#clinging to the remains of a dead civilization. you know

[codacheetah]

My take on Rauru and Sonia's very unnamed and unmentioned probable daughter

[heavencanbeaprisontoo]

The Sun and The Moon

(Prologue: Meeting By the Sea) Alfie Solomons x Shelby!OC

Summary: In early November of 1917, you are over a year into your service to the Crown as a volunteer nurse. Following a hollow victory, you make your acquaintance with one Alfie Solomons. WC: 3.1K Warnings: Mentions of war, death, g-re, v-mit, foul language, angst, psychological distress, etc.

November. 7, 1917.

You know you need to hurry. It's almost nightfall; you won’t have much light left to write in. Yet you cannot help but linger at the sight of today’s victory. Before you, there is an ocean. It is a vast sea of gray, thick, and cold. Unfeeling and joyless. An ocean of standing water, crumbling buildings, and miles upon miles of mud. The buildings once housed people, but now they resemble the ruins of a bygone era. A necropolis.

Rolling clouds of dirt and gunpowder float just above the ground like phantoms. It’s the only piece of this that reminds you anything of home. Beckoning to the fog and soot that rolled in the early mornings when you would walk with your brothers to Charlie’s yard. Behind you, white tents flap in the wind, and cloth clings to metal rods that hold the structure in place. A field hospital. The only taste of civilization left for miles.

Rings meant to fasten the flaps down rattle like windchimes against the winds. A sudden updraft carries the stench of decay from the trenches up to where you stand. You press a cloth into a small bottle of peppermint oil. Quickly, you put that cloth on your nose. One of the first things you learned after joining the VADs was to keep your feet dry and to have plenty of peppermint oil on hand. It wards off the smell of rot, both in the living and the dead. The first time you smelled it, you vomited. Now, you barely gag. Still holding the cloth to your nose, you turn back to the field hospital.

Your name is Maeve Shelby, and you are twenty-four.

It’s warmer inside the tents. Uncomfortably so. The warmth is from all the bodies; most lay about in cots; the rest are your fellow VADs and doctors. Humidity mixed with stagnant sweat and all the bed pans that ever come clean enough to be rid of acrid remnants. To save yourself from having to sit in the midst of it all, you set aside a chair for yourself at the mouth of the field hospital. It is a plain, simple wooden chair with one leg shorter than the other three. Beside it is a stack of empty ammunition boxes. You have a small lantern weighing down an unfinished letter. With a sigh, you sit down and resume your writing from earlier that day: 

Dearest Aunt Polly, Ada, and Finn ,

I know once my letter finds you that this will be well-known, but the Allies have finally claimed victory here in Ypres. The soldiers say we are nearly finished ousting the Germans from Passchendaele. Only a few remain. Too injured to retreat. It won’t be long before we can claim this as ours. Still, we have yet to celebrate. It’s strange. All these months we spent fighting, and this doesn’t feel like a victory. So many lives were lost. There are too many to even try to count.

My work keeps me busy, but it is at night when my mind is most busy. Even with the fighting stopped, it has been difficult to find the dead and the wounded. I do not know where these men will be put once they’re found. We have hardly any beds left to offer. I have taken to sleeping in a chair by the entry to the main tent. Partly to free a bed for those that need it, partly to keep an eye out for any soldiers still trying to make it back. 

For so long, all I’ve done is race from place to place. Now all I do is change bandages, sooth the restless, and listen for the wounded who remain stuck in the trenches. Those still well enough to fight are sent out to recover their comrades. It’s hard work. Idle bombs and lurking landmines are all still out there. Some men come back worse than they left.

I know that the boys aren’t out there, but still, I strain to listen for them. John, Arthur, and Tommy. In my dreams, I do hear them. Just as I know, you hear them in your dreams too, Polly. It makes me wake with such a fear in me that my feet carry me forward before I’m fully awake. I rush toward that ocean of muck and blood, and I stop only when my fingers pierce the earth; the feel of it under my fingernails brings back my senses for some reason. 

I wonder if all the victories we’ve won felt like this. I wonder if, when all is said and done, any of this will amount to anything at all. Does anyone remember why we’re even here? Who will take our bodies home if none of us survive?

“God,” you say, taking your pen and scratching out the last line. Then, you scratch out the last paragraph. You cross out line after line. They don’t need to read this. This madness. It was good of Ada to back out of volunteering. Not just because of this lonely sea of mud and blood, but for little Finn, too. With you and the three eldest men gone, someone needed to take care of him. Mom has been dead for almost five years now. Father may as well be dead; he felt like a ghost when he was home anyway. Aunt Polly was holding up “the business,” from what you could gleam from Ada’s letters back to you.

In the year you’ve spent out on the fields, you have yet to receive a letter from your brothers. Not that you blame them. All of you are on the move. What you know of their state comes from Ada, or Polly. Arthur and Tommy are together, which somewhat soothes you. You think of John often. He’s in France with Danny and Jeremiah. I think you joined so that you could look after your brothers. It’s been years since you’ve seen them in person. Who knows what state they may be in? There are men behind you who will never be whole. Broken bodies, shattered minds, and more scar tissue than flesh. Are your brothers as you remember them? You hate to linger on the thought.

You fold your ruined letter three times and rip it in half. The give-and-take of it feels good somehow. It reminds you of something you read once about children being destructive to gain some form of control. You can’t control how long this war lasts, when you can come home, what home you return to, or what state you find your brothers in, but you can control this paper. So, you rip it again. And again. Each tear becomes more jagged and childish. You throw up your hands, and the bits of paper fly away in the cold November winds.

‘Snow from Birmingham to Belgium,’ you crack a small smile.

You once dreamed of journeying across Europe. It was a lovely fantasy filled with long train rides and French pastries. Winking at handsome strangers while hiding your smile behind a lacy white glove. Now, you feel like you’ve seen too much of it. When all this fighting is over, maybe you’ll take a holiday to Margate. Clean your memory with a long look at an ocean of water instead of this hellscape.

“Shelby!” Your head turns sharply to see Nurse Burgess charging towards you. Her round face was blotchy as always, her thin lips drawn down in a harsh frown. “Miss Shelby, you are needed in the back.”

Tucking your scented hanky back into your apron, you ask, “Is someone in throes?” Some men, in the throes of despair, couldn’t always tell the difference between a nurse and a German soldier.

Her meaty hand takes you by the upper arm and says, “No, I need you to keep an eye on someone.” Nurse Burgess drags you through the maze of malaise swiftly, despite the growing night. The nurses have navigated this place in near darkness many times now. You could probably make it from one end to the other, blindfolded. Tonight, the field hospital was quiet aside from the moaning. Nurse Burgess guides you deeper inside the field hospital with a hoarse, “It’s Captain Solomons; that bastard won’t lay still, and I haven’t the time to keep on him.”

You try to keep your voice low as soldiers in their cots roll over to follow you and Nurse Burgess’ mad dash. “Captain Solomons? I thought he was sedated, heavily!”

Nurse Burgess, on the other hand, has no such qualms. She hollers, “That man is a bloody bear. We keep trying to give him more, and he shoos us off. Now, he won’t stop trying to get out of his cot... with a blown-out leg!” Two soldiers sat on their cots with a barrel between them. They played cards under the glow of a flickering candle on their shared nightstand. As you passed, they snickered.

“I can’t imagine he would be able to move much; Doctor Gill said he nearly lost that leg,” you noted wearily. Burgess was nearly done with her escorting or you; the back of the tent was not far off. You stepped over a pool of what could have been rainwater, bile, or piss. There is no point in stopping to check.

At the back of the field hospital lay two specific sorts of patients. Those who could not move and those who absolutely should not move. Captain Solomons was in the former category. Days ago, he sustained a bullet to his shin that nearly shattered it. He had been under strict orders, and a heavy dose of sedatives, to stay right where he was. Each cot in this back section has its own privacy curtain. When you first joined, you thought it was for the nurses to sleep and change in. The other nurses had a good laugh about that. When she comes upon Captain Solomons’ curtain, Nurse Burgess lets you go. S yanks back the curtain, shielding the Captain from view, and lets out a deep grunt.

You peer around her shoulder and sigh. The captain sits on the thin cot with a sterile sheet pushed down to his legs. His back is raised from the metal headboard, and he has his body turned with his good foot nearly touching the ground. Still on the bed rests his wounded leg. It lays at a stiff, awkward angle. You know he must at least be aware of its precarious state. In the dark, it’s difficult to make out all of his features.

“Captain!”

He’s a big man, with broad shoulders and heavy muscle on his back and arms. You can see it pushing against his long-sleeved undershirt. What strikes you most about him is not his mass or his leg, but his grin. His cheeky, cheeky grin.

Captain Solomons keeps on that grin as he says, “Hm, it appears I have been caught, right?” His accent is thick. You know very little about Captain Solomons aside from the most basic of details. You know he’s from London, you know that he’s Jewish, and you know that he can be difficult. The Captain’s tone remains glib as he remarks, “And you brought a friend, ‘ello there.”

“You are to be resting, Captain Solomons!” Based on her tone, you can imagine Nurse Burgess is turning purple about now. Captain Solomons gives her a boyish shrug and stays upright in his cot. That alone makes Nurse Burgess turn to you and hiss and say, “Keep him here so he doesn’t rip his bloody stitches, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you hum. She leaves you there in the parted curtains with Captain Solomons. He regards you for a moment, then restarts his attempt at standing. You let out a sigh and hurry to him before he gains enough traction to hurt himself. Placing your hands on his shoulders, you try to ease him back into his crib. “Captain, you really must follow the doctor’s instructions.” You feel him push against your palms.

“Fuck the doctors; pardon my verbiage, but I’m about to go mad lying about this miserable lump you call a bed,” he says, putting his hands around your wrists. You are taken aback by how easily his hand wraps around your wrist. If he wanted to, it wouldn’t be terribly difficult to just shove you aside. “I need to take a walk.”

Politeness doesn’t seem to work on him, nor does roughness. While you weren’t tough like John or ruthless like Arthur, you were clever with people. You could get a sense of how someone’s mind ticked quickly. You hoped you could catch on about Captain Solomons too. “And when your stitches rip and you’ve lost your leg, what cot would you like me to move you to?”

He stops pushing against you. His chest is still heaving, and his hot breath fans your cheeks. You swallowed thickly; you really underestimated how close you were to him. This is a is a big, big man. One who had rumors of a violent temper that took very little to agitate.

“You have been injured and are lucky to be alive. And you still have all your parts, Captain. Why are you risking that just to go on a fucking walk?” He stares you down with a furrowed brow. For a moment, you worry you’ve poked the bear a bit too hard. “If you refuse to take the doctors seriously, what do you think the men who answer to you will do? They’ll all be trying to walk about despite their pain and end up injuring themselves for pride.”

Solomons puts you at ease when he sits back on the cot, releasing your wrists. “I can’t just lay about like this. I’ll lose the rest of my marbles waiting around for those doctors to get these stitches out. There’s not a single thing a man can do to occupy his mind in this place. It smells of piss, rot, and pus. If they would give me back my knife, right? I could cut out a little window in this tarp behind me and get a whiff of fresh air. But they won’t. Where’s the respect, hm?”

You cross your arms and ask, “So, you’re bored?”

He stiffens. Oh, you hit the nail right on the head with that one. You can’t exactly blame him. The longer you stand still, the faster all your fears catch up with you. All those ugly things you’ve seen and heard find you. That’s why the soldiers play cards and the nurses trade that single copy of ‘Frankenstein’ and ‘A Room with a View’ back and forth. Distraction. “If you can stay still where you are, I can try to get a book or a deck of cards. Would you like that?”

With a sweeping gesture to the darkness, he says, “Can’t exactly read a page or play a hand in the dark, now can we love?”

Shaking your head at his childish attempts at derailing your little plan, you take out a matchbox from your apron. With your last matchstick, you bring life to a lantern by his bed. You turn to face him, a warm orange light reflecting on your face. In the dim lighting offered by the lantern, you can see the Captain’s face. He’s young for a man of his rank. And handsome, you can admit as much in your own mind. His eyes are bright, and his features are deeply masculine. A hard jawline with a prominent brow and pouty lips. Most soldiers, regardless of rank, are required to be clean-shaven. This is not true for Captain Solomons. He has a well-maintained moustache and beard, cut close to his jawline. You heard from somewhere that Solomons was an exception due to his faith or his demeanor. Captain Solomons is looking up at you, too. His expression was all aglow. Bright gray eyes stare at your face. Confused almost as they regard you.

“Do we have a deal, Captain?”

He’s still staring at you, his brow furrowed as he studies your face. Finally, he says, “If you can get ‘Frankenstein,’ I’ll stay put. That’s a piece of fiction I can sit with for a good bit of time.”

You beam at him and take the chance to push his healthy leg under his blanket. Solomons grumbles, “Easy now, easy. I’m injured, remember?” He allows you to gently move him safely into his cot.

Finding the nurse who had taken possession of the book was no easy task, but she was quick to give it to you when you informed her a captain had asked for it. When you came back with the book, Solomons was still in bed. You thanked a God you no longer believed in and handed him the book. Just as you attempted to leave, Captain Solomons made an admission: “My eyes, yeah, they don’t pinch up the written word so easy these days. If there’s not a grisly scene out there for you to attend to, might you do me the service of reading this aloud for me?”

For a moment, you think about refusing. You never know when you’ll be called away. But then again, you’re the one who came up with the idea to get him a distraction anyway. Settling down at the edge of his bed, you take the book from his hand and begin to read. Captain Solomons leans back against the metal headboard, listening to you begin reading the preface. What you didn’t know was that this was the start of a near-nightly ritual. Captain Solomons would attempt to slink out of bed to go'stretch his leg(s)’ until you would rush over to distract him with another book or game of cards. He became a welcome distraction for you as well. A friend, almost. Perhaps more than that, if the way he kissed you one cold night in late November told you anything.

His lips were as soft as they looked. 

Whether it was friendship or not, it lasted for about a month. Captain Solomons and his men were removed from the area for transport to the west. You and your fellow VADs would go north. He didn’t stop to say goodbye to you, which bothered you. The morning after he kissed you was the day you found out about the move. And he was already gone.

In one year and three days, the war would be over. You would return home to find that all your brothers had survived. But they weren’t quite themselves anymore, and neither were you.

[stromuprisahat]

Though compared to other characters and ships in the books, do you think that darklina could be called toxic from both parties (Aleksander + Alina)? Sorry if this offense anyone I only read the first book.

First of all- fuck offending people. Fiction is written to be discussed among other things and asking a question without ill intent should never be something to be afraid of.

As for the matter at hand- yes, absolutely.

There's plenty written on how did Aleksander wrong Alina and although most of it could be chalked up to caution, strategy and having to deal with mentally damaged girl necessary for his plans alongside more pressing matters like war and incompetent leadership. It's undeniable his feelings got involved, so he hardly remained simply cold and calculating.

He's also a petty bitch, who won't let an offense against himself and his goals slide, if he is in position to take revenge. (See: Genya's punishment, Nikolai's volcralization, partly burning that Saintsdamned orphanage..) Plus he knows words don't cost him anything, but often could work as well as actions (threatening to skin Alina, kill Grishenka etc.).

