#i unfortunately respect you a little less when you engage in that kind of stuff. especially when you want sympathy afterwards

[kosherkept]

ok yes i feel bad for people who get harassed by bigots and trolls on this website but some of yall need to learn to press the block button and move on. that person may be a total dick but you’re enabling them by continuing to fucking talking to them what did you think was going to happen 😭

[inquebrar]

QSMP was one of the projects that had one of the biggest personal impacts on me. since i was younger, i have always been fascinated by getting to know different cultures and learning new languages ​​has always been something that captivated me. although for years i have "been part" of many fandoms and followed different projects, series, groups and things like that for years sometimes, but i just had my interests without having no one to talk with and share it. so this was the first time that i really participated actively and was so engaged in the "fandoms" i'm part of, to talk about it, share my theories and analyzes and stuff like that. so at the beginning (and tbh i still feel a little) i was always very nervous to talk about it or talk with other people in general (especially in a language that is not my mother tongue) because it was something so out of my comfort zone, but through qsmp i learned more about cultures and languages ​​that before i didn't even thought about learning, i felt the desire to continue learning languages ​​that i had left aside, i felt more proud of my nationality, i met very kind people from different countries, it brought me a lot of joy seeing many people starting to learn my language too and see so many people who like the same things as me who share opinions and interests and even people who speak my language who are also very engaging it's so cool to see and the whole feeling of unity, comfort and cultural mix between different people made me extremely passionate about this project and the things it provided.

but unfortunately, recently it has been very difficult to deal with the excess of negativity and heavy topics and serious matters that came to the surface and started to accumulate with disappointments and overwhelming things that i had been feeling for a while. having hyperfixation on qsmp stopped being something that motivated me and brought me happiness, it started to affect my mental health in a bad and unhealthy way, which already hasn't been so good in the last few days. so i thought i'd just vent a little so that maybe someone who is in a similar situation and having similar feelings to mine will feel less alone or a little more understood.

i heard Quackity's recent statement and i was relieved to see that he handled the situation responsibly and addressed the matters without taking away the importance also genuinely apologizing, it was a difficult and sad situation to witness in general but with the server closed on a temporary break, i really hope that he now stays informed and aware of how his team is working and how things are happening behind the scenes. i hope that this brings more organization, communication, correct and respectful treatment to all those who work to maintain the project with care and commitment, and i hope things get an extremely significant change and that everything improves from now on. i still have a lot of love for this project and i want to believe things will be more positive again, but in the meantime i hope that everyone who was affected by everything that has been happening takes care of themselves and always remember that you are important, your feelings are valid and you're not alone. speak up when you feel the need, when you feel disrespected, when you need help. also don't forget to be kind (to yourself too) and i'm waiting for better days.

[bucketsofmonsters]

Is that old man agoraphobic or cursed? Why hasn't he left the manor in 300 yrs? What's wrong with him. Also, is he an anomaly in his treatment of humans or is it normal for vampires to be as caring and respectful of human autonomy and comfort as he is? Or are the vamps Wattpad-esque, obsessive, boundaries-be-damned, kidnappers? Or is draining humans entirely the default? Or are most in blood-bank, business like, unemotional exchange relationships with their humans? Where is Rooks family? He grew up in that manor, so who raised him there? Do his cousins come visit and scare the villagers while they're there? Have you ever seen Van Helsing with Hugh Jackman? Are any of his uncles and aunts like that? Is his semen capable of impregnating anyone in that house? Is it cool when it comes out of him?

So the nearest town is like half a days travel away and he can't go out in the sun so him staying inside is more of a practical matter than anything. His treatment of humans isn't the most common, partially because it is difficult to be able to find and house enough willing humans and most vampires get violent when desperate. The upper class ones who are able to manage humans like Rook does don't tend to be As kind but they aren't openly cruel. It's usually more of an exchange, blood for protection or something of that sort. They tend to be more demanding. Rook's family certainly was, he's cut ties with them bc it makes him a little sick to see them treat their humans like they're less than, treated basically like servants.

Very few vampires fully drain humans but that's mostly because, even if you're super violent, why would you kill the thing that could produce food for you? Instead of fully draining them, more violent vampires are more prone towards kidnapping. The only vampires who fully drain people are 1. doing it explicitly because they want the person dead or 2. are so hungry that they're not thinking straight

Rook wasn't raised in the manor, he engaged in some minor fraud centuries ago, faked a family linegae of a dead man with little family and got himself a sick inheritance, it's not that hard to commit weird fraud when you're immortal you can plant the seeds of it and then leave for centuries. Makes it more convincing.

None of his family visits him but he does have a very small number of likeminded vampire friends. This will never show up in a story but Evelyn from The Shapeshifting Detective is a close friend of his. I don't tend to do crossover stuff because I think its cheapens stories but the desire to write her doing her dominatrix shit on Oliver is strong, know in your heart that it has happened and will happen again lmao.

I have never seen Val Helsing so I cannot speak on that unfortunately. He cannot impregnate anyone because he is dead and every part of him is cool so yup, it is lol.

[watermelonlipstick]

Nerves (Request)

This was my first request, and it was fun to write! Anon wanted a reader around Sam’s age whose nerves Dean mistakes for fear until he confronts her about them. Thanks for reading, and of course I would love any advice or critiques!! If you have a request, drop it in my inbox and I’ll definitely write it if I feel like I can do it justice. Just a little bit of weekend fluff. 

Title: Nerves

Pairing: Dean X Reader

Word Count: 2715

Summary: When helping Sam’s college friend, the reader, Dean can’t figure out why she’s so scared of him. 

gif from forgetthisbull

“Dude, Dean, I’m serious. Don’t be a fucking creep to her,” Sam said, shutting the door to the Impala and following his brother into a greasy spoon called Little Bavaria with white scalloped curtains.  

“Dude, Dean, I’m serious,” Dean mimicked in a nasal sing-song. “And when am I ever a creep?”

Sam glared at Dean in exasperation. “Please? Just please? Can I have one friend you don’t hit on?”

“Fine! Drop it!” Dean snapped, yanking open the door and pulling his face immediately into a saccharine smile for the rosy-cheeked grandma-type standing behind a cash register that could not have been made after 1983.

“Thank you,” Sam said, obviously relieved. He scanned the room before seeing her sitting in a back booth.

You waved excitedly to Sam as he walked toward you, looking like a sun-kissed and confident man rather than the floppy haired boy you remembered.

As the brothers made their way over to you, a waitress dropped off plasticized menus and glasses of water. Sam waited for you to stand up before wrapping you in a bear hug. He smelled clean and familiar in a way that made you feel slightly lighter immediately.

“I like the new hair, it looks good on you,” he said, charming as ever.

You reflexively touched your head. “Oh! Right, I forgot that was after college. You look great!”

Sam’s smile was easy and wide as he turned to Dean. “This is my brother Dean.”

Dean raised a few fingers in a weak wave, decidedly not giving you anything Sam could construe as bedroom eyes or a flirtatious smirk. “Nice to meet you. Sorry it isn’t under better circumstances.”

“Yeah, well,” you trailed off.

“Should we sit?” Sam asked, graciously offering you an out.

After the requisite coffees and Dutch babies were ordered, Sam looked across the table angelically. “I’m really sorry this is happening,” he said, his voice smooth and soothing.  It was all Dean could do not to roll his eyes, one arm slung across the booth behind Sam as he slouched back. He tried for the appearance of nonplussed neutrality. “If it’s okay with you, I think you should stick around us until we figure this out. I don’t want to leave you alone in that house,” Sam urged.

You kept the relief off your face better than you’d expected you would. You were trying to play it cool in front of Sam and his hopelessly cute older brother, but you were scared enough of going back your new house that you just repeated what they ordered, unable to focus even on the menu. As you had been doing for the last day and a half since you called, you thanked God for the small instinct to call Sam. Sam, who you hadn’t seen in a few years but was the least judgmental person you’d known in school. Somehow you knew even if he thought you were crazy he would come anyway. Now he was here, bigger and looser than you’d remembered, not making fun of or pitying the girl who thought her house was haunted, and you felt like you could take a deep breath for the first time in weeks. In a weaker moment you might’ve cried, and for that reason it was better that Sam had brought his brother. It might not have been so embarrassing to break down with an old friend, but you couldn’t ugly-cry in front of the Rebel Without A Cause at the table, all pillowy lips and long eyelashes. Distractedly you tried to remember if Dean looked this good in the two or three pictures Sam had scotch-taped to his dorm wall but couldn’t call them up. You channeled all the chill-girl energy you could muster and shrugged. “If you think that’s better, I can.”

“I do, yeah. It’s just that we don’t know what’s going on yet,” Sam offered. “If you need to get some stuff from your place, we can come with you. Right, Dean?”

“Sure,” Dean said, his tone clipped and his lips pressed tight. “Whatever Sammy wants.”

You heard a thump under the table and Dean smiled slightly more reassuringly.

Over breakfast Sam had about a hundred questions about everything you’d been up to lately. He seemed genuinely interested as you told him about the new job you’d moved here for, wanting to know more about the goofy drama between your coworkers and odd clients as though it was fascinating. You’d forgotten how much you desperately missed him until you saw the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and heard his laugh twinkle out over the coffee steam and powdered sugar. All the while, Dean seemed to be boring into you with those green eyes, sometimes adding a meaningless trite comment or chuckle but not genuinely engaging. You tried only partly successfully to ignore him, focusing on Sam and your food and how nice it was to feel safe.

3 cups of weak coffee after you’d finished eating, knowing you’d be jittery but not caring from the giddiness of the reunion, Dean took out his wallet and threw about double what you’d guessed the tab might be down in cash. “Should we go get your stuff?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” you answered, taking one last sip before getting up from the table. A look you couldn’t decipher passed between Sam and Dean so quickly that you would’ve missed it if you hadn’t been staring right at them. You followed the boys out of the restaurant, feeling a very odd and fleeting moment of jealousy when Dean thanked and winked at the older woman behind the cash register, giving her a slow languid smile like warm honey. He was so pretty. As quickly as the thought had come over you, it was replaced with disgust at yourself. At a time like this, when your whole world was in chaos, you were worried about some hot guy—who clearly wasn’t into you from the way he was acting—instead of your own safety. You were still cursing yourself mentally when you slid into the back of the gigantic black car they’d arrived in.

Sam’s friend was cute. Like, really cute. Beautiful, even, and Dean was beyond annoyed that this was the one time he promised Sam he wouldn’t hit on one of his friends. Not that it seemed to matter, because she only had eyes for Sam. It was like she melted when she saw him, staring only straight at his kid brother all through the time they stayed at the breakfast spot. If Dean was being honest with himself, he was more than a little hurt, not used to being looked at with anything less than adoration by the women he wanted. What added even more salt to the wound than the way she seemed so infatuated with Sam was the way that she looked when she saw Dean. Dean peddled in monsters and the looks of attractive women, and he knew fear when he saw it. He’d spent the rest of breakfast with Sam’s comment about him being a creep running through his mind on a loop, careful not to lean too close into her or say anything less than strictly G-rated. Unfortunately, that limited him more severely than he realized it would.

When she got into the back of the Impala, she sat straight up like she was in a cotillion class, not comfortable enough even to sit normally in his car. Was Sam right? Was he a creep? Dean suddenly felt weird and predatory, like maybe the blood and guts of hunting was changing him in some irreparable way that people could sense. He tried to smile agreeably the way Sam did up at her in the rearview mirror and saw a shark reflected back at him. Looking quickly away, Dean put both hands on the wheel the way he thought someone non-threatening would.

It didn’t help that Sam thought something was off, which meant Dean wasn’t pulling off his act and maybe couldn’t even pretend like he wasn’t the kind of person who makes a beautiful girl’s eyes go wide in fear. Each time Sam had side-eyed or kicked him under the table, the point was re-emphasized. Dean was desperate to relax but worried he’d freak this poor girl out somehow, so he kept himself tightly wound as he took directions to her house.

By the time they’d finally figured out the problem—not, as you thought, that your house was haunted but that a coworker was in fact a witch trying to torment you—the three of you had gotten into a semi-comfortable rhythm. You were crashing on the couch in their motel room, carrying your toiletries into and out of the bathroom every morning like you were at sleepaway camp and trying to keep your clothes as wrinkle-free as possible while living out of a suitcase. Some parts of it were so nice; you were still just as grateful for the protection you felt as you had been in that café, and you had forgotten how comforting it was just to know there was someone else around. Other parts, however, were not. You hadn’t slept on a couch, let alone a scratchy-creaky motel one, for so many days since college, and you were remembering why. On top of that, Dean was so compelling that it felt like you expended half of your energy each day just trying to keep yourself from staring at him.

And naturally, the more you got to know him the harder it got. He was not only the pretty boy that was obvious from the first time you met, but also so kind and respectful, seeming to be very aware of the potential discomfort of immediately sleeping in the same room as a strange man and giving you a wide berth for as much privacy as possible. He even picked up coffee in the mornings before you and Sam got up, that first day getting a black coffee, a nonfat latte, and ‘whatever the coffee guy said was most popular’ because he didn’t know what you’d like. If anything, it felt almost as though he was being a bit too gentle, and you wondered if Sam had told Dean you were some kind of fragile and delicate bird that startled easily. When you’d asked Sam about it after a couple days, he just shrugged and said he hadn’t really told Dean much other than some stories from college. You decided to drop it. Maybe Dean was just like this, which made it all the harder not to develop the kind of crippling, blushing, oh-my-god-is-he-going-to-sit-next-to-me crush you hadn’t felt since middle school.

When the coworker had been ‘taken care of’—a careful answer from Dean that you chose not to pursue—you were left feeling unmoored. It wasn’t like you could go back to the now-destroyed house, or even imagine how you’d explain away the chaos of the last couple weeks to the few people you knew here. Sam seemed to pick up on it intuitively, and offered for you to come along with him and his brother until you figured out what you were going to do next. Like it had when he had driven across the country and tossed you the last life raft over the formica table at Little Bavaria, it felt like Sam was saving you. He seemed excited when you said you would, and was out grabbing sandwiches for the road while you and Dean packed up the motel room when Dean asked if he could borrow you for a minute.

You were so embarrassed at the small, cartoonish voice that agreed, sitting on the side of the bed while Dean draped himself effortlessly—God, how could he look so cool even just sitting down—over the arm of the sofa.

“I, uh, if you’re going to come on the road with us I think we should talk,” he started. Your pulse started thumping in your chest and you hoped you weren’t blushing as you raised your eyebrows, signaling for him to continue. Dean cleared his throat and fiddled with his ring before continuing. “Listen, I don’t know how much Sam told you before we met, or whatever, but I swear I’m really not that bad.”

You’d been focusing so hard on not looking desperately infatuated that you weren’t able to keep the surprise off your face. “Bad? Of course not, you’ve been amazing. You and Sam saved my life. I’m so grateful,” you sputtered.

“Right,” Dean said, looking slightly confused. “Then I’m sorry if I did something maybe, because I don’t want you to think I’m some, like, animal—”

You cut him off. “Dean, you’ve been unbelievably sweet, way above and beyond what you needed to do. I’ve felt so safe the entire time I’ve been with you guys, and now you’re letting me stay with you for even longer; I don’t know how I can repay you, seriously.”

Dean looked up at you, his confusion tinged around the edges of his eyes with something wounded. “Then why are you so scared of me? You jump whenever I come in the room, you only look at Sam, you don’t even slouch when I’m around. I know I can’t do Sam’s puppy dog eyes act, but come on, I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. You act like you’re waiting for me to sock you.”

You opened your mouth and closed it again, realizing you didn’t know what to say. It was hard enough to think with Dean’s eyelashes sweeping over his cheekbones like the most delicious metronome you’d ever seen, let alone process what he was saying. “I—Dean, I’m not scared of you,” you finally squeaked. His face didn’t change with the spark of recognition that would’ve allowed you to stop there with a soggy handful of dignity left, and you took a deep breath to steel yourself to continue. “God, this is so embarrassing,” you murmured under your breath. “Okay,” you started, hoping your voice sounded resolute and firm. “I mean, it’s just that you’re so cute, and cool, and self-assured, and I was worried I was going to do something weird or whatever, and now I guess I have anyway. I’m truly sorry if I made you uncomfortable, or especially feel like I wasn’t anything other than thankful for you and everything you’ve done. I’ll try to act like less of a total freak, I promise.” 

You winced, waiting for the inevitable pity from this gorgeous man who must hear these proclamations from every woman he meets. Instead, Dean chuckled, which was maybe even worse. Pity you were ready for, could swallow and heal your ego from in private, but open ridicule was too much.

“Okay, well, that was fun. Sorry,” you said, smacking the tops of your legs and getting up from the bed. Dean grabbed one of your wrists as he pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing his eyes.

“No, wait, sit down,” he said, smiling.

You obeyed, feeling a little lump of embarrassed tears forming in your throat but not seeing a way to extricate yourself from the room gracefully. Dean’s callused thumb swiped affectionately across the back of your hand.

“That is way better than what I thought,” he insisted.  “Sam made a big deal about how I shouldn’t act like a creep to you, and it got in my head. I thought I was coming off as a total perv or something.”

His eyes locked you in like quicksand before you could answer, not pitying or withering at all as you’d thought, just soft and tender and the impossible green of a perfect matcha. “No, I’m the perv here,” you offered, attempting to make light of your shyness.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, sweetheart,” Dean purred. Heat swelled up into your cheeks, and Dean brought your hand to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to the back of your hand as he gazed up at you.

As you were desperately scrolling through the Rolodex in your mind for something witty to say, Sam opened the door to the motel room. You were equally and fiercely relieved and stymied as his hulking frame filled the doorway, grabbing the duffel he’d left on the tile. “You guys ready?” he asked, his smile bright and carefree.

Dean dropped your wrist and winked at you as he got up from the couch unhurriedly. “More than ready, Sammy. Let’s hit the road.”

-

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

Tags: @sams-sass, @akshi8278​, @dream-believe-and-love​

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Never a Gull Moment

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes Rating: T Word Count: 3523

For @yavannie, who wanted Sam to either gain new powers or carry Bucky through the air. Spoiler, I went with both. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Sam’s had an intense first week as Captain America. The perfect opportunity for a break arises when Joaquín contacts him, offering new programming for his suit. All he needs to test the tech are the beach, birds, and one uncooperative bonehead Sam didn’t manage to leave behind in New York.

If there’s one skill Sam’s hoping to adopt from his predecessor—Steve, not Walker (sweet Jesus, not Walker)—it’s the ability to end a conversation with a humble handwave before it can even begin. Steve always had that in the bag. Leading with the wrist in a flick of the hand that came across as both sheepish and respectful. Like he’d love to stop and talk with that fan or this journalist but he was just too busy. And not rude busy, busy with a quiet nobility. Anyway, it all came across in the wave.

Sam hasn’t nailed the wave.

Four days after the GRC vote-that-wasn’t, he’s still in New York, bouncing between TV appearances; everybody wants a piece of the new Cap. Sam wishes they asked a little more about his opinions on compassion for the displaced, as well as those who survived the Snap to form new, functional communities, and less about the look of his new suit, but isn’t it always a battle between style and substance? At least people are listening. To everything except the look Sam knows he has in his eyes, the one that says this debut has been a lot and he’s longing for home.

He knows he has to nail this aspect of being Captain America too. Unfortunately, chuckling amiably with morning show hosts isn’t doing a hell of a lot to distract him from what it took to get him here. There are seconds where his attention wavers—he’ll be nodding along to whatever someone’s saying, or letting his gaze follow a bike courier down the street instead of staying trained on the camera the roving reporter has set up on the sidewalk—and that’s when Karli hurtles into his mind. He feels her desperate blows vibrating the shield, the weight of her body in his arms, in her death.

He can’t keep sitting behind desks or posing impressively and trying to answer the hard questions (on the rare occasion they’re asked) after he’s told people he’s not the expert. When Torres calls up, it’s the close-enough-to-official reason Sam’s been waiting for to step back and do something that actually feels useful.

Bucky, who’s been skulking behind the scenes, somehow never pulled into interviews (if he knows the deferring wave and he’s been doing it just outside Sam’s sightline all week, Sam’s gonna kill him), sticks with him. They head south to meet Torres, and at least that feels like the right direction. Homeward bound. Of course, they stop a handful of states before Louisiana and hug the east coast, but it’s an improvement. They meet Torres at… the beach.

He’s got his foot propped in the open doorframe of a Humvee, giving Sam and Bucky a big, eager, whole-arm wave as they pull up. Not like they’re gonna miss him; Torres is in the only vehicle parked halfway down an unpaved road. Sand dunes climb steep and high just feet from his front bumper, an informal path cutting between the dunes and leading to the water, though Sam can’t see that from this vantage.

Torres’s hand is somehow already grasping Sam’s in a pumping, congratulatory shake before he’s fully out of the car. Sam hears Bucky’s soft snort of suppressed laughter and shoots him a look across the seats. Bucky raises his palms, but Sam spots his smirk before they’re both slamming their doors and stretching their legs after the drive.

“Traffic?” Torres asks brightly.

“Nah,” Bucky answers, coming around the back of their ride. “Sam just drives slower than my grandmother and she—”

“Died on the Titanic?” Sam guesses dryly.

Bucky’s flat stare could be saying a lot of things, or nothing. Sam feels as if he’s been a student of the language of Bucky’s stare for a while now, but his comprehension is still rudimentary. Pop that asshole in a sanctuary for rehabilitated brain-washees, have somebody study his behaviour like Jane Goodall studies chimpanzees, and they might get some answers. The idea starts as something funny Sam almost shares, but then he imagines handfeeding Bucky a banana and it gets weird. He keeps his mouth shut.

“Or she got the cryo treatment too and she’s kickin’ around someplace, speakin’ Russian and makin’ headshots.”

“Come on, man, Hydra jokes about your own grandmother?” Sam scoffs. “That’s not even a little bit funny.”

Torres’s expression is like a kid watching a wrestling match on TV—awed, alarmed, reluctant to question what’s real because he’s just enjoying the show.

Bucky cracks a slow smile and Sam rolls his eyes, slapping Torres’s shoulder to get him to head towards the Humvee and the reason they’re here.

“Nana woulda thought it was funny,” Bucky assures them.

“Nana?”

“Lemme guess… You called your aunt ‘TT,’ so your grandmother’s probably… ‘GG,’ am I right?”

Sam glares at him (because his guess is correct and he’s a pain in the ass) and turns fully to Torres as he opens the back, revealing a large case.

“You were vague on the phone,” Sam recalls, watching Torres tug the case close before undoing the clasps. Bucky leans against the vehicle as he observes, dark pants picking up a swipe of road dust from the dirty taillight. “Something about an update for the suit?”

“Right,” Torres agrees.

He throws the case open to reveal the wings Sam gifted him. They’ve been repaired and Sam automatically strokes a hand over the gleaming, extended metal. If Torres did this himself, he sure worked fast.

