#severance strikes such a perfect balance of like very familiar but just like one or two steps past reality

[queenie-theaa]

1. What are the factors that contributed to the success and failure of Steve Jobs as a technopreneur?

Steve Jobs’ success as a technopreneur can be explained by his inimitable leadership qualities, perfect devotion, and wise intellect. His outstanding ability to predict how technology will change the world allowed him to create outstanding products that changed their industry. Jobs was different from his competitors because he valued beautiful design and simple user interface – this is what clearly stood behind the creation of the Macintosh product line. Steve was a passionate and inspired person, he took risks and despised mediocrity. His charismatic leadership, combined with such determination, allowed him to not just create and promote his ideas but also to spread this enthusiasm further.

Jobs did, however, also have a number of notable setbacks along the way, many of which were the result of failings on both a personal and professional level. His severe and frequently brutal managerial style caused chaos in the workplace and alienated a lot of coworkers and staff members. It is crucial to strike a balance between visionary leadership and empathy and teamwork, as this perfectionism and temper occasionally produced unfavourable results. Apple suffered financial losses and market setbacks as a result of strategic errors including the excessive cost of the Macintosh and the Lisa computer's malfunction. Furthermore, Jobs's departure from Apple in 1985 was a direct result of his personal problems with important individuals, such as his board of directors and co-founder Steve Wozniak. These blunders highlight how crucial it is to make strategic decisions and keep wholesome work relationships.

2. How do you see yourself as a technopreneur?

Thinking back on Steve Jobs' career, I see myself as a technopreneur who values teamwork and creativity. Jobs' innovative style and unwavering commitment to pushing technological frontiers motivate me, but I also understand how critical it is to establish a welcoming and inclusive work atmosphere. My objective would be to create a work environment where people feel appreciated and heard by striking a balance between aspirational, forward-thinking objectives and compassionate leadership. Understanding that a cohesive team is necessary to realize creative ideas, I would work to build strong, respectful connections with my team and stakeholders by taking note of Jobs' management mistakes.

Having reconsidered Steve Jobs’s path, I can see myself as a technopreneur who highly appreciates invention and the importance of teamwork. I know that Jobs was very innovative and always pushed the frontiers, but I do not believe that people should beware of approachability. To have an attitude towards one’s work, I plan to develop emotionality, i.e., combine giant visionary goals with a high level of compassion. Although Jobs’ management style was disastrous due to several failures, I realise that it is impossible to bring creative ideas into reality without the right team.

3. Would you take the same career path that Steve Jobs took? Why or why not?

Steve Jobs’ professional path is very inspiring, but I would not follow it precisely. I like the fact that he had innovatory ideas and influence on tech development, and I want to be like him. However, I would never adopt a strict leadership style and naval gazing behavior. Instead, I would try to be a little of a collaborative leader but with a strong position, positive visions, and empathic understanding. From this experience, I learned that effective leadership is not only about clear goals and motivation but also about a supportive and contributive work atmosphere.

Finally, Jobs’ professional journey also inspire as essential lessons about decision-making and maintaining a happy working environment. While I would be eager to incorporate the same innovative thinking spirit shown by Jobs, I would focus on making more strategic business decisions and familiarize myself with today’s market conditions and dynamics while avoiding some of the mistakes made by Jobs. With a preference of innovative thinking, realistic business skills, and a dream to build a happy work environment, as a technopreneur, my passion is to have a successful but modest career. In conclusion, although inspired by the success of Steve Jobs, I wish to chart a path that combines compassion with innovation, learning from the successes and failures.

[thedeadhandofseldon]

The Anti-Mercer Effect

On the Accessibility of D&D, Why Unprepared Casters is so Fun, and Why Haley Whipjack is possibly the greatest DM of our generation.

(Apologies to my mutuals who aren’t in this fandom for the length of this, but as you all know I have never in my life shut up about anything so… we’ll call it even for the number of posts about Destiel I see every day.

To fellow UC fans - I haven’t listened to arc 4 yet, I started drafting this in early August, and I promise I will write a nice post about how great Gus the Bard is once I get the chance to listen to more of his DMing).

Structure - Or, “This is not the finale, there will be more podding cast”

So, first of all, let’s just talk about how Unprepared Casters works. Because it’s kind of unusual! Most of the other big-name D&D podcasts favor this long, grand arcs; UC has about 10 hours of podcast per each arc. And that’s a major strength in a lot of ways: it makes it really accessible to new listeners, because you can just start with the current arc and understand what’s going on!

And by starting new arcs every six or seven episodes, they can explore lots of ways to play D&D! Classic dungeon delve arc! Heist arc! Epic heroes save the world arc! Sportsball arc! They can touch on all sorts of things!

And while I’m talking about that: Dragons in Dungeons, the first arc, makes it incredibly accessible as a show - because it lets the unfamiliar listener get a sense of what D&D actually is. (It’s about telling stories and making your friends feel heroic and laugh and cry, for the record). If I had to pick a way to introduce someone to the game without actually playing it with them, that arc would definitely be it.

And I’d be remise not to note one very important thing: Haley Whipjack and Gus the Bard are just very funny, very charismatic people. Look. Episode 0s tend to be about 50%(?) those two just talking to each other about their own podcast. It shouldn’t work. And yet it DOES, its one of my favorite parts, because Haley and Gus are just cool.

And a side note that doesn’t fit anywhere else: I throw my soul at him! I throw a scone at him - that’s it, that’s the vibe. The whole podcast alternates between laughing with your friends and brooding alone in a dark tavern corner - but the laughs never forced and the dark corner is never too dark for too long.

Whipjack the Great - Or, the DM is Also a Player!

I think Haley Whipjack is one of the greatest Dungeon Masters alive. The plots and characters! The mechanical shenanigans! The descriptions!

Actually, let’s start there: with the descriptions. (Both Haley and Gus do this really fucking well). As we know, Episode 0 of each arc sees the DM reading a description - of a small town, or the Up North, or the recent history of a great party. And Haley always strikes this tricky balance - one I think a lot of us who DM struggle with - between giving too much description and  worldbuilding, and not telling us anything at all. She describes people and events in just enough detail to imagine them, but never so much they seem static and unreal - just clear enough to envision, but with enough vagueness left to let your imagination begin to run wild.

While I’m thinking about arc 3’s party, let’s talk about a really bold move she made in that arc: letting the players have ongoing control of their history. Loser Lars! She didn’t try to spell out every detail of this high-level party’s history, or restrict their past to only what she decided to allow - she gave them the broad outlines, and let them embellish it. And that made for a much more alive story than any attempt to create it by herself would have - but I think it takes a lot of courage to let your players have that agency. Most Dungeon Masters (myself included) tend to struggle with being control freaks.

And the plots! Yeah, arc one is built of classic tropes - but she actually uses them, she doesn’t get caught up in subverting everything or laughing at the cliches. And it’s fun! In arc 3, there really isn’t a straight line for the players to follow, either - which makes the game much more interesting and much trickier to run. And her NPCs are fantastic and I will talk about them in the next section.

Above all, though, I think what is really impressive is how Haley balances mechanics, and rules as written, with the narrative and rule of cool - and puts both rules and story in the service of playing a fun game. And the secret to that? She’s the DM, but the DM is a player, and the DM is clearly having fun. Hope Lovejoy mechanically shouldn’t get that spellslot back, but she does, and it’s fun. The changeling merchant in Thymore doesn’t really make some Grand Artistic Narrative better, but wow is it fun. And she never tries to force it one way or the other - the story might be more dramatic if Annie didn’t manage to banish the demon from the vault, but it’s a lot cooler and a lot more fun for the players if Annie gets to be a badass instead - and the rules and the dice say that Annie managed it.

Settings feel like places, NPCs feel like people, and the narrative plot feels like a real villainous plot.

Anyway. I could go on about the various ways in which Whipjack is awesome for quite a while - she’s right, first place in D&D is when your friends laugh and super first place is when they cry - but I’m going to stop here and just. Make another post about it some other time. For now, for the record I hold her opinions about the game in higher esteem than I do several official sourcebooks; that is all.

Characters - Or, Bombyx Mori Is Not an Asshole, And That Matters

Okay, I said I would talk about characters! And I will!

Just a general place to start: the party! All of the first three parties are interesting to me, because they all care about each other. Not even necessarily in a Found Family Trope sort of way, though often that too. But they generally aren’t assholes to each other. The players create characters that actually work together, that are interesting; even when there’s internal divisions like SK-73 v. Sir Mr. Person, they aren’t just unpleasant and antagonistic all the time. Listening to the podcast, we’re “with” these people for a couple hours - and it isn’t unpleasant. That matters a lot. (To take a counter-example: I love Critical Role, but the episode when Vox Machina pranked Scanlan after he died and was resurrected wasn’t fun to listen to, it was just uncomfortable and angering and vaguely cruel).

All of the PCs are amazing, and the players in each arc did a great job. If you disagree with me about that, well, you have the right to be incorrect and I am sorry for your loss. Annie Wintersummer, for one example: tragic and sad and I want to give her a hug, but also Fuck Yeah Wintersummer, and also her familiar Charles the Owl is the cutest and funniest and I love him. And we understand what’s going on with Annie, she isn’t some infinite pool of hidden depths because this arc is 7 episodes and we don’t have time for that, but she also has enough complexity to be interesting. Same with Fey Moss: yeah, a lot of her is a silly pun about fame that carries into how she behaves, but a lot of how she behaves is also down to some good classic half-elven angst about parenthood and wanting to be known and seen and important. (Side note: if your half-elf character doesn’t have angst, well, that’s impressive and also I don’t think I believe you).

There are multiple lesbian cat-people in a 4-person party and they both have requited romantic interests who aren’t each other. This is the future liberals want and I am glad for it.

Sir Mister Person, the human fighter! Thavius, the edge lord! Even when a character is “simple,” they’re interesting, because of how they’re played as people and not action-figures. And that matters a lot.

In the same way: the NPCs. There really aren’t a lot of them! And some of them come from Patreon submissions, so uh good work gang, you’re part of the awesomeness and I’m proud of you! The point being, the NPCs work because enough of them are interesting to matter. It’s not just a servant who opens Count Michael’s door, it’s a character with a name (Oleandra!) and a personality and history. They’re interesting. Penny Lovejoy didn’t need to be interesting, the merchant outside the Laughing Mausoleum didn’t need to be interesting, but they ARE! And Haley and Gus EXCEL at making the NPCs matter, not just to the story but to us as viewers. I agree with Sir Mister Person, actually, I would die for the princesses of the kingdom. I actually care about Gem Lovejoy of all people - that wouldn’t happen in an ordinary campaign! That’s the thing that makes Unprepared Casters spectacular - and, frankly, it’s especially impressive because D&D does not tend to be good at making a lot of interesting compared to a lot of other sorts of stories.

And, just as an exemplar of all this: Bombyx Mori. Immortal, reincarnating(?), and described as the incarnation of the player’s ADHD. I expected to hate Bombyx, because as the mom friend both in and out of my friend-group’s campaigns, the chaos-causer is always exhausting to me. And yeah, Bombyx causes problems on purpose! But! She is not an asshole.

And that’s important. Bombyx goes and sits with the queen and comforts her. Bombyx gives Annie emotional support. Bombyx isn’t just a vehicle to jerk around the DM and other players; Bombyx really is a character we can care about. To compare with another case - in the first couple episodes of The Adventure Zone, the PCs are just dicks. Funny, but dicks. Bombyx holds out an arm “covered in larva” to shake with a count, and robs him of magical items, but she also cares about her friends and other people! She uses a powerful magical gem to save her fertilizer guy from death! Yeah, Bombyx is ridiculous, but she’s not just an asshole the party has to keep around for plot reasons; you can see why her party would keep her around. And one layer of meta up, she’s the perfect example of how to make a chaotic character like that while still being fun for everyone you’re playing with, which is often not the case. And I love her.

The Anti-Mercer Effect - Or, “I think we proved it can be fun, you can have a good time with your friends. And it doesn’t have to be scary, you can just work with what you know”

The Mercer Effect basically constitutes this: Matthew Mercer, Dungeon Master of Critical Role, is incredible (as are all of his players). They’re all professional story-tellers in a way, remember, and so Critical Role treats D&D like a narrative art-form, and it’s inspiring. Seeing that on Critical Role sets impossible standards - and people go into their own home games imagining that their campaigns will be like Critical Role, and the burden of that expectation tends to fall disproportionately on the DM. And the end result, I think, of the Mercer Effect is that we get discouraged or intimidated, because our game isn’t “as good as” theirs. (And I should note - Matt certainly doesn’t want that to be our reaction).

So the Anti-Mercer Effect is two things: it’s D&D treated like a game, and it’s inspiring but not intimidating. And Unprepared Casters manages both of those really freaking well. Because they play it like a game! A UC arc looks just like a good campaign in anyone’s home game. They have the vibes of 20-somethings and college students playing D&D for fun because that’s who they are (as a 20-something college student who plays a lot of D&D, watching it felt like watching my friends play an especially good campaign). They’re trying to tell a good story, sure, and they always do. But first and foremost, they’re trying to have fun, and it shows, and I love the UC cast for it.

And that’s the other half of it: it’s inspiring! It’s approachable; you can see that Haley and Gus put plenty of work into preparing the game but it also doesn’t make you feel like you need hundreds of pages of worldbuilding to run a game. Sometimes a cleric makes Haley cry and she gives them back a spell-slot from their deity! That’s fantastic! It’s just inspiring - listening to this over the summer, when my last campaign had fallen apart under the strain of graduation, is why I decided to plan and run my new one!

That quote from Haley Whipjack that I used as the title for this section? That’s the whole core of this idea, and really, I think, the core of the podcast.

The Mercer Effect is when you go “that’s really cool, I could never do that.” But Unprepared Casters makes you look at D&D and go “wow, that looks really fun. I bet I can do that!” And I love the show for it.

And I bet a lot of you do too.

[daydreamed-snippets]

hello! i absolutely adored your addition to gingerly’s prompt ask :) i was wondering if you could continue it, and no worries if you can’t! thanks <3

I realize the more I write this the longer it’s getting. I probably have imagined six parts or more???? I have other WIPs that need attention, but I am so, so, so, so thankful that you like the first part of my prompt response to @gingerly-writing I’m going to post this and then part 3 hopefully tomorrow 👀 👀 👀 👀Maybe??? then take a small break to post some other stuff. Lol this is a continuation I didn’t really plan for, but am definitely excited about!!

@chibicelloking @lolafaiy

Part One Here

A dull thrum of voices stirred sidekick out of surly drowsiness. The articulation of words was muddied, coming across as garble before snapping into clarity the more they roused. There was “monitor vitals”, “recommended range”, “even by a fraction” that registered in the back of their mind. Teammates must be running some tests again.

But they couldn’t move. Not a muscle. They weren’t paralyzed, they were just restrained. Which was odd because that wasn’t—

They felt the string back around their neck again. That feeling of dread rustled, usually abating when they returned to headquarters and the familiarity of their bunk. Memories came no longer concealed by lethargy. Of the teammates being pinned down by supervillain. Of their oh-so-brave self-sacrifice. Of teammates using The Machine to pry open a portal. Of sidekick losing consciousness in supervillain’s arms. 

Sidekick held their breath, letting out a quiet moan. It didn’t work, did it? Teammates didn’t make it to that sewer way after supervillain choked them into unconsciousness. And if they did, they were unable to save sidekick. They were captured.

So what now? 

Policy would have them stay mute. To be uncooperative. To trumpet bravado and bare their teeth. 

Policy would have their self-sacrifice complete its course to martyrdom. 

Feeling their sinew stretch to uncomfortable lengths, the sidekick’s mind fortified itself, resolved to do their due diligence. They could die for the cause. They were trained to do so. Engrained by doctrine, encouraged parables of valor, and promises of glory. They weren’t a hero, yes, but they’d surely get a hero’s burial. A hero’s honor, and admittance to the halls of the nobly fallen. After all, it was promised to those slain for the cause. 

Noting how their wrists were held high above their head and were bound together, sidekick tensed their muscles against the wire to test how well it held their arms, chest, hips, and legs still. They were hanging in midair, everything was drawn taut, everything perfectly balanced so that the threads bowed them back like a rag doll on display; fraying and terribly exposed. 

At least it didn’t cut their skin this time.

The easy solution: they could mount a daring escape by making a portal around themselves. No on second thought due to calculation risks, they could make approximately 47 mini portals, severing the strings. Then once they got a better gauge of the room, they could make one large enough for them to drop through. They doubted they would be able to go far, maybe outside this room after they opened their eyes and calculated the circumference of it. Their weakness lies in the fact that not knowing where they were meant they were limited in where they could go. Power hinging on all of the maps in their head. If they could just see it on the map then they could calculate the needed trajectory and portal to it. 

But they had neither the time nor the luxury for that now.

Taking all 47 at a time, sidekick opened dime-size portals an inch above where the wires met their skin. Calculations playing in the background of their psyche. They had to be precise—they must have caution or risk searing flesh from bone. Wire fractured and cracked in midair, and sidekick dropped a small length, feet hitting the floor, knees buckling. 

They barely had a second to get up.

A shrill alarm, jarring, and ear-splitting sounded. 

Fire followed, blazing across their skin, only somehow from the inside radiating out, originating from their neck, and spiraling down. They writhed under the voltaic ministrations, convulsing until it ceased, finally falling limp.

Someone came to stand before them, and sidekick considered the familiar boots warily before flicking their gaze up, proximity kick-starting their heartbeat. And it ran wild. Supervillain settled before them, appearing polished, normal costume hidden under a button-up shirt loosely tucked into a pair of trousers. A light pea coat pulled the ensemble together. Their expression, however, looked like they were ready to pounce, eyes veiled behind a tight expression.

“Perfect. You’re awake.”

Should sidekick go for bravado, or would a more fearful submissive approach best serve them, now that their escape attempt has failed? Unsure, sidekick opted for a mix of both, figuring, at any rate, the body count associated with supervillain alone would suggest that they tread carefully. “Wh-what did you do to me? My teammates—”

“Your teammates don’t know where you are, and it’s going to stay that way for a while." They crouched agilely, a panther before a frightened yearling, tucking a finger under their chin to hold their complete attention. "I would advise against doing anything that would jeopardize your standing with me, puppy. Like trying to use your power to escape. I am not what one would call longsuffering. I may have shown you a smidgen of my mercy but don’t expect it to be par for the course." Supervillain motioned to the room with a nod. "If you’re wondering where you are, may I present to you my humble garrison. This is the medical wing, with medic and assistant behind me. We’ve removed the association’s tracking device, and replaced it with something far more fetching.”

Trailing a thumb down their neck, supervillain fiddled with the band around their throat, a neatly fitted collar. How did sidekick not notice that? It felt not much different from supervillain’s wires—something foreign and constricting. Ears burning, their face paled, sweat lining their brow. If this could get worse or more humiliating, they weren’t sure how. 

Threading a finger through the ring, supervillain wrenched sidekick off the ground, onto their hands and knees like a true dog. 

A strangled mewl tore from the sidekick’s throat. 

“You do get the gist of this, don’t you, darling? You’re a clever one. Make a portal without my direct order, and this device will give you an electric shock that will render you immobile at best, unconscious at worst.” Their shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “And it hurts like hell, or so I’m told so that should be incentive enough.”

Oh no. 

This was worse. 

So much worse than anything sidekick had endured at the Hero’s Association. Ignoring their basic human needs, ok. They can handle that. Belittling them, playing passive-aggressive games? Cool, cool, cool, cool. The occasional punishment? Everyone endures the intermittent blow or two. Suck it up, sidekick. But humiliation like this? They wanted to crawl under a rock and never be seen again. 