The main issue is that neither Alina, not plenty of readers see the difference between Alina as a person and her as a strategically important figure, later a leader and figurehead of part of his opposition. Or cannot grasp that a single action rarely has just one purpose with the Darkling.

For example burning that orphanage isn't necessary to prove how far he's willing to go- Alina already sees him as evil incarnate-, but it:

Destroys symbol of the past Alina keeps clinging to, even though it's holding her back.

Destroys one of few things she truly cared for.

Lures her out of hiding, so at least the Civil war can end.

Frees Alina from her shitty mother figure.

Settles the score of dead horrible women that kept damaging their "children" even from afar. And no, I won't cry for Anne Cunt any more than for Ol' Bags.

The other way around is often overlooked. Partly because Aleksander's viewed as a heartless monster by plenty of people, partly because he's the bad guy AND a ("white powerful") man, so he "cannot be abused", especially not by the heroine, from whose POV we see the story unfold.

Aleksander's only role model regarding long lasting relationships is his toxic mother, so he treats harm as affection, therefore we never see him complain, but let's be fair- if he were the one promising Alina to join her, only to proceed trying to kill them both through her powers, he'd be judged for it even more than he already is.

Alina from the first book never saw him as a human being. She found him attractive- yes-, but denied him something as basic as ability to have feelings. and once a salvation in a form of older female figure with puritan attitudes appears, Alina embraces her lies as a word of God, and immediately flees from him, never to stop and think about wider consequences of her sudden disappearance. Her dehumanization of him in the tent scene is quite something.

Alina from following books has fleeing moments of empathy, only to slide back into her "Evil man-needs to be destroyed" attitude. She feels ashamed of wanting him, she finds funny the notion he might've been sexually assaulted, she never considers his points or losses. There's probably more, but this already got longer than I intended, so I'll drop a link to my tag on their interactions I write as I go through the books.

While his unhealthy treatment of her is a combination of centuries of losses, damage caused by narcissistic mother and desperation of a cornered leader, hers of him is about bigotry, shame and will to be responsibility-free no matter the cost.

It's rather ironic, that he keeps trying to teach her- even though it's often the "tough love" he was taught at Baghra's knee-, while she uses "wisdom" of the same woman as ear plugs

Actually, the only truly nice action from her side I can think of is her honoring his last wish.

[valle-de-sombra-de-muerte]

Homestuck Reread: Act 3, Part 2/3 (p. 892-1026)

Read the previous post here.

The second third of Act 3 introduces yet another new character: the Peregrine Mendicant.

PM is obsessed with the sanctity of the postal service in the same way WV is obsessed with democracy. The exiles hold dear symbols of their lost civilization while they're stranded in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. They cling to the desperate hope that society can one day be rebuilt as long as the memory of these institutions are kept alive.

Also, "brave soldiers of God in this righteous crusade"? I didn't realize these chess people were so Christian.

The fact that Mom Lalonde has her own secret littlespace in the lab is something that I never see anyone talk about. Can we please talk more about this grown woman who knows the world is going to end in her lifetime, who drinks every day to distract herself from that cursed knowledge, and also has this whole secret setup where she can hide away and pretend to be a little kid with no responsibilities?

This was probably all beyond Hussie's capabilities as a writer, so of course this is never elaborated on. What a hack. Maybe I'll write a fanfic about this myself one of these days.

Jade falls asleep in the foyer where Grandpa Harley's remains are and we get this unnecessary "psycheout" where instead of transitioning to Dave's POV, the next page immediately follows with Jade's "strife" with her dead grandpa. It's another lame interactive page like the one where she plays the flute (which I didn't mention last post because it's a waste of time).

Hussie "trolling" the reader is a character trait that he unfortunately leans into more and more as time passes.

It also would've been nice if it were better acknowledged that Jade has essentially raised herself for most of her life. What kind of strain would that put on a child's development? Obviously a lot if she's having imaginary arguments with her dead grandfather.

If Jade had been written as someone who was socially stunted from being raised without an adult human presence (she was raised by a fucking dog, remember?), and uses excessive positivity both because she literally doesn't know how to interact with others, and also as a mask to hide the stress she's under from experiencing constant visions of doomsday, perhaps she would've been a good character.

But, oh no, this is just another silly flash, you guys! Grandpa Harley is just a lifeless prop that Jade pretends is still alive because she's a manic pixie silly girl! No deeper meaning here.

Ah yeah, the cat's characteristic recalcitrance. I can't dunk on Rose too much here because I'm sure a lot of us tried to incorporate our pets in make-believe scenarios when we were kids.

I love the kitten playing with Rose's scarf off to the side.

The reason Rose wants to play Sburb is to resurrect Jaspers so he can follow up on his "secret." But... it's not like he can actually speak. You're telling me the whole reason she wants to bring back Jaspers is so he can follow up on the time he meowed in her ear nine years ago? And people really want to frame Rose as the most "serious" out of the kids.

Again, none of this seems worth ending the world for. Rose, you were like four years old here. It's time to move on. I know that "meow" actually ends up being somewhat important later, but Rose isn't aware of it at this point so it comes across as her being obsessed with something really silly.

Rose mentioned before that the funeral was held because of her request. So was it Rose who wanted a funeral for Jaspers, or was it Mom? Maybe both. I think it's very in-character for Mom to be torn up about the cat's death, so she wanted the funeral to have all the pomp and circumstance she believed he deserved.

The fact that the appearifier was already programmed to the moment before Jaspers's death means that Mom was trying to clone him through ectobiology. She really loved that cat. Rose is unable to realize this because she still views her mother as a callous and passive-aggressive bitch.

In what is perhaps the eeriest flash in the whole comic, we see a time lapse of Jaspers's body being recovered, his funeral, and the sequence of events leading to his body's reappearance on the transportalizer platform. "Chorale for Jaspers" is a strange track. The combination of the dreary organ and those sad, ethereal meows makes for an disquieting tune.

Coming off the heels of that somber flash is this overly dramatic flash where John has a mental breakdown after finding out how boring his dad really is. This so-called "reveal" that Dad Egbert is just a normal guy and not an undercover clown is like... no shit? Who in their right mind actually thought that he was a clown before this point? John's misconceptions made no sense to begin with and this payoff is equally underwhelming. At least this running gag is finally put to rest now.

I'd love to write this off as just another lame joke if not for the narrative weight attached to it. Yes, this load of shit is actually a pivotal moment for John's development.

Okay, I stand corrected. Dad Egbert is definitely not "just a normal guy" if he's able to hold that safe over his head.

He's also able to overpower the strongest Derse goon who was carrying a much larger safe. This dude is jacked.

Every panel we've seen so far suggests that everything related to the sylladex is flat like a card (especially with such terminology like captchalogue "card" and strife "deck"). Blowing into them suggests there's some kind of exterior housing and a hollow space inside where dust collects.

I get that Hussie is using this as an excuse to make this old video game joke, but if they're completely flat like say a TurboGrafx-16 game card, you wouldn't blow on those at all.

Trust me, I'm like one of the 10 people who grew up with a TG-16 instead of a Nintendo.

The admission that John's freakout over the Gushers is "stupid" suggests that his earlier mental breakdown was not "stupid." Uh huh...

Jade has a robot that her consciousness inhabits while she's dreaming on Prospit. Because at this point, why the fuck not? It's not like she builds anything else later on so might as well make this invention really complex. This is one last gasp at reminding the reader that, hey, remember this girl likes to invent stuff???

"guys'es"? That's a weird typo. John's username is "ghostyTrickster" in the past. According to the Formspring, Hussie noticed that the kids' usernames except John's all share the letters of DNA nucleobases, so this is him to backtrack and say "oh, his username used to fit the pattern until he changed it."

And like... it's stupid because TT, TG, and GG only correspond to two of the four nucleobases: thymine and guanine. That's hardly even notable, so why try to establish that pattern anyway?

The trolls came about later to complete the full set of nucleobase combinations. He created twelve whole new characters to complete a pattern that was half-formed and wasn't even intentional to begin with. Incredible.

John doesn't seem terribly concerned that the fire has reached Rose's house. This can be read as either a bumbling attempt at matching her sarcasm, or him taking her statement at face value and thinking she really is pleased that her house is on fire. Knowing John, the latter is more likely.

John refers to Bro beating up Dave in a very flippant manner. We can take this as evidence that Dave and Bro's strifes aren't actually that concerning. But if we're meant to take Dave's domestic situation seriously, then holy shit what the fuck is John's problem??

You know, for all the people who say John and Dave have such a strong friendship, John's been acting like a real dick to Dave so far. He insults him in his chats with Rose, ignores his messages, throws shade at him in his portion of the GameFAQs guide, and makes light of his distress. The only nice thing he's done for Dave so far is give him the Ben Stiller sunglasses for his birthday, and even that was an admittedly shitty gift that he assumed Dave would only appreciate "ironically."

Okay, this is what I've been waiting for. Rose says she knew about John's defaced posters all along.

But in this page, from Rose's own viewport, the posters are fine.

Rose also says that she can "see only [...] what John can see, or has seen already" which is why she can't see into his dad's room. Taking the above page into account, it's also reasonable to assume that since John was unable to see the damaged posters until now, Rose couldn't see them either.

Basically, this whole "twist" doesn't make sense and was poorly executed.

Not content with telling us himself how amazing Jade is, Hussie has characters in the comic say it too.

Aw yeah, there he is. My boy gets his first appearance. <3

Rose spouts a bunch of psychobabble about how John has been repressed all his life and it's only by learning the truth about his father that he's able to see what was once invisible to him. Not only is this event being framed as a pivotal moment where John grows from boy to man (further represented by John earning his suit after entering his dad's room), it's also supposed to be an enlightening moment for him. All because he solved a "mystery" that any reader with a brain would've figured out from the get-go.

As seen before in instances where she's either dismissive or totally ignorant of the motives behind others' behavior, Rose only possesses a superficial knowledge of psychoanalysis. Everything points to her being a massive pseud, so her theory here should've been called out as bogus. Except this isn't actually Rose positing a theory. This is Hussie literally spelling out the explanation for John's actions. We're meant to take Rose's words here at face value, so it means that Hussie somehow thinks any of this makes sense. This is what happens when dumb writers try to write smart characters.

It's funny that Rose correctly states the reason for Dad Egbert's eccentric nature, but fails to make the same connection to her own situation, instead continuing to insist that Mom Lalonde is just being passive-aggressive. Cruel irony. You don't know your mom that well either, Rose.

The further we go into this Act, the more elements Hussie seems to throw at the wall to further bog down the plot and create the illusion of depth. Let's see how things wrap up in the final third.

Read the next post here.

[batfamfucker]

Lori Grimes Is Overhated And Deserves Better (Hear Me Out)

Okay. So. I'm rewatching The Walking Dead from S1. The last time I watched S1 was when it was airing and I was 9/10 (No, not appropriate but alas) and. I remember hating Lori. But I'm rewatching. And I'm on S3. And.

What did she actually do fucking wrong? She's fine. She literally hasn't done anything to deserve the amount of hate she gets. In fact, she went through so much and died so soon. In S3 she mentions how she knows she's a shit wife and not a good mother. But. I don't see why. At the end of S2 Rick and Carl love her. But at the start of S3 they just randomly hate her? What happened in those nine months between the seasons because it's never explained? I get if things were tense because she was pregnant and they were on the run, but Rick wanted her to keep the baby? How is that her fault? It just feels out of nowhere. I legit don't even think she did anything wrong.

People are mainly always like 'She almost got an abortion :(' Bro it's literally the fucking apocalypse. One) She did it with pills she didn't even know would work. Two) She didn't even go through with it. Three) God, if I was her, I would've. That would've been the only option I would've considered.

There are no safe places, they're barely keeping Carl alive, Sophia is missing (Aka, not exactly a kid friendly world), there is no more modern medicine and she could die from complications and/or childbirth (Which she did) leaving her son to grieve his mother this time just as he did with Rick before they knew he wasn't dead. And what sort of world is this for a baby? She said it herself, it would grow up fighting from day one. If it cried, it could attract a horde and get everyone killed, etc. What if Lori is malnourished and can't feed it? They can't just find formula. It, at this stage with them only knowing of their own group, may never have an education, or friends, etc. It would just survive. What life is that? (We know better now, but the group didn't know if that could ever happen at the time. They had no context to believe otherwise).

I cannot fathom people thinking that was a bad choice on her part. And she didn't even do it, instead she died giving birth to that kid. She gave her life because she wanted her child to have a chance at one instead. And people hate her.

The only other thing I can think of is the Shane stuff. But she thought Rick was dead and was grieving everything. Not just her husband and the father of her child, but her own parents (Which she mentioned), and literally the entire world. God forbid she's getting dicked down to deal with it??? Having an ounce of something good amongst all her grieving?? Needing something, anything to cling onto? And the minute she realises Rick is alive, she stops her and Shane's 'thing' immediately. And Shane literally sexually assaults her! And people hate her but like him? Are you fucking kidding me? And she never told Rick! She still tried to be civil with Shane, because he was Rick's best friend! And Carl loved him! She kept it a secret and was civil with him, even though she was understandably scared of him and uncomfortable around him, for them. So that they wouldn't lose Shane. She remained civil with a man that sexually assaulted her for the sake of her family's happiness over her own, and even her own safety. She only warned Rick she didn't like Shane when he started seeming like he was a threat to Rick and her kids. That's it. All of it was for them.

Then people say that she seemed upset at Shane's death. Personally I like to think she was upset at the fact that Carl was the one that had to shoot him. Because she seemed shocked but it wasn't until that line where Rick admits Carl shot him that she actually seems upset. And that she was still processing the 'we're all infected thing'. And maybe even guilt thinking it was her fault that her husband had to kill his best friend, and her son had to shoot him too when he turned. Her baby was forced to kill someone when he's, what, 10? Which is what she was trying desperately to avoid?

Which brings us back to the 'not child friendly world' thing. She's now realising that if she dies, her and the baby become walkers. Or if the baby dies, it could rip her open after turning. And with Carl she had to have a C section. That might be the case this time again. And with no modern medicine, and the farm also now gone, how does she know she won't die after it's born and turn, immediately attacking the newborn and anyone around her? Or the baby is stillborn and she has to watch it turn after just giving birth to it? Essentially, the whole pregnancy is even more dangerous now. And maybe it will be born. Maybe they'll both be fine. But how long until it might have to kill someone like Carl had to? A child having to have something that heavy on their shoulders?

All that. All the things she dealt with and people blame her for all of it.

It just. It reeks of misogyny. I'm so sorry for hating her when I was 10 and didn't know any better. She deserved so much better. If she'd gotten more time, she could've been great. I think she was anyway. She defended Rick all the time, looked after Carl, was there for Carol and Sophia, etc. And people shit on her so much. She was fine. Just wasted potential.

The dramatic car crash over a single walker scene was ridiculous and kinda funny to be honest but I blame the writers more than the character. I don't even know why that was necessary. Like why did they even write it. They were really tryna make her seem useless.

