#so both of the children were extremely focused on not crossing the line into anything that might be considered “serious”

[imliterallyjustsittinghere]

so it occurs to me that there is *great* comedic potential in an arranged marriage story (whether AU fic, romance novel parody, or straight romance) where the parents are very much along the lines of King William and Queen Uberta from The Swan Princess, i.e. VERY insistent on pushing their children together and anxiously hoping they'll fall in love or at least won't refuse the marriage altogether.

Now the exact reason WHY they're so dead-set on their kids being in love when they marry could have any number of explanations. Maybe the parents read too many romance novels. Maybe there was a scandal where a noble or royal scion of a neighboring country broke their betrothal to marry a different (and potentially less "suitable") person. Maybe they both had family or friends who got stuck in loveless marriages with people they didn't respect and who didn't respect them and really don't want that for their children.

Problem: the children betrothed to each other... don't get along? Like, they don't *hate* each other. If they're made to spend time together they don't fight the whole time, and they don't rebelliously claim to their respective parents that they'd rather run away than marry their fiancee. They're honestly perfectly willing to marry! It's just that they have literally nothing in common. Any attempt at making conversation falls completely flat. They've known each other for close to a decade and the longest conversation they've managed before it petered out was six sentences. Total. Their parents are at the end of their rope and honestly close to calling the whole thing off. They can figure out some other way to strengthen political relations.

But! Then! A miracle happens! Their children (now approaching young adulthood) are forced by circumstance to work together to solve some sort of problem. Maybe it's relatively serious, like discovering evidence of embezzlement or treason, or maybe it's comparatively minor, like needing to arrange a formal dinner party on short notice. And they find that, much to their surprise, they're basically god's perfect coworkers? They've never been able to have a casual conversation, but somehow now that they need to cooperate on a task they just click. And once they discover that they quickly start involving each other in everything. Anything from social conflicts to practical problems to thorny political issues gets brought to the other. Their parents are deeply relieved if a little disgruntled.

[mochegato]

The Night of the Consequences

Continuation of Well, Well, Well, If It Isn’t the Consequences of My Actions

“Ladybug!”

Ladybug’s eyes widened, recognizing the voice booming through the Watchtower halls without even having to turn around.  She eyed Chloe nervously.  Why did these things keep happening around the nosy blondes in her life?  She turned around with an overly wide smile.  “Oh… hi… um… M.… Wing,” she stuttered out.  

Son of a bitch!  She really should have prepared for this.  She knew it was coming.  Granted, she didn’t know it was coming today, but it had to be coming soon, they couldn’t afford to let just anyone go around knowing their identities.  If the family was really worried, they couldn’t afford to wait to talk to her about… well… her.  

Bee side eyed her with an incredulous stare.  “What the actual fu…” she started quietly.

“Is there something we can help you with?” Ladybug asked loudly, cutting off whatever rant Chloe was going to go on.

“Um well, first off,” he gave her an overly wide, supposedly charming grin, “you can call me Nightwing.  M. Wing is my… father.”  He cringed as he the last word came out.

Bee raised an eyebrow.  “I thought your father was M. Bat.”

Nightwing puckered his lips.  “Yeah… that’s… true.”  He shuffled awkwardly.

“If you’re going to use that line, you’re supposed to say we can call you Night, which I’m not going to do, by the way,” Bee said flippantly and starting to study where her nails would be if she didn’t have gloves on.  “Otherwise it really doesn’t work.”

“Bee!” Ladybug lightly chastised.  She turned to Night… Wing… Nightwing!  She wasn’t calling him Night either.  “Sorry about her.  I’d say she’s just tired, but that would be a lie.”  She ignored Bee’s scoff and continued.  “You said ‘first’, so I assume there’s a second?” she prompted.

“Right, right,” he nodded, finally seeming to settle a bit, his face becoming a bit more determined and the ‘charming’ smile returning.  “I wanted to ask you about someone.  She gave your name as a reference and I just wanted to see if it was someone we could trust.”

Bee leaned over to Ladybug’s ear.  “Why does he keep smiling like that?” she asked in a normal volume.  She shivered dramatically.  “Creepy.”

Ladybug pursed her lips to stop the noise that wanted to escape, some kind of a combination of frustrated whimper and raucous laugh.  “Okay,” Ladybug smiled tightly, focusing entirely on Nightwing. “Who was it?”

“Yeah, a name would be useful here, Smile Boy” Bee added in.  “Or we could just give our opinion on everyone we know, along with a fashion critique.  We can start with your costume history.”

“Bee, didn’t you have something else to do?  Right now?” Ladybug’s voice was sharper than an obsidian edge.  This was her boyfriend’s… future boyfriend’s?... love interest’s?  Yes, love interest’s brother.  She did not need to piss him off while he was asking her as a ‘reliable source’ about her.

“Nope,” Bee smirked back.

Ladybug groaned and turned to Nightwing.  She nodded off to the side.  “Should we…”

Nightwing nodded and followed her over.  “Ugh, whatever.  I didn’t want to hear anyway,” Bee grumbled and walked to get coffee.

“So, the woman I’m asking about is Marinette Dupain-Cheng.  You may have come across her in Paris?” Nightwing prompted.

Ladybug nodded.  “I have yeah. She’s actually…”  She bit her lip.  She really should have planned this better.  How much should she tell him?  Clearly she wasn’t going to say it was her, but maybe she could say she was a part time hero?  Or maybe she could just say they trusted her.  The point was whether she could be trusted with their identities so maybe exposing her identity, one of them anyway, wasn’t the best idea.  Maybe just that she knew their identities and had never told anyone?  That should work, right?  She just had to…

“It’s just,” Nightwing spoke up misinterpreting her silence, “my brother has kind of fallen for her.”  He watched her face carefully when he said it to see if there was any indication of what she thought of the idea.

Ladybug’s eyes bugged out.  That was not the approach she had been expecting.  She thought he’d focus more on the identity aspect more than the personal aspect.  Not to mention ‘fallen’?  That was… they’d only just met.  She knew he liked her but fallen was pretty strong.  Did Jason really feel that way toward her or was Dick… Nightwing just exaggerating?  And she didn’t even think Jason had told him they were seeing each other, let alone how he felt about her!  She looked up and met his expectant eyes.  Oh right, he was waiting on her to respond.  But how did she respond to that?  “Oh?”  Very eloquent.  Her eloquence was clearly not improving around the bats.

His face scrunched as he studied her reaction.  It was definitely odd.  “Yeah. It’s kind of bizarre really.  Not to say anything bad about Marinette,” he rushed to assure her.  “I don’t know her well enough to judge her, obviously.  That’s why I’m here asking you about her.  But he’s really taken with her really quickly.  I’ve never seen him like this.”  He suddenly stopped and his eyes blew wide.  “Oh God!  Don’t tell her that.  Jason’ll kill me if he finds out.”

“Oh… um…” she looked away suddenly trying to hide her sudden blush and searched for a way to answer.

“Oh my god, y… Dupain-Cheng bagged another hero?” Bee exclaimed slapping Ladybug on the shoulder with her elbow and handing her one of the cups in her hands.

“Bee!” Ladybug exclaimed.  “I thought you didn’t care!  What are you doing here?”

“This is the thanks I get after bringing you tea?” she scoffed in pretend offence.

Ladybug rolled her eyes and let out a long suffering sigh.  “This is just water.”  She brought the cup to her lips.  “Not even hot water!  You brought me a cup of tepid water.”

“Oh my God, can’t you just be grateful I thought about bringing you tea?” Bee exclaimed, exasperation clear in her tone.

Ladybug gave her a deadpan expression.  “Did you though?”

“No, not really,” she shrugged.  “Let’s get back to Dupain-Cheng somehow managing to entice yet another hero though,” she continued, malicious glee sparkling in her eyes.

Ladybug’s mouth dropped in offense.  “She does not date a lot of heroes,” she rushed to assure Nightwing. “Only the one, really…”  She paused and looked at who she was talking to and her eyes widened in realization.  “… not that there’s anything wrong with dating a lot of superheroes… if that’s… um… what you want to do,” she finished weakly.

Bee snickered at the flustered cover-up.  “Yeah, she’s not like some heroes that date everyone they shake hands with.”

Nightwing gave an offended scoff.  “I have not dated that many people… or heroes.”

Bee scoffed.  “Maybe not that are officially sanctioned by the JL.”

“We didn’t say that you did,” Ladybug promised, “did we Bee?” she hissed at Bee through gritted teeth.  “And even if you had, there’s nothing wrong with that.  Right, Bee?  Because there’s nothing wrong with dating around.  Is there?”

“No,” Bee groused.  She crossed her arms over her chest and pouted for a moment before the pout became a vicious grin.  “Yeah, sure, we can stop talking about his dating history.  So, anyway, back to Dupain-Cheng…”

“Oh fu… I can’t believe I walked right into that,” Ladybug grumbled into her hands.

“It may be just the one she actually dated.  The rest just have wet dreams about her.”  She smirked at her.

“Bee!” Ladybug exclaimed her cheeks rapidly turning a dark scarlet.

“Relax, I know you and Dupain-Cheng have a… unique relationship, but that doesn’t change facts.  And pretending like she isn’t getting lusty looks from other people doesn’t change it either.”  Bee rolled her eyes and took a sip of her coffee.  The cup wasn’t nearly big enough to hide her widening smirk.  “You’re just going to have to suck it up.”

Nightwing perked up at that comment.  Well, that was an interesting tidbit.  “So you must know Marinette very well considering you know her dating history so well.”

Ladybug nodded while still glaring at Bee.  “Yes.  You could say that.  We know each other rather well.”

“Extremely well,” Bee agreed, her grin getting even sharper.  “I’ve known her since we were children but Ladybug still knows her much more intimately than I do.  Why don’t you tell him about her?”

“And I would trust her,” Ladybug continued over Bee.  “I have trusted her with a lot, both in and out of the suit.”

Bee cackled at the answer “Yeah LB do tell.  Go on about her amazing attributes.  Tell us all about her.”

“Bee,” Ladybug whined, her cheeks heating up.  Nightwing observed the interaction with a raised eyebrow.

“Come on, he’s going to think you don’t like Dupain-Cheng,” Bee teased.

“What! No!”  Ladybug straightened quickly, her eyes going wide.  “I do!  I like Dup… Marinette,” she glared quickly at Bee before she whipped back to face Nightwing with wide eyes.  “She’s great! She’s ama… She’s…” she faltered.  This was so awkward.  If she and Jason ended up getting serious, Nightwing was eventually going to know who she was and remember what she said here and if she overplayed it, he’d think she was pompous and hate her.  Then his whole family would hate her and Jason would break up with her because his family would convince him she was a terrible influence.

But! But if she wasn’t complimentary enough he’d think she didn’t like… herself and that she wasn’t trustworthy. Then he would convince Jason that it was a mistake to be with her and he’d break up with her because he’d trust his family’s word over hers and think she wasn’t a good person and deserved to be miserable.  She looked back up at Nightwing with a sigh.  “She’s a good person.  She deserves to be happy.”

Nightwing stared into her eyes for a few moments as if trying to read a part of her soul.  Finally, his eyes softened to a more sympathetic glint.  “I was worried about her knowing our identities but I’m mostly worried about him.  He’s been through a lot and he can be pretty hot and cold because of it and I just…”

Ladybug’s eyes softened too.  She looked down for a moment trying to figure out how to word her response.  “She’s… Marinette’s pretty understanding.  She’s had to deal with that before and it didn’t work then but… I don’t think that was on her…”  She pursed her lips and looked down while the memories washed over her. When she looked back up there was a bittersweet look in her eyes.  “She fights for the people she loves.  She puts effort in.  If you’re asking if I would trust her with an identity, I have before and she’s never let me down.  If you’re asking me if I would trust her with your brother’s heart, I would.  Whether it works out with him or not, she’ll still be there for him.  She’ll do everything in her power to protect it.  If you trust me, you can trust her.”

Nightwing reached out and squeezed her shoulder.  “Thank you.  This has been very helpful.  I’m sorry if I brought up any bad memories.”

Ladybug shook her head.  “No, it’s fine.  I hope I made you feel less worried about her.”

Nightwing nodded.  “You did. Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome,” Bee interjected loudly.  “Even though you didn’t ask me my opinion.”

“Sorry.  I hadn’t been given your name as a reference,” Nightwing said with only the tiniest touch of condescension.  

“I grew up with her,” Bee scoffed.  “And even though you didn’t ask, I’ll tell you my opinion anyway.”

“Bee…” Ladybug started, but her voice was tired.

“I don’t know who your brother is, but whoever he is…”  Ladybug sighed deeply and dropped her head.  “…he isn’t good enough for her.”  Ladybug’s head snapped up and her jaw dropped.

“Are you… are you admitting you like m… Marinette?”  Ladybug gaped.

“Relax, I’m not like hitting on her or anything.  I’m just...  Shut up.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away with a pout.  After a few seconds she looked back at Ladybug from the corner of her eye and rolled her eyes.  “Close your mouth, LB.  There probably aren’t flies here to fly in, but Beast Boy could always be transformed as a fly for whatever ridiculous reason and if you swallow him we can’t go on our date.”  

“You’re dating Beast Boy?  When did that happen?” Ladybug exclaimed.

Bee grabbed Ladybug’s arm and tugged her back in the direction they had been heading originally.  “I was trying to tell you before we were so rudely interrupted.”

Nightwing watched them walk away with a smile and a small wave.  That was a lot to take in, but at least now he knew she was trustworthy.

<><><><><> 

Marinette had just gotten home and immediately collapsed into her bed after an extremely long and wearing day when he heard an incessant pounding at the door that wouldn't stop.  “What the hell,” she groaned.  She pushed herself off the bed with a great deal of effort and shuffled to the front door. “Somebody better be about to die,” she grumbled to herself, “or someone’s going to be.”  She looked through the peep hole to see a frantic looking Jason. 

She whipped open the door for him.  “Jason! Are you okay?”  She reached to check him over to assure herself he was okay.

Jason stared at her for just a second.  “Dick just… He said… You slept with Ladybug!  She’s the one you dated?” he yelled.

Marinette blinked at him a few times trying to take in what he just said.  “What!?”

Continued in Truth so Cold

Tags:

@jasonette-july-event @maribatserver @ashbrea381writings

[theladyofdeath]

Tempting the Fates {Chapter 4}

Summary: It’s the final semester of Aelin Galathynius’ collegiate career and she is so beyond ready to be done. Her schedule is packed full of nursing classes and labs designed to test her knowledge and hone her skills for the real world and her “big girl” job. However, she needs one last elective to graduate, so she decides to study a subject she’s always been fascinated by: Mythology. Who would have thought that a class about gods and goddesses living complicated lives would end up complicating her own in such an unexpected way?

Word Count: 2550

Chapters will be posted every Wednesday.

Tempting the Fates Masterlist

Shelby’s Masterlist

Tara’s Masterlist

Apollo

– God of light, prophecy, inspiration, poetry, the sun, music and arts, medicine and healing

Aelin tried to convince herself that she got up and got ready two hours early for class because of her busy schedule. She kept telling herself it was for the meeting she had with her advisor, about a possible internship at the end of the semester.

She knew that both reasons, while extremely important, were full of shit. She knew she’d showered, blow dried and curled her hair for Rowan. It wasn’t that she was trying to impress him. She’d already done that and the chance she had to be with him had come and gone.

No, now it was about proving to him that even though this class may be a gen ed, she was taking it seriously.

Dropping the class had crossed her mind. She really didn’t need to take it, she could still find a different one to pick up. But she didn’t want to think about the sort of impression it would leave about her.

If there was anything to know about Aelin Galathynius, it was that she was not a quitter, nor did she run from her problems.

Or heartaches.

With one last look in the mirror, and a whistle from Lysandra, Aelin was out the door and hurrying across campus. She grabbed a coffee on the way, but avoided her usual place, knowing full well that Rowan enjoyed the same famous cafe that she did.

He wasn’t there yet when she got to the hall, but she took the same seat she had the class before.

She wondered if Rowan would be looking for her this time.

She quickly shook the thought away.

With her hot coffee on the corner of her fold up desk, she was pulling out her notebook and a pen, waiting anxiously for class to begin.

For him to walk through the door.

Apparently he liked to be right on the dot, though, because students continued to wander in, but he did not.

She was tapping her pen against her notebook, doing her best not to stare at the clock. She was just anxious for her day to start. It wasn’t that she wanted to see Rowan.

Professor Whitethorn, she amended in her head. She had to quit thinking of him as Rowan. She couldn’t think of him like that anymore, his body pressing into hers, lips on her neck, as he—

Shaking her head, Aelin sighed and suddenly realized that the rest of the class had hushed. She was so focused on reprimanding herself for her highly inappropriate thoughts that she hadn’t noticed him come through the door and begin setting up for class. When she dared to glance towards the front, she found his eyes on her. He quickly looked away, going back to his laptop and setting up the PowerPoint on screen.

Maybe he hadn’t been looking at her.

Maybe it had all been in her mind.

But she didn’t think it had been.

He had been watching her.

“Happy Thursday, class,” he began, as the title page of his presentation flashed onto the board. “Glad to see you all showed up again. Must mean my first class didn’t suck.” Quiet laughter thrummed through the room. Aelin couldn’t muster a laugh, though. “On Tuesday, we covered the basics. So, today… Sorry, we’re doing that again.”

More laughter, especially from the pretty, flirty girls up front.

Aelin couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

Which, when she settled her eyes back on Rowan, he definitely saw.

Come on, get your shit together, she chastised herself. With her back straightened, she gave him her full attention.

She took dutiful notes, but his slides didn’t hold much in the way of information. They were mostly headers, with a few bullet points. Most of the important information, information she knew would be critical for homework or exams, came straight from Rowan’s mouth.

It was clear that he loved mythology, that it wasn’t just a class his aunt had tossed his way and told him to figure it out. He was a trove of knowledge and she noticed he had a habit of going on slight tangents when he got going on a topic he was clearly interested in.

After a student asked him to clarify what he meant about Hercules not being Zeus’ only son, he ended up talking for nearly twenty minutes about what the beloved Disney movie had gotten wrong. Aelin had stopped taking notes and was watching him go on and on about how Hades, while god of the underworld, was not necessarily a villain. He just had a job to do. A job that had rules that must be followed, or the consequences could damn not only him, but others involved. His eyes found hers again and the amused smile on her face fell as she made the correlation between their own situation and the story.

They held each other’s gazes for far longer than was appropriate, and Rowan cleared his throat, going back to the PowerPoint, and the  predetermined lesson plans he’d made, which didn’t include children’s movie breakdowns.

She watched him.

She listened.

And she found it all fascinating. 

Rowan peeked at the clock after going on and on, and stilled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I guess I’ll end there. There is an assignment due by tomorrow evening. You can find and submit it online. It’s an opinion piece. I want a little insight as to why you were so interested to take this class, or what you’ve found fascinating so far.” He sat on his desk, his legs hanging over the side, his feet nearly touching the ground as he leaned back on his palms. Aelin found it charming. “You’re going to write a short essay telling me of your favorite deity. It could be one I’ve talked about so far, or one I haven’t. It’s your choice. But, tell me why they are your favorite. Give me a little depth. And, remember, this is a college course. Grammar counts.”

The clock struck nine-thirty and everyone began packing up. Aelin had been so captivated by his voice that she had to snap herself back to reality.

She quickly packed up her bag, alongside the other students around her. She noticed then how young they all were, and she was willing to bet that she may be the only senior on the roster. As she was descending the stairs, she found Rowan’s eyes on her again, but he looked away as his attention was taken, thanks to the group of girls who’d been sitting in the front row. She heard vague questions of whether they could all write about Aphrodite, since they all related to her.

The scoff Aelin thought she’d kept to herself had apparently been out loud, since not only Rowan looked at her as she passed, but so did the three girls. With his attention on her again, she decided to give him a little wave.

“See you later, Professor Whitethorn.”

If there was some extra sway to her hips, it wasn’t on purpose.

At least that’s what she told herself.

Two and a half hours later, Aelin was starving. She’d just gotten out of an extremely complicated lab and she could barely focus over the growling of her stomach. Twice, the instructor had looked over at her, half expecting to find a dog stashed under the table she was working at.

So when the class let out, she was hurrying toward the cafeteria ready to get a salad from the salad bar and a big ass slice of pizza.

It was all about balance. 

As she was waiting in line to fill her plate with salad, she heard a voice behind her.

“Are you actually getting lettuce or just filling your plate with ham, cheese, and croutons?” 

Aelin looked over her shoulder to find Chaol, her ex, suppressing a smile.

Aelin chuckled. “If it’s the same price, you may as well pile up on the good stuff.” 

Chaol gave her a small smile. “Fair enough. It’s good to see you, Aelin. You look good.”

Things hadn’t ended the best between her and Chaol, but that had been just after freshman year. At least now when they ran into one another, they could have nice little conversations like this one.

No hard feelings.

“You too,” she said, and he did. He’d been in an accident the year before. They weren’t sure he was going to walk again. In all honesty, it was just good to see him on his feet.

“How long until your class?” He asked, sliding his tray along behind hers.

She glanced down at her watch. “About forty five minutes. You?”

“This is my long break,” he sighed. “I’ve got an hour and a half, but didn’t feel like leaving campus. Want to have lunch with me?”

“Sure.” Her smile wasn’t forced, it was easy and she was glad they could even do this, when three years again, they could barely be in the same room.

“I assume you’re getting a piece of pizza after this,” Chaol said with a smirk, nodding towards her plate. “So I’ll grab us a table while you get the rest of your lunch.”

She scoffed but nodded, and went off to get a slice of pizza. When she ordered her pizza, she also got a slice of cheesecake. It was his favorite, something she hadn’t forgotten, but it didn’t hurt that she liked it, too.

Finding him in the cafeteria, she sat down at the table across from him. “How’s Yrene doing?”

He blushed, and Aelin had to admit it was adorable. After his accident, he’d fallen for his physical therapist, and she was just as smitten with him. It must have been all the one-on-one sessions, because Chaol had never been one to let someone in. Aelin had met Yrene early in her med classes, but Yrene had specialized in PT and graduated in less than three years, taking as many classes as she could manage and even studying through the summers as well.

“It’s going good,” he said, at last. “We, uh, just moved in together, actually.”

Aelin lifted a brow. “That was fast.”

Chaol shot her a look.

Aelin laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, good for you. I like Yrene. A lot. You two are good together.”

Chaol cleared his throat before taking a bite of his salad. “Thanks.” 

Aelin chuckled, taking a bite of her pizza.

Chaol blinked. “What?”

“You get so uncomfortable when it comes to feelings,” she said. “Always have.”

His eyes narrowed at her. “That’s not true.”

Aelin stopped mid-chew and raised a brow.

Even Chaol couldn’t help but chuckle at the expression. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. What about you? Seeing anyone?”

Aelin hesitated, then said, “No.”

A slow grin appeared on Chaol’s mouth. “Didn’t sound so sure about what one.”

Aelin shrugged. “Better be nice or I’m not sharing this magnificent cheesecake with you.”

Holding up his hands in placation, Chaol went back to his salad. Rowan was a dangerous topic, one she wouldn’t share with anyone but Lysandra, so she summed it up quickly. “Met someone I thought I hit it off with. Turns out we didn’t work.”

He slowly nodded. Aelin knew he’d had a couple failed relationships between her and Yrene. “I get it, I’m sorry. Still sucks.”

Shrugging again, she turned to her salad. “It happens. Not a big deal. So if you’re living with Yrene, does that mean you and Dorian broke up? Or is he playing house with you, too?”

Chaol leveled her with a look. Chaol and Dorian had been best friends long before they came to the University of Orynth. They were both from Adarlan, both trying to get away from overbearing fathers, and decided college across the country was the way to do it. They’d been roommates every year and Aelin couldn’t even imagine Chaol living with anyone except Dorian. But now he was. “He moved into an apartment with Manon this semester when I moved in with Yrene.”

Aelin blinked. “Blackbeak? He moved in with Manon Blackbeak?”

Nodding, Chaol went on. “Apparently, they’ve been dating for about a year, without anyone noticing.”

Something in the way he said it told Aelin that he had noticed, but when Dorian had his mind set on something, there was no stopping him. And apparently, he’d decided to date one of the most terrifying women on campus.

Aelin’s response was eloquent. “Wow.”

Chaol grinned. “I like it when you’re caught off guard. It’s satisfying.”

With a scoffed she nudged his leg with the toe of her sneaker. “Well, I don’t. Dorian will be getting a very angry phone call this afternoon.”

“I’ll be sure to give him a warning,” Chaol promised.

Aelin chuckled, taking the last bite of her pizza. “It’s good to see you all happy, though. Really.”

Chaol’s eyes softened. “Thanks, Aelin.”

She nodded. “Even if I am terrified that Dorian will get eaten alive.”

Chaol laughed, and she had forgotten how nice Chaol’s rare, hearty laugh was.

She meant it. She was so happy for them, both of them. It was interesting how things changed over the course of a few short years.

Their conversation continued, as did the laughs, and before she knew it, Aelin glanced down at her watch. She had less than fifteen minutes to haul ass back to the nursing building for her next class. Chaol, who had much longer to sit with nothing to do, assured her that he could handle her trash and told her to get to class. With a hug, and a promise that they’d have dinner soon, all of them, even Manon, Aelin was hurrying out of the cafeteria building.

Somehow, the entire time she’d been having lunch with Chaol, she hadn’t noticed the set of pine green eyes watching her.

Rowan’s own break had been at the same time as hers, but the gen ed building was much closer than wherever she was having to run off to, so he had longer to sit and— there was no denying it— brood. They were halfway across the room, so he couldn’t hear any of their conversation. He had no clue who the tall man was she smiled at so often, but clearly they were very familiar with each other with how easily they talked. And he made her laugh. A lot.

Rowan wasn’t sure why that was what grated on his nerves the most, but it unsettled him.

Seeing Aelin with someone else, someone clearly her own age, it all unsettled him. He didn’t like it. Almost as much as her parting words in class had.

See you later, Professor Whitethorn.

It’s like she was mocking him, yet at the same time, she clearly wasn’t. She was doing exactly as he’d asked of her, seeing him as her professor, not as her boyfriend.

No, he reprimanded himself. Not boyfriend. Hookup.

They’d had sex one time, that didn’t give either of them any claim over the other. It was a hookup and nothing more. And she was his gods-damned student.

She was off limits, in every way possible.

