#grant is alive in this but dick nearly fucking killed him in war

[pepart]

"And for no reason he can understand, Prince Richard feels... awe."

aka. your dads finally signed the peace treaty between your kingdoms, and you now have to stand awkwardly next to each other at a ceremony.

[bluegarners]

hiya @viceturtle! I finally got it done! Here is your Bad Things Happen Bingo request with Dick and Jason; you can also read it on ao3

What Have I Done?

It’s a lot. He’s not going to lie.

Dick was dead for eight months. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. It was a fact that they were all forced to deal with, all forced to live with. Dick was dead and there was nothing any of them could do about it. And for a time, Jason had held onto the small belief, he’s not going to call it hope, that Dick had somehow managed to pull through. That even despite the beatings, the torture, everything before and after it, Dick had managed to pull through and come out of it all alive.

But he hadn’t. That was the thing, at its core. Dick died. 

Jason knows what it is to be dead. To be beaten and left to die. To struggle and still search for a way out of the shit hole you’re suddenly in and cling to that light, that stupid, stupid promise in the back of your head that screams, Help is coming, just hold on a little longer, that forces you to keep struggling, keep surviving, keep hoping for a way out despite the circumstances. Jason knows and it absolutely sucked. 

He died and then clawed his way out of his own coffin. One of his fingers is permanently misshapen, wood chips and metal piercing through his stiff and cold skin. He’s got scars all over his body to prove that he died, to prove that he was beaten with a crowbar, messed around with like he was just some dummy, some thing that could take a beating and then some. Up and down and across and lined; the scars are all over him and he died.

And Dick died too. 

In those eight months, Jason felt more connected to his deceased older brother than he ever had before. A deep and twisted connection over a shared death, a similar fate so convoluted it makes Jason sick to think about sometimes. His murderer is still out there. Jason has to live with that fact and even though it’s not fine and things would be so much easier without that psychopath, Jason gets it. Sometimes. Gets the moral code, the compass, that shrouds Batman and his little followers.

And he’s trying. He is. He made an effort to try and do the right thing when Dick died because suddenly, the role of older brother had fallen onto him and even though he doesn’t have a good relationship with Tim or the recently resurrected Damian, or anyone for that matter, there was still that recognition that it was all on him now. He was the eldest. He was the one to look towards. Not look up to, no, he will never claim the title of a role model, but now he’s the oldest, the most experienced, the next in line when one just can’t go to Bruce about shit going on.

The point being is that he did try, put in more effort than he probably should have, to stepping up to the plate and taking a swing at being better. At being the eldest of the entire brood and not fucking it up horribly. He switches to rubber bullets and smoke pellets. He keeps his excessive violence reserved for only the worst scum and even then still attempts to steer clear from Batman’s territories. He takes care of the Narrows, rekindles a sort of friendship with Tim, doesn’t fight the literal child that lurks in the Cave, and avoids confrontations with Bruce altogether.

It works and it’s good. He steps up, frankly owns being the eldest, and he’s fine. He’s fine with it. He’s still got his reputation intact, Red Robin isn’t terrified of his presence any longer, and Robin doesn’t pull a sword every time they spot one another. So what if he slips up occasionally and gets carried away? They’re just rubber bullets, weapons all the same, and they’re no different from getting hit with Batman’s fist (which Jason knows, from experience, hurts like hell) or getting swung at with a large knife. 

He had a thing going on, is what Jason’s trying to get at, and then Dick showed up.

Dick. Richard Grayson. Who died eight months ago after he was tortured by the Syndicate and had his heart stopped by Lex Luthor. Who they had a funeral for. Who they mourned for. Who Jason had attempted to fill the gaping hole he had left behind.

Who Jason thought had died.

Betrayal is a word Jason feels like he could apply to a majority of his life. Betrayal from his parents, his poor, poor mother who just couldn’t muster up enough fucks. Bruce, Batman, for getting him into the vigilante life, for letting him wear that damn costume and get himself blown up for all his efforts. Talia, for restoring his mind after he was supposed to be dead. Bruce, Batman, again, for letting his murderer walk around like it was another Sunday, any other day, just a nice, normal day for a stroll like he didn’t just kill Bruce’s own son-

Yeah, Jason feels like he has liberal use of betrayal. It’s just an old song he hums sometimes and lets others join in occasionally.

But there was an unspoken code, a silent right-of-passage, when it came to being Robin. A mutual understanding of sorts. You don’t back-stab another Robin. Ever. You don’t lie, cheat out, betray a fellow Robin. There were too many shared experiences when it came to being Batman’s, Bruce’s, Robin and that ultimately revolved all back to trust and knowing that things were still the same despite all these years. Being Robin was both the best thing to ever happen to someone and also the ultimate death sentence. You don’t just get to be Robin either. You’ve got to earn it, to prove yourself, to show that you can take it all on, to keep up with Batman and the ever changing and violent Gotham.

So, when Dick shows up with an apology on his lips and the expectation of being welcomed home after all this time, Jason punches him square in the jaw. It’s surreal, a part of him thinking his fist will just phase right through the man’s face, but his knuckles connect and if the sound of his fist against Dick’s jaw isn’t the most satisfying and cruel thing he’s ever heard, Jason doesn’t know what is. 

It’s agony, nearly, to see the red blossom on his older brother’s cheek because, holy hell, that means it’s all real. That Dick is really alive and not still buried in that weed covered yard with decaying roses scattered on top of it. Dick is alive and Jason is furious because he’s supposed to be dead and Jason already tried so hard to fill the other man’s impossibly huge shoes and he was doing a damn good job at it. He likes to think so, at least.

But who cares, right? Who gives a shit when Dick is back now and it was all for nothing? Everyone can just go back to their normal routines now that the star player is back and they don’t need a fill-in like Jason to stick around. All that effort, all that time, all that trying all summing up into one big, Surprise, I’m not dead, from the man of the hour himself.

Jason avoids Dick after that. The man said he wasn’t staying long, just “checking in” with everyone like he was just on some business call for a few months and not dead. 

And that’s the root of it, Jason thinks. That’s what really gnaws at him because Dick is treating the whole situation exactly like he was on some extended vacation and just forgot to tell anyone where he was going. Not like his absence literally turned their entire world upside down. Not like the loss, the emptiness, that literally echoed everywhere Jason went was consuming and terrifying. In those eight months, Jason had to toe the line between being the eldest and maintaining his identity as Red Hood, and that’s where Jason truly felt close to Dick. Felt like he finally got what Dick and Bruce’s arguments were about so many years ago, this constant war of wanting to be better, wanting to have freedom, wanting to stay yourself when there was a constant war of others trying to get you to fill a role that you don’t want. 

Finally, Jason felt like he had some other important connection to his elusive older brother that had nothing to do with the man that housed them, only for it all to be thrown across the room and into the trash. 

To keep it simple, bare-bones, really dumbed down, Dick lied. About being dead, of all things. Jason can get behind needing to lay low after all that, being stripped of your identity on live television wasn’t exactly great for their kind of lifestyle, but to just leave? To go out on some mission and leave the rest of them out to dry like that? No warning, no hints, no notes, nothing? God, at least Jason made an appearance. Granted, not the best sort of re-introduction, but at least he wasn’t trying to hide.

To say the least, Jason is hurting. The anger faded along with any sort of need to prove to Dick that he had stepped up when he left. Now, he just feels… shitty. In a way, this is what he had been half-way expecting. No one stays dead in this business. There is always someone with a back-up or ex-machina to save the day and bring back a fallen hero, villain, whatever. But there had just been something so final, so human in Dick’s death. In that moment, seeing the mask ripped off, seeing his brother’s face on T.V out of context, away from the normal flashiness that was being related to a billionaire, it had scared Jason because that was his brother, Dick Grayson, world’s most annoying man in the universe, on T.V; beaten, bloodied, bruised, and humiliated for everyone to see.

He’s always been jealous of how clean and clear Dick’s eyes looked. Just a simple and rare shade of blue, obnoxiously bright and searching. Jason’s mother used to say he had his father’s eyes, a muddy mix of blue and green. He’s never liked his eyes, but there was always something so attention grabbing with Dick’s. Seeing them on T.V, wide and blood-shot and bruised to hell; the blue was out of place and humanizing in a way that Jason just couldn't describe because it was simply Dick Grayson there. Not Nightwing. Not a hero. It was just Dick Grayson, world’s worst older brother ever, looking lost, defiant, and defeated all at once.

And that hurt.

The man is like some nasty disease that won’t leave him alone though. Their first meeting was two days ago and Jason is trying his best to ignore the knife in his chest, not literally, when Dick shows up. Just outside the Narrows on the roof of a bodega, Dick appears from where ever the fuck he’s been and walks over to Jason. It’s a cue, Jason knows, when thunder rumbles in the distance and if he were a bit more into literature, feeling a bit more melancholy for his freshman year of high school, Jason would say that a storm is coming for the both of them, not just Gotham.

