#i think i have to rescind all of the above actually i keep remembering other moments

[lopez-richter-fangirl]

Okay no 😭

[brutal-nemesis]

Arthropod Day 2021: 🦀Time For Crab 🦀

Malacostraca Moment 😳🦀

So fun story I wanted this to be on a Saturday because SIDEWAYS SATURDAY but when I was deciding on the date I looked at the calendar for July without realizing it. Happy Sideways Stuesday I guess? 

Castys Masterlist

Ingredients: drowning mention, animal attack (kinda chill tho it’s not really violent), dehydration, autocannibalism mention, parasitic insects, partial nudity, heckin surgery (but it’s CONSENSUAL (⊙ˍ⊙) who am I), suicide for convenience (immortal)

“This looks like a lovely spot for a vacation; thank you guys so much for finding it for me.” The small dingy had just landed on a sandy beach enclosed by dark rocks on either side, a lush forest leading deeper into the island. Casyts’s captor glared at him before harshly tugging the rope tied to his wrists, trying to get him to stand and step onto the beach with her.

“Shut your trap, Ragnarok, or I might change my mind about gagging you. Now get up or I’ll have my men drag you.” 

Castys sighed and rolled his eyes, getting up and following her so his rope burn didn’t get any worse. “Aye aye, Yvonne.” 

“That’s Captain Veldna to you,” she growled, jerking him forward. He stumbled a bit, but he was able to catch himself before he got sand up his nose. He debated trying to yank the rope out of her hands and running away or stealing the boat, but her very strong men were right behind him and that would probably just end in him having extra bruises. So he just followed her like a stupid little goat as she led him towards the rocks, hoping she wouldn’t leave him tied up so he could at least enjoy his time being stranded. But no, this was about sending a message to his crew or making him suffer or something. He didn’t really remember, he’d been dazed as hell when he’d initially gotten captured during a fight between their two ships. Blood loss was a bitch sometimes.

They forced him to sit with his back against a large rock, yanking his bound hands above his head and worming a large nail through the knotted rope before hammering it into the rock. “Not gonna lie, this seems a little extra. I’m not going to go anywhere, so, like, just let me-” Yvonne slapped him harshly across the face.

“You’re not here to have fun, you annoying little parrot.” She looked over at her men, who had just finished tying his ankles together and nailing them down in a similar fashion to his wrists. “If you lot are done, let’s leave.” She turned back to Castys, a wicked grin on her face. “I wonder how many times you’ll die before your crew finds you?”

“My money’s on eight. Do you want me to keep track and tell you next time we see each other? If only I could write in a diary what horrors I suffer sitting on this warm rock that you tied me to during high tide so I won’t even drown later. Now that-agh!” Yvonne stabbed him in the stomach, and Castys bit back a scream as she twisted her blade. 

“The sound of your silence is something I could get used to.”

“Well, the real question is, is silence actually a sound-” Castys’s very valid observation was cut off by the bitch yanking out her sword and promptly kicking him in the stomach. He couldn’t help but cry out, doubling over as far as he could. Yeah, yeah he should probably just shut the fuck up and let them get on their merry way before he got more unnecessary injuries. 

“Enjoy your vacation, Ragnarok,” Yvonne spat. As one last gesture of maturity, she kicked sand at him before walking off, and some of it definitely got in his stab hole, so that was nice. He watched them row away, sighing. Now it was just boredom city, but hey, at least he had a nice beach view. The sun was a few hours away from setting, not that it mattered that much since his skin was dark enough that he probably wasn’t going to get sunburned. 

Being tied to a rock on the beach was...just about as boring as he expected. His arms got all tingly after a while from being stuck above his head, so he couldn’t even properly relax, and a man could only watch little waves roll for so long. He had a nice view of the setting sun, and hey, that means the light of dawn wouldn’t be shining in his face. While the sun was still a little ways above the horizon, he heard an odd rustling noise over in the vegetation, different from the background sounds he had gotten used to. He looked over, hoping it was a friendly man with a knife.

It was not a friendly man with a knife. But it wasn’t something bad, either. “Oh shit hello crabs!” Castys watched as they scuttled out of the treeline onto the beach, glad to have something fun to watch. One of them was slowly making its way towards him, and Castys wondered if he would be able to convince it to snip his bindings. “Hey there mister crab man, come on down, and please for the love of god untie me.” Yes, yes he was talking to a crab, because why not go full send on the insanity right away? It would be so much more fun, and it’s not like anyone else was here to judge him. “Yeah crab get in my zone-wow you’re kinda big.” He’d thought the crab was closer to him, but nope, it had been farther away but giant. Not like giant giant but not, like, normal crab size. It was almost as big as his torso maybe, but he was never great at estimating the relative sizes of things. 

“You’re large but you’re a gentleman, ain’t ya? I don’t know why, but you just seem like a polite fellow.” The crab stopped not too far from Castys and just looked at him blankly. Or maybe it was making a face at him, but he couldn’t read crab body language. Could anyone read crab body language? Crabs, he would hope. “Could you bring me some tea, good sir? Or just...water. Water that’s not salty. I don’t actually like tea it literally tastes like nothing but you know what I would drink it now because I am thirsty.” There was a moment of silence. “Not like thirsty in the weird way some people are. I have no idea what that’s about. But like, I want water. Or...oh my god, Mr. Crab, bring me a coconut!” Castys closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “Yeah… that would be nice. Food and water and it’s prepackaged and I don’t know how I would eat it because my hands are tied but I’ll figure it out.”

A sudden sharp pinch against his wound jolted Castys out of his daydream. He looked down in horror to see that the crab was holding something in its claws. Something pinkish-red that was dripping blood down onto the sand. The bastard. The crab brought the piece of his flesh to its mouth and just ate it while staring right at Castys. “That,” he blinked in surprise a few times, “was incredibly rude.” The crab stayed still, watching him as it did its weird mouth movements that were maybe chewing. “You are absolutely not a gentleman. I rescind everything. You little garbage boy. Rapscallion. I bet you never get invited to the crab raves.”

And the crab. Had the audacity. To reach out its stupid pincher. And do it again. “Little bitch!” Castys yelled, squirming against the ropes in an attempt to scare the thing off. Shockingly, it did not work, because wounded, dying prey squirmed all the time, and...that’s pretty much what Castys was in this scenario, wasn’t he? He was just stuck sitting here while that stupid crab ripped off little pieces of him with its stupid crab pincher and put them in its stupid crab mouth. If he was lucky, this would make him bleed out and die faster and then he wouldn’t have an open wound anymore, which would be a bonus. Though, it had sand in it, and then if it healed…

A problem for another day.

Not the next day, though, or the one after, because, hooray, he was still tied to a rock, so even though he did die a few hours later, he couldn’t do anything about the Sand In His Insides. He made up a song about it, but singing it loudly did absolutely nothing to scare away the crab, whom he had named Crabstard (Crab Bastard). Crabstard seemed to think Castys was his new best friend, coming back regularly for meals. Castys liked to imagine killing and eating Crabstard as a show of dominance, but that made him wonder...would eating Crabstard be a form of autocannibalism? Because Crabstard had eaten him...

He wasn’t sure what was worse, Crabstard and his stupid giant pinchers, or the mosquitoes. There weren’t a ton of them, but their bites were just awful, littering his arms and legs with swollen, white boils, which were unusual and also very concerning but what the fuck could he do about it. Because of course he couldn’t scratch them, and they itched so much it hurt and he just had to endure it. Just like he had to endure fucking everything. The heat of the sun, the awful tingling in his arms, the soreness of his wrists, Crabstard pinching off bits of his flesh, the maddening pain and itch of all his bug bites, the hunger and thirst, the boredom, and the...the loneliness.

No, he was fine, he was fine with just himself, it was always just him anyway. He wasn’t imagining his crew rowing to shore and untying him and tending to him in his cold, dark cabin, because he couldn’t get his hopes up, because they probably weren’t even coming for him. They were just going to leave him behind like everyone else and fuck he was wasting water like a useless idiot and he couldn’t stop or even wipe them away and he probably deserved this for everything he’d done so what did it matter?

And, great, the next day he started hallucinating a passing ship and a rowboat coming for him. Thank you, dehydrated whore brain! Let’s get our stupid little hopes up! Dang, the people on the boat kind of even looked like some of his crewmates, which was rude of his brain to make this so realistic looking.

It wasn’t until his first mate, Kaveri, was untying him that Castys realized that this was real, that they’d really...really come for him. “I’m so glad we found you, Captain.” She pulled him into a hug as soon as he was free, and he hugged her back as best he could with his sore arms. 

“I’m glad y’all did, too.” He leaned back when she let go and looked down at himself, wincing. “Well, before we get back to the ship, I am going to deliver a much needed death upon mys-“

“Captain, Captain, wait,” the ship’s medic, Sixtus, called as he ran over. He knelt beside Castys, taking his arm and examining the bug bites closely. “I knew it. These bites all over you are...they contain fly larvae. We’re going to need to dig them out before you heal yourself.”

“...what if I’ve died since I’ve gotten bitten. Like, earlier.”

“Well.” Sixtus breathed in sharply. “We will just have to wait for them to, uh, let us know where they are.” He sighed. “For now, let’s get you back to the ship and I’ll get out the ones I can. I don’t have the tools for it with me.”

“Can I kill Crabstard first?”

“Crab...stard?” Kaveri gave him a concerned look, and Sixtus felt his forehead.

“He’s a very impolite giant crab. He is my rival. I wish to vanquish him.” The other two shared a look.

“Do you know where this...this crab is?” Sixtus tried.

Castys held up a finger and opened his mouth, pausing for a second before shutting it and blinking a few times. “I. I do not. He just scuttles out of the trees to commit crimes every now and then. He has no friends.”

“Alright, in that case, no. You’re in no condition to wander around the island looking for a crab.” Sixtus held out his hand. “So, come on.”

“Fiiiine,” Castys groaned, letting the taller man help him to his feet. He was a little unsteady, but he was able to make it to the boat with Kaveri’s help. As they rowed away, he turned back to the island one last time, cupping his hands around his mouth as he yelled, “Fuck you Crabstard I hope you starve and die in a pit and the other crabs eat you!” 

Once they made it back to the ship, Sixtus ushered Castys into his office, instructing him to sit up on the examination table and take his shirt and pants off. Kaveri helped him, opting to stay in case Sixtus needed a hand. He examined Castys thoroughly, using a lightstone to get a good look at the swollen bug bites littering his body as well as the number of small wounds in his side.

“These from the, uh, crab?” Sixtus asked as he gestured to them.

“Yup. Him and his stupid pinchers.”

“Alright, I know you don’t really get infections, but I’m going to clean these out just to be safe.” He paused. “Also it just feels. Really wrong not to. It’ll bother me if I don’t.”

“Do whatever, doctor man.” Castys did his best not to let his pain show as Sixtus dabbed at his wounds with a stingy liquid. It really didn’t hurt that much, but when Kaveri placed her hand on top of his as he gripped the edge of the table, he didn’t wave her off. He’d let it be Fuss Over The Captain Day. For their sake. Because they seem to have been worried about him. 

“Alright, I’m all done with that, so if you could lay down, Captain, I’ll get started with removing those larvae. Kaveri, get him some rum and then hold him down.” She nodded, leaving and returning soon after with a small cup.

“You know, I haven’t had water in days,” Castys mused before winking at her and downing its contents. Kaveri shook her head.

“You literally emptied my waterskin while we were rowing back.”

“Oh dang, I forgot. Nevermind I’m actually not funny and am just stupid.” He scooted a bit and laid down with his hands behind his head. “Get rid of my worms.”

“They’re not-they’re not worms, Captain, they’re insects, since-” Sixtus stopped himself, folding his hands in front of his mouth. “Nevermind.” He cleared his throat. “Arms at your sides, please. Kaveri, if you would.” She nodded, holding down his shoulders as Sixtus turned Castys’s arm, locating the first larva he was going to remove. Castys breathed in sharply as the knife sliced into his arm, doing his best to keep still as Sixtus slid a pair of tweezers into the wound. The rum dulled his senses enough that it didn’t hurt as much as it could, but it certainly wasn’t painless, and he couldn’t help but gasp as Sixtus slowly pulled a small, wriggling grub out of the incision. He dropped it in a metal tray, cleaned the wound, and picked up his knife.

Then the process started all over again.

Castys didn’t bother counting how many times those tweezers probed around inside him, how many wet little plops he heard as another larva dropped into the tray. He focused on staying still, on the prickle of the rough wood table against his bare back, on the feeling of Kaveri’s hands on his shoulders, more comforting than restraining. They reminded him that he wasn’t alone in his suffering, for once. But he wasn’t supposed to need comfort, he was their immortal captain, the one who’d been through everything before and was strong enough to go through it again, the one his crew could always depend on to be strong. And here he was, teeth gritted against the pain, his forehead resting against Kaveri’s arm, fists clenched to mask their shaking, all over a few cuts and some little maggots.

“Alright,” Sixtus wiped his brow with the back of his hand, “I think that’s all of ‘em. That I can see, at least.” He looked down at Castys. “You had seventeen of those things in you, Captain.” He grimaced. “And possibly more, so please let me know if you feel anything, uh, wiggling. But for now, you’re free to...die.”

“Can’t believe I got a new world record for worm friends.” Castys grabbed the small leather pouch that usually hung around his neck from his pile of clothes, pulling it open.

“They’re not worms-”

“Thank you, Sixtus.” With that, Castys stuck his finger in the pouch and touched his death stone. He came back to life feeling infinitely better, but Kaveri and Sixtus still insisted he rest after he cleaned himself up. He grumbled, but he let Kaveri force him into his bed and bring him something to eat. Once he was finished, she collected his plate and stood awkwardly by his bedside.

“Do...do you want me to come back, Castys? Will you be alright?”

“Look, I’m honestly fine, you’re good. I’ve been through a lot worse, and I’m all healed up now so it doesn’t really matter.” 

She pursed her lips. “I suppose, but that doesn’t mean that that didn’t still take a mental toll on you, and…” she sighed. “Just...call me if you need anything, alright?”

“Will do.” She nodded, but as she started to walk away, Castys realized there was something he’d rather not leave unsaid. “Wait, Kaveri?”

“Yes?”

“Th...thank you. For, uh, finding me.”

“Of course, Castys. We’ll always be there for you.” Castys opened his mouth to reply, but he stopped himself and just smiled and nodded, his shoulders only falling once she’d left.

He wished that were true.

Castys Cult: @as-a-matter-of-whump​ @blackrosesandwhump​ @fanmanga1357-blog​​ @thehopelessopus​ @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi​ @hearse-song​ @muddy-swamp-bitch @whumpasaurus101 @yet-another-heathen​​ @galaxywhump​ @starnight-whump​ @his-unspoken-words​ @misspelledwitch

[regrettablewritings]

Hey can I please get a, j and K from the fluff alphabet with the phantom aka Erik aka og aka my recent character crush? Thank you so much!

Okay, but this is the last fluff alphabet. Stuff is under the cut

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?):

Honestly, Erik is drawn to anyone who won’t treat him horribly. It’s sad, but absolutely true. Given his presumed lot in life, Erik hasn’t really been allowed too many opportunities to be especially picky. But going by his motivations, there are generally two stand-out things he seeks in a person: That they be adequate in looks, and that they don’t treat him like shit.

Before you criticize him on the temerity of the former, let it be known that it ties in to why he does so many of the things he does; why he demands a salary, for example: At the root of it all, what Erik wants is to have a normal life. Sure, he also wants said life to include his works being embraced the world over, but it’s more so on the grounds that he wants to do so as an absurdly talented but otherwise normal man. Particularly in the face.

He only accrues his wealth so that one day, by some grace of miracles, he will be able to join that world above him. And when that day comes, he will be prepared; he can afford a house and fill it with lovely things, including a lovely wife. One whom he can spoil and treasure and whose arm will link with his own as they walk through the park on Sunday evenings and who will love him as dearly as he shows his love for her . . . Really, for all that Erik does, it’s as much for his hypothetical wife as it is for him.

But given how hard he’s fumbled in the past, he really can’t afford to be especially picky. In addition to this, how beautiful he finds someone is also heavily influenced by how they treat him: To Erik, to be shown kindness is to see the kindness of God. However, please note that at this point, he’s almost certainly accepting of even forms of pity; just please do not reject him or treat him as a monster.

Of course, your kindness is what set him off but to Erik’s credit, he had learned to be better since the last time: He learns about the importance of having an ever-patient partner, especially for the likes of him; he learns that for as frustrating as it can be, there’s something good in having a significant other who’s not afraid to put their foot down or call him out on his unintentional moments of arrogance; he learns how to value himself more, to not accept pity as an accepted form of tolerance if it could be helped. But most of all, he realized just how much nicer it was to have someone whom he could actually discuss with, someone who was capable of forcing him to better himself by valuing what they had to say or what they thought.

Given how long he’d only had to think for himself, it’s a bit of a force of habit on the Opera Ghost’s part. But, given the proper guidance and adjustment period, it’s not one he altogether minds letting go of. Over all, what he’s attracted to in you is that you have a hold over him. And given the sort of life he’s led up to this point, it feels nice to be held.

Thankfully, you were much simpler: You liked the enigma that was the Phantom of the Opera. It took you ages to so much as pry out his name despite the fact that he’d been so willing to share with you his music much sooner. Frustrating, yes, but you couldn’t help but find yourself intrigued by it all, intrigued by his world away from worlds you knew. You loved how complex he was, being so dominant yet vulnerable, so competent yet in need of guidance. You loved how in spite of everything, he was incredibly learned for a man of the era, how his library consisted of no shortage of foreign literature and music books filled to the brim with his notes.

You loved how everywhere you looked, even after learning his habits, his interests, his joys and sorrows, there was always something more to learn about your lover. In short, you loved everything that made Erik, (literal) warts and all.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?):

. . . You know damn well that Erik gets jealous. This man’s possessiveness, in fact, is ripe enough to drive the plot of a story – and has! However, it might be proposed that we generally are not completely aware as to why Erik displays territorialism as intensely as he does. And in my honest opinion, it comes down to two main reasons which continuously entwine with one another: That Erik is on the autism spectrum, and that even without that, Erik’s life has made him consequently overprotective.

On the subject of the former, without making a lesson out of this, it’s not uncommon at all to select a person you’ve essentially “invited” into your life and attach yourself to them. A sudden change of that, depending on the person, could prove distressing – like, say, a potential threat suitor taking your attention off of him, getting a bit too close to you for the Phantom’s comfort, and so on. As Erik sees it, you’re his person, and frankly he isn’t fond of sharing. You’re a part of his life now, one he especially doesn’t want to have changed.

Going off this, it also helps to remember that Erik’s life has been incredibly unstable for the most part. Him living on an underground lake located in a labyrinth beneath a Parisian opera house has actually been the most structured his life has ever been! The only thing that has accompanied him all this time has been that monkey-shaped music box, so it’s fair to assume that he’s since developed a bit of . . . avidity. What few things life has given him, he intends to keep by as many means as necessary. Sometimes (at least in his mind), those means can just mean pulling pranks about the opera house so that a single, untalented performer doesn’t ruin the establishment’s reputation. Other times, it means flinging balls of fire at those whom he deems are threats.

He knows that, in the end, you’re far from pleased but he just can’t help himself: You’re one of the only good things that have graced his life, let alone one of the only ones that appears willing to stay -- he’s grown accustomed to having you around and if you were to suddenly, well, not be because some handsome, rich, talentless, impudent child had gained your attention, then he would be devastated! So much so that he might act on his aggressions . . .

(Though, let it be clarified that it is not your job to better Erik. Voice your disagreement about his desires, as these are not meant to justify his antics; only explain them. He’s thankfully since learned to be somewhat more agreeable than before, so it isn’t impossible to make him yield.)

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?):

If you were expecting the world’s most secluded man to be a naturally-gifted kisser, than you are sadly and extraordinarily mistaken. Erik’s kisses are wobbly and uncertain, as though he were unsure of where to put his lips (which he is). It was like that the first time you’d kissed, and it’s safe to assume they’ll continue to be of similar nature for a while with some dosage of insecurity in them or another.

However, you couldn’t have wanted for anything more. You see, the first time the two of you shared a kiss, it had been a bit of an effort of both parts. It’s honestly hard to determine whom the proper initiator had been: One might say it was Erik, as he had been the one to hover so closely to you; all you had been doing at the moment was leafing through one of his books on poetry whilst taking up residency on his lounge. However, another might argue that you were silently yet intentionally ensorcelling him when you glanced behind to find him staring at you: You did, after all, grace him with a shy yet warm smile. But then again, Erik’s eyes bore into you with the same hunger and pleading as a pup demanding attention (and perhaps a snack) from its master -- there was simply no way to misinterpret his longing!

But then you invited him over, voicing how “standing over there looks far lonelier than sitting right here” might’ve been. But then, perhaps, Erik was too eager in his footsteps, too brisk in spite of his thundering heart? Or were you well aware when you insisted he scoot closer to you so that he could read along with you? Whatever the case, his figure remained stiff as it sat next to you, leaving a painfully thin but painfully there wall of silence between the two of you. You could just barely feel the faintest brush of the very fiber of his clothes against you. But what you swore you felt much more vibrantly was . . . this sense of need.