Yet he couldn’t figure out why seeing her with someone else, someone she should clearly be interested in instead of him, had him seeing red.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Light on the Door (ao3) (WWX in the Nie sect) - on tumblr: part 1, part 2

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“Absolutely not,” Nie Mingjue said.

“I know this has come as a surprise to you,” Jiang Fengmian said, and his voice was calm and pleasant the way it always was. Reasonable. “But you must understand that –”

Nie Mingjue held up a hand. “Perhaps I was unclear, Sect Leader Jiang,” he said. “Let me clarify: absolutely fucking not.”

Jiang Fengmian was not an easy man to anger, nor did Nie Mingjue truly want to do so: he needed as many allies in the inevitable war against the Wens as he could manage. If he was smart the way Jin Guangshan was always encouraging him to be, he would soften his words, smile, try to make things palatable – but he was not Jin Guangshan, and he had never bent on a matter of principle.

Especially not when the principle was small and young and still unsure of himself underneath his bravado, afraid of losing all that he had gained in a single moment.

“His father was my right hand,” Jiang Fengmian said, a rare frown creasing his face. “The Jiang sect would raise him as his father had intended.”

“His father is dead,” Nie Mingjue rebutted. “And before he died, he was a rogue cultivator – your Jiang sect has no claim here.”

“Legally, no,” Jiang Fengmian said. “But morally –”

“He joined my Nie sect willingly,” Nie Mingjue interrupted. His hands are clenched into fists behind his back: of course this would be the thing that Jiang Fengmian refused to bend on, it was different when it was his family that died, their legacy he wished to see fulfilled, and never mind about the murderer that still walked free and unhindered even by mere criticism. Never mind that that had been a father, too. “As is his right. If he wishes to go, I will not stop him –”

There was a moment there where Jiang Fengmian looked pleased, as if he thought Nie Mingjue was giving in.

“– but I do not understand him to want to,” he finished. “And no, before you ask, I will not let you bully him and bribe him until he does as you wish; as long as he is part of my Nie sect, he will be protected even from that.”

“Am I not even allowed to make the offer?” Jiang Fengmian asked, clear challenge in his voice. He even permitted his qi to flare up, cultivation acting to suppress those in the area – absolutely inappropriate, a tremendous breach of etiquette that could only barely be ascribed to Jiang Fengmian’s emotional state rather than a deliberate desire to intimidate.

Nie Mingjue kept his back straight despite the pressure. No one would blame him for faltering, not even his sect elders; the pressure was immense, and he was in the end only sixteen years old, his body not yet fully formed or even fully grown despite him already being taller than Jiang Fengmian –

But he had his pride. His pride, and Baxia, and the Nie sabers did not bend for anyone.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” he said, allowing his rage into his voice. “Control yourself, or you will not see him at all.”

Jiang Fengmian closed his eyes briefly, recalling his power; there was a hint of apology on his features when he opened them again – perhaps it really had been a mistake. Either way, it didn’t matter.

“Do you know what that sort of pressure can do to someone who’s not yet of age?” Nie Mingjue demanded, crossing his arms. “If Wei Ying was harmed because of you –”

“I would never hurt Wei Ying! Or any other child!”

“Perhaps,” Nie Mingjue said, omitting to mention that by some measures he already had. “Perhaps not, if he refused you; you’re not exactly demonstrating dignity in the face of being told ‘no’ right now.”

Jiang Fengmian’s eyes narrowed, but he couldn’t say anything – he had, in fact, been intolerably rude. He took a deep breath, calming himself forcefully, and then focused on Nie Mingjue.

“His father was my closest friend,” he said, and there was a touch of real pain in his voice. “His mother was very dear to me. I only wish what’s best for him. If he comes back with me, I would make him a direct disciple –”

“So will I,” Nie Mingjue said.

That got a reaction out of Jiang Fengmian beyond anger and selfishness.

“A direct disciple of your Nie clan?” he asked, clearly shocked. “But your clan – there’s only you and your brother in the main line!”

“I’m aware.”

“You don’t seriously mean that you would risk the inheritance of your sect –”

“I have already announced it to my sect,” Nie Mingjue said. “Three weeks ago. If what you want is what’s best for him…other than stories of his parents, which you could give him without taking him away, is there anything else you can find lacking and insufficient in my Nie sect?”

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Jiang Fengmian said, suddenly belatedly cautious.

“You did,” Nie Mingjue said flatly. “You persist in treating me as a child when I am a sect leader, the same as you. I have told you that the answer is no, and that the answer will remain no. You are in Qinghe, Sect Leader Jiang; if you’re going to insult me to my face, I suggest you pick better ground.”

Jiang Fengmian bit his lip and looked down. “You will not let me take him.”

“I will not,” Nie Mingjue agreed. And then, because Wei Ying really did deserve to know his parents, he added, “But I would be willing to consider something else.”

Jiang Fengmian looked up. “What do you mean?”

Nie Mingjue shrugged, having just thought of the idea himself. “You have children around his age, don’t you? Send them to the Unclean Realm for a season, and I’ll send Wei Ying and my brother to the Lotus Pier for another season in return – it’s not an uncommon arrangement to build relationships between sects.”

An extremely old-fashioned and out-of-date one – nowadays, heirs would only go for long-term visits if there was a real reason to go, like Teacher Lan’s lessons; even the Lan sect, which was close allies to the Nie, would only come to visit for a few weeks.

But it was something he could offer. Something that would make clear to Wei Ying that he wasn’t being abandoned or given away or sold; with Nie Huaisang by his side, he would always remember that he was a part of the Nie sect first and foremost, and get some good experience in the world besides.

“I would like that,” Jiang Fengmian said slowly. “Yes – I would like that a great deal.”

“We’ll work out the details, then,” Nie Mingjue said. The sooner this meeting was over, the better; he wanted to go scream and hit something. “Is there anything else?”

“One more thing.”

Scream. And hit things. Many, many things.

“Yes?”

“You call him Wei Ying,” Jiang Fengmian said. “Have you thought of a courtesy name for him yet?”

He had offered the man an inch and he was trying to take a mile, but Nie Mingjue could see the desperate hope on his face, the need for him to leave some mark of the Jiang sect on Wei Ying – to honor his parents’ legacy or to make up for having failed them, it didn’t matter which.

Perhaps this would convince the man to finally drop the issue for good.

“I would be willing to listen to any suggestions you might have,” Nie Mingjue finally allowed, still hedging in case it was something really inappropriate. “What did you have in mind?”

-

“Wei Wuxian has a good ring to it,” Nie Huaisang said thoughtfully once the horrible meeting was finally over and they could creep out of their hiding spot to stretch their legs. It was getting a bit cramped in there. “And I suppose it really was the very least da-ge could do, after having all but told him off to his face – especially since the Jiang clan really is quite powerful. I’m really very proud of da-ge for managing to keep his temper as well as he did; we should do something nice for him in return. Don’t you think?”

He paused for a moment.

When he didn’t receive a response, he frowned. “Wei Ying?”

“Is that what a direct disciple means?” Wei Ying said, staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

“What?”

“A direct disciple,” Wei Ying repeated. His face was frozen stiff, maybe from shock or something. “You said it meant I’d be a member of the family.”

“That is what it means.”

“Yes, but you didn’t – you never said – being a direct disciple puts me in line to inherit the Nie sect?”

“Well, yes,” Nie Huaisang said, scratching the back of his head a little. He had no idea why Wei Ying was behaving so strangely. “I mean, the Nie clan runs the Nie sect, and we’re the Nie clan, so joining the Nie clan obviously means – ”

“There’s nothing obvious about it!” Wei Ying exclaimed. “You have cousins! Cousins and aunts and uncles and – there’s so many of them I can barely even keep count –”

“Branch families after many, many years,” Nie Huaisang said with a shrug. “But Qinghe Nie doesn’t make everyone with a drop of blood in them a direct disciple; you have to be part of the main family for that.”

“But…!”

“But what?”

“It’s your sect,” Wei Ying said. “My surname isn’t even Nie!”

“Well, first off, stop assuming you’re going to inherit the sect because that requires both my brother and I to be dead,” Nie Huaisang said. “Which we have no current plans to be. Secondly, if you did end up as the only direct disciple left, you’d be required to marry in with one of the cousins and have Nie babies before you were allowed to actually be sect leader. So for the sake of your future marriage, you have to keep us alive –”

Wei Ying grabbed him into a hug.

“Thank you,” he said, and Nie Huaisang very nobly decided not to complain about how his tears and snot were getting his very nice robes all wet. “I don’t know why you want me, but you do, and – thank you.”

“Of course we want you, you’re great,” Nie Huaisang said, delicately patting Wei Ying on the back. “Look at you, not just one sect wanting you, there are two fighting over you; how many people can say that…?”

“He wants my parents, not me,” Wei Ying said. “If I went there, he’d love me for them, and if I didn’t have anyone else, that’d be good enough – but da-ge picked me for no reason at all, and you grabbed onto me just because –”

“I mean, I did have some ulterior motives, I do so much less saber training now that you’re here –”

“Just accept the compliment.”

Nie Huaisang grinned. “Okay, fine. Besides, you can finally stop saying you need to pay me back now!”

Wei Ying pulled back and wiped his eyes. “How’s that?”

“Didn’t you hear da-ge? You’ve just gotten me a free vacation to Yunmeng for a whole season! It’s going to be great!”

“I hope so,” Wei Ying said. “We’ll be spending a lot of time with the Jiang sect heirs…I hope they’re as nice as Lan Zhan.”

Nie Huaisang patted him on the shoulder. “Just accept it now, Wei Ying. No one’s ever going to be as perfect as Lan Zhan in your eyes.”

“Shut up. Do you know anything about them?”

“The Jiang sect heirs? There’s a girl and a boy, that’s all I know. They’re too young to be the subjects of gossip, though, so I can’t tell you anything about their likes and dislikes.”

“That’s fine,” Wei Ying said. “I guess we’ll find out when we see them.”

-

“Your dog is wonderful,” Jiang Cheng said.

“Thanks,” Wei Ying said, beaming. He liked the other boy already. “Yours are pretty great, too!”

“They are, aren’t they?” Jiang Cheng said, face lighting up. “This one’s Jasmine, and this one’s Princess, and the last one’s Lovely!”

“Mine’s Xiao Bai! And he’s big enough to be three dogs all together!”

“No kidding! I’ve never seen a dog that big! Why’s he that big?”

“Dunno. Da-ge says he’s a sheepdog from the mountain, and they get really big there.”

“Do they have to fight bears or something? I bet he could fight a bear.”

“Well, maybe if he had to,” Wei Ying said. “Unfortunately, I kind of raised him into a glutton, so now all he wants to do is lie around and eat meat –”

Xiao Bai barked.

“...and he knows the word for ‘meat’.”

“He’s so smart,” Jiang Cheng said, reaching out to rub Xiao Bai behind the ears. “Such a good boy –”

“Please tell me you like something other than dogs,” Nie Huaisang said to Jiang Yanli, who hid a giggle behind her sleeves. “Please. I can already foresee the rest of the season going like this.”

“Well, dogs are very distracting creatures,” she said, her eyes curving into crescents. “They’re warm and furry and all that. But I’d be happy to talk about something else with you…do you like painting?”

“Very much,” Nie Huaisang said, interest piqued at once. “Do you paint?”

“I’m average,” she said with a small shrug. “But I enjoy it. You’re welcome to join me, if you like – I don’t think A-Cheng and Wei Wuxian are going to stop anytime soon.”

“A-Ying can do it for hours all on his own,” Nie Huaisang said mournfully. “He used to be afraid of dogs, you know? I almost miss those days…can we really go paint?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t know. We were sent here to learn, weren’t we? I thought it’d be lessons all the time. ‘Go to the training field!’, that sort of thing.”

Jiang Yanli smiled and visibly resisted the urge to pat his head. “Some lessons are taught outside of the training field. Do you know the motto of Yunmeng Jiang?”

“Uh,” Nie Huaisang said. Memorization had never been a strong point. “I mean…”

“It’s ‘attempt the impossible’,” Jiang Yanli told him. “To live bravely, without restraints on your heart.”

“So,” Nie Huaisang said, trying to parse it, “you get to do whatever you want?”

“Not quite,” she laughed. “But we get more freedom to govern ourselves than most, yes. I don’t train too much – I don’t have much talent, you see.”

“Neither do I!” Nie Huaisang exclaimed, beaming. “But da-ge’s always pushing me to do better, work harder, try more…”

He trailed off when he saw the wistful, almost envious expression on Jiang Yanli’s face.

“…don’t you like not being forced to cultivate?” he asked, a little hesitant.

“Your brother loves you very much,” Jiang Yanli said. “He only wants what’s best for you. He pushes you because he thinks you can do it.”

Nobody pushed her because nobody believed in her, she meant, and even Nie Huaisang – a devoted good-for-nothing – felt awkward about it.

She didn’t even have a sword.

“Well, don’t worry,” he said, clumsily trying to offer some comfort. “You’re coming to Qinghe next season, aren’t you? You’ll get more than your fill of people pushing you to do things there!”

“I’m sure,” Jiang Yanli said, not sounding as if she believed him at all. “But for the moment – do you want to go paint? And perhaps later we can convince A-Cheng and Wei Wuxian to go shoot kites while we pick lotus seeds.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Nie Huaisang said. “And maybe we can go to the market and see if they have any fans? I have a collection, you know.”

“Well,” Jiang Yanli said, smiling again. “If you have a collection, then of course…”

-

“I’m not sure I’m entirely suited for this, Sect Leader Nie,” Jiang Yanli said, breathing hard.

“I don’t see why not,” Nie Mingjue said, putting Baxia up on his shoulder. “Take a walk around the yard so you don’t get cramped while your heart-rate comes down, then we can start again.”

“Sect Leader Nie, with all due respect, I wasn’t really intending on picking up something new – much less saber, which isn’t even practiced in the Jiang sect.”

“Well, you have to train in something, you didn’t bring your sword, and all we’ve got are sabers,” he pointed out with a shrug. “What else were you planning on doing while you were here?”

Jiang Yanli smiled a little. “Feminine activities?”

Nie Mingjue let his eyes drift over to the nearby field where three of his aunts were pulverizing a training model that looked almost startlingly similar to one of his uncles.

Jiang Yanli coughed as if she could hide the laugh. “I admit I was more in mind of – cooking. Or sewing, or painting…”

“You can do that in your free time,” Nie Mingjue said briskly. “Nie Huaisang sang your praises in every one of his letters; the least I can do to repay you is making sure you get the full benefit of your time here. Consider it a gift.”

Jiang Yanli did not seem especially pleased by the gift. Her face did exactly the same sort of ‘thanks I hate it’ twist as Nie Huaisang’s.

He wondered idly what excuse she was going to try next. She might not realize it yet, but she wasn’t going to have any more luck than Nie Huaisang had ever had.

“Sect Leader Nie…don’t you think I’m too old for this?”

He stared at her. “You’re joking.”

“Most sword cultivators start in their childhood –”

“You’re fourteen.”

“It’s more difficult to pick things up once you get above ten,” she said with a shrug. “There’s nothing to do about it –”

“Pick a skill you’re good at,” he said. “Any skill, and teach it to me.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“You’re not that much younger than me, and I can still pick up new things,” Nie Mingjue said. “You teach me a skill, and I’ll teach you one, and that way we’ll be fair – and if I really can’t pick up yours and you really can’t pick up mine, then, and only then, will I admit that you have a point about our ages.”

Jiang Yanli still seemed uncertain, although she also looked somewhat intrigued. “Sect Leader Nie…what’s the point?”

“What’s the point of what? Of cultivating? You’re a cultivator, aren’t you? Isn’t that point enough?”

“I’m not going to ever be an outstanding cultivator,” she pointed out. “I’m going to be someone’s wife, someone’s mother –”

“We’re literally cultivating against the heavens,” Nie Mingjue interrupted her. “Aren’t you Jiang sect people supposed to attempt the impossible? You can be someone else’s and still be yourself.”

He’d never been very good with words, retreating when possible into silence, but something about what he’d said left a mark.

“Very well,” Jiang Yanli said, and raised the practice saber she’d already adorned with a pink bow – a clear sign that her subconscious had committed to it, even if her mind hadn’t yet caught up. “I’ll take you up on that bet, Sect Leader Nie. Saber, and then you can join me in the kitchen to cook.”

Cooking? Cooking was fine, he could do cooking –

“And we’re not making barbeque.”

…maybe he couldn’t do cooking.

Whatever. That was a problem for later. Nie Mingjue lifted his saber and bared his teeth at her in a grin. “This time,” he said. “Make an effort, will you? I’d like to break a sweat sometime today.”

Her eyes flashed, and she attacked.

-

“You two are going to get along and that’s final,” Wei Wuxian announced, hands on his hips. “Now I’m going to get us some snacks and while I’m going you guys are going to get over yourselves, you hear me?”

He made a show of storming out the door, but the second he was outside he waved his hand furiously to send a passing servant to get the snacks and crept back to listen.

Neither Jiang Cheng nor Lan Zhan was his shidi – that was Nie Huaisang – and of course no one could match his da-ge, but he loved them both very much, so they had to get over this inexplicable rivalry they had.

They had to!

“…very special,” Lan Zhan was saying.

“I know,” Jiang Cheng said. He sounded unusually serious – unlike Lan Zhan, who was always serious (except when he was being teased, in which case he was delightfully flustered). “He’s just – I don’t know. It’s hard to share, you know?”

“En.”

“It’s…let me tell you about my sister.”

Wait, why were they talking about Jiang Yanli? She was great, but not relevant to the issues here.

“When she first came to Qinghe, she got into a bet with Sect Leader Nie over…I don’t even know what. She practiced the saber a lot.  And then she took one of the sabers home, and she kept practicing with it – my parents were pretty confused, but they mostly let her do what she likes, and Mother was pleased that she’d at least started cultivating something even if it was the wrong thing – and…she’s happier now. Like a candle lit for the first time.”

“…I understand,” Lan Zhan said, which, good for him because Wei Wuxian was totally confused. “It was the same for me. The first ray of sunlight in the morning.”

“Yes! Exactly like that.”

They were quiet for a few moments.

“I suppose,” Jiang Cheng finally said, sounding rather begrudging about it, “that sunlight is meant to be shared.”

“En,” Lan Zhan said. “We are all equal under the sun.”

“I could manage equal,” Jiang Cheng said. “As long as we’re the same, yeah? Best friends.”

There was a brief pause, and then – “Best friends,” Lan Zhan echoed. “Agreed.”

Wei Wuxian couldn’t help himself: he burst in through the doors at once. “You can’t be each other’s best friends!” he exclaimed. “You’re my best friends!”

They both looked at him, eerily identical long-suffering expressions on their faces, and then they looked at each other, and then for some reason they both nodded to each other like they were sealing some sort of pact.

“Okay, it’s all decided,” Jiang Cheng said. “We’re all best friends from now on.”

“All of us?” Wei Wuxian said hopefully. “Both of you?”

They nodded.

“And Nie Huaisang, of course,” Wei Wuxian said. “We can’t leave him out! He’s my shidi!”

“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Lan Zhan assured him.

“Yeah,” Jiang Cheng said. “I guess second place to the Nies isn’t bad, if it’s shared.”

“Xiao Bai,” Lan Zhan said.

“…third?”

“Suibian.”

“Fourth.”

Lan Zhan nodded.

“What are you two even talking about?” Wei Wuxian complained, but not really – he was too happy. He threw himself in between the two of them, wrapping an arm around each one. “I leave you alone for less time than it takes to make a cup of tea and suddenly you’ve got some sort of secret code…”

“Don’t worry, you idiot,” Jiang Cheng said, rolling his eyes. “We still like you the best.”

[geniedocroe]

Hey I don't know if you're taking requests at the moment but is there any way I'd be able to get anything that's Tipper x Reader for the BOB fandom? Maybe the nurse that helps put him back together after the incident in Carentan?

LIGHTNING BUGS

the dialogue here seems kind of awkward. thank u for the request 💞

fluff?? angst??

war is hell. there is no way around it. it didn’t matter where you served, what country you were from, or how long you had been fighting. everybody suffered. children or the elderly, grocers or bankers, soldiers or nurses. warfare could take the biggest and best part of someone and make it seem like it was nothing.

it was easy to feel like nothing in the midst of such a great big war. the trust is, everyone was important. everyone did something. no one was left untouched by the war. especially the people fighting on the front lines.

it wasn’t put on display to the public, but the nurses in the european theater were far from little. they worked tirelessly to save the soldiers that gave their lives fighting the real battle. losing a soldier, was difficult. it could hit you like a bus. saving a soldier, was absolutely life changing.

you were one of the best nurses in your regiment. you were as tough as nails. there wasn’t anything that could knock you off your feet. yes, the job was extremely harrowing, yet somehow you got it done. it was rewarding to know another soldier was going home to their family. you had seen some brutal things. things you’d never be able to unsee. nonetheless, you were saving lives. it had to all be worth it, or you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself.

“nurse y/l/n! big hit!” a medic in easy company yelled to you, guiding in a man that was being supported by another soldier. he was in terrible condition. “missing an eye, clear damage to his face and both his legs! maybe severe damage to his spine as well.”

you handed the gauze in your hand to another nurse as you gestured to the cut on the other soldier you were tending to. you had crossed the room in seconds, eyes wide. this man was covered in blood and you weren’t exactly sure if he would make it or not. that was the toughest part of the job, being unsure.

“set him here please!” you ordered, helping lift him onto a spare table. “what’s his name, doc?”

“tipper. edward tipper.”

“got it. thank you, eugene.”

the medic gave a quick nod. he looked back at the soldier with worry written all over his face. these men had trained together. they had known one another for years. it was especially difficult for the medics when they had been with the company since day one. how horrible it must’ve been to have your hand inside a friends chest just for them to pass on in the end.

the other soldier that helped guide in your newest patient, placed a hand on doc roe’s shoulder. they shared a sad look for a moment before exiting the bombed out building the nurses had made into their station. the two men left reluctantly. most soldiers did anything they could to stay with their potentially dying comrades. however, this was war and it is hell.

“hey edward, i’m gonna fix you right on up.” you said softly to the man in front of you. he gave out a feeble whimper at your words as you got to work.

this soldier didn’t put up much a fight with you. most of them did. they wanted to get back out there and return to their company as soon as possible. some just wanted to go home. you knew this man was in too much pain to even move. you weren’t even sure if he could even see you.

“edward,” you stated, feeling a leap in your chest as his head turned slightly to try and look at you. “do you mind if i tell you a story?”

he nodded hesitantly. the soldiers would always listen when you began to talk. some didn’t have a choice. this soldier must’ve realized he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. all that was left, was to listen.

you begun your story. you’d recount the story of how you had come to join the airborne. why you had volunteered as a nurse. they seemed to always get a kick out of the mention of your stubbornness and the joking manner of your parents that would support you forever. towards the end of your story, you could feel the melancholy drifting into the room and leering over your shoulders so you’d begin another story.

“when i was much smaller without any care in the world, my father would take my older sister and i up to the meadows on our property. we’d run around for hours while my dad got to work building us a tree house. sooner or later, he’d finish that tree house. we absolutely loved it there. my sister and i would sneak out of our rooms late at night and go up there to catch lightning bugs. we weren’t so great at it. our parents would come up ten minutes after us to scold us a bit before climbing up to the tree house and watching the two of us.” you sighed as you paused. “sometimes i wish i were back there. when it’s as dark as can be here and the only sound is artillery, i’d like to think i could hear the crickets and see the little lightning bugs again. you know, one day i’d like to own all that property, tree house included. maybe i’ll have my own kids catching lightning bugs when they should be sleeping. as long as i’m not here anymore, then i think it’ll all be just fine.”

edward tipper seemed too focused on your story to grimace at you stitching up his wounds. maybe he was praying too hard in his own mind to think of how much pain he was in. he was too badly wounded for you to be able to help him in full. you did what you could, but you knew you weren’t much help to him.

“looks like you’ve got a one way ticket home, my friend.”

he looked to you, staring for quite a bit as he tried to recollect his thoughts. “thank you.”

“thank you for your service, edward.”

“i hope you get home to catch some fireflies soon.”

“i hope so too.”

[zaelous]

The noble and most ancient House of Black was both a family and a cult. A cult is a social group that is defined by its unusual religious, spiritual, or philosophical beliefs, or by its common interest in a particular personality, object, or goal. In the case of House of Black, this philosophy and its subsequent goals were a form of magical eugenics focused on the supremacy of so-called “pure blood.” Establishing these basic principles is important at the outset in order to demonstrate how these beliefs and the House of Black’s implementation of them are what make them not just a family of extreme beliefs but a cult whose practices affected Bellatrix’s sense of identity, self esteem, and motivations, effectively forming her personhood. 

I. PRINCIPLES BY DEFINITION

Eugenics is a set of beliefs and practices that aim to improve the genetic quality of a human population, historically by excluding people and groups judged to be inferior or promoting those judged to be superior. Positive eugenics is aimed at encouraging reproduction among the genetically advantaged; for example, the reproduction of the intelligent, the healthy, and the successful. Negative eugenics aims to eliminate, through sterilization or segregation, those deemed physically, mentally, or morally undesirable. 

Pure-blood supremacists believe that only pure-bloods were real witches and wizards, and were often inclined to consider themselves as the elite of the Magical world; a place in which they believed that Muggle-borns did not belong. More militant subscribers of this philosophy even consider themselves to be akin to royalty. Elitist pure-bloods even believed that it was a sign of weak magic to enjoy non-magical company. Those who are pure-blooded but do not ascribe to supremacist ideologies are considered to be blood traitors and are shunned. 

Shunning can be broken down into behaviours and practices that seek to accomplish either or both of two primary goals:

To modify the behaviour of a member. This approach seeks to influence, encourage, or coerce normative behaviours from members, and may seek to dissuade, provide disincentives for, or to compel avoidance of certain behaviours. Shunning may include disassociating from a member by other members of the community who are in good standing. It may include more antagonistic psychological behaviours. This approach may be seen as either corrective or punitive (or both) by the group membership or leadership, and may also be intended as a deterrent.

To remove or limit the influence of a member (or former member) over other members in a community. This approach may seek to isolate, to discredit, or otherwise dis-empower such a member, often in the context of actions or positions advocated by that member. For groups with defined membership criteria, especially based on key behaviours or ideological precepts, this approach may be seen as limiting damage to the community or its leadership. 

