#points if you can identify the line that made me do a double take!

[nothingunrealistic]

Who’d have thunk? Billions, Showtime’s smart and cynical hit show about the intersecting worlds of NYC’s financial and law enforcement goes out with a happy ending. TV Insider talked to Neil Burger, a producer and director who helmed, among many other episodes, the inaugural episode and the series finale. (He also has a feature film The Marsh King’s Daughter debuting on November 3.)

Before we get deeper into the show, there was an Easter egg towards the end when Wags (David Costabile), loyal lieutenant to hedge fund billionaire Bobby “Axe” Axelrod (Damian Lewis), says he’s angling to head to Miami where all the action is now and Axe says they should go together. So will Miami be the first of the proposed upcoming Billions spinoffs? Neil Burger: That one seems to the furthest along, and I think Wags may be going there. But time will tell.

In a show full of schemes and moral relativity, the series ended with the mother-of-all schemes with Axe and his major foe on the show, U.S. Attorney Chuck Rhoades (Paul Giamatti), joining forces to take down Mike Prince (Corey Stoll) and keep him from becoming the POTUS. Even if the cause was just, the incredibly complex plot to destroy his empire seemed shady at best and at worst, not entirely legal. They always push it right to the edge of legality and maybe it bleeds over a bit to the other side. They’re schemers, super clever, and sometimes it’s a bit legally dubious, but they seem to get the job done.

With the exception of Mike Prince, who in Season 5 bought Axe’s business on the cheap as Axe fled on Europe to escape Chuck’s justice, most of the show’s characters got what they wanted or at least got rich at the end. Was that always planned? This is an ending for real Billions fans and those are the people that [executive producers Brian Koppelman and David Levien] are writing for, that avid fan base. You can hear it in the language of the characters and the [pop culture] references and the density of the dialogue. I think that the end will really appeal to that constituency.

How much did Damian leaving the show in Season 5 — though we later learned he would come back for several episodes in the final season — change the storyline? There was COVID and Damian lost his wife, which was a huge tragedy, and [that] definitely changed the way the story was going to be built, but Brian and David are such adept writers that they took those blows and pivoted and adjusted. This last season might be the best season of all. How did his leaving affect how the Mike Prince character would develop? Mike Prince was already woven into the story before Damian left because a show seven seasons long needed to have another layer and another strong person added. By the way, Corey was an incredible addition and kind of unsung. He’s tremendous. Prince may have been the villain of sorts, but in his last scenes, especially with his lieutenant and old friend Scooter (Daniel Breaker), I actually felt some sympathy when he said to Scooter how they really wanted to do good when they began. It’s hard not to like Corey, which is great for a villain.

Speaking of villains, the show was set up so that Chuck and his team were not always the white hats and Axe and his were not always the black hats. Yes. What did that say about the two parallel and intersecting actions each took in their war against each other and sometime truces? From the outset, Chuck Rhoades was always a complicated guy who needed to prove himself. His wife Wendy Rhoades [Maggie Siff] was working for the enemy, and he didn’t always behave well because of it, to say the least. And Axe? Look, the show is about power and what we have to do to have that power; what’s the line that you will or won’t cross. And for Axe, Chuck is this guy that’s actually trying to ruin your life and take down your power. They were like two animals circling each other and looking to tear into and undercut each other. It was personal, and the ethical lines got very blurry. They both had demons driving them. Definitely. Chuck’s father, for one, led him to an addiction to masochism. He needed to feel pain, and that came from his relationship with his father. Axe had this hunger to prove himself because in his youth, he was ignored and humiliated and not takes taken seriously by people who considered themselves better than him.

The moral in the Prince story seems to be if you’re power hungry, don’t hide behind a front of goodness, but be upfront about who you are and what you want. Do you agree? Well, he’s this incredibly smart guy who knew the pitfalls of the way Axe and other billionaires behave. He has a soul, and he’s going to try to use his billions for good. But underneath that is, again, a real appetite for money and power, and he became delusional. I think the real moral is just to be human with whatever amount of money you have. How important was it to get Chuck and Axe to work together in the end to bring down a common enemy, even it’s obviously, as Chuck tells Axe, a temporary thing? I think the most important thing was to get Chuck and Axe fighting against each other in the show, and then the interesting move was when they would team up together when being allied was in their best interest. They’re never going to be on the same team for very long. In the bigger game, they’ll always be going head-to-head on opposite sides of the fence.

Well, Wendy won’t be caught in the middle anymore between her ex-husband and her employer. She’ll be CEO of a tele-mental health company. She is last seen having dinner with Chuck and their kids. What does that indicate? They find some kind of detente, where they can coexist. Co-parent? Will they be lovers again? I don’t know. They find some kind of peace — but all of them in the show find some kind of peace. Wendy was the fulcrum for so many stories and characters, no? In some ways, she’s the most interesting character. Those guys are ferociously going head-to- head, and she’s between them mediating and moderating. These guys are driven by their appetites, and though they’re complicated characters, she’s quadruply complicated with the pressure within as she tries to motivate both of them and work on their psyches.

So, in the end, Axe’s most loyal employees leave, not just Wendy and probably Wags, but young Rian (Eva Victor) who goes off backpacking around the world, and importantly the extraordinary Taylor (Asia Kate Dillon), who starts their own Taylor Mason foundation to do good, a goal they always had — once they made a billion dollars, of course. Taylor did have noble goals; they’re kind of a person on the spectrum who lacked a kind of emotional response and cut some corners but had an ethical line that was more rigorous than the one Axe had.

I never saw a show that had so many pop culture references: movies, music, sports etc. Some well-known, others more obscure. Why so many in the brilliantly dense dialogue? That’s Brian and David. They’re so erudite and love those Easter eggs, and this whole show has all these different ideas firing off like fireworks all the time. Maybe you get it, and maybe you don’t. If you do, great, and if you don’t, you’re like, these characters are crazy smart. It was an incredible show and a real honor and pleasure to be there at the beginning and help cast it and then direct the finale seven seasons later.

[interpolanticssuperfan]

nothing natural | ken x fem!reader | part 4 | 18+ only

hey everyone!!!! thanks so much for your patience in my getting out this next chapter, ive been incredibly busy with life stuff and finishing a different fic of mine on ao3. (if you're a fight club fan, i'm @snottys on there. LOL) thank you for the kind words and the messages, they mean SO much to me. i hope this chapter is alright, and i can promise some mounting sexual tension in the next one; im just hoping to build up successfully to it so it feels organic and fun. i love you all and thanks for reading <3

tags: @heyareyoulistening @itsametaphorbriansblog @alyeria

The tight snap of the glass sliding door jilted you, and you should’ve guessed that Ken wouldn’t leave you alone, even if it meant deliberately ignoring your request for some space. With a heaving sigh, you studied your hands, the lines of your knuckles to try and see if your skin could explain what was wrong with you. What could possibly be wrong with you. 

Inward thoughts tapering off, you couldn’t ignore the way Ken’s presence was making you feel, searing butterflies in your stomach, which made your shame even more complex and frustrating. To be pinned by his gaze, it made you feel important, uninhibited. Flittery and excited like a child. It was invigorating.

It was nothing but a bad idea. A dead end. Done and dusted before you should have ever let it begin. 

A breeze rolled through your hair, welcoming and cooling. Ken’s atomic aura lingered behind you. He didn’t bound right up, didn’t affix himself to your side emphatically like he’d been doing all day. 

With a puff and a flick, you heaved yourself away from the curled metal railing, not meeting Ken’s eye. 

You hid your waning cigarette like you were about to get in trouble for it, as if you were back in school, ducking administrators under the bleachers, wrapped in thick lined coats with your friends. How simple things had been back then.

The mention of school brought back countless unsavory memories and left a bad taste in your mouth, flashes of arguments and self-doubt, so you ignored it in favor of waiting for Ken to speak. 

Back then, you weren’t afraid to approach any boy you wanted. It didn’t matter if he was the head of the football team or a shrinking, shy kid in the back of the study hall. Where this fearless bravado originated from, you couldn’t necessarily identify. All you knew was that it had eluded you into adulthood.

You reveled at how much you’ve changed since graduation.

“Willa’s in her green bed-thing,” Ken murmured a decent ways behind you, and you felt instant appreciation for him. After being such a freak and making a fool of yourself, he only kept choosing to help you, looking out for your belongings, the things you cared about. He had no reason to do them for you, but at this point, you didn’t want to question him.

“Thank you, Ken. You didn't have to do that.” You replied softly, picking at a fingernail absentmindedly.

“She got pretty antsy when you left. Ran in circles. Don't worry, (Y/N); once she gets to know me a little better, she’ll trust me in no time. What does she eat?” 

Ken finally appeared at your elbow, voice still gentle, taking in the hanging potted plants, the other identical slim patios of your neighbors that lined the lower units. He seemed nervous to get too close, so he laid his hands down on the railing, blinking rapidly when the sun peeked out from the clouds and shone directly on him like he wasn't used to its intensity. 

If you weren’t walking on eggshells, unable to trust yourself to talk with him normally, you might’ve tipped a warm, toothy smile up at him, allowed yourself to just… enjoy his presence. Express thankfulness for the change to your humdrum everyday life. 

“Lettuce. Different kinds of vegetables. Um… these special pellets I have to order online that take weeks to get here.” And that cost double what they should… the things you do for Willa. If only you could tell her ‘you're welcome.’

“Can you show me how you feed her? When we go back inside?” So hopeful. So unaware. Ken’s request sent shockwaves of emotion through your body. Your heart couldn’t help but do cartwheels over his sweet comments, the uncomplicated way he interacted with you.

“I don't know what to do.”

Ken paused, cocked his head as he furrowed his brow at you. He'd buttoned his jacket back up and taken his boots off. Just standing out here in the real world like he wasn't worried about what would happen to him.

A vein worked in Ken’s throat when he swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, gilding the beautiful slope of his neck, and you had to tear your eyes away from him, the sweat on your chest collecting rapidly. Too tight, too sweet, too painful to look at.  

Of course he buttoned his jacket up, you scolded yourself. What else was he supposed to do after you humiliated him like that, reduced him to nothing but his looks? If he’d done the same to you, you’d have probably kicked him out.

(Or not.)

“Sure you do. You feed her every day, don't you? Actually, you should let me do it, that way we can build a rapport and –”

Exhaling through your nostrils, you took another long drag from your cigarette, and shook your head, still unable to meet Ken’s pleading eyes as the smoke tendril crept upwards and billowed away. 

It didn't bring you enjoyment to cut him off before he could lose himself on a tangent, but the day’s events had left you no choice; and you had to own up to your behavior, your unwarranted comments that Ken didn't even register as irresponsible.

“That's not what I meant. I know how to feed Willa. This has been a very, very long and… strange day. And it's only three in the afternoon.”

“I wasn't keeping track of the time.” Ken offered kindly.

“I wasn't expecting you to.”

“That smells bad,” Ken upturned his nose at the cigarette as the cloud dissipated over his face, shifting his body away from the direction the smoke carried. “I saw people with those in Venice Beach, but they walked so fast that I didn't get a proper whiff, you know? I'm telling you, everyone in Venice Beach acts like they're late for something.”

“That sounds more like New York to me.” A sneer formed on your face, which Ken noticed immediately. 

“They have those smoke sticks in New York, too?” He questioned innocently, side stepping every wave of tobacco residue that fanned out into the air, engaged in a bizarre dance of bob and weave. 

“They have these everywhere.” You counter, lifting your eyebrows curiously.

Ken scowls. “Yuck. What are they for?”

You mulled over an explanation in your mind, a little grateful to be addressing anything besides your brazenly lustful comment that Ken seemed to have entirely forgotten about. That Ken had glossed right over, not even batting a significant (irresistible) eyelash at. 

“When you breathe them in, it makes your head feel light for a few seconds. It's a pleasant feeling. But over time, they hurt your body and… essentially poison you.” Is this how you'd explain smoking to a child? It would have to do; you were no teacher, no professional, regardless of how hungrily Ken searched your eyes for answers and succinct explanations on everything. 

This information horrifies Ken, who makes to grab the burning cigarette right out of your hand. Pinching it between his fingers like hazardous waste, he flings it as far as he possibly can off the balcony with a grunt of exertion, and you both watch it spin gymnastically before landing a very long distance on a far sidewalk, ashes snowing and dying on the ground. 

It's impossible to delay meeting his gaze after that, so you look right up into his eyes, and Ken thaws under your attention, pupils still raging and wild and heavenly cerulean blue. 

Good arm, you think to yourself moments before breaking into a grin. 

“Sorry (Y/N), but that was for your own good. I can't possibly let you do something that's going to poison you. Not on my watch.” Smug, and a little bewildered, the smile that Ken gives you is flustered and determined.

“You're not even wearing a watch.”

“You don't know that.” Ken lulls, peeking at the sky, trying fastidiously to appear unbothered.

“I'm quite literally looking at both of your wrists.”

“Oh, (Y/N). You bemuse me. You see, a prepared man doesn't need to rely on worldly inventions such as watches. And numbers. He only needs his intuitions. Of which I have so many.” Ken taps intermittently at his temples, still avoiding your direct gaze. Calm and collected. Or, his best imitation of someone relaxed. And educated.

Had anyone else done this, especially on a frustrating and confusing day like today, you’d have probably kneed them in the groin. Maybe hurl a few expletives. Because where would you get off snatching a smoke straight out of someone’s hand? That you'd spent your own money on?

But all you could manage to do was laugh, fold over forwards a little bit with it, and the sound of it eased Ken’s nerves, eventually joining in with you to test the temperature of the conversation. 

“So… are you done being mad at me now?” He scrubbed at the back of his neck.

“I was never mad at you, Ken. I just needed some air, I needed to… clear my head. I really meant it when I said you didn’t do anything wrong.” He leaned over the railing a bit, tapping his foot against the welcome mat you’d placed outside.

“What I said wasn’t – well, it wasn’t nice, and I realized that I haven’t been handling this situation appropriately. That’s what made me feel upset. I was mad at myself.” Confessing this had you feeling twenty pounds lighter. 

“But it made me feel nice,” Ken affirmed, and you had to soldier yourself mentally not to grab him by the shoulders and kiss him or something equally as unwise. “I liked it. Is that so bad?”

In your peripheral you could make out the lines of his flawless blonde hair falling into his eyes as he watched the grass below, the bright orange “For Rent” sign, the pomeranian sunbathing on the second floor end unit. He seemed to be taken with every new sight that he laid his eyes on. So eager to learn, eager to please you, to help release your nerves. 

You considered that you didn't deserve even an ounce of it. His newness. His charisma, the spark in his eyes when you smiled at him. Any of it, there was no reason it should be directed towards you. 

Sobered, you attempted with great willpower not to let this falter your resolve. The best way to handle this was with honesty, and you knew that lying to Ken would only further complicate your already complicated friendship that had been forged only a handful of hours earlier. 

“To be fair, it usually feels nice to be complimented.”

“And that’s something friends do for each other – they say nice things about the people they like. So I think you should stop being so mad.” Ken sustained, lightly biting at his plush bottom lip, swelling under the tension, the exactitude of his discomfort manifesting. 

“Listen. Ken,” you dug your nails into the back of your hand, at the susceptible skin there, leaving imprints as you tried to assert yourself. If Ken noticed the tremble in your exhale as you slowly blinked, he didn’t point it out.

“I’m going to be forthcoming with you, because you seem like someone who… I don’t know. Deserves it. You’re funny, you’re. Fascinating. You’re easy on the eyes, I mean, you're. You’re.”

Ken flushes a deep shade of pink at your words, speechless, the spread of it so clear and unbidden on his lower neck that you have to nearly kick yourself not to look. He's got no idea how to answer you. When Ken finally receives the attention he angles for, it seems that he doesn’t know what to do with it. Stands and sways and stares, waits for the next beat because he isn’t sure of what comes after this, what could possibly be waiting for him on the other side of affection, the words that make him bow his head and drop his listless eyes.

You’re a solid few feet away from Ken, but he smells like sunlight – smells like happiness. His eyelashes dance in the shadows the setting sun casts over him in streaks of oranges and deep reds, painting him like an immortalized work of art.

He glimmers like an angel. Something made from clay. It makes your stomach twist. For some reason you miss your little sister. You miss when your days had structure. When decisions weren’t hard to make, when they weren’t even your responsibility. 

When you were only a child, and being alive didn’t sting. 

When none of this was your job. It was only dusk and popsicles, running until your ankles scraped against your shoes so bad they bled. When it was just sidewalk chalk and trading cards and homemade dinner. Homework and awful bathroom haircuts. Long walks and skinned knees.

Not a single part of you had ever felt ready to be an adult, and it was hitting you outside on your balcony, washing over you in disconcerting waves that Ken couldn’t read, couldn’t make sense of.