“That duffle bag wasn’t good enough for you?” Sam asks jokingly, remembering his gear broken and jumbled, fit to be dragged out with the trash.

“They’re kind my prized possession,” Torres admits. “I thought they deserved to be kept nice.”

“You might even wanna put ’em on sometime.”

“I’m working up to that.” Torres laughs. “I wanted to make sure they were in working order before I jumped off a building.”

“Or out of the back of a plane without a parachute, right, Buck?” Sam asks, smacking the back of his hand into Bucky’s chest.

“I was fine,” Bucky insists.

“Sure you were. We can watch the footage again. I’m up for that.”

“Just let the man finish.”

Torres grants Bucky a wide smile in thanks.

“Yeah,” he picks up, “so I was fixing them, working on the wiring, and when I got the electronics running smoothly again, I started thinking about Redwing—”

“May he rest in pieces,” Bucky contributes.

“Uncalled for,” Sam complains.

“I replaced it, didn’t I?”

“The Wakandans replaced it.”

“As a favour to me.”

Torres’s gaze dances between them until Sam motions for him to continue.

“About Redwing,” Torres goes on enthusiastically. “The sophistication of the relationship between you, how intuitive the tech was. How Redwing understood not just simply-stated commands, but a more conversational approach, interpreting your intentions.”

“Finally, a little Redwing appreciation,” Sam says. He crosses his arms and gives Bucky a meaningful look.

“But what if it was a real bird?” Torres blurts.

Most of a minute passes as Sam stares at Torres’s excited expression.

“I think I might get where Torres is going with this,” Bucky says.

Sam holds up a hand to pause him. He could make a guess at it too, but there’s no need for that. They have the source of whatever alterations have been made right here.

“In your own words, Joaquín,” Sam encourages.

“Well,” he begins, one palm braced in the bed of the Humvee as he leans over the case with unconscious protectiveness, “you know I’ve kinda been itching to get my hands on the wings for a long time.”

“Yeah.” Sam laughs, remembering having to practically slap Torres’s hands away from the jetpack in Tunisia.

“Since you gave them to me a couple weeks ago, I’ve been tinkering, like I said, and I had this idea. Now,” he warns, raising both hands in caution, “this might be either really obvious or really disrespectful to the whole concept of the Falcon, but I started wondering if it’d be possible for the person wearing the wings to talk to nearby birds. Use them like a resource, like with Redwing.”

“Black Panther dresses like a cat with Vibranium claws.”

“Spider-Man has webs,” Bucky adds.

“Right,” Sam agrees, nodding to him before looking back to Torres. “I don’t think it’s disrespectful to lean into the gimmick if it’s amplifying your abilities.”

“Awesome,” Torres pronounces.

“I assume you went further than just wondering about it?”

Torres gives them a modest shrug.

“I know a guy who knows an ornithologist.”

“Bird scientist,” Bucky translates.

Turning his head, Sam glances at Bucky with a no shit look.

“Thanks,” he says insincerely.

“You’re welcome.”

“Long story short,” Torres pipes up, “she got me access to a catalogue of bird calls and the scientific consensus on what they all mean. I patched that info into the suit and, hopefully, it’s something that could be used, uh, on the fly. Sorry, I was trying to think of another way to say that.”

“So my suit would be able to communicate with birds?” Sam checks. “Automatically?”

“Yeah, it would assess your surroundings the same way Redwing does already, but scanning for birds, identifying what kind they are, and having the interpretation of their calls at the ready if needed.”

“What sort of information would I be gaining with this tech?”

“Stuff like… are they feeling threatened or disturbed? Does something feel off about their environment that has something to do with somebody you’re maybe chasing?”

“Mating rituals,” Bucky says.

“How is being able to recognize mating rituals going to help me?” Sam demands.

“You never know.”

“You brought your suit, right?” Torres wants to know. Apparently, he’s not going to bother engaging with Bucky’s nonsense. “It won’t take long for me to install the new software.”

“It’s in the back,” Sam assures him, jerking a thumb towards the other vehicle.

“Great!”

“But just the bird calls. This suit is brand new. No tinkering.”

“No tinkering,” Torres swears.

He sets up his impromptu workshop in the back seat, next to the suit. Sam has to admit to himself that Torres’s reverential expression as he handles the Captain America suit is pretty flattering. He watches the progress until Torres sits back, stating it’ll just be a few minutes for the new programming to be assimilated.

“Why the beach?” Sam asks while they wait.

“I was inspired by some shaky, far-away footage of you in New York. You did, uh, kind of a nosedive into the river there, so I thought maybe you’d be interested in testing your suit’s maneuverability in water at the same time as we did a trial with the bird calls.”

“Are we running a drill or something?” Bucky wonders.

“That’s a good idea,” Torres says immediately. “A scenario to use both the calls and the water.”

“You got something in mind?”

Sam isn’t the one who asks because he can see from Torres’s face that he does. Fortunately, he is the one who gets to laugh when the Lieutenant squints consideringly at Bucky and asks, “How long can you hold your breath?”

—

The last Sam sees of Bucky, he’s taking off his shirt.

“Oh, entire jacket this time?” Torres asked when Bucky took that off first.

After that, it was his shoes and socks, then his t-shirt, and this whole Bucky stripping thing isn’t so much a last look as something that Sam has to stand there witnessing for a while. He’s already in the Cap suit and, seriously, Bucky could’ve changed at the same time. Then, he would’ve been ready to go without making Sam and Torres wait around. But Sam wouldn’t have gotten to see him undress.

“Hurry it up, man.” His voice is a little off because, at the same time, he’s thinking, Please don’t take your pants off.

“If you’re making me play a drowning victim, I can at least not be getting weighed down,” Bucky argues. “This is to help you, right? Quit complaining.”

Finally, he stalks away, mounting the dune in black jeans and a half-assed scowl and disappearing over the top. The plan is for him to swim out, then duck under the water when Torres tells him to (the guy’s brought along waterproof earpieces for the purpose). Next, Sam will fly up and search for the ‘victim,’ relying solely on input from the seagulls wheeling lazily overhead. It’s a good exercise Torres has cooked up.

Sam hands the shield off to Torres for safekeeping before the Lieutenant heads to the beach. The shield won’t be necessary for this and there’s no way in hell Sam’s leaving it in the car. Besides, it’s kinda funny how wide Torres’s eyes go when Sam offers it up. Even bigger reaction than leaving him the wings, though this he doesn’t get to keep.

“On my signal,” Torres restates.

Sam gives him a sharp nod.

Once he’s alone, he paces between the vehicles, eager to kick off the ground. He hasn’t had an opportunity to just enjoy himself in the new suit yet. Leading up to the confrontation with the Flag-Smashers (and Georges Batroc, that fists-of-steel bastard), he was in training mode, focused and determined. In the media-heavy days that followed, he conceded to a few stunts for the camera. Those hadn’t been purely fun though; they were actually something Sam had to think quick and hard about, ultimately deciding that it wasn’t just performing on command but rather giving the public a lighthearted look at their new Captain America. Testing new tech with Bucky, Torres, and a bunch of seagulls? That seems like it’ll actually be a good time.

The instant Torres’s voice in Sam’s ear says, “Bucky’s under,” he unfurls the wings and sails up over the crest of the dune.

It’s not the warmest day and the greenish-blue water’s choppy near the shore, but there is a surprising smattering of people along a quarter mile of beach. Must be locals, Sam guesses, trekking down to the water from nearby houses. That would explain the lack of other cars where he parked. The people aren’t that close or that bothered by his sudden appearance overhead. Startled, sure, but after they’ve identified him (he sees a few hands lifted to foreheads to block out the sun so they can get a good look), he gets to return a couple big waves. Besides that, nobody’s getting to their feet to pound sand and swarm Torres, who’s conspicuously there with Sam—he is holding the shield, after all. Pretty typical. The bigger the crowd, the greater the chance of people scrambling for his attention and/or whipping out their phones to film him. This group seems satisfied with watching Captain America hanging out at their beach on his downtime and Sam appreciates them for that.

“No scanning the water,” Torres says in his ear. Sam laughs.

“I’m not, just assessing our audience here.”

“Is this a bad spot? I didn’t think anybody’d be around when I sent you my location, but—”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry. Did anybody ask you what was up when Bucky waded out into the water?”

“Nah. If they were wondering, they probably aren’t anymore.”

“Glad I won’t have to compete with a lifeguard to rescue him,” Sam jokes.

He hears Torres’s short laugh of agreement before focusing. Not on the water at all, but the birds. Those down on the sand are squawking for food, comfortable enough with these people to complain loudly in the hopes of being fed.

Sam’s sudden swoops scatter the gulls in the air, so he tries easier circles, mimicking their movements to hover high above the beach. Soon enough—these guys either have bad short-term memories or no patience—they start communicating with each other. The new programming Torres has uploaded to his suit signals to Sam that the birds are aware of a disturbance in the water. He gets a target on his goggles’ imaging and dives.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sam crashes into the murky water no more than a hundred yards out. The drop-off is dramatic enough for him to not complete a faceplant into a shallow bottom. Bucky’s treading water a couple body-lengths down, but he wrecks his form to offer Sam a raised middle finger in greeting. Sam’s wings retract as he grabs Bucky’s wrist to haul him to the surface.

They breathe, bobbing in place.

“Thought you’d be faster,” Bucky says.

“You didn’t drown, did you?” Sam points out. “Come on.”

He catches hold of Bucky’s hand and shoots out of the water, wings opening in the air to carry him once the thruster’s done its work. But Bucky squirms below him, their wet grip twisting precariously. Water runs from his sopping jeans.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam asks.

“I don’t want to be carried to shore!”

“Why?”

“Because dangling this high above the ground feels a little weird to me! Not all of us do this every day!”

“I guess we could run the exercise again.”

“Fine. Let’s do that. Just drop me.”

Sam rewards Bucky’s melodrama by abruptly releasing his grip. Hey, that’s what the idiot asked for, and if he can fall out of a plane to the forest floor, he can plunge into water. It’s not like Sam’s up at aircraft cruising altitude, just high enough to make Torres look like a little action figure army man, standing on the sand in his fatigues.

“Running it again?” Torres wants to know.

“Yep,” Sam tells him, accelerating away from the shore. “Just giving that dumbass time to swim to a new spot.”

“Even though he can’t reply while he’s underwater… you know he can hear you in the comms, right?”

“Oh yeah.”

When Torres lets him know that Bucky’s gone under a second time, they start the drill again. Once more, Sam does a gliding approach to the seagulls. Once more, they go quiet before filling the air with their screaming, overlapping calls. Once more, Sam finds Bucky. He knows he’s quicker this time, so he’s expecting an acknowledgement of that when he contracts the wings, straightens his body, and plummets into the water feetfirst next to where Bucky’s floating below the surface.

Instead of an appreciative nod, an outstretched hand, or even a thumbs up, Bucky darts away from him. Is he trying not to get rescued? Now he’s just fucking up the exercise. Only, Sam can’t even berate him, because he’s still under too, holding his breath as he swims after Bucky. He uses the jetpack for assistance, but Bucky’s a fast swimmer, legs kicking just ahead of Sam. Goddamn human shark.

Because he is not an idiot, Sam surfaces to catch his breath, leaving Bucky somewhere below.

“There a problem?” Torres asks.

“Only with Bucky’s idea of teamwork.”

“Get him like a bird would!”

“Is that a real suggestion?” Sam asks, rising and falling as a small wave swells under him, rolling towards the shore.

“Really, Sam! You know, like how birds hunt fish.” Back on the beach, he makes a sharp, downward gesture with his arm that has Sam chuckling. He gets what Torres means though.

“Alright.”

Sam goes from water to air, then, alerted by a trio of seagulls taking annoyed flight from the surface of the water, goes into a steep dive. Nabbing the swimmer from above is the trick, he learns, when the swimmer is being intentionally uncooperative with the rescue attempt. Bucky might be quick when he knows Sam’s behind him, but when he drops down on him, there’s nowhere Bucky can go. Sam wraps his arms around Bucky’s bare chest from behind and lugs him up for air.

The first thing Bucky says is, “You took even longer that time.”

Frustrated, Sam splashes the back of his head, but when Bucky strokes his arms out, rotating to face him, he’s smiling.

“You messed it up,” Sam accuses. He rubs a hand across his goggles to smear the water droplets off.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t have fun.”

Sam narrows his eyes before a laugh bursts out of him. He can’t help it; it’s the pressure he’s been under, so much internal conflict, suddenly drawn out with the current. Yeah, Bucky was slightly uncooperative, but that’s nothing unusual. Swimming ahead like he was going for a gold medal or forcing Sam to plunge deep after him, the two of them suspended like the goddamn Shape of Water before Sam towed him to the surface—either way, Bucky definitely gave him distinct scenarios to work with. Sam can’t say he doesn’t feel more comfortable now that he’s had some practice. More comfortable with his wings in the water, with working with his feathered allies. With Bucky.

“Still don’t want a lift?” Sam checks.

Bucky’s expression hardens and Sam backs off with a laugh.

“See you on the shore,” Bucky states firmly.

“Alright. Get doggy-paddlin’, White Wolf.”

Sam feels Bucky’s hand shoot out to seize his ankle in retaliation as he launches out of the water, but he’s too slow. Sam’s wings fan wide as he flies up, up, up with the birds.

[wickedgamesoyaoya]

⇺ ⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂ ⇻

↣ Masterpost

↣ inspired by @haik-choo’s post

↣ wc: 1.7k 

↣ warnings: some self inflicted pain (nothing major!), cheating mentions, serious heartbreak. 

↣  song recommendation:  tolerate it - taylor swift 

↣  preamble (as written by haik-choo):  akaashi keiji doesn’t get that not everyone can understand how someone feels with one look. he puts an extra sugar in his coffee and expects you to know that he wants to go out to a bakery, he clicks his red pens a few extra times and expects you to know that he needs refills – he says he has a lot of work tonight and expects you to make him midnight snacks. to him, that stuff is easy. why can’t you understand him? he does it for you – he shouldn’t have to say it out loud. you should already know what he’s thinking. if you don’t, maybe you don’t love him as much as he thought you did.

The complexity of love has never been accurately represented in the media. Films present reality through the lens of a fractured mirror to provide viewers a sense of emotion they cannot find elsewhere. Fairy tales are perhaps the worst form of media to exist. They are created to be consumed by young impressionable children who develop unrealistic expectations that are later thrust upon the unfortunate souls that become their partners. You were one of those children who bought the falsities sold to you. Love was something magical, the intertwining of two hearts.

You were sixteen when you fell in love for the first time. Enthralled by how one emotion could paint new colours in the horizons, you allowed yourself to fall… it was perfect, until you found yourself crying on the bathroom floor, wondering why the fairy tales lied to you.

You were seventeen when you first experienced heart break. Even now, you can remember the shame that drenched your soul when you learned that the one you loved, had slept with someone else. Each inch of your skin was tainted by your “prince charming.”

That night, your mother had to drag you out of the bath. The pads of your toes and fingers had shriveled up, while your arms and legs burned a bright crimson from the incessant scrubbing. Yet the tingling of your skin was merely a scratch in comparison to the laceration inside of your heart, and there was no band aid that you could apply there.

That was December 3rd 2014 – the date you abandoned your foolish ideals.

You met Akaashi Keiji exactly six months later.

If you were ever asked to describe the mystery that is Keiji, where would you begin? Were there truly any words that could accurately capture the very essence of his kind soul? Or the depth of this mesmerizing eyes? How would you possibly begin to explain how a single caress by his calloused fingertips had melted away the imaginary grime that had coated your skin? If anyone was prince charming, it was him.

But little did you know that sometimes he doubted whether you were his Cinderella. His happily ever after…

The first indication of his veiled concerns occurred in your last year of high school. With the departure of his third-year friends, Akaashi was titled captain of the boy’s volleyball team. While he enjoyed volleyball, he was never obsessed with the sport like his best friend. Volleyball was his hobby, nothing more and nothing less. He was more concerned with maintaining his high academic record than securing a ticket to nationals. Last year balancing the various fragments of his life was simple. But the absence of his friends weighed on him, each day the anxiety increased until he could barely sit without jitters swarming his limbs. As his girlfriend, you should have known the stress he was battling… Sure, he was pushing you away, but you should have known why.

Yet, when you attempted to thwart his efforts to establish distance, you were chastised for your lack of understanding.

“Y/n. I am busy. Please do not disturb me during practice.” Not the slightest bit of respect was allocated to you, despite your status as his girlfriend. And while his pointed response was undoubtedly directed towards to you, his attention was on the practice commencing inside of the gym. “Listen, I need to go back. If you want to talk, consider picking a more appropriate time in the future.” Rolling the towel within his grasp, he refused to acknowledge you beyond sharing these words.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” To even utter an apology stole the limited resolve you had to address the situation. How much did you have to degrade yourself to fix a relationship he evidently did not want?

But the following day at lunch period, a dozen roses were delivered to you with an apology note attached to the stems. It was only natural for you to grant him the forgiveness he sought. Dismissing his actions was simple once you rationalized it as a normal reaction to an abundance of pressure. Diamonds may be created under pressure, but he was no diamond, and neither were you.

The second indication of his concealed doubts did not emerge from a set of actions, nor did it include the exchange of harsh words. Rather, it was his silence that nurtured your insecurities and provided you confirmation that while he was your happily-ever-after, you may not be his.

To celebrate Keiji’s 19th birthday, his mother had offered to host a gathering at his childhood home. When the details of the party were conveyed to you, excitement had fluttered to life inside of your stomach. It was the perfect opportunity to develop your relationship with the woman who had raised your wonderful boyfriend. Yet, not even the purest of intentions would save you from the humiliation that awaited you that night.

At one point of the evening, Keiji had vanished for a considerable amount of time. Naturally, you searched the house for your boyfriend. When you peaked inside of the kitchen, you found him engaging in a conversation with his mother. You almost called out to him instinctively, except your vocal cords denied you access when you caught the end of their conversation.  

“Has she been tending to your needs yet? Or has she remained as useless as before?” The older woman clutched the stem of her wine glass, with a scoff clawing at her throat. It seemed that the liquor coating her tongue had turned the muscular organ into a knife.

Keiji stood with his back pressed against the kitchen island, listening without a reaction. The nonchalance emanating from his demeanour indicated that this was not the first occurrence. No, this had happened before, otherwise he would have had some form of a reaction. A flinch – a twitch – anything. But he stood still, emotionless, distant. The targeting comments were equivalent to a whisper in the wind – not deserving of a response, nor a stir.

“Keiji, you are aware that you are wasting your time and yet you stay with her?” The sigh falling from her stained lips was extended to emphasize her distress, and the gentle sound was enough to weaken your knees.

No longer able to support your own weight, you leaned against the wall, allowing your eyelids to flutter shut. Your fingers tangled with the fabric of your shirt as you waited for his response.

Say something – anything. Just tell her she’s wrong.

Yet the denial never came.  

The first two indications were shoved aside, dismissed with excuses that would serve as a band-aid on your decaying relationship. But then came the third.

The third indication of his doubt occurred on an average college night when you were in the process of selecting your outfit for the night. Bokuto had arranged an unofficial Fukurodani reunion for the boy’s volleyball team. As Keiji’s girlfriend, the invite was naturally extended to you. Usually your boyfriend would be in higher spirits knowing that he would soon be in the company of his high school friends. But tonight, a frown remained etched into his features, not wavering for even a single moment.

“Which one? I don’t want to be underdressed. But on the other hand, Kou is always dressed really weird. So, I don’t know.” Two outfits were presented towards the male, a scarlet cocktail dress and a navy pantsuit with a low cut.

“Does it matter, y/n?” The sharp remark was blown out with a heavy sigh. It was as though he could not muster the energy to care for your feelings. Or perhaps, he simply chose to display his inner conflict, with no concern of the consequences of his decision.

The noise was startling enough to strip you of the excitement that once animated your movements.

“I guess not, but is it wrong that I want to look good for my boyfriend?” The counter question was voiced barely above a whisper, with each word sounding fainter than the last.

“Maybe if you knew me well enough you wouldn’t have to ask.” His eyes did not meet yours, rather they stayed fixed on the writing utensil within his grasp. “It’s not that hard, y/n. You just don’t care enough to put in the effort.”

The verbal assaults implanted daggers into your chest, but the pain would only become worse – since he was not done just yet.

“If you refuse to love me with your entire heart, what is the point? Let me go.”

“Keiji!” Pain cut along the inside of your throat from the shriek erupting from your chest. Had you ever screamed his name in quite a harsh manner? Liquid blurred your vision, and with your air-filled organs wheezing in distress, your words were stated between staggered breaths.

“I am not a fucking mind reader.” The fog of desperation encompassing you was comprised of poison, one that soon threaded throughout your system. The properties of the poison enflamed your lungs, burning the organs and halting the flow of air. Instinctively your hands were sent to your skin, clawing at the flesh as if you could simply rip out the emotions suffocating you. “Just because I don’t love you the way you think I should, doesn’t mean I don’t.” Whether the words spilling from your lips were responsible for the bitter taste in your mouth, or the tears now gracefully parading down your cheeks was unknown. Either way, the release of the steaming liquid eased the burning sensation in your lungs.

“I’m done, Keiji. I’m done.” Slowly claiming your insides was a thin layer of ice. By now, you had run out of excuses for his behaviour. There were no longer any band-aids you could use to tend to the wounds. The question of whether your boyfriend considered you “the one” was answered.

Despite the ache weaving into your muscles, your feet dragged you to the front door. A piece of you desired to catch one final glimpse of him – as your heart knew this would be the final time you would see him. But afraid you would lose your resolve to leave, you pressed the car keys against your palm, and remained fixed on the exit.

Behind you, the brunette voiced a weak apology – you were unable to catch the exact words, as they were muffled by the fabric of his sleeves. But not even the sweetest words could remedy the situation. Since, now you had accepted the truth.

Love was never a fairy-tale, and Akaashi Keiji was not a prince. Love would never be what you wanted it to be, and it would always hurt.

Love would always hurt.

A/N: I ended up finishing this today because I got into a bad mood and so I needed to channel it into something lol 

Taglist: @sayakaaaaaa @sanitisegermsfree @haikyuufairy @newfriendjen @lvoejimin @moonlightaangel @gyozaaaaa @byun-nies @thevillagehiddenintheinternet @amberalisa @graykageyama @yourstarvic @chaichai-the-weeb @chibishae34 @haikyuusimp91 @volleybloop  @rajablast @idiot-juice-enthusiast @melonmayhere @cuddlesslut  @athenarosaline @memes-and-money @coconut-dreamz  @mismatched-loves @elianetsantana @tsumume @tsukkismamagucci @the-golden-jhope @camcam1617 @prettyforpapiiwa @swoonhui​ @neobakas​ @azumane-kun @elephantloser​ @dreamstormings​ @anejuuuuoy​   

~ message me to be removed from the general taglist + bolded means I can’t tag ya 

[phoneybeatlemania-bit-the-dust]

I’d disagree with the anon that Paul was “incapable” of love, but I do agree he was very distanced, and pretty cruel (to women) when he was younger. (It was unfortunate they bought into the love at first sight myth, but he was also a charmer, and dropped affection and got colder after fucking them.)

