#or in other cases i was just. the last person spoken to before tragedy struck & that kinda shit still haunts me to this day so.

[ozlices]

speaking very bluntly and candidly from experience, if the note is genuine and he made an attempt after posting it, then i hope it was unsuccessful and he is getting help and is able to recover.

however, i don't think that a. hbomberguy should be blamed for driving him to do anything when he was calling him out for very shitty things he'd happily gotten away with for years. and hbomberguy didn't even highlight ALL of his offenses, either. & also b. i feel like mentioning nick outright in the note shouldn't be like... dismissed. as a person who's had that kinda weight/pressure put on me both from REAL tragedies that occurred afterward & ppl faking shit, that kinda shit is incredibly heavy & outright traumatic to deal with. nick is obviously not innocent, but he doesn't deserve that kinda pressure/weight on his shoulders.

this entire thing, regardless, is a huge mess that never had to or should've gotten this far. and either way it's ultimately just sad nobody can even garner if this is a true attempt or not bc he has such a manipulative history. there's many lessons to take away here, i guess.

i ultimately hope he's okay and just stays off the goddamn internet, for his own sake and the sake of his victims.

[capsgrl]

Personal Angel

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 7,903

Summary: Bucky Barnes joins the Avengers and finds himself drawn to the teams healer, but she’s keeping a secret. Will she finally heal him of the pain he experienced at the hands of Hydra.

Warnings: angst, blood, mentions of injury (only light detail), a couple of bad language words, let me know if I should add more.

Authors note: Please find 7k+ words of Bucky needing a hug and being the soft soldier he is. Reader is a healer and younger sibling of the Maximoff twins. Set after the events of Civil War except everyone loves each other and lives in harmony, nobody goes on the run. *breaks indicate change of POV*

Also posted on ao3

Growing up in Sokovia in a time of war was no picnic, but no matter how hard things were at times your parents gave you and your older twin siblings, Wanda and Pietro, the happiest childhood they possibly could. Until they couldn’t. Until tragedy struck and they were taken away from their three young children by a man named Stark.

Being the youngest, you looked up to the twins to guide you. They were your only family now and you’d follow them anywhere. So you did, you followed straight to Hydra and experiments in a science lab. There was never any doubt in your mind, wherever your family were, that’s where you belonged.

You were given the power of healing. With the help of the mind stone you were able to heal wounds and take the pain away from the injured. The first time you demonstrated your new powers to your handlers, the whole lab rejoiced. With your help, they now had an infallible army. The whole thing didn’t sit right with you, but your siblings assured you that it was a means to an end. Stark needed to pay for what he had taken from you.

It took a lot of practice for you to hone your skills. At first you couldn’t control them, and any time you touched someone, even accidentally, you would heal. The trouble with this was in order to heal them you absorbed their pain. It was only for a brief moment, but it was concentrated like a short, sharp burst. It was intense and it drained you, but eventually you learned to control it, and only use it when you chose to.

When Wanda and Pietro took off to begin their revenge plan they took you with them, but kept you hidden, kept you safe. It was only when they realised the true nature of the man, no robot, they were working for and switched to the side of good that they brought you out of the shadows and finally introduced you to the avengers. 

You went to Sokovia, helping to evacuate people and heal the injured. It was exhausting but these people were innocent and they deserved your help. You were so busy you didn’t have time for fear, but when Wanda stepped onto the bus, the look on her face scared you more than anything ever had. Something bad had happened it was clear as day. Your fears were confirmed when you looked behind her to Clint, a lifeless Pietro in his arms.

Your world had suddenly got a little smaller, three had become two and it hurt. But you knew that whatever you were feeling was nothing compared to the pain of your sister, losing her twin, a connection that you could never understand now severed, and you did the only thing you could do in that moment. You threw your arms around her and absorbed it all, the pain, the grief, everything. It was the last thing you remembered before collapsing to the floor.

The next time you opened your eyes you were staring at the ceiling of the Avengers compound. Your new home. Wanda had assured you that it was the best place for you both and you couldn’t deny you felt more peaceful here than anywhere you’d been since you lost your parents. 

You begged your sister not to reveal how your powers worked. Steve Rogers was a good man and wouldn’t want you to put yourself out for the team, but you wanted to help. She reluctantly agreed, on the condition that you promised not to reveal that you could heal emotional pain too. It always worried her that people would come to depend on you for their emotional needs, and the kind of affect it could have on your mental state. You readily agreed, and became an official Avenger, their resident healer, but your big sister also insisted you join her training with Steve and Natasha so you could learn to defend yourself.

The team continued to grow, until one day Steve introduced you to his latest recruit and best friend, Bucky Barnes. On the outside the man looked just like he did in the old photos you’d seen, just with slightly longer hair and a few more creases around his eyes. It was looking into his eyes that really gave away the changes. You could see a lifetime of pain and suffering in them, so much so that you knew no matter how similar he looked on the outside, he couldn’t be that same man on the inside.

You couldn’t imagine what it must be like for him to carry that pain around with him, and that thought alone spurred you on to do something that you’d not done since the day you comforted your grieving sister in Sokovia. You reached out your hand to shake his, and took just a little bit of that pain away.

B—-B

When Steve had asked him to come and stay with the team at the Avengers compound, Bucky was reluctant. After everything that happened in Berlin and with Tony he felt guilty. The Stark man had assured Steve that he understood that what happened to his parents was an act of The Winter Soldier and not Bucky, but he wasn’t ready to forgive yet.  He assured Steve that it was fine for the new team to take residence in the compound, and headed back to the home he shared with Pepper, vowing to return when the time was right.

Bucky was nervous when his pal had taken him to the common room to properly introduce him to the team members he’d fought beside and against at the airport, but they all seemed really understanding. Going round shaking hands with everyone, his eyes finally landed on you. Steve introduced you as Y/N, and as you took his hand and spoke a soft ‘nice to meet you’ he felt overcome with a warm, calm feeling. A feeling he’d not felt since he was a young man before the war. It was almost like peace. Being around you made him feel lighter.

He came to learn that you were a healer, coming down to the med bag whenever Dr Cho needed your help. He found he wasn’t surprised by that at all, there seemed to be an air of calm about you that was soothing, at least to him anyway, not that he would tell anyone that. He’d barely spoken to you since he’d arrived at the compound. That first time he met you, you excused yourself quickly after shaking his hand and scurried off to your room. He couldn’t really blame you, you were probably afraid of him and wouldn’t be the first person to feel that way. There was something about you that made Bucky want to get to know you, but he was still too fragile to try to forge new relationships, relying heavily on Steve when he needed company, but spending the majority of his time alone.

The first time Bucky saw you use your powers, he was mesmerised. Steve always insisted that the team headed straight to med bat after missions for a once over even if they felt fine, which is where he found himself after returning from a trickier than expected mission with Steve and Natasha. The sound of the door behind him opening caught his attention. 

“Hey Doc, what have we got today?”, you asked as you entered the room.

“Well, Miss Romanoff here took a bullet to the arm, no major damage has been done, and the bullet has been removed, but we could use some healing here if you don’t mind,” the Doctor said barely looking up from her clipboard.

“Of course. Hold still Nat,” you warned as you gently laid your hands over the injury site causing the Black Widow to wince. When you moved your hand away a moment later, Natasha’s arm looked as good as new. It was like witnessing a miracle.

The man was shaken out of his thoughts by your voice. “Want me to fix up that shiner you got there?”, you asked, pointing to the eye that was currently swollen to the point that it wasn’t fully open.

“Uh, no it’s OK, thank you though,” he uttered quietly “the serum will have this healed up in no time.” It was the truth, the serum healed him quickly just as it did Steve, although the throbbing in his head almost made him reconsider. But someone like him didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of such magic, he felt that he deserved to feel ever ounce of pain, no matter how many times his best friend tried to assure him that he didn’t.

“Well you know where I am if you change your mind.” She offered, reaching out to gently touch his forearm, and once again he felt a feeling of tranquility wash over him. It was like the warmth was spreading from the point that their skin touched, all through his body. He couldn’t stop staring at her hand, that is until she pulled it away and all but sprinted out of the door.

B—-B

You jolted awake, taking a minute to examine your surroundings before realising you were definitely still in your bed, in your room at the compound. It was the middle of the night and the sound of someone screaming had woken you. You strained to listen, and you couldn’t be sure but the screams sounded awfully like they were coming from Bucky. It was probably a nightmare you reasoned, but you decided to go check anyway, just in case. You crept down the hallway towards the sound which was indeed coming from the room belonging to the man in question. Deciding you needed to see with your own eyes that it was just a dream and not something more sinister, you gently pushed the door open and peeked in.

The sight you were met with almost broke your heart. Bucky was thrashing around, tangled in the sheets, and even in the dark you could see the wrinkled set of his brow. The dim light creeping in from the hallway illuminated the sweat covering his face, neck and the part of his chest that was peeking out from the covers. It was amazing that he hadn’t woken himself up yet you mused, but another loud wail shook you out of your thoughts. Spurring into action before you could second guess yourself, you ran lightly to his side and reached out to brush the hair from his damp forehead, and resting your fingers there as gently as you could, you began to absorb the pain. 

He visibly started to calm, the sounds stopping almost immediately and limbs slowly relaxing. You were starting to feel weak and knew that you needed to leave soon before you passed out on the floor next to his bed. You weren’t sure how you’d explain that away in the morning. When you felt like you couldn’t take anymore you pulled your hand back and stumbled back to your room, flopping onto your bed and crying yourself to sleep. The relaxed look on his face the next morning only cemented your plan in your mind. You would do everything you could to ease the nightmares for this tortured solider. A brief moment of pain was nothing compared to a whole night of reliving the worst moments of your life.

After the first few nights of creeping into the former assassins room you had managed to detect some sort of a pattern, and adjusted your sleep schedule accordingly. You didn’t dare tell Wanda what you were doing. You knew she didn’t approve of you using your power to emotionally heal people, further supported by the lecture you got when you’d tried to take her grief after Pietro died. The red head would be absolutely furious with you. 

You were exhausted from the late night healing sessions and were worried people would start noticing the bags under your eyes. You’d not done this much emotional healing before but it was worth it to see how much more relaxed Bucky was looking, and you weren’t the only one to notice, judging by the conversation you were listening in on in the kitchen that morning.

“Hey bud, you’re looking really well rested lately, have the nightmares finally stopped?”, Steve asked as he grabbed a water from the fridge, cooling off from his morning work out. 

“No, I don’t think they ever will to be honest. But they feel different now, duller if that makes sense? I dunno, I can’t explain it, but they don’t seem to wake me up anymore. I’ve not slept this well in decades.” He chuckled in response, following the man out of the kitchen.

You hid your smile behind your coffee cup before taking a sip and turning back to your breakfast but you could feel your sister's eyes on you, staring a hole into the side of your head. 

“Can I help you?”, you asked with exaggerated sweetness like only an annoying little sister could. You didn’t dare look at her though.

“I know what you’re doing.” She stated matter of factly.

“Hey, we had a deal, no looking in my mind without my permission”, you hissed at her angrily.

“I didn’t. I’ve seen you go into his room at night. You’re either healing his pain or fucking him,” she said with a raised eyebrow before smirking and adding “although both can have the same relaxing affect”. 

“I am not fucking him and please keep your voice down”, you whisper shouted. You thought you were being careful and suddenly panicked that someone else might have seen. 

“Why Y/N? You don’t even really know him so why are you risking your own health to fix his?”, your sister asked gently. She didn’t seem angry, just confused. 

“I don’t know. I just couldn’t bear the amount of pain I saw in his eyes the first time we met. Everything that happened to him, a lifetime of pain. I wanted to take it away, he doesn’t deserve it. And I know it’s exhausting and it’s not good for me blah blah blah but I can’t help it. I can’t stop myself.” You finished your rant by slumping back in your chair in defeat, your eyes staring at the ceiling. 

Of all things you expected Wanda to say, or possibly even yell, the last thing you expected was a quiet “Does he know?”. You shook your head and she sat silent for a moment, contemplating before adding “maybe you should get to know him. You know, make friends. You might find you can help him without using your powers.”

B—-B

Bucky sat on the quinjet waiting to take off for the next mission and couldn’t help feeling nervous. He’d been sleeping so well at the compound lately, but this mission would mean staying away for a few days and he was worried about his nightmares coming back when he was possibly sharing a room with his team mates. The only thing giving him comfort this time was that Y/N was joining the team. Steve had asked you to accompany them as the mission was expected to last a few days, and Bucky couldn't stop himself from smiling when he heard the news. Despite the fact that he’d hardly got to know you yet, your presence relaxed him more than he could explain. 

He must have been staring at you this whole time because the sounds of Steve clearing his throat broke him out of his reverie. Bucky turned to look at his friend and was met with a knowing look. “Go talk to her,” he encouraged. But he wasn’t feeling brave enough for that, and he didn’t even know what he’d say, so he just rolled his eyes and got to work sharpening his knives.

The mission had been a hard one, they were going to infiltrate three suspected Hydra bases and take them down, and it affected Bucky much more than he would care to admit. It didn’t help that he'd slept so poorly in the little basic rooms they’d stopped at in between. He thought logically that he’d sleep better sharing a room with his best friend, having the comfort of another person there, not being alone, but he didn’t. The nightmares plagued him again, worse than they’d been in a long time. 

He was agitated, he just wanted to get back to the only place he seemed to be able to sleep, and maybe sleep for a week. He sat leaning forward, elbows leaning on his knees, leg bouncing up and down, and was surprised when you sat down next to him. 

“Wanna talk about it?”, you whispered. His head whipped around to you so fast he's surprised his neck didn’t break. You must have noticed the stunned look on his face, because you quickly added “sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep. I just uh, I figured that this particular mission might have been harder for you than usual. I’m sorry again.” You looked away then, and Bucky was worried you were going to leave. He liked it when you were nearby, so he blurted out the first thing that came into his head “It was”. You looked at him again, this time with sadder eyes. It felt like you were reading his mind, but he was sure you didn’t have that power. “I’m not ready to talk about it, I’m sorry, but thank you. For asking I mean. I appreciate it.”

“I understand. But if you do ever want to talk, about anything, I’m a great listener.” You reached out then, placing your hand in his bouncing knee to stop the movement and he felt it, that familiar warmth spreading from where you touched him, through his whole body, relaxing him. He couldn’t help the smile that stretched across his cheeks, it was like it was involuntary. He turned to look at you then, and you were smiling right back, a soft warm smile. You were so close that he could smell your shampoo and it was intoxicating. Your eyes fluttered slightly and he looked down at your lips. He didn’t even know you but he was suddenly overcome with the urge to kiss you. 

Unfortunately, the moment was broken by a voice that never failed to irritate the super soldier. “Quit making eyes with Y/N man. We need you up front.” 

“Coming Wilson,” he sighed as he turned and watched you all but run away. You slept the rest of the flight home. 

Once the jet landed, Bucky went straight to his room to shower and nap. Feeling much more human now, he ventured to the kitchen for food where he once again saw Sam.

“So you and Y/N huh,” he smirked, folding his arms and leaning back against the counter next to where Bucky was working on a sandwich. “Sorry if I interrupted a moment there. She’s a sweet girl though, I think she’d be good for you.”

Despite his usual irritation with the man, Bucky found that he was actually a really good person to talk to, his experience with social work meaning he often had useful advice. “I like her,” he admitted. “I can’t explain it, I just feel better when she’s around, but I don’t know how to talk to her. One minute I think she wants to talk and then she runs away from me. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“Well, you are an intense dude”, Sam laughed. “Seriously though, don’t put too much pressure on yourself. Just talk to her, keep it light, ‘hey how’s it going”, you know that sort of thing.” 

Bucky was about to respond when he heard someone call his name. He turned to see Wanda in the doorway, and he could feel his cheeks heat up at being caught talking about her sister. “We need to talk” she stated, in a tone that caused Sam to grab his food and scarper with a quiet good luck on his way out.

“Wanda, I’m not sure how much you heard but…” Bucky started, but was quickly cut off by the red heads raised hand. 

“There’s something you don’t know about Y/N. Healing physical injuries isn’t the only power she has, she can also take away emotional pain.”

Bucky was stunned and couldn’t seem to form a more comprehensive response than “wow, I didn’t know”.

“Nobody knows except me, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone. When she takes the emotional pain away, she absorbs it, and I don’t want her to become an emotional crutch for anyone, I’m afraid that it will affect her mental state negatively. I know the team would never intentionally hurt her, but I can’t risk it. You understand right?”

“Of course, I won’t tell a soul. But why are you telling me this, aren’t you worried I’ll do just that?” Bucky questioned.

“You already are, you just don’t know it”, Wanda quipped. “She’s been healing you. At night when she hears you having nightmares she comes in and takes the pain away. All it takes is a touch, and I suspect she might be doing it at other times too, although I couldn’t be sure”.

Suddenly everything makes sense now. Why he always felt better in your presence. He thought you were just a tactile person but all those gentle touches that warmed his heart were times you were healing him. You were the reason he was sleeping so soundly at night. 

“I swear I had no idea Wanda, you gotta believe me”, he pleaded. 

“I do, I think. But I just wanted you to know, because everytime she takes your pain away, she feels it. Only for a moment, but the worse the pain for the person, the more intensely she feels it. It’s really draining her, and I don’t want to begrudge you the comfort but she’s my sister and I’m worried”.

Bucky felt absolutely awful. He’d never want to inflict his pain on anyone else, even for a moment, especially not someone as good as you. Someone who helped him so selflessly. It was his cross to bear, he made his bed and he intended to lie in it. Cold and alone. “I won’t let her do it anymore”, he swore to Wanda before leaving her alone in the kitchen with his sandwich. He’d suddenly lost his appetite. 

B—-B

Things had been weird since your first mission, you could feel it. Bucky had been avoiding you like the plague, and you felt terrible. You’d wanted to get to know him, to try to be friends like Wanda suggested, but you’d gone about it the wrong way and clearly upset him. He’d even taken to locking his bedroom door at night preventing you from soothing his nightmares. You were sure he wasn’t sleeping again, but you’d not seen so much as a glimpse of him in weeks so couldn’t verify that. 

Why would he lock his door at night? The bedrooms were in a secure floor so there was no danger of intruders and FRIDAY would alert you all anyway. Then it struck you. Did he know? Had he found out that you’d be coming in his room at night to heal him? There’s no way he could know surely, unless someone had told him. Just then Wanda came into the common room and plopped herself down on the couch next to you, and you remembered how protective your big sister could be.

“I’ve not seen Bucky around recently, have you spoken to him at all?”, you asked nonchalantly. “Nope,” was all the answer you got. 

“You sure about that?”, you pressed, giving her your best sister stare down. The look on her face told you everything you needed to know. “Wanda! How could you? Jesus he must be so mad at me, no wonder he’s not speaking to me”, you shouted incredulously. 

“I’m sorry, but I was worried about what you were doing to yourself. You're my baby sister and I love you. If you wouldn’t listen to me I thought you might listen to him.”

“We’ll he’s not even speaking to me now so that was a big fail sis, well done,” you seethed. At that moment Steve and Sam walked in.

“Oh I wondered why tin man’s been so mopey lately, lovers quarrel?” Sam questioned teasingly. Steve elbowed him in the side lightly and pointed down the corridor. “He’s in the gym,” the soldier added by way of explanation. 

As soon as you reached the gym you could see how tired Bucky looked through the glass door. His eyes were dark and heavy, his eyebrows turned down and his hits weren’t landing on the punch bag with their usual impact. 

You stepped in quietly, then thought better of sneaking up on a super soldier and cleared your throat. “Hi Bucky, can we talk a minute?”

The man looked up and then tiredly gestured to the bench at the side of the room where his bag was sat. He sat down and started unwrapping his flesh hand. He was obviously waiting for you to speak first so you took a deep breath to steady yourself and started.

“Firstly, I just wanted to apologise. I know that Wanda told you about me, uh, you know…” you trailed off. God this was embarrassing. “I’m so sorry. I realise that was a total violation of your privacy and also really creepy, but I promise you it was coming from a good place. I was trying to help not, you know, be a peeping Tom or anything.” You blushed at that, remembered the times you’d seen his beautiful chiselled pecs, and those gorgeous biceps and powerful thighs whenever they poked out of the covers. He didn’t need to know about those thoughts.

He chuckled at that and you felt yourself relax slightly. “Trust me, that is one of the least creepy things that’s happened to me in my 100 odd years, doll. Apology accepted”.  You couldn’t help but chuckle back.

“Well thank you. I assume that's the reason you’ve been avoiding me?” You questioned nervously. When he shook his head your heart sank. Did you do something else? Then it hit you. “Of course me healing you without your consent is equally as weird, so again I apologise. I just wanted to help but I can see that I probably went about it all wrong.”

Bucky shook his head vehemently then. “God no, you think I’m mad at you? How could I be mad at you, you’ve got a heart of gold and you have helped me so much since Steve brought me here. Honestly, I don’t think I’d have felt so comfortable here if it hadn’t been for you. I could never understand why I always felt so at peace around a near stranger, but as soon as Wanda explained your powers to me it all made sense. But I would never want to hurt you Y/N, and the thought of you taking on just a fraction of this pain made me feel awful. You don’t deserve that and me avoiding you was just me trying to protect you.”

You were relieved at his confession. He wasn’t mad. You sighed and relaxed fully leaning back against the wall. “I promise you it’s not that bad.  Most of the time. It only lasts for a moment, and sometimes if it’s only mild pain I barely even feel it. Like when I heeled Steve’s bruised ribs on that overnight because he couldn’t sleep. I hardly even flinched,” you said bumping your shoulder with his. “But if you don’t want me to do it anymore, I promise I won’t.” 

“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate what you’ve been doing for me. More than you could know. But I think it’s about time I tried to overcome these demons on my own.” You nodded at that. He had a point, you had become a crutch without him even knowing. You got up to leave when he grabbed your hand to stop you. “If I’m doing this, I think I’m gonna need a friend. What do ya say?” He asked, looking up at you with a hopeful grin. 

“I’d love to be your friend”, you replied. If you couldn’t help him with your power, offering moral support would be the next best thing. 

B—-B

The months after your talk in the gym had been the best in Bucky’s long life. You’d really started to relax around him, the conversations came easy, both when you were all with the team and if you were hanging out alone.

It was the times that you hung out alone he enjoyed the most. He could really be himself then, without worrying about knowing looks from Steve and Sam, or worrying whether Wanda was going to try and read his mind to find out his intentions with her sister. He wasn’t even sure he was ready to confront those feelings himself. He told himself that he just wanted to get to know you, but deep in his heart he knew that he was falling for you. 

You laughed together, he told you stories about life in the 30s and 40s, his family, a young pre-serum Steve, and anything else you wanted to know. In turn you taught him all about modern technology, helped him pick out some more modern day clothes and even took him to get a haircut. He couldn’t help but notice the way you stared for a little too long when he came out with his hair cropped shorter, before nodding that you liked it. 

The nightmares were back and almost as aggressive as before, but when he walked out into the kitchen one night to make himself a tea and found Y/N sat there waiting for him with one already made, he found himself opening up to you. He’d never tell you all the gory details that plagued his mind at night, but even revealing just a little bit of those late night visions and the feelings that followed, made him feel better. You never judged, just listened, and not even the thought that Sam was right about how he should talk about his feelings more could diminish that safe feeling he had with you. 

You’d even started touching him again, completely innocent touches like leaning your head on his shoulder, linking your hand through his arm when you were walking around town, but still sending a warmth through his body like you were healing him. And maybe you were healing him, he thought, just without using your powers. 

Steve and Sam had been bugging him for a while to ask you out properly, but for some reason today when they started their usual post run chorus of ‘when are you going to ask Y/N out’, he was feeling bold and said he’d do it today.

So that’s where he found himself an hour later, after showering, changing and pacing circles in his room to try and gain back some of the quickly waning courage. He knocked on your door and waited nervously. You answered and invited him in, and he mentally chastised himself for not bringing flowers. He was nervous, but decided to just suck it up and power through. 

“Hey doll, uh I just wanted to ask, see I’ve enjoyed hanging out with you these last few months, more than I’ve enjoyed anything in a really long time.” He was messing this up he knew it, and you were just stood there staring at him and not speaking. The young Bucky from the 40s who was charming and good with the ladies mentally kicked him to get on with it. He could do this. So he continued. “So I just wanted to know if you wanted to go to dinner with some time.” He finally let out a breath and tried to relax whilst he waited for your response.

“Like a date?”, you asked and you looked shocked and he panicked, thinking he’d got all the signs wrong and wondering how he could back track when you smiled and said “I’d love to go out for dinner with you, definitely as a date. I honestly thought you’d never ask, like ever.”

Bucky finally relaxed at that. You said yes, you wanted to go out with him. He didn’t think he could be any happier right now. “Good. Great! I’m going on a mission with Steve and Sam tomorrow so how’s Friday night?”

“Perfect”, you smiled and he honestly didn’t think he’d ever get over seeing you smile at him like that. He was head over heels.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d agree, so I didn’t actually come up with a plan. I’ll text you OK?” He assured you as he backed out the door, wanting to keep looking at you as long as he could. When he got through the doorway he stopped, still smiling like an idiot. You walked up to the door, stood up on your tip toes and kissed him on the cheek. “I can’t wait Buck”, you whispered as you stepped back and shut the door. 

B—-B

The short 2 day mission turned out to be the next big bad, and the three men had ended up having to radio in for back up. It was going to be all hands on deck, which meant that when the second quinjet arrived you were on it. Wanda had asked you to stay behind but you wanted to help, and especially wanted to be there in case a certain someone needed you. 

You were out in the field helping get innocent bystanders to safety and healing up the Avengers so they could get back into the fight. You could feel it taking a toll on your body, your steps becoming more slow and sluggish as time went on. After getting a young family to safety you turned to head back to the next victim needing help when you saw what appeared to be an axe flung in your direction. You froze, your brain tired from all the healing you’d done and not thinking fast enough. 

What you weren’t prepared for was the shove you felt at your side, sending you toppling to the ground. You scrambled up to see the sight of Bucky, laying on the ground at your feet, the weapon in question lodged firmly in his stomach. 

“No no no, Bucky what did you do?!” You screamed as you dropped to your knees to assess the damage. Steve and Wanda were at your side in an instant, the rest of the team continuing the fight around you. You felt panicked, terrified of the sight in front of you as the blood flowed out of the wound and over your hands at a steady rate. You knew exactly what you needed to do, and you needed to do it now before it was too late and the blood loss became too much.

Taking in a big breath you steeled yourself and started giving out orders. “Steve, I need you to remove the axe, and Wanda, you need to put up a shield to protect us from further damage while I heal him. Ok, on three guys, one…” but before you could count any further the man in question croaked out your name. “Doll please, it’s OK, just let me go. I’m old, it’s my time.” 

The fact that he would even suggest such a thing made you livid. “Bucky, how could you say that? You saved me, so now I’m going to save you and we don’t have time to argue this,” you shouted as your knees started to become damp with his blood. 

“C’mon Buck, let her do it. She does it all the time, no big deal right,” Steve encouraged, clapping you in the shoulder whilst you nodded your head in agreement.

Wanda rested her hand gently on your shoulder then, an action that you were sure was meant to soothe, but only irritated you as you knew exactly what was coming. “You’ve never healed a wound this severe before, you don’t know what it will do to you.” 