“Y-you,” they stammered, dread churning, turning into something they hadn’t felt in a while. Rage. “You, you, you jerk!”

“You jerk?” supervillain echoed a deep chuckle. “Dear lord, you know you should be thanking me, my very young and inventive labradoodle. One, for not taking your life as I had wanted. Two, for not ringing out your delicate neck despite that little stunt just now. And, three for rescuing you from such neglectful owners—” 

“I will never thank you for that!”

Silence filled the room, allowing the mechanical hum of lab equipment to permeate. Medic and assistant tossed glances at each other over supervillain's shoulder, as a shadow passed over supervillain’s face. That thumb returned to sidekick’s lips, the latter’s breath catching at their misstep. “You said they.”

“W-what?”

“When you spoke about your teammates, and how they’ve been fighting me all of these years. You said they. Not we’ve been fighting, but they. You haven’t used a single possessive pronoun when speaking about the six of you—or anyone in the association for that matter.” 

No. No, sidekick didn’t mean it like that. They belonged. They were a team. They are a team.

“You keep them separate from yourself,” the supervillain continued, stoking their cheek absently. “Whether consciously or unconsciously, you do. From the short time I discovered that it was a person and not a machine behind the Hero’s Association’s success, I’ve learned this: your ideals are of self-immolation. You offer yourself up as a lamb for your teammate’s success; for the association’s success. You foolishly stare down your enemy in hopes for what? Recognition? Adoration? That’s clearly not working, is it? I simply called you a dazzling diamond in the ruff, and you flushed like someone newly in love.” That tone was back. A wanton timbre for power, and sidekick face colored on command. They brought their hand up to hide it. “Your actions are like a puppy: young and misguided. Training will fix it.”

Throwing them a salacious grin, supervillain called another thread to their hand and knotted it around sidekick's collar ring. Easing off of their haunches, they stood, the wire going slack. “I will delve into these mysteries soon enough. Just as you will come to discover, in due time, that you are much better off with me than against me.”

Sidekick blood boiled, finally at the tipping point. 

They saw red. 

Supervillain thought they knew them? Thought that they were such an open book? Palms fisting, sidekick wanted very much to strike out at the supervillain. To wipe that knowing looking off their face. A feat, they realized, that could accomplish with words. And something this time with more punch than ‘jerk’. Screaming, they let out an uncharacteristic string of curses; ones they’d heard in passing, ones that had even been directed at them. Being a human gateway didn’t afford them many friends their own age or otherwise, and the other heroes were quick to ruffle their hair, and blame them for mishaps than befriend them.

Supervillain didn’t move. Even to tighten the leash. 

But medic spoke out. 

“Eh, yo, villy, your puppy be barking at you. Want me to shut them up?” Their crisp white coat stood in neat contract to their rich skin; voice speaking of hardship and closely won battles. Finger hovering over their datapad.

“Give it a minute,” supervillain said, as sidekick let out one last cry, fists hitting the cold tile, utterly spent. They bent over, muscles quivering in release. “See, it wasn’t necessary, medic. This particular breed responds to a more patient touch.”

“All that patient touch and you gon’ be wondering why you got missing fingers. Look, I don’t know about pets, but, this seems real sus.”

“Good thing you’re not in charge of them.”

“I guess, tho, I just be saying,” they let out a sigh, shaking their head, returning their attention to a beeping screen. “You know how much I love them pathetic animals.” Medic shot a look at sidekick, as their eyes bounced between the two, mouthing I don’t, and slid their thumb across their neck when supervillain wasn’t looking. 

Sidekick almost whimpered. 

Supervillain flexed their hands, fingers gracefully dancing as wires loosened from the ceiling, fell in a heap on the ground then receded altogether, sheltering in the supervillain’s pea coat. Only the one wire connected to their collar remained visible, wrapping itself around the supervillain’s wrist that. Like a bracelet, they tucked it away in their sleeve, then opted to move rather than command sidekick to heel. 

Lurching forward, sidekick had no choice but to follow. 

[madpanda75]

“Taking Chances Part 11: The Call”

We’re picking up right where we left off with Theo barging into the gallery to surprise the reader. We also find out who that special someone is that Sonny has his eye 👀

Thanks to everyone for their comments and feedback on this series! It means the world to me ❤️Also a huge thanks to @sass-and-suspenders for being my writing buddy and giving me the idea for the title. 

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains an assault scene and mention of rape.

“Theo, how did you get in?” you sputtered. “You shouldn’t be here! We’re closed.”

Theo scoffed, “Please, that ditzy coworker of yours always forgets to lock the door when she leaves.” He milled around the tiny studio, picking up a handcrafted ceramic vase. “And besides you never cared before.” He set the vase down and winked. 

You could tell that he was drunk. Apart from his disheveled appearance, the aroma of cheap whiskey radiated off his body and hit you like a brick wall. But there was something more, his presence filled you with a sense of foreboding. Nevertheless, you swallowed down your fear and held your ground. “That was then, this is now,” you sneered.

“Why can’t you forgive me? I made a mistake. I’m--”

“You broke us!” you interrupted. “My brother may have invited you to lunch, but I thought I made myself clear when we broke up that I never wanted to see you again.”

Theo’s face hardened. “It’s that older guy, isn’t it?” He looked you over from head to toe, like a predator studying its prey before it attacks. “Never took ya’ for a gold digger, but maybe being a starving artist all these years has made ya’ hard up for cash.” 

“Rafael is twice the man you’ll ever be,” you snarled.

“You sure about that? Ya’ know you and I had some hot times together.” He arched a brow and crudely licked his lips. “Can’t deny there was some definite sexual chemistry between us.”

As he stalked towards you closer and closer, you stepped back, blindly bumping into chairs and easels until you were pushed up against the wall. You were trapped. A chill rippled down your spine and your mouth went dry, panic rising in your throat.

Theo grabbed your wrist and yanked you closer to him. The acrid smell of alcohol combined with his cologne stung your nostrils. “Let go of me.” You struggled to free yourself from Theo’s grasp, but he only tightened his hold on you.

“Don’t be like that,” he cooed in a teasing manner. “How about a kiss for old times sake?” As he leaned in closer with his lips pursed, you finally wrenched free and slapped him hard. Your hand throbbed in pain. Between Theo and Sonny, you were getting tired of smacking people for disrespecting you.

Theo cruelly laughed, completely unphased by your attack. “You stupid bitch,” he growled and backhanded you across the face. The force of his slap caused you to stumble a few steps and run into a nearby table. 

In an instant, he was on top of you with a wild look in his eye. “I always get what I want,” he snarled. Theo hiked up your skirt with one hand while undoing his pants with the other. Bottles of paint toppled over in your struggle, saturating your clothes and the floor. Colors swirling together--angry reds, moody blues until they combined to a murky brown.

All of your self defense classes. All of the lectures your brother gave you about defending yourself-- hammer strike, heel palm strike. It all left your mind in that frantic, terrifying moment. Nevertheless, you fought back as hard you could, clumsily kicking and screaming. 

Luckily, your foot had fantastic aim and connected straight with his groin. Hard. Theo howled in pain and grabbed his crotch, giving you a chance to escape. You scrambled out from under him and collided into Phoebe who had just come back from the coffee shop when she heard you screaming. Coffee and pastries spilled onto the floor. 

Upon seeing your coworker, Theo pushed past you both and ran out of the gallery. But you could care less, you just clung to Phoebe, trembling. “Y/N? What happened? Are you alright?” 

You couldn’t speak. You could hardly catch your breath, on the brink of becoming hysterical. Phoebe took your hand and led you to a nearby chair. “I’m calling 911.” She reached into her purse for her phone when she stopped. “Do you want me to call your brother?”

“No!” you said in a panic. “Can you call his partner instead?” You gave Phoebe Rollins’ cell number. “Please tell her not to tell Sonny.” She nodded and dialed the number. 

While your coworker talked to Amanda, you stood up and walked around the studio. Paints, brushes, easels all covered the floor. And then you saw it. The painting you had been working on for Rafael, in a crumpled head, completely destroyed. Just like everything else in the room. In a matter of minutes, your sanctuary had become a crime scene.

*****

Sonny scaled the steps of One Hogan Place, balancing two cups of coffee in his hands. He took his familiar route, mumbling to himself. Passerbys assumed he was on bluetooth, but in reality he was deep in concentration, trying to come up with the perfect opening line. Unfortunately, the only thing he could come up with was “Hi.” 

After the disastrous lunch on Sunday, Sonny couldn’t stop thinking about what Bella had said. Maybe it was time to let go and take a chance. To put himself out there. As much as he hated to admit, you were happy with Barba. Maybe it was time for him to find his own happiness. 

He stood in front of Barba’s office door, taking a moment to collect himself. His heart hammered in his chest. His palms were clammy. Although he had been to Barba’s office countless times, this time was for a completely different reason.

From the moment Sonny met Carmen, he was hooked. She was beautiful, smart, and unbelievably kind. Not to mention, she knew how to handle Barba. She made him feel at ease. 

He never forgot when SVU had lost a big case, a rapist had been set free on a technicality. The squad and Barba had just broken the news to the survivor. She was only 14 and yet she had lived a lifetime. He would never forget the look on her face. In a way he felt completely responsible. If he had just tried harder, then they would have caught this monster.

That day Sonny was the last one to leave Barba’s office, feeling completely dejected. He thought of his sisters and his mother and how easily any of you could be a victim. He wondered if he was even cut out for this job. How many rapists would be set free during his career? How many victims would he have to disappoint? 

It was then that Carmen approached him. “Hang in there.” She patted him on the shoulder and gave him a warm smile. “They need you, Sonny. You’re one of the good guys.” In that moment, Carmen made Sonny feel safe and comforted. Something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. 

Now all he had to do was work up the nerve to ask her out on a date. “It’s now or never, Carisi,” he thought before opening the door. There she was. The woman of his dreams, sitting at her desk, furiously typing and completely oblivious to the fact that Sonny was right in front of her. 

After several seconds, he cleared his throat and shouted, “Hey you!” Carmen jumped a mile high. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare ya’.” Being a ball of nervous energy, it was not his intention to scream at the poor woman. 

“It’s ok. I wasn’t paying attention.” Sonny nodded and rocked back on his heels, awkwardly standing in front of her. “Um, Mr. Barba is free, if you’d like to see him.”

“Actually. I’m here for you.” He handed over one of the cups of coffee in his hand. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Carmen graciously accepted the cup and took a sip. “I’ve been so busy working on these briefs that I haven’t had a chance to get any.”

Sonny beamed and began taking out of his pockets handfuls of assorted coffee creamers and sugar packets. “I...uh...I didn’t know how ya’ took your coffee so I got ya’ half n half, hazelnut, vanilla, soy milk, almond milk. I got sweet n’ low, regular sugar, sugar in the--”

“Thank you,” Carmen politely interrupted him and pushed all of the creamers and sugars now littering her desk off to the side. “That’s very sweet.”

Sonny turned beet red and took a sip of his coffee. Having been out of the dating game for so long, he was definitely rusty at this. “So...uh...I was just wonderin’ if maybe sometime--”

Just then Rafael burst out of his office. “Carmen, something’s come up and I have to leave. Please hold my calls and cancel all my meetings for today.” Before she could even reply, he brusquely walked past, bumping into Sonny and causing him to spill his coffee. Rafael shot daggers at him. 

Sonny furrowed his brow in confusion, watching Rafael walk out the door. Although Rafael had certainly glared at him before, this time was different. If looks could kill, Sonny would be dead on the floor. “Wonder what that was about?” he mused.

Carmen shook her head. “Don’t know. But it must be bad. I hope everything’s ok.” She then noticed the spilled coffee on Sonny’s shirt and opened her drawer, pulling out a stain removing pen for clothes. “May I?”  She walked over to Sonny and began to clean the coffee stain before it began to set. 

Being that close to Carmen, Sonny felt weak in the knees. He lost himself in her warm brown eyes and the honeyed sweet scent of her orange blossom perfume. “Thanks,” he managed to squeak out.

“It’s no problem,” she said with a shy smile. “With the amount of coffee Mr. Barba drinks, I keep a stash of these at my desk. Just in case of an emergency.” 

“So like I was saying earlier, I thought if you were free sometime that maybe you’d like to--”

Suddenly, a loud ring coming from his coat pocket cut him off. The universe was not working in his favor today. He pulled his phone out and saw Bella’s name flash across his screen. “Excuse me,” he told Carmen before answering the phone. “Hey Bella. Can I call ya’ back?” 

Bella let out a sob in response and Sonny felt his stomach drop. “Bella? What’s wrong?”

“Sonny,” she managed to say through her tears. “You need to get to the precinct. Now. Something’s happened with Y/N.”

Tag List:

@glimmerglittergirl @southern-magnolia @sweetcannolicarisi @delia26 @obfuscateyummy @sass-and-suspenders @eclecticminded @thatesqcrush @katmstanton @amirightcounsellor @beltzboys2015-blog @letty-o @sonnysdoll @lyssa1385 @sweetsummertime99 @burningsorr0ws @gibbs274 @izzythefanfreak @babypink224221 @livxrafa @esparza-army @obsessionprofessional @ottosuricato @mgarner1227 @dreila03 @frenchiefoxy @tropes-and-tales @thecraziestcrayon @goodluckfindingone @scarletsoldierrr @youreverycolor @yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii @imjustreallynosy @graniairish @ashley-chi @lolacolaempath @cocomel0613 @imagine-all-the-imagines @mysterioustrashadventures @that-girl-named-alex @scapricciatello @mrsrafaelbarba @zizzlekwum @katierpblogg @crowleysqueenofhell @caked-crusader​ @garturbo @rachelxwayne @averyhotchner @sarcastically-defensive17 @permanentlydizzy @beccabarba @infiniteoddball

[much-ado-about-exy]

familiar ghosts

whumptober day 1: “you have to let go”

ao3

Dick is… tired. Although he can’t exactly remember why. There’s this bone-deep, crushing exhaustion in his limbs that feels too heavy for a fifteen-year-old kid to bear - although, being fifteen also feels sort of wrong for some reason, which is weird. But old ladies at galas for Wayne Enterprises tell him that he’s got an old soul, sometimes, so maybe that’s what that’s all about. Maybe his very old soul is chafing under the awkwardness of adolescence just as much as the rest of him is.

He does his best to shake off whatever it is, anyway. Today’s a really cool day, because Wally, who’s been his best friend for years and his crush for at least a couple months, give or take, finally asked him out on a date, and they’re meeting in Central City this afternoon. School’s just let out and Dick is already halfway to the closest Zeta-Tube to Gotham Academy, the chatter of his recently-dismissed classmates quickly fading behind him. 

The coordinates for the Zeta-Tube down the street from Wally’s house are as familiar to Dick as his own cell phone number - he’s been visiting Wally this way since before Batman even trusted him to be using the Tubes on his own, which - he’d certainly gotten in trouble for, at the time, but it had never really stopped him. He punches in the command impatiently and even though the transport is near-instantaneous, he can’t shake the restlessness in his limbs that overtakes him as he’s spat out of the Tube and into Central.

He pauses for a minute inside the phone booth that disguises the Tube’s entrance, changing from his school uniform into normal-people civvies before ducking out and sauntering determinedly unsuspiciously - spiciously? Maybe not - out of the alley and down the street. 

Wally’s waiting for him on his front porch already, of course. With the time difference, he’s been out of school for over an hour by now. He looks nice - he always looks nice, of course - although his hair is brushed kind of weird - it strikes Dick that maybe Wally dressed up a little, for this date, and that maybe Dick should have, too? But it’s Wally, his best friend, he hadn’t thought- well, there’s really nothing to be done about it now. Jeans and a short-sleeved shirt will have to do. 

Dick bounces on the balls of his feet once, twice, three times, suddenly anxious, before Wally’s down the stairs and standing in front of him. 

“Hey, dude- er, is dude still okay?” Wally scratches the back of his neck, face slowly turning red. 

“Duh,” says Dick. “Dude, nothing has to change that we don’t want to.”

“Right, yeah,” says Wally, grinning. 

He reaches out for a fistbump, but Dick pulls him into a hug instead. He’s still shorter than Wally, although by less than he had been a year or two ago, and he can hear the speedster’s heart pounding through his shirt as Wally’s arms tentatively close around him. It’s Dick’s turn to blush, now, and he lets go just as quickly as he’d grabbed on to begin with. What had he done that for?

He hastily bumps his fist against Wally’s loosely curled hand and turns to lead the way down the street, hoping it’s not obvious how jittery he is. 

“Dick,” says Wally, easily catching up and grabbing Dick’s hand, “you’re about to start cartwheeling down the street, man. Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“I am!” Dick sounds defensive even to himself. He sighs. “I’m just… Nervous. We’ve been friends forever! But it feels like… Things are supposed to feel different, now? On a date? And I don’t know how to do that right. What’s supposed to change?”

“Dude, you said it yourself.” Wally stops walking, drags Dick to a stop by their joined hands, and turns to face him. “Nothing, that we don’t want to. We’re still best bros - we can just, like, hold hands and kiss and stuff if we want to, now.”

That last bit comes out in a rush, Wally’s gaze dropping to the pavement. Dick grins. He’s spent enough time daydreaming about kissing Wally the thought of it hardly phases him anymore, except for the electricity that it sends down his spine to know that he can now.

“Totally,” he says, tugging on Wally’s hand to get them moving again. “You ready for me to kick your ass at roller skating?”

“Roller skating isn’t a competitive sport, you dick! And you’ve never been before, either.” 

Dick totally kicks Wally’s ass at roller skating. 

But something feels… Off about it. It’s not like he’s ever been inside the Central City Rollarama before today, but he has the strangest sense of deja vu about it. And he’s… Honestly better at skating than he probably should be, even given his solid sense of balance and acrobatic inclinations. And so is Wally - Dick has an itchy phantom memory of Wally landing on his ass over and over again on skates, laughing through a fake scowl every time Dick hauled him to his feet, but he knows - he knows - that they’ve never done this together before. Right?

He’s very purposefully continuing to ignore the sinking wrongness he’s been feeling all day, though, because he’s having fun, dammit, and whatever vigilante-dread-sense weirdness is going on can wait. Wally clings to his shoulders and appears to be doing his level best to drag the both of them to the ground as Dick tows him in circles around the rink, and Dick’s own laughter has him doubled over enough of the time that he’s sure Wally’s going to succeed.

Miraculously, they survive two hours of this - with no major injuries, no less - before Wally’s stomach starts to growl. 

“Ice cream?” Dick asks, guiding them toward the rink’s exit so they can take off their skates. 

“Babe,” Wally says, looking at Dick like he hung every star in the sky, or completed a titration with a margin of error less than one percent, “you read my mind.” 

It’s a good thing they’re near the wall by now, because Wally calling him babe just about knocks Dick off his feet, and the only thing that saves him from a bruised tailbone is the railing he grabs onto before he tips too far backward. 

“Cool,” he says, breathless. Please, god, don’t let Wally have noticed that. “Let’s go, then!”

While they swap out their skates for shoes, for just a second, Wally flickers into someone older, someone tired, and so does Dick. And then they’re back to normal again. 

They hold hands on their way to the ice cream shop down the street. Wally’s hand is warm and a little sweaty, and just a bit too small- too small? No, it’s just right. Their hands fit together as if they were always meant to hold each other. It’s perfect, so perfect that Dick barely keeps from skipping with how happy it makes him. 

Wally orders a strawberry cone, and Dick gets chocolate in a cup, but they’ve hardly even walked away from the shop with their ice cream when Wally sneaks up behind Dick and steals several bites of his. 

