#tattoo would reflect her most obvious power

[hollowsentinel]

Fuck it.

Hebert has a Handgun: everywhere Taylor looks, she sees guns and munitions. Sometimes they are in incredibly inconvenient places. At least one time she finds a gun, it is in her backpack. At school. Where Madison can see if her gaze falls just so.

But that's not important.

What's important is how unimportant Taylor is in spite of this. The guns are a side note in her life. She is so very small in the end. She is just a speck of dust is the great cosmos of the universe. The night sky is beautiful beyond the words she loves with her mother.

Brockton Bay is bright. Boston is brighter still even in the distance. The stars? The galaxy? The universe as seen from a rooftop? It shines clearly in spite of all the reasons that would obscure it.

Clearly, Taylor is parahuman. Or she is under the effect of a parahuman power. Her vision remains sharp with or without her glasses. (She can wear sunglasses at night with no issues at all.) But what sort of cape just sees clearly? Try as she might, sharp vision is nothing so special as to challenge any of the problems in Brockton Bay.

But that is no reason not to try.

A gun on school grounds cannot stop her. It is nothing a tattoo cannot fix. It may be a pain to explain the tramp stamp, but at least it is not grounds for immediate expulsion and criminal record. Or getting gunned down by cops.

[ekaterinatepes]

Nothing but the Best

Author Notes: hello again my loves! Thank you for all your likes, reviews and specially your comments! I love it when you make questions and in general let me know what you think about the chapter. Thank you once more for all your support!

XII.

They say time heals all wounds, but there are some wounds that run so deep they refuse to stop bleeding.

https://youtu.be/s1tAYmMjLdY

A cold September afternoon welcomed the dying rays of the sun, the incandescent amber tones of the twilight illuminated the streets of Tokyo, ever so vibrant; full of life, people, delicious food, kaleidoscopic colors, laughter, children running…. Couples holding hands.

A tall man with a blindfold walked down a heavily transited sidewalk with his hands in his pockets and a small bag of pastries hanging off the side. Slowly, he made his way further away from the more concentric streets towards a park, he found a bench near a fountain and took a seat placing his bag right next to him.

The world remained the same and yet everything seemed to have changed, the days were now long and boring, conversations with people didn’t manage to hold his attention for long; missions were repetitive. Everything seemed… dull, opaque, flavorless, empty…

Everything, except perhaps his students who were the only sliver of hope he had left. Those kids would make it far in life, they were going to change the world and he was going to be there to help them along the way. A sad smile pulls at his peachy lips. You would have liked that. After all, the kids also enjoyed your company back in the day when you were still his. It was as if you had become their adoptive mother of sorts at some point. Your nurturing nature guided you to care for others.

A year ago when Yuuji was placed under his care and tutelage at Jujutsu High it had been hard for the boy. At the time the kid had just lost his only living relative and to top it off he also consumed the most powerful curse ever known to man kind.

He had so much responsibility on his shoulders Satoru couldn’t help but make the connection with himself when he was a kid his age. That’s how Satoru decided to take him home for dinner one night; he couldn’t have been more pleased with his decision. Of course, you adored Yuuji. His sweet snd enthusiastic personality, his polite manners and naiveté made him just endearing in your eyes.

Even Megumi, who barely spoke with his more taciturn approach asked about you. Satoru didn’t know how to answer. The dark haired boy would also come and visit your home to help you prepare some foreign delicacies you loved to cook. Sighing once more he ran his hands through his white hair.

***-Flashback-***

“So where’s Y/N-san? I haven’t seen her in a long time?” Asked Megumi right after Satoru returned from New York. It caught him by surprise

“She… she doesn’t live in Japan anymore” was all he said before changing the subject. Megumi looked at him with eyes wide open but decided not to pry.

Yeah… that probably was weird. Someone asks you about your spouse and you say they moved out of the country. It was pretty obvious what that meant.

***~End Flash Back~***

Sighing he opened the small paper bag containing his mochi, he loved his desert but lately he didn’t even have the will to indulge in sweets anymore. Satoru consumed insane amounts of sugar to stimulate his brain. The problem was that during the past year all that stimulation manifested in the form of vivid memories of you. Your voice, your smell, your presence. It was as if his brain chose to take him down the path to misery, as if to rub on his face what he could never have.

As of last week you were officially not Y/N Gojo anymore. He finally signed those blasted papers giving you your freedom and his capitulation.

It had been one of the worst days of his life.

After signing the divorce Satoru went straight to the liquor store where he found that exotic apricot liquor he liked in New York and bought a bottle. Once he made it back home he proceeded to get drunk out of his mind. The next morning he woke up by the pool, laying down on a tanning chair, wearing only a pair of boxers and hugging your wedding picture.

His head was killing him, at some point he had emptied his insides in the pool. A disgusted grimace reminded him he had to hire some help to take care of the house that was an absolute disaster, faithfully reflecting the state of its owner.

That morning, nursing a hangover he swore off alcohol for the rest of his life.

But hey! On the positive side he didn’t remember at all that night! Which means he ‘probably’ didn’t think about you (yeah right! As if he was ever not thinking about you) and how much he hated the fact you were not his Y/N Gojo anymore. You were not his wife anymore…

The memory made him want to cry like a baby. He lost the person he loved the most in his life because he had been one flaming idiot.

Despite all his efforts he could not forget you. Wherever he went, whatever he did… there you were, tormenting his waking and sleeping hours like his own personal curse.

He tried to get over you. He tried to be the asshole you knew him to be. He slept with so many women he couldn’t even count. But at the end of the night, in the throes of passion it was your face that he saw, your body that he craved, your flavor that he yearned and your name the one he called out when he climaxed.

He was absolutely fucked.

Revisiting memories of the last night he saw you he couldn’t believe how stupid he had been at the time. It took him so long to realize he had always been in love with you but Satoru, being well… himself, he didn’t want to see or admit that he had been head over heels, madly in love with you. He was a cynical bastard and that had cost him dearly. He chose to lie to himself thinking that THE Gojo Satoru was above all human weaknesses… including love. What an ignorant fucker he had been.

He wondered how you were doing and if you ever thought about him.

A frown made his handsome face look stern. Well… you were not alone anymore. Suguru also had stayed back in New York with you. After Satoru returned to Japan, Ijichi told him Geto Suguru wouldn’t be working out of Japan anymore. He had requested a transfer to the Americas.

Of course he did…

It had been one of the reasons Satoru fucked so many women. In his delusional mind he was ‘getting even’ with you for sleeping with Suguru. Not that he knew for a fact you were sleeping with him or not but… I mean….

Come on! It’s mother fucking Geto Suguru we are talking about here! 6’2 of pure sculpted muscles, tattoos and bad boy looks but with a Prince Charming complex. Yeah… Satoru was green with jealousy because he knew his former best friend was a better man for you than he ever was.

Looking down at his mochi bag he realized the small item had paid the price of his anger as he uncurled his death grip from the bag. Sighing he tossed the ruined pastry in the trash can to his left.

“Miss you….” He whispered to the wind.

———–

“I’m home!” You announced walking into your apartment. Setting you bag down as well as a couple of grocery bags “did you start dinner already?” You ask pleasantly surprised although you already knew the answer to that question since all the apartment smelled fantastic. Suguru walked out of the kitchen with a big smile wearing an apron that read ‘Kiss the Cheff’ nods “yes! I figured I would give you a hand tonight!” He answered as you walked to him to wrap your arms around his waist and give him a chaste kiss on his cheek “thank you Sugu. How was your mission?” You asked deciding to set up the table while Suguru finished dinner. “Not too bad actually, it was a special grade but nothing I couldn’t deal with” you returned a bright smile “I’m glad”

Your friendship with Suguru had slowly evolved into something else. You both spent all of your free time together. Your connection was deeper than mere sexual attraction. Suguru truly understood you, cared for you, shared your dreams and hopes. He was the type of poetic soul who would stay awake with you well into the night just to talk about the stars, the book you read that week that you loved, the new music you liked. It was wholesome.

On the more carnal side you desired Suguru and he desired you but you hadn’t taken what was going on between you two further than a few passionate make-out sessions and some cuddling.

After you last saw Satoru everything became worse before it got better. Suguru had been your rock, he had been there for the sleepless nights you spent crying. Without a word he held you in his strong arms and allowed you to let go. He knew you were deeply wounded, your emotions in disarray and your mental stability in peril. But Suguru never asked anything from you, he gave you the strength to go on. To take care of yourself, to keep going with your career. To have… hope.

It seemed like a dream to think that your life had changed so much in the span of a year. You weren’t able to recognise yourself anymore. Pain and duress molded you into someone new, better, more resilient, harder to hurt.

At this point, the only person you fully trusted was Suguru, he was always honest with you, no matter what happened or how much something hurt, he always remained true to himself and to you.

It was impossible not to love someone like him. He was the whole package.

Suguru was handsome, that was indisputable. But Geto was more than a pretty face. He was kind, truly kind! He did things out of the goodness of his heart, not because he expected anything in return. He was honest, Suguru Geto would never lie to you and THAT is what you loved the most about him.

He was patient.

He wanted you to be his but at the same time Suguru wanted you to heal, to have the chance to trust and love again, not as a means to forget about Satoru but because you wanted to choose a new path for yourself.

After diner you helped with the dishes and then settled on the couch. Suguru joined with a smile and two glasses of wine. He handed you one and sipped on the other one “what would you like to watch tonight Kitten?” He asked sitting next to you while picking a movie from the titles available on the screen of the tv.

“Anything you like! It’s your turn to pick” you said with a smile, leaning your head on his shoulder making Suguru smile. These tender displays of affection always made him feel so warm. Passing an arm around your shoulders he kissed your forehead.

You look up into his hazel eyes you blush. Suguru didn’t lose a second before he closed the space between your lips. The kiss was soft but meaningful, you didn’t hesitate to return it; wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to then climb on his lap straddling his hips.

The handsome sorcerer leans back, relaxing and running his hands slowly up and down your naked thighs covered only by the small fabric of your shorts, he strokes them softly leaving a path of warmth in the wake of his touch. Suguru deepened the kiss. His tongue delved in your mouth, slowly inviting yours to join the delicious dance. After a few minutes you pulled back, you are breathless. Your heart beats fast and the adrenaline was making you dizzy in anticipation.

Suguru looks at you, leaning his forehead against yours “I missed you” he ads before engulfing you in another passionate kiss, not even giving you the chance to reply. This time his lips are more demanding, his teeth nibbling your lower lip, requesting entrance. His tongue still tastes like the wine and you recognize his addictive flavor. Suddenly you find yourself laying on your back on the white couch, Suguru is on top of you and your legs are wrapped around his waist. Things are getting much more heated than you anticipated. Your hands roam the expanse of his back over hard muscles and warm skin covered only by the thin layer of his t-shirt. You know if you keep going this way you won’t be able to stop.

https://youtu.be/yBatuRGZAmA

A part of you doesn’t want this to end, you want to go all the way with Suguru. But… as much as you hate it, there is a tiny part of you that feels ambivalent about it. You wonder why is that you can’t just… do it!? You want Suguru! God! You desire him more than you can express with words, the growing wetness between your legs is evidence that you indeed were very much sexually attracted to him and yet your mind kept torturing you.

It was… complicated.

Your marriage with Satoru have been over longer than that piece of paper you got last week said. But erasing your feelings wasn’t something you could ever hope to do.

As much as you wanted to give yourself to Suguru it felt wrong that you were holding a part of yourself back. You wanted to give him everything, he deserved EVERYTHING of you. It wouldn’t be fair to just have sex with him when he deserved to be made love to.

You love Suguru, everyday that goes by your feelings for him grow and intensify, it was hard to even understand why would you hesitate and yet you did.

Your passionate kiss slowly becomes more tender until you are just sharing small pecks. Suguru pulls back with a little comforting smile; he felt the change in your body language, he knew what was going through your mind. You explained it to him before and he didn’t want to push you. He knew you needed to go at your own pace and he respected that.

“I’m… so-“ you starts apologetically but Suguru stops you with a little kiss “don’t… don’t apologize, I know baby…” he said reassuringly. Sealing his tender words with a kiss. When you separate again he asks “Alright little kitten, tell me… what’s it gonna be? ‘Dorian Grey’ or ‘Only Lovers Left Alive’?” Pulling you in his strong arms he cuddled with you on the couch, returning to the choices for movie you had.

You were so thankful for this man in your life “let’s go with ‘Only Lovers left Alive’”

With a last kiss he started the movie and pulled a blanket over you both.

He could wait, he would wait till the end of time. For you.

———-> Chapter 13/Part 1

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[larenoz]

There Has To Be Three - Updated

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

Originally posted as part of @rnmmarchformeta but updated to reflect some new additions. Only three eps in and already enough for an update!!

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

From the very beginnings of the show, symbolism related to the number three has been present.

The most obvious example of this is the mysterious symbol seen throughout the show. We see it displayed in the town lights when the power returns after Max causes the blackout. It has recurred so often in their lives that both Max and Michael have it tattooed on their bodies.

It is initially described in terms of being a beacon. In 1.09 Songs About Texas, Max sees the symbol on the flyer for the Indigenous faith healer, Arizona. It’s here that Max learns about the way the symbol mysteriously forms near certain people, and its link to the silent woman on the reservation.

We later learn that in addition to its role as a beacon, the symbol is used as a lock. It is the Pod Squad placing their hands on their respective circle on the symbol that unlocks Mr Jones’ cell.

And again, we see the number three associated with a lock and key on the box used to house Tripp’s diary left to Patricia.

But is the power of the design intrinsic or is it what the design represents?

Does the symbol in fact represent an important cultural or biological concept for the race of aliens to which Max, Isobel, and Michael belong? Join me dear readers on my journey into the “aliens need to be in groups of three to form stable relationships and be happy” head canon.

Could it be possible that the aliens only function successfully when they form relationships, be they romantic, sexual, platonic, sibling etc when it contains three people?

We see many different groupings of people, that don’t seem to work properly until they are together or that when fractured, bad things happen.

Pod squad - Iz, Michael, Max

Science Bros - Liz, Michael, Kyle

Family - Liz, Rosa, Arturo

Family - Liz, Rosa, Kyle

Friends - Liz, Maria, Alex

Barn Crew - Nora, Louise, Roy

The Parents - Mimi, Jim, Jesse

Manes Men - Alex, Flint, Greg

In 2.05 we are given an answer by Max:

“The thing is, there has to be three. Okay. There’s always three. Until the end.”

“Cause it’s all broken without three.”

This is confirmation from canon that at least for the Pod Squad, three is the magic number.

The question then becomes was Max talking only about their specific situation or is it indicative of the wider cultural/biological alien imperative?

In terms of the Pod Squad, even though they are together physically, emotionally they are distant. The events surrounding Rosa’s death break the trust within the group and the closeness they had before that event is lost. It’s only once those secrets are out in the open and they begin to repair their relationship as a group, that they each start to heal their other relationships as individuals. Obviously, there are other events impacting their individual circumstances but the point holds.

Could this within its full cultural manifestation be that triads are the norm for the aliens? And that the 2.06 threesome is them unwittingly falling into the cultural norms of Michael’s society?

Does the threesome between Maria, Alex and Michael happen because they were already the most likely (basically people who are all outsiders in some way and therefore already breaking societal norms) to be open to unconventional relationship structures and therefore more open to acting on the drive towards a triadic group?

Originally posted by rosaortecho

Like for Kaliz, Kyle provides that balance, cause Max isn’t great at setting boundaries with Liz.

And even with Alex, Maria and Liz, their friendship was broken until they all came back together.

Even in non-romantic/sexual situations the characters tend to work better in groups of three. It isn’t until Kyle, Liz and Michael all start working together that they start making headway on healing Max and it’s only when they all contribute something equally (Liz regrowing the heart, Michael making the pacemaker and Kyle conducting the surgery) that they finally succeed.

I like that alien culture isn’t just a replication or mirror of our world. And that the differences provide a lens for us to examine our own cultural defaults. - eg monogamy (which historically hasn’t always been the default even in the West). Canon has explicitly questioned the assumption that the aliens experience sexuality in the same way as humans. Michael says in 1.11 Champagne Supernova:

“Oh, we are literally aliens, and you’re gonna hold me to some outdated binary of sexuality?”

And Isobel in 2.07 Como La Flor:

“I mean, what does an alien care about human gender constructs?”

It isn’t such a stretch to suggest that how their society structures its intimate and familial relationships is also different than humans? If aliens aren’t monosexual by default, it’s highly possible they aren’t monogamous by default either.

While allegory plays an important part in the storytelling of the show, I wish that they would also take advantage of their sci-fi setting to explore other aspects of the aliens’ culture. Use the sci-fi genre to explore how they are different as much as how they are the same as humans. The story so far has given us so many elements that could be used as a what-if starting point for exploring different possible experiences. For example, how The Expanse has shown that as humanity expands into space different distinct culture develop. In the show, we see the exploration of a polyamous Belter family that Drummer finds herself in - the #PolyamBelterFam

Realistically, we aren’t going to see this. Even though hey even went as far as having portraying a canon threesome but stopped short of fully exploring the potential of this event by giving us a fully realised polyamorous relationship.

Nevertheless, I don’t think we’ve seen the last of the “three” symbolism and it’s going to be interesting to see if it gets developed further.

Update 11 Aug 2021 (Post S3 Ep 3):

So only three eps in and we already have new "There Needs To Be Three" content. Let's start with the most obvious!!

Our introduction to the home planet of the Pod Squad gives us this image of the night sky with Three Moons!! Which are sort of in the same configuration as the lock symbol?

In the dialogue of the show, Isobel actually uses the term "Triad" to describe the pod squad:

"Okay, you're right. We've all been hiding things from each other. And it has to stop.

We're not strong unless we're together. It's like you said; there has to be three. We're a triad."

(text courtesy of Saadiestuff transcripts)

In S3 Ep 3 we see Michael coming to possession of some enhanced turquoise. He ends up giving pieces to Alex, while Isobel also gets a piece. Both Michael and Alex use their pieces to boost or interact with some alien technology, while Isobel's piece enhances her empathic power.

This one is purely theoretical at this point, but what about the Lockheart Machine and Jim's Radio - is there a missing third machine to complete a machine/circuit?

[calmlftv]

falling. - c.h. blurb

description: a lil bit more angst, but this time inspired by cal’s instagram story cover a few months ago! 

word count: 1.5k

warnings: angst but w a happy ending.

w/n: apparently if i listen to falling by harry styles enough i’ll write something sad. oops 

taglist: @spicycal​ @castaway-cashton​ @irwinkitten​ @n-ctarinenga​ @notinthesameguey​ @blackbutterfliescal​ @ashtonsos​ @loveroflrh​ @bestyearssos​ @treatallwithkindness​ @bestyearslftv​ @another-lonely-heart​

****

It’s been 4 days since you and Calum fought, and the radio silence was starting to become absolutely deafening. 

All you wanted was his strong arms wrapped around you, his breath on your neck as he buried his face there, the smell of his clothes enveloping you in an even bigger hug than the one he was physically giving you; all you wanted was him, his giggley laugh that usually became silent when he was really happy, your fingertips tracing his tattoos while you laid in bed together, limbs tangled around each other while he sang you a love song. You missed him desperately. 

But that night always comes back, the way his voice sounded when he snapped at you, the exhausted and annoyed frown on his face that dragged all of his beautiful features down. Your voice snapping back, alcohol on your breath as you finally told him everything that was bothering you; thinking about it now, you couldn’t remember what you were so upset about anyway. You just know it broke the most beautiful relationship you had ever been in. It has pushed you away from the love of your life. 

Now, it was 2 a.m., your eyes stinging from the tears you had let out earlier as you laid in your best friend’s bed. She had let you stay with her after the fight, giving you her bed as she slept on the couch in her living area. You were even sharing clothes; the idea of walking back into your home with Calum filled you with anxiety, knowing he would be there and knowing you would have to see him. See his face, smell his cologne and hear his voice. 

Your mind restless, you threw the covers off, dragging your hands down your face before you looked around the room. Your best friend’s electric piano was in the corner, music stacked high and random papers filled with chords for her favorite songs splayed out everywhere. Before you gave it much thought you swung your legs over the bed, padding over in your bare feet and baggy t-shirt before reaching out and pressing the power button. 

The bench was cold against your bare thighs, the cool faux leather almost calming as your hands played over the keys. You hadn’t played in so long, your hands itching to dance over the ivories as you pulled out your phone. You pulled up the only song you had been listening to these days, muscle memory kicking in as you learned all the chords in a short time. You opened your camera, facing it towards you and starting a video recording as you played. 

“I’m in my bed,” you sang, your voice a bit rusty from the years of no use. You continued despite that. 

“And you’re not here. And there’s no one to blame but my drink and my wandering hands.” 

The words of Harry Styles floated from your mouth, the music swelling and falling as you pressed forward. You lost yourself in the sounds, forgetting about the video recording and just letting the music take over. Your own voice surprised you as it quickly warmed up, your hands tense while you played and played; your best friend padded over, rubbing her eyes and smiling as she heard you in her room. She leaned against the doorway, arms folding in front of her as she quietly watched you, just enjoying the sound of your voice. 

Once the song was over you held the final chord, letting it ring out around you as you sat there. Tears fell on the keys, the overwhelming numbness taking over shortly after as you stopped the recording. Quickly you posted the first chorus and verse to your Instagram story, typing an i’m sorry on it and praying that Calum wouldn’t see it.

Your best friend quietly moved behind you as you did this, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and watching you caption the video before she silently sat with you. The two of you played and sang until the sun came up and your voices were aching, giggles escaping between songs as the two of you just fell into the music over and over again. 

As the sun came through the windows the two of you moved to bed, sharing the soft mattress together like you’ve done a million times before. You both quickly fell asleep, the lack of sleep catching up to you as your eyes fluttered closed. 

It was 3 p.m. when you woke up again, your best friend shaking you awake. 

“Y/N,” she said, patting your cheek. 

“What?” You groaned, burying yourself deeper into the covers until she grabbed your arm and shook you again. Finally getting the message you sat up, your phone being shoved into your hands as you wiped the sleep from your face. 

