#the only other type of law i would MAYBE consider other than civil rights law is family law

[lesbianlenas]

I thought you were doing contracts law not civil rights. you have a gift. you have contract talent. you can’t just throw your contract talent away for civil rights law

i hate contracts……i got an A out of my pure hatred of it bc i studied harder bc i thought i would do bad bc i hated it so much……idc if i could be the best contract lawyer to ever live i would be so miserable doing it 😭

[samofthefool]

I'd like to kindly ask if any of you have considered reading a book, like, ever. Pan-Arab Nationalism which is where the modern Palestinian movement arose from, was clearly anti-imperialist.

The, at the time, secular Palestinian nationalists viewed many of the Jews in the region as European invaders, however, this view lacks nuisance and may have been colored by European Anti-Semitism.

While many of the Jews that were involved in the process of carving out a space for Jews to live were more affluent, they were working towards a state because they were, as a class, an oppressed minority in Europe.

A good analogy to this would have been if Black Americans would have been forced to Liberia more than they already were after the Civil War and forced to fight against the natives, the British and the French at the same time. The black free slaves that were put there would also be considered victims of colonialism. Keep in mind that some black thought leaders at the time also liked the idea, much like some Jews liked the idea of a state in Isreal and some didn't.

In Israel's case, both the British leaders and the Jewish thought leaders won out for the most part and Jews went to Palestine. They had been before the mandate as well, but this could also be said of Liberia if we are keeping the analogy.

Now, at the time, Palestine was under the British mandate after the fall of the Ottoman Empire. We can all say, hey, maybe carving up countries isn't good and self-determination should be a thing, but that type of thought about nations and peoples was only just emerging. Hence why a lot of middle eastern borders wreck some ethnic groups pretty hard. (Looking at the Kurds)

So unfortunately, we have a situation where the British are saying, hey, Jews, you can be safe here and do your Jew stuff, all while a national consciousness was growing among the Palestinian people, much like it was across the whole of the Arab world.

So the British are like, ok, ok, Palestinians, right, I guess they're a thing now? (Not that they entirely weren't before, but from the British view) Sure, you can also have some of this land, but not the majority of it because we sort of promised our oppressed minority we want to get rid of a big chunk already.

Palestinian factions egged on by support from neighboring expansionist Arab states amidst the Pan-Arab movement said no, and the 48 war began.

So yes, the Palestinians are very much victims of colonialism, but it would probably be incorrect to call the Jews colonialists in the traditional sense.

Additionally, it would be wise to add that the Palestinians are victims of not only European colonialism, but Arab imperialism as well, as they were used for some time in the region for territorial squabbles with little to no real care for their sovereignty.

As the conflict raged on things have gotten a lot worse. The Palestinian side is no longer secular and their Arab allies have lost interest in their utility, meanwhile the Israeli side is becoming more fundamentalist and emboldened by a lack of political consequences to slowly do an ethnic cleansing. (I won't say genocide here because it really does look like their policies as of now are meant to push the Palestians into the surrounding states, not eradicate them entirely. Still bad, but these are different terms.)

And of course, the Palestinian side has lost the secularism and have become Islamic fundamentals that are perfectly ok with breaking the laws of war constantly (although Israeli isn't faultless here either, Hamas is a lot worse), using child soldiers, and embedding fighters in the civilian population to score sympathy points from the west when Israel conducts urban warfare.

Ultimately, pressures from the West and the Arab world have emboldened both sides to continue to fight each other and their civilian populations don't seem like they want the violence to end yet.

Getting back to Avatar, Aang would hate this whole conflict. The only thing he would want right now is a ceasefire and for everyone to sit down and figure out how to stay at peace.

I guess, what I mean to say is that there is no "Fire Nation" here and if there is one, it's the British.

[theomnicode]

I have this feeling..

I've been scouring through the OVA's and other stuff a bunch and came up with bunch of pieces here and there. Nothing very concrete and mostly guesswork.

WC spoilers ahead.

The title may be reference to Dr.Kuseno.

The "kuse" in Kuseno sounds exactly like "kusee" (くせー) an impolite form of "kusai" (臭い) that means "stinky" while the "no" has no direct translation (most likely the common Japanese name ending 野 meaning "field").

That's why his name is Dr.Stench in english translations.

I just got this sudden feeling about this particular wordplay in this OVA and how it zoomed in on Genos' ears. Pitch is also a type of field.

"That's "me", Master. That's the note for "me"!"

If y'all remember that there is still an unrevealed, specific function to Genos earrings. And it still hasn't been revealed even in WC, where Kuseno has died.

I have a feeling...that it is a testament.

A voice recorded testament or a holographic one. One that is sealed until the death of Kuseno and Saitama is the trustee in said will and it may only open when Saitama says a key word or make a key sound. Since Kuseno saw Genos as his grandson but he seemingly has no known family of his own, he would have made contingency plans so Genos could inherit his research and stuff, so he could actually continue to remain self-sufficient as a cyborg. Or should have at least, he knows he has enemies.

Question: When did Genos got his piercings? ONE: After he became a cyborg Q: Do Genos' piercings have a purpose? A: They do have a purpose, but it's a secret for now. Q: Why does Genos wear studs? A: It's a secret. There are settings for the studs but can't be revealed yet.

Now how could Saitama be able to make a testament with Kuseno to Genos, when Genos has had these earrings on him this whole time and Kuseno barely even knows Saitama?

Simple.

Time travel.

And it'll be all related to the Mad Cyborg, Kuseno and Genos' arch nemesis, I bet. Maybe Saitama's past too.

Wouldn't it be something if Saitama was actually involved in the whole Mad cyborg debacle of the past and was unintentionally responsible for the creation of cyborg Genos in the first place?

That would be some Back to the Future type of shenanigans.

As for why such a testament couldn't just be implemented elsewhere...I imagine it had to be kept secret and safeguarded and in case other physical records of testament got destroyed. Then there may be a reason why it had to be always kept on Genos person, just from its importance alone. But also because it might be contested if Kuseno actually HAS any relatives left.

Who bets Metal Knight, Dr.Bofoi, is a cousin or something and ex-colleague? There's a lot of Dr.Light and Dr.Wily feels in the duo.

Since Kuseno is a parental figure of Genos, he 100% knows by now, that Genos is totally gay for Saitama, no questions asked. It's all Genos ever talks about to Kuseno apparently. Even if he was wrong in this assesment, it would paint that kind of picture certainly.

The concept of the freedom of disposition by will, familiar as it is in modern England and the United States, both generally considered common law systems, is by no means universal. In fact, complete freedom is the exception rather than the rule.[3]: 654  Civil law systems often put some restrictions on the possibilities of disposal; see for example "Forced heirship". LGBT advocates have pointed to the inheritance rights of spouses as desirable for same-sex couples as well, through same-sex marriage or civil unions. Opponents of such advocacy rebut this claim by pointing to the ability of same-sex couples to disperse their assets by will. Historically, however, it was observed that "[e]ven if a same-sex partner executes a will, there is risk that the survivor will face prejudice in court when disgruntled heirs challenge the will",[4] with courts being more willing to strike down wills leaving property to a same-sex partner on such grounds as incapacity or undue influence.

There is a scene in WC that may be seen in different light with this in mind. When Kuseno asks Saitama to take care of Genos for him.

Kuseno giving his blessing for ther relationship as testator would give this will some legal ground to remain unchallenged in court, in case Genos and Saitama actually ended up together. It may also be a case of forced heirship.

That's a lot to infer from Saitama legit only asking Kuseno to take his shoes off and saying it's nice to meet him. Then he immediately starts commenting about companions because he got emotional.

When every other person always misjudges Saitama at a glance.

And he immediately comes bearing gifts (which he procured despite coming in full battle suit and after receiving distress signal, which makes it seem like he wasn't too worried or in a hurry anyway), saying its a gift for always taking care of Genos.

But how can he say that when Genos always comes to his lab wrecked? Multiple times a day even? Especially after Tournament and Elder Centipede where Saitama definitely WASN'T taking care of Genos?

You'd think that seeing Genos always being wrecked since he got in contact with Saitama, he'd think the opposite. But nah, Saitama on default is "amazing sensei".

Sure, he could have been listening to Genos drone on about Saitama a lot but still...

Kuseno knows something we don't.

[ace-trainer-risu]

what are your fave diana wynne jones books that aren’t howl’s moving castle??

Oh whattt a lovely and fun question which I was definitely not secretly hoping someone would ask!!!! Yay!!

Hm okay so, not specifically in order, probably my top fave Diana Wynne Jones books would be:

Deep Secret! Deep Secret is not just one of my favorite books by DWJ but one of my favorite books full stop! It’s so good. Basically, the premise is that there is an infinite series of interconnected worlds, some of which have magic and some of which don’t, at the center of which is a vast interdimensional magical empire. Magic in the multiverse is overseen by an organization of magicians called Magids and there must always be a specific number of Magids in existence. When Rupert, a young Magid living on Earth, discovers that his mentor has died (ish) he becomes unexpectedly responsible for finding and training the next Magid, which is extremely inconvenient timing for him because the aforementioned magical empire is on the brink of civil war and chaos and its his job to stop it. And also almost all of this takes place at...a science fiction convention. It’s amazing.  I have read this book minimum four (probably more) times and every time it’s absolutely delightful and hilarious. I would like to go to the sci fi convention in this novel more than anything. It’s such a good read and its one of her few novels which is specifically aimed at adults, so I would EXTREMELY recommend it. Plus the romance in it is extremely good...not exactly enemy-to-lovers but more like ‘annoys-the-shit-out-of-each-other’ to lovers.  (**One note about this one...there’s a few very briefly mentioned side characters who are gender noncomforming and even tho they are actually portrayed very positively, it’s not necessarily ideal and 100% respectful (basically the protags comment on them being very beautiful and nice but also keep trying to guess their “real” gender). Additionally there’s a different briefly mentioned side character who is fat who isn’t portrayed very nicely. Both of these are brief incidents, just wanted to provide a warning for them)

Dark Lord of Derkholm - Okay this one is weirdly hard to summarize but it’s about this magical fantasy world which has been taken overy and is being used as a tourist destination by a non-magical world (heavily implied to be Earth) for people who want to role play at being in a classic high fantasy story, including fighting and killing THE DARK LORD...who is really just a random magician pretending to be evil. The inhabitants of the fantasy world do not enjoy this and are trying desperately to stop the tours, but unfortunately according to a magical oracle, their best hope of stopping the tours is this year’s Dark Lord, a hapless farmer magician named Derk, and his, um, eccentric family consisting of his glamorous wife, seven children (of whom five are griffins and one is a bard) and a simply improbable amount of magical animals. And also there is a very good dragon.  I think Derkholm is so great as a novel b/c it’s a very funny, loving but sharp, parody of high fantasy stories...but a lot of the time parodies only function as parodies but not as good stories in their own right, you know? But this novel completely functions as a story too, and in fact the first time I read at maybe age nine or ten, the high fantasy parody went completely over my head...but I still loved it. I also really love that this novel is very accessible to all ages, I think I enjoy reading it as an adult just as much as I did as a kid, which is rare.  For anyone who has read Howl’s Moving Castle but nothing else by DWJ and isn’t sure where to start, I think this is a great place to start. (TW: There’s a brief, non-explicit scene which has implied sexual assault.) 

Fire and Hemlock - This may be the most controversial one since it features a romance with a significant age gap where the two characters meet when one is a child and the other an adult. And I fully agree that that’s :/ and normally that trope is NOT my thing but it doesn’t come off at all creepy in this story imo, and if you think you can deal with that then this is a very weird, atmospheric, cool book about storytelling and fairy tales and growing up. The short summary (this is another hard to summarize one) is that as a child, Polly encounters and strikes up a friendship and correspondence with a young man, Tom, which mainly consists of the two of them jointly making up a silly, ongoing fairy tale type story...but things get weird when parts of their story start to come true in real life.  I’ve only read this one twice but it really stuck with me and in fact just describing it here...really makes me want to read it again!

The Chrestomanci Series - So all of the above are either specifically aimed at adults or a general audience whereas the Chrestomanci series is aimed at children, mainly a middle grade type audience. And tbh I started reading them as a kid (fond memory - I bought an omnibus of the first two with my allowance money...b/c it had a cat on the cover!) so I don’t know what it would be like to first read these as an older teen or an adult. BUT. Honestly they are really good and would be a quick read so I do still recommend them. There’s seven overall, with th seventh being a collection of short stories, and they’re only semi-chronological so the reading order isn’t vital. My recommended order (b/c this the order I read them in, haha) is Charmed Life, The Lives of Christopher Chant, The Magicians of Caprona, Witch Week, The Pinhoe Egg, Conrad’s Fate, and then Mixed Magic you can read whenever you want so long as you read it after Charmed Life and The Magicians of Caprona.  So the very core premise of it is not dissimilar to Deep Secret - there’s an infinite series of worlds/universes and there’s a magician, called the Crestomanci in this case, who is responsible for making sure magic isn’t abused across the multiverse. The Chrestomanci is an extremely powerful enchanter who has nine lives, and the novels are various semi-connected stories about the adventures of Chrestomanci as an adult and child. Chrestomanci is a title so it’s not always the same person, but for the majority of the stories it is the same guy and he’s...the best/worst...He’s this extremely handsome, charismatic, powerful enchanter who is very good at his job, loves his wife a lot, wears very beautiful clothes and makes, um, questionable life choices and is very annoying to everyone. I’ve thought about this very hard and I believe that he’s what happens when you take a fundamentally chaotic good person and make him do a fundamentally lawful good job; yes, he’s going to do it and do it well, but he is going to do it in the most chaotic, ridiculous way possible, and he IS going to die at an ALARMING rate, doing things that would not normally kill a person, such as playing cricket and trying to catch stray cats. He also, as previously mentioned, frequently wears very dramatic silk dressing gowns with elaborate embroidery, which the protag of Charmed Life finds deeply alarming.  It’s very odd to me how these books don’t seem to be well known, because the Chrestomanci books were some of my absolute favorite books as a child. I still have my omnibus editions of the first four novels and they are very worn and very beloved. And it’s so WILD to me that I don’t think I have ever talked to someone who also read those as a kid! Like I’m not saying those people don’t exist, I’m sure I just haven’t met them, but that’s so weiiirddddd to me. If I bring up Tamora Pierce or Garth Nix or other authors of weird, eccentric children’s fantasy novels to other avid childhood consumers of fantasy, people usually know what I mean, but Chrestomanci and its just..crickets. Is it b/c she’s British? Anyway all of the Chrestomanci books are very degrees of good, but if I had to pick a favorite, I think, controversial choice here, it would be Conrad’s Fate. Particularly in terms of recommendations to others, Conrad’s Fate works as a standalone and, unlike the other books in the series, it’s aimed more at a YA audience, so if you wanted to read a Chrestomanci novel without getting into the whole series, that’s a good way to go. It’s about a boy, Conrad, who is told that he has a terrible, possibly fatal Fate awaiting him unless he goes to work as a servant at a wealthy, and weird, estate neighboring his town, at which place he encounters things including color changing livery, an extremely annoying teenage Chrestomanci, and the greatest liminal space house EVER. It’s like a combination of an upstairs/downstairs Downton Abbey type social drama with bizarre fantasy shenanigans. How could that not be good??

Also as Honorable Mentions - A Sudden and Wild Magic and The Time of the Ghost. A Sudden and Wild Magic is fun b/c it’s one of her few works aimed specifically at adults and it’s (gasp) a little bit NAUGHTY which I was very surprised and delighted by when I read it. (This may seem like an unfair statement considering that Deep Secret fully has an orgy in it, but Rupert is so fundamentally unnaughty of a character that he completely unnaughtifies the whole novel, whereas Sudden and Wild Magic embraces being a (little bit) naughty.)   The Time of the Ghost on the other hand is weird and haunting and creepy and atmospheric. I only read it once but it’s one of those novels you just think about periodically and go “wait what the fuck that was a weird novel” (Also known as the “Garth Nix” effect) 

[eveningstar1516]

Rise of the Demon King ~ Chapter 9

Rise of the Demon King

Fic: Multi Chapter Paring: MC x Everyone (Mostly Lucifer) Type: Angst with a Happy Ending Total Word Count: 26,758 TW: Major Character Death, Reader gets stabbed with a sword through their chest so..., Abusive Parents, Past Child Abuse, Demon Hunters, Loss of Control Summary: You’ve done it. You’ve finally done it. You’ve managed to anger the demon king. Now you hold your head high as he hands down your sentence. AO3 Portal: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065362 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~A/N: I gotta Discord server guys! It's primarily Obey Me but other fandoms are welcome as well. It's kinda baby and dead so me and the other members are looking to revive it and we'd love for you to come join us. A roleplay area is included :) https://discord.gg/F3YEmDZCPS Please remember to read and accept the rules once you join for access to all the channels. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Previously: “Of course, what are big brothers for. Anyway, about my payment, maybe you can forget about the money I owe ya?” Groaning, Levi started walking faster, leaving Mammon and his whining behind as he made his way back to the safety of his room. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 9 - Not So Different After All (1754 words)

You were practicing your swordsmanship in the garden clearing when Michael approached you. You’ve been living with the council for 3 decades by now and was confidently running them like Lucifer used to. This left you little time for yourself and you cherished these moments to yourself. That doesn’t mean you don’t like teasing Michael from time to time.

