#easier to defer the two if people ask

[caycanteven]

Here's my skele sona ref, Xel ~ I'm so good with naming conventions aren't I?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

upon his grace 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, bullying, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are called to court after the end of the civil war, but find yourself facing many challenges, expected and not. (fantasy medieval au)

Characters: king!Steve Rogers

Note: friday!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You are summoned to the queen’s chambers shortly after your arrival. You come together with the other young ladies from courtyard in the corridor just before a set of painted doors. Within, Queen Margaret keeps court with her ladies, of whom you are to be one of. The thought alone has you devilishly unnerved. 

The guards in their livery greet you with dull eyes. The groom announces your purpose and receives little in return aside from the one soldier’s lazy reach to tap upon the door. He lifts the lever and eases a space between the wood. 

“Your highness, you’ve some ladies requesting an audience,” he drones through. 

There is some movement from within. A lady servant appears in her white cap and beckons you inward. You are further intimidated by the formality of it all. Marcia and Marigold rush ahead to be first and the three earls’ daughters from the White Plans take up their train. You glance over at Calliope and trail after her. 

The doors shut at your back and the lady maid retreats, her soles scuffing amid the murmur around you. You look around the skirts of the other debuts and see women in recline, others perched upon cushions and stools, all at leisure with needle, book, or frame. There is another at the window, sat between two ladies on the bench, the late afternoon breeze stirring the long waves that hang around her face, the rest of her chestnut hair twisted up behind her hood.  

The lady maid stands at the wall in deference, “your highness.” 

The brunette raises her chin and her eyes narrow at the lot of you. You can barely see much past the shoulders of the twins and the other ladies clustered closely in shared apprehension. Still, the twins stand tall and the other ladies hardly seem as wrought as you in the ceremony of it all. 

“The twins of...Mawsley, is it?” The queen declares, “yes, your father proved himself a valuable asset, didn’t he?” 

“Your highness,” the twins recite in unison and bow, “Marcia,” the first introduces herself, “Marigold, the second adds. 

“How keen,” the queen chimes, “you look as the same person. How amusing.” 

“Thank you, your highness,” the sisters chirp. 

“And those gowns, wonderful. I may have to ask after your tailor,” Queen Margaret preens, “and where is the Countess’ daughter? I recall I met you once when you were still a child.” 

Calliope steps dutifully, “my mother sends her regards.” 

“Oh, yes, that poor widow,” the queen bemoans, “she is ever steadfast despite her plight.” She takes pause as you sway to see her, “and the rest of you, forgive me, these last days have been a whirlwind and I’ve heard an endless slew of names one after another. 

“Lady Selene,” the very lady proclaims. 

“Lady Ameri,” she bows in quick succession. 

“Lady Dorida,” the last shows her courtesy in an elegant bend. 

As you come forward, the twins push their arms together as if to block you out with their sleeves. You sidle side to side and sweep around their skirts with an ungraceful stumble, “your highness,” you greet as if you have something stuck in your throat. You swallow before you can muster your own name and title. 

“Woodsdam,” the queen tilts her head and looks from the lady at her left shoulder to the one on her right, “I’ve never heard of it.” 

“Neither have I,” the leftmost agrees. 

“Farmland,” the right says. 

“Yes, your highness, my father is a farmer, but an earl as well,” you supply. 

“Mm,” the queen looks down her nose as her lips thin, “it appears the Woodsdam style is much... defined. I don’t think I’ve seen that style gown since my grandmother was still on earth.” 

You look down at your modest cotton. The square cut of your bodice is much different than the other ladies’ rounded collars. Your mother crafted the dress from pieces and the seams are tidy, yet it does lack a similar flair to the others around the chamber. You raise your eyes and keep your composure as best you can. 

“Many thanks, your highness.” 

The queen scoffs, “quaint, indeed.” She sits straighter though her posture is already unyieldingly staunch, “ladies, please acquaint yourself. And be certain to pay heed to these ladies who know well the ways of court. For all that’s changed in these past years, we will retain as ever our elegance and our etiquette.” 

You peer around, uncertain what comes next. A lady stands and calls to Calliope, “Lady, it is me, Gwendolyn, of the Spades. Near Clovers, you will know it?” 

Calliope accepts the initiation and there is a swift storm of voices swirling around the lot of you. You flutter hopefully that someone might think of Woodsdam or might’ve been to the waterfall near Aquil, not far from your father’s hold. The twins confer still with the queen and her ladies, trilling and giggling, as Serena and Dorida marvel over another ladies’ sewing frame, and Ameri is overly familiar with a lady swollen with child. 

You drift away from the centre of the chamber, trying not to draw unwarranted attention. It would do little for any to note your insignificance. You’ve all to soon faded into obscurity. No one cares for a farmer’s daughter. 

“Eh, do you read?” The question startles you and has you spinning to face its speaker. She looks as she sounds; squawkish. Birdlike. Her blond waves are woven with strands of silver and her hooked nose is not unbecoming. 

“Yes, lady, I do,” you answer, uncertain if she is genuine or she means it as jab. 

“Have you read Corswin? He wrote a fair tale about a shepherdess.” 

“I’ve not heard of him,” you recover your confidence at her interest. It is clear she humours you, that she is speaking to only keep you from floundering. 

“I must lend you a book or two,” she insists, “come sit with me. These old hens grow tiresome.” 

“Many thanks, my lady,” you accept and claim the stool next to her, shifting it closer. 

“Sarah,” she gives her name, “Woodsdam. I’ve never been. I hate the swamps.” 

“Oh,” you nod, “yes, it isn’t very swampy. Only in the rainy seasons but we get the sun.” 

“Mm, still, I’ve been down Ashton and I hated the place. My horses caught some sickness there,” she gripes, “perhaps though, your home is more pleasant. A woman old as me, though, I don’t venture far as it is.” She tuts and taps her oval nails on the book in her lap, “if my son wasn’t so foolish as to take up his sword, I’d still be in my library, hidden away from these chits.” 

You clasp your hands together and smile. She’s amicable and you wouldn’t want to bother too much. She flutters the pages of her book and huffs. You look around, sensing some intrigue from the other ladies though they do their best not to let their flitting eyes be caught. 

“All these birds know how to do is cloister themselves up like nuns,” she bemoans, “I’d as soon be out in the sunlight. If I were home, I’d be in my courtyard with a better book than this,” she wags the volume in agitation, “and you, lady? What is it you do on the farmstead? Chase hens?” 

“We have geese,” you say, “though they aren’t truly kept. They sort’ve linger around. And some cattle.” 

“It does sound rather bucolic, this must be all so drab to you, castle walls and dusty tapestries.” 

“Oh, it’s all so wonderful,” you expound. 

“It is?” She drawls tritely, “aren’t these ladies of ours so polite? The way they whisper about our hems and our titles. Don’t let yourself be fooled, though I suppose that should be as good a warning against myself. Ladies of the court are like crows; the like shiny things and the hold grudges, and sometimes, they needn’t even a reason to peck your eyes out.” 

You close your lips and swallow. Her tidings only underline the unwelcome forged in the queen’s introduction. All you might forgive is at least she seems genuine in her girding. You look down at your skirts and run your fingers down a crease. 

“The dress is not so hideous,” she assures gently, “some of the ladies do forget we did just fight a war. There are those without silks and without food in their bellies. They should weigh their fortune that they are still alive and well.” 

Your eyes meet and she looks a little less stony. She turns her head to the window and her gaze drifts into the distance. You follow them with a sense of solemnity. Again, you snare a few glances from the others. Many men died, women and children too. It wouldn’t do to care so much for what people think of your wardrobe. 

👑

Your first day at the castle ends in a fine supper of freshly baked bread, beef with gravy, and seasoned scallions, onions, and sweet herbs. It is not so hearty as your mother’s stew which you share as often with the servants nor so delicious. It’s a different sort of taste but not unpleasant. 

You retire at the queen’s behest. She declares she must see to her husband and several of the other ladies claim the same of their own. You rise and wait courteously to tail after other ladies, not wanting to get underfoot as you so often did on the farm. As you stand aside, Lady Sarah swats you with her book. 

Skirts swish against the rows of chairs and benches that line the long table. The dining chamber is set with the portrait of peregrine and similarly hawkish depictions woven into tapestry and tablecloth alike. Despite the uniform decor, the furniture is mismatched and the hews of wood and metal alternate with each piece. 

“Don’t fear the stampede, little calf, run with it,” she chides, “ah, I’ve decades upon these sows and they plod like heifers.” 

He uncouth words draw your surprise. She laughs at the look you send her and waves you off with the hardcover. She shoulders past you without pause. 

“One day you will see, it is better to speak the truth than let it shred up your soul,” she tosses over her shoulder. “Ah, naivete, how entertaining you are.” 

Her voice carries and you notice how the other women shy away from her. There’s a glint of deference to the tilt in their chins as they part for her like a like drawn in the sand with a stick. You wonder how she can be so bold and why the other might tolerate it. As Queen Margaret girded, you are to maintain propriety. Sarah seems to carry the same manners as any farmhand you’d known. 

You hurry to meet Calliope near the door as she departs. She seems the tamest of the lot thus far. Sharp-witted but not needlessly cruel. She turns her head slightly in acknowledgement of your presence. 

“There you are,” she mutters. 

“Did you enjoy the afternoon?” You ask brightly. 

“Enjoy? I tempered it,” she retorts, “I’ve the measure of most ladies.” 

“The measure? They were all quite friendly.” 

“You are too friendly,” she admonishes, “this is court, you cannot be so simple. Each lady is attached to a lord, thus they work upon his purposes. Her ears are always listening, eyes always seeing.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You represent your father and though mine may be in the ground, I carry his mantle all the same. We are our houses, not ourselves here,” she keeps her voice low and slows markedly to keep away from the others, “you should count yourself fortunate for my wise counsel, lady, for no other would give it.” 

You chew on her words, tasting their bitterness, “so why do you, Lady Calliope?” 

“For I despise those twins and I know they aren’t so keen on you,” she sighs, “and I saw you as any other did with the dowager.” 

“The dowager?” You echo. 

“The king’s mother, Lady Sarah,” she sends you a sharp look, “don’t tell me you didn’t realise?” 

“Oh? No? She spoke of books and her gardens, she didn’t mention...” you peter off and snap your mouth shut. But she had, she did say her son ran off to war. “Oh!” 

“Oh! Indeed,” Calliope mocks and shakes her head. “Look, I’ve not the patience for these women, but you’re not so bad. You don’t speak without meaning. Shall we be companions?” 

“Pardon?” You let your surprise bleed through. 

“I need at least one person I might stomach, how about you? I don’t think the others are so eager to be friends. Marcia did say how you look like a peasant.” 

“She did?” You frown. 

“Hm, you need me,” she insists, “you can’t let yourself be so whimsical. Never mind what they say or think. What do they care so much for anyhow? They are a duke’s daughters, they will do well enough.” 

You carry on next to her. You feel as if you’re being pulled in all different directions though all tell you just the same. Be wary 

[all-pacas]

#he's good in a crisis ok#and a dumb whore everywhere else

I'm the anon that asked why you think Chase is generally stupid,except for some talents. Can you talk why do you think he's a dumb person with a single talent,instead of a generally smart person who lacks common sense at times?

I mean, the short version is I’m joking. Just like when I call Cameron insufferable. The show itself likes to call Chase a Dumb Whore.

But the fact of the matter is that Chase isn’t stupid. House doesn’t hire idiots, even if he calls his employees stupid roughly twice a week. We see in S4 that he will fire someone immediately (CIA chick) if they can’t pull their weight; Chase does.

He does, in show, have a bit of a reputation for being dumb and lazy, and I think both have their… moments? Lazy is easier to prove: Chase tends to be quieter in differentials than Cameron and Foreman. He’s the least likely to argue his points or insist he’s right. Time and time again, he also shows he’s a bit apathetic: in Safe he and Cameron discuss the teenage patient’s boyfriend. They need to test his sperm, and Cameron worries that they should tell the parents, who will not be pleased. Chase shrugs it off. They’ll find out when they get billed for the test. Cameron asks if he’s really okay with them finding out like that; he doesn’t even hesitate before confirming “pretty much.” He prefers to take the easier path.

The dumb is a little more… meta-textual, let’s say. First of all, Chase is an intensivist. Foreman and Cameron are top level experts in their fields of disease. Foreman always thinking neurological is practically a running joke; I’m not sure if fandom has pinged on the fact that Lupus is a running joke because Cameron keeps suggesting it, because she’s an immunologist. They both tend to brainstorm in their specialties, they know a lot of very specific illness and disease stuff for them. Same with House: he has a double specialty in infectious disease and kidney stuff. Chase doesn’t have that kind of background. He’s not an expert in any body part or type of sickness. He’s… good at keeping people alive. And that is not easy, and we see time and again that he’s really good at it. But he doesn’t have that same kind of knowledge specialty, and so in differentials he… contributes, for sure, but he doesn’t have the “it must be lupus!” “it must be neurological!” thing. House also doesn’t defer to him as much — House recognizes Foreman knows more about Brain Stuff than he does, so when it’s a brain thing, Foreman is expected to know. Chase doesn’t have that kind of niche, so he comes off as a little less… brainstorm-y. Cerebral.

There’s also moments here and there in the show where they outright joke or imply he’s a little dim. There’s the “dumb whore” bit and him choosing password as his password. Way back in episode two of the show, he’s doing a crossword puzzle with a medical clue and can’t figure it out; Foreman does instantly. We know about Foreman and Cameron’s very prestigious CV and schooling history (he went to one of the top schools in the US and had perfect grades; she interned at the mayo clinic). All we know about Chase until S7 is that his dad, apparently, got him the job. Also, because Chase is the dedicated Keep ‘Em Alive Guy, there’s a whole bunch of episodes where, say, Foreman and Cameron are trying to figure stuff out or searching the home while Chase is busily working on the patient, so he seems to do “less” than the other two. This is probably where the “Chase screwed up” running theme comes from too: he cuts people open more than the other two, so if there’s a physical procedure (and potential mistake), it’s him and not Cameron who probably made it.

But that all said, all jokes aside, I don’t think he’s dumb. I mean — he’s dumb, but he’s not stupid. He might not be a disease or organ specialist like the others, but he still is able to keep up. He’s very good at keeping people alive. He also has a real penchant for out of the box thinking and creativity that bumps his Solve Rate up higher than any of the other fellows. As early as the Pilot he’s able to come up with a creative solution to prove the patient has Ham Worms. He’s shown plenty of times that he is incredibly good at reading people; he’s a good manipulator and lowkey House’s default “schemes guy” in early seasons, when he needs to trick a patient (or scam money out of the S4 betting pools and Kutner). He’s able to completely see through House and Foreman multiple times; House even goes so far as to say it’s why Chase was hired.

I think if anything it’s laziness that’s Chase’s biggest issue. He’s shown plenty of times he can be brilliant and is observant and creative, he just rarely bothers or cares enough to try. He’s… kind of a spoiled rich kid. He doesn’t have to work hard for things, so he doesn’t. He’s passive and more than a little spineless, and finds it easier to go along than assert himself in early seasons. He might not be dumb, but people see him that way, and I really don’t think he minds. Because it’s easier, and because he doesn’t really care what Foreman (or whoever) thinks. The rare times he does go all out tend to be exceptions: he works his ass off to prove his father wrong in S1, and Treiber in S8, because he’s mad more than because he’s that worried about the case. He figures out the same thing as House in Control, why the patient is really sick, but only because he’s afraid he’s about to be fired. He’s lazy. He works well under pressure.

I’m going to be super pretentious here, but when I was younger I read the short story “A Good Man is Hard To Find.” The main character is a deeply unpleasant and vain older woman. When her life is threatened, however, she becomes desperate and kind and empathetic. One of the last lines is another character’s musing (and I've thought about this line nearly every day of my life since): 

"She would of been a good woman," The Misfit said, "if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life."

In a way, that’s Chase. He does great when he’s sufficiently motivated; it’s just that most of the time, he’s only motivated for personal reasons.

But he’s not stupid.

