#but. but. she can’t move forward and can’t go back if both options means condemning desmond.

[quietwingsinthesky]

the moral of the story is lucy should have just kidnapped desmond for herself at the start of ac2, defected from the templars and the assassins, and kept him as her pet <3

[woodelf68]

Five Lokis and a Sif Meet Up In The Void

For the @sifkiweek prompt “Love”. When I teasingly suggested Sif & Lokigator as a pairing, @psychoticgirl said ‘write it’. This started out really short and cracky but then changed to something actually serious. This is for her. Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin. Words; 1431, rating: G. 

-----

Sif had been having a really bad day. She had been ripped from her timeline, unceremoniously stripped naked and dropped into some godawful ugly beige jumpsuit, and condemned for violating something called the Sacred Timeline without having a chance to speak a single word in her defense. Which might have been hard to do anyway, since she didn't know what she had done wrong. And then she had been "pruned", and ended up in some sort of wasteland, lacking any armour or weapons. For lack of any better options, she had begun walking, hoping to find something or someone to help her.

What she had found had been a motley group of people, one of whom she immediately recognised as Loki, although he was subtly different than the one she knew. Part of that, however, may have been due to the fact that he was dressed like one of the agents she had left behind in the TVA, in nondescript slacks and a button down shirt and tie, garments that she scorned as being utterly useless in providing any sort of protection in battle, but which, she had to admit, were still marginally better than the shapeless garment that she wore. At least the clothes seemed to fit him well, and she couldn't help but appreciate how the thin shirt clung to the contours of Loki's chest. Strangely enough, however, he was the only one of the group who wasn't wearing a variation of his familiar horned helmet.

"Sif!" he exclaimed when he saw her, and the next several minutes were filled with both questions and explanations. Apparently all his companions were Loki variants from other universes, from the older man in the odd jester-like costume to the dark-skinned man with the gaudy gold hammer (surely that wasn't some version of Mjõlnir?) to the boy (who at least was dressed in something that looked like what she would have expected a Loki to be wearing) to the low-slung animal on the ground, whom she had at first thought must simply be a very odd pet that the boy had made friends with. She stared at it dubiously, and had to fight back a grin at the sight of the strap keeping his horns secured to his flat reptilian head. It was, she had to admit, one of the most stupidly cute things she had ever seen.

"Are you sure about the alligator?" she asked, just needing to be clear.

"We think so. He had the horns on when he arrived here," said the boy, who had told her to call him Kid Loki. "Be careful, though -- he bites."

"So would I." Sif said matter-of-factly, "If I couldn't hold a blade in my hands."  Curiously she circled the alligator, who pivoted in place to keep her in his line of sight. She realised that he was quite small in size -- she knew they grew much larger than that -- and she wondered if he was much older than the child whose side he kept close to. According to what they had said, none of them would ever be able to see their families again -- something that she wasn't willing to accept just yet -- but she tried to imagine being told that as a child and her heart went out to the pair of them. She squatted down to address the alligator at his own level. If he were a Loki, she would treat him as if he had the same intelligence as her own prince, until he showed otherwise. "But you won't bite me, will you Loki? I mean you no harm. What happened to you? Did you get stuck in a shapeshift? That happened to my Loki once, when he was still new to the skill. He needed his mother to help him shift back. I bet you miss your mother, don't you?" she asked softly. "All your family, but especially her, if you're anything like my Loki. I can't replace them, but we could be friends, if you like?” Not making any sudden movements, she held out her hand, palm up, and let it hang in the air between them.

"Sif -- "

"Be quiet."  

Alligator Loki made a plaintive noise, and then, to everyone's astonishment, moved slowly forward and laid his closed snout in her hand.

"Oh, that's my good boy," Sif crooned, and rubbed the underside of his jaw.  The gator's eyes closed in contentment and a soft chirruping noise escaped from his throat. "That's it, everything will be all right." Even if that weren't true, even if they were stuck here, if he were as young as she suspected, then she knew how comforting it could be just to hear an adult say that.

"Did his tail just wag?" demanded the Loki who looked like hers. "Sif, I can't believe you just did that; he could have taken your hand off!"

"The fact that the youngest of you stood relaxed within easy snapping distance of his jaws told me that he wasn't a mindless beast," said Sif calmly. "And I would far rather have a Loki whom I can trust to have my back in battle than one whom I need to fear stabbing me in it. Or biting me, as the case may be." She smiled and shifted her hand to the top of alligator Loki's head as he ducked his snout back down and shoved his head further under her hand. Gently she stroked the leathery hide. "Honestly, haven't any of you tried to make friends with him?"

"I did," Kid Loki said, beaming at her.

"I really only just got here a short while before you did," said nearly-her-Loki, somewhat defensively. He looked at her and told himself he did not feel envious of the way she was stroking his alligator self.

"We are on affable enough terms," said the older Loki.

The one whom they had called Boastful Loki said nothing. Sif took note of that and stood up, earning a disgruntled hiss from Gator Loki. She glanced down at him and wondered if her shapeshifting idea were wrong. Why would he be wearing a helmet? She had never seen her Loki keep any form of human clothing upon himself when he shifted to an animal form. In fact --

"If you all came through the TVA, why aren't you all wearing something like what I've got on?" She gestured to herself distastefully.

"Oh, sorry -- what would you like to be wearing?" Loki -- since he hadn't given himself a further descriptive name like the others, she supposed she would think of him as just that -- asked.

"What I usually wear," she said. "Tunic. Leggings. Armour. Boots."

"Sounds the same as my Sif," he said, and waved his hand.

Sif felt his magic wrap around her, and the unpleasantly synthetic feeling of the jumpsuit disappeared to be replaced with well-fitting linen and wool and leather-backed steel. The oddly-fastened shoes gave way to familiar, high boots. "I love you," she said fervently, feeling much more comfortable in herself even if she were still unarmed. "But if you can do that -- why are you still dressed like that? Don't tell me that's the fashion in the Asgard that you come from."

"Well, no. They gave me this at the TVA when I was allowed out on a trip to help them hunt down another variant of myself who was causing them trouble. And I just -- " He thought of Sylvie, and hoped she was well, then shrugged. "I suppose I had more on my mind than what I was wearing. But if you don't like it -- " It wasn't his battle armour, but he summoned something of what he would usually wear around the palace from his dimensional pocket, and his form shimmered into one of green and black and gold, the weight of leather and metal replacing the thin garments that he had been wearing. He shook back his cape, and straightened his posture.

"Better?" he asked.

Sif grinned wolfishly. "Much. Now you look like a prince." She judiciously refrained from mentioning that his hair still looked like it could use a good brushing for the moment and looked around. If they were not dead -- and none of them thought so -- then there had to be a way out of here, and that way was apparently guarded by a sentient cloud monster. "And the Loki Odinson that I know would never accept exile in such a desolate place. So tell me, your highness --" She broke off, and made a sweeping gesture that included all of them -- "Your highnesses, how we are going to get out of here."

[alwaysyourqueen]

My January Jubilation (@masseffectholidaycheer) gift for @ray-beams! Slightly late but still completed. Read it here on AO3 or here on tumblr! Happy February.

--

Jane Shepard woke up, a hand flopping over to the other side of the bed. No one there. She yawned, blinking her eyes a few times to clear her vision. It was weird to not be wearing glasses. Years after her genetic engineering and she still didn’t like that she could see clearly first thing in the morning.

She rolled herself out of bed, pulled on a nice robe and pajama pants combo, and wandered out into the common space of her and Samantha’s apartment. It was modest, which she had wanted for too long now. A sense of normalcy amidst the craziness her life had become.

��Shepard. Didn’t want to wake you. Rest very important during recovery period.”

Jane jerked her head to the side and saw Mordin, cradling what was likely decaffeinated tea, sitting on a couch across from Sam. “Oh. Didn’t think you were stopping by until one.”

Sam stood up and walked over to her girlfriend’s side, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Jane?”

“Yes dear?”

“It’s two thirty.”

“Ah. Thanks.” Jane gave Samantha a quick kiss on the cheek before stealing her spot on the couch. “Coffee?”

“Got a pot warming up. I’ll leave you two to catch up.” Samantha made her way to the kitchen, probably to do a menial task or two in the meantime to allow Jane and Mordin to talk. The two of them did like their private conversations.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mordin.” Jane settled herself into the couch, suddenly hyper-aware of the robe she was wrapped in. It felt very silly that she hadn’t gotten dressed.

“Sleeping long hours common reaction to intensive reconstruction. Completely normal. Should stop in number of days.” Mordin set his cup down on the coffee table, then stood up from his seat.

“You know you can call me Jane now, right?” Jane propped one of her elbows up on the back of the couch. “No Commander crew dynamic anymore. Just two enactors of genocide having coffee.”

“If that was meant to offend, silly way to do so. Never meant for Shepard to be impersonal. Always been formal, never impersonal.” The salarian began to pace, as he was wont to do. Frankly, Jane was surprised he’d even been sitting still to presumably talk with Sam. “Both did what we had to do. Best option with available information at the time. No fault in doing what we do best.”

“It’s hard to think about that. What if eventually I realize I was wrong?”

“I did. Can’t go back and fix what’s been done. Tried.”

Jane laughed. “If anyone could pull it off, it’d be you, Mordin.” She hard swallowed, looking towards the window on the opposite side of the room. “Does it get easier?”

“Unclear question.” Mordin stopped his pacing to stand stock still for a moment, bulbous eyes fixed on Jane. “Does what get easier?”

“Dealing with the consequences of our actions. I mean, I condemned an entire field of science to starting from scratch. Probably killed a lot of people in the process. No, I know I killed a lot of people in the process. And now I have to get up and be a person in the galaxy.”

“No.”

Jane looked at Mordin, a starstruck expression on her face.

Mordin gave a short shrug of his shoulders. “Feeling never goes away. It shouldn’t. Focus more on the future. Do better today than we did yesterday.”

“That’s awful optimistic of you. Are you sure you haven’t been replaced by an evil clone?”

“Only you warrant such extreme copying.”

Jane rolled her eyes. Sometimes she had to reflect on the fact that her life was so crazy, it was impossible to even joke about without someone ribbing back that it had actually happened. “You were so upset about everything with the Genophage, and I did that on another level.”

“Not about us. Not about you. About the people we are going to help. Not about you or me, or how we feel about it.” Mordin finally stopped moving to sit down across from Jane again. “About making a difference after we’re gone.”

“Yeah.” Jane ran her fingers through her hair, scratching at her scalp along the way. “Making it better. I hope I actually made it better instead of making it worse.”

“I think you did. The whole team does.” Mordin made it sound as such a matter of fact, such a simple thing that everyone knew. Jane was struggling when people said those things to her, but she wasn’t going to argue the point. Mordin was a much better arguer than her.

“What do you suggest we do? To do better?”

“Get up again. Do something good. Protect people.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Hard to give advice to savior of the galaxy, Shepard. Figure it out.”

“You’ve got an attitude problem, you know that, Solus?”

“Not a problem. Keeps you guessing.”

Jane laughed, got up from her seat, and stepped forward. “Can I get a hug before sending you on your way?”

“Just this once.” The salarian stood up and let Jane put her arms around him, and put his own around her too.

Jane held the hug for what was probably a little too long for a salarian perception of time. She finally released him, rolling a part of her shoulder that was digging a little too hard into his suit. Despite how squishy salarians could be, their tech was the opposite.

“Don’t be a stranger, okay?” Jane walked with Mordin towards the door.

“As long as you are wearing pants next time I visit. Fair trade.” Mordin gave her the salarian equivalent of a cocky smile, or at least that’s what she thought it was. All this time around aliens, and she still didn’t quite know how to read their facial expressions.

“See you, Mordin.” Samantha waved from behind Jane, who whirled around, taken aback by her girlfriend’s sudden appearance. “Heard the going away party, and decided to butt in.” She passed off the cup of coffee in her hands to Jane’s hands, who quickly brought the hot bean juice to her lips.

Mordin gave them both a last wave and the door closed behind him, the automatic lock visibly switching into place.

“Did you know you are the most amazing woman in the world?” Jane slumped against Sam’s side, making a raspberry as she exhaled air.

“Oh, so there’s some other world with women more amazing than me? Maybe I should’ve shipped you off there instead of coming home.” The words were spoken with an air of comedy, clearly lacking any real offense. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m the one on dishes. Maybe I’ll just leave out all your favorite cups to get all dirty, and gross, and,”

“Alright, alright, I get the idea. Don’t lay onto me until I’ve had my coffee.” She lifted the cup as if to demonstrate, and sipped from it again. “Okay, begin the shaming.”

“I think you’ve had enough for one day.” Sam put her arm around Jane’s shoulder. “Let’s work on that sleep schedule though, eh?”

“Over my dead body.”

“Too soon.”

“For the first time or the second?”

“Exactly.”

[jaskiersvalley]

Silver Tongue and Silver Hand

Content warning for: major character injury, loss of limb, lots of blood.

It wasn’t all that unusual for Geralt and Jaskier to part ways for a little while at times. Which was why it never occurred to Geralt that something might have been wrong when his path was silent for a few weeks. Yennefer had been there though, keeping him company with her own brand of social scorn. They were at a tavern, Geralt trying to pin down the person who put out the call for the contract while Yennefer got to wander through the town.

How the group got the drop on her was still beyond logic. One moment she was admiring some cloth that would make for a gorgeous, sleek dress and the next moment she was waking up cuffed, her magic suppressed and with a throbbing headache.

“They got you too, huh?” A familiar voice pulled her violently back into consciousness.

“Jaskier!”

“The one and only.” Jaskier really sounded far too cheery for someone who was also chained up. At least he looked whole with only the softest hint of bruising in faded yellows on his temple.

There wasn’t much they could do, Yennefer’s powers were bound, both of them were chained and without a hope of getting out. All they could do is talk, not even quietly at that given the distance they were from each other.

“Geralt will come, don’t worry.” Yennefer tried to reassure their bard but it only earned her a mildly worried “oh I hope not”. Which was never something she wanted to hear. While Jaskier didn’t know the ins and outs of it, he’d picked up enough to know that their captors were planning some kind of ritual and choice was involved.

Unfortunately, it was something Yennefer had heard about. A potion to boost luck which meant that while life couldn’t be taken for it, a sacrifice had to be made by an external party. And the harder the choice, the more sacrificed, the more powerful the potion. With Yennefer and Jaskier there, it could only mean one thing. Geralt was going to have to choose.

Sure enough, not long later they were being dragged to a cavern. In the middle was a cauldron, slowly bubbling away and there was a wooden block on either side. Their captors wrestled them into position, Jaskier’s left arm was forced onto one block, hand dangling over the gently steaming cauldron. Opposite him, Yennefer’s right arm was pushed into the same position. Not a few minutes later, Geralt marched through the door, looking murderous. His swords were dripping blood and he was breathing harshly as he took in the scene before them.

“Geralt! I am so glad you could join us,” the leader of the group crooned. “As you can see, we have a game set up here.”

A gesture to the cauldron and a smile. Both Jaskier and Yennefer were pinned, a blade to their throats. And a good with an axe to their sides, poised and ready to make the cut.

“It’s a simple choice. One of your companions will walk out of here unscathed. The other, well, they’ll be leaving minus a hand. So what will it be? No more spells? Or no more songs?”

Everyone waited, all eyes on Geralt as his gaze flickered between Yennefer and Jaskier. It was the moment Jaskier remembered what the sorceress had said, the spell needed a sacrifice. Without it, it was ruined. And any ingredient could upset it, it was a fussy potion and one that required more work than it was worth.

“I don’t-” Geralt licked his lips nervously.

“Choose!” Their captor demanded. But it was obvious Geralt was stuck, unable to decide, to condemn either of his companions.

The lull from the lack of choice meant their captors weren’t as attentive, focus on Geralt. That was broken when Jaskier twisted, right hand reaching for the axe and, without hesitation, he swung it through the air and onto his own arm. His scream was lost in the yells as his hand fell into the cauldron and the whole room descended into chaos.

Prioritising was difficult, Geralt couldn’t get to Jaskier without his opponents getting in the way. And Yennefer was helpless too, cuffed as she was. It was only years of practice that meant he could fight his way through those throwing themselves at his sword to free Yennefer. For good measure, Geralt sent the cauldron and its contents flying, strewn over the floor and utterly useless. Together, they whipped through the room, killing all until they were by Jaskier’s side. The bard was curled up, his bleeding arm clutched to his chest and tears of agony streamed down his cheeks.

“Let me see,” Yennefer urged and tugged at the injured limb despite Jaskier’s pained protests. A curse left her lips.

It was the matter of seconds to open up a portal and Geralt was hefting Jaskier into his arms as though he weighed nothing. Stepping through, they were in a mansion, Yennefer’s home without a doubt.

“Put him on the bed,” she pointed Geralt in the right direction. She was already off and gathering her supplies. First things first,something to dull the pain before cleaning the wound to stop infection taking hold.

Blood and tear streaked, Jaskier looked up at them and swallowed the potions Yennefer pushed towards him. The burning agony died down into a dull throb and finally, he could think.

“Why did you do it?” Geralt demanded, trying to keep his attention way from where Yennefer worked.

“It was the only way. Ruined their potion, you didn’t have to choose. It was the logical option.” He whimpered and tried to pull his arm from where Yennefer poured something over it that burned to his core. A ‘tsk’ and an iron grip kept him in place. “You need her spells more than my songs. And-” Jaskier looked away, ashamed, “-her beauty had more value. Her looks have more of an impact than mine ever could.”

Two sets of eyes regarded Jaskier in silent disbelief. Sadness filled Geralt’s eyes while Yennefer tried to tamp down on her emotions. The dumb bard actually cared for her. Idiot. Words weren’t going to be enough this time, this wasn’t a debt she could clear with a few sharp words hiding some kindness or help.

Silently, she finished doing what she could for Jaskier. Ensured that his wound would heal cleanly, as pain free as possible. All through it, Geralt held Jaskier’s remaining hand.

Healing took a lot of energy, and Yennefer may have slipped something in Jaskier’s medicine to help him sleep. She needed to talk to Geralt without him overhearing.

“I can’t grow a hand back, no matter how much I want to.” She told him and was met with a soft, resigned ‘I know’. “He’s never going to play again.”

That time, the ‘I know’ held more pain. Geralt was slumped forward in his seat, shoulders hunched.

“He knew it. Before he cut his own hand off. I saw his face.” And she wished she hadn’t, the realisation, the determination, the agony. Yennefer had seen it all and it was going to haunt her for a long long time.

“Who would you have chosen to save?”

The guilty look that flashed over Geralt’s face told her everything she needed to know. Jaskier never really stood a chance in the face of such a choice. He knew it too, that was what the realisation had been. It didn’t stop the guilt from eating away at both Yennefer and Geralt.

“He’s lost his livelihood,” Yennefer finally said, knowing they needed to lay out all the facts. “He won’t be able to follow you around and earn his keep, and he’s even more helpless, defenceless like this. And nobody will want to take him in without a way for him to pay.”

It was the truth but damn did the truth hurt. Geralt gritted his teeth, trying to find a loophole, a way to ensure Jaskier had a future that was comfortable and safe. He couldn’t even teach at Oxenfurt when he couldn’t play his beloved lute.

“Fuck.”

They sat in silence, not looking at each other, ears attuned to the soft breaths of their bard in the other room. Without saying anything, both Geralt and Yennefer made a vow to try and do everything in their power to help Jaskier.

Healing took a while. There was a false cheer around Jaskier as he tried to make light of his situation. Once, Geralt even caught him with his lute, held the wrong way round, trying to learn how to place the fingers of his right hand for chords. In the end, the lute was carefully laid down next to Jaskier and a shaking hand stroked over it.

By the times soft, pink skin covered the end of Jaskier’s arm, his smiles were brittle, breath hitching around the forced jovial attitude. Magic had eased his healing, left him free of gnarly scarring but it didn’t help the fact that Jaskier still only had one hand.

“Right, well,” he looked at Yennefer who stood by the door expectantly. “Thank you for everything but I suppose I really ought to get out of your hair.”

Where he was going to go was beyond Yennefer and Geralt. They hadn’t asked because they suspected Jaskier had no idea, but they could afford him the dignity of not ripping open his facade. Even as Jaskier refused steadfastly to stay, citing adventure calling him. All three of them knew he had no way of repaying care he had received and each day was another he couldn’t afford.

“Come with me,” Yennefer said, not accepting refusal. When Geralt moved to join them, she fixed him with a glare. “You stay.”

