nurse's station to log into a computer, Maggie and April came over to greet you, both commenting on the large grin that plastered your face.

“Someones happy,” April teased, watching your cheeks glow, as you looked down in mock embarrassment.

“Couldn’t have anything to do with the Sergeant boyfriend of yours could it?” Maggie lowered her head as well, trying to catch your eyes to find the truth within them. Opening your mouth to reply, you were interrupted by an incoming patient being wheeled on a gurney, the paramedics beside it holding a grim look on their faces.

The patient turned out to be a six-year old girl, she had suffered severe trauma to multiple areas of her body, including broken ribs, a collapsed lung and a mild concussion. You immediately took the case, being the only ED doctor available at the moment, but also specialising in paediatrics alongside Dr Manning. Looking the girl over, you noted each of her injures, seeing it was consistent with a severe car accident, and proceeding to insert a needle into her lung to allow it to re-inflate, before sending her upstairs to the OR for surgery. To an adult, the injuries wouldn’t have been fatal, but for a girl this size, the extent of the trauma didn’t bode well for her chances of survival. Praying for her as she was wheeled up to surgery, you felt a tear come to your eye, hoping that this little girl would actually be able to live her life to the fullest. An hour had passed and you still hadn’t heard any news on the little girl, so instead of dwelling on it, you busied your mind, taking any patients Maggie would give you, from a broken leg to a baby with a fever. But finally, as you were leaving a low-level emergency case, your pager buzzed, signalling you to the PICU, nodding to Maggie on the way up, knowing it would be the girl who had just come out of surgery. Speaking to her surgeon, you waited for her anaesthetic to wear off, knowing it wouldn’t be too long because of the low dosage she was given. It seemed as though she had no family with her, either injured or dead from the car wreck and so you sat by her bed, not wanting her to be alone when she finally woke up.

As she woke, you held her hand, introducing yourself, trying to make her as comfortable as you could. You spoke to her for a long time, completely forgetting about your other duties downstairs, instead, trying to make her laugh, telling stories and attempting to get her to recall the events that had happened earlier that day. Building trust was important to you, knowing she would need someone who she was happy with before all the other doctors and DCFS got involved. But time got cut short as your pager once again demanded you downstairs to deal with another patient. Quickly saying goodbye, you dashed downstairs to deal a man with a GSW to the abdomen. Checking his wound thoroughly, you tended to it before sending him to specialists upstairs. Content with the job you had done, you continued with your work in the ED.

After your shift had finished, you headed upstairs to say a final goodnight to the girl, bringing a small teddy with you that you had purchased in the gift shop, hoping it would keep her company overnight before you returned the next day. But as you walked towards her room something didn’t seem right. The lights were turned off, the bed empty. Maybe she had just been moved to a different room or ward, you thought to yourself, knowing there was probably a good explanation for this. Turning towards the nurse on duty behind the desk, you questioned her on the whereabouts of your new friend.

“Didn’t you hear? She coded and was pronounced dead an hour ago. Sorry Doctor Y/LN, I thought someone would have told you already.” Staring at the women, your mouth dropped open, stumbling backwards a bit to brace yourself on the doorway behind. Tears fell from your eyes, why would the universe allow an innocent young child to be taken so earlier in their life? Moving back downstairs you felt numb, just wanting this tragic day to be over. You texted Hank telling him you were on your way back and that you had the most horrible day, not going into any details on how or why.

Unbeknownst to you, Hank was already preparing your favourite meals, as he knew you were already getting increasingly stressed at work when your text came in. He felt bad for you, knowing the type of tragedies you saw daily, experiencing similar in his line of work, completely aware of the repercussions people felt being surrounded by death constantly. On top of making dinner for you, your text had prompted him to drove to the store in order to go above and beyond to try and boost your mood, buying things he knew would make your day better. Returning home he had about ten minutes before you would be back to try and set everything up, rushing about the house making sure every individual detail was perfect for your return. The table was prepared beautifully, accessorised with fancy silverware and candles, that were flickering slowly, ready and waiting to provide you with a romantic dinner. He had bought you a bouquet of your favourite flowers, already placed in a vase of water so you wouldn’t have to deal with the fuss of it on your arrival, and rose petals scattered along the floor in the direction of the table to add an extra romantic touch. Finally, he had one more surprise for you, hidden away in his back pocket, one that was guaranteed to make you smile.

Pulling into the driveway you exited your car, noting the darkness within the house, uncommon for this time of night and the fact that Hank had said he would be in all evening. Opening the door you called out to him, hoping that he hadn’t been pulled into another case, spending the night in his office once again. But as you took off your coat to place it on the hook you noticed the flowers on the table, to be specific your favourite flowers. You called out to him again, hoping he would appear to explain what was happening. Looking up, he stood in the doorway, a slight smile on his face, as you finally looked round properly noticing the rose petals, candles and your favourite food on the table.

“You did this all for me?” You asked.

“Of course I did sweetheart, I know you’ve had it hard at work recently so I wanted to surprised you with some of your favourite things.” To most peoples surprise, Hank was a true romantic at heart despite the cold exterior he held, just wanting to pamper you and treat you like the queen you were. Whether that be buying you your favourite sweets or complimenting you whenever possible, he did everything in his power to make sure you were happy.

Leading you towards the dinner table, you both sat down, quickly making conversation about everything, except work, that being an unspoken rule between you. Conversation flowed easily, both of you just happy to be in the presence of each other once more. Dinner had been polished off, with Hank fetching the dessert from the fridge after as you uttered the millionth ‘thank you’ to him. You both tucked in, moaning at the flavour that tasted like heaven after the day you had had. Looking up you noticed your boyfriend's demeanour had changed, no longer joyful but instead nervous, staring at his hands in his lap.

“What’s wrong Hank?” You asked, worried you had done something to set off this mood change. Instead of replying he lifted his hands from his lap onto the table along with a velvet box, slowly opening it to reveal a ring.

“Y/N, I know we haven’t been together that long and we haven’t discussed this that much but I’m getting old, and whilst I was thinking about that, I realised you really are it for. I can't even imagine myself with someone else or not spending the rest of my days with you. So Y/N Y/LN will you marry me?” Tears pricked your eyes, never in a million years would you have expected this, but instead of being angry about it, you couldn’t think of anything you wanted more.

“Only if you do it properly and get down on one knee,” you countered, watching as he got off his chair and onto one knee.

“So will you?”

“Yes!” You exclaimed throwing yourself into his arms.

As the evening winded down, you laid in Hank's arms on your shared bed thinking about everything life had given you. You couldn’t have met anyone as perfect as the man beside you. The man you would spend the rest of your life with, bear children with and grow old with. So as you drifted off to sleep, you pictured the little girl, hoping she was in heaven looking down on your life and smiling

[genshin-impacted]

empress of the first water // Zhongli x Reader (1)

Word Count: ~2.2k

Palace/Harem Imperial Drama AU: You are a princess, soon-to-be-Empress, and Zhongli is the teacher invited by the royal court to show you the ropes before you ascend to the throne after a royal tragedy. 

Notes: female!reader, eventual mutual pining, fake political maneuvers, mentions of death (yes, this is a set up to a harem drama, but Zhongli is focused in this), Zhongli POV

[Next]

hello welcome to the AU I made up; hope I finish this someday :)

“You are unfit to lead this country.”

Not two weeks after a tragedy that hits the royal family, leaving you the sole heir to the throne, that is what has been said to you over and over again. The royal court adjourns without delay, placing you in the middle of it-- though you could care less.

You hold whatever you have been able to salvage from the fire: a necklace momento from your father, the dress that your mother had woven herself. And in your hands, you hold in an urn the ashes of what remains of your family. 

There is nothing else on your mind except for the fact that you are alone as the lone heir to the throne, the only living princess of the royal bloodline, and soon-to-be Empress of a nation that you are not prepared to lead.

You just want to mourn.

.

.

.

Zhongli has lived long enough to understand that politics will always be the determining factor in which his life will be led. It does not matter what he dreams of doing or what he desires. As the only born son to one of the oldest and most prestigious families in the nation, his life has never been his own-- though he supposed no one born of royalty has ever been truly in control of their path.

Still, Zhongli finds ways to play what cards he has. He earns praises for his wide array of knowledge in tradition, politics, and culture alike, but it is easy to know something if you are interested in it. He remembers vividly when Guizhong teased him, calling him an old soul when he delved personally into the traditions of tea ceremony, of calligraphy and poetry, out of his own volition because he enjoyed learning. His skills in the polearm-- also passed down in his lineage-- have also not been neglected, for he finds that it is similar to dancing, an elegant and respectful pastime that he often admires in operas and shows that he indulges himself in. If he could do anything with his life, Zhongli thinks he would be a writer or a teacher, or possibly even a historian.

("Old man," Guizhong had said to him affectionately for the last time before she left the compound to serve her duty as a princess, like many others. "One day you'll find yourself someone who listens to you and you'll talk their ear off."

"I doubt anyone would listen to what I have to say willingly," he had said, and his friend had only given him a soft look and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

"I don't," she said.)

It has been years since he has entertained the idea of living a quiet life writing his knowledge onto paper and even longer still since had long last seen his childhood friend. Zhongli finds himself in the fray of politics that he knows so much of and has no choice but to delve into when he is invited to the royal capital.

"It is a great honor," his father had said to him, hands behind his back, "to be meeting the Princess of the royal family. Make a good impression; this is of the utmost importance."

Political maneuver, Zhongli thinks immediately, not doubting the intention of an invitation coming from the palace, especially after the incident he has been told of. A fire of great destruction, the burning of a whole wing with the royal family trapped inside-- one would think it was a plot to overthrow the Emperor, but if anyone were to stage a coup, they would have burned the inner walls of the palace where the man resides, bedridden. A great coincidence to have the royal family unable to escape, but it almost seems too malicious to call it that. Gross neglect? Bad luck? Karma? Truly, a tragedy as the death of many could not be described worse than as an accident. 

Zhongli thinks it is much too early to be moving the chess pieces so soon after half the board has been razed to the ground, but he supposed the world has never been that kind.

With a trained expression, Zhongli picks up the tea that had been brewed and takes a sip (too bitter, stepped too long, he thinks, wincing slightly, and putting the cup down). "I understand, father." He pauses for a moment and considers his words. "Is there a particular reason for this invitation?"

"The Princess is in need of education due to her lack of preparation as an heir," he says, "though I also hear she is in need of a husband as well."

The tea leaves in the cup trembles for a moment before sinking. "Father?"

"This is an opportunity of a lifetime, son."

And Zhongli thinks about his role, his abandoned journal, and books yet to be read and nods. "I understand," he says, wondering why, even though he expects where his life has been leading, he feels disappointed by the outcome anyway. "I will bring honor to our family."

"I expect nothing less," is what is said to him, and Zhongli swallows the bitterness of the tea down.

.

.

When Zhongli arrives at the palace, he is welcomed with all the excitement that is to be expected from the arrival of a son whose family holds prestige. Maids of many numbers cater to his every whim, and the few court officials who seem to favor him welcome him to the royal palace, which is broad and grand just as history would describe them. 

Briefly, he wonders if it is professionalism or greed that maintains the palace’s daily businesses after an evident tragedy.

"I would like to extend my greetings and gratitude to the princess for allowing me in her castle," Zhongli says carefully, his voice even and words like silk-- just as he was taught as an educated man-- and watches in confusion as the nobleman who had barely kept his pleasure at his presence suddenly deflate. 

"Ah, yes, of course, you would like to see the Princess," he says, a nervous lilt to his voice. "But I'm afraid she is preoccupied with another commitment at the moment. My apologies."

Invitation from the Princess, he remembers reading from the telegram, thinking it strange that someone would invite someone without intentions of welcoming them. It's easy to come to the conclusion that the Princess had not sent the message-- and the thought that she may not even know of his arrival also comes following after. Instead of speaking, Zhongli nods, much to the noble's relief as he continues to parade and provide him the tour that he has not asked for but appreciates nevertheless.

His room is two halls down the main chambers where you live. If the location and proximity to royalty were not enough, the room itself was also vast and much too big for one person, but he supposes luxury and decadence can be shown in empty space as well as it can with beautiful trinkets and trophies. Zhongli has always admired such things, as he does with the ornate statue sitting on top of his vanity and wonders when, if he ever does, he will be able to explore the castle in between whatever responsibilities the court deems him in need for.

"Maid," Zhongli says gently, but the young maid startles anyway when he addresses her. 

"Yes, sir?"

"Would I be allowed to stroll the gardens of the west side of the palace?" He says, "The moon is to be full tonight and I wish to view it."

She flushes, for reasons that Zhongli knows not for. "I-I believe so. The guards should be patrolling at the moment, but you are a recognized guest of the palace, so all should be well."

When Zhongli steps out onto the carefully maintained rock garden, he spots a few men walking down and up the inner walls of the castle. He briefly thinks about the number of them but thinks no further, for now. Instead, he thinks the moon is best viewed when its reflection is in the water, clouds are nowhere in sight, and all is quiet. He comes close to the perimeter of the garden inner castle, expecting to see no one. 

Zhongli steps into the moonlight and watches as you sit onto the grass and lean your head against the lone lantern post.

Perhaps you are here to moon-gaze as well, he thinks and goes to alert you with his presence by clearing his throat. He doesn't know why his earnest attempts to be unalarming go unwell, but he startles you into turning around. 

Zhongli does not know what the Princess looks like, nor has he had anyone describe you to him. But Zhongli knows who you are if not solely from the emblem you carry on your headpiece and the way you hold a funeral urn in your lap like it is the only thing tethering you. As such, he expects the caustic demands of his name and stature, as expected of a Princess, but he is surprised to find that you look at him instead like a deer in headlights, arms tense around the urn.

"My apologies for startling you, my lady," Zhongli begins, "that was not my intention."

"Oh, no, it's okay," you stammer, and he has to blink for a moment at the manner in which you speak. "I should have probably noticed you coming. I was distracted."

Princesses and princes of the royal family are taught three things from birth: power, manners, and tradition. Nothing says more about your status than the way you hold yourself and the way you speak, especially if you are of royalty, and so every word that one must speak seems carefully crafted and intricately woven with elegance. A tad bit obnoxious, if anyone could say, but it is a mark of the elite, regardless of the former. 

But you, who hold possibly one, if not the most, powerful title in the country, speak casually and without bothering with a mask of neutrality, as though you are unused to the burdens of sovereignty.

Your eyes are gentle, almost excessively so, and the way you hold yourself as though you want to be unnoticed are both strange but corroborating evidence of your peculiarities of a noblewoman. Though Zhongli has yet to understand why this is so, the instructions his father listed and his role in the castle has become clearer.

Zhongli has many questions, too many to ask about to a person who has no idea who he is. 

Decorum takes him before his curiosity overwhelms him, and he lowers his head in deep respect. "My name is Zhongli, Princess. Thank you for allowing me to stay as a guest within the palace.”

"Oh," he hears you breathe out, "you're the one that came today." You turn your head toward the koi pond that beautifully reflects the moon. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to greet you," you say mechanically, trained.

"No, that's quite alright," Zhongli says mildly, glancing down at the urn still in your hands. "I'm sure greeting a stranger would be the least of your concerns at the moment."

At this, you smile at him. It is not a happy smile, but rather a pained one that strains your lips and pinches your eyes. Zhongli thinks back on his first lesson to maintain his expression, to keep composure, and almost marvels at the emotions clear on your face for him to see. 

(He thinks this may make your life harder for you, to wear your heart on your sleeves. But he finds himself selfishly wanting you to stay as you are.)

"I've been told one week is all I should be given to mourn, as typical of a funeral ceremony. My parents' ashes should be released but…" You glance up at the night sky dim with stars. "I know in my heart this is not the place for them."

"Then what is the place?" Zhongli echoes and holds his breath when the smile you give him is gentle beyond measure.

"Some place where the wind blows," you say, "where the earth is clean and the ocean is near. That way, my parents can choose freely where to find rest." You laugh. "That must be a pretty tall order, isn't it?"

"You are a Princess," Zhongli finds himself saying, and you turn back to him. "I believe you are allowed to demand only the very best, for yourself and your loved ones."

"I believe," he continues, when he sees your eyes mist over, "that I am here to tutor you in the ways the court deems fit. I have been praised to have a wealth of knowledge and the privilege of history in my family as well as the power of my lineage; I will guide you as best as you need me to." He pauses. "And… if you require a geographical lesson on the highest peaks, the widest oceans, and the most open plains, for reasons beyond academic, I will be available to you."

.

.

.

Zhongli returns to his room (two halls away, he reminds himself, from you), and it is only then he realizes that he has not looked at the moon at all. Not directly, he thinks, but he supposes he did see a glimpse of it, as it stands behind you as a backdrop to frame the smile you gave him that was as bright as starlight.

[incorrectbandofbrothersquotes]

You Better, You Better, You Bet - Chapter 3

The Wildest Times of the World

Ron Speirs x Juliet Fletcher

Summary: Juliet Fletcher reaches a breaking point in her life. When she is at her absolute lowest, she meets Ron Speirs, and something happens between them that neither of them will ever forget.

Word Count: 4.9k

Tag List: @vintagelavenderskies @how-are-those-nuts-sarge​ @iilovemusic12us @hesbuckcompton-baby @tvserie-s-world @whovian45810 If you’d like to be added, let me know!

A/N: Sorry this update took so long! But I hope y’all enjoy it :)

Warning(s): none :)

Chapter 1  Chapter 2

AO3 link

Chapter 3 let’s go!

Three chilly October days after Ron’s abrupt departure from London - which Juliet was still seething about - she arrived home from the store to a different person she expected to never hear from again. Lottie stood at the front door, muttering to herself about whether or not to knock. Juliet was especially surprised because it was raining, which would have normally kept the editor indoors if she could help it. Juliet watched a moment, not wanting to give away her presence immediately. It satisfied her to watch Lottie fret like this. After a few moments, Juliet caved and cleared her throat. 

Lottie gasped as she whipped around, clutching at her chest. “Heaven's sake, Juliet! How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long,” Juliet said, intentionally vague. “Can I help you, Lottie?” 

“Well…” Lottie hesitated, shifting her weight and toying with the fingertips of her gloves. “Shall we go in? I really need to speak to you.” 

Juliet decided not to comment on Lottie’s self-invite into the house. She figured with no other job openings popping up, this could be her opportunity to try and gain back some favor at the London Pursuit. She couldn’t imagine that Lottie was here for a personal reason. That was not the sort of manager she was. 

Once inside, Lottie followed Juliet to the kitchen - again, kindly not saying anything about the state of the house. Juliet set her grocery bags on the table before taking her coat off. Lottie shrugged hers off as well, removed her hat and gloves, and took a seat. 

“Cuppa?” Juliet offered. 

“Sure,” Lottie replied. 

Juliet put the kettle on. Then she started unloading the bags. 

“So, what did you want to speak to me about?” she asked, trying to sound as casual as she could. 

“It’s the Albourne story,” Lottie said, voice tight, almost like she was spitting the words out. “All the other reporters are too busy to cover it. And if I have to go through the process of hiring someone new, we won’t get it in time.” 

“I’ve already told you, I think it’s -”

“You needn’t remind me of your insolent remarks,” she snapped. 

Juliet sighed, picked up a can of beans and placed it slowly in the cupboard, forming as polite a response as she could muster. But Lottie beat her to the next word. 

“If you agree to cover this story, I’ll let you cover the war down there,” she said. 

Juliet almost slammed the cupboard door shut in surprise. “What?” 

“You can cover the war news from there,” Lottie repeated. 

“Do you know something the rest of us don’t?” Juliet returned. “Because if you know the Germans are in Aldbourne and you haven’t said anything until now, you might be in trouble, Lottie.”

Lottie rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean, Juliet. The Americans are there, you could write about them.” 

Juliet bit back the snappy retort she had about that, and dialed it down. “Fascinating as the Yanks are, I reckon they’re not doing much actual fighting in Aldbourne. Unless you mean brawling in pubs.”

The English had almost adjusted to the American presence by now. However, Juliet had slipped out of more than one pub after a fight broke out between some bright-eyed, blue-blooded American who spoke too boldly about their importance in the war effort and an Englishman who naturally took offense to the effort of “our own lads” being minimized. It escalated. Drinks were thrown, followed shortly by fists. Others jumped in to either assist or attempt to separate the combatting parties, only to get swept up in the action either way. It was entertaining, sure, but Juliet thought it made rather a mockery of the term “Allies.” 

“They’re doing something there,” Lottie insisted. “And I give you full permission to try and find out what. As long as you cover the story about the girl as well.” 

“Observing Americans isn’t really covering the war, and you know it, Lottie,” Juliet said. 

“I’m not sending a woman to the front line, there would be a mob at the office door,” Lottie said. “I personally don’t care if you want to go and get yourself shot, but your blood cannot be on my hands.”

Juliet had to concede that point. Other papers had already suffered the ramifications of sending women reporters even within the vicinity of the front. There were boycotts led by counter-feminist groups and concerned mothers about the message it sent about women’s roles. It was one thing for women to work while men fought the war, but to put them in the line of fire? That was just indecent. 

“Well, good to know my life isn’t as much of your concern as public opinion,” Juliet joked.

Lottie frowned. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Relax, Lottie, I’m taking the piss,” Juliet returned with a wave of her hand. 

She paused, mulling over the offer Lottie was bringing. She wasn’t in much of a position to refuse work, but the idea of covering that gruesome story was almost too much to bear. Even if she was a bit interested in what the Americans were doing. Then, something else crossed her mind. 

“Why do you want this covered so badly?” she asked. 

Lottie’s face flushed and her mouth drew tight, which Juliet understood to mean the reason would not be to her liking. She braced herself. 

“A family friend is with the Wiltshire police,” Lottie admitted. “He thinks it would look good for the department to solve a case like this and put the murderer away. And to have the press cover it, especially a London paper with circulation throughout the country.”

Juliet couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. “You’re killing me, Lottie.” 

“This is the deal I’m offering,” Lottie sighed. “I know you’re opposed to it, but this is the compromise I’m willing to make.”

 Juliet considered her options. She did need the money. But the subject matter and the reasoning were so against her ideals and ethics as a journalist. How could she live with herself if she broke them for money? But there was her mother to consider as well. Which brought up another objection. 

“Even if I wanted to,” she said. “I can’t. It leaves no one here to look after Mum.” 

“I thought you had a brother,” Lottie returned. 

“He lives on Guernsey,” Juliet reminded her, minding her tone so she wouldn’t sound too bitter. “Otherwise, I’m certain he’d be here.”

Lottie shifted uncomfortably. “I apologize. I forgot.”

“S’fine,” Juliet replied.  

“Can’t you hire someone to look after your mother?” Lottie asked. 

Juliet only raised a disbelieving eyebrow at her - as if to say, “you’ve seen the house, you think we can afford help?” Lottie understood the implication. 

“What if…” Lottie trailed off, considering. “What if I hired someone to look after her?”

Juliet blinked. “That’s...generous of you, Lottie, but I’d never be able to pay you back or -”

“Don’t worry about that,” Lottie said. “I want this story and - believe it or not - I want it done well. I know you’ll handle it as tastefully as possible and you could really show that -” 

She was cut off by the kettle screeching its completion to boil, so Juliet went to take it off the burner and fetch some tea cups. She poured the tea and served it, and Lottie thanked her quietly, almost abashed by her admission to decency. But there was something more. 

“Really show what?” Juliet pressed.

Lottie heaved a defeated sigh. Like admitting this was something that exasperated her. “That women can handle tough topics. It’s not covering the war, but it’s a step in that direction.” 

Juliet couldn’t help but agree. If women could handle murder and the investigation surrounding it, surely women could be seen as sensible enough to tackle tragedy on a larger scale. They weren’t going to faint at the sight of blood or burst into tears over sentimentality. She couldn’t help herself. Juliet wanted to be part of that narrative. 

“Lottie, I’m surprised at you,” she teased. “I didn’t take you for such a feminist.” 

