#but instead they will probably go towards murdering people. what a country

[misterradio]

why does it cost 17 dollars to ship a package to canada (across the same continent as me) but it costs just about 5 dollars more than that to ship something to new zealand (entire opposite side of the whole earth as me)

[cameronspecial]

Some People Can Change

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings:  Swearing, Mentions of Drugs and Angst

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.3K

Summary: Rafe really does want to change, but what happens if nobody else believes he can?

A/N: Rafe isn't a murderer and doesn't hide dead bodies in this one-shot, but everything else he does in Canon happens.

Masterlist

Y/N Y/L/N was only supposed to be a one-night stand. Rafe wasn’t planning on interacting with her after she left his bedroom. He was a Kook and she was a Pogue, who worked as a bartender at the club. However, when he woke up the next morning to the smell of frying bacon and the sound of “Dance The Night” accompanied by her dance moves, he knew she wasn’t really going to be leaving his life after today. Plus, her advice was life-saving. “I think I’m going to do something really bad,” he confessed to her, sitting at the kitchen island with coffee in hand. She looked at him in understanding, “Well, you said going to, which implies it has happened yet. And if it hasn’t happened, then you always have a chance to fix it. It’s up to you to own the fact that you recognize it isn’t good and to stop it.” This led to Rafe stopping the murder of his father that he put into action. 

———

Ever since that day, Rafe is not often seen without his arm around Y/N, looking at her like she is his world. Because she is. He knows she wouldn’t put up with the shit that he pulls on a normal basis, so he made an effort to stop his vices. He is just grateful she is relatively new to town and hasn’t had the chance yet to hear the gossip about him. This means he has a chance to turn his life around before she finds out. But no one in his life actually believes he can change. 

“I told you, Barry. I’m not dealing or using anymore. Not cocaine, not weed. I gotta go cold turkey,” Rafe reiterates, sliding the drugs and gun towards the pogue. “And I certainly don’t need this gun anymore.” Barry shakes his head and pushes the item back toward Rafe, “You really think you are going to last man? You aren’t going to be able to stay away from these just because of her. You can’t change man.” “You’re wrong. Every time I do drugs, I’m making the conscious decision to turn towards them. Y/N is helping me realize that I have other ways of coping with my issues,” he gestures his hand toward his chest to prove himself. “Come on, Country Club. Just take them back.” Rafe grows frustrated with this conversation. Instead of fighting back and yelling at the dealer, he tries to take deep breaths to calm himself. It sort of works, but nobody is perfect. So he storms out of the trailer with the loud clang of the front door closing behind him. 

He gets home from Barry’s storming into the living room with his anger clear on his face. “Love, what’s wrong?” Y/N poses, lowering the volume of the TV. Rafe gives her a harsh look, “WHAT THE F-!” He can’t finish his yelling because Y/N is already gently placing her hand on his sternum to guide his breathing. “I know you are angry about something, right now, but that gives you no right to displace that anger towards me. So if you feel the need to release this negative energy, then I would like for you to channel this feeling through working out, please. I’ll come to see you to talk after half an hour.” Rafe knows that she is correct and she probably got these ideas from a psychology book she bought. God, she’s so smart. 

Rafe heads up to the punching bag in his room and starts throwing punches at it. As promised, she comes to check on him after some time. “Now that we’ve calmed down, do you want to talk about it?” Y/N inquires, bringing his hands into her smaller ones and giving his bruised knuckles a kiss. He nods at her, “Yeah, I just went to give something back to a… uh… a friend and he insisted that I still needed it. It was frustrating.” His subconscious knew the problem was deeper than that and this caused tears to threaten to spill. Rafe is quick to hide his face behind his palms. 

“Somehow I don’t believe that this is the true root of your crying. Do you think you can talk about it?”

“Uhh, no. I don’t think I truly know what I’m feeling. Can we just cuddle and think instead?”

Y/N is happy to oblige, lying down on the bed and opening her arms so he can rest his head on her chest. 

———

“No, Rafe. I have to tell Y/N. She deserves to know,” Sarah argues, making her way back into the house from the back patio. Rafe is quick to follow her. At the same time, Y/N is heading towards the same door from the bathroom. “Tell me what?” Sarah turns towards the girl, ready to tell her about Rafe’s faults. 

“Rafe is a liar and thief and violent and a drug addict. He isn’t a good person, sweetie!” 

“I may not have been a good person and I admit to being everything you’ve said but I’m trying to change. Y/N helped me realize that I need to change.”

“Ooh, like you can change. Honestly, no offense Y/N, but we both know this road to redemption act is all going to go away once you get bored of her.” 

Rafe wants to yell that it isn’t true what Sarah is saying, but he remembers the breathing exercises Y/N taught to help calm down and puts those into practice. He knows adding more anger to this argument is just going to lead toward a slippery slope of words he will regret. 

“You may believe that, but I don’t. So I’m sorry I stole the cross and melted it down. I know that it can’t bring back the artifact for Pope. But I’ve already given the money I got from it to Pope and made a donation with my own money to the church.”

“Well good for you, doing one good thing to not feel guilty and to tell Y/N you are a good person.”

“I know about all of this already. Thank you for wanting to tell me, Sarah, but I already know everything and I would like to get the rest of the information straight from Rafe, now,” Y/N interrupts the argument before it becomes never-ending. Rafe’s palms are pressed into his eyes and she knows he is trying to hide his tears. She does not allow the conversation to continue; instead, brings him upstairs and moves his hands from his face. She wipes the tears away and presses a kiss to his forehead, “You don’t have to hide your tears away from me.”

“Why can’t anyone believe I can change? What if everyone is right?”

“Don’t say that. I believe that maybe not everyone can change, but some people can change. And you are definitely a part of some people.”

“How can you say that about me with everything you’ve known about all this time?”

“Because the Rafe that I was told about would’ve ended that argument with violence. He was violent, rude, a liar, stole and relied on drugs like it was water. The one before me approached that argument with recognition of his wrongdoing. He is working on his anger, is polite, tells me the truth, always pays for me and attends NA. He is one month sober. That is how I know you have changed.”

“Nobody else believes I can.”

“I know, love. I know it hurts. But right now let’s just focus on who does believe. You and Me. Then we can use this belief to prove everyone else wrong.”

“Okay, I can do that. I love you, Y/N/N.”

“ I love you too, love.”

[kitkatscabinet]

Whumptober - 04: Kidnapped

John Price x gn! reader

Warnings: murder, mention of torture. Kind of strayed a little from the prompt I feel

It's pure luck that you notice, headphones catching on your laundry and pulling them from your ears just as the door bursts open. You know John isn't supposed to be home yet, not for a few more weeks. Freezing for a few seconds you strain your ears, already dialling John's number as you make out masculine voices from the foyer.

The confirmation that, yes, people have just broken into your house snaps your body into action. You lock the bathroom door from the inside then close it, running as quickly and quietly as you can to the bedroom.

The call goes to voicemail and you internally swear, dialling him once more. Again you don't get through and you try not to fume at John for working when you're about to be killed. There’s no point calling the police, they won’t arrive in time, you just want to hear your husband's voice one last time. 

You work your way through his coworker's numbers before surprisingly, it's Simon who answers. He doesn't even get a second to speak before you're hissing at him.

“There’s Russians in my house!” If your life weren’t in mortal peril you’d probably have laughed at the usually collected man’s brief moment of panic. “At least two” You’re already answering his unasked question, years of being John’s partner leaving you slightly more prepared than the average civilian. 

Whilst you're listening to Simon on the other hand of the line you've managed to rifle through the bedside drawer until you pull out a long serrated blade.

A knife meant you had to get close, but it was quiet, and far more readily available than the gun. Closing the drawer quietly, you rush back to the door. However, instead of closing it, you keep it open, hiding behind the wood and waiting for an opportunity.

You white knuckle the handle, trying to stop your body from shaking as the sound of the bathroom break-in attempt filters down the hallway.

You barely register that it’s John in your ear now over the blood roaring in your ears, a mix of adrenaline and terror leaving you shaking. He’s asking questions, barely concealed panic tinging his every word, but you’re far too scared to answer in case you’re heard. 

Heavy boots thud against the floor as an irritated voice filters through the hallway, one of the men is coming closer and it takes everything in you not to cry as John assures you that help is on the way and will be there soon. 

You both know that’s a lie.  

He’s out of the country, and even if his colleagues can contact the police it will likely be far too late. You want to tell him you love him, want to wax lyrical on how he’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you. At this moment you have so many regrets, so many unvoiced thoughts that you can’t verbalise because it will give you away. 

The door you’re hiding behind creaks slightly as it’s pushed further open and silently you slide sideways to avoid acting as a human doorstop. You see a broad back, and in a stroke of luck, there’s no tactical gear to protect any vital points. Likely in an attempt at anonymity, but it doesn’t matter, you know to go for the throat. He walks towards the closed closet doors, smug triumph in his voice as he thinks he’s found you. 

You step towards him as quickly and quietly as possible. As you get within striking distance he turns, but unfortunately for him, you’ve already built up momentum and are witness to the surprise on his face as the serrated blade slices through the skin of his neck like butter. 

You know better than to stab, you don’t possess the strength, the downside though, is the torrential spray of blood that gushes from the violently slit throat. 

His blood covers you as the man makes guttural choking noises, unable to do anything else with his ruined vocal cords. John’s screaming on the other end of the phone, demanding to know what’s happened but you’ve frozen in shock. 

Those few frozen seconds prove to be your downfall, you’ve forgotten there are two assailants, and the other man has busted down the door of the bathroom and found it empty already. 

“Drop the knife!” It’s a command, and after looking up at the furious Russian man aiming a gun at you, it’s one you quickly follow. A whimper escapes you, frightened tears finally pouring down your cheeks as you await your death. 

John’s still begging you to answer him and with courage you didn't know you possessed you manage to whisper one last ‘I love you’ before your phone is grabbed and crushed beneath the man’s heel. 

“Sorry ‘bout this.” The man sneers and you barely have the time to think that he doesn’t look or sound very sorry before the butt of his gun meets your temple and the world goes black. 

From the moment Simon had burst into the room interrupting his meeting with Lawell, phone in hand and panic in his widened eyes John knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. 

He’s up from his chair so quickly that it falls over, and barking at Simon to update him in on the situation. The phone is snatched from his lieutenant's grip and placed against his ear as he tries to get you to respond. 

He hears your shaky breaths and some vaguely angry shouting in the background but you never respond. He hears your fear, hears the telltale gurgles of a dying man but his heart doesn’t stop until he hears those three words. 

There’s a resigned finality to them and Price has tears in his eyes as he repeats the words in a desperate chant, unable to do anything more than listen as you scream and the line goes dead. 