She led Jaskier through a portal and Geralt was left alone in the home. He thought it was especially cruel that Yennefer had Jaskier’s lute on her back. There was no telling when she would come back and where she was dumping Jaskier. It was almost better to not know because Geralt would have gone after him, with the noble notion of rescuing him, even though he knew full well that his lifestyle was not one that could keep a one handed bard alive for long.

A portal opened on the other side of the room and Yennefer strode through, accompanied by the soft sounds of a lute being strummed. And Jaskier’s laugh. He stepped through after her, playing with the world’s widest, teariest smile Geralt had ever seen. Where his hand had been missing was a silver replica, dancing over the neck of the lute.

“Geralt!” Jaskier beamed and waved his new hand. It reeked of magic, freshly wrought and powerful. Yennefer only looked a little smug.

“You sure you don’t want a glove?” Yennefer asked, offering the garment up to Jaskier.

“Who plays lute in a glove?” Jaskier shook his head. “This is now my signature look. Silver tongue and silver hand. Oh the ballads I’m going to write!”

It seemed that their worries were over. All debts paid off in one fashion or another. The guilt still lingered but Jaskier’s smiles were genuine now, easing the tightness in Geralt’s chest. Though he hadn’t had to make the choice, he still had to live with the consequences, as did Jaskier. But at least, now, they wouldn’t have to separate as a result of it all.

[enkelimagnus]

A Castle in the Forest

Percy x Vex’ahlia, Chapter 11, 2942 words,

A Modern AU, in which Vex is a park ranger taking over the Alabaster Sierras post, and finds much more than she bargained for.

Read on AO3

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

Vex had succeeded in evading Vax’s questions about the bow.

She hadn’t really given him the option to speak at all. After resting for the night, her exhaustion had melted away and left all the space for anger. She’d driven out on her truck, not on the motorcycle, but that was only because the bike wouldn’t go on the snow very well. She’d just wanted to get to one of the temples fast.

They let her walk right into a fucking trap. They hid this from her and she could have died. There is going to be a scar on her shoulder, even with the healing she’s received. She wants to scream at all of them.

What if she’s not the first one to get hit by whatever the fuck the fiend is capable of doing? What if there are bodies literring that castle, bodies of innocent people who walked in on a fiend and died because no one fucking warned them?

Her rage carries her through the whole drive, until she stops in a furious screech of tires not far from the temple and basically runs to it. It carries her as she slams her whole body into the door and it bursts open. She doesn’t care about the bruises she’ll have after this.

She’s lucky, she guesses. They’re all there. Pike, and Grog, both priests and Cassandra. Somehow, the latter’s presence is no surprise. They were acting a little weird about everything, after all.

“What the fuck is up with the thing in the castle and why did none of you bother telling me about it?” Vex roars.

She can feel her hands shaking as she balls them into fists, trying to canalize her anger at least somewhat. She’s a professional, she can’t go and yell the heads off of clergy. Or maybe she can. Maybe she needs to, right now, because they let her walk into an incredibly dangerous situation.

Grog is still holding up his axe. He doesn't look specifically aggressive but she knows he’s ready to defend his friends against her if necessary. She appreciates that, even in this situation.

“You saw him?” Cassandra asks, standing up. “Does he… look alright?”

Vex blinks.

She wasn’t expecting this. Cassandra seems concerned, but more about the thing than about the fact Vex was in close contact with it and could have died.

“He’s a smoking fiend in the shape of a humanoid and I don’t know what kind of shit he packs but it made a hole in my shoulder. A big one!” Vex snaps back. “That doesn’t sound alright to me.”

Cassandra’s face hardens in as neutral of a face as Vex has ever seen. Pike reaches for them, gently putting a hand on their arm, beckoning them to sit back down.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Pike says quietly. “Do you need more healing?”

Vex shakes her head. “No. I have a couple of Healing Spells, and my brother gave me a potion. I’m fine.”

She’s mad that they’re showing concern, when they should have told her this was a threat. Pike and Grog make it all worse. They knew, when they took down the Barbed Devil, that it wasn’t the fiend Vex had sensed. And yet, they let her be fooled, let her believe that she’d done her job correctly.

“Lady Vex’ahlia, I think you should sit down,” Father Reynal says then, with his serene priest façade that Vex wants to smash through right now.

Grog gets up to bring another chair and they all stare at her until she moves and sits down at the table. They all settle back down.

There’s a large file on the table, closed and title-less. Vex raises an eyebrow. Father Reynal takes it and pulls it off of the table, away from her prying eyes and wandering hands. Smart of him. Suspicious too. Vex is on high alert and everything right now is a threat.

“I’m not a lady,” she mutters.

“I know,” Father Reynal nods. “But I’m being polite.”

Vex rolls her eyes. “Cut to the chase. What the fuck is going on here? What is that thing and why didn’t you tell me?”

They all settle back in their seats, all tense, all very unwilling to talk. Vex isn’t budging until she’s given answers though. She’ll camp here and harass them until they crack. She doesn’t give a fuck how long it takes.

“We didn’t tell you,” Keeper Yennen starts. “Because there was no reason for you to know. The fiend cannot walk out of the castle, the trail had been condemned by our work, and the secret tunnel was… well, secret.”

Vex sighs slightly. “Until Keyleth told me about it.”

“Our dear Keyleth is not skilled in the art of deception,” Father Reynal adds then. “We should have expected this would happen. But we couldn’t take you into account when all of this started. Your predecessor, Ranger Regae was not… exactly zealous. He was either oblivious to what was happening or didn’t care enough to stop it. All the contrary to you, my lady.”

“Not a lady,” Vex repeats. “Please stop calling me one.”

They nod as well. “Apologies,” they mutter. “Now. As for your other questions…”

Cassandra bristles. “His name is Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III,” they rattle off without even blinking. “Depending on which succession law you follow, he’s either Lord of Whitestone, or just my brother, in which case I am Lady of Whitestone.”

Vex takes a second to take in all of what she’s just been told. The De Rolos are not all dead. At least two remain. She’s staring at one of them, and the other is the thing in the castle. And they’re all covering it up.

“What happened? Because that’s not a person in there anymore,” Vex points out. Cassandra flinches at that.

Well… The eyes flashing to blue and the humanoid voice could belong to a person. The part that had yelled her to run… that could be a person.

“We don’t know exactly,” Cassandra continues, despite her flinching and obvious uncomfort. “We know that he’s been possessed by a fiend. Which I’m guessing you sensed and came in contact with.”

“Do you know how he came in contact with the fiend? What kind of fiend it is?” Vex crosses her arms.

“He.. came back to Whitestone with the fiend already with him. I haven’t been able to get more details from him.”

Every time Cassandra or anyone else says something, it just adds more questions to Vex’s plate. Where was he before coming back? Why had he left in the first place?

“As for the kind,” Father Reynal interjects. “I haven’t gotten to see it up close since he became possessed by it the way he is now, but from Keyleth’s description, it seems like a demonic creature. Perhaps a shadow demon of some kind.”

Shadow demons are more difficult to take down than barbed devils, but they’re not… impossible. Between Keyleth, Pike, Grog and the others, they should have been able to take it down a long time ago… Though it isn’t just a fiend. It’s also Cassandra’s brother. That changes things, she guesses, for all of them. There’s a person trapped in there, the one that made it so Vex could get away.

That’s the thing with possession. There’s always someone else than the creature involved in it.

Vex sighs heavily, putting her hands over her face. “You haven’t told any sort of authority, I’m guessing?” She asks.

“They’ll just… kill him to take out the creature,” Pike points out. “None of us want that to happen. We want him safe. As safe as possible.”

“Or they’ll fuck up the barrier we put up and he’ll be free to roam and probably kill more,” Keeper Yennen adds. “That’s another one of our concerns, and one of the reasons we didn’t tell you. We’re aware rangers have some spellcasting abilities and we did not want to risk you messing with the barrier.”

Vex huffs. “Well, I can’t promise I didn’t do anything but I don’t think my encounter with it fucked up your spell.”

They all fall quiet then. As she looks around the table at these people, these people of faith, of knowledge, of ability, it suddenly dawns on her the mess she’s gotten into. There’s a nobleman possessed by a fiend, with a weapon from the nine hells that shoots holes into people. They’ve been dealing with it for who knows how long, and they’re not getting anywhere. They seem at a standstill.

It’s all terrible. She should run away now. Grab Vax, pack her bags, and never come back to Whitestone again.

She’s not going to succeed at her job here, not when the fiend in the castle is much stronger than she is, not when there are people who won’t let her deal with it quickly and efficiently because it would mean murdering someone. Not that she would murder someone to do her job, but… it’s just another thing to think about.

She should give up and leave.

But where can she go? She can’t go back to Syngorn. Syldor’s made it incredibly clear in the letter she read yesterday. It was only yesterday but it feels like weeks. The emotional distress and the encounter with the fiend, or Percival de Rolo… It all seems so far away.

So she has to stay, and she has to deal with this somewhat. Because there’s no way she can go back to her life when she knows about the thing in the castle. No way. She’s too… stubborn.

“I have many questions,” Vex starts after a moment. “And I want you to answer them to the best of your abilities. If you want me to help in this matter, you’re going to have to be straightforward with me. Honest. If I catch you in a lie, you’re fucked.”

She doesn’t really think she’ll tell any authority about this, but she is going to use every bit of power she has to get her way and get the answers she’s desperate to have.

“Fine,” Cassandra nods. “I think that works with us.”

Vex doesn’t reply that they don’t have a choice anyway. She’s not that big of a dick.

“My very first question,” she moves forward. “How did you know my last name?” She stares at Father Reynal, with his chestnut eyes.

He sighs heavily and takes out the folder that had been on the table when she came in. He slides it over the table towards her and she takes it, and opens it.

Everything. They have everything. They have her grades and report cards from the schools she attended in Syngorn, from the noble general educations to the specialized ones, to the ones from her training with the TWC. Things on Vax as well. And then the Shademurk. Reports on the fire, a copy of the report she wrote for the TWC about what happened. Pictures of her and Saundor at the official parties he dragged her to, both because she was the ranger attached to the Shademurk, but also because she was his trophy, and he wanted to show her off.

She remembers the specific day this photo was taken on. She remembers the pretty green silk dress with the completely open back, almost the exact color of his skin. He’d insisted she made her hair in a way that uncovered her ears. He’d made a braid of vines that wrapped around her neck in a necklace. He’d called her perfect. She’d been the only non-fey in attendance, and all eyes had been on her, and on him, because he’d brought her.

She’s smiling in the photo in front of her. It was taken when she was already tipsy on sweet and heady fey wines. That was why she was smiling so much. The evening hadn’t been pleasant. Some sort of anniversary of something where she’d obviously been there for people to stare at, for Saundor to have. He had not let her move out of his side all evening, arm wrapped around her waist, hard as stone, unmovable. Possessive. She’d already known better than to try and break his hold on her, it had been months after she’d realized he was much, much stronger than her. When he decided to hold her, there was no getting out.

She slams the folder shut when it gets to more details about the fire.

Her hands are shaking when she looks up at the priest in front of her.

“Why?” She asks. Her voice is weak. It’s shaking, it’s ugly.

“We had to know who you were, who had replaced Regae. If you’d be a threat for us and Percival,” Father Reynal explains. “I’m sorry.”

He’s not. It’s obvious he’s not. Vex gets it, but it doesn’t qualm her anger and betrayal. She grabs the file in her hands. “I’m keeping this.”

None of them deny her that. Good. She would have exploded if they did.

Her mind is swimming. The pictures of those nights in the Feywild, the reports on the fire and her escape, the fiend, the trapped noble, her father’s hatred of her, these people… all of it was too much. She needs a fucking break. But they won’t let her have one.

“I need to go for a moment,” she says. This time her voice is steadier, and she’s so incredibly glad.

“You have some decisions to make,” Keeper Yennen nods.

Vex stands up. She’s not as shaky as she expected she would be. “I’ll be telling my brother all of this. You’ve involved him.” She points at the file. “Non negotiable.”

Cassandra looks a little uncomfortable at that but says nothing. Good. She’s getting Vex to help in saving her brother, Vex is involving hers.

This is too much to deal with alone, anyway. She needs Vax by her side with this. Despite everything, she needs his presence, she needs him. They’re both unsteady and neither of them are the rocks the other needs, really. But they’ve got each other and that’s at least something. It would be horrible if they couldn’t have each other.

She walks out of the temple with barely a word. She can’t do the goodbyes and everything else right now. She can’t pretend her mind isn’t full of questions and fears and anger. She needs to take time with all of this.

It’s hard. A part of her feels for Cassandra, and even the rest of them. She can understand why they did what they did, why they hid it from her, from the world. But she’s still so deeply angry about all of it.

And the file just made it so fucking worse. It’s all there, all the things she wishes to forget, all the things she prayed there were no traces of. She hoped the fire of Shademurk destroyed all evidence of her presence there, of the months spent in Saundor’s thrall.

Just like the memories and the scars she bears, just like the bow under her bed, it’s not going to go away this quickly. She should have expected pictures to be taken of the parties, she should have expected the reports to exist somewhere in the system.

What kind of research power did they even have, to acquire such information from her schools in Syngorn and the TWC?

Fuck. She gets into her truck and punches the leather outside of the wheel, cursing out loud. She puts the file down on the passenger seat and exhales. She needs to calm down. Her hands are shaking and she needs to be calmer to drive home, or she’ll drive herself into a fucking tree.

She would have thought being researched would be the worst part. But the worst part is the memories of Saundor the research brings. She’s fought so hard to put this behind her, she’s spent months bothered by horrible nightmares, every time she fell asleep. She’s better now, but this is a lot to deal with.

She really thought she was going to be safe from him now that she was hundreds of miles from the nearest portal to the Feywild. But the memories will not leave her and the scars are still obviously on her skin.

She can’t be safe. Not when she has her memories intact and his bow under her bed. It hasn’t been long enough. Maybe she’ll be done with him in a few years, or a few decades. Hopefully it will fade away faster than what her father did.

Falling from Syldor to Saundor was to be expected, now that she thinks about it. She was desperate for approval from some sort of authority figure and Saundor was that. And he had her wrapped around his little finger within days of meeting him.

Gods, she loved him. At least somewhere in the middle. Not at first, no. It had been all for comfort and pleasure. And then… at the end, it had been fear and hopelessness. But she had loved him in the middle. She’d worshipped him.

The great powerful Lord Saundor the Forsaken.

Her forehead hits the leather covering the wheel and she sighs heavily. She’s so tired. Her fingers find the key and turn it, sending the engine roaring on. The radio turns on with it as contact is made. It’s still on that pop channel since they went for a groceries run whe Vax arrived.

It feels like it happened weeks ago. The onboard calendar says it’s the 28th of Cuersaar. Vax has been in Whitestone for three days.

[miss-choco-chips]

From the ground up.

The road to recovery is a bumpy one, but Tim’s (reluctantly) ready for the drive. He just hopes they won’t crash and burn.

-.-.-

Tim recovers after an injury. Mending his bonds with the bats its a plus. 

Or, Tim can’t exactly run away from a conversation, and they all take advantage of it.

( @animemangasoul asked for Tim actually needing his crutches. Of course my dumb ass  brain needed to take that idea and make a whole, emotional thing of it. Threw in some family bonding cause why not. 

Babe I did my best, and if it’s bad I’m blaming exams and life stress of me being unable to properly deliver what you hoped for)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It had been a stupid decision. Self sacrificing, reckless, idiotic. He doesn’t know Bruce’s disappointed eyes, Dick’s worried ones or Damian’s disdainful sneer to know it.

Still, it had been his choice, and he’s going to stand by it. Even if it means having Steph pose as Red Robin for some time. Even if he has to deal with M’gann’s guilty looks at failing to convince him to change places, to allow her to get shot while he took the criminal out, instead of what they actually did. Even if it means getting annoyed, nearly hysterical texts from basically everyone he knows, condemning him for his stupidity. 

The only ones he had explained himself to were Tam -who honestly deserves it after all the shit he was going to put her through, dealing with her recent trauma (courtesy of assassins) and the press going haywire at Tim’s broken engagement and then almost fatal injury-, Steph (who was going to be changing between Batgirl and Red Robin for some time to keep the whole charade up and Vale off their track) and M’gann herself, who had needed some serious explanation before she conceded to Tim getting shot in front of her for appearances sake.

The rest of the world? They could rot in curiosity, for all he cared. Bruce had probably extrapolated enough from his succinct explanation about Vicky to understand the whole plan. Dick was probably dying to know, but with their relationship strained as it was wouldn't dare to ask. Damian… who know how the devil’s mind works. Alfred was already used to the Bat’s collective shit, and would probably just sigh and make chicken soup for him.

What he wasn’t cool about was being forced to have his recovery period in the Manor. He had a perfectly funcional place for himself, thank you very much, and could wobble around in his crutches from bedroom to kitchen to his small, personal cave, no problem. But Bruce had been unmoving in his decision, going as far to physically carry Tim in his arms, like a toddler, from the hospital steps to the car. It had been humiliating, but he couldn't exactly wiggle free in front of all the reporters, could he? How to explain a nerve strike to his dad, and his own ability to withstand the pain of falling back to his feet?

(Because he totally could stand the pain. He had done it in the dessert with a ruptured spleen, he could deal with a slightly damaged spine)

He was going to have his revenge though. As soon as he was able to move freely without clenching his teeth from the pain.

He’s being deposited on the bed, when he notices Damian lingering around the door. He was looking at Bruce, a little unsure, more than a bit of envy at the care which his father bestowed on Tim. Before, those jealous eyes would have made him weary of an attack. Now, with Bruce and Dick having forced a promise of civility from the kid, he was still on guard but not ready to flee at any given second. Perpetually tensing would only dampen his recovery, after all.

It was still something to think of. The lack of fire in his eyes. He… looked like a kid. Not as much a demon as he had been when Tim went away.

Well. Only time would tell if he had truly changed.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Bruce had ordered bed rest. No work, detective or CEO. Nothing more straining (for the mind or body) than watching a movie. Eating and sleeping were his only allowed activities. Even reading was to be moderated, because Tim was known to lose himself in any topic that caught his fancy and forget everything else. 

Tim had listened to his reasoning, nodding along and adding his own helpful insight, smiling when his head was patted in response to his obedience. Waved cheerfully as Bruce left, made smalltalk with Dick when he visited hi room before heading out for patrol (theirs was a talk that he wasn’t really looking forward but knew he wouldn't be escaping for long), thanked Alfred for the food and ate half of it under his watchful eye. Even took the medicine with just mild complains.

The perfect picture of innocence and submission. Right until the butler went to the Cave to man the comms.

Then all bets were off.

Moving his bed out of the way to get the laptop hidden below the loose tile under it was impossible in his current condition, but thankfully he had been able to talk Bruce into letting him keep his phone, and his briefcase wasn’t too far to not be able to make the walk without crutches (painful as it was).

Before an hour had passed, he had the wall by his bed covered with post it notes, connected by red sting and pins here and there. A pretty evidence board, even with the lacking resources. Perrrfect for a little Tim-Time, a small bit of detective work.

Bruce would certainly bitch about him moving around so much, taping pieces of information or moving the string around, but, well. What Bruce didn’t knew…

-I thought Father ordered bed rest.

The voice, completely unexpected (he had either been in too deep thought, or the brat was getting better at stealth), made him jump so high and sudden he almost pulled his stitches. The medication, fading with each hour, had weaned enough he felt every bit of tissue, still torn from the shot, straining under the move.

It resulted in the longest, filthiest string of curses his sharp mind could come up with, partnered with gasps and a lot of hair pulling in a instinctual attempt to redirect the pain from his torso to somewhere less dire.

-No one taught you to knock and not to startle convalescent people, brat? -he spats between clenched teeth, squinting through barely-opened eyes to glare at him- And why aren’t you patrolling? 

The kid was on pijamas. Tim can’t remember the last time he saw him unarmed. Though he probably still had at least a dagger on himself that he couldn't see.

Bruce and Dick’s promise echoed in his mind, but just in case, he let one of his arms go around his middle, acting as if trying to soothe his hurt (okay, maybe it wasn’t all an act) while he palmed the three Red Robin pallets he had secured between his bandages earlier.

Damian scoffed and approached him, careful to keep a healthy distance but enough so he could properly appreciate Tim’s wall.

-Apparently, Father knows better than to trust you to behave, and he came up with a schedule to keep an eye on you. For what reason, it escapes me. Your death could only serve as a stress relief for everyone, specially if it was caused by your own stupidity. And you didn’t answer my question.

