#that's his stick it's a conscious schooling of his movements and emotions

[ialwaysknewyouwerepunk]

I was reading your and your anon's comments about Louis being too serious on stage and I agree. Every time he goes down to the barricade he becomes so dynamic and smiley and enthusiastic and I wish a fraction of that would be there when he's on stage. It's just a shame we only really see it for like 90 seconds of the show.

i'll go poke him

[reallypleasanttree]

Coffee shop AU part 2

It was 08:05 P.M. Mitsuri was five minutes late to meet him at his tiny apartment. Maybe she decided meeting what was relatively a stranger at his place was a bad idea. Obanai’s scalp itched as his mind ran through the possibilities. Maybe she was lost. Should he go out and look for her or call? Maybe she was playing a practical joke on him. Maybe- He shook his head to banish the anxious thoughts. 

Mitsuri asked to watch a movie with him, specifically. Her brother was not even in the front of the cafe when she asked. Besides, she was not the type of woman to play with people’s emotions. She wore her heart on her sleeve. 

Obanai glanced over his living room again to ensure nothing was out of place. He moved Kaburamaru’s enclosure in his room tonight, so the glare of the heat lamp wouldn’t alter how the television’s screen looked. There was a bowl of popcorn, movie theater candies, and strawberry soda on the coffee table. 

Knock, Knock. 

He rubbed his hands on his pants to wipe up the sweat forming as he stood up. Obanai walked to the door and opened it. Mitsuri stood holding four bags of snacks and drinks. 

“Hey, sorry for running late, I stopped by the convenience store a block away. I wasn’t sure what all you liked, so I grabbed a little of everything,” she said and smiled shyly. 

“It’s okay. I was worried that you got lost,” he said and stepped aside to let her in. Mitsuri was here in his apartment. The girl he obsessed over for the last two months was here in his apartment. It stunned him that she was here. He led her to the kitchen to unload the bags. 

“I know your coffee order by heart, but not what you like to eat. I may have gone overboard,” Mitsuri said as she set the bags down and started pulling items out. Jerky sticks, chocolates, gummy worms, red licorice ropes, nerds, chex mix, chips, ice cream bars, and other random selections. She might as well have bought the whole store. “I know you like floral flavors, but they didn’t have any lavender or sakura flavored snacks.” She kept talking, but the words failed to register. 

Mitsuri went to the trouble of buying all of this for a man she hardly knew. They only spent maybe a total of an hour talking to each other in two months. The majority of it was Obanai ordering coffee. The other part was asking about Mitsuri’s family, friends, and hobbies. He hardly shared any personal information, yet here she was because she wanted to get to know him. If he wasn't already completely infatuated with her before, he was now. 

“I like black licorice,” Obanai said finally. 

“I bought some!” Mitsuri said and her hands flew to another bag to pull out the bitter candy. She beamed as she handed it over. “Now I know for the future.” She was already planning to see him again? His face heated up and he turned his head to the side. She was so cute. He couldn’t handle it. 

“So, what movie did you want to watch?” He asked. 

“The Butterfly Lovers,” Mitsuri said and opened her shoulder bag to pull out a DVD. The cover looked like it was a drama with a man and woman standing back to back. Honestly, he would not be paying much attention to the movie with Mitsuri sitting next to him. “Are you ready to watch it?” He nodded.

—--

Obanai was hyper aware of every movement Mitsuri made as she sat next to him. He sat at one end of the couch and her on the other. During the film, she slowly inched her way towards him. Whether it was a conscious or subconscious decision, Obanai could not be sure. Now, her knees were nearly touching his. If he were to reach out, he could graze her bare knees. He swallowed and tried to focus on the screen. 

The movie was nearly over. It was about Zhu Ying Tai, a woman who disguised herself as a man to study at a boarding school during the Eastern Jin Dynasty. During her education she met Liang Shan Bo, a poor, but industrious man who failed to realize her true gender. They bond over their love of learning and Zhu finds herself falling in love with him. Three years pass and near the end of their time together, Zhu is summoned back to her parents’ home. She reveals she is a woman to Liang and they confess their love with the promise for him to visit her and family. He gifts her a butterfly hairpin to solidify his promise. 

When she returns home, her parents explain she is engaged to a rich merchant that her family is indebted to. When she marries the merchant, her family will be released from all of their debts. A week later Liang visits and officially meets Zhu as a woman. He is stunned by her beauty. Before she can explain the new circumstances, he proposes marriage. With tears in her eyes Zhu tells him she is promised to someone else. She tells him she made a mistake by asking him to come. She hands him a piece of her hair and returns the butterfly hairpin and tells him she no longer loves him. Liang is heart broken and leaves the estate. 

At this point, Obanai looked over at Mitsuri. Tears streamed down her face and she sniffed quietly. He passed her a tissue and she took it gratefully. She dabbed her tears as the final act began. 

A month passes in the movie. It shows the two lovers lamenting over their school days and what could have been. On the day of Zhu’s wedding, she receives a letter from Liang where he expresses his love one last time and says he’ll be dead by the time she reads it. The butterfly pin accompanies the letter. Zhu tucks the letter and hair pin into her top and her wedding procession starts. On the way, Zhu sees her ex lover’s grave and stops to pay her respects. She apologizes for lying and pledges her undying devotion to him even in death. Thunder clatters and his grave opens up. Zhu leaps forward to join Liang in death. Their spirits emerge as a pair of butterflies, so they can never be separated again. A soft, sweet melody played as the credits rolled. 

Obanai blinked away the tears that formed at the corners of his eyes. Due to several misunderstandings, the lovers could not be together in life. He swallowed, but in death they were reunited. Emptiness settled in Obanai’s gut as he turned to look at Mitsuri. Her face was red from crying and her eyes were puffy. She blew her nose into the tissue before she tossed it onto the table. Obanai handed her another, their hands grazing each other. 

“I’ve watched this movie so many times and I still cry like a baby at the end, sorry,” Mitsuri said, her voice cracking. Obanai shifted his feet. He had never been good at comforting sensitive people. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “You can cry all you want, I won’t judge you,” he said. Mitsuri grabbed his arm and hugged it to her chest as she buried her face into his shoulder. He froze, unsure of what to do. The woman he liked was crying into his shoulder and hugging his arm. Hesitantly, he raised his free hand and gently patted her shoulder. Would it be too cliche to say, ‘There, there’? 

Mitsuri nuzzled into his shoulder harder and a sob escaped her. “Zhu cared so much for her family, she gave up her chance at love,” she sobbed. Her tears soaked his t-shirt now. “Do you think you would be able to do that?” 

“No,” Obanai answered immediately. He would never give up his lover for his family. Mitsuri lifted her head and met his gaze in a silent question. “My family, well, they’re not good people,” he said. His dad beat him and his mother ignored him growing up. Mitsuri didn’t need to learn all of his baggage on their first date. Wait-was this a date? They never clarified whether it was or not. He cleared his throat. “What about you?” 

Mitsuri bit her lip. “I can’t say. I love my family and our life, but um,” she said and laid her forehead on Obanai’s shoulder again. “I’ve never been in love, or at least I don’t think I have.” 

His heart rate quickened. Why did she have to be so adorable? He raised his hand to her hair and stroked the pink locks. “I’ve never been in love either,” Obanai admitted. It was easier to talk when she wasn’t looking directly at him. 

“You haven’t?” Mitsuri said. Before he could respond, the credits broke and showed the modern day. Zhu appeared on screen waiting in line at a coffee shop. When she came up to the counter, Liang was waiting to take her order. They smiled, recognizing each other as past lovers and the screen went black. 

Obanai’s eyes widened and nearly choked. Embarrassment flooded his senses. He knew exactly how the characters felt the first time he saw Mitsuri smile at him from over the cafe’s counters. Mitsuri shrieked and scooted away from him. 

“Sorry, I forgot the after credits scene. This is really embarrassing,” Mitsuri said in a hurry and waved a hand in front of her. Obanai pursed his lips when he realized he missed the feeling of her leaning into his shoulder. 

“A little,” he admitted before deciding to take a metaphorical leap into the grave. “When I first saw you at the cafe I wanted to ask you out, but I was too shy. I like you a lot, probably more than I should-” 

Mitsuri’s lips pressed against his before he could say anything else. She tasted like cream soda, popcorn, and salt from her tears. His heart soared as he caressed her face and hair. This was not what he expected from tonight, but he was thankful. They broke the kiss. 

“I like you too, Obamai,” she said dreamily. “Obanai!” Mitsuri corrected herself. She could call him whatever she wanted and he would be happy as long as they were together.

[herarcadewasteland]

Discoveries Pt. 3 ♥

A/N: Yes yes its been a little while but I've been busy okay? and i’ve been fired so emotional things. thank you all for the support so far and i hope this makes up for the wait. 

Pt. 1    Pt. 2

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

Stretching in your bed the next morning, you let out a large yawn as you adjusted to fall asleep again. Turning over in bed, you weren’t expecting the face of Fred to be right next you. You let out a startled scream as he laughed you, your eyes rolling as your shoulders shook with laughter. 

“What are you doing, Fred? It’s like 5am.”

“7am. You slept in missy~”

Groaning and flipping to face the other side of the room, your hair swung dramatically with you and into Georges face, who was crouched on the opposite side of your bed, expecting the trouble of waking you up. You screamed again and sat up with a huff, the twins high-fiving over your head. 

“Will you two just let me sleep for another hour at least?”

“No can do. You see-”, George started.

“We need to be at Diagon Alley by 8:30.”, Fred finished. 

You ran a hand through your knotted hair, partly in confusion and mostly in frustration. When it clicked in your head that you had to get some school robes adjusted, you panicked and half jumped, half fell out of bed. The twins backed your frantic movements with laughter as they walked down to the kitchen, the chatter of impatient and hungry Weasleys filled your ears. 

“Why do we have to wait for Y/N to eat?! It’s her fault for sleeping too long!”, Rons muffled voice fell into your conscious and made you speed up your hair and teeth brushing. 

Rushing down the stairs, you stumbled directly into Bill who caught you with a sigh.

“Clumsy as always, Y/N.”

You let out an almost ashamed laugh, your arms squeezing around Bill as he wheezed. Arthur walked in behind the both of you and ushered you into your seats as Molly set down the plate of bacon. 

“Finally!”, Ron muttered as he grabbed the plate of bacon seconds after it hit the table, his plate piling with food.

Food was passed around between the family, conversation filling the air as you ate silently. Your silent bubble was disrupted when Ron dragged you into an argument between himself and Percy. 

“It’s not my fault you have a bloody stick up your ass!” 

“I am a prefect, Ronald, which is something that will actually get me into the Ministry!”

Ron shot you a look of ‘oh dear god not this again’ and you laughed. 

“Percy, you do realize not being a prefect can get you into the Ministry. You just need good grades and the right classes.”

Percy snapped his glare to you, knowing you were right, and sighed. He had always had a sort of soft spot for you, knowing you weren’t actually a Weasley. Which was a dumb reason to not hate someone but you went along with it so not absolutely every child in the house had an argument with him every other day.

“I suppose you aren’t wrong, Y/N. I just have a better chance this way.”

He turned his nose up at you and you laughed, finishing off your plate just as the rest of the family had. The plates were cleared from the table as everyone dispersed to do their own thing. 

“Y/N dear, we must be going if we don’t want to be late. Come now, to the fireplace.”

You brushed yourself off and followed Molly to the fireplace, your hand wrapping around another handful of soft powder. Your eyes glanced up to your mum as she nodded reassuringly. You still weren’t used to it yet and you had a feeling it would take a little while to feel normal and not like you were being vacuum sealed into a plastic bin. With a sigh you threw down the powder and clearly stated “Diagon Alley”, and then you were gone in a swirl of green smoke.

Stumbling from the grate in The Three Broomsticks, you ran headfirst into a solid mass. Panicked, you looked around to make sure you were where you were supposed to be and slowly glanced at whoever you bumped into. Your wide eyes met narrowed ones surrounded by the same white blonde hair from the other day. You took a subconscious step back from the man just as Molly came through the floo, her hands finding your arms as she stumbled lightly into you.

“Mr. Malfoy. If you’d excuse us.”, Her eyes narrowed back at the man as he looked between the two of you, “Come on, dear, off we go now.”

She led you away with gentle hands, your head turning to look back at the man as you swerved through tables. Your eyes met one last time before Molly was tugging you past the door with a firm but gentle hold on your hand. As you met the bustling roads of Diagon Alley, you squinted your eyes at the sun, a frown tugging down the corners of your mouth as you stared at the ground, trying to avoid any ray of sun you could. Leaping between shadows to the fitting, you panted as Molly gently pulled you to a stop in front of Madam Malkins. You sighed and Molly chuckled lightly, her hand taking yours and guiding you in. 