Lottie’s jaw dropped and she gaped at Juliet, totally affronted at the suggestion. “I am no such thing!” 

Juliet shrugged, unfazed. “Yeah, I probably wouldn’t be either if I had your tits.” 

Lottie could only sputter in response and Juliet snickered before sipping her tea.

“Juliet!” Lottie scolded. 

“I’ll do it,” Juliet said suddenly. 

Lottie closed her mouth, stunned. “You’ll - you’ll do the story?” 

“Yes,” Juliet assured her, smiling. “You’ve given me a real reason to. And if there’s someone here to look after Mum and I can get a bit of war news as well, then what choice do I have but to say yes? You drive a hard bargain, Lottie.”

Lottie’s relief was palpable. “Thank you, Juliet. Really.” 

“When do I go?” Juliet asked. 

“There’s a train to Aldbourne tomorrow morning at nine,” Lottie said. 

“I’ll be on it.” 

***

Aldbourne was probably a village that once called itself sleepy. But now it was overrun by Americans - mostly paratroopers - which created an upheaval the likes of which many residents had never seen before. There was life in the town. The Women’s Land Army, or “land girls” as they were called, were taking full advantage of the flirting opportunities that arose with these American men, who lacked British decorum and were therefore prime targets for a fling. As Juliet walked from the station to her lodgings, with all the people mulling through the heart of the village, she found it almost hard to believe she was there to report on a murder. 

Lodgings were difficult to come by with the Americans billeted in just about any space they could fit. Even horses were having to share their stables. But Lottie pulled some strings and got Juliet a room above the Blue Boar, a pub. She wasn’t sure how much sleep she’d really be able to get with the noise of a pub below her, but she didn’t dare complain. Not when she was one step closer to getting what she wanted. 

The owner was a portly, older gentleman by the name of Jacob Powell. His kind, round face welcomed Juliet warmly, and she was grateful for the reception. She didn’t want to infringe too much on his hospitality, so she refused a cup of tea for the moment, insisting she needed to get unpacked and to the police station as soon as possible. 

“Oh, yeah, that's a gruesome business about the little girl,” Jacob said. “Are you really going to write a story about it?” 

“I’m no Agatha Christie or anything, but I’m going to do my best,” she returned, keeping her tone light. She wasn’t in the habit of discussing a story with just anyone. 

He shook his head. “It’s just a right shame.”

“Concisely put, Mr. Powell,” she replied. “If you’ll excuse me.” 

“Right, sorry,” he said bashfully, and he reminded her that the offer for tea still stood if she changed her mind before closing the door behind him. 

First, Juliet set down her suitcase with her clothes. Second, she heaved her typewriter onto the desk in the corner of the room. It was beside the one window that looked out onto the street. Juliet approved of the set up since she liked natural light while she wrote. She got her things exactly where she wanted them, but hadn’t bothered to remove her hat and coat since she was going right back out. Securing her notebook, pen, and room key, she left. 

The police station was one of the dullest she’d ever seen. Given the nature of the town, it didn’t surprise her. Lottie’s contact was Otis Allen, a lieutenant in the Wiltshire Police, who was still in Aldbourne to lead the investigation. He was a tall, thin man, with kind blue eyes and straw-like blonde hair. Rather unimposing for being in law enforcement. But Juliet observed right away the misshapen mound where his right ear should have been. He mentioned it before she had the opportunity to ask. 

“Sorry about the grisly ear,” he said. “My gift from the Germans last time they had a go at us.”

“A bit rude,” she teased. “Flowers would have suited just fine, I think.” 

He chuckled at that as he gestured for her to take a seat across from him at his desk. With that, she noticed a gnarled hand - the few fingers he had left were permanently curled under themselves. He disguised it fairly well with a glove, but she saw anyway. 

“Those Jerries really overdid it on the gifts,” she remarked. “I bet it wasn’t even your birthday.”

He fully laughed at that and she noticed his expression softened. When they’d met, he’d been a bit rigid, but his muscles relaxed now, put at ease by her gentle humor. 

“Thanks for that,” he said. 

She cocked her head to the side. “For what?”

“For the jokes,” he answered. “Ever since that war, all I get are pitying looks or fear. Thanks for treating it like it’s...normal.” 

“I’ll leave pity to the nurses,” she said with a smile. “Now, what have you got so far on the case?”  

He went over the basics with her. In September, a six-year-old girl, Peggy Lee, was drowned in the tub, allegedly by her host, Meredith Fisher. Peggy had been with the Fisher’s since January with no reported issues. When Peggy did not arrive for school the next day, her teacher phoned the Fisher’s home with no answer. They chalked it up to Peggy being ill or some other explainable matter, and moved on. When she was absent the following day as well, they called again, and Meredith told them that yes, Peggy was ill, and could not come to school for a few days. Ashley Fisher, Meredith’s husband, was in London on business at the time, and when he returned at the end of the week, found Peggy’s body and called the police. Meredith claimed initially there was an accident, but evidence from Peggy’s autopsy proved foul play was involved. Juliet took fervent notes as Otis explained it all, trying not to get disgusted by the whole thing. 

“Where is Mrs. Fisher being held now?” Juliet asked. “Surely not here in Aldbourne.” 

“‘Course not, she’s in Trowbridge,” Otis assured her. “Mr. Fisher is here though, if you’d like to speak to him.” 

She blinked. “Is he an expert on the case or something?”

“Well, no -”

“Then what insight could he possibly give me?” 

“He’s a witness,” he reminded her. 

“Investigators and lawyers question witnesses,” she said. “I need facts from experts to put the story into context. His testimony would only sway readers' emotions, and that’s not what I’m after.” 

He smiled. “Well. You’re not like any reporter I’ve ever met.” 

“I should hope not,” she returned. “I’m not covering this for the sensation. Why do you think I haven’t asked you where the Lee family is?”

His eyebrows went up a ways on his forehead. “You’re not going to interview them at all?”

She shook her head. “Nope. An interview with them is even less useful than an interview with Mr. Fisher. They weren’t even witnesses.” 

His eyes sparkled as he looked at her. “Right. Emotional appeal instead of factual.”

“Exactly,” she said. “And besides, I’m sure the last thing they need right now is some reporter sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.” 

“I like you, Miss Fletcher,” he said simply. “You’ve got...surprising respect for this. And a good head on your shoulders.” 

Juliet forced a smile to swallow her question if he’d be surprised by her if she were a man. She didn’t know where her control came from during interviews, but she was grateful for it. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said. “Lottie told me the goal was to get this story widely circulated, and I truly believe that’s possible with the facts alone. I don’t believe in patronizing the audience to get their attention.” 

“You’ve got more faith in people than I do,” he scoffed. “But I like your style. I look forward to working with you.” 

“The feeling is mutual,” she returned. She did like Otis, even if he had briefly underestimated her. “Tomorrow I’ll be able to meet with the doctor who conducted the autopsy, yes?” 

“Yes,” he confirmed. “The prosecution is having a psychiatrist evaluate Mrs. Fisher this week, so I’ll keep you updated on that as well.” 

“I’d love an interview with the prosecutor too, if that’s possible,” she said. 

“I’ll speak to him about it,” he told her. “Have a good evening, Miss Fletcher.” 

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” 

They shook hands before she parted. She made her way back to the Blue Boar, dodging GIs all along the way. They were winding down for the day, it seemed, going for runs, dates, or drinks, depending on their mood. She got a whistle or two, which she ignored, mentally going over her notes. She was also relieved she wasn’t going to have to fight Otis on how to do the story. She really was getting free reign on how to put this all together, and she was excited by the opportunities that meant for her. 

Her excitement was sucked away when she reached the Blue Boar and found her things had been hurled onto the street. Her mouth fell open. She had only just arrived, what on earth could she have done?

She marched toward the door, straightening up to her full height, prepared to demand an answer from Jacob. But she didn’t have to go far, he met her at the doorway, blocking her entrance with a glower on his face that could have melted snow. 

“What’s the meaning of this?!” she demanded. 

“I don’t want any of your sort staying in my establishment!” he shot back. “Did you think you could fool me?! I read the papers!”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” she returned. “What papers?!” 

He pulled a rolled up newspaper out of his back pocket and threw it at her. She caught it and opened it with a snap. She recognized it as a society gossip periodical that she usually tried to avoid. On the side of the page, she read the headline “ARTHUR BURNS’ EX-FIANCE TURNS LADY OF THE EVENING?” with a photo of her leaving the hotel she’d met Ron in, looking furious as she absolutely was that day. Her heart dropped as she read the copy beneath. 

Desperate times must truly call for desperate measures, it began. Juliet Fletcher, 31, who just earlier this year was scorned by Arthur Burns when he terminated their engagement, was spotted leaving a hotel after a rendezvous with a mysterious American. The receptionist, who wished to remain anonymous, said Fletcher returned the following day, found the Yank gone, and stormed out, seething. 

‘It was clearly a dispute over money,’ the receptionist said. ‘They left the hotel together early in the morning, and she came back in the evening after he’d checked out. She was so sneaky about what she needed, I knew it couldn’t be anything respectable. And then to be as furious as she was about his leaving, it was obviously about an unpaid sum.’

Could it be that Miss Fletcher has fallen into disgrace after Mr. Burns left her? Could it be that she needed additional income after becoming accustomed to the Burns lifestyle? What else could possibly drive her to stoop to such lows? 

The Burns family refused to comment for this story, and Miss Fletcher herself appears to be out of town at the moment. And who can blame her?

“Oh, this is ridiculous!” she cried. “It isn’t true!”

“Pictures don’t lie, missy,” Jacob practically spat. “Now clear off from my property or I’ll have the police on you!”

A small crowd had gathered to watch the confrontation unfold. Doubtless, the raised voices had drawn attention to them, but Juliet could not bring herself to care. The injustice of it made her blood boil. She squared her shoulders and planted her feet. 

“It’s not true, you idiot!” she shouted. “This paper is known for misrepresenting the people they write about!” 

“I said - CLEAR OFF, YOU!” he roared. 

She scowled at him as fiercely as she could manage, but he slammed the door in her face. Head held high, she went and snatched her things off the ground, slinging them onto her shoulders before facing him again. 

“THIS ISN’T OVER!” she hollered back. When she turned on her heel and saw the Aldbourne residents watching with avid interest, she snapped at them too. “Should we have sold tickets?! Mind your business, people!” 

Properly scolded, they scattered like roaches. Juliet heaved a sigh, wondering where to point her feet. Fuming, she considered parking herself outside the door and shouting until Jacob had no choice but to hear her out, but she couldn’t risk arrest. Not when she was relying on the police as sources for her story. 

Her thoughts were completely interrupted when a platoon of paratroopers jogged across the square from where she stood. Leading them was the man Juliet held solely responsible for all her troubles as of late - Ron Speirs. She told herself not to get distracted by the sweat on his brow or the way his backside looked in the little shorts he had on, and focus on what mattered. He was getting away with what had happened - or rather not happened - while she was publicly shamed. Abandoning her bags, she hurtled after the platoon, catching up with surprising speed in her heels. 

“HEY!” she bellowed. 

The whole platoon stuttered in their cadence, and the few in the back turned their heads at the sound of her voice. Ron either didn’t hear her, or ignored her, and she wasn’t sure which was more infuriating. She gained on them. Taking a deep breath, she prepared to get louder, absolutely refusing to be ignored. 

“RONALD SPEIRS!” she yelled. 

He called his men to a halt, stopping alongside them and turning to face her. He blinked in surprise at the sight of her - he had evidently not expected her here - but he didn’t say anything right away. She caught her breath as she marched up to him. This time, she was ready, wallet in her coat pocket. She whipped it out and brandished it like a sword. 

“No one pays me a kindness and gets away with it!” she shouted, popping the wallet open and fishing out the bills she owed him. “That,” she slapped the first few onto his chest, and he caught them before they fluttered to the ground. “Is for my half of the hotel room!” She did not acknowledge the snickers that went through the platoon, and then forced a second handful of money into his hand. “And that is for the potatoes and cab fare!” 

He looked levelly at her. “I really didn’t expect to be -” 

“I don’t care what you expected!” she continued. “You left me to look like a prize idiot!” 

He glanced at his platoon, who were murmuring to each other as speculation began about how their lieutenant knew this strange woman. 

“I’d rather have this conversation in private if it’s all the same to you,” he said. 

“It’s not all the same to me, you punk!” She accentuated this with a shove to his arm. He didn’t move, but it made her feel better. “You humiliated me in front of the stupid hotel girl, which has now resulted in me losing my lodgings, so yeah, I’m going to stand here and embarrass you in front of your little mates!” 

“Juliet -” 

“How dare you leave before I could pay you back!” she went on fiercely. “You said you’d be there! You lied right to my face! Like a - a - a liar!” 

“Eloquently said,” he returned. 

“I don’t need your wise-ass remarks!” 

“Settle down.” 

“I WILL NOT SETTLE DOWN!” 

Her face was red with how much yelling she’d been doing, so she took a deep breath to collect herself. She felt a tingle in her throat, so she tried to clear it. 

“I’m going to, though,” she said. “Not because you told me to, but because my voice is getting hoarse.” 

He stared at her for a beat. “Okay. Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“The receptionist at the hotel in London spoke to a gossip columnist about seeing us together,” she said. “Now, the owner of the Blue Boar says he won’t have one of ‘my sort’ in his rooms.” 

“I see,” he said with a nod. “I’ll sort it out.”

“No, I can’t owe you another favor,” she returned. 

“So you just came over here to yell at me?” he asked, to clarify. 

“And pay you back!” she insisted. “Now that’s been accomplished, we can part ways and I’ll never speak to you again. Starting now.” 

“Juliet -” 

“Starting now!”

With that, she turned on her heel and stormed away. He watched her go for a moment, enjoying the way her skirt swished around her legs, the shape of which he enjoyed more than he cared to admit. Shaking his head to clear it, he faced his men again. He noticed the stifled laughter behind their hands and smirks on their faces.

“Something funny?” he snapped with a scowl. 

They straightened up and muttered quick “no, sir”s under his glare. 

“Good, we’ve got a run to finish,” he said. 

They continued down the road. But Ron knew just what he was going to do afterward. 

***

Night fell over Aldbourne like a frigid shadow. Juliet, with aching feet and chattering teeth, took shelter in a phone booth across from the Blue Boar, having scoured the village for anywhere else to stay to no avail. And she was not a moment too soon in closing the booth door. Just seconds after she did, a soft rain began to patter against it. 

She needed to call Lottie and see what her options were. She couldn’t stay in Aldbourne without a room, but that put everything on hold. She pushed the coins into the slot and called Lottie at home, adding guilt to her weariness. 

“Hello?” came Lottie’s voice after just two rings, which relieved Juliet a little since it meant she was not in bed already. 

“Lottie, it’s Juliet,” Juliet said. “Look, something’s happened and your friend Jacob’s given me the boot.” 

“What?” Lottie questioned. “Why?” 

“Some stupid fucking article accusing me of being a prostitute,” Juliet snapped. 

“There’s no need for that kind of language,” Lottie replied coolly. 

Juliet hesitated a beat. “Okay, given the nature of what I said, I’m not sure if you’re referring to ‘fuck’ or ‘prostitute.’”

“Both,” Lottie said, and before Juliet could protest, she went on. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

Juliet explained everything - that her arrival went fine, but at some point during her interview with Otis, Jacob had read that article about the hotel nonsense, and had refused to let her back inside. 

“Now I’m stuck in a phone booth,” she finished. 

A beat passed and Juliet feared for a fleeting second that her time had run out. She dug in her pocket for more coins, but Lottie spoke again. 

“So...what were you doing in a hotel room with an American?” she asked. 

“That’s your takeaway from everything I just said?!” Juliet cried, incredulous. “Lottie, I’m exhausted and freezing, I need a place to stay or a ticket home!” 

“Was it something indecent?” Lottie pressed.

“No!” Juliet returned. “Look, I got drunk, I almost got hurt, and he just looked after me for the night, but nothing happened, I swear. Believe me, he’s the last man on Earth I’d ever want to shag, even if he is ridiculously good loo-”

She stopped suddenly and whipped around when she heard a knock on the door. There he stood. Ronald Speirs, looking expectantly at her. 

“Son of a BITCH!” she swore, stamping her foot. 

“I beg your pardon!” Lottie gasped. 

“Must go, Lottie, my mystery American has returned,” Juliet said through clenched teeth. “Aldbourne’s about to have another murder on its hands.” 

She hung up harshly, slamming the phone down before Lottie could protest. Then she wrenched the door and faced him, eyes blazing. She opened her mouth, preparing to dismiss him completely, but he beat her to the punch. 

“Jacob changed his mind,” he said. “You can have your room back.” 

She deflated and blinked at him in surprise. “I said I didn’t want -”

“Do you want a bed for the night or not?” he cut across her. 

Her drained muscles screamed at her to agree, but her pride was stronger. She started to refuse him again. 

“Buy me a drink, and we’ll call it even,” he said, as if reading her mind. 

“That’s not really the same,” she argued. 

“I didn’t go out of my way,” he told her. “The Blue Boar is where the officers drink. It came up, I explained, simple as that.” 

“Okay, one drink.” She held his gaze. “And then we’ll never speak again.”

He looked into her eyes, so long and so intensely, in any other context she would have thought he might kiss her. But he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t do anything. He just shrugged, turned, and walked back toward the pub. She didn’t totally blame him since the rain was beginning to come down harder. With a defeated sigh, she scrambled to collect her things and followed him. 

[ethereal-blossom]

Hi, I could ask for scenarios and headcanons for dazai, chuuya, kunikida, akutagawa when they go on missions and their s / o stays home with their child. where the toddler gets a high fever. s / o is very unsettled, bombarding with phones but they don't answer. s / o is a wife, thank you very much☺️😌

a/n: oh, a mix between angst and fluff! i love it ❤ i hope you don’t mind that i split the request in two 🙈 i changed my scenario limit to two, because they take longer to make than headcanons. i decided to make an ada part and a pm part. i hope you enjoy part one🦋 part two

🚨warning(s): slight angst

masterlist

dazai: 0.9k+ | kunikida: 0.8k+

dazai could feel his heart beating in his throat, but not for the reason you would expect from a man who was the target of fire shots. kunikida and him being surrounded by armed men wasn't dazai's biggest concern in the slightest. instead, they were obstacles.

dazai's phone rang again for the fifteenth time in the last few minutes. he could feel it vibrating in his pocket, yet your phone calls had never been this much out of reach before.

it was a rare thing for dazai to feel distress during missions, but this was the exception. the image of his sick baby girl haunted his vision and dazai lowered his head. he had observed how tired his daughter looked before leaving: there was no doubt in his mind that you were calling him about your angel.

nevertheless, dazai had no choice but to go on the emergency mission after the president himself had called him. before he went, dazai had asked you to call him if things escalated. the only thing dazai desired at this very moment was to go home to his wife and daughter.

the bullets flying around his head weren't allowing it though.

the mission continued for another halve hour. that were thirty minutes filled with worry. the phone calls and the messages had stopped for now. however, dazai couldn't figure out if it was something to be relieved about or not. it was one of those peculiar moments in which dazai couldn't predict what had happened, mainly because of the white panic that blinded his mind.

kunikida opened his mouth to speak to his partner, but he changed his mind quickly after seeing the look on dazai's face. "what's wrong, dazai?"

"y/n tried to contact me." it was the only thing dazai could say at the moment. his phone was stuck to his right ear and your panicked voice made his heart go numb. announcing that he would leave immediately, dazai rushed back home to you and your daughter.

now it was his time to call you. 

___ 

dazai stopped before your house. he allowed himself for a few seconds to control his breath and then entered your house as the calmness itself.

it was a relief you had picked up the phone when dazai tried to reach you. only you would have sensed the panicked tone in dazai's voice, which is why you had immediately ensured him that everything was okay.

dazai followed your voice that came from the bedroom of your little monkey. the girl spotted her father straight away and called out his name. her opened arms welcomed the tender figure of her dad's body.

a sigh of relieve left your lips when you saw how tight dazai hugged your daughter. everything was okay. you looked at dazai who was kneeling in front of his daughter. his facial expression radiated calmness, but you could tell something was off. "how are you feeling, little monkey?" dazai asked his daughter.

"i was feeling really sick! but mommy took care of me," she replied and then she pouted. "i'm really tired though."

the next few minutes dazai was asking questions about what happened: which symptoms she experienced, how she was feeling now, what you did to lighten up the symptoms- he tried to remember everything what mori had told him about the human body and its illnesses. relieve washed over your husband once he realized that everything was indeed fine. "mommy is going to get a glass of water for you, okay?" dazai looked at you from the corner of his eyes. you responded with a nod and left the room.

dazai kissed his daughters hairline and she giggled. however, his lips tingled. a fever indeed. dazai cupped his daughter's burning cheeks and caressed her skin with his thumb. he looked her in the eyes, her mother's eyes. and she was just as strong. "you're doing so well, monkey."

when the little girl drank the water you had brought to her, her eyes slowly closed, a peaceful look painted on her small face.

"i'm sorry for bombarding your phone. i knew you were in an emergency, but... i was really worried about our sweetheart."

"there's no need to apologize, love. you handled the situation wonderful. i couldn't have been more proud of the both of you."

dazai grabbed your hand and the both of you watched over the little girl that had stolen your hearts. the troubled restlessness finally washed away with the sound of your daughter's soft breathing. nevertheless, the instinct to protect his family still lingered through dazai's whole body. "i should have predicted this. i should have taken action earlier."

you tightened your grip on his hand. “don’t be too harsh on yourself, dazai. you handled this situation wonderful. i couldn’t have been more proud of you.” 

dazai looked at you with his head slightly tilt. he couldn't help but smile. you had used his own words against him. how cruel, how smart, how touching. he paid attention to your calming orbs that had kept him grounded for as long as he had known you. dazai's lips were on yours in an instant. his lips moved tender yet intense against yours. the way he loved you...

surprisingly, it was dazai himself who broke of the kiss. he rested his forehead against yours. there was only one thought running through his mind at that specific moment: he would always protect the two most important women in his life, whatever it takes. 

the sun was standing at the top of the sky when kunikida looked at his perfect schedule.. well, it was supposed to be perfect. surprisingly, it wasn't dazai who was the cause of this ruination. the mission was supposed to be simple yet it had taken three hours and 35 minutes instead for the planned one hour and three seconds. this was a disaster. kunikida tried to control his breathing, tried to convince himself he could fix this tragedy. he grabbed his pen and started to mumble while organizing his chaotic schedule.

however, he was soon interrupted by his partner. "what, dazai? we are two hours and 40 minutes behind and if you don't....... HOW DID YOU GET MY PHONE?" kunikida was ready to waggle his way towards dazai, to steal his phone back and to show exactly how punchable dazai's face looked. would he lose precious time? yes. but he couldn't let this slide.

"ow, kunikida. where's the trust in the most trusted detective from the agency? besides, you dropped this during the mission." dazai's clown behavior disappeared like snow in the sun when he continued. "y/n tried to contact you multiple times. i think it's serious."

dazai blinked for a moment when his hand was suddenly empty. kunikida had to remind himself to breath, to not let the worry get to him. he had to keep his head cool. then why was his heart beating so painfully in his chest?

kunikida was sure he yelled something at dazai- probably that his partner should have mentioned this sooner - but he didn't have the time to care about anything else than the reason of your phone calls. were you and your son okay?

he listened to your voicemail, but it wasn't able to calm him down. in contrast, it was like oil thrown on fire.

his son had a high fever. kunikida's voice sounded on edge when he said: "you have to work without me today, dazai. my family needs me."

____

kunikida tried to reach you, but it was no use. you had sounded so panicked over the phone- it made him run faster. your husband stormed into the house, immediately asking where you were.