But I just can’t see romantic interest on Paul’s end. I’m sure he loved John, but a lot of the “sexual/Romantic evidence” really can just be as construed as platonic love. I feel there may be some confirmation bias looking for “clues”. (Not an attack on anyone, but some of the analysises seem to try too hard, really).

He does make references, with the whole “calling him babe during concerts”, and “in bed” but that could just mean he’s not uncomfortable with coming off “gay”. He has a quote about it somewhere I think. He’s supportive of the community at any rate.

This is kind of my own bias, but at times I think he…plays it up a little during the present day? Again, I’m positive he did love John a lot, but with how he is, a charmer, good at manipulating his image, he knows there is a benefit to building up the “magical” Lennon McCartney dynamic. John’s dead, and the old conflicts have faded, so he has no reason not to. I don’t think he’s anti-social, or a psycho or anything, but he certainly does put a lot of thought into his image, especially now, with how he wants to leave his legacy.

I’m less knowledgeable about John, and the speculation about his mental illnesses, but on his end, I can certainly see it. Maybe he’s just blind, but the looks are very much…yeah. He does seem to rely Paul a lot, and hold him in very high regard (REGARDLESS of what those old male biographers might make of him). You just know he was suffering over Paul, poor bastard.

Not sure if anything happened. I think Paul knew though, and either ignored it, or was kind, knowing John wouldn’t act on it. OR he didn’t notice! With the whole “we shared beds A LOT. you would think he’d make a pass at me, darling~”

I guess that’s how I see it. I don’t really have strong feelings on the nature of their relationship, or want them to be “confirmed”, so I try to be as objective as possible! Not a shipper, but not a male biographer. In fact, I was very put off learning the ship was a thing at first! With every fan base “having to” ship the main male leads, that’s what I thought this was. But after three years, reading actual books, primary stuff, I’ve began to change my mind on its legitimacy, and this was my conclusion. But new information can always change!

(Sorry for the long long analysis, god! I just took my adderall and I should go eat! Feel free to block me for spam/harassment.)

Yeah, this is basically my big mclennon dilemma: did Paul love John?

Of course he loved him, but I mean did he harbour any homosexual feelings towards John - and I just go back and fourth on that a lot.

In my last response to an anon I wasn’t necessarily trying to argue that Paul was romantically/sexually attached to John, because all in all, I don’t believe he did - but it probably came off that way because I didn’t particularly like the way the anon had phrased some stuff (like calling him “a master manipulator” and “incapable of love”) and so I just sort of wanted to show that the relationship was more nuanced then just “john was simping for paul”. My overall point with that response was more so that whilst I think Paul struggles in showing real affection and emotions, I don’t think he was incapable of love prior to Linda. I think he did really love John (in whichever form of love you want to take it: romantically, platonically etc.)

And so my point I guess wasnt so much that Paul was always capable of love (because I think he did at least love his family, his close-friends, probably Jane etc.), but maybe more so that he was always capable of intimacy with another person, though he struggled with it.

But yeah, he was quite cruel to a lot of the girls he slept with in the 60s, but I wouldn’t say that suggests he was incapable of love (i know thats not what you’re saying but other people might interpret it through that lens) I would just say he was young, dumb, ridiculously rich and famous and not emotionally mature enough yet to really empathise with most of those girls. Not trying to completely excuse him, but like, i dunno, i always just try to view people from the most human perspective. Everyones an twat sometimes yknow

I also really struggle to see romance on Pauls behalf towards John - the only times I think “wait but maybe he did fancy john back” is when I read some of his lyrics (like in ‘Coming Up’, ‘Yvonne’s The One’, and to some extent ‘Here Today’ - though I think interpreting Here Today as strictly platonic love is still a valid interpretation). I mentioned this in a different post though, that analysing his lyrics just isnt particularly convincing for me, because it feels more like speculation - and also as someone who does write songs, I know that a lot of lyrics just arent as deep as we wish they were. It is really difficult to be truly introspective and honest in a song, without exaggerating or hyperbolising or fictionalising any autobiographical aspects.

I do see your point with Paul possibly playing up the “Lennon/McCartney m a g i c” - im not entirely sure how much I agree, but I do agree to some extent. I think he’s always been very image conscious, and being in what is probably the all-time most famous pop band definitely wouldve heightened that. Even as a teenager I think he’s always just had this natural charm about him, and that tends to stem I guess from a need to be liked; I think you can see it in every interview he’s ever done to be honest. Its not necessarily a bad thing, (because id take a charmer over a rude knobhead any day) but I guess it sort of just shows that Paul is flawed like everybody else. Also, just read @mothernatures-sons tags and I agree with her - Paul just knows when to be a nice person! Nothing wrong with that! It isnt manipulative like the last anon suggested, its just how most people are: polite :) Ive heard a lot of anecdotes from people who have worked with or met Paul and the majority of them say he was a just a nice guy. Not saying he was never an arsehole (cause yeah he was pretty cruel to those girls in the 60s) but I think overall, hes a pretty good guy 👍

On the other hand though, you could also say that superficial journalists are looking for superficial answers - and Paul knows what the people want to hear. But occasionally ill hear an interview that does seem more intimate then most - I havent listened to it in awhile, but the interview he did with Sean I remember felt more honest to me then most. And when he said he’d like to spend the day “in bed” with John, to me that felt like a genuine and fitting response. Because, whilst it has sexual connotations, it also just feels like he’s saying he’d just like to sit around, chat, dont chat, just whatever with John for a day. Like he would just like another moment of intimacy with him.

I think we are pretty much in agreement on most of this though! At first I was also like “nah, mclennon isnt real, teenage girls just love shipping guys!” (I am a teenaged girl and I can confirm this lol) but then it just sort of became apparent to me through reading more and more about their relationship that there probably was something more on Johns behalf. If John wasnt in love with Paul, then it feels as though a lot of things he said and did just dont add up (the big one for me is him marrying Yoko so soon after Paul married Linda - like I really cannot come up with a heterosexual explanation for that!)

But when it comes to Paul, though ill have moments of doubt, I dont think he was in love with John (homosexually) and I do think a lot of the evidence on Pauls behalf seems like a stretch (but like you, im not having a go at anyone, because I understand that it is easy to carried away, plus its fun - but realistically, most of Pauls evidence just is not convincing to me). He’s comfortable with his sexuality, and I really do try to respect that and not force a gay interpretation of quotes or songs from him, unless it is genuinely making me question his sexuality and mclennon.

PS dont worry, I didn’t take this is spam at all!! And also, I would never block someone just for disagreeing with me! I enjoy discussion and I think its good to engage with people who disagree with you! To be honest, id only block someone if they were purposely being a real arsehole <3

[crazyglitterpirate]

Regrets - Fred Weasley

It's my sixth year at Hogwarts. After what happened last year I really didn't expect things to get better but still Umbridge really? what a pain in the arse. but one thing that came out of it was the DA. what a suggestion from ginny may I add. everyone was a little shocked I joined since my parents openly spoke out again Dumbledore but they weren't here last year, they didn't see what we all saw. It meant I lost a lot of friends as I started hanging around with other DA members, even if no one else knows that what we were. Luna and Ginny were there when I had a screaming match with them when they said I was ditching them. I felt alone and rejected. but Ginny had told the others so I was always welcomed to sit at the Gryffindors table. I became close friends with the twins, they would distract me with all their products and I was really amazed at them. those two are a lot smarter than they let on. DA was good cause I would usually group with them.

One night at a DA meeting.

"ahh" I huff and sit on the floor " there no use I'm never going to get the charm right"

We were all practising a different charm and I for the life of me could get it, plus I was having a bad week, with me already on three detentions this week already.

"come on soph," George said as he sits down next to me while Fred is towing over me.

"yeah you'll get it you just can't give up," Fred said. He gives me a look of concern as we stare at each other without breaking our eye contact.

"what's wrong?"  He asked me, I could hear the concern in his voice. At this point, George had left and given us some space. "has someone said something again."

"no" I look away, well look at anything other than him, I didn't want him to know how nervous he made me. "just having a bad week"

"Well then let's make it better," he says and grabs my hand to pull me up with ease. I swear my heart started beating faster.

So I have a little crush on a certain redhead twin, I mean he's kind and funny, way smarter than you think and is extremely loyal to his family how could I not. but then there's me, sad weak little Sophie who can't even do this stupid charm, why would he ever see me as anything else. god, I'm so sick of people looking at me like I'm going to break.

"Okay, whatever Weasley" and with that, we continued with the meeting.

One week later.

As I was walking to the court lard I was my friends, well old friends. they were all laughing and being happy and it annoyed me, I didn't do anything wrong in the first place.

"Hey soph you okay" a small voice came from behind me but instantly recognised it."

"Yeah, I'm fine Fred, just looking for a spot to sit and read." I smile back but he gives me that look, you know the 'are you sure' look.

"I am fine" I huff "now can we sit"

"it okay if your not, you were friends for a long time"

"Fred I--"

"No, you can't keep pretending it not getting to you, it clearly is"

"and if you want I would be happy you try new products on them" "and George too, of course, we will be like your bodyguards around them" he ended with a smile.

Now I know he wasn't trying to be sweet and i know he didn't mean to make me feel small and weak but he did and without giving him a minute to say anything else I stood up and started shouting at him.

" FRED, WOULD YOU JUST SHUT UP, I TOLD YOU I WAS FINE ARE YOU DEAF OR SOMETHING, THE ONLY PERSON BOTHERING ME RIGHT NOW IS YOU. I AM NOT SOME WEAK LITTLE GIRL WHO NEEDS YOUR PROTECTION, I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF. AND I'M SO SICK OF BEING MADE TO FEEL LIKE ONE. I CAME OUT HERE TO READ IN PEACE NOT FOR YOU TO DIG INTO THINGS WHICH BTW I NEVER WANTED YOU OR GEORGE INVOLVED IN SO PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN LEAVE ME ALONE."

I go to storm off but before I'm out of earshot I hear him say 'guess I won't bother you again I didn't mean it it was just a build-up which unfortunately Fred got the full bast of.

Regret i felt regret

Thursday that week, Fred hadn't made eye contact with me at all and would only say hi if I was in a group of our mutual friends. I was walking back from the library since I now had way more free time. I didn't hang out with the twins anymore I wouldn't even group up with them at DA meetings either, so I found myself reading and studying. walking through the halls I hear running and laughter a certain laugh I would be able to recognize a mile away and with that, all my emotions came at once and I found myself siding down the side of the wall crying not too loud but loud enough to get someone attention.

"soph?" George, it was George.

"Hey, hey come here it alright" he grabs me and just holds me "Shhh" he turned to look at me wiping away any tears that have fallen "what happens, are you okay, did you have detention"

I shake my head "no" I take some breaths " I just feel so alone, I feel like I've lost everyone my old friends and Now you and Fred."

"first of all you haven't lost me," he says and nudges me.

"and second aren't you the one who told him to stay away " he raises an eyebrow at me

"I know, I felt really bad after I did it, George, he just wouldn't shut up and be making me feel worse. God, why can't he just understand sometimes I don't want to talk about it."

"it's not that I don't want to talk to you two about it I just do better handling that stuff on my own, it's what I know, every time I try and say sorry he walks away or just flat out ignores me. Do you know how much that hurts it's like I'm not even there? I care about you guys so much and now I feel like I've fucked it up cause I lost it once. "

"like I understand if he doesn't want to be my friend anymore I really do, but ..... I just - I wish he would just acknowledge my apology. "

George just sits there comforting me ensuring me that he would come around. What we didn't know was Fred was around the corner and heard everything.

FREDS POV

We had just finished a prank and were running George being ahead of me while laughing we could hear someone crying, we both stopped and continued walking to where it was coming from. before I turned the corner I hear George say her name and my heart sunk.

"soph?"

I heard the whole conversation and a mass of regret and guilt came over me. I had never thought about it from her point of view well, to be honest, I never let her explain I guess I let my ego get in the way. I mean now I'm hearing it I should have respected her boundaries and her personal space and I shouldn't have ignored her I just felt so hurt that she didn't want me to comfort her, all I wanted to do was make her happy and avoid her crying but instead I've caused it. I am going to make this right, I need to!

I hear them get up and start walking George was offering to walk her to her house but she said it was okay and with that George was next to me in less than a minute. He waited till she was out of earshot before finally saying something.

"You're an idiot, an absolute git Fred"

"I know," I said

"well how are you going to fix it"

"I don't know"

I had planned a lot of things to apologize to sophie, but I chicken out every time. I almost did one day but then I fucked it up again by shouting things at her. hurtful mean things, I made her cry AGAIN this time it was her avoiding me, guess now I know how she felt, karma right? God, I tried talking to her but before I knew it I was flying out of the school with George without making things right.  she saw me and turned away.

Regret was all that I could think.

Sophies POV

I was sitting at lunch with luna, we tend to sit with the Gryffindors. George always engaged in conversation with me which was comforting but Fred still didn't speak to me, But I swear I saw him attempt to say something to me but stop himself every time.

It was the day of the big match Slytherin vs Gryffindors, I of course wore red and gold. and I decide to go with luna to wish everyone good luck. George instantly pulled me in for the biggest bone crusting hug ever.

"Okay I can't breathe" I get out "what trying to kill me or something" I laughed

I didn't even notice Fred had come next to us

"so what do you think? reckon I'd make a good gryffindork"

"I think you suit it, what do you think George?" Fred, he had actually said something to me, well George but at me.

i just looked over and smiled at him.

"Yeah Fred defo a Gryffindor at heart"

"right C'mon," Angelia said

"well that's my queue to go, good luck boys" I waved them off and linked my arms with luna

"let go get some seats this will be good"

I had deiced I would talk to him after an official apology for shouting at him. but then the fight happened not that I'm complaining I hate Malfoy too. The 3 of them were sent to Umbridge so ginny let me in the common room. George came in first and marched right to his dorm then harry who just sat on the couch and then Fred he looked around for a while then i rose to speak to him to see if he was okay.

"Hey Fred," I said while putting my hand on his arm, but he quickly moved

"what are you even doing here? You are not a Gryffindor you're not really in the DA properly just aspie for Umbridge!"

"Fred I-"

"What noting to shout at me for, why don't you go back to your friends and death eater family huh! I- "

"FRED enough it's not sophies fault."

I felt tears roll down my cheeks as I looked around embarrassed and hurt. and I ran out of that common room as fast as could"

I could pick up ginny shouting at him and someone calling my name but I kept running. I didn't go back to the DA after that and I sat back at my house table alone. ginny, luna and George checked up on me but I just waved them off saying I had too much work to do. i avoided fred. sometimes he'd call my name but I would only walk away faster.  until I was in class I heard a sound bang followed by shouting like everyone else I left to see and I was the twins on the brooms. Fred made eye contact with me almost pleading to follow but I didn't I turned and went to the library.

I didn't know they were leaving. or I would have listened i thought we had more time.

once again I was met with an old friend

regret

[suttttton]

Elias Bouchard vs. Destiny

Febuwhump, Day 4 (alternate): Identity Reveal

***

Working at the Magnus Institute is… surprisingly normal.

At best, Elias expects to see his own terror reflected in his coworkers’ eyes. At worst, he fears they will all be like Wright, their eyes cold and monstrous and hungry. He expects to be brought into a world of darkness, to face true monsters that ordinary people never imagined existed.

Were you drawn here? Against your will?—

Instead, his job is just… paperwork. Spooky paperwork, sure, but still paperwork. He talks to a lot of people on the phone, most of whom admit that the statement they gave was just a prank or a dare or whatever. Even the people who genuinely believe their experiences were real seem… more than a little unhinged.

“It saw me through the pages, it’s coming”—

He avoids James Wright, of course. It isn’t difficult. Wright spends most of his time in his office on the third floor, only occasionally coming down to visit Research. When that happens, it’s easy enough for Elias to excuse himself for a smoke break, avoiding Wright’s eyes the entire way. Elias doesn’t understand why his coworkers don’t do the same, although he imagines it would get very crowded in the alley behind the Institute if all of Research tried to take a smoke break at once.

The first time he sees his line manager return from a meeting with Wright, Elias watches her very closely, looking for… unease. Fear. Anything to reflect the way he feels whenever he so much as catches a glimpse of Wright in the halls.

She notices him looking, and smiles at him. No sign of distress in her whatsoever.

Elias returns to his work, but the moment sticks with him. She’d just spent thirty minutes having a meeting with a monster, and she isn’t the slightest bit disturbed.

Have you ever had an experience that you would consider supernatural?—

They don’t know.

All of these people who work here, who interact with Wright every day, and none of them know. Elias is the only one who sees it. Elias is… different.

Elias doesn’t get much work done, that day.

***

Two months later, Elias’s line manager informs him that he has a performance review scheduled with Mr. Wright.

His mouth is dry. “But—I thought you did my performance reviews.” He tries for a smile, but it’s weak.

“Mr. Wright likes to do an in-person review with everyone at the end of every quarter,” she says. She notices the look on his face, and softens slightly. “It’s no big deal. They usually only take five minutes or so. He just goes over the reviews I submitted, and asks if there’s anything he can do to improve your experience here.” She rolls her eyes. “Standard management stuff.”

“Okay,” Elias says, his voice faint. He has to go into that office again? Sit across from the thing that looks out from behind James Wright’s eyes, and just—what? Pretend he isn’t terrified?

Allan’s lifeless body—

What did they do with his eyes?—

“He won’t fire you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” his line manager says. Her voice is gentle, very different from the thinly-veiled annoyance she usually addresses him with. “Wright hasn’t fired anyone the whole time I’ve been here, and your reviews are fine. You’ll be okay.”

“Right,” Elias manages.

The day of the review, Elias seriously considers going to work high.

He decides against it. Wright would know, and then he’d smile and ask Elias some question that he isn’t prepared for, that no one would be prepared for.

What are you afraid of? A very sensible fear—

Elias wonders what would happen if he just—skipped the review. It would be rescheduled, probably. He could skip it again, obviously, but he isn’t sure Wright would tolerate a farce like that for very long.

So, at 2:00pm, he climbs the stairs to Wright’s office. By now, his terror has faded to a blank numbness, an acceptance that he can’t stop whatever is about to happen. He almost feels like laughing.

“Do you enjoy your work here?” Wright asks, after he’s seated and the little introductions are complete.

“Yes,” Elias says, and it isn’t even a lie. He does enjoy the work. He enjoys the variety involved in followup, enjoys chatting with total strangers on the phone. He gets along with his coworkers, and even his line manager is more tolerable than other bosses he’s had. He’d be planning his career here, if not for James Wright’s unfortunate presence. As it is, he’s just trying to survive each day.

“Is there anything about working here that you… hate?”

Elias is not going to tell James Wright that he hates him. He’s not. That’s clearly what Wright wants, leering at him as he is, but Elias refuses to engage with these games.

“Uh—The commute,” Elias says. “It’s a bit far from my flat, and taking the tube every day isn’t exactly the height of luxury.”

“Yes, I’d imagine it would be difficult for you, dealing with the unwashed masses every day.” Wright is still smiling in that cold, slightly-bored way of his. Like what he’s just said is a normal sentence, and not—

“So many gifts, and you’ve squandered them all”—

“What?” Elias’s voice is soft now.

“Do you miss the luxury?” Wright asks, his smile curling up into something more vicious, and Elias—

“Enough! Your friend died in a tragic murder, and it’s well past time you accepted that!”—

No, no, Allan knew what was going to happen, he told me—

“You had a bad drug trip. That’s all.”—

It wasn’t—I didn’t imagine this, there was a book and—

Elias gasps, suddenly back in the present. Wright’s expression is exactly the same. Elias is trembling. This shouldn’t—Wright shouldn’t be able to—What do these questions have to do with his performance?

“Are we done here?” Elias manages, his voice soft to hide its shaking.

“Not quite,” Wright says brightly. “There’s still the matter of your past reviews.” Elias’ review forms are stacked on Wright’s desk, and Wright picks them up, flicking through them. “In general, Lydia’s feedback is very positive, but there are a few concerning things here. You chronically miss deadlines, and on a few of your cases you’ve neglected to follow very promising leads.”

“I’ll try to do better.” Elias’ voice is flat, toneless. The numbness is returning.

“See that you do,” Wright says. “I hope to see improvement by next quarter.”

Elias nods.

What are they doing to his eyes?—

Wright dismisses him, and he makes his way back downstairs. He should return to his desk, return to his caseload that he’s been largely ignoring in favor of panicking about his review.

But he—can’t.

He goes to the alley instead, lights a cigarette with trembling hands. His shaky legs won’t hold him, even when he leans against the wall, so he ends up sitting on the ground.

The first sob forces its way up his throat, and then—he’s crying.

Sobbing on the filthy ground in the alley behind his less-than-respectable workplace. Pathetic. What would Father say?

Probably, “Elias, I’ll be happy to talk to you once you get help for your drug addiction.” Christ.

While he cries, Elias tries to think of what to do. He could quit, he supposes. But he really does need this job. His bank account had been full when his parents first cut him off, and there were provisions in the trust to provide for his needs when he was still in school. Now, though, his money really is running concerningly low. He needs the paycheck.

His tears are just starting to slow when the door opens. Elias starts, turns his face away, trying to hide the fact that he’s crying while hiding from his job.

“Oh—sorry,” she says. Elias recognizes the voice, they work together in Research. He can’t quite remember her name—Megan, maybe? “I can go, if you want some privacy.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he says, and his voice wobbles. If she didn’t already know he’d been crying, she definitely does now.

She sits down on the step just outside the door. “Um—are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Right. Yeah, I also like to come out here and cry when I’m feeling fine,” she says, her voice light with humor.

Elias smiles slightly, and wipes some of the wetness from his face. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“I’m all ears,” she says. “Unless you really don’t want to talk about it, in which case, keep your secrets.”

Elias doesn’t respond to that. Doesn’t know how to reply, really. It would be nice, to talk to someone about it, but—It seems cruel, to force someone else into this mess. If she even believed him.

“I just—” She takes a deep breath. “Okay, this is going to sound really weird, but… We look after each other, in Research. A lot of the people who work here don’t really have support networks in our personal lives—ghost stories attract lonely people, I guess—so we try to support each other. So… if you need someone to talk to about this, you can talk to me.

Elias takes a breath. Might as well try. “Have you—noticed anything… off, about Wright?”

“Oh, you mean his whole mind-reading thing? Sure,” she says. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t take a moment to consider.

“I—yes,” Elias says, a little unbalanced. She knew? “The way he—drags up all your worst memories.”

