#only i’m allowed to abuse the detective

[watchtowerindistress]

the empath and the eldritch horror (1/5) - ben hargreeves x empath!reader

Summary: Number 8 challenged him. Ben just needed to decide if he liked it or not. Nope, definitely hated it. There was no way in hell he actually liked the little Empath.

Word count: 3.1k

Series masterlist

Warnings: sparrow!ben is a warning in itself, language, violence, mental abuse (y'know Reginald's usual schtick)

Author’s note: I'm merely writing moments in the lives of these characters, since I don't know all the quotes. So the chapters are going to feel like snippets/best moments. I made this series shorter than I expected, but I'm cramming everything together as I wanted. (Set in S3)

I didn't feel like doing a lot of world-building, to be honest. I'm aware this isn't my best work, sorry, my depression makes me tired. I just realized when I wrote that dojo scene that I liked Sparrow!Ben so much because he reminded me of an older version of Damian Wayne. 😅 Please be gentle 🤗 I've never written for this fandom before. You want to be tagged or untagged, let me know. As always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated.

“Where the hell is my brother?”

Your determined voice carried to the departing backs of Ben and Fei. Even walking through those corridors in this strange timeline felt utterly surreal. Not to mention, profoundly strange seeing this older version of Ben. After remembering the pictures of when he was still alive.

So, you could only compare this version with the stories Klaus loved to tell. A funny mess. And most of the time a little shit.

Judging by the sarcastic look Ben threw over his shoulder before he fully turned his body, this version of Ben certainly was willing to stir some trouble.

Ben smirked. Fei copied his arrogant demeanor next to him, silently watching this exchange.

“Relax, we just want to have a little chat, and then we’re done with you two.”

Just hearing him talk so unceremoniously about your lives like that simmered something inside you. Like the two of you didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Like Luther and you were barely a blip on their radar.

Your face contorted with anger. To infuriate him just a tad, with the way he infuriated you with his callous words, your body barely leaned forward.

“We’re not things you can just dispose of once we served our purpose.”

Ben tilted his head. There was something fascinating about rendering someone like him speechless for a moment. You weren’t foolish enough to think you were getting to him. Your fingertips twirled behind your back to get a grasp on Ben’s emotions, only to sense something akin to a daze tingling under the surface. Not trusting your own empathetic powers what you detected was real.

Barely turning his head, Ben spoke to Fei with a certain voice. “I can handle this one.”

Fei smirked to herself before murmuring, “I’m sure you do,” and leaving Ben on his own.

He laced his fingers behind his back while playfully dancing on the back of his feet. Ben pursed his lips. “Something I can help you with?”

“How about being the responsible one by having a real conversation instead of using people for your benefit by literally abducting them, huh?”

Ben nodded repetitively, like he couldn’t care less about anyone’s feelings. “Right.” He narrowed his eyes in thought. “What’s the name of the big guy again?”

You conjured a patient smile. “Luther. You know, your brother from another timeline?”

Ben crossed his arms, revealing a crooked smile. “As everyone keeps telling me. I wouldn’t call it an abduction,” he exhaled tiredly, shrugging slightly.

“Are we allowed to leave?”

Ben pursed his lips. “I think he’s starting to like it here. And, you know, you seem seconds away from falling for our charms. We do have things to offer that your precious Umbrellas can only dream of.”

Mocking laughter erupted from your chest before Ben joined in. “Right. Wow, someone’s really sold on themselves.”

“I mean, calling it an abduction? Sounds kinda judgmental, don’t you think?”

You clenched your jaw. Remembering Luther’s emotions brought you back to the park, like they were your own. “I felt his desperation ahead of me,” you replied, deciding to remind him.

At the mention, Ben pointed at you, remembering. “So, you’re the emotional one, huh? What’s your number again?”

“I’m not just a number, Hargreeves.” You placed your hands on your hips. “Not surprised that you would deem something like empathy barely a power. I’d like to see you handle an anxiety attack when I’m done with you.”

Ben waved his arms at his sides. His aura was literally shimmering with excitement as he smirked widely. “Oh, don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You rolled your eyes. It seemed like this version of Ben felt drawn to any sort of mischief, the more the better. “And I thought Klaus was the crazy one,” you muttered under your breath. With a normal voice, you inquired, “Where’s Luther?”

“Probably in the kitchen still miserably failing at charming the pants off Sloane.”

A sigh left you when you mutely walked away towards the direction of Fei’s departure. Truth be told, only to get away from Ben faster.

You had already walked away with brisk steps when Ben’s arrogant sing-song voice made you regret all your life choices. “Other way.”

You instantly turned, while grumbling under your breath, “Fucking smart-ass.” You didn’t need to spare him a glance to feel Ben’s arrogant joy coming off of him in waves when he leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms in delight.

“You know where to find me if you want to work on those powers of yours, … Number Eight.” Ben chuckled with mirth.

Self-loathing rippled through you just a tad for not letting your power detect Luther’s aura through the mansion to avoid this embarrassing situation altogether. And you blamed yourself for underestimating him. For thinking Ben wouldn’t have interrogated Luther about you.

“So, this is what you guys are doing in your free time, huh?”

Ben’s eyes remained closed when he performed his tai chi movements in the dojo, not letting himself appear to be ruffled by your presence.

“This tells me everything I need to know about your squadron of Umbrellas. How does it feel wasting your day away, not improving?”

You remained unfazed by his choice of insults. In the end, you were used to Reginald’s mental abuse. Your eyes followed his movements, content with watching his little ritual while leaning with your shoulder against the pillar.

“Depends. What’s it feel like when you’re not being a mascot for a Hargreeves empire?”

Ben scoffed in derision. “You think you can distract me?”

Grateful for his answer, you smiled in pure delight before sitting cross-legged on the middle of the training mat. “Oh, I know I am. Besides, I wanted to take you up on that offer which was made by a helpful Ben.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Don’t ever call me that. You’re delusional for thinking I want to help you.”

You dramatically pressed your hand to your chest. “‘Oh, Y/N, I just can’t live with myself if something happened to you. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if that means helping you advance your powers.’”

Forced laughter erupted from Ben’s chest. “Har har, and I thought Sundance was the hilarious one.”

“Klaus.” You reminded him diligently.

Ben rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Empath.”

You were strangely getting used to this Ben and felt truly like you were having a grand ol' time with him. Even if that meant ruffling his feathers. “You want to know what I think?”

“No,” Ben muttered with a gruff voice.

You continued as if you hadn’t heard him, “Someone’s really pretending that they don’t care about anyone or anything. Or, second theory-”

“I’m on the edge of my seat,” Ben interrupted you wryly.

“Maybe you don’t mind a distraction to take your mind off things.”

This time around, Ben turned to face you before he knelt down. Leaning over you until you could feel his warm breath on your skin. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

“I’m the emotional one, remember?” You whispered before you pursed your lips when a thought hit you. “Not to mention, I can feel your curiosity, with a smidge of you itching for a fight.”

Ben snorted. “You’re adorable for thinking you can take me in a fight-”

An angelic smile tugged at your mouth. Your fingers brushed against his bare chest which was revealed underneath the dark robe. Your fingertips tingled before you let your power come to the surface.

The golden shimmer enshrouded Ben’s chest, pulling him backwards. No matter how many times you had done it before, your hands cautiously studied his aura once you heard his heavy breathing.

You still whispered soothingly, “That’s the sensation you get for being close to fainting. That feeling of vertigo tormenting your body and like your head can’t get enough air.”

The caring side of you stroked Ben’s feverish forehead until the dizzying spell lessened and was finally relieved.

You swallowed once you met Ben’s darkened gaze. He stared at you with glittering eyes, like he was truly seeing you for the first time. Ben licked his lips. “I think … I might have some use for you after all.”

“You may not know this, but my power doesn’t work like a medium,” you said, nervously rubbing your thighs to stimulate your senses.

Ben sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. The Sparrow had changed back into a shirt after the impromptu training session. He leaned forward and warned through clenched teeth. “Do you want to be of help, or not? Get this done, and you and your brother can go back to whatever shithole you stay at.”

“Not with this type of energy in the room.” You widened your eyes at Ben’s glowering ones to make your point. Before long you sat down on Marcus’ bed, with a bored Fei leaning against the door jamb.

Ben’s sister twiddled her manicured fingernails. “Is this a waste of time?”

He clenched his jaw, facing her. “No, it’s not. I know what she can do.”

“Aww, Benny-boo, you believe in me. That’s so cute. Who knew you had a heart?”

Fei smirked, tilting her head. “Not me.”

“You guys are hilarious. Are we done with the ‘band together against Ben today’? I’m doing whatever it takes to locate Marcus here and you two are not helping with the situation.”

You pressed your lips together at Ben’s all too serious demeanor. “Just trying to lighten the mood since your tense atmosphere isn’t helping with the task at hand.”

Ben shared a close-lipped smile, caging your body in on the bed. Despite his threatening air, you remained steadfast and didn’t move an inch.

“Do you mind just doing the thing before I lose my mind and let my tentacles do the talking?”

You narrowed your eyes. Ben needed to work on his lacking social skills, if his only resort were threats. “Say please?”

You could breathe easier again when Ben straightened his body and crossed his arms. “Keep dreaming.”

You exhaled heavily. Half the time he was fun to talk to and other times, he wore you out. “Just give me something of his that holds emotional value,” you mentioned, patiently waiting. The awkward silence confused you to no end. Ben and Fei exchanged glances among each other.

“Why is nothing happening?”

Ben turned to Fei. “Get Sloane.”

His sister tilted her head, challenging him. “Oh, I can just summon my crows.”

The muscles on Ben’s arms tensed before his jaw clenched with his next words. “Fei, take a walk.”

Her shoulder shook with mirth when Fei left with relaxed steps.

Ben’s sarcastic voice pulled you back to him. “I’m guessing giving you one of his leather jackets wouldn’t count, right?”

Your elbows supported you when you settled back. “Wouldn’t get the desired effect. So, let me guess, you guys are just numbers and soldiers?”

Ben shrugged, leaning his hip against the cabinet. “Gets the job done.”

“And you’re content with that?”

“It’s the only thing that matters.”

You didn’t believe him for a second. Or at least, you couldn’t imagine someone being satisfied with being so shallow. “Right. Because being associated to a number is all that matters.”

Ben smirked crookedly. “Oh, there’s nothing better.”

“Right, Number Two,” you added, trying to get to him.

“You trying to flirt with me, Eight?”

You rolled your eyes, retorting, “You wish.”

Ben chuckled, pondering to himself. “Who’d have thought? Maybe I prefer calling you Empath more than Eight. It’s pretty close though.”

You shook your head, feeling your cheeks blush at being more intertwined with that status of Empath than a generic number. “You’re weird.”

The mood of his aura changed to something unfamiliar. At least to someone like Ben. He cleared his throat. “So,…”

“So…?” You teasingly copied him, putting the side of your head against your shoulder, watching his reaction.

Ben crossed his arms. “What was he like?”

“Our Ben? Why do you want to know?” To you, it seemed strange for someone like him to inquire about his alternate version.

He eyed something outside the window. “Just curious, I guess,” Ben said, still not looking at you.

“Why don’t you ask Klaus or the others? I only met Ben after he was dead.”

“Wait, what?” That finally got a reaction out of Ben when he rapidly turned his head to stare at you with a peculiar gaze.

You sighed, remembering the circumstances of you meeting your siblings for the first time. “Reginald called me ‘the replacement’.”

Maybe this was ultimately his plan to ostracize you from the others by using that term. At least, you had Diego and Luther at your side. Klaus soon joined that tight-knit little circle once you confided in feeling that sensation of an unfamiliar aura wandering the halls of the manor.

Sometimes it still hurt how everything progressed. Your siblings emanating their grief onto you didn’t bother you. It was their apathy, that they didn’t care about you.

“I was taken in after Ben’s death. I could only feel his aura around after he was dead. I can sense who someone is in a way. Feel what kind of a person they are. Ben was always…” You pondered deeply how to describe someone like him. How to condense someone’s life and traits into the essence of someone.

“Kind, intelligent, mostly mischievous.” You smiled fondly, whispering quietly, “I could never replace him even if I tried.”

You didn’t know what it was about your gaze that made the Sparrow avoid it again. With the shaking of your head, you dispelled your thoughts. The new aura close by tickling your fingertips was a fitting distraction.

You glanced towards the open door. “Hey, Sloane.”

Seconds later, said woman poked her head into the room, smiling with a delighted air. “Neat party trick.”

An expectant Ben raised his eyebrows, interrupting any further carefree moments. “Sloane, Marcus’ favorite stuff he liked to touch?”

You felt inclined to add something else before more inquiries could arise. “In other words, yes. Or something that mattered to him.”

“There should be a book in his nightstand.”

That was the only mention Ben needed before he opened the drawer. Ben shook his head with a scoff, inspecting the worn edition. He showed his sisters the found evidence. “Are you kidding me? The Velveteen Rabbit?”

Sloane waved her open palms soothingly. “Remember we just want Marcus back.”

“What a nerd,” he grumbled, carelessly giving you the book.

“Says you? It’s a timeless classic,” you admonished Ben lightly before reaching for the hardcover edition.

Ben smirked. “I rest my case.” He furrowed his brows when a second thought hit him. “And what did you just say to me?”

You chose to ignore Ben’s little angry outburst when Sloane sat next to you on the bed. “Will it be enough for you to build a psychic connection?”

You closed your eyes, trying to hone in on the source. With your fingertips brushing along the spine of the book, your search for the truth was soon answered with the first memory remnants hitting you. Shivers coursed through your body at the sensation of Marcus’ memories filling your mind like they were your own.

There was an abundance of wishful thinking contained into the book, the craving of a different reality when Marcus’ birth mother granted him this first and last gift.

“It should suffice,” you said assuredly. With a calming sigh, you leaned your head back against the pillows. The book was held tightly in your grip.

“Yeah, sure. Have a nap, why don’t you? Something else you need? Maybe some soothing music, a face mask?”

Your eyes remained closed when you murmured, “Ben Hargreeves.” To get the message across, you made a quiet coyote signal. Hoping it would calm his frayed nerves.

A ripple of Ben’s undignified frustration wafted through the air. His only answer was a harrumphing noise.

You stirred your head, biting your lip in confusion. “I can feel a strong enough remnant, but I should be able to sense his location.”

“What are you saying?” Ben inquired tightly.

You chose your next words carefully. “I’m saying, … I can’t feel Marcus.”

“What does this mean?” Fei’s strained voice shared Ben’s sentiment. “Are you saying he’s dead? Abducted?”

At last, you opened your eyes. The perplexity of this unsolved mystery still plaguing your mind even after. It was more than nerve-wracking. “I’m saying that I should be able to find him, but I can’t. It’s like he just … vanished.”

The air crackled with hostility. Anxiously, you swallowed, staring straightforward. You jumped back when Ben’s wrath reached you.

Holding you down with his tentacles, with one of them slinging around your throat. Tightly but menacingly enough to spell out his primal urges. Ben’s body draped over yours. Fury blazed in his darkened eyes. “Now, Umbrella, I’m done with your little mind games.”

Sloane stood behind Ben’s shoulder, raising her voice. “Ben, let go.”

“Not until I find out what her family has done to him.”

With a hoarse voice, you implored darkly, “Listen to your sister before your Cthulu tentacles get the memo about me too.” As a warning, you gripped the surprisingly smooth appendage around your throat.

You cursed your curious mind for even harboring the thought of wanting to know how the tentacle’s skin would feel like.

Ben’s smile grew tighter, the more his eldritch monster’s hold intensified. “Try me, Eight.”

Summoning empathetic energy from within to converse it as a kinetic shield, you blasted him against the cabinet and leaving small splinters of wood on the carpet.

With a grunting noise, Ben’s tentacles drew back into his body. “Alright,” he murmured reluctantly. Ben dragged his body upwards until he was leaning against the furniture for support. He offered a blood-stained smile in reverence before he wiped off the crimson evidence from his lips. “Little minx.”

A dull thud resounded when you dropped the book on the duvet. You stood up and with a quiet voice you told Ben in no uncertain terms, “Don’t ever threaten me again.”

Remembering the company of Ben’s sisters and the result of your outburst, you awkwardly glanced at them before your feet led you towards the open door.

Wordlessly, Fei turned her body to make room. Her gaze roamed over your body with fondness after your display of power. As soon as you left the room, her dry voice remarked, “I’d consider this a success.”

Tagging: @cherryinsalemverse @mellowstatesmanhandsempath @ravenmoore14 @blackmagicwoman @lelaamela

[thekillingvote]

No Birds Allowed: Batman without Robin

The usual claim is that Jason Todd was singularly hated by audiences. Dick Grayson, Carrie Kelley, and Tim Drake are proper, beloved Robins—and Jason Todd is the one and only outlier so unlikable that audiences killed him off by popular vote.

But this claim ignores a massive piece of the puzzle—the Robin role has long been treated as an outdated remnant of a childish era, not only by a significant share of Batman fans, but also by Batman creative teams. While there were definitely fans who hated Jason Todd, he was at least partly chosen to be killed as a scapegoat for some long-standing complaints about the Robin role in Batman stories.