“You don’t know me that well. And. We only just met today. You know? So, what I’m trying to say is, there’s a lot you don’t know about me, about… what I’ve been through and. What I’m looking for. Out of life, out of. Relationships, friends, things like that. What I want to become. And until this morning, I hadn’t really been that inspired to evaluate any of it. My days are essentially just this, every week over and over, exactly like you’ve seen. I work at the library. I say hi to Pat. I rent a magazine that I forget about and then return without even having picked it up or read it, like some loser. I feed my guinea pig. I smoke and then sit out here, watch my neighbors. It’s just.” 

Your throat feels constricted, fighting against twangs of distressed emotion that bubble up and cradle within you, threatening to release at any moment. Threaten to betray you. You’re reticent to accept that any display of weakness could turn Ken off.

Could have him turning tail and going back to… wherever it was he said he came from. Barbieland? Jesus, what a day.

Since when had you become such a sap? So ready to let it all out over the smallest event, something as mundane as meeting someone who expressed interest in you?

Ken wasn’t just someone, you scolded yourself. Wasn’t just some guy you’d bump into at a bar, someone you’d match with on a dating app or strut up to at a baseball game drunkenly and emboldened with false courage. He couldn’t fit into a box of superlatives. Refused to be defined so easily.

He didn’t even have a heartbeat.

It’s too much out here, and you want to cry. Want so desperately to cry. To let it out, to experience the way you’d feel in front of someone who would never judge you for it. Who probably doesn’t even know what crying or sorrow or regret or loneliness feels like.

But Ken stills himself and listens. Fiddles with his hands like he’s never been bored before and listens to every word, hangs on them like he’s getting something out of this, like he needs to listen to a human being speak about what it feels like to be a human being. Like this is valuable information to him.

He’s so beautiful and bright and burning like the sun and he listens to all of it.

“It would be the easy thing to just keep you here. I know you have no idea what I’m talking about. I’m sorry about that. It would be so easy to. Accept this, accept you and. Not even question it. I mean, Jesus. You came out of nowhere. Introduced yourself to me. Not afraid of anything. You didn’t even know who I was, not really. And the easy thing would be for me to take you – take it. Not even. Not even worrying about what it said about me to do that.”

Your throat is rubbed raw, the honest and vulnerable tears tugging at your eyes, but you can’t do that right now. Don't want to turn over and show your dark, clingy underbelly to Ken when he's only just met you and only thinks shining, sweet things about you, like you could never be capable of letting him down.

Not when it matters, when someone is pegging you as their lifeline, their sole source of connecting themselves to humanity.

Ken just squeezes his pink, worry-chewed lips into a thin line and continues to listen. He has nowhere else to be. Why would he? He’s pale and shining and gorgeous.

Swells of his arms filling with the afternoon sun. There’s nowhere else he wants to be but right here, barefoot and open and accepting of what you need to get off your chest, like there’s the perfect space right in his heart to fit it all in, to understand it even if he’s struggling to get what you mean. 

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I think that there’s. I think there’s something about you that makes me want to be careless. And that’s not like me, at least not right now.”

“But I don’t feel careless when I’m with you.” Ken states, like it’s easy, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Something breaks deep inside you, it's thick and presumptuous, and you feel pressure thickening in the base of your gut, like you might puke or scream or maybe a combination of both.

“I’ve been careless of you. You might not realize it, but. I have been. It’s not cool. I don’t feel that I’m doing the right thing.” 

“Well. What can we do that will make this better?” The question that’s been dancing on his lips, that’s been tearing him asunder finally comes to light. 

You wring your hands in front of you, already craving another cigarette, craving liquor, craving an out from this. The urge to scrape something sharp against the meat of your arm comes to you. You ignore it. Swallowing down the urge to punish yourself.

It’ll be alright. Just approach this logically. Do the right thing.

Do the right thing.

And don’t mess it up.

“I think I would feel better if you went back to where you came from.” 

The words smolder between the two of you, more fiery and loaded than you intended, and Ken bristles at your words. Expecting rejection. Waiting for a slap to the face.

"You want me to leave?"

“Hold on. Not like that, I mean. I think I would feel better if you went back to… you know.”

“Barbieland.” Ken states, and it’s too small, it’s puny. It’s not how you want him to sound. So beaten down and insecure.

“Right. And I think you should really consider whether or not you want this. Living in the real world. Because it’s tough, and. Ken, it’s difficult, it’ll rip you apart from the inside out. People are unpredictable. They can be loving and gentle, but… not every moment you spend here will be fun. Not every friend you make here will have your best interest at heart. They’ll take advantage of you and bleed you for what you’re worth. They’ll toss you around and spit you out and not think anything of it.”

The twirling light in his pupils dies out then, fizzles in a way that's tangible, like you could reach out and touch it to feel how real it is. Ken seems to not understand what you’re saying, but stares at you still, picking at the ends of his sleeves with great effort.

"Is it... you're sure it's not me? Because (Y/N), If I did something, I hope you know you can feel free to let me know. I won't get upset." It twinges at your insides. Makes you clench and tongue at the roof of your mouth. There isn't anything that gets past Ken, is there?

"No, that's. That's not it."

"Okay."

“I’m not saying I will do all of that to you.” You turn then to face him, waving your hand in general as if summarizing everything you'd just said, fighting the instinct to pull another cigarette out of your purse, to hide from what you’re feeling. The truth you need to communicate to him so real and regrettable and honest.

“I just want you to gather as much information as you can before you decide this for yourself. Your life. I don’t know what it was like for you before. Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe our world seems like a sanctuary compared to where you’re from. Maybe it seems like a hellhole.”

Ken doesn’t say anything, just watches your every move intensely, watches your back as it contracts and spreads out with anxiety. Working to pick the right words, the intricacies of what you wish you could articulate.

“But that’s how it is here. I think you should be aware of what you’re getting into. I don’t have all the answers and I need you to understand that. I’m not perfect. I’m not. Not… what you probably think I am. But if you speak with your friends, and others who can build on what I’m telling you, and after everything you still want to come back, I promise you will have a place here, I promise that you can stay with me and that. That I’ll do my very best to show you the ropes and show you everything I have learned.” 

Ken appears deep in thought, tendering his hands fretfully, doesn’t speak for a moment. When the silence continues for minutes, you wonder if he’s given up entirely on speech. 

But then he finally announces, with a measure of confidence you’ve never seen before, “Okay. I will accept this ultimatum, (Y/N). I will go back to Barbieland and ask all the Kens and Barbies what they know about the real world. And when I come back, I can even ask Barbie what she thinks. If she thinks I can do it.”

There’s a tepid, unsure quiver to Ken’s voice when he says this, stumbling over his words like they weren’t ready to come out, not yet. “But you should know something about me, too.”

“What’s that?” You reply, stomach churning with a wistfulness, an aching that isn’t familiar. Might not even be yours to feel.

“When I come back, I want to see you smile. I want you to show me your neighborhood. And what Willa eats. There’s no way I could forget about her. Do you accept my terms?” Somehow you get the impression that Ken isn’t talking about your guinea pig – not entirely, not all the way.

“Yes. I accept. I promise.”

“Promise?” Ken sticks his thin, golden hand out to clutch onto yours, and like it’s burial rites or heartfelt wedding ceremony vows or something precariously in between, and you reach your hand out right back and shake on it. It's real now. Set in stone. Something Ken won’t soon forget. Would never back down on.

"Yes, Ken. Yes."

When he leaves your apartment, you’re reeling, basically unable to look at Willa, the tiny living thing Ken’s connected with so deeply. She sniffs at the air like she's missing something. It hurts. Pathetically, you find it difficult to open your laptop and answer another email. To pretend to be sociable. Capable.

Ken doesn't ask for the address to your apartment, doesn't ask for your phone number, your last name or anything. He seems to believe that he can find his way back to you on instinct and willpower alone.

You think of Ken asking you about bananas of all things. Caring so much about your wellbeing that he threw away your cigarette. An otherwise complete stranger, so blisteringly entrancing that it makes you numb.

Dejectedly, you curl up on your couch, inhaling the smell of Ken so present and dominant in your apartment, that fresh smell, and you bite your fist with a sharp gasp. Shutting your eyes with extreme force, you fight the tears that spill unceremoniously down your tired, tired face, confused and spun around from the inside out.

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

Okay I just saw your post about transmasc Mike Walters and have some things to point out. When we first get Michael he is only wearing shirts when he has to otherwise he's shirtless (a common thing to do post top surgery). And I can't rember exactly where it was but there was a singular line about scars on their chest that made me double take for that reason. Do you have more thoughts to share about it? I'd love to hear them if you do.

i have ten million thoughts about transmasc Mike Walters

First of all - the name. In Episode 9 he has this whole thing about how Mike Walters isn't actually his name, how CANNONBALL was fooled. He talks about it with obvious pride ("Mike Walters - now that's a name.") Yet despite that, from that point on in the podcast, everyone calls him Mike Walters, without fail. This includes friends from before he started using it in the podcast. My personal headcanon is that he had another name in college and actually DID start using Mike Walters as an alias, but liked it so much he adopted it as his actual name. Note that when he's talking to Matt while at Glacier with Edgar, he notes that nobody called him that in college. (Now, this is specifically about the nickname "Mikey," but still.) He's very particular about the name too - putting a lot of stock into how it aligns with his personality. Michael, Mike, Mikey, M-Dawg, and MW all seem to identify with their names in a personal way. (Mikey even has a comment at one point about how "Mike" is the perfect name for his personality, almost as if he picked it.)

Then there's Michael and MW. You're absolutely right about Michael's shirtlessness - he's also deeply proud of his chest hair, which also screams transmasc to me. Furthermore, the ENTIRE cowboy thing to me seems like embracing the masculinity that was denied to him pre-transition. Might I also point out the line "I can give you tips, too, on relaxing so the voice gets lower and more gravelly"?

Mike seems oddly invested in the idea of seeming masculine, too - he explicitly seeks out masc4masc partnerships, which could be him seeking validation of the fact that he's seen as masculine.

I also want to point out that two of Mike's deepest, most ride-or-die friendships were with the two canonically trans characters in the show, Anne and Jam. Transfem/nonbinary/transmasc solidarity at its finest.

[katyspersonal]

Some responses

Oh jeez...... Guys, I did not expect my post to resonate with so many people. I was aware that the problem of people feeling excluded and mocked just for less common headcanons had to be big, but I still thought this post would stay between me and all five of my followers, hahah; I am glad that some people feel really heard here! Some are for very different reasons, too?

I ESPECIALLY want to point out this one, because it is exactly the result I've been seeing a lot:

@tsunbath I've heard similar things from (former?) Malenia fans, and also I know at least two friends for whom Maria was ruined as a character because of how toxic her fans were. You are VERY right about the fact that Malenia would've hated to be the symbol of gatekeeping and bullying in the fandoms! I feel like the same would go for Maria; there is no direct confirmation, but I doubt many people can argue that she IS compassionate soul. Like... how do those toxic fans keep making the deep, compassionate, tragic female character into THE symbol of mockery, exclusion and aggression? Beats me.

It just deeply resonates with me how actions of the bad type of fans can create aversion to a character or a ship. I've had this phase with Mariadeline ship tbh. My advice would be - avoid searching content for the character/ship, try to find a tiny pool of people that likes them but are normal and respectful about it, allow yourself to feel identified with "normal fans of the thing" pool rather than dread of identifying with toxic gatekeepers by association... Like, the ship got recovered for me this way, same as Maria's character herself. Just remember that toxic fans and normal fans are not the same entity... It is a very rare case where division is HELPFUL! Hopefully you will be able to recover Malenia for yourself and not think of those l00sers anymore.

@mycopok I know Mal, easily the best person to have ever crossed BB fandom, and nothing will ever replace her </3 I am just happy that her positive influence still lingers even after becoming way less active, like... yeah, fans just should be allowed to explore any idea they want. Maria x Laurence is SUPER interesting concept! In fact, the initial post WAS made because of someone venting that they were afraid to post their Maria x Laurence stuff out of fear of being ostracised!

@underworldsheiress Yeahhhh again, you are not the first one I hear a story like this from. I also heard takes like 'tomboys are the grossest aesthetic, either come out as a trans or get back in line' (not exagerration). It is REALLY unfair how a woman looking masculine should be either her being a butch lesbian, or... well, no longer being a woman in the end. Infighting and forcing pointless norms on each other is a huge problem with LGBT+ community, you'd expect people to gather to support each other but... people will be people I guess :/ Anyways gigachad move of you to wear what you want.

@alma-amentet I don't quite agree with your tastes on body types maybe not gonna lie; However what you pointed out (not so much in the tags, I saw what else you said heh) is a very good example of how fandoms are open spaces and everyone should feel welcomed here. Like, the girls in the fandoms will have absolutely ridiculously specific tastes regarding male characters - not liking shorter height, not liking slim build, prettifying their canonically not-so-attractive face, judging them in sexy look contests, throwing insults towards their appearance quirks at times...

But once someone tries to pull similar things with female characters - all HELL breaks loose. Double standards in the fandoms regarding genders of the characters are absurd. I even once saw someone in BB fandom whining about how someone attempted to discuss which female character was hotter with them...... after we, as a fandom, CONSTANTLY have shit like 'sexyman contest who is sexier Mico or Brador vote now from your phones!!!!'. .... Like idk if you need to hear this as well or not, but everyone should be allowed to say 'muscular women aren't my taste' for the exact same reason why everyone is allowed to say 'muscular men aren't my taste'.

@fantomette22 @rhythmloid Devotees of the Biphobic Order are the bane of every western fandom's existence at this point for real though :/ They will see a female character that wears pants and kicks ass and start shaking over her like Gollum with The One Ring, ignoring all the context, nuance, her personal story, other possibilities, etc... Like I said - feelings of real people who just try to enjoy the fandom are more important than some toxic bunch's creepy obsession with the character they want to crown as their token masculine lesbian based on stereotypes, no less. I say if they really care about masculine lesbians, they should direct their activity towards real world and real people. Because, again - fandomry is not activism.

Anyways thanks everyone for speaking, and sorry if the tagging annoyed you or something fdsjhfh I really appreciate that, and I do hope you all will be able to find your own group in the fandom that'll keep you mentally safe from the toxic fans ruining characters for you. Like a power barrier in the middle of the chaos! I know I did find mine, lol

[gd4abditive]

Writing Initiative #6

At this point with how the projects were going, I decided to categorise them as the following:

3D - Plushie Bears

4D - Rotoscope Animation

Experimental - Mask (experiments with resin and other materials)

The mask process has been pretty experimental with trying new things, especially involving chemical things, so I thought it would be more fitting with experimental.

Which piece did you present to the class today? How does it relate to the other pieces previously presented?

I presented my attempts with the mask and mostly finished bears. I also presented my experiments with resin and colouring.I did not have the cover for the dragon mask finished yet. At this point the projects have a theme of black and white, some sort of ‘thread’ or ‘line’ in them, and the ‘hidden’ theme of things are not what they seem/hiding true self.

Describe 2–3 specific strengths your classmates found in your work and their reasons for identifying them.

They liked the experimental attempts with the masks and was debated on presenting all of them as one piece rather than just one mask. It was agreed to mainly stick with the one mask plus cover mask. I was not happy with the wrinkles on the inside but the others liked them, mentioning I can incorporate them into the ‘cracks’. I needed to remember this mask was about embracing the imperfections.

Describe 1–2 specific ways your classmates thought you could improve this work going forward.

For the mask it was debated on whether I should just stick with one mask or the double mask. It was agreed to stick with the cover mask to hide the imperfections of the real mask. Someone also suggested taking advantage of the bubbles that appear in the middle of the resin. They suggested adding something in the resin as an ‘imperfection’ or something that will be more noticeable when held to the light.

Consider the remaining outcome you still need to present in the remaining classes; why have you put this one off to the last?

The last project I wanted to avoid using so much material so I thought 4D would be best. I mentioned how people liked the animated gif I made to simulate the 2D and thought about doing something along those lines with rotoscope animation. The subject would be drawn with a white outline to look like a ‘thread’ while people walking around them would look like ghostly white unidentifiable figures. I mostly put this off because I have a little experience with animation so I did not think it would take me as long (even though rotoscope is something I never tried before). I was also stuck for a while figuring out what I wanted to do for the last project which is why I put it off for a while. I’m still thinking of what to do for the reflective. I was feeling lost on what the reflective needs to be (wasn’t sure if it was something showing our process or feelings in these projects, etc) so that is why that one has been put off for so long. I’m hoping to take a look again at reflective pieces from prior classes to get a better idea.

[sayhitoforever]

Tagged by @murderlight and @princelink! Thank you! Not sure how many bingos one person should be allowed to have but here we are. 🙃 Tiny tidbits:

1.) I can and will argue how fanfiction, explicitly in the last 5-7 years, has become a literary genre with elements that identify it as such.