He must’ve blacked out temporarily after that, because when he came to a few seconds later Simon was holding him up and the man’s phone was shattered into pieces on the other side of the room. 

It’s not until hours later that he gets an update. The police had arrived to find a man dead on the carpet of your bedroom, throat violently slit, but no sign of you. 

The following week was torture. He barely ate and didn't sleep until his body physically gave out. The boys were worried, and on more than one occasion he’d snapped. If it wasn’t for Simon’s interference he might have even hit Soap simply for trying to get his captain to rest. 

It’s another week before they finally get any news, and it comes in the form of a bloodied box containing a USB. Immediately John knows what it is and even as his men beg for him not to watch, even as the horror floods his veins and the bile fills his mouth he can’t bring himself to tear his gaze away from the screen in front of him. 

You’re chained to a chair, soaking wet, bloody and shaking. He watches as a man runs a knife down your collarbone and you scream, crying and begging for John. 

It’s a warning. To back off, or you’ll die. 

The video cuts off with another one of your screams and a mocking accented voice letting John know that this is all his fault.

[dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice]

The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Chapter 4

ANOTHER CHAPTER IN LESS THAN A WEEK. BRING ON THE GRINDDDDDD. I will warn that my motiviation for each of my fics comes in waves, so you'll probably get chapters in random chunks ngl. Enjoy!

Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.

What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.

But two could play that game.

Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)

Word Count: 4590

Warnings: Period-typical sexism, Period-typical attitudes towards neurodivergency, Swearing, Mentions of murder. MC'S RACE IS DEFINED DUE TO PLOT REASONS (also because she is based off my OC)

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

< Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 >

PART 1: Chapter 4

Unconditional Violence.

Bambsquabbled (Definition): A 19th Century American slang word essentially meaning stupefied or confounded. (Adjective)

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Wednesday, 18th December, 1929.

You had expected the additional Tuesday Mr LeBlanc had given you off to prepare yourself for the radio company to consist of you sleeping in until 11am. But dreams are short lived when you have an aunt who insists the ass-crack of dawn is prime time for everything.

You guessed it was fun to climb onto the roof of your relative’s vast home to collect the crystals you had both put out under the full moon, before the energy given to them was whisked away by the rays of the early golden hour. But when nerves settle in like the green spirals of nausea the night before, sleep takes the hand of another, leaving you to lay there with your over-active mind as it drags you through every possibility and event that could end up with you looking like an idiot in front of your new colleagues, or worse. Can’t think of much worse. But the universe will find a way.

It always does.

When Wednesday finally rolled around, it was barely 6am and you already couldn’t wait for it to be over. Your cousins had found you curled up on the bench swing, having dragged your duvet outside as you balled yourself up like a worm, sipping on the iced tea Agnes had bought you the day before in an attempt to settle your nerves. It did. A little.

And now here you were, the first half of your new workday having gone as smoothly as your awkward self could do.

Ethel, who’s desk was closest to yours, had dubbed you the quiet one after spending an hour running her mouth at you with barely a break for you to chime in. You had also already created quite a commotion on the third floor, a few people intrigued by the new ‘foreigner’. Well – as foreign as you can get when you’re from another English-speaking country, in the biggest cultural melting pot of a city had ever seen in your rural life. But they found you interesting enough.

The oddest thing you had experienced that day, however, was a strange request from your new boss – Mr Durham himself.

“I don’t suppose you know how to pull off a local accent?” he had asked when showing you the phone on your desk.

All you could do was blink at him. “I’m sorry?”

He gestured to the phone. “Since you’re my assistant, you’re gonna be filtering through the calls I get before passing them onto me. Now, there might be an issue if someone calls expecting to hear me, but instead find themselves speaking to a British girl on the other end. Some can be impatient and might end up putting the phone down before you explain.”

Memories of that one very unpleasant phone call flooded your mind. “Even if I answer: ‘Hello W.A.D Radio, this is Mr Durham’s assistant speaking’??” you replied monotonously.

“You’d be surprised.” He sighed. “But do you know how to anyway?”

Frowning, you recalled your time in the cities further in the North. “I guess..? A girl I rented a room from in New York insisted on teaching me for when we went into town, but I struggle to see how it’s important?”

The man put his hands together, pointing them at you in a prayer motion. “Just.. try it out? Talk like your colleagues when you see them, to see if you can get a hang of it – I’m sure they’ll be happy to help. Please?”

You gave him a wavering look, but sighed, finally giving in. “Fine, but they can’t make fun of me.”

He beamed, patting you on the back in satisfaction. “I’m sure they won’t! I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

And with that, you sat in your new chair, trying to pointedly ignore the sign at the other end of the room that pointed you to the fifth floor, and began your attempt to settle in.

--

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Wednesday, 8th January, 1930.

There wasn’t much to celebrate when the new decade rolled around. Gone were the so-called ‘Roaring Twenties’, when you would join your parents at the parties and balls they were invited to – when it was acceptable, of course; those higher up in the class hierarchy still grasped to the dwindling standard that children should be seen, not heard. The year you turned eighteen ended up being quite interesting, when the older women who had turned snooty at the sight of your teenage self wandering around their stately homes, tried to attempt a 180°, as they congratulated you reaching adulthood with strained smiles. But you paid them no mind, too busy staring at the paintings or statues that lined their corridors – a stark contrast to the more barren and plain wallpaper that coated the walls you grew up in.

But now that was far behind you, the English garden parties in the spring and summer that you adored so much were now a mere echo in the distances of your mind. The noises of tiny forks clinking on fine china as the little birds twittered in the trees now replaced by the sputtering and groaning of automobiles as you gripped the pole of the tram, your arms tight against your chest as you tried your best to not let the swaying of the vehicle toss you about into the crowd of packed bodies around you.

Making sure the scarf was tucked safely around your neck, you grasped the small briefcase in your hand – mentally preparing yourself for you first day back at the radio station after the new year. Unfortunately for Mr Durham, a small hurricane had passed over during the holiday, and radio stations across the city were temporarily silenced as their mechanics desperately attempted to repair the damaged towers. And also unfortunately for you, only the hosts were offered a couple days off as things got back up and running, though some still showed to prepare for their shows; you, on the other hand, were still expected to show up like any other day.

So here you were, pushing open the (now familiar) double doors, giving a small wave to the receptionist, who’s name turned out to be Diana, and the woman barely raised her hand in response as she continued to tiredly shift through the concerningly large stack of papers on her desk.

You were just about to climb the wide staircase when you heard her call your name (something you were very surprised she knew, considering her tendency to ‘accidentally’ throw paperwork in the bin on the daily), and your wedge heels clacked against the tile flooring as you stumbled slightly, turning to face her as her nasally voice echoed around the large lobby.

“It’s best you stay in the shadows today.” She warned cryptically. “Trouble’s in, and the mechanic’s not happy about the damages – Durham’s getting the brunt of it, but you’ll end up in the crossfire unless you hide out during breaktimes.”

All you could do for a moment was stand and stare, a million thoughts running through your mind. Mostly about who ‘Trouble’ was, and why Diana thought you couldn’t handle the guy and the other mechanic. You did handle the radio man at the repair shop after all, and speaking of the radio, you were quite proud to say you had finished the it in time for Christmas, and had shipped it off with a very passive-aggressive note that hinted for the man to basically never return. Luckily, Mr Boudreaux hadn’t replied to any of your letters since you had begrudgingly accepted the object, but you had suspected he had called the shop once or twice, and you had left Mr LeBlanc to deal with it, mostly because he was quite terrified you would call another customer every name under the sun the second they tried to give you trouble.

Glancing back and forth between Diana and the stairs, you mumbled a slow “Oookay…” before nodding your head and turning on your heel to hurry up the steps. Reaching the third floor, you didn’t stop in your path as you neared your desk, instead dropping your briefcase onto the wooden surface as you dashed by, striding towards the door that had the golden plaque engraved with ‘Mr B. Durham’ onto it. Grasping the handle, you turned the knob, swinging the door open, only to stop in your tracks as you were met with a very empty office.

You frowned. It must be really bad if your boss was no where to be seen. Whipping around, you scanned the main room for him, but only saw a few of your colleagues, the rest still yet to arrive – you were normally expected to be in early to handle Durham’s work as soon as he began.

Throwing your coat and scarf on your chair, you strode back towards the stairs, readjusting the suspenders of your wide-legged trousers as you practically jogged up the steps, and ended up rolling the sleeves of your loose blouse to your elbows as you tried to catch your breath.

On the fourth floor, you spent a couple minutes checking all of your boss’s usual haunts or hiding places, even going as far as interrogating a couple of the workers there for his whereabouts. It wasn’t until some blonde guy that came wandering down the steps from the fifth floor that you got your answer, the man looking up to take in your slightly dishevelled and feral appearance with wide eyes as he stammered out that he was in one of the radio booths. To his further horror, you patted him on the cheek with a thanks as you rounded him, ready to take another flight of stairs to reach your – apparently – floundering boss.

Ignoring the embarrassed sputtering of the man behind you, you eye the sign nailed to the wall, the painted hand pointing upwards with a very bold ‘FIFTH FLOOR’ next to it.

“Don’t go up there until I say you’re ready, okay?” Mr Durham’s words echoed through your mind.

Buuuuut, he did say he wanted to discuss the stuff you brought in your briefcase ASAP.

Yea that’ll be your excuse. You can deal with his complaining later.

Reaching your heel-clad foot out, you took the first step, almost like you were expecting an axe to come swing down and impale your forehead. But when nothing happened, you shrugged, and simply continued up.

Recalling the path your boss had taken you on during the initial tour, you managed to find the dreaded corridor that supposedly housed your greatest nightmare.

Extroverted people.

Yeesh.

At that thought, you did consider turning around, but your urge to drag your boss’s arse back downstairs drowned that thought out, and you carried on.

Surprisingly, it was quiet, but at the same time not so much when you remembered that most of them were plating their somewhat wealthy behinds on their armchairs at home as the rest tried to fix the issues of the storm.

Reaching one of the lit rooms, you heard raised voices.

“–really expect me to know? –” “– supposed to be on in an hour! How is that –”

Cautiously, you peeked around the corner to try and witness the potential fiasco. And what a fiasco it was.

Wires, cables, and any other random parts that were used for radio technology were strewn across desks, tables and even the floor. Amongst these were two men, and there was only one you recognised.

Just like you had seen him every day for the past month, Mr Durham was stood in his washed-out blue suit and concerningly shiny shoes, and at this point one hand was on his hip, whilst the other rubbed tiredly at his face as whom you assume was the mechanic, was blabbering the poor man’s ear off as he ranted on and on about random parts and problems and he gestured frantically at said random parts and problems. Wait – nevermind, you recognised one and a half.

The man from across the street was here, with his back to you. Again. For fuck’s sake.

