#it's tragic enough with her damn death hanging over it the entire time

[10moonymhrivertam]

Also while I'm soapboxing I shipped River/Doctor until The Husbands of River Song and people like to make edits of all that to hell and back but. Isn't that so lonely? This person matched you and compelled you and knew you and died and refused to give you up. And you could still give her up, for her own sake. It isn't fixed. But the next time she calls for you it's in a language you only read at home. You didn't give her up and you won't give her up. She knows things you don't know, and you assume it pales in comparison to the thing she doesn't know. You come when she calls. She knows your home better than most who have a key. You call yourself to her and she knows things you don't know again, but whatever it is, your other friends know. And you have to bear that and trust them as your memory is tampered with, time and again. And she'll do things for you that you both know you don't want to. So when you're in need, you dare to call for her, for the first time - the only time? And she doesn't. Answer. ...She has a good reason. You learn that even if she didn't know and match and compel you, you would obligate yourself to her on the strength of her connections to your friends alone. Any remaining hope you might someday find the strength to give her up - to keep her off of that planet - evaporates, now that she's your responsibility as well as your mystery. You learn, albeit briefly, what her eyes look like young. You realize that for her, you started the catchphrase that both endears and annoys you. You find out how she knew your name. You learn another of the things she's keeping from you - the one your friends were permitted to know. You prepare. You see her in a suit again, appreciate the parallels, but somehow you forgot - she won't let you go. Everything breaks. You promise never to let her go. Everything moves on. She moves on. She investigates the things she knows you investigate. She investigates the angels. She tells you about her posting. Her introduction rings in your ears. The book is read from. The loop is closing either way - this fixation could take her away before the Library does, and what does all this look like if you lose that? You don't have to find out. You learn you never had to admit to your friends that you knew how she died. It's the only nugget of comfort you have besides telling the story. And she haunts you, not in the way she always has, but like a ghost. You try not to entertain the argument that that's what she's been the whole time. You gave her all twelve faces, even the shameful one. It was the least you could do. So you never even think to hope, when a new friend grants you a new lease on life. And she doesn't recognize you, when she sees you, which is a little upsetting, but she did always have a cheat sheet before. And then she's stalling, but earnest. Lancing a wound to a captive audience.

She thinks you don't love her back.

A lifetime wasn't enough. How will twenty-four years shadowed by impending grief convince her?

[redux-iterum]

Ok, here's a little challenge for you and the editors; roast for me 10 WC couples of your choice.

This was fun! We each took five with a bonus from the editor, and you can read our complaints after the readmore.

LYNX (editor)

Violetshine X Tree: I'm still trying to get through the latter half of AVOS, so I haven't seen their first time meeting up or them falling in love or anything like that. What makes me rather uncomfortable with this couple is that Tree's old enough to be Violetshine's father. Pebbleshine and Hawkwing were already young lovers, but with the release of Tree's Roots, one can calculate Tree to be born around the same time as Hawkwing. He even meets a heavily pregnant Pebbleshine when he's around fifteen months old. Honestly, if his and Violetshine's dynamic in late AVOS is good enough for a Warriors couple, I'm willing to just headcanon him as at most eight months older than her to make it more palatable. By the way, this has nothing to do with the ages when they meet up. Violet's a year old by Darkest Night and nearly an adult if her sister's warrior assessment is anything to go by.

Clear Sky X Storm: It's been some years since I read DotC, but the love drama in The Sun Trail was pretty stupid. Especially the insta-love thing. Maybe it was an insta-attraction? But this is Warriors and we can't have that, noooooooooo...

Clear Sky X Star Flower: Everyone's gone on with how Clear Sky getting with his son's ex is rather dubious, but what is often neglected is the fact that Star Flower can make choices too! She made the choice to go for her ex's dad which is about as questionable as Clear Sky's choice! My personal headcanon is that she's the kitty equivalent of a gold-digger.

Pebbleshine X Hawkwing: Alright, so you're either of these two nitwits who've recently become a warrior. Your very way of life has been drastically upturned by someone you thought you could trust. You've lost family and friends to your betrayal, and what's worse is you've lost your home. The world you've known for your whole life has been ripped form you and you have to keep ambling forward with the hope that the place you'll finally settle in will be worth all this hardship. The path ahead of you is long, uncertain, and dangerous, and you'll need to have a clear head to have a hope of surviving this season. SOUNDS LIKE THE PERFECT TIME TO BOINK AND START A FAMILY, AM I RIGHT?

Bumblestripe X Dovewing: Pushy, inconsiderate, trademark Nice Guy, from questioning why they haven't had children yet at some random meeting to suggesting they have children at her friend's funeral, everyone's said it already. Bumblestripe is not a good cat for Dovewing. I'm glad she's not with him since that makes her happy. But... Tigerfartstar X Dovewing: Yeah, Dovewing, your taste in toms is awful. This temperamental, arrogant, patronizing shipdit, while not as bad as Bimbostripe over there, is still pretty bad. It's been a long while since I read OotS and I haven't yet read Tigerheart's Shadow, but I probably should to get a refresher on why I hate this couple.

DULLARD

Bristlefrost x Rootspring: So ignoring that Rootspring as a -paw is a whiny, overly defensive putz that acts self-conscious about having Tree as his father, Bristlefrost does not ONCE show interest in him. Not once. Count ‘em, zero times. In fact, she’s aware of his crush on her and is embarrassed whenever he comes around and whenever people notice him staring at her. She actively avoids him and speaks curtly, even rudely, to try and drive him off. Then, out of buttfuck nowhere, she says she has feelings for him once he’s a warrior? When they’ve barely interacted beyond her spurring his affections? Fuck with that?

Crowpaw x Feathertail: Feathertail, you’re a nice girl. You’re team mom and almost a second in command to Brambleclaw. Everyone likes you. So why in the good god damn fuck does a pissant like Crowpaw (an apprentice at the time, by the way) deserve your recognition, let alone your love? You could get literally any other cat you wanted to, and you go for the fruit that was formerly hanging the lowest, but dropped off the tree and is now rotting on the floor. He is nothing but a dick to you and only starts being remotely kind two seconds before you die. Please love yourself and do better in StarClan.

Bluefur x Oakheart: Speaking of low hanging fruit, this is a very, very easy one to dunk on. It’s moreso the fact that this entire “relationship” is treated as one of the great tragic romances in this series than anything else. The two of them talk, what, two or three times? And then have exactly one night together before Bluefur kills one of their kits and shoves the other two on him and then that’s it. That’s all they had. A one night stand and child death. What a love story. Why does Bluefur think Thrushpelt is the worse option, again?

Dustpelt x Fernpaw: GOD, this relationship is creepy. I still get simultaneously unnerved and mad whenever I read the first arc, because Dustpelt initially seems like he’ll go with Sandstorm before she stupidly falls in love with Fireheart, but then he sets his sights on someone so much younger than him that he actually asks if he can mentor her instead of his original apprentice (her brother, fun fact). Let me emphasize that, because he is actively seeking a power imbalance in this relationship, and he clearly intends to eventually get with her. Bear in mind that she is still being treated like she’s a young kid, if not a teenager, by the narrative. I could be here all day on this fucking topic, but let’s move on.

Berrynose x Poppyfrost: We all know what I’m going to say here. Berrynose having the brass to say loving things to a dying, agonizing Honeyfern after she spent all this time pining after him, and then less than two months later, he shacks up with her sister. That is the coldest thing he could possibly have done to her. The fact that the writers decided that she’s totally okay with the relationship and takes care of her sister’s dead kits like they’re hers is extra terrible. Like, she still gets the scraps when she’s dead? Seriously?

[alirhi]

okay. let's do this shit.

Guess what, bitches? Mama bear's back and angry all over again. Remember when I said I might dive into a ragepost about how Bucky's treated after completing the one about Loki? This is it. This is the post. Welcome to fucking Thunderdome.

I will actually try to keep it civil. No promises, but I'll try. and I will not be accepting "constructive criticism" about my rage. Just so we're clear.

Got it? Good. Let's dive in.

In case you don't want to read the whole thing (I know I get wordy) here's what this whole post will boil down to: BUCKY NEVER HAD A FUCKING CHOICE. NEVER. NOT ONCE IN HIS ENTIRE ADULT LIFE.

Now, quick reminder: I don't read comics. I know nothing about Bucky's comic canon, except what Sebastian liked to bring up as often as possible during TWS/CW promotions: at some point, Bucky boned Nat. XD Since Bucky only exists as a Marvel property, I won't be bitching about other source material being disrespected like I did with Loki. This is all MCU, my dudes. And honestly? That's enough, because though we don't see nearly enough of Bucky for my liking, we do manage to get a rich, deep backstory to him in the material we're given, partly thanks to better writing in the early days of the MCU, and partly thanks to Sebastian Stan's phenomenal acting. Unlike the writers of the Loki series, Seb knows how to show, not tell. And gods, what stories those eyes show...

Let's start with the army. In an old post illustrating what an absolute BAMF Bucky Barnes truly is, I mistakenly said he enlisted, and a kind soul educated me on the incredible attention to detail Marvel used to pay - in this case, Bucky's ID number. 32557038. As this kind, eagle-eyed soul pointed out to me, the first two digits of that number - 32 - signify that Bucky was drafted, specifically from the NY, NJ, DE area (that last part is rather obvious, as Bucky and Steve are from Brooklyn lol). Bucky didn't choose to go to war. He was drafted. He was forced to fight, or go to prison.

Bucky was born in 1917, which means - again, as someone pointed out to me a while back - he came of age during the Great Depression. As a child, he would likely have seen his parents living comfortably and able to shower each other and him and his sister with gifts and fun memories, and then POOF. Stock market crashes when he's only 12-years-old, and life becomes brutal and painful. He manages to have some fun with his best friend Steve, and spends his teens/early 20s chasing girls and keeping his stupid, stubborn, tiny friend from getting beaten to death.

Steve constantly has something to prove. He's absolutely got what my mom always called "little man's disease", and Bucky's just doing his best not to roll his eyes too much at this asthmatic chihuahua constantly trying to beat up Tibetan mastiffs. While Steve keeps lying on his enlistment forms (an actual crime) trying again and again to get into the army and prove what a badass he is (definitely not), Bucky's had enough trauma and upheaval in his life and he just wants his stupid friend to calm tf down and live. Enjoy the fact that he doesn't have to go to war and get his limbs blown off.

And then he gets fucking drafted. This sweet, resigned realist who knows exactly how dangerous the war really is, is forced to put on a uniform and go fight strangers alongside other strangers thousands of miles from everything he knows. And on his last night of freedom, when he just wants to hang out with his friend, see some cool gadgets, and dance with a pretty girl, his stupid angry chihuahua friend feels the need to lie and try to enlist again.

Okay. Gotta get back on track. Ragepost about mistreatment of Bucky, not how much Steve annoys me. Sorry. Anyway...

Bucky's drafted, accepts his shitty lot with a brave smile, and is shipped off to Europe, where he is captured by HYDRA and presumed by the Allies to be KIA. Instead, he's strapped down, tortured, and given the HYDRA version of the super serum against his will. Steve rescues him, and Bucky knows he can't leave his idiot friend to his own devices to get his head blown off, so he dives right back into the fray. And then he falls off a cliff, loses most of his left arm, and is declared dead...again. This one's pretty damn valid, though lol. Without the serum no one knew he'd been shot up with, there is no way he would have survived that fall.

Here is where Bucky's story gets truly heartbreaking: His autonomy, his ability to consent is stripped from him through electroshock torture/brainwashing. The trigger words are conditioned into him during this process, and boom. Ten words in Russian, and Bucky Barnes is gone. Even the confused, hurting shadow of him is gone, leaving only a perfectly obedient killing machine, with Bucky's pretty face. He's strong as all hell, though, so they can't keep him fully under their control for long, not without more torture, when the disorientation of being fucking frozen wears off on longer missions.

I cannot stress this point enough, guys: Bucky. Had. No. Choice. Not like the draft, where his choices (go and get shot at, refuse and go to jail, or dodge and run to Canada) just suck. No, he literally didn't have a choice. He had his ability to choose stripped from him. If that's too complex a concept to really sink in, try this: His brain was fucking raped. Repeatedly. For decades. Nothing the Winter Soldier ever did was Bucky's fault. Nothing. Ever. Not remotely, no matter how you fucking slice it. Bucky is not an assassin. I almost said "not a killer", but he was a soldier, and a sharpshooter. He definitely killed when he was himself, but that was in a war, not a series of assassinations.

So far, imo, so good. This is just a rundown of Bucky's pre-show backstory. I don't love what he had to suffer, but I do love how it was treated in the movies. People were afraid of him, but when they knew the whole situation, Steve, Nat, and Sam rallied behind him. Natasha had plenty of reason to want the Winter Soldier dead; he'd tried to kill her multiple times and almost succeeded. Sam had no reason to help Bucky at all; he didn't know him, didn't trust him, and again, TWS had tried to kill him. But he stood by Steve, and when Bucky showed the clear difference between himself and TWS, Sam stood by him, too, and fought alongside him.

And it's very realistic, imo, that Tony didn't give a single fuck that Bucky had no choice. He watched this man murder both of his parents on tape. If TWS had killed my dad and I saw proof of it, I'd try to kill Bucky, too. Grief wins out over logic. Most emotions usually do. And that's a very important point we're going to come back to in a few minutes.

Bucky was really only in like ten minutes at most of IW and Endgame, and for multiple reasons I hate those movies, so I'm just gonna skip them, kay? Kay. On to the main event!

Here's where I get pissed off. Even if I didn't have an unhealthy attachment to this character, or the depth of appreciation for his tragic backstory that I do, the lack of continuity between the movies and the show alone would still piss me off. It always does. Don't even get me started on Joss "Continuity? What continuity?" Whedon and his (iconic, but flawed) shows. Ahem. Back on track...

Let me just get one little thing out of the way real quick: I fucking LOVE The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. I love it. This show amazed me when I first watched it, and I still love it after many more viewings lol. I have only ever watched it all the way through without skipping over as much John Walker shit as possible the one time lol but I love how Sam and Bucky interact, and I fucking adore how Sam's arc was treated. I just wish they'd show the same care and attention to Bucky.

Because what they did to Bucky in this show is a fucking travesty. There was a tiny ray of hope in the pilot, when he called out Dr. Bitchface for being a terrible shrink. I thought that would be the start of him realizing he needed to find someone else and ignore the damaging shit that woman was telling him. But...nope. No such luck.

The show really had a strong start, I'll give it that. We see Bucky having nightmares of his time as TWS and struggling to hide how his traumatic memories are affecting him as he tries to live in the world again. He befriends the father of one of HYDRA's victims, which can't be good for Bucky (and we're shown it's definitely not when he sees the shrine in Yori's home to his late son) but it's sweet, how he's trying to connect and reach out to someone who's hurting and lonely.

They drop the ball a little with the whole... Bucky can hack a fucking car, but can't figure out Tinder thing. Had they just run with the fandom interpretation of the tiger photos line, that it shows that Bucky is bi and left it at that, I'd have been okay with it (and no, that is not because I ship Sam/Bucky. it's because Bucky is and always has been a certified nerd who loves technology and has consistently shown very little issue learning to use new gadgets). The outdated flip phone he handed his terrible court-mandated shrink was a burner; I liked that theory when I read it, especially since it's the only time we see him even holding a phone that old lol. This all could have fit the "Bucky is a sassy bisexual nerd" narrative and it'd be okay. Instead, the director was like "NOOOOOO that line was just to show how old he is and how he can't figure out all this newfangled technology!" Woman, you had him remotely driving someone else's vehicle with a tablet. That is NOT a man who can't figure out a damn smart phone!

But that's just a minor annoyance. What fills me with absolute rage is how everyone - not just the shitty therapist who lashes out at and purposely triggers her traumatized patients, but EVERYONE - Sam, Zemo, people who should fucking know better ALL treat him like he's a psychopath and a ticking time bomb. Like he chose to take the serum and he chose to kill for HYDRA, and he's just seen the error of his ways. *barf*

Bucky in the movies is established to be a victim, through and through. His guilt over what he was forced to do is natural, and that he sees himself as a monster makes sense... but that doesn't mean it's correct. The one and only thing I ever liked about Steve Rogers is at least he got it. He pointed out that none of it was Bucky's fault, he tried to show him that he was worth saving. That's the other reason I refuse to talk about Endgame. This post will get a WHOLE LOT LONGER and a lot fucking angrier if I open that door.

Zemo supposedly knows everything about HYDRA and super soldiers... So why does he treat Bucky like he's a corrupt serial killer? (this, for the record, is why I don't like Zemo) Why does he never point out that Bucky was given the serum against his will, or that his actions, when he had control of them, proved that he was never corrupted? Bucky never wanted to become superhuman. Bucky didn't even want to fucking fight!

Sam, despite constantly resisting the label, is shown very clearly to be Bucky's friend. By episode 3, he cares. He worries about how Bucky is getting lumped in with the other super soldiers in Zemo's speech... But he never really defends him. He says "what about Bucky?" but he doesn't point out that Bucky's a good man, he's fought so hard to help people, he does everything he can to avoid killing... And that fucking speech in episode 5. I was with him on "you gotta stop looking to other people to tell you who you are." I was like "YEAH! Tell him, Sam! Bucky, you're WORTH SAVING, boo! Your value does not hinge on someone else's opinion of you!" And then... Sam dropped the ball.

He not only continued the disturbing pattern of victim-blaming in this show, and in Marvel/Disney properties in general, but he gave really dangerously bad advice! No one in their right mind, mental health professional or no, would EVER tell a traumatized former assassin (whether he was responsible for his actions or not) to go confront his victims' families out of the blue with no warning and no one to mediate and keep things from going to shit. Yori already knew his son had been murdered because he was in the "wrong place, wrong time." How is it being "of service" to tell him you're the one who killed him?! Remember how I said Tony's reaction to learning the full truth about his parents' deaths was valid and would be an important point later? Hi! Welcome to later. THAT is the natural reaction to facing the man who murdered your loved one(s). And even if Yori didn't get angry and lash out, HOW IS IT "HELPING" HIM OR BRINGING HIM "CLOSURE" TO KNOW THAT HIS FRIEND KILLED HIS FUCKING SON?!?!?! This man befriended him, bonded with him, watched him grieve... And now he's learning this is the man who caused all his pain and heartache to begin with? That is so toxic and psycho I just... I can't even... UGH.

And then there's the equally toxic and damaging "deeply traumatized person just needed a stern talking to and a hug to be ALL BETTER AGAIN" ending. I loved seeing Bucky happy and socializing, but it was too soon, and it was unearned. And it sends a fucking awful message to people actually struggling with PTSD, and to their loved ones who don't know how to help them. Heaping more blame on them and then hugging it out is NOT helpful!

This show could have been damn near perfect with just two changes. That's all. Just two. 1) Someone, anyone, bringing up the reasons why Bucky was never a villain in his presence. Someone being in his corner and reminding him, like Steve did, that it wasn't his fault and he's not going to "snap". 2) More time devoted to Bucky's healing. Actual fucking healing, not the shit they tried to pass off as a magic fix-all. He can have his happy barbecue moment, just don't frame it as "everything's great now!" Healing isn't linear, and there will be both good days and bad. Some of the most fragile people in the world have the brightest smiles.

If we get a season 2, which this amazing show absolutely deserves, and they address this stuff, all will be forgiven in my book. Expanding on his story and his journey toward healing will help to reframe that "happily ever after" garbage as something more realistic. But as it stands now... Fuck Marvel.

[s1utspeare]

Plz do Midsummer next, I want to know who are all the fairies and and WHO IS TOM SNOUT THE WALL?????

🙏🙏🙏

Thank you i love you I’m so excited for the Shakespeare discourse. 16 yo Shakespeare-in-the-Park me is LIVING

EDIT: WAIT SHIT I JUST REALIZED YOU NEVER SPECIFIED IF YOU WANTED THE DMUTUALBJs OR THE ACTUAL DMBJ CHARACTERS. OH MY GOSH. I’M SCREAMING. THIS HAS BEEN POSTED FOR TWO MINUTES AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF IT’S WHAT YOU WANTED. OH FUCK. OH FUCK. UHHHHHHH. UM. WOW. OKAY. I’M SO FUCKING SORRY FOR THIS. 

OH???? YOU WANT MIDSUMMER????? YOU WANT FUCKING MIDSUMMER???? excellent

Okay, so first off, my ideal Midsummer would be gay (obviously) and involve a lot of playing with space and audience and stuff. Like, I would want it to be in the square and have all the seats on the same level/have the audience actually on the stage, so that when the Lovers are running around in the woods, and the fairies and Puck are doing their thing, they’re literally intermingling with the audience. Athens would be in a separate playing space, for both the beginning and the end, and the Players (with the exception of Bottom) would never get to mingle in the audience, because they are so fully enshrouded in their own acting and the world of the play that they are blind to the fact that they’re simultaneously playing and being played. At the end of the play, Puck would step up into that separate playing space to indicate physically that the play is done, they are no longer intermingling with us, and we are now separated from this reality that they have created over the course of the play (this has nothing to do with y’all, I’m just using this opportunity to nerd out about my ideal production specs lmao) and thereby physically releasing us from that space. 

BUT THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT. NOW. I’M SHIFTING INTO DIRECTING MODE AND CASTING THIS SHOW USING THE DMUTUALBJs, THE TAG OF WHICH I’M STEALING FROM SIERRA (also sorry i do not have the skills nor the patience to edit y’all’s icons on characters like they did I am not that good @jockvillagersonly i would die for u). 

HERE WE GO:

First up: the Lovers

Hermia: “though she be but little, she is fierce!” lmao I’m sorry @cross-d-a that’s gotta be you. I love Hermia bc she’s very sweet most of the time, except when she’s been wronged, and then YOU BETTER WATCH OUT CAUSE SHE’S GOING OFF, and I feel like Cross imbues that energy very well. She’ll cut a bitch for her friends, but is also the loveliest person you’ve ever met. 