Dick gasps dramatically, whirling around to face the thief, who has already swallowed his stolen goods and returned to his own ice cream. 

“Wally,” he whines, “you jerk!”

“It’s good manners to share.” Wally turns up his nose and looks down it at Dick, smile lines betraying his stern expression.

And, really, Dick doesn’t even like strawberry ice cream, but that sort of behavior simply can’t be allowed. So, it’s strictly on principle that he grabs onto Wally’s arm and hangs off of it, switching tactics to try to clamber onto Wally’s shoulders when Wally passes his cone to his unassailed arm.

“Let go, you goof,” says Wally, dancing backwards out of Dick’s reach and holding his ice cream aloft. 

“What?” Dick asks, laughing. “Can’t handle the heat?”

But Dick blinks and something’s changed - Wally’s face is serious now, where it had been creased with smile lines half a second before. It’s alarming enough that Dick whirls around in a circle, certain that some supervillain is trying to get the drop on him, but there’s nothing there. 

“Dick,” says Wally, voice grave, and suddenly he seems much less corporeal than he had just a few seconds ago, shimmering like hot air over pavement, “let go.” 

“What?” Dick’s voice is higher, younger, less confident than some part of him knows it should be. This is wrong, it’s all wrong, this isn’t how today goes, but he doesn’t want to think about what that means, not now, not when things are so good. “I let go, I’m all the way over here now. It’s fine, see?” 

“You have to let go,” Wally says. Electricity sparks across Wally’s chest and his very existence seems to flicker with it. Old and then young again. Here and then gone. “It’s time, dude.” 

“Time for what?” Dick asks. He’s panicking now, unable to calm himself down. He hates being confused like this, hates being left in the dark, hates knowing even more. But he gets no answer. 

Wally’s ice cream splatters to the sidewalk, stray droplets landing on Dick’s beat up sneakers, as the boy holding it vanishes without a trace. 

---

And Dick, nineteen, alone in the oppressive dark of his Blüdhaven apartment, wakes up. 

[cockasinthebird]

“Truth or dare?”

“What?”

When it was time to go home from yet another high school party, both Billy and Steve had agreed that they're definitely too wasted to drive, and Steve doesn't live that far away, and the sky is clear with a near full moon, stars painting the black above.

“Come on Stevie, I'm bored and the silence will literally put me asleep,” Billy blurts out far too loud, and swings back another sip of his beer.

In his other hand, he holds on to Steve,

Who's trying to balance on the edge of the sidewalk, normally not something all that dangerous, but given how everything dances around him, it's best to have a safety net in hand. Billy's hand. Clasped tightly and warmly. But they're both too far gone to realize.

“Fine,” Steve gives in, his gaze locked on his feet as he concentrates. “I gotta say I don't trust you enough to do a dare; I know how reckless you can be, so truth.”

“Hm, boring.” Billy smiles never the less. “What's your favorite color?”

And at that, Steve stops walking on the curb like he's a dancer on a tight rope. He moves up to where Billy's waiting, patiently, and smiles right back at him. “Really, Hargrove? We've been best friends for who knows how long, and you don't even know my favorite color?”

Their shoulders bump together, eyes stuck in a staring contest, hands lingering. “I'm not a very good listener,” Billy chuckles.

Moves his hand out of their grasp to run it through his hair. And even as he looks away, face flushed from the alcohol and lips wet with the taste of beer, Steve keeps staring. He can count the freckles from here as clearly as the stars in the sky.

“Blue.”

Billy turns to catch his gaze again.

“Blue is my favorite color,” Steve repeats with more intent; wants to be certain that Billy hears it this time.

And Billy hears him. Licks his lips clean, and maybe his face grows a bit more red, maybe he's suddenly so shy about meeting brown with blue, as he looks at the road ahead.

“Your turn,” Steve says and bumps their shoulders together. “Truth or dare?”

“Guess I'll say truth too, since we're being huge pussies tonight,” he laughs and bumps right back.

Steve's eyes fall a bit as they walk side by side. Billy's shirt is unbuttoned as always, showing off the tan pecs he works tirelessly on. “Do you wax your chest?”

Billy grins and sticks out his tongue. He bites briefly on it before nodding. “Yeah, but it's not the only thing I wax.” Winks at how Steve's staring, honeyed eyes goes from his bare chest to where his lips curl around the beer again.

“I don't need to know more than that,” Steve laughs, face red from embarrassment as if he's been caught doing something he's not supposed to. And perhaps he isn't. “I'll say truth again.”

“Have you ever walked in on your parents doing it?” Billy had that one ready real quick, and continues grinning wide.

And Steve laughs, a sound that quickly falters to something... somewhat pained. “Yeah, but... not with each other.”

Silence is quick to settle between them as Billy's drunken mind has to figure out just what that means, when-

“Oh.” They both look ahead. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-”

“No, no it's... it's ok, don't worry about it.” Steve tries for a smile, but it lacks that spark of joy. “So, truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Hmm...” Steve hums in thought and runs a hand through his hair, before looking at Billy with a raised brow. “What's the first thing you'd do if you woke up as a woman?”

Billy's laugh is a pleasure to hear, and he looks at Steve with a knowing grin. “Oh I would find the nearest clean dick, and ride it till my pussy broke.”

And Steve can't keep his own guffaws down, throws his head back to let it out. “Of course you would!”

“What, like you wouldn't?!”

“Of course I would! What guy wouldn't just go chasing whatever available cock just to try.”

Billy's grin twists into something more... mischievous, and he bites down on his tongue. “You make it sound like something you've considered before, princess,” he teases.

Words that makes Steve's inviting lips part, gaze quickly looking down at Billy's bawdy, crooked smirk, then up before he's caught staring too long again. “Wouldn't you like to know.”

He would. But instead, he says, “Come on, pick dare this time, I promise I won't make you run down the street naked or anything! I dare you to pick dare.”

“Fine.” Steve cannot possibly be expected to deny Billy that pleasure; not when he's practically begging. “I choose dare.”

“Well, then I dare you to sing.”

“Sing?” Steve cocks a brow. Grateful and relieved that that's all.

“Yeah, just, sing me something.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.” Billy nods with a smile, ready to laugh his ass off.

“Okay, but don't forget you asked for this, right?”

“Right.”

So Steve takes a few long steps to get ahead of Billy, and grant him some mercy from what he's about to hear. But he did ask for it.

Then he whips around and points at Billy. “Won't you come see about me? I'll be alone, dancing you know it baby.”

Billy's cheeks hurts from smiling this wide, eyes just as expansive, as he watches Steve rather awkwardly move and “dance” with no music.

“Tell me your troubles and doubts-”

Oh.

“Giving me everything inside and out and, love's strange, so real in the dark-”

Oh.

“Think of the tender things that we were working on.”

Oh no.

It doesn't sound terrible; he's not going to make it in the music business if that was ever an idea, but it's... not as bad as Billy thought it would be. It's actually kinda... nice. Maybe if Steve wasn't super blasted on all the numerous things he's consumed tonight, it could be good.

Steve's voice excites his heart far too much.

“I'm not- I'm not gonna sing you the whole song,” Steve laughs and hides his face behind hands.

“Yeah, no,” Billy manages to utter and takes a final sip of his beer. “I've definitely heard enough.”

“Shut up, I warned you!” Steve smiles brightly and falls back into a rhythm with Billy, as they continue staggering home. “So, truth or dare?”

“I'll take a dare too.”

“Alright...” Steve looks around the sleeping street as he considers his options. When they pass by a house with the most gorgeous front yard, and his lazy smile turns for the worse. “Ok, I dare you to piss on that flowerbed.”

And Billy follows the way Steve's pointing, to a row of yellow somethings, what does he look like, a gardener? “You want me to... piss on a strangers flowers?”

“Yup,” he pops the p.

“Isn't that illegal or something?” Billy turns to look at Steve, who huffs out a little laugh.

“I dunno, but has that ever stopped you from doing something before?” He crosses his arms and waits expectantly.

Well, he does have to pee, but this is just... “Turn around.”

“What?” Steve laughs incredulously.

“Turn around!” Billy shoves at his shoulder. “I'm not about to whip my dick out and take a piss in front of you!”

“It's not like I haven't seen it before!”

“Oh so you're admitting to taking a look in the showers?” Billy feigns shock, as he knows Steve's been looking. Billy's been looking, too.

But Steve simply scoffs and turns 180 degrees. Hears the zipper, soon followed by a familiar splashing sound.

“So, truth or dare?”

“You don't... you don't wanna finish first?” Steve stutters awkwardly.

“Come on, Harrington, just pretend we're standing at the urinals or something. Truth or dare?”

“Uhh, truth.”

“What's the naughtiest thing you've done in public?” the grin on his face ardently clear in his tone, as Billy watches his steady stream knock down a flower.

And Steve hesitates to answer, but they're drunk enough for it to seem harmless to say, “I once got a blowjob in a drive-in cinema.”

A loud snicker escapes from Billy. “From who? Nancy? Can't imagine little miss perfect being ok with that.”

“For your information, no, I never asked her to do anything like that.” Steve shakes his head, but he keeps smiling. Cheeks warm with the memory of lips around him so publicly, the sounds and imagery of it still so vivid, it could excite him too much right now. “But that's it, I answered, you can't ask me about it any further, ok?”

“Yeah fine, don't get your panties all in a twist,” Billy groans and rolls his eyes.

“So are you done soon, or?” Steve plants his hands on his hips and strikes a rather impatient pose.

“Hold on, lemme just...” And the zipper goes back up.

He then pats Steve on the back and moves his hand up to squeeze by his shoulder.

“I take truth, if you're just gonna waste the dare on stupid shit like that.”

“Well it sounded like you really needed it, so-”

“I said truth, pretty boy, come on.”

Steve laughs at the irritation by the edge of Billy's voice, and turns his head to look at how close he's standing, shoulder by chin.

But Billy's set in just staring straight ahead, ignoring how near they are.

“What's the dumbest thing you've ever done?”

And there isn't an answer for a good long while; it feels almost as if they're just silently passing underneath streetlights for minutes, Billy's heart working overtime as it thrashes around in his chest.

He almost looks... scared, when he says, “Fallen in love.” And he doesn't meet Steve's gaze. Can't look at him now, not when his entire soul just feel so... vulnerable.

“So,” his voice suddenly all rusty, and he clears his throat. “Truth or dare?”

“Give me another dare, then!” Steve says with an upbeat tone, trying to keep the mood between them light, because it'll be all too easy to drink their sorrows away once they reach his home, and that's just... depressing.

He doesn't think twice about it when Billy stops walking, stands dead beneath one bright lamp. Not until he's several feet ahead, and turns with confusion written across his brows. “Billy are you ok-”

“I dare you to kiss me.” It feels like Billy's heart is about to break his ribs from the inside, stomach a hurricane of fire, but the words are out there now, and there's nothing he can do but wait.

Wait a whole two seconds, before Steve nearly runs at him, grabs him by that broad jaw, fingers dipping into golden curls, and lips softer than he could ever have dreamed. Billy has to take a step back or they'd fall onto the sidewalk here, Steve pressing into him with such unexpected vigor, as if he's the one who's been waiting impatiently for this opportunity.

The empty bottle clinks against the concrete below, as Billy swings both arms tightly around Steve's waist, fisting at his jacket and forcing them as close as possible, as if he's attempting to merge bodies with the other, who sighs something so satisfied into their rough yet intimate embrace.

Steve eventually pulls off, but keeps Billy's face in his hands, a thumb gently caressing his burning pink cheeks. “You have... no idea how long I've wanted to do that.”

“I think I do,” Billy nearly sings along with how jubilant his heart is, and slips out of Steve's grasp as he dives for another kiss.

[sociallyawkward--fics]

Last Christmas

Here it is, lol. The fic I wrote last night with Wham!’s “Last Christmas” on repeat for literally Three Hours Straight lol. It is entirely unedited except for me having a friend read it over briefly and them go “you’re missing a period here” and nothing else lol. Please be kind though, I have not written for months and any Christmas fics I’m posting are more just warm-ups to get me back to the level of writing I was before I accidentally took a break, cuz no way I’m jumping back into my Big Projects without getting myself back up to par lol

ALSO, I know Jaskier seems like,,, really aggressive towards Yen in this fic. She's not meant to be a villain! Jaskier just is jealous and sad so he takes it out on her a little bit, which is definitely not the right thing to do but I think it's a very human thing to do. After this I imagine them going for coffee or smth and just lovingly trash-talking Geralt and realizing "wow we can actually be decent friends" lol

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

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types; Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game); The Witcher (TV); Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski

Relationship: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia; Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg; Triss Merigold; Zoltan Chivay; Iorveth (The Witcher); Eskel (The Witcher); Vernon Roche

Additional Tags: eskel triss iorveth and roche are barely-there btw; Jealous Jaskier | Dandelion; Mistletoe; Getting Together; Misunderstandings; Miscommunication; Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg; Alcohol; Drinking; Smoking; (very briefly) - Freeform; Communication; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings; Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia; Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia; Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion; Mutual Pining; Kissing; Hugs; Alternate Universe - Modern Setting; Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers; Alternate Universe - No Powers; Holidays; Christmas; Christmas Party

Word Count: 3614 words

[ao3 link]

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

It took an embarrassing amount of time for Jaskier to work up the courage to leave his car. Instead he sat there, heat off and car growing increasingly frosty, forehead against the steering wheel as he bemoaned his own very existence. He did not want to go to this party, which was very out of character for him.

But Jaskier couldn’t take another repeat of last year’s holiday party. And he knew the second he saw Geralt, he would be back there again.

They had both been decently tipsy, which was their first mistake, but Jaskier knew that neither of them were drunk. That’s why he had been so shocked when Geralt made the first move, pressing him up against the wall to the men’s room and ravishing his mouth. They’d gone home together to Jaskier’s flat and had a wonderful night together, but Geralt had been gone come morning.

They never spoke of that night. And by the next week, Geralt had been back in his on-again, off-again relationship with Yennefer.

Jaskier thought he’d gotten over it. As much as he didn’t regret it, it was clear that Geralt did, and he wasn’t going to push his feelings onto the man when they were so clearly unwanted. It was a miracle their friendship survived it, with how testy they had been with each other for weeks afterward.

Jaskier took a deep breath and tightened his scarf around his neck, finally leaving his car to make his way into the hotel ballroom that Foltest had booked for the night. At least their work holiday parties weren’t held in the offices, Jaskier wouldn’t have been able to force himself back to work after last year if they were.

Jaskier’s traitorous eyes immediately sought out Geralt the moment he walked in. He wasn’t hard to find, with his striking silver hair and refusal to wear anything but black. He stuck out like a sore thumb, in the sea of red and green and gold. But god, did he look good. Unfortunately, he was already occupied with the only other person in the room who refused to wear color: Yennefer. 

Jaskier forced his eyes away, directing them instead towards the makeshift bar. Zoltan was already there, and, judging by the red on his cheeks, already several drinks in. Jaskier couldn’t exactly judge. He was going to need quite a few drinks to get through this night as well.

“Good old Dandelion!” Zoltan crowed as he approached, words only slightly slurred.

“Zoltan,” Jaskier greeted with an easy smile, nodding at the bartender. “When are you ever going to give up on that silly nickname?”

Zoltan snorted. “You’re the one who calls himself a flower, Julian.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Fair enough.”

Soon enough, Jaskier had a drink in his hand and an earful of Zoltan’s voice, accent only growing thicker and harder to understand the drunker he got. He was barely following what Zoltan was talking about, anymore. Something about his ex father-in-law’s business tanking? He seemed rather pleased by it, in any case. Jaskier probably would be to, if he wasn’t still so anxious.

“What’s got a stick up yer ass?” Zoltan asked after a while, winding down from his latest story.

“Just… not in a partying mood, I suppose.”

Zoltan laughed uproariously. “You? Not in a party mood? Never thought I’d see the day!”

Jaskier gave a half-hearted smile, knowing Zoltan was too far gone to notice that fact, and let his eyes wander the crowd. After a few drinks, he was beginning to feel pleasantly tipsy. The idea of lasting out the party was actually beginning to feel manageable, though he still felt like giving Yennefer and Geralt a wide berth. They always exploded at these things, and Jaskier didn’t want to be caught in the middle of that.

Again.

That was one fight their friendship almost hadn’t survived, and it was the worst six months of Jaskier’s life. And that was including the past twelve months after the last holiday party.

“Come on, Dandelion,” Zoltan said, and Jaskier’s attention was drawn back to the bar. “Sit down for a game of cards with me! Or perhaps a round of dice?”

Jaskier laughed, his first true laugh of the night. “I know better than to gamble with you, old friend. It’s about time I mingled, don’t you think? Give the masses what they desire.”

Zoltan laughed again and gave him a sloppy wink. “Go get ‘em, tomcat. I’ll find some other poor fool to swindle.”

Jaskier grinned. “I don’t doubt it.”

Jaskier slipped away from the bar and into the crowd. He greeted people with hugs and kisses on the cheek, making them laugh and shove him away with teasing grins. He twirled between groups of people in a carefully perfected dance, muscle memory even with the alcohol in his system.

Unfortunately, that muscle memory rather quickly led him to Geralt’s current circle of companions. Yennefer and Triss were there, clearly making an intense effort to not be at each other’s throats. Eskel was there, which wasn’t surprising: as much as a sweetheart as he was, Eskel’s social skills definitely needed some development, and he tended to use Jaskier and Geralt as a social crutch (despite the fact that his brother was even worse with people than he was). Iorveth and Vernon Roche were on opposite sides of the little circle the group had formed, and Jaskier dreaded that disaster waiting to happen.

Really, how did Geralt attract such dramatic people to him so easily?

Despite how suddenly off-kilter Jaskier felt being so close to Geralt, last year flashing through his mind, he knew he couldn’t show it. Geralt would notice, and then it would be awkward for them both, and Jaskier would never forgive himself for ruining Geralt’s Christmas two years in a row.

So he flitted around the group, being his charming self. His smile felt forced as he gave Iorveth and Roche (very awkward) one-armed hugs. His stomach churned as he kissed Triss on the cheek. His balance felt off as he waltzed into Eskel’s arms for one of his patented bear hugs (though that was likely the alcohol, now that he thought about it).

“How is it that you’re already drunk, Jaskier?” Geralt said as Jaskier pulled out of Eskel’s arms.

Jaskier shot him a cheeky grin. “Not drunk, my dear--friend. My dear friend. Merely tipsy.”

“With a stutter like that forming?” Yennefer teased, holding out her hand.

Jaskier indulged her dramatics and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, chest burning white hot all the while. His smile was probably slightly too-sharp when he stood back up again, but he couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

“The heavier side of tipsy, perhaps,” Jaskier replied, smoothly sliding in beside Geralt to drape himself over Geralt’s shoulders.

A chorus of titters and chuckles went through the circle and Jaskier furrowed his brow. He rubbed his face and ran a hand through his hair, searching for imperfections but finding none. He then looked toward Geralt for an explanation, but the poor man looked just as confused as Jaskier was.

“Aren’t you wondering why none of us were standing all that close to Geralt?” Triss asked, that coy smile Jaskier was all-too-familiar with making its way onto her lips.

And now that she mentioned that, it was odd. Yennefer was usually glued to Geralt’s other side, and Triss was almost always trying to butt her way in. Her jealousy tended to be a great deal more obvious than Jaskier’s, deliberately trying to provoke the two of them. Jaskier simply got drunk and wrote songs about unrequited love, he knew better than to try and put himself between them.

