#reckoning with the idea that they could have become the shadow in another life

[teddywesworl]

I am really developing an understanding of Veilguard and what it is and what it isn’t and what it tries to be and how it could have done better etc etc through the lens of what permanence means. That thing I said about regret being an emergent property of physical reality. That thing I put in baseless fabric about not unchanging but irreversible. All my dragon age fics will probably be me trying to get a better resolution on that idea. You know. In between the porn

[moonsandmobilityaids]

The Brownies

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: You let James and Sirius try your brownies. Warnings: Chronic pain, marijuana usage Series Masterlist

The evening unfolds like a sigh of relief, tension ebbing away as the night draws near. You're nestled in your room with Sirius and James, the three of you lounging on your bed. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls while its warmth seeps into every corner, warding off the chill of autumn that lurks outside.

"Another Saturday well spent," Sirius remarks, stretching his long limbs out before him. His eyes are half-closed, a contented smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "D'you reckon we could make this a tradition?"

James chuckles from where he's sprawled nearby, propped up against headboard. He runs a hand through his already messy hair, making it stand up even more. "Only if Y/N promises to keep providing the snacks."

Your room is spacious for one person with its double four poster bed draped in red and gold curtains, a self-adjusting fireplace that keeps the temperature just right no matter the season, and an ensuite bathroom complete with a large bath. It's become something of a sanctuary within the castle’s ancient walls—a place where laughter rings loud and worries grow quiet.

Tonight, though, it's not just the allure of good company or the promise of a reprieve from homework that has drawn them here. Earlier in the week, they'd learnt about your marijuana usage, and now both boys were eager, albeit slightly apprehensive, to see what all the fuss was about.

Sirius is all too willing, of course; the very idea of trying something new and seemingly forbidden ignites a spark in his grey eyes. His life has always been a dance between rebellion and seeking approval—from his family, from society—and so, when faced with an opportunity to push boundaries, he never hesitates.

"Alright then," he says, sitting up straighter, anticipation colouring his tone. "Let's see what these treats can do."

"Patience," you chide, a hint of laughter in your voice. You summon the box from your shelves, setting it down between Sirius and James who lean in closer, their curiosity piqued. With a flourish, you lift the lid, revealing the brownies nestled together. They're unremarkable at first glance—just squares of baked chocolate—but there's an unmistakable scent wafting up from them, something earthy underlying the rich sweetness.

Sirius reaches out almost instinctively, but you pull the treat away before his fingers can close around it. His brow furrows, confusion lining his face until he catches sight of your smirk.

"I have to make them last until Christmas," you explain, placing the brownie back into the box. "They need to be rationed properly."

James' hand hovers over the opening, as if debating whether to snatch one for himself. But your warning gives him pause. He withdraws, settling back on his heels while watching you with renewed interest. It isn't often they see this side of you—the one that plans ahead, that tempers impulses with reason—and though it's different from their usual recklessness, they find themselves drawn to your resolve.

"Alright then," Sirius concedes, leaning back. There's still a glint of mischief in his eyes, but it's tempered now, held at bay by intrigue. "So how do we go about this?"

"First things first," you begin, reaching for a knife on your bedside table. The blade glints under the firelight as you slice through the soft texture of the brownie, cutting it into smaller pieces. "You’ll start with half each. Any more than that... well, let’s just say you'll be begging for Madam Pomfrey's Pepper-Up Potion come morning."

The two boys exchange wary glances before turning their attention back to you. Their playful bravado seems to have faded, replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"And remember," you continue, your tone serious despite the faint smile tugging at your lips, "the effects are not immediate. You might feel nothing for a while, but don’t eat more thinking it didn't work. Give it time."

There's silence as they digest your words, the gravity of the situation sinking in. For all their daring escapades and mischievous pranks, they've never quite ventured into territory like this before. It feels both thrilling and daunting—a line being crossed, yet also a door being opened.

"Are you nervous?" you ask, breaking the quiet.

"A little," James admits, running a hand through his unruly hair once more. His gaze doesn’t leave the brownie piece you’ve set aside for him.

"Excited," Sirius corrects, grinning despite himself. "It's not every day you get to try something so... unconventional."

With a roll of your eyes, you pass them their portions. "Just remember what I said."

Sirius takes his share with a nod, studying the morsel closely. Beside him, James does the same, his eyebrows knitting together in concentration.

On any other night, such seriousness would be out of place. But tonight, it fits. Tonight, they aren't simply Gryffindor boys seeking their next adventure—they're explorers standing on the brink of unknown territory, maps unfolded and compasses pointing toward unseen horizons.

After Sirius and James have eaten their portions of the brownie, the three of you wait for the effects to start. The anticipation is palpable, an electric current that seems almost alive in its own right.

The mood in the room shifts from anticipation to something softer and more intimate as the minutes tick by. Sirius leans back against the pillows on your bed, his usual smirk still present but there’s a tenderness in his gaze as he watches you and James. It’s a look you’ve seen before, often followed by some mischievous comment or playful jab, but tonight it feels different—less guarded, more genuine.

James settles beside you, his arm wrapping casually around your waist and pulling you closer to him. His touch is familiar, comforting even, yet it sends a jolt of excitement through you each time. There's a certain thrill to being this close, surrounded by warmth and the faint scent of chocolate lingering in the air.

There’s a moment of quiet as the three of you sit together, the warmth of your bodies pressed close in the soft glow of the fire. The setting of your room, with its self-adjusting fireplace and the large bed, adds to the intimate atmosphere. You can’t help but feel a sense of contentment wash over you, a feeling so overwhelming it nearly takes your breath away.

"Feel anything yet?" you ask after a while, breaking the silence.

James shrugs, a small smile creeping onto his face. "Maybe. It's hard to tell."

You watch him closely, noting the subtle shift in his demeanor. His movements are slower, more deliberate as if he's taking care to savour every sensation. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards into a soft grin, and there's a certain lightness in his eyes that wasn't there before—a calmness that seems to radiate from within.

"Hmm," Sirius hums, his voice low and steady. He blinks slowly, almost languidly, and leans back against the pillows propped up behind him. There’s a quiet ease about him now, a stark contrast to the playful energy he usually exudes.

The tension in the room begins to dissipate, replaced by a wave of warmth and comfort that envelops the three of you like a blanket. You can’t help but let out a content sigh, leaning back against James, who wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his side.

For a moment, you simply sit there, basking in the closeness and the peace that has settled over the room. You glance at Sirius, whose eyes are now half-closed as he lounges comfortably on your bed. A lazy grin spreads across his face, and for once, he doesn't seem to be plotting any mischief or planning any pranks. Instead, he looks... relaxed, truly relaxed, something you realise you've never seen before.

And then there's James. Despite being naturally laid-back, there's always been an underlying restlessness to him, a constant need to do, to act. But now, all traces of that have melted away, leaving behind a tranquillity you didn't know he was capable of. His arm around you feels heavier, not with pressure, but with presence—steady, grounding, real.

"Y/N," Sirius' voice is softer now, a low murmur that barely penetrates the silence. You turn to look at him, and he's already moving closer, his hand reaching out to gently slide along your waist, moving James’s arm out the way.

His touch sends a shiver through you, not from cold but from something else entirely—something warm and thrilling that starts in your belly and spreads outward until it reaches every corner of your body. He leans in then, his lips finding the crook of your neck with an ease that speaks of familiarity yet holds a certain novelty that has your heart racing.

His breath against your skin sends goosebumps trailing down your arms, and even the faintest brush of his fingers feels electrifying. It’s as if all your senses have been heightened, attuned to every minute detail—the way his chest rises and falls against your back, the warmth radiating from his body, the scent of him filling your nostrils.

You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the moment, into him. Your hands find their way into his hair, tangling into the dark strands as you angle your head to give him better access. You can feel the tension draining from your body, replaced by a sense of peace and contentment.

Sirius pulls away slightly, just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are heavy-lidded, a clear sign of the drug taking effect, but there’s something else there too—a depth of emotion you didn’t expect to see. And then he’s leaning in again, capturing your lips with his in a slow, languid kiss that makes your heart flutter.

James, sitting beside you, watches this interaction with darkened eyes. His gaze is intense but tempered by the effects of the marijuana brownie. He doesn't interrupt, doesn't make any sarcastic comments or tease Sirius about his newfound tenderness. Instead, he remains quiet, observing.

You feel James' hand on your shoulder, pulling you back towards him. You turn your head to look at him and find yourself caught in his gaze. His hazel eyes are soft but hold a depth that makes your heart flutter. Then he's leaning in, closing the distance between you until his lips meet yours.

The kiss is slow, deep—the kind that makes you forget everything else exists. The warmth of his mouth against yours sends a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you lose yourself completely. It's different from the playful kisses you're used to sharing, less hurried and more... meaningful.

James' hands slide up to cup your face, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss. You let out a soft sigh, parting your lips further as you lean into his touch. The world outside fades away, leaving only the three of you in this intimate bubble where time seems to stand still.

"Y/N," James breathes out, his voice barely above a whisper. There's an intensity to his gaze that matches the fervour of his earlier words. "I love you."

Your breath hitches in your throat as he pulls himself closer to you, erasing the last bit of space between your bodies. His fingers trail along your jawline before coming to rest on the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

And then he's kissing you again, deeper this time, his tongue exploring your mouth with a boldness that leaves you breathless. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him like he's the only thing keeping you grounded.

It's intoxicating, the way he consumes all your senses, leaving no room for anything else. And despite the fear creeping at the edges of your consciousness—because how could something so wrong feel so right?—you can't bring yourself to pull away.

Instead, you press closer to him, losing yourself in the rhythm of his breaths, the taste of his lips, the reassuring solidity of his chest against yours. A low moan escapes you, muffled by his mouth, and you can feel him smile against your lips—a small victory in this game that neither of you are quite sure how to play.

James pulls back from your lips, a grin spreading across his face as he brushes a strand of hair away from your eyes. "You're amazing," he murmurs, voice low and rough with emotion.

His gaze is soft, unfocused—the same look he gets when he's lost in thought or simply enjoying the moment for what it is. You can't help but smile back at him, leaning into his touch as his fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin.

Sirius remains close, his arm draped around your waist and his hand tracing small circles. Every so often, his lips find their way back to your neck, each kiss sending a shiver down your spine despite the warmth radiating from both boys.

There's a quiet intimacy in these shared moments, a sense of closeness that goes beyond physical proximity. And even though you know this isn't how things should be—that there are lines being blurred and rules being broken—you can't bring yourself to care right now.

James leans in closer, his hand reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, and you can't help but lean into it. "We've got all night," he murmurs, his voice low and soothing.

Sirius chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest against your back. "James is right," he agrees, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach. "We're staying."

"Feels nice," James admits, his eyes fluttering shut as he sinks further into the mattress. A smile plays at the corners of his lips, revealing just how much he's enjoying the effects of the joint. His usually restless energy is nowhere to be found, replaced instead by a languid calm that matches the slow rhythm of the music playing softly in the background.

Sirius lets out a low hum of agreement, his eyelids heavy as he rests his head against the pillows. His gaze remains fixed on you, though, half-lidded and full of admiration. "More than nice," he corrects, grinning lazily.

There's no denying the intimacy of the situation—the way their bodies curve protectively around yours, the faint smell of musk and cologne, the lingering taste of James' lips on yours...

But beyond the physical sensations, there's something else too—a sense of belonging that warms you from the inside out. It's in the way they look at you, not as some piece in a game of rivalry and one-upmanship, but as someone they genuinely care for and want to share this experience with.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to fully relax, sinking deeper into the embrace of the two boys who have somehow become an integral part of your life. Your mind still buzzes with questions and uncertainties, but for now, you push them aside, choosing to focus instead on the present moment and the undeniable connection you share with James and Sirius.

[iron-hearts-ablaze]

He snuck off from camp in the middle of the night while the rest were safely nestled in their beds. Call it a flight of whimsy. An idea that struck as a most precious of gift for Karlach. She hadn’t wanted his gift of eternity, not yet. But he’d offer her something just as delicious. He left a note for her to meet him in the graveyard. There she’d witness the most delightful of sights. “Come to me and kneel.” He called out into the dark.

From the shadows emerged him. Gortash. Two pinpoint bite scars on his neck. His eyes orange with the hold of compulsion even in the dark. The man quietly with disgust writ on his face kneeled in the dirt. He glared up at them in defiance, but didn’t say a word. He was still soiled by the dirt of his own grave. The one Astarion buried him in.

Astarion had commanded him not to speak. Those lips of his sealed until his master deemed him worthy enough to.

“A gift for you. He’s perfectly obedient and more importantly—“ His lips curled into a devious smile. “—resistant to most forms of violence. I can give him the command to be obedient to you too. All you have to do is ask.”

Unprompted Ask || Always Accepting

A note in such elaborate scrawl. How quaint. She didn't need a name at the bottom to know who it would come from. A graveyard? Rather stereotypical, but there was a feeling it may just be worth her while. As she trudged through the near empty streets of Baldurs Gate, she fumed slightly as she dug through her thoughts. If this was another way to badger her into accepting his offer to become his Consort - or whatever bull he tried to sell her - she would be done with this little affair of theirs. It was fun while it lasted. But she didn't need his by-proxy form of eternity. She had her own plans in mind... The Netherbrain was closer to hand than ever before. She just had Gortash in the way now. And once she dined on his bones and soaked in his blood, she'd take that last stone and take control of the brain - of her fate - once and for all. She would get there on her own, by her own prowess, not off power borrowed from him. She admired his hunt for power, it matched her own, but it would never overtake her own drives...

Karlach folded her arms when she got to the graveyard. He was fairly easy to spot, his pale frame practically glowing in the moon's light. The air around her changed when Gortash showed himself - the unmistakable signs of him being Astarion's spawn showed themselves instantly. At first, all she felt was cold-blooded fury. How dare he! She was so fucking close to taking Gortash's life for herself, how dare this prick stand in the way of her glory! But as her breath quickened, her hands balled into fists, he said something that caused pause.

Resistant to pain... Pain she could inflict on him whenever it pleased her... Gortash - completely owned by them her. What a keen prospect. With a darkening glare, her naturally amber eyes seemed to reflect as much as the vampires did as she approached the kneeling man that stole her life. Yet, created her.

"You probably don't remember the last thing you said to me," Karlach's speech was almost sultry. Utterly driven by a lust for violence towards him. She cupped Gortash's stubbled cheeks and stroked them. "But I do. 'No hard feelings, sweetheart'. And there aren't, are there... Sweetheart." Her hands twisted inward, digging her nails into his skin, drawing blood with an excited glint in her eye.

"Oh Astarion, how you spoil me." She stood up, licking the blood off her hand. It was sweeter than she expected, though maybe that was just the exhilaration of the prospect dancing on her tongue. "I ought to get you something nice. The city would make for a good start, I reckon, now we have the last Netherstone." Blood still coating her lips, she leaned in all the closer, but not closing the gap entirely. "It's about fucking time we take what we're owed...But, until then," A soft sigh. She can suck it up for this one thing. As a treat. Speaking almost at a purr, if she was going to belittle herself she may as well lay it on thick. "Please may I borrow your little pet for a bit?"

[another-corpo-rat]

Vic x Michiko? I know they’re friends in your canon and I’m honestly desperate to know more about their dynamic. xD (can’t remember if I’ve asked before, sorry)

oml the besties, the co-conspirators-

are you ready for me to ramble? cos im going to- the readmore is a warning tbh

I have 100% considered them as a couple -- a polycule actually tbh, Smasher wedged his way in there as he's wont to do -- and i haven't exactly ruled it out just yet. One of the sticklers for my consideration is Michiko's husband Marc and his position/role in it all, or if i want him alive at all.

The foundations for it is already there, or will be if i ever actually write but yknow,

Victoria and Michiko's companionship starts with a simple basis: the mistrust of Yorinobu Arasaka. I'm operating soundly on headcanon here, but I reckon any corpo worth their lick of salt would feel something in the air before Yorinobu stole the relic; an anticipation, kinda like when your hair stands on end before lightning strikes too close.

For Victoria, Michiko is more appealing than any other of the Arasaka bloodline, and while she holds no love for the family she recognises them as powerful pieces of the board: if change is to happen, it has to be with one of them at the helm. Yorinobu made it clear he held no love for his father and the company in tandem, and Victoria holds something of a grudge after he attempted to have her replaced as Smasher's netrunner. Hanako would be more appealing were she not confined to a compound for most of her adult life - too sheltered, even from the teeth of their own company. Victoria doubts she could solve a conflict if the weight of her family name wasn't enough.

And that leaves Michiko; the black sheep. Once sheltered herself but thrust into the public and Arasaka eye following the death of her father. And while once Victoria did fall for that sweet, naive act that she held up like a shield, it was soundly shattered in her eyes once she learned the girl and Smasher had a thing. Her founding and the success of Danger Gal also raised her quite a bit in Victoria's opinion.

For Michiko, Victoria is another ally in her pocket but perhaps one with more gusto than the rest of the Hato faction - Michiko despises talking ill of her own people, but a majority of them think that her leading them is enough for victory. She knows it is not, and she wasn't going to turn down the opportunity of having a damn good combative netrunner with a direct line into Yorinobu's dealings on her side

Beyond that practical reason, Michiko did just genuinely want to get to know Victoria as well. She was curious of the woman, but noted her aversion to companionship and so wanted to think her approach through carefully - kinda like building trust with a stray cat, done gradually with consistence

Later in Victoria's canon, when Yorinobu is dead and Hanako has retreated to Japan, not quite with her tail between her legs but certainly shaken by the sharp turn taken by the Hato faction, Victoria and Michiko's dynamic become what it would remain if they were to be a couple; the empress and her shadow. Very much a 'they shout my name, yet whisper yours' sort of thing

Michiko doesn't want to destroy Arasaka in the same way her uncle did, reform is enough for her. Rebuilding, restructuring (because unlike her uncle, she doesn't spew moralisms and then turn around and destroy livelihoods with the same self-righteous folly he condemned his father for-) but she's not naive, and she trusts Victoria to reel her in when her ideas border too closely to ideals.

Just as she is there to reel it back when Victoria's suggested methods are a touch too brutal to be acceptable, too much how things used to be done. She understands that force and fear are necessary at times, but the netrunner tends to push it too far; her bloodlust more readily apparent when its not being overshadowed by Smasher - and as much as its a steady cause of conflict between them, it is something that draws Michiko closer to Victoria. she has a thing for danger, she guesses

It would bring them together, already close as they are after planning a coup within a coup - placing an explicit trust that paid off for them both, solidifying their companionship into friendship and then potentially something more

so yes, 10/10. absolutely am considering Michiko as a potential partner for Victoria

[open-hearth-rpg]

Epistolary: Great RPG Mechanics #RPG Mechanics: Week Five

You may or may not remember De Profundis. I died a little inside when I discovered it came out in 2002. In English at least. The Polish original came out even earlier. It was among a group of smaller, indie publications launching at the time– a few years later we’d start to see things like My Life With Master and The Shab Al-Hiri Roach. De Profundis, though, was a little more abstract. It’s literally play-by-post, because you write physical letters. 