A large part of him wanted to tell him to fuck off. An even larger reminded him he was barely armed, heavily incapacitated, and that Damian had actually answered him first, so, technically, it was fair to do the same.

He sighs and leans back into the pillows, shoulder on the wall crumpling the photo of his number three suspect.

-Whatever. Bruce clearly bought when I said I’d act the part, otherwise he would have cleaned my room of anything useful. You’re probably here because paranoia is too deeply ingrained in the man, or he thinks you could use a rest too. Or both. 

Probably both, Tim thinks. He’s ready for Damian’s sneer and a declaration that he ‘didn’t need a rest’, most likely paired with an insult. 

Instead, Damian surprises him by tilting his head and looking at him with something akin to curiosity.

-You lied to Father? And he… believed you?

Feeling his petty bitch inside stirring, he smirked- What, like it’s hard?

It actually was, it required a hell of a mental preparation and careful planning. But once you learned how to pull it off and took care to polish it, it was a often used weapon.

Damian wouldn't let any positive emotion towards Tim willingly show on his face, so the amaze was most likely honest. It was… a little humbling, truth be told. 

-Tell you what -he decides, pulling his best negotiator voice, to cut the kid some slack-, you keep this little naughtiness -a nod towards the wall- between us and help me hide all proof before B comes back, and I give you some  pointers in how to lie to Batman. 

Damian seems truly torn. On one hand, Tim can guess, it's the mission his father entrusted him, and his deeply ingrained disdain to anything Tim proposed. On the other, the temptation of such a useful tactic, and the fact that he didn’t really care for Tim’s wellbeing enough to stop him from doing his thing.

-What are you working on?- he asked, likely gaining time while he mulled his options.

-Cold cases -a shrug-. It’s just a pastime of mine. I dig into Bruce’s old files, search for anything he couldn't solve, and work on it until I do. It’s really good for self esteem, and it helps a lot of people who never got closure for whatever it happened to them. 

-Father will know you disobeyed if you solve it.

-I’ll wait until he gives me permission for some light work, and then dump all my worked out cases on him at the same time.

There’s something akin to wonder fighting to make itself known above Damian’s facade of indifference.

-Can you actually solve something Father himself couldn't?

-Done it before, will do it again. What will it be, Damian? Cause if you decide to snitch on me after all, then kindly leave me to this until then. I’m about to crack this, and if its going to be the last one I’m able to work on, I’d hate to leave it halfway.

A few seconds go by, before Damian takes the last step and carefully perches at the end of the bed, eyes solely on the wall.

-I’d prefer to aid in solving this. If it’s true this is something not even the Batman could do… it’d be highly rewarding to work on it. You can teach me the arts of lying another day.

Shocked it actually worked, Tim did his best to swiftly recover. Not one to look at a gift horse in the mouth, he kept his doubts in check to dwell on them later and went back to his wall. 

Having Damian around was surprisingly useful. He could just lay there, in his pillows, and direct the brat through moving the string and adding post it notes here and there, until the whole thing mapped out in front of them, the answer staring at them as clear as the quickly approaching day. 

Satisfaction strong enough to smile despite the ever growing pain in his side, he gave into the urge to give a small pat to Damian’s shoulder before telling him to help take it all down, least Bruce came from patrol and found them on the act. High on the success and more than a little stunned about it, the younger vigilante actually complied, even going as far as to put all their mess back in Tim’s briefcase and bringing him a glass of water to wash down his meds with.

When Batman came to check on his middle son after patro, Nightwing on his shadow, they were regaled with the shocking, unbelievable sight of Damian sleeping, sitting on the ground with the back of his head resting on Tim’s bed, while the bedridden boy himself snored, a hand on top of the smaller kid’s head.

The picture Dick took of them was gonna be his most treasured possession forever.

-.-.-.-.-

-And this will make me a better detective? -questioned Damian, frown  scrunching his nose in a way that Tim couldn't help but think of as adorable. Or as adorable as it could be, in a hell spawn. Fuck, Dick was rubbing off on him.

-It helped me -he shrugs, eyes on his own screen as he makes the proper adjustments-. Long live the queen is a good place to start. You need to consider both the character’s mood when selecting the week’s classes, and the goal you aspire towards. All the while dodging assassinations attempts, commoners uprisings or noble plots depending on the choices you make, and… other stuff. And ruling a country. And getting engaged. It’s a lot of juggling, keeping in mind which skills you need for which event, and it forces you to consider how the character is doing emotionally, something you could seriously use to learn. Want me to give you a run through?

-No need -he scoffed, clicking in the start game option, dubiously reading the introduction-. It seems easy enough.

Tim just smiled, eerie, from his place behind him. 

Damian was sitting in the floor by his bed, back resting against it. The position, if slightly uncomfortable (Drake wasn’t an enemy any longer, if Grayson was to be believed, and after the other night’s joint work he agreed to help train Damian in mind schemes, but he wasn’t a complete ally either… and having such a grey person with such a clear shot at his neck made the assassin in him nervous), was the best way for Drake to watch his progress in this… game, while keeping his wound unbothered. It also kept Damian from ‘sneaking a peek’ at his own screen and ‘cheating at the game’, as he had said. Not that he planned on it, but-- well, all resources, no matter how dirty, were still fair game in the arts of war, as far as he was concerned.

Not that Damian needed the help. This was a silly game. He would probably beat this first try, high score even. Really, the main screen image had a teenager dressed in a frilly, pink, magical girl outfit. How hard could this be?

---

-My cousin just got bitten by a snake. Will she die?

-Wouldn’t you like to know, demon child. You’ll figure it out later in the game. Just keep going.

---

-Why do I keep failing this skill-checks? What am I missing? Is it even relevant? I just passed one that was completely useless about world history, but somehow missed the one that would have helped me keep this stupid girl from getting betrothed. 

-If it was relevant, you’ll know it when, not if, when it kills you.

-...I should save my game here.

-With these shitty skills you’ve built? Sure, if you want to, but at this point you’ll die no matter what.

---

-Is this woman trustworthy? Our father said it was her fault mother died, but she said…

-Hmm. I’m not giving you spoilers. Tell me when you figure it out, one way or the other.

-Well, at least we have our aunt, uncle and cousins. Surely they are on our side, as our family.

-...

-Drake, why are you laughing? 

-...

-Stop it! You are not scaring me!

---

-Look, I said I was not going to help you… but you can’t keep pissing everyone off, baby bat. You’ll never survive until coronation if you do.

-Those people deserved to get executed.

-...some of them, maybe, but you failed a lot of skill checks there, so you don’t have all the facts. Also, if you are gonna fuck with people, at least choose if you are doing it with nobles or peasants. Both of them is taking it a bit too far.

-I am the Queen. Neither would dare oppose me. I will have their heads if they do!

-..okay then. Let the record say I tried.

---

-Is this birthday party important?

-Uhm… Kinda. Your friend just turned of age, which means she gets to inherit control of her lands. There’s also a whole new route if you do go to the party, if you have the necessary abilities for it.

Tim saw the back of Damian’s head bob as he nodded. He gave it a few minutes. Then-

-YOU DIDN’T TELL ME I WOULD DIE ON MY WAY THERE!

-I did say you needed specific skills. Both for the party itself, and to get there.

He was ready for the unholy sound that escaped from Damian’s mouth, finger quickly taping at his phone to record it. That treasure was going to be his new ringtone. It would help with the pain, too. Happiness therapy or something like that, to distract the mind from the hurt. 

---

-Hey, Dami? I’m gonna go get ready for patrol. Are you com/?

-NO -he snapped, neck almost breaking from how quickly he raised his head to look at Dick at the door. Eyes red from staring at the screen for so long, hair a mess after messing it up in incalculable desperation- I’m about to win!  This time, my strategy won’t fail!

Tim, game already finished and now watching a movie (at least until Bruce and Dick left and he could go back to coding a new security system that even Babs wouldn't be able to crack)  tilted his head, examining his brother’s open game.  Week 30, no medicine knowledge, no intrigue, little to no dog training, no composure and not enough divination...yeah, Damian was gonna die again. It was the first time he had lived long enough to reach the tournament, and subsequently, the poisoned chocolates. 

Should he tell Damian? On one hand, the frustration, clear in his face, would tear him apart after yet another failure. But… this was the most fun he had in a long time, and the longest they had gone without either insulting the other. 

-Okay then -mumbled Dick under his breath, smartly retreating out of the room.

Tim waited a few beats- Let me know if you need help. 

-Leave me alone Drake! As if I’d lower myself to such tricks! The victory won’t be truly mine unless I win by my own merits!

Still at the door, feeling both a little ignored and elated at his brothers getting along so nicely, Dick decided to slowly exit the place, least Damian truly snapped and threw a dagger or something at his head.

---

The downside of the pain meds was how drowsy they made him. He didn’t know quite what to do with himself, now that the bags under his eyes were so close to disappearing. He had come so used to them… maybe he’d need to start investing in eyeliner and fake them.

Blinking himself awake, he moved a bit to look at the clock on his bedside table and immediately flinched. He kept forgetting the wound, and then moved and was painfully reminded.

A hand appeared out of nowhere, holding a familiar pill. He took it without prompting, accepting then the glass of water.

-Don’t think too much of this, Drake. I’m merely assisting Pennyworth. Since I’m already here working on my progress, I offered to make sure you don’t forgo your medicine. Again.

The disdainful voice, probably masking the smallest shadow of care, had come familiar enough in the last couple of days that he knew even without opening his eyes who it was. The question of what the hell was he still doing here, after spending the entire day at Tim’s side, remained.

-Damian? Are you still playing?

The kid seemed uncomfortable.

-The idiotic Queen wouldn't stop dying. It’s against my every principle to give up before achieving my goal, so I had to stay here until I passed this… training of yours.

Tim had to bit his check to keep from smiling. Damian was kinda decent at it, but the boy who lied to Batman wasn’t so easily fooled by a half assed attempt. The brat had actually stayed so he could make sure Tim didn’t forget his pain meds and woke the whole manor up with his groans later. 

-Well, as your teacher for this particular test, I’m telling you to call it a day. Go to sleep and come back tomorrow with fresh mind and eyes.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rehab… sucked. There was no way around it. Sure, he could go the nice, easy way, give himself enough time to heal before starting on the recovery path. But vigilantes didn’t have the luxury of nice, and he needed to be functional again asap. Steph was running herself ragged, working on keeping Tim’s identity on the streets alive and her own territory safe, and there was a limit on how much Tam could take over in WE before collapsing.

Bruce hadn’t been happy about his decision of starting physical therapy while his stitches were still there, but when was he, ever? And the doctors had said he could do it as long as he was careful about it, now that the swelling in his back had disappeared, so he couldn't use them as counterpoints. There was also the nice plus of being emancipated, which made his medical decisions his own, and not even Bruce could just breeze by and ignore them.

Sweet, sweet independence.

Too bad he forgot a tiny detail: how fucking painful it was.

He could move around now, using the crutches, and he had a series of exercises his doc gave him to help regain movement, which he followed like religious doctrine. Two reps before lunch, one before bed. Okay, the physical therapist had said only do one per day, but he couldn't take into account Tim’s vigilante resistance and strength, so he felt safe in his small expansion of the activities.

That was, until the sharp pain on his side made him lose balance during his last rep and trip over his crutches.

A strong arm around his upper chest stopped his fall to the ground, and took the air off his lungs. It didn’t touch his wound, though, which… nice.

-If you're falling jus’ from walking, maybe you're not as ‘recovered’ as I heard.

-Ja...son -he coughs, hand (with the crutch secured to him by nice straps, courtesy of WE’s medical division) raising up to hold Jason’s arm for support. The other man shifted, coming closer, shouldering his weight without a word, his other hand going around his waist, under the wound, to help him along- This… but a scratch.

-Quoting “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” at me won’t keep you out of trouble, little shit. C’mon, I’ll take you back to your room. Which way?

Pointing him in the right direction, Tim took advantage of their closeness to examine the other man.

They weren’t on ‘kill on sight’ terms any longer, but Tim wouldn’t exactly call the man when in a pinch. What was he even doing here? He was fairly sure he and Brucer were still at that ‘mindless anger/deeply rooted guilt’ stage of their relationship, and his book club meetings with Alfred were wednesday afternoons, not friday evenings…

-Stop thinking so much, you’ll strain som’ing.

-I’m not Dick -he fires back almost in instinct, earning a deep chuckle in turn. He shifts a little, looking for a position where his trembling arms wouldn't make the crutches shake quiet so much. If Jason saw his struggle, he respected him enough to say shit about it.

-Speaking of, how’s it going with him?

-I have no idea what you’re talking about. We are fine.

-Yeah, right. And he’s sitting out of helping you with rehab because he suddenly lost one of his hundred hearts and it’s just your luck it was the one he had for you?

-Fuck… -a misstep, and his arms automatically shift to compensate, keeping him standing but paying it in pain when the movement tugs at his side. Jason tightens his grip, an unvoiced promise to keep it from happening again- you.

-Really threatening, with all the gasping and whining. 

-Shut up. Why would we be at odds?

There’s a minute of silence as one of Jason’s hands leave him long enough to open the door to his bedroom.

-I’m jus’ saying -he shrugs as he helps Tim inside and towards his bed-, I know a discarded Robin when I see one.

He’s not sure if the pained sound comes from the jostling as he’s carefully lowered into his pillows, or the strike to his most exposed nerve.

-It was… a tough situation. Dick didn’t have much choice. I -it hurts to say- I get it. 

It had also been right, by Damian. Tim can see it, in the remarkably diminished killer intent he could feel from the kid, and his actual willingness at keeping Tim company and even helping him around when needed.

Even if it was the worst for him, at least one of the two fucked up kids under Dick’s watch had benefited from it. It was… it was good enough. It had to be. Tim was fine, after all.

Jason looks at him for a moment, waiting until the pain yields a bit and he can breath again. Then, taking a seat by his feet, he lets his eyes stray to the photographs mounted on the walls, avoiding Tim’s scrutinizing gaze.

-Even if it makes logical sense, it still hurts. I know how it is.

There’s… not really something he can counter. He moves a bit to find position easier on his side, hiding the nervous twitch with the action.

-I never blamed you for it -he feels compelled to add. Jason winces, as if struck. He’s still not looking at him.

-And the brat’ll probably be the same with you, someday. Means shit now, but… small comforts.

-I guess so… I mean, we’re kinda getting along, now that he can’t try to kill me since I’m convalescente and I’m bored enough to contribute to his training.

Jason seems pained again. Tim is annoyed by how confusing this entire situation is.

-Y’er a good predecessor. He’ll/

-What is this all about? -he cuts, unable to stop himself. This attempt at deep conversation is well and good, but it’s coming out of nowhere and Tim never pictured Jason as one to go around randomly offering wisdom- Why are you here, and with me of all people?

There was a shadow of something passing through his face, before it transformed into the physical intonation of the ‘Fair enough’ feeling. 

-I heard what happened from blondie while she was takin’ care of soom goons on y’er part of town. And… well, I have some experience on getting back on your feet after a bad injury, just in the wake of loosing Robin. Figured you’d be over doing it and getting yourself hurt worse.

It… was a fair assessment of what he was doing, actually. And if there was anyone he could speak about this… it’d be Jason.

-There’s so much I have to do -he sighs, sagging into his bed, relaxing for the first time when in a room with his childhood idol-, and Steph can’t keep running all my cases for me. I keep solving them, but I need groundwork done and she has already so much on her plate by patrolling my side of town, I just… I can’t let people die because I couldn't spy on an arms deal and tore it apart before the guns made their way to the streets. 

Jason looked at him again, his emotions in check, and he seemed to think about it for a minute, before humming.

-What about this? You take it slow and easy with the physical therapy, and I help with that stuff. My territory is somewhat in order, or as much as you can have it in this hellhole of a city, so I have plenty of free time, and… I could use the atonement. After, you know, trying to kill you so many times.

It…was unexpected. Jason, helping him? In exchange of Tim’s wellbeing? It seemed absurd beyond belief, but there was no mistaking the earnestness on his face.

And, well, fuck it. Tim was somehow on speaking terms with one of his formers almost-assassins, what was one more?

...it would also be so worth it, once Dick knew. Tim could already picture his jealousy, seeing the two brothers he was at odds or uncomfortable with, speaking at each other and working together.

And having Jason at his side would keep Bruce from checking on him so often. Two birds, one crowbar. 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

This was shaping up to be the strangest week of his life. Had he entered the twilight zone?

He had gotten kinda used to Damian popping into his room before patrol, or during the nights B forced him to stay at home. He’d work Damian through one of the easiest cold cases, or aid him in his never ending game of Long Live the Queen (he was getting really close to a happy ending, though). In exchange, the kid would keep his work a secret, and help him move around if the pain was too strong, or if he wanted a glass of water and didn’t feel like getting his crutches out for the small trip to the bathroom.

Also, it was somewhat normal to have Jason swing by (morning or mid afternoon, while the vigilantes of the manor slept off their patrol), some case files in hand, informing him about a new development in whatever Tim had asked him to research. Alfred, highly approving of their newfound camaraderie, would insist Jason stayed for tea, and the three of them would dwell into a very satisfying bitch fest, with Bruce as their source material.

What he wasn’t ready for, was having both of them around at the same time.

-Drake, you need to stop lazing around and do your exercises! Father and the doctors said…!

-Chill out, Demon, he did ‘em already. Shouldn't be doin more reps than the doc said, y’know?

Acting like his nurses.

-And how do I know you’re not lying to me, Todd? Hurting Timothy could only benefit you!

-...In literally which way? He’s the ONE brother I like! And like you are any better, Mr slashed zip line.

-Who told you about/? No matter. That was before we became allies. You, on the other hand!

Had he stumbled into a different universe? It wouldn't be the first time. Just in case, he sent Bart, his time/multiverse travel expert, a quick text.

-Hey guys, what’s all this noise abou/ Damian! Drop the knife!

Oh yeah. Just what Tim needed; the awkwardness that seemed to appear whenever he and Dick were in a room together. Maybe it was time to book it back to his room.

-Grayson! Give it back, I need to/!

-Disembowel Jay? I don’t think so.

-Fuck off Dickiebird, I don’t need your protection. 

Decision made, Tim slowly moved his crutches, walking backwards without taking his eyes from the three vigilantes. If he was really, really quiet...

-I know, just/ Wait. Is that a gun?

-Well, it’s not like I’m happy to see yar ugly face.

-Excuse you?!... Here, Dami. You can have it back.

-FUCK!

-DIE!

-TIM!

The last scream came from Dick, who looked in his direction just in time to catch the moment Tim’s crutch slipped in the carpet. As it was, he was the only one who could react fast enough to prevent a painful, possibly very bad for his injury fall.

It also meant Tim was being cradled like a baby. Which- no.

The other two fell silent for  long minute, while their minds caught up to Tim’s almost accident. Then, apparently seeing him safe in Dick’s arms, they turned to fight again. Apparently, blaming the other for Tim’s misfortune. Which… okay maybe he’d been distracted watching them go at it when he tripped, but still!

-I’ll just… take him upstairs -informed them Dick, though it sounded almost like a question. Probably wondering their ability to keep the discussion verbal.

Used to the nagging, both of them raised their hands, showing them empty (which, truly, meant little in the face of two of the most weapon-inclined people he knew), without pausing their rapidly escalating exchange. 

Halfway up the stairs, he stopped wallowing in self pity about his still recovering body to remember that, for the first time in a helluva long time, he’d be alone with Dick. Which translated in Talk Time. Fuck.

By the time they reached his door, he had ready no less than six deflections and twenty conversation topics which avoided mention of all their baggage and could potentially satisfy Dick’s need for socializing with a brother.

-Wipe that look off your face, Baby Bird. You won’t be orchestrating this chat -the older hero informed him, casually as one can be, kicking the door closed behind him and softly lowering Tim on his bed. He was having serious Deja Vu’s from his first encounter with Jason-. We are going to sit in your room. We are going to hear each other out. I’m going to apologize for hurting you and give you insight on the why I acted the way I did. You’ll decide whether or not you’re ready for forgiving me. We’ll bond. Maybe cry. There’ll definetly be hugs involved -that shouldn’t sound like a threat, why did it sound like a threat, Tim felt threatened-, that’s non negotiable, don’t even try to put the ‘tender wounds’ card on me ‘cause I won’t buy it. And…

Dick’s stern voice wavered, arms still around Tim shoulders even when it was clear he didn’t need his support to sit in the bed.

-And we’ll be brothers again.