[mychoombatheroomba]

I'll Be Missing You

Between the Bones (Leon x GN! Reader) - Chapter 44

Leon writes his letter to Sherry and you both continue to heal in different ways.

(Cross-posted from Ao3)

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Chapter Index

He finished the letter just before lights out. You helped, even if you insisted that it hadn’t been much. 

It helps to have someone listen to it, Leon had insisted, reading you the words he’d written and rewritten until at last he was satisfied. You’d done your best to point out what you thought Reed and Hellman would want more vague explanations about, suggesting how to phrase some things. Otherwise, your supportive expression and quiet nods were enough. 

The letter, though . . . that would never be enough. It would never convey all that Leon wished to say, or all of his regrets. It would never right the wrongs that began that night in Raccoon City. 

It was a start, though. 

Sherry,

I will never be able to apologize enough for not writing back to you sooner. I’m sorry, I promise if I could have, I would have. 

I am okay. I can’t tell you everything, but just know that I’m okay, and I’m so glad to hear that you are too! I’m so glad that you’re feeling better! Told you that you would! You’re a regular Supergirl! I know it’s frustrating, not being able to go back to school. Just keep studying. It’ll be easier when they let you go back that way! I know I probably sound like a boring old fart, but it’s true! 

And hey, tell you what? I don’t want you missing out on all the fun. Go ahead and watch Star Wars without me! You can write back to me and tell me all about what you thought, if you want! In fact, that’s my mission for you! Watch as many movies as you can! Read as many books, and just have as much fun as you can! I want to hear all about it! 

I wish I could tell you what I’ve been doing these past few months or tell you about the people I’ve met. I wish I could have written to you sooner. I wish a lot of things.  Just know that I’m going to be trying to keep people safe, just like Claire did for you. And know that I didn’t forget you. Never could. I don’t know when I’ll be able to visit you. Someday soon, I hope. Until then, please keep writing to me. I’ll write you back every time, I promise!

Don’t get into too much trouble, okay? 

But even if you do, I know you’re smart enough to get out of it. Just stay safe, okay? Talk to you more soon, hopefully! 

I miss you too.

- Leon

It wasn’t perfect, but you nodded your approval as he finished reading it aloud all the same. “I think that’s good.” 

“Not too much?” Leon asked, eyes betraying his worry. 

“I’m not exactly an expert on writing letters.” 

Leon could sympathize. “Neither am I. Obviously.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d written home because . . . well, there was really no home to write to. He’d wondered if that was the same for you, but there had been enough painful memories resurrected that day. He wouldn’t ask. Maybe you’d tell him eventually, but the two of you had given the fallen their due deference. It was their day, after all, but now, Leon wanted to think of the living. 

He wanted to think of just how lucky the two of you were to have survived all that you did, because he’d come so close to never knowing you at all. He’d nearly lived in a world without you - something that in just a few months had become unthinkable to him. 

The thought of leaving you in a few weeks was painful enough in his heart. When this had all begun, he’d never entertained the possibility that he’d finish his training before you. You’d been here longer. Trained harder. You were the best and then . . . well, you both knew how easily disaster could befall you and change everything, didn’t you? He didn’t want to leave you behind. Not now. Not after all that the two of you had shared, and all that he wanted to share with you still. But he couldn’t heal the broken bones in your side any faster. All he could do was try and remind you that he was out there. That he would think of you every day. 

“I can write to you,” he offered. “When I . . .” he didn’t even want to say it, just as you didn’t want to think about it. Leon saw your expression fall, something in your eyes going a little distant. You were worried. He could see it. He would be worried too, he supposed. But maybe if he wrote to you . . . 

You didn’t say anything, at first, just listening to the ever-playing radio. 

“I mean, if you want-”

You didn’t give Leon’s doubt time to grow, and he was grateful for that. “I do.” Your answer was simple and straightforward, as it always was. 

And as always, it made Leon smile. “I will, then.” 

“You’d better.” There was something in your voice. Strained. Brittle. Ready to break. Your voice had sounded like that throughout your entire tale of what happened that night in Finland. Then, as now, you hadn’t been able to look Leon in the eye as you spoke. 

So, he reached for your hand, his brow furrowing as the skin to skin contact made your nostrils flare and your lips purse. Like you were resetting the mask you wore. If that was what you needed right now, even if it hurt to see, Leon understood. That still didn’t stop him from holding your hand, even if for just a few moments of silence. 

Moments that ended when you spoke, your voice soft. “And you’d better be careful, too,” you finally said, and the desperation of your words . . . it gave Leon pause because he’d never heard you like that before. 

He knew exactly why you were making that demand of him now, too. He knew it was because the memories of those you’d lost weighed on you still, because you cared for him. 

Because you didn’t want his to be a story you told and mourned in a year. 

“I will be,” he agreed, but when you finally turned to him, he knew that his words weren’t enough. 

“You have to be-”

Your name slipped from his lips, and he leaned in, his free hand finding your cheek. Making you look into his eyes fully so you would know the sincerity of his promise. “I will be.” Because he wouldn’t leave you alone. He would come back to you, he could feel it in his bones. Whatever other fears he held, he couldn’t let you be another unwalked path, another what if in his life. Another joy taken from him. You wouldn’t lose each other, he would make sure of it. 

You would be different. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” he told you, and he could see you fight tooth and nail for even the tiniest of smiles to form. And when he still saw doubt in your eyes, he leaned in further. You always were someone who preferred action to words, anyway. 

The kiss didn’t last as long as he’d like, but it, like his letter, was a start. A promise. 

You searched his eyes when you separated, and Leon felt such a beautiful pain in looking at you, because he knew now what you’d been through. He knew what you’d lost, he knew what you feared to lose. And he knew exactly why you asked your next question. 

“How can you believe that so easily?” 

Honestly, Leon didn’t know. He had expected only death and pain in his future when he’d been forced to join STRATCOM. He went to sleep every night fearing that he’d relive Raccoon City, and now he was a few weeks away from facing it down in his waking hours too. He had prepared himself for that. What he hadn’t prepared for was you. Your presence and the friendships he’d forged despite the odds . . . if he could find something good in this hell, then maybe not everything was lost. “Not saying it’s easy to believe,” he grinned, “but I do anyway.” 

You scoffed a laugh at that, shaking your head but not moving away. “I hope you’re right, then.” 

“So do I.” He had to be. 

Because the world owed you both that much. It owed you the chance to heal, even if only a little. It may not give you much of one, but . . . well, if it was a lifetime of dressing each other’s wounds, of putting each other back together . . . then maybe he could find it in him to face what was to come. 

Maybe he could have hope again. 

⧫⧫⧫

“You’re looking better.” 

You tried not to frown at the words, because, encouraging as they were, “better” wasn’t healed. It didn’t mean you were back in fighting shape. You still had several weeks before that was the case. Still, after the weeks of rest you’d already endured, it at least was starting to hurt less to breathe. That was something. Seeing the x-rays of your slowly healing ribs was something of a comfort too. To you, to Doc, and to Krauser, who stood with his arms crossed, leaning against a wall on the far side of the room. 

“Should be on track if you keep the rest up like you have been,” Doc told you, though you knew the report was for the Major as well. 

Krauser had been . . . well, he’d been quiet these last few weeks. Since Memorial Day, really. You’d seen him mostly at night when the two of you set up for the next morning’s lessons, but even then, there hadn’t been many words exchanged between the two of you. A few months ago, that wouldn’t have bothered you. Now, though . . . well, things were changing, weren’t they? 

“I’d still give it a while,” the Doc went on, “but you should be okay to move a bit more in two weeks, give or take.” Two weeks and then you could start training again fully. That meant four before Leon’s graduation . . . 

“Good,” Krauser cut in, his voice curt as it had been the few times he’d really spoken to you these last few days. “Then I want you with the new recruits in melee drills. No fighting, but you’re going to be giving notes. Watching their technique.” 

Your brows furrowed as you looked towards the Major, and you were hit with a feeling of deja vu. And a feeling of confusion, because when Krauser had pulled you in to spar with Leon’s old squad, he’d done it to get you more practice. Watching people fight wasn’t useless in developing skills, you knew, but so much of the extra help you’d given Leon had been because you could physically cross blades with him - him and the rest. If you couldn’t actually fight, though . . . “Not sure how much help I’ll be to you if I can’t demonstrate.” 

“Not me you’re going to be helping,” Krauser corrected, somehow sounding more displeased than he already had been recently. “Reed and the other instructors are taking over their combat drills for the time being.” 

And just like that, you were pissed off too. 

“What?” Your voice took on a tone of incredulity, your focus completely turning away from the Doc because the sheer notion of Krauser not being the main instructor-

The Major’s frown didn’t lessen, but he shook his head and clarified all the same. “Just for the new blood. Hellman and I have things to set up, so we needed to reallocate responsibilities.” He pursed his lips together, then his chest rose as he took a breath. “I need someone watching to make sure he’s not teaching them bullshit.” 

Because he didn’t trust Reed. 

You couldn’t blame Krauser for that. You sure as hell didn’t trust the agent either. You wouldn’t even agree to help that bastard in any way if it weren’t Krauser asking - if you didn’t know that he had his reasons. As it was, however quiet the Major had been with you these last few days, this set your mind at ease because if he didn’t trust Reed, this request proved that he did trust you. So, there was only one answer you could give. “I’ll do what I can.” 

Krauser nodded, his expression that had been so stormy as of late calming just a touch. A moment, that’s all it was, and then the Major pushed off from the wall, his expression resetting once more. “Good,” he said simply, and was about to show himself out when the door opened in front of him. 

Someone you didn’t know stepped in - a man about your age, his face drawn in an expression of pain and one hand wrapped around his wrist. One of the more recent recruits, you realized. His eyes widened though, as soon as he caught sight of Krauser standing in front of him. “Major! Sir! Sorry. I was told to have the Doc look at-” 

“Then what are you wasting time talking to me for?” Krauser deadpanned before stepping aside, making way for the young soldier to scurry past. 

He’d taken a bad fall from the obstacle course, he explained. It didn’t take long for the Doc to have a rudimentary diagnosis. “Probably a sprain,” he informed the soldier, then looked your way, finding you ready and waiting. “You know what to do?” 

“Ice it and wrap it,” you answered, already moving towards the door. 

Once there, Krauser stopped you with a raise of his pale brow. “Been playing medic, too?” He said it like he almost couldn’t believe it of you. A few months ago, you wouldn’t have, either. 

“You told me to make myself useful,” you shrugged, glad that you could pull off that small movement without being in agony, now. 

By the smile Krauser gave you, you could tell that he was glad too. “Well then get to it.” 

You surprised yourself by giving him a smile back. “Yes, sir.” 

He was gone by the time you returned, allowing you and the Doc to wrap the recruit’s wrist in peace. Your work was observed and approved of with a nod . . . and a surprise when evening fell. 

You’d never thought that half of a homemade sandwich would look so good. 

The Doc looked more than a little amused as he handed it to you, no doubt because of the surprise on your face. “Fair payment for fair work,” he told you. “But not a word of this to anyone. Can’t have people thinking I’m running a deli out of the med bay.” 

You nodded, taking the first homemade meal you’d had in . . . well, maybe in years, with an eagerness you hadn’t expected. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Doc.” 

You already had your fair share of secrets to keep, after all. What was one more? 

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Index

A/N: Sorry for the delay! Took a little break from tumblr, but I'll be updating regularly again! Also, we're almost caught up to ao3 now! Anyone reading and enjoying this deserves a medal for putting up with how long this shit is XD But seriously, I so so appreciate anyone reading this story, I have loved writing it, I hope you all have loved reading it!

[bingejesus]

The Least of These

Requested by Anonymous: Gaius finding a little, starving, abused, homeless orphan girl near/in the red quarter, and he feeds her and takes her in for her safety (thugs, creeps, etc)

Author’s Note: Finally!!! I am so sorry for making you wait, things have been crazy, but I hope to finish up the requests I have. I hope you enjoy!

Ever since Gaius became Praetor of Capernaum, he’s been efficient in making life better for its citizens, even making life safer within the Red Quarter. Unfortunately, not everything can come to his attention to fix. Some slip through the cracks. Though it’s certainly not for his lack of trying. Jesus of Nazareth changed his life in so many ways, gave him hope, purpose, healed his son, what else could he do but respond by following him and his teachings to love the least of these?

That’s why he’s not afraid as he walks through the Red Quarter, he doesn’t fear the people. Even practically, he has little to fear. No one wants to harm the man who has been making life even a little easier. The people even show him deference as he walks by and he always greets them with a smile, something he found himself doing so rarely before.

His smile drops when he sees a man, perhaps slightly younger than himself, speaking to a young girl. At first, he hopes this is a father with his child, but the situation becomes clearer the longer he looks.

The girl is so emaciated and short that it’s difficult to tell her exact age, her hair is dirty and her dress has holes worn into the dusty fabric. She is barefoot, calloused and bruised feet standing on the hard ground. The girl is cringing away from the man, who keeps advancing towards her and speaking soft but demanding words. Finally the girl tries to leave, but the man grabs her wrist before she can turn. She lets out a singular, sharp whine before Gaius is upon the man. He doesn’t carry a sword anymore, and this is the first time in a while he wishes he still had it. He jerks the man towards him by the collar, forcing him to let go of the child.

“Go on your way,” he commands, shoving him slightly.

The man looks at him fearfully, but smiles as if to dissuade him, “Praetor Gaius! I was simply asking this poor girl—“

“On your way,” Gaius says again, his eyes burning like hot coals. The man hurries away, unwilling to argue any further. Once he is gone, Gaius’ expression softens to a kind smile at the girl who has backed herself against a wall in fear. She stares up at him gratefully, but with an added note of caution.

“Are you all right?” He asks, kneeling down to her level, “Is your father around?”

She shakes her head.

“Mother?”

Same answer.

His heart breaks at that. If that was the case then she certainly had no home to return to.

“Are you hungry? I can buy you some bread from the market.”

She shrinks a little, her voice as small as she is, “I don’t want to go home with you.”

It takes a moment before the implication sinks in and his stomach churns. A small part of him wishes he had hurt the man who harassed her.

“You don’t have to,” he says gently, “I can bring you some bread. Can you wait here for a moment?”

She relaxes slightly and shifts on her feet, nodding slowly. He returns after a few minutes with more than bread. He carries a basket full of bread, cheese, and apples. The girl bursts into tears when she sees it, grabbing the first loaf of bread she can touch and taking large, hasty bites. Gaius sat with her while she ate to ensure no one else would bother her. After she finished the bread, she looked up at him and for the first time, she smiled.

“I’m…Dinah.”

He smiled back, “I’m Gaius.”

“You’re a rich man.”

“I am.”

“Do you live in a big house?”

“I do, with my wife and two sons.”

She hesitates, as if she wants to ask something but can’t quite form the words to say it. After a pause, he asks, “How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“Ah, just a little younger than my boys. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

She shakes her head again and falls into silence. Then she stands and takes the basket.

“Thank you…” she mutters before scurrying off. Gaius’ chest aches. He wanted to invite the girl to stay at his home to get her off the street, but perhaps it was wise not to. She seemed scared at the prospect. He stood, dusted himself off and made his way home. It wasn’t until he passed through the gate that he saw Dinah sneaking out when she thought he wouldn’t notice and sitting at the gate with her basket. He was glad she would at least be safer here and ordered his servants to watch over her. A few weeks passed, and soon his sons were going out to play with her during the day. Gaius would watch them and feel joy swell up inside him as he heard Dinah laughing. He made sure she was brought food, clothes, anything she needed, though she was still hesitant to come inside, even when the boys would ask. His wife shared his sentiments to take care of the girl and soon she became as much a part of the family as anyone else, even if she stayed at the gate.

Then one night as a storm came in, and the rain beat down on the dirt streets, a soft knock at the door alerted Gaius. Dinah was there, having gotten wet from the rain, shivering.

“Can I…come in?”

Without hesitation, he ushered her inside. The house was suddenly alive as he ordered servants to bring her more clothing and prepare a grand dinner. Marius even offered her his own bed to sleep in. So, she stayed in the house that night, and the next, and the next. Gaius was reminded of one of Jesus’ parables of a lost son coming home, and knew he felt as much joy as the father in that story.

