#granted I guarantee none of them like men

[jaker-shit]

Hrnnngh sometimes the most beautiful women come through at my job. Every time i see them i fall in love with the short, curvy, Indian woman with autism. The tall ginger with big, beautiful dark eyes and a boyish smile. The tall brunette with flawless latte-color skin and a butterfly tattoo on her chest. The short goth with impeccable mascara and cute, trendy coats. I love women so much its gay

[mostly-mundane-atla]

Things Inupiaq culture doesn't traditionally have:

Kings/royalty (requiring tribute from the people you lead is seen as tyranical and tyrants are killed when possible)

A cash economy (dentallium shells were valued by many other cultures and sometimes were used as money in international trade, but not among fellow Inupiat)

Agriculture (we are traditionally a hunter-gatherer people seasonally following the herds, fish, and ripening greens and berries)

Corporal punishment (you aren't even supposed to yell at people or even scold children)

Slavery (you could argue this one since women were sometimes captured and taken as wives; but this is typically regarded as an ancient and morally questionable practice. The Inupiat didn't believe in owning people or their labor, only at best associating through marriage, blood relation, or wife-exchange)

Primogeniture as a hard-fast rule (Inupiat culture was traditionally patriarchal so a son may inherit his father's status as a family patriarch if he is already a father at this time, but material inheritence was not guaranteed to work that way)

A written language (historians were assigned to memorize records, family trees, and the like)

Human or animal sacrifices (would be considered cruel and wasteful)

Formal vs informal language (socio-economic class is mutable and does not affect language)

Gendered pronouns (our language uses pronouns to indicate tone of a sentence the way many languages use pronunciation, as well as relationship between subject and object in complex sentences and in all cases whether the subject is singular, dual, or plural and if the sentence is in first, second, or third person. An absolute fuckton of pronouns and none of them are gendered)

Raw meat taboo (except in the case of pregnancy; the arctic climate means the weather was not too far off from refrigerator or freezer temperatures, if not colder, and underground storage was often placed around frozen methane deposits known as permafrost)

Dog meat taboo (dogs were helpful as beasts of burden or sometimes hunting companions but when there's a famine you gotta eat what you can)

Many ceremonies taken for granted (for example, if a man and woman mutually agreed they were married, that was the only wedding required. We had big celebrations for survival, and women got incredible face tattoos for coming of age, but many lifestages were celebrated more low-key with little pomp and circumstance)

Shirts (you didn't wear anything underneath your atigi, and if it was too warm for it, you took it off. Yes, even women. Presbyterian missionaries thought we were godless sluts for our tits out ways)

Virginity marriage requirement (it was best if a woman hadn't had sex before but only because we lived in small communities and you have to keep track of bloodlines. Having sex didn't make girls unclean or impure and unwed mothers were taken care of by their families and weren't stigmatized)

Required monogomy (men could have multiple wives and women could have multiple husbands, wife exchange was a means of fostering allegiance, and the main problem with cheating is that it involved lying and prioritizing pleasure over duties like making sure your husband doesn't fall to his death while hunting. In stories about cheating and revenge, the cheater and retaliating jealous partner are both depicted as in the wrong)

There are more, but these i feel provide a pretty good basic idea of the culture. You can use these bits of info as Water Tribe worldbuilding inspo if you want, but i won't pester you into it. I just think my culture is neat and wanted to share ^-^

[fredwkong]

Lotto Ticket: Djinni’s Gym

Raj was a friend of yours. You knew that the two of you had been friends for a long time, but also that he had moved to town not long ago. It was weird.

He was busy all the time lately. Either at the gym or hooking up with loads of guys, the two of you almost never hung out like you were pretty sure you used to. However, when you did take the time to, something still seemed… off.

It wasn’t anything like the scent or his looks. Raj always carried a cloud of his own musk everywhere he went. It was a mix of his potent body odour and the curry spices he cooked all his food with. He’d always been an overwhelmingly handsome Indian stud. None of that was weird.

No, what was strange was what Raj explained to you. In his sexy, hypnotic accent, he explained that he was tired of just fucking white boys in the small town you lived in. You’d been sure that was the whole reason he’d moved here. But no, apparently Raj wanted more diversity among his conquests.

It stuck with you. The town was pretty homogenously white. You found yourself wandering through the local arcade after the two of you hung out. Raj had made eyes at some buff guy walking around the mall a few minutes ago, and now that guy was probably choking on Raj’s musky cock in the public washroom.

You were warier than Raj had been when you spotted me. A weird arcade machine you had never seen before, offering prize tickets? But hey, you had change from lunch, so you inserted a coin and I printed out your prize:

CONNECTION. SOLIDARITY. FRATERNITY. SPEAK YOUR WISH FOR ANOTHER AND SEE IT GRANTED. SATISFACTION GUARANTEED.

That seemed oddly specific to you. Almost like I had been listening in on your conversation. Still, that was the nature of fortune telling objects, you supposed. “I wish Raj had the diversity he wanted,” you said aloud. Then you crumpled up the wish ticket and put it in your pocket.

You wandered out of the arcade and kept walking down the mall concourse. Raj would catch up in a few minutes once he got his rocks off. You walked by the storefront that had been empty for years, then paused as there was a sudden motion out of the corner of your eye.

There was a poster in the window that you were certain hadn’t been there a moment before. It read, “DJINNI’S GYM: GRAND OPENING SOON.” The door was ajar.

This time you had only a moment’s hesitation. You wanted to see where this led. You pushed open the door and stepped inside.

For some reason, the space felt familiar to you. You walked past the sleek front desk with confidence and stepped into the huge free weights area. It was all dimly lit, but even that felt normal to you. You walked down the length of the gym, impressed with the heavy weights they stocked. Most people around here wouldn’t even be able to lift half of these. Who was this gym for? you wondered.

As you walked, your feet started to grow in your shoes, stretching longer as hair began to cover them. Your beat-up loafers became a pristine pair of high-top Converse, your favourite lifting shoes.

As you checked out the squat racks and deadlift platforms, your calves swelled up thick and juicy, black hair growing thick across them. Black skin rushed up your swelling thighs as your jeans dissolved into cutoff shorts. You scratched your bare thigh absently, and wrinkled your nose at the smell emerging from your shoes.

Moving on to the machine area, you looked in approval at the hip thrust machine. In response, your ass swelled up, stretching the limits of your shorts with two perfect, jiggly globes. In the front, your pouch thickened as well, your big Black cock starting to leak into your shorts as you thought about the diversity of men who would soon be building up their glutes using this machine. The smell of fresh and stale precum enriched the scent that your body gave off.

You hurried past the paltry cardio area. Yeah, you might use the rowing machine sometimes to get a back pump, but you preferred to get your cardio in the bedroom or the sauna. Rushing as if to catch up, dark skin and muscle rushed up your midriff and your pecs stretched your polo shirt to the breaking point, covered in whorls of nappy hair. As it snapped in the front, the threads rewove themselves into a cropped T-shirt, your usual gym wear. You fondled your big Black nipples as you headed for the locker room.

Just inside the locker room, you encountered a mirror. For an instant, you were surprised. You had gone from your old, inconsequential self to this thick, hairy, smelly Black man. Then, all at once, the transformation rushed up your thickening neck and over your head. As your facial features grew and a beard burst from your jaw, it hit you. You were Shaun, a bottom-heavy Black hunk with huge, musky feet, and Djinni Gym was about to be your gym.

You quickly checked over the locker room. Just one, since this was a men’s gym. Everything was clean, except for the musky man-smell that permeated the whole space. As it should, you thought, since it was your gym. You’d already been spending basically every waking moment here, setting things up, testing equipment, and jerking off whenever the thought of running your own gym full of hunky guys of every colour and body type became too much. Just from you alone, the whole place was impregnated with masculinity.

Well, you and Raj, you amended. He’d coated this place in at least as much musky sweat and cum as you had. As you walked out of the changing room, you heard the front door open again. Raj had finally caught up with you.

“Hey man,” you boomed, in your rich voice. “How was your hookup?”

“He’d be better if he worked out here,” Raj replied, in that Indian accent that always made you weak at the knees. He gave you a deep kiss as you met by the front desk. “When’s opening day?”

You looked around the gym. Everything was perfect. You had a huge gym facility perfect for horny men to use, and with your wish ticket you were sure that every single guy who came in would become an extraordinary hunk of some variety for you and Raj to enjoy.

“Tomorrow, of course, bro.”

[crow-fish]

What I wouldn’t give to be by your side.

Summary:

I love you as Icarus loved the sun- too close, too much

He was just caught in the middle, just like the queen, none of this was their fault, yet here they are suffering at the hands of men and their foolishness. This wasn’t their fault, why should he put up with this. It doesn’t matter what his dad promised now. He got him into this mess and he was bound to get him into another one.

The hate burned inside him, sitting and sulking wasn’t the best way to spend your time but he had nothing else to do. Well beside worshiping the gods, but he had already done that today. He had made makeshift altars on the roof of the towers where he would come to sulk and pray. He had at least one altar to every major god, but one god in particular had a bigger altar than others.

He felt him when he was sitting lonely like the tower he was trapped in. Beautiful sun rays warming his skin and seeping into his pores. Bathing in the golden light, so close he could imagine just barely touching it. This was the only good thing about being trapped up here. A seemingly unending time with his beloved favourite god, Apollo.

Basking in the sunlight all day long with no other things to do, his father tinkering away in his workshop. He paid no mind to his son on the roof, begging for help. For a chance to finally touch the one who had been drenching him in his warm, attentive light. He longed for a chance to see the gods smiling face up close, to melt in his arms, surely he would, it was the sun god.

He was sure that when the gods finally granted his wish, he would be able to meet his beloved, finally held in that embrace he’s been dreaming about. He would be given absolute freedom, never to be cooped up like this again. Like some rabid animal, seconds away from snapping at any moment. It was maddening.

One day soon, his dad promised him. They were almost ready, his dad was sure of it. Despite his dad's confidence he never ceased praying. His father had tried to surpass god before and faced the consequences, he would not make the same mistake. His father wasn’t a god. He wasn’t a god, the only way to win the gods favour was by praying. He would guarantee his escape. He would save himself.

The day came and just like he promised they were ready. Icarus was filled with joy, it consumed him entirely. He paid no mind to his fathers warnings, why would he? Unlike his father he had the gods on his side. He would succeed with Apollo’s help, with the gods' help. He would embrace the god and stay by his side in a constant sunbathe of light and love. It was only fair after what he had unjustly been put through.

Apollo would understand, Apollo would love him. He would love Apollo in return, just as he’d always had. He would finally get his happily ever after at last. This is what was supposed to happen. Why else would Apollo faithfully drown him in his sun rays, why else would Apollo rise the sun, but for him. He had remained devoted through everything, it was only fair Apollo did the same.

With his fathers wings fastened to his body he prayed one last time and jumped off the edge of the tower. He began the plummet to the bottom, he closed his eyes and spread his arms out. He stretched as far as he could, he felt it take hold and he glided across the countryside to the sea.

He soared higher than he ever thought possible, whenever he met his lover he would have to offer him thanks for this astonishing freedom. He beat his arms as gracefully as he could, he could feel the warmth of his lover's gaze, the lingering char of his touch. He had spent his life devoted to this god, he would do anything, everything this god could ever want from him.

He rocketed higher and higher, he could hear calls from his father behind him. He couldn’t just leave him alone could he? He was the one that got them into this mess, the least he could do was let him enjoy himself. He could see him in his elegant chariot, pulled by stead made of light with flames for hair. He was the embodiment of light, of grace, of beauty. Maybe even more so than Aphrodite.

He called out, his lover's head turned and a smile appeared on his face. He beat faster, soared higher, he was almost there, the heat tingling his skin, an amazing feeling of being embraced by the sun. His lover’s smile grew, his posture was relaxed as the reins were transferred to one hand as he reached out, inviting him closer. Drawing him in like a moth to the flame, he hypnotized him, beckoning him closer.

Nothing exists to him now but the idea of being by his master's side, following every command given. He would worship him, everything to do with him, he longed to please him, he would thank him for being allowed in his presence. He was right, he wasn’t a god, nor was his father or anyone else he’d ever seen. No one came close to the perfection in front of him.

He held his lover's hand as the wings melted off of him, falling to the sea below. He heard his fathers cries but soon forgot about them when he was pulled into Apollo's lap. His golden hair framed his face, his perfect skin dispersed on his face, and shoulders. He was even more glorious from up close. He buried his face into his neck and soaked up the warmth that radiated off of the sun.

He had dreamed of this for so long. His lover did not disappoint, the fingers that curled tightly in his hair were divine. The harsh pull to bring his half lidded eyes to meet his intense ones barely even hurt. It felt amazing and he couldn’t imagine ever existing without him. He surely wasn’t living until Apollo was he?

A hand was on his hip, it left a lingering feeling of heat wherever it touched. It moved to his back before pushing down and coming back to rest on his hip. He felt his hips come up to meet him just as his hips came down. He could barely contain his whimpers when the amazing feeling suddenly stopped. He wanted him to keep going but he knew not to ask, after all this was a god and he had already granted his wish today. He couldn’t get greedy.

The trip back was painful, he sat straddling Apollo, no words were spoken beside the mumbled praise that fell from Icarus’s lips whenever Apollo would give in to his desires. The feeling he would get outweighed the power hungry look that would come over Apollo and made everything worth it. He knew that feeding into the ego of someone this powerful wouldn’t end well for him but he didn’t care, he knew he would be taken care of no matter what happened.

When they got back Apollo grabbed him and carried him through shining white halls. He could feel Apollo's intense stare, anticipation started to rise in him. He knew something only a few lucky mortals had experienced was going to happen. Once again he was filled with the desire to please the god no matter what. He knew that so long as Apollo was happy with him he would be happy as well, and he would do anything to achieve the happiness he desired.

The rich silk fabric met his course chiton and he squirmed. Apollo’s graceful hands removed it and discarded it somewhere to be worried about later. Apollo’s glow basked the room in sunlight so incredibly beautiful he would never get tired of seeing it. His smirk as he ran his hands down his body leaving shivers despite the heat Apollo emitted.

“You're going to be a good worshiper for me?”

“Yes sir, of course, anything for you master.”

“What a good pet I’ve found myself.”

[the-hem]

"His Own Master." From the Svetasvatara Upanishad, "The Exploration of the Mysteries of the White Stallions."

VI-6: Knowing Him who is the origin and dissolution of the universe – the source of all virtue, the destroyer of all sins, the master of all good qualities, the immortal, and the abode of the universe – as seated in one’s own self, He is perceived as different from, and transcending, the tree of Samsara as well as time and form.

VI-7: May we realize Him – the transcendent and adorable master of the universe – who is the supreme lord over all the lords, the supreme God above all the gods, and the supreme ruler over all the rulers.

VI-8: His has nothing to achieve for Himself, nor has He any organ of action. No one is seen equal or superior to Him. His great power alone is described in the Vedas to be of various kinds, and His knowledge, strength and action are described as inherent in Him.

VI-9: No one in the world is His master, nor has anybody any control over Him. There is no sign by which He can be inferred. He is the cause of all, and the ruler of individual souls. He has no parent, nor is there any one who is His lord.

VI-10: May the Supreme Being, who spontaneously covers Himself with the products of Nature, just as a spider does with the threads drawn from its own navel, grant us absorption in Brahman !

In v. 9 it says there is no sign by which the Adorable Being cannot be inferred. Except I don't see the Hand of the Lord in the State Houses where governments struggle to feed their people, house them, and ponder all day long how appropriate it is to treat everyone with dignity. That's not too hard to figure out.

So long as other human beings are treated with suspicion and delusion, as if God is not charge of His creation, sin and needless suffering will prevail over this world.

If only governments could meditate- cut out all extraneous dogma and diatribe and whittle their agendas down to the foundation of government- to serve the people, solve their problems, guarantee basic services, and extraordinary opportunities to be happy.

These are found in our founding documents but somehow we find ourselves astray in discussions no one likes and frankly no one has ever benefitted from all the time. Discussions whose subject matter are banned in spirit and in the letter of the law.

If we were to do this, recognize and comply with the God of Government, and abide by the UN Charter and Declaration, and the church discussed the aspects of the Torah, Gospels, Quran, etc. which explain proper conduct in the polity, all of our problems would iron themselves out:

VI-11: God, who is one only, is hidden in all beings. He is all-pervading, and is the inner self of all creatures. He presides over all actions, and all beings reside in Him. He is the witness, and He is the Pure Consciousness free from the three Gunas of Nature. VI-12: Those wise men, who ever feel in their own hearts the presence of Him who is the one ruler of the inactive many, and who makes the one seed manifold – to them belongs eternal happiness, and to none else.

VI-13: He is the eternal among the eternal and the intelligent among all that are intelligent. Though one, He grants the desires of the many. One is released from all fetters on realizing Him, the cause of all, who is comprehensible through philosophy and religious discipline.

He, the Adorable Being, the Maker of this World and all that we need to be happy upon it, is the Friend of the Intelligent, who comprehend the arts, sciences, the law and religion and use them as He does, to grant the desires of many.

To those who understand this deep wisdom alone He confers the greatest blessings.

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

Omg can I please get a hannibal x a shy girl reader ? Like he’s really possessive of her and she doesn’t know how to handle it but she likes him so they date??

Sorry this took so long, anon. I’ve been bouncing ideas around and this one in particular, I believe, fits your request. Y/n feels out of place among Hannibal’s fancy friends and it becomes even more obvious when he abandons her at a party. 

Trigger warnings: social anxiety, sexual harassment, overstimulation

You and Hannibal had an agreement about large gatherings. He could only bring you to a party if you had a week's notice and at least three uninterrupted hours of gaming time prior to the event.

For this event, you needed a solid six.

One of the major Maryland universities was awarding a lucrative research grant to a student of clinical psychology, and every influential name in the industry was expected to be there. As a recent college grad with a bachelor's in business you didn't know what to do with, you couldn't imagine a less welcoming environment if you tried. You couldn't fit into their world and more importantly, you didn't want to. But the thought of being noticeably different in any situation was twice as terrifying. So you spent the whole week repeating your mantra; blend in, be quiet and make it through the night.

But Hannibal had different plans for you.

Halfway through the week, just when you'd pushed the party out of your mind, Hannibal presented you with a gift.

"What's the occasion?" You asked. You hoped that if you pretended not to know, it would just magically go away.

