#a commission post dying after three likes would kill me

[crowcaws]

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[monstersandmaw]

Male dremora x female character - Part Nine (nsfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere.

Content: domestic fluff, a little bit about dealing with the practical aftermath of a family member’s death, domestic smut, oral sex

Catch up here:

Part One (sfw), Part Two (sfw), Part Three (sfw), Part Four (sfw), Part Five (sfw), Part Six (sfw), Part Seven (sfw), Part Eight (sfw)

Huge thanks to the two people who wanted this for their commissions and all the other people who’ve been politely begging me to add another part to this. I hope you enjoy this part as much as Alys does...

Wordcount: 3447

Alys stirred awake to the scent of something rich and savoury filling the small cabin, and she stretched like a cat before opening her eyes.

Her dremora sat cross-legged on the hearthrug in front of her, occasionally poking at the contents of a pot that dangled over the fire, and as she sat up and shook the sleep from her shoulders like a heavy blanket, he turned to face her.

“How long was I asleep?” she asked, rolling her neck to ease out a little of the stiffness that had built up after drifting off in a chair by the fire like an elderly Khajiit.

“Only an hour or so,” he said. “You’ve warmed up.” It wasn’t a question, and she wondered if he could tell that through their connection as well, or if it was just that she was calm and comfortable again.

She eyed the pot and peered over the rim from where she sat. “What’s in there?” she asked, mouth watering.

The dremora dropped his gaze and smiled bashfully. “I found an old recipe of your aunt’s in one of the books over there,” he said, gesturing towards the windowsill where a number of Gisela’s recipe books were stacked, along with The Gourmet’s famous tome.

“Good job you picked her book and not ‘Uncommon Taste’,” Alys muttered. “Did you know that the souffle recipe in there calls for an entire ‘cupful of nutmeg’? Ingesting that much would kill someone.”

“A human, maybe,” he grinned, levering his long frame up from the floor and absently pulling his long plait forwards over one shoulder to fiddle with the tip of it between his fingers.

She blinked up at him. “Don't tell me you actually could eat a whole cup of nutmeg without dying? And are dremora taste buds completely different or are you just… immune to stuff like that?”

“Our tastes are a little different,” he said with a shrug, “But we can stand toxins a lot better than humans can. An Orsimer might enjoy the effects of that much nutmeg though maybe. Maybe this ‘Gourmet’ is making souffles for orcs…”

“Come on, as if someone called ‘The Gourmet’ would ever be an orc,” she scoffed. “Anyway, what did you pick? It smells like Gisela’s venison casserole, but it’s not had long enough to cook down.” When he looked a little guilty, she added, “Did you use magic?”

He nodded.

“You know cooking magic?” she blurted, and he whickered a low laugh in response and folded his arms in a mime of mild outrage.

“It’s just refined destruction magic,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ve never made toast in your college dormitory with a modified flame spell?”

“And what would you know of college dormitories?” she asked with another laugh as she got to her feet and stood looking up at him with a slow-beaming smile.

“You’ve never been to the Midden below the College?” he asked with a genuine frown, his body language changing again from playfully coiled to languid as a Khajiit in his curiosity.

Alys shook her head. “We’ve all heard about secret passages and chambers full of draugr beneath the College, but I’ve never been. I don't even know how to get down there. How do you know? Were you summoned by a student or something?”

She didn't mean to let the pang of jealousy quiver through her like the discordant pluck of an out of tune lyre, but it did all the same, and the dremora smiled softly. “I have been summoned to this plane a few times,” he said, “And once was to lend some power to a ritual taking place in what they called the Midden Dark. A group of students wanted access to a Daedric gauntlet, but I wasn’t powerful enough either and they banished me before too long… though not before they spent an hour bickering over a campfire about whether to keep me around or not.”

“What, and one of them just whipped up some cheese on toast to keep them going while they argued?” she said with a raised eyebrow.

Dremora laughed again and nodded. “More or less. It smelled wonderful. Infinitely better than the crushed frostbite spider eggs they’d used in the ritual.”

She shuddered and her stomach turned over. “Ugh, let’s not talk about spider eggs when you’ve gone to the effort of making casserole for us. I’m assuming there are no spider eggs in it…” she said, only half-joking as she regarded the stew pot. “You are a dremora, after all…”

He shook his head, plait swinging freely. “Venison, spices from the cupboard that were still good, and some of the vegetables you brought back.” He turned suddenly shy and added, “I hope you don’t mind that I…?”

“What, mind that you took care of me when I said that was exactly what I wanted you to do? No, of course not. Come on,” she said as her mind forgot about the spider eggs and her stomach growled at her instead. “I’m starving. It’s been one hell of a day.”

For those first couple of days at the cabin, Alys ignored the letter from ‘Gabriella’, and spent her time cleaning the dust and grime of the past months away — by hand, not by magic, much to the dremora’s bafflement — and sorting through Gisela’s belongings and deciding what to keep. “She was taller than me, and I’m terrible at sewing,” she said regretfully, staring at the tablet-woven hem of a beautiful, bluish-purple dress that had hardly been worn.

“You know there is such a thing as magic,” the dremora said from across the room where he was seated at the kitchen table. He, as it happened, was threading a magically-reinforced, bone needle through the leather of his cuirass strap, repairing a gash in the material from their encounter with the bandits outside Falkreath. “There’s a whole school that’s literally called ‘Alteration magic’.”

Alys snorted, balled up the dress and hurled it at him, then began to laugh even harder when it snagged on his horn and dangled limply off it like he was a particularly tall and muscular cloak peg. He set his armour down and plucked the dress off the tip of his horn with delicate, slate-coloured fingers and he held it up thoughtfully in both hands. His eyes flared from black to scarlet as he called his magic to him.

She felt the room crackle with it, like the air before a lightning strike or the aura of a storm spell, and she held her breath, watching. With a low-frequency hum as the magic of Oblivion bled across the realms, the hem of the dress drew up a little off the floor and the sleeves shrank up by an inch or so. When he was done, he held it out to her.

“You’re a useful Daedroth to keep around…” she muttered, cheeks flushing warm as she crossed the small cottage and took it back from him.

The dremora inclined his head, horns glinting. “I live to serve,” he said with a dry humour that instantly shattered her playful mood. 

When her expression shattered and she let her arms drop, dress pooling in folds of midnight fabric at her feet, he realised exactly what he’d said. 

“Alys, I didn't mean it like that. You know that. I… I chose to bind myself to you that day. I do not, and will not, regret it.”

As if to lend strength to his oath, the fire behind his eyes blazed brighter and his lips drew back just enough to reveal those unholy, double canines.

Instead of guilt or relief though, all Alys felt in that moment was desire, and the force of it took her by surprise.

This creature from another plain of existence should have cut her gleefully to pieces at his first sight of her, at the insult of being summoned improperly and for a task as mundane as guarding an exhausted, frightened woman from a few bandits, but instead he had chosen to kneel in the snow and to protect her, and then to bind himself to her will. He’d travelled across Skyrim at her side like a humble, hired mercenary, offered her comfort, laughed with her, shared his warmth with her — heck, now he’d even altered her damned clothes for her. The knowledge that she was not alone in facing what was to come next crashed through her in a great wave and she almost swayed on the spot.

She drew in a shaky breath, vision misting with unshed tears, and offered him a wobbly smile.

“Hey,” he said, and stood. He closed the distance between them and took her in his arms before gently prying the dress from her fingers and draping it over the back of the other chair by the table. He cupped her face in his warm, smooth, leathery palms, and she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the words escaping as almost nothing more than a sob. “Thank you for being so kind.”

“You know,” he rumbled, “You offer me quite a lot with this bargain too?”

“Yeah?” she said, looking up at him.

His eyebrows rose a fraction and he nodded. “Mmm.”

Gods, she loved that sound; that soft, satisfied purr that reverberated in his chest. It made her want to rest her ear against his warm skin and close her eyes; to hear his steady heartbeat and feel the length of his body pressed against hers again, as it had been in the bedroll back at that lonely camp beneath the rocks. She’d slept with people before, but she’d never ached for someone the way she found her body waking up then at his touch. She knew he would feel it, but this time she made no attempt to hide it.

“I will never take more than you offer me,” he went on carefully, “And if you ask, I will not deny you.”

“Deny me what?”

“Anything.”

“Kiss me,” she said, and he bent down and brushed his lips against hers.

That first taste was as tentative as a moth’s wings against a window; fleeting and just barely there before it vanished into the dark.

To start with, he was painfully careful with her, as if waiting for her to draw back, to change her mind, to push him away, but when she took hold of the back of his head and pulled him fiercely down into a kiss that she herself deepened, he groaned and let his red eyes roll closed.

He backed her up a few paces, using his superior height and strength over her, and then his hands closed around her hips and he lifted her up to sit on the table. She gasped as he broke the contact and let his hands skim up the soft wool of the dress that covered her thighs, revealing her legs to well above the knee.

“May I?” he asked, his palms still resting on her slightly parted thighs. His voice had dropped a few notes in pitch, rasping in his throat as though ground raw by his own barely-leashed restraint. She could see his double canines when he talked, and glimpsed his dark tongue behind.

“Yes,” she gasped, head tipping back as he sank to his knees. She’d never been more aroused in her life than by that one gesture, and she let the heat of it lick around the edges of her mind like flames.

He drew the damp fabric of her underwear down along her legs to lie forgotten on the flagstone floor. Then, hooking both arms under her thighs, the dremora tugged her in a single, swift motion right to the edge of the table, and shifted his grip to push her thighs slowly apart with his thumbs, fingertips barely resting on her skin. Something about the position was so erotic that her mind went blank for a few heartbeats.

She looked down at him and saw the way his breath caught at the sight of her exposed body, his jaw slack and slightly open as he regarded her before bringing his face slowly down between her legs. With the pad of his thumb, he slowly teased through her wetness and circled her clit just once before licking a long, hot stripe over her. 

As the taste of her hit his tongue, he growled; long and loud and decadent. She felt the vibration of it against her and bucked weakly. The sound of it filled the cabin as it rolled out of him, turning from the wild, feral growl of a werewolf to a distant, purring rumble. 

His left arm held her in place, clamped under and around her thigh, fingers pressing into the muscle hard enough to leave marks, but the contrast between that firm grip and the delicate brush of his tongue around her sensitive folds and up to nudge tentatively at her clit was almost enough to make her come already. 

Her mind floated away to a place of thoughtless bliss as he began a regular rhythm that started off slow and gentle, easing her into it and waking her up before he slid his right hand free from where he’d anchored it under her left thigh. He leaned back a little, and she looked down at him again to find his lips and chin glistening, his eyes blazing red in the shadows of his face.

The dremora traced his fingers up the inside of her thigh, the touch whisper-light, and she arched and grunted inelegantly, wordlessly begging him to return to what he had been doing a moment earlier, but he ignored that and instead circled his thumb languorously around her clit. He seemed to love the skittering sparks it sent up her spine and down her legs, and he savoured every little twitch her body gave him. Then his fingertips pressed inside her and she felt the slight stretch of it as he filled her. He sank to the knuckle inside her and crooked his fingers, pressing his fingertips against her walls and pulsing an insistent rhythm.

Leaning forward again, he kissed her clit.

There was no mistaking it. He closed his lips around the place where she was most sensitive and kissed her. He suckled gently at it for a moment, then let his tongue go back to the rhythm that had had her shaking and begging. With the additional pressure of his fingers inside her, she knew she wasn’t going to last much longer.

She curled forwards over him and reached down, instinctively grabbing his horns and pulling herself even closer into the contact. As she took hold of his horns, he let out a deep moan against her clit and his steady rhythm stuttered. The solid ridges and gentle, arching curve felt incredible beneath her fingers and the flecks of pyrite gold shimmered in the soft light of the room. It felt like they’d been made for her to hold onto.

“I’m so close,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” he said in a voice like gravel, lifting just far enough from her to speak. His breath was hot against her, his lips tantalisingly close, and she twitched as his words whispered across her skin. “I can feel it. If you come, you’re going to make me come too.”

“What —?” she gasped, letting go and leaning back, hips lifting.

Then his fingers pressed just-so inside her, and she lit up all over and came.

Her spine arched, and with her head thrown back she let out a broken yell as the pleasure that had been building and building inside her suddenly careered away from her and dragged her down with it. 

She’d never been so wet, so aroused, so turned on, and as she came into his hand, clenching around his knuckles, she just heard him give a soft grunt. He stopped moving, his lips frozen in place against her and his fingers keeping a steady, insistent pressure inside. The very slight nick of his double canines against her tender flesh made her gasp and shake, and it prolonged her orgasm until she felt wrung-out and shaky.

Heaving for breath, Alys forced herself to sit upright again, elbows aching where she’d locked them to keep herself from falling back onto the tabletop behind her, and she found him still kneeling between her legs with his fingers curled and buried to the hilt inside her.

Slowly, he opened his red eyes and slid free of her. Gods, she’d made a mess of him. She thought people only made that kind of mess in the lewd tales the City Guard bragged about on nights out with too much mead.

With the reverence of a pilgrim at the end of a long journey, the dremora looked up at her and smiled almost bashfully. He looked a little out of breath too, and as stunned as she felt. And, she realised, he looked uncertain.

“Help me down from here?” she asked. “Not sure I can feel my legs yet.”

He hitched a half-smile and nodded, standing to reveal a dark, damp patch in his leggings. He hadn’t been kidding about coming when she did.

She eyed it and then looked back up at his face. He didn’t seem embarrassed or put out by the fact that he’d come untouched in his underwear from having his mouth on her and his fingers inside her while he’d given her what was quite possibly the most mind-shattering orgasm of her life. “I feel bad now,” she said. “That can’t have been too comfortable for you.”

He shook his head and the smile encompassed the other side of his mouth too. “I didn’t mind at all,” he said. “You want me to carry you to the bed so you can catch your breath?”

There was no pride or gloating in his tone. It was just a simple question.

“If I said yes, would you like to join me?” she asked, biting her lower lip to stave off a little, gusting rush of self-consciousness. She was also careful to make sure it was completely his choice, given the power she had over him anyway.

“I would,” he smiled, and slid an arm under her knees and around her shoulders.

He hefted her easily and stalked over to the small bed in the corner of the cottage. There, he laid her down and stepped back to shuck out of his ruined leggings while she drew her dress off over her head and let it fall in a crumpled heap at the end of the bed. She took a moment to enjoy the long, slender lines of his grey body, and his stormcloud skin that was punctuated by red lines of lightning running from his face all the way down his torso and spine, over his hips and along his slender, muscular legs to his black-taloned feet.

When they were both under the covers, he lying on his back with his arm underneath her head and Alys on her side, tracing those red lines on his torso with a fingertip, left leg thrown over his thigh, she sighed and kissed his chest.

“Are these tattoos or natural?” she asked, eyeing the contrast between blood red and slate grey skin.

“We’re not born with them, but they’re our mark of bondage to Mehrunes Dagon, ultimately,” he said softly. “I may be bound to you for now, but my soul is tethered to the Deadlands. When this body ceases to exist, my soul will return there. These marks will guide the way.”

“Like a summoning circle,” she murmured and he nodded.

She let her palm skate across his smooth, lean and muscled chest, then down over his ribs, and his breath hitched as she passed the sharp jut of his hips. He pushed his head back into the pillow, the tips of his horns pressing into the soft linen, and he let out a shuddering moan that travelled the length of his body.

She kicked the covers back off him and watched his clawed toes flex as his muscles tensed and relaxed in a wave, and she saw that his cock was hard again already. It twitched and left a silvery line of pre-come between tip and stomach. Slightly darker than the rest of his skin, with a single red line running along the underside from the crease of his balls all the way to the head, he was large, but not intimidatingly so. She closed her hand around him and he moaned. He was so hard; she would never have guessed he’d just come only minutes earlier.

His mouth opened a little, dark lips parting just enough to show her his pointed canines again, and he swallowed thickly, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Alys,” he gasped when all she did was gently squeeze the length of him in her hand.

More pre-come drooled over her skin and down the back of her hand. “Mmm?”

“You don’t have to —”

“But I want to,” she said. “Let me?”

“Anything,” he exhaled, shuddering again. “Gods, anything.”

With her permission granted, Alys set about returning the favour, and learned exactly how many times in a row a dremora could come.

___

Hopefully you’re still enjoying this story, and hopefully next time we get to meet Gabriella, and see just what she thinks of Alys’ choice of boyfriend/bodyguard...

Don’t forget to reblog if you did enjoy this! It means the world to creators like me, and it’s the only way our work ever gets seen.

Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar) | Library/Story Archive Blog

[raayllum]

Partially inspired by @numptypylon's lovely chart but also thoughts have been kicking around my head for a while so

Who's Hurting Who?: The Possession Plotline Avenues

If you want the more straightforward look at Rayla and Callum's paths in S6, check out this (spoiler free) post from a few months ago.

Assumptions We're Making:

Callum won't permanently, if at all, die, because he's a protagonist and this is still technically a children's show. Therefore, we won't be operating under the assumption of "literally dying" and I'm prepared to eat my words later (for a temporary death, anyway). Also arc and theme stuff, but yeah

The possession plot line is happening in S6. This makes sense as stars = destiny and some of the foreshadowing from 6x01 (Callum saying he wouldn't mind death by pillow from Rayla, less morbid than it sounds, etc, and being scared of being possessed)

The possession plot line is being wrapped up / resolved in S6. This means by the end of 6x09, Callum won't be possessed. This leaves him free to have an arc in S7, rather than only being saved/freed by the end of S7 and largely out of commission till then.

Aaravos is freed before the end of 6x09, if not by 6x05. AKA it's just not in the last like three minutes of the season

Callum won't play into Aaravos' hands solely in reference to possession and will have to make A Choice at one point, either pre or post-possession that leads to things happening, because character agency is fun and tragic and there's a decent amount of set up for it

With that out of the way, we gotta break down our own subsections for both Callum and Rayla.

For Callum:

Callum plays into Aaravos' hands and it leads to the possession (we'll call this "choice first, possession second")

Callum is more randomly possessed and plays into Aaravos' hands after being freed (we'll call this "possession first, choice second")

Callum takes a risk (makes a choice) that leads to the possession, is freed, and is then coerced into helping Aaravos anyway (we'll call this "cannot escape your destiny" lmao)

For Rayla, I'm less interested in what she will (or won't) bring herself to do as I am in her mindset going into the situation, and how I think that may cause things to respond accordingly from an arc / story standpoint, so that's going to be the focus here. I am also assuming that while neither of them will kill the other, they will both harm each other (some bruises, maybe some stabbing) because we love the Drama

Rayla refuses to kill him because she refuses to sacrifice something else she loves / him again, even if that means putting the world second (for once). This is Character Development for her and works particularly well for any of his above options. Has the most likely happy ending + works best with "choice first, possession second" as well as "cannot escape your destiny". It is also the likeliest to break him out of the possession in a Positive Way

Rayla refuses to kill him and takes everything on her chin, because it doesn't matter what happens to her / this is a sacrifice she's willing to make in order to save him. This is Classic Rayla Behaviour and is not character development. This works best with "possession first, choice second" (as well as "cannot escape your destiny") and is the likeliest to result in Callum harming Rayla

Rayla does harm him enough to incapacitate him in the moment, possibly because of a freed Runaan urging her to do her duty / make her heart hard enough. This works best with "choice first, possession second" but is, to me, the unlikeliest of the three options, as it doesn't really progress Rayla's arc and removes Callum's agency for everything regarding the possession the most as a result, as it would mean he also isn't breaking free of his own accord

So, best case scenerio:

Callum makes a choice before hand that leads to Aaravos' release (maybe for Rayla's safety or the moon fam coins). This also leads to him being possessed as an extra pawn for Aaravos. Rayla refuses to sacrifice him (1) and sets him free instead. His love for her destroys him first by saving her, and then their love for each other saves him.

Second best case scenario x2:

Callum is randomly possessed and Rayla refuses to sacrifice him (1 or 2). She saves him but is injured in the fight. Callum makes some kind of choice / deal to save her life, playing into Aaravos' hands.

Callum makes a choice to save her. Rayla refuses to sacrifice him (2) and is injured in the fight. Callum makes some kind of choice / deal to save her life, playing into Aaravos' hands. AKA the sole "cannot escape destiny" route & probably the unlikeliest of this 'Callum breaks free' route

The 'Bad Case' scenarios

#3 for Callum in general + #3 for Rayla, leaving to a very dejected and torn up / injured kiddos. Most unclear about where they would go from here as characters / a couple, but not necessarily a bad thing; just unexpected.

And just for posterity's sake:

Callum does play into Aaravos' hands purely by a random possession (thus stripping him of agency, which has its own tragic flair to it and is the Point, even if it is admittedly the least interesting to me) which I think would likely lead to #2 or #3 from Rayla because if they're gonna go tragic, they're gonna go wholly tragic.

[777cherry-blossom777]

Ok I’m finished being sad and am back with the delusion byler s5 proof

Long post warning also spoiler warning

OK LETS MAKE A LIST

1. First of all the most obvious one. They’ve been building up this whole relationship since season 1. It would be really weird for them to just suddenly abandon it.

2. Related point, but Mike’s character. You’re telling me he suddenly went from loving Will with his whole heart and making everything about Will to just suddenly ignoring him? The only explanation is internalised homophobia (you make me feel things I believe are wrong so I’m just gonna seperate myself from you so I don’t feel that) nothing else makes sense.

3. It’s pretty much confirmed that Will likes Mike with that painting scene so 50% of the way there!

4. The painting scene itself. Surely at some point Mike will talk to El about it and it will be revealed that everything Will said was just coming from him and not El. Then Mike will hopefully go and kiss him. Please.

5. Once again the painting scene, but Mike’s reaction this time. When Will was talking about it, Mike had the biggest most lovesick expression on his face ever. And then when Will said El “commissioned it” (I was crying so hard like he put so much effort in and he just sacrificed it to push El and Mike closer even though it was killing him) Mike’s face just dropped instantly. It was incredibly obvious he wanted Will to say he made it.

6. The season 3 ending. Bruh when El said I love you and kissed Mike, he did not look happy. He didn’t look angry or anything, he looked CONFUSED. as in, why am I not happy??? confused. I’ll tell you why you dumb oblivious fuck it’s bc you’re not in love with her you’re in love with Will.

7. Mike’s speech was basically all lies (I’m gonna make a seperate post about it bc it would take too long) AND he had to be pushed into saying it. So. Many. Times. Will had to talk him into it even when El was literally DYING. He has failed to say I Love You to El every single time he’s actually looking her in the eyes (even when she’s literally explicitly asking him to say it). Why? BC HES LYING!!!

8. That last shot of s4 with El standing in front of three couples. Jopper, jancy (idk about these guys), and BYLER. they’re always paired together in everything and what would be the point of not to make them a couple? They don’t do this with any one else who wasn’t dating or had previously dated, like Lucas and Dustin, so they’re not just “best friends”.

9. All the tension. Lip staring, lovesick smiles, longing glances, really just them checking each other out all the time. Either Finn and Noah have something to share with the class or they’re being told to act like that.

10. Once again, we know the ships have been planned since s1. El was literally supposed to die at the end of that season. M*leven being endgame doesn’t make sense. Plus most of their kisses before s3, Millie had to talk them into.

11. (Lol) The costume design. Are you telling me it’s a coincidence they literally wear nothing but blue and yellow for the entirety of s4? Blue and yellow meet in the west???

12. That part with the “he’ll come crawling back to you” with El about Mike. And did he? No! It took him so long to apologise. HOWEVER. Literally the next episode he literally does that with Will after their fight. BIT FRUITY OF YOU MIKE!!!

13. Once again, the I love you fight. Mike is was SO OBVIOUS what she wanted you to say. He “didn’t want to say it bc he were scared it would make losing El more painful”? He was going to lose her BECAUSE he didn’t say I Love You. So why exactly can you not say it???

Byler will be canon. Do not lose hope guys.

[writingwithcolor]

I'm writing an AU of a movie that takes place in the 1880s USA, where a travelling white character and a Jewish character are waylaid by Native Americans, who they befriend. Probably because it was written by and about PoC (Jews) the scene actually avoids the stuff on your Native American Masterpost, but I'd still like to do better than a movie made in the 1980's, and I feel weird cutting them from the plot entirely. I have a Jewish woman reading it for that, but are there any things you (1/1)

2/2 1880s western movie ask--are there things you'd LIKE to see in a movie where a white man and a Jewish man run into Native Americans in the 1880s? I do plan to base them on a real tribe (Ute, probably) and have proper housing/clothes and so forth, but right now I'm just trying to avoid or subvert awful cowboy movie tropes. Any ideas?

White and Jewish Men, Native American interactions in 1880s

I am vaguely concerned with how you only cite one of our posts about Native Americans, that was not written by a Native person, and do not cite any of the posts relating to this time period, or any posts relating to representation in media. 

Sidenote: if you want us to give accurate reflections of the media you’re discussing, please tell us the NAME. I cannot go look up this movie based off this description to give you an idea of what my issues are with this scene, and must instead trust that the representation is good based off your judgement. I cannot make my own judgement. This is a problem. Especially since your whole question boils down to “this scene is good but not great and I want it to be great. How can I do that?”

Your baseline for “good” could very well be my baseline for “terrible hack job”. I can’t give you the proper education required for you to be able to accurately evaluate the media you’re watching for racist stereotypes if you don’t tell me what you’re even working with.

When you’re writing fanfic where the media is directly relevant to the question, please tell us the name of the media. We will not judge your tastes. We need this information in order to properly help you.

Moving on.

I bring up my concern for you citing that one—exceptionally old—post because it is lacking in many of the tropes that don’t exist in the media critique field but exist in the real world. This is an issue I have run into countless times on WWC (hence further concern you did not cite any other posts) and have spoken about at length. 

People look at the media critique world exclusively, assume it is a complete evaluation of how Native Americans are seen in society, and as a result end up ignoring some really toxic stereotypes and then come to the inbox with “these characters aren’t abc trope, so they’re fine, but I want to rubber stamp them anyway. Anything wrong here?”. The answer is pretty much always yes. 

Issue one: “Waylaid” by Native Americans

This wording is extremely loaded for one reason: Native American people are seen as tricksters, liars, and predators. This is the #1 trope that shows up in the real world that does not show up in media critique. It’s also the trope I have talked about the most when it comes to media representation, so you not knowing the trope is a sign you haven’t read the entirety of the Native tag—which is in the FAQ as something we would really prefer you did before coming at us to answer questions. It avoids us having to re-explain ourselves.

Now, hostility is honestly to be expected for the time period the movie is set in. This is in the beginnings (or ramping up) of residential schools in America* and Canada, we have generations upon generations of stolen or killed children, reserves being allocated perhaps hundreds of miles from sacred sites, and various wars with Plains and Southwest peoples are in full force (Wounded Knee would have happened in 1890, in December, and the Dakoa’s mass execution would have been in 1862. Those are just the big-name wars. There absolutely were others). 

*America covers up its residential schools abuse extremely thoroughly, so if you try to research them in the American context you will come up empty. Please research Canada’s schools and apply the same abuse to America, as Canada has had a Truth and Reconciliation Commission about residential schools and therefore is more (but not completely) transparent about the abuse that happened. Please note that America’s history with residential schools is longer than Canada’s history. There is an extremely large trigger warning for mass child death when you do this research.

But just because the hostility is expected does not mean that this hostility would be treated well in the movie. Especially when you consider the sheer amount of tension between any Native actors and white actors, for how Sacheen Littlefeather had just been nearly beaten up by white actors at the 1973 Academy Awards for mentioning Wounded Knee, and the American Indian Religious Freedom Act had only been passed two years prior in 1978. 