[mono-black-menace]

this is not a kink post

girls (me) who spent their lives shoving aside their boundaries and their wants and their needs and their fears and just all of their feelings to please the people around them because they know that if they don't they'll be all alone, and they start to sexualise being raped because they push down their own feelings so much that they have sex with people they don't want to have sex with just because any company is good company when you feel like you don't have a choice in the matter.

i fetishise being mindless and being a toy and being raped and being used and power over me and all of this shit because i'm so used to doing sexual shit that i don't want to do because im scared of being alone that sexualising my lack of desire for it makes it easier to push my feelings down, it makes it easier for me to sacrifice myself for others.

it makes me more palatable. it makes me less likely to be alone.

rape and physical violence and being drugged and restrained and even killed are all sexualisation of my biggest flaw;

i don't consider myself worth prioritising.

i'm scared that if i don't bend to the needs of everyone around me, that i'll end up alone, because i don't see myself worthy of genuine love.

i just keep chopping off bits of myself leaving myself less and less happy with each relationship, and at some point i realise that i hate my entire life and i don't even know why.

i left my wants and needs and fears and dislikes and everything behind so long ago that all i feel is the ache of ripping them out of myself.

and i look at my relationships like.

what am i doing? am i sacrificing myself for them? would they do the same for me?

who am i anymore?

what do i like? what do i want?

is every fantasy of mine just a sexualisation of my self-hatred?

am i so lonely, so sure that i'll never be loved that ill put up with sexual relationships i don't want, sexualise the fact that i don't want them, let go of myself, form my entire identity around my relationship with them and what they want me to be?

what am i?

why does it feel so selfish, so cruel to deny sex to others? it's my body!

why does it feel so selfish to not always be able to be the shoulder to cry on?

why does it feel selfish to want anything for myself?

why would i rather put myself through this, and sexualise the pain im going through, than stand up for myself?

is bad company really better than being alone?

is it worth the cost?

and now i'm in a situation, the safest i've ever been.

loved. cared for.

and i feel like if im not constantly sacrificing myself it'll go away.

my needs are wrong, and if i can't let go of them, it's because im a horrible person, so why not embrace it? why not be horrible?

i need to be there for everyone, i need to grab hold of them and let them know they're loved, and if im not able to, because of emotional issues, then im a horrible person.

i need to have sexual relationships with people, because why else would someone be my friend? at least if i send them nudes or suck their dick or something they'll put up with me talking about things i enjoy. at least they'll hold me when i cry. they'll feel obligated. it's payment. sex for conversation. sex for a shoulder.

i have to defer to people because if i need anything, ill be abandoned.

if i need, people will be mad at me, and ill remember how worthless i am.

at least if i have sex with people i'll have a use.

at least if i show my body to people who ask, i'll have a use.

and if i have a use maybe one or two of my needs will be met.

it's better than being alone.

it's better because i'm getting company, but i'm not being selfish about it.

why would anyone want to be around ME? what is there in ME?

it's a chore to be around ME. i'm not worth the attention. i'm not worth the love.

that's why i have to be sexually available. that's why when i stop being available sexually everyone leaves.

it's because i'm not worth more than that.

and because of that, wanting someone's company is a crime.

i need to pay for it.

sacrifice bits of myself for it.

ache for it.

i can't approach them first, that's selfish.

but then they only come to me for sex.

but isn't that the whole thing? if they only come to me for sex, it means my payment isn't enough for what i'm asking for.

if they don't care about me until they're horny, then i should listen. maybe they just need more payment.

maybe we can pretend i'm being kidnapped.

maybe they can get me intoxicated first.

maybe i can pretend it's all roleplay.

maybe the hurting is part of the roleplay.

maybe they can beat me.

maybe they can hold a knife to my throat

maybe they can cut me. maybe they can choke me. maybe they can humiliate me. maybe they can degrade me, beat me down, maybe if we make it kinky maybe if we just keep adding more and more on top it'll stop hurting.

maybe sex just hurts now.

maybe i can only cum if i'm being choked or bitten or slapped around or called worthless or drugged or tied up is because i can't think about sex as something i enjoy anymore.

maybe it's something i do to make other people happy.

maybe that's why i get so horny when im upset.

when i dare to have emotions, dare to have needs, i want to show that i can pay it back, i can fuck you, please don't leave me.

look, i'll suck your cock, please don't be mad at me for crying.

please don't go, i'll let you choke me, please.

please please please please please.

i don't want to be alone you can do anything you want.

i don't need anything please don't leave me.

there's nothing left of me but you, please don't leave me.

all i want is to make you happy.

please don't leave me.

i don't know who i am anymore.

please don't leave me.

ill let you choke me until i pass out this time

please don't leave me.

i'm sorry i can't cum.

please don't leave me.

i'm sorry sex hurts me.

please don't leave me.

please.

i'm a good toy a good girl i'm a good pet.

i don't have wants or needs.

i don't have thoughts or emotions.

my life revolves around you.

please don't leave me.

we can have sex whenever you want. i'll try not to cry. i'll try not to hesitate. i'll try to be good. i can do it, i swear.

please don't leave me.

[eolewyn1010]

For the AU Ask Game: Super Hero AU for a fandom of your choice.

Belatedly! Five fun facts for a Super Hero AU of Tatort Stuttgart:

Nika literally can do a dozen things at once - without her ability to duplicate, the whole team would have collapsed long ago. And it's her choice to mainly use her powers to keep things running and organized; she has been part of the action a few times, but feels she's most effective at her office job. So if in this version Thorsten has one of his arrogant moments towards her as he sometimes had in the earlier episodes, he has to deal with the glares of several deeply implacable Nikas who know her value and are completely unwilling to defer to him.

Basti's and Julia's divorce happens way earlier and way more amicably. Having a husband that can ignore the laws of space to hunt criminals has been interesting, but it's also made the whole living-dangerously thing way more pressing, and with two children who may or may not yet turn out to be supers as well, Julia is too overtaxed to also start an affair on the side and simply tells Basti what's up: It's too much for her, this marriage thing doesn't work. She'd rather be a divorcee than a widow.

The former hasn't made Basti's and Thorsten's relationship a whole lot easier though. It's impossible to lie to Thorsten or even hide anything from him, which means Basti doesn't have any chance to disclose his feelings on his own time, and it's frankly frustrating. Basti is like: "Telepath etiquette, anyone??" And Thorsten is like: "We work together; it's a very good thing that I'm tuned to your thoughts! Why would you hide anything from me in the first place?" At which point Basti compares him to a surveillance state; it's a whole thing.

Thorsten's telepathy thing is also causing Frau Alvarez many problems - technically, a lot of intel Thorsten is privy to falls under unlawfully acquired information. So she gives him what for if the best he can offer is "I heard it in their thoughts". Thorsten and Basti sometimes quip that Alvarez also "has her ways" to acquire information, claiming she's able to supernaturally charm people into confessions, but the thing is: Alvarez is actually the Team Normal. Which most people on the outside don't know; they tend to think Nika's the normal one because, unless they do see several of her at once, she appears to be an unassuming jack-of-all-trades. The gorgeous, confident prosecutor who never loses a case, not a super? ...Yeah. She just is that cool.

Basti still crashes into a bit of a crisis via Maja's abduction, but 1st, the whole deal of Thorsten calling in the police when Basti asks him not to doesn't happen - it's the ultimate test of trust for them, and Thorsten does the complete opposite of canon in that he goes on one of his solo runs and tracks down Maja's kidnappers telepathically (and ends up as a hostage, pulling the plots of Preis des Lebens and Im gelobten Land into one). And 2nd, afterwards, it quickly becomes clear that substance abuse is really not an option if that means your portal-hopping goes haywire. So Basti actually has to deal with his shit. Granted, it's a bit easier when he's pissed at Thorsten not for betraying his trust, but just for getting himself into danger again. Business as usual, amirite?

If that sounds like I would use just about any excuse to kick canon events more into a shape I like? Yes. That's exactly what it is. I also think Thorsten angsting about how he's carrying the burden of the world is easy to justify when he can hear and feel all the world's thoughts around him.

[sanitytomychaos]

So as I’m taking a brake from playing BG3… a thought came to mind

What was are Dark Urge like before the betrayal of there sister? What made them the apple of their fathers eye and why did Gortash like you more than they tolerate Orin?

So me being me I looked up Bhaal and read a little about him.

About dear old Pa….

He’s a neutral evil god. (In 5e)

He’s Lawful evil in BG3

He’s the god murder in BG3

He was a god murder and the hunt (amung other things in D&D)

He’s was that guy in D&D that wanted to murder everything so THE MURDER HOBO

He was petty Because he lost to Bane and a Merkel, and therefore he had to be the god of murder.

From what ever art I’ve seen of him, we did not get are looks from him at all.

He also impregnated many woman as well to carry his seed. So that’s why You and Orin are half siblings (sisters in my case) and then I learned they were wiped out… well clearly the missed some here. So it’s either we are really flipping old.

(Wait does this mean we are demigods???????)

Anyway you were described as the perfect one… why ? Was it because you were not as unhinged as your sister? The one who took pleasure in murdering her victims in a chaotic insanity?

And are you the one that just enjoys the hunt that leads to your murder? And you’re not as unhinged as your sister hens why is easier to talk to you and have a conversation, and not blurt out you want to murder the person who you’re talking to.

You to your father.

Du (calling her Posie, cuz putting Durge is weird…) she was his fine crafted tool, she was perfect one, she didn’t complain and did her work. She was the “point and kill with out questions asked”

She was devoted and not crazy. No crazy makes you miss all the fine detailed of your kill. Makes you miss and appreciate the murder. How it was done, why it was done.

And you know why it was done, and it brakes you. That’s why you are the favorite he wants you to suffer as you do the deed so you know, each soul you take will haunt you and curse and scream your name.

But he forsakes you once your mind is corrupted by the Tav pole, his voice isn’t there any more to keep constantly whispering. The butler is his way of trying to get Posie back. This is the only way he can help to get his daughter back. To give you gifts and rebuild you.

And since you were “perfect” before. The fall you didn’t need the butler…

But never answer your questions.

That’s what I think…

BEFORE EVERYTHING

Relationship with Orin..

I wanna think Posie (okay pocket we get it she’s the Du) and Orin were sisters ( well duh pocket) .

Posie tried to be good sister to Orin, cuz she wanted a family or have some sort of family, but Orin made it very had to do so. They were two deferent sides of the same coin.

But there were small moments? Like Orin would listen to Posie as she reads something out loud. And then listen to Posies questions on the “holy” scriptures to Bhaal as alot of it was hogwash.

“He wants blood in his name, nothing more or less. Just that”

Orin complains that Posie is not. Doing things right and she does the same to Orin.

Share a meal together…

( they are both cannables, only fact I will stay with in the game cannon the other stuff is…. I’m sorry I draw the line of necrophilia and incest tendencies, This game has no chill at all man).

It would be a “hey I turned this Drow into a roast what do you think? Too much garlic or its not enough sage?”

Yes full on Hannibal’s here with the cooking…of humanoid meats. There’s even a part in the game were you can eat said meats in the goblin camp and it heals you by a lot…

I can see Posie just be “Orin that hand was in piss, do not- “

“Orin do not put that in your mouth!”

Orin proceeds to eat the hand anyway because she gives no shits and she is chaos energy.

Posie doesn’t talk to Orin for the rest of the day or week Because that’s just vile even for a cannable like her….The rude ones get eaten only, or she stops because people are junk food and she was gaining some weight.

Orin makes fun of Posies name all the time “Sister dear you should change your name”

Posie refuses to do so as it’s the only thing that keeps her human. And reminds her “there are flowers that can grow from blood”

We have Orin “The Red” because blood and gore..

Posie Would have been “The flower of Bones” as when a body decays. Nature takes it for its own. And bones are forever?

Foreshadowing that Posie will be around even after death….(someone’s death! )

Durge had nothing, your Bhaalness awakens when you were a child and you murdered your foster parents.

(Great really make your Durge a tragic character why don’t you Larian. I love it!)

Orin had parents and Posie will forever resent Orin for that.

Orin was the one that betrayed you. I think when Posie gets to that part in the game. And just thinking about it now. With being more human than she ever was before and finaly fighting her father and wanting to be free of all the nightmares and the voices.

She would be heartbroken. Her sister took everything from her and Orin dosnt care, she was watching and waiting for her sister slip up, and she did slip up. She fell for the chosen of Bain.

Why? It could be a lot of things, bust mostly jealousy, why did someone like Posie get all the love and she got nothing? And even when Orin took Posies place she will always still be compared.

Orin and Durge will always be that Back staving jealous, sibling troop. You still get rid of the sibling you hated and wanted to be… but you’re forever compared to them and your forever and their shadow no matter how much you shine in your own, right. That’s Orin in my eyes…

About the DarkUrge…. Posie.

(It’s funny you get murdered or beaten up by an orc with a flower name)

Im doing a Monk play though with this character so really plays well with being the “perfect weapon”. Posie body is the weapon. Everything around her. Is a weapon so when she’s out doing something for Gortash she throws her victims in a false sense of security

“You fool you have nothing to kill me with!” They have a sword.

She then disarms arms then and used that sword agents then “You were saying?”

I’m also multi-classing as a Druid in there too (I love moon Druids) Because… sneaking in as a cat or bird undetected is just funny.

“Oh look a pretty kitty!”

Turns into a half Orc (need more orc love) then proceeds to murder. Then walks away with bloody paws or flys away as a raven…goes and cleans the filth off your paws or preens your feathers for the next 3 hours.

When she’s mad she will throw things. Books, spoons, chairs…people. Has Yeeted a victim in the Gray bay Because that woman was just- let the fish eat her.

Each murder is different and never the same twice back to back.

She doesn’t do senseless murders. That’s not her style. She wants them to mean something. Hens why this. Would make her the favorite.

Posie had more sanity in them than Orin did. You were able to carry out conversation and look like a completely normal person and not go batshit crazy when you were stalking your target.

(Looking at you Orin)

You were a hunter… a well sharpened You didn’t play with your kills- naaah, you like toying with them.

Or you just liked to strike when your pray was at a peaceful state of mind were they think they are safe but not. That’s when you liked to strike.

That’s what Bhaal loved the best…

I’ll have more, maybe just needed to get this out there

[welcome-to-oslov]

Alright, sorry to be your ask box penpal this week, but I'm just such an Oslov superfan & binge reading so I have too many thoughts to share 😂.

Last ones: I'm Brazilian but have lived in America half my life (15 years). Just got home to visit São Paulo and it's helping me understand Gersha and the other not-evil-but-complicit characters better. As you may know, we have extreme inequality in Brazilian society. São Paulo's an amazing city with tons of upper social class & rich powerful people. However our lifestyle as upper class people is dependent on there being a huge class of poor people locked out of opportunity with no choice but to learn deference and work as low-paid servants. For example, a live-in nanny who cares for children of well-off families like a second mother, while her own children go without mothering far away. Young people from the impoverished northeast brought to the big cities for "opportunity" that are really just exploitative domestic labor.

Many of us know this feels wrong... yet so many of my class hate politicians whose policies haved lifted many out of poverty - and suddenly the price of maids double and poor kids can get into the excellent universities only WE'd been able to attend. This felt like a threat to our very existence. Many of us performatively talk about social justice & how it's wrong that only WE have power & opportunity, but the few of our peers who actually do something about it do feel threatening.

Of course thankfully we don't have this institionalized crazy kettle boy system, and mistreated maids drivers etc can easily quit & find another shitty job no problem. But, those who are really trapped are a mistreated son or daughter children of an upper class family. Every well-off family has someone who holds all the money & power: a father, uncle, or grandfather. As upper class kids we are supported by our families till ~25 because even it's not possible to launch your young adult life without family money; due to social divisions, you can't go out & get a teen/college kid job like in America, your friends all live at home too you can't really go move with them, the best university is going to be in your home city, and even good entry-level grad jobs at corporations don't really start paying enough till you're older since they figure you're paying your dues while your family patriarch supports you. If that patriarch is or was abusing you, you wouldn't have many clear ways out.