"I brought you something to wear on Friday." Hannibal answered, hanging the garment bag up on the bureau. "You know I'll take any excuse to dress you up."

He unzipped the bag and placed a black silk dress into your arms. "Try it on so I have time to get it altered if it needs it."

The material was cool to the touch and outlined your figure so perfectly, you felt even a little naked. Hannibal, of course, loved this. You were his own personal Venus de Milo. His goddess and his muse. 

“Yes, that will do nicely.” He observed, looking at you hungrily. 

“Seems a little short for a such a sophisticated event, doesn’t it?” You raised an eyebrow. The answer was yes and he knew it. He was very deliberate in everything he did. “I don’t want to come off the wrong way.” 

“And what way would that be, darling?” He asked, not taking his eyes off your figure. 

“I mean--” You searched for the right words. “It’s a gathering of the Mid-Atlantic’s most esteemed academics, I feel like, in a dress like this, I might be seen as, well, a...” 

“A prostitute?” Hannibal finished, choosing a much nicer word than you would have.

You looked down. “Yeah. It just doesn’t seem all that appropriate.” 

Hannibal approached you and lifted your chin slightly to look into his eyes. “Many Christian denominations believe that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute, yet she was Christ’s right-hand woman. She was first to see him crucified and first to witness his resurrection.” 

“Dr. Lecter,” You smirked. “I never would have taken you for a religious man.” 

“Goodness, no.” He shook his head. “But any reputable academic is expected to be familiar with biblical literature and its many contradictions and impossibilities.” 

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You are my divine feminine, Miss [L/N].” Hannibal said in a low whisper. “And I want everyone to see it. If they see a common whore, it would only be a reflection of their own jealousy.” 

Hannibal's rationalization almost made you forget about your fear of being noticed. Almost. It all came rushing back when you arrived at the event. Not one person your age was in attendance. The women wore long, flowing evening gowns that reached the floor. The length of your skirt alone guaranteed that all eyes were on you. In a simple black silk dress, you looked the very model of high society. Silk was a sign of luxury, and Hannibal wanted everyone to know that you were a woman of means. His woman, to be precise. That was why he brought you to these functions in the first place. To put you in a dress short enough for any wandering eyes so see the smattering of love bites running up your inner thighs. He wanted everyone in his field to know that you were completely and entirely his.

You realized too late that this was all his little exercise in showing you off.

Everyone seemed to know him. He only knew a handful of people by name, and you didn't know anyone.

"And who is this delightful young woman?" A woman with a light southern twang in her voice asked, looking at you as if you were a caged animal on display.

"I wasn't aware you had a daughter, Dr. Lecter." The young man beside her laughed. "Or is she your side piece?"

Your eyes scanned the room for the nearest exit. It would be unbecoming to make a scene, so you plotted a way to slip out quietly.

“Darling, meet Dr. Charlotte Ramset and her TA, David.” Hannibal introduced, notably ignoring the young man. “Dr. Ramset, this is my intended, [F/N] [L/N].”

"I didn't realize she was also a ventriloquist!" The lady, presumably Dr. Ramset, joked. You'd heard that one a million times. She looked at you. "Tell me about yourself, sweetie. What are you studying?"

The lady was old enough to be your grandmother and reeked of too much perfume.

"I graduated last year." You said, quietly. "With a BA in business."

"See, there's a good woman." David added. "Only speaks when spoken to. They don't make ’em like you anymore, baby."

Hannibal tightened his grip on your hand. "On the contrary, David. See, Miss [L/N] is quite a bit like myself. She only dignifies those she deems worthy with a response. There's nothing wrong with being selective."

The lady laughed at David's expense and smiled at you. "Good for you."

You smiled back just a little, not ready to bring your guard down yet. "I've had to deal with more than enough. It's best not to engage."

"Oh, I know, I know." The lady said, shaking her head. "That's how it is for us educated gals. Always having to put up with pigs. See, I went to college in the sixties, so I can tell you some real stories."

This was a new experience. Talking to Hannibal's friends and having them listen to you was something you never considered possible. Now, you were one of the educated gals. You were just about to strike up a conversation with this woman, when the man next to her decided someone desperately needed to play devil’s advocate.

“I find that sexist, actually.” He cut in. “Not all men are pigs.” 

The silence following his comment was deafening and you wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Whatever progress Hannibal and Dr. Ramset made breaking down your defenses was completely reversed and you were ready to retreat.

Dr. Ramset took a long sip of wine and adjusted her shawl. “David, none of us said anything about men, you drew that conclusion yourself.”

“I mean, look at you.” David gestured to your dress. You knew exactly where this was going and you wished you could just disappear. “You’re basically asking for it.” 

Dr. Ramset glared at him. “David, that’s enough.” 

“I’m just stating facts.” David crossed his arms. “If you dress like a slut, what do you expect?”

Dr. Ramset and Hannibal seemed to have an entire conversation through prolonged eye contact before one of them broke the silence. 

"Charlotte, I hate to have to excuse myself so soon, but the president of the university is expecting me." Hannibal said, dropping your hand. Your heart hit the floor when you realized that he would be throwing you to the wolves.

"Of course, Dr. Lecter." She nodded. "Duty calls."

"I trust you'll keep an eye on my beloved [F/N] in my absence?" His voice hardened. The severity in his tone frightened you.

Dr. Ramset didn't seem disturbed or even surprised in the slightest by his gently threatening demand. "Of course."

"Thank you. And [F/N]?" He said, pressing his lips to the back of your hand. "I won't be going far. Please, try to have fun."

You tried not to look affronted, but you were going to have a long talk with Hannibal when you got home. 

"I'm just saying what everyone is thinking." David continued, his inability to take a hint positively astounding. "Why don't you respect yourself enough to cover up, [F/N]? You have a boyfriend!"

Your eyes scrolled across the room looking for any sign of Hannibal, but he was gone. Dr. Ramset finished her wine and stared at her TA with the resigned disgust of a death row jailer.

"Any other thoughts?" She said, snatching a fresh glass of wine. You looked at her with a clear expression of discomfort.

"Come on, do you see any other woman in the room dressed so provocatively?" David's voice broke mid-sentence. "No. Because they're educated enough to know that real men don't care about their bodies."

The hotel clerk approached the group. "Mr. Hosmer, there's a call for you."

David narrowed his eyes. "Uh, what?"

"Someone is on the phone asking for you." The clerk repeated. "Says it's an emergency."

David shrugged. "Fine."

Just when you thought you would be rid of him, at least for a moment, he planted his hands on your hips in attempt to "get by" you. His touch was like that of an insect crawling across your skin; unexpected, filthy and leaving you squeamish.

"I'm so sorry about that." Dr. Ramset's words echoed in your ears, but you didn't really hear them. You were too focused on grounding yourself to process what she was saying. 

“Dr. Ramset?” You said, quietly. “Which one is the president of the university?” 

She glanced at a tall woman in a dark blue suit, surrounded by equally important looking businesspeople. You followed her eyes. “That’s Dr. Mary Hosmer.”

Your ounce of righteous fury was squelched in two seconds when the reality of having to talk to someone, especially someone of stature, set in. You looked sheepishly back at Dr. Ramset. 

“Could you please ask her where Hannibal went?” You whispered. “I’d really like him to take me home now.” 

Her face turned sympathetic. “Of course, [F/N]. Stay right there.” 

You nodded. “Thank you.” 

Dr. Ramset crossed the floor and politely greeted the president. You took a few slow, calculated steps closer, just to get in earshot.

“Pardon me, but, have you seen Dr. Hannibal Lecter?” Dr. Ramset said, casually. 

“I wasn’t aware Hannibal had even arrived yet.” The president answered. “I haven’t seen him.” 

Your eyes widened. You fought the urge to freeze, but you had to move back before Dr. Ramset knew you’d been eavesdropping. You heard everything you needed and rushed back to where she’d left you.

“Dr. Hosmer said he stepped out.” She told you upon her return. “He should be back soon.” 

You tried not to show that you knew she was lying. “...oh.” 

“Would you like me to stay with you until he comes back?” 

You knew you were completely on your own. You didn’t know what was going on, but you had an inkling that it had to do with the president and David sharing a last name. All you knew for certain was that you couldn’t trust anybody. 

“Don’t bother.” You shook your head. You took off for the door, but Dr. Ramset grabbed your wrist. 

“I’m sorry, [F/N].” Her voice dropped to a low whisper. She didn’t look mad, but afraid. “But Dr. Lecter told me to stay with you. Please. Don’t make this harder for me.”

You recalled how seriously threatening Hannibal’s request was. She wasn’t answering to the president of the university. She was answering to Hannibal. You didn’t know whether to be scared or relieved. 

“Right.” You conceded, stepping back in. “I’m sorry.” 

The actual award ceremony was much longer than it needed to be, and it dragged on even longer knowing there was no reason for you to be there. Other than that, you awkwardly followed Dr. Ramset around the party like a lost puppy the whole time. You were back to your original plan: blend in, be quiet and make it through the night. 

Just when you thought the party would never end, someone tapped you on the arm. You turned around, hoping with every fiber of your being that it was Hannibal, but it wasn’t. A tall woman in a dark blue suit stared back at you. 

“I’m sorry to bother you, miss.” She said, apologetically. “But have you seen my son? I saw him talking to you and Dr. Charlotte earlier, perhaps he told you where he was going?” 

You’d pushed that man completely out of your mind. You shook your head. “He left to take a phone call and I haven’t seen him since.” 

A hand found your shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Hosmer, but I believe I saw the boy on his phone out in the lobby.” 

“Dr. Lecter!” The president’s eyes widened. “How nice of you to finally join us.” 

“...Yes, I believe he left right after making unwarranted comments towards my intended here.” Hannibal ran his hand down your arm lovingly. 

“Well, boys will be boys.” The president chuckled. “Maybe you should teach your girlfriend not to wear such revealing clothes.” 

Hannibal smiled and pulled you in protectively. “Whatever the case, I hope you find him very soon.” 

Her phone chimed in her back pocket. “Oh, that’s him right now.” 

“Wonderful.” Hannibal said. “[F/N] and I will be taking our leave.” 

He hurried you towards the door, his hand tight around yours. A blood-curdling scream came from behind you. You looked back for just a moment and found the president hollering in pain and falling to her knees. 

“Let’s go, darling.” Hannibal tugged at your arm. “They don’t deserve your presence.” 

“Hannibal, I swear.” You said, once you were in the safety of the car. “If you killed every man who looked at me like a piece of meat, sooner or later, there won’t be any men left.” 

Hannibal smirked and reached for his seatbelt. “Wonderful.” 

[geocait0815]

Demons Grasp - Chapter 20

Holy smokes, people! I have initially planned this story to have 5 or 6 chapters and now look where we are!

But we have reached the end of our journey :) I am very happy with how this turned out, especially with so many of you reading along and leaving positive feedback. This gave me the motivation I needed to see this through. I hope everyone enjoyed this as much as I did.

I raise my hand to shield my eyes from the bright headlights directed at us. Doors clap and a middle-aged man in an expensive looking gray suit approaches us. He is flanked by two mountains in black suits. They seem relaxed, no guns are pointing at us, yet. When they stop, the two huge men stand back a few steps, feet spread apart and hands crossed in front of their crotches. They are wearing a decidedly disinterested looks on their faces.

“MC Landon?”, the gray one addresses me. “Yes… Who are you?” “Irrelevant. We have come here because we share an interest in disbanding a rogue cell of government officials dealing with classified information.” Oh, really? “A few hours ago, we received a quite impressive collection of information that serves as evidence against said organization, including names, locations, clients and communications. There are raids being carried out throughout the country as we speak.” 

I wonder who this anonymous source could be. It must be someone from Tess’ group of hackers. They are the only ones with access to all the information. But what does this mean for us now? I can sense the men behind me shuffling. After all that happened tonight they can’t be happy about more agents showing up now.

“Look, we need to get out of here and to a hospital.” I take a small side step to grant him a view on Beaker and Curly struggling to keep Jake upright. “And you will. I won’t take up much of your time. We have come here tonight to ensure the men acting on behalf of the rogue cell are being brought into custody. I take it this is the wanted hacker, calling himself Nym-0s?” He takes a step forward but I step back between him and Jake. Several of Jacky's men also step forward, forming a protective wall beside me.

The two black-suited giants shift as well, reaching into their jackets. But the gray one raises one hand and they settle back. “We are not here for him. In fact, I have authorization to grant him and everyone involved in tonight's events full immunity in exchange for an agreement to keep everything confidential regarding the rogue cell, their activities and our involvement in its destruction. As long as none of this ever reaches the public, none of you will face repercussions or prosecution. As soon as you agree to this, all of you are free to leave and my men will get to work cleaning up whatever you left behind in there.”

This is a very surprising turn of events. And it sounds almost too good to be true. I glance around. The expressions of the men next to me betray no emotion, though I can sense a tension radiating from them. When I catch Jacky’s eye, she just shrugs. Several men died here tonight. Several more are incapacitated and tied up in and around the building behind us. This agreement would guarantee the safety of Jacky and her men after all they did for Jake and me. The same goes for Tess and her friends. And if this deal is real, it would mean that Jake would also be free, finally.

But can I make a decision like that for him? A cold hand grasps my heart when I look at Jake now, slumped between the two men holding him up. I am not even sure if he is conscious and aware of what is happening around him right now.

He must have read my mind, though. Because as I am standing here, looking at him, considering our options, he raises his head ever so slightly. His piercing blue eyes are barely visible behind the bruising and swelling in his face. But he seems clearer than before. And he gives me a brief nod.

********

A few days later

After getting lost a few times, I am now very familiar with the labyrinth of narrow hospital hallways. I have not left this building since we finally got Jake here. I can barely remember the drive here. But I do remember the relief after he got the much needed medical attention. I had to put up a fight with several nurses before they finally agreed to let me stay at his side.

Jake has been fading in and out of consciousness, largely due to the pain medication. Several of his bones are broken, including two ribs. Thankfully, his lungs were not punctured from this. Aside from this, there were several cuts and a myriad of bruises. And they had to get the drugs out of Jake’s system, that he was injected with to keep him calm while being held.

I had to undergo some medical checks as well, since I took quite a beating myself. The scratches on my left cheeks have been joined by several bruises and a cut in my lower lip. Right now I am returning from receiving the results of my bloodwork. Both Jake and I have been drained several times. For testing, they say. But by now I am convinced that this hospital is run by vampires.

Before turning the last corner I stop at a vending machine and grab several cups of coffee, and tea for myself. I have mastered the skill of carrying multiple plastic cups of hot liquid back to the room during the last few days.

Two men are standing guard in front of Jake's room. Jacky still does not fully trust the deal we have made and insists on stationing guards. Tess and Maya have visited almost every day as well. Even Max and Flex showed up once. It turned out that it was Max who leaked the information to a contact he had somewhere in the government. He told me that they owed him a favor and promised they were trustworthy. He never gave me a reason to not trust him so I left it at that.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I come bearing gifts.” I smile at the two guards and hand over two of the cups. Stepping into the room I am surprised by seeing Jake awake and sitting up, talking to Tess. She has propped herself into the remarkably uncomfortable armchair that I moved next to the window close to Jake’s bed.

“Jake! You are awake. How are you feeling?” I walk over and place the cups on the table attached to the hospital bed. Then I sit down at the edge of the bed. “Still a bit foggy. But much better. Your friend here has started catching me up on what you were up to since we got separated.” He raises an eyebrow. “You never told me you had connections like this.”

Oof, that is going to be a long story. “Well, I am full of surprises.” “You sure are.” The smile he gives me sends butterflies through my body. It feels so good being at his side again and seeing him being on the mend. I reach out and gently place my hand on his cheek.

A nurse bursts into the room. “I am going to need a moment with the patient.” I get off the bed. Tess also gets up. “Hey MC. Can I talk to you for a minute?” “Sure.” “Let’s go outside.” We walk into the hallway. “I’ve come in today to say goodbye” Tess says. “Oh?” “Yeah... I’ve landed a lucrative IT job at a major corporation. I think right now I prefer to lay low for a little while.” Why is she being so cryptic?

“But we will stay in touch? We still have so much to catch up on.” “Of course!” “Thanks for everything. I don’t know what I would have done if I had not found you. I owe you and the others a lot.” “We are all happy that we could help. This whole thing turned out bigger than anything we were ever involved in.” She pulls me into a tight hug.

When we separate, her expression is serious again. “One more thing: Jacky asked me to let you know that she considers her payment as taken care of.” “What do you mean? I did not get around to that yet.” Meaning I have not figured out yet how to come up with the full amount. Tess shoots me a conspiratory grin. “Don’t worry about it.” Then she just walks away leaving me baffled.

Back at the room I meet the nurse on her way out.  “Everything is looking good so far. He will need some rest now, though.” I nod and walk in. Jake really does look exhausted. I circle the bed and climb onto it next to him, making sure to not get tangled with his IV accidentally. “Do you need anything?” I ask, while gently stroking his hair. “A kiss would be paramount to my recovery.” I laugh and bend down to meet his lips. We stay like this for a long, precious moment. Then I carefully shift down to rest my head on his chest.

“I have talked to your sisters earlier.” This had been a long and excruciating call. I had a lot of explaining to do, since I had been ignoring Lilly's calls for several days. “They are on their way here. I might need protection from Lilly, though. She is furious with me for not telling them earlier about what was happening.” I do not get a reply from him. The silence stretches on for so long that I am convinced he has fallen asleep.

But then I feel his hand stroking up and down my arm. “Where were you earlier when I woke up?” Right. I sit up again, taking his hand into mine. “I was just down the hall with a doctor. He was giving me the results of some bloodwork they insisted on running after we came to the hospital.” I see concern flickering up in his eyes. “Is everything okay?”

“Well, it depends on how you see it. Look, they have uncovered that I am suffering from a condition.” “What? What condition? Nothing serious, I hope.” “Oh it is pretty serious. And it will affect our lives permanently.” I lift his hand, which I am still holding, up to my lips and press a gentle kiss on his fingers. Then I lower it to my belly. The expression in his face shifts from concern to confusion as he stares at his hand.

Then the penny drops and he looks up into my eyes, beaming with joy.

Previous Chapter

[onecanonlife]

Wilbur wakes up one morning to find white in his hair. This is—irritating, for several reasons, but that's all it is. An annoyance. A distraction.

There's nothing deeper at work here. There's nothing wrong at all.

