#cronies rise up

[https-alberich]

CW: Fighting. Discriptions of gore. Bullying. Reader discretion is advised.

Notes: Chat did I cook with this one? Be honest.

Delinquent yandere boy who treats you like his personal plaything.

Delinquent yandere boy who grabs your hair and shoves you against a locker.

Delinquent yandere boy who tells you that they run this school, and you better respect that.

A sharp sting of the metal locker against your shoulder made you wince. “I fucking run this place.” Abel hissed. “You belong to me. You, and the rest of this fucked up establishment.” He leaned down and sunk his sharp teeth into the flesh of your neck, grinning when you squirmed in his grasp. “There. Now everyone knows, be grateful. I'd much rather light my cigarettes out on your pretty skin bitch. You're getting off easy today.” He whispered before pulling away, satisfied. “Now everyone knows who you belong to.” Abel ran a hand through his tousled black hair, his hazel eyes were bright with a fire. His cronies egged him on, jeering at you. The boy merely smirked and shoved his hands into his pockets, "See you around bitch.” He jeered.

Delinquent yandere boy who aims to make your school life as miserable as possible.

Delinquent yandere boy who stalks the hallways with his little gang of bullies after class on the off chance he could catch you at your locker.

Delinquent yandere boy who quickly memorises your schedule and acts annoyed when he realises, he has spares with you.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” A voice came out from the side, and you looked up from your notebook. Abel’s eyes were sharp and filled with annoyance. “Why the fuck do I have to have spares with the likes of you?” He huffs, “Move over bitch.” He rolled his eyes, dumping his books next to yours. You stared up at him, giving him a confused look. “Don’t give me that fucking look bitch. Every other table is occupied with couples who don’t understand that making out is something the rest of us don’t want to see.” He grumbled, looking annoyed.

Delinquent yandere boy who relishes in the way your cheeks flush and you give him a small smile at his stupid jokes.

Delinquent yandere boy who absolutely hates the way that you make him feel, how he wants to dote on you and shower you in his affections.

Delinquent yandere boy who starts spreading rumours that you’re dating him, effectively warding away most of the school from even looking your way, lest they wish to end up at the nurse’s office with a broken nose...

Delinquent yandere boy who doesn't hesitate to beat up the boy in your lab partner who was clearly being too handsy last class.

A sickening crack echoed through the school hallways. “No please- I didn’t mean-” The trembling voice was cut off by the sound of flesh pounding against flesh, the sound was sticky - the echo of bloody knuckles pounding against broken skin and the whimper of a plea to stop along with the smell of iron filling your senses made your eyes water and your stomach turn, nausea and bile rising from your throat.

Delinquent yandere boy who feels nothing but a burning hatred for this man - no. 'Man' was too humane for this scum. He was nothing but dirt under his feet.

Delinquent yandere boy who needs to show everyone exactly what happens to people that cross him.

Delinquent yandere boy who notices you watching and tries to show off, parading the fact that he owns you.

“Shut the fuck up.” Abel hissed. “You knew exactly what you did. Trying to fuck around with my bitch. I’ll make sure you never fucking think of them in your measly pathetic fucking life again.” Your eyes went wide when you pushed past the crowd of people who had formed around him to watch the spectacle. 

Delinquent yandere boy who ignores the cheers and the sound of everyone else's voices.

Delinquent yandere boy who’s doing this for one person and one person only.

Delinquent yandere boy who would gladly get every detention, every suspension, would willingly be expelled if he knew he was protecting you.

Some of them were cheering Abel on, some were actively trying to interfere. A boy lay at his feet, now unconscious and bleeding out. He looked down at the twitching body, it could’ve passed for as dead if it wasn’t for the sound of his weak breathing. Abel grinned and spat at the boy. “That’s what you get for fucking messing with my bitch. This goes for everyone else too-” He reached over into the crowd and grabbed your arm, pulling you into the circle. “If anyone touches my bitch. I will personally end you. You hear that fuckers? I'll beat your ass halfway to hell.” His eyes were sharp and cold, and possibly, the most dazling hazel you’ve ever seen. Abel huffed and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, reaching over to light it before the door to the English classroom swung open.

Delinquent yandere boy who knows that he’ll be punished for what he did.

Delinquent yandere boy who doesn’t fucking care anymore.

Delinquent yandere boy who shoots you a shit eating grin as he walks to detention.

The crowd quickly dispersed, leaving you and Abel standing over the unconscious body. The teacher took one look at the body before their eyes slid over to Abel giving him a 'look'. The delinquent scoffed and jammed the unlit cigarette back into his pocket. “I’m going jeez, what’s up your ass this morning.” He grumbled, whispering the last part under his breath, knowing that if he was caught making fun of a teacher, his one detention would quickly become four. Abel rolled his eyes, and he reached over to ruffle your hair. “See you around bitch. If anyone fucks with you, let me know.” He mused shooting you a grin before he slinks away to detention. 

Delinquent yandere boy who doesn’t even care that you never outwardly accepted his advances.

Delinquent yandere boy who is firm in the idea that you love him almost as much as he loves you.

Delinquent yandere boy who would go to hell and back for you.

Taglist: No-one so far!

© Written By https-Alberich. Do not copy, steal or translate without permission.

[autumnslance]

I really appreciate Gulool Ja Ja as a ruler, a father, and a hero in his own right. There were concerns about why the Scions, as outsiders, would be participating in a contest of succession, and everything we learn about Gulool Ja Ja's younger years, and his reasons for the Rite of Succession, neatly addresses that.

As a much younger man, Dad^2 traveled the lands of Tural with his own diverse group of comrades, from all races and walks of life. From Kettenramm as the foreigner, to Cahciua the long-lived Shetona wilderness expert, to Pelupelu and Yok Huy, to Hanu and Xbraal; especially given the animosity between some of those clans at that time.

And along the way, Gulool Ja Ja learned how much stronger they were together. Alone he is a formidable champion, but even Blessed Siblings can't do it all. He also learned about the diverse peoples and cultures of his homeland. It's not so far off from the Warrior of Light's journey; traveling with competent heroic companions as we adventured through the 3 Continents and lands beyond them for so long, loving people and places we found along the way.

But Gulool Ja Ja also became Dawnservant, and now as his years catch up to him, a new ruler must be found. And it's in the conversation after dueling the WoL that he bluntly states his reasoning, speaking to them as a peer:

Even this early in the contest, you must have realized…As potential rulers, all four claimants are lacking. This is why I elected to hold the rite of succession─not to choose a fitting candidate, but to cultivate one. And if no one has impressed me by the end of it, then to no one will I yield my throne. As a parent, I pray that my children rise to the occasion…With outsiders dragged into my game, I am also hopeful that the different perspectives you and your companions have to offer will inspire them to grow. I imagine you in particular have traveled many lands. Known many peoples and cultures─loved them and been loved in turn. Guide Lamaty'i as you think best. Walk at her side and, when needed, push her to walk ahead. Watch over her, champion. Koana's recruits are no less sharp─as one might expect of Galuf's countrymen. They saw the flaws in our claimants from the outset. The other two, though… They dismiss comrades willing to point out their shortcomings, and no good can come of it…

Emphasis mine.

We see this too, in the interludes to Team Second Promise, as Thancred and Urianger turn on their own Dad Skills and gently guide Koana toward his own realization: that innovation is all well and good, but so is taking into account the traditions and needs of his people. As he watches his sister's growth, and how the people love and trust her to respect their ways of life, to help them because it's the right thing to do.

And Wuk Lamat learns and grows, gaining confidence, learning when to rely on her comrades, how and when to face a challenge on her own. The Wuk Lamat after level 96 is a different woman than the girl we met in Sharlayan. She's not done growing and learning, not in so short a time, but the cultivation Gulool Ja Ja put in place succeeds in her and Koana--because they are willing to learn, and listen, and love.

The other two claimants, as Dad^2 noted, don't understand the reasons for the Rite, for the methods the electors choose, or what the Dawnservant is looking for. And they refuse to entertain perspectives that would attempt to point that out, surrounded by sycophants and cronies.

Bakool Ja Ja doesn't learn the same lessons, though he comes around; he was never shown kindness and understanding, never asked what HE wanted, until Wuk Lamat demands he say it out loud. His growth is a surprising one, and along a trajectory he could never have imagined.

And Zarool Ja...his arc is a negative one, and a tragedy of his own making. He works as an antagonist because his fall is entirely avoidable, but utterly inevitable. It didn't have to be this way, yet there's no other way it could go. He internalized all the pressure and potential, all the comparisons, until it ate him alive.

This is a story about the complicated politics and demands of leading countries, of there being no easy answer to peace even when you wish there was. But it's more a story about family, and legacy, and honoring the past while striving to build a better future.

The Warrior of Light sees their own story reflected in Gulool Ja Ja's history, and in the shaping of Wuk Lamat. To fulfill their love of adventure and exploration, but from a new perspective. And taking all that experience and skill and applying it in a slightly different way, though perhaps not so different from some previous side and job quests where we help others and introduce them to friends so they can continue to grow and help themselves after WoL's moved on.

Hydaelyn's brave little spark has long been a beacon of hope for others to follow. As inheritor to the Shepherd of the Stars, the WoL takes steps toward shaping their legacy, still an active participant, but also seeing how those other stars might shine, and like Gulool Ja Ja, finding that some of those stars need a nudge to find their own glowing potential.

[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

The Blackwood Knight prt.8

Disclaimer: I wrote this because Victoria is a Shakespeare girlie and loves Romeo and Juliet. She also loves Crimson Peak, which inspired the last two parts.

Description: Benjicot resorts to drastic measures to win back his lady's trust and love, having accidentally placed doubt in her mind as to his true intentions.

Part 7

Playlist:

Gold Rush~ Taylor Swift

The Way I Loved You~ Taylor Swift

How You Get The Girl~ Taylor Swift

Adore You ~ Harry Styles

Warnings: female reader. Nothing else I don't think. Robb being an iconic twink with access to the blueprints for Bracken Hall and too much sass for Westeros to handle.

"Let me get this absolutely crystal clear in my mind. You described your union as 'mutually beneficial'!" Robb cried incredulously, striking Benjicot on the shoulder from behind, as he sat slumped onto a desk in the library of his ancestral seat. 

The glow cast by the lit lanterns, attached to the ancient stone walls, cast shadows over his face which bore signs of the deepest distress. 

"It sounds beyond reprehensible when you repeat those words, words which I most bitterly regret. I did not mean them in the way that both yourself and my lady have interpreted them, but it makes them no less acrid when you repeat them." He responded dejectedly, slumping his head once again upon the desk. 

Mumbling almost incomprehensibly so that Robb had to tilt his head down towards his friend to hear him. 

"What can I do to make amends? She hates me. I fear she will never speak to me again." 

Robb cast a contemptuous look at his friend before retorting. 

"You bloody fool. Not only did you make her sound to even my indulgent ears like a prize to be bartered between Houses, but you also did so with the very fiend from whose taunts you once defended her. Can you not see that you have made a shy, sweet girl who loved and trusted you feel as if the one person who she believed cared for her and would protect her above all others was nothing more than a cipher of the bullies she has sought to shield herself from?!" 

Seeing Benjicot's increasingly pained expression, as he roughly gripped his hair in both hands, Robb relented a little. 

"The damage you have done in your carelessness will be very difficult to remedy. You must show her that you love her and value her above all else. Words are not enough." 

Lifting his head, Benjicot's expression became resolved as he turned it to meet his friend. 

"I will, even if she will never again allow me to be in her presence," He struggled to continue, the thought causing him physical pain, "I must at the very least convince her that my love for her was never a lie. I cannot bear the thought that I have only cemented her insecurities. That I have born my own part in making her feel as if I mocked her...just like her contemptuous cousin." 

At this, he began to rise.

"I must see her." 

Perking up at this and slapping his friend approvingly on the back, Robb moved to lift his sword from the table and responded. 

"Glad to hear it. I'll get the Lads together and we can defend your flank whilst you hop over the border and get on your knees to beg your lady for forgiveness, you're favourite past time I know." 

Looking at him with mild irritation, Benjicot rose, placing a firm hold on Rob's shoulder. 

"Whilst I greatly appreciate the support, I must go myself. She's shy and frightened enough of me, after my misdemeanor, and I don't want you and your cronies scaring her off before I can even apologise." 

Laughing at this, Robb retorted smugly. 

"More likely you're afraid of her falling in love with me. Fear not, my interests lie in another direction entirely, but I'll hold off if you are determined. Of course Kermit will be devastated not to have a free shot at a Bracken, but I will assuage him." 

With this, Benjicot nodded at his friend before rising quickly and striding from the room, through the halls of Raventree as he continued to ruminate with anguish on the distressed face of his lovely lady and the part he had played in causing her distress. He would explain that he loved her and valued her above all else. That he meant every word he had said to her. That he would protect, serve and adore her if she would only let him, only forgive him. He would beg for her forgiveness, even if she could never herself love him again. It would be enough if she would only permit him to continue in her presence as a loyal knight.

It had been a day since Y/N had fled from the man she had come to trust and love, the only one she believed had ever cared for her and seen her as more than a shadow in the background of life....mistakenly. After Aeron had carried her back to her quarters in Bracken Hall she had locked her doors and allowed no visitors, barring her handmaiden. 

She spent the intervening hours between that of the previous days events and the advent of night on her balcony, her still pained ankle raised on a cushion on her chaise, as she read of Visenya. She was mentally and physically retreating to the shelter of her room and her books, determined never to open her heart to another person, as she had so foolishly done this time. She was silly to believe that Benjicot could love her for herself, rather than the political promise she could represent for him. She had trusted him where she had never invested anyone else with such trust. She had begun to gain in confidence in her dreams, her beliefs, and in his love, all for it to be shattered in a moment. Her embarrassment at having opened her heart to another person, to revealing herself so freely, where she was always so careful to be a shadowy presence in others' lives, was overwhelming, as she sunk further into her seat and further into herself. 

Wrapped in these painful thoughts, it was a few seconds before she heard a muffled voice calling her name from the direction of the dark expanse underneath her window. Rising carefully from her seat, using the pillars lining the portico of the balcony to balance herself as she moved towards the edge of it, she looked down to see the hopeful and desperate expression of the man she both hated and loved. Seeing her come into view, his face lit up with irrepressible delight, before quickly falling when she began to quickly turn away, book pressed protectively to her chest as she made to retreat to her room. She did not want to speak with him. 

Seeing her retreat, he quickly called out. 

"Please my love, please, I entreat you to let me explain what you overheard in the woods." 

Stopping where she was, she turned and moved once again back to the edge of the balcony. 

Speaking quietly and timidly, but not so much so that he could not hear her, accustomed as he was to listening for her quiet voice, she responded. 

"Please leave, I do not wish to speak with you now or henceforth. I can't understand why you are here now when you have made it abundantly clear that I myself am not what you seek. I would like you to leave."

Taking a deep, pained breath, Benjicot's expression underwent several changes before it became resolute and he stepped determinedly towards the pillar bolstering the balcony from the ground. 

Confused at his movements, Y/N became panicked when she realised he was climbing the pillar, frozen in position. It wasn't until he had swung his leg over the top of the balcony and had landed gracefully that she turned to flee, forgetting her injured ankle in the attempt, causing herself to stumble and hold onto a nearby pillar for support. Feeling gentle hands enclose around her elbows, she heard Benjicot speak quietly near her cheek. 

"Please don't run from me, my love. Your ankle is still injured. Please just allow me to help you." 

Looking down with concern at the ankle in question, he slowly, with great caution lest his lady should be offended, raised her arm around his neck and held her waist, fully supporting her weight so that he could place her on her chaise.  

Distressed to see his lady look away from him, her expression betraying embarrassment as well as displeasure, he knelt before her, bending his head low, before gently, reverently holding her hands in both of his own. 

"I will not disturb you further if you do not wish it, but I must convince you of the truth of my feelings for you and beg for your forgiveness for making you believe otherwise." 

