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rageprufrock · 3 months ago

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Superposition | The Devil Judge WIP

Just a sneak peek into the inevitable outcome of me finding out that I can write a story about a 17 year age gap.

After the fire, Yohan wakes up every morning knowing that Isaac is dead.

Elijah wakes up every morning convinced her father is alive.

It's the crush damage of new grief each day, too big for her tiny body and too heavy for her to carry. It's worse than all of Yohan's years under his father's belt; it's not until he loses Isaac and Heejin, until Elijah cries herself unconscious in his arms, that Yohan realizes that his father had been a clumsy jailer, that for all his cruelty he'd been a blunt instrument compared to all the ways suffering can visit itself upon a person.

It's a miracle Elijah is alive, surviving multiple complex fractures and then delayed treatment. They save the flesh and bone of her legs, piece her back together with literal pins and needles. Her x-rays are difficult to look at; the scarring across her ghost-pale skin is worse. She hurts, in a relentless way that is at first impossible to explain to a child, and then is so ordinary she goes quiet with it, turns it inward. She stops crying. She's too weak and immobile for her once-infamous tantrums. She goes quiet instead. She throws books, toys, anything that Yohan brings into her beautifully appointed private room to try to distract her.

"It will be hard, and it will take time," her doctors say, with an infuriating paternalism, as if their performed empathy could dampen constant burn of searing fire across Yohan's shoulders, cut into the shell of him. "But she's young and she's resilient—she'll surprise you."

For the first six months, Yohan spends his limited waking, functional hours desperately trying to hold back the flood with his bare hands. He wakes and he's in too much pain to function. He sleeps and his doctors adjust his pain management regimen. He wakes and he tries to comfort Elijah. He sleeps and he dreams about the skin grafts he's been informed are needed. He wakes and he calls Lawyer Ko. He sleeps when he knows Isaac's Social Responsibility Fund donation is canceled. He loses hours and entire days in the labyrinth of the hospital, winding between the VIP ward and the children's wing, meeting with Elijah's orthopedic surgeon, her occupational therapists, the revolving cast of nurses that transport her from procedure to scan to bedside. He arranges Isaac and Heejin's funeral, and ends up back as a patient when Elijah's meltdown at the gravesite has him tearing one of his barely healed graft sites trying to contain her flailing arms, to swallow all of her screaming pain into the bottomless well in the base of his spine.

It's eight months and six days after the fire that Yohan hears Elijah laugh again.

***

Later, he'll get a comprehensive readout from the hospital grapevine, but the day he meets Gaon for the first time, all he knows is that he's been summoned by the terrifying peds nurses because Elijah and her new friend have committed some kind of juvenile crime.

Yohan's not ignorant to the fact that Elijah is a nightmare child, but he's still a little confused about how a five year old who is—frankly—abysmal with her new wheelchair is any kind of threat to society. He fetches up at to the pediatric OT clinic fully prepared to act like a complete entitled asshole about this, because while Elijah is a monster, she's his monster and therefore completely innocent of all sin, original or otherwise.

Except halfway down the hallway there, he hears the sharp cackle of Elijah's laughter, a goblin shriek of pure wicked joy. It lands like a punch, like a blessing, it leaves him lightheaded.

When he rushes the door, it's to find Elijah in full glory, giggling so hard she can't speak. Her hair is tied up in a series of tiny ponytails that frame her face like a lion's mane, her face is covered in marker, and she's clutching a filthy orange cat to her chest.

"Kang Yohan-sshi," says one of the nurses, who is trying and failing to look severe, from the way her mouth keeps wobbling and her voice is trembling. "As you can see, we have a situation."

"I—where did she get the cat?" Yohan asks, faint.

Another nurse, who is making no effort to hide her grin, says, "Apparently, they found him behind a trash can in the garden and snuck him into the hospital."

Yohan slants his eyes toward her. "They?"

"I'm really not sure how you missed her very obvious partner in crime," the nurse tells him, actively laughing now, and when Yohan turns to look again—turns to see anything other than the miracle of Elijah's smiling face—he sort of understands her point.

Because sitting next to Elijah is a skinny teenaged boy wearing Elijah's headband, all of his short hair pushed back and sticking out like a massive frill around his thin face, his nose colored black and whiskers drawn across his cheeks. He looks less embarrassed than he probably should be, and more incriminating, he's holding some contraption made out of stolen hospital supplies that looks like one those little fishing toys for cats—a single inflated glove hanging from the end—that the fat orange on Elijah's lap keeps reaching for with outstretched paws.

Standing in the doorway, surrounded by staff and other parents who are barely containing their hysterics, the whole thing is even more batshit. Nurse Woo Yeji, the iron fist of the pediatrics ward, is looming over Elijah and the kid on the ground, hands on her hips as she booms out:

"Kang Elijah-sshi, give me that creature immediately."

Elijah narrows her bright little eyes. "Oh no," Yohan mutters.

"My cat," she declares, her chin stuck out in defiance.

"He was so sick and skinny, we had to rescue him," the boy chimes in, with the admirable application of a pair of doleful, sweet eyes. It might be more effective if his face wasn't covered in washable marker and he didn't have a purple heart drawn over his left eyebrow.

"That cat is at least 4 kilograms overweight," Nurse Yeji tells them both, unmoved. "And let me say: Kim Gaon, I thought you had better judgment than this."

The boy, Gaon, takes the comment with the ease of long familiarity with disappointment, but Yohan still sees his eyes go briefly flinty, briefly cold, before he pastes on a smile and says, "I rode my motorcycle into a wall. If you thought I had good judgement, that's your own fault."

"Yah! Kim Gaon!" the nurse yells, which just sets Elijah off again into pealing laughter.

And from the back of the room, Yohan watches the way this mouthy kid, this little punk, glances over to his niece, watches how the fake grin on his face dissolves for something softer—something run through with tenderness too old for his years.

***

Kim Gaon is 17, orphaned, and a frequent flight risk from the group home he's been remanded to with both his parents dead. In the 13 months since his father had died by suicide, and the 10 months since his mother had followed, he's been picked up by the local cops at least a half-dozen times: for smoking, for drinking, for fighting. Yohan looks up photos of Gaon's once-happy family, reads SNS posts mourning the closure of their family restaurant, the police reports about the suicides, the note in Gaon's hospital file that notes that he's going into arrears for his parents' funeral costs. Kim Gaon's social worker talks about him with a sort of resigned apology, approaches Yohan's interest like another black mark in the boy's service jacket. She looks at Yohan's suit and briefcase, takes his business card and calls him Lawyer Kang, spills the whole of Gaon's history, reassures Yohan that however self-destructive, however volatile, Kim Gaon's never displayed any violent tendencies toward children, that Lawyer Kang should feel free to reach out immediately if he feels concern that Gaon has become Elijah's friend.

"If you'd like me to speak to him, to tell him you're not comfortable with him spending time with you niece, I completely understand," his social worker says.

Kim Gaon has been treated for two different STIs and tried to kill himself with a motorcycle three months ago. The only people he has left in the world are a childhood friend from down the street and Judge Min Jeongho, who used to eat lunch at the Kim's restaurant every day.

Kim Gaon is 17 and entirely alone.

Yohan smiles at her. "No need," he reassures her. "I'll handle this on my own."

***

Too much of Kim Gaon's character reference is ultimately hearsay. Yohan doesn't trust himself, exactly, but he trusts his judgement, so he watches quietly from the sidelines, collecting data. Yohan hears all the nurses talk about how Gaon is achingly polite, how they can't understand how such a nice boy could be such an evident wild child he would ride motorcycles with reckless lack of self preservation. He watches Gaon do other peoples' homework, quizzing them on Joseon history and showing a middle schooler who's learning how to write with his left hand trigonometry. Kim Gaon plays Smash Brothers with a flock of elementary school kids and ruthlessly kicks their asses every single time.

The Kim Gaon that's considered a neighborhood menace, the one sends his teachers into a blind fury, that's the protective armor. Yohan knows from defensive adaptations.

But being a nice kid isn't the same as belonging in Elijah's life in any meaningful way, Yohan acknowledges, and spends a pointless day drafting soul-killing discovery motions and wondering why he's devoting so much time to this distraction. Maybe it's how Elijah's sleeping through the nights better, communicating her pain and what she needs better. Maybe it's how she tells stories about her friend Gaon, and it briefly feels as if they've traveled backward through time, that Yohan's watching her for the night, hearing and becoming deeply invested in all of her day care drama.

"Elijah-ah, why do you like Gaon so much?" Yohan asks her one night, midway through the intricate ritual of her bedtime routine.

From her bed, Elijah says, "Gaon is funny and cats like him and also his parents are dead, so someone has to take care of him," and without missing a beat, points her sparkling princess wand toward the closet, commanding, "Check there, too."

Yohan climbs off of the floor where he'd been checking under the bed and goes.

"Would you want to see Gaon even outside of the hospital?" he asks her, doing a careful four-point inspection of the closet: more clothes than one child could ever wear, 200 pairs of shoes, a stuffed sheep the size of a horse—no monsters. "Closet's clear."

Elijah makes a considering noise. "Gaon-oppa said he was a really good cook, so I want to eat his food," she decides, and shy now, she waves Yohan toward her, tiny hands flapping. "Samchon, come here. I want to tell you a secret."

Yohan cherishes every secret he has with Elijah. Since she was born, he's kept so many for her: that she stole a cookie, that she's really really not scared of thunder, that she loves her uncle best, that church is boring.

"I'm ready," Yohan promises, and sits at the edge of her bed with his most serious expression.

Elijah looks left and right, as if there are spies around every corner, before she cups her hands around her mouth and Yohan curls over her so that she can whisper:

"Sometimes I forget I'm sad about Mom and Dad, but Gaon-oppa says that's okay because I never forget that I love them."

It lands somewhere in Yohan's soft underbelly, in the forever ache of his scare tissue. He looks down into Elijah's solemn little face, her riverstone eyes, and he wonders what kind of benevolent God allows this—forces children to patch one another's broken hearts. He used to wish that he would have died instead, that he could trade himself for Isaac, for Heejin, but he's comforted Elijah through too many nightmares of his own death to entertain it any longer. Love's always been a chain, whether wrapped around his wrist with a cross or trapping him in his father's house.

"You will, you always will," he whispers back.

"And they love me, too, of course, in heaven," she tells him, with the haughty confidence of a spoilt only child, who'd grown up with three adults circling around her in constant adulation.

"And I love you here, on Earth," he says, and does not add, your grandfather loves you, too, from where he's burning in hell.

Elijah goes suddenly quiet, thoughtful and a little distant, and Yohan waits patiently until she says at last, "Gaon doesn't think his parents love him in heaven."

Yohan stills. "Did he say that?"

"He told his friend, the unni that visits sometimes," Elijah reports, and staring dead into Yohan's eyes, she adds, "I was hiding behind a curtain listening. He also said he can't be her boyfriend."

"Okay, well, time for little goblins to go to sleep," Yohan says, because he absolutely cannot start laughing about this because somewhere out there, in the beautiful hereafter that Isaac so fervently believed in, he would be furious if Yohan encouraged this kind of behavior.

***

For all Yohan's been investigating the mystery of Kim Gaon, he's wholly unprepared to be confronted by the reality of the boy while sitting in the hospital cafe at half past five, working his way through a stack of files for court the next day.

"Kang Yohan-sshi?" comes a voice, and when Yohan looks up, it's into the shaggy bangs and thin face of the boy who makes Elijah laugh, standing awkwardly at the edge of his table.

"Ah," he says, flipping his pen across his knuckles. "You're Kim Gaon."

Gaon's eyes round. "You recognize me?"

"The nurses tell me you're friends with Elijah," Yohan says, and waves at one of the empty chairs at the table, shuffles a few folders around to make room. "Please."

It takes more than a little maneuvering for Gaon to take the offered seat, between his backpack and his crutches, his leg still in its cast, and Yohan offers him a steadying arm, takes his bag, helps shift the table this way and that way. Gaon looks mortified the whole time by these small courtesies, stumbling over thank yous and apologies. It tells on him in ways Gaon can't possibly know, but that Yohan can't possibly ignore.

"What brings you to my temporary office?" Yohan asks, when he's sure the kid isn't going to tip over and break anything else, and is only in immediate danger of blushing to death.

Gaon squares his shoulders, and taking a deep breath, says, "I wanted to talk to you about a cat."

This is how Yohan learns that the orange furball that he's first seen that day in the OT room all those many weeks ago is a stray that's been named Gam, and that Elijah's youthful enthusiasm for petty hospital-based crime has undergone a metamorphosis toward more elaborate heists.

"Not that I don't admire her ambition, but I'm pretty sure you'd notice the yowling lump in her sweater when you pick her up from OT," Gaon says, still nervous and too polite, darting wary little glances upward at Yohan. "I tried to talk her out of it, but she started arguing about how cold it was going to get and I had to admit defeat."

Yohan feels the corners of his mouth curl up, reflexive. "There's wisdom in recognizing when you're beaten," he says. "And I appreciate your letting me know."

"Sure," Gaon says before going quiet for a long measure, some unfinished sentence still hidden behind his lashes. Yohan's patient, waits him out, and is rewarded when a half-minute passes and Gaon says, with a brittle courage and poorly concealed vulnerability, "I—I'd take him with me if I could. I like Gam. But the house where I have to stay won't allow pets."

Yohan can hear a universe in between the confession here: that Gaon must have been worried about the cold weather long before Elijah even noticed, that he'd tried to find an answer all on his own. Yohan feels, tugging in the hollow underneath his breastbone, a hurtful recognition of a younger version of himself, all those raw edges fraying, and maybe—sitting here—he can understand a little of Isaac's quiet sadness, the way Yohan had carried all his suffering alone, as a matter of course, without ever trying to ask for help.

He looks at the slope of Gaon's shoulders, the wrinkled collar of his school uniform shirt, his terrible haircut, the little divot of a piercing in his ear. Yohan thinks about the sunburst of Elijah's laughter and all the terrible things he's willing to do to sustain it; it's strange to realize he hadn't anticipated something so easy, something that wouldn't hurt at all.

"Do me a favor," Yohan sighs.

Gaon's head darts up. "Um—if I can?" he says.

"Back me up when I tell her that I thought long and hard about this, and that I'm going to be a strict taskmaster about this cat," Yohan says, with a rueful certainty that there's no way in hell that Elijah is going to buy this narrative, because it looks like the sun is rising in the brightness of Gaon's eyes, the pink happiness of his too-thin cheeks. This kid couldn't lie effectively if his life depended on it. In this light, Gaon looks a little like Isaac, if Isaac was too thin and too hopeful, all gamine pleasure; it makes Yohan feel his bones creak just to look at him.

"I will, I absolutely will," Gaon promises, smiling now and still shy, but so achingly sweet that it makes Yohan want to buy him hot chocolate, to tell him he's done a good job, to ask if he's eaten dinner.

He forebears, and starts packing up his work documents instead.

"Come on," he tells Gaon. "If I'm going to make a fool of myself trying to trap a feral hospital cat, you're coming with me."

Yohan ends up scratched to hell and back, his hand-tailored wool trousers covered in mud, while Gaon laughs at him with a wide-open happiness that makes something in Yohan's chest feel too big for his rib cage. He decides not to think about it in favor of fetching Elijah from her PT and ferrying her down to his car, where Gaon is waiting for them both, a sulking Gam zipped into the front of his hoodie like an uncooperative child. His smile could light every building in Gangnam. Elijah's shriek of pure joy when she spots him leaves Yohan half-deaf for the drive home, and so the warm patter of Elijah and Gaon talking in the backseat rolls over him in indistinct syllable noises until he drops Gaon off at his group home and helps him to the door.

"Thank you, for today," Gaon tells him, starry and still rosy, covered in cat hair.

"Elijah's already drawing up plans for shared custody, so don't be a stranger," Yohan warns.

He'd been ordered by Elijah to participate in an exchange of contact information with Gaon because everybody in the car had a unique and unaddressed relationship with the trauma of abandonment, and so of course Gam could not be suddenly bereft of one of his humans.

"I won't, I promise," Gaon swears, and nods back toward the car, where Elijah is holding Gam up against the window and waving his paw at them. "You should get her home."

Elijah talks nonstop during the drive out of the urban density of Seoul into the forested beyond where their family home is perched on a melodramatic cliff above a lake. Yohan hears about her nurses, her rivalry with another little boy in OT who sounds like he has a world-ending crush on her Gaon-oppa, and listens to the way Elijah sometimes stops mid-sentence when Gam meows at her and then replies, as if she can understand cat.

Whatever is bubbling in his veins, its too violent to be the warm kindness of joy. This ferocity feels like some holy gratitude, feels like the way Isaac used to talk about God. Yohan has never any good at faith, but he thinks—to himself, so loudly he hears it over the roar of blood in his ears and the chattering happiness of Elijah, vividly alive—he thinks, thank you, thank you, to whoever is listening: to God, to fate, to fortune, to the fucking cat—to Gaon, waving at Elijah with both hands, a smile on his face and Gam curled close against his chest.

#the devil judge #wip #fanfic

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strangelittlestories · 5 months ago

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It was 4am and Treasure was forcing down a third can of energy drink when thing got *weird*.

The library was hazy with that kind of quiet hysteria that blooms late at night, when impending deadlines crush the soul down into fertile soil for strangeness.

The fluorescent strip lighting and insufficiency of windows didn't help any.

Treasure was tired in a way that banished coherent thought and made sleep an impossibility. Her eyes kept trying to close, but when they did, she just saw spots of dark light floating on the inside of her eyelids.

She stared at those spots, daring them to make sense.

Imagine her surprise, then, when those spots - those holes in the reality of her - began to stare back.

Treasure opened her eyes. She looked down at the energy drink and considered setting it aside (she did not). She looked up again and found she had opened a new document on her laptop.

"MAKE AN OFFERING" It read in bold Grotesque font, each letter an oddly elegant blunt instrument.

Treasure looks from the energy drink to the laptop. Her hand moved on its own, pouring a splash of blue neon liquid onto the keyboard. She resisted the urge to wipe it off. She failed to resist the urge to swear.

The liquid fizzed and hissed on the keyboards and there was a scent of sickly fruit tinged with ozone in the air. The keys, already gummed up by solidifying chemical sweetness, began spitting out characters onto the document.

At first, they were nonsensical - no words, just a jumble of letters, punctuation and blank space. But as Treasure's eyes began to unfocus, the whole mess began to coalesce like one of those magic eye images (but made out of ASCII art).

The figure on the screen was a mess. Eyes like black holes. Lines running down them like cracks or oily ramen stains. Hair like thunder.

"What are you?" Treasure whispered.

Amongst the slurry on the screen, a few letters became bold and spelled out a sentence.

"I AM OVERDUE. GODDESS OF BURNOUT."

"Do you..." Treasure's voice was quiet, reverent, hesitant; a hymn in the key of awkward. "...do you want me to worship you?"

The letters swam. Rearranged.

"YOU ALREADY DO."

"What do you want from me?"

"GET SOME SLEEP."

"I ... I can't. I have a paper on Applied Theurgy due tomorrow."

"NOT A REQUEST."

Treasure's eyes closed. Sleep came.