“Good afternoon Y/N”

“Good afternoon to you too Mike. What’s up?”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” “Just be glad I don’t call you that at work. Anyway, how can I help you?”

“May I join you?”

“I don’t see why not, but on one condition. If I win, tell me why you despise Lucifer and why you refuse to call him by his new name. If you win, I’ll answer 2 questions with complete honesty, no restrictions on the type of question.”

Michael visibly stiffened at this. He contemplated this for a moment then agreed. He summoned his sword and stood opposite of me in a ready position. I matched his stance and parreyed off with him, signalling the start of our match. Michael started with a calculated quick strike to my neck. I brought my sword up to block his strike and tried to twist it from his grip but he pulled back and made a quick swing toward my left leg. I jumped up and switched to offence striking for his sword arm trying to land a hit. He saw this and backed away. This continued on for a few minutes. Michael attacking and me blocking and returning the favour. After a few more strikes, I saw an opening, he shifted his legs a little too wide. I dropped my weight and swept his feet out from under him. Before he realized, he hit the ground and I was standing above him, my right foot on his sword arm and my sword by his throat.

“Looks like I won.” I withdrew my sword and extended my arm to help him up. He grabbed my hand with a distasteful look on his face, ashamed at making such a mistake and losing to someone with less skill and combat experience than him.

“Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

Handing him a towel and some water I sat under a date tree and took a sip from my own bottle.

“Lucifer. I took an interest in it after seeing him practise one day and he took it upon himself to teach me, his excuse being that I should know how to protect myself if I insisted on taking up a blade. Enough of that, you lost, now can you tell me why you despise Lucifer so much?”

Michael took a seat next to me and leaned back against the trunk.

“You mean other than the fact that he went against Father, started a civil war, killed numerous angels, abandoned his duty, embraced the very sins that father forbade us from committing, birthed a demon of wrath, and willingly bowed down to the demon prince and still serves him to this day like a loyal lapdog all because he couldn’t take care of Lillith enough to keep her from trying to break one of our laws to save a human? No, no reason.”

“Wow, and I thought humans were the masters at holding grudges.” I took a swing of my water.

“Think about it, at the root of all that, Lucifer did it to protect his family, to protect his little sister. He may have embraced and embodied the sin of pride, but he pushed all of it away to save her. You don’t really think he serves Diavolo just because he asked him to? His pride would never allow it, and yet he does because by doing so, he can protect his family and the ones he loves. Isn’t that a virtue in Father's eyes, protecting loved ones no matter what you need to sacrifice?”

“Well yes, to an extent. You are supposed to do that, unless it means you defy him. If protecting your family results in you turning your back to him, he’d tell you to leave them behind.”

“Why do you keep calling Lucifer "Samael"?”

“That is the name Father gave him, that is the name I will call him. Samael was my brother and I don’t want to remember him for the destruction he caused but for the moments we shared as brothers. He was the pride of the heavens. Despite that, he embodied humility. He never took advantage of his authority. He always made sure the minority were heard. He worked himself to the point of exhaustion as Father's right hand. He never let the praise get to his head. Despite all that, he still embodied pride. He would never ask for help insisting that he could take care of things. He still took in his siblings and raised them, despite the burdens that were already placed on his shoulders. I used to look up to him and saw him as a role model. I accepted the fact that he is no longer an angel and is now a completely different being. In my mind, Lucifer and Samael are 2 separate creatures. I will remember him as Samael, my brother and best friend and Lucifer as the demon serving Lord Diavolo.”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you that they aren’t that different from each other? Samael may have taken all the burden and worked himself till he passed out from exhaustion, but Lucifer still does that. I can’t tell you the number of times I would enter his study just to find him clinging to consciousness trying to finish the never ending paperwork for both the Devildom and from his brother's antics. He does his best and works himself to the bone to make sure that his family has a roof over their heads, enough food to eat which I got to tell you is hard considering they are living with someone who embodies the sin of gluttony. He works himself to make sure that Diavolo doesn’t do the same and can focus on running his kingdom and school without having to worry too much about what goes on behind the scenes. Even with all those responsibilities he took, he still makes sure to be there and protect his family. He raised Satan as a first time father with no knowledge on demonic children. He always set aside some time each week, no matter how busy he is to spend some time with the rest of us. He may be harsh, but he isn’t heartless. He may look incapable of it, but he is very caring and compassionate towards the ones he holds close to him. He is still very much the Samael you knew, he just looks a little different.”

“Was your intention just to tell me these things so that I wouldn’t act distasteful to you or Samael?” “No, I just wanted you to see things from an outsider's perspective, nothing more.”

With that, I got up and left Michael in the garden to think about what I had said as I went to shower and finish up any outstanding work before dinner.

In the Devildom After they lost Y/N

After they lost Y/N, Asmo could barely function. Some days, he would lock himself in his room and not come out for days on end. When Beel would come and drop off some food, Asmo would always insist he just leave it outside the door. When Beel would come back to collect the plate, he found that only a small portion was eaten and that more than half of the food was left. They would never find out that it was because he was unintentionally starving himself and that he was dropping his self care routine. Other times he would leave for days on end and when he did eventually come home, he was either stoned or drunk out of his mind, but he always had a lingering scent of sex on him. It continued on like this for weeks before Satan found him. Asmo had just come back after being missing for a week and once again refused to leave his room. This time, Satan insisted on delivering his food. He needed to check on his little brother no matter how much Asmo didn’t want him to. When he got to the door he knocked and announced he was coming in. Without waiting for a reply, Satan broke the lock on the door and was greeted with an emotionally exhausted and physically wrecked Asmo laying face up on his bed. Tears streaming down his face. Satan closed the door and looked around the room noticing how everything was thrown around and the state of what used to be one of the most organized rooms in the house, now looking like a hot mess. Carefully, he cleared a spot on his dresser, making sure nothing got damaged in the process and set the tray down. Next he went to the washroom, equally messed up, and located a washcloth. He ran it under some warm water and went back to Asmo, carefully wiping away any tears and smudged make-up. Slowly, Asmo opened his eyes to look up at the soft expression on Satan’s face. He turned his head the other and screwed his eyes shut.

“Asmo, look at me.”

When he didn’t turn his head, Satan asked again, a little softer and put a comforting hand on his shoulder to ground him.

“Asmo, can you please look at me?”

Slowly, Asmo turned his head towards Satan and reluctantly opened his eyes. Satan gently lifted him up and pulled him into an embrace. Asmo couldn’t take it anymore and broke down on Satan’s shoulder. Satan rubbed soothing circles on Asmo’s back and stroked his tangled hair, grounding him. Eventually, when Asmo stopped crying, he pulled away from Satan with a sad smile on his face. Satan cupped his right cheek.

“It’s alright, we all miss them too. It’s ok to break down. When was the last time you took care of yourself?”

“I don’t know,” Asmo mumbled.

“That’s alright. Let’s get some food into your stomach first.”

Satan spent the rest of the night by his brother's side, cleaning his room and slowly, step by step, bringing back how his brother usually looked like. A glowing masterpiece, worthy of both envy and praise.

[transsexualhamlet]

the problem with sherlock and watson (yuumori)

Feel free to ignore honestly this is a giant opinionated and not well informed ramble but yeah here it is for those of u that follow me for some reason, this is probably pretty controversial so yeah feel free to scroll past

also spoilers for anime onlys, we’re almost there though

So I’ve been Thinking about these two recently, and yeah, to be fair I’ve literally never read or watched any other adaption of sherlock, so I’m just speaking as to what I can tell, but yeah. I’m not sure at this point if it’s really a complaint or just an observation, but I do have some slightly confounded observations about how things are different from what I expected with them.

Mostly my Confounded Observation is just... Watson is straight?! I don’t mean in a literal way, he definitely has Bi Wife Energy TM but... you know, he’s comparatively straight.

Of course, I understand why the author might want to make sure watson doesn’t really get in the way of sherlock and liam (which is honestly hilarious but understandable) and for the purposes of the story it does make sense, but it’s... you know, again I haven’t consumed literally any other sherlock content so I wouldn’t know but from what I’ve heard watson’s always a flaming homosexual and well, it’s not like this series lacks for those, but?? 

It’s not just that he’s straight in the sense of his sexuality, it’s that... he’s a straight character in the sense that he’s like, normal? Kind of overly normal? I was kind of expecting more out of him, to be honest, and to see him just be like, a functional human being who seems to be doing totally fine in all ways? That... I don’t know, it’s kind of weird. Especially in contrast with Sherlock, who as everyone can tell is violently not doing just fine.

Since this part of the manga will be covered in the anime soon, I think this is timely, but I feel like this is just made painfully obvious when the shit goes down between him and sherlock.

Speaking on the nature of their relationship here, it’s weird. Because you know, the author is clearly going sherliam endgame (istg if they don’t just make it official i cant take this anymore) and I support that lmao, they’re like my favorite dynamic- but yeah, it’s obviously different from the other adaptions, where, you know, sherlock and john are ambiguously gay people.

Like, it’s honestly comical how in this series that is significantly gayer than every other one that watson is so clearly a Heterosexual Man honestly

But Sherlock still, clearly isn’t, and I think there is something to be said about how he feels about John, though of course in the end he... obviously chooses Liam. (and considering John’s kind of ass character in this version, he was right to do so)

I mean, just look at them.

We’ve got this obviously autistic obviously gay man who is violently codependent with this mild mannered british dude. Sherlock’s feelings for this guy are complex, and they’re clearly very different from the ones he has for Liam, but they’re certainly there. Sherlock clearly has no idea of romance, no idea of the boundaries between platonic and romantic relationships (and neither do I, but,,, yeah) and I think what Sherlock feels for Watson is like a queerplatonic relationship, but like.... not reciprocated?? 

It’s so weird for this to be the case, but it so clearly is? In the part where they explore that, it goes into how, like... Sherlock doesn’t really know how to function without Watson, dude’s holding up his entire mental health without even really doing anything, and Sherlock feels fucking awful when he is no longer Watson’s like, #1 person. The fact is, the same thing is going on with him, though they’ve existed like this for years it’s clearly not going to work anymore- Sherlock is basically having to choose between him and Liam, and you know what he’s gonna do. But it’s still an awful feeling for a bond that strong to break.

The thing about it really is that for Watson the tie was never that strong in the first place. Watson is so... without conflict in his character. And this is something that actually honestly bothers me. He’s so lawful good it’s infuriating. He’s steady, he’s calm, he’s rational and he’s emotionally mature, he can manage himself fine and care for everyone he needs to. He’s doing just fine even though Sherlock is caught up in this ridiculous murder drama, and that’s what makes the relationship so... I don’t know, off in this version.

Sherlock needs Watson, and Watson cares about Sherlock, but not nearly to the same extent, and he’s like. Not really doing it right? For someone who’s been with him for presumably years at this point, Watson doesn’t really feel like he knows Sherlock all that well. And that sucks that that’s the truth. 

In every other story with friendship/romance tropes like this, the characters have conflicts like this, but when one person thinks the other doesn’t care for them that way, they’re wrong. It’s like oh no, I’m a burden, I’m being clingy, he’s got a life to get back to and I don’t, I’m too much, he’s better than me etc... those are things Sherlock’s type of character tell themself, but the catch is that’s not actually the case, they’re just Mentally Ill. Having that just... be true in Sherlock’s case is kind of heartbreaking, as much as it’s clearly for the Sherliam agenda.

The problem is just that Watson here is just so lawful neurotypical that he just doesn’t really get Sherlock. He’s got this strict moral code, and he kind of makes it a problem to Sherlock. He says all the things that Sherlock would expect everyone to say, but it’s not what you’re supposed to say, you know? He’s all like murder is bad stop doing that I won’t be your friend if you shoot people we don’t do that >:(, be civil be nice stop putting yourself in danger Don’t Do Drugs etc etc. You know, of course that’s sensible information, but it’s... not what he needs to fucking hear? That’s like the school counselor going hey guys, just say no :D THAT DOESN’T WORK. And you’d think that Watson would get this by now? All it’s doing is hurting him more. It’s genuinely making me dislike Watson, and that’s not something I want to do.

I think it works for the purposes of this specific narrative, because they don’t want to create problems with Watson being left behind, they want to say that he’ll be fine on his own so that it will all work out fine. And yeah, of course I want that, I don’t want there to have to be conflict of sacrificing John’s emotions for Liam, but I feel like they didn’t have to sacrifice John’s character for him. 

This series could have a Watson who cares deeply about Sherlock and has some weaknesses and conflicting emotions about him without them being romantic. We haven’t seen how Watson dealt with Sherlock’s “death” yet, I don’t think, but... I don’t really like the thought that this Watson would honestly be fine. He’d be sad, he’d be mad, but he’d get over it and get on with his life and is objectively in a better situation without Sherlock. Yeah, I just... don’t like that.

I want to see a Watson who understands Sherlock. Isn’t that what he’s supposed to be? I want to see a Watson who cares for Sherlock so much that he has to make hard decisions, that he has to make the wrong decisions sometimes, that he has internal conflict because of it. I want a Watson who gets that Sherlock is nothing without him, who gets what’s going on with him and Liam, who’s trying to help him and keep him on track and maybe failing. I want a Watson who’s genuinely conflicted about leaving Sherlock for Mary because he knows it will hurt him, who worries about his ability to take care of everybody, who shows his problems from you know, being in a literal war, who wonders how to portray Sherlock in his books. We can have that without losing Sherliam, man. He doesn’t have to be Hideyoshi Nagachika (god, no one needs to go thru that shit), he just has to have at least a bit of emotion, bro. I want to see a Watson who’s struggling with what to do. Like. Even once. 

Instead we have this. This dude who is just... a nice, rather clueless guy who helps out sometimes and who’s just a bit too much of a rule follower to fit into a story like yuumori.

Sorry to just complain on main here I just think he was done a bit dirty here and it’s bothering me, if u have thoughts or info about other portrayals feel free to hmu i have become a bIT hyperfixated

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

What a Time to be Alive - Diego Hargreeves x reader

Chapter 6- A Light Supper

Summary: Finally reunited with the rest of the Hargreeves siblings, Five attempted to hold a family meeting. One that you wouldn’t consider to have gone fantastically. Now you must be in the same room as Sir Reginald Hargreeves, the man you’ve deeply hated for as long as you can remember.

Tagged: @white-wolf-buckaroo @fandomoverlord221 @la-vie-en-amour1​ @2cuteforyourlies​ @thatfandombitcch

You stand on the other end of the coffee table with your arms folded, and your brows furrowed, a sign that you’re deep in thought. Diego stands at the opposite end, putting on his orange shirt. Vanya lounged on the couch to your right and Luther sitting in a chair to your left. Reading over Reginald’s letter again, while he eats.

“Diego, this is a set up.” Luther states, mouth full of scrambled eggs.

“Maybe. But we should go anyway.” Replies Diego, tucking in his shirt.

“Says the guy who’s already been stabbed once this week.” You deadpan, looking up at him with a frown, a disguise as you secretly check him out.

“Oh, don’t worry, me and him are gonna have words.” He says sure of himself.

Luther gives you a quizzical look, you simply roll your eyes and shake your head at him, defeated on the topic of convincing Diego otherwise. He turns to Vanya. “Would you tell him that he’s nuts.” 

“I think we should go.” She says. Unfortunately that’s not what you’d like to hear.

“See.” Diego adds, glad that at least one of you can agree with him. Since he’s gotten nothing from either, you or Luther.

“Vanya, of all people, you should hate Dad the most.” Luther tells her shocked and mildly concerned for her mental state.

“Come on, can he really be that bad?” She questions, not believing Luther.

Deciding it’s time to help her see the light, you cut in, “Okay, let me think. Oh, right! He isolated you from the rest of the family. Kept you hopped up on pills. And he brainwashed you into thinking you had no powers.” Observing her now conflicted face, you can only hope that this will sway her thinking, as she sits there taking in what you just said.

“Jesus, this guy..” She says looking down.

“Yeah.” Luther states, agreeing further.

She then gets a surge of confidence, much to your dismay. “I mean, come on, I have to meet him.” She exclaims, excitedly.

Diego glances at you, grinning. You snap back, “You already know how this is gonna go. Daddy’s gonna play his little mind games on you guys.” You say tapping your head for emphasis. “Get into your heads, turning everyone against each other. You watch, I’ve seen it before.” You explain, trying to get him to understand your concerns.

“Y/N, babe we’re not 12 anymore. Alright? We’re grown-ass men. And women.” Diego says confidently, looking to each of you.

He walks over to you slowly, you eye him up while you continue to stand with your arms folded in a defensive stance as he gently pulls your arms from they’re previously folded arrangement. Softly holding you while looking into your eyes. “Hey. We can handle him. Wanna know what’s different this time?” Assuredly he tells you with a kind smile, as you look into his big brown eyes that want you so badly to believe him.

Rolling your eyes, you nod giving him the tiniest of smiles. “Enlighten me, then.” 

“You got me.” He smiles down at you, giving you a reassuring squeeze. You bite the inside of your cheek to prevent you from breaking out into a large grin due to how frustratingly charming he’s being right now.