The basic concept is that you write sprawling, meditative letters about weirdness in a character’s life, possibly a thinly glossed version of yourself in another place or time. The letters themselves should be artifacts– physical objects you can mark up, annotate, and leave little additional clues or objects in. You send these to another player who then replies to your strangeness with queries or their own experiences. You continue this back and forth with an escalating sense of things being off. 

The game leans into a Lovecraftian vibe, though it is not particularly specific about the mythos itself, which is great. That allows you to lean into one of, IMHO, the best aspects of Role-Playing": being able to consider and describe something from the first person. What would this strangeness actually look like to someone unfamiliar with the interior intricacies? There’s a whole series for the original Hunter: The Reckoning rpg from White Wolf built on this– humans trying to make sense of all the supernatural bs of the world.

The touchstone here is the work of Lovecraft and a lot of his followers. But it also points to Dracula, not the original epistolary novel, but the shadow which looms over this form for literary form in horror. That’s notable for being a strongly mixed-media piece– with different voices over time as well as newspaper clippings and summaries.

De Profundis is also interesting in that it comes about right at the turn of the millennium, when most people were starting to have email as an ever-present and constant feature in their lives. Folks began to realize that this would always be something they’d need to have and be connected to. De Profundis reacts to that by asking the players to create something concrete and not ephemeral.  

It’s also interesting that De Profundis is among the first solo rpgs, a movement which has become stronger and more developed in recent years. In this sense the game really offers just a loose form– more an idea that you could do some writing like this. I don’t think there’s a direct line from De Profundis to something like Thousand Year Vampire, but there is a connection.

I never got more than a couple of exchanges into a De Profundis game. Some of that’s my own problem with solo gaming. I’ve never been able to get into play by post either. I go in with the best of intentions, but inevitably crash out. There’s not enough feedback to catch my lizard brain. So I was a little worried when I played the Good Society, with its dedicated epistolary phase. 

Good Society’s gameplay has a tight structure: Novel, Reputation, Rumor & Scandal, and finally Epistolary. In this last phase players write letters, I believe 1 or 2, from the characters  under their control. These can be written out fully or sketched out and then summarized by the player. I’m glad the game encourages the former and permits the latter. 

These are an absolute joy. These letters offer the chance for characters to regroup and consider the implications of events from earlier. You can reveal new details, comment on occurrences, set up new plot threads, question people’s motivations. They’re dynamite as a moment of commentary. I get that they’re echoing the original literary sources, but I think it is worth considering how well they operate as a moment of reflection built into the game. That’s something I think a lot of games could benefit from mechanically.

Lots of groups do Stars & Wishes, Epilogues, Debriefs, but often these are either meta-discussions or done at the end of a campaign. Good Society has these connected to a regular cycle of play. You could build something like this into a campaign to serve as a breaker or signal for the changing of arcs. Ask each player to write or summarize a letter, journal entry, or email from their character. I think it offers way to explore character that we often don’t get in ttrpgs.

[alex-guerin]

Malex ♦: Slow dancing

🥰

Alex smiled to himself as he sat watching friends and family dance across the floor. The bride was absolutely beautiful -- but then, he was slightly biased since she was his daughter after all -- and the smile on her face as her new husband twirled her made his chest tighten in happiness. It still didn't seem real to him, that she was all grown up and now married. It seemed like only yesterday he and Michael had brought her into the world and spent hours dancing her around the living room to get her to sleep.

Tyler dipped Nora before pulling her in for a kiss as the band announced that other couples could now take the dance floor while the newlyweds giggled over each other and made their way back to their table for a short break. A shadow fell over him, a weathered hand suddenly held in front of his face. It was a hand Alex knew intimately. One with a gold band resting securely on the ring finger, exactly where Alex had placed it thirty-five years ago.

"Wanna dance?"

Looking up into honey-brown eyes that still shone just as brightly with love and laughter as they had when they were seventeen, Alex smiled fondly and shrugged.

"I dunno. Last I checked your idea of dancing was shuffling your feet and grabbing my butt."

"Only way to dance. Besides, you've still got a very good butt to grab. Can you blame me?"

Alex laughed softly as he took Michael's hand and allowed himself to be helped up and out onto the dance floor. His arms slipped up over Michael's shoulders, hands interlocking at the base of his neck as Michael slid his own hands low on Alex's back, pulling him in so they were pressed close from nose to toes. Their foreheads touched and Alex couldn't help but close his eyes and sigh as Michael quietly sang along; his lips brushing whispered love across Alex's.

And tell me that we belong together Dress it up with the trappings of love I'll be captivated, I'll hang from your lips Instead of the gallows of heartache that hang from above

And I'll be your cryin' shoulder I'll be love's suicide And I'll be better when I'm older I'll be the greatest fan of your life

"You played this for me at our wedding," Alex murmured.

Michael hummed in acknowledgement, one hand slowly running up and down Alex's spine.

"And every anniversary after that. Still can't believe Nora wanted to get married today of all days."

Another laugh bubbled up out of Alex as he pressed himself closer but tilted his head back enough to meet Michael's eyes. His fingers twitched to reach up and play with the curls that had become more like gentle waves in the years.

"She gets her romantic side from you, you know. Honestly, I can't believe she remembered today was the anniversary of our first kiss."

"With as many times as we had to tell her the story? I can," Michael huffed as he leaned in to press his forehead to Alex's again.

Their bodies swayed in time with the music and for a few moments in time the world around them faded away. For a few moments, Alex was seventeen again, being kissed by a boy for the first time and feeling a warm, hard body against his own for the first time.

Now, on the wrong side of sixty, Alex was still in the arms of the man that boy had become. He was still the one Alex kissed every morning and every night. The one that made Alex laugh and held him when phantom pains reared their ugly heads. Michael still took his breath away with his smiles and laughter and the way he was so patient with their kids. He was the only one Alex ever imagined having a family and growing old with.

As the song drew to a close, Alex tilted his head just enough to meet Michael's lips for a gentle kiss. Nothing heated, nothing that would embarrass Nora or the boys, or little Sandy. Just a gentle kiss full of promises they both intended to keep forever.

"Papa! Come dance with me!"

Michael pulled back from the kiss to smile down at Sandy, 12 years old and an absolute force to be reckoned with. She tugged at his arm insistently until Michael stepped back from Alex with a raised eyebrow. Alex smiled softly and nodded.

"Go ahead. I'm gonna see if I can steal a dance with our other daughter before Greg and Walt get to her again."

"Good idea," Michael leaned in for one more kiss. "Don't forget, last slow dance is mine, though."

Nudging his nose lightly against Michael's Alex smiled serenely and pressed one final kiss to his husband's lips.

"Always."

~*~*~*~

Kids are based off that Vlamburn interview where they were trying to decide their kids names and came up with Nora, Gregory, Walt, and Sandy. I've accepted this and run with it now. Ages are as followed in my headcanon...

Nora -- 27

Greg and Walt -- 21

Sandy -- 12

[linkspooky]

TOJI AND MAKI

The parallels between the two outcasts of the zenin clan have already been pointed out plenty of times in canon, for example they're both incredibly buff. However, I thought I would take a deeer look at both characters, as they share both a role as the abused child that destroys the system that created them, and the same fatal flaw.

1. The Child Who is Not Embraced by the Village Will Burn it Down to Feel its Warmth

"The Ones who Walk Away from Omelas" is a 1973 work of short philosophical fiction, about a summer festival in the utopian ity of OMelas, whose prosperity depends on the perpetual misery of a single child. The idea is written around the idea of the scapegoat, a reoccurring trope in stories where someone innocent is blamed, or outcast for the mistakes of other characters.

All of this to say that both Maki and Toji represent the archetype of the scapegoats of their generation. Just like the child of Omelas, all of the problems in the Zenin household are blamed on one child.

This is something Ogi does to Maki directly, and also Naoya recognizes that the other members of the clan did to Toji. They were unable to face their own inferiority, so they blamed it on a scapegoat. Ogi blames his failure to become the head of the clan on his children. The entire clan is unable to recognize Toji's strength, because it would make them question their traditionally held notions of strength, Toji requires the use of weapons and can fight without cursed techniques, which means the cursed techniques they were born with don't make them inherently better with other people.

This is also related to Gojo's criticisms of Jujutsu Society at large, of which the Zenin Household is a very toxic microcosm of. Gojo's critique is that the previous generation will sacrifice the lives of the younger generation, to maintain their power, and in the name of pointless tradition. In the Zenin family "tradition" is the idea that inherited curse technique determines a person's worth.

Their entire system is built around one, keeping cursed techniques in the clan, and two, passing down inherited curse techniques from father to child. Which would go farther to explain the treatment of women by the clan, but we're not getting into that this time. Basically, the "peace" and the "superiority" of the household are built on the idea of marking and scapegoating an outsider, that is anyone who doesn't fit in with the clan's traditions. "If you are not of the Zenin Clan you are not a sorcerer, and if you are not a sorcerer then you are not even Human". That quote alone should explain how Maki and Toji were both treated as subhuman 'monkeys' by everyone around them.

However, the story shows us by both Toji and Maki snapping how terrible these abusive power structures are. One person cannot handle all of that alone, so they snap. Of course they snap. It's not a sign of who Toji and Maki are as people, but rather how no one deserves to be treated that way. A major reocurring theme in Jujutsu Kaisen is no one person alone, can take responsibility for everything, not even Gojo who is the strongest can save everyone he wants to save or be responsible for all of society he needs allies too. Toji, and Maki without allies, they snap and lash out against the same abusive power structure that created them. They are so thoroughly othered by everyone around them, that they embrace their own inhumanity, Maki becomes a weapon bent on killing her family even murdering her own mother, and Toji outright calls himself a monkey.

This is also why Toji is referred to as the "destroyer of destinies" there are two reasons for this. One, Gege is making a thematic point here. The abusive system built on othering and excluding children among other things doesn't actually provide the stability it promises. The center does not hold. The abuse of the system perpetuates and only leads to more destruction. Toji's outcasting isn't something that just hurt Toji alone, everyone felt the consequences of it because the abusive system proliferates and only causes further destruction. The second reason is a Jungian idea on which the story is based on. Toji himself is much like a curse created by the actions of his entire family. If Mahito is created from the fear humans have for each other and acts as the shadow of humanity representing their dark side, Toji metaphorically represents the combined shadow and dark side of the zenin clan. In Watch Man, Rorsarch monologues about how the accumulated filth of all of the abuses that happen in the city will one day rise up and affect everyone.

"This city is afraid of me, I have seen it's true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will form up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout save us and I'll look down and whisper no."

This is expressing the same Jungian idea, a society that ignores these problems will only cause the muck to rise up further and further until it affects everyone. The Zenin clan was a microcosm for the abuses of Jujutsu Society as a whole, they weren't the only ones affected by their abuse because abuse perpetuates. They endured it until they snapped and then acted out that abuse. The Jungian idea put forth is that this sort of reckoning was always going to happen, as long as the Zenin clan continues to create these outcasts in order to hold themselves up as superior, another Toji will happen.

2. Love is the Worst Curse of Them All

Toji and Maki also share the same flaw as people. Their abuse revolved around the idea of outcasting them from the rest of the family, othering them, continually putting them down and also most likely not even doing the job of raising them as children or providing them with the help they needed. We don't see much of it, but in the databook apparently Toji regularly had cursed spirits sicked on him to mock him, and Maki was locked in the cursed spirit room as punishment.

This taught them not only do they need to be strong on their own, but also in order to prove themselves they both thought they needed to be stronger than anyone else in the clan. Toji left Jujutsu Society as a whole, whereas Maki just left the house, both of them with the motivation of proving themselves stronger than the people who looked down on them.

This strong sense of individualism is their greatest strength, and also their weakness, as the situation is more complicated than being stronger than a bully. Maki and Toji are made to feel alone because of their abuse, however, neither Maki nor Toji suffer their abuse alone.

Mai was abused right alongside Maki, they were both outcasts due to being twins. There's no point in arguing which one of them had it worse, because Ogi was perfectly willing to kill both daughters right alongside each other. Maki does and doesn't remember that Mai is right alongside her in her abuse, it's... a bit complicated.

I mention this because Makiaated reason why is that she would have hated herself if she stayed inside that household with Maki. She put pursuit of becoming a stronger sorcerer above her relationship with her sister.

Maki later states "I can't create a place where Mai would feel like she belongs". I don't believe that was always her intention from the start that she secretly left the household for Mai's sake, and wanted to get stronger to create a place where Mai belongs, because Maki's always been really clear she was doing it for her own sake. I think rather after the loss she suffered in Shibuya, and also the fight she had with her sister in the school met, that she came to change her mind and realized she wasn't just in this alone. She changed her mind, that she wanted to be together with Mai, but she didn't change it in time and tragedy struck.

I mention this because Maki and Toji both share the same tragic flaw. Both of them have no idea how to be close even to the people they love, so they end up pushing away the ones they love the most. Maki continually shows behavior of pushing away Mai, and in Toji's case he does everything he can to try to show himself he doesn't love his son.

Maki continually pushes away her sister Mai. Mai reacts to getting pushed away in a not-so-healthy way. Toji full on deadbeats his son. He doesn't raise him or participate in his life to the point where Megumi can't remember his face or name at all. Toji did everything he could to try to give Megumi to someone else, anyone else other than him and avoided his responsibility as a father.

It doesn't come from malice on Toji and Maki's part, but rather it's a less savory aspect of their abuse. Both Toji and Maki believe themselves to be worthless, and that they can't be accepted or loved. They've internalized the way the clan has treated them. They are so isolated that this comes out in how they treated their closest loved ones, their response is to always push them away and isolate themselves further. Toji narrates this, he chose to throw his son aside because he wanted to affirm himself and prove that he was better than Jujutsu Society. Maki says to Mai that she left the house and left Mai because staying would have meant hating herself.

They are both trying desperately to prove themselves as individually strong, to the point where loving anyone else, or even requiring that love from someone is a weakness. They prove they are strong by avoiding the vulnerability of loving someone else. Toji and Maki both try to separate themselves from their heart in order to become even more physically stronger. For Toji his heart was his son Megumi who he did everything to distance himself, forgetting his name, selling him to the Zenin clan, while at the same time paradoxically believing that he was somehow protecting Megumi and arranging for things that would have been better than Toji just stepping up as a father and taking care of him.

At the same time Maki pushes Mai away when Mai does not want that, and believes that also she can return to the clan and make it a safe place for her sister by being individually stronger than everyone else.

They both approach their loved ones this way, because they were taught that one, they are unworthy of love, and they choose to try to get stronger by throwing away anything that might make them vulnerable.

TWhich is why Maki breaks so hard, and lashes out at everyone when Mai is gone, because Maki believed that keeping Mai separate from herself and protecting her was her way of showing love.

However, Mai and Megumi are like... people. They're people entirely separate from Maki and Toji and also affected by their actions. Megumi was neglected his entire lives, whereas Mai didn't get to have a relationship with her sister and felt like she was worthless and only holding her sister back. This is the central idea of Toji and Maki's abuse narrative, that abuse is complicated, and abuse proliferates and hurts people you don't even intend for it to hurt. It has consequences. Megumi suffers the consequences of the Zenin family's abuse because it turned Toji into such an unfit and emotionally immature father. Mai was being abused alongside Maki, and even ended up dying from her abuser's hand as her father Ogi beat her half to death and locked her in a room. Now, as a consequence Maki is lashing out at everything around her. That's also why the connection between Toji and Maki is drawn, to show that as long as the abusive institution still stands, it's just going to keep creating more outcasts like Toji and Maki.

[writingonesdreams]

Happy WBW! Wanna tell me more about magic in your wip? What abilities do the characters have?

Funny you ask this right at the moment I'm thinking of adding big changes to the magic system to spice things up 🤣.

I had the magic system figured out, with elemental magic that can be addressed scientifically or artistically, blood magic (that doesn't even come up much as sideeffect of abonding Sky of Shards storyline and characters), wild magic, Dragonknight Art, and Soulfire that is addressed through movement and martial arts. And mind magic, the type my MC has that is giving me the most trouble right now.

My thoughts on the magic:

I'm thinking of soulfire magic (visible energetical manifestation of the soul) to be either about focus on emotions or on balance of emotions.

What if soulfire magic also had a shadow version with wallowing in negative emotions like anger and sadness?

What if soulfire magic also allowed something like a werewolf transformation? Shapeshifting is well established in universe by Hal, who can shapeshift into anything, which is an extreme example (since he is a sort of a god), but what if soulfire users had this option? And that would give me all the fun sideeffects of werewolves and dragons mingling, like power hierarchies, bloodlust being a normal thing, problems with touch, fighting for control...might be the werewolf book I'm reading right now talking though XD which would mean this idea will lose its charm when I'm finished with the series. What to do? XD

Dragonknight Art is a secret new art that I have been keeping off tumblr for spoilters, but by keeping it from the story for so long, I'm losing it's best dark effects, which is a shame. Maybe I should bring it up sooner or transfer the effects to another type.

What if Dragonknight art allowed for a shortcut to elemental magic, that normally takes about 20 years to master? Since none of the main cast learned this magic, they would need another 20 years to use it properly, but what if there was an elemental fusion ritual, that could speed up the process? The sideeffects being that you become one with the element, and whenever you use it, your body turns back into it? Dissolving into air, bursting into flames and overheating, being called to any water surface and coming undone in it, trouble with staying tangible at all...

Why is mind magic so hard? I wanted a metaphorical magic to show how daydreaming can be a big part of someone's life. Mind magic as it is, a projection of thoughts and illusions and nice dreams, is how I'm feeling a lot in real world right now. Like power of the mind is great, but underappreciated and not very physically powerful or useful in everyday situations. Which is frustrating and not helping. I'm yearning for a power fantasy, with an MC that's an expert and a dangerous force to be reckoned with, with no doubt about her ability being useful or powerful, like mind magic is. It's funny how the accurate representation of actual feelings can get annoying and create the desire to write about the opposite to compensate.

This is not very coherent, but rather helpful to put this all into words. Thank you for the perfect question at the perfect time!

