#i claim to be unswayed now look at me

[thoughtless-mindless-thoughts]

my actions are weighing on my conscience. what have i done.

what am i doing.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Echoes Of Revenge || Part 1

Character: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Y/N, an analyst at Goldenlix Capital, discovers her promotion hopes crushed by favoritism. Seeking solace in a nightclub, she encounters her past tormentor, Bucky.

Warning: Betrayal, heartbreak, manipulation.

Part 2 : Shattered Echoes

Part 3: All The Lies

Part 4: Sweetest Dreams

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

Y/N, an ambitious analyst at Goldenlix Capital, had consistently delivered profitable predictions for the hedge fund. 

Despite her hard work, the promotion she longed for slipped away when the CEO's nephew, Simon, secured the portfolio manager position.

Frustrated, Y/N sought solace at a nightclub with her colleagues. As Y/N immersed herself in the pulsating beats and vibrant atmosphere of the nightclub, she was unaware of the watchful eyes observing her every move. 

The rhythm of the music and the clinking of glasses provided a temporary escape from the frustrations at work.

Suddenly, a lavish display of expensive drinks arrived at her table, catching Y/N off guard. The waitress informed her that they were compliments of the house, leaving Y/N momentarily puzzled by the unexpected gesture.

Just as she wondered who might be behind this gesture, Bucky entered.

Bucky made his entrance with confidence, navigating through the crowd with a swagger that suggested a newfound maturity. 

Dressed in an impeccably tailored, expensive suit, he exuded a sense of self-assuredness. His arrival was accompanied by the subtle clink of cufflinks and the rich scent of a high-end cologne.

As he approached Y/N's table, Bucky flashed a charming smile, his eyes hinting at a mixture of mischief and sophistication. 

However, Y/N, ever focused and unswayed by external displays, remained unimpressed by his polished appearance. She eyed him skeptically, silently signaling that material possessions wouldn't alter her priorities or impressions.

With a smirk, he approached Y/N, confidently revealing, "I thought you could use a taste of the finer things tonight, Y/N. It's on me.”

There, she unexpectedly encountered Bucky, a college classmate with a history of teasing her. Now claiming to be the club's owner, Bucky attempted to flirt with her.

Unimpressed, Y/N looked down on his attempt to impress her. "Owning a nightclub doesn't change who you are, Bucky. I'm focused on my career," she retorted, dismissing his advances.

Undeterred, Bucky tried a different approach, acknowledging his past mistakes. "People change, Y/N. Maybe you should loosen up and enjoy the night," he suggested.

Maintaining her composure, Y/N replied, "I'll pass on the life lessons, Bucky. I have bigger goals than spending my time with someone who hasn't really grown up.”

Y/N's colleagues discreetly made their exit, leaving her alone with Bucky. He nodded appreciatively, acknowledging their departure, and sat beside her, pouring a drink into her glass.

"So, what's the problem? I never thought the nerd of my class would spend money on the expensive table," Bucky remarked teasingly.

Y/N scoffed, "This is expensive? I didn't realize."

Surprised by her nonchalant response, Bucky commented, "Where is the timid Y/N I know? She's gone.”

Y/N gulped her drink, contemplating his observation. "Money. Everything could change because of money," she admitted. 

Her past, rooted in a modest upbringing, had shaped her determination to succeed. Working hard to escape financial constraints, her dream was to become a fund manager.

She looked at Bucky with a hint of disdain. She doesn't appreciate people like him who lead careless lives just because they come from wealthy families.

Bucky noticed the scattered name cards of Y/N's colleagues on the table and picked one up. Reading it, he remarked, "Goldenlix Capital? You work there? That's impressive."

Y/N responded with a nonchalant "hmm."

Bucky, perceptive, ventured, "Let me guess, you didn't get the promotion?"

Surprised, Y/N asked, "How...?"

Bucky leaned back, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "I've seen many types of people come and go in this place," he said, revealing a hint of insight into the workings of the professional world they both navigated.

Bucky's casual revelation about his observations at Goldenlix Capital intrigued Y/N, prompting her to give him a scrutinizing look. As she contemplated his words, Bucky continued, "It's a tough world out there, especially when you're navigating corporate ladders."

Y/N, still guarded, responded, "You seem to have it all figured out."

Bucky chuckled, "Well, not everything, but I've learned a thing or two. Sometimes it's not just about hard work; it's about playing the game.”

Bucky leaned in, a glint of sincerity in his eyes, as he proposed, "Let me be your client."

Y/N, skeptical, questioned, "Why?"

Bucky shrugged a hint of nostalgia in his tone, "I don't know. Perhaps because of a nostalgic feeling. I want to help an old friend."

Y/N, maintaining her guard, retorted, "We were never friends. You always used me."

With a sly smile, Bucky countered, "Then, I'll use this as my apology letter."

The air between them carried tension, a mix of unresolved history and an unexpected proposal.

As Bucky got closer, the alluring scent of his elegant perfume enveloped Y/N. Their proximity seemed to amplify the tension, a subtle dance of conflicting emotions.

"I'm serious. Give me your name card," Bucky whispered, a soft murmur against the rhythmic beats of the music.

Y/N, somewhat reluctantly, handed over her name card. Bucky took it with a charming smile, his gaze lingering on hers. "Tomorrow your boss will go nuts," he predicted, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

With a final, lingering look, Bucky gracefully rose from his seat. "See you next time," he said, leaving Y/N in a state of contemplation, the lingering scent of his perfume and the enigmatic encounter resonating in the dimly lit ambiance of the nightclub.

Excitement mixed with intrigue surged through Y/N as she stepped into the bustling office the next day. Her boss, Ivan,  beckoned her into his office with an animated expression, "Y/N, we've just landed a significant new client. The funds have been wired, and you're in charge."

Perusing the financial statement, Y/N's eyes widened at the substantial amount. "This is impressive, sir. I'll ensure it's handled with utmost precision," she assured.

Ivan leaned back in his chair, a shrewd smile on his lips. "Not just impressive, Y/N. Make it triple. We need to show our new client the prowess of Goldenlix Capital.”

Y/N nodded, her mind already racing with investment strategies. "I'll diversify the portfolio, perhaps allocate more in growth stocks, considering the current market trends. And we can leverage options to enhance returns without taking excessive risk," she suggested.

Ivan impressed with her immediate analysis, nodded in agreement. "Exactly, Y/N. Show them why you're the rising star here."

As she left his office, Y/N couldn't help but reflect on the unexpected turn of events—Bucky's proposition at the nightclub, the mysterious new client, and now the challenge to triple the investment. 

Now witnessing his portfolio's profits tripling under Y/N's adept guidance, Bucky couldn't help but be impressed. As rumors circulated about Y/N potentially becoming the next portfolio manager, her boss and colleagues acknowledged her exceptional skills.

One day, Bucky approached Y/N with a mixture of admiration and amusement. "I knew I could count on you, Y/N. Looks like you're not just the 'nerd' from our college days anymore."

Y/N, maintaining her professionalism, Y/N replied with a slight smirk, "Money talks, Bucky. It's all about making the right moves in the market."

Bucky, however, seemed persistent in keeping the conversation personal. "Or maybe it's about making the right moves in life," he teased, a suggestive glint in his eyes.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, unyielding. "Let's keep it professional, Bucky. This is business.”

As Y/N attempted to make a swift exit, Bucky intercepted her, his hand gently restraining her. Irritated, she shot him a sharp look, demanding, "What?!"

Bucky, undeterred, asserted, "I'll double my money."

Y/N, skeptical, retorted, "What for? You already have enough. You need to learn about limits."

With a wry smile, Bucky countered, "If I have to pay a high price just to have a date with you, then I will pay everything."

Rolling her eyes, Y/N dismissed his proposition, "Yeah, right."

Bucky leaned in, a teasing glint in his eyes. "My silly Y/N. Don't you know why I always played with you back then?”

Y/N, unamused, shot back, "You bullied me to get my attention. Are you in kindergarten?”

Y/N, after a moment of contemplation, finally relented, "Fine. One date. But no, I don't want your money. The stock market is not good this time. What if you get mad because you lose money?"

Bucky chuckled, his tone playful, "There's no way I'm going to be mad at you, silly.”

As Y/N and Bucky shared that one date, their connection deepened, weaving a thread of unexpected intimacy into their lives. 

The complexities of their relationship unfolded like a carefully scripted narrative, intertwining the professional and personal in a way that left Y/N simultaneously exhilarated and hesitant.

Her life, seemingly perfect after successfully handling Bucky's portfolio, took an unforeseen turn when her Ivan dropped a bombshell – he wanted to hand over Bucky, her biggest client, to his nephew, Simon. 

The news sent shockwaves through Y/N, her world suddenly tilted on its axis.

Y/N, with a mix of frustration and anxiety, found herself standing at Bucky's doorstep, the weight of her predicament evident in her eyes. Sensing her distress, Bucky welcomed her inside, "What happened, Y/N? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Taking a deep breath, Y/N explained the situation, "My boss wants to hand over your portfolio to his nephew. It's a complete mess, and I don't know what to do."

Bucky, leaning against the wall, studied her with a thoughtful gaze. "You came to me for help. Looks like our roles are reversing."

Y/N, a hint of vulnerability in her voice, admitted, "I never thought I'd need help, especially from someone like you.”

Bucky, his expression softening, replied, "We all need help sometimes. It doesn't make you weak.”

As Y/N faced the uncertain aftermath of seeking Bucky's help, she soon discovered that her most significant competitor, Simon, had mysteriously vanished from the office scene. 

The absence of the rival candidate created a void that only she could fill, paving the way for Y/N to enter the role of project manager uncontested.

The news rippled through the office, and Y/N found herself at the center of surprise and admiration. 

Colleagues congratulated her on the unexpected turn of events, and her boss, puzzled by his nephew's disappearance, acknowledged her as the natural choice for the project manager position.

Gratitude and curiosity again led Y/N to Bucky's door, a soft knock signaling her presence. As Bucky opened the door, a knowing smile played on his lips, "Come to thank me, Y/N?"

Y/N responded with a hint of appreciation in her eyes, "I can't deny that your mysterious touch might have played a role in my unexpected promotion. So, thank you."

Bucky, stepping closer, his gaze lingering, remarked, "I'm always here to help, especially when it comes to you.”

Three months had passed, and Bucky, in the routine of his daily activities, eagerly anticipated seeing his girlfriend. The past week had kept Y/N busy as she jetted off to Dubai to meet with a new client.

However, on this particular day, as Bucky went about his usual tasks, his assistant interrupted, a hint of apprehension in their voice, "Sir, the police are here."

Bucky, initially thinking he had misheard, questioned, "Huh?"

The police, standing with an air of authority, informed Bucky that he was accused of money laundering. Unfazed, Bucky dismissed the accusation with a roll of his eyes, stating, "Money laundering? I'm a legit businessman.”

The police countered, accusing him of using Goldenlix Capital for money laundering. Bucky scoffed, insisting the company was legitimate. 

The turning point came when his assistant displayed a live news report on their phone, revealing that Goldenlix Capital was now branded as a scam company.

Bucky, disbelief written on his face, uttered, "What?!" Realizing the severity of the situation, he urgently reached for his phone, attempting to call Y/N, only to face the frustration of her unanswered calls. 

As the news of Goldenlix Capital being labeled a scam investment company flooded every media outlet, Bucky was engulfed in chaos. Desperate for information about Y/N's whereabouts, he pressed the police, hoping for reassurance.

Bucky questioned, anxiety seeping into his voice, "Have you seen any news about Y/N?"

The police, maintaining an air of detachment, replied, “She went missing."

Bucky's eyes widened in disbelief, and he uttered a baffled "Huh?!" The absence of Y/N from the news coverage added another layer of mystery to an already bewildering situation. 

As he grappled with the unfolding events, uncertainty and concern for Y/N's safety overshadow the chaos surrounding Goldenlix Capital.

The unfolding chaos threatened his professional empire and the stability of the connection he had built with Y/N in the past few months.

Fury burned within Bucky as the realization sunk in – he hadn't merely lost money; he had been played. The anger surged through him, a relentless fire fueled by the betrayal he felt. Determination set in, transforming his frustration into a resolute mission.

His mind raced with questions about Y/N's motives, but the lack of information only intensified his desire to uncover the truth. 

Bucky, driven by a newfound resolve, vowed to track down Y/N and unravel the mystery behind her involvement, or lack thereof, in the scandal that had befallen Goldenlix Capital.

As Y/N sat on the beach, watching the chaos unfold on her tablet, a sense of satisfaction washed over her. Finally, her carefully orchestrated plan to destroy Goldenlix Capital was playing out as intended.

The roots of her vendetta can be traced back 15 years when her family, once content in their middle-class life, had fallen victim to a deceitful investment scheme. 

Flashback Start

Introduced by a relative, Y/N's father had invested a small amount in Maxim Capital, enticed by the promise of a 7% monthly profit. The regular returns had built a false sense of trust.

However, driven by greed, Y/N's father had invested half of their savings into Maxim Capital. The deceptive scheme vanished six months later, leaving the company in ruins and wiping out a significant portion of Y/N's family's hard-earned money.

As Y/N's family crumbled into financial ruin after the Maxim Capital scam, her relative, who had introduced them to the fraudulent investment, callously shrugged off any responsibility. The repercussions were severe, forcing Y/N's father to take desperate measures.

Unable to secure a traditional loan due to his plummeted credit score, Y/N's father sought assistance from a loan shark. The borrowed sum might have been small, intended for crucial medicine for Y/N's ailing mother, but its interest was exorbitant.

The loan shark in question, Nicholas Barnes, was none other than Bucky's father.

Fueled by a burning anger and a thirst for revenge, Y/N channeled her emotions into her studies, delving deep into economics to comprehend the intricacies of investments. 

Her pursuit of knowledge became a double-edged sword, with academic excellence as a guise for a more sinister motive.

Even as she immersed herself in her studies, Y/N never lost sight of her plan for retribution. Every lesson about investments and financial strategies became a tool in her arsenal to orchestrate the downfall of those who had once exploited her family's vulnerabilities.

As Y/N navigated the complexities of her revenge plan, an unexpected twist unfolded in the form of Bucky. Fortune seemed to favor her, and she couldn't quite comprehend why the "Goddess of luck" appeared on her side. Bucky's growing interest in her became a peculiar element in her carefully crafted narrative.

While Y/N couldn't fathom the reasons behind Bucky's fascination, she saw it as a stroke of luck. 

Y/N, cleverly using her position at Goldenlix, exploited the opportunity to gather information about the victims of the investment scams discreetly. 

The guise of her role gave her access to crucial details, names, and backgrounds that would later become instrumental in executing her revenge.

In the case of Bucky, her intentions were more straightforward – to pilfer his wealth. The intricate dance of trust and vulnerability between them served as a cover for her ulterior motives. 

Y/N, driven by a desire for retribution, saw Bucky's financial downfall as a key component of her revenge plan.

Their shared history of friendship only fueled Y/N's determination to make Bucky understand the anguish of misplaced trust. 

Just as Nicholas had played with her father's trust, she intended to manipulate Bucky's emotions, leading him down a path of betrayal that mirrored her family's pain years ago.

Flashback End

As Y/N settled into her seat, her fingers danced across the keyboard with purpose. Each keystroke represented a meticulous calculation, determining the amount of money – with the accrued interest over 15 years – that Goldenlix Capital had pilfered from their unsuspecting victims.

With a determined click of the 'Send' button, Y/N initiated a digital cascade that would return the ill-gotten gains to those who had fallen prey to the investment scams.

Despite the years that had elapsed since their losses, she hoped this restitution would bring peace to the victims.

As Y/N gazed up at the sky, a quiet moment of reflection enveloped her. The weight of her actions, the meticulous plan for revenge, and the redemption she had sought for her family hung in the air. 

She hoped, somewhere beyond the vast expanse above, that her parents would be proud of her unconventional method of reclaiming their lost money.

One year later, in the quiet embrace of a small town, a remarkable female teacher had become a beacon of inspiration at the local elementary school. 

Known for her exceptional skills in teaching mathematics, she cultivated a passion for numbers among her students. She led them to triumph at the Olympic level, earning gold medals for their achievements.

The echoes of her dedication resonated through the halls of the school, leaving an indelible mark on the young minds she nurtured. 

The once-sleepy town now boasted a newfound pride in its educational achievements, thanks to the remarkable teacher whose commitment and expertise had transformed the academic landscape.

The routine exchange of greetings became a familiar melody in the small town's elementary school. Every morning, as students hurried through the hallways, they would greet their beloved teacher with a cheerful, "Morning, Miss Y/N."

Y/N, now a beacon of knowledge and guidance for these young minds, responded with a warm smile, echoing, "Morning, don't run in the hallway."

"Okay."

The simple yet affectionate interactions spoke volumes about the transformation Y/N had undergone – from a seeker of revenge to a nurturing educator shaping the future

As Y/N reflected on the passing year, a bittersweet smile played on her lips. Justice had been served as the boss of Goldenlix, and Ivan faced the consequences, forced to part with his ill-gotten wealth to cover legal expenses.

However, when it came to Bucky, a twinge of regret and sadness lingered in her heart. The connection they had forged amidst the intricate dance of revenge carried a weight of impossibility. The revelation that he was the son of the loan shark, Nicholas Barnes, cast a shadow over what could have been.

Y/N, despite the passage of time, Y/N found herself haunted by a lingering fear that Bucky might seek revenge. The uncertainty gnawed at her, and she wished she could overcome the apprehension that one day, the consequences of her calculated actions might come knocking at her door.

As Y/N returned to her small home, an unsettling feeling crept over her. The once familiar space now emanated an unusual coldness. A sense of foreboding settled in, causing her to hesitate before stepping further into the house.

When she decided to leave, her hand reaching for the doorknob, she discovered a chilling truth – the door was locked outside. Panic set in as the realization dawned that she was trapped within her own home.

Fear gripped Y/N's heart as she grappled with the possibility that her past actions might be catching up to her. 

A chill ran down her spine as Y/N stood trapped in her own house when the front door creaked open. The atmosphere shifted as an unwelcome presence entered, and the smile that once held warmth now appeared cold and calculated.

Bucky, who had stepped into her sanctuary, greeted her with an unsettling calmness, "Hello, sweetie. You have some explaining to do.”

Author Note:

Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account. Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating. Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

Thanks a bunch for being fabulous followers!

Join the taglist? 🩷💙🩷

@bagoffeelings

@darkofimagination

@starsofcloud

@cherrybubblebullet

@winterslove1917

@thezombieprostitute

@namoreno

@sagebarness

@tenaciousathleteoperatorgarden

@unaxv

@missvelvetsstuff

@kjah97

@hopeful-daydreaming

@freshlemontea

@eat-limes-bitches

@kandis-mom

@scott-loki-barnes

@winters1917

@differenttyphoonwerewolf

@arunabraganza

@ordelixx

Hey everyone! 🌟 Your input means the world to me.