These Native actors would not have had the ability to truly consent to how they were shown, and this power dynamic has to be in your mind when you watch this scene over. I don’t care that the writers were from a discriminated-against background. This does not always result in being respectful, and I’ve also spoken about this power imbalance at length (primarily in the cowboy tag).

Documentaries and history specials made in the 2010s (with some degree of academic muster) will still fall into wording that harkens Indigenous people to wolves and settlers as frightened prey animals getting picked off by the mean animalistic Natives. This is not neutral, or good. This is perpetuating the myth that the settlers were helpless, just doing their own thing completely unobtrusively, and then the evil territorial Native Americans didn’t want to share.

To paraphrase Batman: if I had a week I couldn’t explain all the reasons that’s wrong.

How were these characters waylaid by the Native population? Because that answer—which I cannot get because you did not name the media—will determine how good the framing is. But based on the time period this movie was made alone, I do not trust it was done respectfully.

Issue 2: “Befriending”

I mentioned this was in an intense period of residential schools and land wars all in that area. The Ute themselves had just been massacred by Mormons in the Grass Valley Massacre in 1865, with ten men and an unknown number of women and children killed thanks to a case of assumed association with a war chief (Antonga Black Hawk) currently at war with Utah. The Paiute had been massacred in 1866. Over 100 Timpanogo men had been killed, with an unknown number of women and children enslaved by Brigham Young in Salt Lake City in 1850, with many of the enslaved people dying in captivity (those numbers were not tracked, but I would assume at least two hundred were enslaved— that’s simply assuming one woman/wife and one child for every man, and the numbers could have very well been higher if any war-widows and their children were in the group, not to mention families with multiple children). This is after an unknown group of Indigenous people had been killed by Governor Brigham Young the year prior, to “permanently stop cattle theft” from settlers. 

The number of Native Americans killed in Utah in the 1800s—just the number of dead counted (since women and children weren’t counted)—in massacres not tied to war (because there was at least one war) is over 130. The actual number of random murders is much higher; between the uncounted deaths and how the Governor had issued orders to “deal with” the problem of cattle theft permanently. I doubt you would have been tried or convicted if you murdered Indigenous peoples on “your” land. This is why it’s called state sanctioned genocide.

This is not counting the Black Hawk War in Utah (1865-1872), which the Ute were absolutely a part of (the wiki articles I read were contradictory if Antonga Black Hawk was Ute or Timpanogo, but the Ute were part of it). The first official massacre tied to the war—the Bear River Massacre, ordered by the US Military—places the death count of just that singular massacre at over five hundred Shoshone, including elders, women, and children. It would not be unreasonable to assume that the number of Indigenous people killed in Utah from 1850, onward, is over a thousand, perhaps two or three.

Pardon me for not reading beyond that point to list more massacres and simply ballparking a number; the source will be linked for you to get an accurate number of dead.

So how did they befriend the Native population? Let alone see them as fully human considering the racism of the time period? Natives were absolutely not seen as fully human so long as they were tied to their culture, and assimilation equalling some sliver of respect was already a stick being waved around as a threat. This lack of humanity continues to the present day.

I’m not saying friendship is impossible. I am saying the sheer levels of mistrust that would exist between random wandering groups of white/pale men and Indigenous communities wouldn’t exactly make that friendship easy. Having the scene end be a genuine friendship feels ignorant and hollow and flattening of ongoing genocide, because settlers lied about their intentions and then lined you up for slauther (that’s how the Timpanogo were killed and enslaved).

Utah had already done most of its mass killing by this point. The era of trusting them was over. There was an active open hunting season, and the acceptable targets were the Indigenous populations of Utah.

(sources for the numbers: 

List of Indian Massacres in North America Black Hawk War (1865-1872))

Issue 3: “Proper housing/clothes and so forth”

Do you mean Western style settlements and jeans? If yes, congratulations you have written a reservation which means the land-ripped-away wounds are going to be fresh, painful, and sore.

You do not codify what you mean by “proper”, and proper is another one of those deeply loaded colonial words that can mean “like a white man” or “appropriate for their tribe.” For the time period, it would be the former. Without specifying which direction you’re going for, I have no idea what you’re imagining. And without the name of the media, I don’t know what the basis of this is.

The reservation history of this time period seems to maybe have some wiggle room; there were two reservations allocated for the Ute at this time, one made in 1861 and another made in 1882 (they were combined into the Uintah and Ouray Indian Reservation in 1886). This is all at the surface level of a google and wikipedia search, so I have no idea how many lived in the bush and how many lived on the reserve. 

There were certainly land defenders trying to tell Utah the land did not belong to them, so holdouts that avoided getting rounded up were certainly possible. But these holdouts would be far, far more hostile to anyone non-Native.

The Ute seemed to be some degree of lucky in that the reserve is on some of their ancestral territory, but any loss of land that large is going to leave huge scars. 

It should be noted that reserves would mean the traditional clothing and housing would likely be forbidden, because assimilation logic was in full force and absolutely vicious at this time. 

It’s a large reserve, so the possibility exists they could have accidentally ended up within the borders of it. I’m not sure how hostile the state government was for rounding up all the Ute, so I don’t know if there would have been pockets of them hiding out. In present day, half of the Ute tribe lives on the reserve, but this wasn’t necessarily true historically—it could have been a much higher percentage in either direction.

It’s up to you if you want to make them be reservation-bound or not. Regardless, the above mentioned genocide would have been pretty fresh, the land theft in negotiations or already having happened, and generally, the Ute would be well on their way to every assimilation attempt made from either residential schools, missionaries, and/or the forced settlement and pre-fab homes.

To Answer Your Question

I don’t want another flattened, sanitized portrayal of genocide.

Look at the number of dead above, the amount of land lost above, the amount of executive orders above. And try to tell me that these people would be anything less than completely and totally devastated. Beyond traumatized. Beyond broken hearted. Absolutely grief stricken with almost no soul left.

Their religion would have been illegal. Their children would have been stolen. Their land was taken away. A saying about post-apocalyptic fiction is how settler-based it is, because Indigenous people have already lived through their own apocalypse.

It would have all just happened at the time period this story is set in. All of the grief you feel now at the environment changing so drastically that you aren’t sure how you’ll survive? Take that, magnify it by an exponential amount because it happened, and you have the mindset of these Native characters.

This is not a topic to tread lightly. This is not a topic to read one masterpost and treat it as a golden rule when there is too much history buried in unmarked, overfull graves of school grounds and cities and battlefields. I doubt the movie you’re using is good representation if it doesn’t even hint at the amount of trauma these Native characters would have been through in thirty years.

A single generation, and the life that they had spent millennia living was gone. Despite massive losses of life trying to fight to preserve their culture and land.

Learn some history. That’s all I can tell you. Learn it, process it, and look outside of checklists. Look outside of media. 

And let us have our grief.

~ Mod Lesya

On Question Framing

Please allow me the opportunity to comment on “are there things you'd LIKE to see in a movie where a white man and a Jewish man run into Native Americans in the 1880s?” That strikes me as the same type of question as asking what color food I’d like for lunch. I don’t see how the cultural backgrounds of characters I have literally no other information about is supposed to make me want anything in particular about them. I don’t know anything about their personalities or if they have anything in common.

Compare the following questions:

“Are there things you’d like to see in a movie where two American women, one from a Nordic background and one Jewish, are interacting?” I struggle to see how our backgrounds are going to yield any further inspiration. It certainly doesn’t tell you that we’re both queer and cling to each other’s support in a scary world; it doesn’t tell you that we uplift each other through mental illness; it doesn’t go into our 30 years of endless bizarre inside jokes related to everything from mustelids to bad subtitles.

Because: “white”, “Jewish”, and “Native American” aren’t personality words. You can ask me what kind of interaction I’d like to see from a high-strung overachieving woman and a happy-go-lucky Manic Pixie Dream Girl, and I’ll tell you I’d want fluffy f/f romance. Someone else might want conflict ultimately resolving in friendship. A third person might want them slowly getting on each other’s nerves more and more until one becomes a supervillain and the other must thwart her. But the same question about a cultural demographic? That told me nothing about the people involved.

Also, the first time I meet a new person from a very different culture, it might take weeks before discussion of our specific cultural differences comes up. As a consequence, my first deep conversations with a Costa Rican American gentile friend were not about Costa Rica or my Jewishness but about things we had in common: classical music and coping with breakups--which are obviously conversations I could have had if we were both Jewish, both Costa Rican gentiles, or both something else. So in other words, I’m having trouble seeing how knowing so little about these characters is supposed to give me something to want to see on the page.

Thank you for understanding.

(And yes, I agree with Lesya, what’s with this trend of people trying to explain their fandom in a roundabout way instead of mentioning it by name? It makes it harder to give meaningful help….)

--Shira

[sylverstorms]

Mother Miranda x Lawyer!Oc ----Tilted Scales

Hello guys :) This is another commission I wrote for the amazing, wonderful @saltwatereulogies

Your support has been insane, I can't thank you enough. Hope you enjoy the story ❣

Three days.

That is how long you've been in the village, after years of studying abroad, before everything turns to shit.

As you slowly blink focus back into your eyes, you try to clear the haze from your mind. It feels as though you've collided with a truck. Your body hurts, your wrists protest in their iron cuffs, stuck to the wall as they are, having supported your weight while you were unconscious.

Desperately, you try to recollect the events that led you here...

A grey sky. A bleak day. One moment you were making coffee for your mother, excited to be able to sit down with her in the mornings again... and the next you heard the echo of screams.

Overcome by adrenaline, you bolted out of your house, only to witness a scene straight from a nightmare; humanoid monsters ripping villagers apart, cries and blood and animalistic growls all blending together into one mad mix.

And before you could even warn your mother...

Damn it all, what the fuck happened!

You suddenly struggle against your bonds, hard enough to rattle your whole frame. Your wrists burn from the grind against metal, but you don't care–

“Stop that. It is pointless and you will only injure yourself.” A cold voice, strangely familiar, says from far to your right.

You peer deep into the shadows, searching for the only other person in the empty room... until you see her. A mask advances on you, gold and shaped like a crow's visage, then wings folded into a cloak come into view.

You would be a fool to not recognize her. The local saint. The village's prophet. The very 'saint' your mother prayed to, for your safe return, all these years. Mother Miranda.

The sound of her heels bounces off the walls until she comes to stand directly in front of you. Looking past the openings of her mask now, you realize....

This isn't possible.

She hasn't aged a day. Not a single day, since you left the village. The years should show around her deadly blue eyes, somewhere, and yet they don't.

“I see you remember me...” she says, while you're still trying to find your voice. “Miss Warren.”

“What is going on? Mother Miranda, what happened to the village?!” you demand.

Her expression shows nothing. “The village is in need of... renovation.” she speaks, even, regal. “Repopulation, even.”

You stare at her with wide eyes.

“Now, don't give me that look. You would not be here if you weren't of the ones I chose to keep.” she continues. “You see, from now on, every single person in my domain will make themselves useful in some way, or they will be replaced. And you... you have been abroad studying law for a while now, yes?”

“I... yes.” you reply, still not fully having wrapped your mind around your situation.

“Excellent. What I need from you is simple. You will make the village independent from the state’s taxes as a religious organization... and you will keep foreign investors out from that point onward.”

What... what part of that is simple?!

“Do that for me and in return I guarantee your mother and you will go back to your house safe and sound. You will have no shortage of Lei for as long as you live, Miss Warren.” Miranda promises.

But it is not the sweet part of the deal your mind stays glued to. “And if...” you gulp. “If I can't work around the law to do that...?”

Miranda blinks slowly at you, like you shouldn't even ask such a basic question. Like the answer is obvious.

“Well. Then I have no further use for either of you.”

It is in this moment that it dawns on you.

This woman is no angel and no saint.

She is a devil.

-

-

You spend countless sleepless nights pouring over every single paragraph, every little opening or ambiguity in the law you can use to free the village of taxes.

To keep your mother in the dark about this, you work in the office Mother Miranda has provided for you, in her very stronghold.

Although technically it's her home, you don't see her nearly as much as you initially thought. She is gone throughout the day and returns late at night, not even sparing you a glance before heading for her chambers, at the upper sections of the building.

The days she does come into your office to inquire on your progress are few and far-between, your conversations always short and cold.

This evening is different.

“How is your work coming along, Miss Warren?” the prophetess asks with her aggravatingly nice accent, seating herself like a queen on the chair in front of your desk.

Your eyes are tired, but you force them on hers, through the mask obscuring her face. “I think I've got it. I'll be sending the necessary papers tomorrow and the answer shouldn't take longer than a month.”

“Very good.” she nods, a miniscule curve to her lips.

Icy eyes then drop to the wine in the whiskey glass at the corner of the desk. You think she will make a comment about drinking at work, but instead she says;

“Pour me a glass, will you?”

You will your hands steady as you comply, then carefully slide her drink over.

Miranda takes her mask with claw-shrouded fingers... and soundnessly sets it on the wooden surface. Then she pushes the veil at her hair back, shaking long, platinum locks free.

You do a double take you hope she doesn't notice. Because what the actual fuck.

You didn't think her hair was that long, or that straight, or that it would fall over her shoulders like she's staring in a shampoo ad. You didn't think her lips were shaped like a cupid's bow or that her skin was this flawless and radiant.

The helplessly lesbian part of you could begrudgingly admit she was beautiful before... but now you arrive to the painful realization she's drop-dead gorgeous.

“So. I've heard you won cases others would describe as impossible.” she begins.

“Nothing's impossible. You just need to know where to look.” you reply. Law is your comfort zone and she is not that far above you here. “But how do you know that?”

“I have my sources.”

"Nobody truly leaves this village, huh.”

“Not without my consent, no. But I knew you'd come back.” At your slight frown, she elaborates, “You would never leave your mother behind.”

She's right. There was a whole world of opportunities waiting for you out there and yet... here you are.

“Good work, so far. You can take the next two days off. Your eyes could use the rest, Miss Warren.” Miranda speaks, finishing her wine.

“Sarah.” you say. 'Miss Warren' is for clients and she is your boss.

Miranda's lips give a slight quirk that may or may not be a trick of the light.

“I know.” she replies and exits the room, long hair billowing behind her back.

-

-

The taxes were only the first challenge. Now that the village is free of them, investors are flying in circles around it like vultures over meat.

In the meantime, Miranda comes to talk to you more frequently.

Lately, it seems she has more free time. You wish that was a good thing, but...

“So... are you like... going to stay here?” You ask after reading the same sentence five times to make sense of it, because her gaze on you is distracting as fuck.

“I'm not getting in the way of your work.” she says. You want to argue she is, but can't quite do that in a way that won't get you killed.

“I'm simply not used to working with company. Isn't this boring for you?”

“No, actually. I find it interesting, even though science is my field of expertise.” she answers. “And the way you take notes is… amusing.”

You try not to blush as you look down at your notebook, filled with different colored markers and post-it squares with tiny stick figures pointing to the more important paragraphs. You have been doing this for so long to sort out information you didn't even realize you were keeping it up in her presence.

“What is this supposed to be?” she asks with a small smile, the first of its kind you've seen.

To your horror, her clawed pointer aims at a particularly silly doodle, barely the size of a pencil's eraser.

“A... bird.” you grimace like you've been stabbed.

“Ah, of course.” Miranda holds back a chuckle but you can tell she's dying to make a comment.

Studying becomes hell for the rest of the time she's there with you, those sharp eyes picking apart every little move you make. At the same time, though, the hours you spend with her make you realize...

She's not a saint, though she may look like one. She's not completely a devil, either, even if she may act as one, at times.

She's human.

-

-

Miranda shares nothing about herself when you chat, but she seems to like it when you speak about your time abroad and all the things that left an impression on you there.

Your conversation over wine is cut short, however, when you receive a call from a number you learned means nothing but trouble, lately.

“Sorry, I have to take this.” you tell her.

The one calling you is none other than this month's rival lawyer, trying to dispute your claim over the land for his own boss. He's lost to you before, so it's also personal, but you are confident you have cornered them good with the latest papers you sent them...

And you are proven correct, when, a few seconds later, he is all faux polite on the other line, resorting to offering you money for you to withdraw your arguments.

Miranda comes to stand next to you, listening in to what he's saying.

The problem with that is, the second her arm brushes yours and you catch a whiff of her perfume –which always lingers in your office long after she's left— youare the one who stops listening to him.

Your attention flies to other things, like the inches she has on you, the exact color of her pale blonde hair, the little glint of victory in her stunning eyes.

Oh, no. God, no...

You know what this is, the feeling in the pit of your stomach. Alarm bells go off in the back of your head, as though your own mind is telling your body how foolish it's being.

There isn't a worse thing you can do to yourself than be attracted to Miranda.

-

-

Over time, familiarity with the prophetess brings higher levels of difficulty into your 'try to ignore your crush on her' game.

Miranda joins your side and leans over your shoulder, sometimes, to peer down at what you're doing. You don't move and don't breathe until she's within a safe distance again.

Then there are the wayward 'reward' touches, when you turn another investor away from the village. She may pat your back or leave her hand on your shoulder, or even scratch your nape with her claws as a job well done.

You hope your poker face hides the fact you feel her touch on you for far longer than you should, after she's gone.

Tonight, the situation is the toughest it's ever been for you.

There is a rainstorm going on outside; the waterdrops are tapping against the windows of your office as though they're trying to break it. Miranda has pulled her chair next to you so you can talk easier, without having to shout over the cacophony.

“And basically the judge's decision was that—”

You are interrupted by a blinding flash of lighting, during which your mind lets you know the stronghold is easily the tallest structure in it's vicinity—

When thunder cracks down the sky and strikes the building, you nearly scream. Your body tenses and you jump; but Miranda's hands come to your biceps and hold you steady, against herself and your desk.

Another flash comes before you really have time to think about your proximity. She covers your ears with her palms before the thunderclap can send you into overdrive again.

“You are with me and you're scared of a little thunder?” she teases when things quiet down and your heartbeat eases.

It's true; Miranda is the more terrifying force of nature. At the same time, however...

You feel oddly safe to be this close to her.

“Well... I'm not scared right now...” you quietly admit.

Her pointer comes underneath your chin and lifts it so you are looking straight into her hypnotic blue eyes. How is this color even real...

“And why is that?” Miranda asks, her wings coming around you both. They're curtains of black, cutting out some of the storm's sounds.

You want nothing more in this moment than to run your fingers through each individual feather.

You lick your lips. That's...not a question you can answer if you want the balance in your arrangement with her to remain.

Perhaps, though, the scales have tilted for you long ago. You just haven't been brave enough to admit it.

You have the courage to face it now when she leans down and covers your lips with hers, warm in a manner you never imagined she could be.

Her wings pull tighter around you and your mouths slide more firmly together. Lipbalm and creamy lipstick mix, tongues brush, tasting of wine. You are shaking so bad on the inside from how much you want this, more of this, the rumbling of the thunder be damned.

Miranda's palm cups your flaming cheek when she pulls back, perfectly composed and staring at you with a little smirk in place.

You dare to turn a little, lay a tiny kiss on the inside of her wrist, beyond her rings and accessories.

You aren't very fond of storms, but...

You willingly walk right into the eye of this one.

[sarifinasnightmare]

Filial Piety

Fleur De Louve Month

Day four: Hurt/Comfort: Ghost Stories/ Staying Warm/ Golden Sunset

Summary: Cass and AJ are grown men who were raised by good people. They knew their duties to their loved ones.

Note: I wrote this on a whim just to see if I could. I don't think I'll even post it on AO3. I might even delete it after the month is done, unless the moderators of Fleur De Louve forbid me to, so enjoy for a little while. 🤗

Warning: Deals with death and grief

Cass and AJ studied the newly placed marker commissioned. They had been specific about what it said and that the font matched the one beside it. Inside the mausoleum was the urn containing the ashes of their recently deceased stepfather, James “Bucky” Barnes. He had lived longer than any other friend or enemy he had, though it had not been his choice. Had he had his way, he would’ve died the exact moment his beloved wife did. Sarah Barnes-Wilson’s remains were still in its coffin where his urn had been placed beside. The old men hoped that they were also together in heaven.

Beside the Barnes-Wilson tomb was a more magnificent monument to their uncle, Sam Wilson, formerly remembered as Captain America. Sam died with dignity; no enemy had killed him though they had tried their best. He had been a hero for as long as he could and when he no longer could he mentored and guided many to become amazing Avengers. Their parents were still alive when they buried him and his funeral was a fabulous affair, complete with music and fanfare just as he wanted it. Of course, the politicians wanted something more dignified, so they gave him a more solemn affair too. They wanted to give him a place to rest in Washington D.C., but their mother refused them and had him entombed at home. At that time, they had been grown men with families and businesses to care for along with their parents.

Their stepdad had deeply grieved the loss of his most cherished friend and brother-in-law. His happiness was thanks to him, was what he said at his eulogy. He made it his mission to visit his monument daily to make sure it hadn’t been defaced as some people with hatred and misunderstanding in their hearts were want to do. After a while it became known that you simply just did not try it unless you wished to suffer the wrath of an old, but still frighteningly strong former winter soldier.

The loss of their mother had been the single greatest devastation to ever hit the Wilson household. Sarah Wilson was at the heart of everything. She made everything bright and good, so when her own health started to deteriorate Cass and AJ knew it would end badly. She was not afraid of dying, hardly. In fact she quietly settled her affairs and made her peace before she passed away of old age. She soothed her sons, their spouses and her grandchildren. The only one who could not cope with her loss was their stepdad. They had a marriage that could be described as a love match. They had adored each other, and they disliked being parted, so her death was unbearable to Bucky. He had cried like a lost boy for weeks on end and refused to part with any of her belongings. It took three years of gentle coaxing before he allowed Cass and AJ to quietly box away her clothes and accessories.

By this time Cass and AJ were old men themselves and their stepfather had become quiet and sullen without his wife to love him or his brother-in-law to tease him. Only when grandchildren or great grandchildren came did he soften and become something of the happy man he had been before. He’d sometimes wander the streets of Delacroix when the house became too quiet for him. He’d go the cemetery daily and clean the tombs and monuments and the caretakers would say that he’d talk to Sam and Sarah as if they were there. His hair became the softest kitten white and his blues eyes lost all luster. He lingered and it almost became cruel to Cass and AJ that he was made to live so long.

Eventually though the super soldier serum seemed to have finally run its course and his strength began to fail him. He first lost his vibranium arm as it became too heavy for his old muscles to maintain, then his heart began to weaken. Soon the only place he was content to be at was his bed or his chair out by the porch. They went to check on their stepfather and if they couldn’t they’d send their wives or children. It was Jamie Darlene, Cass’s daughter, who found him passed away in bed, clutching Sarah’s nightgown in his fist. She said he had a serene expression on his face and the smallest hint of a smile. Both men liked to think that their mother had come to retrieve him herself.

They did not know what ultimately caused his death as they refused to have an autopsy. In fact, they had moved quickly to cremate him as per his request. Even now too many people desired super soldiers and even though his body was weak, the temptation for greedy, power hungry people to desecrate Bucky’s body to pull whatever secret it still held was there. By the time the world found out that James Buchanan Barnes had died, his body had been safely cremated and his vibranium arm retrieved by a solemn Wakandan warrior.

The plaque was nothing fancy. Sarah and Bucky had agreed long ago that they didn’t want all their earthly titles written under their names, but a simple inscription that said – Ruth 1:16-17. It was a bit cliché but fitting for two people who found love not at first, but at last.

The plaque on the door of the family mausoleum was supposed to be placed without pomp or ceremony, yet some relatives came to see it done. Even a few Avengers came, which was surprising though pleasing. They shared stories of Sam, Bucky and Sarah, of happy memories when they were all together. It would’ve pleased them that there was more laughter than tears. Cass and AJ, both old men, felt within themselves a great peace and knew that their beloved uncle, mother and stepfather were happy together once more.

Everything now in order, they took in the golden sunset, then gathered their families and went home.

[m-y-fandoms]

COMMISSION: Joker/Akira/Ren x Reader Part 1

Thank you to the client for commissioning me! This is gonna be a long one! I love Joker and Persona 5 is my second favorite fandom after Danganronpa! Exctied to be working on this.

Around 2.6k words, SFW, SLOW BURN romance friends to lovers, gender neutral reader, anyone can enjoy it and place themselves as the reader! - Admin Myah

Shujin Academy could be silent as the grave in the earliest hours of the morning, and yet seem so deafening. It was almost guaranteed that at least thirty new rumors were spreading throughout the student body at any given time, and the overwhelmingly hostile environment that created made the air heavy. With all the teenage angst, hormones, hatred, circles of venomous malice, it was no wonder so many loners could be spotted on academy grounds. That’s just how it was at Shujin: you either had a clique, or you had no one. It was no surprise, then, that you simply kept your head down, minded your business, and got to know no one. Miraculously, though, gossip abound about you still, at least two or three preposterous examples of hearsay and stories. But hey, what could you do? That was in all actuality, pretty low for a single Shujin student. God help the students who actually did make their opinions known, express themselves through clothing and cosmetics, and dared to swim against the current.

You shuffled through the first floor, the absolute blandness of that April morning perpetuating your usual routine: arrive at Shujin, check your locker, scribble down any notes and ideas that came to you in your dreams last night to put into your next short story, and of course check for new posts in the group chat, where your only friends resided. You wouldn’t be caught dead associating with anyone here at the school, it would simply be mental and social suicide, and quite frankly, you didn’t have the constitution for that.

Peeking up for a split second to avoid any collisions, you quickly slid to the left and ducked into a nearby alcove, successfully escaping the gaze of the oncoming wall of muscle and testosterone that was Coach Kamoshida, the plague of Shujin Academy. It was the best case scenario that Kamoshida remained ignorant to one’s very existence, for even those on his good side suffered the consequences. He strode by, shoulders wide and chest puffed out, scanning the halls for girls to harass or boys to intimidate, and once the coast was clear and he was a safe distance away, his back facing you, you dipped back out of the rather dusty corridor and back into the light, immediately slipping back into an almost mechanical daily ritual. It took mere seconds: phone screen unlocked, group chat opened, notebook slipped snuggly back under armpit.

“C’mon, man!” An obnoxiously loud voice rang out above the typical tinnitus-like buzz of the hallway, and suddenly your shoulder was thrust forward, body flying to the ground with a forceful shove on the shoulder.

“Aaagh!” Your voice cracked as your knees buckled and you collided roughly with the wooden panels below, your smartphone soaring out of your grip and clinking against the floor. Thank goodness your notebook was safe, at the very least. People gasped and turned to look at the spectacle, including Kamoshida himself, who’d just reached the end of the hall.

“Sakamoto! I see you running in the halls again, I’ll write you up!” He just always had to say something, let the general student body know he was in charge. He cared far more about sounding rough and tough than making sure the student who was just steam-rolled was uninjured. He pointed directly at you and the student that had just dashed by, effectively pummeling you to the ground with a shoulder check. You looked up and just ahead of you, Ryuji Sakamoto was pivoting on one foot, ignoring Kamoshida’s threat entirely to catch his breath and look down at his victim, splayed across the floor.

Ryuji Sakamoto, now that was one of those students mentioned earlier, the kind that dyed his hair, customized his uniform, and didn’t take shit from anyone. He was a pariah, pretty much the opposite of the teacher’s pet… teacher’s pest more like. Sakamoto was the subject of many falsehoods and conjectures, and he was sure to be trouble for anyone associated…

You looked him up and down, halting your unflattering and socially-altered thoughts in their tracks. Didn’t wanna become the very thing you hated. There was no reason to judge Ryuji without first-hand proof.