Roche rolled his eyes as Jaskier and Geralt still just stared at the group rather dumbly. He pointed upwards and their eyes followed his finger.

Geralt, very unfortunately, was halfway into a doorway. Taped to the top of the frame of said doorway was a little sprig of green. Jaskier felt his heart stop. He had to swallow to keep the bile from rising up in his throat. He pulled away from where he was leaning on Geralt. The group was still laughing and teasing good-naturedly, but Jaskier felt like his world was crashing down around him. He looked toward Eskel for help, being the kindest of the group.

Only Eskel just shrugged with a grin. “It is tradition.”

“Oh come on, now,” Yennefer said, her voice twisting around Jaskier’s throat like a noose. “We’re all adults here. Just get it over with.”

Jaskier slowly met Geralt’s eyes. He was impossible to read, even moreso than normal, and Jaskier felt that familiar pit open up in his stomach. He needed to get this over with and then smoothly make his escape. Perhaps claim he’d had more to drink than he thought and needed to call a cab.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked quietly, barely more than a whisper.

Jaskier gave him a small smile and leaned forward. He pressed a feather-light kiss to the scruff of Geralt’s cheek before pulling away, his heart not able to take much more than that.

Jaskier couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he walked away.

Jaskier’s kiss was a barely-there peck to the cheek. Before Geralt could even hope to respond, he was gone.

The group’s teasing had quieted down, and Geralt dared to look up. Iorveth and Roche seemed confused, not close enough to the rest of the group to be caught up on the drama. Eskel seemed torn between beating himself up and beating Geralt up. Triss seemed guilty.

And Yennefer was just smug.

Geralt found himself grinding his teeth. Of course she was behind this (though it was clear that Triss had some hand in it, as well). Their most recent breakup, for once, had been amicable. The past few years had been hell for them, trying to make their relationship work even though they both knew it was never going anywhere. Jaskier was Yennefer’s last straw.

Geralt was more horrified that Yennefer had so easily picked up on his feelings for Jaskier than hurt by the breakup. If she had picked up on them, then surely Jaskier had?

Is that what that hauntingly sad smile Jaskier gave him before he kissed him was for? Did Jaskier pity him? Was he trying to let Geralt down easy?

“Go after him,” she said simply.

“Yen, this isn’t one of your games--”

“No,” she replied, voice suddenly terse. “So stop treating it like one and act like an adult, Geralt. I think we’ve all had quite enough of you two being like this, and it only got worse after last year’s party.”

“Which you still won’t talk about,” Triss chimed in, raising an eyebrow.

“So go talk to him.”

Geralt resisted the urge to growl. “Fine.”

Jaskier wasn’t hard to find, when you knew him as well as Geralt did. He liked to be high up when he was upset, saying it made him feel like he was getting some perspective on his problems. Geralt liked to joke that it was because he was more at home with his head in the clouds.

Jaskier was on a balcony overlooking the city, a pack of cigarettes sitting on the railing. A lit one rested between his fingers, the smoke curling into the air and entwining with the condensation trailing from his lips thanks to the cold air.

“I thought you quit,” Geralt said quietly.

Jaskier turned his head, not far enough to face Geralt but far enough to let Geralt see the wry half smile on his lips.

“You know how the holidays are,” Jaskier replied, taking a long drag from his cigarette and turning back to the cityscape.

Geralt moved forward to lean against the railing next to him, letting out a heavy sigh and watching the white vapor twist into the air. He didn’t know how to have this conversation. Between the two of them, Jaskier was by far the more emotionally intelligent one. With him shutting down like this, Geralt didn’t know what to say.

“Are you… okay?”

Jaskier snorted. “Yeah, Geralt. I’m great.”

Geralt considered the words for a few moments, turning around the tone of voice in his head. “Sarcasm,” he decided. 

It was much easier to decipher when he himself was using it, rather than try to pick out when others were.

Jaskier sighed, hanging his head. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Geralt shook his head. “What’s going on?”

Jaskier took another drag of his cigarette. “Nothing, Geralt. Don’t worry about it.”

Geralt let out a frustrated growl, not sure how else to express himself in the moment. He snatched the pack of cigarettes off the railing (breathing out a sigh of relief when only one was missing -- the one between Jaskier’s fingers) and ripped the lit one out of Jaskier’s hand, tossing both items over the edge of the balcony.

“What the fuck, Geralt?!”

Geralt stared at him. “You told me last time you quit to not let you start up again.”

Jaskier groaned and put his head into his hands. “Shit. I did, didn’t I?”

Geralt hummed an affirmative.

“Aside from saving my lungs, was there something you needed, Geralt?”

Geralt leaned back against the railing, clasping his hands together. “To know what’s had you acting so weird all night.”

He felt Jaskier’s eyes on him, could see him staring out of his peripheral, but Geralt kept his eyes on the lights of the city. With all the light pollution, it was probably as close to stars as they would get without driving out to the mountains.

“You really want to know?” Jaskier asked eventually, his voice low.

“Yes.”

“Tonight I was pressured into kissing the man that broke my heart, about a year ago now.”

Geralt flinched back, finally looking over toward Jaskier. Jaskier was still staring at him, his blue eyes almost seeming to glow in the dark of the balcony.

“Who--Who broke--”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, face remaining impassive.

Geralt hesitated. “I broke your heart?”

Jaskier sighed and turned away, looking toward the horizon. “Last holiday party, we went home together. We made love for hours. I told you I cared for you deeply. And when I woke up, you were gone.”

Geralt wanted to say something, wanted to defend himself, but his voice felt like it was glued in his throat, unable to escape.

“Barely any time had passed before you were back in Yennefer’s pocket, not a thought given to us. And we never talked about it.”

Geralt swallowed. “I didn’t realize--”

Jaskier threw his hands up in the air, a frustrated laugh escaping his lips. Geralt’s frown deepened when he saw Jaskier’s eyes glistening.

“Didn’t realize what, Geralt? I thought I was being pretty obvious about the fact that I’m in love with you!”

“Yennefer and I broke up,” Geralt said, deciding to tackle the topic he knew how to talk about first.

Jaskier snorted, leaning his back against the railing and crossing his arms. “What else is new?”

Geralt shook his head. “For good, this time.”

Jaskier only stared at him. Geralt huffed out a breath as he searched for his words, running a hand through his hair.

“You know how… Sometimes, you can have a great friendship with each other, but when you try to date you end up being really toxic and horrible to each other? That’s me and Yen.”

“Could’ve told you that three years ago. Oh wait, I did.”

Geralt sighed. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t listen, Jask. I just… I wanted it to work so bad, we both did. Even though we knew it never would.”

Jaskier looked down at his feet. “I know. I’m sorry for snapping like that.”

“It’s okay.”

Jaskier looked back up at him. “So what was the final nail in the coffin? What sealed the deal for you two?”

Geralt looked away, choosing a specific building to look at and staring at it intensely. His fingers itched to fiddle with something, but he forced them to stay still, clenching the freezing metal of the railing.

“I love Yen. But she and I both realized that I would never love her as much as I loved you.”

The silence stretched on for far too long and Geralt could feel his skin prickling with anxiety. His throat felt like it had swollen shut, making it difficult to breathe and impossible to get any words out. He wanted to look at Jaskier, see his reaction, but his body was locked in place.

“And if you love me so much, Geralt,” Jaskier said, his voice even more icy than the balcony railing leeching the warmth from his fingers, “why did you leave me?”

Geralt gave into the urge to fidget, reaching up for the pendant on his chest. His fingers were clumsy and numb from the cold, making him fumble, but the action was still soothing.

“I didn’t realize you meant it. Jaskier, you flirt with everyone. You’ve probably slept with half the company, and while I don’t judge you for that, I couldn’t help but feel like I was just the next notch in your bedpost.”

Jaskier dropped his face into his hands. “God, Geralt, I only slept with most of those people to try and get over you. You had Yennefer, and I was just me. I knew you would never choose me over her.”

“I am now.”

Jaskier stayed silent for a moment. “And if I decide that it’s too late?”

There was an uncomfortable burning feeling behind Geralt’s eyes and he did his best to push it back down. 

“Then I would respect your decision, and hope we could still be friends come tomorrow. I don’t want to lose you, Jask.”

Jaskier didn’t reply.

“I’m sorry I made you wait so long. I’m sorry I was so blind to your feelings.”

“And say we did do this,” Jaskier said, his voice still guarded. “What about Yennefer?”

Geralt shook his head. “There’s nothing left for me and Yen. We’re done hurting each other for a relationship that will never feel good.” Geralt couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his lips as he tacked on, “Plus, with the looks Triss has been shooting her, I don’t think Yennefer will be too lonely.”

Jaskier shot him an incredulous look. “Triss and Yennefer hate each other!”

Geralt chuckled. “Yeah, when I was involved. Yen can, quite frankly, be a jealous bitch, and Triss certainly wasn’t letting up on the flirting.”

Jaskier searched his face. “And Triss?”

“There was never going to be any me and Triss, and she knew that. Honestly, I think her flirting these days has been more to toy with Yen than to actually try and woo me.”

Jaskier turned his gaze toward the night sky, a muddy brown-black-orange that ruined any hope of seeing the stars “Huh.”

“They both know there’s only one person I’m looking to woo me, anyway.”

Geralt watched Jaskier break out in a goofy, giddy smile, clearly involuntarily based on the way he quickly bit his lip to try and suppress it. Slowly, carefully, Geralt reached out for one of Jaskier’s hands, tugging gently until his arms came unravelled.

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shook his head. “I’m sorry, too. I should’ve said something.”

“Can I hug you?”

Jaskier’s goofy smile was back and Geralt felt his heart clench. He hoped to see that smile so much more.

“Only if I can kiss you,” Jaskier replied, bouncing on his toes a little.

Geralt grinned. “I find that an acceptable trade.”

Jaskier laughed then, pulling him into a tight hug. They stayed like that for a long while, sharing heat and just soaking in each other’s presence. Slowly starting to accept that this was real, that this was happening. Geralt clenched his hands tightly into Jaskier’s sweater.

And then, some long minutes later, they pulled back from the hug just enough to press their lips together. It was soft and chaste, but by no means short. Geralt decided that kissing Jaskier felt like coming home.

They slipped away after that, deciding not to head back to the party. Their friends would assume things, sure, but they didn’t care. They had lost time to make up for, they could make up for not saying goodbye later.

Geralt drove them home, back to Jaskier’s flat just like last year. Jaskier fiddled with the radio as the streets blurred around them, trying to find an appropriately-themed holiday station. He burst into cackles the second he found one.

“Tell me this is not Wham!,” Geralt begged.

Jaskier was laughing too hard to reply.

“I hate it,” Geralt said, despite being on the verge of laughter himself. “I hate it so much. Stop laughing, it’s not funny.”

“It’s so funny!” Jaskier wheezed, clutching his stomach as he doubled over in his seat.

Jaskier had only just barely calmed down by the time they got to his flat. They curled up on his ratty old couch with some hot chocolate and put on a Christmas movie, but it became more background noise than anything. 

Instead they talked. They talked about their past together and how it hurt them, and their future and how they would prevent that from hurting too. They talked until Geralt’s throat was sore and Jaskier was nodding off on his shoulder. Geralt couldn’t find the energy to carry him to bed, so he simply readjusted their position on the couch to be something more comfortable and settled in to sleep himself.

“L’ve ‘ou” Jaskier breathed out against his neck.

Geralt smiled, closing his eyes. “Love you too, Jaskier.

[valiantly-onward]

The Serpentine War Ch. 12

Chapter 12: The Way Of The Ninja

The camp was buzzing by morning with news of Garmadon’s arrival. For his part, Wu remained holed up with his brother inside the tent, deep in discussion.

“You should see everyone,” Wu told him. “They are a fine Alliance. I’ll have them assembled.”

Garmadon made no protest. Wu quickly sent Haru to gather the Masters, and came back to the tent. He stood in the entryway for a moment, smiling. Overnight, a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He wasn’t doing this alone anymore.

“In honor of your arrival -” Wu began.

Garmadon looked up drily. “Wu -”

“I will give you -”

“Stop.”

“- my firstborn son.”

“Come on.”

Wu thought for a moment. “Or tea. I’ll just get you tea.”

He crossed the floor to his small firepit. He shifted the logs to coax the fire back into being, then hung his teapot on the rack. After it simmered for a while, Wu offered a cup to his brother. “I’m glad you’re here. I couldn’t do this without you. Believe me, I’ve been trying.”

Garmadon accepted the tea and stood. “I know, brother. That’s why I’m here.” He patted Wu’s shoulder and walked out, sipping his drink.

Wu stuck his tongue in his cheek and shook his head as he rose to follow.

Outside, the Alliance had congregated. Pride flared in Wu’s chest at the sight of them. Ray stood off to the left - when had he gotten so tall? - with Maya leaning against his shoulder. Those two had become closer than either realized; only an outsider could see it. They suffered severe familiarity and understanding. Give them a few hundreds years together and they’d be unstoppable.

Garmadon folded his arms, his teacup still in one hand. “So,” he began loudly. “What do we know about the Serpentine?”

The Masters stared at him.

Wu stepped forward. “Alliance, this is my brother, Garmadon. He will be joining us. You answer to him the same as you answer to me.”

Garmadon nodded his thanks to Wu, and asked again, “What do we know about the Serpentine?”

“Ugly!” Acronix shouted.

Laughter rippled through the small gathering.

“That,” Garmadon conceded. “What else? What do we know about them from battle?”

There was pensieve silence. Finally, Maya said, “We’ve never won a battle with Anacondrai. Every other tribe, yes. Not them.”

Garmadon nodded in agreement. “So, naturally, we must find the Anacondrai weakness if we ever hope to defeat the Serpentine.”

The Masters shifted uncomfortably. “But they have no weaknesses,” Vivian called forward.

“I said we must find one,” Garmadon replied. He paused; a look appeared in his eyes that Wu recognized all too well. He continued, “Which is why I’m sneaking into their camp tonight to spy on them.”

Uproar ensued. Wu simply watched as the Masters clamored and argued. It was insane! No one could sneak up on an Anacondrai. The risk spelled certain death, or capture in the very least.

Finally, Haru emerged from the contention with an actual question. “Will you go alone?”

“I could, but I prefer not to.” Garmadon’s eyes flicked back to Wu, for confirmation. Wu carefully nodded his agreement. He hadn’t considered sending spies so close to the Serpentine, but if anyone could pull it off, it was Garmadon.

“Well, then,” Garmadon declared. “I’ll need your stealthiest Masters. The Master of Shadow, perhaps? And you can still turn invisible, can’t you, Master of Light?”

True to his name, Sam Pale looked pale. Nevertheless, he stepped out from between Ray and Dojin. “I saw how you snuck around last night. You got me, uh...what should we call you?”

“Master Garmadon will do.” Garmadon raised his chin. “And the Master of Shadow?”

Lei raised a hand. “You’re crazy, Master Garmadon, but I dig it. I’m coming”

Garmadon nodded. “Good. We’ll convene here at sunset.”

He dropped back beside Wu, which Wu understood as turning over the floor. He stamped his staff. “Very well, everyone. Back to your usual duties, and the sentry schedule. Ray, Maya, I need you to go down to retrieve Lorin from the village. I - we - will give new orders once we know more about the situation. Dismissed.”

The Masters slowly dispersed, Ray and Maya jogging off in the direction of the village. Wu turned to his brother, who watched the Alliance go with deep contemplation.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Wu asked.

“Yes,” Garmadon replied, with no room for question in his voice.

“Then I trust you.”

Something flickered in Garmadon’s gaze, fleeting. But it was gone nearly as soon as it arrived. “Thank you, Wu.”

Wu grinned, and deftly swept Garmadon’s tea cup into his own hand. “But three of you, sneaking in after dark? I still don’t like it.”