He releases you, turning back to Luther and Vanya. “We go in there as a united front. No more “number one”, “number two” bullshit.” He says confidently, walking over and sitting next to Vanya on the couch. “From now on it’s..” he stops to think for a second. “Team Zero.”

“Team Zero?” Questions Luther, thinking it over. You look up to the ceiling at how dumb this all sounds, but it’s Diego so you know sooner or later you’re gonna have to face Reginald. You bring your gaze back down to Diego as you let out a feeble sigh.

“Team Zero.” Diego says, brimming with excitement. He looks to each of you, expectantly waiting for your reactions. Happily reaching out to fist pump Vanya and Luther when he sees their smiling but slightly apprehensive faces. Not getting anything from either of them, he turns to you. Not wanting to leave him hanging, you silently raise your own fist in the air. Pushing it forward slightly, while giving him an awkward smile. “Yeah, go Team Zero. Whoo.” You say, highly lacking the amount of passion Diego’s voice had.

Giving in to your lack luster mid-air fist pump, he gets up off the couch. “That’s right baby, Team Zero.” He announces joyfully. Much to your amused doubt, dabbled with the smallest crumb of annoyance.

——

Finally, at long last the four of you reach the Southland Life building. You begrudgingly walk through it’s glass doors, Vanya, Luther, and Diego practically pushing you forward. Diego reaches for your hand, grasping it gently as he looks down at you with a confident smile, masking his true nervousness bubbling underneath. Although you’re not entirely sure if it’s to comfort you, him, or to keep you from booking it back to Elliot’s. When he looks away you frown, you know how uneasy he truly feels, even if he doesn’t physically show it. He gently pulls you forward as the three of you begin walking up the steps, hand still intertwined with Diego’s, you catch the familiar scent of Five. He seems nervous.

On your way to the elevator you spot Five about to walk in, as the doors begin to close you break away from Diego’s grasp to swiftly grab the metal doors, keeping them from closing. You wink at Five, who looks very surprised to see you, of all people. Pushing the door open further you walk in, Diego behind you. Suddenly, Allison, Klaus, Vanya, and Luther squeeze their way inside.

You stand in the middle back. Luther in directly in front of you, Diego and Vanya to your left. With Klaus, Allison, and Five to your right. All packed in like a bunch of canned sardines. “Good. We’re all here.” Five says smiling, astonished that everyone actually showed up.

Not even ten seconds into your awkward elevator ride up to meet Sir Reginald. You catch the disgusting scent of Luther who just tooted out a nervous fart, and your dumbass decided to stand right behind him. Today just keeps getting better and better. 

“Sorry. It happens when I get nervous.” Says an embarrassed Luther while Diego holds in a laugh as he looks over to you who’s covering your nose with the arm of your sleeve. You just close your eyes, opening them again to give him a why-did-I-agree-to-do-this type look.

You hear a ding as the elevator doors open, everyone getting out one by one, stepping out yourself you take a good look around. Everything oddly decorated like a tiki bar. “All right, when Dad gets here, I’ll do the talking, okay?” Says Five, already not trusting anything his siblings or you might blurt out later on. Do you even know us?

“Got a few questions for him myself.” Diego adds.

“Hey, we don’t wanna scare him off.” Jabs Five, trying to keep things civil. “He might be able to help us stop doomsday, get us home.”

“No, we need to figure out why he’s planning to kill the president.” Says Diego, who’s still on about the whole dad and JFK thing.

“This is a matter of life and death, you imbecile.” Quips Five, done with Diego’s nonsense yet again.

“Okay, Yeah, maybe we should take turns talking. Yeah?” Vanya adds, turning to her left to pick up a conch shell from a nearby table. “Here, whoever has got this conch shell gets to talk.”

“That’s adorable.” You deadpan sarcastically, keeping yourself from bursting out with laughter at the absurd suggestion she just made. You don’t mean to be such as ass, but you’re already irritated with the fact that you’re about to meet someone you’d hoped would stay dead forever.

“Vanya, we don’t have time for a debate, okay.” Five says sternly, wanting to get this whole ordeal over with.

Walking down the short line of steps leading to the rest of you, Allison reaches out for the conch shell, “Maybe I should lead. We all know I’m a better public speaker than the rest of you.” She states confidently.

“Okay, Daddy’s girl.” Diego digs at her, trying to push her buttons.

“Oh, jealous, Number Two?” She snaps back, mockingly.

“Hey, no more numbers. No more bullshit. We’re Team Zero.” He says calmly with a serous expression on his handsome face. “We’re all Team Zero.”

“Um Diego.” You say, catching his attention as you smirk at him. “You don’t have the conch.” You add with a teasing tilt of your head.

He flashes you a fake smile before turning to Allison, taking the conch out of her hand and chucking it aggressively across the room. You listen to the loud shattering of the shell, amused by Diego’s impulsive actions. Then the sound of a door being swung open fills your ears, gaining everyone’s attention, and promptly dropping the smile that was just painted onto your humored face.

You look to your left, already knowing who it is before your eyes hit them. Sir Reginald Hargreeves. How marvelous. He briskly walks in, carrying his papers and an attitude that means business as the atmosphere of the room suddenly takes a dip. You sweep your eyes across everyone’s faces, wanting to see their reactions. They all show their own form of shock, surprise, nervousness, and anxiety. You just feel agitated.

Remembering back to earlier times, he was never a welcoming or kind person. He would always send you into the thick of the fight, knowing you were immortal, so therefore you’d be fine getting injured. “Listen well number eight, the law will appreciate your bravery and sacrifice, while the scum of the earth will grow to fear you.” He would tell you. Usually after a violent mission while you sat in the infirmary getting shrapnel pulled out of your arm. Grace trying her best to take it out quickly, while you did your best to hold back your tears. Reginald would look on, fascinated by how your flesh would immediately fuse back together once the debris was removed. He would also perform tests on you, taking samples here and there. Trying to figure out how your gift could be made into a serum, that could then be used to heal people. It failed, and all you got out of it was tears, trauma, and missed donut nights with your friends.

So yeah, you hate Sir Reginald with a burning passion, but you love Diego too much to leave him face-to-face with his Dad alone. The things you do for love. Let’s get this shit over with, you think, while pulling out your chair to sit down. Five, Diego, and Klaus in chairs to your right, in that order. Allison, Vanya, and Luther to your left. With Reggie, sitting opposite to you, from across the brightly colored table.

He sits down with a hard look on his features, looking around the table at the seven of you. “Not only have you burglarized my lab, set my chimp loose, conned your way into a Mexican consulate, repeatedly stalked and attacked me, but you have, on numerous occasions, called me..” he pauses for a moment, as Klaus sits down drink in hand, and ironically enough calling him Pops in the moment. “Dad.” Sir Reginald ends with. Looking at everyone confused, he continues, “My reconnaissance tells me you’re not CIA. Not KGB, and certainly not MI5, so..” he pauses again, clasping his hands together. “Who are you?”

Everyone looks around waiting for each other to say something, not sure how to start this. Suddenly Five speaks up, “We’re your children. We’re from the future. In 1989, you adopted us all, minus Y/N, she came later, and trained us to fight against the end of the world.”

An awkward silence fills the room, as Sir Reginald starts to process Five’s hard-to-believe informational dump. Klaus sips his glass of whatever. “Called us the Umbrella Academy.” Five says, Klaus raising his glass in salute.

“Why on earth would I take into my home seven..” suddenly he’s cut off by Allison who adds “Eight.” Everyone turns to her. “One of us isn’t here.” 

“Dead.” Diego joins in dismally. “One of us is dead.”

You look past Reginald’s shoulder, at a chair in the middle of him and Klaus, but behind them. Your ears prick up, hearing a hushed muffled sound, knowing Ben is in the room. Turning around a second later Klaus starts talking to that exact spot. Earning a rightfully perplexed look from Sir Reginald.

“Regardless. What would possess me to take in, eight ill-mannered malcontents?” He questions, his frustration and confusion growing by the minute.

“We all have special abilities.” Assuredly adds Five like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Special? In what sense?” Sir Reginald doubts, in that quick and to the point voice of his.

“In the superpower sense.” Replies Luther truthfully.

“Call me old-fashioned, but I’m a stickler for a pesky little thing called evidence.” He sits back slightly, giving everyone a questionable look. “Show me.” He promptly adds, doubtful until proven otherwise.

Here we go time to get this circus moving, you think honestly a bit amused, expecting nothing less from a man like him. “Everybody wants to see powers all of a sudden.” Allison scoffs, holding up her drink and taking a sip.

“We’re not circus animals.” Growls Luther, defensively. “We’re not gonna bounce balls on our noses and clap our hands like seals for your amusement.” Luther says, tired of Reginald’s questions and doubt.

Diego throws his arm up, a flash of silver flying in the air, only for the knife to stop mid-flight where it abruptly turns, shifting direction and darting past Reginald’s face, inches from his wrinkled skin. So close. He then picks up his pen, beginning to write something down in his notes. “What are you writing?” Diego asks leaning in to try and see what’s on the paper.

“You are zero for two, young man.” Replies Reginald bluntly.

You roll your eyes as Allison snorts, Diego jumping to get up as Five teleports directly in front of him. Holding him physically back so Diego won’t end up doing anything stupid.

“Now that...is interesting.” Reginald states, curiously surprised while studying Five for a moment.

Walking around Diego, Five begins pointing to Luther, “All right, uh, quick rundown. Luther: super strength. Klaus can commune with the dead. Allison can rumor anyone to do anything.”

“Except she never uses it.” Diego adds rudely while sitting back down again, annoyed and frustrated at how things are going for him.

Allison gives him an irked smile, turning to face him, “I heard a rumor...you punched yourself in the face.” She ends with, smiling at him as his eyes go white.

Without another thought, he does just that, nailing himself hard in the nose. You burst out with a loud laugh, as Diego yelps in pain. Reginald tenses for only a fraction of a second, not expecting such a show.

Allison, satisfied with herself, sips her drink loudly looking over at a distressed Diego who luckily didn’t just hear you laughing at him. You look at Reginald, waiting for him to ask about your powers. He turns to Vanya instead, much to your relief for the time being. “And you?” He questions.

“Uh, maybe we don’t take Vanya for a test run.” Luther smiles nervously, patting her shoulder in a friendly manner.

“Oh, yeah, that’s probably not a good idea.” Adds Klaus, half drunkingly.

Vanya speaks up looking to all of you with a small smile, “It’s fine. I can handle it.” She says, reaching out for a glass and a spoon.

“Handle it?” Points Allision, weary of how things could turn out. “Last time you handled it, you definitely blew up the moon.”

Swaying her spoon backwards, readying for an impact, she smiles as everyone anxiously issues her to stop. Knowing exactly what’s about to happen next, you casually hold up a plate in front of your face. While plugging one ear, you hear an awful high pitched ringing sound, then right on cue. The previously, nicely arranged, decorated fruit basket, explodes. Sending chunks of pineapple, apples, bananas, mango's, and whatever else was in there. Directly into your friends faces, and clothing alike.

“This is my favorite shirt. Wow.” Whines Klaus, flicking pieces of watermelon off of him and onto the floor.

“Oops.” Vanya says quietly, smiling shyly to herself once again.

“Impressive.” You say, grinning at her.

“Very well.” Says Reginald, cleaning small hunks of fruit off his monocle. Taking only a couple of seconds, he looks up, focusing his curious gaze onto your fearless one. “And what is the nature of your power?” He asks you. I wish it was to blow your fucking head off, you think bitterly.

Giving him your best fake half-smile, you nod at his question, “My senses are all acutely heightened, and I’m immortal. A slight exception being, that I do in fact age.” You tell Reginald bluntly, waiting for him to ask you to prove it.

“Well, show us then.” He states, expectantly awaiting what you’re about to do next.

Sighing, you turn to Diego, “Knife.” Obliging to your request, he quickly pulls out his knife, throwing it away from you. It darts towards the opposite wall, before it turns coarse, swishing through the air and making a beeline for the back of your head. Listening for the close ring of the blade cutting through the air, time seems to slow down for you, as you turn yourself to the left. Reaching your arm up with lighting speed, you catch the knife in your hand without looking. Trusting in your instincts and quick reaction time. You look at everyone’s faces, each of them staring with their mouths open slightly, visibly impressed with your display of your gift. Reginald included. But you can tell by the furrowing of his brows that he’s not convinced yet.

Taking the knife in your right hand, you lay your left one onto the table, ignoring your friends grimaces, all of them already knowing where this is going. Suddenly you stab yourself through the palm of your hand. Holding in a scream, you frown, keeping your pain inside. You then lift up your currently impaled left hand, showing it off to the rest of the room. As it starts dripping blood, you twist. Further destroying the already broken muscles, tendons, and bones, making it bleed more. You finally pull it out, some wet droplets falling onto the orange tablecloth. Instantly your knife wound begins to heal, the injured flesh fusing together once again, leaving nothing but a small blood smear. The pain dissipating away, like nothing ever happened.

“Incredible, absolutely incredible.” Says a wide eyed Reginald, flabbergasted at the intense performance you just showed everyone. Looking away from him for a second, you turn your attention on Diego. Who looks at you troubled, hurt that you had to mutilate your own hand to prove your power. You give him a small reassuring smile, wordlessly telling him you’re fine.

He flashes a small one of his own, before he turns to Reginald, getting back down to business, or in other words, the real reason why he’s here. JFK.

“Look, we know that you’re involved in a plot to assassinate the president.” He says standing up and leaning his hands against the table. You glance at Five who looks done with Diego’s accusations.

“You were recently hospitalized, isn’t that correct?” Reginald states unyielding, of course he would know that, the hold shit does do his research. “You still appear to be suffering from delusions of grandeur and acute paranoia.” He says, you knowing he doesn’t truly know shit about Diego. Slowly your anger rises.

“Am I ?” Diego replies, while pulling out the photograph of Sir Reginald Hargreeves with his infamous umbrella, standing in the sunlight on the grassy knoll. He looks at it confused. “That’s you. That’s two days from now on the grassy knoll at the exact spot the president’s gonna get shot.” He adds, confident in his allegations.

Reginald picks up the photograph of himself, eyeing it closely, thinking hard, “Well, I suppose you’ve solved it.” He says humored by the evidence. Speaking louder now, on the verge of a mocking tone, he continues, “You single-handedly unearthed my nefarious plot. Is that what you wanted to hear? You fancy yourself a do-gooder? The last good man who will save us from our descent into corruption and conspiracy?” He jabs at Diego, advancing with more hurtful words. “This is a fantastic delusion. The sad reality is that you’re a desperate man, tragically unaware of your own insignificance, desperately clinging to his own ineffectual reasoning.” Diego cowers back, beginning to lower himself deeper into his chair. Your own rage begins to awaken as your jaw clenches, no one talks to Diego like that, especially Reginald. But he’s not done, “More succinctly, a man in over his head.” He states, finally ending his little tirade. Your about to lash out at him with your own choice words, before Diego starts to speak, shuddering a bit, “You’re wr...wrong.” A single tear streams down his face, your heart shatters. A new fury taking over you.

Pounding the table in one aggressive thud, you stare daggers at Reginald, who flinches for a moment, caught off guard by your abrupt outburst. Sneering at him in disgust you begin, “You know nothing of what amazing things he’s done, how many lives he’s actually affected for the better, lives that would have ended if not for him. I for one, refuse to sit back and listen to a man who’s never felt an inch of remorse in his life. A man who manipulates, traumatizes, and kills the spirit of anyone within an eight foot radius of him. You know nothing of true sacrifice, or what the cost of it is to save the ones you love. And to live your life satisfied with how you treat the ones around you, is worse then any death I’ve ever received.” You end, your words lingering in the air. Short and to the point, mostly calling out his future, now your past events. But it still felt good to let it out.

Everyone sits back in silence, quietly applauding you for standing up to Sir Reginald. When no one else would dare. You look over to Diego, who looks like the most proudest person alive. If he wasn’t so dejected from the cruel words his father just handed him, Diego would be beaming.

Taking this moment of quiet, Five speaks up, “We have a catastrophic war coming in five days. We need to figure out how to stop it.” He pleads, doing his best to explain things quickly.

“War? Men will always be at war with each other.” Reginald replies, not getting the point.

“No, this isn’t just some war. I’m talking about a doomsday. The end of the world.” Five says, a serious and urgent expression on his face.

“Well, you’re the special ones, aren’t you? Why don’t you band together and do something about it?” Reginald exclaims. Everyone staring on dumbfounded that he didn’t just drop any type of positive information that could help the apocalypse situation. You lean back in your seat, unsurprised.

Without warning you here a whispered yell, a second later Klaus raises his arms in the air shaking oddly in his seat. Grunting in a pained way. All of you look on in bewilderment, deeply perplexed by his sudden behavior.

“Is he having a seizure?” Questions Allison.

“Overdosing probably.” Diego says joylessly, staring at the table.

“Should we do something?” Wonders Luther, to no one in particular.

Five leans in, whisper yelling at Klaus, “Klaus. Now is not the time. What are you doing?” He asks frustrated and slightly embarrassed at his brothers random disruption.

“Out with it, boy.” Reginald beckons, interested in what he has to say.