Helena: Helena’s got to be @humanlighthouse. Sorry, I don’t make the rules. Not only do I want her to step on me, I also think that she’d be willing to throw down in a forest. Plus, she and Cross would have very good stage energy, I think. 

Demetrius: ok here’s where things get interesting, cause you remember when I said I wanted this to be gay right? SO that means we’re playing this with underlying currents of *internalized homophobiaaaa* which means that Demetrius is actually going after Lysander instead of Hermia; or so she thinks. She’s chasing after the closest male-identifying person in the group, but REALLY wants Hermia, and under THAT ends up wanting Helena, who she’s really intimidated by actually, which is why she’s so rude to her in the first parts of the play. And who will play this wonderfully complex Demetria? None other than @vishcount. Again, the STAGE CHEMISTRY BABES. also I think vish would bring a very lovely complexity to this role. 

Lysander: Lysander is actually like my favorite character in this play??? I have no idea why, but I really love him. He’s very endearing and sweet, and just wants to make his girlfriend happy. So for this role I’m casting @psychic-waffles, who I feel would embody this character very well bc I love Jack. 

Alright NEXT: the Players

Peter Quince: they’re the only writer in this thing, so I feel like this HAS to be @merinnan. Also, Meri-jie tries to wrangle crowds of dumbasses everyday in the Discord server and does an INCREDIBLE job, so I feel like Head Writer/Head Bitch works very well here. 

Nick Bottom: who ELSE would I cast except for @jockvillagersonly. Not only are they funny enough to portray this absolute COMEDY role, I feel like they would really ham it up onstage, which is what Nick Bottom needs. Also I would like to lovingly force them into getting more sleep, so if rehearsals for the scenes where Bottom is Passed The Fuck Out go a little long, who’s gonna know??? 

Francis Flute: Francis Flute holds a special place in my heart bc in my university’s production of Midsummer, one of my friends played him, and he was funny as fuck, so for this role I’m going with @bookjoyworm. I think Joy absolutely would be fantastic as Thisbe, and have a very dramatic and tragic death scene (which, coincidentally, is often the only part of the Play Within A Play that’s actually acted well, and I think that Joy could pull off that bait-and-switch). 

Tom Snout: YOU KNOW WHAT NOPEY, IT’S FUCKING YOU. YOU ARE THE WALL. LITERALLY THE FUNNIEST FUCKING SHIT I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY ENTIRE DAMN LIFE. I LOVE TOM SNOUT AND I LOVE YOU. 

Snug the Joiner: Snug the Joiner is literally just a cutie patootie trying their best. I love them, and I also love @pissmeoffanddie, so that’s who we’re going with on this one. They would be a very fierce lion, I just know it (but not too fierce, so as not to frighten the ladies!!!!)

 Robin Starveling: Moonshine! This so obviously has to be @undyingsunshine; it’s literally in the name!! They both fucking shine! I’m! Also I genuinely love Robin Starveling a lot too lasighaldkfjaldf. 

The Athenians: 

Theseus: all hail the kiiinnnngggggg. Obviously this is @xcziel. I would perform a thousand plays for @xcziel. A million. A thousand million. Mwah. My liege. 

Hippolyta: BOSS-ASS BITCH. BITCH. BITCH. BITCH. none other than @foxofninetales could POSSIBLY be this Amazonian queen. Once again: step on me mom. 

Egeus: Okay like. Okay don’t come for me I’m sorry I have to cast Egeus, but I think that deep down he wants what’s best for his daughter! And I feel like that has very @kholran energy. Idk they came up with the ShanSang pool noodle and that radiates very safe energy for me. So sorry @kholran ur my dad now. 

The Philostrate: they’re literally just trying to get things organized and let everyone have a good time at the wedding! It’s a hard job!! Don’t make it harder for them!!!! I feel like the only one who could do this would be @mejomonster. Just trying to deal with all these idiots. RIP. 

And Finally: the Fairies

Oberon: ok Oberon’s a himbo but in the best way. He’s just hanging out with his best friend Puck and trying to get his wife to pay attention to him again after she gets a baby. like I get it, dude. Me too. I feel like @elletromil has the most Oberon energy, partially bc I’m in awe of them, partially bc they feel like an old married couple along with: 

Titania: @gaiahenshin. You two would be SO PERFECT together as Titania and Oberon. I’m also of the firm opinion that the Love Juice doesn’t actually work on Titania and she’s just acting for Oberon, and I feel like that’s something @gaiahenshin could get behind. ONCE AGAIN. STEP ON ME. THIS IS NOT A SUGGESTION. 

Puck: ok I feel like the obvious one is the person who’s been doing ALL the magic in the fandom for us lately, which would be @xia-xueyi. Not only a Puck-level mastery of words, but also just blessing us with the energy and love and encouragement. She also feels very bouncy and joyful to me, and I would love to see her get to fly around the stage and do some fun magic stuff. 

Cobweb, Mustardseed, Peaseblossom, and Moth: the fairies! THE FAIRIES!!! the literal BACKBONES of the play. Obviously this would be @thewindsofsong, @idlebeks, @staidwaters, and @i-sudoku. I know in my heart that they are all ethereal beings and that nothing would be the same without them. Also they deserve to get to fly around in some stage rigging. They DESERVE IT. 

The Changeling Child: the only one who is not a mutual. This is the stupid baby dummy from the Moonfall Echo behind-the-scenes cause I think it’s hilarious. 

AH!!!! ANYWAY!!!! THERE’S MY MIDSUMMER CASTING!!! I LOVE YOU ALL I CAN’T WAIT TO SPEND HELL WEEK WITH YOU!!!!!! >:)

[vanderlindemorgans]

Cross My Heart (Chapter 1)

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x Reader

Rating: Explicit/18+

Summary:  A traitorous Agent Whiskey returns to the United States on the run. Being cast out by Statesman, he soon finds that you're the only person he can turn to - the embittered former flame from years long passed

Word count: 2.6k 

Warnings: Eventual smut, some references to alcoholism and drug use. Reader is in her late twenties but there is an age gap between her and Whiskey. Chapter specific warnings include some graphic descriptions of blood and injuries and some alcohol consumption. Also I know nothing about Texas or horses. 

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To say things hadn’t gone to plan would be a dramatic understatement. In his case, however, the results of his arrival in Cambodia had proved even more disastrous than he could have ever imagined. Though really, if he’d have stopped to think about it for even just a second, he would have seen that his plan was doomed to fail from the beginning.

Stalking through the busy streets of Dallas, Jack tried his best to keep as low of a profile as possible - you never knew who could be wandering the city searching for him, and after the stunt he pulled with Eggsy and Harry it could almost be guaranteed that he had some sort of warrant on his head. It was probably foolish of him to even come back to the United States in the first place, but really, where else did he have to go?

He didn’t entirely know where he was going now either. He couldn’t return home, as it would most likely be swarming with Statesman agents and the like hunting for him. He was almost certainly cast out of Statesman for his actions by now, so any former friends he could usually turn to in situations like this would be of no help at this point, considering everything that happened. For once in his life, Jack was well and truly alone. The acknowledgement of that fact itself did nothing to alleviate his anxieties, only doing more to further the ever growing void in his stomach. His eyes darted between the various passersby, none of them taking a single notice of him to his relief. He’d have expected to draw more attention to himself, in fact when he stopped to take a gander at his reflection in one of the shop windows he passed by he was almost stumped as to how he had managed to keep under the radar so well - you couldn’t much see it with the way he kept his head down, but upon closer inspection one could easily spot the large nasty gash of blood split across the side of his cheek, complimenting several different bruises that were forming underneath. His clothes were either torn from navigating through the thicket of the Cambodian jungle or scuffed from his confrontation with the two Kingsman agents. The only part of him that was still in almost perfect condition was his damned hat, surprisingly enough. In the most blatant use of the term, he looked like an absolute wreck. If he weren’t on edge from the constant vigilance of potentially running into one of his former colleagues, he might’ve laughed at himself over it.  

Escaping from Eggsy and Harry had been the easy part - they’d left him tied up with his own lasso off to the side, but in all the confusion and spate of heroics in trying to distribute the antidote, they had neglected to keep any sort of watch on him. From there on, all it took was the simple slice of a knife he had hidden away in his back pocket and just like that, he’d slipped away into the shadows, running for his life through the thick and sweltering heat of the jungle. He’d wanted to retreat back to the plane he’d used to travel there in the first place but upon realising that Statesman could use radar to track him, he instead was forced to navigate himself to a nearby airfield used for moving cargo. After that it was just a matter of stowing away on one of the planes to ensure his arrival back in America, touching down in Dallas of all places. Jack was fully aware that he was lucky to have his life - if things had gone differently he’d have ended up with a bullet in his head or something much worse. For that much at least he was somewhat grateful for. Somewhat.

Almost as if by instinct, he drifted towards a bar in the downtown area of the city, stumbling in and being assaulted by the smoke-scented air that greeted him the moment he opened the door. It was by no means a classy place, yet he didn’t much care in that moment. Any place was better than aimlessly wandering the streets like a stray mutt. Striding through the crowds of patrons ranging from tipsy to drunk, he came up towards the bar and pulled a couple of notes from the inside of his jacket pocket. “A glass of whiskey, if ya will” he requested, sliding the notes over to the disinterested bartender on the other side of the counter. Some part of him felt stupid for ordering the drink of his agent namesake, but some side of him felt like reminiscing on old times a bit. In light of him going rogue, they’d most likely be passing on that codename to another agent. Probably to Ginger most likely. He caught himself sneering at the thought of her, a deep burning sense of hate starting to fester in him. He never did like her much.

Taking the glass of whiskey in his hand, he let the warm rush of liquid seep down his throat, feeling consumed by the blazing burn it left on his tongue. So this was how it all ended for him: hiding out in a dingy dive bar, drinking himself to death while he waited for the inevitable. His mind ran over all of his options from there on, running down the short list in less than a minute tops. He had no job, no friends, nowhere to run to, no-one to turn to.

Unless…

Jack’s mind began to nag on something, a faint memory from years long since passed starting to resurface, the face of someone he hadn’t thought of in what felt like forever creeping into his thoughts gradually. He was in Dallas, right? An idea began to form in his head, recalling days spent during the summer out on a ranch north of the city, of your warm smile and intoxicating eyes that one could get lost in. Waving over the bartender, he pondered on his idea further. Would you even want to see him after all this time? He remembered the way things ended between the both of you, the bitterness and bad blood that most likely still lingered.

It was possibly an idiotic idea to begin with. Hell, you might not even be in Dallas anymore: the last time the two of you spoke was at least a good seven years. But it was the only option he had left. Throwing his head back and downing the last remnants of whiskey in his glass, he threw down a couple of extra notes for the bartender on the counter and sauntered off, fully sure of his next course of action. Like it or not, you were his best chance he had of survival. He just hoped that you didn’t hate him too much to turn him away after everything that he put you through.

___

Wiping a line of sweat from your brow, you found yourself cursing the suffocating summer heat. After living there for so many years you thought you’d be used to it but every June through to August the intensity of the blistering sun always managed to take you by surprise. If only you could simply relax a little, lounge by the pool sipping on cognac and smelling of lilacs, without a single care in the world. Instead, you were out in the sun, tending to each of the horses that your ranch housed. You ran a horse riding ranch only a couple of hours outside Dallas, tucked away in the deep necks of the Texan countryside. It was originally your parents business, and you’d practically lived there your whole life. It wasn’t your original plan to take over the family business, some part of you angling for something more than life as a simple ranch hand but when both of them tragically passed only a few years before, you felt you owed it to them in a way to take up the mantle to keep things running as smoothly as possible. Some things didn’t take much adjustment in a way  - you’d already known the procedure for cleaning the stables and tending to the horses like the back of your hand, and the inheritance money left behind had made it easier to pack everything up out of your small  city apartment to move back home on such short notice. The thing that did take some getting used to was their absence. Stepping back into their well loved home, seeing the photos still hanging on the walls, the folded pages of the books your mother kept on her bedside that would never be opened again, the places where they should be but simply weren’t - that wrecked you more than anything you could ever imagine.

At first you didn’t even sleep inside the house - it was just too painful to see them everywhere around you, and you couldn’t bring yourself to remove the cheerful family photos from the walls, even if it was only for a little while. The first two months back home were spent in the backseat of your car, curled up with a blanket that you’d managed to drag out from the house. You tried to carry on with business as usual but everything felt bleak around you. Some part of you wanted to blame someone, anyone for what happened. Sometimes you’d felt tempted to blame yourself in some way. Eventually, things did become easier. The emotional weight started to lift, and you were able to get through the day without having to take five to pull yourself together. Nothing was the same as before, but the flow of your life started to settle and become something resembling normal again. And that, in your opinion, was probably the best way it could have turned out.

Doing a onceover the stables to check everything was in its correct place, you pulled the large doors closed and surveyed the landscape around you, taking in the stunning visual of the sun beginning to dip below the skyline, mellowing out into a lively and beautiful sunset. With the front gates locked and everything with the horses all taken care of, you trudged back up to the house at the centre of the property, your mind drifting to the glass of liquor you intended to pour yourself the minute you got inside. It had been a long day, full of tiresome frustrations and irritations. Being in the middle of July, your ranch saw frequent visitors, including kids who were out of school and being taken out of the city on a sort of day trip by their parents. That day in particular had involved a birthday party for some kid, and you’d been out there giving riding lessons to the whole group of them.

Usually lessons were conducted by one of your other employees but in cases of events you tended to take on more tasks yourself. To be perfectly blunt about it, the day had gone horribly. Surprisingly enough, the kids were fine, no, the real piece of work was the birthday boy's mother. She’d insisted on trying to take control of every single aspect of the event and was overly critical of every little thing you did, and was an all round exhausting person to deal with. When the party was finally over and everyone had packed up and left, you remembered breathing a huge sigh of relief and thinking “thank fuck, she’s gone”.

Twisting open the front door to your house, you tossed your keys off to the side and immediately set off in search of something to drink. Grazing your fingertips along the refined wooden edges of your liquor cabinet, you pulled on the handles and reached your hand in to select a bottle. What you really wanted was something strong to take off that stressful edge of the day behind you. You felt your eyes settle on a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey stuffed towards the back and couldn’t help but smirk to yourself, a vague memory teetering on the precipice of your mind. Shaking the thought away, you instead choose a bottle of bourbon, placing it on top of the cabinet as you reach for one of the empty glasses stored inside. As you poured a glass for yourself, you felt your mind get lost in a haze, wandering between the events of the past few hours and what you’d planned to do with the rest of your night, and, admittedly something you were ashamed to say, a lingering thought to do with that bottle of whiskey you’d passed on over before. Fucking Jack Daniels, I swear to god…

Your body might as well have been on autopilot then, as you didn’t take any conscious note of anything other than the burn of liquor on your lips. If you hadn’t been so distracted you might have noticed it earlier - the distant sound of footsteps coming closer up the driveway to your house, the sounds turning into thuds the nearer they got. Too lost in your thoughts and too tired from the nightmarish day you endured, you were only pulled from the depths of memory by a loud bang on the front door. Furrowing your brow, you shot a confused and worried glance over to the front of the house, already beginning to feel alerted and wary. Who the hell could that be at this hour?

There was another bang on the door, this one more insistent than the last, and you felt yourself jump at the suddenness of it. Would it even be safe to go answer it? For a minute, you contemplated the idea of ignoring it and pretending you weren’t home, however once you realised whoever was outside could most likely see the lights on from the windows you dismissed that idea with disappointment. You’d have to go answer it, you knew that, but something didn’t feel right to you. Cautiously rising up out of your seat, you took a small step towards the entryway of the house, and through the fear managed to call out “Who’s there?”.

Taking another moment to contemplate whether or not it would be worth fetching a gun for this, you heard the voice of the person on the other side answer back, a voice that had you freeze in a mixture of shock and disbelief the instant you heard it. “Darlin'? It’s...it’s Jack, could you…”.

You didn’t even give him a chance to finish his sentence before you had bolted to the door, hastily unlocking the deadbolt and ripping it open to reveal him standing before you. Something in your heart stopped the second you saw him - he was the one person who you never, ever, in a million years ever expected to see again, much less on your front doorstep. You drank in his appearance, the first thing your eyes being drawn to was the large bloody slash across his cheek. His eyes were looking down at you pleadingly, a look you weren’t used to seeing on him. From when you’d known him he’d always looked so confident, so self-assured and pulled together, so to see him so browbeaten and, dare you say, defeated, unnerved you in a way. You could feel your mouth hanging open slightly, the words being there but your mouth being unable to form them, your eyes only fixated on his own dark and vanquished gaze as your mind raced a million miles a minute. There was so much you wanted to say, to ask, yet the only thing you were capable of verbalising in your shock was the one question that pushed itself to the forefront of your mind.

“Jesus fuck, Jack, what the hell happened to you?”.

[need-a-fugue]

Trustworthy (Chapter One)

Summary: You’ve spent the last three years teaming up with Santiago Garcia on every mission you had a hand in coordinating... and the past several months plotting with him to take down the biggest bad to hit your radar. But even all your time at the DEA and all your experience in the field couldn’t have prepared you for this. 

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader (slowburn)

Warnings: Character death, many naughty words, and soooo much angst

A/N: It would seem that my newfound Pedro Pascal obsession isn’t going to let up any time soon, so I decided to just dive headfirst into some Frankie-heavy Triple Frontier fic. It doesn’t help that @tweedlydumbtweedlydoo​ planted a seed (quite a while ago) by asking for a story where reader breaks down on that fateful mission only to be comforted by our favorite Fish. I um... may have taken that a little far and now there’s this whole multi-chapter thing happening...

Here’s the thing… you’ve been in shit before. You’ve been shot at, even took a bullet yourself not too long ago. You’ve seen people die – some bad, some good, some deserving, some not. You held your own partner in your arms, desperately trying to stanch the flow of blood from his shorn neck before finally letting him go after he expelled one final, wet breath. You’ve killed people – a sicario outside of Bogota, two – possibly three – gang members in a shootout in Albuquerque, some dumb kid who’d been given a little bit of cash to stand guard outside a lab in Juarez.

You’ve seen tragedy, felt it, lived it, dreamed about it on an endless loop, even in your waking hours. You’ve caused it – or so you’d been told by the weeping mother of the boy in Mexico. You’ve denied it, denied that what had happened was actually tragic at all. Denied it to survive.

But you can’t deny what you’re in right now, the tragedy of having a plan go to shit in too many ways to count. The tragedy of nearly succumbing to your absolute worst fear in the world and going down in a sputtering damn helicopter. The tragedy of more lives being taken, even those of fucking Lorea and his men causing a reluctant burn at the back of your throat. Because you can’t stop seeing his children arriving home to find their worst nightmare laid out in blood and smoke, flames licking round all they’ve ever known and loved.

Children. Tom has children too. Had. Tom, who’s now being carried down the side of a mountain in a makeshift body bag, haphazardly descending with his men by his side… just ahead of you, just in your line of sight. Still leading the way, even in death.

Maybe that’s why this feels so different. This particular tragedy. Because you’re still in it. You can’t walk away and deny, shower the telling grime from your skin, bury the reality of death and failure and fear beneath a six pack of beer and a shitty TV dinner alone in your dark apartment.

And, oh, your apartment… or any apartment really, as you’re not exactly likely to return to your post in Colombia after all this. To go anywhere right now with heat and running water… and a bed. Your mind reels just thinking about it.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s just because you haven’t slept in days… many days. Haven’t eaten much either, each and every MRE and stale protein bar sitting heavy in your throat, choking, suffocating, blocking your breaths and words alike.

“You gotta eat,” Frankie had said to you just this morning, whispered in your ear as you carefully picked your way over and around the sharp, loose rocks in your path. “We gotta keep moving,” he muttered, the deep hum of his voice sounding less like the balm you’d come to know and more like just another resonance caught up in the icy, bitter wind. He had pressed a bar to your palm, his hand warm despite the surrounding cold, and a forced lightness filled his tone as he declared, “Need your strength or we won’t make it to the coast.”

You hadn’t even looked up to meet his gaze, instead continuing forward, glare directed down at the treacherous ground beneath your feet. “I don't really see that happening anyway,” you said as you shoved the bar deep into your pocket.

His stride halted then, leaving him standing tall and motionless as you swept idly past. But his pause was enough to make you falter, to make you turn and glance back up at him. You hadn’t even realized what you said – not really, not fully – until you took in the look on his face. That was enough – the sadness, the grief, the guilt that clouded his eyes and pinched his lips – to make you retrieve the bar from your pocket and choke down the whole damn thing in two monstrous bites.

Maybe it’s that. That look Frankie had given you just as the sun began to rise. The same look that sits on the faces of the other men even now, hangs heavily on them as they soldier on, carrying not only the load of money, but the body of their friend.

Maybe it’s being here with them as they move with purpose and the kind of fluidity that comes from too many years of practice. Practice at navigating dangerous situations. Practice at steering away from the fear and pain, sorrow and guilt that stare them right in the face, all to ensure they might survive the day.

Maybe it’s watching them move through that horrid fog that – you know – anyone else would so easily get lost in. All while reluctantly admitting, if only to yourself, that it’s the same fog you’ve been unable to effectively cut through for days.

Maybe that’s what has you feeling like you’re walking a tightrope balanced precariously between an understandable sort of disappointment and dread… and a overwhelming, blinding despair. Maybe this feels different because it isn’t just yourself you’d need escape to gain distance from this tragedy. It’s all of them as well. And you can’t very well escape the very men you need to help you through.