Stopping him abruptly, Benjicot immediately desisted in deference to her speech, so important was anything she had to say to him, even if she meant only to order him away from her forever. 

Speaking quietly, she interrupted him. 

"I already heard what both you and my cousin said of me when you believed me not to be listening. I know that your protestations of love for me were all a ruse and that you were both in league together." 

Benjicot's expression betrayed the deep pain he felt at her response, drooping his head to rest it on her knees. 

"I can never apologise enough, nor beg for your forgiveness enough, for making you believe such a horrific notion. I had never spoken to your cousin of you before that dreadful moment, except when I first had the honour of meeting you. You were never just a bartering tool between us. I would break his legs if even tried to make such a suggestion. I had only meant to convey to him that I would repair the conflict between our houses so that in choosing me as your husband you would not also be choosing to abandon all that you knew. It is my mistake that I so brazenly worded my intent, my love." He added, casting his face down in desperation. 

"I have loved you since I first saw you sitting with your nose tucked into your histories under the Brackentree and have persued your love ever since. I have meant every word I have said to you since, and will continue to prove it to you in any way thay you will allow me."

His lady slightly turning towards him, Benjicot grew at once desperate and hopeful that she would listen to his entreaties, gripping her hands tighter in his as he raised his face to hers, hoping to convey the truth of his feelings in his eyes. 

"You speak very elegantly but I now know that you are so to all ladies and that this charade is not reserved for me alone." 

Reaching out to touch her face before quickly retracting his hand once he saw Y/N move away from him in discomfort, he instead responded. 

"Whilst I would consider myself to be a gentleman, there is only one lady I would traverse miles of enemy land and scale walls to get to." Saying this with a gentle smile, he continued to gaze upon her reverently. 

When she did not respond, he removed a brown leather volume from its place, stashed underneath his cloak. 

"I found this in my library and I thought it might be of interest to you." 

Hesitantly reaching to take the volume from his hand, she examined it before opening it. 

As she did so, he interposed "May I?" Pointing at the book. 

He turned the pages to an earmarked section, coloured with a rich illustration of a knight kneeling in homage before a queen. 

"This tells the story of a knight loyal to his queen above all else, swearing to protect, serve and..." He hesitated "love her for all of his life".

She gazed curiously down at the illustration in her hands as he spoke. 

"I thought you would like to have it, even should you order me away from your presence now. But I should like it to serve as an illustration of the devotion I feel towards you and as a reminder that I will always protect and adore you, even if only as your knight. Without any conditions. Without any expectation for you to love me in return. Just....let me adore you." He faltered staring up at her penitently, anxiously awaiting her response. 

It was a few agonising moments for Benjicot before Y/N raised her hand towards his shoulder, causing him to hold his breath lest he frighten her in his shock. Delicately placing her hand on his shoulder, she placed the other one on his other shoulder, causing him to subconsciously lean into her touch. 

Looking timidly away from him, she began to speak. 

"So you really did not mean that I was a...political tool." 

Leaning further towards her face, he quickly refuted such a notion. 

"I would thrash any man who suggested it. You are my lady, my love." 

Gazing into his eyes searchingly, she seemed to find what she sought in them, and leant her head gently upon his shoulder. 

Shocked, yet rejoicing at her affectionate gesture and in the comfort she seemed to look to from him, he lost no time in wrapping a protective arm around her waist, pulling her into his torso as he held her head gently in his other hand. Closing his eyes in relief, he held her like that for a few peaceful moments, scarcely believing that his love had forgiven him and that she had initiated their embrace. Taking it as a sign of the trust she had reinvested in him to protect her heart as well as her person, he solemnly swore in his own mind to guard it with more sucess than he had yet done as of late.

She pulled away too quickly for his liking, wishing as he did that she could always be so close to him.

"How did you even find your way here with impunity, let alone my balcony?"

Smirking at this, Benjicot threw his cloak dramatically over his shoulder to amuse her with his antics.

"I of course practiced great stealth, opting for a cloak and daggers approach."

Raising a disapproving eyebrow at him but with her mouth turned up at the corner, Benjicot rejoiced to have made her smile and to have amused her.

"In truth i just walked past the Red Ford and straight until i found Bracken Hall, i wasn't too worried about encountering any Bracken men. I'd just run them through if they tried to prevent me from reaching my Love. As far as finding your balcony goes, i was just blessed to see your pretty person upon it....and my good friend Robb also has an encyclopedic knowledge of Bracken Hall, having planned to storm it so many times." He added, slightly sheepishly.

Rolling her eyes at him, lightly swatting his chest.

"You're crazy."

Smirking again he rose to put his arm against the wall by her face, leaning his face towards hers.

"Crazy about you."

"And ridiculous," she added, laughing.

Reaching out to hold her chin gently in his other hand he leaned in further, before whispering in response "ridiculously in love with you", as his lips crashed onto hers, his arm moving to encircle her waist and support her weight as he did so.

Breaking the kiss, he stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, gazing up at her as if she were the sun. 

"Can i come and see you tomorrow?" He asked tentatively, unable to fully conceal his fear that she would still order him hence.

"I'd rather you didn't risk your life in such a dangerous attempt. I can always come to meet you."

Frowning at this, he stroked the back of her cheekbone with his nuckle. 

"You think i would allow my darling to cross that distance with an injured leg when i can cross it myself?"

Seeing her blush at his appellation, he smiled and reached forward to increase her blush by kissing the corner of her mouth.

"I think not. I have no fear of your Bracken bannermen. Although I do fear having to inform my disapproving lady love that i've despatched all of them because they tried to stop me from seeing her."

Benjicot walked away from his lady love's balcony that evening, not before blowing her a kiss, and silently rejoicing that she had forgiven him and permited him to remain in her presence and in her heart.

@lovebabe18-blog @poppyflower-22 @ithilwen-blackwood @spinachtz @lady-callisto @twistytimesandthoughts @abookloverlawyerfan-blog @mymoonempress @drwho-ess @dancingbaek @aemondslove @cheendrella

[invisibleicewands]

Bringing revolution to Port Talbot - by Michael Sheen

On a recent February morning, I woke up to find I was wrong. Not a particularly uncommon experience in itself, but unusual to discover that on this occasion I was being publicly accused of it by the Secretary of State for Business and Trade. “Michael Sheen has said that ‘the people of Port Talbot have been let down’,” Kemi Badenoch wrote in the Daily Mail. “But he is wrong.”

It was a big day. I spent all of last year directing a three-part drama series for the BBC called The Way, which was to air that night. It begins in my hometown of Port Talbot, where a strike at the local steelworks becomes the spark that ignites a violent descent into national chaos. Clearly, Ms Badenoch had been given a sneak peek of the series before forming quite a strong opinion on it. But no: reading her article, Ms Badenoch admits that she hadn’t watched it at all. Why let a total lack of information prevent a full-throated denouncement, eh? Presumably, she also assumes that we managed to write, film and edit the entire series after Tata Steel announced the imminent loss of some 2,500 jobs at the steelworks mere weeks ago.

While the winds of change have only been blowing in one direction for many years, the events in our story were dreamed up some years ago and act as a fictional catalyst for all that follows. Surely even Tory ministers understand there is no VIP fast lane for making a TV series. This isn’t a PPE contract, after all…

Nothing to see here

After that episode aired, it occurred to me that such shenanigans in the right-wing press could have been about a couple of things. Since the ITV drama about the Post Office scandal, Mr Bates vs The Post Office, caused public outrage, I imagine the government has a new fear of the impact a TV show can have. A pre-emptive strike against a series it perceives to be criticising its actions around the steel industry must have seemed a useful tactic. And, having seen Breathtaking – based on Rachel Clarke’s memoir of how the Covid crisis unfolded in the NHS, which aired on ITV the same night as The Way – I wonder if her piece was an attempt to distract attention away from more dangerous territory.

It gave Ms Badenoch a chance to trot out her line about how the people of Port Talbot should be grateful for all that the government is doing to save the steel industry, not moaning about the impact job losses will have on their community. But the people of Port Talbot have been let down, no matter what Ms Badenoch wants us to think. Not by any single entity, but by years of neglect. That she immediately assumed my comments referred to her and her government tells its own story. In the words of a much older drama than mine: the lady doth protest too much, methinks.

Then and Nye

“This crisis is a privateering racket with your friends lining their pockets!” No, not an accusation against Boris Johnson, but something I currently say to Winston Churchill every night. We opened a new play called Nye at the National Theatre this week. I play Aneurin (“Nye”) Bevan, who attacks the prime minister for turning a wartime crisis into a money-making scheme for him and his cronies. It’s one of many moments in the play that seem to speak to past and present at the same time.

The entanglement of “now” and “then” is heightened by the fact that I am wearing pyjamas. Nye is lying unconscious in his hospital bed at the end of his life, and we follow him through a dream of his past. He wanders from childhood memories of overcoming his stutter in Tredegar library to his meteoric rise through local politics, to becoming the youngest member of Clement Attlee’s pioneering postwar cabinet. And, of course, as minister for health, his tumultuous birthing of the NHS on 5 July 1948. It’s an extraordinary, surprising and moving experience telling this story on stage each night. That shared space between actors and audience, where all is felt but unseen, crackles with electricity.

Once more, with feeling

It seems that exploring the motives of politicians, the uses and abuses of political power, and the quest for justice that saw the creation of the NHS taps into deep wells of emotion. Like the pockets of gas that miners feared within the coal seam, their release brings risk and reward. At a recent show, we had three instances of people needing to be helped out of the theatre, the final one forcing us to pause the show moments from its end. Thankfully, it was nothing more serious than someone fainting. But emotions are running high.

I’m more than happy to invite Ms Badenoch to a performance. But I realise, of course, there’s no guarantee she would make it to the end.

[corroded-hellfire]

A imagine where mean girls pick on y/n like .. carol and her friends & eddie comes into the picture and defend you? 🥺

Picking on people is bad. Loving on Eddie is good.

Words: 1.3k

“You’re such an idiot,” one of Carol’s underlings spews at you with laughter. 

“Do you know how many people saw it? You’ll never live this down,” the other member of her entourage adds.

Between third and fourth period they’ve cornered you against your own locker, standing so close that it would be impossible to slip between them and escape. Your notebook for your next class is clutched against your chest and you’re pretty sure you’re going to get paper cuts from how tightly you’re holding it. 

“You look like a clown.”

The last thing you want is for the three mean girls in front of you to see you cry, but you can’t help it as your eyes well over and warm tears leave tracks down your face. You wince as one of the tears runs over your busted lip, the salt burning the large cut. Of course Carol notices the flinch of pain and doesn’t hesitate to pounce.

“It’s going to hurt when you kiss–oh that’s right, no one wants to kiss you!”

Her cronies cackle as if this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard in their lives. The way Carol has these two so whipped and ready to do her bidding is both terrifying and impressive. You turn to face your locker, spinning the dial with shaky hands as you try and get your combination right. Anything to not see those faces so gleeful at your misery. Even though you need it, you put your notebook back in the locker. Before you can do anything else, Carol’s hand appears and slams the locker closed.

Eddie turns the corner and strides down the hallway. He catches sight of Carol and her crew and instantly tenses up. The reaction to seeing them together, knowing they’re ganging up on someone right now has his fists clenching and his shoulders bunching up towards his ears. As he gets closer, he sees the top of your head – hair he would recognize anywhere. The squeak his sneakers make as he comes to an immediate halt catches the attention of one of the wannabe-Carols. 

She doesn’t have time to even open her mouth before Eddie is shouldering his way through the girls to get to you. He seethes, seeing red, and instantly wraps a protective arm around you.

“Don’t you assholes have anything better to do–hey. Sweetheart, what happened?” Gently, he cups your face, carefully avoiding your injury. Dark brown eyes scan over your face, checking to see if there’s anything else he needs to fret over. When he���s sure there’s only the one abrasion, he whips his head towards Carol and her friends. The searing glare he gives them is enough to have one of the lackeys taking a step back. 

“Did you fucking touch her?” Eddie’s voice is menacingly deep, and it sends a chill down even your spine. 

You shake your head, about to tell him, but Carol beats you to the punch.

“She did that to herself.”

Eddie isn’t convinced. He turns back to you, his face immediately morphing from fury into concern. You assure him with a nod and a slight sniffle, though.

“I was climbing the rope in gym and my hand slipped. I fell and hit the ground face first.” You’re aware the words sound a little funny as they come out of your mouth. There’s swelling around the open cut on your top lip and between that and the pain, your voice is off. The girls snicker at how you speak, and it takes everything in Eddie to ignore them. 

“Are you okay, angel?”

“M’fine,” you assure him with a shrug. “Just sore.”

Eddie slips his hand into yours and gives it a gentle squeeze. You know it’s all in your head, but you swear the pain on your face lessens as the butterflies in your stomach rise. 

Looking back towards the succubuses in front of you, Eddie clenches his jaw.

“I’m not sure what you three find so God damn funny. Weren’t you the one who pissed herself on the middle school field trip to the zoo, Carol?”

The head of the clique scoffs and looks Eddie up and down as if she were inspecting a dumpster full of garbage.

“Shut up, freak.”

The term means nothing to your friend anymore, so he just turns to the next girl.

“Karen, I seem to recall you ramming your brand new car that your daddy bought you into the church’s nativity display last Christmas.” He rounds on the last one. “And Ellen, I remember hearing you had a nosebleed at homecoming and your white dress wasn’t white for very long.”

None of them will meet his eye, all looking off in different directions. Carol’s the first one to gather her nerve. She clears her throat and straightens her spine before addressing Eddie. 

“So what? You’ve done a million things worse than that, devil-worshiper.”

The grin Eddie gives them makes your heart swell but causes worry to appear on the faces of your enemies. Eddie just shrugs, your hand moving up and down with the movement since it’s still clutched in his.

“Maybe. But you can’t make me feel like shit for any of it.”

His hand slips out of yours and you’re about to pout, but he wraps his arm around your shoulders instead. It immediately makes you feel safe and warm inside. Eddie starts to lead you away but turns back and smirks.

“Don’t think you’ll be making fun of my best girl anymore, either,” he says, causing the butterflies in your stomach to triple. “That is, if you don’t want your names coming up in my next ritual sacrifice.”

You have to summon all of your strength not to laugh, both at his words and the look of horror on the girls that you’re leaving behind. Eddie leads you around the corner and you don’t even pay attention, following him blindly, when you realize he’s led you into the nurse’s office. She isn’t in there, but Eddie brings you over to a cot and nods at you to sit down. As you do, he walks over and opens a small freezer behind the nurse’s desk and pulls out some ice. 

“How’d you know where that was?” you ask, voice still funny.

Eddie shrugs as he sits down next to you. He swipes a paper towel from the table next to the cot and wraps it around the ice. 

“Been in here enough times over the past six years.” He playfully smirks as he hands you the ice. 

It burns as you press it tenderly against your split lip. You can’t help but wince, immediately taking comfort by resting your head on Eddie’s shoulder. As if on reflex, his arm comes up and wraps around your waist. 

It’s quiet for a few moments before you softly say, “Thank you for defending me.”

“You never have to thank me, sweetheart. As long as you’re okay.”

“Just embarrassed,” you admit with a sigh.

He presses a sweet kiss to your head. “I’m always willing to do something even more embarrassing to take the heat off of you.”

You giggle, your head brushing against his neck as you do.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Eddie gives you a reassuring squeeze. 

“How about we ditch the rest of the day and catch that new cheesy horror movie that’s out? We’ll probably be the only two there and we can make fun of it as loud as we want to.”

“Sounds perfect,” you say.

Eddie stands up and offers you his hand, which you gladly take. He links his fingers with yours as you walk out of the nurse’s office.

“And if you need me to help with your lip, I could always kiss it better.”

A small gasp leaves your mouth, that being the last thing you expected him to say. Flustered, you just nudge him with your shoulder hard enough to knock him sideways. You don’t have the words to say that that’s exactly the medicine you’re looking for.