Concerted efforts at influence and control lie at the core of cultic groups, programs, and relationships. Many members, former members, and supporters of cults are not fully aware of the extent to which members may be manipulated, exploited, or even abused. While there is really no standardized diagnostic tool with which one can definitively say whether an organization qualifies as a cult, some social-structural, social-psychological, and interpersonal behavioral patterns can help to assess a particular group or relationship, in this instance the House of Black.

 II. PATTERNS OF CONTROL & DIVISION

 The group displays an excessively zealous and unquestioning commitment to its leader, and (whether he is alive or dead) regards his belief system, ideology, and practices as the Truth, as law. This is a trait more difficult to illustrate than others, since there is no one individual leader of House Black; however, it is the root of the House Black philosophy that their ideologies and beliefs are passed down generationally, presumably from medieval times (given their family tapestry). We do see a lengthy history of the family’s current patriarch (whoever it is at any given time) enforcing these ideologies on other family members by excommunicating anyone whom they deem to have fallen out of line with the House of Black doctrine. The fact that excommunication from the family is even a thing that exists and that it furthermore is seen as the ultimate form of punishment emphasizes two things:

Questioning, doubt, and dissent are discouraged or even punished. There is no room in the House of Black to politely disagree or hold any sort of discourse on ideals. Even at the tender young age of sixteen, Sirius was summarily blasted off of the family tapestry and considered a traitor by the Black family for expressing his malcontent and running away to the Potters, a blood traitor family. Any member of House Black is obliged to conform to their ideologies or be expelled, which is seen as the worst possible outcome. 

The most loyal members (the “true believers”) feel there can be no life outside the context of the group. They believe there is no other way to be, and often fear reprisals to themselves or others if they leave—or even consider leaving—the group. In a normative, healthy family situation, being formally dismissed from the group usually only occurs under dire circumstances and often even then doesn’t fully occur at all. The implementation of characters such as Sirius and Andromeda prove early on that the family’s dogmatic beliefs are non-negotiable and that deviation has consequences. 

The leadership induces feelings of shame and/or guilt in order to influence and control members. Often this is done through peer pressure and subtle forms of persuasion. This might be considered to be a more headcanon-y than explanatory point, given I don’t readily have any examples of shame or guilt being utilized directly, but given that these other points exist and are true within the narrative, it would be impossible for those things to have occurred without the use of shame and guilt to manipulate family members, even in occasions when it isn’t intended to deliberately. The peer pressure aspect of control is an especially pointed aspect of the situation, given that they are a family, having one’s entire family ascribe to certain beliefs and practices makes it a given. 

The leadership dictates, sometimes in great detail, how members should think, act, and feel (e.g., members must get permission to date, change jobs, or marry—or leaders prescribe what to wear, where to live, whether to have children, how to discipline children, and so forth). This is a point easily illustrated by again referring to the tapestry blasting incident(s), as it was up to the Black patriarch what should be done about betrayals, and he even further punished those who continued to support Sirius in violation of his ruling. However, it’s also common for House Black to arrange marriages between family members to those families whose ideologies align with their own, and if a suitable match cannot be found, to keep the blood pure by arranging marriages within the family itself. These marital practices tie in with other notable behaviors (elitism, polarization, isolation), but most importantly, they illustrate an aspect of positive eugenics, which is the practice of selective breeding. 

III. GENDER ROLES

The whole point of this excessively lengthy essay is to explain how and why selective breeding is canon and thereby explain my headcanons for Bellatrix’s relationship to her beliefs and her gender and why the two are inherently linked. The entire concept of supremacy and eugenics relies on the continuation of the genetic precepts that the supremacists view to be superior-- that is, there is an inherent obligation within these beliefs to carry on the pureblooded genes and to provide the future generation of supremacists. The brunt of this endeavor obviously falls upon women, as they bear children, but given the patrilineal and patriarchal nature of the family structure (and that of English culture in the 1950s), the implication is that rather than wanting women who can bear these children, the desire is for male heirs to carry on the family name and the family bloodline, which is their most sacred duty. 

Having been born a woman in the House of Black was to have been born with a form of original sin in that Bellatrix had already failed to be a male heir. Her only recompense for this initial transgression is to go on to provide male heirs, especially given that her mother died trying (and failing) to do so. While there is very little personal information available about Cygnus Black, we do know that his wife provided him with three daughters rather than a son, and died giving birth to Narcissa and left him to raise these daughters alone. Without a doubt, Cygnus would have viewed his failure to provide a male heir as a shortcoming, and given that his wife was dead, there was no way for him to vent his resentment on her. This is where we cross over into headcanon territory because I can’t prove anything about who Cygnus Black was as a person from the original text; however, it stands to reason giving the existing evidence and narrative structure (and how his daughters each turned out) that he was not a well man and that subsequently Bellatrix’s childhood was not a healthy or happy one as a result of that. 

As the oldest child, Bella had little in the way of protection from her father’s dictatorship, although she did her best to shield her sisters from it once she had sisters. She always took the brunt of her father’s expectations, and his wrath should those expectations fail to be met. This is why, of all the Black sisters, Bellatrix held her supremacist values and mission the closest to her heart, and why I believe she and Narcissa held such a close relationship despite the onset of Bellatrix’s very obvious descent into madness. I also believe this is the key difference between Bellatrix and Sirius: although they both came from House Black, they grew up to be polar opposites. I think it was Rowling’s intention here to illustrate that no matter where you come from, you choose your own beliefs and destiny and you can choose to be good rather than evil or some shit, but I don’t think it’s necessarily as clear as simply choosing a different set of beliefs. I think that Sirius and Bellatrix were raised in very different conditions that instilled the same beliefs differently, and therefore had a different effect. Then one might point out Andromeda, but there’s a difference there, too-- not only did she have Bella to provide a barrier between her and their father that Bellatrix did not have, but she also experienced love outside of the family, which is a whole other set of variables I won’t begin to get into. Suffice to say that falling in love is an external catalyst which can’t be accounted for, and it certainly didn’t happen to Bellatrix. 

As an adult, Bellatrix would have had a clear duty to take a pureblooded husband and provide him with male heirs. I do have a whole headcanon (which frankly deserves its own post but I digress) that she was first engaged to her Hogwarts sweetheart, but that he died early in the first war before they could be married, and as a result, her father arranged her marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange instead. This was not just to fulfill the whole get-married-have-babies mandate, but also because Bellatrix went mad with grief after her fiancé's death, and it’s really her first tangible, visible detachment from emotional stability. Her father’s solution to simply replace her fiancé might have been fine, had the couple not experienced infertility issues and been unable to produce children. 

Infertility is not so surprising when one takes into account the rampant inbreeding in both the Black and the Lestrange families. Generations of intermarriage in the name of blood purity is guaranteed to give a myriad of health issues, certainly not all of which might be cured through magical means. However, an inability to fulfill her duties as they relate to Bellatrix’s personhood would be, to her, an absolute and unmitigated failure on her part. Fertility issues are already an enormous strain without the added pressures of a bloodline to preserve, but especially given that Andromeda essentially defected from the cause, the responsibility lies solely with Bellatrix and Narcissa, and as the older daughter, the responsibility is once again heavily on Bella. Her inability to conceive disallows her from adhering to her most sacred principles, which Bellatrix views as a failure on her part and results in a definitive rift in her self esteem and identity that she could not repair. She is desperate to be good and pure by the standards in which she was raised, and to fulfill what she views as her destiny, but she is unable to, and this destroys her. 

IV. SYNTHESIS & RELEVANCE

Having been raised into these conditions, Bellatrix was conditioned into holding House Black and its doctrine at the forefront of her being. Because she held these beliefs so firmly and from such a young age, being a pure blooded witch is a part of Bellatrix’s identity and her self esteem. This is why any affront to these beliefs upsets her so much; it is a personal betrayal not just of these ideals but also of her wholly as a person. What made her turn on family members who had been burned off of the Black family tapestry was how personally she took their choice to leave. It was a personal betrayal, it was a publicly humiliating snub by someone who ought to have been on her side. Who did she have to rely on but family? The word family carries with it an expectation that they would die for the name Black and subsequently anyone who bore that name. Betraying the family was the same as a personal betrayal to Bellatrix, and was essentially spitting on everything Bella believed to be the most sacred and important obligations they held. 

These circumstances create the perfect candidate for an offshoot of the pureblood supremacy cult, the Death Eaters. In the context of the House of Black, Lord Voldemort would have been the obvious escalation and clear apotheosis of pureblood supremacist ideals. Since Bellatrix had already been raised in an environment where the ends justifies the means and violence was an acceptable and omnipresent tool (she had ancestors who literally tried to make muggle hunting a legal sport so it’s not a stretch to think that House Black implemented casual violence elsewhere), she was an ideal fit for an extension of that ideology that placed more emphasis on negative eugenics and moving into the extermination of those deemed unworthy of their society. 

V. AZKABAN

Following the conclusion of the First Wizarding War in 1981, Bellatrix was incarcerated at Azkaban at the age of 30, when she still had time to conceive a child. Her fanatical religious devotion for her cause convinced her that she would not be in prison for very long, but as she passed the decade mark, it would have been very clear to Bellatrix that if she were having fertility issues in her twenties, having aged past forty would make it very nearly impossible to get pregnant once the dark lord finally came to rescue them. Perhaps her belief in his infinite power led her to believe that Voldemort could magically fix whatever was the impediment to conception, or perhaps, having long given up on conceiving a child, Bellatrix viewed this failure as a reason to prove herself, a reason that she had to be the most dedicated, the most accomplished of his followers-- because she had failed in all other aspects and this was all she felt she had left to contribute to the pureblooded cause. 

Either way, her spent youth would have clearly marked her failure in what she viewed as perhaps the most important endeavor in life, and one might suggest that her regression to a child-like state of mind following her traumatic incarceration in Azkaban could be an unconscious response to her desire to return to her youth in order to fulfill this expectation of her; or a desire to return to a time when she was not a failure but instead could still be of value to the ideologies in which she was raised and through which she viewed her purpose in life. 

One could also surmise that Bellatrix’s recklessness in battle and her willingness (and possibly eagerness) to die for the cause of her pureblooded messiah might be due to this failure and the hope that at least if she died before the onset of menopause, it could be said that she was murdered before she could fulfill her duty, rather than being accused of having failed at it altogether. It’s also worth mentioning that her father had died while she was in Azkaban, and with his death, she lost any opportunity to finally earn his love and approval. 

[arandompostarchive]

Inure - Ch. 3

SAVED WORK

Summary: To some, The Specter is a serial killer. To some, a hero. But to everyone, you were entirely a mystery. You had no history, just a list of victims a mile long. No matter how many people searched your name, they could find anything. If only they had the spelling right. Now, you’ve come across some unfortunate information that drives you out of your usual shadows and into the path of the Avengers. Including two of the more reclusive members of the team. And it’s hard to pick only one of them.

***

You had finally showed up on the doorstep of a long awaited target. You had gotten the tip from a morally questionable FBI agent who really needed a break. Apparently, this target had been leading quite the operation.

Managing drug rings, human trafficking, and murder. Not to mention the amount of people she had killed on her own. Even that sounded like your usual case. A major criminal who you got to take out. Just your average job. Until you looked into her a bit more.

She didn’t just murder. She tortured. All of her victims had gone through days of torture, maybe even weeks. Apparently, even forensics investigators weren’t sure exactly how long these people had to suffer. It made you sick.

“Violet.” You said, rounding the corner. Unlike most of your targets, she had an office of her own. You had caught her at work late, one of the last people there. You didn’t mind people being in the building. There wouldn’t be any gunshots to hear. Maybe a scream or two.

“Yes? Can I help you?” You walked into the room. It was neatly decorated. The token and artifacts around the room were no doubt extremely expensive and probably stolen. Her accent stood out. It was heavy, though her words were still clear. She was certainly European, though you couldn’t remember what country and couldn’t place it from sound alone. “I have things to do so if you wouldn’t mind hurrying?” You walked a bit quicker, trying to avoid her yelling. You didn’t want her making that much noise just yet, it might attract unwanted attention.

You stepped into her office, walking toward her desk. The room smelled like lavender, a candle or two rested on side tables around the room. The smell was heavy, almost nauseating.

“What sort of outfit is that supposed to be? Are you one dressing up?” She gestured to your suit. It was less fancy than most suits you’d seen. Black with a few red accents. It made it easier to blend in and the hood and mask over your mouth helped keep your identity secret. There was a small filter on the side of the mask though, to help you breathe and disguise your voice when you spoke. Not that anyone would recognise you. In fact, you didn’t care much about people knowing your name, but if your face was plastered everywhere you’d never be able to be in public again.

“That’s not important. What is important is you, Ms. Wagner.” You said, your eyes focused on her. Your eyes were clear under the hood as you looked up at her. You were calm. You’d done jobs like this a million times, she wasn’t special. Though, you always appreciated time to exercise your powers. They were destructive and dangerous, so you only used them on the worst of the worst. Those people got locked up in a prison or mental institution, but as long as you were alive, they couldn’t be helped.

“What the hell do you want? Say it quick then get out.” She was short tempered, that was for sure.

“Alright then. You used to work for Hydra, then you got too much for them to handle. You torture and kill, you did this in your old home too. And now, you’ve moved countries to start all over. Not to mention the drug rings you’re tied to,” You said, your voice calm and steady. That was always the most terrifying part for them. You were so collected, sure of yourself. You knew they weren’t going anywhere. And the second they heard your mellow voice, they knew it too.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?! Accusing me of things like that.” She remarked, standing from the large leather chair she sat on. She was clearly nervous though, the slight shake in her voice gave it away. “Get the hell out. Now.” She pointed toward the door. You didn’t move. “I said now. Can’t you hear, bitch?” She said, this time crossing her arms. “I’ll call security.” She said. It wasn’t an empty threat, you could tell, but you weren’t worried.

They wouldn’t get here in time anyway.

You focused on her. Her mind. What she was thinking, what she felt, anything about her. Then you heard it.

“Who does she think she is? March in here like she owns the place. Pathetic.”

Her thoughts. You focused harder. This time on her fears. Everything she regretted, everything she hated, things she was scared of. You found every last one of the monsters in her closet. And then you made them real.

She looked left and right, probably hallucinating something awful. You could never completely see what you created, unless it was an illusion, but you could usually guess what was happening based on what they said.

“Mother?” She asked. She was only staring at a wall, a painting of flowers hung on it along with other paintings she had collected. The look on her face was horrified. You wondered what the story was there.

It was an ability you’d had since you were young, though it was much weaker before you ‘died’. Now, it was one of your most useful skills.

“Stop! Dear god, stop, please. Fuck. Please!” She said. There were tears forming in her eyes already and her voice was cracking. She looked up at you. “You! What did you do to me? What the hell did you do?!” She continued yelling at you but eventually her words became jumbled, the occasional scream cutting in. She’d glance from side to side occasionally before squeezing her eyes shut and looking down. They always acted like that. Strong, determined to stop you, then reduced to nothing but mumbling husks.

You focused on yourself now, this time disguising yourself with an illusion. Another woman walked into the office. Her skirt was short, though professional and you could see a red collared sweater tied around her hips. You’d left the door half open, her screams could be heard down the hallway, so it wasn’t a huge surprise to see someone else come in.

“Miss Wagner?” The woman said. She looked like a college intern, twenty years old at maximum. “Oh my god.” She walked toward the desk until she spotted the broken woman. Violet’s artificial tan didn’t help how pale her face had become. Her legs had given out and now her arms were struggling to support her as she sat on the ground, tears running down her face. She was mumbling things about her mother, father, and ‘the children’, which you suspected were the ones she tortured. Hm. Maybe she did feel some guilt about that. She’d glance back to where you stood. You made sure she could see you, though the intern was oblivious to your presence.

“Miss Wagner? Miss Wagner? Are you alright?” The girl asked, clearly unsure what to do. Violet didn’t respond. She continued staring down at the floor, mumbling and sweating. “Violet?” The girl tried using the woman’s first name instead. She flinched back like she was expecting some huge outburst. Her employees must be treated poorly as well.

“I-I…” the girl paused. It seemed like she didn’t want to help the crying woman on the floor. You figured Violet wasn’t a very nice boss. The girl shook her head a bit, standing up. She took a deep breath before speaking with confidence, “I’m going to call an ambulance. I’ll be back, I promise.” She ran off, back to her desk presumably to make the call. You nodded, appreciating her morals to do the right thing for an awful person. Sadly, you didn’t live by the same rules. You could hear her talking to someone as you made your way over to Violet.

“Awe, darling.” You lifted up her chin with your fingers. You met her eyes. They were filled with pure terror and they kept glancing over your shoulder. You laughed at her. The ways her eyes seemed unable to focus and how clammy her face felt.

“Please…” She started. “I can’t live like this, at least kill me. I understand. I’ve learned. Is that what you want? Learning?” You shook your head. Of course she tries now. Now that you’re torturing her like she once did to others and now she wants to ‘learn her lesson’?

“No. That’s not what I want. I want you to rot somewhere. And maybe someone out there, someone much nicer than me, will take pity. And kill you.” Your hand left her chin and she was left, crying out for as long as the strain in her voice would let her.

***

The next few days consisted of mostly theorizing with the team. Besides that, you and Loki had your own two person ‘book club’ and you learned about some new weapons with Bucky. He had an appreciation for the development in weaponry over the past decades and you didn’t mind learning with him. It also turned out the two of them were friends, so the three of you sometimes had lunch together, though you preferred having one on one time with either of them.

The rest of the team was anxious to find the new SPECTR machine as soon as possible and get you out of their house, not that you could blame them. A very small part of you didn’t want it to end that quickly though. You hadn’t had a real home since the 40’s and before you died you spent all your time in a military camp or in a science lab. That, and you had real friends, well, as close to ‘real friends’ as you’d had in decades. Of course, it helped that they were both extremely attractive, but hey. No one could blame you for that train of thought.

Most of the team still wasn’t happy to have you with them. Though it felt bad to be on the outside, you were used to it. If you had it your way, you never would’ve come there at all, but there were lives on the line and you really needed immunity.

“Everything alright?” Bucky asked as he adjusted the tape over his hands. The two of you had tried out sparing since you could take one hell of a hit so he was free to use his metal arm on you. He had even consented to letting you study it for an hour or two. The two of you got along well and both he and Loki had moved up from the position of ‘not-enemy’ to ‘associate’, though it wasn’t much of a leap. You were hardly ready to trust them, it had only been a few days.

“Just fine. Whenever you’re ready, Barnes.” You said, tossing aside your sweatshirt as you stood across from Bucky. You readied your stance and waited for him to say the word.

“Go.” You took a step forward but Bucky rushed toward you, taking a swing with his metal arm. You knew he appreciated an opponent who could take a hit from a weapon like that, though it took some convincing for him to go all out. You were certain he still wasn’t using 100% of his strength, but it was a start. You ducked, sliding next to him before getting up on one knee and taking a jab at his leg. He stumbled a bit, but stayed standing. Although it wasn’t as effective as you hoped, it gave you time to stand without interruption.

The second he turned to face you, you punched him in the chest, sending him back a bit. He stepped forward and swung his leg into your side, making you stumble too. You kept your hand out to help you balance. You lowered yourself and swiped under his legs. He tripped, but caught himself with his flesh arm. You stood up, jumping back.

He stood again, rushing toward you, metal fist raised. You caught his punch and you could feel the sting against your hand. You were definitely going to have a bruise or two after this. You threw his hand aside, setting him off balance and kicked into his side. He landed on his stomach with a small thud and you kept your foot against his back and kneeled down, arm held against the back of his neck.

“Not bad.” He said, you stood and helped him up.

“Same to you.” You nodded as a small sign of respect. “I’m going to take a shower, I’ll need it before the rest of your group calls some sort of meeting.” You rolled your eyes and Bucky nodded. You could tell he didn’t really like you making fun of his ‘team’, but he never said much. It made you feel a bit bad, but on the other hand, the do-gooders were about as annoying as it gets.

The elevator felt slower than normal, though it was probably just the uncomfortable feeling of sweat on your skin. You stepped out onto your floor. You shared it with Clint and Natasha, probably so they could keep an eye on you. You didn’t mind too much, Clint wasn’t too bad and you had a certain amount of respect for Natasha. She used to have a similar career to you after all. She’d made her way onto your radar for a while, though there were bigger fish to fry and SHIELD was already on her tail. Still, you’d much rather be alone.

You were about to open the door leading to your room when you sensed something was off. Your abilities were helpful in your line of work. Sensing other people had become a skill of yours and right now, something was wrong.

You were on high alert, though you knew it was probably just a team member. You opened the door slowly, prepared to fight if need be. Instead, Natasha sat on your couch, cleaning some of her guns.

The weapons didn’t bother you too much. They were all disassembled for cleaning, the magazines sitting on the table, completely empty. You were sure she’d done that part on purpose, just so you’d know she wasn’t here for a fight, but she’d fight back if need be.

You walked often to your makeshift kitchen and pulled out a bottle of vodka. Whiskey was more your thing, but you’d make do with what you had. You poured a full glass, not caring much for how you were ‘supposed’ to pour it, Natasha was silent the whole time, waiting for you to come over to her.

You moved toward the couch and sat next to her, waiting for her to talk.

“Good to see you again.” She said, not looking away from her weapons. You smiled, taking a large sip of your drink. It burned a bit in your throat, though it wasn’t anything new.

“I’m glad you cleaned up your act.” You said, not offering her any greeting. You could see her smile.

“Why did you let me go that day?” She asked, this time looking up at you. She looked genuinely curious. She didn’t waste any time getting to the point, huh?

“You were finally on the right path. After spending so long killing who you were told to, Clint got you where you were supposed to be.”

She shook her head, not quite understanding. “I was about to kill him. That target, I was going to kill him, I did kill him, and you walked away and left him with me. Why.”

You relaxed against the couch, realizing your shower would have to wait a little longer. “He deserved it. SHIELD was right to send you after him, his death saved lives. I was just making sure you were staying on task. And staying on the right side of the tracks. So to speak.” You took another long sip, hoping you’d feel the effects sooner rather than later.

“You were watching me?” She asked. You were a bit surprised. Natasha was a talented assassin, someone capable and good at protecting herself. Though you doubted that she would know it was you, you did think she’d figure out that someone was watching her. It gave you a small confidence boost.

“I watch a lot of people, Natasha. I like making sure that people in powerful positions really want what’s best for society. Sometimes, they become a target.” You took another gulp of your drink, slightly anxious to finish it as quickly as possible. “Like that Stark.” Natasha began putting a few of her guns back together and into a small black bag next to her.

“Stark was a target?”

You shook your head. “No, but he was on my watch list. His dad wasn’t my favorite guy and for a while he made some rather destructive weapons. I had to make sure he wouldn’t turn into some power-crazed nut job.”

Natasha laughed a bit, “Yeah, pretty sure he did that anyway.” You laughed. Making fun of a Stark was something you did with Peggy. It felt familiar. Sitting down with ‘the other woman on the team’ and having a chat about your friends. Familiar, but not the same.

“Tell me, if I hadn’t been doing the right thing, if I had let him go or left him alive, would you have killed me?” You didn’t pause, you knew your answer.

“Without a second thought.” You took another sip, this one longer than your previous ones. Natasha nodded, understanding. Of all the people in the tower, she was probably the one who would understand most.

She finished up cleaning another gun before Friday’s voice was heard in your room. Great.

“Spectr, Miss Romanoff, you’re wanted in the meeting room. There’s been a robbery.”

You downed the rest of your drink, ignoring the burn in your throat. Natasha gave you a slight side glance, probably worried for your health. Not that it was a real concern for you anymore.

“Uh… do you guys usually answer robberies?” You asked, setting down the glass. Natasha grabbed her bag, bringing it with her out of the room.

“No, there’s something else to this.” You nodded, accepting her answer. You internally groaned at the feeling of sweat still on you. At this point, you’d even settle for a five minute shower. You ran to your room quickly, pulling off the tank top you were wearing and grabbing a t-shirt. At least you wouldn’t have to wear a soaked shirt. It was just you and Natasha in the elevator in silence. It wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t a situation you wanted to be in.

The room was almost completely full, though Wanda and Vision were right behind you. You took a seat toward the end of the table next to Steve. You were sure they put you there just in case someone needed to knock you out in a worst case scenario, though you didn’t care.

Steve set down a few papers just as Wanda sat down.

“Alright, everyone’s here.” He pulled his seat closer to the table. “There was a robbery earlier today.”

“What, did some kid swipe a candy bar? How is this our problem.” Tony asked. He was wearing sunglasses despite being indoors. Though the normal assumption would be that he just came inside, you somehow doubted that.

“Not exactly. The focus is what was stolen. It was at a nearby museum, the owners themselves weren’t sure what it was since it didn’t have any sort of identification. Just that it was World War II memorabilia.”

“Oh I see, someone took your old helmet?” Tony said, interrupting again. Your eyes narrowed. You were getting annoyed with his constant comments, though the rest of the group seemed unbothered. That, or they had grown used to his obnoxious personality. You saw Loki’s face shift though, so he was probably feeling similar emotions to yours.

“The owners said it was part of an unfinished project, we think it might be a piece of Project SPECTR.” A few eyes turned toward you, including Steve’s. “Do you recognize this?” He asked, setting a photo down in front of you. It was most certainly a piece of your machinery.

“It’s what we used to stabilize our core. I built it forever ago just tinkering with supplies, no blueprints. It’s one of a kind. I doubt I could remake it myself.”

“Well, that explains why it was robbed.” Natasha said, just loud enough for the few people around her to hear. You were seated next to Loki on the end of the table. Bucky was across from you and avoiding your eye-contact, which is what he usually did during meetings.

“So, what now?” A man asked. You now knew him as Sam, or ‘The Falcon’, the other bird-themed hero.

“We find anything else we can.” You said, choosing to look at Steve. It felt odd talking to a room, so you tried to focus on one person instead. You were used to creating plans by yourself, not brainstorming with a group. “I left plenty of materials and blueprints behind. I never got a chance to examine why it malfunctioned, but I’m sure a good percent of the original machine is usable.”

“So, where is it?” Clint asked, contributing to the discussion.

“Well, it’s been almost 70 years so I have no idea. Didn’t have a reason to keep track of all that junk.” Steve nodded, though some of the group sighed out loud.

“Let’s check the site and see what else turns up. We hardly need the whole group for this, though.”

***

Steve had sent a group of only a few people. Natasha, who was acting as the temporary leader. Loki, who could use magic to help track down people with any evidence left behind. Steve had been against sending Loki since he was technically still confined to the compound with the exception of missions. Natasha however argued that this was a mission and that Loki would be a useful team member. Of course, she was right, so he was along with the group.