“Erik,” you spoke, shattering the quiet, “I’m afraid I’m having trouble deciphering this . . . Would you mind . . .?” Your voice trailed as you lifted the book only enough for him to see. However, it would only be enough for him to see if he made an effort to move even closer to you. He parted his lips; you could hear the beginnings of an effort to deny you, only for him to rescind. It was not in his nature, as Erik was coming to find, to deny you the sound of his voice or his attention.

The threat of a shudder racked your body as the fine threads of his jacket scratched against your arm, the slightest hint of Erik’s nerves trickling through them. He was just close enough for you to register his warmth, what little he tended to give off anyway. It was perfect.

Craning his neck as far as he would allow himself to, Erik obliged you:

“Till, ho,” his voice recited, low but clear. Warm yet distant.

“Astarte bright Rose o’er the shadowy vale And filled the whole deep night With crystalline low light, White, tremulous, and pale.”

Tremulous, you noted. Much like himself. Much like the endless night he so dominated . . .

“Then on the star-lit bank,” he continued, “Dreaming of what love’s bliss is, we --” He paused. He furrowed his brow before releasing it once more. You dared to believe that the Opera Ghost was blushing!

Tremulous indeed, he tried to start once more, “W. . . we . . .”

“’Trembled,’” you assisted, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

“Mm,” he hummed, far too flustered to consider making it tuned. “W-we . . . trembled . . . and we sank . . .” He sighed heavily, the end in sight.

“And thro’ her lips I drank Her soul in rapturous kisses . . .”

Once more, the Phantom exhaled heavily, albeit more so from embarrassment than before. He didn’t recall adding that piece to his library, not that it wasn’t something he wouldn’t normally own. Still, the thought that he had exposed himself in such a manner, much less to you . . . It was inappropriate to say the least! Against his already buzzing nerves, he spared you a glance to determine the amount of damage he might have caused your relationship.

To his surprise, you didn’t appear to be very flustered, if at all! In fact, you appeared to be intrigued. Very intrigued, if one were to gain evidence in how you appeared to be leaning in ever so slightly. If Erik had ever questioned what the flames of Hell might have felt like, he would have dared theorize they felt as his burning face did in that moment.

“‘In a rapturous kiss’,” you repeated. He wasn’t certain how to reply; he only offered a curt nod. You blinked, almost sheepishly.

“Erik . . .” you breathed, “would you . . .?”

“. . . Y. . .” The word never came out. Not because it had been sudden, but because the man was simply unable to even process even a one-worded sentence. It was all, in fact, very slow in movement: From how he inched in closer; to how you leaned in further; to the way your eyes fluttered shut; to how Erik, almost childishly, struggled to determine the proper angle at which to make the connection.

It felt like an eternity and yet fleeting all at once. And yet, the kiss did happen. Messily, awkwardly, and not nearly anything like the poets in Erik’s book might have written.

But, oh, was it nonetheless tremulous and tender, yet burning.

Rapturous.

Thank you for being patient!

[mor-beck-more-problems]

White Crest 101 || Morgan & Margot

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: UMWC

PARTIES: @g0t-ri5h & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Margot gets a crash course in class from her new professor, and what it means to be a transplant White Crestian

The class had started several minutes ago and Margot had just barely rolled out of bed. She changed quickly into a pair of pants, not bothering to change the sweatshirt that she had slept in. There was no time. Margot had a habit of being late, a trait she had inherited from her mother. While her mother thought it was a fashionable faux pas, Margot was simply disorganised. By the time she busted through the back entrance of the room, the professor was halfway through her lecture. The nearest free chair was close to the front, one that would attract a great amount of unwanted attention. Margot trudged down to it, annoying a handful of students that had to stand to let her past. She sat down, listened to the remainder of the lesson, not following any of it. An advisor had called her over the weekend, told her that she didn’t have enough credits for the semester. To her chagrin, this class was one of the few that still had availability. English, a subject she had always struggled to comprehend, starting later would only make it more difficult. The lecture came to an end and Margot began to pack her things. “She’s a great teacher when she’s actually here.” One student said to another. Margot listened intently. “My roommate was telling me she was gone for like a month last semester. No explanation, just poof.” The other gossiped back. The two of them left, and Margot was just about to follow them out when she heard her name be called.

“Do your reflection responses! Do the reading! Make good choices! Remember you have agency in your life!” Morgan shouted her end of class reminders in one breath, waving goodbye to each of them as the filed out. Most waved back with a mix of confusion and embarrassment. They made faces, because they were still young and had too much pride, but no one was above a little personal attention or affirmation. “Ooh, not you, straggler! Yes, you, Margot!” She smiled smugly, waving the roster in front of her. It wasn’t magic powers that gave her the student’s name, just some really attentive refreshing of the faculty center page. “You know…” She eyed the girl and gave a wry smile, “If you only stay for half the class, you’re only getting half your money’s worth. Also, technically, no participation credit. Which is an extra bummer, since it’s the easiest thing to get. But since you’re new, I guess I can let the first day slide. You got some free time, Margot? I’d love to know what brought you to my class this late in the game while we go over make-up work?”

Margot let out a quiet and frustrated sigh. She was so looking forward to going back to her bed. Instead she turned to face the professor. “I’m sorry I was late. I overslept.” Margot knew this was not an adequate excuse by any means, but she had no patience or energy to think of something more creative or reasonable. Margot began to walk towards the lectern in the front of the room, towards Morgan. “It was a great lecture though, the parts I was here for. Very, uh, informative.” She offered this as a consolation. Margot glanced at her watch, as if she had someplace else to be. “Yes, I suppose I can stay for a bit.” She took off her backpack and sat it on the floor where she stood. Margot imagined this could take a while. “I thought I had enough credits for the semester, but apparently I didn’t. Yours was one of the only classes I could join so late. Is there much to catch up on?” Margot dreaded to think of all the homework she had missed, it would only add to the growing stack of overdue work on her desk.

Morgan let out a long-suffering sigh. Of course she had only come here for the credit. She had maybe even heard that it was an easy class to pass, which...wasn’t wrong either. Morgan didn’t think that being a hardass with grades was the way to students’ hearts, or to teaching them anything effective. She tossed Margot a syllabus and gathered the rest of her materials, leading her out of the room and off to the long series of halls and stairs it would take to get to her office. “No, there won’t be too much work. Just the introductory assignment, so I know some useful things about you. And you’ll have to grab the books and catch up on the book we’re finishing up next week. But, it’s really not much. I’m not interested in competing with your other courses for ‘Most Demanding Homework.’ I’m here to help you figure out how to think differently and express yourself more effectively. But--” She paused on the stairs to look over at the girl. “Maybe you have some questions for me? I’m not sure how long you’ve been at the school, but I know it can be a lot sometimes no matter what.”

Morgan’s sigh sounded nearly as pained as her own. If Margot was more empathetic, she may have even apologised for being so flippant and insulting the woman’s career. But, alas, she was not so perceptive. Margot caught the syllabus between her palms and began flipping through the first few pages as she followed Morgan out of the room. As she spoke, Margot made a mental note to source an online copy of this week’s reading material. It would be cheaper that way. “Introductory assignment?” Margot hoped it would be a simple questionnaire; name, age, perhaps favourite pets name. Hopefully it wouldn’t ask her about her lifelong hopes and dreams. She would most definitely fail. “I transferred in this year, so I’m still becoming acquainted with everything here.” Margot explained, “I do have one question, since you asked. Your absences,” Margot prefaced before continuing, “I overheard some students say you disappeared without warning last semester. I was just wondering, will attendance still be required if that occurs again?” Her question was admittedly influenced most by laziness and her wish to stay in bed as late as possible. But, Margot was also just curious, and rather nosey. It was probably an inappropriate question, but it was too late to rescind it.

“Oh, just a short reflection on how you feel about reading and writing about stories and what you want to learn this semester. Learning doesn’t happen by accident, and being clear with yourself on what your intentions are can go a long way to getting the most out of the semester!” Morgan explained. She jogged up the next flight of stairs and turned on the landing, bright with encouragement. She nodded along as she walked, commenting that asking questions were how everyone learned. And then Margot asked. Morgan’s foot slipped on the next set of stairs and she stumbled down to one knee. “Uh, my--a-atendance?” She understood that her students flourished better with consistency and she knew that even though none of last semester’s students had the nerve to ask her what had happened or express how it had made them feel, she knew they had their opinions on it. What Morgan did not know was that Margot was the kind of student to cut to the chase, no matter how sharp she needed to be. She straightened herself up and smiled again, scrambling to recover. “Uh, well, it is possible that I may cancel class for unforeseen reasons, in which case there won’t be any reason to take attendance, but if there is class, then there will be someone to teach you, even if for some reason it isn’t me. And if there is someone to teach you, then they will be taking attendance and passing on the roster to me.” Her voice was growing tighter, breathier. She was forgetting to breathe. Morgan hissed through her teeth for breath and forced herself to meet Margot’s eyes. “Is there something else that you wanted to ask me about my absences, Margot?”

Margot’s hand reached out to grab Morgan’s elbow as she stumbled. “Oh, shit!” Margot cursed under her breath. She had clearly taken her professor by surprise. But, as quickly as Morgan’s pleasant smile had faltered, it was back in it’s rightful place. “Very well.” Margot responded to the thorough explanation, “I only ask because my course load is already so full. My programming classes are very time consuming, and I just want to ensure I can keep my schedule intact.” A lie, Margot thrived in disorganisation. Her ‘unplanned routine’, she liked to think. “I’m glad to know that the class would be unaffected in such an event.” Margot smiled in a disingenuous, thin line, hoping to settle the sharpness of Morgan’s breath. She was being her most polite self now, the facade she reserved only for her mother and father. It seemed she had distressed the teacher, Margot wondered why. To her it was such a straightforward question. “No, your absences, and reasons for them are entirely your personal business.” For now anyways. Margot’s mind was already in front of her computer, researching. Her question had tugged at a nerve. Margot liked to know what made people tick, their darkest secrets and how best to exploit them to her advantage. “Did you still want to go over the make-up work?” They were still frozen on the staircase, and Margot wondered whether Morgan would still be willing to help her cause despite the hostility in her tone and posture.

Maybe all the mushroom stress was getting to Morgan too much. She’d been so sure a second ago that this girl was trying to get under her skin, needling about her ‘personal emergency’ last year. But Margot stayed on that line of courtesy, and Morgan wondered whether she made other people feel this way when she asked about their kids or their losses or their dates. Maybe people with their sanity just barely intact didn’t like surprise personal questions. Who knew? Morgan tried to smile again, better this time. “Thank you. I uh, appreciate that. And, yes, of course. I want you to succeed. There’s copies of all the handouts on the class website, since I know half of you guys live your life on your computer.” She climbed up the rest of the way and started down the dimly lit hall, ignoring its off-center doors and the soft give of the floor that was just too much on the wrong side of uncanny to bear contemplating for long. “I know I can’t promise a lot for you, Margot, especially in a place like White Crest, but I can say I’ll try my best for you.”

Margot was glad that she had somewhat diffused the situation, having Morgan dislike her would only make passing this class harder. Once more, they were on route to her office. Margot detested this university, most of all it’s appearance, it was as if it had never had a renovation or even been repainted. She visibly cringed as they continued on their path. She had never been in such a lacklustre environment before, having been born and bred in quiet luxury. She hadn’t acknowledged the privilege while she had it, but since leaving MIT, it’s all she could think about. What she had lost. What had been taken from her. “I appreciate the help. I need it.” It seemed that Morgan was one of the more passionate professors at UMWC, most would not give a student this much assistance. “I’m trying my best to fit in here. It’s just,” Margot paused, considering her words, “such a strange place.” Strange didn’t even scratch the surface. “Have you always lived here? In White Crest?”

Morgan’s office was all the way at the end of the hall, through a communal office supply room stocked with paper the wrong size for the printer and coffee that was perpetually burnt. Morgan’s office was through a sticky door off the corner, one desk in five crammed together. Today, only Karl and Kirk were nursing whiskeys in coffee mugs since Kyle (or his body rather) still hadn’t been found. “Sorry, boys. Official business. Come back in fifteen minutes?” Her voice was bittersweet, sharpening an invisible knife under its surface. Karl and Kirk put their mugs down so fast, whiskey spilled over the sides. They folded their laptops under their arms and shuffled away. Kirk clumsily dropped a mint tea bag on her desk before mumbling an apology and shutting the door behind him.

Morgan turned to her student, smile tight with awkwardness. “Don’t mind the Medieval Bros. They’re mostly harmless. Now, anyways. And I’m a transplant from Texas. Strange is probably...the gentlest word for how things are here. Which, just some unofficial wisdom? Don’t be out after dark alone, especially on the full moon. Stay away from the cosplay bars, the crowds there are more dangerous than they look. Don’t go off trail if you’re a hiker, ever. And keep some bleach on hand in case your bathroom starts sprouting blood, eyeballs, or fish.”

Margot restrained her laughter as the two bumbling men were ushered out of the room. She knew the smell of whiskey well enough to know that wasn’t coffee seeping from their pores. Normally such unprofessionalism would surprise her, but this was the new normal. “Yum, mint tea.” Margot picked the bag up, twirled it between her fingers a few times before dropping it into one of the mugs. She had a sly smile on her face, the result of witnessing something she probably shouldn’t have.

“Texas, wow. I never would have guessed. You don’t even have the signature accent.” Margot made herself comfortable, taking a seat in one of the desk chairs that had become vacant by Karl and Kirk. At Morgan’s advice, Margot’s mouth opened, then closed, not knowing how to respond. She didn’t know what to make of all of these random warnings; skeledogs, mimes, now full moons and the dark. “Why does everyone keep telling me to be careful?” Her eyes narrowed. “I know how to take care of myself.”

Morgan reached into her desk and took out some things from her cache of school supplies, the paper handouts, a journal to be graded, the first assignment, and a spare copy of the first book. “Oh, that,” she said, laughing at the teabag. “They’re just trying to...well, make up for their existence. I think they’re really coming along when it comes to respecting women, though they should probably figure out how to do it without being induced by fear.” She handed Margot the stack of assignments. “Maybe at your old school that was true, but things are different here in ways they don’t tell you in the brochures. So, take these, follow the instructions carefully, and have them in by next week, and I’ll waive the rest of what you’ve missed. And, seriously, be careful. Don’t die!”

[timeisacephalopod]

Have a TonyRhodey AU in which Tony is complaining about his children to Rhodey, who is not at all lost on the fact that Tony’s kids act like him so its kind of funny that he’s mad about it.

*

Rhodey laughs, hand covering his mouth and Tony lets out a noise of frustration. “Stop that! You don’t get it, Peter was being deliberately stupid. Like who decides to walk up to the cops with information on the asston of property damage and say ‘do you want the tea?’ instead of just telling them what happened?”

He doesn’t say anything about that time he and Tony got into a nasty car wreak that neither of them should have survived let alone come out untouched only to tell the cop that he’d rather be eating a burger than talk to them. And he did this for an hour until he got the damn food, then he continued to purposefully badger the cop because he thought it was funny. So its really not shocking that Peter thinks irritating the cops is funny too, he comes by it honestly. “That’s pretty funny,” he says and Tony’s eyes bug out of his head.

“No! Give him those ‘respect cops’ talks you always gave me, shithead!”

Rhodey squints, “I gave you ‘don’t torment cops with your black friend in shooting range’ lessons, lets not twist things. And no, parent your damn self you were the one that adopted like fifty kids.”

“Excuse you we have three and one is part time Pepper’s so she barely even counts so really we have two kids and a pest,” Tony says. “Fifty kids my ass. And you’re his parent to, do parent things,” he says, poking Rhodey in the side.

He smacks Tony’s hand away, “stop that. And Morgan is your actual child, how’s she count less?”

“Because Pepper has her equal time, Rhodey. And they’re all my actual kids, just because one was once a sperm that was-”

“Okay, you don’t need to finish that sentence. Peter sassing the cops is so not the worst thing he could be doing. Remember that ridiculous Jake Gyllenhaal looking bastard with the fish bowl head? Absolutely worse shenanigans than asking the cop if he wants the tea. Just saying.” And Peter is a good kid too, the least troublesome one they have and the little bastard got bit by a radioactive spider and became a superhero. But he’s the least troublesome kid they have. Sometimes Rhodey wonders if Tony is secretly Harley’s actual father because they share way too much in common and how come none of the kids are like him? Rude.

“Fine, Peter being a dick to cops is fine. Harley nearly died twice because, and this is a quote, ‘I wanted to make a cool Tik Tok.’ I had to look up what the fuck that was,” Tony says, exasperated.

Yeah, Harley is a certified Dumb Bitch but if Tik Tok and superheroes had been around in their youth he knows he’d have to find a way to save Tony’s dumb ass as he made videos in the middle of superhero battlefields. Shit, if that was the case in their youth deciding to make cool videos would have been Iron Man’s origin story instead of the terrorist thing.

“Tones you know you’d do the same thing, you can’t really judge the kid,” he says reasonably.

If it were possible for steam to blow out of Tony’s ears it would have. “He almost died twice under crumbling buildings for a twelve second video with Mii music in the background captioned ‘my last brain cell trying to avoid death while I ruin my life.’ He almost died twice for that,” Tony says like he didn’t once give out his personal address to terrorists only to be surprised when they blew up his house. And that’s one of the less dumb things Tony has done that’s nearly resulted in his death.

“Uh huh. Baby I hate to tell you this, but he’s just acting like you,” he says, wincing a little as he says it.

Tony reacts exactly how he thinks he would, mostly offended about it. “Rhodey, that is the problem. I’m an idiot, I like to think I have raised my kids to not be idiots.”

“Eh,” Rhodey says, waving hand. Tony smacks him playfully.

“Don’t be rude and talk to the kid, he listens to you,” he says like Harley doesn’t listen to him too.

“Its a phase, he’ll get through it,” Rhodey says.

“He almost died for a twelve second video that is an insane phase! Why are you not worried about his safety?” he asks, confused.

“I’m assuming this was the same event where Peter asked the cops if they wanted the tea, yeah?” he asks.

Tony huffs, “that’s not the point.”

“Is so. I know you wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him and neither would Peter, he was fine. Stupid, but fine. Besides, I can’t talk braincells into the kid,” he points out. “Didn’t work on you anyway.”

“Well... can you just talk to him?” Tony asks, shoulders slumped.

Rhodey shrugs, “yeah, alright. I doubt I’ll do more than you did but I can talk to the kid.” Tony nods, visibly relieved and Rhodey waits for him to go on but he doesn’t. “And Morgan?” he asks, figuring she’s gotten into some kind of something this week. Last time he got an update she tried to bleach her hair so she could dye it pink except she’s five so that didn’t go well and Tony spent a lot of time yelling about potentially going blind while Morgan watched on. Her only defense was that she’s not dumb, she knows not to bleach her eyes.

He’d had to leave that alone too and he and Pepper had a quiet moment about how Tony one hundred percent would have done the same thing. Kind of did in college when he decided to go blond and he looked awful. Then he decided the solution was shaving his hair short, which mostly made him look like a skin head so Rhodey told him to dye his hair back but Tony’s dramatic ass hid under the bed for a month until it grew out enough to leave for more than a few hours at night to eat, shit, and shower. So really, Morgan was just reaching out to some Stark genes there and she was fine, if sporting some awful hair, so he and Pepper got a good laugh out of Tony’s reaction.

“Oh she’s fine, turns out she’s a music prodigy so there's that. But I’m sure she’ll do some stupid thing soon. In the meantime though she’s not doing anything particularly stupid so that’s nice, I’ve got my hands full with Harley and Peter anyway.”

That doesn’t surprise Rhodey much, she insults Tony’s music taste too much to not know things about it. “Guess she had some insight when she told you Alice Cooper was worse than Barney,” he says and Tony makes an offended noise.

“She did not!”

*

Rhodey looks over the kids sternly until Morgan raises her hand. “I didn’t even do anything so can I leave?” she asks. He nods and she grins, taking off presumably to go harass Tony about his music that she’s deemed awful. Tony has threatened to disown her four times today alone.

Harley and Peter wilt a little and Rhodey sighs. “Harley, nearly dying for a Tik Tok is not nearly a cool enough death to risk it. Peter, that’s hilarious. Keep pissing off New York’s finest, you’re bullet proof anyway. Stop doing it in front of your father though, I’m tired of Tony losing his ass about it.”

Peter frowns, “I’m not bullet proof.”

“I rescind that, stop pissing off New York’s finest, I don’t put it above at least one of them to shoot Spiderman. Harley, learn how to edit, man. What the hell are you doing running around in superhero battles for? Go ask Ned if you need help with it, you know Ned is good at editing and he’s a good boy, I’m sure he’d help you.” Helped Peter hack into his suit and they both thought Tony didn’t know right away like he didn’t plan for the possibility that someone would tamper with the suit Peter or otherwise. Ned got himself a job out of it and Peter got grounded, which meant no Spiderman.

“Please don’t call Ned a good boy,” Peter says, wrinkling his nose.

“Hey, I found another Spiderman and his suit is way cooler than Peter’s!” Morgan says from behind them. Rhodey turns to find a kid standing there in an admittedly very cool design but its clearly painted over one of Peter’s suits. He’d recognize one of those suits anywhere the design is so unique. He turns to Peter, who smacks Harley.

“You said he was well hidden!” he hisses.