The tiny, broken sound mid-sentence was what got Tim. 

Hand a little shaky, scared for his own heart but unwilling to let the older boy (his hero and family for so long) keep hurting, he touched Dick’s cheek and smiled. Tentatively, because they were on unstable ground here, but hopeful, because god did he miss his brother.

-We never stopped being that, idiot.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was after dinner, when Bruce approached him in silence. Tim had been making his slow  but steady way to the den, where Dick had roped them all into watching a movie together. He could hear the sounds of Jason and Damian roughosing (okay, Jason was; the brat probably believed the whole affair to be a fight to the death for honor or something like that) and Dick’s chirpy voice as he ranted about The Greatest Showman from the hall.

Bruce had been making the trip by his side, hand hovering close to Tim’s elbow, in case the crutches failed him or he tripped. Tim wanted to tell him it wouldn't happen, but… he’d missed his dad’s attention a little too much to complain about independency now.

-How’s the recovery going, son?

He stopped in the door leading to where his brothers waited, turning to face  Bruce with an arched eyebrow.

-You know that better than me, Mr I’ve broken every bone in my body at some point. Also I’m dead sure you hacked my medical files and know every little detail my physical therapist wrote by heart. You can probably recite them to me verbatim.

-I didn’t mean the physical recovery. The shot in your side is not the only wound you’re carrying right now

Silence, the only noise coming from inside the room and Tim’s heavy breathing. Unable to refrain himself, he risks a glance at the tangle of limbs rolling around in the carpet (Dick’s tactic to stop the fight was to hug them into submission) and lets the tentative, frail smile tug at his lips.

-Honestly, B… That one is healing nicely. There’ll be scars but… That’ proof of what we overcame. Right?

Bruce’s smile looked kinda uncomfortable in that stony face of his, but warm all the same. His hand left Tim’s arm to tussle his hair a bit, careful to not unbalance him.

-When did you became the wisest of my children?

A crash came from inside the room, startling them both.

-TODD YOU…!

-DAMIAN NO! JASON PUT DOWN THE CHAIR! DON’T MAKE ME CALL ALFRED!

-C’ME AT ME, MIDGET!

-ALFIEEEE!!!

-Bruce…

-Yes?

-I’m the only wise child you have.

[inawickedlittletown]

Miranda Hamilton/Barlow - some thoughts

I need to talk about Miranda. In particular, since I just finished rewatching S1, I want to talk about Miranda in S1. I remember very clearly watching episode two and the way that the episode ends with Flint showing up at her house. And we get no information, we know nothing about her, but Flint arrives there and it is such a deep contrast to how episode one ended that the layers of his character just grow but so does the mystery of who is Miranda Barlow?

There’s domesticity in Miranda’s home. Flint both fits in and doesn’t all at once and the complications of their relationship are not made quite clear except that Miranda is someone that Flint shares everything with. She is one of the few to truly know him and her home is where he can just be. Knowing that does not give us as the viewers that information which makes the way that we discover more about her character a bigger and more interesting journey. And while Miranda may know everything about Flint and about his crew and about Flint’s plans, Flint keeps Miranda and what she means to him quiet. So much so that the whole presence of Miranda on the island has created myths around her. 

Miranda is called a witch, people fear her because they think she has Flint do her bidding. They talk about her as if she’s someone to fear and be scared of. Mrs. Barlow is a story made up to fill in all the gaps that Flint has left open. Flint tells Billy that the men cannot believe their Captain was with a puritan woman but that doesn’t stop Billy from continuing to wonder about her and her motives and the motives that Flint has as well.  

But the thing about Miranda that truly interested me in this rewatch was that Miranda isn’t happy. She’s lonely and she seems to long to be happy again. I think Miranda is pragmatic and that she absolutely sees merit to Flint’s plan but in part I think that’s because it’s their only option and because of how attached it is to Thomas’ memory. As soon as there’s another possibility, she jumps at the chance even when it means that she’s betraying Flint. And I honestly don’t blame her for wanting to return to society and for wanting herself and Flint to find a way forward. And I also completely understand that she can’t possibly see it as the betrayal that Flint sees it as. It is also interesting that she longs for a life with Flint and that she doesn’t want to leave him behind. 

In some ways, his anger is interesting to take in when he confronts her because within the scope of S1 we don’t know the real reason that Flint can hold so much disdain for England. One of my favorite scenes in S1 — one of the most heartbreaking — is seeing Flint show up to ask Miranda about her letter and she insists that of course they can go to Boston and have a life and he says: 

“They took everything from us and then they call ME a monster. The moment I sign that pardon, the moment I ask for one, I proclaim to the world that they were right. This ends when I grant them my forgiveness.” (And Toby Stephens...boy does he just nail the emotion in this scene so perfectly...this quote alone deserves it’s own post).

This quote obviously stands out, but it is the whole exchange from how Miranda mentions not having a life there and there not being love present there and how for her the time that’s passed has allowed her to move past the pain of losing Thomas and everything that occurred. Of course, we don’t know what actually happened yet, but it is on the rewatch that it just seems so absolutely obvious. And it makes me adore this show so much more because Flint’s backstory was planned from the very beginning and there are hints and subtle foreshadowing and after knowing everything it just paints such a fuller picture. 

Of course Flint feels it deeper, is still raw with it. Of course he is still angry. It isn’t just about an affair or an indiscretion. It isn’t even about being a pirate. It’s about love — it’s about a society that does not allow Flint to love who he wants to love, a society that condemns him for it and gets away with destroying Thomas and Miranda and James. Miranda can’t feel that, she can’t understand the depth to which Flint carries what happened with him. 

And that brings us to the sad sex. Which happens earlier in the season and was such an uncomfortable thing to watch. He’s just there and it’s all kinds of awkward and it feels like he’s not into it and yet they are having sex. Miranda is not just some random woman and we never see Flint show any interest in anyone else and yet there doesn’t seem to be any passion or perhaps even pleasure in it. It’s also the only sex scene Flint has — there’s scenes that obviously imply it in the flashbacks, but nothing fully portrayed. (Sex and this show also needs it’s own post). 

In comparison, we do see Miranda have sex with another person. Miranda’s only other form of companionship seems to be the priest that stops by all the time. Miranda might feel like he’s imposing, but she also seems to welcome him and see him as a friend. She also teases him. The first time we see them together she draws his attention to her breasts very deliberately. And then later on when he stops to see her one night, she calls him out on his desire for her without flinching and she just basically invites him to have sex with her right there on her porch. This was the instance where it becomes clear that Miranda is not all that simple and that she enjoys sex without shame. On the rewatch, it’s almost funny because of how Miranda also took it upon herself to seduce James. 

I think I enjoyed Miranda a lot more on rewatching mostly because so much of what we learn about her in S2 fills in what happens in S1 to form a much fuller picture and she truly is such a complex and well written character and I am fascinated by how smart she is and how someone in her position in society could be so willing to open up her marriage and have no shame about her own sexual exploits but also those of her husband. I love the part that she plays in this world and how much Flint cares about her and how her involvement in the world of piracy is more drawn back than the other characters and how much she represents Flint’s past. I do wish we had gotten to see more of her and Flint in the years in between them leaving England and where we pick up in S1, but overall I really do appreciate the complexities that Miranda brings along to the plot because Miranda fits right on in with all the other strong female characters in this show in such a very different yet complex way and we see more of that in S2 both in seeing her in the flashbacks and in the present.

-

Other Meta/Reviews 

[tlbodine]

The History & Evolution of Home Invasion Horror

Here’s my prediction: In the next couple of years, we’re going to be seeing a sudden surge of home invasion movies hit the market. For many of us, 2020 has been a year of extreme stress compounded by social isolation; venturing outside means being exposed to a deadly plague, after all. 

And while many people have already predicted that we’ll see an influx of pandemic and virus horrors (see my post on those: https://ko-fi.com/post/Pandemic-and-Pandemonium-Sickness-in-Horror-T6T21I201), I actually think a lot of us are going to be processing a different type of fear -- anxiety about what happens when your home, which is supposed to be a literal safe space, gets invaded. Because if you’re not safe in your own house...you’re not safe anywhere. 

Home invasion movies have been around a long time -- arguably as long as film, with 1909′s The Lonely Villa setting down the formula -- and they share many of the same roots as slasher films in the 1970s. But somewhere along the way, they separated off and became their own distinct subgenre with specific tropes, and it’s that separation and the stories that followed it that I want to focus on. 

The Origins of the Home Invasion Movie 

In order to really qualify as a home invasion movie, a film has to meet a few requirements:

The action must be contained entirely (or almost entirely) to a single location, usually a private residence (ie, the home) 

The perpetrator(s) must be humans, not supernatural entities (no ghosts, zombies, or vampires -- that’s a different set of tropes!) 

In most cases, the horror builds during a long siege between the invader and the home-dweller, including scenes of torture, capture, escape, traps, and so forth. 

To an extent, home invasion movies are truth in television. Although home invasions are relatively rare, and most break-ins occur when a family is away (the usual goal being to steal things, not torture and kill people), criminals do sometimes break into people’s homes, and homeowners are sometimes killed by them. 

In the 1960s and 70s, this certainly would have been at the forefront of people’s minds. Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood detailed one such crime in lavish detail, and the account was soon turned into a film. Serial killers like the Boston Strangler, BTK Killer and the “Vampire of Sacramento” Richard Chase also made headlines for their murders, which often occurred inside the victim’s home. (Chase, famously, considered unlocked doors to be an invitation, which is one great reason to lock your doors). 

By the 1960s and 70s, too, people were more and more often beginning to live in cities and larger neighborhoods where they did not know their neighbors. Anxieties about being surrounded by strangers (and, let’s face it, racial anxieties rooted in newly-mixed, de-segregated neighborhoods) undoubtedly fueled fears about home invasion. 

Early Roots of the Home Invasion Genre

Home invasion plays a part in several crime thrillers and horror films in the 1950s and 60s, including Alfred Hitchcock’s Dial M for Murder in 1954, but it’s more of a plot point than a genre. In these films, home invasion is a means to an end rather than a goal unto itself. 

We see some early hints of the home invasion formula show up in Wes Craven’s Last House on the Left in 1972. The film depicts a group of murderous thugs who, after torturing and killing two girls, seek refuge in the victim’s home and plot the deaths of the rest of the family. In 1974, the formula is refined with Bob Clark’s Black Christmas, which shows the one-by-one murder of members of a sorority house and chilling phone calls that come from inside the home. 

Even closer still is I Spit on Your Grave, directed by Meir Zarchi in 1978. Although it’s generally (and rightly) classified as a rape-revenge film, the first half of the movie -- where an author goes to a remote cabin and is targeted and brutally assaulted by a group of men -- hits all the same story beats as the modern home invasion story: isolation, mundane evil, acts of random violence, and protracted torture. 

Slumber Party Massacre, directed by Amy Holden Jones in 1982, also hits on both home invasion and slasher tropes. Although it is primarily a straightforward slasher featuring an escaped killer systematically killing teenagers (with a decidedly phallic weapon), the film also shows its victims teaming up and fighting back -- weaponizing their home against the killer. This becomes an important part of the genre in later years! 

In 1997, Funny Games, directed by Michael Haneke, provides a brutal but self-aware look at the genre. Created primarily as a condemnation of violent media, the film nevertheless succeeds as an unironic addition to the home invasion canon -- from its vulnerable, suffering family to the excruciating tension of its plot to the nihilistic, motive-free criminality of its villains, it may actually be the purest example of the home invasion movie. 

Home Invasions Gone Wrong 

Where things start to get interesting for the home invasion genre is 1991′s The People Under the Stairs, another Wes Craven film. Here the script is flipped: The hero is the would-be robber, breaking and entering into the home of some greedy rich landlords. But this plan swiftly goes sideways when the homeowners turn out to be even worse people than they’d first let on. 

This is, as far as I can tell, the origin of the home-invasion-gone-wrong subgenre, which has gained immense popularity recently -- due, perhaps, to a growing awareness of systemic issues, a differing view of poverty, and a viewership sympathetic to the plight of down-on-their-luck criminals discovering that rich homeowners are, indeed, very bad people. 

Home Invasion Film Explosion of the 2000s 

The home invasion genre really hit the ground running in the 2000s, due perhaps to post-911 anxieties about being attacked on our home turf (and increasing economic uneasiness in a recession-afflicted economy and a growing awareness of the Occupy movement and wealth inequality). We see a whole slew of these films crop up, each bringing a slightly different twist to the formula.

*  It’s also worth noting that the 2000s saw remakes of many well-known films in the genre, including Funny Games and Last House on the Left.  

In 2008, Bryan Bertino directed The Strangers, a straightforward home invasion involving one traumatized couple and three masked villains. By this point, we’re wholly removed from the early crime movie roots; these are not people breaking in for financial gain. Like the killers in Funny Games, the masked strangers lack motive and even identity; they are simply a force of evil, chaotic and senseless. 

The themes of “violence as a senseless, awful thing” are driven further home by Martyrs, another 2008 release, this one from French director Pascal Laugier. A revenge story turned into a home-invasion-gone-wrong, the film is noteworthy for its brutality and blunt nihilism. 

2009′s The Collector, directed by Marcus Dunstan, is another home-invasion-gone-wrong movie. Like Martyrs, it dovetails with the torture porn genre (another popular staple of the 2000s), but it has a lot more fun with it. The film follows a down-on-his-luck thief who breaks into a house only to encounter another home invader set on murdering the family that lives there. The cat-and-mouse games between the two -- which involve numerous traps and convoluted schemes -- are fun to watch (if you like blood and guts). 

In a similar vein, we see You’re Next in 2013, which starts off as a standard home invasion movie but takes a sharp twist when it’s revealed that one of the victims isn’t nearly as helpless as she appears. Director Adam Wingard helps to redefine the concept of “final girl” in this move in a way that has carried forward right into the next decade with no sign of stopping. 

2013 of course also introduced us to The Purge, a horror franchise created by James DeMonaco. If there was ever any doubt as to the economic anxieties at the root of the genre, they should be alleviated now -- The Purge is such a well-known franchise at this point that the term has entered our pop culture lexicon as a shorthand for revolution. 

Don’t Breathe, directed be Fede Alvarez in 2016, is one of the creepiest modern entries into the “failed home invasion” category, and one that (ha ha) breathed some new life into the genre. Much like The People Under the Stairs, it tells the story of some down-on-their-luck criminals getting in over their heads when they target the wrong man. However, there is not the same overt criticism of wealth inequality in this film; it’s a movie more interested in examining and inverting genre tropes than treading new thematic ground. The same is true of Hush that same year. Directed by Mike Flanagan, the film is most noteworthy for its deaf protagonist. 

But lest you start to think the home invasion genre had lost its thematic relevance, 2019 arrived with two hard-hitting, thoughtful films that dip their toes in these tropes: Jordan Peele’s Us and Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite, which both tackle themes of privilege in light of home invasion (albeit a nontraditional structure in Parasite -- its inclusion here is admittedly a bit of a stretch, but I think it falls so closely in the tradition of The People Under the Stairs that it deserves a spot on this list). 

What Does the Future Hold? 

I’m no oracle, so I can’t say for certain where the future of the home invasion genre might lead. But I do think we’re going to start seeing more of them in the next few years as a bunch of creative folks start working through our collective trauma. 

Income inequality, racial inequality, political unrest and systemic issues are all at the forefront of our minds (not to mention a deadly virus), and those themes are ripe for the picking in horror. 

I know that Paul Tremblay’s novel The Cabin at the End of the World has been optioned for film, so we might be seeing that soon -- and if so, it might just usher in a fresh wave of apocalypse-flavored home invasion stories. 

Like my content? You can support more of it by dropping me some money in my tip jar: https://www.ko-fi.com/post/Home-Invasion-Stories-A-History-R6R72RV7Y

[overheardatthecontinental]

Talk Chapter 5 now posted

AO3

Helen was waiting.

It was a matter of time now, for John to come.

She pulled the sweatshirt that Nick had given to her tighter around her shoulders. It must be getting late, she notes, because it’s getting colder again.

The guards had changed just two hours after she managed to send John the text. The new ones weren’t as talkative but she really didn’t need them to be. Not anymore.

She had gotten a message out.

Now she just had to wait.

She wonders if he’s narrowing her location or if he’s already on his way.

She wonders what the fuck she’ll do if she wakes up again in the morning and find she’s still here. That John hadn’t come for her.

Maybe he wasn’t able to?

No. She pushes that thought quickly from her mind.

This was John. Nothing would stop him.

She just needs to keep waiting.

The phone rings from one of the guards and she watches, with vague interest, as he picks up the call.

“’lo?”

She can’t hear what is happening on the other side of the line, but the guard looks to Helen, his eyes wide with fear.

She can’t help the smile that grows on her face with the unbidden knowledge: He’s coming.

“What? Why?” There’s a pause and his eyes widen, “Yes, sir.” He hangs up and jumps to his feet, turning to his partner, “Go get the car. We’re moving her.”

“Now?” The other guy rolls his eyes.

“Marco, John Wick is coming.”

Helen breathed a sigh of relief just at hearing his name. He was on his way. He was coming.

Marco’s eyes widen and he, too, scrambles to his feet.

“Baba Yaga? Why?”

“Oh, you poor bastards.” Marco and the other guard look at her fearfully, “You agreed to guarding me without ever asking who I was.”

Stall, she thinks. They’re trying to move her to a second location, one that John might not be able to find as easily… She can’t let them move her.

Not if he’s coming.

“Who are you?” Marco asks.

She borrows the language that Nick used. Therapist or not, in this world, it was probably the most accurate assessment of their relationship, “I’m John Wick’s girl.”

“Oh fuck.”

Helen makes a show of examining her nails, “Honestly, it took him long enough.”

“Get the car, now!” The taller guard states.

“I mean, you could get the car.” Helen says, “But trust me when I tell you, that’s just going to piss him off.”

They exchange a look.

“My suggestion is that both of you leave before he gets here. He won’t come after you right away that way. Or you could stay here and surrender. Maybe he’ll take pity on you.” She offers a smile, “Claim your ignorance. You didn’t know who I was.”

They’re both distraught and tense. Finally, one of them breaks.

“Marco, get the car.”

“Dude, I don’t know…”

“Do you want to be here when John Wick gets here? GO!”

Helen makes a face, doing her best to look both understanding of his decision but skeptical of his choice. “Not your best move, but I get it. It’s noble that you’re willing to die for your cause.”

Marco makes a noise of fear but he hurries to the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The other guard grabs the keys that had been hanging from a nearby hook. He shoves it into the lock of her cell and Helen feels her heart start to race.

They can’t move her. Not yet.

Not after she finally got through to him.

He reaches for her and she quickly jumps across the floor to the edge of her cell. The sweatshirt falls from her shoulders as she does, and she wraps her arms around the bars as tightly as she can.

Fingers dig into her arm, but she holds tight. Every second counts.

“Fuck! Let go!” There’s panic in his voice and there should be. Every single thing these men have heard about John Wick, every rumor and urban legend, was about John at his baseline.

But right now, he was pissed.

She gave the guards the option to walk away. That they hadn’t is now beyond her control.

One arm is pried loose but the other stands firm. She manages to kick backward and he grunts, falling to one knee as his leg is knocked down.

She manages to free the arm and entangles herself back amongst the bars.

His arms wrap under hers this time and he tries to pull her off that way. The technique is a little better and she feels herself slipping.

She kicks out again, thrashing as hard as she can. She just needs to waste time, to stall. Just a little longer.

He’s coming.

There are footsteps on the stairs and Marco hurries back down.

Fuck.

She was barely holding out against one of DeLuca’s goons.

“Get the sedative!” The guard growls out and Helen resists the urge to swear.

She slams her foot back again, managing a kick to the balls and watches, in relief, as the guard doubles over in pain. She lets go of the bars and bolts to her feet. She feels her head rush after being on the ground for so long but she runs as fast as she can towards the stairs.

She makes it up the first few and then her ankle is grabbed and she falls forward. Her head bounces off a step and the world goes fuzzy.

Helen tries to blink, to keep herself conscious but it’s pointless. The needle is jabbed into her flesh and she feels herself being picked up.

She had been so close…

But it wasn’t enough.

…

They had a name. And an organization.

But nothing else. The sender had immediately blocked their number, but it was a start.

“Dante DeLuca is dead.” Winston had said when John read the text aloud. “He passed on three months ago. I had flowers sent to his widow, in Rome.”

“Does he have children?”

“Several. Only one legitimate, I believe. Mateo.”