If you've got any cool ideas or prompts, whether for this fluff series or any other series, feel free to share them with me!

Just drop them in my ASK/SEND REQUEST box.

Can't wait to hear your awesome suggestions! 🚀💬

[airas-story]

Autumn Wedding

“No.” “Absolutely not.”

The words mixed together and Tony glanced to the side to see that Stephen looked just as disturbed as Tony did.

Pepper crossed her arms. Tony could hear the menacing ‘tap, tap’ of the toe of her shoe against the tile of the floor that meant only bad things for Tony.

“It is your wedding, Tony,” she said. “Under no circumstances are the two of you running off to Vegas and getting married in some… drunken ceremony.”

Tony pouted. “I don’t see why we should be denied the opportunity to be as irresponsible as we like. And no one said it was going to be drunken.”

“Tony will be perfectly sober when he marries me,” Stephen agreed. “Too many jokes about drunken mistakes, if not. I refuse to put up with those. But Vegas is an excellent option.”

“No,” Pepper said firmly. “I have run your life for over a decade at this point, Tony. I reserve the right to run this. In fact, I claim running your wedding as my reward for all of my hard work.”

That made absolutely zero sense. “I’m pretty sure you had a nice salary as your reward,” Tony pointed out. “But also, why would you want more work as a reward for all of your work?”

“Because without me this will be a mess.” Pepper shook her head, she gathered up the documents she’d brought into the room with her when she’d overheard his and Stephen’s plans to just run off to Vegas the next weekend they both had free.

“But Pepper,” Tony started.

Pepper arched an eyebrow at him, daring him to finish his complaint. 

Tony decided it might be better not to. “Fine, but only if you can convince Stephen.” Hopefully Stephen held out longer than Tony had.

She turned her gaze to Stephen whose face was a picture of stubborn defiance. “Oh, that’ll be easy. All I have to do is promise not to tell Christine that he was planning on getting married without inviting her if he lets me run things.”

Stephen blanched. “You know what, now that I’m thinking about it, having you help us plan our wedding sounds like an excellent idea.”

Tony winced, because yeah, if he’d just been threatened with Christine’s wrath, he’d have changed his mind, too.

“Excellent.” Pepper’s smile was entirely too smug. And really, Tony was starting to think she got her way a little too often. Not that he was about to tell her that. “I’m thinking an autumn wedding.”

Autumn!? “That’s months away,” Tony complained.

Pepper looked unswayed by his protest. “That’s me rushing it. Do you know how much effort goes into preparing a wedding?”

“Absolutely none if you run away to Vegas,” Tony muttered under his breath.

Pepper narrowed her eyes at him, which meant that he had absolutely been heard. 

“Not that I’m going to do that,” he added. He sighed as long-sufferingly as he could manage. “I can wait until fall.”

“Exercising a bit of patience will be good for you,” Pepper said. She handed him the paperwork. “Now go through these, I need your signature on them by tomorrow.”

Tony made a face, but accepted the paperwork. “Fine. Can our wedding colors be red and gold?”

“Seriously?” Stephen asked, and this time he was the one who sounded unimpressed. Where was his loyalty? Tony had an image to maintain. “Red and gold?”

“No,” Pepper said. “This is going to be a tasteful wedding.”

The outrage. “Red and gold is tasteful.”

“Not your idea of red and gold,” Pepper said. “Which is why I’m in charge.” She turned toward the door. “Paperwork, tomorrow.”

Tony let out a mournful sigh as she left. “You know, I’m an expert at refusing to listen,” he said, turning to Stephen. “We can still run to Vegas.”

“Christine would kill me,” Stephen said, sounding bereft. “Then you. Then bring us back to life so she can kill us again. And Pepper will help her.”

Tony sighed. “Autumn wedding it is.”

[jammyjamms]

Look Away

Jeez, I know this will hit close to home, and that it must be so hard to see these unbroken bones, unbent back, unswayed and rooted stance, unflinching morals in the face of oppression, but don't you ever look away? Look away. ...look away. I hear that you're breathing down my back when I'm not around, and there's whispers of how you regret things, but creeping on someone's poetry blog for the tiniest glimpse of the light you ran from, the light you praised so loudly and miss so terribly but would snuff out so easily if given the chance, isn't attractive. It isn't alluring, it's an Unwanted mess.

And I learned so much about you when you dropped me like scalding hot frybread at IICOT just before competition, running to look good for others and not show your true colors, gotta preen for the cameras, click! Click! Click! Don't click on my page, you've been blocked and I'm gone. That's what you wanted when I was too bright for you anyway, wasn't it? Is that why your morals are so shady?

Mediation was always your strong suit, you claimed so publicly and proudly, sitting at tables with people who wanted all of us, all our communities - even you - dead. Yet you couldn't even handle communicating honestly because the money was too good to listen to truth. All cash registers and paychecks, cha-ching! If someone isn't that or white, they're useless to you. And yet..

Even now, though, you hover just out of view. You check. You look. You click. You can't help it, can't help wondering what you lost after trying to get a foot in the door with me anyway, and sharing such intimate confessions - confessions you begged not to be shared with others - trying to lovebomb and get a snag, so desperate for attention and affirmation in any form. You must feel...Starved. In shambles. Shaken to your core that your truth is known (don't worry, it's not outed 🙄).

Seen, in every way you don't want to be. I'd say selfish for wanting light that's not yours, but you've never known what selfish is have you? Only because you won't acknowledge that's what you are. Instead, I'd argue you're Scared, with a capital S. Running, in fact. For your life. So terrified of your own shadow, of any light reflecting off yours and showing the ugly truth of who you are.

Messy. Messy messy messy.

Harrowing, is how I'd describe dealing with you now that I know the truth. Sightings of you are so sad, because you're still dancing for them. How truly saddening. It's okay, though..I know truth isn't for everyone.

[astralaffairs]

I JUST THOUGHT OF SOMETHING I NEED YOU TO KNOW ABOUT. LONGTIME POLITICAL RIVALS THOM AND MC RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT AGAINST EACH OTHER

omg

--------

"You've gotta be kidding me."

Y/N's grip on her glass was slowly tightening; her narrowed eyes were locked on him from across the room. "What is he doing here?"

Priya, her campaign manager, sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Want me to have him thrown out?"

"No," she huffed. "He'd make a scene of it, and that's the last thing I want."

A moment passed in (relative) silence, save for the sounds of chatter scattered throughout the room at Y/N's campaign fundraiser. She tapped the toe of one of her black pumps impatiently against the polished floor, and it took all of her will to stop herself from snapping the stem of her wine glass; instead, she threw the rest of her drink back in one heavy sip. "How do you figure I should handle this?"

She turned to Priya with a weary eyebrow raised. Priya frowned. "I think you're best off proceeding as usual. Keep talking to prospective donors, and don't let him derail your night."

"You're probably right." Y/N's sour expression didn't fit her acquiescence. "But this is so obnoxious. Who the hell does he think he is?"

"Watch yourself; there are reporters all around." Priya nudged her, nodding toward the lively crowd, but she wore an amused smile at Y/N's words.

"I'll behave if he does," she said, scowling.

"Good luck, then," —Priya's gaze flickered between Jefferson and Y/N— "because he'd headed this way."

Y/N had to resist the urge to groan loudly as Priya slipped away, offering her an apologetic shrug as she did so, but Y/N couldn't really blame her. Realistically, as Jefferson approached her, giving an annoyingly nonchalant smile when he caught her eye, nodding to her in greeting, Y/N knew Priya would have to let her handle it — still, she would've rathered Priya stick around to restrain her from throttling him.

Her eyes flickered down to her glass; for a brief moment, she regretted having already drank all of it.

"Attorney General L/N."

When Y/N looked back up, Jefferson stood only feet in front of her, a hand tucked into his pocket and the other holding a shallow glass of whiskey. She was too tired to even glare.

"Secretary Jefferson." Her voice was thick with resentment. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He shrugged, glancing about the room as he came up beside her. She sighed internally. "Well, it's an open event, isn't it? 'M here for the same reason as everyone else."

"To donate to my campaign, you mean?" Y/N folded her arms, and he grinned.

"I was referrin' to the open bar." He nodded toward the edge of the room, taking a sip of his whiskey as if to prove his point.

Y/N scoffed. "All that family money you're freeloading on, and you're still looking for free booze? You're such a fucking cheapskate."

"Language, Ms. Attorney General," he said, scandalized tone entirely contrived. She rolled her eyes. "Besides, it's much more satisfyin' to be drinkin' on your dime. I appreciate the generosity."

"Believe me, it wasn't meant for you." He frowned. "Is there really nowhere better for you to be on a Friday night than getting drunk at one of my campaign events?"

"Not really."

"That's almost sad." She looked at him with disdain, and despite how patronizing her tone was, he didn't look offended in the least.

"Aw, can't I just wanna hang out with you?" he asked, brow furrowed. "James was busy, so I figured this was the next best thing."

"Because we're best friends now?"

He shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. "I mean, don't flatter yourself. James 'n Dolley are still both far ahead of you on that list. And then there's Lafayette, too. And even Burr, really, but—"

"I get it," she cut him off, her cheeks flaring with heat as he wore a self-satisfied grin.

"But, hey, you're up there, too. Don't worry," he assured her, and she couldn't even bring herself to come up with some kind of biting retort.

"Right."

A moment passed in annoyed silence (well, Y/N was annoyed; realistically, Jefferson was enjoying himself), and Y/N glared down at the distinct lack of wine still sitting at the bottom of her glass. She didn't want to let him have the reaction he was looking for from her.

"You should leave," she said bluntly, and his eyebrows shot up.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not going to give you what you want and make myself look bad by having security throw you out. So you're going to get nothing out of being here," she hissed. "Please, just leave. You stick to your campaign, and I'll stick to mine."

"C'mon, now, where's the fun in that?"

"I'm just trying to fundraise; can't you leave that alone?" Her teeth were gritted as she spoke, and his smile was broadening; he was seemingly taking pleasure in how quickly she was getting worked up, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She just wanted him out. "Some of us can't just ride it out on daddy's money. We aren't all heirs to millions."

He quirked a brow. "Sounds like a personal problem."

"It is. That's my point," she scoffed. "I know we disagree on literally everything, but outright classism is stooping low, even for you."

"If you really need money, 'm sure there are a couple Super PACs on Capitol Hill that'd be glad to fork over a couple million." A mischievous glint shone in his eyes with his words, and he glanced back at her, taking another sip of his drink. Her glare didn't waver.

"If you're trying to create ammunition against me, it isn't going to work," she warned him. "You're wasting your time."

"Well, I'm hurt, now, Y/N." He frowned, free hand held to his heart. "Thought we were friends. Maybe I just came to see you."

Her huff was heavy, and he couldn't maintain his mild expression, his stupid, smug grin cracking through the facade. "We aren't on a first name basis, Jefferson."

He managed a pout. "After all these years? Aw, sweetheart, 'm devastated," he said, and when she looked away from him, her furious gaze instead turning to the hotel ballroom before her, the corners of his lips quirked. "We were even coworkers, once. Now, what happened to that?"

"As if we got along while we were working together." She didn't meet his eyes. "You've always been fixated on sabotaging my career, so I guess I'm not surprised that this is no different."

"Hang on, I never sabotaged your career," he said defensively, but when she cast him a disbelieving glance, his eyes flashed mischievously. "You did that perfectly well all on your own."

"I'm eight points ahead of you in the polls." She eyed him disdainfully. He shrugged.

"Don't get too cocky, now; the debates haven't even started," he replied, undeterred, "I've just gotta wait till the whole country gets to see you on live TV makin' a mockery of your party."

"Everyone knows people only watch the debates for confirmation bias," Y/N said dryly, again turning away from him. "You may as well drop out now. You've got no shot at the presidency."

He hummed skeptically. "I dunno about that, sweetheart—"

"Don't call me that," she seethed, but her annoyance only seemed to spur him on.

"So hostile," he sighed. "Now I guess I don't have to feel guilty that I'm stealin' all your donors, hm?"

"All my donors resent your policies almost as much as I do." Y/N couldn't maintain her anger, although she remained annoyed. Was this really his best shot at derailing her fundraiser? "Go back to pandering to Citizens United; you won't have too much luck with my pool of attendees."

"You sure? I've been told I can be real charmin'," he said matter-of-factly, and she huffed out a bitter laugh.

"By who, exactly?"

"Undisclosed sources," he said, shooting her a wink, and she pursed her lips; with the playful grin he wore, her smile was no longer all anger and resentment. "You'll have to take me at my word."

"I don't believe it, but I guess I can't really contest it," Y/N replied, and Thomas's grin broadened at the amusement he could hear seeping into her voice.

He raised a teasing eyebrow. "So you're tellin' me you agree, then?"

"That is not what I'm telling you." Her smile fell flat. Her tone was biting, but she turned away from him, folded her arms, and she could feel the heat rising in back of her neck. Her willing it away had little effect. He looked smug. "I'm saying that if you can't tell me who the sources are, then I can't fact check you, so there's no way to contest your claim. That's what I mean."

She was rambling, and he took another nonchalant sip of his drink, satisfaction obvious in his expression. "Mhm."

"I'm serious. It was a stupid fucking claim, anyway, and you know that wasn't what I said," she said, and the words were biting. Thomas looked down at her mildly, his smirk lazy.

"'Course."

"Stop being so damn condescending," she huffed. "I didn't agree with what you were saying. Now will you shut up about it?"

"What am I doin' wrong, sweetheart?" He folded his arms, turned fully toward her with an inquisitive look and a self-satisfied smile. "I didn't contradict you. You're allowed to think whatever you wanna."

"It's not me 'thinking whatever I want,' I didn't say that you were—" She cut herself off with a scowl as his smile widened, and he raised his eyebrows expectantly. Warmth was flooding her cheeks, by then, and she couldn't even bring herself to finish her sentence, didn't even want to admit aloud what she was defending herself for. She felt ridiculous. He looked unswayed. "God, I refuse to have this conversation. Why do you feel the need to antagonize me every fucking time you see me?"

"'Antagonize' seems extreme," he pointed out, and arrogance laced his voice. "I hardly said a word. All that spiralin' just now was all you."

"Because you were being a dick."

"Hey, all I did was ask an innocent question," he defended. "Why're you gettin' so worked up?"

"Don't act like I'm being irrational," she bit back, eyes narrowed, but he shrugged. "You only came here to get me worked up, and you know it. Stop treating me like a child."

"I'd never. I entirely respect you." She eyed him skeptically. He nudged her arm. "'S okay to get a little flustered now 'n then. I know I've got that kinda effect on people."

"I'm not flustered," she replied through gritted teeth, and he winked.

"Sure you aren't. No judgment here," he said, and the disbelief in his voice made her scowl.

"Whatever. I need to get back to fundraising. You're derailing my evening." The words were hard; her tone made it clear she had no interest in any further back-and-forth with him, and when he sighed, it was dramatically weary.

"You don't wanna spend any more time with me?" he asked, brow creased in faux disappointment. "Now, Y/N, I came all this way just for you, and I've gotta say, I'm hurt. Thought you were enjoyin' my company more than that."

"I wasn't."

He clucked his tongue. "Too bad. I was enjoyin' yours."

"You were enjoying making fun of me, you mean?" she countered, and he grinned.

"Believe what you want, but I said all of four words, before, sweetheart—"

"That isn't my name," she interjected, but he didn't stop.

"and you were still busy defendin' yourself for a whole lot longer," he continued. "And I'm not sure why you were defending yourself for so long, really. Didn't I tell you I wasn't passin' any judgment? I get that I make you nervous. It's okay."

"What? You don't make me nervous. I've literally worked with you for years," she huffed, eyes narrowed. When he raised a disbelieving brow, she shifted uneasily where she stood, breaking his gaze. "Whatever. I'm done with this conversation; you can show yourself out."

"Just walkin' away so unceremoniously?" he asked incredulously when Y/N turned on her heel. "Aw, c'mon, now, no hard feelings, alright?"

"Maybe not from you." She glanced back at him over her shoulder, eyeing him disdainfully before starting off in the other direction. He grinned.

"See you at the debates, Y/N," he called after her, and satisfaction lay heavy in his voice. "Always a pleasure."

She rolled her eyes, and her pace didn't stutter, but as she retreated back to the room full of overgenerous millionaires, the tips of her ears still burned. If she lost this election, she'd never hear the end of it.

[infjsnightmare]

Hey! Here's chapter 2 of the fyodorxOC, eventually amnesia, I swear. This chapter is a lot short since I've been under the weather all weak. I hope you still like it. I know it is kind of a slow starter.

*************************************************

The sound of keys chattering as Fyodor typed echoed through the silence in the dimly lit base of operations. One monitor was lit up with the smug profile of a light-haired man named "Ace". He would be their target for Intel extraction in their next step of the process. The young woman lazily searched over the screen displaying his record for any trace of danger, but he seemed like your average megalomaniac with a penchant for gambling. The hacker typing next to her had decided to undertake this part of the plan himself, so she was being extra careful to find any cause for worry, but there was next to nothing worrisome about this mission. Fyodor would be able to make this man dance like a marionette with little effort. "Seems like you should be able to pull this one off without a hitch." She murmered quietly, half to him and half to herself. "Greed is one of the easiest sins to manipulate. I was honestly hoping for more of a challenge." The dark-haired man leaned back in his chair, a slight pout on his face before biting at his thumb. "I think there are very few men in this world that you would view as a challenge, sir." She glanced down at him, professionally stifling the warmth spreading through her chest at his childish expression, but still the hint of a smile tugged at her lips. "Stop that." She was taken aback watching his face return to a neutral canvas. "I'm sorry, sir?" Her intonation rose slightly, utterly confused but masking as best she could. "I'm not a child. I don't particularly appreciate that doting expression." Ahh. That's what this is about. Her shoulders were set back as she stood straight and statuesque. "Of course, sir." Her eyes held that glint of playfulness but she held back her tongue. She couldn't deny that she felt protective of him. She was his soldier after all. But, in the times where he would let his pettiness seep out or the very rare times she would see the effects of his anemia, she felt a strong maternal instinct. One she had to choke down or suffer the consequence of his wounded pride. That option was never a pleasant one.