[interstellargatorskinboots1812]

TAPPED INTO YOUR MIND AND SOUL

SUMMARY

Arabella Shelby is tired of the antics of her twin brother Tommy. She hates how she is always left on the back-foot of what is going on. As a fierce and intelligent force to be reckoned with, she knows she is more than capable of dealing with the more unsavoury side of the Shelby Company Limited.

She's made a decision that if Tommy won't allow her to come out of the shadows, then she will make light of her own, elsewhere. But will a deal with the devil be the answer to her problems? Tommy has a proposition for Arabella and one that will see her tied to his most untrusting of business associates. Will Arabella take the plunge and start a new life in Camden, beside the most eccentric and sadistic bread makers and leader of the Jewish Gangs in London, Mr Alfie Solomons?

CHAPTER ONE: Satisfaction Seems like a Distant Memory

She can feel her patience ebbing, like the whiskey reserves behind the bar. Arabella  Shelby grinds her teeth and wills the antagonism feeding her veins, to dissipate. The room drowns in the heavy tones of men as they jeer and chat obnoxiously , each having to shout to be heard over the man behind them. Women screech and laugh uproariously trying desperately to gain some favorable attention from any of the rowdy males. Her malachite gaze looks down to her red tipped long nails, holding a now empty brandy glass . She hates the atmosphere and finds the behaviour encircling her to be stifling.  Flinching, she ducks away from the spittle flying from the faceless philanderer, trying and failing to impress her. He was a brave man to say the least, she thought. It was rare anyone dared but look at a Shelby sister. Mores the pity she muses, that each of her brothers are too overloaded with their own egos to notice and intervene with a swipe of their caps. The room stinks of tobacco, a thick and heavy film of smog seems to be connecting one body to another as it clings into the air around them. She should already be out of Birmingham, her bags have been packed since the early hours of this morning and the decision to cut out made long before that. Instead she stays in the newly refurbished Garrison, watching the vainglory antics of a family lacerated by their hunger for being high-handed.  

Her eyes train on her older brother Arthur, fresh out of jail,  as he presses a rolled up note onto the table top and inhales his second blue vial of powder with a determined fury. She surveys with intent as he scrunches his face and presses his fingers to his nose to adjust to the sensation of the toxins traveling into his system.

'Fuck sake, Arthur', she rolls her eyes as her troubled brother stands on the bar and addresses  the room under a confident pretension of shouted words. The pub listens eagerly and replies  along dutifully and in an orderly fashion to his toasts for the Small Heath Rifles, The Lane Boys and of course, to the Peaky Fucking Blinders. Pulling a wayward wave of blonde hair behind her ear, she scans the doleful faces of the crowd as they raise their glasses, each hanging onto Arthur's words like obedient children.

'The Peaky Fucking Blinders, eh?’ Arabella scoffs under her breath.

'Whose gunna stop us ?'the gravel tone of Arthur spews out. She watches . The time keeper of events from her spot in the corner booth, examining Arthur as he climbs down out of sight, the mask slips  as his brow becomes deep set and his expression dulled. She shifts her weight as the leather studs of the booth stab her fiercely in the back. Glancing across the bar to her younger brother, John she observes his dirty and paranoid glances to his wife as he knocks back yet another whiskey. As for her twin, well Tommy was nowhere to be seen. She hadn’t seen him since Epsom earlier that day, when he had told her that he needed to see her urgently for business reasons but then had seemingly disappeared into the ether. Well, she had need to see him urgently too, although he may not like her reasons.

To the outside world the Peaky Blinders were an untouchable force to be reckoned with. Raconteurs racing their way up the crime ladder and vying to be the top of the chain. Money was rolling in and reputation was building, Tommy was making a name for the Shelby Company Limited and a name for himself. However, behind the façade  the cracks were springing thick and fast. The family felt fractured and Arabella felt completely disconnected. Dealing with the legitimate side of the business, being a woman within the family, Tommy did not want her getting mixed up into the illegal and dangerous goings on. He would listen to her smart ideas before dismissing them and then re-imagining them with his own. She had begged for Tommy to take her to London to run the start of their empire down there, an ambition that Tommy had staunchly diffused, particularly after what had happened to their younger sister. 'London is no place for a woman like you, it’s heaving with trouble and violence and no sister of mine is going to get caught up in it on my behalf'.

'Pfft and here was me heeding your words of this business being a modern Enterprise that believes in equal rights for women. Those are your words Thomas, or do they only matter when it suits?'

They had argued for days over the matter, of course Thomas had won out and it was Arthur running the show down in London. Upon his arrest, however much it angered Tommy under it’s circumstances,  it made his gloating no less bearable when he reiterated that this was why she shouldn't go to the city, Arabella argued back viciously that had she been in charge down there, none of this would have happened because she had a lid on things and was not riddled with the lingering effects of war, mixed with a habit for white powder rotting her faculties.

She could face no more of being on the back foot of what was going on, of having her intelligence shunned and her opinions chewed up and hashed back out in the guise of another. The last few months had been eventful, in the precipice of war with Sabini's Italian gang and in an mistrustful partnership with another, fighting for the dominant control. What good was she to be by being the pretty face at the fucking bookmaker's reception, seemingly in the dark about everything going on beneath the surface.

Unlike her younger sister, Arabella longed to be more involved in the family business, to handle the threats, the plans and the schemes. She knew she was worth more, that she could handle more. She had repeatedly begged Tommy to allow her to be more involved but to no avail. If she couldn’t be more to the family business than somebody who handles it’s books, when it could be seen that she had so much more potential, then she didn’t want to be involved at all. She had made her decision that she would not stand by and be dismissed and so she would wait for Tommy to return to his office and she would tell him she wanted out. Family or no family, her ambitions were being stifled and she would not stand for it any longer.

'Excuse me', she says with a flash of a scowl, pushing at the shoulder of the offending would be suitor to allow her to get up. She manoeuvres the silk crepe of her yellow dress, it's horizontal pointed waistline spiking down like daggers. She couldn't wait to get home and take of the dress. It still smells of smoke from the burning bookie bonfires started by her brother's gang. She wanted to remove every last stitch of Epsom still clinging to her.

Just as she gets to her feet and moves forward, she is  hauled back. She glances down to find his fat fingers gripping at her upper arm, fingertips pushing into the flesh.

'Now come on sweetheart, I haven't finished talking to you yet'.

Momentarily, she's startled by the misogynistic manner of his speaking, The moment quickly passes though.

'Ooff!'

The air rushes from his lungs, his stomach moving to a more unnatural position , Arabella uncurls her fist from his diaphragm. His face is turning more scarlet by the second as he desperately tries to suck down more air to get his breath back. Leaning into his ear, she makes her tone curt.

'Call me sweetheart and touch me again  and  it'll be more than the air I'll take from your chest. Now, fuck off'.

Whipping her red felt hat from the viscid table, she heads for the exit without a sideways glance back. Tommy would see her tonight, alright.

                          ___________________________________

MASTERLIST HERE

TAGLIST: Let me know if you want to be added!

@lokigirlszendaya​​

[jonnnysuh]

How To Write Good // Vernon

A/N: It all started with watching Vernon’s English tutor series and now we’re here omg. This is my first series so please give it some love <3 kind of unedited so lmk if there’s any mistakes! PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

PAIRING: Vernon x You

GENRE: enemies to ???, fluff, student!vernon, tutor!vernon

WARNINGS: swearing

WORD COUNT: 2.7K

SUMMARY: There’s the crisp air of campus, the rush of something new, and a four year degree ahead of you. Your college experience doesn’t go off as smoothly as you’d hoped when you fall asleep on course selection day and are stuck with left over electives. Struggling to get through your creative writing class, you have no idea how you’re going to get through this semester. Fate steps in when the stranger you fought in the library might just be your only chance at passing. This is all just part of the college experience… right?

Orange leaves began surrounding the burnt red brick pathway, and the small green hills of the campus quad.  Fall was fast approaching, without much warning.  The bright summer sky, now often clouds of gray. The wind brushed past you, causing your hair to fly up. Your legs brushed together quickly as you tried to make your way through campus to get to your Writing in the Arts class. You swore to yourself that you wouldn't sleep through course selection but sometimes sleep was an actual priority to you...and it so happened to be on that day.  Not your first choice, but definitely miles ahead of  Economic History on the list of leftover electives.

You flipped over your wrist to take a look at the time on your brown pleather watch. 8:12.

Professor Hampton was an older woman, who always kept her sandy brown hair in a slick tight low bun. She had enforced a rule that the doors to the lecture hall would shut 15 minutes past the hour. If you didn’t make it then you’d have to get notes from a classmate. Maybe it’d be fine if you had a friend in the class that was actually punctual, but you had often sat alone in the same spot in the far left corner of the class room.  Time was definitely never on your side as you reckoned you only had 3 minutes left until your trip downtown was rendered useless. 

You swung the thick metal door open, and began pumping your legs forward, not stopping until you reached the top of the stairs. To your luck, the lecture hall was on the exact end of the hallway. As you took longer strides, your gray backpack bounced behind you. Finally arriving at the end of the long hallway, you came face to face with Professor Hampton, who had a scowl so thick you’d think it was drawn on with a felt tip permanent marker. Without an ounce of forgiveness, that old lady secured the door shut, eyes keen on your betrayed face just a few centimetres from hers.

With the little pride you still had, you contained the urge  to bang on the door repeatedly and say "OPEN UP."

If you hadn't had time to get ready that day, or missed your bus, dammit this would've been the boiling point that would've driven you to  kick the wall. Your saving grace was that there was a cute guy typing away on his laptop in this hallway and you'd be damned if you were about to look a fool.

It was that moment, you knew that if you were going to pass this class without sacrificing a wink of sleep, you were going to have to make a friend that was good at writing notes. And quick.

—

The next day, you navigated your way through the twists and turns of the library, never having had been there a day in your life. You swear you’d gone in a circle at this point. You promised your best friend, Taylor that you’d secure a spot for your impromptu study date. Although you both had good intentions, you knew it was more than likely going to become a gossip session that involved sometimes looking at class material.

Among the rows and rows of occupied tables, you finally found an empty table, situated next to the window that overlooked the architecture and art buildings. You settled in the chair, slipping your laptop out of your tote bag , and typing mindlessly to look busy while you waited for your friend. With a look around the room, you wondered if people actually studied at the library or if they were just faking it like you.

You were so immersed in your game of Tetris you almost didn’t hear the voice that said , “Hey, I think you’re at the wrong table.”

You paused your game and surveyed the empty wooden table you were sitting at.  You blinked slowly at the brown haired man.  “I was here first.”

“That might be true but I booked it out for the hour.” The stranger stood with a slight slouch, sporting a backwards snapback and a deep green hoodie. He didn't look like the type to hang out around the library- but then again, neither did you. You swear you had seen him before, but you couldn't place where.

Did I go to high school with him?  you thought.

What if he was ugly and had a glow up and that’s why I don’t recognize him?

You took a closer look at him.

Nah. I don’t think he’s ever been ugly in his life.

“Look. My name's right here." He leaned forward, showing you his screen.

[TABLE 9] 3:00pm - Vernon C.

You pushed the phone away, unimpressed. "But you showed up late."

"It was only 6 minutes." Vernon scoffed, as if his tardiness would automatically forfeit him from his table.

"Well, have you ever heard of finder's keepers?"

Vernon nodded, his voice pointed. "But have you ever heard of fair and square?"

You tried your best to conceal the fact that you were somewhat amused by his elementary-level comeback.

"Could you look into your great, big heart to share?” You pouted tauntingly.

"Oh, yeah, because you need a table to play Tetris." He responded sarcastically but it was as if he had crept into your mind. You dreaded the idea of being on your feet trying to find another place for your game.

Your best friend rolled in between you two innocently, confused at the interaction at hand. It was like a kid walking in on their mom and dad fighting for the first time… except dad is a Tetris-hating stranger you just met 3 minutes ago.

“Sorry I’m late, Y/N.”  Taylor interjected, trying her best to mend the atmosphere with a grin.  Vernon's posture went notably straight as he exhaled, returning a sweet close-lipped smile. You couldn't help but notice the way he looked at your friend- you squinted at the shadow of the difference between this Vernon and the one that basically told you to fuck off only moments prior.

Without a doubt, you knew he was suffering from the "Taylor Effect".

Taylor was your textbook girl next door; equipped with a warm demeanour, and a confidence that was endearing rather than cocky.  You could tell that Vernon was trying his best not to stare so obviously, but he was failing miserably.

Because everyone gravitated towards her, many found it odd that she chose to keep you as company. Sometimes you thought she stuck around only because your personalities were so starkly different and would emphasize how great she was, but time and time again she proved she was notable on her own accord.

"Did I interrupt something?"

You and the man shared a look.

Vernon had a feeling that if he let you speak first, that you might ruin his chances with Taylor, and there was absolutely NO shot that he was going to tell her what had just happened. You were quick to take advantage of the situation.

“Vernon just wanted to take the tab-“

He shook his head, "No, no, no I was just leaving."

You raised your eyebrow, smugly.

“I'll see you later,” He bid.  Your eyes widened as he went closer to you, clasping his hand around yours and pulling you forwards into an almost embrace. He dapped you up. Vernon dapped you up. What? Did he think you were bros now?

Ya, right. You thought. This is my first and last time in this library. You will never see me or my Tetris again.

And with that, he swung his backpack over his shoulder  coolly and headed down the long carpeted aisle in the other direction.

Only a few moments later did he return to go through the north exit. “Wrong way.” He mumbled, charting past both of you.

—

“So you don’t know anyone in that class?” Taylor said in disbelief as you two sat at the table you had only marginally won.

“No, I missed the first two weeks so by the time I actually went to class  they already had their groups.”  you responded, blowing air out of your mouth in frustration.

School had only just begun and Taylor had swept up a bunch of friends, including you, in just this one semester.

You, on the other hand, were awkward, but not in the forgivable way. You never knew the right thing to say, and your sarcasm drew a fine line between a joke and the truth. You felt like you always had to bite your tongue to hold a decent conversation with someone. In turn, this scared a lot of people away, and resulted in a small but good group of friends that understood you.

For some reason though, you did well with confrontation. That was the only time you could force yourself to not care about what someone else thought about you. Other than that, your communication skills were almost useless.

“So go up to those kids and say hi.” Taylor responded.

You knew your best friend was being well meaning, but sometimes she felt like she oversimplified your problems because she saw it through her own lens. Of course it would be easy for Taylor to do so, but for you it would be a different story. Your stomach turned at even the mere thought of introducing yourself to the group of strangers that always sat all the way in the front of the lecture hall.

“I’ll just figure it out. I don't know how to just talk to people."

“What about that guy that I just saw you with? What was that about?”

You cleared your throat, fixing your attention to your laptop screen. Getting work done suddenly seemed more interesting.

“No, no, no look at me.” Taylor dragged your laptop away.

You begrudgingly looked at your friend. “What about him?”

“Who was that? He was kind of cute.” She cupped her cheek with her hand and sat closer, clearly interested. It was rare to see you with anyone other than your usual friend group so Taylor was invested in your endeavours outside of it.

You knew that if you told Taylor about your weird argument with a stranger, that she’d explain that you were unfriendly, that you needed to be nicer, etc. etc. You didn’t need a lecture today.

“Just some dude who finished using the table.”

Taylor chuckled, “What kind of guy says bye like that to a person he just met?”

Her guess was as good as yours.

—

ONE WEEK LATER

Determination is setting 25 morning alarms, pre-picking your clothes and opting for an on-the-go breakfast in order to just make it on time for class. You took your final strides towards the class slowly, knowing you finally had time on your side. Would it be crazy to call waking up at 6am a victory? Doesn’t matter, you were just so happy, you could answer Professor Hampton’s questions… that is, if you listened.

At the bottom of the lecture hall, sat the aforementioned groups, while the top were lonesome stragglers looking at their phones in an effort to look less lonely. You knew they were probably just reviewing their settings; turning their wifi on and off.

Professor Hampton cleared her throat into the microphone at the front of the class, prompting you to pick up the pace to your regular spot at the far left corner.

No way.

Your speed slowed down again, as you craned your head to get a better look at a brown-haired boy sitting by himself.

Despite the numerous empty seats to choose from, your caffeine rush assisted you in making the possibly dumb decision of sitting exactly right next to him. He seemed unbothered, though as he didn’t look up to question it.

Professor Hampton played her slides, while you pulled out your laptop out of your tote bag.

“Hey.” You whispered.

The man’s light brown eyes flickered towards you.

“You’re in this class?” Vernon whisper-exclaimed.

It registered in your brain that this might’ve been a mistake.

You nodded.

Vernon kept his focus on the front of the class, his pencil swivelled  away on his lined paper. You had never seen anyone actually take real-life notes before. You scanned his paper, pleasantly surprised at the organization.

“Why did you dap me up last week?”

“I honestly don’t know what I was doing.” He admitted.

Boys do dumb things around pretty girls. You'd seen it happen so many times with Taylor.

“She’s cute isn’t she?”

“Who?” Vernon was quick to play dumb, but he clearly knew. 

You were fascinated by how he was writing and listening to you at the same time.

“Taylor—my friend.”

Vernon squinted his eyes, either to think or because he couldn’t see the projection clearly. It made you wonder why he sat in the back of the class if that was the case.

“Yeah, she is.”

Bingo.

You silently relished in your impromptu decision to sit next to a stranger.

“What would you say if I got you a date with her?”

Vernon put his pencil down. “You strike me as the kind of person who wouldn’t do that out of the kindness of your heart.”

You snorted. “You’re right.”

Vernon let out a deep sigh, pushing his hoodie sleeve up his arms. He relaxed back in his seat and stared at you as he waited for your proposal.

“What is it?” His deep voice was littered with impatience but it was clear he was at least curious.

You weren’t  prepared to gain his full attention. Your mind went several ways as you collected your thoughts to be as concise as possible.

“I’m struggling in this class, okay? I can’t always make it on time, and creative writing? Not really something I’m interested in.”

“Then why’d you take the class?”

“Why does anyone do anything here? For the credit.” You responded as if the answer was obvious.

Vernon’s raised eyebrows was enough to tell you that he was actually passionate about this subject— which was perfect for you if you wanted to pass the class.

“How do I come into this, though?” His patience running thin from your incredibly interesting backstory.

“If you tutor me up until midterms and I pass, I’ll get you a date with Taylor.”

He shook his head “What if you fail?”

“Then you can take that as a reflection of your teaching skills,” Vernon rolled his eyes. Okay maybe that was a bad joke. “but on the plus side you’ve gained a new friendddddd.”

Professor Hampton gave you two a dirty look on her way back from shutting the lecture hall’s door. Vernon picked up his pencil to look busy and you tapped on your trackpad to turn the screen on.

