#and you can tell these are actual scans/photos of a physical copy

[kingdomkome]

old(ish) scans & translations of manga can be so funny. like sure girl. write a white text over a white backgroung. or straight up write the new text over half the panel. no readable words nor images. just vibes

[braveclementine]

Part 17

Warnings: None. However, future chapters will contain sexual content so readers that are under the age of 18 may have to skip those chapters (However they are very few so those under the age of 18 can still read a majority of this book. However please keep note of the warnings).

Copyright: I do not own any Wizarding World characters that J.K. Rowling wrote. I do however own Elizabeth Kane (main character) and Trang Nyguen (best friend). There should be no use of these two names without my permission. Also, all of Severus and Elizabeths' childrens names are mine and mine alone.I also do not condone any copying of this.

ST. OSWALD'S HOME FOR OLD WITCHES AND WIZARDS

🩶🩶🩶🩶🩶🩶🩶🩶

Mari could physically feel her skin crawl as her, Albus, and Scorpius entered the old persons home. Sure, it was all magical and fun and they all looked like they were having a great time but. . . they were still old people who were going to die soon. Mari held Snowball a little tighter to her chest. 

"Um, excuse me?" Albus asked as a group of older wizards moved past them, doing the tango. "Excuse me?" 

"Excuse me?" Scorpius asked while Mari scanned the room for a service desk. "Okay, so this place is wild." 

"We're looking for Amos Diggory." Albus said aloud. 

It was like one of those Muggle movies, with the recorded coming to a scratching halt. The music turned off, the wizards and witches stopped dancing, and there was absolutely silence in the opening hall while they all stared at the three children in front of them. 

'Great' Mari thought. 

"And what do you children want with that miserable old sod?" A woman who was using magic to knit asked. 

Mari looked over as Delphi came through the door with a large smile on her face. "Albus? Mari? You came? How wonderful! Come and say hello to Amos!" 

Mari, Albus, and Scorpius followed her through the old persons home. Behind them as they passed out of the room, Mari heard the music and chatter start up again. 

Amos Diggorys' room was set off from the other rooms. Judging by the way the others had reacted when they'd asked for him, Mari harbored a guess that he was isolated for the others sake. 

Albus proceeded to tell Amos the conversation that he'd overheard. Meanwhile, Mari observed the room. There weren't many personal effects, reminding her much of her own bedroom. The difference was that Amos had a Hufflepuff blanket across his lap, worn and clearly from his own years of being at Hogwarts. And along his dresser were several photos. Most of them were family ones, of Amos, his wife, and his son. But there were several of just Cedric. All of them were laughing and smiling. 

There was one photo that was laid face down so no one could see it. 

"So let me get this straight." Mari drew her attention back to the elderly man in front of her. "You overhear a conversation- a conversation which was not meant for you to overhear- and you decide- without prompting, in fact, without leave- to interfere, and interfere hard, in someone else's business." 

"My father lied to you- I know he did. They do have a Time-Turner." Albus said. 

"Of course they do. You can move along now." Amos said uncaringly. 

"What? No. We're here to help." Albus protested. 

"Help? What use could a trio of undersized teenagers be for me?" 

"My father proved you don't have to be a grown-up to change the wizarding world." 

"So I should allow you to get involved because you're a Potter? Relying on your famous name, are you?" 

"No!" 

"A Potter who is in Slytherin House- yes, I've read about you- and who brings a Malfoy with him to visit me- a Malfoy who may be a Voldemort? Not to mention, a daughter of Snape." He sneered at her with disgust and Mari was actually hurt by that. "Who's to say you're not involved in Dark Magic?" 

Mari wasn't used to people hating on her or her family. Her mother was adored by the public and her father was considered a hero. She had forgotten that there were still some people out there that still saw her father as an evil Death Eater, rather than the man who had sacrificed everything to play Dumbledores' spy. 

"But-" 

"Your information was obvious but the confirmation is useful. Your father did lie. Now leave. The three of you. And stop wasting my time." 

Mari was actually slightly relieved that he didn't want their help. She had a bad feeling about all of this. 

"No, you need to listen to me, you said it yourself- how much blood is on my father's hands. Let me help you change that. Let me help correct one of his mistakes. Trust me." 

"Did you not hear me, boy? I see no reason to trust you. So go. Now. Before I make you leave." 

"Albus!" Mari hissed, backing up towards the door. 

"Come on, mate, if there's one thing we're good at it's knowing where we're not wanted." Scorpius said, grabbing Albus by the arm, the three of them making to leave. 

"I can think of one reason why you should trust them, Uncle." Delphi said, the three of them stopping. Mari turned and watched the nurse walk forwards, propping the photo that Amos had laid down up now. "They're the only ones volunteering to help. They're prepared to bravely put themselves at risk to return your son to your side." 

Mari looked at the photo, feeling another drop of dread fill her. She saw now why Amos had laid it down, because it was probably hard for him to look at it. It was a moving picture of Cedric with her mother, the two of them dressed in their Hufflepuff Quidditch gear. He had his arm wrapped around her, the two of them laughing. 

"This is Cedric we're talking about. . ." Amos protested. 

"And- didn't you say yourself, having someone inside Hogwarts might be a massive advantage?" Delphi asked, before kissing the top of his head. 

"Why? Why do you want to put yourself at risk? What's in it for you?" Amos demanded. 

"I know what it is to be the spare. Your son didn't deserve to be killed, Mr. Diggory. We can help you get him back." 

Amos' voice cracked as he responded. "My son- my son was the best thing that ever happened to me- and you're right, it was an injustice- a gross injustice. If you're serious. . ." 

"We're deadly serious." Albus said. 

"This is going to be dangerous." 

"We know." 

"Do we?" Scorpius asked. 

"Delphi- perhaps if you were prepared to accompany them?" For some reason, that made Mari very uncomfortable. She felt the same aversion to this woman as she had when she'd come upstairs when they'd been visiting her house. 

"If that would make you happy, Uncle." 

"You do understand even getting the Time-Turner will risk your lives?" Amos questioned. 

"We're ready to put your lives at risk." 

Scorpius and Mari exchanged a frantic look, "Are we?" 

"I hope you have it in you." Amos said gravely. 

But as Delphi led the three of them out of Amos' room, Mari looked back at the photo of her Mom and Cedric. There was this adoring look in her mothers' eyes as she looked up at the son of Diggory. It was clear in the photo that her mother loved him. Had loved him. 

And for the first time, Mari wondered if they were doing the right thing. 

[meowloudly15]

A stray train of thought led me to archive.org's "Donate Physical Materials" page. The Internet Archive has so many books and records already that they prefer you check to make sure you don't send them any duplicates. I don't have any notable rare books, but I do have one that I wondered might not be in the collection.

Of course, they have it. The Girl Scout Handbook copyright 1947, for intermediate ages. The copy scanned into their site is the third impression, where mine is from the fourth; I doubt that makes a difference in any of the words other than the front matter. Well, except that this handbook is signed with a name unfamiliar to me: one Janet Miille. She wrote her name on the title page in shaky child's penmanship in blue marker that bled through to the next page.

My maternal grandmother wrote her name on her own copy, though I won't tell you it for the sake of my privacy. She was a girl scout, all those years ago. So was my mom: her application form is tucked in the front of my gram's old, loved, tattered copy. The front cover's falling off. The dust jacket has a large section missing. I can barely bring myself to touch it for fear of damaging it further. It's one of my most prized possessions.

My gram's still alive. The last of my grandparents left on Earth. My paternal grandfather died before my parents were even married. From all I've learned of him, he was a heckuva character. My maternal grandfather died a few years after I was born: late enough for me to have a couple fond memories of him, but early enough that I never really got to know him. From all I've learned of him, he was even more of a character. My paternal grandmother died a few years ago, shortly before the pandemic hit. She was an acerbic woman, but caring in her own way, and I remember her fondly (though I'm sure she'd disown me if she knew I were queer).

I'm very fond of my extended family. My great-uncle, only a year or so passed, with his "How are ya?"s and his gift for storytelling; my great-aunt, the world's fastest knitter (dubious) and the reason I can never think ill of anyone with a Rhode Island accent; my great-great-aunt, dead for a goodly while now (I did meet her a couple times), but whom I'm told would steal cutlery from restaurants; my cousins's other grandma, who's not my blood relative but whom I consider the next best thing, and a veteran woman in STEM; my great-grandfather, whom my mother never knew but still has a memory of that is shockingly accurate for someone who was in the womb when he died; so on and so forth. My cousins and aunts and uncles, too, but this is less about them and more about my elderly family.

I was helping my gram clean her attic a few years ago (because that's what we both consider fun quality time), and we stumbled across an art piece that she'd made shortly before getting married. She's since hung it on the wall in her living room, among various other knick-knacks. The woman's house is almost a museum. It's full of photos of relatives, some of whom even she never knew and whom I certainly didn't. And also photos of my cousins and my brother and myself. There's a Baby Wall upstairs. There's two Baby Walls, actually. Not even counting how my gram bronzed her children's baby shoes. My gram likes babies. There are worse things to like.

My gram is devoutly Catholic, something she has done her darnedest to pass on to her clan. It certainly stuck with us; I go to Mass every week, my uncle calls himself a "cradle-to-grave Catholic", my mom has taught religious education on and off since she was a teenager. The art piece that was once in her attic now proudly displays to the living room a titular "City of Churches". This being Tumblr, I'm sure like 95% of you are doing the grimacing emoji IRL at that concept. You're certainly not wrong to. But, even from a secular standpoint, the idea of a utopia constructed of buildings that you love (libraries, perhaps) is something beautiful to think of.

(It's an amateur art piece, for the record. So whatever grandiose image you might have in your head, decrease the quality by about 85%. Not to disparage my gram's artistic abilities, but it's not exactly something you'd find in the Louvre. Not that that makes it any less beautiful.)

My gram will die one day. I don't expect to have more than ten years left with her. (Which is perhaps an overestimate, but given that her own grandmother lived to see every one of her great-grandchildren, and given her own excellent health, I'm willing to bet on that number.) I will have things of her, though, memories and items alike. Many more than I could reasonably mention in a blog post. Or even at all. She loves giving gifts. I'll have those things as long as I live: the Girl Scout handbook (provided it doesn't disintegrate in a stiff wind); the art piece (if I'm permitted to take it after her death); the explanations about the Rosary; the time she ordered nothing for dessert and was served a plate with "Nothing" written on it in fudge sauce cursive; the time she wore a fur coat to a robotics competition for some ungodly reason; her own innumerable memories of long-dead relatives whom she herself loved and whom I've learned to love in turn.

I could keep boring you with anecdotes, but I've already been typing for a solid half an hour.

Janet Miille may well still be alive. I haven't looked her up. She may be, but she may be dead. And yet what a blessing it is that I might know her name, despite having lived so many years and miles away from her! Not just her family and friends, but I, a total stranger multiple generations removed, and quite possibly whomever reads this as well!

I pray that, if she is still alive, she lives a good, rich life; and if she is dead, may God grant her eternal rest.

... was I going somewhere with this?

Oh, right. Uh. The moral of the story is, SUPPORT ARCHIVAL CAUSES. Preserve history. Give yourself and your loved ones and the knowledge you have gathered a chance at a sliver of immortality.

Remember us. Remember them. Be remembered.

The rot may take all in the end, the last enemy to be destroyed may be death, but we must fight the good fight in the meantime.

[dadsbongos]

Greetings! I got this idea for danganronpa AU where Nagito is like ghost "living" (or haunting idk-) his old house and the reader moves into that house and they slowly became closer and yk<3

hi i love this concept :)

Request for: Nagito Komaeda Warnings: nagito’s backstory, slight religious overtones, we breach minor ghost-fucker territory (but no actual ghost-fucking), no-killing game au also ~~~

The house itself was rather nice. Nothing too luxurious for who the previous owner was aside from the obnoxiously fancy chandelier hanging in the den.

The realtor was hesitant to explain that the reason it was selling so comically cheap was, in fact, due to the belief of a ghost. Not just any, however. It was the previous owner’s ghost.

People who even stepped into the house could feel his chilling touch. Hear quiet, shaky whispers in the night. The fireplace would crackle and burst to life at strange times with nobody near it. Visitors and almost-buyers alike would thrust their warnings to stay away upon anybody who so much as looked at the home.

But that didn’t matter much - a house was a house and it’s not like the ghost was malicious from description. Just… annoying. Perhaps a little eerie, but again, not harmful. Everybody escaped without physical injury. So, why not buy it?

Maybe the ghost just needed a friend? Death was probably a lonely time.

Bought on Tuesday. Moved in Wednesday. Finished unpacking… still pending.

It’s not like (Y/n) had anybody to impress anyways. She’d made the move for a fresh start; new faces, new stories.

The bumps began on Friday.

Sometimes they were taps. Sometimes crashes followed by the gentle rapping against the walls, as if to apologize for the loud noise.

She’d stayed through the month, undeterred by any of the ghosts’ activities.

Then the happenings seemed a little more… intimate.

A photo slowly sliding out from beneath the fridge, at first.

Three people in frame. From left to right, there was a figure with shoulder-length pink hair and a smile to make the heavens jealous - then white hair to rival a cloud-marshmallow love child, skin sickly pale and body wastingly thin - finally, brown hair with an ahoge sticking out like an antenna and posture that almost made him taller than the one in the middle. Well, not really, but attempting counted, right? 

“Which one’s you?” she asked the air, whether she was too tired, or simply didn’t care enough, to be embarrassed was irrelevant. 

A single droplet of water, from a leak she didn’t know existed until this very moment, fell from the ceiling before splotching over the face of the one in the middle.

“White hair, heavy eye bags?”

There was no response, but she took it as a yes anyway. What a pretty, pretty face. In a tragic way.

Because he did look rather ill. Frail build and purple hues under his eyes. Pretty but suffering - it made her feel bad. Of course, she already knew he was dead, but even so - suffering should always inspire empathy rather than romance.

And again, he was dead, so the likelihood of a romance between them anyway was slim to none. None. Unless she suddenly dropped dead, there would be no sweet kisses in the morning or gentle hugs from behind as one of them makes dinner. Maybe when she died, he’d be available for a ghostly date while the house gets put back on the market.

(Y/n) chuckled at the sudden thought of lightning cracking into her home, despite the sunny weather, and striking her dead where she stood. Ridiculous, but God liked ridiculous things.

The sudden thought hit her - what if that old photo was old old? Maybe he was eighty when he died and she just subconsciously signed herself up for a date with an elderly ghost?

Shaking her head, (Y/n) scolded herself for the thought. She’d already be dead by then, it wouldn’t matter what age he was...

Then, it was the scribbling on spare papers. Always specifically spares. Double copies she had put in recycling. Scraps. Even on the backs of paper-esque trash. It was an oddly considerate move for a ghost, though to be fair, she’d never met a ghost before and couldn’t tell if it was out-of-place or not for them.

The words always appeared when she was out of the room. Leaving to grab something and coming back to find the out-dated schedule for work out of recycling and on her desk with crayon sprawled over it. 

Hi 

Eloquently said, in her opinion.

“Hi?” she looked around the room, “Can you not talk? I thought people said they heard whispers…”

A bang in the other room drew her out. When there was nothing out of place, she returned to her desk only to be met with more words.

I’m Nagito Komaeda :)

“Dodging the question, huh?”

The process repeated. Bang. Nothing out of the ordinary. Return. New words.

Sorry :(

“Don’t apologize,” (Y/n) shrugged off before moving to her computer, “I’m just gonna look you up.”

A series of bangs - now that she truly listened, it sounded like a fist pounding to the drywall - resonated through the home. She did not get up nor did she pause her actions of Googling the man known as Nagito Komaeda. 

Until a piece of paper flew in from the open door.

Bad idea

“Probably, yeah,” she huffed, moving back to her computer.

Nagito Komaeda, born April 28th, first popped up as the sole survivor in an old plane hijacking report. Both parents, all plane staff, and the hijackers left dead after the plane crash caused by a meteor strike. Then he came up as a survivor of an old serial kidnapper/killer. Then as a boy who’d inherited the entirety of his parents’ fortune and won a large sum from a lottery ticket he’d found in the trash bag he was stuffed in by his kidnapper. Then as a Hope’s Peak graduate under the title Ultimate Lucky Student.

Finally, as a 25-year-old man who’d miraculously survived ten years post-diagnosis with frontotemporal dementia and advanced lymphoma before his death.

“Holy shit,” she nearly choked on her own shock, “You weren’t boring, that’s for sure.”

Another paper, this time written in marker as if he could sense that she didn’t wish to get up. Another strangely considerate move.

Thanks 

You’re not creeped out?

“I mean, it’s more sad than creepy,” her eyes scanned over a single line in the article once again.

“Nagito Komaeda, after all his fortunes and misfortunes alike, died at age 25, after ten years of illness, surrounded by friends who took the place of family. Out of respect, no interviews were conducted, but anybody, anyone at all even from a quick glance, could tell - Nagito Komaeda will surely be missed.” 

Her eyes watered slightly as she clicked out of the Togami Publications, laughing at the pure awkwardness of her situation, “Oh my God, that’s really fucking sad. I’m sorry your life sucked.”

Another paper.

It’s fine

I was just wasting space anyway :)

“No, you were- “ she gestured to her computer screen before covering her eyes in shame of her tears, “You meant so much to your friends.”

She expected memorial posts, maybe not as many as there were, but she saw them coming. What she didn’t see coming, however, was that each and every one would be dearly heartfelt - not a single one was disingenuous or vague in the slightest. She also didn’t see herself crying by the end of her little search.

But there she was.

Something light floated into her lap. A tissue.

“Oh my fucking God,” (Y/n) choked up again, picking up the tissue with a small smile, “Stop, you’re a ghost, you’re supposed to be scary and making me leave, not helping me dry my tears…”

Another paper atop the slowly growing pile.

Was that a ghostphobic remark?

“Oh, I’m keeping that one,” she stood, sniffling as she wiped away her tears, and picked up the last paper, nodding to herself as she muttered, “Yep. This one’s going on the wall.”

~~

Nagito stopped whispering because people ran when he did. His voice was always hideous, he didn’t to be reminded. Besides, (Y/n) seemed to prefer the paper method - she hung up her favorites along the walls of her office and if a visitor teased her about it she would ignore them. It was admirable, how their grins and giggles rolled off her back like water droplets over a duck.

He wished he could be like that.

Could have been.

He still had trouble with that.

Has.

Nagito looks up from his spot at the kitchen table where (Y/n) was cooking for herself. She seemed so at-peace in this house, and he’s glad for that. He never liked living alone and everyone else seemed to hate having him there. Not that he blamed them much.

Even so, he much prefers (Y/n) over any past guest as his living counterpart of the house.

She even leaves chairs open for him at the table; he smiles widely at the thought, patting his thighs and kicking out his legs in his seat- just like now!

She’d pulled out the chair upon entering the kitchen before calling out for him that she’d be cooking. She even knew he liked watching her cook!

It was selfish of him to crave so much attention, but in the end, Nagito was already dead so… did it really matter when he indulged in his wants more than he should?

Divine punishment isn’t real and he likes being around her, so why should he bother hiding himself away in the attic?

(Y/n) moved around the house with little to no liveliness, it made him chuckle. Her shoulders drooped and footsteps heavy, it was fun. To feel like he wasn’t alone.

He hoped she felt the same. That he was a friend… or, undead companion?

He hoped she would stay and not move out.

He hoped they could be real friends one day… if it’s not too much to ask, that once she dies, she’ll meet him. The real him. 

That would be heaven.

[idga-buck]

Some and Others, 3/?

Earth’s mightiest heroes save the city again, but that’s never the end of the story.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 4,301

Content: canon typical violence, death, destruction, swearing

Bucky was going to call. He just didn’t. He was surprised you hadn’t and overwhelmingly disappointed that it meant if he was going to apologize, it was a conversation he’d have to initiate himself. It could wait though. Just a little longer while he figured out what he wanted to say.

A week later, the Post ran a story about the same gossip site that had leaked your photo of him being shut down after many of their stories and photos were found to be fake. A rarity for the world of journalism these days, Sam noted casually as they stopped at a newspaper cart. Bucky bought a couple candy bars and watched the man with the thick black mustache and the gold chain slip copies of the article in front of a few of his worst sellers. Could he actually be that lucky? It was an easy out after a week of dodging questions and trying to remind the world to stay out of his business.

“So that photo of you? The secret girlfriend?” Sam waited for Bucky to respond, but when the centenarian opted to buy a Pay Day instead, he watched closer. Bucky hated that. Sam said he had a staring problem, but Sam was the one with x-Ray vision. He could read people, read a room, read Steve’s body language from across a battlefield and adjust his position without being told. As annoyed as Bucky acted when paired up with Sam Wilson, he was one of the few people in this century that Bucky Barnes respected. Truly. Except for that moment on a street corner when brown eyes were scanning his complete lack of guts and deciding what was worth commenting on.

“Yeah,” Bucky ripped open the wrapper a little too aggressively and responded with peanuts between his teeth. “It wasn’t real.”

Sam nodded and stuffed his hands in his pockets while Bucky stuffed his face. “I don’t know how you land the fake girlfriend story, when I’m right here,” they started walking away from the stand while Sam jabbered on. “And lookin’ as fine as I do? Come on, man,” he danced ahead of Bucky a few steps, forcing him to look up. “You know this would make a better story.”

Before Bucky could say anything, a loud crash echoed between the buildings. Nothing was visible from their block, but both men, trained for combat, were instantly on alert.

“That for us?” Sam asked, eyeing the busy intersection.

“No,” said Bucky, a clipped tone in his voice as he shook his head and started walking again.

Another crash, this time accompanied by the faint human noises that usually follow tragedy.

“You sure about that?” Sam’s eyebrow shot up.

Sirens from every kind emergency response vehicle blared in the distance, growing louder then quieter again as they wove their way through the streets, changing directions to avoid traffic.

Bucky pointed at a passing fire truck, waiting until it had turned down another street before speaking. “See? They got it.”