At Steve’s confused look your sister began a quick explanation on how your powers truly worked but you drowned the conversation out as Bucky weakly reached a hand up to your face. “Please Y/N,” he begged, “I don’t wanna hurt you, I love you. Just let me go.” But hearing those three words, from the man you loved, a man who was fading in front of you, just further cemented your decision in your mind. Looking at the Captain beside you, you whispered “Steve, please” and you knew you had him. He nodded grimly and on the count of three he lifted the axe, and you replaced it with your hands.

As you placed your hands over the oozing wound, you tried to concentrate everything you had into the prone man’s body, every ounce of love and every morsel of strength you had left in you. You sent a silent prayer up to heaven that you’d get to tell this man you loved him too and share your first kiss. You could feel your body weakening, and were vaguely aware that the steady flow over your hands seemed to be slowing, but you couldn’t hold it much longer, and you hoped it would be enough. Suddenly the overwhelming urge to sleep invaded your senses and you collapsed right there on top of Bucky’s chest.

You awoke to the sound of beeping. Your eyelids felt heavy and it took a few moments for you to blink them fully open, but when you finally did you were greeted by the sight of your older sister.

“Oh god, I’m so relieved you’re awake!” She cried brushing your hair off of your forehead in a motherly gesture. 

“Bucky,” you managed to croak out through your dry mouth. Wanda handed you a sip of water before answering. “He’s fine. He’s currently receiving blood to replace what he lost but you did it, you healed him. Dr Cho called it a miracle.” 

“Oh thank god,” you sighed “and the battle?” 

“We won,” your sister informed you “and you young lady are going to be fine. The doc ran extensive tests and seems to think that you just kind of passed out from the pain, and then went into a deep sleep from the shock. But it could have been much worse, you need to be more careful.”

“In this line of work?” You joked, causing her to roll eyes. “When can I get out of here?” 

At that moment, your Captain stepped into the room. “The doctor will be in to give you a once over in a moment, then you’re good to go,” he informed you. “I was just wondering if I could have a moment?” He asked tentatively. Your sister excused herself and left the two of you alone. 

Steve sat down in the now empty chair. He looked tired, and you guessed he must have been sat by Bucky’s side for a good while. You were glad he had someone there. 

“I wanted to thank you Y/N,” he started. “If you hadn’t been there, I would have lost my best friend all over again. The fact that it caused you so much hurt to heal him, well that is something I can never repay. I feel terrible for letting you do it, it was selfish of me.” He looked so guilty that it made you sad. 

“I was going to do it anyway Steve, whether you agreed or not. There’s just no way I could have sat there and let him go.” You could feel the tears welling in your eyes at the thought of things ending before they’d even really started.

You knew Steve understood, after everything he’d been through to get his friend back he knew exactly how you felt. “Well I’m extremely grateful for that stubborn streak of yours, but now that Wanda’s filled me in on all the facts surrounding your gift we’re going to have to have a conversation about some new work protocols,” the man scolded, his captain's voice firmly back. Clearly reading the sense of dread in your face he added, “but now we have more pressing matters. There’s someone down the hall that’s desperate to see you.”

B—-B

Bucky was fed up. He hated hospitals, he’d spent far too many years of his life being poked and prodded and he was done with it. He’d laid in this bed for 2 days waiting for you to wake up and he couldn’t help but replay the last time he saw you in his mind.

He was laying on the ground, a pain searing through his stomach, when suddenly he felt a familiar warmth. A warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time, spreading from the wound throughout his whole body. This time though, the feeling was different, it was more somehow. He’d never really believed in god, or any kind of divine being, not after everything that happened to him in the past. But that feeling, he could only imagine it was how it would feel to be touched by an angel. Suddenly the pain was gone but he could still feel a heavy weight on his chest. He looked down to discover the weight he was feeling was you.

Bile had risen in this throat when he realised what had happened. Y/N had healed him, hurting yourself in the process. Wanda was shaking you, trying to wake you. Steve was checking your pulse, assuring the redhead that it was still very much there. He lifted you off Bucky’s chest, and carried you quickly to the quinjet. Wanda helped the injured soldier up and to the jet too, where he sat next to you holding your hand until Steve landed back at the compound, the medics ready to greet you all straight from the ramp. 

Bucky hadn’t seen you since they’d whisked you away for testing. They’d taken him to a separate room where he was given blood to make up for what he’d lost on the battlefield. He kept asking if you were OK and if he could see you, but was told to stay put until they knew more. 

As he laid there with his eyes closed his thoughts were interrupted by footsteps, followed by Steve’s voice. “You have a visitor,” he announced simply. 

Bucky sighed, not feeling up for visitors at the moment. “If it’s bird brain again tell him I’m dead” he grouched. Not hearing the comeback he was expecting from his sharp tongued friend, he opened his eyes, and almost pinched himself to check if he was dreaming. 

“You’re awake, oh god doll are you ok?” He asked, trying to get out of bed and go to you, forgetting about his IV and the other wires connected to him. 

“Stay put,” you said rushing towards him, gently pushing him back into the bed. “I’m fine, just had a nice long sleep.”

“You scared the shit outta me. I told you to let me go. My life is not worth more than yours.” Suddenly aware that his fear could be mistaken for anger he softened his voice. “But thank you. I owe you everything.”

You just smiled back at him that beautiful smile he worried he’d never see again. “Actually, you just owe me a date.” You reached out your hand to hold his and he couldn’t resist placing a kiss in your knuckles. “As soon as I’m all fixed up and out of here, I’m all yours.” And he was. He knew now that he would only ever be yours for as long as you’d have him. 

You stayed and chatted with him a while longer, never letting go of his hand, but after a while he could see your eyes falling. “Go home doll, you need your rest,” he tried to encourage.

“I am tired but I just don’t want to go,” you pouted.

“Well, you could hop up here and take a nap next to me. It’s a small bed though we might have to snuggle real close”, he suggested with his most charming smile.

“Sounds perfect,” you smiled sleepily. You took off your shoes and climbed up in the bed next to him. He lifted the blanket for you to slip under, and you immediately rested your head on his shoulder, his arm wrapping around to hold you close. He thought you’d fallen asleep, and he laid there watching your steady breaths until you spoke again. “When I was healing you, all I could think about was the fact that I’d never told you I loved you and I’d never kissed you, and I knew that if I never saw you again it would be my biggest regret. So I’m telling you now. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he whispered before leaning down and capturing your lips in a kiss that he’d been dying for since he met you. Your lips were so soft, and your body felt so warm and so right pressed against him. The kiss started out slow and loving, Bucky pouring all the love he felt into it, but when you slipped your hand up to gently tug on the hair at the nape of his neck and deepening the kiss, things got a bit more heated. The sound you made when your tongues finally met was almost enough to make him lose control and he slid his hand down from where it was stroking your lower back over your hip and down to your thigh. He was just about to pull your leg up and over his so he could show you just how much you were affecting him when you were interrupted by an alarm. You pulled back, panic on your face and he couldn’t help but laugh. “You just got my heart racing,” he teased, nodding at the heart rate monitor that was slowly calming back down.

You laughed then and gently shoved his shoulder. You were now both lying on your sides facing each other. “Well, that’s one item ticked off the bucket list,” you quipped, before leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “To be continued,” you joked as you wiggled your eyebrows, “now let’s sleep.”

As you both snuggled back down in the tiny hospital bed, Bucky kissed the top of your hair and whispered quietly “goodnight angel.” He would never admit it to anyone but he’d missed the feeling of you healing him, the warm feeling that engulfed him when your power flowed through him was like nothing he’d ever felt before, he could understand why Wanda was concerned that people would come to rely on it too much.

But as you laid there asleep in his arms a different kind of warmth enveloped him, and as he slipped off into a restful sleep he realised that he didn’t need your powers to heal him, your love was enough, his personal angel. 

[incorrectbandofbrothersquotes]

I Don’t Think You’re An Angel (Anymore)

A Lewis Nixon x OFC One Shot

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Thank you to @basilone​ @softspeirs​ and @mercurygray​ for all your help on this! I am much happier with how it turned out thanks to y’all’s suggestions :)

Warning(s): Some suggestive language, but that’s about it

***

Her father once told her that nursing would make her feel fulfilled. It would get her back on her feet after such tragedy struck. Nothing healed like giving back and healing others, he said. Especially after downing whiskey and kissing strangers didn’t work, she thought. 

It did the trick, to be sure. Nursing school was rigorous, but it taught her a lot about herself. She met some of her greatest friends there, and new connections soothed the ache from the burn of the ones she lost. With a new support system, she wearily clawed her way out of the ashes of her grief, and stood up again. And when the war came, she and thousands like her were able to charge into the fray. 

But the last thing Bonnie wanted now was to be on her feet - in a much more literal sense. The Austrian sun shone outside, calling to her, coaxing her to come out and warm her face and rest her sore feet. But she didn’t have a day off for another two days. And after almost eight hours at the hospital, there were still more patients to check on before she could clock out. She felt that familiar throb in her heels as she headed into the next ward. 

Shit.

There he stood. The man she once knew as Lewis Nixon, but for many years, only referred to as “The Worst Mistake I Ever Made.”

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.

He was coming closer, accompanied by a red-headed major she didn’t recognize. To her dismay, they headed for Sergeant Grant’s bed, the very patient she was supposed to check on. He was still recovering from his surgery until he was well enough to be moved to England. 

She decided to grit her teeth and bear it. Years had passed. Why should he bother her now? He probably wouldn’t even recognize her. She knew herself to be an unremarkable part of his life. How else could he have done what he did?

She strode over to the bed and ignored the men standing beside it. She lifted Grant’s chart and scanned it, but she couldn’t absorb anything. She could feel Lewis’s eyes on her. Moments that might have been hours passed as he stared, and she pretended she didn’t notice.

“Bonnie?”

Shit.

Biting back a groan, she looked at him, and met his eyes. Those eyes that once made her legs weak and her heart soft. But now only activated her punching reflex. She glanced at his collar to get his rank.

“Captain,” she said coolly. 

She returned her eyes to the clipboard.

“Okay, I know it doesn’t take that long to read a chart,” he said. 

She snapped it shut and glared at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were a medical professional. Would you like a white coat and stethoscope? Just clock in since you seem to know so much!”

“Still mad, I see,” he said with a grimace.

“Oh, get over yourself,” she shot back. 

“So, you two know each other?” the red-head observed, cutting the tension. 

“It was a long time ago,” she said. “We went to school together.”

“We used to date,” Lewis added. 

“Could not have been more obvious I preferred to keep that private, but I guess we’re in this room now,” she said. 

“Dick, this is Bonnie Butler,” Nix said. “Bonnie, this is Major Dick Winters.”

“How do you do?” she said politely. 

“Nice to meet you,” Dick replied. “Bonnie Butler...like the little girl from Gone With the Wind?”

“If fairness, I had the name first,” she pointed out. “And I haven’t broken my neck falling off a horse, but I avoid them just in case.”

They both chuckled, and she refrained from smirking with satisfaction. Her need to impress him disturbed her. 

“I gotta admit I’m surprised to see you here,” Lewis said. 

“We haven’t spoken in years, Lewis, anything I’m doing should come as a surprise to you,” she returned.

Now that the initial contact was made, she had an easier time going about her job checking on Grant. It was pretty basic, just taking vitals and ensuring he was still stable. Which he was.

“Well, I’ll let you visit now,” she said.

She started to go.

“Kathy’s leaving me,” he blurted out.

She turned to face him, expression level. “Is that supposed to mean something to me, Lewis?”

It should have felt like victory. Like justice. But it only made her sad. None of it meant anything now. Her loving him, him loving Kathy, and Bonnie hating them both for it. The agony she faced because he chose her friend was only worth a few years of marriage. 

Did everything have to fall apart? Was nothing truly built to last? The war showed her that even thousand-year-old buildings would crumble under a bomb. Just as she crumbled when Lewis dropped the truth about him and Kathy. But now they were in ruins as well, so what was the point in any of it?

He shifted his weight between his feet, as he always did when he was anxious. He looked at the ground and then back at her, his eyes revealing how deeply he was stung. 

“Guess not,” he said. “I’ll see you around, Bonnie.”

She didn’t answer for so long he feared she would not at all. But she was still looking at him.

“I should hope not, Lewis,” she finally said. 

With that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the wing. Dick looked at Bonnie and then at his friend. He had never seen Lewis look so guilty. There was a deep remorse there, which indicated a great impact on his life, but Dick could not recall Lewis ever mentioning this woman. 

“What did you do to her?” Dick asked. 

Lewis cleared his throat before he answered. “Did I ever tell you how I met Kathy?”

Dick shook his head. 

“Well, Bonnie and I were dating,” Lewis began. “Kathy was her best friend. And, well...we fell in love. Behind Bonnie’s back. We had an affair for six months before we came clean.”

Dick blinked, taken aback. He knew Lewis was not the most ethical person in the world, but he did not expect his friend to be capable of something like that. He didn’t blame Bonnie at all for the way she spoke to Lewis. That kind of betrayal went deep because it was not just her boyfriend, but the one person she was supposed to be able to rely on when her boyfriend messed up. And then, to add insult to injury, they ended up married. Now, Dick was impressed with how Bonnie handled the news of the divorce. She had every right to laugh in his face. And she didn’t.

“Did you apologize?” Dick asked. 

“Oh, only about a thousand times,” Lewis replied. “And even after some time went by, Kathy and I tried to reach out again, but she wanted nothing to do with us. And we didn’t blame her, of course, but it still hurt.”

A beat passed. Lewis watched the door where Bonnie disappeared and wondered now if his split from Kathy was his punishment for what he did to her. That he and Kathy - because they started as a transgression - were perhaps doomed to fail. 

“C’mon, Nix,” Dick said. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Or dink,” Lewis returned. 

They left the hospital, but he found himself wishing he could find her again. Explain some more. But he knew better.

The following morning, Bonnie went to change an IV for a young corporal who had drunkenly jumped from a fourth story window and broken his leg. Many of the injuries she treated these days were caused by the jubilance of VE-Day, and she couldn’t say she blamed them, but she did wish they would be more careful. 

“Thanks, Nurse Butler,” the corporal said. 

“I’m just doing my job,” she replied gently. “This’ll only take a moment.”

She reached for the bag, when she suddenly heard a dreaded voice from behind her. 

“Careful with those, they can get messy,” Lewis said. 

She whipped around. 

“I’m sorry, don’t I first open my eyes and realize it’s a new day?” she asked sarcastically.

“I didn’t -”

“What is this magic bag in front of me?!” she exclaimed, holding the IV bag out with taunting wonder. 

“Look -”

“I’ve done this before,” she said sharply, becoming serious again and facing the patient, who was snickering.

“I know that,” he said.

“Then stop telling me what to do,” she retorted.

“I was joking,” he said calmly. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” she shot back, with a bitterness that told him she meant more than just the joke.

He did not speak again until after the IV was replaced. When she finished, she ignored Lewis and began walking away. 

“Bonnie, wait, I think we should talk about things,” he said, trailing behind her. 

“I disagree,” she replied. “Besides, I’m working.”

“When is your shift over?” 

“You know I’m not going to tell you that.”

“Please -”

She halted and whirled around. He skidded to a stop a few feet away. 

“What is it you’re so desperate to tell me?” she demanded. “That you’re sorry? Because I’ve heard that before, Lewis, and I don’t care.”

“You really can’t forgive me?” he asked. “After all this time?”

She wondered that herself often enough. But there was too much. Not only the betrayal, but the effects of it. How could she forgive him for the worthless way she felt? How could she forgive him for her now ingrained lack of trust? How could she forgive him for the nights she spent crying on the kitchen floor, convinced that this was what love felt like? 

His eyes clung to her gaze, and she endured a long moment of weakness where she felt totally incapable of turning away from him. But she knew she could now because she had done it before. 

“No,” she said, surprised by the croak in her voice and the lump in her throat. 

She didn’t wait for him to answer. She walked away, and thankfully, he didn’t follow. 

Another day passed. Lewis did not return to the hospital, and Bonnie was relieved. She worked the rest of her shift in peace. The only disturbance was a violent thunderstorm, which rumbled in the sky and pelted rain down against the roof all day.

When her shift concluded, it was still raining. Unwilling to get drenched, she went to the doctor’s lounge, which nurses frequented as well, for a drink. She had the next day off, so she figured she could afford to get a little tipsy. Her true goal was to get Lewis Nixon off her mind, but as she walked in, she met a dismal sight. There he sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey, looking sadly at a letter. 

She looked at the heavens to address God directly.

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

She waited a moment, but received no reply. So with a sigh, she went over to the bar and took the stool beside Lewis. 

“You know, if you’re not medical personnel, you’re not really supposed to be in here,” she said.

He looked at her. “Are you speaking to me now?”

“I never said we can’t speak in general,” she said. “Just not about our past.”

“I see,” he returned. “Well, to address your earlier statement, this is the only place they have Vat 69 in all of Europe apparently.”

“You’re still drinking that nasty stuff?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“You’re not?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ve moved on.”

With that, she ordered a gin and tonic. They waited in silence as the bartender prepared it. The soft clink of ice and pop of the gin bottle might as well have been explosions. There were no other patrons to fill up the space. 

“So, are we gonna catch up?” he wondered. “Like old friends?”

“I don’t think we were ever really friends,” she replied. “If we were, you wouldn’t have done what you did.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he warned jokingly. “That is forbidden territory.”

“Do you wanna talk or do you wanna fuck around?” she retorted. 

“If we’re not gonna address the elephant in the room, I’d argue that all we’re doing is fucking around,” he said. 

She couldn’t help but chuckle at that. As she relaxed into her chair and took a sip of her drink, memories of them laughing together swam before her. Those tidbits of happiness that she locked away so that they couldn’t hurt her anymore. Back when she thought of him as her whole world. 

“Alright, let’s fuck around,” she said. 

She let him go first. He talked about his son, then about joining the Airborne, about meeting Dick Winters, and he even admitted that he never fired a shot in combat. She told him about nursing school, enlisting, and a bit about her journey through Europe. It was all very surface level and appropriate. But it wasn’t them. 

“Would I be trespassing if I asked about your parents?” he wondered after their third round.

She considered it as she sipped her fourth cocktail. They grew up together, so she supposed it was fair. 

“Fine,” she said. “But it might depress you. Dad passed away, and Mom really hasn’t been the same since.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “They were always nice to me. Even after…”

She nodded, turning her glass on the counter, keeping her watering eyes focused on it. As her mother deteriorated, she kept asking where “that angel Lewis” was. Mrs. Butler doted on Lewis Nixon as if he were her own son. And Bonnie’s was not the only heart broken when everything happened. But now Mrs. Butler was stuck in a time before that, and Bonnie never had the heart to remind her that things were different now. 

“She asks about you,” Bonnie blurted out. “Mom does.”

“And what do you say?” he asked. 

“I tell her you’re coming any day now,” she said. “Of course she doesn’t know the difference. She can’t remember anything.”

He half smiled. “Well, I better go see her so I don’t make a liar out of you.”

She half smiled back. “That’d mean a lot to her.” 

She paused a beat while a doctor and another nurse filed in and took up two stools just a few seats away from her and Lewis. The other two were obviously romantic - their knees touched, their hands lingered close to each other, and they hardly looked at the bartender as they ordered. They were so wrapped up in each other. Bonnie felt the distance between her and Lewis was cavernous in comparison. She took a dink.  

“Um, how are your folks? Feeling alright?” she asked after swallowing.

“Oh, they’re the same as ever,” he said. “A little cold, a little rich. They’re gonna lose it when I tell them about the divorce.”

“You’re a grown man,” she reminded him. “What could they do?”

“You act like growing up means your parents can’t be obnoxious,” he said. “They can and they will.”

She bit her lip with hesitation. “Can I ask you something? It might be crossing a line.”

“Honey, I’m on my fifth whiskey, you can ask me whatever you want,” he assured her, knocking back the last gulp in his glass.

“Why can’t it work between you and Kath - your wife?” she asked. 

She couldn’t bring herself to say the name. Calling her “Kathy” made her who Kathy was. Bonnie’s former best friend who betrayed her in the worst way possible. Calling her “his wife” reduced her to an abstract. She could be anyone in theory. 

“She met someone else,” he answered. “Ironically enough.”

The air around them felt thick again. 

“You can laugh,” he said. “It must feel like poetic justice or something to you.”

She shook her head. “The last thing I feel like doing is laughing. That kind of hurt is not something I would wish on anyone, not even you.”

“It feels like you’re supporting me, but just barely,” he joked. 

She offered a smile. “I’m sorry, Lew. Really, I am.”

“Thanks,” he said. “But how on Earth are you so goddamn understanding?”

Her brow furrowed. “What? I’m not being understanding. I still think you’re rude for what you did.”

He blinked. “Rude?!”

“Yes, rude!” she cried. “You wanna cheat on me? That’s fine! You wanna marry that girl and get her pregnant? Fine! But to make it my best friend? That’s just rude!”

He laughed. An old, buried admiration for his smile crept up into her heart - right along the very cracks he had created and she had forced back together, never fully repairing the damage. She looked away, only to see the other couple was kissing now, and Bonnie had to turn her back to them.

“Well, I apologize for my rudeness,” he said.

“Based on the situation, I’m sure it won’t happen again,” she replied. 

“Ouch,” he said. “But well deserved on my part.”

“I’ll say,” she agreed. “But...can I ask you one more thing?”

“We have already crossed way beyond the line, go ahead,” he said.

“If you two felt that way about each other,” she began. “Why didn’t you just tell me? If you had been honest, I would have told you I’d be fine. I would never have stood in the way of your happiness. The lie hurt me more than the blow to my ego.”

He took a drink of his fresh glass of whiskey and swished it in his mouth briefly before swallowing - a tactic she was familiar with. He was constructing a careful answer.

“First of all, in fairness to us, we had no way of knowing that,” he said. “Second of all, and perhaps worst of all, we...we didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But don’t you see how it’s worse that you -”

“Of course,” he cut across her. “Of course we see how what we did was worse. We were young and stupid and afraid. And look where we are now.”

At that, they both finished their drinks. She bounced her foot a moment as what she was about to say bubbled up. Could she really say it? Did she mean it? She glanced at his face and got her answer. 

“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”

“To what?” he asked. “I hope it’s to tell those two to get a room.”

He nodded down the bar at the doctor and nurse. Their drinks remained untouched, but the same could not be said for their legs or their backsides. Bonnie snorted.

“C’mon, give them a break,” she said. “You remember what it was like when it was new.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said fondly. “Remember that time at Joan Watson’s party, when you and I went upstairs and -”

She squeaked to cut him off and her face went beet red. A fleeting memory of his hands on a lot more than her legs made her squirm in her seat. She cleared her throat. 

“As I was saying,” she said firmly. 

“Right, sorry,” he said through a chuckle. “What is it you’re ready for?”

“To forgive you,” she told him. “We’re both different people now, aren’t we?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’d say that’s true.”

He sat up a little straighter, appearing lighter. He pursed his lips too, fighting the grin that was spreading across his face.

“Wanna get out of here?” she suggested. 

“I’m still enjoying my whiskey,” he said. 

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough whiskey for - I dunno - a lifetime?”

“Not my lifetime.”

She rolled her eyes. He met her gaze and smirked. Then, he got to his feet, and offered her his hand. She took it, and they touched for the first time since what they each thought was to be the last time. Who could have imagined they would find each other again in Austria? So far from home and everything they knew together? And yet, through clasped hands, they felt that home was not so far away after all.

He helped her off the stool, they paid, and then walked outside together. The clouds had disappeared and the sun was beating down a fresh, fragrant warmth. The air was clear. The storm had passed. 

[vespertineflora]

Hi! I see you're looking for xiyao prompts? Because I can't stop thinking about Jin Rusong's funeral and Jin Guangyao needing Lan Xichen to comfort him, because, yes he orchestrated A-Song's death but he was still his baby... Hope you don't mind the angst bomb!

OOF i don’t mind at ALL, thank you for the submission! 

Something I have a love/hate relationship with in MDZS is the ambiguity of some of Jin Guangyao’s crimes. It is not actually confirmed or not whether he had a hand in killing Jin Rusong? He does list him in among the deaths he feels responsible for, but whether he did it himself, hired an assassin, or just feels guilty that it happened (because he felt like Rusong would have needed to die regardless, even though there’s a fairly high percentage chance there would be no ill effects despite the incest bc jgy and qs were only half-siblings) is a bit ambiguous.