He had also sent Clint and Bucky along, more to act as guards while you, Loki, and Nat looked around the area. The police had done their job and found any evidence left behind, though Loki was trying to use magic to find anything else. So far, no luck.

The group of you were talking to one of Fury’s remaining agents at the site. SHIELD may have disbanded, but Fury still had quite a few people on his side. Some of which apparently still helped him out now and then. It was like a much smaller version of SHIELD.

“Best we got is some DNA evidence. We matched it in our system, according to the evidence, he was one of us, back when we were active.”

You were a bit confused. “An agent?” Natasha asked, sharing your confusion. You masked it better than her though, it was probably because she was more familiar with the former agent in front of you than you were.

The woman nodded, showing you her screen, a picture of an average looking 30-something year old guy looking rather bored in the picture.. “Jackson Hastings. Odd thing is, he went missing on a mission a while ago. Hasn’t been seen since.” Natasha took the tablet screen from her and you looked over her shoulder.

“Holy shit.” The group looked at you.

“You know him?” Natasha asked curiously.

“He was one of my targets.” You said, sure of yourself. He was a corrupt member of SHIELD. It was before SHIELD completely dismantled. You couldn’t prove that he was connected to Hydra in any way, though you had your suspicions.

“You’re sure?” She asked and you nodded in response. “Let’s head back, I think this is about as much evidence as we’re getting.” The group agreed and you thanked the woman on your way out.

***

“And you’re positive you targeted this man?” Steve asked, staring you down.

“Very. I don’t forget targets.” Besides, Hastings was a case you would remember. Fury had sent you a file or two himself, not that he’d admit it, including this one. He couldn’t prove Hastings was guilty. He knew you’d kill him if he was, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Hastings had access to files that could end important operations and expose several undercover agents. So, you just ‘happened’ to run into Hastings’ file. Sure enough, he was more than guilty.

“Some of your targets are still alive, right?” Clint asked and you nodded.

“Wait, so you just let some of these guys go? What, were they suddenly innocent?” Tony asked. Though his tone was sarcastic, the question was genuine so you decided to answer.

“Innocent? Hardly. But life holds things much worse than death. Much worse.” The group tried to ignore that statement, though you could see curiosity written over their faces.

“Is he one of them? The alive targets, I mean.” Steve asked, getting back to the topic at hand.

“No, he didn’t deserve punishment that bad. He’s only dead.” Hastings was one of the more straightforward cases. In any court, the way you got your proof wouldn’t be admissible. In fact, you’d probably get arrested too. That’s why you’d turned into judge, jury, and executioner.

“Alright. So, a dead man walks into a museum. Sounds like the set up to a shitty joke.” Tony remarked under his breath, though most of the table was able to hear the comment.

“If you killed him when he went on that mission, then he’s been dead for years. Now, he’s able to steal a highly guarded museum item but leaves behind blood?” Natasha said, posing the question to the group.

“Clearly, it’s not impossible for people to come back from the dead. I mean…” Tony gestured to you, Bucky, Steve, and Loki on your side of the table. Though your situations were wildly different, Stark did have a point. All of you had been labelled ‘dead’ at one point or another.

“Well, our cases are different, don’t you think?” Loki asked, actually contributing to the conversation. You were certain that was the first time you had heard him speak in a meeting. “The Sergeant, the Captain and I were never really dead in the first place.” You heard Thor grumble something on Loki’s other side, though you were unable to make out his words.

“I’m definitely an exception,” You continued, “but it took me about 50 years and a huge malfunctioning healing machine. Considering the fact that he’s trying to build SPECTR, I doubt he died the same way.” You concluded landing the group, once again, on ground zero.

“Okay, so no more zombies. What’s going on then? You sure you killed him?” Tony said, the last part directed at you.

“Certain. His head was very much detached.” You didn’t share too many of the details since the group never seemed to like that, but you had to slip in the occasional dark joke. Ask a psychopathic serial killer to join your team and you’re inviting in murder-based comedy.

“Alright. Any other ideas?” Tony asked, slightly disturbed.

“What if we have a shapeshifter? A dead man is a good disguise for a robbery, no?” Wanda asked in her accent. Her voice was pretty and the accent certainly helped. You wanted her to read something to you while you intently listened on, enjoying the sound. You did your best to stay focused though and thought over her question. The other scientists of the room looked like they were doing the same. Finally, you found a bit of a flaw.

“Down to the molecular level? Even after the material has left his body? Is that possible?” You questioned. A shapeshifting person was incredible on it’s own, now they can manipulate their form even when not connected to the DNA. A fascinating person indeed. In any other situation, you’d be itching to meet them. Maybe study them for a few hours. But this didn’t seem like the kind of guy who just wanted to have a chat.

Clint shrugged. “I’ve seen weirder.”

He did have a point. After all, you were sitting between a superhuman soldier who had supposedly died 70 years ago and a Norse god, things had changed since the 40s. Not to mention the fact that you were essentially a psychic zombie.

“So, what do we do now? Wait for the next robbery? If it is a shapeshifter, which is only a theory by the way, we have no way of finding anyone.”

Steve looked around, seeing if anyone had any ideas. When no one spoke up, he sighed. “Then I guess we wait.”

***

You walked out of the meeting with way more questions than you’d hoped to have. You made your way upstairs and finally took a decent shower and sat down with a proper glass of whiskey. You weren’t even sure if you’d drank water while you were at the tower. Not that you really needed it.

The TV was playing some new show you weren’t familiar with. You didn’t get any of the ‘comedic’ references, nor did you understand the plot, but you were too lazy to search for something else.

There was a soft knock on your door. You groaned a bit, not wanting to answer.

“What do you want?” You yelled, loud enough so the person on the other side could hear you from your couch.

“It’s me.” You recognized the accent and sighed, getting up without bothering to pause the TV. You opened the door, waving the person in and sitting back down, taking another long sip of your drink.

“I’m fairly certain drinking that much is bad for you.” Loki said in a joking manner. He didn’t get to do that too often. Everyone assumed there was some malintent behind the joke.

“It’s not exactly gonna kill me.” You sat back, finally grabbing the remote to find something more interesting.

“Still, I can’t imagine it being good for you. Maybe try something else?” He suggested calmly.

You rolled your eyes a bit. He may have been more fun than the other caped crusaders, but he was hardly close enough to give you health advice.

“What do you want.” You didn’t look at him.

He sighed, accepting that he wasn’t going to get a better answer than that. “You said that life holds things worse than death.”

When he didn’t continue, you responded. “Yeah. And?”

“What did you mean?”

You didn’t really want to have this conversation. The team already thought you were horrifying, talking about your abilities certainly wouldn’t help.

“Sometimes it’s better to just die than live in torture, that’s what I mean.” It wasn’t exactly an answer, but it was sort of true. That’s close enough, right?

He considered this. “So the people you leave alive, they’re worse than the dead ones?” You nodded.

“Yup. Are we done with this conversation now? I’ve got 70 years worth of movies to watch.” You flipped through more channels to find something tolerable.

Loki looked like he had something else to say, you were certain there was something else. “Yes, that’s fine.” He stood up, walking slowly. Though you were sure why, you thought it was because he was having some sort of inner debate.

He turned around and opened his mouth, but you spoke first. “Yes, you can stay. Grab some chips while you’re up though, I’ll find something decent.” He smiled a bit. He never really asked to stay, he just waited to be invited. You didn’t really mind, he was good company. And quiet for the most part.

For once, you didn’t mind spending extra time with someone.

[articrabbitsfoot]

The Hell They’d Go Through

(Surprise post, so I for some reason beyond me decided to start writing again which i haven't done in like a long time, and my first work is the prologue for an Animaniacs and The Forest cross over fic. Anyways i know i am not the best at writing so if you have any thing to suggest that i work on, ill gladly listen because i  do not know how to write well 😔 

Enough of me rambling about my sucky writing, i hope you enjoy )

Prologue

The plane was silent, the only sound that could really be heard were the muffled hum of the plane's engines and the snores of two of three children who were sitting on the rather empty plane.

The eldest of the three, Yakko, sighed as he looked outside the plane at the dark and  stormy sky, they've been on this plane for  twelve hours by now and he was becoming restless. However after coming back from a two week vacation where the three warners were allowed to do whatever they pleased, he also really didn't have much energy to do much else.

To combat the boredom he would have made jokes or played games with his siblings, if they weren't currently asleep. He was happy they got some sleep in and all but you can only watch some many if the free movies the plane provides. So Yakko looked over at his siblings, both of them leaning against each other as they slept, Wakko holding an open bag of chips, which was of course empty, and dot loosely holding a survival book she had found, which she had found somewhat interesting.

Yakko sighed, he might as well clean up a bit while he still had the motivation to do anything, so he first , carefully, grabbed the bag of chips from Wakko's grasp crumbling it up and putting it in a trash pile they had made at the beginning of the trip.

He then took a look at the survival book, he didn't understand why Dot thought it was interesting, he didn't really think she'd find survival in the woods interesting, but Dot always seemed to find a way to surprise him.

Anyways , he carefully grabbed the book as well, being as quiet as he could as to not wake either of his siblings up.  Once he grabbed the book he closed it, the book already had tabs for each section so he didn't worry too much about marking it for Dot.

Yakko placed the book down next to Dot before he sat back and looked back outside the window, the storm grew more violent by the minute, leaving yakko worried that they’d experience turbulence at some point.

Just as he expected the plane began to shake a bit, after a few moments of plane shaking , a woman's voice came through of the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen we are experiencing some mild turbulence, please return to your seats and keep your seatbelts fastened.”  The women informed.Yakko sighed about to make sure Dot and Wakko were properly fastened when the plane, suddenly and violently, lurched, which caused Yakko to yelp a bit gripping onto his seat. The sudden movement and Yakko's sudden yelp, caused Wakko and Dot to wake up , looking around in confusion and worry.

“Yakko?What's going on?” Dot questioned fearfully ,quickly holding on to Wakko , as the plane continued to shake.  

Yakko looked at the two before he tried to keep them from lurching forward again as the plane shook more violently. “I dont— i dont know!”

Suddenly the womens voice came back over the speaker, in a more frantic and fearful tone “flight attendants and cabin crew plea—“  she was cut off suddenly  as the front of the plane was ripped away from the back , leaving the back to suddenly plummet.

The three screamed as they fell, Yakko trying to hold them back, the most he could do to even try to keep them safe.  While the two younger Warners clung onto Yakko the best they could. Papers and people’s luggage flew by their heads as they fell, a whole person flew back over them, hitting the seats in front of them before continuing to tumble towards the back of the plane.

It happened all too quickly , once the plane hit the ground the three warners were  thrown out of their seats, none of them had time to brace themselves as they were thrown forwards. Yakko didn't even have enough time to try and grab his siblings again when they were ripped from his grasp, as when he was thrown forward, he was quickly knocked unconscious.

—————————————————————————————————————

By the time Yakko regained some consciousness his entire body felt like it had gone through torture, he felt like he was soaked , and his head screamed at him to return back to sleep.   His vision was blurred when he opened his eyes , unable to really see what was around him. He drowsily looked around, before he looked forward and immediately he tried to get up.

In front of him was Dot , he couldn't see Wakko yet but he’ll look once he got his baby sister back in his arms.

However, as hard as he tried , he just could not get up, he felt so weak, tired, and he was in so much pain. If he wasn't so focused on Dot he would wonder if his legs were obliterated after the crash, it sure did feel that way.

It wasn't much use trying to get up so instead he began to try and crawl forwards towards Dot. He was extremely worried for her and Wakko, if the crash left him in this much pain he couldn’t imagine how his two siblings felt, if they were even okay-.

Yakko shook his head a bit, there was no time to overthink things , he had to get to his baby sister before anything else happened.

His worry was soon replaced with pure panic , as in his blurred vision he could make out a figure making its way towards Dot. The figure was what looked like a human, covered in bright red paint , it glanced at Yakko before it looked down at Dot.

When the figure picked up Dot Yakko wanted to just scream, he couldn’t let this guy take his sister away from him, especially with how weak and hurt she looked. He wanted to maul the guy, do anything to get Dot out of his arms, but all Yakko could do was whine and reach out for them.

The figure paid no mind to Yakko and he looked at Dot for a moment , before he carried her off, out of Yakko's blurred line of sight.  Oh what Yakko wouldn't give to get up at that moment, to chase after that figure, but the more he desperately  crawled the more exhausted he became , and it wasn't long before he gave in and passed out.

He didn't know it then, but losing his baby sister was only the beginning of the hell he'd have to go through.

[contagiousprincess]

i defy you, stars- Chapter 1

“From your first cigarette to your last dyin’ day”

Two households, both alike in dignity

(In fair Verona where we lay our scene)

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life;

Whose misadventurous piteous overthrows

Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife.

The fearful passage of their death-marked love

And the continuance of their parents’ rage,

Which, but their children’s end, naught could remove,

Is now the two hours traffic of our stage;

The which, if you with patient ears attend,

What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend

-William Shakespeare

The Whispering Woods were once tangled growth, full of creatures and plants alike waiting for their chance to claw to the surface. The soil was fertile and the air was sweet, but the area was crowded. The so called “whispering” was the noise of the wind pushing and squeezing it’s way through the brush and tightly woven tree trunks. Or, according to legend, it was the noise of the wildlife twisting, changing, moving to confuse lost travelers. 

No one was quite sure how the first people managed to make their stake along the banks of the river that ran through the heart of the forest and emptied into the ocean. But they imagined that they had to follow the forest's rules, because otherwise they would have been eaten up and spit out like the bugs that crawled along the skin of the ground. However they did it, those people weren’t alone for long.

Soon enough, another group came to compete, on the other bank of the river. The two different clans of people could have cooperated, learned to help each other, and survived to tell the tale to others. But just like the wildlife and fragrant trees before them, the two seemed determined to push the other down to reach the top, drawing lines in the silence that separated them. 

Where before, the forest was one giant, breathing body, a new word was introduced to the area: border. They fought for control of the harbor and the trade route along the river, but they were so evenly matched that no one ever won, instead locked forever in an endless stalemate.

So, the two groups began a bitter rivalry. One that continued for many, many, many years. Long after a bridge was built, connecting the two sides of the river for trade (though neither group would dare suggest it was necessary). Long after The Whispering Woods no longer whispered since the trees were gone and the wind had grown hot and stale. Long after the bugs and skin of the earth was replaced with cobblestone streets and alleys. So much long after, that now when asked what they were fighting over, the groups could not even remember, only that if the Horde and the Alliance ran into each other on the streets, someone would walk away badly hurt or worse. 

And this was how on a particularly sweltering hot day, six people almost died.

“Did you just flip us off?” Though most of her thick hair was pulled into a band beside her face, Mermista brushed the remaining pieces of hair out of her eyes, as if to make sure she was seeing clearly, but her dark eyes and thick eyebrows were dangerous, daring anyone to mess with her.

“And what if I did?” Lonnie catcalled, the sound ringing through the street. She was shorter, but stood tall, her boots planted firmly on the street with her hands on her hips. The braids on her head framed her face and softened the defined lines, but there was nothing soft about the way her mouth curled as she taunted the other girl.

“I’d tell you that if you apologize for it, we won’t beat you into a stain on the street.” Mermista stood shoulder to shoulder with Sea Hawk, who might not have been the sharpest tool in the box, but could fight just as well as the next guy. His dorky mustache and dumb boot and bandana combo seemed harmless enough, but he had a tendency to burn down anything in his path. Literally.

Lonnie considered this, and turned to Rogelio, who was broad and as mean as nails, visually and physically intimidating. “Do you think we would get arrested if I flipped them off again?”

“Yes,” Rogelio said simply. A man of few words, so when he used them, it was prudent to listen.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine.” Lonnie looked Mermista up and down and called, “I didn’t flip you off, but I was flipping someone off! Now, why are you still here?”

“You picking a fight?” Rogelio said. 

“Me? Pick a fight? Never,” Mermista said, eyes flashing.

“Watch it,” Rogelio grunted. 

“Now why would I do that?”

“Because Shadow Weaver is behind you!” yelled Lonnie, suddenly. She pointed, fear flashing across her face. Mermista and Sea Hawk spun around wildly, craning their necks, but they were only met with the normal hustle and bustle of the harbor. 

Lonnie busted out into laughter, doubling over and eventually having to sit on the ground to catch her balance and breath. She held her stomach, tears running down her face as her laughs echoed through the street. 

Mermista and Sea Hawk turned around, faces red and now so furious, sparks practically flew off of them. Sea Hawk unsheathed his sword and started towards them, but his friend grabbed onto the collar of his shirt, but he still strained against her.

“Oh, we got ourselves a comedian, huh?” Mermista drew her sword and faced them. “Personally, my favorite joke is the one where we pummeled the two Horde scrum into dust and they got washed down the river. The punchline always gets me.” 

Lonnie finally started to rise from the ground, and pulled out a dagger. “I’d like to see you try.”

Rogelio turned toward her, drawing his sword, and quietly said “Don’t forget that parry maneuver we’ve been working on. It’s all in the footwork.”

“Not the time, Rogelio! We have bigger problems, like a princess and her big fat mouth!”

At that, Mermista released Sea Hawk, and the four lunged towards each other. As soon as the clang of metal swords started to echo through the city, a young male voice could be heard yelling for them to stop. 

After a minute passed with no avail, an arrow careened over the group's heads, making a horrible screeching noise and catching their attention for a moment. Taking advantage of the opening, Bow pushed his way into the center, driving them apart. A top notch archer, the dark-skinned teen was well respected in the Alliance. He wasn’t necessarily the strongest, but agility and cleverness kept him on his toes, as well as alive. 

“Everybody back up! Do you have any clue what you’re doing?!” he screeched, desperately holding his hands up in a feeble attempt to keep them from colliding again. He finally managed to wrest Mermista’s sword out of her hand and pushed her and Sea Hawk away from the Horde teens. 

“We stand on thin ice as it is,” he said to the two of them. “Whatever the Horde trash did to provoke you isn’t worth it.” Raising his voice, he called, “They aren’t worth any of your time.” He gestured to Lonnie and Rogelio with Mermista’s sword, glaring as he did.

Lonnie opened her mouth to defend herself, but she was interrupted by another member of the Horde. 

Scorpia was tall and extremely buff, making Rogelio look like a prepubescent boy. Her shock of white hair on top was cropped close to her head and her eyes, normally kind and warm, were furious and focused. Scorpia, drawn by the sounds of fighting, had started running over seconds ago but now was faced with the sight of Bow pointing a sword at her two friends. 

She stormed in front of the two and stared down Bow, who paled upon seeing her. 

“Threatening my friends, Bow?” She towered over the other boy, and he craned his neck to see her. “Hope you had fun, because I won’t let it happen again.”

“I was trying to get them to stop fighting, Scorpia!” Despite their difference in size, he set his jaw and didn’t back down.

“With your sword drawn?” She scoffed.  “A likely story! You Alliance brats are always so high up on your horse, yelling about peace, complaining about the fighting but then you come into our territory and attack us when we mind our own business, and I, for one, am sick of it.” 

Bow began to speak very slowly and deliberately, as if explaining something simple to a child. “I. am. not. attacking. anyone. But if I was, it wouldn’t be much of a fight,” he smirked. 

Scorpia, enraged, drew herself up to her full height, and faced him, head on. “Lets have at it then,” she said, voice deadly even. 

Bow hesitated, and then knocked an arrow and drew it. “Fine with me”

Scorpia charged at him, leaping towards his head with her bare hands. Bow quickly ducked and rolled underneath her, coming up behind Scorpia on one knee. Just as her feet hit the pavement, he released his arrow. The arrowhead fractured in midair and split, shooting out a web, the delicate filaments of wire and carefully placed weights searching for a target to ensnare. 

The web slammed into Scorpia’s shoulder, biting into her skin and pulling her down, but only managed to wrap itself around her arm, fortunately for her. Unfortunately for Bow, Scorpia grabbed hold of the web and began to swing it, transforming her trap into a weapon. 

She advanced on him, taking the weighted net with her. Bow tried to back up and pull another arrow, but she closed in on him, taking advantage of his lack of close range weapons. She swung the web at him, and he ducked the first time, narrowly avoided the second, but on the third she feinted towards his head, changed course and then used her net to sweep his feet out from underneath him. 

Bow fell flat on his back, his head hitting the ground with a sickening thud, and Scorpia towered above him. She raised the heavy weights above her and started to bring them down on him, but a shout stopped her cold in her tracks. 

A small crowd of citizens had gathered, circling the group, but they during the fight began to chant something that completely baffled the six enemies. 

“Down with the fight! Down with the Horde! Down with the Alliance!”

The racket grew and grew, gathering almost all of the citizens not affiliated with either the Horde or the Alliance. The cacophony reached its peak when a horn call sounded and the crowd cleared a walkway and silenced. They stared up in awe as the 3 most powerful people in Whispering Woods strolled in front of them: Hordak, Shadow Weaver, and Angella. 

Hordak was muscular but not overly so. He walked with an odd gait, and his greasy black hair and beady eyes that were almost red were disquieting. But he radiated power, and as he walked the citizens bowed. Hordak was the Prince of the Whispering Woods, and he would be obeyed. 

Shadow Weaver was the leader of the Horde, one of the feuding groups, and Angella was the leader of the Alliance, the other. The two were both tall, but the similarities ended there. Shadow Weaver was lanky, and had long dark hair. She was clothed in deep red, and wore a mask covering her face. Even though her eyes couldn’t be seen, anyone who felt her stare grew anxious. Angella, on the other hand, was willowy, with long, bright hair. Her face was kind, but sharp. This along with the circlet inlaid with a pearl that sat on her forehead, immediately gave the impression that this was someone who was to be listened to and obeyed without question. 

The Prince strode in front of the other two, but they stood as far apart as possible, shooting each other with dark looks that made the citizens uneasy. Hordak, commanding the attention of every person in the street, sauntered up to where Scorpia still stood over Bow. Without saying a word, he flicked his wrist and Shadow Weaver and Angella untangled the two and dragged them as well as the other four to opposite sides of the circle that the crowd had formed. 

“Citizens!” Hordak boomed. “I have heard countless complaints about the feud which has led to this incident.” He sneered as he said it, making the fact that the enemies had almost killed each other seem as insignificant as childhood tomfoolery, and in a way, it was. “This ancient grudge has interrupted trade, caused countless injuries, and endlessly fosters riots and unrest amongst my people. It is high time for it to break.”

Angella and Shadow Weaver began to stammer, no doubt trying to pin the blame on the other, but Hordak simply held up his hand and they fell quiet. 

“I recognize that I cannot control the… feelings of my citizens.” His lip curled. “However, something still must be done. The city cannot stand with its people constantly fighting in the streets. So, my decision is this: whichever of you causes any more disturbance in my city will pay for it with their life.”

The crowd broke out into anxious murmurings, and the feuding groups began to protest, but Hordak held firm.

“I have made my decision. Now all of you go before I regret not ending you all here and now.” He leveled a glare at both groups and the citizens, who hesitated but began to disperse. Hordak turned his gaze to the women who led both groups and called out to them. “Shadow Weaver, follow me. Angella, I will speak with you later.”

The Horde and Alliance members all hesitated for a moment. 

“Was I unclear? GO!” roared Hordak.

With one final glare at each other, the two groups broke apart. Shadow Weaver fell into step behind Hordak, Angella led her Alliance towards the other side of the river, and Scorpia took the Horde members in the direction of their manor.

None of them noticed what was left behind. As they all meandered away, muttering darkly about their respective foes, a clear mark of the fight remained. Though no one could say exactly who it belonged to, it didn’t really matter in the end. 

A singular smear of sticky, scarlet-red blood stained the cobblestone street, seeping into the cracks in the mortar, already beginning to dry in the sweltering hot sun. 

notes: hiya! im katie and the idea for this fic basically mugged me in the middle of the night and i had to do something about it. this is just a teaser i think theres like a part two of chapter one but it was bulky and i wanted to post something bc why not. im not quite sure what im doing with this fic but i dont care im having fun lmfao. ive never written any fic before so be nice or i will block you i dont give a shit! this will probably go up on ao3 as soon as i can get an invite so for now this will live on tumblr yee haw! anyways lmk what yall think but only if its nice kk byeeee xoxoxo

[morgana-ren]

I want shiggy to spit in my mouth uwu

Hhhhhhh same dude, fuckin’ same

Like, let’s say you’re a mouthy little shit, someone who challenges his authority and talks back to him, and we all know how big of a fan he is of that. He’s been fed up with you for weeks now, but his scolding and chastising you seems to have no effect. He’s not necessarily going to hurt you, you’re a valuable member of the team, but you need to understand how to follow the leader. 

Shigaraki has decided to take you on a quest with him.

He says it’s a solo mission, so everyone gets to laze around behind at the hideout while you two leg it out into the open. It’s dusk, and the sun is rapidly falling below the horizon, blanketing the city in a feeling of uneasy stillness. You don’t know where he’s taking you, only that he told you to stay close. He’s walking too fast for you to comfortably keep up, so you have to half jog to stay with the pace his lanky legs can easily maintain. His coat is blowing out behind him as he trudges in front of you, and something about the situation seems so sinister, but you can’t place why. Maybe it’s that you’ve never been alone around him before, or maybe it’s that it’s getting so dark, but either way, you don’t feel quite right. 

The longer he walks, the further the temperature drops, and soon you’ve got goosebumps prickling your limbs and rubbing uncomfortably against your clothing. You didn’t expect to be out this long. He told you it would be quick, but there’s no end in sight. Shigaraki just keeps walking, seemingly wandering endlessly onward deeper into the belly of the district. You’re getting awfully far from home, and never once has he looked back at you. Part of you wants to ask him if he’s forgotten you’re here, but you’re not feeling particularly playful given the circumstances.

The streets start to empty, shops closing and becoming rarer as you go along. The lonely lamps that dot the walkway buzz almost imperceptibly, flickering stark yellow hues across the cracked sidewalk that he’s leading you down, giving it somewhat of a foreboding atmosphere as you carried on. Traffic starts to die out, fellow pedestrians becoming fewer and farther between with only the occasional vehicle crossing your path. With civilization fading into the background, the sounds you’ve grown so accustomed to in the city dissipate, and soon all you can hear is your footsteps coupled with his echoing off the cement. The part of town he seems to be leading you into isn’t known for much except industrial buildings and factories, and you’re not sure why he’s taking you so far. What could possibly be out here?