Basically, Sarah Wayne Callies (Who plays Lori) was absolutely right. Lori woulda been great if she was written by a woman.

Lori Grimes, I'm sorry, you deserved fucking better.

[nine-blessed-hero]

No Knight in Shining Armour, Xe

Universe: TES IV: Oblivion CW: Canonical Major Character Death, light angst Words: 4,780 Context: I wanted to explore more of Rowan's bastardisation arc by showing xir reactions to Martin's death and the end of the MQ. Directly links up to Accepting an Invitation (Tumblr | AO3). Read on AO3

Rowan pulls Martin to xir, covering his head as the white marble, glittering with refracted red like drops of blood, falls down around them. They part enough to look up, still clinging to the other's arms as Dagon roars, framed against the crimson sky. Martin drops his gaze to meet Rowan's. "It's time, then." His face has lost all colour, xe can feel his fingers grip through the chinks in xir armour. Just because they both know what comes next doesn't make it any easier to bear. "Martin-!" Xir desperation bubbles over through xir voice. "Rowan." His voice is warm, his smile tender; his eyes filled with sorrow. "Look after them for me?" he says, as if he's only talking about a few sheep. Rowan jerkily nods. "Of course," xe says, as if he'll only be a few days away. He cups xir face. "Thank you. You've been a good friend." Rowan pulls him in for one last embrace. When they draw apart, kisses of farewell are bestowed on each cheek, as if he's only going to the next village over. Martin's head jerks, as if someone has called his name, and when he turns back, he ducks his chin. "I'm sorry. I have to go." He squeezes xir hands. "The Dragon awaits." Xe squeezes back, fingers trailing on his for as long as they can. Then Martin is gone.

~~~

When the High Chancellor finds Rowan, xir eyes are raw but dry. Xe explains what happened in calm, dispassionate tones. "What are your orders, sir?" Rowan asks when Ocato has absorbed xir words. Ocato fumbles – an unprecedented situation, the bodies, the Temple roof- Rowan cuts him off. "If I may, sir?" Ocato nods and xe strides from the Temple, never looking back.

Outside, the sun pushes through the storm clouds, sending warm-fingered rays onto the wrecked plaza. The petrichor air is filled with laughter and cheering – Dagon is defeated! – yet too many lie unmoving on the floor.

Rowan takes a breath as xe looks around, then with a bellow, calls out, "Blades! To me!" In an instant, xe is surrounded by fierce warriors in Akavir armour. Xe runs xir gaze over them. "Where is Captain Steffan?" Caroline steps forward. "I'm sorry, zr. He didn't make it." Rowan purses xir lips, xir tone arctic, "Understood. Achille, Belisarius, come here." The two wounded Blades step forward, and xe heals them as best xe can. Xir voice detached, Rowan briefs them about the Emperor's absence. Xe points, gaze still on the Blades, through the open door, at the marble statue where the lingering raindrops refract the sun, gold like scales. "I want a perimeter around the statue. Organise yourselves into a watch. There'll be looky-loos, and I don't want anyone touching him until we're sure it's safe." "'Him', zr?" Caroline says. "It," Rowan corrects xirself sharply. "Dismissed." Armour clatters as the Blades leave to do as bid.

Another in-sucking of breath and Rowan bellows again, this time for the Guard Captains. "I want you to gather any able-bodied men and split into two groups-" xe begins, but one of the men holds up a hand. "Commander Phillida," he introduces himself, then looks past Rowan, to Ocato. "Your Excellency, who is this urchin to order us?" Ocato steps up. "This is Rowan, Champion of Cyrodiil. They have saved the city and ended the Oblivion Crisis. You would do well to keep a civil tongue around them." Rowan lifts xir chin, gaze steely. Now is not the time, xe thinks, to correct Ocato. "Two teams, Commander," xe says, obdurate. "One to sweep the City – dispose of any remaining daedra and deal with looters. One to gather the dead for burial and the wounded for healing. "I need runners too. To the University, for healers and for Wizard Delmar to attend me here. To the guild of Masons, to assess the damage and ensure the Temple doesn't crumble further. To find the Arch-Primate – I have questions for her. To the Palace, again for healers and," xe glances at Ocato, "to assemble the Elder Council. I'm sure the High Chancellor will want to apprise them of the situation." Ocato nods his approval. "Another runner too, if you please," he adds, "to the Mortuary, to deal with the dead." The guard captains clasp a fist to their chests, bowing in turn to Ocato and Rowan. Then they are gone, shouting to their men. Rowan and Ocato are soon the eye in a storm of movement. "Sir." A breton woman with a warhammer steps up to Ocato. "We should get you back to the Palace." Ocato holds up a hand. "Not yet, Beanique. It will take a while for the Council to assemble, and I am still needed here." He looks at Rowan. "Emperor Martin made the right choice when selecting his champion. I shall deal with the masons and the moth-priests." "Yes, sir. I'll start assisting with the wounded."

~~~

The day wears on. The air is soon foetid, the close quarters of the plaza filling with the stench of death and sickness. Rowan helps where xe can, but xe is a field healer; xir magic is not as finessed as those from the University, and xe quickly runs out of potions. Stantus Varrid has opened his home to treat the wounded. The sun has not yet passed its zenith when the old priest leads xir to a corner piled with burlap sacks and tells xir to sit down before xe falls down. A cloak is laid over xir in lieu of a blanket, and xe is asleep before xe can begin to let thoughts swirl around xir head.

Rowan is woken by a soft hand on xir cheek; for a moment, xe dreams Martin is there, but when xir eyes open, it is Wizard Delmar crouched beside xir. "Are you well, Arch-Mage?" he asks. Rowan blinks in bemusement before xe is scrambling to xir feet. "Master Wizard. Yes. Thank you. I am… as well as can be, for the circumstance." Delmar squints a little but inclines his head. The bustle of the sick-room continues around them, the moans of the wounded, the flash of healing magic. "You requested my expertise, zr?" Delmar prods. "To examine some kind of artefact?" Rowan squeezes xir eyes closed. Xe opens them again, pulling xirself straighter and fixing Delmar with a smile. "Apologies, Delmar. Yes. If you would follow me, please?"

They leave Varrid's house, and Rowan leads them to the Temple of the One. Arch-Primate Tandilwe is waiting for them outside. "Are you," she asks, an edge to her usually soft voice, "responsible for the overbearing, armoured individuals inside my Temple?" "Marm," Rowan says, "I apologise. Yes – I instructed them to keep the curious away until you and Wizard Delmar here were able to examine the statue." The priest and the mage share a glance, and Rowan once more details the aspect of xir Emperor's transformation. "I need to understand if it's dangerous in any way, if the masons are at risk working around it. Or- Or if- If he might be changed back." Xe looks between the two of them. Xir eyes sting, but xe straightens, tone returning to level – xe cannot afford to show weakness – and gestures to the door. "Ask for Caroline. Tell her the Hero of Kvatch has-" "Champion of Cyrodiil." Behind them, Ocato breaks off from a discussion with a mason to interject. "It is the Champion of Cyrodiil who has requested your presence, Primate Tandilwe, Master Wizard Delmar."

It is a dizzying sensation, to be elevated to such a station. Tandilwe and Delmar again share a glance, inclining their heads in deference to Ocato. Ocato returns to his conversation, and Rowan again gestures towards the door. Tandilwe goes in ahead and Delmar makes to follow but pauses, his hand on the door. "You aren't coming, Arch-Mage?" "I have… other duties," Rowan says. Delmar raises an eyebrow, but before xe can be made a liar, a runner comes puffing up. "High Chancellor, the Elder Council has convened." "Very good. Champion?" "Yes, sir." Rowan turns, but Delmar catches xir arm. "Zr, I have a feeling you will need this more than I," he says and hands xir a slim purple vial labelled 'anti-fatigue'. "Thank you," Rowan says, hurrying after Ocato.

~~~

In the Council Chambers, Rowan stands at Ocato's side and once again details the events from the Temple of the One in calm and measured tones. There is uproar – accusations disguised as queries, toadying disguised as sympathy, questions disguised as blatant statements. Each comment directed towards xir is met with a calm, thoughtful response; now is not the time to rail at the nature of politicians.

They ask xir what his last words were. Xe glances at the court scribe, poised with his pen, and makes up something poetic: a new age now is beginning, Tamriel to be rebuilt and shaped according to the council's will; his instruction for them to scribe a new destiny for the Empire; how willingly Martin went to his sacrifice, to ascend into Aetherius to be with his forebears.

The Council does not need to know how scared he was, only of his courage. They do not need to know his true words – for xir, and xir alone – they need only know of the inspiration within. Perhaps it's selfish of xir, not to share. But Martin Septim was a great man. He told xir to look after his people, and his people need a hero, so xe will paint him as such to anyone who'll listen.

~~~

A week passes.

Master Wizards Tar-Meena and Delmar, Arch-Primate Tandilwe, and Foremason gra-Baroth declare that the statue is simply a statue. Whatever divine providence brought it into the world is now absent. Tests have been done – mundane, metaphysical, theological, and thaumaturgical – and it's deemed to be no harm to anyone (except, perhaps, to the last fraying ends of Rowan's sanity).

Rowan sits in on Council meetings, offering xir thoughts. Xe corresponds with the Fighter's Guild houses to support the Imperial Legion and visits the house of Daleroth for intelligence on the real effects of the crisis.

A report reaches xir – the strange door in Niben Bay has closed. It's with a pang that Rowan realises xe never said a final goodbye to Cutter.

~~~

Another week passes.

The masons and carpenters have started work fixing the Temple district. Alms have been distributed where needed based on Rowan's recommendations. The Elder Council continues to bicker, but Rowan finds that charming smiles and well-placed comments in the corridors of the Palace do more to move affairs of state along than any demand in the Chamber.

The Blades keep their vigil of the statue, and Jena tells xir the tributes piling at its feet from the people are very moving. Baragon – respectfully, tentatively – suggests Rowan might like to see for xirself? Rowan is too busy, alas; their descriptions suffice. But– a stern chin is jutted, a dry unflinching gaze regards them –it is no less than he deserves.

~~~

Two weeks flash by.

The temple plaza is coming along nicely. Word from Kvatch says the city's rebuilding efforts are continuing apace; Rowan sends mages and strong warriors alike to assist and pave the way for new guild houses.

Across the countryside, the Fighter's Guild and Imperial Foresters tackle small pockets of stranded daedra and aid ravaged farms. People from all corners of the country – those affected by the Crisis and those whose lives have been improved by the Champion's alms – continue to pour into the Imperial City to pay their respects to the departed.

High Chancellor Ocato summons Rowan to his office. Xe is admitted by Evangeline Beanique, Ocato's warhammer-toting bodyguard, into the plush room with its view of the City. "High Chancellor. You wanted to see me?" "Champion." Ocato smiles, taps a missive, sealed with the Imperial sigil, which lies on his desk. "The smiths have finished your armour." He hesitates. "You are free to collect it whenever you wish…" "However?" Ocato sighs, giving xir a half-smile. "Did Emperor Martin ever complain about your astuteness?" He huffs out a laugh. "'However' indeed. I should like you to be formally inducted into the Order of the Dragon in a ceremony." "Where?" "I thought perhaps in front of the Temple of the One." Without, the wind whistles down the corridor, reaches under the door and sends a tapestry rattling on the wall. "You believe this is something the people need to see?" "I do, yes. It will bolster their spirits at a critical point in the rebuilding process. Holding it outside the Temple will remind them of our success against the forces of chaos, remind them to keep their hope as we go forward." Rowan purses xir lips. The bitter wind seems to reach into xir chest, leaving a chill and empty space behind it. Xe nods once, the movement abrupt. "Very well. Will that be all?" Ocato frowns. Rowan lifts an eyebrow. Ocato sighs again. "Yes, Champion. That will be all."

~~~

The armour is a work of art. The gold inlay glitters, the red enamel lies bold and proud. It fits beautifully, moves smoothly. The tingle of enchantments runs up xir arms like goosebumps. The armourer is offended when xe asks how strong it is, but Ocato puts a stop to them proving its mettle before the ceremony.

~~~

The day of the ceremony dawns overcast, dry but bitterly cold. At least, that is what Rowan blames for the chill that seeps into xir chest as xe stands on the stage in front of the Temple of the One. The plaza is packed, despite the cold. Smoke from the braziers plume like towers into the sky. Rowan picks out faces xe knows in the crowd – Modryn Oreyn, Methredhel, Maelona and Gogan. They've come to see xir honoured. They believe in xir actions. Why doesn't it give xir strength?

Ocato greets the crowd and launches into a speech – honour, courage, sacrifice. He weeps for the people of Kvatch, praises the Blades and the Legions at Bruma, and lauds Martin's name.

Rowan doesn't want to be here, not really, in xir heart of hearts. Xe is resplendent in the armour – everyone has said so; xe is every inch the hero the people are expecting. But with the statue at xir back and three Akaviri katanas hanging fresh over the hearth of Cloud Ruler, Rowan feels like a fraud. The Dragon's gaze itches between xir shoulder blades; he gave xir an order, though, so xe will fulfil it the best xe can.

Ocato is now talking about Rowan, introducing xir to the crowd and running through a litany of xir accomplishments, the services xe has performed for the country – nay!, all of Tamriel. He announces, based on these accomplishments, his intent to induct xir into the Order of the Dragon. "-and if there are any who should find fault with this appointment, let them speak now, else leave their tongue silenced forever."

On the city walls, the rooks croak. A breeze springs up, gusting from behind as if the dragon has flapped its mighty wings. The braziers flame and growl in response. Rowan finds it amazing how so many people can be so resolutely silent. 

Ocato scans the faces in the crowd. "Very well then. Rowan?" Xe swallows. Xir neck twitches, as if xe would look at the Dragon for guidance. Instead, xe steps forward, and Ocato moves back.

Primate Tandilwe approaches carrying a ceramic saucer of red paint. "Hero, please kneel," she says. 

Rowan obeys, and Tandilwe begins a prayer as she daubes the paint in the shape of a diamond on Rowan's forehead, invoking the Eight and One with each stroke. Above, the clouds crack open, shafts of sunlight reaching down and playing along the stage. Tandilwe completes her prayer and steps back. A moth Prelate from the Imperial Library, clutching a large wooden box, is led forward by his aides. Rowan holds xirself stiffly, forcing xir breathing to be regular and untroubled.

"Fear not, Child of Prophecy," the Prelate says, his voice sing-songy, as his aides step away. "I have read your scroll. You are smiled upon." He raises his voice. "For each Event, a Hero; for each Hero, a Reward." The Prelate's hands shuffle around the box, sliding the lid open. He hums and out crawl two moths in shades of tawny brown, testing their wings. They flutter up, around the Prelate. One ventures out over the crowd, the other investigates the temple wall. The Prelate hums again, a different tone, and the moths flutter back, circling Rowan.

The Ancestor Moths settle on xir shoulders. A ray of sunlight bursts forth. Rowan is blinded. 