“And what if I say no?” Vernon said between his teeth, catching the professor glare right at him with her scowl turned up to one hundred.

“Then I’ll shit talk about you to Taylor so you never have a chance.” You threatened. Your mom always urged you to use your brain, and boy, were you using it.

“You want me to teach you how to be creative?”

You shrugged. “I mean, how hard can it be?”

Vernon looked down at his notes contemplating his choices. He was silent for so long that you actually started typing notes.

“Y/N” Vernon whispered. You seemed to be fully immersed in the lesson now. Your eyes absorbing the information... Maybe writing was kind of fascinating.

“Y/N” He tried again, snapping you out of a trance.

“My bad.” you apologized. “I didn’t know the interesting part of the story was called the climax like ew—”

“I can only tutor you on Thursdays between 6 and 8 in the library. Bring your laptop and be prepared to learn.”

You knew you didn’t have class at those hours, so it should’ve been fine, but you also dreaded staying after school longer than you had to.

“What about 4-6?” You pleaded.

Vernon looked offended at your counter offer. “No. 6-8”

“4:30…?” You tried once again.

Vernon snorted at your no-quit attitude. “You wanna pass or not?”

You stuck out your hand defeatedly and Vernon shook on it before either of you could change your mind. Vernon was your new tutor.

Maybe Taylor was right. All you had to do was go up to someone and say “hi.”

And blackmail them. And use your friend as bait.

Making friends was easy.

[impalementation]

spike, angel, buffy & romanticism: part 4

part 1: “When you kiss me I want to die”: Angel and the high school seasons

part 2: “Love isn’t brains, children”: Enter Spike as the id

part 3: “Something effulgent”: Season five and the construction of Spike the romantic

* 

“But I can’t fool myself. Or Spike, for some reason.”: Buffy and Spike as a blended self

Before I get into seasons six and seven, it’s worth asking: why would the show do all of this? Why would it spend all of this time developing a supporting villain and joke id character? Why would it give him a romantic arc? I see people say that the writers only gave Spike these storylines because he was popular or they wanted to keep him around, but even that being the case, there was no need to give him the specific arc that they did. It’s more than possible to read meaning into the story that they chose from the array of possible options. 

Here is the thing about the id. It’s not actually something separate from you. It’s not a ravenous monster you can blame your weaknesses on while remaining pure and dignified. The id is part of you. The immediate and enduring appeal of Spike is, I suspect, strongly influenced by the fact that the things the id wants are so very human and sympathetic. His foibles and mistakes are often painfully familiar, even exaggerated through vampirism as they are. In fact, it’s precisely because Spike is allowed to show a full range of reactions to love, because the writing is under less pressure for him to do the “right” or dignified thing, that he can at times be compelling in ways other characters can’t. If Spike just did nasty things, his appeal wouldn’t be much more complicated than the appeal of Angelus, who people tend to like as a villain or storyline rather than as a relatable character. But Spike doesn’t want to dismember nuns or construct elaborate murder tableaux. He wants familiar things like love, identity and meaning, even if the ways he goes about getting them can reflect people’s worst impulses. 

Which brings us to Buffy, and Buffy’s story about growing up. Buffy is Buffy’s show, which means that every writing choice tends to revolve around her arc in one way or another. And this goes for Spike’s storyline even more than most. In the final three seasons of the show, the writing finally engages with how inextricable the id--and all of its impulsive, inarticulate romantic desires--really is from a person’s self. So instead of keeping Spike at a comfortable distance, both Buffy and the writing begin to take him seriously. They begin to invite him in.

Starting in season five, it’s telling how frequently Buffy herself projects on Spike, rather than just the writing setting them up as mirrors. She tells him that he’s the “only one strong enough” to protect her family, and later assigns Dawn specifically to his protection. In “Spiral” she describes him as “the only one besides me that has any chance of protecting Dawn.” This is a very intimate role that she otherwise only assigns to herself (and which is not really based on pure practicality, considering that she’ll later describe Willow as her “big gun”--yet never gives Willow the task of protecting Dawn). She tells him that he cannot love, which is the thing she fears most about herself. Her protests that Spike is a vampire, and thus cannot express or want human things like love, mirror her lamentations that as the Slayer, she cannot have a normal life.

From the Gilliland Gothic double essay:

More than any of her other lovers, Buffy and Spike overlap one another so often that at times their character arcs become nearly indistinguishable. With Angel, Buffy traveled a parallel path in attempting to master self-control. With Riley, her journey ultimately took her in the opposite direction. With Spike, Buffy’s journey is most closely shadowed, in that her interactions with him in many ways can be seen as metaphors for her feelings about herself.

So now Spike is multiple things. On the one hand, he’s the soulless id he’s been since season two. His vampiric behavior represents a morally uninhibited way of reacting to romantic frustrations, among other things. But on the other hand, his vampirism now also marks him as like Buffy, not merely her opposite.* Nor is he only her mirror in the realm of romantic love. The part of him that is a vampire is the part of him that is supernatural (ie, Romantically larger-than-life), that sets him apart from regular people, and dictates how he can and cannot behave. Just like Buffy’s slayerness. His vampirism is what makes him capable of protecting Dawn, while also making him (supposedly, according to Buffy) incapable of human feeling--again, just like Buffy’s slayerness. Instead of Buffy’s Slayer side being aligned with Angelus, who was an unmitigated evil, it becomes aligned with Spike, who is something more complicated. 

*(Though it must be noted that this was a process that began in season four, with the show aligning Spike with the Scoobies by making him a victim of the Initiative. Spike being supernatural suddenly marks him as non-normative, just like the Scoobies, in contrast to the institutional conformity that the Initiative represents. The evolution towards treating the Romantic supernatural as something positive and associated with identity plays a key role in transitioning the show to the more complicated attitudes of the last three seasons.)

This shift in the show’s attitudes towards the id affects how Spike is used. In “Blood Ties” for example, Spike assists Dawn in breaking into the Magic Shop and in “Forever” he helps Dawn resurrect her and Buffy’s mother. In both cases, Spike could be read as embodying impulsive behavior that Buffy is supposed to be better than. Yet both cases specifically involve Spike helping Dawn, who is repeatedly portrayed as Buffy’s human side. As Buffy says in “The Gift”: “[Dawn]’s more than [my sister]. She’s me. The monks made her out of me. [...] Dawn is a part of me. The only part that I--”. In other words, Buffy’s id becomes closely tied to her humanity, even going so far as to become its safeguard. “Blood Ties” ends with Buffy affirming her connection to Dawn, which Spike’s rule-breaking directly enabled, and “Forever” ends with Buffy acknowledging how desperately she wants her mother back too, and becoming closer to Dawn as a result. (Compare to “Lovers Walk”, where Buffy acknowledging her id results in her breaking away from Angel, not drawing closer to anyone). Or in “Intervention”, Spike building the Buffybot directly parallels Buffy’s own anxieties about what she thinks she should be. She thinks she’s losing her ability to love, and that effusive fakery is her only recourse (as she said in “I Was Made to Love You”: “Maybe I could change. [...] I could spend less time slaying, I could laugh at his jokes. I mean men like that right? The joke laughing at?”), a fear that even has some merit, given that her friends cannot tell her and the bot apart. Instead of Buffy and Spike having separate arcs in the episode, Spike learning the difference between real and fake dovetails with Buffy’s own relationship to her realness and fakeness. It turns out that neither of them want a bot version of Buffy. They want real emotion, things like sacrifice and heartfelt gratitude. If even Buffy’s id would let itself be killed for Dawn, then maybe she has nothing to fear from herself. Maybe there is some beauty in the emotional part of her nature that she thinks she must repress.

In other words, part of the writing (and Buffy) fully engaging with romanticism and the id, means engaging with the ways they can be bad and good. There’s this weird thing that happens with Spike as soon as he falls in love with Buffy, where suddenly his actions are more uncomfortable, and to many, off-putting, because their object is Buffy (instead of another vampire like Harmony or Drusilla, who either enjoy the same vampiric things he does, or the audience might be inclined to see as a moral nonentity regardless). His comic id quality becomes somewhat darker and more serious, almost like the way Angel’s early season two darkness becomes more serious after he loses his soul. But at the same time, Spike’s actions are also more intriguing, sympathetic, and even noble...because their object is Buffy. It makes no sense that a soulless vampire should not only fall in love with the Slayer, but genuinely attempt to transform himself into someone worthy of her love. And yet that’s exactly what Buffy inspires him to do. By loving Buffy Spike’s dual nature, and the dual nature of his romanticism, is thrown into relief: it’s something that can be selfish and creepy, yes, but also something that hints at the idea that real romanticism does exist. Something worth feeling romantically about does exist. Thus the writing can at once criticize, say, the way the chivalric mindset conflates love and suffering, while also suggesting that there are kinds of love it’s worth being transformed by. (Meanwhile, Spike’s fumbling bewilderment over how to love Buffy, and what the rules of loving people correctly even are, creates a human middle ground between monstrousness and heroism). By leaning into the way that Buffy and Spike have been used as mirrors for three seasons, and introducing the mythology-bending idea of Spike being in love with Buffy, the writing is able to fully engage with this complicated, contradictory nature of love and romance.

All of which is to say. Spike becomes a potential love interest, and is given a convoluted inner conflict between monstrousness, humanity and heroism, in precisely the season in which Buffy begins to reckon with her own inner conflict between her darker impulses, her human reality, and her supernatural role. It’s no coincidence that season five opens with Dracula, an icon of romantic vampire mythology, tempting Buffy with darkness and promising her insight into her nature. Or that a vampire kidnaps Dawn--again, her human half--in the next episode. Or that the season’s antagonist is a super-strong blonde woman who wants to destroy Dawn instead of protect her. Or that she says goodbye to Riley, the boyfriend who embodied her hopes for a more normative way of being (notice how Riley is progressively destabilized by everything non-normative about Buffy’s life, and provokes those anxieties Buffy expresses in “I Was Made to Love You”). Over and over in season five, Buffy fears that her Slayer half is cold, destructive, and otherwise dangerous. That these Romantic things like gods and vampires have it in for Buffy’s vulnerable humanity. Yet Buffy’s vampire id simultaneously gives lie to these fears by proving itself capable of heroism and genuine human feeling.

In other words, Spike becomes a potential love interest in a season that treats the Romantic--ie the grand and mythical--as something more than just an attractive lie to be disabused of. Rather, the question that season five seems to posit to me, and which will not be fully answered until the end of season seven, is this: once you do clear away the attractive lies, once you accept the hard realities, once you’ve seen the darkest underbellies, what are the things that are left that are truly grand and beautiful? What are the stories that are really worth telling, and the heroes that are really worth having?

And the show asks and answers these questions on both a very personal level, and a more meta, systemic level. On the personal level, Buffy and Spike are forced to confront their illusions not just about the world, but about themselves. They are made to ask themselves what constitutes a heroic role or a demonic weakness, versus basic, unromantic humanity. And on the meta level, the show asks questions about our expectations for how both love stories and chosen hero stories are supposed to go.

part 5: “Everything used to be so clear”: Season six and the agony of the real

[screamingatanemptyroom]

Please Fix the Story pt 23 - Sci Fi

Here is the next part! There is at least one more part in this world. Getting really close to the end!

Masterpost Linked Here

Enjoy!

_______________________

Life moved on, and despite the growing anxiety I had after my encounter with Chris, things moved smoothly. Chris had disappeared after that night, leaving his resignation from the academy laying on his desk. Liam was busy with wedding plans, occasionally checking in to make sure I was happy with his choices.

He was honestly much more thoughtful about it than I would have been, and I was happy to have his help. My father arranged his leave and was on his way. We also heard from Liam’s parents that they were going to arrive soon as well.

When Liam received the news, he became perfectly still for a few moments. I watched him, concerned at the obvious change.

“Liam, are you okay?”

“I – I don’t know.” His eyes were unfocused, as if staring off into space. “Why… are they coming?”

“Because they’re your parents? I doubt they would miss the wedding of a royal family member, no matter how bad your relationship is.”

“Parents… it’s… all wrong.” Liam seemed to be struggling against some invisible bind. His dark blue eyes flickered, and seemed to almost glow in the shadow of the resting area we sat it.

WARNING. World destabilization detected. Attempting forced conformity… Failure… host and partner soul strength too high.

Unable to see the bright blue words hanging in the air, Liam continued speaking.

“This… isn’t right. I don’t have family." His face was becoming more certain. “It’s not my fate. All I have is…” He glanced at me, his eyes filled with pain. “Bel..?”

WARNING! Stabilize world story immediately or face destruction and mission failure.

I reached out quickly, holding Liam’s hands in my own. “Liam, take a deep breath. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” He answered without hesitation.

“I know it seems wrong, but for now I need you to go with the idea of having parents and family.”

“But…?”

“Trust me. “

“Okay.” He leaned back, sighing. The glowing dark blue of his eyes faded, and he closed them for a brief moment, before seemingly returning back to normal. “I trust you.”

We don’t belong here.

The uncertainty in this world grew each day. Liam, whoever Chris had become… me… we weren’t from this world. But if we deviated to much, the world could destabilize, and I could fail the mission.

I just needed to keep my head down, blend in and complete the mission.

Try not to rebel too much against the role I’d been given in this world, except the ending.

Simple, right?

_______________________

…

“We’ve talked the last few hours about our lists, now it’s your turn! What do you miss most about Chris, Alaira?”

Maybe world destabilization, mission failure and soul destruction aren’t that bad after all.

I stared at the group of young women in front me, wondering for the hundredth time in the past hour how I had been roped into this... harem support group?

Allie, Ilene and Wen stared back at me, waiting for me to answer.

“I… miss kicking his butt in mock Mech battles?” I winced as I spoke, realizing they would probably take offense at that, but to my surprise they all smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, you were a very important rival to Chris.” Ilene patted me on the back.

Allie spoke up, “He was always talking about how he wanted to beat you and have you accept him as a fellow Guardian. “

“Yeah… he… I…” Wen started to chime in, but then her face crumpled as she sobbed into her hands. “What are we supposed to do now that he’s gone?! What am I supposed to do without him?! What if he never comes back?!”

“I miss him!”

“Me too!”

Soon all three girls were crying, leaving me in uncomfortable silence in the corner.

Blend in, don’t make waves, don’t try to change things….

���I can’t live without him!” Ilene’s dramatic cry broke something within me.

SCREW THIS!

“OKAY GUYS, SHUT UP!” I stood up, placing my hands on my hips as I stared at them. “You are a group of highly intelligent, talented women in the most competitive military academy in the known universe! And you’re nothing without some guy?”

“He’s not just some….” Wen started to interrupt, but was shushed by me.

“No. No matter how much you care for him. He is a guy, and you are all your own person. You have talents, dreams and stories beyond his existence.” I turned to petite girl beside me first. “You! Wen, you’re one of the top engineering students in the program! With your skills, it would be a cinch to improve upon the current Mech design!” After all, she had ramped up Chris’s Mech in the story, surely she could do the same without him!

“And you!” I pointed at Allie. “You’re a Guardian! You're a level B one at that! That's an even higher level than Chris!”

“But I don’t have his drive…”

“You can have his drive! You can have more than his drive! He spent half his time complaining about how people didn’t take him seriously or how people were trying to force him to be a Connector. You can be TEN TIMES the Guardian Chris was!”

I ignored her startled sputterings and turned towards the dark haired girl on the other side. “And you… Ilene.”

She stared at me warily. “What about me?”

“You’re a freaking Princess! And a super talented Connector! How can that become nothing if Chris isn’t around?”

“…I thought you didn’t like me?”

“I don’t.” I answered bluntly. “You treat your brother like trash, and that’s enough for me to want to kick your teeth in.” I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “That being said, just because I hate you doesn’t mean I don’t respect you as a talented Connector. You just have a crappy personality.”

“Um… Thanks?”

“Don’t mention it.” I opened my arms. “You three have top-notch talent all gathered here in one room. What do you need Chris for?! You could be a force to be reckoned with!”

Wen jumped to her feet. “You’re right! I should design a Mech, one stronger than anyone’s ever seen.!”

“Yes!” I pumped a hand in the air.

“And I’ll fly it! I’ll terrorize the Hive until they go running back to their home planet!” Allie stood up as well.

“You’ve got it!”

Ilene joined in. “If I remember, Allie, you and I have a decent resonance match. How about we partner up?”

“Let’s do it!”

The girls high-fived each other while I watched approvingly.

“Let’s destroy the hIve!

“We’ll save humanity!”

‘...And then we’ll find Chris!”

I groaned.

They were so close… but I guess this is better than nothing.

The girls plotted the formation of a new team, surprisingly accepting the team name “Harem” (my suggestion). As they filed out, chattering excitedly, I prepared to escape this mentally exhausting group.

“Alaira, wait.” Princess Ilene stopped me before I could walk out the door.

“What is it?” I kept a neutral expression. I hadn’t been joking when I said I didn’t like her.

She hesitated. “Are you really marrying my brother?”

“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

“…No… it’s just…” She rubbed her face. “He’s… different. And I feel like you should know. “

Sitting back down, I crossed my legs and prepared to listen.

“Since he met you… William is a different person. He’s kinder… gentler… even goes by a different name. He’s never gone by Liam.”

That caught my attention “What was he like before?”

“Angry. Vicious. Hurt people just to watch them suffer.” Her face was blank, as if remembering things she didn’t want to. “He was so mad at the world for not allowing him to match, he spent all his time plotting to take down talented people who could.”

A villain. Was that who he was before Liam stepped in? Like how Alaira was before I took over? Or Chris before… whoever it was… took his body?

“I’m not pretending that I’m perfect, either. You’re right, I treated my brother like garbage, instead of trying to help him. I thought he was a monster. Honestly, I thought his hanging around you was some new scheme…. I was kind of hoping he would take you out so your couldn’t bother Chris…”

“So nice of you.” My tone was sarcastic

“At least I’m honest. Anyways, this doesn’t appear to be some trick… I think he’s changed… he actually seems to care about you. But I thought you should know who he was before he met you.”

“Thanks.” My tone was slightly better than before. “Don’t worry, I know exactly who I’m marrying.”

Liam. Not your villain brother.

“Good Luck.” Ilene seemed relieved, as if a burden was off of her shoulders with the confession, and hurried out.

I stood in the room alone silently for a few moments, processing.

There’s too many questions, and no answers in sight.

I left to find Liam. I missed him.

_______________________

I arrived just in time to see Liam and Alaira’s father facing off.

“She is my precious daughter.” The tall middle aged man with close cropped hair and a scowl made scarier by the scar running from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, towered over Liam. His disapproving air was evident.