“It’ll only take a minute. Don’t worry dear.”

~~~~~~~~~

“A minute my butt!”,  you exclaimed as you stumbled out of the fireplace in the Burrow, Fred sweeping you off your feet immediately and up to your room where a trunk lay on your bed.

“What is this? Why is my trunk out? What did you do?”

You rounded on Fred and George as soon as you were placed onto the floor, their faces innocent as could be as they watched you with crossed arms and very small smirks of entertainment. 

“You need to pack for Hogwarts!”

“We all have. Our trunks are-”

“-Waiting by the front door.”

“Only two are missing~”

You sighed and stared into the empty space, your eyes tracing loose threads along the seam as you nodded. 

“Okay, I’ll go bother Ronald after I’m done.”

“That's what we like to hear!”, the twins chorused as they walked from your room to raid the kitchen, if Mollys loud reprimanding was anything to go by.

The packing only took you a few minutes, most of your school things were in a separate drawer as it was so all you had to do was move them into the trunk. You finished your packing with relative ease and an overactive mind, the zipper closing breaking the silence you had been working in. WIth a sigh, you pulled your trunk to the top of the stairs before making your way to ROnalds room to aid him in his no-doubt messy packing. Your suspicions were confirmed when you pushed open the door to encounter the entirety of Rons wardrobe scattered around the room. 

“Ron, how? There is no way you had to destroy your room to pack.”

HIs frantic eyes met yours as he scoffed, “Well no, but it felt necessary at the time.”

You hummed and cleared a few spots across the room, handing things to Ron you knew he would want with him. His eyes followed you around when he wasn't haphazardly throwing things into his trunk.

“At least fold things!”, you stomped over to his trunk and folded piece by piece as Ronald sat and watched you with a blank expression until you reached his Chudley Cannon jersey. Then he reacted and grabbed it from your hands with a gasp, his own carefully folding it in a mess. You shrugged and packed it neatly with the rest of his things, the heavier items resting on top of his clothes as the lighter things went on those. 

“There. All done.”, you heaved a sigh as you closed the lid of the trunk, the click of the lock creating a satisfying noise in the otherwise silent room. 

“Thank you, Y/N~”, Ron grabbed you for an overly tight hug, your hands pushing at his arms as you wheezed for a single breath of air that wasn’t from Ron’s vicinity.

“Ok ok ok! I get it, just get it downstairs with the rest of them!”

Ronald let you go after a moment, his frame moving out the door with his trunk in hand as you followed after him.

“You made it sound like you brought yours down! But nooo look at what’s right here!”, Ron huffed and lightly kicked your trunk as he passed it.

“I said the rest of them! Never included mine!”, you shouted after him as you grabbed your own trunk and carried it down the stairs to see Bill and Charlie in front of the floo.

Molly gave the two a big hug with large containers of sweets being shoved into their hands after Arthur gave them a hug as well, Percy nodding a farewell from the couch as he read through the Ministry’s handbook for rules and regulations. 

“Nooooo~!”, you whined, “You can’t leave yet! You like... just got here! We didn’t get to talk about Hogwarts!”

The eldest Weasley boys chuckled and pulled you into their arms for a group hug, tears filling your eyes as they pet your hair lovingly. 

“You know we have jobs to get too, Y/N. We can’t stay to see you off.”

You huffed at them and lightly punched their chests as they smiled at you. A small nod moved your hair into your eyes as you grasped them tighter. While you weren’t as close to them as you were the twins, they had still helped raise you in a sense and that created a connection, plus you were their little sister. Blood or not, that created an even greater connection. Still not one large enough to rival that of yours with Fred and George but it was enough.

“Fine. Just send owls, okay? I wanna tell you everything!”

The boys nodded and placed kisses on the top of your white hair, their eyes slightly glossy as yours overflowed with tears.

“We will.”

“Absolutely we will.”, Charlie finished as he guided you to Molly’s embrace, Bill giving a last wave and goodbye to the family as he stepped through the floo with a call of his destination. 

Charlie gave a similar exit with a blown kiss towards yourself and your mom as he called out for the Ministry of Magic for Romania, however he pronounced it. Their departure set the family in motion as Arthur ushered everyone into the kitchen to go over the basic checklist of the things you would need for your time at Hogwarts. Most of the list was checked off smoothly, Ron mumbling under his breath that it was unnecessary until your dad reached an item he had forgotten and cursed. That got him a small ass-whooping from Molly as she urged him to go get what he had been missing. Fred and George mocked him as he ran up the stairs, your quiet giggles backing them until your parents shushed you all and continued with the list as Ronald slipped down the stairs to his trunk and frantically packed his wand. The list went smoothly after that, everyone having followed the list to pack, well... you had. The trunks were smooshed in the back of the Ford Anglia with a small extension charm, a suspicious popping noise coming from one of the twins trunks, a huff of air and confetti falling into the trunk as they stood rubbing the backs of their necks sheepishly. 

You were all set to head out for Hogwarts, all that was left was getting onto the platform and finding a seat. Easy enough, you told yourself as Fred and George popped confetti onto Arthur as he walked away, their lanky frames sprinting away from a charmed broom as it chased them across the lawn. Easy enough... right?

[noramoya]

The comment I’m passing here is from a reader of the fanfic “https://archiveofourown.org/works/20473640

Comment by fanfic3112 : “

“I adored the chapter and they were sooooo perfect! I love the characters who played Wei and Lan Zhan in untamed and now through this story I couldn't help imaging them in perfect detail! Have you seen the harpers bizarre photo shoot they did or tegu figwort shot that Wei dud with his hair wet and tossed in leather and sun glasses? Or the really gritty shoot they dud in Thailand with red land gold lighting and all dark and shadowy and wang yibo (Lan Zhan) looking just hit as fuck. Wang yibo is so much like Lan Zhan in so many what's with the lack of being bake to match his facial gestures to the hot, quirky, grungy, street punk and sometimes even just cute dance moves but in those photo shoots he just came alive in them. He said he really didn't have very look facial muscles especially around his mouth and so really had to work hard to let his emotions well up in his chest send shine through his eyes but to do the subtle facial moves of Lan Zhan he actually used chop stuck to do exercises to develop more facial movement around hugs mouth sync jaw and I was like damn those chop sticks worked not only on his character in the film but in all of those photo shoots. He definitely got that sexy slow bedroom neck role and looking all sexy under his lashes thing going on. Both him and Wei were yummy you could almost lick then off the screens in the photo shoots. When wang yibo dances he is clearly so single minded and focused and likes all eyes on him because he knows he's so good and that when you get to see something in him behind his sometimes shy or quiet or move stoic look...you get to see what you hit across in one live in this story "I hope Wei appreciates that he is the only person I would ever kneel to. Lan Zhan knows he's capable and tough as shit and revered and try's to distance himself from being smug or prideful but you still see it on his face. Even when wang yibo smilies or laughs in videos he still Cary's this certain Lan zhan quality in his eyes (that constipated bitch face look I love!) but he scan defiantly smilie big when he us with Wei and they were goofing off but it's like over the course of filming he brought wang yibos smiles out more and more but even then after each one you usually see himself looking embassies or self conscious cause he's smirking or embarrassed yes smiling. They were so cute in this story and in untamed!

Yeah seeing untamed added a whole other dimension to the anime, manga, novel translation to me and the characters themselves. Then for the first time I found myself really engrossed in the kazillion bits of social media on them. What interests me so much is how Chinese anime, manga, novels and china itself in terms of history and landscape, Vern the music of Chiba that has that transitional feel used in untamed but also current the music of current bands like the characters who play Wei and Lan Zhan come from (uniq and xnine) but particularly the live wuxian, costume and historical drama. It's so interesting looking at why the whole founder of diabolism package basically opened up china to the world in ways I wonder if even they realize. Up until this last year I had never heard of, nor thought or or gone looking for Chinese anime, live drams, manga or Annie and I've held Annie clubs at middle and high schools abc libraries and taught anime drawing. Korean manga and some anime really only started becoming plentiful over the last two years and it had to do with a change in their laws. The whole china xlposiin of interest and more things showing up and getting dubbed has just blown up. There has to be more still the bottom of it than founder of diabolism had a better marketing plan and used social media better or that it all was just really good BL content although those things are definitely true. I can honestly say there's never been another star ir show from china I could name except the ones now from untamed. And it's not just here in the US, it's in Thailand, Dubai, Japan and multiple countries. It's like china is making itself more known but in a back door soft approach and they chose a BL wuxian drama with some hit young Chinese actors to do it with. Just watching the evolution of the two main characters I have found just as interesting. They have just flooded Twitter Facebook and utube bad from a foreign country that us hard yo get much content out there so it all appears to be licensed and apparently nothing happens in china in terms of film, TV or anime without the government abc the censorship board approving it. I love that untamed actually showed the beautiful scenery and landscape that is reflected in the art work. I always find it interesting how things like this can attract so many people and how the impact can ripple to other areas like tourism dollars, increased fame and money and more opportunities for the actors and writers. I love that but also just find it interesting. On a video Xiao Zhan (Wei) said "it kind of frightens me. I'm trying to stay just me and figure the storm will die down soon but I was really in the past kind of nobody and no one paid much attention to me. Now I've got friends everywhere and they all say they like me but I know that can just disappear anytime so I'm just trying to take the opportunities that come because of the popularity now. I'm prepared to fall back to being nobody again when the tine comes." Which sounded and looked so heartfelt. The interviewer had asked what he thought about all the fans in multiple countries he has now and that was his answer. In the past you just didn't see a zillion twitter comment, Facebook comments and tons if utube vid ribs with interviews and every aspect of their lives shown and tons of cool photo shoots and videos shot all subtitled in multiple languages. In the very recent past there wouldn't be most of that stuff and if you did come across it there wouldn't be subtitles and much of it would be blocked on utube. Of what I did see it just wasn't that good as untamed is. For me it's soldo that they deprecated the characters so well and both seem to be so interesting in their careers compared to America actors and stars. I have a friend that used to like watching the kardashians and I never really got how that was interesting but Xiao Zhan and wang yibo have become my kardashians and now I get why other people found them interesting!”

[itsclydebitches]

Why did RT make Whitely a jerk when they didn’t do anything with it? In V4, it acts like he manipulated Weiss into getting disinherited when he had nothing to do with the event that caused it. Then he briefly distracted Weiss in V6. That’s it. Just make him a good kid in a shitty home! I would’ve loved to see 1 of Schnee kids come out of their home a nice person. He didn’t do much bad, Weiss and fndm hated him, but now they don’t because the show told us he was good now.

I’m so glad you brought up Whitley’s actions in Volume 4, anon, because this has been a thorn in my side ever since he was “redeemed” in Volume 8. I can’t tell you how many posts I’ve seen railing against Weiss forgiving him, saying that’s absurd when he caused her disinheritance, and I’m like no... no. Whitley didn’t cause anything. Whitley is the younger version of Weiss! AKA, an abused kid struggling to keep his head afloat in this household. 

“But, Clyde, Whitley was such an asshole.” Yes, yes he was. Volume 4 is filled with smirking, sarcastic clapping, knowing looks, and fake concern for Weiss. By the time Jacques disowns her in “Punished” we see why Whitley has been acting this way: 

Weiss: Whitley!

Whitley: Yes, sister?

Weiss: Did you know about this?

Whitley: About what?

Weiss: You never liked Winter. You never liked me. But you've been nothing but supportive since the moment I came back.

Whitley: If being kind to my big sister is some sort of crime, then I suppose I'm guilty.

Weiss: ...You wanted this to happen.

Whitley: It's foolish not to do as Father asks.

Now, I’ll admit I’m personally confused as to what purpose Whitley being kind to Weiss serves, or how that behavior reveals a desire for her to be disowned outside of... a general interest in rubbing it in? Idk. It wouldn’t be the first time RWBY’s dialogue implies a lot of nonsense (cough-birds-cough), but the takeaway is that Whitley just wanted this. He didn’t cause it. He has no control over what Jacques does, he doesn’t have Jacques’ ear despite being the favorite (how many times is Whitley sent from the room across the series, reduced to eavesdropping outside?), and he certainly didn’t manipulate the scene at the party. He might have. That might have been something RT wrote, an arc wherein we see Whitley carefully pulling the household’s strings to put Weiss in increasingly stressful situations until she finally does something to piss Jacques off enough... but he didn’t. A different asshole riled Weiss up with his callous remarks, the party conversation fed that flame, and Jacques’ manhandling set her semblance off. What’s Whitley doing during all this? Smiling. He’s taking pleasure in the fact that Weiss is lowering herself in their Father’s eyes, but that doesn’t make him responsible for these events. 

Just as importantly, him being pleased about these turn of events isn’t evidence of an evil nature, it’s evidence that he’s in survival mode. What do we know about the Schnee family? 1. They’ve all been abused by Jacques. 2. They’re filthy rich. 3. The kids have inherited their Mother’s fighting skills... except for Whitley. Working to please his abuser is the only way Whitley has to keep himself safe. 

He does not have the outs that Winter and Weiss did. He doesn’t have the ability to go off to a huntsmen school like Winter. He doesn’t have that ability and an older sibling to guide him like Weiss. The only thing Whitley has is his (implied) talent for business. Running the company. Which is Jacques’ domain. Of course he’s pleased that Weiss has lost her inheritance. Of course he’s hoped that would happen ever since she left. He’s the youngest and has no other prospects except for the company. Becoming Jacques 2.0, keeping him happy, becoming someone invaluable to him (the obedient heir) is the only way for him to try and survive his own abuse. He all but says it to Weiss in that scene: 

It’s foolish not to do what Father says. 

Why would that be? Why might it be foolish to disobey him? Maybe because Jacques is dangerous - both personally and politically - and Whitley has no other means of defending himself except obedience. It’s all well and good to make grand claims like, “He should just leave!” or “Come on, Whitley, fight back!” but abuse doesn’t work that way. It especially doesn’t work that way when he’s a twiggy 14yo without the magic and physical prowess his sisters possess. When Jacques abuses Winter she leaves to go where her school and general can defend her. When Jacques manhandles Weiss she summons a boar to defend herself. When Jacques abuses and manhandles Whitley he... does nothing. Because there’s nothing for him to do. Nowhere to go to, nothing to summon, no one else to turn to. Working very, very hard to ensure he doesn’t piss Jacques off again is the only defense he has. 

You never liked Winter. You never liked me. But you've been nothing but supportive since the moment I came back.

I wonder why that is, Weiss? Why might Whitley not like you? Willow gives us one answer in the form of “You left him alone with us” but the other, simultaneous answer is because he wasn’t born with the cool abilities that allowed her to escape. Why might he hate his two older sisters who won the magical, genetic lottery and escaped this horrible household without a care for what became of him? I have absolutely no idea. Total mystery! 

Whitley is a character who has built his own defenses out of what’s available to him. If he can’t go to school to escape his Father, he’ll make sure his Father can’t find a single fault with him. If he can’t make his way as a huntsmen, he’ll happily inherit the company when big sister Weiss messes things up. And emotionally he’s constructed pretty lies to comfort himself. You think I want the powers that let you defend yourself against ordinary people (like Father), and make people love you, and open a whole world of options to you? No, no, no, they’re barbaric. Why would I want that? 

Weiss: Are you jealous? Is that it?

Whitley: Whatever do you mean?

Weiss: Is that why you hate me? Are you jealous of my abilities? Of Winter's?

Whitley: Hmm... no, not really. Honestly, I find it barbaric. It's beneath people like me. Like Father. 

It’s a classic case of sour grapes. Since Whitley can never have those powers, he’s convinced himself that he’s never wanted them, that they’re “beneath” someone like him. Like Jacques. Father doesn’t have powers, Whitley doesn’t have powers. How convenient! He has to model himself after someone and, well, everyone else left (with Willow metaphorically gone by hiding in her room, drunk). That’s his only recourse, to become what Jacques wants since he’s unable to escape him. We have seen, on screen, Jacques grabbing Weiss’ arm, dictating her movements (why are you leaving my side?), and outright slapping her. Why doesn’t he do those same things to Whitley? Because Whitley learned how to do everything Jacques wanted to get by, right down to wearing little suits and being critical of the two women who “abandoned” the family. It’s him and Jacques vs. the world. There is no one else, so he becomes a mini Jacques, both for safety and for something he perceives as acceptance. 

And the tragedy is that this snowballs. By modeling himself after Jacques, Whitley crafted a personality that no one wants to look too closely at due to that asshole exterior. Willow is too busy drinking. Winter is gone. Weiss doesn’t like him. Even Klein doesn’t like him! But he’s a teenager, not the corporate slaver enacting the abuse, and the fact that no one in the show - no one in his family - went, “Huh, I should probably help Whitley before he literally becomes Jacques in an effort to survive this household” is horrible. We watched Winter help Weiss, but not Whitley. We watched Klein help Weiss, but not Whitley. We watched Willow outright tell Weiss that he’s like this because he was left alone with his abusers, please don’t forget him... and then she forgot him. Only to turn up later demanding access to the home she’d emotionally rejected by sticking a weapon in his face and sending him to his room. When Whitley reveals what was already there, that he’s not inherently a horrible person by helping Nora, Weiss and the show treats it like some kind of “redemption.” But Whitley didn’t need to redeem himself in any way, with the exception of maybe apologizing for just being a general asshole under very justified circumstances. In reality though, his family owes him an apology for writing him off, taking their own advantages for granted, and then being surprised when he didn’t instantly turn out like them. Everyone remembers what Weiss was like in Volume 1, right? That it took leaving that house, living with new people, and having Ruby Rose as an energetic support system to teach her how to be a better person? Whitley had none of that. It’s amazing he’s currently as empathetic as he is, but the fact that so many (characters and fans) expected more without help speaks a lot to how surface emotions trump actual actions. Meaning, characters like Emerald and Hazel did objectively horrific things, including murdering/helping to murder numerous people, but because they sometimes look sad about it on screen most of the fandom defends them. They are adults who made conscious decisions to enact harm in the world, but looking a little sad made me care about them so something-something they were definitely manipulated into this/ignorant about this behavior/forced into this behavior... take your pick as an excuse. But when it comes to the actual abused child on screen whose greatest crime was a few smug comments, oh no. He’s horrible. I can’t believe the show would have Weiss forgive him. But the woman who orchestrated Penny’s death, helped with the Fall of Beacon, and was trying to murder us yesterday? Nah, she’s cool. 

The fact that the show had Emerald literally do nothing to earn her redemption after seasons of villainous activity, but needed Whitley to save Nora/send ships/provide blueprints to redeem himself after being an abused side character this whole time - and the fandom’s reaction to both - says a lot about how ill-considered RWBY’s writing is. 

[akawrites000]

Stupid but feels so right

Villain is just having a nice time, leaning on a railing and staring up at the stars when he sees a silhouette blur past him and land on a rooftop about three buildings away from him. Instinct kicks in and he immediately hides behind the wall, because getting into some scuffle with another Villain would do him no good.

He hears no noises that sounds like a brawl, so he peeks out slowly from his spot behind the wall and catches sight of a blue costume that looks pale in the moonlight. He squints his eyes, trying to discern the figure further. The silhouette moves a little bit into the moonlight and Villain's eyes widen like baseballs.

Hero?! What the hell is he doing here, at this time of the night? Villain whisks his head back to hide away behind the wall, his brain running a mile per minute. Did he perhaps somehow figure out that I'm here? Am I being tracked? But wait, I'm not doing anything today so there's no reason to track me- Villain spends a good fifteen minutes racking his brain up but no matter what, he can't seem to arrive at an answer for the Hero's appearance. He peeks out again- and he’s still here, great. Furthermore, Hero had settled down nicely on that roof , pulling his blue cape further on himself.

Villain lets out a distressed sigh. He doesn't look like he's here to fight. Villain spends a few more minutes looking at Hero, and for some reason the longer he looks at Hero, the more he realises that Hero just looks incredibly lonely, sitting there all alone, curled up on himself, the pale moonlight making him look paler than usual. And Villain immediately makes a decision- he decides to go and give Hero some company, ignoring the warning bells going off in his head.

-

Hero jumps at the sound of footsteps behind him and looks just about ready to bolt after recognizing Villain's form behind him. Villain can literally see Hero's brain working, and so he stops, raising his hands up in a peaceful motion, hoping that the stubborn Hero understands that he’s not here to fight.

Hero's tense muscles calm down at the sight of Villain's hands raised up, and he sits back down, abandoning his instinct to flee. Villain plops down next to him, not making any other movement. Hero gives him a sideways glance, only to look back at the sky after.

"What are you doing here? Did you track me down?"

Villain tries to answer the question with a level voice, his internal self currently in chaos because that was exactly what he had thought around twenty minutes ago.

We're just so stupid aren't we?

"Don't flatter yourself Hero, I have other things to do."

"Like?"

Villain thinks for a moment and then answers, "like stargazing."

Hero whisks his head sideways so fast, Villain momentarily worries if his neck is okay.

"What?"

"You heard me, stargazing. And rooftops are the best spots for that."

Hero wants to laugh but something in Villain's voice tells him that he's not joking.

"Yeah, the stars look beautiful tonight."

It's silent again for a few minutes before Villain decides to speak up.

"So what is the Hero of justice doing here? Don't you guys have like a strict schedule to stick to? Wake up at 6 am and sleep by 9 pm-

He's cut off by Hero's chuckling. Villain just shrugs his shoulders, waiting for him to finish and give him an answer.

"We do have schedules, the waking up part at least. The sleeping part, not so much."

Villain turns to look at Hero and notices dark bags under his eyes. He turns back and stares at the sky.

" Are you on night duty or something?"

Hero chuckles again and Villain finds himself becoming slightly self conscious. What the hell's so funny?! , he screams internally.

"No, it's just that I can't sleep."