Dick walks with his hands in his pockets, stuffed inside an old brown jacket that looks well-used and well-loved. Jason’s never seen the jacket before. Must’ve gotten it on his extended vacation. A part of Jason knows that Bruce was in on it too, that Bruce probably deserves just as much anger he’s dishing out towards Dick, maybe even more, but Jason’s tired of trying to play nice and get along. Dick is the one in front of him now, right here on a Wednesday night with the glowing, neon advertisement for Coke singing behind their heads and a run down, twenty year old convenience shop beneath their feet. 

Dick is here and now when he should be dead.

Just like Jason should be.

“What do you want?” he asks, the metallic tin of his voice modulator diminishing some of the threat. It’s a known fact that Red Hood guards his territory with a viciousness rivaling a rabid dog. Outsiders aren’t welcome. Never welcome.

In contrast, Dick is mask-less. Civilian. Same clear blue eyes from eight months ago that were sealed shut the last time Jason saw them. A dark bruise stains Dick’s right cheekbone, the shape of knuckles and betrayal. It’s a good contrast.

“I came to say goodbye,” the other man answers, stopping just short of six feet in front of Jason, “and that I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner. I really am,” he insists when Jason remains silent. “Things just… happened too fast. It killed me to be away from you all for so long. I wanted to tell you, I did-”

“Really?” Jason interrupts lowly. “It killed you, huh?”

Dick sighs, a hand coming up to brush through his hair. “That’s not what I meant. You know it’s not.”

“I don’t know, Dicky. Times are changing, you know. One minute, you’re the star pupil, and the next I’m your backup. And now,” Jason shrugs, letting his hand come up to rest on the holster he keeps on his hip, “I’m not so sure about that.”

Dick is eyeing Jason like he’s looking at something he doesn’t like. Something that’s leaving a bad taste in his mouth. But that’s just something he’s going to have to deal with, isn’t it? Suck it up buttercup, and all that.

A laugh erupts from Jason as he truly takes it all in. “You know,” he chuckles, nothing humorous causing his mirth, “you really had me there for awhile. I bought you flowers, went to your funeral, dealt with all that shit, and yet here you are. In the flesh.” He laughs again, fingers curving steadily around the grip of his gun. “I think I liked you better dead, Dick.”

The older man frowns, brow dipping into a neat crease. Not a single wrinkle on his perfect, tan, not dead face. “The situation was unavoidable,” he says, like he actually believes a word he utters. “Batman needed a guy on the inside. The, hm, circumstances leading up to that set it up so that I could be that guy. It wasn’t exactly my choice to stay dead, Jay.”

“Names,” Jason snarks, that same anger he felt two days ago rearing its ugly head again. “You know, you say you didn’t have a choice, but I think there’s a clear distinction between dead and alive, don’t you? It might just be me, who knows because fuck if I do, but I think a warning woud’ve sufficed. A fucking warning. ”

Something must click in Dick’s head as his frown deepens. His hands are out of his jacket pockets now. They’re both tense.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says. “Maybe another month. Two at most. When I get back, I’ll try and…” Dick trails off there, as if searching for the right words, but Jason doesn’t have the patience for him to find the right way to say the same bullshit he’s already heard before. 

He’s so tired. So, so tired.

“We were fine without you,” he snarls, relishing in the way Dick’s eyes widen at the claim. “The world doesn’t stop turning just because you decide to go off on a little adventure. Newsflash, asshole: None of us need you. You can’t come back here and expect everything to fall back to the way things were just because you decide it’s time to show your face again.”

“I was doing what I thought was right,” Dick snaps back. “Look, I’m sorry you had to step up and be a decent person for once-”

“And there it is,” Jason growls, unholstering his gun. “You think you’re so much better than me. You’re just so goddamn smug you can’t even see your own mistakes. What, is my being here just too inconvenient for you? Can’t make all the little hero-worshipers fall back into line like they used to?”

“Stop putting words in my mouth. I did what I thought was best for everyone and I paid the price for it.”

Jason lunges, cutting the feet between them into inches. “What was best?” he yells, swinging with one fist and aiming with the other. “Who the hell are you to decide that?”

Dick retaliates, pushing away Jason with a kick that connects to his armored chest. It’s barely a glancing blow though and he’s charging forwards again, squeezing the trigger as a shot rings off into the air, missing Dick’s foot by a few centimetres. Another crack of thunder resounds in the distance and a bolt of lightning cracks open the dark sky. Dick rolls away from Jason’s tackle, on the balls of his feet and ready to jump away again.

“I didn’t come here to fight you,” Dick tries, widening his stance. “I just came to, god, I don’t know, Jay. I didn’t ask for this!”

“Cut the bull,” Jason says, raising his gun again. He’s got it trained on Dick’s mid-section and even though a part of him knows he’s not going to take the shot, another part of him has his finger itching towards the trigger. “None of us asked for any of the fuckery that comes our way, but we deal with it, right? I’m dead, you’re dead, the brat’s dead, we’re all dead!”

There’s another crack of thunder, one that brings the rain with it. It pours, instantly drenching the pair, and a sheet of gray divides them. There’s surely something poetic about it, the divide that surrounds them both, but Jason’s not one to dwell long.

“Well, I’m not dead anymore!” Dick screams through the rain. “I am alive! I’ve been dead for eight months and I don’t want to fucking be anymore! I want to come home, Jay. I am alive. Goddamnit, I am alive!”

“So why didn’t you tell us that? Tell any of us that? All of this, that’s on you , Dick. You want to know why there wasn’t a big fucking parade for you? Why no one was fighting over the chance to be the first one to get to shake your hand? It’s because we don’t trust you anymore. No one fucking wants you near them because that’s how badly you fucked up.”

He must strike a nerve because Jason sees something crumple on Dick’s face. 

“I didn’t- I didn’t want to leave you guys, Jay. God, you’ve got to believe me on that. I had no choice. It was either I leave and do this for Batman or-”

That same anger rises up again. Anger from different directions, different thoughts, but ultimately because it’s about Batman. Always, always about Batman. What he wants. What he needs you to do. Because if you don’t do it, and someone dies, it’s your fault. And Dick has always been the suck-up, the one to come when called, because even after all their spats and all these years of silence between them, Dick was still a Robin first and goddamnit if Jason doesn’t understand that. He hates that he understands that need to please Batman, to do what he asks in the hope of just some tiny ounce of praise or acknowledgment, but Dick is a grown adult. He’s not Robin anymore.

None of them are.

Dick takes a step forward and Jason squeezes the trigger, feeling the recoil in his wrist as Dick freezes, the bullet breezing right past his armpit. His eyes are wide, finally taking the weapon in as it is, and there must be some realization going off inside Dick’s head because now he’s the one charging in, stance low and shifty, and Jason’s on the defense now. His finger is still on the trigger, just barely, and he’s raising it to aim again when a flying round-house knocks the gun from his hand and fist drives under his chin. It disorients him a bit because, damn, he didn’t actually expect Dick to fight back, Jason was trying to get him to go away, but now they’re both serious. They’re both dangerous.

It’s a no-weapons brawl, just fists and dirty kicks and the rain is still pounding away against the bodega. The rain has plastered Dick’s hair to his skull and Jason is grateful for his helmet because it’s clear the water is making it difficult for the older man to see. He takes advantage of this, striking down with his elbow on Dick’s trapezius and quickly hooking his left foot around his ankle. It works for a split second, Dick thrown off and unbalanced, before Dick is tumbling down and using his own momentum to pull Jason down with him. 

They’re on their backs now, rough and cold cement bleeding through their jackets, and the neon Coke sign flickers in and out as thunder continues to roll and shake the world.

“You should’ve stayed dead,” Jason snarls, taking a jab at his older brother’s face. “You should’ve never come back.”

Dick frees one of his hands from underneath the massive bulk of Jason’s suit, palm striking the sides of his helmet. “Take off the godamn hood and say that to my face,” Dick pants, shoving one of his knees into Jason’s side. “Look me in the eye and tell me you want me dead, Jay. Tell me you want me dead. ”

Another bolt of lightning splits the dark and its image refracts against the many puddles, and for a moment, the light sears into Jason’s eyes. He flinches against the burn and it’s enough hesitation for Dick to take the unguarded moment and flip Jason, crouching with one knee on his chest and the other digging into Jason’s forearm. They’re both breathing heavily, exhausted both physically and mentally, and he doesn’t bother to stop his brother as Dick reaches down and shoves the helmet off of his face.

Their eyes meet and Jason squints up at clear blue. Yeah, he hates that color. Hates it so much it feels like something ugly in his stomach, coiling and clenching. They’re both frowning but Dick just looks resigned. Jason hates that too. Now that he has the chance, he can see new scars on his brother’s face. New, finer lines and white and pink discoloration. 

Funny how eight months can make someone look so much older.

“I wish you had stayed dead,” Jason finally says, hating himself all the more for it. “I wish you had never come back.”

Dick stumbles off of him and there’s a thin trail of red leaking from one of his eyebrows that keeps getting washed away. Jason doesn’t even remember hitting him there, but he must’ve been excessive. Must’ve over-done it. Just another thing he’s managed to fuck up. Check it off the list. 