Gasping, arms still raised he raggedly yells out, “Be..n.” Before falling to the floor in a dramatic slump. You cock your head to the side, a conflicted expression on your features. Did you just hear what you thought you did? No way. It couldn’t have been? But there’s no denying it, when Klaus opened his mouth all you heard was...Ben’s voice. Jeesh, you swear you learn something new about your powers every couple years or so. Alright, you can’t hear the dead very well when they’re around Klaus. But you can hear them when they apparently posses him. Weird but okay. Damn, you really are like a vampire or some shit. No, you’re never ever telling Klaus that, or anyone else. Klaus already thinks you secretly are one.

“Well, thank you for coming.” Says Reginald suddenly as he quickly stands up, holding onto his notebook tightly, he adds, “I’ve seen about enough.” And just like that he turns to leave.

“No, uh.” Luther starts, suddenly standing up, he rips his shirt off, boldly flashing everyone his grotesque ape-like torso for all to see. “Look at what you did to me. Look at it.” He loudly yells wide-eyed.

“Jesus, Luther.” You mutter, while making a face that practically say please-don’t-I-did-not-sign-up-for-this.

“Oh, shit. Why?” Five says, trying his best to look away. Everyone else looks on, noticeably shocked and a bit disturbed, well mostly Vanya and Reginald. The only two that didn’t know Luther was, well, like that.

Averting his gaze off of Luther, Sir Reginald turns to Five, “You in the culottes. A word, privately.” He says pointing to some doors leading to another room.

——

Standing in the back left corner of the elevator, you’re left in a bad mood as you try to ignore the malodorous scent coming from a sweaty and tired Klaus. “Well, that went as well as any Hargreeves family function.” Allison says, stating the obvious.

“I walked in expecting shit and that’s exactly what I got. So at least I wasn’t disappointed there.” You mutter, giving them one of your sour attempts at a joke.

“I feel so violated.” Klaus says shakily from his spot on the floor below you. “I need a herbal bath. You had no right to posses me.” He whines at nothing. You know it’s Ben, the tell tail whispered static enough to give him away.

“Congratulations.” Allison smiles, turning to Luther.

“For what?” He wonders, unsure of himself.

“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever stood up to Dad.” Allison says excitedly, turning back around, Luther left with a proud smile on his face.

“Are you okay?” Quietly, Vanya asks Diego, feeling bad for not speaking up for him earlier.

“Hmm. So much for having my back in there. Team Zero, my ass.” He grumbles sadly. Turning his head briefly to you in an act of acknowledgment, he adds softly, “But uh, thanks Y/N...I love you.” He says whispering the last part. Not knowing how else to tell you his gratitude without breaking down.

You smile giving him a breathy laugh, “I’m your ride or die. You’d do it for me.” He smiles at that, leaning is arm tiredly against the elevator door.

——

Walking outside, you and Diego spot Grace waiting inside her car. He talks to her for a couple seconds before giving her the suspicious photograph of him on the grassy knoll. She says he’s mistaken, but you can see the way she frowns conflicted by this accusation. Done with everything for the night, you walk away, Diego hastily catching up with you. Time to go to bed, you think.

——

You slowly trudge up the stairs to Elliot’s place. Ready to jump into bed, when you abruptly smell the iron scent of blood from your spot outside his apartment door. Huh, that’s definitely not normal.

“Something’s wrong.” You blurt out, right before Diego goes to unlock the door. He freezes for a second, turning to you. “What is it?”

“I smell blood. Open the door.” You tell him.

Compliant with your recent statement, Diego nods, turning to unlock the door.

The three of you walk inside, wary of your surroundings. You don’t hear anything. Then you spot the tiny red pools laying motionless on the wooden floor. “Look.” You tell them, pointing to the blood.

“Shit.” Luther says, after reaching down to touch it, checking for himself that it is in fact, blood.

Diego looks around the kitchen, “Elliot!” He yells out.

Catching a sour whiff of something dead, you look up to spot Elliot, presumably deceased, sitting in one of the dentist chairs. Slowly walking up to him with Luther at your side. The both of you look down at the carnage.

“Diego!” Luther calls out for his brothers attention, Diego answers, walking into the room.

The three of you now looking at Elliot with grossed out faces. You turn away, the smell too much. Luther doing the same.

“Holy shit.” Diego says, astonished by the writing on the tiled floor below them.

You quickly walk over catching sight of the words written out in blood.

ÖGA FÖR ÖGA

[allthingsmustfall]

Charthur Love HCs

It’s blisteringly hot and humid, and I’m feeling kind of melancholy, and was thinking about Arthur and Charles and the way they love each other.  I saw a post a while back (this has been living in a gdoc for a while), that accurately pointed out that in so many fics, Arthur puts Charles on a pedestal as some perfect unflawed human, and that that isn’t the best way to treat a character - it makes them one-dimensional if all they are is the Good which you use to measure another character’s Bad.  I fell into that a bit in ‘like thieves in the night’ and so it’s been sticking in my side….Anyway, it got me thinking about WHY they love each other, because if I could define that, then it might make it easier to write their relationship more realistically - so have some completely unrequested head canons from ‘like thieves in the night':

Arthur loves Charles

Arthur doesn’t think much of himself, not with all the things he’s done - if he’s remarkable in any way, it could only be because he’s put so much bad out into the world.  So with that lingering self-loathing, he’s always gonna consider his actions to be worse than similar things done by similar people.  So while he knows that Charles lived most of his life by thieving and killing folk, he doesn’t think of it as ‘bad’ in the same way Arthur regrets some of his own behavior.  Charles is Kind, and the things he’s done that weren’t kind - well, that’s only because there weren’t any other options afforded him; it doesn’t change the fact that Charles is, at the heart of him, good. Arthur is so much more willing to give others the benefit of a doubt.  While he can’t forgive himself for some of the things he’s done, he’s far more likely to forgive others.  Charles in particular.

Outlaws aren’t all chivalrous men who are competent and effective, Arthur knows that all too well.  So when they bring on new blood into the gang, Arthur never expects much.  Far more people fall into outlawing because they’re stupid and lazy than because they’re fighting a war on civilization in general and Washington, DC in particular.  And yet, immediately, Charles is Capable.  He comes into the gang and does more than his fair share of the hunting, the guarding, the chores.  Arthur has made the gang his family; taking care of them is how he shows his love.  Seeing Charles take that on without question or complaint is unusual enough to be startling.  It’s probably what first made Arthur look at Charles with real consideration.  For a long time, he waited for the other shoe to drop, for Charles to reveal himself as untrustworthy, to have some fatal flaw like most men they take on.  But it never comes. 

So many of the folks in the gang are bloviators who can’t shut up about how amazing they are.  But Charles doesn’t slam his ego around like a fucking weapon like the rest of them; it’s not that he’s uncertain about himself or his place in the gang.  He knows without question that he’s good at what he does and lets his actions/results speak for themselves. Many times Arthur has watched Charles smile privately after a job well done, either chopping wood or getting through a robbery without having to kill anybody. He's proud of his work, and rightly so.  It’s...admirable (cue confused soft emotions)

Arthur gets shit from some of the gang about how much time/energy he spends helping out the lost lambs of the world, but Charles does the same sort of thing.  In my fic, I gave Charles the Charlotte mission, but I like to think he picked up some of the other things that would have fallen to Arthur in-game.  So, back to Arthur’s low self-esteem, when Arthur offers that selflessness, makes himself vulnerable for no reason other than it was the right thing to do - whatever, nbd.  But when done with Charles’ hands, Arthur recognizes it as the sort of kindness that changes the world in small and loving ways.

Charles has a sense of humor that Arthur just gets.  It’s not loud or performative like Sean.  It’s quiet and sarcastic and deadpan.  It took him a while to really notice it, but Charles just cocking an eyebrow at the perfect time is enough to make Arthur crack. Charles has amazing eye roll game.  He can’t imagine that anyone thinks of Charles as silent and menacing, not when Arthur has personally heard Charles repeat filthy limericks until Arthur gave up trying to sleep, swung his leg over Charles’ hips, and kissed him quiet. 

I think that Arthur would have spent his whole life holding Charles in High Regard, not examining too closely the tremor in his chest when he makes Charles smile, or how...nice it is to just watch Charles chop wood. I think the love he feels for him is physical, not in a sexual way, but in a tactile, grounded way that's totally different than anything he's felt for a woman. With Mary, that love was ethereal, hard to grasp, but with Charles, Arthur could point to the point on his chest where that love lives. It's as real and alive as his heartbeat.

Charles loves Arthur

I think something bad happened prior to Charles joining the gang; not necessarily terrible or uniquely awful, but something that made him weary of being on his own.  Maybe he had to deal with some local racist troublemakers, got away clean, and was making camp for himself out in the rough only to be happened upon by more racists/bandits/troublemakers, and was forced into yet another fight for his life.  So he’s exhausted, and he wants a place to rest and he hears about Dutch’s gang. Dutch seems honorable, doesn’t mention his race, and almost...shows off the other POC in the gang (look at all the POC I have so generously taken in! Praise me for my open mindedness).  It’s condescending, but it’s better than the overt hatred he gets out on his own.  So he joins up.  He’s not expecting much out of a gang of outlaws, and some of them live up (down?) to expectations, but there’s a good chunk of people who are far more like a family than he was expecting.  They’ve even got a kid with them, who’s protected as fiercely as any child deserves.  And Arthur, for all that he’s introduced as Dutch’s menacing lieutenant, spends most of his energy protecting and caring for that core little family.  Yes, Arthur spends a lot of his time with his hands dirty, but at the end of the day, he wipes them clean and sits quietly at the fire, clear affection in his eyes as everyone talks over one another and laughs and dances.  It’s far more human than he was expecting from a man whose face is plastered from here to New Hanover and back again, drawn hastily above a litany of sins.

Arthur has been on the wrong side of the law his entire life, has probably killed more men than he’s had hot dinners, which makes it all the more amazing that he has any moral compass at all, let alone one which so unerringly brings out that fierce stubbornness when marginalized people are threatened.  Being kind matters all the more when the option to be cruel is so much easier, when it has been nurtured more than kindness ever has.  It’s...amazing, so much so that Charles is appalled that so few others seem to notice.

Charlie's is startled by Arthur’s tenderness; he had worried that Arthur would mistake him for a woman, at first, that this thing of theirs would make Arthur think of him as something delicate in need of protection. But Arthur still relies on Charles in a fight, he doesn’t try to wade in and fight Charles’ battles for him - well, for the most part.  Arthur is protective of the things he loves - so when he picks fights on Charles’ behalf it’s less because he doesn’t think that Charles can fend for himself, and more because he is impatient to kick in the teeth of every bigot in the world (it’s a thin line to walk, and Arthur doesn’t always nail it - it’s been the subject of more than one fight).  But still, Arthur is...soft in a way that surprises Charles.  Even before they admitted to themselves and each other that this was more than an occasional hand beneath a blanket, that love was creeping up around them like a slow tide, Arthur’s hands were gentle on him, reverential.  There was more than one time Charles had feigned sleep just to enjoy the soft way Arthur carded his fingers through his hair, the way the pads of his fingers traced, unasking, over his collection of scars.  The types of trysts Charles had had in his past didn’t involve anything like that - that quiet, naked intimacy that only comes after the sex is done and heart rates are drifting back to normal.  It makes Charles’ throat tight, even as the rest of him goes soft and liquid under Arthur’s hands.

Because Arthur is white, is a man, and now has enough money that he and the rest of the gang are set for life, there are things that he will never experience, and in never experiencing them, will never really understand.  Occasionally, Arthur forgets there are places that won’t serve Charles dinner and he’s enraged when he runs across them, wants to burn down every racist, bigoted piece of shit he runs across.  But he doesn’t expect Charles to comfort or educate him about these inequities. Arthur doesn’t see himself as some sort of uniquely qualified savior who can liberate the oppressed just because he’s white and he cares.  He’s learned that the best person to solve those problems isn’t a white man riding in with a gun and a temper; that the desire to help is most effective when directed by someone who has lived under that oppression.  And so he listens when Charles speaks, and he learns.  

Arthur has been with women, has been in love before Charles.  That doesn’t bother Charles - not exactly.  But Arthur has a road map to love that Charles has never seen; Arthur already contains the spaces within himself in which love can be built and tended to - the sort of thing that only comes from experience.  Charles never had the chance for that, had never expected the opportunity, not when the world was already ready to hang him for so many other things.  He’d never anticipated love, not like this, not the sort of thing which was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.  And so Arthur more easily vocalizes  his adoration.  He has told Charles he loves him plainly, many times, unthinkingly calls him ‘darlin�� when he’s distracted or preoccupied.  He doesn’t even seem bothered that Charles’ own admissions are quieter, hidden within other words and deeds.  There’s no doubt in Charles, now, about how they are together, how deeply this connection runs, but that gentle, unthinking intimacy still steals his breath away, even twenty years down the road when Arthur is walking around the cabin hollering “Darlin’ you seen my new leather hat?  I swear I had it just - ah, never mind, there it is-”

They just - are in awe of each other, each the other’s wonder which holds the stars apart.  

[theyre-just-blocks]

Sam and Tony parallels.

This is strictly for my own enjoyment seeing as Tony Stark and Awesamdude are probably my favorite comfort characters (even though both of them cause me a lot of pain).

But anyways, I’ve seen a handful of people draw the parallels between the two characters (Even Tommy saw it, bless you Tommy) and I just want to put my own ideas out there on how these two are pretty similar.

Again, this is about c!Sam, not Sam the CC.

First off, both of them could be considered to be mechanics. They both are pretty handy when it comes to machines and both of them are often described as being rather intelligent when it comes to machines. I think this is the most obvious similarity between the two of them is their abilities with machines and big brains.

I think the next obvious thing is that both of them become father figures to someone who really needs it. Tony to Peter and Sam to Tommy. Both Tommy and Peter needed that mentor, father-type figure in their lives and got Tony and Sam in return. Both of them strived to be the best for their kid and both of them lost their kid at one point, only to get the back and then lose them again. Sam lot Tommy in the prison to Dream like Tony lost Peter on Titan to Thanos, and then when both came back, Tony died and Sam became dead to Tommy.

Then you’ve got Tony’s suits/AIs and Sam Nook. Both of these things were created to benefit someone (Tony’s suits/AI helped him and Sam Nook helped Tommy) and are both impressive works of machinery made by both of them respectfully.

Oh, and let’s not forget that the two have similar fears/traumas. While the situation in which they earned these fears and traumas are different, both of their anxieties are essentially pretty similar. Sam gets his trauma from the Egg, Tommy’s death, and Dream himself, while Tony’s came from the cave he was held hostage in, flying into the portal from the Battle of New York, and the vision of seeing all his friends dead in AoU. As a result of these events, both of them turn to busying themselves with projects that they believe will protect themselves and or others. Tony makes a bunch of suits to protect himself (IM 3) and Sam turns to prioritizing keeping Dream in the prison above all else.

As a result of their insecurities and trauma, they made things that they thought would protect the people they loved and cared for, but ultimately it didn’t work out the way that they wanted it to. Tony had Ultron, a program he hoped to use to protect from future alien attacks and Sam has Pandora’s Vault to keep the biggest villain on the server in captivity. Ultron corrupted and nearly destroyed life on planet earth as we know it and Sam got corrupted by the prison to the point where he’s lost sense of what’s morally right and wrong.

Basically, both of them have somehwhat unhealthy coping mechanism where they preoccupy themselves with work to ignore what's going on in their life, so much so that they push everyone who's trying to help away and end up making things worse for themselves since they end up forgetting to worry about themselves once in a while. Both of them need some self care,,

Their projects also ruined their love life (granted Tony was able to recover his afterward). Pepper got annoyed with how much time Tony was spending with the suits, making them and whatnot, to the point where Tony had to choose between her and the suits (IM 3). Ponk got killed, tortured, and his arm chopped off because of all the time that Sam was spending in the prison, thus ruining their relationship. (Not to mention, Tony calls Pepper ‘Pep’ and Sam calls Ponk ‘Ponkie’)

I think both of them can also be seen as Lawful Good. Doing whatever they can legally to make sure that things go well. We see it in Captain America: Civil War when Tony wants to side with the government and create the Sokovia Accords, guilty about all the damage he has caused to the world due to Ultron and his company prior to becoming Iron Man. Then we see it with Sam dedicating himself to the role as “The Warden” and keeping justice and law in order on the server to any means necessary.

Aside from actions and events, both of them also have somewhat of a similar personality as well, though one could argue that this isn’t the case. However, like Tony, Sam cares deeply about those he loves and feels the need to protect them at all costs. Tony’s greatest fear (revealed by Wanda’s mind tricks in AoU) was losing his friends and it could be argued that that’s the same with Sam. In his case, the Egg would be Wanda, putting thoughts into his head that he is unable to protect those he loves.

They’ve also got quite the ego. Though I can see why one would think that Sam doesn’t really have one, I can assure you that he does. It’s even on the wiki as his biggest weakness (or it was before he started to corrupt and spiral). Though maybe Tony is more sassy and cocky than Sam is, both of them have an ego and it’s somewhat of a hubris to them. If anything, their ego makes it harder for them to share burdens, making them think that they should be the only one to carry burdens and protect everyone else instead of looking after themselves every once in a while.