The 1988 poll to kill Jason Todd wasn't just a poll to kill Jason Todd—the poll to kill Robin was a poll to kill Robin.

Fan letters columns from Batman #221 and Detective Comics #398, reacting to Dick leaving for Hudson University in Batman #217 (1969):

Denny O'Neil Batman/Detective Comics writer (1970-1980) Batman group editor (1986-2000) on sending Robin away to Hudson University:

Dan Greenfield: Actually, last night I went back through my comics and the one thing that always strikes me is that before you came onto the character, they’d already made the decision to have Robin leave. Robin was up at Hudson University and was used sparingly from that point forward. Denny O’Neil: Well, that was a conscious decision of mine. Greenfield: Oh! O’Neil: Yeah, I mean … I had been offered Batman a year before I did it. Greenfield: No kidding? I wanna hear this. O’Neil: Because that was in the (Batman TV show) camp thing. The comics were very half-heartedly following in the footsteps of the camp because it was having a palpable effect on circulation. That’s not always true but it was in that case. Camp as in the sense — as opposed to the more erudite sense — this one-line joke about: “I loved this stuff when I was 6 and now that I’m 28 and I have a bi-weekly appointment with a therapist and a little, mild drug habit and two divorces, ‘Look how silly it is.'” I would go into the most literary bar in Greenwich Village on (Wednesday) or Thursday evenings and there would be writers and poets and college professors, all looking at Batman! But when that was over, it was over. It was like somebody turned a switch. And that’s when (editor) Julie (Schwartz) said, in his avuncular way, did I have any ideas for Batman? And at that point, I wasn’t going to be asked to do camp. I was going to be asked to do anything within the bounds of good taste, etc., that I wanted to.

O'Neil, quoted from “Notes from the Batcave: An Interview with Dennis O’Neil” in The Many Lives of The Batman: Critical Approaches to a Superhero and His Media:

There was a time right before I took over as Batman editor when he seemed to be much closer to a family man, much closer to a nice guy. He seemed to have a love life and he seemed to be very paternal towards Robin. My version is a lot nastier than that. He has a lot more edge to him.

O'Neil in 2015:

Modern Batman does not do camp. He has to evolve but to stay true to the concept he has to stay lonely. The kids, there shouldn't be many. Keep him the lone, obsessed crusader and the stories will be better. We did a story called Son of the Demon. It told a story where he had a kid, a baby. It wasn't in continuity. These days, the kid came back and became the new Robin, and I hear that Batman's got a few more running around.

Jim Starlin, Batman writer (1987-1988), writer of A Death in the Family:

I tried to avoid using [Robin] as much as I could. In most of my early Batman stories, he doesn’t appear. Eventually Denny asked me to do a specific Robin story, which I did, and I guess it went over fairly well from what I understand. But I wasn’t crazy about Robin.

I thought that going out and fighting crime in a grey and black outfit while you send out a kid in primary colors was kind of like child abuse. So when I started working on Batman, I was always leaving Robin out of the stories, and Denny O’Neil who is the editor finally said, "You gotta put [Robin] in."

In the one Batman issue I wrote with Robin featured, I had him do something underhanded, as I recall. Denny had told me that the character was very unpopular with fans, so I decided to play on that dislike. [...] At that time, DC had this idea that they were gonna do an AIDS education book, and so they put a box out and wanted everybody to put in suggestions of who should contract AIDS and perish in the comics. I stuffed it with Robin. They realized it was all my handwriting so they ended up throwing all my things out. About six months later, Denny came up with this idea of the call-in thing. [...] I didn’t find out about it until I came back [from Mexico] and found out that, just as I expected, my ghoulish little fans voted him dead. But by a much smaller margin than I’d imagined. It was only like 72 votes out of 10,000, so statistically it was next to nothing.

Dan Raspler, assistant editor/associate editor to Denny O’Neil (1988-1990):

Denny wasn’t really interested in comics continuity, and he didn’t like superheroes. And if you read his work, you see his influence was really a pushing away from the conventions at the time—it was growing old, that sort of Golden Age-y, Silver Age-y stuff, and Denny sort of modernized it, and he never stopped feeling that way. Jim Starlin’s Batman appealed to Denny. It was a little more ‘down to Earth. Nobody liked Robin at the time. For a while Robin was not—it didn’t make sense in comics. Comics were darkening, and so having the kid was just, it was silly, and even at the time I kind of didn’t. Now Robin is my favorite all-time character, but at the time when I was twenty-whatever, I accepted kicking Robin out, the short pants and all the rest of it.

Comic shop owner Phil Beracha on A Death in the Family, quoted in The Sun Sentinel (October 22, 1988):

"I got 100 copies, and I don't expect them to last past the weekend," said Phil Beracha, owner of Phil's Comic Shoppe in Margate. "I usually get 50 copies of Batman. I doubled my order, and I still expect to sell out." The readers voted right, Beracha said. "Robin is an outdated concept. He was created in the `40s, and back then in a comic book you could have a kid beating up grown men. I don't think that works today."

Writer Steve Englehart, quoted in "Batman, the Gamble; Warner Bros. is betting big money that a 50-year-old comic book vigilante will be a `hero for our times'" in the Los Angeles Times (June 18, 1989):

Writer Steven Englehart, who did a series of Batman stories in Detective Comics, also worked up some movie treatments. In a letter to Comics Buyer's Guide, he revealed the approach he had in mind, which would have pleased Batfanatics: "My first treatment had Robin getting blown away in the first 90 seconds, so that every reviewer in the country would begin his review with, `This sure isn't the TV show.' "

Michael Uslan, producer and film rights holder for the 1989 Batman film:

I only let Tim [Burton] see the original year of the Bob Kane/Bill Finger run, up until the time that Robin was introduced. I showed him the Steve Englehart/Marshall Rogers and the Neal Adams/Denny O'Neil stories. My biggest fear was that somehow Tim would get hold of the campiest Batman comics and then where would we be?

"Death Knell for the Campy Crusader" in the Orlando Sentinel (23 June 1989):

For most people, the name Batman summons up a picture of a clown in long johns, a Campy Crusader who - with the young punster Robin - ZAPed and POWed his way into our lives. That's the Batman that appeared on TV in the mid-'60s, and that's the Batman that the world at large knows. Such is the power of television. But this ludicrous image may become obsolete now that the new, $40 million Batman movie has opened. Robin is absent from the film, as are the perky Batgirl and the utterly superfluous Aunt Harriet of the TV series. And though the movie has plenty of sound effects, they don't appear on the screen as words, spelled out in neo-Brechtian absurdity.

Sam Hamm, writer for Batman (1989 live-action film):

The Case of the Disappearing Robin is high comedy. Tim (Burton) and I had worked out a plotline that did not include the Boy Wonder, whom we both regarded as an unnecessary intrusion. Really: Our hero was crazy to begin with. Did he have to prove it by enlisting a pimply adolescent to help him fight crime? Was Bat-Baby unavailable? But the studio was insistent: There was no such thing as solo Batman, there was only Batman and Robin. So, after holding off the executives for as long as we could, Tim and I realized we had better try to accommodate them. He flew up to my house in San Francisco and we walked around in circles for two days, finally deciding that there was no way to shoehorn Robin into our story. [...] We figured that if we managed to squeeze him in, the lame hacks who were making the sequel could worry about what to do with him next. When the film went into production in London, and ran seriously over budget, WB started looking for a sequence that could be cut to save money. And there was one obvious candidate: Intro Robin! So Robin was cut from the movie and shoved back to Batman Returns— from which he was cut yet again and shoved back to Batman Forever.

Grant Morrison on creating Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth (written 1987-1988, published 1989) with Dave McKean (see the annotated script's fourth page):

The original first draft of the script included Robin. Robin appeared in a few scenes at the beginning then remained at Police Headquarters for the bulk of the book, where he spent his time studying plans and histories of the house, in order to find a way in to help his mentor. Dave McKean, however, felt that he had already compromised his artistic integrity sufficiently by drawing Batman and refused point blank over for the Boy Wonder — so after one brave but ridiculous attempt to put him in a trench coat, I wisely removed him from the script.

Paul Dini on Batman: The Animated Series (1992), as told in the 1998 book Batman Animated:

The Fox Network, on the assumption that kids won't watch a kid’s show unless kids are in it, soon began insisting that Robin be prominently featured in every episode. When Fox changed the title from Batman: The Animated Series to The Adventures of Batman & Robin, they laid down the law-no story premise was to be considered unless it was either a Robin story or one in which the Boy Wonder played a key role. Out were underworld character studies like “It's Never Too Late"; in were traditional Batman and Robin escapades like “The Lion and the Unicorn.” A potentially intriguing Catwoman/Black Canary team-up was interrupted in midpitch to the network by their demand, “Where's Robin?” When the writers asked if they could omit Robin from just this one episode, Fox obliged by omitting the entire story. Looking back, there was nothing drastically wrong with Robin's full-time insertion into the series—after all, kids do love him. Our major gripe at the time was that it started turning the series into the predictable Batman and Robin show people had initially expected it would be. For the first season, Batman had been an experiment we weren't sure would work. We were trying out different ways of telling all kinds of stories with Batman as our only constant. For better or worse, having a kid forced him, and the series, to settle down.

Christian Bale, star of Christopher Nolan's The Dark Knight trilogy (2008):

If Robin crops up in one of the new Batman films, I'll be chaining myself up somewhere and refusing to go to work.

Summed up

Among the keepers of Batman, there has been a vocal contingent arguing against the inclusion of Robin. They argue that Robin damages Batman's brooding, solitary persona. They argue that the concept of Robin is too ridiculous and fantastic for the grounded, gritty ideal of Batman. They argue that a respectable version of Batman shouldn't allow, encourage, or train "child soldiers" to endanger their lives fighting against violent evil-doers.

The original and most iconic Robin, Dick Grayson, has definitely benefited from his deep roots in DC lore and his consistent popularity among fans—and yet even he has been shunned from various Batman projects over the decades. When even he struggles to get his foot in the door, his successors face stiffer opposition.

So it's not quite correct to say that Jim Starlin hated Jason Todd. In his own words, Starlin wasn't fond of Robin, and his storytelling (most obviously A Death in the Family) set out to argue against Batman having any kind of "partner" at all. This, following the wildly successful comic that treated Barbara Gordon as a disposable prop. A growing audience welcomed the Dark Age, and the gruesome spectacles made of kid-friendly elements like Batgirl and Robin.

This trend could be broken by the upcoming sequel to The Batman and by the planned slate of upcoming DCU films. But most Robin fans will tell you that many movie-going Batman fans still have their doubts about Robin sharing Batman's spotlight.

[cap-winter-barnes]

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader - Don’t Leave Me Alone

Warnings: Brief/Vague mentions of childhood & teenage abuse. Y/N has a panic attack due to physical touch.

Someone requested this piece but I lost their @ so apologies for not tagging you when I said I would - hope this is okay for my first Spencer fic.

You’ve been a member of the BAU team for over a year and yet you’re still not ready to open up to your colleagues about your past. Hotch had made it clear to the team that you were not one for physical contact, handshakes and hugs were off the cards. Even a hand on your shoulder is enough to set you off in a panic. Your childhood into your teen years were a painful experience that has left you fearing human contact, even the slightest touch can trigger a panic attack, something you desperately try to avoid. Spencer respects your personal space, especially as he struggles to deal with people touching him too. But he can’t help but want to provide you with support to hold you when he can see that you’re struggling with your own mind or freaking out after a case.

The teams most recent case has you travelling to the humid climate of Florida. With the weather causing an unreal amount of heat and discomfort you reluctantly opted to wear a short-sleeved t-shirt rather than your usual long-sleeved blouse. It made the bullet-proof vest just that little bit more bearable. Yet you didn’t account for the local Sheriff to take it upon himself to grab your upper arm during an argument with one of his detectives. The detective in question had been making derogatory comments towards you, JJ & Emily the entire time you had been at the precinct and you had finally had enough. After calling you ‘sweetheart’ for what must have been the hundredth time, you needed to speak your mind.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, Detective,” your words laced with venom. “But my name isn’t sweetheart, or honey, or darlin’. It’s Y/N.” Silence follows your outburst.

“Well, darlin’. Maybe if you dressed more respectably you’d be treated as such.” The smirk on his face irks you beyond reason, so much so, that you leap from your position on the desk across from him.

“What did you just say to me?” Reid, JJ & Hotch all close in to defend you but you raise your hand to stop them. “I’ve got this don’t worry.”

“Yeah, the little princess over here can handle herself.” This earns chuckles from the other detectives and officers around the room.

“Right, that’s enough!” The Sheriff storms through but with your back turned to him, you don’t realise that he’s reaching for you as you take a step back, getting into his bad books isn’t going to help the progression of the case. It’s too late for your team to step in as they realise what is about to happen just as his hand closes around your upper arm. On instinct you’re body reacts in the only way it knows - a panic attack. You try to pull away as his grip tightens trying to move you aside for a quiet conversation but that isn’t happening now.

“LET ME GO!” You repeat the phrase as loud as your voice will allow you. His touch instantly causes your mind to picture the violence you suffered in your younger years. Tears stream from your eyes as your panic intensifies. You can just about make out the voices of Reid & JJ as they try to comfort you and reassure you whilst Hotch is demanding you be let go. When the Sheriff finally releases you under the threats of Hotch, your can no longer hold yourself upright, on instinct, Spencer catches you as you fall.

“I’m so, so sorry Y/N, but we need to get you someone quiet. I’m so sorry.” Spencer cradles you in his arms as he half walks, half carries you to an empty filing room for some privacy.

“Spencer, I’m so sorry. I’m so-“

“Hey, you have nothing to be sorry for. This isn’t your fault.” As he settles you down he pulls his hands away to let you go, fingers outstretched like approaching a wounded animal. But you reach out, taking his hands in yours.

“Please, Spence.” Your words are breathless as you speak, begging him to stay, to touch you. To comfort you. “Stay with me?”

“Of course.” His grip on your hands tighten as he sits himself beside you. “I’ll always stay for you.” You respond with a tight smile, grateful for him not pressuring you to reveal anything from your past, grateful for the respect he shows for your personal space. Yet now, nothing comforts you more than the feeling of his thumb dancing across the back of your hands, calming you unintentionally. For once in your life, you feel comforted and relaxed by someone’s touch. Maybe it isn’t so bad after all, yet only time will tell. And maybe you can finally let Spencer into your heart that little bit more like you so desperately want to.

[vivaciousoceans]

My UPDATED Law & Order: SVU A.D.A ranking:

Last time my criteria was 1) Whatever ADA I could remember and 2) Who ever I liked more. This time I’m going to be a little more objective (just barely). I will be judging off of 1) Tenure 2) Conviction Rate 3) Likeability and 4) Legacy, not in any particular order of importance.

15: Michael Cutter - He was from the mother show which I didn’t watch, and he’s very unmemorable in SVU because he only appeared in 4 episodes. I do remember him only getting moved to Sex Crimes as a punishment for lying about having a bachelors degree to both the DA’s office and the New York bar, but of course he didn’t get disbarred.

14: Sherri West - She was a decent prosecutor, she never did anything explicitly wrong. She just wasn’t particularly memorable, except for the fact that she stopped being a prosecutor in order to have more money for her "shoe fetish", which is just odd, in my opinion. She only appeared in 4 episodes as and ADA, so that’s why she gets second to last place.

13: Mikka Von - She was so fine I wish I could put her higher. She only appeared in one episode, but she won her case by being crafty. Her little flirtation with Fin was cute, Fin deserves some eye candy after dealing with the tension between Benson and Stabler for years. I wish she’d gotten a few more episodes to really cement a legacy for herself, but alas.

12: Kim Greylek - If she had appeared in more than 13 episodes, I would be willing to put her higher because she had the makings of a great A.D.A. She had the experience working with abused women, she was tough, but she wasn’t likeable in the slightest. I think she felt like she had to be this ball buster because of what happened to Casey after working with SVU, but she was just rude. She even threw shade at Casey, which was just not a good look.

11: David Haden - The dilf who chose his job over a relationship with Olivia Benson. He was like one of the finest men Liv allowed herself to date, and he broke it off with her for a job he resigned from a year later. The only reason he isn’t lower is because he was a decent attorney. He only appeared in 4 episodes though.

10: Peter Stone - Where do I start with Peter? Well 1) He tried to convict Rafael Barba, 2) He tried to play daddy to Noah, and 3) He plagiarized Barba’s whole exit after only knowing Liv for what? Two years? He wasn’t a bad lawyer, he was actually decent, he just went through a lot of personal stuff, and he wasn’t as willing as other ADA’s to do what needed to be done in a unit like SVU. I’m reserving the right to be biased towards him, despite everything he went through.

9: Abbie Carmichael - She was also from the mother show, which again I didn’t watch. She’s only this high because she didn’t do anything egregious, worked well with the detectives, and Angie Harmon is pretty. She only appeared in 4 episodes.

8: Jo Marlowe - Stablers ex-partner, played by the incomparable Sharon Stone. Part of the reason she is so high is because of her legacy, she just came in and had such a strong backstory which we don’t get a lot for ADA’s. She also alluded to having an affair with Elliot, which makes me especially happy because I don’t like Elliot. She was only in 4 episodes, but she delivered in every scene.