Then Sam’s phone rang and Bucky swore, planting his hands on his hips while whoever was on the other line confirmed that the emergency growing in the distance was in fact for them. Sam placed the call on speaker and gave their current location. Stark’s voice was muffled and metallic, the way it usually was while calling from inside his fancy helmet, but he told them to stay put as he did a fly by with Sam’s equipment.

“Tell the Tin Man he’s got a special delivery,” Tony informed them from somewhere overhead.

“They're your wings,” Bucky grumbled, looking up from the ground as the familiar glare of Iron Man’s thrusters came into view. “And your robot.”

“First of all,” Sam informed him. “Red Wing isn’t a robot. He’s a drone.”

“It,” Bucky corrected, “is a robot.”

“I’m gonna tell him you said that,” said Sam before pointing up to where Iron Man had doubled back to get a better angle. “And… unlike some of us present, my body is exactly as God created it, flesh and bone.”

“Pop up, deep center,” Tony’s voice rang out obnoxiously through Sam’s phone once more.

Bucky watched a black bundle falling from the sky, trying to position himself under it and pushing more than one pedestrian out of his way to do so. “Actually, I was a catcher back in ‘32.”

“THEN CATCH!” Sam hollered just before the EXO Falcon gear landed square in Bucky’s chest, forcing him off his feet and onto his ass, skidding to a stop on a sidewalk while the people around them scattered, gasping and grabbing at their phones to take pictures of the two Avengers. Bucky laid flat on his back, both arms still wrapped around the bundle, and took a deep breath when Sam stood over his head, arms shooting out to his sides as he yelled “SAFE!”

Bucky groaned and tossed the black bag up into Sam’s arms, hard enough to make him stumble but not enough to knock him down. “Should have said ‘out.’” Bucky grumbled and Sam chuckled as he dug through the bag for his equipment. “Safe makes it sound like I-”

“You really wanna argue about baseball right now,” Sam laughed, securing his wings over his torso and releasing them both with a flash as if stretching before a fight. “Or are we gonna go save the world?” Bucky didn’t answer, just took off running in the direction of the screams. “That’s what I’m talking about,” said Sam to himself, shooting up into the air.

…

Robots. Drones. Whatever they, Bucky Barnes has decided that he hates them.

Fighting Nazis was easy. Not physically. Not when your gun isn’t really yours and the food sucks and you’re almost as worried about losing your toes as you are losing your team. But it made sense. These men in their wool coats wanted innocent deaths. Something in Bucky that had been there all along was born anew in the war. He was a protector. Of his sisters, of Steve, of his country. It made sense.

Nothing about Hydra made sense and the therapist he stopped seeing told him it was okay to think about those years differently than the rest. So he did.

When T’challa presented him with a black vibranium canon for his left side, the enemy was otherworldly. Literally. They didn’t bleed like men. They made horrible screeching noises when they died, but even that was different from me. They rode disgusting creatures with teeth that could have scratched his arm if he’d let them get close enough. They were invaders, their leader sought destruction on an even greater scale than the War. Bucky was a protector again, protector of Earth, of life in the universe. An unimaginable title for the boy he’d been, sitting in front of the radio with his family and marveling at the president's voice. It’s not like he was eager to do it again, but space invaders whose goal was universal genocide would be met with the business end of Bucky’s favorite rifle.

Fighting robots, however, was fucked up.

Bucky was still processing his new life, still getting used to the idea that people carried plastic cards in their wallets and could pull money out of the walls with just a few buttons. There were movie theaters with screens two stories high. Cars plugged into the sides of hotels. The cell phone in his pocket was overwhelming as is. In a few minutes, he could buy all the clothes he’d ever need, pay for dinner, and talk to people across the country. It was baffling.

All this technology, all this progress, and of course there were people who weaponized it. Bucky hated that. He remembered science fairs, remembered Howard Stark’s big promises. There was so much hope in him as a young man. He’d live to drive a flying car, his children would learn about the world through a holograms in their livingroom, his grandchildren would live on the moon. The possibilities were endless. So much so that people with horrible intentions for the world also believed that the possibilities were endless, forcing Bucky into his current position.

His thighs were wrapped around the base of a machine, arms wound near the top. He threw his shoulders back with all of his might, squeezing his legs in the process, and didn’t stop until the metal gave way. Bucky fell onto the pavement with his own momentum, the enemy in two pieces with wires exposed and frizzling as they died. He dropped the robot and rolled to his side, observing the scene around him. Steve used a cleaner approach and sent his shield flying through the air. Three more bots’ were sliced in two, the last of which was pinned by the shield into the side of a brick building. Sam circled above, with Redwing swooping below to draw laser fire away from bystanders while Wanda tried her best to herd them away, spinning to throw angry red energy at anything that came their direction.

“Sergeant Barnes!” The familiar and overly excited voice of the kid in blue and red spider gear startled Bucky. The kid swung in unexpectedly, decked out and ready to help. Bucky didn’t care that he was probably skipping school to do so and swung his vibranium arm behind him, the metal of another droid crunching under his elbow. “How can I help?”

Bucky squinted, a little dumbfounded at the question. There was a six block radius being overrun with droids, drones, robots- whatever- and people were terrified. “Pick something,” he grunted, taking the robot's head… top part, between his hands and twisting until it gave way and the bottom half dropped powerless to the ground.

Just then the sound of metal screeching pulled both their eyes to a city bus being thrown around like it was weightless, crunching the vehicles nearby, and sending more people into a frenzy as buildings were still evacuating onto the street. “That! Pick that!” Bucky commanded and the kid flew away, attached to a white string like a kite. Two more robots were approaching from the sidewalk, red eyes glowing and ready to fire. Bucky looked around the street for something, anything that he could use before deciding on a minivan. The windows looked clear, driver and passengers already scampering away at the first sign of trouble, so Bucky planted his boot into the back door and kicked. The door caved in and the vehicle flipped onto its side before skidding to a halt on the sidewalk and crushing the robots beneath it.

“Uh! MISTER BARNES, SIR, SARGE-!”

Bucky turned back to look at Peter, propped up on a light pole and leaning so far back his body was almost parallel to the ground. The only thing keeping him upright was the two thick white webs attached to the bus, one at the front and one at the back. It was tipping over dangerously low, trapping a small group of people between the bus and two buildings, one that had smoke billowing out the windows. This was a mess.

Bucky ran through the street, jumping onto the hoods of abandoned cars to avoid weaving between them before leaping off an SUV and rolling back into a run on the sidewalk. A laser struc Peter, knocking him clean off his perch, and the webs supporting the bus went dangerously slack as it started tipping toward the trapped people again. Bucky jumped, wedging himself between the building and the collapsing bus with great effort. His shoulders dug into the brick behind him and his thighs burned as he shoved the bus away from the wall, gritting his teeth as he felt it slowly start to tip away from the ground. The kid was now on the ground somewhere out of sight and Bucky had to hold back from sending the vehicle flying, lest he squash Stark’s favorite spider in the process. The tension in his legs grew as he held it steady, adjusting his feet and shoulders until he felt it wasn’t going anywhere.

“Hey!” He called out to the people below him. “Get out of here, go!”

There were rushed thank yous and lots of tears as the crowd dispersed from their trapped position. But one voice stood out among them and it made Bucky’s heart speed up.

“Bucky?! Oh my god, BUCKY!”

Bucky’s eyes were closed under the strain, but he’d know your voice anywhere. He opened them just in time to see Peter recover and zip off in a new direction. Bucky released his breath and shoved his feet out hard, tipping the bus back. He dropped from the wall and grabbed you as the bus wobbled precariously in both directions before finally falling into traffic and directly onto the roof of an empty red sports car.

Bucky hadn’t realized how tight he was holding you until you said his name again and the word was broken. His arms relaxed a bit, but you made no move to run away… or let go of his jacket. The two of you just stared at each other, breathing heavily, before screaming drew your eyes away. The small crowd of people you’d been stuck with were running away from where you stood, but the two in the back collapsed, their bodies charred and heavy as they hit the ground. You screamed then and Bucky pulled your back into his chest, hugging your stomach as you keeled over. He’d seen so much death in his hundred odd years, it was hard to witness it with these fresh eyes. You weren’t prepared to watch two innocent people’s skin melting under lasers. Hell, neither was Bucky and while you cried in his arms, the smell of burning flesh stung his eyes. He’d never get over that smell, no matter how many world wars he participated in. His face was buried in the back of your head, shushing you as he lifted you up. He took careful backwards steps until you were both hidden in the same alley you’d just been trapped in. Bucky looked up at the burning building and decided he had a minute before you were both in danger here.

“Hey,” he said softly when you went limp against his chest. “Hey now,” he repeated, spinning and almost dropping you when he realized you hadn’t just relaxed… you were unconscious. “Shit,” Bucky dropped to his knees and let your body lean up against his chest, slapping at your cheeks and calling your name to try and wake you up. Half of your face was red with blood from a wound he couldn’t see somewhere in your hair. Break up or no break up, he couldn’t leave you like this. Any other person, he’d run them to safety and double back to continue clearing the streets. But this wasn’t any person. It was the girl he dumped in the middle of a restaurant and had continuously put off calling to explain himself. He hadn’t gotten the chance to clear the air and leaving you to wake up in a few hours in the middle of a destroyed midtown was just too cruel. He did like you and now it felt like he owed you.

Bucky picked you up like a doll and slung you around to his back, crossing your arms over his chest as your legs dangled behind his knees. That wasn’t going to work, he decided after only a few steps. “Can you hold on a little-“ Bucky drifted off as he turned his face to see your face hidden behind him, your forehead limply resting against his shoulder. “Of course not,” he berated himself and stopped to adjust again. This time he stooped, grabbing one of your arms and one of your legs with his hands. You were slung over his shoulders like a backpack, the same way he carried goats in Wakanda, only much easier since you weren’t kicking or screaming and he had two hands with which to wrangle you.

His steady march out of the fray was interrupted once by Wanda. After directing pockets of people to safety, she’d sought out the source of the invasion. Bucky looked around for a safe place to stow your body and found an SUV that was abandoned but still running with the doors unlocked to lay you out across the backseat, carefully tucking your feet in before slamming the door behind him. He liked Wanda, despite not knowing what exactly she was capable of, but liked her a lot less when he found himself immersed in a glowing red forcefield and being lifted into the sky. When he was forced through the large glass window of another building only to look up and find her floating gently through the hole his body had created, she shrugged.

“This way was faster,” she said, Sokovian accent much softer than their first meeting.

“Right,” Bucky groaned, making a mental note of how many Avengers could zip through the air with ease and the odds of being the one she found on the ground.

They raced up the final set of stairs and Bucky ripped the maintenance door to the roof off its hinges. It was unlucky that Bucky and Wanda had been the ones to find the bastard responsible. If it had been Steve, he’d been bound and handed over to the authorities. Tony might have thrown him in armored vehicle and shook him around a bit before demanding answers. Bruce… depending on the day wouldn’t have been much better. Nat would have gotten answers easier than either of them and Sam was easily the most noble of the bunch, so Bucky had no idea what he’d do. The right thing, whatever that was. But Wanda wasn’t particularly fond of people who harmed innocent people. The motivation didn’t much matter to her when the sounds of children crying could be heard in the streets. Bucky didn’t have much grace for people who were smart enough to help, but broken enough to hurt. Like the bastards in Hydra, who healed him, kept him alive, gave him extraordinary strength then weaponized him. Anyone who had this level of technological advancement and chose to bring destruction with it was a waste of air. Wanda hoisted the man up into one of her angry red orbs while Bucky broke the control panel into as many pieces as he could, destroying anyone else’s opportunity to learn from this guy. Neither of them had anticipated this guy to be so well armed. It looked like a pistol, but whatever it fired managed to get through Wanda’s energy field and pierce her shoulder, breaking her focus just enough for him to drop back onto the roof. He took off running to the edge and leapt, but Wanda recovered faster, using her powers to yank him back. Bucky caught him in the air and squeezed, locking the man in a painful hold until he noticed glowing red numbers counting down behind the man’s neck. Shit.

“Bucky!” Wanda pointed at the man’s hands, wrapped threateningly around a plunger that could only mean one thing.

Without a better option, Bucky turned back to edge. He released the man and as he tried to stumble forward, Bucky’s boot landed square against his sacrum, launching the man through the air and into a neighboring building in a ball of fire. Both Avengers watched the corner offices go up in flames, disgust and horror in both their eyes.

“The whole block was evacuated,” Wanda said softly and Bucky nodded. There was a distinct lack of screaming coming from the direction of the building and sirens soon flooded the streets below as first responders made their way into critical areas. From the ledge, both of them watched as the remaining bots dropped to the ground before their team, disengaging en masse. Steve looked up from atop a bodega and saluted the sky in their general direction, lifting the shield as a second acknowledgment before jumping down to the street to start… whatever Captain America does once the threat has been neutralized. The PR and clean up stuff wasn’t Bucky’s scene and he turned away, making it all the way across the roof, still observing the scene below, before remembering that you were somewhere, either still unconscious or just waking up, deeply confused in the back of a stranger’s car.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, wanting to make sure before asking Wanda for any favors.

She pulled her hand away from her shoulder, black nail polish and red blood looking menacing and downright witchy against her pale fingers. “I’ll be alright,” she assured him, eyes already glowing red as she prepared to offer more aid.

Bucky stopped her and nodded over the side of the building. “Gimme a lift?”

She snorted and waved her fingers without looking at him and soon enough, Bucky found himself falling on his ass once again. He needed to work on his dismount if this was going to become a regular pairing. Thankfully or maybe not, you were trying to wake up as Bucky slipped into the driver’s seat and commandeered the vehicle. He turned back to watch you whine in pain as you tried to sit up, before slipping back into sleep when he told you to stay down. You were in and out for most of the drive, which helped Bucky weave up and over curbs to avoid stagnant areas where everyone had abandoned their cars out of fear.

…

You woke up with a headache, exasperated by the bright lights of the emergency room. Bucky could see the moment you came to by the hard squinting that melted into a grimace. You’d had a couple false starts, but when your eyes opened and locked on his, Bucky knew it was the real deal this time. He stood to pull back the curtain and immediately a nurse was shimmying her way into your space, brushing her chest against Bucky’s in the process. He nodded and gave her a tight smile. It had been like that since he walked into the ER with you. Avengers carrying blacked out civilians get a lot of attention, but they also get speedy service. Which is what Bucky told himself when he stuck around once you’d been admitted. You’d get better care if he stayed with you, so he did. Feet propped up on the end of your bed and dropping whenever someone came to run another test. He wasn’t family and didn’t claim to be, so they told him nothing, but nurses managed to smile flirtatiously in between doing their job. In another life, Bucky would have… done something. Anything. He smiled. He was a hundred, not dead, but there was something off putting about receiving these looks when you were asleep right there between hanging curtains in an overrun hospital as ambulances and families started to arrive from the mess he’d just left.

You answered their questions slowly, but correctly. Your name, where you were, what year it is, who the president is. The doctor would be in soon and Bucky took the minute of alone time to scoot the chair they’d brought in for him. You were watching him expectantly as the legs scraped across the floor, just a few inches before he could reach a hand out to yours. You looked down curiously at your hand in Bucky’s.

“They spelled my name wrong,” you murmured and Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut as you lifted your joined hands to observe the little plastic bracelet closer. He shook his head, wanting to apologize, but also hoping you wouldn’t connect the dots that he’d given them your information incorrectly. “Bucky?” He looked up to find your eyes wider than usual, a little more vulnerable than he was used to seeing you and wanted to do something to make you feel better. But like the entirety of your relationship, he had no idea how to do that.

“You’re okay,” he nodded, telling himself as much as he was telling you.

“Thank you,” you squeezed his fingers as your voice shook.

Just then a man in a white coat, pushed back the curtain and Bucky stood reflexively, dropping your hand in the process. He turned back and saw your face fall before crossing your arms over your chest and looking away from him.

“Sergeant Barnes,” the doctor addressed him first.

“Bucky,” he corrected without thinking and turned his body, opening up the room a bit and directing attention back to what mattered. The patient. You.

“Thank you for bringing her in,” the doctor continued, then looked back and forth between the two of you. “We’ve got it from here, if you need to-”

“He can stay,” you piped up. The doctor asked if you were sure, but you were. The doctor nodded, turning fully toward the bed and while that was Bucky’s goal, he now felt completely out of place in the tiny space.

“First things first,” the doctor started. “You and the baby are just fine, so I don’t want you worrying about that at all. Do you have a OB or a-”

Bucky stopped listening at that moment and focused on the roaring ocean in his ears. He looked to the bed where you were listening intently to what the doctor was saying, nodding and shaking your head mechanically. While he stared, you stole a glance in his direction. Your face was blank and he didn’t spend much time trying to read it.

“This sounds personal,” he said, voice flat and vibranium hand already reaching for the curtain at the end of your bed. “Take care.” Without sparing another look, Bucky walked through the busy emergency room with his left hand tucked into his front pocket, making him invisible to anyone who didn’t know he was there.

A/N: Here we go! It’s happening. I’m not sold on the way this ended but it was getting long as is and don’t worry, Bucky will have his chance to make it up to you.

Tags: @fangirl-swagg @learisa

[venomous-five]

Isn’t it easy too get pictures of the Venom Mob¿

To be honest I’m not entirely sure what question you’re asking, so I will answer both of the questions I think you might have meant! (Putting this under a Read More because I included a lot of images, and this post ended up kind of long.)

Firstly, yes, it is fairly easy to find pictures of them online! It depends on what sort of pictures you’re looking for, though. There are some promotional images or screenshots that have made their way around the block a decent amount of times, so those ones aren’t very difficult to find at all. Like this poster, for example, I’ve seen a few times!

And when it comes to behind the scenes photos, those aren’t too difficult to find either, but there is a much smaller variety available on western sites. There are still some that are recurring even then! This one I found on google image search pretty fast.

Mostly, the hardest part is finding high quality versions of these pictures. Months after finding that first one, @venomsreviews found this version after a lot of sleuthing.

Much clearer, and much more precious when I can actually see it!

So, when it comes down to it, it’s not difficult finding pictures of them! But when you take into account all of the hundreds of photos of them that must exist and that are not easily accessible on our side of the internet, then it becomes apparent that finding high quality versions of all of the many rarely seen photos is not as easy as it sounds. Hence why I find @venomsreviews to be such a godsend! 😄 Here are some rare pictures of the venoms from when they were younger that she helped find!

Another thing that makes it hard to find certain pictures of the venoms is the fact that some pictures were only ever released in magazines or lobby cards--and chances are very low that the people who own existing copies have never scanned or uploaded them. Some of the pictures that I physically own I hadn’t seen until they came into my possession!

Like these lobby cards;

Or these pictures in one of the magazines I own;

Which brings me to the other the other question I thought you might be asking!

Is it easy getting pictures of the venom mob in real life? Like, physical and original copies of their photos, lobby cards, press stills, etc? The answer is kind of. The biggest issue is mostly money. There are occasionally listings on eBay of lobby card or press still sets, but sometimes they're overpriced, and sometimes the cards available aren't really worth it. It’s taken me a lot of patience to accumulate the collection that I have, and again— there is a finite amount of these items available. There are some movies that are more beloved than others, and that makes their photos more difficult to find. I have NEVER seen a listing for Five Deadly Venoms lobby cards or press stills. And if I ever were to see a listing, I’m almost certain that it would be priced way higher than photos from the other venoms movies.