Opened on your screen was Calum’s Instagram page, the sight making you groan. “Why are you-” 

“Shut up and watch his story,” she said, reaching over and tapping the colorful circle around his profile photo. 

What popped up was Calum, a sad look on his face as he played his guitar in what looked like the living room. His pouty lips were pulled down at the corners, the camera a bit far and the lighting a bit dark but the circles under his puffy eyes were still obvious. The words i’m sorry too sat in a corner, small but readable to you.

His fingers picked the strings of his guitar softly until his voice followed. 

“You said you care, and you missed me too…”

Your breath caught in your throat as your actions from the night before came crashing back to you; the plead for him, the caption on your video and the caption on his. Heart swelling, you looked at your best friend, her eyes watching you as Cal’s voice swelled. 

“C’mon,” she said as the story closed, tugging you gently off the bed. She tossed some clothes at you. “Get dressed.” 

You nodded, confused but listening to her. Once you had clothes on she came back, sitting you down as she brushed out your hair and cooled your undereyes. When she was finished she pulled you up, handing you the bag you had come there with and ushering you out the door. She sat you in her car and started to drive, her plan finally dawning on you as anxiety flared up in you. 

The home you shared and created with Calum looked exactly the same; not like it should have changed at all, since you know Calum wouldn’t have done anything, but the sight of it still so perfect against your broken and nervous heart was stark. Without words you got out, bag clutched tightly in your hands as you looked at your best friend. She gestured for you to continue, her butt staying in the car as your feet carried you to the front door. 

Your key was in your bag but you opted to knock instead, a hand nervously running through your hair as you waited for the answer. 

You blinked and suddenly the door was open, Calum’s tall frame taking up the doorframe. His eyes were rimmed in red and puffy, dark circles hugging the lower lid as he looked at you. His brown eyes were darker than normal, no doubt reflecting how he felt inside. 

His eyes were wide as he looked, yours the same size as you both just took each other in. His hair was messy. 

“Hi.” You said, your voice hoarse. 

“Hi.” His voice was soft, his features lined with sadness. 

You tucked some hair behind your ear. “Can we-” 

“Yeah,” he answered, stepping aside to let you in. You waved to your best friend, her giving you a nod before heading home.

Once inside you set the bag down, turning around and burying your face in Cal’s chest. His arms immediately found their way around you, his grip tighter than it ever has been as your shoulder shook. 

“I’m so sorry,” you choked out, tears already falling down your face. Calum’s chest heaved, a tear hitting the top of your head as he breathed you in. He missed how perfectly you fit against him, how much you smelled like home. 

“I’m sorry too,” he sobbed, pressing a kiss to your head before you pulled back enough to look at him. “Can we work this out? Please?” 

You nodded, tears spilling down your cheeks again. “I’d really like that,” you said, Calum pulling you back against his chest. He squeezed you until you were both done crying, his hand lifting your chin so he could press a kiss to your forehead. His lips found yours a moment later, his hands on your hips as he still squeezed you. 

After you both pulled away he bent down, throwing you over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs. You couldn’t help but laugh, this being your favorite thing. “Calum Thomas!” 

A chuckle met your ears as he carried you upstairs. “I missed your laugh, doll. Had to hear it again.” 

You giggled, letting him carry you to bed before he covered you in kisses and cuddles.

[lovehugsandcandy]

Jump (Colt x MC, RoD)

A/N: This was a request from @shondideaira-blog of Colt/MC getting pregnant young; thank you so much for the request but this is the reason that no one should ever ask me because 1) it will take 75 years and 2) it’s probably not what you want anyways. Thank you again for requesting this, I am so sorry it took so long, and I hope you enjoy it!

Length: ~5,400 words

Rating/Warnings: R (Swearing. Unplanned pregnancy.)

Summary: Colt’s path has taken some sharp turns but somehow, it takes him to the right place anyways.

Colt Kaneko is 42.

Colt is 42, and he feels every single one of those years bearing down on him when he slouches into his desk chair. Hours spent wrenching on an import have made his back tight, and even the sultriest of massages hasn’t loosened the knot that’s lived for weeks between his shoulder blades.

He rolls his shoulders, shaking out the crick in his neck, and squints at the numbers on the screen. Right as he focuses on the first row, his cell phone blares and he reaches over, grateful for the distraction, picking up before the second ring.

“Hello.” His voice is gruff, and he stands, pacing the 15 steps to the office door.

“Hey, Pop.”

“Well?” He paces the 15 steps back. “How’d it go?” Jackson sighs on the other end, and Colt’s heart lurches. “Well?”

“I…” The tone of his voice shifts, and Colt can hear the smile breaking over his son’s face. “I got the job!.”

“I knew you could do it.”

“I mean, I still need to finish my thesis so I really need to hunker down , but… I got it. Don’t tell Mom yet, ok? I wanna call her after she’s home from work.”

Colt smiles fondly; Jackson’s studious nature definitely wasn’t from him. Colt would have bailed on a thesis faster than he bailed out of university. He wasn’t the one who fought tooth and nail to graduate university; he wasn’t the one who would write out flashcards in one hand while rocking an infant in the other. “I won’t.” 

He looks at the darkened phone screen for long moments after his son hangs up. Every single one of his 42 years has been both eternal and fleeting; he can only shake his head with a chagrined smile as he turns back to the computer.

~~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 6.

Colt is 6, but he’s not deaf and he’s not dumb, either. He knows his parents are fighting just behind the closed office door. His leg swing, clanging against the toolbox he’s perched on, and he drums anxious fingers against the metal beneath him.

He waits, watching the mechanics bustle around, watches the other people who work for his dad (they aren’t mechanics but he doesn’t know what they do but he knows enough to avoid them when they storm through the shop lugging briefcases and boxes). Every so often, he can hear raised voices, shouts from the office before the bitter tones become unintelligible. He doesn’t know what they’re fighting about, but it’s probably about him.

This weekend, he was supposed to stay with his dad but, as soon as his mom caught sight of the crowded shop floor and gleaming new sports car, she stormed right up to Pop and dragged him to the office by his wrist. His staff looked on in shock, like they couldn’t believe this tiny pipsqueak of a lady could force the great Teppei Kaneko to heel.

He wasn’t shocked at all.

People fear his dad. It’s obvious in the terror in their eyes, the way they rush to do his bidding and agree to his every suggestion. Even the mechanics who work the floor here, they stay out of Pop’s way, especially when he is angry. He’s seen his dad batter walls, slam wrenches into windshields, and, on one memorable occasion, punch someone in the jaw before he realized that Colt had crept downstairs. 

He still remembers the crunch of fist against bone.

It’s power, how his dad uses his brain and his brawn and his anger to force others to bend to his will, and Colt wants it, bad. He wants more than anything to be like his dad.

The door slams open, and his mother rushes from the office; her eyes are livid, wild, and Colt watches as she whirls on Pop again, stepping close to snarl up at him.

His mom is never scared of Pop, not even on his worst day, and, as he hops down off the toolbox and saunters to her side, he can’t hide the awe from his face. Her eyes narrow and she delivers one last barb, words so low Colt can’t hear them, but he catches the shock flitting across Pop’s face. It must have been something brutal.

“Colt, come on.” His mother gestures to him, and he frowns.

“But-”

“Colt, now.”

He bites his tongue, shooting one last wounded look at his father before following her past gleaming cars, out to the lobby. There, the receptionist sits, burly and oversized in a tiny desk chair, his one eye staring down where stubby fingers fiddle with metal, soft cloth rhythmically swiping over dark steel.

“Jesus, Rocco,” his mom growls. “Colt is right here.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” Rocco looks down at him, and Colt takes a step back. The man is hardened, imposing, tattooed biceps as big as Colt’s head and eyepatch covering a crater of puckered skin that haunts his nightmares. However, as fearsome as he is in darkness, now Rocco just nods, shuffling the metal into a giant lockbox; Colt can’t see what he was cleaning before he closes the lid, clang heavy and loud in the small room. “I’ll put it away.”

His mom nods and briskly walks out the front door; Colt follows, shooting a cautious glance behind her, and he needs to hustle up the street to catch up to her.

“What was that, Ma?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did Rocco have?”

She stops, turning away from the shop window to bring a soft hand to his forehead, running her fingers through his hair affectionately. “Nothing, baby. You don’t need to worry about him.”

He studies her, and her dark eyes glow warmly. He can’t help but smile. His mom’s not scared of Pop, and she’s not scared of Rocco either.

His mom’s not scared of anything.

Maybe Colt actually wants to be like her.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 19.

Colt is 19 and his world is ending.

“What do you mean?”

“Colt, you heard me, come on.” Ellie bites her lip and stares at him, eyes imploring, and all he can think is that his life is over.

Technically, his life already is over. When his father immolated himself in front of his eyes, when the shop burned to the ground, when legacy and past and future all disappeared into raging flames that scorched his eyebrows and scorched his soul, it ended, in a blaze as hot as the anger that races through his veins.

But now he is cold, freezing, the shock chilling him to his core; when he exhales, he’s surprised that his breath comes out clear, not floating in grey tendrils through the air.

He always has a plan. Hell, he always has multiple plans, one to execute and then a few backups, and each of those plans has multiple escape routes. Fuck, half the time his backup plans have backup plans, timelines and contingencies mapped and traced in advance. He can leave nothing to chance. Nothing can be open to interruption. Every second, every step, hell, every breath happens precisely according to plan. 

But it’s hard to plan for something that, in your wildest dreams, you never, ever saw coming.

That Ellie Wheeler is standing in front of him is a shock. That she just said the three words he thinks she said is an absolute catastrophe.

“I can’t… I can’t have heard you correctly.”

“Colt! For crying out loud!” Her fingers pull through the curls surrounding her face and she looks uneasy, uncertain. Her eyes pool with tears and he would, he should close the distance and pull her into his arms, but his leaden feet won’t fucking move. “I’m… I’m pregnant.”

“How…”

She rolls her eyes. “You know how, I don’t think you need a recap.”

“But… mine?”

“Are. You. Kidding. Me?” Her eyes flash dangerously and he is reminded, for not the first time, that no one should underestimate her. Her brain and her fire attracted him to her most; to see them turn on him is disorienting in an already unsettled conversation.

“But… Logan?”

“Are you…” She trails off and it’s as if her fight dissipates into the night air, slim shoulders falling. “Colt….” She peers at him imploringly, shimmering eyes reflecting the moonlight. “I’m pregnant with your child.”

He continues to gape at her, mouth open, mind frozen, and when that continues for far too long, he shuts his jaw and stares at his feet. Somewhere in the distance, a car backfires, echoing like a shot against the concrete, and still he studies his boots, the scuff marks on his left toe, the shoelace on his right unraveling.

He doesn’t know what she wants him to say. He doesn’t know what he wants to say.

“What are you gonna…”

The fire in her eyes flares, positively scorching. “What am I gonna what…”

“Ellie, come on.” He rakes a hand through his hair; his stomach is dropping and the concrete floor underneath his feet spins. Colt makes plans; that’s what he does. It’s in his brain, his blood, but all of his quick thinking leaves him now (he imagines a toddler stumbling around the shop floor, he imagines a child being caught in the crosshairs of a rival, he imagines image after image after image and every single scenario flying through his head makes him sicker and sicker). “This… I… we can’t really…”

“We can’t really what,” she spits out.

He rocks back on his heels. “Ellie, I’m building up the crew. This isn’t exactly the time for-”

“Don’t you think this changes things?!?” Her voice cracks at the end, breaking pitch, and Colt winces. “Don’t you think this changes everything?”

He blinks at her, numbly; his plans have plans and he can see them all sliding away from him, slipping from his grasp while he stands there gaping. His plans of rebuilding the shop, brick by brick and board by board. His plans of rebuilding the crew, regaining the reputation and influence of his father and his father’s father and his father’s father’s father.

He can see all of them falling through his fingers like ash, grinding into the concrete at his feet.

She’s sniffling, tears welling and spilling over, streaks of moisture dripping down her cheeks, her jaw, skin he’s touched and caressed and kissed, now marred with sadness that he caused. “This messed up my plans too, but it’s like you don’t even think about that, it’s all about you and the crew-“

“All I fucking do is think about you!” He shouts and grimaces when her eyes widen; it seems far too close a reveal to scream raw into the night.

“If that were true, we would be together.”

“Ha. Like it’s that easy,” he scoffs. “Are you gonna stay here, build up the crew with me?”

“With a child?!?”

His eyes fall to her stomach; she looks exactly the same, but everything has changed. “With the future legacy of the Mercy Park Crew.”

“Ha. No.” She crosses her arms over her chest, chin raised. “I’m not staying, not letting that be our baby’s path, our baby’s life!”

“Then I guess you decided.”

“I guess so.” She gazes at him; her tears have dried and now something cold and hard fills her eyes instead. He shivers.

He watched her walk away before, returning to her sheltered life and her sheltered school and her sheltering father, but that hadn’t felt as final as this moment. Back then, he swore that she would realize her true path, and he was determined to build a legacy for her to return to.

But now, watching her walk away, it feels like the end-of him, of them, of every dream he had been working toward, of any legacy he wanted to leave, of every plan he wanted to run.

There was no fire here, but the wreckage was worse.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 26.

Colt is 26 so, through his 26 years of life, he has developed a well-honed understanding of what he likes and what he dislikes.

And Colt hates camping.

He’s a city person, at home in a concrete jungle; the blare of frantic car horns and the savory aroma of food trucks are comforting, familiar. He’s in his element among traffic and skyscrapers and crowds of people bustling around; his blood flows like the transit system, racing with the practiced turns of Inglewood, flying down Western until the Pacific stretches in front of him, wide blue expanse of waves roaring and roiling.

He is not at home here. The woods are too still, a grim silence that is only occasionally punctuated by a forlorn bird call. The landscape is unchanging, trees and bushes immobile and dull, and both his brain and his limbs ache to go, to move, to act.

Ellie had insisted they do this. The first time she asked, he said no, along with the second and the third. But finally, she had worn him down, and the hope and excitement radiating from her almost made it worth it.

Almost.

Because here in the silence and the stillness, his thoughts are too loud and there is nothing-no car, no motorcycle, no job, no plan-nothing to distract him from the voices screaming in his head.

All he can do is sit with the thoughts and regrets, failed plans and shitty jobs running through his head, and he pouts, leaning against a fir tree and crossing his arms.

Across the field, Ellie and Jackson don’t even notice. They are huddled together on a chair intended for one, but his knobby knees and gangly arms bend and contort so he can curl onto his mother’s lap as she tries to get a burnt marshmallow off of a stick. Jackson giggles and Colt’s breath catches. The campfire in front of them wafts smoke into the night sky, embers dancing and floating until they disappear amidst the skyline, and the flickering flame lights Ellie’s face in a warm glow.

He can’t stop staring.

He’s not blind, he knew she was attractive the second he saw her, but she’s fucking gorgeous here, completely at ease, hair undone and tendrils curling around her beaming face, campfire reflected in her brown eyes.

Apparently fire doesn’t always destroy; it can illuminate, too.

When he inhales again, the smoke from the fire mingles with pine behind him. The branches over his head move softly in the breeze.

So he sits.

And watches.

And breathes.

And when Ellie motions to him, eyes sparkling and dancing in firelight, he smiles and wipes his hands on his jeans before he stands.

It’s warm by the flame, his son splaying out next to him while he gathers his wife in his arms. 

Soon, the fire burns down to ash, red glow still peeking through the soot next to him; Ellie dozes, nudging him with a cold nose, but he only watches the fire dim and dim until there is nothing.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 19.

Colt is 19 but his fake says he’s 23, so it’s easy to slip into this dive bar and slide over to the bar for a shot of the strongest whiskey they have. He swallows it down, and it burns, caustic on his tongue and in his throat before angrily churning in his stomach.

“Another.”

The second shot goes down easier, as does the third and the fourth, and he’s debating another, head resting on an unsteady fist, elbow heavy on the grime that coats the bar top. The edges of the world are swaying and the bartender slides a bowl in front of him, free popcorn an obvious insinuation that he’s worried about Colt’s sobriety. He’s just about to ask for another drink out of spite when his phone dings. Again.

He pulls it out of his jacket pocket, two fingers unsteadily reaching in and easing it out as if it might bite him. The black case gleams in the dull bar lighting and his reflection shakes, his trembling fingers dropping it on the bar top as he stares at the blue notification light.

The liquor is starting to hit; he can feel the din of the bar recede, static in his mind growing louder, but it’s no comfort. That notification light is the reason he sped to the nearest dive, the reason he had to dull the ache with a succession of precisely poured shots in tiny glasses.

He doesn’t drink often; liquor numbs his mind, turns the world into blurry shades of grey, and he needs his mind: his focus is perpetually on the next job, the next hit, the next score. There is only time for action, movement, not feelings, and alcohol dulls his motions and brings emotions to the surface, intrusive and unbidden in the haze of this bar and his brain. 

Is he worried? Fearful? Longing, desperate amidst the solitude, and missing the one person he understands more than anything else in his life? 

Craving the one person who understood him?

He opens his phone and sighs. It’s only a text from a contact; the words sway in front of his eyes. Even though he squints, the text is unintelligible, and he needs to drop the phone on the bar, screen down.

Even though he can’t see it, he can still see the Instagram image every time he blinks, back of his eyelids taking the shape of Ellie’s smile, her arms clasped tightly over the shoulders of her college friends, stately building in the back, ivy crawling up over the bricks. And the tiny swell of her stomach, invisible to anyone else, everyone else. But he knew. He knew her body like the back of his own hands, knew every single inch, every single curve, concave and convex, head to toe, and everything in between.

She beams through the image, from his screen to his retinas, indelible and permanent; now that he has seen her, he has seen his child growing from thousands of miles away, he can’t think.

For once, Colt is unsure.

He had always made his plans and executed his plans, schemes piling up and winding down, cars delivered, reputation rebuilt, brick by brick, car by car. He could see his moves weeks in advance, opportunities unfurling in his mind like moves on an ever-shifting chessboard.

But now, all he could imagine was Ellie, alone at school, then juggling studies with an infant, then someone taking his place. 

All he could imagine was him, alone, consumed by job after job, hit after hit, eventually ending in a flaming blast.

And here, at this shitty bar, liquor clouding his mind, drumming his hands on the grainy bar top in front of him in a tense pattern that jostles the uneaten popcorn and the last drops of amber, that future was untenable, unacceptable.

All he wanted was a tiny hand nestled in his, a toddler with Ellie’s curls and his eyes digging into toolboxes and pretending to wrench on cars, a child with his drive and Ellie’s spirit upending his world in the most profound of ways.

All he wanted was her, in whatever way she would have him, wanted her under him and over him and by his side, always, their orbits paralleling each other through plans and schemes... and now a child.

And so he realizes, in this shitty bar with its shitty liquor and the world swaying around him, he knows. Regardless of his plans or his crew and his best scheming, without his input, his path had changed.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 12.

Colt is 12, and this is the farthest east he’s ever been. The drive is never-ending; they left LA two days ago and it has been miserable every second. He hadn’t muttered a word as they inched through the city traffic and left the smog in the rearview; his throat still ached from the yelling, he wasn’t even sure he had a voice left, and apparently his words meant nothing, anyway.

He didn’t even get to see Pop before they left.

And then, they had just left, fled the city, rolling through mountains and motels and endless miles upon miles of concrete, on-ramps and off-ramps and potholes infinite as they drove further and further away from everything he cared about. 

The emptiness of the farmland mocks him; he crosses his arms over his chest and glares out the window, sullen and quiet, slouching as far into the door as his limbs will let him.

His mother sighs from the driver’s seat. “Do you want to play a game? ‘I Spy’?”

“No.”

Another sigh. “Do you want to pick the radio station?”

“No.”

“Come on, Colt,” she sighs and her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He watches the divots deepen in the leather before he petulantly shifts in the seat until he can only see the endless rows of corn beside him, endless blue above. The car is small, stifling next to the expanse of the plains, and he is even smaller, insignificant, powerless, on this dismal drive.

“Can I pick where we stop tonight?”

“Sure!” His mother brightens momentarily, and a bitter flush of victory works its way from the knot in his chest.

“Back home.”

She sighs, her most aggrieved one yet, and his victory is short-lived. They drive in silence for a minute, maybe two, miles of corn fields passing in front of his eyes. The tears prick at his eyes and he blinks them away, focusing on the sway of gold out the window.

Finally, she reaches over, slowly, tentatively, as if calming a skittish animal, patting his forearm and gliding fingertips up to his shoulder before nestling in his hair, rubbing the short strands at the back of his head in a comforting pattern reminiscent of his childhood, when her hands were tender but Pop and the shop and Gramercy Park were anything but.

“I promise you, I promise… you will understand one day.” She sounds tired, exhausted, like the drive has aged her prematurely, like the miles they are speeding by have cost her years of her life. It’s only been 20 hours of driving but, for him, it feels like he is leaving his entire life behind, all 12 years, packed into the truck of this shitty Civic, rolling across the interstate. Her next words are forceful, sure. “You’ll know what it’s to leave everything behind for someone you love, I promise you.”

He wonders what his mom left behind and stares at the fields whizzing by.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 19.

Colt is 19, so it’s been seven years since he made this drive, through Utah, Colorado. Nebraska seems like it will never end and, when he gets to the smaller states in the Midwest, he has no idea where he is, speeding past highway signs so fast that the text blurs in front of him and the only direction he can think is east, east, east.

He had called Ellie, three times in Nevada, four in Colorado, and on the chirp of her voicemail at his tenth call in Iowa, he threw his phone into the cheap motel room wallpaper, sliding against the wall until he plopped onto the floor, head in his hands next to the shattered glass and metal littering the taupe carpet. Once he finally makes it to New York, he’s exhausted, ass numb and knuckles cramping, but he still whips the bikes down the cross-streets and perpendicular angles until he slows to a growling stop in a back alley. He’s lucky he memorized the address, the high-rise dorm that served as his North Star over two thousand miles, and he glides past the loitering smokers armed with grim determination and a winning smile, through a propped emergency door and up four flights of stairs to a nondescript door, exactly the same as the seventeen he stormed by save for who was inside.