7: Gillian Hardwicke - I didn’t put her on my last ranking list which was just an oversight on my part. She was a really good prosecutor, and that wasn’t easy for the cases she tried. She had a 92% conviction rate and kept being handed cases that were complicated. Her empathy for the victims, and her drive for justice was refreshing. I enjoyed her short, 10 episode long run.

6: Sonya Paxton - I am a Sonya Paxton stan. She had her issues, with alcoholism, being a pain in the ass, but she wasn’t afraid to go toe to toe with Elliot Stabler. I hated her death, I wish she would’ve had more than 7 episodes, but I truly think that dying so a victim could receive justice, was the best send off for her character. That’s a legacy that can’t be easily forgotten, which is why she’s so high.

5: Dominick Carisi Jr. - Detective Sonny was my sweet baby angel, but I haven’t watched many seasons where he was ADA, and what I did watch left much to be desired. That being said, his experience at SVU, combined with his mentorship from Rafael Barba, makes him an empathetic prosecutor with great courtroom presence.

4: Elizabeth Donnelly - Coming in at number 4, Liz is a force to be reckoned with. She mentored Alex Cabot and to a certain extent Casey Novak. She fought her way to the top after experiencing a major setback as a woman attorney, that could’ve very easily ruined her career. She was empathetic when she needed to be, tougher when she didn’t need to be. She was a great supervisor and her legacy can’t be forgotten.

3: Alexandra Cabot - Her legacy, her conviction rate, her likeablity, her chemistry with the detectives, none of it can be denied. She was the first permanent ADA and is still a fan favorite for many. She’s strong in her convictions, she’s strong in her values, even if that means bending the law to get true justice. Alex just is that girl in all areas of life, and the only reason she’s at number 3 is because she leaned on her nepotism a little.

2: Rafael Barba - A feminist icon, a political landmine, and the smuggest ADA to exist. He took the cases that no one would touch with a 10-foot pole, and even if he didn’t win them, he made a difference. If he was a real lawyer, he would be studied for his impact on case law. He is very theatrical in court, especially when it comes to cross examinations, he is a shark when it comes to closing statements. He was the longest serving ADA SVU ever had and that takes big brass ego. He knew the law like the back of his hand, and talked a mile a minute, what more could you want? The only reason he’s number 2 is because of his conviction rate.

1: Casey Novak - She was insane, unhinged and insane. There’s no other way to describe her run as a prosecutor. She took on major political cases only to seek justice. She went after a sitting judge, the US Military, and pharmaceutical companies. She was empathetic and sympathetic when she felt like she wasn’t on the side of justice. She had no qualms throwing cases where she knew her win would be the opposite of justice, and she risked disbarment to get justice for a victim. I can truly say she deserves this number 1 spot because of her conviction rate, her legacy, tenure, and likeability.

[decadentworld]

The Baptism.

Billy’s journey to changing his last name, in a last attempt to fully disassociate himself from Neil, takes him to a place he’d never have expected.

※ Billy Hargrove-centric. Side Billy Hargrove/Male Reader.

※ 3,106 words

※ Personal work (not request).

※ Trigger warnings: Child physical, verbal, and emotional abuse. Gaslighting. This might be very triggering for some people.

※ Content & warnings: Original character. Hurt/Comfort. Billy cries a lot. Character death. Non-graphic mentions of smut at the end. Neil is in jail because I said so but it’s not mentioned.

※ Work available only on Tumblr and under ArchiveOfOurOwn pseud of the same name (DecadentWorld). Do not repost, edit, or redistribute. Do not use for TikTok videos.

Billy’s always wanted to do change his last name. Initially, he wanted his mom’s last name, but after everything that’s happened and the growth he’s had, he finally understood that, while his mom might have showed him some kindness, she still abandoned him. Left him to rot in that cemetery he had to call house, with the man who murdered him on the inside. She did; Billy did not jump to conclusions. He did his detective homework and found her having already formed another family. So, in that same vein, he does not want to associate himself with her anymore. It hurts to have this notion of his challenged, but it’s getting better with time.

Billy thinks. Paces, in his mind. Scratches at his head, thinking what else there could be, where he could get a new last name from.

At your now shared house, his newfound group of friends (friends!) try to give him some help. Mostly.

“What about your grandpa’s last name?”, asks the puppy of a metalhead he has as a friend.

“Dumbass. That’s ma’s last name, too.”

“Oh. Right.”

The exasperated babysitter chimes in. “Can any of your relatives reclaim you?”

“No living relatives that I know of, Harrington. Plus, I’m already legal. What’s the use?”

“You can still be adopted if you’re over eighteen. Maybe Susan could adopt you…? She has the grounds for it, now.” The badass columnist has a point. But.

But.

Billy looks uneasy. “M-Maybe not.”

There’s a bit of rueful tension after this. You, his anchor, hold his hand and rub circles on it with your thumb.

Billy’s newfound emotional support lesbian chimes in with a sly smile, and she’s joking, but. “Maybe you could take his last name, hm?” Points at you. Wiggles her eyebrows.

Billy blushes so darkly he has to hide in your chest. But quickly deflates. Right. It’s not allowed.

Maybe he cries a little bit over it at night.

And one day, the epiphany.

His littlest superheroine touches his cheek again, like he always allows her to, ever since that 4th of July.

“You have a memory right here. On the tip of your tongue. Wants to come out.”

“Which of all, mousey?”

Her eyes quickly flit over left and right. “A woman. Is old. Has kind eyes.”

Billy feels something rattle at his chest. “What do you mean?”

“She is good to you. Touches you like I am. Makes it better. But is so… ‘ephemeral’.”

Billy doesn’t realize he’s tearing up. Doesn’t even ask the girl where she learnt that big person word. “Wh-What— What does she look like?”

“Red hair, but it’s… She dyed it. Her teeth are all crooked. Her right eye is—”

“White.” Billy can’t speak. “C-Cataract.”

How could he forget? How could he have forgotten?

Granny Maude.

Billy saw her exactly one time in his life, but he’s not sure why he might have forgotten about her even then, for all the impact that she had in his young life.

Billy’s mind fills in the blanks. A little Billy running away from home, limping all the way across the empty beach at night, right after Neil laid into him with steel-toed boots included. When he can’t run anymore, he still runs a little more, just so that he can collapse on the doorstep of a random house and bang his fists on the door.

That’s the only time in his life when Billy asks for: “Help.”

He sees her so clearly right now. He recalls almost being thrown off by her appearance at first, but quickly pushing this aside when she takes him into her little secluded house, sits him on her rickety old individual sofa, asks him if he’s alright, gives him water, aspirin, treats him so nicely that he cries. Ruefully tells him he looks like someone she knows. Asks his full name so that she can call the police.

“Hargrove?” It’s not a common last name. The old lady has a foreboding at the back of her mind. Quickly puts her hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Sonny, what is your father called?”

Little Billy tells her. It can’t be possible. The septuagenarian runs to the phone but the banging on the door stops her.

“Maude, open up! I know he’s in here!” The booming voice of the monster roars.

The woman continues to the phone, dials the emergency line, starts to rely the message but the quick turning of a key in a keyhole makes the phone slip off her hands and shatter on the floor from the impact.

The big bad barges in and rips the base of the rotary phone off the wall for good measure.

“You never told me you had a son! I have a grandson?!”, she screams at him with all the vigour a 74-year-old can manage.

“Senile bitch. This doesn’t concern you.” The villain’s boots shake the foundation of the house as he approaches his son. He grabs him by the hair. “I fucking hate you right now. I do not want to hear a single word from you—”

“How can you treat your own son like that—”

“Shut up! Cops are on their way and not for me. Maybe they’ll finally commit you.” He turns to the boy. “Go to the fucking car. Get in and don’t let a single person see you. If anyone does, I’ll fucking kill you.”

It’s a bit of a blur after that. From what the therapist told him, it’s normal that his mind might have supressed some memories, especially if they had to do with Neil’s abuse.

Wait. The words. He remembers— He keeps hearing them—

“She doesn’t exist, William. She’s not fucking real. Forget that you ever thought up someone like that. She’s not real.”

He understands. Neil forced him to forget she ever existed.

And as always, with everything Neil said, Billy obeyed.

Billy finds himself hysterical and screaming with how much he’s crying after resurfacing from this memory. Jonathan, Will, Joyce, and Jim are now on the sides of him, trying to calm him down without understanding much of what’s going on.

“H-He made me forget her. He m-made me think she n-never existed. But she’s real. She’s real.”

She’s real. Or was.

Deep digging doesn’t do much this time. Any leads on who Maude Hargrove is or might have been are hard to follow. Which is when it occurs to them to hire Murray, see if he has any knowledge on genealogical tree tracking.

And he does. He’s an expert, actually.

“Largo al factotum, I said.” And with that sentence, he closes the case.

Maude Rathbone.

It turns out she never took her husband’s last name. Billy commends her for it, knows how unusual and frowned upon that must have been in her era.

Maude Rathbone passed away at the age of 77 in 1981, when Billy was about to turn 14, about four years after that fateful night. She died not in the comfort of her cozy old home or in a caring nursing facility, but in a psychiatric hospital. Neil did end up committing her that night. Dialed the charm up and told the police officers he was so worried for his mother, that he was afraid she was turning senile, that she had called him into her home because she was seeing a boy that just wasn’t there. No one even bothered to check Neil’s car, within which a frail little boy was fearing for his life.

Billy learns a new word in therapy the next day: ‘Gaslight’.

Murray helps them more. The next few days you, Billy, and Hopper gear up and go to the psychiatric facility all the way in California to get more answers.

Everyone there believed Neil that time. Who wouldn’t have? A charming middle-aged man versus an old woman they found undesirable because they thought cataracts and crooked missing teeth and cheap red dye was a sign of poverty, of carelessness, of mental illness. All things society is not ready to tolerate. The folks in charge at the psychiatric are nonchalant as they imply all this when the three ask for a Maude Rathbone, saying she wrote letters to a boy that didn’t exist, that they assured her the boy received if only to palliate the outbursts of a senile elder in her last days. Only, those letters never left the facility.

But when Billy soon-to-be-ex-Hargrove announces himself as that very boy, the people in charge can’t believe it.

“Of course I’m fucking real, you fucking assholes! ‘You never thought to look me up or anything?!”

Hopper lets him have this. He all but demanded to be brought in with you and Billy if there needed to be some more convincing on his behalf, but he figures it’s not necessary, in the end.

Obviously, they allow him to take all those letters and the rest of her trinkets with them. It’s the least they can do.

Later in the evening, at the hotel, you comfort Billy, who’s already started to cry as he reads the first letter.

Dear Billy,

You are real and I am real. Whatever my son has told you, because I know he has, is untrue. That man is a real piece of work and never told me about you. War changed him, but that’s not an excuse for him, because he walked right into it all on his own. He would get violent with me, cut all contact with me because I was spot on in telling him he was spiraling. Reminds me of Mortimer, but the piece of shit died before he was even born, so I had quite a few years of peace before all that.

Billy laughs softly between his tears and lays his head on your shoulder. Mortimer Hargrove was her husband, Neil’s father. So his grandfather was also shitty, but he felt glad Maude could lay into him and say things like they were.

Neil got paranoid after some time. I knew he thought I was going to report him to the police. I wouldn’t have. I didn’t have anyone. No one would have believed me. So of course I believed you. He hurt you badly, his own son. I think it’s fate that you knocked on my door last night. I still don’t know if it was completely out of the blue, or if you felt like I would be welcoming enough, and for that, you are very brave.

Tears drip constantly on the yellowed sheet of paper. Billy was about to enter a void of self-deprecation, but the next few lines stop him in his tracks and pull another laugh out of him, because it’s like she was reading his mind at the moment she wrote the letter.

Now, don’t you dare think any of this is your fault, sonny. I know your kind, because I was it. I know you’re probably thinking I got put in this place because of you. Stop it. None of this could have been avoided. I would’ve surely ended up in a place like this sooner or later.

Billy disagrees. The way she expresses herself in these letters is so clear; she was extremely lucid for a 74-year-old at that moment.

Billy’s heart breaks as he keeps reading the last few lines.

Please, find me. Come live with me. We can run away from him together. I could prove to them that you’re real, and they’d give me the grounds for adoption. I know there’s no saving that monster.

I love you, sonny. I will find you somehow.

Gammy Maude

Billy breaks down in your arms. “Sh-She only knew m-me for like ten minutes and she still lov-ved me.” He starts hyperventilating. “She f-found me. She found me, in th-the end!”

It takes well over half an hour before Billy’s composed enough to keep reading the rest of the letters. His heart breaks a little more with each one.

At first, they end with:

Hope to see you soon. Love you.

But as he keeps going, it gradually turns into:

Neil’s not letting you see these, is he? Please write back.

And then, into:

Are you real? Lord, give me a sign that my sonny is real.

Fuck Neil. Fuck the police. Fuck the psychiatric handlers. Fuck society. Fuck everyone who ever saw this little old woman and wholeheartedly believed she could be a menace. Billy cries for her. Mourns her, because Lord knows no one ever did.

For the night, Billy forgets that this all started because he wanted to change his last name. Even if he can’t, in the end, he’ll content himself with this.

But he can!

“Look, she’s a direct relative. Blood-related relative. They have to allow you. It’s basically your God-given right. And if for whatever reason they wanna fight it, then all these letters of hers? They’ll be as good of an evidence as there can be. Look at the writing. The exact same as all the legal files on her name. And the signature! God, I love your grandma. She made this so easy.” Murray is almost histrionic as he shoves sheets upon sheets of paper on the table.

Billy can’t help but agree. Gammy Maude was a genius. She somehow had the foresight to add her signature onto the letters, like she knew they could be used as evidence someday.

Everything is arranged that same day.

Billy starts crying before Hopper even hands him his new identification card.

“Kid, you haven’t even seen it yet. Save the tears for after.” Another one of Hopper’s hidden skills: be persuasive enough to accelerate the ID card making process, photo-taking included. So much so that the shiny new plastic is in Hopper’s hand before the day even ends.

“C-Can’t help it, chief. This is my new life we’re talking about.”

Hopper just gives him a gruff chuckle and puts a hand on his shoulder. Billy takes the card and pointedly doesn’t look at it until he goes to stand next to you, near the stairway outside. There are curiously-colored flags in this part of California. They make Billy feel even more accepted and at home.

“Come on,” you gently encourage him. “Look at it.”

He does. The tears can’t stop.

You hold him through it, and even as his eyes get so blurry from the tears that he can’t possibly read what’s printed in the plastic card anymore, he still looks at it like his eyes are pulled to it.

That’s how everyone’s going to call him from now on.

Billy Rathbone.

Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

Billy doesn’t answer you, and you realize that he didn’t even take in your question. He cries, so hard that you worry for him, but he’s smiling so widely at the same time, and that dissipates any doubts you might have.

“You did it, honey.”

“N-No. We did it. A-All of us.”

You hoist Billy up and spin him around, rejoicing in his screaming laughter.

Back in Hawkins, things gradually change for the better.

Steve challenges him for a basketball match, wanting a redo of their previous rivalry without the bitterness.

“Come on, Rathbone. You stomped on my crown twice. Was King of Highschool and Keg as well. Not gonna let you be King of Basketball, too.”

God. Steve is so obvious with this attempt, even trying to channel his King Steve persona into his words, but Billy’s smiling so much he temporarily forgets he should respond with anything at least vaguely antagonistic.

Steve smiles shyly. “Creamed your pants for a second there?”

Billy rolls his eyes. “You’re insufferable. Bring it on!”

Robin all but drags him to a big gathering with the party. “Hey! You guys remember Billy Rathbone?!”

Robin’s even more obvious than Steve, emphasizing his last name so overtly Billy’s almost worried for a second of how everyone’s going to react. Eddie and Steve almost chide her.

No need for that. The kids look at him in wonder. El gives him the biggest grin ever. Lucas raises his eyebrows amusedly. Dustin gives him the toothiest toothless smile. Erica only looks smug for once in her life. Will has the softest smile on his face. Mike can’t keep his self imposed grimace of someone who’s sucking on a lemon for long enough because it’s clear he’s trying not to smile.

And Max?

From her sitting position on her wheelchair, she extends her fully healed right arm. “Let me see it.”

“Let her see it! Yeah!” Robin is so enthusiastic about Billy showing Max his new ID that she’s almost jumping in place.

Max takes a good look at the shiny new plastic. Then slowly looks up at him.

Billy doesn’t know what to make of her expression and the sepulchral silence that follows before she speaks.

“Of course you had to go and call yourself Rat Bone.”

Everyone laughs. Billy does, too. He doesn’t know why he was worried.

Wait. He’s tearing up a little bit as well.

Max downright forces him to hug her.

“Don’t you dare say anything, shitbird. What kinda name is May Field? Sounds like… uh…”

“Yeah, yeah. Give yourself an aneurysm thinking of something, will you.” They separate. “Just tell me everything after it.”

And he does. He tells them about Gammy.