He sits up, feeling the ache of a sore back and numerous bruises, and watches as his brother leans heavily against the poles of the advertisement. The rain only seems to come down harder, bouncing off the yellow stained bodega roof. He gets to his feet slowly, careful to keep an eye on the slouching man, and treads over to pick up his helmet. His gun is closer to the bright neon sign and when he gets near enough, Dick looks up, something horribly heavy and sad, settling into his face.

“Okay,” is all he says, nodding once. “Okay, Jay.”

Dick reaches into his jacket pocket once more, fiddling with something, but Jason’s too preoccupied putting his helmet back on to really pay attention to it. They’re done fighting. Done with whatever all of that was. His hair is soaked, his jacket is going to have a layer of mildew on it in the morning, and Jason is tired. Beat. He can’t find the will-power to truly be bothered with anything else. 

This is his territory so he’s not technically fleeing, but that’s what it looks like. Tail between his legs, off to lick his wounds, Jason’s sure that’s what Dick is thinking (he knows that’s not true, he knows this, and he’s got a little secret screaming, pounding away in the back of his skull, but Jason’s too burned out to deal with it, to address it). He walks to the edge of the roof with his back turned on his older brother, his alive and breathing, long lost brother, and jumps off, sliding down the fire escape and landing on the grimy streets below. His boots squelch in the rain, and there’s water logged into his socks, but Jason ignores it in favor of staring ahead. Refusing to look back.

Here’s the thing about being a Robin that everyone who’s been one before knows. 

You rely on each other. There’s no codependency, not really, but there is a certain degree of reliance on past and current Robins. Robin is the inspiration. Not Batman. Batman doesn’t inspire little kids to go out in the night and get punched in the face and witness cruelty so awful you have nightmares for years after. Batman doesn’t inspire light and forgiveness and mercy; that’s all Robin’s doing. The bright colors, the chatter, the youth. That’s all on Robin, the little child weapons they are, and the shared experience of being that for Batman is a bond that runs so much deeper than blood. Thick and interwoven and relied upon so much more heavily than a simple crest or uniform.

And here’s that screaming secret that vibrates inside Jason’s skull: he’s happy Dick’s back. That Dick’s alive. At the end of the day, Dick was the first Robin, the first light, and having him snuffed out was a world that got three shades darker, bleaker. It was Dick’s Robin that truly gave it the twinge of hope all the Robins after carry with them; he was the model, the mold, they shaped themselves after. Him being dead changed that perspective for the worse because the first Robin made it. That’s what was so important, what tips the scales for the confidence of all Robins after. Dick made it. Survived being Robin, survived past Robin, and became his own hero. 

Dick outlived being Robin and that was the ultimate goal. To survive. 

So him dying was the last straw but now that he’s back, alive, everything was going to be okay again. Yeah, they’re all still messed up from it, there’s going to be a lot of trust built back up again, but they’re Robins for Christ's sake. Thicker than blood, stronger than a crest, relied on more than Batman. And maybe Jason’s being sentimental, still trying to be more eloquent than his sophomore English education allowed him to be, but God, he’s trying. He’s trying so hard despite the ache that wears down his bones and the fire that consumes his brain.

That’s why he gives in. Turns around. Looks back. Does what he thought he was too stubborn to do, but things change and-

The neon sign is brighter. No, that’s not right. There’s another source of that eerie, glowing light and Jason’s eyes widen as he sees a person step through it. Another figure, broad, muscular, unfamiliar, and they’re heading straight for Dick. His brother. Who is still leaning against the advertisement poles. Who’s not doing a damn thing to avoid the stranger that’s fast approaching. 

Soreness and fatigue forgotten, Jason starts sprinting, boots pounding against the pavement as he cranes his neck upwards to watch the stranger continue to advance.

“Dick!” he yells in warning, drowned out with the rain. “Dick, move!”

He slams into the fire escape, hands scraping up the ladder as he hauls himself three steps at a time, chest heaving and heart beating wildly. He slips, losing his footing, and Jason grunts as he feels the pull on his shoulder and his knees bang into the sides of the bodega. He pushes on though, gripping the metal tightly and finally reaching the top.

He’s pulling himself over, gasping and searching, and he sees the man tugging Dick closer to the strange light, what Jason thinks must be some sort of portal, and before he’s even gotten a leg over the edge, his right hand is scrambling for purchase on his gun. He takes aim and fires without a second thought and curses aloud when it jams.

“Dick!” he yells again, throwing the useless weapon away and falling over onto the roof. “Stop! Stop! What’re you doing?”

His brother just trudges on though, bicep gripped by the stranger that continues to drag him closer and closer to the pulsating light, ghoulishly pink and saturating the air with an ominous buzz. Another flash of lightning illuminates the sky and Jason trips over himself in his haste, crashing into the slick cement. He whips his head up, too far away, too late, as the stranger disappears fully into the portal, Dick just a few inches away.

“Wait!” Jason cries, still attempting to rise off of his knees. Damn the rain. Damn the weight of his grief. Damn it all, get up. Get up. “Dick, stop! Stop!”

The rain is loud though and there’s a divide between the two of them, mixes of gray, pink, and red light. His brother half turns, watching as the younger stumbles towards him, and Jason can’t hear anything, can hardly process what’s even happening now, but Dick’s lips move in what Jason thinks is, Goodbye, and Jason screams, lunging as his brother fades into the light.

He falls, smashing into the cement once again as he fails to reach for his brother’s hand, and lands where the portal had just been. He lays there on his chest, heaving and attempting to breathe through his helmet, but it’s too hard, too suffocating, and Jason rips it off and flings it as far away from him as he can. His hands clench into fists and he fights back the urge to cry as he slams his fists into the roof. Bam-Bam-Bam.

Something cracks in his knuckles and Jason stops at the pain, shifting back and hanging his head between his knees. There’s a vicious burn in his eyes, his ugly, muddy green eyes, and Jason swipes at them furiously.

“We just got you back,” he whispers through gritted teeth. “We just got you back, Dick, and you, you just-”

A clap of thunder rattles the thin poles of the Coke advertisement as its lights finally flicker out. The night is dark without its glow and Jason is left in obscurity. 

“What have I done?"

[bloededhoine]

I notice a lot of fans don't really bring up how Roche uses Ves for her "feminine qualities (for lack of a better word)." I hate that in Witcher 2 he sends her to Loredo dressed as a prostitute and it is implied she does this sort of thing regularly? I do know that Roche cares for her but sometimes his behavior needs a reprimand. Do you have any thoughts on this?

i absolutely love questions like this because they really make me think. plus, this is one of the rare posts that's a system special! give @claire-verlaine your love. she's simply amazing.

first things first, spoiler warning for chapter 2 of roche's path in w2 and big trigger warning for discussions of sex work, sex trafficking, rape, war, unequal power dynamics, and brief mentions of underage prostitution. also this is really fucking long. sorry.

let's start with the geekiness: prostitution as a cover for espionage has a long and awesome, albeit poorly documented, history. it was really big with the confederacy (read: racists) during american civil war, and while their motives were undoubtedly awful, these spies were simply amazing. rose o'neal greenhow was recognized by the confederate president for her role in their victory at the first battle of bull run. belle boyd seduced a union (read: racists but more covert) general, found out the date and location of the next war council, drilled a hole in the floor in the meeting room, and sat in the crawl space and took notes of the entire thing.

although there were many successful female union spies, most of them didn't use sex. there's no clear consensus on why this was, but it's entirely possible that such enlightened progressives figured sex work to be demeaning. clearly, union men were avid consumers, but also thought women didn't know any better and needed to be protected from men who would exploit them. meanwhile, these awful southern racists had no problem with "exploiting" women, but inadvertently granted them a shit ton of political agency and prestige!

this all brings us to our next point, which is that nothing is inherently wrong with sex work, although it does put workers in incredibly vulnerable positions. for every spy that successfully used prostitution as a cover, there were likely many others that failed. without even considering the consequences of being discovered as an enemy spy, sex trafficking was (and continues to be) a very real risk for anyone in that situation*.

nearly the whole history of sex work legislation shows how little people, especially upper class men, understand it. the spies in the civil war were both lucky and unlucky in that they operated quite independently. they didn't need to take orders from someone who was entirely unqualified to give them, but they also had no safety net in case something went wrong. if belle boyd so much as sneezed while eavesdropping, there would be almost no chance she'd get back home alive.

however dangerous this job was, most lady spies during the civil war began spying before they were even recruited by the army. these women weren't doing it on anyone's orders, they were doing it because they had the skills and believed in the cause (remember that in this case that belief was not an admirable quality).

rose o'neal's (possible) handler, thomas jordan, had a huge network of spies, and all evidence points to him giving her way more independence than usual. thomas jordan wasn't who rose went to for orders, he was who she submitted her reports to. in my opinion, the sex she had to obtain this information was consensual.

ves' scenario is obviously different in regard to her chain of command. she is going into sexual situations under the direct orders of a (male) commanding officer. just writing this has the alarm bells going off in my head. what good is having someone to get you out of a dangerous situation when they were the one to put you in that situation in the first place? but this is where we get to what's special about roche. he is, as they say, not like other girls.