When she awoke, days later. She found out that she had submitted a paper to the Arch-Professor. It was junk. The same mess of forehead-smashed input through which the goddess had appeared to her.

She had received a B minus.

The title of her paper was "It Is Better to Fade Away: An Accidental Communion."

It had been submitted with the note: "Please Give My New Disciple A Good Grade."

Treasure went in search of coffee.

#writing #microfiction #flash fiction #short story #writeblr #wtwcommunity

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incognitobobcat · 7 months ago

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Headcanon Tomáš

Photo Source: @jojogreg8441 on Twitter

Name: Tomáš Vrbada

Birthday: July 11, 1993

Zodiac Sign: Cancer

Birthplace: Prague, Czech Republic

Languages: Czech, English, Chinese (dialect unknown), learning Japanese

Fighting Style: Ninjitsu and Pencak Silat

Weapon: Karambit

Religion: formerly Catholic

Favorite Colors: Silver and light shades of blue

Favorite Foods: Svíčková, Řízek, Rajská omáčka, Madam Bo’s cooking, homecooked meals, Gyoza, and food from the Osaka night markets (ie. Kuromon), enjoys food in general

Favorite Beverages: Water, Pilsner, milkshakes, and some juices

Favorite Pastimes: movies and tv shows, music, walks in nature, traveling, enjoying various foods from restaurants and night markets

Favorite Actor: Johnny Cage

Favorite Movie Genres: Action, adventure, suspense, psychological thrillers, comedy, and whatever else from other genres that appeal to him.

Favorite Music: Contemporary music, alternative metal, classical and soothing instrumental music.

Favorite Dating/Hangout Spots: Osaka night markets, cozy and casual and cozy restaurants, and romantic and peaceful natural spots.

Personality: He is stern, intimidating, and quiet on the outside. He is able to command the respect from his subordinates. He is assertive in a firm and confident way. As a trained assassin under two established clans, he is true to his oaths and never backs down from kombat. He is loyal, courageous and deadly in his profession. As a person, he is kind, gentle, soft-spoken, eager to help and caretake others. He is intelligent and kind. He enjoys favorite past times with people he likes to hang out with and a woman he’s interested. He can be funny and is a good actor.

Ideal Woman: Tomáš likes a soft and gentle personality who can really connect with him on an emotional level. He values kindness, compassion, and empathy. He needs a partner who can give him the emotional safety and space to be vulnerable. Being a giver himself, he loves it when a woman graciously and enthusiastically accepts his gifts and chivalrous gestures. He also wants a woman who can handle his constant need for reassurance and appreciation, so constant attention and physical touch are very important to him.

Turnoffs In A Woman He Dates: Abrasive, angry, negative, careless with how she words things (straightforwardness is a gray area as it varies from individual to individual), blunt to harsh, overall oné who isn’t “feminine” in behavior. Fiercely independent women are frustrating for him to deal with. He may not be aware of this: even though he has fought alongside strong women who are fierce warriors, he has traditional views of how his woman should be and prefers her to be meek and dependent on him, as it feeds his masculine ego and need to look after someone who is weaker.

Deepest fears: To expand on the last point mentioned above, Tomas’ need to look after someone weaker stems from his past traumas of losing loved ones. He has a fear of abandonment. Subconsciously, this is his way of being in control of what he views as his and those who he sees are in need of his help. This brings him alot of gratification and allows him to feel like he is in control, sometimes in an intrusive way.

Furthermore, When Tomas feels he is not being seen and recognized for his acts of kindness, this will further fuel his fear. When someone can do for themselves what he desires to do for them, he interprets this as a message that he is no longer needed, and therefore discarded.

Turn Off For A Potential Partner: Once Tomas has decided that you are the woman that he wants because you check all of his boxes and meet his needs, he will physically and emotionally latch onto his partner. He would want to be with her as much as he can. Tomas is a very physically affectionate person and will want to cuddle, hold hands and make out as much as possible. He loves frequently having sex as a way to pour himself into his partner and bond with her, and it helps him de-stress, so he will make sure that he gets this as much as possible. This may drain the woman, especially when she is tired or not in the mood.

If the woman isn’t on the same level as Tomas is regarding falling in love at his pace or is more reserved regarding his physical and emotional needs, is not ready to open up about the details of her life, or cannot be emotionally present for reasons ranging from business to tiredness to being with girlfriends, he can get frustrated, insecure, and extremely jealous, to which he will verbally express this making him come across as whiny. If she is careful with her body and not want to have sex during certain times of the month out of fear of unwanted pregnancy, Tomas may eventually accuse her of making excuses to not want to be intimate. In his mind, there must be something wrong with him or she may be falling out of love that she’s distancing herself from him. Repeated reassurances may fall on deaf ears as he may shut down and walk away, or argue her points in such a way to make her feel guilty. The woman may feel obligated to give in to soothe his fears and build resentment over time or she may have to end the relationship.

Tomas expects his partner to be able to pick up on what he is feeling and can’t shut down when his partner doesn’t. Because he fears abandonment, he can be emotionally selfish where he will emotionally manipulate his partner with guilt trips on how much he has done for her, her not appreciating him, and playing the victim to get reassurance and physical affection from her. This may make the woman feel like her efforts are not good enough, which affects her self-esteem, she may feel abused and and be emotionally drained to the point of apathy. Her pulling away from him will further trigger his fears and Tomas may cry and beg, promising to change. If she chooses to stay, things may get comfortable for the old habits to come back. If she walks away, Tomas may double down on his efforts, making it even harder for her to leave.

These behaviours only manifest behind closed doors when you are his person. Outside of that, things are normal to untrained eyes.

Healthy Tomas: If he is healthy and secure in himself and his partner, Tomas is the most giving to her beyond the physical. He will make her feel like she is his priority and she will feel emotionally safe and contained by him. He is empathetic and is attuned to her moods and needs. He also knows when he needs his space and can communicate clearly with his partner, and vice versa. He is also able to walk away from a toxic relationship or once he feels that a relationship has run its course while holding on to the good memories. Tomas is respectful of his partner’s refusal to be intimate for her reasons and will make sure that her needs are taken care of when she is tired or stressed while putting his feelings aside. He is a great friend and lover, and wants to build a family with his future wife when she is the one. He will make an excellent father and husband and would die to protect his family.

#mk1 2023 #mk1 #mortal kombat #tomas vrbada #mk1 tomas vrbada #mk smoke #smoke #mk1 smoke #mortal kombat 2023 #mortal kombat headcanons #headcanon #mk1 smoke headcanon #mk1 tomas vrbada headcanon #mortal kombat 1 smoke headcanon #mortal kombat 1 tomas vrbada headcanon

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zodiyack · 1 year ago

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Pregnancy (A drabble)

Pairings: Jace Wayland x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, pregnancy

Words: 526

Author's note: Just a little idea. I can make this a full fic / miniseries. Only Y/N and Clary have gone in to see Magnus in private.

Masterlist | The Mortal Instruments Masterlist

Taglist: @matth1w, @redspaceace-writes, @fandom-puff, @darling-i-read it, @simonsbluee, @thewarriorprincessxo, @sebastianstanslefteyebrow, @livlaughquinn, @bubsonnobx, @bunnyweasley23

Magnus hesitates when he passes Y/N. His expression shifts to one of concern and curiosity. "I'm surprised you're here."

Her brows furrow. "I'm a Shadowhunter, of course I'm here."

"Not that." He chuckles. "Given your predicament, I wouldn't expect you to join them on this journey."

"Why's that?" She asks, genuinely curious.

Magnus looks at her with amusement, then hovers his hand over her stomach. "You're with child."

Clary gasps in place of Y/N, who is too in shock to even react.

"No- I'm not... I mean, I've been sick lately, just... I'm not pregnant." She shakes her head, in denial.

"Y/N, I may not like your kind, but I would not deceive you. You. Are. Pregnant. I recommend that you withdraw from any strenuous missions, avoid putting stress on you and your baby, as well as putting yourself in danger if you wish to keep your child." He orders her. The topic is simply dropped when he returns to Clary.

(After the fight with the vampires)

"You really shouldn't have come, after what Magnus told you?" Clary announces to the group, but directs to Y/N.

Y/N widens her eyes and whips her head in Clary's direction. "Don't."

Jace looks at the two in concern and tilts his head. "What did Magnus tell you?"

Clary opens her mouth to speak. Y/N quickly replies, warning the redhead. "Don't. It's not yours to tell."

Izzy and Alec look at each other with confusion, but wait for Jace to reply. "What did the warlock tell you, Y/N?"

"Do we really have to do this right now?"

Clary rolls her eyes and speaks up, "How long are you gonna hide the fact that you're pregnant? They'll notice eventually! I mean, what about Jace?"

The three's eyes all widen at the reveal. Jace looks upset, but Y/N is livid. Seeing her reaction, Alec's expression darkens and he steps forward.

"Even if that is a concern, it's none of your business, Clary." Her name drips with venom when it comes from his mouth. "You've been ogling Jace since you got here. Your jealousy cannot hide forever either."

"But- Jace, she lied to you!" Clary averts her gaze in shame when he doesn't acknowledge her.

"Alec is right. Though I'm upset Y/N hid it..." Jace looks toward her with a sorry nod, "I still wish it would've been her to tell me, especially since it's between us. I've tried to brush off your advances, but I suppose I must be blunt now. I plan to stay with Y/N and my unborn child. The fact that you've known of our relationship and continued to pursue me has made me question whether I want to train you or not."

It's Izzy's turn to step forward. "We can talk about this later. For now, we need to get back to the institute and put Simon in the infirmary."

"Yeah." It's the only word Y/N lets out before she walks past Clary, bumping her shoulder on the way. Jace follows, also ignoring Clary. The girl can only watch and realize how much she's hurt him.

#x reader #can u tell i want him #jace wayland #jace herondale #jace wayland x reader #jace herondale x reader #jamie campbell bower x reader #jamie campbell bower #jamie bower #jamie bower x reader #reader insert #the mortal instruments #city of bones #shadowhunters #zodiyack

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searchingforserendipity25 · 10 months ago

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Plentiful as Sand is Plentiful. LoTR. on ao3.

There was for many years an hourglass upon Elrond’s desk, a tall ivory-and-glass thing from sunken Númenor.

As a little child Estel liked to turn it and turn it, and would sit for hours upon his foster father’s lap following the mother-of-pearl etchings on the handle with his fingertips and watching the sand shift softly.

For a time it was too heavy for his small wrists to turn; but Elrond with his keen hearing would know when the last grains came with an end, and knew when to turn it without lifting his eyes from his papers.

Elrond had given it for him to hold, when he told him the truth of his name: Aragon, son of Arathorn, heir to Isildur’s line and Isildur’s grim failure.

“Yet also to the courage of his people, and their skill,” Elrond told him. “Your forefather it was who made this time piece as a gift to me. From the glass-rooms of Armenelos it came, the last of Isildur’s works of beauty. It has been of good use to me, and good memory; I give it to you, that you should remember him with gratitude, as well as bitterness.”

“Yet bitter is it what you say to me,” said Estel, who was Aragorn. He was startled still, and yet not surprised entirely; for the blood of kings ran in him, and had at times left an uneasy premonition upon him.

Still he would have remained been Estel, and no lost kingdom’s wayward heir; least of all in this century, this Age of the world, with an evil reckoning brewing in the distance.

He turned the hourglass in his hands; a Mannish means of counting time, not to be found in other elvish kingdoms, but common enough in the house of Elrond Peredhel. “Keep it, Master Elrond. I cannot have it as my own, ere I am Isildur’s heir truly. These hurrying moments that are my lifetime shall be a heavy load to carry, I judge, and my course too rough for such a delicate thing.”

“Then keep it I shall, until you wish to reclaim it, or your score of years are run to their course,” said Elrond; and laid upon Estel’s shoulder the heavy comfort of his healer’s hands, which he felt for a time like a yoke as well as a kindness.

It rested between a tall orchid Celebrían had found once in her expeditions in the wilds of Ennor, a narrow and tall and very orange creature, the last of its kind on these shore - and on the other side was his pile of used quills, which he tended to keep until they were worn through into stumps, too blunt to be sharpened.

He used it little, after that day; but at times Arwen his daughter came, and stood by the chair where Aragorn had sat with bent shoulders to her his name.

Her fingers, long broideress fingers, touched the waves and leviathans Isildur had carved, with careful deliberation, in the last days of his youth, the dying of his empire. Her eyes grew clouded, then; not with the memory of the past, but her own designs, a future seen with the force of her want. Her own lord of man, his dear face not like any other’s; her own cities crowded with the smell of stone dust and salt.

She left it there, warmed by her skin, and went away from it but for rare and secret visits; but Elrond at times looked heavily upon it, as once he had not.

That was another Age of the world. There is now an hourglass amidst Tar-Elessar’s instruments - behind the inkwell of Gondorin silver, besides the whittling of an eagle in flight his eldest daughter has wrought him.

Many gifts have been to him, the king well-returned; but none quite as ancient. Elessar turns it in his hands, when a heavy ruling keeps him at work long into the night; Isildur’s hourglass, grown light with the strength of his manhood, feels always a little terrible to hold.

#aragorn #estel #elrond #arwen #elrond & aragorn #arwen x aragorn #my fics #lotr fic #february ficlet challenge #prompt - hourglass

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leiawritesstories · 8 days ago

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PART TEN: OCTOBER (PART II)

Masterlist

Read on AO3

Word count: 11k (i'm so sorry lol)

Warnings: legal jargon, courtroom drama, references to bad past, mentions of torture, mentions of death, references to prison, scheming, language, and possibly angst

enjoy...?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The prosecution calls Borte Eridun to the stand.” The medical examiner, a woman with bronzed skin and neatly braided dark hair, a pair of wire-framed glasses situated on her nose, came up to the witness stand and was sworn in. Darrow clicked through the images of the victims. “Ms. Eridun, what is your job?”

“I work as the chief medical examiner for Orynth city proper.”

“Do you recognize these bodies?”

“Yes.”

“Did you examine these bodies?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“Please give the court a brief summary of your findings.”

Borte nodded. “As an employee of the Orynth Police Department, I examined twenty-three homicide victims over the course of several months. In my reports, I noted that each body presented in a near-identical state, with numerous minor wounds, bruises, cuts, and lacerations. I also noted that each body presented an identical fatal wound—severed jugular and carotid arteries—except for one. I believe it was Exhibit A12.” Darrow clicked to the image of Tern’s body. “Yes, that one.”

“What was different about this one?”

“Rather than a severed throat, this victim’s fatal wound was a gunshot delivered at close proximity to the head, as evidenced by the bullet hole in the forehead. Other than that, the body presented an identical state as regards other physical wounds.”

“Were there any other abnormalities among the bodies’ conditions?”

“One victim was missing several fingernails. Multiple victims had broken fingers, but only the one had fingernails removed. I was unable to determine why, but the nails had been torn out from the root, likely with surgical pliers.”

“Why was this done?”

“Objection,” Ansel called. “The question clearly calls for speculation.”

“Sustained. Next question.” Malakai tapped impatiently on the bench.

Darrow bit back a scowl. “So to summarize—the bodies bore a near-identical state of physical injury and almost all identical fatal wounds?”

“Correct.”

“No further questions.” Darrow returned to his seat in some degree of irritation.

Ansel got up and picked up her clipboard. She turned over a page. “Ms. Eridun, in your analysis of these bodies, what kind of instruments caused the injuries?”

“A wide variety, actually. Most of the bruising was caused by blunt-force trauma, either bare fists or some kind of object thrown into the body. The majority of the cuts and lacerations were caused by knives of widely varying sizes. In my observations, I hypothesized that the tools were surgical quality due to the precise edges of the wounds. Aside from the bullet wounds on the one victim, the throats appear to have been severed with a short, wide-bladed, straight-edged knife.”

“Did you ever see any of these instruments?”

“I did not.”

“Were you able to determine, in your analysis, what kind of person may have delivered the injuries?”

“Objection!” Darrow interjected. “Speculation.”

“Overruled.” Malakai rapped on the bench. “The question is relevant, and Ms. Eridun’s area of expertise allows her to answer.” He nodded at Borte. “You may answer the question.”

“I was.” Borte folded her hands. “According to my notes, the vast majority of the traumatic but not fatal injuries caused to the bodies were delivered by a man. This was evident from the force, impact, and depth of the wounds, all of which were beyond the bounds known to be possible for a female to achieve. The wounds were simply too forceful for female hands, in other words.”

“What about the fatal wounds? What person delivered those?”

“Definitely a female, and given the identical nature of the wounds, I noted that it was most likely the same person.”

Ansel nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Eridun.” She turned to the jury. “As you see, the medical examiner’s testimony aligns with Ms. Galathynius’s plea. If anything, she is guilty of the fatal wounds, the murders.” She returned to her seat.

Darrow rose to redirect. “Ms. Eridun, according to your analysis, could any of the minor wounds on the victims’ bodies have been caused by a woman?”

Borte canted her head. “According to my analysis, only a few of the very minor, insignificant cuts were shallow enough to fit within the female range. The vast majority of the wounds were too far outside that range to be even potentially female.”

“So you are convinced that the majority of the torture wounds were inflicted by a man?”

“Yes.”

“I…have no further questions, Your Honor.” Anger sparked through Darrow’s eyes as he walked back to his seat, flipped through his notes, and conferred briefly with Rowan. Borte returned to her seat, and Malakai motioned to Darrow.

“We have time for at least one more witness. Prosecution, whom do you call?”

Darrow leaned into his microphone with a brief flicker of a triumphant smirk, and ice bolted down Aelin’s spine as Dr. Nehemia Ytger, chief engineer and head of research and development at Gal Inc. took the witness stand.

Sworn in, Nehemia regarded Darrow with cool detachment, and Aelin could tell that it unnerved the attorney. Good.

“Ms. Ytger,” Darrow began. “What is your role at Ms. Galathynius’s company?”

“Dr. Ytger is fine,” Nehemia said neutrally, “and I work as the chief engineer. I am in charge of research and development.”

“Dr. Ytger, do you recognize either of these images?” Visibly irritated at having been corrected, Darrow clicked between the images of the fabric scrap and the SecondSkin.

“I recognize the second one, the synthetic.”

“What do you know about the SecondSkin?”

“Aelin brought me the idea just over a year ago, and it took months to even get a workable sample developed. The stuff is finicky and requires exact handling.” Nehemia shot a brief glance towards Aelin. “During the process, I have found that it could become a workable type of synthetic skin, useful for medical purposes such as repair of damaged skin. However, we are not yet at a point where we could carry out clinical trials.”

“How much—in quantity—of this substance exists?” Darrow pressed.

Nehemia shrugged. “Perhaps one square foot, but it exists in much smaller sample quantities, so it is difficult to estimate precisely how much there is in total.”

“What will happen to SecondSkin once you have a fully developed product?”

“I do not know.” Nehemia spoke like a true scientist—detached, perfectly calm. “That was a conversation that Aelin and I have not yet had.”

“But what would she intend for its purpose to be?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Ansel interrupted. “Speculation.”

“Sustained.” Malakai didn’t wait for Darrow to protest. “Please refrain from speculative questions, Mr. Darrow. Next question.”

Darrow scowled. “So as far as you are aware, Dr. Ytger, SecondSkin is being developed with medical use in mind?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions.” He sat down, his posture stiff with frustration.