“Hey,” you say to Billy, him so comfortable deep in the bedsheets after you’re done laying all your love on him. “If… no, when we’re able to marry,” and he of course has to blush to the tips of his ears, even after you’ve literally just finished making love, “…you’re not gonna take my last name, right?”

Billy tears up. “Please, d-don’t make me—”

“Of course I won’t. That was a threat.” You smile at him while you make him this oh-so-scary threat. He smiles as well. “You better not. ‘Billy Rathbone’ just sounds too good to change.”

There’s always hope.

Billy Rathbone wears a different necklace nowadays. Whereas he used to have a Virgin Mary one, which belonged to his egg donor, he now has one in the format of a locket. There is a photograph inside, the only one Murray could find. But it’s perfect.

Of course, he did not crop the original photograph. He put it through the photocopier once, twice, three times before it was the perfect size.

In this locket, he keeps a photocopied picture of Maude Rathbone, smiling with her gorgeous missing and blackened crooked teeth, sporting a lovely frizzy hairdo that’s just the perfect hue of vintage red, looking at the camera with one ethereal cataractous eye.

[be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie]

Longass Crop Circles Notes (I Don't Think I've Changed Chapter Two):

I don't want to talk about how many weeks these notes have been sitting in my notes app because I couldn't bring myself to go through them yet. My sincere apologies @spicymiilk

-Ah that incredibly relatable feeling when you want to get to one part of your story and you have to force yourself to slog through to get to it. It happens to us all.

-KIRI AND LO’AK GOING TO SPECIAL SCHOOL WHILE NETEYAM IS REGULAR IS SO FUNNY TO ME. Poor Lo’ak I’m being so mean to him. But you really want their asses GONE gone.

-Calling Jake a white man and saying he can’t understand their hair is so funny. Dude NEVER helped with ANY of his kids hair ever??? He’s never done Neytiri’s for her because he’s her bitch? Come on Jake, I expected more. Even I’ve done my cousins hair a few times. Maybe Spider will fare better?

-Obsessed with the way Neteyam is about his morning routine and solitude, it jives so well with my opinion of him. He’s got to have things his way, and under his control. Taken care of well. He’s going to have a field day with Spider. I see we are already leaning heavily into Neteyam’s "I can fix him" complex. Even when he wants to help Jake, which I know is something wheelchair users don’t often want if it’s something they do all the time themselves. It’s the innate feeling of standing by and doing nothing while watching someone struggle, when it’s their day to day life. And if that isn’t Neteyam’s whole thing? I’m obsessed with how he just cannot handle anyone else’s bad vibes without trying to fix it right away. Speaking of;

-If there is not a moment where Jake allows Neteyam to help him when he needs it, I will throw myself off a bridge, Andrei. ~growth~ the opportunity is there and it’s ripe.

-JAKE AND NETEYAM BANTER, I did not realize I was in a drought until I got a little bit of rain and I realized I was DYING OF THIRST. PARCHED FOR THEM.

-Jake “Detective” Sully: You are gay, son, try not to be too gay to the new foster kid you stalk at the local Micky Ds.

-I am literally obsessed with My Father Jake Sully who was neglected and hurt as a child being the most desperate man alive to connect with and heal kids in the same situation he was in. It fits so so well in his character for me. I feel like he spends most of his life trying to heal old wounds and make up for the past, in a way.

-Neteyam “I thought this kid was named Miles for years but I guess legally on his birth certificate it def must say Spider because it couldn’t be a nickname, that’s for sure” Sully

-I am CACKLING at them both lying to each other about McDonalds as though they both don’t know exactly how often the other one is there because they both find the other hot I’m dead.

-Spider mad at Norm for enforcing child labour laws has me wanting to make memes about it. The children truly do yearn for the mines.

-All the tiny little details of how Spider focuses on the people around him, on their moods and their movements and the way his brain works is so well done. That survival mindset takes years and years to unlearn, if you ever can fully. It’s well done as always.

-OH MY GOD EVEN NEYTIRI ALSO THINKS NETEYAM IS BEING TOO GAY THIS IS AMAZING.

-Justice for Jake, I will get him one of the cars paralyzed people can drive. Also his joke about driving Neytiri up the wall? HE’S A COMEDIAN. GET HIM A NETFLIX SPECIAL.

-Spider can’t look at Tuk because he was close with a little abused foster girl, where is the nearest bridge. NO REST FOR US, ANDREI?? ALL THE PAIN AND TRAUMA POSSIBLE CRAMMED INTO ONE EPIC.

-God the line about Spider’s therapist saying that his habit will lead him down a dangerous path, but he doesn’t understand why because he only ever hurts himself because he doesn’t see damage to himself as damage because he doesn’t see himself as worthy? Not worthy of the phone, of food, of attention or love? Truly my fav paragraph of the chapter. You are a master at establishing a character in a few subtle lines. It's a tactic that I only get after a few rewrites; instead of saying "Neteyam wants to fix everyone" you show us him in a situations where he wants to and can't help. Instead of telling me Spider doesn't care for his own safety, you tell me he's confused by his therapist saying his coping is dangerous. Instead of saying emotion, tell me something that would make me feel that emotion. Writing 101, and yet so hard to pull off properly.

-I laughed out loud at Neteyam trying not to look at Spider’s muscles I am dying. Neteyam should ask him out loud.

-EVEN TUK HAS IT ON LOCK, SHE SAYS NETEYAM HAS A THING FOR PEOPLE WHO SOUND A LITTLE SAD. This is so not funny but so funny because it’s all specifically for me.

-Neteyam later in life is like that dumbass gum commercial where the guy reveals he’s been keeping the gum wrappers every time the girl gives him one and drawing on them when and where she gave it to him? That’s Neteyam when the piles and piles of smiley face receipts fall out of his trench coat pockets.

-“I didn’t realize that was you” filthy liar. Spider’s smiley face drawing rizz is crazy. You bet your ass he wasn't doing that to every fuckers receipts.

-WHAT ON EARTH IS LO’AK DOING AT SMART PERSON SCHOOL, EVEN YOU DON’T KNOW ANDREI.

-THE CUTE BOY AT THE WINDOW ASKED FOR HIS NUMBER? AS IN, SPIDER, PHONELESS SPIDER, OR ANOTHER SNEAKY BASTARD BUTTING IN.

-Also these people have real memory problems, I’ve never forgotten any awkward interaction I’ve ever had in my entire life, especially not with a crush. I couldn't hear my crush at a party last year and I just laughed and said yeah and she was like "no I asked what you think" and not a single day goes by it doesn't play behind my eyelids like the DVD in The Ring. So, unless Spider has asked every single man at McDonalds out, he remembers when he asked a guy out and the guy sped off like he had a warrant out from Dominic Toretto.

-Oh my god, it was Spider. And this man sURVIVED that encounter? This man who can’t survive a strong breeze rn? What was he going to do with number, call him from phone booths? Send smoke signals to the write telephone wire? I am cackling at the idea that he had rehearsed this so many times and yet never actually thought through not having a phone.

-The smiley face on the paper. That revived Spider from his death post awkward encounter. There will be smiley faces on the invitations to their wedding and only Tuk will understand.

[j-eryewrites]

The Abbey Grange Affair (III)

Part Eight of the Arbitrary Live of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

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SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

Word Count: 5.4 k

Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of a crime scene, mentions of blood, mention of Sherlock’s purple shirt you all know what I’m talking about, abusive relationships, Sherlock being Sherlock. 

I had fun writing this one. There are tiny crumbs of fluff coming your way. :)

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The early afternoon sun peaked through the dark blinds of 221B. The dust floated in the air occasionally shimmering as the sun hit it at just the right spot. Sherlock stood by the fireplace, tuning his antique violin. Something he’d been doing for the past hour. Once in a while, he would play a few notes of a piece, but would inevitably fall back into tuning. His long-structured face scrunched up as he plucked the strings.

John sat in his designated chair with his computer out. A cursor blinked on the blank screen. John’s fingers delicately lay on the keyboard, yet his eyes were on Sherlock. Now, John had been a friend and companion of Sherlock’s for a while now. In all of the cases he had experienced, John had never seen Sherlock give up that easily. Let alone agree with the original idea about a case. Most of the time he would dispute Greg’s conclusion calling it absurd, yet here there they were in 221B. No case. No absolute answer. Nothing. It did not make sense. 

John wasn’t the only one who was puzzled. Y/N reviewed her notes the entire train ride back to London. An uneasy feeling sat in the pit of her stomach. Her mind kept going back to the many bruises painting Ada’s skin. She had seen bruises like that before and knew it meant no good. She thought “if it were me, I’d be glad if my old abusive husband was murdered.” However, she knew it was not her place to judge. 

She made her way around John and Sherlock as she dusted and picked up stray dishes to wash. Her eyes flashed back to how Ada looked at her when she told her story. Ada had widened blue eyes and her thin fingers were reaching out toward Y/N. Biting her lip, Y/N began to mutter to herself. The sound is similar to that of someone clicking a pen. At first, for Sherlock, it’s tolerable, but then word by word it becomes unbearable. Eventually, the plucking of violin strings halts and the detective cannot concentrate on anything else but the consistent muttering. 

“If you would please allow me silence, Y/N.” Condemned Sherlock with his lips tightly pressed together. 

“Sorry, Sherlock. It’s just…” she faltered placing the dishes in the sink. Turning on the water she began to scrub away at the grime. 

Looking over his shoulder, Sherlock sighed. He lowered the violin and bow, placing it carefully in its case. Afterwards, he moved to sit in his chair. “Just what?”

Rolling her eyes, she replied. “It’s an absurd idea.”

“I find that the absurd ideas tend to be the most genius ones.” 

Placing the dish and scrubbing down, she turned in Sherlock’s direction. “I…I..it’s crazy.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Spit it out.” Then shooting out of his seat, he moved towards her. 

She began to lean on the sink behind her and lowered her eyes to the floor. “I can’t help but think that maybe wanted it to happen.”

Sherlock halted a few feet in front of the woman. His sapphire eyes cast to the side narrowing in thought. After a pause, his movement continued until he stood right in front of her. “Explain.” He commanded.

Looking straight at him, she illuminated her thoughts. “When Ada was telling us her account of the crime. She took a minute to talk about herself and where she was from. But there was a specific part where she was speaking to me directly and I couldn’t but think it’s because she thought I would understand her.” 

Feeling uncomfortable under Sherlock’s strict gaze, Y/N slipped passed and began to pace around the room. “ It was the part when she was saying if I could imagine what it would be like to be tied to a man for the rest of her life.” Pausing slightly to think of the right words, “I think it was a plea. I think that she was forced to marry Eustace. Like she said, can you imagine a beautiful, lively girl like her married to an old abusive man like him? It's no surprise that he was a raging alcoholic, Stanley said he knew himself.” 

“But that’s just a hunch,” John said. 

“I know there is no explicit sign that she is, but I have this feeling.” 

“Feelings are a weakness, Y/N. Best to not use them when dealing with a case.”

Scoffing slightly, Y/N stared at Sherlock again. “Okay, Sherlock. But just indulge me here for a second.”

“What if she was forced to marry him? What if the entire crime was a ploy for her to escape her abusive marriage to escape and finally be herself? Plus, there is Theresa. I think she helped Ada. Didn’t you see how Theresa was holding on to Ada and protecting her as a mother would? Obviously, she isn’t Ada’s mother, but…”

“She still is acting like one.” Sherlock Finished.

John stood from his seat and joined the two in the kitchen. “Maybe, it’s like a found family situation. Theresa would be the only one there for Ada if Y/N’s theory is right.”

“On top of that there are the wine glasses,” Y/N mentioned. Sherlock and John raised a brow. 

“The wine glasses?” State Sherlock. 

“What about the wine glasses, Y/N?” asked John. 

“They drank the wine before they stole the silver from the dining room. Don’t you think they would have stolen the loot and then taken the wine as well?” John cocked his head and looked at Sherlock. “These are robbers who have been around. I feel like they would know it would it’d be extremely risky to stay and indulge in some wine, especially after they murdered a man and his wife lay unconscious in a chair. If it were me, I’d take the wine and run.”

Sherlock’s brows raised slightly. Pulling out the notes Y/N had sent him, Sherlock began to elaborate. “There are many details in Ada’s story that would excite our suspicion. The burglars made a considerable haul a few nights beforehand. There would be a story about it in the papers. Something that might naturally occur to anyone who wanted to invent a story with robbers, would be to use the Randalls.” 

John ran to his computer and began to search. “Sherlock, there was a report a day before Mr. Brakenstall’s death about the robberies.” 

Nodding his head, Sherlock continued. “As a matter of fact, burglars who have done a good job burglarizing, tend to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet. In turn, waiting to embark on another dangerous job.” As the words left Sherlock’s mouth, John and Y/N began to think that their gut instincts were right; the case wasn’t over. 

“It was unusual for the burglars to think that they could prevent her from screaming. It is also unusual to resort to murder when three men can easily overpower one. They only took the silver from the dining room when there was a house full of riches just beyond the doors. How do these strike you, John?”

“It’s quite unusual, but each could all be possible,” John replied. 

“Back to the wine glasses,” Sherlock stated. His eyes swung to look at Y/N. “We are told three men drank from them. Likely?” 

“Umm… I would think so.” Y/N hesitated, “There was wine in three glasses.”

“Yes, but only beeswing in one glass.” (Beeswing is a crust that forms on top of wine that has been aged for a long time) Sherlock recalled each glass in his mind as if he was viewing them in person. “The bottle of wine was full of it, yet two of the glasses are completely clear of it. There are two possible explanations. One is that after the second glass was filled the bottle was violently agitated so the third glass received beeswing. It does not appear possible; I am sure of that.”

“What then?” John inquired.

Sherlock meandered about the room. His black trousers brushed against each other as he moved. “Only two glasses were used and the dregs of both were poured into a third glass. That way the beeswing would be in the last glass.”

Y/N gasped, “Then that means…”

“Yes, Ada and her maid lied, and not one word of their story is to be believed. They must have some strong reason for covering the real culprit.” Sherlock marched towards the door. He pulled on his coat straightening the collar up. “It is up to us to solve the case. We must return to Abbey Grange.”

John and Y/N ran briskly after him. 

“Sherlock!” Y/N yelled. “If we’re going back to Bath, I’m packing a bag. I’m not coming back to London without a full night's rest.”

“I’m with her.” John chimed in.

Reluctantly, Sherlock agreed. He made his way to the bedroom and began to pack an overnight bag. John ran to his room to do the same. 

Y/N left her neighbor’s flat and entered her own. Bjørn meowed at her. His brown tail flicked with interest. “I’ll ask Auntie to look after you while I’m gone, okay?” She assured. Once she entered her room, she flung clothes and necessities into a small duffel bag. She heard a knock on her door. Sherlock. “Coming!!” She bellowed. She swung the bag over her shoulder, opened her apartment door, locked it, and left with the detective and his blogger. 

 _____________________________________________________________________________________

The train ride back to Bath seemed to breeze by. Fewer seats were vacant with occupants whispering and conversing amongst themselves. For Sherlock, John, and Y/N the three-hour train ride only increased their anticipation. Y/N fiddled with the strap of her bag. John bounced his leg up and down. Sherlock sat against the seat back, his eyes closed in thought. 

Eventually, the train entered the familiar station. The three of them got off before the crowd of occupants could stand up from their seats. Luckily, there was an Inn close to the station, saving the three a long walk to look for a place to rest their heads. 

The inn stood tall between two shops. One a tinker store and the other a charming bakery. The smell of freshly baked goodies filled Y/N’s nose. Bringing her back to 221b and Mrs.Hudson’s baking. Looking at the Inn, Y/N could tell it would be quite cosy. It was called Juliet’s Bed and Breakfast. The roof was matching the shutter’s dark evergreen colour. There were many bricks in all sorts of colours. Next to the door of the Inn stood two pots each with a bundle of flowers. 

Sherlock was the first to enter the Inn. He turned the brass knob which rang the bell above the door. A sweet woman whose orange sweater complimented her dark skin. Brushing her curly hair out of her face she greeted the three of them. John blushed at the bright smile of the hostess. 

“We would like three rooms.” Sherlock’s professional and smooth voice. 

The woman nodded ringing up the charge of the rooms. “Would you like meals included with that?” She asked.

“Yes, that would be nice,” John replied as he flashed a smile toward the lady. 

“Alright.” Her cheeks darkened a shade of red, “If you just pay here…”

Sherlock looked at John. “What? I... Sherlock.” As the two began to bicker, Y/N pushed her way between them. Placing her card on the desk. 

“I’ve got it.”

“No, Y/N…” began John.

“John.” She exhaled. “I’ve got it.”

After they paid and were given their room keys, John began to reprimand Sherlock. Y/N took her bag and marched up the stairs to her room. She glanced at the room number and released she had been given a room a few doors down from John and Sherlock. She chuckled as the two of them made their way up the stairs. Sherlock’s shoulders tense at the nagging words of John. 

“They’re like an old married couple.” She told herself, quietly laughing. 