“Oh yeah, he’s like that,” she says, wincing. “Did you just have your first performance review? Those can be kind of intense.”

He nods, uncertainly. She’s talking about this as if it’s completely normal.

“You’ll get used to it eventually,” she says. “In research, we like to make jokes about it. She wiggles her fingers at him. “'Ooh, I know everything about you,’” she says mockingly, pitching her voice down.

Elias doesn’t laugh. Just stares. “Aren’t you afraid of him?”

She laughs, really laughs, like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “What’s he gonna do, fire me? No. Why would I be afraid of him?” Then she sobers. “Are you afraid of him?”

Something sinks in Elias’s chest. He’d assumed that they didn’t know, that Elias was unique in being able to see Wright’s monstrous nature.

Turns out he’s just unique in being frightened by it.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Just—had a bad performance review.”

She nods in commiseration, and he excuses himself not long after. Returns to his desk, his heart loud in his ears. He looks around at his co-workers, all of them so happy, so careless. Why aren’t they afraid?

Why did you heed the call?—

He doesn’t know.

He can’t trust them.

***

He asks to be transferred to Artifact Storage, and his request is accepted, albeit with some strange looks. No one requests to go to Artifact Storage.

For him, it’s infinitely preferable to Research. The monsters in Artifact Storage are acknowledged, for one. Feared, treated with caution. Not allowed to run a so-called research institute. Not joked about. For two, the turnover rate is so high that he won’t have to deal with pretend camaraderie. He knows, now, that he can’t trust any of these people. He’s on his own.

For four years, he does his work, cataloging dangerous artifacts, sending the more junior assistants to do the more dangerous tasks. He doesn’t try to be good at his job, he doesn’t want to be good at his job, but after years of working in Artifact Storage, he is by far the most senior member of the staff. He starts to pick up a few tricks. He becomes knowledgeable. People respect him.

His line manager says he’s looking to transfer to the Library, and asks if Elias would like to be recommended for the promotion. Does he want to be Head of Artifact Storage?

He should say no, but some part of him that never quite managed to kill its ambition answers for him. “I’d be honored,” he says.

***

Meetings with Wright never get easier. In four years, he manages to drag up everything Elias would rather keep hidden, everything he doesn’t want to think about. Allan is a popular subject, as are his parents. And there’s always—

He cannot move. He cannot scream. What are they doing to his eyes?—

Elias doesn’t get used to it, and when Wright schedules a meeting with him to discuss his forthcoming promotion, Elias dreads it just as much as that very first performance review.

“I am very impressed with your progress,” Wright says, steepling his fingers over his desk.

“Thank you,” Elias says.

“Nearly five years in Artifact Storage,” Wright says. “I wouldn’t have guessed it, but perhaps I should have. You’re not a brave man by any means, but what does that matter, when you’re running from the most frightening thing you can imagine?”

What are they doing to his eyes?—

Elias swallows. There’s something heavy in the air. He always feels watched, in the Institute, in Wright’s office, but this is—different, somehow. Closer.

“If you were more curious, you actually might have guessed it. If you’d looked into the history of the Institute, investigated the men who preceded me in this position. You might have noticed certain similarities. You’re smart enough to have put the pieces together, but alas.”

—squandered—

“You never were the curious sort, were you? You were more interested in self-preservation than answers. Keeping your distance from anyone who might drag you away from your… destiny.”

Wright stands, and Elias flinches. “I-I don’t—” This is wrong. Something is wrong.

This is the place I know I should be—

But—

“What did you imagine was calling you here?” Wright says, and now he’s close, too close, towering over him. Elias wants to stand, want to retreat, but he doesn’t—He can’t move—

Wright places his hands on the two arms of Jonah’s chair, trapping him. Elias shrinks back, as far as he can get. “Did you think it was something noble, that you were destined to be a hero of light, to put an end to the sickness of this place? You would drive a knife into my eyes, killing the monster and setting everyone free?”

He doesn’t know what he thought. He thought he was destined for something better, to be something more than other people.

“You will be,” Wright says, leaning over him, too close. “Have you figured it out yet?”

He shakes his head wordlessly, a sob gasping from his throat.

Wright smiles. “James Wright didn’t either.”

***

When the thing that now controls his body takes over the Magnus Institute, they all think, nepotism at its finest.

Elias understands why he’s here, now. Understands the thing that called him here. Understands the many paths he could have taken, to reach a different end. Too late.

Elias’ eyes are carved out of his still-breathing body, and the Eye feasts on latent terror, cultivated so perfectly, for so long.

Elias is replaced, and no one misses him. He himself ensured that no one who worked with him knew anything about him. And everyone else is dead already.

James Wright is discarded. Elias Bouchard is taken.

Jonah Magnus lives on.

[whetstonefires]

Do you think the DC fandom maybe, Infantilizes Tim a little too much? Like for a rich kid character who's main trauma for a long time was a getting left home alone too much there's an oddly amount of meta abt how much how much his parents hurt him~ compared to, y'know the two poor characters who grew up with physically abusive dad's+druggie mom's, or the two that were raised assassin cult's, etc

…well, yeah, I do kind of think that? His whole schtick for so long was being too old for his age in ways that didn’t sacrifice his jokey, relatable teenager energies. It’s weird how little of that we see anymore, sometimes.

And then DC broke him and discarded him and he’s sort of awkwardly hanging around getting reimagined as more woobie with every fan generation. It is weird!

But tbh I do get it. And I think the reason his parents’ failure of him and his vulnerability get played up so much, and Jason and Steph’s sufferings (while used a lot for things like motivation and context) not dwelt on quite so much in the same lugubrious style, are kind of the same reason.

Which is that canon didn’t commit to it. Jason and Steph’s experiences with bad parenting were foregrounded and retconned more dramatically awful several times. (There’s some definite classism in how that was approached imo, and I’m never budging on being mad about DC retconning out Catherine being sick and then ignoring her forever in all Jason characterization because a drug death invalidates a person ig, great message during the opioid crisis guys.)

They engaged and coped with it–Steph (and Cass, our #1 canon batfam parental abuse victim) pretty directly, Jason a little less so because of the dubious and fluctuating canon status of most of the content more specific than ‘poverty, homelessness, theft, parental drugs and crime in there somewhere,’ so most of his parent issues have been focused on Bruce. He sure has dug into them tho. 😂 Rarely well or productively, thanks DC, but it’s explicitly part of his character, is my point.

Whereas upper-middle-class Tim was always treated by the narrative as fortunate and unharmed by his experiences with his parents. Even though they were clearly behaving badly in several ways, and Tim showed signs of being harmed by it.

Tim outside of immediate moments of frustration always was of the opinion he was Fine, and Very Fortunate Actually.

Therefore a huge chunk of the numerous everyone who’s got parent-related mental and emotional harm, but has struggled to have that validated and hasn’t responded with a lot of anger toward the parent, identifies with Tim. The only one who’s never really lashed out at his parents for fucking up with him. The one who still needs it explored, because canon ultimately didn’t.

[editing post to put in a readmore because lol it’s long, post otherwise unchanged]

(Dick obviously didn’t ever have any Issues with the Graysons, but he Angry Teenagered at Bruce so hard it changed Bruce’s characterization permanently, rip.)

The things Jason, Steph, and Cass have been through are dramatic, obvious, and fit stereotypes because that’s what they’re based on.

That’s important content to have, but because it’s right out there in your face even people who identify with it quite a lot are less likely to feel the need to work all the way through it again in fanworks. That part’s there. It’s text.

(Well actually Jason having been physically abused kind of wasn’t? I think? It was mostly assumed on the basis of stereotyping and Jason’s not caring about the man much even as he felt possessive of information about his death, which is valid. I don’t actually know what’s up with Willis now, Lobdell did some weird shit that lacked emotional resonance or staying power because he’s Lobdell and has no soul.

Cass’ wandering years are also ludicrously underdeveloped. But very very few comics fans or writers can personally relate to being amazing child warriors with no grasp of language living feral under bridges. That part of her life is consistently represented in terms of absences, in terms of its deviation from the norm and the deficits of normality it left her with, which is typical but unfortunate.) 

-

The interesting things to do with these characters are often informed by the bad stuff in their childhoods, but there’s relatively rarely that much more to say about the fact that those things were bad. They know they’re bad. They’ve had a lot of on-panel rage about it, as discussed above. Steph and Cass both beat the shit out of their dads.

Jason is, in fandom especially, a sort of Platonic ideal of a kid who’s mad about his bad childhood and really bad at figuring out where to point that rage.

(Damian is a whole other kettle of fish, because he’s been lumbered by so many detailed retcons coming so fast no two people can seem to construct compatible models of what his early childhood was like, and even more because he’s still ‘a child’ enough that he’s necessarily in a different stage of processing than someone who’s officially only a few years older than him at this point, but still functionally 8 and also 20 years older, and whose parents are no longer in the picture to continue screwing up.

Also there’s no question that if he brings up an abusive thing the League did, he will be validated by his current environment about his realization that it was in fact bad. There’s a lot of fic on that theme! But it doesn’t have the same tone precisely because it is usually understood that that support will be there if he wants it. Realizing that his previous context contained things that were wrong keeps being made the focus of his arc.)

The badness of Tim’s childhood, on the other hand, was mainly in subtext. Even when we were clearly meant to understand Jack was fucking up, like when he canceled plans with Tim at the last minute to go on a date with Tim’s stepmother, or that infamous time he came to apologize for not being a great parent and got mad Tim was distracted by a crisis on TV so he flew into a rage and took the TV and smashed it and was like ‘that’ll teach you,’ it wasn’t leaned into.

The story didn’t treat Jack as a minor villain to be overcome but like a sort of environmental hazard of childhood, like homework, to be endured and coped with. Tim said things like ‘it’s fine’ and ‘at least he left the computer.’

(And like. It’s not about having a TV and computer in his room. It’s about not letting a child have boundaries, pointedly not respecting a child’s possessions, creating an emotionally insecure environment, punishing minor infractions in proportion to their momentary impact on your own ego, physically lashing out at a proxy for the child…)

Rather like Tom King later didn’t understand about the punching from Bruce, whoever did that story (probably Dixon? I don’t care enough to check) did not understand how serious a case of bad parenting that scene was. That is most definitely textbook abusive behavior. (It’s a hell of a lot more common abusive behavior than being a lame supervillain or shooting you when you screw up, and a lot more specific than ‘was a thug, might have hit me, dead now.’)

And Tim was never allowed to be mad at his parents about it. It was fine. He needed to be ignored so he had the freedom to be Robin. He deserved his dad being mad at him because he was keeping secrets. He complained too much, although objectively he did not.

The universe punished him for ‘complaining,’ more than once. We cut straight from him shunting aside his disappointment that his postcard from his parents was just to say they weren’t coming home yet after all with ‘if it will stop all the fights they’ve been having lately it’s more than fine’ to them getting kidnapped.

He agreed not to come on the rescue mission. His mom never made it home, and his dad was in a coma for a while. And then ultimately Jack died as a result of Tim’s decision to be Robin, immediately after finally deciding to accept it.

So Tim walks around feeling a huge burden of responsibility for his parents’ deaths, and completely unable to process any hurt they did him as real or valid, especially in comparison with the far more blatant awfulness other people have been through, and canon is clearly never going to address it. Or even acknowledge it properly.

Let me repeat that because it’s kind of my main point:

People are fixated on getting Tim’s emotional abuse validated because that’s an incredibly important step in recovering from emotional abuse, and it’s one canon consistently denied him.

How ‘bad’ things are ‘in comparison to’ problems other people have is a bad and unhealthy way to engage with trauma. Okay? That’s just a really harmful framework to apply to pain.

It’s also a way that both Tim and people with experiences similar to Tim’s are encouraged to engage with their own experiences, compounding the existing problems.

So. Not a form of relatable DC was ever actually aiming for when they tried so hard (and pretty effectively) to make him a relatable character as Robin, but an enduring one for a lot of fans.

-

So Tim’s childhood is a natural target for fanworks in a different way than the traumas that have been made explicit and taken seriously by the text. And then a lot of that got compounded by the way the introduction of Damian as Robin was handled, and the lack of resolution that got. And his current status as not quite having a place in the family anymore.

So between the level of projection encouraged by that context and how relatively difficult to access Tim’s Robin run has become ten years after the fact, this has led to a lot of fanworks on these themes that are based mostly on other fanworks, and stray further and further from the original content.

So at this point there’s an entire wing of Tim’s fandom wherein this side of him has expanded enormously, and he primarily exists to suffer, frequently in ways that 1) escalate to a point that is inarguably ‘valid’ and hard to dismiss and 2) set him up to rebound from it in whatever way the writer finds emotionally satisfying or useful–being ultimately cared for and reassured by people who value him (the most infantilizing option but like, popular for obvious reasons), or unveiling his brilliant scheme that was causing him to pretend to be passive in the face of mistreatment, or turning around and using his genius ninja skills to wrest power back from his abusers, or just laying down some sick burns about being treated fairly.

But not that many of the last one, because that’s mostly done with other batfam members.

Tim’s become a vehicle for a lot of vicarious coping that Steph and Jason just aren’t appropriate for, because they get angry and they get even. And those are stories that exist already, so there’s less scope for telling your own.

And because Jason’s reaction pattern is ultimately so masculine (i’ll make them all sorry! with my guns! blam blam!) while Tim’s is pretty gender-neutral, the demographics of fanfic mean that the bulk of the people using Tim vicariously in this manner are female-aligned, which has over time feminized this archetype of him a lot. Sometimes in ways I find really uncomfortable, like there’s a lot of forced pregnancy stuff which activates my panic buttons. x.x

But, ultimately, it’s fandom. People are going to do what they’re going to do, DC in their perpetual fail has hung Tim out to dry in narrative terms, and I’d rather the people who are using Tim for victimization narratives over the people who can’t dismiss or discredit him fast enough now that his position has been filled. 🤷‍♀️ What we gonna do? Fave’s in an awkward spot. DC hates us. This is the life in this comic book pit. XD

-

Also if you’re the same anon who left me a callout about op of that weird Steph post in my inbox, or if you aren’t @ that person, 1) I refuse to get involved so I’m not answering that ask 2) those aren’t even particularly dramatic fandom crimes? That’s pretty normal? That’s just…Caring Too Much About Ships And Disagreeing With Me.

Do I also feel those opinions are kinda bad? Yeah. But I disagree with everyone about something. Chill.

[ibijau]

Worst engagement AU! What lxc uncle think nhs behavior?

Worst engagement AU

I could have just answered but I’m procrastinating on stuff so...

1 Qingheng-Jun does not like the idea of an arranged match, but Lan Qiren insists. He points out the need for a strong alliance, the old friendship with Qinghe Nie, the casual aggressions of Qishan Wen against its neighbours, the mounting disrespect against its allies. 

He does not mention that, left to their own devices, people in their family have a tendency to choose horrible spouses for themselves. He doesn't say that he wants something safer for his nephew, one of the boys he's raising because their father decided to shroud himself in guilt and sorrow rather than do his duty to them and his sect. 

He knows he doesn't need to voice it to be understood. 

Qingheng-Jun does not like this, but he agrees to take Lan Xichen to Qinghe. When he comes back, he has an engagement contract in hand. Lan Xichen's future is set, and he will be protected from his own passions. 

It does not occur to Lan Qiren to ask for details about that Nie boy. He doesn't really matter. 

2 Lan Qiren is simply not prepared for his sweet, hard-working, obedient nephew of thirteen to go through teenagehood and all the moods it entails. He keeps hoping to be spared from it, but it's all in vain.

While returning from a visit to Yunmeng Jiang where Lan Xichen was brought along to learn the ropes of his future duties, they stop at an inn. Lan Xichen was pensive all day but it's when they retire for the night that he finally explodes into teenagehood. 

“There must have been better options,” Lan Xuchen says as they get ready for sleep, and while they were not talking about anything, it's easy to guess what he means. “If we need an alliance with Qinghe Nie so badly, why not Nie Mingjue?”

“It would be inconvenient for two sect leaders to marry,” Lan Qiren patiently points out.

Thankfully, Lan Xichen sees the logic of this. He also gets that this eliminates Jiang Wanying, who will someday rule his own sect. The same goes for Jin Zixuan, although since he’s in his own arranged engagement since longer than Lan Xichen, he could never have been an option anyway.

“Sect Leader Jiang’s ward then?” Lan Xichen suggests, removing the last of his outer layers. “If they adopted him, it would have been a perfectly respectable union.”

That idea gives Lan Qiren pause. Wei Wuxian was mostly kept at a distance for their visit, but he's heard rumours. He is not looking forward to teaching that child, and he would not want him to permanently live in the Cloud Recesses, not if he's anything like his mother.

“The Jiangs would never have adopted him,” Lan Qiren explains in a dry voice, unwilling to share certain details to his nephew of just thirteen. “And without a formal adoption, he is not a fitting spouse for a sect leader. He’s just a servant’s son.”

“Nie Huaisang is the son of a… a dancer! At least Wei Wuxian’s parents were both cultivators, shouldn’t that count more?”

“Nie Huaisang is the legitimate son of a sect leader. His mother’s weaker blood is unfortunate, but compensated by his father’s.”

Lan Xichen ragefully folds his clothes. He’s doing such a poor job of it that they’re sure to be wrinkled in the morning. Rebellion. Teenagehood. 

“Then… then the Wens! Why not…”

“The Wens only marry within their own sect, or with their most faithful dependant,” Lan Qiren cuts him, getting impatient. “Gusu Lan will not submit itself to their authority. They were never an option. Neither is anyone else. You will marry Nie Huaisang, secure us a good alliance with the second strongest sect in the country, and that’s it.”

“I don’t like him.”

Lan Qiren sits on his bed, glaring at his nephew. Why do young boys always make things so hard? 

“This is not about personal affections, Xichen,” he scolds. “You’re old enough to understand these things now. We need a strong alliance with another sect. It should fall on your father, he should remarry but… you know how he is.”

Lan Xichen looks struck, but nods. If Lan Qiren feels the absence of his brother, the burden of a duty that should not be his, he can only imagine what the situation is like for Lan Xichen, always kept at arm's length by his surviving parent. 

Lan Qiren sighs, and motions for his nephew to come sit next to him. Lan Xichen obeys. Teenagehood has not fully gotten him yet. 

“The Wens are starting to have dangerous ideas,” Lan Qiren explains patiently. “There is no way of knowing if it will come to a war or not, nor when that war might happen. But Gusu Lan cannot be left without friends, and Qinghe Nie wants to have support from somewhere that would be less exposed to Qishan Wen so they have a place to fall back to if they are attacked. You can see why that would be important, can’t you?”

“Why me? Why not Wangji?”

“His time will come as well, but for now you have to do your duty. The marriage will not happen for many years and even when it does, it will not have to impact you so much. You will continue living as you had before, with Nie Huaisang in your house… or not. If it turns out you two are too incompatible, we will give him his own quarters far from you, and you will see him no more than a guest. But this is important, Xichen. Our sect needs you to accept your responsibility so we can all live a little safer. It is a small price to pay.”

It is a lot to ask a boy of thirteen, but in spite of his newly discovered capacity for rebellion, Lan Xichen eventually nods. 

Lan Qiren feels proud of the boy. If they can kill any sentimentality in him, he'll be a great sect leader someday, unlike his father. 

3 Although Nie Huaisang is now a guest in the Cloud Recesses, Lan Qiren has given him as little thought as if the boy were still in Qinghe. There is simply too much to take care of, between helping Nie Mingjue find his footing, keeping an eye on Wen Ruohan, internal affairs in Gusu Lan, pleas for help against evil, and his current batch of students. 

Once or twice, Lan Qiren does check on the boy, if only because his work is abysmal. Each time, Nie Huaisang trembles like a leaf and swears he'll try harder. It's a little concerning, a sect leader's spouse should have a little more backbone than this, but he's still young and there are also advantages to a quiet, obedient husband. 

They are well into the second half of the school year when Lan Xichen comes to find his uncle and tells him that Nie Huaisang is being bullied by some of the other boys, possibly quite violently. 

"Jin Zixun had his sword near his face!" Lan Xichen explains. "Nie gongzi says they were just playing but he'd been crying! I tried to make him complain against them, but he protected them!" 

"If he doesn't ask for justice, there's little we can do," Lan Qiren points out.

"He's an idiot. Does he think I'll come save him each time?" 

Lan Qiren shoots his nephew a warning look. It's no secret that Lan Xichen bears his fiancé little affection, but until now he's always been smart enough not to devolve into insults. This is a worrying development, even more than whatever cruel game Jin Zixun has invented this time. 

"Be kind, Xichen." 

"I'm trying. It's just hard to be kind to him. Whether I'm nice or not, he still looks at me with fear, so what's the point?" 

"If kindness were always easy, we would not need so many rules about it." 

His nephew pinches his lips and keeps silent, which is apparently the latest expression of teenagehood in him. Certainly it is better to say nothing than to speak unnecessarily, but Lan Xichen pushes that a little too far lately. 

That day Lan Qiren is too busy to deal with such rebellion, so he just dismisses his nephew. But the situation is concerning, and he starts paying more attention to what's happening with Nie Huaisang. 

It quickly becomes clear that, indeed, Jin Zixun has chosen the boy as his victim. It is equally clear that Nie Huaisang is aware of it, and flees from him as much as possible. The boy is not completely stupid. 

It is more alarming to see Lan Xichen consistently avoiding his fiancé, often going out of his way not to cross his path and have to so much as greet him. No wonder then that someone like Jin Zixun feels free to act however he likes with Nie Huaisang.

Lan Xichen, when confronted about it, denies it. He says he does not want to create problems for Nie Huaisang by showing him too much favour, so nobody will be able to say he only passed his year because the Gusu Lan Sect was treating him more kindly than other students.

A flimsy excuse if Lan Qiren ever heard one. 

It's a shame, almost, that Nie Huaisang’s efforts are starting to pay off. If he failed his exams, he'd have to stay another year in the Cloud Recesses. It would give Lan Qiren time to devise something so those children learn to somewhat get along. Love is neither expected nor desired for their match, but they need to be able to work together. 

It is really too bad that Nie Huaisang is doing better in class lately. 

Deceit is against every rule of Gusu Lan of course, but rules have been bent before. Nie Huaisang is clearly used to failure. How bad could it be if he failed again? 

4 Bad. 

It’s very bad.

At least now, they know that Nie Huaisang can show some character when needed.

5 It is evident, from the moment he steps again into the Cloud Recesses, that something has changed in Nie Huaisang during the few weeks he returned to Qinghe.

Some of the change is physical. He’s gotten a bit of a growth spurt, even if he’s still fairly short. The way he carries himself seems to hint that he has gained some muscle as well, meaning his brother probably punished his failure and outburst by making him train intensively. He no longer looks like such easy picking for whoever will be the chief bully this year, though perhaps that has less to do with teenagehood finally catching him and more with the way he looks at everyone and everything around him as if he’s ready to fight them if they say one single wrong word.