“Karl, run a search on Mateo DeLuca. Current position, known allies, and any properties listed under his or his father’s name.”

“Running now.”

Mateo DeLuca was largely unknown. He wasn’t particularly well-respected by anyone and was really known only as Dante DeLuca’s son and heir. Dante, himself, hadn’t seemed too fond of the boy but that was often the case.

You raise spoiled children; you get rotten adults.

Mateo had a degree from Columbia University in business. A few arrests during that time but no convictions.

As far as the Underworld went, Mateo had virtually no presence.

And while Mateo was Dante’s heir, there was some evidence that he had been grooming a few others to take over the business upon his passing. But then he had died, seemingly of natural causes.

John was doubting that.

Winston stated that, indeed, the Syndicate was an enemy of the Camorra. Still, they were far too small to overtake the larger empire of the D’Antonio’s.

John didn’t care about that. The politics were over now that he had a name. Winston could deal with the fallout. Report Mateo’s treason to the High Table. Or not.

There really wasn’t much of a point considering that John was more than willing to just kill the bastard and be done with it.

Karl ran every property associated with the Syndicate in New York while John began strapping weapons.

“I have a location on Mateo.” Karl says, “He’s at a party in Manhattan. He just posted on his Instagram.”

John wasn’t entirely sure what that sentence meant.

“She must be being kept somewhere else.”

“A small property.” John agrees, “Someplace private, out of the way.”

“He’s got a handful of houses. A brownstone in Brooklyn.”

John shakes his head, “Too many potential witnesses.”

“There’s a few places down in Staten Island and oh… He owns a condemned block in Long Beach. Series of houses bought out after Hurricane Irene.”

“Closest neighbor?”

“At least a block.”

John grabs his phone back and types the address into his GPS.

She’s there. She has to be.

Still, he gruffly adds, “Keep searching. Just in case.”

“Jonathan, perhaps you should come up with a plan—”

John shoots the Manager a look.

He isn’t waiting anymore.

“Call for my car. I’ll update you when I can.” John tells him as he leaves the room.

The drive from the Continental to Long Beach should have been an hour. Luckily, traffic was on his side. The gas pedal pressed to the floor didn’t hurt, either. He blows through every stop sign and red light he meets.

The ocean is visible and he breathes a sigh of relief. He’s close, now.

His phone begins to ring and John spares the ID a glance. The Continental.

He answers it, “This is Wick?”

“Hi, Mister Wick, it’s, uh, Karl.” The Technician awkwardly greets, “You said to keep an eye out and I did and, um, DeLuca knows.”

“What?”

“He knows you’re coming, sir. He has sentries over in Long Beach and they reported seeing your car. He knows you’re coming and he made a call to someone at the house.”

“How many sentries?”

“I don’t know, sir. But DeLuca’s made two more calls since the house that have pinged in your general vicinity.”

Sure enough, John checks his rearview and a black car is following him. They’d have to be going at least fifty to keep on his tail.

“Thank you.” John turns off the phone. He’s less than five miles away.

Five miles away from Helen.

He’s sure they’re keeping her there now.

And they’ll be ready for him.

That’s fine. It won’t make a difference. He’ll kill them all.

As long as he got there in time.

They’d be moving her. DeLuca’s only leverage against John, and the only thing keeping John from outright murdering him was Helen.

He hears the sounds of loud motors and checks his rearview.

Sure enough, another car slides off of a side street and joins the pursuit.

In any other situation, he might have laughed. Now, it was just a nuisance. Another obstacle trying to prevent him from reaching what he needed most.

But he can’t worry about them now. He can’t stop to take care of the problem because he can’t fucking risk them moving her.

There’s an idling car out front of one of the houses.

He can see her. She’s clearly unconscious, being carried from the house to the car. Two men in front of him, he’s not even sure of how many are behind.

He had hoped for a bit of stealth, the element of surprise. But then, his car barreling down a side street at eighty miles an hour is hard to miss, especially when he slams the breaks and the tires loudly squeal along the pavement.

He’s usually better than this. A lot better than this. In fact, he’s not sure he can really remember a time since his teens when he went in guns’ blazing.

He was too calm, to focused, to tactical for that.

Yet here he is.

And the clock is ticking.

He can’t let them get away.

John opens the door and lunges from the car, ducking from the shots being fired from the cars behind them as they squeal to a stop. He aims low, not willing to waste ammo until he knew what he was dealing with and fired a shot. The back left tire starts to compress and he does the same for the right.

They’re not getting away.

The man, not carrying Helen, reaches to his belt and John fires again.

The bullet breaks into his hand and he can hear the cry of pain. Before the man can reach again, John aims higher and shoots him in the neck.

He can hear firing coming from behind him.

He has to take them out before she can be hit by a stray bullet.

All it takes is one.

Luckily, the man who has Helen has ducked down low.

He needs more eyes, more hands.

He turns, because he needs to and starts counting.

Three cars, two men each. Clearly, DeLuca had not paid enough attention when researching potential assassins to manipulate.

John ducks back behind the car, reloading his weapon. He wants to move towards them, to finish this quickly, but he needs to keep his head. He needs to deal with this like he’s not emotionally involved because, to do otherwise, would be suicide.

He stops and listens. The gunfire dies down and the men on the other side of the car are hollering directions to one another.

Amateur hour.

He can hear footsteps coming on either side of car, heavily pounding on the concrete.

John stays crouched but moves to the left side. He tucks his gun into its holster and, instead, grabs a knife from his boot.

Just as the first two men reach the front of the car, John grabs the one on the left but the shirt and stabs him in the gut. He stands, disarming the shocked man and drags the blade up. His hand snatches the gun with ease and he fires once over his shoulder to the man just behind him, then again at the man who was coming around the right side of the car.

He manages to dodge, jumping back behind the tallest part of the car.

John fires through the passenger side window. The bullet flies through the car and comes out on the other side, staggering the man back. He fires again and the man drops to the ground.

Four down, he thinks. Four to go.

A shot is fired at him from back where the other cars were. Two of the men still are hiding back at the cars they came in.

John spins back around to the front of the car.

The man from the opposite side of the car takes off running as John sneaks down low to the other side. He uses the new gun to fire low. The first shot goes through the calf, likely shredding the muscle.

Hurts like a bitch, John knows from experience. He hobbles and falls to the ground, screaming.

DeLuca’s men, it would seem, are well armed but not trained for shit. He’s momentarily baffled that these were the forces, the army that DeLuca thought he could use to overthrow the Camorra?

But arrogance was his pitfall.

John couldn’t fault him for that; it was his own, as well.

But everything else? The stalking, the kidnapping, the threats? John could fault him for that. That was the reason that DeLuca was going to die.

The last two standing from his pursuers seem unwilling to leave the safety of their cars. Which means, unfortunately, that John can either wait them out or be the one to move.

Waiting it out is smarter. He knows it’s what he should do but a look across to where Helen is and he can’t.

Anger flares within him as he realizes that the man holding her is using her as a kind of shield.

It won’t save him, John thinks, turning his attention back towards the cars. They’re waiting for movement, waiting to fire.

Outnumbered, outgunned, back against the wall.

Thank fuck for Kevlar.

He stands and immediately hears the shots being fired at him. He swerves, immediately, expecting to draw their fire. The bullets miss him and John sprints forward, firing as he does. A bullet hits the front side of the Kevlar and it nearly winds him, but he keeps moving.

John hits the opposite side of the first car and drops to his stomach. In the confusion, he fires and a bullet breaks the ankle of the closer man.

He drops to the ground and John flips around, jumping on top of the hood of the car to shoot the last man standing in the head before delivering a kill shot to wounded man on the ground.

There’s silence, except for the spluttering breaths of the man John had shot in the calf.

He hops off the hood of the car, heading towards Helen and the last of DeLuca’s men. He idly shoots the fallen soldier in the head and moves on.

DeLuca’s man scrambles backward, his arm wrapped around Helen’s torso, holding her up literally as a shield.

John shakes his head in disbelief, his gun lowered at his side but cocked just the same.

The man almost trips over the sidewalk in his state of panic.

John glances to Helen and tries not to tense or flinch at the blood spilling from her temple or the scratch marring her cheek. There are bruises on her arms that resemble fingers and he wishes he could kill them all again.

“Don’t, please…”

“Set her on the ground. Gently.”

“You’ll shoot me.”

“I’ll shoot you either way.” He snarls, “Set her down, and I’ll make it quick.”

“Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just don’t kill me.”

“I’m not going to tell you again.” John says, stepping closer.

“Okay, okay!” The man kneels and carefully sets Helen so that she’s on the grassy front lawn. Her body is laid out, her head lolling to the side. “Just, please don’t—”

John shoots him in the head.

The closest thing to mercy he was capable of while watching her bleed.

John reloads his weapon as he kneels, keeping it out of his holster. Just in case.

He checks her headwound first. It’s shallow but there’s a large bump that’s already forming. A fall, he thinks, rather than a hit.

The mark on her cheek similarly resembles an abrasion.

It’s simultaneously not bad and the worst thing he’s ever seen. He wraps an arm under her legs and another around her back and lifts her up. He pulls her close to his chest and breathes easy for the first time in two days.

He keeps his eyes peeled for enemies as he hurries back to his car.

He can’t stay here long. As much as he would love a confrontation with every single person under DeLuca’s employ, he has to get her out of here. To safety.

John hadn’t been thinking long-term beyond getting Helen to safety but now there were other things to consider.

He couldn’t take her back to her home. DeLuca would find it and attack, whether John was there or not. He couldn’t risk putting Helen back into the line of fire.

The Continental was off the table, too.

DeLuca already knew she existed, as did a select few of the Continental staff, but the last thing John wanted was for others to find out about her. She might never have another moment’s rest if the Underworld found out that John Wick had a weakness.

That left his house.

His heart stuttered at the thought.

He’d imagined it a thousand times.

Every morning when he had breakfast, he wondered what Helen would look like standing in his kitchen.

Every time he watched television or read on the couch, he would imagine her presence beside him.

Every night he went to sleep in his own bed, he would roll on his side and think about what it would be like to reach over and touch her.

His love. His life.

He maneuvers Helen to one arm as he opens the passenger-side door and slips her inside. He fastens the seatbelt and leans the seat back the best he can. Finally, he slips off his suit jacket and covers her with it. It’s huge over her small frame and he tries not to delight in the sight.

John cannot resist placing a kiss to her head.

She’s here.

She’s safe.

He closes the door and goes around to the passenger side. He turns the car around and hurries out of the neighborhood and back towards the city and the bridge that will take him back home.

John sets a hand on her leg, squeezing gently to make sure that she really was there.

The nightmare was over.

The rest could be handled with ease now that she was safe. He could track down DeLuca and make him fucking pay for taking Helen. Burn what was left of Syndicate to the ground.

The moment they had cleared Long Beach, he reaches for his phone, dialing the Manager.

Winston picks up after the first ring.

“Jonathan.”

“I have her.”

Winston hums in response.

“I’m going to need Doc.”

“At the Continental?”

“At my house.”

He can practically feel Winston rolls his eyes, “The Doctor doesn’t do house calls.”

“I’ll pay whatever he wants.”

“You are aware that I’m not your secretary, aren’t you, Jonathan?”

John resists the urge to roll his eyes, “Winston. Please.”

“I’ll make it happen.”

“Thank you.”

Winston huffs, then asks, “Is she alright?”

John glances over at the passenger seat. She still was unconscious, but she had stopped bleeding.

“She’s safe. A few injuries. I want to make sure that none are worse than they look.”

He’s met with silence at first. Winston clears his throat, “You do know this won’t be the end of it?”

John focuses his attention on the road ahead. “I’ll track down DeLuca.”

“Your secret is already out. Others will find out about your little therapist. You say she’s safe, but for how long?”

He swallows hard. He can’t begin to process those thoughts until Helen is safe, in bed, and being looked at by a doctor. Then, he’ll have the breakdown he’s been putting off for two days.

“I’ll speak with you soon. Can you make sure Karl gets paid and tipped well for his services?”

He can practically feel the Manager roll his eyes, “Yes, yes. I’ll send the Doctor out shortly. If you’re leaving Long Beach now, he may even make it there before you.”

John offers his thanks and drives the rest of the route in silence, safe the soft sounds of her breathing.

It puts him at ease, hearing her breathe.

He revels in every slight intake and gentle exhale.

It takes longer to get home than it did to find her. While he still speeds, he is no longer doubling the speed limit as he travels home.

As Winston had suggested, the Doctor was already there when John pulls up. He parks out front rather than pulling up to the garage.

“Mister Wick.” The Doctor greets as John climbs out of the car.

“Doc. Thank you for coming.”

John goes to the other side of the car. He undoes the seatbelt and slips her, carefully, back into his arms.

“Do you know what happened to her?” The Doctor asks, eyeing his new patient the best he can while she remains in John’s grasp.

John shakes his head, “She was unconscious when I found her. I don’t know if she was sedated or if she’s still out from the headwound she sustained.”

He opens the door to his home and leads Doc through the house, upstairs to John’s own bedroom.

With a sense of longing, he lays Helen in his bed.

He takes his jacket back and tosses it to the side, allowing Doc access to the rest of her body. The bruises on her arms look worse in the light of his room.

The man was lucky John was feeling merciful.

Doc opens his bag and starts by cleaning the wounds marring her face. He wipes away the blood and bandages the cut on her temple.

“It wasn’t the headwound that knocked her out.” Doc says after examining her. “It’s superficial, although I’m sure she’ll have headaches for the next few weeks. It looks like she’s been drugged a few times. I’d guess this is the work of a sedative.”

That was John’s guess as well.

“Give her twelve hours and try to wake her up. If she’s unresponsive, call me.”

The Doctor grabs a bottle of pills and hands them to John. “Aspirin will do just fine for the pain. Give her this for the headaches.”

John nods, tucking Helen into his bed as the Doctor packs up.

“I can’t thank you enough for coming out here.” John tells him. On his bureau, there’s several stacks of coins. He takes one and hands it off to the Doctor.

“Of course. I hope you’ll forgive my boldness, but I don’t recognize her. Is she based in another city?”

John fights back the urge to wince. While he doesn’t think Doc would say anything to anybody, he doesn’t want to let anyone else know about her identity. But then, Doc had come all this way to ease John’s fears.

He swallows, “She’s not of the Underworld. She’s… a friend of mine. Who got pulled in over her head.”

The Doc hums, “Be careful with otherworlders, John Wick. Persephone was only a guest of the Underworld and she never escaped it.” Before John can think of a response, Doc has his bag in hand, “I wish her a speedy recovery. Good night, Mister Wick.”

The Doctor leaves them in peace and John brings a chair around to her side of the bed. He sits down, nearly collapsing. She is safe.

His vigil begins anew.

[antihero-writings]

Stolen Sunlight (Ch4)

Fandom: Tangled | Tangled the Series | Rapunzel’s Tangled Adventure

Fic Summary: Arianna never thought she'd find herself afraid of a fourteen-year-old boy, but the events of Secret of the Sundrop won't seem to leave her. She needs to talk to Varian in prison. Not for his sake...but for her own.

(I'll put links to the other chapters in a reblog!)

Character focus: Arianna & Varian 

Notes: It's finally here!!

Sorry it took so long, and my dearest apologies to anyone's comments I have yet to respond to. This chapter needed more editing than the others, plus got started on a couple of zines and it took over a lot of my focus for these past few months.

I really hope it was worth the wait!!

FYI When I wrote this it was before season 3, when I didn't know he shared a cell with Andrew. After I did know, I didn't want to add him in because I felt it messed too much with their interaction.

Right now what I'm thinking is that this is supposed to be set early in his imprisonment, and that perhaps he started alone, and then they later realized he needed a cellmate.

Thank you all so much for your lovely comments, they really really do help me have motivation to continue things like this, I'm so happy you guys are enjoying it. <3 <3

I'd really appreciate if you could comment again!!

Chapter 4: Passing Glances, Lasting Words

Varian’s blue eyes are questioning, almost glowing behind his fringe, like shards of ice holding prehistoric monstrosities just waiting to thaw.

She clears her throat, her tongue searching for where to begin. Options flare behind her lips;

The anger returns; she could tell him what he once was, and how he’s changed too much, and it breaks all their hearts.

She could lecture him about how hurting people is wrong, and she disapproves of all he did.

She could turn around, and say nothing at all; give in to the fear bubbling below the surface, run far away, and leave him wondering why she even came, thinking he won, without quite knowing what game they were playing.

She could demand why he did what he did, and for his apology. She could demand for him to bow before her, and beg for mercy.

But, if she lectured him, he would not be receptive to her words. If she asked him questions, he would surely put the answers in a magician’s box with swords in it and tell the audience to watch carefully. If she was angry, if she yelled at him and demanded he see her as his queen…she’d never be able to sleep.

But he is not a child for her to order around. Nor was he a villain for her to condemn.

None of that would matter. None of that would work. None of that is why she’s here.

“The truth is”—where to begin? How to set the tone?—“I don’t approve of what you did.”

She starts with something disciplinary even so. Something queenly. Something motherly, but stern. Her intention was not to lecture, but she thought it best to start from a place of principle. Sympathy is best given by those whom you respect—best given by from those whom you think it’s worth being given. It was somewhere to begin at least.

He gives a small smirk. “You came all this way to tell me that?” He inclines his head. “How sweet.”

She tries to ignore the venom in his voice.

Even in this cell, he believes he’s in the right, that he can control her, make her afraid. But he does not. Will not.

She is not doing this for him.

Now she can move her pieces on the board; her words are pawns, which can move only forward, step by step.

“I think it was harsh, and cruel and in some ways, I still don’t understand why you did it.”

In a lot of ways.

But what would she have done to get Rapunzel back when she was gone? And wouldn’t she have spat in Mother Gothel’s face, had she known, had she met her? And what did Frederic do for her when she was dying?

He is not some monster, not something she can’t understand. She has to remember they are not so different.

“Glad I’m still a mystery.”

His tone makes it harder to remember what he is. Just a boy, locked in this cell. And the difference between them is that while she may have to line her words up in the right order; put them in neat little ribbons and bows, building up her case, or everything will come crashing down…words are all he has. He will use them to hurt her, because he has words…and nothing left to lose.

“That, however, is not why I’m here.”

His eyes flick up before he can hide the surprise in them.

...But they darken, and he stands up, his raccoon hopping to the ground, chittering, as if he could feel the tension bubbling below the surface.

“Oh, really? Then what, pray tell,” he mocks, lifting a hand, “are you here to tell me, your Majesty?” The words are the scorpion’s sting.

This is how he is, how he was then, how he’s going to be. …But she knows this is not all he could be.

And this is how she is.

She wraps her free hand around one of the bars, holding onto it like it’s her own resolve, and if she doesn’t hold tight it will turn to sand and slip through her fingers. She is going to get as close as she can, she will prove to him that she is unafraid, though everyone else treats him like a beast.

Even though she is. She is—

She’s afraid of a fourteen-year old boy.

These words won’t get through the bars to him; they are destined to topple. For they are the same as they were that day. The same tone, the same message, though they may be kinder, they still look down upon him, they scorn his goals and treat them as childish. And if they didn’t get through to him in his lab, they won’t reach his heart now that its had time to harden in this cell.

She hates that; knowing that it is their fault, her fault, in some way, that he is like this—

That is why she must forgive him. In a way, she is setting herself free from her own prison.

And she wants this to work. She wants him to realize there’s more to him. She doesn’t want him to be like this forever. She wants to set him free too.

Speaking to him as the Queen, judging his actions, starting from a place of truth, but disapproval, will not get through. Appealing to lofty ideals like the good of the kingdom, the good of the king, and of his own soul won’t matter to him. Lofty ideals mean nothing to a boy grieving for his father.

This is not for him. This is for her. It doesn’t matter what he says, what he thinks. In the end, all she can do is try to reach him, knowing it is ultimately his choice to take her hand through the bars. But the success or failure of this mission is measured by whether it helps to heal the fear ingraining itself in her heart, whether it helps to heal the way she thinks of him.

So, in light of this, what can she say to gain some amount of closure? To heal her heart? Her fear?

She takes a deep breath.

It isn’t easy to say aloud, to anyone, especially to him. But she knows the truth will save them both.

“What you did…” Her words now gain a far-off quality, more ragged themselves.

The words tasted like anger and fear. They are not the queen’s lofty proclamations…they are Arianna’s real feelings. Her grip tightens around the cold metal of the bar as she whispers darkly, “It scares me.” Her eyes dart to him, her own resolve tightening in coils inside her, becoming something more than the fear. But, despite the still-present anger, there is something very sad in her voice; “You scare me, Varian.”