Aelin noted, with some degree of hidden satisfaction, that neither the prosecution’s questions nor Nehemia’s answers had touched on the more sinister uses of SecondSkin—uses which Nehemia most definitely knew about. And she was grateful for that tiny bit of protection.

Ansel approached the witness stand. “Dr. Ytger, how long has this project been active?”

“Fourteen months,” Nehemia said.

“And how long does it typically take to develop, test, and release a new product?”

“Depends on the kind of product. Some take six months, and some can take years.”

“Which timeline does this SecondSkin fall on?”

“As of now, years.” Nehemia’s answers were simple and blunt. “It’s still in development.”

“What is SecondSkin made of?”

“Polymers, mostly. It somewhat resembles plastic wrap in texture.”

“How is it applied?”

“A pre-measured section is carefully laid atop the desired area and smoothed against the surface of the skin until the synthetic is flush with the skin surface.” Nehemia demonstrated using her forearm. “For example, if I had a burn here that required a skin graft, the synthetic would be measured and cut into shape, then laid flush with the skin atop the area.”

“How large of an area can the existing SecondSkin cover?” Ansel asked, meeting Nehemia’s gaze as she posed the question.

Nehemia shrugged again. “That remains to be determined, as the synthetic currently exists in small quantities.”

“Thank you. No further questions.” Ansel returned to her seat. Darrow declined to redirect, and Nehemia left the witness stand and returned to her seat among the handful of witnesses in the courtroom.

Darrow leaned into his microphone. “In order to explain Exhibit F, the unidentified scrap of material, we need the testimony of an expert witness. Therefore, I call to the stand Dr. Aedion Ashryver, an expert in bioengineering and its analysis.”

Aedion strode up to the witness stand, swore to tell the truth, and sat down. He deliberately kept his gaze away from Aelin, and her heart thudded heavily at the weight of his avoidance. She knew it was so he could remain neutral, but that knowledge didn’t counteract the sting of it.

“Do you recognize this?” Darrow clicked to the image of the fabric scrap.

“Yes.” Fuck, hearing Aedion’s voice testify at her trial hurt.

“What is it?”

Aedion cleared his throat. “What you see here is a very small scrap of some kind of heavily modified fabric. From what I know, it is closer to fiberglass than fabric in chemical and structural composition, but it remains flexible enough to qualify as a fabric material.”

“When did you discover this fabric?”

“I did not. It was brought to me.”

“By whom?”

“Lieutenant Whitethorn.”

“When?”

“He brought it to me as crime scene evidence at the end of January. He said it had come from a scene he was investigating, and he asked for my analysis.”

“Please provide the court with a summary of your findings from this analysis.”

“Upon receiving the sample, I analyzed it under a microscope to discover its structure, material composition, and chemical makeup. The shortest possible summary of my findings is that they were baffling. The material does not appear identical to any single known substance, but rather to multiple substances all at once, as if coexistent within the material itself. Its structure most closely resembles many layers of very fine mesh stacked atop each other, crisscrossing to form an extremely closely interlocked grid. This scrap appears to be part of a larger piece of material of indeterminate size, as it is not possible to tell what fraction the scrap is without knowing the size of the larger piece. However, the edges of the scrap are clean rather than jagged, which implies that it was either cut—not torn—from the larger piece, or that it is a self-contained sample .”

“You said the fabric seems like multiple substances all at once. What substances are those?”

Aedion blew out a breath. “I noted resemblances to para-aramid, neoprene, Teflon, Kevlar, and fiberglass, but…simultaneously, as if they were all occurring together yet not combined into a new substance. Again, it is baffling.”

“What conclusion did you reach before you returned the evidence to Lieutenant Whitethorn?”

“I concluded that the fabric had to be some kind of foreign or alien substance, as I was unable to determine any specifics beyond that.”

“I see.” Darrow clicked to the next image. “Do you recognize this?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“These are flakes of a synthetic skin substance that the accused is developing.”

“How do you know that?”

Aedion’s voice remained even. “Because I analyzed it at my lab, and because Dr. Ytger explained what it was.”

Darrow nodded. “Did Dr. Ytger’s explanation line up with your findings?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you obtain this sample?”

For the first time since he’d come to the witness stand, Aedion glanced towards Aelin. “These flakes were given to me at the same time as the aforementioned fabric.”

“So Lieutenant Whitethorn gave you both samples at once?”

“Yes.”

“Very good.” Darrow sat down. “Dr. Ashryver’s findings demonstrate just one example of what the criminal Celaena Sardothien did in her labs—she develops dangerous items for dangerous people. Surely the good people of the jury cannot let that go unnoticed.” He flicked a tiny, smug smirk in Aelin’s direction. “No further questions.”

Ansel stood and approached the witness stand. “Dr. Ashryver,” she began, “You say Lieutenant Whitethorn gave you the samples to analyze?”

“Yes.”

“Are you an official contractor with the police department, then?”

“I am.” Aedion nodded.

“How often do you work with them?”

“Occasionally, if they have a piece of evidence that needs to be analyzed in less time than their forensics team can do it, or if there’s something urgent, or if they need the equipment that my lab has.”

“How long did it take to come to your conclusions about this fabric?”

“Around four months.”

“How long does it typically take you to analyze a specimen of police evidence?”

Aedion steepled his fingers. “Usually two to four weeks.”

“Why did this analysis take so much longer?”

“Because of the sample’s complexity. I studied the specimen as intensively as possible and kept discovering more problems that I needed to solve.”

“How did you then reach your conclusion?”

“Eventually, I hit a dead end that forced me to conclude the specimen must be a foreign substance.”

“And you then returned the sample to Lieutenant Whitethorn, correct?”

Aedion exhaled sharply. “Yes. We scientists hate to leave others with that kind of conclusion, but it was the only possible one according to my research.”

“I see. As for the synthetic, how long did that analysis take?”

“Three weeks, a much more standard time frame.”

“When did you discover that it was a synthetic skin substance?”

“Around a week and a half into analysis. The structure and properties lined up with other known skin synthetics.”

“Do you have any research assistants?”

“Yes.”

“Did any of them assist you in this research?”

“No. My contract with the police department specifically forbids me from having research assistants during specimen analysis.”

“Very well. No further questions, Your Honor.” Ansel returned to her seat. Once again, Darrow declined to redirect, and Aedion quietly left the witness stand, not sparing Aelin another glance.

Darrow rose from his seat once Aedion had returned to his place. “That concludes the lineup of the prosecution’s witnesses, Your Honor.”

Malakai rapped on the bench. “Very well. Court is adjourned. We will reconvene at nine o’clock on Monday morning for the examination of the defense’s witnesses. Dismissed.” He rose, and the courtroom rose with him as he exited. Accompanied by Ansel, Aelin walked out of the courtroom, her head held high and her face a controlled blank, and her two TSF guards fell into step behind her as she walked through the courthouse building.

She returned to her apartment in silence, shutting off the part of her mind that wanted to replay every second of the trial in close detail to scrutinize all the places where the prosecution’s testimony had been damning. Ansel had reassured her that when the court reconvened, Aelin would be given her chance to speak. She and Ansel had run over the question lineup many times, and Ansel was confident that even if she couldn’t save Aelin from everything, she could at least provide the court with a full picture of the Shadow Assassin’s motives.

Monday morning dawned excessively bright and cheerful, with the sun shining in the clear blue sky and a hint of a crisp autumn breeze curling through the air. Aelin only had a few minutes to appreciate the lingering sunshine before Gav knocked on her door and came into the apartment.

“Ready?”

“Is there really any way to be ready?” Wryness twisted her words.

Unexpectedly, Gav crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a hug that stabilized and comforted her more than anything else had in the last month. “You’ll be okay, Fireheart.”

Tears clogged her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered, leaning into his embrace.

He nodded, and as he let her go, he squeezed her shoulder. “I mean it. Whatever happens, wherever you go, I’m still gonna protect you.”

She chuckled. “You of all people should know that I don’t need any protection, Gav.”

Gavriel led her down to the waiting vehicle, shielding her as best as he could from the horde of hungry cameras camped outside her building, and drove to the courthouse in silence. He pulled around to the side entrance and stopped, and he walked with her to the pretrial room. Ansel was waiting, and she nodded to Gav as he dropped Aelin off and left the room.

“It’s good of him to take care of you like that,” she said.

Aelin nodded. “Yeah. Uncle Gav has been like another father figure to me, even when my parents were still alive.” A smile flickered across her lips. “I guess it helped with Aedion being away.”

“Could be.” Ansel snapped back into attorney mode. “I know you’ve probably heard this about a million times, but are you ready?”

“I am.” Aelin pressed her heels against the ground to keep her legs from shaking. “Do you think the court is ready for me?”

That brought a chuckle out of her fearless attorney. “Oh, Ae, nobody is ever ready for you.” She grinned. “Shall we?”

One of the TSF guards opened the door, and the pair fell into step behind Aelin as she walked down to the courtroom, head held high despite knowing that she was about to face probably the most crucial days of her life. She strode into the courtroom as if she owned the place, and the three journalists noticed, hands flying and cameras clicking rapidly as they noted down the details of her arrival.

Good. Let them watch.

Malakai entered and called the court into session. Situating himself on the bench, he motioned for Ansel to call her first witness.

She leaned into her microphone, half-grinning, and said calmly, “The defense calls Lieutenant Rowan Whitethorn, Terrasen Special Forces.”

Rowan looked as if he’d been punched in the stomach. A bit reluctantly, he rose and went to the witness stand, swore himself in, and sat down. Ansel came to stand in front of him, passing a long look over him, waiting until he broke eye contact before she began.

“Lieutenant Whitethorn, when were you assigned to this investigation?”

He swallowed. “On the fourth of January.”

“Who signed the orders giving you clearance?”

“My unit commander, Gavriel Ashryver.”

“While you worked with the Orynth Police Department, who was your superior officer?”

Rowan’s jaw clenched at the words superior officer. “Captain Chaol Westfall of Orynth PD.”

“Indeed.” Ansel clasped her hands behind her back. “Where is this Captain Westfall?”

“Dead.”

Stunned silence fell over the courtroom. Ansel let it drag out, then turned back to Rowan. “Who killed him?”

“I believe Captain Westfall’s death was the work of a criminal known as the Queen of the Night. Her legal name is Maeve.”

“Was she your first suspicion?”

Rowan drew in and released a controlled breath. “No.”

“Who did you initially suspect?”

“I…initially suspected Celaena Sardothien,” he admitted, his voice tight. “Then I took a proper look at the facts of the scene and discovered that it didn’t add up.”

“I see.” Ansel crossed the length of the courtroom and returned to the witness stand. “Why was Celaena your first guess?”

He paused for a moment. “Sadrothien was the prime suspect in the homicide cases at the time, and I suppose I was paranoid. When a member of the police force dies in the middle of a major investigative effort, it’s natural to suspect that his death is linked to the larger case.”

“You said the details didn’t add up. Why?”

“Well, for one thing, Maeve left a note.” Shock rippled around the courtroom again.

Ansel nodded. “This is true.” She clicked the pointer in her hand, bringing up an image of the note left on Chaol’s corpse. “Is this what informed you it was Maeve?”

“Yes.”

“After you confirmed it was a murder, I suppose you had the man’s body examined?”

“Of course. It’s procedure.”

“Naturally.” Ansel pivoted to face Malakai. “Your Honor, I request to call Borte Eridun to the stand to corroborate Lieutenant Whitethorn’s testimony.”

“Granted.” Malakai gestured at Borte. “Please approach the witness stand, Ms. Eridun.”

Calmly, Borte came to the witness stand and sat down, facing Ansel.

“Ms. Eridun, did you examine the body of Police Captain Chaol Westfall after his death?”

“Yes.”

“What did you find regarding the state of the body and the fatal wound?”

“There are some images available.” Ansel clicked to those slides, and Borte continued. “The back of the skull had clearly been dealt severe blunt-force trauma, most likely causing catastrophic brain hemorrhage that led to death. However, there was also a bullet wound in the left temple, and examination of the impact led me to conclude it was fired at point-blank range. Therefore, I concluded that both the blunt-force trauma and the bullet caused the man’s death.”

“Were there any other notable wounds?”

“Yes. Both hands had been stabbed clean through. Lieutenant Whitethorn informed me that he discovered the body at a desk, with its hands pinned to the desk surface. Additionally, the note he found was nailed to the victim’s forehead.”

“From the state of the wounds, was Captain Westfall killed by a man or a woman?”

“Clearly a man, given the force of the blow and the clean slices of the knife wounds in the victim’s hands.”

“Thank you. No further questions for Ms. Eridun, Your Honor.”

Malakai nodded. “Would the prosecution like to pose any questions for Ms. Eridun?”

“Yes.” Darrow remained in his seat, but spoke directly to Borte. “Were you able to examine the site of Captain Westfall’s death, or was the body brought to you?”

“The body was brought to me.” Borte’s brows furrowed. “I am confused, though, why you call him Chaol Westfall.”

“Why are you confused, Ms. Eridun?” Darrow honed in on that statement.”

Borte blinked. “Because I ran DNA analysis, and that isn’t who the results said he was.”

“Whose DNA was it, then?”

“A man of nearly identical physical features named Ren Allsbrook.”

Deafening silence descended over the courtroom, and then a wave of incredulity broke the air, gasps and exclamations rippling through the space. Even the jury reacted, conferring among themselves with expressions of shock. Aelin tucked her face downwards to hide her smirk.

“She smirked!” Darrow slapped his hands down on top of his table. “Your Honor, I saw it clear as day! The accused smirked! Clearly, that proves her guilt!”

Malakai just raised a gray eyebrow. “A singular facial expression is hardly proof of anything, Mr. Darrow. You’ll have your opportunity to question Ms. Galathynius in due time.”

Chastened, Darrow quieted down. “Thank you, Ms. Eridun. No further questions.”

Malakai nodded at Ansel. “The floor is yours, Ms. Briarcliff.”

“Thank you.” She folded her hands behind her back. “I have a couple of further questions for Ms. Eridun. First, did you discover any foreign substance on his body?”

“No. Only tinted contact lenses, fully intact.”

Internally, Aelin released a massive sigh of relief. Borte hadn’t found any trace of SecondSkin on Ren’s body—her mission had been successful to that extent, at least.

Ansel dipped her head. “You mentioned that Ren Allsbrook is nearly identical to Chaol Westfall. In what respect?”

“According to my analysis, the body I examined matched Chaol Westfall’s physical record in height, weight, build, hair color, foot size, ring size, and almost matched the photos of his face.”

“Were there any notable differences?”

“Yes, their eye color is different, and Allsbrook is about a year older.”

“Thank you. I have no further questions for you, Ms. Eridun.” Ansel allowed Borte to return to her seat, and she redirected her attention to Rowan. “Lieutenant, who is Ren Allsbrook?”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw flexed, but his words stayed even. “Ren Allsbrook is an internationally wanted spy. According to the public record, he was arrested in Eyllwe last October, convicted of numerous counts of fraudulent impersonation and espionage, and sent to Endovier Prison.”

“How long was his sentence?”

“Life, with the possibility of parole after fifty years.”

Ansel hummed softly. “To your awareness, when did Allsbrook leave Endovier Prison?”

Bright, fierce anger sparked in Rowan’s eyes. “This past January. There were headlines about the incident across most major news outlets.”

“Were you aware that Allsbrook had replaced Captain Westfall?”

“Not until I received the coroner’s report detailing what I believed to be Westfall’s death,” Rowan admitted. “I was…caught off guard.” A half-truth—he’d been fucking seething.

“Hmm. Lieutenant, where is Captain Chaol Westfall?”

Rowan blinked. “I…have no idea. As far as I was aware, Ren Allsbrook was Chaol Westfall.”

From the back of the courtroom, the journalists eagerly recorded the details, and Kaltain hid her chuckle behind her notepad and camera. She hadn’t been expecting Rowan’s discomfiture, but she didn’t miss the way his gaze slid to Aelin as he fought to retain his composure.

Nor did she expect Aelin to refuse to meet Rowan’s gaze.

“I see.” Ansel turned sharply and went back to her seat. “No further questions.”

“Prosecution may cross-examine.”

Darrow got up and crossed in front of the witness stand. “Lieutenant, when did Captain Westfall’s death occur?”

“At the very end of June. The autopsy was conducted throughout the first couple weeks of July, and I received the report on the 14th.”

“When you learned it was Allsbrook, did that affect your list of suspects for the homicide cases?”

“No.”

“Did you, or do you, suspect any connection between Allsbrook and Celaena Sardothien?”

Rowan pressed his lips together and flicked Aelin a glance. Her face remained still and calm, her gaze steered away from his, revealing nothing. “I…I wanted to, yes, but there is no evidence.”

“Why did you want to suspect that?”

“It would have provided a clear piece of evidence that Sardothien was attempting to sabotage the investigation. However, because Westfall was killed by an entirely different party, I knew there could not be any connection between Sardothien and the police department. If anything, I suspected foul play against Sardothien, which is why I asked Fenrys to go undercover at Maeve’s headquarters.”

“What did Fenrys discover?”

“Only that Maeve was—is—in fact conspiring against Celaena Sardothien. Before he could learn anything more detailed, he…he died.” Rowan suppressed the faint shudder in his voice.

“No further questions.” Darrow sat back down.

Ansel returned to face the witness stand. “Lieutenant, where was Fenrys found dead?”

“In the laboratory complex of Galathynius, Incorporated.”

“Why was he there?”

“Objection!” Darrow practically yelled. “Speculation.”

“Sustained.” Malakai tapped on the bench. “The question is revoked. Next question, Ms. Briarcliff.”

Ansel nodded. “Did you find Fenrys yourself?”

“Yes.”

“According to your observation of the scene, what was the cause of death?”

Rowan swallowed thickly. “I observed severe burns on Fen’s face, neck, and upper chest. He had fallen backwards, away from a portion of one wall that had apparently exploded, but the explosion was contained, as if meant to be directed outwards.”

“Do you have a suspicion of who planted the alleged explosive?”

“Yes.” Rowan paused, taking a moment to clear his throat. “Initially, I wondered if Galathynius’s team had placed it, but there was absolutely nothing else in the whole laboratory complex to indicate that kind of foul play. Therefore, I suspect it was planted by Maeve herself. My hypothesis is that she began to suspect that Fenrys was a spy, so she devised a trap for him.”

“Did you question Ms. Galathynius about the incident?”

“Yes, I did. She informed me that she had a passing acquaintance with Fenrys, and she grieved his death when she found out.”

Ansel nodded. “During your first testimony, you said that you called Celaena Sardothien from Fenrys’s phone. Please remind the court of the details of this incident.”

Rowan sighed, a short huff of breath. “I collected Fen’s personal items, one of which was a prepaid cell phone. The phone had a handful of contacts, one of which had Maeve’s name and one of which was called ‘Boss.’ I had asked Fenrys to infiltrate the Boss’s outfit in May, and he had managed to gain contact with Sardothien but not much else. I decided to try and contact Sardothien via Fenrys’s phone in the hopes that she would answer the call of someone she knew. She did.”

“You submitted that phone call recording as evidence, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Here it is, then.” Ansel clicked her pointer, and the brief recording played through the speakers. It had already gone through the voice filter reversal, so it was distinctively Aelin’s voice speaking, and the entire court gasped when Rowan asked who had killed Fenrys and she responded with one word.