Xir vision fills with snippets: an imperial woman with the shadow of a crested mer; a redguard with a blank face and a noose around his neck; Baurus in the snow – Rowan screams, the heat of a Xivilai blade sliding through xir gut as Baurus falls; Martin's pale face, his fingers trailing in xir's. The golden dragon becomes one of brown and grey, titanic plates upon its back. His name wells in xir chest, channelled from the roots of the world, and Rowan screams it as xe should have done before.

The sunlight fades. Xe is panting, staring at the boards of the stage, supporting xirself with one arm, the other clamped across xir stomach. The moths alight from xir shoulders and return to the Prelate.

"For every Hero, an Event," he lilts. Rowan lifts xir head to look at him. He's smiling. "The moths like you." His voice grows. "Rise! Champion of Cyrodiil. Rise! Champion of the Dragon. Take your place in the entangled paths of fate and time." The moths crawl into their box, and the lid slides shut with a snap.

Rowan rises, wondering what would have happened if the moths did not like xir.

The plaza is quiet as xe makes xir way, shaking, to the edge of the stage. Rowan takes a moment to compose xirself, scanning the sea of people.

"My friends," xe says, hands spread, as if to encompass the whole of Cryodiil, "I thank you for this appointment. I thank you for the trust and faith you've shown me here today. And though it may have been my hand which has aided our late Emperor, thought it may have been his actions which cast Mehrunes Dagon for our lands – indeed, from the whole of Mundus, if I have understood even half his lessons on planar geometry – it has been you, my friends, who've made it possible. You who have tilled the fields and fed us, the smiths who've armed and armoured us, those who've clothed and supported us." Rowan pauses for breath, swallowing past the lump forming in xir throat. "The success at Bruma, the end of Dagon... None of this would have been possible without your support, and here, now, in this hour, I recognise that.

"Emperor Martin was a man of the people. He was raised by a farmer, grew to be a priest. He knew what it was to serve his community. Short through his reign was, he served you, his people, with aplomb and grace. He was benevolence made flesh, and I was proud to have known him. I am honoured to call him friend; privileged to have served him as my emperor. And I know, that were he with us today, he would agree with everything I've said about you all, here today." Xe raises a fist. "Hail, people of Cyrodiil!"

The crowd roars back in response. There is a collective pause, and they cry back to xir, many voices made one: "Hail, Champion! Hail Emperor Martin! Hail! Hail!"

Ocato is back at Rowan's side, lifting xir arm aloft in triumph. The crowd are cheering, calling xir name. The Dragon's gaze still itches between xir shoulders.

There's a party after, of course – Ocato was right when he said the people needed this. There is dancing in the street, musicians on every corner, ale and sweetcakes passed between neighbours and strangers alike.

As they process back to the Palace, Rowan is cheered and waved at, even propositioned. Jena walks by Briar's head, her hand on his bridle. As they wait for the gates between the Temple District and Green Emperor Way to open, she touches Rowan's leg. "Rowan, look." Rowan twists in the saddle to see where Jena is pointing, back towards the plaza and the delighted crowds. "Look at them. Look how happy they are." Rowan frowns. "Yes?" Jena looks up at xir, eyes shining, smile as blinding as the sun. "You did this. Ro', you made all this possible." The reins bite into Rowan's hands, the chill digging into xir chest. "Yes."

~~~

Another week passes. Rowan finds xir voice is needed less and less in the Council Chambers. Ocato has a handle on things again, and xir bolshy drive towards the betterment of the country is now a movement of its own.

Caroline stops by Rowan's room late one night. "Thought you could do with a nightcap," Caroline says, holding up a cerise bottle. Rowan reads the label and frowns at her. "Where did you get this?" "A friend in the University hooked me up," Caroline says, making herself comfortable on Rowan's sofa. "I don't need a sleeping tonic." "Do you not? It's three in the morning. I've just come off shift. What's your excuse?" Rowan pinches the bridge of xir nose. "Fighter's Guild paperwork. Oreyn sent everything he's been holding onto for the past few months while I've been busy. I thought I might catch the morning courier…" Xe throws up xir hands. Caroline shifts. "I've come at a bad time…?" Rowan shakes xir head. "The only way I'll make the morning courier now is if I stay up to meet it."

Xe closes the bureau, pulls a chair across and settles in front of Caroline. "What's bothering you?" Caroline laughs. "I can't drop by and see a friend?" "As you pointed out, it's three in the morning. Hardly 'dropping by' hours." "Ah, alright, fine. You're right." She hunches forward. "Rowan, you know we have the utmost respect for you. Your leadership dragged us out of a dark place after Grandmaster Jauffre passed. And again, after Captain Steffan and his Majesty. But it's been over a month now. The statue is just a statue. Some of the lads are wondering why we're still guarding it." Rowan has no good answer for that, beyond the knee-jerk need to see Martin protected. But Martin isn't there. Xe has yet to visit it for xirself, but the eminent minds have all told xir the same thing: the statue is just a statue. A line from a poem springs to mind: Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there, I do not sleep.

Rowan sighs. "People are still visiting?" "Yes. But we've had no trouble." "Very well. Reduce the watch over the next few weeks before stopping it. For surety's sake." Caroline nods. "Yes, zr."

Rowan settles back in xir chair, regarding Caroline for a moment. "How would you suggest the remaining Blades are deployed? They can't very well be allowed to just sit around." Caroline at least gives the pretence of considering the question. Still, the completeness of her answer belies the fact she's given it a lot of thought. "Some of the men have expressed a desire to stay in the City, either as master trainers to the Legion or bodyguards for the councillors. I am inclined to let them. There seems little point in letting their talents go to waste. That being said, I'd like to take the remainder back to Cloud Ruler. It is still an asset of the Empire, and it requires upkeep. There may yet come a day when it's needed again. "I have also considered its use as a staging ground for sending agents into Skyrim, Hammerfell, and High Rock." Caroline looks at her hands. "I suspect we will be heading into a period of unrest. Intelligence will be needed to keep us apprised of the situation in the other provinces. It would be wise to keep a place where our agents from those provinces can rest in safety before continuing their missions."

Rowan gives Caroline a level gaze as the latter raises her head. With a thoughtful hum, xe rises, crossing back to the bureau. Rowan's pen scritches as it passes over a fresh sheet of parchment. As the ink dries, xe heats a stick of wax and presses a seal into the corner of the document. "Caroline?" "Yes, zr?" Rowan gestures for her to stand, then hands her the sheet of parchment. "Congratulations, Grandmaster, on your promotion." "W-what?" Caroline reads the page she's been handed. "With this writ, I do declare Caroline to be placed in the esteemed position of Grandmaster of the Blades. Signed Rowan, Champion of Cyrodiil, on this day Turdas 27th Hearthfire, 4th Era 1." Caroline looks up with wild eyes. "Are you allowed to do this?" Rowan gives a laconic shrug. "If anyone argues it, send them to me." "No, but-" "Caroline," xir voice softens, "someone has to be in charge of the Blades, such as they remain. I stepped in after Jauffre only out of necessity. And now Steffan is gone too… You're the most senior Blade left, the only one who's stepped up to offer any kind of leadership. It can't be me. You know the procedures and contacts, you understand the job. You've already got your eye on the future. If you're worried about acceptance from higher up, I'll talk to Ocato. But I don't expect any resistance from him." Rowan rests xir hands on Caroline's shoulders, the picture of seriousness. "We can give you your own little ceremony, if you like." That draws a barking laugh out of the shocked Blade. "I think there might be some precedent there," Caroline says with a half grin. It fades as quickly as it comes, replaced with a sigh. "Rowan, are you really sure?" "Absolutely. I can't think of anyone better suited." Rowan pats her on the shoulder and steps away. "Go get some rest." Caroline raises a sardonic eyebrow, such a perfect replica of Jauffre that it makes Rowan's heart sting. "I think you'll find, Blade Sister, that as your superior, it should be I giving you that order. Your paperwork can wait. Get some sleep." Rowan blinks, then grins. "Yes, marm."

~~~

Rowan ends up taking the paperwork back to Chorrol xirself. Xe's not needed in the Imperial City any longer; Caroline has the Blades in order, Ocato has the Council firmly in hand, and Armand is keeping tabs on the City's underbelly.

Modryn has missed xir – Rowan can tell from the way he barks and threatens to demote xir from Guildmaster, claiming a sheep would do a better job. Xe laughs and hugs him in response.

Xe spends a week in Chorrol speaking to the practitioners and associates in both Guild Halls, ironing out procedures and setting the Fighter's Guild to rights.

From Chorrol, Rowan takes a tour of Cyrodiil's guild houses, partly to get xir Guilds in order, partly as an excuse to take the lay of the land.

It feels good to be back on the road again, despite the turn in the weather. Rowan has become accustomed to being on the move, and the past couple of months in the Imperial City has been the longest xe has been in one place since crossing the border. Now it is just xir and Briar, the pinching wind and the calling rooks, the smokey air and the sense of the world settling down for the Long Sleep. 

Cyrodiil, Rowan discovers, is quiet. 

Empty frames of Gates dot the countryside, a dark reminder but no longer a threat. There are the usual minor spats between neighbours. A few niggles with goblins and bandits. But nothing troubling. Nothing that would concern the Champion of Cyrodiil.

Xe winds up two months later in Bruma, eight tankards down at Olav's, feeling... Rowan isn't sure what xe's feeling, if xe's honest. Empty. Detached. The Oblivion Crisis is yesterday's news, its troubles already being swept away by the winds of time. The world is moving on.  He asked xir to take care of them, and xe did, but they're doing fine now. There seems no reason for xir not to retire.

Rowan pens a letter to Modryn and Raminus with xir findings and recommendations, letting them know xe'll stay in Bruma until spring.

Xe takes xirself up to Frostcrag Spire to practise xir alchemy, and everything is fine.

Until it's not.

[pearwaldorf]

10 lines tagging game

Thanks to @ripeteeth for the tag!

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway!

waiting to finally be caught (OFMD, Ed/Stede, nsfw)

As much as they all love the pirates' life (at least as it is on the Revenge), too much time in close quarters means civility becomes strained, no matter how hard they try to remain amiable. It’s been weeks out at sea, and when Stede announces they’re going to dock in Nassau for a bit, a weary cheer goes up from the crew. As they scatter to their various duties, he overhears snatches of conversation about the things they’re going to do when they reach land.

I took no time with the fall (Glass Onion, Blanc/Phillip)

It’s a really fucking boring party. Phillip is here purely for lack of anything better to do, including sitting on his couch and binging Parks and Recreation, which he’s done three times this year already.

don't look in the mirror, look into my eyes (Critical Role/TLoVM, Percy/OMC, Percy/Orthax, nsfw)

Percy sets down the hammer. The piece of metal he's been shaping is finally starting to look like what he wants. The voice in his head, Orthax, it calls itself, rumbles in what Percy thinks might be approval.

both have sharp teeth (IWTV AMC, Grace and Lestat)

Grace keeps an eye out for her brother, but he does not show up to the wake. It is not something she concerns herself with at the moment, given Mamá’s condition and fulfilling her role as dutiful sister and daughter. But when Louis does not show up for breakfast the next morning, it becomes more important.

our bodies fear that this war won't end (can't live without the ache) (Malevolent, Arthur/John, nsfw)

"Why do humans derive such pleasure from getting dirty?" Sometimes John will just blurt out questions, when there’s nothing to do but wait. Arthur finds it charming, although he'd never let John know. (They share so much—too much, sometimes; he clings to what he can keep private.)

take me to the limit, hold me down there (OFMD, Ed/Stede, nsfw)

Edward is gazing out one of the windows in the captain’s quarters when he hears the door unlock. He has the only key, and his heart jumps into his throat. Should he try and hide? Fight back? Certainly he was aware of the possibility of piracy when he booked this voyage, but they're so close to their destination he didn’t think it would actually happen.

until I saw you in my thunderstorm (Oxventure Blades in the Dark, Alice/Peter)

The last thing Alice remembers is standing at the desk. The new girl, Zara? Zillah? stood behind her, putting her arm around Alice's neck and tightened. Alice tried to resist, but she was extremely strong. Spots danced in front of her eyes until black overtook everything.

all the variations you could do with me (OFMD, Ed/Stede, nsfw)

Ed’s been a sailor long enough that he can tell when a squall’s coming, even without the accompanying ache in his knee. There’s something extremely strange about whatever’s gathering right now though: no clouds, just an ominous, low pressure that feels like it’s going to crush anybody still on deck when it arrives.

when the lights come on I'll be ready for this (Shang-Chi, Katy-centric)

Katy does what she can, in the aftermath of the battle. There’s so much else to sort through nobody asks her to go near the bodies, for which she is grateful. She’s not sure it’s her place anyways. The dead should be taken care of by the ones they loved, who loved them.

we've not yet lost all our graces (Good Omens/Hannibal, Aziraphale, Will)

There is a quiet about the morning in Florence right after dawn, one Will relishes greatly on his walks. It’s a good sort, created from the natural cessation of activity required by humanity, as opposed to the kind encountered around the grave.

He gathers and collects it obsessively like it’s become his, proprietary through the repeated action of observing its existence. It’s not that he’s unwilling to share it with others; but he has come to know the other people who do. There is an irrational, strange jealousy of people he doesn’t know partaking in it, like they somehow need his approval to enjoy the ambiance of a city that hasn’t quite woken up.

Please feel free to do this if you are so moved.

[cursivebloodlines]

"It is the way to put it," Lydia said in protest, unable to help the amusement in her voice as she clapped her hands together once. She was just poking fun at him, after all, there was no shame in it - it was a very common thing for people to be afraid of. Being near dead bodies; or death, in general. "How can they be picky with their company, though? They're dead. It's not as though they have the luxury of choice..." She trailed off, humming thoughtfully. "They have whatever they're offered. Not that they would know anyway unless you believe the life after death kind of stuff." Lydia definitely did not. Really, she thought people held on to that belief to comfort themselves when losing loved ones. She definitely used to cling to that thought when she lost her mother years ago. But now? Being surrounded by death on an almost daily basis hardened her to the notion - all that remained was the shell of a person that once was. It didn't stop her from treating them with dignity. After all, they were someone's relative once upon a time. Someone's loved one. And usually when these people came to her, something truly horrible had happened to them and it was her job to determine the cause(s).

"Focusing on the most important parts, I see," Lydia commented in jest regarding the retort about his face, her expression turned into a slight flicker of confusion at the rest of it. "Why? Would you like to get in the middle and become part of a Lydia/Aaron/Maggie sandwich? Not sure how to feel about that -" Or separate them, or place his bets (the possibilities were endless) - but that sounded like the funnier option, just to see how he'd react. If he wanted to place his bets, however, he ought to be placing his bet on her. In a theoretical fight...real mature. Of course. "You love working hard. But good question. I'd hate to say you'd have to return to normal civilization and resume your human duties." Lydia liked Aaron because he could keep up with her. She was a lot to deal with and to be fair to others, she could give looks that would have others running in the other direction - some were scared of her because of her stubbornness and argumentative nature, and a bit too outspoken for her own good. For the most part, she meant well - just easily misunderstood. But he seemed to understand her. Most of the time, anyway. She couldn't help the little smile she reserved for herself when he said she'd never bore him. It was easily done with others and generally speaking, she didn't care if she had bored them but...it was nice. Knowing that she didn't and couldn't bore him. Comforting, if you will.