"i’m here." your raw voice came from the living room. kunikida was met with two of the most important people in his life lying on the couch. The redness from your eyes and cheeks told him that you had been sleeping. did that mean-? 

kunikida moved over to you as fast as he could and knelt down next. his sight focused on the toddler in your arms. he was still peacefully asleep. kunikida put a hand on his son's head, then a kiss and felt the hotness radiating from the touch. suddenly, your husband couldn’t wait any longer and asked every single question that was on his mind. 

“it’s okay, doppo. the fever decreased after i had tried to contact you. i gave him some medicine, water and i checked in on him multiple times. why didn’t you pick up your phone though? that’s nothing like you."

the rope that had cut into kunikida’s lungs finally loosened up. he started to explain how he lost his phone while his schedule was getting slowly ruined. "and this time it isn’t dazai to blame?" you joked. 

"i have to process it, too.” your husband had, without realizing it, been stroking the arm of his son with his thumb. you couldn't tell if he did it to comfort his son or himself. nevertheless, kunikida said shortly after that he would bring your son to bed.

you agreed and took the time alone as an opportunity to calm down and progress what had happened today. a sigh left your lungs. this was peaceful.... okay, too peaceful. how long is doppo taking?

you walked over to your little bean's bedroom, deciding to check out where the men you loved the most were hanging out. your heart practically melted when you entered the room.

kunikida was lying next to the small boy. however, when you looked closely, you were met with wide open grey eyes. experience told you that the haunted look on your husband's face wasn't caused by only the high fever of his beloved son. "what is bothering you, doppo?"

"my ideals. you tried to contact me when you needed me and i wasn't here. what would have happened if the fever didn't decrease? what if it has escalated and i wasn't here to be there for you and our son?"

 you grabbed his hand and kissed the top of each of his fingers. red blushes appeared on kunikida's cheeks and his eyes were now widened for different reasons. "then i would have handled it, with or without you. i know you had a tough day, love. i don’t blame you for anything. you shouldn’t do, too. i love you and you are here. that’s all that matters, right?” 

you grinned. oh, that color of red on kunikida's cheeks was definitely a new and deeper type of red. his love for you was overwhelming, and he couldn't wait to show you how much.

[midnightswithdearkatytspb]

Forever & Always: Stage 1 - Denial | Pt. 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Witch!Reader; Platonic Avengers x Reader

Words: A little less than 2.2k words

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Grief (Loss of Parent), Depression, Anxiety, Angst, & Fluff (more to be added) If you see something that I missed don't be afraid to tell me.

Synopsis: Y/N “Birdy” (nicknamed by her family), comes from a long line of witches and warlocks, living her days at the New Avengers Compound, alongside her friends. The Avengers are part of her family and her family is always welcome to the compound. Things for once seemed to be going well now that all was right from the attack on Thanos, everyone was alive, all was forgiven, friendships were thriving, that all ended when Birdy’s brother came calling with sad news, their mother had suddenly passed. These are the stages of grief Birdy faces, through the loss of her best friend, her protector, her mother.

Info: The Sebastian edit in the moodboard is done by @nix-akimbo and the dividers are done by @firefly-graphics. A big thank you too @sllooney for beta editing this, all mistakes are mine. I've had this finished for over a week I just hadn't had the heart to post, but I had my laptop out so here it is! I do not give permission for this to be translated or to be posted on other sites without my written permission.

Forever & Always Masterlist | My Masterlist

Baby wails rang through the kitchen as Birdy sat on the floor with her back against the cabinet. She felt exhausted as she tried to calm her speeding heart, her husband was gone on a mission, and she has been left to take care of the 6 month old twins on her own.

Lyra and Grant had been crying since they had woken up this morning at the crack of dawn and it was now noon. Birdy had tried feeding them, rocking them, tummy time, nothing was working. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Getting up from the floor after making sure the twins were still safe in their playpen in the corner, they both just looked at her red faced, breaking her heart. Birdy made her way to the chalkboard picking up a piece of chalk, writing; Mama HELP! I need you please, I’m having a crisis and I don’t know what to do.

Dramatic? Yes. Effective? Apparently so, because the words 'on my way' appeared immediately under her message. Letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding, Birdy grabbed the pitcher of Orange Blood tea out of the fridge and the shortbread cookies from the jar where she had been hiding them from her husband.

The back door to the kitchen opened and the older Lyra walked in, met by the sounds of her grandbabies wailing their little hearts out. Birdy’s mother looked at her with a soft smile, taking in her daughter's exhausted frame. Her hair was pulled off her face in a ponytail, oversized yoga pants hung loosely on her hips, with a tank and cardigan to match. Birdy looked just about done, but still so beautiful in her mother’s eyes.

“My little Birdy, sit down, I got this.” The mother moved behind her daughter and gently steered her to the breakfast nook, while she went in the direction of the playpen.

“Oh my little cherubs, what seems to be the matter?” Speaking to the babies in a soft voice, the grandmother grabbed Grant and brought him over to his mother, who quickly cradled the bundle of joy in her arms, while she returned for her namesake, cradling her closely, shushing her softly. It didn’t do much but as Lyra sat at the breakfast nook across from her daughter she began to rock the baby in her arms, Birdy copying her mother’s actions, brushing her finger down Grant’s sweet button nose.

“Let’s see… your belly's full, you are clean, warm, nothing seems to be off, I think your Mumma has just forgotten the most important thing, a lullaby!” Birdy looked at her mother with wide eyes, while she simply just smiled at her. “When you were a baby you could be quite fussy as well and the only way to get you to settle down was for me to sing a little lullaby. So I think what these two need is a little diddy and they’ll be right as rain.” Birdy’s mother began to hum one of the ever so familiar songs from her childhood. A song to ease her worries as her mother held her.

“I'm rocking you to sleep, the water's dark and deep inside this ancient heart. You'll always be a part of me.” both babies had stopped crying and were now yawning, holding onto the fingers of the women holding them.

“Goodnight, my angel, now it's time to dream. And dream how wonderful your life will be. Someday your child may cry and if you sing this lullaby, then in your heart, there will always be a part of me.” Little Lyra had drifted off into slumberland, while Grant had gone quiet, his eyes fighting hard to stay open but as Birdy continued to brush her pointer finger down his nose, it was becoming a losing battle.

“Someday we'll all be gone, but lullabies go on and on. They never die, that’s how you and I will be.” Both babies asleep, Birdy looked up at her mother in relief but stopped when she saw the sad look in her familiar eyes.

“Birdy since you were just a Babe in my arms I dreamed this moment over and over again, it never varied until now. I need you to know that I love you so much and I’m so very proud of you, proud of the woman you have become. You are a superhero, not many mothers out there can say their child is a superhero.” it felt as if her heart had dropped to the pit of Birdy’s stomach as she watched her mother put Little Lyra back in the playpen with a kiss to her forehead.

“I’m sharing this moment with you now because I know it’s going to come true for you, but I need you to remember something for me...” Lyra placed her hand on her daughter's cheek, brushing the single tear away. “Remember you were loved by me. That you made my life a happy one, and there is no tragedy in that.” Kissing Birdy on the forehead? Lyra moved towards the back door, her daughter getting up as carefully as possible, hoping not to wake the babies.

“Don’t go please, I love you!”

With a smile on her face Lyra blew a kiss to her daughter and then was out the door.

Birdy gasped sitting up. Wanda, falling off of her, being forced from the comfortable place where she had laid her head on Birdy’s stomach to watch the Breakfast Club in the blanket fort that Peter and Morgan had assembled earlier in the day. The fort took up over half of the New Avengers main living room and sat in front of the television. It's where the duo, Peter and Morgan had hung out and watched cartoons together, waiting for budget meetings and debriefings for the week to be over.

Wanda and Birdy had quickly fallen in love with the fort, and with Peter and Morgan for inviting them inside to help keep the little girl company until her parents were done working for the day. When Morgan had left they had decided to leave it up for a John Hughes movie marathon. Bucky and Steve had come to join the youngest Avengers in watching the films.

All eyes had moved from Breakfast Club to a gasping Birdy. Wanda’s hand was quick to grab hers and give it a reassuring squeeze, trying to pull her from her frantic daze. Birdy’s eyes started to scan the cozy space, seeing that the popcorn was all gone and Peter had stopped mid way to the Jelly Beans, now peering at her in worry. Bucky was on his side looking from her to Steve, as he put his hand on her shoulder, trying to give comfort.

“I’ll go get Mr. Barton and Miss Natasha!” Peter’s quick reflexes had him out of the fort in seconds, without knocking anything down, before anyone could say anything.

Birdy was trying so hard to figure out what was going on. She knew where she was, at the compound. She knew it was Friday, movie nights with Peter and Wanda, and that she had fallen asleep at the end of Weird Science, her least favorite John Hughes movie.

She had been dreaming, yet it felt so real. But she wasn’t carrying a child and she wasn’t even dating anyone, so it made no sense. Also her mother just leaving like that? Strange. The more Birdy thought on the dream the more her head started to hurt. Someone calling her name pulled her from her thoughts and looking up Clint stood crouched above her.

“Hey Kiddo, are you back with us?” Clint held out his hand to Birdy, which she gladly took, letting go of Wanda’s, and allowing the archer to pull her up off the blanketed floor. Natasha stood at the entrance of the fort in her pajamas, looking in, watching as Clint hugged the younger woman. Right away Natasha knew something was off.

“Yeah, I’m sorry you guys, I had the strangest dream and it-” Birdy’s face was scrunched up in almost confusion, as she stared off behind Clint’s shoulder. “-It felt so real.” Her voice died off as Clint hugged her close to him.

“It wasn’t a vision was it?” Natasha moved inside the blanket fort, her question was more of one of concern. Every time that Birdy had a vision, something bad was about to happen or come their way, like the time she had envisioned the meeting with General Ross, the next day the team was torn in two, because of the Sokovia Accords. Birdy just shook her head, it wasn’t a vision that she knew of.

“Well if it was just a dream, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Wanda and Peter, why don’t you go make chamomile tea. Steve go adjust the temperature? I think it’s a little warm. Bucky do whatever it is you want to do.” Natasha waved the former assassin off, “Clint and I are going to just sit in here with you until you feel better.” Sitting on the loveseat, Natasha patted the empty cushion next to her as Clint guided Birdy to sit next to her.

Before anyone could do what the Black Widow demanded, a gust of wind blew through knocking many of the blankets to the ground. Bucky was up on his feet in flash as none of the windows were open. This gust of wind was not ordinary. Steve moved to the opening of the fort with a pillow in front of him, peeking out into the living room.

In front of the windows facing the vast forestry surrounding the compound, stood Pietro Maximoff and Jasper Valentine, the pair of them holding on to Birdy’s older brother Rory. The trio looked disheveled, eyes bloodshot, and their hair all over the place. Steve felt his body relax when he recognized them, dropping the pillow to the ground. Scoffing, Jasper let go of the warlock first, and made his way forward, hugging Steve.

“Rory Sellar, what have I told you about just portaling unannounced into the compound?” Steve let go of Jasper before he made his way to Pietro, hugging the twin of his teammate, then to Rory, who just cleared his throat and looked to the ground. Pietro shook his head, getting Steve’s attention, immediately the scolding died in Steve’s throat.

“Steve, is Birdy awake?” Rory’s voice cracked as Natasha and Bucky looked out. Bucky gave a slight wave of his hand at the newcomers, while Natasha tilted her head in the direction of the fort. The group made their way inside the massive fort following behind Natasha. Birdy, jumping up from the couch at the sight of her older brother, rushed to give him a hug. Rory took his little sister in his arms, hugging her tightly, as he kissed her on the crown of her forehead.

“I just had the weirdest dream…” Birdy pulled away as she heard Rory sniffle, looking up at him in concern.

“Birdy I’m so sorry, she wouldn’t let me portal to come get you, she said she didn’t want you to see her that way.” Birdy’s face scrunched up in confusion. “I begged her to let me come get you, but she said no, and Dad agreed.” Rory started to let the tears fall.

“Rory, you aren’t making any sense, what is going on?” Pietro was by the warlock's side in an instant, his hand on his shoulder, looking at Wanda, who gasped after reading her twin brother's mind. Wanda looked away with tears in her eyes, hand covering her mouth in shock and sadness.

“What’s wrong? Is everyone okay?” Thousands of questions swam through her head, as her brother grabbed her hand, holding it as Natasha made her way to the younger girl's side.

“It’s mom Birdy, she’s gone.” tears started to build up behind the girl's eyes at her brother's words. Shaking her head, Birdy felt as if the room dropped ten degrees in that moment. “She has gone to be with souls in the great beyond.”

Before anyone knew it Birdy was falling to knees, a cry erupted from her mouth, “No!”

Birdy screamed while the power in the building started to flicker as the walls started to shake. Natasha, at Birdy’s side, pulled her to her side. Steve looked around realizing they needed to get the young witch calmed down or they were going to be in trouble.

“Rory you need to get her out of here, the building isn’t going to be able to handle this sort of shaking.” As he spoke part of the stucco from the ceiling fell on his shoulder.

Rory reached down holding onto his little sister's shoulder and looked back at Clint, “I’ll be right back for you.” In a flash, through a portal, the trio were gone. As fast the shaking and flickering lights had started they had stopped. The rest of the group stood there staring at the empty spot that once was Natasha, Rory and Birdy, feeling a sudden emptiness with the news they had heard. Things were about to change and it was out of their control.

[shimurah]

THE PAST NEVER FORGETS

this chapter outright stated a message this arc and story overall send. the league are results of the hero society's deeds and 290 focuses solemnly on one character.

it starts off, unlike everything we've seen so far, a dabi that we never quite saw. sitting with his head bowed in his head, dabi is bracing for the vulnerability he is to expose. he isn't just exposing his father, he is exposing the very deep of himself. weighting all the possible ways his message will be received, the knowledge that there are many chances of not being belived, of being mocked, attacked, etc. in spite of his worry he doesn't back off and drives into who is dabi and how he come to be this way.

the dabi the public eye is used to is this: the notorious 'terrorist' from the league of villains. he is known - which was intentional on dabi's part. it makes sense that dabi would want attention drawn to himself, he's never been shown as trying to hide who he is not, not really. from the moment we see him, he specifically used language that doesn't even suggest, outright tells, dabi is a name he goes by now. looking at his outfit as well, he was carrying the hair dye remover (?) from that moment. he has been ready for this moment the whole time.

he recorded in advance, planned in-depth not only the way he faces his endeavor but the world as well. there is a critical importance in the way the society will take the message, it's crucial that they believe what he is saying in order to destroy endeavour's career. dabi starts with something they are aware of or suppose of him, that he is not innocent. he states having killed more than 30 innocent people, there would be no point in denying in any sense. 1. a big influence in dabi's killings is endeavour. to ruin endeavour reputation, he first had to create the villain he is now. 2. it's true that he not once tried to mask dabi, actually thrilled for being recognized as THE dabi. his notoriously would make it more than difficult for him to play the act of the innocent victim now, which he never even tried to.

why would dabi go for being a villain, with the knowledge that the chances of him being taken seriously are small? did he acknowledge that even as a favorable type of victim his credibility against endeavor's is lower to the ground? personally, i think he made all of his decisions with a clear eye, all plausibilities being taken & judged through and through. by stepping into the shoes of a villain, the scum of the society, his chances spectacularly lower. but by doing so, he is free to rightfully avenge himself.

greed for power, something that as dabi says can lead men into unimaginable depths. endeavour had willingly chosen, not forced by anybody, to walk that path. taking a wife by force even, using her as a tool to create more tools to satisfy himself. what he would do to achieve this can be summoned into one simple word. anything.

dabi was abused both physically and emotionally. a bad constitution that was in the way of him reaching the place his father wanted. the frustration he every day had to go through, likely blaming himself for it, and adding to the mix the way endeavour would encourage him to push his own limits to achieve something greater than himself. the training was something deeply toxic, you simply don't force a kid through something like that. we have seen how it scarred shoto, someone who unlike dabi, had nothing standing in the way of endeavour's goal.

if dabi was an almost perfect, shoto was THE perfect. there is great pressure on the perfect yes, no denying, but there is great pressure on the almost perfect as well. their trauma is equal, dabi's trauma is just as valid as shoto and vice versa. and while their siblings didn't go through the training, their trauma is just as equal.

dabi lived with the knowledge that the only thing he was "created" for was his father's selfish dream. abused children often wonder the reason their parents brought them into this world, why do they exist besides to suffer. as a child, it is absolutely excepted and understandable to desire parental love. even if dabi hated what endeavour put him through, in his heart he would wish to become what his father wanted in order to achieve his love. did he wonder if making endeavour happy would result in his father changing and coming to love him? did he have to grow up and watch that idea shatter, to be tossed aside as something no longer useful, a broken thing?

such things are not something he could simply let go of, even if he was out of that place. like adults no longer in the abusive, toxic environments, that still carry the effects of the abuse they went through. dabi simply cannot move past it, it is not something one is to be asked or excepted to do.

endeavour, on the other hand, is living the dream. even before becoming the no 1, the perfect heir was on his move to the top. he successfully trained shoto into a promising tool that will eventually fulfill the dream and had to watch himself rise in the position he always wanted. it is easy for him to decide to move on, forget of the past, leave everything where they belong. but the past didn't decide that, the past came back to him. he is forced to now deal with the consequences he avoided and denied.

the past never forgets. even if endeavour tossed dabi aside and let him become a past, and then attempted to leave him altogether in the past.

facing one's consequences, often thrown in arguments against the league but i firmly believe in the difference between the two situations. saying they are the same is false. endeavour & the hero society planted the seeds not willed by anybody but themselves.

the league & dabi were forced into reacting. a hand forced is not the same as a hand willingly pushing said hand. the league is more than encouraged to react back, and while not all of their acts have been agreeable, i still stand by that. the flaw is in hrksh's intentional writing, which i won't be driving into as others discussed it very well.

dabi's goal to kill shoto once shoto reached the age and the top is something you cannot deny to be a response to the abuse. is it alright? no, not by any means. there is a complexity here, into which you can't drive in without remembering you are talking about child abuse victims. abuse responses aren't black and white, good and bad. dabi isn't inherently selfish or evil for thinking that.

dancing together in hell, falling together gathered all types of reactions. does dabi intend to die is the question. after some time of thinking, i dare to think and hope that won't be the case. it's true that dabi is in a bad condition, true that his phrasing is suggestive. but from a narrative, logical view, which i ABSOLUTELY don't claim to be hrksh's style up until now, that would be deeply disappointing and sad. a tragedy that would not serve. it's early to speak but for now i personally choose to believe dabi is going to live to at least completely reach his goal. endeavour is an important piece yesm but he is, still, a piece in dabi's game.

[jaz-xedarix]

The Return of the Star

So here we are. Finally after sooo many years of hiatus, I am able to go back to the action by translating this amazing work from our beloved Mr. Yoshida. 

I want to thank to the proof readers that helped me checking this English version. As you know, English is not my mother tongue and plus it is not perfect at all, less in this late times that I haven’t talk at all with English speakers as before, as you see I manage to comunicate with you quite well but it is different when one need to comunicate someone else’s ideas XD So there might be some little mistakes in this text, feel free to tell me if there’s something wrong with it. 

As for some words, one of them that is still making some noise in my head is “Hansom”. Usually I use google translate to help me with the job and usually it gives me some words that I have never seen before and that’s why I depend on you guys to help me correct XD So mr.G.Translate said “hansom” is “a two-wheeled horse-drawn carriage accommodating two inside, with the driver seated behind.”. And you can find this word a couple of times in this text, and reading the novel I think this is the best word for it, if there’s another word for it, please tell me. 

Maybe this is the only word I had trouble with. Anyways I hope you enjoy this as I did translating this for you guys. 

Thanks so much to Buffalo Borgine and Lamy for helping me correcting the text.  ❤ Part II is in process, so wait for it soon ❤ So, with no more to say, here it is: 

                                                                                                         ----------------

And I have given to them

knowledge of your name, and will give it,

so that the love which you have for me

may be in them and I in them.

JOHN 17.26

                                                              I

 “Aaahh, I can't take it anymore!”

“Why are you whining again, father?” Esther Blanchett asked, in an annoyed tone to her companion, who was putting on a face like a man condemned to death.

 Surrounded by the steam from the train, halfway down the ladder, she turned her slightly tanned face towards her interlocutor.

 “Don't waste your time and come down immediately. If you stay there, you will disturb the other passengers.”

“Esther... couldn't it be possible for me to go straight back on this train?”

 The evening light that was filtering through the stained-glass ceiling of the international arrivals platform had a reddish hue. In the wintry air, hard as a witch's kiss, the station passengers and employees moved busily.

 The one who continued to complain stubbornly was the tall priest with the rebellious silver hair who accompanied Esther. If he had been quiet, it could be said that he was attractive, but he did not leave his miserable expression as he descended from the train with a suitcase in each hand.

 “What is this so urgent that the Cardinal wants? If it's a report, we could have done it in Rome. Coming just here... I have very bad omens. I know something horrible will happen to me again.”

“Father, isn't it a common thing for Her Eminence to scold you? I thought you were used to it.”

 Father Abel Nightroad nodded, still murmuring as Esther shook her long red hair theatrically. After a year of working together, she had already learned that there was no point in reasoning with this complainer. Lifting her suitcase with both hands, the nun started down the platform, expressionless.

 The international arrivals area was packed with people. The participants of the ceremony that was to be held three days later must have been arriving. All the travelers carried large suitcases, and the air was filled with incomprehensible conversation. In the midst of the confusion, the nun began with a steady pace...

“Ahhh...!”

Feeling the night air in her lungs, Esther heaved a little sigh. As if finally realizing where she was, she stopped dead and looked out of one of the station windows.

“Sure... I'm back...”

 The landscape that unfolded before her eyes was not that of Rome, where she has spent the year before. It was neither the one in Byzantium, where they had been until a few days ago, nor the one in Skopje, where they had stopped that day. The city surrounded by gentle hills and crossed by a meandering river was certainly like Byzantium or Rome. However, the twisted capitals and ceramic tiles gave the panorama a personality of its own, it was the landscape that had surrounded Esther for as long as she could remember.

  The city of Istvan, protectorate of the Vatican.

It was the easternmost of the cities controlled by mankind… and the place where Esther had grown up.

“Nothing has changed... nothing...”

 Facing the city that she saw again a year later, Esther heaved another sigh.

She had changed a lot, but her city remained the same. The running of the Danube, the cracks in the cobblestones... The sweet evening light embraced the same landscape that Esther had left back a year before.

 However, even if you thought your city was still the same, could you feel at ease? There she had sad and painful experiences, the memory of which made her suffer. Maybe that was inevitable when one returned to one’s homeland...

“Aaaaah, what did they get me this time?”

 The young woman was now absorbed in her warm memories but she came to herself as a rumbling voice rose like coming from the depths of Hell. Annoyed, she turned, and was met by a long figure who was sighing wistfully. The spectacled priest stroked his hair like a bad actor of tragedy who wanted to convey the idea of ​​bearing all the pain in the world.

 “Have they heard that I've set up a garden at the seminary? Or have they discovered those peaks that I added to the invoices...? Aaaah, Lord, protect your servant! Can't get them to turn a blind eye?”

“I have the feeling that before you became religious you were already a failure as a human being...”

 Lord! That she could not even have a moment of peace being with that companion! Esther sighed deeply, feeling sorry for herself. Come to think of it, it was precisely in that place where she had seen the father for the first time, a year ago. That meeting had been the beginning of the person she had become. Under normal circumstances, it would be a very important memory. Why was she unable to get excited?

 “But the truth is that you have some reason, father…” Esther continued speaking, being careful not to meet her eyes with her companion’s. “Why did Her Eminence make us come to Istvan? Even if they do the ceremony for the fallen, we don't have to attend ourselves… Do she want to hear the report about the Empire as soon as possible?”

“If that's just it, we'll be in luck... To get back to Rome from Skopje, going through here doesn't mean much of a change in route in terms of distance either. But the Cardinal does not like to change plans. That she had given a counter order is extremely rare... Aaaah, they must have caught me on something!”

 At the surprised look of the nun, the priest squatted and clutched his head.