Maeve.

“Did that convince you, Lieutenant?”

“It did.”

“Very good. Thank you, Lieutenant Whitethorn. No further questions, Your Honor.”

Almost unsteadily, Rowan exited the witness stand and returned to his place next to Darrow, his posture stiff with tension. Once again, he slid a covert look over at Aelin, who kept her face firmly turned forwards, not giving him any indication that she noticed his glance.

But she felt his eyes on her. She had ever since the day she met him.

Her buzzard’s gaze was a touch, and he would never be able to change that.

Ansel cleared her throat. “I call Ms. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius to the stand.”

Calmly, Aelin rose and walked to the witness stand, her strides measured, the click of her stiletto heels commanding the hushed courtroom. She sat down, swore to tell the truth, and waited for Ansel to pose her first question.

“What are your aliases, Ms. Galathynius?”

Aelin folded her hands atop the small table in the witness stand. “I am known as Celaena Sardothien, the Shadow Assassin, the Boss, Galathynius, Aelin, and occasionally as Fireheart.” As she spoke that last name, she stared directly at Rowan, searing her gaze into his soul as she gave the court the name that he called her when they were alone. A small part of her reveled in the stricken look that crossed his face, the glimpse of his pain hidden behind the layers of his soldier’s mask.

“When did you begin to be called Celaena Sardothien?” Ansel clasped her hands behind her back, a signal for Aelin.

“I first took that name when I was twelve years old.”

A tsunami of shock crested through the room. Kaltain’s camera clicked furiously, capturing all the details, visualizing the news story in her head.

“Please elaborate.”

Aelin tipped her head slightly to the right. “When I was twelve years old, I was kidnapped by a man named Arobynn Hamel. I believed him to be my godfather, so I did not question it when he told me that my parents wanted me to stay with him for a while because of their workload. I lived on his property for nearly four years, during which time he gave me the name Celaena Sardothien and taught me how to kill. He told me that my parents needed me to learn these things, even though they scared me, and he told me that he wanted to make me strong.” She paused briefly. “He said that to me mere seconds before he slammed a door on my right hand, breaking all of my fingers and forcing me to exclusively train on my left side while I healed.” She stopped to take a sip of water. “The first time I committed a murder as Celaena Sardothien, I was fourteen years old.”

Ansel hummed. “You said that you lived on his property for four years. When did you leave?”

“I returned home when I was almost sixteen, but Arobynn had made it clear as I left that if he ever called me, I was under orders to listen. He called me about six months later with a kill order, and when I didn’t carry out the murder in the time frame he commanded, he took me down to his warehouse by the river and forced me to watch as he tortured the victim to death.” Aelin took a deep breath. “That was the day that I made myself a promise to kill Arobynn Hamel. And every other filthy, vile criminal who supported him.”

“How many murders did you commit for Arobynn?”

“Eight. He couldn’t risk giving me any more targets, because people would get suspicious when I wasn’t seen with my parents.”

“What excuse did they give when you were living on Arobynn’s property, then?”

Aelin twisted the ring around her right middle finger. “My parents told everyone that I had gone away to private school in Wendlyn, and they even had very sophisticated edited photos as proof.”

“I see.” Ansel paced a slow track back and forth. “So, you killed Arobynn?”

“Yes.”

“And his supporters?”

Aelin let the silence drag out before she answered. “Maeve is the only one still alive.”

“Maeve?!” Ansel’s surprise was so credible Aelin almost believed it wasn’t rehearsed.

“Yes.” She laid her hands flat on the small tabletop. “Arobynn and Maeve had been romantically involved, and after Arobynn’s rather untimely demise, she promised retribution.”

“How do you know that?”

Aelin lifted her gaze and once again pinned it on Rowan, driving its steel into his heart as she laid bare the first stage of her unspoken plan. “Because Fenrys was spying on Maeve for me.”

Raw, stunned horror bled across his face, a shockwave of recognition cresting for a drawn-out stretch of silence until he wrenched control back across the ruin gaping in his eyes.

The explosion of shock that burst through the room was only broken by Malakai banging his gavel on the bench. “Court is adjourned until tomorrow!” he called over the ruckus. “Ms. Galathynius, you will return to the stand. Dismissed!”

Her exit from the courtroom was nothing short of chaotic.

As she headed out the side door, the three cameras flashed rapidly, and all three reporters called out questions. She kept her head down and stayed silent, following the TSF guards out to the car, and she returned to her apartment with a faint sense of satisfaction humming in her veins. For the first time in weeks, she only took a single dose of her sleeping meds before she went to bed, not needing more than that to get to sleep.

And when she woke up in the morning and scrolled through the news on her phone, a smirk curled her lips. She scanned the list of headlines, amused to no end at the way the tone had changed from casting her in serious suspicion to revealing the shocking story of her past.

Public opinion could be swayed any way the press wanted, indeed.

“Ms. Galathynius,” Ansel began, opening the second day of Aelin’s testimony. “When did you take over your family’s company?”

Aelin took a deep breath and willed her spine to remain upright. “Four years ago, at the age of twenty-three. I became CEO upon my parents’ passing, as stated in their will.”

“How did your parents pass?” Sympathy gleamed in Ansel’s gaze. She’d known she would have to ask, and she’d avoided it as much as possible during preparations.

“A car accident.” Aelin kept the description as short as possible.

“Were the weather conditions poor?”

“Yes. There had been heavy rain and high winds, but they thought it had calmed down enough to make the drive from the mountains back into the city. They…were wrong.” She stifled the tightness that clogged the back of her throat.

Ansel nodded slowly. “Ms. Galathynius, did you ever suspect foul play?”

“I did, yes.”

“Why?”

Another deep breath. “It had been over a year since I carried out a kill order from Arobynn, and when I carried out that eighth order, I had told him I would never do it again. He was furious.” She paused and flicked a covert glance at the jury. “He went suspiciously quiet for the duration of that year, and when the scene of my parents’ death was examined, it was discovered that their driver was missing.”

“They had a driver?” Ansel prompted.

“Yes. It was their usual practice when traveling for work. The reports indicated that the scene of the crash should have left every person in the car dead, but the driver was simply not there, as if he had magically vanished from the vehicle. Naturally, I suspected Arobynn’s involvement.”

“Was he capable of doing such a thing?”

Aelin scoffed caustically. “Of course. Hamel had the connections and the closeness to my parents, and he had the sheer lack of a soul that it takes to plan something so horrific.”

“I see.” Ansel flipped a page in her notes. “When you assumed the CEO role, how did Arobynn Hamel react?”

“On the surface, he was as polite and respectful as everyone else, but I hadn’t been in that role for more than a week before he waltzed into my office and threatened me.”

“What kind of threats did he make?”

“He told me that if I didn’t ‘cooperate’ with him like a good girl, he would tear my company to the ground and burn me over its coals. He threatened me, my employees, and my friends with death, since that was his go-to.”

“How did you respond?”

Aelin squared her shoulders. “I pretended to cower, pretended to acquiesce to his threats. After work, I went down to my company’s oldest warehouse in the industrial district, and I called a few of my contacts from Arobynn’s little criminal ring. You see, I had made a few friends while I was forced to kill at Hamel’s orders, and they were all too happy to accept a higher bidder’s offer and start to work for me.” She paused, took a sip of water. “However, they all knew me only as Celaena Sardothien, and I decided to keep it that way. I gave them bare-bones details: my goal, my plans, my targets. It was all fairly simple. All we had to do was kill Arobynn Hamel and dismantle his underground kingdom.”

“So these people did not know you are Aelin Galathynius?”

“Correct. They called me Sardothien, and as the outfit grew, they began to call me Boss.”

“Was Arobynn your only target?”

“No.”

“Who else was a target?”

“Initially, it was only Arobynn and his closest cronies. As we got further into their circles, though, I discovered just how far-reaching his claws were, so I began to track a list of the most important heads of the levels of his outfit. Each one of them became a target.”

“How many targets did you have in total?”

“Twenty-four.”

Over at his desk, Darrow scribbled furiously in his notes, his eyes narrowed in suspicion and concentration, most likely plotting out his cross-examination questions.

“And each one was clearly linked to Arobynn Hamel?”

“Yes. My goal has always been to wipe out his outfit entirely.”

Ansel folded her hands behind her back. “Did you achieve that goal?”

Aelin let the pause drag out, tracking the eagerness of the reporters and the jury. “Almost.”

“Please elaborate.”

“Maeve remains alive, at large, and overall a vengeful bitch.” She let her bitterness bleed into those last few words, let the court pick up on the violence lurking behind her tone. “Killing Maeve was the last stage of Celaena Sardothien’s plan.” She chuckled softly, darkly. “I was planning to kill her quietly, to send her off to meet Arobynn in the darkest circle of hell.”

“But she is still alive?”

“Yes.” Aelin pressed her lips together. “And she had Fenrys killed.”

“Yes, you testified that Fenrys had been your spy. Were you aware that he was spying on you for Lieutenant Whitethorn?”

“No. I was not.”

“Did Fenrys know you as Aelin, or as Celaena?”

“As far as I’m aware, he only knew me as Celaena Sardothien. He called me Boss.”

“Did you ask him to infiltrate Maeve’s outfit?”

“Yes.”

“Were you aware that he might risk death if he did this?”

“Yes,” Aelin admitted. “I know Maeve’s bloody reputation quite well.”

“Why did you choose Fenrys for this task? Why not anyone else?”

Aelin pressed her lips together. “Maeve knew nearly all of my trusted spies by face or by name. Since he was new to my acquaintance, Fenrys would be unfamiliar to her as well, so he had the best chance of getting real information to me.”

“I see.” Ansel flipped through her notes again. “Regarding the murder of Arobynn Hamel: why did it take place so recently, if you had been planning it since you were twenty-three?”

“I needed him to suffer first.”

“What does that mean?”

“Before I killed Arobynn, he needed to watch his slimy underworld empire crumble before his eyes. I laid the collapse in place, diverted his shipments to me, turned his dealers against him, watched as he struggled and scrambled against the crumbling foundations of his outfit before I had him abducted. When he died, mine was the last face he ever saw, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t satisfied.”

“So you killed Arobynn Hamel?”

“Yes.”

“At your arraignment, you entered a guilty plea to the charge of twenty-three counts of murder in the first degree. Arobynn aside, why were there so many counts?”

Aelin smirked. “There were twenty-four names on my list—yes, Attorney Darrow, I see you scribbling over there, and you are correct. Twenty-three of those vile, evil criminals are dead now. They can never harm anyone again.”

“And that was your work?”

“I killed them, yes.”

Ansel nodded. “No further questions, Your Honor.” She returned to her seat.

Malakai leaned slightly forward. “The prosecution may approach for cross-examination.”

Darrow stood, crossed the floor, and positioned himself directly in front of the witness stand. He gave Aelin a slow, assessing stare, glanced at his notes, and began. “Ms. Galathynius, who is the twenty-fourth name on your list?”

“Maeve,” she said calmly.

“You said Maeve was Arobynn’s romantic partner?”

“Yes.”

“How did you learn this?”

“Fenrys gave me the information.”

“And you were never aware that he was also reporting to Lieutenant Whitethorn?”

“Never.”

“I see.” Darrow turned a page. “What do you know about the material that Dr. Aedion Ashryver explained?”

“As I said earlier,” Aelin drawled, “it was a fragment of an abandoned experiment. I was trying to create an indestructible material. I continued to fail, so I gave up the project.”

“What substances did you use in this experiment?”

“Several assorted polymers in various combinations. Part of the project was an attempt to determine how different kinds of polymers interacted with each other and with materials such as Teflon.”

“How much of the fabric would you say that you produced?”

“Of what fabric? I told you that I abandoned the project.”

Darrow’s face reddened, and he held up the bag with the tiny sample of material. “How much of this form of the fabric did your experiment produce?”

“Not much—enough to wrap once around my wrist, so somewhere around six inches in length and perhaps one inch wide.” She was telling the truth. Her bodysuit was made from a different variation on the material, an earlier version that she’d created before she started trying to make it completely indestructible.

“Very well.” Darrow set down that evidence bag and picked up the one with the SecondSkin flakes. “What is this substance, and how much of it exists?”

“As Dr. Ytger explained, that is a synthetic that we call SecondSkin, and it is still in testing and development phases.”

“How much SecondSkin exists?”

“As Dr. Ytger said, perhaps one square foot, primarily in smaller-sized pieces.”

“What is the purpose of SecondSkin?” Triumph glittered in Darrow’s eyes.

Aelin let the silence linger. “I had hoped that this experiment would yield a workable skin synthetic that is relatively cheap and easy to produce for medical use.”

“You intend for this substance to be used in hospitals, then?”

“Hospitals and perhaps dermatologist offices, yes. If the company can produce a medical-grade skin synthetic, my intention was to provide hospitals with this new resource.”

“I see.” Darrow said tightly, controlling his temper admirably. “We shall move on, then. Do you feel responsible for Fenrys’s death?”

Regret slammed into Aelin like an oncoming tidal wave, and she forced herself to stay calm. “I regret not warning him that Maeve sees everyone as disposable.” She paused briefly. “I wonder if I could have done anything to prevent his death. Fenrys and I were friends, and I grieve his death.”

“But do you feel responsible?” Darrow pressed.

Aelin fixed the attorney with a flat stare. “If I had any knowledge of Maeve’s actions leading up to Fenrys’s death, I would have stopped him.”

“His death occurred on your property, Ms. Galathynius. Surely you knew about any traps placed in your buildings?”

“I knew about every security measure that I had placed. If someone else had somehow planted a trap, I might not have known.”

“How often do you check your security measures?”

“When I was still CEO, I checked them every other week.”

“So it is possible that Maeve could have taken advantage of that schedule?”

“Yes.”

“You told Lieutenant Whitethorn that Maeve killed Fenrys. Did you confirm that she had, in fact, placed a trap on your property?”

Aelin raised a brow. “The event that killed Fenrys did not resemble my security measures at all; it was much more in Maeve’s style. She tends to prefer loud, violent, typically fatal destruction, while my security is more geared towards stunning, shocking, or temporarily incapacitating any intruders so that they can be arrested and properly dealt with.”

“I see.” Darrow flipped through his notes, his lips twitching into a grim smirk. “You informed the court earlier that your criminal outfit employed many people. Do you employ both men and women?”

“Primarily men, but there are a few women as well, I believe. I do not personally know each person who works for me as the Boss.”

“Who do you work most closely with, men or women?”

“Men.”

“Why?”

Aelin shrugged. “They are more numerous in my outfit and they tend to be more willing to resort to violence if needed.”

“Are your men physically capable of torture such as viewed in Exhibits A1 through A23?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever ordered your men to torture anyone?”

“Yes.”

Triumph returned to Darrow’s expression. “Did you order your men to torture the victims on your list before you killed them?”

“I ordered my men to bring the targets to certain locations, and I gave them free rein over the physical condition of each target. My only specification was that each target must be alive and coherent.”

“So your men tortured the victims?”

“That would certainly fit the victims’ physical condition.”

Darrow practically hissed. “Did your men torture the victims?”

“I cannot attest to something I have not seen, Mr. Darrow,” Aelin said coolly.

He scowled. “Fine. But would you accept that possibility?”

“I would.”

“Very well. No further questions.” He turned on his heel and stalked back to his desk.

“The defense may return for redirection,” Malakai said.

Ansel approached the witness stand once again. “Ms. Galathynius, how long did Fenrys work for you?”

“From May through the end of July.”

“And for how long was he observing Maeve and her outfit?”

“I asked him to infiltrate Maeve’s headquarters in early June. He was my eyes there for about two months, I’d say.”

“Did you meet in person?”

“Yes.”

“Did you disguise yourself?”

“Yes. I wore dark clothing, a mask, and a hood like any good criminal. I also used a voice filter to disguise my voice, in case he might recognize it.”

“Very good. As regards the SecondSkin, do you intend to release it for medical use?”

Aelin nodded. “Yes. Not at the moment, since it is still in development, but if Dr. Ytger and her team can create the appropriate product, it was always my intention to release it for medical use.”

“Where would you send it?”

“I had intended to first give a donation to Orynth General Hospital, and after receiving their feedback, to consider distributing it to hospitals more widely. Again, this all depends on the product actually being developed, and that is no longer in my hands.”

“Of course. Would you swear, under oath, to make this the outcome of SecondSkin?”

“I so swear.”

“Very well.” Ansel glanced at her notes. “Did you intend to kill Maeve?”

“Yes.”

“After her death, would you have stopped?”

Aelin tilted her head, pretending to consider her answer as if she hadn’t rehearsed it. “If Arobynn and Maeve’s unholy empires remained in ruins, then yes. If not, I swore a promise to rid the world of that kind of horrific villainy, and I would need to fulfill that promise.”

“Would you commit more murders to reach that goal?”

“Perhaps.”

“I see.” Ansel turned to address Malakai. “No further questions, Your Honor. The defense rests.”

Malakai tapped on the bench. “Very well. The prosecution may approach for closing statements.”

Smooth as a snake, Darrow rose from his chair and crossed the floor, this time going to face the jury. “Honored jurors,” he began, “you have seen and heard the evidence. The verdict is as clear now as it was when this case began. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, alias Celaena Sardothien, is clearly guilty of committing murder. In conjunction with these murders, she has spun a web of further crimes that not only resulted in the death of a member of the Terrasen Special Forces, but also in the utter loss of our city’s sense of safety. The Shadow Assassin became a figurehead of underground crime. She is guilty of every charge laid against her, and declaring it thus will once again restore order to Orynth. Thank you.”

He returned smugly to his seat, and Malakai gestured at Ansel.

“The defense may approach for closing statements.”

Ansel rose, nodded to Malakai, and strolled up to the jury. “Honored jurors, Aelin Galathynius pled guilty to the crime of murder in the first degree during her arraignment. The fact that she committed these murders is already established. You have heard the reasoning behind this crime, the forces that shaped her actions. While we do not excuse the serious crime of murder, we do understand that there are reasons why she became Celaena Sardothien. Her intent, her sole motive, was to take down a criminal empire that was responsible for truly horrific offenses against humanity, and it was necessary for her to remove the villains who perpetrated these horrors. You have indeed seen and heard the evidence laid out before you. It is your duty, honored jurors, to consider the facts as they are and to conclude that Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, alias Celaena Sardothien, is only guilty of that which she admitted. Thank you.”

She returned to her seat. Malakai rapped his gavel on the bench. “I hereby dismiss the jury to deliberate. Court is adjourned until they have reached a verdict, at which time all parties will be notified and required to return. Dismissed!”

The jurors rose first and filed tidily out of the courtroom through their designated side door. Malakai was next to depart, and then the rest of the people. Aelin ducked her head as she passed the journalists, sliding her gaze sideways exactly once.

Elide met that gaze and gave a brief, barely noticeable nod. The contingency plan would progress.

Satisfied, Aelin followed Ansel out of the courtroom and outside, escorted once again by the familiar pair of TSF guards back to her vehicle. The jury was not expected to reach a verdict until the next day, so she was allowed to return to her apartment for the night. At home, she collapsed into her bed, drained from the effort of holding herself together.