They climb the mountainside, traversing rocks and heaps of remaining snow that never fail to send you slipping and careening. They catch you as you slide, helping you along as they hoist bag after bag – your own contribution of carrying just your pack and one duffel seeming paltry in comparison – up and then down the stony inclines. They hand you off with care, always keeping you close, making sure that if one of them moves ahead, another is still left by your side. They carry you almost as much as they carry the money. As much as they carry Tom.

Tom. You’d only known him a handful of days… weeks? How long ago was it that you followed Santiago back to the States to meet his reinforcements? At this point, you no longer have a clue when this whole fucking mess began. A lifetime ago at least. It seems as though you’ve known these men for an entire lifetime on top of that.

Tom. Well, he’s arguably the one you got to know least. And not just because he’s been dead for… however long it’s been now. No. He was just… quiet. Reserved. Distrustful, truth be told. But, hell, you could hardly blame him for that. After all, he was considered the leader of these men. The one tasked – above all others – with getting them in and out safely. The one who would wear the most blood on his hands should any of them fall.

And from the loyalty the others showed – and the stories they shared in both forced low tones and laughter-pocked croons – you could tell that he was a good leader. A trusted leader. A loved leader. And nothing he did on this mission was ever going to change that in the eyes of anyone here.

No, you hadn’t gotten to know him well. But damn if it didn’t still hurt to see him go. To peer over Ben’s shoulder – bent and broken and wracked with sobs – and into Tom’s empty, lifeless eyes all those days ago. So damn many days ago. To watch the brothers fight over the top of his body, sidestepping his corpse to throttle each other and throw blame to lessen the grief. To sit with Benny for the hour or so after – after helping him wrap up his friend with care – as his uncharacteristic silence slinked about you both in a smothering cloud of despair.

Ben, who had been the most jovial and talkative and… bright of all. He had quite literally welcomed you into the fold with open arms, a bit drunk and a bit concussed from a fight he insisted he won just hours before meeting you. He refused your handshake when Garcia introduced you, leaning in to envelope you in a tight hug instead, and then demanding to buy you a drink, despite the fact that you’d been nursing one while waiting for them to arrive. “Pretty lady like you shouldn’t ever have to shell out her own money for a drink,” he’d said with a grin and a wink.

You might’ve rolled your eyes, might’ve told him, pass amid a chiding glare. But before you could say a word, his brother smacked him upside the head, giving a disappointed eyeroll that would’ve outdone yours tenfold, and held out a hand to shake, a deep-tenor, “Don’t mind him, and nice to meet you,” putting you immediately at ease and making it utterly clear who the Miller brothers were. Will was the politic adult, professional and well-mannered. And Benny was simply a ball full of harmless fun.

Until now, that is. Now – you can see even as his slumped body fades away into the tree line below – Ben has become little more than sorrow and sinew.

A crunching tumble of pebbles sounds suddenly in your periphery, tearing you from your spiraling thoughts. You look up to see Santiago looming to your right, effectively blocking the sliver of sunlight that remains peeking through the dusk-hued sky. “You okay, bonita?” he asks, the tone of his voice and wrinkle to his brow as he looks down at you serving to snap you back to the here and now. Here. Now. Shivering in the cold as the four of you settle in on the side of some damn mountain, having just bid farewell to yet another member of your party.

Your gaze falls from his face almost as quickly as it had jerked up to meet it just a breath of a moment ago. You shake your head and let out a sigh. “I should’ve gone with him,” you utter simply. “I thought you’d been joking about how bad his Spanish was, but…”

He snorts out a laugh, and the corner of your mouth raises in a slight, crooked smile. “Yeah, well,” he starts, dropping down to take a seat on the hard earth beside you. “With how well you’ve been hiking through these hills, he’d probably have ended up carrying you like a backpack.” He gives you a shit-eating grin, teasing brow raised high. “We’re hoping to get out of here sometime this decade. Don’t need your ass slowing us down any more.”

“Asshole,” you mutter, the taunting cadence just barely cutting through the deep rumble of his laugh.

His hand falls to your knee, palm sliding side to side in a comforting stroke before he tightens his fingers over your patella and gives you a bit of a shake. “I’m only kidding,” he states, as though you didn’t already know. “You’ve been doing great. Really.”

You issue out a quick snort, a thick, incredulous breath kicking a puff of steam up into the frigid air.

“I mean it,” he tells you, turning a serious glance your way. “I know this isn’t what you signed up for.”

“It’s not what any of us signed up for,” you interrupt pointedly.

“Yeah. But… DEA doesn’t exactly train people the same as us,” he intones, giving a nod towards the other men. “I know you’ve never been… exposed to this kind of shit.”

You wrinkle your nose and squint as you turn to look up at the mountain you’d just somehow managed to traverse. “Yeah. This has been some shit.”

He lets out another small laugh – short and fleeting – before pulling his hand from your knee and settling into the silence surrounding you. Ahead, Frankie and Will build up a rock barrier around Tom’s body, a protective cocoon for the night lest any animals come by. You’d all noticed – especially today as the sun came out in the afternoon and beat heavily down on your backs – that he’d begun to rot. To smell. And as much as everyone wanted to still hold him close, no one really wanted his steadily decaying body stinking at their sides as they attempted to sleep tonight.

Once they’re done with their makeshift mausoleum, the two men move across the way and begin digging through their packs for food. “Frankie mentioned that you hadn’t been eating,” Santi mutters from your right as both of your eyes remain trained on the men working before you.

You shrug. “I’ve eaten as much as anyone else.”

A tiny chuckle ripples through him, drawing a confused glare from you. And his smile only widens when he sees the uncertainty painted across your face. “He likes you, bonita,” he singsongs, giving your shoulder a little shove. Then, grin swiftly fading away to nothing, he rather distractedly declares, “He’s worried about you.”

Your brow furrows a bit, stare honing in on the broad-shouldered man now falling into shadow. The man you’d only just begun to know and yet somehow felt eerily connected to. Another sigh escapes your lips, shoulders slumping as you avert your eyes, looking instead to the dark tree line far below. “I’m worried about all of us.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out with a solemn nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

It hits you then… as you feel Santi slouch heavily beside you, a heady silence permeating the miniscule space between you. And as you turn back in time to see Will grimace and clutch his side, giving into the pain of a days-old gunshot wound for just a breath of a moment, all that he’ll allow himself to take. And as you watch Frankie remove his hat and wipe the sweat from his brow – despite the temperature already plummeting around you thanks to the nearly set sun – all while he stares solemnly over at the rotting, rock-covered corpse of one of his oldest friends.

You know why this feels different from any other tragedy you’d suffered in the past, any other bad op or mission gone wrong you’d ever endured. It feels different because this… this is all your fault.

[carewyncromwell]

Cinderella AU time again at last, baby!! Let’s do this!

Florence’s “Christmas Witch” is inspired by Italy’s Le Befana, who like Santa Claus/Father Christmas and his many variations serves as a holiday gift-giver to young children. Given that in this universe, Florence is more favorable toward magic than its rival nation Royaume, I figured them having a similar tradition was appropriate.

The background depicted in this picture is based on this window from a guest apartment in the Chateau de Chambord in France, though of course this is the outside of such a window, rather than the inside. Damn it, do I hate backgrounds with a burning passion. XD;;

In my headcanon, Orion suffers from anxiety. Anxiety disorders aren’t uncommon among children who were raised in orphanages, and a common visual cue for anxiety is clasping one’s hands in front of them, which Orion does constantly in the game Hogwarts Mystery. Plus two types of therapy prescribed for dealing with anxiety are meditation and regular physical activity (like Quidditch! :D). For safety, though, I also want to put in a trigger warning for this part -- be advised that there will be some discussion of PTSD and war-related trauma, around the middle of this.

Previous part is here -- full tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you enjoy!

x~x~x~x

The morning after Royaume’s Winter Festival, Skye was surprised to find Orion in Florence’s palace library. Admittedly he was balancing on one foot with one leg crossed over the other on the step near the top of a tall ladder while reading, which was very typical of Orion -- but the book was a very thick volume on the weaving of various fabrics, and he was devouring it with intense interest while vaguely humming a tune under his breath that Skye didn’t recognize.

“Oh willow, willow, willow...willow...”

Skye cleared her throat to try to get the Prince’s attention. “Hey...Orion?”

Orion, however, was too focused on what he was reading. It took Skye striding over, stating his name twice more, and finally giving the ladder a light smack to get his attention.

“Orion! Mind coming back down to Earth for a minute?” she said, her voice oddly tense. “I need to talk to you.”

Orion stopped humming and looked up from the book at last, his expression rather pleasant.

“Skye...you’ve returned from the front.”

Skye frowned. “Yeah...Dad’s nearly recovered from his injuries. Penny Haywood wanted to thank you for the herbs you picked up.”

Orion inclined his head slightly. “I’m glad to hear your father’s condition has improved.”

Skye nodded, looking faintly guilty.

“...Orion...I’m sorry about what I said the other day,” she said uncomfortably. “I was just so worried about Dad and his troops, and you being all wrapped up in this girl who works for the enemy...it just...it rattled me, I guess.”

“Florence and Royaume should not be enemies for all time,” said Orion patiently. “If there is to be peace, the mistakes both sides have made in the midst of the War will have to be forgiven.”

“I know,” muttered Skye. “And...well, I know how you feel about the War -- about war and fighting in general. It just feels like what you’re doing is so slow, and people are hurting, and...”

She hung her head.

“I know it’s no excuse, for what I said, but...I am really sorry.”

Orion’s black eyes softened. “It’s already forgiven and forgotten, my friend.”

Skye looked very relieved. Her face burst into a smile.

“...Thanks, Orion. I gotta admit, I...kind of want to meet this ‘Lady Cromwell’ now, after everything you told McNully and me about her. She sounds a bit too good to be true, but...well, I never really thought I’d ever hear of a Royaumanian defending magic...especially one of their courtiers.”

Closing the book in his hands with a quiet snap, Orion lowered the leg he had bent beside the one he was balancing on.

“Fortunately I think you’ll have the chance to do so very soon,” he said with a smile. “Last night was an unquestionable success.”

He leapt down the rungs of the ladder with alternating feet, all the way back down to the floor with a light thump.

“I went to the Winter Festival and met the Prince of Royaume himself.”

Skye gave a start. “You what?”

Orion was beaming from ear to ear. “It was all thanks to Carewyn, appropriately enough. She was the one who arranged it so that he could sneak out of the palace disguised as a peasant and attend the Winter Festival, even with the King and Queen keeping him so strictly contained. Prince Henri himself even said as much, that it was all Carewyn’s doing. Imagine...because of her, the two princes of rival nations were able to meet on completely neutral ground as equals. And now that we’ve been introduced and I have a better fix on Prince Henri’s character, I have a great opportunity to open negotiations in full.”

Skye looked rather impressed, even as her face twitched with discomfort.

“That’s...smashing, Orion,” she granted halfheartedly.

Orion raised his eyebrows curiously. “I would say so...but your aura doesn’t seem to agree with your words.”

With a deepening, guilty frown, Skye reached into the hanging pocket attached to her faded blue skirt and took out a sealed letter, which she handed to Orion.

“The King asked me to bring this back for you,” she said lowly, as Orion opened it and began to read. “He’s requested you and McNully to join him at the front.”

Orion’s face had lost all of its pleasantry, leaving it very stony and unreadable, as his black eyes scanned the letter once, twice, three times.

“McNully’s gone to get the coach ready,” said Skye lowly. “He said that he’d meet us just inside the castle gate.”

The ride from the Florentine royal palace to the battlefield at the northern-most border of Royaume and Florence was a stressful one. Once anyone exited the capitol’s walls, the War was immediately much more visible, since most of the War was fought on Florentine soil. Plus many of those magicians who specialized in casting spells were encouraged to settle closer to the wealthier hubs of the country, so that they could cast temporary illusions to obscure certain buildings whenever the opposing army got too close. That was how people such as Florence’s court magician, Severus Snape, had attained such a respectable status.

Orion spent the entire coach ride sitting with his legs crossed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, and his eyes closed so he could meditate. Despite his eyes being closed, however, when they arrived at their destination, he could hear the shrieks of wheels on old wagons, the whinnying of unsettled horses, and suppressed moans of pain, and he could smell the burnt wood, gunpowder, and indescribable smell that could only be labeled as “death.” Even just the sounds and smells brought all the memories flooding back -- his and his mother’s house set ablaze...the rearing horses with Royaume blue and red on their saddles...the deafening explosions and the gray ash that rained from the sky...his mother’s light-less eyes and his own labored breathing and clutching, shaking hands...

Orion had never been blind to how run-down much of his country was, but its problems only became more apparent the closer one got to the border, and especially to the war front. Every building was brand-new and cheaply built, for they no doubt had been built and rebuilt several times over and their occupants didn’t have the funds to build it back as well as before. And then once one approached the army camp itself, there were just about no buildings or fortresses at all, since it was so hard to keep them from being demolished. Instead all the Florentines really had were tents that wouldn’t stand up to most any elements. In the freezing cold of winter, many had been crowded under groves of trees, in a vain attempt to try to protect them from the snow that had buried their neighbors, and there were large bonfires set up everywhere where the soldiers gathered, just to warm their bundled hands and feet. One small fire featured a cooking pot and some sort of foul-smelling soup -- it took Orion a moment to realize the smell was burning leather.

It was tragic to think of how many men back in the Florentine capitol like Lord Malfoy had become very rich because of the increased danger of shipping goods through war zones, while the men who actually had to stay in that war zone had to cook their own boots and eat them for sustenance.

Orion did not open his eyes even when the carriage came to a stop. It was proving harder to find his center of balance when the smell of gunpowder outside made the memory of terrified screams and crackling wood pound against his eardrums.

Inhale. Exhale. Let go. Find your center. Balance.

He felt someone lightly touch the top of his clasped hands. When he opened his eyes, he saw that it was Skye.

“...We’re here,” she mumbled. Clearly she knew she was stating the obvious, but didn’t know what else to say.

Orion looked from her to McNully sitting next to her, his eyes very dark even though his face was rather unreadable. McNully looked very grim as he slowly opened the door to the coach. As soon as he did so, someone outside announced very loudly,

“Presenting his Highness, Crown Prince Cosimo Amari VII, heir to the throne of Florence!”

With a swallow, Orion slid his legs down to the floor and, unclasping his hands at last, he hoisted himself up as best he could, took hold of the door frame, and climbed out of the coach. He held his head up high and didn’t shrink, but his eyes were rippling turbulently like oil under candlelight as they surveyed the barren landscape.

Men by the dozens were being carried away on stretchers toward a large off-white medical tent -- even more were being carried away from it or, worse, not even coming close to it at all, for it was already too late. They were too badly injured for Penny Haywood’s potions to save -- for as powerful as magic could be, life and death were inevitable things. The gray-haired flower witch who’d given Orion the charm around his neck had told him so, the Prince recalled, as his hand absently came up to trail over the circular pendant. He’d asked her if she could stop someone from dying, and the sweet grandmotherly woman had looked upon him with an incredibly sad, pitying look.

“Death isn’t something anyone can stop, I’m afraid. One can put it off, certainly...I’ve been able to give people some extra time with my potions, but only by putting in a lot of my own time and energy. And even after putting in that time and energy, there are still plenty of people who I couldn’t work fast enough to help. That’s one of magic’s Chief Principles -- potions take time, but their effects last longer.”

The Prince of Florence tried to bring the cooling, calming sensation that had accompanied the charm around his neck when the woman had first given it to him back to his mind, as the smell of death that hovered over the camp made his heart chill and his stomach churn.

Orion could sense Skye climbing out to stand beside him, and not long after, McNully had lowered himself into the wheeled chair the footman detached from the boot of the coach. By the time McNully and Skye had joined him on the ground, a royal entourage had approached them, introduced by the captain who’d announced Orion’s arrival --

“Presenting his Majesty, Cosimo Amari V, Master and Commander of the Florentine Army, Lord of the Southeastern Sea, King of Florence!”

An older man about Orion’s height with a short mane of graying dark hair and just as strong of a jaw strode forward. Although he greatly resembled Orion visually, however, their physical attitudes couldn’t be any more different: as relaxed and modest as Orion was, the King of Florence appeared traditional and proud. They did, however, both appear quite detached, in their own way -- Orion because he didn’t want to be on the battlefield at all, and the King because he seemed to not be entirely sure how to address his adult son. But frankly, considering that Orion had been snatched out of poverty and made Crown Prince just to replace his older half-brother, Cosimo VI, after he was assassinated by the Royaumanians earlier that year, that wasn’t completely surprising.

“Cosimo,” the King greeted him formally. “Good that you’re here.”

Orion didn’t respond, his face close to impossible to read as he clasped his hands in front of him again.

The King’s emerald green eyes scanned his son’s face briefly before he brought up a hand to take hold of his shoulder and lead him further into camp.

“Come -- we have much to discuss...”

Skye and McNully followed Orion and his father to the largest and brightest white of the tents, pushing the flap with the official Florentine gold-and-green-flower emblem aside to walk inside and gather around a large table. There was a large map laid out on it with many dark green and blood red miniatures and model canons scattered across the surface. Skye’s father, General Ethan Parkin, was also present -- he had to sit in a chair rather than stand like almost everyone else due to him missing a leg and being forced to lean on a crutch, but he sat up very straight with boastful levels of pride. Once he, his generals, and the Prince were all gathered around the table, the King immediately set about discussing McNully’s newest military strategy, which would involve splitting the army in half so as to covertly attack Royaume’s forces from two directions, so as to not only better pinpoint where their canons were currently positioned and avoid them, but also to prevent them from retreating.

It soon became apparent to everyone in the King’s tent, however, that Orion was not in the mood to discuss any of this. He stayed quiet for the majority of the meeting, clasping his hands in front of him, and his eyes remained on the far edge of the map on the table, far away from the battlefield. In his mind, he tried to find his center, even though the sounds of the anxiously whinnying horses outside brought back the memory of the ones that had nearly stampeded him so many years ago, when his part of town was set ablaze.

Find your center. Find balance. Find peace.

Carewyn’s soft, content face as she sang under the willow tree beside the Royaumanian palace moat rippled over his mind, and he felt his heart rate slow.

“Oh willow, willow, willow...shall be my garland...”

Orion tried to stay there on that lake bank in his mind as the King discussed how essential it’d be to prevent any Royaumanians from getting in or out of their camp during their siege -- for, as General Parkin pointed out, if any help arrived, then it would prevent the Florentine Army from wiping out their enemy and ending the War. McNully himself looked rather unsettled by the thought of “wiping out” the enemy and was quick to say he’d only intended for the Royaumanians to be fenced in, like in a game of chess, but the King of Florence clearly didn’t think it was enough.

“This newest batch of drafted soldiers are our last resort. Unless we wish to expand the draft to take all those over the age of 18, regardless of health or status, to take their place, we must bring this War to an end, once and for all. And to do that, our enemy must be decisively crushed.”

He looked up at Orion.

“That is why, son, I’ll need you to take command of the left flank of the army.”

“What?” said Skye and McNully, both taken aback and horrified.

“Your Majesty,” McNully said very quickly and firmly, “I-I fully intended that General Parkin would -- ”

“Believe me, lad, I’d normally be chomping at the bit to do it myself,” said General Parkin with a rather sour expression. “But considering that I can’t even properly stand yet, his Majesty decided it might be a good idea for me to...sit this one out.”

“Prince Cosimo will need to know our army as well as I do,” said the King firmly. “Even when we bring this War to an end, he’ll need to be able to lead them in battle, in order to protect our kingdom. And from what I understand, Cosimo, you’ve been gathering intelligence in Royaume itself for a month now without arousing any suspicion...I believe your flair for stealth would be perfectly suited to the task at hand.”

“I’m afraid I must disagree,” said Orion in a very quiet voice.

The King halted. Orion had looked up at his father out the side of his black eye when he’d first addressed him, and although his expression had been very restrained, his eyes had gone very dark. His hands clasped a bit tighter as he faced the rest of the King’s military officers.

“This meeting is adjourned. Please excuse me.”

He turned on his heel and made as if to leave. The King, however, roughly grabbed his shoulder.

“It most certainly is not,” he said, his green eyes full of both disbelief and urgency. “Cosimo, this is not up for debate -- I require you here, to lead the men.”

Orion didn’t turn around. “...You require my aid, to lead our men in this battle?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Orion levelly. “Then should I choose not to cooperate, you will not be able to act on this strategy at all.”

All of the King’s officers looked appalled as Orion left the tent. The King’s eyes grew very wide, flickering with desperation as well as some righteous anger, as he chased after him, stepping in front of Orion to prevent him from leaving.

“Cosimo, this is our chance to end the War once and for all! To bring peace to Florence, to right all of the wrongs the Royaumanians have done...”

“Can one right any wrongs by committing more wrongs of their own?” murmured Orion.

“War is not that black and white, my son,” said the King sharply. The surrounding soldiers were starting to take notice. “Sometimes the ends must justify the means -- it’s something all young kings must learn, and I would prefer you learn it before I’m gone, rather than after making a big mistake.”

Skye and McNully had rushed out to join Orion.

“All people make mistakes,” Orion said softly. He tried to leave for a third time, but the King refused to let him pass.

“But you are the Crown Prince of Florence!” said the King. He was clearly getting frustrated now. “Therefore your mistakes are much more consequential -- when you make mistakes, the people you cherish, that you want most desperately to protect, pay the price!”

His father’s rising volume wasn’t helping Orion’s mood. His anxiety had already been spiking in the tent, but it was only getting harder for him to focus on his breathing with the King continuing to press the issue and the unpleasant, sickening smells and sounds of the battlefield surrounding him.

“Think of your friends, Cosimo,” said the King in a strained voice, “your home, your subjects...”