[ms-fandomgirl]

Finn Ames and The Invisible Girl

Summary: Finn Ames hated drawing attention to himself. In fact, it was one of his cardinal rules of surviving the magical mess that was Easton Magic Academy, at least until Mash showed up. But what happens when he meets a girl who can keep an even lower profile than he can?

Pairing: Finn Ames x Reader

Genre: Fluff! Threat of bullying? But really no warnings

Word Count: 1,404

Cross-posted on Ao3!

Finn Ames hated drawing attention to himself. In fact, it was one of his cardinal rules of surviving the magical mess that was Easton Magic Academy.

Avoid Cavill and his cronies at all cost. Failing to do so could result in maiming, injury, or death.

If something is strange or unusual, leave it be. Failure to do so could also result in maiming, injury, or death. 

Receiving no attention is better than receiving full attention, because, you guessed it, receiving full attention could result in maiming, injury, or death.

Sure, the consequences sounded extreme, but he had been here since middle school, and by now, he had seen some things. He had also been extremely good at following these rules as well, at least until Mash showed up. Mash had challenged every single one of these rules which helped Finn survive, yet he had come out as the indisputable victor in all of them. His friend has also dragged him along for the ride as well.

He had to admit though, life was better now that Mash was here. Cavill all but ran when he caught sight of Mash, and Finn knew that no matter the obstacle, Mash could beat it with his fist.

However, right now, as he was sprinting down the halls of Easton, he wished that Mash had a slightly lower proclivity for trouble. It was the first day of the new term, yet things had somehow managed to already go horribly wrong. Mash’s flying stinkweed for potions had managed to escape containment, filling the dorm with flapping leaves and a noxious odor that most likely still clung to his clothes. And now, he was late to Magical Theory, knowing that Professor Mevitable would no doubt call him out when he entered the classroom.

Skidding to a stop at the entrance of the room, he made a futile attempt to straighten his uniform before silently opening the door. Except the door didn’t open silently. Instead, it let out a terribly loud and obnoxious screech as the rusted metal hinges grated on each other, abruptly silencing the room. He cringed as over twenty pairs of eyes turned his direction, freezing him in place.

“Good of you to decide to join us, Ames,” Professor Mevitable scolded.

She motioned to an empty seat near the front of the classroom. “Now, if you’re done causing a commotion, please take a seat.”

Finn’s heart dropped in his chest as snickers filled the air. Making his way down the aisle, it dropped even further as cruel, blue eyes glared back at him, a sneer painting Cavill’s face as he gestured to the empty seat beside him. Finn’s feet slowed as the gravity of his fate sunk in. There was no way his luck was so horrible as to let this happen, especially in the one class he didn’t share with Mash or any of his other friends. Against his wishes, his heart began to beat faster, breaths coming out in shallow gasps as he desperately tried to quell the panic rising in his chest.

“You can sit here, if you’d like,” a soft voice called out from his left.

Finn jumped as he was broken out of his reverie, his cheeks growing warm at being caught so deep within his own head, and by none other than a girl—you—staring up at him with wide eyes.

He looked at Professor Mevitable to see if she would care, but her back was already turned to the class as she scribbled something on the board. Taking one last glance at Cavill, who was still grinning like a cat that had caught a canary, Finn knew he only had one choice in the matter. He slid into the empty seat, giving you a relieved smile.

“Thanks for that,” he sighed. “You have no idea how much you just saved my life right there.”

You giggled, and Finn’s heart began to pick up pace again for an entirely different reason than before.

“Are you new here?” he asked, throwing out the first thought in his mind before he could get even more flustered and embarrass himself further. The plan backfired spectacularly though, as you shook your head.

“I’ve been here since middle school,” you replied. There was still a soft smile on your face, showing you had taken no offense, but Finn felt horrible. He had been there since middle school. And with your kind bail out, you almost certainly knew him and his history with the bully, but he didn’t even recognize your face, much less know your name.

“I-I’m so sorry-” he began, frantically stumbling to try and save the conversation.

You waved off his worries with a flick of your wrist. “It’s okay, I like to keep a low profile. Keeps me away from unnecessary trouble.”

That Finn understood well. “I do too, although I’ve been pretty bad at it lately.”

You laughed again, and Finn knew he definitely wanted to hear that sound again, even if it was at his own expense. He opened his mouth to continue, but your immediate silence and a looming shadow casting across the desk made him think otherwise. However, it was still too late.

“Is there a reason you’re disrupting my class again, Ames?” Professor Mevitable snapped. During their introductions, she had somehow sneaked up behind them, a slight tap of her heeled boot against the ground the only sound in the classroom as she waited for his response.

“No Professor,” he squeaked, tensing in fear. Professor Mevitable glared at him, taking in his state before deeming him adequately terrified. He was sure he looked absolutely pathetic.  

“Then I suggest you stay quiet before I decide you also need to stay after class.”

At last, she retreated to the front of the classroom, and Finn only sighed in relief once she began writing on the board once more.

The rest of the class passed in uneventful boredom. On one hand, Finn was relieved. He already had enough excitement for a whole week crammed into a Monday morning, and he didn’t want any more trouble. On the other hand, however, this also meant he didn’t get any more chances to talk to you. The most interaction between the two of you were friendly glances and a shared ink pot when he realized his had run dry. After what felt like a small eternity later, Professor Mevitable finally dismissed the class, and Finn’s time had come.

“Thanks again for letting me sit next to you. I’m sorry I didn’t know you existed until now,” Finn said, and then immediately cringed. That was not how he had wanted that to come out at all.

“It was no problem, really,” you replied, shrugging as you finished packing up your bag. “And hey, better late than never, right?”

Finn nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “I hope I’ll see you around, then? Or at least, I want to see you around again, if that’s okay with you. My friends are great, don’t get me wrong, but every time I’m with them something is bound to happen, and sometimes it’s nice to be a bit more easy going, you know? And you were so easy to be around that I just-”

He cut himself off, inwardly cursing at having rambled for so long in front of you. Any chance of wanting to be around him must have dramatically declined after that, right? But when he risked a glance up at you, he was shocked to see a light blush painting your cheeks and your lips upturned in a small smile.

“I want to see you around again too, Finn,” you said bashfully, before scurrying towards the door.

Finn wanted to follow you, maybe even walk with you to your next class, regardless of whether it was his next class too, but his feet remained firmly planted on the ground. You had just said his name for the first time. His name. It shouldn’t even be a big deal—he heard his name called out by many different people every day—but the way you said his name was different. It had sounded so sweetly melodic coming from your lips that he was frozen in place, only snapping out of his stupor when he realized you had left.

However, as Finn walked to his next class, he was nothing but determined—determined that he would see you, the invisible girl, again.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Probably not my best work, but it was definitely fun! Finn immediately became my favorite character when I started watching Mashle, so I just had to write a little something for him. This was originally supposed to be bulleted headcanons or a small drabble, but I literally have no control. I have some ideas for more, both for Finn and other characters, but we'll see if I end up writing them. I've been in a bit of a writing slump, although this has helped me start to get out of it!

[hyperactively-me]

state of mind

You wince as you squeeze your eyes shut, forgetting about the growing black eye you have from fighting the people that attacked you and Din. As you open your eyes, another sob threatens to spill over. You look straight at Din and see his chest just barely moving up and down, a signal that he was holding on for dear life.  “—‘m coming Din, just…give me a sec” you grumble as you attempt to twist your wrists free of the rope. 

just wanted to ask you guys to please read this

(asks are open)

happy reading

warnings: canon typical violence

“Let him up!” you cry out hoarsely as you tug on the rope wrapped tightly around your wrists with all your strength.

“You’re going to kill him” you choke out, eyes widening with horror. You feel like you’re suffocating, pain filling every crevice of your being. 

Venanzio Scrivens, leader of an undercover spice ring, stands tall over Din. He looks over from where his two cronies were roughing Din up from a failed attempt to take them down. Scrivens had too many reinforcements, too many strikes surrounding the both of you. Ultimately, threats were made, and here you were now, watching Din get beaten up. Din was fighting against the unforgiving grip one of the men had around his neck,  his muscles flexing against the rope that rendered his hands immobile.

“Ah ah, how do you ask properly, little girl?” Scrivens questions, taunting and manipulating your jumbled emotions. 

“Please!” you beg desperately as you notice Din’s body starts to still and fall limp. “I’ll do anything you want, just please let him breathe” your lip trembles as a sob wracks your chest, the corner of your eyes pricked with tears. 

Scrivens glances over at you with a smirk on his face before signaling to his men to cease Din’s suffering. He pulls Din up by the neck of his chestplate, smirking once more before letting Din fall to his side on the floor, gasping for breath. You can tell he’s slipping in and out of consciousness, his chest rising and falling slowly. His hands twist weakly behind his back, unable to free himself from his constraints. 

“Now, that wasn’t so bad” Scrivens cackles, wiping his hands down the front of his pants. He stalks over to you, a sinister energy radiating from his form. 

You press your back up against the cool stone wall and your heart feels like it’s about to beat right out of your chest. He swoops down and roughly grabs your shoulder, heaving you up to stand on your feet. You struggle against him, grunting, trying to peel yourself away from his iron grip.

“Maker, just let me—go you–” you grunt out, wriggling against his grip.  

“Stop moving you little creature, you’ll only make things worse for him” he sneers. You immediately stop, reluctantly complying to his threat.

He drags you over to a support beam holding up the creaky old ceiling before shoving you back down towards the ground. You tumble down with a huff and peek up at him before he bends down once more. 

He flashes a sinister grin towards you before untying your hands, bunching your wrists in a death grip as an attempt to subdue any arising aggression from you. He quickly pulls your hands back and around the support beam before tying your hands once more. Your breath picks up, feeling too constrained, too restricted in the rope, and Din was probably unconscious in front of you and Maker you hope he’s still breathing. 

“Now you just sit here and look pretty for me. I’ll be back” his eyes roam slowly down your body, clearly undressing you with his eyes. You tense under his unashamed assessment of your body, gagging internally at his despicable actions. He nods his head to his two cronies before turning on his heel and stalking out of the room and up the stairs on the other side of the wall, vanishing from sight.

You wince as you squeeze your eyes shut, forgetting about the growing black eye you have from fighting the people that attacked you and Din. As you open your eyes, another sob threatens to spill over. You look straight at Din and see his chest just barely moving up and down, a signal that he was holding on for dear life. 

“—‘m coming Din, just…give me a sec” you grumble as you attempt to twist your wrists free of the rope. 

You feel the rope around your wrists loosen slightly, a spark of hope igniting in your chest. The support beam behind you feels rough on your back so you resort to rubbing the rope on the edge of the beam. In your peripheral vision, Din begins to stir slightly, letting out a groan and a half-hearted mumble of incoherent words. You pick up the pace as you feel the ropes begin to fray against your skin, repeating the motion. With an audible creak, the rope snaps open, successfully freeing your hands. You stand up with a start, fully prepared to get Din and escape. Your head throbs and bile threatens to spill out of your stomach as you grip onto the wall, letting the smooth touch of the stone ground you.

Quiet, hoarse coughs spill out of Din, reminding you of your limited time. You rush over to his side, nearly throwing yourself on top of him before pushing Din onto his stomach. Your hands shake as you untie his coarse hands, anxiety rushing through your system. Once you free his hands, you roll him over onto his back. You run your hand over his chest softly before grabbing his large hand in yours. You take your two fingers and press them firmly against his wrist, checking his pulse. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you start to feel dizzy, heart racing at the endless outcomes ahead of you. 

You feel his pulse, just barely, and let out a dramatic sigh of relief, squeezing his hand.

“Thank the Maker,” voice breaking, the dam of pent up emotions spilling out with relief. You fold in on yourself, forehead hitting his chest as you take a sharp inhale as an attempt to subdue your emotions. You’ll have time for them later. 

You spring up off the floor, assessing the room for any possible escape routes. Your eyes flit across the room until you come across a splintering wooden door, little beams of light pouring through its cracks and crevices. You run up to it and strain your vision through one of the holes in the door. All you see outside is rainforest and a few sparse buildings. You take a deep breath and decide to take the risk of running into potential crossfire. The door is locked although unstable on its hinges. You frantically look around the room for anything you could use to knock it down before landing on a crowbar. You recognize that was the crowbar Scrivens was holding as a weapon when you two were dragged down the stairs. You pick up the heavy object and twist it in your hands, adjusting it until your grip is steady.

You approach the door and take one good swing, the door cracking from the impact. You swing it twice more and the door falls off its hinges. You congratulate yourself internally, thinking how surprised Din would be to see you just demolish that door. You spin on your heel and head straight to Din, prepared to do whatever it takes to get you two to safety. 

You bend over next to the top of his head, grasping onto his tunic underneath his shoulders. You shudder over how cold his body is. You take a deep breath in an attempt to shake any feelings of doubt, and you start pulling him, very ungracefully, across the floor. 

Please please please wake up Din because you’re too big and tall and heavy and I can’t drag your ass across the galaxy you think, reaching the threshold between the bunker and the earth. You turn your head around to check for any cronies patrolling the area. Your eye catches four guarding the sides of the lonesome buildings around the edges of the compound, but otherwise the coast was clear. 

Just as you were about to drag Din across the dirt, he starts coughing again.

“Oh my god” you croak out. 

“Din, can you hear me?” you press, trying to arouse his subconscious. 

You quickly drop his shoulders in shock, snapping him out of his sleep-like state. His head begins to stir, a groan crackling over the voice modulator. He stills and looks directly at you, seemingly trying to make out your face. All of a sudden he throws himself forward, nearly knocking his helmet into yours. “Din, are you okay? Where are you hurt?” you question him stupidly, unsure what to say in the moment. Your eyes search his body language for any sign of discomfort. You grab onto his chest to feel his heartbeat, a silent prayer escaping your lips as you feel his heart beating.

“Augh– oh my god. What happened” he croaks, rubbing his hands over his helmet as if to shake off any dizziness. 

“Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah I think so? Was I choked out–?”

“I’ll tell you everything later, we have to go now” you commanded, urgency and fear cutting through the air. “Can you stand?” 

“Were you dragging me across the floor?” he pressed, voice delirious. “Wait, your eye…who did that to you?” his tone of voice drastically shifts to something darker. 

“Din. This isn’t a good time. Please” you practically beg him, eyes flitting around to ensure that no one can see you two. You are so afraid, ready to leave. 

“Can you stand?” you repeat. 

“I…I think I can” his voice tight in his throat. 

You shoot up to a standing position and offer your hands down to him. His eyes narrow before clasping your hands. You lean backwards and pull him up with all your strength as he rocks himself onto his feet. As he reaches his full height, he stumbles over you, trying to keep his balance on your smaller form. He grabs your shoulders, hand hanging low as he fights dizziness and exhaustion. Your arms wrap around his torso as an attempt to steady him.

“Careful, Din. Let me help you” you sigh, reassuring him in his moment of physical vulnerability. 

He stays silent for a moment, allowing you to move him with your hands. 

“...Thanks” he mumbles out before taking a labored inhale. 

“Just hold onto me and run” you whisper, looking up to his eyes before focusing on the world outside of the doorway. His eyes remain planted on you, mesmerized by your aura in this very moment. You quickly check your datapad for the location of the Crest. The device buffers a moment, then displays the coordinates of the ship. You let out a sigh of relief when the coordinates are only a few hundred meters away. You shove the device away and turn to Din one last time, giving his hand a tight squeeze and a small nod. 

The next thing you know, you’re bolting out of the threshold and into freedom. You’re practically dragging Din behind, his feet unsteady over the soft mud of the forest floor. The sweltering heat of the humid jungle envelops you like steam from the fresher. You sprint as fast as your feet can carry you to the edge of the compound, refusing to turn around, heart nearly pounding out of your chest. You tug on Din’s hand, beckoning him to move faster as you both cross the threshold between entrapment and freedom. 

You send a silent prayer of gratitude into the universe for a safe escape from the compound as you run deeper into the jungle. The buildings fade behind you both and the tree trunks are growing larger, thicker. Long vines and foliage hang in your vision, endless shades of green reflecting off every dewey surface. You nearly forget what you were running from until you hear Din wheezing behind you, gasping for breath.