Oh, also they’re the characters that tend to get a lot of dislike/hate for certain actions. Granted, Sam’s most recent actions don’t have any reason to be defended (torture and cutting off your bf’s arm? I don’t think so.) but before that, at the start of the prison arc, there were several people who didn’t like his character because they believed that Dream shouldn’t have been treated the way they thought he was being treated. Because to them, Sam was torturing Dream, when in fact, that wasn’t the case until Quackity. Tony also got a lot of shit, being blamed for just about anything, with most Marvel villains becoming villains because Tony had wronged them in some minor way (Looking at you, Mysterio). If anything, I think Sam is what people who hate Tony think that Tony is. Some cold-hearted bastard who loves money and could care less about people. And that’s totally not the case.

Also, both of them are perfectionists with an eye for aesthetic and design. Sam spends a lot of time on his projects making things look nice and Tony likes to look nice as well (Come on, his three-piece suit in CA:CW? Man’s got style).

And I guess another obvious connection that I should’ve mentioned before was both of them being super rich. Granted, Tony is rich in the real world sense, being a billionaire and all while Sam is more ‘Minecraft rich’ with all the materials and tridents that he has, but they’re both rich and that’s what counts (Capitalism, y’know).

Stark Industries and Awesamdude Construction. Or at least, both of them are in charge of some kind of industry, Tony weapons manufacturing, Sam sever builds. So in a way, both of them are business men who know how to handle companies.

Last but not least, both of them have fat asses. (CANONICALLY SAM HAS A DUMPY DO NOT COME FOR ME)

Anyways, in short, my favorite kind of character is a traumatized smart father-figure and I can’t wait till the next similarity I have to add to these two is that they both have died.

Aha, that was a joke, but Sam really needs a break.

[rise-of-the-fullmetal-alchemist]

Icarus

         “Merciful God, please hear my prayer.

         Casey kneeled before the altar, the mantra practically embedded in her DNA after the countless hours spent in prayer. She clasped her hands tightly, almost painfully like she did yesterday, and the day before, and the days preceding that- looking up to the God she worshipped on that stood tall in his stone mould.

         “Please bring them back”

          A low whistle echoed through the cathedral,and Casey spun around to face the aisle.

         “Wow, they sure spent the town budget on this place, huh?”  

         The interruption came in the form of a group of colour-coordinated turtle Yokai. The purple banded member seemed to be the one who made the loud interruption, which was incredibly rude of him, but Casey could tolerate his actions because it was a compliment to the architecture of the cathedral. He loudly clacked his feet against the marble tiles as he entered the hall, properly making his presence heard as if whistling wasn't enough. A tall red turtle looking awfully shy for someone his size followed in, accompanied by a blue banded turtle, who were silently following the loud purple one. The group was completed with a fourth who wore a whole suit of armour in contrast to the others dress code, ironically wearing the smallest orange mask on his already masked face. They seemed to be travellers, unlike most of the people who came to the cathedral, packing light despite the heavy-looking armour that one guy was in. The purple yokai took the lead of the group, strutting around the hall without much care.

       “You aren’t from around here are you? I don’t think I've seen you four before.” Casey sat up slowly, her legs wobbled a bit as her nerves roused. “You’re here to learn about Letoism?”         “Pass,” he dismissed with a wave, ”we aren’t exactly the religious type.”          She was a little annoyed at how quickly he had shut him down but remained civil.         "To know God is to know hope, that's what Father Harold always says. If i had it my way, I'd be screaming my lungs about the glory of our God, but it's a sin to be a public nuisance. Since discovering and believing in the divine grace, impossible has become possible."          Casey scans them quickly, and finds herself questioning just how possible these strangers’ salvation could be.          The red banded one- it was a mouthful to think, he needed a new name. “Big Red” would do - Big Red folded his arms, his expression thoughtful before he spoke."So whaddya think about bringing back the dead? Ya think that's possible?"          “Yes, I do,” came the easy reply. It had to be true, Father Harold had been proven to be capable of so much. He promised that he would bring back Casey’s family, she just had to be patient. She had faith that he would carry it out. Lying was a sin, and Father Harold wouldn't lie.          The purple banded yokai, which she nicknamed, “Eyebrows”, sighed and reached into his jacket pocket to pull out a small worn notebook, flipping to a bookmarked page.          “Water: 35 litres. Carbon: 20 kg. Ammonia: 4 litres. Lime: 1.5 kg-”           Great, he’s speaking in tongues.

          “-And various other trace elements.”            He snapped the book shut loudly.           “That list represents the complete chemical makeup for the body of an average adult,” his gaze turned back to her, “it’s been calculated to the last microgram, but modern science has failed to produce any reported cases of creating a human or yokai life.”              He rolled his eyes- no, eye- she realised upon further inspection.

           “But yeah, I’m sure just praying is gonna make it happen,” Eyebrows’ voice dripped with sarcasm.             This boy stepped into God's home to insult His power, and Casey’s anger was starting to boil over. Her fists clenched at her sides as she resisted the urge to glare, schooling her expressions to look somewhat neutral. "Don't underestimate Leto’s power! So long as we have faith, He will answer our prayers!" Casey was ignored as Eyebrows continues to drone on as if she never spoke at all.            “Oh, and those ingredients? Mere pocket change,a child could get it from the corner store.” Eyebrows smirked, seemingly as if he had won. “Turns out people are made pretty cheap.”             Casey’s arms strained with tension as she was starting to lose against the rage that was taking over her mind, her balled fists turning white and painful. She couldn't help but glare as she ground out the next sentence, "That's blasphem-"            “Alchemists are scientists, we don't believe in unprovable concepts like creators or God.” Eyebrows looked up from the floor he had been looking at for the past few seconds, his line of sight moving up until his gaze connected with hers. She felt attacked. He came into the cathedral just to mock her religion she so whole-heartedly believed in for some sort of petty self satisfaction. He paused for a moment, having a minor staring contest with her, which ticked her off immensely. He lingered before his gaze travelled up again, this time to look at the statue of Leto behind the altar, watching down on all of them. It was rude to stare at God like that. They were His children, not his challengers or equals.          “We observe the physical laws that govern this world to try to learn the truth. It's funny, really.” He closed his eyes, as they reached God's face, as if pondering what he could achieve with his oh-so powerful alchemy he spoke of. "Through the application of science, we have in many ways been given the power to play gods ourselves…” 

          The audacity of this bitch.

          “So you’re putting yourself on the same level as God? Do you even hear yourself when you speak?”            Instead of answering the question, Big Red spoke in his friend’s place. "Ya know, back where we came from, there's an old myth about some guy- a hero who flew with wax wings." Red paused again, seemed like this band of Atheists could join a play, they'd be able to pull off the prose with all the dramatic pausing-or maybe a circus would fit these clowns better. He gestured his hands a little, looking down to try to find the right words, sighing before he continued with the story. "He thought he could touch the sun, but when he got too close..." He trailed off, making her anticipate the next part of the story.           "The wax melted right off. His wings? Gone- all that work for nothing. And he came crashing back down to earth," he finished grimly.            His expression felt rueful, more like he was recalling a memory rather than a myth. Eyebrows shared a look with Red, their gaze communicated some form of assurance that only made her question what exactly the quartet had come there for. They seemed to forget her existence for just a moment, stuck in their own bubble of reality.            Casey felt awkward, like she was intruding, yet they were the ones who were coming into the Lord's house, not the other way round. The silence stretched for a few moments longer, and she was beginning to wonder whether she should say something, but then again she didn't know what she could say.            Thankfully, the blue one- Stripes- stepped forward to save her from the tense silence.            “Sorry for the trouble, this is hard for me to ask.” Stripes glared at his friends, a subtle message to get their asses out of their moping session, before looking back to her in a sheepishly apologetic manner. ”But do you think your Father Harold could save even a couple of arrogant scientists like ourselves?”             Casey perks up at that,at least one of them was willing to consider, this conversation wasn't wasted getting pissed off at inconsiderate assholes after all. "If anyone can make you see the error in your ways, he can!"

           The boys looked to each other as she turned back, grinding her teeth knowing that she could finally punch something to take out her anger, just as soon as she wasn’t on consecrated ground. 

[conaionaru]

Honor and Blood (Ivar the Boneless)

Brother and Sister

Synopsis: Silas and Vanya talk on her name day. The pregnancy is coming to an end soon.

Warnings: Silas, Toxic family, sibling rivalry, mentions of murder, angst, fluff

Tags:

@queenbeeta @heavenly1927 @xbellaxcarolinax @shannygoatgruff @lol-haha-joke @youbloodymadgenius​ @didiintheblog​

P.S. Anything in cursive is Old Norse. Anything in bold and cursive is a memory.

I don’t own the gifs. Also, thank you for your support. I really appreciate it. If you want to be tagged please write me<3

f there was one thing Vanya hated, then it's definitely seeing Silas walking around looking down at everyone. Or maybe it's just Silas himself; after all, he isn't exactly the most likable person. Stithulf is probably the only one who truly cares for Vanya's cruel brother and not for his title. The blond knight seemed to her like a good influence on her brother. He cared about the people and Silas's survival, which no one else bothered to do up until now. She just hopes that his concern is sincere and not a front he put on to win her trust.

"I was never happier that I didn't have a sister. Just imagining him as our brother in law makes me sick." Sigurd commented, sitting next to her on his bench, tuning his oud as she stitched a pattern on Ubbe's new shirt.

Vanya shrugged at his choice of words and looked down at her stitching. She was so absorbed into her thoughts and watching Silas that she butchered a part of her work. The ginger cursed under her breath and tried fixing it. Her husband's older brother snickered at her adorable rage, but shut up when she glared at him.

"You do have a sister now. And she doesn't like you talking about her brother that way." She snapped angrily as Sigurd raised an eyebrow at her tone.

"Please don't tell me you like him. I get that he is your family, but Silas doesn't seem like a good brother. When was he ever nice to you?" Sigurd asked, thinking back to his own brother. He and Ivar were brothers, but if someone were to treat him the way Silas treats Vanya, he would kill them. Only Sigurd gets to insult Ivar and get away with it. Afterall they are brothers; it would get boring if everybody were nice to each other.

Vanya saw Stithulf leave her brother's side and walk over to the other knights, both Silas and the knight seemed annoyed and sour. "When were you ever nice to Ivar?"

"When he was a babe. Things were easier when he couldn't talk."

"You mean when neither of you talked." Vanya pointed out, walking over to her brother's side, gathering all her courage to talk to him. "Are you alright?"

Silas glared down at his redheaded sibling and walked away from her. He stomped his way past two of his knights who looked at him, terrified. "Get out of my way, you lowlife filth!" He spat at them as they made a path for him.

"I am sorry, I am sure you bathe regularly. Have a nice day!" Vanya apologized in her brother's stead as she heard Sigurd run after her, cursing her sudden getaway.

"Stop following me!" Silas spat at her, turning on his heal. His nostrils flared in rage; the king looked like a bull ready to charge. "What do you want, Vanya?"

"I want to talk. Like civilized people would."

"Do you take me for uncivilized, you worthless bitch?"

She definitely didn't miss these types of conversations with him. Why does she even try? "I don't want to fight. I want to talk to you privately, without it seeming like you will kill me."

Silas huffed at her comment and mentioned for the shore. She sat down on the pier to rest her legs while he stood over her, glaring at the water instead of her. "Talk, or I will leave."

"What did you argue with Stithulf about?" She tried not to sound demanding and timid to soothe his anger a little bit. It would be easier if he were less murderous.

Silas sighed and gave her a letter from his pocket. It held the royal seal of Slegia, which could only mean that their mother sent it. Vanya opened it and read over the writing in astonishment. "Dear King Silas, I wish to inform you that I got married again while you were away. Me and Lord Ceolmund will continue living in the castle. Have a safe journey, and greet Vanya for me. Greetings, Queen Mother Siflæd." It was short and to the point, and an obvious dismissal of Silas's authority as she married without his consent or knowledge.  

"She did it to spite me. I forbid her to bring any more lovers to the castle, so she married the one that would anger me the most." He seethed, tearing the letter out of her hands and ripping it into pieces that he threw into the sea. "I want to raise my armies and cut off his head!"

"Maybe she did it out of love. Or she is with child. Whatever the reason, he is our new father now. Murdering him isn't a wise choice." Vanya reasoned, trying to remember if she ever met this Lord Ceolmund.

Silas shook his head and slammed his hand against the post he leaned on. Vanya jumped at the sudden outburst. "Oh, he is as much of father to us as Siflæd was a mother. Ceolmund is rich and young, a perfect victim to her charms. The moment he returns to his senses, she will drop him, pregnant or not."

"If you know that, then why fight with Stithulf? Why plan a murder if the outcome is obvious?" Vanya pressed, trying to decipher her brother's thinking process.

The King spat on the ground in disgust and looked at her stomach. "Because this poses a problem for my marriage."

"Your marriage? You will take a wife?" Vanya questioned, failing to imagine Silas as a husband. He always seemed like the type that wouldn't marry even if his life depended on it.

He leaned into her face and smirked. "I am supposed to marry Lady Eoforhild. She will give me an heir and connect Slegia with Ecbert. Considering that she is his brother's granddaughter, he will support us against threats to keep her safe. But Mother destroyed the plan the moment she married that halfwit."

"How does that destroy your plan? You can still marry her."

"Ceolmund is Eoforhild's father, you dumb cow. The deal was to marry her, as it is the honorable thing to do after I took her maidenhead, leaving her no longer a virgin and unfit to marry anyone. She seduced me at a dance on my name day, that bought dishonor on their family name, so Ecbert offered me her hand in exchange for his armies. They keep their reputation and get some form of power over Slegia, while I get allies and heirs. And that option is now out of question when Mother went behind my back and married my betrothed's father!"

"And now the church won't allow you to marry her anymore." The ginger sighed in defeat, seeing the reason behind his anger. Their mother destroyed a chance of protection and the poor girl's life.

Silas rolled his eyes at that and looked back at Sigurd, who stood behind them, glaring at Silas as if he will beat him with his oud soon. "Mother did it to gain back some sense of control. She has been throwing tantrums since you left; she is humiliating herself and the whole kingdom. She always hated being in the background; that's why she acts out like a child. Just like when Father was alive. That's the truth of it all."

Vanya knew what he was talking about, when Osmond was still alive Siflæd paraded her lovers around to spite him and his lovers. Their relationship was anything but love; they hated each other and fought daily behind closed doors. After his funeral, the vicious cycle was over, and she could do as she pleased. That is till Silas got fed up with her behavior and forbid her to take any more lovers. And now she married his future father in law.

"The truth is always either terrible or boring. Why can't there be a middle ground? Like she married him out of love and not spite."

"She doesn't know love, not to me or anyone else. She is a dark pit of hate and selfishness. Siflæd never held her tongue about me being a monster, but we both know she is no better. The only difference is that I have no problem showing it." He sneered in his rage, stomping off to either brood or plan murder. Whatever it was, Vanya understood his feelings. A perfect opportunity thrown out of the window because Siflæd got something to prove.

"Well, that was eventful," Sigurd commented, helping Vanya up. The ginger flinched in pain, causing the Ragnarsson to panic. "Is it the babe? Is it coming? Please say no, you can't give birth here!"

Vanya rolled her eyes at his hysterics and wrapped her arm around his. "Just a kick. The child is stronger than one would think." Sigurd sighed and helped her walk back to the Great hall to collect her stitching.

"A gift, Princess. A pretty rose for a pretty girl." A woman stopped them, giving the Saxon a flower before walking away.

"Well, that was strange," Vanya muttered, cradling the gift in her hand, smelling the sweet aroma.

Sigurd snorted and pointed at the rose. "Maybe it's an offering. Hvitserk heard some people say you are Freyja or Frigg in disguise."

The pregnant girl gawked at him in shock. How could the people even think of her as a goddess? What about her seemed divine and godlike? "I am not a goddess, Sigurd! I am human, just like the rest of you. I'm not special, who am I to think I am special?."

"Pretty, smart, kind, selfless, lots of patience considering your husband. You are right, nothing special at all. I guess we are all just naive." The sarcasm was strong with that one, and it made her smile. It was nice to be seen, but she would prefer a little less worship. She wasn't a god or anything near Freyja and Frigg. Vanya is and always was a plain mortal born into money. There are thousands of them all over Midgard. "And you should get used to getting gifts. It is your name day today. You are seventeen now, Little bird."

Vanya chuckled and smiled at the passing people. A year ago, she wasn't pregnant, married, or living in Kattegat. Things change so fast it's almost scary. Everything she went through in the last year feels like it happened a decade ago. "Oh I will still complain about getting gifts, I will just limit for Ivar's ear before we go to bed.

"Well, I hope you won't complain about my gift. I think you will like it."

"No promises, Brother." She teased as he snorted, shaking his head.