“Yes.” Liam smiled and nodded, seemingly fearless.

“No man deserves to marry her.”

“Agreed.”

“So who do you think you are?” General Gladus poked Liam’s chest with a finger.

“The luckiest man alive to be able to stand in the same room as Alaira, much less stay by her side all my life.” He held out a plate in front of the angry man. “Cookies?”

“Well, you should know I don’t approve of this fast courtship…” He picked up one of the cookies and bit into it angrily. “You both are so young…” He took another bite. “And I don’t want you to hold her back…”

“I completely agree. I will do my best to support all her goals in life.” Liam handed the general another cookie as he finished the first.

“Good…” He chewed slower. “Is this chocolate? How did you get it so soft but chewy at the same time?”

“I developed the recipe. Would you like more?”

He picked up another one. “Just know this doesn’t mean I fully approve of you.”

“Of course not… Would you like some cake…”

“….”

“I also have homemade hot chocolate.”

“… As long as she likes you, I guess.” He finally muttered, his hands full of baked treats and dessert drinks.

Liam overwhelmed him with support spouse abilities. I laughed in the doorway, attracting the attention of both men.

“Anything for me?”

Liam nodded with a bright smile. “I saved you a plate.”

General Gladus cleared his throat as he saw the large platter filled with cookies.

“Don’t worry, Sir, I saved an extra plate for you.”

“… Don’t think you can bribe me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So I can have your plate, then?”

“The hardened general clutched the plate of cookies to his chest. “Don’t you dare! The boy made them for me out of respect for his future father-in-law!”

“…” Liam and I smiled at each other.

“How is the front line… Dad?” The title felt a little rough as I spoke it. I was still acutely aware that he was Alaira’s father, not mine.

“Stable, for now.” He frowned. “Fortunately we have an elaborate defense system, to give plenty of warning. But they’ve been retreating more and more lately. The higher ups seem to think that they might be admitting defeat, but I just don’t think so. I think they’re preparing for something… big.”

He’s right.

I knew the ending of the original story. Around the time Alaira was supposed to graduate, they had attacked in the largest numbers ever seen, necessitating all senior students being recruited to help fight. Even Alaira, who was without a Connector and would have normally been left behind was brought in. They couldn’t afford to leave any powerful guardian out.

I still have a little more time, though. I can train with Liam, maybe get Wen to help upgrade our Mechs, train up some of the students… We can have a chance to really face off against the attack.

There’s still time…

“Don’t let down your guard. You’re the best general we’ve got.” I patted Alaira’s father on the shoulder.

He crushed me in a big hug. “Don’t worry, your dad will protect the galaxy! You just get married in peace.” He leaned in and whispered. “See if he can make a few more of those chocolate cookies, okay?”

“I will, Dad.” It came much more naturally this time.

I’ll protect you too. I added silently.

_______________________

As the wedding drew closer, we were notified that the king and queen were on their way. Liam ignored the news, continuing to work on seating charts and music for the ceremony.

“We have to welcome them when they arrive. They are due any minute.” I finally spoke up, slightly exasperated with his head-in-the-sand act.

“…If we have to.” His voice was cold, his dark blue eyes flickering between fear and annoyance.

I held his hand. “Don’t worry. No matter who they think you are, or what they say about you, just know that you’re my future husband. Don’t worry about anything else.”

He reached out, pulling me tightly against him. “ Thank you.”

“Just play along with them. I held his face between my hands. “You’re Liam. Not Prince William. Not their son. Not Ilene’s brother. Liam.”

WARNING. DIRECTLY CONTRADICTING STORYLINES IS FORBIDDEN.

Liam tilted his head and studied me with a worried expression. “… Are you okay?”

“Just follow my lead. Please.” I looked away from the bright blue words in annoyance and moved.

We went to meet the Royal Family, each of us nervous for different reasons.

The King and Queen looked slightly like Liam and Ilene. The king had curly dark hair, severe features, made worse by the frown as he studied Liam. The Queen had the dark blue eyes that both siblings had, and a beautiful, delicate face… but the overall sense was ruined by the terrified light in her eyes as she almost hid behind her husband.

“So this is the girl you tricked into marrying you?” The king looked at me with morbid curiosity.

Liam took a deep breath. “This is Alaira, Grade S Guardian, my resonance partner and my future wife…”

“What game are you playing, William?” His father snapped, interrupting him. “If this is some ploy to ruin General Gladus, you should stop now.”

“This isn’t…”

“You should stop this now.” The Queen squeaked out nervously at me from behind the King. “He might be my son, but you can’t trust him…”

“…”

“This wedding is a farce.” The king snapped finally. “He’s a monster.”

_______________________

“Why did you follow me?” the mournful voice called out as I entered the dark room.

“Do you want me to leave?” I looked up at the large dark blue eyes curiously, barely able to make out the large form in the darkness.

“I didn’t want you to see… didn’t want you to know…”

“Know what?”

“That I’m a monster.” The whisper was filled with so much pain it made me cry.

_______________________

BAM!

Before I fully came out of the memory, I had punched the King.

“…”

There was a moment of stunned silence from everyone present.

“You dare…!” The King finally spoke up, rubbing his red cheek with a furious expression. “I can have you executed!”

“Just try, Barry.” General Gladus walked in, his hand holding a drawn weapon. “I’ll shoot you in your precious Royal Ass, and then what are you going to lounge on while I fight your wars for you?”

"..."

"..."

"..."

The room processed his words in silence for a moment, before the king burst out angrily.

“Gladus, are you threatening me?!!”

“Oh shut up Barry. " He waved dismissively with his gun. "It wouldn’t even be the first time I’ve shot you. Probably won't be the last." You won’t arrest me, you need me to protect your country.”

“You are willing to let your precious daughter marry this… this… “ The king trailed off, glaring at Liam, who stared calmly back.

“Yes.” General Gladus shrugged “I heard the rumors. Even with the 100% match I wasn’t about to let him hurt my daughter.”

“Then why…?”

“I’ve sat down with your son, Barry. I shook his hand, looked him in the eye. I asked him the hard questions. I’ve observed him around Alaira.” The General stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I know a good man when I see one. And I see one. One who loves my daughter. Maybe you should try looking closer.”

“But he…”

“Plus he makes delicious cookies.” He muttered.

“…He what?”

I stepped forward, blocking Liam behind me. “He’s not a monster. He’s my future husband. I honestly do not care about your opinion. But if you want to try to hurt him, just know… you won’t have to wait for my father to shoot you. I’ll do it first.”

“… Control your child, Gladus.”

“She even threatens you just like me!” He reached out and placed an arm around my shoulders. “So proud.”

“…Fine. “ The King frowned “I won’t try to save you from yourself. Marry him, if you want.”

“I plan to.”

“Whatever you’re plotting, William, you better stop now.” He glared. “You might have fooled them, but you won’t fool me.”

“I don’t have to fool you.” Liam’s eyes were dark. “You mean nothing to me.”

“I’m your father.”

“I have no family. I… I can never have family.” Liam turned away.

“William…” The Queen called out softly.

“I AM NOT William.”

WARNING. World Destabilization detected!

“Come on, Liam. Let’s go.” I grabbed his hand and walked away, calling over my shoulder as we left. “You’re free to attend the wedding, but stay away from us otherwise.”

“You’ll regret this!”

I laughed at his bitter words. “Enjoy the disappointment.”

Liam and I left.

_______________________

We sat in my room, and as soon as my hand left his, he curled up, holding his arms over his head.

“I don’t feel right.”

“Liam.” I reached out and touched his back, feeling him trembling beneath me.

“Who am I? I don’t think I’m William. The things they said… the things William has done… He’s not me.”

Warning!

"He's not me... he can't be... He's not..."

WARNING! World destabilization... Bright blue words and a mechanical voice appeared again.

“SHUT UP!” I yelled, drowning out the voice. I pulled his arms down, looking straight into his dark blue eyes. “You are Liam. And you’re my partner. And tomorrow you’ll be my husband. Nothing else matters..”

“But…”

“I can’t explain things right now. I don’t even know everything right now. But I know there’s a reason we’re here together. I’ve found you, and I won’t leave you.”

He held me close, both of us kneeling on the floor. He was clutching me as if I was the only thing anchoring him. I felt lost myself. I was frustrated at my lack of answers, angry at the pain Liam was experiencing, afraid for the future ahead of us.

“Alaira… no… Bel?” He whispered. “... I love you.”

I smiled at the unfamiliar but familiar name, pressing my face against his shoulder. “I love you too, Liam.”

“Marry me tomorrow.”

“Definitely.”

“Don’t leave me behind… please.”

“I won't... No matter what.”

A long silence fell between us. Finally Liam sat back, his face slightly red. “I wish we were getting married tonight. I can’t help but feel something terrible is going to happen to prevent our wedding.”

Foreshadowing.

Ignoring the ominous word that appeared in my subconscious, I smiled reassuringly. “Nothing is going to happen…”

“ALERT! CODE LEVEL RED. PLEASE REPORT TO EMERGENCY STATIONS. ALERT!”

I sighed. “I take that back.”

We headed to the Command Level in the main Academy.

_______________________

“Dad, what’s going on?” I called out as we passed the main doors.

“Alaira…” General Gladus’ face was uncharacteristically serious. “It’s not good.”

I stood beside him, looking up at the large holographic display at the center of the command room, feeling the blood drain from my face. “The Hive.”

“They’re past our defense systems.” He slammed his fist against the table. “This doesn’t make any sense! How did an army this huge get past us without starting any alarms!”

I stared at the countless red dots on the screen, feeling lost.

This isn’t right. In the story I should have had YEARS before the Hive attacked in such large numbers. Even then they were caught immediately in the defense systems and gave the military time to prepare. How could they get past us… unless…

“Chris.”

He said he was going to end everything. Is this what he meant?

Alaira’s father was confused. “That male student who disappeared? How would he have access to defense system information?”

Chris wouldn’t… but whoever was controlling Chris might have more information.

I let it go for now. “What do we do?”

“There’s too many… and they’re headed for a defenseless planet in this system.” He hung his head. “I don’t have the manpower to defend it.”

I stepped forward, giving him a grim smile. “You’re not alone, Dad. I’ll help.”

“We! We’ll help.” Liam stood beside me. “We’re a powerful combo. You can’t afford to turn us down.”

General Gladus sighed. “Even if I recruit top senior students from the academy… the numbers we have… it’s a suicide mission.”

Warning! Mission Failure Imminent!

Your mission: Prevent destruction of the human race by the alien monster race known as The Hive.

The Hive are now attacking in large numbers. Your estimated chance of success against them in battle is 0%.

“If you’re not gonna say anything helpful, then shut up.” I growled quietly.

Liam turned towards me. “Are you okay?”

If you fail your mission, you will face soul destruction.

“It’s not like I’m swimming in options.”

You have one option.

“Who are you talking to?”

“What is it?” I whispered, holding Liam’s hand and squeezing it. I have to save him.

...

ACCEPT YOUR FATE.

...

I stared at the blue words silently for a few minutes. “Liam, what if I said we have an 100% chance of dying if we went on this mission…”

“You don’t know that…”

“...and I had a fool proof way to protect you… But we would be separated forever?”

I didn’t know what my fate was. But I did know in the deepest part of my soul one thing:

Liam was not my fate.

“I don’t plan to survive this, Liam… but if I could save you…”

“I would rather die by your side.” He didn’t hesitate.

“But…”

He grabbed my other hand, holding them both tightly. “We’ll face this together.”

_______________________

“It’s hopeless.” I whispered, holding him tightly. “What if fate is stronger than us?”

“I don’t need hope, Bel.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against my neck. “If fate is going to separate us, then we’ll destroy it.”

“Together.”

“Always.”

_______________________

I looked at the hologram, at the countless numbers of enemies that awaited us, and leaned against him with a sigh.

“Together.”

He smiled in return.

“Always.”

[herinsectreflection]

I Don't Sleep on Bed of Bones: The Slayer as a Killer Across the Seasons

A pretty constant question throughout Buffy's arc - arguably the central question of the entire show, that Buffy must answer, is "what is a slayer? What does being The Vampire Slayer mean?". And a major part of that is the question of whether a slayer is just a killer. It's a question central to S5, but ripples throughout the rest of the show too, with some of the most iconic scenes in the show in converstion with each other around it. Inspired by an ask I received about this from @potterkid, I took a look at how this idea develops and resolves itself over the course of the show.

In S1, being the Slayer means accepting responsibility. It's metaphor for growing up - a metaphor that recurs throughout the show along with other ideas, but is strongest in S1. Buffy is torn between her teenage/human wants and her adult/supernatural responsibilities. She accepts her mortality and her duty (fighting the Master), and wins when she manages to integrate that with her personal desires (fighting the Master in a kickass prom dress with her friends and boyfriend). There's some stuff around the classic superhero idea that being around the hero is dangerous -e.g. in Never Kill a Boy on the First Date, but not much on the idea of a Slayer being a killer exactly.

In S2, being the Slayer means making hard choices. It means accepting that sometimes all your options are bad ones, but choosing one anyway, even at personal cost. This is introduced through Ford's story in Lie to Me, with Buffy's words to him forming one of the core thesis statements of the show ("You have a choice. You don't have a good choice, but you have a choice."), and it's climaxed beautifully in the tragic ending of Becoming. There's not much direct allusion to the idea of Buffy being a killer here, but this is a vital moment in that discussion. Ultimately, Buffy does make the decision here to kill Angel - not to slay Angelus, but to kill him. To take the life of her ensouled lover in order to save others. It's kind of the opposite of the decision that Ford makes - the best of two bad choices. It's the classic trolley problem, and Buffy's hand is on the lever by design - she has to make that choice because she's the Slayer. We will see this moment returned to again and again as this Slayer-vs-Killer theme develops.

Also, Ted is a very important episode for later. Buffy herself feels guilty specifically because she used her slayer powers on what she thinks is a regular human, and therefore killed him. Specifically, being the Slayer made her a Killer. It's also notable that this is where the idea of Buffy having a free reign to kill is first introduced - by Buffy's original shadow self in Cordelia no less.

Cordelia: I don't get it. Buffy's the Slayer. Shouldn't she have... Xander: What, a license to kill? Cordelia: Well, not for fun. But she's like this superman. Shouldn't there be different rules for her? - 2x12 Ted This isn't explored massively here but will be revisited again and again going forward.

S3 is where this theme really comes into focus. Faith enters as Buffy's shadow self and a representation of hedonism. How that manifests is as a Slayer who gives herself a license to Kill. She posits the idea that as slayers, they can and should decide who lives and dies.

Faith: Something made us different. We're warriors. We're built to kill. Buffy: To kill demons! But it does not mean that we get to pass judgment on people like we're better than everybody else! Faith: We are better! - 3x15 Consequences

Obviously, this is something that Buffy has to reckon with and fight against. But there is a glimmer of truth here, because at the end of S2, she does take the power of life and death into her own hands. She is faced with the choice between Angel and the world and decides that Angel should die. She had to, that's the position she has to be in because she is the Slayer. She has to be a Killer because she is a Slayer. So the two are intertwined.

More than this, Faith is someone who at least appears to revel in the kill. Up until now, we hadn't really seen Buffy enjoy being a slayer, but Faith does. Buffy is genuinely drawn to that, to slaying for pleasure. The equation of slaying/killing and sex for Buffy is first explicitly drawn by Faith in this season. ("Isn't it crazy how slaying always makes you hungry and horny?"). Slayers are very much like vampires in that respect, blurring the line between sex and death. In general, Faith introduces the idea that Buffy is drawn to killing - not just to protect people (the ideal of a Slayer), but for its own benefit. That's something that Buffy continues to struggle with going forward.

I have said before that Faith in S3 is an echo of Angel in S2, both in Buffy's relationship to them both and how that shifts mid-season, and in how it ends. In Graduation Day, Buffy again is given the power of life and death. This time, it's more personal - she can stop Angel dying by killing Faith. It's not such a straightforward (for want of a better word) decision as Angel .vs. the literal entire world, it's just the value of one life against the other. Another trolley problem, and it's not an easy choice, but it's still a choice. Just as she chose the lesser evil in killing Angel in S2, she kills the person filling the Angel role in S3. And this time, the choice is explicitly tied to the idea of being a Killer. Faith is set up as the person that Buffy could be in a slightly different world, and that person is a Killer, as Faith herself claims.

"What are you gonna do, B? Kill me? You become me. You're not ready for that, yet." - Faith Lehane, 3x17 Enemies

"You did it, B. You killed me." - Faith Lehane, 3x22 Graduation Day

In the act of choosing to pull the lever, Buffy has to kill. In the act of killing, she has become her dark mirror. In the act of defeating/becoming Faith, she becomes again the sole Slayer. Being a killer and a Slayer again intertwined. It's interesting here that she then makes the decision to feed herself to Angel. She unravels the trolley problem by throwing herself on the tracks. It's fascinating that between the dual trolley-problem finales of Becoming and The Gift, where in the first Buffy chooses to pull the lever, and in the latter she refuses and chooses a third option, Graduation Day exists in the middle as a stepping stone where she kind of does both.

The bulk of S4 is a little lighter on this theme, instead examining The Slayer as a role that must be juggled amongst a series of competing roles as Buffy's life as an adult becomes more fractured. There are flavours of it in Fear Itself, where Buffy fears that her friends will leave and her destiny lies with death and the dead, but otherwise not too much jumps out at me. Except, of course, for Restless, which is so heavy with this theme. It's one of the many reasons why I kind of consider Restless an honourary part of S5, as it's setting up the themes and arcs of S5 as much as it's wrapping up the like from S4.

RILEY: Hey there, killer.

BUFFY: We're not demons. ADAM: Is that a fact?

RILEY: Thought you were looking for your friends. Okay, killer...

TARA: I live in the action of death, the blood cry, the penetrating wound. I am destruction. Absolute ... alone. BUFFY: The Slayer. FIRST SLAYER: No friends! Just the kill.

OK, so SO much to unpack here. This is all within the under-10-minute sequence of Buffy's dream, and in that sequence she constantly shows a fear that she is in fact a "killer". It's clearly strong in her mind. Riley calls her "killer" multiple times, and Adam equates her with him, and with demonhood. I also find it very interesting how she responds to Tara's words, which are very literally describing the act of kiling ("the action of death...the blood cry...the penetrating wound"). She hears that and immediately identifies her as the Slayer, so slayerhood and killing are clearly bound up together in her mind.