This time he was back in the seat you first saw him in, this time with a few strands of dark-brown hair out of place, curling slightly as if to rebel against the intense styling he had put it through. Peeking your head out slightly further, you managed to get a good look at him.

Well for one, he was a triangle. Stupidly broad shoulders that narrowed into a stupidly small waist (triangle), with lanky legs long enough that you could probably chop them off and fashion them into skis. Despite his face not revealed, you could see the semi-light tan on his hands, that were busy turning knobs and dials as he listened in to whatever was coming through the headphones on his head. He was dressed to impress, to say the least, in smart, dark-grey trousers, who’s ironed out edges looked as if they could slice through skin. His high collared cream shirt was tucked away under a relatively tight looking reddish-tan waistcoat, and to top it all off, you could see the back of the black ribbon that was most likely tied in a stupidly even bow.

You didn’t want this guy to sense your staring, so you opted to look back at the other two men who were still chuntering on about god knows what. Stepping into the light that flooded through the glass, you wave slightly to try and get your boss’s attention. A couple seconds passed, and you watched as the mechanic kept glancing at you and Mr Durham, until eventually he nudged the other man on the shoulder, pointing you out.

Turning his head, Mr Durham’s eyes met with yours, and you raised your hand with a questionable thumbs up to see if all was good, only to watch in slight confusion as his eyes widened, and he whipped his head rapidly between you and the faceless man sat at his desk, before marching over to the door and pulling it open a crack, sticking his head out.

“Hey uh,” he half-whispered, surprisingly nervous at your presence. “what’re you doing here?”

You lowered your voice to match his. “You said to come find you as soon as possible this morning, you know, to go over those statistics from that other station?”

Realisation dawned on the man’s face, and he reached up to drag his hand down the side of it. “Shit I forgot,” he cursed, and glanced over his shoulder before facing you again. “I’ll – uh… I’ll be down as soon as I get this sorted. Marty’s givin’ me a run for his money right now and the second Al takes his headphones off I’m gonna feel like I’m entering an early grave.”

Surprised, you eyed the man sat at the desk, who looked far too calm to be threatening anyone right now. “Ok… I guess it can wait. I’ll bring you some coffee up!” you chirped, and Durham went to call out that it wasn’t necessary, but faltered with a frown as he realised you were already halfway down the corridor.

--

Balancing the tray of cups and steaming jug the best you could, you reached the final step, retracing your route to the radio booth that your boss was probably getting murdered in. Walking up, you waited patiently until Mr Durham noticed you, and watched as he reluctantly trudged over to open the door.

Taking your first step in, you were hit with the very potent smell of strong black coffee, as if someone had some brewing every day, and you figured you had made the right call of fetching the same beverage as you placed the tray down on one of the tables.

The mechanic was still going off on one, and you watched out of the corner of your eye as you slowly began pouring the coffee into the cups, listening to the greasy-looking man speak.

“– there’s literally no reason that I can find that’s causing the local outage!” he spouted at your frowning boss. “The boys have already fixed the aerial, and David’s currently on-air and that’s working perfectly fine, so it has to be something in this room!”

During the man’s tirade, you noticed the rustling of papers, and looked over to see the faceless man again, still at his desk, but his hands were fiddling with no purpose, and his head was turned to the left slightly, showing his high cheekbone and the edge of his thin circular glasses.

Looked like someone else was listening in too.

Biting your smile down, you turned back towards the cups in your hand, only to have a glint of light pierce the corner of your eye, and you looked in the opposite direction to a large wooden box, with one of the panels removed, displaying the endless wires and springs that coiled and wound in every direction. But you weren’t looking at that, you were instead looking at the screwdriver that was very prominently glinting in the shine of the ceiling light. This must be the painstakingly obvious problem that the mechanic had painstakingly missed.

Giving a quick glance over at the men, you waited until they faced away, scrapping about the wire pile on the floor, and you reached for the wooden teaspoon on your tray, and inched towards the box. Knowing wood doesn’t normally conduct electricity, you raised your hand, testing it anyway against the hanging wires to see if they were live. Seemingly not, you stuck your hand further in, and began nudging at the tool, slowly loosening the wires around it as you dragged it along the bottom of the box.

When they had deemed your silence as suspicious, the mechanic and Durham turned round, only to see you elbow deep in some very expensive equipment.

“Whoa, whoa, WHOA!” the mechanic cried as he rushed over. “The hell are you doin’??”

Instead of jerking your arm back out and apologising to the man who was slowly turning purple, you gave the screwdriver one last flick, and the three of you watched as it dropped over the edge and fell to the floor with a clatter. Moments of silence passed as you all stared at it, until you decided to explain.

“It was tangled in the wires, which would’ve prevented the electricity flow,” you said plainly. “Plus, if you had tried to power it all up, it could’ve set the place on fire.”

All the mechanic could do was stare down at the tool, but Mr Durham had decided to approach, and bent down to pick up the tool.

“Nice one.” He complimented, turning the object in his hands. Though the warm smile he had put on for you quickly vanished, as his eyes set upon the name engraved on the wooden handle. He pointed at it. “This has your name on it Marty.” He said lowly, his blue eyes turning dark as he regarded the paling man with a look of thunder.

Seeing the outcome, you gestured nervously to the beverages on the table. “Coffee’s there, Mr Durham, I’ll see you downstairs.”

Just as you walked around him, he called your name. “Take ten minutes to yourself and grab some tea, whilst I deal with Marty here.”

Nodding, you curtly took your leave, swinging the door open as you power-walked out, failing to see the sharp pair of eyes following you from where they were sat at the desk.

--

You found the break room housed several curiosities that you were yet to explore in America. Apart from the atrocious fact that the tea station lacked the Yorkshire brand, you found yourself poking at what they called a teabag. Yes, surprise, surprise, the Americans invented something tea related before England or even China did, but you had to admit it was rather useful in helping you not gag at the slimy tea leaves that sat at the bottom of most of your beloved brews.

With the table to your right, you leant your hip against it, your back against the door as you rather noisily mixed the spoon around your large mug, making sure the sugar was dissolved properly before you went to strain the teabag. Lifting it carefully out of the boiling water, you gingerly held your other hand out below it to catch any stray drips from hitting the floor, scanning the room in front of you for a bin that you could chuck it into.

What you foolishly had failed to do however, was hear the footsteps that grew in volume from behind, and you hadn’t realised anything until a very uncomfortable prickle hit the side of your neck, as a very unwanted presence loomed over you. Though, that didn’t last long, as the presence decided to deafen you instead.

“So YOU’RE the new assistant!”

A banshee screech raised from your throat, the teabag flying through the air and onto the floor by your feet as you basically jumped three feet up. Instinctively, however, you didn’t realise what was happening until one elbow flew upwards, slamming into the nose of the man behind you, the other flying round to collide with his ribs. Teaspoon armed in hand, you spun around to face your assailant, only to step on the soggy teabag that was still on the floor, and you cried out again as you slipped and slammed into a very firm chest. Eyes screwed shut, you felt the two of you fall, though quickly broken by the table behind you.

Relieved that you were no longer falling, you swiftly blinked your eyes open, your dark brown ones meeting a pair of equally matching brown. Moments passed as you took in the scene in front of you, and you realised you finally had a face to put to the lanky man from earlier.

Said man was groaning as he rubbed at his nose, his lips twisted into a grimace as he checked for blood. What you noticed however, was the several poignant glances the man took to your right, and you followed, only to see you hand raised, teaspoon in hand, pointing down at him as if you had a machete, ready to stab the lights out of him.

A small gasp left your throat at the realisation, and you quickly pushed yourself off, pointedly ignoring the grunt the man let out as you knocked at his ribs. Taking several steps back, you distanced yourself from him. He had gotten close before, he wasn’t about to do so again.

You watched as he pushed himself up on his elbows, using the table as a support as he stood. To a disturbingly tall height might you add. Looks like you did just reach his nose after all.

“I’m uh,” you started as you eyed him, teaspoon machete still in hand, strangely, you instinctively used the southern accent you learnt – it was the one you used with strangers. “Sorry. I didn’t expect you to sneak up on me like that.” Reaching over, you snatched up a napkin, offering it to him. “Y’haven’t got anything…?”

Dark eyes flitting between you and the outstretched napkin offering, you watched as something seemed to switch in his demeanour, and a natural smile fell across his tan face as he raised his hands in mock surrender.

“No, no, don’t worry, it’s quite alright.” He assured, and you blinked at his prominent transatlantic accent. “I figured that wasn’t the best way to say hello to a stranger!” he laughed as he smoothed down his crumpled waistcoat. Reaching his lanky arm out whilst tucking the other behind him, he offered his hand out in greeting. “The name’s Alastor, my dear. And who do I have the most entertaining pleasure to be speaking to?”

You stared at his hand, then flicked your eyes up to him, scanning his grinning face with vigour.

Where, oh where, had you heard that voice before?

Your silence seemed to confuse this Alastor guy, however, and his eyes darted around in confusion as you continued to stare. From what you could see, he had come to a very wrong conclusion about your silence, and leaned over at you slightly, bringing his face level with yours.

“Cat got your tongue, my darling?” His growing cheshire grin reminding you of two very similar people. “You clearly must find me that dashing if your this speechless, haha!” he chortled, the condescension rolling off him in waves.

Oh, you knew exactly where this guy was from.

Narrowing your eyes, you scrutinised him as you quietly muttered out a single word.

“Boudreaux.”

Alastor blinked, eyes darting around your face, before raising a hand to cup at his ear. “I hate to say but I didn’t quite catch that!” he exclaimed rather loudly.

You felt your brows begin to furrow, so you raise your voice slightly. “I said, Boudreaux.”

Oh you did it now. Sparkles seemed to glitter behind his chocolate eyes as he perked up with glee, straightening up to his full height. “So you do know me after all! I was starting to think you simply had nothing going on in that head of yours!”  he simpered as he tilted his head to look down at you.

Despite his clear mocking, you remained quiet for a moment longer, until you couldn’t hold it anymore.

“…You work in a radio station.” You stated flatly.

Alastor looked around, acting as if he had just realised as such. “Yes I am quite aware!” he affirmed in an obvious tone. “Did you want an award for that observation?”

You had to refrain from gaping at this man’s audacity. “… Couldn’t you have just fixed it yourself?”

The man blinked at you. “Fixed what now?”

Oh, this was it. Stepping forward, you didn’t stop until you face was a hand-lengths away from his, and you watched with satisfaction as he shifted at your invasion of his space – talk about a hypocrite as someone who clearly loved to invade the space of others. Staring at the man dead in the eye, you fully dropped the southern accent, your Yorkshire one coming back through full force.

“Your mum’s radio.” You stated simply, raising your brows to regard him with a condescending look that matched his.