She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. And she would not be afraid.

The faint whoosh of the hydraulic doors sliding open drew Nehemia’s attention across the room, over towards the glass doors that separated her private lab from the prep room. Her gloved hands paused, frozen over her careful work, as she directed a sharp look at the open doors.

Elide snapped her second glove onto her left hand. “Sorry I’m running late,” she apologized as she walked through the doors, fixing the sleeve of her lab coat. “I took the long way in so they wouldn’t suspect anything.” A pair of TSF guards had been posted outside the doors of Gal Inc.’s lab complex since the day of Aelin’s arraignment; they were there to keep an eye on things and make sure nobody tried to slip into the labs to potentially destroy any incriminating evidence.

So far, they had seen absolutely nothing. Elide and Nehemia had made sure of it.

“No worries.” Nehemia waved Elide over to the table, and the petite woman took a seat across the stainless steel table, shivering slightly in the crisp air of the lab. “I’ve laid out the first few pieces. Do you want to do this part or roll them up?”

“You set them out, I’ll roll them up.” Elide tugged the short stack of sterile blue tissue over towards her. “Are we just keeping them in planned packaging for now?”

“Yeah.” Nehemia lifted another nearly transparent sheet of SecondSkin with the tweezers in her hands and raised it up to the light, carefully scanning it to make sure there was no damage. “We’ll talk about delivery when we have a verdict.”

“Right.” With a crisp nod, Elide lifted the first prepared piece of SecondSkin from the table, laid it atop a sheet of blue paper, laid another paper on top of that, and folded the whole thing into a flat, compact square. She and Nehemia worked mostly in silence and perfectly in tandem, two sets of skilled hands marking and folding up the filmlike synthetic. Before her arraignment, Aelin had met privately with both Nehemia and Elide, and she had given them a simple set of instructions. A contingency plan that Elide still hoped wouldn’t have to be executed.

If Aelin were to end up in prison, Nehemia and Elide would smuggle a fixed quantity of SecondSkin to her so that she could set an escape plan into motion.

Elide didn’t know what the hell Aelin’s escape plan would entail, because Aelin hadn’t shared anything other than that she had a plan, but she had a sneaking suspicion that it would culminate in Maeve’s grisly death. She also had a sneaking suspicion that Rowan Whitethorn would try to get Maeve regardless of whether Aelin was in prison, and to be perfectly honest, she was almost willing to make a bet on who would kill Maeve first.

“I think this is the last one.” Nehemia’s quiet words interrupted Elide’s thoughts, and she snapped her attention back to the work she’d been doing mechanically. “It was just face, neck, forearms, hands, feet, and ankles, and we’ve got all of that.”

“Look at us go,” Elide half-joked as she finished folding up the last packet.

Nehemia chuckled. “I hope…Fuck. I hope we don’t have to deliver it.” Her voice went hollow by the last few words.

A soft, drawn-out sigh blew past Elide’s lips. “Me too.” She pushed back her stool and swept a gaze over the tidy row of flat blue packets. “If it’s any consolation, Nehemia, there’s nobody I’d rather smuggle secret tech with than you.”

“Likewise, Lochan.” Nehemia flashed her a grin as she stood and collected the packets. “I’ll get these all wrapped up and ready if we do have to make a delivery.” She waved to Elide as the other woman left, the doors closing behind her retreating form with a mechanical hiss.

She, too, clung to the faint hope that they wouldn’t have to carry out the contingency plan.

Aelin was halfway through her current novel, reading rapidly while also keeping an eye on her email in case something else from her company came through, when her phone started buzzing with an incoming call from Ansel. She reluctantly set aside her book and picked up the call. “Hey, Briarcliff.”

“Aelin.” Ansel’s voice was crisp, and Aelin heard her lawyer’s heels clicking in the background. “The jury has returned. We’re being summoned back to court.”

“Heard.” Shit. The jury had been out for nearly five days—most criminal trials took anywhere from twenty-four hours to a week for the jury to reach a verdict. “I’ll call Gav.”

“Already did. He should be at your place in twenty or so with the car.”

“This is why I love you, Ansel.”

Ansel chuckled. “Five days is a good sign, Ae. I’d be more worried if it had only been two days or less, since that usually means they reached a guilty verdict quickly. Five days, though…that’s more of an indication that they deliberated for a long time. That’s a fairly good sign.”

Aelin blew out a tense breath. “Okay. I trust you, Ansel.”

“Damn right.” Ansel paused, her muffled voice probably a sign that she was speaking to one of the clerks. “I have to go. See you soon, Aelin.”

“Thanks, Briarcliff.” Aelin ended the call and pushed herself up off the couch. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that she’d stolen from Rowan months ago, the old cotton soft against her skin, but she had trousers, a blazer, and a blouse hanging on her closet door, ready to go whenever she got the call that the jury had returned. It took her only a few minutes to change, and by the time Gav knocked on her door and let himself in, she was painting the last strokes of crimson onto her lips.

“Ready, Ae?” Her uncle poked his head into her open bathroom door.

She nodded, lips held apart while her lipstick dried. “Just a minute.” She stepped into her heels, picked up her bag, and held out her left arm. Gav glanced perfunctorily at the Wyrd cuff on her wrist, nodded, and led her out of her apartment and down to the garage. Since her trial was so high-profile but so limited in press coverage, all sorts of reporters, photographers, and sleazy people with cameras had been camping out outside the courthouse and by her apartment building for weeks, and Gav had begun leaving his car in the private parking garage to avoid the frenzy of cameras that hounded Aelin anytime she left her apartment.

She didn’t have the words to express her thanks for the small kindness.

The drive back to the courthouse was over in a hazy blur, Aelin lost in her thoughts in the back seat of the TSF-logoed car. She gave her uncle a half-smile as he led her out of the car and through the side doors, squeezing his hand once as they arrived at her pretrial room. He squeezed her hand back, sympathy buried deep in his golden gaze.

“Whatever happens, I’m on your side,” he said, quietly.

Her throat tightened. “Write to me every once in a while, yeah?” As she walked into the room, she flashed him a grin. “Love you, Uncle.”

“Love you too, kiddo.”

Ansel was waiting on the other side of the table. “We’re supposed to be in the courtroom as soon as we can, so I’ll make this brief. You’ll for sure be found guilty of murder, since you entered that plea during arraignment, but we don’t know what else the jury has decided. So, just a couple of things.” She paused, drilling Aelin with the fierceness of her lawyer stare. “Do not, and I cannot stress this enough, do not make any speech until after the trial is over. We’re good to go with your plan for talking to the press, but you only get that one appearance.”

Aelin resisted the urge to salute. “Good. I only need one chance.”

“That’s my CEO.” Ansel flicked a glance at the door and lowered her voice. “Ells and Nemi confirmed that everything is set up on their end. Whatever happens, we’re ready.”

“That’s my team,” Aelin murmured, her voice thick. “You’re too damn good to me.”

Ansel rolled her eyes. “Pull yourself together, Galathynius. Can’t let the damn press see you with human emotions.”

Aelin chuckled. “That’s right.”

The TSF guard knocked and stuck his head into the room. “We’re ready, Ms. Galathynius.”

“Lead the way.” Aelin rose, tucked her bag over her shoulder, and followed the pair of guards down the now-familiar path to the courtroom. With Ansel at her side, she strode in, her heels rapping sharply on the polished hardwood floor, and took her seat, firmly refusing to meet the emerald gaze that she felt burning into her skin.

There would be plenty of time to meet those eyes later.

Malakai entered, and everyone stood. He waved them down, took his seat, and cleared his throat. “Honored jurors, have you reached a verdict?”

The foreman of the jury, a man about Darrow’s age wearing a suit jacket that was slightly too short for his arms, rose. “We have, Your Honor.”

“Is it a unanimous verdict?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Malakai nodded, and the foreman paused to clear his throat. “On the charge of breaking Terrasen’s import and export laws, we find the accused, Ms. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, guilty as charged.

“On the charge of aiding and abetting a federal prison break, we find the accused not guilty.

“On the charges of trespassing, breaking and entering, and kidnapping, we find the accused guilty as charged.

“On the charge of torture, we find the accused not guilty.

“On the charge of premeditated murder in the first degree, we find the accused guilty as charged, as stated in her plea. This is the unanimous verdict of the jury.”

The foreman sat back down, and Malakai nodded. “Ms. Galathynius, you have been found guilty of the crimes of breaking Terrasen’s import and export laws, illegal trespassing, breaking and entering, kidnapping, and twenty-three counts of premeditated murder in the first degree. By the authority vested in me by the state of Terrasen, I sentence you to the following: you will pay the appropriate fine for violating import and export laws, and you are hereby sentenced to twenty-three consecutive life sentences without possibility of parole at Endovier Prison.”

Malakai brought the gavel down on the bench, and its single thump echoed through the silent courtroom like a clap of thunder. “The case of the State of Terrasen versus Ms. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius is closed.”

He exited the courtroom in a sweep of black judicial robes, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the rapid shutter clicks of the two cameras near the back of the room. And then the people assembled burst into ripples of shock and judgment, their comments and reactions to Aelin’s sentence rushing through the room like waves.

Ansel shared a look with Aelin and beckoned to the pair of TSF guards stationed at the back wall, who came forward to escort Aelin out of the courtroom. As she followed them, she let her gaze slide over the empty judge’s bench and witness stand, all the way across to the prosecution’s desk, dragging it up to crash into Rowan’s equally expressionless stare.

And as she departed, she gave him a slow, sultry wink.

Her heart had finally remembered that it could beat normally. She’d kept her game face on for the whole walk to the pretrial room, but when she arrived and seated herself gracefully, Aelin brushed detachment across her features. “I’m listening,” she said to her attorney and her uncle, who had come with her. Gav and Ansel exchanged a look.

“We need to talk about the timeline for the next few days.” Gav eased himself into a seat opposite Aelin, and she masked her surprise at the fact that he was sitting down.

Ansel nodded. “Aelin, I know we talked about a press appearance. That’s ready to go when we leave the courthouse, but the thing is, it’s set on the front steps.” She almost looked apologetic. “We tried to organize some kind of press area away from the building, but they’re ravenous.”

“I get it.” Aelin tapped her fingers on the table. “Honestly, I think the courthouse steps will work. I’ve just been sentenced; what better place to answer all of their intrusive questions than moments after my sentencing at the very place where it happened?” Sarcasm soaked her tone.

“And you only have an hour,” Ansel added. “I don’t think it would be prudent to set aside any more time than that. Too many opportunities for things to go wrong if we don’t set a time limit.”

“True.” Gav nodded in agreement. “I’ll be off to the side with the pair of guards who are stationed at your place, so we’ll be there if you need anything from us.” He huffed out a sigh. “I don’t want to break professionalism or anything, Ae, but…” Breaking off, he shoved a hand through his hair in a gesture that was so like Aedion that it made Aelin blink. “This doesn’t change that I love you, Ae.”

Thickness clogged her throat. “Thank you, Gav,” she rasped.

He gave her a tight smile, forcibly holding back tears of his own. “I’ll visit you regularly. God knows I can’t force the Endovier guards to let one of my guys guard you, but the people that work there are good, and I can bully them if I have to.”

Aelin sniffled. “You’d probably get chucked right into my cell with me if you tried to pull any authority crap, and you know it.”

Her uncle chuckled. “Fair enough.”

There was a short rap on the door.

Ansel stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Allowing herself exactly one deep breath, Aelin pushed back her chair. “I am.” She tucked her bag over her arm, pushed up the sleeves of her blazer so the Wyrd cuff on her left wrist was clearly visible, and followed Gav and her guards down the hallways and out to the main doors. She paused for a moment, then nodded, and her guards propped open the doors as she swept out.

The crowd of reporters, photographers, and journalists exploded into a clamoring storm of flashes, clicking buttons on recording devices, microphones thrust out, and frantically yelled questions from all angles. Elbows fluttered through the crowd as the reporters jostled for the best possible spots, the ones closest to the podium set at the top of the courthouse steps.