Central to her concerns is the dichotomy between friendship and death. This was built up in Fear Itself, and it's central here. Riley and Sineya both frame it as a choice, between friendship and "the kill". This is a fear that Buffy has already, since S1, that her Slayer life will stop her ability to have a "normal" life of friends and family, but it also sets up her arc in S5 nicely. She chooses her friends over becoming a pure instrument of death in Restless, but that does not resolve her ongoing fears. They existed before and continue to dwell even more strongly in her mind, with words that both Sineya and Dracula repeat.

"You think you know ... what's to come ... what you are. You haven't even begun."

This sets the stage for S5, and her arc of choosing between family and being the Slayer. Friendship and family are presented as more of less one and the same a few episodes later in Family, and the choice Buffy is faced with in S5 is another trolley problem - the life of Dawn against the world. This time, it's more specifically tied to the Slayer/Killer dichotomy through the prophecy that Buffy is faced with ("Death is your gift"). This frames the similar choices she faced in Becoming and Graduation Day in the same light, with Buffy even specifically comparing this to the former.

BUFFY: I sacrificed Angel to save the world. I loved him so much. But I knew ... what was right. I don't have that any more. I don't understand. I don't know how to live in this world if these are the choices. If everything just gets stripped away. I don't see the point. I just wish that... I just wish my mom was here. The spirit guide told me that death is my gift. Guess that means a Slayer really is just a killer after all. - 5x22 The Gift

S5 is soaked in this Killer-vs-Slayer idea, and that's part of why I love it so much. It opens with Buffy having gained an appreciation of killing. She goes out not to patrol, but to hunt. To revel in the enjoyment of the kill, just as Faith did. There's also a constant theme of people identifying Buffy as a Killer. Importantly, it's a theme of her believing them. She knows that there is a kernel of truth there, and it develops from a subconcious worry in Restless to a more concrete fear in Intervention, where Buffy explicitly says that she is afraid that being the Slayer means losing her humanity and ability to love, and become nothing more than a "killer". Eventually, Buffy is so ground down by it that when The Gift rolls around, she simply accepts that the Slayer is "just a killer" as an inevitability.

BUFFY: Yeah, I prefer the term slayer. You know, killer just sounds so... DRACULA: Naked? - 5x01 Buffy vs Dracula

SPIKE: Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp. That look of peace. - 5x07 Fool for Love

FIRST SLAYER: Death is your gift. - 5x18 Intervention

I also like the way that Joyce is repeatedly linked to this idea. Buffy's response to Sineya points to Joyce's death as a rebuttal to the idea of death being a gift ("Death is not a gift. My mother just died. I know this."). Buffy talks about Joyce just before accepting that "a slayer is a killer" in The Gift. Spike's speech about Slayer's having a death wish comes immediately before Buffy finds out that Joyce is going into hospital. The idea of the Slayer as an instrument of death, killing every day, is juxtaposed against the mundane horror of what death is really like, as demonstrated in The Body. As the Slayer, Buffy must cause death, but this is what death looks like. It's hard and painful and mortal and stupid. Eventually Buffy reaches a point where she just can't do this anymore. She can't live in a world where she must choose to be a killer, because she understands death more now than ever.

It's here that the show explicitly connects the ideas of utilitarianism and being a killer. Buffy says that killing Dawn to save the world (and by association killing Angel to save the world, or killing Faith to save Angel), would make the Slayer "just a killer". This goes back to S3, and Faith arguing that the death of one innocent was washed out by the many people that they save, and that being Slayers gives them the right to make that calculation. Tara points to Giles in this episode, the voice of utilitarianism, and identifies him as a killer. Giles himself identifies himself as one when he kills Ben, and here draws a line between being a utilitarian/killer, and being a hero.

BEN: Need a ... a minute. She could've killed me. GILES: No she couldn't. Never. ... She's a hero, you see. She's not like us.

Some people criticise the moral absolutism of this, and could very justifiably argue that killing Ben, or even killing Dawn, would be the most moral thing in this situation. Who are we to say that Dawn's life is more valuable than the lives of a thousand other 14 year old girls, with families of their own that love them just as much as Buffy loves Dawn? But within the context of the show, I think it makes sense for them to reject utilitarianism. Buffy is a Sisyphean story. There will always be another apocalypse after this one is stopped. There will always be another impossible choice with innocent lives in the balance. Through that lens, the idea of "killing one to save a thousand" becomes meaningless, because there's a thousand apocalypses, and if you kill one to stop them all, then you've killed a thousand. That's how Buffy feels - she killed Angel, she killed Faith, now she has to kill Dawn? Where does it end? Eventually it all just gets stripped away, so what's the point? There's no winning move here. The only way to break the cycle is to change the game.

We should also keep in mind Buffy's words at the start of the episode. She fears that the Slayer is "just a killer", but she is also identified by the guy she saves in the alley in the opening scene as "just a girl". And Buffy agrees ("That's what I keep saying."). Buffy is The Vampire Slayer, which dictates that she must make these impossible choices, but she's also Buffy, which means she is a human being with the power of free will. She gets a choice - not a good choice, but a choice. As a human being, she can reject the options in front of her and find a third way. She can transform the whole game, and turn "Death is your gift" into an empowering statement. This was heavily foreshadowed of course - the Guide in Intervention outright stated that Buffy was full of love, and that "love will bring [her] to [her] gift". But it takes Buffy working through these fears and emotions and realising that she simply can't take Dawn's life. She chooses a new way. She avoids being a killer by rejecting utilitarian ethics. To paraphrase The Last Jedi, she wins by saving what she loves. Ultimately, she's not a killer, but a girl, a friend, a sister, a Slayer - a hero.

So season five is very much the climax and resolution of this theme. Very few themes ever disappear entirely from this show though, and this one continues to echo throughout the show. In S6, Buffy again fears she is slipping into darkness. That there is some kind of darkness that is innate within her. But where in S5 this was a fear that she recoiled from but at times seemed inevitable, in S6 it is something that she is drawn towards, that disgusts her but that she takes a kind of comfort in, because it's easier than facing the mundane reality of her depression.

This yearning for her own darkness takes the physical form of Spike, who she uses for what is basically sexual self-harm. Spike steps into Faith's role as Buffy's shadow self for much of the later seasons, and , and like Faith he represents killing as hedonism, and as sex. There's no vampire who so aggressively blurs the lines of sex and death/violence as Spike. Her fear that killing is part of her nature, and her fear of her own sexual desire, are very much one and the same. When she breaks down in Dead Things, she talks about the darkness within her, and of her shame over her own sexuality.

Spike also repeats Faith's utilitarian justifications from Consequences in the episode which forms the climax of Buffy's self-destruction, Dead Things. When Buffy attempts to metaphorically commit suicide by turning herself into the police, she does it while constantly identifying herself as a killed. She repeats some variation on "I killed her" four times in just two scenes. She wants to be punished for being a killer, and not protected for being the slayer. She has grappled with this several times, and is still resolute that being the slayer does not give her a license to kill, but this time she is desperate to be seen as a killer, to give justification for her own self-hatred.

The final way S6 explores this idea is with Willow. When she is after Warren, Buffy tries to stop her, not for Warren's sake but for Willow's. She knows that taking a life changes a person, and implicitly draws on the first time she chose to take a human's life, the moment she "became a killer" on that rooftop with Faith.

Buffy (re: going to kill Faith): I can't play kid games anymore. This is how she wants it. Xander: I just don't want to lose you. Buffy: I won't get hurt. Xander: That's not what I mean. - 3x21 Graduation Day

XANDER: She should be coming down at some point, shouldn't she? I mean, back there she was out of her head ... running on grief and magicks. BUFFY: Doesn't matter . Willow just killed someone. Killing people changes you. Believe me, I know. - 6x21 Two to Go Killing Warren might have been justified given what a complete piece of shit he was - just as killing Angel was justified, just as killing Faith was, just as killing Ben was. That doesn't matter, because Buffy still recognises that the act of killing leaves permanent psychological scars, which she is still bearing.

In S7, we get the final major exploration of the "does the Slayer have a right to kill" idea in Selfless. Here, Buffy seems to have reached the conclusion that Cordelia, Faith and Spike (all her shadow selves) were right, and she does, in fact, have the right to pass judgment because she's the Slayer, when she decides she has to kill Anya.

"It is always different! It's always complicated. And at some point, someone has to draw the line, and that is always going to be me. You get down on me for cutting myself off, but in the end the slayer is always cut off. There's no mystical guidebook. No all-knowing council. Human rules don't apply. There's only me. I am the law." - 7x05 Selfless

However, I don't think the show wants us to take this as gospel. Buffy is conclusively proved wrong in this episode, since killing Anya doesn't work, and it's Willow who finds a third option that saves the day. In S7, the idea of the Slayer-as-Killer is more an incidental theme, while the central exploration is the idea of "one girl in all the world". It explores the nature of that tragedy, that Buffy is by definition alone. Because of this, she necessarily must be a killer. She does have to pass judgement, because there is nobody else capable of it. She has to be the one to hunt and kill vampires. She has to face the choice to kill Angel, to kill Faith, to kill Dawn, to kill Anya.

This is where the theme ends up - as a tragic inevitability. Buffy must always make that choice. Making the selfless choice to kill her boyfriend doesn't stop it. Avoiding the choice and dying herself doesn't even stop it. That boulder just rolls down the hill again and again, and Buffy is the only one who can push it back up. The Slayer is a killer because the Slayer is alone. So the only way to break that cycle is for the Slayer to no longer be alone. There are still elements of The Slayer, and of Buffy as a person, that are linked to death and killing, but she has mostly made peace with those parts, and now can be free of having to be "the law" too.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Love, fear, peace.

My Masterlist  

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: “I wanted to request an imagine where the reader and Ivar have a 4-5 year old daughter. And while Ivar is usually very cruel, he'll do anything for his little princess. And she asks to paint his nails and have him join her for a tea party, so he does, as long as it's a secret between them but the reader ends up seeing them and her thoughts on it? I'm in a big mood to read Ivar fluff”

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: A lil bit of angst, my best attempt at fluff, just soft stuff all around, probably ooc

A/N: My friends, may I interest you in an AU where all five sons of Ragnar are alive and happy? We call it ‘denial’ where I’m from, but yeah, in this universe they’re all alive, Sigurd married off to some Saxon Princess, Ubbe in Dublin, Ivar King of Kattegat and Hvitserk with him with a family of his own goddamit, Björn fuck-knows-where avoiding commitment like he was born to do, and that’s it. Ta-da.

Ástríðr is a name derived from the Old Norse elements áss "god" and fríðr "beautiful, beloved"

Taglist: (If you wanna be added or removed lemme know!) @youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @1950schick​ @ietss​   @peachyboneless​ @encounterthepast​ @maggiescarborough​   @chibisgotovalhalla​ @receptionistfromhell​​ 

Hvitserk greets you with a kiss on your cheek, and you thank the gesture with a smile, though your eyes are scanning the main hall.

“Where’s Ivar?” You ask as he walks at your side, greeting a few people with false smiles and courteous nods.

Hvitserk only shrugs, “I thought he was with you.”

“No, we were supposed to talk with one of the earls about the effect of a high tide, but he wasn’t there.”

“And how was it?”

“Dull,” You reply sincerely, “But I have an idea of where my husband is.”

The other man betrays a smile, “Can you blame him? It is hard to say no to her.”

Oh, you know that. She has him -and you- powerless to deny her anything since she first came to this world.

Try as he might to deny it, to keep the idea of the ruthless king that loves nothing alive, to mantain the façade of how nothing makes Ivar the Boneless falter; your daughter is an adorable force to be reckoned with, capable of making even the King of Kattegat surrender.

It is no secret, for you or any soul that encounters your husband, that Ivar loves his family, his wife and daughter, like nothing else.

The world will never forget the battles he’s won and lost, the wars he started, the kingdoms he reduced to ash, the lands he conquered. The world will never forget of all he did in the name of his ambition, in the name of his fame.

But the world will never forget what he did in the name of love either. Countless deals made, countless fights, countless plans devised and even more sacrifices made so that he could grant his daughter the safeties she deserved; so that he can give her the world and, when time comes, have her step sure, knowing the very earth and the very skies are hers.

You don’t know how much time has passed when you blink past the sleep that weighs on your lids. You find yourself as you were, resting comfortably on a seat that has progressively become just a pile of pillows and furs since the start of winter.

You still feel the comfortable weight of Ivar’s head on your lap, and you can make out his voice speaking quietly. Looking down you find him talking to the small bump on your stomach, the evidence of your child growing inside of you.

At the feeling of your fingers running through his hair, Ivar looks up and offers you a smile, before scooting even closer to your stomach.

“Tell your mother to go back to sleep. You and I aren’t done talking, Princess.”

A part of you is tempted to taunt him about how the might Ivar the Boneless is so smitten by a child not even born yet, but you choose instead to bask in the softness in his expression, in the happiness that curves his mouth.

Still, after a few moments, you offer, “They could be a Prince. Ivarsson.”

Your husband hums, presses a kiss against your stomach and settles again on his back with his head on your lap.

“We will have sons, I know,” He tells you, smile faint as he closes his eyes, “But first, we will have a daughter.

He speaks with such certainty that you cannot help but huff a laugh. Still, it is a nice thought, to have a Princess to call your own, a little girl, blessed by the Gods.

“She will be just like her mother, and she will be ours to spoil and take care of.”

“You speak as if you wouldn’t spoil our sons, Ivar. Someone else might believe that lie, but not me.” You tease, eyebrows lifted.

“Mhm, but a father grows jealous of his sons, and their fame, their triumphs.”

“No daughter of mine, or of yours, will be content without her own triumphs and conquests.”

“I know,” He replies without hesitation, proud smile widening and eyes opening to gaze up at you, “Like I said, she’ll be just like her mother.”

It was never a secret, a surprise, for you to witness Ivar love your child before she was even born; to feel his joy and his anticipation and his love in the way he spoke of that daughter you’d have, and all the sons and daughters that would come after.

You learned to love him years ago, and found beneath the cruelty and venom and bloodthirst a man that loves intensely, that willingly gave his heart to you to keep safe the day he made you his wife. So his love doesn’t surprise you, his devotion to his family doesn’t make you falter.

There were still many things that made you falter, that made you see everything with new eyes, during those months while you carried Ástríðr and in the years you’ve been fortunate enough to have her.

One of them was how the sons of Aslaug, much to your surprise and despite all their other failings, had been raised to be utterly devoted to their families. Hvitserk was almost giddy at the possibility of a niece or nephew that he could keep close to him, unlike Ubbe’s children all the way in Dublin. Ubbe, always the father figure, visited more than once and kept watchful eyes not only on you and his brother, but on everything, as if from Dublin he could look over all of you like he did while growing up. To your surprise, even Sigurd, past the animosity between him and Ivar -and all the disagreements he has had with you over the years, of course- sent word from Northumbria wishing you three the protection of the Gods.

Another of those discoveries, sadly not as heartwarming, was to witness the burden your husband carried and not being able to do anything about it. The more easily-soothed fears, like what your daughter would think of him, or whether she would be born healthy, were quietened by your voice promising him over and over that any child of yours would love him like no other, or by the soft kicks of your daughter against where his palm rested on your stomach, making tears shine in Ivar’s eyes every time.

There were deeper fears, and fears that plagued you too, that you couldn’t so easily soothe. The whisper in the back of his mind that happiness is nothing, that everything you love eventually you lose, that all his cruel ways and his mistakes would one day cost him what he holds dear. The blue eyes of the man you love, so used to seeing what others cannot, so used to planning ahead and seeing the world like his enemy does, seeing a world where at any time his fame and his conquests could cost him your life or your daughter’s.

For a man as cruel and vicious as Ivar, it is easy to forget he is not something otherworldly, some demon like the Christians say, some beast like your own countrymen claim. Sometimes, in all his rage and all his chaos, it is easy to forget he is a husband, a father, a man.

And like any man with a beating heart, especially a heart so wholly owned by his wife and daughter; Ivar fears.

Ástríðr blinks big and strikingly blue eyes, and you smile widely, unable to keep yourself from bringing your daughter closer and pressing a kiss on her head, delighting yourself in the familiar and comforting smell of your baby.

“Good morning, little one.” You whisper, and she coos in response, as if she understands.

“Is she…is she alright?” Ivar asks, moving closer to you and looking at her over your shoulder.

“Of course she is,” You smile down at your daughter, your finger tapping the tip of her tiny nose. “Our beautiful girl, she’s more than alright. She’s perfect.”

“She was…coughing.”

“That’s something babies do, Ivar, she’s fine.” You reassure him, only slightly bothered by the fact that he woke you up because your daughter coughed. You adjust your grip on Ástríðr, let her nuzzle against the column of your throat and find her sleep again.

Ivar drops his head to your shoulder, sighing against your skin and laying quite a bit of his weight on you. You sit there, your daughter against you and your husband letting you hold him up as he releases a tension you didn’t realize was there, and feel a pang of something in your heart.

After a few moments, you hold back a sigh, you try biting back your worry, and whisper, “You should sleep, love.”

“Mhm,” Ivar mumbles, but it is an argument, even if he doesn’t find the words to voice it yet. “Later.”

He has taken the awful habit of not sleeping at night. Each night when you settle in bed with Ástríðr nestled close to you, and Ivar holds you both close in his embrace; he remains awake, vigilant and expectant, watching the shadows for ghosts and enemies. You’ve noticed him faltering during the day, worsening his pain by not letting himself rest like should.

And it has only been worse since Hvitserk has been gone.

You know there are few people Ivar trusts fully, even fewer he entrusts the safety of his wife and daughter to. With just being here, Hvitserk granted his brother a peace nothing else can, a certainty that there was someone’s back to lean his own against, a promise that he could lower his guard and rest assured he wasn’t alone.

It is just a matter of days before Hvitserk returns, but you refuse to let Ivar run himself ragged.

So, you use your and not holding Ástrídr to wrap around his waist, and slowly move the three of you, as well as you can manage, back to lay on the bed.

With a slightly startled breath Ivar opens his eyes, focuses almost frantically on you and Ástríðr. You sigh again, but make use of the loss of his weight against you to settle against the pillows, holding your daughter better against your chest, your hand covering her back and holding her gently.

When you’re certain she’s comfortable, you lift your free arm and run your fingers through Ivar’s hair.

“You’ll rest.” You order, your eyes on your husband’s. He wants to argue, you know he does, a war between exhaustion and stubbornness, but it seems the pull is strong enough to even make him cave.

Ivar settles on your opposite shoulder from your daughter, his hand warm and rough as it settles over yours on her back. You chase tension off his back by running your hand up and down his back, and as both he and your daughter sleep safe and warm against you, you allow yourself a whisper of gratitude to the Gods.

You never knew what the Seer had meant when he told you so many years ago that ‘he can only use one hand and chooses to hold the sword, and for that you’ll need to hold the shield’, but now, as you hold your world close against you, you dare think that you understand the Ancient One’s words.

