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scentedpepper · 1 year ago

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Missions, Malaise and Migas Pt. V | Leon Kennedy

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt. 4 Pt. 6 Pt. 7 Final Part

Fandom: Resident Evil

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Male Reader

Summary: Leon and Y/N have some underlying issues. Ones they tried to warn DSO about.

Content Warnings: None

Other Pairings: Luis Sera x Reader

Author Note(s): whoop whoop part five

Ada thinks it'll be fun.

It'll give her something to do besides be in and out of planes and cars and boats and a bar full of horny men and wasted women.

In her eyes, it will also be therapeutic for two love-scorned people who seem to be grappling and grinding on each other because of their own moronic emotions and stubborn attitudes.

What would it hurt?

She's already gathered the obvious.

–The obvious being Leon, that is. She could practically read it in the way he held his gun, the way his eyes twitched and how they looked at you. His gaze, a flash, but his behavior told her so many, many things.

The way his hands fiddled with it, the tapping of his left foot, the biting of his tongue. And you were oblivious. Moreso a side effect of you disliking the man than anything else. Because she knew you, she could see the skill in every wrinkle of your body. You were just a hardened, distrustful shell, and it was so cute. Two angry, headstrong people ready to bite the necks of anyone who entered their personal space. She was so giddy.

Pure bliss.

Excitement over cracking her dear Leon open like an egg.

All for you.

Her eyes flicker to you, then him, repeating, comparing. Analyzing and prying until finally, she rests back in the chair beside Luis and she's content, having already placed the seed of her diabolical plan.

"Luis. " She's almost gushing. "You got a map on the computer or something?"

He glances at her, and a broad smile comes across his face.

"Sí. Whatever you need. "

"Good. I have to go fetch something. "

She sees your eyebrow quirk towards her in curiousity. But you don't say much about it, your mouth occupied by a large bite of the sandwhich.

Before she heads out, she turns towards you and the words that escape her mouth cause the twitching of Leons trigger finger.

"I want you to come with me. "

"We have to go. " His tone is sharp and immediate, he doesn't allow room between her words and his. His eyes flicker quickly to yours. "I mean it, Y/N. "

Luis is shaking his head and you don't need words to tell Leon how you feel.

"We need to secure the area. If they aren't gonna find us, we have to try and find them. Otherwise, we're just waiting. "

"Then we wait. “

The words fly from your mouth like ninja stars.

"You expect to stay here longer than you have to?" Leon is aghast. "You got your rest. You've even ate. " He gestures to the plate. "Now let's go. "

"You want to walk back into the storm outside and spend the night out there when we have this?" Your arms spread outward. "What's the logic there, Leon? I mean, really, " you scoff, "what are we going to accomplish?"

"This isn't up for a vote, " Leon spits back, his head working, his tongue fumbling with how to explain to you that you're idiotic plan won't work. "We aren't waiting here to become dog food. “

"So sleeping in the woods solves that problem?"

"There isn't a better option. If they're aware of our presence and know we're with Luis, " he adds, "they're going to come hunting. "

"They haven't come yet, not even with everything, " a thumb rubs at a broken section of the thick wooden table. "Whatevers left of his crew is preoccupied trying to deal with the virus. "

"The calmer route will be to wait here. "

The sound of a new voice washes over you both.

Ada is about to take a step closer when Luis steps between her and you two, raising his hands, palms up, eyes wide. "Yo amigos, do you mind telling me what exactly is going on here?”

You both look at the taller man and his furrowed brow, attentive gaze. Ada has a bit of a smirk on her face, enjoying the dynamics.

It's only when Luis clicks his tongue and urges your attention do you answer.

"There's too much risk, with a lot of things. It's best we stay here. "

"Absolutely not. "

Leon talks almost immediately after you do, his words curt, and flat. Directly over yours.

Like you hadn't said anything to begin with.

"You do whatever the hell you want to, but we're not staying here to get gobbled up while you and Luis pal around, then use me as your shield when things go south. "

"You're so full of shit. " You spit back, your nerves crackling with energy.

His eyes are cool. "This isn't a democracy. “

"Neither is working for the fucking US government. "

Ada frowns a little bit at the outburst and her voice remains even.

"Try to relax. All of you. "

"Try this. " You gesture with a hand between yourself and Leon. "Assigning two people to bring back evidence of a potential new Bioweapon, and putting it on both of us is hard enough when you factor in all the shit trying to eat and kill us, " your hand is still up. "But the fact that one of these individuals is a glorified agent that's known for all but trying to get the drop on their partner isn't all that reassuring. “

Ada sees it. She sees it from Leon now. A crumbling, slowly as a boat losing its control over the waves in the ocean. The tightening of his lips, the firm set of his jaw, the quaking of his eyebrows.

And she sees you.

Recollecting. Repenting for one second as the heat radiates, scorching you alive from the inside out. You're embarrassed, hurt and even guilt is in there somewhere.

But it's not long.

Because your face is out of her view when you make headway for the door.

Ada's eyes widen ever-so slightly and the way Leon moves when you turn away. Like he's connected to you with a string and if he wants to let you go, he's gonna have to un-string himself first. It's in sync with Luis who gets up from his seat in an instant, his mouth opening to make verbal protests, to defuse.

But Adas hands are up, putting them both in pause like the press of a remote control button.

"Let him go. "

There's a mutual crease of foreheads and slack jaws.

"Ada. " The displeasure in Leon's voice is thick. Almost like smoke that fills the room and seems to get heavier and darker the longer time goes on.

She doesn't let him continue. "I'll go. Make sure he's safe. But you two– sit. "

Luis lowers himself first, without an ounce of fight, and Leon stays. His blue eyes pierce hers.

"He's volatile. " His tone is sharp.

She thinks about it a moment, how much truth to his statement. How far could you push him? How much shit could you feed to him until he really broke.

"He's not. " Ada admits. "Have you ever really spoken to your partner?" Her head tilts in a way that isn't a challenge, but curiosity, giving the impression that she wants him to think. "There's obviously a lot of information that has never been shared. "

"Didn't see you offering therapy sessions. " Leon spits.

Ada stares. Luis watches carefully, unsure how to react and unwilling to move.

Ada swallows like her throat is coated with tar, hardening her resolve. The expression she makes afterwards is one that almost physically sickens Leon.

It's patronizing.

Merciful.

She's looking at him like he's a child having a tantrum and not a man who had made hard choices since 1998.

"Oh, Leon. " Ada breathes the words out. She gives a slight shake of her head before moving on with her plan, feeling more confident in it as she gives Leon one last sympathetic look.

She hopes he can see the deeper meaning behind her look. How her eyes dip in sorrow, the way her features remain cool, untouched and not judgemental.

"It's not my job to play therapist. But if you'll allow, " she folds her hands neatly infront of her, "I'll see if I can not just secure him, but allow for a cooling off period between the two of you. "

"I don't care. "

"Sure you don't. " She gives him a quick wink before turning around, the sound of her footsteps against the tile becoming fainter and fainter.

He felt himself starting to get emotional, and suddenly, just as quickly as she appeared, she vanished again, going outside to fix a problem between two children with the capabilities to take down a large city.

#resident evil #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x male reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #luis sera x reader #luis sera x you #male reader #ada wong

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not-yet-so-broken · 3 months ago

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Do you sometimes have a hard time w the whole feminism/supporting women thing because of what happened to you? When I speak of my abuse I get mixed reactions, but when I reveal its a female abuser suddenly women are very very angry towards me, the first thing that comes out of their mouth after that is "but" followed by 1000 excuses for her. They treat me like im a traitor to womanhood and feminism for not only having a female abuser but speaking about it. I'm never allowed to say I feel distrust towards women or even uncomfortableness (that a word ? Lol), "but you would still pick female bathrooms/locker rooms" etc etc yes ofc I would but you can't tell to not be affected by my personal experiences. "You're a misogynist then" how is It misogynistic to react to the trauma women inflicted on you ??????? I dont mean to trauma dump here by any means whatsoever believe me. It's just that I really really want that solidarity women have with each other and I wanna let my guard down around them. But their support is just so conditional. If you don't go through the right type of abuse they'll come at you and theyre fucking vicious. I remember 2 of them literally like grinned and scoffed after I told them I was scared my mom would kill me. And I can't talk about this in "normal" circles because people will use it as an excuse to be misogynistic towards women. I feel like no one understands. Women didn't even try to empathize with me and it's like well don't be surprised when I can't feel safe around you when men were the ones who gave me a listening ear and comforted me and validated my fears and worries and were genuinely genuinely compassionate towards me and protected me.

i got this in an ask but they send off-anon and then ask me not to post with their name on it. anyway...

But yes anon, I understand every part of this so much.

but when I reveal its a female abuser suddenly women are very very angry towards me, the first thing that comes out of their mouth after that is "but" followed by 1000 excuses for her. They treat me like im a traitor to womanhood and feminism for not only having a female abuser but speaking about it.

yes. people telling us we dont "really" experience lack of support are way underestimating how much shit like this happens and how emotional and strong this reaction is. ESPECIALLY in feminist groups. I dont understand the anger at victims. and why dont ppl that claim to be on my side get angry with THEM for being angry at victims? feels so fakeass. but this is so true, i actively hide what happened to me from any feminist groups even where people share.

I'm never allowed to say I feel distrust towards women or even uncomfortableness (that a word ? Lol), "but you would still pick female bathrooms/locker rooms" etc etc yes ofc I would but you can't tell to not be affected by my personal experiences. "You're a misogynist then" how is It misogynistic to react to the trauma women inflicted on you ???????

yeah. im fucking tired of having to have ten million disclaimers that just bc i want to take seriously that my assaulter was a woman, it don't mean i think misogyny doesnt exist. why does having a female attacker and not just ignoring it make ME the misogynist? i think it makes YOU the misogynist for ignoring female rapists actually. die.

I dont mean to trauma dump here by any means whatsoever believe me. It's just that I really really want that solidarity women have with each other and I wanna let my guard down around them. But their support is just so conditional. If you don't go through the right type of abuse they'll come at you and theyre fucking vicious. I remember 2 of them literally like grinned and scoffed after I told them I was scared my mom would kill me. And I can't talk about this in "normal" circles because people will use it as an excuse to be misogynistic towards women.

agree with this too. there are certain things i will never forget that are very similar.

i think what helped me was just... yes, support from everyone is extremely conditional. i have to accept my feminism is not personal. it will be one very sided. i will work hard, very hard, for many women that do not like me. some will not care for me bc i am bisexual, some will not care for me bc i am the wrong type of victim. they will justify why they do not care about me.

ive decided. well if we dont have interpersonal connection, thats fine by me.

but it is very lonely. it means feminism is not a source of community that is safe. even if there are women i feel close with, i cannot fully trust them to be a support for everything. so i treat feminism like a professional work environment. not personal.

maybe that just sounds bad. but it worked for me. and its not like i dont get support, it just has to be from individual, not any community.

I feel like no one understands. Women didn't even try to empathize with me and it's like well don't be surprised when I can't feel safe around you when men were the ones who gave me a listening ear and comforted me and validated my fears and worries and were genuinely genuinely compassionate towards me and protected me.

yeah this is hard. the first group i tried was.. homophobic christian women. and as soon as they found out i wasnt straight and i wasn't going to let it be a homophobe anti-lesbian message, they had no interest in me and treat me like dirt. it was a horrible experience. so progressive feminists hugged my rapists, and conservative women just saw me as disgusting as soon as i wouldnt help them use me.

and then to my surprise the ppl i felt most safe with were boys that also had women rape them. i found other women eventually too. but i will never forget those boys who comforted me and said "me too".

that does matter so much. life saving.

but its complicated. i am certainly not believing most men care. and its not like i can forget even those men are men. i care for them as individuals but there is always that barrier where i cant say everything.

i guess lesson is... yeah you just have to accept everything is conditional. you cant relax with any group on EVERYTHING, and if you can find individuals you can, then thats very special. i think that's hopeful.

#i think my english might be garbage at this point sorry its very late

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quillscornertime · 3 months ago

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tw discussion of abuse and many other depressing things. Also sort of n/s-f-w (idk what words aren't allowed on this site), talks of masochism (kinda briefly)

I almost always live in my imagination. I’m also the kind of person that dissects everything I’m thinking, sometimes to understand myself, mostly as a point of perfectionism. But I am almost always out of my depth when I attempt to analyze most of the things I tend to imagine to myself.

I wonder why I think so often about being hurt by others. There was a time that I thought I was masochistic, but that isn’t exactly true. I mean part of it is, but most of what I think about is basically straight up abuse.

Sometimes by actual, real people I know. It’s not exactly a desire. I think deeply, for like an hour at a time while listening to music and trying to focus on something else, about my father hurting me. What it would’ve been like if he was physically abusive, mostly.

Some context: I have a relatively good relationship with my father, although I rarely speak to him because he stresses me out. He was mentally abusive to my mother and committed marital rape against her, and he engaged in many textbook emotionally abusive behaviors (isolating her, gaslighting her, degrading her, etc). Against my sister he was distrustful and often reacted in anger (I wonder if this led to her formation of BPD, or if it was a reaction to her impulsive BPD behaviors, although it’s likely a bit of both). But, he really did love me, and he was often much more gentle to me. I was often able to engage in debates with him about his choices, of which he never gave the courtesy to my mother or sister. He also, in a way, respects me and my choices. I do believe this is in part to the fact that we are both very similar. ADHD, cautious, very principled, likely autistic (he has never been tested but it’s been a question for a long time), and logical. My mother is emotional and soft, my dad is logical and harse, my (older) sister is emotional and harsh, and I am logical (and very emotional, but mostly logical, esp with how I deal with my emotions) and soft.

Back to what I was saying: I often think about what it would mean if he hurt me. I dwell on it. I have dreams about it, too. Not exactly nightmares, they’re more… distant, like I’m watching it through a screen.

I think a part of it makes sense. I want to rationalize the things I saw as a child, maybe daydream about actually being able to place a genuine judgment on my father. Maybe a part of it is a desire to be hurt in order to explain the ways I was hurt by his non-abuse towards me.

But it’s not just him. Every character I like, every teacher I meet, every friend. Most men, actually. Perhaps it’s a reaction to being a woman, too.

Back to the masochism thing I mentioned earlier, I really had myself convinced it was that. Not my dad, obviously, but everyone else. But when I watched p-rn of people treating women the way that I imagine I’d be treated (btw p-rn imo is unethical, I really don’t like to watch it, but I really just had to know), I didn’t feel anything. Not even really disgust. Definitely not attraction.

I think it is somehow linked to the reason that I read fanfiction with characters that get hurt. I’m a big angst/whump kind of person. I feel the emotions of the characters that are hurt deeply, but I don’t feel… I don’t know. I really just don’t know.

But, by drawing that connection, I am also able to figure some more things out about why I might imagine things like that. I cannot stand a story where someone stays in that situation and doesn’t save themselves somehow, or escape it somehow. I suspect that, if I imagine in my mind a situation where someone hurts me and I choose to remain, I would finally feel the disgust that I think I should feel.

Again, I don’t know. Maybe I am some kind of emotional masochist that enjoys feeling sad, although I’m not convinced of that either, because I’m such a “laugh at butterflies and smiles on walks” kind of person.

And really, I may be a sad person, but I am definitely not an unhappy person. That sounds confusing, but it is very true. I find intense enjoyment in many, many things, just as much as I struggle with mental illness and such.