As these items have been collected over the years, the amount of owners willing to part with them has definitely dwindled. Like, I can’t imagine myself ever parting with any item of my own collection. So, while it isn’t necessarily difficult to find physical photos of the venoms, there is still a matter of luck and opportunity. There have been times when I’ve seen a good listing, but wasn’t in a place financially where I’d be willing to make a purchase for my collection. To give an idea of how some lobby cards/press stills are harder to find than others, I’ll list the numbers of my own collection below. The Brave Archer III: 5 The Brave Archer and His Mate: 5 Chinatown Kid: 4 Daredevils: 12 House of Traps: 2 Invincible Shaolin: 3 (but two of them are damaged-- by their previous owner, not me) Legend of the Fox: 2 The Kid with the Golden Arm: 7 Magnificent Ruffians: 3 Rebel Intruders: 12 Shaolin Rescuers: 12 Two Champions of Shaolin: 6

I recently lost bids for a set of 10 lobby cards for Legend of the Fox, and a set of 10 lobby cards for Magnificent Ruffians. When I tell you that losing out on those hurt 😩

[camphorror]

the only friend who i coul talk about this stuff isnt really interested in talking about me anymore so im just going to type all this overhsaring cap while trying to calm down from crying for 30 minuets an throwing up from the crying

i have an :::aunt”” who hates me because she is literally a raicst who stopped talking to my mother when she decided to marry someone who isnt from the same ethnicity as her and then of course she hates me for being a tainted person for his horrible offense!! i never really knew her she neve rinvited us to birthdays or anything she did at her house with her evil daughters and we did invite them for birthdays because i just very much remember not understanding why she is so distant (compared to my “”normal”” aunt) and just always wanted her to like me up until i grew up old enough to understand why it was that they ere all like this

now fucking 7 YEARS ago  was at my grandmas and i was looking at old photos and back then i was very much into ww2 and like 30s-40s time period in europe and all and i was fascinated by all the old photos she had and she allowed me to take a lot of old photos some she wanted me to bring back so i just scanned them and brought them back and some she just let me have i swear to god she let me have them some were of people she didnt know she didnt let me have any of her old photos besides the ones that had 2 copies but she pm let me have all of my grandfather’s (who i have never met) photos from the 30s-40s and these photos were my favourite ting in the world i usedto go over them once every month since fucking 2014 to see if they ware ok i recently planned to try and get an album for them bc i dont think it’s kept well in a box if you ask every close friends i have how many times i told them want to see something cool and showed them these photos i love these photos with all of my heart and they fascinate me i even wanted to san all of them and try to find maybe some site or subreddit that can help me translate some of the writings on the back of some of them as idk what language it even is and it’s all in cursive. not once in the past 7 fucking years (ok actually once but it wasnt here it as my evil aunt) did my grandma ever ask me for these photos because she kne wi have them and i keep them and i cherise them 

then suddenly last week when my supposedly normal aunt wwas here because my scumbag aunt visited my grandma when she had fucking pneumonia and my grandma got sick and she’s generally been like weird mentally lately like she’s not 100% in the moment. anyway they were both at her house when she was sick and suddenly suddenly my supposedly normal aunt claims that my grandma wants all the photos back. but does she say it herself? no. my aunt tells it to my mother.i got pissed pff and offended that she didnt call me. i am not a child. after some insufferable back and forth my grandma says she just wants the photos she’s in. ok. whatever. my aunt says she’ll go get copies of them and bring me back i dont care. then suddrnly when i went there to give it to them my aunt asks me if i have more photos and i like yes sure i have [everything i mentioned above] she flis out like i didnt know youhave them give them to me i didn’t know it i will copy of all of them!! like ok first of all not my fault you didnt know you live in almost the other side of the country sincr 2010 youre not suopposed to know that i took photos 7 years ago. notlike i have to share every detail. second of all i liteally did tell her something about this once. ok i tell her i will give her all the photos before she goes home she has a friend who works at a photogrhy store who can copy them for cheap.

so now i know the reason this is happening is bascially my “normal” aunt and ym evil aunt literally manipulate my grandma into caring about these stuff because i know the thing here. THE CRIME here is that my evil aunt does not have these photos. i know she wants them, the reason i took them 7 years ago is that i knew there was no way on earth my mother would have these at any point and i just decided i want them (and my grandmother ALLOWED ME). but whatever. copy the photos have it your way i dont care

now my aunt came to take them todaynd i told her when she called “you  are giving me back the original photos i got them 7 years ago it’s not fair to take them” she says ok. i meet her downstairs and i chat to her and i tell her again “really you give me back the original photos ok” and suddenly when she physically has them iin her hand she says no!!! i will give you back the copies!! i say no youre lying i wouldnt have given shit if i knew you’d do this. she starts making excuses about how they need to have the originals because what f they’d want to give it to a fucking holocaust msueusm. i tell ehr why on earth give a meuseum original photos give them the copies. she says no and i was tired and irritated and i just told her whatever she got what she wants by lying so i dont care anymore. and i left her in the street and went home. i lost it on the way it happened an hour ago and im still crying. i cant believe this shit happened. these photos were mayb one of the most important things in my life. i just cried annd cried and lost it and lost my cool and started screaming and hitting everything. i tried calling her telling her it’s not fair she lied to me why is she doing this. i got sick of playing stupid and i said i know they only did this because they want my other aunt to have the photos. she then accused me (and my mother) of being the liars who took the photos and never said i had them (what the fuck?) and then lying saying we don’t have more (literally not true) and then she called me A CRAZY INSANE PERSON for crying and freaking out and telling her i know why all this shit is happening. and she said she doesnt want to talk to me becaus ei’m crazy and she hung up. i literally fell down crying and threw up and hit myself for being so stupid. i now understand why she wanted ALL the photos. including those of random who no one knows. because they just want them to have it.

i know my grandma doesnt love me as much as she loves them. my grandma also stopped talking to my mother once she got married but then she “got around it” but my evil aunt is he rfavourite daughter and her kids are her favourite grandkids and my “nrmal” aunt and them always meet toether and do family stuff together and never with us and they never see anything wrong with it.they even accuse me of “contributing to this stupid fight” even tho it’s insane to even say this like this thing started 2 years before i was born because of RACISTS and i was treated like shit as a child by these ppl but i’m still seen on par with their behaviour!!! so they dont care. i actually wholly believe my grandma want my shitty aunt to have those photos actually. i fele so stupid. this was my favourite possession in the world and i was stupid enough to let it go. i still cant stop crying until now i actually hate everything. im sick of all those insane people in every side of my favmily there are insane people on my father’s side i have sociopathic theives who dont even care their brother fucking died from brain cancer and most of which i dont even fucking know and on my mother’s side there are just a bunch fo self obsessed freaks who hate me for the crime of being born

[reluctantly-plus-ultra]

Rei (PART TWO)

I literally finished my university paper a day early so I would have time to write this up and keep giving you guys the Good Content™. Thanks for the overwhelming amount of support on part one, everybody!

-When Rei first tells them her plan for taking down Endeavor, they don’t think there’s any way it’ll actually work.

-The LOV has always operated as a physical unit, out to kick ass and take names. They didn’t band together for subtle espionage and demolishing reputations through intellect.

-But Rei’s adamant that going into a brawl won’t accomplish anything. After all, even if they did manage to beat him in a fight, Endeavor be seen as a martyr to the public, still a symbol of hope, the number one hero that defended them to the end. That’s not what they’re going for. Beyond that, the only way to keep him from rising again, in that sense, is to kill him, and while Rei Todoroki wants some well-deserved justice, she doesn’t want his life on her hands.

-So, instead, she suggests ruining his image. They’ll air out all the sheets of the Todoroki household, let the world know once and for all the truth behind the man they’ve placed their faith in. Force him to step down, allow him to finally reach that number one spot that he’s ruined the lives of her family to achieve, and then strip it from him with the evidence of the horrendous acts he committed to get there.

-”He lit this fire,” Rei says coldly, and the chill in the room doesn’t come from her quirk, “Now he can burn in it.”

-Personally, Dabi still wants to torch Endeavor’s ass straight to hell, but even he has to acknowledge that Rei has a point. Their odds of success are a lot higher going into this from a tactical perspective. The rest of the league can at least somewhat come to that conclusion as well, but there’s one main problem barring the way.

-Kurogiri is the one to point it out, asking how they’re going to get evidence of events that happened so many years ago. At the best, they have two witness testimonies, and there’s not a single court around that would take the word of a hospitalized woman and a well-known villain over that of their number one hero.

-And it’s then that Rei’s face hardens into an expression that none of them have seen before, delicate hands balling into tight fists, jaw clenched.

- “I can get you that evidence,” She claims easily enough, as if it’s something that can be pulled from thin air, “But I’m going to need a laptop, or a computer-”

-The very nice thing about co-inhabiting with criminals that have loose morals is that they can get you things very quickly, and typically for free. Rei has a laptop sitting in front of her before the night is up, and is furiously typing as soon as they get her logged in.

-It’s common knowledge in the league that Rei has a habit of mumbling to herself when deep in thought; this has been particularly prominent while working on the Endeavor plan

-And this has actually been pretty unsettling for a lot of the members, because for someone so sweet, Rei has a novel of shit that Endeavor needs to atone for, and she hasn’t forgotten a single insulting incident in twenty-four years. 

-What this means is that sometimes, when she’s working deep on the planning, divulging information about the number one hero, she’ll give them a list of his weaknesses, things that will set him off, ways that they can target him that nobody else is aware of (potentially even Endeavor himself)

-But then after that, she’ll start listing incidents. Her eyes will gloss over, and the words will just start tumbling out of her mouth as she crosses situations out of that novel, offenses that are being reciprocated through her sabotaging the man

-Her last round of info had made up for six incidents, and while the league had gradually been getting used to these episodes, the last one had packed a punch.

- “The time you forced Touya to train so hard, he broke three fingers and you still made him keep going for an hour after.”

- Any time she mentions incidents with Touya, the tension in the room goes up four notches. Dabi can’t believe some of the details she remembers, can barely remember them himself sometimes, but his ring finger on his right hand has been crooked ever since that day, and it serves as a stark reminder of the past they’ve endured.

-While she works at the laptop, though, the things she mutters are not incidents, but random sequences of letters and numbers, her hands moving in sync with the mumbled symbols.

-And it takes them a while to pick up on it, but these memorized segments are the extremely distorted weblinks to clearly self-made web pages, at least six or seven in total.

- She doesn’t stumble once. Not on a single number, not in any of it, and every single one of those links are complete gibberish, entirely disconnected from one another.

-The web pages are filled with images, all of them old, all of them pre-dating Rei’s hospital admittance

-And it’s with this that Dabi has to leave, storming out of the warehouse, and Rei gets this carefully blank look on her face, because they’re both reliving nightmares, and they’ve barely started scrolling the pages.

-There are scanned copies of journal entries written in different coloured crayons and a wobbly hand, more entries on some of the other web pages done much steadier and in pencil, but with the same printing. There are photos of bruises, scars, burns, four different children, one woman’s gaunt face. Personal accounts, typed and handwritten, short and blurry-quality video clips of Endeavor’s “training”. It’s a montage of horror, carefully collected and dispersed across the web through links that meant nothing, that would never come up as a result from a search engine, spread across multiple pages so that even if one page were found and deleted, there were many more to replace it.

-But none of them have been found, none of them have been taken down because Endeavor, man that he was, had assumed that because his wife never raised her fists, she wasn’t fighting back.

-It’s in that moment that it clicks with everyone else, too: Rei Todoroki didn’t come up with this plan to take down Endeavor in the few months they’ve known her- she’s been planning this for years.

-The way that Rei takes all of this in, and then almost too-calmly asks Kurogiri if he can please make her a cup of tea is terrifying, even to a room full of criminals.

-They all fall asleep restlessly that night, reminded of their own pasts and the demons that have led them to where they are- and as for Rei? Well, she gets to cross another twenty-seven incidents off her list, and when she falls asleep as well, the weight on her chest feels much lighter.

-When Hawks shows up the next day, it’s still early in the morning- early enough for most of the league to still be in bed, and a few hours before his time to patrol. He comes bearing a tin of sweets for Rei, her bitter, dark-haired son (she’s so happy he’s found a friend), and a USB stick.

- “I hear we’re raising hell,” He says cheerily by way of greeting.

-They go through the evidence quietly the hero scrolling through the pages with an increasingly scary look on his face.

-He doesn’t tell Rei what he and Dabi have already hashed out between the night before and six o’clock in the morning- that A) Hawks is definitely a spy, and damn did it ever piss him off to have Dabi out him so easily, because he was sure he had him fooled, B) Dabi won’t out him to the rest of the league so long as Hawks agrees to help Rei, and C) None of this can go through the Commission. Absolutely none of it.

-They’re both very aware that if the Commission gets their hands on this kind of info, it will be swept under the rug faster than either man can blink, and the people instigating the problem will probably disappear. Hawks has heard them use the sentence “It’s for the greater good” far too many times to cover up too many things, and a sickened part of him doesn’t want to consider if maybe they’ve used those exact same words to cover up situations like this before.

-And damn it all, he agrees even though he knows it’ll probably come around and bite him in the ass- because at this rate, if the Commission catches wind of him being affiliated with this plot in any way after it all breaks loose, he’ll be on the rack. But he tries not to consider what he has to lose, and instead focuses on the fact that he can help these people, and maybe others as well. Who knows how many “heroes” have ruined lives just like Endeavor and walked free.

-And really, in the heart of it all, he wants to help the Todoroki family. Sure, he doesn’t know Natsuo and Fuyumi and Shouto very well, but Rei has slowly warmed over a portion of his heart that he didn’t realize was lacking a mother figure, and Dabi means more to him than he’d like to admit. Growing up, he was never given the liberty of being attached to people, tangible people who were his equals and not his icons. Now, having grown so fond of these two in particular, he’s beginning to understand why some people are willing to lay everything on the line for family.

-So he goes through the evidence and does his best to ignore how Rei strokes her hands through Dabi’s hair as the two of them watch as well, not entirely sure who the action is meant to comfort more. All the while, he’s trying to match up the man in these entries, the man in these clips and photos, to the man he’s risked his life for, fought beside, trusted wholeheartedly.

-Betrayal has a bitter taste, and it lingers in his mouth.

- He’s just finishing up downloading all the files onto the USB drive, when Rei finally speaks.

- “If this works, you’ll be the new Number One.”

-His hands stumble on the keys, and a sinking sense of melancholy sets in. Quite honestly, Hawks has never aimed for the Number One position in the way that others do. He’s never gone after it like he needed to have the top position or nothing- in fact, he would be happy to settle lower in the top ten then where he is now.

-But there’s really no avoiding it, and while he’s not sure what kind of complications it will have in his career, in his mission, in his growing relationships with both Rei and Dabi, he determines that’s a problem for another day.

-“I’ll be better than him.” Hawks says, the words coming out as more of a promise than the assurance he intended. Rei’s answering smile is caught somewhere between satisfied, bittersweet, and proud.

- “Good.”

-He takes the USB stick, gives Rei a quick hug and demands that she eat at least three of the chocolates herself before passing them around to everyone else (because he absolutely knows that she will) and leaves a shared parting look with Dabi that means everything and nothing all at once.

-Rei notices of course, but it’s really not her place to pry and she’s honestly not even sure that Touya himself has any idea what his current situation is with the winged hero, so she chooses to let the matter drop. The fact that the chocolates Hawks brought her happen to be her son’s favourite doesn’t entirely go over her head either, but she chooses to let that slide as well

- In the end, true to their collective nature, the LOV still agrees to also attempt a physical attack on the Number One hero, if only to bolster their media image. After all, they’ve been lying low long enough that the hero world needs a reminder that they’re still alive and kicking.

-And honestly, maybe just a little, they also want to give the world an image of Endeavor being taken down in more ways than one.

-Dabi volunteers immediately, that much kind of being a given, but everyone’s surprised when Rei offers to go as well. So far, everyone aside from the league and Hawks is still under the impression that Rei’s hospitalized- her image still isn’t tarnished, and if she wanted to, she could walk away from the league that minute and never suffer consequences for it. The instant her face is shown in correlation with them? There’s no going back from that.

-But she’s adamant, and it’s with some reluctance that they give in. In some ways, it’s only fair- this is personal for her after all, so it makes sense that she’d want to be involved. They settle on letting the mother and son handle the fire hero, and make plans to have everyone else ready to back them up if needs be.

-Besides, they’re out to absolutely destroy his image, and what better way to do that than have Endeavor’s own family do so? Bonus points for dramatic flair, nobody will be forgetting this for a while.

-Before long, it’s the night before the whole operation, and everyone’s restless as hell. Twice and Toga watch five consecutive episodes of some awful cake-decorating show that neither of them can stand before calling it a night, Spinner’s gone for most of the evening, and in a rare show of caring, Shigaraki puts down a steaming cup of soothing tea in front of Rei, the kind that she always steeps for him when he starts getting antsy and in his head. It’s a kind gesture from the young man, and she makes sure to smile warmly when she thanks him for it, pleased when he chooses to stay and sit at the table with her. They don’t make conversation, but just knowing that the other is around is comforting in itself.

-Rei ends up staying up later than he does, and it’s with a somewhat awkward and unpracticed motion that the man reaches out to pat her hand before heading to his own room, the action jerky like a rusty machine, but still appreciated. Rei smiles into her cup when she notices that the leader of their rag-tag little group has been gradually getting more tactile with those around him, wearing those gloves she made for him at almost all times. He still has a long way to go before he’ll be able to handle true contact, but she can see the effort he’s making, and every little bit of progress marks a new milestone.

-Dabi also spends the night away from the league, but Rei isn’t too worried about her eldest child. She knows exactly where he’ll end up, knows that he’s in good hands. After all, there’s probably nowhere safer for him to be than with the one other person in this world who cares for him just as much as she does.

-And on that note, Hawks spends most of the night discreetly flying all across Japan, dropping off printed files of incriminating evidence under an anonymous cover and using several fake emails to reach out to news agencies, freelance journalists, newspapers, magazine editors- anybody he can think of who would take this on as a scoop and spread the proof like wildfire. By the next morning, he knows that he’ll be seeing this stuff all over the media- he just hopes it’s been enough.

-When he returns home to find the door already unlocked, he doesn’t even bother turning on the lights. Instead, he locks the door behind him and makes his way over to the couch, not surprised at all to discover a familiar lanky figure passed out unawares.

-Normally he’d just leave him, maybe toss a blanket over the other man in passing, and continue on his way. But… After tonight, everything was going to change, and who knew what was going to happen to all of them, yes, but especially him and Dabi and this… Well, whatever it was that they were building.

-So he wakes the other man up instead, smiling as blue eyes catch on his own, and they talk. They talk about everything Hawks can think of to talk about, every little question he’s ever wanted to know about this mysterious person who’s taken up such a huge portion of his life recently. And for once, Dabi doesn’t meet him with resistance for his curiosity, seeming to have come to the same conclusion. 

-Eventually they end up in Hawks’ bed, still just talking, laying side by side. There’s a strange sense of rebellion in the intimacy of it all, and the part of Hawks that has always loved pushing boundaries, fighting his leash, is basking in this. The Commission had wanted him to get close to Dabi, but he doubts they’d intended for him to get close enough to press a brave kiss to the other man’s forehead as they both start drifting off, to be close enough to hear his breath stutter before he hesitantly drapes an arm over the hero’s waist. If they could see him now, they’d expect him to be luring Dabi into some kind of trap, stabbing him in the back after earning his trust.

-But for now, the greatest “fuck you” he can send their way is by choosing to be gentle over violent, by choosing this person over his mission, by going after what he wants for once, damn it-

- “You won’t be there tomorrow, will you?”

-No, no he won’t be. As a hero, if he were present, he’d be expected to step in, and that’s the last thing he wants to do here, especially if it means facing off against not only Dabi, but Rei as well. The thought of even acting threatening to the woman is enough to turn his stomach.

-And honestly, if anyone had ever told Hawks that at twenty three and well into his professional career, he would find himself cradling a villain in his bed and whispering promising words of encouragement about the upcoming takedown of his childhood idol, he would never have believed them.

-Eventually they fall asleep this way, and Dabi has never really known, in all his life, what safety feels like but he’s pretty sure this is it.

-Skipping ahead to the next morning, Endeavor is already out on patrol when the news bombs start dropping. And of course, the reaction from the public is… Explosive, to say the least.

-There’s a lot of shock and a lot of horror, and absolute outrage. The only thing to really do in a situation like this, as far as news is concerned, is to go for a follow-up, so there are people all over the city trying to track down their Number One to get some answers.

-Meanwhile, Endeavor has no clue this is happening. At this point, the worst part of his day is not yet the fact that his hero career will be over in the span of a week, but that he ran into a familiar crispy edgelord and just… Doesn’t have time for this shit again.

-He expects Dabi to start monologuing to some degree, so when the villain starts off with, “Do you remember me?” it’s not really any kind of surprise.

-But it’s when Dabi responds to his irritated retort with a more firm, “No- do you remember me?” that Endeavor halts in his tracks a little bit. He’s not entirely sure what this creepy asshole is going for, but it’s setting him on edge, like there’s something in this situation that he has missed observing.

-And, for starters, he’s missed seeing the film crew behind him, although he will notice them eventually. 

-But then this criminal starts talking about his children. Shouto, Natsuo, Fuyumi. He talks about how Shouto was kept separate from them, how he isolated the other two like they were never good enough, how he pushed his youngest so hard, the boy cried himself to sleep every night. Dabi starts listing events, scenarios, as if he gave a shit about them, as if he was there-

-And that’s when it clicks.

-When it does, he just outright cuts the other man off, a scowl working its way onto his face, disgust curdling in his gut. Part of him can’t believe it, that his long lost son has returned to him in the form of a ghoul, and the other part doesn’t accept it at all.

- “You’re not Touya.”

-At first, Dabi stares at him incredulously and starts to laugh, because how the hell could he not be, given the list of offences he just spouted off, but Endeavor corrects him, voice chillingly cold. “You might’ve been, but you’re not anymore. I gave you that name, and I can just as easily take it away. I set you up for greatness, and you chose this?!”

-The rage is bubbling over now, and the look on Dabi’s face has gone from one of irritated humour to a sheer blank slate. “You’re not my son. No family of mine would be so weak as to fall into villainy.”

-And, well, that line basically digs his grave for him, because from out of the shadows steps Rei Todoroki, and in the ways her eyes are blazing, one could’ve sworn she’d stolen Endeavour’s Hellfire right out of his hands.

-Instantaneously, half of Japan is losing their collective shit. In the span of six whole hours, Endeavor’s been exposed, Touya Todoroki is back from the dead (and is, as it turns out, one of the most prominent LOV members), and Endeavor’s wife has not only escaped the hospital she was admitted in, but has apparently sided with the villains as well? And this is all being filmed on live television?

-Every building with a functional TV is tuned in. Hawks is in line for coffee when he catches sight of the news channel and decides he’s going to slow down for once in his life, and not take it to go. Natsuo is watching the whole thing go down while munching on a bowl of cereal in his apartment, and as shocking as the whole situation is, it’s immensely satisfying as well.

-Shouto Todoroki watches from the dorm common room, and nobody knows what to say.

-And let’s just talk about Aizawa for a moment, shall we?

-Aizawa is a stoic man of few words, and even fewer needs in life. He’s simple, pragmatic, a slightly pessimistic rationalist through experience, and pretty laid back as far as most things go.

-But you don’t ever fuck around with his students.

-If anyone is going to react poorly about this, it is Shouta Aizawa, hands down. Unlike Hawks, Aizawa has never looked up to Endeavor as a hero. He’s never even liked the guy. And therefore, he has nothing to lose when his manageable contempt for the hero escalates to seering, undiluted hatred. Aizawa does not have a fuck to give; Endeavor just made it onto his shit-list.

-And the worst part of it is that he didn’t really suspect anything. He probably would’ve assumed that Endeavor was hard on his son, but he would never have guessed even remotely close to everything that’s been uncovered. And this is Shouto, Shouto who is always so polite and aloof, and so eerily unshakable for a boy his age.

-Hell, his classmates just got him to partake in his first Disney marathon four days ago, and he couldn’t stop grinning all the way through Frozen. The boy’s made so much progress in being here, has been finally opening up and making friends- but now he’s staring blankly at the TV screen while the news feeds roll, and Aizawa is literally quaking he is so pissed off. 

-So while the rest of his students gather somewhat uncomfortably in the common room, watching the television with wide eyes, all of them clearly trying to decide between going to comfort the youngest Todoroki and leaving him be, Aizawa walks in with an extra blanket and two mugs of tea and just… Chills with him? The rest of the class is shook.

-And Aizawa doesn’t say anything either. He just gestures towards the TV and asks if Todoroki would like it left on, and when the boy gives him a silent nod back, he’s content to leave it at that. 