So how does a guy or girl in a bad situation get out? You get married young (20, 21, 22, etc.). Once you're married you're considered an adult: your wealthy family buys you two a starter condo, jobs might give you a raise, etc. You can divorce later, but getting that spouse gives you protection & distance & resources. Ofc easier for a girl to take this route, but a guy too could get a rich daddy's girl he knows at their nice school to marry him & insist her father set them up with young married life if his family drags their feet (though generally even an abusive patriarch would play ball here & realize he's been beat, otherwise he looks bad socially). I've seen this scenario play out with a couple of friends.

Which... basically is Tilrey's escape. He realizes he has an opportunity in Gersha & he goes for it, out of desperation to escape, genuine relief at finding someone nice he can live with & be his ally as he breaks free, etc 😢🙏

(Speaking of Tilrey & Brazil, what do you think of my casting suggestion post?! Hahahaha :) I have such a crush, but c'mon, he's gorgeous!)

I'm here for your thoughts any time! And I know very little about Brazil, so that's a fascinating comparison! Especially the parts about family structure and how young upper-class people might need to marry to establish their independence. That reminds me of 18th- and 19th-century Europe, which was a big influence on Oslov because I've read a ton of novels from that period. Extreme inequality was a factor there, too, and patronage was the main way of advancing in society, which increases both corruption and the power of family elders. There are a lot of stories about people (always women) being trafficked and forced into sex work, but then turning that into a source of power because of their sheer beauty. Of course we have widening inequality in the U.S. too, and connections seem more and more important, and many people are resistant to any form of redistribution. So I wonder if we're headed in the same direction, which scares me. Especially since there are tech billionaires who would definitely justify that as "meritocracy."

He is totally gorgeous! :)

[2q5b]

BO

By Agnes

January 23rd, 2024

1.

And then darkness fell. The midrash tells us that there were in fact two periods of darkness. During the first darkness there was a gloom so thick no one could see each other, and during the second darkness the darkness became even thicker, so thick that no one could move. If you were standing when the darkness fell you remained standing. If you were sitting you remained sitting. If you were bending over your child, you remained bent over, if you were climbing up a ladder to change a light-bulb there you were balanced and immobile, atop the ladder.

I think they died, all of them. The Egyptians. Before the killing of the first borns, before the departure from Egypt. I think they died. I think they died the ninth plague, the plague of darkness. Because what is darkness, if not a kind of death? Those bodies frozen in place — in chairs, up ladders — it was a kind of rigor mortis. “כֻּלָּ֥נוּ מֵתִֽים,” they say. We are all dead.

2.

I think this Parsha is a parsha about love. And this is the breakup. It’s the end of a very long relationship. A four-hundred year relationship. This parsha tells the end of a love story in which the lovers got tangled up in each other. They had gotten to the point where they couldn’t understand themselves without the other. They didn’t know how to be alone. And so the relationship ended. This week’s parsha is the breakup. The awful, messy, devastating breakup.

We’ve all known people in what we might call toxic relationships. Call it co-dependence, call it enmeshment, call it a controlling attachment style. You can go to the concert with Tina and you can stay over at her place but I want you to text me, okay? Text me when you get there and text me when you leave and text me in the morning as soon as you get up and come right back home. And sometimes that feels like love. And sometimes you just wanna go to the concert with Tina.

But there are forms of entanglement, a blurring of self and other, that can happen in any kind of close relationship. We pull people close because it is scary to be alone.

When we love someone, our sense of who we are gets tied up in who that other person is. They are brave, say, and because of our intimacy with them we get to feel that we too have some of that bravery. Or they are tender, say, and because of our intimacy with them we get to have access to a certain kind of tenderness. But then — who are we, when they are gone?

I know I have been in relationships like this. Where I saw in someone certain qualities that I wished I had, and loving that person became a way of bringing those qualities into my life. A way that was a little easier than finding those qualities inside myself. In relationships like that you are asking someone else to make your identity for you. You turn them into a kind of servant, or slave. You are forcing them to build your pyramids.

This week I have been listening to Lou Reed sing Walk Alone.

When you walk, he sings, you know you're gonna walk alone.

And when you talk, and when you make love, and when you die, he sings, you’re gonna do it alone.

It’s not an easy truth.

Is this a way of reading these early books of Exodus? As a story in which which one people, Egypt, falls in love with another people, Israel? In which Egypt comes to dominate Israel because that feels like intimacy, and because difference is just too much to bear? In which the dominating people’s identity gets tangled up in the subordinated people’s identity? So much so that when it comes time for the subordinated people to leave, the dominating people are devastated. They spend six days in darkness and they die a kind of death.

3.

Let me try out another version of the story.

Pharaoh is a very lonely person. He’s very powerful. He controls a whole empire. Everyone comes to him with wishes, and needs, and deference, and fear. Who is such a person to love, and be loved by?

Who but God?

God, who is also very powerful. Who also gets approached with wishes and needs and deference and fear. God, who must also be terribly lonely.

And so Pharaoh falls in love with God. In fact, he feels — what luck! — he’s finally found a lover who understands him. When Pharaoh meets God he can’t get enough. He wants to text God all the time, he wants to talk for hours on the phone, he gets restless and moody whenever God is off doing other things on the weekend. Pharaoh feels, finally, understood. He feels like God is the first being to understand him. And it’s because they’re just so similar. They’re so similar, they’re almost like one being. It’s like I am God, thinks Pharaoh, and God is me.

And God maybe was open to a kind of a relationship with Pharaoh, but then it started to get so intense, and weird. And God started to feel like Pharaoh wasn’t actually talking to God, or listening, or seeing God. Pharaoh was relating to a projection, to a fantasy. And God would try to say something, like, hey, Pharaoh, we’re not exactly the same. Pharaoh would order the lamb vindaloo, because we love that, don’t we, God, and God would get quiet and order the aloo gobi, just to make a point.

And Pharaoh can feel God pulling away. And it only makes him panic. It makes him cling harder. It muffles his hearing and blurs his vision. It hardens his heart. This thing he calls love which is actually a fear of being alone. A fear of dying.

When you make love, you know you're gonna love alone

And when you die, you know you're gonna die alone

When is loving a deep form of knowing? Of giving and receiving and holding and being held?

And when is loving a drug we take because we’re afraid of our own limitations?

Because we don’t know to change?

Because we think that love can protect us from dying?

Exodus is the book in which we become a people. It’s a book about togetherness. And that togetherness saves us. It fills our days with joy. We eat, we laugh, we make music, we dance, we fuck.

But when we forget that we are also, all of us, alone, we start to drift into a kind of denial. We forget that there are no shortcuts, that each of us has to cross our own internal oceans and wander in our own internal deserts and face the fire and the smoke and the water and the hunger and the silence.

I feel for the Egyptians in this parsha. I feel for their suffering. And I am thinking about all the cries and all the protests of the last three months. Let my people go! Let my people be free! From the river to the sea. Is every story of domination a kind of love story? And is every moment of liberation a kind of breakup? A kind of death?

4.

There’s this beautiful book, Who Dies?, by Stephen Levine, that I’ve been reading slowly for like 4 years now. It’s about dying, in the sense that it’s about end of life. But it’s also about dying in the way the mystics talk about dying. It’s about the dying we have to do every day. Dying over and over and over again in order to live.

Levine writes:

“When we speak of loving someone, what we mean is that that person acts as a mirror for the place within us which is love. That being becomes our contact with ourself. When that mirror is shattered, the grief that we feel is the loss of contact with that place within us which is love. Thinking of that person as other than ourself, we mourn our loss, we reexperience our sense of separateness and isolation that originally motivated us to look outside of ourselves for that essential unity we call love.”

To lose someone, he is saying, is to feel we are losing ourselves.

And that is the most frightening form of aloneness you can imagine. You are in darkness, you can’t see your own body, you can’t sit or stand, you don’t know how to move, you feel that you are not there, even, except for this anguished and terrified voice inside you crying out I am here! I am here!

Egypt is losing Israel. Egypt feels it is losing its mirror. Egypt feels it is losing itself.

5.

There was the first darkness, and it was dark.

And then there was the second darkness, and it was darker. It was the darkness inside the dark.

But there is always a third darkness. It is the darkness inside the darkness and inside the darkness there is light.

And that light is love.

We are not our bravery, or our tenderness. We are not our pyramids. We are not, in fact, anything. Except the capacity to love.

Let me tell you one last version of the story.

During the second three days, the darkness inside the darkness, the Israelites lived inside light. Darkness was everywhere for the Egyptians, but the Israelites could see. They walked among the houses, and they saw the jewels of the Egyptians.

They picked up the things they had never been allowed to touch

and they were silent in the face of death

and the angels looked down from heaven, quiet and watchful, because God had never done this before, spread darkness so thickly over the planet, and the angels thought the Israelites would all be happy

A fantasy, no?? To wander the homes of your oppressors, invisibly -

But the Israelites were silent

in the houses of the people they had known

They looked and saw them frozen

And the Israelites were confused

And they came to Moses and they said, Moses, we have all died

We are like ghosts wandering the city

“כֻּלָּ֥נוּ מֵתִֽים,” they said. We are all dead.

And Moses said no no you don’t understand! You are not dead, you are alive, you are surrounded by light

and the people were confused

And the people said, this darkness is death!

Look at the Egyptians, they have all died!

And we too, they said, we too, must be dead!

Because everything we know about ourselves is changing.

And Moses said no, no

This isn’t death, this is just darkness.

This is darkness, Moses said.

This is life.

[batmads-ao3]

Across The Universe

Detroit: Yuri’s done the math. He done the research and the consideration and the planning. This will be his last year of competitive figure skating, and this time next year, he’ll be moving on to grad school. No matter what, though, Yuri hopes to hold onto Victor in any way that he can. Even if he has to compromise and change his own dreams to do it.

St. Petersburg: Victor is tired of compromising. Tired of having dreams deferred, of stealing moments in the off season and after competitions to spend time with Yuri. The way he sees it, there are only two options: keep Yuri in competitive skating, or find a way to stay by Yuri’s side after this year is through. Because if there’s anything that Victor knows for certain, it’s that he’s never letting anything come between him and his soulmate ever again.

But how far are Yuri and Victor willing to go to protect the other’s dreams? And with a whole universe separating them, will a soulmate bond really be enough to hold them together when it matters most?

**Part Three of the Defy the Stars Trilogy**

Soulmates!AU • College! AU(kinda) • Happy Ending

Read Chapter Thirty-Five here!

In which Victor's heart begins to get mended, but Yuri still frets over Victor's emotional well-being.

Posting every Friday (ish), chapter preview below the cut

Yuri was gone when Victor woke up. Panic spiked through him as he realized the bed next to him was empty, and that Yuri’s keys and credentials were gone from where he’d left them on the desk in the corner last night, but then he looked over and saw the note on the nightstand. He was glad there was no one else in the room to witness how desperately he snatched it up, or how desperately he read it. 

Vitya—

Had to go and get a few things. Didn’t want to wake you. Back soon. Promise. 

Yuri 

Back soon. There was sunlight streaming through the crack in his curtains already. He didn’t know when Yuri had left, but he hoped his soulmate meant it when he said “back soon.” Victor’s heart was thundering, and he didn’t know if he could really stand it if Yuri wasn’t “back soon.” It would be too easy to convince himself that he’d imagined last night, even with proof to the contrary in his hands. Still, he pulled himself out of bed and tugged on a sweatshirt in lieu of an actual shirt. Perks of having Yuri back in his bed: it had been much easier to feel warm last night. Because these apartments were awfully, dreadfully cold. Victor spent most of his life in an ice rink in Russia, and he was pretty sure this was actually colder. 

Georgi was sitting on the couch in the common room when Victor walked out, also bundled up, eating a bowl of cereal and watching the morning ski races on their TV. Victor raised his brows at the sight, but went to puddle about in their kitchenette for coffee or breakfast of his own. 

“Yuri said you can’t go anywhere; he took your keys so he could get back in when he came back,” Georgi said. 

He didn’t look away from the TV when he said it. Which made Victor afraid to ask too many questions. Georgi watching skiing was one thing. Georgi watching skiing to avoid looking at people was a far worse situation. 

“When’d he leave?” Victor asked. 

“About twenty minutes or so ago?” Georgi said. “I don’t know. He should be back soon. He said he would be.”

Continue on Ao3

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Sticking Point 6

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, possible violence, illness, death, bullying, ableism, and other elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are sent in the place of your ailing sister to marry a stranger. (Regency AU)

Character: Loki

Note: I'm so tireddddd.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me 💞

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You might be keenly aware of your circumstance, off all the flaws in yourself and your surroundings, and of the uncertainty you walk towards. Still, you must confess that Frigga’s best efforts have not all been for not. Despite all fears, all your doubts, you feel closer to adequate than you ever have. 

You hair is tamed beneath the feather pin and the lace gloves are a lovely addition. You emerge proudly, setting your shoulders and your courage for what comes next. As you reach the top of the stairs, you are struck by the first blows of the battle. Voices. Odin and Loki, just below. 

You look down briefly. You see them there, waiting. Frigga keeps her arm hooked in yours and urges you down, step by step. Silence rises as only your short heels tap beneath you. You don’t glance at your betrothed and see the disapproval in his eyes but you know he is watching. 

“Ladies,” Odin nears as you come to the bottom, “you both are exquisite.”  

He kisses Frigga’s hand, then your own. No one’s ever treated you as such, not so genuinely. Manners and etiquette rule all but you can see through the empty gestures. You dip your head and bend your knees slightly in deference. 

“My lawd, thank you,” you say. 

You might compliment him in turn if you weren’t sure he’d take it as some egregious affront. As ever, he is refined down to aa single hair. Your betrothed is handsome from without but inside, you know him to be a snake coiling. 

“Yes, a fine prize for any man,” he keeps hold of your hand and guides you toward his son. You can feel the reluctance roiling off of Lord Laufeyson. He sniffs and offers his arm nonetheless. “Isn’t she immaculate, son?” 

His response comes through a taut throat, “so she is.” 

Odin tuts and backs away. “My wife, please, it’s been too long since I’ve been able to parade you around, show all of my fortune.” 

The elder lord takes his wife by her arm and sweeps toward the doors as two servants pull them open. Loki’s arm is rigid against you, held so that he touches you as little as possible. You keep your head high and fall into pace with him as he follows his father. 

Out of courtesy, only that which is expected, never genuine, he assists you into the carriage. You climb up and maneuver to sit on the bench. Odin and Frigga sit closely, content as they wait patiently. Loki’s weight shifts the compartment as he bows through the door and sits against the wall. Far from you. 

You turn your attention to the window as your husband-to-be thumps on the roof with his fist. The wheels roll forward and slowly build to a canter. The horses’ hooves stave off the silence enough for you to maintain composure. 

You see the manor ahead of you as you approach. It’s lit up with lanterns hung on tall polls. The gates are open to visitors as the driver follows another carriage up the lane way. 

As the wheels come to a halt, the door opens from the other side. A footman greets Odin as he emerges first, Frigga right behind him. You wait for Loki to lead the way and he does without hesitation. You step down beside him and peer over at him. 

He is nothing less than dashing in black and silver. He has that bearing which can never look anything less than stringent. He is unbending but not unbothered. You are aware of his callous spite wrought into a withering silence. 

He proceeds forward and you follow at his side. He does not offer his arm. You don’t expect that much. 

The foyer of the grand manor house has you in awe. Pristine ivory and draped azure, mother of pearl and silver, velvet and marble. You admire it all as you clasp your hands tightly. 

“Lord Odinson,” a tall woman in elegant lilac silver breezes forward, her skirts fluttering like a butterfly, “it is so pleasant to see you again.” 

“Lady Kyrington, it is an honour, as ever,” Odin takes her hand and bows his head. 

“My lady,” the hostess greet Frigga with a courteous dip of her chin. “And your sons?” 

“We’ve brought the younger, I’m afraid the elder is tending to his wife, expecting as she is,” Frigga explains. 