 Two days before, once their mission was completed in Byzantium, they had reached Skopje, capital of the Marquisate of Macedonia. According to the original instructions, from there they were to take the road that go straight to west, to Rome. However, he had received an encrypted message ordering them to change their plans: «Instead of going back to Rome, go to Istvan to participate in the ceremony for the fallen. Report your mission when we meet».

 The ceremony to which the message referred was in honor of the fallen in the battle of Istvan the previous year. It was promoted by the Archbishop of the city, the Vatican's Public Relations Minister, Antonio Borgia, and Pope Alessandro himself were going to be present. As Secretary of State, Cardinal Caterina Sforza was also going to participate, and that is why she was in the city at the time. In that regard, meeting in Istvan to present the mission report made sense.

 What Esther did not understand was something else...

 «Participate in the ceremony for the fallen.» Why had she explicitly summoned them to participate in the ceremony? Those who organized it were the Archbishopric and the Ministry of Vatican Public Relations. Esther, who worked for the Secretary of State, had nothing to do with them. Could it be that there was a new mission? Telling the truth, it looks a little strange

“Well, the easiest thing will be to ask the Duchess of Milan directly… Hurry, father.”

  The agglomeration was considerable. If they didn't hurry out of the station and take a hansom, they would have to walk to the hotel the Secretary of State had reserved for them. To try to avoid it, Esther forcibly lifted her partner. Taking the tickets from the two of them, she headed purposefully toward the checkpoint.

“Staying here raving doesn't help much either. We have to meet with the Cardinal at once and make your report.”

 For security reasons, the international arrivals platform was separated from the outside by revolving doors. Esther showed the officer her passport, which identified her as an employee of the Holy See, and quickly went through the doors to go outside. While the priest went through the same process, she turned to look for a hansom.

 “Sister Esther!!!”

 A brutal, deafening scream rose around her.

 At the same time, her eyes were filled with white lights. She didn't even have time to realize that it was the flashes of a multitude of daguerreotypes. The nun turned her face away as a wave of voices washed over her.

 “Sister Esther! Finally, you are here! A few statements, please!”

 The chorus of voices followed by a crowd of men and women armed with notepads and fountain pens. Dazed by the flashes, Esther couldn't make out their facial expressions, but it didn't seem like those violent voices were directed at her by mistake or that it was all an elaborated joke. Among the mass crowded around the nun and the priest, the flashes continued to shine.

 “Eh, eh?”

But what was happening?

 Esther was stunned, surrounded by the sparkles.

 All those people seemed to be reporters and journalists. Those who carried that heavy tape recorder, were they from the radio? They were of all ages and aspects, but they all wore press passes issued by the Ministry of Vatican Public Relations on their chests. But why would the media be so interested in her?

 Stunned by events, Esther could do nothing but stand there. It was then that a laughter rang out behind them.

 “Heh, heh, heh! Finally, my time has come! At last, the world recognizes my charisma!”

 Abel, who had been just as surprised as she, began to show off with a boastful air, turning so quickly it looked like he was about to break a bone, he offered the cameras the profile he thought suited him best.

 “Hello everyooone! As I see that you are so interested, I am going to tell you some secrets about myself. My full name is Abel Nightroad. I am an itinerant priest of the Vatican. I am Virgo and my lucky number is 13. Regarding my career, I am precisely considering writing some memoirs that… Eh !?”

 With a cry like a toad, the priest was swallowed up by the mass of journalists who huddled mercilessly. Ignoring his painful moans, the reporters began bombarding Esther with questions, who remained motionless in the center of the crowd.

 “Sister Esther, what impressions do you have when you return to your homeland?”

“It's been a year since you finished with Gyula, how do you feel now?”

 Screaming echoed through the clicking sound of the flashes. Unconsciously, Esther recoiled from the throng of journalists and cameras.

 “What... what do you want?”

 When her brain began to function normally again, she realized that the goal of all this was her. But why? What did all those journalists expect of her!?  She was just a simple nun!

 Esther's questions were immediately answered when a middle-aged journalist, dressed in a dirty coat, showed her a piece of paper.

 “Sister Esther, have you had a chance to see the script for this new opera? Do you have any comments about it?”

“Eh... huh...!? I do not have any idea of what is happening... An opera...? What opera!?”

Looking at the paper, Esther stood with her mouth open with the surprise.

 It was a flier printed in high quality paper. One couldn't say that the colorful design or the propaganda phrases were the best taste, but whatever. More than that, what stunned Esther was the central illustration.

 Against the background of a striking cross, a beautiful nun struck down a man with a sword blow, dressed in aristocratic clothes, the fallen one twisted his monstrous face and showed two long fangs between his lips. And the legend of the drawing said:

 «The Star of Sorrow. Next release. Saint Esther and the devil Gyula: An apocalyptic fight!!! ». But what does this mean?!

 “It is a commemorative work for the liberation of Istvan, Sister Esther. It represents your fight against the vampire... Didn't you know anything about it?”

 The journalists looked at her, puzzled, but Esther didn't realize it. She was not for those things. Squeezing the paper in her hands, she tried to put the chaos of her thoughts in order.

“Saint Esther?”

 But where did that come from?!

 “Well, it's a very important work...” continued the journalist, with a certain pride in his voice, as if he were the scriptwriter himself. “Not only the casting, but also the production has had the support of the Ministry of Vatican Public Relations. The script was written by the Archbishop of Istvan himself and a budget of one million dinars has been invested. Tonight is the premiere... Ah! Is it for that why you've come today?”

“Eh? Well, no…”

 At the question, Esther only had the strength to shake her head.

 What was happening before her eyes seemed so unreal that it would be said that she was dreaming it. She wanted to return to her hometown to walk quietly through the streets again, visit the bishop's tomb, go to greet the families of her fellow partisans one by one... As she remembered her plans, a distant noise made her come to her senses.

 “Sister Esther Blanchett,” a monotonous voice sounded over the sound of a horn.

Looking for that familiar voice, she saw that, beyond the mass of journalists, there was a car parked. The face staring at her from the driver's seat was one she knew all too well.

“Father Iqus!?”

“The Duchess of Milan has ordered me to come and find you. Get in the vehicle, please” explained Tres Iqus, Ax Gunslinger's agent, with his hands on the wheel. “Ignore the media and present yourself immediately. Those have been the words of her eminence. Get up at once. The Duchess awaits you at the Opera House.”

“Agree!”

 What was all the fuss about? And what was the Duchess doing at the Opera House?

She had many questions in mind, but she nodded and followed the instructions she had been given. Her superior's orders were clear and Caterina herself would surely know how to explain something more about that bad taste joke.

 “Father Nightroad, get up, we're going!”

“I ... it's my moment... I'm so charismatic...”

 Dragging Abel, as if he were another suitcase since he was still semi-conscious, Esther ran with all her might amidst the rain of flashes and questions from journalists. Without turning to the chasing mass, Esther yelled as she approached the car:

 “Father Iqus, open the opposite door!”

 They had not seen each other for three months, but now was not the time for long greetings.

 “Who they're chasing is me… I'll meet you later, but decoy me now, please.”

“Understood. Request fulfilled.”

The short priest did not hesitate for a moment. Probably, thinking about the possible courses of action, his circuits had reached the same conclusion as Esther. Quickly opening the other door, he added:

“Current time: eighteen-zero-zero. The Duchess of Milan is in the Opera House. Head there as soon as you can. I will mislead the media.”

 Nodding firmly at the cold but confident voice, Esther let her luggage into the back seat and ran out the other side of the vehicle. Just when she had finished hiding behind some construction materials there, she adjusted the bonnet around her head, the car started.

 “Wait, Sister Esther! Some statements!”

The plan worked and the journalists came out in droves after the vehicle that had left behind only the smell of the tires burned. Those who had been so sufficiently farsighted were set up in their own cars, and the other took hansoms. Between the whirlwind of yells and engines, no one noticed the place where the nun had hidden.

“They've already left...”

After checking that everyone had moved away, Esther got up and dusted herself off.

“What did it all mean?” Looking at the flier again, the young woman bit her lip.

«Commemoration of the first anniversary of the liberation of Istvan».

«Saint Esther».

«Devil Gyula.»

 Esther crumpled the paper into a ball and put it in her pocket. Those sensational expressions had left a very unpleasant impression on her chest.

 She had to speak to the Cardinal as soon as possible. She had to talk to her and hear from her own lips the truth about all this charade...

 “Wait, Sister Esther, I still have a question for you”, a hoarse voice stopped her just as she was about to walk.  

 Turning around, she found a man in a soot-stained coat. It was the same journalist who had given her the flier earlier, so he was the only one who had noticed her ploy.

 “I expected no less from the young woman who defeated the Marquis of Hungary. You are very clever. And thanks to that I have my exclusive… Ah, but I haven't even introduced myself. My name is Clement from the Picadilly Gazette in Albion.”

 The man handed her a yellowish business card. Although he was smiling politely, he did not miss the opportunity to scan the young nun with his eyes.

 “I've told you before that I don't know what you're talking about,” Esther replied, somewhat frightened, instinctively turning her face away from that penetrating gaze. “If you want to know more about the ceremony, I recommend that you go directly to the cathedral, Mr. Clement. I don't know anything...”

“No, no, what interests me is your personal circumstances, sister.”

 So the one who smiled slightly mockingly at her on the deserted street was one of those famous paparazzi from the gossip press.

 “I've been investigating your family... I know you were abandoned as a child and that the bishop raised you... Vitez, was her name? Therefore, do you not know who your real parents are?”

“I... I know something about my father...”

What right this man have to intrude like this in her private life? Lifting her face decisively, she snapped:

 “But I only know he was from Albion. Are we finished with the questions, Mr. Clement? I'm in a hurry. We will talk another time.”

“Well, well, you don't have to be like that either.”

 However, the journalist did not seem to be affected by her serious tone. Still smiling, he took a few yellowed sheets from his pocket. They were official documents of the city council, as indicated by the seals with the emblem of the city.

“What do you think this is? It's a copy of your birth certificate, which was filed at the town hall. According to these documents your father was Edward Blanchett, knight bachelor of Albion. The lowest rank of the nobility...”

“But how did you…?!”

 Seeing the documents the journalist had, Esther flushed with anger and her breathing began quickening. She stood up to face him and said:

"Give me that! You have no right to snoop there!”

“If you tell me what I want, I will give it to you soon. It costs me a lot of money to get this copy. I cannot give it to you just like that. So... back to what we were talking about...”

 Clement laughed, satisfied, as if enjoying the fact that he was once again in charge of the conversation. Waving the paper in the air, like a lure, the journalist continued:

“Well, your father was Edward Blanchett, but do you know what kind of person he was?”

“Didn't I tell you that I don't know anything else about him!?”

“Oh yeah? Well, me neither. And I am not the only one. In fact, absolutely no one knows anything about him. Because the truth is that he never existed…”

“Eh?”

 Esther had reached out to grasp the document, but stopped short. She furrowed her eyebrows and stared at the reporter. What did he mean by “never existed”?

 As if enjoying his interlocutor's confusion, Clement continued to speak slowly.

“According to our investigations, there is no trace in Albion of an aristocrat named Edward Blanchett. We have examined the noble records, the files of appointments, even the secret documents of the Institute of Heraldry, but there is no trace of anyone named that.”

“Uh... huh... But that...”

 Hesitantly, Esther tried to find a way to answer him.

The truth was, she had consciously avoided investigating her father. Because of her work, she wouldn't have had a difficult time if she wanted to know more about him, but she was afraid of what she might find.

 However, Clement's words were too impressive to ignore. Had there never been a nobleman named Edward Blanchett?

 “Of course, identity theft or falsification of one's own past are not so rare things either. He would not be the first to arrive in the provinces and say that he is an aristocrat from a distant country... But there is one thing that intrigues me: that he used the name Edward Blanchett eighteen years ago...

“??”

It was clear that it was a trap. Even she is aware that the verbiage of her interlocutor was captivating her, Esther tried not to escape. In fact, she even encouraged him to keep talking with a fearful question:

“What puzzles you, Mr. Clement?”

“Well, now is when you and I can do business, sister.”

 Seeing that his prey had swallowed the hook, the journalist shook the documents again and continued to speak slowly, showing nicotine-stained teeth.

 “Why don't you join me for a moment? It would be better to go to a quiet place, where we can talk without being disturbed by anyone.”

“B... but now I don't have time...”

“Are you not interested in the deal?”

 Clement's gaze narrowed like a reptile locating its prey. With a theatrical sigh, he put the document back in his pocket.

 “Then there is nothing to do. I will publish the results of my research in my next article. «The secret of the origin of the Saint»... Ah, I'll send you a copy when it comes out. Do I send it here, or better to your office in Rome?”

 Esther tensed her face and, instinctively taking her arms to her chest, moaned:

“Are you trying to threaten me!?”

“Ah, I see you have understood perfectly, sister,” replied the journalist, as if enjoying the young woman's reaction. And he added in a threatening tone: “You come with me now and you grant me the exclusive, or your father's secret...?”

“Threatening others using family secrets is not a very respectable hobby, sir.”

The voice that echoed in the twilight was contrasted with Clement's in its serenity. Turning quickly, the veteran journalist encountered a man who was slowly shaking his head.

“And more in the case of an innocent sister like this… Is it that those of your profession don't know the meaning of the word moderation?

“And who are you?”

 Looking up, Esther saw the dark shape of a man.

He looked to be in his early thirties. His shapely face and the black Inverness coat that wrapped him were impeccable. Under his dark hair, intelligent black eyes shone through silver glasses.

 “I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself. My name is Isaac Butler. I am a steward of one of the aristocratic houses of Londinium.”

 The young gentleman lifted his top hat with his cane as he bowed gracefully.

 “I did not mean to meddle in your affairs, but I was waiting for someone and by chance I overheard your conversation. Sir… Clement, right? The truth is that I cannot praise your professional ethics too much. Thus violating people's privacy and using it as a tool to threaten others… You should be ashamed.”

 “What does it matter to you!?” The journalist snapped, looking at him with hyena eyes, in a tone that sounded more like a bully than anything else. “If you go where they don't call you, you can get scalded… Besides, I'm not threatening anyone. Here we are just talking without any coercion. I have not done anything bad.”

“Taking unauthorized copies of someone else's birth certificates is a crime,” Butler muttered, raising his hand. Seeing what was in it, Clement was dumbfounded.

“B... but when did you...?”

 The butler showed him a paper stamped with the city hall letterhead.

 Clement reached into his pocket, but… Esther's birth certificate was missing!

“Y… you're a thief! Give me those documents back immediately!”

 The paparazzi paled for a moment and then turned red. Showing the teeth in a horrible grin, he reached for the man to try to forcibly get back the paper... but did not even touch it. There was a thud, and the journalist rolled on the ground.

“Good work, Guderian” whispered Butler to the man who had appeared like a wall between him and the reporter.

He was a somber man with gray hair. He was not too tall, but his body was athletic, and his pupils had a flash of predator gleaming. He made a move to approach the paparazzi, but Butler stopped him with a gesture and politely addressed the fallen man:

 “Good, Mr. Clement. My companion, Mr. Guderian, is, unlike you, a gentleman, but he is also very ruthless. I do not recommend that you face him hand to hand...”

 The butler lit a pipe and began to smoke while he continued speaking indolently.

 “Besides, don't you have anything more important to investigate than disturbing the young lady? For example ... Oh yes! They say that this year the damage caused by the wolves has been extraordinary, after feeding on the corpses of the war last year, it seems that the wolves have begun to attack the cattle and the inhabitants of the place. Isn't that interesting news?”

“...”

Clement sat up, eyes full of hatred, but careful to take enough distance.

“Okay, I'll go... But sir... Butler was it? I never forget a face. We will meet again. You'll see what it means to antagonize with the media...”

“I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again. Until next time, Mr. Clement.”

 As if he had instantly forgotten the reporter who had cursed him, the man quickly turned to Esther. Slightly bending his waist with a smile, he respectfully offered the document which the journalist had used as a bait.

“What a bad night you’ve had, sister!”

“T... thank you very much, sir...”

    Did they know each other before?

 With a strange feeling of having seen the man somewhere, Esther lowered her head as she thanked him and took the document he offered her.

“Lucky you have appeared. I will never forget what you have done for me”.

“It was nothing. Helping a lady in distress is the duty of any gentleman. Oh, and please don't think now that in Albion we are all like that journalist. Most of us are true gentlemen.”

“Are you from Albion?”

 At the hearing the name of the country of his father, the expression of Esther softened for a moment, but at once recovered the tension before. The man had claimed to be an aristocrat's butler, but what was someone like him doing there? Wouldn't that be another trick to gain her trust?

Suspicion was probably written on her face, because Butler gave a sheepish smile and proceeded to introduce himself in detail.

 “You are probably wondering what a poor butler like me is doing here. The truth is that I am looking for someone. He is a friend of my lord, who disappeared a long time ago… Someone who had some problems… He caused a scandal in his youth and had to flee the country. My lord has found out that he arrived in this region and has sent me to search for clues as to his whereabouts.”

“It seems like very hard work...”

Butler's words made sense and he had explained without hesitation. He was probably telling the truth. Esther decided to believe that the man was who he claimed to be.

Butler's partner jerked his pocket watch to him, and the butler snapped his fingers. After putting out the pipe, he respectfully took Esther by the hand.

“What a disappointment! Seems that it is late! Sister, if you do not need us at all, we will withdraw, with your permission.”

“Oh, sure! I'm in a bit of a hurry too... Thank you very much for your help; really, Mr. Butler.”

“Oh, please, I don't deserve that much respect.”

Bringing the nun's hand slightly to his lips, the man smiled and whispered in Albion's language:

“It was nice meeting you. I hope to see you again soon…”

As the young woman flushed, the butler bowed politely and turned. The man named Guderian followed half a second later.

Esther was lost in her thoughts, watching the two figures move away down the dark street.

 When she came back to reality, she realized that the streetlights had come on.

“Ah, I have to hurry!”

 She had no time to waste. Clicking her tongue, the young woman ran to the opposite side of the street.

                                               ---------------------------

So this is it, Stay tunned for next part, we’re having a nice coloring next time. Love you guys! ❤

[homoose]

Winning is a Habit

Hi y’all! Okay sooooooooo this is my first time writing fic??????? Like omg please be nice lmao. I don’t have a beta reader, so if you catch any mistakes pls lmk! I saw this challenge and the world is total garbage, so why not write our own realities????? Ok here goes!!!!!!!!!! Written for @veraiconcos fic challenge

Summary: The BAU gets called to investigate two high-profile murders in a college town, only to find that they are part of a much bigger, more complicated picture. No real pairings, although you could make it happen if you want lol ;) This is an idea I’ve seen floating around the fandom for a little while now, and I really wanted to see it fleshed out. Set around season 4 or 5.

Category: some angst, sort of fluff? I wouldn’t say it necessarily qualifies as an AU, but it’s outside of canon.

Warnings/Includes: some brief descriptions of violence/CM type stuff; mentions of rape (no details)

Word count: 6.1k

———

“Stillwater, Oklahoma,” JJ said, navigating the map off screen and pulling up the crime scene photos. “Two college seniors— Tyler Allen and Leon Williams, star football players for Oklahoma State University— both found dead the day before the playoff qualifier.”

“Do we know the cause of death?” Spencer asked, thumbing through the case file.

“The ME report concluded that both boys died of acute alcohol poisoning,” JJ informed them.

Emily looked up from the file. “And the locals don’t think this could just be a case of college kids having a little too much fun?”

“Before a major playoff game? I doubt it.” Derek leaned back in his chair. “Especially considering OSU’s having a record-breaking season. I’d guess the coach had players on a pretty strict lockdown.” He raised his hands and joined them in a steeple over his chest. “Showing up to a game hung-over— particularly one as important as this— would be a major conduct issue.”

“That, and there was a pretty specific message left on both victims,” JJ added, arms crossed and eyebrows lifting into her hairline.

“On them?” Rossi questioned.

JJ motioned with her hand back to the screen. Six sets of eyes moved over the photo; the words “U LOSE” scrawled in ink across the foreheads of the two men.

“Resorting to murder to win a football game?” Emily asked, eyes narrowed.

“And why use the forensic countermeasure of staged alcohol poisoning, only to backtrack and assert it as a murder?” Spencer pondered, pursing his lips.

“Whatever the reason, we’ve got two dead college students and a definite signature. Wheels up in 30,” Hotch told them, closing his case file.

⧭⧭⧭

“No sign of forced entry.” Derek walked through the entry hallway and into the living space. “Doesn’t look like there was any struggle, either.”

Rossi thumbed through the mail on the kitchen counter and peered around the small space. “Everything you’d expect in a boys’ college dorm room: dishes in the sink, generic decor, general mess. Nothing that stands out.”

“Agents, thank you so much for coming.” A tall man in a dark suit stepped across the threshold of the apartment. He stuck out his hand for Rossi to shake. “Steven Barrett, Dean of Students.”

“I’m Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi. This is SSA Derek Morgan.” Derek nodded from his place in the living room.

“I apologize for not meeting you when you arrived. We’re dealing with a grieving campus,” Barrett said, running a hand over his face. “I’m actually on my way to speak to the Board, but I wanted to check in with you before. I’m not sure I can be of much help, but I can try to answer any questions you might have.”

“These boys were seniors, but they still lived on campus. Is that typical?” Rossi asked, gesturing around the apartment.

“Uh, yes, it is for student athletes,” Barrett confirmed with a nod. “OSU teams have demanding, sometimes grueling practice schedules. Being on campus simplifies things, allows students to get to classes and practices, as well as utilize the dining halls.”

“Does this building have security cameras?” Derek raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. All of our buildings do. I’ll let Campus PD know you’ll need access to the footage.” Barrett’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached for it and punched the button to answer the call. “Yes. Yes, I—I’m finishing up with the FBI now. I understand. I’m on my way.” He ended the call and pocketed the phone. “I’m sorry to leave you, gentlemen. Our top priority right now is supporting our students and community through this tragedy. Part of that healing process is finding out who did this to Tyler and Leon. So anything else you need, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to let me know.” He turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall.

Derek shook his head. “I’m glad I don’t have to do that job right about now.”

Rossi gave another glance around the nondescript apartment and sighed. “Call Garcia and ask her if she’s found any other cases that could be related. And let’s hope there’s something useful on that security footage.”

⧭⧭⧭

“Based on lividity and rigor mortis, I was able to put the time of death between 8:00 and 10:00pm on Wednesday evening. The blood alcohol content for both boys was over five times the legal limit. I’ve never seen anything like it,” the medical examiner mused.

Emily looked over the bodies, her arms crossed. “Dr. Saraj, about how much would they have to drink for the level to be that high?”

“When drinking, the level of alcohol in our blood reaches a peak before it drops off after the last drink ingested,” Spencer supplied. “In a typical night of drinking, spread over the course of several hours, the average man can have 8-12 drinks without ever reaching lethal levels. But considering each victim weighed around 230 pounds, they’d have had to ingest approximately 180 ounces of beer or 18.75 ounces of liquor to reach a lethal blood alcohol content.”

Dr. Saraj glanced at Spencer before adding, “Look, this is a college town. Kids drink. But... to have had this much alcohol still detectable in their system post-mortem indicates that these boys drank at least the equivalent of a 30 rack, by themselves, in less than an hour.” She flipped up the first page of the report in her hands, eyes scanning the second. “And the toxicology screen also found trace amounts of ketamine.”

Spencer bent over the examining table and adjusted the wrist of one of the boys with a gloved hand. “Doctor, are these ligature marks?”

“Oh, yes,” Dr. Saraj agreed, nodding. “They’re relatively faint, so I almost missed them. But I found similar marks on both boys on the wrists and ankles.”

“So,” Emily said, gesturing with her hands, “the unsub doses them with ketamine to gain control, ties them up, forces them to drink lethal amounts of alcohol, and then— what?” She looked to Spencer. “Waits for them to pass out before removing the restraints and leaving the message?”