#tw abuse #tw rant #emotional abuse #just trying to figure myself out

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baphometsss · 2 months ago

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(i was gonna send this in an ask but it got too long lol sorry) @mythalism re: your tags i'm not esp into the idea of the madonna complex re: mythal bc i think, like a lot of freudian ideas, it's insufficient at best and downright harmful at worst

like YES he did put her on a pedestal and yes that's part of the madonna complex, but i think it kind of does solas a disservice when it comes to his intellect bc his thinking is not really black and white enough for that imo. i think he was deluded about her but that was mainly borne from extreme devotion, and that level of devotion can only come from someone who is deeply emotionally unfulfilled

i think it's a lot more likely that he grew to distrust so many people during the war that the only person he really felt he could trust was mythal. mythal used him and kept him on a string so she could use his intellect as a weapon. he was a tool that she believed to be obedient and unconditionally loyal to her. then she went and betrayed him too, which was too much for him to accept, because it meant that he really couldn't trust anyone at all, and that screwed him up majorly and 'broke' him.

unfortunately it's similar to a really common thing that men do w/their emotions irl. i'm not trying to make a 1:1 comparison here because the context is wildly different, but we know that the ancient elves were highly emotional beings so i think it tracks. men have this culture of being emotionally shut off from their friends because vulnerability is seen as a weakness, so they put all their emotional vulnerability into their romantic and family relationships w/women. they see women as the kind of epitome of emotional vulnerability, so they unload on them in this really unhealthy way that leads to more emotional turmoil bc it's just too much. they bottle things up and don't share it with any of their male friends, and so they overwhelm the women in their lives with their emotional needs. when that woman inevitably fails to be able to meet them, she falls off the pedestal and she turns into the awful she-devil for not being there for him. or god forbid she has needs of her own that take precedent or are put on him to fulfil bc that's not allowed for someone with no autonomy. it is partly madonna complex but there's a lot more to it on the guy's part too.

like i said it's not a 1:1 comparison bc we're talking about a war and a genocide and mythal was probably never as 'good' as solas wants to remember her being, but it really makes me think of that. rather than toxic masculinity however it's a matter of repeated betrayals and traumas that fosters his behaviour re: mythal. solas didn't have anyone he could trust with his most intimate thoughts and feelings like he once did with mythal and other spirits long passed, and he's desperately clinging to that relationship bc his ability to trust has been broken so completely and he can't handle the trauma and guilt of the war alone. and ofc unlike mythal and the evanuris, solas holds a LOT of guilt about the titans and the blight. so no matter how much she screwed him over, she always stayed on that pedestal bc the alternative (dealing with it alone) was so much worse. (there's also the fact that mythal understood him as wisdom unlike the others who brought out the worst in him, and that mirror is important for him to retain his nature as wisdom and not pride, the latter of which which his trauma pushes him towards more and more)

essentially he's put all his emotional eggs in one basket regarding mythal. by the time inquisition rolls around, he's also been betrayed by his general and close friend, and he really doesn't trust anyone at all, so he's regressing even further. it makes the romance/friendship all the more special because the inquisitor shows him that it's only by opening yourself up to trust other people (the key being multiple people) again that you can really start to heal and move on instead of wallowing alone forever in your pain and grief.

The whole 'refuge for Mythal' thing is really interesting bc it shows that Solas really saw Mythal as being on his side when it couldn't be more obvious that she enjoyed the power of being queen of the Evanuris. He calls it a 'struggle' in the regret memory, but I don't think she was struggling as much as he thinks. Even Felassan realises how delusional he is about her. It's one of many things Solas is in denial about.

That said, it does seem like he was much more aware of Elgar'nan's evil than she was; I truly believe that Mythal found a kindred spirit in Elgar'nan and thought that she was the right one for him. She tempered him and mitigated the harm he did as much as she could (which doesnt seem to be that much, in all honesty). Whether or not they had romantic feelings for each other is up for debate, but I think it's very possible. There was likely an element of tension at being evenly matched in the way they were that gave their relationship a pathological edge. It was only when Solas told her about the Evanuris using the power of the Blight that she finally decided to take him seriously and challenge her husband and the rest of the Evanuris head-on.

It's also really revealing that the Blight was her final straw. Mythal obviously had no issue with slavery as long as her slaves were treated well. It's very reminiscent of real world attitudes some had towards their slaves ie that as long as you don't abuse them it's okay. They don't understand the fundamentally unethical nature of owning another person. It's why I don't buy the benevolence retcon because slavery is inherently cruel--something that both Solas and an elven Inquisitor can argue with Dorian about.

Yeah, Solas really is an unreliable narrator with Mythal and I really wish we'd had more perspectives other than his. I long to see Mythal in all her cunty glory but alas it will never be

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mummersblade · 2 years ago

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the unwritten tragedy of what happens to Gendry's character between his last appearance in ASOS before Arya is kidnapped by the Hound and his reappearance in AFFC through Brienne's POV personally drives me insane. Like in ASOS he finally thinks he's found a place to belong, where he can have brothers and fight for justice after he's witnessed the cruelty towards the smallfolk in the WOT5K. He is not just a bastard anymore, he's a knight.

"At the hollow hill, what you said about being King Robert's men, and brothers, I liked that. I liked that you gave the Hound a trial. Lord Bolton just hanged folk or took off their heads, and Lord Tywin and Ser Armory were the same. I'd sooner smith for you." ... "Gendry, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be." "I do, m'lord." The Marcher lord moved the sword from the right shoulder to the left, and said, "Arise Ser Gendry, knight of the hollow hill, and be welcome to our brotherhood." (Arya VII ASOS)

He has this idealized version of the Brotherhood that (like most idealized things in ASOIAF) is subverted, though all of this happens outside the core narrative, so we don't get the full details of how Gendry reacts to Lady Stoneheart becoming their leader, just that he follows her in the end; we don't know how long he's been at the crossroads or what he might've done before in the name of the Brotherhood. When we jump back in with Gendry, who Brienne immediately identifies for his Baratheon looks, all her descriptions of him emphasize his simmering anger and distrust.

And though his eyes had been the same deep blue, Lord Renly's eyes had always been warm and welcoming, full of laughter, whereas this boy's eyes brimmed with anger and suspicion. (Brienne VII AFFC)

Gendry was at his forge, bare-chested beneath his leather apron. He was beating a sword as if he wished it were a foe, his sweat-soaked hair falling across his brow. (Brienne VII AFFC)

The Gendry we've seen with Arya in the previous books certainly has a temper and is moody (Arya loves her angsty bastards huh), but something about AFFC Gendry feels especially haunted.

His appreciation for fair trials is gone by the time a POV character encounters him again. Brienne nearly dies protecting the children of the inn, ever playing the truest noble knight of the series, but Gendry still hands her over to Lady Stoneheart, knowing exactly what kind of trial is waiting for her.

"It's not allowed. You're to stay bound, till..." "...till you stand before m'lady." Renly stood behind the girl, pushing his black hair out of his eyes. Not Renly. Gendry. "M'lady means for you to answer for your crimes." "M'lady." The wine was making her head spin. It was hard to think. "Stoneheart. Is that who you mean?" Lord Randyll had spoken of her, back at Maidenpool. "Lady Stoneheart." "Some call her that. Some call her other things. The Silent Sister. Mother Merciless. The Hangwoman." The Hangwoman. (Brienne VIII AFFC)

He joined the Brotherhood because of how they administered justice, only to end up in the service of Mother Merciless--the Hangwoman. Like what has happened that we didn't see to get him to stay? His oaths to Beric, promising to protect children and fulfill any demand made of him by his liege lord (lady, now)? His knowledge that Stoneheart is searching for Arya? His exhaustion from being on the run for years? Whatever it is, this is certainly not what he had in mind when he was knighted by the Brotherhood.

And what's crazier is that it's unintentionally ARYA who changes his character's trajectory by warging into Nymeria to pull her mother out of the river to be found by Beric. With Lady Stoneheart as the Brotherhood's leader, their objective changes from protecting the smallfolk to avenging the Red Wedding. And Gendry is a tertiary character just subjected to this all. AND!! AND!! the fact he's always the one pushing Arya to face the fact that Northmen and her brother's bannerman are not all good people, who needlessly slaughter and torture people and ruin entire towns BUT he ends up in service of the North anyway (because Stoneheart is avenging the event that ended the Northern faction of the WOT5K). like his LAST interaction with Arya before she runs away is:

"Who did it, then?" asked Gendry. "Hoster Tully." Notch was a stooped thin grey-haired man, born in these parts. "This was Lord Goodbrook's village. When Riverrun declared for Robert, Goodbrook stayed loyal to the king, so Lord Tully came down on him with fire and sword. After the Trident, Goodbrook's son made his peace with Robert and Lord Hoster, but that didn't help the dead none." A silence fell. Gendry gave Arya a queer look, then turned away to brush his horse. (Arya VIII ASOS)

it simply drives me crazy to think on what we all missed out from his story before AFFC.

#I didn't intend to ramble as much as I did but it just kills me #gendry #arya stark #lady stoneheart #asoiaf

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sexhaver · 2 years ago

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to answer your first question, if you click on the little link i helpfully provided and read the rest of the post, you will notice this section:

this one screenshot rests so many bad assumptions that we could sit here unpacking them for hours, but the biggest one is that the default state of all people everywhere is to be religious (specifically Christian, lol), and you can only opt out of this if you're a minority or an abuse survivor. straight white men, on the other hand, arrive at their atheism via "intellectual and rational superiority complexes". remember, you're not allowed to be dismissive of someone's religious views, that would be bigoted of you (even if the religion has admittedly harmed people)! literally calling atheists "far right fascists" a few paragraphs later (in my original screenshot) is fine though.

also, i feel the need to point this out because it's so patently ridiculous: saying that the only people allowed to distrust Christianity in particular are "women, people of color, lgbt+ people" and "abuse survivors" would seem to necessarily imply that these abuse survivors can be straight white men, but the literal next sentence directly counteracts that. now, let's all think reeeeally hard and put our heads together - can YOU think of any straight white men who may have been abused by Christianity? [pause for a beat] that's right, great job!

i'm mainly reblogging this because your second reblog serves as a perfect snapshot of the exact attitude towards religion that i'm mocking here:

the idea that atheists are only allowed to critique Christianity (because obviously all atheists started as Christians and that's the only religion they would know of)

the idea that atheists are obligated to walk on eggshells around religious people to avoid offending them while the inverse is never even considered

the idea that you should Stay In Your Lane and never critique any part of any culture you don't personally belong to, and should instead Listen To [demographic] Voices (only the ones that already agree with the position you've determined is correct, obviously)

forgetting that Islam is the second largest religion on earth with literal billions of followers

the idea that an atheist stating their lack of religious beliefs directly harms religious people Jews and Muslims who dislike Christians [EDITOR'S NOTE: whoops, almost forgot Christians are evil again for this part, my bad]

also, like,

Of course Jews and Muslims, whose safety has been threatened by Christianity, wouldn't have any faith in the Christian God. But this apparently isn't good enough for atheists on this site. It's gotta be all of the religions.

lol

it's so cool to see you being openly atheist because i remember for a while back in the 2010s other "social justice" posters could get Weird about that. did you ever come across that one post with tons of notes claiming the only valid reason for atheism was religious trauma

you mean this little chestnut?

not only have i "come across" it, i have critiqued that post specifically multiple times, and every time i do, someone who wasn't on here at the time accuses me of paraphrasing it or even lying about its existence entirely. that post and "Culture is about identity, community and family. It’s about tradition. It is not and has never been about “sharing”" are really the poster children for tumblr discourse: flagrant right-wing/reactionary ideology wrapped up in socially conscious language getting 6-digit notes with 0 pushback

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fangedjustice · 2 years ago

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🎭 MASKS - do they act differently around certain people? what's different between the way they act around friends, family, strangers, etc.?

Absolutely!

Lloyd is, by nature, a very reserved creature. He enjoys being around others most of the time, but not entirely being involved with them. He also puts a lot of weight into respect and acting accordingly towards people he gives it to.

When it comes to the upper echelon of the Black Fang, Lloyd is all professional. Regardless of his personal feelings towards someone, good or bad, he will uphold cooperation and functionality over his own comfort around said person. Despite his distrust of Sonia, and the blatant insults she throws at him in front of both his family and allies, Lloyd remains as level and respectful as he can in the conversation – he quickly cuts Linus off from defending him, even. Whether this can be attributed to the morph's subtle abilities or not, I think it shows that he's more keen on maintaining the balance than causing more problems, even if it doesn't feel right.

I'm sure there are much better, fancier ways to say it, but I'll call it pack mentality basically. Conflict and a lack of cooperation within a pack is Not Good; this is why you'll sometimes see dogs breaking up a fight, even if it's another species of animal entirely. If at least one of those animals is viewed as a packmate, there's a desire to resolve the fighting or problem so that functionality returns to the group as a whole.

This also extends to the people that he commands, the men and women he knows but is not on incredibly close terms with. To him, it's beneficial that he knows overall strengths and weaknesses, but he maintains that personal distance. They are comrades, but they are not close friends outside of this camaraderie.

Where his more clean cut and professional mask is swapped out is when he's around family or extremely close individuals. He'll joke around and act the harassing older brother with Linus, he'll dote on Nino and allow himself to be wholeheartedly vulnerable around her. He has an intense kinship with Uhai; Lloyd trusts him most out of anyone not related to him by blood, as it's the mere mention of Uhai that gets Lloyd to fully back down against Eliwood in the face of what failure means in the Black Fang. Legault affords him the rare moment to actually act his age, to feel young and frivolous and do something exciting and stupid and dance away from the consequences.

I think, funny enough, where Lloyd most wears a mask is in regards to his father. Lloyd has an intense love and respect for Brendan – he is willing to kill and die, to do things that otherwise do not always sit right in his heart, for the ideals that his father believes so rock steady in. He is the first son, the responsible son, the son that will carry everything on when Brendan cannot because that is his duty. And it is something Lloyd would do without complaint, without falter, because he loves his father. We see this when he voices his doubts about the Lycians right to Eliwood's face, but goes forward with the assination attempt anyways.

I think, despite the obvious love and closeness that the Reeds share, there is ultimately a slight disconnect between father and sons. They walk the same path, but they are several steps off from each other. There is love and loyalty there, deeply entrenched, but it comes at the cost of some personal freedoms and sense of self.

#[ answered ask ]#[i apologize in advance if none of these end up making sense i Ramble & then forget my point]

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the-infamous-coat-of-baron-zemo · 4 years ago

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Fall Into You | Laszlo Kreizler x Reader

Alright my friends. Here is my latest piece of insanity.

It is completely raw and unedited. So, if there are a ton of mistakes, I apologize in advance.

What a whirlwind thing this was. I literally only planned to write the last little bit at the end, that was the entire premise and then 7000 more words came along with it.

-----

This is a partial crossover fic.

TFATWS | The Alienist | Dr. Strange | Loki | universe all mushed together in bits and pieces.

But mostly The Alienist.

Hopefully the characterizations feel okay. Dr. Kreizler and John Moore can be a bit tricky to write and I've never written them before. So, please bear with me on this.

Buckle up. It's going to be a doozy. Kinda.

-----

Word Count: 6,900 - ish

What happens when you wind up 124 years into the past and meet a relative of Baron Helmut Zemo's?

A lot.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It was early evening and you were perched on one of Dr. Kreizler's fine couches, in front of the fireplace, reading a book.

You were waiting for Stevie to drop by and drag you to some musical street performance not terribly far from Dr. Kreizler's residence. Normally, you would have stayed hidden indoors, but you took a liking to the kid when you first met him, and decided you couldn't let him down.