You had expected him to brush it off, laughing when he realised who you were. What you hadn’t expected for his pupils to blow wide, his eyes darkening as they narrowed, scrutinising your gaze with his own, and you suddenly felt a little uneasy.

“Oh,” he said lowly. “It’s you.”

Keeping your gaze levelled, you gripped the spoon harder in your hands. That is, until your name was called.

The two of you straightened up, you leaning to look around Alastor as he spun on the spot, the both of you facing Mr Durham, who was looking between the two of you rather nervously. He called your name again.

“C’mon.” he said, refusing to take his eyes off Alastor. “Let’s go over those papers you brought.”

Without a second thought, you darted for your mug of tea, grabbing it along with an almost empty bottle of milk to put in it as you strode around Alastor, feeling the hand of your boss as he put his arm around your shoulder as he quickly led you away, and the back of your head prickled, definitely feeling the sharp eyes on your retreating back this time around.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ALASTOR'S HERE RAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! Watch me disappear from the face of the earth for a week cuz of my executive dysfunction lmao (Blame my adhd not me she's a seperate entity at this point.)

I hope you've enjoyed what I've given you so far, see you soon for Chapter 5!!

Please let me know if you want to be added to the Taglist!

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[beardedmrbean]

I'd be slightly more charitable towards the "the Israeli invasion of Gaza is a genocide" crowd if they didn't immediately flip-flop between that and "but forcibly driving the Jews out of Israel wouldn't be".

"Anti-colonizers" are fucking morons, man.

Can't colonize your homeland, Jews never left, they've been there 3,200 years on the official record depending on how you interpret the Merneptah Stele, which even if it is only mentioning a "people" that would be Isaac son of Abraham which honestly the Islamic crowd probably hates that even more since they claim that Arabs are the "true" children of Abraham through ishmael the kid Sari's handmaiden had with him, never get any mention though and honestly Arabs are indigenous to Arabia anyhow which is to the east of the Levant where "shocker" Saudi Arabia is.

The Mizrahi never left, or at least they've been there since before the Greeks showed up, still a small number of Samaritans as well, they're from the northern kingdom after Israel split following Solomon's death. Genetically at least the 2 European branches of the Jewish family are undeniably more closely related to the folks that never left than they are to any European genetic group.

But ya, the whole genocide thing is ridiculous. I'd be more inclined to believe people actually cared about genocide if they actually looked around the world where that kind of thing is happening in a major way.

inb4: muh fox news.

It's not like the information isn't out there, NYT thing is the only one that's more than a week or so old, so why after this has been going on for years is it still mostly crickets from the peanut gallery.

It shouldn't be a competition though I know, but you'd think this kind of thing would at least rate a mention from the noisy people on the internet.

Gaza situation it's gonna be hamass doing the genocide both ways anyhow, you install a military installation under, in, or in extremely close proximity to civilian structures any deaths that result from taking those structures out are on the people that turned them into military targets in the hopes that the PR would sway people and they wouldn't get called out for using civilians as human shields.

Not to say that Israel is by any means innocent, they screw up and the IDF screws up and innocent people die, some of whom were undoubtedly murdered and I hope the people that have done these things are held to account for them.

But again it's telling that I've seen a half dozen or more posts about palestenian children and it being international children's day and well did you know that November 25 is the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women as decreed by the un, got to see pieces about all kinds of stuff for that day and almost nobody mentioning all the women who were raped and murdered on 10/7

There's people on here that I respect that have a differing view on the situation than I do, different ways to resolve the situation and end the bloodshed none of which involve genocide, so them I can take seriously on some of this stuff.

The screaming lunatics that have decided that of all the ethnic and religious minorities in the world that Jewish people are the ones that aren't allowed to decide what is and isn't derogatory and that anything short of something like 'gas the jews' has layers and nuance instead of listening to what the Jewish people have been saying for years and years and years that both 'infatda' and 'from the river to the sea' are calls to genocide, they don't get much respect.

As for the apartheid claim, why would any country let non citizens vote in their elections or any of the other nonsense people are trying to claim like 'segregated' communities because apparently the concept of 'little' Italy, Havana, Saigon or any of the various districts like the Chinatowns where different groups have congregated to be their own community within a community aren't things that form organically or anything like that I guess.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Don’t Go Blindly Into The Dark

Summary:

To hide that he can't read, Jan Van Eck has been forcing his son to pretend he's blind since he was eight years old. Wylan is now attending Ketterdam University, and meeting Jesper Fahey may very well be about to change his life. But is he safe to tell Jesper the truth? And what will Jesper say if he does?

Jesper is struggling to weigh up his life in the Barrel and his life at the University of Ketterdam, and there's a good chance that his growing debt is about to make the decision for him. He hasn't attended class consecutively for months, but maybe that will change when his newest project includes partnering up with Wylan Van Eck. But can he really leave the Barrel behind him? And how long can he keep up the pretence of who he thinks Wylan wants him to be?

Meanwhile there is a darkness growing in Ketterdam, and it seems a killer may be stalking the streets of West Stave. An unknown evil is closing its jaws over the city, and it’s starting to feel like nowhere is safe.

Tags: @justalunaticfangirl @lunarthecorvus @i-need-help-this-is-my-obsession @devoted-people-hater

If anyone else would like to be tagged let me know :)

Content warnings for this chapter: trafficking references, implied sa references, discussions of death, violence, canon punishments that Inej received at the Menagerie, abuse, ptsd, flashbacks, threats, wounds and scars, fear of violence, implied racism, misogyny, imprisonment, implied murder references

AO3 link

Chapter 55 - Inej

Kaz had not, of course, deigned to inform Inej, when she said that she’d send Anika to the safehouse, that Anika was already occupied. She walked tightly out of his office, her mind trying to click through other ways of getting Jeluna safely out of Ketterdam if her contract could not be sourced. Maybe Kaz would do her the courtesy of a paid ticket and a fake name instead of forcing her to stow away, but even so Inej wasn’t convinced that Jeluna would make it through the journey alone, never mind whatever might be waiting for her on the other side of the True Sea. A country she hadn’t touched in 10 years, a homeland she was too afraid to breathe a word of language from - a harbour that connected to Ketterdam, that would be patrolled by slavers just like every other. But what else was she supposed to do for her? 

Anika proved briefly difficult to track down; Inej eventually found her outside Layla’s door and clearly not in a particularly upbeat mood. 

“Does he not want me to keep watching her?” she asked, jutting her chin towards the closed door behind her, “She’s still not asleep, Kaz said to stay with her all night,”

Inej grimaced. No wonder Anika looked so fed up. 

“I’ll send someone else,” she sighed, trying to flick through potential options in the Dregs that wouldn’t scare the damn life out of Elodie and Jeluna if it proved necessary to go into the flat. She was coming up short, “Is Jade around?”

“Downstairs, I think. What’s going on at the safehouse? I thought it was empty,”

Inej raised an eyebrow. 

“And that will remain the official standing. I’ll see you tomorrow,”

She walked away before Anika could get a chance to follow up, cringing slightly at the sound of Layla retching on the other side of the door. Why was Kaz having Anika watch her? Because he doesn’t trust anyone, ever, and he’s never going to. 

Did he trust Inej? 

He wants to finish me himself.

Then we’ll have to make sure he doesn’t get the chance.

No. Maybe. He might give the Wraith the closest thing to trust that he could - he believed her, he never once doubted that she would ignore whatever the Black Tips might offer her in exchange for crossing him - but he didn’t care, did he? He just didn’t want to lose a valuable asset. He probably wouldn’t even say valuable. 

Then again, what had she been hoping for? She’d told him, he’d listened, she’d left. He was hardly going to offer her homespun comforts, was he? 

I ain’t offering that bitch terms anymore.

Inej shuddered at the memory, at the sound of Riesen’s voice crackling in the air, or the ferocity with which he spat that word, like he wanted to drive it straight into her bones. She knew the word, of course, had heard it more than enough times spoken in Kerch, and a few in Ravkan. It always came with danger. It always made her pause. Yes, she’d heard that word plenty more than her fill. And yet she wasn’t even sure she knew a translation for it in Suli. 

The first time she’d heard it she was a tiny little thing, too small to keep its recollection vivid in her head by now. It slipped like oil from the tongue of a Ravkan man as he argued with her mother at the edge of a Suli camp barely hours after they’d arrived; Inej was clinging to the leg of one her elder cousins, scared of this stranger and the anger with which he snarled the words of her second tongue, just barely daring to lean around from this safe, comforting leg to watch him in time to spot the sudden flush rising in her mother’s cheeks, the way the anger of her father and her uncles resounded as they stepped forwards to place their bodies between Mama and this interloper. Inej felt her cousin tense beneath her grip at that word but she had never heard it before then, did not recognise its shape, did not acknowledge that it was this word that had caused the change in her family’s demeanour. She just heard the shouting getting louder, saw her father pace towards this man as her mother reached out to catch his elbow from behind, and clenched her little toddler fist as tightly as she could manage around the edge of her cousin’s trousers. Barely a second of this fear had passed before he’d swooped down to cradle her in his arms, picking him up so she almost banged her chin against his shoulder. 

“You’re flying, Inej,” he whispered in her ear, speaking Suli, playing their game of swaying her this way and that, clutched safe against his chest. 

Inej could still see the argument over his shoulder, but she liked this game. She liked flying. She clapped her hands together behind his head, giggling as they swayed. 

“Like swings!” she babbled, still clapping. 

“That’s right,” he told her, as they reached the step to the door of her parent’s caravan, “You’re flying like we do on the swings,” 

“Swing tonight?” she’d asked him, most probably through a stream of childish noises that were otherwise indiscernible as words. 

“Hopefully,” they stepped inside and he whisked her up into the air to spin her about before pulling her back into his chest as she laughed, “As long as we can stay here,”

Inej had frowned as he set her down upon the bed. 

“Stay here,” she said decisively, nodding her tiny head in confirmation, as though the question was of preference and not of safety.

“Fingers crossed,” he said, sitting down next to her and showing her his index and middle finger crossing over each other, “Can you cross your fingers, ‘Nej? Can you show me?”

Inej had giggled, twisting her tiny fingers messily over and around each other whilst she lifted her arms and flapped them about to show him. He beamed. 

“Swing tonight!” she cried, crossing her fingers. 

It felt like a promise to her; she was crossing her fingers as she said it, so it had to be something that would come true. 

“Will you come watch us?” he asked, “If we swing tonight?”

Inej always watched them. She was the littlest, back then, since this was before her younger cousins came along, and would spend the shows held safely in the lap of whichever family member was not on stage at each given moment. She loved watching the shows, had already learned when to applaud and when it was more polite to keep quiet, had already learned and understood the pride of seeing Mama and Papa, her uncles and her aunts, her cousins, in their performance. 