At first he wants to sneer—she can almost taste the poison on his lips.

But something about these words catches up to him, reaches the mainframe; the edge in his blue eyes falters, and for a moment, a mere moment, he is a boy again. He is the kindness, the Oh I’m so sorry! the Did I do something wrong? and he is realizing that there is something about her words that makes him sad too. But he pulls the plug, hits reset, the venom replenishes itself, and he is the villain again. He folds his arms over his chest, turns his head, and scoffs, his tone becoming blank of anything that reached him;

“So what? You expect me to be sorry?”

“No.” She answers immediately. “No Varian,”—she is going to say his name as much as she can, calling to something deep inside him that is still Varian—“I don’t expect you to be sorry, nor do I expect that you’ll care about anything I have to say.”

Because she doesn’t.

She wants him to be. She knows from that single look that that boy is in there; the one who does very much care, who would care if his friends got hurt, who knows there is more to life than just making his father proud, and who would care if the Queen was afraid of him, for whatever reason. She knows that that boy is sorry, even now.

But she doesn’t expect to see that boy.

She knows he will hide him, shove that boy and his kindness to the side—(just like they all did, once upon a time)—push him down into the pieces of his shattered heart where there are monsters, and little oxygen, and black rocks growing like thorns.

If she expects him, she will never see him again.

If she doesn’t, she will see him in every passing glance.

He takes a step forward.

He is, so unbearably small. He is weak, and dirty, and she can tell he hasn’t been eating well. Yet he’s so tall in her eyes, even here—like he was that day, when she was on the ground, and he on the ladder, his heart is incased in living metal, his motions wound to the tune of a sad music box. He seemed so tall then…though he’d fallen so far then.

“Then what are you expecting? What do you want from me? Why did you come here, your Majesty?” He gets close to the bars, too close, but she isn’t letting his words get so close to her heart. “Did you come to gloat? To condemn me? To lecture me?” He pauses. “Don’t bother,”—His voice becomes a quiet breath—“I’ve already heard them all.”

At first she wonders where he’s heard them, who told them to him—if she was wrong, and Frederic came after all, opted for lectures, instead of accusations. Then she realizes, Ah, of course. Quirin. And that thought, the way he mentions his father, the hopelessness hidden in the midst of the intense sadness…it makes her thoughts falter, reshuffle.

“I don’t think you yourself even know why you’re here.” The sting still hides in his tone, slithering in the background, and it will latch its fangs onto her conviction, a parasite, stealing it away, if she isn’t careful. She can almost feel his breath now, he is so close, so horribly close. “Do you? You’re…scared. So why come before the object of your fear?” His lip curls as he mocks, “You must think you’re so brave.”

Anger ignites in her gaze. She can’t believe he’d talk to a queen like this. She grips the bar tighter, the imperfections in the cold metal digging into her palm.

Her fear makes her feel like a little girl before him. But if he’s weaving fear into the little girl in her heart, she will sow doubt into the little boy in his.

And from now on she will speak simply to him. Without the judgment, the lectures, the threats. Not as a queen, but as a mother. She will sit down with that boy as he cries in the dark, bring down a drop of sunlight, stolen from the outside, to the boy who doesn’t believe he deserves it.

“You want me to—?!”

“Listen.” She breaks though his words.

“What?” he takes a step back.

That’s all it is. All she needs to heal her heart. All he needs for a chance at redemption. It’s so much simpler than they all thought, than she thought at first.

“I came here because I want to talk to you. Forgive me if it sounds like a lecture,” She laughs a little, sadly still, “I’m afraid I don’t have much practice. But I don’t pretend to have all the answers either.”

At first he grits his teeth, trying to fight her request, but he turns away, his hand to his chin like when he’s doing serious calculations. He pauses for a long moment, then his eyes tick back to her and scan her.

He shrugs. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do.” The words are not kind, but the snake in his voice curls up quietly.

She releases the bar at last.

“I don’t approve of what you did.” She takes a step back, assuming a more reserved position. “I don’t like it, I don’t understand it, and at times, you still scare me. But this,”—she stops and gestures to the bars—“this cell…” Her eyes fall upon him. She is not afraid to meet that blue now, now that the electricity has calmed slightly, now that he is at least willing to listen. “It won’t change that. It won’t change what happened, or how either of us feel about it.”

She is meeting him where he is now, in this cell, not standing above him and calling him villain.

“Locking you up …I thought it would give me some peace of mind, and while it might mean that you can’t hurt Rapunzel anymore…” She shakes her head a little and murmurs. “I don’t think it helps either of us sleep any easier.”

He pauses, looking down.

“I don’t want our happy ending to mean the unhappiness of yours.”

What? The boy in his eyes whispers as he jerks his head up.

“This is not where I want your story to end.”

She can see it. That drop of sunlight she stole for him taking root in his eyes.

“So what are you going to do?” The snake in his voice lifts its head, hisses. “It’s not like you’re going to let me out.”

“No.” She gives a small smile. “It’s not much, I know…but I have made a decision.”

“And what’s that?”

“I have decided to forgive you.”

The fear is gone from her voice now. And at last, she means it. She has done what she came here to do.

Surprise, sunrise, flares behind his eyes for a moment. Then he folds his arms, turns away and scoffs,

“Is this some sort of joke?” The snake has moved to his hands, curls them into fists at his sides, rattling noiselessly in warning.

“It’s not a joke, Varian.” She answers simply. “Would I go this far for a joke?”

“I didn’t ask for this.” The snake raises its head, bares its fangs.

“No, you didn’t.” She gives a small tinted smile, and she can tell at once just how angry her kindness makes him.

The snake shoots at her.

“I don’t need your pity, your Majesty! Or your—!”

“No, you’re right, you don’t.” She cuts him off. Her voice is completely calm and collected. She can feel the snake in her own heart, slinking away. “Nor am I intending to give it. I didn’t come here for you, Varian.”

He looks up at this thought.

She has no reason to hide the truth from him.

“I came here for me. For my own presence of mind. I wanted to forgive you. Nothing more. No one made me do it. It’s not a joke, or a lecture, or a new form of punishment.”

“I get it,” he sneers. “Just like the royal family to forgive for the sake of yourself, or your precious kingdom…never for me. Never for the poor boy who just needed a second of your time!

“What would your beloved family think of you if I told them you came down here to see me? If I told them—!”

“Tell them if you want to. Frederic may be angry, but what’s done is done. This was my choice. That’s not what this is about, and you know it. I came here for my sake… because I knew if I came here for you, you wouldn’t give me the time of day. So thank you, Varian, for listening. That is all I needed.” She bows slightly. “Think whatever you want, after I’m gone. It doesn’t matter to me.”

He isn’t looking at her, the rattling his spread to his body.

“I have one last thing for you, if you will except it.”

His eyes flash to her like lightning.

“Again, I know it’s not much, but it’s the best I could do.”

In lieu of an explanation she lifts up the journal and quill, smoothing her hand over the cover, and holds it through the bars for him to take. She knows putting even her arm through the bars is risky, that it might leave her with serpentine venom in her veins...but this is her act of good faith

He tsks his teeth, folding his arms, turning away.

“Its not for you.” She says simply.

He raises an eyebrow. Oh? Then who is it for?

She smirks.

“It’s for that boy I met the day of the science competition. You know, the one who cleaned the library? Do you think you can give it to him for me?”

That makes him angrier, but she isn’t leaving till he takes it.

“Don’t call it pity.” She smiles, seeing the look in his eyes as he takes a step closer. “Call it revenge, if you that makes things easier.”

At first he simply stands there, dark hair covering electric eyes, glancing up every few moments to see if she’ll go away. Then he sighs, walks over to her, snatching it from her grip.

“I gave Rapunzel a journal just like this one.”

His hands shy away from the pages, like they’ll bite him, at the mention of her daughter. She knew the name would not help, but she needs him to know what this means; that she is treating him the same way she treated her own daughter.

Threats flare behind his eyes, but quell themselves. He returns to the journal, flicking through it roughly.

“I thought you might need something to do.” She explains lamely.

It is a feeble excuse, but a true one nonetheless.

What will he fill it with? Not drawings, like Rapunzel, or flowery interpretations of his adventures. He will likely fill the pages with calculations, like the ones that littered his desk and the walls of his lab, the ones he put the withered sundrop flower on, the ones surely detailing the plot that put him here in the first place.

The fear is all but gone from her by now. In its place is growing something akin to a flower; hope, the sunlight she intended to bring to him, the seeds planting in her heart too. That’s what forgiveness does, after all.

His eyes scan the empty pages.

He starts at the back, and ends up at the front cover. Upon seeing the inscription, he holds the notebook up in one hand, trying to decipher the words. Unlike her daughter, he doesn’t make some ill-attempt to pronounce the foreign language, instead his eyes pivot to her, demanding an explanation.

“Plus est on vous,” the translation rolls off her tongue, “It means ‘there’s more in you.’”

He slams shut the journal with one hand, closing his eyes. He runs his finger along the spine as if trying to give it chills. Then he pulls out the quill, thumbing through the feather, likely checking that they wouldn’t give him anything too sharp.

“You honestly believe that, don’t you?” His words are dull now. Not sad, not spiteful either. Still grey.

“What can I say?” Her smile is entirely genuine now, it contains that stolen sunlight. “I’m a sucker for a happy ending.”

“Even for someone like me?”

“Oh, especially for someone like you.”

He smirks. “You really are a fool.”

“Better a fool than a cynic, right?”

The smile fades, and his eyes lid as he pauses, thinks, then murmurs, “...How do you know I won’t use this to plot against you and your precious kingdom?”

“I don’t.”

(Though, from the softness of his tone there, she is almost certain he won’t.)

“So why would you—?!”

“I told you, I didn’t come here for you. I don’t care what you do with it after I’m gone. That’s your choice.”

“That doesn’t make sense!” The turmoil, thinly veiled, boils over. “Why would you come here?! Why would you act like everything’s okay?! Like I’m not the guy who kidnapped you, and chained you in his lab?!”

And at last she knows she has reached him... because behind every word she can hear that little boy crying out for mercy.

As the sky bleeds into navy she knows the last drops of day that guided her down the stairs to him have been planted in his heart.

She raises an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. “Oh? I thought you’d heard all the lectures.”

His eyes widen.

“Goodbye, Varian.” She turns and begins to leave. “I do hope to see you again, out free. And when I do,”—She stops to look back his way—“Maybe you can teach me that home alchemy after all.”

She catches one last glimpse of the boy she met that day before she exits the dungeon, sure, after all this, she will at least be able to sleep.

[ratchedspeach]

Climbing Uphill

Prompt written for Falliam Frenzy Week 2 — “its ok to cry” CW: mentions of body dysmorphia, anxiety, and alcohol abuse (nothing graphic… just angsty) Set in the unseen moments leading up to Fallon and Liam lying in bed together at the end of 2x19 (Life Is a Masquerade Party)

She was blonde when she was younger — a golden, honey hew. It was the color Alexis’s hair had been before she started bleaching it, and it made her envy her daughter more than she already did. Her mother manifested that envy in jabs on her personal appearance, and humor at Fallon’s expense. When she was thirteen, her hair started to change, her father’s brunette genes winning out (typical Blake — even his RNA got what it wanted sooner or later). Alexis would bring her hands through her curls with a calculated smirk, drawing attention to the newfound amber she found there, and tossing her own platinum ringlets over one shoulder before stalking off.

When Fallon sees her for the first time after the accident, her heart almost gives out. It isn’t just that she looks like her, it’s that she’s spent her entire life comparing herself to the tall, slender glamazon that she (sort of) called ‘mom’. It’s that from the time she had been cognizant enough to compare herself to someone else, it had been to her. Even after Alexis abandoned them, she couldn’t help but feel inferior, and it didn’t help that Blake was constantly using their similarities as a dig against her.

He had urged her to try talking to her mother, because he thought it would help, but when she comes back to her room, Liam can’t help but think of Sisyphus — the man condemned to roll a boulder up a mountain for all eternity. He can only imagine that’s what it feels like to speak to Alexis, just one long, exhausting uphill battle.

Truth be told, he doesn’t know the half of it.

“How’d it go?” He tries to keep his tone nonchalant when he asks, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

Fallon glares at him, but she looks more miserable than she does intimidating. He wants to push, but the torment he sees glistening behind her blue eyes makes him hold his tongue, and when she doesn’t move from where she’s leaning against the doorframe, he options to pull himself off the kingsize bed and meet her there. The closer he gets, the sweeter she smells — an amalgam of her hairspray, floral body wash, and Dom Perignon champagne. He vaguely wonders how much she’s had to drink, but realizes he has no right to talk when he detects the levity of his own buzz warming the space behind his eyes.

Her fight or flight instincts kick in as he continues to close the gap between them, kissing her cheek and pulling her into his arms. He smells like sandalwood and juniper berries, Fallon identifies as she practically melts into his contact and buries her face in the nape of his neck.

“Bad day?” He teases gently, reveling in the soft giggle it elicits from her.

If she’s being honest, she’s not sure she knows the meaning of it anymore — her days have blurred together since her mother’s arrival, each one bringing a new slew hurdles for her to only barely scale. She’s felt like she was drowning since … well … since Alexis had literally tried to force her head underwater in their pool.

“Oh please,” She murmurs, and his breath hitches in her throat when her lips form the words against his bare neck, “just another Carrington party. I told you we were a … fun group.”

“You’d certainly give the Brady Bunch a run for their money.”

Fallon groans, her hands gripping the velvet of his suit jacket. She doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but it’s long enough for the hum of party guests downstairs to dissipate into the faint tinkering housekeepers clearing away glasses and putting furniture back in its place. It would all be gone by morning — any evidence of the masquerade carted away so that it was as if it never happened. The only clue of its existence would be from the hangovers of all that attended, and Fallon knew she would be no exception — hell, she’d probably be the goddamn poster child. She started wondering if her drinking was becoming excessive, but when you have Blake Carrington as your father and Alexis Colby as your mother, alcohol tends to feel less like a crutch and more like a prerequisite for every gathering.

She’s snapped out of her thoughts when he pulls away, taking with him the brief notion of safety that his arms had afforded. Liam’s silver eyes reflect his question before he can even get the words out, so she assures him she’s fine with a faint smile.

“Nothing that a Valium can’t fix.” It’s meant to be amusing, but it hits closer to home than she would have liked.

She grits her teeth, and Liam’s jaw tenses, and it looks like he might reprimand her or burst into tears or both, and God she can’t take it anymore. Fallon comes to perch on the corner of her bed, kicking off her Louboutin heels and wiggling her toes as her circulation slowly returns. She was eleven when she was given her first pair of pumps. They came in a parcel cloaked glossy, pink wrapping paper, and a note in her mother’s handwriting —

Your calves could use some definition. These might help.

She hadn’t worn flats since, save for when she was exercising (even then she wore heels to and from working out). Fallon grimaced, her breath agitating at the remembrance. Maybe I’ll need that Valium after all, she dismayed, only furthering her distress. When she was especially overwhelmed (dare she say … anxious), it felt like her thighs were swelling. It was thanks to years of her mother assuring her that life would be so much easier if she could just find a makeup palette that actually matched her complexion, or fix her nose, or lose a few pounds … Fallon brought a hand to her chest and applied pressure, squeezing her eyes shut and tensing her shoulders.

Liam watched her like it was happening in slow motion. She goes from a grimace, to a scowl, to doubling over like Sisyphus himself was rolling his boulder up her, and … she’s not breathing? Holy shit she’s not breathing.

He brought himself to crouch in front of her, placing a hand on either one of her shoulders and willing her to look at him. “Fallon. Hey … Fallon just … take a breath, ok?”

“I’m fine.” She snapped, the top of her head practically hitting his chin as she swung her body upright.

“No you’re not.” He thought it would make her feel better.

It definitely did not.

“B-but that’s ok.” He backpedalled. “Fallon, that’s not a bad thing. It’s ok to cry.”

She was seven when Alexis told her that crying was a sign of weakness, and weakness would get her eaten alive in the real world, if her own family didn’t get to her first. Her mother had never said anything about anxiety, though, and so here she was … hyperventilating in front of the man she’d married before they could even go on a first date. It dawned on her that she might prefer crying, because at least that wouldn’t make her sweat off her makeup, and blear the corners of her vision — not that she remembered what it felt like to cry. It had been … Christ it had to have been years now. Fallon shook her head.

“This is stupid.” She dismissed, or at least she tried to.

Her voice was uneven and shrill — so very unlike the grounded businesswoman that Liam had come to know. She stood before he could negate the sentiment, swallowing hard and shaking his hands off her frame. There was scotch somewhere in this room, and she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to find it. Usually she had it put out for her before she retired to her room, but on nights the Carringtons held parties, Fallon would get so drunk that she didn’t even remember getting into bed more often than not. Her fingers fumbled with the lock on the cabinet, dialing the numbers into place like she was defusing a bomb. Liam watched her stumble around the room in a mix of panic and intoxication, her energy resembling that of a hurricane, or a tornado, or a goddamn tsunami, or —

This is a stupid analogy. He thought, bringing his hand to slick back his hair before standing.

She jumped when he placed a hand on her shoulder once more, whipping around and meeting his all too pitiful gaze. She looked like a cornered animal — her eyes bloodshot with booze, her skin glistening with sweat, her chest heaving as the last of the adrenaline dispelled from her system.

“Fallon.” He allayed, trying to take the crystal carafe of scotch from where it was in her strangled grip.

She jerked away before he could even touch it, eyes stormy and distant. Liam had heard stories about Blake Carrington’s only daughter long before he had met her on that park bench; heard that she was a spoiled, bratty princess who only cared about herself, and partied way too hard, but this …

This was something else — someone else.

“Fallon, please,” He tried, “please, just give me the bottle.”

“No.”

“Fallon you’re —“

“I’m fine, Liam. Just leave me alone.” She warned, before adding, “You’ve helped enough.”

She took a step like she was trying to brush past him, but her foot got caught on the hem of her dress and she stumbled forward instead. Liam caught her, his arms coming around her waist and steadying her gate. The crystal decanter was lost in the crossfires — shattering as it made contact with the linoleum floor, the brown liquid spilling into a puddle. Liam expected her to yell, to scream and kick and maybe even cry, but she went utterly stagnant, her entire body tensing as he saved her from hitting the floor along with the incredibly expensive (and now wasted) bottle of scotch.

“Hey, woah, steady.” He whispered, his hands coming to fumble with the curls at the base of her skull.

The action elicited a murmur, low and dissonant, and striking him more like the start of a wail as it hit her vocal cords. Fallon’s eyelids fluttered closed, the liquor and champagne already in her system starting to make the light hurt her irises. Liam just held her, hoping it would afford the same comfort it had not ten minutes earlier, and had it really only been ten minutes? This night was starting to feel like a millennia — the conglomerate of too much alcohol and too much stress proving to be a potent cocktail for both of them ( … no pun intended).

She was sixteen the first time she got drunk. Her father had left a bottle of whiskey on his desk, and while no one was looking, she snuck a glass. She equal parts loved and loathed the way spirit burned when it went down, tasting like honey and (very expensive) lighter fluid as it hit her throat. It was an accident, of course — not that Alexis cared when she found her, three glasses in, slumped over in her father’s chair, and quite literally green. She vaguely remembered begging her mother for help, promising with slurred speech that she would never do it again if Alexis would just … “Mom, please!”

This next part she would never forget, no matter how hard she tried: Alexis grabbing the whiskey, pouring her another glass, and forcing her to drink it — over and over until the green hue of her daughter’s cheeks went flush, and she was retching in her father’s recycling bin. Then she would play the doting mother — stroking her daughter’s hair, whispering soothing sentiments in her ear, even wiping the sick from the corners of her mouth.

“Oh darling, I’m only trying to help.” Alexis would condescend, smiling saturninely. “Alcohol can be a useful tool — a sign of power, a truth elixir, even. I’m teaching you a lesson. You’ll thank me for this later.”

She hated this. She hated her mother for this — for leaving, for coming back, for stealing her face — all of it. Fallon swallowed, her mother’s words still ringing in her ears. She could feel Liam pulling her towards the bed, holding her like she was made of glass. Usually, she would push him off and dole her sharpest glare in order to prove that she sure as hell wasn’t fragile, but …

Fallon was tired.