She placed the key in the lock and turned the doorknob. Then she entered the room. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath her. The room was small. There was a bed against the wall to the right of the room. Across from the bed was a small fireplace. Looking about the room, she took notice of the floral wallpaper. Y/N also saw a small desk. Next to it was a pink sofa that complimented the flowers on the wall. She was relieved to find a bathroom attached to the bedroom. Placing her bag down with a thump, she sunk into the bed. Allowing herself a moment's rest. 

It wasn’t long before Sherlock and John came knocking. Groaning she pushed herself up and off the bed. Opening the door, she saw John with his hands in his pockets and lips drawn in a tight line. Sherlock stood behind him, eyes ever impatient. 

“I’m coming,” she sighed. She swung her hand to signal the boys to move out of the way. They made their way down the wooden stairs and out the door of the Inn. 

They were met with the brisk cold air of the late afternoon which contrasted with the warm comforting temperature of the inn. 

“How are we supposed to get there?” John asked. His gaze shifted toward Sherlock. 

“We’ll walk.” He stated. 

“Walk? Well, Abbey Grange is not within walking distance.” John pointed out.

Gulping, Y/N muttered, “We could take a cab.” 

John’s eyes widen and Sherlock swung his neck to peer at the woman. “Are you sure that’s alright?” John mouthed. 

She pushed her chest out and clasped her hands behind her back. Looking at Sherlock’s cloudy blue eyes, she replied, “As long as you’re there.” Gazing at Sherlock needed, her eye moved to John. “Both of you. Plus, it's time I get over my fear of cabs.” She awkwardly chuckled.

“I promise you’ll be safe. If not, John and I will protect you,” Sherlock comforted. He brought one of his gloved hands to rest on her shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. 

Her eyes slightly glossed over. “Thanks,” she whispered. With that, they had called a cab and were on their way back to Abbey Grange. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

*Sherlock does his thing and they re-interview the maid. Stanley pops in towards the end and invites them to dinner tomorrow night. 

The household of Abbey Grange was quite surprised at the return of the consulting detective and his companions. They were quickly notified that Stanley Hopkins had returned to the police station. Smiling to himself, Sherlock asked for the key to the dining room. Once the staff provided it for him, he locked the door from the inside and spent two hours investigating. The type of investigation where his brilliant skills of deduction were put to use. Seated in a corner, John followed Sherlock’s form as he moved about the room with Y/N close by taking notes. Sherlock observed the window, the carpet, the chair, the cord, the wine glasses, and the bottle. He took his time examining and dutifully pondering. John was relieved that the body of Eustace Brakenstall was removed. All that remained of his murder was the blood stain on the tiger skin rug. Everything else was in the exact condition it had been when they visited the scene this morning. 

John’s gaze continued to follow his two friends. The sight of them reminded him of the cab ride to Abbey Grange. The memory flashed before his eyes, and he remembered how nervous Y/N was. She was fiddling with a ring on her finger. Her knee bounced at a quick pace. Her eyes peered out the window of the cab, memorizing each tree, sign, and car that they passed. He remembered a want to comfort her either by placing a hand on her knee or striking up a conversation, but Sherlock sat between them. John had read somewhere that having someone engage in conversation was a way to distract them from their current environment. It was as if Sherlock read his mind. 

Sherlock glanced down at Y/N’s bouncing knee from the corner of his eye. He slowly brushed it against her knee. When she made no move to separate herself from him, Sherlock gently placed it on the edge of her knee. After giving it a tight squeeze, he returned his hand to his pocket. The bounding in Y/N’s knee halted as she turned to look at Sherlock wide-eyed. She smiled with gratitude and continued to look out the window. John noticed her breathing gain a normal and calm pace. 

John’s attention was brought back to the present when he heard the cry of Y/N. She was frantically waving her arms as Sherlock pushed off her shoulder to jump off a chair and onto the mantle of the fireplace. John stood up from his chair as fast as humanly possible, rushing over to the wobbly Y/N. She was trying to regain her balance. Once he had helped steady her, John moved his head to look up at his friend in astonishment. 

“Sherlock,” John said sternly. “What are you doing?” 

Far above Sherlock’s head hung a few inches of the red cord that was still attached to the wire. Sherlock's head tilted as he tried to get a better angle of the cord. 

“Apparently he’s examining the cord,” Y/N explained. “At first, he wanted me to get up and look at it. I told him there was no way, I would be climbing up there, and…”

“You’re too short to observe the cord in this detail, Y/N” Sherlock stated. 

“Are you calling me short?” Y/N gasped.

“I’m not calling you anything. I’m stating a fact.” Sherlock elaborated. “The fact is you are too short to have provided the information I received from the cord.”

Then in an attempt to get nearer to the cord, Sherlock rested his knee upon a wooden bracket drilled into the wall. This brought his hand just a few inches closer to the rope. 

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s short.” Y/N scoffed. 

Suddenly Sherlock removed his knee and sprung down from the mantel. A shriek escaped Y/N and John’s mouths. 

“Sherlock!” John cried. 

Sherlock dusted himself off. “It’s all right, John.” “We have our case–one of the most remarkable in our collective, I might say.” He turned up the collar of his trench coat. “The few missing links have been found, and my chain is almost complete.”

“Have you got your men?” John inquired. 

“Man, John. Only one, but a very intimidating person. With one swing they were able to bend that poker. I would say six foot three in height, physically active, and skilled with their fingers. They also must be quite quick-witted for coming up with the Randall cover on the spot. A very remarkable individual.” 

“You’re complementing the murderer?” Y/N repeated.

“Complementing the skill, not the person per se. Separate the work from the artist.” Sherlock clarified.

“Right…” mumbled Y/N. 

“Where was the clue?” John asked. 

“Well, if you were to pull down the bell rope, where would you expect it to break?”

“Where it was attached to the wire.”

“Then why is it broken three inches from the wire?”

Y/N recalled the image of the rope around the chair. “Because it’s frayed along the edge. Someone cut it with a knife!”

Sherlock smirked. “He was cunning enough to do it with his pocketknife. The man needed the rope and couldn’t tear it down. They put their knee on the bracket attached to the wall. There is an indent in the dust there. I couldn’t reach it, but someone who was three inches taller than I could. Now, look at the mark on the seat of the oak chair.”

Y/N and John turned to look at the chair Sherlock was pointing to. 

“Blood” shuddered Y/N. 

“This alone puts the lady’s story into question. If she were seated in the chair when the crime was committed, why is there a mark? No, no, no she was placed in the chair after Mr.Brakenstall’s death. I’m sure that we could find blood spatter on her dress as well. I would like an interview with Theresa.” Then Sherlock instructed, “We must be wary if we want to get any information out of her.”

—

Sherlock asked John and Y/N to front the interrogation, saying that Theresa would be more inclined to answer to friendlier faces. She was an intriguing person. The nurse, who was found to be Australian, was suspicious and stern. Despite Sherlock’s cold presence, Theresa became quite amiable towards John and Y/N. Though she made no attempt to conceal her hatred for her deceased employer.  

“Theresa, do you mind telling me about Eustace Brakenstall?” asked Y/N.

“Of course. I will tell you he is the most awful, ungrateful, abusive man I have ever met in my entire life. Once he sets his eyes on something, he will have it one way or another. Whether that be Ada or a new set of china.”

“Uhh…I heard that he often caused physical harm to Ada.” 

“Yes, that’s true. There were times when he also caused physical harm to me. One time he threw a decanter at me. He had called Ada a name and told him he was not to call her such things. Then he threw the decanter at me. He was always mistreating her, but she could never complain. Who would listen? The police? Her parents?!” Her voice became tenser at the mention of them. “She still hasn’t told me what he has done to her, even though she’s known me her whole life. But I know very well where they come from.” Theresa grumbled. 

“Actually, Theresa,” John pondered, “When did Ada meet Mr. Brakenstall?”

“About two years ago.” Sadly sighing, she continued. “You would never guess he could be like that at first glance. Ada met him at a company party. He was a friend of one of her employers. His interest sparked immediately and began to make advances. Ada never showed any interest in him, but her…her parents did. How could they not? Eustace was wealthy. His title and status won over her parents and that was the end of it. They were married in January of last year.”

Theresa’s voice got all solemn and sad. Y/N’s heartstrings were twisted and pulled. How could Ada have lived with such experiences? 

Theresa gently looked up at John and Y/N. She reached out towards Y/N, grasping her hands. “I expect you are also here to interview Ada.” Y/N nodded. “Please do not ask too much of her. She has already gone through so much.” By now Theresa’s eyes began to water. With a gentle squeeze, Theresa released Y/N’s hands. 

There was a sudden knock at the door and a head of blonde hair peaked through. “Theresa” the voice began, then catching sight of Sherlock and his companions it stopped. “I hope you’re not here to cross-examine me.” She stammered. 

Sherlock answered first. “No, I will not cause you any unnecessary trouble, Ada. I want to make things easy for you.” Sherlock moved from his place next to John and then presumed a manner similar to that of his brother. If someone had handed Sherlock an umbrella or a cane, the likeness would be uncanny. 

Ada bit her lip. “What do you want?”

“To hear the truth.” 

“Mr. Holmes!” cried Theresa. “Are you saying that Ada has lied?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “I will stake my reputation on the fact that Ada’s story is false.” His eyes narrowed in on Ada. “Nothing to say?”

Clenching her fists, looked Sherlock straight in the eye. “I have told you everything,” she breathed. 

“Think again, Ada. Wouldn’t it be better, to be honest?” 

She gulped. Her blue eyes shook. “I have told you all I know.” She repeated. 

Sherlock placed his hands in his coat pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “John. Y/N,” he said, and without another word, they left the room and Abbey Grange. There was a lake frozen over in the park surrounding the house. Sherlock led the way, with his companions following. There was a single hole in the frozen surface of the lake. Sherlock gazed at the hole and then pulled out his phone. He typed a short note for Stanley Hopkins and sent it. Afterwards, he called for a cab to return them to the inn. 

___________________________________________________________________________________

It was now raining in Bath. The rain fell with a pitter-patter on the glass window of Y/N’s room. The fireplace was lit keeping the small room warm. Y/N sank into the bed and its fluffy sheets. She had a book in hand. She turned the page with eyes darting over each word. She thought it was nice to have time to herself. 

Her phone buzzed on the side table. Marking her place, Y/N grabbed her phone. She looked at the screen to see the cause of the notification–Jim. He had finally messaged her. 

____ How was your day?

- Jim

It was kind of hectic if I’m being honest.

  - Y/N

Really?

-Jim

Ya. I had to wake up in the middle of work and am finally able to relax. 

-Y/N

That does not sound fun.

- Jim

Nope.

- Y/N

___

A knock interrupted Y/N’s conversation. She turned off her phone and got out of bed. Y/N walked to the door and opened it revealing Sherlock. He no longer dawned on his coat allowing his purple button-up to be seen. He barged into the room leaving Y/N to close it behind him. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” Y/N pondered. 

“Your computer. Did you bring it?” 

“Uhh…ya it’s in my bag. Why?” 

Sherlock nodded and stepped towards her bag on the floor by the chair. He opened its contents and found the computer. Then he sat upon the chair and began to type away. 

Y/N stood with her mouth agape and brows slightly raised. “Sherlock.” He hummed in response. “What are you doing?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock’s eyes were glued to her computer screen. 

“No.” 

Sighing he turned his eyes away from the computer and met Y/N’s gaze. “I am using your computer. John refused to let me into his room saying he needed to catch up on sleep.” He took a pause. “I have a hunch and it may be a hit or a miss, but I must have something to justify our second visit to Abbey Grange. Or else I will never hear the end of it from Stanley.”

“Can I ask you something?” Y/N asked as she sat on the edge of the bed. Again, Sherlock hummed in response. She leaned closer to him. “Do you actually like Stanley? He says and acts like you two are the best of friends, yet you are as stiff as ever.”

Sherlock placed her computer on the small table beside him. “Stanley was a means to an end of sorts.” He clarified. “I started university with no friends. People tend to avoid someone who could announce to everyone what they were up to the night before.” He took in a deep breath and picked the computer back up. “Stanley entered the year a semester late. He needed connection and…”

“You were there.” Y/N finished. 

“Stanley had every chance to leave, yet he continued to call me his friend.”

“You say that like you aren’t his.” Sherlock scrunched his brows. “I mean, Sherlock. To this day Stanley asks for your help on cases and you come. Did you see his face when he saw you this morning? The man was literally jumping for joy. So don’t act like you two aren’t friends, 'cause you are.” 

Without another word, Sherlock began typing again on the computer. Y/N stood from her seat and strode behind Sherlock. She peered over his shoulder to look at the screen. 

“Adelaide Southampton Shipping Office…” she read. She opened her mouth to inquire as to why Sherlock was looking at a shipping company, but he was already one step ahead. 

“It’s a line of ships that travel from South Australia to England.” Sherlock moved the cursor, and they were taken to a new page. 

“Sherlock, why are you looking at their tracking history?” She asked. 

“There is only one ship that came to London when Ada and Eustace travelled from Australia.” He highlighted the name of the ship, the Rock of Gibraltar. According to the ship’s description, it was the biggest and best boat the shipping company had in their possession. With another click, Sherlock was able to find its passenger list. He came across the familiar names of Theresa, Ada, and Eustace. He took out his phone and got a snap of the screen. He then scrolled through the list of the ship's crew. Again, Sherlock took another photo. 

Y/N’s eyes scanned the screen and noticed that none of the crew had changed over the two years except for one– Ms Jasmine Crocker. 

“Sherlock, click on Ms. Crocker’s profile,” Y/N instructed. 

Sherlock did as she told. Y/N leaned down to get a closer look at the screen. There was a picture of a woman. There was a gap between her two front teeth, somehow making her smile all the more charming. The woman’s hair was cut short and brushed back. Her tan skin glowed against the blue of the uniform. “Jasmine Crocker, Captain of the Bass Rock…” Her eyes scanned the bio. “Because of her reliability, loyalty, and kind-heartedness Jasmine Crocker was promoted to Captain. She thanks her girlfriend…Sherlock, click on the name of the boat.” 

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Why should I….”

“Just do it.”

After briskly reading the page about the ship, Y/N’s eyes caught notice of something. The Bass Rock was scheduled to sail from Southampton in two days. 

“Are you finished?” Grumbled Sherlock. 

“Ya…sorry. Don’t know what that was about. Just piqued my interest, I guess.” 

Sherlock returned to the page about the Rock of Gibraltar. Y/N stepped away from the chair and returned to her bed. She lifted the sheets and snuggled under them. Suddenly she remembered Jim and quickly pulled out her phone to check her messages. 

____

Read

-Jim

Do you know what does sound fun?

-Y/N

What?

-Jim

Dinner with you.

-Y/N

How does Friday night sound?

-Jim

Perfect.

- Y/N

I’ll send you the details later. Goodnight.

- Jim

Night.

- Y/N

_____

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks and let out a quiet giggle. 

“Who is messaging?” Sherlock questioned. He lifted one brow and a smug smile flashed on his face. 

Y/N had forgotten that Sherlock was there. Quickly, she sat up and looked in his direction. “Umm... just a friend of mine. We made plans…” She began to feel a bit uncomfortable. “Sherlock. How long is…this gonna take?” Removing herself once again from the warm covers, she wrapped her arms around her figure and meandered towards Sherlock. 

“Done,” he stated. Sherlock shot out of the seat with the closed computer in hand. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to rush you,” Y/N explained. 

Sherlock’s baritone voice responded. “I’ve got what I need. Goodnight, Y/N.” He made no effort to move from where he stood. Sherlock’s sapphire eyes flickered down toward Y/N. He became entranced with how the light of the fire illuminated her eyes, making them sparkle like stars. 

Nervously, Y/N cleared her throat. “Can I have my computer back, or do you need it?”

Shaking himself from his daze, Sherlock handed over the computer. “Right, sorry.” His hand brushed against hers as she passed the computer onto her. “Goodnight.” With that, Sherlock made his way to the door and saw himself out. 

“Goodnight…Sherlock.” She whispered into the empty air. Y/N placed the computer back into her bag and once again sunk into the sheets of the bed. The fire had died down and all that remained were bright coals. The rain continued to hail down from above. Settling herself in, Y/N closed her eyes and allowed sleep to take over. 

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Comment below if you would like to be added to the tag list. 

The next chapter is going to be the last of the Abbey Grange Affair! I can’t wait for it to come out!

Let me know what you thought of the chapter!

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Tag List: @themartiansdaughter​ @biggerthancalli13​ @starlightaurourab

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[doctor-loboto]

okay guys grab some s’mores ingredients and turn up the burner because a disabled person is going to get all weird and serious about fandom stuff

Loboto is kind of a deconstruction of the “absent-minded professor” archetype (which is thematically appropriate because all the inmates pretty much fit the mold of “one-dimensional and kind of ableist joke on the surface, actual person on the inside”). Some people think of Loboto as an outlier in the cast who doesn’t portray a person with a specific diagnosis, although this is a less common opinion after Rhombus of Ruin. The Psychonauts series is, on rare occasion, criticized for its exaggerated and unrealistic portrayal of mental illness. I feel that this is because its cartoonish imagery and tone tends to take center stage and the realistic portrayals of mental health struggles, especially in secondary characters, can be more subtle and hard to detect, usually only being picked up on by people with similar experiences.