“Relax, brother,” Garmadon said, already stepping backward into the tent. “I am, after all, a ninja.”

~~~

This mission served multiple purposes.

For one, Garmadon didn’t really need to spy on the Serpentine. He knew their basic strategy in this area, since he’d helped design it. That advantage wouldn’t last long; Chen would surely inform the Anacondrai that Garmadon had switched sides. Still, he didn’t want Wu to know how he’d obtained his prior information. So this mission would cover that.

The other purposes? Exactly what he’d said: learn the Anacondrai weakness. And, as a bonus, begin assessing the Alliance, starting with the Masters of Shadow and Light.

The hills were black as pitch at night. Garmadon was careful to avoid the areas he knew the snakes were, but he couldn’t be sure. And neither Lei nor Sam Pale were as stealthy as their powers had led him to believe.

After Lei tripped over another rock, swearing under her breath, Garmadon pulled to a stop.

“What is it?” Sam Pale asked, creeping up at Garmadon’s shoulder.

It was the Serpentine camp. Garmadon fell into a crouch, and the Masters followed in suit. Here, the hills sloped down into the edge of desert lands. A line of Serpentine guards stretched along the base of a small valley. Garmadon figured there would be more invisible Anacondrai sentries further out. The brightness of the camp torches and firepits seemed a little gaudy and stupid to him, but he soon recognized the problem they presented.

Sam Pale squinted as he tilted his head. “How are we supposed to get close? It’s bright as noon down there. And those guards?”

Garmadon sighed. The Master of Light presented a good point; the light would make it difficult to approach in shadows. But he lacked vision. “And so this becomes a lesson. Come here, both of you.”

They scooted closer. He crouched over their backs, pointing from between them. “You see that big tent down there? It’s casting shadows in every direction from those torches. The shadows aren’t very dark, but they exist. Lei, I want you to stay within those shadows as much as possible. How long can you stay incorporeal?”

“A few minutes,” Lei replied. “Maybe fifteen before I have to come out.”

“Test that limit. You will enter the shadows behind that tent and move from tent to tent. I want you to survey the Anacondrai troops as much as possible. Details, Lei. Meet behind the big tent when you’re done. Go.”

The Master of Shadow nodded. Just like that, her form turned misty and vanished. The shadows around them grew unnaturally long for a moment, in response to her presence; Garmadon knew she was gone when they returned to normal.

Garmadon patted Sam Pale’s shoulder. “You will be opposite Lei. You must stay in the light to turn invisible, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then stay in the light. Your orders are the same as Lei’s. Stay out there for as long as you can, and rendezvous behind the big tent.”

Sam Pale sat up on his haunches, shaking out his long hair. “What are you gonna do - uh, sir?”

“You’ll find me behind that command tent.” Garmadon gestured with his chin. “Go.”

So he did. The Master of Light crept slowly down the hill, the firelight gradually growing, and finally faded into the colorless air.

Garmadon crouched still for a moment in the warm night, whispering a near-silent prayer to his father. Then he slid down the other side of the rock face and let his instincts take over.

How could he have forgotten this? The thrill of this ancient art passed from the First Spinjitzu Master to Garmadon and from Garmadon to hundreds throughout the young history of the world. His own years of ninja training seemed so, so long ago, yet he still remembered every form with perfection.

Thankfully, he didn’t run into any invisible Anacondrai. But he soon realized that there would be no getting to the command tent without passing through that sentry line. So Garmadon chose a Serpentine duo far enough from their brethren that their disappearances might pass unseen.

He rolled soundlessly behind a boulder, then stepped out from behind it.

The Hypnobrai soldiers saw him.

Rather than slowing at their alarm, Garmadon picked up speed. He leapt up when he reached them, grasping one in a headlock and swinging around its shoulders. One strike to the soft spot behind its frill, and the Hypnobrai collapsed. Before it even hit the ground, Garmadon was already springboarding off its shoulders, falling kick-first toward the second soldier. This Hypnobrai swiped with his blade; Garmadon reoriented to avoid the well-placed strike. He hit the ground with a somersault, sprang up, and caught the Hypnobrai’s sword by the hilt as it slid past him. The Serpentine’s slit-eyes dilated, seemingly in slow-motion, as Garmadon yanked the sword to throw the creature off-balance. As it fell past him, he slammed its soft spot.

Two Serpentine down.

As Garmadon considered the fallen, he lamented the absence of an Anacondrai weak point. The Hypnobrai’s ability to induce the minds of others came with a flaw. But the Anacondrai power of invisibility had no downside. There was no way to neuter their abilities because most of those abilities were simply skill. Perhaps that was why the Anacondrai valued honor so much - at least, as much as snakes could. Unlike the other tribes, an Anacondrai couldn’t cheat their way to victory.

Garmadon stepped over the immobile Hypnobrai - it would be a long time before they awoke - and ducked down behind the tent. There were voices inside, marred by hisses and strained tones. Garmadon dared to lift the corner of the flap, just to see what he was dealing with.

Once, he and Wu had been familiar with all the Serpentine generals. Now, it was a scramble to remember even names. There were three Garmadon could see - a Venomari, a Fangpyre, and an Anacondrai.

The Fangpyre Kandoras was the oldest of the generals, two-headed like his father before him, and like his son after him; Fangpyre chiefdoms usually passed through blood, not combat. Kandoras was wise, and, to the Alliance’s benefit, he was reluctant to fight. He’d caused Chen a lot of trouble during the last few weeks.

Then there was Acidicus, the brilliant Venomari general, and Thraask, one of Arcturus’ right-hands, the bloodthirstiest Anacondrai Garmadon had ever met. Chen must’ve moved a lot of pieces around to get him to command this force.

“...enough, Traask,” Kandoras was saying. “These fools think we’re attacking them because of that giant snake roaming the countryside. We have to leave this place before the humans decide we’re too close.”

“It is not our fault if the humans are fools, as you say,” General Traask replied. Unlike Arcturus, he was diminutive for an Anacondrai, but a violent shade of purple graced his scales, glistening in the torchlight. “I assure you, General Arcturus knows what he’s doing.”

Giant snake, Garmadon thought. There was only one person he knew who kept such a creature. Apparently, sorcery wasn’t Clouse’s only means of wreaking havoc.

“We do not doubt the great general has a plan,” Kandoras’ second head continued, silkier than the first. “But are we simply to cast this treaty away?”

Traask clicked his talons together as he turned to the Venomari. “Tell me, General Acidicus, what does the human say?”

Acidicus’ intelligent eyes gleamed. “The human himself admits his people will turn on us.”

“So you see,” Traask declared, his snaky head twisting back toward Kandoras. “We are simply preparing for the inevitable. This treaty is nearly at an end.”

Someone harrumphed in the corner. Garmadon couldn’t see who it was from his vantage, but Traask spun toward the sound, flicking his tail in annoyance. “General Slithraa?”

The name was unfamiliar to Garmadon, which probably meant it was a new general who had recently won a throne through combat.

“Forgive me, my commander,” said a voice in reply. “but you tell us what we already know. My question is simply when we strike and how?”

Kandoras wound his way forward. His first head spoke again. “We object strongly. We cannot attack until the humans attack us. Traask, you of all serpents must understand honor. Your general made an agreement. We did not bring our tribe into this war so we could become cowards.”

Slithraa, still out of sight, chuckled raspily. “If you ask me, you didn’t need this war to become such.”

Kandoras was atop the Hypnobrai in an instant. His two snouts wrinkled fiercely. “Do not speak to me, neonate. Do not forget that your people were the last to join our union.”

Slithraa slid forward, so Garmadon could see him for the first time. The Hypnobrai was big for his age, a wide fan around his head, scales extensively patterned with yellow swirls. In one hand, he bore the golden staff of his people. Each of the Serpentine in the room, with the exception of Traask, also carried one. The antivenom contained in each could dispel the effects of the individual tribes’ abilities - the only such substance that existed in the world. Unfortunately, the Anacondrai staff was in Ouroboros.

“Traask,” Slithraa said, without looking away from Kandoras. “If you do not remove this disgusting pacifist from my sight, I will take my leave, with my army.”

“Now, let us be reasonable.” Traask slithered between them. “We are all Serpentine here. We are all brethren. Kandoras, if you so wish, you may recall your forces back to another camp. But -” He leered at the Fangpyre. “If we are attacked by the humans, I will hold you personally responsible if we fail to repel them. Understood?”

Garmadon figured the old Fangpyre’s pride would keep him from saying no, but whether he was proven right, he never found out. At that moment, Lei emerged from the shadows.

Only Garmadon’s nightmares and years of training kept him from jumping back in alarm and blowing their cover. “Lei -”

“Yeah, sorry,” she whispered, dismissive. Then she seemed to think better of it, and added, “Master Garmadon.”

He shoved a finger to his lips to quiet her. While Lei raised her eyebrows at the unconscious Hypnobrai guards, Garmadon leaned back to the tent flap. It seemed Slithraa and Kandoras had left, for their voices were nowhere to be heard.

“How would you like me to prepare?” Acidicus asked.

“Double the nightly patrol. Send word to General Skalidor and his Constrictai to prepare. Only one can remain.”

“Only one can remain.” There was a shuffling rasp, which meant one of them had slid out the tent door. Garmadon backed away.

“What was that about?” Lei hissed.

Garmadon was beginning to form an answer when shouts exploded from the parallel line of tents. Traask growled angrily from the other side of the tent wall. The hurried sound of scales on rock and dust accompanied a troop of snakes flashing past on the road.

Sam Pale materialized at the dividing line between light and shadows. His long hair looked slightly charred on one side.

“Sam Pale, what did you do?” Garmadon demanded.

Sam Pale flicked a finger at him. “A bit of a funny story, really. They think I’m a peasant though, so what do you say we run before they find out different, eh?”

~~~

Sam Pale and Lei weren’t stealthy, but they were fast.

Garmadon hung back, watching their trail, scuffing it as best he could. He could hear Serpentine hissing in the rocks and calling to each other, but none appeared in the shadows. Even as the Masters slowed, Garmadon snapped at them to keep going. They weren’t out of danger yet.

Garmadon called on some of his power too. He couldn’t do what Lei could, but the darkness did deepen as he raced past. At his command, rocks split in the distance, causing the Serpentine to move in the direction of the sound. Soon, the lights of their Alliance camp appeared over the hills.

Finally, Garmadon allowed the Masters to rest. Sam Pale tromped over to a rock and sprawled himself over the motley, dust-ridden grass. Lei brushed off the front of her purple robes. “Well.” She blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes. “That was a waste.”

“No, Master of Shadow,” Garmadon corrected, combing back his hair with a hand. “We learned something.”

“Which is?”

Garmadon smiled. “The Serpentine are at odds. Not even their generals can agree. Which means…” He looked up at the camp, firelight in his eyes. “They’re vulnerable.”

@greenygreenland

[that-one-bi-wizard]

First chapter of my first Animaniacs fic! It’s mainly centered around my OCs and their backstory, so I apologize in advance for the lack of canon characters. Here’s the link to it on my ao3! The first chapter is under the cut :3

“Ms. Norita, you wanted to see me?”

The newest CEO of the Warner Brothers studios turned to face the young man that was entering her office. She grabbed a tablet off her desk and started scrolling. Once she found what she was looking for she nodded. 

“Ah, yes. Alan Harris, right? Close the door behind you and take a seat,” she told him. 

Alan closed the door and slowly walked toward the CEO’s desk. He sat down, but she remained standing.

Alan was a bit nervous. He had never been called into the boss’s office by name before. With that, he couldn’t help but feel like this couldn’t mean anything good. 

Was he about to be fired? Maybe he had made a mistake somewhere? Had a toon done something and blamed it on him?

Worst case scenarios flooded his mind.

Nora walked up to him, not looking up from her tablet. “Harris, I’ve been going through your profile. Graduated as the top student in your animation classes. Has been working here for three years now, and has worked on several animated projects, correct?”

The young animator swallowed and nodded quickly. “Uh, yes ma’am.”

“Perfect,” she said. “I’m a very busy woman, so let’s cut to the chase. I need someone with your set of skills to tackle this next project I have planned.”

Alan nodded again to show that he was listening. He leaned forward.

“I need you to bring back the Warner siblings.”

Alan sat there for a moment, then blinked. “Um… the Warner siblings, Ms. Norita?”

“That’s what I said.”

Alan adjusted his glasses. He cleared his throat. “Oh… but, um, didn’t they disappear a few years after the show ended?”

Alan was somewhat familiar with the Warners. He hadn’t been here when they were around; however, he did hear stories about them from others that had been around at that time. He also knew about the show. 

He hadn’t been the biggest fan, but when reruns of the show came on, he’d sometimes watch it or just have it on for background noise. 

Nora looked up at him for the first time since he walked in. “I know. That’s why I want you to bring them back… as a remake.”

“Remake the Animaniacs, ma’am?”

“Did I stutter?”

Alan opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

The CEO sighed in frustration. “Look,” she said, scrolling through her tablet and turning it for the young man to see, “See this?” She pointed at a graph. “This is a graph showing the popularity of the studio back in the nineties. And if you’ll notice, one of our more popular franchises was the Animaniacs. It’s what the people want to see, and if that’s the case, then we have to recreate its success.”

Alan ran a hand through his long, brown hair and scratched the back of his neck. “Aha… well, I guess I can try to redo them. It’ll just take a while since I’d need to do some research and get their personalities just right-”

Nora held up a hand to stop him. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Huh?”

“I want you to make them but differently. They need to be hip. They need to cater to the kids and teens of today, not that nineties crap.”

“Oh,” Alan sighed, “uh, I guess I can do that-”

“Also,” she continued, “I don’t want them running around causing chaos in this studio. We run a business, not a circus. I want you to take out all the zaniness and wackiness of the original ones.”

Alan blinked. “But, then they wouldn’t be the animaniacs anymore. They’d just be…” He thought for a moment. “...normal kids.”

Nora waved a dismissive hand. “Well, we all have to make some sacrifices. Now, you think you can do that for me?”

“I-”

“Perfect! Have them ready in three weeks. See you then.” She shooed him out of her office and slammed the door shut.

The tall man stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened.

He was just asked… to remake the Warner siblings… without the traits that made them the Warner siblings…

Alan blinked and stared at the office door for another moment. “Oh, okay,” he called to her, even though he doubted she was listening, “Uh, see you then!”

He turned and left the building.

He didn’t exactly know what he was going to do or how he was going to do it, but he knew one thing.

One way or another, this was going to be a mess.

-

The days flew by all too quickly.

And Alan had nothing. He had drawn a complete blank.

He had a few sketches and drafts of characters that might’ve been what the boss was looking for, but they just didn’t feel right.

He didn’t watch the show all too much, but he knew that this wasn’t the Warners. All toons had their own charm to them that set them apart from humans. That’s what made them, well, cartoons. So taking away the chaos and zany nature didn’t seem right.

If it’s what Nora wanted tho, he would have to come up with the perfect replacements somehow.

More days passed, and the deadline grew closer.

Alan was running out of time to finish these characters.

He worked day in and day out to try to find the perfect mix of cartoony and realistic. Every work seemed to lean too far to each side. It was hard to strike a balance between the two. 

As the deadline got closer, Alan began losing sleep, trying to perfect these toons that were supposed to replace the Warners. 

Finally, there were only two days left.

Alan had nothing. All he had were a few drafts that he had thrown to the side. He didn’t particularly have anything he was proud of. Nothing too noteworthy.

He might have to ask Nora to extend the due date…

He sat at his desk at home, trying to think of something, anything really, that would help him get an idea.

He sighed and set his head down on the table. It didn’t help that he still had to actually color and actually animate his characters.

He turned to look at the bin where crumpled papers laid scattered everywhere with sketches scribbled all over them. None of them had been what he wanted, but he guessed three of them would have to do with the deadline being so close.

He walked over and reached down to pick out a random design. Hopefully, one of these would suffice.

He opened a crumpled piece of paper and looked down it.

Well, these would have to do. Maybe they would even buy him time for the moment being until he could make new ones.

He brought them over to his desk and began tweaking them up a bit.

These three didn’t seem anything like the Warners. In fact, they seemed like exact opposites.

They wouldn’t be Alan’s best works, but something was better than nothing.

The three were nothing like the Warner siblings. The only thing they had in common was their species. Not clothing. Not personalities. They didn’t even have the same child-like charm the originals had.

They weren’t the Warners.

They were completely different people.

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

since you've been writing a lot of spn stuff- can i request something with hands, autumn, & raphael. if not its ok!!!

My lovely, it is more than okay, and it is my pleasure. I hope you enjoy!

Patient eyes regarded darkening skies, glancing surreptitiously for the first flickers of lightning, counting each second between one breath of thunder and the next. The heavens were dancing in the fading violets of the setting sun, twinkling with their robust bedazzlement of stars. But the creeping greys and navies drew ever nearer, an ominous formation promising devastation should its warnings not be heeded. You took another sip of your drink, eyes slipping shut against the threat drawing nearer and nearer. Goose flesh rose on your arms as the barometric pressure continued to drop, electricity a near tangibility in the air. Still, you paid no mind, rather distracted by the delightful mixture of warmed spices harmonizing on your tongue before steadily making their way to settle within the cockles of your heart. The first hissing droplets of rain against the concrete made you pause, lowering your cup. Your eyes remained shut however, keenly listening to each huff of the wind, each furious growl of thunder. There was a righteous fury to this storm, rapidly centering itself around the small pavilion in which you had claimed temporary sanctuary. A small irritation of your own began to swell, enough to remove the contentment from your lips, eyes opening to narrow slits as you beheld the chaos beyond the wooden structure. Leaves formerly splattered in scarlets and golds and blazing siennas had been cast into murky waters, all vibrancy overwhelmed by the melancholic ferocity tossing them about in a whirlwind. Soft illumination from antiquated lanterns was subdued to dimmed pallor, spectral shifts shimmering against near impenetrable shadow. Somewhere nearby, but beyond line of sight, a tree creaked as it succumbed to the wind, the echo lost to the relentless chaos of the storm. Mild irritation grew into surging irascibility, cup set onto the wooden planks of the tabletop beneath you as you stood on the bench, devoid of any of the carefree optimism that had been so abundant earlier in the evening. "You can cut the theatrics; I'm not going anywhere!" Your words could have been nothing more than a bee's wing brushing against a flower petal, the shift of a spider's leg as it perfected another layer of its web; your proclamation was near unintelligible when faced with the terrible volume from the storm. But between the small shift in the direction of the wind and the answering roar of thunder- loudest of all- your confidence grew. Resolute, you leapt from your post, striding to the edge of your shelter, a feral smile crossing your lips with bitter abandon, doing well to hide the first twists of anxiety deep within your gut. You had worked so hard to create this confrontation, and now when presented with the grim reality of your circumstances, fear was worming its way through you, whispers from Panic tracing against your neck, her loathsome ally Doubt curling her fingers against your spine. Determined, you ignored those annoying agents of Chaos, stepping forward into the deluge. The first strike of lightning hit scarcely meters away, flash temporarily blinding you, crack deafening and shaking the ground beneath you. Reflexive instinct had you stumbling away, trying to shield yourself against the effects far too late. When your vision faded from jaded blue and thistle-tinted spots, phantasmal remnants of staring down the fulmination, you were at last able to truly cast your gaze upon your companion. Seething fury pooled around her, rage reflecting in the spark of her eyes. The shadow of a dozen wings played on the ground and in the canopy above you, shifting with each twist of the wind. Revulsion marred her features, the detestation eliciting a trace of contriteness deep within your chest. “Tell me why I shouldn’t smite you here and now.” The command was issued with all the potent magnificence of any Celestial, sparking trepidation deep within your soul. She towered over you, looming magnificence and vengeance mere moments from annihilation. Familiar blue danced in her eyes, a visceral reminder of how furious she truly was. But you had picked up on the plea within her decree. Shrouded beneath epochs of steadfast detachment was someone who felt so deeply, so thoroughly, that they had concealed themselves eons ago beneath a stern exterior, beneath a visage of a calculating strategist and general. The image was so strong, so consuming, she scarcely seemed aware of it herself sometimes. It was in those more intimate moments however when you began to read her, peering into the complexities of each mask she adorned. And in this moment, it was clear to see that beneath her fury, beneath her scorn, there was a searing pain in every movement she was making; more than all else, Raphael felt you had betrayed her, and that single sting of knowledge was more than sufficient for your gesture of surrender. "I'm sorry." Your placating tone did nothing to calm her, pulchritude somehow magnified through her scathing gaze. Encouraged by her lack of reply however, you took a cautious step forward, continuing your explanation. "I knew going to him would hurt you, and I still did it. You have every right to be pissed at me." "There are no words known to man in this world or the next to express-" There was a pause, a flicker of a scowl as she turned away from you, blue fading from her eyes as she surveyed the nearby trees. "You cut me deeply." Perhaps it was some remnant of stubborn indignation, or perhaps it was the inability to keep the passing thought contained, but Amara-help-you, the bite passed through your lips before you could restrain yourself. "At least the feeling's mutual." It was barely a breath, scarcely a coherent thought. Yet still she heard it, the words rippling through her wings as if she had been physically struck by them. Affronted gaze once more pinned you in place, the hairs along your nape rising in the face of thrumming electricity. "How dare you." She may have shouted or perhaps she had whispered; the hubris coating each syllable ate away at you, gnawing you in the ceaseless reminder that you were nothing compared to her. It was a logic that for years you had abided by, treading carefully alongside the ragtag collection of Hunters and Hosts, guarding your words and thoughts from Monsters and Malevolents alike. But much like the gods and goddesses of old, you had come to discover the immortals who walked the Earth were just as flawed as Humanity; you refused to display even a fraction of your fear in the face of her fury. "How dare I?" Memories assaulted you, vivid recollections of the hours spent raiding any literature you could find, the desperate summons to lesser Celestials, to Demons, to Pagans, to Fey, those excruciating evenings spent yearning for her presence, praying and cursing and crying into the darkest hours of the night. "How dare you!" Fervent prayers had proved useless, anxieties tying into fears and a dark web of self-doubt, eating away at your spirit. Desperation had left you precariously balanced on a precipice that surely would have damned you, had not one of the Archangels- the most unexpected- come to guide you back home. She had broken the oaths she made to you, disappearing from your side with no warning, no indications that she planned on returning. Having offered her your very soul, your every heartbeat, every inch of devotion- You had expected more care than what had been provided. Her touch had been so alien, her sweetest nothings oft hovering on the cusp of disturbing. But her love had been clear, her adoration shining as she watched you create, fondness blinding whenever you were lost in debate. She gave no indication of discontent, the warmongering visage that she brazenly wore crumbling to that of the Healer- curious, warm, and so full of life and light and hope and love that you could scarcely breathe around her. You had had no doubts of her affections, but her abandonment- Moisture stung your eyes, the yearning for those halcyon days depleting whatever pride you had been trying to maintain. Ferocity in your gaze, yet once more you turned to face her. "You abandoned me, Raphael." Your words sparked no form of reaction within her, nothing beyond the roiling rage radiating within her burnished orifices. "And still, you dared t-" "I did what I had to!" You spared her no mercy, once again stepping nearer, interrupting her condemnation before it could be truly vocalized. "We- I needed you." There was a flash of realization, so brief and sudden that had you not known her so well- not known by your own heartbeat the rhythm of her Grace, not known by memory the very slope of her eyes, not known by your very spirit the sensibilities within her- you surely would have missed the remorse reflecting in her eyes. "I needed you, Ra'phael. And you weren’t there.” The storm continued to rage all around you, fierce gale tossing loose twigs and leaves and rubbish from the nearest bins into a wall of relentless fury. Another flash of lightning electrified the air, the shadow of her wings nearly intimidating with their breadth. But you were long past the point of fear, beyond coercion. The very starlight that shimmered through her veins was as intimately familiar to you as the callouses on your own hands, and despite the severity of the storm around you- Not a drop of water had reached you, and only a few stray whispers of wind teased your eyelashes. For how angry you were, a sliver of hope embedded itself into your heart, a yearning to move past your own damnable pride now that you finally had her attention again. Her next words however, a low undercurrent of tension that echoed deep in your bones, forcefully smothered the flicker before it could fully begin to burn. “You forget your place, Oracle. I am not some pet,” she spat out, hauteur coating each syllable, grinding against your resolve. Raphael’s scowl, bitter expression coated in disdain, ate at your confidence, making you feel all that more insignificant in her presence. “I am the Wind and Skies. I am Majesty and Divinity; you are nothing more than an exiguous assemblage of quintessence.” The intensity of her proclamation- searing lightning, sharp tempest- wedged itself into your chest, corporeal reaction just as palpable as it would have been had she chosen instead to drive her halberd directly into your heart. This was not the being who had whispered stories of Creation into the pale hours of the morning, not the begrudging ally you had welcomed with equal wariness, the entity who you had come to see as so much more than a Primordial Agent of God. She used to smile for you, laughed with you. Aggrieved and enduring what felt a betrayal, your arms folded together in an attempt to shield yourself from further agony. Turning away from her, you nearly missed the transition in her expression, almost missed the pain in her own eyes. It was scarcely a flicker, but it was enough to give you pause, eyes narrowing in accusatory suspicion as she once more began to speak. “I have one final question for you, Oracle.” You had barely acknowledged her approach until she was standing right in front of you, wings folding away into their own stratum, features vulnerable in a way you had never seen before. She was fully unguarded, all traces of anger fallen from her frame, the crisp autumn air teasing loose strands of her hair. But it was her eyes- Timeless, boundless, beguiling in ways you could never even hope to describe- Her eyes drew you in, weaving into your curiousity, tugging so slightly at the tiniest shred of faith you had stubbornly clung to, hope having refused to retreat entirely. “How is it that someone so infinitesimal has so thoroughly ripped my plenary existence asunder?” Many of her English expressions were significantly outdated, but it was a rarity these days for her words to leave you completely befuddled. “What?” Her lips curled, a soft, achingly familiar smile creasing her features. There was a slight trace of mirth sparkling in her eyes, as well as some other unnamed emotion you didn’t dare wish for. You couldn’t look away even if you had longed to; the simple truth was that you were still spellbound by her presence, captivated by every motion. And that soft, gentle, affectionate smile- You hung your head in shame, desperately wishing you could cling to your anger, could somehow rid yourself of this depthless yearning. Her hand rose slowly, as if she were approaching a startled animal. The movement in your peripheral had you instinctively take a step back, once more studying the Archangel, now with far more confusion. “What it means, mi praevideat, is that I forgive you, and I apologise for departing without proper explanation.” Her words had only just reached you, spoken so softly that they nearly were lost to what remained of the breeze. You stared dumbly at her, doubting your own senses. It was inconceivable; Raphael was just as proud as her siblings, in many ways even more so. For her to be expressing any form of remorse- The light from one of the lanterns reflected in her eyes, the shifting shadows tugging you away from your suspicious rumination. You allowed yourself the diversion, taking a moment to study the eyes you had drowned in countless times before. Shifting axinite and bronze, and always that faint flicker of beryl- They were a cacophony of colour, ringing with a whole symphony of emotion. Doubt clung to you, your eyes narrowed as you tried to detect any insincerity from the Archangel. But her posture was tranquil, hands extended slightly from her sides in mimicry of a gesture you yourself had made thousands of times before. She was truly offering her atonement, truly regretted ever harming you. That simple asseveration was sufficient enough to pacify what had remained of your insecurities. Raphael sensed your crumbling barricades before you yourself could even begin to acknowledge them, meeting you directly, steering you safely into the harbour of her embrace. "I'm sorry," breathed tenderly against your temple, cautious fingers tracing new paths through your hair. You sighed, trying to continue grasping the threads of your anger, the fading traces of former anguish. But the memories were hazing away, all aching and suffering retreating under the Healer's tender supervision, adrenaline ebbing away with each breath. There was a moment when the atmosphere around you shifted, the cooled night air replaced with the glowing warmth of a candlelit room, torrential downpour replaced by the gentle medley of droplets against ancient windowpanes. Sometime in the hazy, blissful moments that followed, you had found yourself lying on a bed, the familiar hints of somnolence creeping ever closer. You had never dared to hope for anything beyond a few moments, had not dared to dream of the possibility you could weather the storm together. Your fingers drifted languidly across her back, pausing over each scar, every rise and fall of bone beneath her skin. You brushed aside stray feathers as you explored, giving into the inescapable smile at being bequeathed this vulnerability. An austere prayer of gratitude slipped past your subconscious, the smallest hint of praise to the most rebellious of Angels. You had to give the Devil his due; Lucifer still knew the exact words to prompt his kin into action. "It's highly impolite-" A drowsy voice interrupted your chain of thoughts, drawing your focus back to Raphael’s visage. Satisfied she had your attention, her eye closed once more, a small hint of bemusement coating her words. "-that you're thinking of my brother right now." Guilt summoned a wince from you, one you quickly shoved aside, favoring instead to fall once more to the empty space beside her, patient eyes taking in every crease, every pore, every millimetre of perfection to your beloved's physique. Surrender was a word neither of you would ever dare speak, but as you allowed yourself to relax in Raphael's embrace, your heavy eyes drifting gently over umber wings still sparkling with residual energy, you accepted the irrefutable truth of your circumstances. You had fallen irrevocably for an Archangel. And somewhere, only just piercing the cusps of whim and fancy, as you succumbed to the steady crescendo of slumber's sirenous strains, the lingering scents of cinnamon and petrichor drizzled softly on a breeze sighing: I love you, too. 