-Gradually, the rest of class 1-A begins to gather as well, quietly collecting around their shaken classmate. The couch is not near big enough for all of them, but they make it work.

-Midoriya’s curled into Todoroki’s other side, Iida and Uraraka sitting by his feet on the floor. Surprisingly enough, Bakugou chooses to stand, but directly behind where Todoroki’s seated on the sofa, hovering at his back and looking silently livid, which is even worse than when he’s loud. There’s students gathered around on the floor, standing like the blond, sitting on the arm of the couch like Kaminari is perched. 

-And it’s bad enough going through the Endeavor twist, but when Dabi reveals himself as Touya, Todoroki just blanches. There’s a million things running across his face all at once, and half of them are crushed. 

-Even Aizawa doesn’t really know how to react to that, and the room falls into a hushed silence until Bakugou finally speaks up.

- “I can’t believe your fucking brother kidnapped me, Icy Hot.”

-And then suddenly, noise. Kirishima is squawking and smacking Bakugou’ arm and telling him not to be insensitive, and Midoriya is overanalyzing, and Aoyama’s saying something about the woods and the Summer Camp attack, but nobody can really hear him-

-And over it all, Todoroki is laughing. It’s not an entirely wholehearted laugh, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. 

-When Rei steps up, though, that laughter fades quickly. Suddenly, Shouto Todoroki is four years old again, watching his mother face his raging inferno of a father, and all the previous boisterous life in the room gets sucked out at the sight.

-Throughout all of this, Aizawa’s been trying to keep his distance somewhat. Shouto’s never been a very affectionate student or individual in general, and neither is the erasing-quirk hero. But seeing how tiny and frail his student appears, shrinking in on himself as the drama keeps unfolding- well, Shouta doesn’t hesitate to put a comforting arm over the boy’s shoulders, noting with approval that Midoriya has snagged one of Todoroki’s hands as well, and is trying to keep him grounded.

-He gets a few notifications that he’s being paged to head out onto the scene, but he ignores them. Aizawa’s priorities are and always have been his students. If some other hero cares enough about hauling Endeavor’s ass out of trouble, they can rush in and help him, but Aizawa’s never been shy about making his opinions clear. He’s right where he needs to be, and he’s not moving.

-Rei is not afraid.

-That’s the first thing she realizes when she makes a move to stand by Touya, and sees Enji’s eyes widen in disbelief. She has stood in this exact position so many times, has stood before this man on too many occasions to be afraid of the wrath in his eyes. She is not afraid, she has evened the playing field, and she will not let him break her again.

-The worst part of the whole thing isn’t even seeing him again, meeting like this with the remains of a shattered family falling down around them. The worst part is that he sees her, narrows his eyes, and tells her to get out of the way. The first words out of his mouth are an order, same as they’ve always been. And right now? She has no intention of complying. Never again.

-When she doesn’t move, he repeats himself, angrier this time. He’s pouring flames, a spectacle that would have instilled her with enough terror ten years ago to do whatever he said, and not speak a word. But as she sees Endeavor winding up to attack, eyes fixed on Touya, the young man, her boy, reaching out to pull her behind him-

-Endeavor lunges. Rei shoves. Dabi ends up on the ground well out of harm’s way, and for a moment, the world stops on its axis.

-Enji Todoroki did not bribe over an entire family to win a woman with a run-of-the-mill ice quirk. Were that the case, he never would have wasted his time. Rei was a meek woman with a powerful ability that she barely used, and never in extremes; a little bit of frost to cool a juicebox, a cool hand to soothe a scrape.

-So when an absolutely terrifying, guttural roar of a sentence reaches him, seconds before thousands of pounds worth of ice go shooting up in a very obviously threatening display of power, he’s inclined to stop dead. 

- “Don’t you dare touch my son.”

- Rei’s teeth are clenched, eyes hard, hands still braced to fight. The exertion of putting up so much ice hasn’t even seemed to affect her, a simple flick of the finger compared to the full-handed slap she could deliver.

-For once, Endeavor hesitates.

- “You won’t lay a damned hand on him,” She hisses, and a collection of icicles shoot forward at her words, though they stop a good four meters away from where he stands, “I’ll never let you do that again. Because you were right about one thing, Enji- he’s not your son. He’s mine. Natsuo, Shouto, Fuyumi, Touya; they are all my children. You haven’t done a single thing in this life to deserve them.”

-Endeavor sputters at this, but only for a second before Rei’s ice is growing again, eyes cold and dangerous.

-He manages some kind of threat about having her rehospitalized, still unsure how it happened that she was out in the first place. Rei’s smile is not a pleasant one.

- “I don’t recommend you try that.” She says quietly, and in seconds, there’s ice everywhere, Rei unleashing her powers for the first time in well over twenty-five years. It shoots up in an enormous plume, cutting itself short before reaching the reporting camera crew, but forcing Endeavor to leap out of the way and scramble to safety.

-Rei and Dabi slip away in the confusion, regrouping with the league who were hoping to see some more general ass-kicking, but greatly appreciated the display nonetheless.

-And across the rest of Japan, people notice. Hawks chokes on his coffee when the ice flares up, stunned to disbelief that sweet little Rei, who had been so careful preening out his bad feathers that time he got stuck in a storm, was effortlessly capable of this. Natsuo drops his bowl, Shouto sits agape. None of them have ever seen Rei use her powers to her full capability, and the effect is stunning. 

- “That explains… A great deal.” Aizawa mumbles eventually, voice barely audible over one Katsuki Bakugou shouting “Fuck yeah!” at the top of his lungs from behind the sofa, very nearly scaring Midoriya off the couch. The news roll continues, but there’s nothing more to see aside from Endeavor shouting at a group of heroes that have arrived suspiciously late.

- “I… Yeah, I guess so.” Todoroki manages. It’s overwhelming, all of it, and while he has a billion questions in his mind, there’s one that sticks out more than the others: what on earth does all of this mean for them now?

What this means is that I guess we’re doing a part three now too, because I don’t know how to cut things short. Sorry guys. Thanks for the support, if you’ve read this far, and hopefully I’ll have some new content up for you all soon!

[addicted-to-dc]

Red Hood’s Little Monster (Part 6)- Red Hood/Jason Todd X Gender fluid!Reader

Welp, I’m actually posting something! Hopefully you all will enjoy this VERY long fic. Also, I currently do not have my tag list on me, so I cannot tag anyone for a while, not until I can find my list.

Warnings: Anger issues? Flirting?

"Come on, man, you gotta help me out," you begged, barely suppressing the urge to roll your eyes at your own words. "I just need one identity, I don't care who, but I need one now."

Norm shook his head, pacing around the room while biting his nail, "You know that I can't do it in less than a day! I need at least a week in advance to do it, to make sure it is prepared properly and won't get any red flags! You know if you get caught while using a passport and documents from me, that could damage my reputation!"

"Oh come on! You gave me one in three days," you spat, trying to keep your emotions in control, "and I'm offering double the pay that I gave you that time! I don't give a shit what gender, race, hell, I don't care what age, just give me a goddamn passport and a picture of the poor bastard. You know that I can handle situations like these, can you?"

He pointed at you, shaking his hand as he muttered a few curses. Wiping his face, he scratched his beard as he thought up for some type of solution, something that could save him from being killed by you. As soon as he thought of something, he ran into the back room and dug through his things, searching for the one type of person that would guarantee her a way to escape. Grasping onto the documents, he walked back into the room and handed you what you requested.

Looking over the documents, you scanned over the man in the photo. He had a handsome face, but his face would definitely blend in. His dark skin glowed in the sunlight of the photo, making his dark brown eyes look like honey.

"What happened to him?" you asked Norm, pocketing the documents.

"Disappeared without a trace," he replied solemnly. "He had no family, friends, or next of kin, so you will not deal with any unwanted attention."

"Did you know him?" you questioned, watching his eyes shift to the floor. "If this is too personal I will not take-"

"No, take it," Norm stated, waving you off. "He was a... a good guy, a loving one, too, but his kindness got him killed. It's somewhat comforting that a little bit of him will be back, y' know?"

You nodded, "Thank you, Norm. The money will be transferred to you tomorrow, I just need to get a head start before drawing attention to your bank account."

"I know the drill by now," he chuckled, patting you on the shoulder. "Stay safe out there."

"You, too," you replied, adjusting your jacket before leaving the building.

Stepping out into the sun, you pulled your sunglasses onto your face and continued forward, determined to slink back into the shadows like you always did. You had the upper hand now, but for how long? They had more resources than you by far, but it would take time for them to get everything. Your father's quarrel with Bruce Wayne would spark arguments if he requested help from him, but there was the possibility that his familial instincts will suspend the fighting.

Huffing, you moved forward on your path, heading to the nearest alley to shift. It wasn't the most inconspicuous, but it was better than going into a populated area and having questions arise. Leaning against the wall, you breathed heavily as you looked at the picture of the man, absorbing his image into your head as your body started to burn. Gritting your teeth, you felt as your muscles, bones, and other insides shift and grow, creating an exact copy of him. The shift was oddly less painful than your last ones, but you couldn't focus on that now. Pulling your hood up, you stretched out before walking out the other end of the alley, quickly getting used to the height difference of this body.

Opening your wallet, you pulled out the ID of your previous form, folding it in half and snapping it before throwing it into the nearest dumpster. Digging into your pocket, you slid the new one in, staring and memorizing all of the information. He had a California license, had a height of 5'11" and weighed 194 pounds. His birth date was August 20th, 1995, and his address was Norm's. You would read the documents containing more information on the way to your destination, but now you needed to sell the look of someone traveling. Looks like you were going to blow a lot of cash.

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

Walking through the airport, you pulled your cheap carry on suitcase, which was filled with clothes and other useless items, as you continued forward. You made sure not to look at the cameras, knowing that it would draw attention to you. Sighing, you glanced around and rubbed your eye, your exhaustion getting the better of you. Your contact had assured you that you wouldn't have to deal with security, especially when you still had your suit on. As advanced as it was, it wouldn't make it past the metal detectors that nearly all were required to pass through.

Clutching the handle, you looked around for your contact, searching for her obnoxious bright red hair. Before you could notice someone running behind you, you felt an impact against your back. It nearly made you throw a punch, but you were able to see her head notched into your neck before you made the mistake. Smiling, you laughed and turned around, hugging her to keep the act going. Her honey-colored eyes stared into yours as the both of you pulled away, but kept close physical contact.

"It's been a while since we've seen each other," she smiled, wrapping an arm around your waist, "and I must add that's one delicious form you've taken."

You chuckled at the redhead, remembering how much you hated her personality, "Might I remind you that I am a minor."

"A minor that can shapeshift into a very scrumptious adult," she smirked, removing her hand from your waist, "but I know my boundaries."

She led you through a corridor away from the TSA infested area of the airport. The sound of your footsteps reverberated through the hall, making you scan the area cautiously. From what you memorized of the blueprints of the airport, you were heading back to the loading dock, and your plan did not include going there.

"Is there a bathroom somewhere I can go before we leave?" you asked, looking around. "The coffee is kicking in."

"Don't worry, assassin, they think you're taking a private jet in the opposite direction," she stated, continuing forward. "Your plan worked, but we needed to take a more subtle route to our flight."

You didn't like the change in your plans, but even you knew that she was telling the truth. The Mya you knew wouldn't sell a customer out, especially if the customer could snap her neck before she could realize it, but that didn't mean that this was Mya.

"How's your brother and sister?" you asked, remaining behind her.

"They're okay, Gram is still in college and Grace dropped out, she's focusing on the family business currently," she replied, turning around. "Why the sudden curiosity?"

You shrugged, glaring down at her, "Because Grace is dead, you were the one who asked me to kill her, remember?"

Before she could react, you had her pinned against the wall, using your weight to keep her there. One hand held her own down while the other had her neck in its grip, squeezing just enough to make sure she wouldn't try anything.

"Who's helping my father, telepath?" you questioned her, squeezing tighter.

She dropped her disguise, revealing herself to be Miss Martian and telling you everything you needed. Without hesitation, you released her and let her fall to the ground. You ran a hand through your hair, frustrated beyond belief.

"How did they find me?" you asked yourself pacing around, completely ignoring the incapacitated Martian beneath you. "This chase needs to end right now, I can't stand this frustrating goose chase."

Rubbing your face, you sighed and glanced at the Martian, examining her while she tried to recover her breath. She was a white Martian, which was rather odd all things considering. You couldn't remember if they were outcasts of Mars or something else, but you didn't care at the moment.

"Are they waiting for me at the exit?" you asked, watching as she nodded 'yes'. "Well, I better go greet them."

Continuing down the corridor, you tried to mentally prepare yourself for what was about to occur. There had to be more than one hero helping them out, there definitely had to be. You had to admit you were slightly surprised that heroes would help the Outlaws, but who were you to judge the heroes' choices. They're always going off about 'discovering your better self' and 'forgiveness is always an option if you mean it' or however it's phrased.

You didn't believe in that crap, and you knew that if someone was trying to kill you, you wouldn't be given those options. You were too dangerous to be kept alive, too dangerous to be around potential loved ones when all you had to hear was a few code words to make you lose control and kill those around you. You couldn't risk that, especially when Talia al-Ghul has a thing for your father's family, your adoptive grandfather if you can even call him that.

You resisted the urge to pull out your weapon as you got closer the exit, making it more difficult to keep your nerves on edge. As soon as you rounded the corner, the three Outlaws could be clearly seen blocking the doorway.

"Unpleasant to see you three again," you stated calmly, examining your surroundings. "Where are the other junior heroes?"

"Somewhere around," your father replied coolly. "Now, are you going to come with us consciously or unconsciously?"

"I was expecting to explain everything before you'd make that decision for me," you answered, remaining vigilant. "If I come with you, death will follow. The League of Assassins will see it as an opportunity to weaken its enemies, and I will not be able to stop them from doing so. So, if you value your lives and the ones around you, I suggest you let me disappear and let go whatever semblance of fatherly instinct you developed. I'm not yours, I wasn't raised by you, I wasn't taught to love or look up to you, we just share a genetic code."

You waited for a response, some sort of reaction from your father, but you couldn't identify anything from his body language. His red helmet obscured his face, which gave him the upper hand in this current situation.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, your frustration grew exponentially as his silence continued, "Are you going to just stand there, or actually respond to me?"

He stepped forward, making your hand instinctively go for your weapon, "The League can't touch you, (Y/N), we'll make sure of it."

"You can't be serious," you said, nearly laughing at his statement. "They are everywhere, no matter how secure it is. If they aren't affiliated with them, they are being blackmailed or have their families on a watch. They know how to break anyone, hell, they broke the great Batman many times."

"I am not Batman," he nearly growled, "and the League will have to go through me to get to you."

"This is exactly what they want," you sighed, knowing what would transpire in the future if you went with them.

Arsenal stepped forward, patting your father on the shoulder before looking in your direction, "Listen, kid, we'll make some precautions if that will ease your conscience. Even if it happens, we'll be able to deal with it."

Gritting your teeth, you punched the wall beside you, punching through to the next room. You retracted your hand and sighed, your anger contained for the moment. Thinking about your other options, you could escape them once again, but they would find you again and again. Dusting off your hand, you stomped toward the three adults and walked past them.

"Let's go before I change my mind," you huffed, hoping that you would not regret your decision in the future.

[identityexcavationstation]

The High Fidelity Remake is Good and my Identity is Irreversibly Linked to Music Consumption

Hi! So, I’m kinda insane about playlists.

This year I’ve made a lot of them. They’ve been short and snappy on index cards, scanned and pasted in a book and uploaded to the internet. (I’ve really fallen in love with index card playlists and they’re my thing now and I think everyone should do them always and forever.) They were easy to churn out as a retrospective exercise because the music I listened to as a teenager really defined my high school experience. Also, I have most of my favorite songs from that period in a very dramatic playlist I started in 2014 so it was really a game of copy-and-paste. 

Making these smol boys in batches has been a really peculiar experience because for years now, I’ve only made one playlist at a time. In my second semester of college, I’d officially burned myself out listening to only CHVRCHES for three months and began venturing elsewhere. (Don’t get me wrong, CHVRCHES absolutely bangs, but you can only listen to “Never Ending Circles” so many times before getting seasick.) All of the random songs I was listening to made me feel kinda hazy and purple, like I’d done all of this before. So I made a playlist full of them and called it “Deja Vu.”

I added to it all semester, and then suddenly it was summer and I didn’t feel purple and hazy anymore⁠—everything was blue and crisp on the way to South Haven as my friend blasted “Settle Down” by Kimbra in her beat-up Honda. So I started a new playlist and named it the first word that popped into my head: “Roots.”

Using Deja Vu as a rubric, I developed some ground rules for the playlists I would go on to create. They are pretty nonsensical but also exceedingly firm because if I don’t make rules for every area of my life I feel like I’m falling into a deep and limitless void. Health! Anyway, the rules are:

The playlist’s title has to be a short noun (seven letters maximum).

This has since transformed into a noun that is also a verb.

To generate a title, I ask myself what short word I would use to describe the phase of life I’m currently in. The answer comes quickly and reflexively, and I choose the very first word I think of.

One song per artist, no repeats!

Exceptions are made for artists who are featured on a track.

There have been times when I’ve obsessively listened to a whole album or an artist’s entire discography, so I have to choose just one song that represents the very best of that album or artist.

Tracks are added chronologically, based on when I first hear them and/or start listening to them compulsively.

The playlist has to contain an amount of tracks that is divisible by five.

If a song in a playlist is deleted from Spotify, I have to find a replacement asap that is accurate to what I was listening to when that playlist was being created.

and, most importantly, 

I can’t make a new playlist until I feel I’m finished with the current one.

These playlists represent seasons of my life, cycles in which I change and evolve and stagnate and fuck up and try again. The only rule I have for beginning a new playlist is that I feel done with the current one—those songs are a little stale and don’t represent me anymore. These “seasons” don’t have any set length, and I can never predict when I’ll feel like a new being who needs new songs to define her. So far, my life has looked like this:

Deja Vu - 176 days (12.03.16 - 05.28.17) Most common lyrics: now, love, time, need, take

snow that covers ivy that covers bricks, towers made from dining hall dishes, smiling at the bus stop without knowing, sheet masks in the dorm bathroom at 2am, pink string lights and pink crocheted blankets and pink shag carpeting, cheap beer behind tarps and walking everyone home

Roots - 111 days (05.28.17 - 09.16.17)  Most common lyrics: love, one, give, wanna, know

t-shirt tan lines, mozzarella and tomato and basil and singed spaghetti, sunset walks around abandoned high schools, green leaves outlined in watercolor, the smell of mildew and old paper in banker’s boxes, sweat-soaked french braids, the knife twist of eye contact, tarot readings under lamplight

Walls - 110 days (09.16.17 - 01.04.18)   Most common lyrics: wanna, know, baby, take, feel

crying in the gender-neutral restroom, pretty boys holding guitars or rolling rock, photos in the forest, blue carpeting and lofted bedframes, pitch-black bonfires, sitting in the dining hall to just watch the people pass, snow on eyelashes in large wet clumps, laughing at lies

Bite - 78 days (01.04.18 - 03.23.18)    Most common lyrics: know, love, stay, come, need

impatience at the airport, texting on the laundry room floor, nervous night drives, five grilled cheese sandwiches, acne like freckles, ceiling photos taken in secret, watercolor lines and paper houses, broken glass on the sidewalk, ink-stained forearms, notebook paper comics, writing small on basement walls

Windows - 131 days (03.23.18 - 08.01.18)   Most common lyrics: love, now, know, baby, fall

books piled up by the bed, rum and coke and orange juice and vodka and cheap white wine, rainy day night walks, streetlights turning the leaves orange, echoes from the party upstairs, solo trips to the grocery store, always leaving the blinds open, aperol and chai lattes and smørrebrød, never coming home

Grip - 136 days (08.01.18 - 12.15.18)    Most common lyrics: know, boy, lost, girl, night

read receipts, the creaking of an empty house, sand and bricks and traffic cones, sitting on the curb and shaking, applause at dinner, bubble tea, bike rides in torn jeans, mr brightside blasting at 10am, doodles during lectures, embroidery at the kitchen table, blue bus panic attacks, half an apple for lunch

Wait - 117 days (12.15.18 - 04.11.19)  Most common lyrics: heart, want, one, back, know

crying in the lobby, measuring oats by the quarter cup, drunken voice memos, shoes on power lines, another bowl of granola, reading all the lyrics, photos taken with the flash on, sleeping on strange couches, shoeboxes full of photographs, wire catching the sunlight, fifteen minutes of windchill

Wave - 108 days (04.11.19 - 07.28.19)  Most common lyrics: wanna, know, now, love, come

dancing on the porch, reading on the roof, tipsy trips to the corner store, silent heavy parlor air, chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting, barred windows and string lights and exit signs, highlighting the important parts, nails tapping on wooden tables, wet wind before the storm, biking straight into the smoke

Home - 178 days (07.28.19 - 01.22.20)   Most common lyrics: down, know, now, wanna, think

steep downhill walks, fingertips covered in graphite and lead, blank faces on green walls, forest walkways, hands gripping thighs too tightly, light leaks in darkrooms, the handwriting of strangers, chains trapped between teeth, white words left unread, twirling at the tennis court, yellow becoming blue

Hand - 63 days (01.22.20 - 03.25.20)   Most common lyrics: know, time, love, die, back

masking tape messages, laughing four shots in, BiC .07mm HB mechanical pencils slipped into coat cuffs, cheeks blushed with red ink, green floodlights and kissed knuckles, windows fogged from the inside, falling asleep with earbuds in, finger guns and everything in boxes, wedging open locked doors

_______________________________________________________________________

It’s interesting to look back at these playlists altogether, see them as self-contained units, little stories I tell about myself, about the people I used to be. Adding a song to one of these playlists was like making a vow, entering a relationship with a collection of sounds. It’s like I was saying “this song is now a part of me.” I constructed this little world for myself in the space between my ears, and it, in turn, created me.

I really mean it when I say that the first word that floats to the front of my mind becomes the title of whatever playlist I’m making. I never question what the word means, and its meaning always ends up describing that season of my life. 