Hopefully Stevie wouldn't drag you out too long, otherwise Dr. Kreizler would start to worry. Although, he would never outright admit to it, but it was the subtle things he did that indicated his concern. Or perhaps it was annoyance. That wouldn't surprise you either. You were loud and very talkative. He'd probably grateful to have to leave his house; so he can finally get some peace and quiet.

Dr. Kreizler always kept to himself and rarely made a display of his feelings to anyone, but you were a good friend of his in the short time you had come to know him. So, you got little peeks into what lay hidden away.

He was gracious enough to allow you stay in his home until you could figure out a way to get back to your own time. One minute you were talking to Wong inside Dr. Strange's sanctum in New York, and the next a portal opened up underneath you and you were falling.

After travelling through an empty void that seemed to go on forever, you finally exited through the other side, which landed you in front of a police precinct. You had looked around after picking yourself up and realized you were in quite the pickle. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this was not your New York.

People were starting to stare at as you took in your surroundings. You initially thought it was because you had randomly fallen out of the sky, but realization had dawned on you; it was because of your clothing.

Ah, yes. You suppose compared to what all the other women were wearing, you were a sight to behold. Jeans, a forest green blouse, and short brown leather jacket, would draw some attention, when all the other women were dressed so conservatively in dresses. You laughed nervously backing away from the small crowd on the sidewalk. You calmly but quickly darted over to a newsie holding up a paper for sale.

You paid the kid a dollar and snatched the paper out of his hand. Not paying attention in the least to his shouts of joy on making so much off of one measly paper, but you were too focused on finding out what time period you were in.

You caught the date at the top of the newspaper: April 1st, 1897.

April Fool's Day.

Typical, something like this would happen to you. Joke's on them, as someone is going to have a hell of time trying to figure out where you went. You're quite sure Wong was trying to sort through what happened and had already calling Strange.

Well, you hope he had.

You put down the paper and tried to think of what to do, but a small crowd of people were still stopped and whispering to each other, pointing in your general direction.

One man was gesturing in your direction and started shouting, but not at you.

"Hey Kreizler, this one looks like a crazy. Should probably haul her off to Bellevue!"

You raised your eyebrow at the man, but didn't say anything, instead choosing to turn and see who he was yelling at.

A very well dressed man wearing a bowler hat was walking down the steps of the police precinct in a rushed sort of manner. He had a cane with him, and it appeared his right arm was tucked against his body as if protecting it. A few steps behind him there was another man darting to catch up with him, also well dressed and carrying what seemed to be a sketchbook.

The guy on the street had yelled at the gentleman in the bowler hat again, which you had assumed at this point was Dr. Kreizler. As the two men reached the bottom of the steps and were about to step into their carriage, the incessant yelling had managed to grab Kreizler's attention. At least it seemed so, because the man with the cane had paused and turned his attention towards the direction of the yelling.

You could see from his body language he wasn't all that interested, but when his eye-line landed on you, he backed away from getting inside.

The other gentleman that was accompanying him, the one with the sketchbook, said something to him, but Dr. Kreizler just waved him off as he started to walk over to you.

Great.

You look over to the rude gentleman that had now drawn even more attention to you and gave him an unappreciative stare.

You steeled yourself, ready for whatever this stranger was going to say to you, but your guard had dropped slightly upon getting a better look at his face.

No way.

This was not possible.

The man that had come over to you was the spitting image of one genius, criminal mastermind and general pain in your ass, you knew all too well. One who's currently locked up in The Raft.

If it wasn't for the beard, you'd swear you were looking at Baron Helmut Zemo.

As Dr. Kreizler stopped a few feet from you, he tilted his head to the side and eyed you warily, but not unkindly.

That head tilt, a family trait for sure. Zemo had to be some distant relative of this man in some way, there's no chance they aren't with how closely the two resemble each other. She'd have to make a trip to The Raft and ask him about it sometime, if she ever got back home.

"My dear, you seem out of sorts. Are you alright?" the man inquired, gazing at the small gathering of people and then back to you.

"I kinda stick out like a sore thumb, yeah?" You laughed as you answer his question, peering down at your outfit.

"Quite," he replied.

You saw while he may be cautious around you, you've seem to grab his interest with the scrutiny and intensity of his gaze.

"If I may introduce myself, my name is Doctor Laszlo Kreizler," the gentleman stated.

Ah, so this was indeed the man who was being called out from the street. You noticed he didn't extend his hand in greeting, but then again perhaps it wasn't a pertinent gesture for the time period either. So, you didn't take offense to it.

Your eyeline moved behind Dr. Kreizler and could see his friend at the carriage watching with interest, but also growing impatience.

You gave a kind smile as you introduced yourself and added, "Thank you for humoring the nosy man over there, but I'm not in need of a doctor. I'm terribly sorry for interrupting your day."

"Not in the least. And I may be a doctor, but I am an alienist more specifically," Kreizler explained.

Your eyebrows shot into your forehead and then contemplated his title. An alienist? Where had you heard that before? If you remembered correctly, an alienist was someone who assessed individuals for competence?

Oh.

The shouty man had mentioned Bellevue. Okay, now you understood.

"An alienist! That term is...." you paused trying to think of a better way to phrase you response. "The term is outdated where I'm from. Instead we simply acknowledge your specific doctorate profession as psychologists, since the very definition of what you do is to study the mind and behavior of individuals," you answered, satisfied with your explanation.

"Outdated. How intriguing. Perhaps we could continue this conversation away from prying eyes and gossipy busy-bodies?" Kreizler asked.

You wouldn't be able to read it on his face, but you can tell you've piqued his interest even more so now with his body language. And his eyes had this sparkle in them as you spoke of his profession so specifically.

Though you felt you could trust this man, you couldn't take the chance that he might, in fact, lure you into his carriage and ship you off to the nearest mental institution, such as Bellevue Hospital.

You'd be lying if you weren't equally intrigued by this enigma of a man standing before you. The resemblance to Baron Zemo was uncanny, and that alone made you want to find out more about him; however, Zemo was not to be trusted as far as you could throw him. Though he did have his moments. You'd give him some credit. Doesn't mean distrustful behavior runs in the family, but it also could. It was a difficult decision.

Your eyes narrowed assessing Dr. Kreizler as you came to decision.

"Shouldn't you give me a mental health assessment test before asking a complete stranger to travel off to who knows where with you? Why shouldn't I be suspicious you aren't going to drop me off at the nearest institute? No offense," you replied warily.

"Thank you!" the man with the sketchbook at the carriage shouted at both you and Dr. Kreizler, clearly in agreement with your answer.

You snickered at his sarcastic reply, but attempted to cover your ever growing smile by coughing.

The corner of Dr. Kreizler's mouth ticked up in a smile as well.

"No my dear, if anything you've just proven you're at least slightly more sane than my counterpart, Mr. John Moore," Dr. Kreizler shook his head and jutted his thumb behind him.

"Heard that Laszlo!" Moore responded with indignation.

"That was the point John," Dr. Kreizler answered back with dry wit.

Yeah, she liked him already.

"Shall we?" Kreizler turned slightly to gesture to his carriage.

You sighed internally. Why the hell not? You had nothing better to do and no idea what your next move should be trying to get home. Dr. Kreizler would no doubt be curious about your attire and that alone with most likely bring up a slew of never ending questions. You'd have to be careful how to explain your situation and make sure what you revealed was limited, but truthful. You wanted to tell him the truth about where you were from, but you needed to word it in a way that doesn't make you out to be a crazy person, but present the information with facts and evidence that Dr. Kreizler could not refute. Luckily you had some tech with you that could prove your point rather efficiently should the need arise you convince him of what time period you come from in the future. 124 years it a length period of time. It would be difficult for anyone to accept your explanation, but Dr. Kreizler seemed to be different. Let's hope you aren't wrong about him.

"I accept your offer Dr. Kreizler, thank you," you spoke kindly.

You were formally introduced to Mr. Moore and to Stevie before getting in the carriage. Mr. Moore seemed uneasy, but went along with Dr. Kreizler's acceptance of you. He was a trusting friend of his, you could tell right away. And something told you, Dr. Kreizler was a tough nut to crack and didn't seem to be the type of person who might have very many. Only a close few.

"What made you decide to take Dr. Kreizler up on his offer so quickly," Moore asked standing outside the carriage as Stevie was getting the horses ready.

Dr. Kreizler had held the door open for you and waited patiently.

You looked at Dr. Kreizler before turning back to Mr. Moore, "You mean besides his sparkling personality?" you winked and got in the carriage.

John leaned into Kreizler before adjusting his hold on his sketchbook and climbing into the carriage himself.

"Oh, well I like her already Laszlo," he grinned incessantly and gave Kreizler a clap on the back.

You saw Dr. Kreizler bend his head down in amused exasperation as a small huff of laughter sounded with the movement. He sighed somewhat dramatically before getting in the carriage and closing the door.

"You know, I've never actually ridden in one of these before," you say slightly awed.

Both Moore and Kreizler gave you confusing looks before Dr. Kreizler used his cane to tap on the rear enclosure signaling Stevie to head home.

Home. Well, this should be interesting indeed.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

You closed your book with a snap and slumped into the couch you were perched on. It had been six months, since that day. Six months, you've been trapped in this pocket of 1897.

You had reflected back on how well John and Dr. Kreizler had taken the explanation you were from the future. As you told your story, your only requirement was that they wait until the very end before asking any questions. That gave you the chance to be very methodical about how you explained the future and how it was you ended up in 1897, which to be fair, you don't know exactly how that portal opened still, but magic was involved to say the very least.

It was oddly reminiscent of when Loki used the space stone, which gave her pause. All the infinity stones had been destroyed, and yet you knew that there was an errant 2012 Loki running around the universe with one. It is plausible, he could factor into this, but how or why you, you have no idea.

After you had explained your fanatical circumstance, to help prove you weren't absolutely off your rocker and have Dr. Kreizler change his mind about you, you showed them your phone.

Yes, there may not be any service available, but you could still access all your photos and videos and holographic imagery, etc. That was what allowed John and Dr. Kreizler to accept your story; paired with your unique clothes; they had a surprisingly open mind. John had gaped like a fish for a good 10 minutes before Dr. Kreizler told him to get over it already. John was somewhat outraged that he wasn't more shocked by your existence. But like all things, Dr. Kreizler took everything in stride, which was quite a relief to you. He was incredibly understanding and offered a room in his home to you until you were able to get back to your own time. You made a promise to Dr. Kreizler that you would never lie to him, about anything. It was the least you could do since he opened up his home and essentially part of his life to you.

You understood why he was an expert in his field. His patience and intellect allowed him to be open-minded and grasp concepts others word merely scoff at. However, there was another side to that coin; he was also closed off, and could at times, be calculating and manipulative. Though, none of these traits were used in any nefarious manners, they were there all the same.

He reminded you of Zemo to be sure in this regard. Some personality traits apparently do get passed down through the generations. In some ways, after meeting Dr. Kreizler, you felt you knew Helmut Zemo a bit better. And somehow, you missed him. Not that you were ever particularly close to him, but the time you spent with him in Latvia with Sam and Bucky forever altered your opinion of him.

So while you've been living at Dr. Kreizler's residence, in your spare time, you had been working different avenues of how to achieve ways to get home. You couldn't just solely rely on your friends to get you out of this mess. So, while Dr. Kreizler was at work, you enlisted the help of Stevie to run down leads of potential scientist and gathering of general information of the time period to help you put together some sort of road map. None had turned out to be very promising.

You had, over time, gotten more acclimated to living in 1897, though you mostly refused to wear the clothing of the time period. John Moore would always comment about how you would draw attention in the public eye, should you dare to go out. But you refused to give in most of the time, saying that 1897 would just have to catch up to your fashion sense, and you weren't about to apologize for it. If you were going to be stuck here, you were going to be stuck here, comfortably. You fondly remember Dr. Kreizler's reaction. He seemed pleased, possibly proud of you in that moment. Probably because you had refused to conform to the times, and set your own rules to live by. Not giving in to anyone.

The question lingered, how exactly did you get away with living in this time without having to dress in the clothing of the period? Well, a friend of yours, Scott Lang, had gifted you a device that allowed you to chose one object to shrink and return to it's normal size. So, of course, since you traveled so often with the Sam, Bucky and the other Avengers, you chose your wardrobe. You were just thankful you had it on you already when you got dumped into that portal. So, essentially you had all your clothes with you, making things a bit easier.

Life was not fast paced here, which made things a bit difficult for you. You were used to always being on the go, another crisis to fight through, another area of the world that needed help. But here, here everything was, for the most part, quiet.

It drove you nuts sometimes. Made you antsy. You managed to weasel your way into helping John, Sara and Dr. Kreizler on one of their serial killer cases recently to pass the time. Dr. Kreizler was unhappy at first. You were able to prove your usefulness though with advanced techniques and theories on how to potentially catch the killer in question. Be that as it may, Dr. Kreizler still seemed grumpy, if that were the correct word to use, about you working on the case. You confronted him about it one evening, but he glossed over the whole thing. He was holding back, but what that was, you weren't sure. Maybe he still didn't fully trust you yet. It was a fair assumption, but he was always so hard to read. Though you've managed to get a few good laughs out of him from time to time. Those were the days that really made you smile. Seeing him happy, as most of the time he was always so guarded. It made you feel like you and Dr. Kreizler shared this little secret when no one else was around.

Dr. Kreizler let himself relax ever so slightly around you, but it was far and fleeting. On rare occasions. You savored all those memories and tucked them away. Everyone was so refined and conservative in their mannerisms. You missed just wanting to hug someone. You craved some sort of physical affection, and it was hard, realizing just how different the times were from the future. They weren't terrible by any means, but the social norms of the times had been trying on you, to say the very least. Dr. Kreizler, ever astute, had picked up on this.

He had been gracious enough to offer himself if you ever needed to hug someone. This had been roughly 4 months into your stay at Dr. Kreizler's. You both had gotten more comfortable around the other, and even had a routine of sorts. You had thanked him for his offer, and told him you would not abuse the privilege he had bestowed on you.

Something told her there was more to it, but you hadn't dwelled on it, you were simply appreciative of his friendship.

However more recently, it was more than just friendship you felt. You kept squashing your feelings down, telling yourself this was the worst possible time to develop feelings for someone. Especially someone like Dr. Kreizler. There would never be a happy ending. At some point, you would return home, and that would be that. But there was that nagging sensation in the back of your mind, reminding you, you might not ever get back home. You tried to reason to yourself that you were possibly transferring some of your fondness of Zemo to Dr. Kreizler because of how he reminds you of him. But then you were just lying to yourself. Dr. Kreizler was a person all on his own and one of a kind. You knew better, you were just fighting yourself tooth and nail to live in denial a bit longer.

Footsteps from the kitchen were headed in your direction knocking you out of your musings.

You twisted on the couch to see Dr. Kreizler had returned home from his institute.

"Dr. Kreizler! Good evening," you voiced into the low lit parlor room.

"Good evening to you as well, I trust your day was fruitful?" Dr. Kreizler inquired, coming to rest on the opposite end of the couch.

"It was, thank you. I was somewhat restless earlier, so I took it upon myself to work on the cryptogram the killer left his last victim, with the hopes of figuring out his next location before he strikes," you sheepishly stated.

Dr. Kreizler ruefully smiled at you and shook his head. At one time, he might have gotten upset, but he had been taking your antics more in stride, and you managed to be helpful providing much needed information. So, he'd act unhappy, but silently was thrilled.

"And did you uncover anything useful?" Kreizler queried, he got up from his seat and walked over to the chalk board.

"Not completely, I believe I've broken the code word and the book that the killer has been using to write his cryptograms, but I have yet to comb through all the evidence to gather the page numbers, line and word number to crack the full message. I planned on working on it when I got back with Stevie later this evening," you happily expressed while fidgeting with the watch on your wrist.