“Ah, Laufeyson,” Lady Kyrington swirls around the esteemed couple, “it is so unlike you to hide away. I hadn’t even noticed you there.” 

He stiffly unhooks his arm from yours and parts. He greets her with a deep bow, “my lady, so wonderful to have received your invitation.” 

You keep your straight, steeling yourself against his congenial tone. You never received that grace from him. Yet here is this woman with her elegant dark coif and bright blue eyes and she is treated as if she is queen. You hardly expect as much but a bit of humanity wouldn’t be unwelcome. 

“And you’ve brought your betrothed. I did hear she arrived.” She turns to you with a pretty smile. “Oh, what a unique colour you’ve chosen. Rustic.” 

“Thank you, my lady,” you say carefully. “And you... look splendid.” 

Laufeyson shifts, noting your choice of words. No Rs to underline your defect.  

“I must offer my condolences,” Kyrington takes your hands in hers; smooth satin brushing over your lace-sheathed fingers. “I heard of your sister. It cannot be easy to brave so much change at once, but let us hope this deep loss gives way to a wonderful prize. I know you and Lord Laufeyson should be most happy at Jade Gardens.” 

“Thank you vewy much,” you forget yourself and immediately blanch. You let her go and lower your hands to clasp over your bodice. Laufeyson’s sole scuffs and he sighs. 

“Ah...” Kyrington tilts her head coyly, “wonderful. I do hope you mingle and acquaint yourself well. We are all terribly excited to meet Laufeyson’s future wife. Never thought we’d see that day.” 

“Yes, my lady, again, many thanks,” you hold your chin high. 

“Yes, let us not impinge upon your welcoming the rest of your guests,” Laufeyson gestures you away. 

He keeps his distance as you step through the grand archway with its carved framed and peer out upon the party. Ladies in fine fabrics sip from stemmed glasses and gentleman toy with monocles and jacket buttons as they speak hushedly of sport or finance. Lord Odin and Lady Frigga have plunged into the fray. 

You glance over at Laufeyson. He huffs and struts away from you without acknowledgement. Your heart sinks. Here, he can lose you in the masses. He can simply excuse himself that he lost you amid the social furor. 

You are on your own. You rest your hand upon your reticule, hooked around your wrist. Ester’s pin is nestled there, to bring you her courage. She would not want you to wilt away. She always did mourn when the daffodils she picked began to droop. 

Your chest racks tightly and you exhale through the wave of terror. You haven’t any idea what to do. How should you approach any when it is upon Laufeyson to introduce you. He has abandoned you. You expect it won’t be the last time. 

You wade into the chamber. You stay near to the wall but not so close that you might appear mousy. You catch an eye over a painted fan and another from beneath a hat brim. You search for any hint of your escort. He has expertly hidden himself amid the revelry. 

“Where ever did you find this shade of silk?” A tweet snares you in. “And the overlay, how keen.” 

You pause and face the speaker. A blond woman, willowy and decked in several jeweled necklaces. Her portrait neckline frames her bony shoulders as golden ringlets drape down her back. 

“Thank you, my lady,” you turn to her delicately, “my motha acquawed it in Hausten.” 

Her lashes flick as the other women at her shoulders share a look. You steel yourself for mockery. For so long as you’ve lived, you’ve received the same, but not from so many. There are dozens here prepared to degrade you.  

Be brave, for Ester. 

“Ah, and you hale from Hausten? I’ve never heard that accent though I’ve travelled there,” she challenges. 

“My fatha owns the vineyard in Kywi.” 

“Kywi?” She echoes and the other women titter behind their fans. 

“Ky-wi--” you try to force out the proper enunciation, then attempt to spell it. “K-y-aw-i.”  

“Hm,” she sniffs thoughtfully and peeks between the other women and shrugs. 

“I know Kyri,” a bold timbre intones as a man steps up. “I’ve been. The grapes there are like plums.” 

“Yes, my lawd, that is it,” you affirm. 

“I’ve not been in some time but I do have wine imported,” he drawls. “Lady Gertrude, your father is from the other side of Hausten, is he not?” 

“South of it,” the blonde curls her lip at you. 

“South, ah, it might explain the difference in etiquette,” he puts his attention to you, “typically we are kind to newcomers.” 

“I was not uncouth,” Lady Gertrude insists. “I couldn't understand her cadence.” 

“It was clear enough to me,” he girds. “Forgive me, lady, I expound propriety and I’ve not yet introduced myself. Lord Heimdall, my estate is in Bifrost. Have you heard of it?” 

“Ugh,” Lady Gertrude sends him a withering look which is unheeded. He bows his head and takes your hand in that courteous way gentlemen do and he pecks your knuckles. She stomps away with the other women in tow. 

“Don’t mind those sparrows,” Lord Heimdall says as he stands straight. He is near as tall as Laufeyson but broader in the shoulders. And his eyes, they are a peculiar shade of brown, so light they seem golden. “I thought to rescue you from their sharp tongues. They have a reputation for gossip.” 

“Oh, thank you, my lawd,” you squeeze your reticule anxiously. “It is kind.” You sway and look around. “You needn’t wemain. I’m saw you have otha social obligations.” 

“Yes, to socialize, as I am doing in this moment,” he insists. “You are Lord Laufeyson’s engaged, from Kyri. Your banns were read on Sunday.” 

“Yes, my lawd.” You avert your eyes, too embarrassed to look at him. “Twuly, I needn’t pity.” 

“Pity? Why?” 

“My lawd, do not toy with me. I can haw myself.” 

“Your words? No, they shouldn’t bother me. You are eloquently spoken, my lady.” 

Your eyes round as the flick to him. You consider him, trying to untie any thread of derision in his voice. 

“You are suspicious? I suspect others are not so accepting, but don’t let it fetter you. No matter who you are, they will find a reason to whisper,” he shrugs. “I’ve not yet seen your fiance. Is he not near?” 

You hold back a wince at the mention of Laufeyson. You swivel your head but do not see him amid the sea of caps and coifs. You muster a smile. 

“I suppose he is on the hunt faw a wefweshment,” you appease. 

“Is that so? I think, should I have a lady avowed to wed me, I might keep her close but I never did presume that all gentlemen hold the same priorities as I,” he harrumphs. “Perhaps, in claiming a refreshment for myself, I would see that she had one as well.” 

He gazes around the room and strides away confidently. He plucks two glasses from a servants’ tray with some murmured nicety. He comes back to you and offers you one. There is a dried orange in the wine and a sprig of mint. You thank him. 

“Yes, and I know you likely tire of the reminder, but I must issue my condolences. I hear Lady Ester was a very kind soul. I would see her sister is not much different.” 

Your eyes sting and you take a sip from the crystal. You nod and dab your lips with your knuckles. 

“She was... the best sista I could’ve asked faw.” 

“You must miss her terribly,” he nods. 

You stare at him, still wary. Yet, you find nothing but assurance in his stance, his gaze, his tone. He is entirely focused on you. He is the first person, aside from Ester, to ever pay heed to you. That does not treat you as some pest to be tolerated and nothing more. 

“I do,” you confess, “evewy second.” You take a breath as you tamp down your grief. 

“While it might feel a curse to mourn so deeply, it is truly a blessing for it is only that we had someone to love so succinctly that we feel their absence to our bones,” he says. “So you should not evade that pain, my lady, but embrace it as you would your sister should she were here. That hurt is her memory, it is her being, to remind you always that she remains close.” 

Your lashes flick and you gently touch the brim of your eyes, “my lawd.” 

“Forgive me for drawing it to the surface,” he says. “I would say let us talk of happy things but I see she is those happy things.” 

You press your lips together and dip your head, “she is, and I thank you, my lawd, for weminding me of that.” 

[revenant-ao3]

The Hounds of Fate - Ch 11

Read it on Ao3

Week One, Day Two:

Shoto realizes something funny as he fills out another form and looks at the date.

He doesn't know how long he was displaced (read: kidnapped).

Okay, maybe it isn't really funny. Strange, perhaps.

It had to be a few days at the minimum, based on the memories he can accurately recall, but 'a few days' isn't exact. Even worse, he can't tell because he hadn't known the date beforehand either. There was the date he ran away: March twelfth. There is the current date: January seventeenth. Between that? He has no idea. It's not like he actually got a calendar to track the days. Even the seasonal temperature shift did little to help since he only noticed when rain turned to snow and leaves withered.

Another funny-unfunny thing?

His birthday passed, most likely while he was in a cell.

Well, it's a good thing I never cared to celebrate, I guess.

There's only a twinge of bitter sadness in the thought. There was never much of a reason to celebrate his birth, in his opinion. It felt too much like lauding his family's downfall for his taste. So, maybe it is fitting he likely spent it locked up by someone with the same obsessive eyes as his father.

'No place like home,  or whatever the phrase is.

He's fifteen now. Fifteen, and filling out a deferred adjudication form – which, yes, he did ask Eraserhead to explain to him. He may not have much of a choice in the matter, but he damn well wants to know what he's signing. The hero has been gracious enough not to get irritated with him, even if it's the fifth form he's asked for clarification on. (At least he can fill out the hero costume request form on his own. That one's simple enough. Not that he expects to hear back about that any time soon.)

His life has taken some odd turns, only a few of which he's proud. Too many of those choices have left him staring at the wall in silence, gaze a million miles away and mind even further. Whoever this court-appointed therapist is, he imagines they will either love or hate him.

He doesn't realize he's stopped writing, staring into space in thought, pen white-knuckled in his grasp until Eraserhead asks if he needs help with something. Shoto blinks himself back to the present, gives a soft "No, " and continues filling in his information.

---

Week One, Day Three:

Eraserhead has barely been around, always running to and from someplace or the other. Sure, it makes eating marginally easier as he doesn't have to abscond to his room with his meal as often, but it's certainly more nerve-wracking. He knows the man doesn't have his place wired with cameras – at least, he's pretty sure Eraser doesn't – but Shoto's still illogically nervous, eyes flicking to corners and checking dark nooks. Sometimes, the nerves still get to him even when he tries to rationalize it away, and he hides.

Last night was fraught with nightmares that followed him into his waking hours. His heart can't find its way out of his throat, and bile lingers on his tongue no matter how many hours pass. He doesn't know why he can't settle down like his body won't get the memo that there's no need for 'fight or flight' right now. There is no peril. So, why can't he calm down?

It's only worsened by the mental health screening he's taken to. It takes genuine effort and paced breathing not to vomit when he's left alone with the tester, who looks at him with vague interest and no empathy.

(He can't help it. People poking around his brain even metaphorically leaves a rancid taste in his mouth and a chill down his spine. A needling voice in his head laughs at that.)

His stunted emotive abilities prove helpful once more in covering his crumbling psyche. Shoto nods in the right spots and answers questions as broadly and neutrally as possible. Though, in hindsight, he really didn't need to be so nervous. The questions are vague, all things considered, and mostly surface-level. He noticed how the questioner didn't take any notes when the topic of 'attempted murder' came up. That raised more than a few red flags in his head. It can't be standard procedure.

Then again, neither is trying to onboard a vigilante so quickly.

A sinking feeling grows heavier and heavier in his gut with each step he takes in this process.

That evening, while Eraser's gone, he sinks so low that he eats in the bathroom, where he knows for certain there are no cameras, back pressed to the door. Somehow, that's more humiliating than submitting to Murmur.

---

Week One, Day Four:

Today's better.

Maybe the exhaustion forced away the nightmares, or maybe he'd been too tired to wake up from them. Either way, he'd gotten good sleep. Well, good for him, he supposes. Either way, he's in a relatively chipper mood, all things considered.

When Eraserhead returns sometime in the early afternoon, Shoto gives him a bright greeting. That being a slightly-less-than monotone 'hello' and a wave. It's downright joyous, truly.

That earns him an equally unenthusiastic grunt in return. He'll write off the lack of wave to the man's hands being full. There's a box under one arm, keys in hand, and the other hand is holding, surprise surprise, another folder. Whether that's in relation to him or Eraserhead's own hero duties, he's unsure. (He's praying it's not about him. He's going to develop carpal tunnel at this rate.)

He's not sure what the average processing speed is for legal paperwork, but he's pretty sure his stuff is being expedited. Maybe they're afraid he'll get cold feet and try to flee if they don't leash him fast enough. Maybe they're just really desperate to get him licensed. Whatever the case, every rushed form feels like another piece of sand in the hourglass slipping by.

Shoto watches Eraserhead, suspicious of the folder and resigned to the likelihood that it involves him again. He straightens his posture on the couch and assumes the air of a man at the gallows, waiting for the floor beneath him to open.

...Okay, perhaps he's being a tad melodramatic at this point, but who can blame him, really? Nobody liked dealing with bureaucracy on a good day, let alone a fifteen-year-old. His nightmares of Endeavor and Murmur are going to be replaced with ones of him becoming a salaryman soon.

It takes a few moments for Eraserhead to settle himself, but once he does, he sits on the armchair to the left of Shoto and gives him one of his signature inscrutable looks. Then, he hands that box over to him. Unless there's paperwork hiding inside of this thing, Shoto will happily take this mystery box over that folder.

Shoto takes the box carefully. It's relatively light and sturdier than it looks. In fact, now that he sees it up close, he notices that it's actually a protective case of some form. His brows pinch in thought as he scrutinizes the container before he looks up at Eraserhead.

"Is this for me?"

And the moment the question leaves his lips, he holds back a sigh at his own obliviousness. No shit. Why else would he hand it to me?

Luckily, Eraserhead seems rather accustomed to Shoto's remarkable observational skills and gives him a flat, very faintly amused look.

"I have no intention of updating my uniform, so, yes. It's for you," Eraserhead says as he leans back in the chair, shoulders losing their line of tension as he begins to unwind.

Shoto gives a brief nod of understanding, attention shifting to the box for just a second before he looks back at the hero.

"Thank you," he says, even though he's not sure yet what he's thanking him for. (If it really is more paperwork, Shoto is going to be decidedly unamused.) Then, he regards the pro with a tilt of the head. "Though, maybe you should consider adding a hood to your uniform. It'd make your hair less obvious when you use your quirk."

The way the hero's hair sticks up when his quirk is active is quite the exploitable drawback, in Shoto's opinion. It makes it all too apparent when the man is using his quirk and when someone can use theirs. Granted, the goggles certainly help in throwing off who he's looking at, but that doesn't negate the obvious tell.

Eraser looks at him with an expression that tells Shoto he's been down this route a time or two before, but he's still gracious enough to entertain the suggestion.

"A hood would obscure my peripheral," he points out in return.

Ah, right.

That would be an even bigger drawback in the middle of a fight, particularly for a close-quarters combatant like Eraserhead. If there's something he's grateful for regarding his curse of a quirk, it really doesn't have blaring weaknesses like that (not counting its apparent ability to attract power-obsessed people, of course). Shoto hums and thinks it over some more, momentarily forgetting the box on his lap.

"A hat?" he asks, though he imagines the logistics of wearing a hat in a fight would be a little tricky. Maybe if it had a strap or ties of some sort…? No, someone could choke him with that. Hair pins? Those could double as backup weapons.

Eraserhead's expression doesn't change, but Shoto senses that he isn't impressed with the suggestion from his tone when he says, "No."

Well, no need to worry about the logistics, then.

"What if you put your hair up?" he suggests. This one should be tactically feasible and easy to do.

For a moment, Eraser just stares at him. Then he leans forward and pulls his hair back into a bun, holding it into place with his hand. His eyes flare as his quirk activates.

A laugh is nearly startled out of Shoto when he sees the way the bun flips upward, trying valiantly to break free of its binding, and flyaway hairs stick up at random. It is, in short, absolutely ridiculous looking.

Shoto has to clear his throat to keep the amusement locked down in his chest. Thankfully, the hero can't see his face right now. Judging by the sigh he gets as Eraser lets his hair back down, it's pretty obvious he's aware of how funny Shoto found the sight.

"Alright, that's a no," Shoto says with a steady voice, still running the sight through his mind. At least he has something to fall back on now when he needs a pick-me-up. "You could shave your head. That'd eliminate the problem entirely."

The response is immediate, swift, and decisive.