His friends... Skye’s and McNully’s faces rippled over Orion’s mind, before being joined by KC’s, Badeea’s, the Weasleys’, and Andre’s at the Festival...Carewyn’s...Carewyn rushing up to him at the palace gate -- sighing tiredly and handing him her uncomfortable white heels -- dancing in spirals around him, her red lips turned up in a smile and her ginger hair flying free --

Another battalion was coming through, with stretchers and horses loaded up with wounded soldiers -- the smell of death was suffocating --

“Think of your mother, Cosimo,” said the King. “Could you bear it if any other little boys lost their mothers, the way you did?”

“Don’t talk about -- !” gasped Skye, looking righteously furious, but McNully quickly grabbed her arm to urge her to be quiet. 

Skye’s objection wouldn’t have helped, though. The mention of Orion’s mother, combined with the smell of fire and the sound of horses, brought the images flooding back -- his mother’s light-less eyes -- his own gasping for breath --

Orion closed his eyes, trying to find his center, even as his clasped hands started to sweat.

Return to Carewyn -- return to the lake shore, to her voice --

Carewyn’s brother was on the battlefield, fighting for Royaume -- if Orion charged into battle, could he not end up bringing about her brother’s death? Could he bear seeing Carewyn’s heart broken, upon learning that the only family she had who truly understood and loved her was dead? Could he bear the thought of all that blood being on his hands...the blood of his soldiers and Andre’s -- the blood of Carewyn’s brother -- ?

“This is your responsibility, Cosimo,” said the King, as he seized Orion’s shoulder and squeezed it. “You must lead our men into battle -- ”

SMACK.

To everyone’s complete and utter shock, Orion had actually ripped out of the King’s grip, backhanding his hand away with force.

The King flinched back, looking stricken. Orion stared at his father, his black eyes very wide and devoid of both consciousness and its usual composure. There was no rage or violence in his posture, but his face was very white and his hand -- still hovering in mid-air -- was trembling slightly.

“Forgive me,” he said at once, his voice very soft and unusually fragile. “Just...please, don’t touch me.”

He strode past his father, right over to the coach he’d arrived in. Instead of climbing inside, however, he immediately yanked one of the black horses free from its restraints and climbed up onto its back.

“Cosimo!” the King cried, but it was no use. Orion had already sharply flicked the reins and rode off into the distance with speed.

Orion didn’t stop riding until he’d once again reached the palace gate of Royaume. He ended up tossing off his well-tailored olive green doublet on the way, so as to leave his more peasant-like white undershirt behind. His hair also came loose of its ponytail in transit and Orion didn’t care in the least to try to restrain it again. His heart was pounding so fast and his blood was so spiked that all he could focus on was finding peace -- and in that moment, peace was a person. He just needed to hear Carewyn’s voice...needed to see her face...

Orion tied his horse up not far from the palace and hopped the castle wall. He knew Carewyn wouldn’t be expecting him -- before the Winter Festival, they’d said they’d meet up on the 9th, which was coincidentally after Florence’s Christmas Witch festivities. Even so, and even though Orion knew Carewyn would worry about him getting in trouble, he couldn’t think of the risk to himself. His heart was just too clenched with anxiety for him to place his focus on anything other than reaching her -- even though once he reached the castle, the tension that squeezed every nerve in his body in a vice grip only increased with the knowledge that he had no way to figure out where in the castle she’d be or how to get her attention. As fate would have it, however, as Orion paced through the gardens, clasping his own sweating hands, a familiar tune rippled over the air.

“The sweetest sounds I’ll ever hear are still inside my head...

The kindest words I’ll ever know are waiting to be said...”

The song itself was one even Orion knew -- it was a rather well-known love song in both Florence and Royaume, and one of his mother’s favorite songs when she was alive. But more importantly, the voice singing it was the wonderfully emotional, deep-as-the-sea tone he’d so needed to hear. Orion’s heart gave something like a spasm of relief as he swept around the perimeter of the palace, staying low behind the hedges, until he spotted an open window in a nearby tower where the voice was coming from. When Orion reached the tower in question, he couldn’t stop himself from collapsing against the wall back-first, closing his eyes, so he could just focus on her voice and let it wash over him.

He was suddenly so short on time. The King was so desperate to end the War that he was now open to slaughtering the enemy, if it served that goal. And as confident as the King was that the plan McNully had suggested would put an end to the Royaumanian army for good, Orion himself doubted it would or even could. The cycle of vengeance could only continue ad infinitum until either everything was destroyed or one royal decided to be the better person and stop the fighting. But how could Orion hope to pursue the diplomacy he’d wanted, once the King had done something so ruthless? How could he hope to appeal to Prince Henri or his parents, after such a severe, fresh wound? And Carewyn...how could he face her again, if her beloved brother died because of his own father’s orders?

He needed time. He needed peace. He needed...

“...is waiting somewhere...somewhere for me...”

Breathe. Find your center. Inhale. Exhale.

Orion barely knew what made him do it, but he knew he had to get Carewyn’s attention somehow. So he squeezed his hands, opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and started to sing the words in return.

“The sweetest sounds I’ll ever hear are still inside my head...”

Carewyn had been cleaning one of the guest suites when she suddenly heard her own song echoed back to her from outside the window. She straightened up abruptly.

Who...who is...?

The voice was male and oddly wispy -- the singer was certainly not trained or very comfortable singing, but he still sounded so earnest...almost desperate.

“The kindest words I’ll ever know are waiting to be said...

The most entrancing sight of all is yet for me to see,

And the dearest love in all the world is waiting somewhere for me --

Is waiting somewhere...somewhere for me...”

Carewyn leaned her broom up against the wall and looked out the window. When she looked down, she caught sight of a familiar mane of dark hair and slightly-too-clean white shirt.

“Orion?”

She recoiled from the window at once, her hands flying to her messy ginger ponytail as she looked over her burnt orange and beige servant’s dress. She was in no state for him to see her like this --

She looked into the mirror hanging up on the closest wall and swallowed.

Carewyn knew she was being foolish -- Orion was going to find out sooner or later that she was nothing but a servant...but...

She’d liked being a lady, for him. She’d liked being someone he could respect. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him with the truth of who she was, really, it was more...her being ashamed of herself. She hadn’t had a choice of whether or not Andre or KC or even the Weasleys knew that she was the child of Charles Cromwell’s disowned youngest daughter and a dead-beat merchant with no dowry or prospects. But Orion hadn’t known her. She’d been able to be who she wished she could be, if just for a moment, when they first met...and in every moment after, she found herself that bit more reluctant to put that mask away.

Carewyn wanted to be a brave, noble, graceful, sophisticated lady for Orion. She wanted to be someone he could admire, instead of the insignificant, pathetic, lying fake who’d sold her and her brother’s souls and futures away forever, just to try to save his life. A girl who, truthfully, was no better than her terrible family -- who had brought every bit of unhappiness she’d ever experienced on herself...

Orion started the song again down below, in an attempt to get Carewyn’s attention -- Carewyn, up above, quickly fashioned her hair into a pretty braid in front of the mirror and sang under him as an echo, as if wanting to reassure him that she could hear him.

“The sweetest sounds (the sweetest sounds)

I’ll ever hear (I’ll ever hear)

Are still inside my head --

The kindest words (the kindest words)

I’ll ever know (I’ll ever know)

Are waiting to be said --

The most (the most) entrancing (entrancing) sight of all (sight of all)

Is yet for me to see,

And the dearest love in all the world...

Is waiting somewhere for me... (Waiting somewhere...)

Is waiting somewhere...

Somewhere for...me...”

Once she was finished with her braid, Carewyn quickly dusted herself off and dashed over to the window.

“Orion!” she whispered only as loudly as she dared.

Orion opened his eyes, turning around and looking up at Carewyn with a very soft smile adorning his lips.

“Beautiful as ever, my lady,” he complimented her, inclining his shoulders in a short bow. His hands were still clasped in front of him. “Like the sweet Nightingale that sang for the Emperor.”

Carewyn took several quick glances around, visibly worried. “Orion, what are you doing here?”

Orion raised his eyebrows. “Standing, at present. Though I was singing just a moment ago -- or at least trying to. My voice cannot compete with yours, I’m afraid.”

Carewyn couldn’t completely keep the smile off her face, even despite the concern she felt. Her smile, however small, was like a warm, soothing hand on Orion’s heart.

“You’re lucky that no one else heard you!” Carewyn hissed down with as much reproach as she could manage.

Orion smiled wryly. “Most assuredly. I’m certain that Madam Ali and the Weasley brothers would hardly enjoy my ‘accompaniment’ as well as they do yours.”

The sweat on his hands had gone cold, making Orion actually shiver a bit as he found his body temperature and heart rate finally starting to calm. His smile flickered slightly on his face, creating a much more pensive and murky expression.

“...Will you take a ride with me, Carewyn?” said Orion, very abruptly. 

Carewyn blinked. “What?”

Orion squeezed his own hands together, but tried to keep his voice level and his shoulders straight.

“I realize we’ve made no plans today, and that you are enamored of the work you do at court...but you so enjoy riding your horse, and we’ve not yet taken a ride together, out into the country. There are such beautiful valleys east of here -- perfect for stargazing, I should think, once the sun sets.”

Carewyn’s eyes drifted away, back into the guest suite she was cleaning. The windows weren’t washed yet, and she still had to bring the dirty sheets down to the laundry so she could have them clean in time for tomorrow morning...

Sensing Carewyn’s discomfort, Orion said in an oddly insistent voice, “I’ll wait for you, should you say yes. Whatever you must do, I’ll wait until you are finished.”

Carewyn’s gaze snapped back down to Orion in surprise.

She’d never heard him sound like that before. As mysterious and unreadable as his face was, she could still sense that something was off. Perhaps it was how his black eyes searched her face -- or perhaps it was the tenseness in his clasped hands.

Carewyn knew she was in no state to go riding with Orion in her dusty servant’s uniform, especially when she still had work to do...but truly, she didn’t have to wash the windows today, after having already done them yesterday...and she could always fetch the sheets early the next morning before coming up to the guest suite to change them out.

If something is wrong, I can’t leave Orion to deal with it alone, she thought to herself.

Even if she was only a fake and a liar, Carewyn wanted to be there for him. He deserved to have someone there for him...even if it was just her.

And so with a swallow, she looked back down at Orion with a very solemn, but gentle look.

“...I’ll need to change into something warmer and fetch my horse...but I’ll be down in thirty minutes. Can you meet me outside the gate?”

Orion’s heart flooded with relief that he couldn’t completely keep off of his face.

“I’ll be waiting, my lady.”

[ilkkawhat]

Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Nick Stokes & Cassie McBride, Nick Stokes & Sara Sidle Characters: Nick Stokes, Sara Sidle, Cassie McBride Word Count: 3,059 Additional Tags: Angst, Episode: s06e05 Gum Drops, Rescue, Father-Daughter Relationship, Adoption, Possible new fic series??? who knows it's 2021 anything can happen Summary: A brief dive into Nick's feelings surrounding Cassie's rescue, and what may have happened to her afterwards.

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“Let me out.” 

He couldn’t say the words at the time. Could only choke out a literal cry for help, though there were plenty of words that his brain was firing—and missing—but those three words in particular were just some of the few pleading thoughts he had while he was still enclosed in a glass coffin—one that was ready to collapse at any given second—why didn’t they see that? Why did they all stand on top of it? Why didn’t they open it immediately just to give him some air, just brush the damn ants off, no extinguisher needed.

He didn’t understand why it took so long to get him out. 

To rescue him. 

Maybe it’s cause that’s not what they do. They never really get to, always showing up when the rescue fails.

Or when it never arrives in the first place.

So they don’t really know how to rescue someone. Scramble around because they’re used to placing evidence markers and taking pictures, and unless it’s raining there’s really no rush because well, what’s the need?

And it hadn’t been known to him at the time that they were indeed aware the fan was going to die, that he was going to run out of air—he could only hope the desperation in his screams would tell them that, the ignored cry for help as they all left the hole, left him. 

Did they just assume because the unearthed the coffin that he would suddenly be able to breathe even with the condensing, scratched kept closed? Figure, “we still have another hour or so until the air runs out entirely , maybe even more since he’s not actively breathing.”

He didn’t understand their odd sort of...patience with the situation. Even Grissom took the time to calm him down before the lid was opened. 

His patience, however, in this rescue mission he’s taken upon himself despite Sara’s warnings, her doubt that it may not have a happy ending; is completely gone.

He’s not had any sleep since they started the case. Granted, he’s not had much sleep at all in the past five months but his senses are as sharp as ever, his eyes hyper focused looking for anything that doesn’t belong in the lake’s waters or forested banks. 

Like the body of a little girl.

Or more gum drops.

He almost thinks he sees a trail of them floating in the disturbed water as they pass through, beacons of lights waving over—though he feels like he’s doing a better job than the supposed actual patrolman operating the boat. He’s waving his flashlight all around him, while theirs seems to remain still. 

Then again, he’s the one acting like he’s going to “rescue a person, not recover a body.”

Yes, he knows that’s not usually the case.

He remembers being on the other end of that ray of light searching for a lost soul, remembers how close he was to losing his life, hanging by a last thread that was about to snap—how that light was really a rescue in itself in the darkness that entrapped him. His only light had been shot out to keep himself alive, only a dim green glow to remind him where he was. 

Sara’s words continue to echo, their conversation playing on a loop as that small part of his brain tries to convince him not to get his hopes too high.

But luckily, he proves himself wrong.

“Stop the boat,” Nick commands, his light shining on another fragile thread, one he hopes is not already broken.

“Stop the boat,” he repeats as he throws off his hat to get full view, tossing it aside and nervously gripping the flashlight in his hand. His heart hasn’t raced this fast since it nearly burst in the box.

“Let me out,” he echoes, but it’s not a broken plea. It’s a determined one. He’s not even going to wait for the boat to stop, his legs are itching to run to the pair he sees sticking out between the branches. A pair of shoes small enough for a ten year old girl.

“Let me out,” he says again but he doesn’t wait for any sort of response, nor was he asking for one. If anything, it was for himself. The permission to take the plunge as he jumps out of the boat, not even caring if the water is still deep. He runs as fast as he can through the water and as he approaches his heart soars before it shatters when his light shines onto what he immediately assumes is a corpse. 

There’s a slice on her neck, the classic slit of the throat that would kill anybody within seconds.

Her skin is pale, far too pale to still be alive though sure, it’s cold enough that his own skin is paling too, even more than that, it’s shaking. Is she shaking as his fingers press against her skin, or is it just him?

There’s still a pulse. It’s weak, it’s fading, but it’s there. Or is it the pulse that’s beating out of his own fingers?

There’s still rope around her wrists. Why would she leave it on?

There’s still a piece of gum in her hand, the final breadcrumb that she wasn’t able to put down because this is her resting place. Her premature grave.

But there’s still life in her yet, because like Nick, she’s a survivor. 

And she’s being rescued. 

“Hang on, baby,” he whispers as his soaked hand strokes her dry, matted hair. “I got you. You’re going to be okay.”

He hears the patrol call for the paramedics. They attempt to move her but Nick advises against it. 

At least, not immediately. 

And this is the part he hates the most, that he hated the most when he was the victim. 

Click. Flash. 

The picture of the living dead girl, another for the red room of his own photography of death and violence that haunts his dreams.

He mentally places it next to the picture of himself that he accidentally saw in Grissom’s office one day. 

A morbid sense of hope washes over him; if he was rescued from a horrific crime and has been able to go back to his job—back to his life, there’s hope for Cassie, too. 

Right?

The paramedics were not too far behind, and he had almost hoped that the flash from the camera may have shocked Cassie back to a full state of being. Crying and in deliriously tremendous shock, maybe, like he was when he was rescued; but in the same way as a baby cries when its born, it would be a comforting sign of life while this, right here is just...tragic? Hopeless? Despair? 

He doesn’t know what he really expected, as this rescue is less triumphant than he thought it would be after everything that led to this moment. It feels more...depressing, like they’re still somehow too late. Perhaps it’s due to how he seems to be the only one driven enough, how there was almost a suffocating amount of people crowding his scene. 

Cassie, on the other hand, has nobody.

Nobody but him.

He rides back with her, holding that same hand still clutching her last candied beacon of hope and he can’t tell if it’s still water dripping off of his face, or if tears are streaming as he remembers how his hand was held, how his family—both blood and found—were there for him. How they comforted him. Soothed him. Reassured him that this would never happen again. 

Kept telling him that he wasn’t actually dead.

He texts Sara and Greg, tells them he got her. Being the lead on the case, he instructs them on what to do yet somehow, he feels like he’s lost that role having abandoned them for his own selfish savior complex. 

They still do what he asks anyway.

When they get to the hospital, he’s turned away, because he’s not family. He’s shaking but not just from the cold of his wet clothes slapping against his skin, but from the anger as he lashes out, telling them she doesn’t have any, not anymore, and she needs someone. They express their “sympathy” but the best they agree to is calling him when she’s out of surgery.

He makes more calls, wondering who can be there for her, is there any family left? 

There’s not. 

Sara brings him a new change of clothes. Fresh pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a hoodie that he packed for the nights. He’s glad she chose that, as he hunches over in the waiting room. 

“She’s got nobody, Sar,” he sniffles, rubbing his hands together. Even the fourth cup of coffee still hasn’t warmed him up. “Who’s...Who’s gonna take care of this little girl?”

“You know what’s going to happen,” Sara sighs. “She’ll end up in the system.”

“Is it...is it bad?” he dares to ask, knowing he’s crossing a line, he doesn’t meet her eyes when he asks it. Just stares into the swirling black sea between his hands.

“Is what bad?” she puts a hand on his back, sliding up and down beneath the hood. 

“The...the adoption system. Just bein’...passed around like that. Thrown into an already established family, not sure if you’re gonna…”

“Fit in?”

Nick nods.

“It’s...it’s not easy. Doesn’t always happen right away, and when it does, it can...it can be a gamble. You know that well enough from the things we see.”

“Yeah,” he nods into his chest. 

They sit in silence for few more minutes.

“You don’t hafta be here, ya know,” he shrugs. “G’s already halfway back to Vegas.”

“I know.”

“A-And Grissom’s flight probably landed, he might have more cases to assign.”

“I’m not the only CSI he’s got,” Sara smirks. 

“Gonna be a while till she gets outta surgery, so they tell me at least.”

“You trying to get rid of me?”

“Nah,” he pulls a face. “I just...I hope you’re not doing this cause…”

“Go on, say it. Cause I feel guilty?”

“That’s...not...but sort of…” he mumbles.

“I don’t feel...guilty. It feels good to have found her alive. I didn’t want her to be dead, Nick.”

“I know,” he sighs.

“And I don’t want you to...to be so hurt every time something like this...happens. You’ve changed, Nick and I can’t...I don’t know if it’s necessarily for the better.”

He finally meets her eyes. His face pale, wet and weary. Dark circles under his eyes that he typically conceals with a light coating of makeup, cause he knows people will just worry. His hair’s dried now, sticking up in all directions. 

Anybody would think, and the patrons of the hospital most certainly do at this point, and even Sara seems to think that he’s nothing more than a broken mess.

He’s not. 

“I think it is,” he tells her in a surge of confidence in his voice.

He expects her to be mad.

Instead, she smiles at him with pride. 

“Well...seems like you might be right. I know this case kind of...got under our skins a bit but...I think you did a good job,” Sara tells him, and with a final press to his shoulder to keep him grounded and humble, she walks away, knowing before he even tells her what he’s about to do as she passes by a father walking with a small girl through the entrance to the hospital.

That’s when his mind is made up and he makes more calls, talks to more people including the child services agent assigned to Cassie’s case. He finishes paperwork for the case file, and for an application. He knows it’s going to take time to get approved, just as its going to take time for Cassie to recover enough for him to even...ask her if that’s something she would...want. 

And that’s when the doubts sink in, what if she doesn’t want that? Doesn’t want him? She doesn’t even know him, all he is to her is the guy that found her. And he would understand better than anybody else the mistrust in strangers. And even if he’s a member of law enforcement, a public servant, somebody you’re supposed to be able to trust, what if he would just...mess it all up? Would it even work with his schedule? Unless he started taking more time off, he supposes. Less voluntary overtime—though Ecklie’s trying to cut down on that anyway. 

The fears don’t settle, even with all the votes of confidence he receives from nearly everybody who accounts for him as a person worthy of being a father. 

But more than that, he’s afraid of being a replacement to her, instead of what he really hopes to be; a connection. 

And when he gets the card that she hand-draws for him, that fear goes away.

He doesn’t get to see her right away after the surgery, but the minute visiting hours open up again, he walks to the room with a case file in hand. He does his best to keep himself together, but shows the cracks as he can’t hide his empathy for her pain, though he doesn’t allow himself to fully cry and make her feel even worse. 

Instead, he does what he’s always done best, and listens to her. Holds her arm and keeps her grounded, too, and she gets more and more confident as she continues to talk—though some parts are harder than others. 

“You’re doing great, sweetheart, go on,” he encourages her with a smile. 

They take breaks for her to rest her vocal chords. When her voice goes out, she uses the notepad and he waits patiently, letting her lead their conversation.

She’s just as smart as Nick expected, asking her own questions and discussing the pictures of evidence in the folder. While he’s never quite been a teacher, she’s the best student he’s ever had.

When the story is done, she loses composure and he sits on the edge of the bed, hugging her as her fists ball the sweatshirt stained with tears. 

“You are so brave, Cassie. You are the bravest little girl I’ve ever met,” he comforts her, silent tears streaming down his own face and falling into the same dry, matted hair as they did before. 

She doesn’t say much after that, but when she calms down enough and visiting time comes to an end, she asks one final question that he knew was coming, yet was still unprepared for.

She can’t even say the words. Writes it on another page in the notebook.

“What’s going to happen to me now?” 