“Watch swings!” she’d cried excitedly, clapping her hands again as she thought of flying, “Watch the wire!”

“Which one’s your favourite?” her cousin asked, and the decisive reply came: 

“Wire.” she tapped her chest, “Walk on wire,”

“You want to walk the wire?”

“I will,” she tapped her chest again, “I will walk on wire,”

He grinned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and rocking them both gently from side to side. 

“You’re going to be a great wire walker, Inej. The best,”

Inej clapped happily, rocking from side to side, picturing herself on the highwire and the world a very great distance beneath her. She had almost forgotten the argument outside. 

There were a couple of instances of hearing it at home, in Ravkan, where Inej had been old enough that she could still recall them now, but not many. She’d long ago lost count of how many times she had heard it said in Kerch. 

She heard it first from Tante Heleen, barely the second day after her arrival at the Menagerie. Inej had been left alone on the floor to tend to her wounds from Heleen’s fury at her having cried the night before - once she’d woken up, anyway; once she was done with the switch and the cane Heleen had choked Inej until she passed out. She’d awoken at the foot of the bed in the room that she could not call hers, a golden chain between her ankle and the wooden bedframe. Heleen wouldn’t unlock her until this evening, when she needed to prepare herself for the night, but that wouldn’t be for hours yet. The chain wasn’t long enough for Inej to even climb onto the mattress, not that she’d wanted to, so she had no choice but to stay curled up where she’d woken, her knees tucked beneath her chin and her arms wrapped around her shins, her eyes drifting to the barred window that seemed so very far above her head. She wanted to make herself as small as possible. She wanted to disappear. 

The door opened earlier than she was expecting - the sun was still high in the slither of sky visible to Inej - and she felt panic rising in her bones. It happened quickly, in the space that it took for someone to open the door and step into Inej’s field of vision, the process of trying desperately to barter with emotions that would not listen to her, arguing her limbs into stillness and her face into passivity, for fear of only making everything worse. The door was closed far faster than it had opened, and a girl, maybe a year older than Inej, slammed her back against it. In spite of herself, Inej crawled the single step around the bedpost that she could manage, peering at the stranger with the finger pressed tightly against her pursed lips. 

She wore a cloak over shoulders that her silks would have otherwise left bare, but the hood was turned down so Inej could not determine the shape of the animal ears sewn over it. Her own cloak - the cloak she wore, not hers - was somewhere in here, she knew, but she hadn’t been able to move and find it. She would have to be quick about gathering it to go downstairs when Heleen came to unlock her cuff. The girl’s skirt, which fell above her knees in the front but cascaded to her ankles behind, was dark orange, and the tight silk top that left very little to the imagination was mostly white, edged in the same colour as the skirt. The Fox, Inej realised, taking in the reddish orange of the cloak and the black lace stockings that swirled up the girl’s bare calves. Ravkan. 

“Chto-?” Inej began, her voice soft and nervous, but the girl shook her head almost violently. 

Inej leaned back, heart leaping into her throat, staring at her. What was she doing here? She shouldn't have come. She was going to get both of them hurt.

Inej pulled away, moving back out of view of the door, leaning her back against the side of the bed and staring back at the window. Maybe if she ignored her the girl would leave. Maybe if she ignored her, when the girl got caught Inej wouldn’t be punished as well. It seemed a pretty unlikely scenario. After a moment, and a small, cautious footstep, a tentative voice managed: 

“Do you speak Kerch?”

Inej said nothing, did not even dare to look in the girl’s direction. This was her mistake, not Inej’s and she would not let herself be destroyed for it. 

“Kei ryezich Kerch?” the girl tried again, “Kei ryezich Ravkayash? Na ryezich Suli,”

Do you speak Ravkan? I don’t speak Suli. 

Inej was doing her best to ignore her, but she was also still a stubborn child from the Suli caravans who did not like being underestimated. 

“I speak Ravkan,” she said, in the language, not looking up, “We all speak Ravkan,” 

“And Kerch?”

“Some,”

When she finally gave in and tilted her head towards her invader, it was to see immense relief breaking across her face. 

“Good,” she whispered, switching to Kerch, “Do not speak Ravkan. Do not speak Suli,”

Inej said nothing. 

“I am Yana,”

Yana’s Kerch was slow and deliberate, halting in places, but with the little she knew of the language that was mostly what Inej needed to be able to follow a conversation. After a beat of silence that she knew Yana was waiting for her to fill with her own name, the Ravkan girl instead ventured: 

“You have bruises,”

She tapped her neck very gently, and Inej lifted her own hand to feel the painful flesh around her throat. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. 

“She will bring a Healer, before tonight. I do not know when - we might not have long,”

Inej was tired. She was so, so tired. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to eat. She wanted to cry. But she would gladly have stayed on the floor, hungry and scared and tired, chained to the bedpost for days on end, if it meant that it was the only thing that would have to happen to her. 

“Why?” asked Yana, not needing to specify what she meant.

Inej looked back out the window. 

“I think… because I cried. I didn’t un… un-der-stand everything she said,”

“You need translations?” asked Yana, sitting down uninvited opposite Inej, “I can try to help,”

Inej leaned round the edge of the bed for a moment, eyes flicking over the door, then back to Yana. She found herself momentarily focusing on the girl’s black lace stockings. Inej’s own feet were bare, cold against the floorboards. Yana’s feet, she realised only when she’d been staring at her for long enough, were scarred beneath the stockings. She could see the marks between the swirling edges of the lace. 

“We should have a little time, at least,” the girl assured her, “She is busy,”

There was a long, long silence. 

“I’m Inej,”

Inej couldn’t remember the exact shape of every word that Tante Heleen had hissed into her ear but she repeated what she could of the words she hadn’t known, and Yana did her best to dutifully translate. And that was how Inej learned the Kerch translation for the word she’d first heard as a toddler, that she had heard a handful of times in Ravkan, that even now she was not sure she knew the translation for in Suli. Yana looked down, embarrassed or uncomfortable or both, and mumbled the word into her chest apologetically. Inej just nodded in silence; a vague memory of her mother, of a stranger, of flying in her cousin’s arms, that she couldn’t quite see clearly was tugging at her edges. She didn't want to see it - and yet, she desperately did. She wanted to sink into it, into being a child clinging to her elder cousin’s shoulder, and never climb back out. 

She learned other things from Yana, too. New words. New things to be cautious of, new things to be afraid of. She learned what happened to the last Suli girl at the Menagerie - though she could tell Yana hadn’t meant to let it slip, everything implicit in her words had been quite obvious to Inej. She learned that Heleen never sent her buyers to the auctions that the rest of the children on the ship that brought Inej here were to be taken to; she had greased the right palms, made the right deals. The men who’d taken Inej took any Suli girl they found to Heleen for first picking, if she wanted her, and they’d do the same for any other vacancy she might need to fill. Apparently now she was looking for someone from the Southern Colonies; the Leopard cloak was empty. Inej learned these things and filed them away inside her head, gathering a catalogue of any information she could scrounge together. Over time she started gathering more, from other sources, until it had become a strange escape; a library in her mind, where she could wander freely between the shelves and peruse the books to her liking. All these little things, stored inside her head. She hadn’t realised they’d be what saved her life. 

I can help you. 

And that was how it started. Yana, sitting across from her on the waxy wooden floor. She’d managed to slip out before Heleen appeared, but it had been a close thing. 

“Inej?”

Inej jolted as the shape of the Slat reformed itself around her, grey walls at her side and wonky floorboards beneath her leather-soled shoes. 

“Inej?” Anika ventured again, a little nervously, “Are you okay?”

Inej blinked. It seemed she had only made it as far as turning the corner to the next set of stairs, and Anika was leaning around the wall with concern forming a little divot between her brows. Behind Anika, though Inej wasn’t sure the girl had noticed, Kaz was standing halfway down the steps that led to his office. Inej scowled. 

“Send Jade to the safehouse,” she snapped, not entirely certain which one of them she was addressing, “That’s not my job,”

And with that, she turned sharply on her heel and marched away. Back to her room to be alone for as long as she could manage it. Back to her room to eat, to try to sleep, and to send up a prayer for poor, pretty Yana. 

[convertgrapeling]

If I see one more person saying "queer people like you would be despised/killed/imprisoned in Palestine" then I'm probably going to do something to end up on a watchlist.

The existence of bigotry towards LGBTQ people in any nation is not an excuse to destroy people's homes or murder their children, and what's more if there are LGBTQ people who've suffered in Palestine that's all the more reason to prevent them from suffering any further, instead of e.g. murdering them. I also find it gross as fuck that some people think queer people are supposed to be grateful for Israel for not outright killing us.

Besides, Israel doesn't even have same-gender marriage, they do have a significant transphobia problem and trans rights have been consistently under attack in many countries in the West for the past 5 years. So if you want me to cheer on genocide against any nation declared homophobic, that's a dangerous road to go down.

[hydrangeawrites]

If Bansai was the one who helped Takasugi get back up from the lowest point in his life, then Takasugi was the one who gave him a purpose. 

Look at Bansai’s face in these panels. 

He looks disillusioned in these panels. Disillusioned, bitter, even angry in some sections. Almost lifeless, compared to how we know him in the present day. 

We don’t know too much about Bansai’s backstory before meeting Takasugi, but we can put some things together. Around this time, he was already called hitokiri, which literally means “manslayer” or “man-cutter” (人斬 - 人 “person” + 斬 “to slay/cut”). He’s based off of Kawakami Gensai, one of the four renowned assassins of the Bakumatsu period, who grew angry with the shogunate after they entered into a series of unequal treaties that essentially forced the country to cede land, pay reparations, and open up to Western powers. A lot of assassinations have been attributed to him, but only one - his murder of a Japanese politician Sakuma Shozan - can be proven. 

I guess the Gintama spin on this would be that he was angry with the shogunate for the Kansei purge, surrendering to the Amanto, quelling the war and the rebels by force, and, in his eyes and many others too, giving up on the samurai who protected it for as long as they could. He doesn’t like the hitokiri title - he denies it, either because he’s a wanted man  (although he definitely calculated the risk of going out in public beforehand) or because he’s not proud of it - but clearly he’s done what he’s needed to in order to fight back against shogunate actions. 

He was testing Takasugi here with Matako, even though he definitely wanted to save her. He heard stories about Takasugi and Joui 4 before this and probably also heard about how fast the country abandoned them, how they went from war heroes to war criminals after the war ended. And now he meets Takasugi for the first time, who’s also disillusioned, bitter, and carrying anger with him (even if it’s a different kind of anger), and Bansai wants to see what he’ll do. How will a samurai who’s been labeled a wanted criminal and is being hunted by authorities, who has been abandoned by the country, react when given the opportunity to save someone? And, like he says later, what kind of man is Takasugi Shinsuke? 