2.) I've bopped around in different fandoms since Quizilla (don't fucking clock me like that)

3.) I am, at this point, canonically known for writing drunk at frequent intervals, sometimes even streaming it to the Grimmichi server 🥴

4.) I plan nothing. Don't ask me what's going to happen in a story. I don't know either.

5.) I do, however, ADORE doing research, even if it's for a single, throwaway line. I don't edit either, we slam that shit in and hit post and run like cowards in this house.

6.) I'd like to be fucking buried with all the glorious, fantastic, insanely beautiful art so many people have made for my fics. I literally want to take it to the grave, I'm so honored by it every time, it NEVER gets old and I never stop feeling like a giddy child. 🖤

I guess I'll double down and tag @poundcakecrm and anyone else bold enough to be humbled by some god damn bingo squares. Tag me! I literally love reading these and seeing how unhinged we all are. Blank copy below!

[wishingicouldfly]

F*cking Running from the bullets

On the 8/22/22 Rolling Stone Article featuring Harry Styles

Prefacing my rant here. I’m a middle-aged cishet mother of one from the US. I have young people in my life who don’t identify as straight, but I am. My opinions are my own, and I do not know everything. In fact, I often know nothing. Just ask my child. Kidding. Anyway, a lot of people are smarter than me and have had life-experiences I will never have, but this is my corner of the internet to rant and rave.

Here’s my Gen-X opinion as a Harry Styles stan and as someone who believes with my whole chest that he is closeted and in a long-term monogamous relationship with Louis Tomlinson.

Buckle up...this gets long, so it's under a cut.

I don’t think most of the general public cares one way or the other about Harry’s sexuality. Not really. There are some very homophobic outliers, but for the most part I think most people in my generation who know music, know that some of our biggest rock idols were gay or bi. And we knew before they came out, based on a host of things including lyrics, coded clothing, innuendos, and common sense. Sound familiar? And it didn’t matter to us because we loved the music.

So most of the GP doesn’t care about H’s sexuality. They like the music. It’s fun. They don’t care enough to look into it. They don’t know about OW or they don’t care about Harry’s personal life to care if they do know about her. Anyone I’ve ever spent more than 30 seconds talking to about H believes he isn’t straight if they don’t know about OW. Most people I’ve talked to about Harry have shrugged about his sexuality. They don’t care who he’s dating.

That said, the Rolling Stone article published this weekend sets up a dangerous source. RS is a respected magazine in the music industry, I’ve used it myself as a source in published works. Rolling Stone is HUGE. There was even a song by Dr. Hook in the 70s called “Cover of the Rolling Stone” because it was and has been a high point in a music career to be showcased on the cover.

Because they are huge and respected, we expect RS to be unbiased. Accurate. Sourced appropriately. Quoted appropriately. To represent artists’ words accurately. Unfortunately in this case, they weren’t. They didn’t. The writer used a lot of personal opinions and leaps of judgment to tilt the article a certain way. Many other publications have taken the RS article and have used it to report on Harry, his view on his own sexuality, and his so-called push back on toxic fandom; other publications who didn’t ask the questions are taking his answers further and further out of context.

How Harry Styles Became the World’s Most Wanted Man – Rolling Stone

I’ll be honest, my first indication we were in the wrong place was when the interviewer casually mentioned that Watermelon Sugar was about c*nnilingus—that made me double take. Because, well, absolutely not. But I guess Harry did say that at one point, so I’ll let it slide, even though in my opinion it wasn’t appropriate for the sort of serious article this purported to be.

There are some good parts of the article—when H talks about My Policeman and says “It’s about love and about wasted time to me” and when he says the director (Michael Grandage) “wanted to show that [gay sex] is tender and loving and sensitive.” Those quotes speak to me about Harry’s true self/real feelings–and support things Michael has said about Harry being prepared for the role in MP. He said Harry knew “every single beat of it at that meeting. I found that incredibly impressive. He knew other people’s lines; he knew all of his lines. He knew why he wanted to talk about it, why one scene worked this way and another worked.”

Harry Styles’ My Policeman Set for TIFF World Premiere | IndieWire

If you read between the lines of the Rolling Stone article, Harry worked very hard NOT to admit to anything untrue about his relationships. You can almost feel the awkwardness of the way he phrases things. He never wants to lie outright, but he can’t tell the truth (if you believe he’s closeted, which I do). He’s trying to keep from outing himself while presenting as someone in a relationship with a woman. He worked hard to be ambiguous about his personal life. And those efforts are thwarted in one fell swoop when the interviewer contests Harry’s own words in the next paragraph.

Understandably the fandom is up in arms. With the bent of the article, on the surface it feels like he’s admitted to a relationship we are sure is PR, and at the same time is queerbaiting/Larry baiting with all the coded messages, cryptic doors/tweets for HsH marketing, and lyrical hints at his relationship with Louis his songs. He’s walking a fine line (excuse the pun) between a PR narrative and the truth he’d rather not reveal. People of all walks of life from check-marked celebrities on Twitter to legitimate news outlets have been debating the point. 

It’s been a firestorm.

On one hand, I think Harry can handle the negative press. He knows about the media more than most. He knows the stories about Michael Jackson, Princess Diana, George Michael, Freddie Mercury. He knows what the press can do and what they can whip up and how devastating the result can be–none of those stories have happy endings. 

It doesn’t make it okay, but I think he knows how to compartmentalize. It’s why he’s not on SM at all anymore. And God knows he’s been here before, and while that never makes bullying and misinformation okay, I believe he has the knowledge of history and a support system in place to balance the media storm/fan outrage with doing the job he loves and fulfilling the commitments he has. He was, in fact, the twice named villain of the year in 2013 and 2014 for (Harry Styles Named 'Villain Of The Year,' One Direction 'Worst Band' At NME Awards | HuffPost Entertainment) for NME. Which, just gross. Can you imagine? He wasn’t even 20 years old. He’s had his share of Twitter hate, and I think he’s off SM for the most part to avoid it.

On the other hand, I think it sets a dangerous precedent for publications like RS to spin a misleading narrative. Not to look at the possibility that he’s asking you to read between the lines is harmful to others in the LGBTQ+ community. He’s telling that he’s on a journey about his sexuality (actually, I’m convinced he’s no longer questioning, but that he knows who he is). I know it’s been happening for decades, centuries probably. But it still angers me that a writer can spin a few words around and make the meaning very different from the intent. Or even outright contradict the words of the subject.

For example, this quote:

Harry in RS: “Sometimes people say, ‘You’ve only publicly been with women,’ and I don’t think I’ve publicly been with anyone. If someone takes a picture of you with someone, it doesn’t mean you’re choosing to have a public relationship or something.”

That’s very similar to this interview from 60 Minutes Australia in 2013: “I have a lot of friends, some of them are girls, and apparently I’m dating all of them.”

Same message, nine years later, but the author of RS article decides that he’s dating Olivia Wilde BECAUSE he’s been pictured with her. EVEN though he basically just said he wasn’t. Literally, in the very next paragraph the author states the opposite of what he said.

For whatever reason, he’s not comfortable sharing his private life. He stresses that he keeps his private life private and that what the public sees is all work. His relationship with OW is textbook PR fauxmance. It only takes a couple of peeks to see behind that curtain–and he confirms that by saying that every couples walk in front of a camera is work. 

I firmly believe that this will be yesterday’s news by the end of the week. People forget. Someone sees a headline and all they’ll remember is that there was controversy about Harry’s sexuality. And they’ll either care or they won’t. They will either see the movie or they won’t. I don’t think there will be long term damage-he’ll be able to make a choice about what he wants to do–I just hope he doesn’t feel pressured either way. I hope it’s his own decision. 

The damage will be that some will feel betrayed because if he's not closeted, then he IS queer baiting and Larry baiting--it DOES matter to so many who aren't seen, who can't be seen and to so many who support both Harry and Louis.

I don’t know Harry Styles. I think he’s lovely. Talented. Brave in the way he wears clothes. Honest in the way he bares his soul in his lyrics and the way so much of his music can be interpreted by the listener. He seems kind. He tells people at shows to be kind to each other. He often supports gay fans in coming out. He wants people to be themselves, whoever that is–he says it all the time, and it feels genuine. People at his shows are proud of who they are--there's a lot of body positivity, pride for whatever community people identify with--it's lovely.

I don’t have a conclusion for this rant. I’ll leave it open ended and maybe add to it. It must be hard to be someone in the spotlight who wants to perform, but who also wants to keep some parts of their life for themselves. F*cking running from the bullets indeed.

Actually no. Here’s my conclusion. My open message to Harry Styles.

Harry–

I’m not your mom. I am your mom’s age, and I actually think we’d be friends. But I am someone’s mom, and this is what I’d say to her.

First, have you eaten lunch? Had some water? Taken your meds and your vitamins? Ok, then. 

Breathe. You cannot control the bullies. They are mean, and they are wrong. It feels like they are ganging up on you, and they are. But remember this. You are beautiful. You are loved. You are smart and talented. You have friends and family (and fans) who love you and know the truth. This will pass. It’s okay to step back. It’s okay to take a break or a breath. Ask for help or hugs when you need them but tell people when you’d rather they don’t touch you or when you need to be alone. You don’t have to be perfect. Just be yourself. You bring light to so many people. Let the people who love you bring you some light. 

Love, Someone Else’s Mom.

[duckymcdoorknob]

Ok so I don’t know if you‘re still writing for saiki k, or even if you’re taking requests at the moment, feel free to ignore this if you aren’t! I would kinda say this is an emergency request. I’m a trans dude and I’ve been experiencing dysphoria a lot recently, and questioning if I’m really a boy. I was just wondering if you might write something for saiki k with a trans s/o (extra points if s/o is plus size lol) where he figures out he’s struggling and reminds them that he sees him as a boy? just lots of comfort!! Thank you in advanceee :)

(Don’t feel pressured to write this!!)

No pressure whatsoever my dear! Thank you for trusting me with your issue.

You may be in a rough time of questioning, but I promise that whatever you see yourself as is who you are.

If you exit your questioning with a result you enjoy, perfect! If not, that’s more than okay. Life is not colored inside the lines and shit happens.

CW BELOW THE CUT: Reader is feeling dysph0r1c

𝐾𝑢𝑠𝑢𝑜 𝑆𝑎𝑖𝑘𝑖

Big man Saiki is our resident aro/ace icon, so he’s the most accepting person we’ve ever met.

But, in the event he gets a partner? Ohoho you’re in luck buddy.

Kusuo is the most caring and loving boyfriend ever. He makes his partner his priority.

He never abuses his powers to help them, unless if he has to, so that they can grow and push through their challenges.

Except on the day that he curiously used clairvoyance to find you when you were absent.

The clairvoyance revealed that you were huddled up in your bedroom, hiding yourself in a blanket cocoon.

That couldn’t be good.

He walked outside to find another random person, since he needs to teleport two things of equal value.

He successfully found someone to trade spots with near your home, immediately doing so.

He knocked on your door, as if he wasn’t planning to show up.

“Shit!“ You cursed under your breath, “Come on in!”

The pink-haired boy had no objections to that. He opened the door and immediately came to your side.

“I sensed a disturbance in the force.” He said in a completely monotone voice.

“Kusuo, stop.” You said in exasperation, “I’m not in the mood for shitty Star Wars jokes.”

“Okay, you love my Star Wars jokes. What’s going on?” He assumed a position next to you, placing a hand on the spot he presumed to be your shoulder.

“No, don’t touch.” You whined.

He recoiled his hand, placing it on his thigh.

“M’sorry, Ku’, I just hate my body so much. I don’t want you to have to even touch it.”

“Ah, I see.” He said before tackling you in a hug, “You may hate it, but it’s my favorite thing in the world.”

“Kusuo-“

“Nah, ah. No objections, give me my time.”

You shut your mouth, pursing your lips.

“I love the fact that you are so warm, literally all of the time. Like, you’re a walking blanket. And I’m always cold, so we’re a match made in Heaven or whatever my old parents say.”

A tiny giggle escaped your mouth.

“Oh! And your laughter is music to my ears. Like wow I never thought I’d hear what about actual Angel sounds like, but nonetheless there they are right in front of me.”

“Kusuo!” You said with an amused grin and furrowed brows.

“What? You know I’m not allowed to lie to you. You made me promise.”

“I did, but… it just feels like you’re blowing smoke up my ass.”

“That wouldn’t be a very fun activity.” he murmured, taking the time to lay on your stomach.

“KUSUO!”

“(Y/N)!“ he mocked.

You sigh, “Since we aren’t lying…”

His attention grew to double, looking right in your eyes.

“I hate the fact that I’m not confident in my identity. Like, I don’t know who I’m supposed to be quite yet, but is it really going to be this hard all of the time?”

Your pink-haired boyfriend simply took one of your hands, interwound his fingers inside it, and kissed it.

“(Y/N), no matter who you see yourself as, I love you anyway. As of now, you told me you feel that you identify as a boy. That’s great. I get to tell people that I have a kickass boyfriend, or partner, or whatever you’d prefer. Which one would you like?”

You breathed out in relief, “(preference)”

“Cool.” He replied simply, “Aside from that, it doesn’t matter ‘how you were made’. If you say that you feel that you’ve always been a boy, then congratulations you are now a boy. It’s that easy!”

Saiki didn’t really understand the whole topic, but he tries his best.

“It might not always work like th-“

“And if it doesn’t, that’s why you have the freedom to change.” He chimed, “You can be whoever you want to be. Want to know why?”

“Mm?”

“Girl, boy, non-binary, no labels, whatever else there may be: You’re all mine, and I love you.”

—————♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎—————

[notsoheadless]

Remember Longcat, Jane? I remember Longcat. Fuck the picture on this page, I want to talk about Longcat. Memes were simpler back then, in 2006. They stood for something. And that something was nothing. Memes just were. “Longcat is long.” An undeniably true, self-reflexive statement. Water is wet, fire is hot, Longcat is long. Memes were floating signifiers without signifieds, meaningful in their meaninglessness. Nobody made memes, they just arose through spontaneous generation; Athena being birthed, fully formed, from her own skull.     You could talk about them around the proverbial water cooler, taking comfort in their absurdity. “Hey, Johnston, have you seen the picture of that cat? They call it Longcat because it’s long!” “Ha ha, sounds like good fun, Stevenson! That reminds me, I need to show you this webpage I found the other day; it contains numerous animated dancing hamsters. It’s called — you’ll never believe this — hamsterdance!” And then Johnston and Stevenson went on to have a wonderful friendship based on the comfortable banality of self-evident digitized animals.     But then 2007 came, and along with it came I Can Has, and everything was forever ruined. It was hubris, Jane. We did it to ourselves. The minute we added written language beyond the reflexive, it all went to shit. Suddenly memes had an excess of information to be parsed. It wasn’t just a picture of a cat, perhaps with a simple description appended to it; now the cat spoke to us via a written caption on the picture itself. It referred to an item of food that existed in our world but not in the world of the meme, rupturing the boundary between the two. The cat wanted something. Which forced us to recognize that what it wanted was us, was our attention. WE are the cheezburger, Jane, and we always were. But by the time we realized this, it was too late. We were slaves to the very memes that we had created. We toiled to earn the privilege of being distracted by them. They fiddled while Rome burned, and we threw ourselves into the fire so that we might listen to the music. The memes had us. Or, rather, they could has us.     And it just got worse from there. Soon the cats had invisible bicycles and played keyboards. They gained complex identities, and so we hollowed out our own identities to accommodate them. We prayed to return to the simple days when we would admire a cat for its exceptional length alone, the days when the cat itself was the meme and not merely a vehicle for the complex memetic text. And the fact that this text was so sparse, informal, and broken ironically made it even more demanding. The intentional grammatical and syntactical flaws drew attention to themselves, making the meme even more about the captioning words and less about the pictures. Words, words, words. Wurds werds wordz. Stumbling through a crooked, dead-end hallway of a mangled clause describing a simple feline sentiment was a torture that we inflicted on ourselves daily. Let’s not forget where the word “caption” itself comes from: capio, Latin for both “I understand” and “I capture.” We thought that by captioning the memes, we were understanding them. Instead, our captions allowed them to capture us. The memes that had once been a cure for our cultural ills were now the illness itself.     It goes right back to the Phaedrus, really. Think about it. Back in the innocent days of 2006, we naïvely thought that the grapheme had subjugated the phoneme, that the belief in the primacy of the spoken word was an ancient and backwards folly on par with burning witches or practicing phrenology or thinking that Smash Mouth was good. Fucking Smash Mouth. But we were wrong. About the phoneme, I mean. Theuth came to us again, this time in the guise of a grinning grey cat. The cat hungered, and so did Theuth. He offered us an updated choice, and we greedily took it, oblivious to the consequences. To borrow the parlance of a contemporary meme, he baked us a pharmakon, and we eated it.     Pharmakon, φάρμακον, the Greek word that means both “poison” and “cure,” but, because of the