About to basically repeat what she said before - 'so basically, I look like shit' were the words she was about to say - but Aaron puzzled her. So, she looked a tiny bit rough but she looked fine and/or great? Lydia's brows rose and she leaned against her desk. Her arms folded across her chest, head cocked a fraction, she asked: "Well, which one is it? Either I look like shit - oops, I mean 'a tiny bit rough' - or I look fine... which if I'm being honest Aaron... didn't sound all that convincing..." She wasn't mad by all means, just a bit on the confused side... but she still thought it was funny. Not that she'd tell him that - she'd make him wait. A hint of a smile traced her lips, however. "Okay, that's fine. So, are we going out now still then or not? Because I am a bit confused as to where we are going with this?" No harm in seeking clarification.

"Scared is one way to put it," he said, almost defensively. Admitting fear was not in his way of life. Aaron quickly learned that giving his fear any attention didn't mesh with his job. Ignoring it was easier. Lydia probably knew that though. "They're probably picky with their company though, I don't think they'd love me all that much." Yup, that was reasonable. "I'll give you that though, the living can be a lot scarier." Now, he was definitely thankful that she was not in the morgue when he came looking. Aaron almost rolled his eyes, but thinking back to it - it was not his best comment. "At least you think I have a pretty face, but you're right. You gotta fight your own battles. If you ever do fight Maggie in the parking lot, let me know so I can run over here." Aaron figured there was a 50/50 chance of that happening. Lydia was his personal kind of pickles. Love them or hate them, no in between. Lucky for him, he was a fan of them. It did make him wonder, just how many people in her workplace felt similar to Maggie? A shake of his head, chuckling at her comment. "I have to work hard, what if I lose my job as the alarm clock? What would I do then?" Aaron leaned against the wall, knowing that this would take a few minutes. Give her enough time to tidy her space. "You could never bore me," he quickly confirmed. He couldn't have her thinking that. His hands shot up defensively, no way he would admit to saying she looked like shit. "It was code for...you need to take a break. And maybe you look just a tiny bit rough." Note how he avoided agreeing with her words. "No no, you don't have to! You look fine, I mean you look great! It's alright, I mean I'm not dressed up either. Tell you what, we'll schedule another dinner date and we both dress a little nicer?"

[after-witch]

Absence is a House So Vast [Yandere Soldier Boy x Reader]

Title: Absence is a House So Vast [Yandere Soldier Boy x Reader]

Synopsis: You're assigned to guard Soldier Boy at a secluded house. The assignment turns into something much more.

Word Count: 3651

Notes: Yandere/yandere behavior, abusive relationship, physical and emotional abuse, misogyny

Soldier Boy was dead. That was the official line that Vought, the media--and most importantly of all, the government--was sticking to; and it was the line you were sworn to uphold, even under pain of torture and imminent death. 

But he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even asleep, anymore; or whatever counted as “asleep” in the semi-frozen state they’d put him in after the incident at Vought Tower. No, he was alive and as well as could be. If “being kept in an isolated cabin away from civilization, implanted with exploding trackers in case he tried something, and kept company by a rotating team of agents” could be considered well, anyway. 

Being part of the rotating live-in guard watching over the defrosted Soldier Boy wasn’t exactly the type of job you thought you’d be assigned, especially given your light track record with the Secret Service. You were meant for reconnaissance, light missions, in-and-out actions that kept you moving.

This mission was static. One place, the same length of time, and the same essential experience: Soldier Boy wanting to know if you’d brought him his snacks (you had); Soldier Boy staring at the TV for hours, or attempting to use the kid-protected tablet the agency gave him for entertainment; Soldier Boy getting bored, demanding to be let go, and you reminding him of the deal he made with the government in exchange for being taken out of stasis.

He remains here, incognito, away from everyone else--and in return, if the government ever needs him to quash a Supe in the name of American safety, he’ll step up to the plate. You weren’t there to see his expression when they told him “It’s the least you can do to serve your country.” But based on the months of interactions you’ve had with him, you imagine that expression was somewhere between indignity, prideful acceptance, and are-you-fucking-kidding-me-with-this-shit.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Soldier Boy, it’s that he still clings to that past as an American Hero. Like a security blanket. You’re not sure how much of it he actually believes. You were briefed on his real actions--some legit, many of it staged--and you think it helped you gain a deeper understanding into his worldview. 

He’s not a nice person, exactly. He’s killed people. But there were worse Supes to be stuck in a cabin with for 2 weeks on end, weren’t there? And you know that a lot of what is being put out on the TV is bullshit, Homelander-approved Vought propaganda designed to inflame the masses. 

So you pick and choose what you believe and after a few weeks, you don’t give him the cold shoulder, like the others say they do. You talk to him. Why not? He’s not going anywhere, you’re not going anywhere. It would be inhumane to keep him socially isolated. And you’re not inhumane.

He even has--you would never admit this to anyone else--something charming about him. You can see why he had so many women falling at his feet back in his multi-generational heyday, though you’re sometimes reminded of when those generations fell when he makes low-voiced, teasing comments about you cooking his food or cleaning up after him. 

Today, you’re not thinking about any of that. Today, you’re actually not thinking about Soldier Boy much at all. That’s because a new book in your favorite series came out, and you’re currently curled up on the lounge chair in the living room, lost in the pages while some inane game show Soldier Boy turned on drones in the background.

“You gonna answer me, sweetheart?”

His voice finally pierces through your book-induced haze, and you blink slowly, pulling yourself out of an engrossing story to find him staring at you from the other side of the room.

“Sorry,” you say, reflectively. “What did you say?”

He regards you with something of a half-smirk, and you can’t deny that understanding of what made him so appealing at the sight. He’s really damn handsome.

“I said, what’s a pretty gal like you doing with her nose in a book all day?”

It’s cheesy. It sounds like something from an older Hollywood movie. But it makes your cheeks heat up to be called pretty, anyway. 

“I like books,” is all you come up with, holding the cover almost protectively. 

“Yeah?” He seems interested, almost. “So what’re you reading?”

You hold up the cover. It’s a fantasy series. 

“Why don’t you read it to me?”

You search his face for signs of teasing, but find none.

“Why?” You ask. 

He shrugs and crosses the room, plopping himself down on the couch closest to your chair.

He gestures towards the TV. “Why? Because I’m bored and I like the sound of your voice, and there’s only so much of this shit I can watch every day. TV used to be a hell of a lot better, I’ll tell you that.” He pauses. “Pardon my French.” 

You shouldn’t. You were briefed on how to avoid getting too close with the subject under you care. That’s one of the reasons why everyone was rotated out every 2 weeks.

But… he does look bored. And he asked politely. What’s the harm in it? 

You open to the page you just finished and begin to read as he leans back on the sofa, kicking up his feet.

**

Your first kiss with Soldier Boy is a mixture of sweat and heat and shame and fear; fear that he’s doing for ulterior motives, fear that the agency will find out and you’ll be fired---or worse; and fear that you’re just a fling, just something he’s doing because he’s bored. Like flipping through TV channels. Like listening to you read a book.

When you pull away, his mouth is still close, his scent--some generic aftershave the agency picked up--overwhelmingly intimate. You stare at his lips to avoid looking him in the eye.

“Soldier Boy…” you begin. “This isn’t…”

“Ben,” he says. “Call me Ben.” 

You look up at him. His gaze has softened from its earlier hunger, and there’s something gentler and anxious in them. Something that makes you think about how he sometimes cries out at night (he denies it; you stopped bringing it up); about him bitterly telling you about the Crimson Countess, about his disappointment in the fact that his only son was a shitbird like Homelander. 

Something that makes you forget about your fears about your job and his motivations entirely.

“Ben,” you whisper. 

His name is sweet on your lips, and your first kiss with Soldier boy is not your last.

**

The relationship has to come to light eventually. All things do. You sit in your superior’s climate controlled office, your hands tucked under your thighs, like a nervous child brought to the principal’s office. There’s a solid pit in your stomach that has only grown since you received the phone call to report in. 

You could be fired. You could be arrested. Those are the good options, truth be told.

But instead of reprimanding you, they tell you that your intimacy with Soldier Boy is actually an asset for the agency. He’ll be easier to control, if he’s connected to someone. They’re going to pull the other guards now, and it’ll just be you. Your apartment is already being packed up. 

You swallow thickly and thank them for their decision. The pit in your stomach doesn’t go away when you get back to the cabin, where Ben is waiting, pacing around the living room, a beer in one hand. 

He looks up when you enter and scans you over with his gaze. Checking for bruises, maybe; he’d prepped you on what to do if they started interrogating you, and you reminded him that you were a trained agent, after all. But you tell him that they didn’t hurt you. They’re letting you stay, in fact. Your stuff is coming soon.

His smile is full of disbelief and relief, and he pulls you into a jovial hug and spins you around in a silly motion, making you feel giddy and ridiculous. And that pit in your stomach finally dissolves away, leaving you light and breathless in his arms. 

**

It’s not a great day.

He’s irritated. It happens, you remind yourself. He’s cooped up here in this modest cabin, unable to interact with anyone but you. There’s only so much entertainment to be had, especially when he’s never gotten the hang of the newer technology installed here, and even when he does, it usually leads to him getting aggravated about something in the news. Reversals in politics. Articles about toxic masculinity. He has no shortage of barbed words “for that dumb shit,” and it’s almost better when he’d rather do something that doesn’t involve his minor connections to the outside world.

Still. He’s bound to get irritated. You know this. It’s understandable, it’s okay, he’ll tire himself out.

That’s what you tell yourself as he paces around the living room, a light scowl on his face. 

“Hey, what’s the matter?” You ask, trying to keep your tone soft and amiable. 

He stops in his pacing and you can see his face scrunch in annoyance.

“It’s that fucking pill thing they gave me. It’s not working right.”

Your brows furrow in confusion.

“Pill? What pill did they give you?” If they’re drugging him, it’s news to you. Well. Aside from the bennies that they supply him now and then for good behavior. 

“The--you know.” He gestures broadly to the coffee table, where the solidly built children’s tablet is sitting. “The fucking pill… tablet thing.”

“Oh,” you say, and you can’t help your smile at his mix-up or the teasing tone in your response. 

But it was the wrong thing to do today, when he’s so wound up, so agitated. You recognize that in a flash when you see his nostrils flare as he huffs a hard breath out his nose, just before he yanks the tablet up from the coffee table and chucks it at the wall.

You hear the glass screen crack, splintering--so does the drywall.

“Fuck,” he says, sitting himself down on the couch. He runs his hands through his hair. “Sorry. Got a little too pissed there.” 

Your heart is pounding in your chest, rabbit-like. He’s never gotten aggressive in front of you like this before. Maybe a little too heated when he’s ranting about all the restrictions or annoyed with changes in the world, but…

You glance at the gaping hole in the wall and make a mental note to call someone to get it fixed. 

“It’s… okay,” you say, voice placating. It’s not okay, and you know that. But you can’t blame him, exactly, for getting agitated. You shouldn’t have made fun of him, you reason to yourself. You know better than that.

**

“I’m just going to run a few errands. I’ll be back in a few hours at most.” 

He can’t go into town. He can’t go into town and he hates it. He doesn’t hate you. No. But he hates his situation. You can’t blame him, but that doesn’t change the fact that you need to get groceries, you need to get supplies and--truthfully? You need a break from his constant presence, always demanding attention from you. Affection and otherwise.

“No, you’re not,” he says, and his voice has taken on such a matter-of-fact tone that it takes you aback for a moment. “I don’t want you going today. You can scrape together dinner with what we have in the kitchen.”

You press your lips together.

“Ben. Seriously. It’s not a big deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal!” 

You don’t expect the outburst and you flinch back, just a little. The drywall is patched up, but you’ll always notice where the hole was. Your mind flashes back to that, yes, and other incidents as well. The way he got annoyed when you brought up an old boyfriend, but he was allowed to bring up his past lovers all he wanted. The way he hated it when you played on your phone, or if the shows he watched used too much modern technology. Most of the time, you watched reruns of shows he liked before he was taken or movies set in those eras--he likes to point out the inaccuracies. 

He steps closer to you. Your hand is on the doorknob, the other at your waist, resting loosely on your post.

“You are not leaving me today.”

You smile, and try to make it warm.

“I’m just going to get groceries,” you say, softly. “C’mon. I’ll bring back takeout. What do you want?”

You don’t expect it when he grabs your upper arm, gripping with enough force for soreness to radiate immediately. You don’t expect it, and you don’t know how to respond, other than the instinctive way your body jerks and your mouth inhales a short gasping breath.

“I want you to stay home today.” 

“Let go.” Your voice wavers. But you remember who you are, and your training. You’re not some helpless lamb, are you? You tilt your chin up and say with more confidence: “I’m going to run errands today, and that’s final. Let go.”  

He regards you for a moment. And you think he might do what he’s done before, when he goes too far. You think he’ll let go and apologize and make it up to you by being extra sweet the rest of the day.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, you’re slammed against the side of the wall, breath knocked out of you.

His finger is in your face and he talks down to you, keeping you in place with a tight grip that makes you remember in a single gesture who he is, what he is, what he can do. 

“I. said. no.” 

He holds you there for a few more moments. Until your body is shaking from the shock and you’re looking submissively down at the floor, your courage stuck in your shoes. 

“You gonna listen?” He says. 

You nod, feeling numb.

He lets go.

You wipe your nose and keep your arms clutched tight around you as he puts his arm around your shoulder, anger drained from his body, acting like he didn’t just slam  you into the wall. 

“C’mon, sweetheart, I bet you can whip up a great dinner with what we have. You can go… Goggle it or whatever the hell it’s called.” 

You nod, feeling the phantom pain of his grip on your arm.

**

He’s been through a lot. That’s what you tell yourself for a few weeks afterward. He’s been through torture. Real torture, torture that should have killed him a thousand times over. He never told you all the gritty details--”That’s not stuff for a lady to hear,” he said, when you got bold enough to ask--but you’d read about it from the agency’s files. 

So when he tells you to stop talking about guys’ you’ve been with in the past, because he doesn’t want to even think about you being with anyone but him, you do. 

When he gets rough and tells you to stay in every time you run to do errands or God forbid, enjoy a day outside the cabin, you start to go out less and less.  You have the agency delivery groceries and supplies instead. You watch movies with him, and not at the theater. It makes him happier to have you here, and when he’s happier, he’s less prone to pushing you around. 

Sometimes he holds you and you think he might cry, but he never does. It’s unmanly in his eyes, probably. He has a lot of hang-ups about stuff like that. It’s the moments when you’re holding him that it’s easiest to remind yourself that there’s a reason he acts the way he does, and you should be patient. 

That’s what you tell yourself for a while. 

And then he slaps you across the face, hard enough to send your head smacking into the wall. Your jaw aches for two days. 

And you stop telling yourself all those things. 

You tell yourself, instead, that you want to leave.

**

“You’re not leaving.”

You have a large purse in your hand--just the essentials and the sentimental things that fit inside. Your plan was to head into town under the guise of running errands, call the agency, explain the situation, and get the hell out.