“I think we’re safe. Slow down” he says in between breaths, gulping in the humid air. 

You come to a stop abruptly, whipping around to face Din. His voice snaps you out of the hazy daydream, filling you with concern. He regains his posture, breath shallow and barely moving. Inexplicably, he removes his helmet and you look at him with surprise. He’s never taken off his helmet outside, let alone in a place where anyone could stumble upon you both and see his face. He only takes it off in the safety of the Crest. You stand there dumbfounded, unsure what to say. He’s staring straight at you with an indescribable look plastered on his face. 

“Din, please, we’re only a few hundred meters away from the Crest, we can make it if we–” you’re silenced as Din smashes his lips onto yours. 

You take a sharp inhale at the unexpected motion, wrapping your arms around his neck out of instinct. He cups his hands around your face, swiping his thumb over your cheekbone. A sigh escapes your lips and he deepens the kiss, pulling you in closer, chests meeting in the middle. His shirt is drenched, sticking to his skin, but you don’t care. Din slowly pulls away as if he’s trying to ingrain this moment into his memory forever. 

He buries his face into the crook of your neck as his strong arms wrap around your torso. You hear him sniffle for a moment, a pang of hurt flares from your chest. You card your hands through his damp hair, repeating the motion. His wet eyes flutter against the ridge between your shoulder and your neck, his hot breath spanning the area. You wrap your arms tighter around his neck.

“It’s ok…I think we’re safe now” a nearly inaudible whisper rolls off your tongue. 

He pulls away, lifting a hand to your face. You never want to leave this moment. You feel inexpressibly at peace with him, like nothing else in the world mattered and it was just you and him in the galaxy. 

“Let’s go back to the ship” he whispers, taking your hand in his. 

- - - - - 

On the way back to the ship Din stumbled a few times, prompting you to sit him down on the floor next to the fresher the moment you entered the ship. Of course, he argued with you at first, protesting that he was fine, I just need to sleep it off. You shot him an icy look which apparently was enough for him to plop down on the floor with no further complaints. 

You never truly took a moment to assess the beating he took from the criminals, too wrapped up in ensuring that you both escaped the compound alive. Now, you’re gently slipping off his grimy leather gloves and dropping them to the floor. You lift up his damp shirt to inspect for any hidden injuries. He leans up casually against the metal wall of the ship, eyebrows raised as he watches you work. A few bruises started to blossom around his abdomen and chest, but there were a few nasty cuts littered around his arms. 

“So, you gonna tell me why I was on the floor earlier?” he questions playfully as you pull out bacta spray and bandages to cover up a deep gash running from his shoulder to his bicep. 

A tense sigh escapes your lips. You take the bacta and start applying it to the gash. 

“You nearly drowned. And I was forced to watch it all” you deadpan, not making eye contact, too afraid to meet his eyes. “I really thought you were going to die.” 

His body freezes, tensing under your touch as the bacta spray hits the gash. He winces a little from the contact, eyes shutting closed. You set the bacta gently on the floor and pull out fresh bandages before working them around the cut. Your hands deftly wrap the bandage around his bicep and over his shoulder before tying it off. 

You don’t know when the tears began rolling down your cheeks.

“Oh” he says stupidly, tensing up as he seemingly remembering the torture he endured.

“…But I’m fine now,” he grits out, struggling to find the right words. “I’ve survived plenty of violence and danger before you came along.” 

He reaches out to hold your forearms, rubbing gentle circles around your grimy skin. 

“I’m fine now” he reassures you, squeezing your arms.

“But you’re not” you sob out, letting down the barriers, tearing down the dams that held up your composure. “You’re not and you know it, and I know it, and I can’t—” your say between sobs, chest burning like a hot knife is cutting through it. 

“I can’t ever see you like that again,” you sob out, hot tears rolling down your face. 

“Sweetheart,” he sighs, his voice trembling. “I— I know. I wouldn’t have made it without you.” 

Your heart tugs at your chest and you ignore the feeling, but you wish you could embrace him, kiss him again, let him have every aspect of you. 

He brushes stray hairs out of your face, hand lingering after tucking it behind your ears. 

“Listen…I’ve been through a lot of things. Seen a lot of things. Did a lot of things I regret,” he says quietly, dazed by his uncharacteristic vulnerability in the moment. 

“I’m not new to violence like this. This has been my lifestyle for years. It’s my job, my profession.” He takes a deep breath before continuing, voice labored with emotion. His eyes make contact with your watery eyes and he shudders at the sight. He pulls away from you, a hand trails down his face. 

“What if you end up like that again” you manage, and then his hands are back on your body. “I can’t see you that close to death ever again. You stopped breathing Din. I— I just…I can’t see you that close to death.” 

“It’s my job,” Din argues gently. “Trust me, I’ve encountered worse before. You’re too good for me” he says. 

“Don’t say that, Din” you feel another sob wrack your chest. 

“But it’s true. I’ve never had someone care for me like this before” he answers honestly. His response pierces your heart, increasing your heart rate. Your hands snake up to the sides of his face, holding his face like it was glass.  

“I just want you to be safe” you whisper, quiet sniffles piercing the still air. 

“‘M safe with you,” he murmurs, arms encircling you as he pulls you into his lap. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and bury your face into the crook of his neck. 

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

i assume you'll be coming for blood (that makes two of us)

Chapter 3

Ao3 | 1.5k words | Sweetheart's POV

Sweet heart continues to spiral as Collins and Cam try to help. They just keep chasing their help away.

-

Fooliverse Sweetheart faces off with that first shade. They already know Milo, but things are a lot more complicated than they might have been, not least because of their own stubbornness and pride. Hopefully that pride won't get them killed. Hopefully.

TW: medical examination and discussions, vaguely depicted panic attack, reader intentionally triggering a character, conflict.

Your desk was waiting for you when you made it back to the office. Jet’s office was darkened, and only a handful of other investigators remained at their desks in the wide, open bullpen. It was late evening, bordering on much too late to be here. You sat down anyway and started working. 

By the time morning came round, you had far more information than you did at the start of the day before. For one, you had a rudimentary understanding of Swahili, and had managed to properly convey what you needed from your expert using a few online dictionaries and whatever Google Translate had to offer. He was a pleasant guy, if your translations were correct, and had affirmed that he would send a statement your way within the next few days with everything he knew about shades broken down into simple enough terms for the Department to work with. 

Your back ached and your stomach was still in knots, but you felt much better than you had the day before. Whatever affects the shade’s life-sucking-bullshit left its victims with wore off with time and rest. You added it to your notes, and sent a quick email to Collins to report your improved health. The sun had started to rise when you received a message back. 

Report to medical for field clearance. Don’t make me sick Jet on you. 

You sighed, scrubbing at your tired eyes. You knew it was pointless to resist. Collins would get you down there eventually, one way or another. It looked better for you if you went voluntarily. 

There was a whole floor to the medical department. Half of it was dedicated only to Dr. Collins’ medical research and the seminars he taught for D.A.M.N.. The other half made up the Department’s extensive infirmary, staffed by Dr. Collins’ loyal group of doctors and nurses. They were a vicious bunch, too smart for anybody’s good, and skilled beyond all reason in both mundane and magical healing. Collins expected nothing but exceptional skill from his staff, and he wouldn’t settle for anything less. 

By the time you arrived, night shift was trading for day. A few of Collins’ cronies eyed you suspiciously as you stepped off the elevator and they stepped on. You imagined that you probably looked just this side of insane, wearing yesterday’s clothes, your hair wild, your face slack with exhaustion. 

Collins was waiting for you in his low lit examination room. There was a small, plastic covered examination table, countertops and cabinets stocked with medical supplies, a bright red trash can marked for hazardous waste. Collins seemed to have some sort of restriction against fluorescent lights in the areas in which only he worked, since his office was lit in a similar, warm fashion. You imagined that it probably hurt his eyes. Milo’s lighting choices, or lack thereof, made sudden sense to you. 

Your gut twisted at the thought of him. Anger felt suspiciously like guilt these days.

“You look like shit.” Collins drawled as you entered. “Still.” 

“Bit better than yesterday.” You replied, sighing. “That flu is gone.”

“Flu.” Collins replied. His eyes were more gray than silver. “Right. Up on the table please.” 

You sat where you were told, and let Collins check your heart rate, your breathing, your temperature, throat, nose, and ears. For a healer, he seemed to rely on non-magical medicine, at least more than you’d seen from others. He sighed as he ticked off his little list. His eyes caught on the healed bite marks that scattered your neck and shoulders. He didn’t say anything. 

“You’re functioning.” He said. “Barely. Did you sleep last night?”

“Did you?”

“Vampire?” He replied, dryly. “Try again.” 

“Vampires do need to sleep.” You said. “Not as much as humans but…” 

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“I’m on a case.” You crossed your arms over your chest and went to stand. “Sometimes that takes precedence to things like sleep.” 

“And sometimes, when an investigator doesn’t get adequate rest they do stupid shit that gets them killed.” Collins snapped. He was done playing games with you. “I’ll bench you if I have to, Investigator. Go home and get some rest.” 

“I can handle this.” You seethed, your teeth clenched. You tried to maneuver around Collins, but he had you cornered. “Why can’t anybody just let me handle this?” 

Collins was quiet for a long breath. You’d revealed too much. He puffed out a curse and placed his hands on his hips. He looked so tired. 

“Listen to me.” He ordered. You twitched. You hated it when people gave you orders. “The Department doesn’t give anybody a fair shake. Much less people like you and I, who folks tend to underestimate.” You shook your head emphatically, wrapped your arms around your middle. You tried to squeeze that shake out of yourself by force. “The only way that anybody survives in this place is by asking for help when they need it.” 

“I don’t.” You hissed. Collins was pushing, just like Milo had. You felt yourself rearing back for an attack, reaching through your knowledge of Collins to find what would hurt, what would win . 

“ And you’ve got somebody feeding on you.” He ignored your outburst, too focused on his own outrage. His lip curled with disgust as he motioned at the pale, raised scars of Milo’s bite. “That can’t be helping. Not when you ignore injuries and push through shit like a damn bulldozer!” Maybe ?

“What, are you jealous?” You laughed. “Wanted to sink your own fangs in?” 

Bullseye. 

Collins reared back. He shot across the room faster than your eyes could track. He took on a horrible, haunted expression, his face pale and slack as he pressed himself against the wall, as far away from you as he could get. Collins wasn’t a small man, but he sure made himself so. It was almost as if he was afraid of you. Or almost as if he didn’t want you to be afraid of him. 

Whatever it was, he wasn’t blocking the door anymore. You moved fast, burst from the exam room and made for the elevator. Collins couldn’t chase you above ground. A voice called after you, shaking and full of grief. 

“You’re benched, Investigator!” Collins’ accent got stronger when he was spooked. “You won’t see the field until I say so!” 

The elevator doors slid closed on Collins’ pale, haunted face, peering out at you from his dim exam room. You breathed deeply, tried to still your shaking heart. 

Anger felt suspiciously like guilt. 

Cam’s call came half an hour later, as you were pulling into your apartment’s crowded parking garage. You cursed, fumbling with your phone as you backed into your tiny spot and answered more sharply than you had intended to. 

“What did you say to Dr. Collins?” Cam said, by way of greeting. 

“Jesus Christ.” You huffed. You pressed your forehead to your steering wheel and considered ramming your car into the building. Instead, you snagged your work bag and keys and started making the endless trek up four flights of stairs to your apartment. You were so tired. 

“I highly doubt it was that.” Cam sounded irate, something you’d never heard in his voice before. “He’s… disturbed. You triggered something deep for him. He won’t tell me what it is and won’t let me help.”

“I said what I needed to.” You felt that anger-guilt rising up in your throat like bile. Cam could hear the uncertainty in your voice. 

“If you keep going like this,” Cam’s voice got low, “you’re going to chase away everybody who wants to help you.”

“I don’t need help, Cam.” You didn’t even believe yourself anymore, not with the shake in your voice. Cam would see through you in an instant. 

“Apologize to him.” Cam snapped. “As soon as possible. And then tell me what I need to do to help you. You won’t scare me away.” 

“I can try.” 

“You could.” He sounded so far away. “I’ve faced worse things than you.” 

You hung up. There were a few things you could use against Cam, but you didn’t think any of them would gain you a thing. He was made of different stuff. Literally. 

Your hands shook as you opened your door, metal scraping on metal and setting your already shredded nerves alight. Your dropped bag, keys, and shoes just inside the door haphazardly, just conscious enough to make sure your deadbolt was in place before dragging yourself back into your bedroom. Your bed welcomed you stiffly as you disturbed the unkempt sheets. You groaned into the scratch of them, and longed distantly for Milo’s billion fucking thread count. 

You were calling him before you could think better of it. You listened to the monotone ringing, the drone drilling into your skull. His voice told you to leave a message. You nearly fell apart at the sound of it. You were silent for a very long time. 

“I’m such an asshole.” You sighed. You didn’t know if the message had timed out or not. You didn’t know if it mattered.

[joka13]

FANFICTION: Weasley Twins x Reader (Slytherin Girl) - Part 1

WARNINGS: none

It's the start of your fifth year attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You enter through the magnificent doors to the Great Hall and are greeted by a rush of nostalgia: the smell of the floating candles' melting wax, the beautiful image of the clear night sky instead of a ceiling, and the sound of the other students chatting in excitement. You go to join your fellow Slytherins at their assigned table on the far left side of the room.

You are met with the traditional hugs and "how was your summer's." Just as you find a seat next to your friend, Maddy Dewmond, the crowd of fresh first years enter the room following nervously behind Profesor McGonagall. You chuckle to yourself, remembering how anxious you had been as a first year. The room grows quiet as the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, comes to the stand and begins his annual welcoming speech.

You listen halfheartedly to the headmaster. You've heard this speech four times already, so you busy yourself by fidgetting with the utensils on the table in front of you. Your gaze wanders gradually, and you find yourself meeting the eyes of a Gryffindor at the other side of the room.

Even while he is sitting, you can tell that he is tall, and his hair is a lovely rusty-orange color that reminds you of leaves during the fall. You recognize him as one of the Weasley twins... George maybe? The distance makes it hard to tell exactly.

He flashes a handsome smile and you can't help but return the gesture, though you're also suddenly flustered. You force yourself to go back to playing with the fork, but you discreetly watch through your bangs as he leans to the left to gently nudge his twin's shoulder. Soon, after Fred follows his brother's gaze, both twins are staring at you from across the room.

Now you are twice as much flustered. You can't ignore the pair, so you wave awkwardly in their direction. The twins waggle their fingers goofily in unison back at you in response, causing a grin to spread uncontrollably across your face. Excited butterflies come alive inside your stomach as you fight the urge to giggle outloud.

Your attention is caught by the sudden absence of Dumbledore's voice. Was the speech over already? By the way the students around you are whispering anxiously to each other, you think not. You must have missed something.

A woman with a toad-like face dressed entirely in pink, who you assume is the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, gets up from the professors' table to join the headmaster at the stand. She introduces herself as Profesor Umbridge. Not far down the table from you, Draco Malfoy talks in a hushed voice to his cronies.

"...father told me about her," you hear him say. "Do this school lots of good, she will. I'd bet the last of my galleons that she'll be able to have Dumbledore fired by the end of the year. Y'know, with all of his bustle about You-Know-Who." Malfoy spots you watching him. You quickly turn away, but it's too late.

"Good to see you, y/n. How was your summer?" Malfoy asks. You can hear the mockery in his voice, but you refuse to let him get a rise out of you. Everyone between you and him is watching you, waiting for your reply.

"Fine, thanks," you say reluctantly. You, once again, return to the fork.

"Aw, come on," Malfoy pouts. "Won't you ask me how my summer was?"

You set the fork down, straighten your posture, and smile while trying to ignore the many eyes on you. "I won't."

Malfoy and his buddies respond with quieted, but obnoxious "ooooooo's" and vicious snickers.