I love it because it means the fans get to play around with different versions of those realities. I hate it because WHAT IS THE TRUTHHHHHHH???? I usually like having stable facts to work with hahaha. Long story short, for this version of reality, we’ll assume he did have a direct hand in Jin Rusong’s death.

~~~

The body was sent away to be prepared for burial and never returned to Carp Tower.

There was no wake.

No funeral rites were read, no prayers were uttered, no joss paper was burned, no offerings were made. Shou ling was a rite elders earned from their children, their grandchildren, not the other way around. Children were not to be mourned--or at least, if they were, they were mourned only in silence.

On the day Jin Rusong was to be buried, Jin Guangyao and Qin Su rode to the graveyard together, alone. They stood beside their son’s grave and hung their heads silently as he was lowered into the ground. Tears hung in Jin Guangyao’s eyes and streaked slowly down Qin Su’s face, but even their crying was done in silence, not a word said to their precious A-Song or spoken between them. They had hardly spoken at all in these past few days, since the morning they had woken to the frantic cries of the servants, the pounding of panicked footsteps through the courtyard outside of their bedrooms, and finally the disturbance, the announcement that Jin Rusong had been found in his bed, his throat slit.

Even knowing the death was coming, Jin Guangyao had still found himself unprepared to receive the news.

Continue Reading on AO3 or below the cut

The only sound in the graveyard was the whistling of the winds through the trees and the rhythmic shoveling of dirt into Jin Rusong’s grave, slowly burying one of Jin Guangyao’s many, many regrets.

Though there was little he was allowed to do, Jin Guangyao made sure that Jin Rusong was buried with his favorite toys; two exquisitely detailed dragons carved from a deep mahogany that Lan Xichen had given him for his birthday not three months before. It felt like the least Jin Guangyao could do.

Once the deed was done, they piled back into the carriage and returned to Carp Tower, though once they had arrived, only Jin Guangyao climbed out of it. A travelling bag was loaded into the carriage in his place, and after the most solemn and briefest of farewells, the carriage set off once more, headed in the direction of Laoling. After such a trying time, Qin Su had wished to spend a few days away from Carp Tower, at home with her father, and Jin Guangyao had seen no reason not to grant her such a small reprieve.

Jin Guangyao headed inside. His thoughts felt unusually bogged down, the world around him felt heavy and slow--a servant said something to him, but he heard the words as if his head was wrapped in thick linen, caught nothing more than the indication he had a guest waiting for him and allowed himself to be led, fighting past the fog to put on some semblance of normality for whoever it was he was supposed to be receiving; catering to guests was what he did best after all, and he thought, vaguely, that it might be nice to have some distraction.

As soon as the servant opened the door for him and allowed him to step inside--Jin Guangyao froze, the attempt at a smile faltering completely on his face as his eyes fell upon his guest.

Lan Xichen rose quickly to his feet at the sight of him, his too kind eyes swollen and outlined in red, pain stitched into the furrow of his brow. His robes were entirely white and almost plain, lacking any of the normal embellishments he was normally seen wearing: dressed in funeral attire, despite the distinct lack of a funeral.

“A-Yao,” Lan Xichen said, and never had two syllable been more full of distress, full of longing, full of sympathy.

Jin Guangyao opened his lips to speak... and found for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t know what to say.

Before Jin Guangyao could even find his voice, Lan Xichen had crossed the space between them and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him tight to his chest, pressing his face to the top of Jin Guangyao’s head, leaving Jin Guangyao stunned all over again.

“A-Yao, I’m so sorry,” Lan Xichen lamented, sounding strained and muffled from where his mouth was pressed against him. “I just received your letter this morning, I came as quickly as I could.”

Ah, yes, the letter. There had been no formal announcement of Jin Rusong’s death yet, as there was no need to announce a funeral that wouldn’t occur, but the day it had happened, Jin Guangyao had written a brief letter to Lan Xichen--because if anyone should know, should be told before the news spread as gossip inevitably would, it was Lan Xichen. He was the boy’s uncle, as much as he possibly could be. Over the years, with nearly every visit of his to Lanling, he would take time to play with A-Song, bring him toys, tell him stories. Lan Xichen had... loved him, Jin Guangyao was sure of that, and he’d deserved to be informed personally of his passing.

“We buried him this morning,” Jin Guangyao said, his voice sounding hollow, even to his own ears. He felt his eyes stinging, moisture welling in them, though still no tears fell, as had been the case over and over in these last few days. He hadn’t cried yet in all that time.

He wasn’t sure he deserved to cry, considering.

“Oh, A-Yao,” Lan Xichen heaved, his grip on him tightening, a slight tremor in his strong arms giving away his sorrow. “I wanted to be here for you, I’m so sorry I missed it.”

Jin Guangyao shook his head vaguely. There would have been no point in Lan Xichen being there for the burial, as it had been hardly more than watching dirt get pushed into a hole in the ground. He said blankly, “There was nothing to miss.”                                                                            

The deed was done, the evidence now deep underground. Jin Rusong was... a liability. Despite his sweet face, his cheerful grin, his gentle nature, he had been dangerous. He’d been... a threat to everything Jin Guangyao had worked so hard to attain up until now, he’d been evidence of the nature of his relationship to Qin Su, and now that he was gone, it was one less loose end left to unravel him.

That was all this was. He’d told himself that over and over. That was all Jin Rusong was. He wasn’t something to be missed.

After all, Jin Guangyao had dreaded him from the moment Madam Qin had come to speak him before the wedding and revealed the truth; he’d prayed the baby wouldn’t make it from the womb, that he would die during birth, that some sickness would come to take him, as sickness was wont to do with children so young, or some injury would befall him... The older he grew and the stranger he seemed, the deeper Jin Guangyao’s fears ran that his mere existence would topple everything, and it had gotten to the point where he felt as if he’d been backed into a corner, with no choice left but to do what fate hadn’t seen fit to.

Jin Guangyao should feel relieved now. Part of him did. But the other part...

The other part kept flashing back to the silly grin A-Song wore while playing with his toys, to memories of his first words, A-Song reaching for him and babbling for his papa. He thought of Qin Su rocking him gently to sleep at night, of Jin Ling laughing as A-Song took his first wobbly steps in the effort to chase him, and of Lan Xichen holding A-Song in his lap as he spun him some fantastic tale that left the young boy’s eyes sparkling with wonder and delight.

Before all this, before the tragedy of truth had struck him, back when Jin Guangyao had first learned that Qin Su was pregnant, he’d been so happy, so overjoyed. His heart had been full of hope, he’d started making premature plans to lay out the future he might have with his child, and thought endlessly about how much he’d try to show his love for the tiny life he was helping bring into the world. He’d wanted to be there for his child, to support them and love them unconditionally, to be the type of father that Jin Guangshan had never been for him, and yet...

Somehow, somehow, he’d managed to be worse.

And just like that, Jin Guangyao finally felt it, felt the tears bubbling up in his chest, in his eyes, finally spilling over, running down his cheeks until he pressed his face against Lan Xichen’s robes to let them soak up the moisture instead. His breathing clipped, exhales getting harder until he was choked by a sob. His arms, which had been hanging limply at his sides, were suddenly motivated enough to wrap around Lan Xichen’s back in return.

“I’m here now,” Lan Xichen told him, soft and sweet, nearly a whisper. His hands rubbed gently over Jin Guangyao’s back, giving him comfort that Jin Guangyao didn’t deserve. “I’ve got you.”

Jin Guangyao was nearly tempted to shove Lan Xichen away, to rip himself from his arms and peel away to some distance part of the grounds, somewhere far from the gentle warmth of Lan Xichen’s kindness--but Jin Guangyao was nothing if not selfish. He had arranged the execution of his own son, he had the nerve to be upset over it, and now he was going to take comfort from one of the people in the world who had loved A-Song the most.

The sobs came hard, and Lan Xichen held him tight. Jin Guangyao wasn’t even completely sure who he was crying for. He’d kept his distance from Jin Rusong; he’d been too painfully aware of the boy’s ultimate fate to allow himself to grow that close to him, to spend more time with him than he had to. It was hard to feel attached to something you knew you’d have to let go of--but it was impossible to avoid completely. Jin Rusong had been his son, his flesh and blood, his one chance at a legacy beyond the scope of his own life. He’d cradled his tiny body in his arms and had feared and loved him all at once.

He wasn’t sure it was A-Song he was mourning so much as... the life he should have had, the son he should have had, a son not born of unwitting incest, a son who he could have cherished and loved and raised to be smart and clever and kind and perhaps even good in a way that Jin Guangyao had never been afforded the chance to be. That was what Jin Guangyao had wanted for his child, and that was the chance he'd been denied.

Because this, too, was just another facet of his life that Jin Guangshan had ruined for him, had tainted beyond all recognition into something dirty and irredeemable. His pride, his sworn brothers, his marriage, his child... there was nothing of his that Jin Guangshan hadn’t ground into the dirt beneath his heel, and nothing that Jin Guangyao could pick up and wipe completely clean again.

Killing Jin Guangshan was the one death to his name that Jin Guangyao would never regret, not in a thousand years, a thousand lifetimes. He’d gotten exactly what he’d deserved.

Jin Guangyao hadn’t been aware of it in the depths of his sobbing, but at some point his hat must had fallen away, because he felt Lan Xichen’s fingers stroking over his hair, cradling his head to his chest, a chest that Jin Guangyao felt shaking in return, making it all too clear what Lan Xichen was doing for him. Lan Xichen was holding back his own tears, his own pain, in favor of comforting him.

That made him feel more guilt than anything else did. Of everything he had, of everyone in his life... it was Lan Xichen he loved the most, who had done the most for him, and knowing he’d hurt him was just as gut-wrenching as the actual murder of Jin Rusong, even though it was far too late to take any of it back.

It took a few hard minutes for his cries to soften, his thoughts still somber. Whether or not he deserved comfort, he knew it would only hurt Lan Xichen more if he were to extract himself from it--no, this, letting Lan Xichen hold him close and give him comfort, was for the best. It was the kindest thing he could do for Lan Xichen in the wake of yet another atrocity committed by his hand.

That was, unfortunately, something Jin Guangyao knew from experience.

When he could bring himself to move again, he pulled Lan Xichen over to the daybed, sitting down with him upon it as they rearranged their arms to continue holding each other as close as they possibly could, both shedding quiet tears, and Jin Guangyao trying to return as much comfort as he was given. Eventually, Lan Xichen managed to ask about Qin Su... and when Jin Guangyao explained her trip to see her father, Lan Xichen committed to staying in Lanling with him until her return.

Over the next few days, their grief poured out of them in quiet, twisted up moments, more tears shed between them than could ever be counted. They spent parts of those days and nearly all of their nights tangled in one another’s embrace and taking as much comfort as they could in the solid warmth of their bodies pressed together.

By the time Lan Xichen left, his heart seemed a bit less shattered than when he’d arrived; it was the slightest of blessings, but it was the most Jin Guangyao could have hoped for.

As for Jin Guangyao’s own heart... well, it was hard to say. It hadn’t been in one solid piece in years, in decades, and at this point, enough of it was missing that it didn’t seem worth the effort of repairing. A piece of it had been buried with his mother, and another piece had been buried, strangely, with Nie Mingjue; a piece now rested in the grave alongside his A-Song... and Lan Xichen, knowingly or not, always took a piece with him when he left.

[violet-knox]

Promises Fulfilled

Year 7 - Chapter 54

Summary: You hold trials and watch Connor try out for his own team before heading to the Astronomy Tower with Severus

Word count: 4061

Warnings: Some naughty naughty touching 😏 It’s at the end of the chapter, so if borderline smut is something you are not into, you can stop reading when they enter the Astronomy Tower.

Previous Chapter - Chapter 1 

~

The halls were uncharacteristically empty as you speed out the great entrance of the castle and made your way towards the Quidditch pitch. It wasn’t abnormal to see such lack of life at this hour. Not many students, hell not many Professors, enjoyed being up so early and though you were amongst the many, today you had to make an exception as it was the first day your skills as Captain would be tested. So of course, your body had to keep you up all night coming up with new and creative incidents that could occur during today’s events resulting in your failure and ultimate dismissal from Quidditch. 

Youngsters falling off their brooms, boneheads taking a bludger to the head, Slytherins keeping their yearly tradition of haggling your team and distracting those already midflight. A string of tragedies played over and over in your head all night, having you dread the trails you had scheduled. You were already so behind; Hufflepuff and Slytherin teams already formed and ready for practice. It was a miracle you’d managed to find a free time slot with the Slytherin Captain hogging the pitch and Professor McGonagall’s aggravating need to ‘play fair’. 

At least Madam Hooch had been much more responsive when you asked her to show you around the storage room, demonstrating how to secure the bludgers in place and retrieve a snitch without wasting its one use. You had a lot to learn in a short period of time, the first game already scheduled for next month, yet you kept hearing how well you would lead your team and win the Quidditch cup from everyone around you. Severus, McGonagall, even Madam Hooch seemed to have a biased towards you as if they could all see the future, knowing for certain you’d win your first game and end the year with the Quidditch cup in hand.

“Feeling ready?” Your mood brightened, worries temporarily pushed aside as you watched Severus walk over from the wall he’d been leaning against just as you arrived at the entrance of the Quidditch pitch.

“Sev!” you shouted, quickly jogging towards him, throwing your arms around his waist. “What are you doing here so early? Trials don't start for another hour.”

He grinned when he saw your face light up by the simple sight of his presence. Of course he’d assured you he’d be there during trails because you’d asked, but he could tell the stress of your position as Captain had been getting to you, so he’d made an effort to arrive early, knowing you’d do the same and help out in any way he could.

“Somehow I just knew you’d be here obsessing about preparations. Look how right I was.” He rubbed your shoulders in comfort and felt you bury your face into his chest.

“I’m scared!” you whined into his uniform, closing your eyes and letting the world disappear around you as you let the weight of the stress you felt fall over Severus.

“You have nothing to worry about,” he said smiling as you pulled him closer, desperately holding on to him. “You’ll do fine.” 

“You don’t know that,” you mumbled. Your voice so muffled, filtered through his cardigan, it appeared smaller than it truly was. 

“True, but I know no one would do a better job than you,” he said, running his fingers through your hair in comfort, his touch so soothing you wished he’d hold you like this all day. “At least not in Gryffindor anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” You pushed him away, shoving on his chest and forcing him to take a step back. 

“Nothing! I meant to say you’re the best person in the school to be Gryffindors Captain...” You rose an eyebrow at him, waiting for the punchline you knew was coming. “Since they probably need the most aid.”

“Severus!” you stepped forward and continued to push against his chest in annoyance. “You arse!” 

It was one thing to despise Gryffindor and cheer for his own Quidditch team, but it was another to outright attack your house even if it was all in good fun. You’d suspected for a while that he dreaded the fact you’d been sorted into Gryffindor which was yet another reason you’d hung on to the time you had together over the summer, away from the reminder of house conflicts and incompatibility. 

“Alright! I’m sorry!” he said, waving his hands in front of his face in forfeit as he inched away from you. His apology seemed to have done the trick as he finally felt the storm of light punches cease. You crossed your arms, the stern look on your face spoiled by the smirk you gave him. “You know I’ll secretly be cheering for you.”

“You better be.”

He adjusted his buttoned-up cardigan before following you to the storage room located between Slytherin and Hufflepuff’s changing rooms. Picking up one of the suitcases on the bench, you opened it up and took out your wand, pointing it to the case filled with snitches. Carefully opening it, you levitated a few of them into their proper places to complete the Quidditch set before clasping it shut and shoving it into Severus’ arms. You then made your way across the room and took down as many school brooms as you could, handing some to Severus as well. If he was going to make a point of showing up early, he might as well lend a hand rather than waste your time with pointless witty comments.

Setting down the equipment you carried out to the edge of the pitch, you began to line up the brooms one by one, Severus lending a hand without a word spoken. 

“I’m going to go find a seat.” Severus turned to you just as you put down the Quidditch set in the middle of the pitch. “Good luck, love,” he whispered, cupping your cheeks. 

You smiled, letting yourself lean on him one last time as he gently pressed his lips to yours before walking off towards the exit of the soon to be semi-packed pitch. You’d barely returned from the changing room, broom in hand when you heard footsteps nearing the entrance. Turning around, you spotted James and a few other members from the previous team heading towards you. Looking up in the stands, you spotted Severus looking up from his book to shoot you a quick smile with Sirius, Remus and Peter all sitting a few rows behind him. Watching Sirius eye him, you began to wish you’d never asked him to come and support you. You’d been so concerned about perfecting your timeline for your trials, you’d completely neglected to remember James’ feud with Severus and how his friends seemed to have joined in, or at the very least look the other way when he haggled your boyfriend.

But it was too late now. Severus had settled into place along with the Gryffindor pranksters and you’d struck up a conversation with your former teammates as other candidates began to pour into the pitch. All you could do now was hope they’d mind their business and leave Severus to his book so long as he had the courtesy to do the same. 

As the crowd thickened, you began to realize, few people from your previous team had actually returned. The Triwizard tournament had become such a distraction you completely neglected to realize two batches of graduating students had gone since the last set of trials held. If you took back those who previously played, you would still need to find a Beater, two Chasers and a Keeper. It was so much worse than you’d anticipated; only three people from the old team hadn’t graduated and you were one of them. 

“Alright,” you spoke, bringing everyone's attention to you. “I’d like to see what you can all do, so I will have you all attempt to play each position until I find sufficient players. If I offer you a position and you had your eye on another, you are welcome to reject but know I may not offer you the position you want. Any returning members will not be granted special passes and instead will have the same opportunity as everyone else. Extra brooms are available if needed,” you said, gesturing to the stack of brooms you’d lined up to the side, “I’ll start off with the chasers,” you then divided the group into two teams and instructed them to play a game of catch where a player must pass the quaffle to one of the members on their team without having the ball stolen by a member of the opposing team. 

Slowly, you began tagging people out until two remained; a second year and a fourth year whom both accepted your offer to play Chasers. You then moved on to Beaters, bringing back the Beater that had previously played and a sixth year who said he wished to play Keeper instead. You placed another student on standby for Beater and moved on to find a Seeker. James caught all three snitches that you released and won back his spot on the team. Finally, you instructed the two Chasers to join you in testing for your new Keeper to which you found an agile fifth year who gladly accepted your offer. You encouraged the standby Beater to try out again next year as the sixth-year boy took the final spot as Beater that you had previously offered. 

It was a long, exhausting day, but you managed to put together a well skilled team in the end, just before the time you had scheduled ran out. Your hands shook as you packed up the equipment, feeling nervous about the split decisions you just made.

“Need a hand?” you turned around and saw a familiar boy with dirty brown hair, dressed in blue and brown walking towards you. 

“Connor, what are you doing here?” 

“Ravenclaw is scheduled for their trials today. Should start in about ten minutes,” he said looking at his watch while you levitated the Quidditch case and brooms. “Got any tips for me?” He clutched onto his broom and nervously shifted in his place.

You looked back at him with a smile before responding, “Don’t fall off your broom.” Connor chuckled. “You’ll be fine Connor, just do your best. And if you don’t make it, you always have that miniature library of yours.”

You shot him a quick smile before turning your attention back to the stack of brooms you had been trying to levitate all at once.

“Hold up!” Another Ravenclaw boy came running towards you just as you’d gathered all the brooms together. “Mind leaving those for us?” He gestured towards the brooms. 

Assuming he was the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain, you nodded your head in agreement and lowered your wand, thankful you didn’t have to figure out how to carry them all back to the storage room alone.

“I can take that off your hands,” he added, reaching for the Quidditch set you had in your left hand. 

“Thanks,” you said, watching him head for the storage room, no doubt on his way to retrieve some more snitches. The stadium had already cleared of Gryffindors, replaced by Ravenclaws quicker than the impeccable catch James made with the last snitch you released. Turning back around, you thought it best to wish Connor good luck and head for the changing rooms when you heard your name shouted from the entrance of the pitch.

“(Y/N)!” You looked over Connor’s shoulder and saw Severus lightly jogging towards you wearing the same expression you’d seen make an appearance the first time he met your Ravenclaw friend.

“Severus,” Connor said. The tone in his voice telling you he was surprised to see him approach. “What are you doing here?”

“She asked me to watch their trials,” he said nudging towards you, his nose wrinkling as his eyes narrowed. 

“I was nervous, so I thought if he came, I’d feel more comfortable,” you explained with as strong of a smile as you could muster. 

Severus’ tone towards Connor had yet to lighten, reminding you of the year you’d spent trying to befriend him. You did what you could to help him ease into a friendship with Connor, but you knew it would be a while before he let his wall down and accept someone new in his life. You could understand the hesitation to trust but the reaction Severus had when someone tried to enter his inner circle was quite absurd and unwarranted. You’d asked him to explain, you’d tried to reason with him, but his cold demeanor remained, forever present to shun away those willing to get close to him.

“Ah, well, maybe you two can stay and cheer me on?” Connor asked nervously. “I’ve been meaning to try-out, but I never could build up the courage.”

Severus looked at you in annoyance, wanting to tell Connor to sod off. If only he’d come down from the stands sooner. If only he hadn’t wished to read that last page in his book, he could have saved you both from the agony the Ravenclaw was putting you through. 

You quickly placed a hand on Severus’ shoulder to keep him from snapping as you smiled at Connor. “We’d love to stay and support you Connor,” you said, speaking for Severus before the foul words edging on the tip of his tongue spilled out and ruined the peaceful ambiance around you. 

Connor smiled at you both in gratitude before you all parted ways; Severus heading for the stands as you went to get changed before joining him.

Throwing on your uniform, you quickly let down your hair, carelessly ruffling it and made your way towards the stairs that led up to the viewing area. You spotted a few crowds of Ravenclaws rather quickly, most of them engaged in conversation amongst one another across the pitch to your right and found a lone raven-haired boy sitting where the Slytherins would usually gather during games; exactly where Severus had placed himself during your trials. 

“This doesn’t count you know,” Severus said with a discontent tone as you found your place beside him. He kept his gaze focused on the commission down below, but you could clearly see the evident frown on his face between his curtains of hair. “You still owe me an hour today. Alone.”

You couldn’t help the corner of your lips stretch into a subtle smile, thinking of the promise he’d made you keep this year. It was quite a demand to make, one you never thought would be difficult when you’d initially agreed to it until the time came to fulfill your promise. You knew it would only get worse as Quidditch picked up, but you wanted to keep your relationship with Severus strong. Nothing was worth giving what you had with him away, so you did what you could and met up with him when he asked even if it was to simply read in his company atop the Astronomy Tower or take a quick walk around the lake before lights out. 

“He’s our friend Severus, we should support him.”

“No,” he said, finally turning his head to face you. “He’s your friend and you have no obligation to support him.”

“He’s nice and we’ll have plenty of time together after his trials. The day is still young.” You placed a hand on his knee and smiled, hoping he’d lighten up and open himself to the idea of having a new friend to talk with. “We’ll go to the Astronomy Tower after this and you can have me all to yourself until dinner,” you whispered as your fingers trailed up his leg to tangle with his. “How does that sound?”

Your breath brushed through his hair, the heat of your palm spreading through to his, reaching his core. Severus froze in place as you leaned in, teasing him as you bit your lip and fluctuated your gaze from his eyes to his lips. You knew displaying affection in public made him uncomfortable and he hated it when you teased him like that. It was a weapon you never used unless you could sense his stubbornness rising. 

He quickly pulled his hand from under yours, looking away from you as he suppressed a smile. You brought your attention back to the gathering Ravenclaws bellow and listened as the team Captain organized their trials. 

He’d decided to approach things a little differently than you as he divided up the Ravenclaws into groups based on what position they wanted. You watched as Connor stepped beside those who wished to play Seeker and you couldn’t help but think how his physique better suited a Beater. A Seeker has to be agile, to turn their broom in the opposite direction in a split second, so it was much more common to see someone with a much leaner figure in the position. Of course, there were exceptions like James, though even he wasn’t as tall or as fully built as Connor. Then again, who were you to judge when you had yet to see him on a broom. Perhaps he’d surprise you and give James a run for his money. 

You took in a deep breath as you watched the specs below kick off and fly into the air. He could definitely keep his own on a broom, you thought, spotting Connor make a sharp turn, halting to listen to the next set of instructions given by their Captain.  

He motioned to test those trying for Beaters first, enlisting the help of everyone else to toss around a Quaffle as he let the Bludgers loose. A few failed to knock the bloody balls away from their targets, hitting them and knocking some off their brooms, though no one was seriously injured. Next up were the Chasers, followed by the Keepers, then finally, Seekers were tested.

Rather than releasing them one at a time as you’d done, the Captain released what he claimed to be four Snitches into the air and said whoever of the three candidates caught two of them first would win the position. Squinting, you leaned closer to the railing and tried to spot the golden blur you’d seen one too many times today. Not five minutes into the challenge, the youngest in the group, a girl appearing to be in her second or third year, caught the first Snitch while Connor and the other candidate desperately searched for the remaining three Snitches.

“He’s not very good is he,” you whispered to Severus as you watched Connor head in the opposite direction of the small golden blur you’d spotted not five feet away from his head. Severus scoffed in response, hoping you would want to leave now that you’ve watched your friend play. But unfortunately for him, the last two snitches weren’t caught for another hour, leaving him only one hundred and twenty minutes before dinner.

“Tough luck,” you said sympathetically, catching Connor on his way to the changing rooms. Severus had practically sprung from his seat when the Captain had announced the end of their trials, heading straight for the exit when you’d grabbed his arm and dragged him back inside the arena. 

“Yeah,” replied Connor in a hushed voice as he rubbed the back of his neck. His cheeks tinted pink and you noticed his gaze fall to the ground, no doubt embarrassed by his poor performance. 

“You played well, Connor. You should try again next year, maybe consider trying for Beater or Keeper” you said in an attempt to cheer him up. 

“You think?” he said, bringing his line of sight back to you, his brows furrowed with hope.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, nodding your head. “You have a build better suited for a Beater than a Seeker and you fly really well. I bet you’d be great at catching up to a bludger.”

He smiled as the tension from his shoulders eased. 

“Well, now you both can cheer for me instead of your own teams. All I need now is to befriend a Hufflepuff and I’ll have all four houses on my side,” you said hoping to lift the gloomy mood around the three of you. 

“Fat chance,” mumbled Severus.

“Fine, don’t cheer for me” you said, giving him a light push before you turned to smile at Connor, “You’ll cheer for me, right?” 

“Sure,” he laughed. “Anyways, I should get changed, my friends are probably waiting.”

You gave him a nod in agreement and watched him head towards the Ravenclaw changing room, broom thrown over his shoulder before you made your way out of the Quidditch pitch.

Severus was walking so fast, you practically had to run to keep him from dragging you along, his hand immediately shooting to grab yours once the coast was clear. As soon as the door of the room at the top of the Astronomy Tower closed behind you, he gripped your waist and pulled you in, colliding your lips with his. 

You snaked your hands in his hair as he moved his hands down to your hips, gripping them as he pushed you against the wall. Feeling ambitious you gave a quick tug on the strands tangled between your fingers and let the surprise from your move catch him off guard as you quickly slipped your tongue past his lips. He took a second to adjust and settle into the new sensation before he moved his hands down over your clothed bottom in response, slowly squeezed both cheeks. 