limitations of the English language, can only be translated one way or the other depending on the context and the translator’s whims. No possible translation can capture the full implications of a Greek text including this word. In the Phaedrus, writing is the pharmakon that the trickster god Theuth offers, the toxin and remedy in one. With writing, man will no longer forget; but he will also no longer think. A double-edged (s)word, if you will. But the new iteration of the pharmakon is the meme. Specifically, the post-I-Can-Has memescape of 2007 onward. And it was the language that did it, Jane. The addition of written language twisted the remedy into a poison, flipped the pharmakon on its invisible axis.     In retrospect, it was in front of our eyes all along. Meme. The noxious word was given to us by who else but those wily ancient Greeks themselves. μίμημα, or mīmēma. Defined as an imitation, a copy. The exact thing Plato warned us against in the Republic. Remember? The simulacrum that is two steps removed from the perfection of the original by the process of — note the root of the word — mimesis. The Platonic ideal of an object is the source: the father, the sun, the ghostly whole. The corporeal manifestation of the object is one step removed from perfection. The image of the object (be it in letters or in pigments) is two steps removed. The author is inferior to the craftsman is inferior to God.     Fuck, out of space. Okay, the illustration on page 46 is fucking useless; I’ll see you there. (21) But we’ll go farther than Plato. Longcat, a photograph, is a textbook example of a second-degree mimesis. (We might promote it to the third degree since the image on the internet is a digital copy of the original photograph of the physical cat which is itself a copy of Platonic ideal of a cat (the Godcat, if you will); but this line of thought doesn’t change anything in the argument.) The text-supplemented meme, on the other hand, the captioned cat, is at an infinite remove from the Godcat, the ultimate mimesis, copying the copy of itself eternally, the written language and the image echoing off each other, until it finally loops back around to the truth by virtue of being so far from it. It becomes its own truth, the fidelity of the eternal copy. It becomes a God.     Writing itself is the archetypical pharmakon and the archetypical copy, if you’ll come back with me to the Phaedrus (if we ever really left it). Speech is the real deal, Socrates says, with a smug little wink to his (written) dialogic buddy. Speech is alive, it can defend itself, it can adapt and change. Writing is its bastard son, the mimic, the dead, rigid simulacrum. Writing is a copy, a mīmēma, of truth in speech. To return to our analogous issue: the image of the cheezburger cat, the copy of the picture-copy-copy, is so much closer to the original Platonic ideal than the written language that accompanies it. (“Pharmakon” can also mean “paint.” Think about it, Jane. Just think about it.) The image is still fake, but it’s the caption on the cat that is the downfall of the republic, the real fakeness, which is both realer and faker than whatever original it is that it represents.    Men and gods abhor the lie, Plato says in sections 382 a and b of the Republic. οὐκ οἶσθα, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ὅτι τό γε ὡς ἀληθῶς ψεῦδος, εἰ οἷόν τε τοῦτο εἰπεῖν, πάντες θεοί τε καὶ ἄνθρωποι μισοῦσιν; πῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις; οὕτως, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ὅτι τῷ κυριωτάτῳ που ἑαυτῶν ψεύδεσθαι καὶ περὶ τὰ κυριώτατα οὐδεὶς ἑκὼν ἐθέλει, ἀλλὰ πάντων μάλιστα φοβεῖται ἐκεῖ αὐτὸ κεκτῆσθαι. “Don’t you know,” said I, “that the veritable lie, if the expression is permissible, is a thing that all gods and men abhor?” “What do you     mean?” he said. “This,” said I, “that falsehood in the most vital part of themselves, and about their most vital concerns, is something that no one willingly accepts, but it is there above all that everyone fears it.” Man’s worst fear is that he will hold existential falsehood within himself. And the verbal lies that he tells are a copy of this feared dishonesty in the soul.

Plato goes on to elaborate: “the falsehood in words is a copy of the affection in the soul, an after-rising image of it and not an altogether unmixed falsehood.” A copy of man’s false internal copy of truth. And what word does Plato use for “copy” in this sentence? That’s fucking right, μίμημα. Mīmēma. Mimesis. Meme. The new meme is a lie, manifested in (written) words, that reflects the lack of truth, the emptiness, within the very soul of a human. The meme is now not only an inferior copy, it is a deceptive copy.     But just wait, it gets better. Plato continues in the very next section of the Republic, 382 c. Sometimes, he says, the lie, the meme, is appropriate, even moral. It is not abhorrent to lie to your enemy, or to your friend in order to keep him from harm. “Does it [the lie] not then become useful to avert the evil—as a medicine?” You get one fucking guess for what Greek word is being translated as “medicine” in this passage. Ding ding motherfucking ding, you got it, φάρμακον, pharmakon. The μίμημα is a φάρμακον, the lie is a medicine/poison, the meme is a pharmakon.     But I’m sure that by now you’ve realized the (intentional) mistake in my argument that brought us to this point. I said earlier that the addition of written language to the meme flipped the pharmakon on its axis. But the pharmakon didn’t flip, it doesn’t have an axis. It was always both remedy and poison. The fact that this isn’t obvious to us from the very beginning of the discussion is the fault of, you guessed it, language. The initial lie (writing) clouds our vision and keeps us from realizing how false the second-order lie (the meme) is.     The very structure of the lying meme mirrors the structure of the written word that defines and corrupts it. Once you try to identify an “outside” in order to reveal the lie, the whole framework turns itself inside-out so that you can never escape it. The cat wants the cheezburger that exists outside the meme, but only through the meme do we become aware of the presumed existence of the cheezburger — we can’t point out the absurdity of the world of the meme without also indicting our own world. We can’t talk about language without language, we can’t meme without mimesis. Memes didn’t change between ‘06 and ‘07, it was us who changed. Or rather, our understanding of what we had always been changed. The lie became truth, the remedy became the poison, the outside became the inside. Which is to say that the truth became lie, the pharmakon was always the remedy and the poison, and the inside retreated further inside. It all came full circle. Because here’s the secret, Jane. Language ruined the meme, yes. But language itself had already been ruined. By that initial poisonous, lying copy. Writing.     The First Meme.     Language didn’t attack the meme in 2007 out of spite. It attacked it to get revenge.     Longcat is long. Language is language. Pharmakon is pharmakon. The phoneme topples the grapheme, witches ride through the night, our skulls hide secret messages on their surfaces, Smash Mouth is good after all. Hey now, you’re an all-star. Get your game on.     Go play.

[idreamtofmanderleyagain]

Hot takes about Severus Snape are a wierdly decent glimpse into how a person with progressive values analyses things. Literally every time someone talks about Snape, it’s like this tiny window into how one-dimentionally people actually think.

Recently saw a twitter post that was a fantastic example. Here’s how it goes (paraphrasing):

Person A:“Snape is POC and Queer coded, that’s why you guy’s hate him uwu lol.”

Person B: “Actually I hate him because he was mean and abusive to children under his care uwu but go off I guess lol”

Both of these takes are designed to be dramatic and/or reactionary. They each use partial truths to paint very broad strokes. These are get-em-in-one-hit quips. This is virtue signalling, if you’ll excuse that loaded phrase. Nobody had a substantial conversation, but now everyone who sees their statement knows the high ground they took.

At least a hundred other people chimed in to add their own little quippy hot takes into play, none of which add anything significant, but clearly made everyone feel very highly of themselves.

So many layers of nuance and complex analysis is completely lost in this kind of discussion. On tumblr, you get more of this kind of bullshit, but you don’t have a word count limit, so you guys just spew endless mountains of weak overblown evidence backing up your bullshit arguments, none of which was really about engaging in a real conversation anyway.

Here’s the thing about Snape.

He is a childhood domestic abuse victim. His abuser is a muggle.

He becomes a student at a magical school that takes him away from his abuser and immediately instills in him the idea that being a part of this magical world is a badge of self-worth, empowerment, and provides safety and security - provided that he keeps in line.

There is a war is being waged in that world over his right to exist (he is a half blood).

He is a marginalized person within the context of the narrative, forced to constantly be in the same living space as the children of his own oppressors who are being groomed and recruited into a hate group militia (the pureblood slytherins). They are in turn trying to do the same to him.

He is marginalized person bullied by children who are also part of his oppressor group, but who have “more liberal” leanings and aren’t direct about why he’s being targeted (the mauraders are all purebloods, Sirius, who was the worst offender, was raised in a bigoted household, the same one that produced Bellatrix.).

He had a crush on a girl who is a muggleborn, and therefore she is considered even lesser than him and carries a stigma to those who associate with her. That girl was his only real friend. In his entire life.

For both Snape and Lily, allying themselves to a pureblood clique within their own houses would be a great way of shielding themselves from a measure of the bigotry they were probably facing. There would have been obvious pressure from those cliques to disconnect with one and other.

Every other person who associates with Snape in his adulthood carries some sort of sociopolitical or workplace (or hate cult) baggage with their association. Some of them will physically harm and/or kill him if he steps out of line. He hasn’t at any point had the right environment to heal and adjust from these childhood experiences. Even his relationship with Dumbledore is charged with constant baggage, including the purebloods who almost killed him during their bullying getting a slap on the wrist, the werewolf that almost killed him as a child being placed in an authority position over new children, etc. Dumbledore is canonically manipulative no matter his good qualities, and he has literally been manipulating Snape for years in order to cultivate a necessary asset in the war.

He is a person who is not in the stable mental state necessary to be teaching children, whom has been forced to teach children. While also playing the role of double agent against the hate group militia, the one that will literally torture you for mistakes or backtalk or just for fun. The one that will torture and kill him if he makes one wrong move.

Is the math clicking yet? From all of this, it’s not difficult to see how everything shitty about Snape was cultivated for him by his environment. Snape was not given great options. Snape made amazingly awful choices, and also some amazingly difficult, courageous ones. Snape was ultimately a human who had an extremely bad life, in which his options were incredibly grim and limited.

In fact, pretty much every point people make about how shitty Snape is as a person makes 100% logical sense as something that would emerge from how he was treated. Some if it he’s kind of right about, some of it is the inevitable reality of suffering, and some of it is part of the cycle of abuse and harm.

Even Snape’s emotional obsession with Lily makes logical sense when you have the perspective that he literally has no substantial positive experiences with other human beings that we know of, and he has an extreme, soul destroying guilt complex over her death. Calling him an Incel mysoginist nice guy projects a real-world political ideology and behavior that does not really apply to the context of what happened to him and her.

Even Snape’s specific little acts of cruelty to certain students is a reflection of his own life experiences. He identifies with Neville; more specifically, he identifies his own percieved emotional weaknesses in his childhood in Neville. There’s a very sad reason there why he feels the urge to be so harsh.

Snape very clearly hates himself, in a world where everyone else hates him, too. Imagine that, for a second. Imagine total internal and external hatred, an yearning for just a little bit of true connection. For years. Imagine then also trying to save that world, even if it’s motivated by guilt. Even if nobody ever knows you did it and you expect to die a miserable death alone.

There are more elements here to consider, including the way Rowling described his looks (there may be something in there re: ugliness and swarthy stereotyping). These are just the things that stand out the most prominently to me.

J.K. Rowling is clearly also not reliable as an imparter of moral or sociopolitical philosophies. I don’t feel that her grasp of minority experiences is a solid one, considering how she picks and chooses who is acceptable and who is a threat.

All of that said, this is a logically consistent character arc. Within the context of his narrative, Snape is a marginalized person with severe PTSD and emotional instability issues who has absolutely no room available to him for self-improvement or healing, and never really has. And yes, he’s also mean, and caustic, and verbally abusive to the students. He’s also a completey miserable, lonely person.

There are elements in his character arc that mirror real world experiences quite well. If nothing else, Rowling is enough of an emotional adult to recognise these kinds of things and portray something that feels authentic.

In my opinion, it’s not appropriate to whittle all this down by comparing him directly to the real world experiences of marginalized groups - at least if you are not a part of the group you are comparing him to. There have been many individuals who have compared his arc to their own personal experiences of marginalization, and that is valid. But generally speaking, comparing a white straight dude to people who are not that can often be pretty offensive. This is not a valuable way to discuss either subject.

Also, I believe that while it’s perfectly okay to not like Snape as a character, many of the people who act like Person B are carrying Harry’s childhood POV about Snape in their hearts well into their own adulthood. And if nothing else, Rowling was attempting to say something here about how our perspectives (should) grow and change as we emotionally mature.  She doesn’t have to be a good person herself to have expressed something true about the world in this instance, and since this story is a part of our popular culture, people have a right to feel whatever way they do about this story and it’s characters.

The complexity of this particular snapshot of fictionalized marginalization, and what it reveals about the human experience, cannot be reduced down to “he’s an abuser so he’s not worth anyone’s time/you are bad for liking him.”

And to be honest, I think that it reveals a lot about many of us in progressive spaces, particularly those of us who less marginalized but very loud about our values, that we refuse to engage with these complexities in leu of totally condemning him. Particularly because a lot of the elements I listed above are indeed reflected in real world examples of people who have experienced marginalization and thus had to deal with the resulting emotional damage, an mental illness, and behavior troubles, and bad decisions. Our inability to address the full scope of this may be a good reflection of how we are handling the complexity of real world examples.

Real people are not perfect angels in their victimhood. They are just humans who are victims, and we all have the capacity to be cruel and abusive in a world where we have been given cruelty and abuse. This is just a part of existing. If you cannot sympathise with that, or at least grasp it and aknowledge it and respect the people who are emotionally drawn to a character who refects that, then you may be telling on yourself to be honest.

To be honest, this is especially true if you hate Snape but just really, really love the Mauraduers. You have a right to those feelings, but if you are moralizing this and judging others for liking Snape, you’ve confessed to something about how you’ve mentally constructed your personal values in a way I don’t think you’ve fully grasped yet.

I have a hard time imagining a mindset where a story like Snape’s does not move one to empathy and vicarious grief, if I’m honest. I feel like some people really just cannot be bothered to imagine themselves in other people’s shoes, feeling what they feel and living like they live. I struggle to trust the social politics of people who show these kinds of colors, tbh.

But maybe that’s just me.

[qslovebot]

KISS FOR YOUR LIFE: SPENCER REID

Summary: A BAU case leads the reader to take on an undercover role to flush out a ten-person mafia. Before the work can begin, things go awry and the reader has to improvise and pretend to seduce Spencer to keep her cover and arrest the real unsub.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings/includes: talk of murder, mentions of sex, suggested past experiences with misogyny, suggestive jokes, unsub is a radical feminist, swearing, arrests, guns, making out, sort of fluffy end.

Word Count: 4159

A/N: Written like an episode. I removed Rossi so... AU? First actual fanfic on here, tell me what you think?

Today was your first official day at the BAU, switching from two floors down as an underestimated agent to upstairs, with the Big League. Agent Hotchner decided he needed new, young-minded blood. He was notorious for picking the best of the best and after an intimidating interview with him and his brooding questions, he decided he wanted you on his team.

You had been here before, of course. You frequently visited the ever-chatting Penelope Garcia for lunch, sometimes in her office, sometimes heading downstairs for a slice of pizza or a salad. She vented about her issues, while you talked about the constant misogyny that ran through the men on your floor. She was five years older than you and decided that as your 'elder' she would put on the angry soccer mom look and kick their asses. But, lucky for you, two floors upward, the men didn't act like children on the job, so Garcia could keep her regular look.

Here it was, glass entrance, high ceilings. The air smelled like paper and was filled with a fresh sort of low mumbling and the small clicks of the keyboards. A semi-fresh start. Today you would organize your new desk, sort files, meet the others...

"Agent (Y/L/N), we have a case in Boston, we will be briefed on the jet. Get your things ready, we leave in twenty-five minutes," Agent Hotchner said as he walked by. He didn't stop for a single second, those dark dress shoes clomping heavily to the desks of your new fellow agents to inform them as well. So much for your plans.

Not wanting to appear unready, you rushed to set your things down and grab the few things you needed for the case. Hotchner had said always bring three spare outfits rolled to the smallest packing size possible, toiletries (toothpaste, toothbrush, hairbrush, and feminine hygiene products) as well as one extra pair of shoes. Those were already packed into a small bag, so in with those went your notebook, pens, and highlighter. You came prepared, so in no time, you were on the jet for the first time, exhilarated.

A hand was extended to you when you took your seat. It belonged to a man with caramel skin and a dazzling smile, "You must be (Y/L/N). The name is Derek Morgan." Anyone who used 'the name is' seemed like they felt superior in some way. It was used in the media to introduce someone of importance. 'The name is Bond, James Bond', ran through your head as you gratefully shook his hand.