Making his preparations, Fyodor was singularly focused on his work. He contacted a Port Mafia smuggler, claiming to be an informant with the known whereabouts of the leader of the Rats in the House of the Dead. Cold vermillion eyes held the slightest trace of amusement at deceiving the smuggler. Ending his call, he locked gazes with the woman standing in the doorway. "I should be expecting him tomorrow- I'm heading to a motel tonight to wait for him." "Roger." The woman sauntered over, placing a hand on either side of his chair. "Are there any other preparations, or-" she gracefully moved her lips near his ear "do you perhaps have a bit of free time?" Practically purring the last part and pulling her head back, there was a fire in the way she looked at him. She knew she was stepping out of bounds and punishment was certainly a possibility for her behavior. But, he would be gone for a week, at least. The bed beside her would be dismal and desolate, and her body would be on edge until he returned to her. For a week her god will have deserted her and she needed something tangible to keep for herself in that time. "You're playing with fire." The man eyed her dangerously, despite the smirk pulling at one side of his mouth. "Then burn me." Her intensity matched his own as she nimbly moved her legs to straddle his lap, hips settling comfortably against one another. At this point, she would accept any punishment she received just to feel his cool skin against her feverish skin, to feel his soft, elegant hands caress her calloused and scarred body. If she could hold his attention for one moment, it was enough. A ghostly hand traced her back, grabbing the hair at the base of her scalp and pulling her forward into a frenzied kiss. It was sloppy, animalistic. So different from the usual detached affection she'd grown used to. The skin at the nape and scalp seethed with pain at the tension of his grip, but she would gladly bear it. Tongues warred and battled until the his hand pulled her back allowing him entrance. Her hands explored his clothed chest, feeling the heat in her chest spread to the pit of her stomach. Her skin flushed deeply, while she could barely makeout the faintest tinge of pink on the pale man before her. She was his soldier, yet he was always the one who remained composed. Feeling his mouth lower and attach to her neck, she allowed herself to melt, just this once. A shallow gasp left her lips as Fyodor marked her skin. "Fedya, I-" her though was cut off as the ministrations stopped abruptly.

She stared down at the man, eyes widened in the lightest shock. He placed his index finger to his chin thoughtfully, mirth visible on his face. "I think you should be able to keep your fires burning for one week." The raven haired man slowly moved her hips from him, standing up. "Pray fervently to god, and you may get what you want upon my return." This must be her punishment for stepping out of line. She had been foolish to believe she could take control of the situation. She was just a soldier after all. "Understood, sir." Replying, she mustered up the best indifferent expression she could, but her held her disappointment on full display. Fyodor grabbed his coat as he collected a few useless documents to place at the motel, to give the impression that he was actually using it as his base of operations. Watching him continue with his preparations, she was reminded of why he was her god, so perfectly in control, unswayed by the folly of man. She looked forward to this promised land he would create, but to her, she sometimes wondered if he wasn't already her promised land. "I trust you can keep this base protected in my absence." His deep voice interrupted her trail of thought as she watched him glance back at her over his shoulder. His face held no discernible expression as he regarded her. This was her job, her mission. For now, he was her boss and no longer her lover. "If the base falls, I fall." She punctuated her statement with a nod of recognition. Mission accepted. Turning back towards the door, he began to take his leave. She heard his simple reply of "Good" just before the door closed behind him, leaving her alone with this fire to stifle in her.

[chapitre7]

Like winter, dreaming of spring

The Untamed [陈情令] | Mo Dao Zu Shi [魔道祖师] fanfiction

Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian (Wangxian)

Canon compliant, 13 years of mourning as a Gusu Lan disciples ghost story

Read on AO3

There is a place in the Cloud Recesses where the junior disciples of Gusu Lan dare not tread.

 Not because it carries any resentful, evil or ill energy. If there is a place in all of the land that would be free of such feelings, that place would be the Cloud Recesses.

 Or that might be just the reason. That in all of the land, in all of the homes of the honorable sects, it is in the Cloud Recesses, a little ways from the Cold Spring, just beside a crystal clear stream, that lies a patch of field, facing the open azure sky, where a presence has made its home.

 Lan Jingyi tried to ignore its existence, looking away when the other disciples whispered among themselves. When they were but small children, still taking their first baby steps to become cultivators, Lan Yuan broke his first rule by walking out of the dorms after dark, taking Jingyi along, for the sake of a story. Not out of any rebellious impulse or any profound desire to discover the world, but pure, unstoppable curiosity. Lan Jingyi tagged along, legs weak and teeth clattering, out of simple, budding friendship.

 It isn’t a terribly hidden place, or even guarded by natural obstacles that cloud perception. At the time, Lan Yuan could clearly see he had arrived at the right place by the moonbeams reflecting on a white frame through the gaps in the tall grass. Lan Jingyi closed his eyes, biting on his lower lip to keep from making any noises. Lan Yuan just looked, unspeaking, soundlessly breathing, until he decided he had seen enough and took Jingyi back. The next day, swallowing his fears, Jingyi asked him what he saw, but Lan Yuan just smiled and said, “The rabbits from the moon.” Affronted but not confrontational, Lan Jingyi frowned in the way six-year-olds frown in practice consternation and let it drop. Just because it was A-Yuan.

 Some disciples claim they’ve seen things in broad daylight, while practicing or studying outside. A glimpse of glowing white, like the bright flare of sunlight peeking through the highest tree leaves, but when they turn, there’s nothing there. Others swear they heard something or other, a humming, or maybe some kind of mumbling. Master Lan Qiren berates them with firm words and fitting punishment for spreading tall tales at the Cloud Recesses.

 Once they move closer to their coming of age, the disciples slowly grow out of the story. There are musical scores to learn, and sword training to attend, and no thought to spare during meditation for ghost stories. Not in the Cloud Recesses, not for budding Gusu Lan cultivators.

 But dreams, those they can’t control. They can’t tell their subconscious that there are more important matters to think about, that the past generation had to recover from a devastating fire and thus it’s their responsibility to study and practice and fight for the sake of those that can’t fight anymore, or who have fought enough. Not even the argument that Hanguang-jun and Zewu-jun are always watching and patiently guiding them towards the noble and righteous path is strong enough to ward away the images of the figure. Sitting in a patch of moonlight, singing or humming or crying or quietly wailing, for whatever reason, in whatever existence that gives it form. When they wake, they’re fearful and train harder, or they’re contemplative and meditate.

 Maybe the figure is a manifestation of one’s fears and reservations. Maybe the story goes around as a form of lesson, too. Maybe it’s a metaphor, or a riddle, or a reference to a poem they’ve yet to pinpoint, so they must study more and find it, make the meaning for themselves.

 There’s word, a story within a story, that a senior once told a junior that told his roommates that no one can name, that it’s the ghost of a cultivator touched by the Yiling Patriarch. That the shadow touch of the demonic cultivator was enough to drive the purity from one’s spirit away, that no matter what path they led in life, there’s only doom after death. Fortunate were those who were killed by the Ghost General, for their flesh suffered less than a man’s soul in the Yiling Patriarch’s clutch.

 “Do not speak ill of others,” Lan Sizhui says and the disciples rush back to their original positions, focus on their original tasks. Though Sizhui can feel them looking at him still, wordlessly questioning his choice of reprimand, Sizhui keeps his gaze firm ahead on their teacher, unswayed. A story is a story, it can teach or entertain, but the dead were important to someone once. Or never cease to be, he believes. That feeling only grows stronger with the years that pass and the echoes he sees, imprinted on the world he perceives.

 There were so many people, once.

 There was so much love.

 Before the clouds gathered undisturbed over the pavilions where they study and chatter and live, with no ashes buried at their feet. When the sect leaders were different from the ones they knew, when the world knew less about death than it did now. In a different life, then, when the figure by the stream didn’t need to sit and wait. There was love, under the blazing sun.

 Time passes, and love does not wane. It suffers and it’s battered, sure, but it grows. Like the trees that bloom after a merciless winter. Like the smell of lotus flowers, vibrant and encompassing, when summer settles heavy in the air. Year comes after year after year. Five, ten, thirteen. Like the children that grow into young adults, love matures, blossoms, opens fearless towards the sun.

 Maybe that’s all it’s been doing, that person, in the company of the rabbits from the moon. Maybe it’s just been waiting for winter to thaw.

 Long fingers touch sleeping flower buds. A rabbit sleeps on a lap clad in fine white, the finest, but the color that could bear so much sadness seems blue in the shadow, peacefully blue, like a passing cloud. Hazel eyes, glowing like honey in the light of day, are downcast, shying away from the sun, blinking slowly, patiently. A passing breeze carries the white ribbon adorning silk-like hair, not far, for it’s firmly tied, in the form expected of Gusu Lan; it merely dances in the direction of the changing seasons. The stream is melodic in its constant current, and together with the sounds of the forest, it speaks of calm. Of passing seconds and minutes where nothing matters but the present.

 He comes with the wind, with the breeze. With a flick of the wrist, a talisman sweeps over the safe heaven, covering all with flickering light. With cheerful notes blown on a dizi, he plays a song that sounds like a smile would sound. The man sitting with the rabbits widens his eyes, just a little, as the flower buds all bloom around him, stems growing closer, almost curling around him. In a matter of seconds, he sits among a bed of white, some pink and yellow, even red little flowers, all blooming and alive. The sound that he makes is nothing like a lament the stories said, though it’s just as rare in the Cloud Recesses: it’s the huff of a laughter, and there are less people that would recognize it than people who have ever heard it at all.

 “Lan Zhan,” the man sitting atop the nearest tree says, tucking his dizi back on the sash around his waist. “Did you miss me?”

 “Yes,” replies Lan Wangji, gazing at the sun of the man’s smile.

 “I’m sorry I was away for so long, I lose track of time in night hunts.”

 “Mn,” Lan Wangji acquiesces, and because he can, he asks in return, “Did Wei Ying miss me?”

 Wei Ying moves his legs back and forth in the air, his eyes bright crescent moons.

 There’s no night now, no winter or darkness in wait.

 “Every moment of every day, husband.”

 If they could see him now, all the voices that wove his tale, every whisper that spoke of his spirit, what would they say? Or maybe there would be nothing to say, no word that could describe the glow of Hanguang-jun in the spring of his life. All of his disciples know of his good heart, but have they grown used to seeing it bursting with happiness and requited love? It elicits nothing but gasps, their faces flushing, and it would take them a long time to come up with a different story. One a little closer to the real one, of devotion and loss and love. A circle that ends not in resentment, but in release. My heart and soul in exchange for yours.

 “Lan Zhan, catch me!”

 Wei Ying leaps. It’s not like letting go, not completely. He doesn’t descend but ascend in the certainty that Lan Wangji will be there. He’s far, but not out of reach — not anymore. Lan Wangji only has to take a couple of steps before Wei Ying (his husband, husband, beloved) falls into his arms, laughing a breathless laugh. He lies back in the gift of Wei Ying’s flowers, pulling Wei Ying against his chest, and his smile is a gift too, as is his adoring gaze, and the kisses he places on Lan Wangji’s lips and cheeks and eyelids and nose. Their rabbits dance around them, learning their way around the field that is now overcome with colorful life, and the afternoon sun keeps all of them warm.

 “I’m back now,” Wei Ying says, fingers touching Lan Wangji’s bangs, his thumb tracing the cloud patterns of his ribbon. A ribbon that is his as soon as the night falls, seeming to glow in the candlelight of the Jingshi, just like a figure once glowed alone, surrounded by rabbits and memory.

 What is it about Lan Zhan that defies darkness so? Is it his goodness, or the clarity of his spirit?

 Wei Ying can see only the man, with all his flaws and mistakes and his blinding smile, as if he wants to do nothing more than bask in this moment and stretch it into forever, if he could. Like a ballad, sung in every corner of every mountain and town, all the way to the lotuses of Yunmeng.

 Wei Ying accepts the sentiments he reads on the familiar face and makes them his own.

 The disciples don’t understand why that part of the forest suddenly grew flowers so big and tall, or why their perfume carries so far. All they know is that Senior Wei is back and that in his orbit, their teacher and mentor seems to flourish into the most beautiful flower of Gusu.

 They talk and sigh and dream, and the ballad slowly takes form in the strumming of their guqin.

[hiddendreamer67]

I love the witch brother au so much? I think my favorite part is logan being a wolf and also Virgil's familiar, i love those two so much. But also patton baby i hope roman's hypoallergenic. Anyways, if you're still taking prompts would you consider showing us how virgil came to find his logan and/or how their relationship developed and their dynamic?

(I love this too and I will always take prompts for my witchy bois omg I got so into this again I just speed wrote this all this morning)

Read more of my writing at @hiddendreamerwriting!

————————————————————————————————–

It had happened one late afternoon in mid December. Virgil had just become of age, but it was hard to think of himself as any sort of capable witch when he couldn’t even cast a simple location spell.

Virgil grit his teeth, pressing his mittened hands together to try and form a flame to keep the cold at bay. It felt as though the spell did nothing, and Virgil’s feet still got soaked as he trudged through the snow that was knee high. 

“Great.” Virgil muttered, shoving his hands into his armpits instead, hunching over against the howling wind. “Just great.”

He was going to die out here, wasn’t he? Virgil was such an idiot. Don’t worry Patton, it’s just a bit of juniper. I’ll be back by sundown. And now Patton was going to be worried out of his mind. Virgil was such a terrible brother, he couldn’t even keep them safe through the winter. 

It was Virgil’s fault that they even had to come out into the woods in the first place; the village had not exactly been welcoming of a family of witches when Virgil accidentally spooked off the neighboring farm’s herd of horses. It seemed with every task Virgil took on, his magic always found a way to screw it up. He couldn’t even complete normal mortal tasks, like finding a simple sprig of juniper. Now Virgil was forced to cower home empty handed, if he even managed to make it home at all.

A howling different from the wind made Virgil come to a stuttered hault. He looked up, finding himself standing at the edge of a clearing. Standing in the center was a large wolf, fur grey to the point of being almost blue in the reflection of the snow. 

The creature had already spotted him, looking over Virgil consideringly as if deciding if the witch was a threat. The rest of the world faded away, the wind quieting down as if watching with hushed tones, curious which predator would make the first move.

Virgil internally cursed, eyes darting around the tree line but never leaving the threat in front of him. Wolves always hunted in packs. How many were watching through the shadows? A good witch would have no trouble with creatures of the forest, and maybe even bend the pack to his whims. Frankly, Virgil wouldn’t be surprised if one wolf alone would be enough to overtake him and make an easy meal. 

“I mean no trouble.” Virgil spoke up, hoping the magic edge to his voice would be enough to deter an attack. Yes, fear me, i’m definitely a capable witch who knows what he’s doing.

The wolf seemed unswayed with Virgil’s attempt at intimidation, giving Virgil an unimpressed look as it tilted its head to the side. 

“Please, just-” Virgil cursed himself for showing weakness, shivering as his meager warmth spell continued to fade. “I just want to go home.”

Now, the wolf took a few steps away, turning its head to send Virgil a look. The wolf took another few steps in the opposite direction, looking back at Virgil again. 

Virgil paused, his mind trying to process what was going on. From the body language alone, it was clear that the wolf wanted Virgil to follow, which despite the fact the wolf hadn’t shown any signs of aggression seemed like a terrible idea.

“I- no, I can’t play games.” Virgil huffed, wondering if this wolf was really just a large village dog that had also gotten lost. “I have to go home.” 

The wolf gave a low growl, annoyed, and Virgil jumped. Perhaps it wasn’t a great idea to ignore the wants of what could be a magic and almost-sentient creature that wanted him to follow. Especially when said creature could easily tear out his throat.

So, hesitantly, Virgil stepped forward. He felt exposed in the clearing, and the eerie silence that had befallen the woods was no help. The wolf sat, patient, until Virgil could almost reach out and pet it (provided he wanted to lose his hand). Only then did it stand to lead the way once more, staying just a few paces ahead of Virgil despite the fact it could have easily outrun him through this snow.

Their progress was slow, and Virgil was keenly aware of the sun setting in the distance. Still the wolf made no motion to stop. It led Virgil in a straight line for the most part, every so often raising its nose and sniffing the air to ensure they were still headed towards the wolf’s destination.

“…you’re not a normal wolf, are you?” Virgil commented, beginning to put the pieces together. A shape-shifting fae, perhaps? Or an enchanted creature? Both would explain the apparent sentience, but neither would explain the wolf’s peculiar interest in Virgil. 

The wolf glanced back at Virgil, and Virgil swore he saw an eyebrow raise as if mocking him. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Virgil nodded, still trying to figure out the wolf’s exact origins. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, the early night air colder than before. “A-are we almost there?”

At the sound of Virgil’s teeth chattering, the wolf’s gaze seemed to turn pitying. He gestured with his nose, a bit forward to the right. Virgil started to follow the wolf in that direction, but this time the animal stayed at his side, seeming very intent on the way Virgil swayed with each step. 

Virgil grimaced, his eyes shut tight as he fumbled to keep moving forwards. His feet felt as though they were made of solid ice. What he wouldn’t give to be back home, safely tucked in front of the fireplace with Patton curled at his side…

As if reading his thoughts, the trees suddenly parted, revealing the hut Virgil now called home. The witch let out a surprised gasp, which manifested itself as a small cloud in the chill atmosphere. 

“How…?” Virgil turned to ask the wolf how it had known, but suddenly the creature was dashing back into the dark cover of the forest. “H-hey! Wait!” 

“Virgil?!” Virgil’s attention was once again torn back to the hut, where a worried Patton was silhouetted in the warm door frame. The younger witch came rushing out, hurrying to help Virgil inside. “Virgil, what happened? You’re freezing.”

Virgil allowed himself to be guided inside, but his mind wandered back to the wolf. Would it be alright, alone in the woods? Of course it would, it was a wolf, if a peculiar one at that. Who ever heard of a lone wolf? A cruel irony, really, reminding Virgil how he himself had been exiled from his ‘pack’- er, village. Was that what happened? Had the wolf taken pity on him simply because Virgil was alone? He hadn’t gotten a chance to thank the creature for its assistance-

Virgil stiffened in the chair by the fire, his muscles tensing as all at once he realized what had happened. He had heard tales of gaining a familiar after he came of age, but Virgil had never considered himself enough of a witch for that to be true. Or when he did indulge that fantasy, Virgil always expected to be paired with a mouse or a toad. Something small and unassuming to prove he wasn’t a threat. 

Instead, out of nowhere, Virgil seemed to have been gifted a magnificent beast. Not gifted, no, that implied that Virgil owned the wolf. He could never own something so powerful, and so tied to nature just like himself. But why a wolf? Virgil was more often a healer than anything else, despite his magic quirks. He was protective, defensive, but not aggressive. At least…he tried not to be, because he didn’t want to be feared. So what did having a wolf familiar say about him?

And more importantly, why did the wolf leave? 

“Virgil?” Patton asked hesitantly, watching the elder witch rise. 

“I think I need to find someone.” Virgil said cryptically, knowing Patton was still watching him as he headed to the door.

“Virgil, it- it can wait until morning-” Patton attempted to argue. 

“I’ll only be a second.” Virgil pulled on his cloak once more. “I promise.” He had also promised to be home by sunset. He ignored the fact he was unsuccessful that time.

“But-!” Patton’s cry of protest was ignored, Virgil opening the door and immediately regretting his decision to go back in the cold. Still he stepped out, shutting the door. A few lazy flakes of snow began to fall down onto his head. 

“Okay, Mr. wolf, where are you?” Virgil asked to himself, stepping forwards a few paces.