“Woah! My bad, sorry dude!” He held up one hand submissively, but unfortunately, just as with Kamoshida,  it seemed that you were not his main concern either. Huffing and puffing from the sprint, he looked past you to another male student who was hot on his trail, but this one looked… different.

You’d gone to Shujin Academy for all of your high-school career. It was your third and final year before graduation, and you knew of Sakamoto well enough, but this kid was a mystery… was he new here? He must’ve been. You knew at least the face of every student here in some way or another just through Shujin’s own little eternal game of telephone, and not by any choice of your own. You actively removed yourself from the local goings-on. Was it his first day here, you wondered. Why hadn’t you heard gossip about him yet, especially looking the way he did?

Beauty was a curse - much like any other feature that stood out - at Shujin Academy. If you were too pretty or handsome, you must be sexually promiscuous. On the other hand, if you were too ugly, too nerdy, too quiet, you probably picked your nose and read hentai on the train. There was no winning in this soul-crushing wasteland. Unfortunately for this new-comer, he was outrageously gorgeous.

“Gah, sorry about that…” he sighed, slowing his pace as he passed you by, plucking your phone up from the ground and offering you his hand. You took it and stood with his help. A quick tug and you were to your feet, dusting off your uniform and thanking him for his assistance. “Yeah, no problem… Ryuji’s just… a bit eager I suppose” he chuckled. “Luckily, no cracks!” He turned your phone around in his hand before placing it back into yours.

“Isn’t that the transfer student??? I heard he nearly killed a man!” One random NPC-esque shithead whispered from behind.

“Oh God, figures that freak would gravitate to the new freak…” another responded.

Ah…  and there it was. Why did fate hate you so much that it chose you as Sakamoto’s door mat on this day? You truly must have been fortune’s fool.

“Yeah, good thing…” You eyed the boy before you, taking in what you could of the new student before the short exchange was over, from his face to the delicate yet thick veins protruding from his lithe hands.

He was tall and thin, and would even be considered lanky if not for the lean muscle that lined his frame. He seemed to be better off than the average teen, sporting almost no blemishes or imperfections on his smooth skin. A black, messy mop of hair that looked soft to the touch sat upon his head, falling into his eyes and over the dark frames of his distinct spectacles. These spectacles did nothing to hide the true elegance that gleamed in the eyes behind them. They were a muted, soft grey that was beautifully simple and clean. His uniform was neat and tidy - as opposed to his blonde and brash acquaintance’s - with his pristine white turtleneck gently blanketing a quite prominent Adam’s apple and his school jacket buttoned and ironed perfectly. Lower down, his plaid slacks concealed thighs that strained against the fabric and long legs that ran down into some very - yet again - flawless dress shoes. Yep, that was a brand new uniform, sure enough.

And a brand new student… he just might make a good subject, a new inspiration for your writing, an aura unmarred by the stain this place put on one’s soul. Your opinion of him was fresh, it was new, unaltered, unbiased, and he really was quite beautiful… your mind played with the thought.

“Ah… sorry about this,” he spoke, taking in the whispers all around you, “I probably just ruined your reputation, what with being seen with me an’ all,” he sighed and laughed breathily, a hint of exhaustion in his voice. He must’ve been keen to the ways of Shujin already, which was super sad in its own right. “I’m Akira by the way,” he held out a hand, and you shook it hesitantly.

“Eh, doesn’t really bother me. It’s (Y/N), nice to meet you. Sorry you’re feeling the Shujin warm welcome.” That first part was only partly true, but the last half was genuine.

“Anyway…” his voice shook you back out of your contemplative reverie, and you came back to reality to find him also looking you over. Oh right… you were new to him as well… “I gotta go, Ryuji is kind of impatient, I’ve found.”

“Hey! Am not!” Ryuji retorted, brows furrowing before he ran off. Akira’s eyes rolled playfully, before he smiled, waved, and sped off.

You nodded, and quickly pulled out your phone, rushing to the glass doors leading to the courtyard. Anything to get out of the spotlight and harsh crowd of stares, plus, you had a sparkling new idea filling up your cranium, and artistic inspiration could not be wasted. Finding one of the benches placed for student recreation, you set down your school bag and impatiently scrambled for your favorite pen, throwing open your notebook.

“Oh, shoot!” You’d gotten ahead of yourself in all the excitement. Placing the moleskin down, you picked up your phone, hands trembling just a bit, and messaged you friends before anything else. They just had to hear about this.

 ＊

 (Y/N) 9:55 am: Guys guys guys!!!

 Itsuki 9:56 am: What do you want?

 Rin 9:56 am: ???

 Megumi 9:57 am: Shouldn’t you be in class?

 (Y/N) 9:57 am: Shut up I have a free period just listen

You know how I’ve been having writer’s block?

 Rin 9:58 am: Ya

 (Y/N) 9:58 am: Well I just met this new kid, and ideas just started FLOWING.

 Itsuki 9:59 am: Yeah

 Megumi 9:59 am: Yeah we remember nerd

Oh that’s great!

Wait what do you mean?

New kid?

Only we can have you 😭 Don’ go switching up on us. Shujin is

toxic anyway.

 (Y/N) 10:01 am: No no no It’s not like we’re friends, I just met him is all

You know you’re my one and only bby 😘

 Itsuki 10:01 am: New kid???

 Megumi 10:01 am: 😎

 Itsuki 10:02 am: Gross

Also what about me!!!!

 Rin 10:02 am: Me too 😡😡😡

 (Y/N) 10:03 am: You two know you’re included in that???? 🤔🙄

Anyway just listen

I think he may be good inspo for my main character!!!

I was stuck looking for a unique look or face claim or something

But he seems nice enough and he’s good looking!

 Itsuki 10:05 am: You got a crush? Awww I’m telling 😏😏😏😏

 (Y/N) 10:05 am: I swear it’s like we haven’t been friends for years…

You know me, PLEASE don’t be gross

Writing purposes ONLY

 Megumi 10:06 am: I thought you were stuck on the CONTENT, not characters and shit

 (Y/N) 10:06 am: Both!!!! But he’s perfect for the look of my protag

 Itsuki 10:06 am: 😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏

 Megumi 10:07 am: Well I’m happy for you

STOP

 Itsuki 10:07 am: 😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏

 Rin 10:07 am: 😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏

 (Y/N) 10:08 am: I can see this conversation isn’t going to be productive 

LMAO you’re assholes

＊

 You tucked your phone into your pocket and once again picked up your notebook. Scrawling down some of the details you knew about Akria: his looks, the sound of his voice, the way he carried himself, you quickly became aware that you knew far too little… or rather

 You wanted to know more.

 Standing, you packed your things and set out to find him again…

 Not in the creepy way! You thought to yourself, trying to justify this uncharacteristic choice of yours to actually reach out to someone in real life, to maybe… try to make… friends? You stood there, brows furrowed and a small frown on your face, pondering your options.

“Oh well, all artists must suffer for their work!” You resolved a little too promptly to try to force another encounter with the new kid. He seemed to be special, unique. He seemed to be well aware of the social hierarchy of Shujin, and have a distaste of it at least. Maybe he wouldn’t be… so bad?

Making up your mind, you spent your free period not writing of romance and rebellious characters, but searching for that fluffy-headed newfound hero to your story, however ghoulish and greasy that made you appear. You truly were becoming that “reads-hentai-on-the-train” and stalks cute boys freak your peers thought people like you were, weren’t you?

To your surprise (though maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising with the volume of Sakamoto’s voice) you soon found the gaggle of second-years, model-status beauty Ann Takamaki now added to their number, standing next to the stairs on the third floor, looking quite conspicuous to boot. Noting the suspicious air around the three, you pulled back, hiding behind the corner leading down the next hall. They seemed on edge... maybe now wasn’t the best time to make friends…?

You felt something thump in your chest. Your shoulders sank subconsciously. It felt a little disappointing, disheartening in a way you couldn’t explain. It was a bit intimidating: Ryuji the loudmouth with a temper, the hottest girl in the school, and the cute new kid. You sighed, this was why you never tried to make friends in the first place. Why had you even gotten your hopes up?

These irrational feelings of self-doubt clouded your heart, your head knowing better of course. It was hard to fight thoughts like these, especially for someone like you. On the precipice of making up your mind, deciding to give up and scrap the new novel idea altogether, you were jolted to attention by the sound of shoes scuffling and scrambling up the stairs.

Students aren’t really allowed on the rooftop during school hours unless accompanied by a teacher or given express permission, your thoughts swarmed. Maybe they didn’t know? No, there’s no way. There’s a possibility Akira didn’t know, but Ann and Ryuji had been here for two years... What were they up to?

Your nosiness was regrettably getting the better of you, and you slithered over, careful to pad your steps and tread softly. You didn’t even know what you’d do once you’d cornered the trio on the roof, didn’t know what you’d say. What was there to say? You were never too good with words, that is those not written on paper. Your heart beating out of your chest, you climbed the narrow stairwell and threw open the doors to the roof.

“Huh?” You looked around, dumbfounded. “Hello?” The rooftop area was not that large, all parts of it visible from the door.

There was no one to be found.

“What the hell?” You step forward, thinking you must have been the subject of some prank, but no, upon looking around, all three students were gone without a trace. No school bags, no lunch boxes, no uniform pieces, nothing. Akira, Ryuji, and Ann, all vanished into thin air. There were no hiding spots, none big enough for three people at least. It was dead silent, and only the door you currently guarded provided an exit off of the roof. Your mind wanted to wander to darker places, but if they’d have jumped, there surely would’ve been a commotion either during or shortly after. Frantically, you looked around, feeling like you were going crazy.

“What the fuck?” You pressed the palm of one hand to your forehead, sitting on the ground and crossing your legs.

[itsclydebitches]

RWBY Recaps: Volume 8 “Ultimatum”

Welcome back, everyone! We had an unexpected break last week due to the horror going on in Texas. I'm glad we did. Not because of any salty "RWBY is bad right now yay free Saturday" feelings, but because keeping to a schedule for a fictional webseries should never take precedence over peoples' safety. I can't believe I need to type that sentence out, but it's true! Over the last seven days I've seen fans who are not merely disappointed by the mini hiatus (understandable) but outright hostile towards the crew because they... were ensuring everyone survived during an unprecedented emergency? Yeah. Given the highly critical nature of these recaps — including today's! — I want to be clear that my thoughts towards Rooster Teeth's creative choices are distinct from any thoughts about the crew itself, including the most basic forms of compassion like, “I sure hope everyone is okay over there.” In an age where it has become horrifically common to harass creators and even send them death threats over stories, it has likewise become necessary to remind people: Don't do that shit. Never do that shit. If I can teach anyone anything at all, let it be that!

Anyway, dark fandom reminders out of the way, let's dive straight into our delayed episode. It was certainly a doozy. Titled "Ultimatum," we open on a trigger warning for flashing lights. Good on Rooster Teeth for including that, though I do wonder if creators shouldn't be including time stamps as well? Or perhaps a note that you can find those time stamps in the credits, avoiding any (minor) spoilers for everyone else? I'm not photosensitive myself, so I certainly don't mean to speak for that group, but my first thought was, "So how would I watch this episode if I was? Hand on the pause button, hoping I stop fast enough as soon as the lights start?" Hard to do given the surprise nature of the scene. Really, my answer would be, "Wait for the fandom to post warnings of their own, likely including where it happens so I know when to skip" which is perhaps an indication that this information that should be included from the get-go.

But I am glad the warning exists, regardless. The episode itself begins with a shot of Ironwood looking down at the kingdom. He's used his windows as a vantage point since Volume 7, so that's nothing new, but something about this particular shot reminded me of Ozpin, looking down from his tower. I'm sure the response from many would be simply, "Ah yes, the two power hungry dictators watching over their victims," but I think there's a much more nuanced reading here about leaders being expected to fix the literally unfixable and what that responsibility does to an individual. Of course, it's a nuance that is absolutely obliterated by the episode’s end, but the implication existed for a hot second!

Two other soldiers are in the room with Ironwood, reporting that Cinder has helped Watts escape. They try to soften this with news that they still have Jacques in custody, but receive only a, "I don't give a damn about Jacques Schnee." Which, fair. He's pretty useless at this point. It's when Ironwood learns that both Qrow and Robin escaped too that he really gets mad, something his subordinates have been expecting given their scared expressions.

Now, I'm treading lightly here because I realize how this is going to sound given the end of our episode, but I still want to note that outside of that ending... this is a weird take? Just hear me out. Since Volume 7 the show has worked very hard to make Ironwood seem scary and unstable — bad setup for what we end with today — but the problem is that none of it works in context and it certainly doesn't work when compared to other characters' actions. They are literally in the midst of an unwinnable battle and thousands of his people are dying. If the audience wants a human being — who also just lost a limb and was betrayed by half his allies — o remain perfectly poised and polite during that, sorry, but that's not how human beings work. But even beyond this, what’s the message here? Ironwood raises his voice, so does Yang. Ironwood hits his desk, Qrow hits a child. If we're going to examine how Ironwood handles his stress and anger, he often handles it better than many of our heroes. Namely, by continually taking that anger out on inanimate objects. I kept waiting for him to attack his subordinates or attack Winter this episode, especially given where we end up, but it never came. Ironwood always has enough control to break the desk or punch the wall, not the person in front of him. Which, of course, would not be a good thing in the real world. I want to be clear given these sensitive subjects that if someone is breaking things in your presence that's a major problem to address. But this isn't the real world. This is a fantasy world in the middle of a war, populated by other characters who express their anger by punching people, slamming them into walls, or screaming at them until they run away. The story wants us to fear Ironwood long before he makes his objectively horrific choices and it tries to achieve that by showing us characters who are clearly terrified in his presence, by giving us a string of broken objects in his wake. But those details don't land well when we compare them to other instances of stress. In the same volume I have watched Ironwood take a deep breath to calm himself down when things have gone horribly wrong. I've also watched Weiss start a conversation by threatening her defenseless brother. So again, what’s the message here? It can’t be that acting violently towards someone = villainous behavior because, as established since Volume 6, that’s common for the heroes. Why are these subordinates terrified about Ironwood slamming his fist on a table, but Whitley has no problem hugging the woman who threatened him? Obviously there is a HUGE difference between our main group and Ironwood when it comes to other actions (cough-bomb threats-cough), but these day-to-day moments don't match up. The show wants to use violence as a way for us to easily identify the Bad Guy while ignoring all the times when our heroes do the same thing. 

All of which isn't meant to be a defense of Ironwood. As we'll see in a bit, there is no defense for what he's done. Rather, it's a way of acknowledging just how badly he's been written. Why does a man who consistently reins in his anger and takes it out on objects suddenly shoot a councilman for literally no reason? Why does a man defined by wanting to save as many people as he can suddenly threaten to bomb his city? Ironwood's characterization is all over the place, in the sense that they keep writing him as the morally gray, sometimes harsh, but ultimately compassionate man he started out as... up until they need a villain. Salem isn't here yet, so Ironwood can shoot Oscar. Salem isn't attacking yet, so Ironwood can shoot the councilman. Salem is currently reforming, so Ironwood can threaten YJR and Mantle. He's the B-plot villain whenever Salem is out of commission, which is a problem for both their characterizations. This filler doesn't make sense for Ironwood and it severely undermines the threat of Salem. You finally introduce the Magical Big Bad and our heroes are facing more of a threat from a guy with a broken army and three loyal allies left? Hmmm.

The tl;dr is that Ironwood's arc is a disaster and, frankly, it's gotten old reading simplified takes of, "It's just a realistic look at what white U.S. men will do in power sweetie :) " RWBY does not have the context capable of conveying that sort of critical take because our world is not besieged by literal monsters and an immortal witch, to say nothing of how real life good guys do not get deus ex machina canes that fix the problem instantaneously. Ironwood is not an example of anti-U.S. imperialism, he's an example of writers who don't know how to write.

Anyway, I'm getting severely off topic. Obviously Ironwood is a major part of this episode, but the problems demonstrated here are two years in the making. This is the culmination of things I've been discussing for months across hundreds of posts... so I should probably stop trying to summarize it all in a few paragraphs lol. Perhaps when RWBY is over — or Ironwood has died — I'll do a single meta on his character, try to pull everything into one, unified argument.

For now though, we have an episode to analyze.

While Ironwood is receiving this news we get flashbacks to Qrow and Robyn. Qrow attacks a soldier in his bird form, which is hilarious. Someone GIF that please. It does raise some interesting questions about this magic though: does Qrow retain his aura and strength in this form (something I thought given his choice to transform during the explosion), or was that soldier just so shocked at being attacked by a crow that he went down easy? We'll never know, because that would require establishing concrete rules for this world. The point is Qrow is going feral in his freedom, throwing punches left and right — did he kill that guard? — while Robyn watches it all from under a rock. They're apparently still somewhere in the facility since all the exits are guarded, but that's not the good thing Ironwood seems to think it is. After all, Qrow is out to murder him. He wants to be there.

We all see where this is going, right? The show is going to ignore Qrow's crazy belief that Ironwood got Clover killed in favor of a "Qrow saved Mantle by murdering Ironwood"/“Qrow got revenge for Mantle by murdering Ironwood” ending. Who cares why Qrow wanted to kill him in the first place now that Ironwood has his finger on the trigger? If RWBY is good at anything, it's writing moments that encourage you to ignore everything that came before it. We'll be seeing more of that in just a bit.

"Damn it!" Ironwood yells, because the show is leaning into its cursing. He orders that the subordinates not return until "you have Qrow Branwen in custody." Here we have another great example of the show conflating what the audience knows with what other characters know. See, we know Qrow has a vendetta against Ironwood. We know their relationship is the important one to the story and that Robyn is incidental. Ironwood doesn't know that. There's no reason for him, as a character, to specify that they only bring Qrow back, but it makes sense for the audience who has the whole, thematic picture. Our understanding of the situation is influencing Ironwood's dialogue, which is... not great.

This entire scene we've had creepy music to hammer home just how evil Ironwood is. Except, as said, he takes a breath to calm down and the music fades. Instead of flying into a rage, hurting someone, or doing anything the music suggests he might, Ironwood calmly calls in for an update — which is when the explosion hits.

It's MASSIVE, seeming to originate from a lightning strike, which is weird, since it's coming from inside the whale, but whatever. The animation is very dramatic and pretty, as we've come to expect of RWBY, but the actual plot is lackluster at best. It's funny though because I thought for a hot second, when Winter and the Ace Ops were caught in the blast, that RWBY had actually done something exciting. I mean, holy shit! There are the deaths we expect from a battle like this. My god, what is everyone going to do when they realize that Oscar's needless attack took out five characters, including Weiss' sister —

No wait, never mind. They're fine.

Let's talk about that "needless" descriptor for a moment though. Do you all remember, two weeks ago, when I went, "Hey, why isn't anyone telling Oscar that that Ace Ops are approaching with a bomb? They're on a time limit! If someone would just mention that Very Important Information then Oscar wouldn't keep standing around to fight Salem." See, at the time I was frustrated because of how the plot was needlessly allowing Oscar to put himself in danger (especially when the whole point of this mission was to rescue him). Now, I'm frustrated because that same plot needlessly wasted the most powerful weapon the group had. There was no reason for Oscar to use literal lifetimes worth of stored energy when the heroes already had a bomb to do the same job! What was the point of that? I guess he took out the other grimm too, but without the whale that still would have been a challenge with a finite end, one Ironwood's army and the remaining huntsmen should have been able to handle. It doesn't feel justified to have Oscar use a weapon kept on the bench for lifetimes when there was another option literally minutes away.

There's so much wrong with this I need another list. So:

Ozpin's cane supposedly stores kinetic energy, which may contradict what we've seen from it before. Regardless, we’ve never heard about this. The all powerful weapon comes out of nowhere

It also begs the question of why Ozpin wouldn't use that power at Beacon and why he wouldn't insist that they try to get their cane back while captured. You had an out this whole time! But we’re going to ignore that because Oscar is a little hesitant? 

Which makes YJR's presence even more useless than it originally was, which was already pretty useless. Oscar essentially rescued himself

This kinetic energy miraculously doesn't hurt any people or buildings, just grimm

So what is the point of Silver Eyes? That's been their MO since they were first introduced. Sure, Silver Eyes can be used far more often than Ozpin's cane, but it still feels like a let down to learn that the Big Secret behind this weapon is... the exact same thing Ruby has been doing for years

Like Ruby, Oscar likewise didn't need any practice or training. He just set off this massive attack perfectly and without issue

We have now eliminated the biggest threat to the cast instantaneously — the whale and the other grimm — with no effort from the rest of the heroes. Like the Hound, the stakes are obliterated with no satisfying work on the part of our protagonists 

Instead, as said, the actual plan already in place never happened. The bomb just... goes back. Kind of like how Cinder attacked and then just went back to Salem. Penny woke up and then just got knocked out again. We continue to go in circles 

This is because no one took two seconds to tell Oscar, "There's a bomb on the way"

Because this threat is gone the show needs a new one, hence Ironwood randomly threatening Mantle with said bomb

The one way we might have justified Oscar blowing up the whale instead of Winter is if he did it to save Hazel, but Hazel is implied to be dead

Maybe he's alive, but if he's not that happened off screen and we're not sure how. It couldn't have been because of the blast itself — everyone else is fine — so what, Salem somehow killed him before she was blasted to bits? While he was holding her? 

And there's no body?

Salem was torn apart multiple times during that fight and reformed instantaneously, yet now, conveniently, she's taking her time

None of the characters mention the issues above. None of them admit that there was no reason for Oscar to waste LIFETIMES worth of power when they already had a solution in the works. Fantastic

I need to take a moment to acknowledge that so far this recap feels... bad. Disjointed. Bit all over the place. Which makes a certain amount of sense because that's where my thoughts are at. There's so much going on in this episode — so much wrong with it — that I don't know how to boil it all down into a few, neat claims. This episode is a mess! We're barely a few minutes in and the combined issues of Ironwood's characterization and Oscar's choice have left me reeling. So if you're still reading this, bless your patience, I think we'll both need it for the rest of this journey.

Let's snag a neater plot-point to discuss. Amidst all the chaos Neo literally skips away with the Lamp, clearly thrilled at how her own life is going. Later in the episode she'll text Cinder with the obvious: Salem is going to be pretty pissed when she realizes this is gone. “If you want her name you know what you owe me." 

So wait... what is Neo leveraging here? Is she agreeing to give the Lamp back so Cinder doesn't get in trouble with Salem? Give Salem the password she's been looking for? Or give Cinder the password to use the Lamp for herself? What would Cinder even want the Lamp for when she's after the Maiden powers? I'm confused about what Cinder is being blackmailed with. Regardless, she needs the lamp for something and presumably what she "owes" Neo is Ruby. We get a cut to her just to hammer that home.

(Side note: both pictures of Neo are hilarious.) 

Before that though, back at the whale, everyone is taking stock of the situation when Marrow cries, "Hey, they were still in there!" I feel like this is another scene meant to make him look like the one good guy in the group — he cares about YJOR while the others can’t be bothered — but as always, that reading doesn't fit well with the situation as a whole. The others have barely had time to realize they're alive. I don't think it's a moral failing that they didn't instinctually worry about four betrayers, one of whom attacked them, while they're still checking that they have all their limbs intact. Besides, why does Marrow assume they're dead? The Ace Ops were caught in the blast as well, yet miraculously came out unharmed. They clearly didn't set their own bomb off, so it's logical to assume that YJOR did something themselves. It feels weird to have a "Marrow mourns them and Winter is the only other character who cares" moment when everyone is recovering from bomb shock and no one even knows if the others are dead. But, of course, the show is out to portray only two of these characters as good people, so ignore the logic and run with the emotion of the scene.

All of which is bolstered by Elm pulling away when Vine puts a hand on her shoulder. Why is she acting cold towards him now? Because they're not friends, remember?

While we get more ridiculous relationship dynamics, Ironwood calls in and congratulates them on the bomb working, but tells them to get back because they have another problem in the works. That would be Qrow and Robyn. Winter decides to tell him about the bomb in person.

We cut to Watts and Cinder watching the remnants of the blast from a rooftop. Cinder has tried calling, but no one answered. Unsurprising, given that Salem doesn't have any other allies left. Cinder says that the plan hasn't changed, she's still going to take the Winter Maiden's power for herself, and Watts can help her by bringing Penny here. He explains that he doesn't have full control over her. Rather, he implemented a virus that is setting her on a single path: open the vault, then self-destruct. Cinder, as one might expect, is furious.

She snags Watts by her grimm arm and threatens to toss him over the side of the building. Thus begins the best part of the episode, hands down. Despite the danger he's in, Watts throws common sense out the window in favor of dragging Cinder in the most satisfying manner possible. 

“You think you’re entitled to everything just because you suffered, but suffering isn’t enough. You can’t just be strong, you have to be smart. You can’t just be deserving, you have to be worthy! But all you have ever been is a bloody migraine!”

It's true! You know what else is true? This speech could apply to our heroes as well. Accusations of entitlement and reminders to be smart as opposed to just strong hit hard, considering those are the same flaws our protagonists are struggling with. The difference is that Cinder, miraculously, listens, pulling Watts back to safety and going to cry by herself. That moment is simultaneously more growth than Ruby has gotten and more sympathy than Ironwood has gotten. The woman who murdered Pyrrha is treated more kindly by the narrative than one of our initial heroes and our very first villain has taken more time to reconsider her choices than our title character. You know a show is falling apart when excellent choices are applied to the worst possible character.

So Cinder is crying while Watts looks guilty and we cut back to YJOR's group post-blast. Yang is finally able to answer a call from Blake who is obviously overjoyed to see her. Weiss gives them directions to the mansion and they ask what in the world they'll do with Emerald, currently on her knees, mourning Hazel.

Thus begins the third most frustrating part of this episode. See, on the way back the group continues the conversation about what to do with Emerald, with Yang and Jaune distrusting her vs. Ren and Oscar encouraging cooperation. I can't believe I'm saying this after's Ren's speech and Oscar's entire existence... but I'm team Jaune and Yang here. Look, what Oscar and Ren say — the literal words coming out of their mouth — is nonsense. Ren goes, “We can’t let all of our actions stem from fear," as if Yang and Jaune are being ridiculous for mistrusting Emerald, one of the established villains, after years worth of harm from her. It’s weird that Yang points to her arm as something Emerald is responsible for, rather than being framed or the deaths at Beacon, but the general sentiment of, “She’s done horrible things!” is true. Ren’s perspective is the same simplification that was applied to Ironwood last volume, wherein everyone acted as if he was crazy for fearing an attack on his kingdom... post an attack on another kingdom and pre an attack on his kingdom. Putting generic lines in Ren's mouth about not being afraid makes him sound willfully ignorant, as if choosing to believe that someone is good will magically make them so, to say nothing of thinking it will erase all the harm they've already done.

Oscar at least acknowledges the difficulty here, but then follows this up with, “You don’t have to forgive her… just give her a second chance."