God she was exhausted, and her head hurt, and his cologne was intoxicating in a way that she didn’t know the word could mean. Liam felt the backs of his knees hit her overly plush bed, and sat, pulling her down almost on top of him. She looked like she’d been through war. He realized grimly that Fallon had survived enemy fire, although he wasn’t sure anymore if it was with her mother or with herself.

“I’m sorry.” It came as an admonishment more than a real atonement, but despite knowing relatively little about the woman, he was still able to make an educated guess that it was as close as she could get to the real thing.

Liam smiled sadly, meeting her gaze from where she lay against his left shoulder. The way they glistened caught him off guard more than the apology. He had known Fallon for, what … maybe a month now? And not once had he seen her cry — there had been anger, and insane, zealous, over the top vendettas, and anxiety now, but not tears. He had grown used to it, though. Liam was a quick study, and he had gathered that emotional vulnerability was not looked upon fondly effectively from the moment he had stepped foot in Carrington Manor.

“Don’t be.” He murmured, lacing his fingers through hers, and kissing the top of her head.

Fallon heaved a sigh, biting her lower lip to keep it from quivering. She had been with men before — in fact her body count was high enough that she had grown bored of keeping track. None of them had ever spent the time to comfort her before, though. Usually, they fled at the first sign of turmoil, so this felt … this is … what the hell is going on? Before she could answer her own silent question, Liam snapped her from her thoughts.

“It’s ok to cry, Fallon.” He murmured, and even through the fog of intoxication that blanketed her brain, she knew it was the second time he had said it that night.

She wished she could joke about it, wished she could force a smile and pretend that she wasn’t completely and utterly shaken. Fallon’s chest was tight, her eyes heavy with sleep, and worst of all, she could feel the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

“I think I need help.” She hadn’t planned on saying it, but there it was — a little garbled, and landing with the weight of her and her mother’s entire history.

Liam didn’t respond, just nodded, and buried his lips further into her hair, reveling in the sweetness of her  aroma. He felt her muscles loose, like just admitting the reality of her situation had alleviated the pressure that she was largely putting on herself (although not completely … because Alexis was probably the biggest headache of a woman he had ever met, and that was including his own mother).

“I’m sorry I made you to talk to her.” He offered, his words dripping with so much guild, Fallon thought she might need a shower just to remove it from where it landed in her chest. “I shouldn’t have assumed it would help. There’s clearly a lot I don’t know.”

She felt his lips moving against her hair as he spoke, and her nerve endings tingle and fizzle. Fallon smiled, glowing with the mixture of alcohol and his touch. He felt her doze off somewhere in the midst of his apology and his thumb stroking the palm of her hand. He would ask her about her drinking, he would even suggest therapy for the umpteenth time since they’d met, but …

That was tomorrow’s problem.

For now, he watched the way her chest rose and fell. Her breath leveled in record time, her body going limp with sleep, her lips parting slightly and evoking a murmured sigh. Liam smiled when she warmed with the stillness that unconsciousness brought. It wasn’t long before he dozed off too.

[temeraire-stuff]

Spoilers for Black Powder War Chapters 6-10 and Thank You

Hi Everyone,

First things first, I haven’t used Tumblr much and this is my secondary blog. My primary blog is used for other fandoms and other stuff and don’t want to mix the two. As such, I can’t respond to all your likes nor to your comments. But I want to let you know how much I appreciate all of you and especially since I got my first two comments today. So, Thank you, to all of you who have been following me so far!

Now on to SPOILER!!!!!!!!

I liked seeing the difference between different cultures over the course of this book and previous ones with how different nations treat their dragons. I also liked the culture seen of the Ottoman Empire. There were a lot of touches on things I learned from documentaries that where shown in this book showing a great grasp of their culture. I also like the author’s choice to store the dragon eggs in the harem after all there is no safer place with all the guards and the women to act as guards and sentries.

We are once again back to the topic of slavery in the series and Temeraire is connecting the dots between buying a human slave and buying a dragon egg and thus the dragon is no better than a slave. The fact that the Kazilik are fine with their eggs being sold because they know that their dragonet will be cared for does not mean that the dragon wouldn’t be a slave. Granby’s attempt to improve matters only made it worse. And Laurence’s inability to connect the dots between human slaves and dragon slaves is a little sad. Temeraire also gets into trouble for sharing his radical ideas around and the fact that he has finally wised up to the fact the British will also not accept his idea of giving dragons rights is an amazing point and how upset it makes him. Poor, Laurence is just so engrained in his thinking at this point that he doesn’t quite grasp the problem and doesn’t know how to fix it. I predict by the end of the series he will see it for what it is and be more supportive of Temeraire’s goals.

I’m also very pissed with the Turks! I have several unkind words that I would like to convey to them but as fictional characters I don’t have any ability to do so. They made a deal, signed it, accepted payment of it and then they reneged on the promise but still uses the money to fortify their port all because it is not to their liking any longer as they have decided to side with Bonaparte. They also concocted a plan that lay the blame at the feet of the English Embassy, and condemned a man who had done no wrong. I have to say I’m pissed. I’m beyond pissed and quite ready to see them get squashed under Bonaparte’s boots.

The only way we find out anything is through the Maden family. They seem like nice people and they help our crew. But I’m quite upset that Tharkey and Laurence had to sneak out to even meet them and get any real information. Then they get into trouble trying to get back into the palace. And then Ms. Maden brings them a gold coin from the Sultan’s treasury to show that they had received the payment for the eggs, which is how we find everything out. Also, I think that she and Tharkey used to be a thing but something happened and they are no longer together.

Also, Lien showed up in the sultan’s court and the fact she had a place of honor proved their treachery and she went a head a threatened Temeraire, his crew, his happiness, his captain, everything he holds dear and the fact she played a roll in killing the Ambassador makes me dislike her as I expect was the goal. But I kind of have to say I expect this is me fueled on the threats and later things that happened.

I’ve also come to love Tharkey quite a bit and everything he did in Istanbul was amazing and I hope that he sticks around some more. Temeraire has obviously adopted him as one of his based on his reaction about no one risking their lives to get their promised eggs when it appeared, they wouldn’t get them diplomatically. This plan epically failed and they had to escape with only two of the eggs they came for.

Also, DIGBY AND THE BABY DRAGONNET!!!!!!!!!!WHY!!!!!!!!!!!! The poor boy didn’t deserve to die and neither did the dragonet. It breaks my heart. I really like Digby and he’s played a big role in this and in the previous books. I’m sorry for his death. Also, that dragonet did nothing wrong and had no way to escape and this breaks my heart. As such in my heart, I will hold the fact that in whatever after life there is in this universe that the two became partners (and deluded myself that if they had both lived this would also be the case, damn the admiralty and anyone else who would have prevented it). And I won’t let anyone persuade me otherwise.

Though my prediction that they at least got the Kazilik egg is correct. But I wonder if that will have any baring on my other prediction about a feral egg maybe to make up for the lack of that third egg.

Any way they escape over the boarder and from this situation only to fall write into Austria where they were urged to keep moving. Then they get to Prussia to try to get to the boarder only to arrive in what is going to soon be a warzone and to find out not only are the British soldiers there but that 20 dragons never showed up for the battle as they were expected. I predict that they won’t be able to leave unless those dragons show up and I don’t think they will. As such I also predict this will be the first battle where Temeraire, Laurence, and their crew face Bonaparte. If this is the case then I expect it to go on for a while and make it so that the Kazilik egg hatches before they can get it back to the Covert. And if this is the case as I think it will be then the dragonet will have to choose from Temeraire’s crew. And knowing that Laurence feels bad in this section that Granby won’t be put forward back in England, he will encourage him to try. During all of this, I expect like in history  and that this will be a losing battle were Prussia ultimately loses. Then our crew will be going back to England with only one of the Turkish dragon eggs promised, maybe a feral dragon’s egg, and a dragonet that the admiralty outside the Corp will think was given to the wrong man as he isn’t one of their chosen options.

[konohagakurekakashi]

Rinne-whoops: Who Died and Brought you Back Out?

Continued from here (As the 'Read More' option died)

@minaa-munch

@senjutsunade

Kakashi honestly hoped that his touch and words would put the man, Iie, Minato at ease; that it would root him back into the present and return the even intakes of air to his lungs. However, being an 'emotionally-numb' cactus meant that Kakashi couldn’t hope to find the right ways in which to provide comfort whenever it was most needed, no matter that he always had the best of intentions at heart.

He had seen it when he endeavoured to console Rin by telling her Obito’s secret: That he truly loved and cared for her and would be glad that she was the one that was safe; even though those words weren’t what the Kunōichi needed or wanted to hear, as they just made her tears swell and surge faster; her shoulders quaking with the weight of an added burden. He noted it when he attempted to console Itachi, by providing half-hearted advice and a semblance of support without really /knowing/ the gravity of the Uchiha’s situation. It was evident in the way that he so carelessly told Sakura that everything would return to the way that it was, if she would just hold out hope for long enough, sparing her immediate hurt, sure; but sowing the seeds for a deeper, more insalubrious resentment.

It didn’t matter that he wanted to believe all those words spoken just as much as the people he said them to. What mattered was that they were more damaging than the actions he wanted to protect the people, his people, from. In fact the words should never have been uttered at all—So, when those cerulean hues flickered back to his own, dilated with the vast amounts of confusion, dread and anxiety they needed to contain—Kakashi felt the spittle dry on his tongue and turn it to cotton. Because shit, he ended up being careless once again.

The echo of his words were met with the uncertain whisper of his name, like it was a cork tugged off a carafe cradling raw madness; for as soon as the murmur died on the blonde’s lips, his breath hitched before turning into new, uneven gasps. Kakashi paused, his hold on the Kage’s shoulders loosening while he turned to glance back at the hovering Chūnin. Kakashi wasn’t sure what his expression looked like, what it conveyed, but one blink had the Iryō-nin steeling her features afore she pranced forward with professional intent, hands already alight in the mint glow of the Mystical Palm Technique.

A stunted nod met her actions, before Kakashi’s duel-coloured hues flickered back to the juddering form of his mentor, wanting so badly to apologise. He wasn’t exactly sure what he would apologise for. For not being there on the night that the Kyūbi attacked and doing his part as Minato’s supposed “Right-hand Man”? For not playing a bigger part in Naruto’s upbringing or development as a Shinobi? For allowing a sordid terrorist group to turn the Hidden Leaf that the man literally /died/ to protect into a crater of dust and debris? Or was it for having such horrendous bedside manner?

Kakashi knew the Namikaze, knew that he was a man that strived toward fact and the logical. If the Kage’s prior answers were an indication, it would be that he remembered dying, remembered the murky depths of the Shinigami’s stomach that his last Jutsu condemned him to...so /bluntly/ stating the opposite would put the man ill at ease. If what Kakashi assumed happened, happened (because he would not be Kakashi , did he not at least have some sort of working theory) the man’s mindscape had to be a tangled, knotted web. Kami knew Kakashi was very confused when he woke up after his demise and he had only been gone for a few minutes, nothing compared to years, a bloody /decade/. Kakashi shifted, his lips parting to offer an explanation, before the tomoe in his left socket twirled, taking note of the urgent moulding of bright green chakra within the man’s coils, the green faintly tinged with perplexing red.

In an instant the Jōnin pushed away from the lip of the sarcophagi, his fingers curling about the elbow of the Iryō-nin who had her hands resting against the Kage’s ankles with the mind to start on her assessment of his condition. “Everybody down!”

His voice echoed within the ante-chamber, followed by the alarmed shriek of Hakui as Kakashi all but dragged her down to the dusty floor with him. A turn of his head revealed that both Kotetsu and Izumo (true to their shinobi nature and training) had dropped to the ground without further question, just as a sharp gust of wind pulsed from the Kage and through the cavern. A shower of musky, paper bits and linen revealed that the Elemental Chakra didn’t just slice through what remained of Minato’s binding, but managed to splice the top-most shelves of the archives, along with the files and scrolls that they contained. Izumo, realizing this couldn’t help but moan, forehead still pressed firmly against the cool Earth. “Oh man, Shizune-san is going to kill us, kill us!”

Kakashi didn’t pay his distress, or the downpour of shredded history any mind, sitting up to focus on the Kage who was now seated upright within his rock coffin, fingers folded tightly about the edge, whilst he attempted to reign in his chakra. “I’—“ Kakashi faltered as he inched forward, but didn’t rise, didn’t attempt to find the right words as the Kage’s arms rose to tug roughly at his own tuffs and scrape nails against his scalp. It looked painful and the Hatake hated how grossly ad-lib he was for the raw emotion emitting from the blonde in waves. What could he possibly say? What could he do? He didn’t want to risk making matters worse for the Kage...But then there was movement on his left as Hakui rose back to her feet, her young features soft and placating as if approaching a difficult patient.

“Etto...Yondaime-sama…?” The girl inched closer, but when it was clear that Minato wasn’t intent on stopping his self-damaging movements, the Kunōichi’s glowing fingers settled on the insides of his wrists, minty chakra seeping out in a well-controlled burst. The effects seemed to mirror that of the Kanashibari no Jutsu, as the Kage’s arms fell limply to his sides. "... Yondaime-sama... I'll start with your assessment now..." Hakui didn’t waste any more time as she started on the Eisei Shindan or Diagnosis Jutsu; though Kakashi thinks that he did catch her explaining her movements in a low whisper, while her hands hovered down the Kage’s seated form (he couldn’t be sure if it was for the blonde’s benefit or her own).

Kotetsu and Izumo watched the interaction with apprehensive eyes, coming to stand at Kakashi’s side once he settled back onto his feet. “Senpai…How can this be possible?” Kakashi, sighed, calloused digits rubbing at his lids. “Naruto mentioned that he spoke to the Fourth during his battle with Pain; I don’t know the specifics, but I reckon it had something to do with the eight-trigram seal. The fact that he’s here now…in the flesh instead of Naruto’s mindscape…can only mean that Pain’s last Jutsu probably responded to the Yondaime’s chakra imprint, or what was left of it after fixing Naruto’s seal. I can’t be sure…honestly…. I’m not as versed in Fūinjutsu as the Sealing Corps.”

Though Kakashi utterance of his thoughts rang clear the Jōnin had no idea if the former Kage could even hear/comprehend him due to his state. Hakui whom finally finished with her initial examination turned around with a furrowed brow. “I don’t note any depressed brainstem reflexes, deterioration or damage to any of Yondaime-sama’s internal tissue. Yes, his breathing is irregular, he shows no response to pain stimuli—but other than his enflamed chakra pathways, there’s no physical tells that he…that sixteen years have passed since his deat--uhm...the Demon-Fox Attack….his symptoms seem to be due to psychological stress.”

Kakashi's teeth worked on the flesh of his cheek, gaze cutting back in the direction of the slumped shinobi. “So, I can move him, Hakui-san?” With a curt nod as his answer, Kakashi then shifted, gloved palm rubbing at the nape of his neck. “In that case, I think it’s time we go see an old friend, Sensei.”

[morganas-pendragons]

God Isn’t On Your Side | B.B.

So this came to me in the middle of the afternoon, not long after watching Endgame. It’s also the first Bucky fic I’ve written since 2015, so I hope you like it!

Tagging @buckychrist because she’s literally the only reason why I decided to publish it at all.

🛑 ENDGAME SPOILERS BEWARE 🛑

—————————————

It starts off innocently enough, as it always does. Innocent until he makes that one wrong move and everything goes to Hell before he can realize what he’s done.

Sam is the one who suggests it after everything returns to normal and they are brought back to present-day Earth. It’s only been a few days since Steve handed over the mantle and the shield to Sam. They’ve talked about it before, who’ll take over when he’s gone. Bucky doesn’t think there’s anyone more deserving of the Captain America title.

God only knows it’s not him.

Bucky begrudgingly agrees to go to the VA for counseling because deep down, he knows its what he needs to do. His heart still aches from the memories that plague his mind, the feeling of weightlessness as he stumbles towards Steve just before his body is reduced to ash.

Not to mention that if it’ll get Sam off his back for an hour a week, he’ll do anything to shut him up.

Bucky expects the hallways to be loud and teeming with people who share similar backgrounds to him in terms of military service. He’s seen it all before - the wounds that the veterans come home with. Some are physical, some are psychological. A lot of them just come home shells of the people they used to be, and they’re never able to return to normal.

His acute hearing stops him short in the front door because all he hears his silence, and God if his heart doesn’t stop pounding erratically he might just pass out right there.

I’m not supposed to be here - I’m not supposed to be here - have to go home-

Then the soft click of heels sound against the stairs, and his eyes slowly drift upward to catch the person who owns them. You.

“Hello? Can I help you?”

After half a decade of committing your life to bettering veterans and their adjustment into civilian life upon returning home from leave, it’s become incredibly easy to spot when one of them is about to bolt. You’ve become accustomed to the sight of fear, and your heart breaks for him.

“I’m guessing you’re James Barnes. You match Sam’s description almost perfectly.”

Bucky balls his fingers into tight fists and works on adjusting his breathing. Counting five things he can see, four things he can hear, three things he can touch. He has never done well with vulnerability, but it wouldn’t be much of a visit if he didn’t collapse with hysteria the first time.

You’re close now. Close enough that he can feel the warmth that radiates from your fingertips, carefully hovering over his shoulder as if you know he’ll wince when you touch him.

How he misses the days he was open enough to accept touch. It feels like an eternity ago - the days of the 107th - the last time he was a man.

“Bucky.” He grits through clenched teeth, hissing quietly as he forces himself to face you. “You can call me Bucky.”

Your gaze softens. “I know you’re afraid, Bucky. You’re not the first Vet I’ve had to stop from running out my front door. You have nothing to fear here. No judgement.” The tension receding from his expression is visible the longer he listens to you. “No condemnation. And as long as we’re on a first name basis... You can call me Y/N.”

***********

Sam has been teasing him about his “crush” since the second visit when he came home with stars dancing in his eyes. He keeps saying it’s the happiest he’s ever seen Bucky in the time they’ve known one another, and he’s probably right. It doesn’t mean he won’t deny it furiously though.

You are the only person besides Steve who has accepted his broken pieces. You don’t judge him, you don’t ridicule his words that sound ridiculous to himself - you are open and safe and everything he has ever looked for in the home he has never had.

You are his counselor.

“You know, you’ve come a remarkable distance in such a short time.” Your voice catches him off guard as his eyes have been traveling the curve of your legs, starting at the flats you always seemed to wear and upward to the pressed maroon pantsuit. It’s definitely become his favorite color. “A lot of my clients take quite a while to adjust to a female counselor, but you had no problem with it.”

“I have had rare occasions to meet people like you, Y/N. People who are..” He pauses, eyes fixating on the way you poise the cap of your pen between your lips. “Vulnerability was not an option at the business I worked at before I started coming to you. I wasn’t allowed the capacity to feel emotion.”

“And how do you feel when you sit across from me?”

Awestruck. Loved. Safe. Secure. He could choose a litany of words to describe being in your presence. But you are his counselor. He cannot pursue you, no matter how much he wants.

“Wanted. Like I have a purpose.”

Your smile deepens as you both simultaneously lean forward on your knees. Sam had been right about one thing - Bucky was built like a Grecian god and had the heart of a soldier who never came home. He was beautiful.. and he was broken.

And you craved the ability to love him as he was - but he was your patient, and you can’t have him.

****

“James-“

Visit #7. He didn’t make it very far, and evidently neither did you. Not with the way you’ve allowed him to sweep you off your feet and plant your body on your desk, legs spread just enough that he can fit right between them.

You are hot and needy and absolutely heaving for the air he’s stolen from your lungs - and Bucky is convinced he’s looking into the heart of the Universe. There is nothing more beautiful then the crumbling mess you have reduced to underneath the ministrations of his lips.

“Y/N-“ His words are swallowed by the chase of your mouth, fingers tangling in his hair in a vain attempt to pull him as close to you as possible.

Rationality be damned. He deserves some happiness in his century of existence.

But seeing as he was the man who once contained The Winter Soldier, happiness was never in his favor.

God hasn’t been on his side since the day he began his existence.

[fayegracexo]

How I Discovered Witchcraft & the Paranormal

I figured the best way to kick off this blog, would be to introduce myself, and briefly discuss my own history in the craft, and how I came to having this blog and Instagram account to discuss such things in the first place! If I end up being unclear, or you have a question, or are curious about something I didn’t cover here, please feel free to message me on Instagram, Twitter, or here on Tumblr and I'll be happy to help out! (Here or Instagram preferably!)