He didn’t need to go far. Out of the shadows the wolf emerged again, first its glowing blue eyes that looked ready to scold Virgil for coming back out. As it got closer, Virgil could see something was clutched in its mouth. 

“So…” Virgil glanced down, suddenly hesitant. What if he was wrong about this? What if he just offended the most powerful wolf in the woods by claiming it was somehow Virgil’s servant? 

But then Virgil knelt down, and the wolf nudged its offering in Virgil’s direction. A juniper sprig, just as Virgil had gone searching for in the first place. Virgil took it delicately between his fingers, reaching out a cautious hand to test his claim. The wolf did not recoil, in fact it leaned its head into Virgil’s touch. 

Immediately Virgil felt a new warmth tingling up his arm, and he gasped at the feeling of the bond being formed. For a person with trust issues, the idea of breaking down his mental walls so quickly was almost startling. 

The wolf seemed to react in a similar manner, giving a surprised sniff of its nose and a small shake of its head. Logan. Something in the back of Virgil’s mind told him. This is your familiar, Logan.

“Thank you, Logan.” Virgil smiled gratefully, scratching Logan behind the ear.

[victorineb]

A (horribly belated) Merry Christmas to my dear fannibals! This is dedicated to those wonderfully patient souls who put up with my nonsense on a daily basis 💖💖💖

@tcbook @slashyrogue @snazzymolasses @desperatelyseekingcannibals @devereauxsdisease @drjlecter @redfivewritingby @kateera @jadegreenworks @thesilverqueenlady @wraithsonwingsposts @fragile-teacup @thisismydesignhannibal @pragnificent @zigzag-wanderer @stratumgermanitivum

Also on AO3.

Christmas Eve, 1979, Lithuania

There are dark things in the forest. The shimmering carapace of snow on the frigid ground does nothing to brighten them, its moonlight glitter swallowed into the sharp, ravenous black. The dark things deaden the light.

Among them this night slips a young man. A boy still, in truth, but already he belongs with the wicked and wayward. He finds his way between the trees easily, with practiced steps born of familiarity, no fear of falling or freezing. Nor of being pursued – he will not be missed until morning and plans to be back in his meagre bed long before then. This is not a night for escape, only for remembrance, and the renewal of certain vows which this boy holds as his only comfort, warming himself with thoughts of blood and brutality yet to be delivered.

One day, Hannibal Lecter will surpass every shadowy creature that stalks this forest. One day, this silent cub will bleed the world with a single flick of his claws.

But not tonight.

Tonight he makes barely a mark upon the world – even his feet leave only the faintest of traces, his slight frame skimming above the snow without time to sink into it. Gravity, it seems, can do as much to hold Hannibal Lecter as the walls of the orphanage (or those of a gilded cage, on some day yet to come).

It seems for a while as if the boy will take flight, run past his intended destination and keep going until the forest ends and the world opens up to him. Something stops him though, finally. One moment he is composed entirely of motion, the next he is stillness itself, not a flicker of muscle nor breath to be found. That something is moving though, surfacing from the night like a great ship, stately and immense. Hannibal’s eyes raise and raise again, as the creature advances upon him, seeming to take up the whole of the boy’s vision, obliterating all that surrounds them.

Before him stands an enormous stag, dark as the heavens and gleaming with iridescence. No, not gleaming exactly, Hannibal reflects, for the light does not seem to bounce off the creature, but rather slides slick across it, viscous and frictionless. Streaks of gold and petrol blue warp and weft across its hide like shot silk, and Hannibal can see now that its fur is interspersed with feathers that rustle and twitch as it bows its head to the ground and then straightens to regard him expectantly.

Hannibal, having been brought up properly, does not hesitate to return the gesture.

He seems utterly unfazed by the appearance of the great beast, regarding it with a placid curiosity as he straightens from his own bow. His eyes do widen a little, though, when the stag opens its mouth and, in a voice that tolls like a weary bell, addresses the young traveller.

“Few would dare to enter this place on such a night, fledgling. What brings you forth, into the cold?”

“I have business in the woods tonight, and no time for interruptions,” Hannibal replies. His voice is raw, rusty from disuse, and deeper than he recalls the last time he heard it.

The stag tilts its head. “You have no curiosity for the wonders the world puts before you?”

“The world took my family. The world may burn.”

“You are young for a pilgrim,” the stag opines.

“Age is not a barrier to purpose.” Hannibal takes a step forward.

“Nor to pain.”

“No.” The word hangs in the air, as if it does not carry the weight of Hannibal’s life within it.

The boy and the stag breathe together, fogging the air with plumes of white.

Presently Hannibal, growing impatient, breaks the silence. “Is there a reason you stopped me, or do you merely enjoy making a nuisance of yourself?”

“What would you say if I offered you something other than pain?”

“I would say nothing, which is all such an offer deserves.”

The stag shakes its great head a little, in amusement or offence, Hannibal neither knows nor cares. “We shall see,” it pronounces, in its rolling chime of a voice. “I offer you a choice, boy, and whatever you choose, I promise it will be yours before the New Year dawns.”

Hannibal sneers. “You can offer nothing I want.”

“Do not judge before you have all the facts, fledgling. The wise man waits, and learns all he can before he acts.”

Hannibal has had enough. He cares not for magic or miracles, only for the promise he must not break. He takes a step, meaning to brush past the stag and continue on his way, but before he can take a second, the beast stamps its hoof and lowers its antlers. It is barely a threat, more a warning, but the power of the creature is unmistakable and Hannibal subsides, recognising the superior predator.

The stag relents, raising its head in order to address Hannibal once more. “You have lost much in your short life, Hannibal Lecter. I offer you a chance to regain some of what has been taken from you.”

Hannibal’s eyes widen for the second time that night. For a moment he is mute again, his racing mind stoppering his voice. Then, he approaches the stag with quick, sliding steps and, in barely more than a whisper, asks, “Mischa?”

The stag lowers its great head until it is level with Hannibal’s. Its lightless eyes are deep with sorrow and it lets out a long breath before it speaks. “I am sorry, fledgling. The dead lie beyond my grasp. We can neither of us reach her.”

Hannibal feels the hole in his being, as black-edged and heavy as the first day without her, and anger burns cold down his spine. “Then what use are you to me?” he hisses.

“You find yourself alone in a cage, boy, without hope of freedom or love. One of these I can restore to you, but only one. Which will you choose, fledgling?”

“Freedom.” Hannibal has no need to think about it.

“So certain?” the stag asks, as if to give Hannibal a chance to change his mind. He has no need of that either.

“Only a fool would choose otherwise. If I must accept something in order to be rid of you, then I claim my freedom.”

The stag inclines its head, accepting Hannibal’s choice. “If that is your wish, so it shall be.”

“It is,” Hannibal insists. “Love makes one weak. I’ll not be made so again.”

The stag gives a huff, as if amused. “Youth and arrogance so happily go hand in hand. Yet I see a moment in your future, Hannibal Lecter, where you will face this choice once again. You would do well to remember this meeting then, it may guide your course when all hope seems to have abandoned you.”

The stag turns then, and slides oil-slick into the dark. Hannibal regards the space where it had been for a little while, and then forges on, to Mischa, to the place where she fell, so that he may greet Christmas morning with her once again.

Exactly a week later, a man in an expensive car appears at the orphanage to claim Hannibal as his kin. Robert bears no physical resemblance to Hannibal’s father, but speaks about him in such a way as Hannibal believes – knows – only a sibling could. He corroborates his uncle’s story with no hesitation and is quickly dispatched to gather his belongings, such as they are, so that they may begin the long trip back to Paris, where Robert’s home is. As he goes, Hannibal notices a slight, doe-eyed girl detach herself from the shadows behind Robert and follow him to his room. This, he is informed when he looks back to Robert, is Chiyoh, handmaiden to Robert’s wife, who has been brought along on this journey as it was felt that Hannibal might be more comfortable with someone closer to his own age.

She is quick-eyed, agile, and almost as silent as Hannibal. She will be his ally, he decides, and allows her to aid him as he packs his threadbare things into the incongruously luxurious bag he has been provided. When they descend downstairs, he notes that she places herself between him and Robert and allows this too, seeing a thread of protectiveness in her he can spin into a web of loyalty. He suspects, from the way Robert eyes him suspiciously, it may be of use.

At first, when Hannibal arrives in Paris, he is angered, believing himself cheated by a lying, manipulative spirit. This is not freedom, this new life, with its high walls and endless schoolwork and constant stream of people demanding Hannibal’s attention. And yet… after a while, he discerns the shape of what freedom might be, and better still, how this life will provide him the tools to enjoy it. He will become educated, cultured, refined. He will learn how to make people love him so that they will never suspect what he is until his hands are already around their necks, snapping and twisting the life from them.

The stag’s promise holds true in another regard too. There is no love here. Not in Robert. Not in Chiyoh, who regards Hannibal with wary interest and unswaying loyalty, but bears no affection for him. Not even in Murasaki, whose cold glamour fascinates Hannibal but who keeps him at arm’s length, as if instinctively aware of what he is.

It is no matter. Hannibal has no need of love and its distractions.

Winter, 2015, Wolf Trap

I miss my dogs. I'm not going to miss you. I'm not going to find you. I'm not going to look for you. I don't want to know where you are or what you do. I don't want to think about you anymore.

Hannibal cannot seem to leave. He walked out of Will’s front door with every intention of departure, of seeking a new direction as he had so many times before. Instead, his feet carried him along a well-worn path around Will’s house, past the barn where Will had “killed” Freddie Lounds, and to the small stream that runs just out of sight of Will’s windows. A desire-line between Hannibal and the place where he has left his heart.

When Hannibal walked out of his own home, leaving Will bleeding on his kitchen floor, he felt no hesitation. Behind him, his carefully constructed life lay in glimmering fragments but there was no tug of nostalgia or regret holding him back. It was his desire to leave, and so he did, striding easily into a new life, a new game, a new version of himself.

Now though, he cannot seem to find the same confidence of purpose. He knows he must leave, no other option is open to him, but still he lingers, braced on the edge of Will’s territory, unable to see the way forward. He sinks onto a tree stump and takes a moment to survey the land around him – he will imagine Will here often, he knows, windswept and pink-cheeked in his natural habitat, surrounded by his pack. His little family, his little boat on the water. Why is it that Will sets such store in a small life?

In his peripheral vision, he sees Chiyoh approach. Her steps are soft and slow in the long grass, and her hair has a blue-gold gloss in the harsh winter light. It matches the glint of gunmetal against her shoulder.

He chose well, all those years ago, when he marked her as his ally. Of all those people Hannibal has allowed some purchase in his life, she is perhaps the only one never to have disappointed. Her loyalty has never wavered. She stands by him now, both physically and symbolically, and regards him without pity, for which he is grateful.

“What will you do now?” she asks.

“I will leave.” He tries to inject something like boredom into his voice. Disinterest. He thinks he succeeds, enough for Chiyoh. (It wouldn’t have fooled Will, never Will.) “Find some new place, begin again.”

“Reinvention.”

“Life is a series of reinventions, rarely within our control. It will not be a hardship.”

“And yet still you remain, within earshot, in case your master should call you back home.” Her flat tone doesn’t sharpen but the blow lands regardless, buried between Hannibal’s ribs.

Hannibal wonders how delicately her neck would snap. Or perhaps he would use a knife, split her flesh the way he did Abigail’s. Some pleasing symmetry there. (Will would be appalled, though not as much as he would prefer to be.)

Chiyoh continues, probably not oblivious to Hannibal’s murderous imaginings, but unmoved by them. “You have a choice to make, Hannibal Lecter. You are bound by indecision – you will only know your direction when you have made your choice.”

He scoops a stone from beside his foot and contemplates it a second before tossing it into the water. It sinks without trace, save for the languid ripples of its impact. “No choices are left to me in this life. They have all been made for me.”

“There is always a choice, Hannibal.”

“Between iron and silver?”

“Between freedom and love.”

A breath escapes him, a puff of white rising skywards, and in it Hannibal sees the shape of the stag, and the shape of his future. He feels a smile stretch his lips, rueful and wry, and turns it to Chiyoh.

“What?” she asks, tone flat but her eyes curious.

“You’re not the first to present such a choice to me.”

“Oh no? How did you choose that time?”

“I think you know.”

She grants a smile, a tiny, fleeting thing, and then looks past him, back towards Will’s house. “And how will you choose now?”

Hannibal smiles too. He doesn’t bother looking back to the house, he’ll be seeing it again soon. Just as soon as Jack and his attack dogs show themselves.

Christmas Eve, 2018, Someplace Far Away

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“There is such a thing as too many patterns in a single outfit.”

Hannibal tries for aloof and unamused in response to Will’s flippancy, but misses the mark by quite some distance, hitting fond and indulgent instead. He seems to have quite lost his formerly supreme mastery of his facial expressions since the advent of Will’s daily presence in his life.

Will lolls in his seat, highly entertained by his own wit, grinning up at Hannibal delightedly. He’s draped himself over both armrests, sleepy and warm with the fire’s heat licking over his skin, and so his feet dangle next to Hannibal’s hand where it lays on his own armrest, ankles temptingly exposed. Hannibal would like very much to wrap his hand around one and rub his thumb gently against Will’s ankle bone. He weighs up the probability of such an action causing Will to flee the room, and decides that, given his companion’s smiling, easy air tonight, it is worth the risk.

Will does, admittedly, tense up a little at the contact, but he settles quickly enough, leaning back into his seat and closing his eyes. Hannibal lets the conversation lull for the moment, content with the possessiveness he feels in having a hold on his ever-slippery empath. His thumb moves in gentle circles, soothing and steady, and he is almost convinced from Will’s sleepy scent that he has dropped off, but then Will – without opening his eyes – says, in a dreamy tone of voice:

“Did I ever tell you about the Ravenstag?”

Hannibal nearly chokes.

After a drawn-out moment with no response, Will cracks an eye open and peers at Hannibal. But by now Hannibal has had enough time to compose himself and merely presents Will with a curious expression.

Will, Hannibal suspects, is not fooled for a second, but evidently decides not to push. “I’m guessing from that expression that I didn’t.”

Hannibal inclines his head, tight grip on his expressions re-established. He can’t give anything away yet. Not until he’s sure. But the image of a night sky eaten up by endless blue and gold is vivid in his mind. “Not that I can recall,” he concedes.

Will closes his eye back up and wriggles around, apparently attempting to find the best position for storytelling. He is careful though, Hannibal notices, not to pull his ankle out of his grasp. For his own part, Hannibal is working hard to give no sign of the swooping feeling in his stomach, the rising anticipation that’s making him lightheaded. He keeps his hold on Will’s ankle light, despite the sudden, intense need to clutch at him, to keep him moored as though he might dissipate, a fever-dream all along.

“All right,” Will says, entirely oblivious to Hannibal’s inner turmoil, settling an arm casually behind his head, “remember when you were attempting to cook my brain without removing it from my head?”

As if Hannibal could forget. He still thinks of that Will sometimes, fragile and beautiful, sheened in sweat and desperation, propelled by stubborn purpose to keep standing when he should, by rights, have long been laid low. That Will who trusted him blindly, such a contrast to the one who sits contentedly by him now, unafraid and understanding, his trust hard won and paid for in blood, and achingly, unbelievably real.

“Vividly,” he says smoothly, and is rewarded with a cocked eyebrow and a smirk.

“And you know that one of the fun side-effects was my brain springing all kinds of visual hallucinations on me.”

“Yes. You told me once of a man with ink-black flesh and towering antlers. The image stayed with me long after the conversation – I attempted to recreate it on the page but to no avail.”

“I would’ve been interested to see those – they would have been self-portraits, after all.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. He’s not exactly surprised by this revelation – he had long since put together the connection between the image of a Wendigo and his own proclivities – but it tugs at something inside to have it confirmed, how deeply he had resonated in Will’s mind, and how elegantly Will’s subconscious had tried to alert him to the danger he faced.

“They are sadly lost to the bowels of the FBI, those that did not burn in the flames of Alana’s frustration.”

Will opens his eyes and lifts his head to look at Hannibal thoughtfully. “Could you do more?”

“Would you like that?”

Will’s eyes flicker away from Hannibal’s and he stares into the fire. Eventually, he finds an answer amongst the flames. “I think… yes. I would. It’s always interesting to have you show me the inside of my own head. Not literally, I hasten to add,” he grins.

That Will can joke about that terrible day in Florence seems nothing short of miraculous to Hannibal, and he is glad, for once, that Will’s eyes are denied to him at the moment. He’s fairly sure of what is showing on his face and Will is not yet comfortable with displays of naked devotion. Especially ones associated with Hannibal’s occasional attempts to murder him.

“Anyway.” Will’s voice interrupts Hannibal’s thoughts and he returns his full attention to him and the far more pressing issue at hand. “This was supposed to be something you don’t already know about.”

“Yes, your ‘Ravenstag’,” Hannibal says, making the quotation marks audible, as if he’s never heard of such a thing.

Will eyes close again, as if he needs to look into the dark to find the memory. “I only started seeing it after I met you. After your little piece of field theatre back in Minnesota.” There’s a subtle bite to Will’s words, and Hannibal wonders if he is thinking of Abigail, or of the young woman he killed as his first gift to Will. That he has killed young women is a sore point between them, though Hannibal can’t understand Will’s belief that the entire category should be protected, as if every female under twenty-one is an innocent. Still so given to bursts of nonsensical morality, his Will. He keeps these thoughts to himself, though, unwilling to divert Will from his tale.

“After that, it kept turning up. This immense beast, like something out of a nightmare, fur the blue-black of the night sky and rippling with feathers. Followed me everywhere. In Abigail’s hospital room, in my classroom, at crime scenes. It was with me in my dreams, with me when I sleepwalked…” Will trails off. Hannibal sees the tick in his jaw as Will struggles with some deep-seated memory, and knows with a flash of shared consciousness what image Will is revisiting.

“It was with you and Abigail while she died on my kitchen floor.” He says it without inflection, impassive, aware that he has no right to the pain that flares within his chest.

“It was dying too,” Will whispers. “I liked to think it went with her, wherever she went after. Looked out for her. Maybe it did, for a while.”

“It came back?”

“Eventually. Needed a friendly face after your Girl Friday tipped me off that train.”

Chiyoh. How interesting. “And was it? Friendly?”

Will takes a moment to consider this. “Not, not friendly,” he says eventually, drawing the words out thoughtfully. “But… safe. It was with me so often it became almost more a comfort than anything else.”

“Another member of your pack.”

Will smiles wryly, accepting the idea. “Yeah, I guess it was.” He opens his eyes and finds Hannibal’s, stares into them. “I probably should have been scared of it, but it never occurred to me to be so.”

Hannibal understands. He supposes he should have been scared of Will too, as much as he is capable of fear. And he is, in fact, a little frightened of how Will might react to what he has to say next.

First, though, a question.

“Did it ever speak to you, this apparition?”