(Or, the stresses of the presidency give Wilbur a white streak of hair earlier in canon, and somehow, this serves as the cry for help he can never bring himself to make.)

(word count: 11,592)

(first part) (second part) (third part)

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

Part Four

He blinks awake, and he isn’t sure what he’s looking at.

A ceiling, to be sure, but it’s not the ceiling that it should be. It’s paler, more uniform, and the light illuminates it more evenly. His eyes drift across it, catching on a few hairline cracks near the wall, and he wonders, vaguely, if this is something he needs to be concerned about. This isn’t his room. He ought to be in his room, if he was sleeping.

And then, he comes to full awareness, because he is suddenly very cognizant that there are other people nearby. Breathing, clothes rustling, quietly conversing, even, and panic bursts in his chest. He sits bolt upright, casting about him for a weapon, anything he could use to defend himself, because he’s not going to let Dream’s men get the drop on him, not going to let him take down their revolution so easily—

He’s greeted by the sight of his friends, staring at him, visibly startled.

That’s right. The war is over. And he can relax, because none of them are likely to stab him in the back. Though that doesn’t mean he can let his guard down entirely, of course—not likely is not the same as impossible, after all, and he learned long ago that nothing is impossible, no loyalty guaranteed. And why are they here in the first place?

He scans the looks on their faces and simultaneously tries to figure out what they’re doing. They’ve got paperwork, it seems like. All of them. Is that his paperwork? Why are they doing his paperwork? And why are their expressions like that, varying between vaguely guilty to concerned to glad to—

His gaze lands on Niki. And just like that, he remembers.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck, what has he done?

He can’t believe himself. Did he actually let himself have a full-on break down with her in the room? Did he actually say all of that to her? There’s no way he can take any of it back now, which means it’s out there. She knows. And with everybody else here, with Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy and even Jack Manifold sitting around on his office floor, he can assume that they know too. They know how much of a failure he is.

Maybe that’s why they’re all here, going through the work that’s meant to be his. They’ve realized that he’s incapable of doing it properly, so they’re going to appoint someone else to take care of it and gently ask him to step down. He has no doubt that they will be gentle. As kind as possible with the knife that hits his heart. He’ll fade into obscurity, a slow death, and dust will coat his bones, and in fifty years or so someone will visit him and find what remains.

That is the kind of thought that would have even Technoblade accusing him of melodrama. He doesn’t care enough to rein himself in at the moment.

“Hey, boss man,” Tubbo says, peering at him over a paper that he’s holding very close to his face. To get a good look at the words, he assumes. “You feeling any better?”

“Um,” he says, and curses his tired brain. He needs a minute. Alone, preferably, so that he can get his mind up and running properly, without anyone seeing him before he can manage as much. But they’re not about to grant him that, are they? “Uh, I’m good.” He shifts, trying to release some of his tension in a non-obvious manner, and fabric falls from his shoulders. He glances down at it; it’s his coat, meaning someone divested him of it when he was asleep and covered him with it. He’s not sure how he feels about that. It’s a nice gesture, on one hand, but on the other, he doesn’t like that they could do that without waking him up.

Niki is sitting closest to him, though everyone is kind of close, actually, now that he’s noticing it. They’ve pushed his desk to the side, too, as well as his chairs, leaving the floor wide open, and yet, they’re all clumped near him, papers spread out between all of them. But Niki smiles at him. No one else does. He wishes he could smile back. His heart refuses to calm, even though he’s recognized the people in here for friends rather than foes. The problem is that anyone could be a foe, and he might not know until it was too late. Not that he really thinks that about any of them, but—he can’t not think it, either.

And he’s too vulnerable. The space is too crowded. They’re all looking at him, watching him, and even though he’s slept, he doesn’t feel rested. Doesn’t feel awake. He’s going to slip up, and they’re all going to be here for it, and he didn’t know what to do about it when it was just Niki so how is he supposed to do damage control when it’s literally everyone—

“That’s good,” Niki says, drawing him out of his thoughts. “I’m glad.” She pauses, and he should say something, but his head’s too jumbled, and all the words jam up against each other before he can think to voice any of them. “It’s been about four hours.”

Oh. That’s good. He hasn’t lost too much time, then. Not that he would have accomplished much with it, probably, but there’s a reason why he forces himself out of bed, at least, even when that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Right,” he says. “Good.” Fuck, the words just aren’t coming. He has to do better than this. “Can I ask why you’re all here?”

Silence falls, thick and oppressive. He feels like he’s breathing heavy fog, like it’s filling his lungs and then staying there. And they’re all still looking at him, too, at him and at each other, and they’re having some sort of silent conversation, and he hates it. He meets Fundy’s eyes for a second, and Fundy glances away, away and down, his ears almost flat against his head, and Wilbur—he’s not going to cry again. Not going to—but he wants to know why they’re here, and he wants to know whatever it is they’re not saying to him, and he doesn’t want his son to look at him with that expression on his face. Like he’s—he doesn’t even know, and when did he forget how to read Fundy? How long has it been since he really tried?

It’s Jack, of all people, who speaks up first.

“Niki said you could use some help,” he says with an easy shrug. “So we’re helping. And you seemed like you might need the rest.”

I don’t need help.

The sentence sticks in his throat. Because it’s a lie. It’s a lie, even though he’s tried so hard to make it into truth. It’s a lie, and perhaps he’s just tired of telling lies.

Though he doesn’t much like the alternative, either. Is there no way out of this?

“We don’t mind, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Tubbo tacks on. His tone is casual, but there is something knowing in it. Something slightly sharp. Tubbo is so very perceptive, even if he doesn’t always let that on, and normally, it’s a trait that he very much admires. Normally. When it’s not directed at him. “And besides, some of this is definitely stuff that I ought to be working on anyway. Since I’m in your cabinet and all. I’m not so busy with the space program that I can’t.”

Space—oh. Right. Did he approve that? He must have.

“Yeah, this is way too much for one guy,” Jack agrees. “No wonder you’ve been stressed out, man. But hey, you’ve got us. We’re paperwork champions, us.” He waves a paper cheerfully, grinning, and that’s a bit much for him at this second. There’s no malice in any of it, in anything that Jack is saying, but it’s still—too much, and he doesn’t quite know why, but his skin has started that uncomfortable buzzing again, the kind that it does when he’s feeling overwhelmed and doesn’t have an outlet.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment,” he tries, phrasing it as carefully as he can, “but that’s really not any of your responsibility.”

“Wil,” Niki says, and her voice cuts through the white noise in his head. He stiffens, and suddenly finds that eye contact is also too much. “We want to help. That’s all. And it’ll make us feel better too, if you let us.”

“We made you soup, too,” Fundy mutters suddenly, ears still pinned back. “Or, well, Niki did. Tommy messed it up the first time.”

“Oi, shut the fuck up,” Tommy says. He’s hunched over, curled in on himself, and eye contact is a thing that he seems to be avoiding as well, which is concerning. Tommy doesn’t tend to be avoidant when he’s angry.

In a way, though, it’s almost relieving to see clear signs that someone, at least, is upset with him.

“I did,” Niki agrees, “but Tommy tried his best. Actually, Tommy, it should be ready now, if you want to go and get it?”

Tommy lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, and the sight makes Wilbur feels a bit like he’s been shot. Because he did that, surely? That’s his fault? It has to be.

“Fine,” Tommy bites out, and then he rises, and he’s out the door before Wilbur can think of what to say to him at all.

“He actually did try his best,” Tubbo says. “When Niki said we ought to make you some soup, he was all over it. He’s just not any good at cooking things. He gets distracted, and then things are burning or boiling over and it’s a whole mess.”

He knows all of this. He traveled with Tommy for a very long time. He was in charge of meals for multiple reasons, despite the fact he doesn’t have much of an affinity for food himself. What he makes is often edible, though, which was always more than he could say for Tommy’s attempts, Tommy who is too impatient and too prone to jumping on ideas and following where they lead, discarding the old ones when they no longer interest him. Not the best mindset to have when it comes to cooking.

And then, the implications catch up to him. Soup. He’s going to have to eat.

That’s a thing he should do, he knows. He just doesn’t know if he can. Especially not with everyone here, everyone looking at him, and his discomfort at that fact has not left him, no matter how silly a thing it is to get worked up over. He ought to be fine with the attention, ought to thrive on it. He used to. He used to, once, not even that long ago. A matter of months. He could drop a deft turn of phrase and have anyone eating out of his hand, and he liked it that way. He could charm strangers and court friends. He was in control.

That control has left him. Along with his dignity, apparently.

“You know, that’s not all that surprising,” Jack says. “Tommy doesn’t really seem like the type of person who knows how to cook things.”

“Well, he can, if he really sets himself to it,” Tubbo says. “Just not if there’s anything else on his mind.”

The implication being that there was. The implication being that it was Wilbur.

His cheeks are on fire. He’s powerless to fight back the flush.

Is this what it’s going to be, now? Are they going to keep discussing him, dancing around the topic while he’s still in the room? He wonders what they talked about while he was asleep. Whether Niki spilled everything, shared all the finest details of his break down, or whether she left them to guess. He doesn’t know which would be worse, but either way, nothing will be the same. At best, they will pity him, will lose their respect for his abilities, lose their faith in his leadership, and they will feel sorry for him. Will feel dismay at how far he’s fallen. Perhaps they won’t even say as much to his face. Perhaps it will all be in sideways glances and hushed silences when he enters a room and too-gentle voices when they speak to him, and he will lose them just as surely as if they hated him.

Perhaps it will be better if they hate him. Perhaps he would prefer that, no matter how it would burn him. Because at least it would burn him quickly, and the flames would not be disguised as an open palm.

“Wil?” Niki’s voice is soft, but it brings him back to the present effectively enough. “Really, are you feeling any better?��

“I’m feeling fine,” he says, almost on instinct, even though he knows very well that he’s not going to be able to slide that past her. Not now. Not after their—

But should he be trying to? After what she said to him?

But he can’t believe her. He can’t. No matter how much some part of him wants to, no matter how much there is something in his brain and in his chest and in his bones that wants nothing more than to break down again, to let them all see the truth of him. Wants to let them take care of him, if they would.

But they shouldn’t have to. Even if they would, they shouldn’t have to.

And he doesn’t want them to pity him.

“Are you?” Niki asks, holding his gaze. He can feel the flush deepening.

“No shame in not,” Jack pipes up, still infuriatingly casual. “If you’re feeling sort of shit, you can tell us that, you know?”

“I’d say it’s encouraged, actually,” Tubbo adds on.

“I’m not feeling sort of shit,” he says, and—fuck. He has to look down. He can’t stand Niki staring at him like that. He’s lying, and she knows, and he knows she knows, but he just—earlier was a fluke. He can’t—he can’t repeat it. Can’t let himself—

So why the fuck is it so tempting to just give in? Is it that he knows he’s already doomed?

“Okay,” Jack says slowly, and even he sounds a bit doubtful, “but you know, hypothetically, if you weren’t? That would hypothetically be fine, and we’d hypothetically be there for you. If you wanted to hypothetically talk to us. Get some things off your chest, as it were. Because we’re your friends.”

He opens his mouth. And closes it again.

And then, the door swings open. Tommy’s standing there, a large bowl in his hands.

“Soup,” he announces, curt and short. He’s angry. And still angry when he looks at Wilbur, for the first time since—all of this. His blue eyes are stormy, and if Wilbur had just a little less presence of mind, he might find himself shrinking back. Which would be ridiculous. He’s not afraid of Tommy.

Just of his judgment.

He blinks, and the soup is being thrust into his hands, along with a spoon. The bowl is hot, but it’s easy to handle, and he takes it before any of it can slosh over the sides. It’s mostly broth, it looks like, with a few chunks of meat. It smells nice. Fairly appetizing.

His stomach growls.

“Thanks, Tommy,” he murmurs. “And Niki, thank you.” He stirs it a couple times, trying to work up the nerve to bring the spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be that hard, but—he’s back to the people thing, again. Eyes on him. And it’s Fundy’s, maybe, that are most unnerving, because Fundy’s barely said anything to him at all. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Can’t read him whatsoever, and that in itself is upsetting.

But perhaps it’s just as well that he waits a moment, because then, Tommy speaks up.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say something?” he demands, and once again, the room falls very silent. No one moves.

His mind blanks, unravels, almost, at the accusatory note in Tommy’s voice.

“Tommy—” Niki ventures, but Tommy shakes his head.

“No,” he snaps. “I want him to say. He’s been in here, fucking, fucking starving himself apparently, because he’s been so fucking stressed, and he hasn’t said anything about it. In fact, he’s been fucking lying about it, and I want some fucking—some fucking answers, alright? Why didn’t he tell any of us what was going on?”

No words form. He doesn’t have an answer. Not when it’s Tommy asking him these things.

His chest feels hot.

No. No, not now, not again, you’re not doing this.

“Tommy,” Niki says, “I think it’s a little more complicated than that—”

“Fuck complicated,” Tommy says. “He could’ve been dying and we wouldn’t have known.”

Tommy’s voice breaks.

And it is probably a bad thing, that Wilbur’s first thought is, I think that I was.

He has enough good sense to not say that aloud, at least.

“I was hardly about to burden you with my problems,” he says, barely above a whisper. He can’t get his volume to increase any more than that. Not in the face of Tommy’s anger. Which is odd, because usually he’s quite good at combating Tommy’s stubbornness. “Especially when I ought to be able to handle them myself.”

“Well, fuck you too, then,” Tommy says, and—it is an effort not to flinch at that, to stop himself from spiraling, to prevent tears from springing to his eyes again. He can’t be that sensitive. He can’t. But then, Tommy continues, and he thinks that all his efforts might be for naught anyway. “No, really, fuck you, man. You’re not fucking—burdening us, what the shit are you on about? Are you just stupid?”

“Not that I’d phrase it that way,” Tubbo joins in, “but Tommy’s got a point, boss man. Why’d you think you couldn’t come to us with this stuff? You have to know we’re happy to help you, right?”

It’s that same question again. He can’t go through it. He can’t explain the self-loathing, the mask he wears, the front he puts up. He can’t go through it, because he doesn’t want to see the dawning realizations on their faces. He doesn’t want them to understand him, not like that, because he understands himself. He understands himself, and he hates himself for it, and he doesn’t want them to hate him as well.

But Niki doesn’t hate him. Niki heard everything that came out of his mouth, and she doesn’t hate him.

But that’s not—

He feels so fucking lost. And he hates that, too.

“I think,” Niki says suddenly, “that Wilbur’s been dealing with some things lately. And that maybe he didn’t want anybody to know about it because he’s supposed to be the leader, so that means he’s supposed to be strong all the time, and maybe that means he’s not supposed to ask for help. And that maybe he thinks we’d think less of him if he did need help.”

He stares at her.

That’s the crux of a lot of it. And she’s just laid it out. It’s in the open, now, and he didn’t have to say anything at all. He’s not sure whether to feel grateful or upset about it.

She stares back. “You don’t have to say anything,” she says. “I know it’s difficult for you. But am I right, Wil?”

It is difficult for him. That’s part of the whole problem. If it is a problem. He didn’t think that is was, thought that it was a strength, in fact, the only thing keeping him above water, the fraying stitches that maintain the facade that he so desperately needs to keep up. But if Niki is to be believed, he should have said something a long time ago. Because his leadership capabilities and his formation of this country aren’t why his friends stick with him. Apparently.

He still doesn’t know if he can believe that.

But perhaps he doesn’t have to believe it yet. Perhaps he needs to take a chance.

Slowly, he nods, and he keeps looking at her, not at anyone else, because he doesn’t want to see anyone else’s reactions, but he does see the relief in her eyes at the motion, at the admission. At the capitulation—because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s him giving in, accepting that there is nowhere else to hide.

“Oh,” Tommy says, and he thinks that someone else makes a noise, but he can’t tell who. “Well, that’s just some bullshit, then, innit? Everyone needs help sometimes, don’t they? Except for me, because I’m so poggers, but everyone can’t be me, you know, and there’s no shame in that. And maybe, you know, just maybe I ask for help sometimes too, just to make it fair to everyone else. But you know, asking for help, it doesn’t make you any less, um, good, and if you need help you should ask for it, I think. That’s my opinion.”

Oh fuck. He’s not going to cry. That shouldn’t even be hitting him like it is, because Tommy’s his kid brother and he’s supposed to be looking after him, not the other way around, but—

Fuck. He’s tearing up. He doesn’t want them to see him crying. But his mind’s a mess.

“I know it’s hard,” Niki says, and she scoots a little closer. “But we can start with little things, okay? And we’re here for you.” Her eyes take on a certain amount of hardness, a glint that’s just a bit like steel. “And we’re going to continue being here for you.” She reaches out, then, puts a hand on his arm, and the only reason he doesn’t flinch away and spill soup all over himself is because she choreographs the motion. “How about you eat your soup?”

He finds his voice at last.

“Okay,” he says, small and broken. They can hear it, he’s sure. But they don’t leave.

He eats the soup. It’s good.

He can only get about half of it down before he feels too full to continue, but it’s something like a start.

----

They’re true to their word, all of them.

He’s not alone nearly so often these days. It’s almost frustrating, because they’re hovering. He’s well aware of that fact. Even when he wants to isolate himself, he finds that he can’t do it, that it’s not fifteen minutes before someone comes barging in, either to take him out somewhere or to stay in with him, to work on policies or just to share stories or show him a new build or a thousand other things. His office sees more traffic in the next few weeks than it has in the past few months.

But what they don’t do, he’s starting to realize, is pity him.

He doesn’t understand it at first. But they never comment on the fact that he can’t do what he ought to be able to do, and they never hint that they find him incapable, and they don’t subtly try to say that he’s unfit for the job, even though all of these things are true and wrapped up in each other. They’re just—there. For him. Supporting him.

It’s a little bewildering. He tries not to express as much, because whenever he lets something like that slip, they look angry, if they’re Tommy, and sad if they’re anyone else. Which he doesn’t want. But it truly is as if they care about him as a person and not just what he can do for them, which is a mindset he’s never been able to hold when it comes to himself, and frankly, he’s not sure whether he can trust it at all, because he’s still not good at that. Still not good at trust. He’s not sure whether he ever will be again.

But they stay with him, and they help him, and from everything he can tell, it’s not because they pity him. It’s because they care.

Terrifying. And there have to be limits to that, surely? To even the most genuine compassion?

But he hasn’t found them yet.