“Morgan’s a busybody, you know that!”

“He was in your closet, that’s not well hidden. You should have hid him under the sink,” Morgan tells them, hands on her hips.

Rhodey lets out a long suffering sigh. “Alright kid, who are you?”

“I’m not Miles Morales. I’m some other guy,” he says, looking away and Rhodey hopes this kid has loving parents because he’s absolutely dumb enough for Tony to adopt.

“Yeah alright, lets get you to the lab so you can get your own suit. Peter, you can explain yourself to your father and Harley, you too. Morgan... good work,” he says awkwardly but Morgan looks proud of herself so at least there’s that. Miles looks upset that he’s outted himself but it does seem like Peter is incapable of finding friends who are good liars. Better for him and Tony though so he’ll take it.

[elisaphoenix13]

Everlasting Spirit (Ch. 4 END)

"No, no, no! Grab her!"

Stephen startles out of sleep and feels Tony moving in front of him, possibly trying to grab something, when Athena wiggles her way between them. He groans quietly when his wolf starts to enthusiastically lick his face, and then reaches up to place his hand on the back of her neck.

"Calm." Stephen commands and Athena immediately lays down and whines while Bucky runs in.

"I'm sorry! We tried to stop her, but we think she caught a whiff of Mama Bear." The soldier says.

"It's alright." Stephen gently pats the wolf's head. "How bad do I look?"

Tony kisses his forehead and grimaces at the bit of wolf saliva left behind. "If we keep your back covered, you won't scare or worry the kids."

"Scars?" Stephen whispers.

"...Quill can only do so much babe."

"It's okay...I appreciate what he did as it is."

Tony made sure to console Stephen about any new scars he had, and that it didn't change how the engineer saw him...but the sorcerer knew. He knew Tony still loved him no matter what was done to him or what permanent reminders stayed behind, because it was the same for Stephen. Tony had his scars from using the infinity stones, and they covered his entire right arm and part way up the side of his neck. Scars from his arc reactor too.

Now Stephen didn't just have the scars on his hands. He had some on his back from the lashings...and the single stab wound Peter gave him when he was taken by Hydra and brainwashed. The boy still couldn't look at it without feeling an immense amount of guilt.

"How about we get you up to a bigger bed before we let the animals see you?" Tony asks and Stephen nods.

Tony then gives Stephen his sling ring and the sorcerer opens a portal to the master bedroom on the family floor once he gets out of bed. His healing wounds were still sore and screamed at him for moving, but he ignored them as he stepped through the gateway with Tony and Athena. Stephen did falter in his step for a mere second, but Tony was there to help steady him and also help the sorcerer change into pajamas that wouldn't irritate his back. Thanks to Quill, the lash marks were healed but the scars that remained were still a little sensitive and would be for a little while longer yet. He was lucky everyone found him when they did or he would forever feel pain in his nerves like Scott did with his neck. It pained Stephen to see the thief in pain like that, but when Quill was around, it was no big deal.

The problem was when the celestial was off planet that Scott suffered the most.

"Do you need anything?"

Stephen groans quietly when he climbs into bed and settles into the mattress, finally comfortable. "As much as I want to say the kids...I'm more hungry than anything."

"I think we can do something about that. Get some more rest while you wait." Tony answers and leaves the bedroom after pulling the comforter up to Stephen's shoulders.

It didn't take long for Tony to return with food but that wasn't all he returned with. He brought the kids with him too and that even included Cassie. Harley brought food that he undoubtedly cooked and would be easy to eat and settle in Stephen's stomach, and Cassie, bless her heart, brought him tea. Made correctly to Stephen's tastes. He took the tea first and drank half of it before he was ready for food, and while he ate, the kids waited as patiently as possible for the doctor to finish. Stephen could tell they were itching to snuggle up to him but Tony must have told them not to touch without asking for now.

Which was a good idea. The kids might know that he was hurt while he was held captive, although not how much, and he didn't want his back to be touched for fear of worrying the kids. Stephen did, however, want one of his infamous cuddle sessions. The moment he was finished with his light meal and his tea, he set the dishes on the nightstand and directs all of the kids to the middle of the bed. As soon as they were all touching him in some way or another, Stephen relaxed even more.

"Are you okay?" Peter finally asks.

"Getting better every day." Stephen answers gently.

It was the truth. He was far from okay when the Avengers found him, but when Tony stayed with him when he asked, he rested easier. Even if Tony had to check on the kids, someone was always in the room with him and Stephen always felt safe even if he wasn't always the best company since he slept a lot. Now he was even more relaxed. His kids and honorary cub were visibly safe with him and Orion had been taken care of.

At least that was what Steve said. Internally, Stephen would turn a blind eye this time if his captor was being held by some of the team members.

"Mom?" Harley mumbles.

"Hmm?"

"Can we stay with you tonight?"

"Cassie has to save me from Valerie's feet." Tony grumbles. "Being kicked in the face in the middle of the night is no fun."

Cassie giggles. "I think I can manage that."

=============

When Stephen woke up the next morning, he found all of the kids on their usual places whenever they ended up in the master bedroom. The girls under the covers between Stephen and Tony, Peter sprawled across them on top, and Harley down at the foot of the bed snuggled with Athena. He snuck out of bed this time. Stephen knew he was healed enough to be able to get up and roam around, and he was starting to get antsy the day before to do so. Even he couldn't stay in bed for days on end, so he silently left the bedroom after Harley grumbled when Athena got up to follow her master, but only wrapped the spare blanket he was using around him tighter and continued to sleep.

He closes the bedroom door behind him with a soft click and walks down the stairs after Athena and into the kitchen to feed her and make himself some tea, and then sits on the couch, being ever mindful of his back. Athena joins him on the couch after her breakfast and Stephen huffs when she starts to incessantly nuzzle his face after nudging her head under his arm. There was a very big chance she wouldn't let Stephen out of her sight for a while after the incident. He was only gone for little more than a day, but she always understood when Stephen would be right back or when he would be gone for a few days due to dimension hopping. Sometimes she was allowed to go with him when he went on Sorcerer Supreme errands, and other times she couldn't, but she knew the difference. He either said 'I'll be right back' or 'Be good for the family' depending on how long he would be gone. He said the latter if he was going dimension hopping and didn't intend on taking Athena with him.

"Stop that. I'm home and safe." Stephen pats the wolf's head after she calms down and lays the front half of her body on the sorcerer's lap. "Good girl." He praises.

"Well so much for my surprise."

Stephen looks toward the elevator and finds Bucky looking over at him with his arms crossed.

"What surprise?" Stephen asks.

"I was going to make you and everyone else breakfast."

Stephen smiles softly. "I would still appreciate it. I don't think I have the strength or energy to cook that much yet."

"Any requests?" Bucky asks as he walks toward the kitchen.

"Not particularly."

"How about a note?" Tony says from the level above when he looks over the banister. "I woke up and you weren't in bed. Scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry." Stephen apologizes.

Tony just sighed and descended the stairs to join Stephen in the living room and carefully wrapped his arm around the doctor's shoulders when he sat down on the side Athena wasn't taking up. He didn't say anything else. Tony only kissed his temple and turned the tv on to a low volume so it wouldn't disturb Stephen while he was reading. Stephen had grown used to tuning out noise while he read or meditated so he hardly noticed.

"I don't remember seeing Quill in the medbay at all." Stephen brings up about twenty minutes later.

"He passed out as soon as we got you home safe. He's been sleeping ever since." Tony looks down and pets Athena's head, who grumbles softly at the motion. "He used his powers nonstop since you were taken and even a god like him doesn't have endless amounts of energy."

"I think he deserves all the Skittles he can eat and a few IOU's from us for what he did." The sorcerer answers and Tony smirks as he kisses his temple again.

"Way ahead of you Stephanie. He's the reason you're home safe again." Tony looks back up at the tv show. "Well the reason we were able to find you. Everyone worked on finding you and then getting you back."

There was the confirmation. Stephen knew it while in captivity, but to hear that it was actually true from Tony put that much more faith into the team. There was a lot to begin with. Now it was unwavering. He knew if this somehow happened again, they would look for him whether they succeeded or not.

"Which reminds me…" Tony suddenly says and gets up to disappear onto the elevator.

Stephen could only blink. His husband wandered off without any further explanation, and then came back in just a couple minutes to sit back down next to the sorcerer. Without a word, Tony puts Stephen's nanotech bracelet back around his wrist, and taps it gently after he looks up at Stephen.

"From now on, if you need to take this off so I can make repairs, you're not allowed to go anywhere until I fix it. I can't risk losing you again." Tony whispers and Stephen silently nods in agreement. "Besides, I'm pretty sure the kids like you better."

Stephen scoffs. "Tony--"

"I'm kidding. I haven't forgotten what you said about the battle with Thanos. I only plan on dying of old age or heart attack because of you and the kids." Tony winces when Stephen smacks the back of his head. "Hey! I'm just being realistic!"

"Tony doesn't get breakfast." The sorcerer snarks.

"Roger that." Bucky replies from the kitchen.

Tony smiles at him and Stephen eventually rescinded the order as Bucky got closer to finishing breakfast. The sorcerer dozed off on his husband's shoulder shortly before the kids came down from the master bedroom, and through the haze of the conscious part of his mind, he heard Tony telling them to be quiet so Stephen could get a few minutes of sleep before breakfast. He barely noticed when his book slipped out of his hand and landed on the floor with a dull thud, and vaguely recalled Cassie picking it up while Harley laid a blanket over Stephen.

He had good kids.

The sorcerer completely dropped off to sleep after that, and about twenty minutes later he was being gently shaken awake. Stephen slowly opens his eyes, finding himself laying down completely on the couch with Athena next to him, and then rubs his eyes. Tony must have needed to get up and laid Stephen down without disturbing him because Diana was the one waking him up.

"Mommy, breakfast is ready. Daddy made you a plate before everyone got theirs."

"Okay, okay. I'm awake. You can go eat." Stephen yawns.

Diana wanders off once Stephen pushes Athena away and sits up, and he grunts at the soreness of his healing wounds when he stretches. He really needed to eat something before he fell asleep again. His plate wasn't in danger of being swiped so he was able to take his time getting up and shuffling to the kitchen to join the rest of the family.

That's what they were. They weren't just acquaintances or friends...they were a family. A family that looked out for each other. Something Stephen was glad to be a part of despite their chaotic energy.

"Honey, eat your eggs before Porcupine swipes them. He's been eyeballing them." Tony warns and Stephen smirks.

"He can try."

Quill winces. "No thanks. I like living."

"You're immortal." Natasha points out.

"I wouldn't put it past him to find a way around that."

Nat grins. "Point taken."

There was one thing that Stephen had to know. It bugged him more than he originally thought it would.

"Is he still alive?" Stephen asks quietly and everyone looks at each other before answering.

"Yes." They admit in unison.

"...do I want to know?"

"Nope."

Sometimes the unison was scary. Even to him.

[prince-noctisluciscaelum]

Whumptober 25: Humiliation

With Your Head Held High

Ardyn decides he wants to defy the Astrals one last time and see how far he can push them before they intervene to put Noctis back in a position to fulfill the prophecy.

OR

Instead of Ardyn arranging Noctis and Luna’s wedding as a part of the peace treaty, he demands Noctis as a prisoner of war.

This is the first part of what will be a multi-chaptered thing. It got a little away from me, so I split it.

It was pure chance that Noctis learned the chancellor of Niflheim was in the Citadel, while he was still in the Citadel. Ignis had been keeping his ear to the ground for any rumors that might circulate in the wake of the ceasefire, and the Glaives who had been pulled back from the frontlines were more chatty than the Crownsguard usually were. And despite Noctis’s usual lack of interest in most things politics, something as big as a potential end to the war had piqued his curiosity. Especially considering the effect it could have on the Wall and his dad’s, and later his own, health.

So Noctis kept his own ears open, and when he heard a whisper that the chancellor had barged his way into Regis’s council meeting and was still there, he didn’t wait long enough to contact Ignis before making his way as quickly as he could without drawing extra attention to himself to the hallway outside the throne room.

The guards stationed on either side of the double doors frowned at him as he sidled up to the doors but didn’t otherwise protest or try to stop him. He was sure they would if he tried to actually enter the throne room, but that wasn’t what he wanted.

Noctis pressed his ear up against the crack between the doors and tried to listen.

An unfamiliar voice was speaking, with enough of a pompous ring of command that Noctis knew it could only be the Imperial chancellor.

“ - wish nothing more than to bring a swift end to this senseless war.” Was the chancellor seriously offering a peace treaty?

“Is that so?” His dad’s voice was as dry as Noctis had ever heard it without taking the last step over into impoliteness, and he knew his own disbelief was mirrored in Regis’s mind. It seemed… a poor tactical decision for Niflheim, considering how badly Lucis was doing in the war. There had to be an ulterior motive, and whatever it was would certainly not be good for Lucis.

“It is indeed. And we require but a singular compliance.” And here it was. The moment of hesitation before speaking said compliance, though really no longer than a breath, seemed an eternity, and it was long enough for Noctis to think up half a dozen awful things. “Save your grand Insomnia here, Lucis must forfeit all territories to Niflheim rule.”

Noctis bit down hard on his lip to keep from gasping. The murmurs of his dad’s Council were audible through the door as they didn’t bother to restrain their reactions as Noctis had done. Unsurprisingly. That was definitely not good for Lucis, and really, as far as an offer of peace went, it was a pretty bad one. It wasn’t a peace treaty at all, but rather a sugar-coated demand for surrender.

The Council’s muttering cut off, and Noctis knew Regis had called for silence, just in time for the chancellor to mockingly wax eloquent about the glory of the Crown City. Noctis gritted his teeth at the man’s nerve and thanked the Six that he wasn’t inside the throne room so he couldn’t be tempted to throw a punch at the chancellor and cause an international incident.

Before Noctis’s anger could solidify back into worry for what this ultimatum meant for Lucis, the chancellor spoke again.

“Ah, how foolish of me to forget. There is just one more trivial thing. It concerns your son.”

Noctis froze, his breath stuttering in his lungs. Nothing Niflheim could want with him would ever be “trivial” as far as he was concerned. He didn’t even want to speculate what this could be.

“Crown Prince Noctis will be handed over to the Empire as a prisoner of war.”

He barely heard the Council’s cries of outrage over his own heartbeat hammering in his ears. This could not be happening.

His dad’s voice rose above the cacophony, and Noctis latched onto it to try and ground himself.

“Under no circumstances will you be taking my son. He is the sole heir to this kingdom. I am willing to negotiate peace with Niflheim, but Noctis will not be a part of it.” Intense gratitude swelled up in Noctis, though it was not enough to completely wipe away the shock of the demand. He didn’t realize until after his dad had denied it so vehemently that some part of him had been worried he would agree to it, as ridiculous as that thought was. He knew Regis would just about fight Bahamut himself if he thought it would protect Noctis.

“Do not dismiss my offer so quickly, Your Majesty. You do not know if another will ever be extended. Your own position in this war is a tenuous one, and there are more things at stake here than your son. Or would you put him above the needs of your entire kingdom? Think on it before you make a rash decision.”

Noctis was going to be sick. He didn’t need to be able to see the expression on the chancellor’s face to hear the note of gloating in his voice. The chancellor knew Niflheim had them cornered, and somehow he had realized that Noctis was his dad’s weakness. Then again, most of the kingdom knew that. It wouldn’t take more than a quick glance at how Regis had handled Noctis over the years to realize that Regis would do just about anything for his son. Despite the Council’s repeated warnings, Noctis had never guessed how dangerous that would end up being, never imagined it would lead to Niflheim demanding him as part of a treaty.

But if the chancellor knew that asking for Noctis would work against the terms of surrender, since Noctis refused to consider them terms of peace, why would he do it? Why offer terms that were so one-sided they were guaranteed to be denied? What could he hope to gain?

Footsteps from the throne room pulled Noctis away from his musings, and he scrambled back from the door when he realized the chancellor was leaving, his mind still reeling in shock. Despite his unsteadiness, he managed to round the nearest corner in the hallway before the chancellor exited the throne room, not paying attention to where he was going, just wanting to get away before the man caught sight of him. A private conversation with the chancellor of Niflheim was not high on his list of desires, especially after what he’d just overheard.

He stopped as soon as he was out of sight, closing his eyes as he worked to regain control of himself. He couldn’t afford to be this panicky, otherwise someone, namely Ignis, was bound to ask him what was wrong, and he really didn’t want to have to explain. Not yet. Not ever, if he could help it. Regis had shut the chancellor down in no uncertain terms, and hopefully that would be the end of it, despite the chancellor’s parting barb. Maybe, in a few years, he could forget that this had ever happened.

Noctis was too preoccupied with calming his breathing to notice the soft approaching tap of shoes against the marble flooring until it was too late. He whirled around as his magic prickled in warning just in time to see the chancellor sashay around the corner.

Or at least, Noctis could only assume that was the chancellor. He was certainly no one Noctis recognized, and he would remember if he had ever met someone who dressed like that. Too many layers of outdated clothes in clashing prints under an over-dramatic coat, with a ratty hat perched on top of wild magenta hair. Even Prompto’s eccentric wardrobe couldn’t hold a candle to this. Noctis curled his lip in disgust.

The chancellor paused as he caught sight of Noctis, one corner of his lips twitching up in a smirk. He altered his trajectory and sauntered over to Noctis.

“If it isn’t the crown prince in question!” he said, his voice far too cheery for Noctis’s taste, considering the circumstances. Noctis scowled. He had to force himself not to retreat as the chancellor invaded his personal space.

“Oh my, from your expression I’d guess you overheard at least part of my proposition. Tell me, Noct, just how much did you overhear?” His grin was sharp as Noctis growled at the use of the nickname.

“You don’t get to call me that,” he said. And oh, how Ignis would be appalled at his lack of manners, but the chancellor had done nothing to earn his respect, and even less to earn the right to use his nickname.

“Now, now, Your Highness. You and I are going to have the chance to get to know each other much better.” The expression in the chancellor’s amber eyes was unsettling as he raked his gaze over Noctis. He barely fought back a shiver.

“I overheard enough to know His Majesty told you exactly where you could put your proposition,” Noctis snarled.

The chancellor stepped closer suddenly, and Noctis jerked away from him, continuing to retreat as the man crowded him until his back hit the wall.

“Dear old Dad refused to hand you over, it’s true. But this is the one thing I will not compromise on.” He gripped Noctis’s chin, thumb brushing against his cheek for a moment, so briefly Noctis wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, and forced him to make eye contact. His eyes burned with a crazed fervor, and his voice dropped lower, losing most of its playful edge. “Whether you surrender as part of these negotiations or are captured when we raze Insomnia, the Empire will have you. All of our Magitek Troops have been programmed to take you alive.”

Noctis’s breath caught in his throat. That was unheard of, and he was almost tempted to think that the man was lying, or bluffing, or just trying to get under Noctis’s skin, but he knew he wasn’t.

The chancellor laughed suddenly, the manic look fading from his eyes, and released Noctis’s chin. He took a step back out of his space, spreading his arms wide.

“So I suggest you give my offer some thought, Your Highness. You have two days to make a decision before any offer of peace is rescinded and the ceasefire comes to an end.” He gave Noctis a shallow, mocking bow before turning and leaving.

Noctis waited until he was out of sight before letting his legs collapse under him. He slid down the wall, trembling as he hid his face in his hands, and worked his jaw to rid himself of the feeling of the chancellor’s grip on his chin. He had already been unsettled enough, learning that Niflheim wanted him as part of the negotiations, but now it was worse. Much worse.

That’s what you get for eavesdropping, he thought. If he had left well enough alone, he wouldn’t have been in the hallway to give the chancellor the opportunity to accost him. But maybe it was better that he knew exactly how much Niflheim, or maybe it was just the chancellor himself, wanted him.

Noctis frowned. The chancellor had said that Noctis was the part he was unwilling to compromise on. Which would imply that the rest of the offer was compromisable. And suddenly the one-sidedness of the offer made a little bit more sense. He felt sick even contemplating it, especially not knowing what exactly Niflheim wanted him for, but it wasn’t like he was doing a good job as crown prince anyways. He was a worthless prince and would be a worthless king, so if this was the one way he could help his people…

Noctis raised his head, glad to see that the hallway was still blessedly empty, and pushed himself up. He needed to talk to his dad.

~*~

“Absolutely not.”

Noctis had gone straight to his dad’s office and holed up there while he waited for him to finish his meeting with the Council. He had been tense the entire time, startling whenever he heard footsteps in the hallway, half expecting the chancellor to barge in and just drag him off. But no one had opened the door until Regis, the distinctive tapping of his cane enough to keep Noctis from actually pulling a sword from the Armiger the moment the doorknob turned.

Any surprise his dad might have felt at finding Noctis in his office had been eclipsed by concern, and maybe a touch of anger, when Noctis had brought up the chancellor’s offer and his own reasons for seeking Regis out.

“Dad, I -”

“No, Noctis. I am not giving you to Niflheim, and especially not to that chancellor.” Regis spat the title, gripping the arms of his chair tightly. Noctis could see the tension in his hands, the clench of his jaw, and knew exactly how stubborn he was going to be about this.