[normal-thoughts-official]

magnus is this notorious pirate famous in the caribbean with everyone talking about him because of how successful he is. his quartermaster is definitely raphael (his care for his clan and how he cares for others solidifies this thought process) and their ship has some corny name that raphael pretends to hate but definitely loves. europe thinks that magnus and his crew are demons(racists fucks) meanwhile theyre out here being nerds who enjoys navigating the seas and ruining racists job prospects+

+cat and ragnor live on nassau with magnus bringing back supplies they sell(we love the blackmarket here). the lightwoods are brought into this world bc their parents send them off to nassau to try and expand the family's business and gain profit off of this lawless place which refuses to be governed by anyone. malec meets at like the local inn where maia works at also where izzy meets her and by association The Polycule)and is just attracted to each other right then and there with bad flirting. once they become settled in, alec and izzy becomes like disillusioned with following what their parents expect of them and start to actually do what they wish. because he's dramatic, alec probably asks ragnor who settled down from pirating for more lessons in sword fighting (hes not unexperienced but theres a difference from fighting on land and on water)

eventually magnus hears about this cue them dramatically learning how to fight on like this cliff top with their swords connecting (we love euphemisms for sex) and them bonding over magnus' book collection he has and them no longer doing what their parents expect of them (im imagining asmodeus as this well traveled trader or something who only cares about money rather than having humanity) and even though magnus is this pirate which is a profession that the "civilized world" looks down on, he's like the epitome of actually having morals and caring about people (pirates were known to drastically impact the slave trade as they often freed slaves and let them join their crew or they worked directly with maroons and indigenous people). 

i imagine their first kiss to be when theyre training and someone has a sword pressed against the others neck because theyre horny bastards and they accept only the dramatics. their proposal/matelot is potc levels of dramatic with them fighting an enemy crew alongside The Polycule(the most badass and queer crew out there) and like halfway through alec is just like marry me and then next thing they know it raphael is officiating their marriage around dead people before they go on to have a better and more planned out wedding on shore (had to get some of this out now before i went too deep, The Poycule is definitely something i paid attention to most considering how big and complex the group is)

ugh not to add to an already huge post but

you are totally right about raphael being his quartermaster! raphael is a great leader and he cares so much for his people and he is one of the few people magnus obviously trusts, even as they have their differences. only other person i could imagine as magnus' quartermaster would be cat but like! raphael is perfect for the job! also i love the idea that he pretends to hate the corny name, he has to pretend to hate magnus' puns and jokes on principle but really he loves it

also "meanwhile they are all nerds" accurate, the whole ship is just a whole mess of people having fun and being family we love that for them

and ok not to slut for the polycule but i'm slutting for the polycule i just. aaa want to know so much more about them. i know you said they were already with maia but idk i can see many of them being part of magnus' crew? especially meliorn and tbh clary lmao she seems the type who would love adventure like that (i'm going with fanon clary here mostly) and i can see simon in both but i can also definitely see simon being in the inn with maia (god i have a half baked au that includes that) because being in the sea all day? no thank you. and they are just this nice local couple that helps all the pirates because fuck the racist law

also it's hilarious because they are so warm and welcoming and the lightwoods get there and simon is like "oh-oh. incoming" and maia is all like "what the fUCK do you want"

which lowkey backfires because izzy is just like "oh she's so fierce, i love her" and is already like, halfway in love doing the head tilt and huge grin thing (she's not creepy about it, just like, she likes it, you know? especially because in this AU izzy was raised as a Rich Girl so she's expected to be all that fragile useless white woman ideal and yada yada and she's not here for that so she's attracted to the idea of women like clary and maia)

and just like ghhgggghhh not to slut but i love the idea that they are in the inn and meliorn raphael and possibly clary are always in the sea so like! sweet reunions! not that they are usually going super far lmao mostly just stopping the slave trade and protecting the caribbean and shit, but that's a few months in between visits and i picture that at some point when they are getting to nassau raphael is just like, vibrating (you know, as much as he allows himself to) and magnus just smiles knowingly, happy that his boy has found people he's so happy with

and raphael getting into the inn and being like "simon! maia!" and simon and maia being like "raphael! meliorn!" and just crashing into this big group hug and it's all laughs and meliorn twirls maia and she giggles and simon kisses raphael's cheek and is all worried about them both (plus clary) because god what the fuck kind of shit did they get into this time, are they hurt? if he's broken another leg he's gonna- and raphael laughs and says "no, cariño, i promise all i have with me are gifts" because he's not gonna travel the caribbean and not bring stuff for his partners. so it's him and meliorn showering maia and simon in gifts and pretty and maybe stolen things (maia in particular takes such great joy in learning that her pretty new bracelet belonged to some racist bitch) like spoils you know? lmao, and looking at them it's like they haven't seen each other in years or something but no it's been like a month and it's always like that

and alec and izzy are just watching that, mouths slack, shocked, but highkey yearning for something as free as that, that loving family and that open love and meliorn's genderfuckery and just everything about them! and alec "conceal don't feel" lightwood is kind of frowning and goes "are they always like that?" to which magnus, behind him, answers "yes" and then he turns around and they stare at each other and magnus quickly goes from "happy for my boys" to "hello tall person" in a matter of seconds and is suddenly all seductive and flirty and alec is having the time of his life? especially since here away from the lightwoods he can allow himself just a little bit, and letting a guy flirt with him can't hurt, right? he knows izzy won't tell their parents. so he engages

cue terribly bad flirting, izzy smiling widely as she watches the polycule dynamics, highkey wanting something like that for herself, especially seeing the way that clary talks to maia all like "look at this SWORD" and all the adventures. and maia still doesn't trust her but apparently magnus has already hit it off with her brother so what the hell, they might as well stay

and just!! yes getting to know each other shenanigans. i picture that like the army gets there and tries to get magnus and his crew and alec and izzy are like running to them to warn them (alec not knowing quite why, he shouldn't be taking that big of a risk, he shouldn't be getting attached to a pirate - of whom he's only heard terrible things so far, thinks they are Evil basically - just because something about him is alluring and represents the freedom he doesn't allow himself to want, but... he is getting attached) and the whole gang is all like *very calmly heading to the secret hideout in their room* oh don't worry about that lmao they do this every week

and idk i just want a moment where they are almost found and alec and izzy lowkey save their ass (i mean they would have managed but they make it easier, maybe use the Privilege Card lmao). maybe the guards were closer than they thought so alec ends up just shoving magnus into the hideout and when the guards come in he's all like "WHO is interrupting our sleep" and acts like an entitled brat and they don't even search the room lmao and then alec runs to the hideout all "sorry that i pushed you, are you okay?" and magnus is all like "i'm fine" but a little touched about the care. just to establish that trust, you know? both between them and between izzy and the rest of the polycule

so after that it all kind of flows smoothly because they know they can genuinely trust the lightwoods and so it grows into something more. magnus and alec can bond over having Terrible Parents With Terrible Morals and they open up about their respective traumas with abuse, and alec confesses to magnus for the first time ever that he doesn't want to be like his parents, that he thought if maybe he earned their respect, he could change things from the inside. and magnus looks at him all soft and touched and is like "there's no changing things from the inside" and alec is like "i'm starting to realize that" you know

and yeah alec gets to see how much that crew cares for each other, way more than his "traditional family" ever could (except for him and izzy who are just as devoted to each other as the crew is, but like, it's honestly less the "blood relations" and more how they've always been there for each other as they handled their parents' shittiness) and again he's just yearning because he always believed he wouldn't get something like that. and magnus in particular is just so caring and just wants to make the world a better place, you know? and he admires that and they bond over that, too

and just jdhdaodshad god i love this. and meanwhile izzy is flirting with maia clary and meliorn like crazy and soon they are like this huge messy group with all those dynamics... and i just aaa and alec and izzy end up joining the crew and daiodsaiodjsaio RAPHAEL OFFICIATING THEIR WEDDING i'm genuinely all for that fucking shit, magnus wants his boy to do it for them and aaaaa! also i DEMAND raphael&meliorn fighting sequences because i bet they would make a bomb ass duo fighting back to back and shit, you know? bonus points if they are defending simon and maia who are behind them and just making sure no one touches them?? i live for this shit 

in short i love this and you said “get some out of your chest" so if there's more, then fuck, i can't wait to see it dahsdaijas i'm sorry for talking so much i get too excited

[rametarin]

The Fuddsucker.

I thought in my head about how to make the most milquetoast, most emasculated, most pointless firearm that the ATF would allow after whittling away every other freedom and liberty about firearm ownership. The sort of firearm that the ATF and anti-gun people would allow to exist, just as a honeypot to torture gun owners into not seeing legal gun ownership and possession as worth their trouble. Here’s what that would look like.

To start, the Fuddsucker is a handgun. Why a handgun? Because the Powers that Be that are the ATF and the masters they answer to clearly don’t mind handguns. Handguns can be used by the criminal element for small time burglary as well as mafioso work, and they cannot be used to threaten rich and powerful people from a reasonably long distance. That lack of assassination range is crucial. The ATF does not care as much about handguns, clearly, as we see in any state or city where the majority of gun crime comes from narco gangs using revolvers and pistols.

So, the gun would be a handgun. How long the barrel? Too short to be effectively accurate at any respectable range and too long to be a snub nosed for very close melee stuff. So, standard regulation orthodoxy milquetoast size.

And what would the body be made of?

Cheap steel. Designed both for easy detection by law enforcement and feds using state-of-the-art metal detectors if they need to find it, as well as to force the person to clean it often. If it’s not cared for and well maintained, the firearm owner is considered negligent and unfit for firearms ownership, and the property seized.

And what sort of bullet would it fire?

Why, a special, proprietary bullet, of course. This bullet would be a composite type material, because it’d be better for the planet than lead. It’d also be very light. Lighter than copper or bronze, and unable to be melted down to be re-used upon impact. Because can’t have metals that could be used to smelt bullets, can you? No that’d be against the law. So the bullets have to be one-shot and then lost forever unless you have a machine capable of manufacturing more of them.

This bullet would be of a caliber that was too small to do more than wound a person. We’re talking, ‘Makes the .22 look roided up by comparison’. Like the Kolibri’s ammo. Maybe it’d embed in their skin and possibly get infected and gangrenous, but the infection would be more dangerous than the penetration. You MIGHT be able to shoot a rat with it, but then you might get busted for your mental health. The bullets would come individually in tiny boxes like Funko Pops, each with their own serial number and little inaudibly chirping signature that the gun can read. The bullets’ proprietary nature allows them to assign them to a person based on an account they have with the company- which is one proxy removed from the ATF having a national gun registry- and so they can see both how many bullets you’ve bought in the past, how many bullets you currently have on you, how many bullets you’ve personally fired and how many were fired from that gun specifically. And they can limit how many bullets you’re ultimately allowed to own before raising the flags and deciding someone needs to go to your house and collect the, “excess.” You know, so you don’t get any funny ideas about hoarding ammunition for any reason.

The gun itself would not be analog and mechanical, it’d be electronic. The computer IS the firing mechanism. No computer, no functional firing mechanism. The Fuddsucker is built to monitor itself and the integrity of its systems. If it falsely or correctly senses it has been disconnected, it peeps wirelessly to home. If Home loses connection with your Fuddsucker, they phone call you to let you know, “the gun isn’t able to chirp at us to let us know it’s fully intact and healthy. You need to assess that and get it functional within 92 hours, or we’re sending someone to confiscate it. And if we can’t, you’ll be imprisoned for criminal negligence for allowing your gun to be stolen.”

The Computerized Fuddsucker would have tiny diode cameras that take pictures of whatever you’ve fired it at at the second of fire to upload them to the home site of the Fuddsucker company, for legal posterity. The gun snitches on its own GPS location, right down to the millimeter, and the vector or angle the barrel is pointed at, every single second and the exact time it fires.

The gun also will only allow you to chamber a single bullet at a time and deliberately makes the reloading process as tedious as possible while still pretending to be practical about it. So you get one singular round, and the chamber has small glowing OLEDs that light up to display when there’s a bullet in the chamber. A pressure sensor on the trigger makes these OLEDs turn red and glowing and make a tiny, consistent whining noise when your finger is on the trigger. You know, so it’s impossible for you to use the gun silently and stealthily at all.

Returning to the bullets; each bullet has to be purchased individually for a premium, and its own case serves as a gun case. To free each bullet from its case, you have to phone the company and get it authorized to use each bullet individually. Where they would write down your consent and request to utilize each individual bullet by its unique identity and signature.

The gun itself keeps a biometric lock record of all the people that have touched or held the gun, whether it was loaded or not, for evidence purposes. And you have to be holding the gun when requesting authorization for the company to allow the bullet mini-safe to open. If you break the case and remove the bullet from it without this compliance, you will be considered in violation of federal law and that will be taken as intent to commit an unlawful act.

The bullets themselves store in their own separate ammunition safe, proprietary to the company. Only bullets of that particular company are allowed to be stored inside of the compnay ammunition safe; cameras inside must be accessible to the company at any time with a live webcam feed, with a weight sensor. Any boxes of ammo discovered that are not that caliber or round and it will be considered a misdemeanor and mishandling of the gun. The ammunition safe is also biometric as well as password protected, and access is permitted only by phoning the company meanwhile for facetime.

Similarly, the gun itself has to be accessed this way, and the gun safe has to be kept in another part of your home. If your home is too small for regulatory gun safety, that’s too bad. You couldn’t have it in an apartment building, because you wouldn’t have enough distance between them. Tough shit, peasant.

In order to acquire your Fuddsucker gun, you’d need firearm insurance and to sign a waiver to all “unnecessary searches and seizures.” Just possessing the Fuddsucker means that absolutely no forms of monitoring or tapping or eavesdropping on your transmissions, conversations or contacts is considered a violation of your civil rights, because it’s in the interests of making sure you don’t go ham with your big scary gun. The Firearm Insurance industry is very pricey, and medal prices go up to handle firearm injuries or fatalities, forcing firearms owners to pay out the ass in order to legally possess and take part in firearms culture. And if you won’t play the game this way? No right to participate for you. And anyone that misuses the Fuddsucker brand firearm opens the Fuddsucker company up to being sued out of commission as liable for every injury sustained to any person shot with them.

As the Fuddsucker also records every angle and direction and GPS location and time every shot is fired, every bullet is a snitch, every bullet is individually registered and chirps its status and location every second to headquarters, it will know exactly what surface it hit, where the bullets went, where they were fired from and whom fired them. They will always know exactly what inanimate objects were damaged or destroyed, and the shooter as well as the insurance company will both have to pay an absolute premium for the destruction of both private and public property, as well as face heavy fines for negligent discharge of a firearm and willful destruction of property, possibly resulting in seizure of property, jail time and a permanent criminal record.

In addition to all this, a middleman for the Fuddsucker company will show up at your house unnanounced for the random inspection in person to make sure all your guns and all bullets registered to you are still there, the safes are intact, your papers are all together,  you don’t have any hint of domestic problems- from the main or extended family, and to make sure you don’t have signs of ownership of any analog firearm, or “hostile or harmful paraphanelia,” like bump stocks, suppressors or scary over or under barrel attachments for lights or laser scopes, like some sort of Hollywood spy or assassin!

In order to acquire your Fuddsucker brand firearm, you have to go through an expensive gun training course that “deprograms” and “decolonizes” you of your “whiteness.” Said history course will go over how your, “whiteness” is evil, behind all atrocities on planet earth, the warming of the planet, the marginalization of minorities, the deprivation of non-white communities across the globe, and these aspects of gun ownership WILL be on the test. If you are not white, you’ll automatically score higher on all written portions and fewer points will be deducted for spelling errors or grammar mistakes, because, “That is English spoken by your culture! It’s not wrong!” Accepting that you are an oppressor just by sitting at a table with another human being of a different skin color, or that a white man is your oppressor for doing such, will be as important a lesson in gun handling and safety, as trigger discipline. And if you answer wrong or dissent to answering that way, you fail the course and cannot be trusted with a firearm, as well as getting flagged for potential criminal or hate crime activities. You will be time gated from applying to the course again for a minimum of a year, to incentivize getting it right the first time. And while you’re there it might also improve your odds to donate cash or property to BLM, or any of another dozen groups.

The gun would also feature faux-wood paneling, like a cross between an electronic cigarette and a 1970s station wagon. Because only evil terrorist white supremacist gun nuts use metallic finishes on “AR style” firearms. Nice happy farmer firearms have wood grain texture. But, this wood pattern is merely aesthetic. Underneath the thin veneer are sensors that measure pressure. If it senses you’re addding after-market stocks or accessories, it squeals to home. The gun safe itself that constantly monitors the presence of your Fuddsucker’s state will be alerted, and if the undesired pressure on the skin exists too long, a representative will tele-conference with you and demand to see the gun to make sure you aren’t applying something like a bump stock, or an illegal stock to it. If you do not comply, they’ll send law enforcement to seize the gun. If the machinery is malfunctioning, they’ll send a technician to take your gun from you for refurbishing. Expect to lose access to your firearm for 4-6 weeks, and forever if they determine (correctly or incorrectly) that the cause of the damage was willful negligence or malfeasance.

You will also pay, over the course of your life, for the cost of the gun transferring back to the company (government.) Your next of kin will not inherit your firearms, but the family gets a 100 day window to proactively pursue taking up your legal firearm. If they have the property, papers, are deemed mentally fit, are willing to start paying the insurances, all of that themselves, sign the papers, then they can inherit your gun. The gun’s history will be updated for the new owner as if they bought it fresh from the company, and they’ll have to pay the cost for every bullet in the gun safe as well as for the gun safes as if they were new to transfer legal ownership to them, regardless of their condition or any improvements to the makes or models over the last 5-50 years of the product’s existence.

And after all of this, you’ll still have anti-gun people asking, “What do you need a gun for? Really? What are you going to do with that? Stop a tyrannical government? They have full auto and nuclear bombs and fighter jets. You have a Fuddsucker, Farmer Jimbob. :^) What are you going to do with that?”