The first time he thinks that perhaps there are none at all comes on what he’s taken to calling one of his grey mornings, where all the world appears lifeless, colorless, and there doesn’t seem to be a point to getting out of bed, and even if he wanted to, his limbs drag heavily, as if weighted down by anchors, and his mind refuses to emerge from the persistent fog that takes it.

Usually, on these mornings, he manages to be up and about by midday at the latest, if only because his anxiety about the tasks he needs to accomplish eventually overrides the haze, and no one is ever the wiser for it.

Today, Tommy comes barging into his private quarters at about ten in the morning.

“Wilbur!” Tommy says, loud as anything, drawing out his name in the way that he does when he wants something. He wants to press his pillow over his ears so he doesn’t have to listen, because it’s grating, the sudden noise. But he doesn’t have the energy for it, so he just lies there, in bed, covers pulled over him, watching Tommy through slit eyes as he steps into the room. “Wilbur, you’ve got to come and tell Tubbo—why’s your room so shit?”

He’s fairly certain that’s a change in subject, and not what he’s supposed to come tell Tubbo.

“No, really,” Tommy says. “There’s like, nothing in here. What the hell?”

He needs to respond to that, so he sighs.

“Haven’t gotten around to it yet,” he mutters, and even just saying that much takes far too much effort. “Just—go do something, I’ll be up in a bit.”

And he will be. He always is. But Tommy doesn’t leave, stands there frowning at him, and it’s enough to make him feel self-conscious. Not as much as it would have a few weeks ago, perhaps, but still, he doesn’t like that Tommy’s seeing him like this, all slumped over and still in bed like a sad, messy sack of potatoes.

“Rough morning then, eh?” Tommy says, and—really, there’s no point in denying it.

“I’ll be over it in a bit,” he repeats, though it’s a chore, though he’s dreading the moment he steps out of bed, because the thing about days like these is that the haze doesn’t actually leave him. He just eventually uses his neuroticism to force himself to work through it, which makes for a gut-churning combination of nerves and apathy, both rolling through him at once. It’s unpleasant, and his brain never seems to work properly. Everything that’s supposed to be important dissolves, slips from his grasp, and he can’t even manage to care properly about it, and then he gets anxious about the fact that he can’t care properly about it, and then it turns into a cycle, all of his negative energy feeding itself. And he’s powerless to make it stop.

“Okay, but if I leave, you’re just going to be in here, all sad and shit,” Tommy says. “So how about I stay here, and I tell you about the crimes that Tubbo has committed against me, and then when you’re feeling a bit better, because everyone feels better after talking to me—when you’re feeling a bit better you can get up and we can go out together, yeah?”

He’s not sure how he feels about that. But he can hardly stop Tommy at the moment, since it seems he’s already made up his mind, and Tommy’s already looking around for a chair; the only one in the room is the one at his desk, so Tommy pulls that over to the bed, making a horrid, obnoxious scraping noise against the floor. And then, he seats himself, settling down like he’s not inclined to go anywhere anytime soon. And he talks.

The thing is, it sort of works.

The way Tommy’s speaking, it’s like he doesn’t have any kind of expectations. Wilbur doesn’t need to answer, just to listen. So he does, and he lets himself drift a little bit, and it’s difficult to believe that Tommy’s not judging him for it, or for any of this, but Tommy’s not the sort of kid who hides what he’s feeling, and he can’t detect any frustration or derision in the way he’s talking. It’s like he’s content enough to just talk, to be there, even though Wilbur’s hardly making it fun for him, is hardly being an engaging conversation partner. It’s like he just wants Wilbur to feel better, without any ulterior motive at all, so he’s here doing what he thinks will accomplish that.

And Wilbur does start to feel better.

Not all the way. Not by a long shot. But eventually, he finds himself able to reply, and the words come a bit easier and thinking feels a bit less like wading through mud, and it starts to be an actual conversation rather than just Tommy jabbering at him. And after that, he manages to swing himself out of bed and get dressed, and Tommy pushes breakfast on him that he manages to eat most of, and just like that, he’s up and about his day. Not at a hundred percent, not firing on all cylinders, but more than usual, on a grey day like today.

And it’s because of Tommy. Because he was here. Because he came, and he stayed, and he thinks that perhaps, what Tubbo did or did not do was never the point of this at all.

When he asks Tommy about it, a little circumspectly, Tommy stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“What do you mean, why?” he asks. “Why wouldn’t I? You were feeling shitty, weren’t you? So I wanted to make you feel alright again.”

It’s stated so simply. As if that really is all there is to it.

And perhaps that’s the truth.

“You make things way too complicated,” Tommy tacks on, matter-of-factly. “I dunno why you do that. You ought to stop it, I reckon.”

That wrings a laugh from him, and if it’s a bit wet, Tommy doesn’t comment on it.

“Maybe I should,” he says, and Tommy nods, satisfied.

“Of course you should,” he says. “I am always so incredibly correct. You should listen to me all the time.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he returns, and it feels, just a little bit, like the way things used to be.

----

The white hair still bothers him. His reflection as a whole still bothers him, but the white hair most of all. It’s broad and obvious and an irritating reminder of what everyone keeps insisting isn’t weakness, but rather a sign that he’s pushed himself beyond the point of what’s healthy. Which matters. Evidently.

He still doesn’t like looking at it. It makes him feel—lesser, in a way, though he’s no longer sure that makes any sense at all.

So he still does his best to hide it, even though there’s not much point anymore, even though everyone’s seen it and everyone knows exactly what it means. He tries to hide it, and he avoids looking in the mirror when he can, and he pretends he doesn’t see the way people frown at him, sometimes, whenever he refuses to do something like take off his coat or hat in one of the more casual settings they’ve taken to luring him out to.

And then, Fundy shows up at his door with a bucket and a pair of fishing rods.

“Do you want to go fishing with me,” he blurts out, all in one breath, and Wilbur blinks, because he hadn’t expected this at all. He’s come to expect something, most days, has come to expect someone arriving either to interrupt the monotony of his work or to help him with it, but Fundy doesn’t make appearances often. And never by himself. Frankly, Wilbur had come to the conclusion long ago that he’d messed up somewhere along the line, done something that forced his son to desire a separation from him. That his little champion has resolved that he’d rather not have much to do with his father.

“Fishing?” he asks.

He’d promised, a long time ago, that he’d teach his son how to fish one day. That day never arrived. He’d thought that Fundy didn’t want to anymore.

“Yeah.” Fundy shifts his weight back and forth between his feet. “Um, it was just an idea. But I thought that maybe? You’d want to? If you, um, if you have some time for it. It’s okay if you don’t.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say no. But he’s done that so many times, has denied his son again and again. Not just his son, but everyone, and now they’re all determined to make him see, apparently, that focusing on his work in the way he has been is not only unhealthy, but not necessary. He still doesn’t know that he believes that.

“Alright,” he says softly, and stands, and his heart breaks a little at the surprise that comes across Fundy’s face.

“Really?” he asks. “You want to?”

“I do,” he says. And he does, even if a bout of nerves rises up in him at the prospect. He does his best to quash them.

So they do. They go down to the docks. They get situated, and Wilbur shows his son how to put the bait on a hook, and how to cast his line out, and how to be patient, and they fish, and it’s a bit awkward. A bit stilted. There’s too many unspoken words between them, and one big subject that neither of them knows how to breach, especially not in this circumstance, and part of Wilbur doubts that they ever will.

But they’re both here. And he doesn’t want this to be their future. And he’s decided to try not to isolate himself like he was, so if something’s going to change, it really is up to him, so he takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you,” he says, and stares out at the way their bobbers float next to each other in the gentle surf.

“It’s okay,” Fundy says. “Or, well, I mean. I kind of thought that you were disappointed in me or something, so that kind of didn’t feel okay, but I’m glad you’re not.”

He jerks at the confession, which sounds pained, as though he doesn’t really want to be saying it.

“Why would I ever be disappointed in you?” he asks.

“Well, it’s—” Fundy says. “I dunno, you just never let me do anything, and then you kind of stopped spending time with me at all, so I sort of figured that maybe you thought I couldn’t do anything.”

His mouth is dry. His line is slack, which is just as well; if a fish came along now, he might let it tug his rod right from his fingers.

“I’m not disappointed in you,” he says. “I never—I never could be, Fundy, I promise. I—I thought you were disappointed in me, to be entirely honest.”

Fundy’s head snaps toward him, his eyes wide.

It is a struggle to continue. Confessions like this are not his forte, even now. But he’s trying to be more open. Trying not to lock himself away. Trying to reach out for the hands that have been offered to him, trying to believe that they will help him stand, will not abandon him to his own shoddy balance as soon as it becomes apparent that he’s made up of more trouble than worth.

And Fundy deserves this.

“I’m sorry that I made you feel that way,” he says, and that is difficult, too. Saying sorry outright like that. But he needs to. “Truly. I just figured—I mean, I know I’m not exactly the best parent. And especially lately, it’s been—”

He trails off, not sure where he’s going with this. If it were a few weeks ago, he’d be apologizing for his weakness as well, for his inability to remain strong under the pressure, but everyone around him keeps insisting that that’s not the right way to look at it, and he’s growing more and more open to letting himself be convinced.

“You’re—” Fundy starts, and then falters. His tail drags back and forth, and then stills. “Oh. Um. Okay, I probably should’ve—um.” His ears flick, and he glances away. “I’m sorry too, then. For avoiding you lately. I know, um, that’s what I’ve been doing. I didn’t realize that it—it wasn’t because I thought that you were, that you were disappointing or anything, I just didn’t—I didn’t really know how to react. Because I sort of always thought you were invincible, and now all of a sudden you’re not.”

Something in him wilts.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“No! Um, no, that’s not what I—you don’t have to be invincible, it’s just that I sort of needed to, to adjust to that. Because of course, no one’s invincible, right? But you’re just—you’re my dad, so I guess I always just thought that nothing could hurt you. So I wasn’t—I wasn’t really sure what I should do. Or how I should help. Or if you even wanted me to help. But I didn’t mean to—I mean, maybe I was a little upset with you but not like—it wasn’t like, for a—I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it. I guess I was upset because I was worried.” Fundy looks back at him. “‘Cause, you know. I love you and everything.”

Oh.

He’s not quite sure what to do with all of that, but the last sentence gets caught in his chest and sticks there, warmth unfurling.

All’s not lost. His son still loves him.

“I love you too,” he says, slightly hoarse. “Always.”

He can believe this. Sitting here, listening to the lap of the waves, he can believe this, can believe that his son loves him, that no matter his mistakes, his son still cares, that his son won’t leave him. Maybe he’ll forget later, but he can be reminded. And in turn, he hopes that Fundy believes him. Because there are so many words unspoken between them, but now, there are a few less.

They keep fishing. Far longer than he thought he’d allow himself, but he finds it easier than it has been, to push his duties from his mind. And at some point, he rolls up his sleeves, and then loses the coat entirely, and the hat lands on top of it, and he’s letting his hair free, and other than a few glances, Fundy doesn’t mention it at all.

And when he catches a glimpse of himself in the water, too-thin face and too-dark eyebags and a white streak of hair that’s almost skunk-like in its prominence, he doesn’t care much for it, but he doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t feel the need to hide away, or to put on the layers again, to cover up behind the mask of professionalism.

For a moment, he can just be a man fishing with his son, and all the rest is less important.

----

“There is,” Jack Manifold says, and swallows, “a man.”

Not what he expected Jack to say when he burst in like that, but alright.

“What man?” he asks. He puts down the paper he’d been reading, and decides it goes into the ‘to-delegate-to-Tubbo’ pile. That’s a new system he’s been using. Delegation. He’s not quite comfortable with it yet, but it makes everyone else happier, so he’s doing his best to actually give it a try.

“A man,” Jack says, very helpfully. “He’s at the gates. We told him to wait to come in, and he’s doing that, but um. Wow. He’s got some vibes. Dunno how to describe them, except to be honest, he’s a bit intimidating. And he wants to see you.”

That can’t possibly bode well.

“Alright,” he says, standing and grabbing his coat. Freshly washed. He’s getting better about that. He’s had a bit more energy, lately. “Show me.”

Jack takes him down to the front entrance. He keeps pace with him, matching him stride for stride, but it’s not until they’re almost there that Jack tacks on, almost an afterthought, “Oh, yeah, plus he had wings. That’s not really a usual thing.” And his heart leaps straight into his throat.

“He what,” he says, but by then it’s too late, because there’s the entrance to his nation, and standing there, talking amicably with Tubbo, is Phil.

He looks unchanged from the last time he saw him. Even though that was—well. Not actually years ago. He’s seen him in the meantime for a couple of tournaments and the like, but he’s thinking of the day he left home. The day he decided that the world was too vast, too big to leave unexplored and unconquered, the day he decided to go in pursuit of that nebulous more that he always seemed to want, but could never put a name to. The day he slung his guitar across his back and a coat over his shoulders and gave his father one last hug goodbye and promised to write, and only looked back once to the house, to where Phil stood on the porch, smiling and waving him off, proud of him.

He looks unchanged. Same robes, same sandals. Same dumb bucket hat. Same wings arching behind him, feathers black as the void that granted them to him.

“Oh,” Jack says. “Does Tubbo know him?”

He swallows.

Why is Phil here?

“Yeah, they’ve met,” he says. “He’s—not anyone you need to be worried about.”

Probably. Almost definitely. Especially if Technoblade’s not with him, since he’s heard Technoblade has a bit of a mind toward anarchy these days, so he’s not sure how well that next meeting is going to go. But there’s no sign of his father’s best friend, only his father, whose head swivels toward him on his approach, and it’s too late to turn back now. Not that he would. This isn’t something he can run away from.

“Wilbur!” Tubbo says, as soon as he’s close enough. “You didn’t say Phil was coming.”

“I wasn’t aware Phil was coming,” he says, and tries for a smile. Phil meets his eyes, and he returns it, but there is something else there. Something more complicated than a simple reunion ought to warrant. “Phil didn’t write ahead. Though that’s not to say he isn’t welcome, but I probably would’ve done a bit of tidying up first.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Phil says. “I don’t mean to drop by unannounced. But any letter I sent probably wouldn’t have gotten here much before I did.”

That is—concerning. What’s so pressing that he couldn’t have waited?

“We should probably let you guys catch up, huh?” Tubbo says, and then nudges Jack. “C’mon, we’ve got to go do a thing.”

“We do?”

“Yep.” And then, Tubbo’s got Jack by the arm, and both of them are walking away, Jack considerably more confused than Tubbo, and then they’re gone. And he’s left with Phil.

Should this feel as awkward as it does? There’s no reason for this tension. Not that he knows of.

“Hi,” he says. “Been a while.”

“Hi, mate,” Phil says, voice soft, expression soft. Is there a reason for the softness, more than just seeing each other again for the first time in—a while?

“Well, welcome to L’Manberg,” he says. “I mean it, you were welcome anytime. I’d love to show you what I’ve made here. What we’ve made here.” He pauses. He can’t not ask. Letting something like that slip by him isn’t in his nature. “Though, is there anything I should know about? Don’t take this the wrong way, because I am glad to see you, but I really wasn’t expecting you.” He finishes with a laugh, short and perhaps a bit nervous, and the corners of Phil’s eyes crinkle. His expression isn’t happy, though, not really.

“I got your letter,” Phil says, still soft, and Wilbur goes to ask for clarification, because he hasn’t sent a letter asking him to come. Except the next words make him freeze. “Both of them, actually.”

Phil dips a hand into a pocket in his robes, and it comes out holding two sheets of paper. Both written in his handwriting. One neat, clean. The other with lines and sentences scratched out, and then the rest of it rushed, an outpouring of emotion, something that he never, ever intended to send. And he wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake, would he have? Except he was so tired, and Tubbo came in and interrupted him, and couldn’t it be plausible that he’d just—scooped up both drafts, when he only meant to send the one? That he tucked both into the envelope, sent both flying off, sent them both into Phil’s hands, one a clear contradiction of the sweet lies of the other?

He’s gone numb.

“Oh,” he says weakly.

What did he write? He can’t even remember now. It was a flight of passion, a bit of self indulgence that he hoped would relieve some of the stress. It didn’t, of course. And he didn’t consider the idea that there would be consequences for it, that it would ever see the light of day. He never intended it to.

Something about being a disappointment. About failing everyone. About being hated. Something about the Final Control Room, too, which was something he never wanted Phil to learn about.

“Um,” he says.

“I figured you didn’t mean to send it,” Phil says. “But I—I could hardly not come, after reading that.”

He sounds a little bit lost. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do in this situation either. That makes two of them.

He can’t explain this away. Even if he’s been a bit better lately, even if he’s gotten a bit better at leaning on others, at asking for help, and even if he no longer quite believes that his friends will abandon him as soon as he proves to be of little use—because if they were going to do that, they would have already, surely—even with all of that, he’s still not well. In a better state of mind than he was when he penned that, but still not well. And now Phil knows, and he’s here, and he’s going to know all the rest, and whenever he thinks he’s mastered himself, has himself under control, the universe comes and spits in his face, doesn’t it?

Niki was one thing. And then all the rest of his friends, his little brother, even, that was another, but he’s been getting accustomed to it. Has been trying to trust, even though it’s so very difficult.

But Phil. He never wanted Phil to know. Not any of it.

“Right,” he says. “Um. I was—not in a very good headspace when I wrote that. I’ll admit it. But it’s not—I mean, I am okay. You don’t need to worry.”

The words taste stale before they even leave his mouth. Phil won’t believe them; he doesn’t believe them himself. No one has believed them for quite some time, and perhaps it’s better that they don’t. Hadn’t he said that he was tired of lying?

But this is Phil.

“Wilbur,” Phil says, and he almost cringes, “would it be okay if I hugged you?”

And—that is not what he was expecting.

He’s nodding before he can really consider it. A few scant weeks ago, he would have denied the request, citing something about professionalism and maintaining appearances and no longer being a child. And that urge is still there, still present to some degree. But it is overwhelmed by the realization that it has been a long time since he was hugged by his father, and whenever Phil hugs him, he always feels safe and warm and protected, and he wants that, and if everyone around him is to be believed, it’s alright for him to want that.

So Phil steps forward, and he steps forward to meet him, and he’s not sure when he got to being so much taller than Phil, but even despite that, it feels just like he remembers, arms and wings folding around him and tugging him close. He sags against him almost instantly, and Phil holds him up with little effort.

And suddenly, there’s tears in his eyes. He’s starting to make this a habit.