“Roots” became a period of reconnecting with essential pieces of myself I thought I had abandoned. 

During “Grip,” I was holding on so tightly to things that had left me ages ago, and I think I knew that, even if I was unable to admit it to myself. 

“Wait” revealed itself in two ways: it was a time in which 1.) I felt stagnant and restless, unable to be patient, and 2.) I was forced to grasp with a physical and emotional weight that had been bearing down on me. 

The mind is a magical thing—it processes what we refuse to recognize. 

Speaking of which, these playlist covers have been driving me up the wall for ages. They’re like nails on a freaking chalkboard for my synesthesia. Is “Bite” a heavily blue playlist? Sure. But is “Home” purple? Is “Grip” pink??? I think the fuck not! 

(I could do a whole goddamn blog post on synesthesia, and I might.)

Now that I know how to switch out playlist cover art (can you believe it’s taken me this long to figure out how to do that?), I have decided to issue myself a challenge/project/way to procrastinate actual work I have to do. 

I’d like to make a piece of cover art for all of the above playlists. And because I am, to reiterate, insane, I’m setting up some Rules For Creation:

All works must be the same size, on the same type of paper using similar materials (tbd but probably graphite, colored pencil, watercolor, fineliners, and/or collage).

The preliminary sketch for each cover must be created while listening to the playlist.

Each piece can (must?) incorporate the five most common lyrics as listed above because goddammit I did not spend four hours compiling lyrics in a web-based word cloud generator for nothing.

If I’m not having fun, I won’t make myself do it because this is literally just for laffs. 

Anyway, I’m looking forward to creating some fun weird art! I know nobody is gonna read this and nobody is gonna comment but if, by some miracle, you feel like it, comment a playlist you’ve made that you’re really proud of! Or comment if you have some weird playlist rules! Or cyberbully me! Anything’s fair game. 

TL;DR playlists are fun and I’m a maniac :)

[whatsthepointofphilosophy]

Zeitgeist Disease

Something a bit different today. Paul Graham describes himself as “a programmer, writer, and investor”, although he studied philosophy in university. In January of 2004 he wrote a blog post, and I’m posting the entire thing here. Again, I didn’t write any of it, apart from this opening bit, and it’s fifteen years old.

It’s fundamentally a vigorous defence of philosophy and it’s more relevant now than ever before. I’ve called this post Zeitgeist Disease, but he calls it What You Can’t Say.

What You Can’t Say

Have you ever seen an old photo of yourself and been embarrassed at the way you looked? Did we actually dress like that? We did. And we had no idea how silly we looked. It's the nature of fashion to be invisible, in the same way the movement of the earth is invisible to all of us riding on it.

What scares me is that there are moral fashions too. They're just as arbitrary, and just as invisible to most people. But they're much more dangerous. Fashion is mistaken for good design; moral fashion is mistaken for good. Dressing oddly gets you laughed at. Violating moral fashions can get you fired, ostracized, imprisoned, or even killed.

If you could travel back in a time machine, one thing would be true no matter where you went: you'd have to watch what you said. Opinions we consider harmless could have gotten you in big trouble. I've already said at least one thing that would have gotten me in big trouble in most of Europe in the seventeenth century, and did get Galileo in big trouble when he said it-- that the earth moves.

Nerds are always getting in trouble. They say improper things for the same reason they dress unfashionably and have good ideas: convention has less hold over them.

It seems to be a constant throughout history: In every period, people believed things that were just ridiculous, and believed them so strongly that you would have gotten in terrible trouble for saying otherwise.

Is our time any different? To anyone who has read any amount of history, the answer is almost certainly no. It would be a remarkable coincidence if ours were the first era to get everything just right.

It's tantalizing to think we believe things that people in the future will find ridiculous. What would someone coming back to visit us in a time machine have to be careful not to say? That's what I want to study here. But I want to do more than just shock everyone with the heresy du jour. I want to find general recipes for discovering what you can't say, in any era.

The Conformist Test

Let's start with a test: Do you have any opinions that you would be reluctant to express in front of a group of your peers?

If the answer is no, you might want to stop and think about that. If everything you believe is something you're supposed to believe, could that possibly be a coincidence? Odds are it isn't. Odds are you just think whatever you're told.

The other alternative would be that you independently considered every question and came up with the exact same answers that are now considered acceptable. That seems unlikely, because you'd also have to make the same mistakes. Mapmakers deliberately put slight mistakes in their maps so they can tell when someone copies them. If another map has the same mistake, that's very convincing evidence.

Like every other era in history, our moral map almost certainly contains a few mistakes. And anyone who makes the same mistakes probably didn't do it by accident. It would be like someone claiming they had independently decided in 1972 that bell-bottom jeans were a good idea.

If you believe everything you're supposed to now, how can you be sure you wouldn't also have believed everything you were supposed to if you had grown up among the plantation owners of the pre-Civil War South, or in Germany in the 1930s-- or among the Mongols in 1200, for that matter? Odds are you would have.

Back in the era of terms like "well-adjusted," the idea seemed to be that there was something wrong with you if you thought things you didn't dare say out loud. This seems backward. Almost certainly, there is something wrong with you if you don't think things you don't dare say out loud.

Trouble

What can't we say? One way to find these ideas is simply to look at things people do say, and get in trouble for.

Of course, we're not just looking for things we can't say. We're looking for things we can't say that are true, or at least have enough chance of being true that the question should remain open. But many of the things people get in trouble for saying probably do make it over this second, lower threshold. No one gets in trouble for saying that 2 + 2 is 5, or that people in Pittsburgh are ten feet tall. Such obviously false statements might be treated as jokes, or at worst as evidence of insanity, but they are not likely to make anyone mad. The statements that make people mad are the ones they worry might be believed. I suspect the statements that make people maddest are those they worry might be true.

If Galileo had said that people in Padua were ten feet tall, he would have been regarded as a harmless eccentric. Saying the earth orbited the sun was another matter. The church knew this would set people thinking.

Certainly, as we look back on the past, this rule of thumb works well. A lot of the statements people got in trouble for seem harmless now. So it's likely that visitors from the future would agree with at least some of the statements that get people in trouble today. Do we have no Galileos? Not likely.

To find them, keep track of opinions that get people in trouble, and start asking, could this be true? Ok, it may be heretical (or whatever modern equivalent), but might it also be true?

Heresy

This won't get us all the answers, though. What if no one happens to have gotten in trouble for a particular idea yet? What if some idea would be so radioactively controversial that no one would dare express it in public? How can we find these too?

Another approach is to follow that word, heresy. In every period of history, there seem to have been labels that got applied to statements to shoot them down before anyone had a chance to ask if they were true or not. "Blasphemy", "sacrilege", and "heresy" were such labels for a good part of western history, as in more recent times "indecent", "improper", and "unamerican" have been. By now these labels have lost their sting. They always do. By now they're mostly used ironically. But in their time, they had real force.

The word "defeatist", for example, has no particular political connotations now. But in Germany in 1917 it was a weapon, used by Ludendorff in a purge of those who favored a negotiated peace. At the start of World War II it was used extensively by Churchill and his supporters to silence their opponents. In 1940, any argument against Churchill's aggressive policy was "defeatist". Was it right or wrong? Ideally, no one got far enough to ask that.

We have such labels today, of course, quite a lot of them, from the all-purpose "inappropriate" to the dreaded "divisive." In any period, it should be easy to figure out what such labels are, simply by looking at what people call ideas they disagree with besides untrue. When a politician says his opponent is mistaken, that's a straightforward criticism, but when he attacks a statement as "divisive" or "racially insensitive" instead of arguing that it's false, we should start paying attention.

So another way to figure out which of our taboos future generations will laugh at is to start with the labels. Take a label-- "sexist", for example-- and try to think of some ideas that would be called that. Then for each ask, might this be true?

Just start listing ideas at random? Yes, because they won't really be random. The ideas that come to mind first will be the most plausible ones. They'll be things you've already noticed but didn't let yourself think.

In 1989 some clever researchers tracked the eye movements of radiologists as they scanned chest images for signs of lung cancer. They found that even when the radiologists missed a cancerous lesion, their eyes had usually paused at the site of it. Part of their brain knew there was something there; it just didn't percolate all the way up into conscious knowledge. I think many interesting heretical thoughts are already mostly formed in our minds. If we turn off our self-censorship temporarily, those will be the first to emerge.

Time and Space

If we could look into the future it would be obvious which of our taboos they'd laugh at. We can't do that, but we can do something almost as good: we can look into the past. Another way to figure out what we're getting wrong is to look at what used to be acceptable and is now unthinkable.

Changes between the past and the present sometimes do represent progress. In a field like physics, if we disagree with past generations it's because we're right and they're wrong. But this becomes rapidly less true as you move away from the certainty of the hard sciences. By the time you get to social questions, many changes are just fashion. The age of consent fluctuates like hemlines.

We may imagine that we are a great deal smarter and more virtuous than past generations, but the more history you read, the less likely this seems. People in past times were much like us. Not heroes, not barbarians. Whatever their ideas were, they were ideas reasonable people could believe.

So here is another source of interesting heresies. Diff present ideas against those of various past cultures, and see what you get. Some will be shocking by present standards. Ok, fine; but which might also be true?

You don't have to look into the past to find big differences. In our own time, different societies have wildly varying ideas of what's ok and what isn't. So you can try diffing other cultures' ideas against ours as well. (The best way to do that is to visit them.)

You might find contradictory taboos. In one culture it might seem shocking to think x, while in another it was shocking not to. But I think usually the shock is on one side. In one culture x is ok, and in another it's considered shocking. My hypothesis is that the side that's shocked is most likely to be the mistaken one.

I suspect the only taboos that are more than taboos are the ones that are universal, or nearly so. Murder for example. But any idea that's considered harmless in a significant percentage of times and places, and yet is taboo in ours, is a good candidate for something we're mistaken about.

For example, at the high water mark of political correctness in the early 1990s, Harvard distributed to its faculty and staff a brochure saying, among other things, that it was inappropriate to compliment a colleague or student's clothes. No more "nice shirt." I think this principle is rare among the world's cultures, past or present. There are probably more where it's considered especially polite to compliment someone's clothing than where it's considered improper. So odds are this is, in a mild form, an example of one of the taboos a visitor from the future would have to be careful to avoid if he happened to set his time machine for Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1992.

Prigs

Of course, if they have time machines in the future they'll probably have a separate reference manual just for Cambridge. This has always been a fussy place, a town of i dotters and t crossers, where you're liable to get both your grammar and your ideas corrected in the same conversation. And that suggests another way to find taboos. Look for prigs, and see what's inside their heads.

Kids' heads are repositories of all our taboos. It seems fitting to us that kids' ideas should be bright and clean. The picture we give them of the world is not merely simplified, to suit their developing minds, but sanitized as well, to suit our ideas of what kids ought to think.

You can see this on a small scale in the matter of dirty words. A lot of my friends are starting to have children now, and they're all trying not to use words like "fuck" and "shit" within baby's hearing, lest baby start using these words too. But these words are part of the language, and adults use them all the time. So parents are giving their kids an inaccurate idea of the language by not using them. Why do they do this? Because they don't think it's fitting that kids should use the whole language. We like children to seem innocent.

Most adults, likewise, deliberately give kids a misleading view of the world. One of the most obvious examples is Santa Claus. We think it's cute for little kids to believe in Santa Claus. I myself think it's cute for little kids to believe in Santa Claus. But one wonders, do we tell them this stuff for their sake, or for ours?

I'm not arguing for or against this idea here. It is probably inevitable that parents should want to dress up their kids' minds in cute little baby outfits. I'll probably do it myself. The important thing for our purposes is that, as a result, a well brought-up teenage kid's brain is a more or less complete collection of all our taboos-- and in mint condition, because they're untainted by experience. Whatever we think that will later turn out to be ridiculous, it's almost certainly inside that head.

How do we get at these ideas? By the following thought experiment. Imagine a kind of latter-day Conrad character who has worked for a time as a mercenary in Africa, for a time as a doctor in Nepal, for a time as the manager of a nightclub in Miami. The specifics don't matter-- just someone who has seen a lot. Now imagine comparing what's inside this guy's head with what's inside the head of a well-behaved sixteen year old girl from the suburbs. What does he think that would shock her? He knows the world; she knows, or at least embodies, present taboos. Subtract one from the other, and the result is what we can't say.

Mechanism

I can think of one more way to figure out what we can't say: to look at how taboos are created. How do moral fashions arise, and why are they adopted? If we can understand this mechanism, we may be able to see it at work in our own time.

Moral fashions don't seem to be created the way ordinary fashions are. Ordinary fashions seem to arise by accident when everyone imitates the whim of some influential person. The fashion for broad-toed shoes in late fifteenth century Europe began because Charles VIII of France had six toes on one foot. The fashion for the name Gary began when the actor Frank Cooper adopted the name of a tough mill town in Indiana. Moral fashions more often seem to be created deliberately. When there's something we can't say, it's often because some group doesn't want us to.

The prohibition will be strongest when the group is nervous. The irony of Galileo's situation was that he got in trouble for repeating Copernicus's ideas. Copernicus himself didn't. In fact, Copernicus was a canon of a cathedral, and dedicated his book to the pope. But by Galileo's time the church was in the throes of the Counter-Reformation and was much more worried about unorthodox ideas.

To launch a taboo, a group has to be poised halfway between weakness and power. A confident group doesn't need taboos to protect it. It's not considered improper to make disparaging remarks about Americans, or the English. And yet a group has to be powerful enough to enforce a taboo. Coprophiles, as of this writing, don't seem to be numerous or energetic enough to have had their interests promoted to a lifestyle.

I suspect the biggest source of moral taboos will turn out to be power struggles in which one side only barely has the upper hand. That's where you'll find a group powerful enough to enforce taboos, but weak enough to need them.

Most struggles, whatever they're really about, will be cast as struggles between competing ideas. The English Reformation was at bottom a struggle for wealth and power, but it ended up being cast as a struggle to preserve the souls of Englishmen from the corrupting influence of Rome. It's easier to get people to fight for an idea. And whichever side wins, their ideas will also be considered to have triumphed, as if God wanted to signal his agreement by selecting that side as the victor.

We often like to think of World War II as a triumph of freedom over totalitarianism. We conveniently forget that the Soviet Union was also one of the winners.

I'm not saying that struggles are never about ideas, just that they will always be made to seem to be about ideas, whether they are or not. And just as there is nothing so unfashionable as the last, discarded fashion, there is nothing so wrong as the principles of the most recently defeated opponent. Representational art is only now recovering from the approval of both Hitler and Stalin.

Although moral fashions tend to arise from different sources than fashions in clothing, the mechanism of their adoption seems much the same. The early adopters will be driven by ambition: self-consciously cool people who want to distinguish themselves from the common herd. As the fashion becomes established they'll be joined by a second, much larger group, driven by fear. This second group adopt the fashion not because they want to stand out but because they are afraid of standing out.

So if you want to figure out what we can't say, look at the machinery of fashion and try to predict what it would make unsayable. What groups are powerful but nervous, and what ideas would they like to suppress? What ideas were tarnished by association when they ended up on the losing side of a recent struggle? If a self-consciously cool person wanted to differentiate himself from preceding fashions (e.g. from his parents), which of their ideas would he tend to reject? What are conventional-minded people afraid of saying?

This technique won't find us all the things we can't say. I can think of some that aren't the result of any recent struggle. Many of our taboos are rooted deep in the past. But this approach, combined with the preceding four, will turn up a good number of unthinkable ideas.

Why

Some would ask, why would one want to do this? Why deliberately go poking around among nasty, disreputable ideas? Why look under rocks?

I do it, first of all, for the same reason I did look under rocks as a kid: plain curiosity. And I'm especially curious about anything that's forbidden. Let me see and decide for myself.

Second, I do it because I don't like the idea of being mistaken. If, like other eras, we believe things that will later seem ridiculous, I want to know what they are so that I, at least, can avoid believing them.

Third, I do it because it's good for the brain. To do good work you need a brain that can go anywhere. And you especially need a brain that's in the habit of going where it's not supposed to.

Great work tends to grow out of ideas that others have overlooked, and no idea is so overlooked as one that's unthinkable. Natural selection, for example. It's so simple. Why didn't anyone think of it before? Well, that is all too obvious. Darwin himself was careful to tiptoe around the implications of his theory. He wanted to spend his time thinking about biology, not arguing with people who accused him of being an atheist.

In the sciences, especially, it's a great advantage to be able to question assumptions. The m.o. of scientists, or at least of the good ones, is precisely that: look for places where conventional wisdom is broken, and then try to pry apart the cracks and see what's underneath. That's where new theories come from.

A good scientist, in other words, does not merely ignore conventional wisdom, but makes a special effort to break it. Scientists go looking for trouble. This should be the m.o. of any scholar, but scientists seem much more willing to look under rocks.

Why? It could be that the scientists are simply smarter; most physicists could, if necessary, make it through a PhD program in French literature, but few professors of French literature could make it through a PhD program in physics. Or it could be because it's clearer in the sciences whether theories are true or false, and this makes scientists bolder. (Or it could be that, because it's clearer in the sciences whether theories are true or false, you have to be smart to get jobs as a scientist, rather than just a good politician.)

Whatever the reason, there seems a clear correlation between intelligence and willingness to consider shocking ideas. This isn't just because smart people actively work to find holes in conventional thinking. I think conventions also have less hold over them to start with. You can see that in the way they dress.

It's not only in the sciences that heresy pays off. In any competitive field, you can win big by seeing things that others daren't. And in every field there are probably heresies few dare utter. Within the US car industry there is a lot of hand-wringing now about declining market share. Yet the cause is so obvious that any observant outsider could explain it in a second: they make bad cars. And they have for so long that by now the US car brands are antibrands-- something you'd buy a car despite, not because of. Cadillac stopped being the Cadillac of cars in about 1970. And yet I suspect no one dares say this. Otherwise these companies would have tried to fix the problem.

Training yourself to think unthinkable thoughts has advantages beyond the thoughts themselves. It's like stretching. When you stretch before running, you put your body into positions much more extreme than any it will assume during the run. If you can think things so outside the box that they'd make people's hair stand on end, you'll have no trouble with the small trips outside the box that people call innovative.

Pensieri Stretti

When you find something you can't say, what do you do with it? My advice is, don't say it. Or at least, pick your battles.

Suppose in the future there is a movement to ban the color yellow. Proposals to paint anything yellow are denounced as "yellowist", as is anyone suspected of liking the color. People who like orange are tolerated but viewed with suspicion. Suppose you realize there is nothing wrong with yellow. If you go around saying this, you'll be denounced as a yellowist too, and you'll find yourself having a lot of arguments with anti-yellowists. If your aim in life is to rehabilitate the color yellow, that may be what you want. But if you're mostly interested in other questions, being labelled as a yellowist will just be a distraction. Argue with idiots, and you become an idiot.

The most important thing is to be able to think what you want, not to say what you want. And if you feel you have to say everything you think, it may inhibit you from thinking improper thoughts. I think it's better to follow the opposite policy. Draw a sharp line between your thoughts and your speech. Inside your head, anything is allowed. Within my head I make a point of encouraging the most outrageous thoughts I can imagine. But, as in a secret society, nothing that happens within the building should be told to outsiders. The first rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club.

When Milton was going to visit Italy in the 1630s, Sir Henry Wootton, who had been ambassador to Venice, told him his motto should be "i pensieri stretti & il viso sciolto." Closed thoughts and an open face. Smile at everyone, and don't tell them what you're thinking. This was wise advice. Milton was an argumentative fellow, and the Inquisition was a bit restive at that time. But I think the difference between Milton's situation and ours is only a matter of degree. Every era has its heresies, and if you don't get imprisoned for them you will at least get in enough trouble that it becomes a complete distraction.

I admit it seems cowardly to keep quiet. When I read about the harassment to which the Scientologists subject their critics, or that pro-Israel groups are "compiling dossiers" on those who speak out against Israeli human rights abuses, or about people being sued for violating the DMCA, part of me wants to say, "All right, you bastards, bring it on." The problem is, there are so many things you can't say. If you said them all you'd have no time left for your real work. You'd have to turn into Noam Chomsky.

The trouble with keeping your thoughts secret, though, is that you lose the advantages of discussion. Talking about an idea leads to more ideas. So the optimal plan, if you can manage it, is to have a few trusted friends you can speak openly to. This is not just a way to develop ideas; it's also a good rule of thumb for choosing friends. The people you can say heretical things to without getting jumped on are also the most interesting to know.

Viso Sciolto?

I don't think we need the viso sciolto so much as the pensieri stretti. Perhaps the best policy is to make it plain that you don't agree with whatever zealotry is current in your time, but not to be too specific about what you disagree with. Zealots will try to draw you out, but you don't have to answer them. If they try to force you to treat a question on their terms by asking "are you with us or against us?" you can always just answer "neither".

Better still, answer "I haven't decided." That's what Larry Summers did when a group tried to put him in this position. Explaining himself later, he said "I don't do litmus tests." A lot of the questions people get hot about are actually quite complicated. There is no prize for getting the answer quickly.

If the anti-yellowists seem to be getting out of hand and you want to fight back, there are ways to do it without getting yourself accused of being a yellowist. Like skirmishers in an ancient army, you want to avoid directly engaging the main body of the enemy's troops. Better to harass them with arrows from a distance.

One way to do this is to ratchet the debate up one level of abstraction. If you argue against censorship in general, you can avoid being accused of whatever heresy is contained in the book or film that someone is trying to censor. You can attack labels with meta-labels: labels that refer to the use of labels to prevent discussion. The spread of the term "political correctness" meant the beginning of the end of political correctness, because it enabled one to attack the phenomenon as a whole without being accused of any of the specific heresies it sought to suppress.

Another way to counterattack is with metaphor. Arthur Miller undermined the House Un-American Activities Committee by writing a play, "The Crucible," about the Salem witch trials. He never referred directly to the committee and so gave them no way to reply. What could HUAC do, defend the Salem witch trials? And yet Miller's metaphor stuck so well that to this day the activities of the committee are often described as a "witch-hunt."