So this brings us to Loboto’s psychosis/trauma/brain injury (depending on what you personally emphasize in your headcanon, probably a healthy mix of all of three in canon) symptoms. The most obvious ones are excessive anger/irritability and a hyperfixation on teeth that may involve delusions about the role of teeth in the body. But if you look at his dialogue and behavior, you’ll also notice that he seems to have a lot of issues with his memory and situational awareness.

For example, his introductory scene in PN1 where he pauses and asks Dogen why he’s screaming. I’ve brought this up before and explained that I think he honestly forgot for a second what he was doing and why his patient was making so much noise before looking at the evidence around him and remembering. I have memory problems and schizophrenia-related confusion and I’ve forgotten what time of day or year it is, whose house I’m in, why I’m holding a pencil, etc. Loboto may have a lot of trouble keeping information straight, which could be very inconvenient or even dangerous for him considering that he lives largely outside of society and engages in sketchy activity.

In fact, the state of his memory may be the only reason Truman’s brain was able to be recovered. This also could have made Gristol very hostile to Caligosto once he realized the man he chose to carry out his plan could barely remember the instructions clearly. Antipsychotics in particular can make it hard to hold even the shortest amount of information in your head; his brain could have been further damaged by years of overmedication with primitive drugs in Thorney Towers. It’s also interesting that when Loboto is shown trying to remember in the opening level of PN2, he gets frustrated and actually directs his abusive anger towards himself. This leads me to believe that he has self esteem issues regarding his memory and maybe secretly thinks of himself as having a “bad brain”. Caligosto places a lot of importance on his intelligence and scientific accomplishments (“I’m the dentist of the century!”) because it’s one of the few objective things he has to hold onto about his identity that makes him feel good about himself.

If you look at the bigger picture, Loboto isn’t just a villain with a traumatic past, he’s a disadvantaged disabled person who is surviving in the only place that he’s allowed to exist without being medically subjugated, and even that is challenging because of the way his mind works. He’s angry at the Psychonauts for “kidnapping” him and feels that they’re intentionally hurting him and taking away his lifestyle (sidenote: you could read that memory vault as “Loboto is so confident and self-centered that he thinks the Psychonauts are just being mean to him” but it could also be seen as “Loboto sees everyone as a cartoon bully and assumes they want to hurt him because so many authority figures in his life have hurt him and that’s what he expects”) when they actually most likely saved his life because he otherwise would have died prematurely in a lab accident or been killed by an angry client for fucking up.

[yonniebonnie]

Okay I might actually start writing now, but I think I’ll start off with head cannons for right now because I’m not 100% confident in my writing skills. I know I’m not absolute shit when it comes to writing, but I have noticed that I tend to repeat certain words so I’ll have to work on that 😭

Characters that I might write for:

Peter Maximoff (obviously)

Maybe other characters from the X-men series

Tate Langdon

Luke Cooper (there’s not a lot of fics for him and I’d like to change that 😏)

Jennifer Check

Stu Macher

Charlie Walker

Mickey Altieri

Ethan Landry

Amber Freeman

Jill Roberts

Literally any Ghostface other than Richie, Nancy Loomis, and detective Bailey💀

Also open to writing for other scream characters like Tatum, Dewey, or Sam

Peter Parker (whichever one)

Conner DBH

The Maze Runner characters

Every Wednesday character except for Xavier (sorry, don’t feel comfortable writing for Percy Hynes White 🤷🏾‍♀️)

Stanley Barber (y’all still remember IANOWT?)

And that’s basically it for right now. Also Peter, Tate, and Luke are the only Evan Peters characters I’ll be writing for just for right now because I haven’t finished the other seasons of American Horror Story yet, but maybe in the future I’d probably be interested in writing for characters like Kit Walker or Kyle Spencer. There’s other characters that I wouldn’t mind trying to write for that I haven’t mentioned, but just ask and I’ll give you an answer.

I can write:

Any gendered readers: female readers, gender neutral readers, and male reader

Nsfw: don’t be afraid to request suggestive stuff. I don’t mind writing kinky stuff, but not too kinky like the piss kink or daddy kink bc it personally makes me uncomfortable (however, I’ll allow mommy kinks).

Kinks: Needed a section to put what kinks I allow. I will write for breeding kinks, breath play, bondage, pain kink, knife play, blood kink, dom/sub, degradation, BDSM; whatever, just ask.

Sfw: I’ll write fluff, hurt comfort, angst, any tropes, just whatever. I’m fine with platonic fics.

Semi Dark fics: I like Scream and American Horror Story, so you know there’s going to be some dark fics. I don’t mind prompts where the characters are possessive or obsessive (but not abusive). I also don’t mind writing for Yandere characters.

Poc reader inserts: I’m black, so I’d love writing stuff for black readers as well.

Fandoms: X-men, Wednesday, Scream, Spiderman verse, The Maze Runner series, Detroit Become Human, The Umbrella Academy (that’s it for rn)

I won’t write:

Celebrities/Real People: As much as I find their character’s attractive, I don’t feel comfortable writing for the actor/actress themself. I don’t know them personally, so I don’t feel any interest in writing anything for them.

Guy x male reader smut: it’s not bc of homophobia, it’s simply just because I don’t feel comfortable writing gay smut. As a woman, I just don’t want to make people think I’m sexualizing gay men. The most I’ll do is write suggestive stuff, but I won’t write full on smut.

OC inserts: I strictly write for reader inserts. I won’t be writing anything specifically for one reader.

Shipping: I don’t write for character x character. Nothing against them, I just only have an interest for reader inserts.

Smut for teenage characters: I’m 18, so I will not be writing smut for characters under 18, especially if they are portrayed by literal teenagers. However, for characters like on Wednesday where the characters are portrayed by adults in their 20s and even 30s, if you want smut for them it should be fine as long as they’re aged up to be 18.

These: non-con, step-cest/incest, r4pe themes, drugging, somnophilia, age regression, ddlg, piss kink (squirting’s fine), huge age gaps, race play, pedophilia, etc. Once again, if you’re not sure what kinks I’ll write for, feel free to ask

Traumatic stuff: I will not write things like abuse victim, rape victim, or self harm victim prompts. I will write angst, but I won’t write anything too depressing. I came here for a good time, let me be happy and delusional in peace 😪

Songfics: So random, but I hate when fics have lyrics within them. They confuse me too much and I also find them kind of cringey. I absolutely despise songfics, I’m so sorry babes 😭

[soleminisanction]

How much of Stephanie’s flaws do you think is character flaws and how much is sexist writing? Because while some stuff I’ve heard about her seemed like red flag, but I’m also wary of pointing them out because there’s so much sexism in DC Comics and I don’t wanna fall victim to sexist takes. Do you have any clarity on that conundrum?

That is, I think, a much more complicated question than you'd intended it to be. Let me narrow this down to just one flaw to show you what I mean:

In Steph's original appearance (Detective Comics #647-649), her one real "character flaw" is anger. It's what drives her to move against her father, sure, but it's also what nearly leads her to murdering him, it drives the conflict between her and Batman & Robin, and it's the reason Bruce describes her as being, quote, "on no one's team but her own."

When she's made a supporting cast member in Robin, however, the anger is still there, but it's no longer treated as a character flaw... partially because Chuck Dixon has a tendency to write angry characters as a default. Instead of being something that gets her into trouble, it's treated as a trait that makes her a "spitfire" full of "righteous anger," by which I mean Dixon used her as a mouthpiece to scream insults at anyone with an opinion he didn't like and had her beat up men that "deserved it," both with the assumption that readers will agree with her, because the narrative is on her side and portrays her as being in the right.

This is largely how Steph's anger is handled for the rest of her characterization, when the exception of one storyline written by Jon Lewis, who framed it more as a thing to get Steph sympathy -- it gets her into trouble at one point, sure, but is otherwise written with an undercurrent of, "this poor girl, the world has been so very mean to her, don't you just want to comfort her?"

The thing is, that treatment of her violent anger as something righteous and okay, where she's always in the right and the people she hurts always Deserve It? You can argue that that's a form of sexist writing, because there are scenes where she behaves abusively and it's not treated as abuse or even a bad thing, because she's a girl and women's abuse is not taken seriously. You even see this in how she's treated by the audience -- she's got basically the same anger issues as Jack Drake, and yet while interpreting Jack as a abusive is widely accepted by certain parts of the fandom, the same is not true of Steph.

Other people would argue that portraying her as angry at all is inherently sexist (and I don't agree with this, but I have heard people make this argument, stupid as it is) because it makes her look like a "shrew" or a "woman scorned" or otherwise plays into negative stereotypes of women's emotions.

Which then leads the modern version of her, colored by and primarily based on her portrayal in Batgirl (2009) by Brian Q. Miller, where Steph just, doesn't have anger issues, at all, or at least so the narrative would claim. She gets fired up in a fight, sure, but ~she doesn't have a mean bone in her body~ and is always so ~smiley~ and ~happy~ and just a ~sweet widdle polyanna~ who only wants to do ~the right thing.~

But see, that, ditching the anger issues entirely? That's also sexist! Women should be allowed to be angry and still have the potential to be treated as heroes! Getting rid of it because you can't think of how to make a woman with anger issues into a likable and compelling character is sexist! Especially because it takes away her initial motivation and doesn't replace it with anything.

And that's just kind of how it is for all of the traits you could call her character flaws. The only ones we can say for sure are deliberate are those that wind up contributing to the plot, and even then, they very well might have some sexist writing wrapped up in them.

It's really not a simple black or white situation. But like I mentioned in one of my other posts, I ultimately think that the best way to address both deliberate character flaws and sexist writing is to work them into the plot and make them matter, resolve and explore them somehow, rather than trying to toss them away and pretend they never happened. That option is just as sexist as any other, and it's also unsatisfying and lazy. There's a long history of comics that proves people can do better.

[tieflingtareon]

My love, are you the devil? (Oh, call me a devil)

Chapter 2 | Words: 4,525

Summary: Astarion found himself often surprised by his heroic companion. He had one goal. To become the favoured companion of the group, to earn the Tieflings loyalty, to make Tar'eons strength his own. Yet Tar'eon isn't like the usual target of his manipulations. Despite his naivety, he does not seem gullible. There is something very wrong with their 'leader' to begin with. Astarion isn't sure if he wants to control it or eradicate the threat it posed. But can he really do either when Tar'eon himself seems so...unwaveringly kind?

That devil is getting into his head, while others get into Tar'eons. He doesn't appreciate not having the upperhand after years of being at the disadvantage. He will find a way to make him see.

He is the one he should be listening to. Astarion would make it so, no matter the means.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50668558/chapters/127995079

Astarion expected a much lengthier conversation when it was revealed that he was a vampire. He truly did. Expected the attempt of a pitchfork at the very least. He was sure Tar’eon wouldn’t let anyone run him through, but he had thought there would be at least one attempt from Wyll.

But no. Tar’eon insisted that he trusted him. A stupid decision, on his part, but…well, it was nice to be trusted. He’d never had anyone trust him before. He was beaten half to death in the alleyways by Gur, was abused by his master for two centuries, had charmed his way through his undead life, slaughtered many, and yet…Tar’eon extended his trust to him. And true or not, it saved his hind.

He even bothered to call them all friends. A ridiculous notion. They all have their own selfish reasons for being here, but the objective was to remove the parasite in their heads.

The most surprising part of it all was that Tar’eon offered up his throat again.

“Not nearly as much as last night but…I’m sure I can manage a little bit of wooziness first thing in the morning if it meant you only feed from me. Having you out every night may catch the wrong attention. I’d hate for you to get hurt while away from camp.” Where I can’t protect you, was unspoken, but Astarion could fill in the gaps. He’d assume it was because it was a burden to have him bring trouble back, if not for the sincerity in Tar’eons voice.

If not for the sincerity that he could feel when he allowed the connection to dance and brush against Tar’eons. It was hard to control, honestly, but when he yearned to know what he was thinking, it was like the tadpole knew and called to Tar’eons own.

Tar’eon barely let him into his mind though. When he detected his presence in that moment, the brush to grasp if his sincerity was true, Tar’eon allowed only that much before shutting it down. Shutting him out.

He supposed it was fair. He may trust him not to bite without asking, but he did not trust him to know him. After all, despite their time together as a party, they did not know each other personally. Victims of circumstance, forced into proximity. That was all it was.

Tar’eon had told him so when he called him a saint. Now…he simply had to let this be it. Tar’eon would give him blood nightly, he would not hunt, and they would both fight side by side until they found a cure, or…well. Became mindflayers. Or died. Death seemed preferable to all those tentacles. He was still vain, even if he couldn’t see his own reflection.

Oh, how he missed staring into a mirror. He knew his hair to be white, and his eyes to be red, knew himself to be handsome and undead, but…he did not know what he looked like when he was scared or angry, how his face looked when he smiled or frowned. It was a mystery to him. He could only see himself through others, through their words. One target painted him once, in the early days of his enslavement. When he still felt anxious about bringing them back, when he still felt guilt.

The artist had painted long, flowing hair, ruby eyes and pale skin. He’d looked ethereal, like a vampire should. Enticing.

He tried to keep it, simply so he could remember his own face, but Cazador had taken it. He couldn’t remember if he broke it or if that had just been what he was worried he would do. Some early memories were like that. So distorted by fear that he couldn’t remember certain things with clarity.

He does remember a few years after that a target had touched his hair in front of him. So enthralled by his beauty that she hadn’t been able to resist caressing his curls.

"They’re so lovely…I can tell you have your mothers looks, even without meeting her.”

Astarion had smiled. Back in those days, he could still remember his own mothers face. Not anymore.

"I do.”

Cazador had cut his hair only a few days later. Jagged and uneven. He couldn’t remember why, but he knew it was punishment for something. Then he told him to fix it himself and find him dinner.

Astarion’s hair never grew back. That would require a body that could create and grow. But he was stagnant. He healed faster than most, and he had strength above most humans, but he could not grow old. Time would never pass inside his body. Time passed around him, and that was that.

His life had been stagnant and dark until he was kidnapped and given this little parasite inside his head. A parasite that allowed him to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin again. That allowed him to enter homes freely, to cross running water — Hells, to even enter holy ground.

It was like being alive again. Yet he had all the perks of being an elf, and a vampire, at once.

He was a living vampire, truly living for the first time in two centuries, and he intended to keep this freedom at any cost.

He just needed to learn more about the squatter in his skull. Tar’eon would help simply by keeping him alive long enough against the enemies they faced to find out how to control and harness these pests. If there was even a way to do so. It would be such a waste.

The goblin camp smelt rancid. He cursed his heightened senses. The entire time they wandered through it, Tar’eon lying his way passed every guard with such ease…it was terrifying how good of a liar he was. It was like he was a different person when he was in enemy territory, compared to the camp, or the grove.

He used his large body to intimidate, used a vipers tongue to slither further inside the camp despite being a tielfing himself, the target demographic to these cult-obsessed goblins at the moment.

Tar’eon seemed to take delight in humiliating and fighting them compared to falling Kagha, or the Owlbear mother.

Astarion found himself enjoying this new side of Tar’eon, the one that threw shit in the face of a goblin who tried to humiliate the tielfing, and made the cocky creature, Crusher, kiss his boot.

He also found himself amused when Tar’eon turned the Owlbear cub against its tormentors, offering his scent to the cub so he could find their camp later on. An apology, he assumed, for slaying his mother.

Tar’eon looked a little lighter after doing so, before he took his steel gaze to the large doors that led inside.

Tar’eon seemed to notice something the others hadn’t, because once inside and the guards convinced, he took Astarion’s wrist gently to slow his strides, stepping past him and dipping his head low to whisper in his ear.

“That drum by the door. It’s a war drum. I noticed one during the last fight.” He still bore a bruised cut against his cheek from where a goblin struck him with a rock from above. Astarion stared at it for a moment before his eyes travelled to look at the drum in question.

“Strike it with one of your arrows.”

“Are you kidding? They’ll attack us, you fool.” Astarion scoffed. Surely Tar’eon wasn’t that stupid.

“Trust me,” Tar’eons gaze dragged from the war drum to Astarion’s red eyes. “As I trust you.”

Astarion scowled and removed his wrist from Tar’eons hold. It was more of a caress than a grip, but Astarion did not care. He looked Tar’eon dead in the eye as he raised his bow and drew it back.

The string snapped forward, propelling the arrow head into the skin of the drum, rendering it useless. He doubted Tar’eon could talk his way out of this one. At least he didn’t mind a little bloodshed.

But somehow, by a miracle, Tar’eon played his role perfectly.

“I’m so sorry, my companion is skittish after the long journey to visit the priestess, he thought he saw a shadow over there! Though, perhaps he did.” Tar’eon chuckled and goblin looked disgruntled but seemed to let it go.

Astarion looked at Tar’eon in shock, surprised he managed to lie his way through so effortlessly. He almost approved.

As they walked to towards the door, Tar’eon stopped, stock still. Astarion paused with him, curious, and he snarled at Wyll who walked into him. Shadowheart looked delighted though. There was a glint in her eyes, like she knew something they didn’t.

“…what did you say about my companion?” Tar’eon turned slowly to the goblin who had greeted them quite hostilely when they walked inside.