Takasugi saves her, and they go to prison. And then they have this exchange. 

Takasugi, who talks about destroying the world, saved a girl who was captured for being seen with him instead of abandoning her. He passed Bansai’s test. 

And then Takasugi asks him this. 

The anime shows him laugh a little bit after this part, but in the manga he doesn't laugh at all. He’s wondering if Takasugi is being serious, and whether or not it would be worth it. And so he tests him again. 

Takasugi says some big words here for a war criminal with no army, no funding, and no support, and Bansai’s well aware of it. But he believes, or at least is willing to believe, in what Takasugi’s capable of, even if all it looks like in the moment is “boasting” or a “grand lie.” 

And then the prison break happens. 

To me, this is where he really starts believing in Takasugi’s words for sure. This is where he realizes that Takasugi isn’t boasting or selling him some grand lie about crushing the country; he’s actually going to do it. They break out of prison with Matako, Takechi, and the rest of the imprisoned Joui, and the rest is history. 

Like Nizou says in the Benizakura arc, Takasugi has a light that draws people to him. Before meeting him, it’s probably safe to say that Bansai was an unsheathed, disorganized sword - skilled but angry, bitter, and killing people without a long-term goal in mind or a cause to fight for. He might have gone on doing it forever, but Takasugi recruited him, helped him point his sword towards the future, and gave him a purpose. 

[agentangeles]

hello everyone please enjoy the first post i've made in my writing blog in easily 6 months and it's just to yell about the fucking center venn diagram point for two big fixations

now you might be wondering "angeles when you start moving towards other fandoms will you still be nootboots" and the answer is yes, its my brand, but also ace attorney has a fucking vice grip on my neurodivergent mentally ill ass

as a side note i am too much of an idiot to remember to read the manga but i know Points Of Interest and when I can sit for a good bit and consume it I will, so bear with my anime main knowledge

Anyways consider the concept of family clans in JJK and the Sahdmadhis and their shit in SOJ. Obviously, we see how shit happened with maki her sister and how that works, and clearly the clans are structured differently depending on the family (what the fuck is going on with gojo. love that funky little manic twink but. What.)

And yes, AA and JJK get to hold hands because of Higuruma, which means I now get to think of both of them and daydream about crossovers, and y'know what? In the JJK verse, you can reasonably explain so much shit, especially w/ Khurai'inism and bloodlines, because Khura'in's designated holy figure being a super cool badass hundreds of years ago with an equally badass sister? Sorcerers who kicked ass. Hella sorcerers who kicked ass. would be special grades without a doubt if they were alive today.

and like cursed techniques having genetic tie ins ALSO FUCKING SLAPS because that's a huge factor! you can also explain why the feys and the sahdmadhis have spirit channeling because *it's the same fucking bloodline* and it's not a stretch to say someone was kicked out of the clan, fucked off, and then those traits started popping up again in later generations

that aside, clan hierarchy also gives a nice port over from an actual extra country that capcom decided now exists, because instead of a ruling kingdom family it's a Big Fucking Clan With A Lot Of Weight To It

(And also makes sense then why when the revolution starts up, nobody steps in to do shit. interfering with another clan's family drama? no fucking thank you. not my paygrade.)

also i just think nahyuta would be really fun as a sorcerer and their rosary beads would DEFINITELY be a weapon for cursed spirits and their title as "last rites prosecutor" would doubly fuck

Unrelated to SOJ but still on the AA train, this also means that Simon Blackquill is just. Always busting out cursed techniques. And since nobody can see it they think he just slices shit with his fingers. And that's fucking hilarious to think about, the idea that someone probably got after him for it and he went "Consider this though: who is going to ask questions with the everything else i have going on", because Simon "Definitely Uses The >:3c Emoji When He Is Texting" Blackquill refuses to fucking listen to people.

"You're going to expose sorcerer society to the masses" Wrong. Everyone is going to think he can cut shit with his fingers because he's a scary samurai man who went to prison for murder and clearly this is something that tracks for that persona.

[mittensmorgul]

all the time in the world

1289 words | rated T | destiel anniversary fluff

summary:

In the aftermath of the events of one working part, Dean and Cas take a road trip. Neither of them really wants it to end. And they realize it doesn't really have to.

It's been 15 years, and about time they got to celebrate! This is technically coda fic for one working part, but you don't need to read that to enjoy this little snippet of fluff.

read it on ao3, or below the cut

The morning after Cas came back, Dean just drove. The reality of their new lives had really begun to sink in. As they headed toward the bunker, after stopping for lunch at a Kansas City style barbecue place, Dean decided to use their self-appointed time off to introduce Cas to the wide variety of barbecue the vast and varied United States had to offer.

“It won’t take long to detour to Memphis,” Dean had said while they were still at the table. “Beale Street, home of the blues and pork ribs. You’ll love it.”

“But we just ate barbecue, Dean,” Cas replied. “Is it really necessary to drive across three states for more? Isn’t this sufficient?”

Dean looked at Cas in horror for a second, and then shook his head slowly. “See, this is why we need a barbecue road trip. Gotta train up those new human taste buds. I can’t have you spending the rest of your life thinking all barbecue is the same.”

Cas had reluctantly accepted that. Mostly he was just glad to be with Dean, no matter what they were doing. And the idea of a long road trip just for fun, not running into danger or looking for things to hunt or fighting against cosmic forces sounded pleasant, regardless of what they were doing. He also admitted that first barbecue dinner had been delicious, and he wouldn’t mind having it again. He looked across the table at Dean, and smiled.

“Thank you, Dean. Of course I’m happy to go wherever you’d like to take me.”

Dean had gone all pink and flustered across the table at that, and that was also something Cas didn’t mind in the least. In a matter of days he’d gone from firmly believing that he could never have what he truly wanted to being given more than he’d ever even dared to hope for. Not just Dean, but an end to the constant struggle to stay ahead of the forces intent on destroying the universe. For the first time in his long existence, he had time. Time to explore and enjoy the creation he’d stood above for eons, to partake of its wonders instead of invisibly standing guard over them. And Dean was eager and overjoyed to share it all with him.

After Memphis, Dean insisted they needed to head to North Carolina. They swung down through Louisiana and into Texas toward the end of the week. Over brisket while a local band played outside a brewery in the hill country outside Austin, Dean sat staring off into the distance at another group of people smiling and laughing together.

“Is something wrong, Dean?” Cas asked after a few minutes. “You’re not finishing your lunch.”

Dean shook himself off and gave Cas a warm smile. “I was just thinking we should probably be heading home soon.”

Cas nodded at this. “Yes. This has been fun and enlightening, but Sam might be starting to worry about us.”

Dean laughed. “Maybe. But I’m also thinking some of your returned souls might start showing up. Don’t wanna leave the homestead all locked up if anyone needs a refuge, you know?”

“Possibly,” Cas replied.

They’d already heard from Rowena and Crowley, who’d both eagerly taken the deal Cas's spell had offered them. Dean had been worried the two of them would just end up killing each other again, but apparently they’d instead decided to go into business together. So far he’d been reluctant to discover exactly what sort of business the two of them would concoct together, but at least he wasn’t worried about having to clean up another messy murder scene at Rowena’s place. He didn’t necessarily expect to hear from anyone else, but everyone who might reach out already knew where they lived. As long as Sam was there, at least they’d find a warm welcome. Something else was bothering Dean.

“Are you already bored of traveling with me?” he joked, hoping to lighten Dean’s mood.

“What? Never!” Dean insisted, reaching across the table to rest a hand on Cas’s. He stared down at their impulsively joined hands and slowly looked up to Cas’s warm smile with one of his own. “It’s just… it’s almost our anniversary, you know? The day we met, the day you pulled me outta Hell. Kinda feels like we should do something special.”

Cas frowned at that. “Anniversary? I never really thought about it like that before.”

“Yeah, well there’s always been a lot of other shit going on. Even after I started liking you enough to stop thinking of it as the day I had to dig myself out of my own grave and started thinking of it as the day we met, there was never really much time to stop and grab a Hallmark card about it. I just figured, we got time for celebrating stuff like that now.”

“That sounds lovely, Dean,” Cas replied, grateful to know that nothing was truly bothering Dean. He wasn’t actually upset about anything, but he still looked as confused as Cas felt. “What do people even do to celebrate that sort of thing?”

“What,” Dean replied absently. “Rescuing some dude from Hell? I don’t think a lot of other people got that sort of anniversary to celebrate.”

Cas grinned. “That’s true, but people celebrate many similar annual events.”

Dean finished off his brisket and then stood up with Cas to walk back to the car. They weren’t in a hurry, but they were ready to move on again. As they headed out on the road, Dean gave Cas a considering look.

“We could take another road trip. There’s a lot of other important human knowledge we gotta explore.”

Cas considered that for a moment, and then remembered where he’d first met Dean face to face. It seemed as logical a destination as any for an anniversary road trip.

“We could go to Pontiac, Illinois. The barn where you met me is still standing. Or was, a few months ago when I last checked on it.”

Dean turned to look at him so fast the car jolted to the side before he managed to correct it. “Dude, you checked on it?”

Cas gave a little shrug, wondering if maybe he’d overstepped some sort of boundary he hadn’t known existed. Maybe he needed to justify his actions to Dean.

“I used to visit there frequently. When I could still fly, it was a safe sanctuary. You warded it very well against almost everything other than angels. And after I fell and became human, I added more warding. It’s hidden from almost everyone and everything else, except for us. I made sure that you’d always be able to find it again, too. If you ever felt the need for a sanctuary.”

“What?” Dean asked, genuinely surprised by all of this. “You turned the place I stabbed you in the heart into a safe space?”

Cas shrugged. “It seemed metaphorically appropriate at the time.”

Dean reached across the seat and took his hand, squeezing it tight. He was clearly overcome with emotions that Cas was just beginning to understand. He squeezed back and smiled as Dean took a few deep breaths, intently focused on the road. Eventually, Dean cleared his throat, and then smiled at him.

“You know, we did the barbecue tour. We should probably do a pizza tour. Chicago’s not far from Pontiac, and you gotta try a deep dish.”

Cas smiled back, relieved, and let Dean deflect his feelings for the time being. They’d have plenty of time to talk through all their emotions. He could let Dean plan it all for the future for now. 

“That sounds wonderful, Dean,” he replied. Because they had time for everything now.

(ao3 link again for anyone who wants it!)

[insideoliviasmind]

Tonight, we write.