Finally, he leads you down into an alleyway. There are a few stretches he pulls you through before coming to the exit on the other side. He positions you down against the wall, pointing to a building down the street that is uncharacteristically busy, the only lively spot you’ve seen in what seems like hours. You recognize it to be a particularly popular restaurant that has stayed open and even flourished despite the dismal location. What you don’t understand is what any of that has to do with you. You shoot him a confused glance out of the corner of your eye, unsure of exactly what it is you’re supposed to be seeing.

“Just watch.” 

So, you watch. You spectate the restaurant for what seems like ages, cloaked in the alleyway where the patrons can’t see you both crouched like gargoyles, leering at them as they enjoy their meal. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, there’s nothing interesting going on, and frankly this entire thing feels like a waste of time. It doesn’t seem like the type of place he would be casing, and on top of that, restaurants are highly inefficient targets for a robbery. There doesn’t appear to be any real reason he dragged you out this way except to have you watch a load of people eat their dinner. It’s giving you real creep vibes, but more than that, you begin to notice that so is he. He still hasn’t looked at you, and his usual air of arrogant aloofness has been replaced with something you can’t quite place.

“What do you notice?”

You think for a minute, scanning it over once more. “It seems like popular place. It’s packed, almost with a line out the door. The customers look satisfied.” You rattle off a quick list of shallow facts as he looks around, seeming disinterested even though he’s the one that asked the question.

“You would say that it looks successful, huh?”

You quirk your brow at him but reaffirm your statement. What the fuck is the point of this?

“Good. You understand that, at least.”

There’s venom in his voice and it agitates you, but more so, it unnerves you. It seems slightly uncalled for, and it makes you feel defensive in turn. You go to say something snarky to soothe the uncomfortable tension building, but he cuts you off, having zero interest in whatever it might be. “Do you know how a place like that gets so successful?”

You shrug, beyond caring at this point. You didn’t take Shigaraki to be the type to have a secret interest in restaurant management. “I dunno. Good employees. The food probably has something to do with it.”

He laughs something cold and derisive, as if you’ve said something genuinely stupid. It’s making you feel small and insignificant, and everything this man does is calculated to some extent, so you know it’s likely on purpose. Confusion is mixing with your defensiveness into a caustic cocktail in your stomach and it’s shooting your anxiety through the roof. A shiver racks down your spine, and you’re uncertain if it’s because of him or the wind anymore.

“I guess. But it’s more than that.”

“So, what then?”

He turns to face you for the first time since you left, and there’s a strange, ghoulish sheen to his features that shoots a chill ebbing through your extremities. You pray it’s just the ominous way the light of the moon is hitting him. “Good management. It has a good leader.”

So that’s what this is about, huh? You want to roll your eyes, but something tells you that’s a very bad idea.

His pinprick pupils are zeroed in on you, the slow, casual blink of his eyes mismatched with the surge in his voice. “When something has good leadership, it stays together. This restaurant stays busy because the manager knows what he’s doing, but more importantly, the employees know to follow his lead. Do you think this trash heap would be as renowned as it is if the manager was incompetent?”

You think it’s a rhetorical question, but you notice he’s waiting for you to answer. Irritation surges in your gut, but you shake your head. He’s treating you like an idiot child, and you know he’s doing it on purpose. But that frustration quickly turns to slight panic when you feel his cold fingers on your jaw, yanking your head back in the direction of the restaurant behind him.

“Look at the employees. How obedient they are. They all have a place, and they know that place. Do you think the restaurant would be remotely as efficient if they were mouthy, disrespectful little children who did what they wanted all the time?”

Dread coils deep in your bowels and the point of his little exercise becomes painfully clear. You shake your head again, half to answer his question, the other half to hopefully loosen his grip from the hollow of your cheeks. He doesn’t relent. Instead, he moves his head closer to yours, blocking your view. His nose is brushing against yours, and you can feel the heat from his breath against your chin.

“You see my issue, then?”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond this time.

“Stand up.”

You follow his lead reluctantly as he pushes himself up from the gravel. Not as if you had a choice, as his fingers are still anchored across your face. He maneuvers you back by his grip, trapping you between his slender frame and the brickwork behind you. It’s closer to him than you’ve ever been before, and you can feel your face burning, blood blossoming hotly across your cheeks. He seems to take no notice regardless, leaning in and disregarding your personal space even further.

“I want to be a good leader, but it’s difficult when my subordinates are rude brats with no manners. You want me to be able to be a good leader, don’t you?” His thumb is digging upward into your cheekbone as if he’s trying to mockingly stroke your face, but it’s just painful. “So, from now on, you’re going to do what I say, when I say, and you’re not going to question it. Isn’t that right?”

You want to push him off, want to run, want to do something, but you’re rooted to the spot. Your self-preservation alarms are blaring in your head but despite that, you can’t bring yourself to do anything but nod. If he puts one more finger down…

“No, no, no. I want you to say it. Say ‘Yes, Shigaraki, I will follow your orders without question.”

What he’s asking you to say isn’t all that out there for the type of work you’ve gotten yourself into, but something about the words he wants you to mimic feels so dirty and wrong, like you’re agreeing to something you don’t fully understand yet. You get the sense he doesn’t care whether or not you do, so you do what you can and repeat the words back to him exactly as he spat them out to you, albeit with your voice weak and trembling, words smushed between the press of your cheeks.

“Good girl. Let’s test your promise. Open your mouth.”

The request takes you by surprise. There is no logical reason at all he should be asking for that, but there’s no hint of kidding in his voice. You look at him, clearly shocked and disbelieving, but he only stares blankly at you waiting for you to obey. Your face contorts, trying to formulate something to say, some form of protest, but his hand squeezes even more against the yielding skin of your face. His nails are digging deep into the flesh and it hurts, but you still don’t follow his command.

“Come on. Do it.”

He doesn’t quite force your mouth open, but he coerces your jaw as you let your face fall slack in his grip. His smile spreads, violent red eyes focusing on your lax lips as they open. His own pucker temporarily, hollowing and pulsing as he hovers over you, and you can’t figure out what the hell he’s doing. At least until he straightens his back, putting his jaw directly over yours, separated by only a few inches.

“Wha’ the ‘faw aw yo-“

He spits directly into your open mouth.

Your eyes widen in disgust and confusion, paralyzed in utter shock for several seconds. His foreign saliva sits in a glob on your tongue, and your first instinct is to spit it back out. That is made impossible, however, by his steel grip on your chin which he refuses to relinquish even as you struggle to pull your head from his grasp. You try to fight him off, one hand clawing at his wrist, the other trying to beat him away on his chest, but it does little good. He’s stronger than you, and he knows it.

Instead, he brings his free hand around the back of your neck, squeezing on the pressure points until you’re curling in his grip, squealing your protest. He lets you wriggle and worm against him for a few moments until he thinks you get that it’s pointless. You look at him, sad, watery eyes pathetically searching his face for any form of mercy, but you find none.

“Don’t swallow. I’ll know if you do.” He hisses, pushing his fingers deeper into the crevasse of your shoulders until your neck painfully recoils into your body. You nod, bottom lip jutted in a pout as you try to fight off the instinctive urge. “Swish it around in your mouth.”

A sound of horror erupts from your throat and you try to fight him anew, but he only pushes closer to you, pinning you tighter against the grainy wall. Nothing in the way he’s holding you gives indication he’s playing around, yet you think he must be joking. A quick onceover of his expression solidifies that not only is he not, he’s growing dangerously impatient. His grip on you is tightening, alleviating any leeway he might have been giving you before, and his eyes are flashing dangerously in the low light. A grimace begins spreading over his craggy lips, a look you’ve only seen before when he’s about to do something either very impulsive or very deadly, and you want no part of either.

Doing your best to keep down the sick and the bile, you swirl the mixture in your mouth. His fluids taste so different compared to your own, and even thinking too much about it is making your gag reflex activate. You do your best to blank out your mind as you do as he asks, looking to him for some form of direction, but he says nothing for several minutes. Only stares down at you with a sick, uncanny smile as you follow his orders. He seems pleased with the fact you haven’t disobeyed him, but even more so with the fact that he can see the scrunching of your nose and watering of your eyes as you force yourself to oblige him. Your body language is screaming your revulsion, and yet there’s not a thing you can do about it.

It’s only after he’s had his fill of your humiliation that he finally speaks.

“Good girl. Now open your mouth and show me.” His clamp loosens but only slightly, just enough for you to let your lips fall open again and expose the slick, pink cavern of your mouth to him. His eyes scan along the inside, taking some sick pleasure in seeing the pooling mixture of his fluids mingling with yours as it floods along the sides of your tongue. You’re not sure if this is a power trip or something more devious, and frankly you don’t want to know. You just want to spit him out and go back home, curl up in bed, and never think about any of this ever again. This situation couldn’t possibly be any worse.

You feel that way, at least until you feel a thick, slimy force between your teeth, running across the roof of your mouth. The cracked, ragged skin of his lips grates against your own, and your mind registers that he’s quite literally sticking his tongue down your throat. The vibration of your stunned and uncomfortable whines thrums against his tongue as it probes around, meticulously violating every capacity he can find as he thrusts around inside, running a viscous trail over and around the sensitive area. In contrast to your pitiful wailing, a hum of pleasure emanates from him, and although you try to tell yourself you can’t, you could swear you feel the warmth of his pelvis rutting against yours ever so slightly. Your eyes clamp shut, but it can’t block out the bombardment of sensations being forced upon you.

He finally withdraws with an audible gulp, drinking down any of your liquids he may have gathered. Puckering your cheeks in his fingers again, he shakes your head around a little. “Go ahead and swallow it now.” His teeth come into view as he grins, wolfish and nauseating. “Go on.”

You have no choice, don’t want to risk what he could do to you if you try to spit it out, so you do. You ball the blend of slobber in the back of your throat as best you can with your every instinct telling you to heave and force it down. You know that it’s just saliva, but knowing the situation makes you feel more embarrassed and degraded than you’ve ever felt before. It’s a struggle getting it down, and even more so keeping it down, and though some might call you dramatic, it feels as if you’ve been made to swallow acid. You can feel him watching you the entire time, his hand clenching slightly on the crook of your neck as he feels your throat flex in assurance of your compliance.

“Such a good girl when you want to be.” He finally releases your cheeks, slapping one slightly before pulling away. However, he leaves his fingers digging into your pulse points as he yanks you away from the wall and forces you to walk beside him. “See? It’s not so hard. Things will be so much easier if you just do what I say. No matter what I ask, you’ll do it, right?”

You nod weakly, unable to bring yourself to look at his face again. Tears are welling up in your eyes and it’s taking a lot of willpower to not cry in front of him, but you’re not sure how much longer that’s going to last. Your throat is starting to feel sore from the sobs you’re holding back, and every time you go to swallow them down, it’s a fresh reminder of just how much control he has over you, and just how little you have over yourself.

He seems to know this and pulls you closer to his torso as you walk the long, crooked path back home together as if it’s some sort of comforting act that he’s compassionate enough to offer. Even as he as holds you in mock affection, he never drops his anchor on your neck. “There’s no reason to be upset. I don’t ask too much, right? As long as you do whatever I ask whenever I ask it, you don’t have to worry. I’ll take care of you.”

That’s the problem.

What else was he going to ask?

[padfootagain]

The King And You (IX)

Part 9: Up To The Skies

 Here comes a new chapter for my Caspian series!! It's gonna be soooo cute!! Honestly though, I am making my own self blush and go 'hiiiiiiiiii' because it is so damn cute!

I hope you like this chapter!

Word Count : 2658

Caspian should have felt guilty.

Guilty for enjoying his time in your world. Guilty for forgetting the tolls of his people during his absence. Guilty for how his mind focused only on how beautiful this world was and so… large. Buildings were rising much higher than any tower he could have dreamt to build, and parks were almost woods, and there were so many people everywhere. It was overwhelming, in a magical kind of way. But it was no excuse to not think about his people, not to him.

He also should have felt guilty about the way he dreamt of you that night. Guilty for the flutter of his heart when he saw your smile. Guilty for how he considered taking your hand on the Brooklyn Bridge. Guilty for even thinking of how gentle you were. Guilty for losing track of time while he talked with you. Guilty for getting trapped into your eyes. Guilty for noticing how the sun hugged your silhouette.

And sometimes, throughout the afternoon, he did feel the sharp pinch of guilt, right there, in his chest. But then you would tell him something that made him laugh, or you would just look at him, or smile, or say anything at all, and the feeling in his chest would disappear altogether, like petals carried away by a breeze in the sweet warmth of spring.

He just felt… such a strange feeling when he was with you. Calm. Safe. Reassured. Vulnerable. He didn't know how to describe it, but he felt different, a good kind of different.

"So, this is the Empire State Building."

Caspian looked up with awe painted all over his features. By now, as the sun was about to set on New York City, leaving the moon to take its place. You reckoned you should be used to seeing this look on his face. After all, he seemed awestruck by every place you had shown him during the afternoon. Still, you couldn't refrain a content smile as you looked at his mesmerized expression.

"Shall we go up?" you invited him, and he accepted your offer with a grin.

Caspian was not used to elevators yet. He felt a little trapped in them, nervous, almost claustrophobic. You had explained to him the basic notions, and he had to admit that he was not happy at the thought of being suspended by a tiny string in a metal box, climbing so many meters up. But you were calm, and so he forced himself to seem just as calm as you.

The tiny box you were in was cramped with people, and he found himself forced to be pressed against you. His chest brushed your back, fabric against fabric, but you didn't seem to mind, while he could feel his palms turn wet, and his heart racing to a dangerously high rate, and his throat tightening to a point where he wondered how he could breathe altogether. But no one in the elevator reacted to this extreme promiscuity, and so he guessed that it had to be nothing out of the ordinary for this world. It didn't mean anything. It didn't change the fact that his head was starting to spin as you shifted though, making your arm collide with his.

Finally, the ding of the end of the climb, and this strange feeling in his chest as the elevator came to a stop. He followed you into a hall, and towards the patio.

His first thought was that he had never been so high above the ground before, and it made him a little uneasy. But then he turned to you and saw your grin as your eyes fell on the city splayed at your feet, and he knew that everything would be alright.

Eventually, you made your way to the bannister, and he looked down at the sea of buildings before him, vast, almost unending. The sun was setting, starting to colour the western horizon with paler, almost golden hues while the east darkened to deeper shades of blue. And in between an ocean of concrete, and bricks, and metal, pulsing with life and shaken by an everlasting whisper. Distant sounds of traffic and lives he would never come to know buzzed in his ears while the wind blew colder, making him tighten his collar around his neck. The first lights were alit in the buildings, and he could almost guess the darker shadows of their inhabitants. Strange thoughts crossed his mind about lives in this world, mothers and fathers and children and workers, until he thought of his people again.

From Cair Paravel, he could either see the ocean or the forest, depending on which direction he chose to face. He pictured trees to replace tall buildings, and the sound of waves instead of honking cars.

And for the first time that afternoon, he felt sad.

You noticed the change in his expression: a little more serious, a stray frown passing like a cloud hiding a distant star. He seemed lost in thought. He seemed… homesick.

"What is it like?"

He turned to you again, and it seemed like the redder sun bent to Earth to kiss your eyelashes.

"What is your home like?" you asked again as Caspian was remaining silent.

He hesitated for a moment longer. Where to begin? Would you believe him?

Did it matter though, whether you believed in Narnia or not?

"Wilder," he answered with a smile. "I live in Cair Paravel, it's a… a castle, a fortress."

"Cause you're a king."

"Yes, I am."

You nodded, but didn't seem to be mocking or questioning him. Instead you waited for him to continue.

"It is built on a cliff, right on the edge of the sea. At this time of year, the waters become more agitated, many boats stay ashore. But then spring will come back, calmer, more welcoming, and many will go back to travelling across the waves. I was supposed to travel to the Lone Islands next spring."

"You seem to like the sea. It's dangerous, though."

"Anything worth living has the power to break you. Whether it is because of its nature or how much of yourself you pour into it. In the end, the things that give your life meaning make you the most vulnerable."

You gave him a smile.

"That's kind of true. What else is there in your castle?"

"Gardens. You would like them, I reckon. They are not as large as your Central Park, but… they are filled with music and fountains, and people laughing all year round. And they hold the most beautiful flowers. In spring, when they are in full bloom, their smell travels even to the shores. And beyond the forest stretches for miles. Just… trees till the edge of the horizon. It feels like the castle is trapped between two kinds of oceans."

He was smiling by now, clearly happy to talk about his world with you. And you reckoned that there was no harm in forgetting for a little while that none of the places he spoke of could be real.

"Tell me more."

You exchanged a smile, and he told you of his home and the places he had explored, while day became twilight and finally night, skyscrapers imitating twinkling stars to match a reflection of the firmament, and you didn't drive him back to Agatha's before the building closed.

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

 You went home with a smile on your face that evening. You didn't think about questioning Caspian's stories, he seemed to believe in them too much, and for a while, you decided to play along, and believe in them a little as well.

After that first day of visit, you took Caspian to the Metropolitan Museum.

A third day and he had seen the Statue of Liberty.

One more afternoon, and he had gotten lost in the crowd on Broadway.

Fifth day and you had decided to take him to the cinema, where they showed Notting Hill again.

You thought it was a cute movie, that would probably not have him as confused as Star Wars and would make you both relax. Caspian let you choose the seats and tasted pop corn for the first time.

"It tastes very good," he nodded, taking a third handful of candies.

"I'm glad you like it," you chuckled.

"Have you seen this movie before?"

"Yes, I love it. I watch it every time I feel sad."

"Do you feel sad now?"

You shrugged, considering the question. You reckoned that your life could be easier. Alex kept on calling you now and again, mostly when drunk and in the middle of the night. You had been distracted and had not painted much for the past few days. And of course, there was all the general mess that Caspian had dragged you into. Yet, at that moment, sitting next to him in a theatre, about to watch a movie you loved, you reckoned that the adjective that would fit you best was 'happy'.

"No, no, I'm not sad," you smiled up at him, and he returned the gesture.

Along the previous afternoons, you had spent a lot of time talking, sharing facts about your lives, and the more you looked into his heart, the more you liked what you saw. You just didn't know that he felt the same way about you.

You guessed that you were becoming friends.

Sometimes, when he talked of Narnia, you considered that it was an elaborated game to which you had to play along, and you pictured his imaginary world. Some other times you felt like he was too earnest for it not to be the truth. You weren't sure about that yet, but what you had grown certain of was that Caspian was a good man. And for now, it was enough.

The lights went low, slowly fading as the film began. And Caspian laughed at the jokes, and he wished that these two characters would stay together, and he was touched by their declarations. But it was not what he focused on the most.

While Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts played 'love me, love me not', Caspian's eyes often left the screen in favour of your face.

Sometimes you whispered under your breath the lines you knew by heart. Sometimes you laughed. Sometimes you wore a dreamy smile. Sometimes you were close to tears. The light from the screen gave your features something ethereal. If he had been in Narnia, he would have thought you were a spirit, or maybe just a figure in one of his dreams, perhaps a star. Although, he knew you were real, tangible beside him, and every time you smiled, or laughed, or spoke the words before the actors could, he couldn't stop himself from grinning. He tried to understand his gesture as he noticed it, about halfway through the movie. You were not even looking at him, too immerged in the movie you had watched a hundred times, and yet, his heart skipped a beat every time he turned to you. He couldn't remember ever feeling this way simply because another person sat next to him. The thought of how close the two of you were passed through his mind, a hurricane shaking his whole frame, the realization stirring something deep inside his chest, something dangerous and yet wanted. He finally noticed how your hand rested on the cushioned arm of your seat, right between the two of you. Inches away, yet it felt like it was so far away… unbelievably far… unbearably far. He wished he could reach for it.

But he couldn't, could he?

He spent a minute staring at your hand, considering his thought, trying to figure out if it was a good idea.

In Narnia, him taking the hand of a woman would have been outrageous. Would you consider it the same here?

He looked up to your face again, the changing light drawing moving shadows across your features, and he decided against it. It was too lovely a moment to risk breaking it by a silly impulse. For it was all it could be, after all, or so Caspian guessed, at least. A moment of drifting thoughts settling on a ridiculous idea. It couldn't be just because he longed to hold your hand…

Eventually, the credits rolled up the screen, and the lights were turned on again. You turned to him with a large smile on your face.

"Did you like the movie?"

"I did," Caspian nodded.

"Great, cause I don't think I could be friends with someone who doesn't like it."

While you exited the room, Caspian thought about your words more carefully.

Friends. Was it what you were now? Yes, yes he reckoned you were.

The thought made him smile, yet, he couldn't help but notice that he wasn't as happy as he should have been.

To finish the afternoon, you decided to take a walk to Central Park. You bought vanilla ice creams, and kept on talking about everything and nothing, but there was a lot of laughing involved either way.

Caspian made you feel silly. Happy. A little light-headed. Dizzy like drinking a little too much wine. You felt safe by his side, free to be yourself without caring about him judging you. It was refreshing, in a world where one's image could be so used and distorted. You didn't care. And when you thought about the fact that he claimed to be a King, you guessed that you shouldn't feel that way. Maybe it was because you didn't really believe in the Kingdom Caspian was supposed to lead, or perhaps it was simply because of who he was, in any way, you didn't think about that fact at all. You felt like yourself when you were with him, and that feeling was closer to happiness than you had ever felt.

And Caspian had a similar feeling around you. He was more lost than you, and a bit confused by everything surrounding him, but he felt safe for as long as you smiled. Like no matter what could happen, it would end up being alright. It was so different, spending time with you, learning to know you. For once, he could be himself, without the pressures of the throne, or etiquette, or worry about how you might see him only as the King instead of Caspian. And that feeling of being himself, he reckoned it was very close to feeling happy.

The wind blew stronger all of a sudden, shaking the branches above your two heads, lifting skeleton leaves to twist and fly up all the way to the skies. A tourbillon pushed the leaves around you, making you laugh as they got caught in your jacket, and you looked up to see them fly as if to join the branches they had been forced to leave. And while he watched you like this, walking with colourful leaves flying around you, your eyes set to the tall trees and a laugh on your lips, Caspian's whole frame was shaken by a tidal wave of what he could only describe as tenderness. He just felt so… fond of you. A warm, radiant, almost aching feeling that swallowed his heart whole. When your eyes fell upon him again, he thought the sensation would wane, just a blink, a delicate moment to be remembered, but nothing more. On the contrary though, when his eyes met yours, he found that the feeling refused to leave. Instead, it settled down right there, under his ribcage, consuming his whole heart in mere seconds and claiming it all.

And finally, he realized why he felt so happy whenever he was with you. Why he longed to see you again as soon as you parted. Why it seemed now as if his heart wasn't really his anymore, as if it belonged to someone else, as if it belonged to…

Oh.

Oh, no…

 *******************************************************************************

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[themachiavellianpig]

“I’m Telling My Story”: Ainsley Whitly, The Prodigal Daughter

Throughout the first half of season one, we can see a great deal of how Martin Whitly’s actions affected his wife and son, both of whom are still actively struggling with the guilt of having been in some way intimate with such a man. Ainsley, in contrast, seems relatively unaffected by the situation and even describes herself as “lucky” in comparison to her brother- she is at least five years younger than Malcolm and seems to remember little of her father, giving her a significant emotional disconnection from his crimes. In direct contrast to her brother, she can hold down a steady job, engage in close relationships, and doesn’t appear to be in any kind of therapy. Unlike her mother, she isn’t even shown to be self-medicating in any way - she simply does not seem to need such coping methods. 

This relative stability is a gift, one for which Jessica explicitly gives herself credit: “Do you sleep at night? ...When you close your eyes, do you find peace? That peace is because of the choices I made. You can thank me any time you like.”  (1x03)

And it’s a gift which, arguably, Ainsley squanders over the course of the first half of season 1. 

“I don’t remember my dad. I was forbidden.” In the first ten episodes of Prodigal Son, we get to see some of the time immediately before and after Martin’s arrest, all from either Malcolm’s or Jessica’s point of view. We see nothing at all of Ainsley, except for a brief shot of her being held by her mother during Martin’s arrest. Given that Ainsley was only five years old at the time, this is admittedly unsurprising. Her memories of that time, so far as we know, are limited to Malcolm’s reassurances (“I was only five when Dad was arrested, I don’t really remember it. But I remember you. Telling me everything was going to be okay when you knew it wasn’t.”, 1x01). 

But she would certainly remember what happened afterwards, in the twenty years between Martin’s arrest and the first episode of Prodigal Son. We do not know exactly how Malcolm and Ainsley grew up following Martin’s arrest, but we can make certain deductions. 

Malcolm, as the person who discovered Martin’s true identity, as the one who was clearly and obviously traumatised by the discovery, would likely have been the focus of Jessica’s attention - in the same way that any child in crisis would be. Jessica’s active concern for Malcolm continues into the present day, clearly signposted in the first episode: Malcolm: “I assume you don’t break into Ainsley’s place like this.” Jessica: “God, no! She’s perfect. You’re my only concern.”

Additionally, we know that Martin Whitly, perfectly understandably, becomes something of a ghost in his former home. All reminders of him are packed away - there are no photos of him, his private study in the basement is walled up and forgotten, leading Malcolm to hide certain reminders of happier times in a shoebox under his bed. We don’t know exactly how Jessica navigates this particular transition from well-to-do nuclear family to tabloid fodder - how she told Ainsley the truth about her father or, quite frankly, if she ever did explicitly. Did Martin become something which simply was not spoken of in polite company, or indeed any company at all? 

Ainsley’s choice of words in 1x03 (“I was forbidden”) suggests a harsher line than simple silence, potentially indicating that questions about Martin were not only frowned upon but actively discouraged. Martin Whitly, loving father, was gone for good; the Surgeon was all that remained, and the Surgeon was not to be discussed. As early as 1x03, Ainsley even says that she has no idea what being back in contact with Martin will do to her brother’s mental health because she has no knowledge of who or what Martin Whitly really is. 

Just like Malcolm and Jessica, Ainsley seems to be struggling with having a connection to a monster. Regardless of the fact that she doesn’t remember having a familial relationship with Martin, he is her biological father - and if her mother and brother can’t give her the answers that she needs about him, she’s going to go straight to the source instead. 