To begin, I go by Faye, and I knew I was a strange kid from the get-go. I had my first paranormal experience at age 4, I finished other peoples sentences, or said what they were thinking. My dreams ended up happening, I saw my deceased Aunt and Grandfather after they passed. I grew up in a haunted house where a murder/suicide occurred, so I saw shadows and objects move regularly. I figured out this wasn’t normal behavior of other kids my age. I was more vocal, connected, somehow...older? than the other children. But at this time, I knew nothing of magick and didn’t know spiritual gifts existed. Little did I know what a big part of my life this would end up being. Little did I know how many more strange things were awaiting me in life! 

I was first introduced to witchcraft at a very young age, at, of all places, girl scout camp! I remember it was summer, and I was at Camp Grove Point. I was a brownie at the time, so I was between the ages of 7-9. I made friends with another girl my age, her name was Tara. Tara told me her Mother was a witch, and knew magick. I remember first thinking she was just imaginative, and her Mother must have supported it. She told me her Mother worked with herbs and spells, and could make things move...and so could she. Before I realized the difference between ‘Magick” and “Magic”, I was assuming this girl meant her and her mother practiced stage magic, tricks. I didn’t believe her, until I saw her prove it. She was right, she didn’t mean “Fairy Godmother from Cinderella” type magic at all. I remember my initial repulsion at the word ‘witch’. I thought it was bad, sinful, wrong! I had no idea how wrong I was, or that this was my first step to reclaiming the word for my own.

Tara wasn’t lying, she really could move things. Not far, but they moved. Yes, I realize it’s nuts to say and I sound crazy, but you can’t deny what you’ve seen with your own eyes. I remember how my entire world lit up, watching the impossible. We’d sit hidden somewhere, away from the other campers, and I’d balance sticks, leaves and small stones for her to wiggle, or slide. She always told me her Mother was better at it, and she was still learning. I watched her ‘hex’ people, she’d call it ‘sending bad luck’. She’d pick a poor victim around the campfire and make them fall off the logs we were all sitting on, over and over again. I’ll never forget the look of confusion on their face as they couldn't figure out why they couldn't stay seated on this log. They’d look around, blame the person beside them, trying to figure out the trick, while her and I were in fits of laughter.

Of course at the time I didn’t realize that what Tara was doing was really energy manipulation, not Harry Potter type spells, but whatever it was, I knew it worked, and I needed to learn it. I asked her to teach me, and she did, but after a strong warning that I've always remembered. She grabbed both my hands, and looked in me in the eyes seriously, “I’ll teach you, but you can’t EVER tell anyone.” I hadn’t planned on it, who would believe me?. “If you tell, they’ll kill us. we’ll get experimented on, or locked up. My mom says they’ll hurt us.”

I realized then what a big deal it was for her to even tell me, her Mother had obviously put the fear of God in her about revealing their secret. Tara really believed this was so rare that her and her Mother would be taken, and experimented on like science projects if anyone ever found out. Of course at the time I didn’t realize that others could do such things either, so I believed this, stayed fearful for myself as well, and always kept the secret, until my later years when I had more knowledge. I still have my journals from childhood, with many pages of small, fearful me, writing about experimenting with such things, but always being mindful of being found out. I wish I’d have realized sooner people would only think I was nuts, and I didn’t need to worry about being trapped in a lab ;) We weren’t aliens after all, just women who found their power again.

For the rest of that camp, Tara taught me to meditate, connect with the earth, and manipulate energy. We were always off doing our own things, whispering conversations and secrets others wouldn’t understand. That summer changed my life, and I think about Tara a lot, I always hoped I’d reconnect with her someday.

As I grew older and kept writing about this in my journals, the need to tell someone and not be so alone grew. I needed someone to understand. I remember once, and only once, I tried talking to my Dad about it. I told him some things I could do, and he stopped cooking, looked at me, very calmly, and said “You know, it’s a family thing, your Grandmother used to be able to bend spoons, but then got into church and got scared of it, now she doesn’t and we don’t talk about it anymore”. I tried to ask more questions, but he wouldn’t let us keep talking about it. Problem here is, my pops is a pathological liar, so whether this is truth, or him being him, I’ll never know. I tried bringing it up years later, but he wouldn’t talk about it then either. He either pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about ,or really didn’t remember that conversation we had, I’m not sure which is the truth.

Later I tried telling my Mother. I told her about the shadow man in a hat, with the collar of his trench coat flipped up, who would walk around my room at night, or stand outside the door. I told her how I’d walk into my playroom and see my Barbies stand up on their own, spin, then fall back down. I told her I heard things fall off my bookshelf but nothing was there, or sometimes there was a book on the other side of the room. She told me she didn’t believe me. I didn’t think she did for years. Finally the day we moved out of that house, when I was older, she told me the truth. Two people actually died in that house. She took me through the home and showed me the bullet holes through the house. A few in the kitchen, another in the living room, back to my playroom and bedroom, then finally one more in my Mother’s room, underneath the light on the ceiling. The story was, a couple lived there, the man was an angry drunk, a family member of the landlord we rented from. He got angry (over what I don’t remember) and chased his wife (or girlfriend, unclear, landlord didn’t like talking about it for obvious reasons.) through the house with a gun, shooting at her, starting in the kitchen. She ran to get out through my room and the playroom (there was an exit door to the porch here, the house was like a loop) but didn’t make it, she died in my playroom, the man then went into my Mother’s room, sat on the edge of the bed, and put the gun in his mouth, committing suicide, thus the bullet hole straight up in the ceiling, and why it was now covered by a ceiling light.

So, clearly, this house was kind of a hot spot, with a lot of bad energy, but somehow I was never scared, nothing ever tried to hurt me there. (Also, I like to point out I think this energy was made worse by the fact that my landlord very sadly allowed KKK meetings to be held in our backyard in the 50′s, I found a sign saying “KKK Whites Only” and two hoods buried in the leaves while playing back there as a child. Our landlord was old, Southern, and unfortunately racist and behind the times.)

More interesting, my sister and her boyfriend moved into that house immediately after my mom and I left moved. I was thrilled to hear she also experienced activity while living there (tweezers flying from the bathroom sink, into the living room, things being ‘misplaced’, moving on there own, strange sounds). We both noticed the activity seemed worse around a particular time of year, I believe it was in the winter around Christmas, our theory was always that maybe that’s when the murders occurred.

Fast forward to the new house, starting in 6th grade I began attending a Christian school, it was here I learned that many things I and others could do, weren’t “magick” at all, but spiritual gifts. Christians like to leave spiritual gifts out of the conversation, and pretend they are no longer around, but they are. Prophecy, healing, speaking in tongues, intuition, these and more are all discussed in the Bible, and given by God, but we see them being condemned by the same faith, and these healers, being called witches by their own people. In 6th grade I was having many confusing and strange things happen to me. The ghost encounters were stranger, the dreams more vivid and true, I always knew things I shouldn’t, and felt like I was being watched and followed. I saw deceased family members and animals. I was a bit of a hub for ‘strange’, but didn’t know what to do to control what was happening around me, or even if I could. I knew I needed to talk to someone but I didn’t know who. After revealing all this to a close friend, she said maybe I should talk to our Headmaster about it. I decided it was the best option. I remembering crying in his office, because I was ‘scared I was a witch’ and I thought I was going to hell for being ‘sinful’, or worse, maybe I was just nuts. I told him about Tara, and spilled my guts on what I've been doing. He hugged me, and told me I wasn’t bad, or sinful, that instead, God wanted me to do these things, and they were in the bible. It was the first I'd heard of this. I left that day feeling recharged, confident.

Since then I’ve learned ‘witch’ wasn’t a bad word at all, I also wasn’t nuts, or alone. As I grew into my own I realized I’d best be classified as an ‘eclectic witch’, meaning I am eclectic in my practice and pull from various sources and cultures to create magick that is completely my own. I’m a unique blend of intuition based magick, Celtic witchery, Buddhism, kitchen witchery and everything in between. However I do like to point out that NO I am not Wiccan ;) Wicca I consider to be a religion of Witchcraft and it’s not for me; I like to clarify as it’s one of the most asked questions witches get, especially when people aren't familiar with the differences of religion or spirituality and the variations of witches and witchcraft.

(I’d like to briefly point out here that RELIGION and WITCHCRAFT/ SPIRITUALITY or ENERGY WORK do NOT have to go hand in hand. Spirituality is not always a religion to people, but it can be. Witchcraft is not a religion, but it can be! this all depends on YOUR practice. I am a practicing witch, but consider my ‘religion’ to be spirituality. I would not say my craft is my religion or a religious belief, I see it as energy work, which I find to be rooted in electrical workings of the earth, which is science to me.)

As for what I specifically believe, I’m all over the place and open to many ideas and theories on that as well. I don’t call myself a Christian any longer, as I don’t wish to be associated with their beliefs, but I do still believe in the Christian God and Jesus, and some of the bible, but I have LOTS of thoughts about all of it. Also I’d be a hypocrite Christian, as I have reached out to or felt a call by other Goddesses/Deities, and been answered. Kali Ma, Hekate, Freya, Kwan Yin, Persephone, The Morrigan, just to name a few favorites.

I don’t have an explanation for this yet! I also accept I may never have that answer until I’m dead. I believe in God, the universe, aliens, that dragons existed, I believe in the Fae, in myths and legends, manifestation, energy work, I believe everything may have some truth, I believe in many things, with many theories on all of it. I’m open to the idea of past lives, as I’ve had strange experiences myself; But at the end of the day, all I am 100% certain on, is that when I pray, work with energy, or put out into the universe, things happen that I cannot explain. Whether it is God answering, The universe answering, or If God and the universe are on the in the same, I don’t know! and don’t claim to know. I just know I am heard, and it works. I’ve just seen things that have no explanation, both light and dark, and all I know, is that more exists in this world that what we can see and put our hands on. I don't claim to have all the answers or know everything, and I think anyone that does is frankly, full of shit. I find myself thinking of new theories and ‘what if’s’ on a regular basis, and it would be nothing but arrogance and ego for me to claim I know everything I’m talking about. Part of the craft, is learning as we go, and never having all the answers. If someone claims they're all-knowing, then they're no witch. So I’d like to make it clear, that while I’m not a beginner, I’m also by no means an expert, and I am always learning, and evolving, as every witch should.

I notice all the Goddesses I am called to have similar themes, sometimes I wonder if they’re all the same energy, just with different faces for each culture. I also know of many Gods who have a ‘rose after three days’ story. I wonder if these too could perhaps be the same God? I wonder if God even has a sex? Is there really Gods/Goddesses or is it sexless energy? or energy combined with power from both sexes? I believe not being set in one way or another allows me to keep my mind open and see things and theories from all angles.

So now in my practice, I pray, I manifest, I meditate, I look to Goddesses for inspiration and strength, I stay focused on putting good out into the universe, and not bad. I practice candle magick, manipulating energy, I work with runes, tarot and other forms of divination. I sage my house, work with astrology, crystals and crystal grids and do my spellwork by the moon, and celebrate my Sabbats on the wheel of the year. My beliefs and practice are simple, yet complicated, just like I too am a paradox.

I hope this explained a little more about my background and beliefs, for more, check out my neck blog post “What ‘Witch’ Means to Me”, as I explain why I call myself such, and what ‘witch’ even means!

For more witchy goodness and self care tips, be sure to check out my Instagram page that connects with this blog @selfcarewitchxo

Forever your sister witch,

~ Faye ~

[nellie-elizabeth]

Outlander: The Deep Heart's Core (4x10)

I know that I need to talk about this week's episode, but I'm already just so pumped to see John Grey next week. I'm predictable like that. Also, this episode was really not my favorite, and I've got a lot of things to say about it, so buckle in.

Cons:

I always admire stories where everyone is a little bit wrong and a little bit right, where you can see and sympathize with all sides of the story even if you know that various people should have handled things differently. I think that's what this episode is going for - Jamie is wrong, but his motivations are understandable. Brianna should have been more honest, but her reticence also makes sense. I want to like this story - I want to believe they did justice to this bizarre scenario, but I think there are a lot of things here that just fall flat.

For one, let's look at Jamie's story here. He is the survivor if a truly horrific rape, and that is discussed at the start of this episode with a great amount of candor. And yet when Bree and Claire realize that Jamie beat Roger, the man he believed raped his daughter, they both condemn his actions full-force. Let's take a second and think about how things would have been different if Jamie had beat up Stephen Bonnet. Claire and Brianna might have been a bit horrified at the brutality, and concerned that Jamie would go off the handle like that, but I doubt they would have turned on him for it. Sure, maybe Jamie shouldn't have trusted Lizzie's word, but are we supposed to blame Jamie for being a little bit irrational when it comes to the subject of rape? He just found his daughter, he's just forming a relationship with her, and now he's confronted with the fact that she has suffered through something enormously traumatic - an experience he can relate to first hand - and we're supposed to be pissed off that he's not acting rationally?

But then there's the flip side of this - Jamie forces Brianna to confront her own weakness in order to realize that she is not to blame for being unable to fight off her attacker. On the one hand, this seems like just the sort of wrong-footed yet well-meaning thing that Jamie might do, in the same way that he takes physical punishment between parents and children completely in stride. He doesn't see anything wrong with putting Brianna through something traumatic in order to shock her into a realization that he believes will help her in the long-run. That could be an interesting thing to explore. But... in this scene, Bree is furious that Jamie is doubting her about being raped. The conceit of the scene is that we know Jamie wouldn't really think Bree was lying - he's just trying to force her to confront reality. But later in the episode, Jamie does doubt Brianna about her experience, so it kind of undercuts the point of the earlier scene. Also, we don't get to see what Brianna thinks of Jamie's methods. Is she cool with her father physically restraining her and terrifying her? We don't really get to explore that.

On the flip side of the flip side, though, you've got to confront the fact that the plot contrivance of what happens to Brianna is pretty confusing, and you can hardly blame Jamie for being turned around. Brianna says she was raped. Jamie attacks a man he believes to be the rapist. Brianna then says that she did have sex with that man, but that it was consensual. Jamie is, understandably, horrified that he attacked an innocent man based on inaccurate information. Can we really blame him for not immediately jumping to the conclusion that Brianna had consensual sex and then was immediately raped by a different guy on the same night? That's... pretty unlikely. Sure, Jamie shouldn't have accused Brianna of being untruthful, I guess, but he's pretty shaken up! Jamie is a fair and honest man, and he's probably utterly devastated that he has wronged an innocent man, and one who his daughter has apparently wronged in some way by accusing him of rape. Obviously that's not what Brianna has done, but I'm having a hard time being too angry at Jamie for his overwrought reaction in this moment. Especially since, as the episode had already established at an earlier point, Jamie was raped, and it still haunts him and is very traumatic for him. The expectation that he would be completely rational given the circumstances is honestly pretty unfair.

Okay. Sorry, I guess I had more to say about that than I realized. There were also a few other smaller things that I didn't love about this episode. For one, I really wish they'd cut out that whole thing about Young Ian being enamored with Brianna. It adds nothing and doesn't really go anywhere. I wish Ian could just be a family member and ally to Brianna, without adding in the part where he has a crush.

The scenes with Roger stumbling around with the Mohawk were a little too long and repetitive, and they also made me go back to one of my oft-repeated complaints about this season, that the native characters don't feel like humans. The narrative has once again positioned them as villains, so in a way it makes sense that they are scary and unapproachable from the perspective of Roger, our viewpoint character. But why haven't we seen evidence of native characters just... smiling? Being themselves? Having normal conversations and interactions? I'm sure we'll get that moving forward, as I do know where the story is going, but honestly it just feels really icky to me that our only visual for most of the native characters so far is this really stoic-faced, serious, intimidating warrior image.

I'm going to discuss in a moment the fact that Claire was really the best part of this episode, but I do have to remark that her scenes with Brianna are sometimes a little awkward and stilted. Last week I was digging their vibe. I liked the way there seemed to be some separation between them, even though they clearly love each other. But this week... gosh. Both actresses are really acting their hearts out, but I honestly think there's just a fundamental lack of chemistry between them. When Bree says she's sorry for making Claire leave her, Claire says "oh, Bree!" and pulls her into a hug, and I just found myself rolling my eyes. This show has a lot of cheesiness and a lot of love in it, but usually the great acting and chemistry can pull it off. Here, I just don't know if I buy it.

Pros:

This isn't a bad episode, actually. The fact that I wrote so much in the "cons" section is more an indication of how seriously I take this show, how much I trust it, and how much I want to hold it to a high standard. My complaints about Outlander are usually not black and white. It takes me quite a bit of time to work my way to what I'm really feeling about something, and this episode is a prime example of that. I had concerns about the way that Jamie and Brianna's relationship and their characterizations were being treated, and I had to talk about it. I imagine that a lot of people will disagree with me, and I can see how this episode might be a bit polarizing. All of that to say: there was plenty here that I quite liked.

I know I just said that Claire and Brianna's chemistry is off, but I actually did really love the scene where they discuss abortion. It's a complicated question, but Brianna holds on to the hope that the child might be Roger's. Even if it isn't, she'll still love it, she's sure. This situation puts Brianna to the test, as she needs to make a difficult choice. If she chooses to keep the baby, and if she wants to go back to her own time, she needs to make that choice immediately. They don't know what would happen if Brianna tries to cross over with a babe in arms, but they do know that it's possible to cross through pregnant, since Claire did so. Of course, this is all while Brianna and Claire mistakenly believe that Roger is back in the 20th century. When they find out otherwise, it changes Brianna's options significantly. She wants to keep the baby, but she can't leave without Roger. See, this is the kind of plot contrivance that leads to good storytelling, because it puts Brianna at the center of her own story and forces her to confront some difficult realities and make some complicated choices. I loved watching her grapple with all of these moving pieces.

I also liked the way Claire was positioned in this episode. She loves Jamie more than her own life and soul, and we've seen that time and again. But her loyalty to Brianna has to supersede that, in some way. When Brianna is calling Jamie a savage, Claire can chastise her a bit, but she also can't take her arms from around her daughter and go to comfort her husband. In some ways, Claire's choice here is obvious, but in other ways, how can it be? The situation is so muddled, and despite my complaints about the way it was portrayed, I liked the way Claire had to balance different loyalties and conflicting perspectives. I liked the moment when Jamie tries to appeal to Claire, and Claire remarks that he lied and said that his hand injury was from hitting a tree. Jamie tries to defend himself, but Claire is clearly furious. However, unlike with Brianna and Jamie, her fury is not potentially relationship-ending, and neither Claire nor Jamie think that it is, even if in this moment Claire needs to be on Brianna's side, 100%.

Murtagh continues to be a delight. There have been moments here and there when I've worried that the story wouldn't be able to accommodate him, but for the most part it's working really well. One thing that this season has cut back on significantly is the sense of the people in Jamie's vicinity. Fergus and Marsali are in Wilmington, and we're not spending time with other settlers yet. Having Murtagh there as a representative of the Scots community is a smart thing to do. I particularly like the scene of Murtagh and Jocasta reuniting, because it adds flavor to the reality of these characters, and to the past that we know about only through little passing moments. Jocasta and Murtagh talk about Ellen, the grandmother that Brianna will never know, and then Jocasta feels Bree's face and smiles, because she feels the familiarity of it. That's good storytelling and world-building, and gives a sense of the inner lives of these various people. Of course, I'm still worried about how Outlander is handling the slavery issue. We'll have to see how it's addressed in next week's episode, once Brianna has had a chance to orient herself to River Run.

A couple of little things to praise before I sign off on this over-long review: I liked the montage scenes where we see the happiness in this odd little family. We see that despite Brianna's difficult situation, she is enjoying being here with her mother and father, with Ian, Rollo, and Murtagh, with Lizzie. It's really cute. I also liked the moment when Brianna assures Jamie that she doesn't resent him for taking Claire away from her... she didn't come back in time just to find Claire, but to find Jamie too. That's adorable. Finally, despite my continuing problems with the way that rape is used as a storytelling device, I thought that Brianna's dream about Roger and Stephen was excellently performed, and it showed quite vividly the difficulty of Brianna's choice. Obviously it's not Brianna's unborn child's fault that he or she might be the product of a rape, but Brianna's revulsion when she thinks about Stephen being the biological father of her child should not be discounted. We might be able to say rationally that it doesn't matter, but the human mind doesn't work that way, and Brianna has been through something awful. Of course it would be a factor in her decision-making and the way she's thinking about this whole messy situation.

Whew. That was a long review. Next week, we'll get to see what Roger decided to do about that magic-stone-back-to-the-future that he conveniently discovered. And we'll also get to see John Grey at River Run, and perhaps Fergus in Wilmington? All my faves in one episode? Yes please!

6.5/10