It felt wrong, to be arguing for his own captivity. He wanted so badly to simply hide behind Regis’s refusal, to let his dad protect him, pretend he had never heard the chancellor’s threats and let the war continue as it had for centuries already. But they were losing, everyone knew it, and the Empire would never stop until Lucis was under their heel like the rest of the world already was.

He was not fit to rule, but maybe he was fit to sacrifice himself for his people. Maybe with this he could prove that he wasn’t worthless, or lazy, or self-absorbed, or whatever it was the tabloids were calling him these days. If it was his life held against the lives of the Kingsglaive and all the other Lucian citizens affected by the war…

“You’re sacrificing your life for this kingdom,” he muttered, gesturing bitterly at his dad’s hand, at the Ring of the Lucii where it sat heavy and dark on Regis’s finger. Regis curled his hand into a fist.

“This is not the same thing, Noctis,” he said gently. He smiled, the anger in his eyes softening to sorrow. “You do not need to prove anything to me, or to anyone. I know the burden of the crown is not easy. I know you have struggled to meet your own expectations, perhaps even to live up to whatever standard you think I have set, and I must apologize for any part I may have played in that, but you are doing well. You can ignore the tabloids, they will grasp at any strand they can find or fabricate to sow doubt among the people. But the people will realize, in time. You do not have to throw your life away needlessly.”

“That’s not what this is about!” Noctis protested, even though his dad’s words were an echo of his earlier thoughts. Regis knew him, and his doubts, so well.

“Then what is it? Why are you so determined to sacrifice yourself?”

Noctis looked away, unable to meet his dad’s concerned eyes. “The chancellor met me in the hallway,” he said, “on his way out of the throne room. He threatened me.” He glanced up to catch Regis’s reaction.

“He did what?” Regis growled. His eyes flashed, and Noctis flinched, even knowing the surge of anger was in no way directed at him.

“He told me the Empire would get their hands on me regardless, even if we refuse the terms. He said all the MTs have been programmed to take me alive, and that my surrender was non-negotiable for the treaty.” Noctis could barely hear his own voice. “He said we have two days to decide.”

And that was the driving factor behind Noctis’s decision. He could run, of course, leave Insomnia, try to escape the Empire’s clutches before they attacked the Crown City, and maybe he would even succeed, but what kind of prince, what kind of king would that make him? It was likely Niflheim would capture him eventually. They controlled most of Eos and there were enough people who would be desperate enough to turn him in for whatever bounty they set on his head. He would be a fugitive, unable to trust anyone, and what kind of life would that be? It might be better to head it off entirely, get it over with, and maybe save as many of his people as he could in the process.

Regis stood, walking around the edge of his desk to stand in front of Noctis. Noctis tried not to notice the faint tremble in his dad’s hand as it clutched his cane. Ending the war sooner also meant that his dad could bring down the Wall, could stop letting the Crystal drain his magic and his very life. Noctis considered his own freedom, or even his own life, a small price to pay for that.

“What else are you not telling me, son?” Regis asked quietly. Noctis looked down at his feet. This would be the hardest part.

“It seemed...” Noctis trailed off. He groaned, running his fingers through his hair as he tried to find the words to say without sounding conceited. “Oh, this is so stupid, but it seemed like I wasn’t just something to sweeten the pot. Like I was the reason for all this. I know it doesn’t make sense, it’s stupid, Niflheim has wanted our lands for centuries, but the way he looked at me… And why else would he demand too much from us and then make a point to say that I was the non-negotiable part?” He was babbling and he knew it, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of the chancellor’s fingers on his chin, his eyes raking over his face, and he was so scared.

If he had said this to anyone other than his dad or Ignis or Prompto, he knew it would be brushed off as him thinking too highly of himself. Even Gladio would probably tell him to stop reading that much into it. It wasn’t that out of the ordinary to demand a royal heir as a prisoner of war. Luna had been held under Imperial control since Niflheim had taken Tenebrae twelve years prior, and Ravus was now a member of their military. It was probably nothing, but there had been something so personal in the chancellor’s voice.

But Regis knew him, knew his insecurities, had guessed at part of the reason Noctis was even contemplating going along with Niflheim’s demands, knew Noctis wouldn’t even be suggesting something like this if he didn’t truly believe it. He wouldn’t brush it off as a plea for attention, but still Noctis felt ashamed for even bringing it up.

He opened his mouth to tell his dad to forget it, but Regis grasped his hand, cutting him off.

“Noctis, you are the Chosen King.” There was a flash of some pained emotion in his eyes as he said it, too quick for Noctis to catch or identify. “We have tried to keep this quiet, but if the Empire has learned, then they must know just how much of a threat you really are to them. Taking you, removing you from the equation, puts them that much closer to victory. Even if you were not the Chosen, taking Lucis’s only heir would be enough of a blow. This kingdom will end with me. Even if I appoint a political successor, they cannot wield the Ring, cannot access the Crystal’s magic. Without the Wall, Lucis will fall.”

Regis brought his hand up, gently cupping the side of Noctis’s face. Noctis closed his eyes and tilted his head into the touch.

“I should have stayed away. I should not have been there, should not have given him the chance to threaten us further.”

“Noctis,” Regis murmured. “If Niflheim, if Chancellor Izunia, wants you this badly, they would have found a way to threaten this regardless.”

Noctis pulled away from his dad’s hand.

“I just don’t understand. Wanting me as a bargaining chip, as some sort of insurance as part of peace negotiations, that I understand. But to go so far as to have every single MT programmed to take me alive, to threaten to come after me even if Insomnia falls, why? What could he possibly hope to gain?”

Regis’s brow creased. “That I cannot answer. There is too much we do not know about this situation, and none of the uncertainties bode well for you, or for our kingdom.”

Noctis took a breath, steeling himself against what he was about to suggest. Once he voiced this, there was no going back, and he was tempted to just keep his mouth shut, but he would never be able to forgive himself if he had the chance to do something now and didn’t take it and his kingdom suffered because of it.

“It might… give us an opportunity,” he said, the words ashes in his mouth.

“Noctis…”

“No, listen to me. He said I’m the part he refuses to compromise on. So that means the rest we can negotiate. We can counter with them taking me,” Noctis swallowed, trying hard not to think about what that meant, “and they can keep whatever lands they’ve already fully conquered, but we retain control of Insomnia, Leide, Cleigne, and Duscae, maybe even push for the return of Galahd and the rest of the Cavaugh region, and they withdraw their troops from those territories.” He doubted Niflheim would agree to all of that, but it gave them a place to start and negotiate down from.

It was also likely his dad had already thought of this, or something similar. Unlike Regis, Noctis had never had much of a head for politics or negotiations or strategy, that was what he had Ignis for, so if he had realized the significance of the chancellor’s words, surely his dad had as well. But he knew his dad would never suggest it himself. Noctis knew that in some ways, many ways, Regis put Noctis ahead of Lucis, as the chancellor had taunted, and it did nothing but add to Noctis’s feelings of guilt.

Regis sighed. “It… has merit,” he admitted, and it sounded like it pained him to do so. “However, it will just lead to Niflheim playing a long game with us, even if they honor the terms of the treaty. Once I die, Lucis will be left without a king, and they will be free to conquer our kingdom without much opposition.”

Noctis grimaced. He hated being reminded of his dad’s mortality, but it was necessary to consider in these circumstances.

“So appoint Ignis as your successor. We all know he was going to be the real power behind my throne anyways. He’d make a good king, even without the use of the Ring, and that will at least allow Lucis political stability.”

Regis regarded him carefully. “Just how much thought have you put into this?”

“Enough,” Noctis said. “I had little else to do while waiting for you, and I knew you wouldn’t consider it unless you thought I’d given it the proper amount of consideration.” And that was true, though really it had just been his way of occupying himself so he didn’t dwell on the predatory look in the chancellor’s eyes.

His dad bowed his head. “I would never force this on you, indeed everything in me falters at the thought of even considering this, and perhaps that makes me a bad king. But if this is how you truly wish for us to proceed, I will honor that. This is far more your sacrifice, and therefore your decision, than mine.”

Noctis snorted. “Of course it’s not what I want, but it’s what’s right for our people, and so far I’ve done nothing for them with my life.”

“Noctis,” Regis chided, a note of exasperated fondness in his voice. “You have simply not yet been given the opportunity.”

“Then I’ll take this as my first opportunity,” Noctis said. He pushed down the panic that was clawing in his chest. As much as he had fought for it, he had half hoped his dad would put his foot down on his plan, take the burden of the choice off of him, as he had in the throne room. Noctis suspected the chancellor’s dig had done its job.

Regis rested his hand against Noctis’s cheek again and leaned down to press his forehead against Noctis’s. “You do not have to go through with this. We will carry on as we always have if the ceasefire ends. You will have another chance to do something for your people. The first opportunity is not always the right one.”

This time it was Regis who pulled away, just enough to catch Noctis’s eyes and hold them. “You are destined for great things. You have been Chosen by the Crystal to rid the world of Darkness, and the Astrals will not let you fall until you have fulfilled their prophecy.”

“So, what, you think Bahamut himself will intervene when Niflheim tries to execute me the moment they get me back to Gralea?” Noctis scoffed. “Since when have they cared enough about us, or even their ‘Chosen,’ to interfere? They certainly didn’t stop the Marilith from nearly killing me.”

Regis frowned. “Noctis…” he sighed. He slid the hand on Noctis’s cheek higher so his fingers carded through Noctis’s hair, and despite his frustration, the touch was soothing. It was rare that his dad allowed his affection to spill over into physical contact, so Noctis treasured the moments when he did. And even though he knew it was exactly why Regis was doing it now, Noctis still allowed it to placate him.

He didn’t know how many more times he would have this. If he turned himself over to Niflheim, he would likely never see his dad again. Even if he wasn’t executed immediately, he would certainly never be permitted any sort of freedom, and it wasn’t as though Regis could or should just drop by for a State visit.

Noctis felt his resolve start to crumble as his dad continued to run his fingers gently through his hair. And maybe that was part of his intent with the gesture as well, but then why allow Noctis to make the decision at all if he wanted to dissuade him so badly? It wasn’t as though Regis didn’t outrank Noctis, their familial hierarchy notwithstanding, and he’d never had a problem telling Noctis “no” before.

“Forgive me, my son,” Regis murmured. “Would that protecting you was my only charge. You are the most important thing to my heart.”

Noctis could no longer meet his dad’s overly bright gaze, afraid that the sight of his sorrow would be the final thing to shatter what was left of his determination. He turned his head away, hating that the motion disrupted his dad’s gentle stroking of his hair. Regis’s hand fell away.

They stood in silence for a long moment, Noctis keeping his face downturned, until Regis sighed. There was a rustle of cloth, and then his hand rested on the back of Noctis’s neck, fingers curling in the short strands of hair, and he coaxed Noctis closer until Noctis’s face was pressed into his dad’s shoulder.

Noctis wrapped his arms around his dad, clinging to him tighter than he had since he’d been eight, and finally let his tears fall. He could be strong later, when he wasn’t in his dad’s embrace, and if he didn’t cry now, he would later, when he probably shouldn’t.

Regis stroked his hair tenderly for a moment longer before moving his arm to reciprocate the hug, his other hand still clutching at his cane. Noctis sobbed at the brush of Regis’s lips against the top of his head, and it was suddenly too much.

“I can’t do this,” he gasped into the thick fabric of Regis’s cape before he could stop himself. “I can’t, Dad, not on my own. Please.”

Regis’s breath hitched, and his arm tightened around Noctis.

“I will not order you to do this. I cannot.” His voice broke on the last word. “I’m so sorry.”

“Then order me not to,” Noctis begged, half hoping his dad wouldn’t hear it, muffled by his shoulder as it was, but of course he did.

“Noctis, I -” Regis stopped, his arm tightening around him again, and Noctis felt a tear drip onto his hair. “My love, I want nothing more -”

Noctis shook his head furiously, hating himself for selfishly putting his dad in this situation. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“Stop,” he choked. “Stop, I know.” He broke away from the embrace and kept his head down to avoid looking at Regis, wiping at his eyes to get rid of the tears.

He couldn’t imagine this would be an easy decision to make. As difficult as it was for him, it was only his own life he was bartering. For Regis, it would be the life of his only son, and the horror of having to choose between his kingdom and the last of his family. The choice between being a good king or a good father, and wasn’t that what Regis struggled with daily?

Noctis knew that Regis wouldn’t hesitate to offer his own life up in Noctis’s place, but if their roles were reversed, would Noctis be able to hand his dad over to Niflheim? He didn’t think he could, even if he knew it would be the best option for the kingdom.

Suddenly Regis’s earlier reluctance to either agree or forbid made a lot more sense. With Noctis himself willing, he had given his dad an avenue to save the kingdom, and Regis could not, as a good king, decline, as much as his heart might ache to. And as much as Noctis had been hoping Regis would command him one way or the other, take the choice out of his hands, he realized Regis was also hoping Noctis would decide so he didn’t have to.

Noctis couldn’t make it harder on him. The guilt of this would weigh on Regis heavy enough as it was; Noctis didn’t need to add to it. He would never forgive himself if he did, no matter how long or short the rest of his life was.

Noctis took a deep, steadying breath and finally looked up to meet his dad’s gaze, ignoring the pain in his eyes and the tear tracks down his cheeks. He straightened his shoulders, pushing down the terror that threatened to rise back up in him.

“I’ll do it.”

[tragedybunny]

The Blade’s Edge - A League of Legends Fanfiction - Chapter 14

Happy Valentine's Day! I have been pushing myself to get this chapter out on the day of love! As always your playlist song:

Like A Prayer

❤TragedyBunny❤

They had a simple arrangement. She was the weapon to be used on his enemies. Things get more complicated when emotions bleed into what should simple. Now the two of them find themselves on the precipice of something that was entirely unexpected.

Thunk. The dagger hits the target, perfectly dead center. I’m hanging upside down from a ceiling rafter, throwing at targets scattered around the room, concentrating despite the dizziness starting to make my head spin. Behind me, I hear the whine of the opening door. None of the servants would dare interrupt me, not even Gwen. “Kitten, are you still not talking to me?”

I listen to his steps as he draws closer to me. I glance to my right and let a dagger fly in his direction. It buries itself in the wall next to him, he doesn’t flinch. “I’ll take that as yes.” We both know that I wasn’t actually aiming at him. He sighs, now the negotiating starts. “How about we go to the theatre tonight and then to that little cafe you like so much?” 

I throw a blade at another target and ignore him. I want to see what concessions he’s willing to make. “I’ll buy you something shiny.” Hmm, there are a few pieces at the jeweler’s that I’ve had my eye on.

I throw again, another perfect hit. “Fine, do whatever you want to do with the blasted garden.” He almost sounds pained saying it.  I feel a smile tug at the corner of my lips, I hadn’t expected to get exactly what I wanted. That’s what the whole argument had been about, he’d been staunchly against the expense. 

“All of the above.” I sit up onto the beam and drop down next to him. I almost let out a gasp when I get a good look at him, he looks so very tired and worn. He’d left before the sun was even up this morning. I’d barely fallen asleep after chasing a target most of the night when I’d felt him stir beside me. There’s been growing unrest in the south, sparking bands of rebels to spring up and need to be put down. I feel a bit guilty for all the theatrics just now. I lean up and brush my lips against his while wrapping my arms around his neck. “Darling, we don’t have to go out.” 

I watch his eyes stray to the now faded handprint on my wrist. The past couple of months since that terrible night he’s been overly indulgent, giving into nearly every request or whim of mine. It’s bittersweet, I no longer believe what we have means nothing to him, but he still will not tell me otherwise. Is it pride, fear, or am I imagining things? He leans his cheek on the top of my head. “No, it’s fine.” 

The way I’m pressed against his chest I can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, strong and reassuring. “I'll leave it up to you.” I feel his arms tighten around me. I’m tempted to say more, but it’d make him cross if I fussed over him. 

When we first started going to the theatre we were the subject of extreme interest. Those same whispers that followed us at the Solstice revels consumed the theatre crowd. Winter was fading away and we were falling back into a routine after what happened, he found me idly sketching and stated he was bored and we should go out. I told him he never wanted to go out, which earned an annoyed huff. I’d had to kiss away his irritation before he’d let me agree to his suggestion. It became a bit of a regular occurrence as spring arrived full force, the two of us, ensconced in his private box, bantering and debating in hushed whispers, trying to keep as quiet as possible. As if anyone would actually admonish the Grand General for not keeping quiet at the theatre. 

“You really are spoiling me.” I twirl and show off the latest of his gifts, black lace and tulle, voluminous skirt yet somehow very revealing. 

“I would say it’s worth it.” His gaze roves over me appreciatively before his hands close around my hips and he pulls me close. “You’re stunning.” The way his voice drops low and he whispers those words in my ear, I can almost feel my cheeks going crimson. I hate it when he does that. 

“We will be late if you continue this.”  I hesitate for a moment, we could just stay home. Eventually, I pull myself from his grasp and climb into the waiting carriage. “You may further compliment me when we return.” 

It’s opening night for some unheard of playwright who’s managed to get the backing of a noble family. These productions that buy their way into a theatre are usually vanity pieces for their patrons and almost always end in spectacular disaster. Tonight is no exception, an overwrought affair based on an old myth, with glaringly obvious current parallels. “Really? Comparing me to Mordekaiser. I’m not sure if I should be insulted or flattered.” 

“I would say flattered, but the dialogue is so insipid I’m going to go with insulted.” I make a mock gagging noise. 

“We could just leave. That would cause a bit of a stir, walk out right now.”

“Tempting but whoever bankrolled this would probably think that was a victory. Oh, I know, let’s ask to meet the author. I heard he’s here. That will terrify him.” 

“That is evil. How do I sleep next to you at night?” He puts his arm through my mine, bringing us closer. 

“I always assumed very lightly.” I lean my head on his shoulder, relishing the moment.

He laughs in that subdued manner that’s typical for him, control to him is everything, and then squeezes my hand ever so slightly. I’ve come to know that gesture for what it is, his way of asking for affection, even if it is more proof of that constant need for control. I tilt my head up and brush my lips against his cheek anyway, I’ll not deny him. “I’m glad we came out tonight.” I’m taken aback at the unexpected honesty. I return my head to his shoulder and feel him ever so lightly kiss the top of my head.

“Me too.” Some intuition grips me and I realize there’s something he’s not telling me. I can feel the tension in his body as I lean against him. Between that and the tiredness lingering in his eyes, I’m troubled. 

I don’t really pay attention to the remainder of the theatrical debacle playing out before us, instead, we whisper back and forth and exchange soft kisses when we run out of words. When the whole dreadful thing has finally concluded neither of us is invested in our malicious scheme from earlier. We attempt to slip out of the theatre quickly before any of the high society crowd can attempt to small talk to us. “Madame Katarina, Grand General!” Coming around a corner into an open foyer we almost run down the owner of the cultured, smooth voice. 

“Rowan!” We stop short and I lean in to give them a quick peck on the cheek. “What a wonderful surprise.” I hear Jericho very quietly huff behind me, he knows why I'm so elated at the coincidence.

“Am I missing something?” They clearly sense the opposing forces at work here.

I met Rowan at a gallery show for Alrich about a month ago, we ended up deep in conversation and kept in touch after. It was only after our first meeting that I realized they were, in fact, the newly elected Head of the Mage’s Council. Jericho referred to it as quite a fortuitous connection, always politics with him.  “Since you asked, there’s a small favor I need to beg of you.” Gardens don’t really grow in normal Noxian soil, you either import it or have it enchanted or better yet, both. “Could you recommend the best green mage of your acquaintance?” I give deep emphasis to best, the cost isn’t a concern. 

“Planning to play in your garden a bit?” They give me a wry smile, they’ve heard my ambitions on this subject before. “I’ll see to it as soon as possible my dear. I hope you'll forgive my haste but I'm late to an engagement." He inclines his head politely to Jericho. "Grand General,  always an honor, Sir. And do stop by sometime, the both of you, I owe you a tour.”

“We’ll look forward to it.” We kiss cheeks again, Jericho returns their nod, and they fade into the now pressing crowd. 

Pushing through to the exit we finally find ourselves out in the mild spring night. I take his arm as we walk the short distance from the theatre to the cafe. “What’s troubling you, and don’t tell me nothing, I know better.”

“You are spending too much time with me. I had planned on having a discussion with you shortly. But first, other pressing matters. You are aware there is an intelligence briefing tomorrow, correct?” 

“Yes.” This again, I keep my tone purposefully terse. 

“And you know what time it is set to begin at?” I nod silently. “Then don’t be late again. Veera already thinks your position should be rescinded, stop giving her excuses. And please actually try to be in uniform.”

“She’s never going to like my being there anyway.” This is really the last thing I want to talk about. 

“I’d imagine that has something to do with you breaking her nose up north.” His tone is flat. 

I pull away from him to gesture wildly. “You know what she said! How was I supposed to know she was Intelligence.” 

“You could’ve not let her bait you like that. However, she’s your Superior and you will have to deal with her for now.”

“Until I’m promoted. That’s what you’re planning on, isn’t it?” Thinking of fucking Veera and High Command has me silently seething. I didn’t even want this position in Intelligence, it was regretfully forced on me as soon as I became Guild Commander. “Remember when she had the nerve to ask if I could even read High Noxian like I’m some sort of uneducated child. The Grand Whore apparently can't understand our official language."