It’s not a bad development, Lan Qiren decides. After all, that’s an attitude very typical of Qinghe Nie, so it’s only normal that Nie Huaisang is giving signs he will develop into the same sort of strong man as his father and brother. And considering how well Lan Xichen gets along with Nie Mingjue, it’s certain that he will start liking his fiancé a little better now that he isn’t so meek. Combined with the weekly meetings that Lan Qiren has ordered for them, everything will sort itself out.

6 Nie Huaisang refuses to meet with Lan Xichen until Lan Qiren orders him to in person, and then debates how long those meetings are supposed to last until lan Qiren tells him that he has to stay for a incense stick’s time.

Later, Lan Xichen tells him that Nie Huaisang left the instant the stick finished burning up. His barely contained indignation is rather amusing, considering just days before he was complaining he did not want to spend any time with Nie Huaisang.

7 Somehow, Nie Huaisang appears to have become friends with Jiang Wanyin, which is excellent. Intersect friendships will serve them well in the future, if (when) the Wens make their move, and Lan Xichen has never been the best at making friends. If Nie Huaisang can do that for the both of them, he’ll already have done his part in the marriage that is to come.

It’s a little more concerning that Nie Huaisang seems to get along even better with Wei Wuxian, who is quite likely the worst trouble maker that Lan Qiren has ever had the displeasure to teach. But Nie Huaisang has shown in the past that he is a good, obedient, dutiful boy, so nothing bad should come out of this.

8 “Alcohol? In the Cloud Recesses?”

Nie Huaisang manages to stay as emotionless as his two friends, but his heavy blush betrays him.

9 “Breaking curfew to go to Gusu?”

Nie Huaisang blushes less this time.

10 “An indecent book!”

Nie Huaisang schools his features into perfect surprise, and doesn’t blush at all.

“Really? Who would dare?”

“You, apparently. The person from whom it was confiscated said it actually belonged to you.”

Nie Huaisang gasps, one hand on his heart, the very picture of wounded innocence.

“Master, I would never! I know the rules of the Cloud Recesses too well, and I know as well that my brother would never approve of me owning such books.”

“So it is no concern to you if it is destroyed?”

The half second of hesitation on the boy’s face is enough to confirm that he is, in fact, guilty of being the owner. Books like this don’t come cheap. And yet, Nie Huaisang manages to smile as he gets into a passionate discourse about the need to protect the youth, and how he simply doesn’t understand how anyone could ever taint their own mind with that filth.

Lan Qiren is more impressed than he would care to admit. 

11 Lan Xichen looks so shaken when he returns from the river that his uncle worries something went wrong.

“What were they doing, then?” he asks.

His nephew startles at the question and opens his mouth a few times, but can’t seem to get any sound out. He’s looking rather like a fish. A goldfish, with the way he starts blushing.

“They were just playing,” Lan Xichen eventually manages to say, carefully avoiding his uncle’s eyes.

“Playing… how, exactly?” Lan Qiren insists, doubt creeping in his mind.

Lan Xichen’s blush deepens.

“Just swimming and splashing each other,” he squeaks in a very odd voice. “Nothing forbidden, or I would have intervened.”

Ah.

So that means all this blushing and awkwardness is Lan Xichen’s own fault rather than that of Nie Huaisang and his two friends.

Teenagehood. 

It always ruins the best people and turns them stupid for a few months, a few years if they’re unlucky. Lan Qiren had hoped that his nephew, like him, would be spared the most embarrassing parts of it, now that the rebellion phase has calmed. 

That’s not a mess Lan Qiren wants to deal with. He sends his nephew away, reminding him to not skip his mediation time.

He’s going to need all the meditation he can get to survive that mess.

12 Wei Wuxian leaves the Cloud Recesses in disgrace. While it is always annoying to have failed as a teacher, Lan Qiren is glad to see him go. Without his bad influence, Nie Huaisang and Jiang Wanyin are sure to get in less trouble now.

13 Well, at least Jiang Wanyin gets in less trouble.

14 Lan Qiren notices how Lan Xichen looks at Nie Huaisang when he thinks nobody is paying attention, how he now makes subtle efforts to find himself on his fiancé’s path when possible.  He notices as well that Lan Xichen has bought some different incense sticks during his last trip to Gusu, sticks that burn a little more slowly than the old ones.

If Lan Xichen has to start falling prey to the sentimentality that plagues their family, Nie Huaisang is perhaps not the worst option out there. For one thing, they are already engaged, Qinghe Nie is a strong ally, Nie Huaisang is smart even if he has a strong aversion to cultivation matters, he is on friendly terms with the young masters of several sects small and big at this point.

It would be fine, if Lan Qiren didn’t see how Nie Huaisang is now the one who’ll walk away if he spots Lan Xichen nearby, how he instead exchanges looks with some of the other guest disciples (sometimes even with Lan disciples).

Lan Qiren thinks of his brother, so many years ago, constantly watching a girl who never spared him a second glance until he became her only chance to stay alive. He had hoped to spare his nephews from this pain. He tried so hard to make them reasonable, to teach them to put their feelings aside, all for nothing. Lan Xichen somehow manages to have unrequited feelings for his own future husband, and Lan Wangji… the least is said on that matter, the better.

Lan Qiren wonders how he managed to fail those boys.

Perhaps there’s just a curse on their family. He’ll have to seriously look into that.

15 Lan Qiren takes his poor, inebriated nephew by the shoulders. It takes a few seconds for Nie Huaisang to let go of Lan Xichen’s hand, and there’s something unusually serious to his expression.

“You won’t punish him, right?” Nie Huaisang asks after some hesitation. “It’s not his fault. We tried to make it so he didn’t drink anything, but somebody spiked his tea and tricked him. It’d be unfair to punish him.”

“I’m surprised you care,” Lan Qiren states, perhaps more abruptly than he should, but… it’s been a long day, and seeing his nephew in this state is not helping.

“Of course I care,” Nie Huaisang replies after checking around. They are, in fact, alone, but he’s right to be prudent.

Lan Xichen startles at the answer, and smiles so brightly that Lan Qiren feels a little embarrassed on his behalf.

“You really do?” Lan Xichen asks, trying to get closer to his fiancé, only to be kept in place by his uncle. He doesn’t appear to notice. “I’m so glad! I care about you so much, Huaisang!”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes go wide at the enthusiastic declaration. Lan Qiren has dealt with that boy enough to tell that for once, his surprise seems genuine.

Who knows, there might still be hope for this to not be a complete disaster after all. They still have a few years to sort themselves out, if they’re not too stupid, if they can just stop behaving like such teenagers...

But that’s a consideration for later. Right now, Lan Qiren’s only problem is to get his drunk nephew to bed before he embarrasses himself any further. He thanks Nie Huaisang and starts pulling Lan Xichen away, grumbling against the boy’s lack of cooperation and coordination.

When he looks behind as they turn around a corner, he sees that Nie Huaisang still hasn’t moved one inch. It’s hard to say from so far, but his expression seems serious once more.

With a little hope, a little luck…

Only time will tell.

[missluthorwillseeyounow]

Never To Touch And Never To Keep

Westenray AU (NBC Dracula)

A/N: So, here it is, the Westenray AU where Henry Cavill is Lucy’s beard. Fair warning, I didn’t really watch much of the show, just the Lucy scenes, and not even all of those. Basically, this is a peeled-back modern AU of the whole story, without the Dracula stuff. It’ll follow canon for a little bit, unfortunately *cringe* but I need a happy ending for my gays.

Also, this gets quite dark before it gets better. TW: gaslighting, attempted suicide, poisoning, and manipulation. Like for real, guys, I promise a happy ending, but if any of these trigger you, please don’t read it.

Lucy and Mina have been friends since they were fifteen. Lucy's father is an affluent businessman, and Lucy grows up with her every whim catered to. She’s at the center of everyone’s attention. All heads turn whenever she enters a room, and she accepts the adoration as her due.

She and Mina meet at boarding school, and the bond between the two girls is immediate. 

That first year is spent in bare feet and nightgowns, dancing idly to Fleetwood Mac, drunk on youth and the vodka Lucy stole from the headmistress’ office. In the acrid scent of illicit cigarettes being passed from one to the other, and the soft curve of Mina’s lips under Lucy’s fingers whenever she slips the cigarette into Mina’s mouth.

Mina is quiet and earnest, where Lucy is vivacious and impertinent. Mina gently chastises her when she breaks yet another boy’s heart, and Lucy merely laughs. 

And when Mina breaks Lucy’s heart and falls in love with Jonathan Harker, Lucy just laughs and laughs, and cruelly breaks another boy’s heart in retaliation.

Between the two of them, Mina is the more logical one, whose head and heart are grounded and centered, while Lucy is a creature of flight and fancy -- the one who flits from one thing to another, the charming social butterfly who lights up any room she walks into and creates a spectacle to hide every insecurity she keeps inside.

Lucy lives with bravado, but retreats behind a glittering mask. Mina, she thinks, is the one who is actually brave, the one who is unafraid to live her life as herself.

At the time of this AU, they’re around 21, and Mina and Jonathan are engaged. They're still quite young, but they've been together for years. The "perfect couple", it was only a matter of time before they got married.

Mina is in med school at this time, when she meets Alexander Grayson.

Grayson is a wealthy businessman, the new owner of the hospital where Mina’s father had practiced before he died. He encounters Mina once, at a benefit for the hospital’s cancer ward. Mina speaks to him in her gentle, forthright way, and Grayson is immediately drawn to her.

The encounter leaves an indelible mark on Grayson, and he decides he has to have her.

He’s no stranger to manipulation, and he comes at the problem on all sides. The key, he knows, is isolation. If she has no one left to turn to, Mina will come to him.

Harker, he thinks, is easy enough. With his uncertain finances, the young man is insecure and doubts his place in Mina’s esteem or at least in her social circles. It’s easy enough to see in the way his teeth grit and his jaw tightens whenever Lucy delightedly plucks on this particular insecurity like a note well-played.

Grayson buys into Harker’s graces through his wealth, offers him a career in which he can succeed. The work keeps Harker rewarded and therefore docile, out of the shadow Mina’s condescending friends, and high on his own sense of self-importance for the first time in his life.

His seduction of Mina, however, requires more thought and subtlety. He applies himself to discovering more about her, the things that interest her and resonate with her.

He finds out about her admiration and respect for a prestigious doctor, Gabriel van Helsing, and he extorts van Helsing into offering his mentorship to Mina. He finds out about her passion for helping children and starts a charity for children in need, and offers her the chance to be more involved in the project. 

Through it all, Grayson places himself as the supposed catalyst of her advancement.

And Mina, grounded though she is, is still fallible. Grayson seems to her a kind man, misunderstood by some perhaps because of his brooding disposition, but still -- a good man. And he is attractive, that’s undeniable. Enigmatic, charming in a mysterious way.

Slowly, but surely, Mina is lured in.

Because Grayson presents himself as a pleasant and urbane gentleman, most people rarely suspect him of anything nefarious.

Except for Lucy. 

Like recognizes like, and Lucy has used her own charm to get her way enough times to know when people use it for their own machinations.

Grayson knows that Lucy is less susceptible to his manipulations and will be more difficult to eliminate as competition.

However, he learns that his intervention is not required. Someone like Lucy, whose emotions overrule even her own penchant for manipulation, will set her own self on fire. All it takes is a few whispers in Mina’s ear, and Lucy orchestrates her own destruction.

Lucy has been hiding her feelings for years, and she's become adept at it. But Grayson’s arrival has thrown Mina into turmoil and by extension, Lucy is thrown into turmoil as well.

And Lucy, when backed into a corner, always lashes out. She barely hides her resentment for Grayson, alienating herself from Mina, who thinks so highly of him, for the first time in their friendship. Not even her disparaging of Jonathan had lowered her in Mina’s esteem, but this causes the first real point of contention between the two of them.

For the first time, Lucy feels her slipping away, and her reflexive response is to pull closer, fearing the loss of Mina in her life. She holds fast to the bond between her and Mina, and clings to her friend.

And one night -- an ordinary night that finds Lucy stretched out on Mina’s bed as usual, their faces inches apart as they seek each other under Mina’s covers like they always do -- Lucy, grateful that no matter what contention they have about one man, they still find each other, becomes brave enough, desperate enough to close that familiar distance between them and press her lips to Mina’s.

"We could be so much more.... I've always loved you, Mina."

"Has our whole friendship been a pretense?!?"

Grayson’s insidious whispers flare in Mina’s mind, and every moment of their friendship is called into question. Every embrace, every sweet word, and every barb thrown at Jonathan viewed in the light of this new and terrifying revelation.

"You need to leave."

And leave Lucy does, feeling small and worthless and hollow, as if a crater has opened up in the middle of her chest. This is not a feeling she knows -- not this shame and this hurt and this dejection. 

She’s suffered for Mina before, the heartache of seeing the woman she loves in love with another. But this.... it feels as if all the love she’d kept in her heart has been spit back at her in acid. 

It rankles at her skin, and claws at her pride, and so Lucy does what she knows best. She claws back.

Harker is almost laughably easy, a pawn Lucy moves with disturbing ease -- she almost feels sorry for Mina that she loved a man whose loyalty can break with a pair of tear-filled eyes and a silk robe. Almost.

When Mina catches them together, as planned, Lucy catches Mina's eye with a level look over Jonathan's shoulder. She pushes Jonathan off, his erection twitching unsatisfied between them. Lucy rises to her feet, slipping on her silk robe -- never taking her eyes off Mina -- then brushes past her without another word.

And Mina... Mina knows Lucy. She knows how cruel she can be, and has long accepted it as a part of her, but never has that cruelty been directed at her.

This, more than anything, seals it all in Mina’s mind. 

The two most important people in her life have betrayed her, and it feels as if the very foundations of the life she’s known until now have been shaken.

The only person she can confide in, who listens to her and comforts her with a solemn touch of a hand, is Grayson.

And Grayson thinks, now that he has her, he means to keep her.

He makes her happy, makes her smile and laugh, builds her back up when her life is at its lowest. When she cries at her losses, he embraces her, and bids her forget about them.

A year later, Mina discovers she’s pregnant, and her Alexander is overjoyed. It’s a difficult pregnancy and keeps her weak and bed-ridden for most of it. Through it all, Alexander is the one person she can depend on.

It’s an even more difficult birth, but Mina immediately falls in love with her baby. But her pregnancy took its toll on her body, and she’s still having a hard time bouncing back. Her energy flags more and more, and at first, she attributes it to the enormous stress of juggling her studies and a new baby. She's just stressed, Alexander says, maybe they should go for a vacation.

A vacation smack in the middle of her training?? It’s unthinkable at first, but as Mina finds herself more and more fatigued, she relents. Perhaps it will do her good.

During the vacation, without the stress of med school and all the worries at home, Mina finally has some time to think about her old life before this whirlwind romance she’s found herself in. As much as she loves Alexander and their baby, she knows there are some things that were left unresolved, and she’s been covering them up long enough.

When they return from the vacation, Mina begins to write letters:

Dear Lucy,

You cannot imagine how much I long to see you again. Today will make it a year, nine months and fifteen days since we last saw each other. I can't believe it's been that long. Remember when we had that fight in chemistry class and you didn't speak to me for three days? Before our separation, that was the longest we'd ever been apart. I miss those days.

Every letter I have sent to you has returned unread and unopened. I know you don’t want anything to do with me anymore, and after the way I treated you, I wouldn't blame you if you never wanted to see me again. But still, it doesn't erase the yearning to see your face again.

I miss the nights we would sleep in each other's beds, talking until midnight. Your face -- your dear, loving eyes and your beloved smile -- would be the last thing I saw before falling asleep, and the first thing to wake me in the morning. I never knew what a blessing that was, until I was deprived of such a gift.

Too much has happened. We both hurt each other, I know. You hurt me -- yes, it still hurts -- but I know, I hurt you first. I realize now that what you did was born out of anger and deep pain, because of what I did.

You were never anything but loving toward me. My sweetest friend who always stood by me, always lifted me up, and gave me whatever happiness you could. With others you were always so cold, so cruel, that I could hardly believe you were the same person, because with me, you were so soft, and you took such great care to be gentle.

And I cast you aside. I treated you as if your love as something to be ashamed of, when really, I did not deserve any of it. You betrayed me out of pain, but I betrayed you without provocation. And I am so sorry. God, if you could only know how much I regret everything I said that night...

My infant daughter is sleeping beside me as I write this. My daughter, Lucy. Can you believe it?

She is so beautiful. She has a shock of jet-black hair that is resistant to combing (I can already tell we will have problems with that), and such mesmerizing grey eyes, and the cheekiest smile. She reminds me of you, but that might be because I love her so much.

I've named her Lucy Alexandra Grayson. After Alexander, and after you. Her father likes to call her Alexandra. I'm afraid he doesn't like your name, my dear, but he can't stop me. I've taken to calling her Lucky, as I confess, there has only ever been one Lucy for me, and always will be.

And anyway, Alexander is far too happy, spending time with the baby. He's so proud of her, and it makes me happy to see Alexander happy. He spends all day with us, and is devoted to me and my happiness. He tells me every day that Lucky and I are everything to him.

Oh, Lucy dear, if you could only know the joy I feel at this moment. I wish you were here so i could share this with you. I so wish that you could see Lucky. If you did, you would love her, I know. She is perfection. I can hardly believe that she came from me. That I made something so beautiful and precious.

Oh, Lucy, today my joy knows no bounds, save for one. I feel as if you should be here. Your presence, as warm and sorely missed as it is, would complete my happiness.

Love, Mina.

Mina feels better during the vacation, but when they get back home, she becomes worse. Fatigue sets in quickly, and she gets daily headaches so bad that she has to stay home. She finally admits that her body is having a hard time bouncing back and handling the stress of it all, and after spending several sleepless weeks thinking about it, Mina finally agrees when Alexander suggests she take a break from medical school. This way, she can stay home and rest. Her body can recuperate, and she’ll have more time with Lucky.

What she doesn’t know is that her symptoms are not part of an illness. Grayson has been slowly introducing medication into her system. Nothing life-threatening, or anything that would raise alarms. He’s much too careful for that. But enough that its effects keep her weak and drained of energy

After they returned from their vacation and Mina had expressed her desire to reconcile with Lucy, Grayson had decided that it wasn’t safe yet to stop drugging her, and so the small doses of the medication resumed.

As for the letters, Lucy never receives any of them. Grayson makes sure of it. He even takes precautions to make sure that every email, every text is blocked. Now that Lucy has excised herself out of Mina’s life, he’ll make sure she remains that way.

As for Lucy herself, in the passing years since their separation, she’s made quite a few changes.

Lucy has always been...  aware of the effect she has on people. She knows she appears as a charming coquette, and as she makes her own way in the world, she uses that to her advantage. In fact, she delights in it.

She rarely lets anyone see how clever she is until it's too late, and by then, she's already destroying their lives or their reputations. It makes people underestimate her abilities, and she gets to still play in her glittering little world.

Lucy meets Nick at a friend’s bachelorette party.

When they first meet, he’s a stripper hired for the night. 

It would have been easy to dismiss him then, but Lucy, clever as she is, sees his potential and cleans him up.

She had been planning on using Nick’s past as a stripper and her role as his benefactor to hold over him as blackmail if needed, but she soon realizes that he genuinely does not give a fuck about that.

“What are you getting out of this, then?”

“Aside from the suits and the Maserati? Honestly, I’m just along for the ride. This beats dancing Friday nights at Hunk-O-Rama. Besides, you’re cute.”

Lucy laughs derisively. “You’re not my type.”

Nick throws his head back and laughs even louder. “I have a feeling you don’t hear this a lot, but you’re not my type either.”

Aside from Mina, it’s easily the closest relationship Lucy has ever had. Nick is one of the few people perceptive enough to really see her, and surprisingly enough, he’s not enamored by her. Which works well enough for both of them.

Nick sees Lucy for the mess that she is. When they’re not in public, he treats her like an annoying, reckless little sister, and it amuses him to watch her wreak havoc and play her little games. When she doesn’t annoy the crap out of him.

Nick, however, knows very little about Mina.

All he knows is that she’s a sore subject. He's deduced by now that Lucy was in love with her, but beyond that, he lets Lucy keep her secrets.

As for Mina, over the years, Grayson’s manipulations become more and more overt, and it becomes harder and harder for her to leave.

As Lucky grows up, Alexander showers her with affection and spoils her, making the little girl devoted to him. “Daddy’s little girl” he calls her.

"Mummy, why are you and Daddy fighting?"

"Daddy wasn't being nice."

“But Mummy, Daddy's the nicest! He loves us. He says so all the time."

Mina tries to leave once, when Lucky is 7 years old. She tries to take Lucky with her, but her daughter runs to Grayson and clings to him. “No! I want to stay with Daddy!”

And Grayson levels Mina a look, daring her to separate her child from her father, or leave her behind.

From then on, Grayson keeps Lucky close. She hears him whispering things into the child’s ear (”Mummy’s sick. She’s not well.”) and it reminds her so forcibly of the things he used to whisper in her ear. 

That’s when she knows. She has to leave, for her daughter’s sake.

She takes some of the pills she keeps in the cupboard, carefully calculates enough to make her sick but not kill herself. She only needs enough to be taken to the ER, and put in a temporary psych hold.

It's dangerous, her plan. She could actually kill herself, and if she's on psych hold, Lucky will be left alone with Alexander, and though she's sure Alexander won't hurt her, because Lucky is his bargaining chip to get Mina back, she can’t be sure of what he’ll be putting into her daughter’s head.

Her attempt fails when Grayson brings in a doctor friend of his to help her instead of taking her to the hospital

He performs gastric lavage on her at home to flush the drugs from her stomach. As Mina lies on her bed, lethargic with the tube in her nose, Alexander grips her wrist and murmurs under his breath "You are everything to me. I won’t let you go."

As Mina recovers, she finds herself locked in her room. She asks in vain for Lucky, but Alexander’s only reply is that “She shouldn’t have to see her mother like this.”

Days pass, and the sense of urgency and panic rises, unstoppable, in Mina’s throat like bile. She knows she has no choice. When she’s strong enough, she pushes herself out of bed, locks the door to buy herself time, and breaks one of the windows. She picks up one of the shards, and thinking of her beautiful little girl, Mina cuts through the flesh of her wrists.

It takes a while before Grayson and the doctor realize what she’s done, and she loses enough blood that the doctor decides she needs to go to the hospital or she will going to die.

Once she's at the hospital, she asks a kind nurse to contact Lucy, but she’s told that Lucy’s number is unlisted. The nurse tries the business number, but gets the usual run-around.

And so, as a last resort, Mina gives the nurse the address to Lucy’s family home, hoping and praying that someone there -- Lucy’s father or her mother -- will see her name and remember it. Then she gives the nurse a bundle of letters. The ones that were returned unopened, and the ones she wrote but didn't send because she knew by now Lucy wouldn't read them.