[hysterialevi]

His Name Was Isaac - Ch. 13

Fanfic summary: During a mission to avenge his mother’s death, Isaac hunts down the men responsible for her murder and kills them off one-by-one, only to discover that his last target is taking refuge among the Van der Linde gang. In an attempt to kill them, Isaac attacks the gang and unknowingly becomes enemies with his own father, who is in the process of fighting his own battle for redemption.

Point of view: third-person

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This story is also on AO3

THE NEXT MORNING

PINKERTON HQ, BLACKWATER

Gazing out a nearby window, Agent Fordham casually watched the streets of Blackwater as men and women paced around all over the place, traveling from one end of the city to another.

Business carried on as usual in the small town, and despite the damage Dutch’s men caused to the bank during the robbery, everything else seemed to functioning just fine.

The only thing that was missing from the bustling sight... was Arthur Morgan himself.

It had only been a couple of days since Agent Ross proposed his deal to that man, but they had yet to see any sign of the outlaw ever since then. The other Pinkertons patrolling The Great Plains reported no visuals of Mr. Morgan in the area, and his son was apparently nowhere to be found either.

Fordham liked to believe that they were still considering the decision and would show up at their headquarters eventually, but the pessimistic side of him knew better.

Arthur had no reason to trust the Pinkertons. Milton didn’t exactly make the best impression on Dutch all those years ago, so Fordham supposed it only made sense that Arthur would put as much distance between himself and Blackwater as possible... but he had hoped that the man would give Isaac a chance by turning himself in.

That boy was hardly a man yet, and he had already been thrown into the unforgiving world of outlaws. If there was any way to avoid killing him needlessly, Fordham was willing to take it.

Unfortunately, he doubted Ross felt the same.

“You think Mr. Morgan will accept our deal?” Fordham asked Edgar, glancing away from the window.

Ross leaned back in his desk’s chair and stuck a pipe between his lips, speaking through clenched teeth while he held the object in place.

“Unlikely,” he replied, bringing a flame to the pipe’s tip. “That man’s about as stubborn as Dutch van der Linde himself. Trust me, I’ve known him for many years now. It was pointless to attempt a deal with him. We should’ve arrested him and his son when we had the chance.”

Fordham hesitated, trying to remain as professional as possible. “But... don’t you think it’s worth a try? Saving his son, I mean. If Arthur accepts our deal, Isaac will perhaps have a chance to live like civilized folk. And carry on with his future.”

Edgar blew out a puff of smoke, exhaling deeply as he extinguished the match with a quick wave.

“Our focus is to protect law-abiding citizens, Archer.” He said in a bored tone. “When it comes to criminals or savages, we do not concern ourselves with their personal lives or well-being. All that matters is bringing them to justice. Of course, how we handle the situation depends on how they behave, but ultimately -- their future is not our concern. Their end is.”

Archer was reluctant to agree. “I understand, but in the end, criminals are still humans. Not all of them break the law for the same reason. In some cases, it’s greed. In others, power. But in Isaac’s case, it’s survival. You’ve read the files. He was forced into this life with no way out. Wouldn’t you say that someone at his age deserves to make a real life for himself?”

Still, Edgar’s mind remained unswayed. “It is not my place to decide, Archer. Nor is it yours. I’m only going along with your deal for now because I want to help you. But in the end, the final decision resides with the judge. If Arthur and Isaac put themselves in a position where they must be killed, then the only thing we need to worry about is pulling the trigger fast enough. Though, of course, obtaining them alive would be ideal.”

Fordham turned back to the window, trying to conceal the begrudging expression on his face.

“...I understand, sir.”

“Good.” Edgar said simply, standing up from the chair. “Then I trust that the next time we see Arthur or his son, you will not hesitate to bring them in?”

Archer shook his head staunchly. “No, sir. Of course not.”

The other agent nodded in approval. “Good. We have far too many issues to worry about already when it comes to the savages of this country. The last thing we need is complications within civilization itself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Agent Fordham...”

Ross grabbed his coat and headed for the office’s door, leaving Archer to his own devices.

“...I’ve got something to attend to.”

~~~~~~~~~~

MEANWHILE

THE GENERAL STORE, VALENTINE

Handing money over to the shopkeeper, Arthur stuffed some of the new provisions he’d just purchased into his satchel and began making his way for the shop’s exit, throwing a quick wave behind him before he took his leave.

“Thanks, mister.”

The shopkeeper gave him a polite nod. “Y’have a good day now, sir.”

Pushing the door open, Arthur stepped back outside into the muddy streets of Valentine as a chain of horses and wagons lazily rolled past him, their drivers still in the process of waking up.

It was chilly this morning, or at least chillier than the one before, and thanks to the bleak clouds veiling the sky, the sun was barely able to break through.

Arthur didn’t much like being this close to civilization, but he figured it’d be a good idea to grab some more food and winter clothing before heading up to Ambarino.

He sure hadn’t forgotten how cold it was in that region, and part of him wished they would never have to return there, but if there was any place in this country that would prevent the Pinkertons from tracking them, Arthur was willing to bet it’d be in the mountains.

The only thing that really worried him now, was Dutch. That man may not have been strong enough to survive the snow, but he was definitely crazy enough to try.

And that alone was enough to frighten Arthur.

“Hey, mister!” A voice suddenly called out, leading the man to glance to his side. “Over here!”

Standing next to the building, Arthur spotted an elderly man occupying the alleyway between the general goods store and the saloon, and it looked like his eyes were pinned on him at the moment. His hair was frazzled, his face was covered in dirt, and his ragged shirt almost resembled an old Union uniform.

As for his sleeves, one of them had been folded in half due to the amputated limb, and...

Wait a second.

Arthur narrowed his eyes in recognition.

“...Mickey? Is that you?”

The older man’s eyes twinkled upon hearing his name. “So you do remember me! Oh, I certainly remember you, mister. Your name’s Arthur, isn’t it? Like the king.”

Arthur nodded. “Yep.”

Mickey smiled warmly. “Oh, well... it’s good to see you again, friend. You was always kind to me. I remember. Everyone else in this town ignored me -- and they still do -- but you was always willing to lend an ear. I never forgot you.” He paused for a moment. “Hey, mister. I spoke with your son, y’know.”

That caught the outlaw’s attention. “You met Isaac?”

“Yeah,” the veteran replied. “I thought he was you. He looks just like you did, all them years ago. Though, he’s a bit angrier, I think. Not as nice as you was.”

Arthur sighed apologetically. “...Sorry ‘bout that. The boy’s been... goin’ through some things lately.”

Surprisingly, Mickey didn’t seem offended. “Oh no, it’s fine, mister. Your son might be angry, but I’ve seen that type of anger before. In the war, men would always get angry when they was hurt. They would end up hurting others. I think Isaac’s the same. He looks... sad. Just like you.”

The outlaw didn’t entirely know what to make of that. “Does he.”

“Yeah. I asked him why, but he didn’t say much. Just told me that you was dying.”

Arthur shook his head. “I already told him, I ain’t--” a short cough interrupted him. “--I ain’t... dying.”

Mickey gazed at him with concern. “You sure, buddy? Your boy’s right. You don’t look so good.”

The other man cleared his throat. “Well... I dunno. But I ain’t dead yet, and that’s all that matters.”

“But you will die.”

Arthur shrugged despondently. “Everyone dies.”

“Sure,” Mickey agreed, “but it still hurts. No one likes losing things. Things that they love. And your son, well... he don’t wanna lose you. Especially since he already lost his ma.”

Arthur cocked a brow at him. “You know about her?”

“The boy only told me a bit, but he said she died when he was real little. He couldn’t save her. And now, you’re dying, too. And he can’t save you either.”

The outlaw let out a breath. “But why take his anger out on me? Or you? It ain’t like I asked for this.”

“I don’t know.” Micky answered truthfully. “But I think you should talk with your son. I always feel better when I talk to people. Maybe you will, too.”

Arthur thought about it for a moment, eventually agreeing with the man.

“Yeah... I think he and I need to have a few words.”

The veteran seemed pleased with that. “Well, I wish you luck.” 

“D’you know where he is?”

Mickey pointed to the saloon. “Yeah, I saw him head behind the saloon. He’s havin’ a drink there, I think.”

Arthur followed the man’s gaze. “What, at this hour?” He let out a sigh. “I guess I’ll go find him.”

The veteran said one last thing to Arthur, stopping the outlaw in his tracks just before he could leave.

“Hey, mister! Could you spare a dollar?”

Arthur nodded, reaching into his satchel. “Sure.” 

Mickey gave him an appreciative look. “Thanks, friend. You take care of yourself now. We need more folks like you around here.”

The outlaw laughed at that, waving goodbye. “Oh, I ain’t too sure about that.”

Strolling away from the homeless veteran, Arthur wandered down the narrow alleyway and to the back of the saloon, right next to where the barber’s door was. 

Sure enough, he found Isaac sitting on a barrel with a beer bottle in his hand, and it looked like Aldo was standing quietly beside him.

The young man didn’t look so good at the moment. His head was lowered in sorrow, and his shoulders slouched in discouragement. His eyes seemed to be glued on the ground in front of him, and if he noticed Arthur’s presence, he didn’t acknowledge it.

Something was definitely wrong. Arthur just wished the man would tell him what.

“Isaac?” He called out, walking up to him. “Whatcha doin’ out here?”

The boy remained seated, not even bothering to shift his gaze. “Just wanted to get away from everyone.”

Arthur glanced through the saloon’s windows, raising a brow at the incredible lack of customers.

“...There’s three people in there, Isaac. Bartender and barber included.”

Isaac sighed in annoyance. “Look, I just needed to be alone, okay?”

The outlaw chuckled softly, though not in a mocking manner. He stepped next to the young man and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms in a casual fashion.

“Listen, son... I spoke to Mickey.”

Isaac lifted his head in confusion. “...Who?”

“The homeless Union vet.” He explained.

“Oh, is that his name? Yeah, I spoke with him, too.”

“So I’ve been told.” Arthur fell silent for a second, taking on a more serious tone. “...He says you think I’m dying.”

Isaac took a swig of his drink. “I ain’t a child no more, Dad. I don’t think you’re dying. I know you are. That much is obvious.”

Arthur felt another series of coughs tickling his throat, but did his best to hold it back for now.

“Well, even if that’s true, I ain’t dead yet, Isaac. I’m still here. So let’s save the eulogies for when I’m actually gone.”

“...You say that like it’s so easy.”

Isaac finished the rest of his beer and set the bottle down with some force, clearly upset.

“Don’t you get it? Apart from mom, you’re the only person I’ve had in my life that I could actually trust. After she died, everyone else I met always wanted to kill me, or use me in some way. Even Shay. He never raised me for my sake. He only did it so he’d have another gun to order around. I guess...” he trailed off for a second, his voice becoming much softer, “...I guess I just got used to being alone. It was the only choice I had. There was no one else I could depend on.”

He turned to look at Arthur. “Now that I’ve met you though, I can do it again. And... it feels good, y’know. To be able to trust someone. To have someone that... you love.”

Isaac returned to his irritated nature, hopping off the barrel. “But now you’re sick. And dying. And I’m gonna be left alone. Again.”

The boy began to walk off, causing Arthur to pace after him.

“I understand that, Isaac, but it ain’t like I chose this. You think I wanted to get sick?”

Isaac rested a hand on Aldo’s saddle, letting out a deep sigh. 

“No. I... I don’t. I know you didn’t. I’m just...” he took a breath, struggling to get the right words out, “...I wish things was different, alright? I wish I could help you. I wish... you were okay.”

Arthur put a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, trying to reassure the boy.

“I know, kiddo. I do, too. But the truth is... we can’t always control life. Sometimes, life kicks us in the ass and expects us to cope whether we’re ready for it or not. And we can’t control it when that happens. But what we can control, is how we deal with it.”

Arthur stepped closer to Isaac, looking him in the eye. “Listen, it’s clear to both of us that I ain’t got much time left in this world. Whether that means I have three months or three years, I don’t know. But I ain’t gonna be around forever. Unlike what happened with Eliza though, we’re prepared this time. We have the luxury of knowin’ what to expect. So we can kick and scream at the world for being unfair, or we can make use of the time we have left together.”

He paused, glancing down at the ground. “This is the only chance we’ll get to make things right, Isaac. Let’s not waste it.”

Taking in everything Arthur just said, Isaac responded with nothing but a profound silence and gazed blankly at the distant horizon, his eyes carrying a heavy sense of exhaustion within them.

It was difficult for Arthur, watching his son go through this. No parent alive wanted to tell their own child that they were dying, but Arthur learned long ago that it was impossible to live a bad life and expect good things to happen. 

He wished he could be there to see Isaac grow into an old man or start a family of his own, but this was the reality they had to deal with.

Arthur’s sins were finally catching up to him, and Isaac was going to pay the price.

“...Hey, Dad.” The young man said, getting his father’s attention.

Arthur threw him a curious look. “Yeah?”

Isaac’s brow furrowed in guilt. “I’m... sorry for what I said yesterday. I know I was pretty harsh.”

The older man wasn’t too bothered by it. If anything, part of him felt bad for snapping at the kid after he expressed his frustration.

“Harsh? Yes. Wrong? Well, not entirely.”

Isaac looked down in shame. “No, I was wrong. You may not’ve been there much when I was a kid, but I know you wanted to be. The truth is... I didn’t mean a goddamn word of what I said. I don’t wanna be anything like Micah. Or Dutch. Or Shay. I wanna be like you.”

Arthur shook his head in disagreement. 

“No, Isaac. You don’t. When this is all over... you’re gonna be your own man. A better man.”

The boy seemed lost. “But how am I gonna do that?”

Arthur smirked warmly. “Well, that’s the beauty of it. It’s entirely up to you.”

Leaving Isaac to his thoughts, the older man patted him on the shoulder and beckoned the kid to follow him into the street, eager to get a head start on their journey to Ambarino.

Despite being somewhat conflicted about their future, Arthur suspected the young man felt slightly better now. He still carried that same gloomy look in his eye as before, but his demeanor didn’t appear as solemn anymore.

He seemed... different. Hopeful. A little sad perhaps, but unwilling to give up. 

There was a newfound sense of determination in his step, and even though Arthur could clearly see that Isaac was still hurting over his father’s illness, he knew that the young man would pull through. 

He was strong. Much stronger than he realized. Arthur just wished Isaac would put that strength to good use.

He seemed to have a habit of getting lost in the past. Everything he did revolved around his desire for revenge, and Arthur could only hope that once his time came, Isaac wouldn’t live the rest of his life trying to avenge his death.

There was so much more in the world that he could experience. So much for him to do. 

Arthur’s only wish now, was that he’d be able to make Isaac see that.

~~~~~~~~~~

A FEW HOURS LATER

THE VAN DER LINDE CAMP

“...Goddamn. You are one, ugly bastard.” Bill murmured, observing the fresh wounds on Micah’s face. The man had just woken up from his beating and was currently sitting under a makeshift tent, attempting to get a better look at his injuries.

“Well, I wouldn’t be if you’d have gotten to me sooner. Where the hell was you when Joe and I was doin’ all the work?”

Bill defended himself. “Hey, I was keepin’ a lookout! Just like you fellas told me to. Don’t act like I wasn’t doin’ my job.”

Micah chuckled sarcastically, glowering at the other man. “Well, you wasn’t. Couldn’t even see Arthur ridin’ towards us at full speed. You only came runnin’ after Joe was shot. I dunno if you’re aware of this, Marion, but the whole point of a goddamn lookout is to make sure that doesn’t happen!”

Bill lurched forward out of anger. “Hey, don’t call me that!”

The one-eyed man didn’t back down. “Oh, sorry. Would you prefer ‘moron?’ It’d be more fitting, anyhow.”

Bill pointed a finger at Micah, only to end up clenching it into a fist as he grumbled to himself in frustration.

“You... you don’t...” he waved a dismissive hand, walking away from the man. “Y’know what, forget it. Dutch can look after your goddamn wounds himself.”

Micah laughed, taunting Bill as he stormed off in the opposite direction. “Yeah, sure. Drink yourself into a stupor, why don’t you? Leave the real work to the big boys. Heheh.”

The other man shook his head in anger. “You’re a fool, Micah! A goddamn fool!”

Watching Bill retreat to the opposite end of the camp, Micah relaxed into his bedroll again and chortled lowly to himself, amused at Williamson’s annoyance.

 He didn’t know how on Earth that man was still alive, considering how easily he got riled up. Most folks with a temper like that got shot at one point or another, and yet, Bill was still here. Keeping Dutch company even after Arthur, John, and Hosea were all gone.

Who would’ve thought?

Dragging himself over to the small, circular mirror by his tent, Micah slipped off the final bandage around his head and unveiled the nasty gash underneath, revealing a permanently closed eye.

Thanks to the laceration Isaac gave him the previous day, his top eyelid had been sealed shut, and a diagonal scar now carved its way through his brow.

Micah’s vision had been cut in half, and yet, the man only found himself feeling twice as eager to put Morgan’s brat into the ground.

Who the hell did that little boy think he was? Attacking their gang and killing off their members, and then trying to run away from it? No one just... attacked the Van der Linde gang and lived. 