"Insomnia?"

"That too, but mostly nightmares."

Villain's heart tugs with a feeling of familiarity. Nightmares was definitely something that he could relate to. But he never imagined that Hero, the person who was the reason for peace existing in this town would get nightmares, and even more so, stay awake at night because of them. He had just assumed that the very fact that the Hero was fighting for all the good things would let him sleep easily at night. So he was wrong.

"And you're not able to sleep because you're scared of them?"

Hero turns to face Villain, giving him a look as if saying "duh."

Villain stammers, throat clammy and heart thundering in his chest. It had been a while since he had a normal conversation with anyone so he really wasn't sure if he was doing a good job. And for some weird reason, he cared.

But Hero understands and qualms his fears with just a few words, " It's fine, I'm not really offended, just confused." He says, and Villain stares at him, jaw dropping in amazement.

And Hero just smiles, and Villain is reminded of the honey words and sunny smiles that Hero showcases on his patrols every day. He suddenly feels sad? He wants Hero to smile only for him, if that even makes sense- and the words leave Villain's mouth before he can stop them,

"Don't smile like that. I'm not one of your precious civilians."

Hero stares back at him, horror and shock written plainly on his face.

(Oh, jealousy was such a dangerous thing. And if Villain was actually jealous, he's screwed, because Hero has thousands of people who love him. And whom does Villain have? None.)

Hero then chuckles once again, but this time it sounds lifeless and dry and Villain hates it.

"Sorry, I got lost in the moment. It has been a while since I smiled for real, I didn't even realize I was doing it."

Now it's Villain's turn to stare at Hero, all shocked and tongue tied.

It seems like Hero understood again, because he answered to the question that Villain wanted to scream out. " Well, it's kinda an embarrassing thing really," Hero mutters, " I smile at citizens because I have to, it's part of my job, not really because I want to."

Villain still seems to be in shock, so Hero just continues, " I- I mean, not all of my smiles are fake you know, I'm not heartless," Hero counters, " it's just that I have to smile even if I don't feel like smiling sometimes and I hate that, because who would want to see a Hero who's just about done with this society right?"

Hero turns to look at Villain and for the second time that night Villain wants to run, not because he's scared but because he's feeling so many emotions that he's never felt before and he doesn't know what to do with them- he feels like he’s going to be swallowed whole.

And more importantly, he can't hide away from Hero's gaze and it looks so heartbreaking. Villain would have cried, if he didn't have a reputation to maintain.

"So, what about the honey words?"

Hero looks at him like he's pleasantly surprised that that's the impression Villain has of him.

"Oh, those are just formalities again, you know, to gain public favour."

Just the thought makes Villain cringe. He definitely can't see himself telling people things that he doesn't mean.

"Then what about fear?" Villain begins, hesitant, " you do get scared right?"

"Of course I do!" Hero laughs, so tender and Villain is left to figure out whether it's real or fake.

Hero understands again, "it's real this time."

Villain is just baffled by this point, " are you psychic or something?!"

And Hero has the time of his life, alternating between chuckling and full blown laughing, clutching his stomach because he's been laughing too much and Villain just wants to disappear into the ground.

"Like I said, it's all a part of the profession. When you're on rescue missions, you have to judge people's mindsets so that you know what to say to them. Otherwise there'll be full blown panic everytime. "

Villain listens intently, finding every word that falls out of Hero's lips incredibly interesting and thought provoking. He had never imagined that being a Hero was such an intricate and delicate job.

"It's just that I've never seen you look scared before," Villain begins, "and all these things that you're telling me, it's all so new..."

Hero smiles and after listening to him, Villain can see the tiny difference. The 'sunny smiles' are usually stiff, where the Hero's lips just form a thin line. This one is more free and natural, making his cheeks pull just right and what the hell am I thinking-

"Well I've never really shared this with anyone." Hero says. " I guess it's more exact if I say that no one has really bothered to ask me about all this, so I never told anyone."

Villain feels his chest constrict because the more he listens to Hero, he feels like his own life is being told back to him, in another voice, and it's not just him talking in his own head, for once.

"You can share anything you want to, if you're okay with me."

A villain trying to offer a hero some solace, how ironic- Villain's mind sings to him.

But the grateful look that crosses Hero's face clears Villain's mind of any previous doubt, if only just for a moment.

"You know, heroes are never allowed to show fear on their faces. It's one of the things that I find hardest to do."

Villain tips his head sideways, as if pondering, "But why? Every human feels fear right? It's a pretty common emotion. Why hide that?"

Hero laughs but it sounds more like a wheeze, "Because according to my superiors, heroes are the symbol of peace. And a symbol of peace is not supposed to show raw despair on his face."

At that moment, Villain desperately wanted to whack Hero's superior hard on their head- whoever they were.

" The other day I was fighting downtown, there was this Villain who could control fire, and it was right in the middle of a pedestrian street."

Villain noticed that Hero's hands began to twitch slightly. It's not because it's cold right?

"I tried my best but I couldn't stop the Villain in time before the fires reached an elementary school right across the street, and there were children still inside the building...

Villain stares at Hero, his heart twisting and clenching in weird places as he sees him breaking down in front of him, his 'hero' mask crumbling.

He looked so much like a normal civilian now, crying for the lives that he couldn't save- except that no normal civilian would have to bear such a heavy burden.

"Even now, i- I can hear-

Hero doesn't speak after that, the sobs that wreck his frame don't let him speak. Villain inches closer to him- slowly, patiently, putting his hands on Hero's trembling ones and looks into his tear stained eyes, as if asking for permission-

"Can I hold you?"

Hero nods and it takes barely an instant for Villain's arms to engulf Hero's trembling figure, picking him up and cradling him close to his chest.

Hero chants, "I'm sorry, please forgive me, I'm so sorry," hands tightly clutching Villain's inky black shirt. Villain rocks back and forth gently, remembering that that's what his mother used to do for him when he was still a child.

Looking at Hero, Villain finally understands how vulnerable a human can be, it doesn't matter what they are, a hero or a villain. At the end of the day, they feel the same things. Loss. Pain. Guilt.

It's okay Hero, you've done enough.

Let me protect you from now on.

And throughout the whole conversation, Villain's mind was berating him, telling him that this was such a stupid decision.

And Villain knows that this may be stupid, that his intervention alone cannot protect the Hero from all the despair and fear that he has to face.

But it doesn't change the fact that it feels right.

And for once, Villain wants to do the right thing.

Lol I really can't write short stuff / I tried to make this more conversational /hope it makes sense/ villain definitely doesn't keep track of the hero's schedule nope / who am I kidding / he probably knows the best spot to watch hero's patrols from/ heroes have to handle so much mental baggage it's sad/ villain finally realizes that they're not so different at the core after all / this villain is not evil btw, doesn't kill people or anything /my writing tends to get so introspective xD

[tenthgrove]

La Squadra Autism/Neurodivergence Headcanons

I’m currently feeling sad because ableism is a thing, so to comfort myself I’m smacking La Squadra with the autism hammer. Here are my headcanons for who in La Squadra is autistic.

CW: ableism, ungodly amounts of self-indulgent validation

Ghiaccio

I’m not the first to suggest this boy is autistic, and it’s part of the reason I love him so much.

Very intelligent, but struggled in school due to his neurodivergence and was mislabelled as a disruptive problem child, even when he genuinely tried to please people.

Not diagnosed since his family didn’t know anything about autism and his teachers wrote him off as ‘naughty’, but after he joined La Squadra, Gelato was like ‘hey you should look into this’. Ghiaccio’s realisation was pretty much immediate.

His loud volume doesn’t always mean he’s angry. Remembering the volume that normal people speak is a genuine difficulty for him.

His main stims are pacing and leg-bouncing (I feel you man). His current main hyperfixation is linguistics.

He sometimes gets overstimulated, usually visually (bright flashing lights etc) so he prefers nighttime. Also, emotions make him anxious, both his own and other peoples. Rarely, he has been known to go non-verbal. Usually tries to hide himself away when this happens.

Used to be better at masking but made the conscious decision to abandon it once he realised the stress it was causing him outweighed the benefits. Risotto actively encourages him to be himself.

Still suffers ongoing problems with anxiety and self-esteem due to ableism he faced in the past. Incredibly grateful to his team for giving him the first environment that is accepting of him.

Risotto

Okay, hear me out on this one.

A combination of autism and solitude left him with no idea how to interact socially as a child. He didn’t realise there was anything different about him until he left home at 18.

Didn’t even know what autism was until he was well into his 20s, at which point he had the classic ‘oh’ moment I’m sure many of us can relate to.

The years between joining the mafia and getting put in charge of La Squadra almost broke him for this reason.

Eventually however, he came to learn social rules by utilising his strengths- impeccable attention to detail and a logical way of thinking. He interprets a social situation not by instinct like a neurotypical person would, but by reasoning.

Ironically, he actually mastered this to the point where his reading of body language is better than the average neurotypical. This can be seen in the way he analyses Doppio. Note how he verbally explains the process in a deductive manner.

His go-to technique for masking is to just not speak. You can’t say anything weird if you don’t say anything at all.

Hyperfixates on certain eras of history. When he does speak, he occasionally can’t help but slip in bits of information about the stuff he knows.

Doesn’t have many overt stims. Instead, he d̵̡̺͙̍i̶̧̝̹̘͌s̶̤̖͂̓͊͘s̶͇̏̄̌͛o̸̦͔̙̍̍̊ĉ̸̰̥̬͛́̐í̶̱͖͙͉a̶̞͕͆͆̔̽t̶̫̬̘̊́̏ͅé̵̩̕s̸̨͎͍̦̈́̒.

Gelato

The best part about a character with no canon characterisation is that you can project on them however you want.

Autism and ADHD combo baby.

Only person on the team with a childhood diagnosis, not that it did him any good. His parents just wanted a label they could stick on him to explain his different behaviour, and were disappointed when they realised he couldn’t be ‘cured’.

Similar to Ghiaccio, he was mislabelled as a problem child, but in adolescence he increasingly used rebellion as an active strategy to protest against the shitty way his family treated him. This went on in an endless spiral of his parents treating him worse and him acting out as a result until they finally disowned him at 17.

Being an autistic extrovert, he often seems weirdly excitable when meeting new people. But each night he lies in bed and thinks about every social situation he’s ever fucked up.

Eventually did learn to do a decent job of masking (mostly just by channelling Sorbet’s energy) but he doesn’t like it and only bothers for his Passione superiors.

Has a lot of stims and is incredibly fidgety. Used to have quite overt vocal tics but now they only come out if he’s especially anxious.

Would have adored the modern self-led neurodivergence movement. All the rainbow infinity badges. King.

[oloreaa]

Vencuyanir Ch. 6 - The Departure

Summary: Elana runs out of time to protect Bean as they depart Arvala-7

Words: 6.2k

Warnings: References to canon-typical violence, hints of unresolved trauma, discussion of grief, worry about the safety/future of own children, anxiety/mental breakdown

Notes: Hello there :) big thanks to both @mndalorians and @teaofpeach for looking over the first and second draft respectively, I love you both so much and thank you for all your help!! 

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After a short period where Elana and Bean delved into their bond, simply feeling the other's presence after nothing but silence for so long, Bean started to become fussy. He wanted to move around, to make up for the days of lying still in the pram, and started to become a little bright bundle of energy that Elana sat down on the ground. She watched him like a hawk as he took off, stumbling and heading towards some rocks, picking them up, throwing them, running some. Repeat. 

Squeaking as some mudjumpers started to appear, he began to chase after them, giggling happily. He played for several hours, always under the watchful gaze of his caretaker, catching up on movement he had missed the last few days, brimming with energy.

Elana leant against a rock and simply rested, feeling completely at peace for the first time since the Mandalorian appeared in their lives.

Speak of the devil.

"He's all right?" the Mandalorian suddenly asked and she flinched, not having seen him coming. Automatically tensing up, her heart started to race, fear paralysing her limbs, and dug her nails into her palm, the sting sharp. She turned her head, and saw that his gaze was fixed on the child, his shoulders relaxed.

"Seems that way," she chose to reply carefully, barely hiding the tremble in her voice, "He worked up quite an appetite."

"Won't he choke on the mudjumper?"

"He has done it often enough. Also, I fed him a few hours ago, he is probably only playing with them."

The Mandalorian scoffed, shaking his head slightly. There was a silence between them, and in that moment, between the sun setting, casting long shadows that contrasted with the beautiful sky and the rugged mountain line, it was almost comfortable. It was a pity, Elana thought. The Mandalorian seemed like a decent person half the time. 

Decent enough for a bounty hunter, at least.

"We're going to Nevarro, right?" Elana asked, almost absentmindedly. He turned his helmet towards her, and gave a sharp nod without saying anything. "You'll get your reward, and they'll get Bean," she continued, not really looking at anything, "Do you know what will happen to me?"

It was a genuine question. Would she go with Bean? Would they even let her stay? Would she be stranded on Nevarro? Would the Mandalorian keep her? Elana felt a shiver run down her back at the last thought, and she barely resisted the urge to scoot away from him.

"I don't know," he said haltingly, "You're not the bounty."

She did not know how to respond to that, so she settled on watching Bean, exhaling slowly. He did the same, and again Elana got the feeling that he could actually be rather nice to be around if he was not a bounty hunter. But what did it matter? Her thoughts were running at hyper speed levels, and every possible scenario played out in her head. He could help them escape. That was unlikely though, since he had gone through all that trouble to secure them. The Mandalorian cleared his throat after a while, and straightened, taking a step away from her.

"The Crest will be finished soon," he said, "We will depart tomorrow."

"All right," she said, fighting to keep the emotion out of her voice. The sun was disappearing behind the rough mountain ranges, and dusk started to settle in.

"I'm glad Bean woke up," he then added in a low voice as he started to walk away, "I'm sorry about the Mudhorn."

Elana stared after him as he made his way to Kuiil, something like hope starting to bloom in her chest.

Bean. 

He used Bean's name. 

Not quarry, not it, not the baby.

Bean.

Maybe, just maybe... the Mandalorian was starting to become attached to them.

Elana picked Bean up, who did a great job at protesting, wanting to chase some more mudjumpers, and tilted him onto her chest. "We'll go to them, all right?" Elana murmured to him, bopping Bean once, a giggle escaping him at the movement, "It's gonna be really dark soon."

The sun was setting on Arvala-7, the scorching heat dissipating, and the unexpectedly cold breeze made goosebumps appear on her skin. Suppressing a shiver and the urge to rub at her arms, Elana straightened her posture even more, pushing her shoulders back as she sat down near Kuiil's heater, where a pot of stew was currently being warmed up on a portable stove.

The Ugnaught gave her and Bean a smile, as he slowly stirred, reaching for a small shaker and adding a few dried herbs to it. Looking up into the night sky, she soaked in the view, knowing that it was probably the last night she would be on Arvala-7. The galaxy above them was becoming more and more visible, so clear that it seemed as if the atmosphere around the desert planet did not even exist. With no clouds on the horizon and no light pollution from the inhabitants there was nothing that inhibited the view of the star-speckled sky.

It was weird, Elana thought. To think that she would leave the planet she had been trapped on for so many months. But each time she had thought it would be different. She always thought that she could maybe save enough of the meagre wage the Niktos gave her. That she would be able to convince someone to help her and Bean get off the planet. Or an elaborate escape plan, something that included taming a wild blurrg and heading to the first settlement she found, like those old Empire-approved holomovies she and her friends used to go to cinemas to watch, celebrating another week of school finished.

But it was nothing like that. Her departure from Arvala-7 would be unceremonious and undignified, and the fact that she could not know how long Bean would still be with her left a bitter taste in her mouth. Elana held the baby a bit closer at that thought, a shiver running down her back.

Should she be counting the days she still had with him? 

Should she be hugging him at every chance, feeling the comforting weight of the baby in her arms, relishing in the way he snuggled up to her, the tickling fuzz on his head, his soft ears? Bean's sweet noises when he was happy, the way his eyes would light up, a smile on his chubby face? Elana felt tears starting to rise as she thought about how she might very soon not be able to hear Bean wheezing softly and snoring at night, lying peacefully on his back, tiny hand wrapped around the soft blanket he adored. Blinking fast, and tilting her head upwards, she pretended to be watching the stars as Kuiil hummed and stirred the stew.

If she had to be honest, she was not in the mood for any company that night. She had not been ever since the Mandalorian appeared in their lives but in that moment, especially that night, Elana wanted nothing more than to be able to lock herself into a closed room, Bean safe in his pram and just give herself time to grieve for what was about to come.

Even if she was starting to feel the freezing cold of the night, she did not want to move closer to the heater, did not want to feel obligated to say anything in company. Bean made a small distressed noise, and looked up at her. His dark eyes were wide and he started to point at the heater.

The mental impression of warmth pressed against her, and a fuzzy picture of him and her near the device was clumsily put into her mind. Elana frowned and told him no quietly. 

I don't want to talk to them, she sent as an explanation, I'm unhappy with them, I don't want to be here.

Bean's ears drooped, and he frowned right back. An image slammed into her mind, of her from his point of view, hunched into herself, shivering. Elana stared at him, eyes wide. He wants me to be warm, she realised, and could not help the touched smile that flitted across her face.

"All right", she murmured, an arm snaking under the little bottom of the child, holding him securely, and scooted closer. 

Settling down near the others, Elana ignored how the helmet of the Mandalorian turned towards her, the beskar reflecting the light. Kuiil was gazing at her kindly, and smiled. "Do you want something to eat?" Kuiil asked.

She accepted quietly with a nod, and smiled back. A small bowl with the stew was given to her, a spoon already sticking in it, and Elana blew on it carefully before tasting it.

It was fine enough, so she blew some more and fed it to Bean. He chomped down on the spoon with a loud click of his teeth, making her chuckle at that. Sharing the meal between them, it did not take long until the stew was finished.

The Mandalorian was fiddling with his vambrace, seemingly fixing some of the wiring in the low light, probably waiting for them to be done so he could eat himself. Maybe her nagging had gone through his thick skull. Elana still does not know why she cared so much, but out here? Other than Kuill? He was their enemy and safest ally at the same time, and the logistics made her head hurt the longer she thought about it. Elana wondered why he did not just go into the almost finished ship, but figured that it was purely his business and it was not as if it was important to her.

Bean babbled happily to himself, his little claws scratching at her arms in a gentle manner, and she pressed a kiss onto the top of his head, soaking up the warmth the little child has to offer, feeling pure love across the bond with a soft sigh. The cold was starting to become uncomfortable at this point, but she felt too self-conscious to try to scoot even closer to the device.

Bean started to squeak at her, almost indignantly, before he stilled. Turning his head towards her, eyes wide, he gave an almost comical shiver. Elana squinted down at him, the corner of her mouth curving up.

He shivered again, holding eye contact, eyes big and watery. "Are you for real?" Elana asked, highly suspicious, a smile creeping on her face.

Bean basically started to vibrate, ears flopping up and down while shivering as dramatically as possible. She could not help the quiet laughter that escaped her. "All right, sweetpea," she told him, giggling while stroking his cheek affectionately, "You're a good actor, I know."

His eyes started to shine, and a low "aaah" escaped him, clearly happy that his plan is working. Elana scooted closer to the fire, still smiling, not missing how the two others have their heads turned towards her, clearly having been watching them both.

"The child is cunning for his young age," the Ugnaught said, voice level, kind eyes twinkling at her.

"I think he is cold," she replied, her smile almost playful, and nudged the little one, who gave a coo.

The Ugnaught nodded, and looked at the green child. "You are a smart one," he told Bean, "Able to recognize what others need." Bean cooed and tilted his head at Kuiil, ears held up high, before snuggling into Elana's chest again.

You're the sweetest, best behaving, most wonderful baby ever, Elana thought at Bean, scratching his back in a circular motion, and it was not long before the combination of having a full belly and being held by her lulled him to sleep. Even though there were not many words exchanged, the atmosphere was almost comfortable, no tension in the air.

"I will return to my home now," Kuiil said after a while, and stood up with a grunt, "I have spoken." Raising a hand in a wave, he gathered what he needed, and mounted the blurrg that had been tied to a rock formation. As he patted the side of the blurrg several times, he called out: "I bid you all goodnight."

The Mandalorian nodded, and she did the same as well. "Do you want to eat the rest?" Elana asked after a while, pointing at the leftover stew. 

"Later.”

Elana raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'll go into the Crest," he said, almost defensively.

"Do it before the stew turns cold," Elana told him, adjusting Bean on her lap, his limbs akimbo while he cooed in his sleep.

The Mandalorian just sighed, before helping himself to the food. With a full bowl in his hand, he turned, gave her a nod which she chose to interpret as thankfulness, and started to walk towards the Razor Crest.

Gathering one of the blankets and the sleeping roll that Kuiil had left for them, Elana made herself comfortable on the ground, the motion practised after a few nights out there. There was no one out here other than blurrgs and lizards, and they had stayed away the last few nights, so she figured that it would not change. Putting Bean into his pram, maneuvering her roll close to him, she lied down and stared at the lamp in the middle of the camping site.

Elana did not know how much time passed before the Mandalorian's steps sounded again, but she closed her eyes and pretended that she was asleep. She heard him getting closer to them, and he stopped at Bean's pram. After a while, he pressed the button, and the pod slid shut.

Not knowing what to think of it, it took a while until Elana could fall asleep.

  The next morning, they readied everything for departure. 

With an approving nod, Kuiil declared the Razor Crest safe for deep space and hyperspeed. The Mandalorian gave a relieved sigh at those words, and it was only a reminder of how time was running out, how it would not be long until he would hand them over to his client.