Best of all, probably, is humor. Zealots, whatever their cause, invariably lack a sense of humor. They can't reply in kind to jokes. They're as unhappy on the territory of humor as a mounted knight on a skating rink. Victorian prudishness, for example, seems to have been defeated mainly by treating it as a joke. Likewise its reincarnation as political correctness. "I am glad that I managed to write 'The Crucible,'" Arthur Miller wrote, "but looking back I have often wished I'd had the temperament to do an absurd comedy, which is what the situation deserved."

ABQ

A Dutch friend says I should use Holland as an example of a tolerant society. It's true they have a long tradition of comparative open-mindedness. For centuries the low countries were the place to go to say things you couldn't say anywhere else, and this helped to make the region a center of scholarship and industry (which have been closely tied for longer than most people realize). Descartes, though claimed by the French, did much of his thinking in Holland.

And yet, I wonder. The Dutch seem to live their lives up to their necks in rules and regulations. There's so much you can't do there; is there really nothing you can't say?

Certainly the fact that they value open-mindedness is no guarantee. Who thinks they're not open-minded? Our hypothetical prim miss from the suburbs thinks she's open-minded. Hasn't she been taught to be? Ask anyone, and they'll say the same thing: they're pretty open-minded, though they draw the line at things that are really wrong. (Some tribes may avoid "wrong" as judgemental, and may instead use a more neutral sounding euphemism like "negative" or "destructive".)

When people are bad at math, they know it, because they get the wrong answers on tests. But when people are bad at open-mindedness they don't know it. In fact they tend to think the opposite. Remember, it's the nature of fashion to be invisible. It wouldn't work otherwise. Fashion doesn't seem like fashion to someone in the grip of it. It just seems like the right thing to do. It's only by looking from a distance that we see oscillations in people's idea of the right thing to do, and can identify them as fashions.

Time gives us such distance for free. Indeed, the arrival of new fashions makes old fashions easy to see, because they seem so ridiculous by contrast. From one end of a pendulum's swing, the other end seems especially far away.

To see fashion in your own time, though, requires a conscious effort. Without time to give you distance, you have to create distance yourself. Instead of being part of the mob, stand as far away from it as you can and watch what it's doing. And pay especially close attention whenever an idea is being suppressed. Web filters for children and employees often ban sites containing pornography, violence, and hate speech. What counts as pornography and violence? And what, exactly, is "hate speech?" This sounds like a phrase out of 1984.

Labels like that are probably the biggest external clue. If a statement is false, that's the worst thing you can say about it. You don't need to say that it's heretical. And if it isn't false, it shouldn't be suppressed. So when you see statements being attacked as x-ist or y-ic (substitute your current values of x and y), whether in 1630 or 2030, that's a sure sign that something is wrong. When you hear such labels being used, ask why.

Especially if you hear yourself using them. It's not just the mob you need to learn to watch from a distance. You need to be able to watch your own thoughts from a distance. That's not a radical idea, by the way; it's the main difference between children and adults. When a child gets angry because he's tired, he doesn't know what's happening. An adult can distance himself enough from the situation to say "never mind, I'm just tired." I don't see why one couldn't, by a similar process, learn to recognize and discount the effects of moral fashions.

You have to take that extra step if you want to think clearly. But it's harder, because now you're working against social customs instead of with them. Everyone encourages you to grow up to the point where you can discount your own bad moods. Few encourage you to continue to the point where you can discount society's bad moods.

How can you see the wave, when you're the water? Always be questioning. That's the only defence. What can't you say? And why?

[ladykateofledfordpark]

Facing the Truth (Colt x MC)

This fic was inspired by Day 8 of the Choices July Challenge hosted by @kinda-iconic under the profile @choicesjulychallenge ! It also participates in RoDAW.

Hi guys, me again! I had another idea for a Colt fic, and I decided to write it! This fic will obviously focus more on Ellie, but I hope this will give Colt more justice! =)

Dedicated to my favorite Colt stans @mariaoz and @desiree-0816! Also, of course, @brightpinkpeppercorn and @choicesarehard! You guys are the best!

Can't forget my other amazing friends @jlpplays1, @princessstellaris @itsbrindleybinch and @lady-kato with @liamzigmichael4ever! =)

Day 8 Prompt: Honesty

Pairing: Colt x MC (Ellie)- platonic or romantic

Summary: Ellie comes to an earth-shattering conclusion anout her life.

Warning: Talk about toxic parents

Unedited, as usual. =)

----------

Ellie held the picture in her hand. A younger version of herself held onto her mother's hand, as if she could only keep her there if she held on strong enough. Her father stood beside the woman, smiling at the camera with a tinge of sadness.

Ellie sighed. She brushed her thumb on her mother's figure with a sad smile. Her heart clenched, and she willed the tears back, but her body wouldn't listen. They started flowing down her face and she immediately put the frame aside. She couldn't let herself be weak. This was no reason to cry.

Even if sometimes she felt like a complete orphan.

She managed to calm down not long after. She took a shaky breath and- once she was sure she looked somewhat presentable- headed toward the door.

And when she opened it, she was surprised to see Colt there.

"What are you doing here?"

Colt fidgeted. "I heard-"

Ellie narrowed her eyes. "Nothing. You heard nothing." She closed the door after her, her steps like that of a furious soldier, when she stopped.

"What are you doing?"

Colt lowered his hand, and the warmth from his grip immediately disappeared. "Why do you hate me so much?"

Ellie turned so she was facing him once again. "Tell me one reason I shouldn't."

Colt sighed. "It was just a first impression."

"So you aren't normally such a jerk?"

His face darkened. "Not as much as your boyfriend."

"You're just saying that because you hate his guts."

Colt crossed his arms over his chest. “My life doesn’t revolve around Logan, contrary to your belief.”

Ellie copied his stance. “Then why are you here?”

He gazed past her, at the closed door, as if it could give him the answers he was looking for. After that failed, however, he looked back at Ellie. “Why were you crying?”

She straightened her posture, lasers shooting out of her eyes. “I was not crying.”

Colt didn’t back down. “You were.”

“I-” Ellie shook her head, as if to help herself focus, “Where’s Logan?”

Colt stiffened, but he didn’t back down. “On a mission.”

“Oh,” Ellie sighed. She lowered her gaze to the floor, clenching her fists. “Why can I never go on these assignments?”

“You’re not prepared.”

Ellie met his gaze, surprise flickering on her face. She didn’t expect to receive an answer, and the fact that it came from Colt made it even more unbelievable. Ever since her mother died she had to vent out her frustration, asking all the empty questions she could, to herself. Her father was never there, and even if he was technically still breathing, he never listened to her troubles. On the contrary: he dismissed her every time, leaving a strange hollowness inside her.

And now, for the first time, someone actually respected what she had to say.

“When will I be ready?”

He scanned her from head to toe, as if assessing her physical condition. At last he shrugged. “I don’t know. Depends when we'll finish the training."

"So basically as long as you can stall it?"

"I'm not that type of guy, Ellie."

She nodded, and then a strange silence ensued between them. For some reason, she now felt almost relaxed, as if she was now talking to Logan.

Maybe Colt wasn't that bad.

Ellie looked back toward the empty hallway. She could go to the others, waste her time with some more nonsense, but Colt was here. And for some reason, she felt like she could trust him.

He did, after all, come after he heard that.

She walked back toward the door and opened it wide. Light was now fading, leaving the room almost as dark as her mood. Colt entered hesitantly after her and turned on the light, the same way he lit some kind of hope in her.

She didn't understand it either.

Ellie breathed in the cold night air. She glanced out the window, smiling at the shining lights of the city. As the tension left most of her body, she walked toward the nightstand and picked up the upside-down frame. Hesitantly, in a way she wouldn't see the picture, she gave him the frame.

Colt took it, his touch gentle, as if he understood the importance of the picture to Ellie. He scanned it silently, before his eyes met hers. "It's a picture of you. Are these your parents?"

She nodded solemnly. "My mom and my dad."

"Is this what made you cry?"

Ellie flinched. She wasn't used to such blunt questions, but there was some kind of charm to it. At least there was no tiptoeing around anymore.

She took a shaky breath. "It's because of Mom's death, and Dad… he's never there for me."

Colt glanced once more at the picture, his brow furrowing. "You were close?"

Ellie shifted her gaze. "A bit."

There was a bit more silence before Colt commented once again. "You look like your dad."

"Yeah."

He lowered the photo, looking right at Ellie. "What is it with you and him? You never talk about him."

Ellie laughed bitterly. "What is there to say? I have a father who treated me like a nightingale in a gilded cage. I thought he loved me, but when he couldn't accept me for who I was I realized that wasn't the case. Just life."

Colt watched her with something dark and foreboding, as if there was a darkness in him she still didn't see. "Some parents don't deserve the time of day," he kicked the nearby table, anger rolling off of him in waves.

Ellie hesitated. "He's not that bad."

"Really?" Colt neared her, so he was standing right above her. "How do you feel when you think of him? The very first thing when you think of him?"

Ellie frowned. She imagined her father, the kindness in his eyes, his genuine smile in the mornings.

And then she saw him shake his head to yet another request, her shaking hand when she got a grade that was less than an A, the constant fear of letting him down. And how complete she felt once she left home, with her head held high.

It wasn't an easy decision, but Ellie could never go back on it.

So she said the one word she never connected to her father. The name of the feeling that made some days horrible to come home to.

"Dread."

Colt's mouth tightened. "Exactly, and if he was a good father you would have been home by now. Not with us."

She shook her head. "I don't know, Colt-"

"He never even tried to contact you, to check how you were."

"Neither did I."

He met her eyes. "Because you were better off without him."

Ellie bit her lip. Once more she looked out the window, but this time the sight wasn't comforting. It was cold and threatening, a world she didn't even know. "What about you? Your father?"

His face clouded. "Glad I left that piece of trash behind."

"And Kaneko?"

Colt shrugged. "Verdict's still out."

He lowered his gaze to the picture in his hand, now with only the back to him. Ellie watched him, the silence in the room settling some sort of calm on her. It was nice, for once, to feel at peace.

Without the masks, without the facades, without the lies.

For once, she was honest with herself, and something in her finally relaxed. That ugly monster of lies disappeared, now becoming some sort of serenity.

And it was all thanks to Colt.

"Thank you," she found herself whispering.

He met her gaze, the shock written clearly on his features. "For what?"

She gestured at the picture, a sad smile to her face. "This."

Colt walked to the small nightstand and put down the picture, its back still to him. "So you don't hate me anymore?"

Ellie smirked. "Doubtful."

A small smile grew on his face as he studied her. It was hardly detectable, but it was still there. "Guess I was right about you."

"Maybe you were."

He sent her another smile before leaving the room, his shape disappearing once he cut a corner.

Ellie thoughtfully took the frame, taking in every tiny detail of the delicate framework. A smile rose to her face as her heart lifted, and only one thought crossed her mind.

At the end of the day, some families are better than others. And she already found a place she could truly be herself.

[eilonwiiy]

Bookends ; a Witchlands AU

Summary: Iseult det Midenzi never expected to go to a top university, so when her mother falls ill and she is forced to drop out to make ends meet, life has never seemed so unfair. But when she starts working at the local library and is unexpectedly assigned in the Children's Room, a certain monosyllabic man and his thrice-damned demon child start showing up and Iseult begins to wonder if the threads of fate have a plan for her after all.

Ships: Iseult/Aeduan, Safi/Merik, minor Ryber/Kullen (and more... stay tuned!)

Tags: modern AU, college setting, family, friendship, humor, fluff, slow-burn, romance, eventual smut

Read on AO3: here

Tag list: (please let me know if you’d like to be added!) @lseultdetmidenzi

*   .   *   .   *   .   *   .

chapter 1

811.34 Courrier

811.34 Gaines

811.34 Vasiliev

Iseult reached for another book from the cart.  She ran a pale finger along its spine, noting the title vaguely, before settling on the call number at its base.

813.01 Balthazar

Her gaze lifted to the long line of books shelved in front of her, scanning for one in particular, before bending low and craning her neck to read the next row underneath. A twinge of discomfort radiated through her neck protesting the awkward angle, but she stayed hunched over, reading the call numbers until she found what she was looking for.

813 Allein

813.2 Husmond

Ah. She slipped Balthazar’s book neatly between the two titles, then drew herself up with a tired slowness. Stifling a sigh, she rolled her shoulders and let her head loll back before rotating it from side to side. Standing upright was decidedly more comfortable than the 90 degree angle she’d bent in and out of all throughout the day, but no amount of stretching seemed to ease the ache in her neck and back. An unavoidable caveat of working at the Venaza City Library.

Five months ago when she’d taken the job, Iseult det Midenzi had not considered the physical toll books could have on a person. Sure, she had read Eridysi’s Lament enough times to know books could break your heart worse than any one person could. But books existed to exercise the mind. The most Iseult had exerted herself for a book was forcing herself to stay awake long enough to read just one more chapter a dozen or so times before resigning herself to being a filthy liar. And that was admittedly more a testament to her mental willpower than any physical endurance she may have possessed. Besides, the price she paid for a sleepless night was well worth the reward. It certainly didn’t leave her physically disabled.

Yet here she was, 22 and condemned to live in the body of a 90-year-old woman. All because she shelved books for a living.

Safi told her she’d have the ass of a model by the time she quit, what with all the squatting. Iseult had yet to notice any improvements. (Not that she was checking, of course.)

Maybe it really was time to go back to the gym, she thought as she massaged the painful knot at the base of her neck. Finally start going to yoga again like her best friend had been nagging her to do every Saturday morning since school term had started. A year ago it would have been Iseult dragging Safi out of bed at 7 A.M., succeeding only by using the one means of bribery she possessed: the promise of a double chocolate double whip hazelnut macchiato from the campus coffee cart, followed by a hash brown heist from the dining hall. Nothing quite curbed a sugar rush more than an adrenaline rush and some grease.

Iseult dropped her hand. The spot on her neck faded into a dull throb at the thought of her and Safi running from the dining hall, pockets stuffed with hash browns wrapped in napkins and a breakfast sandwich fisted in each hand, while cafeteria staff shouted after them as they escaped with their spoils.

No. She hadn’t stepped foot on campus since she dropped out. She wasn’t about to now. And not just because she and Safi now had copies of their student I.D. photos posted on the community board in the dining hall asking students to keep an eye out for the notorious thieves.

Drop out. There wasn’t an aspect of her life that didn’t seem to revolve around those two words. She could hear Safi scolding her.

“Don’t say that! ‘Drop out’,” she'd said one evening while they closed up her uncles’ coffee shop shortly after Iseult had made the decision. “You didn’t drop out of anything. You made a graceful exit. To do something more noble than any of those old toads sitting cushy in the administration have likely ever done, might I add! They should consider themselves lucky that you’ll even be coming back!”

Iseult fingered through the books on her cart. Well. That had been back in September. It was now January, the first week of second semester had just wrapped up and Safi had changed tactics.  Instead, she ranted about how the collegiate system was the world’s biggest scam, squeezing their generation of every last drop of money and happiness they had, and that she should drop out too just to have the satisfaction in giving Dean Henrick a big FUCK YOU. It was a touching offer, though, not exactly the most ambitious plot for revenge. Safi was running on a free ride. Henrick’s deep pockets wouldn’t be any lighter if she left. He’d still be sitting pretty on the proverbial throne.

“Iseult.”

Iseult looked up to see Evrane gliding down the aisle towards her, thoughts of school and Safi interrupted. As always she was impeccably dressed, from the silver dangling from her ears all the way down to the perfectly polished stilettos she wore. Her long white hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, leaving her bronze face bare, radiant even under the library’s miserable lighting - a feat aided by sorcery, Iseult could only assume. It was a wonder what patrons must think of her roaming the halls, what with her pale moon skin and midnight hair. She looked more like the ghost that was rumored to haunt the library tower.

But Evrane wasn’t the library’s director for her otherworldly cheekbones or dazzling emerald eyes. She was also the sharpest person Iseult had ever met and someone she couldn’t believe she had the privilege of calling a mentor.

Iseult hastily tugged off her earbuds. “Hi Evrane.” Her voice cracked; sshe cringed inwardly. She hadn’t spoken a word to anyone during her 8 hour shift. Evrane didn’t seem to notice.

“How are you, dear?” Evrane asked. She nodded to Iseult’s cart of books. “Tackling the nonfiction, I see.”

“Good,” Iseult replied, this time willing her voice to sound normal. “I’m almost done with the nonfiction, and then I have some books I need to bring down to Children’s. I think someone may have mixed up the carts. My shift ends soon, but I could stick around to shelve them. There aren’t too many but...” She trailed off watching Evrane shake her head, as though amused.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, then adding, “Pleased as I am with your progress, I was actually wondering how you were doing… How was your trip home?”

Iseult stared blank-face at Evrane. She should have expected this. Evrane had taken to Iseult from the moment they’d met, always seeking her out between bookshelves, pulling her aside to talk about the latest book Iseult was reading or simply inviting her back to her office to join her for tea. Secretly, Iseult was pleased. To have a woman like Evrane be genuinely interested in what Iseult had to say… well.  It was more than she could have dared to hope for.

Which was exactly why couldn’t help asking herself, why?

Iseult never did come up with an explanation for why Evrane hired her in the first place. She could only assume the woman had done it out of pity. Her resume had been woefully thin to the point of being downright pathetic with only her part-time barista gig at Mathew and Habim’s coffee shop to her name. She had no other achievements. No special skills. And of course, now, no academic prospects to boast. Iseult had nothing to offer.

And yet... here Evrane was asking the one question Iseult wished she wouldn’t.

Home was the same as always. Saldonica never changed. It was still the grimy, cut-throat city it had always been, with its streets teeming with crime and illegal trade. That was the accepted way of life there. But it didn’t phase Iseult. She never really considered it home anyway. She hadn’t grown up there. There was only one thing, one person, who made Saldonica home.

Her mother. The true subject of Evrane’s inquiry.

So how was she?

Sick. Very sick. And showing little improvement. Though, she’d probably be worse if not for Alma caring for her day and night. If not for the money Iseult sent home each week to ensure she was getting the medication she needed. If not for her mother’s damned stubbornness to shirk life’s more unsavory aspects and persist in the face of uncertain fate. That in itself was likely aiding Gretchya more than Iseult and Alma’s contributions combined.

“Fine,” Iseult said, expression unchanging. It was automatic. Succinct. Gretchya would have approved.

Evrane merely hummed, bowing her head slowly. As though Iseult’s meager reply required deep and philosophical deliberation. “You know,” she continued after a moment, “I know this,” her eyes panned the bookshelves on either side of them, “wasn’t exactly where you expected to be by now. I am sorry your plans to return to school didn’t work out as you had hoped, Iseult… but I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I’m happy to have you with us for a little longer.” Evrane raised a hand to Iseult’s arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze, a gesture that should have been comforting, yet only turned Iseult to stone. “If there’s anything I can do to help, my door is always open.”

Iseult tried to nod. Swallowing suddenly became painful. Speech, impossible. Mercifully, Evrane let go of her arm and changed the subject.

“Now tell me, where is that cart you were talking about?”

“O-oh you d-don’t have to -” Iseult stammered. She immediately snapped her mouth shut. Hell-gates, did she have to stutter like that now?  In front of Evrane!

The woman seemed to take no notice and simply waved a hand. “I am the director of this institution, am I not? I think I am more than capable of handling a couple books.”

“By circulation,” Iseult forced out. Evrane gave her an appreciative smile, then walked away, her silver circlets tinkling prettily in the quiet of the library.

For a moment, Iseult simply stood there, staring down the aisle where Evrane had left. Eventually, she untangled her earbuds and popped them back in. She opened Spotify on her phone and swiped through the playlist she’d been listening to before Evrane showed up. However, after a few minutes of mindless scrolling, stuffed her phone into her back pocket, abandoning her search. Silence filled her ears.

Iseult grabbed a random book off her cart. She read its cover, though not really taking in the the words, and when she went to find its place on the shelf, it was as though she had not read it at all. This happened with every book she picked up over the next ten minutes, and when she finally forgot the author of The Autonomy of Dalmotti - a book she had personally read at least five times - she finally gave up.

Frustration prickled the back of her throat. Gripping the book tight, she leaned her forehead against the oak bookcase. The smell of old paper filled her nose as she let her eyes to sink shut, breathing in the musty air through her nose. What she would give to fall head-first into a book right now...

Stasis, she told herself. Stasis in your fingers and in your toes.

Gretchya sick.

Stasis.

Evrane. Broken words. Broken.

Stasis.

Drop out. Drop. Out. Drop. Out.

Stasis. Stasis. Stasis.

Over and over again Iseult silently whispered this to herself, until a familiar calm resettled in her chest, until every last thread of emotion was pulled tight. Nothing out of place. She took several more slow, deliberate breaths for good measure, then, she opened eyes.

That’s when she saw them.

Through the narrow opening between shelves, Iseult spied Evrane standing by the circulation desk. But it was who she was speaking with that caught Iseult’s attention.

It hadn’t taken Iseult long to familiarize herself with the people who passed through when she began working at the library. Though Venaza City was largely populated, the library had its regulars, and even those who visited only once in awhile had become catalogued in Iseult’s memory like the books she shelved. In fact, on more than one occasion, she found herself recognizing patrons outside of work - an oddly unpleasant experience. She already spent enough time dodging former college peers whenever she ventured out into the city. They now had competition.

That being said, Iseult knew nearly everyone who came to the library. Except for this man talking to her mentor.

Even from behind, there was something striking about him. He towered over Evrane, his imposing figure standing impossibly still in dark form-fitting jeans and a muddy burgundy leather jacket. Iseult wished he’d turn around so she could see his face. Regardless, two features immediately stood out. Or rather, accessories.

First, a blue, opal earring in his left ear. And second, the child held in his arms.

These two things seemed to clash together in Iseult’s mind. The girl, she guessed, was no more than five. A mop of dark hair obscured most of her face with only a red, chubby cheek visible resting on the man’s shoulder. As for the earring, Iseult wasn’t old-fashioned enough to believe men couldn’t wear jewelry. In fact, depending on the piercing’s style and placement, she found them rather appealing. However, the more closely Iseult looked at the gemstone, the more it called out to her as some sort of statement - and not one of the fashion variety. It lent little to the rest of his dark ensemble and stuck out like a sore thumb. It was too ornate. Too deliberate. Something worn out of habit.