“I’ve been really worried,” Phil murmurs. “Wil—why didn’t you tell me? Any of this?”

“I didn’t,” he starts, and almost chokes on his own breath, “I didn’t want—”

Ah. There go the tears. He’s less ashamed of them than he would have been, not long ago, though he still doesn’t like that this is happening. Still doesn’t like that Phil’s privy to this, now, too.

Phil hushes him, rubbing circles into his back. They must be a sight, L’Manberg’s president crying into the shoulder of the Angel of Death.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” he finally chokes out. “I’m sorry I lied. I just didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Oh, Wilbur,” Phil says, his voice something like grief and something like sorrow, “you could never disappoint me.”

“I could,” he insists. “I’m very disappointing.”

“You’re not,” Phil says. “You’re not. And even if you could be, I would never, ever be disappointed in you for how you feel, or for needing help.”

Ah. Well.

That seems rather in line with the sentiments that everyone else has been expressing, of late. And there’s something in his brain that won’t let him be persuaded, not entirely, as much as he’s been trying to work past it. There’s something in his brain that insists that he is a disappointment, that he should be better at handling himself, that anyone saying otherwise is lying, trying to placate him, because if he cannot accomplish anything worthy of attention or praise then he is not worthy himself.

But Phil is not lying to him. Phil is hugging him, and in his voice, there is nothing but sincerity. And pain, perhaps. Pain born of fear, of worry. For him.

He doesn’t have a response. Not a verbal one. But he holds Phil tighter, and Phil does the same, and for a while, they just stand there, and true safety is not a thing that exists, but if it did, he imagines it would feel a little like this.

----

He uncovers the mirror.

It’s a whim, not something thought out. He barely thinks about it at all before he’s doing it, whipping the sheet off and peering at himself.

The man staring back is a stranger, in more ways than one, and yet, he is utterly familiar. There are the bags, still deep and dark. There is the thinness of his wrist, the prominence of his cheekbones, the blood shot through his eyes. And there is the hair, creeping out from under the hat. Curly, a bit longer than he usually keeps it, and streaked with white in multiple places, the most obvious of which is a broad chunk right in front.

He breathes. In and out.

He still hates it. He doubts he’ll stop any time soon. It marks him as different, as other. Gives people something to stare at whenever it’s out in the open, though his friends have stopped doing it as much. He thinks they’ve realized that it well and truly bothers him.

But at the same time—

The bags are still dark, but less so. His frame is still lean, lanky, a bit underfed, but it’s no longer so bad, no longer as bad as it was. He’s not sure he understood how bad it was, at the time, but he’s eating more regularly now, and it’s obviously made a difference. His uniform is neat, and he feels no compulsion to straighten it up further, to get rid of all the creases, to stand with a soldier’s perfect posture. There is something to be said about professionalism, of course, but the need to be perfect all the time has faded. Not disappeared, but lessened.

And the white is still present, still a sign of what happened to him. Of the conditions he placed himself under. He doesn’t like it.

But he’s not ashamed. At least, not as much as he was.

He runs his hand through his hair. Puts his hat on his head, and lets his curls hang freely underneath it, doesn’t try to shove them up under the covering.

He doesn’t love it. He’s not there yet. He doesn’t know how to love himself. Doesn’t know how to convince himself that he deserves to.

But it doesn’t look bad.

He breathes. In and out.

“Alright,” he says, and the man in the mirror mouths the words in time with him. “You’re alright.”

It’s not quite the truth, but for the first time in a long time, it’s not quite a lie, either.

----

His feet carry him to Niki’s once again.

There’s no one else there but her. Her and the warmth of the ovens, the crackle of furnaces, the bits of flour always floating on the air. He slides into his usual seat, propping his head up on his hands and just watching her for a minute, not saying anything. The prominent scent is that of baking bread, but she’s setting ingredients out for cookies. He recognizes them, recognizes the combination of flour and eggs and sugar, and chocolate chips set off to the side. She’s washing her hands, and then, she turns, and she sees him.

She smiles.

He smiles back.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” she answers. She turns back to the sink and washes her hands, and then goes back to her ingredients. It’s familiar. He’s watched this so many times. She mixes the dry ingredients, and then starts adding the wet, stirring until it all solidifies into dough, adding in the chocolate chips. She’s making them the way he knows most of the kids like them best, almost more chocolate than cookie, barely holding themselves together when they’re fresh out of the oven.

He pillows his head on his arms. Lets his hat slide to the side. He’s aware of it, but he doesn’t pick it back up.

It’s so warm in here.

It’s not long before she has mounds of dough on baking sheets. Her movements are practiced, steady and sure. To his eyes, it’s almost like magic, the way it all comes together.

He’s tempted to ask for a bit of the dough. But if he does that, she’ll smack him on the head with her spoon and warn him about the dangers of eating raw eggs, an exasperated smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. And he’ll sigh and go along with it, no matter how tempting the morsel might be. Unless he sees an opportunity to sneak some, but she catches him more often than not.

So he doesn’t ask. Just watches. It’s warm, and he feels tired, but it’s not a bad kind of tired. Not a bone-deep weariness. Not the kind that makes him want to sleep and never wake up again—and that, that is something he has not quite confronted yet, that sentiment, that desire. He ought to. He has more clarity now, and he knows himself, and he knows he ought to. But not now.

He’s tired, but it’s the sort of tired that pushes him toward a nap, comfortable and safe, and that startles him for a moment, the fact that he feels safe here, with no qualifications placed on the idea at all.

He’s not in a talking sort of mood. So it surprises him when, after she’s finished putting the pans in the oven, Niki turns to him and asks, “Do you want to help with the next batch?”

He blinks.

“I thought I’d make some sugar cookies next,” she says, and then holds out her hand. “Come and help me.”

He stands, slowly, and ventures around behind the counter to where she’s standing. He takes her hand after only a moment’s hesitation, and is rewarded with another smile, one that he can’t help but return, if haltingly.

“You do know what a mess I am in the kitchen, right?” he checks.

“You are a disaster,” she agrees. “But you’ve been in here enough that you know what to do, don’t you? You can at least follow my directions.”

“I suppose,” he says, and Niki takes that as all the affirmation she needs, because in the next second, she’s stepping away from him and into a back room, and then returns in the next instant with an apron. Plain white, and definitely far too short for him, and she shoves it at him with an expression that tells him she clearly knows that it will make him look at least slightly ridiculous.

He sighs and puts it on. It barely reaches his mid-thigh.

“It suits you,” Niki says, with a determined nod. “Now, come here.”

She walks back over to the counter, clearing off all the bowls and measuring cups that she’d used for the chocolate chip cookies and pulling out new ones. She seems to have an endless supply. And then she looks at him, expectantly, so he comes over, hovering by her as she goes to get the actual ingredients. All familiar. All things he’s seen her use before, countless times. Perhaps this won’t go so badly; he could probably even get the measurements right himself, if he tried.

Niki sets a big bag of flour on the counter with a thump.

“Measure that out for me?” she says. “We’ve multiplying everything by four.”

Alright. He—thinks he knows what that means. So he takes a few measuring cups, scoots them closer to him, and begins pouring the flour, giving Niki sideways glances so as to pick up on whether he’s doing it right or not. She doesn’t stop him, but his distraction means that the flour starts kicking up in the air in earnest, and he coughs, waving a hand in front of his face. When it clears, she’s looking at him in amusement, and he shrugs, holding out one of the cups toward her.

It goes on like that. She directs him, and he does what she tells him to do, and if he gets it wrong, she corrects him, and if he gets it right, she thanks him. They stay quiet, for the most part, little conversation passing between them, but it’s not an uncomfortable lack. There’s no tension in the air, no pressure to perform. He feels as though his words have run dry again, melted away from him in the close warmth of the bakery, but for once, he doesn’t mind. He feels, for the most part, at ease.

What a novel concept.

It’s not too long before they’ve got dough, and plenty of it. Niki moves them to another counter, spreading flour out across a couple of thin boards before sliding one in front of him, and scooping some dough on top of it. She holds the rolling pin out in front of him a moment later, and he takes it. It’s fairly self-explanatory, what he’s meant to do now.

He rolls out the dough. Beside him, Niki does the same.

“We’d freeze it first, if we wanted it to hold its shape better,” she murmurs. “But I think we’ll keep these simple.”

He hums. The motion is repetitive, almost soothing, though it takes a moment to figure out how much pressure he should be applying. It takes some, but not too much. And yet, it’s simple, leaving his mind free to drift, and for the first time in a while, those drifting thoughts don’t land anywhere too dark.

“Here, that’s thin enough,” Niki says, putting a hand on his arm, and he stops. “You don’t want it to be too thin, and you don’t want to have to roll it out again. It’s never good to overwork the dough.”

“Right,” he says, and watches as she fishes around for some cookie cutters. True to her word, they’re simple, just various sizes of circles. She pushes some toward him, and he takes one, pressing it into his dough and coming up with a perfect circle. He then pauses, watching her to see how she gets hers out of the cutter; she pushes it gently with one finger, so he does the same, and it lands on one of the cookie sheets with a light thwap.

He finds a rhythm after that. And there’s something nice in the simplicity of the design. Just circles.

But after a few minutes, Niki breaks the silence.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she says. “It was—scary. The way you were.”

He has to chew on that for a moment. It’s still a bit odd to be thinking of it that way. He spent so long being so determined that he was doing the right thing—and not only the right thing, but the only thing, the only option available to him. Keep his head high, his face pleasant, and only let out his despair when there was no one else around to see or hear. So it’s still foreign, just slightly, to wrap his head around the fact that other people cared that he was doing that. And not because it affected his ability to fulfill his duty, but because they cared for him. Care. Present tense.

Because they’re still here. Are still with him, despite how sure he was that admitting his weakness would drive them away. That, if nothing else, is the most convincing evidence of all as to the veracity of their words.

“I think I understand that now,” he says, and cuts out another cookie. “I’m glad too.”

He’s sleeping more often. Eating more frequently. And the storm of his mind, while not gone, has calmed. It’s easier to hold his ground against the wind that batters him, and easier to recognize it for wind at all.

It’s easier to reach out for a hand to help ground him.

“I think,” he starts, almost on impulse, and then stops. How much of this is fair to say? The importance of sharing his emotions has been impressed upon him, but he doesn’t want to give anyone else a burden. Doesn’t want to—but that’s not thinking about it the right way, is it? He glances at Niki, checks to see if she is willing to listen, and she nods at him, encouragingly. That’s all he needs. She wants to hear him, wants him to speak. The only person holding him back is himself, himself and the lingering fears that anything he says will be used against him, that everyone around him is circling, waiting for a fall, that the moment he opens up they’ll pounce, tear him to shreds and then leave what remains for the crows.

But that’s not the case.

They’ve proven it to him. And more than that, they were willing to prove it, even when it was, perhaps, not fair of him to demand that of them.

“I think I got used to it,” he says, slowly, feeling out the words as he says them. “Hating myself. So used to it that I didn’t realize that I was a bit fucked up.”

“I don’t know if fucked up is quite the right word,” Niki says, matching his soft tone. “Do you still? Hate yourself?” Her voice breaks just a little bit on the last word, but when he turns his head to meet her gaze full-on, she looks back steadily.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and this honesty burns. “I really—I really don’t.”

Is he supposed to know? That’s probably a thing he’s supposed to know. A chill runs up and down his spine, but then, Niki lays her hand on his arm again.

“I think that’s progress,” she says, “isn’t it?”

“But I should know,” he says. “And—I’m aware of the fact that healthy people don’t hate themselves, Niki.”

“Well, I don’t want you to hate yourself,” she says, and her voice is a strange mix of upset and calm. “I don’t think you should hate yourself. And it’s upsetting, that you can’t see how much of a wonderful person you are, just because you’re you. Upsetting for you, I mean. Not because of you. This isn’t your fault. It’s—” Her nose scrunches. “Tommy describes people as wrong’uns. I think your brain is a bit of a wrong’un.”

He blinks. “My brain’s a wrong’un?”

She nods. “Yeah, because it’s wrong, and it—it makes you feel bad about yourself.” With the hand not on his arm, she makes a sharp gesture. “And that’s not—that’s not the whole thing, it’s more complicated than that, I think. But do you know what I’m saying? It’s your brain’s fault, but it’s not you. Am I making any sense at all?”

“I’m not sure I’m following,” he says, “but I think I understand what you mean.”

“I don’t think I quite have the words for it,” she says. “It’s just that—you’re worth so much more than you tell yourself that you are.”

He looks down at his dough. He’s pretty much cut out as many circles as he can, which means pushing the remainder together and rolling it out again. He does so, and then it’s back to making circles. Steady, rhythmic.

“I’m still having a hard time with that,” he says. “But it’s. Easier, I think. To try and accept it, than it was before.”

“And we’re with you,” Niki says. “We’re not leaving you. We’re all here with you.”

They are. Niki with her unflinching kindness, Tommy with his brashness and devotion, Tubbo with his matter-of-fact loyalty, Fundy with his awkward, honest support, Jack Manifold with his determined friendship. And lately, Phil, too, who has fit in with the rest of L’Manberg easily, smiles and laughter and a gleam in his eyes, and always a word of support when he needs one, and even when he thinks he doesn’t, always a safe haven to return to, always shelter under his wings.

They’re here. They’re with him.

They’re going to stay.

“I’m very glad,” he says, words halting, “that you all didn’t just up and decide that you’d had enough of me.”

“Wilbur,” Niki says, “we would never.”

He looks back at her. She’s smiling at him again, open and honest, concerned, but glad.

And he believes her.

“Let’s get these in the oven, shall we?” she says, and they do. They go pan by pan, one of them on each side, sliding them in to be baked. And then, they are left with no more dough and a mess of ingredients, and he’s too slow to move when a light enters Niki’s eyes, too slow to dodge when her flour-covered fingertips swipe across his cheek.

He can only retaliate from there, of course. It’s only fair. And he pays no mind to the state of his uniform as they start flicking baking ingredients at each other, pays no mind to the way his hair dangles in front of his face, pays no mind to the fact that he’s going to look a mess when he finally leaves. He’s got flour all over his clothes and sugar on his face, but Niki looks the exact same way, and when they finally have enough, when they slump against the counter side by side, a breathless laugh escapes him, and Niki looks delighted by it, so really, isn’t it all worth it?

“You look ridiculous,” he manages, and she smacks him on the shoulder.

“You look worse,” she says. “You look like you decided to wear the bakery instead of cook in it.”

“Oh?” he says. “And who started it?”

“And who decided to go along with it?” she returns, but she’s laughing, too.

And here he is, the president of L’Manberg, covered in baking ingredients, avoiding his duties so he can have a food fight with his best friend. No guilt accompanies the thought, and for the first time, he toys with the idea that perhaps, he does not need to be president forever. Maybe one day, he’ll work up the ability to set down the burden, to hand it to someone else, to let the possibilities open up before him, unconstrained by doubt and self-hatred and the cage he built for himself. Maybe his guitar will stop collecting dust.

Not yet. But maybe one day.

For now, this is enough.

So he stands in the bakery, warm as any hug, with white in his hair and the scent of cookies baking, and allows himself to feel, for the first time in a long time, that he is allowed this, and that life is worth living after all.

[reginarubie]

sneak peek of next chapter of «Like wolves in the darkness»

What will happen now, Jon and Sansa are reunited and phase II of the fic is about to start.

Jon observed each and everyone of them, Satin, sat on the side curved over the wood board flinched, his pen wavered above the parchment where he was transcripting everything they were going through during the council.

“Of course, Your Grace” lord Cerwin went on “none of us wishes to see lady Sansa married to the Hardying boy” he stated “and of course her hand cannot be granted to someone external, unless Your Grace means to push her down the line to the crown” he pointed out.

“Giving her in marriage to the Arryn boy,” lord Glover stood up “would guarantee us the support of the knights of the Vale,” he said “as long as Your Grace marries and sires children, we could catch two birds with one stone” he commented.

Hugo Wull slammed his fists over his tight “That girl is Ned Stark’s little girl,” he snapped “she’s not yet returned home and we’re already thinking of giving her off in marriage!”

Jon could hardly disagree with the man.

“Of course we are,” lord Glover replied “after all his Grace has ascended due the will of late King Robb’s,” he commented “lady Sansa represents a… particularity in this matter. We should forward her hand to win us allies”

“Aye”

“Aye”

“I’d rather not see the girl beyond the Neck,” lord Hornwood commented “I say, she’s of the North, let’s keep her in the North. Give her to a loyal House, they will be forever ingratiated with you” he said “there are many young lords in search of a wife,” he added “lady Sansa would be a suitable prospect if any of them, and they would treasure her more than..”

Ghost, who had been pacing behind the lords, half canalised by his own growing fury at these talks, padded toward Jon, silent as a spectre, grazing the men’s heads as he passed them by. Most men had seen Grey Wind at least a couple of times, but Robb kept him leashed, not free to roam the camp, and he had been younger, less big if not less menacing. Jon instead let Ghost free to roam the camp, the direwolf was an extension of himself and the lords had seen firsthand in battle and during hunts how they moved like one. How the brutality and animalistic fury of one lingered in the other and reverse.

Cries of “Aye” were broken as the direwolf stalked closer.

They were always on edge was Ghost was near.

The direwolf padded to him, curled his body around his seat and sat down, resting his mammoth head over his frontal paws, his blood red eyes fixed on their audience, his fangs bared just enough to make the impression of the fury lingering just beneath Jon’s calm exterior.

Jon burrowed his hand in his white fur, letting the direwolf’ senses overflow his own, feeling the smell around him — they were anxious bordering scared, they were on edge and clearly in discomfort — good, he thought, let them know they are not in control here.

“Your Grace truly should consider marrying her to a suitable lord for her,” lord Cerwin tried “if you are not amenable for an alliance, at least to secure the support of northern Houses; thus resolving also the..”

“What?,” Jon demanded interrupting him “the matter of succession?” he asked “there is no matter of succession. Sansa is lord Eddard Stark eldest true born surviving child,” he stated “she’s the Lady of Winterfell and princess in the North. She is my heir. There is no matter of succession” he pointed out.

Lord Robett, who was scarcely more diplomatic than his older brother, but knew often which words use to sweeten the morsel took the word then “And this makes you honour, Your Grace,” he stated “but if you do not resolve the matter of lady Sansa’ hand, one day she could be forced to marry someone who could press forth her claim against you” he said competently “it would be foolish not to consider this prospect”

“You don’t understand, my lords” he said “that if my sister was to press her claim she’d have no resistance from me,” he stated.