The bounty hunter cuffed Elana to the pram for the first time in days when he and Kuiil went into the ship for a final inspection before takeoff. Fuming on the ramp of the Razor Crest, worry and fear churning in her stomach, she stared hard at the horizon, trying to take in the way Arvala-7 looked like. It was unlikely that she would ever return again, and even if she did not always enjoy life here, she would not have met Bean without landing on this planet. Bean was the most important thing for Elana right now, and she would do everything for him, anything, trying to keep him safe. 

He was still snoring, the golden light of the sunrise illuminating his face gently, and she hoped that he would not wake up until they are in space, wanting to avoid him being fussy during takeoff, since it could irritate the Mandalorian. Elana would not take any chances.

"I can't thank you enough," she heard him say to Kuiil, "Please allow me to give you a portion of the reward."

Crinkling her nose at those words, she scoffed lightly, nails digging into her palms.

"I cannot accept," Kuiil said, and it did not surprise her. He had helped them for free the entire time, wanting nothing more than to bring peace to his valley. His next words only worsened the sour taste in her mouth. "You are my guest, and I am therefore in your service."

The Mandalorian was quiet for a while, before speaking up again. "I could use a crew member of your ability. And I can pay handsomely," he offered.

"I am honoured. But I have worked a lifetime to finally be free of servitude."

Blinking away furious tears, she stared hard at the ground. If Kuiil can understand the worth of a life free of it, why was he... simply giving Bean up like that? Surrendering an innocent child, just like that?

"I understand," the Mandalorian said, "Then... all I can offer is my thanks."

"And I offer mine."

The Ugnaught was quiet for a few moments, and she felt his gaze on her back, but she refused to turn around. Elana simply straightened, taking a look at the sleeping Bean in his pram.

"Thank you for bringing peace to my valley." It almost sounded as if he was talking to the Mandalorian and her at the same time, and if she pondered on his tone, she thought that she could find a hint of regret in his words. But what did it matter?

Heavy steps sounded as Kuiil descended the ramp, and she stood up the best she could, facing him. "And good luck with the Child," the Ugnaught called from on top of his blurrg, "May it survive and bring you a handsome reward."

The Mandalorian nodded at him, and Kuiil raided a hand in goodbye, old, wise eyes on her, meeting her gaze.

"I have spoken."

Elana clenched her jaw, frown on her face as the ramp raised, cutting off her view from the planet.

"Get up," the Mandalorian said, took off her binders, and pointed towards the ladder. Elana winced at the air that brushed the sensitive ring around her wrists, the skin feeling raw. She climbed, head tucked in low with the new environment, not wanting to bang her body against something, and when Elana arrived in what looked like the cockpit, she quietly inched to the side, letting the Mandalorian step into it as well.

He walked past her, used his vambrace to gently nudge the pram to the right of him, onto a co-pilot's seat. As Elana looked around, there was a symmetrical seat on the left side as well. Sitting down into it, hands in her lap, she watched the Mandalorian as he started to prepare the Razor Crest for takeoff.

Ignoring the whirr of the engine as the ship raised into the sky, and ascended in the atmosphere, she tried to calm her pounding heart and the sinking feeling in her chest. When the ship arrived into orbit of the planet, the warm glow of it slowly fading into the cold and infinite space, Bean woke up. Pushing himself up, and cooing loudly, both adults turned to look at him.

"Morning, Bean," she whispered, and gave him a shaky smile. His eyes went huge as he took in the viewport speckled with stars.

The Mandalorian shifted in his seat, pulled at a lever, and they entered hyperspace. Elana stared at the tunnel of swirling lights, heart beating fast in her chest. It had been so long since she had last seen this...

Bean made a loud squeak, eyes bright as he took in the new sight. Pointing excitedly at the lights, she felt a Pretty! coming from him. 

The Mandalorian turned around, took a look at the babbling baby, and gave something like a huff of amusement. Bean squealed happily, and made grabby hands towards the blue swirling tunnel, little body wriggling as his ears were raised high. Smiling at the sight, Elana subtly took a deep breath, feeling the claw around her heart easing slightly. Only slightly, though.

  They stayed in the cockpit for a few hours, not a word passing between them, the only noises coming from Bean.

Elana wondered whether the Mandalorian would play music, or put on a podcast, or watch a holomovie, anything that she herself would have probably done, but he just stared into the hyperspace tunnel, not moving an inch, with no indicator that he would do anything else.

Maybe he's meditating. Elana tried to find an explanation for why someone would choose to pass the time in hyperspace like that. Or he is sleeping, resting his eyes, whatever.

Because there was no way the Mandalorian simply stared into space for hours at an end without doing anything.

... right?

At some point, the Mandalorian started to fiddle with the sleep cycle on the console of the ship.

"You and the baby can go down for rations," he said. Flinching at the first words that were spoken in hours, she had to calm her fast beating heart. He’s just saying something normal. Not threatening, Elana told herself, and offered a quiet "okay" in response.

Looking over to Bean, she saw that he was chewing on his blanket, and she stood up and gently took it out of his mouth. "Come on," she told him, "We're gonna eat."

Scooping him up, ignoring the slight pang her wrists gave, the skin red and raw after many days of constantly wearing the cuffs, Elana turned to the Mandalorian. "Do you want something as well?"

He was quiet, before saying: "I'll be fine."

Elana blinked in confusion, but walked towards the closed door of the cockpit. It suddenly opened with a hiss, making her jump. When she turned her head to shoot a glare at the Mandalorian, his helmet was still in the same position, the blue light of hyperspace reflecting off it.

He did that on purpose, that bastard, she thought viciously, hiding a grimace.

Setting Bean down, before climbing halfway into the hull, Elana propped her upper body against the ladder so she could grab the baby, nestling him against her shoulder. 

With a slight struggle, she got both of them down safely, and looked around the hull, her wrists burned fiercely. Spotting a cabinet on the side where there could be rations, she pressed the button next to the ladder.

When it opened to a drawer full of weapons, she could not help but sneer. He seemed to be a tough enough adversary without all those ridiculous guns he had organised so neatly inside the drawer.

What was it again? He's a Mandalorian, weapons are part of his religion. Elana scoffed quietly, and muttered "Nutjob" under her breath. Bean cooed curiously, reaching a hand out to the drawer. She balked at that. "Don't even think about it, honey," she scolded him, and quickly pressed the same button so the door would shut, "You're too young for this violent nonsense, you hear me?" 

Pressing another button after carefully inspecting it, it seemed to be the right one, filled with packaged ration bars organised in some compartments. With a raised brow, she took in the contents, and started mentally filing away the different types of bars he seemed to have. Apparently he cared enough to upkeep a variety of selection, and with a smile she saw with a smile that he had those that the encampment had as well, those that Bean loved.

She fished that bar out, and showed it to the baby, who made a happy noise as he recognised the packaging. Bean promptly pointed at in expectantly, waiting for her to open the bar for him.

Elana nuzzled the side of his head with a fond smile. "Yeah, honey, give me a moment," she said, before taking out two random ration bars, and closing the closet. 

Seeing an open cubicle, she sat Bean into it, and pointed at him sternly. "You stay here, I'll be back in a minute, okay?" Bean just looked up at her with big dark eyes, and gave her a gummy smile.

Opening the packet for him so he could chew on it, she left the little one in the cubicle, and pulled herself up into the upper level of the Razor Crest. Clenching the ration bar in her hand, she entered the cockpit, and put it onto the console. “Here,” she said quietly.

The Mandalorian's helmet snapped to her. "Thank you," he said hesitantly, "That's... very thoughtful of you."

Elana clenched her jaw and looked down, already regretting this. "You're welcome," she whispered, before turning, preparing to leave.

"Why are you like this?" the Mandalorian suddenly asked.

She did not turn around, her nails digging into her palms, it hurt, but she could not bring herself to unclench her fist.

"Why are you so…" kind? Was that what he wanted to say?

The Mandalorian never finished the sentence, but the question lingered in the air. She felt her ribcage pressing in, her breath escaping her, heart thrumming against her sternum, and did not know how to respond. The words bubbled up and pressed against her throat, almost painful, and even as she swallowed, the pressure did not disappear, continued to hurt as she stared at him with burning eyes.

Because the universe has not been kind to me. 

Because even though she had lived a fairly privileged life, she had to see her planet's destruction on a newscast. Because she had lost everyone she ever knew in a blink of an eye, stranded on a foreign planet where no one showed her kindness when she needed it.

She wanted to say everything and some more.

Because no matter what, kindness costs nothing and is worth everything. Because even though you're our captor, you are decent enough for not hurting Bean, for not doing worse to me.

"I don't know," was the only thing she could manage, staring into the blank visor, feeling everything and nothing at the same time, body numb. She took a step back, then another, before fleeing the cockpit, feeling her eyes burn fiercely as his gaze lingered on her, almost intense enough to scorch. 

Dropping down into the hull again, choking down her heavy breaths from the confrontation, hands shaking and limbs trembling, she was greeted with the sight of Bean standing in front of the open weapon drawer. A ration bar was in his hand as he chewed slowly.

"Bean!" Elana admonished, hands on her hips as she watched him turn around slowly, ears flattening against his head as he realised that he had been caught.

He gave a coo at her, his dark eyes wide as if trying to appeal at her maternal instincts with acting cute. And damn it, it is working.

"You're in big trouble if I see you doing that again, you understand?" Elana told him sternly, trying to get her emotions under control, "It's dangerous! Those are not toys, those can hurt you if you touch the wrong parts."

His lower lip wobbled, and he looked up at her, eyes heartbroken. She scooped him up, and stepped closer to the drawer. Pointing to the various things mounted in there, she explained. "Those are blasters, they'll shoot a laser bolt out of the parts there, you see? It hurts a lot when you're shot with it, so stay away from them, okay?"

Bean blinked up at her again, and then ate the last bite of the ration bar, gurgling. Elana sighed, before closing the drawer. Taking a look around the hull, she sighed again. "Now, where are we supposed to sleep? You don't suppose on the floor, right?" Elana asked Bean, who did not give an answer. Not that she expected him to. 

She started to carefully explore the ship to avoid thinking of the bounty hunter, holding Bean tightly so he would not even get the idea of going off on his own again. Elana took note of the different crates, the nets hanging above holding various tools. The location of the standard issue medicine cabinet that was well stocked, and the carbonite freezers in the back.

Elana stared at them, feeling her heart drop. 

She had only heard horror stories about them, how the frozen person would still be completely aware of their surroundings the whole time they were in. How it would hurt to get frozen and that they would be sick for a long time after they were released from the device. Was it that there was a sixty percent probability of survival? Or was it lower? How did the Mandalorian even get his hands on these?

Suddenly she realised how lucky she had been to not be slabbed by the bounty hunter, how he had tolerated every time she had snapped back. Did he only slab dangerous quarries or did he refrain from doing it to her because he would have to look after Bean without help?

Elana did not know the answer to that, but one thing she was certain of. She was running out of time with which she could escape. Bean gurgled at her, and she could do nothing but sigh. What a mess. What an absolute, horrible mess.

Turning away from the carbonite freezer, she settled down onto the floor of the hull, ignoring the biting cold of the metal. >"You're not going anywhere near there, all right?" Elana told Bean in a stern voice, "It's dangerous, okay? In fact, everything on this ship is very, very dangerous."

She pointed a finger at him, and Bean lowered his ears, mouth down turned.

"No."

He whined loudly, and raised his hands up at her. Elana sighed, and pulled him onto her lap, holding him close.

"Oh, honey," she whispered, and pressed a kiss onto his forehead, "What have we gotten ourselves in?"

He seemed to understand the weight of the question, and did nothing but coo and nuzzle her skin, ears hanging low.

How do we get away now?

It was long until she was able to settle down, from pacing along the hull of the ship, trying to work out some of her nervous energy. She was quietly panicking until Bean had fallen asleep on her shoulder and is currently snoring quietly while his warm breath puffed against where his little face was. Then, she had carefully lowered herself onto the ground, back leaning against the hull, giving Bean the opportunity to snooze some without her pacing like a nervous Mid Rim chicken. As his breaths deepened, she started to quietly hum a song, letting the melody soothe both her and the baby.

He snuggled into her chest even more, and she carefully traced a finger over his cheek, looking down at him with the utmost devotion. There is nothing she would not do for Bean. Her scalp hurt, so she reached up, taking care not to disturb the baby, and started to methodically loosen her braids, sighed in relief as the tension lessened, massaging the ache away.

The little lump on her chest gave out a little coo and sighed contentedly, nose twitching slightly. She stroked the soft ear, tracing the shell of it with her fingers, and started the song from the beginning again. She was close to falling asleep herself, she noticed, but was so tired that she actually did not care. 

She will deal with it tomorrow.

Elana jerked up, wide awake once more, the panic swelling up again. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow Bean will be delivered to the client. She exhaled shakily, feeling her heart beat fast.

She propped herself up a bit, looking up and saw the Mandalorian watching her. She did not know how long he had been standing there, but she definitely had not heard him. They stared at each other for a few seconds, Elana's eyes wide, and his visor trained on her. Who knew what kind of face he had underneath the helmet. Who knew if he was sneering at her or mocking her.

Bean let out a yawn that cracked his face wide open, and then pressed his face into her shirt, little legs scooting up froggy style, straddling her stomach. She automatically moved her arm under his little bum, supporting the child, and looked down at the green baby.

His face was squished into her, head turned slightly upwards, button nose twitching. He started to snore softly, and Elana felt her heart break.

That was what the Empire wanted to destroy, that little, wonderful, precious creature, her child. They would take his innocence away, and she would probably never see him again. For the rest of his life, he would be experimented on, he would never have a childhood, he would never have friends, he would only know the hands of uncaring scientists that would toss him away as soon as they finished their examinations.

Hate welled up in her, white hot anger, pure despair and helplessness swirling inside her as her eyes started to burn. 

The Empire would take her child away and give him a horrible life. They would take Bean away and there was nothing she could do. The only thing that could happen is that the Mandalorian changes his mind, but that was unlikely. If he did not want to turn them in, he would have left them on Arvala-7. Elana felt wetness on her cheeks, her vision of Bean blurring more and more. Careful so her tears would not drop on the sleeping child, she tilted her head back and stared hard at the ceiling. 

"Could you move the pram to me, please?" Elana could not recognize her voice, hoarse and meek. 

The Mandalorian just nodded in her peripheral vision, pushed a button on his vambrace, and the pram floated to her, nearly at ground level. Setting the sleeping Bean into it, she was glad he did not wake up when she shifted him.

As soon as the lid of the pram closed with a slight hiss, she clenched her eyes shut and inhaled deeply, making no noise other than slightly hitched breaths. She did not shift in her seat, did not move or change position. Elana just could not stop crying. The tears rolled down her cheeks without her consent, and she did not bother to wipe them away, her limbs not cooperating anyways.

Elana couldn't fight against the Empire. She was not able to when they destroyed her planet. She would not be able to save her baby as well. She could not fight against a Mandalorian. 

I hate you, she thought at him, jaw clenched tight.

She saw how the Mandalorian's helmet tilted in her direction, observing her. Her vision blurred some more, new tears welling up.

I hate you, Elana thought again, heart aching, choking on a sob that caught in her throat. I hate you so much.

The Mandalorian just kept watching her, not moving an inch. She finally looked back, tears obscuring her vision but she gave him the fiercest glare she could manage. Pushing herself up from the ground, away from the pram, she knew that she looked exactly into his eyes.

Elana stepped closer to the Mandalorian, and he straightened. Leaning into the Mandalorian's personal space, getting into his face, she wanted nothing more than just stab him in the neck. Never before had she felt such hatred towards anyone. 

He is the one who will give my child to the Empire.

"Go to hell," Elana heard herself say, her voice barely above a whisper, breaking on the last word. Before he could say anything, she pushed past him, and disappeared into the tiny fresher, slamming the door shut. Back leaning against the door, she slid down to the ground, biting her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood.

Never before had she felt such loathing. She hated him. And that was apparently all that was needed for her to completely break down. Burying her face into her hands, she sobbed, shoulders shaking under the strain of keeping quiet.

It did not matter to her anymore. The notion that she had to maintain the stoic facade in front of the Mandalorian had gone up in smoke, she did not care at all if he found her pathetic. Let him mock her for all she cared, let him laugh himself stupid at the sight of her tears, reduced to rubble under his silent judgement.

She felt like a complete fraud, everything she did before to protect Bean? It was worth nothing, because he would give them up anyway. She could have tried to kill him before they left Arvala-7, but she did not. Never mind what would have happened, she could have killed him, stabbed him in his sleep while they were repairing the Razor Crest. She and Bean could have stayed at Kuiil's place until they would have to leave again, seeking shelter somewhere else. If she had done that, Bean would not face capture tomorrow. If.

Elana cried until she was trembling, every single one of her limbs shaking uncontrollably. She cried until there were no tears left, and then some more, until exhaustion took over her and she fell asleep on the floor, against the door of the fresher, heart aching too much for her to handle. 

If. Oh, only if.

……………

Thank you for reading!!

[barbasbodaciousbeard]

Trust Me

Summary: Rafael’s First case since coming home has Rebecca antsy, but it also gives them a way to tell people about Catalina. 

Pairings: Rafael Barba x OC

A/N: Is this a series? Sure? I can’t stop won’t stop. This one comes before the Valentine’s One Shot

Part One  - Part Two  - Part Three  - This one - Part Five (Valentine’s)

“It’s just a meeting,” Rafael whispered, curled beside Rebecca in bed. He’d gone back to his apartment to get more clothes, but for the most part, Rafael hadn’t left Rebecca’s side since spending Christmas Eve with her and Catalina. He liked the mornings most. They would both wake up before Catalina, laying in bed and playing with each other’s hair and chatting about what the day would hold. She’d kissed him in front of Catalina the day before, and the little girl barely noticed. He was getting excited for Rebecca to go back to work as it neared because he’d get to spend days he wasn’t in court or meeting with inmates taking care of Catalina. 

“I’m just nervous. You’ve changed. I’ve been able to tell, but it’s only been a week and a half.”

“I know. But I’m not jeopardizing all of this. I might take defense work. I told you that and Olivia knows that.”

“Promise you’ll keep being communicative?” 

“I swear to you, Becca. I know it’ll take time for you to feel like I’m not lying.”

“I don’t think you’re lying,” she murmured, propping her chin in her hand to watch him. “I just gotta get used to non-workaholic Rafael.”

“Now I’m sappy family man Rafael, apparently. I’ll be a house husband if that’s what makes things work best.”

She grinned, kissing him softly. It had been nice to see him like this, content to stay home and be together. For once, he wasn’t chasing success, trying to prove he deserved everything he’d gotten. What had been exceptionally nice was seeing him more emotional than she thought he’d be. They’d watched Up, and he’d laid back on the couch and cried throughout the emotional parts, sniffing and pretending he hadn’t when Catalina mentioned it. 

“Mama? Mr. Barba?” they heard echo from down the hall, and Rafael smiled softly. He’d been there ten mornings now, but this was the first one she expected to see him. 

“Let’s go get the kiddo,” she grinned, kissing his temple.

“She called for me too,” he said proudly, slipping into his sweats. When they got to her room, Catalina climbed out of the bed, sticking her arms up. Rafael picked her up happily, bouncing her on his hip.

“Morning mija,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head. 

“Morning Mr. Barba.”

“I have to work today. Can you keep an eye on mami?”

“Si! Does that mean you have to go home?”

“No. I’ll be back for dinner. I promise.” He gave Rebecca a meaningful look she knew meant I really will be here for dinner this time, and she hoped it was true. Rebecca took Catalina downstairs to make breakfast, and Rafael showered and dressed. It was oddly soothing to see him in the pink and blue shirt and jeans, casual coat slung over his shoulder and casual shoes in hand. She relaxed when she saw him, and he smiled softly. 

As promised, he was home that night in time for dinner, and though he looked tired, he looked content still. They ate together, moving to the living room. He worked on the couch as Catalina played and Rebecca folded laundry. It made more sense why she just wanted him there now. Maybe he wasn’t paying them active attention, but he was there to watch Catalina dance through the room or help Rebecca tote the laundry basket. He could almost understand why his presence made her happy. 

“I’m shaving before jury selection,” he told her, legal pad on the arm of the couch, Catalina having fallen asleep with her head on his lap. The pen in his hand hovered over the page, and he knew the nonchalance was feigned. 

“No,” Rebecca whined softly, and Rafael couldn’t help but laugh as he leaned into her touch as she scratched along his jaw.

“Clean shaven men are perceived as more friendly and more sociable. I don’t need unconscious biases added to my personality.”

“I don’t like defense work now.”

“I think I can pull it off when it isn’t such a controversial case.”

“We’ll be telling her the truth tomorrow then. Beard’s the only thing keeping you incognito.”

“Are you okay with that? I can stay at my house.” 

“No, I’m okay with it. I trust you. I wanted to wait longer, but you’re doing really well. You’re an amazing secret dad, and I know you’re not going anywhere.” He nodded, going back to work again. Rebecca sat in an armchair, notebook of plans for when school started again in her lap. It was more peaceful than it had ever been to be home with him as he worked. He hummed softly, hand not writing staying on Catalina’s side. When he came to bed, his beard was gone, and he seemed more self conscious than she expected.

“She’s going to know you’re her dad now,” Rebecca said, fingers trailing his jaw. “You look exactly the same.”

“I look older now,” he pouted. “My suits are mostly too small now too.”

“You’re just as hot, Rafi. Beard or no beard. And I like the little bit of weight. You’re so handsome. Total DILF.”

“Dios mio,” he said, rolling his eyes. “DILF? Really?”

“Do I gotta remind you, counsellor?” He groaned softly as she pulled him in, and he let her remind him. In fact, he was lucky enough to wake up to sleepy kisses and an eagerness to remind him again. As they laid together catching their breath, Rafael peppered kisses to her shoulder. This was a much better way to spend the morning before court than running out the door and eating a danish frantically as he walked from his office. Who’d have thought a five o’clock wake up could always be so enjoyable?