Iseult inched forward, bracing a hand along the edge of the shelf as she watched from her hiding place amongst the books. She knew she was teetering on the edge of polite observation and straight-up creeping, but she was too curious to care. Evrane stood close to the young man, too close for him to be an ordinary patron. And there was something in the way that she looked at him that gave her the impression that she wasn’t simply giving him a book recommendation. Even through the warmth Iseult was so familiar with in her expression, she couldn’t miss the urgency in her eyes. Her lips were moving carefully, and she imagined the melodic gentleness of her voice, the same voice that had spoken to her only moments ago. Soft words only meant for him.

As if on cue, Evrane reached for his arm.

Iseult immediately noticed the mystery man’s shoulders stiffen. It was the first indication of life she’d seen from him during the entire encounter. A pulse ticked in his jaw, the only sliver of his pale face she could see. Evrane had stopped talking, but kept her hand on his arm, her thumb gliding back and forth, and appeared to be listening attentively to the man’s response. But as the seconds dragged on, her eyes - never wavering from his - glimmered with a touch of something new. Sadness, perhaps. Her expression dimmed, and eventually the hand holding his arm stopped moving and returned to her side.

Iseult’s nose was practically brushing the books blocking her from view now. Who was this guy? Evrane had never spoken of family or a significant other. On one occasion, she had mentioned a nephew - something about how he’d just returned home after studying abroad. But other than that, no one else. This couldn’t be him, could it? He had a child with him. A child who - Iseult suddenly realized with a jolt of horror - was staring right at her.

“What are you doing lurking in the shadows?”

The Autonomy of Dalmotti dropped to the floor with a rustle of paper and a soft thump as she whirled around. How her best friend had managed to sneak up on her in the dead silence of the library without her hearing, Iseult didn’t know, but the self-satisfied look Safi was pinning her with made her curse the Moon Mother for turning her momentarily deaf.

“If by lurking you mean shelving books,” Iseult replied smoothly, kneeling down to pick up the fallen book as though nothing had happened, “I’m working. It’s kind of in my job description.”

Safi cocked her head to the side, eyebrow arched. “Is spying on hot guys in your job description? Can’t see his face, but the view from behind is certainly enough to go on.”

Iseult felt a rush of unwanted heat flood her cheeks, but aside from that, her face betrayed nothing. Yes, she had been spying. But not in the way Safi thought, and the idea that she had been caught not only by her best friend, but by that strange little girl made her want to tear every book from the shelf and bury herself underneath them.

“What?” Safi persisted innocently as Iseult turned her back to her. She slipped The Autonomy of Dalmotti between two volumes, not particularly caring whether or not that was where it belonged so long as she didn’t have to see the infuriating smirk on Safi’s face. “I don’t blame you. You can’t be expected to stare at dusty, old books all day - no matter how much you love them.”

“Wanna bet?” Iseult muttered. For all her love of the library, she had thought she’d be back in school by now, trading in its dusty, old books for overpriced textbooks.

“I’d love to. Tonight, in fact. At The Cleaved Man.”

“I - ” Iseult began, but Safi’s hand slashed through the air cutting her off and she pointed a finger in Iseult’s face.

“Don’t say you can’t! I’ve barely seen you all week!”

“As if that’s my fault,” Iseult countered, grabbing another book and the opportunity to turn the tables. The last thing she wanted to do right now was spend the night in an overcrowded bar. “Where were you last night? You never came home.”

Safi picked up a book from Iseult’s cart and examined its cover. “Polly’s.”

Iseult paused mid-shelving. “Leopold’s?”

“Mhm.” Safi opened the book, casually flipping through its pages.  Silence stretched.  She looked up. “What?”

“I thought you weren’t going to see him again,” Iseult said, watching her friend carefully.

Safi lowered the book and frowned in confusion. “Not see him? What are you - ?” But as soon as the unfinished question left her mouth, Iseult saw the life in her eyes freeze for half a heartbeat, and comprehension slowly dawned on Safi’s face. A second later, her expression hardened. “Hell-gates, Iz! I didn’t mean him.”

Him. Or as he was known as in their apartment, the Chiseled Cheater. To the rest of the world, he was simply Caden. Handsome, strong-jawed, infuriatingly charming Caden.

Safi gave Iseult a disparaging look before snapping shut her own book and stuffing it onto a shelf where - Iseult noted - it should not be. Now wasn’t a good time to be pointing out mistakes. The hard line of her pursed lips may have grown taut like she was fighting to feign indifference, but Iseult knew when her best friend was hurt. And this time, it was her fault. Safi crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

“Like I’d ever,” Safi huffed, tossing her unruly sun-streaked hair over her shoulder, looking anywhere but Iseult. She let out a strained laugh and shook her head as though the thought of her and Caden together was ludicrous - though, it didn’t stop a tinge of pink blossoming across her cheeks. “Spend the night with him. Honestly, Iz. You know we’ve never - I’ve never -”

Pink turned to a vibrant red as she struggled for words before making a disgruntled noise and giving up.

“Sorry,” Iseult murmured, her expression void of all emotion. “I was just worried.”

Safi finally met Iseult’s gaze. The silence of the library was deafening. Then, she shook her head. “It’s fine,” she relented, and Iseult was relieved to hear sincerity in the statement that was universally known to mean the opposite. “I don’t blame you. I mean... he is Polly’s roommate and it’s me so…” Safi’s eyes darted away self-consciously and she took a fortifying breath, arms unwinding from her chest and hands bracing themselves on her hips. When she spoke next, there was no question as to whether or not they were moving on from the subject of the Chiseled Cheater. “By the time we got out of Two Left Feet and grabbed dinner, it was so late that I just ended up crashing at his place.”

“Two Left Feet?” Iseult repeated.  

“Modern dance," Safi replied, as though this was the most ordinary explanation in the world.

“Oh.” Iseult wasn’t sure what to say to that. “I didn’t know we had a modern dance company.” Or that Safi was interested in modern dance. “Um, how was it?”

“If that’s what modern dance is, then I’m not sure what I’ve been doing at the club all these years.”

“Two Left Feet.” Iseult paused. Her mouth twitched. “Seems like a counterintuitive name.”

“Ohh no trust me, they hit the mark on that one.”

Any hint of a smile left Iseult’s face. “Please tell me you didn’t heckle them.”

Safi’s hand flew to chest and she gasped. “Heckle? Us? Two purebred members of high society like ourselves? You insult me.”

“Don’t scoff. Last year you two almost single-handedly disassembled Pobody’s Nerfect.”

Safi shrugged half-heartedly. “It was an improv show. It’s supposed to be interactive.”

“You made that freshmen kid cry! I could have sworn I overheard him talking about transferring as we were leaving.”

“Audience participation was encouraged!” argued Safi. “Besides, the fact that we even went to their little dance performance was generous enough. You think I wanted to spend the first Thursday night of the semester watching people roll around on the floor trying to sell it to me as art?”

“Then why did you?”

“We were expanding our horizons?” Iseult rolled her eyes and turned back to her books as Safi laughed. “I don’t know. We were walking around campus after class and saw the sign and I was like, “Well, I have nothing else to do” so -” She stopped suddenly, as though a thought had just thought of something. “Should I have texted you? It didn’t even occur to me that you’d want to go to something like that.”

The concern in the question made Iseult pause… which irked her. The concern or the pause, she couldn’t tell which. Maybe because if she had been on campus with her and Leopold, there wouldn’t be a question of whether she’d have gone. Safi would have dragged her in there whether she liked it or not, and Iseult would have gone along with whatever Safi wanted to do as she always did - good idea or not. Modern dance would have been decidedly not. That never stopped Safi, though. Or Iseult.

“No,” Iseult simply answered.

Safi nodded, and though it was almost imperceptible, Iseult saw her lips purse, like she wasn’t entirely convinced. “Next time,” she only promised.

“There’s going to be a next time?”

“You never know.” Safi’s sea-blue eyes flashed mischievously. “Come on, I’ll show you a couple moves I learned at the Cleaved Man.” She gyrated her hips for emphasis, causing Iseult to look away embarrassed on her behalf. This only prompted Safi to bump Iseult’s hip with her own.

“Saf, I wasn’t kidding before,” Iseult insisted, stumbling over her feet as Safi went in for a second, more forceful hip check. “I really can’t -”

“Hey, you owe me after that comment about Chiseled Cheater!”

“30 seconds ago you were saying that I was right!” Really, the grudges this girl could hold. Iseult almost felt sorry for Caden.

Safi heaved a wistful sigh. “You know, if I could come keep you company at work, I would.”

“I’d never get anything done,” Iseult said, gesturing the pile of untouched books on the cart between them.

“Right. As if I’m the one distracting you, you little stalker.”

“I wasn’t -” Iseult began to protest, but Safi was already backing away down the aisle, doing what had to be the world’s worst attempt at the moonwalk.

“I’ll be warming up the car!” Safi whisper hissed, rattling her car keys in the air for emphasis. When she reached the end of the aisle, she spun around on the spot theatrically, and then she was gone.

Iseult shook her head after her ridiculous, wonderful best friend, then peered down at the pile of books in her cart. An hour ago she had been daydreaming of ordering the Arithuanian take-out that Safi never wanted to get and hunker down with one of her all-time favorite books, The Raider King. She’d be in bed by 9 and asleep by 9:15.

So much for that.

It was ironic, really. Safi could rant all she wanted about the injustices of the modern day collegiate system, but no amount of theoretical scheming to take down the patriarchy would change the fact that Iseult missed college.

She missed waking up every day and knowing where she was going and what she was doing. She missed her textbooks. She missed late night cram sessions at the university library with Safi and getting nothing done, aside from gaining 15 pounds from vending machine snacks. She missed misty morning walks to her 8 A.M. seminar. She missed the notes Leopold would pass her during Professor Rosa's soul-killing lectures. Heck, she missed her lectures.

And of course, she missed the dining hall hash browns.

So naturally - naturally - the only thing she didn’t miss about college was the one thing she couldn’t escape.

The college bar scene.

Iseult hadn’t taken Safi seriously when she announced one day just before summer break that she would be getting her bartender license. It seemed to be the thing every college student said the second after they turned 21. For Safi to voluntarily subject herself to 40 hours worth of training courses was enough to give Iseult doubt. However, unlike the rest of those drunk idiots, Safi was true to her word, and in no time, she started bartending at Venaza City’s most popular college bar, the Cleaved Man.

Moon Mother, kill me now, Iseult prayed as she pushed her book cart down the aisle. Its rickety wheels squeaked horridly in the cavernous hall. She cringed inwardly knowing that the second she turned the corner, all eyes would be narrowed on her, silently shaming her for disturbing the peace. Halfway down, though, she hesitated. The wheels grinded to a halt.

Ignoring the sick embarrassment bubbling in her stomach at what she was about to do, Iseult cast a look over her shoulder to make sure Safi was truly gone. Then, she leaned forward and peered between the stacks of books.

The mystery man and his little companion were gone.

[chaoticneutralwriter]

Unorthodox

You can’t tell whether you’re fortunate or not to have a guardian demon who thinks it’s funny to go around looking like your idol crush BTS’ Park Jimin.

Writing Prompt; Everyone has a guardian angel except you. You have a guardian demon. He deals with things in a much more violent fashion, but much more effective.

guardiandemon!Jimin x reader

genre: fluff, a little light, a little anxiety inducing though given what will happen, minor mentions of death and blood but nothing too graphic

word count: 3.7k

Related works: Genuine | 3AM Demon | The Grinch Who Stole New Year | Distance and The Heart

A/N: I thought this prompt was so good for Halloween but....late to the party again.... LOLL Also this is a bit of a mental gymnastic but don’t think too hard on it. Also, BST!Jimin is forever the look™ and I’m still not over it.

“Oh my God Jess that’s so bad!” You laugh as your friend finishes her story. The rest of your group laughs along with you, sharing their own off handed comments on the whole situation she was put in. Eventually, you had to quiet down and reel them back as you had caught stares and looks from the other patrons in the cafe you were all in.

 It’s a Saturday afternoon and granted the place was busier than usual, you still managed to be the loudest bunch, getting a little too carried away with the volume of your voices. You shoot any lingering miffed gazes an apologetic smile as does some of your friends who noticed, but you can’t help yourself. It’s been so long since you’ve all got together to just hang out, everyone so caught up in their lives that time had become a luxury and any free schedules overlapping becoming as rare as a blue moon.

 So it’s times like these that you cherish, seeing everyone after so long of just the occasional instant messaging that your worries seem to fade. Eventually, your group has decided that perhaps your rambunctious energy needed to be taken elsewhere lest you wanted to disturb the people again. Seeing as how the weather outside is lovely, you all head out to do some city strolling.

 You all chatter amicably with each other, bouncing from one conversation to another. Your group makes it to a park, unanimously settling down under a tree.

 “Did you see BTS’ new song MV?” gasps one of your friends and you return her enthusiasm, eyes alight.

 “Yes! The song was so good! And how they look?!” You pause to inhale, heart palpitating at the memory of the video you watched earlier before meeting up. It was such a good way to start off your day that, as you left your house, you felt nothing could possibly ruin it.

 Or so you thought.

 Amongst the excited conversation, your gaze wanders, taking in your surroundings. It’s no surprise that you see many people walking about and relaxing or having fun in their own way and for a moment, nothing seems out of place until your eyes land on an all too familiar face. You pale, feeling your blood run cold despite the heat of the afternoon sun at the figure lounging just too casually for your taste on the bench with a vantage point straight at you.

 Even from the distance, you see his lips quirk up into a smirk, eyes crinkling in the slightest and you just know that he’s been watching you way before you had even spotted him. You hate this feeling, this sensation of breaking out into a cold sweat when such a face, under any other circumstance, would have brought you a whole slew of other emotions except absolute dread. And you hate him all the more for it.

 “Y/N? Hey, you don’t look so good. You okay?” You hear your friend call but to you, it sounded so far away from the blood rushing through your ears.

 “Y-Yeah, I’m fine. I just— I-I think I’m gonna go use the washroom real quick.” You manage to stutter, shooting a shaky smile their way before shooting up to your feet and walking off, not giving them a chance to squeeze in another word.

 You walk the distance heading towards to the washroom but after making sure you’re far enough from your friends’ line of sight, you divert. You circle around to make your way back to the bench you saw him in, only to see that it’s devoid of the occupant you’re looking for. Your mouth gapes in confusion as you scan your immediate area but failing to find the dark cladded figure.

 “Looking for me?” His husky tone breathes so close to your ear that it has you jumping. You whip around to find unmistakable dark eyes gleaming back at you with amusement and mischief.

 “God!” You gasp, nerves still rattled by his sudden appearance. He grimaces a little at the name you called out but you could hardly care, the initial dread transforming into annoyance. “What do you think you’re doing here?!”

 “I don’t think you know how this works, darling.” He replies back coolly, hands stuffed into the pockets of his well-pressed trousers as he leans his weight on one hip.

 “I don’t think you know how this works.” You hiss back, brazenly pointing an accusatory finger at the taller male, your eyes darting about quickly to make sure as few people witness this exchange as possible. He goes to open his mouth but you grab a hold of his wrist to pull him behind a large oak tree. He peers at you in disdain, finding your actions over the top and no doubt unnecessary but he lets it slide; he never understood humans and you’re the weirdest one he’s encountered.

 “You can’t just go around so casually looking like…. that! “ You continue, wildly gesturing to his person.

 “I’m sorry if my taste in clothes are far superior for your small human mind to comprehend.”

 “Not what I mean.” You say through gritted teeth, refraining from outright knocking him over the head (he’d probably end up burning you to a crisp, contract be damned). “I meant looking like a Korean idol that the whole world knows! You’ll be spotted!”  

 “And here I thought you’d be rather pleased that I look like this.” He replies in mock exasperation, running a hand through lush silvery locks as if to further emphasize his point. You find yourself holding your breath, cursing at the butterflies unintentionally fluttering in your stomach. You forcefully remind yourself that no, this is not the person who you think it is despite looking exactly like him. 

 In fact, he wasn’t even a person to begin with.

 “If this isn’t what you wanted, would you rather I go for something…. more natural?” The ruby lustre taking over his eyes as well as his sudden drop in tone startles you into action. You nearly tackle him to prevent any sorts of supernatural events from happening in such an open, public space.

 “No! No, no stop! Not what I meant either!” Your hands grip at his arms, heart thrumming a little in panic at his small threat. He smirks triumphantly at you, causing you to narrow your eyes in a glare before releasing your hold on him in a huff. You never realized dealing with a demon could be such a headache. Rubbing at your temples, you exhale through your nose.

 “Just— Can you not follow me around? Or like, not be so out in the open about it? Again, you literally look like a Korean idol…. that actually exists.”

 “So?”

 So?! You think incredulously. You reel yourself in before you explode again. “So…” You reiterate with much effort, “You’re technically famous— a celebrity. Which means people will lose their minds if they see you and on top of that, if photos of you gets out on the internet, your cover is going to be blown because how can anyone explain why Park fricken Jimin of BTS is here, in North America, when he’s also half way across the world in South Korea?!”

 You’re practically whisper screeching from working yourself up, all the while the carbon copy of one Park Jimin (only that he’s not) watches you with mild interest, looking as impeccable as a marble statue. You stop your tirade to pin him with another seething glare and all he does is quirk his lips. To your astonishment, he throws his head back to let out a bark of laughter. If it was actually Park Jimin, you would’ve swooned and keened at the sight but it makes you glance around nervously to see if it has drawn any attention, thankfully no one seems to notice and was stilling milling about, minding their own business.

 He comes down from his spiel, having the gall to wipe at his eyes too.

 “Oh my sweet cherub,” He breathes and you frown at the pet name, “You actually thought I would waltz around to parade this beautiful face for all to see?”

 You give him a pointed look, one that clearly says, ‘Yes you would, knowing you’. He kisses his teeth; hands on either side of his hips and you’re ready for an incoming sassing.

 “What I’m saying is that you’re more stupid than you look and it offends me that you would think I would be stupid enough to do that. Of course I’m aware.” He huffs indignantly. “Which is why, for your information, demons have cloaking spells; which means you might be able to see me but anyone else won’t.” He then peers down at you like he was explaining something to a child. “Happy?”

 “Could’ve told me sooner.” You snap back in defense, like how were you supposed to know any of that beforehand? Not like he gave you a Demon 101 booklet when you first met.

 “Yeah, but I thought it would be funnier to make you look crazy for talking to thin air.” He sniggers back. At that, you whip your gaze around again, immediately landing on a couple and a family watching you warily from a distant. You feel your face heat up in embarrassment, thoughts running a mile a minute, wondering just how long he actually had this cloaking spell on and was just messing with you.

 Your gaze flits back around, ready to give him a piece of your own hell, only to find empty space. You swear you could physically feel your blood pressure rising and perhaps, to your twisted delight, you would die before having to experience the full extent of what it means to have a demon as your metaphorical guardian angel.

 —

 The day goes on with not seeing so much as a hair from the demon with an angel’s face. You breathed a sigh of relief knowing that. You’d spent the rest of the day hanging out with your friends, eventually grabbing dinner together and by the time you’d all said your goodbyes, the sun has long gone down.

 You swiftly make your way down the streets to the nearest subway station, figuring it be much cheaper and faster considering Ubers were much harder to grab on the weekends and in a busy downtown area. Also, the ride wouldn’t be that long anyways.

 Besides, you’re only worry at hand is actually getting to a station; they were practically at least two blocks apart and the chill the night air brings does nothing to settle your growing nerves. Downtown was lovely during the day but at night it’s like all of the shadier things make themselves known. You’re on edge, eyes darting around every so often to be aware of your surroundings as you pick up your pace. 

 Vaguely you hear a man’s gruff voice call out to you but you determinedly ignore it, catching sight of the station’s sign just ahead of you. You make your way down the stairs, heart starting to beat a little erratically as you press your metro pass to the gate and slide through. Once you’ve descended the second flight of stairs leading to the tracks, your nerves starts to settle down.

 The train hadn’t arrived yet, a quick glance up at the monitor informed you that it would be in five minutes, leaving you with no choice but to wait. You heave a breath to yourself, taking out your phone to plug your headphones in. Taking a quick glance around, you find that you’re probably one of three people in the tunnel; a man sitting hunched over on one of the benches looking a little worse for wear and an older lady way down the other end from where you were.

 You think nothing much after, and before you know it the train is pulling up on the tracks. You shuffle in, easily finding a seat given the lack of passengers in your car. Another sigh; you’re halfway to getting home and so far, there’s no hiccups. You relax at the notion, settling into your seat as the train takes off and you wait again until your stop arrives.

 It was about two stops away that things start going south. It starts when the compartment door to your cart slides open, startling you to look up and see the man at the station before you boarded. You duck your head down, not wanting to draw any attention and hoping that he’s just passing through. Luck wasn’t on your side however, as he stumbles and then takes a seat right across from you, the scent wafting from him nearly makes you choke.

 You’re determined to fixate your gaze on your phone, pretending to be scrolling through the same apps you have open, but even then you could feel his heavy gaze on you.

 Please, please hurry up! 

 You steal a quick glance anxiously at the map above you, a small LED light indicating which stop you’ve just left and how far away yours is. It’s then that you hear a gruff voice call out through your headphones. Still, you pretend you didn’t hear and it worked until his voice grew to a volume that it startles you. Nervously, your eyes flit to meet the man and warily take out an earbud.

 “Fuckin’ kids goin’ deaf.” You hear him say under his breath before he roughly grunts, “Got any change on you?”

 You shake your head, quietly replying, “No, I don’t. Sorry.” And you silently prayed that would be the end of that but before you can put your earbud back in, the man speaks again.

 “Where’re you goin’ so late huh?”