[undercoverwizardfanfiction]

Welp

Woke up this week to 200+ followers! Wasn’t sure how to react! I didn’t  think i was going to get 5 followers on a blog just for my writing let alone this many so thank you!

So I’m giving you a small treat, it’s a “trailer” (i guess i’d call it that?) for the story after the Broken Butterfly. It’s part of the Fantasy series and the reason it’s so special is because it’s the first fantasy story i’ll do with more then two parts. it’ll be a long multichapter story that will take a while to tell but i think will be worth it? (Charmy take out the question mark)(no, bite me!) Because i still plan on writing a few fantasy shorts and other stories in the mean time. Including a Sci-fi au i think y’all will like

Anyway thank you all again! here’s my trailer (can i call it a trailer? or is it a preview?)

He couldn’t stop shaking

Not out of fear but from excitement as he hung from the thick tree branch his little hands had latched onto. The Child wiggled around before pulling themselves up with some considerable effort, having to primarily rely on his unhurt leg to swing up till he’s finally sitting on the branch with a giant grin. “I’m so high up!!” He said throwing his hands into the air excitedly, “Dad! Dad do you see!? Do you see how high up I am!?” He said to the black haired yokai standing by the tree, “I’m almost as tall as you!”

Len chuckled, “Yeah look at you kiddo” even though he had been to the one who had helped the Child reach the branch in the first place. The Child put his hands on the branch, wobbling slightly until they were in a standing position. He put his hands out for balance as he began walking down the thick branch at a snails pace. Lens’ hands hovered at his sides, ready to catch him if he fell, but the Child was having too much fun to be deterred by Lenards protectiveness, “Careful kiddo.” He said

“Can I climb higher?!” The Child asked eagerly.

Len looked up at the tall tree nervously, “Not today kiddo.” Before holding his hands out to him, “Hop over.”

The Child pouted for a moment, before carefully turning to face Len. He shifted his feet around and braced his legs before jumping over the small gap between him and Len who immediately hugged him, “Atta boy!”Lenard said smiling at him in a way that took away the Childs disappointment as he set him on his hip, “That new leg brace Mickey made you is really doing  you wonders huh?”

“Yeah Yeah!” He said swinging his dubbed ‘hurty leg’ that was now carefully wrapped in a brace that his Uncle had spent almost a year perfecting. Not only was it far lighter then the one they had bought from the Healing Hut, but it allowed him to run and jump with almost no trouble. Course now Len spent most of his time chasing Him down, but to the Child that made it more fun (not the time outs that followed when He took it too far, he hated those) IT took a moment for Him to notice his Dad was giving him a big if thoughtful smile and tilted his head questingly   “you’re getting so big,” Len said as a explanation using his free arm to hug him closer with his cheek resting on His temple, “I can’t believe you’re only six. You sure you ain’t really thirty? Or fifty?”

The child giggled, “No!” Before bringing his hands up squish Len’s face in his hands, causing the yokai to laugh and gently pull his hand away from his face, ‘Alright alright don’t cut your hand on my tooth.” He said, “Today is actually very special, today is when we officially start training.”

“Training?” The Child tilted his head, “Like tumbling?” He was used to that. It was fun to summersault on the soft grass.

“Not exactly, it’s a little more to it then that.” Len said kneeling down and setting Don carefully on the grass, “I want to get you started on basic fighting skills, “

The excitement the Child had felt at the thought of tumbling gave was to nervousness as he dropped his chin to his chest and poked his fingertips together, “I-I don’t wanna hurt no one though.”

“I know baby boy.” Len rubbed his scalp  before cupping his sons face in his hand, using his thumb to rub the worry line between his eyes. The Child giggled lightly at the contact but kept his gaze on the ground. “You wouldn’t be learning these skills to hurt people, but to protect yourself. And you being safe is all I care about. So is that ok with you?”

The Child puffed up his cheeks in contemplation. He still din’t like the idea of hurting people, but Len was his dad, he was the one who took him in, held him when he was scared, sang to him when he was sad. If he though it was a good idea then, “Okie, cause I love you.”

Len grinned and rubbed his scalp again ,”That’s my boy.” He said, “Now stay right here ok?” Len stood up and took several steps back and pulling out a familiar wooden handle, with a spin and a flash his hookstaff appeared. “Ok kiddo, the staff is a weapon mostly used for defense. When we start again I’ll teach you some spinning exercises that will help strengthen your hands and wrists. Its one of the most versatile weapons because even if your staff breaks in battle, you can usually find a good substitute for it nearby. But my favorite thing about using a staff is that it’s a great way to fight people off without leaving long lasting damage.” He puts the staff in a wide hold, with both hands at atleast, he shuffles his left leg forward, thrusting the opposite end of the staff forward, “See?” Len asks, “This is a basic strike, even if you get to my level this is what you’ll be using if your’e ever in a fight.” Before taking his other step forward and bringing the other end with a thrust and a shout

(#)(#)\/(#)(#)

A scream of terror coupled with a earth trembling thunder snaps Him back to reality. Half his vision is stolen by a a mixture of darkness, a icy downpour that seems content on bruising the hell out of him and a heavy fog that takes him a moment to realize is his own breath. A moment  later pain shoots through is stomach with enough force to double him over, wrapping his free arm around it as though trying to protect it from a  invisible force. Its only by plunging the object in his hand into the ground and leaning on it that he keeps from falling over completely. Desperate to offer his aching body some semblance of support.

His vision finally starts to clear  up and he realizes the staff  holding him up is unfamiliar. It is far heavier and metal and has a barbed wire end facing forward in a c-shape. Before He can contemplate why he’s holding it, a fear filled sob reaches him and reality comes rushing back in a unforgiving wave

The man in front of him is standing his with arms out, as though shielding the other man behind him who his also holding a small child to his chest. The man being protected has a large gash on his scalp that drenches his tattered clothes. Before He can comprehend what’s has them so scared, he finally notices the end of his weapon has the tangled remains of the mans shirt in its wire, as though it had been a  second away from piercing his chest cavity.

With a choked gasp, horror overwhelms Him as he takes several steps back, “I-I’m so-i’m sorry!” his vision is filled with bright lights, blinding him again has he rubs furiously at his eyes, desperate for reason or answers.

He gets both

What had once been a humble but fair sized villages is now in ruins, buildings crushed in as though a Child had stomped through with little to no regard for the life it could of held. He can hear whimpers and cries of pain around him, the hurried footsteps of people running away from the village

No not from the village.

He looks down to the weapon he now recognizes as a sodegarami to the family still cowering in front of him before covering his mouth with his free hand

He understands.

He is horrified .

“Run!” He shouts, causing the small family to jump,” Run! Get out of here before its too late!” With the grace of frightened ants, the family scrambles to their feet and hurries away. Glancing back as though to make sure he wasn’t going to chase them down to finish them. When they’re out of sight he allows himself to give a shaky sigh of relief and lowers himself down onto his knees to offer his body a semblance of rest.  Before a voice whispers by his head somehow far colder then the rain itself.

”Now now, I can’t keep having you breaking free my gargalmelly baby,”

Terror shoots through him as he spins around swinging his weapon to aim directly at the intruder.  What at first simply appears to be a shadow slowly takes from as the rain parts away from it. As though natures itself is too scared to touch the queen. Judging by her wrinkled nose the Matriarch is more concerned with his appearance then to the weapon aimed at her “And just look how filthy you are now. I’ll have to tell the maids to scrub you down when we return to the castle,” The Queen looks back to the remains of the village and its devastation, “I will say this you do make quick work. But on second thought, perhaps this isn’t the place I want my vacation castle.” She gives out a pained sigh as though reflecting on all the work she put into this ‘project’ “Oh well it was far too good for the likes of those tax dodgers anyway. I”ll find something to do with it.” She says, taking a few steps forward as though there was a floor of glass blocking her perfect shoes from being dirty.

“You-“ He is only now aware of how thirsty his is as he desperately tries to wet his cracked lips. It feels as though his entire body has been deprived of everything it needed to function properly, but he glares after the Queen, “You made me attack a village of innocents just so you can have a vacation home!?” He asks

“Now now don’t get in a tizzy, I can’t have a Prince who gets so upset so easily,” She shakes her head solemnly ,”These ,after all, are criminals. They’re dirty, weak, Ugly,  and don’t deserve mercy.” Big Mama looks off into the ruined village with almost a bored eye, “They had the nerve to say the latest tax increase was far too gargantuan for their little families to afford. But you know what I hate more then tax evaders?” She asks in her sickly sweet voice that makes His stomach squirm

He thinks of the family he had almost killed and screams in rage, grabbing his staff from the ground and plunging the tip into her chest. But before he can consider the consequences, theres a strike of lightning as the Matriarch herself appears in his line of vision unharmed, her now completely yellow eyes glaring  out from beneath her bands as tilts her head at him, “when my Princes disappoint me.”

A scorching heat fills His brain as he cries out. The feeling shoots through his arms and legs and his causes his left up to suddenly twist up his back as he’s forced to his knees, his face in the mud blinding his vision again. He hears her step closer and her disappointed sigh

”Looks like we have our work cut on you.  But until then, you have a job to do.”

Out of the corner of his eye, a darkness crawls across his vision. IT rings a terror of familiarity that makes his eyes burn before the darkness takes him completely

#()(#)\/(#)(#)

“Wake up boy.”

A strangled breath escaped Him, but the sudden reflex jerk makes pain shoot through his side in a blinding pain that makes him double over. The world has eerie white sheen to it as he struggles to fill his sting lung. The pain in his head that he h had felt previously has now spread to his eyes. He’s sitting on a chair he doesn’t recognize. There’s a cup of water in his hands that looks like  he’s been drinking out of it but he can’t remember. His hand comes up to check his chest only to find it tightly bound in bandages, through his blurry vision he can see a red stain at the center that only raises more questions then answers.

“What is your name boy.”

IT is more command then question. The voice sense a shiver down His shell that he can barely hide. It doesn’t help when the chorus of laughter joins in from his ‘visitors’ shoulders. Dark eyes glare at him from underneath his gold pointed crown, expecting obedience. He is not under any illusion that Draxum is asking out of genuine concern, but rather the same concern one would have for a favorite war horse,

Draxum expects a answer

No

His teacher demands a answer

“O-othello.” He whispers. It’s the only answer he knows to give, but he knows it’s a lie,  and that alone makes his eyes burn again, “My name is Othello.”

The Baron dips his head response, “follow Apprentice, we have a kingdom to save.” with a snap of his cloak, Draxum leaves the room. Muscle memory immediately has Othello on his feet following, his body is not the only part that just wants to lie down and give up.

His name is Prince Othello

And he is Alone

                                                       Look for

                              Do Not Go Gentle Into that Cold Night

[mattzerella-sticks]

Checkmate (Castiel-centric, Chuck & Cas, Castiel/Dean Winchester coda to 15x17 “Unity” and 15x18 “Despair, 1.9k)

ao3 link

Billie saves Jack from suffering a fatal end from her plan, and knowing Jack was safe gave Cas space to focus on his own troubles. Nearly losing his son again... revelations from Chuck... choices Dean made, were set on, until Sam broke through at the last minute - too close - they all were...

It was too much. Cas needed to digest these roiling experiences away from faces it hurt to look at. Except he stumbles exactly where Chuck wants him. After countless times praying for guidance, Chuck finally decides now is perfect for a long-awaited heart-to-heart.

           Cas abandoned the others once Billie disappeared, not even waiting for her form to fade before striding away. Stomps up each step, ignoring Dean’s calls as he races from their home. Into fresher air aboveground. Being an angel, Cas was inexperienced with breathing. Yet, instinctually, Cas gasps for breath once he breaks free.

           Hunched over the outdoor railing, Cas’s vision blurs. Darkness encroaching at a pace that makes him shiver. “That’s not…” he hisses, sinking lower, crouching. “It’s not real. It can’t… there’s a deal. They were very clear –“

           “C’mon Castiel, you should know by now…” A familiar voice breaks through static, Cas’s grip tightening on the rusted rail. “This close to the end, anything goes.”

           Cas turns his head, meeting Chuck’s deriding glare. “You’re still here?”

           “I’m everywhere Castiel,” he mocks, arms spread wide and head tilted backwards. Laughing, “I’m God.”

           Briefly, Cas considers shouting. Alerting the others that Chuck hadn’t gone far, nearer than they figured. Except Chuck’s head lolls around once more, clearly expecting Cas to do exactly that. His jaw tenses, Cas rising on shaky legs. “What do you want?”

           “Loaded question. I want a lot of things… Amara’s power – but I got that.” His eyes flicker, blue and black, before fading into their regular hazel. “This world to end… close. I could wait fifty more years but let’s speed it up, honestly. You and your family to suffer…” He grins, advancing towards him. “How is Jack doing?”

           “He’s fine,” Cas tells Chuck, “but you already know that. Don’t you?”

           “Guilty.”

           “Then why ask?” Cas glares at his creator, mustering enough fury that he trembles from an entirely new reason. “Did you stick around only to gloat? Is that what it takes to get you to show up?”

           “Oh Castiel…” Chuck grabs his chin, pinching it. Sparks jumping off his finger pads and searing his skin, Cas wincing when Chuck doesn’t let go. “You’re not bitter that I never returned your calls, right?”

           Chest aching, Cas tamps down that hurt. Accustomed to doing so. “But you received them?”

           “I hear each and everyone.”

           “And you do nothing.”