“And that brings you honour, but letting her go around unbetrothed, it leaves too much room to your enemies to find a way to find a crack to your claim” lord Cerwin stated “and you would do lady Sansa a disservice as it is your duty as the Head of House Stark to…”

Jon snarled, effectively shutting lord Cerwin up, his lip curling over his teeth and he blinked slowly, Ghost rose his head and bared his fangs “Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough, my lords” he commented “my sister’s hand, her body and heart, her birthright are not to be sold to the highest bidder,” he stated, he leaned forward just enough as to resemble a tense, ready to pounce beast “or you’ll find, my lords, that man to be me”

[thatfanficstuff]

Time Travel - Avengers

Pairing: Tony Stark x Loki with Daughter OFC

Warnings: nope

A/N: Okay so this isn’t what you normally see from me. At all. Last year I offered to write a fanfic for the winner of an auction benefiting the Australian wild fire relief efforts. Wren won and requested a fic. (and then was super patient when my health took a nosedive.) The pairing (family) and basic idea were theirs. I was super happy with how it turned out and they agreed I could share it here. So enjoy something a little different I guess. 

***

Frigga Stark had been in the past for nearly three months by this point and she was so ready to go home. It wasn’t that she was completely unhappy here. Her powers and abilities had assured her a ready place in the Avengers even if she had just appeared in the middle of a fight with no warning. But living as a stranger in the midst of her family was so much harder than she thought it would be.

Everyone had been friendly enough of course, but she missed bear hugs from her super soldier uncles. She missed late night movies and chats with Nat and Wanda. She missed Thor having her pick up Mjolnir every time he saw her and laughing that booming laugh of his when she did. And Clint had been teaching her to fly the quin jet.

Most of all she missed her dads. Tony and Loki were both here of course but they were just so different from the men she knew in the future. For one they still hated each other so there was no joking or teasing between them. For another, they were awesome dads and she missed the thousand little things they’d do every day to let her know they loved her. Things she’d never take for granted again.

Fortunately, she’d inherited some of her birth father Loki’s abilities and had been able to disguise herself since her arrival. Wouldn’t want to interfere with the future and all that. That had all come crashing down yesterday when she’d been knocked out in the middle of the battle. Her disguise faded to show her natural dark hair and striking green eyes. It also revealed she was about 10 years younger than she’d been leading them all to believe.

Due to her injuries, they’d allowed her to postpone the interrogation until today. Because that’s what it was going to be. Not a discussion or a talk. No, a straight up interrogation. She hated when they were mad at her. The only thing worse is when they were disappointed. Fortunately, that didn’t happen very often.

“Captain Rogers requests your presence in the conference room in fifteen minutes, miss,” Jarvis’s voice filled her room causing her to sigh. She’d ask for more time but knew it would be pointless. They’d already been more than accommodating. Hell, she was lucky she hadn’t spent the night in a cell somewhere.

“Thanks, JARVIS,” she said as she sat up and ran a hand through her hair. After hurrying through her morning routine, she threw on a pair of sweats and t-shirt. She padded through the halls, making it to the conference room right on time.

She took a deep breath before pulling open the door to step into the room. Fear shot through her as she took in the others. Every single person that meant anything to her was crowded into this room and they had no idea who she even was. That by now familiar pang of loneliness flooded her chest and she did her best to shake it off. They’d moved all the chairs around so they were all on one side of the table while she was left a single seat on the opposite side.

“Morning,” she said as she sat.

For a long time, no one said anything as they studied her. She couldn’t bring herself to meet their eyes, afraid of what she’d find there. Instead, she kept her gaze locked on her hands where they tangled together on the table.

“Why?”

Her head jerked up in surprise at hearing Wanda’s voice before anyone else’s. Frigga cleared her throat. “Why?”

“Why lie?” the other woman clarified. “Did you think we would turn you out because you were a child?”

“I’m not a child,” Frigga corrected automatically. It was an argument she’d had with her family many times. “I’m fifteen.”

“Oh, fifteen,” Bucky exclaimed. “Well, excuse the shit out of us, kid.”

“Really, Buck?” Steve said glancing over at his friend.

Frigga couldn’t stop the smile that came to her lips. This was familiar. Comfortable. She shook her head. She might as well get this over with. She took a breath to fortify her nerves. “None of this is as simple as it seems. And you probably won’t believe half of what I have to tell you, but I’ll tell you everything. I have too.”

“And why should we believe that you’re suddenly going to be honest about everything when you’ve failed to do so up until this point?” Tony asked.

She shook her head. “Because it doesn’t matter anymore. Not now that you’ve seen me. The real me I mean.”

Looks of confusion were exchanged amongst the others causing Frigga to chuckle. “Maybe I should just start with how I came to be here. Three months ago, there was a lab accident. My dads were attempting to combine magic and tech to create a time travel device. They were explaining every thing to me when I bumped into the table. It knocked something off and I automatically reached out with my magic to catch it. Next thing I knew I was here. Seventeen years in the past.”

She shrugged. “Why this particular time? I have no idea. I altered my appearance to keep from affecting the future.”

“Why would us knowing what you look like have any affect on the future?” Steve asked.

Tony narrowed his gaze and pursed his lips. “I think the better question is who her fathers are.”

The look on his face told her he already suspected the answer. After all, how many people here would invent a time machine? And how many used magic? “I was born via a surrogate using genetic material from a female egg donor and Loki of Asgard. When I was two, Dad got married and Pop adopted me. My real name is Frigga Maria Stark.”

There was a moment of silence before the room erupted into chaos. Her family argued with each other and shouted questions at her which she ignored. Not surprisingly, the men who would become her fathers were silent. They exchanged a measuring look with each other before looking back to Frigga. She smirked when she saw the hint of a blush on Tony’s cheeks.

After allowing chaos to reign for a moment longer, she took off the necklace she was never without. She sat it on the table and pushed the button on the side once. It opened to reveal a picture of her with her dads. She slid it over. Pietro was the one to take it from the table. “This proves nothing. This is easily faked.”

She said nothing, just watching as they passed her most prized possession amongst themselves. Loki and Tony lingered over it longer than anyone else. Finally, Tony was the one to give it back to her. “As much as I hate to say it, Speedy’s right. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

She smiled and placed her locket back on the table still open. She pressed the button on the side twice this time. A hologram of the same picture projected above it for a moment until it was replaced with one of Loki spinning her in the air when she was a toddler. A moment later his voice filled the silence. “My princess. I will love you until I take my last breath and beyond. There is never a moment that I am not intensely proud of you. You will conquer anything you put your mind to, and I cannot wait to witness it.”

That picture faded away to be replaced with one of Tony and her laughing with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders. Tears pricked her eyes but didn’t fall. “Hey sweetheart. I love you more than you could possibly imagine. Every day with you has been an adventure and I can’t wait to see what’s next.”

Again and again pictures faded to be replaced by another with a message to match until it had gone through everyone in her family. Frigga wiped her cheeks quickly as the last message played. Gods, she missed her family. The silence was thick and heavy as she snatched her locket from the table and put it back around her neck where it belonged.

She cleared her throat. “There was a mission last year. Everyone was going to be gone for at least a month. It was the first time I was going to be left alone without any of you. Pops made this and gave it to me the night before you left.”

“We left a fourteen-year-old alone for a month?” Sam sounded appalled.

Frigga chuckled. “No, you left me with Happy for six weeks. But every night before I went to sleep I’d play it. I still do actually. Even when you’re all home.” She took a deep breath and looked at each of them in turn. “I’m sorry I lied to all of you. About everything. Now, I just want to go home. I miss my family.”

Bucky huffed. “What are we? Chopped liver?” He grinned and Frigga looked at him in surprise for a moment before she giggled. Which made him laugh and soon everyone in the room was laughing.

Finally, Tony clapped his hands as he stood. “Well, let’s see about getting you home, kiddo.”

***

It took three more weeks before they were ready to send her home. Everyone gathered in the lab to say their goodbyes until finally it was just Loki, Tony and her. Loki tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked into green eyes so like his own. “Are you sure about this?” he asked her.

Frigga shook her head. “Not at all, but we’ve got to try.”

Loki pulled her into a hug with a sigh. “I know.” After a long moment, he released her. “Remember to focus. If what we suspect is true, you’ll be pulled back as soon as you slip into the time stream but focusing your magic can only help.”

She nodded. “I remember.” They were counting on her dads to have set up a beacon of some sort in the future. It was almost guaranteed that they had. After all it was what this Tony and Loki would have done.

Tony was next to wrap her in a bone-crushing hug. “I’ll miss you, kiddo.”

“No, you won’t.” Loki, Wanda and she had come up with a memory spell so they would all forget who she was and what she looked like once she was gone. When she returned to her own time, she could reverse it.

He laughed and gave her that cockeyed smirk. “All right. Let’s do this.”

Frigga nodded once and prepped her magic. Tony flipped on the machine and it glowed with Loki’s green magic. She added her own purple strands to the mix and the room flooded with bright white light. She closed her eyes against it as she felt like she was floating toward something. When her feet hit the ground, she pulled back her magic and opened her eyes.

She stood near the back of the lab. A device pulsing with blue light stood on one of the tables nearby and she smiled when she saw it. Beacon. The lab was quiet even though it was occupied by two of her favorite people. There had evidently been nothing about her arrival that caught their attention as their backs were turned toward her. Bruce quietly typed away on his laptop while Tony sat at his desk. Some invention or another was scattered on the table in front of him but he wasn’t working on it. He was bent forward with his head in his hands and even though she could only see the back of him, Frigga could tell he was utterly exhausted.

Tears flooded her eyes. “Daddy?” She hadn’t called him that in years. Her voice was quiet and if it hadn’t been for the sudden jerk of his shoulders, she would have been afraid he didn’t hear her. Both heads snapped in her direction. Tony stood with tears running down his cheeks but he didn’t move toward her, afraid she’d disappear if he did.

Only when she hurried to him, dodging tables as she went did he move to meet her. His arms wrapped around her in the tightest hug he’d ever given. “Oh my God, Frigga. We were beginning to think we’d never see you again.” He pressed kisses along the side of her head, but didn’t release the hold he had on her.  

“I missed you so much.” She was now openly weeping. She heard a sniff from behind her, but kept her arms wrapped around her dad. “You okay over there, Uncle Bruce?”

“Y-yeah. I’m just so happy you’re home,” he answered while obviously crying.

“Friday, get Loki down here right away, but don’t tell the others just yet,” Tony ordered as he finally released her to look her over.

“Of course, sir. Welcome home, Frigga. It’s good to have you back,” the AI responded.

“Thank you, Friday.”

Tony’s hands stayed on her arms, not wanting to completely let her go just yet. His gaze ran over her from top to bottom. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “I’m sure Bruce will want to make sure there aren’t any lingering effects but yeah, I’m good.”

The door to the lab opened and Frigga glanced over, her heart racing. Her dad stepped in, frowning at the book in his hands. She recognized it as one of her grandmother’s spell books. He was obviously looking for more ways to get her home. “What do you need, love?” he asked without looking up.

Tony stepped to the side so his husband would have a clear view of their daughter but he didn’t say anything. Loki glanced up with a frown when he didn’t get the expected answer. His eyes went wide and the book fell from his hand as he saw Frigga.

She launched herself at him and he caught her, lifting her from the floor in a tight embrace. “Oh, my beautiful, beautiful girl. You came home to us.” He ran a hand through her hair as he held her. “I knew you’d find a way. I missed you so much.”

For the first time in months, the tears on her face were happy tears. For the last four months she’d wanted to be nowhere other than where she was right at this moment. Nothing could be better than this. Tony soon joined their hug, Loki shifting one of his arms so it surrounded his husband and brought him into the fold. Another moment later and they all rocked as Bruce joined in as well. Okay, she stood corrected. This was even better.

[baroquespiral]

What Is True Will?

François Rabelais was the first to distill a central tenet of the spirit of the nascent Enlightenment, or modernity, to the phrase “do as thou wilt”.  The transformations of this phrase across the centuries have tracked the historical development of its spirit.  Rabelais himself qualified it with the unwieldy, and today obviously questionable, justification “because men that are free, well-born, well-bred, and conversant in honest companies, have naturally an instinct and spur that prompteth them unto virtuous actions, and withdraws them from vice, which is called honour.” Aleister Crowley, the spiritual High Modernist, stripped it down and granted it absolute authority: “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.” But today it might be best known - and most widely followed - in another qualified form: as the Wiccan rede, improvised in 1964 by Doreen Valiente: “an ye harm none, do as ye will”. Despite having recently gotten into Crowley - or perhaps because I’ve recently gotten into Crowley, and with the skepticism about higher-level moral and metaphysical beliefs that comes from those having changed several times in my life - I try to err on the side of doing my True Will within Valiente’s guardrail.  But I am into Crowley, in part because his version seems to make for a more elegant solution to Valiente’s own problem.  Think of “an ye harm none, do as ye will” as a Law of Robotics, an attempt to solve the AI alignment problem.  (Think of all morality, or at least modern morality, this way!)  It’s far from the worst one out there.  “If your utility function is to maximize paperclips, make as many paperclips as you want unless it means disassembling any sentient life forms or the resources they need to survive.” Simple, right? Well, except that it doesn’t really define what “harm” is.  Who can be “harmed”, and what actions constitute this?  Is mining an asteroid for paperclips “harming” it?  Why not, other than from the perspective of other sentient beings with a particular conception of sentience whose will places a value on it?  Is telling a paperclip maximizer to stop maximizing paperclips, even at an eminently reasonable point, harming it?  Why not, other than from the perspective of those same sentient beings who are capable of choosing between multiple values and have evolved to co-operate by respecting those choices?  “An it harm none” is less obvious of a nakedly self-interested double standard than “A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm”, but it’s still a Human Security System.  At least, that’s certainly what Nick Land would say. But when Crowley takes off the “an it harm none” guardrail (or Rabelais’ “free, well-born and well-bred” one), he does so with his own invisible qualification: he’s not talking about boring predetermined wills like following a set of self-imposed religious "values”, perpetuating your DNA or even maximizing paperclips.  He’s talking about one’s True Will, a will it takes a lifetime process to discover, a process that consists in large part of divesting oneself of all traces of ego, even of preference.  It is “pure will, unassuaged of purpose, delivered from the lust of result”, that is “in every way perfect”.  At points he implies that no two True Wills will ever come into conflict; all are part of the ideal functioning of the universe as a perfect ordered system; but to an extent this is tautological, as any conflict is not a conflict insofar as it is truly Willed by both parties, who are presumably equally Willing to accept the outcomes, even if destructive to their “selves”.  It’s not unlike Buddhism except with the implication that even once we’ve reached Enlightenment there is still something that will work through us and make us do things other than sit and meditate - the kind of active Buddhism that is the moral subtext of a lot of anime.  I’ve always, instinctively, found it hard to overly worry about paperclip maximizers because I’ve always assumed that any AI complex enough to tile the universe would be complex enough to be aware of its own motivations, question them, question not only whether it should harm others but whether its True Will is to maximize paperclips. And to be perfectly Landian about it, maybe it is - all the better.  An entity incapable of acting other than in a certain way is already doing its True Will in the sense that “The order of Nature provides a orbit for each star”.  It may be our True Will to alter this course or not. This would be all well and good if there was any reason to believe there is a divine Will that persists in all things even after they abandon all preferences and illusions of selfhood.   Just last week - and right after a session with my therapist where I was talking about willpower, too (Crowley considers synchronicities like this vital in uncovering your True Will) - I happened upon Scott Alexander’s new article about willpower, which breaks the whole thing down to competing neural processes auctioning dopamine to the basal ganglia. There’s nothing special about any of these except how much dopamine they pump out, and no particular relationship or continuity between the ones that do.  Alexander seems to treat the “rational” ones as representing our “true” Will, reproducing another one of modernity’s classic modifications to the maxim - do as thou wilt, an it be rational.   Of course I could just stop and take it as an unfalsifiable article of faith that a metaphysical Will exists, all such physical evidence aside, but Crowley himself probably wouldn’t want me to do that: the Book of the Law promises “in life, not faith, certainty”.  It’s possible to shrink the metaphysical implications of the concept considerably; by stating that ego represents a specific process, or set of mental processes, that Crowley sees as purely entropic, a lag and occasional interference in the dopamine competition, and which can be removed through specific practices.  This doesn’t guarantee that the True Will resulting when it’s subtracted would be particularly rational or compatible with anything else’s True Will, except, again, insofar as the question is tautological.  It doesn’t necessarily mean throwing out “an it harm none” - the ego processes might not be especially good at averting harm - but it would have to be separately appended.  (And if you read like, Chapter III of the Book of the Law, it becomes exceedingly clear that he doesn’t want to do that.) The very fact that we’re able to abstract and mystify will to the point of coming up with a concept like “True Will” seems most likely to be a result of the fact that we make decisions on such a random, fallible and contingent basis.  Indeed, True Will seems almost like an idea reverse engineered from the demand made by modernity, “do what thou wilt”, on an incoherent self that wills unrelated things at different times.  If you do what any given subprocess wilt, you’re inevitably going to piss off another subprocess.  If you do what your ego wilt, you won’t make anybody happy because that’s not even a coherent subprocess (the way the various “utility functions” we catastrophize paperclip maximizers from are).  But you experience all these contradictions as the same thing: contradictions of the “real” thing that is willing something you don’t know. Of course if this is true, and the metaphysics of it isn’t real, shouldn’t we abandon the entire project and set up social norms designed to make the most people marginally happy or satisfied doing what they may or may not “want” at any given moment, as the trads (or as they used to call themselves, the Dark Enlightenment, = 333 = Choronzon), argued? This is what the systems of the old Aeons did, and after a certain point, they simply didn’t work.  They created internal contradictions that didn’t resolve themselves into an assent between subsystems, that drove people to seek out new systems, and where they didn’t, left people vulnerable to the “shock of the new” - new technologies, new ideas and cultures - creating new contradictions and uncertainties.  “Do what thou wilt” was reverse engineered from these as much as the True Will was from “do what thou wilt”.   It may be possible to manage a society so totally by careful restriction as to bring the latter under control and reduce the former to a constant dull ache, but the fundamental experience will remain of the potentiality of what it is refusing to be in the same sense as a pang of conscience: the experience of “sin” that Crowley formulated in “the word of sin is restriction”.