"Absolutely not."

The hero seems rather attached to his hair, even if it proves tactically disadvantageous. Shoto tilts his head in thought, imagining himself in a similar position. Would he be willing to shave his head to eliminate his tell? After a few seconds, he determines that, yeah, probably. He's not overly attached to any physical aspect of himself. Hell, he's hardly looked in the mirror over the last several years.

(No, he has no interest in delving into the probable psychological roots of this. His therapy is coming up shortly. They can deal with that particular facet of his psyche then and there.)

"I'll have to think on this some more," he says after a stretch of silence, shelving the idea for now. This can be a fun little thought experiment to distract him when needed.

Eraserhead gives him a rather dry look, but Shoto thinks he spies a hint of amusement in his dark, heavy-bagged eyes. He likes to imagine he's getting better at reading the man and his very subtle cues.

"You do that," Eraser responds dryly, leaning back into the chair. He then gives Shoto a pointed look, clearly waiting for him to open the box already.

Ah, right. That.

He turns it over in his hands, finds the latches, and flips them open. When he flicks the lid up, he blinks a little in surprise before reaching in and carefully lifting the contents.

It's a mask.

A very nice, very high-quality mask.

"This is much better than my old one," he remarks, almost muttering as he turns it over to inspect it more closely, taking in the details.

Of course, it's not hard to be better than his original mask. That was just a plastic party mask he'd nicked from a dumpster behind a costume store. This one? This is clearly professional grade. And it's fashioned to look like his old mask, too, all plain white and featureless. However, instead of having those faint pinholes that gave the illusion of being eyeless like his first mask, this one genuinely did not have eye holes. Interesting. Does it use interior screens and cameras?

He runs his finger over the surface. Some sort of coarse, almost rigid fabric covers its sturdy frame.

"That's a polymerized weave, Nomex and Kevlar, I think. It'll protect it from fire and extreme temperatures," Eraserhead says, breaking through Shoto's intense scrutiny. "Odds are gangs will be looking to use fire quirks if they suspect you're around. Should also keep it safe from freezing over and small arms attacks like knives, as well."

It's hard not to marvel at least a little at both the thought put into its construction and the sheer idea of what it must cost. Shit, they're really serious about this.

While the thought still fills him with a sort of dread, he can't also help the slight tendril of excitement curling up through his chest as he holds the mask. It helps that they think fire quirks are his weakness, too, because now his mask is safe from both sides of his quirk. Not that he has any intention of putting its fire resistance to the test. Still, it's a nice fallback. As it stands, it's simply a nice addition if he runs into that asshole Dabi again. No more melted masks for him. (He hopes.)

Though, Eraser isn't wrong. Any enemy trying to outmaneuver him and take him out will probably resort to fire to combat his ice. It's just basic reasoning.

Shoto hums, turning it over in his hand and inspecting the inside carefully. It's just as smooth on this side as the other, though it lacks the fabric covering. Not that he's complaining; having that rub his face for hours on end would be unpleasant, to say the least. As he runs a finger over the surface, he feels a slight bump near the edge.

"There's a built-in comm unit already linked to my regular line. There's also a mic and camera. It won't record unless set, so you have to remember to set it before each patrol. Failing to record a day of work can be disastrous. Don't forget," Eraserhead says, watching his inspection carefully and walking him through the little details he uncovers on his own.

"Right."

Naturally, he'll have to record for patrols. That's standard procedure to protect heroes from catching criminal charges should a lawsuit arise. Well, it also helps with incident reports and investigations, but it's usually just a method of saying, 'See! I didn't do anything wrong!'

Eraserhead continues to watch him quietly, letting Shoto get familiar with his new mask. It's an important piece of Shoto's gear, more so than the average hero. It's not just a statement piece. No, it's become an integral part of his identity, his sense of self, and his sense of safety.

(Whether Eraser's the one who ensured it resembled his first mask or a decision made by the HPSC to build off of Shoto's already established image is something Eraserhead simply won't elucidate on, and Shoto doesn't think to ask about.)

"If that gets lost, broken, or stolen, we'll have to file it under damages. I prefer to avoid as much unnecessary paperwork as possible, so take good care of it," Eraser finishes, reaching over to pluck a pamphlet out of the box that Shoto hadn't noticed.

"I will," Shoto assures him, pausing his admiration to face the hero. This tiny display of manners is the least he can do.

Eraser stares at him for several moments, like he can really impress upon Shoto how important equipment maintenance is – or, rather, how severely he doesn't want to fill out a damage report. Either way, Shoto understands.

Once satisfied that he isn't about to toss the mask off a bridge or try to see how much it'd take to melt it, the hero nods slowly, handing over the pamphlet. Thankfully, it's just an instruction manual for the high-tech piece of gear. Shoto thumbs through it, glancing over the steps idly while listening to Eraser.

"Your costume won't be ready for a while. Unfortunately, the company likes to take liberties and is likely making several versions until they decide which is best."

That makes Shoto grimace. His request was very simple . He wants a temperature-resistant suit that regulates his core when using his ice. Extra pockets would be nice. That's about the long and short of it. What in the hell could they be extrapolating from that? Images of gaudy, attention-grabbing costumes and spandex body suits fill his head.

He fears what he's going to receive.

---

Week One, Day Five:

He wakes up with tremoring hands and a racing heart, but he can't recall what he dreamed about, so he constitutes that as a win. Soba is curled up on his chest, purring as if his life depended on it. That helps bring down his anxiety and steady his pulse. Shoto strokes the kitten, trying to motivate himself into something resembling a functioning human.

A knock at the door causes his pulse to jump again before he reminds himself it's just Eraserhead. Shoto has had to get used to that little habit since coming here. Every morning, the man raps on the door just once and waits for a response. It took three days to figure out why he did this.

"I'm alive," Shoto calls out, voice still thick with sleep.

The shadow under the door frame lingers momentarily before walking away, satisfied that Shoto is still kicking. He feels bad making the hero worry like this, he really does. So, he's been trying to get up earlier, to be visible before Eraser has to come knocking. (He's not usually successful on that front. What can he say? He really likes sleeping, and Soba makes it difficult to get up.)

It takes several more minutes – and several loud cries of protest from the kitten – for him to get up properly. The feel of this new mask is strange as he slips it on. It's far more high-tech than he initially expected, more so than any non-licensed individual should be given. In an odd way, it almost feels like a brand, a claim on his person. 'We put this money into you, kept you free, now you owe us.'

He tries to push the thought away, not wanting to ruin his mood before he even leaves the room. The other shoe will drop eventually. I'll be ready. No use wasting energy worrying.

Easier said than done, but he's nothing if not stubborn. Shoto will try valiantly to disassociate this mask from the HPSC and let any sour feelings leave.

When he steps into the kitchen, Eraserhead turns to him, a speculative look in his eyes.

"Once you've eaten and you're ready, I think we can begin training properly today. If you're comfortable with that," the hero says as he pours himself fresh coffee into a thermal cup. "It'll mostly be an analysis of your current skill level in both quirk and non-quirk combat, as well as your overall control and limits."

Shoto blinks in surprise, lingering in the doorway as he processes the hero's words. He's a little surprised Eraser is offering this right now. Granted, he did say training would begin once he passed his mental health screening.

However, judging by the flat line of his mouth, the pro might not have much of a say either way. In fact, Shoto is willing to bet whatever money is in his pocket that focusing just on testing today is Eraser's way of pushing back any actual combat.

It's touching, if true, but also unnecessary. Shoto may have some issues, but he's no fragile porcelain doll.

Yeah, because fighting is what I do best. The only thing I'm good at.

He tries to shut that voice up by shoving it in a little box and throwing it into the furthest reaches of his mind.

"Sounds good," he replies, short and simple, before moving about to get some food.

The mundanity of the task is about more than just nourishment. Shoto needs to busy himself, to keep pushing back against that sickly feeling in his gut. Once he really starts moving, he'll be okay. So long as he doesn't stagnate, he'll be fine.

They eat in silence, which does little to help abate the anxiety that's been plaguing him since waking up. His leg bounces under the table like it can shake the skin-crawling sensation right out of his body. (It doesn't, unfortunately, but it was worth a shot.)

Once they're done and dressed properly for training, they head out, Eraserhead leading the way. The trip to whatever gym or facility he's got in mind is nearly as quiet as breakfast. Shoto stares out the car window, watching the passing people and buildings blur by. Some radio station with a particularly loud host plays quietly in the background.

Things are fine, he assures himself. He'll feel better once he can burn off some of this pent-up energy. He's not used to doing nothing for so long. And he almost gets himself back to a level state, but then Shoto begins to recognize more and more locations. His heart begins to pick up pace the closer they get to Musutafu. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding like he wants to turn them to dust.

"Where are we going?" he asks, voice artifically calm as he works to keep the mounting tension to himself.

It's not entirely successful, based on the side-eye he receives, but Eraser doesn't comment.

"Geonosis Gym. It's the closest HPSC-certified facility that's large enough to handle your quirk," the hero explains, focusing on the road once more.

Fuck .

A chill goes down his spine while something adjacent to frustration mixes in his gut. He knows that gym. It's the same damn one his father would use and take him to once their home dojo was insufficient, before Shoto's quirk became too powerful, too destructive to be contained indoors.

The thought of going there again…

He has to resist the urge to throw himself out of the moving car.

"That gym isn't big enough," he says tonelessly, wrestling with the idea of running into Endeavor there. If he did, God, Shoto isn't sure how he'd react to that bastard.

Would you snap? Give him the Murmur Treatment? He doesn't deserve mercy, does he? So many years of retribution building up, that Dabi-like voice whispers.

Unaware of the brewing storm in his passenger seat, Eraser takes Shoto's words at face value. He blinks slowly before pulling off to the side of the road and putting the car in park. Then, he turns to level Shoto with a narrow-eyed look. This one is more inquisitive than unhappy, almost surprised.

"What do you mean it isn't big enough?" he asks slowly. "It's one of the largest gyms in the country, designed specifically for high-output quirks."

This, at least, is something to distract Shoto. His tension halts as the car stops. He turns to face the hero, face blank beneath the mask.

"I mean it's not big enough," he repeats, head tilting slightly to the side, uncertain where Eraser's confusion is coming from. He thought he was being pretty straightforward.

They stare at each other in silence for several seconds before Eraserhead sighs and rubs his eyes with one hand.

"Approximately how big of a facility would you need in order to show me your maximum output?" he asks, almost weary now, as if he's mentally reviewing that five-story building Shoto had iced and going, Why ?

Shoto remains quiet, brows pinching in thought. It's a fair question, one he doesn't have an answer to. He doesn't know the exact height of his largest attack. He just knows it's much larger than Geonosis. After brief contemplation, he just shrugs.

"Uncertain. I don't know the exact scale of my largest move. Last I can recall, it was around five hundred meters high, give or take," he says, almost casual in nature despite the absurdity of the information.

Eraserhead's eyes pop open wide, brows raising in surprise. It is, by far, the most colorful expression Shoto's seen come from the man. He almost wants to congratulate himself for bringing it to life.

"Five hundred meters? " he repeats, voice incredulous. Shoto can practically see the calculations running through the hero's head as he envisions that much ice. Eraser shakes his head slightly. "You're joking, right?"

Shoto's brows furrow once more. "No? Aren't jokes supposed to have a punchline?"

That incredulous expression on Eraserhead's face drops as if remembering who he's talking to. He just closes his eyes and sighs heavily as he collects himself.

"What I mean, Rime, is that… That's way more than anything we've been expecting from you. That's thirty times bigger than the largest attack you've displayed so far," he explains as he opens his eyes and stares down that blank mask like he's searching for the truth of Shoto's capabilities in its empty expanse.

And, sure, Shoto gets it. He does . That's a hell of a lot of power behind a single attack, more than most are capable of. It's why the gym facilities aren't big enough for him. There's little reason to build a gym that's one hundred and fifty stories high. It'd be a massive waste of money since nearly no one needs that much space. Maybe Shoto's just gotten used to the realities of his quirk and doesn't see it as that impressive despite knowing logically it is .

But, at least, he can say he surprised the ever-stoic Eraserhead.

He shrugs again, not really sure what else there is to say on the matter. Eraser's lips purse, and he taps a finger against the steering wheel as he thinks. Shoto leaves him to his musings. Hey, if it gets him away from Geonosis and Musutafu as a whole, he's not going to complain.

After a few more seconds of contemplation, inspiration seems to strike the hero. He grabs his phone and reaches for the door handle. "I'm gonna make a call. Sit tight."

Shoto just nods and leans back in his seat, staring at the dashboard and resolutely ignoring the scenery around him.

The call is brief, less than three minutes long, which is hopefully a good thing. Though, Shoto's really hoping it isn't the Commission he's talking to. It only just occurred to him that Eraser is likely going to report the revelation of his power to his superiors. That's going to make them salivate all the more.

Goddamn it.

He tries to chase away thoughts of the HPSC and the invisible noose tightening around his neck with imaginings of Soba. Of toys he should get for the kitten and the tricks he'd teach him if the kitten wasn't so stubborn.

Shoto's in the middle of deciding what color bandana he'd like to buy Soba when Eraser gets back into the driver's seat. He turns his attention to the pro, head cocking slightly in a silent question. Eraser doesn't speak as he starts driving again, pulling back onto the road before flicking on his turn signal and making a U-turn.

"Change of plans," he starts, glancing at Shoto from the corner of his eye before focusing on the road once more. "We're going to another location. There's a private and remote outdoor training facility we've been given leave to use. It should be far enough away from civilian structures to safely and effectively use your quirk."

Shoto's brows raise slightly behind his mask. That's not at all what he was expecting to hear. An outdoor facility would be perfect, though he notes that Eraser called it a 'private facility,' not an HPSC one. It makes him wonder who owns it. Well, so long as it's away from here, I don't care if it's the president of Japan who runs it.

"Okay," he says before settling back into his seat, the tension slowly bleeding out of his body the further they get from Musutafu.

It's not until they cross out of the Shizuoka prefecture and into the Nagano one that he really starts to feel...something nice? Safe, maybe? That makes me sound so pathetic.

That doesn't make it any less true.

The ride falls back into silence, though this one is significantly more pleasant than earlier. Shoto even actively listens to the radio host, mildly amused by the exuberant chatter between songs. He's not sure how anyone can talk so much and so animatedly. It must be exhausting.

The rest of the day is spent in some forest, which rouses memories of training with Endeavor and stories of what happened to his big brother. He tries to squelch them with every demonstration during his evaluation.

When Shoto sends out his largest attack, the ground shaking so violently it must have registered on the Richter scale and the forest splitting in half like the parting of the Red Sea, the ambient temperature dropping rapidly, Eraserhead is left in stunned silence. He's quiet as he stares, head tipped back, at the nearly implausible amount of ice Shoto put out in a few seconds flat. Then, he turns to Shoto.

"That," he says dryly, "is definitely more than five hundred meters."

Shoto just rubs the back of his neck.

"I did say I wasn't sure of the exact amount."

Eraser huffs before looking back at the spiking glacier, likely wondering how in the hell they were going to get an exact measurement of the volume here. The man's brows furrow, like the onset of a headache, is beginning to haunt him.

"Alright. Next test."

---

Week Two, Day One:

The initial evaluation had gone well. When Shoto and Eraser had done a practice spar just to place his current combat capabilities, Shoto hadn't shown any signs of losing control or falling into a traumatic episode. Still, Eraser hadn't been entirely convinced. So, he'd spent the next day doing the same thing, just to ensure it wasn't a fluke.

After reassuring the man that, yes, Shoto is relatively functional and not liable to split at the seams at any hint of violence, and yes, he's going to take his therapy seriously, Eraser didn't have much of a choice but to keep moving forward with the program.

While part of Shoto is pleased, dare he say he's even anticipating it, another rather large part is still waiting for the fine print to come into play. And yet, besides finishing up his paperwork and attending his first therapy session – No, he does not want to revisit it, thanks. He sat mostly in silence and answered whatever question was given to him in the most literal sense possible. – there's been no word from the HPSC. No demands. Nothing. It makes him anxious.