           “I only help those that deserve it.” He shoves Cas away, spinning on his heel. Gestures around them, “No one on this Earth – in this universe – deserves it. Ungrateful sacks of filth and – and mud. Imperfect, flawed…”

           “Beautiful.” Cas defends them on instinct, stepping forward. “Humanity might be all of that, but it doesn’t make them any less deserving of life. Of a second chance.”

           “Humanity…” He laughs again, to a joke Cas must have missed. Wiping a false tear, Chuck leers at him, “Really? Does humanity deserve a second chance? Is it even a second chance anymore?” Then, with a disturbing amount of severity laced through his voice. “How many more chances are you going to give Dean?”

           Chuck’s hand rests over his heart, closing the distance between blinks. Claws at Cas’s chest, clutching onto him. Cas stares above his creator’s head, resolutely not giving Chuck what he wants. Hiding sadness and longing they both can feel rippling across their bodies, warmth abnormal given this cooler climate.

           “You’re always giving so much of yourself to him,” Chuck whispers, prodding. Breath felt as he rasped in his ear. “Isn’t it tiring? Disappointing he doesn’t do the same?”

           Cas swallows the immediate thoughts that emerge. Those traitorous voices expressing similar sentiment, nasally and grating like them. His shadowed future. He answers, instead, with, “I will always do whatever it takes to keep my family safe.”

           Groaning, Chuck knocks his head against Cas’s shoulder. Repeatedly, harder and harder. Each swing whacking at his cool façade. “Love!” he bemoans, “Your love for humans, your love for him. How I hate – why does it all come down to Dean.” His hand trails upwards, snaking over Cas’s tie. Chuck steps backwards, dragging Cas along. Forcing him onto his knees. “Sam, I get. They’re brothers… sentimentality. They’ve been through the wringer longer than every other Earth, of course it’d be harder breaking that. Too mature, set in their routines… And Amara, she was finding herself. Dean was a passing fancy – entertainment, nothing more. But you…” Bending, Chuck presses his face onto Cas’s. Close enough he sees lightning flashing within his pupils. “Your little defect, your crush… this is all your fault.”

           “I…” Chuck’s eyes glow, his throat seizing as this greater being chokes him. Cas fights past it, coughing. “It’s… yours.”

           “No, it’s not. Really.” He stops, dropping him. Cas scrabbles into a crouch, warily observing Chuck circle. Arm raised defensively; angel blade prepped in case of another attack. Useless, given the comparison of power, but he refuses to sit and accept his death. Not like this. Luckily rather than smite Cas, Chuck wastes time prattling. “I tied everything up in a neat, little bow. Sure… took longer to get there, edits and rewrites of course, but the story was done. Brothers battle, one dies, close the book and move on. Raphael was supposed to raze this stage for the next show… until someone called for an encore.”

           Cas startles, guard slipping momentarily. “Wait… you wanted Raphael to restart the apocalypse?”

           “Yes!” Chuck yells, thunder booming in the distance. “It should have been Michael! But what do I find when I check in? Sam back, Dean hunting again, and you balancing an angelic civil war while pining for a man who was better off without you.”

           Those reminders threaten Cas, like tentacles rising from dark ocean waters ready to drag him under. Deeper into his past mistakes. Cas grounds himself, scraping the dirt. Feels it. “My part was done,” he challenges, “Over. Lucifer blew me into tiny particles. Untraceable. You brought me back.”

           “Because how else would I have gotten Dean out of that damned cemetery!” Chuck kicks a rock. It rockets through the sky. “If I’d left him there alone, he’d be as good as dead. Where’s the satisfaction in that? All you had to do was dust Dean off and send him on his way. Couldn’t even do something simple without screwing it up!”

           Cas glares at his creator, shouldering the burden of his disappointment, straining under its massive weight. He does not fall, however. “And all the other times?” he asks. He’s not sure if he wants to hear his answer. Worse, that indecision is a damned lie.

           Chuck grins. His simple act knocking Cas onto his rear, overwhelmed by its cruelty. “And let you off the hook for beating this dead horse? Not a chance. If the Leviathans blew you up, you’d never suffer through the fallout from betraying Dean – the man you did everything for. A hero’s sacrifice, staying behind in Purgatory? For penance? You don’t decide your fate – I do! And it was perfect. Hope, Castiel. All that hope you had… for Jack, a better world, a chance to raise a kid alongside the others. Experience those wonders, find a new purpose – dashed with a simple knife through your chest. The last thing you saw being Dean as his heart shattered, and he broke. That playing on a loop while you slumber for infinity in the Empty – now that was an ending!”

           As an angel, Cas doesn’t sleep. Can’t dream and cannot have nightmares. In moments of peace, sitting alone in his room at night. Bathed in darkness… that memory strikes. Quick, cutting in its ruthless appearance. Sets him to his feet, light on and blade drawn. Watching shadows shrink in their retreat.

           Chuck continues, angrier by the second. “You would have stayed there too, this time. Dean, Dean prayed. Every night that I would bring you back. Instant voicemail.” Cas frowns, distracted from past trauma by this new information. Dean never sharing this. “Except I was too focused on your demise I wrote myself into another problem – again, because of you!”

           “Jack.”

           “You just… you make me so mad! Castiel, you gotta – you gotta understand, I mean…” Chuck wipes at his cheek, palm lingering there while their gazes meet. “You’re an angel. A – uh… a simple worker bee. A drone. I’m the queen! You shouldn’t be able to do this, it’s – what is it about you? Was it this world – did I… help me make it make sense!”

           Righteous fury seizing, oozing out the cracks of his very being, Cas stands. “You want to know what happened?” he says, seething, “I finally saw what was important. Grand battles, ultimate power… they’re all meaningless if you are alone. Unloved. My time here has taught me…” Those words feel awkward on his tongue, incorrect. He switches, answering honestly. “Dean showed me that.”

           “He sure did show that…” Chuck huffs, rocking on his heels. Smugly enjoying Cas’s defiance. “It sure didn’t include you.”

           Chuck twists his hand in the wound. The very reason Cas fled, Dean’s statement ringing in his head. ‘I’d trade all of them for the chance to kill Chuck.’ Their heated, silent exchange during that brief pause. Communicating as best they could. Still, Dean gave into his fears. Chomped at the bit Chuck dangled. Choosing what Cas prayed he’d never.

           All for nothing.

           “Is that why you’re here?” Cas asks, “kill me one last time? Take me off the board because I’m not important to the story?”

           “How I wish that were true, Castiel. How I wish that were true.” He steeples his fingers, drifting into the surrounding forest. “You’ve got a part to play in this. Something big. A set up for the final battle… that’ll bring all the pieces I need onto the board.”

           “Except for me?”

           “I’ve learned from my first draft,” he says, “not to let surprises derail the story I want to write. You, you… you are nothing but surprising.”

           Cas scowls, fists balled at his sides. “And you being here? Sharing this with me? Is that part of your story?”

           Chuckling, Chuck wags his finger from side to side. “Let’s just say I’m… making things up as I go along.” Cas stiffens, hearing his own words used against him. “Wanted one last chat with you before you drown back in that slimehole.”

           “So it’s soon?” Chuck’s lips thin, stretched closed. Restraint crumbles, Cas leaping forward. “Tell me what you’ve planned -!”

           He’s thrown onto his back, a hand around his neck. Chuck expressionless while he struggles, looking almost bored. “Nothing, Castiel,” he says, “I have nothing planned.”

           “Liar!” he hisses, “You said that I –“

           Chuck talks over him, “It’s the truth! I didn’t plan anything… the only one to blame is you, Castiel. Like always, you are the architect of your own misery.” Cas freezes, body rebelling. Flames of hatred snuffed with a cold breeze. “Not like anything I could’ve written would have sticked anyway, we both know this. But your deal… I didn’t make you do that. You have no one to blame for your doom but yourself.” He releases Cas, wiping his hands on his pants. Sneering at Cas like he was garbage, but smaller. Gum Chuck wiped off his shirt, but worse. A bug under a magnifying glass while the sun shone brightly above, except more pitiful. “It’ll be nice to sit back and enjoy for once… so put on a good show, Cas. Really push Dean into doing something dumb and suicidal when you’re gone. Sell it! Make it count – it’ll be your last.”

           Chuck vanishes, leaving Cas there. On the ground, physically. Mentally, spiritually, he’s adrift in the unknown. Floating towards an ending he always knew waited for him. An ending that he chose.

           Or did he? If every other option was stolen from him, was it truly his choice? Cas certainly wouldn’t pick this. Years from now, after his loved ones have shuffled off, at peace with a life well lived – that’s the ending he would write. Being welcomed into his perfect heaven with gentle green eyes, freckles, and a dimpled smile.

           He stays like that for longer than he realized. Sam finds him, asks if he’s okay.

           Cas lies because, like with the Empty, it’s the only choice he has.

[inputanimeoutput]

Thoughts On: Those Snow White Notes

Let’s not speak of this again || Awful || Bad || Okay || Entertaining || Good || Better than Expected || Really Good || Amazeballs || What is this vision of glory I’ve witnessed?!

Anime surrounding music come around once in a while, and they always get added to my list pretty quickly.  I love music, and anime surrounding people playing instruments or singing just hit me in the best way.  Those Snow White Notes was no exception.

First of all, this series had such beautiful music and such a beautiful atmosphere surrounding the music playing.  I’m not incredibly familiar with shamisen music or the history surrounding it, but all of the music in Those Snow White Notes was just so striking, haunting, and beautiful that I may purchase the soundtrack.  The first OP, “Blizzard” by The Burnout Syndromes, was also absolutely perfect for the series in mixing the contemporary rock sound with the shamisen being played.  Not only was that OP my favorite of the season, but it fit so well--so well that even though I get why they changed it midway through the season, I missed hearing it.

Music aside, Those Snow White Notes had an...interesting narrative.  The first episode was absolutely all over the place, and the next couple episodes after that didn’t do all that much better when it came to introducing characters or the pacing of the plot itself.  Then, when I was just getting used to the narrative and the possible journey of our protagonist, the series dove into the high-school-club-aiming-for-competition route. 

Yes, the pacing of the anime slowed way down with this shift, but it also became a tad bit boring and predictable.  While I wasn’t a fan of the slapdash pacing and plot of the first few episodes, that was what made them interesting and unique--especially when considering that most music anime center around the competition trope.

Even so, I was satisfied with the way the anime meandered its way through the shamisen competitive scene.  The music was front and center with several episodes spending a bulk of their minutes on listening to different musical interpretations of the same song.  This was something that could have lost the anime a lot of viewers, but I thought that it was a brave and very soothing way of expressing the competition atmosphere.  It slowed things down a lot, but it added a lot of vibrancy to the anime itself.

Of course, another thing I enjoyed about Those Snow White Notes’ narrative beyond it’s unusual balance of plot and music was its use of characters.  Everyone except for our main character belongs in a music anime.  We have the drama, the passion, the will-they-won’t-they-win tug of war, but those things exist outside of Setsu Sawamura.

Setsu is an unusual protagonist.  He’s awkward, uncomfortable, and a bit on the lame side.  All this is fantastic because it’s definitely a refreshing change from our usual male protagonists.  Setsu, for me, sits alongside the ilk of Hotarou Oreki (Hyouka) and Hikigaya Hachiman (Oregairu) for male protagonists you can’t help but root for just because of how realistically awkward they are.  Like those others, Setsu’s struggle isn’t just with something outward but also an immense internal struggle with how they perceieve the world and how they situate themselves in the world as they see it rather than how it actually is.

We see this a lot with Setsu as he gets tossed around by the whims of other people despite the fact that those things directly contradict the journey that Setsu is on.  I was struck by how conveluded his relationship with others is (don’t even get me started on how much I despise Umeko) and how that bleeds into his relationships with the students in the shamisen club with him and, ultimately, his relationship with the music itself.

All and all, Those Snow White Notes was definitely one of the shows I looked forward to watching most this season.  If you’re a fan of music-related anime, definitely watch this one because the music really does take center stage.  If you’re a fan of series where the protagonist is unusual, then this one might be good for you as well because Setsu really makes the series quite unique and wonderful.  My only suggestion to anyone looking to get into this show is to give it a couple episodes for the pacing to slow and the real narrative to start.

[enkelimagnus]

The Winter Soldier

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1930 words, rated M for violence

Jewish Bucky Barnes, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Episode 3 Power Broker

Bucky's inner thoughts when Zemo, Conrad Mack and the Winter Soldier walk into the Brass Monkey

TW: violence, slight dissociation during the fight

Read on AO3

Part 21 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

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

Low Town is overwhelming. Neon lights, smokes, sweat, sex, food, trash, everything out in the open. There are signs in multiple languages around him as they walk by. Bahasa Indonesia, Thai, Mandarin, Japanese, Russian, English, Arabic. He can read most of them. They’re all shop names, advertisements for services. Amongst them is a 24-hour Russian laundromat that probably doesn’t launder clothing.

Money changes hands at the corner of his eyes, fat stacks of bills in various currencies. Kuwaiti and Bahraini dinars, US Dollars, Euros, Yen, Rubles. He can’t see any rupiah, which is interesting for an Indonesian-archipelago island but Madripoor has always been its own thing.

There are guns everywhere, from small pistols to assault rifles paraded around on shoulders with little to no care. There are so many of them it’s hard to count but he does it anyway. 78 firearms by the time they make it to the door of the Brass Monkey. 91% of those they have crossed paths with were armed in some way that he could see.

It’s so much. It’s familiar in an almost overwhelming way. Zemo walks ahead, proud and tall and confident. Any hint of the wistful man in the plane has been scrubbed off. He’s Baron Helmut Zemo; commander, colonel, criminal. Bucky doesn’t know exactly what Zemo did to get those Madripoori contacts. He’s thankful for them anyway.

Sam follows him, obviously uncomfortable in his colorful clothing, his slightly heeled boots, the necklaces and flair. Sam’s a soldier, a man of simple needs, simple clothing. He’s not used to this. Bucky’s pretty sure there’s a hidden meaning in the wax pattern of the suit, but he doesn’t know it. Zemo must. Unless the twinkle in his eye when he took the outfit out of its bag in the plane was born from somewhere else.

Bucky closes the march, keeping an eye on their backs and their surroundings. He almost expected Zemo to have a copy of his Winter Soldier gear in the second clothing bag but he didn’t. This… is better. Much better. He doesn’t know how he would handle being in the Soldier’s actual clothes again.

The jacket is leather and only has one sleeve. It’s a deep, dirty red, rusted, ashy, and bloody. The pants are tactical, close with a thick belt. There’s a harness around his chest, the same kind he used to wear to carry his Škorpion vz. 61 on. Except he doesn’t have his guns right now. Zemo insisted they come weaponless. The harness is purely decorative. Fucker.

Granted, it does make Bucky feel less like himself, and more like the Soldier. The harness pulls his shoulders back by the simple fact that it’s there. It’s not tight, but it’s just… there. And it makes him stand differently. He has fingerless gloves as well and the air against his fingertips is almost strange.

He finds himself moving differently, with the perfect silence of the world’s best trained assassin. He finds himself melting once more into the skin of a machine. And for once, he lets himself go.

He wishes for guns or knives, but all he has is himself. It’s enough to make him lethal, of course;  his body was made for killing. Every cell in his body makes him an apex predator. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have fucking razor sharp teeth.

In between the serum and the training, he doesn’t need a weapon. He is the weapon. He walks behind Zemo and Sam silently, darkly. He doesn’t need to bare his teeth for people to know one word from either of the men in front of him and he will rip them to shreds.

Zemo’s voice resounds in Russian.

There are 103 people in this room, and if the earlier statistics are right, at least 93 of them are armed with a firearm or large knife of some sort. With the way the crowd envelops them, it’s impossible to completely avoid fire if something has to happen. He’ll take care of taking his handler to safety. And Sam.  

Right. And Sam.

Two handlers is one too many in this sort of situation and he doesn’t have an order of importance. He’s big, but he’s not big enough to shield the two of them effectively. He’ll find a way. He always does.

Is that the Winter Soldier?

They’ve been noticed. Baron Zemo, Conrad Mack, and the Winter Soldier. Enough names to make heads turn. He understands a bodyguard needs to be close.

There are two exit routes that he can currently see. The one they just came in from, which would be complex if the crowd turns against them and bars the exit. He can probably make a way for them. Possible, if not for the stray bullets. How big the casualties would be is unknown. The other option is a door behind the main bar. What lies behind it is unknown, but he will take corridors and close quarters over crowded bar. Less space for the unknown. Easier to shield both men.

He keeps one ear on the conversation - mostly on the inflection of tones in their voices - and settles against the bar. He starts his radar watching their immediate surroundings. 23 guns he can see, 21 knives, 15 people watching, 5 actively talking about them, 3 in English, 2 in what sounds like Bahasa Malaysia, or perhaps Bahasa Indonesia.

And then Sam gets distraught about something. Bucky watches him drink a very suspicious looking shot under Zemo’s amused eyes. That one’s enjoying this too much. Bucky feels a sneer coming up to his face but he doesn’t move a muscle. Not the place to show open animosity towards his handler.

And then the first man comes.

You ain’t welcome here.

Threat against Zemo. Bucky forces himself not to roll his eyes. Of course he’s not welcome. Fucking hell. They’re gonna have to fight their way through this, because Zemo walked them right into the fucking lion’s mouth.

There’s a chat, it doesn’t know anywhere. The “Power Broker” is a hilarious name. Cocksure assholes, all of them.

And then… it shifts. From the corner of his eyes, he sees a whispered conversation between the first man and a bigger man, tall and large and obviously a strong arm. Bucky shifts. Sam seems to have noticed the change as well. Zemo is still chatting with the bartender, despite the threat. Bucky knows better than to believe he’s oblivious.

When Zemo’s eyes meet his - dark, intense, sharp and somehow both commanding and questioning -, Bucky nods.

The Russian order wraps around his mind. The man’s hand never touches the handler’s expensive coat.

The crowd parts for him, makes space for him. The man’s wrist bones are crushed to dust by the time he stops walking him to the center of the room. He switches hands, holds out his left arm and sends it flying into the man’s collarbones at full power. The man is on the ground, screaming. Shattered collarbone.

He has the time to take a breath and turns around. A second, younger, darker-haired man launches himself at him, right hand closed into a fist. He sidesteps, wraps his right arm around the man’s, and sends his left punching hard in between the man’s shoulder blades, keeping his right arm straight.

The man bends in half and he strikes him in the chest. The man’s hood falls over his head. Another hit on the back of the neck. He pulls him back, forces him to stumble backwards and kicks him hard in the chest, the full power of his enhanced legs behind him. There was a third man getting ready to join the fray behind the second, but the kick takes care of the both of them.

Out of several people behind a coffee table, one gets up, stepping onto the table to join the open circle where he’s now fighting. He drops to the ground, swipes his right leg out, breaking the table’s leg and sending the guy balancing on it down. As soon as he lends, he’s welcomed by a hard kick in the chest.

The guy might not get back up. He doesn’t have time to check.

When he turns back to where the handler and the other are, he sees the handler’s hand on the back of a man’s coat. And suddenly, number 5 is shoved towards him. Knife in right hand. He shifts. The knife hits a few centimeters to the right of where his prosthetic is anchored in his flesh, against vibranium.

He feels the shock slightly, hears the scraping of metal against metal, sees the man’s eyes widen in fear as he realizes that he hasn’t managed to hit the soft, tender, sensitive part where flesh and metal meet. Of course he failed. The new arm is set further in than the old one was.

A knife has been brought out. A weapon. After that, there’s no holding back.

Men fall around him like flies, his body moves without thought. It’s brutal, it’s violent, it’s perfect. He doesn’t think. He acts.