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

The rustling inside grows louder, but he’s still not prepared when the door is thrown open, all the words drafted on his interminable drive sailing from his mind when he sees her again.

Her greeting also dies on her lips when she opens the door, jaw dropping, and he uses the second of surprise to look her over. Her hair is thrown back in a sloppy ponytail secured with a felt-tip pen; while her features slide easily into a glare, he catches the exhaustion under her eyes, in the corner of her frown. She’s clad in pajamas, baggy t-shirt covering her torso, and his fingers itch to reach out to greet her and his child, but he’s lost that right; hell, he’s lost all rights.

“Ellie.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” She crosses her arms over her chest and makes no motion to slide away from the doorframe. “I wanted to apologize.”

“You? Apologize? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that in your life.”

He has to avert his eyes from the beam of her glare, laser-hot on him. “I apologize when I have something to apologize for.” Her gaze doesn’t soften and her stance doesn’t change. Fuck. “Ellie…” She raises her eyebrow. Fuck. “Ellie, I’m sorry.”

He waits.

She says nothing.

“Ellie…” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I needed to… I needed to think. I was an idiot.”

“Was?”

“Seriously?!?” He glares, anger flaring. “Are you gonna be a jerk or are you gonna listen?”

“I’m the jerk here?!?” He waits as they stare each other down, both strong-willed and head-strong and he doesn’t know if he’s ever loved her more. “Talk,” she growls

He takes a deep breath and rocks back on his heels. “You surprised me and I needed… I needed some time to think. I… I’m building up the crew and this completely changed my plans. I was focused on avoiding the cops and rebuilding and then I got…”

“Scared?”

“What?” He looks up sharply. “I’m not scared.” She stares through him for so long he fidgets before finally glancing away, abashed. “I was taken by surprise… Surprises aren’t really good in my line of work. I was shocked… and worried… and…” He trails off. The knot in his chest defies words, a tight coil of fear and uncertainty and worry, thick and throbbing.

“Colt...” She crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s ok. I was scared too. But it was worse when you freaked out. I...” Her arms drop, eyes falling to the floor, and what’s left of Colt’s heart crashes. “I felt alone.”

“I know what that’s like,” he mutters, eyes flickering to her torso. “But you’re not. We’re not. Not anymore.”

“Well, I knew that. But you apparently just needed a little reminder.”

He cocks his head, and when the realization hits, his shoulders drop. “You posted that picture on purpose.”

“Of course I did. Colt, I know you. I know how you are with the people you care about. With me.”

“I hate everyone.”

“You love me,” she fires back and he can’t find the strength to deny it. “I know we never talked about it but… I’m scared about a lot right now but I’m not scared about doing this with you.” She blinks wide eyes up at him and takes a deep breath. “You’re a better man than your dad ever was.”

“Not yet.” He once knew his path, could see every single step clear as day. Every move. Every steal. Every job. “But I will be. I fucking swear, I will be.” Now, the path wavers, blurring in his mind.

“Then…” The smile breaking over her face speaks of hope and contentment and love, everything he wants for himself, for his child, everything he ever wanted.  “You’re ready for a baby?”

He crosses his arms. “Are we ready? I don’t know if anyone really is. But sometimes you can’t get ready. Sometimes you just need to jump in.”

And, apparently, Colt can change his plan; now that he has a plan, a direction, a goal, there’s only one thing left to do.

She sighs, fingertips curling tight around the doorframe, but a glimmer of hope shines in her eyes. “Does this… does this mean you’re doing this with me?”

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 8.

Colt is 8, so he is just learning about acceleration and metric units of distance and the undersea ecosystem below his feet; however, he knows that the drop is long and far and dark.

“I don’t…” He peers over the edge, leaning forward as far as he dares, and pulls back when he feels slightly unsteady, as if the magnetic sway of the ocean could draw him forward into the abyss. “I don’t want to.”

“You will.” The lighter clicks and illuminates his father’s face in flame as he draws it close, taking an inhale to light the cigar, and a plume of exhale floats caustic and smoky around his face. For an instant, with the shadowed moon overhead and the flickering light in front of him, his dad looks more demon than man, smoke rising around him and eyes glowing impatiently in the darkness.

Colt swallows hard. “I can’t-“

“You will.”

“But Pop…” He hazards another look over the edge; he can make out the pale spray of the waves battering the cliff but, deeper into the Pacific, it’s only darkness, inky black, ready to swallow him whole. “I can’t see what’s down there.” His voice comes out as a whine and his face flushes; he sounds like a baby, weak and pathetic. He feels weak and pathetic.

His father slowly puffs the cigar, bud flaring in the night. He is calm, measured, certain. “Often, you know not what is before you. All you know is that you must leap.”

“What does that mean?”

His dad thunders, “It means jump, Colt!”

Colt pauses for a second, fingernails curling hard into his palm as the harsh command echoes through him. The darkness below is scary, but his father is terrifying.

He takes a deep breath.

And he jumps.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 19.

Colt is 19, and he’s standing in the doorway of a dorm in New York City and the girl he would speed and fight and kill for stands before him and he doesn’t know how their life became so messed up but he knows that there isn’t anything that would pull him from her side, from his child’s side, no path more important than the one laid out for him by a girl in pajama pants and a baggy tee.

And he jumps

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 42.

Colt is 42 and his wife is 41 and, when he collapses into bed next to her, he feels like he has both lived for centuries and was born this morning. He rolls over to slide under her arm, breathing sleepy breaths against the warmth of her skin.

She looks up from her book, eyebrow raised. “Why were you working so late?”

“Urgh, crap day.”

She sighs, closing the book so she can thread calming fingers through his hair. Gradually, the tension ebbs from his shoulders, his mind, and all he can feel is loved. “Jackson called me,” Ellie says, breaking the silence and stilling her hand.

“Did he?”

“He told me about his new job.”

Colt smiles, lips dragging against the soft curve of her breast. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s so excited.”

“I know.” His mind gets heavy, and it becomes harder to pull his eyelids open again.

“Are you sad he doesn’t want the crew or the shop?”

He glances up. “Maybe a little.” He drags his arm around her stomach to trace hazy shapes against her side.. “But this day was always gonna come; he wasn’t interested in the crew, the shop.”

“Yeah,” she hums, free arm dropping her book on the nightstand. “He was always interested in following his own path.”

“Yeah… he was...” Colt blinks. While his own path meandered and changed, wandering in and out of misbehavior, it had always wound its way back to her open arms. He watches her, settling into the sheets, curling into his arms, and her eyelashes flutter, movement slowing and finally stopping as each tiny lash lay featherlight against her cheek. 

His son always had been intent on blazing his own trail.

And just like Colt, that path would lead him just where he needed to be.

.

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[dangerous-advantage]

The Foxes and Their Superpowers:

So, this has definitely been done before BUT I just. Really like this idea. So, um. Here this is. 

Neil: Super-speed. Like, the same powers as The Flash. He’s a runner, obviously, so maybe this isn’t that original but it just fits. I fought between this and him having an INSANE healing rate, but decided I would just let him be fast as fuck. 

Andrew: Shielding powers. Both physical and mental. He is constantly shielded from others’ mental powers and can create a strong shield around himself that can withstand almost anything and reflects his mental/physical state (it’s weaker on his bad days, and when he’s injured.) If the shield gets injured from enough force, it will reflect on him (so, he’ll like. start coughing up blood or something idk.) He can also shield others with his mental shielding but it would be harder to do and have a smaller range. 

Kevin: Teleportation. I got this idea from another post like this and it really stuck with me! Kevin being able to teleport distances in seconds, yet being very unstable, meaning he can accidentally teleport himself without really meaning too. It’s just such a cool idea!

Aaron: Time Pause. Kind of like Neil's ability but only barely. Basically, he can ‘pause’ time for a moment (though he himself can’t move either) to take in the situation before jumping back into reality. He can spend as long as he wants in these pauses and, if he is touching someone else, can take them into the time pause with him. 

Matt: Item-duplication. I just think that this would be really useful to him. There’s not much else to say. 

Renee: Precognition. It’s not always very easy for her to tell, and visions can be confusing, but for the most part she just gets feelings telling her what to do or if something is going to happen. Like a gut feeling. So it’s not always very accurate, but still pretty helpful. 

Dan: Hard Light Constructs. The ability to create virtually any weapon, tool or vehicle out of hard light. I just really like the idea of somebody threatening her and she just, like. Makes a fucking sword or something out of hard light. And it’s color would be orange, too! I bet she spends lots of time practicing using all these different weapons. 

Allison: Extreme luck. The ability to increase the probability of things in your favor. It’s definitely not full proof, as she can’t just be like, “The probability of this happening will be 100% and even just upping probabilities a small amount can be very draining, but she is still pretty good at this. She’s also just pretty lucky in general. It’s how she wins all those bets.

Seth: Super-powered tattoos. Basically, being able to tattoo things on himself and then drawing power from it. So, if he tattoos flames on his body, boom! fire powers. Wings on his back? He has a set of wings! It’s actual really useful. (I debated giving this to Wymack, but I felt this fit Seth more.)

Nicky: Self-multiplication. He can create basically clones of himself that will last for a little while before fading away. They will only follow his commands and don’t have a mind of their own. Idk I just really like this idea. 

BONUS:

Wymack: Super strength. He is just,,, very strong.

Riko: Reality Warping. Can create realistic hallucinations to his victims. Makes it so he can easily manipulate them. 

Abby: The ability to heal others. Kind of obvious. 

Bee: Telepathy. The ability to read minds as well as send one-way messages to others. This would be very helpful to her in the field, but I feel like she would refrain from reading minds as much as possible so she could preserves the privacy of her patients. 

[katsukikitten]

2!

Lol here have this I have no idea what I'm doing with this. Hope yall can't tell.

You clenched your teeth, watching as the Avatar waltz through to the sitting room on his own accord. No servant attendant as he stared Zuko down.  

The Avatar looked...different from what you remembered or what had been described to you.  He had filled out some, broad muscles swept in golden colors with a heavily beaded wooden necklace with the air symbol carved into it. As if the world needed a reminder that he was the last air bender. You fight to roll your eyes as the roam over his bald head, blue tattoo vibrant in the cast of the afternoon son while his beard was as dark as rich upturned Earth. 

"So what do I owe the pleasure of having the honored Avatar as my guest?" Zuko's voice comes out gruff, golden eyes narrowed onto the bald man. 

The Avatar returns the glare, his brown eyes reminding you of frozen Earth in the darkest winter. 

The tension between the two is tangiable enough that you can taste it.  The fresh breeze being summoned and the wood starting to char beneath Zuko's feet. The Firelord begins to shift his weight for an offensive attack putting you on edge. 

The Avatar mirrors the action and both set off a powerful blast of Fire and Air. Just as you're about to move to counter attack the two men burst into a fit of laughter. 

"It's been too long, Zuko!" They step into a tight hug separating in time for tea.

"Way too long Aang." Zuko sits on one of the many cushions that lie around the room, broad hand gesturing for the Avatar to follow suit. The young servant sets the tea on the low table between them, Zuko observes the set up with a harsh glare. 

"Why are there only three cups?" A tone above a bite causing your stomach to twist. Your teeth sink into your tongue to keep your temper in check, agitated that the man never seems satisfied.

"Uh, your Highness forgive me. I am still new and I assumed you'd serve yourself and your two guests." Her voice trembles as she presses her forehead to the ground, hard enough you were sure the wooden grains would dimple her forehead. On the verge of snapping you step towards the tea more than ready to douse his arrogant flames. Nostrils flaring as you watch him berate her but then your heart catches in your chest when you hear him speak. 

"Daiyu..." His voice is soft as he touches her forearm, "You must always remember your own cup, tea was made to be enjoyed in company." 

The girl looks up, bewildered. 

"Y...your fierceness I…" She clutches at the green silk ribbon that adorns her wrist. Crackling and smoothing the fabric as she tries to refute without really refusing. It's obvious she's a fresh servant from the Earth kingdom. You had noticed that majority of Zuko's helping hands were a modge podge of former refugees from all across the lands. 

"It is fine. You may have my cup." He pours her tea first, earning a blush as he presents it to her. 

And with a smile no less. 

Your heart summersolts in your chest, thumping with questions and anger, all unnoticed to the small party. 

It is true you had observed the Firelord over the last six months, most of it arguments and fights between the two of you.  You thought you had him pegged as a bitter Prince with daddy issues and an absentee mother. 

But you were starting to question if you had observed closely enough. When she does not take the tea his molten eyes flash an emotion you've never see before. 

"You may take it with you back to the kitchen if you think it is against etiquette." He leaves the nature of their relationship unspoken and finally she bows deeply before reaching for the tea. 

"Thank you Firelord Zuko." She bows again with tea in hand before exiting the room, softly shutting the sliding door behind her. 

Aang chuckles as deft hands pour the other two cups. The Avatar holds onto his tea with a smile, looking after where the young woman stood.  

"They still aren't used to a kind Firelord are they?" He takes a small sip as Zuko offers you your tea. You glare at the light green liquid, staring down your own reflection before he half growls in frustration. 

"At least sit." He gestures to a pillow beside him to which you plop down on ungracefully after a moment or two. Brown eyes watch you with undying curiosity while golden ones bore holes into your skin. 

"I want them to feel more like employees than servants." He address Aang's previous question, "How is Katara?" 

A dip in his tone that has your brows furrowed as Aang's voice carries throughout the room. 

"Happy and busy as ever especially with two kids." He smiles hard enough he is forced to close his eyes, "And you and Mai?" 

A small silence before Zuko chooses to speak the truth. 

"We...have chosen separate paths." 

"Ah I'm…." A heated hand stops the avatar from speaking. It is clear that Zuko does not want his old friend's pity but it is left unspoken. Instead he shifts their focus back on Aang. 

"What of Sokka and Suki? And my best friend Toph?" The scowl is quickly replaced with a gentle smile that spreads across his lips, leaving you bewildered. You had figured he was all angst and rigid but you figured even coins had two sides. 

"They are well. We should camp. For old times sake."

"Maybe I'll chase you around for an hour or two." They share another hearty laugh before a flip is switched and Zuko returns to all of adjectives you're familiar with. 

Stern.

Serious.

Calculating. 

Not...not smiles

And surely not kindness. 

A grin washes over your features as you realize his softness can last only so long, you bring the green tea to your lips. Refreshing satisfaction washes over your tongue.

"What really brings you here Aang?" His stature no longer vulnerable, his spine straight and those broad shoulders snapped back. Aang sighs, having wanted more of his friend than his ally today. 

"It is your sister. Azula." The tea cup in your hand threatens to snap from that name alone. Rage seeps into every fiber of your being, into your bones as you grit your teeth to keep from speaking. 

You needed to hear what was next. 

"She's finally been spotted." Steam escapes Zuko's nose for a long moment. When he opens his eyes again it is as if the brewing storm calmed. Head level and clear as he speaks. 

"It's time she came home." 

But you see the fresh steam billowing from the spout of the tea pot. A defiant smile forms on your lips as you watch the hairline crack in the ceramic form before your eyes. 

It's time you tested how well he could keep his temper under control with a guest. 

"Bring her home?" You ask, golden eyes snap to you. Your infernal voice one of the few things left on his Earth that got under his skin. 

"Surly you don't mean here." You set your tea down, heat radiates from his toned body all the way through his thick robes dancing along your exposed skin.  A shiver runs down your spine from the hint of a fight. 

"I think you mean a rehabilitation center. If you missed being called Zuzu so much. I would be more than happy to oblige." A purr leaves your plump lips as his eyebrow tics in tandem with his sharp jawline. 

Aang is left to watch the scene unfold with inquisitive eyes, not yet having the pleasure of meeting your acquaintance. 

"Uh Zuko who is this exactly?" You glare at the Avatar as the Firelord's heat slowly dies down.  

"My name is too difficult for your tongue. I hail from a much different land." You roll your eyes as you sink into the silky pillow. Another glare sent your way as his eyes seem to scream murder. 

"My uncle called her Lost Dragon. She answers to that or Jasmine. He tried to name her after his favorite tea." Amber pools soften at the the thought until he remembers who it's about, "Mostly I say you." 

"In that irritated tone too?" Aang chuckles and Zuko nods. 

"Well I must confess. This is very much…..you." He looks you over before holding eye contact with Zuko, "You may have found your FireLady." 

You snap up from your lying position ready to throw daggers his way but the tea pot explodes instead. Aang guides the boiling tea into his empty cup laughing as he's clearly struck a nerve. 

"I would never." His voice dips so low and so dark it almost stops Aang from relishing in his now rare moment of igniting Zuko's ire. 

The tone does not sit well with you causing you to send an icy glare his way.

"Whatever you say hotman." Fire erupts from Zuko's shoulders. 

"Don't call me that!" An infectious laugh rings out before Aang retorts. 

"Whatever you say hotman." He covers his mouth before he takes another sip of tea, "In all seriousness those sightings of your sister are rumors for now. But I wanted to tell you in person first." 

Aang sets down his cup and stands, looking Zuko in his eyes. He offers a smile that the firelord returns.

"Another day?" Aang asks. 

"Hopefully sooner rather than later. And for pleasure instead for business." 

They bow to one another fist in hand before the Avatar slips out of the door. 

Zuko turns to you stepping almost too quickly as he breathes life into a powerful blast that you dismiss with your own fire. 

You both stare one another down for countless minutes before Daiyu slides open the door  The hairs on the nape of her neck stand straight up as she feels the exuding power seeping from the two bodies in the room. She is not quick enough to slide it back shut like she wishes. Neither breaks eye contact even as she struggles to get her message out. 

"F..Firelord Zuko, your bath is ready." Another moment passes before he sighs heavily. Steam filling the room until neither can see the other. 

"Thank you Daiyu. I shall retire for now." A threat lingers in his voice as you hear him exit the room. 

You grit your teeth as your body carries you back out to the large tree in the garden where you've been sleeping. Refusing to sleep in the house of your enemy. You slam your knife into the bark of the tree above your head before you adjust your weight in the branch. Wondering why in the hell the man you respected so much, the man who understood the pain you went through, who apologized for his actions, sent you to watch over some arrogant over grown brat. 

 

"Destiny is a funny thing."  His voice echos in your head as you drift to sleep dreaming of the deep golden color of oolong tea.

[chibivesicle]

i’d like to hear more about what you think the consequences of asirpa’s crush on sugimoto will be! do you think sugimoto knows? i find it hard to believe that asirpa would think that sugimoto would just go “aw shucks” and stay in hokkaido with her if botarou steals all the gold (if that’s the reason why she let go).

I’m combining two asks which are pretty much on the same topic.  What do I think about Asirpa’s crush on Sugimoto? First off, thanks for your asks! 

I have complicated feelings on Asirpa’s crush on him.  Personally, I’ve never been a fan of this plot point/plot device since I’d like to have a female character not being driven in part by a male character.

I’ve been wondering more recently if Asirpa’s crush is a way for Noda to remind us that she’s still not an adult and that despite her best intentions, she’s still going to approach things as a child or young teen.  As icing4me states, I too find it hard to believe that Sugimoto would be like, “Welp, no gold to get that expensive eye surgery in the States for the woman I love, Umeko.  Might as well stay here in Hokkaido with my adopted kid sister/personal pure icon.”

Based on the number of times that her crush on Sugimoto has been pretty obvious to characters like Ogata and Boutarou, I’m both surprised and not surprised that Sugimoto is oblivious to it.  We know that Sugimoto’s ultimate goal is to make a quick buck to get the required surgery for Umeko and he isn’t afraid to do bad things to achieve this goal based around some unresolved guilt about Toraji’s death.  We know a bit more about this from Sugimoto’s flashbacks, but I think we are missing some key points about it.  Sugimoto also can be pretty dense about things when it interferes with his own opinion and worldview.  Sugimoto wants to paint himself as a black and white kinda guy.  I also think Noda is a decent artist by making Sugimoto not respond to her crush whether or not he is actively aware of it.  I really think he doesn’t know.

As our Anon ask indicates - the big question is if Asirpa will confront this crush of hers. And if so, it be a very interesting aspect to the story. One of the most important angles around her crush is how Ogata tries to use it to his advantage to convince her to give him the code.  Before he has his meltdown on the ice floe, he creates a horrible but somewhat believable story to get Asirpa to trust him, driven by the fact that he knows Sugimoto’s motive in the gold hunt.

By focusing on Sugimoto’s distant female love interest he tried to appeal to breaking her crush on Sugimoto and to have her feel sorry for him in his apparent death and would give Ogata the information to help this unnamed woman which results in Ogata using the name Tome.

I among many other readers of GK thought that Ogata’s story, though a lie to try to manipulate Asirpa, was likely grounded in truth based on his own experience. e.g. Tome is his own mother and that Sugimoto was the stand in for Hanazawa as he is there to witness his end as well as his declared love for Tome.  He also made Sugimoto say that he liked anglerfish nabe ,which we know Ogata liked as well as his father according to his mentally ill mother.   One part of me wonders if this was actually true seeing that Ogata’s father was a wealthy elite and instead his Mother made up this story to help Ogata connect with the dish something like “Oh your father loved this nabe, it is great you love it too young Ogata!”  Anyways, the manga has made it clear that Ogata’s mother suffered from mental illness and had what one may call a crush on Hanazawa.  Therefore, Ogata has seen the negative effects of an unrealistic crush on an unattainable man.

I honestly had expected that after Asirpa had time to digest what happened on the ice floe, that she would have been able to reflect on her own feelings for Sugimoto seeing how Ogata almost had her convinced.  I’ve never been able to shake off the gut feeling that Asirpa’s crush on Sugimoto and Ogata’s own mother are intrinsically linked in the story.  Hell, Sugimoto’s own crush on Umeko and feelings for her left him bitter as he watched his ‘best friend’ marry the woman he loved and then he beat him up to prove - well something and having Umeko validate her love for Toraji.