“Martin Whitly is your biggest fan.” Ainsley’s decision to meet with Martin in episode four is prompted, I would argue, by a combination of curiosity and, let’s be fair, the sort of spite that springs up when a controlling parent tells you not to do something - after all, she only goes to visit Martin after both her mother and her brother have done the same thing, all while maintaining that nobody should ever go and speak to the Surgeon. But I find it very interesting that she only makes the decision to visit him after her mother lets slip a brand new piece of information: 

Ainsley: Thanks to both of you, he doesn’t even know I exist.  Jessica: He knows all about you. He watches you every day. He daughter, the ace reporter. Martin Whitly is your biggest fan. 

This information, it should be noted, is only news to Ainsley. We, the audience, see Martin watching one of Ainsley’s broadcasts in 1x02; in episode 1x03, he asks Malcolm to “Please tell your sister that her diction is impeccable!” and, in the same episode, he compliments Jessica on her excellent childrearing (“You did well, Jessica. I am so proud of him, and of Ainsley, and of you, for raising our beautiful children.”). 

And, from my perspective, this information is also profoundly creepy. A convicted serial killer obsessively watches all of a homicide journalist’s broadcasts? That’s a two-parter of Criminal Minds right there. 

But to Ainsley it’s a link, a connection, to a part of her life which she has never really been allowed to engage with. The trauma of Martin Whitly is written large on her mother and brother, but her trauma is second-hand and reactionary, which is admittedly a great improvement on the alternative, but would Ainsley see it that way? All children want to do is feel like they belong, and being the one left out - even the one left out of trauma - is never pleasant. 

Now, through an offhand comment from her mother, Ainsley knows that her father is interested in her, and in her work - in direct contrast to her mother, who supports her work idly, never really watching her reports (“Not with the sound on!”, 1x01), who finally starts to tell her something real about her father and his opinion of her and then immediately tries to shut the conversation down (“Can we please talk about something else?”, 1x04).

And so Ainsley heads off to see her father for the first time in twenty years. 

“You made him out to be just a monster.” We, the audience, had a full two weeks to wait between seeing Ainsley in Martin’s cell and hearing anything of the conversation that they shared, which was genuinely one of the most infuriating cliff-hangers I’ve seen for a while. 

The meeting with Martin undoubtedly rattles Ainsley, albeit not in the way she expected. As Jessica points out, Ainsley went to that cell to meet a monster, and instead found a seemingly loving father (1x06). A man who regretted his absences in his daughter’s life and had filled the gaps with daydreams of “birthdays, piano recitals, dancing with [her] at the debutante ball” (1x06), daydreams in which, judging by the fantasies shared with Ainsley, he plays the starring role of Devoted Father. This conversation could have been repeated between any father-daughter duo separated in television plotlines around the world - the cause of that separation is so overlooked by Martin’s little fantasy to be actually hilarious. 

And, by this point in the series, we’ve seen both Malcolm and Jessica be taken in by Martin’s acts, not to mention all the people that Martin had fooled during his days as an active serial killer, so it’s hardly surprising that Ainsley is at least a little taken in as well. The split between Martin-the-father and Martin-the-serial-killer is also one that has preoccupied Jessica and Malcolm throughout the twenty-years and it’s one that Ainsley, through her lack of memories about Martin, has been spared up until the moment she comes face to face with him, and asks him the “most important question”: ” “Was it real? … Did you love us or was it just some psychopathic act?”

The surviving members of the Whitly family may never really know the answer to that question - and it’s a question which has no easy answers. Which would truly be worse - being an unwilling cover story for a monster, or genuinely being loved by a monster? 

But, for Ainsley, the question is no longer about what her relationship with Martin was; it’s about what it could be - or, more precisely, about what it could do for her.   

“Ambition is not a dirty word.”  The decision to interview Martin is one which, full disclosure, makes perfect sense from a professional point of view; an interview with a notorious serial killer, particularly one who had never spoken publicly about his crimes before, would be a feather in the cap of any crime journalist. She is also arguably the best choice to conduct such an interview from a creepy mercenary perspective - her familial relationship to the Surgeon gives the interview a sensationalist angle which would be impossible for any other network to easily duplicate - and, unlike the rest of her family, Ainsley has not yet been traumatised by Martin Whitly. 

Of course, it's the ‘yet' in that last sentence that has Jessica and Malcolm so worried about Ainsley - her visiting Martin might be less immediately damaging that Malcolm or Jessica coming face to face with their own personal demon, but it's still very unlikely to be healthy. 

Interestingly, Malcolm's concerns about the interview seem to be extremely focused on Ainsley's immediate personal safety ("You’re putting yourself in his cross hairs"), and his reaction on learning that she's already seen Martin is to ask if she is okay. Jessica, as the only member of the family who really remembers the immediate media aftermath of Martin's arrest, becomes far more focused on the potential PR concerns: 

Jessica: Ainsley, if you do not have a plan to make him look bad, he will look good. Tell me you understand. Ainsley: Mother, these are the questions I sent. Not the questions I’m going to ask.  Jessica: Alright. I see what you’re doing.  Ainsley: Good. Can you stop worrying?  Jessica: I am far more worried now.  Ainsley: What? Why?  Jessica: Thinking you are more clever than Martin Whitley, that’s the worst mistake you can make. He’ll exploit that. He’ll find a way to come off sympathetic and you will be sitting there like-  Ainsley: Like what?  Jessica: His accomplice. 

Jessica, as we learn later in the season, was herself questioned by the police about her role in Martin's crimes, and I am sure that the media speculation around the Wife of the Surgeon would have been horrific and heartbreaking. She clearly does not want Ainsley to put herself through the same thing - and she certainly does not want Martin to have any opportunity to manipulate the wider population, as he has so easily manipulated his own family in the past. 

This is not to say that Jessica has no concern for Ainsley's safety - her immediate reaction to the potential interview is to get the entire thing blacklisted by the network itself. It's only when Ainsley reveals a willingness to outplay her mother at that particular chess game that she relents - not to give her blessing, but to step back and allow Ainsley the dignity of her own choices. 

And, potentially, Ainsley does take some of her mother's fears seriously - she insists on keeping Martin in his restraints during the interview, despite technical concerns from Jin the Cameraman, and she makes sure that the red safety line on the cell floor is in shot. She even refuses Hair and Makeup the chance to make Martin look anymore physically presentable before the interview begins.  

The interview itself, however, does not go exactly as Ainsley had clearly wanted it to - first, Martin neatly sidesteps her attempts to throw past crimes in his face, then her brother interrupts with police business, then her cameraman gets stabbed. All in all, hardly a good day at the office.

The interplay between Martin and Ainsley hashes out the timeless question of what really makes a person - Ainsley focuses on the lives her took, complete with grisly details ("Billy Franklin, age 23. Aced his LSATs, wanted to become a civil rights lawyer. You removed his heart to see how long he could live without it. He died a gruesome, agonising death. My question is why?", 1x07), Martin fights backs with the lives he saved ("How about Corey Goldstein, age 10? A brutal car accident left him with a surely fatal aortic rupture. Until he landed in my OR, where I saved his life.") and the medical procedures he developed ("Did you know they named a medical procedure after me? ...I’ve heard a rumour that doctors still call it the Whitley, in hospitals all around the world", 1x07). 

It's a far more complicated portrayal of evil that Ainsley had prepared for - she has no good response prepared for the accusation that Martin did some good in the world, unlike her pithy retorts about particular victims and what Martin did to them. We don't get the chance to see if Ainsley would have been able to retake control of the interview, given Malcolm's interruption, as his arrival gives Ainsley a very different line of attack - the only line of attack, it must be said, that ever seems to really rattle Martin. Ainsley is the only character in the first part of season 1 to really get under Martin's skin - but she can only do it by using her own brother as bait: 

Ainsley: So. I mentioned a number of your victims earlier, but I’d like to discuss one more. Malcolm. Malcolm Whitly.  Martin: I’m not sure I understand Ainsley: You claim to care about your son, but what you did twenty years ago harmed him irreparably.  Martin: Well, that’s not true.  Ainsley: Isn’t it? He’s been diagnosed with complex PTSD, generalised anxiety disorder, night terrors. Dr Whitley, do you know what happens to the human body when it withstands that much stress for that long a period of time?  Martin: I’m not sure that’s relevant-  Ainsley: He was fired from the only job he was ever good at. He hasn’t been in a stable relationship for years. And the ten years he went without seeing you were by far the happiest, healthiest of his life.  Martin: Well, that’s absolutely not- Ainsley: What does that say about you, except for you’re an absolutely terrible father?  Martin: I’m not.  Ainsley: He just wanted to love you. And you caused him so much pain.  Martin: Stop it.  Ainsley: What kind of a father does that?  Martin: Stop it! I was a good father, damn it! 

This interaction goes on to form a crucial part of the interview - Martin's loss of control is featured in the introduction to the actual broadcast (as seen in 1x10) - and it was not at all discussed with Malcolm beforehand. We, the audience, are not entirely clear on how much information Martin had about his son's condition prior to Ainsley’s disclosure- he would have known some things, noticed symptoms such as the hand tremor, but that is still potentially miles away from Malcolm's having his mental health history spelt out like that in front of Martin and, potentially, in front of everyone who watched Ainsley's interview. 

It's a successful and potentially satisfying manipulation of Martin, to be sure, but it's also a heart-wrenching violation of Malcolm, and Ainsley never seems to notice. 

In a matter of hours, Ainsley double-downs on the notion of violating the privacy of others when she films Martin perform surgery on Jin the Cameraman, stabbed in the patient-uprising which Martin himself engineered. We never get to see Malcolm's reaction to his violation - he doesn't seem to challenge Ainsley on it directly in any way - but Jin does (1x08). Jin, when he wakes in the hospital to find that Ainsley filmed the surgery and didn't tell him about it, has a very simple and understandably reaction. 

Jin: What is this? You filmed my surgery? Ainsley: I was going to tell you. I just- I- I- I got so caught up in the adrenaline and it was so compelling- Jin: Oh, was it? Was it compelling when I almost died?  Ainsley: We went there to get a great story and we got one. I was doing my job!  Jin: I understand. This is who you are. I just don’t think that’s the kind of person that I want to be with. 

And Ainsley doesn’t try to apologise to her boyfriend, or try to explain herself any further - she leaves Jin in the hospital, taking the interview footage with her instead. 

“I’m telling my story!” The interview, despite the various dramas around it all, is eventually broadcast. Thanks to Jessica’s well-thrown shoe (seriously), we never get to see the interview in its entirety (which is a great shame, seeing as we only see Ainsley get a few minutes of usable footage in 1x07), but we do get to see the introduction: “Dr Martin Whitley murdered 23 people as the Surgeon, making him one of the world’s most deadly serial killers. I’m Ainsley Whitley for American Direct News and the Surgeon is my father.” 

The clips that we see include Martin's lose of control at being called a terrible father, which strongly implies that at least some of the section concerning Malcolm was kept in; we have no idea if the footage of Jin was used, although I'm assuming that he would have had to give permission for his own surgery to be shown on national television and, given his reaction in the hospital to the footage, I'm equally comfortable assuming that he would not have given such permission. 

While Malcolm tries to watch the interview, possibly to support his sister, possibly to torture himself futher, Jessica is adament that she will not. Her initial plan seems to have been to pretend that it never happened; she only speaks to Ainsley about it when Ainsley pushes past her joking “no comment” to challenge Jessica on her perceived lack of support for her daughter's professional accomplishment. 

This pushes Jessica to have perhaps the most genuine and honest conversation with her daughter about Martin and their past which they had ever had (1x10):  Jessica: Your father destroyed us. Your brother and me. You put him on television and let him talk about it. You have gone and soaked yourself in blood. The press devoured us twenty years ago, and now they are at it again.

This information is given calmly, perhaps even dispassionately: for Jessica, the destruction of herself and her son is a simple matter of fact. Not to be spoken of, of course, but ever-present and utterly undeniable. She does not even become angry until Ainsley accuses her of "playing the victim": "I am not a victim! But there are victims. Real ones. How do you think those twenty-three families feel when they see you on television? And why is the story never about them?"

The story is not about them, of course, because for Ainsley, the story is currently about her. Ainsley's newfound 'ownership' over the Surgeon story is clearly spelled out in the interview's introduction ("the Surgeon is my father"), her reaction to the paparazzi outside her mother's home ("Any breaking news about my family is mine to report") and, finally, in her retort to Jessica's challenges over the entire interview: "I'm telling my story!"

But, as we've discussed earlier, Ainsley doesn't actually have a story with the Surgeon. In the real-crime biography of Martin Whitley, she's a footnote at best. Jessica, who married a monster, Malcolm, who unveiled a monster, the twenty-three or more people who died at the Surgeon's hands, the hundreds of people, including Jin, who had their lives saved by the Surgeon, they all have a story with the Surgeon. Ainsley simply does not. And in her attempts to create one during the first half of season 1, she only really gets anywhere when she uses the stories of others - her casual retelling of the horrific things the victims went through, her reveal of Malcolm's mental health diagnoses, her filming Jin's surgery.

Ainsley’s lack of personal connection to the Surgeon was her greatest asset in a very broken family at the beginning of the series; her attempt to create such a narrative when none organically existed has been the cause of pain for plenty of people other than herself. 

All that remains to be seen is how this narrative - either genuine or manufactured - continues to develop in the second half of season 1. 

[reluctantly-plus-ultra]

Rei (PART TWO)

I literally finished my university paper a day early so I would have time to write this up and keep giving you guys the Good Content™. Thanks for the overwhelming amount of support on part one, everybody!

-When Rei first tells them her plan for taking down Endeavor, they don’t think there’s any way it’ll actually work.

-The LOV has always operated as a physical unit, out to kick ass and take names. They didn’t band together for subtle espionage and demolishing reputations through intellect.

-But Rei’s adamant that going into a brawl won’t accomplish anything. After all, even if they did manage to beat him in a fight, Endeavor be seen as a martyr to the public, still a symbol of hope, the number one hero that defended them to the end. That’s not what they’re going for. Beyond that, the only way to keep him from rising again, in that sense, is to kill him, and while Rei Todoroki wants some well-deserved justice, she doesn’t want his life on her hands.

-So, instead, she suggests ruining his image. They’ll air out all the sheets of the Todoroki household, let the world know once and for all the truth behind the man they’ve placed their faith in. Force him to step down, allow him to finally reach that number one spot that he’s ruined the lives of her family to achieve, and then strip it from him with the evidence of the horrendous acts he committed to get there.

-”He lit this fire,” Rei says coldly, and the chill in the room doesn’t come from her quirk, “Now he can burn in it.”

-Personally, Dabi still wants to torch Endeavor’s ass straight to hell, but even he has to acknowledge that Rei has a point. Their odds of success are a lot higher going into this from a tactical perspective. The rest of the league can at least somewhat come to that conclusion as well, but there’s one main problem barring the way.

-Kurogiri is the one to point it out, asking how they’re going to get evidence of events that happened so many years ago. At the best, they have two witness testimonies, and there’s not a single court around that would take the word of a hospitalized woman and a well-known villain over that of their number one hero.

-And it’s then that Rei’s face hardens into an expression that none of them have seen before, delicate hands balling into tight fists, jaw clenched.

- “I can get you that evidence,” She claims easily enough, as if it’s something that can be pulled from thin air, “But I’m going to need a laptop, or a computer-”

-The very nice thing about co-inhabiting with criminals that have loose morals is that they can get you things very quickly, and typically for free. Rei has a laptop sitting in front of her before the night is up, and is furiously typing as soon as they get her logged in.

-It’s common knowledge in the league that Rei has a habit of mumbling to herself when deep in thought; this has been particularly prominent while working on the Endeavor plan

-And this has actually been pretty unsettling for a lot of the members, because for someone so sweet, Rei has a novel of shit that Endeavor needs to atone for, and she hasn’t forgotten a single insulting incident in twenty-four years. 

-What this means is that sometimes, when she’s working deep on the planning, divulging information about the number one hero, she’ll give them a list of his weaknesses, things that will set him off, ways that they can target him that nobody else is aware of (potentially even Endeavor himself)

-But then after that, she’ll start listing incidents. Her eyes will gloss over, and the words will just start tumbling out of her mouth as she crosses situations out of that novel, offenses that are being reciprocated through her sabotaging the man

-Her last round of info had made up for six incidents, and while the league had gradually been getting used to these episodes, the last one had packed a punch.

- “The time you forced Touya to train so hard, he broke three fingers and you still made him keep going for an hour after.”

- Any time she mentions incidents with Touya, the tension in the room goes up four notches. Dabi can’t believe some of the details she remembers, can barely remember them himself sometimes, but his ring finger on his right hand has been crooked ever since that day, and it serves as a stark reminder of the past they’ve endured.

-While she works at the laptop, though, the things she mutters are not incidents, but random sequences of letters and numbers, her hands moving in sync with the mumbled symbols.

-And it takes them a while to pick up on it, but these memorized segments are the extremely distorted weblinks to clearly self-made web pages, at least six or seven in total.

- She doesn’t stumble once. Not on a single number, not in any of it, and every single one of those links are complete gibberish, entirely disconnected from one another.

-The web pages are filled with images, all of them old, all of them pre-dating Rei’s hospital admittance

-And it’s with this that Dabi has to leave, storming out of the warehouse, and Rei gets this carefully blank look on her face, because they’re both reliving nightmares, and they’ve barely started scrolling the pages.

-There are scanned copies of journal entries written in different coloured crayons and a wobbly hand, more entries on some of the other web pages done much steadier and in pencil, but with the same printing. There are photos of bruises, scars, burns, four different children, one woman’s gaunt face. Personal accounts, typed and handwritten, short and blurry-quality video clips of Endeavor’s “training”. It’s a montage of horror, carefully collected and dispersed across the web through links that meant nothing, that would never come up as a result from a search engine, spread across multiple pages so that even if one page were found and deleted, there were many more to replace it.

-But none of them have been found, none of them have been taken down because Endeavor, man that he was, had assumed that because his wife never raised her fists, she wasn’t fighting back.

-It’s in that moment that it clicks with everyone else, too: Rei Todoroki didn’t come up with this plan to take down Endeavor in the few months they’ve known her- she’s been planning this for years.

-The way that Rei takes all of this in, and then almost too-calmly asks Kurogiri if he can please make her a cup of tea is terrifying, even to a room full of criminals.

-They all fall asleep restlessly that night, reminded of their own pasts and the demons that have led them to where they are- and as for Rei? Well, she gets to cross another twenty-seven incidents off her list, and when she falls asleep as well, the weight on her chest feels much lighter.

-When Hawks shows up the next day, it’s still early in the morning- early enough for most of the league to still be in bed, and a few hours before his time to patrol. He comes bearing a tin of sweets for Rei, her bitter, dark-haired son (she’s so happy he’s found a friend), and a USB stick.

- “I hear we’re raising hell,” He says cheerily by way of greeting.

-They go through the evidence quietly the hero scrolling through the pages with an increasingly scary look on his face.

-He doesn’t tell Rei what he and Dabi have already hashed out between the night before and six o’clock in the morning- that A) Hawks is definitely a spy, and damn did it ever piss him off to have Dabi out him so easily, because he was sure he had him fooled, B) Dabi won’t out him to the rest of the league so long as Hawks agrees to help Rei, and C) None of this can go through the Commission. Absolutely none of it.

-They’re both very aware that if the Commission gets their hands on this kind of info, it will be swept under the rug faster than either man can blink, and the people instigating the problem will probably disappear. Hawks has heard them use the sentence “It’s for the greater good” far too many times to cover up too many things, and a sickened part of him doesn’t want to consider if maybe they’ve used those exact same words to cover up situations like this before.

-And damn it all, he agrees even though he knows it’ll probably come around and bite him in the ass- because at this rate, if the Commission catches wind of him being affiliated with this plot in any way after it all breaks loose, he’ll be on the rack. But he tries not to consider what he has to lose, and instead focuses on the fact that he can help these people, and maybe others as well. Who knows how many “heroes” have ruined lives just like Endeavor and walked free.

-And really, in the heart of it all, he wants to help the Todoroki family. Sure, he doesn’t know Natsuo and Fuyumi and Shouto very well, but Rei has slowly warmed over a portion of his heart that he didn’t realize was lacking a mother figure, and Dabi means more to him than he’d like to admit. Growing up, he was never given the liberty of being attached to people, tangible people who were his equals and not his icons. Now, having grown so fond of these two in particular, he’s beginning to understand why some people are willing to lay everything on the line for family.

-So he goes through the evidence and does his best to ignore how Rei strokes her hands through Dabi’s hair as the two of them watch as well, not entirely sure who the action is meant to comfort more. All the while, he’s trying to match up the man in these entries, the man in these clips and photos, to the man he’s risked his life for, fought beside, trusted wholeheartedly.

-Betrayal has a bitter taste, and it lingers in his mouth.

- He’s just finishing up downloading all the files onto the USB drive, when Rei finally speaks.

- “If this works, you’ll be the new Number One.”

-His hands stumble on the keys, and a sinking sense of melancholy sets in. Quite honestly, Hawks has never aimed for the Number One position in the way that others do. He’s never gone after it like he needed to have the top position or nothing- in fact, he would be happy to settle lower in the top ten then where he is now.

-But there’s really no avoiding it, and while he’s not sure what kind of complications it will have in his career, in his mission, in his growing relationships with both Rei and Dabi, he determines that’s a problem for another day.

-“I’ll be better than him.” Hawks says, the words coming out as more of a promise than the assurance he intended. Rei’s answering smile is caught somewhere between satisfied, bittersweet, and proud.

- “Good.”

-He takes the USB stick, gives Rei a quick hug and demands that she eat at least three of the chocolates herself before passing them around to everyone else (because he absolutely knows that she will) and leaves a shared parting look with Dabi that means everything and nothing all at once.

-Rei notices of course, but it’s really not her place to pry and she’s honestly not even sure that Touya himself has any idea what his current situation is with the winged hero, so she chooses to let the matter drop. The fact that the chocolates Hawks brought her happen to be her son’s favourite doesn’t entirely go over her head either, but she chooses to let that slide as well

- In the end, true to their collective nature, the LOV still agrees to also attempt a physical attack on the Number One hero, if only to bolster their media image. After all, they’ve been lying low long enough that the hero world needs a reminder that they’re still alive and kicking.

-And honestly, maybe just a little, they also want to give the world an image of Endeavor being taken down in more ways than one.

-Dabi volunteers immediately, that much kind of being a given, but everyone’s surprised when Rei offers to go as well. So far, everyone aside from the league and Hawks is still under the impression that Rei’s hospitalized- her image still isn’t tarnished, and if she wanted to, she could walk away from the league that minute and never suffer consequences for it. The instant her face is shown in correlation with them? There’s no going back from that.

-But she’s adamant, and it’s with some reluctance that they give in. In some ways, it’s only fair- this is personal for her after all, so it makes sense that she’d want to be involved. They settle on letting the mother and son handle the fire hero, and make plans to have everyone else ready to back them up if needs be.

-Besides, they’re out to absolutely destroy his image, and what better way to do that than have Endeavor’s own family do so? Bonus points for dramatic flair, nobody will be forgetting this for a while.

-Before long, it’s the night before the whole operation, and everyone’s restless as hell. Twice and Toga watch five consecutive episodes of some awful cake-decorating show that neither of them can stand before calling it a night, Spinner’s gone for most of the evening, and in a rare show of caring, Shigaraki puts down a steaming cup of soothing tea in front of Rei, the kind that she always steeps for him when he starts getting antsy and in his head. It’s a kind gesture from the young man, and she makes sure to smile warmly when she thanks him for it, pleased when he chooses to stay and sit at the table with her. They don’t make conversation, but just knowing that the other is around is comforting in itself.

-Rei ends up staying up later than he does, and it’s with a somewhat awkward and unpracticed motion that the man reaches out to pat her hand before heading to his own room, the action jerky like a rusty machine, but still appreciated. Rei smiles into her cup when she notices that the leader of their rag-tag little group has been gradually getting more tactile with those around him, wearing those gloves she made for him at almost all times. He still has a long way to go before he’ll be able to handle true contact, but she can see the effort he’s making, and every little bit of progress marks a new milestone.

-Dabi also spends the night away from the league, but Rei isn’t too worried about her eldest child. She knows exactly where he’ll end up, knows that he’s in good hands. After all, there’s probably nowhere safer for him to be than with the one other person in this world who cares for him just as much as she does.

-And on that note, Hawks spends most of the night discreetly flying all across Japan, dropping off printed files of incriminating evidence under an anonymous cover and using several fake emails to reach out to news agencies, freelance journalists, newspapers, magazine editors- anybody he can think of who would take this on as a scoop and spread the proof like wildfire. By the next morning, he knows that he’ll be seeing this stuff all over the media- he just hopes it’s been enough.

-When he returns home to find the door already unlocked, he doesn’t even bother turning on the lights. Instead, he locks the door behind him and makes his way over to the couch, not surprised at all to discover a familiar lanky figure passed out unawares.

-Normally he’d just leave him, maybe toss a blanket over the other man in passing, and continue on his way. But… After tonight, everything was going to change, and who knew what was going to happen to all of them, yes, but especially him and Dabi and this… Well, whatever it was that they were building.

-So he wakes the other man up instead, smiling as blue eyes catch on his own, and they talk. They talk about everything Hawks can think of to talk about, every little question he’s ever wanted to know about this mysterious person who’s taken up such a huge portion of his life recently. And for once, Dabi doesn’t meet him with resistance for his curiosity, seeming to have come to the same conclusion. 

-Eventually they end up in Hawks’ bed, still just talking, laying side by side. There’s a strange sense of rebellion in the intimacy of it all, and the part of Hawks that has always loved pushing boundaries, fighting his leash, is basking in this. The Commission had wanted him to get close to Dabi, but he doubts they’d intended for him to get close enough to press a brave kiss to the other man’s forehead as they both start drifting off, to be close enough to hear his breath stutter before he hesitantly drapes an arm over the hero’s waist. If they could see him now, they’d expect him to be luring Dabi into some kind of trap, stabbing him in the back after earning his trust.

-But for now, the greatest “fuck you” he can send their way is by choosing to be gentle over violent, by choosing this person over his mission, by going after what he wants for once, damn it-

- “You won’t be there tomorrow, will you?”

-No, no he won’t be. As a hero, if he were present, he’d be expected to step in, and that’s the last thing he wants to do here, especially if it means facing off against not only Dabi, but Rei as well. The thought of even acting threatening to the woman is enough to turn his stomach.

-And honestly, if anyone had ever told Hawks that at twenty three and well into his professional career, he would find himself cradling a villain in his bed and whispering promising words of encouragement about the upcoming takedown of his childhood idol, he would never have believed them.

-Eventually they fall asleep this way, and Dabi has never really known, in all his life, what safety feels like but he’s pretty sure this is it.