it's no secret how much roche loves his team. when the blue stripes are killed he says that everything he loved died. if ves dies in an eye for an eye he is absolutely devastated. the blue stripes aren't just roche's subordinates, they're his family. when you see the stripes outside of battle the camaraderie is even clearer: they fist fight their commander and each other to blow off steam, they play games, have contests, etc. ves' knowledge of roche's dark and troubled past is more proof that the trust goes both ways.

roche would never put his family in an unnecessarily dangerous situation, nor would he have them do something he personally wouldn't do. even if it's just from a morality perspective (like double crossing radovid for the man that had foltest killed), roche goes it alone.

so, we know roche is a (compratively) good guy. but we also know that intention, often, doesn't mean shit. i mentioned earlier how most of the people making decisions for sex workers have little to no idea of what they are doing. it doesn't help that their intentions are all about controlling (mostly) women and getting rich in the process, but even the best meaning legislator could unknowingly do a lot of damage. roche is way more involved in ves' missions than thomas jordan was in rose o'neal's, but i think that's a good thing.

as i'm sure you lovely witcher connoisseurs know, roche is a literal whoreson. he is very aware of what goes on in brothels, and, depending on how you read into his relationship with foltest, what it's like to not really be able to say no. if anything, roche's involvement here is a good thing, since he has years of first hand experience with exactly what ves is going through, but without the safety net of an elite team that loves him and are frighteningly good soldiers.

plus, ves is far more capable than your average soldier, even in a blue stripes-calibre group. she's an absolute badass. most women who used prostitution as a cover for spying went into it with no combat or espionage training whatsoever. they knew how to be personable, how to be seductive, and how to use men's biases to get them to spill all their secrets. clearly, this knowledge served them well, but what about the occasions when it didn't? they were not fighters. at all. ves has both the "feminine charms" and the terrifying combat skills. of course, these scenarios usually have her acting as a spy, not an assassin, so those skills are more of a failsafe, but it's still very important to her own safety and the morality of the whole situation.

TL;DR

to sum up, anon, i do agree with (what i assume to be) your reasoning, but not the conclusion you came to. if someone told me an older male superior was having a younger female subordinate act as a prostitute to gain intel during a time of war, i'd be ready to start cutting off dicks.

but that's not the whole story. the older male superior has a personal background in (possibly) coerced and underaged sex work. the younger female subordinate is a highly skilled soldier, and second in command of an elite unit. both of them have a very close familial relationship developed over several years. a similar relationship exists between the the other members of the unit in their command. personally, i think those factors make this a completely new situation.

that being said, i'm certain that my beliefs aren't the only ones out there. as long as we can all agree that the base scenario is unequivocally wrong, there should be absolutely no reason to (civilly) not discuss whether or not the special circumstances make it okay.

* i'll take this as an opportunity to say that the enforcement of anti-sex work laws force sex workers to be either a criminal, a victim, or dead. these laws are the problem, not the solution. the solution would be supporting unions for sex workers, giving them the same legal protections given to any other worker, and treating them like humans, not statistics.

[problematicfavesareproblematic]

Ignorance is Blitzed (Part Three)

Ron Speirs x Reader

Summary: When you come into contact with some substance that makes you sick while on a routine building search, Ron realizes he may not be as emotionally detached as he’d thought initially thought.

Warnings: war-typical violence, a (literally) dashing nightmare magpie prince, potty words, angst maybe?, a few ocs but don’t get too attached bbs, a very sad attempt at witty dialogue ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

If you weren’t convinced that Dike was moments from getting himself, you,  and the rest of Easy killed, you would’ve sworn that you were going to kill him yourself.

At least if you shot him, it meant that someone who actually knew what they were doing could take his place, and that meant that something like this would never happen again.

There may not be an Easy Company left to save, in a few seconds….

You, Christenson, and a few replacements had found cover behind the shell of a truck, a few yards up the field from the hay bale you knew Dike to be hiding behind. 

“What in the fuck is happening over there?” Christenson shouted, the replacements trying their best to hold cover while the two of you desperately tried to figure out a way to get somewhere more tactical to alleviate the fire currently being hailed upon all of you like some biblical plague.

“Dike’s being a pussy!” one of the replacements replied before a bullet dinged him in the helmet and he cursed pitchily. “Why isn’t anyone doing anything—?”

You could hear shouting from the hay bale, so you knew your friends over there were still alive and trying to do something.

If we stay here, we’ll die before we can even try to do something helpful.

“What’s CP doing?” you shout to the replacement on your left, grabbing his vest and pulling him down out of the line of fire. “Use you binoculars—!”

With (understandably) fumbling  hands, the young man brings the apparatus to his face and scans the tree line, cursing aloud each moment that passes and he can’t see them.

Anxious energy has you so keyed up your body is trembling, but you know that if you rush him it’ll just stress him out and make it worse.

“Good job,” you say, even though both you and he know that he hasn’t really accomplished anything yet. “I’ve got you covered, just let me know whenever—”

“Got em.”

Both you and Chistenson share a look of minute relief. So far, this was the first thing about this godforsaken day that had gone right.

At least the lot of you hadn’t been left to die.

“What do you see, Nelson?” the other replacement, Grante with an ‘E’, called as he reloaded his gun. “Does it look like they’re on the radio—?”

“Winters is coming—no, wait!”

You spot a runner for the Germans from your peripheral, and without hesitation you take aim and subdue them. 

Six months ago I would’ve shot to wound….what would my family say if they saw me now?

They’d have to talk to you first, and you weren’t sure if that would ever happen again.

“Oh, shit…..it’s your boyfriend—”

“What?!”  

You squint stupidly in the direction of the trees, seeing nothing but suddenly terrified at the prospect of having to watch Nix or Bull or Grant (or whoever else these dicks you worked with decided you were sleeping with) get killed in their stupid attempt at bravery.

Unless he means….

You watch someone burst through the smoke of a target-missing mortar blast, charging like some avenging God of War towards the hay bale shrouding Dike, Lip, Luz, and however many more of your friends were trapped behind before disappearing.

Ron Speirs, you goddamned psychopath.

“Fuck.” you bit out, turning to Christenson and getting his attention. “Any sign of I Company?”

The four of you initially had been part of a bigger group, and your aim had been to hook up along the outer fringes with some of I Company and create a perimeter from which the Nazi soldiers would be unable to escape or send for reinforcements. 

Christenson nodded. “They look like they’re waiting on us—”

“Yeah, well tell ‘em to get in line!” Grante barked unhelpfully, his voice cracking and reminding you just how young he was. “We’re waiting on us, too!”

You hear a shout of your last name, and when you look back to the hay bale you see that Ron and Lipton are waving to get your attention.

When you meet Ron’s eyes you see the fire of battle raging inside of him, and you can’t help but feel relief that Dike was no longer in charge of your fate.

Using hand signals that had been drilled into your head ever since Georgia you tell him and Lip that five of your party are down, but you have eyes on I Company and just need the okay to hook up with them.

You watched as the two men spoke to eachother, and when they turned away from you you imagined they were relaying what you’d said to Luz so he could let Sink know your intentions.

After a few moments, Speirs tells you with quick and precise motions that you are good to go— he has cover fire arranged for your group so you can dash the final 200 yards into the building you knew housed I Company.

You shoot him a thumbs up before turning to Christenson and nodding excitedly.

“Ready, kids?” you ask, and when they voice their readiness you make a dash for it, leaving the shell of protection the car provided behind and running as quickly as you could towards the bombed out farmhouse, the sound of heavy breathing letting you know that at least Christenson was right behind you.

You don’t look back, can’t look back- all that mattered right now was forward and careful and shouting “flash FLASH FLASH!”

The call of THUNDER preceded you and Christenson all but throwing yourselves through the doorway and into the arms of the five I Company men you’d arranged to meet.

“Fuck, where’ve you been?!” one of them is shouting in your face, and you glare at them qyuickly before looking to where a blood-speckled Nelson is gasping for breath in the doorway. Grante was nowhere to be seen, and one look from Nelson told you that the younger man hadn’t made it.

“The salon, getting my hair permed.” you deadpan to the rifleman, finding the CO and shaking his hand.

“Where do you want us?”

He nods and waves Christenson and Nelson over. “Just this way, ma’am….”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

“Ho-ly shit.”

You look up at the I Company CO (Parker, you remember quickly)  parts of a jammed machine gun between your legs as you desperately attempt to fix Nelson’s weapon.

“What?” you ask, fingers moving faster than your mind can keep up with as you quickly dislodge the shrapnel from the chamber of the gun and begin putting the thing back together on reflex.

You had been holding the line for the past hour, and for that hour the same question had been on everyone’s mind. “Tanks? Did we miss a runner—?”

Where the fuck is the rest of Easy? They should’ve been here by now to check in….

When the gun is reassembled, you shove it into the replacement’s hand and move to see what has Parker so excited, hoping beyond hope that you’d see the faces of your friends rushing to meet you.