"My name is Emily Prentiss and I... didn't quite catch your first name," a woman with a v-neck sweater also reached to shake your hand. "I think I may have heard it, but I must have forgotten."

"(Y/N)," you replied with a small smile. It felt nice to be greeted with kind eyes, rather than greedy ones. "It's not a very memorable name, don't worry."

Emily looked apologetic, but soon reverted to her previous smile. I was greeted by the blonde woman across the aisle, too far to shake my hand. "My name is Jennifer Jareau, I'm the media liaison, but you can call me JJ, everyone does. It's really great to meet you- for a moment I thought Penelope had made up a friend as a result of too many hours in front of a screen."

You laughed a little, ruffling your hair. She seemed outgoing, but I had already started profiling Derek Morgan and I wanted to stop there. Agent Hotchner sat down with someone I had never noticed on my visits to Penelope. I had noticed everyone else here on this jet at least once before, but... not him. How had you missed him?

He stood at about six-one, maybe six-two? He was thin, much the opposite to Morgan's greatly muscular arms. This man was calm-looking, quiet. His clothes said that maybe he was meticulous and orderly- he looked like the kind of person who didn't own a single pair of sweatpants. His face was chiselled, with a sharp jawline and cheekbones that carved the shadows on his face. His eyes, however, were much softer. Long eyelashes and dark eyes made them bigger, but they were slightly blocked by bronze-toned brown curls that at the end of his combed and gelled hair, wrapped around his jaw, neck, and face.

He was beautiful, if you were entirely frank with yourself.

And he didn't even notice you were there until Hotchner nudged his arm in a way that said 'say hello' the same way one would introduce two toddlers. You were sure you weren't a toddler and nor was this man, but it appeared you both may have been the youngest there.

When he looked your way, you wanted to look away, but couldn't. He seemed surprised to see you there and you were trying to play off the staring by introducing yourself. "Hi, I'm SSA (Y/N) (Y/L/N). I don't think we've met, it's nice to meet you." You extended your hand and he just shook his head no, his lips pressing into a tight line.

He didn't shake hands, you realized. Probably a slight germophobe. You cleared your throat, "I'm sorry if that was an uncomfortable gesture, I didn't know." Humiliating.

The tall man opened his mouth to say something, shut his mouth, opened it again but then turned a little pink and sat down immediately next to Hotchner and stared at his hands that were folded in his lap. You had thought you nailed pretty much every introduction, but this one? Fuck.

You reverted back to your business with a sigh, patting your knees. It felt like you had somehow lost something. JJ whispered to you, silently pointing to the tall man, "Dr. Spencer Reid, human encyclopedia, dictionary, and knows pretty much everything." You nodded a thank you and she nodded back.

Derek Morgan, however, tapped Emily Prentiss on the shoulder and mumbled, "Reid did his 'pretty-girl-freakout'."

Emily gasped, "Oh, he did!

The two seemed to have forgotten you were in front of them and they noticed your confusion in unison, both of them freezing up and chuckling nervously. You smiled an extremely awkward smile and left thinking about Dr. Spencer Reid for later as you got to the case.

This was about a female mafia boss who seemed to take on the personality, style, and characteristics of the taste of rich men and kill them after having sex with them. The woman was reported and seen by one witness to see her and that was the only person outside of this mafia who had seen her face, so they were working with the sketch artist and would have the picture ready and accurate upon our arrival.

Victimology was simple, she was after men who had too much power. She probably identified with being a radical feminist. She was after their money and had sex with them to dethrone them on the way. Possibly bordered on a personality disorder considering she seemed to be entirely all-in to her 'disguises'.

The funniest thing was the way they all looked at you when you announced those lines. Perhaps you would work yourself out of the 'child' stage faster than you thought.

The BAU hit the precinct in much less time than I had expected and on the ground, running. You were immediately given things to do and you were on top of it all, every order. That was until the drawing of the Mafia leader AKA 'The Seductress' was pulled up and the whole BAU gasped at how she looked EXACTLY like you.

"Do I need my cuffs?" Morgan joked. You had covered your mouth in disbelief and the rest of the room was doing double-takes.

You laughed nervously, "I swear... that isn't me, but oh my god..." Morgan was laughing and Emily and JJ whispering and had confused smiles. Spencer Reid stood in the corner, his hand on his cheek, seemingly studying the photo. He looked statue-like, borderline godly.

"Can this be used to our advantage?" Hotch launched back into technical thinking, brow furrowed. You looked at him, mouth open, but immediately shut it out of professionalism. What was going on in his head?

Reid spoke up, "If we position her just right and at the right time in one of the hotspots for that group, we can possibly get her to somehow trick the other members into some sort of turn-in."

Her. Indirect. Did you do something wrong?

"Or a simple appearance could start gossip and a possible flock to where she was spotted. As long as people aren't seeing double or reaching to do so, she can play as The Seductress." Emily said, looking at you. "Are you up to try, (Y/L/N)?"

All eyes on you. Your first day turned to chaos. But this was your job and you would prove your place here. So you agreed and in a whisk of an afternoon, you were transformed into the mirror image of The Seductress while you were talked through the plan through a radio. Turned out, so prove a professional place, you needed to make yourself look ridiculously unprofessional.

Pinned up hair, dark cat eye makeup, a dress similar to hers that happened to be on hand. Long, deep red, with a long slit up the side and your tits were practically falling out of it, but the dress fit and they were secure, so you dealt with it. There was no other space for a gun other than the side of your thigh where The Seductress kept hers knife. Now, you had to get going, meaning you had to face the BAU in the getup.

When you walked out, Derek Morgan hooted and whistled and Emily gave him a look that said 'oh lord' like an annoyed sibling. You smiled a little and essentially just kept walking, figuring if you moved, it would give them less time to stare at your tits.

Turning the corner, you noticed that Dr.Spencer Reid was much redder than he had been earlier on the jet. So maybe he really did think you were pretty. You caught yourself smiling at the thought, but shook your head free of any ideas. Professional! No crushes on Spencer Reid!

You arrived near the scene, dropped off by Hotchner. "You know what to do. Reid will be going with you to the crateyard, he will also be nearby when you head in. If you see The Seductress, do not make the arrest. If you can, lure her."

You nodded. Wow, first time in the field with the BAU and you had the leading role. No pressure, no pressure, just... everyone depending on you. But the pressure came back when you realized you had heard right and Reid was going with you, alone. You had done really well with the job so far today, minus finding the tall doctor extremely attractive. He came to stand beside you and since he was much taller than you were, you were sure he could look right down your dress without even trying. Not like anyone had to try, but he had the upper hand.

You ached to cover yourself, but that was a major risk. The Seductress was confident, she wouldn't cover-up. You got into the tinted car with Reid, him in the driver's seat and you in the passenger's seat. Silence crept up, but he turned the engine over and headed east to where the mafia was to meet up.

"Some first day," you mumbled nervously.

Reid seemed to think you had said something to him and he talked to you directly for what seemed like the first time. "P-pardon?" He had a stutter when talking to you and to be honest it was cute but there was no time to crush!

"Oh, I was just remarking to myself on how this is my first day and I'm already... so... out there." You sighed and pat your knees. The jitters crept up, but so did butterflies. "Nervous, I'm nervous."

He looked over and swallowed hard, so hard it was audible. Was he fighting the same urge to be friendlier or was he just fighting the urge to look at your tits like a twelve-year-old boy would? Either way, you were glad he was with you. He smelled like books, leather, and cologne and it was oddly calming.

You reached the other side of the crateyard in a few more minutes and he handed you your gun, which you shoved into the holster on your thigh. "You're going without a vest so... k-keep focused," Spencer said- and it seemed like he had so many words jumbled on the tip of his tongue, but refused to say them. You thought he was afraid to annoy you, as you knew he liked to give lengthy explanations. "I'll be behind, uh- the crates."

You smiled at him and watched him look away, his curls falling in his face. God, he was so gorgeous. If this went wrong, you were glad you would go with that shy look of his in the front of your mind. He pulled on his vest and you put out a hand and stopped him. "If they see you with the vest at all, in any way, they'll know what's happening."

He nodded, keeping his eyes from yours as he pulled on a plain black jacket over the vest. For a genius, he seemed to have his mind a little fuzzy tonight. In the dark of the night, the only lights were flickering lamps on high-beamed poles. Your heart was beating hard as you waited for the signal to begin to move.

"G-good luck," Spencer's words fumbled out of his mouth and I looked at him for a moment where he looked right back at you. He chewed on his bottom lip, eyelids fluttering as you tried to look anywhere else and there it was- the radio signal. The tension that was there in that brief moment defused. You gave him a small smile before opening the car door and standing tall, in the aura of The Seductress.

Spencer waited until you were out between the crates to leave the car. You heard the door shut gently behind you, but his footsteps were silent. Much quicker than you thought, there was a gruff voice that didn't belong to Spencer. "My lady, may I say what an honour it is to have you join us this evening." You spun to face a man in a dark suit. You didn't have The Seductress's voice, so you nodded in the most gracious way you could.

"Bernard and Lolita are waiting inside the abandoned building for the small exchange as well as the rest of us, but Mamacita... you're being tailed by the FBI." He said, pointing to the crate that hid Dr. Spencer Reid. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "I'll go kill him for you!"

So flat out, he wanted to kill Spencer Reid, a rotting smile on his face as if it was an act of kindness. He knew Spencer was there, he saw... but you weren't busted? God, this man was stupid.

"No," you said, in a quiet, yet strong voice, grabbing the gruff man by the shoulder pad. "He is my kill."

The man grinned an evil grin and you did your best to smile evilly in return. You showed him your gun and he rubbed his palms together. "The gluck and Glock," he chuckled. "Can I watch?"

He thought you were going to fuck and kill Spencer. Your heart skipped a beat and you tried hard not to show it. Oh no... how to work your way out of this... Spencer couldn't help you. Or... could he?

You glared at the man, "No, but I know that his team is on the way. Get Bernard, Lolita, and anyone else in on the next killings from that abandoned building and run straight west. Do not stop. I will catch up to you once I'm finished with the agent here." You improvised the best you could and this stupid man bought it. Little did he know that the team was stationed Westbound.

"Got it," his face was dazed and malevolent. "But I'm not leaving until I know you've got this handled, my lady."

"You question my skill?" You shot back, still acting.

He looked scared for a moment, "No, not at all, I just... You're a lot shorter than I was expecting."

You stared daggers, "And you insult me?"

"Just wanted to know you had it covered... in case something is fishy here..." was he really catching on or was he confused and just running through the precautions?

Fuck, you had been so focused on the cover you forgot you were a profiler. This man was small-minded, probably brought into this ordeal through family ties. Since he was so stupid, he was trusted with less... hence why he was outside the building as the lookout, rather than in on the meeting.

Why he wouldn't leave- he was so incapable of proper interaction he had never had the chance to be with a woman. Watching was the only way he would ever see. He was stupid and he was stubborn. He was not going to leave until he saw the beginning.

The best thing would be to let him stay for proof. "Fine. But when I give you my look, you run and get everyone running straight West." You narrowed your eyebrows at him and he looked like he was going to sweat out of his skin. But... this meant...

You had a few seconds, you rushed over to behind the crate to where Spencer stood, his gun in hand. "W-what are you-" he questioned in a whisper-yell.

"He's onto me, I need you to go along with this- can I kiss you, Dr.Reid?" You whispered back. His eyes went wide and his cheeks flushed pink. Once again, being professional called for being unprofessional. You really didn't want to kiss him- at least not now, not like this. He wouldn't speak and the mafia man was coming. "Reid, if I don't do this, he won't flush the group West and we'll both be shot and if not shot, targeted by a mafia!"

"Y-yes!" he practically squeaked, his back to the crate he was hiding behind. This really was the only way- this other man would not be talked down, because he was taught to just shoot, rather than listen and understand. "I'm sorry if I-"

You cut him off by reaching up, grabbing the collar of his shirt and kissing him. It took him a moment, but he kissed back. You could feel the heat off of his cheeks. The first day on the job, you had embarrassed yourself, gotten dressed like a Mafia killer, played the part, and now you were kissing Dr.Spencer Reid in a crateyard... and he was surprisingly not a bad kisser. He was a little sloppy the first few seconds but moments later, he figured it out. His one hand went on your jaw, the other on your waist, both of them shaking. You could tell that the shaking wasn't because the man watching you both right now had a gun, it was you.

You were making out with him, hard. Your body was pressed to his tightly against the crate and Spencer was holding you there. Your hands were still gripping his shirt. Messy altogether but your lips met in every perfect way. It was good, but for work. This was when you knew to stop- you had convinced the other man. You pulled away, turned your head and mouthed to the mafia man, 'GO' and he ran.

Now things would be extremely awkward. You pushed yourself away from Spencer whose hands stayed on your waist and face until you were entirely out of his reach. You laughed anxiously and he stood there, hands behind his back. That was... that was wow, but... it was for the case. For the case.

It was time to get moving. Spencer knew it, you knew it. The real Seductress was on her way. You turned your head over your shoulder and he was moving slowly, head down. You fought off a small smile. He was entirely red, gun still held loosely in his hand.

You turned your head and were met by a sharp blow to the face. Both of you had let your guard down. Stupid.

"I don't like impostors," said the female voice that was the source of the blow. Hell, it was her. Spencer clocked his gun into place and you turned, elbowing The Seductress in the chest. She returned with another hard blow that you ducked, spinning around her and kicking the back of her leg. She recovered quickly and shot up, punching you in the stomach. You lost your breath for a second and she took the opportunity to punch you in the jaw and pull a knife.

"Put the knife down!" Spencer called. His voice was stronger facing a woman with a sharp knife than it was when talking to you alone. "I know who you are, you want what's right for women, correct?"

The Seductress narrowed her eyes at him like her next meal, leaving you on the ground. Would Spencer shoot if she threw that knife? Odd she didn't have a gun on her. She must have been relying on the others for more protection. You stood up quietly, watching her slowly advance on Spencer. He had your lipstick smeared over his lips, he looked rough, but he held his gun out in front of him and had the other hand up to reason with her. "Men like you think yourselves above women. You, FBI, you think yourself better than men and women alike because you're the authority. Tell me, how do you like your women, Agent?"

He gulped, eyes flickering to you. You pulled out your gun. "I think... I think I'm a weak man and I'm no better than anyone. I don't deserve women." Spencer said, looking at the evil lady. In person, she looked a lot less like you.

"Lies. It's the instinct of men to feel superior to women. You'll have a lot less instinct when you're dead!" She snarled, lunging at him with her blade out. You pulled the trigger, she fell to the ground. Not dead, but wounded to pass out. Spencer narrowly jumped out of her way, watching her knife clatter to the ground.

You looked up at Spencer, bewildered. You had done it. You saved the case, took down a murderous mafia boss. It was only when Spencer pointed at your face and said, "Y-you're bleeding, (Y/N), are you okay?"- that you noticed your cut lip and the blood pouring from your forehead. But you also noticed he called you by your first name.

He reached a hand forward but retracted it when you winced from the sudden pain. Adrenaline took the pain away temporarily, you supposed. There were still things to be done. Spencer called for backup and a medic and watched as you cuffed the woman. She wasn't going to die, but she did need help.

Once medics arrived, Spencer drove you both back to the Westward situation, where ten arrests had been made. You were in a state of haze, so how Spencer's jacket got around your shoulders was a mystery. When you stepped out of the car, you were greeted by the rest of the agents.

"Are you okay?!" Prentiss was the first to greet you both. She grabbed you by the shoulders and looked at the nearly-dried blood on your skin. "We got worried when you didn't follow soon after, you got her?"

"Yeah," you smiled tiredly.

She grinned back. "Fill us in on the details on the way back, okay? Let's get you two cleaned up."

But Derek Morgan found Spencer, "Hey pretty-boy, is that royal rouge you've got on your lips there?" he teased. Spencer panicked and looked into the mirror of the nearest car, seeing that he did in fact have your lipstick on his mouth. He tried to wipe it off with his wrist, but it still stained. You wiped your own lip with your thumb and Derek caught you. "Okay, Miss Newbie, I see you."

Your eyes widened and Emily raised her eyebrows at you, a teasing smile on her lips. "It was to keep my cover. It's what sent those guys your way, one of them has serious sexual issues." You made sure they knew it- to save yourself and to save Spencer. Derek Morgan spun away with a huge knowing grin, back to Hotchner who was conversing with the Chief of Police. Emily pulled you away to the other medics and you shot Spencer a smile as you went.

He smiled back, still wiping off his mouth.

-tags

@ellyhotchner @softhairedhotch <3

[infinityactual]

So, it's been months, but this post has been stuck in my head since September and I'm a petty bitch, so.

Apparently I deleted the screencap I had wherein the fuckhead who capped my tags replied to my fuck you by attempting to accuse me of 'doubling down on refusing to improve' or somesuch bullshit.

Which is not at all what my point was.