Since he was cleared to begin shadowing Eraserhead on patrol – strictly shadowing, Eraser made sure to keep reiterating that until Shoto's certain he can predict when he'll say it next – he gets to suit up for his first night of 'patrol.' (Yes, he's mildly frustrated he's just going on a glorified walk to watch Eraser work. No, he won't actually complain. He appreciates what the hero is doing too much to be that ungrateful.)

One thing he notes as they make their rounds through the darkening streets of Shinjuku is that some people seem happy, almost excited, to see him. He notes their reactions and puts a pin in it, set on asking Eraser about the sudden support later. Last he knew, most people weren't even aware of his existence. Sure, there was that article in the paper, but it didn't come with a picture of him or anything. So, he's not sure how they even recognize him.

They're currently keeping an eye out for trouble as they make a circuit through Golden Gai, the moon beginning to crest on the horizon, and the tourist crowds starting to thin. Shoto stands a few feet away from Eraser atop a club's roof, letting his gaze drift across the horizon when something odd catches his eye.

However, the oddity isn't on the ground. It's in the sky.

Shoto looks up a hair, seeing peculiar movement in the near distance and approaching quickly. His brows furrow as he focuses. A flash of red in the moonlight has a knot forming in his gut. You've got to be kidding me.

"Is that...Hawks?" he asks, somewhere between confused and displeased.

Eraserhead looks at him before following his line of sight. It's very evident now who the figure is. What had been just a reddish speck on the horizon is now clearly the number three pro hero. He'll be on them in moments if his speed is anything to go by. And he is aiming straight for them. What the fuck.

"Yes," Eraserhead confirms the already obvious, lips thinning.

Shoto's willing to bet his eyes are narrowed as if he can discern Hawks' motives through sheer willpower.

"Why?" he asks, his guard going up just as quickly as Hawks' approach. Eraserhead just shakes his head slightly.

"Not sure."

The pro moves to greet the billboard hero, stance distant but non-confrontational. Shoto's posture, on the other hand, is significantly more closed off as he angles himself in a more defensible position, about as unwelcoming as he can be without outright walking away. As if I can do anything to Hawks. Won't stop me from trying, though, if need be.

As expected, it takes all of a few seconds for Hawks to close the distance and hover over the two like a particularly smug and annoying angel. Shoto already dislikes him.

(Yes, he has a very obvious bias that goes beyond 'spotlight hero.' It's no secret who Hawks' favorite hero is. That automatically puts him at the bottom of Shoto's list, right above Endeavor and Murmur and below Dabi.)

"So, this is the vigilante making waves," Hawks says, a lazy smile on his face as he looks at Shoto, eyes hidden behind his large, yellow-tinted glasses. "Hey, I'm Hawks."

"I'm aware," Shoto responds, dry and cold. Every inch of him screams, 'Stay away!'

Unfortunately, it seems that Hawks is suddenly incapable of reading body language because he drops down to the roof, leaning a little closer with a smarmy grin.

Don't punch him. Don't do it. Eraser will be unhappy with you.

"So, you've heard of me? I'm so honored," Hawks says, grin widening, teeth flashing in the dark.

"Don't be. Every instance I've been aware of your presence has been against my will," Shoto shoots back, his hackles raising as Hawks invades his personal space.

(And isn't it almost funny to note that the highest-ranked hero here is also the shortest? Shoto idly wonders if that's why he's so annoying, to compensate for his lack of height.)

Hawks laughs at his (entirely serious) snark, and Eraser shoots him a look. Shoto can't see the exact look, but he can feel it.

"Wow, you are just so charming," Hawks says, moving as if to prop an elbow on Shoto's shoulder.

Quickly and deftly, Shoto slips out of the way, fists clenching and eyes narrowing beneath his mask. He gets that feeling again, the feeling of someone staring, picking him apart, evaluating him. Shoto wishes it was light out because he can hardly see the man's eyes behind those yellow lenses in the moonlight, can't discern the look in those depths. Maybe it's Shoto's natural distrust and wariness of pros in general, but there's something about this hero that sets off Shoto's 'fight or flight' instincts. Unfortunately, Shoto tends to favor the 'fight' instinct, which is not feasible right now.

"What do you want?" he bites out, fists clenching.

Hawks laughs and holds up his hands in mock surrender.

"Yeesh, can't a guy say 'hello'?" Hawks says, dropping his hands casually and rocking on his heels, looking far too amused for Shoto's liking.

"I'd expect the number three hero to have more important things to do," he retorts, voice pointedly rude now. He can vaguely hear Eraserhead sigh and just catch sight of him pinching the bridge of his nose in his peripheral, but he never takes his eyes off of Hawks.

The winged pro's smile turns almost saccharine as he leans in again, this time intentionally taunting with his playful tone. "What could be more important than welcoming a future colleague?"

Shoto has to wonder if the man is trying to pick a fight with him or maybe Shoto himself is just that much of an asshole for wanting to swing on the hero right now. It's a close fifty-fifty in his head.

His eyes narrow behind his mask as he takes in Hawks' expression and lax body language. Everything about him seems so goddamn casual, like he's just here for some fun, to see the novelty of this vigilante on the rise, and it pisses Shoto off.

"Many things. Saving lives, for starters. Or do you need a money incentive for that?" he shoots back coldly, aiming low for the billboard hero.

"Rime," Eraserhead suddenly interjects, his tone sharp and warning.

Shoto's shoulders tighten at the rebuke. He knows he needs to reel in his attitude and blatant contempt, but, fuck, is it difficult, especially with Hawks standing there and chuckling. His fists clench, and he feels that old, familiar desire in him.

You really have to handle everything with your fists, huh? Just like Dad.

Shoto has to strangle back the flinch that mental voice nearly draws from him.

All the while, Hawks acts like this is the most entertaining conversation he's had all week, like Shoto is being playful and not entirely serious in his distaste.

"You sweet talk everyone like this, or am I just special?" he says, voice low and grin spreading wider.

"You're—" Shoto starts, voice biting, but cuts himself off, firmly locking whatever vitriolic comeback he had on his tongue behind his teeth.

This only serves to amuse Hawks further, which in turn serves to irritate Shoto even more. Eraserhead watches the exchange closely, posture now prepared to intervene if necessary.

"I'm what? Smart? Funny? Devilishly attractive? I know, thank you," Hawks says, preening under his imagined compliments, wings flicking just a little more open, feathers puffing up like he's showing off for a fan.

Don't do it, Shoto. You will be arrested , and Eraserhead will be disappointed in you.

"This conversation is over," he says after mustering up his willpower to ignore the pro.

Then, he turns on his heel and walks away. Given that he's on a roof there isn't much of anywhere for him to go, but the message is clear all the same.

Unfortunately, as if Hawks' sole mission is to annoy Shoto, he follows behind him, grin unfaltering and voice teasing.

"Aww, so soon? But I really felt we were making a connection just now."

The only connection I want to make is my fist to your jaw, he thinks with clenched teeth, but he remains steady in his distance. He doesn't turn to look at the hero, even when the shadow of Hawks' wings, backlit by the neon lights nearby, falls over Shoto.

"I'm going to say some more hurtful things, and frankly, you aren't worth upsetting Eraserhead," he says, cool and dismissive.

This appears to make Hawks downright giddy.

He spins on his heel, facing Eraserhead, who looks thoroughly unamused by this conversation. His eyes are narrowed, face tucked into his scarf.

"Ooh, so you do actually like people. Eraser, you must feel so special," he says, this time turning his playful taunt to the other hero.

That is the decidedly incorrect move because now Eraserhead has determined this is an unworthy distraction. Number Three on the charts or not, he clearly isn't going to tolerate these shenanigans.

"You're interrupting my patrol. If you have nothing to contribute, then save this for another time," he says, voice flat in a way that Shoto's come to discern is actually flat and not the one hiding warmth beneath it.

(Is it sad that it makes him a little happy because it shows the stark contrast between how Eraser talks to him and to Hawks?)

Hawks huffs, letting his head tip back as he sighs, like he can't believe he's stuck around such dour people, even as he purposefully picks at them. All the while, beneath his tinted glasses, those sharp, sharp eyes study them, studies Rime. Picks apart his reactions, those minute tells of clenched fists and rigid posture.

He tucks all the information away as he shrugs, letting a blasé smirk lift his lips.

"Guess birds of a feather really do flock together," Hawks says, trying to lean on Shoto again but failing once more as Shoto steps away from him.

"Then I suggest you migrate elsewhere," he retorts.

"Alright, alright, I can take a hint," Hawks laughs, holding his hands up in surrender again. He walks toward the edge of the building as if to take off, and Shoto's terse stance begins to relax. But then, Hawks spins back around, tapping his chin like he just remembered something important. The smile on his lips tells a different story. "Oh, but wait a second. There was a reason I showed up."

Shoto's posture stiffens all over again. Even Eraserhead narrows his eyes further, scrutinizing the pro. He does not appreciate being yanked around, especially by someone who is supposed to be a professional and a colleague.

"Congratulations, I'm your probation officer!" Hawks exclaims like it's some wonderful surprise, jazz hands included.

Eraserhead and Shoto are dead silent as they stare at the man still jazz handing away.

For several seconds, the only sounds are the heavy bass of the music pouring out from the club they're standing on and the distant traffic.

Then–

"What."

It comes from Shoto, entirely lacking in inflection, a statement more than an actual question.

"I said—"

"Why wasn't I informed of this?" Eraserhead cuts Hawks' repeat revelation off, sharp, and just this side of genuinely aggravated now.

"And why didn't you lead with that?" Shoto tacks on, stepping closer to Eraserhead.

He doesn't know what's going on, but he knows it's fishy as hell. His mind races as he tries to put all these disjointed pieces together. There's absolutely no reason the pro-hero Hawks, of all people, should be his probation officer. There must be an ulterior motive for this decision.

"Must've slipped my mind," Hawks says with a one-shoulder shrug and a dismissive wave of his hand. "A representative was supposed to give you a call. Guess I got here before they could manage. You know me, too fast for my own good."

Must've slipped his mind? Seriously? This is something way too important to just 'slip one's mind.' Shoto isn't sure if he's lying, joking, or just plain stupid at this point. If it's the first option, his acting skills are phenomenal. If it's the other two, Shoto is going to have to try extra hard not to punch him.

Eraserhead's eyes are narrowed to slits as he steps closer, ready to ream the other hero for improper conduct and probably some other professional discourtesies that Shoto isn't privy to. But before he can start on his reprimanding, his cellphone rings.

"Oh, that must be them," Hawks chimes in (un)helpfully, smiling brightly as he points at the phone. Eraser's eye twitches minutely.

"Give me a minute," he says, shooting a pointed look at both of them. Shoto returns it steadily, unmoving, while Hawks gives him a thumbs up and a cheeky grin. Eraser gives him a lingering stare before stepping away from them to take the call.

Shoto is watching Hawks carefully while Hawks watches Eraserhead. Once Eraser is engrossed in the call, Hawks turns his attention to Shoto, smile smaller now. His posture is still so open and casual, hands in his pockets as he ambles just a little closer.

"I've been told you don't like heroes. Gotta say, I'm surprised you're deciding to work with us, let alone become one," he says idly like he's just trying to break the ice with the notoriously unfriendly vigilante.

Shoto has to actively keep down more insults. He's not usually one to play nice if he doesn't like someone – especially someone like Hawks ­ - but he really is trying here.

"I'll do what's necessary to help people," he finally grits out.

And it's the truth, even if it means sucking up his absolute hatred of the pageantry-obsessed charting heroes and working alongside them someday. If that's what it takes to keep people safe, to save more kids like Ishikawa, or shut down more trafficking rings, so be it. They're more important than his distaste and ego.

But something about his response seems to really interest Hawks. His grin is a little sharper, and Shoto feels that assessing stare from beneath those glasses all over again.

"Really?" Hawks asks, drawing out the word long past its usual length. "Well, I'm sure my boss will be thrilled to hear that."

Shoto doesn't know what the hell that is implying, because he's clearly implying something, but Shoto knows he doesn't like it. He falls silent, not wanting to initiate further conversation with the frustrating man. Though, he gets the distinct feeling Hawks isn't going to let silence reign for long.

And, lo and behold, he's correct in his assumption because after only a few seconds, Hawks is speaking again.

"I read the Murmur report. Nasty business. Can't blame you for what you did to him. Between you and me, I think I would've done the same," he says, voice dropping low now, little more than a whisper, like his words are meant only for Shoto to hear.

This causes Shoto's gaze to narrow, staring down the pro quietly. That is a decidedly abnormal statement for such a high-ranking hero to make. To openly laud such violence, near murder, especially to a vigilante. And to say he'd do the same, knowing Shoto's now in legal trouble for it? It makes no damn sense.

It's possible he's trying to ingratiate himself in Shoto's good graces, but why? He's one of the top three heroes in the country! There's no need for brown-nosing, especially not of such moral ambiguity.

It rings even more alarm bells in his head and twists his gut. Shoto isn't proud of himself or his actions. Sure, he's glad to have helped freed those people and expose that ring (though he credits Eraser more for it than anything), and a small, sick part of him is happy Murmur is out of the picture, but he isn't proud.

He doesn't trust Hawks.

Well, he didn't trust Hawks before, but he definitely doesn't now.

"To my knowledge, heroes aren't trained to be probation officers. How and why are you mine?" he says, completely ignoring Hawks' odd, probing statement. Whatever the man was trying to get out of Shoto, he won't get it.

Hawks purses his lips but then blows out a low, huffing laugh.

"Hey, I got those credentials in my file. You can check 'em if you want. But let's just say the bigwigs in the Commission took a shine to you. They wanna make sure you reach your full potential," he says, grin back in place.

Shoto does not like the sound of that. It's exactly what his father would say. 'I'll make sure you reach your full potential.' 'Stop acting so disgracefully. You have so much more potential!' 'I won't let you waste your potential on this childish rebellion!'

Yeah, Shoto knows what people mean when they talk about his 'full potential.'

"They plan on using me," he says, irritation flickering in his voice.

Hawks must raise his brows with the way his glasses shift slightly, a scoffed laugh filling the air.

"You say that like this isn't a job. We're all employees at the end of the day," he points out casually.

And, damn it, he does have a point.

But it's not the same . Not in the way Shoto means it, at the very least. There's a difference between being an employee and being a weapon. He knows which side of the fence he's falling on in their eyes.

"You didn't answer my question. Why are you my probation officer?" he says, turning the conversation back around.

Don't think I didn't catch you evading my question.

Hawks' eyes narrow, taking in Shoto's observational skills even as the hero grins so lackadaisically, at odds with his hidden cunning stare.

"Huh, guess I didn't," he remarks casually as he scratches his chin. Then, his attention turns to Eraserhead. "Well, would you look at that? Eraser's done with his call."

Now, Shoto knows something else is going on. He glares at Hawks for a moment longer before turning his sights on Eraserhead as well. The man looks positively annoyed now as he runs a hand through his hair.

Hawks just grins, walking backward toward the lip of the roof once more.

"Been a real pleasure, Rime. I look forward to working with you. I bet we'll be great friends," he says, cheeky and mischievous.

"Doubtful," Shoto retorts flatly.

Hawks laughs, wrapping his arms around his midsection like that was such a funny joke.

"Man, you're hilarious," he says, wiping a finger across his glasses like he's wiping away a tear, which makes absolutely no sense at all to Shoto.

"I'll forward Eraser the schedule for our meetings," Hawks continues on. "See ya around!"

With a salute, Hawks lets himself fall backward off the roof. Shoto knows it's too much to hope for that his wings get stuck and he just falls to the ground.

As he expected, in the blink of an eye, Hawks is shooting into the sky and flying away. Unfortunate.

They watch him for a moment before Eraserhead turns to Shoto.

"What was that?" he asks, voice sharp and expression stern.

Shoto feels very suddenly put on the spot.

"What?" he asks, confused and wrong-footed.

"That hostility. I know you aren't fond of heroes, but that was unreasonable," Eraser says, gesturing vaguely in the direction Hawks took off, the sky now empty.

Right. That.