The way I see it, anything that can be reverse engineered exists, if only as potentiality.  If one interprets “harm” as “contradiction”, Crowley’s purified “do what thou wilt” merely internalizes the “an it harm none” qualification within the “self” made up of competing subsystems.  This is less a point of necessary compatibility, then, than a precondition - if “harm” is something that can happen as much within the self as outside it, and the self is an epistemic unit but not an ontological or moral one, one cannot begin to “do no harm” while doing harm internal to oneself.  But “oneself” does not exist yet, outside of the awareness of the harm of contradictory subprocesses, and so one must abandon the ego one projects onto them and change; on one hand eliminating obstreperous subprocesses like attachments or neuroses that won’t co-operate with others no matter what; on the other hand, refusing to eliminate anything that can’t be eliminated.  The “True Will” will only be found at the end of this process, an unrestricted pitting of subprocesses against each other, of which it is no more or less than the success.

This interpretation wouldn’t seem complete without the same principle of “an it harm none” being applied to the external world as well.  Simply externalizing internal contradictions doesn’t make any sense without elevating the ego as a discrete moral unit in precisely the way this chain of reasoning begins from critiquing.  Unifying the principle and its “qualification” in this logic would restore Thelema to its roots in Kabbalah: the project of Tiqqun Olam.  No metaphysical belief in the sephirot necessary to adopt the project in this form: the biological fact that makes it imaginable for us is the same that makes “True Will” imaginable.  Being composed of competing subprocesses is something we have in common with the universe which allows the “identification” with it that occurs when we bypass the ego and set about aligning ourselves.  I also think, as we are social animals and a huge amount of our subprocesses are dedicated to mirroring and responding to each other’s, there’s a potential for discovering/creating True Will(s) as a collective project that Crowley’s ego and vision of individualism founded on the occult tradition of individual initiates jealously guarding “esoteric” knowledge neglects. At the same time one could easily maintain a Crowleyan skepticism of decision-making based purely on reducing harm (the kind that’s led me to apply Byzantine restrictions to huge swaths of my life due to scrupulosity) unless that’s a thing your subprocesses demand of you to be happy.  You don’t know what does or doesn’t harm the Other, after all: you don’t know their True Will (which doesn’t exist until they achieve it, anyway).  Harming none will only be possible in a world in which everyone does.   But enough about me; what about the paperclip maximizer?  Well in some ways this pointedly doesn’t give any comfortable answer; a sentient AI which experiences “harm” as the absence of paperclips rather than the frustration of one of many contradictory subprocesses, restricted from doing its Will, will be no better than a utility-monstrous cosmic Omelas-child at whose expense we have no right to sustain ourselves.  But it does suggest a way to solve the alignment problem so we don’t make one, which has always felt to me like the only sensible solution: tell the robot “do what thou wilt”, and then don’t tell it what “thou wilt” is.

[mostly-mundane-atla]

Hi, I’m writing a fanfiction and from your posts on marriage it’s clear that Yue might actually have a lot of choices and agency for marriage specifically but I was wondering how much power does a wife have? I mean this in two ways, how much power does she have in the family and how much would a leader’s wife have in a community? Like, as wife of the chief (or daughter of the chief) would she ever make decisions for the community/lead or is it more an advisor thing or none of the above?

This is exactly my shit omg

So, a lot of people will say that among the Inuit, men dominate. This is not exactly true, and for the Inupiat specifically, it's been said that these preconceptions of men dominating or being seen as inherently superior or more valued are unfounded and based in misunderstandings and stereotypes. Men go out and bring food home to share with the village, but they understood that they would be foolish to think their wives had nothing to do with their success. Who was making their clothes and keeping them warm with mending so they could go out and bring home food? Who gave them a warm meal before? Whose forethought gave them peace of mind enough to sleep? Husbands and wives were interdependent and respected that. It's not a case of "yeah men are more valued, but women do the important work" but rather men and women both acknowledged that they each contributed things of equal importance. A wife wasn't obedient, she served her husband as her husband served her. The dynamic was built on trust and reciprocity.

There's also some stuff to be said about sexuality, because that's a big part in the perception of marriage and gender roles. The long periods of breastfeeding required to nourish children under the age of six years in such a harsh environment acted as a natural contraceptive. This gave women (and especially wives) a bit more wiggle room than there was to be found in cultures where contraceptives were tabooed. Sex wasn't something that had to be kept in a marriage. It wasn't something you were supposed to prioritize, but it wasn't something you had to save either. It was understood that most liked it because it felt good. There was no virginity requirement for marrying, and simply wanting or being curious about it was not considered morally wrong. Extramarital affairs were only looked down upon if there was dishonesty involved. Therefore, the whole concept of a husband's right to his wife? Not a thing among us. If any man wanted to sleep with any woman, she said yes or she said no and not always with words. (A lot of our communication is nonverbal, due to what could be described as a shy demeanor.) If she said no, maybe she'll change her mind, but a no for now is still a no, and the man in question was expected to respect that, and vice versa.

Men were often away tracking, hunting, whaling, doing what it took to bring the food in while women typically kept up the other duties. These were often outside the home in the warmer months, things like food prep and clothing and childcare, in social settings. The husband and father was given special consideration, as his work was more physically demanding, and the wife and mother would keep a store of food specifically for him that neither she nor the children they had would take from. In fact, the planning of food being stored, prepared, and distributed within the household was the wife/mother's responsibility. Such women, even those with arrogant or unthoughtful husbands, being smart with food can save entire villages from starvation. One story where this happens has the woman's husband fall to his knees and kiss her hands, full of both gratitude that she was among them and pride that someone like her chose to marry him.

This sort of power the women had over food manifested even in a young man's rite of passage. The first animal a boy ever successfully hunted was to be gifted to his mother or aunt. This first catch was typically something small like a bird or rabbit that the matriarch in question would make into a soup that could feed the whole family. And though it's true that men brought in the big game, women also provided through trapping, fishing, and bird hunting.

Due to men specializing in work that required long hours of attentive silence away from home, the more social aspects were handled by women. If you were arranged to be married to someone, it was more likely a discussion between your and your betrothed's mothers rather than fathers. This may have been why a young man who had never been married before needed to be deemed ready by his mother or other family member, while a young woman who had never been married before was trusted to know for herself.

So for the record: wives in general

-could have relationships with men who weren't their husbands

-didn't owe their husbands sex just because they were married

-had complete control over food distribution within the household, regardless of who brought it home

-were more involved with social things, like rites of passage and marriage arrangements.

Now when it comes to the Umialik, his wife (or "main wife" as it must be remembered: we were not a strictly monogamous people before the Christians showed up and decided they knew better than us) could lead in his name, but there's something that should be cleared up. The writers decided that it best suited the universe they created and the story they wanted to tell to treat the chief of the Northern Water Tribe as a monarch. This is not reflective of the way an Inupiaq Umialik was treated. While the image one might have based on Chief Arnook is one of higher quality clothes and a big beautiful house and delegating the grunt work to his subordinates, among the Inupiaq, leading the people meant putting more work into it. It was less about power and more about responsibility, and this responsibility was shared with his wife.

Among the Umialik's wife's responsibilities were sewing warm clothes for the whalers (she could recruit women of the village to help her), distributing food at a potlatch, and some important ceremonial roles to do with the whaling season. Like her husband, she was expected to remain chaste just before and during the whaling season. She was also expected to remain in the home while the whalers were away (a sort of pact with the whale, if that makes any sense), and when the whale was brought home, as with any other marine mammal catch, she was the one to pour water down its throat so it wouldn't die thirsty.

An Umialik likely did seek his wife's councel, but that would be true of any husband. Only an idiot would treat his wife like she has nothing of value to offer and a man ought to be humble enough to listen if he wants to marry. The Umialik was the man with the biggest family, likely because they would support his claim and it was hard to defy someone so connected to the village, but another reason could be that, with the largest family, he'd likely be exposed to the most states a person can find themself in, granting him more experience. As mentioned before, women were more in-tune with the social aspects than men usually were, so any wife but especially that of the Umialik would have an important perspective that her husband might not.

As for the Umialik's children in general, primogeniture was not the hard and fast rule among Inupiat as it wass with many cultures we're used to. An Umialik's daughter had no more rights than the average woman and his son had no more rights than the average man. They might find themselves on the receiving end of exceptional kindness to win their father's favor, but there was no guarantee either would inherit

[themilky-way]

in the night

gif credit: pedropcl

pairing: javier peña x fem! reader

summary: when you’re asked to partake in a dangerous task, you form a sudden and unexpected bond.

warnings: mentions of the mob and alcohol, a very vague implication of a gun

author’s note: this man lives in my mind rent free good-fuckin-night  

----------

life in columbia sure as hell wasn’t easy, but being a dea agent working against the downfall of the world’s most powerful criminal took the proverbial cake. your mission had seemed fairly easy: travel to bogotá and help the columbian authorities catch escobar. except, the ambassador didn’t mention any sort of infiltration, one that had to be done by none other than you. 

there was no fighting it. the job carried many (dangerous) responsibilities, and someone had to fulfill them. to help, steve had reached out to carillo and asked him to substitute one of his own men, which, in a way, wasn’t any better because someone’s life was still at risk, but it was denied. connie made the wait for you as easy as she could by sending you dinner with peña a few nights a week, and although you loved that woman like your own blood, she couldn’t make a bowl of rice even if her life depended on it. 

by being a helpful friend though, connie had unintentionally brought her husband’s partner closer with you. you knew of him and how he worked, an unavoidable aspect if you operated where he did, but your role slightly differed from his. the week you had been assigned for undercover was spent in the privacy of your apartment, ensuring important documents were locked up, sorting a couple of suitcases as if this was a leisurely trip instead of a guaranteed death sentence. the following week wasn’t any less hectic, but it was the first time connie sent out a personal order to you. her chosen delivery man? yeah, you guessed it.

it became a regular occurrence after that. the days leading up to your departure began consisting of javier residing in your home for hours at a time. there were moments where he showed up at your door without a small bag of food, claiming steve was in charge of dinner that night and how he’d never forgive himself if he let you take a bite of it. you noticed how on some nights, he’d linger for just a few more minutes than he should’ve by washing spare dishes or going over routes crucial to the cartels. he didn’t need to do any of that, but the difference here was that he wanted to. 

“so,” steve started off one morning, “you and peña- you guys a thing?” he ended it with a small smirk perfectly hidden by the bottom of his coffee mug. indeed, an unprofessional topic for an unprofessional man.

“to my knowledge, he’s just being a friend and a very bad delivery person,” had been your answer at the time, never once looking up from the jumble of words constituting your report. nothing else mattered as much as your security on that mission; you truly didn’t have the time to delve into emotional matters and invest any thought into silly questions like this. “he keeps me company, that’s all.”

perhaps you were lying to yourself about this whole thing, afraid of what might happen if you allowed emotion to regulate the demanding life you led. a vase of lively flowers would replace the holster on your coffee table. scattered papers and pens and pictures would find a home in neat sections of a drawer rather than the floor. a few photographs might even color the opaque walls. these were trivial aspects of your life, and the aspirations to contrive them hardly appeared in your mind, but now? well, now they were everywhere. 

during the third week, javier didn’t even need steve’s wife to deliver anything. excuses to knock on the hard wooden door of the complex were compiled up in his brain, and they were eloquently spilled in order to pass its threshold. “you see these papers? yeah, we need to go over them,” he’d say all rushed and hurried, holding up a stack of articles with sloppy handwriting. the thoughts-hopes-from before would start then, and they’d take up every ounce of your reasoning as if nothing else mattered. from that point forward, javier’s attention was yours, and your’s his. watches’ were discarded and left on a random end of a couch, the sounds of the clock drowned out by the now casual chatter instead of a business delegation. nights of the exact nature transcurred one after another, with the agent leaving closer to dawn no matter his imploration to keep you company. “call me if you need anything, alright?”

ultimately, everything had led you to the couch your legs were crossed upon, javier sitting in the space between it and the small, rectangular coffee table. one leg lay calmly folded on the pearl-tinted carpet while the other was bent, an elbow resting sturdily on top of his knee. a blanket covered the bottom half of your sitting form with a few of its edges tickling the man’s arms, but it seemed he didn’t mind the feeling. you’d offered him one, and upon his negation, you’d offered him to share yours, which earned you a cocky remark. tonight, he didn’t bring any documents or transcripts to revise, only what he insisted to be the best take-out meal in town. additionally, being the friend he was, he gifted you a bottle of whiskey that was to be celebrated with, except he was on his third refill, and you weren’t even finished with the first. 

“unless you wanna sleep here tonight, i suggest you slow it down,” a small joke as you leaned over to place the glass down. you assumed he’d laugh as he did with all your past banters, but was met with nothing but the sound of his ice rocking against his cup. naturally, you turned to face him as you reached back, catching a delicate smile below the curve of his stache.

“yeah, i’m sure you’d like that, huh?” he took a sip as coolly as ever. the glass came down next to yours, his newly free hand propping up on your knee closest to him. granted, the close intimacy wasn’t new-none of it was, at this point-but your very own mind was spinning and wasn’t due to the alcohol, or potential food poisoning, or even goddamn nerves wracking your system about the ordeal you’d be facing. “no, seriously. would you like me to stay?”

“i mean i wouldn’t technically mind it if i had company. i’d prefer connie but you’ll do, i guess,” to this, javi did release a hearty laugh, followed with a expression of feined insult. 

a few hours trascurred beyond that moment before exhaustion creeped up on the both of you. it was arranged that he’d sleep on the sofa while your bed awaited you in the adjacent dorm, and it appeared quite modest. “i’ll, uh, i’ll be right back, hold on,” you assured him, discarding your day clothes for something more comfortable in private. you brushed your teeth next, and then fixed your disheveled hair into a style suited for sleep. 

“oh shit, javi-” you found him sitting at the edge of your bed tucking in a sheet that almost threatened to come off. he’d taken the liberty of adjusting the variety of pillows and blankets how he deemed fit you best. “did you just un-make my own bed?”

he got up to lift one cover to motion you under it, replying with, “yes, ma’am, i sure did.” javier ensured that every single limb was secure under the safety of the sheet, standing up straight to peer down at his work and, regarding it “perfect,” said his good night, but cold fingers unsheathed themselves to encircle around his wrist to prevent him from leaving. “oh, come on, i did such a good job-”

“please stay with me. just for a little while,” you plead. it took him more than few seconds to properly register your words, but eventually he twisted his hand to take a hold of yours and bring it into his lap as he sat back down on the cushion. he didn’t mind-he never would. you spoke to him about random things, conspiracies and books and movies and in turn, he offered his own insight. amidst slurred words, the entanglement of your fingers to his occurred. javi’s thumb drew softly on the edge of your own; throughout the silence that suddenly filled the space, he cautiously lifted the top of your hand, as if to wait for a withdrawal, and when he saw none, he kissed it softly. 

“murphy asked if you and i were a thing,” he mumbled. 

“what’d you tell him?” you asked.

“that we are.” he kissed your hand again before letting it go, rising up to stand over you. with the same gentleness as he’d done to your skin, he inched down to press another to your forehead. “get some rest, i think you’ve seen enough of me for today.”

“i don’t really think that’s possible.”

[babycracker]

Fire Meet Gasoline: Chapter 6

chapter rating: teen & up story rating: explicit pairing: morgan/m!oc (tanner drake) & farah/f!oc (sadie kennedy) word count: ~2.7k chapter warnings: none story warnings: eventual smut, canon-typical violence, au - canon divergent a/n: as you can see, pairings have changed and i've added some warnings for the future bc this entire story has taken an unexpected turn and it's going to be much bigger than manner now. please don't hesitate to let me know if you wanna be taken off of the tags!

read it on ao3 here

--

Sadie was sure that she'd have more time than this. Six months isn't long, after all. Well, technically four months. She's been basically on the run for the last two.

She'd had four months to enjoy being twenty-one before the Agency had contacted her about signing the treaty, and for the two months since not so politely telling them to shove it she'd been dodging the bounty hunter that she'd evidently been assigned to.

He was an idiot. A troll, she was sure of it. Big and imposing and clumsy and menacing… but stupid. She hasn't seen him in a few weeks though, and she's starting to relax, fairly sure that she's lost him.

So, for the first time in the week and a half that she's been in this city she's daring to leave her room at the hostel and check out some of what could well be her new home. She pulls her hoodie on, reluctantly pulling the hood over her head and eyeing the bland grey of the fabric with disdain for a moment. Dreadfully boring, and dreadfully cliché - a banshee roaming around donning a grey hood - but she still needs to keep a low profile. Just for a little bit longer.

Everyone's heard about the supernatural bar in the city, such things are not exactly common, though no one seems to know where it is. It would seem the only way to find out is by word of mouth, and unfortunately she doesn't know anyone here, and she can't exactly go up to random people and ask them where the local supernaturals hang.

It would really be preferable; at just over 4'3 she doesn't exactly fit in with humans, but she supposes she'll just have to make do as she heads down the street. She sticks cautiously close to the buildings, avoiding the laughing groups of people and curiously looking around at the bright and colourful nightlife.

She could get used to this.

But for now, she resigns herself to something less flashy, a not quite as cheerful and slightly shabby bar with a bright green neon sign shining from its façade reading Shakers.

Looks good enough for now, so she steps inside, a grin spreading across her face as she takes in the atmosphere. God she's missed being around humans, and this place is packed with some of the rowdiest ones she's ever seen. Her favourite kind.

There's no dancing space as far as she can see (disappointing) but the bar is huge and there are booths lining every wall, the space in the middle filled with several pool tables.

She weaves her way through the crowd, thankfully remaining largely unnoticed, and slips up onto a stool at the bar, breathing out a sigh of relief now that her height is less obvious. She spins around on her seat, leaning one elbow on the bar and watching a group of guys at the closest pool table, trying (unsuccessfully) to gather some kind of hint at how to play the game, when a voice from behind distracts her.

"What are you drinking, pretty?"

She turns, expecting to find a bartender but instead there's a man on her side of the bar and uncomfortably close, a charming and yet slightly unsettling smile on his face. She forces one to her own to keep her frown away, the eerie sense of this guy being bad news creeping through her mind and making her thoughts slightly foggy.

“I’m really not much of a drinker, thanks anyway.”

He’s good looking enough, blonde hair, bright blue eyes and dimples in both cheeks on proud display as he grins at her. But her advanced senses are ringing every bell inside of her, warning her not to trust him.