My point - and I will die on this hill ten times over - is that when it comes to fanart or personal creativity, let people do whatever. Unless they ask for critique, just leave them alone and let them have fun. Keep your opinions to yourself. And that isn't asking anything unreasonable; it's basic creative courtesy.

HUGE post under the cut.

Before the above assclownery, I had seen a lot of posts from people complaining about artists drawing older men 'wrong'. And I think every single complaint revolved around "You're just drawing a 20 yo and giving him silver hair!! That's not an old man!" and honestly, I didn't think anything of it the first few times I saw this.

But as I saw it more, it started to bother me because it was always in reference to fanart, specifically.

Fanart. Something that fans of a given media draw out of love and appreciation for the characters in said media. Something fun, something not (usually) done for profit. So upon seeing yet another 'stop drawing twentysomethings with silver hair 2021' tag, I reblogged it with my own tags (capped in the linked post) and went about my day.

The thing that just made me instantly angry was the proclamation of "I'm an artist. Calm down and go look at some reference."

Obviously this person didn't bother to check things out before putting both feet in their mouth. I may not have a damn degree from some hoity-toity art school (no shade on people that do, some of the coolest ppl I've met have art degrees) but I'm sure as hell an artist. Creativity does not require a degree.

And guess what. I draw old characters.

The secondary point I'd been hoping to get across in the tags is that aging a face is fucking hard. It takes effort and practice and often doesn't look good with hard lines. A lot of age is shown in shadows and lines too fine to be rendered with any but a .005 pen; and even then, it still tends look off unless you're drawing on a fairly large scale.

And my tertiary point was that people age differently depending on a huge kaleidoscope of factors! How often do they go outside? Do they have any inherited or otherwise chronic health problems, mental or physical? Male, female, intersex or transgender (and how much have they transitioned, if at all?), do they use drugs or alcohol? How often? I could spend hours listing factors that contribute to a person's appearance, and age isn't the biggest factor by far.

Hell, take Lord Hood and Lasky for example:

Most people I ask, including people well outside the Halo fandom, put Hood's age between 70 and 80.

He's 64.

A lot of people put Lasky at around his late 30s, maybe early 40s on the absolute outside.

He's 48 or 49 by the time Halo 5 rolls around, maybe 50 during Infinite.

Hood looks much older than he is bc of all those wrinkles, like someone let him sit in the dryer too long. Meanwhile Lasky looks a lot younger than his actual age. And these are just two examples from a single game series.

So when I draw Lasky, I draw him as is:

The only obvious wrinkles he has are on his forehead, right above his eyebrows. That's also one of his few unique identifying features, and anyone reading this who knows anything about cartooning, caricatures or comics will likely know that you focus on the few unique features that make a person recognizable but still easy to draw.

But unless you're drawing professionally as a career or doing commission work, your primary goal should not be constant improvement; that's a real good way to hit burnout and lose your passion for something. Even professionals take breaks and doodle stupid 'bad' art on their own time for funsies. I can cite countless examples I've seen personally, from the legendary DnD artist Todd Lockwood to commission artists on this beloved hellsite just trying to make the rent.

Fanart and personal work isn't always about improvement or practice. And it shouldn't be!! People need to have the ability to just crank out stupid lil doodles of their beloved older men without fussing over making sure they get every wrinkle right to be certain they convey his exact age 'correctly', or whether they have the skills to do so. If I had a dime for every thing I didn't draw because I don't have the skill, I'd put Jeff Bezoar to fucking shame with my wealth. Creators - amateur and professional alike - should be able to do this without having to see people, especially other fucking creators, bad mouthing them in posts or tags or comments.

Constant improvement should never be a primary goal with any skill. Bad art is still art, every single person who has ever put pen to paper started out drawing 'cringey' art. Fanart and personal work not done as part of a career or for commission should not be subject to the same standards. And lastly

Even 'bad' art, stupid little doodles and fanart still contribute to the learning process.

Otherwise I would not be where I am. All of my skill was developed by drawing personal stuff or making fanart. My skill making vinyl stickers by hand that makes people say I'm talented all started years ago with one sticker that took me five attempts to make because I didn't know jack shit about working with vinyl at the time. I kept making personal stickers for my car sporadically for years, and over time I got better simply because I was doing. I wasn't making stickers with the goal of improving my skill with an Xacto knife. I was making stickers because I couldn't find any designs I wanted and goddammit I wanted unique stickers for my shitty lil Cobalt.

And I'm able to take Giuseppe from this:

to this:

Not because I was trying to improve my skill at rendering faces, but because he's my Short King and I love him, and I love drawing him, and I also love the idea that he gets to live to be an old grandpa.

And no, I did not use reference for this, I just fucking drew it because I wanted to, and pulled from my past experience drawing old men from back when I actually DID sit my ass down and trawl references and guides on how to add age to a face, because I wanted to learn how to draw my 70+ year old Mechwarrior better.

[neondomino]

Submission for Murder Mystery on the HP Drabbles & Games Server

I can read your thoughts right now

Remus scribbles his name on the paper that is offered to him, and he takes the parcel from the delivery man, heading inside with it.

Sirius is at work, and Remus is under strict instructions not to open anything. He’s usually well behaved, and the one time he did was actually an accident, but Sirius hasn’t let that go in all of three years now, and Remus will never live down that expectation that he’ll open something. It was one time. Once.

He hears the ping of the kettle as it finishes boiling and Remus closes the door behind him as he examines the parcel. He gives it a shake, double-checking the name on the front (because if it’s in his own name, he has reason to open it.

It’s not. It makes a sound that doesn’t allow Remus to identify what’s inside, and Remus pouts. He hates waiting until his birthday. He hates watching the parcels stacking up throughout the week, only for Sirius to disappear with them in the evening, and the distinct sound of hammering coming from the shed, leaving Remus wondering what on Earth is even happening down there.

Reluctantly, he sets the parcel with the one that arrived earlier that day. He turns to the radio, turning the volume up before going to sit in his chair with his cup of tea. Sirius will be home from work in an hour, so he has time for this before he plans to start on dinner.

…

“Oh, this isn’t a present for you,” Sirius says, as he examines the package. “I saw something for myself and thought, what the hell.”

“Show me,” Remus insists, eager to have /something/ opened today, even if it’s not something for him.

Sirius does as he’s told, eagerly ripping into the paper of the box. He pulls out a familiar box and Remus laughs softly. Sirius has about four pairs of boots lined up by the door. Every six months or so, he treats himself to a new pair, and Remus watches eagerly to see which pair he’s sprung for this time. He knows that there were two pairs that Sirius has been eyeing up for a while. Dr. Marten boots are Sirius’ weakness. Well, those and Remus himself.

He can get Sirius whichever pair isn’t in that box, for his birthday present.

“No looking,” Sirius insists. “I’ll model them for you.”

Remus laughs. “I’ll go and put the kettle on and make some tea whilst you get the boots on,” he says. Sirius always takes a few minutes to sort out the laces and admire them. Remus is certain he once saw Sirius kissing his new boots, and he loves Sirius enough to offer him the privacy to do that with these ones.

Sirius grins, but his attention turns back to the boots and Remus heads into the kitchen and sticks the kettle on. As he waits, he opens the cupboard and helps himself to a couple of chocolate biscuits.

When the tea is made, he calls Sirius’ name and he starts back into the room. Sirius isn’t in the living room, so Remus sets the cups down on the coffee table and he waits patiently.

It’s only a minute before Sirius strides in, and Remus stares at him. He stands back up from the sofa. Yes, he was right in his assumptions - Sirius is suddenly taller.

His eyes move down to the black boots on Sirius’ feet that are so very fitting with Sirius’ image, but the bottom of the boots are a good two or three inches high, and Remus slowly moves his gaze back up to Sirius’ face. There’s pure delight in his expression.

“What made you think this is a good idea,” Remus says, folding his arms.

“I look good,” Sirius replies, haughtily.

“You’re still short, you know,” Remus insists.

Sirius gasps audibly at this. “Short? Me?” He strides over to Remus. “I’m the same height as you.”

Remus smirks. “Not quite,” he says. “I’m still about an inch taller.”

“Are you sure? How can you tell?” Sirius pouts.

“I just can,” Remus insists. “But… on the bright side…”

“Yeah?” Sirius asks.

“You’re taller than James now,” Remus points out.

Sirius smiles, begrudgingly. But as he thinks about it, his smile widens into a grin as he clearly decides this is a compliment. “Well, that’s one plus,” he says. “So… let’s go over and see James, haven’t seen him in a while.”

“We saw him yesterday,” Remus laughs. “But we can go over. After I drink my tea.”

“Hey,” Sirius says, grabbing Remus’ hand. “Come and dance with me. Maybe you can lean your head on my shoulder this time?”

He pulls Remus to dance to the music coming from the radio, but Remus smirks as he feels the ever-familiar flutter from Sirius’ touch.

“Sorry, darling, but you’re still too short for that,” he teases.

[dontmindmyshadowhunting]

When Clary meets Ash (Fan Fic)

Hey :) this is how I imagine Clary and Ash's reunion (after the events of TDA) in the fic I am currently writing.

It's Chapter 5 of "The new Shadowhunter Academy" (Ao3 link to the full fic is here but don't click or skip Chapter 4 if you are not in for Kitty sexy times).

Thanks to @amchara for providing beta work and to @blaidr for letting me bounce my ideas off him.

To give you context, Ash met Dru in Faerie and they exchanged their numbers. Clary seized the opportunity to obtain Ash's number from Dru and write him the following text message:

“Hey, Ash. Dru gave me your number and please don’t be angry with her, I am very strong headed and there was absolutely no way she could have refused. I am Clary. You may have heard of me. I am your late father’s sister. That’s right, your aunt. You can call me whatever you like. Emma told me what you did in Thule, how you saved her. How you saved everyone. That was very brave of you. In a way, both of us were faced with a very difficult choice and made the same. Doing what we thought was right. I would love to meet you and tell you about my mother – your grandmother – or just talk about anything. It can be things totally unrelated to the Shadow world. Hobbies, movies, books and games we like. You can pick the time and place. Neutral territory. Hope to see you soon. Clary.”

This is what happens following the text:

*****

Clary wrapped her oversized woolen coat tighter around herself, as she made her way through the crowded streets of Manhattan. The route was familiar. She took it almost every week to meet up with her parabatai and have what they called their “mundane hour”. They talked about everything, from Clary’s art to the latest TV shows they had binge watched. No topic was off the table, save for anything related to Shadowhunter duties, and the Shadow world in general. As co-head of the New York Institute and since recently, artist owning her own gallery, her weeks were very busy so she looked forward to those rare and precious moments when she could escape with Simon. Her heart rate seemed to accelerate with each of her steps, and it didn’t help that she also had the strange feeling she was being observed. When she reached her destination, she took a deep breath and opened the double glass doors leading her inside the coffee shop. She and Simon had their regular routine there, and her gaze went automatically to their usual spot, near the large windows.

A broad-shouldered jock with a baseball jacket was already sitting there, speaking loudly to his cheerleader girlfriend. Two of his friends were standing next to him, mock punching his muscular arms. It made her realize that Ash probably never had this. High school friends and romance. Ash. She was still struggling to figure out why he had asked her to meet up at this place, at the exact time she usually got there with Simon. Was it him being considerate, a clumsy way to make her feel comfortable in familiar surroundings? Or was it a warning? I know your habits, and precisely where you take your coffee, when and with whom.

Her gaze swept over the crowded room - her heart seemed to have moved up her throat, the frantic pulse almost choking her - and zeroed on a tall, white blond haired boy ordering coffee at the counter, standing with his back to Clary. She sucked in a breath. Ash. He was fully clothed in black - Dru had told her that was his usual style - and huge headphones were covering his ears. She slowly and cautiously approached him and when she was close enough, put a tentative hand on his elbow. “Ash,” she whispered. The boy glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes quizzical and… it was not Ash.

She mumbled an apology.

“Clary,” said a voice coming from behind, and she froze. It was not a boy’s but a man’s voice, the sound beautiful and ethereal. She just stood there for a few seconds before she slowly turned.

What had she expected? Merely a taller version of the young boy with pointy ears and a sour expression that she had met three years before, dressed in the same refined velvet clothing threaded with gold that identified him as fey royalty?

If so, she had clearly been mistaken.

She blinked a few times to make sure her mind wasn’t playing tricks. He was tall, as she had anticipated (Sebastian had been after all). At least two heads taller than her and probably taller than Jace. But he was also very different from the Ash of her memories, from the sketches she had drawn of him after they had crossed paths. He had amazingly grown into his features, his face now the best combination of the Seelie Queen and Sebastian’s. As if he had picked the most alluring colours of the palette. And the result was… Stunning. Clary’s hand twitched, aching for a pencil.

He was not dressed in black, but in plain blue jeans and he had stuffed his hands in a very elegant, long pale gray cashmere coat. His white blond hair and pointy ears were concealed under a deep green beanie, the same colour as the scarf around his neck.

He arched a silvery eyebrow at Clary, his expression bemused, and she realized she was staring.

“Clary, seriously?” he said, his gently scolding tone at odds with his enchanting voice. “This guy isn't even half as good looking as me." He glanced pointedly at the patron in question, who was gaping at him, and shrugged. "No offense, dude,” Ash added as an afterthought.

He turned his attention to the barista. She was beautiful, dark skinned with long braided hair and pouty lips. “Hello, gorgeous. We’ll have a double espresso with oat milk and a dash of cinnamon for the lady and a plain black coffee for me.”

Clary stifled a gasp and tried to hide her discomfort. He knew exactly how she took her coffee, and she didn’t know how she felt about this.

The pretty barista nodded eagerly, her cheeks red and her big dark eyes dreamy as she stared at Ash. “Why don’t you… Go sit at your table and I’ll bring you your beverages when they are ready?” the girl offered enthusiastically. The long line of patrons that had formed behind Clary and Ash would probably disagree but she didn’t seem to care.

“That would be lovely,” Ash said in his euphonious voice. “And so are you.” He winked at her, and Clary wondered if she would need to catch her while she swooned. He paid before Clary even had a chance to reach for her purse.

“Come,” he said in a commanding tone, as he made his way to Clary and Simon's usual table. This was unnerving.

The jock seated there paused in the middle of his conversation with his girlfriend when he saw Ash stand casually next to him. Clary braced herself for a heated exchange, but she should have known better.

“You want to sit somewhere else,” Ash said evenly, one hand inside the pocket of his designer coat and the other stretched out in front of him as he studied his fingernails.

“I want to sit somewhere else,” the jock repeated in a monotonous voice, his gaze blank. He stood, as if in a trance, and his girlfriend and friends followed him, puzzled, to an empty table at the far end of the room.

Ash drew a chair for Clary and she sat. He did the same, opposite her. He pulled off his beanie, and shook his silvery hair, like a crown of liquid white gold. He wasn’t dressed for the part but he had never looked more like a prince.

“Ash… please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Your mind tricks.”

He cocked his head and observed her, his face unreadable, for what seemed like an endless minute.

“You’ve been my aunt for what? Five minutes? And you’re already trying to boss me around?”

“I am not trying to boss you around, Ash. Simply asking you not to abuse your powers.”

A shadow flickered across his green eyes.

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Clary. I spend much more time and energy holding back than using my powers. If I did let go, trust me, you would know.”

Clary opened her mouth to reply but was cut short as the barista popped in front of them and placed the mugs on the table. She slid a paper napkin to Ash, her phone number scribbled on it. Clary tried not to roll her eyes, as Ash flashed his dazzling smile at the girl, who almost tripped on her own feet as she returned to the counter.

Clary lifted her cup to her lips and paused, as she caught sight of the cinnamon powder floating on the surface. She put it down.

“What about this?" She pointed at her coffee mug and waved around them. “ What is it, if not a show of power? What are you trying to tell me? That you know everything about me? That you’ve been spying on me?”

Ash pulled on a fake shocked expression, mouth open and green eyes wide in mock innocence. “Spying on you? What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Ash. The evidence is right here.” She lifted her cup abruptly, and hot liquid splashed out of it. “You know exactly how I like it. When I take it, where I take it.”

Ash’s mouth twitched. “Where did you pick up these lines? From the script of some lame X-rated movie?”

“Adult movies have storylines?” Clary asked, arching her eyebrows.

“Of course they do. Where do you think the Grimm Brothers took their inspiration from?”

He grabbed the paper napkin and started mopping the coffee she had spilled on the table. The blue ink faded and the barista’s phone number vanished.

“You lost that girl’s number,” Clary noted.

Ash shrugged. “I have a girlfriend now.”

Right. Drusilla Blackthorn. From the moment she had met her, Clary had known that the smart and quiet turquoise-eyed girl would someday turn heads.