The world is chaos, and it is out of our control. Straight to my core I believe the world will begin to erupt into Word War 3. And who knows what that will entail, but I agree with what Donald Trump recently said, "this is not going to be a regular war... army tanks running back and forth shooting each other... this is weapons of mass destruction, the likes of which nobody has ever seen... this is obliteration... this is not war like we are used to... annihilation". I heard what he said and I felt what he meant. I believe that unfortunately, science and chemistry has gone too far. Humankind is in possession of unthinkable WMD, that can most likely wipe out entire country(ies) with a single click of a button. And who is going to make this decision? Who gets to decide who lives and dies? Who gets to decide who is right or wrong? No human is perfect - but how many of us will die as a collective punishment? Who will click the button first? If there were a vote, how many of us would vote against? Why would you ever vote for death if peace was an option? Imperialism or peace?

Which of us will be conscripted? Will it be my brother, your brother, my father, or your father? My neighbours son, or your neighbours son? Which of us will die? Who will live? Which religion, or entity will be next to rule the world? What are they planning? What are they hiding? But that's the funny thing about this system, we never truly had a say, did we? That is way out of all of our control. Our fate is in the hands of the rich and powerful.

I am shocked at the silence within the "real" world, while we are on the brink of Nuclear warfare and WW3. No country is safe at this time. We are also live streaming the genocide of the beautiful Palestinian's in Gaza. And yet we are forced to go to work everyday, like the government slaves that we are. Depending on where you work you probably aren't even allowed to talk about it. I would probably be reprimanded just for wearing the keffiyeh. And I would never wear it as an insult towards the Jews or the people of Israel. I am wearing my heart on my sleeve for Gaza. I think about the people of Gaza everyday. I think about how misguided humankind has become, while we justify killing each other. Killing each other in mass numbers. Developing weapons that quite frankly we just shouldn't have. What is happening within the world is a breach of human moral code. It is a 4k display of our blatant lack of regard for one another.

As corny as this might sound, I don't hate Israel. I do not hate the United States. I do not hate Russia. I do not hate North Korea, Iran, Yemen, the UK, Sweden. I hate nobody. In fact it is quite the opposite, I love everybody. I have a true love for mankind, and the beautiful planet we have been blessed with. And the truth of the matter is, we are destroying it and taking it for granted each and every day, while all of our lives get shorter, and shorter. While the life expectancy of our planet gets shorter, and shorter.

Why can't we live in peace. Just live and let live. Let's not colonize, threaten, steal, enslave, imperialize, collectively punish, label, murder, or judge one another. Instead, why can't we all just step out the front door and take a breath of fresh air to see how lucky we are to even be here in the first place?

Even before reverting to Islam, I always thought that no human being should have the right to decide when another should die. I believe that this a decision for Allah SWT to make.

Ever since I declared my Shahada, I have been more at peace with things that are out of my control. It is largely possible that I could die tomorrow at the hands of my own people (humankind). I can accept my fate, however, I am terrified.

How are you feeling about our world today?

[soniccrazygal]

Random Tumblr user again back at it! Excited for this one and I hope you Like it!

After another minute of panicking Michael calm down. Sat against the alley wall not caring about the terrible smell coming from the trash cans... "Alright enough freaking out you need to break things down... Let's start with the easy stuff. Dad is back as a probably immortal robot murderer thing, We're stranded in a strange country with no current way back home, There are probably more of those animatronics roaming around if the missing kids posters are anything And let's not forget the fact that I probably got some infection from the numerous cuts and scratches..." Michael said running down the list of everything That was happening to them. As he spoke he absently scratched at The small rash on his arm it was not itchy it felt more like a giant numb spot... "We can't solve the dad being a murderer robot thing but we can't go to the police and tell them what we know. And if that doesn't work we can always call CPS Or whatever they have here Britain and we also have Charlie to help us now!" Elizabeth thought about it more for a second... "We should be careful around Charlie though she could be a double agent.." Michael nodded slowly.

"After we're done telling the cops and CPS I think I need to go to a hospital.." Mike said with a sad chuckle running his fingers through his hair.. "We should go extra quickly then get the report over with and get you to the hospital..." Elizabeth said grabbing onto his arm and marching towards the police station. More people were staring at them as they walked some swerved out of the way of Michael others just glared at him. After about 40 minutes of searching the 2 finally decided to ask someone for directions....

Here you go! Interested to see where you take it.. From yours truly random Tumblr user More fun than saying Signed

It took a while for them to actually find someone willing to talk to them as many just gave them dirty looks and hurried faster and a few just spewed insults at them as they got close. But finally a kind lady approached them instead, asking if they were alright and if they needed help.

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

It's the underdog/victim complex. They think they're being oppressed/harassed/attacked by everyone else for liking their fave when no one really cares. Plus purity culture sorta screwed the fandom perceptions where now you apparently can't like a character or be a fan of them if they do bad/problematic things. This isn't just a FE thing either, there was an article that basically said that people can enjoy villains for being villains and requested everyone to not woobify or justify their actions. Guess what happened? People got salty over it and started attacking the article. And yeah it's not just a bunch of teenagers sadly, there are people in their 30s doing this kind of nonsense behavior and it's really sad and pathetic. And fwiw I'm not implying nor intending that people 30 or above can't be in fandoms or anything like that, it's just..you expect them to know or be better than to act like they're half their age with this nonsense.

Yeah, that's so wild to me when they do exactly that - attack others for their faves (especially Dimitri). Like yeah, I hate their fave but I don't go out of my way to attack them for liking her.

Purity culture really, REALLY pisses me off. Not only do people who like EdeIgard erase her wrongdoings, but they only like the version of her they created and not her canon self (i.e. the self that did wrong, but they can't handle the concept of that and their waifu has to be perfect and have her hands clean). Following that, they get aggressive toward Dimitri and his fans for liking him because uwu he did so many bad things. Like, yes, we are aware of that and he actively addresses that fact on a regular basis. He doesn't hide behind "uwu I did it for Fodlan", he doesn't make excuses, and his fans accept his faults for what they are. For some reason the stans seem to think we're just like them and that we erase any faults of our fave and pretend he's a perfect, clean handed individual.

I remember hearing or seeing once in this old Tumblr RP group that they banned Miklan from even being selected as a written character. Like bruh, if you're gonna write roleplays, don't you... want conflict? When I write I find it boring when there's no conflict whatsoever. Even in my dmcl writing, there's still a sort of internal conflict, like Dimitri having doubts about himself and thinking he's not worth being with someone he loves. No matter what I write, I prefer to have some sort of conflict because it helps to strengthen the positive result.

It's funny, too, because these are always the same people who like Hopes Claude more but yet don't think doing anything wrong is okay. They defend his actions instead like with their waifu because it's okay to invade a country and murder its people!

Reminds me of the stan that showed up in my inbox once trying to defend Claude, saying "what innocents did Claude even kill, he only killed soldiers" as if to say soldiers automatically lose all their innocence and rights as human beings for signing up to defend their country. That anon should probably stop and think about what they said and how that applies to real life, because they basically told me my sister deserves to die because she used to serve in the military. Oh no, how dare she be a soldier! She's no longer innocent and it's okay if she dies! Forget the fact that she has three children at home who are very young and need their mother! Forget that her parents and sisters are still alive and would grieve for her! She's a soldier, so it's fine if she dies!

That anon needs a real good look in the mirror and a smack in the face by reality. These people say a whole lot of shit to defend their fictional pixelated waifu without considering how that reflects on them in real life and the fact that what they say does have a reflection on their real life values. Anyone who tells me it would've been okay if my sister died simply because she was in the military is trash and I wish on them what they would wish on her.

I heard about that article! It's pathetic. There is literally nothing wrong with enjoying media and concepts. I have a section I decided to put at the end of this ask explaining how I feel about particular antagonists (Ashnard, Zelgius, Sephiran and Miklan), but since it's a biiiit off course here I wanted to avoid it splitting up my more direct reply to this ask.

Yeah, I know it's not only teenagers and that's also pathetic. While I wouldn't say I just forgive teenagers for being like that (they're old enough and there's no excuse imo, as I mentioned before), it's a lot more understandable that they might be like that and just eventually grow out of it. The fact there are people my age or older acting like angry babies who had their binky taken away is honestly so ridiculous that the term "pathetic" is not even strong enough to explain how ridiculous it is. They act like they're a little kid who had their favorite sticker stolen by some random kid in their class. These are people who should be looking for or having a job, being at least somewhat damn mature online and being a reasonable, mature person.

I was hoping "karens" would die out with the older generations (let's face it, a good chunk of today's karens are bored, angry old/older people with nothing to do and are just miserable people), but evidently we're never getting rid of that lot! It's okay to invade a country and murder its people, just like it's okay to harass and bully people off of social media, didn't you know?! 🙄🙄🙄 Really, how did some of these people get like this? And no, I'm not asking for their uwu backstories to redeem them LOL.

Some of these people are so insufferable that it's disgusting.

Regarding the villain discussion:

It's like I always say and you're about to hear it again: I love Ashnard as a villain because he's a villain, and he's a villain who fully embraces his actions and behavior. He doesn't think he's morally just. He's fighting for the world he believes in. He believes the strong should be on top and should rule the weak. However, he's extremely fair about that viewpoint and if he's defeated by someone because they were stronger than him, that is fair to him and he accepts his defeat. Since he believes the strong should be on top, he believes he should be on top... until someone comes along who can slay him, in which he believes they do deserve to be on top. If he's bested, he no longer deserves to be on top. He's a fantastic villain who never makes excuses and doesn't go back on what he says he believes. There's no "the strong should be on top but only as long as I'm the strongest and will be ruling". Plain and simple, the strongest should be on top whether it's him or not, and he's not, I guess you could say, "fake" about it.

Then you have Hopes Miklan who turns out to be a better person than people gave him credit for. He's someone I always had headcanons about based on Dimitri's take on him being disowned. I felt that he could've been a better person if pointed in the right direction and being told and shown that he was capable as a person even without a crest and that having a crest doesn't dictate whether he's useful or not. Dimitri put him in charge of a massively important, and arguably the most important, area of defense in the entire country. He proved he believed that Miklan had the strength to handle that and proved that he believed if Miklan had a better life and situation in front of him that he wouldn't resort to banditry. The thing is, he was right. Miklan not only started becoming a better person, but he even gets a line where he basically says he liked helping the people in a place that got destroyed in the war. He liked helping them rebuild.

Both of those are fantastic stories and characters. One of them had a redemption arc while nobody ever let any bullshit slide. He wasn't allowed to slip up or get away with any tiny "mistakes". It was literally do or die, but being forced into that situation did genuinely make him a better person. Even if he had to be forced to help them, it's not like he didn't come out on the other side and be better for it. Being forced to do those things didn't mean it just stayed that way and that he was hateful and angry that entire time.