You moaned, letting your chest heave in desire as your lips parted, hovering over one another. Severus kept his eyes closed and let you both catch your breath as he continued to feel you up, his hands slowly moving down to your thighs. His slim fingers traced the outline of your skirt. Cautiously, he let them slip under the fabric, his fingertips feeling the few new inches of unexplored skin before so very slowly edging upwards towards your knickers. Your eyes flickered open, a breath caught in your throat as you moved one hand out of his hair and cupped his cheek. He carefully examined your flushed expression, a soft pink colour washing over your skin from heat, embarrassment, arousal, he couldn’t tell. But you hadn’t stopped him, nor had you shown any disgust, so he let his fingers trace the line of your panties from the middle of your legs back towards your bottom.

You could feel your knickers drench, the soft careful touches of his hands sending sparks to your core. You’d never discussed boundaries and you’d always thought yours would be quiet etiquette and clear. But in this moment, you felt as though you’d let him do anything he liked if he simply asked. You’d never felt your heart beat as fast as it was in this moment, your adrenaline running higher than it would during a Quidditch game. 

Severus smirked as you arched your back, pushing your chest against his when he gave your arse another rough squeeze. It felt good to feel your skin under his fingertips, skin he knew you wouldn’t allow anyone else to feel. To touch. He had you all to himself and he loved how you showed your enjoyment for his hands exploring your body. 

Keeping you distracting, he kept one hand under your skirt while the other went to rest on your lower back, pushing you into him as he quickly pressed his lips to yours and immediately slipping his tongue into your mouth. He nudged his nose into your cheeks a few times, letting his tongue explore before parting for air, smirking at you with content. 

“So, what was that you said about you being all mine till dinner?” he whispered. 

You blushed, your eyes barely open as you realized how suggestive you must have sounded. Severus lifted your chin and peered into your eyes, his hands gently resting on your waist as he revealed in the moment. He quickly kissed you one last time before taking your hand and setting you down to read with him. You cuddled up next to him, placing a hand on his chest, leaning your head against his shoulder as he opened up a book and began reading with you awhile before you were both forced to head back to the castle for dinner.

~

Next Chapter

~

@dusk-realm @a-slytherin-sin @trashandshook @gbatesx @sneezy-s @emsdroid @leah-halliwell92 @dellightfullydeceitful @malfoymendes @sparklingkeylimepie @nameless-sovereign @living-in-margins @justanobodyinthisbigworld @soft-slytherin-sweetie @youtube4life10 @scarletmoon83 @fluffymadamina @sleepysnapesnake

[chibinightowl]

Bakery AU, Part IX

One more chapter to go...

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII

~*~

“Tell me what?”

Tim’s heart starts to race, a last ditch effort by his body to give him the brainpower needed to get the words out of his mouth. He takes hold of Jason’s hand and removes it from his chin, but he doesn’t let it go. “I know you’re Redwing.”

To his credit, Jason doesn’t even flinch. “Right,” he drawls. “Tim, I think you’re a little sleep deprived.”

“Oh, I am,” Tim agrees. He forges on. “But I know I’m right.”

“Really? How so?”

“Because I figured out that Dick Grayson was Robin when I was nine years old.”

Jason’s grip on his hand tightens, the only sign his words are affecting him at all. “Okay, suppose I buy this tale. How did you figure it out?”

Tim launches into a story that has never once passed his lips. About how as a young boy he went to the circus with his parents and met an acrobat who promised to do a quadruple somersault just for him. He spoke of how that night ended in tragedy, with the acrobat’s parents falling to their deaths when their ropes snapped. “I kept tabs on Dick after I heard Mr. Wayne took him in. Sometimes I saw him at society events it was okay for kids to attend. When I was nine, I caught a clip on one of those paparazzi TV shows of Robin. They were running a brief segment on local urban myths. The video was absolute crap even if they did try to clean it up, but it wasn’t the person I recognized. It was what he did that struck me the most.”

“What did he do?” Jason prods when Tim pauses to gather his thoughts.

“He did a quadruple somersault. There’s only person in the world who can do it. Dick Grayson. After I figured that out, the rest was easy.” Tim bites his lip, stopping the flow of words.

There. He’d done it. No going back now.

Jason places his hands on Tim’s shoulders, holding him firmly in place as he stares intently at him. “Are you telling me a nine year old boy figured out one of the most closely guarded secrets on the planet?”

Tim nods. “If you’re referring to Batman, yes. He goes to great pains to hide it. Superman on the other hand…a pair of glasses? Really?”

A heavy hand covers his mouth faster than Tim can blink. “I think that’s enough tonight. You’re tired and obviously getting to the point where you’re not thinkin’ straight.”

What? Tim stiffens and jerks himself away from Jason. “You think I’m making this all up? I’m exhausted, but I’m not stupid. Jason, I have never, ever, spoken about this to anyone before. If you don’t believe me, fine. I was trying to be honest with you, because if you want whatever this is between us to work, then you need to be honest with me.”

“I don’t think this is the time or place to be having this conversation. You don’t have a door right now, remember?”

Tim’s mouth snaps shut. Son of a bitch. Had he been speaking too loudly? He doesn’t think so, but Jason is right. All that’s keeping the rest of the world out of his little shop is a piece of plastic. “Sorry. Sorry, you’re right. I’m just…”

“You’re tired, Tim.” Jason hauls him back in and plants a tender kiss on his forehead. “Go take a nap. I’ll finish cleaning this up.”

There isn’t anything Tim can do but nod. He’s blown it. He knows he has. Goddammit, why did he say it? Had he really misread things so badly? What’s going to happen now? Jason would be fully within his rights to never see him again after this little bomb. Fuck.

Tim lets Jason direct him into the kitchen and, under his watchful eye, gets his blanket and pillow out of the storage bin. Jason doesn’t comment about it, which says a lot about where this is all heading. He makes a little pallet under his desk and lays down. Through bleary eyes Tim watches Jason turn off the light and close the door, leaving it open just a crack. This is the last time he’s going to see Jason, he knows it. It hurts so bad that he doesn’t want the same thing as him.

So much for that gamble.

As Tim falls into a fitful sleep, he swears that he hears the low tone of Jason’s voice speaking to someone. “B? You won’t believe what I just heard…”

~*~*~

The next day Tim decides is quite possibly one of the worst he’s had in a while. Jason is gone when he wakes up to the alarm the man apparently set for him. No note, no nothing, not that Tim expects anything after the mess he made of things last night.

Stephanie tries to get the story out of him when she arrives an hour later with breakfast and coffee, but he refuses to say a word other than that he and Jason had a disagreement. This isn’t something Steph can help with. It’s all his fault.

“Do I need to call him and tell him to stop being an ass?” the blonde asks pointedly.

Tim loves that her loyalty is unwaveringly with him even if she doesn’t know all the details. “No, I’m pretty sure this is all on me.”

“Oh, Tim.” Steph wraps her arms around him and holds him tight. “Are you guys done then?”

He sighs into her freshly washed hair. God, he has to stink to high heaven at this point. “I don’t know.”

Steph squeezes him, then draws back, hands still on his arms as she gives him a serious look. “You know what’s going to make you feel better?”

“The ability to rewind the last twelve or so hours?”

“A shower. Go home, Tim. Get cleaned up, and for God’s sake, brush your teeth.”

Tim laughs weakly because what else can he do? He put himself out there and got rejected.

This is why he doesn’t date. It always hurts when things fall apart.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. It takes a few phone calls to get someone out on a Saturday to replace his door, and as soon as that was done, Tim calls it a day. He and Stephanie already have a plan in place to get things back up and running tomorrow, even if it will take at least a week to get a new display case. That’s fine, they can still take the truck out and Tim can set out a tray with a single cupcake of each design for any walk-ins to choose from while keeping the rest in back. They can make this work. Gotham and a broken heart are not going to keep Tim Drake down.

As he walks home in the late afternoon sun, Tim decides to allow himself one night to wallow in his misery. He deserves that much. A quick stop by the store gets him a six pack of his favorite microbrew and he swings by a Chinese restaurant that makes what he swears are the best noodles in town. Literally, since they make their noodles right there.

Properly fortified, Tim brings his prizes home. Another shower and a change of clothes later, he settles onto his sofa to binge watch Netflix. There are some shows he needs to catch up on.

He does not think about Jason. Much.

Three hours later, he’s finished half his stir-fried noodles and three bottles of beer. Sleep sounds like a great idea, lightweight that he is, so Tim manages to put away his food before returning to the sofa where he puts on a BBC nature documentary to fall asleep to.

He cuddles under his afghan and is out in under a minute.

~*~*~

It’s late when Tim wakes up. He feels like he should still be asleep, but something has drawn him out of that sweet oblivion where he doesn’t think about Jason. Everything is quiet, so he decides it must be his faintly hurting head that woke him. Some headache meds and water will fix that, as will sleeping in his bed rather than the living room.

Tim opens his eyes blearily as he sits up. Then he opens them wider and jerks upright, the afghan pooling around his waist.

Standing in front of his muted TV is Batman, outlined by the glow of the screen behind him.

Oh, shit. Why…Oh. Oh. Jason must have told him everything. Of course, he would, the little bomb Tim dropped on him last night impacts everything his family works so hard for. God, how could he have been so thoughtless?

His inner fanboy cowers in the corner of his mind, wailing in fear even though Tim is reasonably certain Batman won’t actually hurt him. Scare the crap out of him, yes. Intimidate him, hell yes. This is very intimidating, yup. Babbling seems like a stupid thing to do right about now, so Tim keeps his mouth shut and waits for Batman to say something.  

And waits.

And waits.

Seriously? Is he waiting for Tim to speak up first? He has not had enough sleep for this. Tim shoves the afghan off his lap and swings his legs to the floor. “Would you like some coffee? If you’re just going to stand there, then I’m going to need some.”

Batman doesn’t move. If anything, he frowns harder without even moving his face.

Now there’s a trick Tim would love to learn. He makes his way into the kitchen and flips on the overhead light by the sink to see by. Coffee prep is something he could do in his sleep, so while the little pot is brewing, Tim takes two mugs out of the cabinet and sets them on the counter.

“Do you take cream or sugar?” he calls out, not really expecting an answer.

He doesn’t get one.

Black it is.

Tim pours two cups and returns to the living room. He doesn’t try and hand Batman his cup, but he does place it on the coffee table in front of him before sitting back down on the sofa. This is by far the strangest interview he’s ever been part of. It must be a neat trick, using your reputation to get everything you need to know out of a person without having to say a word.

This could go on all night. “What do you want to know?” Tim asks eventually.

“Start from the beginning.” Batman’s voice is a low growl, one that makes Tim’s throat hurt just listening to it.

So Tim starts there, telling Batman how he met Dick, the promised quadruple somersault, and the tragedy that occurred later. He tells him about how he kept tabs on the former acrobat through the news, that he just wanted to be sure the boy was happy. Then he tells him what happened when he was nine… “I’m not sure there are many people who could have made that connection,” he admits slowly. “I mean, sure, the people at the circus probably can if they ever happen to see Robin, or Nightwing now, do that. But outside of there? I don’t think I would have if I hadn’t been there that night and saw it myself.” As well as everything that happened after, but there’s no need to rehash that again.

“You were very young.”

Tim nods. “I was almost four. My mom always said I have a mind like a steel trap. That when something goes in, it’s not coming out. I think that’s part of the reason why I didn’t forget. I couldn’t, even if I’d wanted to.” He sips his coffee, debating about the next part. This is where he could get into some serious trouble.

Well, this is supposed to be a confession of sorts. And it does feel good to get everything off his chest after holding it so close for years.

“When I figured out who was under Robin’s mask, I decided I needed to see Dick in action again for myself. We lived in the city, and Mom and Dad were never around much, so it was easy to sneak out…” Tim tells Batman about how he used to map his and Robin’s patrol routes, how he would hide and wait half the night for even a glimpse of his hero. As he got better and grew more confident, that was when he started bringing a camera.

If Batman was rigid before, then those words made him even more so.

“Those first photos were horrible,” Tim admits with a wry shake of his head. “It took a lot of practice to learn how to shoot at night, just as it took a lot of trial and error to learn to develop my own pictures because these were not something I wanted to take to the convenience store and have just anyone see. But I got better and by the time I did, there was a new Robin.”

Jason. The Robin he got all the best photos of.

“I took my pictures for a little over three years,” Tim continues. “And then my parents were murdered in a botched kidnapping. My life was turned upside down for a time, but when it became clear that I was going to end up in foster care since I had no family to take me in, I knew I couldn’t keep any of those pictures. I couldn’t risk it, even if no one knows the faces beneath those masks.”

“What did you do?”

“I took them up to the roof of my parent’s townhouse and burned them. Each and every one.” It still hurt, even after a decade and more having passed. But it hurt like ripping off a bandaid hurt, and no longer tore at his soul. “All my negatives, I soaked in bleach.”

Batman gestures to the pictures hanging on the walls. The black and white photos are taken from various angles high above Gotham. “You didn’t stop taking pictures completely.”

Tim shakes his head. “No, but I didn’t take those until I’d graduated from culinary school and had my own place. I like photography, it’s something I’m good at. But it’s a hobby now. A skill I can put to use in my shop for my website.”

“You understand the concerns I have.” It isn’t a question and Tim doesn’t pretend to take it as such.

Still, he knows he’s expected to answer. “I do. Honestly, I wasn’t planning to say a word about this to Jason at all. Until last night, I thought what we had was just a mutually beneficial arrangement between two consenting adults. He’d never given me a reason to believe otherwise.”

“Until last night,” Batman states, echoing Tim’s words. “Why did you tell him this?”

Tim hedges and sips his coffee as he tries to gather his thoughts. For all that opening his mouth had been a mistake, the reason why he did hasn’t changed. On that one fact, he still feels like he’s on solid ground.

“Because last night he said he cares about me. That what keeps him coming back is me.” No need to mention the frosting part. Nope. “I’ve known for a little while now that I like him more than what our arrangement calls for. I figured that if he wants a real relationship, then he has a right to what I know so that he doesn’t have to lie to me when the shit hits the fan or he gets all battered and bruised and needs to cancel plans we’ve made. I can’t imagine it’s easy for anyone who tries to date one of you guys.”

“It isn’t. Especially for someone like you who cannot protect himself.”

The implication is clear as day. Tim tightens his fingers around his warm mug. “I know I’m putting myself in harm’s way if Jason and I keep seeing each other. I know I can be used against him or as a means to hurt him. I know all of this. But isn’t it up to us to decide if that’s a chance we want to take?”

“Yeah, B, stop stickin’ your nose in our business.”

Tim almost spills his coffee as Jason comes striding around from behind the sofa in full Redwing regalia. It’s an impressive sight, from the battered leather jacket to the dark gray uniform underneath that fits him like a glove. How long has he been here? Oh, shit, what has he heard? Tim tells himself to get a grip. Everything he’s said to Batman is stuff he plans to tell Jason, if the other man ever gives him a chance.

He’s here though, so that has to mean something. Right?

Batman doesn’t move, but it’s clear when he turns his attention on his son because that weighted gaze no longer sits like a ton of bricks on Tim. “I am trying to ascertain what this man’s intentions are towards all of us.”

Jason snorts incredulously. “No, you’re trying to be a dad for a change and scare away a potential boyfriend. B, Tim knows and hasn’t said a word to anyone. Do you have any idea how much easier this makes things for me? I don’t have to fucking lie for a change.”

Tim clutches his coffee mug, afraid to make even the slightest of noises for fear of interrupting what is clearly a very important argument. Inside, his heart sings with joy because Jason is fighting with Batman for him. If that’s not a sign from the heavens, he doesn’t know what is.

“What happens if it doesn’t work out?” Batman says to Jason. “Think about the damage Tim can do in a single moment of petty spite.”

“I’d never do that,” Tim interrupts. This is something he has to speak up about. “What you guys do is so much bigger than anything I deal with. You’re important. You all mean something to the world. For however long this lasts between Jason and me, I’m glad to be able to support him in whatever way I can. And when it ends, well, I’ll at least know that for a time, I made him happy. Because I can’t imagine you guys get that a lot.”

Both men turn and stare at Tim, heavy and weighted and wow, this must be the same feeling that makes bad guys quiver in their shoes. But Tim holds firm and doesn’t drop his gaze.

“B, you’re done here,” Jason finally announces. “You got what you came for. Tim won’t spill the beans. Now get out.”

“Redwing—”

“Get outta my business, B. I can either air dirty laundry about you and Catwoman or toss you out that window. Take your pick.”

Batman looms over his son, but Jason is clearly having none of it as he just stares him down. All the long years of exposure must make him immune. Tim finds that impressive because wow. Just wow.

That heavy gaze settles back on him for a moment before Batman walks away without another word, brushing past the sofa towards the window leading out to the fire escape. Tim feels a faint rush of cold air on his neck and then nothing. He turns around to look, just to be sure. The only thing he sees is the faint movement of his cheap window blinds.

“So that’s what being interrogated by Batman feels like.”

Jason snorts and picks up the coffee Batman never even touched. “Sort of. There’s usually a lot more punching and getting tossed off the side of a building involved.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Tim feels faint at the thought. Although jumping off the side of a building doesn’t sound too bad if he’s with the right person…kind of like skydiving perhaps.

An awkward silence falls over the room, neither of them seemingly able to start the conversation that needs to happen. Tim fiddles with his mug and steals glances at Jason, who seems lost in thought as he drinks the not-so-warm coffee. What’s going on in his head? How does Jason feel about all this? He apparently likes the idea of him knowing who he is if his statement to Batman was legit.

Tim takes a deep breath and breaks the ice. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it. I followed B here and snuck in through your bedroom while he loomed over you like a creepy fuck until you woke up.”

“How long did that take?”

Jason chuckles quietly. “About half an hour. Color me impressed.”

“I may have had a few beers earlier tonight.”

“Lightweight,” Jason teases, but there’s a fondness to it. “You were quite the little stalker once upon a time, weren’t ya?”

Tim nods, feeling steadier now that they’re talking about his past. “I guess you could call it that. At the time though, I was so incredibly lonely that sneaking out for even a glimpse of my heroes was enough to negate the creep factor.”

Jason walks around the coffee table and takes a seat in the recliner. Under the jacket, Tim can just make out the stylized red bat on his broad chest. “You’ve mentioned before that your parents were never around that much.”

“No, they weren’t.” Tim takes a sip from his mug. It’s almost empty. “I had a hard time mourning for people who were never there. I got lucky when I was placed with Grandma Ives. She gets kids in a way I’d never seen before. Probably because she had six of her own, plus over a dozen grandkids. She helped me figure out what my grief was really about and gave me something constructive to do while I worked my way through it.”

“She the one who taught you to bake?”

“Yes.” Tim has many fond memories of Grandma Ives. Perhaps one day, he can introduce Jason to her.

“Did you really take all those pictures of me?” The question seemingly comes out of left field, but Tim has a feeling it’s a precursor to something bigger.

“I did.”

“Is it… Is this the reason you want to be with me?” Jason gestures to his uniform, to the mask he’s still wearing.

Tim is shaking his head before Jason finishes speaking. “No. Not at all. In the beginning, I was shocked that someone like you even spared a glance in my direction. I kept telling myself not to look too deeply into it, to not get attached, that we were both getting something we needed. But when we went out for dinner to that bar, it felt like a date. I wanted it to be a real date so badly that I had to keep reminding myself it wasn’t.”

Jason sighs heavily and leans forward, his solid arms resting on his thickly muscled thighs. “I think of that night as a date. It was all so clear in my head what I was doing, sweeping you off your feet and romancing the crap out of you, but in hindsight, I can see why you believed what you did.” He sounds defeated, which no. No. Tim is not letting this happen.

Standing, Tim sets aside his coffee and kneels in front of Jason, resting his hands over the man’s gloved ones and forcing him to look at him. This close, the lenses in his mask are disconcerting, but Tim knows Jason’s eyes are on him. “We’re both idiots,” he pronounces. “Doing everything ass backwards from the way we should have.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve fucked up,” Jason tries, but Tim shushes him.

“Me neither. But I think we have a good reason to want to do this right. If you want to, that is.” Tim trails off, his momentary boldness tapering into uncertainty.

Jason grabs hold of his hands, holding them firmly in his gloved ones. “I want to. Christ, I want to. But the risks…Tim, already the thought of something happening to you hurts like hell. If we go further…”

Tim raises their joined hands and presses a kiss into the material of Jason’s gloves. “I understand. Just know that I’m willing to take those risks. But really, the choice is yours, not mine. What you do, who you are…it’s all so much bigger than just me.” His confidence shocks him, even if it is nice to know he can bring it out when he needs to, despite the less than stellar circumstances.

“I need some time to think.”

“I respect that.” Tim tries to stand, but Jason rises along with him and draws him in close, pressing his forehead against the top of Tim’s head.

“Tim, this isn’t good-bye. I will let you know what I decide. And in person because you deserve that much, even if it’s not what either of us want.”

It’s more than Tim can reasonably expect. “I appreciate it.”

Jason pulls back a bit and runs his fingers over Tim’s cheeks, seemingly memorizing the planes of his face. “I’ll see you soon.” He leans in and presses a brief kiss against Tim’s mouth.

And then he’s gone, vanishing into the night.

[altherei]

Hope Against Hope

<And I never minded being on my own. Then something broke in me and I wanted to go home to where you are.>

Alth was familiar with grief- almost intimately familiar with it as of late. She remembered discussing it with him in one of their first- perhaps their first- real conversation together. She knew the patterns- or lack thereof- and yet it brought her no comfort or relief because simply knowing was not enough to keep it at bay. Sometimes it came all at once, pulling you off your feet and leaving you stumbling in the dark. Sometimes it came in bursts, like a punch to the gut that sucked the air straight from your lungs and left you gasping.

And sometimes it lingered like a shadow in shifting light. No matter which way you turned, it was there, hovering over everything in a reminder as quiet as the Reaper himself. Over the past several days, Altherei was no stranger to any of the methods life chose to remind her of it all.

The days had dragged by, limping along like a wounded animal. Altherei’s head remained in a fog, and the knots in her stomach were only made worse by the conversation she had with Tsirael just a few days prior. Despite promises made to one another that if they heard anything, they’d alert each other, it was clear what weighed on both their minds. No amount of logic could stand against the worry that plagued the two. The Captain’s news left the astronomer feeling almost sick to her stomach.

“He.. He didn’t disembark with the unit returning from Darkshore. He’s reported as.. missing-in-action.”

“A battle broke out, there was an explosion, and…”

“They didn’t find a body.”

Were she not so used to tragedy perhaps her optimism would’ve been hardier and sturdier, less prone to cracking under pressure. But she’d seen her optimism be shattered against the simple unfairness life sought to drop in her lap. Missing was not killed, and a lack of a body could mean he was still out there, alive, somewhere. Yet all her brain could conjure up for her were the worst-case scenarios. She’d thought perhaps to stop Tsirael from traveling to Darkshore, looking for him herself but.. what would stopping her do? If he was there, he’d need help. If he was.. dead.. she could bring him back. And if he came home before she did, she could alert the Captain and things could go back to normal.

And if she were stronger herself, a better or proper spellcaster, she’d offer to go with her. But even if she were, she knew such was unwise. She had an operation to run, and commitments she’d made to herself and to the Outreach that she couldn’t walk away from. Not that she didn’t want to- but she knew her presence would be nothing but a liability. So she did all she could do: worry.

When she came home the second night- Sunday- she barely closed the door before it all hit her like a tidal wave. It wasn’t grief that struck her, but an overwhelming and inescapable fear of the worst that she could no longer push down. Despite having no neighbors to overhear, a hand pressed to her mouth to stifle the sharp cry that spilled from her lips. She sunk to the floor with her head pressed to her knees and hands pressed to the back of her head. There, she sobbed until no more tears came and her lungs ached, and it was all she could do to pull herself back up to her feet to shuffle to bed.

For the Outreach, she put on a brave face. There was work to be done, and it was more stubbornness than optimism now that kept her from faltering. Caedori had been the only other person told, and under a strict request to keep it under wraps. But even her blunt brand of optimism- correct though she was in her sentiments and advice- ultimately could only do so much to ease Altherei’s mind. But to the rest, she kept it silent. Internalized it and tried to push it down, as she often did (despite knowing it was not a good habit).

But that didn’t mean she didn’t feel it. In fact, putting on that mask of strength, farcical though it was, only made it hurt worse when she came home. There was no place now that there weren’t memories tied to him. There were things- literal things- she could never escape.

The earring.

The scarf.

The page of recipes.

The comm, unblinking for days now, tucked behind a decorative vase on her mantle. She couldn’t bear to look at it, but there was no chance of getting rid of it, either. After all, it wasn’t just her last connection to him- it was her connection to the Outreach, too.

She’d slept about as often as she’d eaten, which was to say not much at all. Enough to keep her going and keep up appearances, but whereas some overdid both in attempts to drown their grief, she avoided them.

Sleep, when she found it, only brought nightmares at best and at worst, dreams that would otherwise be pleasant. The nightmares startled her awake and desperate for air- the dreams only served to remind her that reality was not so kind.

By the time the new week had begun and was in full force, Altherei felt like a ghost inhabiting her own shell. Always a bad liar, she was often able to coast by well-enough by just busying herself enough that others just didn’t ask questions. It was not so easy with Caedori- not when her own sister had asked that Alth inform her of the Captain’s departure. Not when Cae could plainly see Alth had run herself ragged, and how much sense it made when the astronomer finally revealed what it was that had her coming so undone. She had gone to bed Monday evening with some pieces of optimism returned to her thanks to Caedori’s efforts, and it was a small comfort quickly shattered by a most frightening night terror.

She saw him, bloodied and battered on the twisted ground of Darkshore, hand outstretched. But the more she reached for his hand, the farther away he became. Snarls surrounded the both of them as shadows crept in, writhing tendrils of pure blackness. One moment he was there- and the next, he was gone, swallowed by the nothingness.

Altherei woke with a gasp, dawn barely peeking over the horizon. A hand pressed quickly to her chest to try and steady her breathing and slow her heart, and despite knowing it was only a nightmare, the doubts had been planted.

What if it wasn’t?

What if he had been fine, and on his way home, and something had happened? She desperately tried to avoid going down the rabbit hole, fought it with all her will.. but days and nights of worry and fear had worn her down and set her at a most unfair disadvantage. It was as if she were set in a boxing ring with naught but oven mitts to face against the heavyweight champion that was her worst fears.

Keep up hope, she reminded herself.

She avoided Haven that day, knowing that there was not only little for her to do there now, but also because she was acutely aware that she was far too exhausted to keep up any sort of appearances. In fact, she felt very surely that she was within one minor inconvenience or stray worry away from a complete breakdown- again. And that was something she simply could not afford to have.. at least, not at Haven.

So she would go to the one place she knew was surely safe from prying eyes, and could afford her the solitude of her home without the steadily-growing oppressive feeling of its walls.

Keep up hope- again, like a mantra spoken in her mind.

Her hawkstrider left at home, she walked all through the late afternoon and into the evening until she came to a familiar spot. From a distance she saw it first, a lonely little hill now made lonelier knowing she’d be the only one on it. Under the shifting shadows of a tree, and overlooking the endless expanse of ocean, she brought only a lantern with her for light. Lightly lifting the hem of her dress in the other hand, she trekked up the hill and found it far more difficult now than it had ever been. With every step, her legs rebelled, as if crying out for the rest she’d so thoroughly denied them- and herself- of.

When finally she reached the crest of the hill, the last bits of sunlight had begun to fade. Oranges and pinks and golds had simmered and died, leaving behind now only indigo and navy, and soon a black velvet sky overtook it all and stars began to glimmer. The moons provided enough illumination for her to see the crests on waves, their sound constant as they gently pushed against the shore.

She found no comfort in her sky, not tonight. Instead, she settled on the grass and looked up. Often, she talked to the stars- not because they listened, but because she needed to believe there was someone who was.

“I can’t do this anymore, Kal. I’m.. I’m so tired,” She began, her voice breaking already under the weight of the fear she carried.

“I’m so scared.. every day that goes by, I just worry more. I wish I just had.. something, anything to go on.. to know you were okay. I still think about what you said and...” Tears brimmed at the lids of teal eyes- tears that she made no effort to stop.

“I didn’t see any of this coming- but.. but maybe subconsciously, I felt it. And to think that you might be gone- that.. that we might never get the chance to see what could happen..” Her chest tightened, and she swallowed thickly.

“I’m so scared of that. I’m trying to look up, to be hopeful and.. and I’m trying to be strong- but.. but you told me I needed to let myself feel…”  She clenched her fists, ears laying back sharply. He’d want her to do this, she reminded herself.