Spencer examined the marker scrawls. “Were you able to determine what the message was written with and if it was left pre- or post-mortem?”

“My guess would be it was written with some type of permanent marker, but I can’t say for sure,” Dr. Saraj said. “We’re analyzing the residue now, and I can send the report your way as soon as I have it. As for when it was written, I couldn't tell you.” She shook her head. “The one simple mercy is that these boys would have been out cold for a while before they died.”

⧭⧭⧭

“I’m so sorry. I know how difficult this is. Anything that you can tell us will be helpful in finding the person who did this,” JJ encouraged softly. “Anyone that Tyler might have had an argument with recently or who he mentioned having problems with?”

“No, no. He was—he was just your typical boy,” Mrs. Allen sniffled. “Playing football and hanging out with his friends,” she said, voice hitching. “Oh my god.” She dropped her head into her hands.

“He didn’t have time to have problems,” Mr. Allen asserted. “He spent all his free time on the field. Coach had them out there for two-a-days until classes started. He’s the quarterback. He was leading that team to the first national title since 1945.” He stood to his feet, hands clenched at his sides. “Some lunatic murdered my boy and you’re sitting around talking to us while they’re out there, walking free.”

“Sir, I promise you that we have some of the best agents in the country working on your son’s case,” JJ assured. “But in order to help them do their job, we need to know as much as we can about who Tyler was.”

Across the bullpen, Hotch sat across from Mr. and Mrs. Williams. “Leon was a good boy. Football was his life. He loved being a part of this team. It was the season of a lifetime,” Mr. Williams said.

“We taught him better than to be drinking and carrying on,” Mrs. Williams added.

“Can you think of anything or anyone he might have mentioned recently that was out of the ordinary? Anything that was bothering him or causing him distress?” Hotch questioned.

“He was feeling pressure about the season, but he’s been handling that kind of thing since he was twelve years old.” Mr. Williams shared an almost indiscernible look with his wife. “He got into—into the same kinds of trouble any college kid gets in. Nothing that could have gotten him murdered.”

⧭⧭⧭

“Yeah, baby girl, what d’ya got for me?” Derek held the phone out so that Rossi could listen in as they waited in the OSU security office.

“Well, my handsome knight, I wish I could tell you more but so far, I’m coming up empty with similar cases,” Penelope sighed. “Nothing that matches our alcohol poisoning M.O. or the signature. I just expanded the search to surrounding states, and I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“Anything on our two victims?” Rossi asked.

“Now that’s where it gets interesting,” Penelope mused, tapping the fluffy end of her pen into the palm of her hand. “There’s nothing. Zilch, nada.”

Rossi narrowed his eyes. “And that’s interesting because...?”

“Come on, sir,” Penelope scoffed. “Two young, athletic, good-looking college football stars and there’s nothing at all? Nothing scandalous on social media. No run-ins with campus PD. Not even a write up from an RA.”

Derek tilted his head in thought. “Hotch and JJ said their conversations with the parents told a similar story.”

“Okay, but no one is this squeaky clean, particularly not at a Big 12 college. Everyone has some dirt,” Penelope insisted. “I haven’t found it yet, but there’s gotta be something out there. When I have it, you’ll know it!”

“Thanks, Garcia,” Derek drawled.

“Over and out!” Penelope jabbed the button to end the call.

The OSU officer waved them over with his hand. “I’ve got it queued up to 6:24pm. You can see the boys here,” he pointed on the screen at the two victims, “entering the north entrance of the dining hall.”

Derek leaned toward the monitor. “So they leave practice, come through the dining hall for dinner. When do they leave?”

The footage sped up on the screen, then stopped. “Here. 7:01.”

“Rossi, you seeing this?” Derek slid his eyes over.

Rossi nodded. “Is there any way to enhance these frames?”

The officer shrugged his shoulders. “Not on this system. Honestly, the camera quality isn’t great. I’ve been trying to get them to invest in an upgraded OS, but you know—budget woes. Your analyst might be able to do more.”

“It’s not going to matter.” Derek sighed and straightened up. “She’s careful of her angles.”

“I couldn’t find them on any grounds cameras, but they pop back up entering the dorm. Here, at 7:12.”

“All three of them,” Rossi noted. He looked at Derek. “And like you said, she’s discreet.”

“They all go upstairs to the apartment,” the officer continued, “but only the girl leaves. At 8:43.”

⧭⧭⧭

“We have a witness from the cafeteria that confirms that the boys ate with a dark-haired young woman in a red coat,” Hotch said, arms crossed. “But other than those two details, the witness couldn’t recall anything else and said they’d never seen her before.”

“So we’ve got the two victims entering their apartment with an unknown woman. They’re upstairs for an hour and a half before she leaves,” Emily recounted.

Derek stood with his hands on his hips. “And in that time, she manages to dose and gain control of two boys that are more than double her size and funnel a lethal amount of alcohol into them. Now the question is why?”  

As the team converged around the conference room table, a uniformed officer entered into the doorway. “Agent Jareau? There’s a possible witness—says she might have some new information.”

JJ nodded to the team and moved to the doorway. A petite young woman stood in the center of the bullpen, wringing her hands. When her eyes landed on JJ, she let her arms fall to her side. As JJ approached, she motioned with her hand for the girl to sit at the closest desk. “Hi, I’m Jennifer. I heard you wanted to speak to someone about this case. Can I have your name?”

The girl nodded. “Um, I’m Cassie. I saw the announcement you made. About the woman in the red coat. I heard you say that she had brown hair. Is that true?”

JJ cocked her head slightly. “Yeah, the witness and security footage we have shows a woman with dark hair walking with Tyler and Leon. Why do you ask?”

Cassie’s eyes darted around the bullpen, and she drew her arms tightly over her chest. “I just— um—well, I—”

“Would it help if we moved somewhere a little quieter?” JJ suggested. When Cassie nodded and stood, JJ placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and directed her toward an empty interview room. Cassie sat in the chair farthest from the door, and JJ sat opposite her. “Is there something you wanted to tell me about the woman? Or is it something else that’s on your mind?”

Cassie let out a long breath. “When I heard that they were dead, I— I was relieved. That sounds awful, but it’s true.”

JJ tread lightly over her next question. “You felt relieved. Why was that?”

Cassie looked directly at JJ. “I’ve been looking over my shoulder everywhere I go for the last seven months. I won’t have to do that anymore.”

“Can you tell me more about what you mean?”

Cassie took a breath and closed her eyes for a long second, before opening them and continuing. “There was a huge party in the spring. I mean, there were, like, hundreds of people there.” Cassie’s eyes went wide. “I never go to parties like that. But it was the end of the year, and my friend—well, I went with my friend. She got invited.”

“Were Tyler and Leon at this party?” JJ asked.

“Everybody was. I mean, everybody who’s somebody at OSU was there. We saw them right away. The whole team was there, but people treated those two like kings.” Cassie looked down at her hands. “We were drinking... a lot. At some point, Laney and I got separated. I tried calling her phone a bunch of times, but the party was really loud. I—I didn’t want to leave without her, but I was getting really messed up. I had a guy friend from one of my classes walk me home.” She swiped at her eye with the back of her hand. “Laney didn’t get back until the morning. Her clothes were all torn up, her hair had... blood in it, and she—she had a bruise under her eye.” She looked up at JJ, eyes shining with tears. “They raped her. I left her behind, and they raped her,” she whispered.

JJ reached across the table for Cassie’s hand. “Cassie, I’m so sorry. What happened to Laney was not your fault, or hers. Do you understand me?” JJ paused before continuing. Cassie looked down. “Do you know if she reported it?”

Cassie nodded. “I’m the one who went with her to the infirmary. They did a kit and confirmed it. When we went to Campus PD, they did nothing. Said Laney was wasted, and there was no one that could back up her story.”

JJ squeezed her hand. “So there was no official report filed?”

Cassie laughed coldly. “Oh, they wrote a report. I think if we ask them to, they have to. But they wouldn’t name Tyler or Leon in it. Said they didn’t want to ‘give legs to any gossip.’”

JJ’s mouth stretched into a thin line. “Where’s Laney now?”

“I don’t know.” Cassie shook her head. “She didn’t come back to OSU this fall. I haven’t really talked to her since—” She looked at JJ. “I can’t get the image of her out of my head. How she looked when she came through the door that morning. What they did to her… I’m not sorry that they’re dead.” Her eyes were shining with rage. “People knew what happened… and no one did anything. And those two were still the kings of campus.”

⧭⧭⧭

The team absorbed the new information quietly. “So Garcia was right. They did have something to hide.” Derek’s phone buzzed. “Speaking of. Hey mama, you’re on speaker.”

“I hope you’re all sitting down,” Penelope warned. “I expanded the parameters of my original VICAP search to include the surrounding states. No hits on suspicious deaths by alcohol poisoning. However, the U LOSE signature? Seven hits across Texas, Arkansas, Missouri, and Kansas.”

“So our unsub’s been traveling across the South—” Emily started.

“Oh, I’m not done,” Penelope continued. “Just to double check, I expanded the search area to the continental US. Our unsub has been busy. Over 30 murders with this signature, all across the country, dating back to March 2007. All different M.O.s: gunshot, stabbing, strangulation, you name it. But all with U LOSE scrawled across their forehead in—get this—liquid eyeliner.”

“Anything tying the victims together, Garcia?” Hotch asked.

“All men, mostly white, but all across different ages, occupations, and marital statuses. At first glance, there’s no real connection,” Penelope answered.

“What about on second glance?” Hotch prompted.

“Way ahead of you, sir. I did a little digging.” Penelope shrugged. “Okay, a lot of digging—most of it legal. Every single one of these victims had at least one sexual assault allegation. Some are official police reports, some are HR complaints, some are sealed court records. But in every case, the victim’s cause of death is directly related to the details of the assault records. Women that were held at knifepoint, their attacker was stabbed to death. If they were choked, he was strangled. If they were held at gunpoint, he died of a gunshot wound. Et cetera, et cetera.” Penelope twirled her pen. “The differing M.O.s combined with the fact that the unsub kept crossing state lines kept local PDs and field offices from making the connection.”

“Garcia, can you search OSU PD records for an incident report?” JJ asked.

Garcia tapped rapidly across her keyboard. “Absolutely, sugar, when would it have been filed?”

“It would’ve been this year, sometime at the end of April or beginning of May,” JJ answered. “The victim would be named as Laney Collins.”

After a few moments, Garcia peered through her green cat-eye glasses at the report. “Mmm, I’ve got one incident report, filed on May 7th. And woof, this report is not much to go on. The responding officer wrote a whopping three sentences. According to him, Laney was incapacitated and thus was not a credible witness.” Garcia twirled her pen. “The alleged attackers, who are not named, denied Laney’s account of what happened. Because there were no other witnesses, Officer Thorough deemed that no further action was necessary.” She jabbed her pen in the direction of the screen. “And this, my friends, is why women don’t bother reporting.”

“Good work, Garcia,” said Hotch.

“There’s one more interesting detail from the report,” Garcia continued. “The dean of students signed off on it.”

“So Barrett knew about this the whole time,” Derek fumed.

“And again, people wonder why women don’t report,” Garcia repeated, ending the call.

“So our unsub is seeking justice for women she believes have been failed by the system. We’re looking for a vigilante, carrying out revenge killings,” Rossi concluded.

Derek nodded. “And she’s organized and efficient; she finished with Tyler and Leon in less than two hours.”

“She’s smart and she blends in, doesn’t draw too much attention to herself,” JJ added.

“She’s meticulous and has at least some knowledge of forensic countermeasures, considering there’s no physical evidence tying her to any of the scenes,” Spencer remarked.

“And she knew enough to keep her face off the security footage,” Emily finished.

“Rossi, Emily, and I will stay here and deliver the profile,” Hotch directed. “JJ, I’d like you to speak to the families again, see if they knew about the rape. Reid, Morgan, talk to Barrett and see what else he might be trying to keep quiet.”

⧭⧭⧭

“Makes you wonder just how many people knew what happened,” Derek considered, closing the car door.

“It’s estimated that twenty percent of student victims of sexual assault report it to their university, but less than one percent of assailants receive any type of disciplinary action,” Spencer cited, making his way toward the sidewalk.

Derek shook his head. “And so the victims don’t see the point in reporting it. Your attacker gets to walk around like nothing even happened. Cassie told JJ that she felt like she had a target on her back once they reported Laney’s assault.”

As they walked up the blacktop driveway to the entrance of Barrett’s home, Spencer slowed his steps as he noticed the front door. “Morgan.” He nodded at the door, slightly ajar.

Derek drew his gun and moved ahead of Spencer. He pushed the door slowly open and called out, “Mr. Barrett?” In the foyer were the remnants of a broken vase and a small trail of blood. “Call Hotch, let him know we’ve got trouble here.”

Derek and Spencer worked to quietly clear the rooms, one by one. Derek stopped at the bottom of the stairs and motioned to Spencer. As they started up the stairs, a woman’s voice called out, “Shut up! You had nothing to say before. So now, you’re just going to listen.”

Derek reached the top of the stairs and started down the hallway. He reached the open door where a woman stood, her back to the door. Behind her, Derek could see Barrett, sitting on the floor, blood dripping from a gash on his head. His hands were raised in front of his chest, palms facing out. Derek stopped, his gun trained on the woman, and murmured, “Laney?”

The woman pivoted her body, her short blonde hair whipping around. Derek saw tears in her eyes and a revolver in her hand. “Don’t,” she warned.

“Laney, my name is Derek. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to talk. I need you to put the gun down.”

“No!” Laney screamed. “You don’t know what he’s done.” She shook the gun in Barrett’s direction, and Barrett closed his eyes.

Derek spoke softly. “I do, Laney. I do know. I know what happened to you. I know that he kept Tyler and Leon’s names off the report. I know that he didn’t help you when you needed it most. I know that he let them get away with--”

“Rape. He let them get away with rape. Because he cares more about reputation and football than what happens to women on his campus. They ruined my life.” Laney turned away from Derek and put both hands on the gun. “They ruined my life, and you did nothing. And then they walked around campus like they were invincible, because you taught them they were.”

Derek moved further into the room, into Laney’s eyesight. Spencer moved into the doorway, covering Derek. “Laney, look at me. I’m putting my gun away.” Derek held his hands up and then moved to holster his gun. “Doing this won’t make the pain go away.”

“How many others? How many other women did he do this to?” Laney let out a painful sob. “If I don’t stop him, it never ends.”

“Listen to me.” Derek took a step closer to her. “Killing him won’t change what happened, Laney. It won’t. Believe me. I know how you feel.”

“People love to say that when they’re trying to shut you up. How could you possibly know how I feel?” Laney spit out.

“Someone hurt me, just like they hurt you. And nobody was there to help me. No one was there to listen.” Laney froze, eyes shifting to meet Derek’s. “I wanted to hurt him, Laney. Wanted to make him feel the same pain I felt. I wanted him to suffer.” He moved another step closer. “I know that those men hurt you, and I know that he let them get away with it. And I am so, so sorry. But you’re stronger than anyone knows, Laney. You are the only person who has the power to help others who didn’t get justice. I have a friend who’s spent her whole life helping survivors, and I know she’d love to talk with you.” He took another step. “You are the only person who can stop it from happening to someone else. You can make sure he’s held accountable for what he’s done. But if you pull that trigger, you can never go back,” Derek warned.

Laney looked at Derek, his hand outstretched, wordlessly asking her to give him the gun. She looked at Barrett, crying and silently begging her to show him the mercy she never got. “I wish I’d been the one to kill them,” she whispered.

The gun dropped out of her hand as Derek stepped forward to catch her. He kicked the gun into the doorway, and Spencer recovered it. “I’ve got you,” Derek said, helping Laney out of the room. “Shh, it’s ok, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Spencer moved to lift Barrett off the ground and helped him into a chair by the window. Out of the corner of his eye, Spencer caught a flash of red below the window. He stumbled over Barrett, nose almost pressed to the glass as he stared out. The woman froze, eyes locked on Spencer’s. His mouth opened slightly as he stared at her, bewildered. By the time his brain caught up, she had already disappeared from view.

Spencer turned and raced down the stairs, clinging to the railing as he nearly missed a step. He burst out the front door into the driveway, sprinting around the side of the house. He heard Derek call his name, saw the other SUVs pulling up, but he kept running. He skidded to a stop at the edge of the backyard, and then spun in a full circle, eyes frantically scanning the perimeter.

Hotch approached from the side of the house, gun drawn. “Reid! Are you all right?”

Spencer took a last look, scanned from east to west. “Yeah, yeah. I just—I thought I saw—I thought I saw something.” He shook his head. “Barrett’s inside. He’s got a head laceration, but he’ll be fine.”

Hotch lowered his gun and nodded. “And Laney’s not our unsub. So we’re back to the beginning.”

⧭⧭⧭

“Strauss is asking us to head back to Quantico.” Hotch pocketed his phone and looked at the team. “We’ll move the cases to our watch list and flag the signature for hits in VICAP. From what we know about the unsub’s behavior, we know she’s no longer in the area.” He gestured to the evidence board. “Our best course of action is to keep the profile in our periphery for now. We can do that from the BAU. It’s late. Go to the hotel, get some rest. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

“I’m absolutely starving.” Emily slipped into her jacket and headed for the door. “Anybody want to hit up that 24 hour diner?”

Derek and JJ quickly agreed, following Emily from the conference room. JJ turned back, eyeing Spencer. “You coming, Spence?”

“I’m just really tired.” His voice lilted up, almost a question. “Next time, though.”

JJ gave him a look but didn’t press him. “Have a good night, Spence.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He gathered up the case files, not quite ready to put them away.

⧭⧭⧭

Spencer’s eyelids felt heavy as he walked through the lobby of the hotel. He really was tired. He blamed the exhaustion for what he thought he saw through the window at Barrett’s. His fatigued mind was seeing things that weren’t there. He practically floated into the elevator and up to his room. Sliding the room key through the slot, the door beeped open and Spencer stepped inside. He flicked on the light and dropped his bag on the floor, loosening his tie as he walked toward one of the sling back chairs sat by the window. He paused just before he reached the chair, his gaze lingering over something on the desk. A note hastily scrawled on hotel stationary.

623.

Spencer lifted the note with two careful fingers. “623?” He turned it over, looking for the rest of the message, but the paper was blank other than the number. He lowered the note, and his eyes landed on a small plastic card where the paper had rested on the table. Not just a card. A room key.

⧭⧭⧭

Spencer stared at the door of the room. Room 623. He turned his head and slowly looked up and then down the hallway. He took a breath and raised his hand to the door. He knocked in the familiar rhythm: five knocks, pause, two knocks. He pressed his ear close to the door, listening for any movement inside. When he heard nothing, he knocked again; the same pattern, but a little louder. He listened again. Nothing. Spencer felt a bead of sweat creep down the nape of his neck. He thought about turning around, about walking back down the two flights of stairs to his room and getting into bed.

Instead, he pulled the keycard from his pocket. As he lifted the card with one hand, he used his other to raise the strap on his holster. He held his breath as he swiped the card through the slot and heard the beep of the lock. Drawing his gun from the holster, Spencer slowly turned the handle of the door.

The room was mostly dark. Only the yellow glow of one of the bedside lamps illuminated the space. Spencer stepped into the room and quietly closed the door behind him. Again, his mind said to turn around. Yet his feet carried him further into the room. He could see now that the sling backs were facing toward the window. There were two glasses from the mini bar on the table between them.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” a familiar voice mused.

Spencer startled and then swallowed audibly, a cartoon character realizing he’s in serious trouble. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

“You can put the gun away,” she continued. “Really. Come sit down, Reid.”

Hearing her say his name sucked all the air out of his lungs. He closed the remaining distance between them, staring dumbly at her perched in the armchair. She gave him a small smile, warm despite the nervous energy in the air. “Hey, Reid.”

“Elle.” Spencer sunk into the chair across from her. “I—I thought I was seeing things. Earlier. At Barrett’s.”

She studied him quietly. “This hair is a good look for you.”

“Thanks,” Spencer blushed, smoothing down the hair at the nape of his neck. He quickly dropped his hand. “It was you then.”

“What was me?” Elle asked innocuously.

“You were at Steven Barrett’s house today. In the yard.” Spencer folded his hands to keep from wringing them. “You were wearing a red coat.”

Elle lifted one of the glasses to her lips, taking a sip of the clear liquor, ice cubes rattling. She swallowed and gestured to the other glass. “Have a drink.”

“I, um, I don’t drink anymore.” Elle raised an eyebrow. “A lot has happened since… the last time I saw you.” Spencer smoothed his hands down the tops of his thighs. “You were there today. Elle, did you—are you…” He wasn’t even sure what question to ask.

Elle ran her fingertip around the rim of her glass. She was quiet for a long time. Spencer fidgeted in his seat, but stayed quiet, waiting. Elle set the glass down.

“Do you remember that night in Dayton? In the hotel room?” Spencer looked at her pointedly. Elle let out a laugh. “Sorry, I forgot who I’m talking to; of course you remember.” Their eyes met. Spencer felt she was looking right through him. “You told me that I’d won. That because Garner was dead, and I was alive, I won.”

“Elle—” Spencer started.

“You asked, Reid. This is my answer.” She screwed the cap off the bottle of gin. Pouring the remainder of the bottle into her glass, she continued, “It took time, but I started to feel safe in my own home again. I could close my eyes without seeing his face. I could take a shower without bringing my gun.” She downed the rest of her glass. “When I killed Lee, I gave that same freedom back to the women he’d raped. They could exist in the world knowing that he would never hurt them, ever again.” She smiled ruefully. “And it felt… good. It felt right. And after years of having watched people be destroyed by monsters… I don’t know. It was just something I had to do. To bring that freedom and that safety back to other women who had been hurt and broken and alone. To destroy their monsters.” Elle looked at him then, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I don’t expect you to understand or approve. But the answer to your question is yes.”

Spencer took a breath and asked, “Why’d you put the key in my room? You could have just… disappeared.”

Elle shook her head. “I chose this. I knew what I was doing and what it would mean. Most of the time, I’m fine, great even. Because being able to give these women justice is the greatest gift. But with this work, you can’t really keep anybody close. No holidays or birthdays. No dates or girls nights.” She shrugged. “I guess I just wanted to see what would happen. What the boy genius would do.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Spencer admitted.

“Well, that’s a first.” Elle smiled, but Spencer could see apprehension in the rigidness of her shoulders, in the slight bouncing of her leg.

“I should probably arrest you,” he considered.

Her leg stopped. “You probably should.”

Spencer looked down at his hands. He ran his fingers up to the crook of his elbow, ghosting over the scars there. His mind raced from memory to memory: Elle on the train car; Tobias Hankle standing over him; Elle in the hospital bed; the needle in his arm; Elle in the hotel in Dayton; the click of an empty chamber.

“Elle, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for telling you that you’d won.” She was motionless, staring at him. He continued, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know what it was like. To be consumed and overcome by a memory.” Now it was Spencer’s eyes that shone with tears. “I didn’t know that the trauma could… fester in your brain like an infection that you can’t get rid of. I don’t know if winning is even possible after something like that.” He rubbed his hand under his eye and cleared his throat. “It was an awful thing to say. And I’m sorry.”

Elle tipped her head back, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. “All’s forgiven.”

Spencer reached out and gently grabbed Elle’s hand. “I’ve been so tired recently. I thought I saw something through the window at Steven Barrett’s house. But when I did a perimeter check, I didn’t find anything.” Elle dropped her head back down and turned to look at him. “We’re headed back to Quantico in the morning. We’ll, um, be keeping tabs on VICAP hits on the signature.” Spencer gave her hand one soft squeeze before standing. He let a small, bittersweet smile move over his face.

He made it to the door before he heard her voice again.

“If I asked you to stay, would you say yes?”

Spencer swiveled back to look at her, the door just barely open. Elle’s arms were crossed over her chest. Her eyes were dark and wide and full of storms. “Just for a little while longer?”