Instead, she seemed to double-down on her crush of Sugimoto where she tells herself that she’d be willing to kill for Sugimoto’s sake.  Of course as a reader, I don’t want to see this happen since she has so far avoided killing directly, but as I’ve argued before she isn’t innocent in all of this in the same way Yuusaku was not innocent as a flag bearer in the war.  Maybe this double-down was to make sure that Boutarou would observe her and the use it to his advantage in the recent chapter.  With Ogata out of the group for the time being having Boutarou examine things while she denies her crush allows him to plot how he’ll make his moves. We know that Sugimoto, despite saying he’s in Hokkaido to find gold/quick cash to help Umeko, he never had the guts to talk to her about his plans.  Instead, he’s doing things without ever telling her of his intent which lets us know that he’s in part running away from reality and this might be part of his own PTSD response.

At the same time, Asirpa has run away from her own responsibility to grow and develop in her own community.  Wilk wanted her to be the next leader of the Ainu/Partisan fight against imperial powers and part of that was to have her redefine what type of Ainu woman she would become.  I’m in favor of the idea of her being a new type of Ainu woman, but running away for your own community to develop that in a crazy quest to find hidden gold that your mastermind father hid may not be the best way for her to come into her own.  Early in the manga, comments are made about her lack of facial tattoos (though the Japanese government was working hard to ban them) and when she first meets Kirawus, he calls her a weird kid.

It makes me wonder if her crush is also an excuse for her to ignore reality and growing power of the Japanese over the fate of the Ainu.  If anything, it seems that Asirpa may be a more conflicted character than she has revealed to date.  She wants to help the Ainu.  She wants to help Sugimoto b/c of her crush.  But she also wants to go home and just be her best Ainu self and spend time with her Huci.  I think that Asirpa knows that she can’t have all of these things.  But as long as she clings to her crush and this ‘childish dream’ it can continue. When Ogata was talking to her on the ice floe, the idea of Sugimoto being dead was a good reason for her to find heading home to be a good option.  She lost her ‘partnership’ and her role in the quest for the gold could be complete if she told someone the code.

It has been clear that Asirpa holds her emotions down and she tries her best to act mature and pretend like she’s cool and collected.  This is where she has overlap with Ogata again; both of them try to suppress their emotions relating to a wide variety of things and they have more similar backgrounds than either of them have with Sugimoto.  I’ve debated if Ogata has actively tried to ‘help’ Asirpa by rationalizing that she lost her mother when she was young and raised by her grandma like him and also having an absent father who was perhaps looking for a pure icon (though that pure icon bit is total Ogata-vision).  One could argue that Ogata ‘lost’ his mother long before she died of poisoning and Noda has beat us over the head about this. Specifically, the link between Asirpa’s fine line of being involved in a bloody conflict while keeping her hands clean with that of Yuusaku, now ‘haunting’ Ogata’s mind.  It is easy to understand that both Hanazawa and Wilk ‘abandoned’ their children for their own personal career/gain.  Hanazawa ignored Ogata due to the questionable state of his mother and her likely poor social standing/embarrassment potential while Wilk had to sacrifice himself to the system and leave Asirpa clues to lead her to what he would like her to perhaps do.

The manga started on the concept of a partnership between Sugimoto and Asirpa which is a thought provoking concept on many levels.  Adult with teen.  Man with girl.  Japanese man with Ainu teen.  The Japanese man isn’t abusing nor sexualizing the Ainu girl.  This premise is what really caught my attention.  As the manga has unfolded, even though the Asirpa - Sugimoto partnership was an initial spark, I have always been more fascinated by the huge amount of overlap between Ogata and Asirpa which I’ve written about before.  What we do get is some of the ‘pure & innocent’ native stereotype from Sugimoto from time to time which Ogata never applies to her.  Sugimoto was ostracized being a survivor of TB (or the fact he somehow never got it) but he has always seen himself as a Japanese man not questioning the policies of the government he fought for.

Asirpa in contrast isn’t happy with things, but in part refused to participate in the changes to Hokkaido to avoid dealing with the issue. Wilk told her to learn Japanese and she didn’t.  Wilk didn’t do this because he wasn’t proud of his own background, he told her because it was practical and would help her in finding the gold.

Honestly, I want her crush to be shattered by a realization that her denial of the possible outcomes is indeed childish.  I think she let go of the door handle since Boutarou is telling her the reality that destroys her dream.  Asirpa was enjoying this crazy quest to avoid making a single decision and being an adult about things.  She can help her people; she can be with Sugimoto; or she can just head home to Huci.  Her hesitation and the fact that Boutarou goes straight for that indicates that he likely knows that she’s attempting to balance the impossible. 

Frequently, I’ve made fun of Tanigaki about how he was avoiding reality by treating Asirpa like a side quest.  But, Tanigaki is the most obvious character who is hiding from going back home to the matagi native range and facing his father.  Yet, we could argue most of the characters are avoiding heading back to face reality.  Sugimoto is avoiding Umeko and the disappointment and guilt.  Ogata is working towards his mysterious goal related to Tsurumi.  Shiraishi could have just gone back to the mainland and bounce around going to brothels and drinking. Hijikata could have found Nagakura and they could have just retired to be two old guys drinking tea and hanging out but he’s on a quest to find a fight worth dying for.

This reply has spiraled out of control; whoops.  My main opinion is that Asirpa will have to face her crush and what it means for the rest of her life and how she will interact with the rest of the cast.  My gut also thinks this will get tied back to Ogata due to her overlap with his mother’s own ‘crush’.

[miidnightglosss]

Boston Tea Party - Part 3 (Matt Connerly: Chapter 1)

Matt Connery - Chapter 1

Matt aggressively threw himself into a chair, scattering multiple bags on M&Ms, nails, and old Pokemon cards. "I'm gonna need chicken blood, salt, five candles, and a bottle of vodka," he said.

Johanna peered over his shoulder, bottles of soda in one hand while she settled her sunglasses on her head with the other. "Vodka? For the ritual?"

Matt sighed dramatically. "No, that's just to make me feel better about ripping a hole in the universe."

"We're just setting up for a party," Sebastian reminded, rolling his eyes. He grabbed the M&Ms from Matt and poured them into a bowl on the nearby snack table.

"Dude, what the fawk," Johanna scoffs with a sort of frat boy-valley accent, lightly punching Sebastian a couple of times in the back.

"We have to get ready, don't we? The party starts at two and it’s already--" Sebastian pulled out his phone and checked the time-- "1:48."

"Shit, he's right. What's all that stuff for anyway?"

"Well," Matt started, "before your boyfriend so RUDELY took my things without ASKING, the M&Ms were for shooting up our noses, the Pokemon cards were for Kiss and Blow, and the nails were just for cinematic effect."

"First of all, I'm pretty sure someone will snort something regardless," Johanna started. "Second of all, those are my Pokemon cards. Gimme back my fucking Flareon. We'll use something else for Kiss and Blow. Third of all, nails are a delicacy that shouldn't be wasted for trivial recreational purposes. Fourth of all, we're not dating."

Yeah, fucking right, Matt thought to himself. It was totally obvious they had a thing for each other. Johanna called it "brotherly love", Matt called it "sexual tension". "Okay, maybe not yet, but eventually."

"Nah, she's engaged to Bartholomew," Sebastian teased. Johanna punched him in the arm, more harshly this time. Laughing obnoxiously, Sebastian ran around the house while Johanna chased him close behind, pillow in hand, smacking him when she was close enough.

Matt rolled his eyes just as Bart, Ciel, and Lizzie walked through the door, all with different snacks in hand. Lizzie's wearing her usual pigtails down, a much more mature look from what everyone is used to.

"Hey, guys," Matt greeted. "We're still setting up snacks and stuff, but feel free to get comfortable."

"Awesome," Bart replied, setting his Mountain Dew: Code Red down on the table. "Where's Johanna?"

Matt shrugged. "I don't know. Currently somewhere with Sebastian and a pillow." Right after that sentence dropped from his mouth, Bart power-walked through the house in search of the girl. "I probably could've worded that better."

"I'm not even going to ask," Ciel sighs.

Elizabeth went up to Matt and enveloped him in a hug. "You look so cute today! Normally dark colors aren't my thing, but they suit you perfectly! Although might I suggest..." The blonde reached into a pocket on her overalls and pulled out a cat ring, placing it in Matt's hand. Matt observed its white body as he pushed it down on his left middle finger, its rainbow eyes reflecting the light.

"I bought one for Johanna, too," Lizzie continued, hardly able to keep her excitement. "I know how you two always go to pride every year together and once I saw how cute it was, I couldn't resist."

"Believe me, she couldn't," Ciel huffed, dropping down on the couch.

Normally, Matt cringes at how enthusiastic and cute Lizzie is all the time. However, this time was an exception. "Thanks, Lizzie." Reluctantly, he returned the hug. It's only a few seconds before Ciel mumbled a "too long" under his breath, the three of them laughing as Grell, William, Ronald, and the others walk in.

Within minutes, everyone had a drink in hand and is settling into the party. Matt felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around to see Sebastian. "Oh, hey, man. What's Joey doing?"

Sebastian rubbed the back of his neck. "She and Bart are arguing over something. Nothing serious, I don't think."

"Oh." That's weird. Those two hardly ever fight, Matt thought.

"Yeah..." Sebastian trailed off. "Anyways, you said your dad was supposed to be performing? That would certainly kick the party off to a good start."

"Oh, shit, yeah, you're right." Matt handed his solo cup of blue Mountain Dew to Sebastian. "Hold this for me."

Hearing Sebastian mutter a "what the fuck", Matt made his way outside to the garage his father had converted into a studio. He named it Santa Monica Discharge, whatever the fuck that means. He still has no idea where the fuck that idea came from but his dad practically took LSD every day of his 20s.

Without knocking, Matt quietly opened the door to the studio to see his father listen intently as another masculine figure, probably a couple of years older than him, played a few notes from an Elvis Presley song on a keyboard.

"Oh, hey, bud," August greeted with a smile as he stood up. The other figure turned around as well, still holding the last note he left on.

So, he's got brown eyes, floofy hair, pretty fucking sick tattoos, he's actually pretty skinny but has buffed out arms, and is an overall bean, Matt thought to himself. It wasn't that bad of a description. The brunet was about as tall as August, his hair falling ever so slightly in front of his warm ivory face. His brown eyes met Matt's gunmetal blue before he had to break from whatever trance this stranger has put on him.

Matt shook his head, returning his attention to August. "We were, uh, getting ready for you to perform, whenever you ready." He nodded towards the other male in the room. "Who's this?"

August patted the stranger's back. "This is Christian. I'm pretty sure he goes to your school."

"I'm a senior," Christian chimed in.

"Yep. He came to me seeking musical guidance so I decided to help him out a bit," August explained. "I didn't mean for it to cut into your party, though. I didn't forget or anything."

"Yeah, I should probably get going," Christian agreed, grabbing his bag resting on the floor. "I've got a little project I'm working on anyways."

"H E Y, why not come veg with us cool kids for a bit," Matt offered shakily, immediately mentally kicking himself for acting so stupid.

"Aren't you guys just a bunch of freshmen?"

Matt felt a pit fall into his stomach. "Well, I mean--"

"Nah, I'm kidding. I'm playing with August today, actually."

"Oh, cool," Matt chuckled to himself. Wait, weren't you just about to leave? That don't make no sense. "See you in a couple of minutes then. With that, he turned and left the studio.

The entire way back to the house (a quick 35-second trip, at most), Matt couldn't help but yell at himself for acting like such an anxiety-ridden freak. A gorgeous man WHO GOES TO YOUR SCHOOL walks into your house and what do you do? You go 'oH, hEy, SoRrY, dO yOu CoMe HeRE oFtEn? Really? CUZ I LIVE HERE AAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHHH--

Bart came storming out of the front door, holding his nose, wincing quietly.

Matt began to ask, "Dude--"

"Don't fucking talk to me," Bart yelled, making his way towards the sidewalk, pulling out his phone a tapping a bit.

Slowly, Matt walked inside, hoping someone would have an explanation for what just happened. Alas, everyone was just as stunned as he was.

Someone get a moving van because these last 5 minutes have been a lot to unpack.

[weclassygirl]

𝐡𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥

Word count: +5.1k (clownery at its finest)

Pairing: coa!step x oc!ava

Summary: Step actually had help in finding V when she got taken in Tokyo...

Warnings: softness, mention of nightmares

Author’s note: hello, the lovely kat from @the-darklings​ let me write for her hacker disaster boy Step from her fic “children of ares”, alongside my own oc. as always English is not my first language so beware. take care everyone <3

Pinterest board (includes Ava's apartment)

Gif credits (x)

The knock on her door comes just after midnight. She's not expecting anyone at this time, only in the morning hours, but maybe her client changed his mind. 

She goes to the door and looks through the peephole to see a familiar slender figure standing behind it. The woman steps back and sighs. She was worried sick.

She opens her dark door to the man that she haven't heard from in a few weeks. He’s wearing his signature round sunglasses and it still makes her wonder how can he see through them. He sports a striped yellow shirt with suspenders underneath a light wool coat. He holds a laptop in his hands. 

A worried and confused expression makes its way onto her face as she opens the door more widely. “Step?” she questions.”What are you doing here? Where have you been?” the woman wonders out loud. 

“Buonasera Ava, I am in dire need of your helping hands and brain.” he tells her quickly with a grin growing on his face. He doesn’t respond to her last question. 

Ava raises her eyebrows at him. “Dire need, you say?” she acknowledges slowly, waiting for his response. She haven’t seen him in weeks and even tried to contact him but to no use. 

“I’ll pay for your services in a form of some hugs and Skittles?” he offers with a playful smile playing on his lips. 

She looks up at him, barely seeing his blue eyes through the dark glasses. “Hmm… tempting.” she hums thoughtfully. Ava closes her eyes for a moment and sighs opening the door wider. “Alright, get in.” she invites him to her apartment. 

As he walks through the door he says “Have I told you how much I adore you?” and she chuckles, her back turned away from him as she closes and locks the door. Step is patiently standing in the small hallway. 

“Don't say it too fast, you still haven't told me why you need my help and where you've been.” she responds as he hangs his coat on one of the hangers on the wall. 

“Of course, where are my manners.” he reaches up to his face, takes off the round glasses and puts them in the lapel of his shirt. “I need your help in finding someone.” 

Ava draws her eyebrows together in confusion. “Finding someone? That's the easiest thing in the book, you don't need my help for that.” she says a matter-of-factly. Tracking is truly one of the easiest thing a hacker can learn. Why would he come to her in the middle of a night with a request that he could have handled on his own? 

“I'm afraid that I do… help me Ava, you're my only hope.” he clasps his hands together in a silent plead. Ava turns her head to the side and scoffs. “Bold move using that reference against me.” she warns him with a smirk on her face. 

He steps a bit closer. “You love it.” Ava looks up at his towering frame and rolls her eyes and breaths in. “Okay, turn on your laptop.” 

“Right away.” he salutes you and moves to the small kitchen island connected to the rest of the countertop. He pulls out his laptop while Ava begins to make coffee for both of them, she can already feel that it’s gonna be a long night, but that has never stopped them. 

As Step taps away on his laptop she pulls out two mugs and pours the dark liquid. She places the mug next to him as he steps out of the seat and points to it invitingly. Ava sits in the dark chair and stares at the screen in front of her.

“So what am I looking at exactly?” she asks as she sips on the hot coffee. He leans over her shoulder and looks at the screen.

“This is as far as I could go into the server. I thought that you could use one of your fancy programs and boost this up a little.” her gaze is focused on the screen but the woman bends her neck and narrows her eyes at the man. 

“You could have written one by yourself.” Ava tells him and he pulls back to lean against the counter. “Yes, but you know me, I am too lazy for that.” he admits with a tilt of his head. 

She turns to the bright screen and begins to tap in various commands that could help her speed up the process. “But not too lazy to come way over here asking me to do that apparently.” she comments with slightly more opened eyes. A small smile is etched onto her face and Step hangs his head down and laughs.

“Touché, carina, touché.” he admits and moves to sit next to Ava. 

“And who am I looking for?” the woman questions, not removing her eyesight from the screen filled with various of commands. 

“A woman that goes by V or The Vipress.” he informs her. She stops her typing and looks at him. He’s sitting close to her, their arms almost touching. 

“That’s why you’ve been gone? Cause of some girl?” she asks him, a hint of irritation lacing her voice. Step only smiles faintly. “Well, not exactly. My boss wants me to find her, if I do that I get to live the rest of my days.” the tattooed man says it as if it’s the most obvious thing. 

Ava ponders at his answer. “So he will kill you if you don’t find her?” she says slowly, but Step doesn’t respond her right away. The golden haired woman turns to him fully, worry evident on her face. “What did you got yourself into?”

Step only draws in a breath and squints. “You see I rather not answer that now.” 

“Step…” she warns him, the laptop next to her momentarily forgotten.

“You’ll get mad.” he points out. “Of course I'll get mad. You're gone for a few weeks with no contact whatsoever, I thought that Slifer killed you.” 

Slifer. The cyber terrorist group both of them have been apart of at some point. Step has run with them longer then Ava. The woman only worked with them on a specific projects. Never lingered around, but always stayed a bit longer to catch up with Step. Both of them became very fast friends, impressed by both of their skills and fond of each others personality. He was always the one to light up the mood as he walked into the room, while she was also the same but more reserved, preferring to work in peace. The only person that turned out to be able to break that peace without really interrupting was Step. 

After Ava stopped working for Slifer, she exchanged contacts with Step, should the one of them need help. He never did and neither did she but he always visited her to talk, watch movies, share some work or even go out sometimes. But now, this time is an exception as he sits next to her, asking for help.

“Oh, I am not with them anymore.” he says bluntly. “What?” Ava asks confused. 

“I am not with them, I am with some other group now.” he informs her. The confusion on her face only grows. She knows that Step is highly secretive, she is too, but they trust each other… sort of. “What group?” she questions further.

The tattooed man looks at her and presses his lips into a thin line. “Promise you won’t get mad.”

“Step.” she warns.

“Please.” 

She sighs. “Fine.”

Step watches her carefully before answering. “I am working with Camorra now.” he squints at Ava, expecting her reaction. 

The woman blinks. That was not the answer she was prepared for. Step looks into her green eyes and notices a gleam of the lamp reflecting in them. He can even see his tiny silhouette in them. 

“You… you work with Camorra?” she asks doubt founded. He nods and she steps out of the chair and walks back and forth for a moment. She stops and heads towards Step, hitting him in the arms repeatedly. “Are you completely out of your mind?” she raises her voice slightly.

“Most of the time yes and- ow! you promised.” she stops her actions and glares at him, fire dancing in her eyes. “It’s not like I joined them. The boss himself recruited me.”

“Giovanni D’Antonio hand picked you?” she questions with a slight suspicion. “There’s gotta be a catch.” Ava says this as she sits down on the seat at the counter. 

“There is none. If I find that girl he’ll let me stay with them and even help take Slifer down.” he tells her quickly. If he says that there is no catch then it has to be right. Step is… paranoid, to say the least. He would check any little information just to confirm his speculations. 

She can’t argue with him, he’s right. Camorra is known for its brutality and power. There is a reason for why they rule in Italy and it came with tons of shed blood. Ava just looks at Step and gives up. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” she whispers loud enough for him to hear. “Alright, back to your girl.” Ava switches her attention from his piercing gaze to the bright screen of the laptop. “When did she went missing?” 

Step scoots in closer. "About nine days ago, in Tokyo." He informs Ava as she begins to work and enter the necessary codes and commands.

"One of the most crowded cities in the world." she tilts her head in affirmation. "That definitely doesn't complicate this whole thing." she adds sarcastically and grins faintly. 

"Now you see my problem." Step comments and leans back in his seat sipping on his coffee. The pleasant smell has already traveled through the whole apartment and it gives Ava a sense of comfort.

As the woman taps away on the laptop she notices that the whole tracking may take more time than she thought. Step had a good reason to come to her, this whole process begins to look like a maze. "Damn, that's gonna take a while." 

Over half an hour passes as Ava plugs in one of her USB drives with a program that could help with the tracking. As the laptop complies with it, Ava and Step try to catch up. He tells her that he run away from Slifer cause they used and betrayed him. He says that Giovanni made him an offer that he couldn't refuse if he valued his life. Ava listens intently to his story and wonders if that could circle back to her. Both of them were close at their on and off time at Slifer, they knew that Step was the only person able and allowed to reach her. She wants to help him take them down, but she prefers to work from her hideouts. 

This apartment is her own and only Step knows about it. His paranoid tendencies rubbed of on her. She's grateful for that but finds it annoying sometimes. Always having to watch her back. 

Ava moves her attention back to the laptop and taps in some of the last codes that only she has access to. The laptop screen stops as she exclaims. "I think I may have something." Both of them look at the screen… all of it in Japanese. 

"Now that's another problem." he points out with a gesture of his tattooed hand. "Sadly, I don't know Japanese that good." he pouts and looks to Ava. 

She smirks in his direction. "Aren't you glad to have me on hand then? I still remember some stuff unlike you." she responds in a slightly judgy tone. Step notices it but doesn't comment, instead a smirk of his own forms on his face. 

Ava's gaze hardens on the screen. "It's some sort of report." she mutters, her voice low. "The girl has been captured and moved to a secure location at the edge of the city." she roughly translates, her Japanese a bit rusty. 

"At least that narrows it down. What about that?" he points to the symbol on the edge of the screen. Ava immediately scans it and both of them are faced with one word. 

"Yakuza?" she wonders out loud but doesn't ponder about it for too long. It's Japan, they rule in it. "Probably the ones that took her." Step only hums in confirmation. "You know them?" the woman questions.

"My new boss is not a fan of theirs." he informs her. The space is filled with silence, the only sound that can be heard is the tapping on the keyboard. Ava suddenly hangs her head and huffs, Step looks her way as small strands of hair fall in front of her face. "Can't believe you're working for him." she exclaims. 

"Excuse me, I just got there over a week ago." he says with a playful undertone.

"And you should have left them right away." she tells him, worry beginning to lace with her voice. "It's Camorra, Step. You really want to get involved in their business?" she questions him and stops working on her laptop for a brief second. 