“We’ll miss you today,” Rebecca whispered, brushing his hair back.

“I’ll miss you both. You certainly gave me a lovely wake up call, mami.”

“Mmm, can you blame me, papi? Getting to see you every day?” He chuckled when he heard movement down the hall, tossing her his shirt as he pulled on his sweats. 

“Mija’s up.”

“We’ll see how long before she guesses.” They made their way to her room, and their question was quickly answered when a wide awake Catalina examined Rafael’s face seriously. She seemed unsure, arms crossed.

“Good morning mija,” he said softly, and it seemed to connect he was Mr. Barba was the beardless man in her room. She climbed from the bed, going to her book case where the little photo album sat. It held pictures of Al and Rodney, Rebecca, and Catalina as she grew up, but it also held the picture of Rafael that Rebecca used to talk about him.

“Mr. Barba looks like daddy. Is he daddy?” Rebecca didn’t know what to say. She’d thought it might be the end of the day before pieces were strung together, but Rafael dropped to sit on the ground.

“I am your daddy,” he said softly. “I wanted to let you know me first before we told you.”

“Where were you?”

“I was working a long way away. I couldn’t be here, but I am now. And I’ll never go away, mija. I like being your daddy too much.”

“Do I hafta call you Mr. Barba?”

“No.”

“How do you say daddy in spanish?”

“Papi.”

“Can we make cinnamon rolls, papi?”

“Yeah, of course,” he whispered, eyes watering as he pulled her in close for a hug. Rebecca hadn’t expected it to go so well, but she should have known Catalina was both too young to really get he’d been gone and too happy to have Rafael, her father or not,  around to really care. “Papi has to shower. Is it okay if mami helps with cinnamon rolls, and I’ll help ice them?”

“That’s okay,” she nodded, kissing his cheek. Catalina went to get her bear, and Rebecca kissed Rafael sweetly. He squeezed her hand, happy tears still in his eyes as he smiled at her. As quickly as he could, he showered and dressed, jacket, socks, and shoes on the couch as he held Catalina on his hip and helped her ice the cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven. 

Rebecca had already noticed in the two days of this trial that Rafael was making home and work boundaries. Once he got home, he’d immediately hang his jacket and take off his shoes, ready to talk about the day. They ate together happily, and she knew this was going to be a late night. He’d told her he was going for jury nullification, and in the biggest change, he’d explained the process to her and what it meant. She had an idea of why he’d be late and how much of the day would be spent charming and selecting a jury.

“Hey,” she answered when he called at lunch. 

“Hey. I just wanted to hear your voice.” He sounded tired, but also happy to be back in court in New York.

“Yeah? Got spoiled being home, huh?”

“Yeah. How’s Cat?”

“She’s really good. Al stopped by to talk about the first day back. She told him all about how much fun she’s been having with papi.”

“I bet he loved that.”

“You’re growing on him. I tell him every time you do good stuff. And you haven’t really done anything bad.”

“You gossip about me?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Al’s been through too much with me. But he can see you’re different too.”

“Fair. Can I start gossiping with Rodney?”

“Honestly, yeah. You two will probably end up pretty close.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He had to figure out how to share and all that stuff too. I think that’s why Al can accept your change. His husband had to grow. Rodney was really guarded.”

“I just want to come be with my girls.”

“We’ll be here, Raf. Cat may be asleep when you get home, but I’ll put french toast casserole in the fridge. Stick it in the oven in the morning so we get family time.”

“I can’t wait. I have to go back in. Te amo, mi corazón.”

“I love you, Rafi.”

He came home that night, laying his jacket over the back of the couch and taking off his shoes. Rebecca had been in the kitchen, and she leaned over the back of the couch to wrap her arms around his shoulders. He put his hands on her forearms, smiling when she pressed a kiss against his temple.

“Long day?” 

“Yeah,” he exhaled, closing his eyes as his head leaned back. “I got a good jury though. And Carisi has become a great attorney. I’m proud of him.”

“Tell him that.”

“He won’t believe me.”

“Could mean something.”

“He’s going black and white. That’s the only thing that worries me.”

“Maybe talk to him when there’s some time between you and the trial?”

“I may do that. I’ve gotten relaxed. I don’t think he knows how to handle it. Don’t get me wrong, I was charming their asses off, but I took my jacket off and rolled up my sleeves in the courtroom. But Carisi was on top of it. He’s going to do great tomorrow. I’m a little bit worried.”

“Good. You’re even more charming. Plus hot,” she teased, pouring him a drink. “It sounds like you did a great job helping Carisi along. He’s probably grateful. This trial will throw him off too, going up against his mentor. But, you need to eat, counsellor. I kept you a plate warm.”

“You’re so good to me,” he groaned. 

“I love you,” she shrugged, handing him the plate and sitting beside him on the couch. “I like taking care of you.”

Each day of the trial continued the same, and it let Rebecca know she could breathe. He’d have breakfast with them before leaving. At lunch he’d call to check in. Trial days were nicer because he’d walk in just in time for dinner, insisting he get to do the bedtime routine since he hadn’t gotten any time with Catalina that day. Catalina asked about him throughout the day, but after he came home the second day, she also seemed to really trust papi would come home. They’d accepted it was time to move his things to her apartment, even if he kept his a while longer. It was the last day of the trial when Rafael proposed a change.

“Come by the bar after the case,” he murmured as he tied his tie in the mirror. “I want you to meet them.”

“Even Olivia?”

“Even Olivia. Al’s been dying to babysit. Says I’m taking all the Cat time. Come to the bar, then I’ll take you to a nice dinner. Just us. We haven’t gotten to do that yet.”

“That sounds perfect, Rafael. Do they know about her?”

“Carisi does because he goes to the same church. He saw us on Christmas Eve. Otherwise? No. But I’m fine with telling them. Just not until after the end of today.”

“Fair,” she smiled, kissing him softly. “I love you. I know it hasn’t been an easy case.”

“It’s been fine. He just needs a defense.” She fixed him with a look and he sighed. “I know. I don’t want to unpack that part until after, but you’re right. People taking life into their own hands is personal. I’m sure Liv will bring it up too. You can bond over making me talk about my feelings.”

“You did the right thing.”

“So did he.” 

They had breakfast with Catalina, and it was easy enough to get Al to babysit. Have a date with your reformed ex. Rodney and I will have happy uncle time. Per usual, Catalina was ecstatic to pack a bag to spend time with her uncles. She also always took too much, wanting to be sure she had enough toys to share. Always prepared, like her dad. It was Rebecca who always had to run out to buy a toothbrush or deodorant. Facetime us at lunch so she can see you before she goes to Al’s she sent, laid back on the couch with Catalina on her chest. He sent back an affirmative, letting her know deliberation had started and he’d be setting up camp in a coffee shop nearby. Want company? 

“Hiya handsome,” she grinned, answering the nearly instantaneous call. 

“Hola, hermosa,” he chuckled. “You two don’t have to do that.”

“I can drop her bag with Rodney. Come have lunch with you before I take her to meet Al. He’s taking her to the Z-O-O, so we’d be that way later anyway.”

“I’d love it then.”

“Half an hour?”

“See you then.” 

“Hey, Cat,” she grinned, kissing her temple. “Want to go have lunch with papi before you see Uncle Al?”

“Yes!” she squealed, and Rebecca texted Rodney she’d be dropping the bag by. Once they were both dressed, they walked the couple of blocks to pass off the bag before taking a cab to the coffee shop Rafael had sent her the location for. When they were in the door, she let go of Catalina’s hand and watched as she ran to Rafael who had spotted them as soon as they walked in. He had a cup of coffee in front of him, sliding it aside carefully as he settled her on his lap. It made her emotional to see them together. Since the reveal Mr. Barba was actually papi, he’d been in court, and it was nice to get to slip some time into their day. When she sat, she realized he’d gotten her an iced latte, and Rebecca mouthed a thank you. He shot her a smile as Catalina agreed to settle in the seat beside him. 

“How are my girls?” he asked, arm slung behind Catalina and a content smile on his face. 

“I think we had a good morning! We watched Moana and packed. Cat’s going to go play with Uncle Al and Uncle Rodney tonight.”

“Mija, that sounds like so much fun!” 

“It is, papi!”

“Tell Al and Rodney I say hi.”

“I will!” She saw who she now knew was Carisi come in with a blonde, and when he saw the three of them, he gave them both a nod and their space, telling the blonde to get a table on the sidewalk. Al met them at the diner, Catalina hugging and kissing each of her parents before she took his hand. Rebecca had already put on a pretty dress so that she wouldn’t have to go home, and Rafael’s nervous energy made her glad she wouldn’t be leaving him alone. 

“I’m fine,” he fibbed after she asked again. She fixed him with a look, and he held her gaze before letting his shoulders slump forward. “Carisi may win. And with what he offered me to make a deal at the start.”

“Oh no.” She reached across the table, hand resting on his wrist, and Rafael Barba suddenly regretted not being more open with her about anything. That light touch relaxed him, reminded him that while Mickey may end up in prison Rafael had done what he was able to do. Maybe things would have ended differently if he’d had it after cases before.

“Yeah. He’s going to be crushed. But, he admitted things he shouldn’t on the stand. Including a lack of regret.”

“So it’s hard to convince anyone its spur of the moment.”

“And you should have seen Carisi laying that out,” he said with a proud glint in his eye.

“You have to tell him you’re proud of him or I will.” He laughed, and Rebecca went to the courthouse with him to hear the verdict. Mickey was found guilty, just as Rafael expected, and she hugged him gently when he came out. The walk to the bar was comfortably silent as he kept her hand in his, and he smiled to see all of them, save Olivia, at the table.

“Who’s this?” Carisi asked, sending him a knowing smile. 

“Rebecca. But don’t play dumb,” Rafael said, ordering their usuals.

“Who’s Rebecca?” Amanda asked, and Rebecca chuckled, taking her drink.

“I’m his girlfriend, and he’s horrible at introductions.” Rafael’s mouth became a straight line, and she elbowed him playfully. “It’s nice to meet all of you.”

“I’m Amanda. Dominick, Cat, Fin. Liv isn’t here yet.”

“Thank you. I’m glad somebody’ll make introductions.”

“You just wanting to show her off?” Fin joked, and Rafael smiled over at her.

“Maybe. We actually have a sitter, so I’m taking her to dinner.”

“Smoothe, Rafael,” Sonny said plainly as the other three stared. “If I hadn’t been at Christmas Eve mass, I’d be speechless too.”

“You’ve seen the kid?” Amanda asked, and Rebecca was content to watch the chaos. Of course Rafael would drop the fact they have a daughter like that, no back story, no warning. It was very on brand; state the facts and move on. Only this time, he slipped his phone from his pocket and pulled up a picture, one from the other night. A bundled up Catalina was in his lap as they ate, and almost immediately, he swiped to a video of Catalina squealing in delight as he caught her at the end of the slide at the park. Make me fly! she’d giggled, and Rafael lifted her high and walked her to the ladder of the slide to repeat the process. 

“We love that park,” the blonde said, and Rebecca was relieved she’d broken the silence. Apparently no one had ever expected to see Rafael in a pullover and messy hair, much less running through a park with a toddler over his head. For all Rollins knew, she’d seen them there and not even recognized him. 

“Us too. It’s her favorite. Knows I’ll say no when it’s too cold, but papi’s a sucker.”

“She got her mother’s doe eyes when she wants something,” he said plainly, ordering another drink. Conversation moved to the case, and she leaned against the bar beside Rafael and watched them. He was content, and even though he was more serious with this group, she caught his gentle ribbing and could see his brow wasn’t as furrowed as it always was. When he’d shaved, he mentioned feeling older, but the way he carried himself now seemed so much younger and so much freer. 

“Well, I’m going to whisk Rebecca off. Take advantage of date night. Good job Carisi. You’ve turned out to be a damned good attorney. Tell Liv I’m sorry we missed her.” He helped Rebecca into her coat before putting on his own, hand resting on her lower back as he guided her out. 

“You do know you need to wait and tell her about Cat.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, looking at his phone. “She’s almost-”

“Rafa. You already leaving?” Rebecca knew this had to be Olivia, and she suddenly felt very nervous as she looked over to see the woman’s eyes on her.

“Liv,” he smiled softly. “I was worried we’d miss you.”

“This must be Rebecca.”

“I am. It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much.”

“He didn’t tell me you two were back together.”

“There’s a lot to it,” he said softly, pulling out his phone. “I cut her off when I left. She tried to tell me, but I found out when I showed up before Christmas Eve. Becs let me come to mass. I never left.”

“Tried to tell you what.” Rafael’s face was focused as he found the album of pictures and videos of Catalina so Rebecca looked at Olivia.

“I was pregnant when he left. Catalina is two and a half. And since Christmas Eve? A total daddy’s girl.” Rafael handed her his phone proudly, having started at the beginning of the album at the picture of him holding Catalina on his hip before mass. Olivia swiped through the pictures, and Rebecca could see her processing much like Al had needed to do. At least Al had known about Catalina.

It didn’t help that she knew no one else tended to see him in jeans, laughing and running and sappy. That was the Rafael that had been reserved for her. They’d seen the snark, the seriousness, the impeccable suits. Hell, how easily he’d transitioned to fatherhood had shocked Rebecca and she’d seen him hiking in upstate New York and jumping into a river in his boxers after she’d dove in. It took almost an hour of goading as she floated in the water to get Rafael Barba to skinny dip, no matter how isolated they were. 

“Wow. She looks just like you,” she said, her smile warm. “This is- a lot. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to finish the case. And we hadn’t told her yet. She figured it out when she saw me shaved. Becs had been telling her about me. Had a picture she showed her. I shaved and she asked why Mr. Barba looks like dad, and we told her.”

“You do know this means we all have to go to the park soon?”

“Deal. Amanda gave Becs her number to have a playdate with Jessie and Billie.”

“Carisi can bring his niece. It’ll be a party,” Rebecca teased. “Doesn’t Fin have a grandkid?”

“We have a sitter,” he said, sudden nerves taking over at the idea of bringing the squad and all of their children around. Mami had to meet Catalina first. They’d deal with that when it wasn’t date night. He filed it under For tomorrow. “So we’re going to take advantage of that. It’s good to see you. We’ll have dinner soon, okay?”

“Have a good night, Rafa. It’s nice to meet you, Rebecca.”

Rebecca waved as Olivia ducked into the bar, leaning into Rafael. He kissed the top of her head, arm wrapped around her. Something about his limited circle that remained in New York knowing relaxed him, even if he was nervous at the prospect of meeting all of them at a park. He had friends in Iowa, and the ones he talked to on the phone found out quickly. It was harder here because if something happened, he was afraid having Olivia know would make it worse. Now that she did know, however, he realized it may have been a fear he couldn’t run once he told her. Rafael Barba had been an idiot, and if it weren’t for the Householder case sending him away, Olivia was close to going to find Rebecca herself. He’d been far too mean after, and well aware it was his fuck up. But now, he felt nothing but pride to have shared the news, and he was becoming acutely aware he seemed to be crushing his desire to run much more easily than he’d crushed his ability to share all those years ago. 

“What’s going on in there?” she asked as they walked, tapping his temple.

“I’m happy. People knowing feel more solid. I’m not going anywhere, but now I get to tell everybody about her whenever. Have people ask.”

“You get to be Rafael Barba, sappy family man?”

“Yeah,” he said, and the crookedness of his smile and softness of his eyes made her heart flutter. “Everything’s different for me now. And I’ve told people, so they know it’s different. You did enough to change me. Knowing there’s a little girl that calls me papi and wants to be around me? Nothing is ever going to be the same. You changed my world, but now there’s a part of me in her, and no matter what, that part of me is separate and autonomous, and that’s magnificent to know.”

“I love you,” she said plainly, arms wrapping around him as they stopped. There were no other words she could think of, and her eyes were tearing up as she looked up at him. It warmed her heart to see his were too. 

“I love you too, Becs.” And with that, she was stretching up to kiss him slowly, hands cupping the back of his neck. He pulled her close, enjoying the time together where he didn’t need to worry about Catalina needing them or walking in and letting out a whine of gross. Parenthood’s only fall back he found was not being able to be affectionate with Rebecca the same way. He supposed it was better sometimes; he certainly had a tendency to try to distract her from whatever he didn’t want to talk about with a searing kiss before shedding clothes. But the part that he didn’t like losing was making out lazily on the couch, having sex without worrying they might get caught, and being affectionate without the risk of jealous little hands tugging at pants legs because Catalina didn’t like not having her parents’ attention. She was smiling up at him when they pulled apart, and when they were led to their booth, he slid into the same side as her, unwilling to give up the closeness. 

“Someone didn’t go to sleep,” Al teased the next morning, handing Rafael Catalina’s bag once the little girl had run inside. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rafael said, but his smile gave him away easily. “Rebecca’s getting some rest, or she’d be saying hi.”

“Keep being good to her Rafael. You might just make me like you. You’re making her very happy.”

“Does that mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

“It means I don’t hate you anymore.”

[ladymaigrey]

Enneagram and DD/Defenders – Part 2 – Matt the Reformer

Find all the posts in https://ladymaigrey.tumblr.com/tagged/enneagram (or go to my blog and look for “enneagram” tag)

gif courtesy of @dead-fandom-support-group​ (see her other enneagram gifs here)

TL:DR – The Reformers are perfectionistic and idealistic, with strong drives to “do good” and little patience for any perceived failure. Quick to anger and guilt-prone. Certain, stalwart and arrogant on the outside, they question themselves on the inside: are they actually “good”? are they sure they are right?

When under stress, they can become narrow-minded, self-centred and dramatic (movement towards Type 4 - Individualist).

For balance, they need to learn how to relax and let-go a bit - let the world spin on its own for a little while (acquire some characteristics from Type 7 - Enthusiast).

Matt: in addition to fitting Type 1 description (and often going towards Type 4), also has some characteristics from Type 2 – Helper, particularly the tendency to put the needs of other’s before one’s own, to the point of martyrdom.

The Reformer - in general

The Reformer has a strong value system about what is right and wrong and is quick to judge themselves and others in accordance to these norms. They are perfectionistic, but practical. They struggle to tolerate ambiguity or subjectivity, preferring objective facts and categories. They like to plan, organise, control, impose order over chaos.

The Reformers are their own harshest critics. They can be quick to anger if they see themselves or others falling short of their ideals. Yet anger often causes guilt, if they believe that a truly “good” person should not get angry. Therefore, anger is often suppressed out of conscious awareness. Still, it tends to come out in expressions of righteous indignation, sarcasm and guilt.

They are quick to argue, moralise or instruct – because they Know How Things Are Supposed To Be. Yet, internally, they are often worried that they are wrong, that they are not Good. Although they may question themselves on the inside, outwardly they will struggle to shift from their position because admitting they are wrong is too threatening to their idealised self-image.

The Reformers are over-responsible. At extreme, they can get burned out with carrying their unrealistic “shoulds” and “musts”. They struggle to relax and have fun.

According to Wagner (1980, p. 60) “They identify with St. George slaying the dragon, crusading to make the world a better place to live in.”

Research participants identified (or identifying) as Type 1, also tended to have high Conscientiousness (Big-5) scores and high Sensing (S), Thinking (T) and Judging (J) scores in MMPI test.

Matt the Reformer 

Judging on the basic outline and, particularly, that St George quote, Type 1 fits Matt well.

His definition of “doing good” is to defend the little guy against injustices and stand up to the unjust strong and teach them a lesson. He is perfectionistic, highly conscientious and disciplined when it comes to his goals - a legacy of his Dad’s insistence on academic diligence, Stick’s drilling, and his internal drive to protect and see justice done.

He is very certain of his direction on the outside, defending his position with a bull-headed obstinacy to rival the Punisher, but he questions himself on the inside. He is often plagued by worries that he is not, in fact, “good” or “just” at all – worries that he most likely internalised from his childhood, from those who admonished “Be careful of the Murdock boys, they have the Devil in them.” Therefore, he feels like he must forever prove his goodness to himself.  He is over-responsible to a ridiculous degree, taking it as a personal goal to prevent all injustice he “can” (i.e. that he is within an earshot of, and his earshot is looooong). Whenever he “fails” - guilt and rage follow. Rage (and violence), in turn, feed into his guilt and self-doubts about being “good”. Sometimes it seems that he is more guilt-ridden than an old farmhouse is ridden with termites.

For all of Type 1s’ practicality and need to control, when it comes to pursuit of goals and facing threats, they tend to make decisions instinctually, based on the product of their perceptions and gut-response. Matt Murdock is an allegorical embodiment of this concept. He responds to what his senses tell him – responds immediately and, often, drastically, without pausing for thought or communication with significant others. For type 1s (and other “gut” types 8 and 9), this often stems from the belief that “life is a battle, and their weaknesses must be tested” (Zuercher, 1992, as quoted in Hook et al., 2020), and THIS IS THE MOST MATT-DESCRIPTIVE STATEMENT I’ve ever read in a peer-reviewed psych article!

In addition to Type 1 characteristics, Matt shares some Type 2 characteristics (in Enneagram parlance, that would make him a Type 1 with a Type 2 wing). Specifically, Matt seems to take pride in denying his own physical and safety needs in order to meet the needs of others, as per his self-imposed responsibilities. This type of martyrdom is more characteristic of Type 2s (Helpers). At the same time, the occasional over-the-top drama that goes with that martyrdom is characteristic of Type 4 (Individualists).

Although, to be fair, it is always difficult to judge psychological state purely from behaviour. So, it is debatable whether his tendency to put his needs last is driven more by his Type 1 perfectionism (i.e. his internal need to do “good” overpowers his other basic needs), or his Type 2 martyrdom beliefs (i.e. the belief that his suffering is immaterial, and even required, in the face of the suffering of others, and that he only matters when he helps others). As @ceterisparibus116 and I discussed sometimes ago, it seems that martyrdom tendencies tend to raise their head when he has faced some kind of “failure” or setback - when he is feeling low regarding his life and identity. At such times, it is perhaps a heightened need for self-sacrifice – to prove his goodness and worthiness through meeting the needs of others to the detriment of his own - that may contribute to some of his more painful (and draMattic) physical excesses.

Then again, human psychology is a mudbath and it is never clear which rising bubble is driven by which underlying motivation.

(As an aside, I do think that the DD-fandom (myself included) has embraced the Type 2 martyr!Matt more than the canon actually suggests. He is often written in fics as forgetting or forgoing his basic needs (including food, sleep and medical care) in order to constantly give of himself to others. I wonder if, on some level, it reflects the real-life tendency to react to Type 2s – the “humble” Helpers – in a more positive or warmer way than the “arrogant” Type 1 do-gooders.)

Anyway.