Oscar, honey, that amounts to the same thing in this situation. Allowing Emerald a second chance means working with her, which means trust, which means emotionally reaching a point where these characters can put aside the harm she's done them in an effort to give her that chance in the first place. This actually ties into a post I saw last night, one I've come across before, that claims redemption arcs don't require any suffering on the part of the person who has done wrong. I agree in theory, that prolonged suffering doesn't help anyone, but the problem is that people tend to conflate suffering with consequences and someone who has done this level of harm should face consequences for their actions. The problem with redemption arcs is not that the bad people suffer too much —  emotionally and physically beating on them as a form of revenge  — but that the people they've harmed are put into situations like this one. If Yang and Jaune let Emerald go like she suggests, they are agreeing that she doesn't have to face any consequences for the damage she's done (which, keep in mind, involves multiple deaths, not including all the lost lives here in Atlas). If they agree to give her a second chance, they are forced to jump straight to some level of forgiveness. We might claim they don't have to forgive Emerald to work with her, but from a practical perspective how are they meant to function, especially during a warzone? Anything she provides them with — information, watching their back in a fight, undertaking missions, etc.  — requires trusting her enough to allow those things to happen: working with that info, letting her protect them, allowing her that responsibility. It's all about trust, trust she has yet to earn. In order for a redemption arc to be successful, the power has to be in the hands of the victims. They need to be able to see some justice for what was done to them, be offered some proof that the person in question has truly changed, and have the ability to walk away if they decide no, I don't forgive you, glad to hear you've improved, but please stay out of my life. Jaune and Yang have none of that. There are currently no systems in place for Emerald to face consequences for her choices, she has offered them no proof of her remorse or true motivations, and the other half of the group is pressuring them to give her that second chance without closure or reassurance. None of that makes for a good redemption arc and reducing that to, "So you want to see poor Emerald suffer, huh?" ignores the suffering she has already caused. The group are her victims and they are under no obligation to give her a second chance, particularly under these circumstances, which makes the story's choice to have Ren and Oscar act like Yang and Jaune are being stubborn or inconsiderate a problem. The conversation boils down to, "Give the woman you know to be a liar, manipulator, murder accomplice, and servant of our enemy a second chance based entirely on unfounded faith. If you don't you're letting yourself be ruled by fear."

RWBY's touchy-feely themes really don't sit well within its realistic, morally gray premise. We cannot continually have these characters go through hell one moment and then have others accuse them of being paranoid the next. The fact that all of this is wrapped up in the group trusting Robyn, Emerald, and Hazel over their established allies remains beyond frustrating.

Because yeah, you know how Oscar finishes his speech? “I’ve already gotten a lot of help today from someone I don’t exactly trust right now." Meaning Ozpin.

The story is trying to compare Emerald and Hazel to Ozpin.

"Oh hey, I kept a secret from you after lifetimes of watching that secret lead to betrayal and death. I keep apologizing for my mistakes while ignoring that I had no reason to trust a bunch of kids with such world-shattering information and also that you tore it from me in the most traumatic way possible."

"Oh hey, I willingly joined our world's version of the devil and helped her destroy your school, leading to numerous deaths including your friend and headmaster. It was his death that put Oscar in this position in the first place! I then continued to attack your group, leading to another near death of a friend, and a kidnapping, and the destruction of Amity, until I became scared enough to make a run for it."

Which one of these characters is granted an instant second chance? You'll never guess who!

And I do think the word "instant" is important here because just like Jaune and Yang have the right to have distance and justice from Emerald, they had that right with Ozpin too. The difference is they got it. They had the power in the situation, as evidenced by their use of the Lamp and physically attacking him. Ozpin heard what they needed from him — leave us alone — and did that without complaint. They were given months to come to terms with the secrets he kept. They were offered apologies and acts of service to demonstrate intent: saving them in the airship and continually saving Oscar. I don't believe Ozpin ever needed a redemption arc, but even if we think he did, he had it. After three volumes of material Oscar's perspective is still "I don't exactly trust [him] right now" but Hazel and Emerald have earned at least the same amount of trust in a matter of hours? They're really having my boy look at the guy who has tried desperately to do right by him despite unimaginable circumstances, and the guy who tortured him to get information for Salem, and went, "That first guy. He's the one we need to watch out for."

To make things even worse, Oscar tells the others that Ozpin took on all the torture so he wouldn't have to. So he did that and they still don't trust him? If you had told me back in Volume 6 that two years later the group would still be hostile towards Ozpin, while simultaneously urging one another to trust Emerald, I would have said you were lying. RWBY has its problems, but it's not that bad. Yet here we are. I suppose the one silver lining here is that Ren smiles when he realizes Ozpin is back? So at least one of them isn't prepared to draw their weapon at the mere mention of his name.

Both these moments raise more questions though. How in the world did Ozpin take on that torture when we clearly saw Oscar getting pummeled for a good portion of the kidnapping? Is that a weird merge thing the story hasn't bothered to explain? I wouldn't be surprised, considering Oscar said last episode he didn't want to use magic because it hastened the merge, he uses the biggest explosion of magic we've ever seen, and nothing has changed. Ozpin is still in the back of his head, thanking him for the tinniest shreds of decency they get. Ren, meanwhile, seems to be back to mindreading. How in the world does he know that Ozpin is back? I assume it has something to do with his semblance, but we don't know what. They could have shown us Oscar from Ren's perspective, perhaps with two distinct emotions swilling around to imply that he sees two different people now, not a useless shot of Emerald with purple flower petals, whatever purple means.

Oh, but no, we shouldn't have gotten either of these scenes. Remember that Ren's aura broke a very, very short time ago? Is it back already? Can he use this part of his semblance without it? Considering it was near impossible to see Ironwood's aura breaking in the Watts fight and we were then mistakenly told he used his semblance in the office, I'm going to go with, "The writers forgot."

Oscar explains that the cane had "lifetime after lifetime" of power in it and though there's still some left, "we have to be careful with how we use the rest." He says that Ozpin trusted his judgement and of course he did! Ozpin also didn’t know that there was a bomb on the way. Yet funnily enough, no one else mentions that, whoops, your choice made in ignorance was a waste and that's due entirely to us prioritizing hugs over basic mission information.

Also, all these explanations take place in front of Emerald. Half the group doesn't trust her, but they'll freely discuss their powers and limitations here. Remember how the group once wanted to talk about magical relics in front of the old lady they'd just met? Yeah, they've learned nothing.

Combine all this insanity with the fact that Ozpin's magic saved the day before Ironwood's bomb could do the same... while Ruby sat in a mansion drinking tea. Who's our hero again?

So things are a hot mess, to put it lightly. Their conversation finally ends when they hear voices and round the corner to find all the Atlas citizens huddled in the subway. For once the show actually writes them in a sympathetic manner, emphasizing how terrified and helpless they are. This image doesn't lead the group to any revelations though, certainly not anything that would tie back to Ren's earlier speech in the snow. No, once again the justified criticisms here are ignored as we hear that “However this fight ends, we could really use someone like you, [Emerald.]” That's it then. Discussion over. We knew as soon as it started that blindly trusting her was being presented as the "right" thing to do and now here we are, deciding that conclusively, despite Jaune and Yang's complaints. By the time the group reaches the mansion, Oscar is defending Emerald from Ruby. We're supposed to just accept that she's a part of the group now, only minimal pushback allowed.

Before that though we return to Ironwood getting news that their bomb never went off. He briefly wonders who else could have done that, but puts the currently unanswerable question aside for what he does know. They still have the bomb and it could be "useful." See, this moment — like shooting Oscar and the councilman — is when Ironwood just randomly goes off the deep end. One minute he's talking about what they've lost and cradling his new arm, 

the next he's saying that he should have tortured Qrow to get Penny to obey him! Which doesn't even make sense since I'm pretty sure Penny hasn't ever spoken to Qrow. She wouldn't want anyone to suffer, true, but it's not like Ironwood had a close friend like Ruby to use as leverage. Qrow is just Some Guy to her. Regardless, he thinks Yang, Jaune, and Ren are decent replacements, despite Penny also having no relationships with them. This is what happens when your characters only start breaking up their teams eight years into the story, the response to Ironwood wanting to torture Ren to hurt Penny is, “Does Penny know Ren exists?” But, you know, torture is torture, right? Maybe. Probably not. I mean, if they're going to turn Ironwood into a cartoon villain, they could at least keep him smart.

Because all of this is just the height of stupidity. Ironwood wants to torture people Penny barely knows to make her listen (so just grab some civilians? It would do the same job...). Ironwood wants to shoot down empty ships, even though no one, including us, knows where in the world those ships would have gone. Ironwood wants to destroy an entire city to try and save another city. He wants to use a bomb meant for a comparatively small whale and acts like that alone will take out the majority of a kingdom. None of it makes sense! And I know the easy comeback for that is, "Well yeah, Ironwood is crazy and evil" but he's not. I mean he is. Threatening torture and bombings is obviously evil, but he's never been insane, or stupid. As said before, his arc (or lack thereof) is an absolute disaster. The fandom assumes so many things about Ironwood given the opportunity — the whale is a suicide mission. He expects the Ace Ops to die on his order — and the writing hints at so many things that never happen — he's going to hurt his subordinates, attack Winter for disobeying him — and every time what we actually get is a far more compassionate, level-headed character... until he randomly does a 180 and goes, "Let's murder a whole city now!" I never wanted Ironwood to be the bad guy, but they could have at least given me a persuasive decent into this level of horror.

So... yeah. Ironwood has got to die by the end of the volume, yeah? Between Ruby warning the whole world about him and him going into full villain mode, there's no coming back from this.

Neo sends her text to Cinder and the group makes it back to the mansion. Remember Yang's criticisms of Ruby's leadership? The ones she conveniently forgot about when Ren started to agree with her? Yeah, those are entirely gone as the sisters hug it out and, presumably, forgive one another for... daring to admit that things are bad? Look, I'm not going to deny that Ironwood's scene with Winter was creepy as fuck, 

but I'm not of the opinion that the heroes are any better when it comes to the theme of obedience. They've attacked one another, screamed at one another, and any dissent from Ruby's leadership results in the questioner being left behind in the snow. We'll accept you again when you fall back in line. I used to adore the relationships in this show, but watching them now is just discomforting. The show might be 100% more obvious with Ironwood, using creepy music, a smile, and that hand on Winter's shoulder, but the concept of, "Sorry I dared to question you before! We won't ever do it again :)" isn't healthy either. The fact that the show keeps erasing theses problems with hugs — Weiss hugs Whitley now, Yang hugs Ruby, someone will probably hug Emerald soon — doesn't make the circumstances any less uncomfortable.

None of this even gets into the Blake and Yang hug. First of all, why is Blake acting like they had a fight and Yang might not want to see her? She's hiding inside rather than rushing to greet them, ears down in a devastated expression until Yang touches her. Combine this with Yang's "Do you think she's mad at me?" and it feels like the writers cut a fight in the final script and then didn't bother to remove the fallout from that. Seriously, where did any of this come from? You can't just have characters act like they've been fighting when they haven’t.

Also, can't forget this.

At this point there's nothing more I can say in regards to RWBY's almost-queer baiting. Is touching foreheads more intimate than the hugs Yang gave the others? Absolutely. Is that an appropriate stand-in for overt representation? Absolutely not. This would have been a perfect time for them to kiss. Take out Blake's nonsensical fear and replace it with them both reuniting after their first separation since Volume 5, working under the knowledge that either one could have been killed, finally admitting their feelings. Hell, they don't actually have to kiss. Not all girlfriends are interested in kissing! But they could use the terminology that makes things unequivocally canon.  Another forehead touch when we got that in Volume 6? It's not enough, especially not when our straight couples have all been allowed their rep.

Ren at least wants to know where Nora is. He's presumably told what happened off screen as Oscar tells Ruby that Emerald is their friend now.

Then an emergency call from May interrupts the reunion and the group learns that Ironwood is bombing the Schnee ships. “Those ships… they were going to save people” Weiss whispers. How? Tell me how they were going to save anyone. Where were you going to take these people where they would be safer than where they are now? RWBY continually asserts things without explaining them, meaning there is precisely zero emotional weight here. Again, Ironwood is far past the point of defense, but I'd be a whole lot more critical of this particular action if I had a better sense of why it's bad. He appears to be endangering the people given May's shout to run — falling debris? — but the further implication is that Ironwood has doomed the people of Mantle by denying them these ships. It's that part that makes no sense based on what we've been told.

Which finally comes to the ultimatum of our episode title: Penny opens the vault, or Ironwood bombs Mantle. Great! So glad this plan is wicked smart and works well for his characterization. It's definitely not a nonsensical, unfounded, overblown change that feels like it belongs in a child's cartoon, complete with dramatic spotlight. Nope. Excellent writing choices all around.

Our final line of the episode is, “I hope you live up to the title I gave you," referring to Penny's job as the Protector of Mantle, and you know what? That line could have been very cool if it was delivered by an Ironwood with a persuasive fall and a halfway decent plan in place. I love that we've twisted the concept of a protector and turned the title into a horrifying, rather than honorable responsibility... I just hate everything surrounding those details. 

So, usual RWBY fare.

(At least we get to see that Nora is awake!) 

Will things get better over the next four episodes? I doubt it. We're still expecting the rest of the Ace Ops + Winter to ditch Ironwood, someone getting the vault open, the fall of Atlas, now the potential destruction of Mantle, and none of that includes Salem who should reform at any moment. Frankly, I'm not looking forward to any of it. The final leg of a season should make its audience excited to see how everything turns out, not dreading it. I've heard from multiple people that this is the volume that finally got them to drop the show and honestly? I'm not surprised.

As a final (happier?) note: we've finally got a bingo! I completely forgot our board last time, which was a terrible oversight, but we can update it now.

Our army of grimm can't kill anyone now that it got KOed by Oscar (that is the third one hit defeat of a major enemy we've seen this volume. Yes, I'm including the Hound considering it was obviously on its last legs after Ruby's eyes.)

I'm likewise including "Ozpin apologizes for everything including his existence" because he's done nothing but apologize since he came back. The emotion is there even if the literal words are not. Oscar reminded everyone of how untrustworthy he is, but kept the group from jumping them again. And Ozpin thanked him for it.

Neo didn't literally backstab Cinder (shame), but the Relic still counts.

So a triple bingo! Is that how bingo works? Idk, I've never played. I feel like I should have thought up some sort of humorous prize, but sadly I've got nothing. If you think of anything, let me know lol

That’s all then, folks. Until next week! 💜

[copias-thrall]

Cause I'm Young and I'm Here and So Beautiful

A look into the rise and fall of Mary Goore's flash-in-the-pan modeling career.

~12.5K Mary Goore/Reader *drug/alcohol use; mentions of past child abuse; brief homelessness; plot no porn; POV shift*

This fic was inspired by and is very loosely based on Aurelio Voltaire's early days in NYC in the 90s, though I have set it in Boston in the early aughts. 😊

Many thanks to the artists who did commissions for this! 🥰

One Way Streets

Mary stepped off the regional rail and gripped his backpack. He had $72.57 in cash rolled into his socks and a give-em-hell attitude.

When he’d packed his bag the night before, he wasn’t even sure if he’d go through with it, but he couldn’t stand being home anymore. Some of his friends had told him he was crazy.

"Three more months, dude. You got this. Just finish high school, then bounce."

But they didn’t have to live with his dad and the step-monster. Every day was a new indignity. Having them bitch about his music and his style was one thing—that he could have dealt with—but everything else had just kind of…escalated.

Now that the kiddies were older, they’d turned into gremlins. They’d somehow sensed that Mary wasn’t their beloved older brother—he was some sort of half other. They’d stopped questioning why "mom was so mean" to him and had accepted that she was because there was something wrong with Mary. They realized they could be little shits and blame everything on him.

And dad just didn’t care. He’d throw up his hands and say, "I have to live with her"—as if Mary wasn’t in the same boat.

Dad hadn’t stopped her when—in a rage—she’d smashed every single vinyl album Mary had owned because the twins ruined her nice tablecloth. He’d shrugged when she cut all Mary's guitar strings so he couldn’t play "the devil’s music." He’d held Mary back when she took a match and burned all his secret stuff that Mary kept under his bed—action figures, books, guitar mags, journals—in the backyard because he got detention for smoking. He hadn’t said a word when the police showed up after she came at Mary with scissors because he’d dyed his hair black and he’d pushed her away before she could scalp him.

Mary thought for sure he was going to get carted off to jail as she screamed about him terrorizing the family and being afraid he was going to kill her sons in their sleep, but the officers had just looked at her bored and told her being a teenager wasn’t a crime.

So, no: Mary couldn’t wait 3 more months.

He’d scraped together what money he had left from his secret shifts working as a busboy under the table at a local dive downtown, packed his backpack with the essentials, and walked the 5 miles to the train station instead of going to school.

Eighteen was 10 weeks away. He could fudge it for a few months, especially since he could already get away without using his fake ID to get into shows most of the time.

So, to the big city it was.

He shifted his weight and tried to pretend that he belonged here in Boston, but actually facing the busy streets was a lot different from looking at a bird’s-eye view map. He had a printout in his pocket, but he didn’t want to look like a doe-eyed tourist. So he set off down the seemingly labyrinthine streets in the direction he could have sworn was the correct one.

It wasn't.

When he came out a side alley into Faneuil Hall, he almost wondered if he'd gone through a fairy portal, since he was clear on the other side of town. Begrudgingly, he checked his creased map, and set out once more.

And ended up spit out by the State building.

Finding the hostel turned into a fraught adventure, and he got turned around several times more. When he tried to ask for directions, most people pushed past him while one lady shoved $5 at him. He used the cash to buy a hotdog, and it was the vendor who ultimately gave him directions in his thick, Southie accent.

Of course, making it to the hostel ended up being just part one. The rates were almost double what it stated online ("Sorry, honey—that site hasn’t been upgraded since the 90s."), and two nights were practically all his savings. Mary had thought he’d at least have a couple of days to find a job, not 36hrs.

He left the hostel, wondering for the first time if maybe he shouldn’t go back home…but he decided it was a nice day out. Surely there was some place he could hunker down. Just for the night.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the cops at every fucking turn telling him to move along. And any place out of line-of-sight seemed to already be inhabited.

He finally found a place behind some rocks in the Seaport where he didn’t think he’d be murdered in his sleep, curled around his backpack, and drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Mary woke up damp from the dew and the morning sun streaming into his eyes. The birds were creating an awful racket, but Mary guessed it was as good an alarm clock as any.

He ran his fingers through his bird's nest of hair, and he made his way back to the South Station. The men’s room may have smelled like a sewage treatment plant, but at least it was free. He had expected it to be mostly empty at the crack of dawn, but it was full of commuters making that last run to the head before they had to take the train 2hrs out of the city for work.

And it was a sight: a bunch of suits with their fancy lattes washing their hands, and Mary in the corner trying to surreptitiously wipe down with paper towels under his Misfits t-shirt and his shredded jeans. At school, he’d have probably gotten into several altercations by now—no one would have let him just turn into Mary Goore without a fight—but this was Boston, and no one gave him more than a cursory glance.

Just another college kid.

It emboldened Mary to go full-out in the kind of way he had only done when going out to the punk shows downtown at night: kohl all the way around his eyes, and some on his cheekbones; mascara because his lashes are long and thick, and he knows it (his dad had said it made him look hard, and Mary had sneered that maybe that was what he’d been going for. But maybe it had been because he’d liked the way it had made his green eyes pop.); a smear of the step-monster’s fanciest matte lipstick on his full lips; and airplane glue in his hair to give it that lift.

He made a kissy face at himself in the mirror, and headed back out.

It was a nice Spring day—almost boiling in the direct sun—and it tempted Mary to wear only his battle vest, but even he kind of figured applying to jobs half dressed was a mistake.

He walked all over the city, trying not to get lost, looking for any kind of work—dishwasher, busboy, barback—but all he had to show for it was blistered feet and a raging appetite. The only good part of the day was that he noted any restaurant or bakery that looked like it might toss perfectly good food at the end of the day.

He and his friends had become experts at dumpster diving in his podunk town, and he felt confident that he had a good feel for a jackpot. Mary staked out a bakery and was rewarded with a find of "old" bagels. He shoved as many as he could into the nooks and crannies of his backpack before slinking off to the Commons to inhale at least two of them.

Cold, stale dough never tasted so good.

He watched the tourists and the professionals walk by in ones and in groups while he ran his bare feet through the grass. Some laughed with each other as they sauntered down the path while others seemed singularly intent on their ultimate destination. A pack of dogs ran and played with each other as their owners looked on fondly, and nearby the baseball diamond hosted a casual game.

Mary counted his lucky stars that his first week in Boston was April at its kindest—always mild during the day, even when it turned cloudy, and a few times even downright warm. The nights turned chilly, though, and it had Mary in more layers than an onion. If the birds or damp didn't wake him, his butt cramps from being curled in a tight ball all night did.

He spent those days walking around the city proper looking for work. He wasn't adventurous enough to make the leap across the bridges to Cambridge just yet, but his travels gave him a good sense on how the different sections of Boston connected—and showed him potential places to crash at night. He didn't even mind living off day-old garbage food and drinking from bubblers (he'd bought a water for the express purpose of reusing the bottle), but the barren wasteland that seemed to be the job market was beginning to weigh on him.

At home, he could always find a shit job if he was willing to put up with shit hours and ridiculous requests. Here, though, Mary was just one of many desperate people willing to do desperate work.

And he didn’t look particularly trustworthy or reliable.

@dipendancesld

Hashtag WTF

I’m scrolling through Insta on the T, and I’m way down the rabbit hole of hashtags. New content was at a minimum this morning (how can I follow accounts in triple digits and only see the same 4 posts?!), so I’d started with some art tags and ended up where I usually end up—trolling social media for blurry pictures of my boy.

His band has been a local staple for years—or at least that’s what he told me on our first date. I had just moved from New York after a nasty breakup, ready to start fresh, and I’d seen him at a coffee shop hanging posters for his next show in his leather jacket, asymmetrical Metallica crop top, and stomping boots.

Fresh had never looked so good.

Then, a few months back, an online publication had featured his band in the year’s 50 best bands "you’ve never heard of," and now the band's starting to gain traction.

He’s starting to gain traction.

Finding the new online content of him first has become a game the two of us play. We had to stop counting images posted from the popular fan accounts because Mary's now acquaintances with most of them, and I said it was hardly fair to snipe me that way. Mary had pouted—but it was to cover up his grin. So now we troll for the pictures of his latest gig or at his favorite haunts from either his  casual fans or one of his new ones. I even have a whole range of hashtag typos saved if I really want to triumph, since Mary just doesn't have the attention span.

I usually win, though, by virtue of not keeping Rockstar Hours—and because Mary doesn’t have a smartphone. Mary delights in spending the wee hours while I'm sleeping finding new content, and I'll often wake to one he's pulled up on my laptop and a "suck it" sticky note stuck to my monitor.

(But I’m reigning supreme.)

There’s a thirst tag I sometimes comb through (for reasons), and today I’m desperate for that morning serotonin to keep me from dozing off, which is why I stumble across a particularly convincing cosplayer in some…risqué poses and outfits.

The dude is really good, and I have to admit he really does have Mary’s mannerisms down pat. He’s younger and a little skinnier than Mary is now, but his facial expressions are on point. I zoom in to see the contouring technique because he's using one of those filters to make it look old…and that’s when I sense something off. I can’t quite place my finger on it, but usually there’s an uncanny valley to his serious cosplayers, and this dude looks so real. He’s even 100% accurate with the mole placement, which is something I never see.

My heart does a flip-flop.

Is that…actually Mary?

Foundling

Mary's sixth night in the city, it rained. It was more of a brief Spring shower, but it was still enough to soak him and his backpack through. He shivered through the early morning hours until the sun came up, then he made his way to the Commons to lay his belongings—and himself—out into the sun to dry.

By midday, he had a slight sunburn across his nose, but most of his things were dryish—though the food was a soggy lost cause. He cut his losses and decided to buy a sausage from the hotdog vendor, even if that meant he was down to $52.37 in his sock bank.

It was the most amazing thing he'd ever eaten in his entire life (sometimes he still dreams of it), and he gobbled it down as he sat in the grass and watched the show of people pass by.

He could take today off from his job search.

Just another Groundhog Day of rejections.

A gaggle of kids about his age walked past, and he lit up when he saw them: studs and bright hair and cuffs and combat boots. They ran and shrieked and shoved at each other, and Mary had never felt such longing to be a part of something.

Not that nebulous feeling of "my world is out there somewhere," but "my world is right there if I can just get to it."

And he realized maybe he could.

These were his people.

Mary hopped off the bench and approached the boisterous group.

"Uh, hey…guys."

The pack stopped and looked him over, confused but not hostile.

"Oh hey, man" said a girl with green fins and a studded, leather jacket.

"Hey."

I have nowhere to go. Can I go with you?

"Sorry, I forgot your name."

"Oh, you don’t—"

A guy in a tight striped shirt, snake bites, and blue hair interrupted him.

"Shit, were you in my intro into film class last year?"

Mary was a high school dropout.

"Nah, dude. I’m new and shit."

…But he wasn’t stupid.

A curvy white goth with bleached blonde hair and a cream princess dress smiled at him.

"Aww, that’s rough, honey. If you think about it, they really ought to give transfers on-campus housing. It sucks to be so new and away from the action."

Mary nodded. "Yeah. Sucks."

"Well, we’re going to The Pit, wanna come?"

"If you guys don’t mind…"

"Fuck, the more the merrier!"

Mary smiled as they assimilated him into the group. He found out the goth’s name was Vanessa ("But call me Vanity."), green fins was Alexa ("Or Alex. I’m trying it out."), striped shirt was Billy, and the two other punks were Mandi (Manic Panic red) and Aaron (band tee, spiked collar).

No one laughed at him when he introduced himself as Mary or asked him why he had a girl’s name.

They took him onto the T at Charles MGH, and Mary marveled at the setting sun over the Charles River before the train ducked underground to barrel in Cambridge. At Harvard, they ushered him off the train and directly into The Pit, and Mary almost cried when he saw the pit rats there playing hacky sack, strumming guitars, and smoking cloves. Mary watched as his group high-fived, bumped chests, and hugged nearly everyone there before introducing him as if they’d known him for years.

He was shit at hacky sack, but he accepted a round on the guitar and shared a clove with a white girl who had a rat's nest of hair.

"Fuck their beauty stands," she said when she caught Mary staring.

Mary smiled and pointed to his own mess of hair. "Fuck ‘em," he repeated.

She cackled and handed him a brown bag with what he expected to be whiskey, but tasted like turpentine.

She laughed harder at his face as he coughed, and she pounded him on the back.

"Moonshine, dude. Lenny makes it in his bathtub."

"Which one is Lenny," Mary asked as he wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Oh, he’s not here. He goes to MIT. We have a strict trade agreement—booze for pot. I’m Katie."

Head fuzzy, Mary had made out with her until Aaron tugged on his arm.

"Shit dude, we gotta go before the T closes. You live close to here?"

"Uh…"

"Aww, I think he got into Lenny’s moonshine," said Vanity. "If he’s a transfer, I bet he’s at some shithole in Allston. You in Allston, honey?"

Mary just nodded.

"All right then," said Alex, taking charge. "We’ll put him up tonight. There’s no way he’s gonna make it back to Allston by himself, and I’ll be fucked if I’m trekking out there without a BU party to crash."

Mary wobbled slightly as Alex took his arm in his and led him to the T.

"Ok, we gotta go now or we’ll all be hoofing it."

They took Mary back to their dorm by the Hatch Shell and signed him in as a guest.

"Is this ok?" Mary asked warily—he didn't want to get kicked out in the middle of the night.

Mandi patted him on the back.

"We do it all time. No one really gives a shit. Vegan Mick dropped out 2 semesters ago and they don’t even check for his ID."

That night, Mary slept in the common room on a lumpy couch that was half as long as he was.

It was heaven.

The next morning seemed like the end, and Mary slumped as Vanity to sign him out. For one brief day he'd been a part of something, and now it was back to Mary, party of one. But Vanity took one look at his face and asked if he wanted to get breakfast at the dining hall.