He still doesn’t know if he was the right person to answer this question, if this was something that her counselor should answer but he’s both too excited and too anxious to keep waiting.

“Well, honey, you’re...you’ll be going with Ms. Nancy, you met her, she’s going to take you to a place that’s...that’s like a hotel, u-until you can find a new family…” He doesn’t feel confident in his explanation, winces in expecting her to lash out, “I don’t want a new family!” which is exactly what he reads on her face as the crayon rolls from her hand.

“And I...sort of threw my name into the hat, that you could come stay with me, but only if you wanta—”

“I’d like that,” she nods, and smiles.

“Really?”

She nods again more fervently.

“I wanted to keep it a surprise,” a voice startles Nick, the aforementioned counselor he had been consulting with enters the room with a wide smile on her face. “Before you came by, I had a moment with Cassie and discussed it. There’s still some hurdles of paperwork to go through, but by the time she’s out of the hospital, she can go to her new home. With you.”

“That’s...That’s wonderful,” he cries, quickly wiping his tears but they don’t stop coming, especially not when Cassie reaches for his wrist and pulls him back to the bed, reaching out in the same way he reached out to his own surrogate father when he was brought back from the brink of despair. 

That’s what he wanted to happen, at least.

“What’s going to happen to me now?” 

It’s the same question he asked himself when he woke up in the hospital in the restrained trance, tied up in tubes and wires, fearful that he would never return to his life as it was before—and in a way, he never would. There’s pieces of Nick that are still buried, just as there are pieces of Cassie dropped along the trail of gum.

“I don’t know,” he tearfully admits. His application was still in process. The child services counselor, while holding respect for him did seem to kind of...judge him for being so desperate about this. Suspicious, even. He knows everybody would attest to his character but knows that he’s still bogged down with a lot of baggage, no matter how well he’s doing on his journey through this life.

He’s uncertain of the future, both his and Cassie’s, but one thing he is certain of—

“No matter what happens,” he holds her arm again, uses his other hand to brush the hair out of her face, cup her cheek. “Where you go, who you end up with, I will always be there for you, okay? You can call me anytime you need—”

He digs out his own card, not hand drawn and just adorned with his job title and phone number, and knows it’s not much to offer to someone who’s just lost everything, but knows the weight of what he does offer, in two words that he once vowed to his own savior.

“I promise.”

Cassie may not understand all of what’s going on between the shock and her inexperienced age, but she does seem to understand what a promise is, and what a promise means. 

She puts her hand on top of Nick’s, and even though she’s said it before in writing, she says it again out loud with the biggest show of strength he’s seen in any survivor, not even in himself.

“Thank you.”

[themissingmarvel]

Kind Regards, Detective [Part 5] -Prelude to Deepest Sympathies

(I don’t usually trigger warn or content warn, but this might be a triggering chapter. I’m including the Reader’s Drabble I wrote a little while back as recommended reading prior to this, [Drabble 2] but if it’s hard to read about family death then maybe avoid it. This chapter was hard, but important. And I think sets up a truly important dynamic. I’m a slow-burn romantic kind of lady, and I wanted their relationship to be powerful and important, not just one of lust. Or even basic attraction. I needed it to be human. Anyway I liked writing it, and feedback is always appreciated and loved and treasured ((i seriously reread any feedback and comments)) and as always, ask to be tagged or removed from tagging.

Pairing: Detective Loki x fbi!Reader

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Death, emotional anguish, PTSD flashbacks, language)

Catch up: [Part 1] // [Part 2] // [Drabble] // [Part 3] // [Part 4] // [Drabble2]

She didn’t sleep last night, which was no surprise. She had spent much of the night awake and poring over documents and cataloged pieces. Her own theories had been spun and while some might have felt outlandish in her head, she understood that this was an outlandish case. It had been hard enough to put on those headphones and let herself fall into a trance. Remember her sister. But not directly. She remembered remembering. Buying that damn CD she would play over and over. Peter Gabriel was her sister’s favorite, not that she’d ever tell anyone. Neither would. Her sister touted her love for System of a Down and Trust Company back when those bands made you cool.

For years after her sister passed she had found the only thing that felt vaguely satisfying was leaving that CD on her sister’s grave. And when CDs started becoming scarce, she had spent a few hundred dollars on Amazon buying all of the CDs she could find with that song on it. She’d be damned if she ever missed a single anniversary. Never went on the day of her passing, though. No. That felt sacrilegious. She went on her sister’s birthday, played the song on her headphones, along with a few others, but Heroes was the one that she played most. It was the one she’d leave behind after telling her how her parents had finally divorced, or how her dad had been ‘thinking’ about retiring again. For the hundredth time. Or how she’d been accepted as an Agent and two weeks ago, about how she was feeling so fucking lost.

But memories of memories are easier to put away, and much like her locker that held Detective Loki, her sister’s, much more ornate and much larger, she put those memories of memories away.

Her bag was hanging off her form lazily and her hair was done just enough to be presentable. By no means was she falling apart, but she was working. Working hard meant she lost focus on other parts of herself. It meant she had zeroed in on certain aspects of the case. Like how all of the individuals abducted had been on the same phone carrier, Radius, or how the TV was a model made by the company Source that had been discontinued three years ago, but at the time had been beyond revolutionary. Even now it was considered brilliant. She had found no traces of the nerve agent were discovered at the scene which meant they were probably injected with the pure form. Which meant someone had a lot of it.

Her theories meant that this man was not just dangerous but he had resources. He had access to things that people shouldn’t have access to and maybe he worked with Radius? Had access to their systems? The generator powering the church had been a Source item as well, meaning both were connected. Who used Source and Radius?

The precinct was still somewhat quiet, at 8am, slightly later than yesterday. Shift change had taken place and the detectives were still filtering in. Except for Detective Loki who was hunched at his desk, a long sleeved, form fitting black shirt on his form and black pants hanging off his hips. He looked sleek. Dangerous, even. She could see how someone might fall for someone like him.

Placing her bag down in the conference room, having actually remembered her coffee traveler this time, she glanced up as one of the cops walked in with a box, “Agent Y/L/N, this was left here about an hour ago for you. UPS dropped it off.”

The 2-PAM. She smiled and took it, “Thanks. Kind of nice when things work out like they’re supposed to for once,” she chuckled, curious why the box was so damn light.

The officer left and Y/N looked down, noticing that the label wasn’t stamped ‘FBI’ and in fact the sender name was absent, save for an address in Pennsylvania that didn’t look familiar. Maybe not the FBI?

Her heart suddenly began to race, carefully putting the box down as she looked to the side, seeing Detective Loki still hunched over. The man was on a mission.

Reaching behind herself she withdrew the small switchblade she kept tucked into her waist line, the one that no one ever saw. That was small. Cold and awkward at times but useful. Like now.

Why did this feel like defusing a bomb?

The blade clicked and she carefully began to open the box. She was aware it didn’t matter anymore who touched it, or if she damaged it. She knew whatever was inside the box was key. And with a final tug, the lid opened and she peered inside.

Time stopping had always felt like kind of an exaggeration to Y/N. How does time even ‘stop’? What, does the world freeze? Well, it did.

Staring inside the box she could see the face of a man she knew well, a man who cradled her soul and her heart and sang brilliant love songs to her, who had kept her connected to her sister, even in death. The black CD cover with two red forms on it, her sister claimed them red blood cells but said they looked like rose petals.

Her hand was surprisingly steady as she picked up the note inside, reading the immaculate cursive written on some kind of specialty papyrus paper, “My deepest sympathies, Agent. Your triumph through tragedy only enhances your beauty.”

And with that, she ran for the plastic trash bin nearby and fell to it, retching hard as she threw up the entire contents of her breakfast, causing the box, the note, and the Peter Gabriel CD with Heroes on it to tumble to the floor.

Immediately David heard the noise and jumped, running inside the room as the precinct suddenly jumped to life, turning to take in the scene. The note, CD, and box were on the floor and Y/N was kneeling by the small, cheap plastic trash bin puking.

“What the fu-” David was almost able to spit the words out before a strangely animalistic sound came from her lips, screaming into the bin that she had already emptied the contents of her stomach into.

The world grew quiet as the scream died down, leaving Y/N on her knees with her eyes closed, knuckles white as she gripped the bin as though it were the only thing keeping her alive right now. Stable. Present. Here.

“Get me gloves and bags for the items, now!” David yelled out, to no one in particular as he knelt by the woman in a kind of distress he didn’t know a person could experience from a simple box, “Hey, talk to me, what happened? Are you OK?”

Her face snapped, wiping her lips as she glared, “Do I look OK to you, Detective? Do I fucking look OK?” Her voice was raised, though not yelling.

Snapping back David glared, “Do we need to decontaminate the room? Is there anything infectious?” He looked at her seriously.

Taking a breath her eyes pulled away, “No. No chemicals. But it’s toxic none the less.”

Her voice was quiet as she spoke the words, closing her eyes and trying to forget what she had just seen. Experienced. Felt in her gut. Her soul had been torn forth in that moment and the timing of the CD was so tragically horrifying. For a brief moment of paranoia she wondered if perhaps someone had been able to access her personal phone, heard what she was listening to. The artist. The song.

Getting up rather quickly, Y/N stumbled slightly as she made her way through the people that had clustered, watching as two other detectives came rushing forward with evidence collecting items. Forensics would get it. They’d dust it for fingerprints and they would come up with hers, the delivery driver’s, the handlers at the warehouse… maybe a dozen people. And none would be the culprits. David would direct people to track the package and they would. They’d track it to some nondescript location where cameras weren’t installed and it’d been paid for with cash. She knew it like she knew the songlist on that CD.

Heading for the door of the precinct her head felt light, woozy, and she was struggling for something stable. Something to keep her grounded. Even as she threw open the doors of the building, those glass doors lined with metal, solid as hell, heavy as fuck, she ran out into the bitter air, feeling the cold devour her skin.

More.

She didn’t realize it but she was running now, into the parking lot, David not far behind, though he didn’t exist right now. Her sister’s smile was there, a true memory in its purest form, the smile she had wanted to see last night but didn’t want tainted and tied to this psychopath now.

Unthinking and perhaps uncaring, her hands grabbed at the hem of her sweater, pulling it up and over her head, tossing it to the ground of the parking lot filled only with cars, otherwise without a soul. The air was frigid as it enveloped her and tore her from reality. She gasped as the item fell, leaving her in her form-fitted white t-shirt and jeans alone, able to see her breath as she felt it stopping her from hyperventilating, the cold burning her skin, tearing at her and pulling her out of this other reality.

Once, during training, she had been shot. Not with a real bullet, of course, but shot none the less. A rubber bullet the academy insisted they feel the impact of to know what they might use in certain circumstances. And, perhaps, be prepared for since it’d be similar to a bullet hitting a bulletproof vest. The bullet had been fired by some complete and utter asshole Thomas Engleson, a man who didn’t think women could hack it. He shot her in the ribcage, instead of the stomach. He hit her directly. Not indirectly. And of course he was excused for it.

The pain of the shot had been incredible but she had gritted her teeth and taken it in. A cracked rib meant she was out for a bit, but it didn’t actually stop her. She kept training. Moving. Not exacerbating the damage but doing just enough to keep going. But the pain of that moment had been etched into her body’s memory.

This hurt worse.

Her skin was covered in goosebumps from the cold, beginning to shiver as she stood, perhaps for ten minutes, David standing behind her as he looked at her. This woman unshaken by so much, who had taken in twelve dead bodies and kept going, who took information meant to terrify and had kept pushing. Whatever had been in that note, in that box, had been meant just for her on a level those notes for David never touched.

It felt like an ache, standing in the cold as he watched the woman he had found himself so fond of suddenly pushing out the entire world as though it might infect her. He wanted to grab her sweater, wrap her in it, and pull her close. He’d swear to god he’d get the guy. And he would, even if he didn’t tell her that. He swore as he watched her, that finding this man would be his only task. He wouldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t eat. This was Dover and Birch, but now he was the onve involved. His own life was on the line.

“Do you ever wonder what it feels like to die, David?” The words were loud enough for him to hear, the wind suddenly picking up as she stared ahead to the road leading into the precinct, fairly empty though cars scattered about, the day cloudy and bitter.

He took a moment to consider it. He had. He had wondered once, when the kid in his backseat was frothing at the mouth, if maybe he prayed hard enough her poison would go into his body. He could take it, he thought. Better let the child live. He had seen enough, “Yes.” He answered simply. Now was not the time for banter.

A sort of dark chuckle left her lips, “I used to wonder what it might be like to die. After my sister was killed, I thought it was the only thing left that could actually scare me. The world couldn’t hurt me any more than it did when I was seventeen. I didn’t want to die, I still don’t, but I knew I could face that fear.

“But now? God, David… I wish I was fucking dead.” She fell to her knees so suddenly it caught David by surprise, running to her as he grabbed her sweater, saying ‘fuck it’ to the world as he wrapped his arms around her, pressing her body to his as he tried to finagle a way to keep her sweater on her as well.

No sobs or cries escaped her lips as her body went lax, falling against him as she wondered, perhaps, if maybe just giving in to this would be best. This felt so goddamn dramatic, and maybe it was, but for good reason. This man had found out one of her most intimate details of her life and sent it to her in a box. He had delivered to her a piece of her, and what scared her most was the fact that this man, this murderer, thought he was showing some sort of deranged compassion.

Time seemed to stop and David was grateful for the fact that they were far enough away, and behind most of the cars in the lot, that the world wouldn’t see them like this. He could smell the free, nondescript shampoo offered by the hotel, unsurprised that she wasn’t doused in perfume. But she did smell of something. Her own personal brand of herself. Pushing back some of her hair he spoke, “You can’t go anywhere yet. You can’t possibly trust me to finish this case by myself,” he grinned, stopping himself from pressing his lips against her head.

Chuckling, despite her desire not to, she shook her head, “I sure as hell don’t expect you to solve this alone. You need my theories, Detective Loki. I came up with a bunch last night.” It was tragic in a way, how fast she was working to compartmentalize. Whoever it was that had sent her the letter had done a bang-up job scaring the shit out of her. He had opened the locker that held her sister and emptied the contents without permission. But Y/N was cleaning it up. She was fixing it. In her mind she was already putting herself and all those pieces back together.

Looking confused David pulled away slightly, “Don’t you think you should go get coffee or something? Take a- Ah, fuck, who am I kidding. You’re not listening to me, are you?”

The ghost of a smile crept onto her lips as she raised an eyebrow, looking at David now, “Not really. And I mean, what’s stopping going to do? We both know I’m invested. He… he may have targeted you and those other detectives, and honed onto you, but with me… I’m a happy accident. He picked me. I don’t want to be another body in a church, David,” her eyes changed as she looked at him, suddenly fragile and vulnerable, opening her heart to this man. Detective. The one holding her in the parking lot of the precinct while both tried to put together what they just went through.

Stroking her cheek lightly David whispered, “And you won’t be. You’re gonna get up, put your sweater on, and go back inside. And when everyone looks at you, or asks if you’re OK, you’re not gonna smile or fake it, you stare at them. Through them. None of them matter now. Not a single soul inside. We’re gonna find this asshole, and we’re gonna stop him. Now get up.”

He pulled away, nothing truly romantic in the gesture but one that broke her just the same. They were words that felt charged with something more than a pep talk, but instead felt like a true demand. David understood she wasn’t some person who just fell over because they were pushed. She’d stumble. She’d fall. And he knew she could get right back up and go back to bat. And as she stood, David doing the same, he watched her eyes as she put the sweater on. Something had changed, briefly, something else. Something oddly dark that he couldn’t put his finger on, but understood she perhaps needed. The same thing he had needed in his time.

Turning her back to him, Y/N made her way back towards the precinct, her feet marching with purpose, her eyes focused, laser focused, as she understood what this was. This man chose people. Always. He had a reason and a purpose and it was never an accident. He had found the CD she brought to her sister’s grave (though she suspected it wasn’t the same one), he had written a detailed note, and he had found the one thing in this world she was still so very vulnerable to.

Now she was going to find him.

( @escapingthoughtsandsecrets @is-it-madness @detecellie @oscarflysaac @peccobagnaia @fgtakbrjbdl​ @doritosandavocados​ @miss-missing-patd​

[himbowelsh]

imagine dick winters the same but with extreme horny energy throughout the series. terrifying.

the sheer power of thot!winters... i can’t even

Nixon has never enjoyed personal meetings with Colonel Sink. It reminds him too keenly of being called into the headmaster’s office as a boy. Sure, the gilt-carved walls and massive oak-paneled desk might be absent; he’s no longer a sulky twelve year old, wearing knee-high socks and a bow tie; but the feeling is still there. Sink never throws his weight around just to be intimidating  ---  a trait in a leader Nixon can actually respect  ---  but when he wants to, Sink can be the tallest man in the room. Everyone else looks, and feels, tiny in his shadow.

This meeting could be about a dozen things. Hopefully Sink doesn’t know about the footlocker.

“Captain Nixon.” He doesn’t look angry, which is a great start. Sink just looks tired  ---  not surprising, for a man with the entire 506th to look after. Nixon just has to deal with battalion staff, and he felt himself going grey at the temples after a week. Sink leans forward, bracing himself standing against the desk. Nixon straightens his back and makes himself attentive, ever the headmaster’s favorite student. “Now, I called you here to discuss something delicate. You intelligence men know how to keep things confidential.”

Nixon’s mind flashes through a montage  ---  humming La Marseilles in Dick’s earshot before Normandy, leaving a coffee stain right over Holland on the map on Dick’s desk, the Dutch-to-English dictionary he placed on Dick’s nightstand for safekeeping.

“Part of the job description, sir,” he replies, smiling.

Sink looks uncomfortable. “It’s… a delicate situation. You understand.”

Oh Christ, it’s definitely about the footlocker. Nixon’s shoulders tense, though his face doesn’t change. If he’s about to get demoted, he’s going to look respectable doing it.

“About Captain Winters.”

Oh.

Oh?

“The man’s a damn good soldier. Gets all the work done, is excellent with the men… you see, they respect him. These men need officers they can look up to.”

Oh.

“Not ones who get caught naked in a henhouse with the mayor of Aldbourne’s damn daughter on top of him!”

Nixon recalls that day in vivid detail — mostly because it was last weekend, but also because of the vivid red Dick blushed— presumably all over— even though he was grinning while telling it. The man has the patience of a saint, and double the virtues that come along with it. You could fill a new testament with the exploits of Dick Winters… except at least half of the pages would be torn straight from a bodice-ripper novel.

“Now, I try to make allowances for good officers, but this is the third time it’s happened... this month. When I talk to Winters about it, he says ‘yes sir, it’ll never happen again’. Then you know what he goes and does?”

It takes Nixon a second to realize Sink’s pointing at him because he expects an answer. “He does it again,” he volunteers.

Sink smacks the desk. “He does it again!”

He does plenty more that Sink doesn’t hear about, too, but Nixon’s not about to admit that to the man’s face.

“Now, you know how to handle him. If anyone in the army can wrangle the damn man, it’s you! From here on out, your job is to keep Winters out of trouble. I hate to demote a good officer, but he’s about to leave me no choice. Take care of it, Nixon.”

Buried deep down, a part of Nixon feels like cackling. Him, official Dick Winters babysitter? Christ, it’s like putting the death row inmates in charge of the electric chair, or letting a mouse run the whole kitchen! Rather than be written up for insubordination this early in the morning, Nixon just bows his head rising smoothly from his chair. “Yes, sir. I’ll look after him, sir.”

Sink sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “A model officer. A damn good man. All I ask is for him to keep it inside his pants. Is that too much to ask?”

It’s probably a rhetorical question. Nixon smiles pleasantly, and answers anyway. “Nothing’s too much for Captain Winters, sir.”

Sink waves him off with a shake of his head, settling down to focus on his next pressing issue. Nixon knows when he’s been dismissed; frankly, he can’t get out of the colonel’s office fast enough.

By the time he makes it back to the billet he and Dick are sharing, the story is burning his tongue like a sparkler. Jesus, what will Dick think? You never know what you’re going to get in a one-on-one with the brass, but babysitting duty’s something else. If Nixon’s suddenly the responsible one…

“Hey, Dick!” he calls, slamming the door to their shared house open. “Wait ‘til you get a load of —“

Nixon stops dead in the doorway, mouth hanging open. Suddenly, his mind is nothing but radio static. Dead air. A complete blank. Jesus Christ, he should learn to knock.

“Hiya, Nix,” Dick greets amiably, popping his head out from under his lady friend’s skirt. His flushed lips are almost more obscene than her wanton moaning. “Give me a few minutes, I’m just finishing up here.”

“Right.” Nixon snaps his fingers, then points a thumb over his shoulder, out the door. “I’ll just be — yeah, okay. You kids have fun.”

Yet another room he can’t escape from fast enough. This is turning into a day of uncomfortable meetings, and he’d kind of like to go into hibernation just to avoid any more.

Dick’s companion leaves first, a couple minutes after Nixon makes himself scarce. Her blouse is buttoned unevenly; she walks out on unsteady legs, face still flushed. Nixon waits a moment, just to make sure no more girls are following — he still remembers the night he got caught in a tragic jam, at least six girls filing out of their rooms as he tried to go in — but when no one else follows, he steps inside.

This time, he has the grace to rap lightly on the door. Dick turns, sparing him a close-lipped smile as he steps inside. By this point, Nixon knows he shouldn’t be surprised… still, Dick has a talent for it. “You know, I step out for an hour…”

“Veronica was just passing by.” Dick studies his reflection in the mirror, and splashed a bit of water on his face. “We’re old acquaintances. I invited her in because it’s the nice thing to do.”

“‘Old acquaintances?’” Nixon echoes, putting up a valiant effort not to laugh. “How far do you go back? All the way to last week?”

“Three weeks ago, actually,” Dick replies. By now, Nixon knows him well enough to catch the humor in his dry tone.