Eventually, the fear of something stealing her in the middle of the night passes. It always returns, that irrational fear he has that he will lose it all, that frantic paranoia that if he doesn’t plan, if he doesn’t prepare, they will take you both from him.

But as Ástríðr grows healthy and lively, the fears dwindle, or maybe they just change. And for a man that scorned the very uttering of the word, Ivar finds peace.

Through the halls, you follow the familiar sound of Ivar’s war cry, though quieter, and the adorable giggles of your daughter. Walking into your rooms, you make sure to remain hidden as you watch Ivar on the floor, holding himself up on his arms, mocking a taunt towards your daughter, daring the little shieldmaiden to attack.

A part of you is glad that this is a secret, a side of your husband, of your family, that the world will never know of. The world needn’t know of how easily Ástríðr makes her mother and father cave to her every wish, the world needn’t know of how fiercely and uncondicionally she is loved; only she needs to know of it, andn you and Ivar have made sure she lives a life knowing how loved she is.

You lean your shoulder on a pillar near the door, arms crossed over your chest but still betraying a smile.

Ástríðr brandishes a wooden sword at her father, big eyes strikingly alike Ivar’s when she focuses and finds her determination.

“I will defeat you!” She exclaims, the seriousness in her expression making your chest warm.

“You’re just a shieldmaiden, you can’t defeat me!” Ivar replies without missing a beat, faking a monster’s swipe with a hand that tries grabbing at her small foot.

Your daughter jumps out of the way with a squeal, but quickly furrows her brow adorably and lifts her chin, stubborn and arrogant.

Gods, Ivar is right, she looks so much like you.

“I am Ástríðr Ivarsdottir, I’ll always win!”

“Ah, you will, won’t you?” Ivar teases, letting go of the role of whatever beast he was supposed to be, grabbing onto your daughter and falling on his back with her in his arms, lifting the girl up and making her giggle. “Mighty shieldmaiden you’ll be, my sweet.”

“I know.” She replies without hesitation, startling a laugh out of you.

Two pairs of blue eyes turn to you, and Ástríðr wastes no time in calling out for you, squirming her way out of her father’s grasp and skipping towards you.

You kneel on the ground and welcome your daughter’s enthusiastic embrace, even if it was only this morning you last saw her.

“Did you defeat him, little one?” You ask her, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Of course I did, mama.” She replies, almost offended. Of course, look whose daughter you’re asking about a victory in battle, imaginary or not.

You catch Ivar’s eyes and whatever intent you had on chastising him for leaving you to deal with the earl alone vanishes at the softness in his gaze at he looks at you both.

Not many know of Ivar the Boneless’ love. Even fewer know of his fear.

But there’s only a few lucky ones that have seen his happiness, his peace.

You two share a look, a look that speaks not only of gratefulness for one another, but of gratefulness for this perfect blend of the two of you, of your stubbornness and his drive, of his eyes and your hair.

Ivar betrays a small smile and his eyes go to the discarded wooden sword at his side.

“Oi, shieldmaiden!” He calls out, and Ástríðr turns to him without hesitation. “You never leave your weapon behind. It is the one thing, besides your mother and me, that you can trust blindly in this world.”

Ivar motions for the sword, and your daughter dutifully goes to pick it up, only to be ambushed on the way, Ivar’s eyes trapping her to his chest.

She is startled, and lets out a loud and adorable laugh as her father once again drops to the furs at his back, his smile blinding.

“You see? If you’d had your sword, no monster would have gotten you.”

Ástríðr grumbles an argument, but Ivar only snorts a laugh. His eyes lift to yours, and he lifts his hand, calling for the touch of yours, calling for you to join them.

You sigh, but still walk to them and stretch on the furs near the fire, accepting the embrace Ivar offers you when he lifts his free arm.

You nuzzle your nose against his throat, reaching with your hand and taming Ástríðr’s wild hair.

“Do you think one day I could defeat a dragon, like the warriors you tell me about?”

“Mhm, of course. You’ll be the most famous shieldmaiden who has ever lived.” He promises her, pressing a kiss against her hair, his arm tightening and trying to bring you closer even if it is impossible.

___

I struggled a lot writing this, I don’t really know why bc it was a lovely request. I tried my best :)

I hope you liked this, lovely anon! And I’m sorry it took me so long to get it done! I love you!!

[milstrim]

Comfort in My Shadow

Chapter 1: Hand in My Pocket

By @iwritedumbshit for @iron-mum

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Ned Leeds, James “Rhodey” Rhodes

Summary: Soulmates are definite in the universe. Nobody knows exactly why they exist, or what dictates who is bonded to who, the only thing known is that they are never wrong. But Peter's not so sure about that.

Living at the group home had taught Peter a lot about laying low and how to stay alive when nobody cares. But he'd always clung to the hope of the shadow at his feet reflecting his soulmate that had watched over him for years.

Typical that his soulmate is actually a superhero that Peter is convinced shouldn't want anything to do with him. Maybe, just this once, the Universe was wrong.

But Tony Stark is desperate to prove that it is right.

Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8

—-

The red glare of the setting sun set the City That Never Sleeps in a persistent glow as the last of the golden rays disappeared behind the pillars of the city, outlining every shadow. There was the silhouette of buildings, of cars racing along the road, of people stalking down the street in the usual New York bustle, and there was the shadow of Spider-Man as he swung overhead. Not that it was really his shadow.

Where there should have been a perfect replica of the boy clinging to a web as he dipped low (one that outlined his lumpy goggles and rumpled suit) there was instead the poofiness of fluffed up hair and sharp slacks. The movements of the shadow replicated the boy, like they were supposed to, but nothing else indicated that this shadow belonged to the vigilante swinging through the street.

And Peter liked it that way.

Observing the difference between people's shadow had always been a game to the boy, to watch a thin woman walk around while a curvy figure followed her, or too see a little boy being tracked by the silhouette of a tutu and puffy hair. Until very recently, the teenager had loved to stare at his Aunt and Uncle's shadows whenever he could, always fascinated by the way they reflected each other with a broad smile on his face.

Now, though, neither of them had shadows, and Peter didn't smile as often. He didn't feel like there was much reason to. It had been his fault, after all. His fault they'd never get to see flashes of each other when their shadows disappeared in the dark, his fault they'd never walk under the sun with their shadows in line with the other. It was his fault they'd bled out in an alley so dark their shadows hadn't even been there to comfort them as they left.

Spider-Man rattled an anxious, forced breath through his tight lungs as he propelled himself upwards on his webs. He instinctively looked for the taped together watch he kept on his webshooter to catch the time, though he knew he had plenty. Still, after his last time missing curfew at Queens Pinehill Group Home for Boys, he wasn't anxious to repeat the experience. And he did have to swing across the bridge to make his way back to Queens since he'd branched out to Manhattan for the night.

The cracked watch read that it was barely seven, though, so Peter still had a few hours before he had to be back. Mr. Fowler didn't care much what they did as long as they were back before ten, unless it was one of his "days," which really just meant he was as drunk as a skunk and completely willing to smack a few boys upside their head and be unreasonably dickish about the rules. But other than that, Peter was usually left to his own devices to patrol around the streets of his city and try everything in his power to make up for what had happened barely six months ago.

But it would never be enough.

Peter stopped on top of a billboard that clung to the side of a building, landing clumsily and only barely managing to slip his fingers around the poster for a new movie. His world swam--just a little bit--as he regained his bearings. He shook his head at the dizziness that had become a constant ever since moving to live at the Queens Pinehill Group Home for Boys, but it wasn't like it was their fault. All the boys were reasonably well-cared for, with regular mealtimes, a generous curfew, and easy access to schools, but they weren't really equipped to deal with Peter.

The teenager held back a sigh as his stomach grumbled painfully. He'd eaten the last of his stash of granola bars that he'd bought after a tourist he'd helped had forced a few bills on him. He didn't like taking money, but he couldn't deny that those bars had helped for the two weeks that he'd made them stretch.

Forcing down a hungry grumble of annoyance, Peter turned to survey his shadow instead, the one that had always been the same. Ever since he could remember. Even when he'd been in kindergarten, there'd been the tall and protective shadow of his soulmate behind him. Despite everything, and despite how selfish it felt, it was comforting to look down and see that familiar crop of hair. He reached a hand up to touch his head, never quite used to the way his fingers brushed up against cloth but the shadow underneath him swept through fluffed up tufts.

His soulmate's hair today was messy, not as poofed up as it usually was. Today must be a casual day for him or something, which weren't very often, but when they did occur they often lasted for days. Other days he could make out the outline of glasses and the sharp angles of clothing that made him think of a business suit, though he couldn't be sure. They were only a shadow after all. Peter wondered what his soulmate thought about his own shadow, if he'd noticed anything odd, but, then again, Peter's shadow probably just looked like he was wearing a hoodie all the time, and maybe what could pass as some pretty obnoxious glasses. He'd used to have those anyway.

Peter tilted his head, enjoying the way the hair on the sidewalk underneath him flopped with him. For some reason, Peter found it very amusing when one had hair showing and the other didn't. It just looked a little ridiculous. Recently, it had been the teenager who had been donning the hoodie over his head, but Peter assumed that his soulmate was usually wearing something too. More often than not, he'd look down to see the hair gone, covered by a sharp outline that really had him questioning his soulmate's fashion sense.

The thought brought a snicker to his lips. He nestled more comfortably atop the billboard. There hadn't been any good action in a while anyway.

"Where do you think we should go next?" he asked aloud, and he didn't know if he was asking himself or the shadow of his soulmate underneath. He didn't know why, but he'd always felt like they'd give really good advice. "There hasn't really been much going on, and I haven't seen any of those alien-weapon guys since the knock-off Avengers robbed that bank. Maybe we could try and find out whoever you are again. That'd be kind of fun."

'Kind of fun.' Yeah, right. It was the only thing Peter looked forward to anymore.

Before, he'd always been excited to graduate, to go through college and apply to Stark Industries, his Aunt and Uncle's smiles egging him on the entire way. He'd looked forward to band and robotics and, while he'd stayed, decathlon too. It wasn't as fun as it had been before, but Ned was still there. Liz too. They were nice, and it was good to see their smiles and hear their occasional pitying encouragement that usually only pissed him off (not that he'd ever let them know, they were just trying to help after all), but they weren't what Peter was looking for.

Then again, Peter wasn't 100% he knew what he was looking for either.

He was pretty sure his soulmate was something to look forward to. Ben and May had always described what it felt like to find your soulmate, to be able to stare at shadows your entire life until you found who you were looking for. You would touch their hand and your shadows would switch, and when you let go, the shadow remained to your universe approved bond again. The satisfaction of finally piecing together the flashes you got whenever both shadows disappeared into the darkness. It was something Aunt May and Uncle Ben had always enticed him about, always encouraged.

Maybe if he could find his soulmate, everything would be better. Everything would be perfect, like May and Ben had always proclaimed.

But that was childish, and Peter knew it. Soulmates didn't fix everything, and meeting his soulmate certainly wouldn't improve his situation. They were a regular person with a regular life. He was a second-rate vigilante that had been orphaned twice. Besides, nothing could really help Peter. Not that he needed help. He just needed to grow out of the system so he could make something that actually felt like life rather than the scraping by that it had become.

By the time Peter moved from his spot, it was because his shadow had dimmed with the entrance of New York darkness. He stood up, barely able to make out the faintness of his soulmate, and flicked his wrist out. He still had a little bit before he had to be back at the group home, so he reckoned he'd be fine. He'd be back in time that Mr. Fowler wouldn't give him another strike and he could still eat dinner. He'd do his homework, go to bed, and the next day would be the same horrible numbness of before.

"Any ideas on where the best crime is, Matey?" he asked his shadow, "Maybe superpowers can leech over to soulmates. That'd be really cool actually. Soulologists haven't been able to prove anything other than memory flashes. We could break that entire field of study if that were true."

His soulmate, of course, didn't answer. But the scuffle of a fight and a warped sound unlike anything the teenager had ever heard, did.

 ---

 Tony glanced around his emptying lab, a tired glint in his eyes as he did. Large portions of the tower had been emptied and organized into large crates as they anticipated the move from the tower to the compound. Most of his lab had stayed the same throughout the process, as staff weren't allowed up here, leaving it mostly up to the billionaire himself to pack up his things. Glancing around at the piles of disheveled work and unfinished projects, he might have to get some help anyway. Or, if he started packing now, he'd have plenty of time to do it by himself.

He turned back to the suit he was working on.

The horribly challenging nanoparticles as part of his newest suit were barely coming together. It was incredibly difficult, which made it the most fun thing he'd worked on in a while, which also meant he'd been working on it for two days straight. It was a good thing Pepper was working in another country at the moment and wasn't there to make him go to bed or take a break or anything worthless like that. Then again, he guessed Pepper wasn't the only one with the power to do that.

"Sir," Friday started, "You are approaching your extent of working without a break. I suggest you go to sleep."

"I'm almost done, girl," he replied at the same moment the gauntlet he was working on sparked. He hissed in pain as he withdrew his newly burnt fingers, his vision swimming slightly. He blinked furiously to clear the dark spots from his sight. "Okay, maybe a break isn't such a bad idea."

"Great choice, sir."

"Don't patronize me," he scolded, grabbing a nearby jacket to throw over his stained shirt and a pair of sunglasses despite the late hour, "I'm taking a break, not going to sleep. Keep the lab running for me, I'm gonna go grab a coffee."

"Might I suggest a calming tea instead?"

"You most certainly may not."

Tony stepped into the brightly lit elevator, staring down at his shadow as he usually did when he was alone. The sight of the usual hoodie brought a smile to his face. His soulmate must have a hoodie addiction as strong as his coffee one, though he usually preferred whenever he could see the kid's curly hair before it was eventually tamed down by what he guessed was a godly amount of hair gel.

His soulmate had turned fifteen recently, he knew. August tenth was the first day he'd had a shadow, one of a tiny baby curled up at his feet. He remembered fondly what it had felt like to look down one random morning and see the dark blob at his feet, the confusion and the joy as he'd realized it moved with him. After thirty-one years, a soulmate of his very own.

He'd loved to watch them grow through their shadows, though his favorite was the little snippets he'd get of their life. Like for everyone else, they were very rare, especially in the bright cities he was accustomed to living in. There was always just a little bit of light somewhere in New York, but he remembered vividly the little snatches he'd managed to get from his soulmate's life when both of their shadows faded into a shade of the dark completely.

A deeply nerdy room with Star Wars posters. The bustling streets of a city. And, more recently, dark alleyways that had made him more than a little nervous. His soulmate was only a kid after all, but it was a bit hypocritical for him to be any kind of judgmental after his own teenage years, and it wasn't like he could do anything.

Other than what he was doing now.

The flashes of the streets he'd seen in his soulmate visions had reminded him deeply of New York (though they could just as easily have been from another city in the States), so Tony had made the effort to go out more whenever he could. Usually he couldn't stay for long, he was pretty busy after all. Still, local coffee shops and street vendors had become frequented by Tony Stark as he'd searched. He knew it was a little ridiculous to parade around the streets of New York City in the hopes that he would stumble upon his soulmate, but after everything that had happened with the team, he could at least try to throw in a little optimism.

The mechanic blinked out thoughts of the broken team as the elevator opened on the empty bottom floor, making his way through the darkly lit lobby and out the door into the streets. Street lamps were lit brightly, and, coupled by the headlight of cars and the alternating colors of traffic light, his soulmate was able to walk alongside Tony as he crossed the road and began down the sidewalk.

"Any recommendations for a good coffee shop, my little shadow?" Tony asked his soulmate. The people on the street paid him no mind, not that it was unusual for people to talk to their shadows. "If you do live around here, you must have at least a few recommendations. Well, I guess you are a kid, but I drank plenty of caffeine when I was your age, so."

He shrugged to himself, stopping at a street corner and pursing his lips as he thought. He'd really only explored Manhattan when looking for his soulmate, but walking across the bridge into Brooklyn and Queens would take much too long. He did want to get back to his project after all.

Tony made a turn, resolving to just find whatever new café he could. Maybe he'd explore Brooklyn or Harlem after the move. Or maybe Queens, he had been wanting to try and meet that Spider-Kid for a while anyway. He'd thought he'd had an opportunity when Rogers and his merry band had taken Barnes and left in Germany, but everything had gone by just too quick and he didn't even know the guy's identity. Not for lack of trying. The guy was pretty good at avoiding cameras, it almost made Tony jealous.

The billionaire walked for about fifteen minutes, passing by every coffee shop he'd already been to in search of a new one. There were plenty in Manhattan, but Tony had been to so many at this point it was a little ridiculous. He stopped, ready to pull out his phone and see where the nearest one he could find was, when he caught sight of a man out of the corner of his eye.

He frowned. How long had that man been following him? A few blocks at least, he recognized that green jacket from when he'd passed by Beany Business.

The light turned from an orange hand to a white silhouette, and Tony hurried across the street. He hadn't brought any kind of weapons with him, and he really wasn't in the mood to cause some kind of scene. If he was quick, he could probably lose this guy and still get to his coffee shop without some kind of annoying disturbance.

Tony allowed himself to be swept up in the crowd of late-goers, moving with them quickly. He let that crowd trickle by and joined another, and then joined one more of a drunk afterparty before finally slipping down an alleyway when he could no longer see the green jacket. He blinked in surprise as he caught sight of a coffee shop just across the street, bright red letters reading 'The Coffee Club.'

He smiled. Perfect.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he strolled down the alleyway towards the cheap looking café. And then a figure stepped in the entrance, blocking the view from across the street and slapping Tony's easygoing smile off of his face.

The billionaire immediately tensed as his eyes roamed over the green jacket, the covered face, and finally the gun pointed towards him. His eyebrow raised as his gaze rested on the weapon that wasn't really a gun. It was splayed out like a robotic arm, shiny and just a little bit clunky but clearly dangerous.

"Hands in the air, Stark," the man ordered. Slowly, he followed the man's orders. "Phone and glasses on the floor. Now."

"I'm gonna have to move my hands for that," Tony snarked. The man gave him a slight snarl.

"Just do it. Slowly. And throw them over here."

"Sure," he agreed, fishing his phone out of his pocket and taking his glasses off of his face before letting them clatter to the ground. The man kept the robotic gun trained on him as he grabbed the devices, placing them in a pocket in the thick of his jacket. Tony frowned. "So, what is this? A kidnapping? Taking my wallet? Genuinely interested."

"I've been watching you for a while, Stark," the man said, "You go out at night a lot. I knew it'd only be a matter of time before I could get what I want from you."