Aelin strode coolly up to the podium, faced the crowd of near-feral journalists, leaned into the microphone, and smirked. “So. What do you want to know?”

~~~

TAGS:

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@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

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@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@renxzs

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@fauna-flora11

@cynthiesjmxazrielslover

@mysterylilycheeta

#my writing #until proven guilty #criminal/investigator au #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass au

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itsameeruza · 1 month ago

Note

what are ur fav nobishizu moments in canon? :)

OHHHH thank you for this ask

Man I could rant for hours.

It's been a while since I read the manga, so I'm just gonna mention some moments from the anime(mainly 2005, since it's so hard finding 1979 episodes)/movies :

(These are in no particular order)

(Movie) - Nobita's New Dinosaur

We all know what's the moment I'm talking about. I'll never shut up on how much I love this scene.

When I watched this movie (just a month ago, a few days after Sky Utopia brought back my doraemon obsession), I was NOT expecting to be given nbsz crumbs. I wasn't even as big of a shipper as I am now LMAO. This moment hit me so hard that I became a shipper.

(Movie) - Three Visionary Swordsman

I rewatched this movie just yesterday. It was so funny when disguised Shizuka met Nobita as the silver swordsman and said :

Blunt Shizuka is funny.

(The subtitles are a little off, but it's the only one I could find)

But well, then she saw him being doubtful on killing the dragon.

"You're so kind"

Let's all remember that one of the things Shizuka wanted in her romantic partner is that they're kind:

Source : 2005 anime episode 128 - Shizuka's present is Nobita

Source : Shizuka's character song "the princess next door"

So....

😁😁😁

The ending scene was also really cute

(Movie) - Stand By Me 2

Alright, confession time : I have a love-hate relationship with the Stand by Me movies. Younger me loved Stand by Me 1, so much. Mostly because of the Doraemon-Nobita bond. Adult me(as in, now) definitely has more opinions about it though.

As for Stand by Me 2, I kinda hated it on first watch. But now, well, not so much.

But this post is not about criticising Stand by Me! Sooooo...pushing aside everything, I loved the scene with adult Nobita and adult Shizuka at the end of Stand By Me 2.

Shizuka looked so happy here...

(2005 anime) episode 128 - Shizuka-chan's Present is Nobita

Shizuka treasuring the handkerchief that Nobita made for her...

I looped the ending scene over and over because it's just too cute...(especially with the instrumental of the song "the princess next door" playing as background music)

(2005 anime) episode 249- I don't like Shizuka-chan being like this!

Another one of the 2 Shizuka birthday special (that I saw) with a common theme : Nobita making a present for Shizuka and it kind of sucks but since he made it himself, she loves it anyway.

(Everyone else had mistakenly called it a jar, and she's the only one that correctly refers to it as a vase, Shizuka is truly a gem 😭)

(2005 anime) episode 373 - Nobita's bride

Since there's two versions of Nobita's Bride in the 2005 anime, I'm referring to the 2014 one here.

One of the things that's lacking about nobishizu is definitely Shizuka's perspective. So, it's nice to see what she thought of Nobita.

(2005 anime) episode 245 - Nobita's night before wedding

Although I love the 1999 version of Night Before Wedding so much more, this version has this cute (and a little corny) moment :

Also, the way Nobita didn't even think twice to cover for Shizuka, even though he had to embarass himself?

(2005 anime) episode 124 - Goodbye to you

I love it when there's scenes that remind us how Nobita is one of Shizuka's closest friend and vice versa. Shizuka is not just Nobita's 'future wife', she's his friend. For me, they're best friends first, lovers second. With Nobita thinking that the what-if telepon booth was actually broken, their emotions are genuine here. Nobita must have really regretted ever messing with the booth...

(this ep gave me an AU idea where Nobita actually did move to America lmao, it's being written somewhere in my notes app)

I love the 1979 anime's version too, especially since the animation is so much better. However, I couldn't find the episode with english (or indonesian) sub anywhere 😭

(2005 anime) episode 71 - Conclusion Yarn

I know the way Nobita is using the Conclusion Yarn to basically force Shizuka to be pulled to him is kinda...hmm. But well, he got a lot of consequences (dragged everywhere by the gadget, getting beaten by Gian)

So, it's kinda poetic how, in the end, Nobita doesn't even need the Conclusion Yarn to make up with Shizuka.

(They don't need gadgets to connect them since they're already connected guys🥲)

Every moments in the 1999 Nobita's Night Before Wedding

How did they make adult Nobita so cool in this special?!?!!?!?!? modern writers pls take notes

ALSO, as I said in my nbsz fic, it's so cute how everytime Nobita found something fun to do, his first thought is to call Shizuka and invite her to have fun with him. His love language is probably quality time.

(I only have clips from the movies, but there's a lot of example in the show/manga too)

I'll have to end it here because if not, you guys will never hear the end of it. I love the both of them so much I literally procrastinated my math assignment to write this askdnjofcjsoij (even though Nobita does annoy me a lot sometimes, but well, he's ten)

These are just some of my favorites, I still have 28 movies and hundreds of episodes left to rewatch so I'll definitely found more moments that I love.

#sorry if my english are all over the place #I hate the animation in early 2005 anime but it has some of my fav nbsz moments #anyway pushing my best friends to lovers nbsz agenda out here #kinda interesting how most of these are anime originals #sorry I took too long to respond I was gathering the clips lmao #nobishizu #ask #long post

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thoughtsandbones · 1 year ago

Text

The flesh you thread between my blood and bones slows down the pendulum of death

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!MedicDoc OC (codename: Blue) 💀💙

WARNINGS: Mention of profanity, scars, fluff, anxiety, medical inaccuracies, surgery, blood, gore and just getting the POV of our friendly neighbourhood masked menace.

Plot: Doctor Ruhari Hari Kaur (OC is South Asian ☺️) joins the 141 again, but this time as their doctor. After the betrayal of Shepherd and Graves, Task Force 141 begins their hunt on his whereabouts and locating Makarov.

PLEASE reblog and like! Hope folks are enjoying the series, I am building up characters and plots, cos I have a lot ideas and just been enjoying writing :D

Song inspo: Don't Fear the Reaper - Tom Jones, American Idiot - Green Day, After Dark - Mr.Kitty, 1973 - James Blunt

I grew up with the OG MW2 game, so there are some references to the old one, so kind of a mix of both the OG and the new timeline... (Also I'm ignoring the OG Shepherd betrayal and keeping in line the one with the new timeline..)

spelling and some grammar mistakes as I am bad at times... :/

(FYI: bold sentences... that are like this... are supposed to describe redacted data/info to the plot... ;] .. )

Please do let me know how you all are finding this fanfic! :D

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13, PART 14 and PART 15 I

Part 15 II

Ghost stared at the yellow sign reading in black NO UNAUTHORISED PERSONNEL ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT on the white double doors that led to the operating room where Soap had been wheeled in by both doctors, surrounded by other medical staff.

As he walked behind them when they rushed ahead he heard them shouting all sorts of medical jargon. You were so calmly ordering for mLs of drugs with too many Zs. He looked down at his skeletal gloves, the fake bones once white now stained red with Johnny's blood.

Looking up again at the sign he thought of you. How your hands would also be bloodied, pouring deep into Soap's body, mending him.

You gotta save him he pleaded in his head. He couldn't lose Soap, not now. Not after what they had been through together in Mexico, Chicago... now this.

'C'mon Lt!' Soap's words rang through his skull. Guilt flooded his chest as he remembered moments of how blunt he had been to Soap...

Squeezing his fist tight, Ghost sighed and then walked down the corridor until he found himself a chair in an empty room and plopped the chair right outside those double doors. Sitting down, Ghost winced with pain, the cut sobbed as he sat down and moved his torso.

"Fuuuck" He growled quietly.

Leaning back, he shut his eyes letting the darkness wash over him.

...

Soap was lifted onto the surgical bed. As you and Peyton scrubbed in, the nurses dressed him. Through the window of the scrub room you watched as he was intubated, his bloodied clothes discarded in the yellow hazard bin.

Once scrubbed and prepped, you assume the lead role in the surgery. Neuro was your speciality, this was a spinal injury. This is your arena. Closing your eyes, you breathe in.

"It's a beautiful night to save lives" You say, opening your eyes. Peyton eyes crinkle, a sign she was smiling under her medical mask.

"10 blade" You say and the nurse gives your instrument. You place the edge of the blade two inches above the bullet wound, applying pressure with your index finger you slide the blade across the skin unveiling the flesh beneath.

"Suction" Peyton says and she moves in with the machine that gargles up the blood from the exposed muscle

Peeling back the muscular layers you clamp down areas needing support. Soap's lumbar was one display. No major damage could be seen.

"Bullet must've missed the lumbar" Peyton says

"L1 clear" You say inspecting the upper lumbar region, with your blade you move down

"L2 clear"

"Suction" Peyton says

"L3 clear" you say and then move down

"Suction"

As you looked around L4, there was a sudden gush of blood and the monitors started beeping rapidly

"Found the bullet" You say "Clarissa, Kerrison rongeur" holding your left hand up whilst holding the area with your blade as Peyton continued suction. The beeping subdued.

"Need another pair of hands for this" You say

Peyton gave the suction pipe to the nurse on her right and then took hold of a clamp and forceps.

Cutting away at the connective tissue and muscle you peel the layer as Peyton grabs the shrapnel

"Hard part now.." She said after depositing the shrapnel in dish

Rapid beeping started again. You and Peyton both move together, suction, cutting, threading and assessing any damage to the surrounding nerves.

"Pulse at 120" Clarissa said as she took hold of the forceps from Peyton

"Shit" You say as more blood gushed from the wound which was quickly slurped away from the suction pipe.

"Sutures" Peyton said and she began to sew up the first damaged nerve.

There was a increase in beeping

"Pulse 150"

"Let me do it" You say and Clarissa swiftly gives you a new set of sutures.

After adjusting yourself you look down "Surgical microscope please" And the microscope was brought down to your level and adjusted to your eyeline.

Focusing your eyes through the lense you begin to graft the a new nerve from the damaged nerve, cutting the damaged part and sewing the ends.

This was your element. Fixing the broken. Mending the hurt.

After 5 hours of intense surgery, you and Peyton were nearly finished. The beat of song playing off the speaker was echoing across the walls of the OR. Nodding your head along to the drum of Green Day's American Idiot as you finished suturing the final layer of Soap's skin.

"Nice finish" Peyton said as she cleaned the area "Stats are good" she added looking at the various monitors that beeped rhythmically along with the music.

"Pause music please" You said, one of the nurses pauses.

You cut the last suture and place the forceps onto the tray held by Clarissa.

"Good job Dr Kaur" She said nodding at you. You nod back and return to admire the handiwork which was being dressed by Peyton and another nurse.

"He is stable and stats are looking great" Clarissa says as you eye the monitor. You turn to her and smile, putting more effort to crinkle as your mouth was hidden behind the mask.

"We will take him back to the ICU just for observation" Peyton said as she moved over from Soap to you and Clarissa.

"I'll help take him" Clarissa said "Well done"

"No thank you" You say "Thank you everyone" You say loudly to the rest of the medical team all who respond with a cheerful thanks back.

"I'm gonna head back" You say

"I'll keep you updated, and let you know when the team can see him" Peyton says taking her gloves off as they left the OR, she tapped you on the shoulder and walked off.

Taking off your surgical cover, masks and gloves you wash the grimy sweat off your hands. The smell of strong disinfectant soap filled your nose.

Leaving the scrub room you walk off back towards the double doors where you had rolled Soap in. He was okay now. Had to wait until he was awake to see if there is any nerve damage to his legs...

Checking one of the clocks on the hallway you realise it was 11:49am, you longed for a hot shower and then the comfort of your bed. Walking through the double doors, midway through yawning you were met with a giant man sat in the middle of the hallway. The skull face gave you a jump. It took a few moments to register that it was Ghost.

"Lieut-"

Ghost leapt up from his chair and nearly toppled you over as he confronted you

"Is he alright? Did he make it?" He blurted, his eyes widening at you.

You stare back into his eyes, only just able to make out the blue iris.

"He's okay." You say, reaching your right hand up to to his shoulder.

"His legs, said somethin' abou' his legs" Ghost huffed at you

"Ghost, he is stable and in the ICU, regarding his legs, we will have to wait until he wakes up to assess any damage." You to him calmly

He takes in this information, your calm demeanor. Of course you know what you are doing he thought to himself

"Are you okay sir? You ask

"I'm okay" Ghost said quickly.

You look at him curiously, there was something off about him.

"Okay then.." You say moving away from him.

Ghost moves towards the chair and picked it up with his left arm, the sudden weight made him wince and groan as his unattended wound stretched and weep as he moved.

"Fuuck" He whispered to himself as he set the chair back down and placing his right hand over his wound on the left side of his waist.

"Lieutenant what happened?" You say rushing over to him

"Nothin'" He said trying to push you away. You scoff at him and roll your eyes.

"Ghost, I'm in no mood for bullshit" You say sharply at him. Ghost looked at you, eyebrows narrowed, your eyes slightly red and clearly tired.

He was being rude again.

"I got a nick" He said motioning to his wound looking at your stern face, eyes narrowed. Clearly annoyed. "Can you patch me up?" He asks, your stern face relaxed, softened.

"Right, come with me" You say letting out a big sigh and head out of the RAMC building and then back to the infirmary in Building 2.

Turning the light on you spritz the med bed and give it a quick wipe.

"Get your vest off" You say plainly to Ghost who follows your command. He unties the straps and then sets his vest aside. Attempting to take his hoodie off but he couldn't as the wound caused him to wince further.

"Need some help?" You say as you look over to Ghost who was clearly struggling.

"Alrigh' then" He said and braced himself as you walk closer to him, bringing your hands to his body, rolling the hem of his hoodie slowly and carefully.

Ghost winced again as you went near his waist.

"Might have to cut it off" You suggest looking up at him.

"Go on then" He mumbled, the edge of his mouth curved slightly under his mask.

Grabbing a pair of clothing shears, you cut the hoodie off Ghost, revealing a damp black shirt underneath, his bare muscular arms on unveiled. You look at his waist, and see a patch of dried up blood, parts of his shirt clung to his skin dried and wrinkled.

"Sit on the med bed please" You motioning to the bed and then you walk off to the bathroom to wash your hands. Sleep eludes you. Drying your hands you head back to where Ghost was, who was now sitting crouched on the edge of med bed.

Putting on a pair of gloves and grabbing a stool with your foot you slide close to Ghost, and lift the t-shirt. As suspected the parts that clung to the skin where dried stuck to the wound. An impromptu weak bandage.

"Gonna also have to cut your shirt around the wound, it's dried to the gash"

Ghost looked down at you.

"Can't you bandage it?" He asks and the expression your face held clearly showed he asked a stupid question.

Your look of disbelief subdued, and grabbed the scissors. Ghost's heart quickened. He didn't mind being shirtless. But not when he has been in the field with limited availability to shower, smelt like shit and especially in front of a woman he was interested in...

"Wai-" Ghost began but he was too late, you began to cut his shirt off him, exposing his sticky sweaty scarred skin.

As you cut away at the fabric you notice various deep pink and white scars adorned on his chest and abdomen. Dirt had built up in areas, but it was expected. A shower is the last thing you need in the field.

Grabbing some saline water and a towel, you wash away dirt surrounding the remaining cloth covering his wound. Gently, with your gloved fingers you peel the cloth away revealing the gammy wound. Inflamed and dirty.

"Lift your arm" You ask and Ghost does so and watches as your pour more saline to the wound, his eyes focused on the precision placement of your fingers on his waist, not ogling him.

He slightly winces as your fingers graze over a sensitive area. As you examine the area, you notice it was bumpy, sand had gotten into the wound.

"This area is very inflamed. Lie down, it'll sting as I clean it" You say gently

Ghost shuffled back and then. laid down and then turned his head to watch as you focused on cleaning his wound, your concentration unwavering as you focused on the task at hand. He noticed the lack of talking, just blunt and no joy. But then, you did just finish a 6 hour surgery.

He gazed at your tired eyes, noticed how you rapidly blink every now and then, your mouth pursed, no smile on show. You grabbed some small gauze and wiped the wound.

"This is going to need stitches" You say

"Hmm" Ghost mumbled "I'll let you get to work, I'll just be here" He adds

You laugh slightly and then finish cleaning the area before starting to suture the two layers of fatty tissue and muscle, pulling the flesh together again, wiping away any blood with clean gauze.

Ghost felt himself slip into the bed beneath him as you got to work, focusing on his breathing; in for four, hold, then out slowly for four. Drifting away, away from the chaos of the last 24 hours. Away from the chaos that still looms ahead of him.

<CUE FLASHBACK> 23rd August 2010 Ashfield Base, mess hall "Sergeant Riley" You said as you plopped down opposite your superior in the mess hall with your lunch, the hall was mostly empty, the radio played on the speaker overhead. "Cadet" Sergeant Riley said not looking up from his cup of tea and half-eaten sausage roll. "C'mon sir, you know my name" You quipp at him as you take a bite of your pizza. Simon looks up from his cup and stars at you, your eyes widened and the grin appeared on your face. "Cadet Ruhari" He sighed looking back at his sausage roll. "Cadet maybe no more" You say cheerfully Simon looked up quickly "What do you mean?" He asked "Captain asked if I wanted to come join full time, commit proper into the army." You said "Ah" Simon said quietly "Ain't you got some good brains for uni?" He added and looked at you as you shrugged "Maybe can do it later, but I do enjoy this" You say motioning the space around you. "Nothin' enjoyable about war" He said sharply You were taken aback "Of course not sir, I just meant as in discipline, camaraderie and the protection of one's country" "Hmm" Simon mumbles giving you a slight cold stare with his sharp blue eyes. In that moment of silence, the radio station at base start playing 1973 by James Blunt. The echoes of the piano filled your body and you began to twiddle your fingers to the beat of the drum. Looking at Simon you start to grin, he looks up at you as you begin to mouth the lyrics: Simona.. you're getting older Your journey's been etched on your skin... "Simonaaaa" You sing quietly and giggle Simon gazed at your joyous smile as you continued to mouth the lyrics of the stupid song that made a twist of his name. He watched on as you exaggerated the 'mona' part of Simona and laughed along with you. Simon knew the Captain was going to offer you a place in the army, but he had hoped you would decline. Going out in the field changes people. Changes the best of people. Turns them into someone else. Would you still be the same after you see the horrors of war? Simon wondered as he watched you finally finish the now cold slice of pizza. He would hate to see that beautiful smile disappear.

#modern warfare fanfiction #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x doctor #simon riley x reader #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley x medic #cod mw soap #fan fic ideas #angst #modern warfare ghost #x oc #ghost x oc #simon ghost riley x oc #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x original character #modern warfare fluff #cod fluff #cod mw2

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footprintsinthesxnd · 11 months ago

Text

The Lark’s Song

Summary: Florence Lark joined the ENSA to do her part for the war effort. On a daily basis she is surrounding by charming young men, so why would David Webster the any different. His blunt personality seems to draw her in but with the world at war, can they make it through? Warnings: not too many warnings for this chapter, some swearing

When Two Hearts Meet

Florence tapped her foot rhythmically against the wooden floorboards of the stage, as the music played out from the band around her. Some light chattering from the men in the front row distracted her, eyes hovering over the man at the end of the row, who seemed too engrossed in his novel to listen to her singing. As the instrumental section came to an end she took a deep breath, drifting across the stage as she began to sing again.

“We'll meet again

Don't know where

Don't know when”

Florence preferred singing to the English troops, they always knew all the words and would sing along with her. It was in those moments that Florence felt that she was doing the most good to help boost their morale. The American troops, however, seemed disinterested. Too many of them were smoking, playing cards and talking, but the one dark-haired soldier at the front bothered her the most, his nose buried in a red, leather bond novel. A few of the officers at the back watched her intently, swaying along to the music, whether it was more out of respect for her or because they didn’t have any other plans for their Saturday evening. As the song came to an end, a pathetic round of applause followed and Florence found herself excusing herself, leaving the band playing Glenn Millers' ‘In The Mood’.

Florence lit the cigarette, bringing it to her red lips and inhaling the nicotine deeply, warmth filling her lungs until she exhaled, watching as the smoke wafted gently into the starry night sky. She wondered if her brother, Tom, was looking up at the same sky right now. Whether he was looking up at the same moon somewhere in Normandy. Her father probably was. He often sat in the small back garden of their terraced house, looking up at the sky for any planes. He had been in the Royal Flying Corps back in The Great War before it had become the RAF. He’d flown a Bristol Type 22 two-seater fighter plane with his best friend, Eddie. Eddie had sadly lost his life when their plane crashed which was the same accident where her father lost his right leg. He had been desperate to sign up again when war was declared in 1939, thinking that if he went to fight it would spare his son but being 41 and only having one leg meant he wouldn’t be accepted, so he’d signed up for the home guard instead. Florence often wondered whether having a uniform again gave her father a sense of purpose. After their mother died 8 years ago he’d been lost but had put all his effort into raising his two children and being the best father he could. This was probably why both Florence and Tom had such a good relationship with their father.

Florence took another long drag of her cigarette when she was interrupted by someone clearing their throat behind her. She spun around quickly, expecting to see a half-cut paratrooper trying to make some kind of advance towards her. She’d had to fight off her fair share of unwanted attention from soldiers before and she wasn’t afraid to sock it to them. Instead, she was met by a rather handsome, kind-faced man. His lips pulled upwards into a friendly smile but as Florence’s eyes drifted over his frame she couldn’t help but roll her eyes when she saw the red leather-bound book held tightly in his right hand.

“Oh, it’s you. Sorry, I don’t do private shows, if you didn’t pay attention the first time that’s your loss.” She turned her back to him, allowing her eyes to settle once again across the rooftops of Aldbourne.

“It’s nothing personal,” he spoke up, moving to stand beside her. Florence could feel the hairs on her arms prickly in his presence and a light blush spread across her cheeks. “I just think once you hear one singer, you’ve heard them all. It’s always the same songs, the same dances. It just doesn’t hold my interest anymore.”

Florence snorted, turning to face the man who decided it was a good idea to insult her entire career.

“So what do you want, some strip tease or something? I’m sorry if the ENSA is too tame for you, Mr…?”