The plan didn’t get as far as the front door. 

He knew.  You don’t know how, but as soon as you announced you were running to town to grab some steaks for dinner while they were on sale, he just knew.

So you admitted it, because you weren’t dumb enough to lie to his face when he’d figured you out. 

“Ben,” you say, because you don’t want to hate him, and you don’t want him angry. You just don’t want to be hurt anymore, either. “I’m sorry. I--this just isn’t healthy for either of us.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that psycho-babble bullshit. It’s not me, it’s you,” he mocks. “I’m not stupid. You think I’m stupid?”

You meet his gaze. 

“No, I don’t think you’re stupid.”

He makes a grab for your purse, and you let him, because you don’t want to start a fight.

“Then why the fuck did you think I’d believe that you were running to get some steaks with a purse stuffed with all this?” He opens it up and begins pulling out everything you’d carefully tucked inside. A change of clothes, your phone--it falls on the floor with an unceremonious thump, thankfully protected by your case--and some trinkets and a necklace that belonged to your mother.

“Ben,” you say again, trying to keep him calm, ignoring the own stressful beat of your heart. “I just didn’t want to start a fight, okay?” 

“What?” He raises his eyebrows, looking defiant, targeted. “You think I’m a psychopath? You think I’m gonna--what, hit you? Kill you?”

Your expression must shift when he mentions hitting you--but you have hit me, your face says--and he shakes his head. There’s an almost pleading look on his face and you hate it.

“C’mon. It was one time. One time. And I apologized after.” It wasn’t just one time, and he didn’t always apologize, but you don’t correct him. “But I warned you. You got too sass-mouthed, okay? I don’t know why women today think they can just--”

Something in you bursts and you clench your fists tight as you snatch your emptied purse from his hands. The patience and care has fallen from you, replaced by a hot ball in your stomach, something built over the past few weeks every time he yelled and gripped and hurt. 

“This isn’t the fucking 1940s or the 1950s or the 1960s or--whatever the fuck decade made you think you have a right to boss me around. I’m not going to stay here and be treated like this. You can complain about it if you want, have a tantrum, I don’t care. But I’m leaving.” 

“The hell you are!” 

He grabs your upper arm and squeezes, and this is where you would normally cave in, but you can’t. Not today. Not if you want to really leave. So you grit your teeth and keep his gaze, defiant on the surface and terrified underneath. 

“You’re not leaving me,” he says, almost a murmur, as he releases your arm.

He keeps on talking as you crouch down on the floor and begin to replace all the items he pulled from your empty purse.

“Everyone else left me. I fought with those guys, fucking tried to take them under my wing, fucking loved them.” There’s a pause. “Well, some of them. And you know what I got for it?” You don’t answer, because you just want to get packed and get out. “Years of torture is what I got. And now, when I’ve found someone that I care about, that I want to stay with me, you’re just going to leave?”

You want to dissect the disbelief in his voice, the hurt and anger and entitlement all wrapped into one horribly complex package. But then you look up, muscles tense and chest tight, and your body flinches in horror. You see it--a sight you’ve only seen one other time, surprisingly early in your relationship, and which you managed to soothe. It made you prideful at the time. 

The sight is an unmistakable warm, golden, deadly glow in his chest. His breath coming in deep, painful bursts. His face scrunched in pain and anger, torture in his eyes. His voice comes out ragged and pained and terrifying. 

“You’re. Not. Leaving.” 

He’s going to explode.

In an instant, you drop your purse, contents forgotten. Your arms wrap around him and you pet his back, his cheeks, pressing kisses feather-light to his skin.

“Hey, hey, hey,” you say, soothing, stroking his shoulders, trying to get him calm. “It’s okay, you’re okay…” You take his face in your hands and make him look at you, talking like you would to a feral animal, voice soft and comfortable. “I’m here, Ben. Look at me, Ben.” 

It takes a while, but the glow eventually fades, sapping out of him like thick water.

He collapses on the ground and you go with him, holding him still. His arms cling around you, tight and unforgiving, but not in anger this time. 

“You can’t leave,” he says, voice muffled into your shoulder. You can’t tell if he’s commanding or asking or pleading, and you’re not sure you want to know.

Instead you think, right now, if he would let himself, he might cry into your shoulders. 

“I won’t,” you whisper, and your plans drop at the doorway as they’ve done every time. “I promise.” 

Maybe if he cried, it would be easier to pretend that this is okay. 

[smallestapplin]

Ok I'm a sucker for Ingo and Emmett being protective boyfriends who save the day. Can we have the reader get jumped or get into danger, and their boyfriend comes to save the day? I know it's cliche, but I'm a sucker for drama sometimes XD

We are in the home stretch! 10 more to go after this one!

-

-

🔲Ingo🔲

- Ingo is a gentle man. To him violence is the absolute last option, he doesn’t want to use it if he can help it.

- He is a peacemaker, he keeps things calm and civil. His customer service is always on point if it gets bad.

- That and he fully trusts in your abilities.

- But even he is aware situations vary and even the smallest difference could mean you either fight, freeze, or run.

- And Ingo doesn’t appreciate anyone threatening his partner.

Seeing you being cornered and threatened is not something Ingo was not happy seeing just now getting off work.

“I must ask you to step away from them.” His voice and authoritative.

He tries to keep things calm while remaining in control, it’s not until the person grabs you does he see red.

His body moves before he can think. The only thing bringing him back to reality was the feeling of bone against his fist.

The person goes crashing to the ground and scrambles back.

No one every thought Subway Boss Ingo would ever hit another person, but there is a first for everything.

Ingo’s expression is twisted in rage, obviously ready to do more but the person seems smart enough to run away.

The second they are gone he turns to you, worry bleeding through his usually stoic face.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

When you say your fine he nods, and just holds you close for a minute.

“I’m sorry you had to see that my dear, and I’m sorry you had to go through that.” He is hopeful he can help calm you down from such a brute.

“Come now, we are getting you home and rested.”

He keeps himself close to you and vigilant. Not willing to let anything else happen to you.

- you take a shower/bath while he prepares some snacks and drinks for you and turning the tv on y’all’s bedroom to your favorite show.

- Once you’re out and dried he curls around you, keeping you as close as possible.

- The rest of the night is filled with his gentle touches and soft reassurance that he is here and you are safe.

🔳Emmet🔳

- you would think him bordering feral people would learn.

- But Emmet is not afraid.

- Firstly he loves you.

- Secondly while he is confident in your relationship and himself, he still can’t help but feel protective over you.

- You’re his sweet loving darling! He knows you’re great! But he doesn’t like how someone see your greatness and feel entitled.

- And like a ferocious guard dog he will be there.

You two were at a casual meet up with gym leaders and their trainers. He has only left thou alone for five minutes to use the bathroom, seeing as he wanted to before you guys left.

Coming back to see someone laying it on heavily. You look so uncomfortable and nervous, you keep trying to move away, you’re obviously saying no, but this person won’t let up.

Emmet was already marching over when they grabbed your arms trying to pull you close.

You didn’t even see Emmet coming, you saw his fist first, a loud crack echoing in a now dead quiet room.

With what the person had to drink and a sudden punch they hit the ground unmoving.

Emmet simply shakes his hand a bit to get rid of some blood that got on it before turning to you.

“Oh my darling, are you okay?” He is clinging to you, checking you over and whines a little when you flinch.

He isn’t mad or upset, at least not at you.

“Come now, we are leaving, they can deal with the trash themselves.” He huffs, locking your arm with his you two leave.

The entire way home is filled with him cooing at you and trying to sooth your frazzled nerves.

- he practically swaddles you and clings to your cocooned form all night.

- Kisses are placed all over your face and his love and care for you are spoken so softly.

- Probably stays up long after you’ve fallen asleep.

- He just wants to make sure you’re safe and comfortable.

- The next day he probably has a reporter or two asking about what happened and he simply states.

- “I love my darling. If their safety is threatened then I eliminate the threat. Safety checks everyone!”

- His grin held nothing but promises.

[evolutionsvoid]

"My fellow colleagues, I am proud to stand before you today. It is truly an honor to be in the presence of so many great minds, and I am quite excited to share with you all what I have discovered. Today is truly a momentous day, and I am thankful that I can share it with all of you. Now I imagine there are a few who have wondered why I have called you all together, on why I have gathered you all here today. I know there has been much secrecy on what this is all about, and for that I apologize. I don't enjoy keeping others in the dark, but it was necessary for what I am about to reveal here. I couldn't afford the chance that information would leak before I was ready, so I had to keep things rather quiet. But I believe that you will all understand once I show you, and that you will see that this secrecy was required."   "For both the professional and the public, when it comes to natural history, there is an undeniable obsession with the megafauna of old. The idea of giant prehistoric beasts has captivated us all since the dawn of civilization, and that interest still holds strong today. Where we once immortalized them in myth, we now do so in our own modern way, like in movies and books. The other way we keep these ancient titans around is our endless study of them, and our pursuit to understand the world that existed before we came to be. Our obsession with megafauna is easy to see, from our museums filled with their towering remains, to efforts in cloning and genetics to bring back the beasts of old. There is something that lights up within us whenever we hear their names, a childish wonder when we think of the creatures that once walked these lands. It is not just dinosaurs, but prehistoric beasts like the woolly rhinoceros, the saber-toothed tiger and even the giant ground sloth. Tales of giant and wondrous creatures have captivated us, and it is why we have spent so much time and effort to better understand them and remember them. I truly feel that these efforts hold a bit of mourning, a sadness that such great creatures are not around today. Some fell naturally in an ever-changing world, while others have been found to be cut down by our own hand. There is no doubt that we feel for their loss, and that is why we work so hard to learn about them. It is the least we can do for these long dead creatures, beasts that no longer walk these lands. At least, that is what we once believed. I know I certainly did, until a few months ago..."

"Ladies and gentlemen, the reason I have come before you today is because I have found that not all these beasts have truly vanished. That there are still ancient remnants that cling on despite millions of years. No doubt there is some confusion and questions, but I assure you that you are hearing me right. I have indeed found a living fossil, a species of megafauna that has survived to this very day! A creature that came before us, and still continues to exist with us, but in secret! I think you now understand why I kept this all under wraps, and why I am so excited to have you all here today. My years of study have created theories of surviving prehistoric creatures, but never before was there any proof. It was wonderings within my mind, ideas that sounded plausible but yet never turned up anything real. I refused to give up, though, and that is what led me on this fateful path. It was my desire to see my dreams reality that I finally found my beast of legend, my living fossil from before man! I couldn't believe it when I first saw it, I had to think I was dreaming! It was so hidden, but yet so obvious! It was like checking behind your wood shed to find a living breathing woolly mammoth! I knew that no one would believe me if I only returned with words, so I went through the trouble to catch it! On my own, of course, so that I could keep this groundbreaking discovery a secret. Though it took days, I at last captured the beast and brought here today so that you may all see! Yes, behind this curtain sits the very beast! The living fossil itself, here so that you can all witness my discovery! Fear not, it is sufficiently restrained and contained, it will bring you no harm. The only danger is to those with weak hearts, as it is truly a shocking sight to behold! A thick hairy coat, found upon beasts from the ice age! Teeth like sabers, large enough to impale its prey! And its size! Ladies and gentlemen, I use no hyperbole here when I say that it blows all of its relatives out of the water when its comes to sheer size. It truly is a massive creature, dwarfing all those in its lineage. Like the giant ground sloth that towers over its arboreal descendants! It is a beast to behold, and you shall all see it now!"

"My fellow colleagues, it is my honor to at last reveal to you my groundbreaking discovery! A GIANT! SABER-TOOTHED! WOOLLY! SPIDER! I call it: THE TARANTULA!"

"Truly a magnificent sight, isn't it! I assure you that it will not escape its tank, I have followed every precaution! Now if you will all stay in your seats and remain calm. I understand it is quite the exciting mome- now hold on a second, everyone calm down! There will be time for questions, but you all need to settle down. I cannot hear your inquiries through all this commotion! Now just a moment! A fraud? Now hold a second! I know this is all very shocking and hard to believe, but the proof is right here! If everyone just settles down, you can have a chance to get a closer look! Sir, that was not a question and I will not entertain such language here! Everyone! Everyone! Please, you will agitate it! This is a beast from before time, it is not used to- now that is uncalled for, good sir! How dare you bring such doubts to my moment of discovery! I brought you all here for this momentous occasion, and your behavior is quite juvenile! I knew there would be critics of my findings, but I figured my fellow colleagues would be more understanding! You're the crazy one! Not me! I have the proof right here, it is you that is blinded by the old ways! Detractors! Doubters! Fools trapped in the old ways of thinking! You are too consumed with ancient beliefs to accept the new truth! You call yourself people of science, but you are just the dusty naysayers who doubted the likes of Galile- HEY! GET BACK! Even now you seek to smother the truth with your mindless goons! THIS IS UNCALLED FOR! UNHAND ME! Do you seek to destroy my findings, to- LET GO OF ME! To preserve your ancient, failed ways?! I SAID LET GO OF ME! Or are you trying to steal my- LET GO! My work for yourselves?! GET OFF OF ME! I WILL NOT BE SILENCED! YOU CANNOT BURY MY GENIUS! LET GO, YOU FOOLS! YOU CANNOT KEEP THE MASSES IGNORANT FOREVER! IT'S REAL, I TELL YOU! REAL! THE TARANTULA EXISTS! THE PAST EXISTS! THE ANSWER HAS BEEN IN FRONT OF US THE WHOLE TIME! UNHAND ME! I'M A GENIUS!"     -------------------------------------------------------------

“Giant, Saber-Toothed, Woolly Spider”

Truly a prehistoric creature. What other wonders does the tarantula hold? Is this a joke? Does this work? Not really sure, but I thought it was an amusing idea.

[hughiecampbelle]

Imagine Ikaris checking up on you:

"What are you doing here?"

"Just. . . . came to visit London." He tried to sound cool, calm, but there was no hiding the guilt. Last you saw of him, you'd only been married a few months. You were happy. You thought he was too. But he took off, disappeared without saying goodbye. You were naive in the beginning, clinging to the idea that he'd fame back, that he still loved you. Years you wouldn't see him. You didn't know if he was dead or alive. You learned to move on, to mend your broken heart and live your life for you, not him. The ring on your finger went missing a long time ago. You were just starting to date again, to explore your options, and here he is, walking back into your life like anything happened, like everything was fine.

"I told you I wanted nothing to do with you." He tried to reach out, to grab you, but he knew better. You had every right to be mad. To be hurt. To be angry. But bigger things were going on right now. You had to put aside your emotions and deal with this head on. After, you never had to see him again. He'd never attempt to contact you, he'd stay as far away, if that's what yoy wanted. Things were happening that were completely out of your control, out of everyone's control. You could give him the silent treatment or make him pay for what he's done, but it had to be after you saved the world. Until then, you'd have to remain civil.

"I needed to know you were okay."