The nurse kindly agrees, and Mina wishes she could tell her everything, that it could help her and her daughter. But Alexander is too influential, and he has Lucky with him, and Mina will not risk her daughter.

The letters are forwarded to Lucy. Nick hands them to her over the breakfast table. But when Lucy hears who they’re from, she goes silent and refuses to open them.

"Do what you want with them. Take them, or they'll end up in the fire. I won't read them."

Nick reads them. The next day, he approaches Lucy again, letters in hand. "The letters, that Mina wrote you..."

Lucy doesn't even look up from her cup of coffee. Her jaw twitches. "I don't want to hear it."

The letters drop onto the table next to her plate. "I think she may need your help. I think she's being abused."

Lucy applies herself to recovering Mina and Lucky, as well as sinking Alexander Grayson, like Nick has never seen her apply herself to anything before.

Nick loses track of how many people Lucy bribes, threatens or blackmails to get Grayson arrested and the charges to stick, or how long it takes for her to get Grayson’s properties seized and his assets frozen. 

He’s lost count of how many times he’s seen Grayson’s face in the news, getting condemned and absolutely dragged by every news outlet Lucy and her family have access to. 

Nick also has no idea know how she managed to get a decent-sized portion of Grayson’s fortune back for Mina and Lucky -- and honestly, given Lucy’s pervasive, systematic destruction of everything Alexander Grayson holds dear, he’s kind of afraid to ask.

As Lucy’s “business face”, Nick has to field everyone from the press to the lawyers. Fortunately for them, he’s a competent son of a bitch, and he tells Lucy the one time she’d asked "Don't worry about it, kid. Your family is my family."

Lucy doesn't quite know what to respond to -- the declaration that Nick considers her family, or that he thinks Mina is her family. "They're not my family."

"Sure, whatever you say, babe." Nick just laughs and walks away. "Oh, and I better get a raise after this."     

Nick, however, does suspect that Lucy’s almost manic focus on sinking Grayson to the mud is at least partly so that she doesn’t have to deal with Mina being back. The fact that she had stashed Mina and Lucky in one of her summer homes, hidden away from her, is evidence enough of that. 

Lucy says it’s to keep them out of the public eye, and while that’s true enough, there is also some truth to Nick’s theory.

Ruining Grayson is easy. Revenge is easier and altogether more satisfying that hashing out old feelings that never really died -- just got shoved to the back of her mind, and only came up whenever Lucy was with another woman and, instead of red hair, she'd see Mina's black curls; or when she said the wrong name in the throes of an orgasm.

And looking across the courtroom at Grayson with a triumphant smile on her face is infinitely easier than looking Mina in the eye.

Lucy puts off visiting the summer house as long as she can. But she has to eventually, to let Mina know how the trials went

For once, Lucy, the social butterfly who can charm birds off trees, has no idea what to say. Mina is quiet too. She wants to tease Lucy for her awkwardness, and if it had been 8 years ago and the Lucy of old, she would have.

Now all she can really do is stare at Lucy and drink her in, cataloging every feature that has changed or remained the same 

In the end, Lucky saves them. The little girl looks up at Lucy with a sweet smile "Hi! You're Lucy!"

Lucy can only stare at her for a second before shaking herself with a nod. "I am."

"We have the same name! But my Mummy calls me Lucky."

Lucy finally meets Mina's eye. "So I've heard."

Lucky quickly warms to Lucy, and Lucy, who has never spent more than an hour with any person younger than herself, finds herself feeling strangely attached to the child.

Lucky is what brings Lucy and Mina together.

In truth, they're each so desperate to know the other again, to somehow find their way back to how things were before that night. They've both changed so much, but they both want to see how much has remained the same, how much they can still salvage and patch together.

It's too much to say, but too much to leave unsaid, so they focus the affection they can't give the other on Lucky

Lucy and Mina are never quite alone together at first. Lucky is usually a buffer between them 

Then one day, Lucy brings Lucky a whole new wardrobe of dresses and Lucky tries them on for her and Mina one at a time. As Lucky flounces off to change into another sparkly tulle dress, Mina chuckles, “Remember that time we got drunk and we snuck into the the props room in school and tried on all of the costumes for ‘Hamlet’?”

Lucy smiles. "I remember having to drag you there because you were too scared of getting caught.”

"And I remember you trying on every gaudy thing you could find. Just like Lucky.” Mina laughs, her eyes softening. “I swear, sometimes I think she's your child." 

Lucy looks away for a second, but Mina murmurs "She reminded me so much of you all those years."

Lucy hides the tremor in her voice behind an arrogant smirk. "She's amazing then."

Mina looks at her, eyes clear and bright. "She is."

Nick joins them some weekends, and Lucky adores him almost as much as Lucy. On one particular visit, he comes bearing some “sensitive information” for Lucy.

When Mina had first been rescued, she had asked Nick if he had any information on Jonathan Harker. When he reported this to Lucy, she had tasked Nick to find him. Not out of sentimentality for the man, she couldn't care less about Harker. But for Mina...

Nick finds Lucy and Mina in the sunroom, talking quietly. Mina is reaching over to brush a non-existent stray hair out of Lucy's face, and Lucy is smiling in a way Nick has never seen before. Gentle, almost tender. 

And this is the woman who has left a trail of broken hearts a mile long behind her.

Nick almost doesn't interrupt them -- but then Mina leans forward, bringing her that much closer to Lucy... And the smile disappears on Lucy's face like water evaporating. She pulls away abruptly, her eyes sliding away from Mina's to find Nick in the doorway.

He holds up the folder for her to see. Lucy rises and leads him to her office, where they won't be overheard. When Nick hands her folder, she scans it silently, her jaw tight. The file contains all of Harker's information, including how to contact him. 

"He's unmarried and working as a writer for a newspaper."

Lucy closes the folder and hands it to Nick, her eyes stony. "Give it to her."

Nick blinks and pauses. "Are you su--"

Lucy silences him with a sharp look that berates him for daring to question her. "Give it to her."

Nick's lips narrow. "Yes, ma'am."

Lucy cringes inwardly. She knows she was a little bit too blunt with Nick, but honestly she's in no mood to be nice. "Oh, and have my team prepare the jet."

"Where are you going?"

"Anywhere but here."

Lucy flies off to see a frequent bedfellow in Paris for a week. She heads to Italy for another the next week. By the time she gets back, she’s informed her that Mina and Lucky are gone. Nick tells her that he gave Mina the file on Jonathan and she left the next day.

Lucy arrives home to an empty summer house, and finds that she misses Mina and Lucky too much. She misses Lucky's mischievous giggles and Mina's light laughter. She misses having tea with Mina in the sunroom, and sitting in the library while Lucky reads her old children's books to her.

She misses the days spent on the lake, Lucky swinging into the water from the old rope on the tree, and somehow managing to coax Lucy along with her, while Mina, quietly radiant in her white linen dress, sips tea and watches them from the dock. She used to laugh whenever Lucy and Lucky emerged dripping wet from the lake, hair stringy and waterlogged, dresses stuck uncomfortably to their skin, but having the time of their lives.

Everyday there just reminds her more of what she doesn't have anymore. So she goes back to her home in the city. It's not much better there, but at least there aren't any reminders of Mina or Lucky there

Mina calls her several times, but Lucy ignores each call.

When they were younger, she used to listen to Mina talk about her relationship with Harker, not a secret between them, except one. And Lucy was just content to listen because it kept her in Mina's life.

And while she doesn't want to lose Mina again, she thinks she's grown up enough to set limits on what she can or will take. And she doesn't think she can take hearing about Mina's new life with Jonathan. How she's rebuilding her old life with him, and shaping her new one around it.

She does allow herself some bitterness over the thought of how perfect that new little family would be. Mina and her old love, Jonathan, a perfect new father for Lucky, to replace the twisted one she got.

It's perfect for them, she thinks. Absolutely fucking meant to be. A happy ending after the hell Mina went through. She deserves that, Lucy thinks as she downs yet another glass of wine

And Lucy bets that within the next six months, she'll receive a call from Mina asking her to be her bridesmaid. A year later, Lucky will be getting a new brother or sister.

On nights like these, when Lucy drowns herself in enough wine to numb the crater in chest, Nick has to scoop her up and take her home himself.

On one such night, she doesn't come home to an empty house. Mina's waiting for her there. She follows Nick to Lucy's room then gives him a small smile. "I'll take it from here." 

Lucy is half passed out, but Mina manages to get her to drink some water and helps her change out of her clothes. Then she tucks Lucy under her covers and slips in with her.

Lucy's eyes open blearily, "Aren't you going back home to Jonathan and Lucky?"

Mina smiles at her. "I left Lucky with my cousin, and I'm sure Jonathan can manage without me."

Lucy mutters something into her pillow.

"What was that?"

"He doesn't deserve you."

Mina brushes her hair back "Then who does?"

"No one."

"You think too highly of me."

"Rightly so."

"Even after..... even after the way I treated you that night?"

"That night wasn't your fault," Lucy mumbles sleepily, voice slurred from the wine. In vino veritas. "It was my fault. It was me -- my feelings. I was responsible for them, not you. I was doing so well before that, and you, you my darling brilliant Mina, are so stupid when it comes to love. You would never have known anything if I hadn't opened my stupid mouth - or kissed you with it."

Mina's eyes search hers in the dim light. "Would you never have told me? Would you have kept it a secret from me forever?"

Lucy nods, making herself slightly dizzy. Her eyes close and she murmurs. "If I could go back, I would never have kissed you."

Mina doesn't speak for a while. She just listens to the sound of Lucy's breathing even out to sleep. She just stares at Lucy. "It's funny. I often think about things I regretted about that night. I regretted the way I acted toward you, the things I said.... But that kiss was the one thing I never regretted."

When they were at the summer house, there were several moments when Mina almost got carried away and kissed her, her eyes flicking down to Lucy's lips, lush and candy-pink. She's spent nights reliving that kiss over the years, trying to recall details of it, but it's been blurred by time and guilt and confusion. 

She wonders how she never knew how Lucy felt. She wonders if Alexander hadn't been manipulating her, if she would have said the things she did. If she hadn't been so in love with Jonathan then, would she have kissed Lucy back? 

She looks at Lucy now and wonders if she would taste the same.

But every time Mina lets any hint of these thoughts show on her face, Lucy looks away.

Lucy -- who, even after all these years and all this turmoil, has opened her heart and home to her and her daughter -- shows all the fear of a trapped animal whenever Mina looks at her with want in her eyes, and closes herself off.

Mina knows she's damaged that beyond repair. Lucy -- dear Lucy who never kept a secret from her but this one -- showed one moment of vulnerability and Mina had all but slapped her in the face

And she still knows Lucy well. Lucy always lashes out from hurt at first, but after, she hides in dark corners where no one can see, like a heart-hurt little kitten seeking the comfort and safety of being unseen.

So she doesn't bring it up in the morning, when Lucy pads softly into the kitchen where Mina is making her breakfast and the hangover remedy she came up with in college.

Lucy looks up at her gratefully, if a little confused. Her eyes are a little cloudy, and her perfect hair tousled just enough for Mina to want to run her hands through the golden mess. 

She knows she can. This is Lucy, and since they were teenagers, touch has been a language between them. Mina's heart twinges, and she wonders if this is how Lucy felt all those years ago, wanting to touch her as she always does, but this time with a lover's hand, each nerve ending coming alive with the stark difference.

Lucy watches her with a question on her lips that Mina can almost see, even as she hesitates, her mouth fearful and unwilling to open. 

Mina reassures her with a gentle smile as she places a plate of Lucy's favorite scrambled eggs in front of her. She leans forward and kisses the top of her head. They don't have to talk about it now.

Hope is a cruel thing to entertain, she knows from years living with Alexander. And she knows that sometimes the best defense from it is to reject it.

And right now, she knows they're both brimming with it. The rigidly suppressed hope in Lucy's eyes, marshaled by years of emotions never expressed, and the answering hope in Mina that prays she still feels the same way

This is not a conversation that can be had while Lucy is hungover and barely awake. Lucy waited for her for years before that kiss, then the duty of waiting fell to Mina. She thinks she can wait a little bit longer for Lucy.

After breakfast, when her wits are more collected, Lucy sits with her feet curled up on the wicker love seat, and Mina sits opposite her. Lucy's no longer drunk, but she nurses a cup of tea in both hands, gripping the porcelain as if her life depends on it

"Why are you here, Mina? Shouldn't you be at home with Jonathan and Lucky?"

Mina regards her with a tranquil look. "I told you, Lucky is at my cousin's place. And Jonathan... I don't know where Jonathan is."

At that, Lucy looks up. "What do you mean?"

Mina shrugs. "I haven't seen him since the day I went to visit him."

"Haven't you moved in with him by now?"

Mina casts her an exasperated look. "I've been living with my cousin for the past few weeks. You would know that if you answered any of my phone calls."

Lucy is quiet, and Mina ducks her head so she can meet Lucy's eye. "Did you think I moved in with Jonathan?"

Lucy looks up at her, and there's something almost accusatory in her green eyes. "You went back to him."

Mina gives her a level look. "Of course I went back to him. I loved him for years, Lucy. I owed it to Jonathan to see him again. We were together since we were teenagers! We were engaged to be married, before Alexander. I owed it to myself."

Lucy has turned away again, not wanting to meet her eye, and Mina wants to shake her. "..... But Lucy, above all that, I owed it to you."

“Me?? You went back to your old lover for me?" Lucy scoffs, tears forming in her crystal eyes. Her voice breaks, but Lucy is always Lucy, and her words bite back, even if she's hurt -- especially when she's hurt.

"Forgive my skepticism, Mina, but I fail to understand how returning to the man you loved first, the man who could have given you everything I never could -- the first man you chose over me -- could possibly be about me."

"Because!" MIna can feel her voice rising out of desperation and frustration and anger and love at this woman who owns her heart now. "Because you deserve the truth.... Because you deserve to look me in the eye and know beyond a doubt that I'm telling the truth when I say I choose you. Not Jonathan. Not Alexander. You."

Lucy's mouth drops open, and Mina feels a sense of satisfaction that she has managed to render Lucy Westenra, of all people, speechless. 

"I went to see Jonathan, I let him hold me in his arms, and I knew that what I feel for him, even what I felt for him then is not even half of what I feel for you. After all these years. After everything we've all been through -- you are the one I choose.... It might not mean anything at all to you now, after what I did to you, but I know now without a single doubt that it's the truth. And so do you. I choose you, Lucy."

Lucy just stares at Mina, her eyes wide. Her hands are shaking so much, Mina fears the tea in her cup will spill. She crosses the room and kneels down in front of her chair. She takes the cup carefully from Lucy’s hands and sets it down.

Lucy has looked away from her again, like she does now whenever Mina tells her the truth, with her eyes or her words. Mina almost sighs, because she was right. She has damaged this beyond repair.

But then, Lucy's trembling fingers catch her own in a fearful, hopeful grip. "Please tell me it's real. Tell me you're telling the truth."

“Oh, Lucy...”  Mina reaches up and her fingers curling around the nape of Lucy's neck. She brings their foreheads together, until she can practically taste the salt of Lucy's tears. "I love you. I'm so in love with you."

Finally she kisses her, the taste of Lucy touching her lips, unadulterated by blurry memory and guilt. This time, it's Lucy who hesitates, who is still beneath Mina's mouth, and Mina knows the terror of Lucy that night, whispers the same prayers Lucy did into the kiss of so many years ago.

Then Lucy's mouth parts beneath her with a soft sobbing moan, and bliss floods Mina's whole body. She never knew bliss tasted like Lucy and her tears. She laughs into the kiss, her own tears slipping from her closed eyes to Lucy's waiting lips.

Lucy's hands, greedy and fearful, grip onto her dress and haul her up into the chair above her. The love seat is small and cramped, but Mina doesn't care, not when Lucy holds her like she's never ever going to let go, like she's afraid Mina will change her mind. 

She imagines that it will take some time, for Lucy to truly believe that she's here to stay. So Mina holds her gently and firmly, like a cherished thing, pushes her down into the soft cushion of the chair just so Lucy can feel her weight, the permanence of her and her choice. 

Mina will wait and she'll show her. She will show Lucy every single day of the rest of their lives.

[the-resurrection-3d]

so what was ever good about acotar anyway?

For some reason, I’ve been very tempted to reread ACOTAR lately, and so I’m going to just make a quick list of what I remember specifically endearing the book to me back when I first read it in 2016 so we can compare notes later. This will, however, also include some retroactive criticisms now that we’re four years on from ACOWAR ruining everything forever. 

Twigger warnings for discussions of abuse, csa and neglect, as well as me using my complimentary R Slur Pass.

For some context: 

>Be 18yr me in 2016. 

>Be in your first semester at college. 

>Be so fed up with YA romance that you avoid books just for hinting at them in the summary. 

>Be also brainstorming a series with your roommate called The Cuckmaster Saga. 

This is probably going to sound embarrassing, but I’m being completely sincere when I say that part of why this book excited me was simply the novelty of finding a YA romance book that I liked. 

I’d fallen out hard with YA in general by this point in my life, partially because of a string of fairy tale “retellings” that clearly gave zero fucks about the source material beyond using the iconography in its marketing. Folklore had been my special interest for a while, and my excitement for the series and all its little extra niche references coincided with finally getting to study folklore in a true academic setting.

Which leads me to point one:

I love the idea of combining BatB and the Tam Lin ballad. I know some people have complained about this, but honestly, I enjoyed finding a retelling that mimicked the mix-and-match structuring of a lot of folktales. ACOTAR isn’t even the messiest or least coherent mash-up by a huge margin. Unfortunately, this aspect of the series severely lessened as it went along — remember when we all thought ACOWAR was going to be a Snow White retelling and then there was just one scene with poisoned apples? Lmao.

[If anyone wants an author who does YA mash-ups that are actually YA, I’d recommend Rosamund Hodge, whose books are always interesting in their sheer weirdness even when the story itself slightly falters. I mean, I wrote a whole 20-page thesis on her Red Riding Hood/Maiden Without Hands retelling and still didn’t cover everything I had thoughts on. (Tragically, however, I must inform you all that she is a Catholic Reylo. Rest in pepperoni.)]

It is fucking hilarious in retrospect that SJM clearly knows a bunch of different folktales and folkloric creatures but thinks it’s believable for shadowsinger powers to have no theorized origin “even [in] the rich lore of the warrior-people” (ACOFAS 65). Bro fuck outta here. 

But this leads into point two — Feyre and her family. It’s very obvious that SJM based Nesta and Elain’s dynamic with Feyre off the common folktale trope of having the youngest sibling be the only competent person in the room (and Katniss Everdeen). I thought it was honestly a lot of fun to see this trope done with some interiority; you can practically hear Feyre seethe about what useless hoes her sisters are between every line. I genuinely giggled through these parts on my initial readthrough. 

I’ve seen some people complain that Nesta and Elain’s behaviors aren’t realistic in this situation, but au contraire! Nesta and Elain’s actions in book one are (...almost) perfectly realistic. Without revealing too much, my grandmother grew up in poverty with a few older sisters, and yet my great-grandmother would make her do all the work and constantly force her to give up her possessions (like her car) to the older sisters whenever they wanted them. Even to this day, when they’re all in their 70s and 80s, one of these sisters still relies on my grandma to do basic shit like balancing her checkbooks. I’ve also observed similar dynamics play out plenty of times between an adult child and an overindulgent parent, with people literally ruining their lives and bodies all for the sake of sitting at home all day buying furry porn off the internet. 

Nesta and Elain are basically the psychology of this type of person split in two — Elain the soft, delicate, perpetually victimized front they put on for the world, and Nesta the ice-cold, bitter, and aggressive bitch they truly are. 

Honestly, the only thing I would change about this set-up is either keep Ma Archeron alive or give Papa Archeron more personality than a plank of damp wood. What’s truly missing here is a parental figure enforcing this fucked up dynamic — I don’t remember it being clear that Feyre’s always had this role, just that she took it on after her mom’s death. Making it clear that Feyre’s always been forced to be this way — alongside giving the mom more characterization — would have gone a long way towards making this dynamic feel more realized and less like the narrative using trauma and pity as a shortcut towards reader engagement. 

Then again, that would require SJM to have a female villain in this series who isn’t a rapist, and quotes I’ve seen floating around from ACOSF make it pretty clear SJM doesn’t know same-gender sexual abuse even exists. 

Anyway. 

Point Three (or rather 2B): Feyre realizing she doesn’t have to hang around her family just because she feels obligated to love them was a fucking banger. I loved it so much; having a story, especially a YA story, that showed you aren’t obligated to love a family that treats you like shit was so special to me. Especially since I was also leaving my family for the first time, and going home to visit them every other weekend felt like being hit point-blank with a Psyduck blast. 

Thankfully, my relationship with my family has gotten a lot better, but I’m still really disappointed that Nesta and Elain were forced back into the story, rather than them reaching out to Feyre and making amends because they wanted to do better.  The closest we got to this was the revelation that Nesta almost made it to the Border by herself after Feyre was taken, which was definitely badass, but also unfortunately the only Nesta scene I’ve liked in this entire fucking series. If SJM was going to force Feyre to regress into being Nesta and Elain’s tardwrangler again, then she should have followed up on Amren’s line in ACOWAR that Feyre treats Nesta and Elain the way Tamlin treated her. 

“I asked them to help once—and look what happened. I won’t risk them again.”

Amren snorted. “You sound exactly like Tamlin.”

[. . .] and I said, “She’s right.”  (169-170). 

But I’m sure everyone who’s read ACOSF knows how well that’s going. 

Point Four: the femindhjdfhfdh I can’t even write that with a straight face. I mean let’s be real, I too enjoy seeing female characters I like become queens and all that other stuff, but it was clear to me even on my initial reading of ACOMAF that it was all shallow and designed to help delineate good guys from bad guys without much in the way of nuance. It certainly took me out of the experience a little, but at least it ties into the books’ themes of recovering from abuse and shacking up with a Certified Women Respecter. 

My actual point four: Truthfully I only bought this series for the meme of having the first shitty love interest getting cucked in the second book. ACOWAR gave me some complicated feelings on Tamlin, and I honestly think he should have just stopped appearing in the series after that — BUT, having him be dragged back in once per book just to call him a cuck and cockslap him around a little bit is fucking hilarious. Pointless! But hilarious.

I also think that this kind of arc is a great critique of the standard “happily ever after,” acknowledging that in real life, you’re much more likely to just pass from one abusive household to another because you don’t know what healthy love, communication, and boundaries are. (Arguably many folktales are the fantasies of women who are well aware of this reality but want to imagine a world that’s otherwise). I definitely have a lot of problems with SJM’s claims of “sex positivity,” but acknowledging that Feylin used sex as a means of avoiding communication was another great touch.