Step only sighs and his following words are quiet, which is unusual for him. "It's better than staying with Slifer and they could actually help us take them down. Another chess piece off their board I guess." 

The tranquility fills up the space between them. Serious conversations are not their thing, but sometimes they have to have one of those to voice their concerns. Their world is not safe for anyone, with him now being wanted it gets even more difficult. Ava's thoughts are interrupted with a soft ping coming from the laptop. Both of the hackers look its way and Ava starts to panic as she sees multiple stuff and windows popping up on the screen. 

She quickly crosses the small space of her apartment to her bag and pulls another USB from her collection and attaches it to the laptop. Step watches the whole situation like a movie, not moving from his seat since he knows it won't be good use. If Ava is set on something then it's in better mind not to interrupt her. 

The woman taps something on the keyboard and the whole commotion on the screen stops. She sighs relieved. "I am truly glad that I came to you." Step comments from her side and chuckles. She releases one of her own. "Yeah, you would have been dead without me." she bites back. 

"May I?" the man points to the laptop. Most of the work is done, the only last thing is for Step to finish the tracking. Ava stands up from her seat and switches places with Step. He begins to tap away as she takes both of their mugs with finished coffees and place them in the sink with a soft clink. She quickly cleans them and turns to the tattooed man. The ink reaching up his neck, cascades down his arms up to his finger tips. She used to trace them whenever she had a pretty rough nightmare and he was trying to calm her down.  

Step was kicked out of his house but Ava never had one. She grew up in shelters without even knowing her family. The only thing she remembers as she tried to find them was their reaction to her standing at their doorsteps with a small baby in her mother's arms. She saw that she doesn't fit in their little dream so she left, traveled from country to country until she found herself in Italy. 

She met Step at the Slifer, two competitive hackers trying to get by in life. Slifer took an interest in them when they found out about their hits, both of them targeted at some big corporations. They offered a place in their group, Step accepted right away but Ava agreed to work on some occasions. 

"You're gonna stay with them." it's not a question, more of an observation. Step looks up from the laptop and stares into her eyes. Her expression neutral. He turns his gaze to the screen and adds finishing touches to tracking the missing woman. 

"I have nothing better to do and this time, who knows, it might get me somewhere." 

"It could lead you to trouble. You have a tendency to bring them to you like a magnet." 

Step grins. "Everyone needs a bit of danger in their life, carina." 

"Not if it kills you." she warns with a playful tone and a hint of smile.

"You could join." he suddenly says and Ava raises her eyebrow. "I'm sure they would gladly accept your services." he finishes with a small curl of his lips. 

"Camorra doesn't just accept random people." 

The Italian mob picks their crew very carefully, if you have some resemblance of skill or talent they consider taking you in. Camorra has eyes and ears everywhere, they know about cyber groups working in the undergrounds, they have enemies in them. Some fear them and step back but there are some that think that they could overpower the mob. 

"The accepted me." Step proclaims, the bright light of the screen illuminates his pale face. 

"Yeah, cause you were staying with Slifer longer than I did. You being hunted by them made you draw attention to yourself." Ava sits down on the seat next to him and leans the side of her body on the counter. Step briefly side eyes the blonde haired woman.

"You need to live a little Ava. Those jobs that you take up on aren't worthy of your precious brain." he taps her head with his tattoed finger. She leans in closer to him. 

"At least I make some good money out of it." she keeps her gaze on him as if to challenge the man. He's not backing down and begins to smile. Both of them start to laugh and in the midst of the cheerful atmosphere the laptop stops it's movement and shows a map. Or more likely a location. They found V. 

They can see guards placed in various places outside of the secured underground facility and also some blueprints with the layout of the place. 

"Yes!" Step shouts and immediately picks Ava up in a hug. She yelps in surprise, both of them laugh with victory, Step gives a small peck to her head, cheeks and puts her down on the ground. "You" he points to her "are brilliant!" 

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You don't have to thank me." she says nonchalantly with a grin. 

"Oh, but I do." he reaches to his pocket and she hears a rustling of a paper. He pulls out a bag of Skittles and offers them with his hands, slightly bowing. "For your trouble, my lady." 

She scoffs and takes the red bag from him. "I am flattered." she opens the candy and takes out the yellow ones and gives them to the man in front of her. 

"Do you have a phone I could use?" he asks and she puts the candy bag on the counter. 

"Yeah, let me just get it real quick." she crosses the room to her wardrobe and pulls out a box filled with files, burner phones, CD's and USB drives. She takes one of the phones and tosses it to Step. He dials a number as she sits on the couch and turns on the TV, briefly watching the news. 

She hears Step talk with who she presumes is Giovanni, in Italian. He quickly tells him that he found the Vipress and sends him every information that both of them found. He doesn't mention anything about Ava and she has nothing against it. She rather work from the sidelines than risk being on the radar of Camorra. 

They probably think that Step is at his own apartment and tell him to come to the mansion at 9am. It's currently nearing 1:30am. 

As Step finishes the call, Ava places a blanket and a pillow on the couch for the man. He turns in her direction and sees what she's doing. 

"Oh, there's no need for that." he says, lifting his hands up in protest. She looks at him with one of the pillows in her hand. 

"Yes it is. It's an hour drive from here to your apartment and it's gonna be raining at night anyway. You can stay for the night, it won't kill you." she comments placing the pillow on the couch. "And I still owe you from the last time." 

The last time Ava stayed at Step's place while she was running away from one of her clients. Ava has a rule, she doesn't take up the same client twice, Step being the exception. That time the client needed her skills again but she refused which resulted in her being wanted by them. She had to leave the apartment she was occupying at that time and seeked out help with Step. He was reluctant at first but eventually agreed. 

Step hangs his head in defeat, he knows she won't take no for an answer. "Up for a movie night?" he proposes.

"Not a movie, but we can watch some TV show. Aren't you supposed to get up before nine or something?" she sits down on the light couch and Step sits next to her, their knees almost touching. 

"The definition of sleep is non existent in my mind." he takes the remote and starts flipping through the channels and stops at "The Office". 

"You'll regret that in the morning." she says, her gaze focused on the screen. Step briefly side glances her before his attention switches back to the show. 

They watch a couple of episodes before Step feels a weight being pressed on his shoulder. He looks down and sees asleep Ava leaning against him. She needs sleep more than Step, she can handle all nighters to a certain point but loves to sleep in late. 

Step turns off the TV, carefully moves to not wake up Ava and picks her up and places her in her bed. As he covers her with a blanket her phone pings with a message. He looks towards the sleeping woman and reaches to turn the phone off but his attention is caught with the content of the message. A threat. He reads it and guesses that it must be one of her clients wanting to work with her again. Step turns the phone off and decides that he will ask about it in the morning. 

He crosses the room to the couch and places his glasses on the table and covers himself with a blanket. It's dark in the apartment, he hears a faint tapping on the windows. Rain begins to hit it and the sound of it lulls Step to sleep.                               

Step wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of a soft whimper coming from Ava. The man notices that she is having a nightmare and quickly comes over to her side. He knows that waking her up will be no help, so he settles with something that he knows could be of use. 

He takes her hand in his tattoed one and traces soft patterns on it. Her whimpers calm down and she immediately relaxes in his hold. Nightmares are common for both of them and they found some ways to help the other throughout the years. The first time he tried to get her to calm down from a nightmare, she almost hit him in the face with a lamp. Now he knows that it’s safer to just calm her as she sleeps.

For him it’s just slowly waking up, without shouting at him, the shouting only worsens the nightmare. She used to just place her hand on his arm or cheek and whisper to him to wake up. Both of them are haunted by their own demons and still manage to smile and be happy despite all of the shit that they had to go through.

The clock next to her shows 6am. Step decides to start his day, he doesn't need that much sleep anyway. 

He turns on his laptop and goes through the network, looking at the news and continues writing a program that he started designing, occasionally looking to Ava to make sure he didn’t woke her up. He works quietly and soon enough it's 7:30am. 

Ava wakes up to the smell of a fresh coffee. She looks at the clock on her stand and turns on her phone to see one message. She decides to get out of the bed and head to the kitchen. In it she finds Step, turned with his back to her. He acknowledges her with giving her a cup of warm coffee. She takes a sip and immediately melts at the feeling of a sweet liquid warming up her body. 

Step watches her and smiles. "Buongiorno Ava." she looks into his blue eyes and responds with a soft "Hi."

Both of them move to the couch, listening to the gentle tapping of raindrops on the window sill. They sit in a comfortable silence before Ava decides to speak up. 

"So… you're Camorra now." she says softly. 

"I think so." he answers. "Kinda neat, I'll have another place to stay if something happens, they'll pay me some good money." he turns to the woman beside him, the mug warming his hands. He looks down to his cup. "I saw a message on your phone." 

"Oh?"

"Yeah… Is someone after you?" he says with a slight worry evident in his voice. 

She looks to him and shakes her head. "No." she exclaims but Step feels that this isn't the end. "Well, I'm not sure now. It's just some assholes that needed me for another job, even though I told them that I don't work with the same people twice." the blonde explains. 

Step puts his mug down on the table. "That message looked like a threat." he says warily. The glasses on his head reflecting the morning sunshine that started to peak out from the rainy clouds. 

"I have it covered." she puts her mug down as well and leans her side on the couch, facing the tattooed man. She leans in a bit closer. He looks at her, doubt filling his face, an eyebrow raised. He doesn't believe her. "I'm serious, you have nothing to worry about. I had a similar situation before and handled it, you know that." 

He fully knows that she's capable of surviving and successfully running away from people and problems. But still the thought of losing a person that actually tolerates him, that has been beside him through thick and thin… 

"If you need anything-" 

She cuts him off. "Yes, I know, I turn to you. Noted." 

The silence fills up the air as both if them sit on the couch. They just study each other, Step sports small, nearly invisible cuts on his face while her own shows tiredness from just waking up. 

"When Slifer is gone, text me. We have to celebrate somehow." she addresses him and places her head on her hand. "You could always help Camorra with that too." 

She looks at him like crazy. "And risk them making me a target? No thank you, I value my life… even though I helped you with that girl." he chuckles at her explanation and some sort of weight drops from her shoulders. 

Step looks at the clock beside her bed. 8:10am. The man sighs and begins to rise from the couch. 

"I have to go, don't wanna lose my hand or head on my first day." 

Ava raises up too and both of them move to the front door of her apartment. "You'll be fine. I'm pretty sure you're smarter than all of them combined." she admits as she follows him. He takes his coat from the hanger and puts it on. 

"You're pretty sure? Well call me hurt, I thought you had me for a genius." he comments with a hand placed on his chest, as to show that he's truly wounded. 

"I have you for pretty annoying genius most of the time." 

He beams and raises his eyebrows in amusement. "You think I'm pretty?" 

Ava smiles and places her own hand on his chest, pushing him towards the door. "Always a charmer. Just go, I'll call you later. I have a potential client in an hour anyway." 

"You still takes those? In your home?" he questions with slightly widened eyes. 

"Not in my home, are you mad?" she exclaims. "Some museum gallery, it's just info gathering. They'll send the rest through the network." 

Ava unlocks the door and reaches for the doorknob. "Careful with that. Everyone and everything can be hacked nowadays." he says it with a smile like a Cheshire Cat. 

She points between them. "But not us." 

"That's why we have people hunting us like witches… Alright, thank you once again for your help carina. If you need me, just ring the doorbell to Camorra, I'm sure they'll open without a trouble." he grins as you open the door. 

"Yeah." 

As he walks through the door he turns around one last time before leaving. "You shouldn't be hiding your talent Ava. It's no use." he tells her. She knows that he's right, but she can't risk it. 

"I call it being precautious. You should have understand it, with you being all paranoid." she wiggles her fingers at him and he chuckles. 

He haven't seen her this joyful in weeks, besides not seeing her in weeks. He’s been away, work has been keeping her up all nights and she is known to be a stubborn perfectionist. 

"And now I am even more safe and paranoid with the lovely Camorra." he smirks.

Ava tip toes to him, puts her hand on the side of his face and pecks his cheek as a goodbye. He softly holds her waist.

"I'll see you around Step." she pulls away and he puts on his glasses. 

"Likewise Ava." he bows slightly and leaves the woman's apartment. She watches as he walks away when she shouts after him.

"You owe me!" her voice echoes throughout the hallway and she sees his faint figure raise his hand up as if to say Of course. 

He disappears behind the corner and Ava closes her door, locks it and leans against them. She smiles and shakes her head. The woman moves further into the apartment beginning to prepare for her next client. 

[middleinthenight21]

Ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?

@ravenfan1242  I don't know what I would do without your help.  I have told you. 

You are incredibly beautiful 💕

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

"So funny." Garfield smiled and Raven grimaced.

The demons smiled when they saw that they had lost, and the angels looked away from the pain.

"Why are you with me? "

The phrase came out hard and cold, as if she were asking a criminal why he decided on that life. She was tired and angry, tired of going through the uncertainty that his voice loved her so much and not meeting her expectations, of wondering what would become of Garfield if Terra hadn't died and wanted to get him out of her veins.

She clearly saw the disinterest; it was tattooed on his soul and he did not realize it.

If he gave her a reason to stay ...

Garfield looked up. "Excuse me?"

It's now or never.

"Maybe you should free me." She leaned against the counter. Her hands dug into the soft fabric of her clothing, like an anchor; She hadn't expected her heart to squeeze, she kept screaming, hitting the walls to stop it, but her mind reminded her that she was the girl who survived hell. Gathering her strength "Why are you with me? " She repeated.

Suddenly she's tired of building walls around the relationship to watch them fall repeatedly. She no longer wants to murmur that they are okay with others when they ignored each other, from having rowdy arguments only to end up coming back, offering flowers and hugs, as if that was enough to convince her, she had wasted whole nights trying to square their differences, watching the heavens and whispering to their gods to end all this.

She had been taught in stories that love should hurt, otherwise it wouldn't be worth it in the end. You get to know him, you fall in love, you suffer until you get your happy ending, cost and prize.

Fuck this love.

If he's playing, just let her know.

He sent her a painful look, put his cell phone aside "Rae…"

No, they would not do this again.

She stepped back.

Garfield stood up, smoothing down his pajamas, and for the first time in months she saw him take on a serious expression. He walked slowly, like stepping on needles and spread his hands trying to join them, but she moved away, shaking her head repeatedly.

"I love you. Rae please. " One of his hands caressed her cheek. He brushed her short hair behind her ear. "I love only you. Nobody else. "

She stepped back, pulling his hands away, and muttered, "You know it's not true."

She didn't realize how much it hurt until the words left her mouth. They became a curse, a truth that turned hearts to dust, but for Raven it is not an unusual sensation, more like hearing the last words of a condemned man.

She crossed her arms ignoring his face "We both know this was going to end like this. "

Garfield shook his head and put their foreheads together, she could no longer fight this. She saw his aura weaving into deep blue, a shade she didn't often see, but it wasn't the same as when a certain person died in his arms, it's not that sadness.

It was not the same.

Her green hair was soft, heshe smelled of shampoo made of plants, like a forest, and his breath of milk, like a cat; his hands cupped her cheeks being tender and soft. She almost melted, a part of her wanted to be left alone to receive his attention and affection, it told her stories of how they could rebuild and evolve, she would eat from the leftovers for a while longer until she realized that she is malnourished and sick.

Her father teased her about being too silly, laughed at Garfield and the situation.

"Come on, Raven. I love you and I want to be with you" he said. One of his hands went down to her jaw to trace her neck and settle on the nape of her neck, wanting them to get even closer. "Don't stop this. Don't do this to us. "

She closed her eyes tight.

Get out of this. It's now or never.

She pulled away, denying with a broken voice and tear-clouded eyes. Perhaps this was a weakness, a vicious cycle, for a long time he was her toxin, a drug that was destroying her every day, but she continued to cling to the pleasurable effects, dependence and habit helped her ignore the adverse factors.

Something that made you feel so good couldn't hurt you, right?

"I will not return to the same. We've been like this a long time, Gar" He looked at her; Her green eyes reflecting pain and she swears she'll miss having him so close. "Think about the future, you would be unhappy by my side; be honest you will never love me. We will be miserable together"

"Why are you doing this? "

Why was he acting like it was her fault? He knew what she was talking about, he saw what was hurting them. She gave the final blow, but that fight already started long ago.

The answer was clear "Because I'm not her. "

He stepped back, opening his mouth and closing it, unable to answer. Garfield was hurt, her words were like daggers and she felt terrible, but it is the truth; Raven is not Terra and is exhausted from pretending that he loves her.

For eight months she was a ghost, a specter threatening in the corners, Raven felt her presence unnoticeable in the eyes of the boy who swore he loved her; He was running after someone who would never belong to him and turned his torment on her, carrying her bound in chains with caresses. The chains wouldn't hurt until they hurt her wrists, his caresses turned into pins, and he would never admit that it was his fault.

Okay, she would accept it.

She didn't directly name Terra, but it's not a taboo in her mouth. After two years, the name of the former Titans member still hurt, it was a wound that would never heal for Garfield, perhaps it would live forever, nailed to his bones and running through his veins.

She hit him hard in a vulnerable spot and it felt wrong, like desecrating a holy temple, but she had no other way to show him the truth. Before they were dating, they were friends and Raven ruined everything.

His friendship, his love and companionship.

She bowed her head.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Dick smiles at the door and his girlfriend frowns, realizing something is wrong, but by then Raven is already gone.

A million thoughts go through her mind, like a whirlpool. When she opens the door to the roof of the tower the sky is a thick gray soup, there are no traces of the sun's rays, but the promise of a rain.

*** 

She always returned to Riva Street every time a memory haunted her.

Gotham has the charm of a Francisco de Goya painting, somewhat dark and twisted, it has Wayne Tower, a standard of progress for the city; Raven remembers her open mouth trying to analyze the immensity of the fortune and the power of the millionaire family of the city of the bat, Metropolis shone like the sun in summer, it was beautiful and wide, guarded by the most powerful hero in the world, but not compared to the magnificence of Wayne Tower, the Daily Planet looked like just one more figure blending in with the city, in her time in Azarath she was surrounded by incredible beauty and temples, Jump City was insignificant compared to the places she saw with her eyes, it was a city with the smell of a port, whose inhabitants depended on the coast and tourism.

Gotham has Wayne Tower, Metropolis tot Daily Planet, and Azarath had its temples, but none have Riva Street.

When Raven joined the Titans, she was a hurt and scared girl, who saw deaths, destruction, and dwelt in hell, loving a being who was unable to feel, value, and deserve love, but she had. That was her mistake.

She felt like a stranger, an invisible entity wandering the streets of a foreign city; She looked like a girl, but inside she felt much older. Starfire had shaken her hand, as if she needed a direction, held it so sweetly that she almost cried because she had been stroked long ago with the same kind of love.

Emotions came to her like the wind, it was a strong current that pushed her back almost releasing the hand of the alien princess, but she just whispered that she shouldn’t be scared. Raven had frowned because she probably thought she was shocked by the number of people roaming the streets and that couldn't be further from the truth.

Dick smiled at the scene. Even meters away, she sensed the warmth, how the hero's heart beat strongly, like a horse's trot and almost fell to the melted ground, she believed that it could not be more clear, it was obvious that he wanted the newly baptized leader of the Titans.

She grimaced, wanting to get away from this situation.

Raven did not want this familiarity, she did not deserve it after her choices. Sooner or later it would go wrong, the prophecy was set in stone, it was impossible to erase, and it was the first time that she seriously considered getting lost in the streets and disappearing forever.

Starfire led her by the hand towards a store, eager to try on an outfit she saw on a mannequin, but the girl's vision was focused on an alley, it did not seem part of the city with its buildings and gray streets. It was a corner with the cobblestone floor, small houses painted in different colors, square like match boxes with beautiful terraces adorned with flowers and plants. The restaurants served pizzas, spaghetti and all kinds of typical dishes, people gathered around tables chatting with their friends and families.

She watched people reading, laughing with their children and couples shaking hands.

The aura was tinged with pink, a color that she had never seen before in a concentration that made the sky seem like a sunset.

"If you want, we can go," Dick interjected.

She nodded, showing no emotion.

Years later, she continued to walk down Riva Street, that hidden alley that did not correspond to the city, just like her. Riva street was her, with its relaxed atmosphere, small family restaurants, ice cream parlors and bookstores, it was her secret, nobody knew how much she liked it.

Raven had started and finished books at this place. She created memories, like a buried capsule that few knew about.

It was too intimate.

She knew that her home was with her friends, the people she considers as family, who would die for her and would protect her with their life. It is not a place, but if she would ever settle it would be on this street.

Raven would lease an apartment on Riva Street, perhaps on the second floor of that bookstore with the unpronounceable name that specializes in classics and mystery novels; She would have a cat or dog as a pet who would walk by her side, read on the benches and it would feel great. She would rebuild her relationship with herself.

It was a nice dream.

She sat in a chair waiting for her coffee.

She took the book out of her bag. The first edition of The Raven glowed with its worn cover, it had become a symbol, a sign that her feelings must be thrown away in the trash, the moment she realized it and ran a hand over the object, stroking the bird image.

She frowned.

Her heart gave a painful beat, but she was not ill. She had been through this situation before; She knew this emotion and she was not going to allow it to continue.

How did it make a difference if she started liking him or it was dumb confusion at a low time?

Not that she had much experience around relationships. Her previous relationship was living proof, since then she had made a calculation, perhaps the outcome was not entirely her fault, but Raven tended to cling to people who would never feel the same way about her, loved and hoped they would return it. Her father, her demonic brothers, Garfield ...

Damian would only be one more number on her list. He was already having a bad time for her to have confusion, he didn't need any more drama in his life, where did she come in? Raven was going to destroy their relationship, she had to end it all.

It hadn't been long since she had ended it with Garfield, this couldn't happen to her now. It was just a passing taste, a flutter, and it would go away, like a butterfly.

Did her heart so quickly forget about Beast Boy? She almost shook her head, her words still got stuck when she saw him and she wished that she would confess the truth to him., Give a better explanation of why she abandoned him, because she left him before he did and left him pained on the sidewalk, but it is different, it is that kind of affection accompanied by bad memories, the one that asks for an apology and demands it.