Shoto knows he was in the wrong with his attitude, but he can't help it. Something about Hawks rubbed him the wrong way. Everything about his attitude got under his skin.

"...I don't trust him," he says after a couple of seconds.

Eraserhead sighs heavily and scrubs his face with his hands before looking at Shoto again. The hero looks him over, analyzing him yet again, like he's making sure his assumptions of Shoto's current state aren't misplaced. When he speaks, it's just as stern as earlier, leaving absolutely no room for misinterpretation or arguing.

"Whether you like it or not, you'll have to work alongside him and other pros someday. Burning bridges isn't going to do you any favors, especially if he's your probation officer."

Shoto sort of wants to punch himself now because Hawks is his probation officer , and he just spent the entire conversation more or less insulting the man. Shit.

(And, he supposes, Eraserhead has a point about the 'you'll have to work with heroes in the future' bit.)

"Right. Sorry," he grits out.

Eraserhead stares at him, still judging him silently, but it doesn't feel critical; more tired and concerned.

"Just...try not to instigate further. We don't want them to rescind their help. I don't have the weight alone to keep you out," he says with a sigh, dropping the topic. He's aware of how difficult a transition this must be. To have such a prominent hero suddenly pop up out of nowhere – especially in such a tenuous time – is certainly a potentially triggering event for someone like Shoto.

This response shames Shoto. He turns his head away from Eraser, looking into the distance with clenched fists as guilt starts to well up in his chest. He didn't mean to make things more difficult or to make Eraser look bad. He really didn't.

"...I really am sorry," he says, voice quiet now but utterly earnest. "I just…I get so angry and then I'm speaking before I think. It's worse with charting heroes."

Shoto can hear the hero shift and nearly startles when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He tenses at the contact before relaxing as he turns to look at Eraserhead.

"How about you bring that up during your next session? Maybe your therapist will have some advice on how to help with that," the hero suggests, and this time, that flat tone is the one with warmth hidden underneath.

Shoto nods, fists slowly unclenching in the face of understanding.

"Yeah, I will," he agrees, making a mental note to do just that.

(And it's not just for Eraser's sake that he's agreeing, either. It's for himself. To help him strangle these rancid voices, to suffocate the flames of his anger that just won't die otherwise. He hopes it works. God, does he hope. He doesn't want to be hateful, hurtful.)

"Thanks for sticking around," he suddenly adds.

He's not entirely sure why he says it, but he does mean it. Shoto knows he's not really the greatest company, even for someone like Eraserhead, especially now, but it's nice not to be alone, to know someone believes in him even with all his flaws.

Eraser is quiet, tucking his face in his scarf, though Shoto can see the faintest pull of his cheek, like a suppressed smirk is coming to life.

"Now who's the sentimental one?" Eraserhead says dryly.

Shoto huffs a quiet laugh and shakes his head, at ease once more.

Eraserhead tilts his head toward the skyline. "Come on, we've got a patrol to continue."

And like that, they're off once more, two shadows in the night. Eraserhead quizzes him as they go, starting with the basics, even while fighting. Learning can't wait, I guess, Shoto thinks with amusement as he watches the pro knock out a thug while spouting off another question.

---

Elsewhere – HPSC Chairwoman's Office:

Hawks stands before the chairwoman, giving her the rundown of his first meeting with Rime and ensuring not to leave out any detail. He reveals what he noticed of the vigilante's disposition and combative attitude as well as his sharp observational skills. It had been an...interesting meeting. Certainly eye-opening.

"He really doesn't like heroes, " he notes as he comes to an end with his report. "Though, he does have a soft spot for Eraserhead. He actually listens to the man, defers to him, even."

It's a weakness they can exploit if necessary. One she latches onto with cold, calculating eyes. They don't have nearly as much information on the man as they'd like. And with the knowledge Rime is potentially more powerful than they initially thought, if Eraserhead is accurate in his update, they need every advantage they can get in bringing this vigilante to heel.

"We can use this," she notes, folding her hands atop the desk as she stares thoughtfully into the distance, as if Hawks is just another fixture in the room. "I'd rather it not come to anything severe. Eraserhead is too useful to lose, even for someone as strong as Rime. But this opens up new avenues."

Hawks remains quiet, knowing he isn't actually being addressed here. He's used to this by now. He goes out, does his job, comes back, reports, and then stands around while she talks around him. It's old hat.

Her eyes snap to him suddenly, sharp and clinical. "Keep an eye on both of them. I want updates on their interactions. And talk to Eraserhead some more. If Rime favors him, as you say, you might be able to get more personal details from Eraserhead than from the vigilante. Understood?"

Hawks gives a decisive nod. Simple orders, really. They usually are in the beginning of these sorts of things. He's not looking forward to what's coming down the line.

"Understood," he reaffirms before being dismissed.

Time to play the probation officer for a grouchy vigilante, he thinks with a mixture of exasperation and wry amusement.

---

Elsewhere – Unknown Motel Room:

Dabi lounges on a chair, one foot kicked up the table as he reads the paper over. It's a few days old, but that's not what's important. On the cover is Murmur's place, entirely iced over with a pretty fucking fantastical headline.

So, the little bastard really did it, he notes with a sneer. Took him fucking long enough.

He had to practically lead that pro hero to the base with clues just to get shit started. Of course, he knew Shoto could get out. The brat really is the 'masterpiece' for a reason. Those stun cuffs couldn't stop him any more than they could stop Dabi.

But, as he reads on, he's almost amused to see just what Shoto did to Murmur. There aren't explicit details, but the fact that the paper even mentions that the ringleader is in critical care and the sheer ice fortress his base was turned into paints a pretty vivid, bloody picture.

He's gonna have to get someone to spill the details because he's dying to know what the hero-wannabe did to that jackass. Dabi saw that visceral rage in Shoto's eyes and that familiar fire of hate and anger that drives Dabi himself. It was like looking in a mirror, as much as it annoyed him to realize.

"Can't escape that asshole no matter where I go," he grouses.

However, something else manages to catch his attention near the end of the article. It's a short statement from some Commission PR lapdog who claims they're looking to 'talk with the vigilante' and 'offer him help in becoming a real hero.'

Dabi scoffs, rolling his eyes in disgust. 'Real hero' my ass.

He knows what's going on there. But, this presents itself as a very unique and very fruitful opportunity. One that can help push his agenda further, faster. He'll just have to play his cards right. A hum rumbles in his scratchy throat as he contemplates his next move, staring at that picture of the hideout all over again, before lighting it on fire.

Dabi watches the blue flames eat the paper up for a moment before dropping it on the liquor-soaked table. It goes up like a bonfire. Then, he gets up, in no rush as the flames begin to consume the room. As he makes his way to the exit, he steps over the burnt husks of two people before pushing out of the motel room.

He's got work to do.

[applesanddragons]

Aerys The Mad King

Calling people crazy is dismissive.

When it comes to Aerys the Mad King I pick out one specific situation that involves Aerys being evil and I ask the reader to put himself in Aerys's shoes. I say, 'Tell me what you would do if you were Aerys in that situation.' Invariably, one of the things the reader will say is 'The question is moot because I wouldn't have made the mistakes Aerys made that led to that situation (because I'm not crazy).'

The purpose of the question is to get the reader to reconsider Aerys's moral alignment. The question is supposed to make that easier by constraining the reader's attention to one situation at a time, protecting his moral judgement of the one situation from being influenced by the cloud of evilness in the situations that surround it. This response shows me that the reader still has not really reconsidered Aerys's moral alignment. The reader defers the origin point of Aerys's innate evilness to an earlier time. Thus, the intention of the challenge is essentially dodged.

If you go back far enough to a time when Aerys's evilness can't be deferred to an earlier time, such as in Aerys's childhood, the reader's willful blindness to a sympathetic consideration of Aerys will become more obvious. Otherwise, the reader will proclaim (as though I were suggesting it) that the sympathy in Aerys's childhood doesn't excuse the villainy in Aerys's adulthood! The reader is right, of course. But yet again, the reader will deliberately resist sitting with the idea of sympathy in Aerys no matter Aerys's age, because the feeling is that to acknowledge any sympathy in any version of Aerys is to excuse or justify the evils that he did later in life.

But for someone who is seriously concerning himself with the question of how to fight evil, the question of how evil develops is where the rubber meets the road. The transition from innocent child to evil king obviously happened somewhere in-between those two points, so the questions are where? And what could Aerys have done differently to right the situation? And even, what evils were non-Aerys people doing to worsen the situation?

Thus, readers are instilled with a belief about Aerys's moral alignment that amounts to original sin. Their treatment of Aerys is as though his evilness is inherent and innate, it has no discernable point of origin, and there is nothing to be gained in taking the question of its origin seriously. Worse, that there is something to be lost in taking the question of its origin seriously.

What is to be lost? Perhaps a stable consensus. And inasmuch as a stable society needs a stable consensus about good and evil, perhaps a stable society is at stake, too. This seems the likely function of our stubborness about questions of morality. If we begin considering Aerys in a sympathetic light, and worse, if we succeed and find sympathy in him, couldn't that become an invitation, nay an inspiration, to more Aeryses and evils in the future?

It's a fair concern, and one to be taken seriously. History has no shortage of copycat villains whose manifestos tell the story of a disaffected person who came to sympathize with a notorious villain too much, and then set out to be just like him.

Yet, at the same time, aren't we at risk of becoming stupid about the true origins and nature of evil if we misrepresent the people who did evil? If we tell each other the lie that they were evil all along? Neither has history any shortage of people who succumbed to cruelty, fear, and temptation because they had become naive about how harsh or sneaky evil can be — the almost imperceptible way ordinary everyday sins give way to extraordinary ones down the road.

If I press the issue, sometimes I may get the reader to say 'I guess Aerys's behavior is understandable, but I still wouldn't have done what he did.' Then I say 'But if you have never experienced the same thing, how can you know for sure? These are extreme circumstances we're talking about, here. Betrayals from lifelong friends and partners, tragic stillbirths, being kidnapped...' And if I'm feeling snarky, I might say 'Are you the first person who lived to never act rashly from extreme emotion?'

People ask me, 'Why do you think the story contains a hidden sympathetic angle for the Mad King? What purpose would that serve for the story?'

Stories are how we gain a deeper understanding of people. In a story, we get to see the main characters develop gradually before our eyes. We get to vicariously experience their emotions and share in their distresses and euphorias alike. This activity gives us a kind of understanding of other lives that goes well beyond what we can get from a collection of dry facts about the same life.

Our mistake with Aerys is a natural one, but in ASOIAF it is a mistake nonetheless. We assumed Aerys's development is not supposed to matter because we didn't see it and he is not a main character. So, ASOIAF asks its readers an open question: How much improvement is there to be gained in our real lives if we all stopped assuming the same thing about one another?

[bylightofdawn]

I did not do a WIP Sunday so how about a super late WIP Monday and we just pretend it's Sunday?

This is the start of the new Seph/Lazard fic I'm writing. I have the sneaking suspicion it might be mid-length depending on how much of this tenuous plot I have percolating in my head actually gets posted. It might be pre-slash or it might tip into actual slash, I'm not 100% decided despite my snarky post yesterday about Seph's blond twink kinks.

It's freshly written and wholly unedited so disregard any typos and terrible grammar as always.

“Did you hear we’re getting a new Director?” Genesis asked Sephiroth as he leaned against the doorway of Sephiroth’s dorm room.

The silver-haired man had been focused on filing out his after-action report from their recent mission to Wutai. “Oh? Did Heidegger’s smear campaign end up finally paying off?”

He asked absently without looking up from his tablet screen.

“Nope, he apparently got passed over.” Genesis said, popping the p in nope strongly.

That managed to catch Sephiroth’s attention enough he looked up from the screen. “Really? He must be displeased.” There was the faintest trace of sarcasm in Sephiroth’s tone.

“Oh, to have been a fly on that particular wall.” Genesis agreed with a wolfish smile.

“So who is going to be the new Director?” Sephiroth decided to give up on trying to finish this report, if Genesis wanted to gossip then it was easier to pay attention to him rather than risk him getting his nose out of joint because he wasn’t giving him his due attention.

“That’s the interesting thing, I’ve never heard of this guy. Lazard Deusericus? That ring any bells for you?”

The redhead often deferred to Sephiroth when it came to Shinra intelligence, considering the man had grown up within the company while he and Angeal had become involved much later in life.

“Never heard of him. That is interesting.” Sephiroth murmured and pulled up the company directory on his tablet so he could look up the new Director. Genesis slinked inside and leaned his elbow on his shoulder as he shamelessly looked over it.

Very few people would dare touch Sephiroth without asking but Genesis Rhapsodos was a law unto himself. The profile image that popped at the head of the man’s bio revealed a blond man with a rather ridiculous haircut and piercing blue eyes behind a pair of silver-rimmed glasses.

“A pretty boy, huh?” Genesis mused and that earned him a vague eye-roll from the other man.

“Think with your other head, Gen.”

“I am. Is it a crime to notice beauty in another man?”

“No it’s not.” Sephiroth conceded somewhat reluctantly.

“All I’m saying is he’s pretty and he’s kinda young. Smacks of nepotism if you ask me.”

“It might explain why he came out of nowhere and is suddenly appointed to the directorship.”

“Heidegger is going to chew him up and spit him out. No way he stays in power for long with the old man gunning for his position.”

“Heidegger wouldn’t know how to play the politics game unless you painted it on a target and put a gun in his hand and told him to shoot it.” The silver-haired man scoffed in open disgust.

“I dunno, Angeal said he saw Scarlet and him getting chummy lately.”

“She must want something from him. You know how that harpy operates. She’ll suck him dry like a tick and dismiss him the moment his use has been played out.”

“Let’s hope for all our sakes that is not the case. I don’t think any of us want to deal with a mutual alliance between those two.” Genesis pointed out wryly.

“Heidegger could be using her to try and oust this new guy and finally win his seat at the big boy’s table.”

“Do you really think the old man is capable of that level of subtlety?”

“Heh, fair point.” Sephiroth conceded with an inelegant snort and turned his gaze back to the tablet screen. “I just hope this Lazard has a brain between his ears. Last thing we want to deal with is some idiot who cannot grasp the most basic of tactics being in charge of our deployment orders. We’re finally making some headway in this damned war. Would be a shame if we lose ground now.”

[beelzlikes]

You know what I do to pass the time? I go driving. I waste gas and pollute the air and spend money refueling just so I can listen to music while moving.

I don't want to download a dating app. You have to fill out "about me" profiles and take pictures of yourself, yuck. And there are only two types of people who use dating apps: the desperate or spam bots. You click on someone's picture and it's obviously a stock photo. And all the real people are - most of the time - freaks.

I wouldn't want to date using an app for the same reason I don't want to meet people in bars. I don't hang out with people who hang out in bars... I'm not going to meet someone I like with my interests doing something I don't like in places I don't frequent unless I force myself to.

So I guess it just comes down to getting out of the house more. But I have no reason to leave the house, I don't do anything. I don't even know where I would start. And THEN let's say by some chance I meet someone I do find attractive... There's a 75% likelihood that they aren't going to like me back. I hate those odds. It just feels like putting so much work into something I would ideally want to evolve over time.

And even when I leave the house, I have to concentrate and focus so hard on my tasks and objectives that I do come off as aloof, curt, and uncaring. So much of my brain power is being used simply to make sure I'm doing the bare minimum and not looking like a goof. You're telling me I also have to interpret if this person is flirting or just being nice? Of course I'm going to defer to "just being nice" most of the time, it's an easier cognitive load to deal with.

So much easier to think "everybody knows already/nobody cares". Those are my two mantras.

Want to send a funny meme to a friend? "They've probably already seen it." Something mildly interesting happened in line at the grocery store today, and you want to tell someone about it? "Nobody cares." Maybe we could go see a movie? "They've already seen it without you." Feeling hurt and lonely? "So is everyone else, idiot, you're not special. Nobody. Cares."

So I don't text my friends, and I don't ask them to go do things with me. What makes me think I would change if I had a significant other? Wouldn't I just ruin that too?

I can no longer imagine a future in which I find happiness.