He surprisingly chuckles quietly. “You spent a whole meeting only speaking to her in Old Noxian. It was quite impressive actually, I didn’t even know you spoke it.” Now he finds it amusing, he was irritated at the time. 

“I suppose it’s typical. People usually think killing is all I’m good for.” With that thought, melancholy starts to bleed into my rage. I trudge on in silence but he catches up and takes my arm again. He doesn’t speak though, giving me a moment until we reach our destination on the edge of an open plaza. There are a few cafes scattered amongst the now darkened shops that remain open for the crowds coming from the theatres, opera house, and galleries, but there’s one in particular I favor. 

We’d started coming here shortly after we began having theatre nights. I’d frequented it before on my own, but one night we’d both needed sobering up and weren’t ready to go home. There had been a painfully boring diplomatic dinner that had impelled us both to decimate our host’s wine cellar. Well, impelled me anyway, I may have drug him along with it. It makes me smile a little to think of myself being a bad influence on the Grand General. We’d scared the owner Tavi, a Shuriman immigrant, half to death. He had no idea what to do with Jericho seated at one of his outdoor tables, sipping coffee with his mistress. He has since thankfully calmed down a bit when we show up. 

We find our usual table, tucked into a darker corner of the veranda, affording us at least some privacy, as Jericho prefers. Sahar, one of Tavi’s daughters brings out coffee with a polite greeting before we even ask. They always have the best Shuriman brew here. You can tell by the number of Tavi’s fellow immigrants clustered inside, looking for a taste of home. Moments later Sahar reappears with a smile and one of Tavi’s famous flaky crusted pastries. “I saved one just for you, Madame, I know you are fond of them.” She’s a flatterer, but that’s what I pay for. 

“Many thanks, Sahar. ” The scent of strawberries and roasted nuts wafts up to me and as soon as she’s out of sight I ravenously stuff a large forkful in my mouth. 

Jericho smirks at me from across the table. “If only I knew before that all it took to mollify you was a decent pastry.” 

I feign being indignant “It’s the strawberries, they’re my favorite, and someone wouldn’t let me have them all winter.” 

“No, he said stop spending a fortune on them when they have to be imported.” He pretends to be stern with me. 

I play the brat and pout. “You were mean about it and I didn’t get any.”

“My poor Kitten, that must have been torture. Although I know full well you had Cress buying them and hiding the cost. How many bottles of wine did it cost me for you to bribe him?” He sits back looking triumphant, he’s won our little back and forth.”

“No fair, you always know everything.” I blow him a kiss and finish enjoying my pastry. With the last bite dispatched I turn my attention back to what’s bothering him. The silence that’s stretched between us seems to be alive with whatever it is, it’s heavy and oppressive, erasing the pleasantness of a few moments ago.  “So.”

“I suppose I owe you that discussion about what’s been on my mind.” I nod, hoping to just get it over with. My every sense is telling me to dread his words. “You know there’s been unrest in the south. Thus far the forces sent have failed to stamp it out entirely.” He pauses and once again tension fills the space between us. “I intend to go settle it myself.”

My heart freezes, I forget to breathe. He’s going to war. Part of me cries out to beg him not to, but that’s not the Noxian way and he’d despise it. Instead, I steady myself and bury that impulse. “Do you want me to go with?” That would be acceptable, I could make myself of use, like in the North.

He shakes his head. Of course, he won’t want it construed that he needs to take his little pet everywhere with him. “No, but the situation has given me much to consider and there is something I need to ask of you.” Another moment of terrible silence. I stare down at the cup in my hands that I hadn’t realized I was clutching tightly. Will he just get this over with? “It occurs to me I could use someone to watch over my interests while I’m away. Not with official power, of course, but to keep my allegiances strong and prevent my enemies from growing too bold.”

“And?” I urge him on, gesturing impatiently. 

“I would want you to have the respect due to you while acting on my behalf. And I’d like to make it clear in that case that anyone acting against you is acting against me as well.” I take a sip of coffee, completely lost. “All this is to say, I think we should get married.” 

A raspy cough escapes me as I choke on my coffee. “What!?”

“You and I, we should get married.” He says a bit more slowly as if it somehow makes it any less absurd. 

“Honestly, I’m a little surprised you’re even bothering to ask and not just ordering.” The shock leaves me defensive and lashing out. Get married, be his wife, this is lunacy.

Now he’s the one who turns his eyes away and contemplates his cup. “Fair enough. Although I would argue things have changed over time.” He reaches out to take my hand, thumb running along my knuckles. His voice drops into that soft tone that always persuades me to his point. “You would agree, right?”

Damn him for being charming. “I suppose they have a bit.” I give his hand a soft squeeze. 

“You have to admit it is a solid notion. I know Darius can be depended upon and Argos is very capable but has not been in his position long.  And soon enough we’ll have a new Commander of the Capitol Guard.” 

“I didn’t realize she was finally retiring.” I interrupt. 

“Not quite.” The insinuation is unmistakable. “I’ll need you to see to it personally. Back to the point, I’ll get what I need while I’m gone and if I should not return, you’ll be a very wealthy widow.” 

I roll my eyes at that last bit. “Don’t be ridiculous, something’s far more likely to befall me than you.”

He looks up brows furrowed. “Don’t say that.”

“Can I think about this whole thing?” I’m at a loss. All my work to accept the way things are between us, and he wants to complicate it all over again. 

“If you insist, my Warbands have been summoned though, and I plan to leave within the week.” Why am I the last to know about this whole thing? “Keep in mind, we can always get divorced if you find it disagreeable. In fact, since you have no assets of your own, I’m technically the only one at risk.”

It’s such a clerical way of looking at it, just what I’d expect from him. I almost wish it hurt, but I’m too used to how he is. So instead I simply rise and stretch. “I’m ready to go home.” I start walking away before he’s even out of his seat. 

“Right.” He leaves some coin on the table and hurries to catch up with me. I feel the weight of his coat drop around my shoulders and inhale the scent of him that clings to it, leather and parchment and that cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear. “There’s a chill in the air.” There’s not but it’s an unusually soft gesture so I let his little lie slide.

“Still trying to persuade me?” I slow my pace a bit so that we fall into step with each other. 

“Perhaps.” He takes my hand. “Is it working?” I only roll my eyes at him again, this time with a smile though. 

Thankfully he lets the subject drop the rest of the way home. Once Gwen has helped me out of my dress, I slip on my robe and take a precious few moments to think while running a brush through my hair. How can I even begin to contemplate marrying him? It’s absolutely absurd, and he’s arranged it all with the same cool detachment of ordering his soldiers into formation. And yet he asked, admitting when he did that things are not as they once were between us. With that admission comes the stinging awareness that for whatever his reason, he’d rather it remain unacknowledged. As usual, I’m expected to obey his wishes and follow along with his silence. But isn’t that what I’ve accepted time and again?

Nothing is clarified by the time I slip next door to find him hunched over his desk, pen in hand. “Are you seriously working right now?”

He puts a hand up. “I’ll only be a moment.” 

I stalk over and drop myself into his lap, he doesn’t get to propose to me and then spend the rest of the night obsessing over the Empire. “No.” He tries to write around me. “I want your attention.” 

I lean in and kiss his jaw just where it meets his neck, he shudders. My lips travel upward, I nip and pull his earlobe between my teeth, sucking for a moment. He gasps, pen clattering down onto the desk. “You are insistent on making a nuisance of yourself, aren’t you?” He wraps his hands around my hips.

“If that’s what it takes to get what I want.” I can feel that tension in him again and I’m reminded of the reason for his proposal. There must be some concern about this rebellion within High Command if he’s going to take on the task himself. He still hasn’t rooted out the conspiracy he knows is working in the shadows, no doubt that weighs on him as well. I kiss his neck and let my teeth graze it, he digs his fingers into my hips and thrusts lightly against me. I feel the heat of desire build inside me. “You’re so tense though, let me take care of you.”

I push his hands away and slide down to the floor between his legs. I trace my fingers along the growing bulge in his pants, causing more small noises from him, before opening them. He sighs when I grasp him and work my hand up and down his length. I feel his fingers dig into my shoulders when I run my tongue over his head and take him into my mouth. His hand grips my hair, pushing me forward, urging me to take all of him. Tongue pressed against him, lips tight, I move up and down, listening to his soft moans. When he can no longer stand my deliberately slow pace, he holds me still and drives into me, relentlessly using me. 

I hear his rapid breathing and know he’s taken himself close to the edge. I break away, clambering back into his lap, straddling his hips. I let my robe fall to the floor and lean down for a rough kiss, my hand once again wrapped around his cock. “Don’t tease me.” He growls. 

“Never.” Wet and aching for him, I impale myself on him and moan as his hips buck up to meet me. Again I start slow, rocking my hips against him, taking him as deep as possible. His hands hold me loosely, a sign he's given over control to me.  “You feel so good inside me.” I quicken, moving with urgency, breath coming rapidly, feeling the bliss of being filled with him. I feel myself tighten around him,  pleasure exploding inside me, crying out as I’m spent. I’m pliant as a moment later he pulls me down roughly, taking back that control, and finishing with a few deep thrusts. 

I lean my head onto his shoulder, suddenly exhausted, and feel his arms wrap around me. He means so much to me, will I lose him if I don’t do what he asks? Will he find someone else to play the part? I’m out of choices again it would seem. “You’re right, it’s a good idea.”

I leave it at that and wait for him to respond. “Look me in the eyes and tell me yes, if that’s your answer, Kat.” 

I oblige and sit up, staring into those unyielding dark pools. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” I brush my lips lightly against his to seal my promise. 

[spnjediavenger]

Chapter 1: A Wild Animal Loose In the House

[Include the following in your story: pregnant, community, logo, statistics, democracy, honesty, criminal, ankle, orange, comment]

 Disclaimers: I do not own marvel, avengers, or any of its characters

 To say that Tony was upset would be a drastic understatement. He was losing it. It had been a week since his daughter disappeared and still nothing. The streets have been scanned over and over, her last known location looked over by every cop and every Avenger. He was on edge.

“I can’t believe this! Actually, I rescind that – I can believe it. You know why? Because I never wanted to let her loose in the community in the first place for this. Very. Reason! You give ‘em a little leash, and then the world just cuts it and runs away with them!”

           “Tony we-“

           “I’m not looking for a comment, Bruce. I’m looking for my daughter,” Tony interrupted sharply.

           “Tony, we’re all worried, alright? But we can’t just go out there without any leads, taking shots in the dark,” Steve said, trying to calm his friend before he did something drastic.

           “This isn’t a democracy, Rogers; and it’s not up for debate. I’m tired of waiting - let’s go.” Tony stepped into his nearest suit and began to walk away when FRIDAY spoke up.

           “Sir-“

           “Not now, FRIDAY!”

           “Sir! The police found a tunnel system in the sewers!”

           Tony finally paused and turned around, his suit’s mask lifting. “Send a reconnaissance drone-“

           “I already did, sir. It leads to a HYDRA facility on the other side of the state. Sending coordinates now.”

           ‘HYDRA’ was all Tony needed to hear before passing out.

   Braelynn woke with a jolt, not recognizing her surroundings or the strange aura of a feeling filling her body that she couldn’t place.

           She looked herself over to see her clothes were tattered and dirty; her left arm was sore so she lifted her sleeve to find a group of blood spots as if she had been repeatedly pricked with a needle; she gazed down to see her shoes and socks were missing and there was a number tattooed above her ankle, ’25.63’, with a branded HYDRA logo next to it. She went to touch the brand but withdrew her hand quickly at the sharp sting; it must have been recent. But why couldn’t she remember?

           Braelynn looked away to find herself in a small cell and her eyes widened immediately as she felt a familiar knot in her stomach. She held her aching head between her hands and steadied her breathing. Now off in the distance, gunshots could be heard. Braelynn’s head jerked up as she heard footsteps approaching. She inched as far back into the cell as she could get, pushing herself into the corner.

           She realized she had no need to as a familiar spider-themed superhero appeared in front of her cell.

           “Peter?!”

           “Braelynn!” he exclaimed, pulling his mask off. “What happened?! Me and MJ and everyone have been worried sick! Are you alright?! We’re here to get you out,” Peter rushed.

           “Peter, I’m glad to see you but you’re making my head hurt. Just break the gate and get me out of here please,” Braelynn said, holding a hand to her head.

           “Oh, right right; sorry.” Peter gripped the iron cell door tight with both hands and pulled with all his strength before the hinges finally broke and he threw the door to the side. He ran in and took Braelynn’s hands to pull her up. “Are you ok? Can you walk alright?”

           “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” she said. Braelynn took a step and consequently fainted, Peter catching her promptly.

           “Uh, Mr. Stark?” Peter called on his com.

           “Kid, you got her? We just finished off everyone up here.”

           “Yeah, I got her; but she just fainted. I’m bringing her up-“

           Tony flew down from where he was to land in front of the boy. His mask receded and he looked down sadly at his little girl. “I’ll take her,” he said. Peter handed her over and Tony kissed her forehead before taking off again, Peter on his tail.

               “Tony, I don’t know how to tell you this but-“

           “Oh my God, she’s not pregnant is she?” Tony said, eyes wide and heart dropping to his stomach.

           “What? God, no! What’s wrong with you?” Bruce said.

           “Sorry, parental instinct. Continue.”

           “She uh…they were testing on her. That’s what the pinpricks on her arm are. They injected her numerous times.”

           “With what?”

           “I’m not sure yet. These compounds – they aren’t anything I’ve seen before.”

           “What about the tattoo on her ankle? Isn’t that something a criminal usually gets?” Clint asked from off to the side.

           “It’s a subject number,” Bruce answered. “’25’ is the subject used, ‘63’ is some sort of indication of the solutions they used in her.”

           Throughout all of this, Tony had to hold in his tears for his little girl. He couldn’t think of a worse thing to happen. Especially since she hadn’t woken up yet.

           “Again, I’m not sure what it is that they used yet, but according to HYDRA’s statistics, she only had a 10% chance of living after they injected her. But her vitals are fine and there doesn’t seem to be any internal damage so I think she’ll be ok.” Bruce finished, looking up at Tony with pursed lips, hoping this news would give his friend some kind of solace.

           Tony, however, was relentless in his suspicions. “Can you tell me with honesty that she’ll completely recover from this, Bruce?”

           Bruce paused and Tony took that as his answer. He walked to the other side of the room to sit next to Braelynn, still out cold on the medical bed.

   That night, Bruce agreed to let Tony take Braelynn to her own room on the condition that he rest in his, knowing Tony would be up all night otherwise. The other Avengers agreed to take shifts watching her throughout the night to make sure nothing went wrong.

           The next day was beginning to set into the afternoon and it was currently Wanda’s turn to keep watch. She had quickly gone to the bathroom, only to return and find Braelynn gone.

           “Braelynn?!” she called, worry instantly filling her gut. She heard a whine from the other side of the bed and carefully crept around to find a wolf huddled in the corner of the room. Wanda’s eyes went wide and she stopped in her tracks before hearing Tony’s voice yell from down the hall.

           “Why is there a wolf in my tower?!”

           Soon, the Avengers had crowded in the room and Tony was there in his suit, ready to subdue it when it snarled at him.

           “Vait, stop! It’s not a volf, it’s Braelynn!” Wanda yelled desperately. She quickly entered its mind to make sure she was correct, and she was. Braelynn felt Wanda inside her head and thought to her, What happened, Wanda? I have no idea what’s going on but I woke up like this and I can’t change back!

           “She- she says she voke up like zis…she doesn’t know vat happened or how…and she doesn’t know how to change back”

           “Bruce?” Tony said, shock and small amount of fear in his voice.

           “It…it must be whatever they injected her with. She…she might be a shapeshifter…” he said, voice fading away as he, too, began to feel anxious at the situation.

           “Why are her eyes orange?” Steve asked as he put his shield down.

           “Must be another side effect,” Natasha added in.

           Just then, Peter walked in, coming from school. “Hey, guys. Has Brae woken up ye-…uh, guys…what’s a wolf doing here?” he pointed at said being, confusion and a little fear in his voice.

           “Apparently it’s Braelynn,” Pietro’s thickly accented voice spoke up.

           “Br-Braelynn?” Peter asked, looking the wolf in the eyes.

           The wolf laid down, ears laying flat, and let out a whine in response.

           The avengers looked at each other, trying to think of what to do. Bruce was the first to speak up.

           “Uh, Tony? Why don’t we get her to my lab?”

           “Yeah…I think that’s a good idea. Uhm…come ‘ere, girl,” he called, earning a low growl from Braelynn.

           Bruce led the way, Tony behind him, and Braellyn taking the rear. Braelynn took a small nip at Peter for the smirk he couldn’t hide.

           “Hey!”

           Braelynn simply held her head high and the team could see something of her own smirk on her canine face.

[penpatronuswhump]

This is What We Do PenPatronus

 Tony didn’t wake up so much as gradually claw and crawl his way to consciousness. He then literally clawed and crawled his way over to Steve, who felt cold and was knocked out cold, likely thanks to that swollen bruise above his eye. Tony shook his friend’s shoulders. Steve made a noise that sounded like a half-sneeze, half-hiccup, but didn’t wake up. Steve’s sky-blue t-shirt and khakis were as dirty as Tony’s navy shirt and jeans. The last thing Tony remembered was having a conversation with Steve about his art while they strolled around the block that circled Avengers Tower.

 They were in a candlelit cave. Stalactites hung above them like the blades of guillotines. As Tony’s dizziness rescinded and the spots before his eyes gradually disappeared until he could see clearly, the black-robed figures came into view. They stood in a circle around what looked like a pair of iron antlers and a small fire burning between them. Tony recognized their shape: exactly like that bizarre antler-like, tiara-like headpiece that Loki wore when he attacked New York. The snark rose in Tony. “Loki worshippers?” he hollered. “Are you kidding me?”

 Half of the black figures jumped, startled. Half of that half were short and wore dirty sneakers. Most of the figures were adults, though, judging by their shape and size. All of them were men, Tony deduced. All except for the one figure who broke from the group and approached, dropping her hood. The woman wore an emerald dress. Her feet were bare, and she wore her long blonde hair in a complicated braid. The smaller set of antlers on her head was worn like a crown.

 “I am Sigyn,” the woman said. “Wife of Loki.”

 Tony snorted. “You’re probably a real estate agent from Jersey,” he accused. “You probably have six cats and fetish for Norse mythology. You, lady, have never actually met Loki. And you’re no god.”

 “Goddess,” the woman corrected. “And I don’t need to meet Loki to love him.” She smiled at him, but it wasn’t strong. The lack of strength behind her smile betrayed her. She was anxious, unsure, not convinced that what she’d gotten herself into was the best decision she’d ever made. Tony observed how she shifted her weight back and forth and cracked her knuckles compulsively. The woman, whoever she was, was no threat.

 Tony rose to his feet and stood taller by half a foot. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to point my buddy and I to the exit. Then, you’ll surrender yourself to the authorities, plead guilty to kidnapping charges, and go to jail. If you choose not to let us go, I promise you that we will leave anyway. One way or another.”

 Something gripped Tony’s ankle and yanked him to the cave floor. A millisecond later a bullet, fired by the closest black-robed worshipper, embedded itself in the cave wall straight past where Tony had been standing. “Close one,” Steve Rogers muttered.

 The gunman lowered his hood and stood side-by-side with the woman. “Nobody speaks to our goddess like that,” he declared. This guy had a short, scrubby beard and greasy black hair.

 Tony got back up to his feet and brought Steve with him. “You good?” he asked his teammate.

 Steve shook his head quickly like he was trying to dislodge water from his ears. “Almost,” he admitted. “Give me a minute.”

 “I’ll buy you two. Then we’re getting out of here.” Tony turned his attention to the gunman. He made sure to keep his body between the weapon and the dizzy Steve. “You just brought us here to kill us, huh? Well, get if over with already.”

 “Good plan,” Steve approved, all sarcasm.

 The gunman tilted his head to the side. “We only need one sacrifice to summon our god.”

 “That’s your game plan? You think killing us will bring Loki back?”

 “The hole in the sky will open again,” said the woman, raising her hands towards the ceiling. “Our lord will descend, and he will reward us for our loyalty.”

 “He tried to take over the world. Hundreds of people died that day in New York—all because of him.”

 “He was trying to free us,” the woman argued.

 “This is a fallen world,” said the man. “He came to save us. We’re grateful.”

 “You’re idiots,” Tony spat. Steve put his hand on Tony’s shoulder. It was a silent order to “shut up.” Tony shrugged him off. “Loki is our enemy. He’s insane. He’s manipulative. He’s the trickster, for God’s sake! Now, why don’t you put your little gun away and let us walk out the door, huh?” He turned towards the woman. “Out of the way,” he growled. “I won’t ask again.”

 The man re-raised his gun and fired it at Tony’s unprotected chest. Before Tony could even blink, Steve ducked, pushed him aside, and the bullet nicked him in the side of his head, not far from the original injury. Steve stumbled, teetered for a moment, then collapsed backward, landing flat on his spine. “Cap!” Tony floundered back to his friend and grasped his shoulders. “Oh god, Steve…” Tony’s knee landed in a puddle of blood.

 Thunder suddenly reverberated through the cave. The candles flickered from sudden wind. The hairs on everyone’s arms stood on end. Something smelled hot, and it wasn’t the fire in the antlers. “You wanted an angry, alien Norse god?” Tony asked. “Well, you’re about to get one.”