Spencer turned and moved his eyes up the length of the doorway, considering. He heard Elle let out a breath. His own breath stuttered. He closed the door softly. He put his hands in his pockets and turned back to her. “I’ve got a little while.”

[itsclydebitches]

RWBY Recaps: Volume 8 “Refuge”

Happy Saturday, everyone! Welcome to week two of… fourteen? Is that how many episodes we’ve got this Volume? Man, we’re going to be here for a while.

There’s a ton to unpack in “Refuge,” but as promised I want to delve into the opening first. Given the scattered, symbolic nature of our intro I think it’s easiest to just chuck out observations in list form. I’ll segue back into cohesive recapping in a moment.

So, what have we got?

The glitching between a happy, whole Atlas and the burning wreckage we’re now dealing with. That works well given both Atlas’ tech-focus culture and the ways that tech has led to some of our biggest tragedies (hijacked army, framing Penny, etc.)

Ruby looks scared and is standing behind the rest of her team, separated from them by the title. I’m not really feeling that theme so far though, given Yang’s incredibly weak challenge, Ruby’s immediate forgiveness (during her talk with Penny), and the fact that she’s still working with half the team who vocally support her, particularly Nora. Unless something drastic changes, the idea of Ruby being the outsider here is silly.

We get shots of the girls with their past selves superimposed over their bodies and weapons. I like the message here—they carry those versions of themselves with them—just not how it’s contrasted with Ironwood’s image of an earlier Atlas now burning. So that’s all he is now? Everyone gets to embody their growth except for him? His past is erased to focus solely on our current predicament? I’m not picking up any redemption flags here…

Robyn’s hand reaches down towards Clover’s badge, which then circles to show off the Ace Ops. The final image contrasts an angry Harriet with a defeated Qrow. At least, I hope they’re contrasts. It’s going to read as absurd if they somehow end up working together after Qrow helped get her leader killed.

This morphs into Qrow alone who sits, devastated, until Robyn offers him a hand up and they both smile. I’m not a fan of this symbolism after the prison scene we got this episode. It’s like Qrow might have thought about his choices until Robyn’s anger reminded him that, oh yeah, he can be angry at Ironwood instead. These two teaming up, when their last team-up led to a death, is worrisome to say the least.

We get our horrifying image of Salem looming over Oscar as he clutches his head. The group’s weapons fall. This makes sense given this episode’s kidnapping and the team’s sheer inability to do anything to stop it.

Jaune stands determined—also makes sense with his trend of giving “pep talks”—while Ren and Nora stand apart, facing opposite directions. Nora looks back though.

Paralleling them are Winter and Weiss who also face opposite directions. This is becoming a common visual theme: Harriet and Qrow, Nora and Ren, Winter and Weiss. Here though, Weiss looks determinedly ahead while Winter stares down at her feet, unsure. Ugh, I just know they’re going to have her betray Ironwood too.

We get a brief glimpse of Whitley and Willow, not a whole lot to go on. Then we see Salem turning her chess pieces into grimm—literally changing the game—while Ironwood’s white pieces are turned to dust. I could make a quip about how white is supposed to go first, but the initial move was made thousands of years before Ironwood existed and thus he never stood a chance, certainly not when his own allies are actively working against him… but I won’t lol

Watts is smiling at a terminal while at his back Pietro works at his. More opposites. Pietro’s reflection looks to Penny even as his body continues to work, his heart contrasting his head. Penny, in turn, looks upset as her reflection flinches at something off screen and the glass cracks. Watts hacking her, perhaps?

We see the new teams as a cherry blossom (I think?) floats across the screen. It melts in Ren’s hand while escaping Nora’s. Honestly, I’m not sure what to make of that just yet.

Ruby and Yang share a look—undermining their supposed conflict this volume. Couldn’t we have gotten sister unity over the last three years instead?—and a fight against grimm starts up. It freezes as Cinder walks through it, hopefully implying that the group’s attention is on the wrong threat. While they concern themselves with low-level grimm, Salem and her allies are walking free and wreaking havoc.

Then Cinder screams and clutches her grimm arm as things go up in flames. I hope that’s not a death flag given that we’ve teased her death twice already and we only just got a glimpse at her backstory. Also, I think it’s worth mentioning here that there’s a “Summer is the Hound” theory gaining traction which, frankly, I think is 100% unsubstantiated. It’s a fun crack theory, but not something I’m inclined to take seriously until we get some actual evidence behind it. There is, however, potential evidence for people becoming grimm in general: Salem falling into the pool and Cinder receiving that arm. That’s not much though. So while I’m far from convinced that the Hound was once human—let alone that it was Summer—there is something to the theory that Salem may be able to control Cinder via her arm like she controls other grimm. After all, she knew Cinder was alive despite everyone else thinking she’d perished. They seem to have some sort of connection that hasn’t been explained yet and now that Cinder has willingly walked back into Salem’s clutches, she may not be able to walk out.

There are shots of all our other villains, the Lamp and the Staff reflected in Salem’s eyes, and Jinn’s blue smoke, perhaps suggesting that we’ll see her again, or the entity residing in the Staff (if they exist).

Atlas glitches back to normal—a false victory?—before the ice breaks and Team RWBY falls into the darkness below. Volume 3 vibes all around. There’s light above them emanating from the Staff, but as Ruby reaches for it grimm arms circle and pull her deeper. I hope this means that the group will suffer the defeat we need to keep Salem as a legitimate threat, but we had very similar imagery back in Volume 6 and they made it out of that situation just fine, so.

“Happy Ever After” glitches into “Happy? Never Again.” Which isn’t ominous or anything. We finally end on the classic RWBY image of Crescent Rose buried in the snow underneath the shattered moon.

On the whole I think the opening is strong and I like a lot of the symbolism in it, though I do question how much will actually end up being relevant to the story. My only gripes are that there are too many different styles going on—it feels like three or four different Volume openings slammed together—and the fact that it also feels overly long. I don’t think it’s actually any longer than our Volume 7 opening, but it seems that way to me, perhaps because of those varying styles breaking things up.

So that’s what we’ll be watching for the next twelve weeks! Let’s move onto the actual episode.

We open on the image of Clover’s bloody badge in Qrow hand, the same one we got in the trailer. I theorized last recap that we’d be getting the rest of our trailer/promo material this week and I was almost entirely correct in that. This moment, retrieving the bikes, fighting off the grimm, Watts getting hit, Oscar carried away… all we’re missing are some eye closeups and Nora powering up her hammer. As said, it makes me nervous for what the rest of the Volume holds. I can’t decide whether the footage wasn’t ready to be included in promo materials that early, or if RT is just determined not to give us any information past the first two episodes…

Regardless, this is supposed to be a moment of grief and all I could focus on was Qrow’s hand. Specifically, the lack of detail in it. On the whole, I’ve been very happy with the engine upgrade and I quite like RWBY’s animation now, but a closeup here draws too much attention to how, sometimes, they’re just not animating their characters in a way that looks natural. Where is Qrow’s wrist? Why is his palm perfectly smooth? Stylistically that’s usually fine, but when given the chance to stare at it you realize how odd it looks. 

Says the woman whose own drawing skills suck but, ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

But we’re talking about the important bits in this episode! Out of frame Robyn is heard yelling, “This is your fault. You realize that, don’t you?” We’re meant to think that she’s telling Qrow this, especially with how he’s bent guiltily over the badge, until we cut to reveal Jacques right next to them.

I wish Robyn was saying all that to Qrow. It would mean that she was ignoring her own responsibility in Clover’s death, but at least it would have started an arc where Qrow has to grapple with what he did. Not the awful moment that’s coming up.

Before that though, Jacques claims that he’s the “victim” here who was “duped.” His hands may not be clean, but “at least I’m not a murderer.” Look, I’m not here to absolve Jacques of anything. The guy is an absolute shit stain on the Remnant world. However, he’s right in his overall point even if his words are BS. Meaning, Jacques is not a victim and he is a murderer, but he is not the one responsible for Clover’s death. Robyn has plenty of things to be furious at him for, but this is not one of them. Ironically, here we have Jacques functioning as the kind of villain the show wants Ironwood to be. He is a murderer because the company he runs exploits faunus and forces them to work in dangerous conditions (see: the death of Ilia’s parents). He is culpable because he a) had control over these conditions and b) has full knowledge of their flaws. He’s a racist who cares more about money than lives. His informed choices then led directly to deaths. Ironwood? Not anywhere near the same thing. Overlooking the “Omg Salem is here and I have to do something about it” context, he did not try to arrest Robyn. He did not force Qrow to resist arrest, or Robyn to get involved, or Qrow to break Clover’s aura, or Tyrian to stab him in the chest. Ironwood had no control or knowledge of these events, so he is not responsible for Clover’s death in the way that Jacques is responsible for the faunus’. RWBY is giving the right arc to the wrong character.

Robyn then insists that Qrow didn’t kill anyone. He didn’t strike the blow, but he certainly helped! Look, Qrow is one of my favorites, but I’m not about to claim that he didn’t have a hand in getting his friend killed. I seriously can’t believe the show is ignoring this.

We then segue into some, uh, questionable dialogue choices. Jacques is a “snake with a mustache”? Sorry, I can’t take Robyn seriously at the best of times, but definitely not when she’s tossing out laugh worthy insults like that. Nevertheless, this “snake with a mustache” is guilty because he “helped that man tear us all apart.” That man being Watts.

…why are they all in what amounts to the same cell with barriers dividing them? I suppose we could make the argument that they’re being held in some secret facility, given that they’re in this dark, garage-esque space with no lights and no other prisoners. Some sort of maximum security setup that... doesn’t have any other inmates and no additional security? Hmm. Then again, the power is supposed to be out and I don’t really trust RWBY’s ability to craft consistent backgrounds. I feel like they’re packed together merely because that’s plot convenient, not because it makes any sense in world.

Watts looks pretty comfortable in there though and Jacques is likewise full of confidence. He says that by now Whitley will have already called their lawyers to get him out. Now, non-imprisoned people know that the apocalypse is currently underway, as Joanna will later put it. No one is lawyer-ing at the moment, but it will be crucial to see whether Whitley is trying to get Jacques out despite the chaos. How faithful is he to his abuser? Can Willow start undermining Jacques’ influence now that they’re alone?

Jacque’s confidence thoroughly pisses Robyn off and she screams, punching the barrier between them. Keep this in mind for a second. 

A moment later two guards show up to take Watts somewhere and… oh no. Please don’t tell me Ironwood is going to team up with him now that Penny has written him off? I know the guy has (presumably) already killed someone, and he must assume he’s killed Oscar, so we’re definitely in full villain territory despite the stupidity of it… but please don’t start working with Salem’s henchmen too. You know what? I’m not going to assume the worst until I actually see it. RWBY gives me enough nonsense as it is lol.

What I really want to talk about is that hit. 

I’m somewhat concerned by a lot of the fandom’s reaction to this moment in comparison to another. Who remembers Volume 6? That scene when Qrow punched Ozpin directly into a tree? Now, I’m not keeping track of who says what when—this is a generalized reaction—but I saw a lot of posts defending that action. There were numerous justifications for the punch, but the three big ones were: 1. These characters are fighters and they’re used to it, 2. These characters have aura so it’s not that bad, and 3. Ozpin totally deserved it. Now, the problems here are that 1a. I don’t think punching someone when they’re crying on their knees is justified, whether they’re a fighter or not, 1b. Qrow was likewise punching Oscar, a totally innocent kid, 2. We had established earlier that Oscar was having trouble remembering to activate his aura and didn’t seem to have it active then (no ripple effect, he’s rubbing his jaw afterwards), and 3. Ozpin’s crimes are, as explored on this blog, not nearly the horrific actions that the story and fandom would like to paint them as. The point is that despite all this, lots and lots of fans said it was totally okay to punch Ozpin&Oscar. What’s the big deal? they asked. Now, lots and lots of fans—mostly when the trailer first dropped—say it’s not okay to punch Watts. Despite the fact that he’s also a fighter. Despite the fact that his aura has broken. Despite the fact that he’s not currently a threat (seated on the bed/Ozpin on his knees). Despite the fact that he’s responsible for helping Salem try to take over the world. If we were to make a case for who deserves to get hit, Watts is a WAY stronger candidate in my opinion, yet he’s the one who a lot of fans are scrambling to defend. Why? I assume it’s because hitting him feeds into the generalized police state/dictator theme Ironwood has been thrown into. It helps villainize Ironwood for fans to go, “Poor Watts. He’s done horrific things but no one deserves to face police brutality.” I agree. The only problem is that a lot of those same fans seem to have gone, “Ozpin can get over it. He deserved to be hit! I would have done a whole lot worse to him…” So is the difference only that one attacker is a military professional and the other is… a huntsmen professional who soon after that scene starts working for the military? Yeah. The show continually ignores that the group aren’t the rogue heroes they pretend to be. They worked under Ironwood for weeks, if not months.

The show isn’t clear about its morals and neither are the fans, with both changing tactics whenever it helps blame the character they already don’t like. When Robyn punches the barrier, do we really think she wouldn’t have hit Jacques if given the chance? Why would it be heroic for her to hit the Evil Man but it’s not okay for the grunt minor character to hit the other Evil Man? These morals don’t change just because you like Robyn and don’t like Ironwood. 

Jumping ahead for a moment, we get another example of this hypocrisy with Joanna. A reporter is informing the people that the military seems to have stopped evacuations and there is an unheard number of grimm hanging out overhead, both things that are objective facts. He’s reporting as he should, sticking to what’s known and provable, and thus is, notably, not some lackey of Ironwood’s who is hastily presented as evil. Yet Joanna treats him like he is. She snatches the microphone from him and, when he starts to protest, threatens him with her weapon. After she’s done hijacking the feed, she shoves him on her way out.

Look at how scared this guy is. These are our heroes? This back and forth doesn’t work. Prior to his random killing spree, Ironwood took his fear and frustration out on some furniture, yet the show acted as if he was hurting real people. The mere possibility that he might use violence and intimidation to achieve heroic goals—getting Amity up/escaping Salem—was enough to label him as an antagonist because the understanding was that you can’t act like that no matter what your intentions are. Yet our current heroes can use as much violence and intimidation as they want to achieve their own heroic goal of warning the people? Do we think the story will encourage us to be critical of the group if they start beating up a bunch of Atlas goons to reach the access point? Of course not. And it’s that flip-flopping that’s the problem. Your heroes have to function differently than the villains in order for them to be heroes. Under that logic, our heroes haven’t acted like heroes since mid-Volume 6 and it’s getting harder and harder to watch.

Especially when we take the scene before this into account. Yup, we’ve still got Qrow gunning for Ironwood. Robyn bemoans the fact that they can’t do anything, to which Qrow replies, “We can do something. We can kill the man who put us here.” I… feel like I shouldn’t start repeating myself given how long this recap is—we’ll be here for forever lol—BUT I hope everyone reading this understands precisely how little this makes sense. How god awful a choice it is. I mean c’mon. Robyn attacked Clover unprovoked, Qrow teamed up with Tyrian, he broke Clover’s aura, Tyrian murdered him, Salem is here, and now he’s sitting in a cell with Watts and Jacques… but Ironwood is the guy he wants to kill? REALLY, QROW? THAT’S WHO YOU’RE GOING TO GO AFTER? I really can’t with this show sometimes. RWBY, put your clown makeup on.

We get a cut to Ironwood’s image just so there’s no confusion about who Qrow wants to help kill next and Joanna threatens that reporter who, you know, is also a citizen in need of help and protection… Her “General Ironwood has abandoned you, but we have not” sounds absolutely ridiculous when we just watched her intimidating this guy to get what she wants. ‘You can trust us! Unless we randomly decide we don’t like you.’ I have other things to say about Yang calling out that racist woman later on, but she gets props for helping her regardless. Honestly, I don’t get that sense from the cast very often: that they’d help you even if they don’t agree with you. They certainly didn’t offer that to Ozpin, Ironwood, or the Ace Ops.

There’s a very long shot of a scared toddler staring out the window, just to hammer home how young and innocent Mantle is. Seriously, pay attention to our imagery: Mantle is scared children in homes, cute children fist-bumping Jaune, family photos lost in the street, a stuffed toy run over by hoverbikes. It’s meant to evoke a general sense of domesticity and, again, innocence. Meanwhile, Atlas is only shown via Ironwood and Jacques, the villains. Where are the families living up in the sky? The children? The humanizing details? Our racist woman is an outlier who is quickly silenced by Yang. The rest of Mantle is characterized as victims: scared women, worried fathers, the faunus huddling together in the slums, even another racist who, while an asshole, is supposed to have a point about things like the embargo. Which is all true. These characters are all of these things, it’s just that they’re not unique in this. All this exists above too—from those families, to the faunus slave labor, to the beloved objects that remind you of someone’s worth—but they’re ignored to provide a simplistic look at Atlas as the villain. 

Throughout this entire episode the group tosses out snide remarks about how “They” don’t care about you and it’s just… they who? The other thousands of innocents who have nothing to do with Ironwood? The hundreds of Mantle citizens you already evacuated? The redeemable people like Winter and Whitley? The group fights alongside a Schnee who was one of the most vocal racists a year and a half ago, yet writes off the entirety of Atlas as the bad guys. What a mess.

As Joanna’s voiceover finishes, we cut to Yang’s group going after Pietro’s tech. I already covered this scene in our promo material, but to summarize here: horrible tone. Absolutely nonsensical given the situation. Salem is here and Yang is giggling over bikes. In fact, the tone is off for most of the episode (our end being the wonderful exception): Yang’s joy ride, antics with the Mantle citizens, Blake poking fun at Weiss, the tube scene… none of it fits the context of the series’ big bad here to kill everyone. Arguments along the lines of, “But it can’t be doom and gloom all the time” or “This is a brilliant parallel to Volume 3 with happy times heralding tragedy” don’t erase the fact that our cast isn’t taking this threat seriously. Last week Weiss’ “We’re never going to sleep again” moment worked because it’s humor in the context of how bad everything is. All of this? It’s just the group goofing off despite supposedly being in mortal danger. This?

This doesn’t read well. I’d argue this scene is even worse in context due to lines like “The others are definitely missing out.” In our promo material I assumed that the group just split for the sake of splitting and they were, in fact, just missing out on something cool. But we’ve since learned that they split due to a fundamental disagreement about how to help people, a split Ruby compared to Salem’s plans, a split that Yang started! Why is she now acting like their separation is a funny “missing out” moment? It’s like if half your friend group decided to go to the movies while the other half went to a party with an unexpectedly good DJ. The movie-goers are people who are “missing out,” not the group who went off to take over a military base and everyone left angry.

Keep in mind that Ozpin is also back. Every fun times scene with Oscar in it has the added problem of Ozpin hanging back, not saying anything, not acknowledged, still a secret.

The other issue I brought up weeks back was the lack of grimm. Why are the streets deserted? Shouldn’t the army be overrunning the city? Well, turns out that there’s no army because… Salem just hasn’t bothered to send it into the city yet? When Jaune and Ren take out the low-level grimm Oscar asks if they’ve “already pushed this far in,” to which Yang replies, “No, I think those are from last night.” A few minutes later, last night’s grimm change to new non-Salem grimm as Oscar observes, “It’s the negativity. Salem’s forces aren’t moving in, but it’s enough to attract the stragglers.” Later still, Joanna asks, “…grimm are circling out there. What are they waiting for?” GOOD QUESTION. We don’t know, but it’s real convenient, isn’t it? RWBY redeems itself a bit at the end of this episode with that Hound grimm, but I’m still calling it out for having Salem hold off long enough for the group to evacuate pretty much all of Mantle and infiltrate the base. That’s real nice of her. As the characters keep pointing out, it would be a staggeringly different situation if they were overrun with grimm right now, huh? Kind of like the situation Ironwood (rightfully) assumed they’d be dealing with.

Again, I’m so glad our Big Bad is kind enough to let the heroes do everything they need to before lifting a finger to attack them.

RWBY seems to be setting up a, “See! There was always time to evacuate the city!” accusation even though no one could have known that and it makes zero logical sense. Salem brings an army with her so she can not use the army against Atlas? Right…

This all segues directly into our other promo scene. My initial comments still stand: the tone doesn’t work, the lack of urgency doesn’t work (Jaune playing with the kid, Oscar politely knocking on doors), the low-level grimm are not a threat, that shield is useless against anything not driven by plot convenience, and it’s weird for Jaune to be yelling, “Heads up!” when there’s no one in front of him. As said, this moment really doesn’t sit well given everything that’s going on. I had hoped that it would read better when seen in the episode itself, but that’s sadly not the case.  

After Ren one-shots the grimm Jaune suggests that they use his amplified semblance to get everyone to the crater safely. Ren seems less than pleased about this, but agrees. Right now, it’s easy to say that he’s in a bad mood because Nora is mad at him, but what about the Volume before? Where’s this underlying tension coming from? I can come up with lots of theories, but at some point the show needs to confirm something. The longer we go not explaining what’s wrong with Ren, the less faith I have that it will make sense when we get it.

We see the racist woman upset that they have to go live with the “animals in the slums” rather than going up to Atlas. As said, I like that Yang helps her despite clearly hating the woman, I also think her criticism holds up well (ignoring the simplified ‘They abandoned you’ narrative). The only thing that bugs me is RWBY continually presenting racism as a problem to throw a band-aid on and then pat yourself on the back for ‘solving.’ Racist drunk says shit? Toss him in the trash! Racist woman says shit? Remind her that her survival depends on you! It’s not that these responses aren’t earned, but that we’re given them instead of an actual arc that tackles the complexities of this issue. I mean, Blake has abandoned the White Fang and we’ve barely mentioned the faunus slave labor in Atlas. When they head to the dust facility it’s conveniently run by bots instead of faunus. Can you imagine if Weiss Schnee walked into a group of exploited minorities, hoping to use them to access a military base? But of course, there’s nothing like that. RWBY ignores the actual issues for these simple solutions. Heroes just attack/threaten racists and then it all goes away. Yay.

The other problem with this scene is that we learn the crater is the slums. Um… what? Hold on, Joanna made it sound like it’s a separate place, potentially inhabited by grimm, yet it’s the same area Oscar was in last episode? How is that area warmer? This makes no sense to me.

Also, ha, the crater below Atlas apparently houses all the “animals” that Team RWBYJNR is very protective of. I’m waiting for them to do something that messes with the Staff—Ruby reaching for it in the opening—Atlas crashes down on a whole city of exploited minorities, and then Ironwood is blamed for it somehow. Can’t wait for that episode.

So the group starts making their way there and hark! An Ozpin! I’m always thrilled to hear him, even if he’s treated just terribly by the show. Oscar is at the back of the group and comments that “It should not be this hard just getting people to cooperate.” Except… they are cooperating? Oscar, you are watching them cooperate right in front of you. That one woman might grumble a bit, but she hasn’t made a move or said a word about not doing what you say. Where did this complaint come from? Another example of RWBY insisting something is there when it simply isn’t. More importantly, Ozpin responds:

“And yet, it’s becoming something I’m increasingly concerned about.”

“You know, I really don’t need your additional comments right now.”

Then why did you comment out loud, Oscar? What, do you normally talk to yourself like that? You were clearly speaking to Ozpin! Don’t criticize him for responding. I hate traps like that.

Ozpin immediately says that Oscar has every right to be upset and apologizes for leaving… it’s not apologizing for his entire existence like I wrote on the bingo board, but it’s close. Who’s surprised that Ozpin is the first to offer (another) apology? Not me. Oscar corrects him with, “I’m upset you came back!”