Her gaze once more lifted to the star-riddled sky. “I just.. I miss you. I miss you so much it actually.. hurts. And I just.. I just want you to come home. Please, Kal.. please, just come home..” She dipped her head, words spoken as if they were a prayer.

Altherei sat there in the dark then as the night continued to drag on. The tears that she’d felt threaten remained at bay, and once more she remained alone with her knees brought to her chest. Her forehead rested against them, arms wrapped around her shins as if making herself small would let the dark swallow her whole.

And were it not for the soft glow of her lantern, Kalomar might not have seen her at all.

[kieren-fucking-walker]

DGHDA fucked me up (in the best way)

Okay, so there’s been something I wanted to say for a little while now in regards to DGHDA that I’ve struggled to put into words. I’m still struggling with that part so I’m hoping this makes sense in some kind of way but I want to say it because it’s something that’s important to me. You all know I’m great at dodging the emotional stuff, but here I am and you’re going to have to bear with me while I try to get this in order, (also I’m going to use too many commas, sorry). I’ll start with this:

Dirk Gently has changed the way I think about things, particularly about myself and the road I’m on right now.

My early twenties have been the time that my brain has decided to dredge up a ton of shit that I have been shoving away into a box in my head for years, and when I say years I mean like, going on eighteen years, maybe even longer, but young children don’t really have the ability to compartmentalise the way I’ve been doing. As you can imagine, the kind of stuff that you start shoving into mental boxes as a kid isn’t fun and I’m not going into any of that right now but I’m sure you all get the idea. It wasn’t good, it was systematic and it really fucked me up. Now, I’ve been to therapy for a lot of things regarding my mental health, anxiety being a major player there, I even trained as a therapist to see if it would help (it didn’t), but whenever someone even vaguely brings up the notion of PTSD I run in the other direction as fast as I can. Mentally, I’m not that fast physically because I haven’t been on a run since I was last made to in High School, it’s whatever. Point is that I’ve been dealing with trauma for a long, long time and I’ve been doing that by ignoring it, bad idea in case you were wondering, because my brain has had enough and has decided to shove me into that space that, quite frankly, terrifies me. I’m a methodical person, I like explanations and dealing with things in a logical way and when I can’t do that I freak the hell out and usually end up sabotaging myself. It’s cyclical behaviour that I’m trying to break.

What does this have to do with Dirk Gently? Here’s where I think you’re all going to start thinking I’m a bit weird, but hang in there. It’s less as what it has to do with Dirk Gently the show, but Dirk Gently the character, because let's face it, Dirk has a shit ton of issues he’s not dealing with very well at all. It’s something I latched on to in S1, but more so in S2 which if you’ve seen it you’ll understand why. One thing that becomes pretty impossible to ignore is that Dirk is dealing with trauma. Terrible things have happened to him and it obviously is something that’s difficult to deal with, but what strikes me most about Dirk is that while awful things have happened to him, he’s good and he’s kind and he doesn’t want to hurt anyone else. This is important.

This is important because for the longest time I didn’t even want to admit the trauma was there, let alone make a move to deal with it, all because of one simple message that you may not even know is consistently hammered home unless it affects you. That message is that trauma makes you a bad person. We hear it over and over again, that if you’re hurt you become a person who hurts others. It’s in the people who will excuse their own abuse because they were abused, like repeating a pattern of behaviour is something you can’t fight and having hands turned to you will inevitably turn your hand to someone else. It’s in every villains backstory that they had a sad and tragic childhood which explains and even sometimes excuses their behaviour. It’s in the way anger at what happened to you is seen as a bad thing, as proof that you’re going to do bad things. It’s in this constant ongoing rhetoric that anyone who has been traumatised will come out the other side spitting acid and wanting to watch the world burn, or that they’ll lock themselves away from anything and everyone and just live in their trauma forever. The options you’re given are violence, tragedy or death. Like one, multiple or ongoing traumatic incidents aren’t enough for you to have to live with but now it will take everything from you instead and you will become a person who incites trauma. I don’t want to be a bad person. I don’t want to hurt anyone. Every time I say or do something I have to run it over in my head to make sure I’m not being that trauma survivor who is hurting people without realising. I’m scared of being forced into hurting other people by this box of things I shoved away and filled to bursting over the years.

But Dirk Gently is none of those things. He isn’t bad and he isn’t violent, he isn’t out to hurt others even though some people would argue he has reason to. More important than that even is that this is the way he’s chosen to be. He may not have had a choice as to how that trauma affected him but he has a choice in how he responds to it, how much control it has over him as a person. It made him kind.

I want to be kind.

I want to have a choice as to what kind of person I’ll be despite the shit. Because trauma is shit, and it continues to be shit long after the events themselves have been left behind. It’s raw and cruel and unflinching, it hurts you and messes with your head and lies to you, it’s unrelenting and exhausting and violent. It makes you think that no matter what you do, you’ll be all of those things as well. But you won’t. You don’t have to be. Nobody has ever told me that before now, I’ve never seen it in a way I can relate to before.

“But he’s a fictional character!” Does it matter? Does it really matter where that message comes from? We’ve used stories to convey messages since before we even had a recognisable spoken language. We’ve used them for morals and fear and comfort, laughter and strength and hope, we’ve been doing that literally forever and I don’t see why the impact of that message would be taken away because now it isn’t told around an open fire as an epic poem, or discussed in some high brow literature class. The medium doesn’t matter, that’s kind of the beauty of art, you can send a message and tell a story with just about anything if you do it right. The characters may be fictional, but the messages aren’t, the impact isn’t. That shit is real, and it’s the kind of thing that people may not even know they’re doing when they make these things but that doesn’t lessen the impact of it at all.

I had a breakdown the other day, a good one, one I needed to have. The realisation that I can be traumatised and good, hurt and kind, that I don’t have to let any of that take away my choice as to who I want to be and who I can be may have been a long time coming, but this was the last push to get me to recognise that it isn’t just true for other people, it’s true for me too. It made me cry and I’m not a crier, but I felt a lot better for it.

Dirk Gently may not be real, but I am. He’s taught me to be brave, to not let any of the shit that comes before stop you from doing things in the present. That you can carry trauma with you but not let it weigh you down. I know that to some of you this will sound stupid, trust me I’ve heard “it’s just a story” since I learned how to read books and would constantly be found sobbing over the pages in the corner of the library, but anything can change you if you open yourself up to it. I had been desperate for something to make me feel like I wasn’t destined to be the next person who turns their own pain into violence, and I found it.

There’s a strength to being kind that you’ll never understand unless you’ve had to fight so hard to be that way. If you want to be the full stop in that cycle then you can be if you choose it. I’m choosing it. I’m really, really, really fucking scared by that, but I’m doing it anyway. Dirk Gently taught me that.

It’s okay to be changed by things that aren’t real. When you are, you make them real. That’s really the top and bottom of it.

You get to choose to be a good person. You get to fight for that. It doesn’t matter where the drive for that comes from, just that you let it in.

So I guess I’m going to go to therapy and start talking about my emotions with a stranger while I’m trapped in a room with them for an hour or so. I’m about as enthralled by that idea as Farah Black would be, but you know. I can do this. I can at least try to do this. Eff the ineffable and all that, right? Maybe I’ll start a jacket collection. Who am I kidding? I’m gay as fuck, I already have a jacket collection.

It’s going to be interesting, but it’s going to be good. 

I’m going to be good.

(PS. My eternal thanks to Samuel Barnett for playing this character with such depth and integrity. I don’t know if this realisation would have struck me so hard in anybody else’s hands, but since I’m never going to know if that’s true or not I’m saying it is and in that case the credit is yours.)

(PPS. Don’t let this emotional outpouring fool you, I maintain my reputation as an irresponsible emotionless fool. Please humour me by pretending you don’t know I cry every time I see a cat.)

[missstormcaller]

CAN’T FEAR YOUR OWN WORLD Part 4 Full Translation

Chapter 3

  An abnormal event was gradually eating away at the world.

 Tragedy struck the noble district of Seireitei.

 That may be just the beginning.

 Strangely, it started from the day Hisagi Shūhei learned that Tsunayashiro Tokinada was to be inaugurated as clan head ----

 A budding malice that spreads like leaves and branches, extending its fingertips to the Soul Society, the Human World, and Hueco Mundo.

Seireitei - 4th Division - Squad Barracks.

 "……"

 In front of the 4th division barracks, there is a timid looking shinigami.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, looking intently in the direction of the main street that merged together with the paths leading to the other squad barracks.

"What's the matter, 3rd seat Yamada?"

That timid young man who was referred to as "3rd seat Yamada" -- Yamada Hanatarō , turns to the members of the 4th division who had just emerged from the squad barracks.

"Huh? Ah…sorry. I'm okay!… probably."

"Well, on the contrary, there is nothing but anxiety in that answer."

In response to the voice of seated member Ogidō who had spoken with a calm visage, Hanatarō awkwardly replies.

"A short while ago, vice captain Hisagi was heading towards the 9th division barracks with an awfully grim look on his face, I wonder what happened…"

He replied as if he had become somewhat frightened, the likes of which would only be seen in faint-hearted fresh recruits.

Nevertheless, amidst the 4th division, he is one of the most prominent users of 'Kaido' -- the healing spiritual arts, despite his timid disposition, his gentle character makes him trustworthy and he was assigned to the position of 3rd seat of squad 4.

However​, the person himself thinks he was able to become 3rd seat because of the fact that Iemura Yasochika, who was originally the 3rd seat, had transferred to another squad, he confronts his personal duties whilst struggling with the pressure of thinking "by all rights, I am not well positioned."

It was a squad 4 member whose large build contrasted with Hanatarō's own, that reacted to the name of squad 9's vice captain.

"Hisagi……?”

"Ah, Aoga san was classmates with vice captain Hisagi right?"

At Ogidō's query the shinigami called Aoga answered.

"That's right…we seldom meet​ these days. But around six months ago we met on a visit to our friend's grave, and the last time I saw him was in a hospital room after the war."

Although from outward appearances Aoga looks more seasoned than Ogidō, since Ogidō is a seated member, Aoga uses honorific speech when addressing him. Hearing those words, the 4th division members around them begin to stir.

"Aoga san was Hisagi san's classmate……"

"That's so awesome, that was a season when many elites were produced right?"

"Yeah, during the several decades since lieutenant Hisagi's time there, it was a generation were many captain class Shinigami were produced, such as lieutenant Abarai, Lieutenant Hinamori, Lieutenant Kira and above all, captain Hitsugaya. The exceptional speed of their advancement through the ranks was also a topic of conversation even at the Shinō Academy."

"While we're on the topic of advancing quickly through the ranks, it's the same with 3rd seat Yamada right?"

In response to the subject that was suddenly brought up, Hanatarō, despite being 3rd seat, bows his head to the squad members.

"err, umm……I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologising?"

"Well, compared to Hisagi san and the others, I'm nothing special and I only end up annoying everyone at squad 4…"

Remaining expressionless Ogidō then addresses Hanatarō who had spoken of himself with pessimism in spite of being praised.

"What are you saying, 3rd seat Yamada? You are also an elite amongst the elites which goes hand in hand with your lineage and raw talent, aren't I right? Isn't it the case that even Urahara Kisuke san took his hat off to your kaido?"

"I realise that seems awe-inspiring but… what I mean is, saying that I don't feel like I'm going through a bad experience every time Urahara san is involved, wouldn't be entirely accurate…"

"By the way, a visitor came by a while ago for 3rd seat Yamada, he's been waiting more than an hour in the guest room already."

"Ehhh!? C-can you please tell me about these things earlier!?"

After watching Hanatarō hurriedly dash into the squad barracks until he was out of sight, Ogidō whispered with a nonchalant face.

"My apologies, that was a mistake. He arrived just a moment ago so he hasn't been waiting around that long."

One of the soldiers who heard those words then chided Ogidō with an astonished expression.

"You should've​ just said that beforehand no matter what… Your​ personality is as bad as ever, Ogidō san."

"Come now, if it’s the case that we must not keep visitors waiting, then I spoke shrewdly didn’t I?… Also, if I have a ‘bad personality', then I think that guest is considerably worse."

 " ? "

 When Ogidō shrugged his shoulders as he spoke, the soldiers around him tilted their heads in puzzlement.

Meanwhile, Aoga alone gazed in the direction of the main street where Hisagi had traveled down a while ago, with a complex expression he spoke to himself.

"Making a grim face, huh…?”

He remembers the time after the war, when Hisagi was carried into the 4th division, in a serious condition.

Although he was still alive his injuries were inconceivable.

With the help of Inoue Orihime's powers, he managed to escape death, however it took a considerable amount of time to recover his reiatsu afterwards.

After Hisagi had regained his consciousness, Aoga evasively posed a question to him.

"You still intend to continue the fight?"

That time they reunited in front of the grave of their former classmate Kanisawa, Aoga remarked to Hisagi, who continued to fight whilst often on the verge of death, that "you have pushed aside your fear."

However, seeing him on the verge of death again, Aoga understood.

No matter how many times one pushes it aside, when Shinigami do battle on the front lines they cannot escape from fear.

He thinks Hisagi's strength exists in his resolution to continue with his life whilst being at odds with that endless fear.

Therefore, although he had perceived his companion's reply, he couldn’t help but ask

He only said a few brief words and laughed "Even though they say the war is over, you're making such a face. Kanisawa would have your hide."

The next day, he forcibly left the hospital saying he would be witness to Aizen's imprisonment.

Concerned about the fact that Hisagi hurried off with a grim face, and not being able to do anything about it, Aoga whispered with a voice that seemed regretful of his own helplessness.

"For at least a little longer… until Seireitei is revived, I hope it doesn't come to something like fighting at the risk of his own life."

He would confront that battle if something does happen regardless of whatever the state of affairs around him may be.

That's because Aoga knew Hisagi's character well.

However, the fate surrounding Hisagi had already crushed Aoga's hopes.

Squad 4 Barracks - Guest Room

 Inside the 4th division barracks, which placed importance on its functionality for the purpose of performing Kaido, there is a room built there which adds just a little emphasis on splendour.

It is a guest room used when the captain commander or noble envoys are invited in.

Nonetheless, the 4th division, whose number one priority was the lives of the soldiers attached to the Gotei 13,  opened up that guest room during wartime to serve as a temporary first aid station, even now the faint smell of medicinal odours were still left in the room.

Yamada Hanatarō rushes into that room with footsteps that sound equally as hurried.

As he stumbles over himself into the threshold of that room, with the same momentum, he bowed his head and spoke words of apology.

"Awawa……uh…uhmm…I'm sorry…for keeping you waiting."

Before even seeing his host's face, a disheveled looking figure met his eyes, however the visitor couldn't even blame him for it, he let his witty voice resound within the room.

"As usual, you have a lifeless voice to go with your lifeless appearance. Did you plant a lesion in your heart whilst trying to understand the feelings of your patients? Hanatarō."

Feeling a sense of nostalgia, he realised it was a voice and manner of speaking he was used to hearing, with eyes wide open Hanatarō lifted his face.

"Eh…ah…S-Seinosuke nii-san!?"

"Oh my, lifeless even up to your face. It's worrying, whether patients taken care of by you wouldn't​ come to hang themselves from the anxiety."

Yamada Seinosuke.

He is the older brother of Hanatarō and the man that served as vice captain of squad 4 till a few decades ago.

Currently he is retired from the Gotei 13 with his name withdrawn from the official roster, and even his Zanpakutō is left in the care of the squad barracks.

However, though he is retired from his vice captain's seat, it's​ not the case that he is without an occupation, in fact he was headhunted to a new workplace which is a special case within a special case. In the Gotei 13, where “military discharge” basically meant being thrown into a special prison called ‘Nest of Maggots’, it was necessary to officially retire in order for him to leave his post.

And because he knows about the new workplace that recruited his brother, Hanatarō inclined his head.

"W…what happened? Is it your day off today from your work over there? I heard that you are kept busy these days."

"Hn. I guess so. But it's a job worth doing. After all,  In spite of being Shinigami noblemen, the old people who are unwilling to die come to me all the time. It is a pleasant feeling whenever I see a powerful, influential person frightened by old age, the unflattering sight of them struggling to cling on to something."

"U-uhh… Is that really okay, nii-san? To say such things about the noble people…"

"Of course not. That sort of treachery will probably be punishable by death. Does Hanatarō intend to inform on me, to tell someone what I've said? If Hanatarō wants me dead, then that is the request of my precious little brother. I have no choice but to graciously give up my life."

"Eehh…? I…I would never do such a thing, Seinosuke nii-san…"

After frantically waving his hands, Hanatarō clumsily refuted his brother.

"I-it's true nii-san is mean, and everyone dislikes that bad personality, but…if we look, there are also good points…probably…besides, I think a person who wants another person dead should not be in the 4th division to begin with!"

"It would be rather hurtful if you had seriously considered that."

Contrary to his words, a beaming smile was expressed on Seinosuke’s face as he shrugged his shoulders and came clean.

"Well, I'm on a break from work, but I had things to do here, so I thought I'd just come by and take the opportunity to give Hanatarō a little advice."

"Advice…?"

Then Seinosuke narrows his eyes ever so slightly and the smile disappears from his face as he touches on the real issue at hand.

"Hanatarō. Wouldn’t you like to take time off from squad 4 for a little while​?"

"Ehh?"

"Various rumours have reached my ears, relating to my work."

The representative of the Seireitei's Shinō Seyakuin* (*central pharmaceutical/medical institution) ---- or in other words, Seinosuke, who is the chief executive of a specialised relief station for upper class nobility with a focus on the four great noble clans, chuckled as he spoke in response to Hanatarō tilting his head at the sudden proposal.

"With the Quincy threat now gone, there probably won't be any big wars occurring for some time. However, the Seireitei seems to have fallen into slight crisis instead. This is not such a small course of events that will stop just because someone tries to stop it."

"If you don't want to get dragged into this, then separate yourself from a position of responsibility for a while, and cover your eyes and ears."

Human World - Karakura Town

 "Whoaaaaaa! Got dragged into thiiiis! We got dragged into this!"

Evening in Karakura Town.

As he ran through a deserted back alley, Asano Keigo who was fully enjoying his break until just a few minutes ago, was now making his tearful voice ring throughout the surroundings.

Running alongside him was a boy with a solid pokerface -- Kojima Mizuiro, who then spoke up.

"Be quiet Keigo. Your stamina will become just as useless as your yelling you know?"

"I've thought this for a long time but, why are you always, always so calm in situations like this!?"

"I can't help whether I'm calm or not."

Reducing his running speed, Mizuiro shifted his attention, glancing over his shoulder.

"It's the first time I've seen a monster that looks like that, but at least it's better than that cheating Aizen guy…"

Before his line of sight, there was an enormous and grotesque figure shaped like a crab -- a huge Hollow was drawing near, it let out an unpleasant shriek whilst raising its pincers overhead.

Kojima Mizuiro was once pursued by Aizen Sōsuke along with Keigo and Arisawa Tatsuki.

Although this situation isn't as bad as that time, the fact that their lives were in danger remained unchanged.

However, currently it's not Mizuiro or Keigo the monster was directly aiming at.

It was the figure of a young boy in a Shihakushō who was running slightly behind the other two that the Hollow was trying to crush with its pincers.

"Uwaaaaaaahh!! D-Danger! It's dangerous, so leave this up to me now, please escape quickly! But then who will save meeee!? Whoooo!?"

The young Shinigami who appeared to yell with almost the same tearful voice as Keigo, continued to run away from the huge hollow without being given even a bit of leeway to perform Shikai.

Yuki Ryūnosuke - a shinigami in charge of Karakura Town - casually happened to encounter a Hollow that was much stronger than himself, and in the midst of escaping in a panic, he ended up getting Keigo and Mizuiro, who were walking through a back alley, caught up in this situation too.

Keigo and the others have been involved in various events concerning their friend Kurosaki Ichigo, on top of that receiving something​ called 'soul tickets' from the eyepatch wearing Shinigami also seems to have been a trigger for them to become considerably susceptible to sensing spiritual phenomenon.

They've caught glimpses of Yuki's presence every now and then, and they've heard his name from Orihime and the others, but Keigo and Mizuiro didn't concern themselves with such matters by giving him a level of recognition thinking “they have chosen a successor, that probably means he is much stronger than Af-san”.

It turned out now, that this young Shinigami who showed up in place of Kurumadani Zennosuke -- the Shinigami who is his predecessor, referred to as "Af-san*" (*short for Afro-san) by Keigo and "Imoyama san" by Ichigo -- is far more unreliable than Keigo and Mizuiro could have imagined.

Watching Ryūnosuke escape whilst drawing out his Zanpakutō in a shaky manner, Keigo screamed loudly, Mizuiro on the other hand calmly thought "at this pace, I wonder if we can escape to Urahara san's shop…"

Mizuiro had also implicitly asked Ichigo about Urahara Shōten, he was told that he would be safe if he escaped there first of all if they were ever attacked by a Hollow in the event that Ichigo himself was not present.

In the course of handling the aftermath of the Aizen incident,  Mizuiro was gathering a certain degree of intelligence, so he understood that the shopkeeper of that Urahara Shōten was on par with the captain ranks, and moreover, he understood that Urahara is a man of great importance.

---- "I think he will try to sell you various items afterwards. But I guess you may as well give in and think of it as a 'thank you' for receiving his help."

Since Ichigo said that, Mizuiro has entered the shop a few times, of course there was a variety of suspicious goods stacked alongside each other such as "Anti-spirit serum Katakoran Alpha" and "Spirit Repellent Spray Sekirei X" which were clearly not brand-name goods.

"Oh, that reminds me."

Remembering something, Mizuiro dexterously began fishing inside his bag whilst running.

"W-w-w-what are you doing, Mizuiro!? Don’t tell me you're trying to take out some stun gun like thing again!?"

Mizuiro then produced a ball with a strange face drawn on it before the shouting Keigo.

'Electromagnetic​ Capture Sphere - Zeta-ball tan'.

It was the name of that product that Mizuiro had recalled.

When he asked the young girl tending to the store - who looked to be a junior high school student - about how to use the product, the explanation she gave was "uh let's see…if it is the case that you are being chased by something that defies human understanding, then after twisting this knob, please throw it at the Holl…… at the monster."

"Well, I might as well give this a try since I have nothing to lose."

As he muttered that, Mizuiro threw the item he was carrying at the huge crab monster in the way he was instructed to do so.

Then in the next instant --  an intense noise along with lightening devoured the surroundings, the monster's movements were slowed down as its whole body convulsed.

"Wow…how amazing. If I had thrown that at a person I wonder if it would have been fatal…?"

Next to Mizuiro who said that with calmness, Keigo slowed down to walking speed in blank amazement.

"What now!? Stun guns!? Eh?…huh? What do we do now!? stun guns!?"

As soon as he gave up trying to think, Keigo repeats the same line twice in bewilderment.

With a sidelong glance, he expected the boy clothed in black to now move on the offensive, however -- the 'key player' Yuki Ryūnosuke was unable to stay standing due to the surprise of the lightning and thunderous roar from just a moment ago.

"……lets resuming this marathon course again shall we?"

Although its movements were slowed down, it didn't mean that the Hollow was completely defeated. Because of this situation, Keigo began to consider the idea that he would have to flee whilst carrying Yuki underarm.

However, he was brought to a standstill midway through that thought --

-- By the loud voice of an assertive young woman which echoed through the back alley.

 "What are you doing!? Ryūnosukeee!"

 Watching the silhouette of the young woman -- the owner of that voice --jump down from the rooftop of a multi-storey building, Mizuiro confirmed that she was one of the Shinigami that had come to their town together with Yuki.

---- If I remember correctly, it was Madarame Shino san.

As her Shihakushō fluttered matching the force of her drop, with all her might, Shino swung down her Zanpakutō which had transformed into a Naginata*. (*A pole like weapon with a curved single edged blade on its end - same weapon type as Ikkaku's Shikai).

The violent impact made the area around the alleyway​ tremble like an earthquake.

The giant crab shaped Hollow is crushed and dissolved into tiny pieces, its Reishi purified by the power of her Zanpakutō.

Keigo's facial expression was one of amazement towards the Shinigami who had defeated that huge monster with a single strike,  Mizuiro took in the situation with a cool composure thinking "ah, at least there is also a competent Shinigami."

Meanwhile Ryūnosuke who realised that the Hollow had been purified, looked at Shino and spoke words of relief.

"That's good…you were safe Shino san."

"That's my line, this idiot!"

Shino who landed on the ground with her back turned towards Ryūnosuke​, jumps behind him and collides with the top of his shoulder.

Whether by chance or intentional, after she had sent Ryūnosuke tumbling to the ground with a luchador's 'tope de reversa' move, she attacked her defeated partner further by using a joint lock technique on his body.

"Pathetic! Why is it that this is a chance in a million and still you are too intimidated to even stay standing yourself!"

"Ai-tatatata! Let go, let go Shino chan! Please let go of my arms neck and back!"

Watching that sort of comedy exchange between the other two, Keigo was finally able to exhale a heavy breath realising they had overcome their predicament.

"Phew… we're saved. Shino chan was it? Somehow, I feel like I've seen you before."

"…oh? It's you? So you're the guy Ikkaku-nii​ took on as an underling in this place…"

"Ikkaku-nii!? And is that the way I'm supposed to be treated!? As an ‘underling’? That baldy was nothing like a leader to me at all you know!?"

Asano Keigo was once threatened by Madarame Ikkaku who had come to the Human World, he ended up being half forced to accommodate Ikkaku. However the fact that Keigo's sister was so eager was also a major reason why he lent the accommodation.

"Baldy you say… I'll pretend I didn't hear that but, if word reaches Ikkaku-nii's ears, he would kill you."

Listening to the conversation in a setting that has calmed down, Shino appeared to be either Madarame Ikkaku's sister or cousin. It seems the family of both her and Ikkaku were being repeatedly involved in violence everyday in Rukongai, before the both of them were old enough to understand the world around them, their parents had died one after the other and they were passed onto their relatives who kept giving them the runaround, as a consequence they also didn't have have a clear understanding of exactly how they were related.

After Ikkaku had suddenly become a Shinigami, she herself followed by entering the Shinō Academy, however that brother told her directly from his mouth "I think squad 11 is too intense for Shino", top management also concluded as such, and to this day, she is attached to the 13th division where she was eventually assigned to.

"Good grief, even though you've been training continuously all that time since that war with the Quincies ended, you still can't help but essentially be a good for nothing​ loser!"

"Oof, I'm sorry, Shino san…"

At Shino's telling off, Ryūnosuke dropped his shoulders despondently.

Unable to just watch without doing anything, Keigo interrupted the lecture in order to divert the conversation.

"I mean, it wasn't a matter of concern because of Ichigo's​ safe return. But even though the battle ended it didn't exactly mean that those white monsters decreased​ too did it…?"

Releasing a small sigh, Shino responded to Keigo's question seeing as how he was a victim who was dragged into this.

"It's not that we Shinigami and Kurosaki san were waging war with Hollows or something. This region is prone to hollows from the start…"

Listening to Shino's words, Mizuiro nodded in understanding.

"Ah, it was about that special sacred place wasn't it? The one that Aizen was aiming for right?"

"…You're a human, and yet you are well informed huh. I see. For that reason, anything could happen in this locality, so we can't be off our guard."

Then, Ryūnosuke opens his mouth to speak with a serious look in his eye.

"But, I think I'm pretty unprepared whenever I'm dispatched!"

"Don't say that to yourself!"

Ryūnosuke's scream echoed across the alleyways of Karakura Town as he was subjected to the joint lock technique again.

However, as if drowning out that scream, a voice on a loudspeaker resounded from the direction of the main street.

["……therefore, it is unacceptable for the world to remain in its present condition, however people do not wish to return to the past, what the Dōshi* seeks is an escape to a new world------" ] (* An officiating monk/priest/guru)

"What's that?"

When Shino knit her eyebrows together in discomfort at the voice that was streaming out from the propaganda vehicle like thing, Mizuiro answered that question.

"It's an emerging religious cult that was recently born. Because of the lengthy earthquake we had half a year ago, it sparked a considerable amount of disorder around the world."

The lengthy earthquake.

 This had occurred because of the fact that during the course of the war between the Shinigami​ and the Quincies, the Soul King had perished and as a result the boundaries between Soul Society, the Human World and Hueco Mundo began to collapse.

It was completely different from the geological system so far, due to the extraordinarily long earthquake that occurred for reasons that cannot be explained by science, the world was gradually being wrapped in deep anxiety to no ends.

Many people had premonitions.

 One could say they smelled danger.

 They wondered if this meant that some mighty force had encircled this world, defying science and conventional common knowledge.