 Lightning flashed down the hall. Thor came for his teammates.

 ----------

 24 Hours Later

 “I’m so sorry,” Tony said for the fourth time as he sat on the bed on Steve’s right. “I can’t believe my big mouth got you shot.”

 “It was bound to happen one of these days,” Steve half-chuckled, half-scolded. He lay back in the hospital bed with a bandage around his head and a saline IV in his arm. “It’ll probably be the death of me someday.”

 “That’s not funny,” Tony said, and he meant it. “I’m sor—”

 “Tony.” Steve summoned his Army voice. “Stop it. This is what we do, right? This is what we do for each other.”

 “I’m usually the one in the bed,” Tony whispered. “I’d rather be there than here, in this position—in the receiving spot. This is worse.”

 “I know. I know what you mean,” Steve assured him. “And you usually are the one in the bed,” he agreed. “I’ve seen you lay down on the wire dozens of times, Tony. And that, my friend, is why I did this.”

 The End

[emilemiblem]

Jeremwood 43 pretty please oh wonderous drabble!master?

“I am not losing you again!”

They didn’t deserve a happy ending. As far as Jeremy was concerned, criminals rescinded their right to living happy lives the minute they committed their first act. After all, how could someone who enjoyed the thrill of illegal activities have the right to be happy?

From the very beginning he knew just how lucky he was to have even encountered someone like Ryan in his lifetime. Back in Boston he had given up on finding happiness, having resigned himself to working as a long mercenary without any strings attached. It was a simpler way to live, one that at least guaranteed no one he cared about would get hurt, because there was no one to hurt. 

Joining a crew was his first mistake. Calling them a family was also a mistake. He was growing attached to a group of people who could easily be eliminated the next day without even a warning. It didn’t matter that they shared interests in crime, that they were stronger and far more cunning than the police chasing after them. They were still human beings, and they certainly weren’t immune to consequences. 

Life had been going far too good for far too long. It was about time something slammed him back down to Earth. 

They’ve done this before, losing one another. In a fit of fear, Jeremy had pushed Ryan away to the best of his ability, going as far as leaving the crew for a few months in order to establish himself as a lone mercenary once more. Thing were too good to be true, and Jeremy had decided it had been best if he ran. 

He came back at his own pace, and he was surprised to learn that the crew held no hard feelings towards him for leaving in the first place. “You can make your own decisions,” he had been told, right before he was pulled into a welcome back hug. “If you need a break, you need a break. Simple.”

Ryan had been less welcoming, and Jeremy didn’t blame him. They had left on a rather sour note, and while they had not exactly been in a relationship, they had grown awfully close to each other the first time Jeremy had joined the crew. The two of them told each other things that were unknown to anyone else around them, and when Jeremy came back, he noticed Ryan had completely reverted back to the old Ryan. Hiding behind his skull mask for protection, only speaking a few words at a time. 

Now here they were, lying in the wreckage of what used to be one of their helicopters, and Jeremy was harshly reminded that happy endings were not for those with his record. 

He can see Jack on the ground a few feet away, blood surrounding her but the steady rise and fall of her chest showing she was still fighting. Gavin was at least standing, holding his arm closely to him as he tired dialing on his phone for help that might not make it in time. 

Jeremy had tried to move, had attempted to get up from his spot to make sure Jack was okay, but it was as though his body had enough. He could feel bruises forming, blood staining his clothing as he lied there, but it was the shard of helicopter currently protruding from his stomach that really cemented him there. 

“Christ,” He hears Gavin say, the Brit standing above him with his phone to his ear. “Little J needs help fast. You need to get here faster than ten minutes, Geoff.” 

He’s foolish to think that they would get here in time. He couldn’t tell just how deeply he was impaled, but something of this caliber was too much for their little ragtag medical crew. He needed an actual hospital, one that would definitely arrest him the minute he would be out of surgery. 

“Hang on J,” he can hear Gavin say, before the footsteps retreat, probably to check on Jack. “Fuck, I can’t do this on my own, Geoff!”

The last thing Jeremy remembers hearing is the sound of another helicopter approaching, and he allows his eyes to fall shut. 

*

“You need to sleep.”

Jeremy can hear Geoff faintly arguing, his mind muddled and his eyes only opening slightly as he takes in his surroundings. He was definitely in a medical bay of sorts, most likely one of their safe houses. His stomach hurts, and a quick look at it shows a large bandage and what definitely feels like stitches keeping it together. 

“I’ll sleep when he wakes up,” comes Ryan’s voice demanding and low. “I am not going to lose him again, Geoff. I can’t lose him again.” 

Jeremy wants to open his mouth, to shout that he was awake, he was right here where Ryan could see him. Things were going to be okay, in a shocking twist that Jeremy didn’t expect. His throat doesn’t seem to agree with his thoughts, and it refuses to allow him the opportunity to say a word. 

A door closes, footsteps shuffle, and a blurry figure sits down beside him. He can feel a warm hand rest on top of his, the sensation of rough, dry lips pressing against the palm of his hand. “I can’t lose you again,” Ryan’s voice whispers into the skin, and Jeremy feels his chest tighten. “I allowed you to leave before, but I can’t, I can’t do it again.” 

He swallows, allowing his saliva to wet his throat before he attempts to speak once again. It comes out strangled, more of a grunt than actual words, but it has Ryan looking at him. 

“Jeremy?” 

He nods slowly, reaching his free hand up to rub at his eyes in an attempt to see clearly. It helps, but the world still feels distant as Ryan cups his face. There’s tears in those baby blues, and Jeremy desperately wants to wipe them away. “Fuck, you’re alive!”

More footsteps, more voices. He hears Steffie asking Ryan to step back a little so she can look at Jeremy, can hear Andy at his other side to look at his monitors. 

An hour later, he’s fully awake. Ryan is still at his bedside, looking completely exhausted. His hair is out of it’s usual ponytail, messy, and his once vibrant blue eyes are blurry with tears a dark with circles under his eyes. He hasn’t let go of Jeremy’s hand once, though. 

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” Jeremy jokes, smiling when it makes Ryan smile. “Sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Ryan scolds, pressing multiple tiny kisses to Jeremy’s hand, as if he’s committing the feel of it to memory, to remind him that Jeremy was here, was alive. “You were shot out of the sky. Fuck, I saw it happen, I thought you were already dead.”

Jeremy’s chest tightens. “What about Jack? Gavin?”

“Gavin is okay, broken arm and a few cracked ribs,” another kiss pressed against Jeremy’s hand. “Jack has a concussion, broken ribs, broken leg. Definitely could have been worse.” He smiles against Jeremy’s hand, looking at him as though he was the most precious thing in the world. “We’re lucky.”

Maybe they were, Jeremy thinks as Ryan holds his hand. Maybe someone like him, people like them, could have a happy ending. 

[zukadiary]

Ill Conceived Terror Trip Day 1: West Side Story

After I made that dramatic post about missing Daimon’s ohirome, one KazukiMotherfuckingSora showed up to rehearsal in red nails and dangly earrings, and here I am for a meager week, something my fear of flying and I never planned nor desired to attempt, least of all in the winter with my vacation days tapped out and my work schedule running 11pm-7am. Daylight where?

This whole situation is so... unfortunate. It’s ticket cancellation hell; I was supposed to go with three friends today and all their tickets evaporated. My second ticket got cancelled too. But faced with the painful reality that barring a true miracle this show will be entirely lost to the void, I’m feeling very lucky for the one shot I got, and very justified in deciding extremely late be extremely stupid. I wish something this good didn’t have to be this ephemeral. I tried my very best to burn it into my jet lagged memory... knowing West Side Story helped.

Other than dilution of the racism issue, the show was basically untouched. Some of that was just kind of lost in translation, but a bit was consciously altered (for example, America is all ladies minus the dissenting Shark men). EDIT: two people have now informed me that this was actually a movie change! Anyway, while it would be cool to see them tackle something like that, I get that there’s no cultural reference point, and I really can’t complain about my experience, other than that it was too short.

I’m rescinding all that haha. After a last minute blessed second viewing in which I comprehended significantly more dialogue, sure some things were still lost in translation but I feel comfortable calling this an EXTREMELY RESPECTABLE EFFORT ⭐

If you’re one of the lucky few with a future ticket, stop here and don’t deprive yourself of the impact.

Moment 1: the curtain rises on a few Jets with Zun-chan at the center looking, to be perfectly accurate, FINE AS HELL. Breathtakingly so. Grown up and absolutely slaying.

Moment 2: they start to move, and the work of the imported Broadway choreographer is immediately evident. Sometimes you don’t realize you’ve been watching Very Takarazuka Choreography until you see the same girls dancing something else. 

Moment 3: enter KikiBernardo, and all of my internal organs lurched upward a bit. If this is the beginning of Soragumi Kiki, be very afraid. 

Makaze enters casually after the opening dance number, without the typical dramatic “enter PAUSE” that leaves room for everyone to applaud the top star. The more I dwell on it, the happier I am that our first taste of Top Star Makaze Suzuho is a soft role; I live for Makaze struggling to keep the sexface just under the lethal dose, but her softness is also so beautiful. Love at first sight so strong you don’t even care that this asshole killed your brother is pretty unbelievable, but Makaze had me buying in 100%. And the 50s street clothes look—t-shirt under a collared shirt tucked loosely into slightly awkward dad jeans with a thick belt and sneakers, topped with a bomber depending on the scene—is SO GOOD for her. 

WSS is home run casting, for all the Soragumi members on this side of the split, but particularly for our pair of fresh top stars, and particularly at this stage. They have a lot of figuring each other out to do as a combi—specifically learning how to sing together—but this worked; they aced the naive and reckless Tony/Maria dynamic. Maria throughout is a flatter character than Madoka is capable of playing, but she took full advantage of the emotional final scene and was excruciating. The silences in between her words were deafening. 

Every dance number is an absolute delight: the fights more dynamic than most of the actual stage combat I’ve seen Takarazuka attempt; Mambo with its rotating pair dances and KikiSora giving everyone a lesson in erotic chemistry; America with its cha cha ruffles and my kid leading a pack of fierce musumeyaku; Cool being just that, featuring a really relatable moment of Zun-chan pleading “chill out” and Moeko screaming anyway; I couldn’t pick a favorite if I wanted to. There are some GENUINELY SCARY and hella impressive bits too; first someone... Zun-chan? (it’s APPALLING that my feeble memory is the only place this show can live) ((EDIT: it was Junna Subaru))  does some crazy jump flip thing and everyone catches her. Later Kiki SCALES A REALASS CHAIN LINK FENCE by 1) jumping right up to mid-fence 2) climbing to the top 3) UPSIDE DOWN FLIPPING HERSELF OVER THE TOP and 4) landing like a wild cat, resulting in possibly the hottest single feat I’ve witnessed on a stage (shortly afterwards pretty much everyone in a gang, including the TOP STAR who must be protected at all costs, followed suit with the partially upside down fence scaling).

Our notable Jets: Zun-chan, in addition to upping her look enough to stop my heart, still has this delightful little brother vibe about her that made her the perfect Riff, while still showing impressive leadership abilities as essentially the head of the group while Tony is off being lovestruck dumb. Another favorite was EBI as Velma (Zun’s girl), for her adorable look, her ace dancing, and her PFF BITCH NO faces made at Zun’s attempts to order her around. Fuuma Kakeru is forever the literal best, and likewise picture perfect in the 50s street urchin uniform. Monchi needed more opportunity to use her voice but got to wear glasses. Moeko gave an impressive effort as hot-headed Action, especially considering difficult choreography is not really her thing. BABY TONAMI, fresh 103rd Yumeshiro Aya as Anybodys, went above and beyond ken-1 (I still think roles of pure spunk are the easiest to slay, but impressive nonetheless). 

And our notable Sharks, working up to my Main Event: if you count lines said with your EYES, Sao might have had the biggest role in the whole show, along with absolutely perfect disgusting Grease hair (one stray lock on her forehead). She also made me cry at the end when she’s the only Shark to help carry Tony’s body. She outshone Riku (Chino) a bit, but much like Madoka, Riku also turned it up for the last scene, even with completely wordless acting. 

Dark, sleazy, terrifying, devastatingly handsome Kiki. Her Bernardo made the show (objectively... I KNOW I HAVEN’T GOTTEN TO *HER* YET). Every face and every mannerism was calculated and perfect. Wiping her hand on her pants every time she had to touch a Jet... somehow manufacturing absolutely electrifying chemistry with Soragumi’s giggliest loser idiot otokoyaku as her lady partner despite being BRAND NEW; the way she like inhaled Sora, and put firm hands on her with her fingers spread wide, and grabbed big deep handfuls of her skirt... Maybe all of Sora’s reactions were just straight up real. Favorite moments: their proper kiss; when they hook up in the Mambo scene and Sora slides her hand inside Kiki’s jacket to touch more of her actual back; Kiki being macho and gross and yelling at Sora to come here and Sora repeatedly replying hell no you come HERE until Kiki gives up (also notable: their perfect height difference, despite Sora in heels and Kiki in flats).

And SoraAnita, who put my sorry ass in this freezing Airbnb writing up this devastating show at 4 in the goddamn morning, who was so so so so good. It’s hard to look past the tight-top floof-bottom dresses and the adorable heeled sandals and the legs and the scene where she’s primping cross-legged in a chair wearing sheer thigh highs with garters and black lingerie that doesn’t even cover her butt which I don’t *at all* remember being in the movie... BUT, she was just so good. She made no attempt to change her voice (even though I’m pretty sure she could have) and it worked; I’m sure she spent much of rehearsal a mess but she was a fiery hot match for Kiki; she nailed all the feminine mannerisms and the bits of otokoyaku left over weren’t awkward but perfect Anita sass; the way she worked that tulle-laden skirt, her DANCING in Mambo and America; the way she big sister’d Madoka; and her final scene where the Jets assault her in the drug store, when she made me fully cry. I would hate myself forever and ever and ever if I hadn’t seen this. 

::Sigh:: It’s only a week but I kinda wish this had been my grand finale. 

[frankcastled]

I wasn’t going to write this post, I really wasn’t, but I’ve seen a lot of the chatter and it seems to be placing a lot of blame on J.K. Rowling, assuming she has a lot of control with casting and such, but the fact of the matter is there’s a lot going on that we simply do not know. 

I would like to preface this with the fact that my defense lies in the fact that she is not the one who perpetrated any kind of abuse. She is not the one who should be under scrutiny, because in the end she is not the one being accused of anything. I truly believe that this issue has been so blown out of proportion that we have decided to intensely scrutinize her, rather than the person at the center of it all: Johnny Depp. And we should first and foremost remember this issue is about him and his actions. And while I am seriously disappointed in the decision of keeping him with work rather than getting rid of him, because it does send the message that, hey, you can be charming as fuck and get away with anything, and I do believe that is gross, I also believe that focusing on her has gotten out of hand. But, this post is not about Johnny Depp, because somehow we are not talking about him. Instead we are talking about a person who just happens to be writing the script for the movie he is in. And if it ever comes to light that J.K. Rowling did perpetrate any kind of abuse towards any one person, then I will rescind all of the following. 

So, a lot of people have rightly pointed out that this is an odd decision on J.K. Rowling’s part because we’ve seen a lot of commentary on abuse throughout her Harry Potter series, both in the original books and in the recent Fantastic Beast films, not only that, but she did suffer domestic abuse in her first marriage. I’m not sure to what extent, and Wikipedia does not say it was ever an outright fact, but it seems to be a reasonable conclusion, especially since J.K. Rowling put in so much of her own experiences into the novels and it does not seem a stretch to believe. 

This is why this is so shocking. J.K. Rowling is historically a person who supports good causes. She has been known to feel guilty about spending so much on herself, that she has given to charity in equal amounts and knocked herself off the list of billionaires donating so much of that personal fortune to charity. She founded Lumos, an organization that is dedicated to ending orphanages around the world and placing children back into homes with families and with people who love and want them. J.K. Rowling has often spoken out against a number of issues and has supported a number of others. It is unusual that she would write the words, verbatim of being “genuinely happy” about his casting.

So, here it is. 

J.K. Rowling is first and foremost a writer. Anyone familiar with any of the Harry Potter books or even the Fantastic Beasts movie itself, knows just how brilliant of a writer she is. The way she uses words is honestly astounding to me to this very day. J.K. Rowling knows how to craft a sentence. She knows exactly which words to use and she picks her words very carefully and very wisely. As such, I think it is very prudent to examine the words of her actual letter. 

First, we have her notorious tweet that started it all. 

“I’m saying what I can”

This implies, that there’s a lot keeping her hands tied about talking about the subject fully. This implies that there’s contracts upon contracts that keep her from truly expressing what she was wishes to and that this letter was simply written out of necessity and demand to hear her very specific and private thoughts on the issue. It was clear that once David Yates spoke out and said they were definitely keeping him, fans wanted to go to the person who they cherished above all else when it came to this series, Jo herself. This clearly implies there’s a lot that wants to be said, but legally cannot be said. 

Within the letter itself we next get this: 

“For me personally, the inability to speak openly to fans about this issue has been difficult, frustrating and at times painful.”

Again, this implies that there is a lot keeping her hands tied and that she potentially wanted to say a lot from the very beginning, but once again, she could not. Although I am not speaking from the point-of-view of someone who is in the know within the business, one thing I do know is that actors, especially well known ones, get contracts when they sign on to movies. There is no doubt that Johnny Depp’s contract in particular included a lot of legalese to prevent her and potentially anyone else to speak out on the situation. From what I can tell, the rest of the cast has also remained strangely quiet, which says a lot about the fact that not much can be said where this particular issue is concerned. 

And as a result, we also can assume that part of the reason J.K. Rowling spoke up, was allowed to speak up, was because the fans were demanding it. After all, there was a lot of discourse immediately after the Yates’ comments about how Jo could have nothing to say on the issue. It is most likely that she was then told to make a statement addressing it, WB perhaps hoped it would quell some of the negativity surrounding the film. No production studio likes bad press, especially a year away from the release of the movie itself. 

“I’ve loved writing the first two screenplays and I can’t wait for fans to see ‘The Crimes of Grindelwald’. I accept that there will be those who are not satisfied with our choice of actor in the title role. However, conscience isn’t governable by committee. Within the fictional world and outside it, we all have to do what we believe to be the right thing.”

This paragraph was particularly difficult to digest, I feel. It had a feeling of Umbridge’s speech at the beginning of Order of the Phoenix. Wherein, she had a lot to say with certain words that could be difficult to comprehend unless you were reading between the lines. However, after a lot of discussion with a group of friends (all of us were very split on how to feel, many of them dismissing a lot of what she had to say, while me and another friend took time to read and digest her words thoroughly), we determined that essentially this paragraph had this to say (thanks to my friend Margaux who came up with this interpretation, that I agree with): 

“I know many of you are going to be pissed, but we can’t forced WB to give a shit about this issue and we are legally bound to say these words and use Johnny Depp, regardless of how hard anyone complains. I understand if you decide to not watch this movie.” 

The last and final point I will make is the timing of this statement. Jo is usually very quick to jump on issues, as anyone who follows her on twitter will know. She responds almost immediately whenever it is something that is near and dear to her heart and she has no qualms about stating how she feels whether it’s about politics or about a celebrity figure or about her dog or husband. Rowling has never held back when it matters. That being said, it took several days following Yates’ comments to respond. As a friend of a friend who deals with PR and crisis management said for this kind of stuff there are two things going on here: one, they had her make that statement most likely because WB felt having her say something was better than not saying anything at all, and two, this statement was heavily edited and made the rounds through several levels of corporate proofreading before being approved to be published for public viewing.

This means that regardless of Jo’s actual opinion, people were always going to make sure she said what they wanted her to say. No doubt Depp has powerful lawyers and a huge contract with details of what can and cannot be said as well as details about whether he can or cannot be fired and most definitely details about how his divorce and domestic abuse of Amber Heard is to be dealt with. Odds are that WB would rather take their chances on this movie than risk being sued by Depp. Odds are that Jo had feelings that were not properly conveyed through this letter, but unfortunately contracts and lawyers kept her silent for days, before approving a statement that they made her release in order to silence worried fans. 

This attempt clearly backfired. 

My one, biggest disappointment is that Jo said this: “genuinely happy to have Johnny playing a major character in the movies.” I cannot speak for her nor anyone else involved in this movie, but I do firmly believed this phrasing is wrong and to say she is genuinely happy is probably the biggest mistake with this statement. Perhaps she meant it. Perhaps these words were added by WB or otherwise pressured by Depp and his lawyers in order with keeping with Yates’ statements. Whatever the reason, these words are what wounded me, and probably most fans, the worst. I will not defend this particular line. 

That being said, I do believe there is a lot that is not being said and that cannot be said, whether it is because of WB and their lawyers or because of Depp’s own contractual obligations and legalese. I do believe this issue is bigger than this statement and J.K. Rowling herself and I also believe we cannot lose sight of the actual issue at hand: Johnny Depp is a domestic abuser which is the real inexcusable crime.

WB is actively trying to apologize for his actions, which is an inexcusable stance. 

J.K. Rowling is tangled up in something that is really out of her control. I also truly believe, people can make mistakes, and this was indeed a big mistake on her part. But as humans, we are prone to error and that is a part of life we cannot avoid. We also cannot constantly crucify each other for these mishaps, and instead must learn to grow from them. 