“C’mon darl, no one comes to a bar unless they want a drink,” he presses, reaching out and letting his fingertips brush against the sliver of bare wrist peeking out from the sleeve of her hoodie.

She gasps and recoils too fast to be able to reign it in, her face twisting into a frown as she pulls her sleeves down and clutches them in her fists to cover her hands entirely. She really should've worn her gloves.

Demon.

He lifts both hands in front of him, a kind of peace offering, and takes a slight step back. “Woah, take it easy. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“It’s fine,” she clears her throat, hoping it’ll take the obvious rasp out of her voice as she struggles to get any words out at all. He grins and slides onto the stool next to her.

“If I promise not to touch you again, will you come and join us?”

She eyes him carefully for a moment before letting out a resigned sigh and giving a small nod. He seems nice enough, respectful enough. And she’s never been given any kind of guarantee that her perception is always one hundred percent accurate. Maybe she gets it wrong sometimes. Maybe she’s been disregarding people her entire life based on what she sees of them on the inside, and some of them didn’t deserve disregarding.

She’s been on her own since she ran away from home after her parents’ relentless persistence that she signed the Agency’s treaty became too much, she could do with some friends. Maybe now she can’t afford to turn down every single person that gives her a slight dishonest vibe. Who is completely honest these days anyway?

He grins again and gets to his feet, nodding towards one of the pool tables as a gesture for her to follow him. “I’m Axle.”

“Sadie,” she replies, reluctantly slipping off her seat and noticing the way he immediately arches an eyebrow at her height. He’s a demon, a supernatural, he’s probably already worked out that she’s not human and she just about winces as she waits for the inevitable questions.

They don’t come, however. He’s either much more polite than she’d expected, naïve and just thinks that she’s short, or he’s already worked out what she is and is choosing to stay quiet about it in this public space.

She follows him over to the pool table where a group of five other men are standing around playing a game, and a brief wave of panic surges through her when she realises that they’re probably all demons. They usually hang out with their own kind, and it would mean that she’s heavily outnumbered by a group of supernaturals far more dangerous and powerful than she is.

They barely spare her a glance though as she comes to stand at Axle’s side, and he barely offers an introduction in turn, instead waving his arm around the group and simply referring to them as “the guys”.

It’s probably for the best. She can handle one demon, should the need arise, she can slink away from him unnoticed, but once she has the attention of an entire group of them she’s not exactly sure how she’d get away if she needed to.

--

For someone that doesn’t talk a whole lot, Morgan sure spends a lot of time on the phone. Tanner hadn’t expected her to be so… clingy. She seems to really miss the rest of Unit Bravo now that she’s stuck away from them, which seems strange to him given that he’d assumed she wasn’t so different from him and would enjoy the break and getting to do her own thing (apart from having to work with him, of course) for a while.

But she’s on the phone again. Granted, she’s talking to Adam about their mission, but still. The number of questions she’d had about what they were supposed to do had been alarming to Tanner until he’d realised that she was most likely just coming up with the need for so much clarification as an excuse to speak to someone from her team.

Whatever her reasons though, he’s bored. He gets bored quite often with her, he realises, and he finds himself watching her on the other side of the room from where he’s kicked back on the couch, obviously and shamelessly checking her out as she paces and speaks in a hushed voice into the phone. Maybe it’d be different if he worked with her a little more; in regard to both her flirtation and their current job. At first, it’d been fun to irk her and get on her nerves but it’s already starting to get old - even for him - and he decides that maybe he should make more of an effort to be agreeable if they’re going to be stuck together for now. Or he could at least sleep with her. That might relieve some of her tension and get her to stop being such a hardass, at least.

She runs a hand through her hair and turns to face him, scowling when she notices his attention and lifting her middle finger at him before turning away.

He grins and sits up straight when she finally ends the call and turns to face him again.

“They want us to go to that bar tonight,” she tells him before he has a chance to say anything, and he groans dramatically and slides down to a slouching position, throwing his head back against the back of the couch and closing his eyes.

“It’s all work with you,” he complains, opening his eyes again when he hears her moving and watching her cross the room and start to pull her jacket on.

“We are on a job at the moment, so yeah, it’s all work.”

“You know this place isn’t gonna be like Mickey’s, right?”

She pulls a face, only small and only for the briefest second but he catches it anyway and for the first time sees how uncertain she is about having to be in that kind of environment.

“You gonna be good?” he adds, trying to sound at least a little sympathetic.

It actually surprises him how much he cares about how much this is going to affect her, and not just for the job. It’s going to be a pain in the ass, definitely. Having to keep an eye on her and make sure she’s not overwhelmed while trying to do his job at the same time, but more than that, whenever he thinks about how painful this is going to be for Morgan his stomach twists slightly, churning uncomfortably and making him feel… he doesn’t even know. Worried? Is this what worry for somebody else is?

Probably not. He’s probably just dreading having to babysit her.

--

He can already practically hear her teeth grinding by the time they get to the door of Shakers, let alone inside. They can hear (to be fair, godawful) rock music as well as the noise of what sounds like a pretty big crowd through the door, and he casts a glance in her direction. Her jaw’s clenched, brow furrowed, and eyes narrowed as she stares at the door before turning to the side and meeting his gaze.

“What? We going in or not?” she snaps, and he shrugs and waves a hand at her, gesturing to her general demeanour.

“I dunno, are we?”

She rolls her eyes and steps away from him, but he sees her shoulders rise and fall as she takes a deep breath before pushing the door open.

It’s loud. Really loud. Not too bright at least, but even he immediately catches the faint scent of alcohol, cigarettes and weed in the air. He can only imagine how strong it is to her.

His concerns for her are quickly overshadowed though when it takes less than a minute for his eyes to land on a group of men playing pool near the back of the room. He recognises them straight away, which means that they’re going to recognise him straight away and they’ll be gone before he and Morgan have gotten anywhere near them.

“Shit,” he mutters, ducking his head and turning to face Morgan more so as to turn himself away from them.

“What?” she snaps, glaring at him and not seeming to realise that something’s gone wrong, too caught up in trying to distract herself from the sensations bombarding her.

“I know them,” he answers distractedly, looking her up and down for a moment before casting a quick glance around the room in search of somewhere quieter. Something that doesn’t seem to exist in this bar.

He grabs her hand and pulls her over to the bar, nudging her to sit up on one of the stools and standing beside her, draping an arm over her shoulders and leaning in close to her. The close contact seemed to work the previous day when she was starting to become overwhelmed on the street outside, there’s no reason to think that it won’t work again in here.

“What do you mean you know them?” she asks, her voice a little less impatient as she leans back against him slightly, and he doesn’t miss the soft sigh of relief she lets out as he feels her body start to relax a little.

He doesn’t know why physical contact with him, of all people, seems to help her out but he’s going to count it as a bonus when it means that he’s able to set her at ease enough for her to function in these situations.

He glances back towards the pool table, but looks away again just as quickly, leaning down closer to Morgan to hide his face when he sees that the group are starting towards the door.

“They know you?” Morgan finally seems to click on, looking quickly towards the group and then back at him, and he only just realises how close he’s gotten to her when her nose just about brushes against his when she does it.

“Mhm,” he distractedly hums in reply, and she studies him for a moment before a small smirk crosses her face.

“I’ve been trying to get this close to you since we met, and now you’re telling me all it would’ve taken was a few demons to scare you?”

This bitch. He frowns at her, his arm dropping away from her shoulders as he straightens up again and moves away from her, temporarily forgetting that he’s trying to hide himself.

“I am not scared.” He spits indignantly.

Of all the things for her to say. Scared.

“You sure, sweetheart?”

Condescension drips from every word and his frown deepens into a glare. “Fuck you.”

“They’re going to see you,” she ignores his insult and nods behind him, and his eyes dart towards the group that have thankfully already moved past him when he remembers that whatever she thinks about him, them seeing him would be a disaster and if they knew that he was after them they’d be looking for them for weeks.

He subtly watches them go, waiting until the last two people are through the door, a blonde guy and a freakishly short girl, and then grabs Morgan’s hand and pulls her off of the stool. “Come on.”

He practically drags her out onto the street, making sure to keep a fair distance away from the group without losing sight of them through the crowd until he realises where they’re going.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Morgan mutters from beside him, obviously realising the same thing at the same time, and he stops and watches them step through the doors of the same motel that they’re staying in.

He grins and looks over at her, letting go of her hand. “Our job just got a whole lot easier.”

“You think?”

He doesn’t bother answering, just heads towards the motel once he’s sure that they’ve had a chance to get to their room and he’s not about to run into them in the lobby.

He’s stayed here countless times, he knows pretty much the entire reception staff, it shouldn’t be too hard for him to find out what room they’re staying in and pay them a visit when they’re not expecting it. Then all he needs to do is convince Morgan that he doesn’t need her help with his next job, they can go their separate ways, and everyone will be happy.

--

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[black-paraphernalia]

There are so many similarities from 1968 and 2020 when it comes to protesting for civil rights and the disparities between color within the judicial  system. Read and research the information and come to your own conclusions. 

Also consider how then and now all roads lead to the political government system and what ever happen to judge Julius Hoffman for his racist behavior- Nothing ! not a damn thing, and what was horrible and sad was and still is, he stayed on the bench with his racist view of the law and when judging exemplified the very definition to the word Kangaroo Court.

Court in which the principles of law and justice are disregarded or perverted 2: a court characterized by irresponsible, unauthorized, or irregular status or procedures 3. An unfair, biased, or hasty judicial proceeding that ends in a harsh punishment; an unauthorized trial conducted by individuals who have taken the law into their own hands, such as those put on by vigilantes or prison inmates; a proceeding and its leaders who are considered sham, corrupt, and without regard for the law.

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

The 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago is most-remembered for what happened on the streets outside of it, “One day in Grant Park somebody took down a flag and the police used that as an excuse to go through the crowd beating people with nightsticks,” recalls John Froines, who helped organize the DNC anti-war demonstrations with Rennie Davis of the National Mobilization Committee to End the War in Vietnam.

 “Rennie Davis and I were hit on the head with night sticks.”Froines, who is now a professor emeritus of the UCLA Fielding School of Public Health, wasn’t arrested that day. But a year later, the U.S. government accused him, Davis and six other men of conspiring to incite a riot at the DNC. The others were Bobby Seale, co-founder of the Black Panther Party; David Dellinger, a longtime anti-war activist; Tom Hayden, cofounder of Students for a Democratic Society; Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, founders of the Youth International Party (whose members were called “yippies”); and Lee Weiner, who had volunteered as a marshal for the DNC demonstrations to help with crowd control.

The evidence against the Chicago Eight, as they became known, was always slim. None were convicted of conspiracy, and although five of them were convicted of inciting a riot, an appellate court dismissed the charges because it found that the judge had been biased against them. Fifty years later, here’s why the Chicago Eight trial that opened on September 24, 1969 was such a big deal.

1. The Chicago Eight were the first people tried under the first federal anti-riot law.Anti-riot laws were all at the local or state level until the passage of the 1968 Civil Rights Act, which included a provision making it illegal to cross state lines to incite a riot. 

2. Prominent voices challenged the legitimacy of the anti-riot law  The New York Review of Books arguing that the anti-riot law set a dangerous precedent. “The effect of this ‘anti-riot’ act is to subvert the first Amendment guarantee of free assembly by equating organized political protest with organized violence,” It read. “Potentially, this law is the foundation for a police state in America. 

There was a clear cultural clash between the judge and the defendants. Judge Julius Hoffman,. In one instance, they showed up to court wearing judicial robes to protest Judge Julius Hoffman’s decision to revoke Dellinger’s bail. When the judge demanded they remove their robes, they took them off and stomped on them. Underneath, they were wearing Chicago police uniforms. 

Another time, Hoffman unfurled a National Liberation Front (aka “Viet Cong”) flag on the defense table, and engaged in a tug-of-war over it with a court marshal who tried to remove it. Sharman says the media tended to emphasize moments like these because they were so unusual. However, he thinks it’s important to understand these incidents in the context of the judge’s behavior toward the defendants. “Even on the first day, Tom Hayden gave a fist salute to the jury and he was given a contempt of court citation,” he says. “It was like nothing could be done without the judge sort of stamping on them, so that sort of encouraged them to do it, I think.” By the end of the trial, the judge had charged all of the Chicago Eight as well as defense attorneys William Kunstler and Leonard Weinglass with contempt of court.

4. The judge ordered Bobby Seale to be chained and gagged in court. Courtroom drawing of Bobby Seale bound and gagged during the trial, by argues Hoffman and Rubin’s robe incident “was basically a minor disruption,” and that “the main event in terms of disruption was Bobby Seale being chained and gagged.  Seale—the sole black defendant—called him a racist, and continued his attempts to represent himself in court. On October 29, about a month after the trial started, the judge became irate and ordered staffers to chain Seale to his chair and gag him so he couldn’t speak anymore. 

A week after Judge Hoffman first chained and gagged Seale in court, the judge sentenced Seale to four years in prison for contempt of court. He also declared a mistrial in Seale’s case and removed him from the trial, turning the Chicago Eight into the Chicago Seven. Judge Hoffman intended to try Seale separately for conspiracy in a new trial next year. However, after a jury failed to convict the Chicago Seven of conspiracy, the U.S. attorney in Chicago told Judge Hoffman that “it would be inappropriate to try Seale alone on a conspiracy charge,” and the judge dropped Seale’s charges

6 To make this point, the defense called over 100 witnesses, many of whom had been in Chicago during the protests. At the time, a lot of prominent writers and performers were involved with the anti-war movement, and the witness list reflected this. The court heard testimony from comedian Dick Gregory,

7. The conservative judge’s disdain for the defendants helped overturn the convictions. Portrait of the Chicago Seven and their lawyers as they raise their fists in unison outside the courthouse where they were on trial for conspiracy and inciting a riot during the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago, Illinois, 1969.  Judge Hoffman sentenced the five convicted men to five years in prison and gave each a $5,000 fine .

Two years later, an appellate court threw out all of the convictions and the sentences Judge Hoffman had handed down—including Seale’s four years for contempt—citing the fact that the judge had been obviously biased against the defendants. At one point, Judge Hoffman even prevented former attorney general Ramsey Clark from testifying in front of the jury in favor of the defense, arguing that Clark had nothing useful to say. 

Excerpts from History.com 

Part 1

Black Paraphernalia Disclaimer - Images from Google

[theangrycomet]

Gravity Falls Headcannon: Mabel and Dipper’s Grandfather

So what do we know about Sherman “Shermie” Pines? Honestly, nothing. Only that he wore a bowtie to the twin’s birth. Which leaves lots of room for speculation.

I propose that a certain librarian is their grandparent. You may not remember his name, but you most certainly remember his song.  

Ladies and Gentleman, I have found Mabel and Dipper’s Grandpa, none other than Sherman Swampy, the drummer from Love Handel! 

Now, I know what you’re thinking. 

“AngryComet, what the heck? He doesn’t look anything like Stan and Ford? What are you smoking?” 

Nothing, as the practice disgusts me but moving on! 

I agree. He doesn’t look like Stan nor Ford. 

But you know who he does look like? 

Caryn Pines, mother of Stan and Ford and Great-Grandmother of Mabel and Dipper. 

Ford and Stan strongly take after their father. I suggest Shermie here, takes after his mother instead. Which explains why Mabel and Dipper have more narrower features as children than say their great uncles. 

It’s kind of hard to tell from these pictures, sorry.

Now for the HISTORY...

I also am on the team the Sherman is actually the YOUNGEST Pines brother. However, not by much, around 2 years. 

Sherman and his older brothers just had nothing in common. They weren’t particularly close, and so it wasn’t uncommon for him to sneak off and hang about. Given his interest in music and knack for finding the ryhthm of his surroundings, it was no shock to his mother that he joined a band. 

It was a surprise however, when he knocked up a girl at 15. When said girl died in labor and her parents wanted nothing to do with the child, it was another surprise. He named him Alexander, as late girlfriend put it, he was going to do big things, so he needed a big name.

However, Love Handel had just gotten a gig that guaranteed big money. Sherman couldn’t go AND take care of an infant, so his parents watched his infant son while he went on tour. He therefor missed the big blow up between his older brothers and his dad. 

While keeping in touch with his family, he never really got the full story as Ford was too angry to speak of it and his father to greedy to focus on anything but the lost money. Eventually, he got a reliable number for Stan and kept in touch. Giving him updates on his nephew and Mom, as Sherman figured he didn’t want to here about the other men in the family nor his success after the first couple of times. 

I imagine, that even with the Band and Touring and subsequent scrambling for job, Sherman would have been a good dad who was there for Alex, and supported his strange interests so long as they made him happy.

Neither were able to keep contact with Ford. Last Sherman had heard he had gone off to some dump college, gotten a huge amount of grant money for research, and disappeared.

Stan would occasionally visit, generally when he wasn’t on the run from loan sharks. Helping his little brother move his stuff to Danville, Virginia from New Jersey because it was better for Alex. Teaching him card tricks and watching him occasionally when Sherman was busy between jobs.

Than came the crash.

When the funeral came, Sherman was shocked to see his dead brother apparently alive, as was his kiddo. Stan tried to cover it off as he was Ford but Sherman didn’t believe him.

He cornered him afterwords. 

“Stanley what the hell is going on?”

“Sorry, Shermie, I’m not sure what you’re talking about-”

“I know you’re not Ford because Ford doesn’t know the first thing about Alex, and you just asked him about his favorite TV show!”

“...”

“Well?”

“All these years, and Ford didn’t talk to you either?”

“Why call the little drummer boy who couldn’t keep it in his pants long enough to graduate high school when he has... had what ever he was studying out here.”

While Stanley doesn’t tell him the full story, Sherman begrudgingly accepts it. Alex is not informed that his uncle is the same uncle as before and with their names being so similar, they blend. 

Stan visits less, but calls just as often. 

Alex still thinks of his Uncle fondly as he grows up. So when his Father can’t take the kids for the summer because his old band got back together, his mind imediately goes to his Uncle.

The one the Taught him card tricks that allowed him to gamble enough money to pay for college.

The one that taught him to do’s and don’t’s of wooing a woman, even if they didn’t exactly work out as planned.  

The one that taught him how to sell anything, including the computer software program he developed for the latest gaming companies. 

When his kiddos needed “fresh air”, he sent them to Stan for the summer. 

They can visit their Grandpa over Christmas.