Of course, he wanted to…but he thought of the dwindling cash in sock bank and hesitated. Vanity, bless her, misread his trepidation.

"It's on me, sweetie. I know most transfers don’t opt in. Too expensive when it’s not bundled. No worries, I got a ton of points I don’t use."

Alex and Aaron were already half done with their food when Vanity and he joined them, and they looked on in amusement as Mary ate half the breakfast buffet.

When the subject of classes came up, he shrugged off questions.

"None this morning."

Alex narrowed her eyes at him.

"What year did you say you were?"

"Sophomore."

"Not a freshman?"

Mary shook his head. "I’m not a freshman."

She seemed about to ask another question, so Mary quickly changed the subject.

"I thought I’d spend the day applying for jobs. You guys know of any place that’s hiring?"

"No work study?"

"No."

"What kind of work you looking for?"

"Shit, anything. I’ll sweep the fucking floors."

They bandied about ideas, places for Mary to try, but no one had any leads. Too soon, some unknown gong had them scurrying to get to class.

Mary suddenly panicked.

"Hey, do you guys mind if I spend the night again? I mean…"

"Yeah, sure," said Vanity. "Aaron?"

"Yeah, man. Meet me after class and I'll swipe you in."

It apparently was a time-honored tradition, passed down from upperclassmen to underclassmen, on gaming the guest system. Most kids used it to essentially move their significant others into their dorm rooms, but a handful every year used it to give haven to others who had questionable housing situations.

So, just like that, Mary had a place to rest his bones.

@dilfpassing

A Deeper Look

I’m so intent on scrolling through the comments on the grainy pics—which I'm sure now are actual scans—that I completely miss my stop, and I have to put my phone away so I can wheeze lightly jog my way to where I work as a receptionist at an alternative hair salon.

It’s really important that I start a good hour before we open so I can return any calls left on our voicemail first thing in case I can fit anyone in today. Which means I have to shelve my find for now, much to my irritation.

Mornings are super-busy because apparently there are some people in the world that like getting up with the sun and want everything done by noon. (June Cleaver’s salon lets me get away with a lot—like coming to work in denim short-shorts and ripped tights, free hair colors, and a snarky attitude—but late start times aren’t one of them.) I honestly don’t have room in my brain to obsess about the pictures because I’m too busy answering calls, making coffee, settling accounts, and giving the new customer spiel for the 57th time to a walk-in.

It’s just after midday, when Penny, the shampoo girl, collects my cash for the salon-wide sandwich run, and I finally have a moment to breathe. And obsess.

I take out my phone again, and I have to retrace my steps because of course the app has refreshed, which is why Sonia has the time to look over my shoulder.

"Missing dream boy’s dick so much you gotta spend your lunch hour ogling pics of him on the internet?"

I zoom in on the one of maybe!Mary in his underwear.

"Who does that look like to you?"

Sonia makes a guh sound in her throat and backs away.

"I don’t need to see your intimates!"

"That’s the thing! It’s not mine!"

"Your boy’s nudes get leaked??"

I wave my arms around.

"I don’t freakin’ know! They may not even be him. Fucking. C’mere and help me out!"

Sonia warily creeps back over, and so does Ryan, since all the yelling has attracted him.

The three of us peer over the phone as I scroll through the images again.

By the time Penny comes back with lunch, we’ve gone back and forth on who’s in the images—Mary or a fake—and I haven’t been able to do any actual research. The afternoon rush starts, and I have to table the whole thing again, having made no progress at all.

It isn’t until near-closing, when most of the other stylists have gone home—and it’s only June who does the post-work crowd—that I can really dig into the matter.

A deep dive and a couple of defunct, decade-old forums later, I find that what I took as an aspirational hashtag was actually the name of a zine called "Heroes."

There’s like, zero online trail about it—except for a few other grainy scans of other pages of articles, poetry, concert pictures, and art—but it seemed to be an early aughts missive for local underground culture and color.

It still doesn’t explain why Mary’s in there in various states of undress and poses.

Or why Mary has never said a word about it to me.

Stripped Bare

Mary settled into a sort of routine. He spent most days looking for a job—any job—with his backpack full of food from their dining hall. Most nights he rotated couches on different floors so the RAs didn’t notice that he basically lived there.

He made friends with Vegan Mick for about 5 seconds until Mary had eaten an entire Rotisserie chicken from 7-11 in front of him. Mick had launched into a whole spiel, and Mary had pointed out that Mick's jacket and Docs were made of leather. He’d only meant it as a joke—a callout in answer to a callout, like he'd do with his friends back home—but Vegan Mick had turned purple, then iced Mary out every time he saw him after that.

Oops.

The brief friendship had lasted long enough, however, for Mick to give Mary some tips and tricks of being homeless.

Homeless.

That had been a tough pill to swallow. Until Vegan Mick had put Mary’s situation like that, Mary had just thought of himself between places.

But it was true: he didn’t live anywhere. He skated by on the kindness of his new friends, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep up the ruse of "transfer student who didn’t like his shithole apartment and was too busy job searching to concentrate on classes."

He still spent a few nights a week finding an out-of-the-way place outside to hunker down in or huddling in with Katie and a few of the other gutter punks under their boxes in the corners of the T stations. He knew they would have been more than happy to make room, anyway, but Mary always emptied his backpack of all the pilfered dining hall food for distribution amongst them.

It honestly wasn't so terrible now that he had friends and a warm place to go on cold or rainy nights, but.

He needed an actual place to live. To afford an actual place to live, he needed a job. To get a job, he needed a place to live.

It seemed like a catch-22, and he began to despair that he’d never get ahead…until Mandi offered him a leg up.

Mary was sitting on the grass in the Commons in the shade, thinking that with summer coming up, maybe he could fudge it until the gang came back in September. There was always Katie and The Pit, and Mary was sure he could chip in somehow.

Mandi sat down next to him.

"I thought that mess of hair was you, Mare."

"Hey, Mandi. What’s kicks?"

"You still looking for a job?"

Mary put his head in his hands and sighed.

"Don’t remind me."

"You over 18?"

Just last week. But Mary hadn’t said, since they thought he was a Sophomore.

"Yeah."

"Wanna be at least 21?"

Mary grinned at her.

"That’s what my fake ID says."

She laughed, a tinkling thing.

"You got anything against strip clubs?"

Mary furrowed his brows at her.

"Uh…what’s the right answer here?"

She shoved him playfully.

"Do you want a job?"

"Yeah?"

"Then say no."

"No. No problems with strip clubs." He squinted at her. "Are they looking for male strippers?"

She laughed again.

"Definitely not." She canted her head at Mary. "I mean, you're very pretty, Mare. I could probably put you on as one of the girls…even with these triple As," she flicked playfully at his nipple, which had him grunting and batting at her, "but I was thinking more behind the scenes."

Mary held up his arm and made a weak muscle.

"I don’t think I’d be much of a bouncer, Mands."

"You said you’d wash dishes, sweep floors and shit, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, the club I work at—"

"The club at you what now?"

Mandi gave him a strange look.

"Yeah. The strip club I work at."

Mary’s eyes bugged out.

"As a…waitress?"

"As a stripper, Mary. Duh." At his dumbfounded look she shook her head. "It’s kind of extra credit, as a dance major. I’m going to turn it into my thesis. Plus, I make hella bank."

She swept her arm across the park that made up her college "campus."

"How else do you think I can afford this rock-and-roll lifestyle? Not all of us are here on scholarship or mom and dad’s dime."

She tilted her head at him.

"I thought you’d get it."

When Mary didn't respond, she touched his shoulder.

"Mare. I know you don't go here."

"W-what…? I…"

He looked at her, wide-eyed as the blood drained from his face.

"Hey, it's ok. I'm not gonna tell anybody. Not if you don't want me to."

Mary looked down. "Thanks." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You know that means I've got no address."

Mandi bumped his shoulder and waved his words away.

"A lot of the girls dance. Paddy is used to dorm rooms as addresses. You can use mine."

Mary looked at her, hoping he could convey every ounce of gratitude he was feeling.

She grinned and punched him in the shoulder.

"So, you up for it? Sweeping floors and bussing tables?" She leveled a look at him. "Cleaning up puke?"

Anything.

"Fuck, I’m desperate, Mands. I’ll hold their hair back if it means a paycheck."

"That’s the spirit!"

***

Mary was sure Patrick was part of the mob—or at least in cahoots. The guy had taken one look at Mary’s ID and had said, "But how old are you really?" and Mary had said, "Nineteen."

Patrick had thrown up his hands. "Well, you ain’t gonna be serving alcohol anyway, kid. Your job is to do whatever I tell you. Some asshole breaks a bottle, you clean up the glass so the girls don’t hurt themselves. Some idiot ralphs all over the toilet seat, you scrub the shit out of that fucker. A bachelor party leaves a table a hot mess, you better be out there clearing off the table for the next one, got it?"

Mary had nodded.

"You show up at 5 to help the girls set up the bar. You stay til whenever it takes to close down—but you only get paid 'til 2am—and you get an hour to eat, unpaid. You don’t bother the girls, and," Patrick had leaned in, "you don’t steal from me."

Mary had gulped and nodded emphatically.

Patrick had jabbed a finger at him. "That includes the booze. If I get fucked because some snot-nosed, underage kid is drinking with my good friends Jim and Johnnie, I’m gonna be very put out."

"Got it, sir."

"Don’t call me sir. I’m Paddy to my friends, so you can call me Patrick."

"Yes, Patrick."

Patrick had looked him over.

"You get paid as an independent contractor just like the girls, so you gotta deal with your own taxes, you got that? I’ll start you at $10 an hour."

Mary’s eyes had gone wide. Back home he was lucky to get 5.

"Ten…?"

Patrick had tilted his head again.

"No, you’re right, 12. Do a good job, and I’ll think about raising it to 15."

Mary had to physically stop his jaw from dropping.

"You do weeknights for now so if you fuck up it’s not that much of a problem. If you don’t fuck up and the girls don’t hate you, you can get weekends. Deal?"

Mary had sat up straighter. "Deal." He’d held his hand out, but Patrick had just looked at it until Mary pulled it back into his side.

"Ariel vouched for you, so I’m giving you a shot. Don’t make her regret it."

Mary had shaken his head as Patrick had handed him some forms to fill out.

"Come back at 4 tomorrow with these and we’ll get you started. Now, get out, I got shit to do."

Mary had taken the forms and skedaddled.

Mandi was outside waiting for him, all smiles.

"Did you get it?"

"Yeah, but fuck—your boss is scary."

"Nah, he’s a teddy bear."

***

The job was awful.

The puke was an almost nightly occurrence, and by the end of the first week, little cuts covered Mary’s hands from the broken glass. The customers were loud, rowdy, and acted as if their mother was going to clean up after them.

Mary swore he would never get the beer smell out. It now lived in his soul.

One dude punched Mary and broke his nose for no reason Mary could tell before the bouncers dragged the guy away. The girls gave him some tampons to stop the bleeding, and Mary finished his shift.

Patrick paid Mary in cash at the end of every week with a "It’s your job to report that, not mine," and at the end of the month, Patrick bumped Mary up to $15/hr. He worked 5 days a week because, according to Patrick, "The Lord gave us a day of rest, and you get one day off per week."

Mary never reported a single cent to the IRS.

The girls loved him, and joked that Patrick had gotten them a pet. They showed him winged eyeliner and smokey eyes and how to contour. They guffawed when they watched him try out their shoes like a newborn deer. On slow nights, they tried to show him pole techniques.

He saw the gang less and less because by the time they were getting out of class, he was going into work, and when he was done work, they were crawling into bed. Fortunately, the desk sitters seemed to forget that he wasn’t an on-campus "student" and didn’t even bother signing him in anymore. There were a few sticklers, but Mary found that—while back home he was less than scum—here, he attracted all the right kinds of attention…and a smirk with the right compliment went a long way.

By the time their school year ended, Mary had saved up $1,000 (and he needed to transfer his money out of sock bank and into the ripped lining of his jacket).

Even though they didn't know just how much they'd saved him, Mary showed up on the last day as thanks to help them all move their stuff into family cars or rented trucks. They hugged him goodbye and said to ring them next semester.

Mandi bopped him on the nose and told him to keep his nose clean.

Mary took a sublet in Allston with 2 BU kids and a Berkley grad student. The "room" was a closed-in porch with a sleeping bag left by the last resident—but it was $400 a month until September, utilities included.

At first, Mary didn't know why the gang was so snobby about Allston, but the summer seemed to be one continual party. It didn't matter what day Mary got up, there were always broken beer bottles and stale beer on their front stoop, and the apartment had a designated watering can for washing away the vomit that dripped down from the top porches to their own.

But he took it in stride, and when he wasn’t at the strip club or sleeping, he was partying with the BU kids, or letting the Berkley grad show him better string fingering techniques.

Mary still tried to get out to The Pit with what groceries he could spare, but Katie had moved on with some of the others to do a protest tour with an activist street band that had come through town, and without her or the gang, it made Mary feel lonely.

By the end of the summer, Mary had saved up enough money for first, last, and security. He even had some left over to buy more than ramen and some new clothes. To Mary, it felt like a million dollars. He rented a garden-level apartment in the cheap part of Jamaica Plain for September 1st and spent that entire day with the BU dudes driving around in their rented truck for Allston Christmas’s best furniture finds.

Mary ended up with a mattress that he hoped on a wish and a prayer didn’t have bedbugs, a mismatched set of dishes, plastic drawers that were slightly warped, and a broken futon frame he swore he would fix. Throw in a few sets of slightly used string lights, and Mary’s cave felt downright homey.

When the gang got back, he simply told them he’d dropped out.

"Yeah, I just don’t think college is for me. Music’s my real passion, you know?"

Alex had groaned.

"I knew that Berkley kid was gonna be a bad influence on you."

Mary shrugged.

"My grades were shit anyway. But I’m still around, you know. The strip club’s only a block from campus."

"Because we saw you so much then," deadpanned Billy.

"Hey! Stop piling on Mary," said Vanity. "He’s following his path."

Mary shot her a wide smile.

"Thanks, Vanity."

Patrick finally gave him a little more leeway with his days off, and Mary started taking Saturday night to join the gang in Harvard Square for the shadow cast of Rocky Horror. One of Aaron’s classmates, Amber, was in it, and they all wanted to support her.

Mary felt that something again. That thing that told that this was his place and his people. This eclectic group who got up in front of strangers every week in their underwear for free enthralled Mary.

He and Amber bonded immediately, and Mary began going even without the gang. The cast welcomed him in as an honorary groupie, and Mary's friendship with the gang waned. There was still Mandi to cavort with at the strip club, but now when Mary wasn't there, he was at any one of the Rocky crew's apartments getting high and playing dress up.

"You’ve got such a Look, Mare," sighed Amber. "I’d kill for your cheekbones."

"I’d kill for your tits."

She slapped him playfully. "Don’t be gross."

"No, I’m serious. Someone once put it in my head that I'd be a hot chick."

The girls had giggled and proceeded to dress him up in bras and corsets with cutlets. They added a wig, and the glo-up surprised even Mary.

Still buzzed, they went out for girl’s night and hit up all the bars in Fenway and flirted their way to free shots from the dude bros before batting their falsies at bouncers to let them into the clubs ahead of the line and without the cover.

The cutlets eventually became a nuisance—and soon they were all flapping them about above their heads as they danced—but Mary had loved the feel of the lace and satin corsets against his skin.

When they’d all collapsed in a pile at the end of the night, Mary wondered if they’d tell him where to get some lingerie for himself.

***

By August, Mary was ready to quit the strip club.

He was tired of cut fingers (they were making it hard to play the guitar he’d bought), the drunks, and the sick everywhere. Now that he had a little cushion, he thought maybe he could at least find something with better hours.

Mandi had graduated and was well into a summer internship at Disney in hopes they’d bring her on as a dancer.

Alex had also graduated and moved out to LA to make it as a film editor.

Vanity and Aaron had started dating after finals, and they had moved in together in Cambridgeport for their last year.

Billy had stopped going to classes before dropping out altogether. No one seemed to know what happened, and when they called his home, his mother just said he was unavailable.

There didn’t seem to be much reason to stick around the Grid anymore, and it was a bitch of a commute back to his place if he wasn’t going to hang out with the Rocky crew. He landed a job at a record store that was walking distance to his apartment.

Patrick seemed surprisingly sad to see him go, saying, "Ah, the good ones smart up," and gave him a $500 bonus for not "fucking up."

Tim, one of the older Rocky people, turned out to not live too far from him, and when Mary started hanging out there, so did the party.

Now that Mary was no longer shackled by the strip club’s hours, his world opened a few more degrees. He spent his nights dressing up while he watched the cast rehearse. (When he showed them a move or two he learned from the women at the club, they tried to get him to do a guest star as Frank. But Mary had shaken his head and said that wasn’t the kind of performing he wanted to do.)

When they weren't rehearsing, they dragged Mary to TT The Bear’s, The Middle East, and The Milky Way Lounge for underground shows. They took him to fetish night at ManRay after a trip to Hubba Hubba for pleather and lingerie, and Mary made a lot of new friends.

Sometimes, Mary would show up to work straight off a night out in his club clothes, eyeliner smudged and lipstick smeared. It should have got him fired, but his boss just shrugged.

"I used to keep rockstar hours too."

Mary still wore all his old vestiges—his battle vest and his ripped jeans—it was just that now he sometimes added a corset and heels.

Wherever Katie was now, he hoped she knew he was still fucking their beauty standards.

ry.omen Insta

Answer Me This

I practically vibrate the entire way back to our place. I'm still trying to wring information out of the internet like it's too-wet clothes, but the only thing I accomplish is making myself motion sick on the bus, so I put my phone back in my pocket and breath through my nose.

When I get home, Mary is sprawled across the couch in his pjs with various limbs hanging over sides and edges as he watches some extreme sport show on my laptop.

I wonder if he just got up, but I see the start of dinner on the stove, so I decide not to snark at him.

"Hey," he says without looking up.

I am, however, gonna need some answers on "Heroes."

I gently close the laptop, and he meets my eyes.

"What?"

I climb onto the couch, and Mary’s limbs recede like vines to make room for me as I scroll through my phone to my photo app where I’ve saved screenshots.

"Lucy," I say in a terrible accent, "you have some ‘splaining to do!"

Mary squints at me and takes my phone, his expression morphing into one of surprise.

"Shit, babe. Where’d ya find these??"

"So they are you!"

He chuckles.

"Christ…I haven't thought about these in fucking years."

"Mind telling me what the fuck?" I ask, my hands on my hips.

I'm only half joking.

Mary grimaces at me.

"Ah."

"I'm gonna need more than that, mister."

He rubs the back of his neck.

"Fuck, you know those were hard times for me."

I know about his family, the homelessness. I know he tried out a lot until he found a life that fit. He'd given me the overviews with occasional anecdotes filled with names I never remembered.

But none of them included naughty pictures.

I worm my way under his arm.

"Yeah, I know, Mare."

His hand strokes down my arm.

"I mean, shit. I was kinda an asshole, you know?"

I wrap an arm around his chest.

"You're still kind of an asshole, Goore."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

When he doesn't say more, I poke him hard in the side.

"I’m literally dying here."

He laughs a little.

"Fine. But you gotta remember you asked."

Model Behavior

One day, Mary was walking down the street on his way to drinks with the new friends he'd made the weekend before. It was a good day. He wasn’t hungover as fuck, his makeup was only smudged artfully, and he was pretty sure he was going to get laid.

A guy in a leather jacket and tight jeans maybe a few years older than Mary stopped him on the street.

"Hey, man! I love your style."

Mary batted his eyelashes at him. "Thanks, dude."

"You ever think of dark modeling?"

Mary squinted his eyes at him.

"Dark what now?"

"You know—modeling but like," he gestured up and down Mary’s form, "for dark beauties. Show the world beauty isn’t cookie cutter."

"For like what? A website or some shit?"

The guy dug into his pocket, pulled out a card case, and handed one to Mary.

Heroes Greg Karson, Photographer/Web Design Butera School of Art

Actually, Mary had heard of this. It was a zine about the local happenings around town—concerts, art shows, parties, etc. There was a stack of them next to "Rrriot!" in the record shop. He’d flipped through one occasionally, mostly interested in the band reviews.

"We’re really on the lookout for anyone with the right look. You know, wear stuff you already own."

"So like a street fashion spread?"

"Well, we might do a little more with it, but—you know how it is. Most of the budget goes toward printing costs."

Mary perked up.

"Would I be paid?"

Greg laughed.

"Peanuts, my dude. But yeah. Even if it’s a T token. You interested, then?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Mind if I take a few test shots."

Mary smirked at Greg.

"How do you want me?"

"Just natural."

Putting his hands in his pockets, Mary arched his back and gave Greg his best snotty hipster face.

Greg dug out a digital camera from his carrying case and took a dozen or so pictures of Mary from different angles while telling him to turn this way or that.

Afterwards, the two of them huddled over the camera and scrolled through the shots.

"Aw yeah, this one. I love the attitude. The guys are gonna love it. You have a number where we can reach you?"

Mary gave him the number of the record shop. (His apartment had a phone, but he’d never gotten around to wanting to pay for service.)

Later, he and Amber looked up the Angelfire website on the back of the card. It was one page that contained the mission statement, bios of the creators, and locations to pick up the zine.

"Omigod—you’re gonna become a famous model, Mare!"

"Yeah, right. You know most of it ends up in the trash, right?"

But when Ben called, Mary said he was game. He directed Mary to a co-op in a converted warehouse in Dorchester, and Mary brought his favorite clothes in a borrowed duffle.

A girl in cat pajamas opened the door and pointed at a set of metal stairs with her cereal spoon.

On the second floor, Mary found Greg setting up a makeshift studio. A girl with multiple piercings and yarn dreads leaned against the wall in her black babydoll dress.

Mary sidled up to her.

"You here to model, too?"

She gave him an unimpressed once-over.

"I’m the art director, asshole."

Mary flushed hard as she turned to Greg.

"Couldn’t find one with brains?"

She turned back to Mary.

"I don’t know if you thought this would be a good way to meet chicks or what, dude. But I’m letting you know right now that I’m here on my day off to make sure this adheres to our aesthetic, so if you're not serious, fuck off."

Mary rubbed the back of his neck.

"Shit, sorry. I was expecting a dude named Ben."

She waved her hand in the air as if dispelling Ben.

"The Bens are morons. Good idea, terrible execution. I’m here to make sure we remain true to the idea of 'Heroes,' so don’t fuck up my shoot." She gave him a once over. "Christ. You have any experience?"

Greg turned from where he was testing the white balance.

"Angelique, stop harassing the talent. We get it, you have a degree from RISD."

Angelique snorted.

"As if I don't hear you going on and on about being a professional photographer. 'Hey, lemme shoot your portfolio, baby.' Whatever. As if we're not your only professional credit."

"Hey—you wanted a photographer for peanuts? You got me. You wanted models for peanuts? You got him."

Mary gave her his full snaggle-toothed grin.

"I take T tokens."

Angelique sighed, then pasted on a smile.

"Hi! So happy you’re here!" Her smile drooped. "You got your wardrobe in there?"

"Yeah."

Mary handed her the duffle, and she handed him release forms.

"Here: sign these"

She pawed through his offerings.

"Not bad, not bad." She pulled out a corset and his heeled boots. "We'll keep you in your jeans and have you wear your jacket over your corset. Cool?"

Cool.

The shoot was as professional as a shoot in a warehouse in what Mary was taking to usually be a living room could be. Angelique directed Greg with what she wanted. Greg called out positions and expressions for Mary to pose in.

It was surprisingly hard work, and by the end of a solid hour, his smirking lip was getting tired. Angelique and Greg scrolled through the shots, murmuring to themselves and nodding.

Mary waited—greeting at the other inhabitants as they squeezed by on their way either up or down—until Angelique approached him.

"That’ll do. You mind if we post on our website?"

Mary preened.

"Yeah, that’s kosher."

She handed him a pen and pocket notebook.

"Write down a quick bio."

He scribbled down a quick elevator pitch

Into general skulking and metal \m/

and handed the notebook back to her.

"Great, thanks."

She handed him a $20 bill, her eyes skimming him up and down.

"Next time we should show off those hip bones. Just jeans, I think."

Mary perked up. "Next time?"

"We’ll call you."

***

"Omigod, omigod!"

Amber perched on the record store counter, flipping through "Heroes," as Jon peered over her shoulder.

"Mary…look at you!"

Mary tried to swallow his smug smile.

Failed.

"Yeah. I’m hot shit, ain’t I?"

She bopped him on the nose with the newsprint.

"Don’t be vain."

He showed her his toothy smile.

"I like to think of it as confidence."

"So did Icarus."

Mary snorted and went back to putting prices on the new CDs.

"The camera loves you," said Jon, who was always quiet and reserved as you please…until he put on Frank’s corset and heels.

Mary had tried flirting with him, but Jon always ducked his head and played it off.

"Thanks, man," said Mary, giving him a softer smile.

"So??"

"So what, Amber?"

"Are you gonna do it again?"

Mary shrugged.

"I mean, if they call me, sure."

But he was kind of hoping they would.

When the next issue came out weeks later, Mary stared at the cybergoth on the pages and felt himself deflate. Listlessly, he thumbed through the delicate print, barely skimming the section devoted to the World/Inferno Friendship Society’s set he’d been at the week before.

He set it down with a sigh before he picked up his guitar and plucked out a tune he was trying to coax into a riff.

By the time a Ben called again, Mary had given up the modeling thing as a one-off.

"Hey, dude—thought maybe you guys forgot about me," Mary said in a teasing tone.

The Ben on the other end chuckled.

"It’s like herding cats to get shit out. Nah, dude—we definitely want you to be one of our regulars. You in for next Saturday?"

He was.

***

Over the course of a year, "Heroes" had Mary come out multiple times for shoots. Mainly, Mary wore his own clothes and did his own makeup, but occasionally, Angelique wanted something specific.

"How comfortable are you with boudoir shots?"

"With what?"

"Like a pinup, but more…saucy than sexy."

I'd pose nude if you paid me enough.

(Sure, he was a noodle boy, but he knew he had the goods.)

"Yeah, I’m cool with that."

Angelique brightened at him.

"Great!"

She picked up a set of complicated leather garters and thrust them at him.

"Put these on."

Mary had only ever worn lace garters—mostly out to clubs, but occasionally under his ripped jeans for an extra pop—but he found he liked these even more, liked the way they emphasized his thighs.

"Hey—where’d you get these…?"

(He was already thinking of what he could pair them with for goth night.)

"Local leatherworker. He mostly does pieces for Renn Fairs, but he'll also do custom. I can give you his info."

She led Mary into what was clearly someone's bedroom.

"Don't fuck anything up, or Joye will never let us use this again."

Mary shot her his best shark smile.

"Hey, I only mess up the sheets if someone asks."

Angelique gave him a flat look and called for Greg.

(But when he draped himself over the bed and told Greg to "Paint me like one of your French girls," Mary could have sworn she almost smiled.)

On one memorable occasion, she brought in a guy whose rope bondage demo she watched at a sex convention.

"Put on some of that lingerie and we'll truss you up. You ok with that, Goore?"

Mary ran his fingers over the coils and gave her a wolfish smile.

"You know I'm game for anything."

She gave him a vulpine smile of her own then, and she looked down at him from the height of her platformed boots.

"Good. I thought you should be submissive for once."

Mary had no witty rejoinder for that.

He listened with interest as the guy carefully explained what he was going to do, complete with pictures, and he relaxed easily into the process. (They put bunny ears on him, and it would be much, much later that he got that particular joke. Well played, Angelique.)