[camsthisky]

Teach Me to Dream - Part 4

Determine Your Reality

Part 1 | Part 2  | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Summary:  Dick’s eleven. Not thirteen and eager to prove himself. Not seventeen and mourning a brother. Not nineteen and wishing his best friend wasn’t dead and Bruce would look him in the eyes. He’s only eleven. So why does he remember all of that?

ao3 | ff.net

Warnings: Panic Attacks and Suicidal Thoughts

Dinner is a quiet affair. Where usually Dick would be chatting away about anything and everything, Dick finds himself at a loss for words. He still feels guilty for pushing Bruce away when all the man was trying to do was help, but Dick can’t. He can’t.

He stabs a piece of broccoli with his fork and shoves it into his mouth, keeping his eyes down. Bruce doesn’t say anything, either, and Alfred stands at the edge of the room—he gives a whole new meaning to seen, not heard. All of it feels so wrong to Dick.

Dick’s a chatterbox. It’s practically in his DNA to be loud and hyper and cheerful, just like it’s in Bruce’s to be a big brooding sourpuss when he’s stressed, and Dick likes being that way. It’s part of who he is.

But right now, Dick doesn’t feel talkative or energetic or happy. He feels weighed down with overwhelming emotions and memories. He doesn’t feel like Dick.

Not to mention there’s another thing bothering him.

He’d forgotten for a little while why he’d even broken down earlier in the library. But it comes back to him at inopportune moments. Dick will be fine and then the memories crash into him. He’d already watched? his own death a second, third, fourth time, and even hours after his uncomfortable nap cradled in Bruce’s arms, it seems like it isn’t going to be stopping anytime soon.

Dick picks up the knife to cut his chicken—

The knife glints in the light as Savage lifts it high above his head. And then it’s plunging down to sink into Dick’s stomach, and the life is bleeding out of him.

—and puts it back down again, his stomach sinking and a shiver crawling down his spine. He pushes his plate away and doesn’t look at either Bruce or Alfred as he does it. He can feel their frowns, but he can’t do this. Why can’t he do this? Why isn’t he strong enough for this when the memories whisper to him that he has to be strong enough to remember his entire twenty years of trauma.

Some part of him has been Robin and Nightwing and Batman, and Dick finds that he can’t even imagine putting on a mask without throwing up.

Oh god, he just wants to feel like himself. He wants to be normal. He’s felt trapped all day, like he’s suffocating.

“Are you finished with your dinner, Master Dick?” Alfred says, looking at the plate Dick shoved away in something like concern.

“Yeah,” Dick says. “I’m done.”

Bruce clears his throat, and when Dick looks up, he’s—he doesn’t look like he’s about to call for Leslie again so soon, but it’s a very near thing. Dick can see the contemplation in his eyes. “You haven’t eaten all day. Are you sure you can’t finish just a few more bites?”

Savage’s laughter rings in his ears, and his lips quirk up in a smile as he looks down at Dick.“You are a perfect candidate,” Savage tells him, and Dick feels the knife sinking into his stomach, the stench of blood and death in the air.

Dick looks at the wonderful dinner Alfred’s cooked, and he doesn’t think he can eat another bite without throwing up. “I’m full,” Dick says carefully. “Can I be excused?”

Bruce sighs as he sets his own fork down and places a hand over his eyes. “Dick, you can’t do this to yourself,” Bruce tells him, and Dick does not want to have this conversation right now. “You can’t afford to lose any weight.”

Dick flinches and it’s full-bodied. He’d forgotten about that. Since Dick isn’t adopted, he still has to worry about social workers. The problem is that Dick’s an acrobat. He’s not like Bruce who is muscled and large. He’s small for his age. He’s always been, but it’s a problem for his social worker, who thinks that Bruce and Alfred aren’t feeding him enough. And Dick hasn’t eaten the whole day, so—

Not eating—losing weight—it could cause a lot of problems. Dick doesn’t want that. But he also doesn’t think he’d be able to stomach the meal, so he tries for, “I’ll eat tomorrow at breakfast.”

Bruce looks like he has something to say to that, but Alfred stops him, thankfully. “Of course, Master Dick,” Alfred says, and Dick slumps in relief. They’re babying him, but Dick—he just can’t. “Will you be turning in for the night, then?”

Dick bites his lip, thinking about that. Bruce is going to go on patrol tonight, Dick doesn’t have a single doubt about that. The question is whether Dick will go with him.

“I don’t know,” Dick says honestly.

“You’re not going,” Bruce interjects. Dick blinks at him, and actually, so does Alfred. Because—

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re not going out tonight,” Bruce repeats, his gaze firm and his face set in stone. “This morning you collapsed in the library. There’s no way I’m going to let you out as Robin when you can relapse like that.”

“Then I don’t want you to go, either.”

The words—they’re said in anger, with a snippy tone, and their out of Dick’s mouth before he can really register that he’s the one saying them. But once they’re out in the air, Dick finds that he really, really doesn’t want Bruce to go without him. At least not tonight. There’s still that part of him that keep seeing himself die, seeing himself lose, and Dick doesn’t want to be in the Cave talking to Bruce through the comms. He doesn’t want to feel alone.

The problem in all of this is that Dick’s not strong enough to be Robin right now. As long as he’s so easily caught up in these memories, he can’t be Robin. Bruce is right. What if they’re on patrol and Dick is triggered and falls into another memory? What if Bruce gets hurt because of it? He can’t risk that. He can’t be Robin.

And maybe that’s what’s so different. With how messed up his head is, Dick isn’t just Robin, not anymore. He remembers the circus, and Robin, and Nightwing, and Batman—all parts of a Dick Grayson no one’s supposed to know, yet. And maybe that’s why he can’t be normal anymore.

Still, whatever mask he’s wearing, Dick can’t stand to think of Bruce alone out there while he’s stuck at home. What if—what if Dick gets trapped in the memories again? Bruce has seemed to be the only one who has managed to pull Dick from his nightmare of a reality right now, and Dick doesn’t want Bruce to leave again.

“Dick,” Bruce says slowly, wide-eyed with disbelief, “I can’t just not go on patrol. I missed Tuesday for your Open House, and I missed Sunday because of a Justice League mission. If this keeps up, things will get out of control.”

“Just one night!” Dick pleads, and he’s shaking with how much he just wants Bruce to listen to him. Why can’t he ever just listen! Dick stands from his chair and spread his hands over the tablecloth, trying to find some way to ground himself in the present. “Please, Bruce! It’ll be just—just one! I—just—I—”

“Dick,” Bruce says, and he’s standing up from his own chair, but it’s cautious and Bruce looks way too wound up to be standing up in anger. He looks like he’s ready to pounce and he catches Dick right when Dick’s knees give out from underneath him. Dick latches on immediately, koala-ing to Bruce the best he can. “Hey, hey. You need to breathe.”

Dick’s not crying, but he thinks that probably has more to do with the way his chest is tightening in a familiar way than any emotions he’s feeling. He can’t draw in any air, and there’s this feeling of sinking, even as Bruce murmurs lowly to him, rubs his back and helps Dick ride this out.

Dick thinks that he’s losing this battle. He’s playing the game without even knowing the rules, and he’s so terribly losing, and there’s nothing he can do. There isn’t a rule book to help him. There’s nothing.

Whatever this is, he’s losing.

It’s like water rushing in, and he’s stuck underneath the waves, fingertips just about to reach the surface. And just as he’s about to push through to the air, the memories pull him back down another foot, and it’s another battle to try and reach the surface again.

But he can’t hold his breath forever.

After a few moments, Dick’s lungs stop seizing up on him, and Dick slumps down exhaustedly into Bruce’s embrace. It’s becoming a pattern, but Dick can’t help it. He can’t, can’t, can’t.

Bruce lets out a heavy breath and murmurs, “You okay?”

Dick shakes his head and buries it into Bruce’s shoulder. He hasn’t been okay since he’d first gotten these memories last night. He feels like he keeps trying to take a step forward, and instead he’s being pushed ten steps back and then over the edge of a cliff. It’s so frustrating that he can’t just—just be okay.

But he’s not. He’s sad, and angry, and worried, and scared, and so many other things, and none of it is fitting. He’s trying to smoosh all of these emotions down before they swallow him whole, but they keep springing up on him when he least expects it, and he wishes he could do something about it. He wishes Bruce could do something about it.

And maybe that’s what Dick’s next words are, “I’ll tell you.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything for a long time. The room isn’t silent—Dick can hear Alfred shuffling around the table, probably straightening up their meal in order to keep himself distracted—but the longer Bruce goes without saying anything, the more Dick wants to rescind his words and pretend he never said them.

But finally, finally, Bruce says, “Do you want to?”

“Yes,” Dick says immediately, and he doesn’t think that he’s lying. He doesn’t want to be trapped inside his own head anymore. Screw making it a reality, screw Bruce sending him to Arkham. This is Dick’s reality now, whether he wants it or not, and he can’t do this alone. “I do. I’m tired now, though.”

“Let’s get you in bed,” Bruce says, and it rumbles deep and warm in his chest.

Dick squeezes tighter. He has to know. “Will you stay?”

“I’ll stay,” Bruce breathes, and it sounds like a promise. “I’ll stay, Dick.”

Bruce runs a hand down his face. Dick is curled up under the covers next to him, sleeping restlessly, but considering how much Dick had gotten the night before and the emotional exhaustion he has to be dealing with, Bruce is lucky Dick’s sleeping at all.

“Sir?” Alfred says, knocking on the open door. When Bruce gestures for him to come in, he does. His posture is stiff, but Bruce knows better than to think that Alfred isn’t just as worried for Dick as he is. Alfred just shows his concern in different ways. Alfred shoots him a skeptical look. “Are you really planning on staying in tonight, Master Bruce?”

“Yes,” is Bruce’s immediate answer. The look on Dick’s face when he’d pleaded for Bruce to stay in, it had been than Bruce could bear. Bruce will give up another night of patrol for Dick, and he doesn’t think he’ll regret it. “He needs me.”

“That he does,” Alfred says. “You two will speak when he wakes, then?”

“I suppose.”

Secretly, though, Bruce isn’t sure that this is the best option. Bruce isn’t good with talking about emotions on a good day, and he’d almost had his own panic attack when Dick’s started at the dinner table. Bruce is too attached to this, and he doesn’t know if he wants to hear whatever Dick has to tell him.

Well, yes he does. There’s nothing Bruce wants more than to know what Dick is going through and find a way to help him through it. This is his kid, and it isn’t like Bruce isn’t going to help him however he can.

But there’s also that feeling—that complete and utterly heart-stopping fear that Bruce is the wrong person to help Dick, right now. That he’s not going to be enough to bring Dick back from whatever edge he’s teetering on. He’s afraid he’ll be the tipping point of whatever precarious balance has managed to find throughout the day, and he doesn’t know if Dick’s going to be tipping forwards or backwards, and it hurts. He hates to admit it, even to himself, but it hurts that he probably can’t be whatever support Dick needs him to be.

But maybe Bruce can hold Dick’s hand, at the least. The kid is probably the most kinesthetic person Bruce has ever met, and if Dick reaches for him, Bruce isn’t going to refuse him—whether it’s figuratively or literally.

“Something else on your mind, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks, an eyebrow raised and that knowing look on his face. Bruce sighs in answer and Alfred nods. “Ah. So you noticed it, too.”

“It’s hard not to,” Bruce manages to get out.

He looks over at the boy—his boy—sleeping in his bed, and sometimes he can’t believe that Dick actually came home with him that day. In the early days, Bruce knows that he wasn’t the best guardian, but Dick had somehow punched his way through Bruce’s defenses and wormed his way into a space in Bruce’s heart, and now Dick is wounded, someway, somehow. Right underneath Bruce’s nose.

“Something hurt him,” Bruce says, because he needs to make sure that he isn’t the only one who sees this.

“Trauma,” Alfred agrees solemnly.

“PTSD,” Bruce clarifies, and then he shakes his head, because it doesn’t add up. Something, somewhere, doesn’t add up. “The symptoms may match,” he says slowly, “but what was the cause? He just barely turned eleven, and the last major case was with the Riddler. It just seems so random.”

“And yet these things rarely are.”

Bruce looks over Alfred, really looks at him, and there’s a weariness that Bruce hasn’t seen since before Dick had moved into the manor. The butler seems tired as he flits around the room, straightening things that don’t actually need to be straightened, dusting lamps that Bruce is sure Alfred dusted yesterday. This is affecting all of them, even if it’s mostly on Dick’s small shoulders, and they need to get past this. Bruce needs to get to the root.

But it doesn’t make sense. A nightmare? A relapse? Dick had had PTSD and depression when he’d first come to the manor, but after a few days, his natural curiosity and cheerfulness had taken over. And even in the first days, Dick had only been somewhat subdued.

Now, though. Now Bruce fears the worst for Dick. He’d come into Bruce’s bedroom so early this morning, face pale and stricken, and he’d looked haunted. It makes Bruce shiver just thinking about it. His first thought when Dick had jumped into his arms was that Dick had just watched another person die, but that didn’t make sense.

Nothing had made sense. Bruce had tried to fit Dick’s behavior into a timeline, into scenario after scenario, and all he could come up with was that Dick had PTSD, and that it was aggressive.

The symptoms are all there. The depression, the hostility, the anxiety, the mistrust, the lack of energy. And this morning Dick had barely responded to Bruce, looking so apathetic and detached from the world. Bruce never wants to see such a look on the boy’s face again.

But out of all of those symptoms, the one that takes the cake are the flashbacks. It’s obvious, most of the time. Dick will stare into space, and he won’t respond or react to anyone calling his name. And then when he comes out of them, he’ll get violent or he won’t remember exactly where he is.

And—

“I’m not dead, am I?”

God, what has his child seen to make him say something like that? To be unable to distinguish between reality and flashback—or dream. Or whatever they are. Bruce can’t do anything about them, though. Nothing other than bring Dick out of them to the best of his ability, and pray that Dick is still intact as he emerges.

It’s agonizing. Torture, really.

Bruce drags a hand down his face and just presses it to his mouth for a moment. There isn’t anything to do now that Dick is asleep. Hopefully, he’ll stay that way for the entire night, but Bruce has a sinking feeling that they’re both in for the ride of their lives.

They don’t get there in time. And even if they had, Dick doesn’t think it would have made even a bit of a difference. There had been no other way, and Dick recognizes that. It hurts, just like it had hurt to watch his parents fall to their deaths, or to hear that Jason was dead because—

Anyways. It’s like a knife carving out his heart, and Dick hates that he can’t even show how much agony he’s in. Not when Barry and Artemis both look like their world has just shattered. Dick’s has shattered, too, but he’s accepted it. He hates this.

They need to leave. Some part of Dick’s brain that’s always functioning, that never stops looking at a situation and says, “you’ve already been pushed past your breaking point too many times and this is no different.” The part that says to move on and keep walking. It tells him that they need to get out of here before they all freeze to death.

Dick quietly ushers them into the bioship, and it’s quiet on the way back up to the Watchtower. It’s up to Dick—Mr. Team Leader that led Kaldur to fake defection and Artemis to fake death and Wally to actual death—to break the news to the others.

Ding dong. Wally’s dead. And it’s all Dick’s fault.

He goes from sitting in the bioship, feeling the angry stares of his comrades that he’s not quite sure isn’t his imagination, to standing in his apartment. And it’s only then, when he’s alone, in a dark, old, crummy apartment, that Dick lets himself fall apart.

He still has to give Batman his report. His still has to deal with the aftermath of the invasion. He still has to be a leader. But—

Wally’s dead. This whole thing—the plan that was supposed to save the world with as few risks as possible—it’s backfired on Dick. Now instead of mourning someone who had just been undercover, everybody’s mourning Dick’s best friend, who isn’t coming back. Wally’s dead, and it’s Dick’s fault.

He doesn’t know how he’s ever supposed to live with himself now. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t really want to.

And then—Dick’s not in his apartment, he’s thirteen again, sitting in a chair across from Black Canary, about to spill his darkest feelings about the nightmare of a training exercise. They’re alone. The others are probably somewhere in the mountain, still caught up in their own heads, their own emotions, their own traumas. Conner’s somewhere else, though, caught up in his anger. Only his anger. Dick would be worried if he could, but he’s having a hard time dealing with his own emotions.

“Dick,” Dinah says, and there’s something in her eyes that makes Dick slump forward, his hands clasped between his legs as he tries to hold himself together. “I know you’re hurting—”

“Hurting?” Dick says, his voice wavering with the amount of pressure behind his eyes. “Try traumatized. I finally become leader and wind up sending all of my friends to their deaths.” He looks down at the floor and tries desperately to keep his composure, but it’s just as hard as ever.

There’s this new feeling whelming up inside him, and Dick hates it. It’s bitterness. It’s resentment. It’s hatred. And the worst part is that it isn’t just aimed at himself. He wishes he can take all of the blame on himself. That would be a lot easier, but these feelings. Their aimed at himself, but they’re also aimed at—

“I know I did what I had to,” Dick tells Dinah, just in order to not think about where that train of that had been going, “but I hated it. When we started this team, I was desperate to be in charge. Well, not anymore.”

Dick pauses, takes a steadying breath. Then he takes another, and that one is shakier than the last, and Dick fears he’s about to fall apart after all of this. He’d watched his friends die, he’d lead his other friends onto a suicide mission. Dick knows that he’s bound to feel horrible and sad and angry and scared after something like that. He knows that. But—

“And that’s not even the worst of it,” Dick admits. The feelings are back. He can’t push them away. He looks up to meet Dinah’s eyes. “Y-you can’t tell Batman.”

“Nothing leaves this room,” she tells him.

“I always wanted—expected—to grow up and-and become him. And the hero bit? I’m still all in. But.” Dinah has this look in her eye, like she wants to stand up and give him a hug. Dick has known her for almost his whole career as Robin. She’s watched him grow up. But she stays where she is. Dick swallows and keeps going. If he stops now, he won’t ever start again, he thinks. “That thing inside of him. Th-that thing that drives him to sacrifice everything for the sake of his mission—that’s not me. I-I don’t want to be the Batman anymore.”

He fears what will become of him if he does.

And when he does become Batman, it’s only because he has to, and he’s afraid that that mission—the one from over five years ago—is the reason he’s doing this now. It has to be why he’s sitting on the edge of a rooftop in the room, weighed down with cowl and cape, Tim wearing his colors beside him.

Gotham needs Batman, and the Team needs a leader. Dick’s more than terrified he’s already screwed up both. He doesn’t want to be Batman, and he doesn’t want to lead his friends to their deaths, but it doesn’t look like he has any choice anymore.

Dick wakes to darkness, and for a moment, he’s confused. That’s not his ceiling. He—he should be in the Cave, he thinks, or his bedroom at the manor, but that’s Bruce’s ceiling.

His breath hitches in his chest as the events of the entire day come rushing back to him, and it’s all Dick can do to summon the energy to roll over and curl up next to Bruce. He doesn’t want to dream anymore. He doesn’t—it’s too much. So he snuggles closer to Bruce’s warmth next to him, and just tries not to drown.

[egregiousderp]

When you see this post an excerpt from a WIP!

Fuck. Okay. I saw this through @unicornsandbutane . Uh. So. Remember that Spiritassassin past life dreaming AU I was talking about? It. Uh. Goes something like this.

(Sorry this is huge. This was going to be a chapter. They didn’t say how long the excerpt had to be and I don’t know when I’ll next get to this because I’m…well…me.)

Context: force sensitive people in one life dream about their past lives. Baze and Chirrut dream about one another. Baze denies this. Heavily. That some new age shit.

He meets Chirrut for the first time after dreaming about him dying in his arms.

Chirrut has retinitis pigmentosa. He can still see but is in the process of becoming fully blind. Baze doesn’t know.

Okay. I- Uhm…

/VAGUE PRESENTING GESTURES ——– ——–

The client can smile as much as he wants as long as he pays is a personal rule.

Baze is starting to question that rule.

He is hours in and halfway through being swallowed by the innards of a sink that probably hasn’t been replaced or altered in more than fifty years, and still can’t make head or tail out of what the client actually wants him to do.

“If,” the man says, still smiling like the sun, “if I wanted to make the house safe for a blind person, how would it be modified?”

Baze grunts something about the stairs and keeping a clear floor. None of which particularly requires an interior contractor. He sees no reason to lie about the difficulty of his work when the man is probably just looking to sell a house.

“If I wished to install disabled ramping what would I do?“

Baze grunts again.

Not enough space for ramping. Install a chair lift like everyone else.

“If I-”

“Pipes and wiring,” Baze interrupts, his patience narrowing.

“Come again?”

The tilt of the other man’s head is birdlike, cheerful. The nightmare from the night before has unsettled Baze too much to be easily shaken. He rubs his forehead to clear it, feeling the start of a headache.

“Old house, old wiring,” Baze grunts.

“And…what does that mean?”

Baze sighs through his nose, and pulls his glasses back on. He dislikes doing so. Dislikes the looks of amusement he gets while holding documents at arms-length and studying layouts even more.

He hates old manses. The owners are either stingy or gullible, and rarely know what needs to be done.

If this guy wants a pretty interior job he should have called Jyn first, gutted all the beautiful wood paneling, the antique tiling of the floors and remade with a modern interior, calling him up when they were done. Baze chews on the end of his pen in distaste.