 It was dealt with publicly as "a large scale deformation of the Earth's crust that was not present in our previous data, at present the cause is under investigation", however that alone was not enough to eliminate the anxiety that was born in people's minds.

 As a result, religious people who sought answers themselves, or those who tried to take advantage of people's anxieties, founded new religions one after another​, good and evil was jumbled together and chaos had slowly spread throughout the world.

 Currently, amongst those religious faiths, there is a particularly influential one, it is the same group that was distributing its doctrine with a propaganda vehicle just a moment ago.

 Trying to supplement the subject Mizuiro had brought up, Keigo talks about the information he himself knows with serious eyes.

 "They say, the founder of that religious sect can truly make things like miracles happen. And most importantly, it was rumoured that the founder is a sister with a nice body and a considerably beautiful woman! That founding sister came to encourage me directly about how a truly ideal world should be!"

 Listening to that, Shino's eyes became half closed as she asked Mizuiro a question.

 "Hey, can I beat this guy up?"

 "I think that's fine."

 Watching as Mizuiro nods,  Ryūnosuke also poses a question feeling some doubts himself.

 "All that out of the way, what is the name? The name of that new religious group?"

 "Right. If I remember correctly, the name of that group was……"

 Human World - Inside a certain multi-floor company building - President's office.

 "Thank you very much for giving me the opportunity to talk with you this time. President Vorarlberna."

 The woman who is ushered into the simple black themed room respectfully bows her head to the young boy who was seated on a sofa playing on his handheld gaming device.

 The woman was wearing a style of suit that gave off a flirtatious impression, and although it had nothing to do with her actual attire, it was her very being that would somehow make any observer sense the mystical seductiveness about her.

 However, without even turning his eyes to such a woman, the young boy that was referred to as Vorarlberna, continued to play around with his gaming device whilst crafting his words in an uninterested manner.

 "…Enough of your barefaced greetings. What are your objectives​?"

 Addressing the boy - Yukio Hans Vorarlberna - who had asked that question, the woman answered courteously.

 "Dear me. My one and only purpose here is to meet with president Vorarlberna representative of 'Y. Hans Enterprise', who is promised to be a victor of the future by fate. Young, talented people like yourself​ have the power to lead everybody into the future. As a guide that will pave the way to a righteous world, I would like to have your allegiance to our creed."

 'Y. Hans Enterprise'.

 It is a corporation owned by Yukio and a large company that is currently expanding its business with enough force to knock down birds in flight.

 He obtained the company by seizing control of it from his father and thought it was not worth worrying about, but after going through conflict with Kurosaki Ichigo and the Shinigami, it was now one of his objectives in life is to expand that company​. In the future, it is his aim to construct fertile grounds that accepts stray people who are fellow 'Fullbringers' like himself. Actually, even at this stage, Dokugamine Riruka was part of the company as a cooperative worker, and although it was earlier than planned, it was through her that he was also able to call out to Jackie Tristan.

 That young company president that had a hidden identity as a 'Fullbringer', in a cold manner and for the second time, questioned the woman who was enticed into his multi-floor company building.

 "Do I look like the type that would keep company with someone who gives such a farcical response?"

 "Would it be better for me to outright tell you that I want a donation as a collateral in exchange for slaving away to expand your business?"

 "That is also a farce. That is not your, no, that is not your​ people's intention now is it?"

 Unfazed, and as if reading her like a book, Yukio continued to talk in a manner that was not dissimilar to muttering to himself.

 He then parted one hand away from his gaming device, taking his business card out of his pocket and placing it on the the tabletop.

 Looking somewhat ill-humoured he opened his mouth to speak to the woman.

 "Although it has been on my mind for a while, by you coming here today I was assured…from this point, you will not be given a chance to retry, I think it's better you answer me honestly."

 Taking it as an opportunity to make an appointment, a single business card was handed over to Yukio. As he glared at the name of the organisation that was written there, Yukio asked her again.

 "You people, what are your objectives?"

 On that business card, the name of the woman is also written down with monotone characters.

For Yukio, both names could by no means be overlooked.

 [Religious corporation - XCUTION representative - Michibane Aura]

[elitaxne]

┊❛ SHUFFLING THE DECK ❜

♖. }

       The news of a death was never easy to hear and accept, especially that of a colleague, moreso considering how SUDDEN it had been. Elder members of the Council had their days numbered, regrettably so did he, such was the continuous cycle: creation, life, death, rebirth. Over and over it repeated, already he had lived many lifetimes throughout the expanse of the universe just as every other mecha, just as their Prime --- if the rumours were to be believed.

                           Optimus: the reincarnation of the Thirteenth Original Prime.

Blasphemy to draw such a disgraceful comparison... then again, it was the Thirteenth Prime who had betrayed the other Primes, who had so foolishly offered themselves to the Well and relinquished their power to become what? Cybertronian. Even the Prime’s had their downfalls, and in that aspect Optimus certainly had held up to that image.

As did his bondmate --- if the rumours were to be believed. Another relinquishing of power to a pretty face with a mind more clever than the devil, and twice as power-consumed. Perhaps Optimus really was the Thirteenth in another life after all, some misfortunes were far too natural to be coincidental.

The passing of the Fourth Chair had been painless ( they were assured ), an illness that came with an aged spark had struck late in the evening, taking the mech in his sleep. There were worse ways to go after all... It was odd however that he had showed no outward signs of sickness, then again, he had always been a stubborn mech --- to show any signs of weakness would force Elita’s hand in replacement; the wait was expected, respected, and finally had come to a close.

Try as she might he was next in line as successor for the Fourth seat --- Councillor of the boundary that housed their beloved Iacon no less. It had been their agreement, one forged before the war tore their planet to ruin, and one that was to be honoured long after it had begun rebuilding.

Primus, he could feel the fuchsia femme’s dissatisfaction spilling through her EM Field as she made her way towards him, all of Cybertron’s politicans gathered in the ornate hearing chambers for the ceremony. The cold glint in her optics made him smile, her naming of the Council had cost him his bench place --- but no more; a mere roadbump that only briefly intervened on the inevitable. His place would always be as a High Councillor, and no one --- no she or the Prime --- would EVER take that away from him.

As one of the original Councillors it was his right, his DUTY, to serve on the bench.

Neon optics flicker over slender features draped in translucent crystalline garments, hugging curves and cascading smooth plating with shimmers like starlight. Its brilliance rivalled only that of his own, wearing Iacon’s traditional colouring of GOLD, embellished with crystals more expensive than the tower where her and the Prime lived. Off-world jewels from the Golden Age, valuable and rare, only the finest of garments for an Induction Ceremony.

                                                 HIS Induction Ceremony.

All optics in the grand inner sanctum of the Council Towers --- and camera lenses projecting the live recording to every screen across Cybertron would capture this shift in history. Marking the day that would set him back on the course of recalmation, that was his internal promise to his colleagues who peered down from their prospective seats with small nods; it was simply all a matter of time.

Golden screens opened the visual text of the Code, held by one of the few remaining historical keepers in surprisingly steady servos, as he placed his own over the words. Councillor Elita stood at the side for the preceding, sceptre and staff --- representations of power and peace ( a tradition that carried from the Golden Age surprisingly enough ) held in her slender digits.

Merga repeated the recited text with perfect diction and clarity, quoting the required lines and oaths, promises of integrity, of justice, of mercy, of truth, and speaking in the native tongue that had nearly been eradicated along with the war. True Iaconian dialect, Primus it felt good to let the familiar words fall freely from his vocoder after having to utilize Neo-Cybex as per mandate.

The historian stepped back in place to the side, job now to record the new assigning of power as the Head Councillor came to stand before him. Cool, icy cerulean peered into steely neon hues intently, the silent conversation passing between the both of them nothing but cordial, yet the camera’s would never know such. Neon flicker up to the rest of the Council each at their places on the bench, with the Matrixbearer at the centre, his optics downcast and never wavering from that of the older mech. Good.

❝ Kneel, ❞ she prompted per her script, calm and collected despite the entire procession being a blow to her pride.

He commended her for keeping her emotions so intact, years of creating tall walls and allowing a spark casing to freeze had done wonders for the once fiery, passionate femme. Merga could still remember the day as though it were yesterday when he personally knocked her three pegs off her pedestal --- Zeta’s prideful appointing, who would go on to be named a potential successor. How funny life works, having to watch the honour of Prime slip through ones capable digits to that of a pious Archivist. No matter, Optimus had wound himself around those very digits all the same --- and even carried the Matrix in her stead like a well-trained lap dog. And there were those who said she had lost her ferocity... he disagreed.

The old mech lowered gracefully on a knee joint, helm bowing if only to fulfil the visual standard set by tradition. Gold glimmers of the staff and septre draw close as she crosses them to rest upon each shoulder pauldron respectively, dull thuds from the movements echoing in the opulent hall for all of Cybetron to hear.

Elita began softly, smoothly, yet no less strongly. All of Cybertron and beyond may well be watching, one of the largest audiences ever to bear witness so formally. Even upon first naming the Council years ago there hadn’t been enough mecha for such an elaborate ceremony, the proceedings were a testament to how far Cybetron had come. It was about all she could take solace in at the moment.

❝ In the sight of Primus light, at the Hall of the Council, you have been summoned in the wake of great tragedy. Per the succession of the respected Councillor the burden and title of their legacy has been named to pass to your shoulders. If for any reason you are unable to fulfil your duties and uphold the sworn vows as taken in the presence of your peers, another will be chosen by Energon or mandate in accordance to the Law. Do you accept the honour and privilege upon which you have spoken your oath? ❞

Merga replied with the scripted response, ❝ I do, with all my spark, Primus as my witness. ❞

Elita continued, ❝ Do you swear to serve with integrity, justice, nobility, and EQUALITY, to the best and beyond your abilities, in accordance to the four pillars of the Council, so sworn by Primus? ❞

Merga eyed her at the certain INFLECTION at a particular word, corners of his mouth tugging in to a hint of a grin. Glitch. ❝ I do, with all my spark, Primus as my witness. ❞

Smooth alto continued after a pause, the final phrase that would complete the ceremony, already it tasted like bitter poison on Elita’s glossa while she spoke. ❝ Noble Merga of Iacon, First of his name, Senator of the Fourth boundary, Named Successor of Councillor Volux --- in the witness of Optimus, Last of the Primes, the High Council, Senators, Chancellors, Cybertron, and her encompassing sistering colonies, as vested by the servos of the First Chair and in her power, you are hereby named High Councillor, Honourable Keeper of the Fourth Seat. You may rise. ❞

As Merga came to stand thunderous applause echoed around him, neon optics shining in the warm amber hues of sunlight streaming in tall wall-length windows behind the Council. The roar of frames coming to stand in their seats per tradition joined the applause, finding only a handful of servos that kept their appreciation to a minimum: the Prime, the Head Councillor, and half the bench. Today was but the first day that would spark change, Cybertron would return to its Golden Age --- that he swore with all his spark.

[theodoredimas]

I’ll Write You a Tragedy - 1/?

Summary:

Sequel to Show Me a Hero.

The rise of a hero was never an easy journey.

Notes:

The long awaited sequel to Show Me a Hero is here! This is a story loosely based off of the comic book version of Mon-El. This is Mon-El’s story. His journey to finding himself again. I hope you all enjoy!!

AO3

Clark watched with concern as Alex wrapped a blanket around Kara’s shoulders. It had only been a few short hours beforehand when they had witnessed Mon-El’s sacrifice. Clean up was underway, but upon the urging of both J’onn and Clark himself, Kara went back home with Alex. Now, Clark stood off in the kitchen as Alex brushed Kara’s hair from her face as she sat on the couch. He could tell that she was still in shock over the day’s events. Everyone still was. Alex spoke softly to Kara, not getting a response, before moving toward Clark. Alex moved in the direction of the refrigerator. Grabbing a bottle from it and she filled a cup with club soda, as Clark asked, “How is she?”

Shaking her head, Alex placed the bottle down. “I don’t know. She hasn’t said anything since we got here.” Leaning heavily onto the counter, Alex looked at Clark, “I’m worried, Clark. I’ve never seen her like this before.” Looking back at Kara, she spoke softly, “She’s heartbroken and I can’t fix that. I don’t know how to.”

Clark was about to tell her something when he heard the beacon he had given his parents in case they were ever in danger. Alex noticed the shift on his face and asked, “What is it?”

His breathing shallowed as he told her, “My parents, they’re in danger. I…” He looked at his cousin, concern for her warring with his concern for his parents.

Alex made the choice for him as she told him, “Go, I’ve got her.”

Nodding once, he moved to kiss Kara gently on her forehead, whispering to her that he would be back shortly before he took to the sky from her window. The last thing he let himself hear was Kara’s heartbroken sob as Alex offered her the club soda.

Jonathan knelt down next to Mon-El, taking in his red super suit. Soot covered his face, it slowly being washed away as the storm persisted on around them. Wiping rainwater from his own eyes, Jonathan went to take the man’s pulse when his wife warned him, “Be careful.”

Looking back, he was about to say he would be when the hairs on Jonathan’s arms stood up as he felt an energy form around him. Knowing the signs of an incoming strike, he stumbled back quickly, covering his eyes as lightning struck Mon-El squarely in the chest. Martha shouted for her husband as a loud boom sounded throughout the field. Moving as fast as he could, Jonathan pulled himself out of the crater as the raging storms lightning again struck the unconscious man. He grabbed onto his wife as they both shielded their eyes from the blinding source and the rain that continued to pour down. Looking toward his wife, Jonathan shouted, “Did you call Clark?”

Nodding once, she showed him the beacon that she had activated to alert their son that they needed him. One last bolt cracked through the air, causing the two to move farther back, before only the sound of rain pouring down was left. Moving forward slowly, the couple looked down into the crater again. They watched as small chunks of dirt around the man started to float in the air before they dropped suddenly to the ground as Mon-El awoke with a gasp.

Rolling onto all fours, Mon-El slowly pushed himself up, swaying slightly as he took in his surroundings. He didn’t know where he was. In fact, as he tried to think of his last memory, he realized he didn’t know who he was. Panic began to fill his chest as the realization dawned on him that he couldn’t remember anything. Nothing of substance. Looking down at himself, he took note of the odd clothing he was wearing before he realized that his feet were no longer touching the ground. Another wave of panic filled him when he heard a gasp from behind him.

Jonathan moved a protective arm in front of his wife as they watched the unknown man start to hover before them, his back facing them. Martha gasped softly, fear taking hold of her heart – not knowing if this was someone like General Zod.

Mon-El turned to face the two people behind him, a heat filling his eyes as fear gripped his own heart. He watched as the older man protected what was no doubt his mate, raising his own hand in a show of submission. Rain continued to fall from the sky as Mon-El heard the older man tell him, “Son, please, don’t harm us.”

Mon-El felt a jolt of joy at the prospect that these two might be his parents. Looking down at the ground before the two people, Mon-El slowly lowered himself until his feet were once again firmly planted on earth’s surface. Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath and felt the heat in his eyes subside. Opening them again, he looked at the couple in front of him. Taking another step forward, he frowned when they took two steps back. Stopping, he swallowed thickly before asking, “Are you my parents?”

Jonathan looked back at his wife, before looking at Mon-El again. Shaking his head, he told the young man, “No, we’re not. We were tending our field when you fell from the sky. Do you not remember who your parents are?”

Mon-El looked back to the crater that he had been in, then looking up at the cloud covered sky. Panic slowly started to creep back in as he stuttered. “I…I don’t,” he looked toward Jonathan with fear clearly visible in his eyes, “I don’t know.”

Jonathan took a tentative step forward, motioning for Martha to stay where she was. “Well, what is the last thing you do remember? You’re wearing a super suit, do you remember anything about that?” Looking down, Mon-El took in his blue boots and red outfit, his cape flapping gently in the storm’s wind. Shaking his head, he looked up at Jonathan. “I don’t remember anything. I…” Panic began to rise quickly as his breathing became erratic. His heart sped up as he urged himself to remember something, anything. Nothing came though. As his panic rose different sounds started to filter in. Too many sounds. Everything was too much. Covering his ears with his hands, Mon-El fell down to his knees in agony.

Jonathan immediately recognized what was happening and knelt down in front of Mon-El. Speaking as soothingly as he could, he said, “Son, I need you to focus on one thing. Find something to focus solely on and let everything else drop away. Find that one thing for me. You can do it.”

Mon-El looked up at Jonathan, trying to process the words the man had just spoken. Nodding once, he closed his eyes and searched. He didn’t know what he was searching for but soon enough he found it. A gentle, steady heartbeat among all the chaotic noise around him. Focusing solely on that, he let everything else fade to the background. His breathing slowed considerably as he continued to listen to the steady beat. However, something about it sparked a feeling within him. A shift was felt as he could feel that it wasn’t right. Letting his hands fall from his ears, Mon-El focused acutely to the heartbeat as he slowly stood up.

Tilting his head slightly, he tried to find what was wrong, when Jonathan smiled at him. “I knew you could do it. Now, while you may not remember who you are, our son may know who you are. He’s no doubt on his way right now. So why don’t we head inside and get out of the rain.”

Jonathan motioned toward his home in the distance as Mon-El shook his head. “It’s not right.”

Jonathan inquired, “What isn’t right?”

Looking back at the older man, Mon-El told him, “The sound. It’s not right. It sounds…sad.” Moving away from Jonathan, Mon-El spoke more to himself than anyone else. “It shouldn’t be sad.” He continued to listen to the steady beat. It was slower than it should be. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he knew it shouldn’t be that slow. Moving forward he grew concerned when the heart rate sped up drastically, becoming almost erratic in nature. He was compelled up into the air, needing to alleviate whatever was causing the person that held that heart to be so distressed.

Jonathan shouted out as Mon-El flew away from them. “Wait!” However, it was too late.

Martha came up to him, an unease filling her body. “Do you think he…��

She didn’t even have to finish her thought as her husband answered her, “I don’t know. He has Clark’s powers and every other Kryptonian we’ve encountered, besides Kara, has turned out to be bad news.”

Clark suddenly landed before them, concern evident on his face. “Mom, Dad, what’s wrong?” Looking at the crater on his parents’ property, he asked, “What happened?”

Jonathan told Clark exactly what had just occurred and concluded, “We tried to get him to stay, but he just took off.”

Clark looked down at the crater again before looking at his dad. “And he didn’t remember who he was? And you’re sure he’s Kryptonian?”

Martha nodded her as she said, “He said he didn’t remember anything. It was the oddest thing though, with his suit. The colors were the complete opposite of yours.”

Clark’s breath caught in his chest at her words. “What?”

Nodding some more, she explained, “His cape was a royal blue, as were his boots. But everything else was red, just like the color of your cape.”

Clark knew of only one person that had such a suit. “That can’t be possible.”

Jonathan moved to stand next to his son as he asked, “What can’t be possible?”

Clark didn’t want to get his hopes up, fearing if he voiced his thoughts they wouldn’t be true. Pointing in the direction that headed back to National City, he asked, “And he went that way?”

Nodding, Jonathan said, “Son, what is it?”

Hope blossomed in his chest as he prepared to take flight. “I have to go, I have to find him.” Moving away from his parents, he told them, “I’ll explain everything later. I can’t risk losing him.” Pushing off the ground, Clark soared through the clouds as the storm slowly started to dissipate. He couldn’t lose Mon-El again. For his cousin’s sake, he couldn’t.

Mon-El flew through the sky as he drew closer to the carrier of the heartbeat he listened to. He was flying over a small town when a cry of distress caught his attention. Stopping midair, he looked down and saw that an apartment building was engulfed in flames. Listening in, he heard the fire chief give the order for his men to evacuate the building. Mon-El heard the chief give the order again as one of his firefighters urged the chief to let him continue with his search.

Torn, Mon-El focused on the heartbeat again, noticing that it was even more erratic from just a few seconds prior. He started to fly away from the fire below when he heard a mother cry out, “Please, my baby, she’s in there. Please you have to get her.”

The chief stood stoically as he again spoke to his team, “Nobody goes back in. All members out of the collapse zone, everybody back up.”

The mother pleaded again, “Please, she’s all I have. You have to save her. Please.”

Mon-El looked down as all the firefighters slowly started to back away from the building. Hearing the distress in the mother’s voice pulled at a feeling deep within him. Looking back in the direction of where the owner of the heartbeat no doubt was, Mon-El turned toward the burning building and flew at full speed into it. He didn’t even feel the flames that licked at his skin as he focused on the small whimper of a child in distress. Finding her within a few seconds, he was about to lift her into his arms. However, in what felt like slow motion, the room was suddenly filled with flames. Moving forward in superspeed, he covered the small girl with his body, his cape becoming a protective shield for her. Once the flash was finished, Mon-El looked around the room briefly before looking down at the young girl. Smiling, he spoke softly to her. “I’m going to get you out of here, okay?”

The small child nodded once, clutching a small bear in her arms. Mon-El wrapped his cape around the girl as he lifted her into his arms. He could hear the sobs from her mother as he flew through the flames, it pulling at what felt like a memory that was just out of reach. Pushing that feeling aside, Mon-El focused as he flew out of the building. Once he was out of the path of the fire, he let his cape fall away, revealing the small child to all the onlookers. Landing gently to the ground, Mon-El moved forward as the mother rushed toward him. Tears of joy now streamed down her face as she saw her daughter was alive and well.

The child happily went into her mother’s arms as the woman spoke to Mon-El. “Thank you. Thank you. I don’t know who you are, but thank you. You saved my baby.”

Mon-El nodded once as a team of paramedics came to check on both mother and daughter. Mon-El looked around as he saw several people filming everything that had just taken place on their phones. He was getting ready to push off the ground to take flight when the chief called out to him. Turning to look toward the commanding officer, the chief said, “Thank you.” Nodding once, Mon-El again was about to leave when the chief asked, “Do you have a name? Something to call you by?”

Mon-El looked back at the chief, the knowledge that he had no memories coming back to him. At his silence, the chief laughed. “You’re one of the stoic types then. Okay.” Looking around, the chief noted a word within the motto written on the fire truck. “How about Valor?”

Mon-El felt his lips turn up just the slightest bit at the name. It was something that was tangible that he could have. Something to hold onto within the sea of the unknown. The chief noted the smile and watched as the man took off into the sky. Smiling, the chief wiped at his brow as news trucks started to pull up to the scene. Speaking to himself, he said, “Thank you, Valor. Thank you.”

Mon-El began to fly toward where he had heard the heartbeat, however found that he couldn’t focus in on it again. Other sounds began to drown out everything else. Sounds of distress from across the world. He heard a small child cry out in hunger pangs, a man’s shout of distress followed closely by a crunch of metal against metal. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find that heartbeat again. Not when hundreds of thousands of pleas for help filled his ears. He found he couldn’t ignore them. He was compelled to help them. He hovered in the air briefly as he tried to find the heartbeat one last time. However a voice he had never heard before, to his recollection, rang in his head. Protect the people, above all else.

Even though, in his heart, he wanted to continue to search for the owner of that heartbeat, Mon-El also knew that he needed to help those in need of protection. Maybe one day he would hear that heartbeat again. He may even regain his memories and find out why that heartbeat meant so much to him, why he was drawn to it. Until that day though, he would do everything that he could to help those around him in need. Drifting higher into the sky, Mon-El let the sounds of pain and distress engulf him. Listening intently, he soon found one that was in dire need of his immediate help. A sonic boom could be heard as he flew off.

On the ground below, reporters clamored to get the first inside story of the newest hero of Earth. Valor.

[wearetruenamer]

A Story for Raide: Heroes

I“A death knight. We certainly have... different approaches, shall we say. Still, I’m hardly one to begrudge someone a different set of tactics. I have known death knights, dark knights, blackguards, and even some fallen paladins who have taken up the mantle and fought for what is right.”

“Case in point, the story of the city of Miklat.”

A gust of wind blew outward from Sigmund. Cold and dry. A desert at night.

“It was a very small place, where everyone knew each other by name and deed - for better or worse. And none were more renowned than the twins Ibrahim and Isaac, sons of a local merchant - a widower known for his fine imports of exotic spices. The twins embodied the phrase “for better or for worse” perfectly in the eyes of the cityfolk. Isaac was generally considered the “better” - his tutors praised him, and he was known for his honesty with people and just heart, with respect for the gods and their servants, the Archangels. Ibrahim, on the other hand, was known for being a little more guarded, a little less trustworthy, a little more... dangerous. People still spoke to him and interacted with him, but they kept their guard up, both perceptually and magically. While Isaac studied pure magic and elemental sorcery, Ibrahim focused on the sword. And there were rumours he was exploring something darker...”

Tension weighed down on Raide. As if his brow was anticipating a thunderstorm.

“As the twins grew older, the twins’ family grew poorer and poorer thanks to tariffs and bandits along the trade routes that supplied them. More and more often, their father had to rely on the kindness of others to feed his family, and in turn the twins had to rely on their skills and their friends to take the strain off their father. Isaac took to asking people for money or food, relying on his reputation to bring him success.

“Generally, it didn’t.

“Ibrahim, meanwhile, associated himself with a group of thieves and bandits who were in the same situation he was in. For the first time, he found himself as a true part of the community - there was, in this case, honour among thieves. Through their combined efforts, Ibrahim brought home enough gold to put food on the table. To save the ego of his brother and the honour of his father, however, he gave the gold and food to Isaac before they came home each day. Isaac received the praise, and his father was at peace, thinking his food and money to be honourably received.

“The twins learned three lessons from their experiences.”

The tension abated...

“Ibrahim learned that you can always rely on others for aid, if you look for those who care enough to help - he learned to trust in a community. He learned enough people have enough that they would never miss a few coins here or there - he learned that there is no dishonour in doing what is necessary. But most importantly, he learned that humility in body and spirit makes for peace in everyone, be they rogues or princes. He learned, in short, that the world was good, even to those who profess to be bad.”

... and returned.

“Isaac, however, learned that people who say they like you cannot be trusted with your well-being. He learned that honesty only works on those who are equally honest. And he learned that in the end, the honest fail while the rogues - like his brother, like his thieves, like his city - always rise to the top. He learned, in short, that his world was cruel.

“He began poring over old magical tomes, learning every fact about magic he could. His tutors, while impressed, began to worry about their prodigious student. All the while, Ibrahim kept food on the table and coin in their pockets.

“Until one day, he vanished in the night.”

The storm gathering on Raide’s brow broke.

“They searched day and night for a week - checking the hills outside their city, the old temples to the Archangels that lay on the outskirts of town, the roads and their guardsmen and travellers. Eventually they resigned themselves to the fact that Isaac was gone.

“For a month, life continued as normal. Ibrahim, between stealing at dawn and tutoring by day, kept his father fed, under the pretense that people wanted to support his family from the loss of their son. This was bolstered by the fact that people had come by, to express their grief and regret that they didn’t help them while Isaac was still there, and give the man some recompense for the tragedy of losing the better of his two sons. In Isaac’s absence, he missed the proof his worldview was false: people rallied together to aid his father.

“This only made it all the more heartbreaking when Isaac returned... bearing plagues of pure elemental chaos to rain damnation on this forsaken city.”

“Fire rained, rubble roiled with earthquakes, and ice pellets rained like frozen knives where Isaac walked. But the citizens couldn’t see a person amidst the chaos that was approaching, couldn’t know that it was for their perceived sins that this was coming. The only thing they knew was that doom was coming to them.

“Ibrahim couldn’t see his brother either. But he knew how he studied, and could tell something was amiss before he disappeared. This was not a plague from a god, or from a devil or a demon. This was his brother, whose frustrations gave way to rage, and then to what he perceived as righteous justice.

“There was only one thing to do.