With Damian it's different, it was stupid of him ...

She couldn't help but feel terrible. She felt like a bad person, wanting a friend was the worst thing that could happen to her. She had seen him for years as her best friend, they helped each other when they collapsed due to some circumstance and boy, they had., They talked about books and movies, they could sit down; share a tea and chat about a period of history. With Damian and she would respond with the same interest.

Random, she was going to ruin everything.

Don't feel, she told himself. Don't start, if you do you will want more. You are not that kind of girl.

He deserved a young daughter from a wealthy family, a Gotham princess, and even a model. If they didn't notice her best friend because of his attractiveness, they would because of what he represents. She heard that such powerful family practice was usual (like a novel), although she couldn't imagine Bruce Wayne agreeing with that.

Raven was but a half-breed, half human and demon; someone who was unaware of many terrestrial customs, an anonymous name that was forged from the depths of hell. An abomination, a protégé, destruction and the girl who became a hero hidden under a hood.

A strange sensation invaded her body, as if someone or something was watching her. The air was a mix of pink and green, which she had seen in few people; It is not a secret that Raven can see the aura, they would normally be tinted red, yellow, blue, purple to gold, but green was difficult to find.

She had only seen this shade of green on one person.

"Blessed chance."

She looked up, suppressing a shiver. Out of sheer inertia the book slid forward, almost ripped it from her fingers, and a chill ran through her entire spine, like a fleeting fire; appeared and left instantly.

What was he doing here?

If it wasn't for the voice, she wouldn't recognize him. Damian Wayne stood next to her with dark glasses over his eyes, a thin white scarf with black patterns, and his usual black t-shirt folded neatly to the elbows.

Titus appeared with his tongue sticking out, apparently tired and when he became aware of her presence, he approached flapping his tail. She smiled at the emotion of the dog and stroked him, he licked her hand up to her arm.

He sat down in a chair in front of her. She was surprised to see him leave the tower, since the drama on social networks he had not wanted to pronounce on anything with any of his identities.

Batman, the Justice League, and the Titans suggested solutions, from official statements to videos giving their reasons, but he dismissed it with one hand and focused on training. He didn't do any more, locked himself in and improved his techniques (in her opinion, he didn't need it), now he was he, in front of her showing most of his face.

Maybe Damian got tired, he was an active person, she was pretty sure that in the time they met  didn't see a single day of laziness, he kept his hands busy; When he was not on patrol, he trained, when he did not train, he devoted himself to research, or he cleaned the room, sharpened his weapons, or contacted Wayne Manor asking for an update on the events there.

"You must keep an eye on your enemies as well as your allies"

"We are talking about your family, Damian" she replied.

"It does not matter"

She raised an eyebrow "I would ask you about the scarf, but I don't want to insult your taste."

"This scarf is made to make me invisible to the cameras."

She bit her lip to keep from laughing. Damian wouldn't appreciate laughter at his expense but she found it funny.

"Like a superpower?"

He rolled his eyes.

"It was designed by ..." He looked at the table, more specifically at the book interrupting what he was going to say. His eyes traveled from the object to Raven, as if trying to square two different things in a single scene and she never wanted to take it out of her bag. "It's from an online store” he corrected himself. " Now his voice was much more comfortable. "Many celebrities use it to make it impossible for paparazzi to take photos. "

She thought about it.

People had calmed down a bit, basically because Robin disappeared assigning missions in remote places, what surprised her most was that he did not protest. At first she had believed that negativity did not affect him, that he would turn off all opinions and focus on himself, but Damian had acted like a wounded animal, every time a camera pointed at his face he transformed into a more sullen version., He bit with his words when talking about his reputation and he left the Titans to be seen only in short periods of the day.

She had not seen him in a week.

"I didn't know you knew this place."

For a long time, she thought that Riva street was hers. It is not a crowded place, when you compete against luxury shops, festivals and fairs, a cobbled street taken from an old movie is not a great novelty.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Grayson said they wouldn't harass me here."

"Dick?"

Shrugged.

His shoulders had widened, and his muscles were protruding under the thin fabric, she was jealous that the material would embrace him highlighting the perfection of his body. His tanned skin darkened over the years from exposure to unprotected sunlight, he was strong, and he was acquiring new scars.

She looked at his hands, a collection of scars like silver threads running through his fingers, one of them going through his wrists. She wanted to know what had happened, to ask if it was hurting from the cold and if it really led the other way.

It was like a faded flower imprinted on his skin. A scar is a patch of skin that grows on a wound, insensitive to touch, but would he feel anything if she touched it?

Do not start.

"He named this street." Damian didn't seem very impressed, although his expressions are difficult to read. At first she found this frustrating, it reminded her of Batman's aura, a cloud that could not fade to see the true color, but his son was a green color like his eyes, but his exterior had been sculpted based on hard training, emotional manipulation, control and pain. The green is dull now, like dried moss. “He promised me that no one would bother me.”

She looked at the scarf.

"So that's just as a precaution and ... "

She was interrupted by the waiter carrying her coffee, a donut dusted in sugar and the house specialty, some delicious focaccias. She felt the tug of hunger in her stomach as the smell of olive and spices reached her nose.

Damian frowned.

"What? " She took a sip of the coffee; the drink was at its perfect point. The Costa restaurant is small, rustic with that stone façade and the chairs made of hand-carved wood; she felt the urge to defend it. "Yes, it is…"

"I didn't say anything." He grimaced. He would say it "I was just wondering why you were so quiet and serious in the Tower, while here you show more emotion to that donut than to the Titans,” he said.

He put the coffee aside.

He was right.

"You too have been silent."

Damian crossed his arms supporting his back. Titus played around a fountain, drinking the water and letting some children caress him, from here she felt the laughter and affectionate names that were dedicated to him and the animal bathed with love, its owner almost smiled. Almost.

Right now, he looks like he's getting his weapons ready for battle, his expression was determined and wild, and he must ...

"Is it because of Garfield?"

She steps back, and a bucket of cold water falls on her body.

"What? "

Uncertainty passed over her face and hardened her.

Why was he doing this? Raven sees a feeling, believes her powers have touched him, and would go deep, but instantly he blocks it entirely, his emotions and feelings painted under a dark canvas. He left her blind, only believing that her had the confidence to reveal a portion of himself.

She was surprised that he named her former partner, since he did not express interest in their relationship. Damian was non-sentimental; He would probably scoff at the honeyed explanations his older brother so badly wanted to get into his head; Jason would have a dirtier one, full of inordinate sex and add treason to it, just for the drama; Tim would give a talk about the chemical processes that were triggered when someone liked you, but he was not interested, he saw it as a necessity, a small distraction in his eternal crusade.

"Did you finish?"

As if that would explain everything, but what if it did? After the breakup with Garfield, she plunged into meditation, turning off her father's voice, but it followed her everywhere, repeating what she really was.

She became like thorns. If someone got close enough, they would only get a prick, there were no flowers in the first season or leaves in the summer, so she kept herself alone and promised that she would not be touched.

Garfield's face turned into punishment, if only she hadn't hurt him. It was too late, she is alert when he is close and knows why.

She really understood it.

Damian looked her in the eye. "I know it was a difficult breakup."

She looked down.

"It was. "

She did not lie, there was no need. Her affirmation was like a consolation, she just needed to let him go.

"I'm sorry. "

She raised her head. She never heard Gotham's bat son apologize to anyone, those phrases were not in his mouth, his tone was soft, like calm after a storm.

She smiled.

They shared a long look. At first, he looked serious, despite not wearing his Robin mask it felt like an eye mask, hiding the true emotion reflected in his eyes.

Damian smiled.

A dimple left on his cheek, and wrinkles formed around his eyes, making them look smaller, his expression softened, as if he had never been through torment. It was unlike any other smile she had ever seen, it was not arrogant, nor of victory or conceit; This was not the trained assassin destined to turn the world into a dystopia, he was not the angry and vengeful boy struggling to find a place next to his father, emerging as Robin, he was not the son of a famous billionaire, nor the hero that everyone hated, but Damian. It was soft and beautiful.

The first time he saw a genuine Damian Wayne smile was on Riva Street.

So, she knew she made a mistake and would never see Riva Street the same way. This street had represented intimacy, the beginnings and ends of novels, the best coffee she had ever tasted, flavors that she had not tried before, reflections and the smile on someone's lips. He had become entangled in her soul, the memories lost relevance compared to this moment and a feeling of fear of loss settled in her stomach, like a blow.

The story ends. Now.

Raven's smile disappeared from her face.

*** 

Raven had come up the stairs when the sun was barely caressing the mountains, a blanket hanging from her shoulders, a steaming tea floating behind her, and a book under her arm.

The roof of the Tower of the Titans gave a general view of the city. The blowing of the wind was strong, charging from the north, the color-degraded sky and a handful of stars remained in the sky.

Seagulls flew around the construction, squawking as if announcing the start of the day. The air was frozen, like sticking her head into a refrigerator and her nose was kissed by the cold.

Years ago, she read here, with the tranquility and amazement at dawn. Normally, the tower was full of noise, screaming, and disorder, making it impossible to read and struggling to find solitude around seven quirky teens, plus an alien princess with a tendency to incinerate food and her boyfriend with a highly activated parental sense.

It was a strange combination, but it works.

She sat on the floor wrapping the blanket around her shoulders holding back a shiver, sipped a shot of green tea, and watched the sunrise, amazed by the colors.

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

The pad of her fingers caressed the illustration, noticing the relief and ink of the illustration of the egg sitting on a wall with little Alice watching.

"Do you think it will disappear if you don't take it?"

Damian sat still in Robin's uniform; his face shows cuts and the purple colors began to manifest in the high point of his left cheek.

"What happened? "

"Patrol. "

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Always so expressive.

She watched him "You look tired. "

He snorts, but doesn't contradict her, and that's a confirmation. Damian had been behind a gang of robbers, and was recently called by Batman while away for two weeks; Photos surfaced in magazines and on social media about the charity event bringing the family together in honor of Martha Wayne, without However, if Bruce Wayne summoned him it would not be solely for that, the vigilante was having to contain the Joker.

Raven knew that it required the whole family.

When Damian arrived, he was angry and spent all his time on patrol, so he was living with his brothers and he needed to get rid of the teasing, arguments and annoyance.

Three days later she has him in front of her with his legs trembling and sweat dripping down his forehead.

"You should sleep," she recommended.

He clicks his tongue and his chest rises and falls. "When I was seven years old, I was awake for four days, just feeding on the vegetation of the place and the river water. This is nothing to me. "

She imagines a child abandoned in the middle of the forest, hungry and starving. It doesn't seem like an achievement.

She grimaces.

"What? "

She chose not to express it. He could take it as a criticism, or get irritated., Damian is not known for his tolerance of others' arguments, especially when it comes to his past, and equally who is she to argue about his story?

"Nothing. "

She reread the book.

All the king's horses

And all the king's men

Couldn't put Humpty

Together again.

"It's one of my favorite rhymes," he declares sleepily.

Raven grimaces.

He is looking at her, his eyes struggle to close, and she can see the struggle to stay seated… If only he wasn't so proud.

An impulse makes its way inside her and she thinks of the teenager who gave her a book. The one who appeared on Riva Street accompanied by his pet, who spoke about poetry and rhymes when tiredness is about to knock him down. She takes off the mask, it is soft and almost feels like a mass in her hands, he protests, but he is are just babbling.

"I'm going to hit Drake and-" "He can't tell enough; his head falls and heshe straightens his brow several times. Raven almost smiled. "Father and… They almost kidnapped Grayson…" He tries to formulate a complete sentence, but the voice simply leaves him. Before he falls to the floor, she gently grabs his arm and helps him lie down on the floor and balls her blanket into a pillow. "I like rhymes. "

Laughter echoes off the roof.

"Are you always so chatty in the morning?"

He growls.

"I must have a poem around here." She opened the book. 

It is right in there

Betwixt and between

The orchard bare

And the orchard green,

When the boughs are right

In a flowery burst

Of pink and white,

That we fear the worst.

She took a breath to read the next paragraph when she was interrupted.

"Peril of Hope. Robert Frost. "

A memory greets her after years. When the world was almost over and her father had been inserted into the glass, she felt his stench emanating from that smallness, his power and evil in her palm, she could not be careless and silly like the last time; the world did not deserve destruction and her friends almost died, she agreed to stay in hell to protect them, but he convinced her as best he could, citing poetry by Robert Frost.

"You are full of surprises."

That permanent frown disappeared, and he buried his face in the blanket, closing his eyes.

She plunged into uncertainty for a few minutes.

She watched him sleep, muttering that she is not that girl and she would not fall so easily.

She drank her tea in one gulp.

He woke up an hour later, muttering and staggering to his room, he didn't go out all day.

Raven devoted herself to meditation, while Starfire and Dick trained together.

She could feel eyes from the other side of the room, even without opening her eyes she knew who it was. From a few meters she identified that aura and presence, the colors of his soul were a deep yellow like sand.

Garfield watched her apprehensively, as if aware of an unknown detail.

Her insides twisted like a worm, wanting to take his eyes off her. She just wants to push him away.

*** 

The next morning Robin appears on the roof, the next and subsequent.

Damian was there, she would have a new book waiting and she would feel that it became her new religion; They were like little children who shook their shoulders and tried to learn something new.

They don't talk much.

Raven drank her tea bathed in the rising rays of the sun behind the mountains, the wind would blow her hair in different directions and she would be covered by her thick blanket. She absorbed the silence when she watched him read Walt Whitman, Charles Dickens and Herman Melville after a night patrol where he hid from the eyes of the people.

No one has seen Damian Wayne in a month.

Robin is a vigilante who takes refuge in smoke and on missions with the Titans, would participate and walk away.

’’ Doesn't it bother you? ’” She asked one day pushed by bravery. Since the cancellation he was reserved, fleeing from the great masses and behaving like an invisible entity.

He didn't look up from his reading. "What are you talking about?"

’’ The hatred of people on the internet ’’

He frowned, processing her words. "The opinions of the despicable sheep are not worth it."

"You should print it on a card."

He smiled ‘’ ’I'm not an influencer, not a celebrity, Raven. I am a vigilante and did not need third party validation… I would just like to have privacy ’’

Raven understood that.

*** 

That morning it felt strange, like when you have a lump in your throat that is about to give way.

Damian had not returned for three days as he was on a mission with his brothers. Therefore, there were no conversations on the roof, books and herbal tea, lunches on Riva street and she realized how much she missed him. They did not spend all day together, she did not think about him for more than an hour, but she settled into her routine with those small and significant moments, they were pieces of her days that won against vacillations.

She was longing for more.

No one had to know.

In front of the Titans, two colleagues behaved as common as ever; there was a tacit agreement of silence between them. She discovered that she liked it that way. That she wanted that privacy, she said nothing, but she knew that for Damian's public life it is complicated that whatever they had was captured by a camera and exposed, stabbing the secret. Raven did not want to meet her face in teen magazines, or that they speculated around who she is, if she valued ​​anything in her civil identity, it gave her a sense of normality.

Raven was terrified; her father's voice followed her every morning as she made her tea in the kitchen before going up to the roof. He brought back memories of her previous relationship, distant and sad green eyes, which made her feel so good she wouldn't have to tear him apart. With each fight she had a reason to leave Garfield and there were many, and she didn't want him anymore.

She knew he would never do anything to hurt her, she knew his heart and his intentions, but love can make you see roses instead of thorns. She only knew love in poems, books and performances, they said that love is a brilliant thing, but it is ardent. She always tried to see herself through the eyes of another person, it made her feel less dirty and that there was this story where after suffering there is a person waiting, with her heart in one hand and a smile painted on her face, like a pink brushstroke.

Maybe it only works on humans.

Now she thought that love was a golden cage, that makes you feel that you live in luxury and have all the comforts of the world, but you cannot go out without a fight, without facing the person who made you forget about yourself.

Her father was no longer using insults to destabilize her, he became crueler bringing memories that she was fighting to bury. It led her to the frustration, heartbreak, and anger she felt after the discussions, her mind formulating justifications and judgments, and her breakup.

Standing in the kitchen praying because she was doing well, not regretting and avoiding remembering this as a big one: what if?

She knew that it was her father taking advantage of her fear, but she could not help thinking that it was much better to look the truth in the eyes and that part of her is happy that Damian is not there.

She hoped that it would take him long enough to forget his smile, burn his presence on Riva Street and go up to the roof watching the sunset reading in silence, without feeling that something is missing. She felt he was getting under her skin, between the cuts of her past with something she has not known and does not know how to fight it; Damian takes what he wants, his defense mechanisms react in time.

She expects him to stay away days, weeks, months, and even years.

I am the only thing you have, ungrateful girl. I'm the only one who stays.

She growled and murmured a quick spell, dulling his voice.

She realized that she doesn't just want to have her father as her company, she still has friends who show her love, and they don't care about her love life just because of her condition. That thought brings her peace.

Raven lit the kettle. It is still night when she creeps into the kitchen in her pajamas, and the thin blanket around her shoulders like a makeshift cloak; she needed a tea to fully wake up, she still felt the tiredness in her body and her eyes closed when she leaned on the table.

She was ready to watch the sunrise alone and considered going back to sleep. With or without Damian it had become a habit, it was her, what did she gain by clinging as if he were an extension? She was sure that Damian would not like someone to consider him that way, she was also finished with that topic. She was better alone.

Someone cleared his throat.

She felt hesitation and fear. She turned, watching Garfield stand at the kitchen door, hesitating instead, as if fighting to run away or stay.

A heart beats.

It is like rereading a book with an unhappy ending, she had seen this a million times. She had already given up, but he came back every time she was healing and would be weak to fall under his love, as if that would fill her, even so, she felt that the end point had already been written.

She filled her cup with hot water "I left you the rest of the water, if you want. "

"Raven," Garfield scratches his hair, unsure. His head was down. "Can we talk? "

She shook your head.

"I woke up at five in the morning with a purpose." His eyes are marked by dark circles and puffy from lack of sleep. She gives in (just a little). "It will be a moment. "

The young woman sat down at the table holding her breath. Her hands traveled to the cup embracing the warmth, and she begged all the gods and spirits of Azarath not to end up in the same place as a month ago.

Aisha, the spinning spirit of Azarath's love and suffering is laughing at her. The monks illustrated her as a lonely old woman who lives in the high mountains, where the sun always shines, pulling the strings of love from mortals and immortals. She is temperamental, if she thought you were good, she could entangle your thread of love with others the easy way, her fingers would do the braid with details, but if she decided that you didn't deserve it, then she would make a tangle between love and suffering, condemning another innocent person; her tutors were afraid of her, they thought they had to atone for any offense against the spirit. She thinks Aisha hates her.

She remained silent, and inert.

The silence is uncomfortable, it keeps and brings conversations, memories and secrets.

"I'm sorry. "

He Frowned.

Raven raised an eyebrow, still surprised by what heshe was saying. On more than one occasion she imagined that at some point he would apologize, but she did not expect his voice to break, to feel the pain reflecting on his face.

She did not know what to say. She was never good at sharing her feelings.

He probably already knew that.

"I was a terrible boyfriend," he said. She is empathetic so she feels his conflicting emotions, but one of them predominates more than the others: Guilt. "You didn't deserve it."

She is about to speak, but he interrupts her with his hands up: "Let me finish, please" He keeps his eyes down. Her hands play with a napkin, folding and spreading the paper. "I wasted what we had. Don't think I didn't love you, in fact I did. I wish I could have loved you better. " He shrugs "I hurt you. "

She grimaced.

Beast Boy pursed his lips "Now you keep your guard high when I'm around you and I know why. I'm sorry for so many things and I understand if you don't want to have anything to do with me" His hands tremble. "Before we were dating, we were friends and I didn't think about you. I just want you to know that I come back to those mornings every day and I feel horrible about how I behaved. You didn't deserve everything I threw at you when you tried, the arguments, I ignored you for days to come back to your door asking for a chance and you forgave me. I really understand yes ... "

Before we were dating, we were friends ...

I'm the only thing you have, ungrateful girl.

She takes his hand, this time there are no artificial lights or contempt "I forgive you. "

Raven really says it. She does not want to live alone having her father as a constant, it would be a sad constant and now he is angry, insulting her and screaming because she is weak, gullible and stupid, yet she smiles.

He opens and closes his mouth, surprised "Really? "

She nods "It's not like I have any other choice, we live in the same place. "

Garfield laughs and exhales a big breath, touches his chest feeling his heart and snorts "God, I thought you were going to hate me. Maybe you would curse me for all eternity. "

She rolled her eyes.

"Maybe I will…"

"Let's be friends again!" He dances around the kitchen, ignoring her words. He turns to yellow and white again. "It's cool, baby. "

Raven stands up, deciding it's too much. She embraced the book and used her powers to make the cup levitate with her footsteps.

"You are so loud."

He is smiling.

She walks to the kitchen door to watch the sunrise, but he knocks on it and she turns around.

"What wrong? "

“You deserve someone who reads Shakespeare or something like that with you and kisses the ground where you step," Garfield smiles. "You may be half demon and your father is a monster, but not everything has to be suffering. Love is not pain, Rae. "

Again, she doesn't know what to say or do, so she nods.

When she leaves the kitchen, she realizes that the lump in her throat that she has been holding since she got up, no longer exists. She feels light, like dropping a load and all the bumps, cuts and infections are healing.

She still has her struggles but abandoning one she did not collapse. Sometimes getting rid of one makes the bag not explode.

She needed that talk.

She needed to let it go completely.

As she climbs the stairs to the roof, she feels the rays of the sun entering from the open door, the light wind on her face and the squawk of seagulls, agitated in the sky that is a beautiful combination of pinks, blues and golds.

Her steps are delicate, like the fall of a feather and she thinks of the crow as more than a bird that predicts tragedies, or its black feathers the consequence of the wrath of a god.

When she opens the door, she holds her breath. Sitting on the floor writing on a pad is Damian, dressed in his civilian clothes and a bruise above his eyebrow, he carries a coffee and frowns every time he sips his drink.

His hands are quick on the sheet of paper.

She didn't know he would be here; thought he’d be away for a couple more days.