Will looks surprised, the inquiry obviously not what he had been anticipating. “No, no speech. I don’t think it could. It just, you know, loomed. Occasionally burst into flames.”

“Into…” Hannibal lets the question die on his lips. Later, he will ask for details later.

He hesitates, wondering if perhaps this is all a mere coincidence. Why would it speak to Hannibal and not to Will, after all? And yet… the image Will conjured was so precise a match for the one in Hannibal’s mind. And then there is the fact that it appeared to Will just after his encounter with Chiyoh, just as Chiyoh had once appeared in Hannibal’s life after his meeting with the stag.

“Will,” Hannibal says carefully, forcing himself past his doubts, “I am aware that you have no reason to believe what I am about to tell you, but I would ask that you allow me to finish before you make any judgements.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“Will, please.”

Will regards Hannibal, with the look that means he is carefully reading every line and curve of his face and distilling his innermost thoughts from them.

“All right, no talking, I swear.”

Hannibal takes a breath, suffused with relief. “Thank you, Will,” he says, to which Will only nods in acknowledgement, his face half-amused, half-intrigued.

“It was a Christmas Eve just like this,” Hannibal begins, “when I was but a boy, still living in the orphanage, without hope of release. Just before midnight I snuck out, determined to find the spot where Mischa and I spent our last happy moments together.”

Will doesn’t make a sound, as he had promised, but Hannibal feels him shift in his seat, and then a warm hand covers his own and holds tight.

“I was waylaid on my journey,” Hannibal continues, “by a creature whose appearance I can neither explain nor fathom. The same creature you just described to me, Will. Your Ravenstag.”

Will’s eyes are wide but still he says not a word.

“There is an old belief in my homeland, that when midnight strikes on the night before Christmas, animals gain the power of speech. And so the stag spoke to me.

“It offered me a choice, to gain my freedom or to have love return to my life. With all the arrogance of youth and the anger born of my grief, I chose the former without hesitation or thought. And so it granted me deliverance from my prison, into a life free of attachment or desire.”

Slowly, so slowly, Hannibal slips from his seat and to his knees beside Will.

“Until I met you, mylimasis. And I learned to make a different choice.”

Will waits, lets the silence between them draw out until it is clear Hannibal’s tale is done. “Did you ever see it again?” he asks, apparently willing to believe the impossible thing Hannibal has just told him without question.

“Never.” Hannibal shakes his head. He thinks of Chiyoh, though, that afternoon behind Will’s house, and wonders.

Will leans forward, both hands grasping Hannibal’s now, and lays their foreheads together. “What does it mean?” he breathes.

“I don’t know. Perhaps that fate has had plans for us all our lives.”

“What kind of universe would want us together?” Will asks, a plea in his voice.

“One to which I owe my eternal gratitude.”

Will’s blush is almost hidden by the firelight and the cynical expression he hastily draws across his face like a veil as he draws back from Hannibal again. They stay like that quietly for a while longer, and eventually Hannibal reluctantly accepts that the conversation is likely done for tonight. Then Will lets out a little huff of amusement, and looks down at Hannibal, still kneeling before him.

“Maybe they figured that we’d spend so much time trying to kill each other, the net killing rate would drop.”

“I believe there was an error in their calculations, in that case,” Hannibal says drily, pulling a begrudging but genuine smile from Will. “Though, I must give credit to the fates – they conjured the only creature who could possibly have distracted me from my purpose. It has been quite difficult to concentrate on anything but you since the first moment you growled at me in Jack’s office, dear Will.” As he says this, Hannibal reaches a hand up to Will’s cheek and cradles his face gently, caressing it exactly the way he did all those years ago in his kitchen. He can see the moment memories of that night in Baltimore flash through Will’s eyes, and the one when Will banishes them to the past, his eyes softening, his shoulders relaxing.

There is rarely a moment when Hannibal doesn’t want to kiss Will – that desire does not waver in the face of petulance or cruelty. It is simply an essential part of Hannibal’s being. This moment, though, has a ring of inevitability to it, as if it is the one each of those other moments has been building inexorably towards. But, as it turns out, it is not Hannibal who acts upon it, frozen as he is with the pressure of a fated moment suddenly upon him.

Instead it is Will, laughing as always in the face of fate, who seals their lips together with all the ease of saying hello.

Will’s mouth is warm and insistent, and Hannibal yields easily to it, lips parting to allow Will inside. The approving hum Will gives in response lights up every nerve in Hannibal’s body and he surges upwards, pressing Will back into his chair, straddling his lap and gripping at his hair. Hannibal feels Will’s hands slide round to cup his ass in response, and then they’re pressing desperately against each other, as if they could merge into one and never be parted again.

It’s several minutes before they do part, and then only because breathing is an inescapable inconvenience. They stare at each other, giddy and panting, and can’t help but continue to trade more kisses, smaller ones, clinging and tender and wonderful. Finally, Will lays his brow against Hannibal’s once again, and gazes at him as their breath mingles. He smiles.

“Eternal gratitude, huh?”

“Even longer, perhaps,” Hannibal muses, and then pulls Will down in front of the fire in order to prove it.

Later, when they lie tangled together, sated if only for the moment, Hannibal looks up at the window. He suspects that if he ventured out into the cold just now, he would encounter a gigantic stag with the night sky for a coat and some words for him on the subject of hasty choices. Or, perhaps, just a small Japanese woman with a “told-you-so” expression on her face. He’s not minded to find out, though, not when Will is warm and solid against him, and their clinging fingers are writing vows for the future against each other’s flesh. Perhaps sometime in the future they will have to choose again between love and freedom, but on this Christmas Eve, Will and Hannibal have both. They have them in each other. And it will certainly take a force greater than the one that brought them together to take that from them.

Outside, the small figure of a woman gazes at the couple within, and pities anybody who tries to put them asunder. And then she turns back into the night, and melts, with a blue-gold flash, into its blackness.

There are dark things in the forest, and neither the glow of the moon, nor the sparkle of frost can touch them. But every now and then, when the opportunity presents itself, they take the darkness and, from it, they make their own source of light.

[fanesavin]

@xxtuaharjunaxx and Fane prior to the coronation discussing some concerns regarding security.

[ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (x) | (x) ]

Fane couldn't admit to being in the best of moods. After the events of last night his head hurt, he felt tired and an argument this morning had seen Lady Lacroy decide to depart the city. He'd ended up retreating to the Dawnguard headquarters in town not wishing to be around noble faces for a little while, he'd seen enough of them already in this trip and their mind-melding political manoeuvring was beyond his patience. As it was he was sat at his desk, forehead held in one hand and quill in the other writing up a small report on the last couple of days affairs. Namely the Grand Lady's kidnapping and Lady Lacroy's assault. It was quiet here and finally he could think in peace.

Tuah The last thing he wanted to face this morning was the nobilities trying to get over the previous night’s hangover, seeing that he hadn’t indulge himself in a drinking stupor. Tuah was one of the few that had woken up fresh this morning, ready in his everyday garments before heading out, his confidante always by his side. It was during his walk that he noticed the Dawnguard headquarter, and his heartstrings were pulled enough that he decided to enter the building. He was attended by one of the stationed guards who recognised him for the service that he had provided instead of his title, and Tuah couldn’t help but be pleased with it. “Is Lord Savin here?” he asked out of idle curiosity. They hadn’t be able to talk much during the festivities the night before, so he’d be glad if they would have some time to themselves before everyone else woke up.

Fane had ended up writing the same word thrice over, frustration bubbling up he curled his fingers into the parchment and crumpled it into a ball before launching it across the room at the fire. He sat back hands pressed to his head as he stared up at the ceiling. Downstairs the guard that recognised Tuah nodded before pointing a gloved hand to the stone staircase leading to the higher elevations of the building "aye m'lord, he's upstairs."

Tuah nodded, his gaze followed towards the upper level of the building and nodded his thanks towards when the guard escorted him to Fane’s room. He watched with a gentle smile at Fane’s little antics before he decided to knock on the door gently. “Rough morning?” was his greeting to the other, a sympathetic smile now painted his lips.

Fane hadn't anticipated guests, he'd come here to avoid seeing people. After throwing his ball of paper, which was now catching flame in the hearth, he sunk back into his seat eyes closed. Though a familiar voice stirred them to flicker open and where Tuah smiled Fane grimaced. "You would never believe." His eyes flickered to the guard at Tuah's side, not particularly in the mood to be overheard or seen in his present condition "thank you Torrhen you may return to your post." The young man bowed and departed back down the steps. Once he was gone Fane waved to the spare seat in the room indicating Tuah could take it if he wanted.

Tuah winced when he saw Fane grimaced. Perhaps this wasn’t a good time for them to spend their morning together, and he was about to excuse himself when Fane invited him over. “You’re dismissed, Hassan,” he waved his confidante away, though seeing the protest that was about to bubble forth, Tuah raised his hand. “Nothing will happen to me while I’m in Lord Savin’s company, I assure you. And even if something is to happen, I can take care of myself just fine.” He resigned himself when his confidante seemed adamant to stand guard outside of Fane’s office and walked across the threshold of the office, taking a seat offered to him. “Would you like me to call someone to prepare something to soothe your mind, Lord Savin?”

Fane watched the exchange between Tuah and his confidante in astute silence. Eventually they were left alone and Fane finally exhaled slowly. "No need, just... tiredness and frustration after yesterday," he mustered a smile though it was a little more wan than it had been the previous evening. He wasn't so skilled at the game of faces as other nobles.

Tuah arched his brow at the other’s comment, an inquisitive look on his face. “Something in particular happened?” he asked, wondering what could it be to have Fane expressed himself so.

Fane snorted under his breath, had something happened indeed. But that wasn't what he wished for Tuah's opinion on, well, not right now. Where he stood on formalities with others Fane now pulled his knee up to his chest, propping the heel of his boot on the edge of his chair but he was feeling far too restless to care overly much about appearances. "Two things specifically," he paused "you know of Cassandra? Grand Lady of Summerset?"

Tuah was not there to judge, merely lend an ear to ease Fane’s burden somewhat, if that was what the other needed right now. He would not have forced Fane to share if he didn’t want to either, opting for other subject to talk between them. They did have a lot to catch up on, after all. Tuah nodded slowly, sifting through his memories who Fane was referring to. “I am aware of who she is, yes,” he turned his attention towards Fane with a cocked of his head to the side, sitting comfortably in his seat, “what of her?”

Fane propped his forearm on his knee as he turned his attention to a map of the different regions of the kingdom. "Someone tried to kidnap her yesterday... Reports from the people I had looking into it suggest that House Kesley were responsible. Equally, Lady... um... Lacroy was assaulted in the streets." His frowned deepened a little at mention of the latter but it would be mistaken for concern over the matter at hand, "I'm concerned this is a prelude to something... more." The coronation was today and bloodshed and violence did not bode well for a supposedly holy day of peace.

Tuah followed Fane’s gaze towards the map, brows furrowed together as he run his fingers along his clean-shaven jaw. The two incidents seemed unrelated, but with the coronation merely hours away, he understood why Fane was gravely concerned. The last thing they needed was mass panic from the nobilities and the people alike. “I assume that you have proof to support your claim, otherwise you’re only going to make matters worse.” Tuah turned his attention towards Fane, steepling his hands together.

Fane tapped his fingers on his knee, "both crown princes of the Forty Isles and a few knights of their entourage witnessed the kidnapper claim for House Kesley. Equally, it's a house notorious for it's... prejudices against those who claim or are reputed to have any associations with magic." That being said Fane rubbed his shortly trimmed beard with his index finger and thumb. "It just feels a little... convenient wouldn't you say? A house with historical feuds and apparent... ill will towards one of the few guests in attendance that might rouse trouble with the common-folk. Don't you think?" Perhaps it wasn't and he was thinking too much into it, but Fane couldn't entirely help how he saw the events unfolding.

Tuah “It is indeed,” Tuah noted, “and for the kidnapper to have easily claimed that they are of House Kesley? That itself is odd indeed.” He was quiet as he took this all in, leaning back against the chair as his steepled hands brought to his chin, brows still furrowed deeply. “Was there any other account apart from House Cardero? Any servants that might be present during the kidnapping?” After a moment, he asked, “Was Lord Cardero present during Lady Lacroy’s incident as well?”

Fane flourished his hand towards Tuah in a small gesture resembling something akin to I know. "Not that I know of, though it took place on the street and the man responsible rather inconveniently is no longer with us." As for Lady Lacroy his fingers curled until his thumb then pointed back at himself, "no, but I was... um, with her... Walking... we were walking... together... Outside, yesterday... that is... And her assailant came upon her screaming she was a witch and had a blade to her throat before I could even register what was happening..."

Tuah hummed, amusement flittered across his face when Fane stumbled through his words. For as long as he had known the other, Fane had been very eloquent in his speech and had never lost his composure. So to witness something as such was definitely interesting, and a token to tease the older gentleman further. “Lady Lacroy must’ve been in a state of shock after such incident,” he remarked, a teasing lilt evident behind his voice, his lips curled into a slight smile. “Did you manage to comfort her afterwards?”

Fane levelled Tuah with a stony ice-laden look befitting the frigidness of a Northerner. "Not particularly, we spoke some... But she decided that the incident was evidence that she was unwelcome here chose to leave the city this morn'."

Tuah was unswayed by the look that was thrown at him, having used to being stared down many times as he butted head against the general during his serve in the Dawnguard. He hid his smile behind his hand, stifling a laughter so as not to offend the other further. “All the more you should convince her otherwise, no? You do have quite a way with your words.”

Fane was unamused by Tuah's point, "apparently not with her." He glowered realising he'd gone off topic, "that's not the point-- the point is--" and at that moment the bells started to toll, long and rich notes chiming over the city. Fane pushed to his feet and went to the window, "Gods," he was hardly ready by any means. There was no time for plans. "I might take some of the Guard with me... Something about all this just... feels off."

Tuah might have continued to tease Fane if the bell hadn’t start to toll. He heaved a sigh and straightened his back and pushed himself to his feet. He was already in his official garments before going out this morning, so there was no need for him to change again. He nodded at Fane’s suggestion, resting his hand on the sword by his hip. “You have my service if need be,” he offered, never one to shy away from his duty as a Dawnguard. “I’ll be sure to keep my eyes open if there’s something afoot.”

Fane looked at his old friend and gave a small nod. "Wait a few moments and I'll walk with you to the castle," with this he vanished behind a divider into another room glad that he kept a few of his spare clothes here. He dressed simply never one for ostentatious displays of power and after pulling on his boots stepped out. "Come," he said to his friend smoothing his hair back and more flat "let us head to the ceremony." On route he summoned some of his trusted swords to fall in behind as their entourage requesting they carried the bare minimum in terms of arms and plating. This was a day of peace and he didn’t wish to upset or inspire inclinations of distrust in other lordlings but Fane trusted his gut and he something about today made him feel uneasy.

[belore-invictus]

Light Have Mercy

“Since you so willingly chose to take away something I babied, then I will take away your heart.” Her sister hovered over the bloodied Phaeith; a dastardly grin wickedly crossed her features with opalescent teeth stained with blood proudly showcased to Inancia’s elder... 

-

It was a normal morning for Phaeith. One where she awakened to make preparations for her morning meetings, followed by a quick run through the Woods and City. There was nothing out of place in her grandiose room, nor was there anything peculiar about how her gut felt today. Instead, her mind was ever quiet as she bathed in a quick shower and dressed herself in something easy yet presentable.   

 Groomed in nothing finer than Thalassian silks that made up a unique, form fitting onyx and crimson lined suit with golden accents for the woman and simple Sin’dorei Slippers, the Matriarch herself sought to it that business would be the first order of the day- in honor of those she newly, and proudly stood for, and served beside. With the aching want to learn about the new faces of Aegis, she found herself captivated by the idea of relearning herself as well- and this meant being a different leader, a new one. Learning her do’s and don’ts rather quickly with her House project, she chose to take her examples and mistakes and create a new life out of it. 

 Lost in her own mind, the busy woman found herself completely zoned out in front of her vanity. Marble backed brushes set on the acrylic top; ivory eyes lowered to take in the terrors of her last few months. Being held captive and tortured for so long, she wondered why she hadn’t broke yet. Was it because she was used to it at this point, or was she stronger- or perhaps, it wasn’t time for her kettle to overflow quite yet. Her mind was a strange one, and even she knew nothing of how to control it. She knew not of how to prepare her heart for abuse anymore, nor how to protect it from it. Instead, she chose to embrace it and continue on with her hours. Almost a woman watching another, if she could describe herself today. 

 A morning that seemed so perfect was quick to turn dark as her brooding sister swung her door open with Light being wield in her hands- intimate light of aggression and hostility. The Inquisitor set ablaze and angry, huffing and puffing as she would. “How DARE you take Aegis from me, Bella’viere?! You believe you have the right to return to the city, only to declare that YOU are the rightful leader of what -I- have built?! Is this revenge on Ari choosing to be with me, instead of you?!” She hissed like the serpent she was; snarling. 

 The loud noises and voice from behind Phaeith was paid no mind to- and instead, she stood with an all too calm and collective figure. Rising to her feet, fingers to sweep her hair into a tight bun- she was easy to note Inancia’s quick to advance behavior. That was the Inquisitor’s mistake- as aggressive as she was, she left her defense down. 

 “I did not take it from you, Inancia. You lacked the mind of a leader to lead the people I told you to look out for, by being too in love. By forgetting your duties, and making the immature mistake of believing that love was going to push you forward. Love stunts you, and love should NEVER get in the way of the people who trust their lives into your hands; and you choosing to be with your beloved. You are NOT someone who joined Aegis, you created it. It is your DUTY to give them what they wish for- and you LACK giving them it. I have gone to every single meeting for you because you lack the tongue to caress ears that only wish to know what this Brotherhood is to stand for- and where is your tongue? Down the Knight-Lord’s throat, like his lapdog! Your relationship with Ari has no tidings over me.” 

The rumors of Phaeith returning to the Isle were true. As were the rumors of her golden heart being shielded in blood and steel- in her attempt to be stronger. Was she ever weak, or was she too trusting? 

 Inancia who was furious by Phaeith’s tone and words reacted poorly. Striding closer to the Paladin to close the distance, allowing her aura to burn brighter and brighter by the second. “It has been only THREE weeks, Bella’viere. Three weeks! You believe you are better than me- that you deserve the world, is it? That you deserve to lead, simply because your men sided with me after your disappearance? What of the men who left you as you rotted in a cellar- what of THEM? Yet you choose to take it out on me instead. Hmph. A woman who left her family- short of killing her father, and mother- only to backstab her own sister?” She sneered. 

 Bella’viere’s blood boiled. Almost as if it pulsated with excruciating heat that even the Matriarch couldn’t understand. It was if she was back in the status of not knowing when to calm herself, or how to. Even as her blood boiled and cheeks reddened, her tongue was kept in line and her eyes lacked any feeling whatsoever. No one knew that the Patriarch of Ven’torum attempted murder onto his own, nor that his wife had a hand in it. No one understood that she was defending herself; and that she never meant for it to go down as it did. Sadly, it did end in death. 