“The temples on the outskirts of town were older than the town itself. It was rumoured that they had incantations that, if read correctly, would cause an Archangel to manifest on earth, using a human body. If it were anyone else, this might not have been tenable. But the thieves knew every nook and cranny of the city, and knew how to get everywhere in minutes, while a layperson might wander for hours. As his thieves made their way to the temples, Ibrahim left the city limits, in the hopes of stopping his brother, or at least slowing him down.

“But when Isaac saw Ibrahim, the elemental fury gave way to a dark purple energy of pure hate. He is what is wrong with this city. He is the symbol for all things evil, and wrong.

“He. Must. Die.”

The words tolled like a knell.

“Seeing this, Ibrahim ran back into the city, not a single word spoken. It was too late for him. But not too late for the city. As he was running back to the core of the city, he could feel the place thrum with holy energy. No Archangel had yet appeared, but the incantations were clearly doing their work.

“When he came to the marketplace in the city centre, he saw people running, screaming about their sins, and how the end of times was here. All the people who gave their condolences, all the people who searched for Isaac when he disappeared. 

“Ibrahim knelt on the stone steps of the fountain in the marketplace, and began to pray. No loud words could save them, no screaming, no warriors, nothing but the gods could save them - or if not, only prayer could ease the passing.

“And one by one, the people noticed Ibrahim, the prodigal son, praying for their safety in the middle of the square. One by one, they stopped their screaming, even as the darkness was closing in on their city. One by one, they joined him in prayer. And as they did, the thrumming energy around them increased.

“Isaac drew near, entering the city and destroying homes, shops, bakeries, all the places he and Ibrahim used to play in his wake. The marketplace was before him - he could see everyone kneeling in prayer. As if these souls could make an honest plea before the Divine. No, they were all deceitful, and he was the hand of the gods. He gathered his rage and anger, ready to strike.

“And as he did, the Archangel parried the blow. He had Ibrahim’s face.

“The two battled for a while, even as the cityfolk continued to pray, even as thieves read ancient inscriptions in old temples. Ibrahim grew stronger as they fought, and as they wishes of his people grew.

“He would not fail them. Not now, not ever.”

“At last, Ibrahim overpowered his brother. But just as he was ready to deliver the final blow, he faltered. Angry and pained though he may be, he was still Isaac, the good child, his brother and companion. The brother who was preparing a curse to hurl in his direction, even as he faltered, a curse that would level his city and kill the people he was protecting.

“He could have killed him and been done with it. He could have blocked the blow and be destroyed. He could have let everyone die.

“Instead, he prepared something of his own. A little bit of the dark magic he learned, empowered by the Archangels. A death curse, of sorts, guaranteeing the same fate for caster and recipient, with fell efficiency and holy purport. Ibrahim’s fist struck his brother in the face as he ran to intercept Isaac’s curse - and the two of them were transmuted to stone instantly where they stood.”

There was stillness in the air. 

“When the thieves ran back to the city after the dust cleared, they joined the crowd in staring at the two figures, frozen in rough, jagged stone, as if magma conspired to play at being a god. Isaac the Better, and Ibrahim the Worse, locked in the moment that disproved their names forever. In the coming days, they used the rubble from Isaac’s wake to build a square around the impromptu sculpture, and a shrine to appeal to the gods by it, so that all may learn to be as great a hero as the thief of Miklat.

“The statue no longer stands in the city... but that’s another story for another day.”

@we-are-death-knight

[spidersanctuary]

A disordered venting about RP problems:

My experience RPing with Tumblr RPing is not very extensive - goes back about five years, I think. Before that, I RPd a bit, much earlier, but for the most part the only RPing I've done is on Tumblr (and Skype, but as an extension of Tumblr RPing).

I don't like bouncing around. I tend to stick with a place that looks legit, get attached to the characters (mine and others') and stick it out, even sometimes unreasonably so. I've been in... basically three group RPs. Two of them were larger (let's say, defined as "more than around ten active players at any given time", and the third was smaller and purely reactionary, a-la "we don't like the way things are here so we'll make our own". Though not without problems (and I can't say I didn't have my part in them), it was the most drama-free as a whole. It also looks like the fourth, soon to come, might follow along the same pattern.

Despite my sample size of one, I'm confident in saying small groups have a different dynamic. Especially if they're founded by people who already know each other. Bigger groups are trickier, in many ways, and I was struck by the realisation that the different problems I encountered in both my bigger groups were representative of two ends of a spectrum.  Similar things going wrong in opposite ways, so to speak.

One of them was defined by lack of forethought and planning. Indeed the whole RP just kind of happened organically, something more serious growing out of something very silly and casual. While it had its fun sides - and it was wildly fun, at times, for as long as the fun lasted - it's also obvious in retrospect how that could be a huge problem. Different players. No standardised rules or guidelines until way, waaay later in the game (after much drama had already happened). Lots of different people with different RPing backgrounds and personalities and playstyles, none of them fully on the same page. While many of the problems had to do with one or two difficult personalities in the group, that's not really the isuse. There is always a risk of... unpleasant people, no RP group is safe from them and no RP guidelines will truly protect you from someone who WANTS to start shit or manipulate things to their benefit and is cunning enough to do that. But even aside from that... the lack of regulation about who could grab what characters and how many (some players ending up with 20+ blogs), or any kind of spoken agreement about activity guidelines and replying etiquette. Lack of agreement about how "canon" certain plots were, in the RPing continuity. Lack of agreement about the continuity, period. A clash between people who wanted to develop a certain pre-planned (and rather exclusive) storyline and those who were more in it for spontaneity. It was a recipe for disaster. It didn't need to get as bad as it did, but starting off like that, it was bound to get unpleasant eventually anyway.

Now, the other group... oh, the other group. After the colourful experience of the first group, the things it offered seemed like a reassuring breath of fresh air. Planning! An almost DnD-esque level of detail to the established universe, rulebook, bestiary and lore! Basically an entire little sandbox lovingly crafted for you to play in. Transparent activity guidelines and rules! An actual mod team working to be approachable while still holding authority! New plots for everyone to participate in to be released basically by the clock, so nobody would feel left out! So lovely! Unfortunately, things are rarely as sunny as they appear. A certain type of literate, application RPs is infamous for their snobbishness and elitism, and despite the initially welcoming tone, that was exactly what this unravelled to be. On the flip side, many of the appeals of the group amounted to little more than elaborate publicity acts. Always, always must the group remain attractive and desirable to newcomers (perhaps unsurprisingly given the apparently abysmal player retention rates, both short and long-term). The tone turned out very different from what was advertised, the sandbox-like universe revealing itself to be more of a literal sandbox, with complex topics turned into gimmicks, and supernatural characters (prosecuted and feared for their in-humanity) easily and casually sharing information about their powers with near-strangers like kids on a playground comparing their toys. The "plots" thrown one's way are not only usually poorly (if at all) developed but intrusive, so that they are impossible to avoid completely even if one is not interested in them. Worse yet, the RP insists on doling out serious consequences and high-stakes crises like death, destruction, invasions of murderous monsters or malignant town-wide spells, but is curiously reluctant to allow any room for serious RPing or sense of consequences.

In fact, it's impossible to talk about consequences when even a sense of any basic continuity is thrown out the window, precluded by the occasional hiatus and re-launch and the various measures taken to make sure that new players enter onto a relatively blank slate. Yes, even if long-time residents of the area and the populace in general SHOULD remember and be affected by that politically motivated massacre half a year back, or that time monstrous vegetables SLAUGHTERED half a school of elementary schoolchildren. Thus, even though the RP is long-running (turning two years old soon), it is impossible for the setting to develop any sense of history, and instead it seems to turn more and more comically nonsensical the more tragedies befall the town and are promptly forgotten a few weeks later. Rather than a serious and in-depth setting, one begins to feel instead as if all the characters are living in a Lotus Eater-like state of vague oblivion, briefly reacting to various events but never quite letting them reach collective memory.

Now, all this might be bearable (and even fun! There's an appeal in a certain kind of wacky no-strings-attached horror-comedy-gore, no denying that), IF a couple things weren't true. a) If the RP (and specifically the mod team) didn't make such a huge deal about what a serious and respectable and serious RP it is. No OCs allowed. "We allow shipping but we don't put an emphasis on it! Please don't think this is one of those silly ship-obsessed RPs". No more than two characters allowed. Replies MUST happen every x days, and even though replies of various kinds are accepted (all prose, just different formats and individual reply lengths), only CERTAIN kinds count towards the activity requirement (???!), and a long-term failure to keep it up will end up in you getting the boot. Even if you ARE active and involved with other people and interact a lot. (Don't even get me started on that. I and about three or four other people, most of whom LEFT shortly after, ended up having our plots disrupted SIGNIFICANTLY because the mods booted - or in this case harangued into throwing in the towel and leaving in a huff - a player who was active with all of us, but wasn't active enough in "the RIGHT way" i.e. the right format. This was part of a bigger package of them caring more about keeping up certain pretenses and ticking off certain boxes to be more outwardly desirable to new applicants than the fun of the users who were already there.) b) The nit-picking. Oh god the nitpicking and micromanagement. Some of the shit I've personally seen, some of it I've heard about. It's one thing to crit a player for not being IC with a mod pre-made character. It's another thing to do that after they've been in play for A YEAR, and if you do that then, you're being blatantly disrespectful of all the development the player's put into them. And it's yet another thing to do that to someone's OC (before the 'no OCs' rule was instated). I've had mods dictate to me that my character shouldn't be reacting to x event like this or that, by listing a bunch of factors that, while possibly convincing, were only ONE possible way to interpret the big picture. For real. Psychology is complicated but for some reason all that goes out the window the moment the mod team decides they know how your character should be played (and I'm not talking about blatant realism or accuracy issues like "that's not how PTSD works" but actual decisions/ways of thinking, things that there should, in theory, be no "wrong" option with because once again, people are complicated).

Which brings me to: C) The omnipresent feeling of entitlement by the mod team aka the Powers That Be, as if they believe that theirs is such a supremely privileged, special and elite group, that they merely DEIGN to let you be a part of it. All of it manifesting in a complete lack of basic courtesy when approaching players. Or rather, any player who's been there longer than a month and who they're not actively trying to be Welcoming(TM) to. I should have seen it pretty early when I had a beef with another player who, to wit, disliked that an RP scene we had depicted her character as a "bad guy" (who was previously ESTABLISHED in canon as a psychopathic murderer!!! and the RP scene basically showed him doing more of the same!!!). She ended up badmouthing me to other players she was interacting with closely, and then they as a group complained about me to the mods, in which she twisted a certain conversation we'd had over Skype into something that reflected very badly on me, along the lines of me forcing her to RP a scene she would be triggered by. Now. This was resolved when I provided the mods with copied Skype messages (direct Skype quotes, a format that, in theory, can't be doctored) that showed she was fabricating that conversation - that she had outright told me she WOULD be okay with doing that scene. She eventually got booted for that (and other stuff). And all would have been well if it weren't for the way I had been initially addressed by the mods, and the condescending, denigrating, making you feel like shit TONE of it. Going from zero, utter peace, to "you have an attitude problem and you need to stop now or we'll kick you out". They also tacked on about half a dozen minor "offenses" I had done, like rambling too much about how the reasons I liked a school subject someone else disliked in the ooc chat, or trying TOO hard to get involved in plots, or other bullshit things that the people involved hadn't even complained to them about. I later realised that this, too, was a Pattern. Whenever they went to you with any sort of grievance, whether from their own side or from another player, they would tack on about half a dozen other "transgressions" you had made, sometimes making them up entirely out of thin air. (Other examples include: Me trying to "enforce a headcanon" by having my character react x way. I then pointed out that the "headcanon" I was allegedly """"enforcing"""" was the information stated on THEIR blog about how characters are large are reacting to a previous major town-wide event. (To wit: the information stated that the Event, a violent and deadly clash between two groups of people, exacerbated tensions between them and led to more mistrust between them. My character, who belongs to ONE group, was being mistrustful of the OTHER group. And somehow, this was not okay. Yes. That's it. That is literally how asinine it got. But then again, it's not surprising - as I explain later, it wasn't baout the offenses making sense. It was about getting to make me feel shitty for something) Or: I was being "inconsiderate" by having my character "out" the supernatural status of another character whose player was no longer in the group, and who they were not in contact with. Said player and I HAD in fact discussed this at the time, and they'd WANTED to have it happen, but the mods didn't know one way OR the other. They simply ASSUMED so they could try to pin it on me!) A long line of instances of them taking "offenses" that they didn't know for sure were offenses, that the player DIRECTLY affected HAD NOT come to them about, to paint a bigger picture of you being some kind of Problem Child who was daring to be naughty in THEIR classroom.

Now, I don't know if this was deliberate, but I can see why they did it. It makes you, as the player, feel like crap, puts you on the defensive, makes you question yourself. "Holy crap, were people really bothered by that time I went on a jokingly-serious rant about how awesome botany is when someone said they hated that topic in biology class?" (Hint: No they weren't. They thought NOTHING of it. But the mods saw it and filed it away for when they needed to make you feel like crap.) It puts the mods in a position of power and strengthened their authority. It forces you into a no-win scenario where you either deny the nonsensical accusations, and thus weaken your position and look less credible because it looks like you can't accept responsibility when you're wrong, OR accept the accusations and thereby agree with them that you're the naughty child and bad at following the rules. So it's a shitty, shitty manipulation technique. All of it coming from a place of entitlement and elitism.

I wish I could say I come from all this wiser, but it does feel like entitlement and elitism are the common denominator here. Part of the problem of the first RP was certain people needing to feel like they were superior and hating it when other people got in the way of that. Part of the problem of the second was stuck-up, self-important mods. Ultimately, it comes down to people who enjoy, just a little too much, to feel power and authority over people. To say that "it's THIS way, because I say it is" and have that listened to without question. Who enforce the rules not because it benefits the community, but because it makes them look good. Who view discussion, in and of itself, as disobedience, as an attack on their authority, an attack on them. I can't say I know for sure how to recognise the warning signs of a group like that BEFORE applying. But maybe big RP groups just aren't worth it, period.

[powertothefan]

A Knight’s Duty

I really enjoy Daniel, a character that belongs to @zommbro

I was learning more about him from the wonderful artist and realized that he would make a very interesting connection with my character Annabelle. So, I decided to write something! I’ve tweaked Annabelle to fit into a medieval setting as she originally was made for the 1800′s. It was fun though, playing around with this concept. I just might write more! For the time being though, please enjoy this small introduction piece. It’s probably very similar to another one that I did for another character, but I felt that this sort of introduction fit both character’s the best.

Enjoy!

It was dark, the road only lit by the torch Daniel carried in his hand. It barely did anything though, as the fog was far too heavy to see much farther than a few feet before him. Usually he didn’t like going out in such ill fated weather, preferring to be inside enjoying the company of his fellow knights and good conversation. However, something was driving him this evening. He had been sought out by a local merchant, whom seemed almost panicked as he tried to explain his concern.

 It seemed that several travelers had seen a being lurking in the old castle to the south. The place had been abandoned after a terrible accident long ago and was left to rot away into the ground beneath it. The merchant didn’t seemed to know much on what had gone on long ago, but he knew that many lives had been lost in the once grand hall. The locals feared that someone was attempting to raise the long dead. They weren’t sure why, but none of them liked the idea of an army of the undead marching into their small village which was only a day’s walk away. At the merchant’s request, Daniel agreed to go and examine the castle himself and see what was really going on. He doubted it was as bad as the locals feared. More than likely a homeless soul was merely seeking refuge in the one place no one would make them leave.

 So he trekked on his way, walking through the fog on a rather simple and quite mission. Though most knights find such tasks to be pointless, he would do anything to settle the hearts and minds of the people he swore to protect. He had been traveling for two days, only now arriving at the old castle that evening. It seemed the fog had no intention of lightening up, circling around the grounds as if it was trying to side something. He took cautious steps towards the worn stone building, glancing around as he kept an eye out for the mysterious figure the merchant had spoken of.

 It seemed that the castle grounds had fallen into quite a mess, though were once lovely and rich with life.  The dirt crunched beneath his feet as he looked out for the supposed individual lurking about the rubble. His other hand lingered on the hilt of his sword, just in case it wasn’t just some poor squatter. He approached the large wooden doors, pushing one open with his arm as to not be caught off guard. It was pitch black inside, but the light of the torch illuminated the empty hall. There were tables flipped and scattered about in a mess, along with other such things worn from time. Tattered tapestries hung on the dusty walls, swaying in the wind that slipped through the door after him.

 Daniel stepped inside, leaving the door behind him as to not drag too much attention to his arrival. If this person was hostile, which he deeply doubted, he didn’t want them to know he was there just yet. Better to catch the figure by surprise and make the battle quick, then allow him time to possible raise battle ready undead to their aid. It was that thought that brought a small laugh from him, as he realized he was probably thinking a bit too much into it. The castle, as much as the lore of it was unknown and bleak, had been left alone since the very day of its tragedy. If someone wanted to build an army, they certainly wouldn’t find much in this place. They could find better targets on an old battle field, or even a graveyard. So, the only realistic option was a poor soul, either lost or too poor to afford proper shelter. He’d tell them who he was, offer his assistance to take them back to the village and put to rest what could only be a very silly rumor.

 As he stepped in deeper into the halls, he was starting to notice that whatever had happened there had happened on a grand scale. Long lasting stains of what he could only assume to have been blood spattered the walls, almost as if was burned into it. There were no bones though, hinting that someone had either taken the bodies to bury them, or so he could only hope. He suddenly felt a bit of a chill run up his spine; the thought finally settling in that he was walking in what was probably a horrific murder of dozens, maybe more. That pushed him on to wonder why anyone would stay in such a place. The idea alone almost made his stomach flip. Thankfully, his service as a knight had hardened his resolve. Back when he was younger though, he could imagine himself getting quite sick. Shaking his head to remove the thoughts from it, he hurried on his way out of the great hall and off into the living quarters, or so he hoped. Each door was slowly opened, and then closed, the rooms checked for any sign of life before he continued on. There was nothing though, no sign that anyone had taken up place in the dingy and dark halls.

 It was at this point, he was honestly thinking of leaving, telling the merchant that he had seen nothing at all. He doubted that would be what he would want to hear, but if there was no one to even find there wasn’t much he could do. Just as he was about to turn away, a rather strange sound started to drift to his ears. He couldn’t make it out a first, it sounded low and weak. He started to follow it though, the closer he got the sound growing louder and harmonic. The sound, which he determined to be an organ, led him deeper into the castle, down stairs into a place were not even the moonlight could reach. Only his torch lit his way now, guiding him closer and closer to the music.

 Though his heart was racing he found himself swooned by the music, it was dramatic and powerful, like the kind that rang about the large cathedrals. It almost made him stop, just so he could listen to the song with all his focus. Sadly, he did not have the luxury to pause, now knowing that he was not as alone as he once believed. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he had arrived in a small room, a door opposite the stairs cracked open. Light poured from it, hinting that he had finally found who he was looking for. Pushing himself against the wall, he didn’t dare just run in. He learned the hard way that rushing was not always the best choice. Glancing around the edge of the door frame, what he looked upon was both surprising and upsetting.

 The room was illuminated carefully, several touches all placed in holders. Of all the rooms, this one seemed to have been up kept. Swept and clean, there wasn’t any sigh of wear like the floors above. At the far end of the room there was an organ, in sparkling condition. There wasn’t a single sign of age, almost as if it was new. The part that upset him was that he wasn’t looking at some intimidating villain, but instead a child. It was a little girl, for he could see the veil that hung from her head. She was tiny as well, hinting that she wasn’t very old at all, from what he could see of her, he would have to guess that she might be 11 at the youngest. His heart clenched at the thought that a mere child was lingering in such a place. Still, there had to be reason and so he dared to step in, careful to remain as silent as possible.

 The music worked to his advantage, draining out the noise of his armor or his weapons. It was so loud now that it almost hurt his ears. It was lovely all the same and he had to pause at once point just to watch. It amazed him that such a young girl could play so magically, it was a talent that he could respect. From where he was standing he could see her face. She was pale, white as a sheet in face. Her clothing looked to be very nice, far nicer than he had ever had for himself. She even seemed to have a rather well made necklace, it bright shining silver and shaped like a heart. Maybe she had been of a good family once? It was hard to say. The young girl was consumed in the noise though, allowing him to approach even closer. However, it seemed that his good favor was running short. In his careful sneaking he had unknowingly let his sword sway into a candelabra, causing it to clang onto the floor and putting out the light of the candles.

 The sound jolted the girl from her stupor. She turned; a look of panic across her face. Daniel was startled, as black eyes with blue irises stared at him. The mere look caused him to pause, which seemed to allow the young woman to burst from the organ bench and dart for the door in a rush. Realizing he was letting the little girl run away.

 “Wait!” He called after her, regaining himself and dashing after her. He couldn’t allow a mere child to linger any longer in the filth of this castle. He’d be a monster if he did. He could hear the pattering of bare feet, meaning she was running around with nothing to protect her from the muck. As much as it struck a heartstring, he used it to his advantage, following the noise. She was fast, but small…She wouldn’t get very far.

 He was rather impressed she could navigate the halls in the dark, he still desperately needed the torch to see anywhere in front of him. Skipping steps, he rushed back up to follow her, doing what he could to catch up. He rushed, no longer caring as he pushed open doors, checking to see where she had gone. She kept rushing about, not lingering long in one place which made it difficult to figure out where she had been and where she was going. He was able to keep up though, as he soon followed her right back into the great hall. As he reentered the dim space, he looked around. There was not a single noise.

 Panting, he had leaned on his knees a moment to regain his breath. Running after her had not been a light exercise. While doing this, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He tensed, prepared to dash after the girl again if need be. Even if she fought him, he would not be letting her stay any longer. Standing up, he quietly stuck his torch into the ground, making sure to put it into a spot that would not show off his shadow and reveal his movement. He walked over to where he had seen the rustling, taking his time to be extra quiet. He could see the frayed edges of her dress peeking out from behind a turned over table, setting him on a direct course for her.

 As he got close though, he could hear soft sobbing. He must have scared her witless at his arrival. A wave of guilt hit him. In his rush to help her, he had not thought that maybe she was hiding in this dark and dank place for a reason. Pausing a few feet from where she was hidden, he knelt on one knee gently. “I know you’re there.” He spoke, his tone soft and even.

 The sobbing stopped with a gasp, instantly silenced. She made no move to run this time though; it seemed that he had cornered her well. He didn’t say anything right away, allowing her a moment before speaking again. “It’s okay…I’m not going to hurt you.” Daniel did his best to try and speak softly, but he could tell that he had startled her more than she had startled him. She was a smart girl as well, as she didn’t dare trust him by his mere words. It seemed that he was going to make more of a show. As he had this thought his hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword once more, giving him an idea. Undoing his sword and scabbard from his waist, he took the weapon and tossed it towards her, making sure she could see it without it being too close.

 “That’s my sword, and my only weapon. You can take it if you feel you must. I swear on my honor I am not here to hurt you, child.”  

 There was silence; it seemed that the child was either ignoring him or had snuck away without him noticing. On the verge of standing up to go collect his sword, he stopped as the sound of rustling caught his attention. The girl and slipped out from behind the table slowly, hesitant as she walked over towards his weapon and picked it up, as if holding to her chest. She stood there for the longest time in silence, watching him from a distance as if debating if she should stay or run off with his one weapon. Daniel took this opportunity to speak.

 “You startled me when I arrived here. The villagers told me they saw someone, but they did not tell me it would be a child. Are you alright? Why are you hiding here?” He began to question her, trying to figure out what possessed the child to linger in a den of death. She did not speak, still watching her with those strangely colored eyes. It was almost as if she was a ghost herself, but she was too solid, too real to be among the dead. Just as he was about to move on to another topic, she spoke weakly, voice sounding dry and cracked.

 “I…Don’t have anywhere else to go.”

 Daniel dared to slip a bit closer, staying knelt on his knee. She seemed to clutch the sword tighter as he did this but she did not run, for some reason. Maybe she had gotten tired as well, she seemed rather weak from the sound of her voice. When had she last eater? Last drank? The concern started to bubble in his chest as he fought the urges to pull her along. Rushing her would not be wise, as she had already proven to be a difficult catch. No, he had to go about this as if he was feeding a frightened doe; he needed to gain her trust.

 “Are you hungry? When have you last eaten?” He asked, trying to think of what he could give her.

 “Don’t remember…” She murmured again.  

 “Here…” He shuffled around in the pack he had on his person, pulling out a small loaf of bread, He tore off a small piece and held it out to her. “Take this.”

 A spark of interest seemed to fill her face as she looked at the bread. It didn’t look like hunger though, more so awe at his offer. She dared a few steps of her own, keeping at arm’s length from him. She snatched up the piece and started to nibble slowly on it, her grip on the sword loosening significantly. The tension in her started to slip away, showing that the food was helping somehow. Daniel took the chance to move even closer, slipping up enough so he could reach out to her if need be.

 “Better?”

 She only stared at him, nodding her head slightly, her grip on the sword growing weaker each moment. It seemed she had been running on the barest of energy, alone and afraid for her life. Daniel felt his heart aching for the child, and he gently began to reach for the weapon that was starting to slip from her fingers.

 “Have you slept recently? Are you well?”

 More silence, only another nod.

 “Would you…like to come with me?” He asked, his hand grabbing softly onto the hilt. He didn’t pull the weapon from her yet, letting her think on his offer. “I came here because people worried something bad was happening. I’m glad that I can tell them nothing is wrong, but they might not believe me if I tell them it was only a little girl. Why don’t you come with me? If you’re there, then they’ll feel much better.”

 She seemed to ponder his offer for awhile, finishing off the small bit of bread he had shared while doing so. Patient, Daniel waited for her to reply. He was in no rush now other than to get her somewhere safe and warm and with a proper meal. Slowly, she let of the sword, allowing him to take full grip on it once more while slowly nodding her head. “I-I’ll go…”

 Daniel smiled widely, happy that he had been able to convince her to leave this place. It was no healthy for a girl like her to remain in this old castle on her own. He returned his scabbard back to his waist before slowly standing back up. Offering a hand to the young girl, Daniel watched while she took it slowly. Her hand was frail and small in his larger gloved one, his grip careful and soft. There was still hesitation on her part, but she did not resist as he began to walk along slowly towards his torch.

 “What’s your name, little one?” He asked, picking up his torch from the ground as they began to leave.