When faced with crisis and failures, Matt does tend to move towards Type 4 (Individualist), as suggested by the Enneagram theory. He becomes dramatic in his sense of uniqueness and messiahnism; also – self-isolating, liable to be impulsive and making self-destructive decisions. His thinking narrows down myopically to the sole pursuit and defence of his goals. Although his goals as Daredevil revolve around “saving” others, being Daredevil is a large part (if not the whole) of what defines his life’s meaning to him. Therefore, his narrow focus at these times of high stress, and his prioritisation of Daredevil’s goals above the feelings and goals of significant others, is suggestive of a strong core of defensiveness/self-protectiveness. The righteousness of his aims is, in part, a psychological mask; it is a demand for others to excuse his poor relational behaviour on the basis of the specialness of the burden he chooses to bear.

That is not to imply that, when Matt stands up for his identity and his goals to his friends, it should only be regarded as a sign of self-centredness or depression! Telling those, who persistently refuse to accept someone’s truth, that ‘this is who I am’ – as he does to Foggy in Seasons 1 and 2 – can be a sign of positive self-regard and self-esteem. Similarly, when Matt gravitates towards the Type 4 Elektra and attempts to embrace some of her ideals of putting personal wants before duty, it is driven by a healthy impulse to balance the obsessive nature of his goals. Or, at the very least, to share the burden.

Matt is also capable of behaviors that, according to the Enneagram, balance some of the unhealthy extremes of his Type 1 characteristics. Although he is serious and driven most of the time, he is also capable of relaxing and having fun (which is a type 7 characteristic – the balance archetype for Type 1s). Although Matt is perfectionistic, it isn’t driven just by guilt and fear - he also wants to reach his targets (e.g. excelling in law school) for the sense of achievement it gives him (which is a Type 3 trait). He practices some mental and emotional self-care, leaning into the benefits of meditation which, at least in theory, should allow him to switch off from his over-thinking and judging, and simply be touch with his internal sensations without reactivity.

Finally, I think the fact that Matt doesn’t totally disavow his anger but, instead, finds a productive release for it while punching crime in the face, is overall a healthy(-ish) impulse. His anger has a specific role in his goals. Therefore, he has, at least partially, solved the dilemma that plagues Type 1s, i.e. that their anger means they can’t truly be “good”. Only partially though, as he certainly still has plenty of self-doubts and internal guilt trips (see the “why did God put the Devil in me” conversation with Father Lantom in Season 1).

Wagner (1980) advises that, in order to achieve psychological balance and free themselves from the overwhelming perfection of their world-altering goals, Type 1s need to learn that,

“The universe is not perfect, yet, but it is unfolding as it should. Be patient, God isn’t finished with me, yet.” (p. 113) 

To me, this advice seems similar to the idea of the Tapestry that Father Lantom spoke of to Matt (see conversation between Matt and Sister Maggie in S3e13). Enneagram, being theistic in its origin, makes many allusions to the perfection of the Process by which the world works and of the Divine Thought guiding it. This axiom states that all moments and all creatures within this process are perfect in themselves and in their place. Perceptions of imperfection come from the Ego, which is of the mind, not of the Divine original essence. Serenity – the lost virtue of Type 1s – comes from trusting the perfection of the process and the Divine Love guiding it.

By the end of Season 3, Matt appears to have made some steps towards accepting this premise. At least - intellectually. Maybe.

References

Wagner, J.P. (1980). A descriptive, reliability, and validity study of the Enneagram personality typology (Doctoral Dissertation). Retrieved from https://ecommons.luc.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=3108&context=luc_diss

Zuercher, S. (1992). Enneagram spirituality: From compulsion to contemplation. Ave Maria Press.

[nonopi]

fever dream Jack x Miranda, Mass Effect 2

Jack aims to sleep her sickness away, but what she gets instead is a cryptic fever dream.

for @lesbianically, my @masseffectholidaycheer giftee!

---

Jack wanted to be anywhere but here. Trapped between the commander Shepard standing in the doorway and the bed she was currently lying paralyzed on, under a barrage of Cerberus-issued blankets.

"She doesn't nurse just anyone back to health." Jane had a big smile on her face again, like she’d just found out some grand secret. "And I would know."

"Just shut up," Jack hoped she sounded as ferocious as she imagined, despite the pile of blankets muffling her voice and how stuffed her nose was. "Go away."

She heard Shepard laugh again before retreating back into the common area. Finally, quiet at last. Normally she could take a little teasing from the commander, but she couldn't even breathe out of her nose right now. Standing was out of the question. And why did she feel so, so cold? She wasn't used to covering her entire body with cloth, but now she couldn't get enough of it.

Jack closed her eyes tightly, willing the sickness away. It's mind over matter, baby. A motto that had done her well for the most part. But this was something she couldn’t control, as much as she hated to admit it. It infuriated her, frustrated her, and it made it even worse that Miranda was the one actively taking the time to make sure that everything was being done to get her back in top condition. Miranda was in control. Miranda was in control of Jack’s livelihood. 

Literally, anyone else would be better. Even Mordin fucking Solus. In fact, why not send Dr. Chakwas in? The actual doctor onboard the ship.

She only had one option at this point. Sleep. Rest. Heal. If time was the only thing that could fix her, she might as well not be conscious to suffer through any of it. If only her brain would shut up for five seconds to drift off into sleep. Sleep didn’t come naturally to her under normal circumstances anyway, this probably wasn’t going to be the exception.

Jack’s eyes split back open, immediately snapping onto the pills Miranda had left on the side table next to a bottle of water. She remembered it in a groggy haze, she was awake but feigning sleep as soon as she heard the telltale sounds of Miranda’s boots hitting the floor. But she was not fooled by that charade.

“Take these pills when you’re ready to sleep,” she set the pills down without hesitation, her voice just as trained and unwavering as ever. “Dr. Chakwas said they’ll clear up some of your symptoms but it’ll knock you out. Don’t throw them away.” 

She would’ve rolled her eyes if she could.

But what Jack remembered the most was when the silence stretched out but neither woman moved a muscle. She didn’t know if Miranda was waiting for a reaction or a verbal response but she wasn’t going to give her one. But that wasn’t it at all, it was a cold but smooth hand laid to rest on Jack’s forehead. The sensation soothed her headache, made her feel vividly present in a way she hadn’t even before she fell ill. Something about being detached, aggressive enough to keep people away, never vulnerable enough to let people even get a glimpse of herself, her true self. To let someone touch her in such a way, a way that couldn’t be misconstrued as hostile or with ulterior motives, just the intention to feel and to help.

And when she felt her eyes spring open, gaze landing on Miranda’s too-pretty face and her carefully schooled expression and the other woman only had this to say, “Take the pills, Jack. We’re the same, we hate the loss of ability. But if you’re going to be vulnerable anywhere, it might as well be here.”

Then she turned and left without another word and Jane came in shortly after, Jack’s head still reeling from whatever had just happened. 

And now? The stupid cheerleader was right. How long was it worth it to stay miserable and staring at the blank wall that touched her bed just to maintain some control over a body that had betrayed her with some higher purpose of fighting a virus? Even if she trusted nobody else on board, she did trust Jane. And Jane trusted everyone else, even Miranda. Was that enough for her?

Jack took the pills and the water and swallowed. 

It was only a matter of time now.

---

Dreams that faded into nightmares she was accustomed to. No one lives through horrors like she had without bringing it with them everywhere, subconsciously. She meant it when she said she didn’t sleep well. Ever.

But drug-induced sleep? It wasn’t her first time. Plunged into eternal darkness, no concept of time or surroundings or a body. It was nothing and she was no one. And waking was jarring and incomprehensible. The concept of not existing seeped into consciousness and followed her ruthlessly, sometimes bringing her to tears.

This was not that way. Not yet. 

It was not blackness but warmth. It was not the cosmic void, but the cosmic heat and light of places she knew. This is where her dreams and nightmares were, sequences fading in and out, creating cohesion where there logically was none.

She let it happen, watched as her body took her places. First an errand for Jane for something in the cafeteria that did not belong there. Then they were off the ship and on Omega, red lights dominating her vision. They were all walking somewhere, the entire crew. She couldn’t gather if it was in panic or in excitement. She followed and followed until she was on the Citadel. At least she had the decency to know she hated it here in reality. But something was wrong and she was pushing herself over the railing and into the decorative pools that separated the walkways. She had to find something. Or someone? She sloshed through the shallow waters knowing it would take her to the lower levels of the Citadel, somehow ending up in the seedy bars that the Alliance military officers sometimes frequented. But it wasn’t quite right, something was off about the bar because where it once had faceless walls, it sprouted wings of corridors of cells. 

“Where is she?” It was Jane. She couldn’t see her but she must be near. Her voice was hoarse and when Jack tried to respond, her throat hurt too. Had she been yelling the same?

But she felt the anger, seething rage, pouring out of Jane’s voice and into her own. “Where is she?” An echo, she was already summoning her biotics to force an answer out of an unknown entity. Faceless. Dark. A cigarette in his hand was the only light upon him.

“You can’t have her.” Her own voice again, her heart pounding in her chest, fear winding her body tight, fear not for herself but for another. How long had it been?

She could feel the tears, a torrent down her cheek. “Speak, you sick fuck!” But she couldn’t move forward, towards or away from the man. Her biotics fizzled away until she was just Jack, her hands balled into fists, her emotions too much for her.

Jane pulls at her arm and they’re running away. Something pursues them. They’re running through the corridors of cells, the water from the presidium pools hinders their every movement. Searching, searching, they’re looking for someone. She’s so grateful to Jane for being there to help her.

And suddenly there’s nothing again. Jack kneeling in a pool of black water, a body in her arms. The white suit of a strong woman. The jet black hair twisted and stuck to her pale face. But she’s okay. They’re both okay.

“They can’t have us.”

It wasn’t her voice this time. It was Miranda’s.

---

This was worse than a nightmare. She could quell fear. It was something she was so violently trained to do. But waking from a dream, a nightmare, where she wins. And the woman in her arms is someone she couldn’t get out of her mind because everything she did, everything she stood for made her feel so passionately angry and confused and frustrated. 

She knew they were the same, god damn it. 

Miranda didn’t have to say it to her face. They both craved control because they didn’t have it for the majority of their lives. They were both victims of the same thoughtless and cruel people who did not care about the body count, they only cared about progression.

Jack knew all that. And she didn’t care. She didn’t want to fucking care.

But a dream like that held her hostage. Whoever she was in that dream, seeped into this reality now. That Jack with Jane by her side, that Jack who so desperately searched for a missing Miranda, who held her close, and fought against The Illusive Man to keep her away from him, to keep her independent, indebted to no one but herself. Who was that woman? Because it was not her and the thought made her both exhausted and fraught with worry that she never could feel that way again. She would only be that Jack in dreams. Because reality was too cruel to love anyone. Or let anyone love her.

She took a deep breath and touched her forehead, feeling the unhindered air fill her lungs and clear her groggy head. Maybe it was okay to let that Jack stay in the back of her mind. A beacon, a symbol that she could move toward in the darkness. Because she didn’t want to fight forever. She wanted somewhere she could stay and protect and live. 

It wasn’t something she allowed herself to think about often. But Jane opened the door again and maybe it was okay to let it stay open this time. And maybe she could let other people through too. People who helped her. 

People like Miranda?

She groaned and rolled over in her bed, sticking her arms and legs out to meet the cool recycled air. “Over my dead fucking body.” Even though she said it out loud, into her pillow, she wasn’t sure she believed it anymore. 

Or maybe it was just the sickness talking.

[and-then-there-were-n0ne]

George Orwell, Notes on Nationalism

Somewhere or other Byron makes use of the French word longeur, and remarks in passing that though in England we happen not to have the word, we have the thing in considerable profusion. In the same way, there is a habit of mind which is now so widespread that it affects our thinking on nearly every subject, but which has not yet been given a name. As the nearest existing equivalent I have chosen the word ‘nationalism’, but it will be seen in a moment that I am not using it in quite the ordinary sense, if only because the emotion I am speaking about does not always attach itself to what is called a nation – that is, a single race or a geographical area. It can attach itself to a church or a class, or it may work in a merely negative sense, against something or other and without the need for any positive object of loyalty.

By ‘nationalism’ I mean first of all the habit of assuming that human beings can be classified like insects and that whole blocks of millions or tens of millions of people can be confidently labelled ‘good’ or ‘bad’. But secondly – and this is much more important – I mean the habit of identifying oneself with a single nation or other unit, placing it beyond good and evil and recognizing no other duty than that of advancing its interests. 

Nationalism is not to be confused with patriotism. Both words are normally used in so vague a way that any definition is liable to be challenged, but one must draw a distinction between them, since two different and even opposing ideas are involved. By ‘patriotism’ I mean devotion to a particular place and a particular way of life, which one believes to be the best in the world but has no wish to force on other people. Patriotism is of its nature defensive, both militarily and culturally. Nationalism, on the other hand, is inseparable from the desire for power. The abiding purpose of every nationalist is to secure more power and more prestige, not for himself but for the nation or other unit in which he has chosen to sink his own individuality. [...]

It does not necessarily mean loyalty to a government or a country, still less to one’s own country, and it is not even strictly necessary that the units in which it deals should actually exist. To name a few obvious examples, Jewry, Islam, Christendom, the Proletariat and the White Race are all of them objects of passionate nationalistic feeling: but their existence can be seriously questioned, and there is no definition of any one of them that would be universally accepted.

It is also worth emphasizing once again that nationalist feeling can be purely negative. There are, for example, Trotskyists who have become simply enemies of the U.S.S.R. without developing a corresponding loyalty to any other unit. When one grasps the implications of this, the nature of what I mean by nationalism becomes a good deal clearer. A nationalist is  one who thinks solely, or mainly, in terms of competitive prestige. He may be a positive or a negative nationalist – that is, he may use his mental energy either in boosting or in denigrating – but at any rate his thoughts always turn on victories, defeats, triumphs and humiliations. He sees history, especially contemporary history, as the endless rise and decline of great power units, and every event that happens seems to him a demonstration that his own side is on the up-grade and some hated rival is on the down-grade. But finally, it is important not to confuse nationalism with mere worship of success. The nationalist does not go on the principle of simply ganging up with the strongest side. On the contrary, having picked his side, he persuades himself that it is the strongest, and is able to stick to his belief even when the facts are overwhelmingly against him. Nationalism is power hunger tempered by self-deception. Every nationalist is capable of the most flagrant dishonesty, but he is also – since he is conscious of serving something bigger than himself – unshakeably certain of being in the right.

Now that I have given this lengthy definition, I think it will be admitted that the habit of mind I am talking about is widespread among the English intelligentsia, and more widespread there than among the mass of the people. For those who feel deeply about contemporary politics, certain topics have become so infected by considerations of prestige that a genuinely rational approach to them is almost impossible. [...] And there are whole strings of kindred questions to which you can only get an honest answer from someone who is indifferent to the whole subject involved, and whose opinion on it is probably worthless in any case. Hence, partly, the remarkable failure in our time of political and military prediction. It is curious to reflect that out of all the ‘experts’ of all the schools, there was not a single one who was able to foresee so likely an event as the Russo-German Pact of 1939. And when news of the Pact broke, the most wildly divergent explanations were of it were given, and predictions were made which were falsified almost immediately, being based in nearly every case not on a study of probabilities but on a desire to make the U.S.S.R. seem good or bad, strong or weak. 

Political or military commentators, like astrologers, can survive almost any mistake, because their more devoted followers do not look to them for an appraisal of the facts but for the stimulation of nationalistic loyalties. And aesthetic judgements, especially literary judgements, are often corrupted in the same way as political ones. It would be difficult for an Indian nationalist to enjoy reading Kipling or for a Conservative to see merit in Mayakovsky, and there is always a temptation to claim that any book whose tendency one disagrees with must be a bad book from a literary point of view. People of strongly nationalistic outlook often perform this sleight of hand without being conscious of dishonesty. [...]

Obviously there are considerable resemblances between political Catholicism, as exemplified by Chesterton, and Communism. So there are between either of these and for instance Scottish nationalism, Zionism, Antisemitism or Trotskyism. It would be an oversimplification to say that all forms of nationalism are the same, even in their mental atmosphere, but there are certain rules that hold good in all cases. The following are the principal characteristics of nationalist thought:

Obsession. As nearly as possible, no nationalist ever thinks, talks, or writes about anything except the superiority of his own power unit. It is difficult if not impossible for any nationalist to conceal his allegiance. The smallest slur upon his own unit, or any implied praise of a rival organization, fills him with uneasiness which he can only relieve by making some sharp retort. If the chosen unit is an actual country, such as Ireland or India, he will generally claim superiority for it not only in military power and political virtue, but in art, literature, sport, structure of the language, the physical beauty of the inhabitants, and perhaps even in climate, scenery and cooking. He will show great sensitiveness about such things as the correct display of flags, relative size of headlines and the order in which different countries are named. Nomenclature plays a very important part in nationalist thought. Countries which have won their independence or gone through a nationalist revolution usually change their names, and any country or other unit round which strong feelings revolve is likely to have several names, each of them carrying a different implication. The two sides of the Spanish Civil War had between them nine or ten names expressing different degrees of love and hatred. Some of these names (e.g. ‘Patriots’ for Franco-supporters, or ‘Loyalists’ for Government-supporters) were frankly question-begging, and there was no single one of them which the two rival factions could have agreed to use. All nationalists consider it a duty to spread their own language to the detriment of rival languages. [...] Nationalist thought often gives the impression of being tinged by belief in sympathetic magic – a belief which probably comes out in the widespread custom of burning political enemies in effigy, or using pictures of them as targets in shooting galleries.

Instability. The intensity with which they are held does not prevent nationalist loyalties from being transferable. To begin with, as I have pointed out already, they can be and often are fastened upon some foreign country. One quite commonly finds that great national leaders, or the founders of nationalist movements, do not even belong to the country they have glorified. Sometimes they are outright foreigners, or more often they come from peripheral areas where nationality is doubtful. Examples are Stalin, Hitler, Napoleon, de Valera, Disraeli, Poincaré, Beaverbrook. The Pan-German movement was in part the creation of an Englishman, Houston Chamberlain. For the past fifty or a hundred years, transferred nationalism has been a common phenomenon among literary intellectuals. With Lafcadio Hearne the transference was to Japan, with Carlyle and many others of his time to Germany, and in our own age it is usually to Russia. But the peculiarly interesting fact is that re-transference is also possible. A country or other unit which has been worshipped for years may suddenly become detestable, and some other object of affection may take its place with almost no interval. In the first version of H. G. Wells’s Outline of History, and others of his writings about that time, one finds the United States praised almost as extravagantly as Russia is praised by Communists today: yet within a few years this uncritical admiration had turned into hostility. The bigoted Communist who changes in a space of weeks, or even of days, into an equally bigoted Trotskyist is a common spectacle. In continental Europe Fascist movements were largely recruited from among Communists, and the opposite process may well happen within the next few years. What remains constant in the nationalist is his own state of mind: the object of his feelings is changeable, and may be imaginary. But for an intellectual, transference has an important function which I have already mentioned shortly in connection with Chesterton. It makes it possible for him to be much more nationalistic – more vulgar, more silly, more malignant, more dishonest – than he could ever be on behalf of his native country, or any unit of which he had real knowledge. When one sees the slavish or boastful rubbish that is written about Stalin, the Red army, etc. by fairly intelligent and sensitive people, one realizes that this is only possible because some kind of dislocation has taken place. In societies such as ours, it is unusual for anyone describable as an intellectual to feel a very deep attachment to his own country. Public opinion – that is, the section of public opinion of which he as an intellectual is aware – will not allow him to do so. Most of the people surrounding him are sceptical and disaffected, and he may adopt the same attitude from imitativeness or sheer cowardice: in that case he will have abandoned the form of nationalism that lies nearest to hand without getting any closer to a genuinely internationalist outlook. He still feels the need for a Fatherland, and it is natural to look for one somewhere abroad. Having found it, he can wallow unrestrainedly in exactly those emotions from which he believes that he has emancipated himself. God, the King, the Empire, the Union Jack – all the overthrown idols can reappear under different names, and because they are not recognized for what they are they can be worshipped with a good conscience. Transferred nationalism, like the use of scapegoats, is a way of attaining salvation without altering one’s conduct.