I wish that this whole King of Hybern shit was completely cut just to focus on these themes more; it’s very clear SJM only included it because fantasy series = BIG EPIC WORLD-ENDING STAKES!! I've read maybe ten pages of Throne of Glass, so I can't speak for how she handles epic fantasy there, but I know for me and a lot of other stans, the Hybern plot had licherally nothing to do with what we liked and connected to in these books. 

But I must soften here, because I totally empathize with feeling like big stakes are “necessary” for a fantasy story and that no one would want to read your books without them. YA fantasy is the reason why TV Tropes coined the term “romantic plot tumor,” after all. (Source: I’m making shit up.) 

What else… what else… uhhhhh. I think that might be it, at least for substantial things I don’t have to qualify too much. I of course have plenty of little things I used to like but have now been tainted because ACOWAR ruined everything forever and ACOFAS danced on the graves (such as how I liked Lucien but everyone in the books shits on him now to the point it’s stopped being funny). But this post is too long anyway.

[diavolodigitale]

The Hitchhiker's Guide to Andromeda Galaxy - pt.3 Havarl

Oof, the chapters are getting longer as it always happens with me. This one, I think, is significantly better than the previous ones if we don’t consider the lame beginning ahahah

Genres: comedy, romance (vaguely), friendship maybe, some philosophy? I really don’t know what to call that.

Pairing: m!Ryder/Evfra

Characters: Ryder, Evfra, Vetra, Jaal

Rating: PG

Size: around 9 pages

Pt.1 - Pt.2 - Pt.3 - Pt.4 ----- All chapters in PDF

       The weather on Havarl was as foggy and gloomy as always. High humidity made it hot and stuffy, so at times Ryder found it hard to breathe, wearing his full set of armor and carrying around all the weapons. The squelching of wet leaves and grass could be heard behind him as his companions made their way forward.

       “I heard that Evrfa is now on Havarl as well,” mentioned Jaal, stepping over a peculiar looking mushroom.

       “I thought he never leaves his sanctuary. Hard to imagine him doing something else besides work,” commented Vetra and proceeded adjusted her rifle so that it didn’t impede her movements.

       Ryder coughed a few times. They were already a few steps away from the research facilities.

       “The Resistance operates on many planets. We need to control the Roekaar activity here, so regular investigations on Havarl are no exceptions,” said Jaal.

       Vetra sighed.

       “Isn’t it crazy how the Resistance grew?” she began somewhat excitedly. “I’ve heard rumors that it used to be just a bunch of small groups of angara fighting off kett. And now you have a complex and highly flexible organization controlling most of the galaxy!”

       “Indeed,” agreed Jaal. “What Evfra did to bring them all together is unimaginable. Even if his approach and methods aren’t unanimously accepted between the angara, his achievements are irrefutable.” Jaal stopped and took a long look at the cloudy dark sky.

       “You seem so fascinated by him and his work,” noted Ryder, giving Jaal a light pat on the back.

       “I respect him, yes. The decisions he has to make every day are a tough burden to carry on your own,”—Jaal took a deep breath, lowered his head and continued—“although, considering he thinks of me as his best soldier, he could have bestowed upon me an unrestricted freedom of choice in any situations.”

       “And a better rank?” asked Ryder, giving the angara a friendly understanding smile.

       “Undoubtedly,” agreed Jaal and nodded.

Vetra checked the time on her omni-tool and looked around to make sure they arrived at the right place.

       “Okay, I’ve got to leave you now. See you here exactly in three hours,” she said. “And no being late. Especially it applies to you, Ryder. Nobody will let us back on the ship without the Pathfinder,” she added strictly.

       “And here I started to think that you really worry about me,” replied Ryder in a sad voice.

       “My mothers always worry about you if that makes you feel better,” said Jaal in a sincere attempt to comfort him.

       “Yes, Jaal, this is exactly what I needed to hear.”

       Jaal headed to one of the local ships stationed on the landing area. He intended to visit his family since the vault on Havarl had just been activated, and the crew of the Tempest had some time to consider their subsequent steps in raising the viability of the planet. Besides, it was a good opportunity to just hang around and have some alone time since always being under pressure and not having enough time for themselves could lead to unwanted aftermath in terms of physical and psychological health, and nobody wanted that, especially being hundreds of years far from home.

      Vetra disappeared in the dense forests, heading in the unknown direction with the unknown purpose. She refused to let the Pathfinder know about her business on the planet, but he reckoned it had something to do with illegal shipments. Nothing special, your usual smuggler stuff.

      And Ryder… Well, he simply made up a reason to come. He had some data waiting to be transferred to the angaran scientist here on Havarl, but it surely wouldn’t take him three hours to do that. Usually, he tried to spend every free minute doing something productive and important, but after rescuing the whole planet it would be fair to give his team and himself a little rest. Unofficially, of course.  

       He decided to spend some time talking to the local researchers. The angaran history and culture was so foreign, yet seemed so captivating to him. Of course, humans already went through the phase of first contact with other races, but nobody had seemed so distant till this moment. Nothing here reminded him of familiar worlds, and it was simply riveting.

      Most of the scientists were happy to share what they knew and even more happy to listen to the information he could provide them with. Despite that, some still preferred to stay away from strangers like the Pathfinder. Their distrust could easily be explained by the strong influence of the Roekaar on this planet. Being here, Ryder was content simply with the fact that nobody tried to shoot him on sight only because of him being an alien.

       Having left the safety of the research station behind, he strolled into dense jungles that covered major part of the planet. He didn’t have any particular purpose in mind apart from exploring a bit while he still had the time.

      Due to the abundance of wildlife, it was practically impossible to take a good look around without being in constant fear for your life, so Ryder tried to approach his expedition with caution.

       “Pathfinder, I detect motion in the bushes in front of you. There appear to be two lifeforms engaged in a fight. Be vigilant,” warned him the voice in his head.

       Trusting SAM unconditionally, Ryder turned on tactical vision on his helmet and indeed saw two figures, one of which looked like an angara, and the other one reminded some kind of an animal, most likely a Challyrion, judging by the silhouette. Recalling reports about unnatural mutations which animals on Havarl had undergone, Ryder took out his shotgun, ready both for fight and flight.

With a sharp motion of his hand, he removed the leaves blocking his field of vision only to see Evfra holding a giant beast by its neck. Startled by Pathfinder’s sudden appearance, he got distracted from the animal, which indeed turned out to be a Challyrion, and it managed to break free and go invisible.  

       “Sorry?” mumbled Ryder, still standing with his shotgun drawn out.

       “Hide your weapon”—Evfra shook off bits of non-existent dust from his clothes—“or you might hurt yourself.”

       Ryder removed his weapon back to the holster and took off his helmet, panting. He rubbed his forehead, trying to wipe away the sweat, but instead leaving a dark line from his dirty glove.

       “What are you d—”

       Evfra interrupted Ryder and made a gesture with his hand for the Pathfinder to follow him. “It is best if we don’t stand here. It may have fled now, but it will soon come back with all its pack.”

       “Seems like we meet awfully often lately,” commented Ryder, following Evfra.

       “Yes, unfortunately,” grunted Evfra.  

       “Really, what were the odds that I’d stumble upon you here when you are on another mission.”

       Ryder tried to keep up with Evfra’s pace, even though it was quite challenging for him. The heat made it hard to breathe and the fact that he didn’t know the surroundings didn’t help either. The Resistance leader, it seemed, knew every tree and every winding of the path, while Ryder stumbled and bumped into everything.

       “Actually, it is my day off,” stated Evfra indifferently.

       “Visiting your family?”

       “I have no family to visit,” without hesitation said the angara with voice still clear and unshaken.

       “Oh… I didn’t… I mean, Jaal came here to see his family, so I just assumed…” Ryder apologetically lowered his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He cleared his throat.

       “You didn’t kidnap them, so you have nothing to be sorry for.”

       “Did kett do it?” asked Ryder carefully.

       “There was nobody else to do it. Angara are in no habit of harming their own kind.”

       “Is that why you decided to join the Resistance?” asked Ryder. Actually, this particular question was something that had interested him for a long time.

       “That is why I decided to lead it,” answered Evfra, without giving it a second thought.

       “Seems like we have something in common.”

       Evfra hemmed. He could not see a single thing they had in common.

       “Don’t be so skeptical,” said Ryder, noticing his reaction. “I lost my mom 600 years ago and my dad… Let’s just say, he was supposed to be the Pathfinder, not me.”

       “Jaal mentioned you have a sister.” Evfra began walking more slowly, trying to adjust to Ryder’s speed.

       “Yeah,” simply replied Ryder.

       “And where is she know?” continued Evfra, sensing something must be wrong with this topic.

      “Lying in the cryo pod on the Nexus, waiting until I find at least one place appropriate for a new beginning of a human race.” Ryder stopped in front of a massive tree with long crooked branches. He took off his glove to feel its gnarled desiccated texture. “You know, being in a coma, she now talks even less than you. Really doesn’t provide much moral support, huh?”

       Evfra watched the Pathfinder stand before the tree, illuminated by the bluish light emitted by plants endemic to this planet. The facial expression the Pathfinder had reminded him of that one James showed on Kadara when hearing his careless remark about other human Pathfinders.

      Unlike humans, angara not only expressed their emotions freely, but were also able to sense true feelings of others, even in spite of poor manifestation. Evfra mostly expressed anger, impatience and persistence, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know the other ones.

      Misery, despair, grief. He had seen it all long before.

      Not being a master of leading fruitful conversations, he tried to change the topic as best as he could.

      “Was it beautiful on Earth?” he asked, seemingly genuinely interested.

      Ryder made an effort to pull himself together, put on the glove, and turned his reddened face to Evfra.

      “It was. No matter where you went, all places were different. It took years to discover all things that inhabited it and to understand their purpose. I cannot really do justice describing life on Earth, because it is impossible to turn into words.”

      “It is hard to believe such a place existed.”

      “I hope it still does,” said Ryder, and a faint smile appeared on his face. “Being here, sometimes I like to imagine returning to Earth and seeing how everything has changed.”

      “You have already been to some “golden worlds”, as you call them, in our cluster. Did you like any of them?”

      “Well, most of them don’t look the way we expected…”—Ryder rubbed his nose clumsily and gave Evfra another barely noticeable smile—“but even if we imagine that they are habitable… I don’t know. I just don’t think I’ll ever see the place that’s able to make me feel the same way Earth did.”

      “Really?”—some kind of playful air appeared around Evfra; Ryder had never seen him like that before—“Follow me then.”

      James didn’t understand the sudden change, but decided to give in to this strange challenge. He followed Evfra closely, carefully stepping over weird plants and avoiding curious insects hitting him right into his face after approaching way too close. This time the tempo of their walk wasn’t as fast, so it was easier for him to follow.

      They didn’t say a word, but this silence was not at all burdening. Ryder listened to how the wilderness sounded, observed how the Havarl jungles lived and transformed in real time. They didn’t look like anything he had ever seen before yet felt so intimate and not at all threatening, even though they should have.

       Ryder was thinking about how he could prolong this moment and never come back to the Tempest, when they approached an enormous dark wall. It was part of the remnant construction, the likes of which were scattered all around the planet. The cracks in it were glowing with blue and turquoise light, adding to the gleam created by fluorescent plants and fungi.

       “Ready for a quick climb?” asked Evfra the dumbfounded Pathfinder.

       “Only if there’s a safe way down,” said Ryder, although intending to climb up there anyway. It wasn’t every day that he got the opportunity to experience something Evfra willingly wanted to share.

       Evfra started ascending first, showing where it was better to put a foot or a hand. Ryder watched attentively and repeated every step.

      The remnant constructs were as solid and firm as they could be, so there was almost no chance something would collapse under him. Getting used to the overall rhythm of their movements, he began finding his own way up, climbing differently from Evfra.

      Repetitive actions made him dive deep into his thoughts about the remnants and the role they played in the survival of this planet. He couldn’t grasp even the smallest impact they really had on the history and development of life here, and it scared him. Facing such a strong and incomprehensible force made him doubt his most significant success as well as the future of his endeavors.  

       Engulfed into his reflections, Ryder didn’t notice one piece of the construct that was about to fall out and grabbed it. His hand slipped, weighed down by the piece now detached from the wall.

As soon as Evfra heard rustling and swarming under him, he looked down only to see Ryder pathetically hanging on one hand.

       “There is no rest beside you,” he sighed and lowered himself to grab Ryder by his loose arm and pull him up.

       “Thanks,” mumbled the Pathfinder ablush. It really bugged him that whatever he did in front of Evfra led to him embarrassing himself.

       “We are not far, hold on for a little longer.” Evfra’s voice almost sounded comforting and Ryder though that it was unusual for him to be like that.

       After a few more minutes of climbing, they finally reached the top of the construct. Evfra made it up first and offered the Pathfinder his hand once again. Ryder did not attempt to refuse.

       “If you wanted to show me the view from above, we could have just used the Mithrava Ascent,” stated Ryder, overcoming the last obstacle while tightly gripping Evfra’s hand. Having to experience such a treacherous way up, he now wanted to complain a bit to feel better.

       “It is not quite the same. The fog at Mithrava makes it hard to see the real picture. Here the horizon is clear and… there is not a single soul.”

       Red and inhaling jerkily, Ryder got down on his knees to give some rest to his tired limbs and to catch his breath.

       “Take a look,” said Evfra, taking a seat beside Ryder.

       James gazed up slowly and got lost in the open skies. He saw hundreds of stars gleaming through semi-transparent clouds and a huge red Gas Giant taking up a great part of the horizon. It seemed like beyond those starts and clouds he could see other clusters, other galaxies yet unnamed and undiscovered. Beneath the skies lied a sea of trees, living and breathing, the leaves of which whispered in the wind. Dark and bottomless, it reflected the lights of the stars in the glistening surface of plants. From the height he was on, they reminded James of fireflies.

       A strong blow of wind cooled his heated face and made a mess of his short hair. He inhaled calmly, taking his time to fill the lungs with fresh night air, and exhaled. Now there was no place in his mind for the Tempest, for colonies, outposts, and diplomatic fuss. No place for exiles, kett, and all the people they have lost.

       “Here you can pray to your gods. Even if they stayed in your homeworld, they will still hearken,” uttered Evfra under his breath.

       James looked at the other remnant constructs and monoliths towering in the distance. He did not know whom to pray. Everything here was created by someone, but he was alien to this place. For him, there were no gods and no masters, only a vague purpose ahead, unshaped and remote. Far from home, he did not know what destiny awaited his people, but even though he would constantly carry the responsibility for his whole species, now it did not seem that arduous. Now it became an opportunity to outline his own future, intertwined with his people and many others who depended on him.

       “Is it close to how good you’ve felt on Earth?” asked Evfra, his voice still low and quiet.

       “Not even remotely,” said Ryder, smiling to himself. “It is much, much better.”

       He didn’t know for how long they continued to sit there. Frankly speaking, he did not care. He felt like being there at that moment was much more decisive than fighting off hordes of enemies or planning the next offensive.

       When they finally got down, the dreary overgrown forests of Havarl met them with the same apathetic attitude. Nothing altered down here, all the changes remained at the top of the construct and in Ryder’s mind.

       The leader of the Resistance and the Pathfinder exchanged a few words on their way back to the research station, but overall didn’t talk much. Ryder seemed more composed and reserved than ever.

       Being about fifty meters away from the place Ryder was supposed to meet his teammates at, Evfra looked at him one last time and said, “We are quite similar after all, Ryder,” before going his own way.

       “I already told you, my name is—”

       “I remember, no need to repeat,” he threw negligently over his shoulder without turning around.

       The Pathfinder quickly reached the point of destination and was greeted by peacefully snoring Jaal, who leaned on a nearby wall, and nervous Vetra frantically walking back and forth.

       “What. The hell. Is wrong with you?!” she yelled, approaching him and furiously waving her hand. “Three hours! We had to meet in three hours! Not six! That’s twice as much, Ryder, twice!”

       Jaal suddenly woke up because of Vetra’s wailing and rubbed his eyes.

       “Oh, Ryder, finally. Vetra already wanted to go look for you, but I assured her that if you’re lost in the Havarl jungle, there’s nothing she can do about it.”

       Being in high spirits, Ryder laughed off all the questions and inquiries and headed in the direction of the Tempest.

       “Come on, guys, let’s get going,” he appealed to his crewmembers. “The next time we’re in Vortex, drinks are on me.”

       “You are just unbearable, do you know that?” asked Vetra. She was still annoyed no matter what he said in his defense.

       “Yeah, I’ve heard that a few times.”

      “Ask Peebee to go with you when you plan on disappearing for a few hours, she definitely won’t worry about you being eaten by a giant Eiroch or kidnapped by the Roekaar. I am sick and tired, so don’t you even come crawling…”

[carewyncromwell]

Welcome back to the POTC AU! Sorry for the day-long delay -- I was out and away from my computer almost all of yesterday, so I wasn’t able to finish this up until today! XD; But yeah, moving on to the notes...

The information about the Chest and its locking mechanisms, honestly, was all stuff I had to kind of surmise and research, since to my utter shock, there were just about no sources I could find online discussing the process of designing the original Dead Man’s Chest for the Pirates films. There is concept art for it, showing some possible decorative designs for the outside, and there are prop replicas showing the different angles and the inside of the lid -- but there is NO discussion made about the Chest’s construction/locking mechanism or what kind of 18th century or earlier chests may have inspired it. And that kind of blows me away as -- for all of the films’ flaws -- I have to applaud them on taking a lot of historical influences for things, especially in the costume and prop design. I apologize in advance if any of my research on 18th century locks and lock-picking is flawed or incomplete, but I did try my best. XD;

The song “Fifteen Men on a Dead Man’s Chest” was originally featured in the book Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, which was written in the late 1800′s, over a hundred years after the end of the Golden Age of Piracy, but it has since become entwined with the idea of pirates in pop culture, to the extent that it’s also referenced in Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest, where it’s sung by Joshamee Gibbs and of course it inspired the core concept that the movie is named after. The original song was likely about Blackbeard or a similar pirate marooning a bunch of his crewmates, but I changed the meaning slightly to better fit with this narrative.

This version of Davy Jones, who is in truth an AU!Finn McGarry, belongs to @theguythatdraws Ican’twaittotrydrawinghimsoon, while Juliette “Jules” Farrier-Weasley belongs to @cursebreakerfarrier...and the previous part of this AU is here, while the entire tag is here! Hope you all enjoy! xoxo

x~x~x~x

Cutler Beckett did turn out to be just as unpleasant as Skye and Orion had suggested. Pretty quickly Carewyn could suss out that this so-called “businessman” had no loyalty to or caring for anyone or anything besides himself and his vested interests, namely his own wealth and status.

Unfortunately Percy was not as quick to catch onto that, presumably because of Beckett’s stated interest in supposedly bringing all pirates to justice and (Carewyn suspected) the fact that Beckett had spoken on Percy’s behalf before he was named a Captain himself. Part of Carewyn wanted to chastise Percy for letting himself be blinded by Beckett’s attempt to manipulate him, but she knew she couldn’t risk doing so. Not only would it make Percy and therefore Beckett suspicious that she was more sympathetic to their enemies (namely, Orion, Bill, and other pirates), but she also didn’t want to come down too hard on Percy. She knew that Percy, being the youngest Weasley brother in the Navy, had a lot to prove, especially considering that his “older brother” (namely, Carewyn) was a well-respected Commodore and war hero. Even his real older brothers had gotten their fair share of glory while they were enlisted in the Navy and now were seen as wanted criminals...so it was little wonder that Percy was determined to stand apart from them, not just as great in his own right, but ultimately better because he didn’t “fall from grace” like they did.

Cutler Beckett stayed at Governor Farrier’s mansion for the next week and visited the fort just about every day in that time. Whenever he was there, he pretty frequently sought Carewyn out, engaging her in conversation and asking her about her experiences fighting the Spanish and in escaping from the crew of the Revenge. Carewyn didn’t enjoy his rather pointed attention, but she hid her discomfort and mistrust as best as she was able. As much as she really found herself disliking the man, she knew that Beckett trying to get to know her better could give her the opportunity to get some information on him too. And ultimately, her polite, charming affect did help her learn a few things.

“From there, it was simply a matter of applying the proper pressure to the cylinder with one of the hat pins, while pushing the pins into the proper alignment with the other,” Carewyn explained. “Once the padlock on my chains was properly unlocked, I was then able to adjust enough to still look like I was locked up, wait for one of the enemy soldiers to enter my cell, and then overpower him so I could take his uniform, weapons, and keys and escape.”

“You truly are quite an escape artist, Commodore,” said Beckett, his eyebrows raising approvingly. “I’m impressed.”

Carewyn offered a casual smile. “Thank you -- but I only learned those things out of necessity, Lord Beckett.”

‘Jacob and I knew we’d both have to know how to pick locks, if we ever had to escape the Revenge’s brig. And even before that, it helped keep Grandfather happy, for us to be able to open chests of loot we didn’t have keys for.’

“It’s not a skill set I like to use if I can help it, considering I’d much prefer to be the one locking others up, not vice-versa.”

“Yes,” said Beckett, “I suppose for one with such a strong moral compass as yours, it would be only natural for you to wish to enforce justice, rather than fight against it.”

“Just as I’d say it’s only natural for a gentleman such as yourself to work toward the protection of our realm and interests -- am I right?”

“Of course,” said Beckett airily. “Someone has to make sure that people get what they pay for and that business remains profitable -- make sure the world turns properly, as it were.”

“A difficult proposition for any one man to do,” said Carewyn lowly, “considering this wild, untamed world we live in.”

Beckett smiled -- unlike Carewyn’s, however, there was no warmth in it at all.

“Fortunately, Commodore, the world we’ve been saddled with will soon be a thing of the past.”

He and Carewyn looked out over the wall of the fort. Down below, at the western dock, several rows of newly arrived red-garbed militia were disembarking from a Man o’ War and marching into Port Royal.

“As the map is filled in, our hold around this world becomes better defined,” said Beckett. “Its treasures are collected, its value assessed...and with that, a new sense of order begins to take hold.”

Carewyn looked down at the Man o’ War, her eyes narrowing slightly. She hadn’t seen such a strong military presence in Port Royal since the War against the Spanish -- and yet, here they were, being used not against foreign countries, but against individual people -- some of them even British citizens. As much as she knew that there were plenty of pirates that weren’t as goodhearted as Orion, it still seemed bizarre to her to unload all this firepower to destroy and kill, as opposed to capturing.

“And hopefully, peace,” said the Commodore softly.

Beckett glanced at Carewyn with a discerning eye. “Indeed. Peace and order do go hand-in-hand, wouldn’t you say?”

‘Not if the order is being instilled by a tyrant,’ she thought, as Charles Cromwell rippled over her mind.

“Definitely,” she lied instead.

Carewyn glanced at Beckett out the side of her eye, before turning her gaze out to the ocean.