 “Three weeks is a long time, Inancia. You spread cause, only to lack true reason and inspiration? Some of these men joined Aegis for you because they looked into your eyes and EXPECTED immediate relief from a quiet and lonesome world. Some of them stared into your soul, and wished for the best because they trusted your words. You cannot invite men and women into your cause, only to deny them any taste of their dreams. It has been a week and a half since I have taken place under -YOUR- banner, and yet within that week and a half... My men, and your men, choose to oath their blades to me. Words unswayed, nor bargained. All I had to do was be there for them- because these LIVING beings are not PAWNS in a chess game, Inancia! They are capable of protecting the Isle as we want, and you deserve no such loyalty with the attitude you parade yourself around with!” Phaeith finally extracted the truth from her heart, passionate and furious. 

 “You have no sympathy. I see it now, Bella’viere. You have no sympathy or love for your own family. Father and Mother punishing you as they have were causes of the right reason- you lack anything more than punishment.” With that, the Inquisitor rose a strong hand onto Phaeith’s cheek; aiming to strike her down. Light to burn her tawny flesh- though the action was quick to being denied. 

 Phaeith ever-so calculative of Inancia’s behavior caught her wrist in one hand and shoved it away. A shove not weak, nor aggressive. The woman’s heart did not want to be sullied this morning with a fight, and her still healing injuries told her to relax. “A family that abandoned me first, and yet. I attempted to build a proud name for you all, only to be backstabbed by the one who claims that I took a blade to their back first. This is no rivalry, or novella, Inancia. There is no sympathy on the field, and I will give you none. You deserve none. You dare lay a hand on me, knowing full-well that I seek NONE of your arguing nor fighting. Why must you push a sleeping animal, Sister? We are of the same blood! Who says that you cannot attempt to do right by leading this Brotherhood- side by side with me? I allowed to be announced Sovereign only for your lack of compassion to the people who oath to spill their blood on our grounds for you. I am a Knight, Cia. I will not see to it that my own die for reasons so tragic and wrong. I will build Aegis into something unseen before, powered by a machine of strong individuals who deserve recognition beyond sight.” 

 Although Phaeith meant for each and every single word of hers to come off inspirational to her sister, the plan failed. Cia chose to lust for blood, and blood she would have. Laying hands on her already tarnished sister; throwing her into tables, across the room, and grabbing her hair. 

 The Knight beginning to bleed and bruise, barely had it in her to want to fight back. All she could see were the faces of her mother and father, and terrors of their hands striking down upon her for remotely defending herself against Cia. Then a whirlpool of memories of her time enslaved months ago drenched her brain; leaving her burdened. 

 Every instinct in her body told her to fight, even if her wounds told her that she would only constipate her healing process even further. Every instinct yelled for the woman to put Cia down like the dog that she was; and yet. The woman chose to allow Cia to cause her to bleed. There was no part of her that was angry anymore- no part that wanted to be. Within those months of being gone, she used enough emotion that it stunted her ability to be who she once was, today. 

 It came to a point where Bella’viere sat on her knees in front of Inancia, drenched in her own blood and eyes as lost as the abyss of the sea- stared up at the Inquisitor and found her mind silent. Just as it was awakening this morning, she sat silent on her knees. Nose bleeding, mouth spewing coughs of blood. Skin reddened- heart broken. Numb, she was numb to the pain and anger now. 

“Since you so willingly chose to take away something I babied, then I will take away your heart.” Her sister hovered over the bloodied Phaeith; a dastardly grin wickedly crossed her features with opalescent teeth stained with blood proudly showcased to Inancia’s elder. 

 What was she to do, murder her sister within her own home? Precisely. In this moment, Inancia placed her hands upon the temples of Phaeith’s forehead and chanted a spell; one dark and devious. One Phaeith was familiar to- and one that began to force the woman’s heart to lurch into her throat. 

 Inancia was taking away the memories of those she loved the deepest, romantically. From Romena to the man after, to Lumeal. There was nothing left but the standard memories of their friendships- and that was it. However, as those memories began to be wired from Phaeith, flash floods of her last thoughts with them infiltrated her mind and suddenly tears welted her eyes. 

 The only who stood bright in her mind was Lumeal; and feeling herself forget him, caused the weakened woman to scream out. To cry out in pain, and anger. Which slowly turned to quiet, forgetting what she was screaming out for. What pained her. What felt so empty, and alone within her chest. 

Inancia who walked out of the room after healing Phaeith as much as she could and rearranging the room to her best of her abilities; Phaeith simply sat on the floor. Eyes wide, head lowered, and thoughtless. Mindless. Her soul and heart ripped from her chest- unsure with why she felt so lost and tragic. There was no longer any prominent recollections in her mind of love, and what it felt like. All she knew was the love of being a mother, and that was it. 

[Soft mentions: @lumealblackstrider , @drimmari , @inancia ] 

[friendlylocalwhumper]

@badthingshappenbingo fill #8. Keep hitting me with those requests! I know I’ve been stickin’ mainly to Leverage, but that’s not all I’ll write. Send me an ask and I’ll fill your request! @tidalrace asked for an Eliot/Aimee fic with Eliot’s old shoulder problems flaring up - damn thing pops out of its socket.

Prompt: The Collector

Fandom: Leverage

Characters: Eliot Spencer, Aimee Martin

Tags: captivity, stress position, dislocated shoulder, chains, restrained, painful healing, comfort, dialogue, profanity

Word Count: 1,281

A month. A whole damn month in this fucking place. "You know, for someone in my line of work, it's so rare to find an item as valuable as you." He smiled, looking over the hitter's twisted form. A glance was spared for the woman beside him. "And I could hardly turn down the opportunity to complete the set." Eliot bared his teeth at the man. His body was wound tightly and the tremors had already set in. Stress positions were a bitch. Balancing on the balls of his feet, his weight was rested on his legs in a squatting position, his arms forced back and up to their limit. The manacles securing his wrists to the wall behind him allowed no margin for movement. There was no getting out of a stress position without help, and there was no keeping quiet after a few hours. Sooner or later, he was going to be making a lot of noise. If anyone else was locked up with him, he would be worried about that. But it would take a lot more than a little hollerin' to get to Aimee. She was brave. Eliot felt a swell of pride when she spat at the guy's feet. "Some would question my choice with that one," Their captor sighed, giving her an annoyed look. "Old flame, little country girl, what makes her worthy of being paired with the likes of Eliot Spencer?" Eliot was glad the douchebag hadn't found it necessary to keep her in a stress position. She was able to move, a chain linking her to the floor by the ankle. Uncomfortable, maybe, but it wouldn't hurt her. "She's the only woman you've ever really loved, isn't she? You grew up with her. She's a little piece of home. There's no one that suits you better, I think, if I'll be keeping you locked up. Don't want you to lose your mind now." By now, the hitter would have shared some choice words with the freak simpering at them. As it was, he didn't need to put Aimee at any more risk, so he opted to glare silently. "Hmm," Their captor tapped his chin in thought, appraising his prize catch. "You know, I think I'd like to see a little more tension in you." He stepped closer, too close for Eliot's comfort, and pressed a hand between his shoulder blades. With a shove downward, the hitter felt a grinding pop in his shoulder and a hoarse cry was torn from him. That damn shoulder. Always that shoulder. His vision blacked out for a second with the searing pain, and when he could see again, the man had left. "Shit," He gasped, shaking the hair out of his face. "Always hated that sound," Aimee watched him as he collected himself. She got up from where she sat, tugged at her chain, and walked to him. There was a bit of chain left over so she could kneel at his side. "Mind if I fix that for ya?" "Gimme a second," He answered tersely, a little off-balance. He was tilted to one side now, his position holding the dislocated joint in place, and his nerves were on fire. That damn shoulder. Ever since the first time it'd popped out of its socket back when he was a kid, it never took much for it to pop out again. Hurt like hell every time. That was the thing about being a decent enough hitter to live this long - he had old aches, injuries that would make themselves known and pester him for being fool enough to make it this far. "It's only gonna get worse," She supplied, ready to help. "Let's just get it over with." "Yer not the one in a stress position," He grumbled, evening out his breaths. "Oh, stop complaining, it's barely even kicked in yet. You've had worse. Now stop bein' a baby and let me fix that shoulder." "Fine." Eliot almost smiled at her words. Usually he was the bossy, no-nonsense voice of reason, but around her, he was like a teenager again. The wonders of young love and an old friendship. "I'm'onna count to three." "And do it on two. I know the drill." "Well, if you see it comin' anyway," She placed her hands on either side of the tender joint, ignoring his wince. "Then there's no use countin'." With that, she shoved the shoulder back hard, and he screamed, jerking in his restraints. Aimee placed her hand at the base of his neck, lightly scratching her nails through his hair to soothe him. He quieted down after a few seconds, breathing hard. She knew he loved it when she ran her hand through his hair; she didn't stop until his breathing evened out again. As much as the tough love approach helped him focus, a little comforting never hurt. "I'm sorry you got dragged into this," He admitted, and it made her uneasy to hear. She didn't want to hear him sound resigned, not yet, nothing bad had even happened yet. Not as bad as it could get. He had to stay indignant, pissed even. "So you're just gonna give up on me again?" She scoffed, pulling away from him. He watched her as she walked back to where she'd first sat. She tried not to think about how vulnerable he looked right now. "Give up?" "Sit there feelin' sorry for yourself, wait for somethin' ta happen?" "I-" His face clouded over. "I can't get out of this, you know that. I can plan. You wanna plan?" His tone was dark, on edge. "Here's the plan: we get the hell out. Watch for a weakness, find an opening, and get out. I don't know what more you want." "I want you to be the man I remember," She parried, unswayed by his stubborn ways. "Goin' off to take care of business, coming back with nothin' but a rattlesnake smile and a bouquet of roses. You used to take care of what needed doin'. And you didn't need a team of thieves to cheer you on neither." "I don't need them," He hissed, and his words rang as untrue as they were. "We're not 20 anymore, I can't just run off pullin' jobs and takin' out targets. I have people to protect." "And that's why you let yourself get caught by this fool?" "I didn't let- how'd you hold up against a damn taser?" "I don't claim to the world's best hitter!" He closed his eyes, calming himself before he lashed out at that, and she tilted her head. "You're afraid." He didn't answer, and whether it was because he was ignoring her or he was admitting defeat, she didn't care. "They're out there, vulnerable, and you actually want out. You're afraid this freak's the one that'll keep you locked up for good." "They need me," He breathed, and she moved closer to catch his eyes. "I needed you," She said quietly, and she could tell it hurt him to hear it. "You did fine without me. I knew you would, you're strong. Never needed me there to hold your hand." "What do you need, right now?" The quieter they got, the more honest his reactions were. This was no longer an argument, it was two lovers baring their souls to one another. "I need you," He admitted. "Need you here. We're gonna get out, I just... need it to be soon. 'Cause I don't wanna see you lose your fight." "You're gonna stay strong for me, right? Kick that guy's face in first chance you get?" He nodded, and - there was that rattlesnake smile. "You got it, darlin'."

[bryanharryrombough]

In April 2015, Baltimore was burning. A twenty-five-year-old Black man named Freddie Gray had died after a week-long coma following his violent arrest and “rough ride” in the back of a Baltimore Police Department van. Anger at police brutality had spilled out onto the streets.

I flew to Baltimore to cover the city’s history with police brutality for a documentary I was making for CBC Radio. I arrived the day after Baltimore state attorney Marilyn Mosby announced charges against the six police officers involved in Gray’s arrest. (They were never convicted.) The charges were considered so rare a sign of accountability that they prompted celebration in Gray’s West Baltimore neighbourhood, the first place I headed with my recorder and notebook. It was a partly cloudy day, and a block party was alive with music blaring from massive speakers. DJs, parents, and youth held signs in honour of Gray. This past May and June, I watched more sombre versions of this scene play out with crushing familiarity as, in all fifty US states, crowds of protesters took to the streets with signs commemorating more victims of police brutality.

I stayed till night fell, keeping my eye on my watch. The city was under a 10 p.m. curfew, and helicopters were beginning to circle overhead. Just as I was heading into the subway station to go to my hotel, a young man stopped to ask me what news organization I was with. He seemed keen to talk. I turned my mic on, asked him what his name was—Lonnie Moore, I jotted down in my notebook—and asked him about his own experiences of police encounters in Baltimore.

As we talked, another man walked up and, without missing a beat, joined the conversation. I asked him his name and spelled it out loud to him as I put it in my notebook: J-A-R-E—“No,” he corrected me, “J-A-R-R-O-D Jones.” These two men were strangers to each other, but as they shared stories, they were soon completing each other’s sentences, saying words in unison, and mirroring each other’s accounts, including incidents of being called the n-word by various officers. Jarrod Jones recounted unwarranted personal searches. “The police will grab you, make you pull your pants down in front of people,” he said. “You know? They tell you, ‘Lift your sack up.’” He also said something prescient, though I wouldn’t know it until I returned home: “I think that people think we’re making this stuff up.”

I returned to Toronto after a whirlwind thirty-six hours in Baltimore, eager to showcase the stories I’d heard, including Moore and Jones’s. But the executive producer at the time didn’t want to air my interview with them. She asked whether I had called the police to respond to Moore and Jones’ accounts of mistreatment. I had tried, but the department—and its union—hadn’t returned my calls or emails. Then came the next question: How can you verify that these men gave you their real names?

That’s when I learned that, in Canadian media, there’s an added burden of proof, for both journalists and sources, that accompanies stories about racism.

I’d worked in journalism for six years by then, and the skepticism toward Moore and Jones’s identities—let alone their experiences—was the first time I’d seen my interviewees’ claims met with such a high degree of mistrust. (The executive producer at the time says she regularly asks reporters for verification of sources’ names and their accounts. This is the first time I remember her asking it of me.) I trusted the men’s names and their experiences because, all around us—including my very presence in Baltimore, specifically in Freddie Gray’s neighbourhood—were signs that these experiences were not uncommon. The raw forcefulness with which they spoke was an indication that they were telling me the truth. But there was one more clear sign that I offered to my executive producer about how I knew they had given me their real names: Jarrod Jones had corrected my initial spelling of his first name, which, to me, was proof that he hadn’t lied about it. (The executive producer did not recall this part of the conversation.) She seemed unswayed and instead began to remind me about the importance of accuracy and verification as core principles of journalism.

I came out of my executive producer’s office with a look on my face that caught the attention of an older white male colleague, who asked me if I was okay. I told him what had happened. He spoke to the executive producer on my behalf. She relented.

I’ve since faced several such roadblocks in my journalism career. Combined with the experiences of other racialized journalists, they represent a phenomenon I’ve come to think of as a deep crisis of credibility in Canadian media. There is the lack of trust toward the Black, Indigenous, and other racialized people whose stories we are supposed to cover as a reflection of the world we live in. Then there is the mistrust of the Black, Indigenous, and other racialized journalists who try to report on those stories. Our professionalism is questioned when we report on the communities we’re from, and the spectre of advocacy follows us in a way that it does not follow many of our white colleagues.

There is a reckoning underway that has spared almost no industry, sparked by an alarming succession of killings of Black people in the US: Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and many more. The violence of those deaths, and the inescapable racism that underpinned them all, incited a tidal wave of anger and fatigue from Black people who had long been calling out the discrimination that they face in their daily lives. From academia to theatre, the beauty industry to major tech corporations, Black and other racialized employees are publicly coming forward and detailing how their organizations have perpetuated racism against them.

Newsrooms in the US and Canada, for their part, have been forced to acknowledge that they have to do better: in who they hire, who they retain, who gets promoted, what they cover, and how they cover it. This moment has resurrected a question that’s haunted me since I returned from Baltimore: How can the media be trusted to report on what Black and other racialized people are facing when it doesn’t even believe them?

In many American cities, the protests calling for justice following the killings of Black people like Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd, and Breonna Taylor have been met with violent responses from police, who have tear-gassed, chased, shoved, beaten, and arrested protesters and journalists. In May, Omar Jimenez, a Black CNN reporter, was handcuffed and led away by police while the cameras rolled.

Watching the recent police violence against protesters unfold reminded me of how my interview with the two men in Baltimore had ended. It was 10 p.m., meaning the city-wide curfew was now in effect, and we were standing just outside a subway station in the Penn North neighbourhood. Lonnie Moore, the young Black man who had first approached me, had just left. I was putting my recorder away when police came rushing into the block. They told Jarrod Jones and me we had to leave. We tried to enter a nearby subway station, but a police officer blocked the entrance. We tried to turn down a side street, but another officer told us we couldn’t go that way either. We tried every escape we could think of, but we were boxed in.

Suddenly, one officer began charging at us, his baton out, swinging, shoving Jones and cursing at him. We ran away from him as fast as we could, my bag with my recording equipment bouncing clumsily behind me.

None of this made it to air. I had made the rookie mistake of turning off my radio recorder as soon as the interview ended. But I probably would not have worked it into the documentary anyway; as a journalist, you want to avoid becoming part of the story. One of the core elements of journalism is for reporters to maintain a distance from those they cover, which is meant to provide a sense of objectivity. For many white journalists, that distance is built into their very life experiences. But, for many other journalists, there is no distance between what happened to George Floyd and what could have happened to them. Distance is a luxury.

When I got back to Toronto, I told my deskmates about my time in Baltimore in hushed tones. I felt at the time that to speak of it more openly would somehow implicate me, that my story could be seen through the lens of advocacy instead of hard and fast reporting. I also knew you never want to end up on the wrong side of police, especially as a racialized person, and leave it up to others to decide how your actions may have justified violence against you.

In journalism, as in predominantly white societies at large, questioning police narratives is complicated. “The police play a very powerful role in defining what the nature and extent of crime is in our society,” says Julius Haag, a criminologist and  sociology professor at the University of Toronto’s Mississauga campus. “Police also recognize that they have a powerful role in shaping public perceptions, and they use that ability within the media to help . . . legitimize their purpose and their responses.”

A. Dwight Pettit, a Baltimore-based lawyer I interviewed for my documentary in 2015, told me something about why police accounts are rarely questioned by the media that stayed with me. Juries seem to have trouble confronting the violence in police-brutality cases, he said, because so often, people have grown up seeing police doing right by them and have trusted police with their safety. This is especially true for white people, who are less likely to be treated unfairly by police. Putting police on trial would be asking people to challenge their lifelong beliefs.

Anthony N. Morgan, a racial-justice lawyer in Toronto, says this same dynamic plays out in Canada, in both “obvious and indirect ways.” Racialized people can tell you about water cooler conversations they’ve had with white colleagues about racism they’ve experienced and witnessed, which “often end up in the ‘Did that really happen? What were they doing? Maybe we need to see more of the video?’ territory,” he says. “These kinds of frankly absurd ways of justifying and excusing murder or harm done to Black and Indigenous people play out in society more generally, and I think they play out in journalism too.”