To your horror, you only saw one face, and it happened to be the face of the man who made a point to be the one who woke you up each morning with a full canteen and the promise of breakfast.

Of course it’s going to be someone important to me, my…..whatever it is he is to me.

 “Where’s everybody?” Christenson shouted, an unfazed Ron breezing past him to quickly grab the ammo and sling it over his shoulder.

Ron goes straight to the CO and starts talking to him in harsh tones under his breath, yet his eyes still search the room until they find yours.

He’s okay, he’s safe and he’s here now. It’s okay.

You give him a nod before moving on to the next jammed weapon that had been shoved into your hands wordlessly by Christenson after he takes one of the German ones from a body next to him.

Fucking Dike. He’d have us fighting with slingshots and pebbles if it meant he got to stay warm at the CP. Half of us didn’t even have weapons until Bill and Babe started repossessing the Army’s shit. If we survive this, I’m going to kill Dike, I swear to God….

You fix the gun, glad it was only a minor fix that was needed this time. When you look back to Ron, he’s tightening his helmet on his head and looking back the way he had just come.

Goddamnit. Of course he’s running back into danger. He’s Ron fucking Speirs.

You shake yourself from your stupor and quickly rush over to him as he picks up the last of his things and prepares to go.

When he looks up at you, you shove the rifle you’d taken off the corpse of a German you’d come across on your last scouting mission into his hands and take his standard issued one away.

“Take this one,” you say breathlessly, as if you were the one who had been running. “It holds more rounds and shoots cleaner.”

He nods, eyes wild with adrenaline as he scans you over for any sign of injury.

“You good?” he asks, and you nod and try to shrug casually.

It’s hard, you are also nearly vibrating with adrenaline and nervous energy.

“I’d ask you the same, but clearly you’ve got a death wish, so—”

Before you can finish chastising him, his rough hands come up to grip your face and he smashes his lips to yours in a rough kiss that’s nearly bruising in its force.

Oh...OH. Oh shit!

You inhale sharply through your nose, head tilting back as he steps into you and puts his hands on your shoulders and squeezed.

You gape at him stupidly when he pulls back and feel the blood rushing to your cheeks in surprise at his boldness.

You hadn’t been kissed since long before Georgia, hadn’t wanted to be kissed or coddled or shown too much affection because in your relatively short life, you’d come to know unreserved compassion as a weakness. 

“Love is nice but it isn’t reliable. Life isn’t a fairytale, sweetheart— everything has a price.

Nothing can hurt you if you don’t let it matter in the first place….”

Well, Mom— I’m doing my best, but I just don’t know if you’re right about this one, not this time….

Ron smirks down at you with such a self-satisfied look you smack him lightly on the chest on reflex rather than due to any actual upset.

“Yell at me later.” he offers when you open your mouth to speak, and with one more quick, breath-stealing kiss he’s gone again, running into enemy fire far too casually for your liking.

When you turn to watch him go you catch Christenson staring at you, a similar expression of shock on his face.

Ok, so I didn’t dream that, that actually happened.

You have to literally shake your head in order to get through the surprise, and when you do a weird pit of anger forms in your stomach.

That fucker better live, because he can’t just do that and run off.

You square your shoulders and grab the newly repaired gun at your feet, going to the hole in the wall and shooting at anything that looks as if it may mean Ron Speirs any harm.

He rolls over a stone fence, and you can’t help but shake your head.

He’s fucking with my plans, that son of a bitch. 

“So, uh….that was—”

“Shut up, Christenson. Just…. shut up.”

You hear the hitch of a chuckle from his direction. 

“Bull will be happy—”

“Shut. The fuck. Up! Keep shooting, you damn fucking child….!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Ask him how far away their backup is.”

You nod to Dick, dutifully repeating the question to the bruised and bloodied german soldier who sat before a group of you after his comrade had identified him as his superior officer.

You listen to the mumbled reply and nod. “About three hours by foot, an hour if you cut through fields.”

“Ask him for a number. How many miles? How many villages?”

You press him for specifics, but he just spits bloodily at Dick’s feet before calling him something you couldn’t fully translate (but assumed was insulting).

“I’ll take it that’s a no on getting specifics.” Nix smirked, stepping to the soldier and grabbing him bodily by the arm. “I think battalion’s gonna love you—”

You squeeze your eyes shut as Lewis leads the captured man to a truck where the others are waiting to be transported back to wherever they’d set up HQ, pinching at the pressure point at the top of the bridge of your nose in a vain attempt to ease some of the pain of your stress headache.

“Headache?” Winters asks, and you instantly lower your hand and straighten up.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” 

He chuckles at that, giving you a knowing look. “I think you and I both know you could lose a limb and still insist that you’re fit for duty.”

You scoff a laugh. “I suppose it would depend on which limb…. and what duty, Sir.”

He looks at you with all the exhaustion of a first time father, and you laugh in earnest.

“Go see someone if it gets too bad.”

“Sir.” you nod.

You smile as you watch him walk away, catching up with Nixon and falling into step with the man easily.

How I got accused of screwing Nixon and Winters hasn’t, I’ll never understand….

Turning to look back at the war-torn downtown, you catch Grant’s eye and he waves you over.

By the time you get to him, you find that he isn’t alone.

Leaning against the wall beside your friend is Ron Speirs, looking far too at ease for someone who you had spotted running through enemy tanks not an hour before.

“Heard you had an exciting day!”

You freeze, eyes widening as you feel yourself blushing again. 

Shit. SHIT!

“Oh, I….um—”

“I was telling him about the car you hid behind,” Ron supplied mercifully, and you feel relief so instantly that you have to brace a hand against the side of the building in order to catch yourself.

“Oh, yes! That exciting part of my day.”

Chuck looks at you strangely for a moment, bringing a hand to your forehead and holding it there.

You roll your eyes and push his hand away, smacking at it again when he tries to repeat the action. “Charles—”

“Grant, Tab!” 

The three of you turn towards the direction of Malarkey’s voice, the man jerking his thumb back to one of the trucks.

“Got some stuff for you that just got here…”

Giving you one last look, he points his finger in your face like he’s scolding a child.

“This interrogation isn’t over, young lady—”

“Don’t you mean conversation?” Ron asks, smoke from his cigarette floating around his face like fog over a lake.

You nod your head in Ron’s direction in a sign of agreement, and Chuck moves his arm so he’s now pointing at Ron.

“Y/n and I are far past social pleasantries, and I would never insult her by lying...”

You roll your eyes and gesture in the direction Grant had been called from.

“Don’t keep Mother waiting, you know how she gets.”

You watch Grant jog over and away from sight. Ron’s fingers deftly pull your braid out from beneath your collar and smooths it down, following the length of your spine in such a way that no one else would’ve been able to see should they look over suspiciously.

“If you didn’t look like you’d just committed a crime,” he says matter-of-factly. “He probably would’ve just given you a pat on the back and moved on.”

You turn and look at him over your shoulder, the closeness of his face reminding you of how he’d held you when you thought you were dying all those months ago.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly, suddenly feeling very shy around him.

He hums, lips quirking up in a quick smile. “Well, my ‘suicidal death wish’ didn’t pan out as well as I’d hoped, so I’ll live—”

Something in your face made him stop, and with gentle hands he takes your shoulders and turns you to face him completely. You let him walk the two of you back behind the building a bit before stepping in to you again.

Like he had before, in the farmhouse after he kissed me….

You flush at the memory, and you may as well have said what was on your mind because he whispers your name in the way he does when he knows you’re overthinking things(or at least starting to).

Meeting his softened gaze, bite the inside of your cheek before speaking.

“I’m mad at you.” you say, hating the lack of conviction in your voice.

He nods, expression one of consideration as his hands come up to hold your face.

“I know.”

“Because what you did was really stupid—”

“I know—”

“And then you pull a move like that, hey” you cut yourself off when he smirks again, a chuckle in his throat when you glare at him. “Don’t you dare look so damn proud of yourself, I’m yelling at you—”

“Which move would you be referring to?” he goads, and you frown in order to hide the grin that threatens to break across your face. You shake your head in disbelief, leaning back against the side of the building.

“Oh my God.” you scoff out. “Are you teasing me right now? Ronald Speirs, you’re unbelievable”

He smiles down at you, and you let yourself smile back at him and nervously bring one of your hands up to cover his as it slides down to cup the side of your neck. 

Your smile slips as your eyes unintentionally flicker down to his lips again, remembering how they felt against your own.

Shooting a quick look to either side, you slowly raise onto your toes and give him a quick, shy peck. You can feel him grin for a split second before he kisses you deeply and far more thoroughly than you’ve ever been kissed before.

You sigh into the kiss, eyes drifting closed as you wrap your arms around his torso and fist the material of his jacket in your hands.

When you break for air you rest your cheek against his shoulder, hugging him tightly.

“I’m glad you’re okay.” you mumble, and for a moment you think he may not have caught what you said.