Clary knew that Dru hadn’t really confirmed their relationship status yet, but it was neither the time nor place to broach the subject with Ash. She was, after all, on a mission to win over her nephew and had not been doing a very good job so far.

A young lanky boy with pink hair and piercings covering his skin walked by and dropped a glossy flyer of the upcoming Mortal Instruments concert on the table between them. Clary hid a smile. It reminded her...

“I have something for you.” She said as she fumbled inside her bag and took out the drawing she had made of Jocelyn, Luke and herself, in front of Luke’s upstate farm (before it was turned into the new Shadowhunter Academy) and laid it on the table.

Ash looked at it hesitantly, like a kid who really wanted to grab the candy but was afraid there was a mouse trap under it. He hunched his shoulders forward and clasped his hands under the table, as if to keep himself from temptation.

“I recognize your art. I like it. I also appreciate Julian Blackthorn’s but I may not be as objective where… one of the subjects of his drawings is concerned.”

“You’ve seen my art?”

He leaned back on his chair, crossing his long arms behind his head. Somehow, he managed to make it look graceful.

“Which Shadowhunter hasn’t? I noticed that you often drew Jace with angel wings.”

“Yes. That’s how he used to appear to me. In recurring dreams.”

“Was it?”

“Was it what?”

“Jace. In your dreams.”

“Who else would it be?”

“Someone who looks like him, but who actually has wings.”

“You mean Kit.”

Ash shrugged. “It would make more sense.” His gaze flickered back to the drawing, which still lay on the table, untouched. “You look a lot like your mom.”

“So do you”, Clary blurted before she could take it back.

Ash shot her an unfathomable look.

“How is she?” She asked.

“You mean, the Seelie Queen? You tell me. You must see her more often than I do.”

“Well, not really. I am not that involved in politics, even though Alec is Consul. Julian Blackthorn is the one who deals with her most of the time. She appears to have... a fondness for him.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Clary’s mouth quirked up.

“I am glad you are getting along with the Blackthorns. They are such an incredibly strong and talented family.”

“They are.” He turned his face away, but not before she could see the expression of longing plain on his delicate features.

She swallowed. She was painfully reminded that Ash never had a shot at a happy family. Born of a political union, and dragged here and there, though interdimensional portals, by people more interested in his powers than anything else he had to offer as a person. And judging by how Dru talked about Ash, he had a lot to offer.

“I imagine it must have been awful living in Thule… But what you did for Emma and Julian back there... if it hadn’t been for you…”

“I don’t want to talk about Thule,” he interrupted her. “Can I borrow this?” He asked, his long fingers brushing the Mortal Instruments concert flyer.

“Sure.”

She watched as he started folding the paper, realizing with a jolt of surprise that he was making an origami and wondering what shape would come out of it. It was odd seeing him doing such an innocuous thing, as if he was not a faerie prince with a heavy heritage and a giant target on his back, but an ordinary boy. She remembered what Emma had told her of her encounter with Ash in a nightclub in Thule. The way he had shown no interest, playing a video game in a corner of the room, while Sebastian was committing atrocities. Had he really been as indifferent as he looked?

“Ash, we don’t need to talk about Thule if you don’t want to, but if I can help you… If there is anything I can do-”

“Why?” He looked up sharply. “Are you able to create a rune that could undo the things I saw?” His tone was even, but his delicate fingers had started slightly shaking and he suddenly dropped the paper - his work unfinished - to fold his hands under the table to hide it. From that moment, she knew.

“No…” Clary said, drawing the word out. “But trust me, coming from someone whose memory has been tampered with... it’s not a solution.”

“I said undo. Not forget.” He snapped. “I am not such a coward that I would choose blissful ignorance over knowledge.”

He caught himself, blinking, then clenched his jaw and looked away. As if he was ashamed he had allowed himself to show any emotion at all. But Clary had managed to catch a glimpse of what lay underneath the mask and wanted nothing more than to see the rest of it.

“I don’t think you are a coward,” she said.

He looked over at her, a silver eyebrow raised. “I let it all happen, didn’t I? I didn’t lift a finger.”

“Because you couldn’t. Sebastian would have killed you. And you, Ash, are just like me. A survivor.”

He snorted and crossed his arms in front of him, leaning back on his chair. He had stretched out his long legs and Clary realized that he was tapping a foot nervously next to hers.

“Wrong. I could have. I chose not to. Because I am selfish. I don’t care about other people’s fate.”

His face split into a lazy, wicked grin. Clary could see Sebastian’s influence in his leer, but she wouldn't let it deceive her. Just as she wasn't fooled by his laid-back demeanor.

“I think it’s the opposite, actually. I think it’s because you care too much. It’s not death you are afraid of. The thing is, you have such a tender heart, you need to protect it from an affliction far greater than any physical pain you could endure. So you’d rather lie to yourself and pretend you feel nothing.”

From the long conversations she had with Tessa about her ancestors, Clary knew of a Fairchild boy who had been too compassionate for his own good. And he had been surrounded by loyal friends and loving parents, even though he had shut himself, putting on a facade while burying his grief in alcohol. Ash never had that kind of support. Throughout his life, he was left to figure things out on his own. If he was as empathetic as Clary thought he was, Ash probably had no other choice but to deal with his sensitivity alone. It was a miracle he had turned out the way he did.

“You have a lot of imagination,” he said after a moment. The ghost of a smile was still playing on his lips but something had passed across his eyes. “Then again, you are an artist. You seek beauty in the ugly. You find colors on a blank page. I admire your faith, but in this case, there is nothing to see.”

Clary jutted her chin stubbornly and they held each other’s gaze - his green eyes glittering in amusement and hers dead serious - in a staring contest.

“Still,” he said when he finally broke, first. “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. I am sorry.”

Clary softened. “Don’t be. I am glad you are finally showing your true self. You don’t need to wear your mask around me, Ash.”

He chuckled. “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”

“It’s funny that you would quote Oscar Wilde.”

“And why is that?”

She shrugged. “Just another thing you share in common with a Fairchild I heard stories about.”

“Clary,” he said in a gently reproving tone. Her name sounded like a caress in his melodious voice. “Are you being purposefully cryptic to arouse my curiosity?”

She moved closer, so she was sitting at the edge of her chair, and leaned forward, hands folded over the table.

“If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” she whispered. “Let me in. Shed all pretense.”

“I can’t promise you that,” he whispered back in confidence, leaning closer still so that their faces were inches from each other. “It’s like fabric that burns and melts into skin. If you peel it off, the skin goes with it.” He grimaced, reclining on his chair. “It won’t be a pretty sight. I don’t think even my level of hotness could sustain it.”

“Ash…” Clary said, sensing that she finally had an opening to say what she had been brooding over ever since she had learnt of Ash’s return from that forsaken land. “I wanted to tell you… I am sorry.”

Ash’s green eyes widened.

“Sorry for what?”

“I should have looked for you. I should not have given up on you.”

Ash’s jaw clenched and he looked away. “Don’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do. Seb-...Ash, we...”

“What did you just call me?” He snarled. His eyes snapped back to her, suddenly cold as ice.

“Sorry, Ash. What I meant to say is… we are family."

“I already have a family.”

“I know that you care about Janus…”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” he cut her off.

“And we don’t need to. I just wanted you to know… I understand that he’s been like a father to you, and I don’t plan on moving against him, unless he strikes first or makes it impossible for me to overlook his actions.”

“Because of me?”

“Of course, because of you.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Ash… You are my nephew, my blood. You may not feel the same way about me, but that’s how I feel about you. I want you to know that, if things go wrong, for any reason, you can always turn to me. My home is your home.”

“What you are actually telling me is, Ash, if I kill the one person who has ever really cared about you - and it might definitely come to that - you can always grab my hand, still sticky and warm from his blood. Well, how nice of you. To quote Oscar Wilde again, true friends stab you in the front.”

“That’s not what I am-”

“Clary,” Ash interrupted as he stood. “Do not make me choose between you and him. Because…” Looking down at her, he swallowed hard, as if the words pained him. “Because you will lose.”

She knew exactly what he was telling her. Because they were the same in that way. Ruthless, even with their own blood, when it came to protecting their loved ones. If I had to choose between killing him and you, I would not hesitate. I would end you. Yet, despite his cold statement, despite his sharp and resolved tone, his eyes seemed to carry a deep regret.

“Ash, I understand what you're saying and I swear I am not trying to make you pick a side”, Clary said, suddenly desperate, as she mirrored him and stood. “Please don’t go. I am sorry I brought it up. We will stop talking about him. Starting now.”

“This was a bad idea. Never try to contact me again.” He drew his green beanie from the pocket of his coat and put it back on. He turned and strode toward the exit. She grabbed the family drawing that still lay on the table, stuffed it in her bag and followed him, half-running, as he was quickly losing here with his long legs.

“Ash! Please. Give me another chance. I am so sorry.”

He paused right outside the coffee shop, closed his eyes and sighed. “Don’t be. It didn’t change what I had planned to tell you anyway. I don’t want to know anything about you or your mother. I don’t want to have anything to do with either of you.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said, and he whipped his head around to look at her in surprise. “I know you were under house arrest. You probably had to break out of whichever place they were holding you in to come here. You wouldn’t have done that unless you wanted something. Something from me. Tell me, Ash. Tell me what it is.”

He turned his face away so she could not see his expression. A full minute passed and she had almost given up on receiving an answer, when he finally spoke.

“My fa… Sebastian. How different do you think he would have been if not for the demon blood?”

“Oh. Ash.” she whispered. She brought her knuckle against her sternum instinctively, as if to cover the gaping whole in her chest. “I saw him, you know. The brother I should have had. The father that should have raised you. If only for a few minutes.” She paused to bite back tears. “In those few minutes, he told us how to get rid of the Endarkened and said he was sorry. It’s not much to go for, but… that’s not all. I have recurring dreams of the green eyed boy that was robbed from us. And I know in my heart he would have been the best brother a sister could ever dream of.”

He was still looking away and she could see the sharp line, the stubborn set of his jaw. She wanted to hug him, to tell him she would not fail him again. That they could mourn her brother, his father, together. That he didn’t need to bear the anger at everything that was wasted alone.

He finally turned to look at her. A tear had escaped to run freely down his cheek. He had completely shed off his mask, and what Clary saw was like a stab in her gut. She shivered. Wordlessly, he reached for his deep green scarf and tied it gingerly around her neck. The way Sebastian had when they had walked down the streets of Paris. Ash looked nothing like her brother had then. His green eyes held an infinite sadness that spoke of a grief deeper, older than the short years of his life.

“It doesn’t change anything.” He said - she hadn’t imagined his beautiful voice could sound so hollow - and turned to leave.

“Ash, wait.” She grabbed him by the elbow and he froze. His eyes widened as his gaze zeroed on the fingers covering his coat, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. She realized she had never touched him before.

“Clary, what do you want from me?” He asked in a tired voice.

“I just want to get to know you.”

“Trust me, you don’t. I am not the brother who was stolen from you. I cannot replace him. If anything, I am just like Sebastian was before me... my father’s broken toy. There is no way to fix me.”

“I don’t believe it for a second,” she said, almost frantic. “And I don’t want to find my brother's replacement, I want to get to know you! Ash. The real Ash.”

“I already told you. That’s not happening. Don’t ever try to contact me again. I am serious.”

“So that’s it?” She tried not to sound too whiny but panic was eating away at her stomach and she thought she would throw up. “You went through all this trouble spying on me, learning how I take my coffee to simply disappear from my life from one moment to the next?”

He gazed at her for a moment, his expression unfathomable. It seemed like an eternity before he finally spoke.

“I was not spying on you, Clary. I was merely following your stalker.”

“What? You were… protecting me?”

“Take care of yourself, Clary.”

He said as he stepped away from her and vanished into the crowd.

****

Clary threw herself in Jace’s arms as soon as he opened the door to their bedroom at the New York Institute. He froze, then started stroking her hair in a soothing gesture.

“Clary, what happened? Is everything okay?”

“No,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

“Tell me, Clary. What is it?”

She pulled away and wiped tears with the back of her hand. Jace’s face was a mask of shock. Clary couldn’t blame him. She almost never cried.

“I messed up.”

“What did you mess up?”

She walked to the bed and sat on the mattress. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for his reaction. “Ash. I met up with him earlier today.”

Jace tensed and his hands clenched into fists. “WHAT- Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would have insisted on coming.”

“Damn right, I would have. And I would have been right, too. Look at you, you look miserable.”

“It’s my fault,” she said in a small voice. “I pushed him too far.”

Jace sighed and came to sit next to her, putting a comforting arm around her shoulder. “I am sure you did nothing wrong, Clary.”

“I thought- When I showed him the drawing… the way he looked at it, Jace. He is not indifferent. He cares.”

“What drawing?”

“The one I made of the family,” she said absently, as she grabbed her bag and started fumbling inside.

She sucked in a sharp breath. The drawing wasn’t there. Peeking out in its stead, and folded out of the flyer of the Mortal Instruments concert, were origami faerie wings. The Fairchild family symbol.

[sugar-quilled]

ron weasley x reader

request

a/n: i slipped from the topic a little bit, pretty sure what i wrote isn't teasing, and if you'd like me to change it just tell me :)

summary: While visiting Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Ron's clothes get sucked into a machine. All of them, except for his boxers.

genre: comedy and (im not sure if this counts as fluff but) fluff

word count: 1.6k

pronouns: not used

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Diagon Alley was packed, as it always was at the start of a term. Underneath a beautifully clear sky, students were seen hurrying to purchase potion ingredients and new robes. Those that had already purchased the items on their Hogwarts list were seen crowding around a new and extremely flashy building.

The store front was painted in a shocking orange color, with a large figure standing inside a window and tipping his top hat to the surrounding crowd below. In neat, gold printing, the store was identified to be none other than Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

You entered through the door amongst other eager shoppers, and immediately heard a circus-like music, coupled with the chatter of about 50 people.

Shelves on shelves of brightly colored goods and at least 4 oddly built staircases met your eyes. Immediately to your left was a brightly colored display of candy. Your walked closer, and Fred and George Weasley popped out from a counter nearby.

"Taking a look at those nosebleed nougats are you, Y/N?"

"We've got samples over here if you like-"

"Just eat the red and you'll see the red!"

"And one bite of the other side will stop it just like that."

"And fever fudge!"

"There's only a bit of those puking pastilles left, clearly we're due for a restock, Fred."

"Well, Y/N, welcome to our shop and go enjoy yourself! Call us if you need any help and we'll be right by your side in a jiffy. Now come on, George, one kid over there looks mightily suspicious."

You smiled after the twins' backs, not even angry that they hadn't let you get a word in, when you spotted Ron Weasley taking a look at Headless Hats—now on sale for 1 galleon and 8 sickles! Your previous conversation (could you even call it a conversation?) with the twins immediately left your brain and you made your way over.

Ron had been a long time crush of yours. In fact, the two year anniversary of your feelings was yesterday, and you celebrated by having a whole-hearted sobbing fest while your friends stared awkwardly at each other and tried to console you. Not that your friendship wasn't something to be happy about, but Merlin you just wished you could hold his hand. Romantically. You didn't think Ron could ever like you, what with his being best friends with Hermione Granger who was both insanely smart and jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

"Ron! It's nice to see you!"

He immediately swung around and burst into a very toothy grin. "Y/N! It's nice to see you too! What's up?"

You smiled back. "Nothing much! Your brothers' shop is gorgeous! The, uhh, those nosebleed nougats are really fascinating. And you? How was your summer?"

Ron put a headless hat down and strode closer to you to check out a row of punching telescopes. "Quite uneventful, to be honest. But yeah this stuff they came up with? Have you seen the smart-answer quills? Blimey I'd never have to ask Hermione for help again! And those fainting fancies. Reckon Snape'll believe one of those?"

You laughed. "Are you planning to faint during a lecture? It's our N.E.W.T year, you'll need all the information you can get."

Just then, Fred and George appeared right behind you.

"Having a good conversation, Ron?" Fred said cheerfully, elbowing Ron in the ribs—"Ow, Fred leave us alone!"—"Do you two want to check out the back?"

"Just don't steal anything, Y/N," George winked.

"Unless that something is Ron's heart," Fred muttered. Or you thought he muttered. But the twins' expressions had been wiped blank so that you couldn't tell whether Fred had really said it, and Ron had busied himself in untangling two extendable ears, so whether he had blushed or hadn't, you also couldn't tell.

"Lead the way, George!" Fred chortled, and swept away.

"Alright then. Right this way, you two!"

George led you and Ron, whose mouth seemed to be clamped shut, weaving past shelves higher than you to a door at the very back of the store. A small plaque on the door said: "Weasleys Working: In Progress." He twisted open the door, and beckoned both of you in. Right in front of you was a huge lab and packaging station. You could see potions brewing to your right, and to your left, there were two witches packaging a box of puking pastilles.