Indifference to Reality. All nationalists have the power of not seeing resemblances between similar sets of facts. A British Tory will defend self-determination in Europe and oppose it in India with no feeling of inconsistency. Actions are held to be good or bad, not on their own merits, but according to who does them, and there is almost no kind of outrage – torture, the use of hostages, forced labour, mass deportations, imprisonment without trial, forgery, assassination, the bombing of civilians – which does not change its moral colour when it is committed by ‘our’ side. The Liberal News Chronicle published, as an example of shocking barbarity, photographs of Russians hanged by the Germans, and then a year or two later published with warm approval almost exactly similar photographs of Germans hanged by the Russians. It is the same with historical events. [...] If one looks back over the past quarter of a century, one finds that there was hardly a single year when atrocity stories were not being reported from some part of the world: and yet in not one single case were these atrocities – in Spain, Russia, China, Hungary, Mexico, Amritsar, Smyrna – believed in and disapproved of by the English intelligentsia as a whole. Whether such deeds were reprehensible, or even whether they happened, was always decided according to political predilection. The nationalist not only does not disapprove of atrocities committed by his own side, but he has a remarkable capacity for not even hearing about them. For quite six years the English admirers of Hitler contrived not to learn of the existence of Dachau and Buchenwald. And those who are loudest in denouncing the German concentration camps are often quite unaware, or only very dimly aware, that there are also concentration camps in Russia. Huge events like the Ukraine famine of 1933, involving the deaths of millions of people, have actually escaped the attention of the majority of English russophiles. Many English people have heard almost nothing about the extermination of German and Polish Jews during the present war. Their own antisemitism has caused this vast crime to bounce off their consciousness. In nationalist thought there are facts which are both true and untrue, known and unknown. A known fact may be so unbearable that it is habitually pushed aside and not allowed to enter into logical processes, or on the other hand it may enter into every calculation and yet never be admitted as a fact, even in one’s own mind.  Every nationalist is haunted by the belief that the past can be altered. He spends part of his time in a fantasy world in which things happen as they should – in which, for example, the Spanish Armada was a success or the Russian Revolution was crushed in 1918 – and he will transfer fragments of this world to the history books whenever possible. Much of the propagandist writing of our time amounts to plain forgery. Material facts are suppressed, dates altered, quotations removed from their context and doctored so as to change their meaning. Events which, it is felt, ought not to have happened are left unmentioned and ultimately denied. In 1927 Chiang Kai-Shek boiled hundreds of Communists alive, and yet within ten years he had become one of the heroes of the Left. The re-alignment of world politics had brought him into the anti-Fascist camp, and so it was felt that the boiling of the Communists ‘didn’t count’, or perhaps had not happened. The primary aim of propaganda is, of course, to influence contemporary opinion, but those who rewrite history do probably believe with part of their minds that they are actually thrusting facts into the past. When one considers the elaborate forgeries that have been committed in order to show that Trotsky did not play a valuable part in the Russian civil war, it is difficult to feel that the people responsible are merely lying. More probably they feel that their own version was what happened in the sight of God, and that one is justified in rearranging the records accordingly. Indifference to objective truth is encouraged by the sealing-off of one part of the world from another, which makes it harder and harder to discover what is actually happening. There can often be a genuine doubt about the most enormous events. For example, it is impossible to calculate within millions, perhaps even tens of millions, the number of deaths caused by the present war. The calamities that are constantly being reported – battles, massacres, famines, revolutions – tend to inspire in the average person a feeling of unreality. One has no way of verifying the facts, one is not even fully certain that they have happened, and one is always presented with totally different interpretations from different sources. What were the rights and wrongs of the Warsaw rising of August 1944? Is it true about the German gas ovens in Poland? Who was really to blame for the Bengal famine? Probably the truth is discoverable, but the facts will be so dishonestly set forth in almost any newspaper that the ordinary reader can be forgiven either for swallowing lies or failing to form an opinion. The general uncertainty as to what is really happening makes it easier to cling to lunatic beliefs. Since nothing is ever quite proved or disproved, the most unmistakable fact can be impudently denied. Moreover, although endlessly brooding on power, victory, defeat, revenge, the nationalist is often somewhat uninterested in what happens in the real world. What he wants is to feel that his own unit is getting the better of some other unit, and he can more easily do this by scoring off an adversary than by examining the facts to see whether they support him. All nationalist controversy is at the debating-society level. It is always entirely inconclusive, since each contestant invariably believes himself to have won the victory. Some nationalists are not far from schizophrenia, living quite happily amid dreams of power and conquest which have no connexion with the physical world.

[...] If one harbours anywhere in one’s mind a nationalistic loyalty or hatred, certain facts, although in a sense known to be true, are inadmissible. Here are just a few examples. I list below five types of nationalist, and against each I append a fact which it is impossible for that type of nationalist to accept, even in his secret thoughts: 

British Tory. Britain will come out of this war with reduced power and prestige.

Communist. If she had not been aided by Britain and America, Russia would have been defeated by Germany.

Irish Nationalist. Eire can only remain independent because of British protection. 

Trotskyist. The Stalin régime is accepted by the Russian masses. 

Pacifist. Those who ‘abjure’ violence can only do so because others are committing violence on their behalf.

All of these facts are grossly obvious if one’s emotions do not happen to be involved: but to the kind of person named in each case they are also intolerable, and so they have to be denied, and false theories constructed upon their denial. I come back to the astonishing failure of military prediction in the present war. It is, I think, true to say that the intelligentsia have been more wrong about the progress of the war than the common people, and that they were more swayed by partisan feelings. The average intellectual of the Left believed, for instance, that the war was lost in 1940, that the Germans were bound to overrun Egypt in 1942, that the Japanese would never be driven out of the lands they had conquered, and that the Anglo-American bombing offensive was making no impression on Germany. He could believe these things because his hatred for the British ruling class forbade him to admit that British plans could succeed. There is no limit to the follies that can be swallowed if one is under the influence of feelings of this kind. I have heard it confidently stated, for instance, that the American troops had been brought to Europe not to fight the Germans but to crush an English revolution. One has to belong to the intelligentsia to believe things like that: no ordinary man could be such a fool. [...] The point is that as soon as fear, hatred, jealousy and power worship are involved, the sense of reality becomes unhinged. And, as I have pointed out already, the sense of right and wrong becomes unhinged also. There is no crime, absolutely none, that cannot be condoned when ‘our’ side commits it. Even if one does not deny that the crime has happened, even if one knows that it is exactly the same crime as one has condemned in some other case, even if one admits in an intellectual sense that it is unjustified – still one cannot feel that it is wrong. Loyalty is involved, and so pity ceases to function.

The reason for the rise and spread of nationalism is far too big a question to be raised here. [...] It can be plausibly argued, for instance – it is even probably true – that patriotism is an inoculation against nationalism, that monarchy is a guard against dictatorship, and that organized religion is a guard against superstition. Or again, it can be argued that no unbiased outlook is possible, that all creeds and causes involve the same lies, follies, and barbarities; and this is often advanced as a reason for keeping out of politics altogether. I do not accept this argument, if only because in the modern world no one describable as an intellectual can keep out of politics in the sense of not caring about them. I think one must engage in politics – using the word in a wide sense – and that one must have preferences: that is, one must recognize that some causes are objectively better than others, even if they are advanced by equally bad means. As for the nationalistic loves and hatreds that I have spoken of, they are part of the make-up of most of us, whether we like it or not. Whether it is possible to get rid of them I do not know, but I do believe that it is possible to struggle against them, and that this is essentially a moral effort. It is a question first of all of discovering what one really is, what one’s own feelings really are, and then of making allowance for the inevitable bias. If you hate and fear Russia, if you are jealous of the wealth and power of America, if you despise Jews, if you have a sentiment of inferiority towards the British ruling class, you cannot get rid of those feelings simply by taking thought. But you can at least recognize that you have them, and prevent them from contaminating your mental processes. The emotional urges which are inescapable, and are perhaps even necessary to political action, should be able to exist side by side with an acceptance of reality. But this, I repeat, needs a moral effort, and contemporary English literature, so far as it is alive at all to the major issues of our time, shows how few of us are prepared to make it.

[deansmom]

this is a draft from some time in s12 with background established deancas, tattooed!dean and mary getting to know dean. (ao3)

The first time Mary patches Dean up after a hunt, he tries not to squirm. 

He’s sitting on the motel bed in Cas’ running shorts and nothing else because he’s got a huge gash across his chest and twenty minutes ago he had a knife sticking out of his shin. Vonnegut is staring up at him from his thigh. 

Dean’s had worse. Hell, he’s stitched up worse on his own - but this time his mom was there.

Mary comes out of the bathroom and freezes in the doorway, blinking at him.

He offers her and awkward wave and winces at the movement.

It seems to snap Mary out of it because she shakes her head a little and walks over, “Sorry, I just...” 

She makes a noise that Dean thinks is supposed to be a laugh.

“I didn’t know you had tattoos.”

Dean smiles a little bit to himself, amused, “You’ve seen the protection sigil.”

Mary rolls her eyes and sets the first aid kit on the bed next to him, “Yeah, I’ve seen the protection sigil but I didn’t know that you had Vonnegut on your thigh.”

Something in Dean’s chest clenches and melts all at once and the sudden rush of emotion knocks all the wind out of him.

He licks his lips and has to clear his throat to get any words to come out. His voice cracks, “You like Vonnegut?”

Mary laughs quietly as she pours the vodka from the trunk over the stab wound. Dean sucks in a breath and grips the mattress, biting his tongue to keep from yelping. 

“He was one of my favorite authors,” she explains, dabbing the wound with some gauze. “Slaughterhouse-Five is one of the only books I read after graduating.”

Dean hisses, not sure what to say.

Mary finishes cleaning the wound up and out and sits back against the other bed while she gets the bandage, gauze and tape together. 

“It’s... beautiful.” 

Dean looks up, surprised and a little embarrassed. It’s nothing special. It’s old and faded now and it needs to be touched up soon. Some random kid the year he dropped out of high school threw a party and his older brother had a tattoo gun. Dean gave the kid his last twenty bucks and got a pretty solid, but still shit tattoo at sixteen.

John wanted to kill him.

He tells Mary as much as he leans back on the bed, “He didn’t see it until we were on a hunt when I was eighteen. I thought he was gonna hand me over to the vampires we were hunting.”

She doesn’t say much, just lets Dean talk and tell her about how angry John was and all the awful stuff he said to their son.

Mary can see some other tattoos peeking out from under Dean’s shorts and on his lower calf. They’re all older and faded, and she feels like she’s stumbled onto something she’s not supposed to see. 

She finishes bandaging up his shin and pats the other knee gently, “Ok kiddo, you ready for me to clean up your chest?”

It takes her a moment to get off the floor, using Dean’s good knee as a brace to do so. He offers her a hand but she just waves him off, “I’m fine, you’re the one who looks like shit.”

Dean laughs, a genuine laugh, before moving to lay fully on the bed.

“Gee, thanks mom. That makes me feel better.”

Mary pokes his armpit as she sits next to him, reorganizing the first aid kit. She catches a glimpse of another tattoo near Dean’s armpit and spends half a second too long staring at it.

Dean shifts a little bit on the bed, “You’re gonna give a guy a complex.”

She shakes her head, laughing at herself, “Sorry, sorry, I just -”

Mary looks at him again, trying to broadcast acceptance with her expressions and body language. 

“I’ve been around you for a while now Dean and I had no idea you had tattoos.”

She smiles tiredly and looks away quickly, grabbing the vodka again. 

“Just seems like something a mom should know.”

The room goes quiet again while Mary works on cleaning Dean up. The tick tick ticking of the old clock in the kitchen fills the silence of the motel room.

In the room next to them the TV is blasting some infomercial. There’s a car in the parking lot that has their bass turned all the way up and if Dean closes his eyes, he can almost feel the bass.

Dean opens his mouth to say something, anything, and Cas opens up the motel door with dinner in hand. 

He lets out a breath and smiles, some of the tension in the room and most of the tension in Dean’s body dissipates.

“Burgers? You’re awesome.”

  Once the case is done and they make it back to the bunker, Dean finds Mary in the library. She’s flipping through one of the big tombs. 

Sometimes Dean thinks it’s funny just how much of his mom he sees in Sam. If Mary had brown hair and was freakishly tall, they’d look identical in this moment.

The air switches on and the clank of the old metal startles Mary, making her look up at Dean. “Oh, hey.”

Dean offers her a small smile, “Hey.”

He’s nervous. He hasn't’ been able to stop thinking about what Mary said in the hotel room - things that a mom should know about her son. 

It’s not a big deal, it really isn’t, but... it is. His tattoos are all small and objectively bad, but they’re little pieces of who he is. They represent all the different parts and important people of Dean’s life and they’re... personal. 

“I, um,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have a couple tattoos.”

If Mary’s surprised, she doesn’t show it. “Oh,” she says. “Ok.”

“The Vonnegut one, you saw...” Dean clears his throat and shifts on his feet, “And uh, I have dad’s dog tags - that’s what was by my armpit.”

He raises his arm just enough so that Mary can see the edge poking out of his sleeve. She lets out a small breath and gets out of the chair like she wants to walk over to Dean.

He interrupts her before she can say or do anything else, “And, uh, I have the opening chord progression from Hey Jude on the other thigh. Cause...” Dean shrugs kinda helplessly, “Y’know.”

Mary looks like she wants to cry.

Dean coughs, clearing his throat, “And, uh, Sam’s birth and death days on this side of my ribs.” He pauses for a beat, something occurring to him, “I should probably update that one.”

That startles a laugh out of Mary, “Yeah, probably.”

He hesitates for a moment, suddenly nervous to tell her what the other two are.

They’ve made a conscious decision to never hide their relationship, but they don’t go around parading it either. And for one terrifying moment, Dean wonders if his mom knows that he’s in love with his best friend who’s also an angel. 

“Um,” Dean clears his throat, his voice going deeper all of a sudden. “And uh - this one.”

He pulls his jeans down just about an inch on his left hip to reveal a line of enochian in white ink. It’s the newest one Dean has even though it’s already a couple years old. It’s beautiful small, fragile line work with some red outlining to make certain letters pop. 

Mary steps closer, about to lean down to look at it before realizing what she’s doing.

Dean laughs nervously and shrugs, “It’s fine.”

She smiles and gets close enough to just look at it, but not touch, “It’s beautiful.”

The compliment makes Dean’s heart swell a little bit, “Thanks. It’s my favorite one.”

Mary stands up fully, meeting his eyes with a kind smile, “What’s it say?”

The frankness of the question catches Dean off guard for a moment, but it shouldn’t. It also steals the wind out of him for a moment, because, well -

“It, uh,” Dean clears his throat, tucking his shirt back in. “It says beloved.”

Before Mary can say anything, Dean clears his throat again, trying to make himself sound normal and not like he’s freaking out. “And, uh, the last one is just... a C.”

It’s another white ink tattoo and it’s fading, always fading, but Dean loves it. It’s on the webbing of his ring finger.

The library is quiet for a moment, the only sound filling the room is Cas and Sam in the kitchen. The air kicks off, making Dean jump this time with the old metal settling.

“So,” Dean rubs the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at his mom. “Yeah. I just - I... y’know.”

Wanted you to know, he wants to say. Thought you might care, he thinks. 

Mary smiles and sets a hand on Dean’s forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you for telling me.”

Dean looks up again, meeting her eyes and smiles nervously, “S’no big deal.”

She opens her mouth to say something else, but is interrupted.

“Dean!” Castiel pokes his head in the doorway, smiling at them, “Hello, Mary. Dinner is ready if you’re hungry.”

Mary can’t help but notice the way all the tension leaves Dean’s body again, but she doesn’t dare say anything about it.

It’s not her place. It’s no more her place than if they were two strangers at a gas station.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean offers, a small private smile on his face. “We’ll be in there in a minute.”

Castiel nods and leaves without preamble.

Mary still doesn’t know what to make of him.

Dean clears his throat, the deeply awkward feeling settling in around them, “I, uh… I know that you’re, y’know.”

He cringes before he can stop himself, “Not entirely comfortable. But I just…” Dean harrumphs, his arms coming up to wrap around himself, “I don’t know. You’re… my mom.”

Even if he’s not her Dean, which he understands, he still wants her to know him.

And he thinks she wants that too. To know them as men, as people… to just be a friend.

Mary just squeezes his elbow gently, too scared to say something that will fuck up the moment.

Dean gets it.

“Come on.” He offers her a smile, his head inclined towards the kitchen, “Let’s get some food.”

[kissjane]

SECOND CHANCE / Not so short at all fic

#28 from this prompt list

[[Warning, not very fluffy, lots of angst with a happy ending]]

We literally ran into each other

Lucas got to the supermarket at ten to eight, out of breath from running. Ever since he broke up with Didier, he had needed to adapt to doing his own grocery shopping again, and frankly, he had resorted to ordering take-out six nights out of seven for the last few weeks. But now he had run out of coffee, and he was on his last roll of toilet paper, so he needed to come in for the essentials. It was just that his long hours – which had, ironically, caused the final row with Didier in the first place – made it nearly impossible to get here on time.

As he rushed through the aisles, frantically trying to remember what he had to buy, he pondered how he had let things get so out of hand. He had settled into a job he hated, with a demanding boss expecting him to stay late every night and more often than not called him in on the weekends too. He had been with Didier for years, ever since their university days, even though Lucas had never really been in love with him. It was just convenient. But when Didier had started to hint at wanting more – move in together, commit to each other, plan for a family at some point – Lucas had distanced himself, and when the fights became more and more a regular occurrence, he hadn’t found the energy or even the desire to try to work things out. When Didier had finally had enough and broke up with him, he hadn’t even felt sad. It was honestly a bit liberating, even, to not have to pretend anymore. He felt guilty about not having the courage to break up with Didier sooner, to string him along like that – but it had just happened. One day they started dating, and the next day five years had passed and they were on very different pages.

The lights flickered in the supermarket, and somebody announced in a tired voice that they were closing in three minutes and to please make for the check-out registers.

Lucas started for them, when he suddenly realized he didn’t grab coffee. He turned on his heels and half ran to the back of the store, where the coffee had been last time he had set foot in here. He wasn’t paying attention, and when he turned the corner, he slammed into a tall body. He dropped his basket, and he heard a grunt escape from the other guy. He started uttering an apology while picking up his basket, hoping nothing had broken, conscious of the time running and still needing to find the coffee.

Then he suddenly heard a voice he didn’t think he’d ever hear again, a voice he would recognize everywhere.

“Lucas? Lucas Lallemant? Is that really you?”

Lucas froze mid-movement. He slowly lifted his eyes – dreading what he would see.

In front of him, in all his gorgeous glory, looking even hotter than eight years ago, stood Eliott Demaury.

In a flash, Lucas was back in high school, crazily in love with the new boy, kissing him one magic night in the rain. Eliott had been his first kiss, the first guy he had loved. Oh hell, who was he kidding – the only guy he had ever loved. Lucas had been confused for weeks, when Eliott had kissed his ex at a party only a few days after he had told Lucas he had broken up with her, then leaving Lucas a bunch of cryptic drawings. Eventually, they had stopped coming, and later on, Lucas had heard from someone that Eliott was bipolar, so he had put their ultrashort affair down to Eliott being manic.

Not that it had been easy to forget about the tall boy with the grey eyes. Eliott had haunted his dreams for months, and it had taken Lucas years to get back into the game. And then he had met Didier, who was tall and had messy hair, and Lucas had known it was not the smartest move to get together with somebody who vaguely resembled Eliott, as some sort of ersatz, but he had gone with it anyway.

Standing here in front of Eliott it was a miracle he didn’t forget to breathe. Eliott looked at him as if he had seen a ghost, and they just stood there, staring at each other, until a harried-looking employee came towards them.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, it is five after eight, we really need to close now.”

She shepherded them both to the register lane, and Eliott went first, paying for his purchases, and waiting on the other side. Lucas wished he would just go, he didn’t want to talk to Eliott, he didn’t feel like getting back into that insane infatuation from all those years ago – it had taken him long enough to get over it the first time around. He didn’t want to “catch up” or “rekindle their friendship” or whatever – he wanted to go home and wallow in self-pity. And to add insult to injury, when he was bagging his groceries, he realized he still didn’t have any coffee.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, noticing too late that Eliott had stepped closer to him.

“Everything okay?”, came Eliott’s voice, careful, neutral.

Lucas felt anger rise in his throat, but he didn’t want to make a scene. Eliott didn’t need to know how affected Lucas was by this chance encounter.

“I didn’t get to grab coffee, and I’m all out,” he gritted through his teeth.

Eliott nodded, and seemed to waver about what to say next.

“I have coffee at home… Do you want to – I mean – or go to a café with me –”, he stammered, and Lucas threw him a thoroughly unimpressed look.

“Your girlfriend might be upset if you start bringing men home. Especially men you’ve kissed.”

Fuck, he berated himself. Why did he bring that up? They could have pretended for the next thirty seconds they were just old schoolmates, but no, Lucas had to broach the subject of their awkward fling.

“Girlfriend? What girlfriend?”, Eliott said, blushing slightly, probably because Lucas mentioned their kiss. Maybe he had forgotten all about that, until Lucas reminded him. He must regret staying and trying to talk to Lucas now. Well, all the better, Lucas thought. The faster they could get this over with, the happier Lucas would be.

“Ah, sorry. I assumed you were still with Lucille. My mistake”, he said, as politely as he could muster, and grabbed his coffeeless bag as he turned to go. He would go home and get into bed and forget all about this day.

“Wait, what?”, Eliott called after him. “Lucas, wait a second!”

Lucas wanted to keep going, he really did, but Eliott’s legs were longer than his, so unless he started running, it would be to no avail. He sighed, and stopped walking. Eliott came up to him, and because Lucas was staring at the pavement, he saw how Eliott shuffled his feet.