"Impressive work. And what book has our killer been using?" Kreizler asked, eyes still going over the work on the board.

"Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. You'd think we could have figured that one out sooner given our killer's eclectic methods of murdering people," you answered sarcastically.

Dr. Kreizler bent his knees in utter annoyance, "Of course it is. Of course. How ridiculous to have missed such an obvious choice."

You smiled knowingly. He was irritated he hadn't figured it out sooner.

A companionable silence continued for a few minutes after his outburst.

Dr. Kreizler was still staring at the board with mild interest when he spoke next, "May I ask you a personal question?"

You had just reached over to place the book on the coffee table next to you when he asked his question and you froze mid motion.

Dr. Kreizler generally didn't push too much into your personal life, so this was somewhat out of left field for him. Never-the-less, you recovered after a beat and placed the book on the table.

"Of-of course Dr. Kreizler. I told you I would always be truthful with you regarding anything. Please, go ahead," you answered, motioning for him to continue.

"Why do you always regard me as Dr. Kreizler and not by my first name?" he questioned softly, almost hesitantly.

This was not the question you thought he would ask. There were a million questions he could have chose, but it was this one he went with.

This really was personal.

You glanced down at your hands sitting in your lap as you pondered how to answer his questions. You could lie about it, and he'd be none the wiser, but it's not who you are. And you promised.

Dr. Kreizler went on to further express his inquiry with a bit more confidence, "You call John Moore by his first name and the same with Ms. Howard, including our other friends we work with, but not me. Why?"

You opened your mouth to answer him when the front door slammed open and Stevie came barging in.

"You ready?" he exclaimed loudly. Stevie was clearly excited at the prospect of showing off his musical talent. "Oh, excuse me Dr. Kreizler, I didn't realize you'd gotten home yet. Thought you were working late," Stevie took off his hat and looked sheepish as he apologized for the disruption in his home.

You sighed. This was your saving grace. You could probably make an excuse and make a run for it with Stevie. You mulled over what to do, battling with the decision.

"Hey Stevie. Nice to see you too! Go on outside, I'll be right there. I just need to put my coat on," you laugh at his enthusiasm.

He nodded at you and dashed back down the hallway and out the door. You could hear one last shout as he exited, "Okay, but don't be too long, we're going to be late!"

Dr. Kreizler gave a look of displeasure at Stevie's unrefined outburst, but didn't say anything as he knows his antics all too well from over the years.

You stood up grabbing Dr. Kreizler's attention.

"Walk me to the door?" you ask, jutting your head in the direction of where your coat hangs.

"Do you plan on providing me with an answer?" he kindly jabbed as he nodded his agreement to follow you out.

You outwardly sighed, trying to figure out how to best answer his question. As you both walked to the front door, you start to answer him.

"Okay, so I address you as Dr. Kreizler 33% of the time, because you deserve the respect that comes with that title. You went to school for many years, and you earned it. So, it's only fair to address you as such," you tell him confidently.

A completely reasonable and partial explanation, you thought.

You both reached the front door, and you grabbed your jacket. Dr. Kreizler, the gentleman that he is, assisted you in putting your coat on. You gave yourself a once over in the mirror, making sure you looked okay before heading out.

You caught Dr. Kreizler staring at you in the mirror as you adjusted a stray hair that had fallen onto your face.

"You look lovely," he quietly voiced.

You turned to face him as he had opened the door for you and stepped outside.

"Thank you," you said, a bit bashful by his sudden compliment.

His expression had gotten softer and his eyes were glowing in the evening lit night.

Your resolve was crumbling even more so now.

"And the other 67%?" Kreizler softly spoke, head cocked to the side.

"Hey - Miss! We need to be going!" Stevie cried.

You turned to Stevie and hollered, "One mo, Stevie! Don't lose your head!"

"I'm sorry I have to go otherwise Stevie is going to have a coronary," you apologized to Dr. Kreizler.

You walked down a few steps, but stopped. You couldn't not answer him.

You go up a step but not completely back to where you where standing in front of Dr. Kreizler. You inhaled a deep breath and exhaled before continuing, looking up to see Dr. Kreizler eyeing you with slight confusion and anticipation with your hesitance to answer his question in full.

"And the other 67% of the time, I call you Dr. Kreizler because..because," you drifted off closing your eyes. You open them again with quiet resolve shining through, finding your confidence. You take another step up to now stand just a foot away from where Dr. Kreizler was.

"Because, I love you Laszlo. And I use your professional title as a barrier, to - to remind myself I have boundaries. It's just easier to separate you this way or well, to keep myself living in denial," you quietly and defeatedly said, laying it all out for him.

You wanted to open your mouth to say something else to him, to let him know it was okay he didn't feel the same way, but you could never quite form the words that needed to come out.

The shock was written clearly on his face. You had completely gob-smacked this man. His eyes had widened considerably and his jaw had gone slack from your answer.

But he never said anything back. You weren't expecting him to.

So instead, you did what you did best. Ran.

"You've got your answer. I-I really have to go now, I'll see you later," you stuttered out, suddenly drained from your revelation.

You took one last glance at Dr. Kreizler before making a mad dash for it with Stevie.

You were gone before Dr. Kreizler recovered from what just happened. And you never got to see the expression on his face after.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

#the alienist #laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler x reader #helmut zemo x reader #tfatws #helmut zemo #mcu fic #crossover #my writing

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believinghurts · 4 years ago

Text

Their Daughter Pt 2

Warnings: Yelling, self doubt?

Requested: No

MUST READ PART ONE FIRST

This hasn’t been proofread so I’m sorry in advance!

Part One The following weeks after Sirius arrived at Grimmauld Place were good. He spent some time with Ali although they ever spent much time with just the two of them at her request to her Uncles. She had agreed to spending time with Sirius, but didn’t want to be by herself with him; not that she feared he would harm, but that she didn’t want things to be awkward or for her to say the wrong thing. Regulus or Remus was always home with the two since Sirius wasn’t allowed to leave the house. Ali learned that like Regulus Sirius could play piano and also speak French. She also noticed that Sirius was restless. He always was moving or doing something to occupy his mind. They played Wizards Chess, Ali always won, or Exploding Snaps, Sirius won as well as watched a few Muggle movies.

Sirius enjoyed spending time with his daughter learning all the things he should have known if it weren’t for him being in Azkaban. He learned that her favorite color was green, that she loved to read anything she could get her hands on, and that she could speak some French as well as Bulgarian. She didn’t play Qudditch, but enjoyed watching it and was a fan of the Bulgarian team since she was friends with Viktor Krum. When Viktor was mentioned Sirius learned from Remus that the boy had had a crush on her, but Ali only saw him as a friend. True to Remus’s word Ali really was a light. The old house he was forced to stay in seemed brighter now that there was so much life in it.

Although he enjoyed the time he got to spend with Ali, he was slightly agitated that he didn’t get to have one on one time with her. He knew that she didn’t fully trust him yet, but he wasn’t going to hurt her. On top of spending time with Ali, he always got to build his relationship with Remus back up. It was strained before he was arrested and it still was. He thought Remus was the traitor so he avoided him the last couple of days of the first war. He loved Remus as a brother though he used to think that it was more than that. Now that Remus spent so much time at Grimmauld Place their relationship was as strong as before. Regulus and Sirius still got on each other's nerves and it was bluntly obvious most times. Regulus tried to maintain his temper mainly for Ali because he knew she didn’t like yelling. Try as he might they still had a yelling match that Ali had overheard while Remus was out.

It was the Tuesday after Sirius had arrived, and Ali had been in the living room on the couch reading a book. It was the first time Remus had left in a couple days and he was out to get groceries. Regulus had been reading with Ali when Sirius came in and asked to speak with him privately. Ali had acted like she was paying attention when the men left the room. She heard the door to the study shut, she quietly went through the trap door in the hallway that led into the wall of the study. She sat on her heels listening to the conversation that was about her.

“Why is Ali hanging out with the Malfoy’s? I thought you were done with all the Death Eater business, Regulus,” Sirius accused.

Regulus rolled his eyes, “because they are friends? Isn’t that what friends do? I thought you of all people would know that.”

“Friends? Seriously? You KNOW that Lucius was a Death Eater and he would never change his ways. And you just let her be friends with their kid?! Are you insane?,” Sirius yelled making Ali flinch.

“Yes. they are friends. Ali has a hard time making friends if you must know. She’s a Black and your child. You were sent to Azkaban, it’s public knowledge. No one trusts her no matter how many times she proved herself. She hangs out with Draco and his friends. He watches out for her. He always has.” Regulus’s voice was firm. He wasn’t going to let Sirius ruin the few relationships Ali had outside of the house. He knew that Sirius wouldn’t trust the Malfoy’s but he did. They helped him with ali when he needed something the was grateful for. Sirius would never understand what it’s like for Ali. “Sirius, I will not be discussing this again with you. Her friends are her friends. She trust them. Get over it. You have no right to say anything about it. Leave it alone, Sirius. I suggest you come to term with it.”

Regulus had left Sirius stewing over his words. Sirius didn’t want his daughter hanging out with the Malfoys and she was not going to. Alianova was his daughter, not Regulus’s. If he didn’t want her hanging out with them, she wouldn’t.

Sirius hadn’t spent a lot of time with Ali since that day. She had overheard from Remus that Harry and some others were to be joining us at Grimmauld Place, something that she's not looking forward to. Her and Harry didn’t get along mainly due to the fact that she was there when Draco made fun of Harry's friend choice in First Year. Admittedly Ali was the reason that Draco had stopped with tormenting so many people, but he hadn’t stopped completely and Harry just got on his nerves to no end. It didn’t help matters that the Weasley twins had played many pranks on her. Draco wouldn’t stand for anyone making fun of or bullying Ali. Draco saw her as a little sister even though they were only 3 months apart.

When Harry had found out that Sirius was his Godfather while believing that he was the cause of his parents death, he had taken it out on Alianova. Calling her many names, blaming her for her fathers actions, and going as far as saying she was as vile as those that followed Voldermort. Though Harry blamed her father for what had happened he didn’t know that it was her father; he believed it was her Uncle. Even after he learned the truth he had never apologized to Ali or even looked her way for that matter. Ali was pretty sure that Herimone didn’t have much of an opinion on her since that had never had problems nor talked. Ron put her in the same category as Draco since she hung out with him and other Slytherins. She was also there when Draco called Hermione a Mudblood, what Ron didn’t know was that after the incident Ali gave Draco a tongue lashing and didn’t speak to him for three days till he was basically crying, begging her to talk to him. So Ali knew that when Harry arrived it wasn’t going to be pleasant for her.

Her Uncles were aware of the fact that she didn’t get along with the Golden Trio, and were seemingly preparing for the worst. Severus dropped off a new set of books she had been wanting so that she could keep busy if she was going to hide out in her room. Remus had talked to her about it, explaining that he knew Ali never did anything to make Harry act like he did towards her, as well as making sure she had her favorite tea and extra chocolate chip cookies in the cupboard. Regulus was silently preparing for a battle to break out when Harry did arrive. He had a feeling that it wasn’t going to go over well when he saw how the duo couldn't stand one another. Sirius would think that Harry and Ali would be best friends because him and James were. Regulus had never actually talked to the Potter boy unlike Severus and Remus. Ali never talked about him, but he had heard a few things from Draco about how Potter perched for equality though treated Slytherins like dirt Ali being included.

The couple days leading up to Harry's arrival with the Weasley’s Ali started going in on herself; spending even more time alone, not talking a lot during meals, or going to bed earlier than normal. Sirius noticed her odd behavior but just thought it was a teenage girl thing. He was excited for Harry to get there. He felt bad that he wasn’t there for him all these years and was planning on making it up to him in any way that he could. It was all that came out of Sirius’s mouth the last couple of days and Regulus was fuming over it. Sirius hadn’t even been this excited when he was going to meet his own daughter for crying out loud.

Ali was sitting in the kitchen when she heard a commotion coming from the front door. Thinking it was just Remus coming back she brushed it off going back to reading her book till she heard voices coming towards her. She looked up seeing Sirius walking in with Harry under his arm while an army of Redheads followed. Great. I’m trapped in here with them, she thought to herself. Truthfully she was nervous that Harry was going to say something that could ruin what little relationship she had with her father. Ali didn’t do well with a lot of people she didn’t know and while she went to school with all these kids she didn’t know them besides their bullying towards her. Glancing back up from her book she saw that Ron was glaring at her, Harry was looking at her with what could be described as distrust, and Sirius was looking at her confused while the others looked at her with curiosity minus the twins who couldn't care less.

“Ali, get off the counter and come say hello to our new house guest,” Sirius demanded while motioning her forward. She hopped off the counter trying to fight off the blush that was rising to get reprimanded for something she did all the time, and offering a little wave towards the crowd, “Hi, I’m Alianova, but you can call me Ali.”

None of the children said anything, but the redheaded adults looked at her oddly. The women who Ali knew to be the Weasley mother looked at Sirius, “You didn’t tell us that Regulus had a daughter Sirius.”

Ali’s mouth dropped. He hadn't ever mentioned her to anyone? She felt her heart shatter in her chest. Tears burned in her eyes as she felt like a dirty little secret. She cleared her throat hoping to get rid of the egg carton she had swallowed not wanting to cry in front of them.

“As much as I would love to take claim for this princess, I cannot. Isn’t that right, Sirius?” Regulus ultimately appeared out of thin air next to Ali wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He knew that Molly meant no harm with her comment, but it hurt Ali still. Regulus couldn't help but smirk a little when he noticed Sirius was flustered a bit at Molly's comment. Sirius oblivious wasn’t expecting someone to rung up the fact that he had a daughter that he didn’t tell anyone about. The humor was swiped out of the situation when Regulus noticed the tears gathered in his nieces eyes. Regulus wished that Ali was all his and not Sirius’s. Sirius didn’t deserve someone so pure, and time would tell if Sirius deserved someone at all.

Everyone looked shocked staring at Sirius, “Then whose is she?,” Harry asked.

Sirius rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly looking down at his feet, “Harry, this is my daughter Alianova Black.”

“What?!”

“Your daughter?”

“She’s a snake!”

Various voices rang out through the room as the information was taken in. Ali subconsciously stepped closer to Regulus clutching her book to her chest, not enjoying the loud noise nor the stares that were now coming her way. Molly had hushed her children before stepping forward to meet the girl.

“Hello, dear. I’m Molly Weasley.” Ali looked at the women nervous. She uncurled her hand from around her book and shook the older womens hand. She smiled slightly at her and her kindness, thanking Merlin that at least one of the Weasley’s seemed nice. Molly started to point to the others in the room, “That’s Arthur, my husband, ‘ Pointing to the man that gave her a enthusic wave before looking around the house again. “Bill and Fleur,” A long haired redhead with a fang earring stepped forward with a girl Ali recognized as Fleur Delocur under his arm. Fleur smiled brightly when she saw it was Ali everyone was talking about. They had talked some while Fleur was at Hogwarts, and she was looking forward to speaking with the young girl again. “That’s Charlie. He won’t be here a lot since he goes back and forth to his job in Romania,” A man with long hair who was slightly shorter than Bill, but broader smiled at her nodding his head before turning back to his older brother. “And of course you know the others from school, right dear?”

Ali nodded her head avoiding looking at the younger of the bunch. Harry spoke up once again looking at Ali, “You never told me he was your dad.”

“You never asked, Potter,” Ali summoned all the confidence she had in her body to help her look him in the eye. “And obviously it wasn’t important enough for Sirius to mention it either.”