"And I would love to know what that is. As well as where you got that neat little arm-gun there. Is that Sokovian?"

"Shut up, Stark. I don't need your snark, just some information, and I'll take your wallet too."

"Mind leaving me enough cash for a coffee?"

The gun cocked. "What did I just say?"

"Hmm, I forgot."

"Very funny."

"Thanks, I thought so too," Tony joked. "Anyway, back on topic of what this is all about."

The gun whined and then quickly shot, whizzing past Tony to burn the wall just behind him. Tony turned his head to glance at the large ring of smoke before facing the man in the green jacket again.

"Shut up," he ordered again. "No more words from you unless they're the password into the DODC."

"There's more than just one password. You got a pen? This could take a while."

"No, you're coming with me."

"Oh, so this is a kidnapping."

"I can't have you changing the passwords and alerting anyone of this," the man answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but Tony could already count five thousand ways this could go wrong for Green Jacket Guy. One being that Tony wasn't up for being kidnapped at this moment in particular, and he definitely wasn't going to let this schmuck take him while he was just trying to get a decent coffee. "Keep your hands in the air and don't move, or else I'm hitting you with this."

When he gestured to the gun, Tony just gave him a bored look. "You know you're not getting any passwords or anything if you kill me, right?"

The man flicked a switch on the gun. "It's set to stun. It won't kill you, but it will definitely knock you out for a few hours."

"Good to know."

Green Jacket Guy approached, a pair of cuffs poised to slip around his outstretched hands. The man's steps were jauntily hesitant, but clear apprehension didn't stop the man from grabbing his hand and forcing the first cuff around him. He moved to click it around the billionaire's other wrist, but was met with a snapping punch to the face.

Green Jacket Guy stumbled back, a hand pressed against his newly bloody nose in a grunt of clear pain. Tony dove when the man quickly gathered himself and raised his gun, forcing himself behind a trash can as it whined and then fired. The trashcan forced itself against Tony, slapping the mechanic against the wall with a shouted groan, his shoulder barely breaking his fall. That was going to bruise in the morning.

Forced to his knees, Tony scrambled back up only to be faced with the robot-arm-gun pointed directly in his face. It charged up in its now annoyingly familiar warped whine, and there was nowhere to go. He was trapped and he was not excited to be blasted by this thing and if he got kidnapped again Happy was going to have a heart attack, he might as well--

"Hey! Watch where you're pointing that thing!" called a squeaky voice. Tony and Green Jacket Guy both turned as a red blur shot into the alleyway, a thwip! knocking the gun from the man's hand and the red blur knocking into him. The man was barreled to the ground with a pained groan before he was covered in a flurry of webs, the Spider Guy standing over him. "Pointing guns at people is illegal y'know! Sorry to be a party pooper, but I will be calling the police."

Tony blinked, forcing himself to his feet fully as the vigilante turned around, the lenses of his goofy goggles widening in comical shock.

"Oh, whoa."

 ---

 "Oh, whoa," Peter breathed as he caught sight of literally Tony-freaking-Stark dusting off his pants as he stood up. His eyes instinctively fluttered to the man's shadow, expecting the long hair and slim figure of Pepper Potts but catching sight of a short and rumpled man instead. Huh.

"Whoa yourself, kid," Mr. Stark responded, stepping over to where the man was knocked out cold and webbed to the ground. He dug through the man's exposed green jacket and pulled out a pair of glasses and a sleek phone, but Peter's eyes were locked onto the strange gun on the ground. His eyes narrowed at how similar it looked to the ones at the bank. "What're you doing out here? You're a Queens guy aren't you?"

"Oh, uh, yes-yes, sir. Usually, but I was just, uhh, I was just around and I heard the fight and, and yeah..."

Mr. Stark turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised in suspicion as he glanced over Peter's ratty superhero suit. He shuffled on his feet nervously, trying desperately to keep himself still and untense his shoulders, not that it had much affect. The teenager choked down agitation, trying his best to not glance at his watch. It was getting late and, while Iron Man was his second favorite Avenger, the last thing he needed was Tony Stark finding out his secret identity.

"What's your name?" Mr. Stark asked.

"Spider-Man."

"And your real name?"

Peter paused. "Spider-Man. On my birth certificate and everything."

Mr. Stark frowned, and Peter thought he was going to demand a legitimate answer, when he shrugged and stepped away from the guy on the ground. "Fine. You helped me out, I won't bother you about it. For now."

Peter let out a low sigh, muttering, "Thank you, Mr. Stark."

"I am going to bother you about other things though," Mr. Stark said, "I've been meaning to talk to you, and no time like the present."

"Oh, uhh, I kinda have to--"

Peter was interrupted by the painful rumble of his stomach. His face turned as red as his mask, and he was thankful the man couldn't see his embarrassment, not that that stopped the superhero's teasing smirk. With a wave, the man stepped out of the alleyway. "C'mon, let's go."

"Go--go where?"

"Coffee. I came to get a good black coffee and I refuse to leave without one."

Peter glanced down at the guy he'd webbed. "What about him?"

"My AI already called the police. They'll be here soon. Now, c'mon. I'm not gonna ask you twice."

"Yeah, yeah. Ah, okay, Mr. Stark."

 ---

 Peter shuffled his feet nervously, his arms crossed and constantly turning so that he could peer at the time on his watch. Twenty minutes. Not looking great, but it wasn't like Peter could really leave while Mr. Stark ordered his coffee. That would be rude, and plus it was Iron Man, so, overall a bad idea.

He glanced over from where he was leaning against the brick wall of the coffee shop to stare at the clear door. Like a final answer to his prayers, the billionaire stepped out, a drink carrier in one hand and a small brown bag in the other. The man didn't look exactly like he'd thought he would. Tony Stark had always been almost hilariously imposing in his mind, with a sharp suit and a sharper goatee, but this man was softer. Rougher.

His clothes were stained, his leather jacket rumpled, his hair messy and his face worn with the lines of memories. He seemed almost familiar somehow, and it unnerved Peter just as much as it comforted him.

"Here ya go, kid. Black coffee for me, hot chocolate and a snickerdoodle for you," Mr. Stark said once he'd walked over. Peter blinked in surprise, but managed to accept the drink and the bag with stumbling fingers.

"Oh, wow. Thank you, Mr. Stark, but you really didn't have to."

"Billionaire here, Spider-Kid. I can afford a cookie and a drink."

Peter thanked him again and, after a moment of hesitation, pulled his mask up to just above his nose, starting on the cookie. It was almost impossible to not fork it down immediately with how starved he felt. Mr. Stark waited patiently until he was finished with his snickerdoodle to start speaking, and Peter's ears burned.

"So," Mr. Stark started, "New York's benevolent vigilante that directs tourists and saves kittens from trees. Doesn't seem like a very exciting gig."

Peter narrowed his eyes, shuffling on his feet again nervously. What was his game?

He shrugged, taking a sip of his hot chocolate before answering, "It doesn't have to be exciting. I'm just trying to help out."

"Why?"

"Why--why help?"

"Exactly," Mr. Stark pointed, and suddenly he wasn't strangely familiar, he filled up the whole street. "Very few people help just to help, and even fewer dress themselves up in something that embarrassing just to help a few old ladies across the street. Why are you doing this? I gotta know. What's your MO? What gets you out of your apartment and into that onesie in the morning?"

"It's not a onesie," he muttered. Peter forced his fingers not to grip around the cup as images of a bloody street and dying shadows filled his head, instead redirecting the agitation into the scrunch of his face. He imagined he had his usual and embarrassing puppy scowl right now. He tried to release it with a sigh, but he didn't feel much better as he answered. "Because...because I've been me my whole life, and I've had these powers six months..."

Mr. Stark hummed in confirmation, goading Peter on. He swallowed down sick at the image of his aunt's brown hair drenched in blood before he continued. "I...I tried to move on at first. Just, hey! I have powers and I'm just gonna ignore it and showboat it. But...when you can do the things that I can, but you don't...and then the bad things happen..." He took a deep breath as Mr. Stark leaned in closer. "They happen because of you."

"So you wanna look out for the little guy? You wanna do your part? Make the world a better place, all that, right?"

Peter nodded fervently. "Yeah, yeah just looking out for the little guy. That's--that's what it is."

Mr. Stark nodded, his eyes glanced Peter up and down quickly before he asked softly, "And what about looking out for you?"

Peter startled, glaring at the man defensively. Did he just look like shit that much?

"What are you talking about? I'm doing fine."

"You reek of someone who hasn't been taking care of themselves, kid."

"I'm not a kid," he muttered, "And I'm fine."

"Yeah? Your arm's shaking."

Peter glanced down to see that, yes, his arm clutched around the hot chocolate was indeed shaking. Peter switched the drink to his other hand before shoving his arm in the pocket of his hoodie. "Just tired."

"It's barely ten."

"And I've been patrolling for--did you say ten?"

Mr. Stark seemed perturbed by his sudden shift, but Peter couldn't be bothered at the way his voice had lowered and shaken with slight fear or the way his entire self had tensed. Peter tore his hand out of his pocket to glare at the watch on his wrist. 9:57. Shit.

"Shit--fuck!" Peter exclaimed, pulling his mask back down. "Oh, shit. Sorry, Mr. Stark, I gotta go. Thank you so much for the hot chocolate, sir!"

"Kid, wait--"

He flicked out a wrist onto a nearby building, bending to leap when Mr. Stark's hand wrapped around his wrist.

Peter blinked at the odd sensation, holding back a flinch at the unexpected touch and tensing as his vision seemed to leap just a foot to the left before fizzing back to what it had been before. It left him dizzy and disoriented, but he only had a minute to get all the way from Manhattan to Queens. Maybe if he made it home within ten minutes he could get away with it or--

"Oh, my God..."

Peter turned at Mr. Stark's voice, realizing the man's hand was still gripping his wrist. He followed the billionaire's horribly stricken gaze to stare at whatever had left him dumb. Peter's jaw dropped as he caught sight of his shadow. It was his shadow.

The fluffy hair of his soulmate was suddenly gone and, instead, Peter's masked silhouette stood in its place. He glanced down at Mr. Stark's shadow, actions slow and jerky as he caught sight of it perfectly reflecting his own perked up jacket collar and outline of glasses. Carefully, Mr. Stark let go of his hand in a motion that felt like he was testing the waters. The shadows switched. The hooded figure shadowed Mr. Stark while the fluffy hair stood where Peter's shadow once had.

"What the..." Peter trailed off. His breaths felt lighter all the sudden. Fast. Too fast. The street was closing in, the cars passing nearby too loud and too bright and oh God his soulmate was Tony Stark. He swallowed painfully, tears biting at his eyes as he struggled for a breath.

His soulmate wasn't supposed to be Tony Stark. Peter couldn't--Peter couldn't live up to that! Mr. Stark had saved the world and he was an Avenger and he was the smartest man in the world and Peter was just some useless kid who got bullied and had a curfew and Jesus Christ he was going to be so late Mr. Fowler was going to be so mad and--

"Kid?" Mr. Stark asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. Peter flinched and ducked away, the cup he'd been holding clattering from his hands as he stood opposite the man. Defensive. A shadow flashed against the man's face.

Peter read it as disappointment.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. He shot a web and leaped away, but he could never escape his shadow.

Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8

[random-tinies]

Crowza - 1

I’ve had this AU idea sitting in my brain for a while and I’m going to turn it into a full-on fanfiction series. I’ll be tagging it as Crowza AU Here is Chapter 1 💙 No trigger warnings for this one. ^^ just good fluff. ft. Mumza as Lady Death, 1.6k words

Previous (N/A) | Next

. .

There truly is no proper comparison to flying. Sure you can describe the feeling, you can say it's like swimming in freedom, but it will never compare to actually flying.

Philza thinks about this as he soars through the air, wind blowing through his primary feathers. Occasionally he flaps, defying the gravity that tries to pull him back down to earth. He takes a breath of fresh air, relishing the way it chills his lungs. If it weren't for his cloak and his feathers, he would be quite cold this high above the ground. Especially in early spring.

Although it's early April, occasional drifts of snow still dot the landscape below him as the birdman flies north for the summer. Twice a year, he makes this migration, and although it may be warmer in the southern areas, Phil enjoys the northern pine forest he calls his summer home. It's special to him for three reasons.

Kristin, his home, and his boys.

First things first, however. He needs to stop by his cache and see if it had been raided by squirrels while he was gone. Or if anything fresh is caught in his traps. Nasty buggers, always giving him grief. Troublesome creatures. Phil banks left and dives down towards a thick old oak tree with winding and twisted branches. He lands on one, bird feet gripping with sharp claws, and hops down to where his stash should be.

Near the center of the tree, the branches arch and wind themselves together in such a way that it forms the perfect shelter for someone his size. It had taken him a good century to help the young tree grow in such a way, but it gives him the perfect shelter year after year so every painstaking day of tying young branches was worth it.

Phil looks around to make sure he's not being watched before hopping inside. One can never be too careful when your cache is involved. His wings fold behind him as he walks forward, ducks under a large branch, and enters his storage room. A quick scan confirms that nothing found his home this winter and he relaxes, breathing a sigh of relief and grabbing some squirrel jerky to munch on.

It had been a long flight and he wants nothing more than to just flop on his bed and take a short nap, but he has two homes to visit first. His wings seem to ache in protest but he steps back outside and takes off into the sky once more.

A few strong flaps put him in the air and he soars the short distance it takes to get to his boys' cabin. He can see it from the top of his tree, it is an easy flight. He notices the youngest of the three outside chopping firewood and decides to land on the roof some ways above him. The sky is overcast enough that his silhouette looks just like a rather large crow.

The movement catches the boy's eye and he looks up, putting a gloved hand up to his face to try and shield his eyes from the bright white cloudshine. He squints and yells up at what he assumes is the same bird he's been seeing for years now, "Oi! Good to see you! Took your sweet time this year!"

Phil shuffles his wings and scoffs quietly. He's right on time. He always shows up to his Lady's forest on the same day every year. He watches his boy fondly as he continues to talk to himself, quieter now as he hefts the axe to chop another log in half. "Y'know, Wilbur thinks you're a crow but I think you're too big to be a crow. Plus I don't think crows can live as long as you have."

Phil sits down on the peak of the roof, legs still under him in case he needs a speedy escape. He listens to the peaceful sounds of a quiet life. A cold chill on the breeze, shadows crossing the ground as clouds moved through the sky, the occasional birdsong reaching their ears, the thunk of the axe as it chops through the wood.

The door to the cabin opens and Phil tenses, ready to fly off if attention is directed to him. He’s a little close to it and it could be a risk if whoever steps out decides to look up at him. While he loves these boys, if they find out he isn’t a crow then he’d never be able to return and watch them again.

A tall brunette steps out and calls to the blonde, “Hey, Tommy, when you’re done out here, could you come inside? Techno got a letter and we need to discuss it together, as a family.”

Tommy nods and sets down the axe. He nods towards the roof. “Hey, Wilbur, your crow friend is back. Silent as always.”

Whelp! Time to get out of there! Phil immediately takes off, flapping hard and flying over the boys’ heads. His silhouette is even harder to recognize as anything other than a crow as he soared away. Wilbur says, “Oh yeah, there it is, just like every year. You reckon he likes us?”

Whatever Tommy replies, Phil doesn’t hear it. He’s too far away, heading towards where Kristin lives in the forest. The landscape below him becomes denser and darker, the pines twisting and behaving oddly. Branches bend lower and often twist together. Crow caws are more frequent and a few join him as he flies towards his destination.

“Dadza!”

“Philza! It’s been so long!”

“Return of Dadza! Dadza! We missed you!”

Phil chuckles, striking up casual conversation with them, telling them stories of his travels. He does this every year when he returns from migration. Some of the murder follow him south during the winter but let him visit his boys alone. They prefer to stay with their lady, and Phil doesn’t blame them. He’d stay with her all the time if he was allowed.

At last they reach Kristin’s home. The murder descends and a few part ways to fly in through the open window. Phil smiles as he lands on a doormat that reads “On Death’s Door” and chuckles at the inside joke as he uses the tiny knocker built at the bottom just for him. The door opens and the most beautiful woman in all of history looks down at him with a fond smile. “And who would this be, knocking at my door?”

She wears a long black dress that graces her curves breathtakingly. Dark brown hair flows off her shoulders like a waterfall of shadows. Her voice is like the sound of windchimes in a gentle breeze, enveloping Phil in its peace. Even if his feet are rooted to the ground, his heart soars with joy. She is his everything and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Phil takes his hat off and bows to her, wings spread. When he looks up, she leans down and extends a hand towards him to step up onto. “You know I’d never miss an opportunity to have a brush with Death.”

His grin widens as she gives him a withering look. “You’ve said the same joke for the last five decades.”

“And you’ve said the same response for the last four decades.”

He laughs and balances himself as she lifts her hand. He bows his head as she presses a kiss to the top of his head, blush dusting his cheeks. The kiss of Death, if you will. Even if they’ve been together for forever, he’ll never get over these little moments. Coming back from his winter migration is his favorite part of the year.

Phil’s feathers ruffle and he places his hat back on his head. Nobody can make him feel as light as she can. She strokes his feathers and asks him about his flight, letting him perch on her hand. He tells her about the herd of deer he passed who had two fawns among them and the pack of wolves he heard while roosting one night.

She listens attentively to his words and pours him a small cup of tea. Phil could never express his love for her in the right way but he knows she understands. Their mob settles around them and drinks in every word, occasionally adding their own and squabbling amongst themselves. This is his family as much as his boys in their cabin are. He feels peace, drinking the bittersweet tea in his tiny cup. 

A younger crow hops up and leans against Phil and preens his wings.

“Mumza! Mumza and Dadza!”

“Puppies! We love to see it!”

“Can we go visit them? I want to hear them!”

“Shiny ring… Phil, what about your boys?”

Phil hums and Kristin snaps her fingers. “I almost forgot! I meant to warn you, but the air is different this year. I’m not quite sure what’s going on, but I’ve felt more death in these areas than before. A few of my crows have gone missing.” She pets down his back, smoothing his feathers. “Be careful. I don’t want you to be among them, okay?”

He gives her his best reassuring smile and says, “You know me, Kristin. I never let anything happen to me. How many years have I managed to escape death?”

She chuckles. “Many times, though there have been some close calls. Just watch out. There are fates worse than death, my love.”

He bows his head. “Of course, my lady. I’ll keep an eye out.”

The rest of the night goes smoothly. New crows that followed Phil there introduce themselves to Lady Death and join their flock. By the time the fire in the fireplace dies down, the two are fast asleep in her bed, snuggled together and dreaming of a happy future.