On May 27, a twenty-nine-year-old Black Indigenous woman named Regis Korchinski-Paquet fell from a twenty-fourth floor balcony in Toronto while police were in her apartment, responding to the family’s call for help with her mental health crisis. Police were the only ones there during the fall, and questions about the moments before her death are still unanswered. The tragedy has also boosted calls from racialized journalists to challenge the media’s overreliance on police narratives.

It wasn’t until the next day that media reports included any of her family members’ voices or began questioning the role of police in Korchinski-Paquet’s death. Not because the family didn’t want to talk to the media: the family’s social media posts are what had raised initial awareness about Korchinski-Paquet’s death. One journalist described arriving at the scene to talk to family members and seeing other reporters there. (This gap in the reporting may have stemmed from some family members’ initial social media posts, which effectively accused the police of killing Korchinski-Paquet and would have been impossible to independently verify at the time. The family’s lawyer later clarified their initial statements, saying they believed police actions may have played a role in Korchinski-Paquet’s death.)

Instead, the very first news stories about Korchinski-Paquet’s death were based solely on a statement from the Special Investigations Unit (SIU), the civilian-oversight agency in Ontario that is automatically called to investigate circumstances involving police that have resulted in death, serious injury, or allegations of sexual assault. Some journalists asked their newsrooms and organizations to explain why early coverage excluded the family’s narrative. I know one journalist whose editor questioned her for reporting what the family had told her in the early hours.

Korchinski-Paquet’s death is just the latest reminder of why some journalists have long been arguing that police versions of events—whether their own actions or the actions of those they police—should be subject to the same levels of scrutiny other powerful bodies garner, and that their accounts cannot be relied on as the only source. “The police are not, in and of themselves, objective observers of things,” said Wesley Lowery—who was part of a Washington Post team that won a Pulitzer Prize for its coverage of fatal shootings by police officers—in a Longform podcast interview in June. “They are political and government entities who are the literal characters in the story.”

Nor do police watchdogs offer a sufficient counternarrative. The SIU has long been plagued with concerns about its power and credibility. Former Ontario ombudsman André Marin released a 2008 report saying that Ontario’s system of police oversight has failed to live up to its promise due to a “complacent” culture and a lack of rigour in ensuring police follow the rules. More recently, the limited powers of the SIU have been made clear in the aftermath of the fatal shooting of D’Andre Campbell, a twenty-six-year-old Black man with schizophrenia, who was shot by a Peel police officer in April after he called the police for help. So far, that officer has refused to be interviewed by the SIU and has not submitted any notes to the police watchdog—nor can the officer be legally compelled to do so.

In 2018, I would see these obstacles play out in my own reporting. I had helped produce a series of live town halls on racism across the country. The Vancouver edition focused on racism in health care, with one conversation centring on the experience of two Indigenous nurses. Diane Lingren, provincial chair for the Indigenous leadership caucus of the BC Nurses’ Union, recounted how she often saw non-Indigenous people who appeared to be intoxicated be “told to settle down, and then they get a cab ride” to an overnight shelter. With Indigenous people, she said, “I see the RCMP called. . . . I see them handcuff their ankles to their wrists so they can’t walk. . . . I see those people get taken away in the police cars.”

The RCMP denied that account; their response included a statement about their practice of a “bias free policing policy.” In response to that statement, the executive producer on the series wanted to cut the Indigenous nurses’ anecdotes from the show entirely. (The producer could not be reached for confirmation.) My co-producers and I fought to retain them, to present them along with the RCMP’s statement. This shouldn’t have been a battle: our very role as journalists is to present all the facts, fairly, with context. But, in many newsrooms, police narratives carry enough weight to effectively negate, silence, and disappear the experiences of racialized people.

That it’s racialized journalists who have had to challenge police narratives and counter this tradition is an immense burden—and it’s risky. “The views and inclinations of whiteness are accepted as the objective neutral,” Wesley Lowery wrote in a June op-ed in the New York Times. “When Black and Brown reporters and editors challenge those conventions, it’s not uncommon for them to be pushed out, reprimanded, or robbed of new opportunities.”

That last point rings entirely too true for me.

In July 2017, I was guest producing on a weekly show for a brief summer stint. One story I produced was an interview with Ahmed Shihab-Eldin, an Emmy-nominated journalist who was in Jerusalem covering protests that had sprung up at the al-Aqsa mosque. Worshippers were praying outside the mosque, instead of inside, in an act of civil disobedience against the installation of metal detectors following the killing of two Israeli police officers by Israeli Arab attackers. In the interview, he explained the source of the tension, what the front lines of the protests looked like, and also touched on press freedom—Shihab-Eldin himself had been stopped, questioned, and jostled by Israeli security forces while he was reporting. From the moment I pitched having him on the show, the acting senior producer showed keen interest in the story. This enthusiasm made what happened next all the more confounding.

We recorded the interview on a Friday. Shortly afterward, that same senior producer told me the segment was being pulled from the show and that she would not have the time to explain why. She had consulted a director, and together they had ultimately decided to kill it. The story never went to air.

I spent a week trying to get an explanation. It wasn’t lost on me that the interview would have included criticism of Israeli security forces and that I was coming up on the intersection of two issues here: the media’s aversion to criticism of law enforcement coupled with its deeply ingrained reluctance to wade into the conversation about Israel and Palestine, especially if this means critiquing the Israeli government’s policies or actions. Bias or one-sidedness shouldn’t have been a concern: I had planned on incorporating the Israeli Defense Force press office’s response into the story. The story couldn’t, and wouldn’t, have run without it.

In the end, the senior director, who had been the one to make the final call to not run the interview, wrote an apologetic email to Shihab-Eldin and me, which read, in part: “Our hope was that further work on our end would allow us to give our audiences more context so that they would not leave your interview with unanswered questions. . . . We ran into unexpected difficulties in doing so.”

I had heard nothing about the story needing more context, or about questions that the senior director and senior producer felt were unanswered, before the decision was made. Nor did I have a clear understanding of what these “unexpected difficulties” were. (The senior producer and director say they felt the interview was too opinionated.) For his part, Shihab-Eldin responded to the senior director with: “Unfortunately I’m all too familiar with ‘unexpected difficulties’.”

It was the first and only time in my ten years of journalism experience that a story was pulled—let alone without an open editorial discussion or transparency. And I did not realize just how much this experience would mark me and my future in this profession.

To be a journalist in any media organization or newsroom is to navigate the crush of the daily news cycle; the relentlessness of deadlines; and the pressure, care, and complexity it takes to craft a story well. To be a racialized journalist is to navigate that role while also walking a tightrope: being a professional journalist and also bringing forward the stories that are perhaps not on the radar of the average newsroom but are close to home for many of us. And it takes a toll.

The stories I’ve recounted are the ones that stood out the most over my ten years in journalism. There are countless other, smaller fights that took place. When asked to comment for this article, Chuck Thompson, head of public affairs at the CBC, wrote in an email: “We are actively reviewing our journalistic standards to ensure we are interpreting policies and practices through a more inclusive lens. . . . It is just one of several recommitments we have made including hiring more Black, Indigenous and people of colour within our teams but also into leadership positions. We can point to a half dozen recent hires and promotions that show that pledge to do better, is both authentic and genuine.” His email also referenced existing initiatives, such as the CBC’s Developing Emerging Leaders Program, “which identifies and trains people of colour, as well as Black and Indigenous people, who are indeed taking their rightful place at our leadership tables.” (I am a graduate of the inaugural cohort of that program.)

Diversity is a feel-good term that is often held up as a goal and priority by industries from media to law to academia and beyond. It’s supposed to be the antidote to the experiences I’ve described and a signal that employers value and seek a range of perspectives, backgrounds, world views, and experiences that run the spectrum of age, gender, socioeconomic status, sexual orientation, race, and ability. If that feels like a massive umbrella of goals and classifications, that’s because it is.

Just take a look at any Canadian newsroom, even in Toronto, a city that is over 50 percent nonwhite. As a starting point, our newsrooms do not reflect the world outside of them—which does not bode well for accurately representing the breadth of stories playing out every day. As a result, from the second so many racialized journalists walk into news organizations, we are still often the Only Ones in the Room. And, where there are racialized journalists at all, there are even fewer Black and Indigenous journalists. As you go higher up the ladder of these organizations, it’s not long before Black, Indigenous, and racialized journalists aren’t in the room at all. Meanwhile, news organizations regularly see our mere presence in their newsrooms as successful examples of so-called diversity even if our roles are overwhelmingly junior and precarious.

This setup often ends up placing the responsibility on the Only Ones in the Room to guarantee a spectrum of experiences and stories in news coverage and to point out where coverage misses the mark, including when there is a story involving the actions of police. The responsibility is heavy.

It’s a dynamic that Asmaa Malik, a professor at Ryerson University’s school of journalism, sees playing out regularly. Her research focuses on race and Canadian media as well as on the role of diversity in news innovation. “There’s an idea in many Canadian newsrooms that, if you have one person who checks the box, then you’re covered,” she says. “So the burden that puts on individual journalists is huge.”

Everyone who’s been the Only One in the Room knows what it’s like. The silence that falls when a story about racism is pitched. The awkward seat shifting. The averted stares. We’ve felt it, and internalized it, and expected it. We know that there is often an unspoken higher burden of proof for these stories than for others, a problem that has long been exacerbated by the fact that race-based data is rarely collected in policing, health care, and other fields. Yet it is on us to fill this void and “prove” the existence of racism. As a result, we overprepare those pitches. We anticipate your questions. We get used to having the lives of our friends and families and the people who look like them discounted, played devil’s advocate to, intellectualized from a sanitized distance.

A long-time producer at a major news organization, a Black woman whose name I agreed not to use because of fear for her job security, bristled at the suggestion that to cover stories that hit close to home, including anti-Black racism, police brutality, and the Black Lives Matter movement, is to somehow engage in advocacy. “There seems to be the assumption that we cannot coexist with the journalistic standards of being fair and balanced and impartial. Really, what we are fighting for, what we’ve always been fighting for, is just the truth.”

In the meantime, when race and racism feature heavily in headlines, we are relied on to become sensitivity readers for our organizations, suddenly asked if things can be run past us or whether the show is hitting the right marks or whether we can connect other journalists to racialized communities and sources that are harder to reach. “This is in addition to the regular reporting that we do day-to-day. There’s just a level of work that goes unseen and unacknowledged,” the producer told me. “And the future of our institutions depends on us doing the work.”

Under the banner of diversity, we are told to bring ourselves and our perspectives. But, if we bring too much of them, we are marked and kept back.

I once applied to a senior editorial position after taking a leadership course only to be told I needed more training. I ended up taking on this role for nine months anyway, to fill in for a maternity leave. After that stint, in a meeting with a manager in which I expressed wanting to take on more leadership opportunities, I was told that I had to bide my time. (The manager remembers discussing other job opportunities but does not recall this part of the conversation.) At this point, I’d been at the organization for ten years, eight of which were at the specific show whose senior leadership I was applying for. The writing was on the wall for me. I left the organization less than two months later.

For many of us, that kind of coded language—about needing more training, about biding our time—is proof that we will never be deemed qualified enough to lead the news that is often not made with us in mind, as audiences or as creators. In June, Kim Wheeler, an Anishinabe/Mohawk reporter, took to Twitter to write that she had left her job at the CBC after a network manager said she would never be a senior producer at the show she worked on. A Black producer described regularly being asked to fill more senior roles, but only on a temporary basis.

It was only after I left my job that someone who had been on the hiring committee for the senior editorial role told me the reason I had been turned down. The director who had decided not to run the 2017 interview from Jerusalem had also been part of the hiring committee and had expressed concerns that I was biased and therefore should not be promoted, an opinion shared among some of the other committee members. And that was that.

There’s no way of knowing this with absolute certainty, but I can’t help but imagine how things might have been different if the hiring committee, which had been made up of predominantly white women, had had another set of eyes, experiences, and world views. The presence of someone else in that room might have challenged the notion that I was biased.

“Diversity” is a word that’s held up as a solution to the obvious gaps and inequities in media and other industries—in its most generous and naive interpretation, it’s supposed to encapsulate my experience, and yours, and hers, and his, and all of ours. Instead, the language of diversity and inclusion, to us, ends up feeling like we are being invited to a table as guests, but there are conditions to keeping our seat. Shake that table just a little bit, and you’ll soon find that your invitation has been rescinded.

Many racialized journalists have had enough with the diversity talk. It’s long been clear that Black, Indigenous, and other racialized people must be at the forefront of the change in leadership that newsrooms so desperately need—at the decision-making tables, with enough power and security to sit in their seats comfortably, shake the tables, or flip them entirely.

On an unusually hot, still day in June, while the world was in the early stages of the reckoning that remains underway, I sat with four women, all Black journalist friends of mine, on my back patio. Many of us had been fielding “Are you okay? Thinking of you” texts, phone calls, and emails for the past week and consulting one another on how to respond, if at all. We sat outside and talked as the sun set. It had been two weeks at least since we had been furiously keeping in touch in a frantic group chat, trying to keep abreast of all the world’s events and the shifting media landscape, but this was the first time I’d seen them in months, given the pandemic. We talked, ate, raged, commiserated, ranted, shared, had tea, until almost midnight. As it got dark, I brought out candles and looked at my friends’ faces in the glow. Everyone was so tired, so spent, so on edge, but so happy to see one another. The furrowed brows gave way to laughter, calm, relief.

We dreamt of what it would be like if we all got to work together. We dreamt, naively, about creating our own news organizations. We dreamt, perhaps more realistically, about getting to do the work we wanted to do in newsrooms that are truly reflective of the worlds we live in.

It reminded me of what the Black producer whose name I had agreed not to use had told me: “It feels like such a weight to just make sure that the coverage we are doing on race and racism is good. We don’t have the luxury of pitching things that are just meant to bring us joy.”

It’s true. There is so much more to us, if only there were space. There’s so much more we want to talk about, so much more we want to do. But the burden is now on the Canadian media industry and its leaders to enable that work instead of questioning it. To get out of the way so it can happen.

Many of us have long been lectured to about journalistic standards and practices: verification, balance, objectivity, and accuracy. I find it ironic. In an industry that loves to talk to its racialized employees about accuracy when we pitch and cover experiences that mirror ours, what’s become clear is that media organizations themselves have failed these tests of accuracy. Their very existence and makeup has long been an inaccurate reflection of the world we live in. The accuracy problem was never ours to fix. It’s time newsrooms admitted that they regret the error and put real work into correcting a historical mistake.

[bigyack-com]

DealBook: Winners and Losers of the Trade Deal

Good morning. (Was this email forwarded to you? Sign up here.)

What the agreement means for the U.S. and China

President Trump and Vice Premier Liu He of China signed a long-awaited phase-one trade deal at the White House yesterday. Here’s who benefited from the agreement — and who was left out in the cold.Winners:• Mr. Trump. He is claiming a political victory for negotiating a deal that he says his predecessors couldn’t do. (Even if the pact falls short on his earlier promises.)• President Xi Jinping of China. It eases trade tensions at a time when the Chinese economy is weakening.• Financial companies. American banks can now take control of their joint ventures in China, while credit-card processors advanced their quest to operate in the country.• American farmers. They’ll resume exporting to China, after being the biggest casualties of the trade war.Losers:• American farmers. China’s commitment to buying U.S. agriculture products is only for two years, and Beijing is vague about what will come after that.• Chinese exporters. They remain subject to tariffs on $360 billion worth of goods that won’t be lifted until a phase-two deal is reached.• China hawks in the Trump administration and elsewhere. The deal doesn’t address Chinese state subsidies, cybersecurity or Beijing’s technology policies.The deal stabilized U.S.-China relations somewhat and shifted American thinking on Beijing. “There is now a wide consensus in the United States to challenge China on its worst actions,” Heather Long of the WaPo writes.But there’s at least one unintended consequence, James Politi of the FT writes: The U.S. “is arguably more dependent on trade with Chinese government-backed entities than it was before Trump’s trade war began.”____________________________Today’s DealBook Briefing was written by Andrew Ross Sorkin in New York and Michael J. de la Merced in London.____________________________

The deal that still haunts Goldman

Goldman Sachs had a profitable 2019. But it’s still grappling with fallout from an eight-year-old bond sale that the bank ran on behalf of 1MDB, a now-controversial Malaysian investment fund.Thirteen percent of Goldman’s profits were reserved for legal costs related to its involvement with 1MDB. The Justice Department has accused the bank of overlooking corruption at the Malaysian government fund, which is now insolvent. (The bank is expected to settle the U.S. investigation for about $2 billion.)“We are working hard to bring closure to this matter as quickly as possible,” David Solomon, Goldman’s C.E.O., told analysts yesterday.1MDB is a costly distraction to Goldman at a time when it has other challenges, too. The bank is trying to beef up its consumer operations, where it trails far behind JPMorgan Chase (which reported record profits this week).

Jeff Bezos makes big India pledge amid opposition

The Amazon chief yesterday vowed to invest an additional $1 billion in his company’s India operations to help small businesses on its platform, the WSJ reports. It’s meant to blunt growing opposition in an important market. Things have grown tougher for Amazon in India recently:• A top regulator this week ordered an inquiry into whether Amazon (and Flipkart, which Walmart bought control of in 2018) broke antitrust laws and hurt mom-and-pop retailers.• The Indian government is weighing stronger regulation of data storage in the country.• And a union of small retailers, the Confederation of All India Traders, is planning protests against Amazon in 300 cities across the country.Amazon says that it is helping small businesses and that its investment pledge furthers that goal. “We’re making this announcement now because it’s working,” Mr. Bezos said.Some critics appear unswayed. “Mr. Bezos is creating a false narrative of empowering small retailers,” Praveen Khandelwal of the Confederation of All India Traders told the BBC.Why the Indian market matters: The country has 1.3 billion people, many of whom are only now coming online. Mr. Bezos said yesterday that he thought the 21st century was “going to be the Indian century.”

Why a great labor market may be bad for your health

U.S. employment continues to rise to near-record highs. That could make flu season worse, Aimee Picchi of CBS News writes.• Workplaces are becoming more crowded, making it easier for the flu virus to spread.• Each percentage point increase in the employment is correlated to a 16 percent rise in flu-related doctor visits, according to Erik Nesson, an economics professor at Ball State University.• “It seems to be a place where higher economic activity is detrimental to people’s health,” Mr. Nesson told CBS News.

The next phase of the streaming rivalry

NBCUniversal is scheduled to unveil Peacock, its streaming service, today, joining the online video battle royal. Now the hard part begins, Alex Sherman of CNBC writes.Peacock will go up against Netflix, Disney Plus, Apple TV Plus, HBO Max, Amazon Prime, Hulu, CBS All Access and others.Rolling out the service will be the easy part. The task now for NBCUniversal and other old-school media companies is to figure out “how these services interact with each other and traditional bundled pay television,” according to Mr. Sherman.An ad-free version of Peacock is expected to cost $10 a month. Subscribers to Comcast, NBCUniversal’s parent company, would get free access to Peacock’s content with limited ads, which would cost $5 per month for nonsubscribers. A free version will have limited content and lots of ads. NBCUniversal and Comcast seem to be betting that “the transition from pay TV to streaming is best for NBCUniversal if that movement is as slow as possible,” Mr. Sherman concludes.