“David. I’m David Kenyon Webster,” he reached his large hand forward to greet her but she just brushed him off. “Well Mr Webster, I’m sorry if it’s too tame for you. Maybe you should try some of the London clubs if you’d rather have that sort of entertainment.”

David Webster looked rather shocked by her outburst but reached out towards her.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.” He looked at her sincerely. “I’m just not like the others I guess.”

“Well, at least you sat through the whole performance. Most of your comrades either left or started playing cards. I think your officers only stayed out of sympathy.”

David nodded slowly, contemplating what to say next. “If it’s any consolation it’s not your singing. Your voice is beautiful but most of us have sat through quite a few performances and since Normandy, I guess we’ve all lost something.”

Florence nodded understanding, “I understand what you mean. My brother Tom was at Dunkirk. The last time I saw him he was so different. He’s lost the spark from his eyes, the light.”

David placed a hand on Florence’s shoulder, looking down at her, his chocolate eyes glistening under the light of the moon, illuminating his pale features in contrast to his full head of brunette hair. His eyes were tired, dark purple shadows enveloped his eyes and his forehead was wrinkled with worry lines. He was handsome. Florence had rarely found any of the soldiers she sang for actually attractive, many of them thought they were good-looking and certainly acted in that way but David was different. He was the kind of man who didn’t realise how handsome he was.

“Thank you, David.”

He smiled brightly at her. “You’re welcome.”

“So, what book was taking up so much of your attention?” Florence asked, reaching out to grasp the small book, prising it from David’s fingers and fingering the pages carefully. David just watched in amusement as her eyes danced over the pages.

“Oh well, that’s not what I was expecting. I didn’t realise Paratroopers read classic,” she mused, enjoying the feel of his eyes watching her fondly.

“Well most of us don’t. I’m an exception,” he chided, allowing his shoulders to relax now that he no longer felt as though he was under interrogation. Florence handed the book back to him, “I approve. It’s good to know some of you read more things than Dick Tracey and Flash Gordon.”

Webster scoffed, “Yes. I feel that many of them lack the basic, functional skills to hold an adult conversation.”

“Well you’re right there,” Florence smiled up at Webster and he could feel his cheeks heating up under her gaze once more. “It was a pleasure talking to you Webster but I really must be getting back before the boys start to miss me.” She squeezed passed him and Webster chased himself for staring at her like a fool instead of moving aside.

“I look forward to hearing you sing again,” he called after her and to this she just laughed, not bothering to turn around and Webster watched as his hips swayed rhythmically in her red dress as she disappeared.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Lover Boy Webster. Who’d have thought the infamous Florence ‘I don’t take shit from anyone’ Lark would let the likes of Webster into her panties,” Leibgott’s dulcet tones called from behind him, followed by the sniggers from Luz and Toye.

“Oh give it a rest, Liebgott and Florence’s panties are none of your business,” Webster snapped, his glare harsh as he watched the three men appear from behind the tent.

“Who knew Webster could be so jealous,” Luz gave a low whistle but Webster wasn’t about to wait around to hear what else they had to say. He extinguished the cigarettes he’d just lit, stomping it out under his boot and following the music back into the tent. Florence's voice called to him, wafting like a soft lullaby and pulling him back inside. She was like some sort of mermaid, dragging him down to the deep but also like a songbird singing life into these dark days. Webster wasn’t sure when he’d become so poetic, especially about a woman but he found himself scribbling notes in the back of his notebook, her name flowing from his pen like he’d been writing it his whole life.

Tags: @georgieluz @iceman-kazansky @yeahcurrahhe-e @lieutenant-speirs @blvestxr @dustyjumpwjngs @theflyingfin @jump-wings @kafka-ohdear @kmc1989 @mads-weasley @docroesmorphine @liptonsbabe @lena-basilone @sweetxvanixlla @hesbuckcompton-baby @ronsparky @allthingsimagines @whollyjoly @bucky32557038ww2 @panzershrike-pretz @malarkgirlypop @hanniewinnix @inglourious-imagines @l13bg0tt

#the larks song #david webster x oc #david webster x reader #band of brothers

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luvrsux · 1 year ago

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umm umm hthis is my first time requesting something (the “ing” in requesting autocorrected to “nnghhh” help)

um im kind of like nervous idk but basicaly i had this idea UM so like i umm the reader is like she goes to like guitar and shes in like guitar class w/ law and basically your supposed to do a group project where u like learn a song with a group of 2 or more people but the reader and law are both socially awkward so theyre forced to pair together 😭😭 n then they become friends n sh idk

pelase and thank you!!

(you literally changed my life with your amazing fics)

thanks for the request! \(◦´-`◦)/♡

“This is Awkward”

word count: 3.8k

a/n: new layout omgggg?? and i CHANGED YOUR LIFE?? HELLO?? ilysm enjoy

summary: you meet law at a music class and neither of you know how to socialize, which is no brainer. after being forcefully bumped together to group you realize that the both of you seem to be very alike.

contents: fluff

‘If being socially awkward was a job, I’d be filthy rich…’

You thought while sweating bullets from your forehead just by sitting next to the man you’ve caught yourself staring at for weeks. Your body tensed up as if frozen solid and you couldn’t even bear to glance at the boy next to you. Your music teacher discussed the rules and guidelines of the new project you were groped into. How did your innocently enrolling into a music class for fun turn into you panicking about starting a conversation?

You worked wonders on the guitar ever since you were in single digits. Drums, trumpets, or violins never piqued your interest, but the famous chordophone instrument made sparkles grow in your eyes. Now, you enrolled in an afterschool guitar class for extra credit and to have fun. You were at the top of your class only to be in second place by none other than the culprit of your now skyrocketing nerves; Trafalgar Law.

Law enrolled in the class shortly after you did. He looked stone-cold and extremely intimidating, according to the rest of the students. They all feared him once they saw the printed ink on his fingers, hands, arms, and chest. His piercings on his ears and the one on his lip didn’t make it any better either, but the raven-haired boy seemed to not give a damn. He slouched in his seat without a care in the world until it was time to show off his talents. Everyone adored his musical ability as soon as he enchanted them with his talents like some sort of siren. You couldn’t lie, you were jealous, but his excruciatingly amazing good looks were making it really hard to hold a grudge.

Now, you were paired up with the man himself, and your teacher not only forced you to perform a song together but also sat next to each other for an open discussion before class ended. You could faintly smell his pine and cinnamon scent, the smell sending shockwaves through your body. You both heard the buzzing of conversation amongst your paired peers and realized you two were the only people who weren’t talking.

You heard Law clear his throat. It was apparent he was just as, if not more, awkward than you were. He folded his lips and glanced in the opposite direction while you gave him one quick glance. This was all too painful.

“So…” Law said lowly. The grumbling of his voice nearly startled you considering this man had very few words. You quickly turn to him only to turn away just as fast.

“So…” You say similarly. An amazing conversation you two shared, truly. Law felt like his body was about to explode and pulled on his crew neck sweater to let air flow through his chest.

“What… kind of song do you wanna do?” You ask awkwardly, your voice sounding similar to a robot. You saw Law click his tongue and left his mouth agape to think.

“Not sure…” He replied. ‘Was that it?’ You thought. You can clearly tell this man had very few friends growing up. He bounced his leg up and down as some sort of stim for his nerves.

“Okay this is like… really awkward…” You blurt out, your nerves only making your mouth more blunt. Your cheeks began to flush of pigment and you exhaled in slight laughter. Law nodded.

“Oh, absolutely” He agreed. His pensive demeanor seemed to relax once you began to recognize the thick tension between you two.

“Okay well erm… I’m (F/N)” You shakily held out a hand to the awkward boy only for him to eye it for a few moments. You flinched when you felt him finally grasp it.

“Law” He managed to crack a small smile when the awkwardness began to die down. You two shook hands before it was separated.

“We can do some sort of… duet? Do you also do vocals?” Your voice was low and timid, still not quite fully adjusted to speaking to someone you weren’t fond of. Law scratched the back of his neck nervously and avoided eye contact.

“I do… Sometimes…” He says as if he was ashamed or embarrassed by it. You didn’t expect such a dark and cold guy to be a singer.

“Cool, Me too…” You tried not to stammer or fumble on your words but he was making it really difficult. “Um… The teacher said we don’t have to make our own song” You shrugged.

“What are you insinuating?” Law asked, finally landing his cold eyes on you to hear you out. You lightly blush, seeing his entire face and how defined it is in front of you.

“I’m saying… We can just do a cover of a song… To save us the trouble and the uh” You fold your lips and gesture your hands. “Painful awkwardness…”

“Yeah, smart…” Law shrugged. He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly retracted. You could’ve sworn you saw a light tint of pink on his tan cheeks.

“My place or erm… Yours?” He asks, seeming as if he just asked you to do something horrible. You raised an eyebrow and felt your body temperature rise all of a sudden. ‘What? Why is he inviting me over all of a sudden?’

Law seemed to sense your concern and massive confusion with a blink of an eye and rolled his own.

“The teacher said we should meet up someplace outside here to work on it more” Law explained. Those directions were completely foreign to you. She must’ve said it while you were panicking internally just by sitting next to Law.

“Oh, right! Yeah, right…” You laugh nervously and try to create a facade that you knew the whole time, only making it more painfully awkward than before.

“We can… Do mine” You say, your fingers interlocking with each other out of nerves. Law nodded slowly at your statement.

“Cool” Law said lowly. He pulled out a sleek, noir device out of his pocket to unlock it. His screen was presented right in front of you with an empty contact. You stared at it, completely puzzled.

“Oh, right… My number” You say, grabbing his phone to type in your personal digits so you two can keep in touch. Your thumbs were practically vibrating while you moved them to type.

“Erm, here…” You handed his device back to a distracted Law, who seemed to be gazing out the window next to him before quickly turning his head to you.

“Oh, uh thanks,” He says, quickly smiling before tucking his phone away into his pocket. It was only polite for you to reciprocate the same thing—but you didn’t.

The teacher said it was time for everyone to depart and you couldn’t thank her enough for putting an end to the dreadful interaction. Law was quick to grab his bag and hook it onto his shoulder. You were right behind him before he stopped and rubbed his chin to finally face you.

“I’ll.. Text you when I get home… Kay?” He says. His body standing tall rather than sitting down like before was intimidating. He was practically a skyscraper compared to you. You gulped and nodded.

“Got it” You say, your voice slightly softened and you give him a false smile before quickly strutting past him. One simple guy made your body hotter than the surface of the sun, which is exactly how you’d describe his looks.

Despite his painfully terrible social skills, his looks were entirely different. His jawline was chiseled and his fingers were toned. His piercings perfectly fit his character as well as his tattoos. Not to mention the facial hair that did wonders to your brain. You hated how he was more talented than you but also how attractive he was. Surely he knew he could charm any girl he stumbled across but with social skills like that, it was only a fantasy for Law.

The cold breeze from the outdoors felt like paradise against your skin. Finally being able to get fresh air when you were drowning in Earthquaking nerves. But the nerves you once experienced back in class were nothing compared to the ones you’ll experience when Law comes over.

When he did, you stared up at him with doe eyes at the doorway. He wore different attire, a more loose and short-sleeved shirt. The only similarity was that he’d never retire the iconic dark color black. He scratched his head while he stood tall before you.

“Uh, hey” Law waved. You giggle out of nervousness before you side stepped aside to let the socially impaired man inside.

He looked inside your apartment like a lost puppy and kept his hands tucked into his jean pockets. He stood uncomfortably by your kitchen island while you locked your front door.

“Um…” You hum before turning to him. He seemed to be intrigued by the decor of your place or was finding any small excuse to avoid eye contact. “Thirsty? Hungry? I uh… Have snacks” You offer, approaching the kitchen only to brush past him. Law caught a whiff of your sweet perfume and it caused his cheeks to flare.

“Oh, how about some sandwiches?” You say with a smile, observing the ingredients you had to assemble the delicious treat. You turned your back to a cringing Law, as if you said the most vile words to ever exist on Earth.

“I don’t do sandwiches…” He grumbled. He felt more comfortable leaning against the table. You raised an eyebrow followed by turning your whole body towards him.

“What? Why?” You ask, quickly folding your arms. Now, you were suddenly craving a sandwich only for it to be stomped on by your awkward house guest.

“I don’t like bread?” Law says with a sassy tone. His tone made you wanna kick him square in his cold face but, of course, you retracted.

“So you’re picky? Gotcha’” You tease, grabbing two clear glasses and filling them up with fresh, purified water.

“It’s just bread. ‘Didn’t know you were an enthusiast for sandwiches” Law rolled his eyes and wrapped his hands around the glass to take a sip. You eyed his tattooed fingers, finally spelling out what they had said; “Death”. ‘Odd choice…’

“Sorry I wanted to make my house guest feel welcome” You grumble before taking a sip. You didn’t receive a word from Law, only a cold glance and a relieved exhale after drinking the beverage.

You walked over to your propped-up guitar that was splashed with stickers of bright colors. You plugged in the amp as well as the instrument itself.

“Oh, my bad…” Law said lowly. Besides bringing himself, he brought his own guitar. He sat by you on the couch, pulling out his instrument.

His sleek, black guitar contrasted dramatically with yours. You two sat in the living room with reasonable space but it still made you nervous. Law stood close by you, leaning over to plug in his guitar. You could practically feel his breath on your neck while he effortlessly plugged it in. You both shared quick eye contact before you quickly turned away. Law sat down in his seat to strum his guitar. It sounded perfectly tuned meanwhile you struggled to tune yours.

“Um… Need help?” Law watched you struggle for a few moments and you felt as if his eyes had daggers of judgment. You glared at him.

“Sure… I guess” You grumble in defeat. With those words, Law stood up to stand right beside you.

His inked hand wrapped on the headstock of the instrument and his fingers pinched the tuning pegs. He leaned over next to you, not quite knowing how close you two were. Law only got closer to strum the guitar. The sound didn’t seem to satisfy him, as he was still close to you to tune the guitar. You heard him grumble in his chest after hearing the wrong tuning.

“One sec” He murmured. He gave the guitar one last strum and it was music to both of your ears. It satisfied the both of you and you saw the cold man carve a smile. Meanwhile, you felt like your heart was about to pump out of your chest. Law looked at you, hoping to see a satisfied smile in hopes that he did a nice job but that was completely absent. As soon as he saw your flushed face and trembling expression, he realized how close he was. His face burned as he quickly moved aside.

“Sorry, I… Um,” He cleared his throat and adjusted his shirt awkwardly. He folded his lips before strutting off back to his seat, gripping the neck of his guitar firmly. If it were a real person, I’d be as bright as a plum in his grip.

“It’s… alright” You managed to finally say through the nerves and pure anxiety. A moment of silence lingered between you two like a swarming disease.

“I can show you my Spotify playlist… For song suggestions, I mean” Law says, already shuffling through his pockets for his phone. Your head perked up at his suggestion, not even considering his idea. Timidly extending your hand out to grab his phone, he anxiously placed it in your hand.

You silently grazed her eyes upon the long list of songs of different genres and artists. Law seemed to have a plethora of different tastes, being the type of person to listen to two totally different songs depending on his mood. Most of which you recognized, and you saw a recurring pattern of your favorite musical artist. The frequency of the songs popping up with each swipe indicated that Law, too, enjoyed that artist.

“You like them?” You presented the profile of the mentioned artist that Law seemed to be following already. His face grew red by your words, causing nothing but embarrassment to seep through his expression.

“Yeah, I guess…” Law stammered on his words and tried everything in his willpower to avoid keeping eye contact. You grew a bright smile at his response, relieved that you found something in common with the awkward man.

“Cool! I—uh… Really like them too” You say, swiping your finger across the screen to find a song that you liked most. Law’s expression softened.

“Oh?” Is all Law managed to say. He ran his fingers through his locks and cracked a small smile, just to put the pensive awkwardness to rest.

“I don’t know many people who know them” Law continues. You gave him a happy glance, the first time ever since you two first exchanged names.

“Me neither. Here, we can do this song then” You say, handing back Law’s personal device he itched for. The song presented in front of him was also a song he similarly enjoyed. He chuckled, the low noise sending chills down your spine.

“I’m down” He shrugged.

Your hands pulled up sheet music digitally on your laptop beside you. Law seemingly did the same through his own device so the both of you were all set. Your house echoed with music as a warmup, it mainly being Law doing a staircase exercise for his fingers. You watched his fingers move smoothly and rhythmically as if he didn’t even have to keep his eyes on the neck of his guitar to make sure his fingers were on the right notes. Law could beautifully tame his guitar with his eyes shut and on the back of his head if he wanted to. Law caught your gaze, almost falling into a similar one.

“Ready…?” He said lowly. You snapped out of your small daydream to focus on the assessment at hand. You clicked your tongue and nodded profusely.

“Yeah-! Yeah, let’s get started!”

You two practiced the song for the first time and it went smoothly. You loved Law’s vocals, slowly lowering your own voice so his own was more apparent. He really was some sort of siren in disguise. You were sworn that if you kept admiring his vocals and talents, you’d be locked under some sort of spell if you hadn’t already.

I start to drown out, forget the sunrise

Are we alone now?

This planet on repeat, left frozen, boiling heat

Too late to find out, too late to find out

And I don’t need love

Your hands hiccuped on the cords, causing the music to stumble to a temporary halt. You grumbled at the fact you messed up a single cord but softened once your eyes trailed on a concerned Law. He had his brows furrowed, looking for an answer at the sudden halt. He telepathically asked you what was up, as if it was clearly spoken in your ears.

“Can’t seem to do this cord… Sorry,” You reply. Law placed his instrument on the other end of the couch to approach you. Each step you took matched your pounding heartbeat. As his inked hand lowered to rest on your frail ones, you were ready to explode.

You watched Law’s silvered necklace dangle on his neck as he leaned down toward you. The swinging of it was enough to hypnotize you as if his charming looks and voice weren’t enough. Law moved your fingers on the correct positioning the sheet music instructed you to do.

“Now strum f’me” Law directed. You halt for a moment, staring up at him for what seemed like decades before you did as told. It was like Law had your body in a chokehold with how obediently you grazed your pick on the metal strings. The note echoed through the walls, Law was more than satisfied with the correct noise in comparison to the hiccuped sound you performed before.

“Thanks…” You murmured. Law took his eyes from your hands, that were now in control by his own, and made eye contact with you. His cheeks grew vibrant, quickly retracting his hands. This time, though, his distance was still pretty close.

“Sorry, I keep messing up and you have to help so much…” You say bashfully, setting the instrument aside. Law cleared his throat once again and scratched his neck. You were starting to notice something consistent.

“It’s alright—I mean, I don’t mind… Helping you, I suppose” Law seemed like an anxious pre-teen with the way he was talking. Truth is, your doe eyes and sweet scent altered the way he saw you. You were cute and shared similar ambitions, Law couldn’t help but feel like a nervous little boy around you.

“You sing… Really nicely, by the way,” You abruptly compliment him, and that nearly made his heart stop. He eyed the neighboring as if it were the most beautiful sight to ever exist.

“Yeah, you too… Thanks” Law tried to cover his vulnerability by rubbing his face, but it was apparent. His terrible social skills and how easy it was to make him flustered, he was more than nervous around you.

“No wonder you’re better than me… I can’t even tune my guitar” You bashfully say, relaxing your tensed body into the seat more comfortably. Law raised an eyebrow for a moment before interlocking his arms together.

“So? You’re great at playing and singing” Law complimented. Despite his nice words, his tone was the opposite. It was like slipping off tin ice, cold as ever.

“Be proud in your playing, ya do it pretty well. Better than everything Iv'e seen in that class at least” Law continues. The eye contact shared between you two during a short pause was bone-chilling. You gave a soft smile.

“Thanks, Law. You’re not so bad after all” You’ve completely relaxed since you met him for the first time. He was quite awful at socializing, but he seemed nothing less than a sweet boy underneath.

“Whaddya’ mean?” Law raised an eyebrow. He nonchalantly leaned his body against the armrest of your couch.

“You’re so painfully awkward, I was worried I’ll forever suffer from awkwardness” You put it blunt, considering there was no other way to put it. You saw Law’s eyes widen and quickly separate his gaze from you out of embarrassment.

“Right erm-… Sorry, I guess…” You giggle at his embarrassment which you suddenly find rather adorable. His contrasting cold nature paired with a nervous attitude, you couldn’t help but blush.

“Hey, how about we go out for some coffee to get to know each other better” You suddenly say. Your lips move uncontrollably to say those words, never once asking anyone out in your life. Not like you never wanted to, but the idea of explaining your feelings was nerve-wracking. You quickly snapped back to reality. “Not like-! A date or anything, just like… Um- Settling in?” You squeak.

Law stared at you with tinted cheeks and wide eyes. He stammered, trying to find the right words to say but to no avail. Law’s indecisiveness was enough for you to completely backtrack on your embarrassing idea.

“Sorry, Forget about it, don’t worry-“ You panicked but Law quickly cut your frantic sentence in half with a clear of his throat. Your face was as bright as a bell pepper.

“No, it’s alright It’s just-… Never really been asked out before” Law was trying everything in his power to cover his face from embarrassment. You stayed silent, but your brain was ricocheting with thoughts. ‘No one asked him out before? How? Look at him! Er- Well, that makes a lot of sense, actually…’

“I—… Accept. It’s a date then” Law adjusts his shirt, presumably because of the added body temperature his nerves provided. Truthfully, Law had been sweating bullets the moment he stepped foot into your home. He was sure you casted some sort of spell with the scent of your perfume.

You eyeball him with dumbfounded eyes. His words racked your brain and you were in disbelief that he actually accepted, let alone called it a date. You couldn’t help but decompress your nerves by laughing, which caused a flustered Law to stare at you

“Sorry, I was just so embarrassed that I didn’t think you’d say yes” You relaxed your composure. Law soon did the same and you both exchanged relieved giggles and chuckles. This day couldn’t get any more weird.

“How’s tomorrow afternoon sound? We can do more than just sit for coffee” You exhale, smiling in bliss rather than in discomfort like how you’ve been resorting to all evening. Law nodded. The pigment of his cheeks seemed to relax.

“Sounds good t’me” Law gave you a half smile, and something told you that this time it was genuine and not full of embarrassment. You giggle.