The tension was thick in the room. Most looking between Ali and Sirius wondering what was going to happen next. When Sirius noticed no one was going to come to his aid he stepped up, “I didn’t mention it because it just never came up. I wasn’t sure where you were Alianova so I didn’t know if they knew you or not. Maybe now that all of you,” he paused looking at the trio then me, “will be living in the same house where you can be friends.”

Ali silently rolled her eyes knowing that nothing would make them want to be friends with her. Ron scoffed, “Yeah right. She’s a bloody slytherin.”

His comment earned him a whack upside the head from his mother. “It doesn't matter what she is or not. You will be nice, do you understand me?” She sent pointed looks to Ginny, Ron, Fred, and George who all looked down at the floor nodding. Ali noticed the pleading look she got from the twins, but she couldn’t tell if it was asking her to forgive them or for her not to tell all the horrid things that they had done to her and her friends.

Ali decided it was time to correct something. Even though they had all been sorted together it was evident the trio had not paid enough attention to know what house she was in. “Actually, I’m a Ravenclaw.”

Regulus beamed down at his niece freaking his older brother out. He was proud that ALi stood up for herself. She was Black, but did not have the temper of one. She often preferred to ignore confrontation at all cost. Ali lit out a quiet giggle at the look of shock on their faces. She figured at least Hermione knew that she was a ravenclaw.

“But you are always with the Slytherins,” Harry stated

“Yeah, they're my friends?”

“But you're a Ravenclaw, why hang out with the snakes?” Ron seemingly finished Harry's thoughts for him and Ali wondered if it was because they shared a brian cell.

“I just get along with them..Draco is family anyway. So we’ve always been close. I don't understand what the problem is? Just because I’m from one house I cant be friends with people in another?” Ali crossed her arms over her chest while Harry glared at her through narrowed eyes.

Noticing that things were going to get south quickly Regulus stepped in. “Um, Molly, Kreacher has prepared some of the rooms you lot. The doors that are open are the ones that are ready. I can have Kreacher show you if you like.”

“No it's okay, dear.” with that Molly Weasley set off, ordering her children to a room and to whom they would share with. Herimone and Ginny, and Fred and George took the rooms on the top floor, Harry and Ron on the floor above Ali with Molly and Arthur, while Charlie took the room beside Ali’s and Bill and Fleur took the room across from her. Ali was excited that Fleur would be so close to her. Although the girl was much old she had taken a liking to Ali and the two bonded through French and their love for anything sweet. Fleur was one of the many girls and boys that Ali had bonded with when the other two schools were staying at Hogwarts. Viktor was someone Ali had known from a young age and he had introduced her to many of his Balharian friends whereas she met Fleur on accident and became close with ehr and the other french girls. Before leaving the room Fleur had shocked everyone by pulling Bill and Charlie with her to hug the girl close and whispering that she was glad to see her again. Fleur introduced her to the older Weasleys more privately making sure Ali knew that they wouldn’t judge her like the others did since Fleur knew all about her struggles in school.

Charlie was shocked when he saw the book about Dragons in Ali’s hands. “You read about Dragons?” Causing Bill to roll his eyes at his brother.

“You only just met the girl ten seconds ago and you are already starting about dragons?” Fleur and Ali let out a little giggle at Bill’s comment while Regulus watched from the corner of the room happy that someone was being kind to his Ali.

“It’s okay, Bill. Um, yeah, my uncle Sev got me this book. I like to learn about different creatures. I already read all I can about Hippogriffs so I’m onto dragons. You work in romania right? The dragon sanctuary there?” Ali felt kind of odd to be talking with people about something she liked who didn;t know her very well. Every Draco got bored of her ‘learning talk’ as he called it.

“Yeah I do. How’d you know?” Bill was stunned to see Charlie talking freely without being awkward. Charlie was not well with people which was why he worked so close with as many non human things as he could.

“Your mum mentioned Romania and you have on Dragon skin boots. So I put two and two together.”

“Watch out, boys, she’s observant. She’ll know all your secrets before you can even count to ten.” Fleur laughed, hugging Ali once more promising to catch up later before dragging the boy to unpack.

Ali stood awkwardly watching Sirius fawn over Harry. It was as if Sirius was Harry’s father instead of hers. He had spent a little bit of time with Ali over the past couple of weeks, but he never acted like that. Maybe that was why she had a hard time calling him Dad. It would go back and forth between Sirius and dad. Remus had explained to her that she didn’t have to do anything that she didn’t want to from a young age, so sometimes when she felt like he was acting like her father he was dad, but others he was just Sirius.

Air of awkwardness around Ali broke Regulus’s heart as he followed her gaze to Sirius and Harry. SIrius was talking with Harry about school and Quidditch while essentially ignoring his own flesh and blood. Regulus knew exactly how ALi felt in that moment because he felt it too when Sirius would push him away in favor of James. When Regulus looked at Sirius and Harry that’s what he saw. The boy hadn’t been here an hour and Sirius was already forgetting those around him like he did in school.

Regulus was about to walk up to Ali when he heard a pecking noise coming from the window. He recognized it as the Malfoys owl and from the look on Ali’s face she did too. Regulus opened the window letting Ember sit on the still before taking the letters out of its beak. The letters were addressed to Ali and from the handwriting it looked to be Narcissa’s on one and Draco’s on the other. “Here you go Al,” he gave the owl a few treats before sending her home.

Ali tore open Narcissa’s letter first knowing that all the important information would be in there. She was excited as this was the first time she would get to talk to her other family in weeks seeing as they were gone to France for a trip, one that Ali was invited on, but turned away in favor of hanging out with Regulus.

Dear Alianova,

I hope that you are having a good summer so far. I am so sorry that it has taken me so long to write, but it was incredibly busy taking care of your uncle and cousin while in France. We were meant to be home last week, but Lucius wanted to stay a tad bit longer. You know how he is for French coffee. Anyway I heard through Andromeda that Sirius was now staying with you and Regulus. How is that going, darling? I know that you were nervous when he first got out of Azkaban.

I know that Regulus has allied himself with the Order as we are trying to stay neutral to it all. Lucius has taken a bit more convincing, but after telling him what you told me about He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named being a half-blood he started to listen more. He still doesn’t like it very much, but does not wish to put myself, Draco, or you in harm's way after what happened last year.

Draco is looking over my shoulder trying to get me to get to what he thinks is the important stuff. The reason I am writing is because I was wondering if you would like to come stay with us for a week or so at the Manor? I know that being around so many people bothers you and Draco tells me you and Potter don’t get along.

So how about it, darling? We could go shopping for school supplies and anything else you could want. Lucius even said he missed your wits the other day at dinner. Let me know when you decide. If you would rather spend time with your father I understand as does the others. Completely up to you.

All my love,

Aunt Cissa

While Ali was reading her letter Remus had come home from a meeting with Nymphadora. He saw the smile grow on Ali’s face as she read the parchment in her hands. Regulus had given him a pointed look before nodding at Sirius when he entered the room and he instantly knew what he thought would happen had happened. Remus was Sirius and James' friend yes, but he knew how it felt to be the outsider looking in on the duo much like Ali was to Sirius and Harry.

Once Ali finished her letter and was sticking it back in the envelope Remus approached her. “Hey Nova.” He gave her a hug before leaning on the counter looking at her. “Whose got you all excited?”

Sirius turned his attention to Ali waiting on her response. He saw her get the letter, but wasn’t sure who they were from. He watched with envy as Ali talked with Regulus and Remus freely. She didn’t act like that towards sirius. Ali was his daughter, much like Harry was his son. He was incredibly grateful to have Harry back in his life, wanting to know the boy as much as possible. Sirius felt his blood start to burn when he heard Ali’s response to Remus’s question.

“It’s from Cissa. They just got back from France a couple of days ago and wanted to know if I could come stay with them for a week or so,” Ali smiled happily at the thought of spending time with her Aunts. She didn’t know Bellatrix, not that she wanted to, according to Regulus Bellatrix was mean and an avid follower to the Dark Lord. He had placed wards all around the house when the news of her getting out of Azkaban broke out just as Lucius and Ted Tonks did to their houses as well. Andromeda and Narcissa were closer after the Malfoy family stopped following the Dark Lord which led to Ali getting to spend time with her two cousins and her older one falling in love with her uncle Rem even if he denies it. “So can I go? Please?,” she looked back and forth between her two uncles.

“I don’t have a problem with it, do you Regulus?,” Remus chuckled when he saw Ali bounce lightly on her toes knowing that Regulus wouldn’t say no.

Regulus opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted, “No, you cannot go. Are you insane? Bellatrix just broke out of prison and you are wanting to spend time with the Malfoys? For all you know Bella could be there!” Sirius practically shouted at the girl who flinched backwards making Regulus scowl at his brother.

“Yes Ali, you may go. But you have to write to me at least twice, and promise not to get into too much trouble with Draco.” Regulus ignored his brother's huffs focusing on Ali. “When do you leave?”

“Cissa didn’t say. Just to write back my reply,” Ali started reading the letter to make sure she hadn’t missed it.

“Well, why don’t you reply and tell her that I can drop you off at Andromedas tomorrow evening when I go pick up Dora,” Remus said fighting the blush from the looks his friend and niece were giving him.

“Got a date uncle rem?” Ali giggled as Remus’s mouth opened and shut like a fish, “I’ll go write her back. Thank you both.” She kissed them on the cheek before heading to her room. As she climbed the stairs the last thing she heard was the yell of Sirius Black.

“Are you both fucking insane?! You’re letting her go and STAY at the Malfoy Manor? For a week? It’s no wonder her and Harry don’t get along! She’s just like them! A snake! You have ruined my daughter!”

Ali’s heart broke again hearing her fathers words about her. Tears ran down her face as she shut her door silently thanking whoever was listening that she was getting out of this house for a little while.

#sirius black x reader #sirius black x daughter!reader #regulus black #Remus Lupin #remus lupin x niece!reader #regulus black x Niece!reader #daughter!reader #narcissa malfoy #harry potter and the goblet of fire

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sillyguyhotline · 4 years ago

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How YTTD Challenges Conventional Norms of Emotional Strength

Hello! I’ve been thinking a lot recently about how emotional vulnerability is present throughout YTTD’s characters, particularly how Nankidai contrasts more feminine coping mechanisms with more traditionally masculine coping mechanisms. I’ve touched on this topic before (albeit less directly) when I’ve discussed why I think Nao and Kanna are criminally underrated by the fandom, but I’ve never really talked about it in detail. However, when I was talking about the misogyny in Danganronpa last night, there was always a thought in the back of my mind that YTTD was different, fundamentally better in its portrayal of female characters and femininity as a whole. And as I thought about it more, I realized that the reason I think this way is because of how well it portrays and handles emotional vulnerability of its characters.

I think, first, that it’s most important to establish how emotional vulnerability in the context of gender is most commonly portrayed. Men are typically not allowed to show emotion or to cry, and their strength is determined by their lack of emotion. Conversely, the perception that women are the weaker gender is often characterized by their increased freedom to show emotion, and any “strong female character” is simply an excessively masculine woman who’s cruel and emotionless. In fact, the version of Reko we see as a doll, the Reko before Alice’s death, is actually a perfect example of the common “strong female character.” She barely cares about her brother, she’s rude, she exhibits little to no compassion, and she lashes out at the people around her. But this is not the Reko we know and love, and in fact it is the Reko whose cruelty is exhibited by her willingness to kill a version of herself. She isn’t introduced as a good character, she’s introduced as the person Reko no longer is, the person Reko has grown past, and that is a good thing.

I also find it very interesting that the two men who are physically the strongest (Keiji and Q-taro) and who assert themselves as the most masculine leaders from the beginning actually turn out to be some of the most weak and cowardly characters in the game. Q-taro has a lot of confidence in himself and his abilities; in Russian Roulette he is proud and boastful, claiming that he is strong and experienced enough to shoot the gun. However, in the first Main Game he is scared enough of dying that he nominates the children to be killed off so he doesn’t die, he has an ending where his cowardice gets the best of him and he sacrifices everyone else in order to escape, and in one of the endings to the arbitration room attraction he is too scared to push the button. His character arc doesn’t come about because he becomes stronger or more resilient, it comes about because he realizes that his life is not the only valuable one and that compassion to the rest of the group is crucial. Keiji, too, suffers from incredible emotional weakness. Though he is incredibly muscular and centers himself as one of the group’s leaders immediately, one of his biggest flaws is his inability to deal with his own emotions. Though he’s aware of how atrocious his actions have been, he’s far more willing to hide from his problems, avoid confrontation, and take advantage of his selfishness than he is to actually make steps towards change. And this undoubtedly a flaw of his!

Then, on the other hand, you take the third “buff” character, but the one who doesn’t immediately aim to set himself up as a strong leader. While Keiji’s first goal is to take charge of the group and Q-taro’s first goal is to establish himself as the strong one, Alice is immediately set up as a coward. Sure, when we first meet him in the locker he’s sort of intimidating, but as soon as we interview him we realize that he’s sort of an idiot and doesn’t pose much of a threat. The interesting thing, though, is that Alice is really the most emotionally mature out of all of the buff men in the game. Like Keiji, he has committed a terrible crime and has come to terms with the consequences for what he’s done, but unlike Keiji, he’s willing to take actions and make reparations. He lets himself be a more compassionate person, becoming a protector over Kanna of sorts, and he never prioritizes his own well-being over that of the people he cares for. He is a fully-fledged, unapologetically emotional character who doesn’t try to bury his problems in the hopes that they won’t come back to haunt him. Out of all of the “strong” male characters, his approach to his issues is a rather feminine one, but it ends up being the one that cements him as a better person than the others.

Now, I set this up while talking about Keiji’s lack of emotional vulnerability, but I believe that one of the biggest components playing into it is how trust is such a huge factor in the game. And this begins to involve Shin, too. It becomes clear throughout the course of the game that one of the only reasons Sara has made it this far is because she harbors the ability to put her trust in others and because they put their trust in her. We see, then, that Shin becomes an enemy to the group because he refuses to trust any of them and mocks all of them for being so willing to trust the others. Our biggest point of contention with Keiji, as well, is when he refuses to share his Me-Tokens with us out of fear that we could learn something about his backstory. Both men have terrible experiences with vulnerability, and they loathe the prospect of putting their trust into anyone else for fear of what could happen with it. However… the game sets this up as a very bad thing. Lack of vulnerability turns Shin into a villain, and the only way that he manages to redeem himself is by utilizing his compassion for Kanna and sacrificing himself. Keiji, similarly, loses his credibility as a person because he refuses to be vulnerable, and his distrust of himself and avoidance of his problems are what make Midori’s attacks hit so hard in 3-1A. Our villain characters exist because they cannot trust anyone, because they cannot be vulnerable, and in the same way we see Sara turning into a villain as she loses her trust in the rest of the group.