"I think she likes me," Malfoy chortles as you turn away and let your hair curtain your face to hide the heat rising in your cheeks.

Maddy rolls her eyes. "Don't pay any attention to them, y/n," she whispers. "They tease you only because they can't have you." You nod, though you find her statement hard to believe.

You glance up for a brief moment and notice Fred and George are huddled close. George whispers, pointing directly at you. Then Fred speaks and nods towards Malfoy. The frustration Malfoy had caused you changes to curiosity as Fred pulls out his wand. Underneath the table, he points it at Malfoy and a mutters something.

"Ah!" Malfoy hisses as he jerks forward, tipping over a glass of pumpkin juice. It is as if someone had pushed him from behind. He turns around, furiously searching for his offender.

You look back to the twins who, at first glance, appear to be innocent. Fred's wand is no where to be seen and both him and George are looking at Dumbledore. (Professor Umbridge has since returned to her seat.) George even fakes a yawn. You struggle to hold in a laugh, and it almost breaks free when Malfoy ends up blaming Crab and cuffs him on the back of the head, gesturing angrily to the pumpkin juice spill in his lap.

"What's so funny?" Maddy asks.

"I'll tell you later," you chuckle. You make eye contact with Fred, who winks at you. You grin and mouth, "Thanks."

"Anytime," he mouths back.

[arkus-rhapsode]

Gonna give some love to one of my favorite Radiant Dawn minor antagonists, Hetzel. And what he represents overall in Radiant Dawn.

Now when Hetzel shows up in PoR and Radiant Dawn he seems like an unassuming old man. Practically harmless compared to the other obviously evil senators. But the thing is, Hetzel is a great sign of somebody who is aware actions are wrong, but he never uses any of his own power to stop or take a stance.

He knows the Serenes Massacre plan is bad, but he doesn't really make any attempts to stop it. Because the truth is he's more ambivalent to the plight of the Herons. He bails out slaver and fellow Senator, Oliver, despite a whole point of Sanaki's campaign was to find the people still partaking in the slave trade and stamping them out. And while he makes no aggressive actions against Sanaki, he still is a part of the anti Apostle group of Senators. Yet despite all that he still frees Rafiel.

This is because Hetzel is probably one of the most mature criticism Fire Emblem has had of someone in power: Hetzel is ultimately a man who likes having power and maintaining the status quo. Unlike Lekain and other who their current position isn't just enough and need to keep aggressively expanding, Hetzel rather takes a position of doing what is best to main the power he has. Despite the fact he is aware that slavery and massacring is bad. He will still benefit if Lekain wins, but will never use any of his power to implement any significant changes. At best all he does is gestures of good faith.

Theocracy in Fire Emblem is honestly kinda shallow and very much a simplified version of it. That there is a religion that has some form of political power. And that one in charge is probably some person who pushes down on others because god tells them to. But Tellius seems to understand a theocracy isn't just about the dogma of a faith being implemented by the state and there for the only true religion and those with conflicting ideas must die, but rather those who benefit the most are the ones in the highest positions of the theocratic organization. Something that can be achieved less through actually believing but actually knowing how to rise in rank in a religious institution. All of the senators are Dukes, holding massive lands and they are the senior most members of their faith. While we know that warriors of the faith like Zelgius and others hold titles like Earl for their place in the military fighting for their faith. The theocracy of Begnion is one that isn't just about "because the Goddess" its a group of men who have grown rich and consolidated much of their riches and political position and now someone like Sanaki is going to upset this balance after they worked to avoid this happening with Apostle Misha. Delegitimizing Sanaki by revealing she's not the true Apostle would then pass over the power of the empire to Lekain and his cronies. And Hetzel was along for this ride for a long time.

And when finally confronted by Rafiel in the end, Hetzel only begs for forgiveness. He knows what he has done is wrong but pleas that he was kind to Rafiel so that means he's not all that bad. But Rafiel has nothing left to say. Hetzel did have a choice given where he was in the senate. And in the end he ultimately choose to go with Lekain's flow. And when Ike confronts Hetzel, all Hetzel refuses to surrender. He'll be disgraced. Even at the end knowing after everything and having one last chance to get out, he doesn't take it because his status is more important to him than doing the right thing.

Hetzel is a wonderfully pathetic villain and a genuinely good examination of those in power who passively allow bad acts even when they have a level of awareness. While there are a lot of people who like to dismiss many FE villains (and lets be fair) that aren't always that strong or that complex. But I always want to at least give praise to instances like Hetzel that make memorable antagonists.

[thebluestbluewords]

Full Mingo

I cannot be stopped, I cannot be contained, I’m writing Rise of Red fic now. (canon divergence, but I’m still getting to that part)

+

Ella throws an arm out across Red's chest, preventing her from walking into the courtyard. "Hold on. Don't talk to those kids by the fountain. They're the worst." 

This, of course, means that Red wants to talk to them immediately. She's the worst kid around when they're in the correct timeline, so naturally she needs to talk to the current, ancient worst kids. Even though they're probably going to grow up into people like her mom. Her current-future mom, not the bubbly girl they have right now, before everything went wrong. 

"Who's the worst?" Chloe asks, leaning out into the courtyard around Ella's arm to gawk at the kids gathered around the little fountain and sitting under the trees sprinkled throughout the place. 

Ella yanks her back in by the back of her shiny, empty sword belt. "Nobody. Don't look at them, don't make eye contact with them, and definitely don't talk to them. They'll eat you alive if you do the wrong thing, and uh, no offence or anything, but you two look a little...different than most princesses around here." 

"Aw, Ella. You don't need to be so careful all the time!" Bridget chirps. She's still holding the tray of magic cupcakes, and even though she knows the magic is going to get weird if she eats more than one, Red's fingers itch to take another one. The sugar-sweet frosting flavor isn't lingering  anymore, but the memory of the taste is making her mouth water. Whatever her mom's faults are now, she sure was a hell of a baker back in high school. The cupcakes are so good that Red almost lets herself wish that her mother could be like this now. Sweet, brainless, and able to make cupcakes lighter than air, soft and light and sweet as sugar. 

And magic. 

Can't forget the magic. 

"I have to be careful, because you keep talking to everyone and getting us both into trouble!" Ella is saying. "Don't talk to those kids, Bridget. You've gotta set an example for our new transfer students. If you show them how you talk to everyone they're gonna get the wrong idea about school and think that it's some kind of happy birthday party all the time."

"You worry too much," Bridget giggles. "It's my un-birthday today, so we should treat it like a party. Life's just sweeter when you're nice. I'll talk to them." 

"Don't." 

"Yeah," Chloe chimes in. "Um, maybe don't?"

Bridget beams at them all. 

And then spins past Ella's outstretched arm, cupcake tray in hand. 

"No, don't, stop." Red intones. Bridget's already halfway across the courtyard, but she lifts a hand anyway, like it'll do anything to stop her mother. Even without the whole evil thing, this girl is determined. "Noooo." 

Chloe's already out of their corner, hot on her heels. "Come on you guys, we have to go with her!" 

"We don't!" Ella calls. "We really, super don't!" 

Well then. 

Red leans back against the wall of their alcove. "We could just leave the goody-two-shoes to their own devices for a while. Let them get out of their own trouble for once." 

Ella shoots her a bemused sort of smile. "You say 'for once' like you already know us." 

"I feel like I do. You two are cool," Red lies. "I think we're gonna be good friends. Y'know. If those two survive." 

"They'll survive, but they might wish they hadn't," Ella says darkly, "Ulyana and her VK cronies are the worst. They look down on anyone who isn't a part of their clique, and they're obsessed with using dark magic to seem cool and edgy. They already got a group detention for breeding snakes in Morgie's room, and they just switched to breeding them behind the greenhouse instead. They're not even using them for magic or anything, they just think it's funny to drop them in people's bags when they're not looking. The snakes don't even survive most of the time." 

"Animal lover?" Red guesses. Sure, she's guilty of using the trained flamingos in her mother's game sheds to torment Isaac and the other guards, but she always keeps them alive during the pranks, and even gives them extra shrimp afterwards. Some of them look up from the krill pond when she comes in now. The flamingos aren't talking animals, so they can't berate her for whatever it is she's failed to do each day, and they can't spill her secrets to anyone. Not like Isaac and Maddox. (and oh, even thinking about them hurts, but they're in the future now, and Red can worry about fixing her friends after she's fixed her mom). "I feel like my mom's animals are my only friends sometimes." 

Ella gives her a real smile this time. "Yeah. I have mice living in my room."

Red's nose scrunches up without her conscious control. The doormouse is fine, but regular mice? Regular mice eat the sugar from her tea and chew up her secret, favorite clothes when she leaves them hidden under the bed for too long. "Ew."

"They're trained. They bring me sewing pins and ribbons when I need them for my dresses. I know it sounds weird, but they're my best friends."  "Next to Bridget?"

"Um." Ella shoots a glance over to where Bridget and Chloe have been waylaid by a pair of tall, pretty teenagers with dark hair and purple clothes. "Sure. Let's go with that." 

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

The Moon's Lies (2)

Summary: Kylo Ren x named!Reader. It was never going to be black or white, Light or Dark, friend or foe. Who wouldn't let the galaxy burn to keep their loved ones safe?

Warnings: 18+, unspoken threat of bodily harm, twisted morals, Kylo Ren being himself, vehicle wreck

Masterlist

Canon Divergence Notes: There is no Rey. Finn is the destined Jedi, and he leaves the scar on Ren’s face during the climactic fight on Starkiller Base. The only original canon kept after TFA is the destined Jedi (Finn) leaving to find Luke and Snoke pushing Kylo Ren to the breaking point, continuing the student-kills-the-master cycle. Summary: No Rey. Finn is training to be a Jedi. Kylo Ren takes the throne from Snoke.

A/N: All hail the new alpha/beta reader! Three cheers for @aralezinspace! And thank you all for the support so far. <3 You make my galaxy spin.

2.

Years ticked by with battles fought, secrets found, and the rise of a new Supreme Leader to the throne of the First Order. Matters of life and death. To some.

Dyrrine judged the political upheaval like the weather. Rarely dangerous, but often an inconvenience. She couldn’t control it, and she worried more about sheltering her family from the rain than forming opinions about it.

At the moment, however, as mud sucked her boots down to the ankle and cold drops rode the wind to blast under her hood, she felt a lot of ways about the rain. Literally and figuratively.

Of course her responsibilities took her to Dantooine during the rainy season. And, of course, the First Order had no interest in accommodating the long line waiting for permits and passes.

Most of the year, Dantooine was lovely. Dry. Fairly temperate. Dyrrine would’ve enjoyed being off the ship and soaking in some sunshine while the rusty wheels of bureaucracy slowly groaned along. Instead, she dreamed of hot cups of tea and kept her hands stuffed deep in her wide sleeves as the queue inched forward, bowing under the storm’s onslaught. There were so many people still ahead of her, and she could barely see the service window through the downpour.

Good thing she’d reserved a seat on the next morning’s shuttle. She’d never make the evening flight. If things didn’t pick up, she might not reach the end of the line before the offices closed. Then she could do this all again at ass’o’clock in the morning, standing in a fresh downpour in day-old clothes without even the marginal warmth of the sun. What fun.

Off to the right, the depot’s primary doors slid open, spilling light into the miserable, sludgy afternoon. Stormtroopers in gleaming white armor stomped out, far too many for a patrol, and the eyes of every civilian turned their way. No one dared watch openly, but they peeped, and shrank, and waited. The ‘troopers formed two lines, facing each other to create a kind of path between the depot and the small collection of shuttles and TIEs left outside the hangar.

No wonder the administration was doing such a spectacular job that day. They had a VIP to entertain.

Dyrrine looked down at her feet, trying to work them free of the muck as the Adarian in front of her inched forward by half a pace. She had her priorities; keeping her place in line without losing a shoe was higher on her list than some First Order crony with extra polish on his boots.

One foot popped free with a noise like a belch, confirming Dyrrine’s belief the planet was trying to eat her. The second foot came loose by inches, and she was so consumed with keeping her balance she didn’t register the growing chill until the source stood in the open doorway.

Foot free, a step forward, and sinking into a new swatch of muck, she felt the menacing aura of a wildly powerful Force user. One didn’t need to be Force sensitive necessarily for animal instincts to register a threat, especially when said threat just loved to make a scene, to infect the very air with fear so every lesser creature would stay bowed low – where they belonged. She glanced back to the main entrance as the towering figure in black started down the ‘trooper-lined path, and her blood turned to ice.

She didn’t know his face – not this one, anyway. Last time they’d met, he’d hidden behind a chrome scowl, but his lightsaber was unmistakable, and kriffing hell if she didn’t remember that. It swung from his belt, bulky cross guard hilt on full display. The faint burn it once left along her neck took a week to heal, and this time there was no one to call him away before he introduced her to the blade properly. He was no one’s attack dog anymore. He’d slipped the chain and brutalized the fool holding the leash.

Kylo Ren. The new Supreme Leader.

The downpour suddenly didn’t feel like enough. Blinking away drops clinging to her lashes, she prayed for a flood, for the water to fall in sheets to curtain her from view, for the mud to gulp her down whole. Her gaze snapped back to the ground, hoping as she studied the trembling puddles that her spike of anxiety blended into the frightened crowd. What was one more terrified civilian in a sea of faces?

She resisted the urge to tug her hood lower. That would draw attention, tell anyone looking that she wanted to avoid being seen very, very badly. It took far too much attention to breathe, and she fought to release the mote of panic burning bright in her chest. No need to snuff it out. Just let it free. Like a firefly – still very real, but out and away from her thoughts. Drifting farther and farther, leaving a quiet void in its wake.

She was still. She was silent. She was invisible.

“I remember you.”

She was so kriffing screwed.

Drawn by the voice she would never have recognized without the helmet’s modulator, she looked between the shoulders of the nearest Stormtroopers to meet the Supreme Leader’s gaze. He towered over them, a wall of shadow behind their white armor. And there was no doubt he was speaking to her. He stepped forward, and the ‘troopers parted.

Too late to hide.

His presence crashed down like a wave, suffocating. Crushing.

She turned fully, facing him head-on as she reached deep to grasp the calm assurance that helped her through so many dangerous scrapes in the past.

“We never finished our conversation.” A playful edge sharpened his words, and she hunted through the flickers of expression that slipped past his guard. He wasn’t quite the same beast she met before. This time he was all confidence, secure in his position as the head of the First Order, free to stop, to take the time to pull her apart just for fun. His eyes traced her from dripping head to sodden feet, coming to stop on her pendant. “And you’re still wearing your protection charm. I thought you were going to leave it behind next time.”

With a dim smile that was entirely polite and not at all pleased, she repeated the short bow she’d offered on their first meeting, eyes dipping with her knees as she proved her respect. But she didn’t try to cower. When she rose, she resumed eye contact, letting her expression go placid in the face of her worst nightmare.

“Apologies.” Her voice came strong and steady. It didn’t even shake from the chill. “But as you said, we never finished our conversation, and I never heard whether it was offensive or just surprising.”

Humility, sometimes seasoned with feigned stupidity, could get a civilian far with the First Order. Sometimes officers appreciated the break from the usual hysterics of oppressed locals fighting for rights they no longer possessed. Sometimes a neutral attitude just made her forgettable, which was always the best outcome.

Unfortunately, she’d made a much deeper impression than she’d realized in this case, and she knew he wouldn’t let her fade into the mist like a ghost a second time. Even in the dreary weather, his eyes practically sparkled.

“We should fix that.”

She bowed again – quickly – and without looking away.

“It would be an honor, but I wouldn’t dare take any more of your valuable time, Supreme Leader.”

It was as close to begging as someone could get without yielding, and she knew she’d failed by the quirk of his lips.

“Then you can honor me aboard my shuttle.” He moved on, not in the least encumbered by the mud holding the rest of the planet hostage. “Bring her.”