“Right, right.” He unbuttons his officer’s coat, surreptitiously scanning the room; Dick’s extracurriculars often leave evidence behind, and Nixon would prefer not to step on an earring again. “Well, that was nice of you. Seemed like she was enjoying herself.”

“Seemed like it,” Dick agrees, tone mild. When Nixon turns, he’s sprawled out in an armchair, head tilted back. Such exploits take a lot out of a guy… and Dick never gives himself a break. It’s not enough to be up with the sun sorting paperwork; he also puts in a different kind of work, so often that it’s amazing he hasn’t sprained anything. Burning the candle at both ends, indeed; Dick’s candle gets so much use, Nixon’s shocked it even lights anymore.

“I was going to tell you,” he says, draping his coat over the back of Dick’s desk chair, “about my meeting with Sink.” Dick makes a noncommittal noise of agreement, but at least Nixon knows he’s listening. “Got it into his head that I’m the responsible party here. Poor man. Couldn’t bring myself to prove him wrong just yet.”

Dick is quiet for a few moments; long enough to sit forward, elbows braced against his knees, watching his friend solemnly. Nixon might be the intelligence officer, but Dick’s always had a stare that can unwravel people without trying. “What did he say?” he asks, solemn.

Nixon rolls his shoulders in an easy shrug. “He asked me to keep an eye on you.” He lingers on the contents atop the dresser for a moment, pretending they’re more interesting than they are. Sure enough — a pair of ruby earrings sit forgotten. Nixon’s lips twist as he plucks them up, placing them inside a clean ashtray. Someone’s going to come looking for them eventually. “Sink’s talking about demotion, Dick. It’s crossed his mind.”

“Demotion? For what?” Dick doesn’t even sound outraged — only surprised.

“Well, the mayor’s daughter came up.”

Dick’s mouth drops open in protest; he closes it just as quickly. “Fair. Why else?”

Nixon can think of… at least twenty more reasons. Lieutenant Baldassari of the Nurses’ Corps… the baker’s wife… the waitress with the bright lipstick… that farm girl who left Dick pulling hay out of his clothes for a week… hell, when Kathy was visiting, Nixon even made the mistake of inviting Dick to dine with them. Never again. If any man ought to have it out for Dick Winters, it’s him. 

(At least Dick had the courtesy to invite him. Nixon turned the offer down — like hell if Kathy wanted him in the middle, anyways.)

The thing is… Dick’s character makes him otherwise unimpeachable. He’s so damned good. Hardworking, determined, coolheaded, sober as a judge… and filled with tireless energy towards his duty. So much energy. A frightening amount of energy, all the time, ready to lead the men in anything.

It took Nixon a while to figure out where he generates it all.

“All I can tell you is, be careful. Chrissakes, lock your doors, at least, so innocent people can’t just walk in.” Nixon turns, leaning against the dresser and crossing his arms. “I don’t have to remind you about the Sobel incident.”

“I remember,” Dick replies, lips quirking in a dry half-grin.

“Great! So you remember Sobel’s sister. And why the man was dead-set on driving you out of the damn army.”

“It was nice of his family to visit from Chicago,” is all Dick says. When Nixon just stares at him, Dick sighs and rises from his chair, turning to the desk. “I’ve got some paperwork, Nix.”

“Right.” Nixon waits for a moment, weighing the likelihood of Dick giving in and continuing the conversation. It’s not high. Shaking his head, he pushes off of the dresser and starts across the room. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Have fun. Oh, and Dick —“

As Nixon turns in the doorway, Dick looks up.

“You want me to believe you’re going to stay in and be good all night, you might wanna put some clothes on.”

Standing buck-naked in the middle of their shared room, Dick shrugs his lean shoulders, and smiles. “Will do, Nix.”

[cavariously]

[Trying my hand at a fan fiction.

I love to write but I have never done anything like this before, so all feedback would be extremely appreciated (Grammer, Plot, Characters etc.).

I love Tokyo Ghoul so I really hope I don't fuck this up 😅. A big thank you to anyone who reads this ❤️]

Caution: Agressive Swearing, Offensive Language, Graphic Violence.

Notes: Takes place post end of TG:re, Reapers = Marshall version of Doves.

1. Crow - 24

City lights and the rushing motions of the landscape turn the 24th ward into a blinding and blaring circus. Humans. They crawl through this city with the assurance that they will be here tomorrow. They will be here a year from now. They will be here forever. They are the only lifeform with this assurance. All other creatures in this world live with the knowledge that their making it to the next moment is a fifty fifty

It is certainly a miracle that they last, noticing absolutely nothing at all. They don't see the effects that the fumes of their veichles have on the planet that they grip so tightly to. They can't begin to recognise that they are being continually watched and targeted by devices that could wipe them from the face of said Earth in less than zero. They don't even notice the apex predictor observing them from less than a mile above.

Humans simply move from one spot to another, only stopping to cause irrevocable disaster and reduce their surroundings to less than ash, and then move on to the next target. Someone said that humans are Parasites, and although it may be naive to believe this was wholly correct, it would be complete ignorance to dismiss it entirely. Ghouls do not indulge in such ignorance. Parasite is an apt description for a human, from the perspective of a ghoul, that and food.

The figure stands tall, wind rushing rapidly through their tied up hair. They can smell the putrescence of man-kind as they go about their sweaty and arrogant business. They would laugh if it wasn't so tragic. What do humans amount to? They are greedy and bloody bags of meat that fight and hate more than any other being, yet they are allowed to multiply and just be. It could be argued that ghouls are the same as humans in this aspect, but most abide by the one meal a month agreement, even though this arrangement can be hell for some. Unlike humans, who see violence as their God given right, when ghouls fight, it is rarely for anything other than survival. Perhaps this view doesn't take all ghouls into account, but all humans gorge themselves on everything, and fight for any fucking reason they want.

Twenty years ago, a disaster was meant to end this disparity. For the first time ever, ghouls and humans fought together to save the world they shared from the monster that had been designated 'DRAGON'. The defeating of this enemy was meant to end in equality, where ghouls and humans shared the world equally. Scientific leaps had been made. Synthetic meats that ghouls could eat, so they wouldn't have to harm humans. The corpse of Dragon even lead to dramatic advancements in the medical field. Humans were now benefiting from ghoul DNA, as it allowed them to combat most illnesses and increase their lifespan somewhat. After all that ghouls had done for them, weren't humans grateful? No. Ten years, then ghouls were back to being vile creatures to be hunted, and were forced back to living in the sewers. The deaths of so many perfectly good and innocent ghouls, just so that humanity could screw them all over again. What a funny tragedy.

Another figure appeared from the shadows, stepping in line with their comrade. Neither looking at the other, they both silently watched the ferris-wheel turn round and round. A world that they saw as rightfully theirs. They were hungry for it and they would have it. No matter the cost. In fact, the more human casualties... the better.

"Are you ready to go?" the newcomer asked, never taking their attention away from everything below.

"Yeah. Any longer and I might have to eat you."

"Like you could" came the cold, arrogant response.

"Just because you got five inches on me now, doesn't mean I can't still beat your ass Da..."

"Don't fucking call me that. While we're out here you call me Kuma and I call you... Blindfold, or Eyeless. Something like that." Even though his response had been quick and sharp, neither his tone nor his concentration had wavered.

"Eyeless" they conceded.

"Fine, Eyeless it is. Just don't go shouting our real names out in public. You're enough of a liability as it is without giving our fucking identities away."

Eyeless finally turned to look at their brother. They couldn't help feeling a pang of nostalgia. He had been so small once, constantly hanging onto their shoulders and making paper birds that he place all over their home. Those memories hurt, especially when they remembered what came after. He used to smile so much and now he's a moody little shit. They'd never been like that at fourteen, they thought smugly.

"Fine. Let's go KUMA before I rip your snarky head off." With that final retort, Eyeless turned and stepped off of the roof.

Kuma watched them drop six stories, landing with grace and poise. Why were they always so aggravating? Maybe he was jealous of their natural ability, or perhaps they were just a pain in the ass to be related to. With a sigh and a wandering look to the night sky, he followed suit.

* * *

The Marshalls finished up disposing of the ghoul. Bikakus are a pain in the ass Haruto thought, but it's better than a Ukaku. Haruto loved the fact that he was an intimidating figure. The ghoul had basically shat itself as soon as it had seen his large muscular frame, and cruel bearded face. The black trench coat they wore, that often announced the end for ghouls, probably didn't hurt either. He nudged the face of the corpse with his foot. He reckoned it wouldn't even be worth removing his Kakahou to get a new quinque. Taking into account the short amount of time it had taken him and Kenji to bypass his defences and cut him through the middle, he was a B rated ghoul maximum.

"Right, time we get back" Haruto sighed.

"Mhm" Kenji agreed. He never said much.

"Did you bring the body bag? You never know, you might be able to upgrade that piece of shit you call a quinque." Haruto laughed loudly. He loved taking the piss out of Kenji, especially when he knew his only retort woukd be 'mhm'.

As expected, Kenji responded with a grumbling "Mhm", and moved towards the body.

Haruto, turned to walk away, lighting a cigarette and beginning to inhale deeply. That Kenji was going to marry his sister. What's he gonna say when the priest asks him if he takes her to be his lawfully wedded wife? Mhm. Haruto chuckled to himself. All in all Kenji was a good guy, and one hell of a Marshall. He could use that crappy Ukaku quinque pretty damn well, even if it did come from a C rated ghoul. Kenji also took Haruto's kids to the beach when he and Mrs Haruto wanted a quiet weekend. He might be an ugly fucker with next to no hair, and a face that made you want to split him down the middle, but he was clean and sometimes smelt nice. Yeah, Kenji could marry his sister if he wanted. She could do a hell of a lot worse.

A loud splatter sounded out behind Haruto. He spun on his heels, instincts flaring immediately into action. Where the fuck was Kenji? Where his partner had been attempting to fit the ghoul into the black bag, there was now the cut in half corpse of his future brother in law, fallen to the sides with a blindfolded figure standing in the middle. His entire being twitched in anticipation of this thing making a move to kill him, but all it did was leasurly bend down and scoop something up from the gore beneath. As the creature straightened up, he saw that it was simply sucking on one of Kenji's bloody fingers. To others, this might signify a psychotic animal, but to a seasoned Marshall, this was a confident and calculating killer plain and simple. A powerful one at that. Their clothes were indistinctive; clad in thin black leather and fabric, however, their mask was a completely different story. Almost the entirety of its face was covered. Its mouth had a tight black fabric wrapped over it, with a skeletal smile that would open, revealing the snaking pink tongue underneath. The huge back leather collar surrounding it could be zipped up to hide all but the eyes from the world. Not that the eyes could be seen either. A bone white blindfold shut them off from view. Foreign symbols were drawn in deep black on either side, with the a closed eye taking centre stage. Although it was just a drawing, that closed eye was unearving, as if the lack of sight heightened its ability to see, instead of impeding it.

Now this was a ghoul. Just by its sheer presence Haruto could tell this one was rated A, or more likely >S. Haruto couldn't deny to himself that he was intimidated, but he was a senior Marshall, and always backed himself in a one on one. He looked down at his fallen partner and gulped. First things first, get into this guys head. Haruto scanned the ghoul, looking for weaknesses that he could exploit verbally. If he was lucky, the reaction could lead to him obtaining an edge. He noticed that this ghoul was slight in stature, maybe five foot five all told.

"You wanna end up like this other piece of shit, you fucking dwarf."

This garnered absolutely nothing.

Haruto couldn't take it much longer. This creature continued to lapp at the guts of his dead partner, that were splattered over its fingers. It obviously didn't give a shit what it looked like to others. It reminded him of a cat, publically cleaning its fur and genitals with no concern for the world. It was fucking reveling in its feast, and it made Haruto's blood boil.

"You killed an innocent man. He was gonna have a family and you ripped him apart. You monsters have no fucking souls and you all belong in hell. That's where I'm gonna send you. I'm a fucking senior Marshall you stupid shit. You have no clue how badly you've fucked up."

Again, the ghoul made no sign of changing emotion, continuing to dip its fingers in Kenji and take its time eating. Haruto knew he needed something else to get into its head so he scanned again. 'Shit' he thought, as the ghost of a smile passed over his lips. The majority of its body was covered in black that mostly obscured its shape, however, his keen eyes saw that although its grey hair was tied up, it was probably quite long when undone. At its chest area, although it was probably bound, there was the hint of a slightly tented structure. The hardest one to spot was the hips. Despite them being covered by black leather shorts, those hips were a tad too wide to be a man's.

"Alright you sick fuck. I'M A COMMIN FOR YA!"

With one last drive to uncover more courage, Haruto raised his Kokaku quinque and lept towards the ghoul.

"I'M GONNA FUCK YOU UP FOR KENJI... YOU BITCH!"

As Haruto closed the distance with extreme speed, to less than two meters, the shadow of another figure dropped from the sky, landing directly next to the first. Haruto skidded to a halt, taken aback by the new masked creature. This one was certainly taller, and its face was covered by a red, horned mask. It was only as his attention slipped completely that he realised his final mistake. For the first time, the blindfolded ghoul smiled widely, the skeletal mouth parting to reveal massive bloody teeth.

The next thing Haruto knew was that he was laying down on the ground, face to the sky. His neck was warm and dripping wet. He raised his hands to his throat as the oxygen escaped his body, feeling the deep gash that was releasing his blood. The ghouls started conversing.

"Which one you want?" the first asked the newcomer.

"I don't care. You killed 'em both so you choose" the other responded dispondantly.

"Well, you're the growing boy so you take the ghoul and the first Reaper."

"Damn, well fuck me if you ain't the best big sister" uttered the male ghoul sarcastically, as he casually walked over to Kenji and the dead ghoul. "Why you taking you're mask off you sicko? The guys not even dead yet."

"I like it when they watch me" the female ghoul giggled.

Haruto saw the shadow of something passing over his head. "Ken...Ke..ji" Haruto gasped.

Suddenly, from below him came a the same giggle. "Awww dude, I think these guys were close."

"Eyeless, eat the fucker and let's go" came the voice of the male.

"Hey buddy boy, look at me will you" said the female from his feet.

Haruto craned his neck, scared of what he might see, but thinking 'fuck it' to himself. What's did he have to be afraid of, he's already dead. When he finally focused on the face he was confused. She was chewing on a leg. His leg. When the fuck did she get her dirty hands on that? When she'd finished on his leg, licking the tips of her fingers with delight, she bent down and hovered over him. Eyeless? That's what the other one had called her, but that wasn't true at all. Now that her blindfold was off he could see the entirety of her murderous giddy face.

"You're very funny" she said. "Innocent man. Gonna have a family. Its really fucking funny."

The last thing Haruto would ever see would be a testimony to her names innacuracy. Staring at him excitedly was one grey eye, so remarkably human looking it was weird. The other eye was a pool of darkness... with a violent, blood red pupil that seemed to be trying to force its way out of its black prison. She snapped up the rest of him.

"Sicko..."

End

[marigoldbaker]

OKAY. issue 14! bet you’ve all really missed these posts, huh?

so as i mentioned earlier today: when i first saw that bitty preview, my heart went “it would be so funny/ridiculous/wonderful/tragic if jenny was staring into the camera contemplating how fucking much she really wished she hadn’t just hooked up with her kinda emotionally unavailable boyfriend,” and i reluctantly discarded that possibility as relatively unlikely (which i REALLY REALLY REALLY need to learn to NOT DO at this point given that boom studios has spent an entire year just going out of its way to exceed my expectations!!! ridiculous!!!) and moved on with my life.

And Then.

(a brief reprieve from my meta to SCREAM about giles and jenny and their HOOKUP. a THING THAT HAPPENED. she is IN HIS BED. the only canon i respect is reboot canon that’s IT.)

this conversation’s been a long time coming. jenny planted the seeds for it in issue 6:

and was subsequently (and gently) shut down by giles in a way that -- at the time, and without seeing his decision in the museum when the chips were down -- did seem like genuine growth and understanding on his part.

when we circle back to giles’s watcher-related hang-ups, it’s framed this time as something that has the potential to hurt jenny -- something that he will always place above her, in a way that initially made me assume that canon was building towards jenny demanding a relationship where she’s prioritized unequivocally first.

but jenny’s real concerns get brought up again in issue 14.

giles brings up the concept of “healing together,” framing the entire thing as just a communication snafu that they can work together to resolve -- and emphasizing that his priority here is rebuilding his relationship with jenny. his decision to let joyce die at the museum is described by him as “an unfair test that you had to endure,” and he very clearly sees the entire thing as water under the bridge now that they’re both safe, alive, and in their right mind.

jenny is very clearly not in that place.

and now it is time for me to SCREAM AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS, because THIS. THIS is the kind of jenny-and-giles content that i didn’t even know i wanted!!! they’re very clearly in love in a big, messy way that neither of them are trying to deny or work around; they’ve been an important part of each other’s lives for long enough that they feel comfortable calling each other out (whether it’s giles in issue 9 emphasizing that he’s “always been there” for jenny despite her tendency to shut him out, or it’s jenny in . uh. literally every single second she’s in a scene with giles, to be honest), and this is a genuine opportunity for growth on giles’s part that canon NEVER, EVER afforded him.

here’s where i stop waving my “jenny and giles have been married forever in boom reboot canon” flag for a little while, though, because i think that that actually detracts from the utter amazingness of jenny’s characterization here. when thinking of jenny’s determination to make knowledge accessible to all, coupled with the fact that any comments she made about buffy in canon reflected buffy’s age (i.e. buffy is a BABY), it’s pretty obvious that she would so not be okay with the deal buffy’s been handed. ESPECIALLY when juxtaposed with jenny’s own relationship to duty and destiny -- and the fact that she was herself forced into a situation she didn’t choose and cannot turn away from. obviously original canon never actually explored jenny’s motivations, personal philosophy, and internal thought process (because original canon kinda just threw random plot points at jenny so that giles would have a hot girlfriend, which is gross), but jordie is doing a PHENOMENAL job of that here. it doesn’t MATTER how long jenny and giles have been dating in this situation: jenny is not here for your watchers’ council patriarchal bullshit, and she is ESPECIALLY not here for the fact that buffy and kendra are on death row while giles gets to opt out.

and before we dissect what quickly becomes an INCREDIBLE AND EXTREMELY CHARGED CONVERSATION, here’s an important thing that @ifeveristoday​ brought to my attention: the fact that jenny’s calling him “giles” and not rupert.

way back in og canon, names were a HUGELY important part of both giles and jenny’s character arcs and their relationship to each other. they both had fragmented, fractured identities (jenny and janna, rupert and ripper, i’ve talked about this literally so often let’s move on), and the way they addressed each other very often said a lot about where they were. jenny almost always called giles rupert in canon, very clearly as an attempt to bridge the gap between them; the only times she calls him giles or mr. giles are in “when she was bad” (when she’s clearly trying to keep herself balanced in the face of new and fluttery feelings) and in prophecy girl (yeah, that one’s just inconsistent writing. that’s how jenny’s character flows.)

keeping that in mind, i always was a little bit thrown by the fact that jenny’s called giles by his surname so often in this canon -- but now that we’ve got a pretty solid arc going when it comes to their relationship, there’s a pretty established pattern in the writing.

outside of this issue, here are the places where jenny’s called him giles:

and in each of these other instances, you wanna guess what she’s doing? shutting him out. it’s a little gentler in issue 6 (and she’s more easily swayed), but in all of these situations, she is very clearly distancing herself from him. jenny’s got a habit of trying to pull back and away when the going gets tough, specifically because she knows giles well enough to know that she’s not gonna get through to him on watcher-related matters.

back to THIS.

FELLAS. OH MY FUCKING GOD. i don’t even know where to START here, so let’s go with the easiest one: issue nine set me the FUCK up!!!! jenny pulling away from giles, jenny expressing deep hurt and sadness when it becomes clear that he prioritizes buffy over all else...i automatically assumed that this is her realizing that her boyfriend would have let her die and being horrified about THAT. but the reality of this -- the reality revealed by this issue -- is SO MUCH FUCKING BETTER: the horror that we see on jenny’s face is because the man she loves has been warped by a corrupt system to the point where he doesn’t understand the kind of hurt he’s perpetuating.

and then !!!! jenny absolutely refusing to accept giles’s answer of “this is so much harder for me than you can ever understand,” because he is a grown man with the ability to opt out and she is advocating for two teenage girls who do not have that same luxury. he keeps on trying to turn the argument into something about how buffy’s life isn’t THAT bad, about how buffy’s not REALLY on her deathbed, about how buffy is strong and incredible and jenny is doing her a disservice -- but jenny repeatedly shuts that shit down. “it’s like a religion for you,” she says, like that’s not the rawest fucking line she’s ever gotten to say. thank you, jordie bellaire, for my goddamn life.

and then jenny LEAVES. and she does not fall back into giles’s arms when he says that togetherness is such an important component of healing after the hellmouth. and that says a whole damn lot about what both of them want: jenny wants giles to take accountability for the shitty things HE did and continues to do, and giles...loves jenny and wants her in his life to the point where he’s not listening to a single thing she’s trying to say.

let’s bring back my favorite panel from issue 9:

this sums up my point pretty well, i think. giles keeps on thinking that jenny doesn’t hear what he’s saying -- that if he says it a different way, stresses a different point, she’ll cave and understand how much he loves her and wants to be with her. but the thing is, he’s the one who isn’t listening: jenny is repeatedly saying that she loves him, and that that’s why she’s holding him to the standard that she does. she knows that he can be better than he is, and she’s disappointed in the man he’s becoming.

at this point, i’m pretty sure there’s more to come with regards to giles and jenny. this is a narrative that has very clearly tossed the concept of “world’s best watcherly dad” in favor of “the watchers’ council fucks up the lives of teenage girls and giles is complicit in that.” jenny leaving giles has the potential to push him towards positive growth and character development -- or he could continue to firmly and stubbornly ignore the reality of his situation.

personally, i’m DEEPLY hoping that it’s the former -- and that we get to see giles and jenny come together again after they’ve had the opportunity to grow outside of their relationship. i think there could be something really powerful and wonderful about seeing giles deconstruct his shitty watcher-related views & work towards becoming someone who can genuinely help buffy and kendra (AND smooch his ms. calendar silly, bc she’s sure been having a time of it as of late.) and can you imagine how great 2020 would be with a giles and jenny who have actually learned how to effectively communicate???? ASTOUNDING.

tl;dr: rupert giles and jenny calendar are VERY much in love with each other, VERY sick of each other’s bullshit, and VERY stupid. let’s hope they get their house in order.