 There seemed to be a look of thoughtfulness on her face, but she did not pause too long before answering him.

 “Annabelle.”

 “Well Annabelle, why don’t you and I get somewhere nice and warm?”

 With that, Daniel led the little girl out into the evening, taking her away from the old castle and it’s mysteriously dark past.

[gyrlversion]

Jill Dandos murder: 20 years on, fresh witness accounts

Presenter Jill Dando (pictured above outside her home in Fulham) was murdered in 1999

The time is a little before midday on Monday, April 26, 1999. Vida Saunders is enjoying tea at a neighbour’s home when another friend comes knocking at the door. The new visitor is in a state of some agitation.

‘I could tell at once from the expression on her face that something wasn’t right,’ Mrs Saunders recalled this week. ‘I didn’t know then just how wrong it would be.’

The friend asks Mrs Saunders to accompany her to a house in the next street, Gowan Avenue. She has just seen something –— something very disturbing — as she walked past the address on her way home from the shops. Now she wants someone else to see it, too.

Nothing ever happened in their suburban enclave in Fulham, West London. At least, nothing very bad.

But that morning would be different. What had just taken place on the front step of 29 Gowan Avenue would make headlines around the world for years to come. The shock reverberates to this day.

‘I don’t think I fully grasped what I was going to see and it seems odd now, with hindsight, but I took my mug of tea with me,’ Mrs Saunders said.

A step by step account of Jill Dando’s last moments as she embarked on a shopping trip in Hammersmith before driving home

Jill Dando (left) and her fiancé Alan Farthing (right). Mr Farthing said he had held Jill’s hand while she was still warm before confirming to doctors that it was the BBC presenter 

In those days, much of the white-painted Victorian frontage of 29 Gowan Avenue was screened from the street by a privet hedge and a small tree. ‘But what I saw as soon as we stepped through the front gate hit me like a physical blow.’

What she saw was the dead body of BBC television presenter Jill Dando, 37, killed only minutes earlier outside her own front door by a single gunshot to the head.

‘Jill’s body was lying at such an odd angle,’ Mrs Saunders recalled. ‘She looked like she had collapsed on the spot. The back of her head was against the front door and her chest was facing towards the pavement.

‘She was in a pool of blood, and I noticed her lips were blue and there were some small drips of blood running from her nose. I think we knew immediately that she was critically injured.

Twenty years on from the death of Jill Dando (pictured above) witnesses have revealed new testimonies 

Police forensic officers at Gowan Avenue, Fulham, where TV presenter Jill Dando was murdered. Ms Dando died from a single gunshot wound to the head

‘She was still clutching a set of keys in one hand, probably her door keys or possibly her car keys. The handles of her handbag were over the other arm and her mobile phone was inside, ringing constantly.

‘Normally, I think, if you saw someone collapsed like that, your instinct would be to reach out and touch them, to try to help them and see if they are all right. But it was clear Jill wasn’t [all right].’

Mrs Saunders paused. ‘That image of Jill lying there. . . I would have visions, snapshots of it in my dreams and even when I was doing my laps when I went swimming. I couldn’t get it out of my head.

‘It has given me many sleepless nights. Of course, time moves on and memories start to fade. But talking about it again now brings it all back so vividly. It was, it is, awful.’

A leaflet which was handed out on May 4 1999 which was given out to passers-by in an effort to jog their memories and uncover new information

Six distinctive marks were found on the cartridge case (pictured above) used by the gunman who killed Jill Dando

Mrs Saunders has not spoken before about her role in the tragedy, except to the police. One can sense in her account a disbelief that she should have been caught up in the case. Because even 20 years later, the murder of Jill Dando remains one of the most shocking crimes of our times.

That Britain’s ‘most celebrated and loved’ TV presenter, ‘the nation’s sweetheart’ and the face of BBC Crimewatch, could be the victim of an execution-style killing, in broad daylight in our capital city, was extraordinary enough.

That the murder was without any clear motive and remains unsolved, despite a huge reward for information and myriad theories, has only added to the fascination.

One man was charged with and convicted of the murder. Barry George, a local loner and fantasist who had already served a prison sentence for attempted rape, was found guilty of the killing at the Old Bailey in July 2001. But his life sentence was later quashed on appeal, and at the end of his 2008 retrial, George was found not guilty.

Police search Gowan Avenue, Fulham, south west London Monday April 26, 1999

By then the trail seemed to have run cold. Or has it?

Today the Daily Mail begins an exclusive three-part reassessment of the Crimewatch presenter’s cold-blooded murder and the hunt for her killer.

Our investigations have taken us to the Balkans and across the British Isles. We are able to draw on previously unavailable police and prosecution documents and other official reports, new witness testimonies — such as that of Mrs Saunders — and interviews with detectives and legal sources involved in the two Scotland Yard investigations into the murder — as well as suspects.

Jill (pictured on holiday in the Seychelles) first got her big break in broadcasting in 1988 when she started presenting the BBC’s hourly national bulletins

We will be able to reveal some key findings of a secret police cold-case review of the murder, carried out only five years ago. We will expose the mistakes investigators made, the red herrings that were pursued — and examine the possibility of a third Jill Dando murder trial taking place, albeit more than two decades after the event.

Our new assessment will also probe the evidence against Barry George, a serial stalker of women, and the High Court’s refusal to grant him ‘miscarriage of justice’ compensation after he was cleared of the killing.

But first let us return to the fateful day itself.

April 26, 1999, dawned cloudy with a forecast of showers. But the life of Jill Wendy Dando seemed to bask in perpetual sunshine.

Born in Weston-Super-Mare in November 1961, she had followed her father and brother into local newspaper journalism. Her on-screen potential was obvious. After stints in regional news broadcasting in the South-West, her big break came in 1988 when she began a job in London presenting the BBC’s hourly national bulletins.

Viewers loved her from the start. She was a friendly celebrity, the ‘girl next door’ who bore more than a passing resemblance to Princess Diana. But unlike the Princess, Jill had a down-to-earth private life that included amateur dramatics, voluntary work in hospitals and churchgoing.

The haunting last images of Jill which were captured on CCTV just 40 minutes before she was killed 

This images shows Jill leaving a store in Hammersmith before getting in her car and driving home 

A devout Baptist from childhood — she was head girl at her school — Jill would become a presenter on Songs Of Praise.

Until moving to Gowan Avenue, she had shared a house in a quiet South-West London neighbourhood with her cousin, Judith.

What you saw on screen was what you met in the flesh. There was no ‘front’ to Jill Dando. And for the British public, she would become a chronicler of their everyday life at its best and worst.

In 1993 she was chosen to host the prime-time travel programme Holiday. Two years later, she took on the same role at Crimewatch, which she would present 42 times before tragedy struck and she became the story rather than the storyteller. In 1997, viewers voted her BBC Personality of the Year.

A set of CCTV images from outside the Kings Mall show Jill walking down the street with her handbag

Another images shows her walking through the shopping centre with her raincoat and bag

She was also spotted outside on the main High Street where she had been out shopping for the day

Her private life was equally serene. In November 1997 she had been introduced by a mutual friend to a consultant gynaecologist called Alan Farthing.

Mr Farthing — who would later oversee the births of Prince William’s children — was separated from his first wife. He and Jill fell ‘very deeply’ in love almost at once.

Within a month they were holidaying together in Australia. That New Year they watched the fireworks over Sydney Harbour Bridge and vowed to be there again for the Millennium.

In January 1999, two months after Mr Farthing’s divorce was finalised, they announced their engagement. Their wedding was set for September 25, 1999.

Police pictured outside the home of Jill in 1999 after a search

The couple spent almost all their time at Mr Farthing’s home in Bedford Close, Chiswick. The Gowan Avenue house was used largely as Jill’s administrative headquarters. She had only stayed there overnight twice in the weeks before the killing.

On Saturday, April 24, she went there to collect post. She noticed her fax machine had run out of ink and decided to return on the Monday to change the cartridge.

That evening, she and Mr Farthing attended a British Legion Poppy Appeal event at the Natural History Museum, which Jill was co-presenting. On Sunday Mr Farthing played golf in Stoke Poges, west of London, with a friend and Jill later joined them for lunch.

That night the couple were at home together in Chiswick. They watched the first episode of Jill’s new show, Antiques Inspectors, for which she had spent several days of the previous week filming in Dublin. The show’s launch was promoted by Jill posing in a black leather jumpsuit next to a vintage Aston Martin on the cover of the Radio Times. It was a little more risqué than her usual image, but fun.

The couple also wrote several letters. One was to Claridge’s hotel in Mayfair, where their wedding reception was due to be held. They discussed the guest list which was written in Jill’s Filofax. The same list would be used by Mr Farthing to organise her funeral.

Alan Farthing (pictured above) at the office for the Jill Dando fund in Piccadilly, London

The next day was to be the start of a two-week period at home for Jill, after months away filming Holiday and Antiques Inspectors.

She had an appointment for the first fitting of her wedding dress and planned to visit a stationer about the invitations.

Mr Farthing had an 8am meeting. He told Jill to sleep in but, typically, his fiancée insisted on getting up and making him breakfast in bed. He then left the house at 7.25, and rain was already falling.

Before they parted, Jill told him: ‘Today I’m going to be a lady who lunches.’ She had a charity luncheon engagement at the Lanesborough Hotel on Hyde Park Corner, but she didn’t make it. He would not see her alive again.

Records on Jill’s mobile phone show she made a number of calls on the day of her death 

The last four hours of Jill’s life can be pieced together through eyewitness accounts, CCTV footage, till receipts and phone records. Only the last moments remain a mystery.

Records for her mobile phone and the landline at her fiance’s home show she made and received a number of calls that morning. All the people she spoke to were traced by police. No one she was in contact with in her last few hours sensed that she was worried. At worst she sounded ‘preoccupied’, but then she had so much to do.

She left Mr Farthing’s home just after 10am in her dark blue BMW convertible. The top was up because of the weather. She stopped to get petrol and milk at a garage on the A4, before parking in Hammersmith, West London, to visit the Kings Mall shopping centre.

While in Hammersmith she visited Ryman the stationers and bought fax paper. She bought other fax material from Dixons and The Link stores. Finally, at 11.01am she walked through the shopping mall towards the exit.

At 11.04am she was driving her car west along King Street. The last sighting of the BMW on CCTV was at 11.10am, when she drove from Winslow Road into Manbre Road, a rat-run route to avoid congestion on the Fulham Palace Road. Extensive analysis of all the CCTV footage that morning shows no evidence that she was being followed.

Sarah Pusey, a Customs and Excise surveillance expert, was also out in her car. Now a 53-year-old mother of two, Ms Pusey told us how she became one of the last people to have a friendly interaction with the TV presenter.

‘I was in a queue of traffic going towards Hammersmith,’ she said. ‘She was in a soft-top car coming the other way. I’m quite nosy. But you know when you’re in traffic and stop next to someone, you look.

‘I remember thinking “that’s Jill Dando” and smiling across at her. She smiled back.’

Ms Pusey, who has not spoken before about the encounter except to the police, was so thrilled she phoned a friend. Mobile phone records show her call was made at 11.13am. By the time she got home, the television news was already reporting Jill’s death.

Jill had told her fiance she would cook dinner for them that evening. Between 11.20am and 11.25am she visited Copes fishmongers on Fulham Road, where she bought two fillets of Dover sole.

According to a member of staff, she seemed jolly but was in a hurry, remarking that her car was parked just around the corner (in Dancer Road).

Jill’s mobile phone records showed she made four calls during her shopping trip that morning. They were to a friend, her agent’s assistant, 192 directory inquiries and the Prince Edward Theatre in the West End. She also received two calls, including one from the theatre’s box office.

A booking clerk spoke to Jill, confirming her tickets to see the hit Abba musical, Mamma Mia!. Jill was said to have sounded ‘excited and bubbly’. She told the booking clerk the tickets were a present for her fiancé, whose birthday was approaching.

That last phone call she took was at 11.23am. From background noises heard by the caller, she was probably still inside the fishmongers. She had less than ten minutes to live.

The next phone call to her mobile was timed at 11.31am. This time she didn’t answer and the call went to voicemail. It is likely that this was the ringing Mrs Saunders heard when she saw Jill lying dead on her doorstep.

Having left Dancer Road, Jill had driven, via Munster Road, the 600 yards to her home in Gowan Avenue. After that, her final moments can only be guessed at from fragments of sound and glimpses of a mystery man, undoubtedly her killer.

Jill’s next-door neighbour, Richard Hughes, said he heard two characteristic bleeps from a BMW car alarm, then footsteps. He told police that after 30 seconds he heard a scream, as if Jill knew the person, as if she was surprised, ‘a startled scream’.

He did not hear a shot. But when he heard a gate clang, he went to the window and saw a man walking away briskly. Another neighbour saw a similar-looking man ‘running’ along the pavement.

Nigel Jenkins, a former session guitarist for Cliff Richard, was at home five doors from Jill’s house, practising chords. Mr Jenkins, who has not spoken before except to the police, told us he heard a ‘bizarre high-pitched noise’.

‘It was the sound of a woman crying out,’ he said. ‘It was like a bark or a yelp — an odd, disturbing noise and I immediately thought: “I don’t like the sound of that.” He heard no shot and did not investigate further until the air ambulance arrived.

Now we return to the testimony of Vida Saunders. It confirms the blunder which, we can reveal, seriously undermined the police investigation before it had even begun.

Mrs Saunders’s friend, who first saw Jill’s body, was a neighbour called Helen Doble.

‘There used to be a GPs’ surgery a few doors up (from Jill’s home) and I ran there while Helen called 999 on her mobile,’ Mrs Saunders recalled. ‘I ran back with the receptionist, who took one look and said she thought Jill was dead and we shouldn’t touch anything.

‘I just stood there staring at my cup of tea, which I had put down on top of the garden wall, and everything went into slow motion. There was suddenly so much activity around us as the first emergency services arrived.’ This was around 11.50am.

‘Shortly after, we were escorted into her neighbours’ house, where we were interviewed for what seemed like hours. I recall an air ambulance landing in the local primary school playground.

‘While we were in the house I would intermittently look out of the window to see what was going on next door. The paramedics seemed to be working hard to try to resuscitate Jill.

‘When I saw them carry her body away on a stretcher, her face seemed pink again and I remember feeling relieved because I thought that they had managed to save her.

‘Later, I realised the change in her face from blue to normal again was because they had pumped oxygen around her body in what turned out to be a futile attempt to save her.’

Jill Dando was probably dead before she hit the ground. Mrs Saunders’s recollection confirms that everyone who saw her before the emergency services arrived realised she was dead. Yet extensive efforts to revive her were made at the scene by paramedics and members of the Helicopter Emergency Medical Service.

As a result, Jill did not reach Charing Cross Hospital — only three minutes away by road — until 12.30pm. The attempted resuscitation continued there for another half an hour before she was declared dead at 1.05pm.

The Mail can reveal that an official police report blames the resuscitation efforts for creating a major, perhaps insurmountable, obstacle to future detective work.

Jill’s clothes were ripped off to perform cardiac massage and the ground about was ‘trampled’ by those trying to save her. The body was not left in situ. Vital clues were bound to have been lost.

The unusual lack of forensic evidence at the crime scene would become a hallmark of the Dando case. And it was not absent because of the cunning of the killer, as we shall see in Part 2.

If the victim had not been ‘the nation’s sweetheart’, would so much effort have been made to rescue someone who was obviously past help?

If so, it was no help to the men tasked with catching her killer.

In 1999, Detective Chief Inspector Hamish Campbell was a senior investigating officer in the Met’s murder squad, based in Kensington, West London.

He had never met Jill Dando, though she had made an appeal on Crimewatch for one of his old murder inquiries and they had attended the same lunch at Scotland Yard, where she had spoken of her fears of a ‘hit’ being carried out on a Crimewatch presenter.

Campbell gave a detailed interview about the investigation to the Mail in the spring of 2001. Today we can draw on previously unpublished extracts from his contemporaneous recollection.

He and his team had been on call for a week but, with no murders to investigate, he had become fidgety. When he was told by a colleague that reports were coming through that a woman had been ‘stabbed’ in Fulham, Campbell decided to take a sergeant and go to see for himself. He did not even wait to hear if the stabbing was fatal.

Bad news travelled fast. As he was leaving the station, he got a call from his boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Brian Edwards. Campbell recalled: ‘He said: “Have you heard anything about this stabbing incident?”

‘I said I had and was on my way. He said: “Well, let me tell you something . . . there’s a suggestion it’s Jill Dando.”

‘I remember thinking: “Jill Dando stabbed? Who on earth would have done that?”

Campbell arrived in Gowan Avenue just as the ambulance carrying Jill’s body departed.

Within five minutes, his officers would discover a fired cartridge case on the doorstep and a single yellow bullet which had passed through the victim’s head, hit her front door and fallen to the ground.

This was no stabbing, then. Nor was it a street robbery gone wrong — Jill’s watch and jewellery had not been taken. They were dealing with something more unusual. Scenes-of-crime officers collected several exhibits including a fob and BMW key, a yellow metal earring, a Russell & Bromley bag and contents, fish in a white plastic bag, and a black leather handbag.

Then the rain began to fall again, adding to the difficulties of the murder squad.

DCI Campbell took shelter from the drizzle in the porch of a neighbouring house, having ordered his men to cover the house front, path and road nearby with plastic to stop further evidence contamination or loss. ‘I remember thinking: “How far could he [the killer) have got now?” ’

Later that day he attended the post-mortem examination. The respected forensic pathologist Dr Iain West found an entry wound behind the top of Jill’s left ear and an exit wound above the right ear. The impression of the muzzle of the murder weapon could be seen around the entry wound.

Dr West concluded that the gun had been pressed firmly against Jill’s head, acting as an effective silencer.

Jill’s right forearm had a small bruise on it, which may have been caused by her killer. However, there did not appear to be any defence injuries, nor was there any sign of a struggle at the scene — prompting police to conclude that she was taken by surprise from behind as she was about to unlock her door.

The bullet had damaged the lower part of the door, suggesting that Jill was crouched or had been pushed down when she was shot.

Her fiancé, Alan Farthing, was also at the hospital. He recalled to the Mail a few weeks after the murder how he had been called by Jill’s agent, Jon Roseman, at around 1pm: ‘The first question he asked was if Jill was with me,’ he said. ‘He had been contacted by the Press asking for his comments on reports that Jill had been attacked in her street. I asked if he’d tried her mobile.’

The terrible truth began to clarify. Mr Farthing was taken to Charing Cross Hospital: ‘They took me down what seemed like the longest corridor in the world to the casualty department and to a side room, where Jill was lying.

‘She had a towel wrapped around her head as if she had just got out of the bath, though it wasn’t covering all her hair. I could see it was Jill’s hair. She was lying in a hospital gown, looking peaceful. I held her hand, which was still warm, and confirmed to the officer it was Jill.’

The consultant in charge of the casualty department came to talk to him. ‘He explained what had been done to try to resuscitate her, but made it plain it had been impossible. She had not been clinically alive on arrival or at any stage during the attempted resuscitation.

‘As I was being taken back down this everlasting corridor, I was thinking: ‘“Why did something like this happen? How could it happen?”’

The same questions were being asked by DCI Campbell. He addressed a meeting of the Dando murder team at 11pm that night in the incident room next to Kensington police station. It did not break up until 2am.

They knew by then they were dealing with a ‘phenomenon’ and that the investigation would be the biggest of their careers. But they already faced serious problems. The crime scene had been ‘chaotic’ and the witness evidence so far was of ‘little quality’.

‘We had to ask whether she had been killed because of who she was or because of where she was,’ DCI Campbell recalled.

Perhaps only one person knew why Jill Dando had died. And that was the man seen fleeing along Gowan Avenue.

To find him, the murder squad would have to weigh a number of motives and in the end examined 1,393 potential suspects.

What made her death especially complex was the Crimewatch connection. Had she been the victim of an underworld hit?

But one of the most popular and persistent theories Operation Oxborough had to investigate was that Jill Dando had been murdered on the orders of the Serbian warlord and underworld boss Željko Ražnatović, aka Arkan.

In April 1999, British warplanes were taking part in Nato bombing of Yugoslavia in order to halt the ethnic cleansing of Albanians by Serbian forces in the province of Kosovo.

Earlier that month, Jill Dando had fronted a BBC1 broadcast appealing for funds to help the refugees. Two days before her death, the headquarters of the Serbian equivalent of the BBC was hit by a Nato missile, killing 17 staff.

On Monday we will meet the Serb ‘hitman’ who was accused of being the killer in Gowan Avenue. Tracked down by the Mail, he has spoken for the first time about his part in the Dando affair. 

The post Jill Dandos murder: 20 years on, fresh witness accounts appeared first on Gyrlversion.

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[popofventi]

Mental Yoga Sunday / 5 Favorite Long Form Reads This Week / Issue No. 20

"See, I was nine years old when I saw Elvis on 'Ed Sullivan', and I had to get a guitar the next day. I stood in front of my mirror with that guitar on...and I knew then that's what has been missing."  -- Bruce Sprinsteen

I like the world but I hate the noise of it all, and sometimes clarity comes in the form of a quiet day and words on a page. This Sunday's edition we're doing a little Mental Yoga stretching our thoughts around things like Bruce on Broadway, Germany's definition of success and happiness, the originator of the hot chicken craze, Puerto Rico's dire straits and its fight for statehood and the great Kate McKinnon really not wanting to discuss her personal life. Embrace the muzzling of all the chatter.

1

 Bruce Springsteen on Broadway: The Boss on His ‘First Real Job’ (The New York Times)

"It started at the White House. On Jan. 12, in the last weeks of the Obama administration, Mr. Springsteen played an acoustic concert in the East Room as the Obama family’s parting gift for about 250 staffers. For Mr. Springsteen, who takes every performance seriously, it was a moment of reckoning. He carefully assembled a set list spanning his career; he illuminated the songs with spoken stories and memories echoing “Born to Run,” the autobiography he published in 2016.

“There was a lot of storytelling, which goes back to our early days at the Bottom Line when you were in front of a couple of hundred people,” Mr. Springsteen said in an interview at his home studio in Colts Neck, N.J., recalling the Greenwich Village club where his shows in summer 1975became a sensation. “It worked in a very, very intimate setting.”

Heading home from Washington, Mr. Springsteen and his wife, Patti Scialfa, and his manager, Jon Landau, thought more people should experience a performance like that. “The way he combines the spoken words with the songs he’s chosen to do sounds like a very simple thing,” Mr. Landau said. “But it’s a real piece of performance art.”" - Read Full Story

2

The secret to Germany’s happiness and success: Its values are the opposite of Silicon Valley’s (Quartz)

"If Silicon Valley ever formed a political party, it might look a lot like the current iteration of Germany’s Free Democrats, or FDP. In the 2017 election cycle, the FDP offered a platform that reads like what Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg would come up with if they decided to disrupt Rand Paul. Its primary aspirations include creating a startup-friendly economy, digitizing Germany’s monolithic reams of bureaucratic paperwork (no small feat), and, yes, radically reduce income taxes, which currently top off at 45% for the highest earners.

The platform has propelled the party back from the dead. Having been kicked out of the Germany’s parliament, or Bundestag, in 2013, the FDP came roaring back with 10% of the vote in Sunday’s election.

To some, this might suggest that a cultural shift is afoot in Germany. After all, the FDP’s leader, a magnetic 38-year-old named Christian Lindner, has openly expressed a desire to shake things up. In an August interview with the Economist, in which he called Germany’s economy “a prosperity hallucination,” Lindner also explained that in his country, “entrepreneurship has long been undervalued … and societies that are prepared to be more daring and have efficient capital markets have overtaken us on this.” Germans could be “world leaders” in the new economy, he said, “but we have to want it.

But that’s the thing: The vast majority of Germans don’t want it. For progressive and even centrist Germans, the startup-style definition of Erfolg (or “success”) is utterly incompatible with their values—which do not center on individual wealth, recognition, or even careers. Though the FDP’s showing was meteoric compared with recent years, Germany’s cultural mores—which include a vehement defense of the country’s robust social safety net, largely credited for the relatively quick recovery from last decade’s recession—mean it is largely inoculated from the bootstrap fever that has long gripped the US." - Read Full Story

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After Irma, Puerto Rico's Case For Statehood Gains Newfound Urgency (Pacific Standard)

"The deepening humanitarian crisis in Puerto Rico reveals a disaster response that is categorically different from the actions taken in the wake of hurricanes that struck the continental U.S. recently. While Fuentes praised the efforts of the president, the U.S. Federal Emergency Management Agency, and Florida Senator Marco Rubio, he outlined several needs that may not be in the offing.

"Short term—like, tomorrow—Puerto Rico needs a waiver on the Jones Act, so we can start bringing stuff in without the imposition of the Jones Act," Fuentes said on Tuesday, before the Department of Homeland Security delivered a no verdict. "Hospitals are running with generators. Frozen-food warehouses are running on generators. They need to get diesel if we want to keep that food."

Next, Congress will take up the issue of a hurricane relief package for Puerto Rico. Or maybe not: Politico reports that a formal funding request is still weeks away, as the devastation in Puerto Rico and the U.S. Virgin Islands is so widespread that an assessment cannot be made. Still, Congress passed a major hurricane relief package just six days after Hurricane Harvey struck Texas. And the government relaxed the Jones Act to deal with the Exxon Valdez oil spill—an ecological tragedy, but far from a humanitarian catastrophe.

Puerto Rico will have no real say in whatever decision Congress makes. The stakes could not be higher: One estimate pegs hurricane damages at more than $72 billion. Maria came just a month after Puerto Rico declared a soft bankruptcy in May—following a debt crisis that Fuentes and other critics say was spurred in large part by Puerto Rico's inequitable standing vis-à-vis the rest of the country. It's possible that the damages wrought by Maria could even exceed the debt that ruined the island financially." - Read Full Story

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The Kate McKinnon Report (Vanity Fair)

"Kate arrives on time to the minute. I’m early, so I have a chance to observe her as she enters. She’s dressed down. Movie stars are typically dressed down for these occasions. (Another reason they’re deceptive: people come costumed as though it’s playtime, not work.) But Kate isn’t dressed movie-star down, i.e., the kind of down that’s flattering to the figure and still involves the application of a not inconsiderable amount of makeup, i.e., a stylist-approved, camera-ready kind of down. Kate’s dressed real-person down, i.e., badly: oversize T-shirt and pants that aren’t quite sweat but close enough; sneakered feet; face cosmetics-free; hair in a ponytail, or, rather, what would be a ponytail if she hadn’t failed to tug the hair all the way through the elastic, leaving it in a sort of ponytail-bun limbo.

As quickly as I’m struck by how un-vain she is, I’m struck by how much she has to be vain about. She’s very pretty: small-bodied and full-lipped with cat eyes—pale blue and almond-shaped and slanting—tawny skin and hair, dimples she can twitch into existence without even smiling. She’s 33 but appears younger, a few years out of college. I’d watched hours of footage of her in preparation for this encounter yet had somehow missed her great good looks. Not that she photographs poorly. It’s just that in most scenes she’s impersonating a woman far, far older than she (Debette Goldry, legend of the silver screen, a fictional creation) or a woman far older (the all-too-real Betsy DeVos) or a man (Robert Durst) or a boy-man (Justin Bieber). And her face is rarely in repose. She’s often stretching it in some crazy, rubbery way, thrusting out her jaw, baring her teeth." - Read Full Story

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Burned Out (Eater.com)

"The first time I went to Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack, I was 12 years old, and I didn’t even eat the chicken. My dad, though, ordered his “hot” — one of six heat levels spicy enough to force beads of sweat from one’s brow onto the table, one soft drop at a time. While he ate, he remarked that the heat radiating from the plate didn’t just linger in the air or settle on your lips, it sat with you for days afterward. As the old ceiling fans helicoptered above, I sat silently in the pew-like booth, flirting with some fries that had absorbed a whisper of heat from sharing the same cast-iron skillet as the chicken, but never mustering the courage to take a bite.

My dad, undeterred, took me and my sister back again and again over the years. Eventually, we learned to sweat together, and I saw that the world was much bigger than home: Prince’s was a visit to “the other side of the tracks,” 30 minutes from the mostly white suburb where I grew up. My hometown, just north of Nashville, was the kind of place where the most thrilling food was a cheese-smothered appetizer at O’Charley’s and where, when I’d try to explain hot chicken to friends at school, they would ask with a bewildered look if I meant buffalo chicken. Looking back, I realize now that Prince’s was one of the few places we’d go and see people who looked like us." - Read Full Story