Two ‘troopers who’d been following in his wake stepped up, but she moved. Springing forward as lithely as she could given her footing, she passed into the hall of white armored bodies of her own volition. It flummoxed the guards, and she offered a simple nod and smile as she continued after their leader. He hadn’t said to arrest her. Or bind her. Not even seize her. She still had some room to work, and so long as the ‘troopers didn’t know whether or not she was a prisoner, she could keep dancing.

So, she kept just ahead of the guards and well back from Kylo Ren, wading through Dantooine’s hateful sendoff to the waiting command shuttle.

The Supreme Leader’s thunderous steps echoed back down the ramp as she entered the hollow of the ship, following muddy tracks across the pristine floors. It felt like sacrilege. Like truth. The honest filth of the First Order’s dominion, and the inevitable tide beyond all illusions of control. Beneath her careful tranquility, a smug spark of emotion kindled. Not even the great First Order could stay polished in the face of a good storm.

But the spark faded as the Stormtroopers marched up after her, and the ramp groaned shut.

The ship was cold. A dead cold. Black with flashes of white and red lights that chilled her worse than the rain. She wondered if anyone in the Order – voluntarily or compelled – ever really saw their ships and bases as home. Something always seemed to draw them back, but she was willing to bet it was the blaster in the arms of the soldier beside them over duty or desire.

The passenger compartment opened directly into the cockpit, where four flight staff were prepping the shuttle for takeoff. There was only one other chair she could spy, and she knew better than to claim it. Guest or prisoner, she shouldn’t sit until her host offered, and she seriously doubted he would.

Leaning over the pilot and copilot, the Supreme Leader rattled off orders, checking his people’s work before it was even complete.

Was he a pilot, too? She knew that flavor of backseat driving. It was why they banned so many temporary residents from the Kuma Lisa’s cockpit. Once you’d had a ship’s controls in hand, most people struggled to accept them in someone else’s.

Ren’s low voice carried through the small space, disinterested in keeping secrets from the damned. “Set course for Ord Trasi. We’ll rendezvous as planned with the Steadfast.”

She closed her eyes and took a beat to breathe through the bubble of panic at the planet’s name. None of this was planned. He didn’t know she’d been on her way back for a rendezvous of her own. If she was careful, she’d remain the only one in danger. They’d know something was wrong when she didn’t return in the morning…

And right now, she needed to open her eyes and play the game. Or she’d never get to wade through a muddy queue ever again. She’d never touch solid ground, feel the rain on her face, or swear at a too-hot sun if she met her end on a damned star destroyer. Or on this shuttle, for that matter.

She got a reign on her fear and looked back to the cockpit just as Ren turned. His black ensemble maintained his regal air even with wet hair sticking to his forehead and ten inches of mud climbing his boots. His cape was no less ominous for the messy streaks on its hem as it flowed behind his long, determined stride. She doubted she’d weathered the rain so well. But that might work in her favor. Anything, given the right approach, could work in one’s favor. It was just a matter of strategy.

The ship lifted off from the mud, hard rain streaking down the viewport like it could drive them back to ground, and Kylo Ren left his flight staff to handle the voyage. While the craft was spacious for a shuttle, it was far from a cruiser, and he closed the distance like shadows rushing in after a light switched off. She held her ground. Waited like a good little subject until his boots came within inches of hers.

She knew this tactic.

Men like him loomed over their prey for one of two reasons. He wanted a fight, or he wanted a trembling victim to torture. He was waiting to see which she’d offer.

She’d deny him both. If it came back to bite her in the ass, at least she’d die satisfied with her decision.

He’d kill her in a heartbeat if she tried to fight – unarmed, trapped on his ship, surrounded by his lackeys. If she served up the fear he craved, he’d wring it out of her until she ran dry, and then she’d be just as dead and twice as grateful to expire.

With the board set against her, she must change the rules.

The ship’s low rumbling beneath her feet reminded her she was already in the belly of the beast, and she must be very clever to climb back out again.

“Who are you?” For all his casual intimidation, he didn’t hide the curiosity in his voice, and his anger didn’t singe the air like it did once upon a time on a planet far, far away.

He recognized a game when he saw one, and the moment he was humoring her. Or at least humoring himself.

She didn’t bow, though she dipped her eyes for the fraction of a second it took her to gather air for an answer. There was a fine line between a silly little stranger and an annoying fool. Too much bobbing would look anxious, anyway. But she held his eyes as she replied.

“Dyrrine Bairdne, sir.”

“And you’re from Lethe.” His eyes traced the strands of beads around her neck, the rings on her fingers, and bracelets on her wrists.

Slowly, mindful of the many guns and deadlier things on display, she raised her hands and lifted her hood. The Supreme Leader’s attention swung to the ornaments woven through her hair, and he scoffed.

“I see you’ve added more armor.” He stared her dead in the eye, daring her. “Expecting to meet a monster?”

She let her nebulous serenity grow warm. A blast from a cheap, old heater on a bitter winter night. Hardly the sun’s rays. But it wasn’t like he wanted that.

“Not at all, Supreme Leader.” She touched the longest strand of beads, keeping his focus on the Selenubis. “I’m training to be the next Naine of my family. Carrier of a thousand wishes, which is what these – ” She lifted a handful of necklaces, letting them rattle to draw both eye and ear. “ – represent.”

He plucked one from her grip, and his eyebrows furrowed. A frown bent his mouth as he rolled the smooth grey stones between gloved fingertips. He studied them like they had a secret script he might decipher in the fluid lines weaving over the face of each sphere.

“Take them off.”

She blinked, masking a busy mind with a face full of surprise. “Sir? They are offensive, then.”

“They’re a nuisance.” Though he didn’t let go of her jewelry, he did return his attention to her face. The amusement had waned. He wanted through her defenses.

Twisting his grip, he dragged her off-balance, and she jerked half a step forward.

Lips by her ear, he repeated, “Take them off.”

With his hulking shoulders out of the way, she could see through the viewport again. At some point, as she bantered for her life, they’d jumped to hyperspace. If he ran her through, right here, at least she’d have a familiar view.

The instant she pulled the faintest comfort from the thought, the ship was spat out of hyperspace, and a planet filled the view.

“Sir,” the flight officer called. “We’ve reached Ord Trasi. On route to rendezvous with the Steadfast now.”

The ship must be hiding on the far side of the planet, away from the hyperspace lanes.

Ren shoved her away, and the two ‘troopers stepped up to flank her. While his intentions were still far from clear, she wasn’t the honored kind of guest. She caught herself before her guards had an excuse to put hands on her, and as the Supreme Leader stomped back to oversee the last leg of their journey, she folded her shaking hands back inside her wet sleeves.

She seized the opportunity to breathe. Still alive. Still in one piece. And another distraction had bought her another precious few minutes. What she’d do with that time she had no idea, but she had it anyway.

Three TIE fighters wheeled into view, streaking past in perfect formation. The first sign of a larger First Order presence.

“I didn’t order an honor guard,” the Supreme Leader snapped. “Order them back to the ship.”

Oh, he was definitely a pilot. He was practically twitching. Too much protection must insult his ego, especially when he wasn’t behind the controls.

The flight officer leaned into the comms and relayed the command, but the TIEs did not disperse. They roared past again, moving behind the shuttle, and she swore she could feel Kylo Ren’s oppressive attention physically lift from her to this new problem.

Doubtless, Ren had something to say. More orders. A good threat or three. But before he could express his wrath beyond the creaking of his glove around his fist, a series of blasts rocked the transport.

Alarms wailed, and the flight crew began shouting updates and alerts as every standing passenger – apart from Ren – lurched into the wall. Beyond the racket from the cockpit, she could hear the wheeze of a dying engine somewhere below.

Kriff.

“Where are our shields?” Ren demanded.

Frantically switching toggles, the pilot shouted over the cacophony. “The readout shows they’re online, sir, but the damage suggests – ”

“Sabotage.” The Supreme Leader all but spat the word.

Shrieking by for another pass, the TIEs sent a hail of green laser fire over the shuttle, and she listened to the hull groan. The wall under her face was warm, and she carefully worked her way to a line of emergency grip points above. She clung on for dear life, looping her arm through and preparing for the worst.

She would not go down with the ship.

And the ship was definitely going down. Hazy clouds blurred the stars, the dark of space fading into atmospheric blue as they lost altitude.

“Sir, we’ve lost too much power. The planet’s gravity is – ”

“Supreme Leader, they’re coming about! Brace for - !”

The side of the shuttle exploded.

The angle of the blast sent debris spearing into the cockpit, and from the corner of her eye she saw an arc of wet crimson splash across the view screen. Now entirely out of control, the ship rolled, and the two stormtroopers tumbled boots-over-helmet through the hole that used to be the other half of the passenger compartment. Their voice modulators warped their screams as they fell.

She screamed, too, lifted off her feet, thrown into wall-ceiling-floor in a dizzying cycle. Her belly leapt into her throat as the engine heaved its last breath and the craft dropped into freefall.

Smoke and sparks filled the air. She couldn’t see what had happened to the flight crew or their dread leader, but no one was doing anything to slow their descent. If there was sabotage though, who was to say the shields were the only system affected? Even if they were conscious, Ren was the only one with the power to do anything at this point.

Well. Not only Ren.

Moving from grip to grip, she worked her way closer to the damaged half of the ship. She needed perspective. She had to see what she was doing.

A blur of green and brown appeared between flashes of blue, and she cursed. All her wonderful protective charms kept flying up to smack in her face, tangle in her hair, and obscure her view. She had a choice to make, and she needed to make it quickly.

Regardless of whether or not Kylo Ren survived, she wasn’t ready to die, certainly not like this. So she’d just have to take her chances.

Letting go of her precious handhold with one hand, she set to work, tugging and tearing the necklaces from her throat. She ripped the rings off with her teeth, and half the bracelets snapped as she jerked them free.

Her senses blossomed, expanding beyond her skin, beyond her sight. She felt the distance between the ship and the planet below, teaming with life, and another dim pulse somewhere onboard. Another survivor. She’d worry about that later. She’d save herself first.

Reaching into the flow of energy and motion that kept the galaxy turning, she pulled. Just as she’d found the grip inside the ship to keep stable, she grappled with air currents, gravity, and space to stabilize the shattered craft’s descent.  

It had been a long, long time since she’d tried anything on this scale, and it tore through her the way too much exercise ripped fragile muscles. Something wet dripped down her neck as the spinning slowed. They were still dropping too fast, and she pushed down at the planet until her ears rang with the effort.

Gradually, painfully, she took control of the fall.

This wouldn’t be a pretty landing.

But they just might survive it.

[hom3landr]

Icarus Falling

Chapter One: Flight Risk

Homelander X OC

When Vought decides to shut down a failing experimental program, a little winged loose end is left. Years later, a bitter young woman named Dove lives in isolation under Vought’s close watch. Not quite human but not quite a supe, Dove must use her wits to survive when Stan Edgar appoints her to The Seven for unknown reasons.

Dove’s tongue peeks out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates on making her brush strokes as even as possible. The sudden garish swipes of polish scratch something in her brain. Her hands are steady now. She no longer leaves a mess all over her fingers from hands shaky with uncertainty. Instead, the ritual has become a balm to her constantly racing mind. The patience to achieve perfection is one of the few things that bring her peace. She prefers bright gaudy colors that irritate the eye. It makes her think of poison frogs and she envies their ability to maim simply by a touch. She wishes she could have had that mutation if she was destined to be a freak. She contemplates whether she’d like to try some nail art today. She isn’t good but that’s not the point. It’s not like anyone will see them anyway. No one ever sees her.

She neatly finishes her nail, happy with the final result. A bright neon green, her nails seem to shine in the beige bleakness of her Vought sponsored house. She supposes that she could make the place homier but she refuses. It feels wrong to make peace with what scraps Vought throws her. She refuses to take comfort in their blood money. Her body may bear signs of their interference but it’s still hers. Her body will have to be her home as it is the only thing she can trust.

Her feathers flutter gently as the oscillating fan blows lukewarm air on her. The sticky summer air lingers and her bare skin is damp with sweat. Her curls are pulled up away from her neck in hopes of some relief from the muggy air. Of course Vought didn’t feel like springing for working air conditioning for her. She guesses it’s because it’s not “cost-effective”

She stretches out her wings behind her, wincing slightly at the way her shoulder blades ache. They may be part of her but the human body isn’t made to have wings. Her muscles are forced to shift and pull in unnatural ways to account for the unfamiliar DNA. She’s no different than a poorly bred dog, too many elements being blended together and spit out without thought to nature’s elegance. The weight of them makes her constantly sore, even with the harness for support. It’s nothing fancy but the leather contraption helps take some of the strain off her back. Her wings are another reason she doesn’t decorate. Furniture tends to be a hassle more often than not when it comes to accommodating her. Couches and any chair with a back is a solid no-go, unless she wants a wing cramp. She’s currently sitting on her unfolded futon she uses as a makeshift wing-friendly couch.

She happily observes her nails as they dry, so used to boredom that watching the slick wet polish turn tacky is a decent passtime. She whistles a jaunty little tune along with the music playing softly on the radio. She decides that she will try some nail art. She could use a little cheetah print.

Alas, her relatively good mood instantly sours when a sleek black car pulls into her driveway. Her stomach turns. The only people who ever come to visit are Vought cronies, usually doing the bare minimum to make sure she’s still alive. Her house that was supposed to be her refuge becomes just another lab. She angrily screws back on the cap to her polish and sluggishly rises with a groan. She didn’t realize she’s due for another checkup so soon. She contemplates grabbing a shirt but decides they don’t deserve the privilege of decorum. She doesn’t feel like putting in the effort of trying to wrestle her wings into one. She never bothers when she’s alone.

Something still feels off and there is a prickle on the back of her neck as she watches the car park. She double takes when she sees the figure getting out of the car. It’s not some nameless lab tech. It’s not some suit here to chastise her for flying high enough to be seen. It’s Stan Edgar, the man whose machinations led to her fate but who never found her important enough to speak to directly. He’s almost a mythical figure to her and her throat tightens. She doubts this is another quick checkup to endure. This is something big.

Once more she wonders if she should grab a shirt. But again, she decides against it. Maybe she’ll get lucky and the shock of her nudity will give the old fucker a heart attack. Her shoulders pop as she shifts. Clad only in a pair of ratty denim cutoffs, she opens the door to stare brazenly at the leader of Vought with her hand placed impudently on her hip.

“It’s rude to show up without calling”

Much to her dismay, Edgar doesn’t even flinch at her exposure. Although the same certainly can’t be said for the two bodyguards flanking him. Even with their sunglasses, the tilt of their heads is an obvious indicator of just where their eyes are focused. She rolls her eyes internally despite never breaking eye contact with Edgar. She’ll die before she’s the one who blinks first.

“I thought a visit might be pleasant considering your…isolation.” He smiles emptily at her. She grits her teeth and fights the urge to spit on his fancy suit.

“I think our definitions of what “pleasant” means may differ. I consider it pleasant to have some privacy, Sir.” She cocks her head at him. Her wings fluff up with displeasure. She should probably use her manners in front of a man as powerful as him; especially one who technically owns her. There’s a tiny voice inside begging her to practice some self preservation. But then she looks at him and she remembers. He wasn’t in the lab with her but whatever tortures she had to endure were committed with his full knowledge and approval. As far as she’s concerned, he might as well have been holding the scalpel himself.

He seems as unfazed by her remark as he did at the sight of her bare chest. She clenches her fist as he looks at her like a bored parent waiting out their child’s tantrums while in time-out.

“Allow me to introduce mysel…” His polite greeting is abruptly cut off by Dove’s scoff.

Settle down. The voice inside her implores but she brushes it from her mind like flicking a flea.

“You’re Stan Edgar, Head of Vought. I know.” She replies, hackles raised at his infuriating calm. “You’re the one who dumped me here.”

He smiles.

Bastard

“A decision that was made with your wellbeing in mind. But if that is your grievance with me then allow me to supply you with some good news. May I come in so we can discuss it?” He asks as though she has a choice in the matter. They both know she doesn’t, not really.