[fanyiyimdzs]

Mo Dao Zu Shi: Chapter 1

Masterpost

Previous chapter

Wei Wuxian had barely opened his eyes before a foot flew at him and slammed into his ribcage.

A voice thundered in his ear. “You think you can play dead?!”

Whoever it was kicked him and kicked him again until he was nearly bleeding. Flat on his back, his head lolling on the ground, a hazy thought came to him: they’ve got some nerve to kick me, an Old Master.

Wei Wuxian hadn’t heard the voice of a single living soul for who knows how many years, much less a voice so loud and angry it sounded like the wail of a dying hen. Though the room swam and stars danced in front of his eyes, he could vaguely make out the voice’s owner: a young man, who went back to assaulting Wei Wuxian’s ringing ears with his grating cries. 

“Why don’t you think about whose house you’re living in? Whose rice you’re eating? Whose money you’re shitting away? Who cares if I take some of your things? They’re all mine anyway!”

Around Wei Wuxian echoed the crashes and bangs of people ransacking every corner and hidey-hole of...wherever he was. Some moments later, his sight slowly began to clear—there was a shadowy grey roof floating above him, and angry brows atop a face tinged with green, from which furious spittle flew.

“You wanna report me? You think I’m scared? You think there’s a single person in this household who’ll have your back?”

Two burly men, probably servants, stepped around Wei Wuxian. “Master, we’ve smashed everything!”

“Already?” The young man squawked.

“This lousy room barely had anything in it in the first place,” one of them said.

The squawking youth was mostly satisfied with this, so he turned and jabbed his finger so aggressively at Wei Wuxian it nearly went up his nose. “Report me if you have the spine! Who are you playing dead for? As if anyone gives fuck about your scrap metal and bits of paper. I’ll smash it all—let’s see what you can drag out to report me with then! You think you’re hot shit because you spent a few years in a cultivation clan? You’re more like a mangy cur who’s been chased away with its tail between its legs!”

Fatigue cast a pall over Wei Wuxian’s thoughts.

He had been dead for so many years. He truly hadn’t been faking it.

Who was this?

Where was he?

Since when had he ever done any body-snatching?!

That dying hen had kicked him, wrecked the room, and showered him with his fury, and now the youth took his servants and swaggered outside. He shouted an order as he slammed the door. “Keep your eyes pinned on him! Don’t let him get out and humiliate us!”

The pair accepted the command in unison. Wei Wuxian waited for all the noise to die down and then tried to get up. But his body refused to obey him, forcing him back down. His only option was to roll onto his stomach and look around the animal den that this Mo person lived in, all while his head was still spinning and his vision was still a blurry mess.

On one side of him, a bronze mirror had been tossed to the ground. Wei Wuxian reached his hand out and dragged it over. A strange and snow white face appeared in the mirror, cheeks unevenly smeared with red. If he only stuck out a long crimson tongue, he’d look like a living hanged ghost.*

Not quite able to accept his appearance, he flung the mirror away and rubbed his face, accidentally crusting his hands with white powder.

Fortunately, it seemed the body he now occupied wasn’t born with this grotesque appearance, and he could blame the products its previous owner piled atop his skin instead. Not only had this fully-grown man painted his whole face with rouge, he had done it in this absurdly hideous manner!

After recovering from the shock, Wei Wuxian found he had recovered a little strength and could finally sit up. Only then did he notice the crimson circle drawn beneath him. It was a magic circle, hand drawn, seemingly with blood, still damp and giving off a coppery stench. In the middle, a wild, shaking finger had scrawled a spell. Though Wei Wuxian had unknowingly smudged the runes, the ghastly energy surrounding it was unmistakeable.

For better or worse, people had treated him as the world’s supreme evil for many years now, giving him titles like “Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation.” Of course he knew these types of nasty things like the back of his hand.

He hadn’t stolen someone else’s body—someone had sacrificed theirs to him!

In essence, the bodily sacrifice spell was a kind of curse. The caster slashed their own skin with a deadly weapon, used their own blood to sketch the circle and paint the runes, and sat in the center, offering their body to an evil spirit. They paid the earth the price of their soul to summon a being of irredeemable wickedness, and then begged this spirit to take over their flesh and make their dreams reality—the exact opposite of body snatching. Both were notorious and forbidden, but the former had not been met with the same warm reception as the latter. After all, rarely did anyone long for anything so much that they were willing to give up everything for it. Thus, people had done it were few and far between; in the past century, even the stories had died out. There had been only three or four confirmed cases in the past hundred thousand years according to the ancient records.

 Each one of these three or four people’s wishes had been the same: revenge. The vicious ghosts they had summoned realized those dreams with cruel and bloody perfection.

Wei Wuxian’s heart was uneasy.

How was he a “being of irredeemable wickedness?”

Sure, his reputation wasn’t great, and the circumstances of his death were tragic and miserable. But first of all, he hadn’t turned into an evil spirit, and second, he hadn’t sought revenge! You could search all of earth and heaven without finding a single more peaceful, more good-natured ghost. Promise!

But the trouble was, bodily sacrifice followed the wishes of the caster. It didn’t matter how uneasy Wei Wuxian was...he had already taken over the pro-offered body, and therefore tacitly consented to the contract. He had to fulfill the caster’s wishes, or else the curse would backfire and annihilate his soul, damning him to eternal oblivion.

Wei Wuxian undid the sash of his robes and scrutinized his arm. Indeed, both of his wrists were streaked with angry, bloody gashes, scowling and glowering at him like ragged mouths. Though they had already scabbed over, he had no doubts that these weren’t ordinary cuts. They would never heal if he didn’t fulfill the wishes of his body’s original owner. Moreover, the longer he waited, the worse they would become, and if he pushed the task past due, both his body and his soul would be shredded alive.

After repeatedly confirming that he had made no mistake, Wei Wuxian mentally cursed the situation’s absurdity, and, clinging to the wall, finally forced himself onto his feet.

Though the room he found himself in was indeed large, it was sparse and squalid. The cotton blanket covering the bed hadn’t been washed or changed in who knew how many weeks and stunk of mildew. Someone had kicked over the bamboo trash bin lying in the corner, spilling the waste and scrap paper inside all over the dusty floor. Wei Wuxian noticed that some of the paper seemed to be covered in ink marks, so he picked one up, examined it, and found that, indeed, words were crammed into every corner of the page. He busied himself with collecting all the paper he could find.

On these sheets, his body’s first owner must have vented his misery and dejection. Some of what he had written could only be described as the incoherent cries of a man whose torment so twisted his words that they seeped out of the paper and assaulted the senses. As Wei Wuxian read patiently page by page, he began to feel more and more unsettled.

Though his attempts at organizing what he had read felt akin to groping through darkness, he was able to clear up a few basic facts. First, his body’s original owner was named Mo Xuanyu, and this are was called Mo Manor.

Mo Xuanyu’s grandfather had been the local area’s big landlord, but he had had few kinsmen and no sons. Though he worked diligently for many years to produce male progeny, his efforts had resulted only in two daughters. The second daughter’s name need not be mentioned, as it was the first who became the house’s mistress, her husband moving in with the Mo family after they were married. Though second daughter was remarkably beautiful, her birth mother was a household servant, and thus the family put little thought into marrying her off—anyone would have been fine. Who knew that when she was sixteen, she would randomly meet a passing leader of some great house and catch his eye? The two turned Mo Manor into their private love nest. A year later, the second Mo daughter gave birth to Mo Xuanyu.

Originally, the Mo household had held her and the entire affair in general in great contempt. But in the eyes of ordinary people, the fact that such a grand cultivator had found his way to the Mo family’s doorstep and into their home meant that the Mo’s must have been heaven-blessed. Nobly and somewhat unusually, that chief even supported and assisted the Mo family, even though they were not his own. The winds of opinion in the household thus took a sharp turn. Not only had the family prospered through the connection, those around them also envied them to the highest degree.

But not long after, that cultivator’s unbounded desire longed for fresher meat. Gradually, his visits dwindled. He had eaten at the Mo Manor for less than two years before growing bored. Once Mo Xuanyu was four, the Mo family saw him no more.

Within the next few years, the winds of opinion in Mo Manor changed once again. The contempt and ridicule returned, this time accompanied by sneering pity. However, the second Mo daughter was by no means resigned to her fate—her belief that her great lord would not forget his own child was unshakeable. Sure enough, when Mo Xuanyu turned fourteen, that house leader ordered a band of men to solemnly retrieve him.

The second Mo daughter could once again hold her head high. Though she could not accompany her son, she could sweep away her previous misery and replace it with pride and elation. Haughtily, she announced to everyone that her son would rise like a bird and become a renown cultivator, bringing honor to all his forebearers. Consequently, opinion at Mo Manor changed for a third time.

However, before Mo Xuanyu’s cultivation training had borne results, and before he had inherited his father’s family treasures, he was chased out.

His expulsion, moreover, was not some tidy, quiet affair, but an unseemly, unsightly ordeal. Mo Xuanyu was not only gay, but also had the audacity to harass his fellow disciples—thus, the ugly matter had been publicly exposed. On top of all that, he was at best an average talent, with no notable achievements. He had no excuse to remain.

Battered by the blizzard only to be bitten by frost, Mo Xuanyu did not suffer only this disaster. After returning home, he became entirely, completely insane. Some days were better, some days were worse, but one way or another, his brains seemed to have been scared right out of his ears.

Wei Wuxian’s brow wrinkled.

If Mo Xuanyu were only gay, that would have been one thing, but he was also a lunatic. No wonder his face was caked in so much powder that it looked like he’d been hanged. No wonder no one had batted an eye at the giant array on the ground, still wet with fresh blood. If he had painted the entire room with blood, from the floor, to the walls, to the roof over his head, it wouldn’t have startled anyone who happened to see it. Everybody knew that there was something wrong with his head!

Once Mo Xuanyu had returned home, the sneers, the mockery, the ridicule grew so thick and wide that they seemed to blanket the earth and cover the skies. But this time, there was no more hope for a change in fortune.

The second Mo daughter was unable to bear this kind of blow. She had held so much hatred inside her lungs, and now, there was no hope of letting it go. It suffocated her, and soon, she was dead.

By this time Mo Xuanyu’s grandfather was also dead, so the elder Mo daughter now reigned over Mo Manor. This Lady Mo had been unable to bear the sight of her sister since they were young. At her sister’s bastard, she could only levy thousands of scornful glares. She had a single son, Mo Ziyuan, the youth who had sacked the room. When Mo Xuanyu had been whisked away to his father’s, the elder Mo daughter thought she could also exploit the family connection. She hoped that the cultivators who had fetched her nephew would also happen to pick up Mo Ziyuan and turn him into a cultivator too. Of course, she was refused—or rather, ignored.

She had wasted her breath. It wasn’t as though she were haggling over cabbages—buy one son and get one free!

It was a mystery where this family had gotten their self confidence. They all had a bizarre, unshakeable belief that Mo Ziyuan possessed the blood and the talent to earn himself the respect and recognition of these cultivators, had he been the one taken. He could never have ended up like his cousin and failed to make even a decent showing. Mo Ziyuan was still little when his cousin had been taken away, but, unendingly deluged with utter nonsense, his faith in his own abilities was unwavering. Every day for quite some time, he humiliated Mo Xuanyu, hollering that his cousin had robbed him of his chance. The possessions Mo Xuanyu had brought home—the talismans, the medicines, the little cultivator’s tools—he coveted so much that his hands itched, and he treated them as though they were entirely his own. If he wanted to take them, he’d take them. If he wanted to break them, he’d break them.

Though Mo Xuanyu suffered frequent bouts of insanity, he still knew that he was being abused. He tried to endure it, but Mo Ziyuan only got worse. Eventually, his entire room practically cleaned out by his envious cousin, his endurance finally wore out. He went to his aunt and uncle and forced himself to stutter out a complaint. Thus, Mo Ziyuan had shown up at his door today and raised a ruckus.

The papers’ tiny, densely packed words made Wei Wuxian’s eyes hurt and by then he had no doubts about what kind of shitty, wretched life Mo Xuanyu had lived. No wonder he had no qualms about sacrificing his body to an evil spirit for the sake of revenge.

Once Wei Wuxian’s eyes stopped aching, his head started aching instead. In principle, as the evil spirit that Mo Xuanyu summoned, he should have been able to hear the exact wishes the miserable man had buried in his heart. But this forbidden technique that Mo Xuanyu had secretly stolen from somewhere might have had incomplete instructions. He might have skipped a step. Wei Wuxian could easily guess that he wanted some sort of revenge on the Mo family, but exactly what kind of revenge? How severe? Did he only want his things back? Did he want them beaten?

Or...exterminated?

Most likely, he wanted them exterminated. After all, Mo Xuanyu had done his time in the world of cultivation, and thus should have been aware of how Wei Wuxian was most often described: ungrateful, deranged, was there anyone Mo Xuanyu could have chosen more likely to be called a “vicious fiend”?  If he had the nerve to pick Wei Wuxian, he could not possibly have a dream so tame and mild.

Thus, Wei Wuxian had no choice but to sigh. “You found the wrong guy...”

________________________________

Translation notes:

* A hanged ghost (吊死鬼) is, unsurprisingly, the ghost of a person who died by hanging. In Chinese folklore, they are typically depicted with long red tongues hanging out of their mouths.

Next chapter

Masterpost

[its-a-branwen-thing]

On Qrow: Part II

Back at it again with the white vans an over-analysis of one of my faves! In my last post on Qrow, I focused a lot on how legacies play into his character. How he’s slowly becoming a character who can leave a legacy, but that the journey there is still ongoing. And it always is.

Disclosure, as always, this is all pure speculation, enhanced by my personal opinions, and for fun! :)

Legacies play into all of these characters. RWBY is about stories. Especially in regards to our heroes: specifically Ruby, Yang, Oscar, Juane, and Ren. All of them have character legacies that inform who they are today. Summer, Raven, Ozma, Pyrrha, Li Ren. These are all characters that we know had/have their own motivations, destiny, and ideals--and those echo through the narrative in such grand ways.

Mementos are a big part of these characters’ stories. While not all of these are explicitly physical items that serve as reminders, there are stories behind these shots and the objects or focus of them. Ren killing the Nuckelavee with his father’s dagger, Ruby’s mother and their shared silver eyes.

That’s why taking a look at a particular spot in V4 sparked a new idea:

Qrow is also a part of legacies. But this is one he was upholding. In V6 we saw his realization that his own followed legacy was in jeopardy--the one thing he’d staked his life on--and that continues to inform his faith in his nieces and the younger generation going forward. Because it isn’t Oz’s path he’s following, but theirs. Even if it is is hard letting them go it alone.

Qrow chooses his path at the end of V6, and it’s to help uplift this new generation, so that they can create their own stories in honor of or in spite of the ones that were left for them. It’s subtle, but it illustrates that Qrow’s growth has been in doing the things he believes is right, which is why he cautions James on so many of his decisions, why he seems to hang back, to lash out less, why he seems...well, softer. He’s not drunk, for one. And two he’s not as worried for his proteges. They’re taking fine enough care of themselves. Which is why the emphasis on his connection to Clover is so fundamentally important. Because if I look at it from a storytelling standpoint, we see these two characters express very similar ideals with completely different views of how to follow them. But it’s the story Clover has, the one where he’s a beloved leader and soldier, that impacts Qrow’s future the most.

It’s also between them that we witness one of the most brutal death scenes in RWBY.

My knee-jerk reaction to this scene was that it was the beginning of the Scarecrow “losing his mind”, so to speak, because it has been the pattern of the Oz generals to fall by the thing they were seeking in their allusions. But every time I followed this thought I couldn’t realize why it felt so wrong to me. I thought for a bit that Qrow might turn, the he might really and truly go crazy, but I honestly can’t see it. Why? Because if I’m reading Clover’s character right, we see that the fundamental differences between him and Qtow are what the story’s been pointing to all along: one is part of a legacy he never questioned, while the other has no tethers to his old legacies. Qrow’s placing his faith, quite certainly, on the future. (Also, if you wanted to make a point about the cruelty of reality, you could do it elsewhere. RWBY hasn’t really been that kind of show). And what really hit me as an important factor in this is the final shot of Qrow:

He isn’t angry. He isn’t gunning immediately for Ironwood. He looks heartbroken. He looks as he has all season--quiet, but in control.

He’s also holding onto...that’s right, a memento.

Yeah, back to talking about mementos, I am.

In seeing what was said about their relationship by the writers (communication not being 1:1 with writing/animating--also, again, not looking to discuss the implications of that at the moment, I understand and sympathize), I think I’m beginning to see some of Clover’s decisions, as they’re written, in a completely new light.

He’s cocky. He’s proud. But he’s a good guy. He encourages Qrow. He obviously likes him as a person. And this whole season we’re rooting for them to be good partners why’d you sneak in all that sexual tension though, yo, in whatever way that is. But then it’s made clear that Clover and Qrow both prioritize entirely different things until E12 when Qrow nods to Tyrian and...you know what I won’t even....no, I’m not even gonna poke that. The same different things that ultimately split team RWBY and the Ace Ops up. It’s even in their fights. If Qrow is the “Clover” to RWBY, Clover is the “Qrow” to the Ace Ops. Both the oldest and wisest of the de facto teams. Those fights are set up like that for a reason. Even them sharing shifting focus in E12 is significant. And RWBY wins because the Ace Ops don’t “care” about each other as they do, that’s the whole point that I can see. And so Clover shares his teams’ fate...but, like, way worse.

Clover knows when his orders seem harsh but he doesn’t question them. He’s never been shown to do so. He hesitates, sure, but so does Marrow. And unlike Marrow, Clover isn’t a new addition. He’s older. He’s their leader. It’s his charge they’ll follow. He’s not a character easily changed. We knew who he was the moment he swung in to arrest our heroes.

(Side note: I used to think this was a conspiratorial look that they were planning something. But I think now what I see is Clover noticing and then ultimately ignoring Qrow’s concern. His look hardens back to Ironwood with what I can now see as resolve. It’s why Qrow looks down. It’s almost like he’s hurt.)

So when we encounter this duo in the tundra, after their plane crash, and we see Clover��s character attempt to negotiate with Qrow, we see Qrow’s resolve harden. He isn’t going to follow Ironwood’s orders. He finds them wrong. But Clover is Ironwood’s right hand, he can’t listen to any personal feelings he may have, as Qrow and Robyn do. He even parallels Marrow in his conversations with Robyn, in that they both advise her to follow the law on two separate instances, and she makes it abundantly obvious that she thinks the law is rubbish. But Clover is the law. He’s supposed to uphold that trust. Because he’s entirely loyal. He’s a good person upholding a man he trusts. We don’t know his history, but I assume as the elite of the elite he earned his position. He spent years earning Ironwood’s trust (as Winter says--”You can’t buy loyalty you have to earn it”). And he isn’t a disingenuous character with sneaky ulterior motives. He’s how he’s presented. Point blank, heart presumably on his sleeve. I thought he’d turncoat to join our heroes, but now I see why he didn’t. (Then again, not having all the information is...testy)

Which is why this hits so damn hard.

“Sometimes the right decision is the hardest to make. I trust James with my life! I wanted to trust you.”

I wish I could emphasize that last line more. Clover is making an extraordinarily hard choice. He’s choosing loyalty to Ironwood over his partnership and relationship with Qrow. Because he trusts Ironwood more. This isn’t a character failing, it’s just tragic.

And with that last line I think he feels that Qrow betrayed Ironwood as well and, by effect, him. Because if Qrow had just listened to Ironwood’s plan and given himself up, none of this would have happened. But now that Qrow’s gone rouge, so to speak, he has to see him as an enemy. He has to use tactics to lure him to cooperate. Clover wanted to trust Qrow too. And at the end, like a lot of other trusting partnerships this volume, it ended in a loss of that trust. Also Qrow breaking Clover’s aura after the Ace Op has Tyrian on the ropes is SO. GODDAMN. PAINFUL. And when Qrow sees that Clover’s willing to follow these orders, he probably thinks he’ll follow any, and likely why he sees this as a betrayal. Because he’s used to that which i will discuss next time thank you.

What makes this scene so poignant, what makes me realize Qrow’s next arc is going to tie into what Clover left for him, is because Qrow likely understands exactly what Clover was going through. Once upon a time he defended Oz. He ran Oz’s missions. He put those priorities first. He bet his life on this fight. And in the end he didn’t even know the truth of what he was fighting for. Oz lied to him (Yes, I understand why). Meanwhile this whole season has been built on the prospect of lies. Qrow knows the cost of blind trust. He’s trying to tell Clover to listen to his conscience, not silence it. He’s trying to tell him to do the right thing.

And at the end, Clover seems to do just that by telling him, infuriatingly, “good luck.” Not just in the broader sense, although what an absolute madlad. But in the sense that he understands why Qrow chose that path. Why Qrow made that decision to refuse arrest although I’d be hella pissed about him teaming up with Tyrian! tho Why you done did me like that, bruh?!.