“If you think I’m going to let something as stupid as a bullet or a mortar stop me from coming back to you,” His lips are at your temple, and when you pull back to look at him follows you and gives you another smug grin. “you’ve got another thing coming.”

As you open your mouth to reply, the both of you hear Nixon calling your name, loudly asking people if they’ve seen you and which way you’d gone.

You both sigh, and smile at each other at the unintentional synchronization of the action.

“I think your boyfriend is looking for you.” He pulls playfully on your braid when you roll your eyes at him and gently push him away.

“I think I liked you better when you were just quiet and broody and handsome—”

Ron smiles wickedly at that, and you groan when you realized what you’d just said.

“Don’t let it get to your head-”

“Too late.” 

Ducking another quick kiss to your lips, he steps back just in time as Nixon rounds the corner, his words forgone in favor of eyeing the two of you suspiciously.

“What were you—”

“What’s up Lew?” you interrupt, trying your best to not look...what had Ron compared it to? 

Looking like you’d committed a crime….

Giving Ron a scrutinizing once over, Nix looked back to you and raised a brow.

“Dick’s wondering if you can show him how to switch one of the Kraut scopes to a rifle…”

“Sure!” you said, far too brightly. You had a feeling if you looked back at Ron he’d be smirking in unabashed amusement at your awkwardness. “Lead the way…”

With a frown and a suspicious hmph, Nix turned and began to walk in the direction from which he’d come.

You follow dutifully, giving Ron a quick smile over your shoulder as you hurried to catch up with Lewis.

Ron looked beyond pleased with himself, shooting you a quick wink before bringing another cigarette to his lips and lighting it.

“Care to explain that?” Nix asks under his breath once you catch up to him, taking your arm in his like the two of you were at some cotillion.

You smirk to yourself, rolling your lips together to hide the action.

“Nothing to explain, Nixy. Everything’s perfect….”

And for the first time in your life, you truly meant it.

OOF HERE WE ARE AGAIN! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU FOR READING THE RAMBLINGS I THROW IN YOUR DIRECTION AND SORRY IF IT SUCKS

TAGLIST: @itswormtrain, @mrseasycompany​, @softspeirs​

[johnnydoe69]

Old Wars, New Faces Part 4

It had been several weeks since Odysseus/Kevin had started working on the farm. Kevin for his part had never felt more relaxed, his insecurities melted away by the day as confidence and strength coursed through him. Things were changing so drastically and so fast, he was quickly losing sight of who he was. At one point, he had called his parents and told them that he was gay and never coming back to Boston and right as they started screaming, he just hung up the phone. The old Kevin never would have been able to tell his parents off, let alone be in a relationship with another man, but he had done both.

A few days after they got together, Dryas offered to let Odysseus stay with him until he got back on his feet. Odysseus at first was content with finding a solitary cave or a canopy of trees to sleep under, rather than intrude too far into Dryas’s life but Dryas quickly convinced him out of it. It was during this time that Odysseus learned of the primary way Dryas made his money and kept his job on the farm, sex. Dryas was fucking one of the overseer’s sons and in return, if he didn’t piss Markos off too much, he was forgiven for mistakes that would have gotten others fired. Odysseus was fine with this; on his voyages across the Mediterranean his crew would sleep with a prostitute or two if they were in port and Odysseus would have gladly joined in if not for his devotion to his wife. Yet, there was still jealousy in Odysseus’s heart. He didn’t understand why he kept getting rejected by other men and sought Dryas’s insight.

He decided to ask Dryas this, after a passionate night of cuddling and making out. They were both sweaty and satisfied, their naked bodies curled up around each other, as the cool sea air licked their skin.

“Dryas, you always tell me that I’m more attractive than you and yet, you are the one who has men waiting for you. Whenever I flirt with a man they ignore me or threaten to kill me. I know things are different on Kefalonia compared to Ithaki, but I never expected so much hatred and disgust.”

Dryas rested his chin on Odysseus’s shoulder and sighed, “I don’t know what kind of crazy shit they do on Ithaki, but the rest of Greece is simply like this. With how open you’ve been, it’s a miracle you’re not dead. Granted these big muscles are probably a big help.” Dryas gave one of Odysseus’s biceps a tight squeeze.

“A lot of the men I sleep with are closeted. They only meet me through group chats or word of mouth. Most of my business takes place during the Spring and Summer months, when businessmen from the mainland come to escape their wives and gay tourists arrive after not being able to afford the big parties on Mykonos and Santorini. It helps that tourist season is when all the gay bars are open, but for the rest of the year nothing is.”

“Surely, there are other gay meeting spots on Kefalonia than what’s open for tourists?” Odysseus asked.

“Well, there is one place, but its kind of pricey and seedy. I’d probably just stick to online hookups instead,” Dryas said with a yawn.  

“No. That’s too much of a risk. I would rather meet the man in-person first,” Odysseus said firmly. Despite, the time of bliss he spent with Dryas he couldn’t risk being caught off guard by a servant of Paris.

“Alright old man,” Dryas said, rolling his eyes. “There's a small hotel called Odysseus’s Palace, its right off the beach, you can’t miss it. Inside the main lounge is a bar where some of the more well off and older gay Kefalonians like to meet up. I only go when I’m desperate for cash, they tend to be douchebags.” Dryas furrowed his brow and bit his lip, “On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t go to a place like that, Arsenios.

Odysseus moved his meaty arm behind his head to use as a headrest, “I’ve handled far more dangerous places in my lifetime, I’ll be fine.”

Several nights later, Odysseus decided to make his move. He left work late in the evening, took a shower, dressed casually, and texted Dryas letting him know he’d be out. 

There were only a few men at the bar. All of them much older and less attractive than Odysseus hoped. They gawked at his presence like dogs to a piece of meat. Odysseus ordered a round of tequila and was quickly joined by the other men at the bar.

Dryas had been right, the men were wealthy professional types, mostly lawyers and doctors with a handful of retired landowners thrown in. They laughed warmly at Odysseus’s stories of prior hookup attempts and admired both his physical beauty and youth, but then one man asked what he did for a living. When he answered honestly, saying he was a farmhand, the mood in the room suddenly shifted.

They started asking him if he would suck their cocks in the bathroom for 50 euros, or bark like a dog for 70. They asked if he had a pimp or if he was freelance. In another time Odysseus would have stomped their bodies into dust for badgering him about his sex life, but Odysseus feared that the control over his body was only temporary and a massive fist fight could awaken Kevin to the truth.

So instead, he took to ignoring them and slowly they melted away to their own separate corners, grumbling to themselves about how he was being a tease before Odysseus was left alone again.

It was then that Odysseus noticed another young man come to the bar. He was as big as he was, yet far more agile and light on his feet. The man drifted in and out of conversations with ease, his voice shifting so quickly to appeal to a different audience he sounded like a brand new person with every man he interacted with. 

 As the night wore on and most of the men had drifted home the stranger sat next to Odysseus at the bar. “How about a cup of Ouzo for this generous man and a cup for me as well,” the man said to the bartender. A minute later the bartender poured out two cups of white wine.

They both thanked the bartender and the stranger took a sip from his drink.

The man’s twinkling brown eyes glanced into Odysseus's, “From what I’ve heard from the regulars you are quite an interesting man Arsenios. A strongman who can’t get laid, a farm worker who spends his earnings on men who wouldn’t put a euro in a beggar’s cup. Just when I thought I’d be stuck with dull pretentious bastards until the day I died,” the man said with a laugh.

“Funny, I thought the same about you. Coming in two hours before closing, you moved like Hermes himself from one man to another, and despite seeming to not like the men you drink with they seem to trust you very well” Odysseus said, sipping his ouzo. “Though I still don’t have a name to your face.”

The stranger smiled warmly, “My name is Diomedes of Argolis. I'm here on business, not pleasure. This hotel has water damage and I was brought in to access the situation. I came to the bar out of boredom. Not much to do here, but fish and drink is there?

Odysseus cracked a smile, “You’re not completely wrong in that. I’m not from this island either. I’m actually from an island next door, Ithaki.”

“Hmm, I once knew a man who lived on Ithaki. Looked a lot like you actually,” Diomedes said curiously.

“What do you know of this man from Ithaki,” Odysseus asked leaning forward.

“He was a stubborn, arrogant, pain in the ass. Loyal to his friends, cruel to his enemies. He had a massive muscular body just like yours, though I usually remember that egomaniac smeared with olive oil to show off his figure.” Diomedes took a swig of his wine, savoring the taste before continuing.  

“He was a good friend, even when I wanted to kick the fucker’s teeth in. I only wished I did more with him when he was still alive.” Diomedes said with a sigh.

Odysseus nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss. He sounded like a good man.”

Diomedes smiled sadly, “Would you like to come up with me to my room? The neon lights of the bar are starting to give me a splitting headache and my place is only the floor above us.”

Odysseus nodded and they both got up from their stools. Odysseus tried to pay off the combined tab from everyone at the bar, but Diomedes wouldn’t hear a word of it. He simply plopped down his credit card and paid it off before Odysseus could refuse.