Then one of them is just... a villain. A perfectly written villain who lived and died as a villain. Nobody made excuses for him and he didn't make excuses for himself. There's a reason I don't like Zelgius, and it's not that I think his character itself is terribly written, but it's the forced redemption that he didn't earn that makes me not enjoy his final arc. In contrast, what does Sephiran get? No redemption allowed from Ike until he gets up and proves he's willing to redeem himself. Zelgius could've easily been a character made to earn his redemption, such as being a playable character and having supports to flesh out his new arc, or even just being a story only character who protects and saves the main characters (besides Just Micaiah tee em) and maybe even guides them safely to the Tower of Guidance (no pun intended). Instead he just gets to say he admired his teacher and had a sad backstory so suddenly... nobody is mad anymore. Certainly not Tibarn, who had like 50+ percent of his nation wiped out, that being any able bodied man who could fight besides the ones who were lucky enough to be with Tibarn's fighting force at the time all that happened. 🙄

[ailendolin]

for the ship opinion game: thomas/humphrey, debbie/negatus, and because any excuse to hear you talk about them: thomas/nigel

Thanks for the ask! I'm going to answer for Gabrian instead of Norne like we talked about.

Thomphrey

I really, really like this ship but I love the idea of Thomas and Humphrey becoming friends even more. They're both lonely in their own way and since everyone else already has their buddy, so to speak, it would make sense for them to gravitate towards each other. It's something I really hope we'll see happen in series 5. That being said, I have read some incredible Thomphrey fics so even though I prefer them as friends, it's definitely up in my top 3 favourite Thomas ships.

Debbie/Negatus

I don't ship it but I do get where people who do are coming from. Negatus, especially, seems a little obsessed with Debbie and though I always attribute that to him wanting to be liked like her, I can certainly see why people would interpret this as him having a crush on her. I think I adore Debbie's relationship with Pete too much to even entertain the thought of breaking the two of them up so Debbie/Negatus is something I'll most likely neither read nor write.

Gabrian

I love these two probably a little too much given that they have not a single on-screen interaction in the film lol. That's probably what makes this ship so interesting, though - because we know they have met and likely interacted in some way. They were at Croydon's London residence at the same time, have both been present at Chris's murder (I think) and attended / acted in the play for the queen. It's fun to fill in the blanks for these moments, especially because both Ian and Gabriel are a little lost after the plot gets discovered - Ian because he's out of a job and Gabriel because she's stuck in a foreign country far away from home - and I adore the idea of them helping each other find their place in the world again.

Ask Game can be found here.

[devilsgatewayhq]

Name: Nadia Mayumi Zahedah Age: 36 Time living in Tonopah: Native, on and off her whole life Occupation: Detective in the TVPD's Special Victims Unit Gang Affiliation: None Neighborhood: Springate Crossings Face Claim: Yasmine Al-Bustami

Biography (TW: drug addiction):

Rafi Zahedah and Bayani del Rosario met out in the mission field, their religion bringing them together and keeping them that way even long distance. During their separate missions trips, they wrote letters to one another and eventually fell in love. They were married two years after their first meeting in Tonopah Valley, Rafi’s hometown, and soon after, they started their family. Nadia, being the first born, held a lot of her parents’ hopes and dreams on her shoulders, expected to be the one to guide her younger siblings in the way that her parents had helped to raise her, and to say she had seen that ultimately as a burden would be an understatement. You see, Nadia never really felt the connection with her parents’ God that they did: never felt moved to tears by the Holy Spirit, never heard Him when she prayed at night, and certainly never experienced His blessings. However, being a missionary kid meant she was dragged along for the ride wherever they went, bouncing around from country to country every couple of years, never able to settle roots anywhere for long. Although Tonopah Valley was their home base whenever they weren’t on a mission trip, it never really felt like home with how often they were gone. When she was 15, Nadia finally admitted to her parents that she didn’t want to travel with them anymore because she wanted to stay in one place, go to a regular school, and make friends with kids her own age instead of only ever interacting with her siblings or the children they were helping. It took another year before they agreed, but Nadia was enrolled at Tonopah Hills High School for her junior year and she discovered her passion for education. Nadia was what you would call a teacher’s pet, if only because she found she bonded more with the adults than she did kids her own age when she first got started, but she also loved to learn and the experience of being in a classroom and that apparently wasn’t something people her age did. She helped her teachers whenever she could, even ate lunch most of the time in her English teacher’s classroom, and decided then that she wanted to go to college and become a teacher herself. She did just that, leaving Tonopah yet again, but this time for four years with every intention of returning to the place that finally felt like home and teaching at the same school that gave her her first taste of a normal life.

After a few years of teaching, though, normal started to feel… boring. A part of her missed the traveling, and having to deal with parents who increasingly allowed their children to get away with everything but murder made her feel somewhat jaded about the profession she’d been so passionate about. When her college best friend asked her to be her maid of honor, Nadia immediately said yes. Never mind the fact she didn’t think the marriage would last more than two years, but Nadia needed a change of pace, and this was just the thing to spice life up. It was at the bachelorette party where Nadia met him. He was nearly a foot taller than her, wavy dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a smile that could pull anyone into his orbit, and she couldn’t help but gravitate towards him. Antonio was his name, a pilot, and though they both had had more than a few drinks that night, she could remember being more and more enamored as the evening went on. She admitted things to him she probably shouldn’t – like her feelings about her parents’ missionary work, the belief that her friend’s marriage wouldn’t last – and before she knew it, the two had fallen into each other to the point of waking up naked in his bed the following day with a massive hangover and a marriage certificate with both of their names on the dotted line. It wasn’t what she had expected, but rather than get the marriage annulled, they decided to test out the theory that their quickie wedding would turn into something longer lasting than her friend’s marriage. And it was, but it wasn’t exactly happily ever after for the two. Antonio’s commitment to the military became a thorn in Nadia’s side, particularly when he was deployed for the majority of her first pregnancy and the entire first year of their daughter’s life. She accepted all of the apologies and acknowledged the excuses, but there was still a part of her that wondered why he wouldn’t put in for a longer stay at home to be there for his family.

As bills started to pile up, Nadia realized she couldn’t subsist off of the meager salary she got from teaching and his from the Marines, so she shifted gears to better provide for her children. She joined the TVPD, working her way up to detective over the next few years and joining the Special Victims Unit. Her passion to help the vulnerable had never truly left her, and now more than ever, she wanted to prove to herself that she was able to make a difference in someone’s life. Following his injury and discharge from service, Nadia hoped things would change, hoped they would be able to work on their marriage and build the kind of family she’d always dreamed of. As weeks turned to months and months into years, Nadia watched as her husband spiraled into someone she hardly recognized, the depression, PTSD, and drugs taking him over completely. Her resentment grew, viewing his pulling away as a sign that he had never viewed her or their family as a priority. In 2021, she finally had enough, filing for divorce and full custody of their two children. Since then, she’s been diligent in her work with the TVPD Special Victims Unit and thrown herself fully into being there for Amelia and Aaron, making sure they know how loved they are in spite of the dissolution of their parents’ marriage.

Headcanons:

Although Nadia doesn’t share a faith with her parents anymore, they’re all still incredibly close. She leaned on her mother heavily when she filed for divorce, not wanting her kids to have to see her when she’d break down crying and allowing them to stay with their grandparents as often as they liked.

She’s been suspicious of the sudden change in income Antonio’s had in the last year since he went from being late on payments to paying early and more than needed. She doesn’t know what he’s involved in, though.

She finds it strange to say she loves her job given the work she does, but it’s especially rewarding for her to watch the women and children she works with gradually open up to her and trust her enough to help her get justice for them. She frequently checks in on them after the fact as well.

She has personally made sure evidence from her cases gets tested to prevent it from sitting in evidence lockers for years with no progress. She doesn’t particularly care if it makes the lab techs or anyone else dislike her or call her a bitch; the way she sees it is if they did their job when they were supposed to, she wouldn’t have to get on them constantly.

[readysetjo]

in light of quietly losing a loved mutual a couple of weeks ago, I believe, because I don’t post enough (subjective) about what’s going on with I-/-P but also bc I post often about doing due diligence before posting/ sharing online that might come off as idk complacency(?) to some rather than my response to the shock of watching kind people be radicalized against groups of people (I won’t be specific about which groups bc I’ve seen people become sudden extremists on all sides of this issue)

but I do want to be specific about my beliefs:

1. we are seeing innocent people dying and that should be talked about loudly and it’s disgusting that a call to a ceasefire is taking so long. I have ideas on why the powers at be have made certain calls but I won’t start rumors with my conjecture. regardless the fact that Israel’s army has not called for a ceasefire despite knowing the horror it commits is a horror beyond belief.

2. Palestinians are suffering at a infinitely higher capacity at this time and our global support should be for them at this time, WITHOUT resorting to antisemitism to give our support EVER. hate is NEVER allowable

3. (personally) I tend to shut down with snuff content and seeing frequent snuff (even if not directly dead bodies but filming around it) makes me unhelpful to this cause so I don’t get involved in the posting of this issue. people aren’t numbers but I find that I am easily moved hearing of the numbers of people displaced, murdered, and tortured without seeing it. if that makes you think I’m weak, that’s okay I choose the phrasing “not desensitized” instead. I work in a hospital, started in the middle of covid, and am around death a lot so my tolerance for seeing it outside of work is probably lower than average. I do my support in private and abstain from sharing bc of the next point

4. to avoid OCD spirals on morality and my hyper-responsibility that I can get myself into, I say affirming phrases to the extent of “everyone is responsible for their own education it’s not all up to me,” “at this point everyone knows this is a horrible human rights concern rn and I would hope people research for themselves on this issue,” and “it helps no one to doom post and doom scroll”

5. what I want, after a ceasefire, is for a workable treaty and for self-directed government as decided by the people of the area for each of their countries. I’m not sure if one-state or two-state is the solution so I won’t guess. as well, I want proper sanctions for the government of Israel and any other government who provided them war supplies, including my own USA. the sanctions need to include a large sum to Palestine as they grieve and rebuild. this is bare minimum and does not address many complexities I’m sure there are smart, kind people with more thoughts

6. we are going to see more and more people displaced by environmental forces in the near future we as a global community MUST figure out how to work towards workable peace and cooperation. if these counties can do it, then I’m sure there is no excuse for anyone in the near future to not do it themselves. so the global community of the internet NEEDS to become hungry for peace over punishment

7. beyond those thoughts, I lack the knowledge of the history of the area, politics, geopolitics, sociology, etc. to provide my take on what should happen after that so I generally try to keep my ideas to myself bc they are probably peppered with a lot of naïveté. not just anyone can be an expert and we aren’t all capable of becoming skillful at all subjects and that should be acknowledged as we comment on public forums

8. I love you who share information it has been helpful to me and I love you people on my dash and mutuals for talking about creating genuine peace.

9. I believe that my personal words matter more than a reblog so this will probably be my only real post on this issue going forth besides reblogging humanizing depictions of the Palestinian people through art and continuous posts reminding careful posting and kind relations with each other