[tales-unique]

FAULTS OF THE HEART

Chapter 1

The woods were always a sacred place for you. When you entered their depths you felt a sense of serenity and safety that had no comparison in the civilized world. The sounds of the wind rustling through the leaves, flowing streams, and the sounds of the birds and the rabbits and the deer — all the sounds of Life. So, it felt only natural for you to go to them when running for your life. Even under the light of the full moon, dappled on the ground through dense tree cover, you knew how to navigate the trails in the undergrowth. “She’s heading into the trees!” The call echoes and forces you to push harder, to run faster, so you might live to see the sun rise.

Neither you or the others in your small village knew of the now occupied reach and how the surrounding lands had been claimed until it was too late. They waited until someone unwittingly stumbled onto the land so they could make an example of them in a show of power. He called himself The Baron. He was an asshole. In taking what had been free land for himself he had doomed your village to a slow, painful death of starvation unless they bowed to his will. There was no other alternative for the village, lest they lose everything. It was his brutish thugs that pursued you, all because you strayed too far trying to feed the people you cared for. “I can’t see her! Where’d she go?” “I don’t know! Just keep looking!” You stop, sliding down an embankment to seek cover.  Hunkering down further as you hear your pursuers coming ever closer, you force yourself tighter between the gnarled roots of an ancient tree. Mud and mulch cling to your cloak and soak your back and legs but you know that if you move now you will die. Holding your breath you freeze as one of the men stalks by where you’re hiding, narrowly missing your head when he strays too close to the edge. It feels like hours, lying there in the cold, wet earth, before you hear their voices and their steps recede until there’s only the sounds of the forest left. Even then you wait a moment longer before slowly rising to your feet, brushing yourself down with shaking hands. The Baron won’t stop pursuing you if he knows you’re nearby, so it’s with a heavy heart that you know you can’t return to the village. Your possessions, though meager and few, are lost to you. Your small home left to fall into ruin. The friends you had made will become distant memories. Bitterness settles deep within your stomach and you weep, out of anger, out of sadness, that one mistake was your undoing. It’s difficult to stop the torrent once it’s unleashed, but you know you can’t linger any longer. You should already be running far away from this place. Sniffling, you wipe frantically at your eyes and nose on tattered sleeves, continuing your escape.

The soft, building light of the rising dawn brings with it a sense of melancholic relief. You wander wearily through the trees, their figures no longer familiar now that you’re so far from home, the waking songs of birds sounding triumphantly in the air. They have survived the night, and so have you. Almost. The sharp, searing pain that erupts abruptly in your left shoulder blindsides you and you stop, the world suddenly going still. For the longest moment you forget how to breathe and your mind goes blank. A choked gasp escapes you as all at once the harsh reality of what has happened comes crashing over you like a tidal wave. At first you can’t tell exactly what is lodged in your flesh, your mind a garble rush of adrenaline, only that the pain is pointed in a single location. An apprehensive glance to your shoulder sends a chill down your spine. With a whimper you reach up with your uninjured arm to feel the sharp iron tip poking through ripped flesh, warm, fresh blood coating your fingertips, then behind to gingerly finger a long, slender body of wood. An arrow, lodged so deep in your flesh it came out the other side. Your nose crinkles as the metallic tinge in the air finally hits you, gagging from the rush of dizzying sickness that sends your stomach into freefall. Pain radiates from it, rippling outwards, rending your arm useless. The shrieks of panicked birds in the canopy overhead snaps your attention to the archer hiding among the trees, the rushing footfalls thudding against the ground betraying their path; one small mercy. You force yourself to move, crying out with the effort as you hold your arm still with a firm grip. It’s the only way to limit the damage the arrow can cause while moving, but it does nothing to stop the excruciating pain it leaves in its wake. Blood leaks between your fingers but you don’t stop, can’t stop, or else you will die at the hands of this assassin. Another arrow narrowly misses your head as you veer sharply to the side, towards the sound of running water. If you can make it to the water and lose them you might just make it. That is, if the exhaustion and blood loss don’t take you out first. Several more join the hunting party, to your dismay. You pant, your head spinning and your mind beginning to fog, but at least you don’t fall. The sight of clear water fills your vision and, to your shock, a man. He startles as you rush into view, arm veined with bright scarlet, bringing with you a band of armed men. It looks as though he’s in the middle of fishing, but that’s quickly forgotten when he sees your injury and the company that are after you. “Please!” You plead, falling to your knees before him in the dewy grass, “please don’t let them kill me!” Sharp gold eyes watch you for a moment in shocked silence before he turns to eye each man as they surround you both. They’re all pointing their weapons at him, swords and bows and arrows alike, shouting for him to leave them to their business. One of them separates to train his bow on you, likely the same man who shot you in the first place, as you clutch desperately at your bleeding wound to stem the flow. “We said be on your way, stranger!” Another one snarls to the man, “this bitch is ours.” It all happens in the blink of an eye. You barely have time to comprehend the situation before it’s already over. The man stands before you, a hovering sword at his side, and only then do you realize that he has killed them all in a single sweep without so much as raising a hand. You hazard a look at the carnage around you and instantly regret it; each man dead with his throat cut, shock petrified on their faces. Quickly you look back to the man, watching him with wide eyes as he descends upon you. He speaks not a word as he looks over your shoulder, still bleeding despite your grip on it. “P-please help me,” you beg feebly, your body feeling heavy under its own weight. The blood loss was starting to take its toll on you and, though the feeling felt oddly muted and detached, you were terrified.

The sequence of events that follows next are mostly lost to you, but not for a lack of trying. You remember fragments, haphazardly pieced together. Blurred scenery. White hot pain. The scent of burning flesh. A tightness around your shoulder. Muffled talking. You try to sit up, the edges of your vision tainted black, but a firm yet gentle hand on your chest pushes you back down into soft sheets. “Where—” Your voice quickly dies in your throat as searing pain shoots through your shoulder and down your arm, a sharp cry escaping you. It takes you a moment to recover but when you finally open your eyes you gawk at your surroundings.Your mysterious savior has brought you to a musty room filled with shelves upon shelves of books, a low, crackling fire catching your attention in the dusty fireplace. Looking down at yourself you see that you’ve been set upon an old chaise lounger, a lumpy pillow beneath your head. It smells of dust, as do the sheets, but there’s an odd sense of comfort that they, and the room as a whole, offers. “I removed the arrow,” he finally speaks, golden eyes observing you as you struggle to sit up, “you should rest, you’ve lost a lot of blood.” He moves to stand, collecting up the bloodied rags and tossing them into a bowl filled with water dyed crimson as he walks to the door to leave you in peace. It’s only as he’s leaving that you realize that he’s cleaned and bandaged your wound, no doubt saving you from infection and blood loss and the slow, painful death they would have brought you. “Wait!” You call, voice hoarse. He stops, remaining with his back to you. “I,” you swallow, breathing laboured from the effort of your outburst, “I wanted to thank you, for helping me,” you grind out, an aching throb pulsing from your shoulder down your arm. For a moment he is quiet and you wonder if you’ve made a mistake in speaking to him, but that thought soon vanishes when he turns to look at you over his shoulder. You wait in anticipation for his reply, clutching the sheets weakly. “Get some rest,” he says, softer this time, but he quickly steels himself and leaves the room without any further comment. The door is left slightly ajar so you listen to the sound of his receding footsteps before sinking back slowly into the sheets. The makeshift bed is nothing like your own but it’s more than you could have expected from a stranger so you’re thankful, heaving a sigh of relief. Then you frown, because you don’t even know his name.

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

Their Doll 13

Thump

B.Barnes x Stark!Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

series synopsis:  y/n Stark, all records of her non existent, and yet Hydra still find her. When she is kidnapped by a certain super-soldier and no one believes her, she finds herself searching for unexpected familiarity in her not-so-distant past.

Series Warnings: smut, violence, torture, swearing

Chapter Summary: y/n goes on her first and only mission at HYDRA with Bucky

Warnings: swearing, violence, blood, death

A/n: The timeline in this has been altered, as there I things I wanted to include but I also wanted this fic to follow the storyline/timeline of Winter Soldier and Civil war.So for purposes of this fanfic, Peter Parker was discovered by Tony at a much younger age - when he was bitten - and has been an intern with him since, almost like a protégée.(For the purposes of this story Peter was bitten much younger too - more like when he was 9 or ten rather than 14/15)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

This was the first mission I was assigned to with the Soldier. And I had a strong feeling it'd be the last. The Soldier's mind seemed less distant, clearer recently. I never complained, of course, as it meant two things: one, I actually had someone to talk to here that didn't want to either murder me or rape me and two, he was really fucking good with his dick when his mind was sharper.

We were currently holed up in a train carriage, which was stacked ceiling-high with wooden crates all marked 'stock'. Stock of what, neither of us knew. We had sneaked on, jumping onto the top of the train as it passed a hill we'd been waiting for. Once on top of the train, the soldier helped me into the back - which is where we currently are. It appeared like he'd done this a hundred times before - and one thing I did pick up on was his hesitance while scaling the side of the train. I didn't think much of it - I for one was nervous as shit when we were simply clinging to the small ladder down the end of the back carriage.

We were huddled close, the coldness seeping in from the mountains surrounding the track, the chill in my flesh making me shiver slightly and lean further into the Soldier. His arm was thrown over my shoulders, his own teeth chattered slightly but I could tell he was trying to appear unaffected by the surging weather.

I took the time to replay the briefing for the mission in my mind. Sneak in, stay discreet, use the vents to find the room with the politicians in, take them all but one out, frame the one who remained alive. God I'm happy I'm not doing this alone.

We had a plan. We would sneak in through the back entrance after sniping the two guards that were meant to be stationed there. From inside the door, just a meter to our left was easy access to the vents that we could crawl through for 50 minutes and we'd be directly above the room they were all set to gather in at 18:00. Once there, I'd use my voice to bring them into a state of unawares, from which The Soldier would shoot them all except one. I'd then use my powers to convince the left over that he was the one who did it and the Soldier would give him the gun that was used.

From there, I'd sneak down and take photos of the files they were discussing - HYDRA hadn't told us what they were but I was sure it was something that would deeply concern them - and then we'd leave the way we came.

Simple enough, really.

"You seem on edge." I commented, observing the way his eyes never remained in one place. "Something bad happen here?" I prompted when he only looked at me.

"I- I don't know." He came back with, eyes boring into mine. "You know the plan, right?" He asked, eyes still locked on mine like magnets. I nodded, humming in affirmation. "Good, I don't know if they'll fight back or not, so be ready." The soldier said, head tilting towards my waist in gesture of my belt that wrapped around the black tactical suit, holding various knives I could throw and a small, but powerful, gun.

I never liked using the gun, I always found the loud noise distracting. I preferred knives, and as my aim was particularly good whilst throwing them, I had little need for a gun unless I ran out of blades. But that seldom happened.

The temperature seemed to change, warming only slightly. A subtle thing that very few would pickup on, but as trained assassins you learn to notice the subtle things. I today, I knew this temperature change meant we'd entered the city. The pollution and bustling of people always increased the temperature, and only by a few degrees but when you were freezing your ass off, you tend to notice the discrete change.

"Time to get our asses moving." The soldier muttered before rising to his feet, offering me a hand as he did so.

"Let's get this show on the road." I murmured once on my feet, standing back as the soldier wrenched the door at the side of the carriage open.

"Roll once you land, it'll make the impact less brutal." He commented before he was diving from the train, landing with a smooth roll over the gravel, which crunched beneath him. I took a deep inhale, leaping from the carriage with nothing but hope that I'd land it rather than end up dead in the process.

My eyes sprang open as I landed, shock rolling through me as I realised that I was alright. A wide smile beckoned my lips, curling them upwards into a grin and I pushed myself from the floor and up onto my feet.

"That was the easy part." The soldier assured me as he walked towards me, my smile instantly dropping and his face falling into a hard expression. I new that face - it was his mission face. One that meant no more messing around, because shit was about to get real serious and real dangerous.

"Let's go." I said, beginning to walk towards the mass of buildings. The soldier followed quickly, directing us to slip behind the first block of apartments we came across so no one in the city would see us.

As we snuck our way to the centre, we flattened ourselves against the wall - melting into the plentiful shadows. As we approached our target, I felt the soldier's hand wrap around my bicep, pulling me back.

"Stay here. I'm going to get higher ground. When you see them drop, continue on and get into that door." He ordered gruffly, and before I could agree he was gone.

I crouched down slowly, now aware with how close we were to the two security guards that any sudden movement had the possibility of catching their attention. I leant into the side of the building, observing the two men as they blatantly ignored their surroundings. We're they trying to make this easy for us?

I felt a sneeze rise in my throat, that tangy feeling settling over my nose as I covered the lower half of my face with my hand. Try as I might, I couldn't prevent the unwanted noise, the small sound catching one of the guard's attention.

"Over there!" He hissed, tapping the other on the shoulder furiously in order to get their attention.

"What is it? I can't see anything." They dismissed, clearly trying to turn back around before the first guard yanked his attention back. I stayed as still as a statue, for once extremely glad that I was completely clad in black.

"I heard someone. Over there." The guard exclaimed, pointing almost directly at me. I held in my breath, eyes widened as I sat petrified. That's when my weight shifted, a small twig I didn't know was beneath my shoe snapping under the pressure. I stopped myself from wincing, the snapping noise echoing and completely giving away my position.

"There they are! Quickly, shoot them!" The second guard shouted, pointing at me as the first fumbled with his belt. I took the opportunity, pulling a blade from my belt as quick as I could and preparing to throw. But two pained shouted caught my attention, my gaze raving to see the two men sprawled on the floor, foreheads pierced with bullets.

My gaze drifted upwards, the soldier crouched over the top of a clearly abandoned bridge, gun in hands and still pointed towards them. A scowl was etched on his features, the lower banks of his face now covered by an ominous black mask.

I snapped from my trance, darting along the back of the building until I reached the door. Once I reached it, I cursed under my breath, realising it was locked as I tried to tug it open. I sighed in frustration, reaching into a pocket on the side of my leg and pulling out a pin.

I crouched by the door again, trying to not be caught a second time as the piece of metal wiggled around in the key hole until I heard the  soft, tell-tale click that signalled the door had unlocked. I stood up, tucking the pin back into my suit and moving to open the door. As I slowly tuned the handle, edging the door open enough to check inside, the Soldier appeared beside me.

"Great job." He deadpanned, eyes cold as he glared at me.

"Hey! It wasn't my fault, blame the gardener that decided daisies were a good idea!" I retaliated in a whispered-shout.

"Just shut up and go." He demanded, brushing past me and into the building once he realised it was clear. Once I'd collected my thoughts as called him a wanker under my breath, I pushed through the door after him to be met with the sight of the soldier's muscles bulging as he tried to pry the vent door from the wall as quietly as he could.

The metal clanked gingerly as he removed the door, placing the vented slab to the side of the now-clear entrance before turning to me and gesturing for me to follow. I got to my knees, crawling through the hole in the wall and placing the vent back in place behind me to lower suspicions.

We crawled through the vents stealthily, the concentration on us apparent as we both counted the meters. I almost crashed straight into the soldier's behind when he abruptly stopped, so I assumed the vent we needed to take out the plan was in front of him. He climbed over it quickly, so we were either side of the slats in the floor.