Afterwards they walked down the twisting corridors of the hotel to Diomedes’s room. It was a simple hotel room, similar to the motel room Odysseus had been living in with less filth. It was pristine, no swarms of cockroaches or lingering black mold anywhere in sight. When they crossed the threshold, they started making out.

They peeled off their clothes like second skins and embraced on Diomedes’s bed. As Odysseus felt Diomedes's warm tongue down his throat, he recognized the similar buzz of energy that ricocheted from Diomedes’s muscular frame, a buzz very similar to his own. Odysseus didn’t mind this and kept going, pushing Diomedes flat on the bed, and squatting on Diomedes' hard dick. He wheezed at the pain, they hadn’t used lube and there was no substitute in sight, but Odysseus made do.

It was Kevin, who was nearly pushed to the edge of oblivion by Odysseus, who was truly becoming aware of what was happening. His eyes widened at the warm glow that emitted from Diomedes' skin and became aware of the glow that came from his own. When Diomedes opened his eyes, it was full of an ancient knowledge Kevin couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Fear gripped him, sending waves of adrenaline up and down his spine, and yet this only made him grind deeper and faster on Diomedes’s dick, moaning harder and louder with every panicked thought.

Eventually, Diomedes came hard inside Odysseus/Kevin coating their insides with cum. Odysseus slowly raised himself off Diomedes’s dick, while furiously pulling at his own. Diomedes after taking a short breath, took Odysseus’s hand off his dick and massaged himself, using his thick fingers to coax the semen out of Odysseus’s hard dick and onto Diomedes’s flat stomach.

Then Odysseus collapsed onto the bed, both men panting heavily. After a few minutes of rest, they wiped themselves off and fell asleep. Both slept well into the night, even as Kevin’s brain raced at the possibilities at what was happening. Had the glowing been an illusion? A trick of the light? Did this man have something to do with the drastic changes to his body and attitude?

When Odysseus finally woke up the next morning, Diomedes was already out of bed and in the bathroom. Still exhausted from the night before, Odysseus staid in bed and stared out at Diomedes. If it was one of his enemies, Odysseus would have been dead already, but the stranger hadn’t revealed his identity divine to him earlier.

Diomedes caught him staring from his reflection in the mirror, “Before we had sex, did you really think I was some silly young twunk working a simple insurance claim?”

Odysseus laughed. “I suspected, but I wasn’t sure. Now who are you really?”

“I wasn’t lying when I told you I was Diomedes of Argolis,” Diomedes said turning on the faucet and washing his face.

“And that friend of yours that you spent all night insulting was supposed to me, right?” Odysseus asked, rolling his eyes. Diomedes didn’t answer so Odysseus continued, “Everyone in this country names their children after heroes and gods. Is Diomedes the name of the body you inhabit or was that by choice?”

Kevin squirmed internally, confused and terrified at the strange words leaving his lips. He tried to exert control over his own body, only to find he had none. Odysseus sighed.

“This is my own form, Odysseus. Purely immortal. Though, not enough to enjoy on Mt. Olympus it seems.” He said, taking out a toothbrush and cleaning his teeth.

“Your worship did fade out when the Romans lost interest in you” Odysseus said, trying to ignore Kevin twisting against his will.

“And my name was never as venerated as yours, hero of the Odyssey,” Diomedes said spitefully. 

Diomedes was the wisest of the men fighting Troy and yet strangely to Odysseus one of the heroes least mentioned in the mortal world. It was strange that such a hero could be largely forgotten. 

“Why didn’t you reveal yourself earlier to me at the bar?” Odysseus asked, sitting upright in the bed, arms crossed over his powerful chest.

“You were never as sly as people seemed to think you were. Or have you picked up the manners of your American body?” Diomedes asked.

“Honestly, I don’t know. It's strange being in another man’s body like this. It feels like mine and yet, completely alien to me.” Odysseus said looking at his hands. They were big, but nowhere as large as the mitts he had used to string a bow with. 

“But you didn’t answer my question.” Odysseus said. Diomedes gave his arms a casual flex in the mirror before returning to his bed and sitting next to Odysseus. 

 “Well, since you were honest, I have to say that as blissful as the Isle of Pleasure was, I was bored. My worship never recovered when my hero cult fell into obscurity and who knew how much time was left before my soul faded as well. Might as well come back and make a name for myself.” Diomedes got back off the bed and went to a dresser, pulling on a long-sleeved shirt and undoing the wrapped towel, letting it fall to his ankles.

“Besides, where would you lot be without me? Probably pissing yourselves outside the walls of Paris’s villa,” Diomedes said, pulling out a jock strap and a pair of jeans.

“Lot? There are more of us coming?” Odysseus asked, leaning on his side.

“Yep. Not much of a war with only 2 people, is it?” Diomedes asked, putting on his jock strap.

“You know where Paris is?” Odysseus asked. 

“Yeah, that guy does not keep a low profile. Here’s his Instagram account,” Diomedes said, tossing Odysseus his phone. Odysseus caught it with one hand and had a look.

 “He’s utterly defenseless,” Odysseus said, getting up from the bed.

“What you don't see is all the security cameras, bulletproof windows, and the fact that he is constantly surrounded by people who would die to defend him. You don't need to wear armor as obviously as we dod in the old days,” Diomedes said, pulling a tight pair of jeans over his legs and ass.

Odysseus paced around Diomedes' bedroom; his dick stuck hard to his thigh. “You’re right, we need allies and weapons. It would help if we could locate some of the other heroes back from the Underworld to aid us. Then we’d have a chance.”

“Well, I found you dumbass. It shouldn’t be hard to find some of the others. Not that I’ve been looking very hard,” Diomedes said, sitting back on the bed.

“Hey,” Odysseus said, dropping his phone back in Diomedes’s lap.

“Oh what? Don’t act like you haven’t been enjoying your time with mortals either,” Diomedes said. Kevin continue to struggle against Odysseus’s power, exhausting him to the point that after a few minutes of pacing Odysseus had to already sit back down.

“Yeah, I think the mortal whose body I picked up is becoming aware of my presence,” Odysseus said, panting.

Diomedes nodded. “Give yourself time to readjust. If you haven’t already, try giving the man whose body you inhabit a different personality to enjoy.”

“What does that mean?” Odysseus asked.

“You already call yourself, Arsenios. I’m guessing different than the body’s original name, try creating a persona for that. In that way you can cross into autopilot when you need, without worrying about internal resistance. It will be hard, but I know you can manage it.” Diomedes said, “Now get up, I have work in a few hours and I’m sure you have other places to be as well.”

Odysseus nodded and got out of bed, giving Kevin an internal kick, quieting him enough so Odysseus would have enough strength to get home. Things would be hard, Odysseus grimaced, but he could manage. A thought that made Kevin internally scream with rage.

[tessatechaitea]

The Invisibles #5

It says "Crash the bus" on the back cover and I fucking get it so hard.

My inherent nihilism doesn't show often because, ultimately, I believe in a humanitarian morality based around kindness and compassion, built upon the foundational belief that nothing exists beyond our short lifespans and any act of wanton cruelty which makes any part of that short and challenging life more difficult for another person is the only true evil in the universe. But I feel the statement, "Crash the bus," deep down in my bones sometimes. Maybe it stems from a carefree and flirtatious relationship with suicidal ideation that allows me to embrace the idea of burning it all down. Most people want safety and comfort and will bargain with the devil to keep as much of that safety and comfort as possible, no matter how illusory it may be (because we have to face the fact that a good illusion may as well be reality). We're living in a Jenga tower where we refuse to restablilize the base even though it's teetering on just three misplaced blocks. And because of that, the amount of true reform that can be applied to this system is limited to what shapes can stand upon those three blocks. Most people are willing to work in that paradigm because they're afraid of starting completely over and losing their current safety and comfort, or because they think those three blocks are too sacred to remove. But imagine if you kicked out those three blocks, or, to sort of get back to the original analogy, crashed the bus into them and brought the whole tower down. Imagine the stable structure you could build if you started from a foundation that was built to support a better, kinder, more just system rather than trying to build that better system on a foundation not meant to support anything like it. Just because a structure has stood for over two hundred years doesn't mean it's still worth living in today, or maintaining its upkeep simply because we've always maintained its upkeep. I often dream of crashing the bus. And believe me, I don't fantasize about it because I think I'll survive the crash. I fantasize about it because I don't think I'll survive the ride. On the inside cover of this issue, there's a brief description of who and what The Invisibles are. "An organization dedicated to subversive activity in all its forms...the only rule of the organization is disobedience." In an earlier The Invisibles review, I believe I equated this organization to the Upright Citizens Brigade (specifically the show and not the comedy troupe). It's probably why I understood this comic book from page one. My intro or about page on Facebook has simply said this for however long I've been on the cursed site: "My only enemy is the status quo. My only friend is chaos" (that's stolen from the Upright Citizens Brigade intro, just to be clear). So I really can't remember why I stopped reading this comic book. It was right up my alley, even at twenty-three! I highly suspect I just lost track of it because I was a terribly disorganized comic book collector. I just realized King Mob is Grant Morrison's Mary Sue, isn't he? I had an image of him in my head but I just checked the Internet to makes sure he did look just like King Mob and, well, the Internet confirmed my suspicions. Also while scanning Morrison's Wikipedia entry, I noticed a short paragraph about Morriosn noting the similarities between The Invisibles and The Matrix. You know, like I noticed as well! Me! I noticed it too! Try to remember that these reviews are really just reviews about me and no the comic books I'm pretending to read but really just looking at the pictures.