“W-what? Nothing. You’re hearing things. Priestess Gut is ahead.” It quickly dismissed. But Tar’eon didn’t look like he heard nothing. What had been said? Astarion hadn’t been focusing well enough to hear it. He didn’t care for their grotesque voices anyway.

Tar’eon turned around completely, his gaze cold, more like ice than fire. His eyes slowly travelled to Shadowheart, who smiled at him. He gave a small nod and Shadowheart unsheathed her crossbow, sinking an arrow into the goblins throat within the span of an inhale.

Like that, the fight ensued. Without a moments hesitation, Tar’eon unsheathed his longsword and slashed across a goblins face.

Strike first, lest you be struck, he supposed.

The group made quick work of the goblins, and Astarion took a few minutes to collect his arrows and loot what he could before Tar’eon stole everything.

“You’re weighing yourself down, you know? I would *love* to lend a hand if you let me.” He insisted, wanting his pick. He got the chest, but Tar’eon raided the goblins dry.

“It’s okay. I can carry more than you.” Tar’eon said like it was obvious, looking down at Astarion. Physically, at least. After all, he was…a lot larger. He could handle more weight, Astarion supposed. It was worth a shot.

“Yes, well…anyway. What shall we do with the bodies?”

“Nothing.” Tar’eon looked down at the slain bodies, and something akin to hunger grew in his gaze. His sword was still coated in blood, and the tip grazed the fingers of a goblin.

He seemed to catch himself and wiped his blade off with a rag, sheathing it.

“I don’t intend to be here long. We have a job to do. Find the Druid, find a cure, and convince the drow to leave my people alone.”

“Convince? You may as well slay the drow like you did the goblins. Might make this whole…process faster.”

“I would like to avoid as much bloodshed as possible.” Tar’eon hummed. Astarion barked a laugh.

“You…are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“You’ve told me that more than once.”

“And each time, you’ve been covered in blood that isn’t your own.” Astarion mused with a small squint of his eyes, a smile teasing his lips. “What on earth did that goblin say, to break that…beast from its cage.”

Tar’eon narrowed his eyes. Disapproval. Astarion almost cared, but he didn’t.

“…I don’t like these goblins to begin with. But I had planned to be civil. They did not.” Was all he said before he turned with a whip of his tail, opening the door just enough for them to exit, and closing it behind them, least someone find the bodies before they finished their search for the Druid.

Astarion was pissed at the lack of answers, quirking a brow to Wyll who only shrugged. It seemed he hadn't heard the goblins comment either. Great...

He glanced at Shadowheart who was speaking to Tar'eon in a low voice, the tiefling looking around to surveillance the new room they had entered. She knew exactly what the goblin had said, and neither were inviting him into the conversation.

Tar'eon seemed closest to Shadowheart it seemed, and he wondered when the two would shack up together. The Shar worshipper with a tiefling bard...an odd combo, but their personalities melded well. He could wax poetry about her Lady Loss and lady bits, perhaps. He was sure she'd go wild for that sort of thing.

Astarion disliked that she would have more influence over Tar'eon than he would though. It was hard to manipulate someone who's heart and mind were already occupied with another. Unless they'd been dumped. Then it made it a hundred times easier.

The group walked further in, and Tar'eon walked forward with purpose toward the priestess. He heard her name from another goblin and assumed it had to be the priestess they were looking for. Perhaps she could present a cure. Astarion wasn't sure if he trusted the Absolute worshipper to cure them of their little parasite. She seemed rather daft.

But Tar'eon insisted they meet in her quarters and watched her walk off.

He snapped his head suddenly, looking past Shadowheart to the staircase to the right. His gaze met Astarion's and he nodded towards the staircase. Faintly, Astarion could hear crying, moans of pain coming from deeper in the sanctum.

Ah. He wished to play hero again. So be it.

Astarion was learning to just accept it and follow at this point.

The group made their way towards the crying and the scene they came upon was one Astarion was quite...familiar with. A young man was stretched out on a torture device, a rack, with two goblins poking and prodding, asking questions.

Astarion glanced at Tar'eon. He was intrigued by the look of interest in his eyes. He watched as Tar'eon approached the goblins, blending himself into the shadows. It was in his nature to hide amongst them. To observe. Right now, all he wanted to do was observe.

To watch as Tar'eon took a blunt instrument up and convinced the guards to learn from a 'professional'. The cry of pain from the mans lips almost had him feeling sympathy. If only because he too did not like having any blunt force trauma to his genitalia.

It made the goblins leave though when Tar'eon threatened them with the same punishment if he did not allow him to do his 'job' in peace.

They were scarce in moments, and Astarion watched Tar'eon with interest, to see if he'd continue his punishment, and for a moment, he almost thought he would. But like he was shaking off the temptation, he shook his head and dropped the club. He picked the lock of the rack and helped the man down, his hands gentle, his words equally so as he requested information on the druid, Halsin.

Liam blabbered about a Nightsong before he ducked away into the shadows, disappearing. Tar'eon frowned.

"I hope he makes it out safely."

"Oh? Do you?" Astarion mused with a smirk. "I never would have guessed." He chuckled and stepped out of the shadows. "And if those guards come back to check on the prisoner? What then?"

"He escaped after we left him." Tar'eon said plainly, like he was used to lying so blatantly.

"And if they don't believe us?"

"Then we eliminate the army intent on the grove ourselves." He said it with such conviction, with a gaze so steely, that Astarion almost believed him. Like his own conviction was enough to get them through a whole army of goblins.

"...That would be quite troublesome. But fun. I do love a good bloodbath."

"You just enjoy blood."

"Only the finest." Astarion insisted, a hand to his chest like he was offended by the notion that he ate anything less than he deserved. Until recently, he had. Tar'eon was quite the upgrade if he was honest.

Tar'eon quirked a small smile, his eyes almost...fond? And directed at Astarion of all people. The man truly was surprising.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Astarion had nothing to say to that smile, and Tar'eon seemed to take that as the end of their conversation, continuing his walk down the hallway.

Perhaps there was still a chance to gain Tar'eons favour...his protection. His loyalty. It wouldn't be a hard feat. But Astarion only knew one way to make anyone listen to him, and in this case, hopefully only him. He wasn't sure Tar'eon would take him up on a night alone. He seemed like the 'only hand holding before marriage' kind of guy sometimes, and yet he could have such a cruel streak at the most surprising of moments. He was an enigma, like two different people were stuck in the same body. The hero and the beast. He wondered if he could at least convince this beastly side to take him up on the offer.

He'd met many people in his long life. Slept with many. From maidens to sadists, he could deal with anything thrown at him.

He would let their juxtaposed leader carve his mark into his pale skin if it meant he could gain the tieflings protection. Wouldn't be the first man to do so. And perhaps, he could use his strengths further into this journey.

He almost ran into said tiefling when the man stopped, as concrete as the walls around them. Astarion scowled, ready to snap at him before he saw what Tar'eon was looking at. An alter...

A Loviatar worshipper. Huh. He hadn't met one of those in a long time.

Tar'eon approached without fear, only curiosity. Had he ever met one of Loviatars worshippers? Astarion wasn't sure.

"Greetings, child." His voice was haughty and Astarion almost wanted to laugh at the way the man tried to talk so high and mighty. "I've met few aside from goblins here."

Tar'eon just stared at the man, and Astarion quirked a brow, waiting.

"Are you also here to assist with the prisoner?"

"I'm only passing through." Tar'eon says with ease, ignoring the goblins witnessing their conversation. Astarion sends them a look that insists they do not bother speaking up, and somehow, it works. Would hate to ruin the fun after all.

"Your tastes must turn to the exotic, if you would stop here by choice." Astarion gave a hum. Indeed. What kind of exotic tastes were their leader hiding from them?

"I was invited to discuss pain and its intricacies, but even I find these goblins crude and well - primitive. Pain without purpose is a terrible thing, wouldn't you agree?"

Tar'eon made a sound like he agreed.

"It's appalling." He agreed, and for once, Astarion couldn't tell if he was lying or not.

"You know the Maiden of Pain? How refreshing, but there is more to us than that." Tar'eon was hanging out his every word, it seemed, and Astarion wasn't sure if he was annoyed or intrigued by that. "Yes, we worship her through pain - often our own. But it is an intimate and loving thing, and one we offer up. If you would permit it...I can show you firsthand."

Astarion stood straighter, more than intrigued now. Surely Tar'eon wouldn't take him up on it. It was a clear invitation to be beaten, and he could not see the appeal - not for someone like the teifling.

For a moment, Tar'eon had that expression again. The same he'd worn the day he took that portal man's hand, before horror set it. The same glint in his eyes as the one he had when he bludgeoned the mans balls on the rack.

Then, it vanished, his expression becoming almost afraid.

"...Okay. Show me, firsthand." He slipped the top half of his armour off over his head and turned to Astarion who was the closest, placing it in his arms with a haunted look in his eyes. He unlaced the shirt beneath and slipped it off. "I think I might deserve it, if nothing else." He murmured and turned to the man.

"Oh, I have something exquisite in mind. Both Loviatar and I are interested in how you handle pain, dear one." The nickname sent a cold chill up his spine. He hated the way it sounded on the mans lips. If he had been addressing him, he would have ripped his tongue out of his mouth. It was still tempting.

But Tar'eon did not react. He stood tall, back straight and tail swinging side to side against the disgusting floor. The drag of it reminded Astarion of defeat. Like Tar'eon was giving something up in this moment. Sacrificing for what was right again.

What was going through his mind right now was impossible to decipher. Where had the playful man from just minutes ago gone?

"And should you delight her, you will most assuredly receive her gracious blessing - trust me. Simply face the wall, and we can begin." The worshippers eyes travelled down the tieflings body, and Tar'eon neither posed or shied from it. Instead, he walked to the wall and faced it without complaint. The muscles of his back flexed and tensed as he rolled his shoulders, letting out a slow breath as they shagged.

He was mentally preparing himself. Astarion watched with hawk-like eyes.

He did not need to fuss over a man he barely knew. If anything, he should enjoy the show. He tasted sweet, and Astarion was sure he sounded just the same when in pain. The link between pleasure and pain was a fine line, and Astarion was curious to know if their leader was the kind of man who liked a little pain. Or could grow to like it, at the very least. Being bitten was not a nice sensation. Fangs piercing your skin hurt. It was painful, like two shards of ice and then a burning fire in your neck.

Yet Tar'eon was offering to let him drink nightly.

At the very least, he was a masochistic hero.

Astarion watched the man breathe and cry out at the first strike, grasping the wall in front of him. He almost stumbled and widened his stance so he wouldn't buckle again, taking in a shaky breath as blood dripped down his back. A mace is no gentle weapon, neither clean nor painless. It slices and rips flesh on impact, and Astarion watches as the red slipped down his back, his mouth pooling with saliva.

He wanted to lick him clean. Shadowheart made a comment, but he found the pumping of Tar'eons blood more appealing to listen to.

The priest seemed ecstastic to hear his voice, his cry, and praised him as he readied another blow. It struck even harder this time, tearing into more skin, over his left shoulder blade. Tar'eon gasped sharply and bit back his voice this time, teeth gritted. His hands fisted against the stone wall. The hem of his pants collected the blood that slipped down his back, the trail that raced down his spine. There was a small pooling in the dimple on his back, above his tail, and Astarion felt a touch...breathless.

His undead heart is racing with the desire to lick the fresh blood off his skin.

"My, my. Who knew our friend had so much blood in them?" Tar'eon actually looked at him, and he couldn't read his expression, but in the dim light, his eyes glowed. He felt pinned in place. He wished desperately to look into his mind, to understand these moments where Tar'eon seems so...not Tar'eon. But the tadpole wouldn't grant him access. Or perhaps Tar'eon wouldn't.

"Try not to lick your lips as you say that." Shadowheart remarked and Astarion smirked. She worshipped Lady Loss. He was sure she found this just as invigorating in her own depraved way. His enjoyment was just more obvious and in tune with his nature. Was it a crime for a vampire to enjoy when others bled?

Astarion gripped the armour tighter as another blow came to his skin. Tar'eon couldn't hold back his cry this time, the mace tearing through more skin, raw and tender and so bloody. After the feeding he had last night, it was a shock to see how much blood was still left for him to ooze out.

"...A child can hit harder than that." Tar'eon breathed, chest heaving, sweat along his brow. He stared ahead at the wall, and Astarion's gaze moved to Wyll who had remained the furthest away from the ritual, looking...sad. Like he pitied Tar'eons 'cleansing'.

Another blow landed and Tar'eons knees finally buckled, forehead against the cool wall, claws digging into the cracks in the stone as his body trembled from the pain. Such a large man...taken apart by four blows from a mace? Astarion almost couldn't believe it.

Wyll broke through the crowd as the priest took a step back, looking disappointed at the withholding of his pain. The man crouched beside Tar'eon, offering him a hand.

"Are you alright...?" Tar'eon looked up at Wyll, looking flushed and sweaty. He took the hand offered to him and groaned softly as he stood, stumbling into Wyll's shoulder and resting there for a moment, simply breathing slowly. Wyll went to place his hand on his back and thought better of it last moment, curling it into a fist and dropping it down to his side.

"We should rest. You should rest."

"I will be fine."

"You're in no shape to fight if needs be" Wyll hissed into his ear, and Tar'eon shook his head.

"I will force myself to be. Wyll - I needed this. Okay?"

"You needed to let him beat you down like a dog?" Wyll's eyes narrowed at the priest as Tar'eon stood up straighter, his hand still on Wyll's shoulder to keep steady. Astarion watched the pair. Since when were those two so closely knitted together? Maybe because they were both heroic at heart...sickening.

"You heard him. He needed this. He cleansed himself. I'm afraid the Maiden of Pain cannot bestow her blessing, since he chose to withhold his complete self from this ritual, but...it was certainly necessary nonetheless, wasn't it, dear one?"

Tar'eon turned his hollow gaze to the worshipper.

"...Yes. It was. Thank you."

"Did you enjoy yourself, child?"

"Not all pain is to be enjoyed." Tar'eon chuckled sardonically, moving over to Astarion now. Astarion still desired to lick the dripping blood off his skin, but now, he found himself equally interested in his words. "Sometimes pain is simply necessary."

The priest chuckled and seemed to allow that, turning back to his weapons, his implements of pain.

Tar'eon took the shirt from Astarion and his face screwed up in pain as he slipped it back on, taking a moment to simply breathe through it. Shadowheart stepped forward.

"Let me..." Her hand glowed as she reached out, but Tar'eon grabbed her wrist and shook his head. Shadowhearts lips thinned, but the glow vanished.

"Interesting. I'm starting to think you really do enjoy the pain, darling. The rituals over, let the cleric knit you back together, and let us go spill more...less appetising blood." The armour was lifted from his hands and Tar'eon stared down at him.

"...Let us set up camp."

[thelesbianpoirot]

I’ve been binging SVU and the original Law and Order all month because I’m home sick and for all that they would insult and borderline abuse the creeps they’d catch, they were also pretty misogynistic and terrible to victims at times. The original show more than SVU (sometimes the detectives would hit on teen victims or say straight up rapey things about women they found hot 🤢) but even SVU has its moments of victim blaming, calling girls fast, or at some extra horrible moments, have the male detectives say that the victim deserved it, especially if she had an active sex life or was a prostitute. But as hard as those episodes are to watch, seeing the realistic growth in the writing and characters over the years is interesting, like a time capsule of the real life change. The one that stands out most to be though is the framing of prostitution. Around 2015 they'd hit that sweet spot of treating prostitutes with respect while being realistic about the horrors and dangers of the jobs and now they use inclusive language and frame prostitution and other types of harmful sex acts as empowering. It's embarrassing.

I have tried watching all the Law & Orders, even Trial and Jury (my and my best friend watched 1 season of every L&O spin off), and I found all of them repulsive, nothing hits like SVU, SUV isn't perfect, and they often use the characters to say awful things so they can be corrected later as a learning moment, like the shaming/victim blaming. They don't always circle back, catholic stabler is very CATHOLIC, but Benson is much more fair minded, and they all hate pedos and rapists. And It is not perfect, and I wince a lot, but I rather than characters be imperfect representation of realistic people (real cops are MUCH worse), than what is happening now, where every detective lets men skirt accountability, used inclusive language for crimes that mainly affect women and children, and still manage to get graphic with the rape. I think women are allowed to watch a rapist get beat up my fictional cops. It's SUV and criminal minds and COLD CASE for me, I hate The ROOKIE, BLUE BLOODS and THE CHICAGO SERIES, they suck ass. OG NCIS is only good for a few season before it sucks, CIS doesn't have a good cop cast, I just like the female characters. Someone suggested 911 so I'm making my way through it, but it's very schmaltzy, not case focused. Hate cops, love powerful women, want to see woman beaters, and rapists getting their due in a fictional sense sometimes. Men watch porn, I don't got to justify loving the occasion fake cop.

[bumblebeerror]

I’m building a dungeon crawler very similar to Decked Out. I’ve already decided mechanics:

Players will be asked to remove all armour and put away all items, and to set spawn.