The ropes hadn’t let him do much posing, but Mary had kind of liked the constriction, and his thoughts were already on asking Amber to help him create a more versatile version for fetish night.

He’d left that day with a new kink…and the guy’s number.

"Why not just do one big shoot?" he asked another time. "Get it all done in one big bang!"

Angelique held up his garments to eyeball over him.

"Honey, we never even know if there's gonna be a next issue. The Bens spend most of the time arguing. My god you should hear them—Ben bankrolls the whole thing, so he says he should get final say on shit, and Benji wants total artistic control because it was his idea, because 'he's the graphic designer', and because it's his Kinko's employee discount they use."

She gave Mary a curled-lip smile as she tossed a few items at him.

"In the end it's this bitch you're looking at who gets shit done."

Mary began to change (they were long past modesty).

"How'd you get involved?"

"Went to school with Benji."

"Ben too?"

"Neg. The Bens are childhood friends. Ben works some cushy start-up job, so Benji lets him bankroll them both. Rent, utilities—everything. I love Benji to death, but he's a giant mooch."

"Shit, that must be nice."

Angelique shrugged. She stood back to appraise Mary's look.

"It's fucking lame. But it least it gets us fucking paid."

Mary didn't say I'd do this for free. Instead, he struck a pose and said, "I'm just happy for the exposure."

Angelique rolled her eyes and went to fetch Greg.

***

That year and a half would become a nonstop party with Mary as one of the VIPs; he wouldn't say no to anything—be it casual sex, club appearances, or whatever drug the current pretty thing was offering him in the bathroom.

But recognition started slow.

At first, it was customers who would leaf through the zine and recognize Mary.

Then, it was the occasional scenester who’d stop him on the street in JP as he walked about, and Mary would pose for grainy cell phone pics.

Soon, he was being approached at shows and clubs. The first time it happened, Mary was high off his new infamy and ready to please. A woman in a black bandage bra and pleated skirt with bondage straps approached him, and Mary was already thinking of what he could do with those.

"You look like that guy in ‘Heroes’!" she'd shouted to him over the music.

Mary had flashed her a crooked smile and leaned in.

"Maybe I am the guy in ‘Heroes’."

She'd given him an exaggerated once over before sidling closer with hooded eyes.

"I dunno…you're wearing way more clothes."

Mary had pulled his mesh top down by the collar in a tease as he'd curled over her.

"Take me somewhere more private and I’ll let you do a comparison."

She'd compared him all night.

And that was before he and the other "Heroes" models formed their own posse.

The Bens had thrown a BBQ and had invited everyone they'd ever met. There were people packed into their little 2 bedroom in Brighton, spilling down the back stairs, and equally packed into the little square of shared backyard. Ben had taken the 12-pack of 'Gansett beers Mary had brought, then introduced him to the other dark models.

"Now you're all here!" said Ben. He slung his arm around Mary. "Guys, this is Mary. Mary this is Mayhem, Lesley, Lola, and Bryan."

Mayhem was a rivethead, and Mary took to him instantly, but he was wary of the others. Lesley was the cybergoth who'd been in the first issue after him, and Mary still felt a bit salty at them, even though Mary knew by now the Bens rotated the models. Lola, the romantic goth, reminded him enough of Vanity that he felt guilty for losing touch with her and had him projecting a little. Bryan was a metalhead, so: competition.

Mary had thought they'd get along like cats and water, but weed, booze, and "Never Have I Ever" went a long way to creating a shared bond.

And there it was again. That pull. The magnetic force telling him that he'd found the place he was supposed to be. They quickly coalesced into their own pack, calling themselves the "Deathbutantes" (because they always killed it when they debuted for the night).

It had been rare for Mary to miss Friday and Saturday night shenanigans with the Rocky crew, but now, every night was Friday night. There was always a show or a concert or club that one of them knew about—and if they couldn't get lucky with the local color, they'd just go home with each other.

Mayhem taught Mary what Lola jokingly called the "grab a bat" dance, and the two of them cut quite the picture on the dance floors.

Lesley took to Lola, and the two of them could always be counted on for scintillating conversation in dark corners when Mary's limbst needed a break from flailing about.

The clubs weren't really Bryan's scene—take him to a sticky hole in the wall with concrete floors and a stage close enough to feel the sweat from the bands, and he was in heaven—but he liked to come along to hang. He'd drink PBRs, rub Lola's feet when she invariably abandoned her heels for the evening, and argue with Mary about the purity of death metal.

Mayhem and Lola weren't really into live music of the screaming kind, so—while Lesley, Bryan, and Mary bounced off each other in the mosh pits—they'd save a "home" base at one the bartops.

Amber noticed Mary's diminishing presence and stopped by the record shop to call him out.

"So you're not dead! Could've fooled me."

Mary was organizing the albums into order, and he grunted at her.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm a cad. I'll make it up to you."

"You missed game night."

"Sorry. Jethro Tull played some tiny venue in nowhere Mass, and Bryan was salivating. I mean, Jethro Tull. Can you blame me?"

He looked at her, arms out wide in supplication. But she just blinked at him.

"You have no idea who Jethro Tull is, do you?"

"Sorry, dude. But christ, Mare. You should have invited me. I'd've gone. Maybe I would have even liked them. Now you'll never know."

"I could just lend you an album."

"Nope! The moment passed. Too late!"

Mary riffled through the stock and shoved a Jethro Tull CD into her hands.

She tapped it against her thigh.

"So, when do I get to hang?"

"I can get us into 80s night free."

"No, I mean, with your cooler friends. Your 'murder models', or whatever."

"You wanna hang out with the Deathbutantes?"

Amber scrunched her nose.

"That's so fucking pretentious."

Mary kind of liked it.

"Dunno if they're really your scene."

"Oh? And what's my scene?"

"Musical theater on crack."

She mock gasped at him, "Called out!" before smacking him with the CD. "Whatever. You love musical theater on crack."

Mary draped his arm around her shoulders.

"Yeah, I do. But I don't live it, you know? You guys have your niche—and fuck…I love to visit—but it's not mine."

Amber looked up at him, her expression serious.

"So the Dumbutantes are your niche?"

Mary shrugged and went back to shelving.

The Rocky crew had been good to him. They'd taken him under their wing, no questions asked, and helped him realize things about himself. Tim had taken him to the ER when Mary had come down with a serious case of the flu. Matty had taught him the basics of sewing. Gretchen had held him after a bad trip. Omar and he had had many drunken heart-to-hearts about their shitty home lives.

And Amber was his best friend. She'd been his #1 cheerleader for years and had never been afraid to call him out on his shit.

So yeah, he loved the Rocky crew…but they laughed at anyone who took anything too seriously. Mary would show up to game nights in his latest creation—with everyone else in pjs or jeans & hoodies—and they'd tease him about trying to impress the wrong people. He'd try to talk about the newest guitar god he'd been mainlining, and they'd make snoring noises at him.

How could he explain the kinship he felt with the Deathbutantes? That they were as serious about music as he was, that they just…got why he felt the need to dress the way he did to express the way he felt inside on his outside.

Instead, he said, "I'm just trying shit out, Ambs." He quirked his eyebrow at her. "I gotta do something while you guys do your real-person jobs."

(Amber had recently started as a junior marketing assistant at the American Repertory Theater. "Purely mercenary," she'd said. "Maybe it'll give me a leg up during auditions.")

She made a disgruntled scoffing noise in the back of her throat.

"Fuck, don't remind me. I actually gotta go to bed a reasonable hour now."

"Don't worry." Mary winked at her. "I'll keep ya honest."

"That sounds a lot like my head in a toilet, Mare."

"I'll hold your hair back."

She gave him a good-natured shove, and he pretended to cower.

If she wanted to cross pollinate, who was Mary to stand in her way? So, he invited her out the next time the Deathbutantes went to a show, and it went exactly like he thought it would.

They disliked her, and she was equally unimpressed. They thought she was too loud and frenetic, and she thought they had no sense of humor.

"I fucking told you," Mary had snorted as they sat on the curb sharing a clove.

"Shut the fuck up, Mare."

But she'd put her head on his shoulder.

"They make you happy, though. So I guess I approve. Just as long as I don't have to play nice."

Mary still hung out with the Rocky crew—there were still game nights and drug-fueled sex parties and theater games—but the Deathbutantes introduced him to the underground scene. They always seemed to have insider knowledge about the best up-in-coming bands and the secret shows. Theme nights at the goth clubs were always a must, and they rarely missed one. Sometimes, Angelique would crash, and they'd take the commuter rail to Providence to party at Club Hell before collapsing in a sweaty, smeary pile at a friend of a friend's hole in the wall.

As a bit player in the Rocky crew, Mary had been another made-up face in the crowd. As a certified member of the Deathbutantes, Mary became the face.

They all did.

The owners loved them because they bought round after round at the bar, and if word got out that the Deathbutantes were there, their admirers came to spend money as well. The employees loved them because they were fun and talked to them as equals. The clientele loved them because they were pretty young things.

Sometimes, though, Mary wasn't in the mood to party or get laid, so he talked to the DJs instead. He'd buy them rounds and stay past closing to help them pack up while they talked about the history of punk and 80s new wave and nu metal. There was one in particular, Dave, that Mary even considered a friend.

The two of them would sit in the club past closing, sharing a whiskey and talking about life while the bartenders closed down and cashed out. Occasionally, Dave's other friends would be around, and they'd all walk back to his place; he'd fool around spinning in his home studio, and they'd drink box wine as they danced and laughed before Mary would have to sit on the ground in an intoxicated exhaustion, good for only thumbing through Dave's vinyl collection.

Mary was just happy to talk shop with another music aficionado, but Angelique had pointed out that he should leverage his minor clout.

They'd been waiting for Greg to finish setting up, and Mary had been struggle city after a particularly hard night out. It was all he could manage to sit there quietly and hope some god would put him out of his misery.

"You need to get your shit together," Angelique had said out of nowhere.

Mary had cracked a puffy eye and had slowly (as to not bring the nothing in his stomach back up) turned his head to her.

"As if I haven't seen your melted ass on the floor wanting to die."

"Fuck, Mary. You've turned it into an art form."

He'd closed his eyes and given her the finger, but that hadn't stopped her.

"You wanna be a rockstar, boy? You can't just sit on your ass and hope the right person on the right night hears you. You're effervescent and charismatic—heads turn when you walk into a room and not just because of your skinny jeans—but you need more than air, Mary, which is all you are right now."

"Fuck you, Angela."

She'd clapped in front of his face, and she was lucky he didn't Exorcist bile all over her.

"You're a fucking pain in my ass, Goore. I'm doling out the good stuff, try not to bite my hand off, k?"

"All right, all right!"

"You wanna start that band? You wanna get play and amass fans? Well, make that demo you're always droning on about and give it to those DJs you're alway fanboying over. Fucking network, Goore."

At the time, Mary had been too hungover to care, but her advice would sink in…

Eventually.

For the time being, Mary was content. He loved the attention, and it made him feel invincible, made him feel like it was finally His Time. And he was going to make up for every slight, every unfair situation, and every beat down with sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll.

With his newfound nightlife, Mary's day job had become an afterthought. He started sleeping through opening shifts, but with the extra foot traffic Mary brought to the store, his boss seemed resigned to let Mary slide (after a stern talking to and a pay docking).

The shadow cast had started using him as a mascot of sorts, and he was happy to show up on Saturday nights and hype up the waiting line with a pseudo striptease. (Even if it was sometimes to kick off his evening with the Deathbutantes and not hang with the cast after.)

Mary started a band ("auditioning" any and all of the many admirers who said they’d be more than happy to join it), and after a few false starts and a couple of lineup changes, they began working on an EP. (At least, when Mary showed up to rehearsal, they did.)

A Boston Phoenix reporter got wind of the Deathbutantes and called around about doing a story on them. The Bens were excited about the exposure that meant for their zine, and Angelique and Greg were excited about what it could mean for their careers. Mary did a brief interview over the phone where he answered questions about his style and talked about his dream of making his band a household name.

Mary saw his name up in lights, and he was reaching for it, full speed ahead.

But then things turned.

The story fell through at the last minute with no further explanation or contact by the reporter.

His boss finally fired him after Mary showed up too high to function too many times—or not at all.

The shadow cast had a turnover, and suddenly he was old news—a cringey hanger-on.

A trip to the clinic and a round of antibiotics for an STI had him way more wary of who he hooked up with.

"Heroes" lost momentum when imitators popped up and Ben cut off the gravy train.

Angelique moved to NYC for "better opportunities," and the Bens took their brand of counterculture to Portland, OR.

Greg took down the website when he got offered a legit job as an apprentice at a food magazine, and that was that.

The physical zines were cheap things, most ending up papering the sidewalk after trash day or lining the bottom of cages. Without the online presence, did Mary's "modeling career" even exist?

Mary was a little sad to see the era go, but when he woke up in Maine on the hood of some girl's car and only a hazy recollection of how they'd gotten there, he was beginning to see Angelique's point. He needed to get his shit together if he was ever going to become a rockstar. And frankly, he kind of felt like he needed to spend an entire month eating carrots and hydrating.

The 24/7 party had always been an ephemeral thing; it had been sand passing through his hands in a finite amount as he'd tried to hold onto it

He put himself on detox, and waking up sober for the first time in months felt like a revelation. And as it turned out, playing the guitar without badly shaking hands was way, way easier.

He found another job in another music store, and his starter!band was bringing butts into the smaller venues, like Toad.

He still had his old Rocky friends and the Deathbutantes. The club and venue owners still let him in for free, and Dave was always happy to give his demos a spin. By anyone's else's measure, he was steal one of the scene's darlings.

But Mary was beginning to realize that he needed to stop seeing himself as that scared kid who’d arrived in Boston 4 years ago with only a backpack, $72.57 to his name, and void where his family should be.

He needed to stop finding people to please into loving him.

Instead, he needed to live for himself and let them love him for who he was—fuck ups and all.

@slimylayne

Epilogue

"Honestly, that’s probably the reason I even got a band together," he says. "I was still kind of shit at guitar, but people came to see ‘Model Mary’ perform in his underwear."

He shoots me a smirk.

"I’m sure there’re pictures out there of me looking more glam than metal. I kind of played up the whole pinup thing for a while."

"Fuck, I would kill, literally kill to see that."

He pulls me into his lap until I’m straddling him.

"I could open up my underwear drawer and show you right now."

"Goore, you temptress."

I lean down to kiss him, and his hands sneak under my shirt, but I pull away again.

"I kinda thought I knew all your torrid secrets by now. Shit, how come Dave's never needled you about it?"

After 2 years with him, I’m surprised I hadn't even heard a peep from his oldest friend.

Mary snorts.

"Dave would miss shit hanging off his nose. Great dude, amiable as fuck, but he's always had fucking tunnel vision for his music."

I smirk at him.

"Sounds like someone else I know."

Mary pulls a face at me, and I apply kisses to every line until he laughs and bats me away.

"But really, Mare—how come you never told me about your brief career in blue steel?"

He blows out a breath, his hands smoothing up my thighs.

"Fuck. Cuz maybe I was a little embarrassed at how off the rails I was then, ok? Didn't want you to know what I fuck up I was." He takes my hand and kisses my palm. "And even I know it's a shit move to pitch woo at someone by telling them about banging half of Boston."

I make a face at him, and he laughs.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought."

His hands rest on my waist.

"Christ, everything about that year's a bit fuzzy, and it was like 10 years ago. Sometimes it feels like it happened to someone else, honestly. And shit—most of those people aren’t even around anymore. College kids who moved on and 20-somethings that grew up and moved who knows where. I used to watch Amber have—what is it when it’s four people?—and now she lives in bumblefuck Pennsylvania with 3 kids. After she left, I just kinda drifted away from all that."

He shrugs, his eyes downcast.

"I’m sorry, Mare," I say as I smooth his eyebrows.

He shrugs again.

"I mean, we all kinda keep in touch. It's like the only reason I have Facebook."

"When was the last time you even signed into that?"

Mary grins at me.

"Lola's birthday."

"One of the models? What happened with them?"

Mary bites his lip and thinks.

"Mayhem found religion after an OD and kinda ghosted everyone. Lesley followed a girl to New Hampshire. Uh…Lola pursued a PhD for something sciencey involving renewable energy with sugar beets in Idaho, and Bryan moved back to Florida to care for his grandma, who raised him."

Mary leans his head back on the couch and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"I mean, shit. We were fucking babies back then. Head empty except for a good time and unlimited potential."

I run my fingers through his hair.

"You miss it?"

His eyes pop open to look at me.

"Fuck no. Not for a million dollars. Too many question marks." His eyes glint as he runs his hands down me. "I like what I got going on right here."

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and kiss his forehead. The fucking sap.

Mary picks up my phone and scrolls through the pictures again.

"Fuck. I used to be goddamn adorable, though. Half this shit wouldn’t even fit me anymore."

I squish his little potbelly, and he grunts at me indignantly.

"Do you still have any originals?" I ask.

He shakes his head, his eyes wistful and his smile sad.

"Nah. Got destroyed when my roof collapsed and leaked everywhere. Fuck, landlords are useless. Glad we fucking own now, babe."

He scrolls up, scrolls back down.

"Just these four?"

I nod.

"Yeah. They were the only ones I found—and I did a lot of searching."

"Christ, I think there were at least 10."

I smile ruefully at him. "It’s not gonna be long anyway before they make their way into the popular tags and shit starts coming out of the woodwork."

He tosses my phone onto the table.

"Whatever. Just shows that I’ve always been cool."

And then he’s kissing me again, his hand tangling in my hair.

"You know, I’m your family now, Mare. Just for you."

He brings my hand up and kisses it.

"Fuck, I know that. Why’dja think I put a ring on it?"

[of-wrens-and-whirlwinds-blog]

It Just Slipped Out

Commission for the fantastic @turtletotem !!! A ‘The Witcher’ fic because I’ve opened topics to a few of my fandoms. I hope you like it, Aunt Turtle! I’ll link the commission info post when I have it finished! Update: Commission info here!

CW: canon typical depictions of injury and death

~

Jaskier is still in shock.

It’s a good thing he is, though. If he weren’t, his hands would be shaking too much to hold a needle and thread, and he wouldn’t be able to look at those horrendous gashes on Geralt’s stomach. There’s so much blood. No organs poking out, but the blood is still flowing, matting down the material of his shirt, soaking into the earth as it trickles down his side. He’s breathing, barely, and Jaskier is too, breaths shallow through the panic squeezing his chest and throat, but he’s going to crack any minute now.

The last stitch is done. Jask rinses the area, pats it dry, and applies the wool pads wrapped in linen that Geralt carries for big wounds.

Geralt’s fingers twitch. “Jaskier,” he gasps.

Jaskier almost breaks. Instead he uses that sticky stuff the last healer gave them to glue down the edges of pad and grabs the bandages—there’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

Jaskier chokes on a whimper, tears filling his eyes and rolling down his cheeks.

“Jaskier.”

“Stop talking,” he snaps, his voice unsteady and almost lost in a sob. “Just… lay still and don’t talk. It’ll be okay. I’ll… I’ll see if there’s any potions left.”

Geralt’s fingertips finally touch Jaskier’s leg. He automatically reaches down and grabs Geralt’s hand. It’s so cold. No, don’t think about it.

“Left saddlebag,” Geralt mutters, and it sounds like it’s getting harder for him to breathe.

Jaskier lifts Geralt’s hand and kisses it, then puts it down and staggers upright to lurch to the indicated saddlebag. There—there, that potion Geralt drinks after a particularly draining fight. Or was it this other one? They’re both red, but he can’t remember the different shades—

A weak cough behind him. He puts the second bottle back and hurries back, falling to his knees and gently lifting Geralt’s head to help him drink the potion. The effects are immediate but weak; his eyes barely change, and the veins barely pulse dark. Jaskier chokes again—he has to be strong. He has to keep Geralt alive. The healer still isn’t here—not surprising. But he has to hope.

Geralt’s breathing falters.

“No,” Jaskier chokes out, grabbing his hand again, “No, Geralt, don’t, don’t die, you can’t die, I won’t let you, I, I order you to stay alive, alright, don’t die, I love you so much, I need you to stay alive, alright?” He’s babbling at this point, but he’s scared and angry and there’s so much guilt in him he’s going to break apart. “Please, please, I’ll fucking guilt you into staying awake, alright, don’t, don’t die, I need you, I need you so much, I love you—”

Geralt’s eyes close.

“NO!” Jaskier yells, and he can’t even recognize his own voice, cracked and terrified. “Geralt, please!”

“Move it, boy,” someone snaps, and pushes him sideways, making him fall. He doesn’t let go, curling up tight with Geralt’s limp hand still in his, face pressed into his shoulder, finally breaking and crying as his heart crumbles. No… no…

Geralt’s breathing stops. Then suddenly he inhales sharply, a big breath, and Jaskier’s head pops up, watching in stunned awe as he coughs and starts gulping air. Someone is muttering to the side, and there’s a green glow, and someone on Geralt’s other side is holding him down as he twitches and jerks. His hand is warming. His face isn’t so gaunt and translucent. And his eyes are open.

Jaskier cries harder, in relief, and clings tightly. Even when the healer finishes, Jaskier stays curled on the ground, Geralt’s hand in his, laughing hysterically as he cries.

Alive. Alive. For just a little bit longer, Geralt is alive.

~

Jaskier does everything he can to make sure Geralt has the care he needs. Paying the healer more than usual is just par for the course; she brought him back from death, after all. Geralt protests that he doesn’t need to be coddled but Jaskier shushes him sharply and holds his hand tightly as the healer changes his bandages. The site needs to be kept clean; Jaskier helps, and in fact, once Geralt is no longer hazy and slightly delirious, Jaskier is the one who sponge-bathes him, because the healer’s apprentice is only so comfortable with a Witcher. Geralt hates being at anyone’s mercy, but he does what Jaskier tells him to with minimal grumbling.

When Jaskier isn’t “coddling” and hovering at the edges while the healer and her apprentice work, he’s doing odd-jobs around the village. He borrowed one of Geralt’s shirts to save his own clothes, and it apparently attracts more people to see him in a plain shirt with his sleeves rolled up, covered in mud or worse, exhausted but doing anything asked of him as long as he’s paid in some way and can take the payment back to the healer. There’s no inn, tavern, or court here; the festival season is long over. His music has no home.

So he chops wood, and clears fields, and forks hay out of lofts down to the stables, and helps in gardens. And every evening he’s back at the healers, helping with Geralt.

“Too stubborn to die,” Jaskier whispers, fairly often, usually accompanied by a quick squeeze of Geralt’s hand.

Geralt never replies to that. Nor does he say anything about Jaskier wearing his clothes.

It takes two weeks for the healer to proclaim Geralt healed enough to walk. But he must not over-exert himself, and he must not walk too long without rest, and he must not do any strenuous activities—like fighting monsters.

“How the fuck am I supposed to do that?!” Geralt snaps, scowling. “I have to hunt!”

“Fine, just don’t cry when you tear your stitches and break open the wounds and end up dying again,” Jaskier sneers. “I can earn food and shelter, for both of us. You can’t hunt if you don’t heal and that is a fact.”

Geralt glares at him, but finally mutters an acceptance of those terms.

They leave with a little money, and most payment for killing the monster in the form of food or herbs Geralt uses in potions. There’s even a jar of pickled eggs and a little bag of sunflower seeds. Sunflower seeds are Geralt’s favorite snack, and Jaskier is quite proud that he managed to get a farmwife to part with them after clearing her garden of gnomes.

He sees Geralt’s hand dipping into the seeds often that first day out, and has to turn his head to hide his smile.

They rest often. Jaskier knows Geralt by now; when he starts to be in further pain, Jaskier announces that his feet hurt abominably and he shall perish if they take one step further. This gives Geralt an excuse to grumble about delicate bards as well as sit.

They’re three days out, and Jaskier is checking Geralt’s bandages (not yet time to change them) when Geralt asks quietly, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” Jaskier asks as he lets Geralt’s shirt drop and smooths it down automatically.

“When you said… while you were telling me not to die. You said...” Geralt is looking at him with the strangest expression. Anxious, almost.

Jaskier stares at him blankly. He barely remembers what he said. Don’t die… I need you… I love—

Oh.

Jaskier’s face turns beet-red and he looks down at his hands in his lap. “Well, I,” he says, and his voice is weak. “I did. But I understand if you don’t… reciprocate, or are uncomfortable, I know you don’t like it when people get attached, if you’d like me to leave at the next town I will, but—I would like to stay with you.” That last part is quiet and scared, and he doesn’t dare look up.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Geralt replies softly.

Jaskier head snaps up. Geralt looks uncomfortable, but also there’s an honesty, an embarrassment, clear on his face. His eyes are so beautiful in the dark. “I want you to stay,” Geralt says.

And honestly that’s the most loving thing Geralt has ever said to Jaskier, and it makes him breathless.

He scoots closer on his knees and hugs Geralt, burying his face in Geralt’s shoulder. “Then I will stay,” he whispers.

Geralt hugs back, and it feels like everything is going to be alright, as long as they have each other.

[northoftheroad]

Recommeded reading for Dick Grayson / Robin and Nightwing

This is an updated repeat of a couple of lists with reading recommendations with Dick as Robin and Nightwing (Pre-Flashpoint) that I've made earlier. But since I wrote them as answers to asks, the posts don't have a headline, and I find that they can be easy to miss (for me, when I want to look something up...) So I thought I might as well make a new, single post of them.

The stories are in what I imagine would be an in-universe chronology. They are from all periods, ignoring that the Golden age stories and Silver/Bronze/modern age stories have at times been considered two different universes. Most of them are stories that, at the time of their publishing, were canon and in continuity. None is explicitly Elseworld, so you can certainly imagine that they have happened ;-)

To be honest, not all of these comics are examples of great storytelling. Older superhero comics, for instance, are definitely something else compared to modern comics, for better and for worse. I've picked some because they are "the first time" or significant in some way (e.g. the first time Dick was almost killed, when Bruce has to fight to keep custody, an infamous fight between Dick and Bruce, the most well-known different origin stories, panels that are often quoted); others because they have a cute or fun moment. I have also included some books that I don't like myself but are well-known.

Storytelling has changed a lot since Dick was Robin. Back in the Golden and Silver age, with very few exceptions, comics were stand-alone short stories. In later decades, it's usually arcs that span at least a couple of issues and some stories have consequences for years.

Dick has been an active team member since the 1960s, and he has arguably been at his best in some team titles, but I still don't have a lot of team books here. I find it difficult to, off the top of my head, recall any "special Dick issues".

Obviously, these are very personal preferences, and the list is based on what I've read and remembered best.

Robin the Boy Wonder. Detective Comics # 38 (The original origin story. There has been maaany more since then – I've made a list just with origin stories....) (1940).

Batman: Year Three. Batman # 436-439. (An origin story where Dick spent some time at a nice orphanage before he came to Bruce.) (1989)

Robin Annual vol 2 # 4. (Another origin story, where the Gotham authorities remove Dick him from the circus, and he is put in the Gotham City's Youth Center. Not my preferred but it's well known.) (1995)

The Gauntlet. The Batman Chronicles #1. (The test before Batman let Dick start out as Robin.) (1997)

Grimm. Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight #149-153. (A story set when Dick is new as Robin and still uncertain about his place. For a while, he wants to leave Batman and stay in a children's underground paradise.) (2002)

Robin: Year One. (Traumatic events during Dick's first year as Robin. He was nearly beat to death by Two-Face. When Bruce said he was not permitted to continue as Robin, Dick ran away because he didn't think there was a place for him at the Manor any more.) (2001)

The case of the honest crook. Batman #5. (1941)

The Batman plays a lone hand. Batman #13. (The first time Bruce ended the Batman and Robin partnership and left Dick to take care of himself.) (1942)

Robin studies his lessons. Batman #18. (1943)

Bruce Wayne loses the guardianship of Dick Grayson. Batman #20. (1944)

Clay. Batman Black and White #6. (2014)

Don't know where, don't know when. Batman Black and White #1. (2013)

Dick Grayson, author. Batman #35. (1946)

The Clocks of Doom. Star Spangled Comics #70.