“Means the house came first. Electricity came later.” He thinks of the trio of children he saw giggling together on the trolley, barely six years old, watching a video on their parent’s phone. “And usage has gone up. You want that done first."

The owner just gazes at him, eyebrows lifted.

He has no idea what he is talking about, obviously.

Baze taps the sink in the kitchen on the print.

“Is this an original?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” the other man laughs.

He comes uncomfortably close to see the print, then turns his head to look at Baze. He is grinning at the beaded chain for his glasses. Librarian comments incoming, no doubt.

Baze’s mother would have knocked his knees out from under him with a volume of the Britannica, and she was barely five feet tall, with a limited grasp of English–-a textbook example on why quiet wasn’t the same as peaceful and neither were librarians.

Baze foregoes the commentary by folding the print back under his arm.

Might as well take a look.

Judging by the sink fixtures, the kitchen had a rehaul during the sixties. He wrinkles his nose as he opens the cabinet, pulling out bottles.

He half-expects to find a bag of weed somewhere under the sink. Keeps his nose out for the stink of it.

The client’s perpetual smile makes him seem the type.

He half-expects protests, the defensiveness of a dealer.

The stillness and the slight creeping sensation down his spine makes him crane his head back to find said client instead matter-of-fairly checking out his ass.

Baze snorts.

Well. That’s this city for you.

Nobody has much to look at in steel-toed work boots and tan coveralls. And Baze has even less to look at these days. He’d once been a trim man. Now he’s just a sad forty-year-old nearsighted divorcee checking the nuts of an S-pipe as a favor to a brilliant young architect who’d found him at random by looking up welders in the phone book.

Jyn Erso is twenty-two, driven, and all business. Something more than a client. A grudging friend. He’d done all-night work with her in near-silence together for her grad display. You don’t pull rush jobs like that for just anyone.

They meet once a week for drinks. They aren’t what he’d think of as particularly close friends because Jyn has a guardedness to her that tells you it isn’t a date, and if you try anything she’d crack your nose and leave you in the hospital. Not that Baze would try anything. But there is something particularly depressing about meeting up with an attractive and intelligent young woman who talks shop, having a nice evening, and then going home alone to your own unfinished house.

When Jyn had said her best friend needed to have his house looked at for renovations, Baze had had the sinking feeling that that was it, that he was being couched into approving of some future boyfriend, herded headlong into some sort of fatherly role.

He did not expect Chirrut Îmwe, answering the door before he could knock.

“You’re the inside man?“

Baze had blinked.

“Something like that.”

“Chirrut. Chirrut Îmwe.”

His handshake had been firm, vigorous, his hands as calloused as Baze’s.

“You’re…Blaze Malbus?”

“Baze,” Baze corrected with the long patience of a lifetime with an unusual name.

He’d kept clean-shaven and his hair close-cropped for years to try to cut down on the drug dealer jokes. He’d been a child during the Haight-Ashbury days, and still had never taken a hit. Straight A student. Good future.

Then his father had died when he was seventeen, and someone needed to bring in money for the house.

He knows all about how being good at something doesn’t cancel out bad luck, how the unexpected normally goes hand-in-hand with ‘unpleasant’.

In fact, Chirrut is unexpected in a lot of ways.

Trim black turtleneck. Woven bag. Loose pants and sandals. A red wrap around his waist that’s got an interesting and subtle woven texture to it. Clean-shaven. Close-haired. Chinese, like him, which had been another surprise. And definitely older than fresh-faced Jyn, though he has the peculiar agelessness to him that comes with a heavy fitness lifestyle. Probably another fucking righteous vegan, Baze thinks.

He thinks again of his dream, the details all blurred together, just a lingering sense of unease, of loss. Something that makes him want to wipe his fingernails on his coverall and expect to be talked down to by another idiot who doesn’t know which way a screw turns but makes more money than him and believes that’s because he’s lazy. Unintelligent.

The bad dream seems to be leaking into his sense of the man. He’s seen plenty of people like Chirrut. Has been checked out by far more intimidating-looking ones.

Baze wonders with a snort if he’s being set up, if Jyn has made some assumptions. Unlikely. Jyn usually keeps her head down when it comes to the affairs of others.

“I’m not that kind of plumber,” Baze says, too tired to keep any real heat in his voice.

Chirrut gives a bark of laughter that’s completely unselfconscious, a smile that’s much too even not to have been set that way as a child, with plenty of complicated orthodonture. Money, Baze thinks a little bitterly. Something he doesn’t have much of even before the ex-wife remarried, stopped demanding alimony in advance, and filed a totally unnecessary restraining order.

“Aah, well, you never know,” Chirrut breezes.

He is so blithe even Baze has to snort.

“Try turning the water on,” Baze mutters.

Chirrut steps over to the sink and Baze listens to the pipes, squints with his little penlight tucked behind his ear, the red beads of the chain clinking on pipe.

“Pour a glass for me. I want to check the clarity. Something transparent.”

Chirrut shuffles slightly above him.

“Don’t worry. There’s beer in the refrigerator if you get thirsty.”

“Beer,” Baze repeats.

Chirrut gives a noncommittal noise.

The only thing that’s thirsty here is you, Baze thinks a little uncharitably, making his way gingerly out from under the sink and unbending slowly, and with a wince.

“You don’t seem the type.”

Chirrut’s face shifts into comic dismay.

“My feelings are grievously injured and I rescind the offer of my specialty homebrew. You can drink out of the sink.”

Baze laughs, despite himself.

“That your business?”

“A hobby.”

Something odd has passed into the man’s face, the smile sagging at the corners.

Baze doesn’t ask.

Somehow it doesn’t surprise him that Jyn befriended a microbrewer.

“It was once women’s work, you know, the making of beer,” Chirrut calls.

His voice is a little too loud and bright in the low space.

Baze considers this tidbit, and how he’s probably supposed to react to it. What might be hinted and what might not be.

“Don’t tell that to Jyn,” he decides on.

Chirrut rips out another laugh, this one with a wicked edge.

He has a great laugh, Baze thinks absently. He must have caused plenty of trouble in his time. This too doesn’t surprise him in terms of Jyn’s choice of friends.

Against his better instincts he finds himself oddly okay with being watched by this hovering fellow. Always asking questions about what he’s doing, why he’s doing it. It should be annoying. Somehow it isn’t, comforting to talk about tangible things with that lingering dream hanging over top of him. The sense of incoming, inevitable failure and loss.

Baze often dreams of failure.

“How did you meet?“ Chirrut asks out of the blue, after hip-checking a table by accident.

Clumsy, Baze notes. Like anything that isn’t directly in front of him isn’t there.

"Hm?”

“You and Jyn.”

Baze is surprised at the heavy, intent look on the other man’s face. Blinks as he realizes.

Oh.

“Phone book.” Baze grunts, “Under ‘Welders’.”

Nothing weird, he wants to add. Doesn’t, since he’s sure somehow that would make it worse.

…Is he actually going to be given the shovel talk by a Five-foot-Eight beatnik?

Baze doesn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. Jyn is a very pretty girl, with a good head on her shoulders. Nice tits, too, if he’s completely honest. She could do a lot better than him for sure. He hopes, in a blaze of worry, that she knows it. Good God does he hope it.

He blinks.

The rising, tight tilt of the other man’s chin is very much like Jyn’s.

“You?” Baze asks, trying to keep the uneasy frown off his face.

“Destiny,” the other says.

Baze laughs before considering whether he’s supposed to. A dry noise.

“Really.”

The corners of Chirrut’s mouth go mercifully up. He leans back against the counter.

“I wandered into the grad installations by accident and she almost murdered me with a power sander.”

He makes it sound like the most casual and reasonable thing in the world. Baze swallows down another laugh.

“Get out.”

“That’s what she said,” Chirrut deadpans back, dislodging Baze’s laugh from his throat despite himself. Despite how utterly cheesy it is. Chirrut, he notices, turns his whole face like a cat when he peers at him. A flicker of surprise.

“…Have we met before?” Chirrut asks faintly, something uncertain in his features.

Baze snorts, shaking his head.

“Definitely not.“

Chirrut frowns but goes on with a shrug.

"Anyway, my Tai Chi was completely ruined, I offered her free self-defense lessons to compensate her for the fright, and we’ve gotten along famously ever since.”

Baze makes a listening noise.

The thought of anyone weaponizing Jyn Erso’s anger is completely terrifying. He’s half-convinced Jyn’s lambent rage is its own renewable energy source.

“You give her your beers?”

Chirrut gives him a look of practiced disdain his mother would have been impressed by.

“Forget I asked.” Baze mutters, shrugging.

“Have you met Galen Erso?”

Chirrut’s dark eyes are narrow, intent. Without the easy smile his whole face is narrow and long, proud-looking somehow. Something in the combination of lips and chin and brow.

Baze searches his memory for the name. Finds nothing with a slow shake of his head.

“Who?”

“The father,” Chirrut’s chin tilts up again, a slow fury in his dark eyes.

Baze frowns, guessing.

“…Alcoholic?”

“Mm,” Chirrut agrees, his chin set and stubborn like a little fist, “The quiet kind.”

Baze considers this more carefully, a slow frown settling. Next Thursday he’ll relocate them to a cafe, he thinks. Cut down on the girl’s intake. Someone has to take care of her.

“You try talking to her?”

Chirrut gives a sharp laugh again.

“Have you tried stopping Jyn from doing something before?”

Baze thinks. Chirrut’s already grinning, shaking his head, utterly fond.

“When Jyn Erso rebels, the whole world follows,” the man says.

Baze frowns. He’s starting to realize why a thirty-something-looking bohemian fitness freak of a man in a Bill Gates turtleneck is Jyn’s best friend.

“I have Thursdays,” Baze says stubbornly.

“Are you serious?” Chirrut laughs.

“Your day must be either Tuesday or Wednesday–”

“It’s Friday, actually,” Chirrut cuts him off, the laughter still in his eyes. He looks utterly unintimidated. Amused, even, arms folded across his stomach.

“Then if she matters to you–”

“Good God, you’re like an old woman,” Chirrut interrupts, laughing.

Baze’s fingers tighten. He’s a big man, and he knows it.

Chirrut is not, and still meets his look without an ounce of fear, a blasé arrogance. Baze notes suddenly the outline of his shoulders. The trimness of his waist, remembers he’d said self defense classes.

“Jyn’s an adult. She does her work and does it well. Life doesn’t end because of a bit of Black Porter on a Friday Night,” Chirrut says, shaking his head slightly.

Baze’s disapproval sits heavy in his belly, welling up in frustration. A great weight of words he can’t say to a stranger, a friend of a friend.

“I can see why you and Jyn are friends,” he settles for, leadening it with the full force of his disapproval.

Chirrut shrugs, a manic glitter in his eye.

“I like a straightman with me when I cause my trouble,” he pauses, inclines his head with a smile, “Or woman.”

Baze lets out a breath in disgust.

He bets it’s the same bar on Friday. He has half a mind to make the time to fish them both out. A growing protectiveness.

“Don’t drag Jyn down with you in whatever trouble you get into.”

Chirrut makes a rude noise, his dark brows knitting irritably, ”Yes, mother hen. Will that be all?”

It comes so sharply, so abruptly Baze just stands there for a moment, realizing how far he’s overstepped.

He almost wants to apologize. Feels the sting instead of the comparison. Dismissal.

Baze bits down his words.

“…I’ll send you an estimate.”

“Well, good. You stay right there and estimate,” Chirrut drawls, bumping the same table, catching the same vase, “while I get you a crate.”

Baze blinks.

“A…what?”

“You need a drink!” Chirrut hollers down the hall, “You need about five drinks!”

“I don’t need anything!” Baze yells back.

He winces at the sound of his own voice.

Chirrut Îmwe has apparently gone selectively deaf.

“I don’t accept drinks from strange men,” Baze mutters, a little hot around the ears when he realizes the other man is indeed bringing up a loose crate filled with dark bottles.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m a painfully ordinary man cursed with spectacular beauty,” Chirrut replies back, making a face, “and not at all strange.”

Baze doesn’t laugh. Can’t. Caught by a strange sense of panic.

Chirrut taps a finger against the little barrel, something challenging in his dark eyes.

“Stardust Ale. Last year’s vintage. It’ll give you something to talk about with my friend.”

“I…can’t accept this,” Baze says quietly.

Chirrut is waving him off with a noise of irritation, shoving the thing into his hands.

“Go on. Get lost. Make your estimates. Come back when this,” he taps the crate, “is gone. Get drunk with some friends. This is my number,” he’s scrawling something large and loose on the side of the wood.

Baze gives him one last, exasperated look as he does so, as he’s manhandled to the door by prodding and pushing hands.

“And wear something different next time,” Chirrut adds, calling after him down the steps to the tilted street, “You look like a Ghostbuster!“

[marymosley]

How to Survive a Biglaw Deferral

Editor's Note: Today's post comes from reader Marissa Geannette, a former Biglaw associate, who runs a career blog, The Unbillable Life, where she writes about her experiences working in Biglaw in NYC. She recently published a book “Behind the Biglaw Curtain: Demystifying the Junior Associate Experience” all about how to succeed as a junior associate in Biglaw, which you can find on Amazon. Along with advice on how junior attorneys can succeed in Biglaw, she also blogs about why she left that career after eight years to pursue an alternative, less traditional path. Read more career success tips and career change advice on the blog or reach out to her at marissa@theunbillablelife.com with any questions or comments. We have no financial relationship.

The coronavirus pandemic has wreaked havoc on the world, and Biglaw hasn’t been spared. While most firms have managed to avoid mass layoffs, it’s time for the Class of 2020 and, most likely, the Class of 2021, to face the very real possibility that your fall Biglaw start date will be delayed. In fact, many law firms have already announced deferrals and postponed the start dates for their incoming associates (check out Above the Law for the latest updates and firm-specific announcements). 

In the past, Biglaw has weathered an economic downturn (e.g., the Great Recession) by deferring the start dates of its incoming first-year associate classes, and they look to be doing the same during the pandemic. 

What should recent law school graduates and law students know about Biglaw deferrals? First, know that deferrals are likely (if they haven’t already been announced) for this year and the following year (and possibly even the one after that). Second, know that you can plan for one and don’t have to get caught off-guard. Lastly, rest assured that a deferral is not the end of the world (or your legal career). 

As a 2009 law school graduate, I know what it’s like to get that deferral notice. Suddenly, all of the plans you had made – study for and take the bar, take a “bar trip” around the world, move to a new city, and begin work as a first-year associate in the fall – go out the window. After the market crash of 2008 and the recession that followed, Biglaw wasn’t exactly desperate to take on (and pay) new associates when there wasn’t much work. 

The solution? Mass deferrals (for both the Class of 2009 and the Class of 2010). It’s looking like this will be the solution for the Class of 2020 as well. Let’s dive into what we know about coronavirus-related deferrals, how you can plan for a deferral by getting your financial house in order to the best of your ability, and why everything is going to be OK. 

Coronavirus-Related Biglaw Deferrals – What We Know and Don’t Know

There are so many unknowns when it comes to the coronavirus pandemic. When will Biglaw offices open up? When will work tick back up? Is the downturn temporary or will it last for years? There are so many things we don’t know, but some that we do. 

What We Know

While not all firms have announced delayed start dates, and those that have announced them might decide to push start dates back even further, there are some things about the deferrals that we do know: 

We know that deferrals have been announced or are in the works for many Biglaw firms and that most start dates have been pushed back to January or February 2021. 

We know that many firms are offering varying levels of compensation, from stipends to salary advances. However, some seem to be offering nothing at all (at least nothing that has been publicly announced). 

It does not look like any major Biglaw firms have plans to rescind offers – the deferrals are meant to be just that – delayed starts, not layoffs. 

What We Don’t Know

There is more that we don’t know about these deferrals. We don’t know: 

Whether start dates will be pushed back further. Even if a firm announced a start date of January 2021, for example, depending on how the pandemic plays out and how it continues to affect the economy and Biglaw, some firms might need to delay start dates even further. 

Will any firms end up deferring associates for an entire year, as they did in 2009?

What kind of monetary stipends will firms settle on (these seem to be changing as the pandemic wears on)?

How will these Class of 2020 deferrals affect the Class of 2021? Rising 3Ls should be aware that they, too, might be deferred. The ripple effects in 2009 affected the classes of 2009, 2010, and 2011 in different ways.

Plan for a Deferral Now, Whether or Not You’ve Gotten the News 

As you can see, there are lots of unknowns, both for the current class of incoming associates as well as for future ones (a deferred class one year often affects the following years, until the firm can rebalance its summer associate and incoming associate numbers). 

With all of the unknows, what can you do? The bottom line is that whether or not you’ve received word that you will be deferred, you should plan as if you will be. Here are some tangible steps you can take: 

1. Save your Biglaw summer salary and cut back on your expenses starting now.

If it’s not too late, put away as much of your Biglaw summer salary as possible. If you are a law student planning to summer in Biglaw next year, don’t spend like a Biglaw lawyer before you are one, especially now. 

If you are already living like a poor law student, plan to continue living like that for the near future (this is good practice, anyway). If you took your Biglaw summer salary and upgraded your life, think long and hard about those upgrades. It’s not too late to turn back and unlock the golden handcuffs before they trap you for the long-term. (Living below your means is good practice for law firm associates in general – you do not want to get trapped by golden handcuffs if it turns out Biglaw isn’t right for you.)

2. Think twice before moving to or signing a lease in a new city, or upgrading your living quarters just yet.

If your Biglaw job is in a new city, don’t move there until you are certain your job will start (and start paying you). Don’t move to an expensive city like New York until the very last moment (it is so easy to get a rental right now – landlords are offering deals left and right and are basically begging for tenants, so there’s no rush). 

Stay at home, stay living with roommates, do whatever you can to keep your housing costs low. Once you begin work, you might even be able to stay in or temporarily move to a lower cost of living city if your colleagues continue to work remotely (talk to your firm about their plans for getting people back to the office and be flexible with moving in case you do need to go to the office). 

If you already live in the same city as your job, don’t upgrade your living space just yet. When you are a Biglaw attorney, there are certain perks you are definitely justified spending money on, and there are certain “non-essentials” (a well-equipped home office) that really are essentials for Biglaw associates. But if you aren’t starting your Biglaw job until January, February, or even the fall of 2021, don’t splurge on the expenses related to a Biglaw job until you actually begin that Biglaw job. 

3. Have a “plan B” for health insurance coverage. 

If there’s one thing COVID-19 has shown everyone (even healthy young adults), it’s the fragility of life and the importance of health insurance, no matter your age. If you were counting on receiving health insurance through your job, you need to have a plan B for getting coverage if you are not starting that job as expected. 

Under the Affordable Care Act, young adults can remain on their family’s health insurance plan until they turn 26. This applies to some recent law graduates, but certainly not all, either because your family does not have coverage or because you are already over 26. 

When I was deferred for a year, while my firm gave everyone in my class a stiped, they did not put us on the firm’s health insurance. This was pre-Obamacare, so I had to find my own coverage. It was not cheap, and I don’t think I saw the doctor once that year, but it certainly was worth the peace of mind knowing I had coverage if I needed it. Buying your own health insurance can be costly, but it is temporary, and you do not want to risk being uninsured, especially now.

4. When You Do Start Working – Remember to Avoid These Classic Financial Mistakes

Keep in mind that you will start working eventually. This deferral is temporary, so take the time now to educate yourself on how to manage your money when you do start making a steady Biglaw salary. Not managing your student loan debt, overconsuming – these are just a couple of the classic financial mistakes new lawyers make. If you educate yourself on these pitfalls before you begin working, you’ll be less likely to make them.  

It’s All Going to Be OK

I hope this doesn’t sound too naïve, but I did want to end on a somewhat positive note to say that, no matter what, it is all going to be OK. 

Why am I so sure about this?

First, because it ended up OK for my classmates and me when we were deferred in 2009. We all figured it out. Some were deferred for a year and started their jobs in Biglaw, just one year later. Others decided to forego Biglaw altogether (you never know what you’ll discover during your deferral period – there are plenty of alternative careers for lawyers, and sometimes taking a step back and thinking about what you really want to do will open your mind to these other careers). And everyone ended up OK. 

Second, because it is not in the firms’ best interests to leave their incoming associates or future associates hanging out to dry. A deferral is temporary. I don’t mean to minimize the effects of a deferral – they are great and, depending on your financial situation and privilege, can be hugely consequential. Losing expected income during a time like this is hard on anyone. But the pandemic will pass eventually and law firms will need junior associates. While we don’t know when this will be, it will happen.

Third, because Biglaw knows that it cannot renege on offers to incoming associates, which is why they defer associates in the first place. Rescinding offers during a time like this would look awful for the firm’s reputation and they would have trouble competing for law students during upcoming recruiting seasons. 

I’m confident that a deferral means just that – a delayed start. In most cases, you will end up in Biglaw, just a little later than planned. If you prepare for it to the best of your abilities, manage your finances, and take care of your health, you’ll survive a Biglaw deferral just fine.

Originally posted on How to Survive a Biglaw Deferral

Biglaw Investor - Personal finances for the aspiring millionaire lawyer

How to Survive a Biglaw Deferral published first on https://immigrationlawyerto.tumblr.com/