The soldier looked at me, bringing a finger to his lips as one of the politicians went in a rant.

"It's ridiculous! They expect us to vote on this and we don't even have all the information!"

"Well maybe if you'd read the file, you'd know the answer to all these bloody questions you keep asking!"

The soldier pointed a finder towards the men below us, before moving the same fingers so it was pointed at my mouth. I gave him a curt nod.

The tune flowed from my lips freely, easily, as I began humming. I almost stopped when I saw one of the men tense through the vent, knowing we'd been caught and probably executed or something. But when his shoulders relaxed my fear dissipated, the song falling from my continuously.

I noticed the metal plugs now in the soldier's ears as he leant over the vent, which he'd now pried open and had slid toward me slightly. His gun was pointed down the space he'd created, eyes cantered in on presumably one of the targets. Then he fired, and I flinched as I heard a hollow thump as the body slipped limply to the ground.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The man who had tended remained alive, still relaxed and eyes glazed over. The soldier motioned for me to move, pushing the vent conger completely out of his way before jumping down into the room, the expected thud as he landed never coming. Wow, this man really is light on his feet.

Maybe he should've been a ballerina, that little voice in my head sung, a smug smile drawing over my lips at the thought of the Winter Soldier in a tutu.

I snapped out of it, following him down and landing crouched, almost disappointed at the tiny thud when I landed.

I barely noticed I'd stopped singing until the burning pain in my shoulder pierced through my thoughts.

"Get down!" The soldier shouted, shoving my down my my good shoulder and taking a lethal shot to the remaining politician's throat. He fell the the floor with a garbled cough, the splatter of blood across my cheek making my wince. The soldier chucked the gun to the table, scooping up the files and pushing them desperately into one of his big pockets on the leather he wore before yanking my up via my arm. "We have to hurry." He gritted through clenched teeth, using two clasped hands under my foot before hoisting me back into the vent.

He all but jumped up after me, replacing the grate before placing two hands on my cheeks to centre me. Hot tears ran down my cheeks, my breathing fast and uneven and my eyes refusing to meet him.

"Hey, look at me," my eyes found his, "I know you're in pain, trust me." He said, a tiny smirk pulling at his lips as the words tumbled from his lips, "but right now, you're running on adrenaline and we need to take advantage of that. So you're going to turn around, and you're going to crawl to the end of this vent and get out of the building. Quietly." He instructed, and I began nodded. I went to turn around, but he used two gloved, metal fingers I redirect my head to him. "It's nothing personal." He said with a  pitiful smile before whipping a few hanker chiefs from his pocket and stuffing them into my mouth. "Bite down on them if it hurts." The soldier clarified when I gave him a confused expression.

...

The sound of the alarm seemed to follow us and we ran, my hand clutching my shoulder as my big down aggressively at the cloth in my mouth. The soldier was behind me, making sure I didn't fall behind with my injury.

The blaring noise of the alarm stressed me out, knowing that they were probably looking for us making my pick up the pace despite the burning in my shoulder.

"There!" The soldier exclaimed, my eyes low finding the black car that we knew would be to pick us up. As we approached the end of the alley we walked down, the soldier over took me, sprinting forward to hold the door open for me.

I stumbled into the back of the car, being ushered farther in as the soldier climbed in behind me and slammed the car door shut.

The vehicle began moving, the chauffeur barely paying kind to us as my chest heaved and a scream broke through the cloth in a muffled shout.

The panicked look on the soldier's eyes is all that I could focus on, his mask off now and his lips moving but I couldn't seem to hear him. Black crept up on me, clouding the edge of my vision as it invaded my senses.

...

"Someone's finally awake then." The displeased    chide of the General filling my ears as my eyes fluttered open.

"You have to leave her alone! It wasn't her fault!" The soldier's voice said desperately, I could hear the worried tone edging his words.

"Quiet. She's the reason you failed your mission, Soldat. I won't have it happen again." The general snapped, my vision fully in focus now.

The general was stood before me, my hands strapped to the ceiling and my toes barely touching the floor. The pain in my shoulder screamed at me, but I could no longer feel the sickening wetness of my blood dripping down my back. They must've taken me to the medic on the flight home.

"Please, don't you think she's endured enough? She was shot for god's sake!" The soldiers reasoned, and I could see him fighting against his restraints. But the general ignored him.

"I think you're memory is getting too sharp. I'll be sure to get you reset once I'm done." He dismissed, a wince finding me as three guards filed into the cell. "Make her pay." He barked, standing back.

The guards grinned sickeningly, my eyes widening as a scream of protest trying to escape the silencer as I caught sight of the bats in their hands. It felt like the air had been punched from my lungs when one of the bats made contact with y stomach, and I already knew the area would be bloody and bruised when they were done.

"And don't stop until she passes out."

[whydoeseverythinghurt]

Someone tell me Lower Decks gets better

Edit: So I am hearing good things from very angry people, and I think that means that it’s fine.

I know that a lot of people like Lower Decks, and I think in isolation, I would be one of them, but this is supposed to be Star Trek, right? I like Rick and Morty’s particular brand cynicism, and hopelessness, and I know a lot of the people working on Lower Decks come from there, but that just isn’t Star Trek.

Disclaimer: I only saw the first episode, so most of this can be discounted if that isn’t an accurate depiction of the show as a whole.

Star Trek started off as a ‘perfect’ utopian future, that was about what its creators thought we should aspire to. But from the get go we are shown that there are many issues with it, and that it is a utopia because someone is always fighting against the bad actors, working to improve life, and deal with all those issues. Star Trek is about reform from the inside.

Kirk and Spock both think the Admiralty, the Starfleet Code of Conduct and even the Prime Directive are needlessly restrictive, so what do they do? They find loopholes.

Spock tells Commodore Decker that he won’t stand for the endangerment of the crew, and if he wants to call it mutiny he can do so the second they get back to civilization, where Spock will be allowed to plead his case. Kirk is told that all the Court Martial business can be swept under the rug if he’s willing to give up his pride, and he says no. He forces them to have to go through the process, so that he can plead his case, but also to demonstrate that the system should work, it shouldn’t ignore issues.

Picard and River find out that the Admiralty are being controlled by worms, and take it upon themselves to stop the damage that they are doing. (Such a Star Trek sentence, I know.)

Deep Space Nine as it progresses makes the show about how the ‘utopia’ is based on colonialist ideals, and leaves behind the most vulnerable in society. In the beginning this is done with the justification that if they help the people suffering and being discriminated against, then they may lose a potential ally, or gain an enemy. The government decides that it isn’t worth the risk, and let’s people suffer.

But Deep Space Nine is not just as amazing as it is because of the Holocaust metaphors, its also because it pushes at the moral fabric of the Federation. It asks the question “What happens when push comes to shove, and your perfect society descends into war?” And it shows the fallout, and it shows the toll on people’s lives, and it shows that even when you aren’t living in a perpetual state of war it’s very difficult to go back.

Voyager asks “What happens when no one is looking? What happens when all you have are your ideals and morals that come from a society you are no longer attached to (that we as the audience know, no longer exists)? Do you sacrifice your morals so that you can get back to your utopia? In fact, do you sacrifice your ideals for your utopia as a whole. Or would sacrificing them make it something other than a utopia?”

Haven’t seen all of them yet, so: Discovery says “What happens when you make the wrong moral judgment (or depending on interpretation, the right one, but no one allows you to go far enough)? What happens when you are the scapegoat that they blame an entire war, on? Even one that has brewing since before you were born. What do you do when they place the blame squarely on your shoulders, and solely at your feet? What do you do when the one person who gave you a chance to prove yourself turned out to be lying the entire time, and actually wanted you to be what everyone else thought you were? 

“What do you do afterwards? How you trust someone again after that kind of betrayal? What do you do when some goodie two shoes, who has never seen the horror that you have, comes waltzing in and trying to apply their morals to your life? How could they possibly win your trust?” That one gets a definitive answer, they show their convictions, even when no one is watching, they say, “we have to do the right thing.”

It goes on to ask several others, (from what I know) which are in some ways similar to later seasons of Deep Space Nine, “What do you do when the utopia you loved and fought and bled, and that people died for, is gone? How willing are you to fight to get it back?”

Lower Decks introduces a character who sees the moral failings of Starfleet, shows them to other people and then encourages them to give up, and not try to make the situation better. They have influence, and could easily seize power, but what do they do? Nothing. They watch as people who should not be in charge remain in power and do nothing about it, and discourage anyone who wants to try. They don’t want things to be different, they want to rebel against their parents. And that’s it, not corrupt institutions, not bad protocols, or worse people in charge. They want their parents to notice them.

That is not Star Trek. Star Trek is about hope in the most dire of circumstances. It’s about persevering and going against the odds, even when you know you’re probably going to die anyway, but you still have to try. 

It is about not just fighting for yourself, but for your family, your people, your crew, caring about the faceless and the nameless, the ‘lesser’, those that cannot fight for themselves. Standing up to and against the institutions which did the wrong thing, which did not protect the people they should have. (The waters get muddy with the different framings of the maquis, but you are meant to be sympathetic to their ideas, and morals, if nothing else.)

Nihilism has its place in Star Trek, (a cynical outlook can be seen as one of the most common character traits across series.) Existential dread has its place too, but it has to be tempered with that hope. And that hope isn’t unwavering, in fact most characters at one point or another lose it, briefly or for longer periods of time, but in those moments they rely on those around them to keep the faith. They continually pass the torch of whose responsibility it is. One of the most important things is that there is always someone who has hope. 

And I would probably like Lower Decks if it seemed at all willing to explore the idea, “Well, what do you do when hope is completely lost? What do you do what there is no one left? And the thing you love is a shell of either what it used to be, or what it aspired to?”

Instead, all that is left of a green character who has never encountered that adversity and has their ideals forcefully beaten out of them. The central authority in their life tells them how they are wrong to cling to them (and then that person is demonstrated to be right.) I would be interesting to see the story if they wished to explore a slow dawning realization that hope is really lost, or even asked, “What do you do when there is nothing to hope for? And no one left to have that hope?”

To me it seems like they heard about Star Trek from parodies, and wanted to make jokes, so they set its central themes on fire, and then didn’t want to explore the implications. Just play in its dead carcass, and don’t you dare think about what it once was.

I know that Enterprise had its issues, but most people say that it improved greatly with the last season (besides the last episode), and say that it could have done more and been better if the network would have just kept it around a bit longer. People have their criticisms of Discovery and Picard, but I get the impression that they truly are labors of love.

Lower Decks gives me the feeling that it is just a blatant cash grab made by people who didn’t know, or understand the property and just had to do something with it. I know that their is diversity in the series, but I wish that I could say definitively that that the woman in the burka was actually meant to show the same sentiments as Chekhov in the Original Series. (As I remember seeing someone suggest as a viable option for how the New movies could handle Anton Yelchin’s death.) My thoughts right now is that it’s just an attitude of “Well, Star Trek is about diversity in thought, culture, and race, so we should make the characters diverse, because it’s a utopian future, right?” With no intention to to continue the way of dealing with current issues through allegory.

I hope I’m wrong. As far as I know it is a good show, but right now I don’t think it’s a good Star Trek one. 

(Although again take that with a grain of salt, because I have seen so little, and I didn’t particularly like the Orville, or what I’ve seen of it. Mostly, because it felt clunky, unnatural, boring and like they took half remembered plot points/storylines and placed new characters into them. The heart was there, but the thought didn’t seem to be.)

Tl;dr: Can someone tell me if Lower Decks has the characters fight back against Starfleet, or the bad elements in it? Or even if it explores why that isn’t an option? Why they have lost all hope?

[secondgenerationnerd]

How about the “we’re not going to tell your mother about this” “tell me about what?” prompt with John, Zee and Zachary?

Lol 😂 I have headcannoned this enough to warrant a bit of a drabble.

—————

Deep in a forgotten forest, miles from any known civilization, The House of Mystery opens its doors to a figure strolling toward it. Fog clings to the ends of a billowing trench coat. The House comes to life as porch stairs creak underfoot. A gentle voice mixes with crickets chirps and early spring wind rustling tree blossoms.

“He’e we go, mate.” John smiles down at his infant son, “Home safe an’ sound. Wasn’t so bad, eh?”

Zachary yawns, cuddling closer to his father’s warm chest. The warded baby wrap had been Zatanna’s idea, though John has a feeling she didn’t intend for it to be used like this. Still Zachary had slept through…most of the insanity of the the last few hours. More than John thought and neither of them were hurt.

Hopefully Zatanna’s show went late. That would make this so much easier.

“Alright, now, Zachary. We aren’t going to tell yer mother about this—“

“Tell me about what?”

Bollocks. John tries to guage how long she’s been home as Zatanna comes downstairs. Given the pajamas and her damp hair, safe to say she won’t believe the ‘just popped out for a moment with Zachary, fussy baby, walk to calm him’ babble he’d planned on using.

“Tell me about what, John?”

“Errgh, nothing! How was the show, luv?” Smooth, Constantine.

“It was fine. When on a little longer than I thought. Where were you two?”

Yeah, he’s not getting out of this one. Taking a deep breath, John braces himself, “Ye know the case I’ve been workin’ on?”

“Yes, scrolls of Merlin. I still think you need to talk to Jason again. He and Etrigan should be able to help.”Zatanna smiles down at their son sleeping in the wrap, “Oh, amore addormentato. Dove eravate tu e papà? Eh?”

“Yeah, well, got some information t’night that I was waiting on…from a few demons I know….”

John can see the moment his words hit her. Her calm expression remains as Orchid, the physical embodiment of the House’s magic, appears. Zachary whines as his mother takes him into her arms, kissing his little hand.

“Orchid, could you take Zachary to my room please? He might be hungry.”

“Of course.” The purple figure takes the infant and disappears. Floor boards above their heads creak, which is the moment John knows he’s dead.

“YOU TOOK OUR SON TO A DEMON DEAL?!”

“Its not as bad as ye think—!”

“WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU TAKE HIM??”

“I couldn’t find a sitter—!”

That was the wrong thing and he knows it. Deciding to be smart (for once), John closes his mouth and lets her yell and rant. Because he knows she’s right, it was stupid and Zachary could have been hurt or worse. Knew if he wasn’t quick enough or clever enough or just plain good enough, John would have lost the most important thing in his life.

When she pauses to catch her breath, John says one thing neither of them could expect.

“Yer right, Zee.”

“What?”

“I said, yer right.” John takes her hand in his. “I’m sorry. I made a fuckin’ idiotic choice and Zachary…I’m sorry. I really am.”

Zatanna searches his face, looking for any sign he’s just trying to play her again. Finding the sincerity, she glances up the stairs.

“He wasn’t hurt?”

John actually manages a laugh, “He set a demon on fire after it insulted me.”

“Gods, I thought we would have more time before his magic…” Zatanna shakes her head, “I’m going to check on him. You need to shower.”

“What? I can’t possibly smell worse than Brooklyn—“

“New standards, John.” There’s a twinkle in her eyes as she turns, heading upstairs. They’re good, just need space for tonight. Making a note to check in on Zachary, John follows the backwards magician upstairs.