Clover’s telling him, really, to do what Qrow thinks is right. It’s the final note of evidence for my theory. Clover’s spent this season prepping Qrow to have faith in himself, and now it’s Qrow’s turn to realize that potential. It’s a blessing, really, that he gives him. To finish what he started.

And Qrow clearly keeps Clover’s charm. Because he’s carrying on Clover’s legacy too, and the mistakes that may have been made along the way. He has to remedy them. And this isn’t the only instance of a “baton pass” between these two. If Qrow is in search of a new legacy (which, truth be told, might involve bringing Ironwood down), then he needs a new team to do it with. And, as it’s been stated countless times by this show, he isn’t the waste of space he say he is and it is a damn shame he doesn’t have a new team yet.

Which brings me to my final desperate reach point.

“What would you guys do without me?”

[harringtonheartache]

Call It Fate, Call It Karma | Part One

Part Two

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Y/n is one of the Scoops Troop who finds herself in the underground Russian base, and ultimately ends up strapped to the back of Steve Harrington whilst facing imminent death. (Essentially Steve & Robin’s interrogation but the reader is in Robin’s place). 

Warning(s): Stranger Things 3 spoilers, descriptions of blood and violence, cussing

Word Count: 1,951

A/N: I am 100% in fucking love with Steve Harrington. The title is taken from a song by the same name by The Strokes, it’s cute, maybe give it a listen. Request more ST fics if ya want, Steve prompts in particular are appreciated :-). I love my chaos boyfriend. This is a part one! If you bitches want a second part tell me, although I will probably do it anyway because I feel weird leaving this story without a true conclusion. Okay enjoy. 

The next punch to her face hit the air with the sound of a popping balloon. Her hand gripped the underside of the cold metal bench, the cool surface stimulating a sense of relief against her warm palms. This was not the first blow she has received in the past hour, as her expression was painted with reds and blues to match the Fourth of July festivities going on elsewhere. She closed her eyes, tired of fighting a battle with the fluorescent lights that seemed to hang from the ceiling just to cause her discomfort. This was taken as an act of insubordination to the Russian man who crouched before her. He took her whole face in one of his large hands, insistent on holding her full attention. His finger pushed aggravatingly on her swollen eye, an action that heightened the pain in her face. He spoke to her in English, but not even the removal of the language barrier would allow her drained mind to understand what was said to her so sternly. 

Apparently whatever was spoken acted as a preface to a change of location. As her body began being dragged out of the small room, she felt a strange alleviation of fear. While she made sure to remember that they could very well be taking her into a kill room to rid themselves of her as a liability, she took comfort in knowing that one phase of her torture interrogation was over. Her legs followed her upper body limply, her front side facing the ceiling as a large man pulled her like a wagon by the arm. She pulled once against his grip, as if this feeble attempt would grant her an upper hand in anyway. As if it was nothing to him (because it wasn’t), he slung her across the floor in front of him. She slid a good amount, smashing into Steve like two children at the bottom of a sledding hill. 

Their bodies laid there for a second, like two corpses awaiting disposal. Exhausted and half-conscious, Y/n used her knees to turn herself around to face Steve. “St- Steve? Hey, can you hear me?” He was with matching bodily damage, although it was safe to say that he had it a little worse than her during the interrogation phase. Her fingers met his shirt for a second, and she got one tug in before she herself was pulled from the floor and sat in a chair. Her shouts of disapproval were ignored as if they went unheard. Steve was removed from the ground as well, and placed in a chair that met the back of Y/n’s. Being the only one of the two imprisoned who remained conscious, she yelled profusely in displeasure. Much to her dismay, the men funneled out of the room like penguins, leaving them alone for the first time since their abduction. 

“Steve, wake up. Steve please fucking wake up, please. For fucks sake! Steve wake up.” Her voice was strained and weak, matching her worn appearance. She had endured her share of beatings without any urge to cry, but it was in this moment she felt that straining in the back of her throat that was usually followed by tears. “Steve fucking wake up,” the volume of her own voice added slightly to her increasing panic. She stirred indignantly in her chair, hoping that her movement -in addition to her rasping voice- would be enough to steal Steve from his unconscious state. After a few minutes of this, she was rewarded with a sound from him. “Hmm? Y/n?” 

“Steve! Oh fuck, thank you. Steve? Wake up. Are you awake?”

 “Uhhhh uh huh,” he dragged out the “h’s” of his speech, still struggling significantly with being awake. She let out a relieved laugh, but still worried for his physical state. “Are you okay?” She asked. “My ears are ringing, and I can’t really breathe. My eye feels like it’s about to pop out of my skull, but you know, apart from that I’m doing pretty good.” Although laced with sarcasm, the exchange of full sentence-length speech was reassuring. 

She closed her eyes again, this time able to do so without being met with an angry hand to her face. An almost content sigh left her bruised body. “What about you?” He asked. “I’m, uh.. bleeding. But okay,” she told him. Now that he was awake, her mind calmed, and she gave herself a moment to take in the room and weigh their options. There were a few drops of blood notable against the pale tile, a detail that some might overlook. Despite the contrast of the deep red and polished blue, the blood did not look abnormal splashed against the floor. The nature of the room invited spilled blood as a decoration. She leaned her head backwards to rest on Steve’s shoulder, physical contact that was comforting to the both of them. In a moment of dumb concern, she worried about bloodying his work uniform with her face. This maybe a thoughtful fear, had the interrogators been just as considerate in preserving his clothing during his own beating. 

She lifted her head after a minute or so, recognizing that she’d better use her time wisely. While the situation was very much real, she could not picture herself meeting her end in the minute room she sat in, strapped to the back of Steve Harrington. Looking to her left, she counted six metal tools spread out on a tray, like something you would see at the dentist’s office. The first of those six items was a pair of shining scissors. An excited huff of air left her nose as a smile spread across her mouth. “Hey, look to your right. There's a pair of scissors. If we hop together, maybe we can reach them.” It seemed like a solid plan, and Steve was enthused to follow her direction. “Oh shit, yeah let’s try that.”

Two hops in and perhaps feeling a little too confident, a third jump knocked them from their triumphant state and landed them on that pale blue floor. Despite their situation, the cool tile felt nice on their burning faces once they were down there. A drop of blood that had been making it’s way down Steve’s neck had it’s path redirected, and now moved horizontally, painting him a necklace of red. When it reached the floor, it added another splash to the already bloodied tile, looking just as natural as the others had. 

Given the circumstance, cuss words were the only vocabulary Y/n felt were appropriate to spill. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” A fitting trilogy of words. She started off her next sentence with another word from her list of obscenities. “Shit, we’re really dead, huh?”

 “No, no, no, we’re not dying here. We will not die in an underground Russian base that we didn’t know existed twenty-four hours ago,” he told her in a manner that he hoped would convince both of them that it was the truth. Y/n longed to blindly believe him; to be able to take his word for it that they would survive the rabbit hole their curiosity damned them down would be paradisaical. How polite of childish wonder to dig a grave for you (and a friend!). 

“I admire your optimism,” she spoke to him slowly. She felt defeated in every sense of the word. A brief silence fell over the two, but didn’t last as Steve spoke again. “I am optimistic that we will get out of here, but while it still looks like we are facing inevitable doom, can I say something?” He wished that he could read her face, but he remained incapable of doing so whilst strapped to the fallen chair. His hands laid in tight correspondence with one another, although the wraps that held them together with his legs were a sub-concern in comparison to the hurt he felt in his face. His hair had dried significantly since it had stuck to the back of his neck with sweat in the room that he was beaten. It had still managed to frame his face without flaw, although a tad messier than before; it worked for him. Not even a severe assault hindered his hairstyle. He laid stiffly on the floor, still forced into sitting posture from the chair he was tied to. With his head against the floor, his side profile emulated an artistically tragic painting, one that used watercolors to detail the bruises and blood.

Y/n, with her back to him, felt the slight shift in conversational atmosphere with her entire body. “Sure,” she didn’t leave him in much anticipation. An aimless memory had risen to the top of Steve’s consciousness, like bubbles appearing at the surface of a boiling water pot. “Do you remember when you helped me pass senior year English?” Truly a bizarre event to summon to mind when faced with death. Nonetheless, she did remember this. She remembered in great detail. While many found their newly developed friendship a curious occurrence, their personal progression from demodog mercenaries to honest friends was a comfort to both participants. “Yeah,” she reassured him, prompting him to continue. “I would come home actually excited to study, because with you it was fun. I mean, we became friends because all of the end-of-world demodog bullshit, but it was nice to do something normal with you. And you know we’ve hung out a lot since then, and now we are back to our more life-threatening pastimes, but I guess I just wanted to tell you how much fun I had while it lasted,” he said, his voice honeyed. “I know I am totally throwing a wrench in my optimism facade but I had to say it because to be honest, I am not completely sure Dustin isn’t utterly lost in the vents right now,” Steve finished, returning to a more light-hearted way of talking.  

This monologue flared a laugh from Y/n, and one that actually wasn’t tinctured with delusion. “Thanks, Steve. Me too. I agree, it was fun while it lasted. It is weird that it took the end of the world to bring us together.” Another chuckle left her and spread to Steve as well. “Is that pitiful or just fate?” she posed a question. “I’m just going to call it fate,” he said, his voice airy and amused. Perhaps it was fate, or perhaps karma was instead more suiting a word. If they were in all actuality saving the world, maybe becoming close with one another was their compensation. To draw a line between inevitable outcome and simple cause and effect seemed unnecessary, though. “If it is at all a comfort, I have a little more faith in Dustin’s navigation skills than you,” she added, her tone conciliatory. 

Their wild cachinnation grew, but was cut short when the Russian men returned to the room. The two were pulled from the ground just as harshly as they had been thrown down. It was then that a syringe was presented to the two of them. The needle sticking out of the top end took the hostages right back down to reality; pulled them from their previous conversation that had acted as a rather effective distraction. It was that needle that put a new, sick thought in Y/n’s head: was it good karma they had acquired, or bad? Maybe they saved Hawkins, or maybe they messed with an entity they were to leave alone. Perhaps their relationship was a reward, or perhaps it was a punishment, for it would end cruelty in torment and death in this small doctor’s office of a room.

[siribear]

whisper rides the high, like the first time she took a hit with rachel and shooting stars streaked across their apartment. there’s a dull buzz still simmering in the back of her mind, probably from the electrodes shocking her into kellogg’s memory, but it’s pleasant. calming. much more than stewing in kellogg’s head, slipping into his skin and feeling the recoil each time he pulled the trigger. seeing nate alive for the last time through kellogg’s eyes -

she stumbles a half-step. deacon’s hand in hers keeps her steady. no, she isn’t thinking about it. deep breath. focus on shaun. focus on the memory of her golden blonde hair, of nate’s bright blue eyes. god, shaun - he’s not a baby anymore. a full ten years, and he already looks so much like nate she could cry.

she won’t, though. can’t. and she can stand to lose ten years only because he looked so... happy. content, even, with his comics spread across kellogg’s floor, that quiet domesticity that makes her heart ache. he was happy. and he’s alive, for certain. and she’s got a way to find him.

god. ask her to jump and she’ll fly.

the main room is still empty of customers, and even irma has taken the rest of the night off. dr. amari has since moved on, leaving nick near the entrance to sit alone on a loveseat. he barely acknowledges them coming from the back. not even a raise of his head.

he obviously doesn’t feel the same kind of elation she does. what did he see in there? did he live it like she did?

focus.

deacon draws up beside her, not letting go of her hand even now. ‘i’m gonna go put together a report for des,’ he says. ‘take it easy for a little bit. first time in the memory pod is a little - disorienting.’

disorienting? no, she feels fine. like she can take on a deathclaw with her bare hands, no power armor needed. watch out world. ‘okay,’ is what she says, though, muffled like her mouth is filled with cotton.

he takes a few steps forward, their hands still joined, and when he pulls away, her arm falls limp to her side. ‘take care of yourself, nick,’ deacon says, again to no response. with a look to her and a shrug, he leaves.

the door to the memory den opens and closes, leaving just her and nick. she takes the spot next to him on the loveseat. ‘thank you for this,’ she says, slowly forming the words in her mouth. thinking is fast, train of thought entirely derailed, but speaking - no. a freight train hit her on that one. ‘you have no idea how much it means to me - ‘

nick leans forward, rests his elbows on his thighs. ‘did you enjoy your trip down memory lane?’ his voice is like being dropped into an icy cold lake. she was just in his head, and now he sounds like he’s coming through an old radio. ‘get what you needed out of those fun memories?’

whisper leans back, rests her head on the back of the couch. she dons the sunglasses, wears them like armor, as if it’ll protect her from kellogg should he try anything here. ‘i did what i thought was necessary.’

‘so did i.’ he shifts, chuckles. ‘your friend is stronger than he seems. if it weren’t for him holding me back, i’d have strangled you by now.’

‘revenge from beyond the grave?’ it seems like a strange way to be haunted. killed by a ghost, a literal dead man. ‘sore that i killed you first?’

his sigh is a whir of gears in nick’s throat. ‘just to see if i could get away with it.’

her heart’s beating a mile a minute, but she is so calm. nothing can touch her. not even kellogg. not even kellogg in her friend’s body. ‘i want to hate you,’ she tells him, tracing the holes in the ceiling with her eyes.

‘got a soft spot for me now that you’ve seen my tragic past? yeah, save it.’

‘sure, i’m sorry about what happened to you. your life’s been rough.’ one hand finds a hole in the loveseat, and she begins picking at centuries old stuffing. ‘but you made your choices, same as i made mine. i very easily could have killed preston in concord, slaughtered the quincy survivors. i didn’t, though.’

‘ah, so you’re a saint.’

she exhales heavily, body thrumming with unspent energy. but she can’t spend it here. can’t beat kellogg to death a second time, now that he’s jumped to nick’s body for the time being. ‘a saint? no. i’ve killed, too. and it gets easier every time, too, and sometimes - ‘ it scares her.

‘this isn’t a confessional.’

‘you’re right. anyway, i’m going to tell dr. amari to scrub the rest of you out.’ she pulls herself forward to stand, but nick’s arm shoots out, bracing her against the cushions. he still isn’t looking at her.

‘why don’t you hate me, then?’

she huffs and swings nick’s arm back into his lap. it doesn’t stop her from standing again. ‘this isn’t a confessional.’

‘claire.’

that stops her, already almost halfway across the room to where the doctor waits. ‘you took care of my son. treated him as if he were your own. maybe if fate had dealt us better hands, you would have treated your daughter the same. that’s why i don’t hate you.’

kellogg falls silent, and she takes it as her cue to leave.

‘good bye, claire.’

this time, she doesn’t stop. ‘good bye, kellogg.’

-

deacon parks against the wall across the memory den and bums a cigarette from a drifter; first, because he’s fairly certain the guy has been tailing him every single time they’ve come to goodneighbor. second, because he’s got to have something to help him to replace the feeling of her against his lips.

des is going to kill him. one hundred percent murder him. and, frankly, he wouldn’t blame her. because fuck, he’s compromised. he’s compromised and if he screws up the tentative alliance the railroad and the minutemen have because he’s fucking compromised?

des will kill him.

his inhales wrong on the first drag, and his hacking cough draws the attention of the drifters in the area. good, stare at the idiot too busy thinking about a two second kiss to remember how to smoke a cigarette. fuck.

he stubs it out on the wall and waits for whisper. they have to talk. he’s got to draw a line, here. for his own sake.

that, and the drifter keeps staring at him out of the corner of his eye, thinking he doesn’t see. sunglasses - he has no idea.

whisper finally leaves the memory den, but, of course, she’s got her sunglasses on, so he can’t tell if she’s still riding that memory high. but she’s smiling, and his stomach does not flip over. deacon’s come a long way since his teenage hormone days.

‘how’s that report coming along, partner?’ she asks, pressing close against his side. two friends just hanging out.

and, right. the report that’s going to get him killed. ‘just swell, got it all typed and ready for the professor. think i’ll get an A?’

‘A plus, for sure. you’re a good student.’

from his vantage point, he can see her staring up at him, even with the glasses. and she’s got this grin he could stand to kiss off her. fuck. ‘partner, we need to talk about something.’

she frowns, brow furrowing. ‘yeah, sure, what’s up?’ she turns to him the moment that drifter moves, and - damn. bad timing.

‘we have rules,’ he starts, and tilts his head up just in time to see the drifter moving their way. before he can continue, whisper takes his hand and drags him around the corner, into an alley across from the third rail. ‘hey - ‘

‘i know about the rules,’ whisper says, low in her throat. she puts her hands on his chest and pushes until his back hits the brick wall. ‘desdemona told me. fraternization?’ she presses full against him, arms already winding around his neck.

‘and why’d des have to tell you?’ he asks, and finds he’s scared to know the answer.

‘she caught me staring, back in hq. thought it was important that i know.’ not good. not good, not good. her voice goes almost impossibly lower, her mouth close enough he can feel every breath, ‘i can take back that kiss, if it’ll make you feel better.’

deacon flushes. close as they are, no way she can’t feel how fast his heart is beating. just as he catches their suspicious friend passing by the alley, she seals her lips against his, and he’s gone.

he deepens the kiss, hooks his fingers around her belt loops to pull her hips to his, and relishes in the moan he pulls from her throat. she tastes like the goddamn sugar bombs she’s always eating, sweet on his tongue, and he can only imagine she tastes stale cigarettes but he doesn’t care. all he cares about is her flush against him, her nails digging into his shoulders as she drags him closer.

his hands slip under her shirt, and she gasps against him as he trails higher, under her fraying bra.

desdemona doesn’t have to know. doesn’t need to know. nothing happened here.

whisper pulls away to breathe, and it physically pains him. he dips his head, brushes his lips from her jaw to her neck. ‘poor timing on that conversation, huh, partner?’ she drags a nail down the nape of his neck, and he feels her grin at the full body shiver she elicits, but he pauses, heart hammering in his chest. ‘your guy went into KLE0′s store.’

‘my - guy?’ he drops his hands from her shirt, lets his head fall back against the wall. ‘you saw him.’

‘of course. you were eying that guy pretty hard. think he’s institute?’ she asks, still leaning into him. so, he’s going to die. and if it’s not desdemona, whisper herself will kill him.

‘we’ve had our suspicions. i’ve got a contact shadowing him, but we’ve never been able to pull any real proof.’

‘okay,’ she says, shifting slightly. he bites back a groan. ‘why haven’t you brought it up to hancock?’

‘it’s only been recently. don’t want to lose his trust on baseless rumors.’

she finally detaches herself, and he misses that warmth. ‘goodneighbor seems like a pretty close knit town. they’d know if someone was acting suspicious, right? it wouldn’t hurt to pass on a suggestion.’

she hums and he hates it. hates that he knows how that feels against his lips. hates that it didn’t mean anything. hates that he knows he shouldn’t want it to be anything.

‘the general of the minutemen wants to throw her weight around?’ he focuses on breathing, just to calm himself. he’s compromised, and he hates it.

she presses the tips of her fingers to her lips, and he wonders if hers are still tingling, too. ‘for you? absolutely. and if we’re made, that puts everyone in danger.’ she sighs. ‘hancock’s going to be so excited to see us so soon.’

‘come on, partner,’ he says, attempting to slip into their old camaraderie. nothing happened here. ‘we’re the least unsavory company he keeps.’

they leave the alley behind them, heading for the entrance to the state house. one of the goodneighbor guards gives him a thumbs up after whisper passes by. deacon returns it. for all they know, they’re just a couple that got a little hands-y in an alleyway. that’s all their cover needs to be.

as they pass by KLE0′s, he witnesses the drifter purchasing a pistol before they enter the state house.

-

‘you think sammy’s been replaced?’ hancock asks, suddenly sober.

‘it’s a possibility.’ whisper allows deacon to take the lead. her eyes begin to droop just standing in the doorway. ‘last i saw, he was buying a gun from KLE0.’

fareinheit grunts, kicking off the wall she was leaning against. ‘want me to take care of it?’

hancock waves a hand, smoke weaving around his fingertips. ‘not alone. take two of the watch with you. who knows what they replaced him with.’

the woman nods and leaves, tapping two of the watch outside hancock’s office on their shoulders. they follow behind her, obediently.

‘that’s it?’ whisper says around a yawn. ‘that was... surprisingly easy.’

hancock laughs and brings an inhaler of jet to his lips. whisper mimics the movement, touching her own. she feels deacon watching her. ‘sammy’s never liked guns. heard from his girl a while back. they used to fight ‘cause she wanted them to have one, but he always refused. nice guy, too.’ he sighs, bliss crossing his features once more. ‘thanks for the tip, alley cat.’

alley - ‘yeah, no problem,’ she mumbles, words slurring.

hancock laughs, soft. ‘need me to tuck you in, alley cat? you look exhausted.’

deacon is oddly quiet. maybe he’s as tired as she is. bone tired. soul tired. the kind of tired she felt after passing her bar exam and slept the entire next day.

‘we're gonna head for the rexford, actually,’ deacon answers for her. he’s not slurring his words at all. not tired, then? just quiet.

hancock places some caps in deacon’s hands. ‘for the rooms. get her to bed, would you? she’s dead on her feet.’

dead on her feet? she talked to a dead man today. walked around in his skin and killed her husband in it. saw her son. her son! and then - and then, the rest is a blur. malden, goodneighbor, kellogg’s head, she retraces her steps, and that’s as far as it goes. her brain woke up just a few minutes ago, talking to hancock, details trickling in like a stream.

deacon doesn’t take the second room, despite paying for it. ‘just in case sammy has friends,’ he says.

he spreads out blankets on the floor, even though the bed is big enough for both of them. they shared a bed before, way back in sanctuary, and there wasn’t a problem. what changed?

she doesn’t have the energy to think. it’s all she can do to remove her pip boy and mumble good night into her pillow before she’s asleep.