Didn’t take much for him to fall back into form.

The words bloom warm into his chest. Pride.

He’s squeezing down on the first man’s throat, choking him in a familiar motion, when a hand lands on his prosthetic. Someone’s holding him back. He almost growls at that until he hears the familiar voice.

Zemo whispers to Sam to stay in character.

“Отлично, солдат.”

The Russian wraps around him again but this time, it feels like so many things Bucky feels nauseous. There are guns being cocked, whispers, machines, stares on him, lights, it’s overwhelming. It’s too much. It feels like there’s a large, too bright, stage light shining on him.

There are hands on him. Sam’s hand has left his left arm. Those are Zemo’s hands, both of them. One on his shoulder blade and one on his stomach, on the soft, tender underside. Steadying. Not holding him back. Steadying him.

And then it’s done. He lets go of the man. They have made a nice enough display. Successful. Prideful. He made the handler happy. Fuck off . He has no reason to make Zemo happy. He made Sam worry, and that’s worse.

Sam doesn’t need more worry. He doesn’t need that. That was the whole fucking point of Bucky not answering his texts for three fucking months. That Sam wouldn’t have to worry about him. And now he does, and he’s seen him.

He’s seen the Winter Soldier. Worse. He’s seen Bucky. Because there were no codewords, no chair, no coercion. He did it. He did it. It’s disgusting and horrifying and Sam might as well call the army now and tell them to throw him back into the Raft and throw away the key.

The adrenaline is still buzzing through him and he could go for hours more. This was an easy fight. This was the best fight he’s had in a fucking decade.

“You good?”

Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, no. No, i’m not good, no, I can’t do this, take me away, fuck, fuck I can’t do this.

He has to do this. He has to go through this. Because it’s necessary. It’s what he has to do to get the information they need so there aren’t more supersoldiers than there needs to be. And that number is zero. Fuck. Fuck, it’s bad.

He would be shaking if he didn’t have absolute control over his body at that moment.

He nods. Sam might not buy it. There’s no time for therapy right now.

[dangerouscommiesubversive]

Can you do a , smug and mean character of your choice, Z?

Anon, did you want me to write about Sengoku Ryouma? Because this is exactly how you get Sengoku Ryouma. (Kureshima Takatora is in here too, not that he’s at all smug or mean.) Z is my choice, so

C is for colors--and, if you’d also like musical accompaniment, M is for music and “you should see me in a crown,” by Billie Eilish, is available on Spotify and YouTube.

The first time Ryouma agrees to share a meal with Takatora, he brings a sketchbook with him. He’s drawing when Takatora approaches the table, in fact, drink in one hand and pencil in the other, intent on his work until he realizes that he’s not alone. Then the sketchbook closes, but not before Takatora can catch a glimpse of what looks like a cross-section of a plant. “What are you drawing?”

A smile like lightning--Takatora finds himself briefly wondering when the thunder will hit, and what might be burned to ashes in its wake. “Vegetation from Helheim. I’m exercising my botanical illustration muscles. I don’t imagine you’d be much interested, though.”

“No, no, I’m actually very curious. Your scientific work intrigues me as it is; I didn’t know you were also the artistic type. May I take a look?”

Ryouma gives him a look which might be considering or might just be shy; Takatora doesn’t yet know well enough to be able to tell which. “If you’re really interested...” He slides the sketchbook across the table. “Look away.”

They end up losing half of lunch to Ryouma’s drawings, Takatora turning pages in rapt fascination as he examines the fractal layout of crystalline seeds within those ever-dangerous fruits, the labeled diagrams of alien plants, the beautifully watercolored illustration of a Helheim vine overtaking a maple tree. Ryouma is delighted to explain them, his soft voice making it more an intimate conversation than a lecture. One pen sketch is so shockingly realistic that Takatora nearly reaches for it, wanting to see if he might pick a fruit directly from the page, only to pull his hand back before he can risk smudging the ink. “I think these might be almost as dangerous as the real thing, Dr. Sengoku.”

“Oh, please.” The lightning smile comes back, and this time Takatora is certain he can hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. “I may not have a lot of friends, but the ones I do have all call me Ryouma.”

--

Ryouma’s insouciant smile and elaborate courtesy tend to strike others as at least mildly disrespectful, if not outright rude. Takatora, of course, knows that it’s just how he is, that he doesn’t mean anything by it. The sketching during R&D meetings is a little irritating, but after the first couple of times it comes up he finds that the scratching of the pencil is oddly soothing, enough that finally he gives into the temptation to ask again, “What are you drawing?”

One of the other researchers rolls her eyes when she hears this, but Ryouma just smiles. “Lockseeds, of course.”  He holds out his sketchbook for Takatora to take. “I think I’ve designed, hm, at least fifty at this point.”

The sketchbook is open to an exploded mechanical diagram, far more complicated than Takatora is prepared to try to make sense of. He tries anyway, nodding absently as the other researchers start to trickle out of the room, squinting at Ryouma’s tiny labels. “Fifty? Do we need to many?”

“Well, Takatora--” the last researcher heading out the door huffs irritably at Ryouma’s casual tone, “I don’t know about you, but I certainly can’t live on oranges alone. And they’ll do different things, of course, once I’ve perfected the driver designs. What’s your favorite fruit again?”

Takatora blinks. “Melon. I really only eat it at breakfast, but I do like it best.”

Lightning strikes. “Wonderful, I did remember correctly. Turn back a few pages--yes, there.”

“This is...a Melon Lockseed?”

“Yes, do you like it?”

The sketch is colored in with pencils, and it’s--beautiful, in the strange way that all of Ryouma’s creations are beautiful. “It’s lovely.” Takatora reads over the notes along one side. “I...’authorized by providence,’ Ryouma?” He raises his eyebrows. “What is?”

“You are.” Ryouma bows, one hand on his heart and a mocking smile on his face. “You’re the prince, aren’t you? I thought perhaps you deserved the reminder. And I am merely your humble advisor.”

“I don’t think there’s ever been anything humble about you, Ryouma.”

“Maybe not. I am very good at what I do, I don’t see any reason to lie about it.” A pause, and then Ryouma cocks his head to one side and the smile goes from mocking to teasing, sly and friendly. “I may have some melon at home, if you’d like to come over.”

“...for...breakfast?”

“Well, yes, eventually.”

Takatora feels his face go hot, and hopes he hasn’t turned too pink, and then furthermore hopes that no one else is lingering outside the conference room door as he says, “That sounds very nice.”

--

There are more armor designs than will probably ever get used, and Takatora says so. “Why so many?”

"I enjoy designing them. Although of course most people won't get to see more than the very basic one." Ryouma is settled comfortably against his shoulder, sketchbook balanced on one pulled-up knee. "I'm not going to share my best art with just anyone, you know."

"Oh, no?" Takatora cranes his neck to see the sketchbook over the top of Ryouma's head. "How are you going to manage that?"

"A series of if-then statements in the Sengoku Driver. They have to be able to scan the user's body and brain, you know, to do what they do; I don't see why I shouldn't have them test for particularly desirable personal qualities at the same time." Ryouma's pencil dances over the page. "For example, if it were to detect, say...hm." A sly glance upward at Takatora. "A noble soul, a cutting intellect, clarity of purpose, and oh, let’s say an offensively nice ass, it might produce...something like this."

He holds up the sketchbook, so that Takatora can finally get a proper look at it--a samurai, sleek and elegant but with a science-fiction edge. “This is...armor for me?”

“Roughly, this is a preliminary.”

“It’s beautiful.”

The smugness radiates from the line of Ryouma’s back against Takatora’s arm. “Thank you, I’m very pleased with it.” The sketchbook and pencil go on the bedside table, and then Ryouma turns around looking even more sly. “Of course, I’ll need to tailor the design to suit you better. I think I’ll need to make some figure studies, you’ll have to pose for me.”

Takatora raises an eyebrow. “Naked, I’m sure.”

“Oh, naturally, I’ll want to make a detailed study of your best qualities.”

“I think you said something about an offensively nice ass?”

“I am an artist, I want to display my subject to best effect.”

“So I’m your subject now.”

Lightning-flash smile, and Ryouma runs his fingers down the side of Takatora’s face, tips his chin up as if to study his profile. “No more and no less than I am yours. I ought to draw you with a crown on your head.”

--

When Takatora wakes from the coma--is woken from the coma, by the grace of a power he suspects he may never entirely understand--it still takes another two weeks before he’s discharged from the hospital and declared fit to go about whatever business he may have, and one of the first tasks that confronts him is the disposition of Ryouma’s notes. He can’t possibly ask Mitsuzane to take care of it, wouldn’t even want to mention the man’s name in his brother’s presence. Ryouma was, in the end, his fault and his responsibility. This is his cleaning up to do.

Mostly it’s straightforward. The laboratory equipment has already mostly been confiscated or destroyed; researchers and technicians have already scoured his computer files. It’s just the actual papers that are left to take care of, organized by some system that only Ryouma himself and perhaps Yoko ever understood, box after box of them. Takatora embarks on the project with four helpers--two from the Ministry of Internal Affairs, one from the Ministry of Health, and a man from the Ministry of Agriculture who seems to have an unwholesome interest in the actual growth capacity of Helheim plants.

“He didn’t go into the most technical details of his work with me,” Takatora says after the third question about what a particular notation might mean. “He was an...idiosyncratic man, to say the least.”

And then, near the back of the room, one of the Internal Affairs people says, “This box seems to be full of artwork.”

Takatora only freezes for a moment before saying, “Yes, Professor Sengoku was very passionate about the design aspects of his work. I’ll come over and take a look through them, there may be sketches of interest to more than one of you.”

Unlike most of the other papers and boxes, the sketchbooks are mostly clearly marked. Lockseeds, Vol. 1, says the label on one; Sengoku Driver Preliminary Sketches, says another. A third is, Armors, and Takatora recognizes its blue cover and thinks, suddenly, I never did ask him how he intended to have the Drivers identify desirable qualities in people, or why. That should have been a warning sign by itself.

Near the bottom of the box, though, is a sketchbook marked, Personal, and Takatora picks it up as quickly as he possibly can while still looking casual. He recognizes that cover too, and would rather not have people from the government seeing some of the drawings in it. “I’d like to keep this one, actually. I assure you, there’s nothing dangerous in it.”

The man from the Ministry of Agriculture says, frowning, “You’re familiar with the contents of this one?”

“I’m familiar with most of them, actually, the professor was very proud of his design work and shared it with me frequently.”

The sketchbook goes into Takatora’s briefcase, and he waits until he’s home and in his own bedroom to open it, because, yes--there, three pages in, is the first of several drawings of him. Most of them, as he flips through, are unremarkable, but a few are of an intimate character that he’s glad he wasn’t forced to share publicly. One in particular brings a blush to Takatora’s cheeks as he remembers the night it was drawn. On the facing page of the sketchbook there are a few lines scrawled in Arabic, a language that Ryouma read excellently and spoke passably, with a translation underneath:

He is a veiled one; but were he to pass in a darkness black as his forelock, his blazing face would suffice him light.

So if I stray for a night in his black locks, his brow’s bright morn will give guidance to my eyes.

Which does nothing but make Takatora’s blush much worse.

Of course, there aren’t only nude drawings of him, which is something of a relief. There’s a self-portrait on one page, a few sketches of Yoko on another, drawings of the various Beat Riders in a set near the back. It almost brings a smile to Takatora’s face, seeing how Ryouma managed to capture Yoko’s solemn resting expression and the angry twist of Kumon Kaito’s mouth. Sketches of animals, of plants, a cartoon of Oren that actually makes Takatora laugh.

Near the middle of the sketchbook, not far past the most memorable “figure study” and its snatch of poetry, is a drawing of the Yggdrasil logo. Or at least, Takatora takes it for that at first, but when he reaches the end of the sketchbook he realizes that something about it bothers him and has to flip back and look more closely. It is the Yggdrasil Corporation tree, but with grasping roots growing down beneath it, crushing something that Takatora realizes after a moment is the Earth.

Beneath it, in Ryouma’s neat, precise handwriting, is a note:

Unfortunately it has become clear that Takatora’s desires and mine are no longer in alignment.

Takatora shudders and closes the sketchbook, and when he finally manages to fall asleep, much later, he dreams of being struck by lightning.

[sirpoley]

On the Four Table Legs of Traveller, Leg 3: Character Creation

In part 1 of this series, I described how Mongoose Traveller's spaceship mortgage rule becomes the drive for adventure and action in a spacefaring sandbox, and the 'autonomous' gameplay loop that follows.

In part 2, I talked about how Traveller's Patron system gives the DM a tool to pull the party out of the 'loop' and into more traditional adventures.

In this part, I'll talk about Traveller's unique character creation system, and how it supports the previous two systems.

Brief Overview of Character Creation

Traveller's character creation is weird, and it was the first thing house-ruled away by my old DM—and I can see why.

Traveller character creation is a minigame of sorts, in which you first generate ability scores (much like in D&D), then pick a career. You make a stat check to qualify for the career, one to 'survive' the career (more on this later), and one to advance. Every time you qualify for the career and/or advance, you get a random skill or stat boost from a table related to your training. In the Army and Marines, for example, you're very likely to get combat-related skills, while as a Merchant you're more likely to get something like Broker or Admin (which tend to be more useful, surprisingly).

You also roll once on a life event table, in which your character might fall in or out of love, make friends or enemies, study abroad, and so on.

You then advance four years in age and try again, and continue for as long as you want. If your character gets too old, they start suffering physical ability score consequences, though these can be bought off with semi-legal anti-aging meds, the consequence of which is starting with high amounts of medical debt.

Rolling to Survive

If you fail a survival roll, you're permanently expelled from your career (but can start another one), and often suffer major debilitating injuries in the form of sweeping permanent ability score damage, though this can be bought off by going deep into medical debt. It's technically possible to die in character creation if your physical ability scores are reduced to zero in this way, in which case you would start over. For that to happen, the player would have to decline treatment—basically, they're making a choice to give up and start over. This is a kind of extreme "safety net" against playing truly worthless characters, I suppose, though I haven't seen it happen yet.

Why is this Good Again?

This way of creating characters is shockingly different from any that I've seen before. The character that you end creation with might not have any resemblance at all to what you sat down and intended to create, which was a huge source of frustration, as a player, in my last two campaigns. It's more common than not to, for example, come up with a concept for a dashing space pilot and end up with a 98 year-old-that-looks-34 white-collar office worker who's got a laundry list of grievances against various corporations who have fired him over the years.

When I've seen this system work well, it's because players went into it with different expectations that they would in D&D. For a D&D campaign, you usually come to the table with a more-or-less fully-fledged character concept, then roll stats (or point-buy) and fill in the boxes. In Traveller, it's more like spinning a wheel and seeing what you'll get.

For the kind of campaign that Traveller assumes, however, this is perfect, and here's why.

First, it sets the tone of the campaign. Traveller is very different from most D&D-esque RPGs. It doesn't provide any guidance for or benefit from, for example, balanced encounters. By creating mechanically unbalanced, unpredictable characters, it is telling the players from the start that there are sharp edges to this game and they have to stay on their toes.

Second, it generates crucially important NPCs for the campaign. Those life events—and some fail-to-survive rolls—often create allies, enemies, rivals, and contacts: NPCs that are guaranteed to be met during the campaign. The book provides tips to the DM to ensure that these NPCs have access to spaceships, as they can be found on the random encounter tables. But here's the fun bit: the Player will be just as pissed at their rival, Captain Morgensen (or whatever) as their character is supposed to be, as he was (according to the events table) instrumental in getting them fired from their career as a space scout. By generating these characters during character creation's life-simulation, it gives them a real, emotional connection that leads to a lot of fun during play. These NPCs can easily function as Patrons (which, as explained in part 2, are the keys to adventure), or can provide paths to Patrons.

Third, it has the potential to start the characters massively in debt. The clear optimal path in character creation is to pay off any injuries by going into medical debt, and chug analgesic anti-aging pills like they're Skittles in order to keep advancing down your career paths, or start new ones. As explained in part 1, Traveller's 'loop' functions best when the PCs are swimming in as much debt as possible. The more debt, the more motivation to travel, and thus the more space pirates and space dragons and space princesses and whatever that they'll meet.

Fourth, it familiarizes them with the setting. The book provides quite a few career path options to the Players, and uses the same to generate its NPCs. Thus, just by reading through the career path options available to them, Players learn a lot about the world of Traveller and the kinds of people they might meet, without having to read lengthy setting handouts or pages and pages of lore or anything like that.

Fifth, it creates gaps in the party's expertise, which encourages hiring NPCs. It's virtually impossible to end up with an adventuring party that can cover every skill required to operate a spaceship, for example. This encourages hiring NPC crewmembers to fill in those gaps, which really helps make Traveller 'work'. A lot of the party's time is going to be spent on their spaceship, so the more people who are on there, the better from a roleplaying standpoint. Also,  

That said, it's not perfect, as…

There Are Some Real Limitations

Mechanically, the main issue that's come up with Traveller's character creation is that it's entirely possible for the party to be missing one or more vital skills, or for a character to be lacking something that would be key to making them 'work'. Traveller's basic dice mechanics harshly penalize untrained skill checks compared to attempting even slightly-trained ones, and some roles can't be easily filled in by NPC crewmembers. If your character never rolls to learn the Gun Combat skill, for example, they'll more likely than not miss every attack they make in the whole campaign. The party can overcome this by hiring marines, for example, but the player might still be bored every time a gunfight starts.

This can be mitigated by, say, letting that player control their hired NPCs in combat directly, but as the game doesn't really provide a lot of guidance for who plays hired NPCs (the DM? the player that hired them? The party as a whole, by vote?), the DM and player will have to come up with their own solution. Since they might not even realize that there is a problem that needs to be solved, this can easily lead to traps (for example, if the DM assumes full control over hired NPCs, many battles will lead to the DM just rolling checks against himself/herself over and over in front of an audience) that generate frustration.

Mechanics aside, there are some narrative implications for character creation that might strike many Players as quite weird. Most D&D Players default to making their adventurers whatever their races' equivalent of early-20s is. Sometimes there's an old wizard thrown in to spice things up, but I'd say 9-in-10 characters I've seen are 'college-aged.'  

Traveller strongly rewards old characters. Sometimes very old. Don't be surprised if the average age of the Traveller characters is the same as the summed age of all of your Players. This isn't necessarily bad—immortal, eternally-young sci-fi characters are kinda neat—but it's also pretty limiting, and may not be within the Players' expectations. If a Player wants to make a character who's a young hotshot just starting out, the rules will punish them severely. They'll have virtually no skills, no money (or debt!), no ship shares (units that track ownership of the spaceship), and no NPC connections.

Making it Work

I'm not going to change these rules until I'm more familiar with the system, but my gut says that many of the game's skills (such as Computers, Comms, and Sensors, or the two skills that govern two different, but similar, kinds of environmentally-sealed armour) could be consolidated to reduce the odds of a missing skill torpedoing a character. I also think flexibly passing back and forth control of hired NPCs between the DM and Players will solve a lot of problems, but deciding on the fly who is in control in a given scenario will probably take some experience as a DM. I’m vaguely aware that there’s a second edition of Mongoose Traveller, which may have done some of these things, but I haven’t played it and as such can’t comment on it.

I think for a satisfying experience, you have to make it clear to your Players not to try to build their characters to a pre-imagined concept, but rather come up with a concept as they play through their character's life. Also, tell them upfront that, in this particular sci-fi universe, anti-aging technology has allowed for the rich and powerful to stay eternally young, and that they can expect to have already retired from one or more full careers before the campaign even begins.

Next up, how this all ties in with random encounters.