To tie this all together, I think that this is why Nao and Kanna are undoubtedly the strongest characters in the game- because they are female characters who are allowed to show emotion, because they are allowed to show their trauma, and they’re allowed to grow past that. When we’re introduced to Nao, she’s already someone who appears very weak in a feminine sense, panicking and freaking out in response to the situation. Kanna is the same; her sister is dead, and this has left her as a weeping, emotional mess. Nao’s condition only gets worse as the game goes on; she loses the mentor who’s most important to her, and in a blind panic she ends up causing a lot of harm and concern to her fellow participants. In any other game, this would probably have been where the characters of these two would have stopped, or even how they would have ended. They’re women, they’re not supposed to be strong, they already have weak and emotional coping mechanisms for their problems. However, Nankidai lets the two of them grow past this point while still letting them retain their more emotional components. Nao lets herself retain her memory and affection for Mishima, but she makes the conscious decision to abandon the AI and work with Shin to combat the evil one. Kanna retains her friendship with Shin, but she does so carefully, displaying enough kindness to him to make him change his heart. Even when she tearfully pleads for Sara to let her die, it comes from a point of what she considers emotional wisdom and her own evaluation of her usefulness to the group. If she’s left alive, her character comes full-circle and she realizes that she does, in fact, have value to the group, which gives her the will to live on. Both of these women have well-developed character arcs that allow them to feel vulnerability and emotion. They become stronger and wiser people without fundamentally changing who they are, and their femininity doesn’t have to be compromised or belittled for them to become better people. Though they are physically the weakest characters and have some of the biggest low points of the game, they are in fact well-developed and emotionally mature. Their vulnerability is what gives them this opportunity, and it truly wraps together how well Nankidai portrays femininity and vulnerability in his story.

#here i am #writing a gay little meta #enjoy #i thought about this to some degree #yttd #your turn to die #yttd meta #nao egokoro #kanna kizuchi #keiji shinogi #kimi ga shine #depressobean rambles

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maxwell-grant · 4 years ago

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So, we've talked about teaming up The Shadow with Superman, and with Batman. How would a team-up with Wonder Woman work?

I've sat on this ask for a while to catch up on the character and talked a bit with @jcogginsa about it to get some thoughts in order, although if anyone else would like to chime in feel free to do so. So here goes: I think a team up between The Shadow and Wonder Woman has a lot of ways it could go wrong for fans of either character, but if done right, I think it could be perhaps a much more substantial story than crossing over The Shadow with Superman or Batman again.

You'd be hard pressed to pair two characters as diametrically opposite to each other visually as The Shadow and Wonder Woman, a very casual viewer might even be confused as to why the hell is Wonder Woman standing next to this Freddy Krueger looking weirdo. Much of what I said about the immediate contrasts between Superman and The Shadow are applied more so here, because here we have two characters who dig back further than the superhero in their domains. Wonder Woman is a superhero, but she is rooted in a realm of folklore and myth and fairy tales, archetypal and dream-like and with strongly defined morals, with Diana as the classic heroine who takes all of the male fears of powerful women present in the old Amazon stories, and subverts them into a powerful feminist statement and a mission of love and peace minded towards a progressive future. The Shadow's stories, as I've argued in turn, were less hard-hitting crime tales and more urban fairy tales told in an urban setting, where the streets of New York City replacing the dark forests of yore and everything's gone so topsy-turvy that the Big Bad Wolf has to become the one to save us from those that would oppress and destroy us. Dracula meets King Arthur, as his creator described him, here to fight to protect us for little reason other than he can and it's the right thing to do, by turning the tools of evil against itself.

Sadly, the two of them also have a long, long and miserable history of being misrepresented and mischaracterized past their initial eras.

I've remarked often enough on The Shadow's downfall, how the clever, thoughtful, compassionate, even humorous and outright friendly (if theatrical about it) Shadow of the pulps, has been so far removed from those traits over decades of adaptations, that I have to link posts where I point out that these traits used to be there in the first place, because they've all been eclipsed by the image of a trigger-happy butcher if not outright barking fascist. And it's worse for Wonder Woman, because her main defining trait was her pacifism and kindness and loving diplomacy, the lasso as a tool for careful and non-violent submission when necessary, whose very first story goes to such lengths to describe the contrast between the Amazons and Mars, the stupid and brutish god of war who points a sword at the world where Aphrodite would point a finger proclaiming love, and now, The Sword has become an irrevocable part of Wonder Woman's image, as is the jokes about her being the member of the Justice League willing to snap necks and rip spines if necessary, the most direct anti-thesis of everything that defined her initially.

Perhaps you could tell a story about the conciliation of these traits, the how and why these have become such commonplace for the two. They may still be heroes and agents of justice and good and whatnot, but something has clearly been missing from them for decades, a spark of humanity and imagination and care that's made the two of them so, so much worse off for the lack of it.

Perhaps there could be a story about the two helping each other find it again. Perhaps no one knows better the dangers of getting lost in the darkness of man's world than The Shadow, and perhaps there's no DC hero that could cut through the darkness to pull it back moreso than Wonder Woman. Idealism and reality, light and dark, the way things are vs the way they could be, and most of all, Knowledge and Truth coming together in the fight for a better world that the two have been immersed in for so long.

There are some better opportunities for the two to meet compared to Superman and Batman, as Wonder Woman has usually been grounded in real life events around The Shadow's time period. The movie has placed her debut during The Great War, and several stories have been told about Wonder Woman fighting during World War 2, two conflicts that The Shadow lived through, the first of which being a highly integral part of his characterization. Little adjustments would be necessary to explain their intrusions into each other's worlds. Past the initial distrust and a conciliation of their differences? I could see the two getting along better actually than The Shadow might with Superman and Batman, or Wonder Woman with other pulp heroes. They are soldiers who chose to pick their battles, who only found their true calling once they've exhausted all other options as to what they could be, and who take on a myriad of roles for the sake of their missions. They confront the darkest aspects of the world in their own ways as they are both shaped by it, and they affect the world in their own ways, one far more discreetly than the other

So yeah I actually think there's a lot you could do with crossing these two, maybe more so even than crossing over The Shadow with Batman or Superman again. I was surprised over the course of researching for this ask at just how much I find myself liking Wonder Woman even better than the other two, and frustrated at the sheer mishandling of the character. I'd like these two to meet, maybe punch some Nazis together, maybe help each other reconnect with their original missions.

Or alternative, @jcogginsa pitched me the idea of Wonder Woman just taking The Shadow on a vacation to get him to chill out a little. Probably not on Themyscira, even if they let men in, the Amazons would be asking Diana why is she letting this unholy ghost from Tartarus or servant of Hades anywhere near the island, but somewhere where she knows how to set up a good party. I love when Diana's allowed to have fun, and she might be the only superhero strong enough to successfully force The Shadow to loosen up a bit, let him interact with the world on less controlling terms for a change.

Also I desperately want a crossover between The Holiday Girls and The Agents. I want Etta Candy and Margo to go shopping or shoot some Nazis together, either way works but I will not accept any crossover between The Shadow and Wonder Woman that doesn't let their long-neglected supporting casts shine.

#replies tag #the shadow #wonder woman #pulp heroes #comic books #margo lane #etta candy #diana prince #lamont cranston

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whump-town · 4 years ago

Text

A Matter of Trust

I do really hate this fic but but it’s whatever and I’m tired of looking at it. I have homework to do so it just is what it is. This probably takes place pre-season one.

Here’s the Derek and Hotch fic:

“Derek!”

Morgan stops dead in his tracks, spinning on his heel to see who it is jogging down the hall after him. JJ with her blond hair tied back in a messy ponytail is hurrying towards him. He watches it swish back and forth over her shoulders. Pressed to her chest is an assortment of papers, only some bound by the traditional manila folders their work is found in. She puffs out a breath, slightly winded, as she nears him. “What can I do for you?” he asks.

She extends the pile of papers, “can you take these to Agent Hotchner?”

He bottles the immediate frustration he experiences. Mostly because he’s not frustrated with her and Gideon is always riding his ass about his “displacement” of emotions. To which, Morgan really wants to suggest Gideon take his Freudian ideology and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. Yet, he knows this would be falling directly into the displacement Gideon is talking about. Besides, JJ is a saint and a little scary (if he’s honest), and keeping himself on her good side is ideal.

So, he accepts the papers. “Sure,” he says with a smile. “That’s no problem. Anything else?”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “No,” she answers, simply. “Not unless you can call the Washington branch and explain, again, that we are not needed in their arson case.” She rubs at her forehead, fingers creating the stress wrinkles she’s certainly feeling. “Agent Hotchner sent them a profile last week but they really want him to come down there.”

Morgan hums, nodding. He’s aware of that particular issue. Everyone wants them somewhere and they never want just the profile being offered, they always want someone down there. Which, until JJ was hired, was a problem Hotch had taken on. He devoted time to explain that they didn’t have the agents or the time to send someone out for every minor issue. There are three profiles in the entire unit. The sexism that JJ faces with this now as her job is infuriating and Morgan finds himself blaming Hotch for that.

The man has been doing that job for years, why hasn’t he warned her better? Taken to feeling some of the calls himself to throw a little bit of that temper at them?

Then there’s the issue of this “Agent Hotchner” nonsense. No one, not a single agent that Morgan knows, calls Hotch anything but Hotch. Hell, a good fifty percent of the time, Gideon calls him by his first name. So, where does Hotch get off on having JJ call him Agent Hotchner?

Morgan feels for her but mostly, he feels anger.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that,” Morgan says, shaking his own head. “Come get me if you need me to shake them up a little?”

JJ smiles because she appreciates the gesture but shakes her head, denying the offer. “Don’t worry about it,” she assures him. “It’s being handled.”

What Morgan doesn’t know is that Hotch is calling Washington and JJ doesn’t need both of them calling up to chew out the branch. The way that Morgan feels is not unwarranted and it’s protective… really, it’s sweet. He’s known Hotch for years and he’s willing to toss all of the trust he has in his partner out the door for a woman he’s known for about a month. Mostly because he grew up with two sisters and he knows how men in power can be.

(And, in part, because it seems unrealistic that Hotch is as nice and forgiving as he always seems to be).

“Oh!” JJ cringes, wincing as she realizes that she has forgotten something. “Heads up,” she offers, “I think you guys are heading out for a case.”

Morgan sighs but nods, “okay.” Great, he thinks, a case is the last thing he wants to deal with right now. If there’s one thing he’s learned on this job it’s that there is no such thing as a break.

And sure enough…

“We’re going to Arlington.”

Arlington? That’s only about an hour’s drive from the offices.

Hotch hands Gideon and Morgan both a file, stepping backflip his own open. He flips through it, never even flinching at the pictures his eyes scan over. “They have a serial arsonist,” he mumbles, allowing them just enough time to come to this conclusion on their own. “He’s not escalating but there are no clear signs of remorse or a cooling-off period.”

Gideon hums at this, thoughtfully examining the pictures himself. His lack of comment is an agreeance.

“It’s all women,” Morgan notes with a frown, looking up with Hotch. “Arson-Homicide cases with a death caused by burns and fire is… it’s not actually-- Statistically speaking, arson-related deaths caused by direct burns wounds, and fire are averagely male. The fact that all these women died of direct wounds like this, all of them, that’s strange.”

Gideon hums, leaning back in his chair as he shifts around. “There are no defense wounds either,” he pulls his glasses up. “If you want to talk statistics,” Gideon says, glancing over to Morgan. “Most women are wounded or killed and then burned. To get rid of evidence or as a means of disposal. That is not what he’s doing here.”

Most are killed with bladed weapons but Morgan doesn’t feel the need to add that. It does add to the strangeness but he’s certain if he goes on too much about that Gideon will no longer be amused with his knowledge. So he looks to Hotch, waiting for him to guide them a little more.

“I think Morgan and I can handle this.”

Morgan glares at him. That sounds like an awful idea.

Gideon looks up, though he says nothing, he’s thinking the same thing. For a different reason than Morgan. Gideon knows how Morgan is. He’s a brilliant agent but just like Hotch their aspects of him that need to be worked on. Ironed out. Hotch’s temper is getting there and his need to keep everyone at arm’s length. Morgan has that pesky trust. It’s always trust. Especially his trust in Hotch. Gideon watches their relationship. The way the two men push and pull-- Hotch hesitant to let Morgan near and Morgan just waiting for Hotch to shatter his fragile relationship.

“Go,” Gideon finally decides. “I’m sure I can hold the fort down without you.”

Hotch nods and Morgan just… stares. This is such a bad idea.

Gideon smacks the table, standing with a nod. “Good luck and… best behavior, okay?”

They work well together but not when Morgan’s looking for something to pick apart.

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

Fuck Arlington and fuck Hotch.

His best behavior is all he can manage. Reasonably, Morgan knows that if all of his searching turns up nothing then that should lead to the explanation that there is nothing wrong with Hotch. However, the part of him hurt time and time again by men that he trusted… he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Which path will Hotch take?

“Derek!” Hotch knows, more or less, that he’s currently being tested. On what, he’s not certain but he doesn’t try to figure it out. Whatever it, he’s sure he and Morgan will be fine. He smiles, softly and hardly there, and nods his head towards their SUV. “You wanna drive?”

Morgan catches the keys against his chest. Bastard, he thinks. He’s starting to feel bad about the strength of distrust, hate, and pain he’s been to Hotch. He’s not even been helpful to the investigation. If Hotch were anyone else, he’d have pulled Morgan off this case and sent him home.

Morgan doesn’t want to unpack that too much.

“Sheriff, if you and your deputy take the back door, Agent Morgan and I can cover the front.”

And just like that, they’re partnered off and storming into the Unsub’s home. It was an easy enough case. Not too demanding so… naturally, things can’t be that easy. Something has to go wrong.

Hotch sees it first. It has nothing to do with who has more training or who was paying more attention. There’s just this raise the hairs on the back of your arms type of fear that digs into the nerves shooting down his back. A twist in his stomach and this very instinctual, primal knowledge. The type he grew up perfecting. He knows with certainty that the room is bad, dangerous. The same way he could step into his childhood home and feel his father’s drunken belligerence from the door.

“Out!”

Morgan jumps, flinching at the sudden order. For a stunning moment, all he can do is stare back at Hotch.

“Get out!” Hotch reaches out, grabbing Morgan by his shoulders and pushing.

He’s stronger than he looks and Morgan nearly falls with the force. He stumbles, dumbly as he takes a few steps towards the door. All he can see is the sun’s blinding rays right in his eyes, eating the hole of the door like a ring of fire. It’s blinding. The pitch of the ground is purely his imagination. The world keeps spinning and he remains in spot, watching and being herded with the other agents. A cop smashes into his shoulder and all he can hear is Hotch’s voice. Repeating himself he pushes them. Commands they leave.

He lands heavily on the grass, two hands pushing at his back, and he watches-- eyes wide and confused-- as the entire compound goes up.

“No!” He’s disconnected, his mouth open and he can hear his scream tear from his throat, but he doesn’t feel it. Nothing. Just the arms wrapping around his hips and pulling him off his feet, stopping him from blindly throwing himself back towards the fire. The heat of which, even from the distance he’d managed put between them, he can feel painfully licking up his face. “No,” he throws himself like a child in every direction that he can. “No! Aaron! Hotch! Hotch!”

The flames don’t die but whoever is holding him back caves and he’s released. The second that his feet hit the ground he’s tearing off in the direction of the flames. Moving around scattered debris. “Hotch!” He’s searching through the mess. “Hotch, say something, man!” There’s nothing. Just dirt, fire, and soot. Until-- “Fuck!” Morgan tears through the wreckage. One hand raised palm up and that stupid white starched shirt. “Hotch?”

He falls roughly to his knees, kicking up dirt as he does so. His fingers pry at the metal roofing laying across Hotch. Hissing at the heat that blisters his skin and where the warped edge cuts into his fingers. He manages to move it with a loud curse, paying it no more attention. He freezes for a moment-- everything he’s ever learned about first aid is screaming through his head. Hissing out and pouring down his ears. Not a bit of it is any damn good.

“H--Hotch?” With a shaking hand, Morgan presses his fingers under Hotch’s chin, startlingly back when Hotch’s eyes blink open. They’re unfocused, darting as he struggles to keep them open and direct them to a single, solid thing. “Hey, hey,” Morgan greets, shifting so he can lean closer beside him. He presses his palm to Hotch’s cheek, smiling when Hotch’s eyes slowly land on him. “You scared me there for a second,” Morgan whispers, breathlessly, shaking his head.