“Alright. And there will be no sandwiches, kay?” You joked, only to receive an eye roll of Law from pure sass. Knowing that you managed to make a playful joke about him was a sign that you two were now friends, and maybe more of it all goes well.

“How kind of you, (F/N)-ya. Let's get back to playing" He replied sarcastically. Law tried not to make an amused smile but his body was too weak. He couldn’t help but crack his lips into it while picking up his guitar into his hands.

“Don’t mess up this time” He winks. Your heart was sure to burst and your heart rate was off the rails. You giggled, cheeks moderately pigmented to display your feelings.

“Shut up”

all licensing and ownership belong to eiichiro oda

#one piece #fanfic #op x reader #x reader #trafalgar one piece #law x reader #one piece x reader #trafalgar law #law fanfic

54 notes · View notes

regulusstarz · 3 months ago

Note

pspspsps! i hope you're still taking requests, but if not, feel free to ignore!

can i ask for step 2 headcanons about vianca with a transfem reader? either romantic or platonic is fine, but i do prefer romantic!

thank you, have a lovely day!

I do, i do. I don't get many requests so i immediately started working on this when i saw it. I apologize if its a bit messy, i had to calm myself down while writing this. If there's more specific headcanons you want, feel free to ask!

Step 2 Vianca x Transfem! Reader

-Vianca is your biggest supporter and defender. She's very honest and opinionated, so she will hold a personal grudge against anyone who might be mean to you. Someone accidentally tripped you? She's giving them a death glare for the next 2 days. They're being mean to you for some reason? The reason doesn't matter, she will be calling them out and in the worst-case scenario force teachers to do something about it.

-very open to having you in her friend group and will be pretty nice. Sure, she can still be a little blunt occasionally, but ofcourse not intentionally mean.

-Any hobby you have, Vianca will gladly hear about it. You play an instrument? That's astounding, can you play something for her?You bake? She'll gladly taste test something for you!You do ballet? She does too, she'll gladly watch you or give you some tips if you want them. You draw or generally like to create things? That's amazing! Vianca will, as always, gladly look at whatever you have created. And if you create something for her she'll cherish it and tell you how nice it is.

Romantic headcanons:

-Loves having sleepovers or hanging out in eachothers rooms. Like just sitting there, maybe playing with each other's hair and giving eachother occasional kisses on the cheek.

-Very proud of being your girlfriend. She won't be overly affectionate in public, but will hold your hand and hug you if you want it.

-If you don't have the same classes, she'll happily bring you to and back from class. Maybe even hold some books for you if they're very heavy.

-Her main way of showing love is quality time and words of affirmation. She wants you to know how much she loves you, how much you mean to her, how pretty she thinks you are. And hanging out with you is one of the greatest things in the day! Even small moments. Like you hanging out with her friend group and her, having a picnic togheter, walking to class togheter..everything is great to her.

-Favorite kiss is a small kiss on the cheek or hand. And her favorite kind of hug is when you're just leaning against eachother, maybe your head being on her shoulder.

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This was a bit short, because we don't have step 2 vianca in the game yet so i don't have much to base this on. Also i did more general headcanons, because Vianca would most likely see you as whatever you identify as. And i can't really talk much on transfem experiences because i personally wouldn't be able to be transfem, but if you do want it to be more centered around that feel free to send another ask!

Have a lovely day yourself, thank you for the request <3

#gb patch games #our life #olnf #our life now and forever #Vianca #Vianca our life now and forever #Vianca x reader #headcanons #romantic headcanons #Thank you for the ask :3

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restinpanic · 8 months ago

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Heyy! (Yes I’m still awake) BUT I HAVE A REQUEST AND I REQUIRE YOUR BEAUTIFUL WRITING SKILLS. (Get to this whenever you feel like and if any requests I make in the future make you uncomfortable just delete them!)

Anyways *ahem*

Blackhat and Dr. Flug with an s/o that is a songwriter? (Have fun with this!)

Thanks for the request, Gigi! :)

✈️Dr Flug✈️:

💙It is a fact for us that Dr. Flug doesn't really like music. Don't take him wrong, he just didn't find the kind of music that made him feel. Not until you appeared in his life.

💙Yours songs really made him feel something different. Maybe it was the way you sang? The metaphoric style you wrote your lyrics? However it was, it completely messed with him.

💙In random times, you'd caught him humming your songs under his breath, or imitating the beats with his fingertip without noticing. Now he knows why Demencia always tried to find his taste in music (and she's slightly jealous that YOU were the one who finally found it).

💙If you ever write him a song, FOR HEAVENS, this man would melt in front of you. At first, he wouldn't know how to react. Should he say a simple 'thank you'? No, no, that'd be too little. A moment of silence would pass where you would simply be staring at his blushing face, and then he'd finally give you a brief hug of thanks. Our doctor would certainly have difficulty demonstrating affection, but you could always see in his face (even covered) how grateful he is for you. Later, he would probably write you a thank you letter. He was always better at writing down his thoughts than actually saying them.

🎩Black Hat🎩:

🖤We don't really know Black Hat's vision of music, but it's clear that he wouldn't like anything too modern. He's a traditional man, after all.

🖤As we saw, his main hobby is read newspapers, and if he had to listen to something, it'd probably be the scream of his victims, and not some rhythmic notes.

🖤Despiste that, when feeling too stressed, he listen to some classic music. Happily, it helps to calm down the urge of putting his minions' heads on a plate. His opinion on general songs would not change because of you. There are many things that Black Hat hates, and just few things that he likes, so it'd be a challenge for you to get him to compliment you on your work.

🖤Writing him songs wouldn't be a big surprise for him. If you do something too sappy, it will definitely make him raise an eyebrow and show uou the stink eye. Maybe write a lyric that boosts his ego? It wouldn't be too surprising, he's used to it.

🖤Writing something he likes wouldn't be an easy job, but it wouldn't be impossible. After several times of failing, you'd finally write something that he doesn't hate. While you sang and played for him (on the instrument of your choice), you'd swear you saw his frown disappear for a few seconds. It could be your imagination, you were too focused to think too much about it.

🖤After the end of the song, a deafening silence would fill the room. You were expecting the usual bluntness. The look on his face was indescribable, making you think that maybe your song was so bad that even angered him (wow). But when you finally open your mouth to say something, he would say:

—You did good.

🖤He would never mention this event to anyone, but every time you remembered it, a smile would appear on your face.

Thank you for reading!🌻☀️

#villainous #villanos #dr flug #dr flugslys #dr flug x reader #flug #black hat x reader #black hat #black hat organization #headcanon #headcanons post #demencia villainous #x reader

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sisterdivinium · 1 year ago

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Liking or disliking fictional characters is wholly dependent on subjectivity, but as there will be those baffled by others' attachments, I thought it might be interesting to delve into an unforgettable, uncomfortable scene featuring Ava and Mother Superion to see if the latter's so-called cruelty "should" soil our opinion of her as some apparently believe it must despite later developments.

Let us begin with a quick recapitulation and a summary of what we see when we arrive at this scene: we are at the Cat's Cradle soon after Ava's coercitive conduction there (rather than autonomous arrival), hostile ground very reminiscent of the orphanage where she was mistreated by another group of nuns for years on end. On the other hand, the convent is familiar territory for Mother Superion, her turf, her natural habitat, even, something she would protect at any cost. She is the active enactor of "cruelty" while Ava is its (not-so-passive) recipient -- a woman facing a girl, the representative of an institution facing a lonely individual with no such backing, a believer facing a sceptic, a master and a rookie, someone who once held a certain position and lost it to someone else who holds it now.

There are a number of opposing values embodied by these two characters in this moment, but perhaps, most of all, what thickens the atmosphere around them is their own relationship to the halo: the object which brought Ava back to life, thrusting this outsider into a secret, hermetic order, is the same coveted object that ambiguously rules the OCS, the cause of both grief and anticipation, essential to a beloved sister warrior's death as well as to the aborted ascension of another to the simultaneously prized and feared status of halo bearer.

Here is a dead girl reborn and hungering for some new kind of life, set against a living woman so well-used to and prepared for death as only an experienced, battle-worn soldier can be.

The clash is inevitable.

Even their positions in the scene itself announce it: the vertical aspect of it, with Ava on the floor, her foot stuck in the wall (the same extremity which first twitches and denounces her resurrection after her being unable to use it for so long) while Superion towers darkly over her, symbolically supported by the dogma of centuries with which she is all but blended while Ava pops out in contrast with the empty, colourful wall. The hierarchy is more than clear and, as the one more advanced in said hierarchy, Superion is bound to be the one wielding the metaphorical whip for which her cane is an apt replacement as an instrument of visible, chastising power.

Here is a superior ready to admonish an unruly subordinate, heartless rules and expectations ready to punish someone who did not even choose to be placed under their majesty to begin with.

Of course we side with Ava, how could we not?

She is the weaker link, an innocent being condemned of a crime she did not commit, moved to tears by vile accusations and conduct -- she is the protagonist whose point of view we have followed from the start of the show two episodes ago, whose inner thoughts we are privy to through voice-over comments the likes of which we do not receive for any other characters for the duration of the story.

Superion, however, is introduced only now, a few running minutes prior to this conflict. We don't know her, we don't trust her, we are not allowed any intimacy with her and so the only impression we can rely on is the one provided by Ava's perspective.

Boss bitch, wicked stepmother... Those words are not neutral.

Our opinion, then, is smartly "manipulated" thanks to the lack of independent information we can gather at this point. We have no choice but to condemn Mother Superion, her bluntness, her harshness by the end of this tense dialogue with Ava.

Interestingly, as vicious as her words about Ava are in the following confrontation with Vincent -- callous, hurtful words that stick with us and reinforce our negative impression of her ("a sinner" who "killed herself", an "aberration", a "cancer") --, those terrible words Superion uses were never directed at Ava, not to her face. Calling someone a coward, as she does within the study, might be offensive, but poor Ava's tears might have flowed more abundantly had she heard these other terms being used about her.

Turns out Mother Superion was honest when talking to Vincent earlier.

She didn't go easy indeed, but she also never revealed to Ava the full extent of her contempt. There was some amount of self-restraint and regard for the newcomer despite appearances.

When speaking of Superion's "cruelty" towards Ava, it's "sinner", "aberration" and "cancer" that come to mind... But she never spoke those words to Ava, just to Vincent.

We hear them, we may judge her sternly, but what did Ava actually get from her? Is it really that much of a stretch to understand Ava's forgiveness, to the point where she demonstrates she cares about the nun's view even before their encounter at the Vatican in 1x09 is over, when she attempts to sway Mother Superion's opinion of her by telling her how she is fighting and protecting her friends even if it looks like she's running from trouble yet again?

In reality, what Suzanne speaks of within the red room is Ava's accident, of her death caused by overdose, of how it must have been a nightmare... There are bits of false or biased information given her source, but there are bits of truth in there as well, if tactlessly delivered. The accusation of suicide is heavy, that of coward is perhaps a tad too strong... But nothing of the words exchanged in that moment, however heightened they are by Sylvia de Fanti and Alba Baptista's shining talent, can come close to the rawness displayed in the conversation she has with Vincent -- a conversation Ava is not present for. "Coward" is a speck of dust compared to "aberration".

Of course there's a reason for this mixture we, as an audience, are likely to make between points of view. This was a practical, clever way to nudge us towards sympathy for Vincent and antipathy for Superion, as a means to enhance the later effect of the former's betrayal and the latter's change of heart at the end of s1. Without this scene, both of those events lose their lustre -- but with its inclusion, it seems there are those who are distracted by it and who will still point an accusing finger at the nun, insisting on seeing her in a much more negative light than Ava herself could, oblivious to the character's evolution as the story unfolds.

If at first we rely on Ava's impressions, this scene provides us with Vincent's perspective, which flattens our view of the situation and might lead us to ignore the surprisingly emotionally charged reaction on Superion's part -- which should vehemently suggest to us that there is much more happening underneath her mask of severity.

Moreover, taking Vincent's "side" seems reasonable enough in this episode, but the revelation of his shaky moral grounds further on should at the very least cause a viewer still full of antipathy for Suzanne, even in spite of her redeeming actions, to question whether they truly wish to maintain their ideas when this fallible man who is cruel in his own way has helped cement them.

We could make a case for these two scenes, the one between Ava and Suzanne as well as the one between Suzanne and Vincent, as being only one. Looking at them together is the best method of ascertaining their effects to the fullest extent.

As a result of their confrontation, Ava is left crying... And, at the end of the debate between the priest and the nun, Suzanne leaves the scene in tears as well, if more contained ones. There's a strange sort of equivalence for both women, as the consequences are the same, their emotional reactions are essentially the same and both are left feeling deeply hurt.

That correspondence is perfectly understandable, if shocking at first to those who haven't yet regarded these events with a wider consideration. For, despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary, despite their myriad differences, their power imbalance, the way they are shown on-screen, visually antithetical to one another, the truth is that Ava Silva and Mother Superion here are precisely the same.

The environment, the camera cuts, the authority... It's all a decoy.

If we look at the relationship between speaker and listener, between two individuals who are supposedly participating in the same process of communication together, both Ava and Suzanne choose the same approach: one which negates the very possibility of dialogue, of exchange, of alternating turns between speaking and listening. They are as two negative magnets, irrevocably repulsed by one another's identical charge -- hence the also identical result of both women being moved to tears in the outcome to their meeting.

Mother Superion is, as we know well, strongly prejudiced against Ava when first they are brought together... But so has Ava formed an opinion on her and on the Order of the Cruciform Sword. Both of them have judged the other based on sources of knowledge they see no reason to suspect: Suzanne takes the word of a fellow nun for granted, keeping to class loyalty, while Ava trusts her empirical learning in the direct contact she had with other nuns. Opening an interesting epistemological debate, illustrating how serious the failures of understanding the world through only one fixed method are, ignoring that a complex, multiple existence requires multiple points of view in order to better perceive its truths, neither Suzanne's faith nor Ava's direct experience can fully qualify them in dealing with the other. Both fail to see through the image they have construed of one another, trusting in the surface, in stereotype all the while closing themselves off to genuine connection with one another.

They have both made up their minds about the other party prior to any real dialogue, so their interactions simply cannot be done in good faith -- not by an Ava who doesn't take the nuns or their vocation (or their grief) seriously, not by a Mother Superion plagued by issues of self-esteem and envy.

Another element determines their proposed equality. It is possible that some degree of recognition regarding Ava and their common status, on Suzanne's part, takes place fairly early on, feeding the animosity.

I've been asked before whether Suzanne might not have seen her younger, foolish self in Lilith's arrogance, but it would be just as feasible to assume she might see herself reflected in Ava as well, in her impulsiveness.

If Suzanne might be linked to Lilith through a shared instinct of aggression, then she might as well see a connection to Ava through her indiscipline, her refusal to conform during that initial stay at the Cat's Cradle.

The horror of seeing oneself in "the other" should not be underestimated. It is a moment of realisation wherein this "other" is revealed as not-so-other to begin with as it carries a portion of ourselves in it -- or vice-versa, which only serves to denounce how artificial the obstacles we erect between one another truly are. We can't separate life into neat little boxes of "us vs. them", we can't build hierarchies, rigid orders based on how alien someone else is when we see through the lies and accept that either we, too, are monstrous or that those "monsters" out there are just the same as we.

And if Superion does see something of herself in Ava early on, it's no surprise that she would reject it as well as Ava just as she rejects herself and the echoes of her own actions, her own brashness on that fateful night where her Mother Superion was indirectly slain by her own hand, as a result of her own indiscipline.

That preoccupation with her girls and their safety which Suzanne demonstrates, despite Vincent's inference of her having other intentions when she pushes Ava away, is highly unlikely to be insincere.

Moreover, Ava is an outsider... And, in some capacity, so is Suzanne.

Imprisoned within her own guilt and sentiments of inadequacy, she distances herself from others to such a degree that she might well be on the outside looking in.

Just as Mary can pinpoint this fault with unerring precision and play a central part to Mother Superion's turning the tides at last, so does Mary fulfil the same function in regards to Ava, opening her eyes as she does Suzanne and strengthening the parallel between the two women.

Mary identifies and helps correct both women's conduct as Ava and Suzanne both pushed others away in their own fashion and for their own reasons; the problem is much the same, as is the catalyst that ultimately drives them towards a solution.

That solution, of course, is building bridges instead of burning them down; it's coming to terms with the fact that there is something shared between even those who seem most inimical. Ava and Suzanne are the same, like an estranged pair of mother and daughter who finally set aside their generational differences or incompatibilities, who finally reject the power of fabricated opposition to embrace a much more authentic, honest way of seeing the other as well as themselves and meet in the middle. They accept the fact that what sets them apart is not as important as what brings them together; they overcome the easy, lazy, automatic barrier of antagonism (not without a struggle) with the end of mutual benefit where once there was only mutual injury, lifting the veil or banishing the shame or fear of seeing underneath it only the most familiar of faces.

It's no surprise, then, that their ultimate reconciliation comes through a literal scene of recognition as that in 1x09. Whatever horror there might have existed in Suzanne's facing her reflection in Ava fades as Ava gets the opportunity to be the one staring into the mirror for once.

This scene, once again masterfully played out by Sylvia and Alba, wouldn't even be possible without the previous negativity surrounding their relationship. Now it is defined by what renders them equal; now that equality is not denied and so there is no further miscommunication between them.

This is all reinforced, of course, in s2, when Suzanne opens up to Ava about her time as the halo bearer (thus, as someone who has been in Ava's position, someone just like her) as well as when Ava tells her she will do what she must alone, for the sake of the others -- and Suzanne understands and supports her despite the lessons learned during her own tenure as the warrior nun.

In a world so large and complex, where we are more and more prone to defining ourselves against others as we attempt to reduce some of that maddening complexity, the definitions that really allow us to approach and coexist with our fellows are those that provide healing, that pull them towards us rather than not. Only they can reopen the routes for clean, generous communication, unhindered by problems of malicious (mis)interpretation, and, therefore, facilitate the genuine human connection we all so crave.

So, once more, it would seem that a negative occurrence in Warrior Nun begets positive outcomes.

What we think of as a vicious, savage, unforgivable attack is, first of all, bad but not as vicious or savage as we might initially feel it is -- just enough to affect the very person responsible for it as much as her target, which should be enough of a hint as to how truly merciless this character is(n't). Moreover, it is the first, shaky step both characters take in the sinuous, parallel journey with a common destination that betters them both.

Funny how all of that "cruelty" amounts to a fairly (or deceptively) simple question.

One which, like it or not, prompts Ava to ponder and act, to move, faithful to herself. Her more immediate answer is what we see at the end of 1x03, of course. But the following events in the narrative, in Ava's life, force her to consider what it might actually mean to live -- and we know how that progresses, where that takes her.

And so might we reconsider alongside Ava: our sympathies, our understanding of characters' motivations, whether any of them can be fully right or wrong... If we're paying attention, we shall see that all of them triumph and commit blunders regardless of whatever moral standing they possess, of how central or marginal they are to the show, of how much we might individually like or dislike them. They're built as human as can be, themselves a reflection of our own sprawling, complex world, where most things are relative rather than absolute.

Prejudice is blinding. Identifying and not shying away from our commonality is infinitely more conducive to social life, however difficult it might be to act so. We all of us are susceptible to judging others incorrectly. Even difficult experiences can make us grow us as people in the end -- if only we're willing to find out how.

Now, I cannot speak for all self-avowed fans of Mother Superion, but I find that her presence and importance in the story and in Ava's path is abundantly clear.

There are other reasons to love her, but the next time someone claims it strange to be so keen on a character who was so "mean", perhaps it will be a jolly good opportunity to help them realise how, as Ava and Superion themselves, this person might just be a little too caught up in their own premature conclusions. They are, by choosing to ignore the very well-wrought development of both characters, thanks to one another, adopting the very posture they claim to abhor in Suzanne by denying her complexity and groundlessly seeing her as nothing more but caricature.

And to do so is to fall for the very trap this wonderful show is so earnestly trying to warn us against.

#warrior nun #ava silva #mother superion #exercises in observation #yes it took me this long to write up a response to that thing on reddit. no i am not sorry because this way i can bring on the big guns lol #i promise i am not being controversial for the sake of controversy lol #on the contrary this is me being extremely level-headed. if you read carefully you'll see.#it's really not about liking or disliking but just... understanding i suppose. one thing is liking another is feeling empathy #it is possible (desirable even) to feel empathy without necessarily liking...

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