The man Batman refused to help! Star Spangled Comics #88.

A birthday for Batman. Star Spangled Comics #91.

Robin, the Boy Failure. DC #145. (Dick gets amnesia, and Bruce tries to get him to remember that he’s Robin, without telling him outright.) (1949).

The killer-dog of Gotham city. Star Spangled Comics #100. (1950)

The trial of Bruce Wayne. Batman #57. (1950)

Race of the century. DC #157. (1950)

Dick Grayson, detective. Star Spangled Comics #111. (1950)

The strange costumes of Batman. DC #165. (Dick’s first time as Batman.) (1950)

The robberies in the Batcave. DC #177. (1951)

Partner for Batman. Batman #65. (1951)

Batman II and Robin, junior. Batman #66. (1951)

The plainclothes Robin. Star Spangled Comics #112. (Batman forbids Dick from going out at as Robin; he finds creative ways to use it in other ways.) (1951)

Operation Escape. Star Spangled Comics #124. (1952)

The new team of Superman and Robin. World's Finest Comics #75. (With Batman out of commission, Robin teams up with Superman. Batman is a bit apprehensive about Dick’s joy.) (1955)

Batman, jr. DC #231. (1956)

The grown-up Boy Wonder. Batman #107. (1957)

The last days of Batman. Batman #125. (1959)

Robin's new boss. Batman #137. (Dick wants to leave Bruce and get into a new partnership. Bruce is very distraught indeed.) (1961)

Robin Dies at Dawn. Batman #156. (Batman gets PTSD after participating in an experiment and he has to hang up the cowl becuase he is endangering Robin. Doctor Simon Hurt, who became a main villain when Grant Morrison wrote Batman, is the nameless doctor in charge of the experiment.) (1963)

The Olsen-Robin team versus the Superman-Batman team. World's Finest Comics #141. (1964)

The thousand-and-one dooms of Mr Twister. The Brave and the Bold #54. (The first team-up of Robin, Kid Flash and Aqualad – the first step towards the formation of the Teen Titans.) (1964)

Teen Titans: Year One. (A retelling of the origin of the Teen Titans. The original version was told in Teen Titans vol 1 #53 from 1978, the last issue of the Silver/Bronze age comic book.) (2008)

Midnight raid of the Robin gang. DC #342. (1965)

The Round-Robin death threats. DC #366-367. (1967)

Batgirl breaks up the dynamic duo. DC #369. (1967)

The Nemesis from Batman's boyhood. DC #370. (1967)

Batman! Drop dead… twice. DC #378-379. (1968)

Geometry. Superman #700. (Dick goes out as Robin on his own, against Bruce's order. Superman has to fish him up out the harbour...) (2010)

Menace of the Motorcycle Marauders. Batman #202. (1968)

Operation blindfold. Batman #204-205. (1968)

Angel… or devil. Batman #216. (1969)

Prisoners of the Immortal world. World’s Finest Comics #200. (Dick had moved to Hudson University by now. Together with Superman and a pair of brothers, he's transported to a different world.) (1971)

Daughter of the Demon. Batman #232. (First appearance of Ra's al Ghul, who kidnaps Robin from Hudson as a test to see if Batman is worthy of Talia.) (1971)

Vengeance for a cop. Batman #234-236. (1971)

Night of the Reaper. Batman #237. (1971)

Earth - the monster maker. Justice League of America #91-92. (A story with characters from both Earth-One and Earth-Two, including the adult Robin from Earth-Two who is a member of the Justice Society of America.) (1971)

How many times can a Robin die? Batman #246. (A criminal sets out to revenge himself on Batman by setting up murders of lifelike Robin dummies; since he has kidnapped the real Robin, Batman can't know if the killings are the real thing.) (1972)

The return of the Flying Grayson. Batman #250. (1973)

Color me deadly. Batman #316. (1979)

The Iron solution. DC #487. (1980)

The Man in Black wears Green. DC #493. (1980)

The Lazarus Affair (plus). Batman #331-335. (Another story with Talia and Ra's al Ghul, but also about generation gaps and slum buildings. Robin is angrily opposed to Bruce being with Talia because he doesn't trust her; he seeks out Catwoman to help.) (1981)

Yesterday's heroes. Batman #339. (1981)

To kill a legend. Detective Comics #500. (The Phantom Stranger transports Batman and Robin to a parallel Earth where they have the chance to stop that world's Joe Chill from murdering the Waynes.) (1981)

Who is Donna Troy? New Teen Titans #38. (Dick helps Donna Troy, Wonder girl, to find out where she came from. A great detective story.) (1984)

The Judas contract (when Dick becomes Nightwing). The New Teen Titans # 39-40, Tales of the Teen Titans #41-44, Annual #3. (1984)

Nightwing Year One. Nightwing vol 2 # 101-106. (I honestly don't care much for this story, but it's good to know that it's one of several retellings of how Dick became Nightwing.) (2005)

A Little Nudge, in the Robin 80th Anniversary Special. (An alternate take on Dick leaving Robin to become Nightwing, where Bruce and Dick don’t split on hostile terms – Dick is just a bit annoyed. It is very unclear in what timeline, if any, this is supposed to fit, but I like it a lot better than the Post-Crisis/Pre-Flashpoint versions.) (2020)

Trivial Pursuits. New Teen Titans vol 2 # 32. (A nice breather, when the Titans try just to relax together. It goes as well as can be expected.) (1987)

Wrath Child. (A story from when Dick was fairly new as Nightwing.) Batman Confidential # 13-16. (2008)

Batman # 416. (First post-Crisis meeting with Jason Todd) (1988)

The Cheshire Contract. Action Comics Weekly # 613-618 (Dick helps Roy find his daughter.) (1988)

The New Titans # 55. (Dick learns about Jason's death when the Titans return to Earth after a long period in space. He goes to Bruce to talk and what follows is the infamous scene when Bruce hits Dick, says he should never have had a partner and tells Dick to leave and leave the keys with Alfred.) (1989)

Batman: Year Three. Batman # 436–439. (Flashbacks with a retelling of Dick's origin, during Bruce's third year as Batman. In the "now", Dick tries to reach out to Bruce and Dick's parents' murderer is about to be set free.) (1989)

A Lonely Place of Dying. Batman # 440-442, New Titans # 60-61. (1990)

The New Titans # 65. (Tim turns up at Dick's place to learn what it is to be Batman's partner.) (1990)

Total Chaos. (In issues of Deathstroke the Terminator, New Titans and Team Titans.) (Mirage, a woman from an alternate future and who has illusion casting powers, takes the form of Starfire and sleeps with Dick, who is shamed by his team members for being unfaithful to Kory, even though this is rape. So, an important fact to know but not something I would recommend to read.) (1992)

Knightfall Prodigal (Dick's first longer stint as Batman. And he takes care of Tim and the Manor on his own!) In Batman #512-514 and three other titles. (1994-1995)

Nightwing Alfred's Return (Kind of fun, when Dick seeks out Alfred, who left Bruce's service because Bruce wasn't taking care of himself, in London.) (1995)

Nightwing vol 1 # 1-4. (I don't love this, but it is a milestone in that it's the first Nightwing solo series, Dick momentarily decides to leave the hero business, and gets his by now classic fingerstripe suit.) (1995)

Like Riding a Bike. (Donna checks up on Dick.) The Batman Chronicles # 7. (1996)

(Nightwing vol 2 began in 1996.)

Nightwing vol 2 # 6. (Tim and Dick talk and fight crooks.) (1997)

Nightwing vol 2 # 12-16. (Batman pays a visit and Dick makes his custom made car.) (1997)

The Flash plus Nightwing. (Dick and Wally on vacation.) (1997)

Then & Now. Teen Titans vol 2 #12-15. (The original four Titan boys find themselves fighting their past selves.) (1997)

Nightwing vol 2 # 25. (Tim and Dick talk and ride on train roofs. Dick has decided to become a cop.) (1998)

Detective Comics # 725 (A heart-to-heart between Bruce and Dick.) (1998)

The Technis Imperative. JLA/Titans #1-3. (1998-1999)

The Titans (1999) # 2. (The start of a new Titans team, Dick tells Superman to give them some room.) (1999)

Nightwing vol 2 # 32–34. (Dick at the Police Academy.) (1999)

Nightwing vol 2 # 35–39. (On a mission from Batman: To take control of Blackgate Prison. Afterwards, he recuperates at Barbara's when her place is attacked.) (1999-2000)

The Titans (1999) #15–16. (The original five Titans try to work out some difficulties.) 2000.

Transference. Batman: Gotham Knights #8-11. (2000)

Nightwing vol 2 # 45-46. (The Hunt for Oracle.) (2000)

Action Comics # 771. (Nightwing and Superman hang out and work together – what's not to like!) 2000

Gods of Gotham. Wonder Woman # 164-167. (2001)

Nightwing vol 2 # 52. (Yet another example of sexual assault when Catwoman kisses Nightwing, in an effort to make Batman jealous.) (2001)

Nightwing vol 2 # 54-58. (Blockbuster, Nightwing's main adversary in Blüdhaven, hires an old enemy of Dick's to deal with the vigilante: Shrike. A character from Robin Year One.) (2001)

Matatoa. Batman: Gotham Knights # 16-17. (Bruce adopts Dick.) (2001)

Who Is Troia? The Titans (1999) # 23-25. (A visit from the Titan's children from the Kingdom Come universe.). (2001)

Retribution. Batman: Gotham Knights # 20-21. (2001)

Nightwing vol 2 # 64. (Nightwing as Santa's elf.) (2001)

Bruce Wayne: Murderer and Bruce Wayne: Fugitive (in several titles). (Dick refuses to believe that Bruce can be a murderer and it causes friction with for instance Tim. Also, a big fight between Dick and Bruce when the latter says he is going to abandon his Bruce identity.) (2002)

Nightwing vol 2 # 75. (Flashback's to Dick's early years with Bruce. Plus the first appearance of Tarantula (Catalina Flores; a controversial figure in Dick's history, she straddled the line between vigilante and villain.)) (2002)

Hush. Batman # 608–619. (# 615 for Dick, but it might be confusing only to read one issue.) (2002-2003)

The Obsidian Age. JLA vol 1 # 68-75. (The Justice League members disappear, Dick leads a new team for a few issues. In # 73, Bruce is quoted: "The only time I ever feel pride is when I look at Nightwing. Sometimes I think he's the only thing I ever did right."). (2002-2003)

Titans/Young Justice: Graduation Day # 1-3 (Donna is killed. Dick is devastated and declares that the Titans are finished.) (2003)

Nightwing vol 2 # 80-83. (Deathstroke is in Blüdhaven to kill someone close to Dick. Bruce asks when he will quit the force, Dick wants to stay as a cop, but when he saves Amy Rohrbach, she recognizes that Dick is Nightwing and fires him.) (2003)

Nightwing vol 2 # 86. (Dick, forced to rest after being injured, solves crimes on America's Most Wanted and drives Barbara up the wall.) (2003)

The Outsiders vol 3 # 1 (Roy talks Dick, who dissolved the Titans after Donna's death, into leading a new team, promising they will not be a family.) (2003)

Nightwing vol 2 # 87-100. (Definitely one of the darkest periods points in Dick's life pre-Flashpoint. Tarantula breaks up him and Barbara. Blockbuster destroys his circus, his home and kills people just for talking to Dick. Tarantula kills Blockbuster and Nightwing is too exhausted to prevent it, and afterwards, he has a panic attack and she rapes him (# 93). Not necessarily something I would recommend to read, but fans discuss it a lot.) (2003-2004)

The Outsiders vol 3 # 11 (Roy is angsting about going back to the hero business after narrowly surviving being shot to death, sparring and heart-to-heart with Dick follows.) (2004)

Under the Hood. Batman # 635-641, 645-650, Annual # 25. (2004-2006)

Supergirl (2005) # 3 (Supergirl has a huuuge crush on Nightwing... ) (2005)

Silent partner. The Outsiders vol 3 # 21-23. (Dick goes ballistic when he realizes Batman has been funding the Outsiders, Roy admits Batman has been feeding him information. Only it wasn't Batman – it was Deathstroke in disguise.) (2005)

DC Special: The Return of Donna Troy  # 1-4. (2005)

Nightwing vol 2 # 107–117. (Dick leaves Nightwing, starts working for the mob and trains Deathstroke's daughter. I think the author has some kind of resolution to the crisis Dick had gone through the last years in mind, but Infinite Crisis got in the way. Blüdhaven is destroyed in a nuclear explosion.) (2005-2006)

Infinite Crisis. (DC had planned to let Dick die, he is central to the story even if he's not very visible.) (2005-2006)

Targets. Nightwing vol 2 # 125-128. (Dick hunts for a day job in New York and gets buried alive, which leads to some retrospection on his behalf. There's also fights with a guy with a weaponized armour.) (2007)

The Brave and the Bold # 15. Nightwing and Hawkman. (Deadman, inside Hawkman, says that Dick Grayson is the one guy that every crimefighter trusts.) (2007)

Outsiders: Five of a Kind – Nightwing/Boomerang. (It ends with Batman telling Dick: "Go back to the good fight, Dick. Leave the bad fight to us.") (2007)

Freefall. Nightwing vol 2 # 140–146. (Dick starts freefalling as a new hobby; Bruce is not pleased. And he gets a new daytime job, as a museum curator. Oh, and there's Talia al Ghul, too.) (2008)

Robin # 175. (Some fun panels with flashbacks with Dick and Tim.) (2008)

Superman/Batman # 55. (Batman has got Superman’s powers while Superman loses his. When Batman starts to get out of control, Nightwing tries to stop him.)  (2009)

The Great Leap. Nightwing vol 2 # 147–151. (Two-Face wants Nightwing to save a life.) (2008-2009)

Titans (2008) # 10. (Dick leaves the Titans because he needs to go back to Gotham and "take care of my other family." (2009)

Nightwing vol 2 # 152-153. (That time when Ra's al Ghul called Dick detective. And Dick packed up and left New York to move back to Gotham.) (2009)

Batman # 682. (Just for the line about how Dick made colour come into their monochrome lives ;-) ) (2009)

Detective Comics # 85, Batman # 684 (Dick mourning Bruce) (2009)

The Secret Six # 9. (Some of the members of the Secret Six feel they should be the new Batman.) (2009)

Battle for the Cowl # 1-3. (2009)

If you don't mind reading comics that are not in the main comic universe, there are also a lot of fun reading in comic books that are tie-ins to Batman The Animated Series, and in Batman '66 which builds on the tv show from 1966. There is also Dark Victory from 1999–2000 – and tiny Dick is adorable in Batman/Scarecrow: Year One from 2005. Dick has about two panels in Darwyn Cooke’s DC: The New Frontier from 2004, but I think it’s kind of worth reading just for those. 

[fuzzyporcupine]

lead me with your hands tied | chapter one

chapters:

1 - 

summary:

In the midst of a crumbling kingdom at war, Levi Ackerman is commissioned by King Jaeger to paint a portrait of his overzealous son.

--

"You don't think I'm worthy enough to be the king?"

"No, I think you're a spoiled brat who would rather play with pomp and circumstance than save his own people from starvation," Levi spat.He was beautiful.

And Levi hated him. 

Hated the entire royal family, in fact. It was no subject of contention that the long-standing war with the neighboring kingdom of Marley had caused many of the subjects to feel the same sentiment. Too many had been lost in a pointless war that seemed to be nothing more than a glorified pissing match between two old men. 

The results of the near decade long conflict were evident in the starving bodies perched pathetically against the crumbling stone walls of the houses that once provided comfort and warmth. For many, the only things the homes represented anymore was a stark reminder of what had been unwillingly stripped from them. 

The carriage rattled along the stretch of the dirt road, plumes of dust traveling off the large wheels and into the air behind them. Sighing, Levi leaned back into the plush seat. It would serve him well to remember why he had been called upon to travel such a distance to confer with the King of Shinganshina, and it certainly wasn’t to help rehabilitate a long-forgotten populace. 

The journey from Mitras had been exceptionally uneventful. The poor bastard of a coachman who had the unfortunate task of escorting Levi to the castle had attempted some small talk at the beginning of their voyage. However, it became quickly apparent that Levi was much more content with listening to the wind whistle past his ears than the ramblings of an underpaid deliveryman. 

Three days later, they had arrived in Shinganshina, greeted by the cries of hungry babes and the moans of dying men. 

He had not traveled to Shinganshina since he was a young teen accompanying his uncle on one of the man’s dubious business trips. Levi remembers the life and energy that used to ebb from the streets. Vendors smiled as they echoed their prices into the air. Children laughed and dashed throughout the streets in a game of tag. Existence was peaceful, not this dismal skeleton of a life once lived. 

Levi wondered silently how the people would react to the news of his arrival. Knowing that the king was spending precious coin to commission an artist rather than keep his villages fed. He doubted they would be very surprised. 

The commission had arrived in the form of a letter, ominous and bearing the king’s crest. At first, Levi had been sure it was an order of arrest - positive that some of Kenny’s misdealings had fallen to his unlucky nephew. Half expected a unit of royal soldiers to be shortly following. However, instead, the letter contained a request. Odd for the King of Shinganshina, who usually seemed to only demand, demand, demand. 

The details in the letter were cryptic. All he knew was that His Majesty had requested his presence in order to commission his skills. Remembered the taste of bile in his throat at the mere thought of appearing in front of the king. He wasn’t afraid. No, more so disgusted. The royal family was nothing more than a herd of filthy pigs bathing in riches instead of mud. 

Hopefully, though, those riches were going to save him from the poor house. Contrary to what the fine silk waistcoat and dark wool breeches might lead one to believe, Levi had lost the last of his funds long ago. No one wanted to commission a painting in the middle of a goddamn war. No one but His Majesty, it seemed. 

Regardless, who was he to deny a king?

A dead man, Levi thought.

“We’re approaching the gate, sir.” The coachman declared, voice muffled by the sound of hooves against the dirt. Icy eyes scanned ahead, spotting the extended drawbridge. The castle walls were intimidating. Despite the decaying state of the village, the fortress seemed no worse for wear. Grey stone walls stretched up into parapets, shielding the Shinganshina archers standing to attention as Levi approached the portcullis. 

“The defenses are quite impressive,” Levi stated absentmindedly as he glanced upwards at the battlements. 

“Ha! Thinking of storming the castle, are you?” 

“I’m afraid that I am hardly equipped to lay siege on Shinganshina,” Levi relayed, eyes drifting over to his bag of materials. The coachman’s shoulders shook in amusement as the carriage drifted beneath the large iron gate.  

Metal clanged and rattled the air as Levi observed multiple soldiers training off near the barracks. They seemed skilled enough for a group of soldiers who couldn’t seem to finish a bloody war. Levi’s fists clenched. 

“His Majesty will be expecting you this evening, sir.” 

Levi grunted, shifting to rest his chin on a still tightened fist as he observed the passing scenery. The courtyard was bustling, a sharp contrast to the village resting beyond the gate. Faces were brighter and spirits seemed joyful as Levi watched the numerous soldiers and servants converse. Maybe there was an end in sight, after all. 

They came to a slow stop in front of the keep. Like the rest of the castle, it was imposing. The Jaeger family crest hung proudly against the sides of the stone walls. Levi couldn’t help but sneer. 

He gathered his belongings, a simple brown bag that did the job of carrying his supplies. The coachman jostled the carriage as the hefty man jumped down from his post. As the carriage door was opened, Levi muttered his thanks, stepping out onto the cobblestone.

“You must be Mr. Ackerman.” He turned to find a woman waiting for him on the steps of the keep. She was a servant, that was clear enough from her attire. Strawberry hair was pushed behind her ears to reveal a petite, cherub face painted with a faint smile and large dark eyes. “I’m Petra Ral. His Majesty sent me to fetch you once he heard word that you had arrived.” 

Levi hummed, flexing his fingers around the handle of his bag. “A pleasure.” 

“I’ll escort you to your room to bathe. I’m sure you’re eager to rinse away the long journey.” More than she probably knew. The thought of sinking into warm water was enough to have his toes curling. 

“That would be most appreciated.” She nodded, turning on her heel to venture back up the stairs into the keep. His ankle ached as he trekked behind her, the result of an old childhood injury that never saw proper medical care. The sting was not usually this noticeable, but the joint was rebuking being sedentary for so long on the trip from Mitras. And when he finally reached the top, Petra seemed none the wiser to his lameness. 

The large and robust castle doors had been thrown open in anticipation of his arrival. Designed to resist even the strongest of armies. He paused, breath caught in the back of his throat as he contemplated the consequences of turning back. Of bribing the coachman with promises of future payment in return for a speedy voyage back to Mitras. Thinking of the worst thing that could happen should he void his duty to meet the king in the flesh.

Your head on a spike, that’s what. 

Swallowing hard, Levi continued forward, grip just a little bit tighter on his bag.

“Everything alright, sir?” 

Levi cleared his throat, “Wonderful.” Petra gave him a smile in return, but this one didn’t quite reach her eyes. Made him believe that maybe she had already seen through his facade.

The castle doors had opened into a large foyer, walls decorated in rich velvets and detailed paintings. At the center of it all was a grand staircase, cascading upwards into the higher regions of the keep. Levi tried not to appear too mystified. 

However, Petra did not give him time to gawk, moving forward toward a narrow hallway. He increased his pace, reasoning that this castle was the last place he would like to find himself lost. The destination was not too much further, only around one more bent hallway and three doors to the right.

Two servant girls giggled over the bath as he entered the room, steam emitting from the water below. 

“Ladies, I see your work is done.” The two girls immediately stiffened, faces blanched in shock. “Off with you then.” Petra waved her hand, the staff quickly shuffling out of the room and closing the door behind them. “Will you need any assistance bathing, sir?”

Levi almost swallowed his tongue, tips of his ears warming in embarrassment. “Absolutely not.” 

Petra muffled a chuckle behind her hand. “As you wish, sir.” He adverted his eyes from her seemingly all-knowing gaze. He had hardly spoken a few words to the woman, and he already felt like she knew too much. “I shall take my leave. I will return once you are finished bathing, sir.” Levi nodded, placing his bag next to a large brown coffer. 

The door opened with a quiet creak and closed with the same tune. A rush of air left his lungs as soon as he felt sure he was alone. 

“Shit,” he whispered, pulling his cravat free from his throat. Placing the fabric neatly over the furniture, he began to undress. Peeling away layers of clothes that symbolized something he never was. Probably never would be. 

Levi cringed. 

If he were a superstitious fool, he would believe this was all fate setting up some great challenge. Sending him into the lion’s den, as it were, to face the ones so despised and loathed. He was nothing more than an artist, though. An artist here to collect a sum of coin and return back to Mitras a richer man. 

As he sunk into the bathwater, he continued to remind himself even as images of the near dying flashed across his mind. An artist - nothing more nothing less. 

An artist who wanted to kill the king.

[h0ly-fire]

Hey , tumblr is really acting up today so once again I'm posting chapter 3 because it's just not showing up for me. Anyways enjoy💖

Tw: slight child abuse, mentions of murder,anxiety

Pairings : Axel x reader Otto x reader Oscar x reader

Runaway

Chapter 3:

Pleading and bad Memories

Holding Stinky, you wobbled over to the entrance of the T.V. store, the door alerting that you came in. Setting the cat down, ignoring the looks people gave you, you looked around for someone who would know about who’s upstairs. Walking around, touching the buttons of different televisions, you caught the attention of an employee.

Now, usually, Elliot would simply ask you to leave, but since he knew you caught him taking a picture of you, he assumed you came in here to question about it. Clearing his throat and with a deep breath, cutting his conversation with a customer short, he walked over to you. He was slightly scared coming up to you since he did see you quite literally fall out of the sky in what seemed to be a bright light. He was sure that you were from another world, an Alien to put it simply. He wasn’t far off in that you were from somewhere “different” though. Although, you yourself wouldn’t exactly say “alien”, more like a time traveller? Anyways, coming up to you, he tapped you on the shoulder.

Turning around you come face to face with a kind-looking man, his uniform neatly pressed. You assumed he was the owner, just the person you were looking for.

“Yes?” You said with the best fake smile you could muster.

“Umm, may I ask what it is you’re doing here?” His voice had a slight tremble, which didn’t go unnoticed by you.

“Why, yes indeed”, with an even wider smile you leaned slightly forward trying to intimidate the man. “You see, I was in the alleyway beside this establishment when I happened to notice someone taking a picture of me from the window upstairs.”

Leaning back from the man’s face, your smile turned into a frown. “So, I’d like to know who exactly that was and why. I won’t be leaving until I get my answer.” You crossed your arms.

“W..well you see that person was..”, he made an awkward laugh, scratching his left arm slightly out of anxiety. He was scared to tell you. You seemed quite intimidating.

“That person was who?” You were getting sort of annoyed at this point. This man was stalling.

“Well… it was me”, he gave another awkward laugh, quickly looking at you and back at the floor.

“You? You don’t look like you work for The Commission, nor do you act like it”, poking his chest you continued to ask him questions. “Who exactly are you and why were you taking my photos?!” You had raised your voice at this point. It didn’t matter if people heard as they wouldn’t understand anyway. All that mattered is that you got your answer.

“Well”, at this point Elliot was sure that he was trembling, his knees wobbling slightly. Elliot was never one for confrontation. “Well, you see, I saw you when you fell from that portal thing and I-”, he was cut off by you stepping even closer to him.

“You saw that!”

“Well, ye-”

“Was I awesome looking?!”

“What?”

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter, of course I was awesome looking”, your face had relaxed at this point.

Elliot, thinking you looked friendly when you didn’t have a crazed look in your eyes, continued on. “Umm, if you want we can go upstairs and I can explain.” He still felt his anxiety rising, you were to close for comfort. It didn’t help that a few moments later he heard guns go off.

With a panicked look, you turned to the location where the guns went off. Crap, they were here. That was fast, you thought to yourself. Pushing the man down to the ground, you told him to stay there. He doesn’t deserve to get caught in the crossfire.

Looking back up you saw them. Axel, Otto, and Oscar. You had learned their names when none of the other agents bothered to. It was the least you could do to show some respect to your used to be co-workers. You’d like to think you could have made friends if it wasn’t for the fact that you were a traitor and they were here to kill you.

“Umm, well hello again, guys”, with a light laugh you slowly back up. This all felt too familiar to you and not in a good way.

They step towards you, holding their guns up. They weren’t going to let you escape this time. You were keeping them from going home to eat dinner, after all. Holding both hands up, to show you had no weapon, you decided that maybe you could explain to them why you did what you did.

“Now I know the Handler sent you after me because I made an error, but you gotta believe me it was for a good cause!”

They continued forward. They weren’t sure why they just didn’t shoot you already, they guessed it was because they wanted to hear your pathetic excuse. When they seemed to be listening, you continued. It seemed the only thing that might work is to tell the truth.