Pinching his eyes, Hotch groans, turning his head as he writhes in place. He whimpers, a soft sob tearing from his paling lips. Morgan blanches in horror, unable to move, unable to think as Hotch coughs up blood. An alarming amount of blood just pouring out of his mouth. All over the crisp, starched white of his dress shirt. Weak, hardly controlled movement turns frantic and Morgan is frozen in fear as he watches.

Bloodied and an angry red, Hotch’s hands raise to his throat-- hand, while the right scratches deep contusions into the tender skin on his neck the left remains limply pale and unresponsive on the ground. Morgan pulls Hotch’s hand away, working his own finger between the collar of Hotch’s shirt. He’s shaking, terrified. His own hands are uncoordinated and he struggles with the tiny button keeping Hotch’s shirt so tightly pinned.

“Okay, okay,” Morgan pulls Hotch up-- the last thing on his mind the array of spinal related injuries he might be fucking up worse by pulling Hotch up. He pins Hotch to his chest, keeping him from pitching forward as he coughs up large globs of blood. Blood laden drool falling out of his parted blue lips.

Morgan runs his hand across Hotch’s chin, wiping the blood off and then onto his ruined jeans.

“Derek?”

Morgan looks over his shoulder, scanning the field behind him for any sign of help.

“Derek.”

Morgan turns back, “what?”

The dark circles under Hotch’s eyes are made startlingly apparent by the pale, colorless tone of his face. Looking down, Hotch guides Morgan’s gaze to his bloodied right hand, slowly he moves his hands away from his stomach and reveals a thick, crimson stain.

“Fuck.”

Hotch swallows audibly and Morgan can see the haze falling over Hotch’s eyes. Eyelids drooping. Morgan pulls Hotch to his shoulder, letting him rest his cheek there. Unmercifully, Morgan presses into the wound and apologies profusely when Hotch weakly fights against him. Crying softly at the pain. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Morgan tries to shut out his thoughts but it’s futile. All he can think about is how hard Hotch is shaking. His body cool to the touch. Morgan's aware of how naturally cold Hotch runs but his hand-- Hotch’s right limply laying against where Morgan’s keeping pressure on his stomach-- is cold. Like he’s been out in the cold too long.

“Morgan?” Hotch slurs his name out, moving himself slowly like he’s trying to get up.

Morgan effortlessly wraps him back up and pulls him down. Using his own legs to pin Hotch’s hips. An old wrestling trick he’d learned years and years ago on his sisters. At twelves discovering that move had been eye-opening and he’d have no idea that he’d be using it some twenty years later. “Stay still,” Morgan hushes.

“What happened?”

Morgan freezes… “There was an explosion,” he explains, trying to prompt Hotch into remembering. “You got us out, you remember, right? You saw it.”

Hotch doesn’t remember but that confession takes the back burner as paramedics swarm them.

Morgan tries not to panic when Hotch is guided out of his arms and strapped down to the stretcher. They secure his body with straps and Morgan wants to stop them but he knows this is not’ within his control. “It’s okay,” Morgan soothes. Hotch’s eyes are darting madly to keep up with all the changes, his breathing becoming distressed.

The paramedics hoist him up and Morgan follows quickly on shaking legs.

“Easy, Hotch. They’re just trying to help.”

Whimpering Hotch tries to protect his head, knees curling up towards his bruised ribs. His eyes pinched shut, he tries to move away from the EMTs attaching leads to his chest and pushing sedatives into the line they’d started. The hand that Morgan pushes into Hotch’s shoulder, the only thing keeping him from writhing himself off the stretcher, steadies him just the faintest.

“D--Derek?”

Morgan leans down near Hotch, watching the EMT strap his hips down to the stretcher, not liking how squirmy Hotch is getting. “I’m right here,” he promises. He soothes a hand through Hotch’s sweat-soaked hair. Not surprised to find the faintest resistance of dried blood in the strands. “You’re okay, Hotch. We’re taking you to the hospital to get you checked over, okay?”

Hotch’s eyes dart, taking in everything and seemingly nothing. “Don’t,” he pleads softly. “I don’t want to go back--” his sentence is cut off by his strangled cry. His entire body tenses, both hands clutching at his head.

“Agent Hotchner,” one of the paramedics calls. “You’re experiencing some anxiety and mild discomfort. It’s causing your oxygen and blood pressure to elevate so I’m going to give you something to calm you down, okay? It’s going to be much easier to breathe.”

Morgan watches the liquid descend into the IV. Jumping when Hotch growls, shouting hoarsely as it enters his body. He sobs, kicking out as much as he can given his limited freedoms. Morgan is frozen in fear and uncertainty, having no idea what he can do to help. He’s forced to watch Hotch’s fighting die. His breathing deepening from his short pants. His eyelids flutter.

Slowly, his legs fall back down on the stretcher, limply turned outwards. His hand flexes once, twice before his anxious grip on Morgan’s hand falls still.

The paramedic places a mask over Hotch’s face.

Morgan wants to cry as Hotch’s eyes slide over to look at him, no sound leaving his parted lips. Just watching Morgan, silently pleading. “I’m sorry,” he offers.

Hotch’s eyes slip shut, he turns his head away.

“Stay with us Agent Hotchner.”

There’s a loud banging on the side of the ambulance and the doors are thrown open.

“Agent Hotchner approximately mid-thirties, experiancing some mild tachycardia a possible--”

Morgan is following numbly along when two hands plant themselves on his chest. Stopping him in his progression. “I--I--”

The nurse shakes her head, “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m going to need you to sit in the waiting room. We’ll call you when you can come back.”

Right.

Morgan sits down in the waiting room and pulls out his phone. He’s got to call Gideon and Haley… Oh, God. Haley.

Eventually, they do call him back to see Hotch. It’s nearly four hours later and surrounded by the meager remains of the team and Haley Morgan doesn’t go back. Haley and Gideon do, though Haley does try to get him to come back.

“I’m-- I’m good.”

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

“You can’t avoid him forever.”

Derek Morgan is flipping through a magazine in the waiting room of Saint Sebastian's hospital. Without looking up, he knows it’s Haley standing just a few feet away from him. Her body leaned against the opposite wall and arms wrapped around her chest. He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t pay her any more mind than he has to. “Avoiding who?’ he asks.

Hotch.

Haley pushes herself off the wall and takes the chair beside him. Her trust in him is unwavering and her understanding of him is scarily accurate. “He knows,” she tells Morgan. “He knows that you’re avoiding him and that you’re out here blaming yourself.” She tucks her arms around her chest and leans back in the chair. “It bothers him. Mostly, I think, because he can’t do anything about it.”

She starts to pick at her nails. It’s not just an observation, she knows that’s how he feels. Since most of the sedatives have been lifted, Hotch has been antsy. Easy to work up and harder to calm down. Stuck there in that room, anxiety through the roof, and Derek out of sight-- it’s starting to get to him. They’re steadily working to a point where she’s certain the doctors are going to start sedating him again. Anything to keep him from moving around and getting so worked up.

The nightmares are bad enough.

“It shouldn’t,” is Morgan’s simple reply. “I’m not avoiding him.”

Haley hums. How did she get surrounded by such hard-heads? Her silly husband and the mischief he attracts… Pushing herself up out of the chair, she yawns into her fist. She’s pulled the night shift with Hotch all week. There when he wakes up thrashing and confused from nightmares and still there when he’s hit with insomnia and stairs at the ceiling all night. She’s his only comfort. The first person he cries out for and she sees that look in the other’s eyes.

She knows that not a single one of them wants their names to be yelled. And it is hard to see him like this. So confused and lacking any of the authorities and shields that typically drive him so distant. She lets it go knowing that they will step up in their own turn, they just need time.

“Well,” she rubs her eyes and sighs. “Either way, avoiding him or not. He’s in his room. I’m leaving. No one’s going to be in there for at least two hours.” This is the nail in the coffin: she knows Morgan can’t stand by and do nothing-- “You don’t have to but he hates being alone, won’t admit but it’s true. I’m sure he’ll be relieved if you go in there and sit with him.”

Derek glares at her back.

“Have a good afternoon, Derek.”

Derek Morgan is not avoiding Hotch. He isn’t.

Really.

He isn’t.

He just… can’t go in there.

Hovering just outside the door, fingers brushing against the paper labeling the room as Hotch’s, Morgan stands. He can hear the machines snaking in and out of his friend from here. That heart monitor tracking the pace of his heart and the hiss of the IV line and oxygen canal. Morgan hasn’t even seen Hotch since they were separated in the emergency room. He doubts too much as changed.

Stepping into the room takes an abhorrent amount of courage. It takes, even more, to keep going.

Tired eyes crack open, darting along the room as Hotch struggles to identify the new movement in the room. Seeing Morgan he calms, instantly sinking back into the pillows and the alarm in his eyes calming. Eyelids sliding back into a hazed, sleepy state. “Morgan,” his voice cracks, hoarse from disuse.

He’s got the worst case of bed head Morgan has seen on a human being. His normally gelled into place closely cropped hair is loosely laying wherever it wants on his head. It reminds Morgan of how young Hotch really is. In his prime for a family, no grey hair in sight. Too young to die.

“Hey man.” A little awkward, Morgan takes the seat by his bed. Sitting so his back is against the plastic-- putting as much room as possible between himself and Hotch without it being painfully obvious.

Hotch grunts, clearly disoriented, but not caving to his screaming body. Morgan’s here now and he needs to find it within himself to have this conversation. He just--

Biting down against his pained whimper, Hotch writhes at the pain eating its way through his body. Blinded for too many seconds and only aware of the heat and his body desperately trying to move away from the source of pain. Stiffening and rigid, he can feel his grasp on the situation rapidly dwindling. He holds his breath to try and abate the pain, more of a half-conscious decision that makes his eyes roll back into his head and--

“Hotch!” Morgan looks frantically between Hotch’s limp body and the howling monitors. “Hotch!”

A nurse steps in, stethoscope already making its way to her ears. “Sir, I’m going to need you to leave.” She doesn’t wait for Morgan to listen before hooking her finger in Hotch’s ill-fitting gown top. Pulling it from his torso so she can guide the end of the instrument along his chest.

Hotch’s eyes flutter back open, his breathing hitching at the feeling of the cold metal touching his aching chest. “N-No,” he rasps, trying and failing to get away. He’s too weak, too disoriented to push his body from the nurses. But to him, there is no nurse. Just pain and metal and -- and then…

“Hotch.” Morgan.

His eyes focus slowly. The rest of the world is sinking in. Morgan’s hand on his face and the other gripping his gown sleeve tightly.

“Hey,” Morgan greets, head shaking. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Blinking dumbly, Hotch just looks back at him. The pain is still throbbing. Just behind his ears, this stabbing feeling. As he blinks, the light beaming down at him, he can hardly force his eyes on Morgan. Hardly open them at all. His mouth is dry but he still parts his chapped lips and forces himself to stay here a moment longer. “You… been gone.” He slurs, turning his head he looks around the room. “Couldn’t… couldn’t find you.”

Morgan tries not to let that hit him like a ton of bricks. “I was just…” avoiding you. “I was out thinking. Walking.”

One of those bloodshot eyes is peeled open, a boyish, crooked grin pulling one half of his face up. “Didn’t know you did that,” Hotch whispers, “thinking.”

Morgan rolls his eyes, knowing that if anyone else had said that he would have slugged them in the shoulder. But he’s never once done that to Hotch, not even when he deserved it. Which is really because that’s crossing a line. A playful hit is nothing to the likes of the other men in the office. He might even get by doing it to Garcia or JJ but Hotch is… It’s different. He knows, though he’s not supposed to profile amidst the team, that if he moves too quickly, if he coils back, Hotch will flinch.

Not… it’s just, he doesn’t know how to explain it. He just knows the way Hotch flinches back is different and after observing that the first time, Morgan’s never done it again.

“Shut up,” Morgan grumbles. Softly, he takes Hotch’s right hand, eyes glances to that limp, braced and wrapped left one, before swallowing thickly. “Get some rest, man. I’ll--” the words are coming out so quickly he doesn’t even think about it. “I’ll be here when you wake up, okay? We can talk more.”

Hotch nods, pale lips still cracked open. Drowsily he mumbles, “won’t… won’t go running off on me?”

Morgan squeezes his hand, “no. No, I’ll stay.”

“...k…”

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

Morgan wakes and immediately blushes hard at the state of the room. His only comfort is that Hotch is also sleeping but even then, Hotch is drugged and injured. Morgan clears his throat as he sits up, looking around the room. Watching the other’s seemingly unaware of him. Which is also a relief. It’s unnerving to be asleep in a room full of awake people.

“I brought everyone tea,” JJ offers softly. She’s got the cups in a cardboard holder, shyly showing them. “I got Agent Hotchner Earl Grey,” she tells Haley. “It’s probably too hot for him to have and I don’t even know if he can--”

Haley stands, there’s this ease about her that Morgan has always been in awe of. She’s so gentle, effortlessly. The kind of hospitality and love that makes anyone near her calm and Morgan has always easily understood exactly what it is that draws a man like Hotch to her. Hotch is just six feet of pent up nerves. Morgan’s always enjoyed being privy to their relationship. To see Haley’s instinctual grounding of Hotch.

“He hates it when you call him Agent Hotchner,” Haley chides softly. She presses her hand into JJ’s arm, a simple comforting gesture. “And I’m sure he’ll appreciate the tea.”

Morgan feels a knot form in his throat. He’d stupidly assumed Hotch had asked JJ to call him Agent Hotchner and what a silly thing to think. God, why has he been so keen to find something to hate about Hotch? Why does he want to start something so bad with him?

“Tea?”

Morgan looks up and JJ’s tilting the box his way, offering him the last remaining one. He takes the tea with the nod of his head, rubbing his eye with the other. “Sure, thanks.”

“Is Hotch gonna be alright?” Garcia asks.

Morgan gets transfixed in watching Garcia scratch at the cup. Her brightly painted nails against the brown of the cup. Again, he’d accused Hotch, in his head, of misogyny. This idea that Hotch might unequally treat JJ and Garcia than him and Gideon but… Was it not Hotch who bought Garcia that exact shade of neon pink on her nails, right now?

He’d showed it to Morgan that morning in the office. The day before the director had commented on Garcia’s attire and implied that it would be considered unprofessional. She’d looked heartbroken and Hotch shattered just to see that but she’d changed. And the next day had come in slacks and a button up shirt that just looked… so unlike her. So Hotch had gone out on his lunch break in search of something, anything to make her look more like herself.

And it’s Hotch who despite Gideon warning him against it, has been fighting everyday since to allow Garcia to wear what she wants. Together, she’s acquired the perfect little style that walks the line. She’s professionally dressed just brightly so.

Morgan’s so enraptured that he misses that the room’s attention has mostly turned to beside him. He sits up, attentively taking in Hotch’s appearance. His head is turned, looking at Haley. Watching her and listening to whatever it is that she’s whispering. Morgan’s heart pounds in his chest when he hears Hotch rasp his name.

“He’s right beside you,” Haley promises, brushing her fingers through her husband’s hair. “He’s right here, Aaron. He didn’t go anywhere.”

Hotch turns, eyes moving over Gideon, JJ, and Garcia. “You stayed,” he smiles when he sees Morgan.

Hotch is looking back at him, far more there than he had been some few hours ago. He’s still beaten to hell and Morgan can’t fathom why it is that he’d just assume that Hotch would magically heal with a few hours sleep. “I promised, didn’t I?” he manages.