Okay. Here’s the thing. I like the idea of Oscar rejecting Ozpin both because he’s taken over his life and because Oscar has suffered horribly due to Ozpin’s presence (punched, slammed into walls, kidnapping attempts, etc.) That makes sense, it’s actually morally complex, and it’s great groundwork for character growth. The only problem is… this came out of nowhere. Oscar was shown accepting this new life when he left the farm. Then again when he insisted on fighting Hazel. Then again all the times he’s been told he’s acting like Ozpin and seems to accept that just fine. He’s clearly pleased with this new badass self he’s got going on—he even says as much—yet doesn’t want to acknowledge Ozpin as the catalyst for all this positive change. Okay, that’s something we could still work through, but what about the group? Fans are already theorizing that this is why Oscar is keeping Ozpin a secret, because he’s scared of how the group will react, punishing him to get at Ozpin again, and though he 100% has reasons for thinking that will happen, Oscar hasn’t shown that fear before now. Qrow punches him? Bonding moment with Ruby. Jaune attacks him? I made you all dinner. They all smile over his inevitable death/disappearance? He smiles back. Yang is the most scream-y? Happy to have her using him as an armrest. The group continually ignores him and treats him with suspicion? Not a peep of protest. It’s horrifying that Oscar accepted how the group previously treated him, but he did accept it. Where did this fear come from if we haven’t seen it in response to the harm done towards him? Just as importantly, can’t we have an arc where Oscar is mad at the team some too? I’ll admit that the general premise of blaming Ozpin makes sense for the traumatized fourteen-year old, but after two years of blaming Ozpin for everything… aren’t we sick of this? His team has actively hurt him, outside of Ozpin’s ability to prevent, yet Ozpin is the one who takes all the heat for their behavior. “I felt like I was actually part of the team” should lead to the realization of, “Hey, Yang shouldn’t yell at both of us for things outside of our control” not, “Hey, you should stay away forever because others have decided they don’t like you.”

All of this following Ozpin saving Oscar’s life in the airship. Then saving his life again after Ironwood shot him. Our heroes are real grateful, huh. I hate that RWBY is taking another fave and doing them dirty, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. 

Ozpin also mentions his magic—would be nice if Oscar brought that up with the team!—and that he is now “recollecting my longest held memories.” He…is? When? Don’t you think that’s something important to show us? We keep being told that “the merge” is occurring but not shown what that actually means. Seriously, when did Oscar get slammed with that many memories??

Please just use the aura machine and give Ozpin a robot body. RT doesn’t have the chops for writing this situation.

As they continue on towards the crater Ren snaps at Jaune about not needing a “pep talk.” Jaune looks annoyed at the attitude which, fair. It says a lot about the writing the last few years that Jaune is the character I’m least frustrated with lol. Likely because they haven’t had him do anything lately which, given that he’s not one of the title characters and our cast is bloated enough as it is, I’m still totally fine with.

Ozpin concludes the scene with, “We need to find a way to work together. Not just the two of us, all of us” with the camera panning up to look at Atlas. I’m glad someone isn’t ready to throw Ironwood under the bus. Given how the group reacted to him sparing Lionheart’s name though, I don’t think they’ll follow Ozpin in his forgiveness. If anything, I expect this perspective to just be more hate fuel.  

We move to Ruby’s group which now includes May. Woohoo! She still hasn’t gotten half the screen time as Joanna, but I’m really glad she’s here. In fact, between a useful semblance and that adorable courtesy, I love her already. Despite, you know, helping the team break into the base and all that. Everyone has their flaws lol.  

She also frames the Amity plan as getting the world “talking again.” Why is everything presented like a fun romp rather than avoiding death via Salem? Absolutely terrible tone this episode.

The group hilariously waltzes past a sign labeled AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and enters the dust facility with the bots I mentioned earlier. This I do like. My hypothetical scenario incorporating the racism issue aside, I like that Weiss is using her knowledge and connections to further the mission, rather than something conveniently dropping into the group’s lap. Like Amity suddenly being ready for launch…So yeah, it makes sense that Weiss would know of a potential way in.  

Sending someone up through the tubes though? Ehhh… I know they have aura and everything—and that Zwei was once mailed—but are we sure this is safe?? Doesn’t matter because Nora sends Weiss through with a misplaced button press. Good thing that was the tube heading to the base. Too bad Weiss is heading to a guarded military base alone. It should have been May going first with her semblance activated, but no. Chuck this onto the ever increasing ‘Bad Tone’ pile. There should not be giggles over Weiss being in that level of danger, especially with everything else going on. Ruby’s expression is the only one on point.

Before Weiss is yeeted off though, Penny and Ruby have a talk wherein Ruby lies her ass off. Penny says, “I do not like it when friends fight” and when Ruby starts talking about Yang she corrects her, revealing that she’s actually thinking about Winter and Ironwood. “They were our friends.”

I was ready to sing Penny’s praises and really, she still gets credit for being the only one who has acknowledged this, but her opinion is (once again) overridden by Ruby’s. Penny goes, “but then the Ace Ops attacked you” which Ruby doesn’t bother to correct. How would Penny know otherwise? The only information she has about that battle is what Ruby has told her, but Ruby is lying via omission here. The Ace Ops never attacked her. They very explicitly refused to start a fight. Ruby attacked them. Then when Penny is upset that Ironwood said “people were going to die because of me,” Ruby takes her by the shoulders and angrily insists, “That was a lie and he was only saying it to hurt you.”

Ruby… you’re the one lying. You know damn well Ironwood didn’t just say that to hurt Penny. Oh yeah, the general trying to keep a kingdom alive from an immortal witch is preoccupied with hurting Penny’s feelings for no reason other than being evil. That makes sense. More importantly, Ironwood is right. Look, I’m by no means blaming Penny for anything. She fought off Cinder, took the power when there was no other choice, and has now gotten caught up in Ruby’s plans which include incredibly misleading information that Penny has no reason to question. She’s doing her best and deserves that hug. But that doesn’t mean she lacks responsibility here. Ironwood needs Penny to evacuate. Penny—listening to Ruby—won’t help him. Ergo, if something happens to the people up in Atlas Penny will be partly responsible. If I have the key to a door with lots of people trapped behind it as a fire rages, and I refuse to open that door, I have indeed allowed a lot of people to die. As Penny says, she didn’t want this responsibility… but she has it. She has to deal with it. Too bad she’s with Ruby who encourages her to ignore it instead, insisting that nothing bad that happens after their choices could in any way be connected to them. Kind of like Qrow ignoring his own actions against Clover.

Because that’s the takeaway from this scene. Penny had empathy for their friends and then Ruby talked her out of it. She never even acknowledges that those were indeed seven friends that she betrayed. That’s horrible.

What happened to Ruby? I used to love this girl.

Continuing our tone issue, Nora is watching this show like her favorite soap is on. Okay then.

Weiss goes up the tube and then we cut to Fiona saying that… the Mantle police are helping them evacuate? So the military is bad, but the police are good? I need to stop trying to make sense of RWBY’s allegory.

When Yang and the others return Fiona makes an innocent comment about being worried about how they’d fare without the rest of their team. Yang is pissed.

Ah, so we’re back to her giving allies attitude for random observations. Remember the anger at Marrow for suggesting she and Blake try different team-ups? Now here Yang is, in a different team-up, doing quite well. Funny how we never acknowledge who first suggested that. Now, Fiona reveals a totally logical worry that losing four fighters might make a difference when fending off grimm, but Yang is poised to be angry at everyone, about everything, all the time. Which I get is something that a lot of fans like. I’ve already seen a couple of posts praising RT for letting Robyn and Yang be angry without consequences because women often can’t do that and, fair. That is indeed one way to read it. My problem is that their anger is actually irrational, not just called as much because we women are ~emotional~. Their anger isn’t justified: Robyn because she had a significant hand in all this nonsense (that she’s ignoring) and Yang because it’s clear Fiona means no harm here. This is anger that needs to be called out, not ignored because yay women expressing emotion. That kind of defense is reserved for a woman’s justified anger that needs to be expressed without criticism, especially in a narrative that tries to undermine her perspective. But what has Fiona done to Yang? Nothing. More importantly, the show has yet to teach Yang a better coping mechanism than lashing out at people, be it with her fists, words, or angry glares. Yang has been through the ringer and it makes sense that she’s angry, but that doesn’t mean she gets a lifelong pass to treat those around her badly. 

Anyway, Joanna says they have a lot of people to keep warm even though the crater was supposed to be warmer? And they’re stealing dust? So what are they using it for it not heat? We’re not seeing any difference here and frankly all the civilians should be dead by now. Or at least entering hypothermia. (Give me that conflict: how do you keep people safe when they’re not all conveniently up for walking all the way to the slums?) Joanna also says that they’re trying to get the “Old mine shafts into a livable condition” which would take how long exactly? In fact, I’d say our timeline is already wonky. We’ve watched Yang hide the Ace Ops last Volume, fly to Winter and Penny, find the Happy Huntresses, wait around for Oscar to show up, ran off on her own at some point to scout, went to get bikes, evacuated all those people to the (far away) slums, then went back out to fight off the grimm. That had to have taken up a good chunk of the night, though it’s impossible to tell the time with Atlas’ snowy sky. I’m leaning towards a bingo mark though…

The faunus who I thought was a badger or something is… a bear I guess? He has a bear-like paw, but his nails seem too long… I honestly don’t know. But he’s Fiona’s uncle! Cute. She's off to deal with a fight that’s starting while the group goes to fight more grimm. Finally, the episode gets good.

The teamwork to take out the dragon grimm was nice, always glad to see it, but the real fight starts when two more grunts show up and then immediately run away. What could have scared them off?

The Hound. (I’m sorry, all I can think of is Game of Thrones when I write that, but it seems to be the name the fandom is adopting, so…) Remember how I said it was unlikely to be a threat on its own? I WAS WRONG. Holy shit this thing is terrifying. It snatches Oscar and in some wonderfully quick animation absolutely obliterates the kid. Oscar is thrown around like a chew toy, desperately trying to rabbit kick at this thing and it does [checks notes] absolutely nothing. I’d normally say something about our farm boy always getting the shit kicked out of him, but this scene was too good for my salt.

Then it changes shape, growing arms, and starts using Oscar as a shield. Yang can’t pull back in time and is snagged by her head, the Hound tossing her into the wall hard enough to break the stone. She’s still conscious though and warns the others about its strategy.

“But grimm aren’t that smart,” Jaune says. Maybe if you kids (Fiona keeps calling them kids) had stayed in school you would have learned that grimm get smarter with age! Oobleck knew that. Or, just as likely, this is a special Salem grimm. Hard to say at this point.

The point though is that the group is helpless in the face of this monster. I do want to emphasize this. I’ve seen a few people criticizing them for not doing enough to save Oscar and it’s like, what did you want them to do? Yang tried to attack and the grimm nearly had her hitting Oscar instead. Ren tried to attack and the grimm changed so fast his weapon was useless. Factor in that morphing—which the group has never seen before—the horror of Oscar hanging there limp, and the general fighter response of, ‘I can’t just keep attacking head on because that thing might kill me,’ and you realize the group was screwed from the start. They can’t stand up against this thing, not without a good strategy anyway, which there’s no time to think up. For the first time in years, ever since Tyrian, Salem actually made the right, villainous call.

Ren screams, “Give him back!”—which was just lovely in an angsty way—and the grimm creepily cuddles Oscar against his chest. Then he responds, “No.” Yeah, they’ve never seen that before either. Can you blame them for their shock? I’m impressed that they were on their bikes just seconds later, managing to keep the grimm in sight. That speaks to their combat experience. Not the ability to power through a situation where they’re clearly outmatched, but their ability to pick themselves back up and try again.

... Ah, so that’s why Pietro was oh so randomly making them bikes. The plot needed a way for them to keep up with a flying grimm. Got it.

My takeaway? RT should be writing horror. They’re far better at it. The animation, sound effects, voice acting, the grimm’s speech and protective instincts, that splatter of goo on Oscar’s cheek… 

... stellar all around. Like the Apathy, this is the best I think RWBY has been since the lore episode of Volume 6. Granted, action sequences like this aren’t required to grapple with any of the messy morals and character consistency of other scenes, but still. If RWBY had just given me a lighthearted ‘Girls fight cartoon monsters’ show or a horror fueled ‘Girls fight monster abominations’ show, I’d have been happy. This? This is the only redeeming part of the episode. And it’s indeed one hell of a redemption. Look at this thing!

I’m not going to say it erases all the bad we got—it doesn’t—or that it likewise erases problems like Salem not using the rest of her army, but it’s a notable step in the right direction. This grimm is a threat. This grimm is a mountain the cast has to overcome. If this is the minion its master should be Everest. I still think this Volume is going down the tubes fast (it’s going the way of Weiss lol), but if it can give me more scenes like this? It might not be a total loss.

Last thing to acknowledge: What about Ozpin? I’ll admit it doesn’t look good. Given how fast he takes control he should have been able to override Oscar’s will and at least fight back a little with that spectacular magic we saw during the finale. So why didn’t he? I hope we get an in-world explanation: it happened so fast even Ozpin couldn’t do anything (shaky, but I’ll take it in a pinch), now that the merge is farther along he can no longer take control—something. Because I can easily imagine how quickly the fandom, and even the cast, will turn on him for not playing deus ex machina here. In reality, I think Ozpin didn’t take control simply because the plot needed him not to. The writers needed Oscar kidnapped so any potential out from that is conveniently forgotten… which is another knock against their writing, despite how great the scene otherwise was. The point is to take all these potential pushbacks and find a satisfying way to circumvent them, not pretend they don’t exist. RT can still save themselves here by providing that explanation later, so I hope they’re smart enough to do that. Ozpin has been blamed for everything at this point. His own kidnapping doesn’t need to be added to the list.

Also, still no word on Schrödinger's councilman. We’ve got to wait another week to see whether he’s dead or not.

Finally, let’s update the bingo card!

I’m crossing off “Ruby gives an ‘inspiring’ speech built on ignoring facts she doesn’t like” for that conversation with Penny. Yeah, it’s a speech to her alone about her worth, but Ruby mischaracterized the situation so badly I’m mad at her lol

I never thought the story would straight up just not have the grimm army attacking, so I think I’ll hold off on “Army of grimm conveniently doesn’t kill any civilians” until we see if/when it gets involved.

I’ll likewise hold off on the timeline slot until we see how bad things get…

Maria is on thin ice given that we have no idea what she’s supposedly doing while the group is off on their missions. Stay tuned.

Today we’re crossing off “Deadly cold conveniently doesn’t kill any civilians.” They should all be dropping like flies by now.

A friend pointed out that Cinder’s Cinderella flashback counts as an “Overly obvious fairy tale allusion.” In fact, I talked about how much of a shorthand that is, so that’s getting a mark.

From last week I’ve also decided to include Amity for “Retconning previous lore.” Now that the group is fully underway with their plan it reads as even more egregious that we were told it wasn’t ready.

I’ll hold off on Ozpin’s space for a while. See if he apologizes to the whole group and, if so, exactly what for.

“Oscar is finally kidnapped”—check!

Well, that’s a whole lot of headway this week. Can’t wait to see where the next episode takes us... Here’s hoping we spend a lot of time with that Hound. MVP of the episode.

Until next time! 💜

[Ko-Fi]

[tonymystarks]

The Bleak Midwinter

this was inspired by @betheflame flame fic ‘No More Flights, Sir’ but I made it fluffy because I am incapable of writing anything other than fluff unfortunately. When I say fluffy, I mean it. Like bordering hallmark fluff levels. Anyway, enjoy!

*

Bucky watched the snow whip passed the window.

He knew that it could get this bad, but he was hoping that it didn’t. He was hoping that it would hold out long enough for him to get out of here. 

He just wanted to go home, and the flight wasn’t even that long. Flying from Chicago to New York was only 2 hours. He was supposed to be home already, but instead, he had been stuck in the airport for going on 6 hours now. He really wanted to be home.

The snowstorm continued to rage outside, despite Bucky’s wishes. It was one of the worst ones the city had seen in years, and the airport wasn’t expecting them to be able to go anywhere anytime soon. 

He sighed and moved to sit down, unsure of what his next move should be. Logically he knew that he should go get a hotel before they were all full within a 20-mile radius, but that meant giving up hope, and that was something that he sorely did not want to do.

He was supposed to be home, it was so important that he got home, but he thought that must be how everyone in the airport felt right now. They all had somewhere to be, and they were all stuck here together.

He got up to walk over to the service desk. The line was thankfully not too long, first-class having its perks. While he was standing in line, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Any updates? The text read. 

Not any good ones. I think I might be here for a while, Bucky texted back, frowning at the message he wished he didn’t have to send.

That’s ok was all that he got back, and that wasn’t good. That was a bad reaction because they both knew that it wasn’t ok.

Bucky tucked his phone back into his pocket as he got to the front of the line, and the woman working asked how she could help him.

“Yes, hi, I was wondering if you would be able to help me book a hotel room. Any hotel room around here will do.” Buck spoke, silently hoping that one thing would go right for him today. 

“I’m so sorry, Sir, but with the storm, all the hotels close by booked up very quickly. I can see about putting you done on a notification list to let you know if something comes available.” 

Bucky was just about to agree when he heard a voice behind him speak-

“Hi there, I’m sure you have something ready, don’t you. Price is no object.” Bucky turned towards the voice that he knew so well, the voice that he had just been texting, and felt his breath catch in his throat. 

“Oh- Mr. Stark. Right, do you know this gentleman?” The woman stuttered, obviously quite flustered by the sudden appearance of the famous Tony Stark. 

“Well, of course. This is my husband.” Tony said, moving up to slot himself next to Bucky, who felt so much relief at seeing the man and just as much confusion as to why he was here. 

“Right, of course. Well, it looks as if the presidential suite at the Waldorf is available.” 

“Perfect! We will take it. Reserve it for us and let their reception know we are on our way,” Tony spilled a hundred dollar bill towards the women as he spoke. 

“Right away, Mr. Stark!” and she began rapidly type away as Tony grabbed Bucky’s hand and pulled him out.

Bucky made sure to grab his suitcase with his other hand as he was dragged through the crowded terminal. Once Bucky saw an empty nook, he used his strength to his advantage to redirect Tony towards it and corner him. Busy pushed him up against the wall and ran his hands over his face, just to confirm that he was real, that he was there.

“Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, Doll, but what are ya’ doing here.” Bucky pulled Tony into a hug, trying to breathe in his scent that hadn’t been tainted by airport air; the smell of coffee, metal, and something sweet. 

“Well, like I have told you before, one of the perks of being married to a billionaire is access to his collection of private aircrafts. Any one of which you could have used, and we wouldn’t be stuck in this debacle, and we are stuck. I was able to make it out of New York, but the storm is so much worse now, and we won’t be able to get off the ground now.” Tony said as he let himself be held by Bucky, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“And like I’ve told you before, I like the sense of normalcy that flying commercial me. I wasn’t always married to a billionaire.” Bucky laughed as Tony looked slightly upset.

“I know, and that is a tragedy. Good thing we remedy that situation.” Tony sounded so stern as he spoke, but Bucky could see the mirth behind his eyes. 

“Me too, sweetheart. Me too,” and Bucky leaned in to give Tony a quick kiss, ignoring the whine that Tony produces when he pulls away. “None of that, Babydoll, we ain’t making out in the airport. Not when we got a nice hotel room waiting for us, and we got a long trek ahead of us to get there.” 

“I know, but I just missed you so much,” the whine is Tony’s voice still present.

“It has only been, what, 6 days?” Bucky laughed.

“Yes! And that is 5 days too many.” Tony moved them back into the ever-crowded walkway and began walking to the main doors.

“I know, Baby,  I missed ya’ too, so much,” Bucky said as sincerely as he could. 

He smiled as he watched a light blush dust Tony’s cheeks. They had been together for 3 years and married for almost a year of that, and he knew he would never get tired of saying things to make Tony blush.

They made it to the doors to wait for the driver that Tony had contacted. The snow was coming down in what looked like heavy sheets, so they knew that they would have to wait for a break in the storm before any cars would be allowed to come and get them. They didn’t mind too much; they found a couch tucked away in the corner, facing some windows and curled up together, just waiting. 

“You know, you didn’t have to come,” Bucky said loud enough to be heard over the ambient noises of the airport but quiet enough that it was just for Tony.

“I know, but there was no way I was going to let my husband spend Christmas eve alone. What kind of person would I be? I couldn’t live with myself. The guilt would drive me wild,” Tony curled into him closer, tucking his feet under himself and wrapping his arm around Bucky’s mid-section.

“I’m sure that you would’ve been fine. Now we both have to suffer in this airport,” but Bucky didn’t really feel bad, happy to have the person he wanted most in the world there with him.

“I’d rather suffer here with you than be apart. We might not be able to be with the rest of the rag-tag group of misfits we call a family, but I wasn’t going to spend our first married Christmas apart. We will be together and in love, even if it is in an airport.” Bucky felt his face grow hot and his eyes well up. 

They had both been through so much in their lives, so much that should have left them beyond broken, but they worked so well together. Tony brought him back from the edge; they kept each other level in a way that one else was able to. They saw each other's scars and broken pieces and loved those pieces, just like any other part of each other. 

“Thank you,” Bucky whispered, pulling Tony impossibly closer.

“Anytime, anywhere,” and Bucky knew that was true.

With Tony tucked in next to him, the snow didn’t seem that bad. He didn’t get home, not when it came to him.

[absolutepx]

So I've been playing Death Stranding lately. Wait, that's not what this post is about. Well, it kind of is. Hang on. What is Death Stranding about?

A: Norman Reedus getting bare ass naked B. Sneaking around ghosts with the help of your sidekick, an actual baby C: Carrying 50 Amazon packages up a hill while trying to not topple over D: Waking up in the morning and drinking 5 Monster Energy™ for breakfast

For those following along at home, the answer is actually none of the above. Despite the set dressing being bizarre to the point of near absurdity, what the game is actually about, like thematically, is actually really simple.

See, the development of Death Stranding was actually quite a trip. Hideo Kojima is the video game world's equivalent of an auteur director. He has a very recognizable personal style. It's thoroughly horny – he caught a bunch of shit for the design of Quiet in MGSV, but like, a lot of Kojima characters are just -like that-, including the dudes. Also, this is going to possibly be important later.

Anyway, so Kojima was going to do a rebootmakequel of Silent Hill, and the demo actually made it to the PS store and I could actually write a whole side essay about why P.T. (it was called P.T. for some reason btw) was brilliant game design for how it used the same hallway over and over and it was somehow beneficial to the overall feeling of horror. So Konami it turns out kinda sucks nowadays and they like, fired Kojima (they were huge dicks about it behind closed doors, too) and scrapped the project and kicked him out on the street and kept the Metal Gear series which was his baby (literally the baby in the sink in P.T., he snuck a bunch of messaging about the Konami situation into the demo like a breakup album) and Kojima would go on to form his own studio and poach some of the people who worked with him to boot. So the thing about Kojima is this: he's got a reputation for already putting some wild shit in his games, like a ladder that takes like 10 real time minutes to climb in MGS3 for dramatic effect, and a boss in MGS3 that summons the ghosts of all the people you were too lazy to stealth past and killed, or a sniper battle with a really old guy that he wanted to have last two weeks or some shit until he died of old age but he was "told that "this was impossible and not recommended." That is a real quote I just looked up. So he's coming off the heels of making this hugely successful game with MGSV and the hype of the P.T. Demo and he fucking, he like took all the people that were going to be working on P.T. Along like Guillermo Del Toro was going to co-write it and Norman Reedus was going to star in it, and he's like, I'm going to make this game called Death Stranding. And the first trailer comes out for it and it's completely nuts. Norman Reedus wakes up naked on a beach crying with a baby and there are floating people in the sky? So we're all like hooooooly shit, there's no one to tell him "this is impossible and not recommended" anymore. What's he going to make now!?

So the whole time the game is in development I keep seeing these tweets where it'll be like, Kojima and one of his homies smiling with some saccharine message about being spiritual warriors and changing the world. And not just Del Toro and Reedus, there was Mads Mikkelsen (another guy Kojima puts in the game just because he apparently loves him), and the band Chvches, and also like, Keanu Reeves at one point? You know how everyone has just kind of accepted that Keanu is a being of light? Here he was endorsing Kojima. The hype was pretty confused and frantic.