“...I only profess as much knowledge to this matter as one can acquire, fighting against the likes of Orion Amari and being in the captivity of a pirate crew like the Revenge’s,” she said in the hardest, least sympathetic voice she could, “but it seems to me that pirates know their existence is unsustainable. Regardless of how renown they are and how much they can terrify merchant sailors, they’re still only men, facing off against Empires and kings. And as the world is plotted out -- as you yourself pointed out, Lord Beckett -- there will soon be less and less havens where such criminals can hide...”

She then looked at Beckett with a cold look in her eye.

“...From the way things stand...it seems to me that it would be in their best interest to stand down while they still can.”

'It would be, if there was any true justice for those who turned themselves in.’

Beckett’s lips spread into a slightly wider, cold smile as he inclined his head in agreement. “Well said. There could always be clemency, for those who embrace that wisdom -- it’s just good business.”

With this conversation, Carewyn had gotten a proper fix on Beckett, and it made her feel more disconcerted. It only got worse when later that week, both she and Percy were summoned into Carewyn’s own office at the fort for a meeting with Beckett. Some might have been offended at the idea of someone coming in and stealing their office just to demand a meeting with the office’s owner, but Carewyn honestly couldn’t make herself care too much about that. She couldn’t help but think that Beckett being so forceful could only be a bad thing, and when she arrived in her office, Percy right behind her dressed in his shiny new Captain’s uniform and powdered white wig, she immediately got the feeling she was right.

Beckett had already made himself very at home in Carewyn’s office. A crystal decanter filled with red wine and several glasses had been laid out and an entire map complete with tiny soldier pieces plotted in different positions covered nearly all of Carewyn’s desk. There was also an even larger map that had been applied to the back wall, which an employee was currently adding more details onto with his paintbrush. Standing in front of Carewyn’s desk across from Beckett was a middle-aged woman with hair as ginger red as Percy and Carewyn’s -- when the two officers first entered the room, her sharp-lidded dark blue eyes ran over both of them, lingering on Carewyn critically.

“Ah,” said Cutler Beckett, his lips spreading into a smile as his eyes narrowed upon Carewyn, “Commodore and Captain Weasley. Good of you to come.”

Carewyn and Percy both saluted.

“Lord Beckett,” Carewyn greeted formally.

She glanced at the older woman out the side of her eye, to find that she was likewise still looking her over with narrowed eyes. Carewyn couldn’t help but look at her suspiciously in return -- Percy had said Beckett had a female associate...and, if Charles Cromwell was to believed, then this woman had to be  --

“Allow me to introduce my associate, Patricia Rakepick,” said Beckett smoothly. “Madam Rakepick -- this is Captain Percy Weasley, and his elder brother, Commodore Carey Weasley.”

Carewyn’s blood ran cold. Being face-to-face with the woman who tried to kill Jacob was like a dose of cold, shuddering poison to her system. It took everything in her to not look at Rakepick with wrathful, vengeful hatred -- instead, she tried to hide the bile she felt by bowing respectfully, her head slightly bowed to obscure her expression.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madam,” she said softly. Somehow her voice came out levelly, despite the rage pulsing through her blood.

Rakepick’s eyes narrowed a bit more on Carewyn’s face.

“The pleasure’s all mine, Commodore,” she said, but she didn’t sound quite so convincing -- she almost immediately turned back to Beckett, looking noticeably impatient, “Lord Beckett, you can’t think that these -- ”

Beckett held up a hand to silence her and turned to the employee working on the map. “One moment -- Mr. Elliot, you may stop there, for today. On your way, now.”

The employee bowed his head respectfully, before descending from his ladder and quickly leaving the office. The door shut with a SNAP behind him.

“Now then,” said Beckett, as he rose to his feet, “Commodore...Captain...I invited you here to request a favor of you. Madam Rakepick has recently uncovered a rather unique and valuable artifact.”

Carewyn’s eyebrows furrowed. Even Percy looked startled.

“What artifact is that, your Lordship?” he asked.

Beckett poured some red wine and offered a glass to Carewyn. She accepted it to be polite, but did not drink it. He then similarly offered a glass to Percy, who took a sip, even if he still looked a bit confused.

“How familiar are you both with the legend of Davy Jones?” asked Beckett.

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The captain of the Flying Dutchman?”

“Well, I’ve...heard the stories, of course,” said Percy, glancing at Carewyn uncertainly. “We both have -- the silly things the soldiers would pass around, at sea...ghost stories, you know...”

Rakepick scoffed, crossing her arms. “‘Ghost stories’ -- and these two are supposed to be sailors? Any sailor worth their salt knows that these things are hardly just stories -- ”

“Madam, please,” Beckett cut her off very coolly, as Percy frowned deeply, clearly offended. “I’m afraid the stories are indeed real. We now have the Chest to prove it.”

He reached under his desk and placed an intricately carved iron treasure chest on top of Carewyn’s desk.

It looked older than anything Carewyn had ever seen, and yet also oddly beautiful -- the inset lock framed by the moon’s phases and stylized flames, and iron tentacles clutched at the lid as if keeping it shut.

Carewyn immediately put down her full wine glass on a side table so as to walk up to the chest, trailing a hand along the heart-shaped lock.

“This is the Dead Man’s Chest?” she whispered.

Percy glanced at Carewyn. “The Dead Man’s Chest? Like in the song?”

Carewyn shook her head. “‘Fifteen Men on a Dead Man’s Chest’ was about this Chest, Perce. It’s said that Jones was so determined that no one know where he buried this treasure chest that he abandoned the entire crew who knew of its existence on that island with nothing but a bottle of rum to sustain them.”

“Leaving them to take the secret of its location to their graves,” said Beckett. He was idly playing with a silver piece of eight in his right hand as he spoke, his eyes resting on Carewyn. “Alas, it seems that the key needed to open the Chest may be in a location we cannot reach -- ”

He shot a cool look at Rakepick, who looked very affronted and opened her mouth to say something, but couldn’t before Beckett spoke again.

“ -- so I’d like to ask for your expertise on the matter, Commodore. Can this Chest be opened, without its key?”

Carewyn looked from Beckett to down at the Chest, unable to hide the trepidation completely from her face.

“...I can’t say for sure,” she said slowly. Her mind was working very fast as she regarded Beckett with a cautious look. “Were it an ordinary chest, I daresay it’d be easy enough to find a way to open it...but if there were any kind of curse placed on it or, more importantly, the treasure inside it...it might not be wise to try to break it open.”

“Curse?” repeated Percy disbelievingly. “Carey, you can’t be serious -- ”

“I saw the curse of Isle de Muerta with my own eyes, Percy,” she reminded him sharply. “If the Dead Man’s Chest has such a curse on it, it would not be worth the risk to open it, no matter how valuable its treasure is.”

Percy immediately quieted, looking a bit uncomfortable. Rakepick once again looked Carewyn over with a critical eye, even as she gave another light sniff.

“The treasure inside is not magical, so it would have no chance of hurting us, that is for certain,” said Rakepick dryly. “And from all the evidence I’ve gathered, I found nothing hinting that Finn McGarry -- pardon, Davy Jones -- was particularly adept at curses. All of the abilities he has now were a result of the role bestowed upon him by Calypso, as ferryman of the damned.”

Her face then turned much more serious.

“I will agree with the Commodore on one thing, though: Jones’s Chest will be too strong for the likes of a single man to break open. Look at the lid -- there are dead bolt locks around the entire Chest. The only way we’ll be able to unlock it is if I fetch the key from Jones myself -- ”

“And yet the Commodore thinks it’d be easy enough, to find a way to open the Chest without that key,” said Beckett rather coolly, raising his eyebrows as he once again shifted his gaze to Carewyn. “Commodore -- if you would?”

Carewyn looked from the Dead Man’s Chest to Beckett again, before glancing back at Percy. Percy gave her an encouraging nod, but it didn’t make Carewyn feel any better. She wished beyond reason that Charlie or Bill had been there instead -- they’d understand why she was so hesitant to help someone like Cutler Beckett.

But at the same time...she couldn’t refuse. She was put in the position that she had to open the Chest, if she wanted to stay on Beckett’s good side and keep the position that allowed her to protect Bill, Jules, Charlie, Jacob, and Orion. Even if she did refuse to open the Chest, then Beckett would no doubt find someone else who would...and would also likely not trust Carewyn enough to let her overhear any more information that could help her protect the others.

'If the treasure inside isn’t cursed, then there isn’t much reason to refuse,’ she thought grimly. ‘And lining Beckett’s pockets with a bit more gold would only help me help the others that bit more, by earning his trust.’

And so, swallowing back the ball of fear in her throat, Carewyn started looking over the Chest. She turned it around a few times, examining the hinges and the dead-bolts lining the base of the lid.

“What do you think, Carey?” asked Percy anxiously.

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed upon the Chest as she ran a hand over the top and pushed down on each of the iron tentacles one at a time.

“Its construction most resembles an armada chest -- some of the Spanish captains used them to hold their valuables during the War, and I’ve seen some pirates use them too, to hold their loot,” she murmured to him, though she could feel Rakepick hovering over her other shoulder as she worked. “On armada chests, the locking mechanism is actually built into the inside of the lid -- that explains the dead bolts around the edges. It also would prevent you from just unscrewing the hinges on the back of the chest and opening it from the back, like you can on a lot of wooden chests. But armada chests usually have a false keyhole on the front, with the real keyhole being hidden under a flap on the lid. This one does not. Judging by the construction of the keyhole, there looks to be a double cylinder design -- one that requires pressure on both sides of the keyhole, as well as the pins inside both cylinders to be in the proper position...”

She looked up at Beckett.

“...It’s easily the most complicated locking system I’ve ever seen on any chest,” she said grimly.

“Can you open it?” asked Beckett.

Carewyn steadied her jaw, her face blanching slightly as she inclined her head in a short nod.

“I think so.”

Beckett got Carewyn the tools she needed. Due to the two-sided nature of the keyhole, she enlisted Percy to help her -- he had far less experience with opening locks, but he followed Carewyn’s directions as closely as he could.

After almost an hour, there was a loud, booming CLICK as all twelve of the dead bolts around the lid popped out and the lid opened a crack, letting off a small gasp of dust.

“You did it!” said Rakepick.

Despite the seriousness of her expression, there was a slight echo of excitement and awe at the back of her voice. She was clearly impressed.

Carewyn stared at the slightly open Chest. Her heart was slamming up against her rib cage anxiously.

Nothing had happened, when she’d opened it -- so had the Chest not been cursed, after all? That was a relief. And Rakepick had said the treasure inside wasn’t cursed, so...

Tentatively Carewyn reached out a hand and slowly eased the lid open.

When she saw what was inside, though, she couldn’t hold back a sharp intake of breath.

The Dead Man’s Chest was devoid of any of the gold or jewels she’d envisioned. Instead, all it held was a slimy, reddish, pulsing, thumping thing about the side of a coconut.

It was a human heart, still beating lowly despite no blood rushing through it.

Percy squeezed Carewyn’s shoulder as he looked down at it too, visibly taken aback.

“Is...that...?”

“The heart of Davy Jones,” finished Rakepick darkly, “first cut out when he was named captain of the Flying Dutchman -- for the Dutchman must always have a captain who’s left his heart behind in the world of the living. Only then can he truly be a subjective judge of the dead and dying at sea...and thus the souls of the damned will not haunt the seas and terrorize all those who sail it.”

Carewyn’s eyes were very wide. ‘Then...the treasure Jones locked away was his own heart?’

Rakepick’s dark blue eyes flickered down to the heart rather pitilessly.

“Not that Jones hasn’t done a fine job of terrorizing those who sail those seas all on his own, over the years,” she added very dryly.

“All the more reason for us to bring Jones into our enterprise.”

Beckett rose from his desk again. Taking a sip from his own glass of red wine, he came around to purposefully take a step between Percy and Carewyn and look down at the heart himself. His lips curled up in a dark smile as he reached out a hand and picked up the heart to get a better look at it.

“Whoever controls the heart of Davy Jones...controls the sea,” said Beckett.

He gave it a rather tight squeeze. Carewyn couldn’t stop herself from flinching.

‘If that thing is still beating,’ she couldn’t help but think, ‘then does that mean that it’s the only thing keeping Davy Jones alive? If so...’

She felt like her own chest was being squeezed.

‘...Beckett’s holding Davy Jones’s life in the palm of his hand.’

For all of the terrifying stories Carewyn had heard about Davy Jones over the years, both on the Revenge and in the Navy, she found herself feeling nothing but righteous anger and pain at this thought. What a disgusting, terrible thing to do to anyone -- no matter how awful a person they were...

There was a loud splash outside the window of Carewyn’s office.

Carewyn, Percy, Rakepick, and Beckett all looked up, to see a giant, terrifying ship erupting out of the waves just outside the fort. It was a sickly gray with torn sails and a bow cut into a set of massive, jagged jaws like a crocodile.

“The Flying Dutchman,” breathed Carewyn, hardly daring to believe it.

Beckett’s smile broadened, actually showing some teeth. “A rather fine addition to the fleet -- especially considering that it can go just about anywhere and travel in record time...”

Rakepick turned to Beckett sharply.

“If that’s the case, the first thing we should do is have him hunt down Black Jack Roberts. I know he made a deal with Jones -- he’ll have a way to track him down and kill him once and for all -- ”

Carewyn’s heart spasmed in horror, but fortunately no one else in the room noticed the fear flashing through her face.

“Didn’t you say you already destroyed the Tower Raven?” said Beckett coolly. “One can hardly see a pirate with no ship as a real threat.”

“Don’t underestimate Black Jack Roberts,” said Rakepick lowly. “By all accounts, he should’ve died, and he would have, if he hadn’t somehow managed to recruit a merman to his crew -- ”

Percy sputtered in disbelief. “‘Merman’ -- you mean, like mermaids? Those are real too?”

“Afraid so,” said Carewyn.

Her mind and heart were both racing, but she tried desperately to keep her cool. She couldn’t let them go after Jacob...or Duncan, either, if he was the merman who’d helped him like she suspected. Now that she knew the true power Beckett now had, thanks to her opening that Chest for him, she couldn’t stand by and let him use it to hurt her brother --

“...I can’t say I know much about Black Jack Roberts, aside from him being captain of the Tower Raven...” she said slowly, “...but it seems to me that attacking one man would be a poor way to use the weapon we’ve acquired.”

All three of the others looked at her. Beckett raised his eyebrows in keen interest.

“And what would you say would be a better way to use it, Commodore?” he asked, sounding intrigued.

Carewyn’s eyes drifted away from the others as she walked up to the window of her office and looked out, her arms crossed behind her back as she went. She tried to keep her face as stoic as possible, even with how scared she truly felt.

‘In order to pass up the chance to hunt down and kill one of the most wanted pirates in the world,’ she thought, ‘I have to offer an even more enticing option...’

The idea forming in her mind made her feel ill.

‘It’s been over two weeks since I saw Jules, Bill, and Charlie,’ she thought very quickly. ‘That’s more than enough time to have made the repairs to the Revolution and get some new crew members, especially if Orion and the crew of the Artemis is helping them. And...whether they’re just leaving or have already left...this way, they’ll know the true extent of the danger. All pirates will know what the Navy’s new weapon is...and can prepare for it.’

She closed her eyes solemnly.

“...I say we send a message to all pirates -- one that makes them tremble in their boots, the way they’ve made merchant sailors tremble at the sight of their black flags...by attacking them where they’ve always felt most safe. By arresting them somewhere they all gather together, in one place.”

She opened her eyes again, her gaze blazing as she turned back to Beckett.

“I say...we sack Tortuga.”

[liskantope]

Hopefully this will be my last-ever post complaining about what someone said on social media, because current events are simmering down and once they’ve reached a moderate enough hum I’m going to redouble my previous efforts to stay away from it. But the particular interaction I’m going to describe seems to have furthered my progress slightly in understanding why so many people shout their views in the way that they do and how I should learn to better accept it.

One of my “closest” Facebook friends for over a decade, whose life’s passion nowadays revolves around anti-racist work (mainly in childhood education; she is white) posted a few hours after Biden’s victory was officially called last Saturday to preach that white Biden-voters shouldn’t claim any of the credit for his victory because it was BIPOC and particularly black women who carried this election (her justification for why they “carried us” was that as a demographic group most of them voted for Biden while as a demographic group a majority of white people voted for Trump), and that nothing will be better now except for who is in the White House because “whiteness and white supremacy have not disappeared” and that “your” responsibility is not diminished and “you” are not absolved as a good white person. She ended with an exhortation to bow down and “bend your knees” to BIPOC for “saving our asses”.

(Just realized looking back at her post to write this one that the phrasing was not “bend the knee” as I repeatedly misread at the time, assuming that it was a direct reference to Game of Thrones of which I know she’s a fan, and having recently listened to this insightful 8-minute Sam Harris podcast episode which used the phrase. This is slightly unfortunate since it was the obnoxiousness of that particular phrasing which tipped me over to acting against my better judgment in not just ignoring this like I have with so many dozens of other statements. I still find it obnoxious, though, and sanctimonious, and terrible messaging, and using poor arguments about causation, and reflecting an insistence on viewing as much as possible in terms of race at all times, and the epitome of identity politics.)

So yeah, after waiting a couple of days, I broke my usual silence and wrote a very polite but argumentative response that turned out to be enough paragraphs to make me feel a little embarrassed that I would take that much of my time on it. I knew there was virtually no chance of convincing her of anything substantial, but I figured just maybe some insight into how foreign and alienating this “you are responsible for what everyone of your color does and are never good enough and have to kneel in deference to those of a color which is” messaging is bound to be to anyone who’s less in an academic bubble than we are (which is, like, most people). I made the point that individual BIPOC didn’t contribute any more than individual white people did to Biden’s victory and that if we’re going to judge blocs of voters according to race we should be blaming Cuban-Americans for Biden’s loss in Florida, and that in fact Trump gained votes from among BIPOC and lost white male votes since four years ago. I wrote that implying that the only salient feature of us individuals is race is exactly what people complain about when they use the term “identity politics” and that the results of this election suggest that maybe we’re doing something wrong with our messaging.

It wasn’t a disaster. I got a very cordial response which completely avoided ad hominem and at least engaged the points I had made while clarifying her views. I didn’t find the supposed rebuttals of my points at all convincing, of course. For instance, my complaint about treating individual voters as merely people of a certain color was met with “It’s important in anti-racist scholarship to be able to analyze demographic trends in terms of race” (I would... never disagree with this?) and that focusing on individuals allows people to only look at their own actions and those of their friends and feel too good about themselves. She also expressed skepticism about my statistics about where Trump gained/lost support, which I was able to back up with a quick Google search which pulled up a Vox article among others (I thought it was only the insufficiently committed white liberals like me who sucked at Googling?). But her own views, while still resting on axioms I fundamentally differ on, just sounded a lot more reasonable when restated? E.g. “Moments like this shouldn’t be centered on whiteness” and “the ‘good white liberals’ should be aware that they aren’t as a big of a demographic in our race as they should be” (I don’t know any white liberal who would disagree or who doesn’t realize that white people vote majority Republican or is okay with that?) and that the bowing and bending the knee was not “a literal statement” but simply meant to convey that we should greatly respect how BIPOC voters contribute. She ended with providing a long list of anti-racist activists (the only one of whom I’m familiar with is Ally Henny, who I mainly remember for statements about how I’m encased in so many layers of racism that I would never be able to peel them off if I spent my whole lifetime doing nothing but trying) as a “starting point” of study.

I replied thanking her for pointing me to sources and agreeing with her implication that I should read more with a mind towards understanding what they’re saying before spouting off any more opinions. (Guess I have to make good on that promise now.) I made clear that I see a difference between her restatements and the way she worded things in her original post and suggested that some of this might even be on me for interpreting these kinds of posts more as logical arguments when they should be understood in a slightly more poetic manner. I gently gestured towards my suspicion that the current scholarship in this area might reflect a university culture (which I am very much a part of) more than the concrete priorities and concerns of the majority of people of color, although I’m in no position to positively claim anything about this. I got no response.

Anyway, in writing my last response, a little more clicked into place for me about a different lens through which I should process all the behavior that drives me nuts in a written context online (I mainly mean social media but am being even broader than that). This is going to sound condescending but ironically it might help me to have a less condescending attitude?

The fact is -- and I just have to accept this -- that making efforts to be nuanced and to “meet people who disagree where they are at” and to aim for the truth but no farther than the truth are simply not highly-valued principles for most people (social media -users and otherwise). They may kinda-sorta agree in the abstract with these principles, but in practice they hold a much lower status than the principles of conveying anger and strong words as a sign of commitment towards Fighting Evil. Some people I know do have an “argumentation value system” closer to mine, and I know who those people are -- it really shows in what they write online. But those people are a fairly small minority.

And this alien “argumentation value system” isn’t something that really shows in casual real-life interactions very plainly at all (which of course is what almost all human interactions were up until 10-15 years ago), while in contrast social media is an environment that augments its effect.

The sooner I accept this, the more moderation I’ll be able to manage in my negative reactions. I can remind myself that there’s less fundamental disagreement on most actual issues between me and the people I know: we instead disagree on a sort of meta-level issue of how one’s views should be presented. And that issue, taken by itself, seems somehow like something more minor. I wrote a few months ago about how knowing what so many people in my life write publicly oftentimes interferes with my capacity to view them as potential intimate friends/partners. Maybe I can be a little more accepting when I recognize that the things they write which turn me off perhaps don’t come from a place of such irrationality as I thought, that the differences in our ways of thinking might not be quite so fundamental (although this differing system of values for argumentation still strikes me as something that could badly affect a marriage, say). And in the practical short term, I can ignore things that bother me more easily in the future -- instead of feeling like I’m on a tilted playing field where everyone else gets to vent without inhibition while I have to carefully monitor and qualify everything I say, I can try to just round a lot of this off in terms of different preferred writing styles and somehow that bothers me less?

A similar underlying principle holds for the things that annoy me on dating profiles, what with the collective obsession with dogs and boasts of being “fluent in sarcasm” and so on. This probably doesn’t reflect much about the way the creators of these profiles actually are as humans in real life. Not that many single women really view their dogs as the most interesting thing that ever was or will be about their lives. They just choose to have a certain style of exposition about themselves because of peculiarities of the environment of online dating sites/apps, where showing enthusiasm and individuality in some way seems to pay and the topic of dogs would seem like a pretty safe place to direct this performed enthusiasm. Doesn’t mean that it doesn’t demonstrate some aspect of incompatibility with me or that I’m not going to be more instantly attracted to those with profiles that have more refreshing things to say than stuff about how amazing dogs are or of those who *gasp* actually prefer cats or *deeper gasp* prefer not to have pets at all. But it means that I can read the dogs-and-sarcasm-enthusiast profiles a little more charitably maybe?

This slightly altered mindset is a far from perfect solution, but I think it helps. A lasting three-quarters-of-the-way disconnect from social media entirely still needs to be a goal at this point.