“You see, I saved a little boy from dying from a very, very bad person. His Mother! My Mother!” You were slightly crying now. You never told anyone about your family life, but in this case, you had to. “You see, the Handler she wanted to make sure I-”, with a gulp you continued on, it was hard to say it. “She wanted to make sure I had no loose ends from my old life. She wanted me to make sure my brother was dead.”

The brothers were shocked to hear this, though none of their faces showed it. Even so, this was their job, they had to finish it. They walked closer to you, backing you up into a wall. You had noticed their fingers on the trigger. With one last attempt, you pulled out a picture you had of you and your little brother.

“Wait! Wait.. see this?” You held the picture up to their faces. “You see, this is my little brother! He’s only ten! He needs me! Our mom doesn’t care about him! I only stole the briefcase and ran away so I could see him again. So please, please you have to understand. You’re all brothers, aren’t you?“

With a pleading look, you continued on. "You have to understand. Everything I’m doing, I’m doing for him. What if she asked one of you to kill each other, hmm?” You were looking at the ground now, not wanting them to see you cry, you didn’t want to appear weak in what seemed like your final moment alive.

Axel had put his gun down slightly. At war with himself as to what to do. His brothers gave him a questioning look, waiting for him to do something. He did understand, he’d probably do anything if it was him in this situation, just to see one of his brothers again. He understood what he had to do. Even if he might regret it.

Lowering his weapon, his brothers hesitating but doing the same, he looked at you. You were dirty and you stank. You looked like you went through hell. He decided that they would help you get home safely to your brother even if it meant they too would be in danger.

“Otto.” The tallest of the brothers looked at him.

“Yes?” Axel tilted his head towards your cowering figure.

“Knock them out”.

You had fallen, about to hit the floor, but thankfully Otto had caught you. Oscar picked up Stinky who happened to be underneath you the whole time. Walking out the store, the three of them walked back to the truck. Otto and Oscar were confused as to why the job wasn’t finished yet but decided not to question their brother. Setting you in the back gently, Otto went back to sit on the passenger side. Oscar was sitting in the back watching you, while Stinky decided he would lay on your chest. They drove off with the sound of sirens in the background.

Elliott looked around after the three blonde men had walked out with your unconscious body. His store was a mess, but he was thankful you had saved his life. He just hoped his insurance covers the damage.

[xxrat--punkxx]

JUMPING ON THIS BAND WAGGON

Ok here’s my 2020, tw//mentions of suicide and abuse

(Strong start lmao) 2020 sucked ass lemmi tell ya. This year was a fucking train wreck from the start, ur hay I got character development so who cares. Well let’s start with a review, bad things first.

Yall remember when everyone was scared shields of COVID?. Lol. But that’s stating the obvious. When we went into lockdown I was first like fuck yeah summer lol, but then the threat of ‘staying home for the rest of the year’ set in, bing in my first year of sixth form I really understand the stakes of exams next year. So having to stay home for the rest of the year freaked me the fuck out. I literally couldent cope, having to do all classes online was fucking hell, they were never zoom classes either, just ‘lmao do the work and hand it in’ which was near impossible for me. I was also in the constant ‘oh no I’m so stressed but I will do NOTHING about this lmao~’. As the days turned to weeks and inevitably MONTHS, my mental health said buckle up bitches. Days were spent sitting in my room on my phone doing NOTHING, meanwhile this perpetual notion of stress played in my head yet there I sat not having the will or motion to move.

Then my parents got involved. Now THATS when shit went from pretty crummy to awful, now I was living with them constantly I was able to see who they really were with no real filter. And oh god do I have issues, I didn’t even fucking know. Every day was an argument, my mom was the worst, the MANIPULATION, the constant ‘you're tearing this family apart’ or ‘so I’m the problem?’ Or the fucking indecent playing the victim. And I all only just realised, that they have been doing this ALL MY LIFE. Dad got involved but he was just physically violent, only twice tho. The worst part was my work, admittedly yes, I didn’t do everything I was given, but I tried, I really did with what little motivation I had. But with just one ‘oh your daughter hasn’t handed in this work’ I was a ‘lazy, good for nothing failure’ to quote ‘who will never go anywhere in life’ so I’d spend the rest of the day crying while they play the victim bury saupying I was abusing their love and just using them for money. But the next day be like ‘oh I’m so proud of you you're doing so well’ having that statement being completely unrelated to the previous events. This was constant. So that’s that story. I won’t talk much about Black Lives Matter because we all know about how that went. But it really affected me, I found myself crying over the victims multiple times. And the lack of support for the movement my peers or family showed made it fucking worse. Crying was a common occurrence for me now, mental health really taking a nosedive, being too scared to call myself ‘depressed’ or ‘mentally ill’ to any extent because I know I’m faking it and just want validation. That was also constant. Fun times huh.

BUT IT GETS WORSE 🥲, then I had to go back to school, awful to fucking abhorrent now. Year two of sixth form fun right? Sure, if u take away the ‘no free time period’ or the wanting to kill mystery for literally a whole 3 weeks. That was my lowest peak. Ever. I’ve never wanted to kill myself before then, don’t like that feeling. Shocker huh. That mixed with the constant anxiety of nothing is right anymore and also needing to succeed at school all made one healthy dose of ‘.exe has stopped working’ juice. Yet I played the fool, acting happy as if nothing had happened, or was happening at least, and venting by imagining scenes in my head with fictional characters lmao. Telling myself ’u can’t kill yourself because u don’t deserve too and ur just asking for attraction’. Then midterms happened blah blah blah, stress but I’m numb to it now that whole story.

But that’s not to say there wasn’t a silver lining.

Onto the good things finally, yes the year was probably one of the worst years I’ve been through in my life it did not go without its positives. For example early this year I got into borderlands properly, I finally explored the fandom and had a look at what it was like. Albeit a slow process considering I was still predominantly on Instagram at the time, and finding a community of a fandom on there is impossible. I started browsing Pinterest or the Internet for images that would link to my favourite characters, Who were to no ones surprise is the calypso twins. Pinterest led me to artworks and artworks led me to the infamous Lazulizard. Who I cherish all my being. Three weeks later after looking at her entire tumblr blog and stalking her of pretty much all her content (sorry for that by the way) I found border-spam. By this point I didn’t have tumblr and I had no intention of getting it seeing as an ongoing war I’ve had with myself since 2012, declaring I will be the bigger man and never get tumblr, which in hindsight was an awful mindset. Seeing as tumblr is probably one of my favourite places on Earth right now. But after also stalking border spams account, again sorry, and starving her of any content she’d ever posted. I was happy that this fandom although as niche as it is was actually getting content. At the time spam and lazu were absolute gods to me. Being the sole producer of a fandom I probably wasn’t even in properly, having both impeccable writing and impeccable art like good God. I would often think ‘wow wouldn’t it be incredible if I actually got to talk to them one day’, now look at me I’m doing commissions for both of them good God. And to be short joining tumblr felt like a fever dream and it’s probably the greatest thing I could’ve done this year, my parents are wrong, talking to strangers is amazing.

Something notable of mention this year as I actually got to figure out who I am as a person, I was able to find my own style and to find my interests, specifically in what I liked in terms of clothing. I thought I was LOL 2012 goth hipster but no apparently I’m manic Pixie dream girl. Going from pink is the ugliest colour in the world to having it be the only colour I will ever wear. I made some pretty big choices this year like cutting pretty much all of my hair off and dying it for the first time. Thanks strict parents for only letting me do that one now. But like I said I went to a character Ark and you know what I like it. I also played BioShock fallout and horizon zero dawn for the first time this year starting to really feel like a proper epic gamer, good lord kill me, and falling in love with all of them almost immediately. I also figured out on a plant mum and I’m into vulture culture although my parents have to disagree with that one. Asking to buy an Horse and fox skull somehow scared them a little bit can’t seem to figure out why lmao.

So a conclusion, Fuck you 2020 you made me miss two comic cons and I will never forgive you for that shit I am SO mad. But I will give you the benefit of the doubt you did make me meet some absolutely incredible people who I consider my friends, despite going against every single Internet safety law I was ever taught as a child. But you know what who gives a flying shit I love you guys. So that’s what I wanted to say. I want to say thank you to everyone on here and everyone is following me or even interacted me with on that matter. You mean the world to me and I really fucking mean it. Are you going to be nothing but amazing ever since I walked onto this fucking hell hole. And what I go through all of this bullshit again if it means I ended up here? You know what I think I just might. So again I thank you and I hope your year didn’t go as badly as mine, and fuck it bring on whatever the fucks next!

Honourable mention of this year was The time Elisa actually complimented me and I cried a little bit and had a panic attack but you know that’s for another day

🥺💕

[geminimoonbeamx]

Moon lit Serenades

A/N: Dedicated to the reader, may you find happiness. I am so nervous for TROS, I saw a rumor that Poe dies and lost it. That plus the fact that there is literally no Plus Sized ReaderxPoe community? I had to remedy that. This is porn.

Warnings: This is porn. Serious smut from pretty much start to finish. Please enjoy.

Summary: Poe seeks comfort after a particularly hard mission in the only way he knows how. A Poe x Plus Sized Reader story

I am a moth, who just wants to share your light.

I’m just an insect, trying to get out of the night.

I only stick with you, because there are no other’s.

You we’re all I need.

I’m in the middle of your picture.

Lying in the reeds- Radiohead 

War had finally caught up with Poe Dameron.

Had finally taken it’s toll, and far more then it’s chunk of flesh. Battle wary and blaster shocked, it was hard to think of the resistance these days as just that- a resistance. No, this was more of a bloodbath.

War.

He’d never thought of it like that before, always held his head high, a defiant flame in his eyes. This was fuck the system- fuck the First Order. Fuck anyone who tried to tell him what to do. He was willed, motivated by the sheer rage that anyone would have to live their life in oppression. Under the thumb of Snoke or Phasma, dead and gone now- Hux and Ren hopefully to follow sooner rather than later.

And that fire to see them fall was still there...but it was dimmed.

Had been stomped on, choked out.

Watching people you love die for you, because of you on a daily basis...it wasnt something he’d wish upon anyone. Friends, family. Allies, brothers and sisters in arms. His fleet which had once flourished with dozens of pilot’s was down to a mere handful of lucky ones.

He was willing to breathe and bleed for the cause. It was in his blood- the sticky substance that matted his dark hair to his head as he climbed out of his X-wing. His parents had been the same.

Was he willing to keep watching others die for it though?

He couldn't stop form pondering the question as he and his unit arrive back to the makeshift base, in the middle of nowhere on a planet in the outer rim- the name of it he could barely pronounce. The shabby hut like quarters made the memory of D’quar and its green covered everything throb longingly in his gut.

That seemed so long ago, now.

No matter. No time for getting attached. They’d be on the move again within a fortnight, never staying any one place longer than a month at a time. Rey usually kept them one step ahead, connected to Ren through the force in a way that made Poe’s stomach churn, but that came in handy with them not getting caught.

Thinking about Kylo Ren always made him sour from the inside out. Muscles clenched in memory of the torture he’d endured at the hands of what used to be Leia’s son, but was now just a shell with his dead fathers nose and the mark of his dead uncles betrayal on his black soul.  

Poe would kill him in an instant if he got the chance. He prays to fuck that one day he does.

Clenching his fingers into fists is painful right now- the small mission had gone awry and they’d had to punch their way out of it. Literally. He’s feeling the aftermath of it all over, aching and sore.

He doesn't have it in him to attend the debrief. Can't muster the will, not right now. Maybe after a hot shower, maybe after he gets some food in his stomach and allot’s himself a moment to wallow. He forces himself to stand straight, spine elongated in a way that has his bones and muscle screaming.

Poe tries not to limp, as he scurries away to lick his wounds. He fails.

“Poe, you need to see a medic!” Finn insists, somewhere behind him. Always worried, always caring. Poe has nightmares about the night that he eventually loses him, too.

“Don't worry, I will” Finn wonders how someone who looks like they’re going to keel over at any moment- can manage to sound so cheeky.

Rey, who stands beside Finn, bruised bleeding herself wonders if he realizes that Poe is on the verge of tears. The pilot rippling and vibrating so hard she could feel it, taste it on the air.

Neither of them say anything though. The just watch him disappear into the stormy, starless night.

----

Sleep isn't something that comes easy to you as of late.

Not only did you spend your days(and most hours of your nights, too) in the Med Bay, you had never been the kind of person that could handle big changes, sharp adjustments. This hop forts every couple of weeks trend was killing you.

Your mind couldn't relax, R.E.M. State was always just out of reach.

Especially when he was gone...which also seems to be a trend these days. The missions just kept getting longer and longer- the time that he was on base shorter and farther between.

But it was raining tonight- the soft rhythmic  pitter patter of it on the roof of the hut reminding you of your home planet, you could almost pretend you were there; the smell of petrichor tricking your brain. Making it easier to curl up on the bed that was really more of a cot and cozy into the Resistance standard blanket.

For the first time in two weeks- you sleep. Hard. Like a rock. The exhaustion finally overtaking your body, and putting you out of commission. General Organa was right to send you back to your bunk, physically removing you from your post.

You feel kind of, extremely, guilty for the attitude you’d thrown at her -

“I’m fine, if I don't do my job, who’s going to?”-

aimed her way even though she didn't deserve it. She was right, of course. She tended to be most of the time. Why anyone ever doubted her, why you ever doubted her, you didn't know.

The sleep is dreamless, just the way you prefer it...you hadn't always, but nothing was better then the nightmares. Nothing is far from peace, but close to quiet. A middle ground that could be called purgatory, depending how you looked at it.

So when there's a knock at your door, the wooden one that gave you more privacy then you’d had in months, that wakes you from your much needed slumber, you can't help but feel the irritation surge through you. Your hypothetical feathers bristled as you huff and puff and pull yourself out of bed, yanking a pair of breezy sleep pants up your chubby legs and a robe over your shoulders- not wanting to answer whoever it was in the near nude.

When you pull open the door- well, it was the one person who wouldn't have minded if you had greeted him in your panties.

“Poe?” You question, because your eyes still haven't adjusted, your mind still three fourths asleep and one fourth confused.

“Yeah, it’s me, sweetheart” And oh? Sweetheart? In that gravelly voice, tired and worn and fragile...you're instantly aware of what kind of state he’s in.

When you pull him inside, flipping on the light orb, and are able to see him. Clearly now; all bloody and bruised, you inhale sharply. His eye is blackened on the same side of his face that seems to be saturated in crusted crimson.

“Stars, Poe” You whisper as you crowd him, urging him to sit on the cot that’s still warm from your body heat. Poe frowns, pretty lips pulled down as he takes it, and you in. Your hair rumpled, your robe falling off your shoulder as you gather medical supplies from what seems like all over your small “room”

The first thing you do is take out a small capsule full of neon blue liquid from a jar and hand it to him. He takes it gratefully, tossing it down the hatch before you can even offer him water. Painkillers aren't the easiest to come by since they’ve been on the move.

“I woke you up, didn't I?” He inquires, after he swallows.

“Obviously” You answer as you step back into his orbit, close enough that he can smell your skin. That his eyes can trace each of the freckles that dot across your nose, your cheeks. You put your finger under his chin and tilt his head up, and fuck, isn't that a pretty view?

“I’m sorry” He whispers, hissing between his teeth as you, gently but deftly, begin to clean his head.

“Mmm, it’s fine. I’m awake now,  Kriff Poe, you look like warmed over shit. This gash in your hairline is going to need stitches” You’re focused, wiping and dabbing as you speak.

He didn't realize, until that moment, just how much he missed your voice.

“Your bedside manner is spectacular as ever” He grins as he says it, even though it hurts to do so. His busted lip is next on your itinerary.

“Well when you show up at my bedside and not the other way around, I’m pretty sure that changes up the rules”

“Didn't you miss me...at your bedside, that is?” He pushes on, he wants you soft and sweet for him but he knows from experience it takes a bit to get there. Especially since he’s been gone so long.

“Stop distracting me” You mutter. You're only half pretending to be completely focused on the task at hand, at this point you could probably stitch a wound with your eyes closed.

“M’sorry” He’s not. It’s selfish, but he really isn't. He’s not sorry for barging in on you and waking you up, or for sitting in your bed reeking of blood and days worth of dirt. How can he be, when this feels so good? Your soft little hands working at him, healing with every touch. There’s no hurt when he’s around you- only good.

The painkiller makes the edges fuzzy, makes the fact that your repeatedly pulling a needle through his skin seem mild. It’s not like it’s his first time getting sewn up, and he highly doubts it’ll be his last.

Poe can't stop staring at you, dark eyes hooded. Hungry in a way that he doesn't care to hide. Drinking you in, gulping. It’d been almost a month and he was dying to get his fill. Your round body, nothing but curves and dips that he was itching to touch, is mostly covered, but the robe is still hanging off your shoulder. Satin skin exposed, so pretty and pristine.

It’s almost out of his control when his hand skims up our arm, skin seeking out skin. His palm sears as it settles on your upper arm. The plush flesh so soft under his calloused hands that he’s almost worried that it would give if e pressed down too hard.

In the back of his mind he knows better, though. Recalls just how much you can take.

“Poe” You warn tightly, lashes fluttering as you shoot him a look. One that makes him chuckle, because you're not fooling him.

He’ll play, mostly because he wants to, but he knows you missed him as much as he missed you.

You wonder if he can feel the way that you're trembling, already shaking for him. It’s stupid, you feel stupid, and yet you cant stop it. You have healers hands, medic’s hands- and at least you can get them to stay still as you finish with his head, then his lip.

Going insane from the simplest touch, from the way that he rubs his thumb in circles over and over on your upper arm. You remember when that would have made you uncomfortable, big arms that you wanted covered at all times used to be a big no-no.

But with Poe it was different. He wasn't there to judge. He just wanted to feel.

You don't want to pull away, but you have to. Your brain is torn, but ultimately resorts back to it’s resting state: health driven. Medically inclined.

“You need to go take a shower, wash the rest of the blood out of your hair. The hot water will help to start to bring down the swelling” you instruct, and it would be how you talked to any patient. Except for the way you cradle the side of his face, your voice breathy as you touch is thick locks that are greasy. A bit tangled.

Poe nods, he knows your right. Knows he should have done that before he even came here…

“Can I come back?” It’s hopeful, he spits it quick- desperate.

It feels like someone yanked, hard, on a loose thread inside your chest.

“Always. You know that”

--

While he showers, forced to go a few huts over to the community bathrooms, you’re a flurry of anxious thoughts and movement. Tidying up the small space and yourself the best you can. You’d showered earlier in the evening, using the last of the last of the Obsidian Lily oil that you’d carried with you. You still smelled good, pretty.

Your hair was wild, but not untamable and you end up brushing it smooth. You hadn't shaved since before he had left and curse yourself for not doing so earlier. How were you supposed to know that he was coming back tonight? Growing up on your home planet, there was a moss based soap that everyone used that minimized body hair. But still…

You wished, like you had more than once, that you could be better for him.

You're trying to swallow that horrid ugly little thought back down when your door opens, Poe not bothering to knock this time. Barges in, and he seems a bit more like himself in that moment.

His hair has gone back to his natural curls, thick and bouncing, dripping and the navy, loose materialed sleep clothes hang on him. Dont cling to him with dirt and sweat...all and all, he looks so much better.

Or so you think. Until you see him in the right light, his top falling open and revealing his chest.

“Poe!” You exclaim and his thick brows furrow, he had been drying his hair with one of your spare towels.

“What?”

“Take off your shirt” You demand and one side of his lips pull up- a smirk that doesn't meet his eyes.

“You know if you ask me nicely, sweetheart, I’ll give you whatever you want” It’s a purr, a ploy. Many a person- male, female and Wookiee had fallen for that charm of his. Your own name thrown in that pot.

But he was hurt, had to be in pain, and that thought cut through the others that that coy tone had stirred up.

“I’m serious, that bruising looks deep- why didn't you show me this earlier? You could have internal bleeding! Something could be broken”

Poe would never let it be known, would deny it to the ends of the galaxy...but he loves the way you fret over him. It makes him feel warm.

“Okay- Okay!” He sighs as you start to reach for him demandingly, knowing that you'd pull it off yourself if he didn't. There's a handful of winces as he tugs the fabric up and over his shoulders. You’re silent the whole time, and then for a long moment after.

“Oh...baby”

It’s the first time you've called him that tonight. In weeks. The first time an affectionate name has slipped from your mouth.

You can't help it, can't help the overwhelming feeling of...horror. Of shock and worry. His tanned chest and abdomen are hard, dusted with ebony hair that matches that of which grows from his scalp...and covered in bruises.

Four huge patches of yellow, and black and purple and blue...he looks like a fucking water color painting. You’d seen him in some pretty bad states over the years, and this was up there with some of the worst. The worst? Well you didn't like to think about that particular bloody day.

You reach out, fingertips tracing the purple bloom on his left ribs.

“It’s not so bad” And that’s Poe in a nutshell. Always trying to convince not only the people around him, but himself, that things were going to be okay.

“That one’s a deep tissue bruise” You point out to him, fingers gently probing, trying to detect if anything is broken “It has to hurt like a bitch, it’s going to get worse before it feels better”

“Not so bad” He loves the way you're touching him, and his hand, that big paw, goes to our waist. Holding you. Urging you to keep going “Those painkillers are something else”

You snort through your nose. He’s something else- you tell him of that fact, often.

Poe can only be so patient, can only allow you to touch him, feather light, for so long. Eventually, his impulses win out. Just like the always do.

You’re almost done, checking his bones, when he grabs your hand, envelopes it in his large one. It’s still for a moment- the air sparkling with energy. His eyes are mahogany, dark wood. Deep forests as they stare down at you.

The want in them is raw, unbridled.

“I missed you, so fucking much. Every day. Have I told you that yet?” His words, mixed with the timbre- vehement. Honest. It makes you want to squirm.

“No- you haven't” You wish your voice at that moment wasn't so anxious, weak and almost a whisper. Something about Poe had always brought this out in you. He was so bright, beaming. Everyone around him flocked to him, in hopes of just being able to taste a fraction of his light.

Sometimes, you still couldn't believe that he let you fill your cup, that he sought you out, parted the crowd for you.

You had never been a weak woman; had never let your weight or your too loud opinions or your tendencies to be overly emotional make you feel small, or less then...but being with Poe-- the level of intimacy was suffocating.

You felt burned up. Icarus who flew too close to the sun, who willing allowed himself to be burned up just to feel its warmth for a moment...you could relate.

“I did” Poe continues “I missed the way you feel, the way you taste-”

You close your eyes at that, images of the last time you’d gotten a moment alone with him, of a head of dark curls between your legs, assaulting you. Smacking you right in the face.

“-You taste so good, Y/N. Should've bent you over when you came to say goodbye. You would've let me, huh? Let me get one more taste- you have no idea how bad I want to stick my tongue inside of you. All the time. No one else gets to taste, right?”

Poe is well on his way to being rock hard, already. It had taken all of him to not jerk off in the showers.

“No one, Poe. You know that” you’d meant to tell him to fuck off, that you didn't belong to him. That he couldn't just have you whenever he wanted you. That came out instead.

“I need you” He tells you, roughly “feel how bad I need you, Y/N, fuck” he still has your hand in his grasp, againts his chest. When he begins to slide it downward, you know where its destination will be.

That doesn't stop the thrill, the flip flop of our tummy that comes with Poe pressing your hand to his crotch, hard and hot. The thin pants the only layer between your palm and his erection.

“You’re the only one who gets me like this, I need you to make it better, Y/N”

The switch is flipped then. Hard.

You’re surging forward, and he's meeting you halfway, your mouths slotting together. Lips and tongue, so much tongue. He talks all about how you taste, but stars, the way he tastes is intoxicating. Want to suck the taste of him off his tongue, off his cock.

Its blurry and ferocious. Hands everywhere. Touching, grabbing. While you are gentle with him and his tattered body, he doesn't extend that same sentiment. He’s groping, fingertips bidding into flesh. Groaning into your mouth as he clutches your thick, dimpled thighs. Reaches around to squeeze our ample ass.

Best ass in the galaxy, he'd write fucking sonnets about it, if he was good at anything but flying.

Clothes are shed, way too fast you worn Poe who doesn't listen. Because he never does- and he ends up hissing in pain, and relenting, sitting on the cot and letting you take off his pants. Slowly. You make it up to him by standing over him, grabbing his hands and guiding them to strip you. Slow drags of fabric over supple skin.

You’re so fucking sexy, and he tells you so as he urges you into his lap, you stay on your shins to mind his middle. Poe worships with his words. His fingers and lips do their fair share of praying next.

“Fuck I missed these the most” your breasts are large, heavy globes. Puffy sweet nipples are pebbled and just begging to be sucked on. He licks them messy, wet before he does just that; sucks them into the hot cavern of his mouth.

“Oh, oh, ugh” Your hands are twined in his hair, dripping down onto his thighs already, when Poe feels the wetness drip on him, his fingers go searching, hand pressed in between your thighs. Fingers slipping through sopping, heated flesh. You grasp, a high sound as he presses up and circles your clit, firm and pointed.

It’s so good, pleasure shoots down your legs, all the way to the tips of your toes.

It’s not enough. For either of you.

“Poe, fuck. Please” He’s injured, and you know it hurts him to do, and you should scold him for it, but when he manhandles you, flips you easily onto your back to that he can climb on top and situates himself between your thighs-

It’s just as hot as it always is. You know you have to be dripping down onto the cot, can feel your slick covering your thighs, slipping down your crack.

Kiss, Kiss and Kiss and Kiss and Kiss and…

You get lost in it, caught up in the way his stubble burns. His fingers slide back inside you and he watches your face as he crooks them, pumps them fast. Finger fucks you until you’re sobbing, letting out animal sounds.

“Do you still have the implant” he pants, head swimming. He gets like this when you let him make you feel good- wants to go down on you, but wants to be inside you even more.

“No, I took it out in the last few weeks” You’re cheeky, even with his fingers burried inside you. He loves that about you, “Of course I do, Poe”

You’d be damned before you ever brought a child into this world.

Poe holds your thighs wide, staring between them, your pussy wet and clenching around nothing. You’re so vulnerable for him, it makes you dizzy. He lines himself up, clock head dipping into your slit, resting against your hole, when thrusts inside of you it’s in one fluid movement.

You mewl, so full it’s hard to breathe and Poe makes a punched out sound. Like he’d been shot by a blaster in the chest and his hips start undulating, needing to be deeper. It feels so right inside of you. Feels safe. He wants to tear into your softness, rip you open and nestle inside. Settle himself in your bones.

You let him take what he needs, how ever he needs it. On your back, on your hands and knees. You bounce on his cock when he gets to achy,letting him run his hands all over your tummy, sides, breasts.

He can have it all.

After, the two of you lay spent, cuddled tight to one and other in the small cot. Standard issue thrown over your naked bodies, the sound of the rain starting up again mixed with Poes breathing is a lullaby you hadn't known you needed.

This...thing between you might have started as a way for both of you to numb the pain. To seek support. But it was more now. You were so in love with him that it made your eyes sting if you thought about it for too long.

“You’ll always come back to me, right?” Its so, so timid that he almost doesn't catch it and you almost hope he’d miss it.

Poe does what he always does; tries to convince you both that it’s going to be okay.

“Always”

You let yourself believe him.

Well I wasn't expecting this to turn into pure porn, but here we are lmfao. I loved writing for Poe and there will definitely be more of him coming soon! If you are able- listening to All I Need by Radiohead and the Hot Like Fire cover by the XX really sets the tone for this. I actually dropped a line from hot like fire in this- who can point it out?lol

As usual, I'm going to ask that if you can please give me some feedback. I truly love interacting with my readers and would love to hear your thoughts and opinions.