Morrison just puts the pieces of the puzzle on the table and you're supposed to put them together. But who does fucking puzzles?! Boring!

In my 30s, I planned on reading every holy book and writing copious amounts of commentary from a person who wasn't taught the dogma behind the words and was simply trying to understand the book with the words that were there. I made it about forty pages through Genesis with nearly three hundred pages of commentary and then the project just sort of petered out. I suppose I'm still alive so I can always restart this project. But sometimes life has a way of kicking you in the brain by distracting you and suddenly eighteen years have gone by and you're all, "What's the fucking point?" The Mahabharata was going to be one of those books. I read part of it in college but damned if I can remember any of it. Hell, I was even going to read Dianetics! I was going to save the Quran for last just in case I invoked the rage of some fundamentalist psycho for interpreting something in the book literally as opposed to the way it's been taught according to centuries of dogma (I was pretty sure I was going to offend Christians as well but Christian fundamentalists are mostly lazy, selfish bastards who wouldn't dare take any risks to disrupt their Earthly life for their spiritual beliefs). The few bits I've read from the Quran that line up with Genesis were far more interesting in the way they sort of held a dialogue with The Bible. Like when Abraham apparently went to sacrifice his only son in The Bible and the book claims it was Isaac. And yet the only time Abraham had an only son was before Isaac was born and his only son was Ishmael. So, you know, it sounds pretty much like The Bible is lying about what happened while the Quran is just telling it like it is (although I'm not sure the Quran ever names the child so that's another part of the mystery! Maybe it was Isaac and somehow Ishmael just didn't count as a true son for reasons. You know the reasons. Maid's sons don't count is the reason). After teaching about Indian puppetry, Morrison gives the reader a lengthy scene of Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley discussing their roles as poets in the betterment of the world. With all these conversations of dead artists who died young, I wonder if Grant Morrison is bitter that he's lived so long? Anyway, George and Percy have some interesting things to say but this isn't a synopsis but a review. Also I don't like to comment on things I don't understand, like intelligent dialogue and beautiful poetry and earnest compassion.

Meanwhile, Jack Frost learns that the most important part of being an Invisible is being more paranoid than the next guy.

King Mob has to get back to England after his Indian puppet show and a visit to a Ganesh statue but he hates flying. So instead, he takes a shortcut through the future where the world has been ravaged by a great war and the Berlin Wall was rebuilt but bigger. Probably not to keep people on either side of it (the world seems mostly devastated) but probably just because the few fascist assholes still alive felt building a monument to being controlling dicks was the right thing to do to celebrate. Some mysterious guy without a face takes the face of some kids' father in a park somewhere at some point. It's hard to tell if this story has a place in time that can be considered the "now" being that King Mob is in a ravaged future and Byron and Shelley are in a long gone past and Jack Frost is in the present. Oh, that's probably the now! And the guy who stole the face of the other guy is probably in Jack's now time. King Mob returns to his Invisibles cell with information about their next mission. He also lets everybody know that Orlando is currently in London. I think it was Orlando who stole the face of the guy in the park. But that's just supposed to raise the tension because the Invisibles are going to leave their bodies behind in present day London as they time travel to the French Revolution. If we didn't know about Orlando, we would just be all, "Okay, cool! I guess they're time traveling and leaving their bodies so it'll be safe. Not because there are no threats from long-lived assassins without their own faces but because it's fucking time travel and I imagine they can return to their bodies the exact moment in which they left them!" Although the idea that the amount of time they spend in the past is equal to the amount of time their bodies sit unguarded makes a lot more sense than having somebody from the future tell Bill and Ted in his past that their clock is always ticking no matter where they are in time. I mean, it just doesn't make any sense! Especially when they break the rules later and will probably shit all over the time travel rules of their own established universe in the upcoming movie. Anyway, I like the idea that their spirits leave their bodies in the present in this time travel and that the spirits are away exactly as long as they spend in the past. That actually makes sense to me! The Invisibles #5 Rating: B+. Well, thanks a lot, twenty-three year old asshole me from the past! You just had to stop buying this comic book, didn't you?! And now I have to suffer not knowing what happens! Although I suppose you also suffered that and you seemed to have been fine. Aside from having no ambition and never finishing any writing projects and killing all of your dreams to play more video games. You know. Aside from that, you did just fine. Yeah. Real fine. Idiot.

[hellsbellssinclub]

oooo! Obi Wan and Dogma, #4 - “We’re designed to be disposable.”

Dogma bared his teeth as another stupid person left his cell. Idiots. All of them.

It had been three weeks to the day since he killed Krell and still no one was sure on what to do with him. 

He had heard from one of his Vods that work in the Senate that the 501st and 212th were to be sent back out at the end of the week. Apparently, having someone who you were supposed to trust betray you and make you kill your brothers only grants you a three week leave.

Stupid fucking Senate. Stupid fucking Jedi.

Fuck all of them. They are the ones who should be fighting their own damned war! Not Dogma and his brothers!

For the love of everything he is a child by Republic standards. His body may be big but he knows that his and his brothers brains are not technically all together finished cooking! They have been forcing them to leave without proper training and to let themselves be killed.

He was a fool. A stupid and young fool. He wanted everything to be good and neat and simple like the rules they had been ordered to follow since they had been taken from their birth tanks and he had nearly killed his brothers for it.

At least they forgave him. And visited him.

Well, they did visit him until he was told he was no longer allowed to see anyone other than his reps. Which sucked.

The only upside to being locked away in this cell was the fact that he got three squire meals a day. You don’t get that out in the field. You get two if you are lucky. 

Dogma leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He wished that he had been more like his brothers. He wished he could have seen that there was something wrong with Krell. 

Perhaps then his brothers would be alive. Perhaps Hardcase would still be here. Perhaps they would not have killed their brothers because Krell was a fucking dick.

He let himself fall into an uneasy sleep, knowing full well that sometime soon he was to be executed and disposed of.

-

It was a suprise when he heard the explosion. Dogma honestly first thought he was in a dream until an arm pulled him up from his place on the ground and to his feet.

The man who was before him was short and wore a Mandalorian mask on his face. The mask was worn and battered and Dogma could not tell who this person was. It could not be a Vod. Too short and wrong body shape. The Commander? No, she would not be able to pull this off, not with the way she looks.

Who?

“Come with me. I can get you somewhere safe.” The man’s voice was muffled and he spoke in the abbreviated Mand’o that all Vods learnt.

Who was this man.

Swallowing hard, Dogma looked around at the explosided mess around him and knew that even if he did stay and say that he had nothing to do with this, he would still be executed.

So baring his teeth, Dogma followed.

-

It took them hours to get to a reasonable spaceport and for Dogma to get something other than his blacks to wear. The street clothes he had been given were warm and strange, compared to blacks he was used to. His so called hero lead him to a small ship with no marking and what looked to be plenty of defences.

“This is where I leave you.” The man said after he had shown Dogma all the controls and where he could find the staggering amount of foods and survival things. He stared at the other as the man took off his mask, revealing someone he did not expect.

Kenobi.

Dogma took a step back and held his arms up; ready to fight. But the Jedi just gave a small, sad smile.

“Anakin and I worked together with some of out contacts to get you all of this.” He gestured to the ship and to where the food was stocked. “We tried everything for you to be spared. Called in nearly all of out favours, used more money then what should have been necessary and went to so many meetings and they still voted to execute you.” The Jedi hung his head and looked at his mask. 

“This is our gift to you Dogma. A chance of a new life.”

Dogma slowly moved his hands down and stared at the man before him. He was alive because they felt guilty. That was the only reason why. They couldn’t save him so they are giving him this chance to live.

“What about my brothers?” He asked, voice soft and rough.

Kenobi licked his lips and rubbed his chin. “There is a group of at least ten of your brothers going to meet you at the a spaceport locked into the navigational system. We asked, discretely, who wanted to leave and who wanted to stay.. There was many troubling words passed. Most of your brothers said that even if they left it still wouldn’t matter; they said that they were made to be disposable.”

The Jedi took a low shuddering breath and Dogma was not sure if the look on the other man’s face was anger or grief.

“Which isn’t true. You are all bright stars whom we love. And we are so, so sorry that this happened Dogma. To you and your brothers. So please. Be safe. Take this ship and all that is in it and stay safe. Make a new life for yourself and your brothers.” There were tears in Kenobi’s eyes. “And know that Anakin and I love each and every one of you. And one day we will all be reunited in the Force.”

And with that the Jedi but on his mask once more and was gone, leaving Dogma alone with a ship and the determination to make something from the wreck of his life.

He would see his Vods again. Both in life and in the Force.