The object of the game is to sneak through the dungeon collecting power-ups, coins, and collectibles. Players will have boards to display collectibles, and may only have a certain number of collectibles at at time.

Instead of a deck, Power-ups will be single-use items. As long as they are not used inside the dungeon, the player may return them to their power-ups shulker. Power-up items include named potions, soul speed leather boots, golden apples, and other consumables that produce certain effects like suspicious stew. They are only to be found in the dungeon or purchased with coins looted from within it. No outside food, armour, or potions will be allowed.

Players will be given a compass attached to one of nine lodestones at the beginning of the run. The run succeeds if the player finds the lodestone that accepts the compass and makes it out with the collectibles dispensed. Along the way players can press buttons or activate pressure plates for a chance to be given coins, power-up items, or bonus collectibles. If a player does not find their lodestone or dies within the dungeon, the run fails and all power-ups collected or taken inside along with all coins or collectibles are forfeit.

This server has a gravestones mod, but because of the rules of the game no player who dies within the dungeon may collect their grave. I, acting as GM, will go in to clear them out as needed.

No player may break any block inside the dungeon, or hit any mobs that chase them.

Instead of playing to win via number of collections, players are given novelty heads when a collection is complete.

A collection consists of 4 items that are anvil-named as that set, and must be verified by the GM. A player may only possess a total of 16 collectables at one time, and must display them all. Trading of collectibles is allowed and encouraged.

Keys for the dungeon are obtained by allowing a 10 minute hopper clock to finish counting, and then pressing its button. This is to ensure that runs stay solo and the mobs inside the dungeon are allowed to wander to different spots.

Players may take as long as they like in the dungeon. However, keep track of the clicking of calibrated sensors. Trip too many of them, and doors will start opening to allow mobs to detect you. Evade them by breaking line of sight. The open doors are a blessing and a curse - an easier way out, but watch your back.

Players may pick up as many power-ups as their inventory can hold, but the GM humbly requests they not abuse this power too much, or purposely leave items to despawn in the dungeon.

The rules may change over time as the GM sees fit. Be careful what game mechanics you use to your benefit.

So, what I need from you, tumblr:

[infantisimo]

"I’m not going to detail how I know these stories are “AI” spam or outline any of the data I have collected from these submissions. There are some very obvious patterns and I have no intention of helping those people become less likely to be caught. Furthermore, some of the patterns I’ve observed could be abused and paint legitimate authors with the same brush. Regional trends, for example.

What I can say is that the number of spam submissions resulting in bans has hit 38% this month. While rejecting and banning these submissions has been simple, it’s growing at a rate that will necessitate changes. To make matters worse, the technology is only going to get better, so detection will become more challenging. (I have no doubt that several rejected stories have already evaded detection or were cases where we simply erred on the side of caution.)

Yes, there are tools out there for detecting plagiarized and machine-written text, but they are prone to false negatives and positives. One of the companies selling these services is even playing both sides, offering a tool to help authors prevent detection. Even if used solely for preliminary scoring and later reviewed by staff, automating these third-party tools into a submissions process would be costly and they tend to have regional holes. Adopting them would be the same as banning entire countries. I don’t think any of the short fiction markets can currently afford the expense.

I’ve reached out to several editors and the situation I’m experiencing is by no means unique. It does appear to be hitting higher-profile “always open” markets much harder than those with limited submission windows or lower pay rates. This isn’t terribly surprising since the websites and channels that promote “write for money” schemes tend to focus more attention on “always open” markets with higher per-word rates. We could easily implement a system that only allowed authors that had previously submitted work to us. But that would effectively ban new authors, which is not acceptable to us. They are an essential part of the this community and our future.

The people causing the problem are from outside the SF/F community. Largely driven in by "side hustle" experts making claims of easy money with ChatGPT. They are driving this and deserve some of the disdain shown to the AI developers.

. . .

It’s clear that business as usual won’t be sustainable and I worry that this path will lead to an increased number of barriers for new and international authors. Short fiction needs these people.

It’s not just going to go away on its own and I don’t have a solution. I’m tinkering with some, but this isn’t a game of whack-a-mole that anyone can “win.” The best we can hope for is to bail enough water to stay afloat. (Like we needed one more thing to bail.)

If the field can’t find a way to address this situation, things will begin to break. Response times will get worse and I don’t even want to think about what will happen to my colleagues that offer feedback on submissions. No, it’s not the death of short fiction (please just stop that nonsense), but it is going to complicate things."

[jewwyfeesh]

Black Tea - A Spoonful of Sweet Poison 6

Writer: 日日日 (Akira)

Character(s): Tenshouin Eichi, Sakuma Ritsu

Translated by: jewwyfeesh

Disclaimer: I translated this story from the CN version of the game, which means that it has been double translated (JP > CN > EN). It may be different from the original JP version and/or other fan translation(s).

Eichi: No… instead of ‘heard about it’, I should say… I’ve come to ‘know about it’. I know about how you’re a big liar, and that all you do is to spout nonsense.

Season: Spring

Location: Garden Terrace

A few days later, late in the Spring of the previous year

Eichi: I’ve heard all about it, Ritsu-kun.

Ritsu: Hm~? What did you hear?

Eichi: No… instead of ‘heard about it’, I should say… I’ve come to ‘know about it’. I know about how you’re a big liar, and that all you do is to spout nonsense.

Ritsu: Eh? Who said that about me? Isn’t that going overboard? I’m literally harmless! Ecchan, you’ll believe me, won’t you?

Eichi: Though, I really would love to believe you… I’ve shared quite a few meals with you, and have come to enjoy your presence.

Even if we disregard your position as ‘Sakuma Rei’s little brother’, you are a brilliant and talented individual who’s of great interest to me.

Ritsu: Wow, thank you for the praise… tch, I guess the cat’s out of the bag now.

I said that I ‘ran away from home’ because anija’s been abusing me, and that’s a lie.

I’m just too lazy to go home. In any case, it’s annoying when anija would just pester me all day long… so I made myself a ‘nest’ in school, and spend the night here sometimes.

Eichi: You’re not allowed to remain in the school’s premises after-hours if you don’t have the permission to do so. Goodness, you and your brother are the same – the both of you are such problem children.

Ritsu: The both of us are nothing alike…

Well, Ecchan, doesn’t that mean that your plan this time is a total flop? I’m so sorry to hear that. You only got close to me just so you could uncover Anija’s weakness, right?

Eichi: I will not deny that I did have this intention, yes.

I was at the mercy of the lies you told… and to verify the abuse claim, I hired a detective who specialises in that to investigate.

Ritsu: Don’t do that… While, yes, this is something I had crafted with my own two hands, our family is particularly sensitive about these kinds of things.

If this were in the past, they would’ve captured all those outside investigators and impaled them to death.

Eichi: Mm. I, too, felt that I had been too hasty. I hadn’t expected myself to become so overzealous and forgetful…

That detective is someone who’s very capable, but he still was caught by your family fairly quickly. Not to mention, he was forced to reveal my motive.

Not only that, he was formally invited into your home, and allowed to check every nook and cranny of it.

After making a promise not to publicize any information about your clan, he was allowed to read materials pertaining to your family’s past…

Even though the results of the investigation sound something out of a fairytale, your clan’s modern life has been very law-abiding, and there aren’t any records of wrongdoing.

Rather, I should say that your family is a vulnerable minority in our society.

The position of your family, as well as their characteristics, is difficult for our modern society to comprehend… very strange and surreal…

I wish to avoid such acts of discrimination and trampling on minorities wherever I can.

From today on, this will become a policy in fine.

Ritsu: Yeah, just take note of that, I guess… Don’t stick your hands where they don’t belong, especially when it comes to my family.

Eichi: I understand. The less troubles, the better. When it comes to the non-human communities, my greatest weapons – prestige and monetary power – cannot be used.

It would prove to be a headache for me if I accidentally agitated you all one way or another and incur your wrath and killing intent.

My father scolded me as well. You’re right — there are things that aren’t meant to be touched, and stabbing the hornet’s nest would do one no good.

Ritsu: Mhm, that’s correct. If you want to defeat my brother, I’d recommend you start by breaking his ties with the family.

The best would be to create something joyous or something for him to do in a faraway place… think of something that would make him leave the heart of the clan on his own accord.

In the end, if Anija ends up defeated and beaten down, well… that’s him getting what he asked for. When that happens, our family is bound to get so happy it’s like they’ve been done an outstanding service… sneering and saying things like “it’s you who didn’t listen to us”.

Then, they’ll drag Anija back, and force him to quit being an idol.

Tell him that it’s time to stop “playing house”.

Eichi: ……What a nice surprise. You’re actually giving me advice, Ritsu-kun?

Ritsu: But of course. I’ve said it multiple times by now. I really hate my brother.

Also, he will need ‘an enemy’ or ‘a friend’. He will need someone who doesn’t break easily, an existence that can treat him as an equal.

Eichi: I see… hm… have you thought of becoming such an existence yourself? We fine are currently recruiting~

Ritsu: Nah~ That can’t be done. We’re brothers after all. Not to mention, our family is constantly under persecution… so in-fighting within the clan is a big no-no. If we start fighting in the nest, there would be no more of our own kind in this world.

And, now that it’s come to this, there’s no way I can become his ‘enemy’… neither can I become his ‘friend’.

To ‘Onii-chan’, I’ll forever be a ‘little brother’ that he has to protect well.

Eichi: Is that so? You must feel very upset about this… Ritsu-kun.

Ritsu: …I’ve been spewing nonsense. Ignore whatever I just said. May I have a refill of tea, please?

I wanna drink till my stomach’s about to burst with water. After all, this may very well be our very last tea party.

Ecchan already knows I’m just a big liar, so there’s no reason for you to continue treating me to meals.

With that, our strange relationship finally comes to a close. Thank you, Ecchan… these few days made me really happy. No, I should say that getting to socialize with you is a pretty good way to pass the time.

To people like us, recreational time is really important.

Eichi: ……I was hoping you wouldn’t end this relationship on your own whims.

Say, Ritsu-kun. I have a suggestion — would you be willing to start a club with me?

Ritsu: Club? Why would you bring this up… ahhhh, that reminds me… recently, there’s this weird new school rule where students are required to join a club, right?

Eichi: But, because this particular rule doesn’t carry any penalty, most of the students just ignore it. However, from my standpoint, I personally ought to respect school rules.

But, in the current Yumenosaki Academy, a vast majority of clubs don’t actually host any proper club activities.

Most of the clubs have become analogous to dens where the students can go and loiter. I wish not to associate with these kinds of clubs lest it harms my reputation.

Ritsu: I guess so. It’s precisely because of this that you’ve made a rule that makes participation in club activities compulsory.

It’s because you wish to pile on extra burdens everyone, and from that, reduce the enemy’s strength. Am I right?

Eichi: That’s exactly it. So I’m currently thinking of avoiding all the pre-existing clubs as much as possible, and instead set up a brand new one.

Just like a newborn baby, the impression it’ll give would be one of innocence and purity, no?

Ritsu: Mmm~ ……Sure, doesn’t seem like there would be any downsides for me. I’m already in danger of being held back a year because of my frequent violations of the school rules and skipping classes.

Besides, such a wishy-washy person like me won’t be able to integrate well into other clubs; the one you’re trying to make, Ecchan, is nothing more than a club in name, right?

I just need to sign up as a ghost member; it’ll be fine even if I don’t really participate in activities. The only other member of the club is Ecchan, and I know your personality pretty well by now, so I can kinda relax…

As long as I join the club, I won’t be flouting school rules either. I don’t see any downsides to it.

Alrightie. And signed~ But Ecchan will be the one who has to do all the troublesome procedures to set up the club, kay~?

I’m someone who won’t lift a finger. Even if the club really did get set up, I won’t participate in the activities seriously.

……And you’ll be okay with it?

Eichi: Of course. I should say that this is everything I could’ve asked for. To me, a troublesome matter that I didn’t quite know how to solve was resolved in a quick and simple way. Really, it can’t get any better.

Ritsu-kun, now that this is done, I hope that we can meet up for tea again tomorrow.

I’ll bring all the papers required to officiate our club tomorrow, so I hope you’ll be able to sign and stamp them then.

Of course, I’ll sponsor the meals. It’s a pretty cheap price to keep everything running smoothly.

Ritsu: Ye~p. I’ll come if I remember.

Then, let me leech off of you for a while longer… Young Master~

Eichi: Mhm. Bring it on… All in all, we’ll need a name for our club, and a description of our club activities for the forms.

Some yen for your thoughts, Ritsu-kun?

Ritsu: Mm~ ……Club activities would be to laze around and while our days away, while the club name should be ‘Afternoon Nap Club’. How does that sound?

Eichi: Hm… no matter how you try to put it, this kind of content won’t be approved.

……How about we use what we’re doing now — set the goal of the club to be enjoying tea with elegance, and the name of the club ‘Tea Club’. What do you think?

This way, we can say that our activities include studying the history of tea and tea-tasting etiquette. It’ll also be more convenient for us to fabricate some logical rhethoric.

After all, clubs like the ‘Tea Ceremony Club’ are relatively common, and the public is well acquainted with them, even though our own school does not have one.

Ritsu: Kay, let’s leave it at that. Anything’s fine by me. Ecchan’s free to do whatever he wants~

Eichi: Mhm. I’ll do as I see fit ♪

[selintemel]

six feet under / a self para

They're playin' our sound Layin' us down tonight And all of these clouds Cryin' us back to life But you're cold as a night

trigger warnings: death, police & physical abuse mention

“Selin Temel? We’d like to ask you some questions about Vivian Hayes. I’m sure you’ve already seen the news. We’ve heard around town that you two had a... complicated relationship. Best friends, were you?” 

The words rang in her head as she stood on her front door, gripping it tightly as she stared up at the two -- policemen? detectives? -- in front of her. “I’m not answerin’ anythin’ without my lawyer present,” Selin immediately said, not caring if that made her sound heartless or cruel. If anything, people should come to expect that to be her norm, especially when it came to strangers trying to butt into her business. 

She didn’t shut down when it came to her emotions. She always, always lashed out. It was one of the reasons why her friendships had been through the ringer lately, and she should be lashing out now, but this all just... didn’t seem real. Just yesterday, she went to Vivi’s to try and repair their friendship, because out of everyone in the world, she was one of the few Selin couldn’t bear to lose. 

Vivi was... a light. The brightest light. An angel, if she’d ever seen one. Always putting others before herself. Had the purest heart Selin had ever seen. She might have lost Jake. She might have lost Amoni. Selin didn’t want to lose Vivi. She couldn’t. That woman was her best friend. She had stuck by her, even when Selin couldn’t bear the humiliation from her father’s trial. Vivi held her hand when she bared it all and showed the bruises to her face instead of just the pictures her brother took. Vivi allowed her the space and time to grieve the person Selin could never be again. Brought all the cake when she just wanted a quiet night in because she hated the way people stared, even when she tried so hard to cover up. She never felt judged by Vivi -- not for the sudden decision in ending her marriage, not for living with Lukas so soon after serving Dae the divorce papers, not for all the tears she shed, not for the guilt she felt for standing by while her father hurt her mother and only doing something when he had laid his hands on her. 

Vivi listened to it all, even with Selin’s misplaced anger, and loved her anyway. Vivi welcoming her back as a friend felt like coming home, something Selin knew she didn’t deserve but wanted anyway because try as she might to push everyone away, Vivi was her constant.

And now she was gone. 

“We understand. We’re just trying to see if you know anything that might help us find whoever did this to her.” 

“Isn’t that your fuckin’ job? To find the fuckin’ asshole who did this and put them behind bars?” Selin snapped and before she could slam the door in their faces, one of the policemen looked down at his notepad, causing the curiosity in her to win as she wondered what the hell was written on there about her. About Vivi. Her mind was already running towards how her family -- who absolutely adored Vivi -- had enough connections to find the best private investigators on this side of the country, which was a damn good thing because Selin had absolutely no trust in the law enforcement of this fucking town.

“Where were you last night?” 

The directness of the question caught her off guard and all Selin could do was scoff. “I was right here. At home. With my boyfr--” She paused before inhaling sharply. “With Lukas. You can ask him yourself. He’s right--”

“Were you here the whole night?” 

“Well, I-- No, I--” For the first time that night, Selin didn’t feel the anger that had bubbled up that this happened to Vivi, of all people. She didn’t feel the sadness that she knew would hit her like a wall later on. She felt fear. They honestly couldn’t think she was behind this?? “I went out for a while because we were low on drinks. I went to Nightrest Liquor. You can ask the cashier herself. I went there, bought drinks then came home,” she said, her heart thudding in her chest as the realization dawned on her.

“What was your rela--”

“Lawyer,” Selin immediately said, masking her expression because she knew she had already said enough. 

“We just wanted to--”

“Lawyer,” she repeated. “When my lawyer is available, I’ll have her give your office a call. Until then, you’d be better off actually doin’ your jobs and puttin’ whoever killed my best friend behind bars. Good night, officers,” Selin said, allowing herself the small satisfaction of slamming her front door in her faces before turning around and resting her back against it, slowly sliding down to the floor as the entirety of the situation hit her, causing her to bend over as she strangled in a breath.

Vivi was dead... and people think she killed her.