"You are late. "

She does not answer.

"Selina had a daughter."

She raises her eyebrows.

"I thought your father had more than one girlfriend." Damian looks up for the first time. He frowns. "You know, Playboy. "

So, it wasn't just a mission with his brothers, the Bat family just got bigger. Honestly, she thought the world couldn't take another Wayne, but she was wrong.

He does not say anything.

Raven sits on the ground next to him, keeping her distance.

"How are you with the arrival of the new member? "

"Good. "

Oh.

"Congratulations. "

They remain silent and she thinks that is all the information that she is going to be able to obtain from Damian. She opens her poetry book right where she leaves the separator, which consists of a withered sheet.

"My father is happy, even if he doesn't say it" He continues writing, only this time it is slower. The pen in his hand runs smoothly, as if reflecting. "I thought Selina would be a strumpet, that she would give him carnal relief and then leave, but my father seems… comfortable. Dick says it makes him less intense. "

Dick.

For Azarath, Dick must be overflowing with joy.

"How is she? "

Damian grimaces.

"Pink. "

She laughs "Yes, I suppose all the babies at the beginning are. "

"Helena is small, like really small, so much so that my father fears that she will break if one of us carries her." When she is not crying, she is sleeping or eating" he pauses. "Selina says the first few months will be like this. "

She Smiled.

"What? " He asks defensively.

"You like her. "

He rolled his eyes.

"To be honest, my chips were on the end of their relationship, but she stayed." He shrugs. Damian makes it look like an unlikely result in an equation. "Drake and Grayson won. I suppose I are well. I can do nothing but endure. "

Raven laughs.

"It's not funny." His tone is not angry, he doesn't turn that red warning tone and she knows that everything is fine.

She looks down at the book and takes a sip of her tea.

She looked at Damian, who continued writing in his notebook; The sun's rays bathed his face, his skin is tan, and his green eyes roam the notebook, concentrating on whatever he wants to capture.

She closes your eyes and feels the taste of herbs in the mouth.

She feels his shoulders collide with her, it's a warm and dangerous pressure. Each of her molecules asks for more, and she shouldn't be allowing this, but she doesn't pull away, nor does she stop her heart from running wild.

No one has heard from Robin in two months and the internet is focused on the following drama.

Damian Wayne allows himself to be photographed, but the paparazzi are not interested in selling photos of a scarf to the big gossip magazines, so they disappear little by little.

Raven left a relationship behind and hesitantly asks: What is it about him here?  

It is at this moment that he realizes that, if she bleeds, he would be the last to know.

[somelazyassartist]

HALLOWS IS FROM A DIFFREND DIMENSION?! that’s so po g g e rs

Yeah, sorta! She grew up in the Feywild, which is basically an alternate dimension of the Material Plane (the closest equivalent to our world) but the Feywild is pretty much made entirely of magic!! Magic is in everything it touches!!

That's part of the reason Hallows is so out of place in the Material Plane! She's a Fey Eladrin, which is essentially an Elven subrace that can be traced back centuries to when normal Elves from the Material Plane were forced to take refuge in the Feywild and after generations of living in a world made entirely of magic it slowly genetically mutated them into the kind of Elves seen in the Feywild now; inseparable from the magic in their blood, they have been warped into such a bastardized version of the Elven race that it's debatable if they even count as one anymore, their bodies physically melding with their emotions and the magic in their DNA to cause them to feel every emotion and the switches between as vividly as they possibly could, and to change their appearance and powers along with it, adopting traits of the seasons. Some may stay with one season all their life, such as Hallows' parents, though some like Hallows change whenever they see fit, though most adjust their season to match the season of the world around them.

Again, it's debatable if Fey Eladrin even count as Elves anymore. Aside from the brightly colored and ever-changing appearances which are the most outwardly obvious signs of how different they are from Material Plane Elves, their eyes glow in the dark and reflect light, they have the ability to set themselves on fire at will, teleport themselves and others, and have the innate ability to charm or frighten their foes.

Eladrin, from what I've read, typically don't concern themselves with Humans or the Material Plane that much (I personally headcanon that some Eladrin think of Humans the same way Humans think of monsters under someone's bed or cryptids and whatnot but I just personally think that would be funny). So just as how the residents of the Material Plane are freaked out by Hallows, Hallows for quite a while was freaked out by them in return, as Hallows' kind was rarely- if ever- even seen outside of their home, let alone living away from it! Eladrin are NOT native to the Material Plane, and the Material Plane doesn't have the magic required to have naturally evolved a species like that, so it's extra obvious how much of a genetic anomaly she is compared the the people around her.

The opposite version of the Fey Eladrin are the Shadar-Kai, Elves from the Shadowfell. Instead of ever-changing bold coloration, they have muted and near monotone palettes consisting of mostly grays, blacks, whites, and sometimes very dark or pale blues and purples. They are physically unable to feel emotion, unlike the Eladrin who feel every emotion as intensely as possible. Instead of being one with nature and the seasons as the Eladrin are, they wear metal and tough leather, often wearing chains and spikes and having many tattoos and piercings.

Xgjvkbkbjggx I'm sorry I sorta rambled but yeah I really like D&D lore and the Eladrin are one of my favorites to research!! I genuinely find their history really interesting and I thought it would be fun to play a rogue that couldn't help but stand out in a crowd, and it was fun so yay!

[terramythos]

TerraMythos' 2020 Reading Challenge - Book 20 of 26

Title: Wolf by Wolf (Wolf by Wolf #1) (2015)

Author: Ryan Graudin

Genre/Tags: Alternate History, Historical Fiction, Dystopian, Science Fiction (...ish?), Young Adult, Third Person, Female Protagonist, Duology

Rating: 8/10

Date Began: 7/12/2020

Date Finished: 7/18/2020

In an alternate 1956, the Axis powers of the Third Reich and Imperial Japan won World War II. They host an annual motorcycle competition known as the Axis Tour, in which young people from both powers race across Europe and Asia. Yael, a death camp survivor with the ability to skinshift due to Nazi medical experiments, poses as Adele Wolfe, Germany’s only female competitor. Her goal? To win the race, get a private dance with Hitler, and assassinate him for the world to see.

But years of training and preparation are thrown off balance when Adele’s past relationships come back to haunt Yael in the form of her twin brother Felix Wolfe, and the presence of Luka Lowe, a fellow competitor and former victor, both of whom have complicated, unknown histories with Adele. Now Yael must keep up the charade while still assuring her victory in a difficult and deadly inter-continental race. 

Who are you? (On the inside?) 

The answer to this question was something Yael had to fight for. Her self-reflection was no reflection at all. It was a shattered mirror. Something she had to piece together, over and over again. Memory by memory. Loss by loss. Wolf by wolf. 

Minor spoilers under the cut. 

Wolf by Wolf was a surprise; I did not expect to like it nearly as much as I did. While it has a fascinating premise, it's certainly complicated enough to mess up. Alternate history, especially World War II, can be sketchy if not done well. Add in some science fiction elements, and I was skeptical. But while Wolf by Wolf isn't perfect, Graudin does pull it off rather well, and it was thoroughly enjoyable to read. She states in her author’s note that, with the troubling rise of alt-right movements in recent years, books that examine the true horrors and implications of Nazi ideology are important, and something like this could have very well been our world. I find myself agreeing, and I think she treats the subject with both the delicacy and brutal honesty it requires. 

The novel’s inherent suspense is excellent. Wolf by Wolf has all the appeal of a spy novel with an extra layer that comes with the skinshifting aspect. All of Yael's interactions with the other leads (Felix and Luka) mean they genuinely think she's Adele, and it's interesting to see how Yael struggles to play the part. There's a lot of tense moments where she says or does something that Adele wouldn't, and she has to use her wits to get through it. I like the "becoming the mask" trope and it's in play here as Yael finds herself becoming attached to the other characters. The inherently fantastical element of skinshifting does protect her, as almost no one would guess it's why Adele is acting odd, so the fact she's able to keep up the ruse despite everything does make sense. That being said, I would have loved to see someone, especially one of the two male leads, figure it out. I spent the novel wondering how a scene like that would play out, and was disappointed it doesn't happen. There are certainly multiple teasing fake-outs. Presumably this will be A Thing in the next book, but it's still something I wish had paid off here rather than consigning it to the sequel. Semi-related, I found the ending twist and callback pretty interesting, and it has some fascinating implications for said sequel. I guess we'll see what Graudin does with all this material. 

Probably the strongest aspect of the novel for me, personally, is how the book balances flashbacks. I think Graudin does a fantastic job (with some exceptions) doling out information, and gradually revealing Yael's backstory and pain points. Unsurprisingly, her past is heart-wrenching in a variety of ways. The part where her mother doesn't recognize her and the scene with Vlad and the numbers hit me especially hard. It's satisfying when the full implications of a symbol or line of dialogue aren't revealed until much later in the story. For example, the wolf tattoos are introduced early (literally the second chapter) but the emotional payoff is gradual, and I think that strengthens the impact. The pacing in general is really well done-- slow when it needs to be, and action-packed at other times. This is something I struggle with even in books I adore, so I’m really impressed with how this book handles it. 

YA gets a bad (often undeserved) rap, and I adore the genre when it's done right. Unfortunately many YA novels fall into trends and tropes that just get annoying after a while, so I find I have to be selective. For the most part Wolf by Wolf avoids these. Yael is a distinct, interesting character who avoids typical YA protagonist cliches. Her tragic past is all the more poignant for being something real people faced (albeit with creative liberties), and her struggles with identity are extra compelling. That being said, I didn't find the romantic subplot with Luka very interesting. I think there's supposed to be some narrative tension where he seems to be a bad guy but has Hidden Depths etc etc... but it was so painfully obvious that I guessed his entire arc based on the first scene. I think there's some potential considering the Yael/Adele dichotomy, but again, it doesn't really pay off in Wolf by Wolf, which is a disappointment. The few romance scenes just take away from the more interesting base story. From what I can tell we get more of Luka’s backstory and perspective in Blood for Blood, so... fingers crossed that I can appreciate him more in retrospect? In general I found Yael’s interactions with Felix more interesting and genuine.        

As for the writing itself, I'm torn. This novel makes heavy use of symbols, and consistently incorporates them into the prose. Usually, this is done to great effect, and there are plenty of excellent poetic and introspective passages. There's also stylistic elements such as heavy repetition and an occasionally-bolded INTERNAL MONOLOGUE. I also noted a lot of dramatic irony and narrative callbacks, which always hit with a punch. When these aspects are done well, it's great. But sometimes Graudin just doesn't seem to trust her readers. There are multiple incidents where the story REALLY wants you to know that X Symbol Means Y Thing and accomplishes this by... just telling you. There's also some clumsy expository dialogue that's jarring to read (very much "as you well know, this thing is true"). These may be in the minority, but are especially noticeable because the rest of the book is subtle about it. No idea why some parts are just like that, and this might be a nitpick, but it really bothers me. Young adults aren't stupid, and it's annoying when YA novels assume they need their hand held. As I said, it only happens a few times, and I am willing to look past it considering the other strengths of the novel.

Wolf by Wolf has its faults, but overall I had a great time reading it. The ending has some fascinating implications, so I'm interested to see what happens in Blood for Blood. From the brief preview at the end, it looks like we get more backstory for Luka and Felix, which I think might smooth over some of my criticisms depending on how it’s handled. I guess we'll see! 

[littlegalerion]

Doing two forms, one for Aithilo and one for Hirchire.

Name:

Aitholo Raamando

Race:

Dunmer

Gender:

Male

Hair Color:

Dark satin red

Eye Color:

Pink

Complexion:

Lighter gray-toned

Body Markings:

Tattoos of wines with leaves on his torso and arms

Height:

Relatively tall for a dunmer

Mortal Parent:

Rasulu Raamando

Their influence on the their child:

Aithilo was inspired by his late mother's desire to travel and learn of all the knowledge Tamriel had to offer, as well as her patience and hope a trace of good nature laid within every soul.

The demigod's opinion on their mortal parent:

Aithilo never met her, as she passed after giving birth to him, but the stories his uncles and father would tell him brought him a sense of wonder. He always hoped to be as optimistic, open minded, and resilient as his mother.

"Mortal" Parent 2:

Divayth Fyr (adoptive father)

Their influence on the their child:

He made sure Aithilo received "education standard for his breeding", which meant apprenticeship to Fyr for most of Aithilo's young life. Divayth was always firm, persistent, and prideful of Aithilo, but also a good listener and shockingly patient, despite the many things he and his son clash over.

The demigod's opinion on their mortal parent:

Aithilo is well aware of his father's flaws. He dislikes Divayth's sharp tongue, stubborn temper, and flirtatious appetite. However, he also admires Divayth's shameless studies into the planes of Oblivion, and him not caring what other dunmer think of him.

Divine Parent:

Sotha Sil

Their influence on the their demigod:

His influence was his absence. Sil chose to not claim Aithilo, and so none if Sil virtues were reflected upon his son.

The demigod's opinion on their divine parent:

Upon learning the truth of his real father, Aithilo became sickened, and harbors a bitter resentment towards the Tribunal. He disagrees with everything Sil teaches, and never refers to him as "father".

Divine Parent 2:

Lorkhan

Their influence on the their demigod:

Lorkhan is Aithilo's 2nd true father. He shares no blood with him, but a spiritual connect perhaps thicker. The Tribunal, which means Sil, stole Lorkhan's power, and as Sil fathered Aithilo, Lorkhan's power was inherited by him. Unlike the Tribunal, Aithilo has no need to steal power. His immortality and limited but still divine powers are his own.

The demigod's opinion on their divine parent:

Aithilo is extremely frightened and cautious of his connection to Lorkhan. They sleeping god has tormented Aithilo with nightmares of the god's death, of Nerevar' death, and Lorkhan's heart itself whispers to him whenever he sets foot on Vvardenfell. Eventually, Lorkhan attempted to totally possess him, especially once the heart was destroyed. Aithilo only survived and overcame the possession with the help of Trechire and Fyr. Ever since, Lorkhan has remained quiet, but Aithilo knows that he is still there, somewhere, waiting for the next promising opportunity.

Demigod's childhood home(s):

Around Grahtwood and in various homes with Divayth has the two traveled.

Demigod's current home(s):

Ebonheart (a rented room) and in Western Skyrim

Demigod's relatives (both dead and alive):

Uncle Raiynes: His mother's brother, who left their Ashlander tribe with her as they both wished to learn the schools of magic without restraints.

Uncle Arncano: Raiynes' husband, an altmer noble who moved to coastal Valenwood after a family out with his family.

Setheso: Aithilo's daughter, the Nerevarine, through an unnamed dunmer woman.

Demigod's relationships towards relatives:

His uncles raised him up until he was eight, when Fyr insisted Aithilo was old enough to begin an apprenticeship. Aithilo loved his uncles, and misses them a great deal ever since their peaceful passings.

Setheso is precious to him, though he was absent throughout her young life. He will forever feel guilt for that, and will forever try to become worthy to refer to himself as her father. Setheso is indifferent towards him, but becomes hostile if he tries to form any sort of close family bond. The irony is not lost on him that he is essentially his own blood father, Sil.

Demigod's view on mortal political affairs:

Aithilo participated in the Three Banner's War, though more so by flying under no banner but going where he was needed to help peasants and common folk who were affected by the war. This was in both Dominion and Pact territories. He even reluctantly worked with Alamalexia for a brief time.

After that, he never took part in politics again, except for matters in Black Marsh when his friends needed his assistance with uniting or pacifying the various tribes

Demigod's own personal beliefs:

Funny enough, Aithilo reveres Sithis. He picked up this practice from his argonian friends, who worship Sithis as the bringer of constant change. Sometimes in the form death, but not all change is bad. Aithilo deeply values this mindset, and can not fathom a world of absolutes.

He also does not eat vegetation, as he has a respect for both Y'fre and the Hist, though he is well aware the Hist does not demand such things. Still, eating vegetation seems award to him. So he is a full blown carnivore.

Demigod's personal goals in life:

To be a better father, to assist other half-divine individuals like himself, and to hold on to the weird family he has seemingly attained over the various centuries.

Are they single:

Yes

Their partner:

He's an ace, but does keep close, intense frienships as he craves companionship.

Steady or fragile relationship:

Steady. As long as he is able, he will always try to keep a strong friendship going.

《《••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••》》

Name:

Hircine

Race:

Altmer-Daedra mix

Gender:

Male

Hair Color:

Cinnamon Brown

Eye Color:

Blue

Complexion:

Copper-gold skin

Body Markings:

Fawn colored patches with white dapples splashed over his body. Has antelope horns.

Height:

Very, VERY tall. Taller than a tall altmer.

Mortal Parent:

Trechire Galerio

Their influence on the their child:

Raised Hirchire throughout his entire childhood, mentored him when he joined the packs, and to this day visits with him and is supportive.

The demiprince's opinion on their mortal parent:

Hirchire is extremely close to his mother, overprotective to the max. He didn't take well to her husband Eliindil mantilng Sheogorath, and for the longest time didn't know how to react to his demiprince half brother Kirr. It's only due to his love for his mother that he isn't hostile.

Divine Parent:

Barbas

Their influence on the their demiprince:

Hirchire was concieved due to Barbas attempting to fool Trechire, masquerading as someone she loved. The idea was to take it incredibly far, then reveal himself and watch her spirits break again. Clavicus Vile always grows bored every century, and his favorite pastime had become stirring trouble with one of his bigger rivals.

However, Trechire caught on to the act early, but pretended to be fooled. When she became pregnant, she sought Hircine, and dedicated the demiprince to him, if he would accept it as his own. Hircine agreed because what huntsman wouldn't want a fluid shapeshifting hound bred straight from one of his most prized hounds??? And so Trechire is the one who fooled Barbas and Vile, revealing to them she had played them and carried a demiprince, which humiliated Barbas and enraged Vile.

Barbas has never interacted with Hirchire, and most likely never will.

The demiprince's opinion on their divine parent:

Hirchire doesn't consider Barbas his father, and so refers to his simply another daedric being with which he has no interest in.

Divine Parent 2:

Hircine (adoptive father)

Their influence on the their demiprince:

Hircine was more than eager to accept this demiprince as his own, and saw to it Trechire raised him as true hunter, one who would serve him for all eternity and even help to maintain his realm. Hirchire is his best of the best-of Hircine sends him after you, then know Hircine will have your head on his wall.

The demiprince's opinion on their divine parent:

Hirchire is loyal to Hircine, sharing his mother's respect for him, as well as a bold nature to even question Hircine at times, which is what made Hircine value Trechire in the first place. Everything Hirchire does is for Hircine' honor.

Demiprince's childhood home(s):

Valenwood (near Reaper's March)

Demiprince's current home(s):

The Hunting Grounds

Demiprince's relatives (both dead and alive):

Rinyu: Elder Half brother

Sunnabela: Elder/Younger Half Brother

Kirr: Younger half brother, fellow demiprince

Eliindil/Sheogorath: Step-father

Demiprince's relationships towards relatives:

Hirchire is on great terms with Rinyu, but towards Sunnabela and Kirr he isn't so social. Kirr is the son of one of Hircine's great rivals, and there is considerable jealousy over the young demiprince in Hirchire's heart, as he liked being the only demiprince offspring of Trechire's. Sunny is always around Kirr, so that doesn't help Sunny.

Hirchire at first was neutral towards Eliindil, but once he mantled Sheogorath now Hirchire no longer speaks with him for obvious reasons.

Sadly, Hirchire was born after Vanus and Caafire's passing, so he never met his grandparents.

Demiprince's view on mortal political affairs:

Not interested at all, unless it affects his packs or hunting grounds.

Demiprince's own personal beliefs:

A true hunter doesn't chase weak prey. A hunter always strives for the best, and seeks a fair hunt. Anything less and you are no better than a common dog chasing chickens on the farm. There is no satisfaction, just a stupid and primitive gratification that means nothing unless you wish to be a basic beast.

If which case, you aren't Hircine's hunter, but a throw away pawn.

Demiprince's personal goals in life:

Bring honor to Hircine, protect his pack mates, live up his mother's legacy among the packs.

Are they single:

Yes

Their partner:

None, but is welcome to the idea

Steady or fragile relationship:

Somewhere between if he had one.

[mustafa-el-fats]

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Ancient Wisdom Revealed: 5 Hidden Magical Knowledge That Can Transform Your Life

We are usually amazed when we discover hidden knowledge related to mysticism, magic, and witchcraft. Not only does this ancient knowledge enlighten us but it can also help us understand the very essence of our being. However, most of the times valuable magical information and insight are hidden right before our very eyes. We simply need to know where to look.

“Secrets have a way of making themselves felt, even before you know there’s a secret.” – Jean Ferris

It’s true that this is World which has never actually cut off from the Old Ways. In fact, so many things we still do, reflect on the Old Religion and our Witchy Ways. Therefore, we decided to publish an article, on all weird things that actually got Pagan Origin or even Witchy! This is going to be really really fun!

Magical Knowledge Hidden in Plain Sight

“It is hidden but always present.” – Laozi

The list is endless. We could keep going on and on about it but we chose 5 facts which make more sense to almost anyone.

1. Why do we Wink to signal about secret knowledge?

A Winker actually signals the Winkee that they share or s/he is about to share some secret knowledge. It’s not obvious why or what it is, but this is a sign to immediately question reality. This is an awakening call. If you really think about it, it’s already pretty weird.

Wink & the one eye of Odin

Odin is the mighty and wise father of Norse Religion. God of Wisdom, Healing and Victory he is beloved in all germanic traditions. He is famous for his thirst for Wisdom and magical knowledge. According to one story, Odin was traveling again in his quest to expand his awareness. One day he ventured to Mimir’s Well, located beneath the world tree Yggdrasil. The Guardian spirit of this well, whose wisdom and magical knowledge for the Realms was unprecedented, greeted Odin. Odin asked for some water.

I know where Othin’s eye is hidden, Deep in the wide-famed well of Mimir; Mead from the pledge of Othin each morn Does Mimir drink: would you know yet more?