The game eventually comes out. A lot of game journos hate it because I think there was this expectation it was going to be, you know, less weird and have more of the conventional structure of a video game. That's not to say the average gamer wasn't also dismissive of it, but I think on the ground level there was more of an understanding that like, yeah, Kojima just be like that sometimes.

Because the game was a timed console exclusive and your homie don't play like that, I spent the first year or so cautiously viewing Death Stranding from a distance. I wasn't sure I was going to like it – except for being really impressed with P.T., I wasn't actually a big fan of Kojima's games as games – but I -was- sure that I was going to buy it, because of the way Konami fucked him over, just out of support. And the shit I was hearing was really out there. The primary mode of gameplay is just delivery packages. You collect Norman Reedus' bathwater and pee and use it as grenades. You get a motorcycle that looks like the one from AMC's The Ride with Norman Reedus, and when you sit on it, his character in the game says "Wow, this thing is like the one from AMC's The Ride with Norman Reedus!"

But I didn't really want to know that much about it. Something has that much fucking crazy person energy, you want to go in mostly blind, right? So maybe people just weren't talking about this, or maybe I wasn't seeing it, but then I watched Girlfriend Reviews' video about it and they came right out and said it (link provided if you want to hear Shelby say it more articulately than me):

Death Stranding is basically about the exact opposite of Twitter. It's about remembering how to be kind to each other, how to reconnect in a world where people are so often hostile to each other by default. Prophetically, it's about a world where people are afraid to go outside or touch other people and how damaging that is. It's not a game about carrying packages, it's a game about helping people by being brave enough to walk through a wasteland carrying their burdens because they can't. It's about rebuilding the lost connections between people, about restoring roads and giving people hope. I bet, for Kojima and the people close to him, it's about how to answer hostility with compassion. You can't kill people in Death Stranding. You can and are absolutely encouraged to fucking throw hands with people sometimes, but all the tools and weapons are nonlethal. So I think Kojima took all the Twitter heat he got over the Quiet nontroversy, and all the feelings of isolation he had from Konami separating him from his team during the end of the development of MGSV, and all the support and encouragement he got from his bros Del Toro and Mads and the rest, and decided to channel that into making a game that was a statement about all of it. And sure, it's a little heavy handed, and sure, it's a little saccharine, and sure, the gameplay sometimes borders on miserable in service of creating emotional payoffs. For me, especially in 2020, this message is a huge success. Social media should be an opportunity for all of us to feel more connected to each other, yet primarily it feels like one of the main forces driving people apart. Why is that? Why is the internet of today such a hostile place? I'm old enough to remember web 1.0: I can haz cheezburger memes; YTMND; the early wild west days of Youtube... What happened to us? I've thrown the blame at Twitter in the past, and I think the architecture of the user experience on Twitter is absolutely a big piece of the puzzle, because it fosters negative interactions. But in terms of the behavior, people have observed that 2018 Twitter was actually almost exactly like 2014 Tumblr. (For the record, Tumblr is now one of the chillest places left on the internet, because so few fucks are left to give.)

I think part of it is the anonymity. The dehumanizing disconnection of the separation of screens and miles. Louis CK, before he was cancelled, had a great point about cyberbullying, and why it's so much more savage than kids are IRL. When you pick on someone in person and you are confronted with seeing the pain you caused them, for most sane people it causes negative feedback and you become disgusted with your actions and eventually learn to stop being a shithead. Online, at best you can "break the wrist, walk away".

At worst, you can become addicted to "clout chasing" and the psychological thrill of being cheered on by your social ingroup. It's even worse if you feel like it's not bullying and your actions are justified because whoever you've targeted is a bad person so you don't have to feel bad about what you do to them. This is where reductive, unhelpful catchphrases like "punch a nazi" come in. For every argument, one or both sides have convinced themselves that the other side is subhuman because their beliefs are so disgusting. And sometimes it's even true! A lot of times, especially these days, people really are acting like animals or worse online. Entire disinformation engines are roaring day and night, churning out garbage and cluttering the social consciousness. (Kojima talked about this bit, too, way back in MGS2. As if I wasn't already in danger of losing my thread through this.)

The human brain was not built to live like this. You can't wake up every morning, roll over and open your phone, and be immediately faced with a tidal wave of anger and indignity. It wasn't built to be aware of fully how horrible the world is at any moment ALL AT ONCE, ALL THE TIME. And you will be. Because of another way that our brain works – the way we are more likely to share negative opinions. And because of the cottage industry built on farming outrage clicks, and because of constant performative activism.

It's not that I don't agree that being informed is important.

It's not that I don't agree that the causes people get riled up about are important.

They are. They absolutely are.

But we can't keep living like this. The constant, unending flood of tragedy, arguments, and hot takes. How much of the negativity we associate with online culture is the product of this feedback loop? What if the rise of doomer culture has been, if not entirely created by, has been nourished and exacerbated by our hostile attitudes toward each other?  Incels and TERFs, white supremacists, radfems, tankies and Trumpers – it seems like on every side of every issue, there are people simultaneously getting it wrong in multiple directions at once and there are more being radicalized every day. They are the toxic waste left behind by the state of discourse. And any hill is a hill worth dying on.

So what am I actually advocating? I don't know. There are a lot of fights going on right now that are important and we can't just climb into bunkers and ignore our problems hoping that Norman Reedus and his fine ass are going to leave the shit we need on our doorsteps. We need to find the strength to carry those hypothetical packages for ourselves sometimes - and hopefully, for others as well. Humans are social creatures. We need interaction and enrichment.

We need love.

So just try to remember the connections between humanity. Try to put more good stuff into the world when you can. Share more shitposts and memes. Tell your friends and family that you love them. Share good news when you hear it. Go on a weird fucking tangent about Death Stranding. Find a way to "be excellent to each other, and party on, dudes."

[deathisanartmetzli]

Cabin in the Woods || Eilidh & Metzli

TIMING: Current, at night

PARTIES: @BRAINDEACL​ @DEATHISANARTMETZLI​

SUMMARY: Metzli goes on the hunt for some vampires, and Macleod joins in on the fun.

CONTAINS: Domestic abuse, Emotional Abuse, Gore

Despite Metzli’s best efforts to quash any sense of anxiety that built up like a mountain on their chest, the pressure only seemed to build. After the pleasurable moments of distraction, laying in the dirt, surrounded by nature, they wished they could go back to that. Laying there with Eilidh was easy, it felt like it was a grace to not linger like a tragedy in slow motion, or a heartbreak set on pause. They walked next to Eilidh, tracking the scent of the vampires. It started so faint, and within an hour, it had thickened and spread around.

Eloy would inevitably find Metzli, even if they took out the vampires they were attempting to find. They were just prolonging the ending they already played in their head on repeat. Like a video cassette they kept rewinding of a movie that had not even been made yet. But they persisted, and used the martial arts approach to protecting their world. Fear and anger were their self defense as they disregarded the cost of going against their once master. No running, just going forward to protect. Because nothing was more precious. It was priceless. It was their home.

“The scent is overwhelming all around. They must scavenge and frequent this whole area. How do you feel about splitting up? The scent is pretty evenly coated and has been for the last few hundred paces.” Metzli explained and looked towards Eilidh, who was only a foot away. “What do you think?”

The trees watched them transgress in their territory. Gaze always, usually, a comfort for as long as Eilidh could remember. And they had felt as such, only moments prior. In those pleasant pauses. But now their presence felt scrutinizing. Tainted by the tense energy in air, radiating off Metzli. Bouncing off that bark, ricocheting down on Eilidh. She watched them with a hidden caution. Their high nerves concealed with a stoned expression. But every box got its leaks. She saw those tremors in hands, those strained breaths in chest. Soldier set to war. Without a choice but to move forward into certain peril. Eilidh had that choice, but she matched those dreaded steps. Hers tensed with anger and a hunger to rip and shred. Send those sources of anxiety to floor in tattered bits—reduced to confetti. And to sprinkles down her throat.

Eilidh saw those nose twitches. At first light but sent to frenzy as unseen predators grew closer. Her own stayed still—unaware of any approaching danger. Her mouth twitched instead, turned to grin. “Like I said. You go right. I go left.” Eyes went to that chosen destination. Only darkness met them, but mind filled in the blanks. Placed those hidden enemies in sights. Sent her hand a twitch in anticipation. Her chest rumbling in hunger. Her attentions went back to Metzli for a moment. Enough to spare a parting kiss. And to press her hand on their chest. To that concealed gift—necklace with a black pendant. A bit off her thigh providing color. Used as both beacon and reminder. That she’ll always be close, even now, when she turned and raced off into the woods. Before the darkness took her, she shouted behind. “Don’t let ‘em kill you! I’ll be pissed!”

It felt strange to receive a tender kiss from someone who used so much force, so much passion. Eilidh had given them a gift, one they were told to keep on in case of any danger. James, the ghost bound to her, who seemed antsy when they presented red eyes and fangs, he would be their walkie talkie of sorts. A piece of her attached to them so he could aid them in their search. “No promises!” Metzli responded just as loudly, and with as much light energy as they could muster. Eilidh faded into the trees, and they watched for a few moments before they turned around and continued down their chosen path. Blood and death overflowed from every tree, meaning that the clan members had been around long enough to hunt several times. That didn’t sit right with them in the slightest.

“So how long have you been, uh, dead? I think I’m going on 110 years or so. Kinda lost track.” Metzli asked awkwardly, not knowing how to talk to someone who they didn’t know and seemed to get nervous at any signs of their vampirism.

James watched Eilidh disappear. Despite the lack of visual, he knew where she journeyed. Not a feeling or a thought. But something even deeper. Like he was a passenger in her mind. His attentions shifted and felt that knowing grow quiet but not disappear. Eyes went to one more tangible, to the one called Metzli. He knew nothing but stories. But the way Eilidh described them, the way her eyes lit up. It was in the way when she found others with that ‘touch of the wild’ as she so called it. And it made him on edge. While he lacked any sort of flesh and blood the vampire could attack, he tensed. For his body remembered, despite his true one having rotted to nothing long ago. And he tried to bury this concern, like that old body. But Metzli would not let the thought of death escape him. There was a following silence as he gawked at them. “Um. That’s not really a conversational topic I start with…” His arms crossed against his chest, as if that incorporeal barrier could do anything.

Face grew dark and tense as leaves and twigs crunched, marking every step they took. There was no avoiding it, but it made them flinch every time. Giving away their position would prove fatal, but the area was chosen for that reason. Keen hearing was not only their ally, but their enemy too. Metzli trudged on for about twenty minutes, following tracks and carcasses that grew in number. Meaning, they were getting closer. Their phone vibrated with notifications, and they removed it from their pocket to see a few messages. Feet continued to move while they were distracted by the screen and James’ incoming answer. “Sorry. I’m not good at conversation starters. I figured it was fine, you know? Death, and me being a vampire. I mean, vampires are vicious, but you like Milo and he attacked our friend Bex the other day. But like she’s fine and—” They gave an update until their peripherals caught sight of an anomaly. A cabin. “Que suerte...”

James wanted to leave. Not that Eilidh was particularly better in regard to source of his anxieties. But she was a monster he knew well—knew how to talk to. And had grown to care for, despite his better judgement. And he had grown to care for Milo as well with a hope he could escape that nature. Young and new with the thought of humanity still fresh on his mind. But the news broke that illusion. Not immediately, only a crack at first. Denial trying to keep the wall up. Mind went blank. Then it was all too much. “What… what? No. He- No he didn’t.” He stammered, something of a laugh on his lips though he felt no amusement. Mouth couldn’t form words just as mind couldn’t form thoughts. Sailboat lost to a raging sea. Trying to steer clear, but he was close to drowning. Before he could be swept under, before that wall could break—he vanished.

Eyes were transfixed by the cabin, by the sheer amount of death permeating from within. Even with blurred sight from distraction, they could see James on the other side of their peripherals, he was saying something but they couldn’t make out what. There had to be at least six vampires within the residence, and that took precedence over his sudden disappearance. While their fingers hovered over the screen of their phone, something knocked them down. Someone.

Phone flew several feet away, but that wasn’t important now. A whistle of alarm reverberated against the trees, and Metzli pulled out a stake from their side and plunged it into the vampire, killing him and cutting the whistle short. It was too late though, and they could hear a door break open. Gaze locked onto four vampires sprinting from the cabin straight for them. Matching their vigor, Metzli booked it towards one and plunged the stake into her chest. Another one down. Only five more to go. The three that were left leapt for them, trying to overwhelm them. It worked, but by some miracle, the stake plunged into yet another chest, leaving only two to land punch after punch on them.

Two more vampires stepped out from the cabin, and Metzli was forced to watch as a familiar face got dangerously close to theirs. Fighting back was futile while their head was being held up by their hair and their arms were locked behind them. “Hola Metzli. Hace mucho tiempo.” Tremors overtook their body as they stared right into the vampire’s eyes. The vampire who was their partner when it came to protecting Eloy. “Chinga tu pinche madre, Anselmo.” They spat through gritted teeth, right before a bone crunching punch to the face.

Blip! Blink of an eye, James was back. Face still contorted as mind could not see past that unresolved conversation. That wall gaining new cracks—close to shattering. “Was that just a, um, weird joke or something because I didn’t think it was funny and I’d really like it if you- Oh!” More eyes than expected were watching him. He stared with just his two. Then vanished again.

Another punch landed onto their face, and Anselmo laughed. “Did you really think you could run away? Did you really think Master Eloy would let you go?” Metzli locked eyes with the vampire and spat at him. Black blood spattered over his face and rage filled his eyes. “Fuck you, and fuck Eloy!” Metzli retaliated, lunging forward and breaking the grasp that held their hair. Forehead met nose and Anselmo screamed in agitation. Using the moment of distraction, they grabbed the stake from the ground and took out yet another vampire. Three left to go. But just as the point rushed around to make impact with the other, Anselmo’s hand wrapped around Metzli’s, giving him the chance to throw them on the ground.

Their face hurt, and the pain spread throughout their body as he pinned them down and attacked their throat. Red eyes locked only momentarily right before teeth sank in, threatening to dig deeper. Deeper and deeper, Anselmo attempted to sever the attachment their head held onto their body. Metzli was going to break their promise. The fear of that grew as their strength depleted, unable to make their arms do anything. They had taken too much damage, they needed blood.

The scent of death was potent. But there was one who did not match. A flat note in the choir. And growing louder. Closer. Threatening to ruin the whole show. But the show only faltered for a moment, something of a reprieve found in their brief consideration. Barely a murmur was uttered—something deeper transpired between the vampires. An understanding was found in that veiled conference, quick and efficient to not distract from the main course. Not a moment wasted, Anselmo simply waved a vampire off before following that motion down into a strike upon Metzli. The chosen protector, or chosen sacrifice depending on the point-of-view, followed that clashing note. Foxhound on the fox. But this fox knew how to bite back. And when he found the source of distraction, woman with the chattering teeth, he came to understand just how hard.

Eilidh threw the stake in her hand. It whistled through the air, ending in a meaty thud. Coming to a quick stop inside the vampire’s chest. He had only a second to stare at her in confusion before crumpling. Dead. Stride merely slowing, Eilidh fished out the stake from his remains. Then regained her former speed, as inhuman as the glint in her eyes. Feet beat fast but light on the ground. If she was devoid of that telling scent she may have been able to ambush. But they would be waiting for her, she was sure of it. She had known even before the encounter in the woods. But time and experience had revealed tricks against that pesky disadvantage.

As that foreign scent became church bells, all those bloodthirsty eyes turned to meet it. Something humanoid, something familiar, was the expectation. A known enemy they had all replayed in their minds killing with a familiarity. What stood at the treeline had the shape of a human. Kind of. If the outline had been filled with static. The touch of mundanity made where it differed all the more jarring. All parties stood still. Until a single “¡¿Que demonios es eso?!” broke them out that trance. One vampire ran to meet the thing in the woods. But his pace was weighed with hesitation: could this thing even be killed? Eilidh rumbled with a metallic shriek—undecided form convulsing in beat. And when her arm struck out to stake this one’s chest, it looked more tree than limb. He fell as fast as the one in the woods. Returned to the Earth.

Anselmo laughed as weak arms could not grip, could not gather enough leverage to shove him off. Photos were taken unbeknownst to them, and sent off. Evidence of their struggle. Metzli grew worried that they wouldn’t be able to manage. People have hope because they cannot see death standing behind them. But not Metzli. Their eyes had been ingrained on death’s visage, losing all hope in the process. Never fearing death because it was the one thing they could count on. But White Crest had given them everything they needed to want to look away from those hollow eyes. And as reality settled in, darkness consumed their sight. A muffled and distant voice growled. Eilidh’s scent filled their nose. Metzli began to imagine what hope would feel like. And wish that they had never looked death in the eyes. That way, they could be blissfully unaware. So they didn’t have to feel, for the very first time, the fear of dying.

The punching and biting ceased as Anselmo and two other vampires Metzli didn’t notice before, looked towards Eilidh. What they believed to be Eilidh. A sharp pain caused them to groan, and even through hazy vision, they could see two knives inside of their torso. Anselmo rose off of them and leered at the crazed undead creature before him. His body was rigid, unsure what to make of the foul thing before him. This was the break Metzli needed. Looking down at the knives, they attempted to raise their arms, which were feeling like they weighed tons. And then, one of the knives came into focus. It was their old knife. The one Eloy made for them. The one they used to fight with.

Anger surfaced onto Metzli’s face and a newfound resolve formed in their chest. Fighting against the hunger and pain, they removed the knives jutting out of them, and rose to their stumbling feet, tackling Anselmo to the ground. Fangs and knife pierced skin. A foul taste filled their mouth, but they didn’t care. All that mattered were the screams of pain and the knife that plunged into Anselmo over and over again until he knocked them back, looming over them to once again gain the upper hand.

Another quickly took her opponent's place, but this vampire was faster than that amalgamated arm. Ensnaring Eilidh in her grip. Hands grappled hands, grappled bodies. Her stake tumbled to the grass in the fervorous skirmish. A third noticed the vulnerability, and made quick to exploit. Rushing into the fray, two against one. But it was actually two against two. The second was enveloped in a strange feeling. A foreign pressure. A lingering cold. Enough to preoccupy for mere seconds, but each counted in a fight. Eilidh shifted her weight, brought that first opponent—still trapped in each other’s holds—closer to chattering teeth. And they did as nature intended. Bit and tear. Severing any connection her nose had to her face. It too tumbling into the grass. Overwhelmed with pain, enough constitution was lost to let Eilidh get closer. And those bloodied teeth found her neck. And bit equally as hard. With mouth at work, Eilidh’s hand was free to slip up skirt. Gripping tight a silver dagger. Blade met the vampire’s neck on opposite side, until her incisors and metal joined in the middle.

With a twitch, Eilidh severed the last remaining tendons connecting neck to torso. The head rolled off with ease, joining its nose on the ground. James’ trick had gone stale and the third vampire was ready to try his chances. Eyes free from the glaze of distraction, completely locked on her. But her own was placed elsewhere, far away. To the confrontation between Metzli and that stranger. She didn’t like how Metzli looked. She didn’t like how this man looked at them. Not one fucking bit. A snarl burned in her throat, but it sounded like chainsaws to any near. The vampire closest tried to be a substitute for her broiling anger. He pounced at her, but she simply shoved him into the dirt. Hardly a thought to make sure he wasn’t following when she rushed to the distant altercation. Before the stranger was able to fully turn, confront that approaching death, she leapt onto his exposed back. Arms looping around his shoulders—stifling any movement. He bucked and shrieked like a wild stallion, but she had encountered worse. Those arms only grew tighter. Teeth tried to find that neck, but it jerked out of hold. Accidentally meeting an ear instead. Incisors latched on anyway, ripping off the flesh and cartilage. The shrieking grew louder. Her own primal sounds filled that air, in lieu of words. Mind having no room to translate. But there was still an intention in each grunt. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.

Wide eyes stared as Anselmo could no longer move. Eilidh’s firm and powerful grasp held him in place and he wailed in agony as a piece of him was torn away. “M-Macleod...I—” Metzli shook uncontrollably. Understanding washed over their face, but they couldn’t move, couldn’t force their body to lunge forward with the knife in their hand. A slippery grip tightened around it, beckoning them to do it. To kill their partner of thirty years. The very partner who had sworn to protect their abuser with them. No more. Those days were over and a new one was on the horizon. Finding the motivation, they rose to their feet, only swaying slightly.

“Todo lo que nos enseño Eloy fue malo. Y ahora, voy cambiar a todo.” The knife plunged into the center of Anselmo’s chest and he gasped with the widest eyes. His eyes met with Metzli’s for a split moment before he crumbled into nothing. As pieces of him fell, so too did Metzli. A hand reached out for Eilidh, but contact was never made. Their body gave way to the crushing pain, forcing them to the ground. Neck revealed the damage, the death they almost met. Black liquid stained their skin.

In spite of the overwhelming agony, a weight was lifted, and a piece of them felt free. “Thanks Mac—” Their hand reached out but fell to the ground as spots of black coated everything in sight. “Need blood.” Metzli’s voice was hoarse, throat dry from the urgent need of sustenance. Their body went rigid, as still as a statue while their body began to render itself into a comatose state of preservation.

They crumbled into her arms, and Eilidh instinctively covered that battered body with her own. Eyes surveying the suspicious quiet. She knew there were others. The one she had shoved no longer lay in the dirt. But he seemed to lay no where, absent entirely. Somewhere. Anywhere. Who knew how many were like that, in an unknown somewhere. Waiting to come back. Or waiting for her to find them. Have them join the others in that growing pile of ash. She lacked any innate warning signals—relying on average ears and eyes. And they both revealed nothing, except a peace she did not trust. And this unknowing would be fine—mysteries a commonality in her life—if she did not have two tasks at hand. Protecting and feeding. To hunt would leave Metzli exposed; to guard would leave them to starve. And either would benefit from knowing where the fuck anyone was. So, divide and conquer.

Eilidh called to James, meaning to do so in words but only squawks came out. He understood regardless—even a simple look would’ve sufficed. In his own look, there was a creeping tension. Formed deeper lines and tighter jaw the closer he got to Metzli. In another state of mind, she would have the thought to wonder. To decipher those subtle flinches and squirming. To find what hid in each wrinkle, each twitch—a practice she was good enough to be tenured. But that was too much thinking and not enough doing. He was where she needed him to be and that’s all that registered. With that confirmation, she returned to the woods. Leaving James with Metzli and a strange sense of déjà vu.

Minutes passed before Eilidh’s return. Sporting a fresh layer of crimson on her hands and face. The body she carried too covered in fresh blood. Though it only met their paws, head no longer present. Torn away by ravaging bites. Enough to appease her hunger, to allow herself to do away with the kill. Though a part did want to hesitate, to consume the coyote in entirety. But seeing Metzli again, remembering in clarity their state. It appealed to something deep inside her. It told the hesitation to fuck off. She dropped the corpse near Metzli without a second thought. Remembering how to speak, she uttered a single word. “Eat.”

Obediently and with some difficulty, Metzli navigated their body to the coyote, consumed by the ravenous need to eat. When the blood hit their tongue, a feral fervor took control and fangs pierced the corpse, draining it quickly. It tasted better than usual, and they supposed starvation would do that to just about anything. At this state, Metzli would even drink from a werewolf.

No longer able to get another drop, fangs retracted and their body was upright once again. Now on auto-pilot, Metzli took steps that teetered to one side, but they remained standing. “There might be others. We—I—” Eyes tightened shut, trying to relieve any residual dizziness. “Hunt for food. Then hunt for stragglers.” Voice was vacant of their personality, laser-focused on finishing the job thoroughly.

“Thank you, Macleod,” A mutter, but not too low so that it went unheard. Grass depressed underneath their feet as they reached Eilidh to leave a bloody kiss on her cheek. “I will find a way to repay you. For now, let's search together. No splitting up. Not this time.” Crimson eyes locked with Eilidh’s briefly before turning and limping softly in their chosen direction, waiting for her to follow and finally put an end to the encounter.