She pauses, two sides of her viciously battling it out in her brain. One side wants to fight and push just to see how far he’ll let her go before his facade finally cracks. The other side just wants peace. She grits her teeth. If she wants him to leave, she’ll just have to endure his visit so she sighs and steps to the side. He nods and enters, flanked by his leering entourage. She does roll as her eyes at their stares this time and grabs a scarf she spies draped over the edge of a nearby table. She follows them over to the futon, threading it through her harness and tying it into a makeshift top.

She plops down on the futon, crosses her legs and looks up at him blankly. She doesn’t offer him a seat. Of course, there really isn’t a place for him to sit even if she did feel like being polite. The living area of her tiny one bedroom house is bare except her futon, a small table with the fan still whirring away and her radio, and a short cabinet that she mainly uses to store her collection of polishes and a few dvds gathering dust. The walls are blank and cold.

“You should let Vought know you are in need of some furniture.” Edgar remarks as he looks around at the sad state of her place.

“I’ll get right on that.” Dove says wryly. She has no intention to ask for anything from Vought.

“Actually, I wouldn’t bother just yet. That's one of the things I wish to speak with you about.” Edgar replies. Dove regrets sitting because now she has him looming over her. The power play was fun at the moment but she’s quickly realizing that Edgar has a way of making them feel pointless and immature.

“I didn’t realize you cared this much about my interior design.” Dove can’t help but retort.

“It does seem pointless to furnish this place considering you will be moving in the near future. I’m sure you’ll enjoy a place with a little more class.” He’s smug, clearly trying to lead her somewhere. He says it like he’s expecting her to jump up like her team just won the superbowl. There is always the undertone of condescension and superiority that makes Dove bristle. She’s known this man for all of ten minutes but that’s all she needs. She doesn’t even register the meaning of his words. She’s too angry and it clouds her judgment. She doesn’t immediately register that he’s offering her an out.

“Vought has class?” She bites out, her joking tone too harsh to be taken lightly. The hurt behind it is open and raw. Edgar’s smile drops. She should feel smug that she finally got the mask to drop. She doesn’t.

“I’m sure you think that your comments are cute but I came here expecting to talk to an adult, not a petulant child.” His voice sharpens but the pitch never changes.

Dove’s mouth snaps shut and she bites her tongue till she tastes iron. Her feathers fluff out involuntarily as she seethes. She’s tempted to snap back but she begrudgingly realizes that the sooner they can get through this conversation, the sooner he’ll be out of her hair. She frowns when she notices one of her still tacky nails has smudged.

Fucking great

“Fine, just tell me then.” She crosses her arms before promptly relaxing them, not wanting to let him know how much she’s pouting.

The corner of his mouth curls up but his eyes stay as empty as ever.

“How would you feel about finally putting your skills to good use?” He asks.

Dove double takes and stutters out a bemused laugh. Not once since they threw her out with the bathwater had they ever indicated she had any use besides what failed experiment they had been planning. She is baffled as to what they could possibly want with her.

“I think my current situation shows what Vought thinks of my skills. Can’t you get one of your precious little supes to do it?” She replies with sheer disdain.

Psh…Supes

Oh, she despises supes. Spoiled little brats. Spoiled pampered little brats. Vought’s golden children. They’re genetic freaks too but they get freedom and fame. They have lives and families. They only have to endure a little shot of go-go juice as a baby and the world is handed to them on a golden fucking platter. Meanwhile here she is, weak, hidden, abandoned. She had to endure endless tortures and for what?

“We need someone with your unique composition.” His face gives nothing away.

That doesn’t sound good.

“…Oh.” She shifts nervously. A sick feeling starts to brew in her gut. She becomes viscerally aware of the prickle of sweat under her arms and running down her spine “I’m not…going back, am I? You all promised me I wouldn’t have to go back there anymore.”

Edgar laughs. He fucking laughs.

“Yes and no, but don’t worry, we won’t have any need for that. I think you’ll enjoy what we have planned.” He replies with false peasantry. Dove inhales tightly. Her hackles are raised at the constant dancing around the question. She highly doubts enjoyment is on the table. When has enjoyment ever been on the table for her?

“Well, are you gonna tell me what it is?” She retorts sharply. The constant whirring of the fan grates on her strained nerves and in this moment she wants nothing more than to chuck it across the room.

Edgar nods at one of the bodyguards who steps forward to hand her a fancy embossed letter. She resists the urge to snatch it rudely from his hand. She minds her manners though, being careful not to rip the fancy paper. Edgar stares her down as she opens it. Luckily her nails are dry enough now to not stick.

Her heart stops dead as she reads.

WHAT THE FUCK

Her hands start to shake.

This is a joke

This is a joke

This is a joke.

This is a fucking joke.

What she is holding is a genuine, bonafide, official invitation to join The Seven.

Dove drops the letter like it’s a scalding hot coal. A furious stinging longing like nothing she has ever known throbs hot in her chest.

Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? For your pain to mean something?

“No.” She replies shakily. “No, I don’t want it.”

She does. She wants it so bad.

“No.”

She knows what she is. She’s not a supe. She will never be a supe. That had been quite clear to her with every broken bone, every bruise, every slice of the scalpel. She was deemed unworthy with every scribble of a scientist's pen. Her only claim to fame is not dropping dead from her inhuman slurry of mismatched genes like the rest.

Whatever worth she has, it’s definitely not as one of Vought’s shiniest gems. She doesn’t have the luxury of hope.

“No? I assumed you’d be glad for the opportunity. Especially considering your…situation.” He nods at her wings and she draws them closer to her body.

“I’m…not one of them. I’m all but human. What need could you possibly have for me in The Seven. I’m…” She cuts herself off.

Weak

That’s the whole point of her existence really. Vought wanted to create a new breed of supes that weren’t supes. People with abilities but without the pesky super strength that makes things hard to manage. They wanted to corner the labor market. Who wouldn’t want to hire a worker capable of more than a human could ever be while still being easy to control? So, they turned to animal DNA, to see if they could generate specific traits based on carefully selected genes. It failed, the constant deaths of the subjects deemed it too cost ineffective to keep trying. When they shut it down, all they had to worry about was one winged little loose end.

“You let us worry about all that. You’ll just need to follow instructions and smile pretty for the camera.” He reaches out to take a shaky hand in his, his demeanor unnervingly parental in this moment. He pats it soothingly. She fights the urge to flinch away at the touch of skin. She’s painfully unused to human contact that doesn’t involve harm.

“What kind of instructions?” She’s wary.

“I told you, let us worry about that. I promise it won’t be anything you can’t handle.” His voice has warmed considerably as he tries to gain her consent without having to resort to more unpleasant means. After all, no isn’t really an option. Vought owns her. The invitation is merely a polite formality.

“No,” Dove repeats more firmly, a steely resolve in her eye

“No?” Stan Edgar raises an eyebrow.

Dove doesn’t want to hear anymore. What they’re giving her is not an out but a golden cage. She’s Snow White being handed the poison apple. She won’t be a victim of Vought’s plans again. She won’t be that stupid.

“What makes you think I want to do anything to help Vought out? What makes you think a bit of fame is enough to make me forget the shit you put me through?” Dove stands, staring Edgar down. She clenches her fists and the body language of his guards changes immediately. “If you try to set my ass in front of a camera I’ll spill everything. All I want is to be left alone.”

Edgar remains unphased by her outburst. He’d expected as much. The reports from her check-ups had informed him of her temperament. He has one more card up his sleeve before things have to get nasty.

“I understand that you’re disgruntled by your previous treatment. As an apology and as incentive for joining The Seven, Vought would like to reunite you with your mother. Remain as a member for one year and fulfill all your necessary duties, and we’ll get you in contact with her.”

His voice fades out into a droning buzz.

I have a mother.

Dove’s head swims.

She tries to speak but the words catch in her throat. She makes a strangled noise at the revelation. What can she even say to that? How is she supposed to respond to her whole world getting flipped on its head? Unwanted tears prickle in her eyes as her knees give out and she drops back on to the futon.

She’s always been so alone but all this time…

All this time…

“How come you never said anything? How come I didn’t…” Her voice trails off. “You’re lying.”

A photo enters her field of vision and she takes it shakily. There is a young woman in the picture, with curly hair and dark familiar eyes, Dove’s eyes. She doesn’t look much older than nineteen but the resemblance is unmistakable. She's wearing an all too familiar medical gown and her hand rests on the subtle swell of her stomach. Her expression is solemn. Dove chokes down a sob as she softly strokes the woman’s face.

“She signed a contract saying that she did not want any contact with the child post-birth. In recent years, she seems to have changed her mind. She’s expressed a desire to reconnect. If you agree to our terms, we can facilitate a reunion.” Edgar explains.

Dove can’t take her eyes off the photo.

Her mom abandoned her. She abandoned her to Vought’s heartless clutches. She’d walked away without a care. Dove should rip the picture up and tell Edgar to stuff it. She shouldn’t feel anything towards this woman…her mother.

Dove had never known where she came from. Vought had never specified. Now she has a chance to know. What is her mother like? Is she happy now? Why did she leave her alone? Why does she want her now? Did her mom ever love her?

Dove is furious at herself for feeling conflicted even as questions fill her head. She has so many questions she can get the answer to.

“I…” Dove flounders. She doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want anything else. She hates this mystery woman who left her in Vought’s clutches. She needs more than anything to be held in her arms, this woman with the dark sad eyes.

Don’t you fucking dare! Something inside her pleads. You’re going to regret it. You will never be free from them

Dove swallows thickly and with the finality of an executioner's swing, she gives Stan Edgar her answer.

“I’ll do it.”

[joels-darlin]

Monday Morning - The Rescue

Chapter 1 can be found here - Ch 1: Monday Moring - The Situation

Pairings: Javier Peña x f!reader

Warnings: 18+ only. kidnapping/hostage situation, violence, angst, hurt, allusions to rape, mentions of weapons, restraints/being tied up, mentions of blood and injuries. (I think that's all sorry if I missed any)

Summary: A standard Monday morning commute to the DEA office takes a harrowing turn of events. Now Javi and Steve are here to rescue you.

Word count: 2469

Author Note: Apologies this took so long to get out but have been hit with huge writers block recently and finally got through it!! I am debating (being a strong word here) wrapping this all up with a Chapter 3, so if you want it please let me know! Any feedback is appreciated, thanks all ♥️

Special thankyou to @ladybess-a03 for your help/support on this and providing your amazing Beta reading services which I am forever grateful for ♥️ AO3 Link

Javier was losing his mind, anxiety bubbling in his chest an unusual feeling for him. Taking another glance around, his eyes landed on the clock that hung on the yellowing walls of the office.10:43am, and you still hadn’t stepped through those heavy brown doors. He knew you liked to be in earlier than the rest, taking the first couple of hours of peace to catch up with any leftover paperwork and enjoy the coffee you grabbed from near the markets on your short commute in.

His fingers drummed against the solid oak desk, shifting to grab another file from the growing pile of paperwork next to him. Having only drained his coffee cup a mere five minutes ago, file still in his hand closed, Javi pondered for a second thoughts of you filling his mind. 

“Fuck this!” he thought shoving the chair back with force and standing to his feet. Snatching the cup from the desk he stalked to the kitchen; he needed a distraction, and fast.

In the kitchen was where he ran into Steve who seemed to have a similar need for a caffeine fix. Javi made himself busy washing and drying his cup before leaving it next to the coffee machine, signaling he was next in the queue.

“You heard from her?” Steve spoke first, breaking the unusual silence between the pair.

“Nothing, she must be on holiday or sick?”

“I spoke to the front desk earlier, but no phone calls or requests have come in,” Steve responded in a flat tone.

As far as they were concerned this was unusual behavior, and something felt really wrong. You had never missed a day's work, always opting to call in at the earliest convenience if you were sick or unable to come in. After Steve left, Javi busied himself again now that the coffee machine was free, retreating back to his desk shortly after. A sigh left his lips on approach as he spotted the paperwork pile which he swore had increased since he had stepped away.

The day dragged on like any other; go through the never-ending paperwork, look at leads on Escobar, review new (but also useless) intelligence. It was the conversation between some other colleagues that caught his attention on his seventh visit to the kitchen for a refill.

“Did you hear about the trouble this morning? At the markets, I heard some young woman was bundled into the back of a car. They must be in trouble with Escobar and his cronies” he overheard. 

Javi’s ears pricked up at this, craning his neck towards the conversation happening in the other room. Paper thin walls meant no secrets were safe in this office. His mind suddenly went into overdrive. The markets? Wasn’t that near where you usually frequented for your coffee? Shoving his cup in the sink, not even bothering to clean it this time, he rushed back to his desk.

“Steve…can we talk…in private?” he asked. He leant over the desks, getting as close to his partner as possible trying to avoid causing any commotion. Moving his head to gesture at the storage cupboard across the other side of the room. Steve nodded, rising from his desk before following, closing the door behind.

”This better be good, I have a pile of paperwork to-” he began. 

“I was just in the kitchen…overheard a conversation about someone getting kidnapped by possibly Escobar’s men near the markets early this morning…you think it could be her?”. It had been radio silence all day, still not hearing anything from you, definitely a cause for concern.

“Wow, you really like her don’t you?” his partner chuckled. Steve knew Javi had a slight infatuation for his female partner but didn’t think it ran this deep. It was obvious sometimes though, the extra glances across the office towards your desk whilst working or the way his partners eyes lit up upon you entering the room.

“Steve…not now…seriously…could it be her?”

“What makes you think it could be? These things happen on the streets pretty much every day!”. Javi sighed, lifting his hand to card his fingers through his hair. 

“I don’t know, I just have a bad feeling and it won’t go away…”. 

What Steve failed to mention was also the sinking feeling in his stomach that had been churning around for most of the day; in his eyes you were a friend and even he was starting to get concerned. 

“I guess it won’t hurt to go ask around” he said. 

~~~

Absolutely useless, the pair might as well have stayed in the office, having not gotten a single lead on your whereabouts. With the endless shaking of heads and “No’s” they were met with, the frustration was grating. Not a single person had recognised your face in the picture they were showing around, but there had to be someone here. 

From the corner of his eye, Javi spotted it; the coffee cart. Still manned, an old looking bloke who must have been late sixties maybe. In all of ten minutes the man in question had identified you, and even made note of the number plate of the vehicle he saw you being carted into; it was like some sort of miracle. Javi and Steve left not long after, graciously thanking the man for his information, even grabbing a quick coffee whilst there as a token gesture. 

He might have just saved your life.

~~~

It took less than an hour for them to find the location once back at the office. A small group of the team pulled off their current assignments, their new focus now being tracking the whereabouts of the black SUV they now knew you had been taken in. It wasn’t long before they got a hit. The vehicle was last spotted in a location known to Escobar - owning establishments up and down the country.

As soon as the approval was given they were out of the office and into the car, the location being a disused house just a few miles from the market. It was a huge risk just two of them versus however many of Escobar’s men were guarding you. But Javi had to get you out if it was the last thing he ever did.

Under the cover of darkness they parked just up the road from the house, in the hopes to not raise any suspicions. Slipping out into the warm air, both quietly approaching the two doors on the building, splitting them evenly. Luckily, for once, there were only two men inside; taking one each the bodies dropped to the ground in the blink of an eye. The partners opted for a quick scan of the premises for any further Sicarios before giving the all clear.

“Cariño” Javi’s voice came out barely a whisper, catching sight of you from through the doorway. Eyes scanning your frame he could see you were stripped to just your underwear. Beaten, bruised, blindfolded and currently slumped over in a rusty metal chair. It wasn’t hard for him to miss your chest heaving with sobs. His heart sank, stomach twisting and turning in a sickly way - the bile starting rising in his throat. Then came the wave of rage. How could someone do this to you, a small, fragile but beautiful human being?.

Checking his surroundings again before holstering his gun he approached you cautiously, your head lifting slightly at the sounds of footsteps in the room.

“Please ...no…not again…please” you begged, screamed in fact. Evidently choking on a fresh set of tears. Javi stood frozen for a second a million thoughts whizzing around his head; what the fuck had they done to you?