Hotch raises an eyebrow and hums in agreeance and Morgan is glad for that minimal interaction. The first real proof that the real Hotch is back.

“Want some tea?” Haley offers.

Hotch shakes his head. He clears his throat and pushes at the blanket pulled up to his chest. “Gotta use the bathroom.”

Morgan stands up, numbly falling into the same pattern as everyone else. Gideon moves the chairs in between the bed from the bathroom. JJ helping Haley pull the blankets out of his way. Morgan pulls down the guardrail.

“Easy,” Haley whispers. She uses her own hands to brace his body as Hotch sits up. Slowly, they work his legs over the side and he just needs to stand up. “Do you want me or--”

“Morgan,” Hotch whispers, smally. He looks up vulnerably and Morgan doesn't hesitate to slide in beside him.

Morgan wraps his arm around Hotch’s hip, holding tightly to the wrist Hotch has over his shoulder. “Alright,” Morgan whispers to himself. “Are you sure?”

Hotch nods, “I trust you.”

Morgan stops. He swallows thickly and glances up at Hotch before nodding. “Okay.” I trust you. “One step at a time,” Morgan assures. Though, he’s not sure if he’s talking to himself or Hotch. One step at a time. Morgan’s not so sure but Hotch is confident that eventually the two of them will be alright. Trust is hard but it has to be earned and Hotch is willing to do anything to earn Morgan’s trust.

“Almost there.”

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch whump

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pomegranates-and-blood · 5 years ago

Text

νοσταλγία (Chapter 7)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 3.0k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Ik I’ve been uploading a lot of chapters out of schedule, I’m sorry. The Saturday’s ones are never gonna falter, but I wanna upload a lil bit more and a lil bit more often. And on every two weeks on tuesdays I’ll keep uploading spinoffs, but I might upload an extra chapter during the no-spinoff week if the story is going too slow lol.

Anyways, idk if anyone reads these lol, but I’m gonna ask anyways that you please let me know what you think, and hope you enjoy this chapter/story. Thank you!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927

King Ivar talks in his sleep, who would have thought? His voice rouses you from a restless sleep, thinking for a moment he calls for you but it’s just rumbles as he tosses and turns. You sigh in the darkness, and suddenly it feels like the shadows are heavier than before, more suffocating, more…more real.

You don’t know where you are walking to, but you don’t stop until your bare feet touch the wet and cold sand.

With your knees pressed to your chest you keep your eyes on the waves breaking near the coast, closing your eyes and imagining the lull of the ocean is the same as the one you heard from the temple in Eleusis.

But the sand is rougher under your bare feet, the waves louder and more enraged, the wind is more biting and less forgiving. And you are alone, alone and defeated on a foreign land of cold and death.

So you open your eyes, because this isn’t home, and reach with cold fingers for the gifted knife you kept in your person despite the knowledge if anyone here wanted you dead you would be so.

Keeping your gaze on the horizon, you take a hold of the wind-swept tresses of your hair and cut a lock at the end of it. A mark of mourning and a mark for all the deaths you are responsible for.

Holding on tightly to the strands of grief, you extend a hand, a farewell to the Greeks that are not to return, an offering to this land that has brought you nothing but sorrow and heartache.

When you open your hand, the hair flows in the cold winds away from you, and you allow yourself a small prayer in Greek to Macaria to bless their sacrifice, to Thanatos for safe passage, to Persephone for warmth, to Hades for mercy.

And, in a selfish moment, you pray to every God in the Underworld not to summon you home just yet. For if the Fates allow it so, you will see to it yourself that the blood spilled is paid forth.

Because if the King’s word is to be trusted, sooner or later you will walk out of his land a free woman. You will return to Greece, even if you have to wade through blood to do so.

You close your eyes, and the faint smell of snowdrops fills your nose, reminding you of spring and loneliness, of teardrops and homesickness.

A part of you tries to follow the tug on your heart and listen to what the Gods try to tell you, but you’re left cold and alone when you try reaching for the Pantheon you’ve come to know your whole life.

The sound of gravel ruffling behind you startles you, and you turn around with a gasp and a strong grip on the knife Ivar gifted you, ready to at least leave whoever is coming to hurt you with a scar to remember you by.

But it is Ivar who approaches you, strong arms dragging him forward as he moves over the cold sand. His eyes stay on yours as he moves, reminding you for a moment of a serpent approaching its cornered prey.

Still, even if your mind refuses to accept it, your heart lurches in relief, and you loosen the tension in your body. Still you remain quiet as he finds a place sitting at your side, moving his legs with ease to stretch them in front of him.

You lower your gaze to your hands, and only then notice the wrong hold of the knife made you injure yourself. The faint streaks of blood in your pointer finger and near your thumb bring to the front of your mind the sting that comes with the wound you opened by holding the hiltless knife the wrong way.

After a moment of consideration, you bring your hand to your mouth and lick off the blood, letting the knife fall on your lap.

Stealing a quick side glance to the Viking has you finding his eyes on you with a strange sense of intensity in his gaze, a quiet sort of…something. You shrug it off, and stay quiet, but his irritated question is quick to break the silence.

“I woke up and you weren’t there.”

You’re startled and annoyed at the entitled tone of his voice, but you still shrug.

“I am a free woman, am I not?”

“So you were trying to escape?”

“You would stop me.” You reply without hesitation.

“And yet you still don’t fear me.”

“If you wanted to kill me you would have already, if you wanted to use me as leverage for court games you will need time to do so,” You swallow the shame, the dread, and continue as your eyes look blindly ahead, “And…and if you wanted to take me, you could have avoided all this and just asked.”

Silence stretches between you, and in a moment of weakness you turn your gaze to find his clear eyes already set upon you, seeking and demanding as they always have been.

“You wanted me.”

The tone of surprise, the slightly parted lips that draw your gaze down to his mouth, the way his eyes search your face; it all makes your foolish heart see him in a new light for a fleeting moment, in the light of the man you met in that moldy cabin that was never yours to begin with.

But you remind yourself of what brought you here, of what he truly saw when he looked at you: a foreign witch to conquer.

So, you remind him that the woman he met, the woman that lingered for moments too long on the lure of his eyes, on the curve of his smile, on his expressive gestures; the woman that thought foolishly she could be anything other than the name and titles bestowed upon her; the woman that started to trust him; that woman was gone the moment he put chains on you.

“I wanted the man I met in Aneridge, I have no idea who you are.”

And with just a few words, any trace of softness, any trace of vulnerability, any trace of that strange boyish glances he used to throw your way when you were just a Priestess and he was just a Viking, are gone.

King Ivar curls his nose in anger, lifting his head a bit as he warns you,

“I’m growing tired of your games, Priestess.”

“Kill me, then.” You bite out, even as your voice wobbles. Because you have heard the stories, you have heard the tendrils of voices not quite human reaching your ears. You know he is as cruel and as dangerous as the whispers say, you know he carries the favor of the Dread Lord, you know he was born to be ruthless, to die and return, to suffer and conquer.

But there’s a part of you that wants to test him, dare him.

Use your strength against me, hurt me, kill me. Make me know what I am to feel for you, make me disgusted, make me fearful. I’m tired of hope.

But Ivar just smiles, a cold and angry smile but a smile nonetheless, and turns his eyes head, choosing silence to reign between you until the sun comes up over those distant waves.

____

You approach the city encased in tall walls, and though awe at its size and life pulls at your heart, you cannot help but feel you are walking blindly into a cage.

There’s so many pale and distrusting eyes set on you, gazes persisting on the things that make you different to them: your dress, your hair, your face, your skin.

And you’re not stupid enough to ignore that even in the way you are brought to port you are separated from the other prisoners, from the Christians the Varangian has brought from across this sea. You sail in the same boat as their King, there’s a distance between you and the rest of the men and women in the ship, you are washed and unbound.

You stay silent, and watch raptly as the King moves away from you as the boat docks, discarding the crutch so he can lift himself up to the pier, and standing up again with help of the crutch and a nearby barrel. He lifts his gaze and immediately finds your own, and a cruel smile starts to spread over his face as he stretches a hand in a mocking gesture to help you up.

“Priestess.”

You take your eyes off his instead, and look down at your dress as you grab your skirts and lift them so you can safely move towards the pier. Standing at the King’s side -because you know he would not hesitate to call you to order, to demand your presence where he deems it so, to tug on the invisible chains around your wrists- you take a moment to look over the lively pier, filled of families reuniting, stands of fishermen selling their captures, slaves carrying baskets of goods around, lives blossoming past the winter that seems to pierce the air of this place.

“So this is to be my new prison?” You ask instead of voicing any other thought, a little delighted in the way you put the King on edge.

He doesn’t hesitate in reaching down and grabbing onto your arm, lifting your wrist between the two of you, his blue eyes challenge yours.

“You’re not a prisoner,” He repeats the lie, and although the mark of your struggle against the chains once set upon you is still there, he seems to want you to believe you are free. “You are my guest, Priestess.”

“Guest.” You repeat, and his eyes narrow, his nose furrows. It is too easy to draw out his rage, to get to see ragged edges and bled truths. And you will always prefer rage, prefer anger and chaos, over the mocking cruelty that’s the mask of the King of Kattegat.

He starts walking and the people move as to open a path for him, and considering your only option is to be left alone surrounded by these intimidating and foreign people, you bite your tongue and follow.

“You should be grateful, Priestess, your life could be so much worse, were you at anyone else’s mercy.”

“I know this is a mercy even if you have none,” You acknowledge, and the King stops walking, looking at you over his shoulder as you calmly walk to his side. You meet his eyes, and clarify, “I will still not thank you.”

He grunts as he turns back around, a movement of his head as he arranges his legs to move with the help of his crutch, and even if his back is to you, you still know he is gritting his teeth, the anger written in the lines of his back, in the huffs of air that leave his lips.

“I know, you still choose to hate me.”

“Ivar,” You call out with more softness than you intended to. After the King hesitates for a moment, enough for you to know he is listening, you reach his side again and in a voice that is almost a whisper you offer, “I will never look upon you with anything other than hate, as long as you are the one with all the power and I’m relegated to following your commands.”

____

You are given time as the King addresses his people to clean yourself up and dress up in some fresh clothing. The dresses that are offered to you, the hair ornaments, the earrings and the bracelets, they all scream of foreignness, of being away from home; so you choose to keep your old and stained red dress.

You are brought to the loud and vibrant main hall at the King’s request, and it is with a gesture he orders you to take a seat on one of the tables by his side, though he remains on his throne. You eye the people around you, laughing, drinking, dancing; the world around you moving on and on as if yours hasn’t flipped upside down.

And the stupid, childish, reckless part of you that has made you commit so many mistakes along the way; that part of you wants to refuse him, wants to stand your ground and deny him of any power over you.

But the ambient presses down on you, like the air when you reach a mountaintop, and the people are too loud and too foreign, and the only thing you’re familiar with in this cold and strange place is the eyes that burn like Greek Fire of the King.

So you take your seat at his side.

The way his cruel smile widens, regarding you like a dog that performed a good trick makes your blood boil. Your hands curling into fists and your lips pursing without your intent only seem to entertain him further, which makes the silent interaction a vicious circle you cannot seem to break out of.

“Good girl.” He mocks, because of course he does, because you are an open book and he is a cruel and insufferable man. But you refuse -and so does your self-preservation- to run your mouth, and instead play a game, like you were taught to.

“There’s a first time for everything.” You answer around a smile that the King starts to return, but a voice from somewhere further back in the hall brings your conversation to a close.

“The witch seems fiery. I wonder if she is that hard to tame.”

You were meant to hear those words and the laughs that follow, you were meant to feel the threat, the humiliation. You know this, but even knowing it cannot keep the crawl of your skin, the shame clogging your throat.

The Christians called you a Heathen. These Vikings call you a Witch. There may be a difference, but you cannot see it. Both will try to beat you or rape you into submission, both will see foreign as inferior.

Although you may not see the man that said those words, it seems that that King Ivar does. The cold eyes of someone that has killed for less and would again set on the warrior behind you, and even if curiosity begs for you to turn around and see their expression, you hold your place.

A mumble of apology reaches your ears, but it is not meant for you, so you say nothing. The King shows a quick and purposely false smile before raising his voice,

“Leave us.”

A multitude of questions arise, but again a glare from the volatile King silences any real questioning, and the room feels so much larger and cavernous once the men have left.

Ivar turns to you, studying you.

“So, Priestess.”

The tales your father used to gift you with of unarmed prisoners being thrown into a coliseum against lions and wolves and all kinds of predators are brought forth to your mind as you stand alone in that empty and cold hall.

“So, Viking.” You quip back, crossing your arms to hide the nervous tremble of your hands.

He studies you for a moment, finally asking, “What will you use your freedom for?”

“For the gift to choose, without fear you selling or giving me away like a barn animal.” You reply dryly.

“I can still do that.” He is quick to say, dangling threats over your head like it truly entertains him.

“Not without breaking your promise.” You say, not aware of how much relief his word gives you until this moment.

The King narrows his eyes, annoyance clear in his pale gaze, and stands up from his throne.

You hold your ground as he approaches you, but he instead chooses to sit in one of the chairs in the now empty table. Ivar motions with a bloodied hand for you to take a seat as well, the movement a flourish in mock recognition of your noble birth.

You sit, albeit stiffly. Drinking what you assume to be mead from a goblet, the Viking King regards you sideways.

“And what are these choices you will make, now free?”

You answer with the first thought that comes to mind, realizing too late you give away a little of yourself in the process.

“Find out what the Christians have done with Attica’s ashes.”

“Your kingdom?”

“My kingdom.” You sentence, and even after over a year of denying the people that traveled with you the right to call you Anassa, you realize now that you have been, albeit crownless, acting like it for so long.

After a few moments the Viking narrows his eyes, “You will not return there anytime soon.”

If it’s a taunt, if it’s a threat, you can only hear the stubborn possessiveness of a child refusing to let go of a new toy.

“But I will return.” You promise.

“How are you so sure?”

Looking to the hall around you, you ask, “You returned here, didn’t you?”

You could swear the King looks intrigued, impressed even, for a moment before he dismisses you with a gesture of his hand. He believes you, though, of this you are certain.

But he says nothing else, shrugging his shoulders and drinking deeply before engaging in discussion with one of the men at his other side.

You keep your eyes on the King, and although for a moment you are distracted from the braces around his legs, and the way they do not seem to work normally, when your eyes continue a path upwards and reach his shoulders and arms, you realize he does not need his legs to fight like the men that decimated Stithulf’s army.

You continue your path to his face, and study the braids that trail through the top of his head to the back of it, the proud edge of his nose, the shape of his lips, for a moment tainted with mead his tongue licks away.

The sound of tables and chairs being dragged brings your attention away from your…ogling. You lift your gaze to see two men in the middle of the hall shake off their upper armor and in the midst of laughs and cheers from the others, struggle and wrestle for victory in the middle of the hall.

It seems you are no longer the novelty in the room, and you allow yourself to relax in your seat for a moment.

_____

Hi, hope you enjoyed! I use flowers and animals a lot to point towards the Gods, either Norse or Greek, so: snowdrops are, according to where I searched, symbols of Freyja, created from her tears when she was first brought to Asgad from Vanaheim, and in her homesickness when the tears fell to the earth the flowers bloomed as snowdrops.

Also friendly reminder this Tuesday I’m uploading Ivar’s PoV of the Prologue! I would love for you to read it and tell me what you think. If you want to be added to the taglist, of course please let me know.

Thank you, hope to hear from you, and hopefully I’ll see you Tuesday! :)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar x reader #vikings imagine #vikings #νοσταλγία masterlist

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