-Skipping ahead to the next morning, Endeavor is already out on patrol when the news bombs start dropping. And of course, the reaction from the public is… Explosive, to say the least.

-There’s a lot of shock and a lot of horror, and absolute outrage. The only thing to really do in a situation like this, as far as news is concerned, is to go for a follow-up, so there are people all over the city trying to track down their Number One to get some answers.

-Meanwhile, Endeavor has no clue this is happening. At this point, the worst part of his day is not yet the fact that his hero career will be over in the span of a week, but that he ran into a familiar crispy edgelord and just… Doesn’t have time for this shit again.

-He expects Dabi to start monologuing to some degree, so when the villain starts off with, “Do you remember me?” it’s not really any kind of surprise.

-But it’s when Dabi responds to his irritated retort with a more firm, “No- do you remember me?” that Endeavor halts in his tracks a little bit. He’s not entirely sure what this creepy asshole is going for, but it’s setting him on edge, like there’s something in this situation that he has missed observing.

-And, for starters, he’s missed seeing the film crew behind him, although he will notice them eventually. 

-But then this criminal starts talking about his children. Shouto, Natsuo, Fuyumi. He talks about how Shouto was kept separate from them, how he isolated the other two like they were never good enough, how he pushed his youngest so hard, the boy cried himself to sleep every night. Dabi starts listing events, scenarios, as if he gave a shit about them, as if he was there-

-And that’s when it clicks.

-When it does, he just outright cuts the other man off, a scowl working its way onto his face, disgust curdling in his gut. Part of him can’t believe it, that his long lost son has returned to him in the form of a ghoul, and the other part doesn’t accept it at all.

- “You’re not Touya.”

-At first, Dabi stares at him incredulously and starts to laugh, because how the hell could he not be, given the list of offences he just spouted off, but Endeavor corrects him, voice chillingly cold. “You might’ve been, but you’re not anymore. I gave you that name, and I can just as easily take it away. I set you up for greatness, and you chose this?!”

-The rage is bubbling over now, and the look on Dabi’s face has gone from one of irritated humour to a sheer blank slate. “You’re not my son. No family of mine would be so weak as to fall into villainy.”

-And, well, that line basically digs his grave for him, because from out of the shadows steps Rei Todoroki, and in the ways her eyes are blazing, one could’ve sworn she’d stolen Endeavour’s Hellfire right out of his hands.

-Instantaneously, half of Japan is losing their collective shit. In the span of six whole hours, Endeavor’s been exposed, Touya Todoroki is back from the dead (and is, as it turns out, one of the most prominent LOV members), and Endeavor’s wife has not only escaped the hospital she was admitted in, but has apparently sided with the villains as well? And this is all being filmed on live television?

-Every building with a functional TV is tuned in. Hawks is in line for coffee when he catches sight of the news channel and decides he’s going to slow down for once in his life, and not take it to go. Natsuo is watching the whole thing go down while munching on a bowl of cereal in his apartment, and as shocking as the whole situation is, it’s immensely satisfying as well.

-Shouto Todoroki watches from the dorm common room, and nobody knows what to say.

-And let’s just talk about Aizawa for a moment, shall we?

-Aizawa is a stoic man of few words, and even fewer needs in life. He’s simple, pragmatic, a slightly pessimistic rationalist through experience, and pretty laid back as far as most things go.

-But you don’t ever fuck around with his students.

-If anyone is going to react poorly about this, it is Shouta Aizawa, hands down. Unlike Hawks, Aizawa has never looked up to Endeavor as a hero. He’s never even liked the guy. And therefore, he has nothing to lose when his manageable contempt for the hero escalates to seering, undiluted hatred. Aizawa does not have a fuck to give; Endeavor just made it onto his shit-list.

-And the worst part of it is that he didn’t really suspect anything. He probably would’ve assumed that Endeavor was hard on his son, but he would never have guessed even remotely close to everything that’s been uncovered. And this is Shouto, Shouto who is always so polite and aloof, and so eerily unshakable for a boy his age.

-Hell, his classmates just got him to partake in his first Disney marathon four days ago, and he couldn’t stop grinning all the way through Frozen. The boy’s made so much progress in being here, has been finally opening up and making friends- but now he’s staring blankly at the TV screen while the news feeds roll, and Aizawa is literally quaking he is so pissed off. 

-So while the rest of his students gather somewhat uncomfortably in the common room, watching the television with wide eyes, all of them clearly trying to decide between going to comfort the youngest Todoroki and leaving him be, Aizawa walks in with an extra blanket and two mugs of tea and just… Chills with him? The rest of the class is shook.

-And Aizawa doesn’t say anything either. He just gestures towards the TV and asks if Todoroki would like it left on, and when the boy gives him a silent nod back, he’s content to leave it at that. 

-Gradually, the rest of class 1-A begins to gather as well, quietly collecting around their shaken classmate. The couch is not near big enough for all of them, but they make it work.

-Midoriya’s curled into Todoroki’s other side, Iida and Uraraka sitting by his feet on the floor. Surprisingly enough, Bakugou chooses to stand, but directly behind where Todoroki’s seated on the sofa, hovering at his back and looking silently livid, which is even worse than when he’s loud. There’s students gathered around on the floor, standing like the blond, sitting on the arm of the couch like Kaminari is perched. 

-And it’s bad enough going through the Endeavor twist, but when Dabi reveals himself as Touya, Todoroki just blanches. There’s a million things running across his face all at once, and half of them are crushed. 

-Even Aizawa doesn’t really know how to react to that, and the room falls into a hushed silence until Bakugou finally speaks up.

- “I can’t believe your fucking brother kidnapped me, Icy Hot.”

-And then suddenly, noise. Kirishima is squawking and smacking Bakugou’ arm and telling him not to be insensitive, and Midoriya is overanalyzing, and Aoyama’s saying something about the woods and the Summer Camp attack, but nobody can really hear him-

-And over it all, Todoroki is laughing. It’s not an entirely wholehearted laugh, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. 

-When Rei steps up, though, that laughter fades quickly. Suddenly, Shouto Todoroki is four years old again, watching his mother face his raging inferno of a father, and all the previous boisterous life in the room gets sucked out at the sight.

-Throughout all of this, Aizawa’s been trying to keep his distance somewhat. Shouto’s never been a very affectionate student or individual in general, and neither is the erasing-quirk hero. But seeing how tiny and frail his student appears, shrinking in on himself as the drama keeps unfolding- well, Shouta doesn’t hesitate to put a comforting arm over the boy’s shoulders, noting with approval that Midoriya has snagged one of Todoroki’s hands as well, and is trying to keep him grounded.

-He gets a few notifications that he’s being paged to head out onto the scene, but he ignores them. Aizawa’s priorities are and always have been his students. If some other hero cares enough about hauling Endeavor’s ass out of trouble, they can rush in and help him, but Aizawa’s never been shy about making his opinions clear. He’s right where he needs to be, and he’s not moving.

-Rei is not afraid.

-That’s the first thing she realizes when she makes a move to stand by Touya, and sees Enji’s eyes widen in disbelief. She has stood in this exact position so many times, has stood before this man on too many occasions to be afraid of the wrath in his eyes. She is not afraid, she has evened the playing field, and she will not let him break her again.

-The worst part of the whole thing isn’t even seeing him again, meeting like this with the remains of a shattered family falling down around them. The worst part is that he sees her, narrows his eyes, and tells her to get out of the way. The first words out of his mouth are an order, same as they’ve always been. And right now? She has no intention of complying. Never again.

-When she doesn’t move, he repeats himself, angrier this time. He’s pouring flames, a spectacle that would have instilled her with enough terror ten years ago to do whatever he said, and not speak a word. But as she sees Endeavor winding up to attack, eyes fixed on Touya, the young man, her boy, reaching out to pull her behind him-

-Endeavor lunges. Rei shoves. Dabi ends up on the ground well out of harm’s way, and for a moment, the world stops on its axis.

-Enji Todoroki did not bribe over an entire family to win a woman with a run-of-the-mill ice quirk. Were that the case, he never would have wasted his time. Rei was a meek woman with a powerful ability that she barely used, and never in extremes; a little bit of frost to cool a juicebox, a cool hand to soothe a scrape.

-So when an absolutely terrifying, guttural roar of a sentence reaches him, seconds before thousands of pounds worth of ice go shooting up in a very obviously threatening display of power, he’s inclined to stop dead. 

- “Don’t you dare touch my son.”

- Rei’s teeth are clenched, eyes hard, hands still braced to fight. The exertion of putting up so much ice hasn’t even seemed to affect her, a simple flick of the finger compared to the full-handed slap she could deliver.

-For once, Endeavor hesitates.

- “You won’t lay a damned hand on him,” She hisses, and a collection of icicles shoot forward at her words, though they stop a good four meters away from where he stands, “I’ll never let you do that again. Because you were right about one thing, Enji- he’s not your son. He’s mine. Natsuo, Shouto, Fuyumi, Touya; they are all my children. You haven’t done a single thing in this life to deserve them.”

-Endeavor sputters at this, but only for a second before Rei’s ice is growing again, eyes cold and dangerous.

-He manages some kind of threat about having her rehospitalized, still unsure how it happened that she was out in the first place. Rei’s smile is not a pleasant one.

- “I don’t recommend you try that.” She says quietly, and in seconds, there’s ice everywhere, Rei unleashing her powers for the first time in well over twenty-five years. It shoots up in an enormous plume, cutting itself short before reaching the reporting camera crew, but forcing Endeavor to leap out of the way and scramble to safety.

-Rei and Dabi slip away in the confusion, regrouping with the league who were hoping to see some more general ass-kicking, but greatly appreciated the display nonetheless.

-And across the rest of Japan, people notice. Hawks chokes on his coffee when the ice flares up, stunned to disbelief that sweet little Rei, who had been so careful preening out his bad feathers that time he got stuck in a storm, was effortlessly capable of this. Natsuo drops his bowl, Shouto sits agape. None of them have ever seen Rei use her powers to her full capability, and the effect is stunning. 

- “That explains… A great deal.” Aizawa mumbles eventually, voice barely audible over one Katsuki Bakugou shouting “Fuck yeah!” at the top of his lungs from behind the sofa, very nearly scaring Midoriya off the couch. The news roll continues, but there’s nothing more to see aside from Endeavor shouting at a group of heroes that have arrived suspiciously late.

- “I… Yeah, I guess so.” Todoroki manages. It’s overwhelming, all of it, and while he has a billion questions in his mind, there’s one that sticks out more than the others: what on earth does all of this mean for them now?

What this means is that I guess we’re doing a part three now too, because I don’t know how to cut things short. Sorry guys. Thanks for the support, if you’ve read this far, and hopefully I’ll have some new content up for you all soon!

[arcticdementor]

It’s easy to decry cancel culture, but hard to turn it back. Thankfully, recent developments in my area of academic specialty—artificial intelligence (AI)—show that fighting cancel culture isn’t impossible. And as I explain below, the lessons that members of the AI community have learned in this regard can be generalized to other professional subcultures.

…

It’s a tale that illustrates a number of useful principles for those seeking to combat cancel culture. These include:

Find your friends. There’s nothing worse than facing a mob alone. Build your network in advance, so that you don’t have to cold-call free-speech advocates when a crisis already is upon you. Create relationships with people in your workplace and field who share your views. Find out whether there are unions or other groups that are responsible for protecting your rights, and find out what they can do to help if a mob ever comes after you. Join and support organizations such as Heterodox Academy, the National Association of Scholars, and the Foundation for Individual Rights in Education (FIRE). Connect with like-minded people on social media. Your friends may come to your aid publicly or privately. Both are good. Even just receiving words of encouragement from like-minded individuals can make a big difference when you’re under attack.

Pick your battles. All workplaces and professional fields can present their share of dogmatists and unpleasant personalities. You can’t take on all of them, and not all battles are worth fighting. Pick the ones with high symbolic value—which is to say, battles that act as proxies for some larger principle—and which you think you have a reasonable chance of winning. In my case, I knew that taking on a notorious bully in the AI community was worth it because her rout would send a message to imitators. I also knew we had an advantage going in, because this individual already had hurt and angered many people. Moreover, her position as research director at a prominent company made her more vulnerable than me.

Know what to expect. The cancel crowd has its own bullet-point playbook. And they’ll respond aggressively to any symbolic act that threatens their status, or erodes the impression that they are the ones calling the shots. Remember that behind the social-justice veneer lies the brutal logic of power and ego. To maximize the pain you feel, they’ll tag activist groups on social media to inflate their numbers and reach. They’ll bombard every organization you’re part of with demands to censure, discipline, disown, fire, or expel you—often phrasing their appeals in the passive aggressive guise of “concern” and “disappointment.” At other times, they will insult, taunt, and, threaten you in a manner resembling middle-school children having a recess meltdown. In my case, the ringleader called me “a full on misogynist and racist,” “shameful bigot,” “hypocrite,” “clueless,” “tone-deaf,” “snowflake,” and “soulless troll.” She assailed my “privilege and patriarchy,” “lack of basic empathy and ethics,” and “zero self-awareness.” She also questioned whether I’m really a human, and called on NeurIPS to ban me, and for my department to expunge me. Her goal, in short, was to ruin my life. The cancelers will dig up anything they can from your past. And if they can’t find any, they’ll make it up. This will all seem terrifying, but much less so if you realize that you’re just the latest victim in what is basically a mechanical and dehumanizing process. Insofar as you don’t actually get fired from your job or suffer some other equivalent setback, these are all just words, and they don’t define who you are.

Don’t back down. Don’t apologize. Don’t make clarifications, and don’t try to appease the mob. All of these will only be taken as concessions, and embolden the mob to demand more. The real Achilles’s Heel of the cancel crowd is its short attention span. Once they bully someone into submission, they move on to the next victim. It’s a system designed for quick wins. If you don’t back down, they’ll raise the pitch as far as they can—but eventually they’ll be at a loss for what to do next, and all but the most fanatical will lose interest. The few that remain, now bereft of their backup, are just what you need to teach all of them a lesson, as we did in my case.

…

Mock them mercilessly. Fear is what keeps the silent majority from speaking up, and laughter is the best antidote. The cancelers take themselves extremely seriously, imagining themselves to be social-justice angels whose holy ends justify every imaginable means. Their sanctimonious spirit is a gift to you, if you call it out instead of playing along with its conceit.

Don’t let their narrative outrun yours. Once a false narrative is entrenched, it’s hard to overturn, no matter how many facts you have on your side. So while, as noted above, I generally would discourage you from focusing too much on defending your own actions, there should be some resource you can point to so that everyone can know the truth. Once you have established that resource—a blog post, a published article, a podcast, even a set of tweets or Facebook posts—point people to it where necessary, including your own professional contacts and potential allies. Keep it short, crisp, and compelling so that it gets widely circulated and isn’t thwarted by short attention spans. And keep the tone confident (and possibly even funny), so that it’s clear who the real inhuman fanatics are.

Goad them into overreaching. The cancelers’ overconfidence is your greatest asset, as I learned when the ringleader of the mob that came after me resorted to posting the above-referenced list of people whom she wanted canceled, many of them junior researchers whose only crime was to have followed me or liked one of my tweets. This crossed a line for a lot of observers, and of course the people on the list itself were aghast. Word spread of the shocking behavior. Even people on her side started turning against her.

Turn their weapons against them. You may find this to be the most controversial principle, but it’s also arguably the most crucial—as the cancelers won’t stop until they fear that they’ll endure the same consequences that they seek to impose on others. In my case, I watched as investors and customers leaned on the ringleader’s company to rein her in. Even companies that posture heavily in the area of social justice don’t actually want to be stained by the disgraceful behavior of mob leaders. Indeed, I have no doubt that it was an ultimatum from her employer that finally led the ringleader to stop her Twitter outbursts and apologize publicly to her victims, for all to see. Some will say that once we resort to this step, we become as bad as the cancelers. But that’s a false equivalence. The cancel crowd tries to ban people because of their views. We try to stop bullying—behavior that is reprehensible regardless of ideology.

…

Get the majority on your side. In the end, most cancelers can’t be dissuaded in the short run: They’ve invested too much in their roles as inquisitors to give them up easily. The goal isn’t to win them over—you won’t—but rather to persuade the much larger number of people in the middle. Just because these people aren’t vocal doesn’t mean they aren’t out there watching, reading, thinking.

[chickensarentcheap]

Sanctuary - Chapter 28

Warnings: none really

Tagging: @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @valkyrie-of-the-light, @thorsbathroomchicken, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y

The phone call comes in shortly before one pm; the SAT system easily tracing the number back to the Slainte pub.  At first she just blankly stares at the digits and the name on the screen, not having the energy or the patience to deal with whatever bullshit would greet her the moment she answers.  She's in a 'mood'. Rapidly switching from the lowest of lows to the highest of highs;  either dissolving into tears at the drop of a hat or frantically cleaning the room and organizing paper work and files on the lap top. Torn between wanting to curl up in bed and stay there for the entire day, and desperately wanting something...anything...to keep her mind occupied. She's nauseous. Dizzy. A pounding headache that sits at the base of her skull and above her eyes.

Stress. Always the same old, same old when her nerves are shot.  The same symptoms she suffers with for days when Tyler walks out of the house for a job.  Incessant worry accompanied by crippling fear and the deepest and darkest recesses of depression.  But at home she is able to beat it; focusing on the kids, concentrating on their needs, their laughter and their smiles and all of their hugs and their kisses making it all a bit easier to handle.

The SAT phone beeps. Indicating a text message.  Groaning loudly in protest, she throws off the comforter as she lays on her stomach in the middle of the bed, propping herself up on one elbow as she reaches out for the offending object.

You missed a call.  Nik's message reads. Everything okay?

Part of her wants to tell Nik to fuck off and leave her alone.  That it's partly her fault for getting her mixed up into this god awful shitty mess to begin with. Nik could have had her side in the whole thing; adamantly refusing to bring her into the fold, not allowing Yaz and Tyler to call the shots when it came to the Intel and now the tactical sides of things. But Nik had just thrown her under the bus; offering her up like some kind of sacrificial lamb. Acting as if there weren't other people that couldn't do the job. Other mercenaries looking for work. Who were much more experienced. Seasoned. Hardened. Instead of putting all her faith and trust into someone who had become nothing more than a housewife and stay at home mother.

The other part reminds Esme that Nik is her friend. Regardless of her history with Tyler. Nik was the one who'd initially brought her into the fold five and a half years ago; who'd brought her along when she'd gone to the little shack in the Australian outback to recruit Tyler for the Dhaka job.  In a way, it was all Nik's doing; had she not brought Esme aboard and had her tag along that day, this part of her life wouldn't even exist. There would be no Tyler.  No hobby farm in Colorado. No children. She would more than likely still be living the old existence; living out of suitcases as she travelled place to place. Lying. Conning. Getting people to trust her so she in turn could help destroy them.

Fell asleep, she types back.  If it's important, they'll call back.

She waits for the response. And in true Nik fashioned, it makes her want to hurl the phone across the room.

Get your head on straight, E. We don't have time for this.

Sighing heavily, she rolls over onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. One hand on her queasy, cramping stomach, the other holding the SAT down at her side. He's been gone for an hour; McCann had insisted on meeting forty five minutes from Belfast. Worried that there were too many eyes and ears within the city itself and that word would travel fast and the end result would be hell on earth.  He had a lot of enemies within the IRA. He knew too much. Deep and dark secrets that could bring down a lot of very powerful people. And his involvement with someone like Tyler would set off a lot of alarms.

She worries that it's more. Something far more devious. Dangerous.  He hasn't given them any reason to trust him. Right off the hop he'd fed them complete and utter bullshit regarding his New Zealand extraction; convincing them that his wife just nothing but a lowly, random shopkeeper when she'd actually been the reason he'd been hired in the first place. He hadn't gone after on a rescue mission; he'd been hired by the devil to take her straight back to hell.  A man in this thirties wooing and winning a seventeen year old girl that was essentially at his mercy. That alone is extremely troubling. And taking into account his ties to the IRA and possible lingering connections to them, it was easy to assume that his plan to get Tyler nearly an hour away from the safety net of Belfast is also some of ruse. To get him alone and vulnerable.  

Or to hit him where it really hurts and get her alone and vulnerable.

The nausea increases.  Eyes closing as she rubs her stomach in slow, smooth circles, struggling to keep a grip on the runaway emotions.  They normally weren't this bad. Usually she could easily talk herself out of the stress and the panic before they hit head on. But now it feels as if it's going way too quick. Too fast, too soon.  So much worry and anxiety that it makes her head spin and her chest ache.

Her SAT rings once more. The pub. Again.  Only this time she's able to get a grip, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and moving towards her laptop as it sits open on the table by the window.  Once she's within a foot it causes the system to come alive; the recording of the call beginning even before she presses talk.

****

“Hello?”

“Is this Meghan?”

She recognizes his voice.  Billy. The barkeep from the pub.

 “William,” she warmly greets, with the same flirtatious tone she'd used the night before when she'd dropped his full name for the first time. She'd noticed then how it seemed to get under his skin; in a good way.  That little smile that tugged at his lips,  the slight blush in her cheeks and the tips of her eyes, the way his eyes seemed to soften and sparkle.

It had been one the easiest marks of her career.  Most took a while to warm up to her.  Taking weeks to even months to soften up their hardened and weathered exteriors. But he'd been eager; ready to let someone in. And what better someone than an established, attractive, and seemingly available woman? One that would do anything...or perhaps even anyone...to get ahead in the world.

“I hope I didn't catch you in a bad spot. I was wondering if you had a little time to spare.”

“For you?” she leans back in her chair, a barefoot planted against the cool glass of the sliding door. A far cry from the evening before when she'd played the part in her business slacks and curve hugging blouse. Clad now in one of her her husband's tattered and frayed t-shirts and pair of baggy grey track pants with the Emery surfboard company name and logo down one leg; small blotches of bleach dotting the fabric in several places. No make up and her hair messy.  “For you I can make the time, William.”

A silent pause. And she smirks as she leans further back in the chair and places her second foot against the window, twirling a piece of hair around her index finger.

“I like that,” he says.  “The way you call me that.”

“Well that is you're name, isn't it?” she crosses one her legs over the thigh of the other, bouncing her heel up and down against the glass. “You are William, are you not?  That is what Billy is short for, I assume.”

“It is,” he confirms with a chuckle. “It's just that no one has called me that in a long time. Since my wife.”

“You're married?” she reaches over to snag the pen and spiral bound notebook off the table. It's full of random notes and doodles in various different colours of ink; her and Tyler both using it to hurriedly jot down names and numbers and any other bits and pieces of information, vital or not.  It's old school and shouldn't be necessary with the computer recording everything off the SAT, but technology isn't always fool proof.

“I was. We're divorced. Bad break up. She was shagging a mate of mine.”

“Well that's unfortunate,” she hurriedly flips to a fresh page of paper and places the book on her thigh. “Hard to believe anyone would cheat on someone like you. If you forgive me for being so bold, but you aren't exactly lacking in the looks department.  You're quite the head turner. In my humble opinion.”

“Well thank you,” he chuckles, and she can practically see the blush creeping into his cheeks and the tips of his ears. It's not entirely a lie; he is quite easy on the eyes.  And a much younger and single Esme would have considered..albeit briefly...crossing that line between business and personal.  “You're easy to look at yourself. Very easy to look at actually.”

“I take it this isn't a business call,” she muses.  

“Not entirely. It's a little bit of both. Business and pleasure.”

She smirks.  “And what kind of pleasure are we talking about? Because I don't usually get into that sort of thing with someone I barely know.”

“I was thinking dinner. And drinks. If you're free.”

“Well that depends.”

“On what?”

“If you tell me a little more about yourself.  I can't jump into anything with a stranger.  A young woman, alone in a foreign country, far from home. That wouldn't be smart would it? If I just blindly trusted you and took you up on the offer?”

“Well what is you want to know?”

“Well I think dinner and drinks calls for first and last names,” she says.  “You know mine. So...”

“It's Flynn. My last name,”

“William Flynn,” she repeats, as she jots it down. “That has a very nice ring to it. How old are you William Flynn?”

'How old are you?” he counters.

“I asked first. And isn't it always ladies first?”

“I suppose,” he chuckles.  “Twenty eight. And you.”

“Thirty,” she lies.

“I honestly thought much younger,” he admits, and she can't help but let it inflate her ego. And encourage her to continue with the little game. “You look good. For thirty. Very good, actually.  Do you have children?”

“No,” that lie actually hurts to tell it, and she tries to push the intense feeling of guilt to the back of her mind.  “I'm too focused on my career right now. You?”

“A son. He's three. Collin. Lives with his mom. In Dublin.”

She continues to scribble things down.  “That's sad,” she hopes it sounds sincere. “I hope you get to spend time with him. That's quite the trek down to Dublin.”

“Every second weekend. I'd like it to be more often but...” he sighs.  “...it is what it is.  So you're not married? But you still wear a ring?”

“I've had a hard time severing that last string. It's a bitter pill to swallow. When the man of your dreams pick his job over you. When your happily ever after doesn't exactly turn out that way.  He wasn't happy. As a husband. We were much happier before. Before things got too serious.”

“Well pardon me for saying this, but he's a goddamn fool. He has to be to choose work over the likes of you. So have you thought about it? My offer? Dinner and drinks?”

“I'm intrigued,” she admits.  “What's in this for me? Other than the handsome and charming company?”

“I have some information. About what you asked about last night. Michael McMann. About his wife and kids and whose involved and trying to stir up trouble. And I've got some names. Of other people you can contact. That are willing to talk.  People that are higher up than I am. With real connections.”

“Higher up in...”

“The IRA.”

She grins victoriously and in big letters at the top of the page, right under the name William Flynn, prints those three initials.  “You're involved with them? The IRA?”

“It's the family business. What I can tell you is that we're not involved in this. With the wife and kids. We hate the guy. He screwed us over. But we'd never do that. Especially to kids. Even we draw the line somewhere.  But whoever is doing this has pissed off a lot of people. Tempers are running high. We want to find out who it is and do something about it.”

“Like a turf war?”  she writes that down, accenting it with a big question mark.

“There's a lot of trouble brewing, that's for sure. We want nothing to do with this. The wife and the kids. And they're using us to draw attention away from themselves.”

“Any idea who it is?”

“No real proof. Just lots of rumours. I shouldn't be talking about all of this right now,” he gives a small chuckle. “What will we talk about dinner?”

“Oh I'm sure we can find things to talk about,” she assures him.