“It’s Javi…sweetheart…you’re okay, Steve is outside the door…you-you’re safe now” he said, his own voice stammering as he processed the sight of you, the sickening feeling in his stomach not having passed yet as his mind ran with thoughts of what had happened to you in this room. 

“J-J-Javi….H-H-How?” you croaked. 

“Shhh now, it’s okay. I’m going to undo the ropes and blindfold for you. But it’s just me; I won’t hurt you” he said. 

Javi waited and the small nod of approval was enough for him to step closer. Approaching the back of the chair his eyes fell to your hands bound together with an old dirty rope. Releasing the knot took him longer than expected and he let out a sigh of relief upon seeing it hit the floor - not missing the angry bleeding marks which embellished the soft skin there.

Circling back around Javi wasn’t prepared for the sight he lay his eyes on; breaking his heart into pieces. The mixture of pain and blind rage bubbling up in his chest; insistent that he was going to make every single one of them pay. Fighting with his demons he wanted nothing more than to pull you into an embrace. Now was not the time for that though, as he was unsure how much physical damage you had endured, and wanted to get you straight to the hospital to be checked over.

“Hey…” a soft voice made you lift your head, eyes locking for a brief moment with those brown orbs, it being hard to miss the sadness and guilt swimming in them “…think you can stand?” Javi asked. 

You nodded, taking a minute for a deep breath in and out before shakily standing from the chair - feeling his eyes watching intently, ready to intercept at any moment. It wasn’t long before your shaking legs gave out, landing on the cold hard floor with a thump. At this point what was just another bruise for the ever growing collection.

“Okay cariño I’m going to carry you, alright? If you get uncomfortable at any point tell me, okay?”. Javi waited for your approval and after another slight nod he approached slowly, sliding one arm under the back of your knees and the other around your back, lifting your frame from the floor to carry you bridal style. Ever so careful with hand placement.

Cradled against his chest it was hard not to close your eyes, the sheer warmth radiating from his skin, your head nestled in the crook of his neck; forehead brushing against the exposed skin there. The smell of Javi filled your nose as you tried to control your breathing - a mix of leather, tobacco and coffee.

“You good, hermosa?” he asked. No words came out, just the nod of approval again to signal that you were okay. Making sure he moved slowly out of the house, he carefully bundled you into the backseat of the car.

“Is she alright?” the familiar voice cut through the darkness, and it took a second to realise that it was in fact Steve. You don’t remember much after that; the world plunged into darkness.

~~~

Coming to your senses, you slowly started blinking, desperately trying to open my eyes and see what’s around. The blinding light slowly subsided as you craned to take in the surroundings. Okay so this was a hospital, you knew that for certain, obvious by the pristine white walls and that goddamn awful bleach smell that made your nose crinkle in disgust. It was the soft voice from the right which caught your attention more though.

“Cariño…”. Turning your head, you saw him. There was Javi, sat in the sickly green looking hospital chair, standing the second your eyes locked. “…it’s okay we got you, you are safe now”.

A heavy sigh left your lips, the events of the morning playing vividly in your head. “I mean…I th-think so” your voice was hoarse and weak.

“I’ll go tell them you are awake” he smiled and reached out a soft warm hand, taking yours and giving it a quick squeeze before heading towards the door. 

Taking in the surroundings, you quickly noticed it was dark outside from the slight crack in the blinds over the window. How long had you been out? Looking down at your body, the tangle of wires and IV’s all connected into your skin causing a shudder to run up your spine. Not failing to notice that you were still just in your underwear, the scratchy feeling of the hospital blanket against your skin was uncomfortable, but at least it was covering you from the chest down. The door creaked open again, in strolling Javi moving to stand next to you.

Your skin was a mass of purple bruises and luckily only a few superficial cuts which were taken care of whilst you were out, your face being the part that had taken the brunt of the beating. They had left you with a hefty black eye, split lip, and fractured cheekbone. Javi was seething hearing the damage they had inflicted. But there was one thing he couldn’t get off his mind, the thought plaguing him for the many hours he had spent sitting in that goddamn chair.

“Sweetheart…I need to know…did-did…they touch you?” he stuttered, locking eyes with yours again, emphasis on the word he needed to get across so you understood what he was asking. Taking a moment to answer, you were obviously reliving the previous trauma and he could see it behind your eyes, tears just starting to collect at the lash line.

Gaze drawn back down to your lap all you could do was nod, not baring to look at him again knowing the tears will spill over. He had an idea but wanted it to come from you and the non-verbal response was enough. It took a lot for Javi to show his emotions but that was when he broke.

It was only when a nurse entered the room, fresh hospital gown in hand, that he turned away. More so to give you privacy whilst she helped you into the clothing, he let a single tear slip down his face whilst his back was turned, wiping it away with the heel of his hand. Gods above, he was going through it right now, unable to comprehend how someone could even do that to you. The feeling in his chest was insufferable, his heart breaking into a million tiny pieces again. He couldn’t even imagine the pain you must be feeling right now. 

It was only when he caught sight of the nurse leaving that he turned back around. Glancing over at the bed, you looked so small…so frightened. Javi wanted nothing more than to scoop you up into his arms and make the pain go away. But right now, that wouldn’t achieve anything, for as much as he wanted to. He was going to have to be so careful with you for a long, long while.

This was going to take time, but he swore then and there to be by your side every step of the way.

[harveybwabbit92]

[Kid! Zero is getting beaten up by some older kids after they stole another kid's (Voice) toy and Zero tried to get it back.]

Zero: You better let go of me right now...

Bully: Or what? You'll go crying to your parents?

Zero:...

Bully: Oh right, you don't have any!

[the Bully and his two cronies laugh as Zero struggles in his grasp eventually the smaller ultra manages to kick the bully in the stomach causing the older kid to let go, unfortunately his two buds quickly grabbed Zero before he could run.]

Bully: That's it you little bastard you- *rises his fist*

Bully, glances up and suddenly looks petrified: You...y-you...

[Without a word the bully suddenly ran away as his two confused friends dropped Zero and followed after him. When he was sure they weren't coming back Zero pulled himself off the ground with shaky legs; he nervously looked behind him for whatever scared the bully off but saw nothing... He quietly picked up the discarded toy up and went back to the orphanage unaware of Ultraseven silently watching from afar.]

[What the bully leader saw that day was Ultraseven glaring down at him with the most terrifying expression on his face, it was the kind of angry look that would make sure anyone who was on the receiving end of it would immediately regret that they were ever born.]

[mariacallous]

India is in the middle of a 44-day exercise to elect its next government, with Prime Minister Narendra Modi tipped to return his Bharatiya Janata Party to power for a third consecutive term. Modi, who aims to win nearly three-quarters of the country’s 543 parliamentary seats, has surprised many observers by using dehumanizing anti-Muslim language on the campaign trail—rhetoric that is more direct than that of his past speeches.

So far, the BJP campaign has focused on creating an irrational fear among India’s Hindu majority that if Modi doesn’t return as prime minister, a share of their private wealth and affirmative action job quotas will be given to Indian Muslims. Modi and his party have doubled down on this narrative at a moment when reports suggest that their quest for a supermajority is unlikely to succeed. The brazen continuation of such anti-Muslim rhetoric differentiates this campaign from the two others that have put Modi in the prime minister’s office.

Hate speech is a criminal offense in India, and it is specifically barred during an election campaign. However, Modi chose the three leaders of India’s Election Commission, the agency charged with conducting free and fair polls, and it has ignored his flagrant violations of the election code. As a result, as the campaign continues through the end of May, so too will Modi’s anti-Muslim tirades. India is expected to announce its election results on June 4.

If the BJP wins and Modi is once again crowned prime minister, his Islamophobic rhetoric will not simply disappear. Many political leaders campaign in poetry and govern in prose, but hateful rhetoric has real-life consequences. Modi’s campaign speeches have put a target on Indian Muslims’ backs, redirecting the anger of poor and marginalized Hindu communities away from crony capitalists and the privileged upper castes. It underscores an attempt to make members of the Muslim minority second-class citizens in a de facto Hindu Rashtra, or state.

These social schisms need only a small spark to burst into communal violence, which would damage India’s global status and growth. Furthermore, Modi’s campaign rhetoric is matched by the BJP’s choice to not put up candidates in Muslim-majority Kashmir, reducing its stake in ensuring robust democracy in a region that New Delhi has ruled directly since 2019. His language will also have a direct bearing on India’s fraught ties with its neighbor Pakistan. Finally, the state-backed ill treatment will likely not be limited to Indian Muslims—meaning that other religious minorities, such as Christians and Sikhs, will also be affected.

Around 200 million Muslims live in India—the second-largest Muslim population in the world, after that of Indonesia. Few mainstream Indian political leaders have plummeted to such depths in castigating these citizens. Modi’s campaign rhetoric makes clear that if he is elected to a third consecutive term, the nation’s Muslims will stand politically disempowered, economically marginalized, and deprived of their constitutional rights.

Modi’s political rise came in the wake of significant violence against Muslims in Gujarat in 2002, when he was the state’s chief minister. Due to his role in the violence, the European Union, the United Kingdom, and the United States all temporarily barred his entry. Leading the party’s campaign to victory in the state assembly in the same year, his campaign speeches were full of crude language against Muslims. But the BJP’s electoral success in Gujarat—winning the next two assembly elections before the launch of Modi’s national campaign—ultimately gave Modi political credibility within an extreme fringe of the party.

By 2011, Modi had started reinventing himself as a business-friendly leader with an eye on a national role. By the time he became prime minister three years later, the narrative of a so-called Gujarat model of economic development concealed his anti-Muslim ideological moorings. Modi’s mask slipped occasionally, but he often spoke with a dog whistle. Mostly, the prime minister reiterated an imagination of India as a Hindu nation. In a post-9/11 world, Modi presented an alternative model of battling Islamic terrorism and consolidated a Hindu majoritarian voter base—delivering a stunning election victory in 2019 after an attempted airstrike against an alleged terrorist training camp inside Pakistan.

This year, Modi has not campaigned on his track record of the past decade or on the party manifesto for the next five years as often as he has attempted to further polarize Hindus and Muslims. In a speech given on April 21, Modi suggested that the opposition Indian National Congress party, if elected, would redistribute property to Muslims. The party would “calculate the gold with [Hindu] mothers and sisters” and transfer it “among those who are infiltrators and have more children,” he said—using terms by which his supporters regularly describe Muslims.

Elsewhere, Modi alleged that Congress was helping Muslims in a plot to take over India: “The opposition is asking Muslims to launch vote jihad,” he said in March. Speaking at a rally in Madhya Pradesh in early May, Modi said that voters would have to choose between “vote jihad” and “Ram Rajya,” the latter being a term referring to a mythical, idealized society that purportedly existed during the rule of Lord Rama, the hero of the famous Hindu epic Ramayana.

The prime minister’s economic advisory council soon released a paper that sought to stoke anxieties about a decline in the proportion of Hindus in India; during the period it covered—1950 to 2015—India’s population actually increased by five Hindus for every one Muslim citizen, but BJP leaders soon deployed the report to further demonize Indian Muslims.

The party’s official messaging has echoed Modi’s rhetoric. A now-deleted video posted on the Instagram account for the BJP’s Karnataka branch this month said, “If you are a non-Muslim, Congress will snatch your wealth and distribute it to Muslims. Narendra Modi knows of this evil plan. Only he has the strength to stop it.” It was followed by an animated clip depicting Congress leader Rahul Gandhi hatching a plan to benefit Muslims at the expense of Hindu groups.

Other Indian democratic institutions have done no better. Despite formal complaints from opposition parties and civil society groups, the election commission has neither punished nor restrained Modi. A petition in the Delhi High Court seeking immediate action against Modi for his “communally divisive speeches” was dismissed, with the judges arguing that it was “without merit” because the commission was already looking into the matter. “We can’t presume that they won’t do anything,” one judge said. But as the elections near the finish line, that is precisely what has happened.

Some observers are likely to dismiss Modi’s recent language as par for the course during an election campaign, when tempers run high. However, most surveys and polls have predicted an easy victory for the prime minister and the BJP; he has no need to resort to pandering to base emotions with toxic rhetoric. In an interview, Modi denied that he had uttered a word against Indian Muslims; he was proved wrong by fact-checkers and video evidence. India’s top political scientist said that through his denials in interviews, Modi is trying to influence the naive chroniclers while he continues with his anti-Muslim speeches for the masses and his supporters. Modi’s No. 2, Amit Shah, insists that the party will continue with this anti-Muslim campaign. By persisting with hateful speech, the BJP leadership is fueling a narrative that is likely to intensify discrimination against Indian Muslims during Modi’s rule.

As prime minister, Modi has spearheaded a project for the political disempowerment of Indian Muslims. For the first time in the history of independent India, the ruling party does not have a single Muslim member of parliament. In the current election, the party has put up just one Muslim candidate—on a list of 440—who is running for an unwinnable seat in Kerala. More broadly, religious polarization has made it difficult for Muslim candidates to win seats in areas without an overwhelming Muslim majority. During recent elections, there have been complaints of authorities barring voters in Muslim-majority localities in BJP-ruled states. Modi’s message to Indian Muslims is unequivocal: You do not matter politically.

India’s Muslims are economically disadvantaged, too. A 2006 committee under Prime Minister Manmohan Singh’s Congress government found that the Muslim community faced high levels of poverty and poor outcomes on almost all socioeconomic indicators. India’s opposition parties have promised a new socioeconomic survey that could inform future policy without a focus on religion. Modi’s government, by contrast, opted to not conduct even the regular census in 2021—the first such instance in 140 years—due to COVID-19; it has not been conducted since.

Rather than relying on data, Modi and his supporters prefer an emotional response that pitches poor and marginalized Hindus against Muslims. India is a highly unequal country: About 90 percent of the population earns less than the average income of $2,800 per year. This gap has widened under Modi, with the richest 1 percent now owning 40 percent of India’s wealth. By othering Muslims, Modi puts them at risk of becoming the object of other deprived groups’ ire, which could lead to further communal violence. A Muslim man was allegedly lynched in Gujarat during the current election campaign, without making national  headlines.

Islamophobia is at the core of the project to make India a Hindu state. Modi and the BJP frequently weaponize terrorism discourse to delegitimize critics and political opposition. In Kashmir, where the BJP is not running candidates this election, this tactic has fueled anger and hostility. The high turnout in the region seems to be an expression of rage against Modi’s 2019 decision to revoke its semi-autonomous status. When the ruling party leaders conflate Islam with terrorism, there is little chance of extending any hand of peace toward Pakistan, either. Modi and his ministers have vowed to take back Pakistan-administered Kashmir by force if necessary—no matter the grave risk of conflict between two nuclear-armed countries.

Finally, Modi’s rhetoric does not bode well for other religious minorities in India. In the border state of Manipur, the largely Christian Kuki community has suffered state-backed majoritarian violence for more than a year. In Uttar Pradesh, India’s most populated state, Christian priests and worshippers are being jailed, beaten, and threatened by both Hindu majoritarian groups and state police. Meanwhile, the BJP has demonized the Sikh farmers who led protests against agricultural laws in 2020 and 2021, labeling them as separatist Khalistani terrorists. (Last year, Modi’s government was accused of involvement in the killing of a Sikh separatist leader in Canada as well as in an attempted assassination in New York.)

Muslims, Sikhs, and Christians are India’s biggest religious minorities; they make up nearly one-fifth of the country’s population. To disempower these groups would spell the end of the historical bond between India and ideas of universal justice, human rights, and democracy. A majoritarian Indian state—a Hindu Rashtra—would instead make a covenant with bigotry, discrimination, and violence. The bipartisan U.S. Commission on International Religious Freedom has repeatedly asked Washington to blacklist Modi’s government for its suppression of religious freedom, but the Biden administration has refused to act so far.

However, the evidence is there for all to see—and Modi has further substantiated the charge of bigotry with his campaign speeches targeting Indian Muslims. No matter if the BJP achieves its supermajority, this rhetoric will have significant consequences for India. Modi is serving a warning. The world should take note before it is too late.