‘Will you say, “Thank you, Mr. President,” at least?’

At the trade deal signing ceremony yesterday, President Trump aimed a few quips at business leaders, many of whom were in attendance, Max Abelson of Bloomberg notes.• To Mary Erdoes, the head of JPMorgan Chase’s asset management unit, he said he deserved some credit for the bank’s stellar earnings report. “They just announced earnings and they were incredible,” Mr. Trump said. “Will you say, ‘Thank you, Mr. President,’ at least?”• Mr. Trump looked for Ken Griffin, the head of the huge hedge fund Citadel. “Where the hell is he?” the president asked. “He’s trying to hide some of his money.” (Mr. Griffin wasn’t in the room.)• And to Raymond McDaniel, the C.E.O. of the credit ratings agency Moody’s, Mr. Trump asked, “Are you giving us good ratings, Raymond, please?”

The speed read

Deals• Final arguments in a lawsuit by 13 states to block T-Mobile’s proposed $26 billion takeover of Sprint were made yesterday, leaving the deal’s fate in a federal judge’s hands. (WSJ)• The logistics company XPO said it was considering spinning off some of its businesses, unwinding an empire built on M.&A. (WSJ)• KKR has raised $2.2 billion for its second fund dedicated to investments in later-stage tech start-ups in North America, Europe and Israel. (KKR)• An investment company run by Thomas Farley, the former head of the New York Stock Exchange, and backed by Dan Loeb’s Third Point is reportedly close to buying Global Blue, a payments company, for about $2.6 billion. (WSJ)Politics and policy• The Treasury Department’s watchdog is investigating opportunity zones, a tax break that was meant to help low-income areas but became a windfall for wealthy investors. (NYT)• The Justice Department’s antitrust chief, Makan Delrahim, plans to focus on drug pricing and agreements among companies not to poach one another’s employees. (WSJ)• Elizabeth Warren to Bernie Sanders: “I think you called me a liar on national TV.” (NYT)Tech• Twitter will probably never let users edit tweets, Jack Dorsey says. (Verge)• Goldman Sachs sold its stake in Uber late last year. (CNBC)Best of the rest• The Virgin Islands sued the estate of Jeffrey Epstein, alleging that the financier trafficked hundreds of young girls from his Caribbean private island as recently as 2018. (NYT)• Yamaha warned musicians not to climb into cases for musical instruments after reports that Carlos Ghosn was smuggled out of Japan in one. (Reuters)• The World Athletics sports federation is reportedly considering restrictions on the use of Nike’s Vaporfly running sneakers. (Guardian)• Climate change could spell the end of Alpine skiing. (Bloomberg)Thanks for reading! We’ll see you tomorrow.We’d love your feedback. Please email thoughts and suggestions to business@nytimes.com. Read the full article

[ecotone99]

[SF] Nadiesco and the Cats of Ülthar (1,800 words)

Nadiesco careened through the endless vastness of space wearing a grin fit only for a king. The thick (though soft and forgiving) hairs of his immaculate beard caressed his face like a pouch hiding a newborn kangaroo. It helped to protect his exquisite visage from the harsh vacuum of Infinity. But unlike the metaphorical furless marsupial in question, our hero was not pink and raw and blind to the horrors of creation amidst him. Far from it. Nadiesco was an unshakable pillar of virility, an aimless and soaring testament to unshakable godless bravado.

He was a man amongst men.

His eyes snapped open with audible, rapturous delight. A planet-sized red orb had appeared in his field of vision, and it was rapidly growing nearer. From his all-encompassing perspective, it was an unknown world, ripe for exploration and raucous adventure. His rump tingled with the sheer breadth of possibilities.

And with the power of the West Winds under my command, I should be able to bridge the gap between myself and this brave new world in seconds!

His enormous grin somehow grew larger as he tensed his virtually indestructible muscles, bracing for impact. While the mysterious terrestrial body loomed ever closer, his luscious magic carpet-like arm hairs spread out and combed the breached atmosphere for the energy necessary to displace friction and survive the crash landing.

Eyes wide with insane glee, Nadiesco crouched in midair as the ground welcomed him with open arms. An organic updraft of crimson liquid exploded all around him, preceded only by the most abrupt of protests. As the smoke cleared and the geyser of gore settled, Nadiesco straightened his posture and brushed himself off. He came to realize what was now a miles-wide crater surrounding him had moments before been a settlement consisting of upwards of a few hundred native alien beings. He responded to this discovery by nonchalantly wringing a perfectly-measured quart of foreign blood from his beard.

“Well, I have arrived!” he bellowed to no one in particular. No one still desperately clinging to the back of the mechanical bull that was life’s mortal coil, in any case.

As he scanned the environment with his vibrant amber eyes, he noticed the scenery looked very much akin to that of a similar planet he visited in a distant star system long ago. That was back when its resident red dwarf wasn’t doing the solar equivalent of putting out cigarettes on its abused stepson’s neck. Hazy pink skies, vast mountain ranges, rust-colored sand which blanketed the landscape in every direction…all of it was just splendid. What was the old planet called? Mors? He couldn’t remember, which wasn’t much of a surprise; he visited so many strange and unique worlds on such a constant basis, it was difficult to keep track.

A lion’s roar echoed across the heavens. It was the sort of cacophony reminiscent of the inevitable bass drop in the celestial song of the gods that was a supernova. It was jarring enough to tear Nadiesco’s attention away from the lay of the land. He looked up to spot seven creatures bearing an uncanny resemblance to the mega lynxes of Perseus VIII. They flew—nay, galloped—through the air toward him at dizzying speeds. They possessed bright yellow eyes, neon purple fur, and impressive antlers reaching up and away from their craniums like trees swept out of the ground in a hurricane, soon to collide with a boisterous man attempting to hook up a satellite antenna on his roof, paying no mind to the storm seeking to undo him.

“Ho-ho, a convoy of indigenous life welcomes me!” Nadiesco proclaimed as his eyes took in a gluttonous, visual drink of the majestic fauna. He ooh’d and ahh’d, pumping a hairy fist into the air with unrestrained jubilation that most certainly should have been restrained.

The fabulous, decorated horned panthers touched down in the crater and began to cautiously circle our hero. In unison, they emitted a noise sounding as if a cat’s purr mated with an idling engine and gave birth to a complex monstrosity of feline and diesel. It was the song of a people, acting as both intimidation tactic as well as a type of funeral hymn for something of great importance lost on this day. Nadiesco couldn’t stymie his elation if he wanted to.

What appeared to be their leader tensed its abdomen and addressed the wandering man-warrior.

“We are the Cats of Ülthar. We protect the planet Ülthar from invaders and those who would do it harm, such as yourself. Your entry into our domain has cost the lives of countless innocents. We are here to exact retribution. We have failed those who entrusted their safety to us. Their deaths will not be in vain. Will you voice any defense of your crimes? It shall not save you, though it may elicit a quicker, more merciful end at our paws,” the cat growled. It unsheathed its claws and readied a pounce.

“Delightful! Talking cats prowling the reddened skies. Might I borrow one of you for a ride so I may better take in the views of your glorious home?” Nadiesco boomed, the purpose of the cats’ visit completely eluding him. The felines exchanged looks of incredulity and rage, commingled in a cocktail shaken and not stirred by the most skillful mixologist of emotional spirits the universe ever knew.

“Did you not comprehend we are here to kill you, sir!?” the lead cat stammered, unsure whether the intruder’s proclamations were indicative of ignorance or obliviousness. Either way, his blatant disregard for the sanctity of life made the cats’ fur stand on end, made their tails undulate with a thirst for vengeance incapable of being expressed with mere meows or widened pupils.

“I am Nadiesco of the West Winds, good cats! Though there have been unfortunate casualties of my arrival, I mean you no harm. I only wish to grace you with the most robust of ventures!” he projected, apparently less than concerned for the lives lost, as well as the cats’ unswayed intentions. In fact, their righteous bloodlust only deepened, like that of the conversation between two rednecks crossfaded on a wooden porch on a midsummer’s eve, lit only by the everlasting dance of fireflies and the requisite butane lighter—itself a prequel to an ambitious yet monetarily underperforming trilogy of bong rips, each sputter of smoke and spittle an offering. A sacrifice of Satan’s Salad in the name of their blazing pagan overlord.

A hush permeated the environment before the alpha cat decided to strike. It uttered a feral battle cry and leaped. Unfazed by the feline’s advances, Nadiesco twirled in place, dodged the cat’s attack, and in one fluid motion mounted the beast.

“And-we-are-OFF!” he shouted and kicked the cat in the ribs.

Shocked, slightly injured, the cat shrieked and took off into the sky like a fuzzy bullet. Nadiesco laughed uproariously as he blared into the stratus with wildcat in tow. His hair blew behind him, stretching out as his arms did. He hooted with rapturous delight, silently proclaiming himself the king of the world.

“Dear feline, this is wondrous! Despite my mastery of the West Winds, they do not permit me this heightened a sense of thrill or excitement,” the ridiculous man-beast claimed, beating his chest through the space lederhosen adorning it. The cat merely groaned in protest. Despite its myriad attempts at barrel rolling to shake the monkey on its back, Nadiesco would not budge, would not relent.

As they continued to float above the mountaintops, the remainder of the Ültharian cats emerged, flanking the duo on all sides. Nadiesco leaned forward and whispered sweet nothings into his steed’s antlers.

“Great cat, I do believe we are being pursued. Make haste, for a scuffle is near!”

Another crushing kick to the helpless cat’s ribs and they were blasting thirty yards ahead of the rest, outflying them masterfully. As they did, the cat shook harder, its panic rushing to the forefront of its consciousness.

“Terror from Beyond the Sphere, we are approaching the Cliffs of Blissful Agony. I seek no alliance with you, but if we are to survive, we must pull up NOW!” the cat screamed, trying desperately to make itself heard over the howling wind and the cackling buffoon atop it.

“What’s that you say, cat? I must pull up your antlers to fend off our attackers? Ingenious!”

Nadiesco gripped both the cat’s antlers, flexed his muscles, and leaned in for a final, sensual whisper session.

“I thank you for your sacrifice,” he breathed, then viciously tore out the antlers. The cat screamed and immediately plummeted from the sky like a stone. But Nadiesco did not drop. Quite the contrary, he remained afloat, realizing then the mystical antlers were what granted the Cats of Ülthar their gift of flight.

“Have at you!” the bearded golden-locked behemoth bellowed, taking on the remaining six cats with antlers at the ready, swinging them to and fro like forked batons of righteous space justice. Down each cat went as they were struck savagely across the skulls with the carriers of their own weight upon the airs. In the blink of an eye, it was all over, the carnage an affair made no less horrifying by its brevity.

Nadiesco touched down onto a mesa of the nearest hilltop and looked out over the horizon. The sunrise dissolved the clouds and cast harsh morning light on the destruction he had wrought across the Ültharian Planes. He placed his hands on his hips and took in a whiff of the cool air. It smelled of rum spiced with the cries of those taken before their time.

An imminent death rattle made its presence known several feet behind our “hero”. He turned to find the dying body of the cat he rode through the sky—the one now splayed antlerless and bleeding, dashed upon the rocks like so many unfulfilled dreams with a shattered spinal cord.

Nadiesco approached, kneeled, and cradled the cat’s face in his masculine (yet delicate) palm.

“Terror from…B-Beyond the…Sphere. You have mmmurdered my b-b-brethren. However, you are…ssstrong. You alone…have the power. To. Protect this…world.”

“What is your name, oh feral feline?” the clueless destroyer questioned.

“They call me…Tokliok,” it uttered before its last gurgling breath gave way, bringing an abrupt and unceremonious end to the Cats of Ülthar.

An entire town and a peaceful planet’s only defenses, all blotted out in a mere instant by a psychotically gleeful space dandy. Though this dandy paid his abhorrent tendencies no mind. He had won adventure and thus won the day.

“I. Am off!” Nadiesco hollered over the hills, dropping the dead cat’s head and taking off into the stratosphere, immediately forsaking the responsibility just passed on to him, soon parting from Ülthar with only the West Winds to guide his body along the path.

What path, you may ask?

The path to the next bold horizon.

submitted by /u/zephonate [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/3cFGLpw

[bestfriendforhire]

Children of BFFH, Entry 1

 "Is everyone warm enough?" asked Four, looking around the assembled group.  James Michael Somerset IV was our de facto leader, partially because he was the oldest at twelve and partially because his father is the Boss.  With chestnut hair and violet eyes, he was super cute.  "Deo, don't transform until we pick teams."

 Only after he spoke did I realize there were two Aids present.  I quickly memorized Deo's clothing in case he was placed on the other team.  He was a master of infiltration, even capable of appearing as an adult if he had the clothes for it.  Several of us occasionally wondered if he was really a boy at all, since he could have been transformed since birth.  There was a chance that his auburn hair was real.

 "They'll be fine." insisted Aid, also known as Aiden.  Four's younger brother was nearly a month older than me and far tougher.  Deo liked mimicking him partially because their hair was nearly the same color, though Aid's is lighter.  Aid could sense and control all heat within several hundred feet, even bringing heat from another dimension to fry everything if he wanted.  Right now he was helping half of us stay warm as we stood in the snow.

 Four nodded after glancing at his brother.  "Right, so a reminder on the rules.  No hurting one another.  Aid, you can evaluate snowballs, but don't incinerate body parts."

 "Seriously, Four?  I haven't done that in years!"

 Four shrugged and kept speaking.  "Aspen, be careful how much force you use against people."

 My little brother nodded.  He and I had telekinesis.  His was a little stronger, but he didn't inherit mom's psychometry like me.  We both had dark brown hair, but he was born with brown eyes where mine are practically black.

 "Ella, don't make anyone do something dangerous." stated Four.

 "What are we doing again?" she asked, a pink question mark floating by her head.  Ella was half a year younger than me and very pretty, with light blonde hair and large, ice blue eyes.  Like her dad, she could control people, simply meeting their gaze and telling them what to do.

 "Having a snow battle, Ella." replied Stormcrow, smirking and running a hand through his brown hair.  Damien was a little younger than her, but everyone knew to trust his memory before Ella's.

 "Stormcrow, careful with your claws if you transform.  You and Maimo need to be careful where you throw lightning." started Four, trying to sound stern.  No one could sound as stern as the boss, but Four tried.  Sighing, he said, "Quadruplets, please don't switch sides on us."  He then frowned and asked "What are you hiding?"

 One of the four grinned, pulling a large gun out from behind her back and saying, "A prototype snowball launcher!"

 "Dad helped us, so this one won't explode!" explained a different one.

 "Probably." muttered another.

 "Sis, are they safe?" asked Messy.  She was actually a very clean person, but dirty blonde hair and her initials, M.E.S.S., led to the nickname.  Her golden eyes were practically angelic.  She always could talk with her sister through the headset she wore.

 "I recommend confiscating Aiko's, since she is still using their old model." replied Momma Mila.

 The radiance of Messy's eyes intensified for a second, and light flashed behind the quadruplet that had to be Aiko.  Well, they were technically two sets of twins, but they all looked identical and pretended to be one another.

 "Hey!  She said confiscate, not destroy!" complained Aiko.  "That one hadn't glitched yet!  It might have been fine!"

 "Just use one of the fort's cannons." stated Messy, completely unswayed.  If you felt violent around Messy, you were better off hitting yourself than hitting her.  The boss had warned that attacking Messy with intent to harm would cause her magic to kill you instantly, even if the attack couldn't harm her.  Aid had supposedly died once when he lost his temper, but he was fine now.  No one knows what the Boss did to bring Aid back.

 Moving on, Four looked to his little sister and said, "Luce, be careful to leave air holes if you freeze someone in place."

 "Obviously!" she exclaimed, blushing slightly.  She had nearly suffocated Deo last year because she got distracted.  Her long, dark red hair followed behind her in the wind, looking amazing in contrast to the snow behind her.  She was named after her mother, but everyone called her Luce after her middle name.

 "Crazy." stated Four, turning to face the blue-eyed girl who currently had pink and blue, spiky hair.

 "Yes!?" she exclaimed, saluting and grinning in a way that surely made everyone feel as uneasy as I did.  Serenity Malice Wilson was technically Messy's niece.  She was called "Crazy" because she didn't have any sense of caution.  Two years ago, when she was only six, she impaled herself on a sword to win a fight against Four during weapons practice!  When asked why she went so far, she claimed that a little pain didn't matter when someone would heal her right away.

 Four started reading a list of prohibited actions to her, basically stating half the things she had already done to win in prior battles.

 "Wait!  I can't even use thorns, why forbid all toxins!?" she complained.  Where Momma Emma would create beautiful gardens everywhere she went, Crazy's plants looked vicious even when they were edible.  A type of dark energy flowed into everything she grew, blackening the appearance and making the plants appear… hungry.

 "No thorns.  Seriously, don't hurt anyone for once!" insisted Four.  "Can we trust you to make the second fort?"

 "Of course!" she replied with a smile that might have appeared sweet on someone else.

 The ground rumbled as a second fort, made of seamless black wood, erupted from the ground a thousand feet away.  The design looked like a supervillain's dream house, complete with a screaming mouth for a gate.

 Four sighed and shook his head.  "I'm picking Messy.  You're the other Captain, Crazy."

 "Aid!" she exclaimed, pointing at him and still grinning.

 "Mind checking your fort for issues?" asked Four warily as his brother moved over by Crazy.

 Aid nodded.

 The quadruplets were split between groups, and then Four took Deo, mouthing an apology to me.

 "Doc!" exclaimed Crazy, grinning at me.

 I sighed, walking over to her.  Doc was my nickname as well as my initials.  I, Daphne Olive Castello, was about to be abused by an eight-year-old for an hour.  The worst part was that I could never come up with a reasonable argument against Crazy's plans.  Aid probably could if he could be bothered.  They were both brilliant, but he didn't really care about winning.

 James took Luce and Ella while Crazy claimed Damien and Aspen.  My brother and I working together could restrain Four.  Messy typically guarded their flag.  I worried what ours would look like, preferring the beautiful silver pole and white flag that Messy typically created when she was second Captain.

 A basic rule of our battles was that the first Captain always took the stone fortress Auntie Raine had made before we were born.  Auntie Raine modified it before each battle, so no one would know the layout; well, no one except Aid and Messy.  The second Captain always created the second fort, getting help with the actual creation process if needed.  I certainly couldn't do it by myself.

 Once team two was gathered in our nightmarish fortress, Crazy turned to face us and asked “Shall we begin?”