 “Just— home. Excuse me.” You keep your answer clipped, shooting up from your seat with the decision to get off this cart at the upcoming station and try to get back on in one where there were other people on. The station the train pulls up is one short from your actual stop but you don’t think you can handle being in the same cart alone with this man, even if it’s just for one more station. You get off, trying to keep yourself from trembling to be as subtle as possible. You’re best bet was that you a) get on a cart that has people or b) he won’t follow you at all and you can possibly catch the next train.

 Unfortunately, neither one happens because out of your peripheral you see his looming figure exit the cart, walking down your way. You pick up your pace, heading more to towards the front of the train but the chimes signaling the doors are about to close catches your attention and you gasp. You bolt into the closest cart and hope that you were much quicker than the man.

 Heart racing, you glance around, finding an empty cart. You’re not sure whether that’s a good sign or not but you’ll take it.

 Just one more stop.

 You chant it like a mantra, too antsy to take a seat now as your mind had taken precautions that if you see any signs of the man again, you would head through the compartment leading to other carts.

 Your station name rings over the PA and you almost jump in joy. As soon as the doors slides open, you’re out of there. You make quick work of the steps, leading up from the tracks and then exiting the station. The orange tinge of the streetlights offer little comfort to you as the prospect of having to clear one more block before getting to your house looms at the forefront of your thoughts.

 You steel yourself and walk at a faster pace than usual, head down and clutching your bag in a vice grip. You round the corner of the convenient store, a checkpoint. You’re nearly there.

 “Hey, girlie.”

 You spoke too soon, so hyper focused on just getting home that you miss out on a group of guys hanging around off the side of the store (doing God knows what). Your strides, though fast, were not long enough to outpace the figure coming up beside you.

 “Where you going so late?”

 You shrink away from him, trembling as you try to maintain as much distance as you can without having to put yourself out on the road. You think, quite frustratingly, why do they not have anything better to do as you stubbornly ignore his advances, and very close to straight up running. 

 “Shouldn’t be out here on your own like this.” You catch the sentence too close for comfort and that was the final straw to push you into a run. You don’t get far however, as a large hand roughly grasps you by the elbow, jerking you off balance.

 “Hey! I’m talking to you. It’s rude to ignore someone who’s—“

 “Don’t touch me!” You shout, voice bordering hysteria. You rip yourself from the man’s hold with as much force as you can and it causes you to stumble a little. For the first time, you catch sight of three figures, the one speaking being closer to you compared to what you assume are his friends, trailing not too far behind but you don’t care to put a face to your harasser.

 “What the fuck! Why you gotta be such a bitch for?!” The hand makes a grab for you and snags your bag. The force this time gives you a whiplash, shoulder pulled painfully and you whimper, feeling tremors go through your body uncontrollably now with tears threatening to overtake your sight.

 Your mind flies into a panicked state, seconds away from abandoning your  bag altogether and just making a run for it when the street lamps overhead flickers. All at once, they go out along with any light source within the area because suddenly everything is so dark.

 It all happened so fast.

 The weight is lifted off of you, a chill settling over and then you hear an ear-piercing shriek. You can’t tell if it’s your own or something else as a cacophony of noises fill your ears.

 Indecipherable shouting.

 Scraping.

 Crunching.

 Gurgling.

 Disembody voices.

 And then silence.

 It felt like you had been trapped in a whirlwind, shaking violently from the aftermath of it and so disoriented you hadn’t realized you’ve curled in on yourself with eyes shut tight until a soft voice coaxes at you.

 “Y/N….” 

 It’s familiar, you’ve heard the lilt many times before and it so easily calms your hyperventilating. Despite the comfort it brings however, the strangeness of hearing such a voice so close to you creeps back in. A warm hand brushes against your own held to your ears and though the touch is gentle, you still flinch. The hand retracts momentarily before the voice speaks to you again.

 “Y/N…deep breaths and look at me, Y/N.” It’s a soft command and you do as you’re told, breathing in deeply and exhaling a couple of times before finally peeling your eyes open.

 Your vision is slightly blurred from unshed tears, but you make out his handsome, young face and silvery locks in the orange dim of streetlights. His deep ruby eyes bore into yours steadily, expression stoic if only for his gaze to betray the concern reflecting in them. He blinks and they’re back to being a deep brown.

 “That’s my girl.” He praises with a small smirk, voice no louder than a murmur as his hand engulfs yours in a warm hold. An overwhelming urge to be close to him takes over, as if your body and mind is crying with relief at the sight of a safe haven and before you can think straight, you rush forward, collapsing into him with hands feebly finding purchase on his black button down shirt. 

 “Jimin….” You croak out, care and logic thrown out the window because you so desperately need something to anchor you down right now and his was a face that your mind knew could do you no harm, like it was second nature. He doesn’t seem to mind; gathering you in his arms all the same and gently cradles you.

 “Easy now…shhh easy.” You hear him coo as you bury your face into his neck until your senses flood with his scent; a surprising combination of lavender, vanilla and spices. His hands rub soothing circles around your back until the shaky breaths you exhale return to normal. 

 He helps you to stand slowly, minding the small tremors that erupt every so often from you and the way he’s treating you like he’s handling delicate glass is so unlike how he normally is that it makes you want to double-take.

 “Are you hurt?” He pulls away from you slightly if only for that moment to ask, though he takes the liberty to look you over himself anyways without waiting for your reply. You shake your head no, voice still feeling as if it’s stuck in your throat. As he’s wiping away a stray tear, you bring your gaze to take a good look at him, eyes drawing up to take in his full height. His silvery coiffed hair is still immaculate as ever and his face is picture perfect, flawless except….

 You reach up in spite of your shaky hands to decipher what it is that marred his otherwise porcelain complexion when he stops you. He gently guides your hand away before reaching up with his own to swipe at his cheek. Your Jimin doppelganger tsked at the sight, indifferently wiping his soiled fingers onto his shirt.

 “Nothing for you to worry about, darling.” He says, smiling at you so angelically. You blink, perplexed until slowly, your mind starts to catch up with the events that transpired.

 “W-Where—?” You make to turn your head around, looking for your assailant but again, he stops you by taking a hold of your chin and directing it back to him.

 “Ah, ah, eyes on me sweetheart. Like I said, there’s nothing to worry about anymore. You’re safe.” 

 “But—“

 “Shh... Sleep.” His hand gently cups your cheek and with his whispered words, your mind is overcome with a sudden haze and your eyelids droop shut.

 He catches you mid-fall, scooping you up in his arms as if you weighed nothing more than a feather. He kisses his teeth again, annoyance rolling off of him in waves as his eyes narrow down on his also soiled shoes.

 Whatever.

 At least you didn’t notice that.

 Nor the streaks of blood leading to the dumpster.

[foxglove-and-fern]

Commissions Are Open!

Alternative title: My whole body hurts and my entire income is dependent on physical labor— uh oh.

Hey pals. I am having a hard time keeping up with my job because it’s labor intensive and has inflamed pre-existing pain I have long been dealing with. As such, I am looking for other work and losing money in the process. To try and make up anything for these lost hours, I am opening commissions and readings!

☆ Tarot Readings

Readings will be based on a question, as that is the format I am most comfortable with. It can be however vague or specific as you please. I will include a photo of the layout, photos of each card pulled, and detailed analysis of each card, its placement, and finally an analysis of the spread in its totality. All of this can be sent as a PDF, Word doc, email, google doc, whatever works best for you. 

$4 Three Card Layout

Three card layouts can either be a past/present/future or present circumstance/obstacle/outcome. For an additional dollar we can make a custom three card spread.

$7 Custom Layout (5-7 cards)

Custom layouts will be designed with your specific wants and needs in mind. They are 

☆ Custom Sigils

All sigils are hand drawn on paper and will be scanned and sent as high quality PDFs. If you would like me to mail you a physical copy, pricing will increase slightly so as to account for things like stamps and nicer paper. If you would like to see examples of my work I would be happy to post or share my work. Currently I only have photos, rather than scans, so know that whatever I share is of a lower quality than what you’re purchasing. 

$3 Simple

$5 Complex

Complex sigils will include a simplified variation that can be used as you please.

☆ Custom Spells

Tell me the purpose and format and I will design a spell to meet your needs! They will be formatted as recipe cards of sorts, including the materials and how to cast it. That said, if you would like it to be a spell jar, a sachet, something that is exclusively verbal, something that can be incorporated into cooking, sewing, etc, whatever. I’m flexible and looking to accommodate your wants. Additionally! Please, please, please let me know of any accommodations you need related to disability, allergies, etc. If you purchase a spell and are incapable of performing it for medical reason, let me know and I will make whatever adjustments are needed (to no additional cost). Finally, if you have any deities, spirits, etc. you would like involved, please let me know so I can involve them and their attributes.

$2 digital copy

The spell will be typed out in a clear, organized manner and sent in a similar manner as the tarot readings

$3 digital copy, but cuter

Rather than being typed out in a word document, I will hand write it (legibly) and decorate it so that it’s more visually pleasing. Will be scanned and sent as a high quality PDF.

$6 I’ll send it to you!

Instead of sending you a fancy PDF, I’ll mail it to you! Then you can hold it you your actual hands.

I accept both paypal (paypal.me/mrprekop) and venmo (@Ray-Prekop). Please ignore my deadname in my paypal; I’m not sure how to change it! Also, if you’re filled with pity for someone like me and wanna drop me 50¢ or something, I will draw you a very cute thank you note. 

Thank you all so much for reading through this silly, long post. I’m so grateful to be a part of this wonderful online community and I hope that, through this, I get to meet and speak with even more of you. Blessed be and I hope to hear from you soon. DM me if you are interested!

[templarbear]

So I finished a thing...

Last semester was very stressful, and to help relax, I started writing Destiny stuff again. This summer I’ve continued it, and I’ve been fixing up one of the stories I was working on before my Destiny hiatus. It’s a bit of an extension of headcanons and stuff I’ve RP’d, really fleshing out my Guardian, Dutch-37 and some of the people from his past. I thought I’d share the first chapter with the Destiny crowd here! Without further ado, I present to y’all...  37

(TW for Space Fantasy Violence, Some Language)

Chapter I

Three Guardians huddled together in their makeshift barracks, trying to block out the sandstorm which wailed around them. The barracks was a former Cabal observation post, solid, but worn from years of battle. Holes in it were crudely patched with lashed down Phalanx shields, which unfortunately left cracks for the storm to get in. As the trio sat quietly, the shield which served as the door was opened, sand and wind flying in as a fourth Guardian stumbled in.

“Thank the Light, I thought I was going to be blown away,” said the newcomer, a Warlock wearing the bond of the Praxic Order, “I’ll tell you what though, once the storm finally breaks, we’ll be reconnected to the Vanguard network.” 

    “Thanks Felix,” said the Hunter sitting on the floor, her long scarlet cloak wrapped around herself like a blanket, the sigil of the House of Devils painted on it. “Sooner we can call in a relief force and fresh supplies, the better.” As Felix entered, he shifted one of the Cabal shields, moving it across the opening to seal the barracks. The storm finally somewhat silenced, he removed his helmet to reveal a young human guardian, with close-cut black hair and deep brown skin. A streak of white face-paint marred his otherwise smooth skin. 

    “Mind you,” he said, “That’s if the Vanguard can spare anything for a small outpost on the Martian Front with only one fireteam of Guardians.” 

    “It’ll be alright,” said a Titan, bearing the mark of Pilgrim Guard. His heavy armor had seen many firefights, as evidenced by the numerous burns, scrapes, and scars which dotted its surface. “We can hold.” 

“Of course we can,” said the last Guardian, a Warlock by his armor and bond, which was that of the Crucible. “But not all of us are so good at punching things as you are. We need more ammunition, and I wouldn’t say no to some replacement troops.” The Guardians sat for a while, talking some, but mostly catching up on rest that was long overdue. At last, the storm outside began to quiet down, and they exited their barracks, wandering about their home away from home. The base was positioned overlooking a long canyon, with a low trench dug around it. Aside from the barracks, there was one building with a communications array set up, and various crates set around the area, which had been tossed around in the Martian storm. Poe-5, the Titan, accompanied Felix back to the comms building, where they began to scan channels for the Vanguard’s encryption. Dutch-37, the other Warlock, strode over to the trench line, peering through the scope of his auto-rifle across the sand as the Hunter dropped down beside him.

“See anything Dutch?” she said, lifting her own rifle to scope in. 

“I’ve got nothing,” he replied, holstering his rifle on his back. “Hopefully the Cabal stay back for a while until we can get a hold of the Vanguard.” They both turned to see Poe tapping his helmet as Felix tinkered with something inside. 

“With those two, I wouldn’t count on it,” she said, a wry tone in her voice. Dutch chuckled. 

“Have a little faith in them Caitlin, they’ll get it eventually.” She rolled her eyes inside her helmet. Across the way, Poe straightened up excitedly. 

“Guys! I’ve got a connection!” He turned toward them, his Ghost broadcasting the relay into all of their helmets. “Vanguard Actual, this is Cliffside Outpost, how copy?” The line was somewhat clouded by static, but after a moment the Guardians heard,

“-Outpost, we copy. What’s your sitrep?” 

Poe took the lead, saying, “We’ve held off several Cabal advance groups, but we’re getting low on ammunition and supplies. Requesting a relief force and resupply, over.” They waited a moment, as silence met them from the other end. 

“Alright, we’ve got a relief force heading out in half an hour. Supplies will be arriving with them. When they get-bzzt-head back to Transmat Zone 25 for pick up. We’re cycling out another Guardian unit nearby so we’ll have-bzzt-them there to catch a ride back to the Tower.”

Felix pumped a fist excitedly as Poe replied, “Thanks Vanguard Actual, Cliffside over and out.” The Guardians all shared a cheer, glad to finally be heading home for some time. Dutch smiled, and headed for the barracks. Inside, he walked over to the cot he had set up, taking down his decorations and stowing his notebooks inside of his pack. While he had a bit more in his apartment in the City, Dutch rarely brought anything with him on deployments, except for his notebooks and a few pictures with his Fireteam. Picking up the nearest one, he looked at the photo of him and Felix wearing paper Crota heads as Poe chased them with a sword.

“You know, one of these days I’ll finally get a look inside of those notebooks of yours,” Caitlin said, making Dutch jump a mile. He threw her a slight glare, sticking the last of his belongings into the pack. Finished, he sat down on his cot, removing his helmet to reveal the dark blue alloys of his Exo skin. He had two small horns above either eye, each yellow, and a yellow splatter he had Felix paint across his face. 

“Maybe Caitlin, just maybe,” he said as she removed her helmet to reveal a human, with shoulder length red hair which was tied into a loose ponytail and an array of freckles across her nose. “What makes you so interested in them anyway?” 

“Well,” she said, beginning to pack up her own area, “you guard them pretty well. I mean remember when Felix tried to steal one and you put him in a headlock?” Felix, who had just come in, shuddered. 

“Hey I was almost free when you guys broke it up,” Caitlin and Dutch both chuckled, fully aware that the small Dawnblade was hardly a bastion of physical strength. “But seriously Dutch, what’s in there that you’d choke your best friend out over it, huh?” he asked the Exo. 

“If I told you,” Dutch said, a wry smile on his lips, “then I’d have to kill you. It’s nothing, it’s just my private journals, I write notes and personal shit I don’t need people reading.” Felix raised an eyebrow, but smiled and dropped the topic.

“Alright, but if it’s full of confessions of your love for me, we both know you’ll be disappointed,” he said, his smile broadening as he packed his things. Poe looked over at him suspiciously as Felix waggled his eyebrows. 

“What’s that supposed to mean Felix? You don’t mean to tell us that some poor Guardian has been coerced into a date with you?” Felix spun around to the burly Exo, doing a little dance as he did so while Dutch and Caitlin laughed at the two.

“No tricks, no scams, no gimmicks my friend! Just a cute Titan who saw some of my action in the Crucible last time I was at the Tower!” Poe slapped a hand against his dented helmet, shaking his head. 

“If Saint-14 could see this he would weep. Oh the tragedy, how could a Titan have betrayed us like this?” he cried out in mock anguish. Felix rolled his eyes, throwing his stuff back into a pack.  As the fireteam packed, there was a slight pinging noise outside, and the sound of clanking. “Felix, go take a look would you?” Poe asked. 

Felix, grumbling, turned and walked outside, expecting to find a loose plate bouncing in the wind. As he exited the barracks, the clanking grew louder. Growing nervous, Felix tapped his helmet and opened a communications link to the others. 

“Guys? Something is up, get out here.” He raised his rifle, scanning the base. As the others joined him, he held up a hand. They halted, raising their various weapons in a defensive position. Felix strained to listen as an echo came through the sandy base- heavy, thudding marching. “CABAL!” he shouted, raising his rifle as dozens of Phalanxes marched into view at the base of the hill. Their slug rifles barked as they opened fire on the Guardians, the enormous aliens marching up the hill toward the base. The fireteam slid into the trench they had dug, returning fire. Poe watched as Dutch’s hand cannon brought one down, even as Felix’s auto rifle pinged bullets off of another’s shield. Caitlin’s Ghost took off, quickly buzzing to the communications panel, where it activated the relay before disappearing back to her. 

“Vanguard Actual, this is Cliffside Outpost, over!” Poe shouted as he fired off another round from his pulse rifle, which slammed into the head of one of the Phalanxes. 

“Bzzt- Vanguard, go ahead -bzzt- Outpost.” 

“We have hostiles attacking the Outpost, where are the relief forces and supplies?” Dutch swore as his gun ran dry. The Stormcaller tossed out a ball of lightning which expanded into a storm, downing another Phalanx. 

“Bzzzzzzzt- nearly there -bzzzzt-” Poe swore as the connection went static. The others fired some more, chasing off the remaining Phalanxes who had no doubt retreated to get reinforcements. The reprieve only lasted a minute or two, enough time to grab the remainder of the ammo they had stored away. At the base of the hill, a column of Legionnaires marched up the hill. The haggard Guardians fired back, shifting positions to dodge the grenades and slugs lobbed their way. At last, out of ammo, Felix looked over to see a Phalanx who’d reached the trenchline send Dutch flying with its shield. 

“No!” Felix cried, rage and Light filling him as two flaming wings sprouted from his back. Leaping into the air, a blade appeared in his hands, which he flung upon the Phalanx. His allies shielded their eyes as he showered fire upon the Cabal. At last, the survivors activated their jetpacks, retreating from the burning Warlock in a hurry.  

Exhausted after the battle, Felix landed, his wings fading. Caitling caught him as he slumped down into the trench, closed his eyes, and let sleep take him. The Warlock awoke to a tapping on his foot. Looking up groggily, he saw Dutch offering him a hand. As the Exo pulled him up, he noticed some other Guardians he didn’t recognize setting down crates and establishing a perimeter. 

“Relief force made it,” Dutch said. “Poe has your pack, we’re gonna go ahead and start walking to the pick-up zone.” Felix held up a hand, blocking out the bright sun. He hadn’t been training as a Dawnblade for long, and it still exhausted him every time he summoned the sword. “If you need a minute, we can wait,” Dutch said. Felix shook his head. 

“I’m alright, just tired. Let’s get going.” The two set off, meeting up with the others at the edge of the camp. The Fireteam turned back, waving goodbye both to the outpost they had called home for six months and to the Guardians replacing them there. Turning, they walked, silently, into the Martian sands. As they walked, Caitlin stepped up next to Dutch. 

“So what’ll you do when we get back?” she asked. He shrugged. 

“I have a bit of research I need to get done in the libraries there, but honestly I’m just going to take some time to relax.” He squinted, barely making out the small pickup point off in the distance. “What about you? Any fun plans?” Caitlin chuckled. 

“There may be some plans for the four of us in the works. I just gotta get in touch with a friend first, but you guys will enjoy it,” she said. Dutch couldn’t see her face, but he was sure she had another one of her wry smiles on her face. “That is, if we can manage to peel Felix away from his Titan friend.” The two chuckled, chatting to pass the time until they arrived at the zone. There, they found three other Guardians waiting for them, a Warlock and two Titans. Felix and Dutch recognized one of them, a Warlock by the name of Palus Scrawn. 

“Palus, good to see you,” Dutch said. The other Warlock nodded to him. 

“Felix, Dutch, it is good to see you. How was your deployment?” Dutch and Felix both shrugged in sync. Palus nodded, chuckling. “It was quite the same for me. My research all but ground to a halt here due to the constant stream of Cabal; I look forward to returning to the City, where I can pick up where I left off.” As Dutch opened his mouth to respond, a large gunship came into view, hovering above the assembled Guardians. Wordlessly, they transmatted aboard the ship, which sped off toward Earth. As they flew, the other fireteam all fell asleep, lolling to the sides in their harnesses. Dutch, eager for rest, and Felix, still exhausted from his use of Daybreak, also quickly fell asleep, leaving Poe and Caitlin as the only conscious members of the ship. Poe leaned in to Caitlin, keeping an eye on Palus. 

“Who is that Warlock who spoke with Dutch and Felix?” he whispered to her. She shuddered, a shadow passing over her face.

“He’s eerie. I first met him through Dutch, but my friend had gone on a mission with him. He’s one of those Thanatonauts, the Warlocks that die over and over to try and find new knowledge. I think it’s messed him up a bit. Apparently his Ghost is also somewhat odd, or at least, that’s what my friend told me.” Poe shuddered. He had died several times since his rebirth, but the idea of doing so on purpose spooked him. 

“Warlocks are so odd,” he said, turning his eyes to their sleeping companions. “Caitlin, do you know what those two research?” She shook her head. 

“Not specifically. I know that Dutch has been doing something with the Hive, while Felix works with studies of the Light. Other than that, I don’t really know.” Poe shuddered. 

“Dutch’s research worries me, whatever it is. There was this time on Luna-” He suddenly stopped, choosing to fake a yawn instead. “Ah, it’s not important.” 

She frowned as Poe fell silent, nodding as he sat back to rest. Why didn’t she know more about what her friends were researching? After all, she didn’t want either of them to wind up like Osiris, or worse, Toland. Looking up she saw that Palus had woken up and was staring at her. Without his helmet, she saw an Awoken who was missing one eye. He smiled at her, leaving Caitlin with a sense of unease which she couldn’t shake until the City came into view.