I know where Othin’s eye is hidden, Deep in the wide-famed well of Mimir; Mead from the pledge of Othin each morn Does Mimir drink: would you know yet more?

The mystical creature knew exactly what Odin was asking and he tried to make it as hard as possible. Thus he demanded his eye. Odin was asking for true and absolute wisdom and the price seemed fair for the Guardian. However, Odin gave it instantly and the Guardian gave the God of Wisdom what he was asking.

Hidden Magical Knowledge of Wink

In many ancient depictions, and due to the fact that Odin has one eye, he seems like he’s winking. This is where the ‘wink’ came from. As Odin lost his eye for hidden truth, we reenact his divine sacrifice by winking, to signal someone for secret knowledge.

“The only secrets are the secrets that keep themselves.” – George Bernard Shaw

2. Why do we give the ‘middle finger’ to insult someone?

Greeks understood the power of sex & sexuality, thus sexuality was part of each God’s powers. Thus, the ‘Phallus’ aka the erect penis, was a symbol of great potential, a power which could fight every demon, reverse bad luck to golden opportunities and create a new and successful beginning in everyone’s life.

Middle finger represents a phallus – a magical symbol

Indeed, the middle finger represents an erect penis. The middle finger also is known as “digitus impudicus” or “the impudent finger”. Saint Isidore of Seville explains in his Etymologies that the third finger is called impudent because it often expresses vexation, insult. But why?

“A graceful taunt is worth a thousand insults.” – Louis Nizer

This rude gesture actually dates back to ancient Greece. This was a sacred and magical gesture – something like a Mudra. Greeks used it to instantly counter any negative activity and dark arts that targeted them. Just like the statues of Phallus in crossroads and anywhere, they did it to repel dark magic.

Therefore, by ‘giving the middle finger and insulting’ the receiver we actually attempt to bind his/her power against us.

3. Why are Days Seven?

Have you wondered? Why aren’t the days of week 5 or 10 or 12? Why 7? Is there special power in it? Well YES!

Seven are the Days, Seven are the ‘Planets’ of ancient Witches

In the ancient World, astrologers and mages worked with the energy of the ‘7 Planets’. These 7 celestial bodies – which are not all planets – embody the diverse magical forces and energies from which everything is born into creation. Each ‘planet’ has a distinct vibration that can be directed and channeled in every magical work.

Each of the seven Days of the Week represents each of the ‘Planet’ of Astrologers and Witches which of course correspond to one God.

Monday is the Moon’s Day, day of Artemis / Diana – Goddess of the Moon

Tuesday is Tyr’s / Ares / Mars’s Day – God of War

Wednesday is Woden’s / Hermes’s / Mercury’s Day – God of Communication and Knowledge

Thursday is Thor’s / Zeus’s / Jupiter’s Day – all God of Lightning although Zeus is also King of Gods

Friday is Freya’s / Aphrodite’s / Venus’s Day – Goddess of Beauty and Love

Saturday is Saturn’s / Krono’s Day – old God of Time

Sunday is Sun’s / Apollo’s Day – God of the Sun

4. Why do we make Tattoos?

A tattoo is an ancient form of art appearing in different ancient cultures throughout history. Our modern word ‘tattoo’ comes from the Tahitian word tatau which means “to mark something”. Does this remind you of something? Maybe the Witch Marks?

“Tattoos are like stories — they’re symbolic of the important moments in your life.” – Pamela Anderson

Tattoos are in fact Witch Marks

Tattoos are similar to the Marks of the Witches. It’s a sacrifice we make to our bodies in order to connect deeper with what the symbol we chose represents. An eternal mark on our mortal bodies which can also pass through our incarnations. So please, before you decide which tattoo to do on your body, choose wisely the meaning and symbolism!

5. Why do we wear our wedding ring on our ‘ring finger’?

Haven’t you always wondered? Why do we choose to put our Wedding Rings on the ‘Ring Finger’? Well, as you can understand, the name of the finger itself actually implies its participation in Wedding Rituals.

Why a Golden Ring on Ring Finger?

This part of Wedding Rituals actually dates back in ancient years. First of all, the Ring symbolizes the Wholeness and Unity. It’s the perfect shape of Alchemists and it’s linked with Ouroboros – the symbol of eternity.

Now, why on Ring Finger? This finger is associated with the Sun and Apollo, the god of all blessings. When we ‘activate’ this finger we actually activate the power of the Sun and Apollo in us. As every ‘Planet’ is associated with one Metal, the Sun and Apollo are associated with Gold. Thus, to properly activate the Ring Finger we need to wear a Golden Ring on it. Check more on how to wear Rings to pursue your purposes here!

Therefore, in Wedding Rings, we conjure the blessings of Apollo and the Sun, the bring timeless happiness.

“Secrets are made to be found out with time.” – Charles Sanford

Esoteric wisdom can help you transform your life and the lives of your loved ones. Once you know how to access and decode such ancient knowledge, you can get a better understanding of different religions, practices and spiritual self. Now that you have gained some valuable insight, use this hidden ancient magical wisdom to build a happier and more purposeful life.

Post originally published on Magical Recipes Online

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Magical Recipes Online consists of a core team of 4 people who have dedicated their lives to bring Magic to a wider audience, to teach and to be taught, to help everyone in our World tap to the Great Source of All Things and bring happiness and love into their lives. We are everyday ordinary people who have lead extraordinary lives. We have heard our call to Magic from a young age but followed different directions.

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How to Decode Emotions In Text Messages: 6 Effective Ways To Get Started

“How do you decode emotions in text messages?”

Text messages can often be very confusing. It can be especially challenging to understand emotions when we communicate through text messages. With the lack of facial expressions and body language, we can often misinterpret the intended message and tone resulting in disastrous misunderstandings. So how can we read emotions in texts? Let’s find out.

“What is a moderate interpretation of the text? Halfway between what it really means and what you’d like it to mean?” – Antonin Scalia

It’s easy when people say they are angry or sad or excited, or if they tack an emoji to the end of a text. But when they don’t? Given that even face-to-face communication can be confusing, it should not surprise us that truncated, dashed-off text messages can result in disastrous misunderstandings.

In the age of technology, we not only need to decode in-person interactions, but we also need to decode textual transmissions.

How do we know what a person is feeling when we can’t see their faces or body language?

Here are six tips to help you better decode emotions in text messages, or at least prevent yourself from jumping to conclusions based on scant evidence.

1. Assume good intentions

In general, text messages are short. We have very little information to work with. A smiley face or series of exclamation points can help assure us that the text is meant to express positive emotion, but texts do not always include these extra emotion indicators. Our friends’ busy schedules lead to abrupt messages, and our partner’s playful sarcasm isn’t always read as playful.

Keep in mind that texts are a difficult medium for communicating emotion. We have no facial expressions or tone of voice, or conversation to give us more information. If the text doesn’t say, “I’m angry,” then don’t assume that the texter is angry. We are better off reading texts with the assumption that the texter has good intentions. Otherwise, we may end up in lots of unnecessary arguments.

“Texting is a fundamentally sneaky form of communication, which we should despise, but it is such a boon we don’t care. We are all sneaks now.” – Lynne Truss

2. Cultivate awareness of unconscious biases

In my research, I have had to train numerous teams of emotion coders. But even trained coders who meet weekly to discuss discrepancies don’t agree on which emotion (or how much emotion) is being expressed. People just do not see emotions in the same way. We have unconscious biases that lead us to draw different conclusions based on the same information.

For example, every time I lead a coding team I am reminded that males and females often differ in how they interpret others’ emotions. If Bob writes: “My wife missed our 10-year anniversary,” men may think Bob is angry, while women may think Bob is sad.

I don’t presume to know exactly why this is, but I can say confidently that our emotion-detection skills are affected by characteristics about us. When it comes to detecting emotion in texts, try to remember that our unconscious biases affect our interpretations. The emotions we detect may be reflective of things about us just as much as they are reflective of the information in the text.

3. Explore the emotional undertones of the words themselves

The words people use often have emotional undertones. Think about some common words—words like love, hate, wonderful, hard, work, explore, or kitten.

If a text reads, “I love this wonderful kitten,” we can easily conclude that it is expressing positive emotions. If a text reads, “I hate this hard work,” that seems pretty negative. But, if a text reads, “This wonderful kitten is hard work,” what emotion do we think is being expressed?

One approach to detecting emotions when they appear to be mixed is to use the “bag-of-words” method. This just means that we look at each word separately. How positive are the words “kitten” and “wonderful”? And how negative are the words “hard” and “work”? By looking at how positive and negative each word is, we may be able to figure out the predominant emotion the texter is trying to express. Give this bag-of-words method a try when you are having a hard time figuring out the emotion in a text.

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Ancient Wisdom Revealed: 5 Hidden Magical Knowledge That Can Transform Your Life

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Dr. Tchiki Davis

Tchiki Davis, Ph.D., is a consultant, writer, and expert on well-being technology. She has helped build happiness products, programs, and services that have reached more than a million people worldwide. To learn more about how Tchiki can help you grow your happiness & well-being, visit berkeleywellbeing.com

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[arcticdementor]

Something strange happened to the news over the past four years. The dominant stories all resembled the scripts of bad movies—sequels and reboots. The Kavanaugh hearings were a sequel to the Clarence Thomas hearings, and Russian collusion was rebooted as Ukrainian impeachment. Journalists are supposed to hunt for good scoops, but in January, as the coronavirus spread, they focused on the impeachment reality show instead of a real story.

It’s not just journalists. The so-called second golden era of televi­sion was a decade ago, and many of those shows relied on cliff-hangers and gratuitous nudity to hold audience attention. Across TV, movies, and novels it is increasingly difficult to find a compelling story that doesn’t rely on gimmicks. Even foundational stories like liberalism, equality, and meritocracy are failing; the resulting woke phenomenon is the greatest shark jump in history.

Storytelling is central to any civilization, so its sudden failure across society should set off alarm bells. Culture inevitably reflects the selection process that sorts people into the upper class, and today’s insipid stories suggest a profound failure of this sorting mech­anism.

…

Culture is larger than pop culture, or even just art. It encompasses class, architecture, cuisine, education, manners, philosophy, politics, religion, and more. T. S. Eliot charted the vastness of this word in his Notes towards the Definition of Culture, and he warned that technocratic rule narrowed our view of culture. Eliot insisted that it’s impossible to easily define such a broad concept, yet smack in the middle of the book he slips in a succinct explanation: “Culture may even be described simply as that which makes life worth living.” This highlights why the increase in “deaths of despair” is such a strong condemnation of our dysfunction. In a fundamental way, our culture only exists to serve a certain class. Eliot predicted this when he cri­tiqued elites selected through education: “Any educational system aiming at a complete adjustment between education and society will tend to restrict education to what will lead to success in the world, and to restrict success in the world to those persons who have been good pupils of the system.”

This professional managerial class has a distinct culture that often sets the tone for all of American culture. It may be possible to separate the professional managerial class from the ruling elite, or plutocracy, but there is no cultural distinction. Any commentary on an entire class will stumble in the way all generalizations stumble, yet this culture is most distinct at the highest tiers, and the fuzzy edges often emulate those on the top. At its broadest, these are college-educated, white-collar workers whose income comes from labor, who are huddled in America’s cities, and who rise to power through existing bureaucracies. Bureaucracies, whether corporate or government, are systems that reward specific traits, and so the culture of this class coalesces towards an archetype: the striving bureaucrat, whose values are defined by the skills needed to maneuver through a bureau­cracy. And from the very beginning, the striving bureaucrat succeeds precisely by disregarding good storytelling.

…

Professionals today would never self-identify as bureaucrats. Product managers at Google might have sleeve tattoos or purple hair. They might describe themselves as “creators” or “creatives.” They might characterize their hobbies as entrepreneurial “side hustles.” But their actual day-in, day-out work involves the coordination of various teams and resources across a large organization based on established administrative procedures. That’s a bureaucrat. The entire professional culture is almost an attempt to invert the connotations and expecta­tions of the word—which is what underlies this class’s tension with storytelling. Conformity is draped in the dead symbols of a prior generation’s counterculture.

…

When high school students read novels, they are asked to identify the theme, or moral, of a story. This teaches them to view texts through an instrumental lens. Novelist Robert Olen Butler wrote that we treat artists like idiot savants who “really want to say abstract, theoretical, philosophical things, but somehow they can’t quite make themselves do it.” The purpose of a story becomes the process of translating it into ideas or analysis. This is instrumental reading. F. Scott Fitzgerald spent years meticulously outlining and structuring numerous rewrites of The Great Gatsby, but every year high school students reduce the book to a bumper sticker on the American dream. A story is an experience in and of itself. When you abstract a message, you lose part of that experience. Analysis is not inherently bad; it’s just an ancillary mode that should not define the reader’s disposition.

Propaganda is ubiquitous because we’ve been taught to view it as the final purpose of art. Instrumental reading also causes people to assume overly abstract or obscure works are inherently profound. When the reader’s job is to decode meaning, then the storyteller is judged by the difficulty of that process. It’s a novel about a corn beef sandwich who sings the Book of Malachi. Ah yes, a profound critique of late capitalism. An artist! Overall, instrumental reading teaches striving students to disregard stories. Cut to the chase, and give us the message. Diversity is our strength? Got it. Throw the book out. This reductionist view perhaps makes it difficult for people to see how incoherent the higher education experience has become.

…

“Decadence” sounds incorrect since the word elicits extravagant and glamorous vices, while we have Lizzo—an obese antifertility priestess for affluent women. All our decadence becomes boring, cringe-inducing, and filled with HR-approved jargon. “For my Ful­bright, I studied conflict resolution in nonmonogamous throuples.” Campus dynamics may partially explain this phenomenon. Camille Paglia has argued that many of the brightest left-wing thinkers in the 1960s fried their brains with too much LSD, and this created an opportunity for the rise of corporate academics who never participated in the ’60s but used its values to signal status. What if this dropout process repeats every generation?

…

The professional class tells a variety of genre stories about their jobs: TED Talker, “entrepreneur,” “innovator,” “doing well by doing good.” One of the most popular today is corporate feminism. This familiar story is about a young woman who lands a prestigious job in Manhattan, where she guns for the corner office while also fulfilling her trendy Sex and the City dreams. Her day-in, day-out life is blessed by the mothers and grandmothers who fought for equality—with the ghost of Susan B. Anthony lingering Mufasa-like over America’s cubicles. Yet, like other corporate genre stories, girl-boss feminism is a celebration of bureaucratic life, including its hierarchy. Isn’t that weird?

There are few positive literary representations of life in corporate America. The common story holds that bureaucratic life is soul-crushing. At its worst, this indulges in a pedestrian Romanticism where reality is measured against a daydream, and, as Irving Babbitt warned, “in comparison . . . actual life seems a hard and cramping routine.” Drudgery is constitutive of the human condition. Yet even while admitting that toil is inescapable, it is still obvious that most white-collar work today is particularly bleak and meaningless. Office life increasingly resembles a mental factory line. The podcast is just talk radio for white-collar workers, and its popularity is evidence of how mind-numbing work has become for most.

Forty years ago, Christopher Lasch wrote that “modern industry condemns people to jobs that insult their intelligence,” and today employers rub this insult in workers’ faces with a hideously infantilizing work culture that turns the office into a permanent kindergarten classroom. Blue-chip companies reward their employees with balloons, stuffed animals, and gold stars, and an exposé detailing the stringent communication rules of the luxury brand Away Luggage revealed how many start-ups are just “live, laugh, love” sweatshops. This humiliating culture dominates America’s companies because few engage in truly productive or necessary work. Professional genre fiction, such as corporate feminism, is thus often told as a way to cope with the underwhelming reality of working a job that doesn’t con­tribute anything to the world.

There is another way to tell the story of the young career woman, however. Her commute includes inspiring podcasts about Ugandan entrepreneurs, but also a subway stranger breathing an egg sandwich into her face. Her job title is “Senior Analyst—Global Trends,” but her job is just copying and pasting between spreadsheets for ten hours. Despite all the “doing well by doing good” seminars, the closest thing she knows to a community is spin class, where a hundred similar women, and one intense man in sports goggles, listen to a spaz scream Hallmark card affirmations.

…

The bureaucrat even describes the process of rising through fraud­ulence as “playing the game.” The book The Organization Man criticized professionals in the 1950s for confusing their own interests with those of their employers, imagining, for example, that moving across the country was good for them simply because they were transferred. “Playing the game” is almost like an overlay on top of this attitude. The idea is that personal ambition puts the bureaucrat in charge. Bureaucrats always feel that they are “in on the game,” and so develop a false sense of certainty about the world, which sorts them into two groups: the cynics and the neurotics. Cynics recognize the nonsense, but think it’s necessary for power. The neurotics, by con­trast, are earnest go-getters who confuse the nonsense with actual work. They begin to feel like they’re the only ones faking it and become so insecure they have to binge-watch TED Talks on “im­poster syndrome.”

These two dispositions help explain why journalists focus on things like impeachment rather than medical supply chains. One group cynically condescends to American intelligence, while neurotics shriek about the “norms of our democracy.” Both are undergirded by a false certainty about what’s possible. Professional elites vastly overestimate their own intelligence in comparison with the average American, and today there is nothing so common as being an elitist. Meanwhile, public discourse gets dumber and dumber as elitists spend all their time explaining hastily memorized Wikipedia entries to those they deem rubes.

…

The entire phenomenon of the nonconformist bureaucrat can be seen as genre inversion. Everyone today grew up with pop culture stories about evil corporations and corporate America’s soul-sucking culture, and so the “creatives” have fashioned a self-image defined against this genre. These stories have been internalized and inverted by corporate America itself, so now corporate America has mandatory fun events and mandatory displays of creativity.

In other words, past countercultures have been absorbed into corporate America’s conception of itself. David Solomon isn’t your father’s stuffy investment banker. He’s a DJ! And Goldman Sachs isn’t like the stuffy corporations you heard about growing up. They fly a transgender flag outside their headquarters, list sex-change tran­sitions as a benefit on their career site, and refuse to underwrite an IPO if the company is run by white men. This isn’t just posturing. Wokeness is a cult of power that maintains its authority by pretending it’s perpetually marching against authority. As long it does so, its sectaries can avoid acknowledging how they strengthen managerial America’s stranglehold on life by empowering administrators to en­force ever-expanding bureaucratic technicalities.

…

Moreover, it is shocking that no one in the 2020 campaign seems to have reacted to the dramatic change that happened in 2016. Good storytellers are attuned to audience sophistication, and must understand when audiences have grown past their techniques. Everyone has seen hundreds of movies, and read hundreds of books, and so we intuitively understand the shape of a good story. Once audiences can recognize a storytelling technique as a technique, it ceases to function because it draws attention to the artifice. This creates distance be­tween the intended emotion and the audience reaction. For instance, a romantic comedy follows a couple as they fall in love and come together, and so the act two low point will often see the couple breaking up over miscommunication. Audiences recognize this as a technique, and so, even though miscommunication often causes fights, it seems fake.

Similarly, today’s voters are sophisticated enough to recognize the standard political techniques, and so their reactions are no longer easily predictable. Voters intuitively recognize that candidate “de­bates” are just media events, and prewritten zingers do not help politicians when everyone recognizes them as prewritten. The literary critic Wayne Booth wrote that “the hack is, by definition, the man who asks for responses he cannot himself respect,” and our politicians are always asking us to buy into nonsense that they couldn’t possibly believe. Inane political tropes operate just like inane business jargon and continue because everyone thinks they’re on the inside, and this blinds them to obvious developments in how audiences of voters relate to political tropes. Trump often plays in this neglected space.

The artistic development of the sitcom can be seen as the process of incorporating its own artifice into the story. There is a direct creative lineage from The Dick Van Dyke Show, a sitcom about television comedy writers, to The Office, a show about office workers being filmed for television. Similarly, Trump often succeeds because he incorporates the artifice of political tropes. When Trump points out that the debate audiences are all donors, or that Nancy Pelosi doesn’t actually pray for him, he’s just pointing out what everyone already knows. This makes it difficult for other politicians to “play the game,” because their standard tropes reinforce Trump’s message. If the debates are just media spectacle events for donors, then ap­plause lines work against you. It’s similar to breaking the fourth wall, while the rest of the cast nervously tries to continue with their lines. Trump’s success is evidence that the television era of political theater is ending, because its storytelling formats are dead.

In fact, the (often legitimate) criticism that Trump does not act “presidential” is the same as saying that he’s not acting professional—that he is ignoring the rules of bureaucratic advancement. Could you imagine Trump’s year-end review? “In 2020, we invite Donald to stop sending Outlook reminders that just say ‘get schlonged.’” Trump’s antics are indicative of his different route to power. Forget everything else about him: how would you act if you never had a job outside a company with your name on the building? The world of the professional managerial class doesn’t contain many characters, and so they associate eccentricity with bohemianism or ineptitude. But it’s also reliably found somewhere else.

Small business owners are often loons, wackos, and general nut­jobs. Unlike the professional class, their personalities vary because their job isn’t dependent on how others view them. Even when they’re wealthy or successful, they often don’t act “professional.” It requires tremendous grit and courage to own a business. They are perhaps the only people today who embody what Pericles meant when he said that the “secret to freedom is courage.” In the wake of coronavirus, small businesses owners stoically shuttered their stores and faced financial ruin, while politicians with camera-ready personas and ratlike souls tried to increase seasonal worker visas.

…

Ever since Star Wars, screenwriters have used Joseph Campbell’s monomyth to measure a successful story, and an essential act one feature is the refusal of adventure. For a moment, the universe opens up and shows the hero an unknown world of possibility, but the hero backs away. For four years, our nation has refused adventure, yet fate cannot be ignored. The coronavirus forces our nation to confront adventure. With eerie precision, this global plague tore down the false stories that veiled our true situation. The experts are incompetent. The institutions told us we were racist for caring about the virus, and then called for arresting paddleboarders in the middle of the ocean. Our business regulations make it difficult to create face masks in a crisis, while rewarding those who outsource the manufacturing of lifesaving drugs to our rival. The new civic religion of wokeness is a dangerous antihuman cult that distorts priorities. Even our Hollywood stars turn out to be ugly without makeup.