“Why would I be with Lucille? I told you I broke up with her.”

Lucas looked up at that, the anger threatening to erupt in full force. His eyes were icy when he stared straight at Eliott, who seemed genuinely confused.

“Yeah, you did, but when I saw you sticking your tongue down her throat only a few days later, I assumed you had changed your mind.”

He took a strange kind of pleasure in watching the colour drain from Eliott’s cheeks.

“You saw that?”, Eliott breathed, and Lucas only nodded.

“Fuck,” Eliott said, almost to himself.

They stood in silence for a long beat.

“Lucas, I’m sorry about that. I was… confused, and trying to sort out some things… But didn’t you get my messages, then? I – I left you a few drawings in your backpack… I wanted – I wanted…”

“You wanted what, Eliott?”

Lucas heard the harshness in his voice, but honestly, he was exhausted, and he really didn’t want to do a post mortem on their… relationship, or whatever the word for it was.

“You told me you broke up with Lucille, then you kissed her as if nothing was wrong between you, and then you left me all those drawings. I have no idea what you wanted, Eliott.”

He should leave. He should lie to Eliott, say that his boyfriend was waiting for him. He should go home, write a letter of resignation for his asshole of a boss, get over Eliott once and for all, find somebody else to love, and finally start living.

“I wanted to talk to you, Lucas, I wanted to apologize, to tell you why – Look, everything was so beautiful when I was with you, and I was so fucking afraid of ruining things unintentionally I ruined them intentionally, but I regretted it as soon as it happened. I just – I just wanted to beg you to give me another chance, without any secrets between us. I – I… God. I was so fucking in love with you.”

The last words were breathed out so softly Lucas had to strain to hear them, almost as if Eliott hadn’t meant to admit that out loud.

“I didn’t know that,” he said pensively, softly. He wondered how he felt about knowing that it had been real for Eliott, as short-lived as it had been. It was bittersweet, realizing they both had been in love with one another, and yet, they hadn’t made it.

“I should have told you,” Eliott replied, even softer than before, then louder, “I should have told you, Lucas. You deserved to know. There is a lot I should have told you… But when you didn’t reach out after I left you those notes, I figured it didn’t mean as much to you as it did to me, so I backed off. But now you know, at least.”

He sounded sad, Lucas thought. And the idea of Eliott thinking it hadn’t meant anything to Lucas left a sour taste in his mouth.

“It did mean the same to me, though. I – I was in love with you too.”

It wasn’t easy to force out those words, to confess his feelings out loud, but maybe this could be the closure he needed after years of wondering and pining.

“You were?”, Eliott breathed, unbelieving.

Lucas nodded, and Eliott’s eyes lit up for the briefest of moments, before they dulled again.

“Oh, God. I really fucked up, didn’t I?”, he said, and his voice was laced with so much pain and sadness Lucas almost reached out for him.

“It’s okay,” he said. It wasn’t really, but it would have to be. “I fucked up too. It’s fine, though. It was a long time ago.”

Eliott looked at him, a storm blowing through his grey eyes. Lucas wished he could read them, but he hadn’t been able to decipher Eliott’s emotions back then, so it was futile to try now.

“It may have been a long time ago, but –”

He cut himself off, looking away from Lucas.

Lucas didn’t know why his heart suddenly started beating erratically, why he took a tiny step closer towards Eliott, why he put a shaking hand on Eliott’s arm. Eliott’s eyes whipped towards it, looking at Lucas’ hand touching his bare skin as if it was a mirage.

“But what?”, Lucas whispered, afraid of the answer, afraid of the tempest brewing inside him, afraid of letting Eliott walk out of his life again, afraid of never being able to love anybody else.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s over,” Eliott finally answered, after a long silence. His words hung heavy over them, like a pressure front coming in from over the ocean, moving too fast to predict the outcome.

Lucas stared at Eliott until Eliott looked back at him.

“What – what are you saying?”, he asked, not letting go of Eliott’s arm, trying to stare into his very soul.

“I never stopped loving you, Lucas.”

The answer came fast this time, and Eliott’s voice was calm, steady. He looked straight at Lucas, unwavering, certain of his words.

Something inside Lucas shifted. A chasm he hadn’t known was there closed within him, and he felt old wounds heal.

He couldn’t control the future and he couldn’t change the past, but he had a choice right here and now. Maybe he and Eliott weren’t meant to be back then. Maybe they weren’t meant to be ever. But he had loved the man in front of him for years, ever since he first saw him, and it seemed he had been loved for just as long, and maybe that meant something. Maybe it meant everything.

He took a deep breath.

He smiled at Eliott, and slowly, tentatively, Eliott smiled back, his sunny smile which Lucas hadn’t seen in years but which still made him feel like he was invincible.

“I’d like to come with you for that coffee, please,” he said.

[shutupmammon]

Demon brothers & MC x ballet AU 🙈💕

* You’re a ballet dancer in the human world, and you aren’t going to let getting kidnapped by demons as part of an exchange school programme get in the way of the training regime you’ve been maintaining since you were a child

* At first you try to practice just in you room, going through the stretches and smaller movements, but it becomes obvious very quickly that there isn’t enough room to train at the level you require. This is not helped at all by Mammon deciding to spend all his free time hanging out with you, as both himself and the possessions of his he leaves lying around are trip hazards.

* Not to mention, it’s embarrassing for the both of you watching him blush and evert his gaze every time you do a mildly suggestive stretch.

* It ends up being Lucifer who suggests a rarely used ballroom for you to dance in when you bring it up over breakfast one morning. Being a demon who appreciates the arts, he also tells you that he’d love to watch you dance sometime, should you be comfortable.

* Not to be outdone, Satan chips in to say that he has recently been doing a lot of reading on the subject of ballet, and that he too would love to watch you dance, as well as discuss some of the finer points mentioned in his book.

* It is Asmo who is the first to suggest that you give him lessons. He gushes first about the sensuality and passion of dance, and of course, how irresistible he is going to look in tights.

* Mammon insists that he wouldn’t be caught dead dancing ballet, at least until Asmo suggests that he hasn’t the strength or poise to lift and dance with you anyway. Suddenly he is your keenest student.

* The rest of the brothers agree to join your dance class. You don’t recall agreeing to such a thing in the first place.

Lucifer

* This is one of the only chances you will get to see him in such form fitting clothing, so you’d better appreciate it. (Someone draw this please)

* He is very attentive to your teachings, and learns fast. His dancing is breathtakingly powerful, but he struggles to tap into the more vulnerable, emotional side of certain pieces, making them seem almost stiff.

* Some of that melts away when you dance together, he gets swept up in the harmony of your bodies and the music.

* One of the least flexible of his brothers, but you wouldn’t be able to tell as he tends to stick to pieces that play on his strengths.

* Lifts you as if you are lighter than air, his touch is confident and self assured from the start.

* He loves classical music, and will show you a new piece of music every other week that he’d like to dance with you. He tries to hide how eager he is to see if you will like each piece and it is VERY cute to see this side of him.

Mammon

* God help this boy he does not know what he’s doing

* Is too self conscious to wear tights, wears aggressively branded tracksuit bottoms instead and insists it’s because they’re ‘cooler’

* Concerningly flexible and has a good sense of rhythm. That is all he has going for him

* He prefers to improvise his dancing, with very unsuccessful results. It is only when you remind him that you won’t really be able to dance together properly unless you learn certain moves together and consistently practice them.

* Gets so flustered first time he lifts you that he drops you. Nobody is hurt except his ego.

* He never really stops getting flustered at the close proximity and the intimacy of the dance, but does learn how to stop dropping you, which is something

* With a lot of time and praise you will be able to dance together without him accidentally stepping on your toes. But don’t hold your breath

* He insists he hates it but actually loves it, both for the close proximity he gets to be in with you, and also because when he does get something right you’re proud of him and that gives him butterflies

Leviathan

* Originally only agreed to come to make fun of Mammon, was shocked to find you dragging him over to dance with you

* He is NOT flexible, but is surprisingly strong for someone who you have only seen leave his room for meals.

* Blushes terribly the first time you tell him to put his hands on you, but doesn’t drop you like Mammon did.

* Has a strong preference for more theatrical dances, especially if the both of you wear costumes.

* Will absolutely collaborate with you on designing a TSL ballet adaptation (where he plays Henry, of course)

* Once your TSL ballet is written, NOBODY will train harder than this boy

* You even catch him stretching whilst playing video games once or twice

Satan

* Honestly the best dancer out of all of his brothers.

* Commits to the look. He will wear those black tights that leave nothing to the imagination

* Favours dark, emotional pieces, the avatar of wrath taps into the darkness inside of himself and brings it front and centre when he dances.

* Trains hard because he’s determined to outdo Lucifer, and then because he finds it a place for him to express the anger within him in a way that creates beautiful art, and doesn’t hurt anybody.

* Early on discovers he likes incorporating stage fighting into his dance. He is spectacular to watch.

* Knows the story behind every dance, and likes to discuss it with you before dancing, both to make sure the correct emotions are captured, and also because he loves talking about his books. It’s cute.

* When you dance together he is a perfect gentleman, but you can feel the wrath being channeled into passion during more intense, romantic dances. He lifts you with ease, and will take no liberties with his hands (unless you ask him to)

* Looks absolutely dashing in the princely costumes. He won’t understand why you’re asking him to practice in it, until you’re so eager to take it off him.

Asmodeus

* Another one who has committed to the look, except made it sexier. May or may not be shirtless.

* The most flexible of his brothers, no prizes for guessing why

* He gets so distracted by his reflection whilst dancing that he falls over at least once a session

* Favours passionate, romantic dances, where he has lots of excuses to put his hands on you

* Lifts you just fine, but will insist once or twice on switching roles in the dance so you are the one that lifts him. It makes him happy.

* Before every practice session spends at least ten minutes taking selfies. Has you take suggestive pictures of him whilst he stretches.

* Likes shopping for dance clothes almost as much as dancing. Every practice he wears some sort of costume and all but begs you to do the same

* Is nowhere near the best dancer, but insists he is, simply because he is the most beautiful

Beelzebub

* Everyone was surprised by how good a dancer he is. He is all controlled strength from the hours he spends in the gym.

* He was self conscious of dancing at first, and prefers to practice with just the two of you

* You can see every muscle beneath his dancing tights, it’s a good look on him.

* He is strong and powerful, but his soft, sensitive side comes out when he dances. He favours soft, romantic music.

* When dancing with you he is so gentle, like you are a precious beautiful thing in his arms.

* His worst habit is focusing so much on you that he loses track of the music

* Always makes sure you’re eating and drinking well during practice. Frequent breaks for his appetite, and he will eat like a horse when you’re finished.

* Gets a little flustered if you are dancing a particularly intimate piece together

Belphegor

* Insists he doesn’t enjoy dancing

* But is good at it

* ....really, really good at it

* His favourite ballet is, of course, Sleeping Beauty

* Don’t ask how he knows some of the dances from it already

* Seriously. Don’t ask.

* He can lift you with surprising ease, but will only do so if nobody is around to see it

* If you arrive early, you might catch him practicing dancing alone, using moves you definitely didn’t teach him

* Likes dancing as antagonists, like the Rat King from The Nutcracker.

[lilyandersonn]

All That is Gold // S.R

Chapter One // Series Masterlist here

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Esther (OFC)

Series summary: Determined to use the powers that hydra bestowed upon her for good, Esther joined the Avengers team after years of hiding. Everybody but Steve is impressed by her, and after two years of being on the team, it seemed a friendship with him was a pipe dream. But a near death experience is about to change everything. 

Chapter warnings: Swearing, mentions of blood and gun related injury

Words: 2120

AN: This series takes place in a non-canonical avengers world, if it isn’t obvious. Esther is an empath (she can feel what others are feeling & control their emotions) and has healing/strength powers. Although it’ll be addressed in later chapters, the necklace I refer to her wearing blocks her empathy powers. This is my first marvel fic so please be kind :) I don’t have a beta reader so apologies for any glaring mistakes.

Chapter One

   "Esther, look out!"

   The warning came just seconds too late. It had all happened too quickly. The bullet had found its target, piercing her stomach and throwing her backwards on impact, before she could think about dodging. Her back slammed against the wall behind her, knocking the wind out of her already stinging lungs as she slumped down onto the floor with a surprised cry. Hands instinctively flew to the wound, palms becoming saturated with the sticky, crimson blood seeping through her black suit.

   Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, and she could feel trickles of it sliding down the back of her neck as her body convulsed on the snowy ground. The cold November air still stung at her cheeks and the wetness of the ground that soaked her suit made her shiver, but in spite of that, her skin felt like somebody had drenched her in lighter fluid and a lit match to it. Biting down hard on her lip, enough to draw blood, she forced back the involuntary whimpers as her body fought to heal.

   Around her, the fight continued.

  The mission was supposed to be a quick, in and out - she would distract the hydra agents, control their emotions long enough for the three men to get the information they needed and get back out again. But somehow their infiltration had been anticipated, and they were greeted with dozens of agents ready and waiting.

   "Esther, you good?" came Steve's calm, levelled voice through the earpiece.

   "All good," she spoke back, through gritted teeth, "don't worry about me, Cap'."

   She knew something didn't feel right - healing never took this long, and it had certainly never been this painful. The bullet was still lodged in her abdomen, she had no way of knowing if it had splintered or not, and she could only assume it was to blame for the slow, or lack of, healing process. But for the sake of the success of the mission, she tried to stay silent and white-knuckle it.

   Concentrating on anything other than the gaping, bloody hole in her stomach, Esther focused on the snow. It was still coming down pretty heavy, covering the tracks made by the ongoing fight, only to be ruined again as somebody stomped through it, or as a hydra agent hit the floor. Her mind cast itself back to earlier that day, as she and Natasha had giggled like two naughty school girls, hiding just outside the quinjet, ready to ambush Bucky and Steve as they approached, with armfuls of snowballs. She thought about how even Steve, ever the stern leader, had lit up as he and Bucky were relentlessly pelted. And the giddiness she had felt as she and Natasha lay side by side, shrieking with laughter as they created snow angels with their shivering bodies.

   It was definitely a stark contrast to what was unfolding now.

   Smiling to herself at the memories, Esther hadn't noticed that her eyes had fluttered closed, head lolling against the cold brick behind her. The wound still hadn't healed itself, and the snow around her was stained scarlet. There was no way of knowing how much blood she'd lost, but given the way she was losing the strength to keep herself upright, a lot would be a good guess.

   "Esther, don't go to sleep on us, okay?" Steve spoke again, this time unable to keep his concern from seeping into his tone.

   Eyelids impossibly heavy, Esther desperately fought to stay conscious. Steve was still speaking, growing more frantic with each passing moment, in her ear, but he sounded so far away now - as did the fight. The temptation to just close her eyes again, just to rest for a moment, was too much. Everything hurt, her entire body crying out as it still struggled, and failed, to heal. I'll just sleep for a little bit, Esther thought, letting unconsciousness envelop her, like a warm blanket.

   "Fuck! Sam," Steve shouted through the chaos of the fight, too entangled in a brutal fist fight with a surprisingly strong hydra agent to get to her, "get her out of here! Now!"

   "But--"

   "Buck and I can handle this, just get her back to the compound. Now, Sam."

   Still reluctant to leave his two team-mates to fight the agents, Sam faltered - super-soldiers or not, they were still outnumbered. But one look at Esther's frail looking body, crumpled on the ground in a puddle of her own blood, set him into action again. He had to fight off a few men on his way to her, but it didn't take long before he was kneeling by her side, carefully taking her into his arms and flying them out of harms way.

   If it weren't for the slow rise and fall of Esther's chest as they flew through the snowy night, he might have thought she was dead. Her body had healed her enough to keep her teetering on the edge, but Sam couldn't be sure how much longer she could hold out, and flew faster than he had ever before.

*

   Esther finally woke with a start, her body abruptly bolting upright in the bed where she lay, heart thudding violently against her rib cage as she wildly looked around the room. Eyebrows furrowed as she took in her surroundings - a windowsill full of flowers, a balloon that read 'congratulations' tied to the end of the bed, a vitals monitor next beeping rapidly in time with her heartbeat. A hospital room. Peculiar, since she hadn't been a patient in one since gaining her powers. The strangest thing, though, was the blonde super-soldier slumped, fast asleep, in the plastic chair next to her.

   They'd always had an odd relationship. Friends, but not quite. Their personalities clashed far too often than either of them would like - Esther thought Steve was too serious and uptight, and Steve hated that Esther was nonchalant about everything. And they certainly didn't have a close enough friendship for her to not be surprised at the sight of him asleep at her bedside. It wasn't an unwelcome sight - in fact, it was comforting to not wake up alone in an unfamiliar room - just, strange.

   Suddenly, the memories of a getting shot flooding her brain, Esther threw back the thin duvet and lifted the green hospital gown to inspect her stomach - ignoring the fact that Steve could wake any moment. Met with only the sight of smooth, pale skin, her body sagged as she let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. Dropping the gown and pulling the duvet back over, she laid her head down onto the pillows.

   Turning her head to face the man next to her, she whispered, throat too dry to speak any louder, "Steve, hey, Steve, wake up."

   Slowly stirring from his slumber, Steve's blue eyes met Esther's gaze. He looked at her sleepily for a moment, his eyelids blinking against the bright lights of the room, until he seemed to remember where he was. Face dancing through a range of emotions, if she wasn't wearing her necklace she would have felt as he switched between surprise, relief, guilt - and was that, anger?

   His mouth gaped open and shut, struggling to find the right words to say, before settling on a lame, "You're awake."

   "I am." she croaked out, the sound of her voice sending him into action as he grabbed the cup of water from the table next to her, holding it up to her dry, cracked lips so she could sip. If Esther wasn't so shook up from waking in a hospital room, she probably would have stopped to appreciate the gentleness in the way Steve held the back of her head, fingers threading between her brunette locks, as he helped her drink.

   "Bruce thought you'd be out for at least another day." he said quietly, as he set the cup back down in its place. And, as if already knowing what her question would be, he spoke again, "You've been out for four days."

   "Four days?" she repeated incredulously, eyebrows arching.

   "The bullet," Steve said grimly, "we think it was meant specifically for you. It was coated in something that was blocking your powers, Bruce will be able to explain it better than I can. But when they finally got it out, your body had to work to fight off whatever it was, and your-- fuck, Esther, your heart stopped beating."

   "Well shit, somebody really wants me dead, huh? I don't know if I should be terrified, or flattered, honestly."

   "Yeah, somebody really wants you dead, Esther. Enough for them to create a weapon designed specifically for you." Steve snapped, soft, concerned expression twisting into an exasperated frown, "So for once in your life, can you take something seriously? Why do you always have to make a joke out of everything?"

   "Who said I wasn't taking it seriously?" Esther bit back, unable to tame her temper, violet eyes fiercely glaring back at him, "Just because I'm not reacting the way you want me to, doesn't mean I'm not taking it seriously. I'm so sorry I don't act like I permanently have a stick lodged up my ass, like some people I know."

   "I'd rather act like--"

   Whatever undoubtedly scathing retort Steve had planned died on his tongue, as Sam and Natasha came barrelling through the open door, both grinning from ear to ear at the sight of their friend awake. Esther suddenly felt a lot lighter, tension spilling from her body like a deflating balloon, quickly sitting up -- ignoring the fuzziness in her head at the abrupt movement -- to greet two of her favourite people.

   Natasha was the first to talk, as he made himself comfortable in the chair next to Steve, who had tried to smile lightheartedly at the two, frown leaving his face, "You look like death."

   Coming from anybody else, Esther might have had some colourful words to say, but she couldn't help the giggle at her best friend's brutal honesty. Although there was no longer a wound there, her stomach stung painfully as her body shook with laughter. The way her face twitched, an attempt at disguising the wince of pain, didn't go unnoticed by Steve, who was still eyeing her cautiously.

   "Yeah well, give a girl a break! Steve says my heart stopped beating, so I technically died," Esther said, jutting her lip out into a pout, discreetly pressing her hands against her cramping stomach underneath the blankets.

   Remembering the balloon tied to the bottom of her bed, Esther turned to Sam, who was leaning against the windowsill, watching on with an amused smirk, "Was this your doing, Wilson?" she asked, nodding her head towards the object in question.

   "I figured it was only right to congratulate you on not dying," Sam explained, a boyish grin on his face as he fiddled with the ribbon keeping it tied to the bed.

   As the three of them burst into laughter at Sam's morbid joke, the legs of Steve's chair scraped loudly against the floor with a squeak whilst he stood, storming out of the room without another word.

   "What's up his ass?" Natasha asked, now lounging at the bottom of the bed, forcing Esther to either move her feet out of the way or be crushed.

   Esther shrugged, staring at the doorway with a frown, "I ask myself that every day."

   "He's been an even bigger ass than usual the last few days," Sam admitted, sitting in Steve's now vacated seat, "he's been badgering the doctors and nurses non-stop, and he just about had a fit whenever somebody told him to leave. To be honest I think that's one of the only times I've seen him willingly leave the room since you've been out,"

   Stunned into silence, Esther fiddled with the pendant on her necklace. A tinge of guilt now stained the unbridled frustration she had felt towards the super-soldier just moments ago. She couldn't help the corners of her mouth curling into a ghost of a smile as she imagined Steve, stubborn as ever, refusing to leave her side, sleeping in that uncomfortable plastic chair just so he didn't have to go. It wasn't completely out of character for him to be so caring, but Esther had never thought that side of him extended to her.

   Sam and Natasha shared a secret, knowing look between each other whilst they waited for her to snap out of it.

   Although content to sit there and ponder Steve's motives for another moment longer, the sound of her stomach grumbling loudly brought her back into the room.

   "I need a burger."