“Or things to do.”

“Now don't go putting all your eggs into one basket. I'm not that type girl.”

“I'm sorry, Meghan. I never meant anything by it. Forgive me for being too forward. I...”

“What time for dinner? Tonight is unfortunately not going to work for me. I have prior arrangements that can't be cancelled. But if you're free tomorrow, I can certainly clear my schedule.”

“Tomorrow would be wonderful. I know this is terribly bold of me, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. You've been on my mind constantly. Since you walked into the bar. You're very...intriguing. I can't quite get a read on you. There's something so different about you. Way different than any of the women from around here.  A mystery, almost. There's so much I'd like to find out.”

“Well if you play your cards right, maybe I'll let you find those things out,” she responds.  

“Tomorrow? Six thirty?”

“How about seven? It gives me longer to get ready.”

“Done,” he agrees. “Where do I pick you up?”

Shit, she hadn't even considered that this question would come up.   It has been smooth sailing; much easier and seamless than so many initial encounters.

“Meghan?”

“You know,  I'm not entirely comfortable with a stranger knowing where I'm staying. I'm a little paranoid about that sort of thing. You can never be too careful in this day and age. How about we meet somewhere? In public. I hate to be such a bother and a worry wart, but...”

“How about we meet her at the bar? We could go in the back room. It's private there. We can have dinner. A few drinks. See where the night takes us.”

She groans internally.   “Sounds like a plan,” she chirps. “I'm very much looking forward to seeing you again. To chatting more.  I'm flattered. That you thought of me.”

“I've been obsessed with you,” he admits.

“Well hopefully you hold onto some of that enthusiasm.  I have to go. I have an online meeting with my editor in a few, so...”

“I'm very much looking forward to tomorrow,” he says.  “And I'm flattered as well. That you'd agree to have dinner with me.”

“I'll see you tomorrow,” she promises.  “Seven.”

“Seven,” he confirms, and then offers a soft, quiet goodbye before hanging up the phone.

****

“Well this isn't how I expected things to go,” Mark says, smirking from the passenger's seat of the rented SUV. “You asking me for help.”

“It's the last thing I want to be doing, believe me.  You're the last person I want to be dealing with.  Ever.”

“So why am I here? What's got the legendary Tyler Rake swallowing his pride and actually asking someone for help? You're usually a one man show from what I've heard. Must be some serious shit if you're willing to suck it up and give someone a call. Especially me.”

Tyler sighs, eyes briefly closing as he pinches the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger. “You're already making me regret this.  Could you maybe shut the fuck up for five seconds? I don't have the time or the tolerance to listen to your bullshit. I don't want to hear any comments about my marriage, no opinions on how I handle things with my wife, no stupid shit about my personal life or my kids or none of that. This is strictly business. So let's keep it that way, yeah?

“Fair enough,” Mark agrees. “So what's up? What's going on?”

“This McMann guy,” Tyler begins. “There's no way of knowing what he's really up to. If he's innocent in all of this or he's actually part of it. If he's the victim in all of this or if  this is some really crazy act of revenge and he's just wanting to get me alone.”

“I thought you didn't have history with this guy? With the IRA? Or with the wife?”

“I don't know. Well, not that I can remember anyway,” he confesses. “There's things...a lot of things ...that I don't remember. Dhaka...everything that happened on the bridge...it's fucked with my head. I'm not sure if it's because of blood loss or lack of oxygen or all the meds I've been on. But there's things I don't remember. No matter how hard I try to.  So maybe I did have history with them. Maybe I did have a job they were involved in and I pissed them off and I just don't remember it.”

“And when you didn't recognize McMann when he showed up in Telluride, he decided to play it for all it's worth,” Mark concludes.

“Maybe. I don't know. He seemed like he was on the up and up. About what's going on with his wife and his kids. But there's a couple times where he's said some things that didn't quite sit right. I brought up how if...when...things go to shit...he might not be able to get his kids out. Not both of them, anyway. He threw it back in my face. Asking me how I'd decide which of the twins to save.”

Mark scowls. “That's a bitch move.”

Tyler nods. “I told him there'd be no decision. That I'd give up my life for theirs. No hesitation. If it meant saving them and getting them back to their mother, that it was something I was willing to do. It would be easier on Esme. If she lost me instead of one of the kids. She'd get over me. But she'd never get over losing one of them. She's an amazing mum. And I'm lucky. To have her. That she's the mother of my kids.”

“It's what she always wanted. Kids. I just wasn't the man to give her that.”

“McMann wasn't on the same page as I was.  The idea seemed ridiculous to him. Having to make that kind of decision.  He wasn't...he isn't willing to sacrifice himself for them. I found it weird. That there'd be any hesitation whatsoever. How do you not want to save your kids? Your blood?  They're your legacy. Why would you not want to let them go on and live long and happy lives? It didn't sit well with me. I haven't been able to get it out of my head.”

“There's guys without kids that would make the same decision as you. I saw it overseas. In Iraq. You probably did too. Soldiers ready and willing to sacrifice themselves to save random kids...and women...from the Taliban.”

Tyler nods. “I've seen it a few times, actually. I've even known mercenaries that have given themselves up to save someone.”

“You almost did,” Mark points out.  “Even after things went to hell and there was no money, you still busted your ass to kid that get out. And Esme.”

“I wasn't going to leave them behind. No matter who wanted me to. And if it meant I died for them...” he shrugs.  “...it was what I was willing to do.”

Mark nods slowly, considering his words. The sincerity in his voice. In his eyes.

“Esme doesn't trust him,” Tyler says. “McMann. And she has great instincts. Better than mine sometimes. She didn't want me going into this alone. She's worried sick. That this could all be a trap and McMann's got an army of guys just waiting to ambush me. I need to give her peace of mind. And I promised her I'd come back safe.  That I'd come back to her.  She trusts you. I don't know why. Considering everything you did to her...” he holds up his hand; a plea for silence when the other man opens his mouth to speak. “....but she trusts you. You're the only one I could call. Yaz was made the same time I was. I can't be seen in public with Esme or she'd be made and that will fuck up her end of things. So I called you.”

“How do you know you can trust me?”

“Because you know I'd fuck you up if you crossed me.  You know I won't hesitate killing you.  And I don't think you want that, do you. You can act all big and bad, walk around wagging your mouth, try to get under my skin.  But you know the stories. All the bloody and gory details. You know what I'm capable of. And you know I won't mind adding you to the body count.”

A smirk tugs at the corners of Mark's mouth. Not nearly as confident as the ones he's given before.

“So this is me, asking you for help. Now are you in or you're out, mate? Because I don't have all day.”

Mark hesitates. Then offers a hand. An agreement. “I'm in.”

****

“William Robert Flynn,”  Yaz reads the information aloud from where he sits at the table in Esme and Tyler's room, his own laptop and ipad spread across the table.  “Born March 15th, 1997, right here in Belfast. Parents are Robert and Elizabeth Flynn. Nee McDonald.  Dad is deceased. 2011. Mother is still alive. Lives in England now. Remarried.”

“How did the father die?” Nik inquires, her image on the laptop screen. “Suspicious circumstances?”

“Coroner's report lists self inflicted gun shot wound to the head.”

“There's a police report,” Esme speaks up from across the table, her own computer in her lap, a plate of barely touched room service food in front of her. She'd been hungry and had taken it as a sign that the nausea was finally at bay. Until the first bite and attempted swallow had her running for the bathroom.  Her head pounds. Frantically. And she reaches for a bottle of water and the container of Advil in the middle of the table. “Says that William Flynn was the one who discovered his father. In the back garden. Face down in a pool of blood. Gun was lying next to him. A nine millimeter. Glock.  Spent shell casing near by.”

“He would have only been fourteen,” Yaz says. “Same age Ovi was in Dhaka. Hell of an age to walk into something like that. Your old man missing half his head.”

“Any evidence that says it may have not been a suicide?” Nik asks.

“The police reports are shit,” Esme replies, as she pops three of the tablets into her mouth and swallows them with a mouthful of water. “I've seen some pretty amateur ones, but this has to be one of the worst. Obviously the cops and the coroner didn't think this case mattered. He was an IRA member. Probably caused a world of trouble when he was around. They were just glad he was gone. Why waste the resources, they probably figured.”

“There was no gunshot residue on his hands,” Yaz says. “Or at least that's what the report says. And he's not wearing gloves in any of the photos, so...”

“It was a hit,” his sister concludes. “Before any of this, was there any connections between the IRA or the Buckmans? Anything that stands out? Anything that could tie Robert Flynn to the Buckmans?”

“Not that we've recovered so far,” Esme says. “But we're still digging.  Robert Flynn was pretty high up in the IRA. One of their best and longest serving members. A real enforcer. He didn't mind getting his hands dirty.  His son is an active member.  They have ties to the IRA going back to the grandfather and great grandfather. Not to mention several cousins and uncles still in the movement. It's the family business, apparently.”

“So William Flynn obviously knows Michael McMann,” Nik concludes. “And vice versa. Anything that shows a feud between them?”

“Nothing on paper,” Esme responds. “But he told me that everyone in the IRA is pissed as hell with McMann. For betraying them. And taking a lot of secrets and dirty shit with him when he left. And now they're even more pissed because McMann's out there saying that it's the IRA that scooped his wife and his kids. And they'd admit to that. The IRA would definitely claim responsibility. They've never denied ties to even some of their broader scale bullshit. So they'd admit to this.”

“We were wondering if maybe this is all a big ploy to make things blow up within the IRA,” Yaz speaks up. “To stir the pot enough that an outsider comes in and starts it all off. That maybe that's what Tyler is being used for. To kick it all off.  What better way for McMann to draw attention away from himself? Let Tyler cause the shit and then leave him hung out to dry.”

Esme sighs, briefly closing her eyes and laying a hand over her queasy stomach.

“Are you okay?” Nik inquires. “You look a little...off.”

“Just stress. This is all just so insane. It's so twisted and so fucked up and now Tyler's out there...alone...meeting with this guy. What if he has people with him? What if he's got a whole damn army behind him and Tyler's just walking into a huge trap? He's good. But he's not that good. He wouldn't stand a chance and you both know it.”

Yaz attempts a reassuring smile. “He'll be okay. He's smart. He knows what he's doing. Your man isn't stupid, that's for sure. Look what he handled in Dhaka. When he went into that apartment to extract Ovi.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Yaz. I do. But there's a huge difference between street thugs in Dhaka and the IRA.  These people are extremely dangerous. Extremely dangerous. And they show no mercy.”

“And neither does Tyler,” he points out.  “If anyone can handle this, it's him.”

“He should never have went there alone,” Esme huffs. “It was dangerous. Foolish. Sending him in by himself.”

“We don't have anyone there to help,” Nik attempts to reason. “Resources are extremely thin. It's the three of you and that's it. And the rest of the team is out on other assignments or they're here helping keep an eye on things. He'll be fine,  Esme. He always is.”

“Oh really? Always? Because I seem to vividly remember him bleeding to death on the Sultana Kamal Bridge. Or are we just forgetting that that happened? Oh wait, it's because you two took off to get Ovi to safety and you left Tyler there to die. And you left me there to watch him die.”

“That isn't how it happened and you know it,” Nik seems hurt by the explanation. “We came back for you. For both of you.”

“Half a goddamn hour later! Thirty minutes I spent with my hand pressed to his neck, trying to keep him alive. While he bled out all over the fucking place. You weren't there. You weren't the one holding him there on the bridge. You weren't the one with blood on your hands. His blood. So I'm sorry if I'm not as appreciative for your help as you'd like me to be, Nik.”

“Okay....okay...” Yaz pleads for calm.  “....let's not rehash this. It's over five years ago.”

“Five years ago, five weeks ago, five days ago,” Esme snarls. “It still happened. And pretending it never did is bullshit. It's bullshit and it's completely disrespectful. To Tyler. To just push it aside like you've both been doing all these years. Acting like it was no big deal. You got him into that mess, Nik. You brought him into that bullshit and then you left him there.  You left both of us there. What would have happened had you not come back? He would have died there. And who the hell knows what would have happened to me once Asif realized he didn't totally finish the job. And let's not forget that you wanted Tyler and I to leave Ovi in the goddamn street. You wanted us to just throw the kid to the wolves.”

“I wanted the two of you out of there,” Nik argues. “I wanted you both safe. The kid held you back. Had you gotten rid of him, both you and Tyler would have made it out of there before everything blew up in our faces.”

“He was a kid! He was a kid and you wanted us to just leave him there! Jesus, Nik. Do you realize how that makes you sound? Like a bloody sociopath.”

Yaz sighs. “This solves nothing. You two going at each other like this. I know it's been a long time coming but...”

“You probably wanted him to leave me there too,” Esme says. “I'm actually surprised you didn't suggest it.  You knew what was going on. Between Tyler and I. And you hated it even then. You hated the idea of me in his life. Because it took him away from you.”

“That's not true. I was pissed off that the two of you were so goddamn reckless and foolish and you actually thought it was good idea to start fucking each other while on the job. You couldn't wait until it was all over? The two of you were that desperate and horny that you had to fuck each other on my time?”

“Enough,” Yaz snaps. “Both of you. This is bullshit. We're all in this together. It doesn't matter what happened back then. It was five and a half years ago. So they fucked each other. No one else gave a shit. No one else cared. Only one it bothered was you Nik.”

“Because she wasn't the one fucking him,” Esme pipes up. “Not anymore, anyway. All the more reason she probably wanted him to leave me in the street. Get me out of the way so she could climb back into his bed again.”

“It doesn't matter,” Yaz insists. “It wasn't going to happen. Once Tyler met you, that was it. It was over. And you...” he glares at his sister through the laptop screen.  “...they're together. It happened. They're married. They've got kids. Let it go already. Let him go.”

“I've had enough of this,” Nik fumes. “We'll pick this up again later. When certain people can actually stay focused on the job at hand. That seems to be a thing for you, Esme. You couldn't stay focused in Dhaka either.”

“Fuck you, Nik. Seriously. Fuck you. I don't need to be here. I'm not one of your employees. I'm helping you, remember?”

No response. Just a black screen signalling the other woman has already logged off.

Yaz sighs, shaking his head in disbelief.  “I know that that's been coming for five and a half years, but shit. Could you not have waited until after we discussed all of this? Was it really that important that you just had to get to it?”

“Don't you start, Yaz. You know everything I said is true. She left us there. On that bridge. While he was dying. While I was trying to keep him alive.”

“What were we supposed to do? We had to get Ovi out of there.”

“Oh I don't know. Maybe it would have been nice to help me get Tyler the fuck out of there. How about that?”

“There was no time. There were going to be more cops. Military even. We had to get Ovi out of there.”

“So to hell with the two people that busted their asses to get Ovi there in one piece right? To hell with the fact that your friend is lying there with a gunshot wound to his throat, bleeding out all over the place. Tyler wasn't useful anymore.  He did what you all needed him to do and it no longer matter what happened to him. And if I just so happened to get killed too, oh well. No big loss, right?”

“We came back. I told Nik we had to go back for you guys and...”

“Wait...wait...” she stares at him incredulously. “...you had to tell her to go back and get us?”

“She thought it was too dangerous. That the situation was still too hot.  She didn't want to ask anymore  lives. But I told her that I couldn't just leave you guys there. That if Asif found out that things weren't finished and he sent more people down there, neither of you would stand a chance. I told her I was going back in to get you guys. Whether she helped me or not.”

“So she was more than willing to leave us there. To leave Tyler there. After what he'd done to make sure he got Ovi there? To get both of us there? She was okay with just leaving him to die?”

“To be honest, we thought he'd be dead when we got back. We didn't expect him to be alive still. We all saw what happened. What were the chances that he'd actually survive that? That you would have actually been able to keep him alive?”

“I wasn't leaving him there. I wasn't letting him die. Do you know what that was like? To go through that? To try and convince someone not to just give up? When dying is much easier than the fight not to? I had my fingers in his goddamn throat, Yaz. I had to stick my fingers in his neck to try and block the artery. I can still feel it. How hot the blood was. I can still feel his pulse against my fingers. And I can still smell it. Like it was yesterday.  Do you have any idea what that was like?”

“No,” he shakes his head sadly. “And I'm sorry you have to remember all of that. That you had to go through it.”

“I didn't let him die on that bridge and I'm sure as hell not going to sit back and let him die here either. Maybe your sister was willing to let that happen, but I'm not.  His life means more than that. A hell of a lot more. He's not the same Tyler he was back then.  The one that had a death wish. He's my husband, Yaz. The father of my children.  And there is no way I'm letting anyone send him out there to die.”

“You're doing what you can. The intel. The tactical.  There's only so much you can do, Esme. Killing yourself isn't going to save him. Getting yourself killed trying to keep him alive solves nothing. Because if something happens to you, he'll put a gun in his mouth. Or he'll drink himself to death. He would not survive that. You know it, I know it.”

She sighs, a frown on her face as she runs a hand over her unsettled stomach.

“You look like shit,” Yaz observes.

“Well thanks. I'm so glad you pointed that out.”

“You're not...you know...”

She laughs. “You have something against saying the actual word? No. I'm not pregnant. We've been trying. But it hasn't happened yet. This is definitely stress. I know the difference. I've been through three pregnancies. I felt the same way with each of them. I knew right away that it wasn't stress and that I wasn't just sick.  This? This is not the like any of those three times. It's definitely stress. Worry. And I miss home. I miss my kids. I just want to go home and see them.”

“Soon,” he promises. “This will all be over soon.”

She gives a shaky, skeptical smile.  

She hopes he's right.

[flutteringphalanges]

Summary: It is public knowledge that Zoe Van Helsing is the last of her blood line. Not to mention that, in a sense, Count Dracula is too. However, after an unexpected night of passion, both their lives dramatically change when Zoe becomes pregnant. Two unconventional parents, one extraordinary pregnancy. What could go wrong?

Rating: M

Pairings: Zoe Van Helsing/Dracula & Agatha Van Helsing/Dracula

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: Thank you to all who have left kudos/comments/reviews and even have taken the time to read this story thus far! I'm having loads of fun writing this one and I'm hoping you are enjoying it too! Okay, enough of my blabber, here's the next chapter!

                                    Chapter Three

Gemellology. The scientific study of twins. One child out of every thirty two children born was a twin. In the United Kingdom alone, one in out of sixty five babies born were some number of multiples. And one, twin pregnancy, out of the billions of people in the world was the result of a paternal vampire. Singular. Unique. No one else on the planet would be like them. The statistics, though not publicly published, were there. Zoe had never felt so overwhelmed in her life.

"Because of your age, health complications, and the fact you are carrying twins, you're considered high risk," Dr. Clyde explained, Zoe sitting rather motionless as the doctor began to scribble instructions onto a pad.

"Is there something we should be concerned about?" Dracula inquired, his attention focused on the doctor. "Perhaps momentarily taking leave from her job?" Zoe didn't have to look over to know that the vampire was fighting a smirk.

"It's nothing you need stress about at this point," the doctor assured, smiling at Dr. Van Helsing. "We'll just have to schedule more routine visits and run some tests if need be. Monitoring you and making sure everything is going well with you and your babies is the important thing. Here," he held out a piece of paper that she hesitantly took. "Just some recommended prenatal vitamins, folate and iron supplements, the works."

"Iron, an important component of blood," Agatha commented. "Perhaps you consider increasing your dosage of that based on your fetuses' needs."

"Over the counter?" Zoe asked, ignoring the other two in the room. "Pharmacy?"

"Yes, whichever location is convenient to you," Dr. Clyde replied. "Generic or name brand doesn't matter. It is important to stay on them though, we strive for healthy babies." He reached out for Zoe's hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Van Helsing. They can schedule your next appointment up front. And congratulations again," he grinned at Dracula. "To the both of you."

"Thank you," the vampire answered. "This was quite the surprise for both of us. But I welcome this new chapter in our lives, isn't that right, darling?"

"Callous beast," Agatha frowned at Zoe's side. "This is why you never let your guard down with a vampire. Have you learned nothing?"

"Thank you, Dr. Clyde," the doctor exhaled, pushing herself out of the cot. "I'll see you soon I suppose."

Zoe did her best to ignore Dracula the moment she stepped back into the waiting room. She could sense him looming over her shoulder as she set up her next appointment. Blocking his view or not, she knew the man would find a way to attend. He was dreadfully good in that department. Still in shock over the whole experience, she made her way to the elevator.

"So twins," the vampire said, breaking the silence. "I cannot say that I was exactly expecting that. And both with beating hearts. How peculiar."

"I'd rather not discuss parenthood, especially with you," Zoe grumbled, pressing the down key. "You changing my appointment was inappropriate, even for you. Do you realize how late it is? I have to get up early for work tomorrow and-" The doctor was abruptly caught off when she felt a firm, cold grip on her shoulder.

"The Harker Foundation?" Dracula's amused expression had now darkened. "So you are really hellbent on going back there? After this?!" He motioned at her still flat abdomen. "That place. You know what it is. The purpose. What they are." The count touched her stomach, Zoe immediately swatted his hand away. "Do you know what they'd do to you if they found out? To them?"

"What I do isn't any of your concern," the doctor frowned deeply. "I hold high regards towards my job. Even with you gone, we've made progress."

"Then your intent is to experiment on them?" Dracula growled, Zoe beginning to feel slightly fearful. "And to think I was the one who was believed to be heartless-"

"I have absolutely no intentions to do anything of the sort you're accusing me of," she finally spat back. "Nor do I intend on informing people what I'm carrying. But I will say this, if I am truly hellbent on anything at this point, is keeping you out of my life." The elevator door opened but neither of them made a move to enter. "When you chose to leave the walls of the Foundation-"

"My prison," he corrected.

"...The institution, you made the choice to become not involved," it was an argument that didn't make much sense, but she needed something to go off on. "So now, like the Foundation, I'm choosing to be not involved with you. Not that our relationship was anything but distant acquaintances."

Dracula fell silent for a moment before letting out a low chuckle. "Are you trying to punish me, Zoe?" He asked, clearly amused. "Because if that is your goal, you are failing to achieve it."

"Leave," Agatha urged. "This is just going to keep going around in circles and despite being dead, it's giving me a headache."

"I'm done," the doctor said, finally walking into the elevator. "And if you had a shred of humanity left in you, you'd leave me be."

The vampire's mouth opened up to say something, but Zoe had already jammed the close button so hard the doors slid shut. She sighed, leaning against the wall as the speakers hummed a soft tune.

"Good girl," Agatha smiled. "Checkmate."

"The same goes for you," Zoe muttered, glaring at Agatha. "You're just as a thorn in my side as he is. Please...just give me peace."

The nun gave her a curious look before disappearing out of sight. How Zoe had kept from losing it, she wasn't sure. As the elevator doors opened and she stepped into the night, she began to question it all. Twins. Motherhood. Dracula. Her ghost of an aunt. Her eyes flickered down to the crumpled up piece of paper in her hands. The list of instructions the doctor gave her. Everything really was turning upside down.

                                         Two Months Later

Dracula seemed to heed her words from that night. Weeks had passed and Zoe had yet to see the vampire. Even at her appointments, she wasn't greeted to the unwelcome sight of the man. Agatha too had kept her distance, the doctor only seeing flickers of the woman occasional around her house. Life was turning out to be pretty alright-excluding the fact of the ever growing list of pregnancy symptoms she was starting to experience.

"That's your third bagel."

Zoe peered down at her plate, noting that she had indeed consumed yet another circular dough ball smothered with cream cheese. Her attention turned back to her former graduate student, Jack Seward, who'd joined her for lunch that day. He proved to be nice company, someone she could always count on.

"I'm hungry," she admitted. "A side effect of pregnancy."

"And you're still not going to tell me who the father is?" He inquired, smiling as Zoe went for another bite of her bagel. "I thought you never wanted kids."

"I didn't," she admitted. "But when I went into remission, something changed within me. I can't describe it. So I decided to try out in vitro fertilization," Zoe smirked. "Took the first time and now I'm having twins. You and I both know science is fascinating."

She gently placed a hand on her stomach that had already begun to swell. She had yet to feel anything other than bloating. But it was almost comforting. Knowing that she wasn't alone-well, besides Agatha's unwanted haunting. Everything had been running so smoothly, Zoe would almost forget at times that the twins weren't fully human.

"So the Foundation is still keeping tabs on Dracula," Jack said, taking a sip of his coffee. "You of all people must regret not having him around to study him."

Zoe nearly choked on her next bite. Coughing, she grabbed her glass of water and swallowed a few large gulps. Concern crossed the younger man's face, but the doctor waved away, nodding that she was fine.

"His whereabouts aren't a concern of mine," she inhaled. "His activity is being monitored and with that horrible lawyer of his, not much can be done."

"Has he tried to contact you?

"No," she replied. "Not recently."

"Recently?" Jack inquired, looking a little worried. "So he's tried in the past?"

This was the last subject she wanted to discuss. Thinking of a way out of it, she scrunched her face in displeasure. Placing her hands on her stomach, she tried to appear sick. Convincing.

"I'm feeling rather ill," Zoe lied, rising from the table. "Morning sickness. I should go home. I'll text you later. Thank you for lunch. It was great seeing you, Jack."

"But, I…"

Zoe had already hurried off towards her car before he could finish. Unlocking it, she threw her purse into the passenger seat and slid in. Dracula. Of all the subjects to discuss. The idea really did turn her stomach. Pulling out of the cafe parking lot, she started to make her way home. Some tea. Perhaps a movie. She needed to clear her mind.

The first thing she did when she walked through the door was collapse on the couch. Even though she wasn't going through chemotherapy treatments anymore, she still experienced extreme exhaustion. Pregnancy. The wonder of it all. Placing a hand on her stomach, she exhaled. It was hard to believe two tiny-well, babies, were growing in there. Surreal even. Zoe allowed her eyes to close, taking a moment to rest before going about her day. Peace of mind. That was the least she could ask for as she found herself drifting off…

A loud, but rhythmic knock startled Zoe from her slumber. She sat up abruptly, cursing herself from nodding off. She looked over at the time and to her horror realized the afternoon had become the night. Inhaling, she walked over to the door, wondering who it could be at this hour. Had she forgotten something and Jack came to return it? Certainly it wasn't the landlord. She always paid the rent on time. As she opened the door, she immediately realized her mistake.

"Good evening," the man said. "I apologize for the unannounced visit, I would have called but it appears you blocked my number. May I come in? I think there is a lot of catching up to do," his eyes fell onto her stomach, mouth twitching into a smile. "A lot."

Count Dracula.

God, smite her down where she stood.