"So," George started, "welcome to our work station! Y/N, you might have seen a big gray thing over there upon entrance." He pointed. You looked. "That is actually something we've just installed in and its a bit of muggle machinery. Michelle and Rosalyn over there," he nodded towards the two witches, "used to have to do all the wand work manually but this big old thing makes some parts automatic. Quite useful!"

You stared at the big metal machine. There was a sort of chute at one end, and a big pipe leading up and into the ceiling.

"Well, I'll leave you two to it, and Michelle and Rosalyn," he called, "would you mind helping me out in the main area? Fred's left to check on the upstairs, and there's too many people waiting in line for purchasing." George gave Ron a ginormous wink, and left the room. The door swung back and clicked to a close.

You walked over to the muggle machine, very aware of Ron trailing behind you.

"Blimey, that thing's big. What does it even do?"

"I don't know, it looks like something that deposits goods into this bin under it. I'm not really sure where the goods come from though."

Ron circled the massive thing twice, and the second time, he tripped over a wire. Thankfully, he managed to stand himself upright with one hand leaning on the machine.

You laughed at him, and he looked embarrassedly back with a forced chuckle.

Then there was a loud whirring noise, and as Ron turned around in fright, the thing began sucking.

You were wrong. It didn't deposit things. It took them to be deposited.

With a frantic yell and many grabs at a nearby table, Ron's clothes ripped off. The machine sent them rattling through the chute and the whirring noise came to a stop.

Well. Not all of his clothes.

Ron was left standing in a pair of heart adorned boxers. Red hearts.

He tried his best to cover himself, but seeing as he only had two hands and more than two things on display, it was quite difficult.

You realized that you were staring and quickly looked away.

Ron was carefully looking at anywhere but your face.

After quite a long time's silence, your croaked out, "nice boxers, uh... dude," while looking at the ceiling. A giggle escaped despite your attempts at keeping it in, and you were sure Ron's face now matched the color of his hair.

"If you tell this to Gred- I mean, Fred or Gor- George, I'll-" he started shakily, "I'll die."

Seeing as he wasn't threatening you and assuming this meant friendly conversation could be engaged, you stammered, "they really suit you. You know, the red and all. Although I'd suggest a green pair next time. Because of the color wheel and those two are compl-"

Ron had burst into shaky, suppressed laughter.

"Never- never mind my fashion choices, how the bloody hell am I supposed to get my clothes back?"

"Well I don't see why you want them back. I mean think of the ladies you'd get by walking down the street with this lovely attire. Maybe for accessories you can add a bit more red by eating a nosebleed nougat, I'm sure I saw a few when I entered."

Both of you were laughing now, but a yell of shock from upstairs made both of you jolt.

"Oh no, no, no," Ron muttered, darting his eyes around as if trying to find a hiding spot, "Fred's upstairs, he knows what I was wearing, oh no, no-"

The door swung open. Fred was standing in the doorway looking highly amused.

"Ron, I thought you said you'd never wear those! Aunty Muriel will be pleased her present wasn't a waste of money!" Fred exclaimed, striding into the room and circling Ron, who was shaking fiercely. "They do compliment your hair, maybe I'll have to borrow the pair one day."

You choked back a laugh, bursting a vein for sure, when Fred rounded on you.

"I didn't know you two were already on this level of your relationship. Looks like Ron here neglected to tell me some bits!" Fred said cheerfully, waving his wand so that Ron looked perfectly normal again, except that his entire face was now the same color as the hearts on the boxers underneath the normality.

"Well I daresay you two have looked around, I was up there nearly 10 minutes," Fred continued, gesturing towards the door, "and Y/N, regrettably we have no products that erase recent memories-"

"Shut up," Ron muttered, walking towards the door.

"-but the idea is certainly a brilliant one and I'll be sure to start developing it." Fred gave a hearty wink as both Ron and you had exited the room, and closed the door.

You looked at Ron. He looked back.

"Well you know I never said I wanted to erase that memory. You did look quite marvelous."

Ron laughed, though his face still looked like he supported the UK Quidditch team.

"You should really take my suggestion of that green pair, and I wouldn't mind seeing how that looks either."

Both of you doubled over in laughter.

"And," you choked, "a pair of shoes to match wouldn't hurt either, though I daresay you'd rather go barefoot? Shoes shouldn't be worn to bed, after all."

There were definitely tears coming out your eyes now, and the two of you stumbled drunkily, still shaking with laughter, out the shop and down the ever so full streets of Diagon Alley.

[iloveitwhen]

jasonette but like siblings but like angst- like that whole trope where they are blood related and got separated, or they didnt get separated idk thats cool too i just want some sibling jasonette😅

Wow. ok. uhmmmm. this is a lot i think?? I got a little jk a lot carried away and this past week was super busy so i’ll finish the second part later??

Again... a lot...

Jason is walking home after another night at the bar when he sees a small woman, teenager? Slip into a dark alleyway and two men follow in after her a few moments later. 

Jason curses and bolts across the street, what was this girl thinking? How stupid do you have to be to go into a dark alley where no one will hear you or care to help?

He jumps into the alley to find one man already slumped on himself on the floor and the other getting kicked in the teeth by army boots then falling limply. 

Jason curses again, impressed this time. He scans over the men noting that they probably had pretty good concussions judging from the dent in the garbage can the first man was laying next to and the way the second guy’s head smacked onto the concrete when he fell. He lands his eyes back on the woman, no, definitely a teenager, with a smile on his face that instantly falters. The girl is in a fighting stance and waiting for him to attack so he quickly raises his hands to placate her.

“I’m not here to fight you, I saw you get followed and I was coming to help.” 

“Nobody helps in Gotham,” she states, a dangerous edge to her voice that held a carefully hidden accent. 

“Not from around here, are you?” 

The girl narrows her eyes, “I was born and raised here, take a step further and you won’t be waking up tomorrow.” 

Jason pockets his hands and smirks. He likes her, she’s a fighter, she reminds him of himself when he was younger. 

“Ok. Just make sure you make it home safe. A girl’s going to get some unwanted attention at a time and place like this.” He turns around and crosses the street but as soon as he’s out of her sight he turns back and hides in the shadows to track her and make sure no one else tries to catch her alone. Just because she could handle herself the first time doesn’t mean she’s necessarily safe from the next attempt. 

The girl exits the alley and starts toward the direction of Jason’s apartment calmly as if she didn’t just get attacked. At least that means less walking for him. After a few minutes she slips into another dark alley, of course she does, and Jason crosses the street again going into his own empty alley before pulling his helmet on and scaling the building. As he peers over the side of the building his helmet scans the area giving him feedback he would normally miss due to the horrible lighting and telling him that the alley was empty. He figured she had somehow gotten into one of the buildings and decided to go home by rooftops since he was already up there. 

However, as he landed on the opposite rooftop his feet slipped from underneath him. Jason managed to roll out of it but before he could get his footing his hip was kicked into and he stumbled, tripped over a seemingly perfectly placed rock and smashed his head on the side of the stair house. Then, just as quickly as this all transpired, there was a body behind him, they hooked their fingers under his helmet and lifted it to expose his neck and press a knife with jagged points onto his neck. How did he know the knife had jagged points? Good question, it was, as previously mentioned, against his neck and piercing into his skin, drawing blood. 

“Why are you following me?” a girl’s voice filters through his mask and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His mask let him know through the constant visuals that the voice belonged to a female in their late teens, not that he didn’t already know that. 

“Making sure you got home safe,” he says carefully, weighing his options and trying to decide if he should let her feel like she got him or escape with a slight nick on his neck. 

Eh. Jason preferred to not have a bleeding neck no matter how small the cut. 

“Lies,” she hisses, digging the knife a bit deeper as a warning, maybe getting out sooner was a better idea. “What do you want?” 

“Knife off my throat first,” he manages without pushing his neck further onto the blade. 

A second later the girl releases him and jumps back with enough space between them to react if he ended up deciding to attack her. 

Jason gives her a quick glance as he stands up, a hand to his throat to check for blood. 

“I wasn’t lying-”

“You’re not fooling anyone you Red Hood wannabe,” she snaps. Jason just laughs in surprise, no one has ever accused him of being a Red Hood wannabe. He's the one who made the mantle into something to respect, something to fear. He stops laughing and levels a glare at the girl, his helmet telling him unhelpfully there was no match of facial recognition in any database. 

“I am Red Hood-” he started to growl out but she cut him off again. The audacity. 

“Red Hood wouldn’t have been caught by the person he was trailing, Red Hood wouldn’t have been caught off guard, Red Hood doesn’t have a stupid streak of white hair on his head. He may have been a theatre nerd but he wouldn’t do that.” 

Wait what. 

“What are you talking about?” But it was more of a demand than a question. 

“You’re not…” she trailed off waving her hand in the air trying to find a word, “slick. Same jacket, same shoes, same build, yeah. You’re not fooling anyone.” 

“Ok. Whatever, I’m going home.” He turns and starts jogging across the rooftop towards home. So much for helping out. 

“Where is he?” she calls out after him.

“Right here, princess,” he spat before jumping to the other rooftop. 

But as soon as his feet leave the building a big dark blue warbly hole appears and swallows him before he can react. Unfortunately for him the other side of that weird black hole was a face full of concrete. 

“Prove you’re him.” 

Oh this girl was something else. Jason shakes his disorientation away, he didn’t know how she did that, nor did he care but he was pissed. He swings his foot around and connects with her ankle, she falls as expected but easily bounces right back up and hops out of his range. 

“Do that again and I’ll have to break my no killing kids rule,” he growls out, staring her down for a moment. Her face was finally lit by the dim yellow street lamps and he could see the entirety of her face and all the raw emotions she was trying to hide. For a split second familiarity passed through him, like when you see someone at the library then at the store a few weeks later or you see an old school friend ten years later and can’t quite place them. Jason dismisses the feeling and turns to go. 

“Wait.” She says it so vulnerably that Jason gives her a chance, when he turns she pulls up her sleeve and shows off her forearm. 

In the center of her arm is a faded black tattoo that was a writing symbol, but because of its name and one of its uses it was used to brand child soldiers in Gotham from a particular gang that Red Hood obliterated as soon as his first order of business in Gotham. 

‡

It was the double dagger, or better known in Gotham as the death dagger. The children were expendable although highly trained and dangerous, they could give Damian a run for his money in the child assassin department. The tattoo was a reminder to the children and to the people they came across that they were soulless, emotionless, their lives and actions were not their own and they would give their lives willingly for the mission

Meaning who they were before was dead. No family, no connections, no one would notice if they went missing and no one would be able to identify their bodies if and when the time came. Sometimes poor families would sell one of their children and promise to forget them and to never contact them. 

Jason was led to assume that this was another child soldier looking to thank him, or kill him. It was 50/50 these days, some of those kids just never recovered. 

“So what is it that you want? You want my autograph across your head?” Jason asks dryly. 

The girl just huffs and pulls her sleeve back down. 

“I want to know if my brother is underneath that mask.”

I want to know if my brother is underneath that mask.

The words struck Jason deep in his chest but it only fueled his anger. He didn’t know why that hit so deep but he was not in the mood for this nor would he be at any time. 

“Just because I ended that gang doesn’t mean we’re family. Go find your other assassin siblings to play house with.” 

“Annette,” she calls after as he turns his back again. A strike of familiarity pulses through him and when he hesitates she continues, “that was my name before I was initiated. I was one of the first. Daddy’s little girl,” she was still talking louder than necessary since he hadn’t turned back around. “I’m the only one left from The 13.” 

Right. The 13. That’s what everyone called the first batch even as they were killed off, they were the most ruthless being the oldest and were also the most aggressive in proving their worth. It was common to find a number from 1-13 placed strategically behind at the crime scene, whoever had the most successful missions would be highly rewarded, or so he was told. 

“Do you remember?” 

“I remember destroying that gang and their stupid leader and having to kill some of your little friends and I also remember The 13 died within the first year and a half and were easily replaced by their younger friends.” 

“Do you remember me?”

“Look, kid,” he finally turns to look at her, “I don’t care, ok? Yay whoopdeedoo I saved you, get in line. It’s what I do, kill bad people and let the rest walk away. You’re not special.” 

“Annette Marie Todd,” she says hurriedly, like it’s a last resort. “Jason Peter Todd,” she continues, “just you. Me. And a blitzed out Mom.” 

Jason did not like this, he knew the Dagger Children were ruthless and expert manipulators but this was pushing it. He spun around to face her, ripping off his helmet, she already knew what he looked like and it was in the way of his death glare. 

“You don’t know who you are messing with. If you really were a Dagger you’d know that I am not one to be fucked with.” He slides his helmet back on and without a backward glance he runs off to the next roof and continues home. Thankfully not another portal thing opens up in front of him. 

———————————

Jason didn’t have a sister. He did not have a sister. He would remember having a sister. He would remember having a Dagger for a sister. But Annette was such a familiar name. And she had said her name was Annette Marie Todd. Todd. 

No that’s stupid. Impossible. She was just messing with him, for all he knew she could have been subtly showing her face in random places for him to react to the familiarity of her face and she could have said the name sometime in the last few months for him to vaguely recognize the sound of her name but not place it. 

But the Lazarus pit did alter his memories from childhood, it was like looking through a fog of red anger, or maybe it was always like that even before the pit, and it also completely wiped out other parts of his memory. But a sister? No. No way. 

Hours of this, circling around the possibilities and shifting around on his bed trying to get comfortable until he finally drifted off in a very restless sleep. 

Jason found himself in a familiar apartment, the one he lived in before his “mother” died. He looked around and it was more of the feeling of familiarity that convinced him where he was than anything else. He steps aside for a younger version of himself to run by him and turns to the window that led out to the fire escape and watches him climb out of it and close the window. Jason turns back around to see what Young Jason was hiding from. A man hands a thick envelope to his mother, Catherine Todd who had wrapped herself in a thin silk robe, her bony frame visible as well as her happy focus on the money inside that envelope. Jason couldn’t make out the man’s face but he turned around and grabbed the small hand of a little girl in pigtails. She turned her head and faced the window sending a smile but he couldn’t quite make out her face so he instead turned to himself sitting outside.

As he turned his surroundings changed but in his dreamstate he paid no mind to it. This time he was standing in an aisle of a store as a child. He looked around and found his mother dressed embarrassingly in a thin tank top and ragged jeans and flip flops. He feels a squeeze of his hand and looks down, his little sister is looking up at him and pointing to a rack of stuffed animals of Clifford the Big Red Dog that were suddenly there. He sends her a smile and looks up, intent on catching up with his mother and asking her to buy one but as he chases her his intent slips from his mind and instead he wants to taste the cupcakes he just saw. He opens a case and takes a bite but yelling makes him turn around and there is Batman towering over him. Instead of a tasty cupcake he is holding something thick and metal, a crowbar. He throws it at the man and turns to run away and jumps out of the parking garage and jumps into the air flying up. But he’s too slow, he tries kicking and swimming in the air to propel himself further away from Batman but a hand wraps around his foot. 

Jason jerks awake, breathing heavy and feeling uncomfortably hot. This was much more mild than his usual nightmares, if it could even be called a nightmare, but it was bad in a different way. It wasn’t unusual for Jason to be getting chased in his dreams by one thing or another and it always ended before whatever or whoever was chasing him got him but it was getting a little old honestly. 

His head was pounding so he slipped out of bed and poured himself a glass of water from the kitchen. As he takes a sip he recalls his dream and how he had looked down at his sister. But that couldn’t be right. 

A searing pain in his head forces him to tighten his grip on his cup before it goes away again. Stupid head. Stupid dream. Stupid girl trying to get in his head. 

As he lays back down a memory of clear grey eyes flashes across his mind’s eye. 

---

Throughout the next few days Jason tries to ignore the headaches and his dreams of the young black haired girl with grey eyes and of getting chased which was more frequent and more urgent than he remembered them being. It was just all a big waste of time. At least the Dagger girl wasn’t trying to find him anymore, he didn’t know how he would react if she showed up again. 

After another dream of getting chased, this time he was just so tired of it he got a few good punches in on the Bane/Joker demon that was chasing him when his phone buzzes, startling him awake. He ignores it in favor of a cup of coffee and checks the time on the oven that he never uses, it’s almost two o’clock. 

His phone buzzes again several more times in quick succession. He finally heads over and clicks his phone on to see five messages from Stephanie. 

Replacement’s replacement🤰

so u have a little sister and u never told me???

anyways shes at the big house and getting interrogated by bruce and i think hes ready to adopt her

hello

so rude

i mean it looks to me shes tellin the truth but like seems sus for obvious reasons and ur the only one that'll actually know so… hurry up??

Jason curses and rushes to grab his things before running outside and zooming to the Wayne Manor on his motorcycle. 

welp i’ll add with another part soon that i havent finished yet but anywho let me know if jason is too ooc or something😁😁