Micah had half a mind to give Isaac the same treatment Arthur gave him down at the river. That kid stole their money, ruined their supplies, and caused their gang to shrink to just three men. Two of which were utter fools.

The only problem he had now was actually finding the boy. Lord only knew how far he and Arthur had traveled by this point, and judging by the lack of updates from Dutch, Micah assumed their almighty leader wasn’t having any more luck with tracking Arthur down himself.

He’d have to think of an alternate method. A quicker method. 

But most importantly, he’d need help.

“Micah!” Dutch called from behind, his reflection growing in the mirror as he approached the small tent. “You’re awake.”

“Hey, boss.” Micah greeted, turning to face Dutch. The other man paused upon seeing his new scar.

“...Arthur surely did a number on your eye, didn’t he?”

“It was Isaac who did it,” he corrected. “That boy’s young and stupid, but he knows how to use a knife.”

Dutch sighed worriedly. “Oh, he knows how to do much more than that, I’m afraid.” A strong cough escaped him, causing him to spit on the grass before wiping his mouth. “I spoke with Bill. He says Arthur killed Joe.”

“Yeah. His body flowed downstream.”

“Well, we don’t have the time to retrieve him. Let alone bury him. Right now, the three of us need to focus on findin’ Arthur, and puttin’ him down for good. Problem is, he ain’t alone.”

Micah held up a thoughtful finger, standing up from his bedroll. “Well, y’know, Dutch, before Bill tried to play mother hen with me earlier... I was thinking. We all know Arthur’s big and bad, but no matter how strong that man is, he’s bound to have a weakness. A soft spot where we can hit him real hard, and hurt him real good.”

Dutch had a feeling he already knew what that weakness was. “Go on.”

Micah continued with his explanation, slowly pacing back and forth in front of his tent. “The boy, Dutch. You’ve seen how much he means to Arthur. Hell, he was willin’ to bail on you for the kid. That’s gotta mean something.”

The other man placed a foot on a nearby stump, resting his elbows on his knees. “So, what? You sayin’ we should kill Isaac first?”

“No, Dutch. Don’t you see?” Micah strolled up to the man, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We don’t need to kill Arthur at all. The only thing we gotta do is put a good ol’ fashioned bullet through Isaac’s skull, and the rest will handle itself. You’ll have your revenge, and we’ll have one less problem to worry about.”

Unsurprisingly, Dutch didn’t seem to fully approve of the plan.

“I don’t know, Micah. I...” his voice tugged with heartache, “...I hate Arthur... for what he did to me. And I want nothin’ more than to make him pay for it. But the pain of losing a child...” Dutch gazed downward, “there ain’t nothing that can compare to it. Even a traitorous bastard like Arthur doesn’t deserve that.”

Still, Micah persisted. “Why? What does Isaac mean to you for you to spare him?”

Dutch brushed his hand off. “It ain’t about Isaac. It’s about Arthur. You know the history between us. How much we’ve been through. How long we’ve known each other.”

Micah raised his hands in a diplomatic manner. “Of course, Dutch. Of course. But... let me put it this way.” He leaned closer to the older man. “...Arthur’s your son. I mean, he may as well be. You raised him ever since he was a boy. You taught him to read, you taught him to shoot. You’re his father, Dutch. And yet, despite all that effort to keep him safe, and to keep him alive... he still left you when you needed him most. He left you alone.”

Dutch listened intently, causing Micah to reel in the line now that he had him hooked.

“So, I says we go find Isaac, kill him, and leave Arthur alone. He’ll share the same pain you felt, and he’ll know what it means to turn on our gang. Just like you wanted.”

The man let out a sharp sigh. “That ain’t happening.”

“Well, at least consider it. It ain’t just about the sentiment, after all, Dutch. There’s also the, uh... strategic aspect of it, if you will. So long as Isaac lives, we’re gonna have a helluva time tryin’ to reach Arthur. That boy’s a menace, and he’s nearly as rage-driven as you. He’s got to go.”

Dutch rubbed his chin in thought, appalled by the idea of taking Arthur’s child away from him, but admittedly conceding Micah’s point.

“I will... think about what you’ve said.”

Micah appeared pleased with that. “Thank you, Dutch. That’s all I ask.” He began to stroll away from him. “Trust me, boss... this is all for the good of the gang.”

[letsbenditlikebennett]

Encounters of the Strange Kind || Ariana & Frank

TIMING: Before the last full moon during the nightmares POTW PARTIES: @frankmulloy & @letsbenditlikebennett SUMMARY: Ariana goes to watch a soccer match and bug her favorite bartender, Frank. Some nightmares brought to life make for a strange afternoon. 

It wasn’t often lately that Ariana found herself with a free afternoon and as much had been preferred. Just when she felt like she was finally beginning to move forward again, Winn had to go and die on her, too. If she let herself sit in all those feelings for too long, she was almost certain she wouldn’t be able to find it in her to get up again. Moving was easier. At least that’s what she had kept telling herself, but now the erratic weather meant soccer practice was cancelled which means she wouldn’t spend the rest of her day coaching. She was far ahead on all of her projects for school and she didn’t want to bother Blanche or Grace yet again. The weather also meant a run with her dog was out of the question so she opted to drink beer and watch some soccer matches at Perfect Pint. It wasn’t the world’s best distraction, but bugging the bartender had always proven to be a good time. While the USWNT wasn’t playing, she threw on the Rapinoe jersey Athena had gotten her anyway. Something about channeling Rapinoe had always left her feeling a little tougher. Which was saying a lot because most days, she considered herself to be pretty badass.

Considering it was a weekday afternoon, Ariana found the bar wasn’t overly crowded, so she grabbed a seat in front of the women’s Olympique Lyons team’s match. While they weren’t her team, she remembered Kaden was a Lyons fan. It gave her some sort of deeper attachment to the game which meant it’d be more likely to hold her attention. She waved at Frank as she settled into her seat and gave him a wide smile. Confidence was key to no one questioning her fake ID. “How are you doing today,” she asked brightly before adding, “I’ll take a Guinness when you get a chance.” She hadn’t liked it at first, but it grew on her. She admittedly just said the first thing she looked at the first time she came here and just kept going with it. 

Frank had always considered Perfect Pint a lesser form of Soul. Less sticky, less sleazy, less were the chance of someone kicking someone else’s teeth in—or maybe that was just his shift. Maybe in his absence the patrons that gathered at the latter establishment were perfectly pleasant, either way, the Irish bar was a welcomed breath of civility before the shit-storm the evening would no doubt bring. The presence of another gancanagh added to the ease of simply being as the pub owner exercised a control over his ability that even after all these years Frank had never fully mastered. His pheromones fluctuated to a rhythm of its own make, a song Frank was not privy to and struggled still to understand. But the shadow of a smile that threatened to break his mask of perpetual indifference came at the hands of one that, legally, shouldn’t even be allowed at the bar. They both knew this— that no matter what her ID said, Ariana was not 21, not the fact that he silently enjoyed her company. No drink was strong enough to make him admit anything so personal. But more than that, if he admitted it, then it must be true, and if that was true then so was the very real possibility that she was only hanging around him because of the reason that most people were. The same reason he slid people their drinks across the bar, why he was always so generous with his distance, why he didn’t smile when he turned to meet Ariana but rather regarded that she was there—of course she was wearing a fucking Rapinoe jersey—another body to warm the bar’s seat.

“Do you have an ID for that Guinness?” Frank said, with perhaps a little too much enjoyment, after the glass was already in his hand. “I get the pub is Irish but you know that American laws still apply right?”

Something about the chatter around the bar was much more comforting than the near silence of her apartment. Ariana was glad this place was close to her new apartment and that her fake ID never seemed to be extensively questioned even though it seemed fairly obvious Frank knew she wasn’t 21 yet. Plus, they always played the soccer matches so it always gave her something engaging to do even if she didn’t have someone joining her. As Frank asked for her ID, she pouted and dramatically pulled her wallet out of one of the pockets in her cargo pants. “You know, you keep not remembering me and my very iconic blue hair, I’m gonna stop tipping… okay, that’s a lie,” she responded with a small laugh as she slid her ID across to him. She gave him a pointed look as she waited for him to set her beer down. The urge to do a triumph fist pump was resisted. Instead, she motioned her glass up in a cheers motion and took a sip before commenting, “You never told me how you were doing. You haven’t seen any weird fish lately, have you?” She’d seen a few of them floating around along with some other strange things. Still felt like a good idea to check in and make sure everyone was staying safe amidst the crazy that was White Crest. 

The threat of no tip was met with a slight upward lean to the corner of Frank’s mouth, which was more of a smile than most could say they’ve ever received from the infamously stoic bartender. The Guinness had already slid across the bar’s top to her awaiting hand before she had even pulled the ID out; the presence of the little card vaguely acknowledged though not such attention was paid to its content. “Fine,” he said, and he was fine, and was happy to leave it at fine, but of course, Ariana had a talent for catching his attention when he least expected it. Like, say, a remark about weird fishes. “This whole fucking town is weird.” Frank would be remiss to say that the amount of fog that blanketed the town was a common occurrence, not to mention the pair of bright glowing lights that peered eerily behind them. Logically, he’d sooner owe it to a pair of headlights, than anything stranger, which was rich coming from a guy with giant wings sticking out of his back. Logically, he also knew that no vehicle or trunk had lights that large, that moved so silently, seamlessly-- there was nothing mechanical about these lights. “Why? What have you seen?” A pause. The temptation was to close the distance between them, but alas (at least this time) habit dug down its heel, and so did Frank. “What have you been up to kid?”

Of course he hadn’t actually bothered to look at her ID which made Ariana laugh a bit. While Frank was never the overly talkative type, she did enjoy his mostly quiet company. It gave her something else to focus on when the game wasn’t enough to keep her thoughts from drifting somewhere darker. He was a bit of mystery though and fine almost never meant fine. She knew better than anyone because she’d put that brave face on every day for the kids and a little bit for herself. “I hate that word,” she stated plainly, “90% of the time it’s bullshit, but I’ll give you that one.” At least his response to the question about fish led her to believe he wasn’t completely clueless to the ways of this town. That made it easier for him to stay safe. “You know, you’re not wrong,” she agreed, “Some of it is good weird though, like the dog toys falling from the sky. My dog had a field day with that one. Still, probably a good idea to avoid the giant floating fish if you can.” For a moment, she could almost detect a hint of concern in his voice though he still kept his distance. She didn’t want to alarm him, so she shrugged and answered, “Honestly, I’ve seen a lot, but more recently it’s been the floating fish. Thankfully, they seem to mostly just kind of float by if you don’t bother them. I may be tough, but I’m not exactly eager to see if I can take on an oversized flying fish.” The answer to his next question was decidedly nothing good outside of school and work. Between ghost hunting, avoiding sleep, and her plans to turn Ace into a werewolf like her, she was decidedly not staying out of trouble. Not even a little bit. “Oh, you know-- work, class, typical young we-- people things. I opened up an Etsy shop, so if you need any custom woodwork or repairs, I’m your girl,” she responded hoping her answer sufficed even if she definitely left big bits of the truth out. She shifted in her seat slightly and a puzzled look crossed her face as all the TV screens in the bar went fuzzy. That was weird. It was a perfectly sunny day out so she couldn’t think of any good reason for the television picture to just go out. 

For reasons too complicated, and probably too depressing, to dissect without the supervision of his therapist, Frank had somehow convinced himself of being able to care for little else beyond that which directly affected him. Now Frank was a great many things but never the uncaring type, and while he was a talented wordsmith (when he had the energy to be) he was, as was the nature of his species, a poor liar. Even to himself. So when “fine” was met with a reaction that was far from it, his heart—he was frequently surprised to learn, or be reminded, of its existence—reared its head, and fixed a tender gaze on the younger girl. He said nothing however, feeling that it was the wrong time to press, but he would remember the minor outburst, and keep it close to heart. While Frank himself was still challenged with admitting to the existence of the strange and unnatural, despite himself being one of those strange and unnatural things, to have Ariana confess to it so readily, and so casually at that, made it concrete, and real. No, the lights were not in fact a truck in the foggy distance, it was indeed a giant floating fish. That was normal now. He was part of that normal. So what happened then when a normal person has spent his entire life believing he was not? How does he come to terms with that? The answer: he doesn’t. He instead focused his attention on anything else, on anyone else. “Right, so that sounded decidedly unconvincing. Your fake ID is more convincing than…whatever that was.” He waited for a characteristically snappy response, but when she looked up at him—no, past him, her brows knitted together at whatever the TV was showing. “What are you…?” Nothing, the TV was showing nothing, and yet she seemed entranced, or at least concerned enough to be curious. This made him concerned, and by the way the few patrons that were in the bar were whispering and mumbling to themselves and each other, it was going around.

“Jesus H,” the dish rag draped over his shoulder, Frank sought for the remote and tried to turn it off, but the battery was either flat or the TV refused to obey. Logic supported the former, and logic made him reach up to press the button on the monitor itself. That was when water started leaking from the screen. Logic offered no sound explanation for that. Somewhere within the bar came a yelp as the water from one of the leaking TVs (was he seriously admitting to that?) short-circuited the juke box. No, Frank thought decidedly, it had been two weeks since he last fed and he was too fucking tired for this shit. “Yeah, I’m not cleaning that shit up.” He tossed the towel aside, stuck his head into the kitchen and announced his early finish. “No offence but I don’t think your game is playing kid,” he said and ducked out from behind the bar. Something wasn’t right, and frankly he felt no great desire to stick around, and owed to some strange endearment he’s found in Ariana, he didn’t want her to stick around either. “I’m heading out. Finish your Guinness. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

Normally, she would have been quick to comment on the fake ID remark. Ariana wasn’t sure just how serious he was, because would he really be serving her if he thought her ID was fake? Maybe he just didn’t give a crap which actually checked out to a degree. The water leaking from the TVs was far more pressing though. She was pretty sure electronics and water didn’t mix, so she took a step back. “TVs,” she answered as she pointed upward. How were they even doing that? She doubted there was any satisfying answer, but slowly scooted away from any electronics. After all she’d been through, she wasn’t about to go out by electrocution of all things. She took a big gulp from her glass of beer because frankly it  was warranted with the current level of insanity. So much for having a nice escape from White Crest reality. It hadn’t been all that surprise to see Frank ditch the bar. She laughed a bit and commented, “I don’t blame you. Probably dangerous back there right now anyway.” The jukebox seemed to agree with her so she was glad he was seemingly away from any spots that may cause electrical shock. 

While the TV situation was still concerning, Ariana figured she didn’t have much of a reason to stick around with both the game off and Frank gone. Beer alone wasn’t going to be enough to distract her from the whirlwind of emotions she currently didn’t feel like acknowledging. His offer to walk her home was unexpected though. She looked up to him and said, “Yeah, thanks, I’d appreciate that even if I am probably a lot tougher than you think I am.” She jokingly sized him up, but agreed her beer was worth finishing. “For sure gonna finish this bad boy. Can’t be out here wasting a perfectly good beer!” She was quick to polish off her beer. She refrained from burping as she set the glass down because as Celeste taught her growing up, it wasn’t proper table manners. Not that she truly understood why table manners were a thing humans cared about, but for the sake of blending in, she did her best to follow some sort of norm. “So we adding bodyguard to your business card now,” she joked as they left the now nightmarish scene behind. Thankfully, everyone else had also been quick to bolt, so she wasn’t too concerned for their safety. Every so often, a creepy face would flash on the screen and she muttered, “Wow, I fucking hate that.” She pointed down the block and said, “I live this way, not too far away and surprisingly decent rent. Not sure if you know the area well or not, but it really is a steal.” 

“I am sure that you are.” Frank’s lips twitched as a genesis of a smile began to take shape across his mouth, one that came very close to becoming fully formed, until he too saw the ghostly face that haunted the TV screens. Fuck. That. Many of the pub’s patrons shared the same sentiment and a steady stream of people trickled out behind them, and for the first time (and hopefully the last) Frank was glad that he had the evening shift at Soul that day. A snort escaped his guard, harsh and full, a gleam of something mirthful reflected in his eyes as he turned them toward Ariana. “Depends on how much you’re willing to pay me,” he said and was only half joking. Bartending doesn’t pay a great deal, and there were many artefacts in his piece of crap apartment, including the piece of crap apartment itself, that would attest to this. The Bend wasn’t exactly known for its New England style living, but then again, neither was Frank.

“It’s nice.” He mused, quietly observing the shops that lined the streets and the plants and bushes that trimmed the sidewalks. Frank spied what looked like a stray dog toy tangled in the leaves of one of the passing bushes. Raining dog toys. That was normal too. Another thing he had to come to terms with getting used to. Not the fact that that particular thing happened, but the possibility of something similar, and equally strange and outlandish happening again. “I never really took the time to take in the streets. I mostly just come in for work, and then go to Soul and then go home. But this street, this place, I can see you living in it.” In the same weird way that you can somehow just sense that someone does not belong in a certain place, you can also sense when someone else belonged exactly where they were-- the latter was usually a lot more pleasant to observe. Walking next to Ariana, in the street she lived, Frank came to the conclusion that she looked like she was exactly where she needed to be; a place bustling with life, and events, and possibilities...even if it was a little strange. “It’s nice.”

Ariana noted the almost smile that Frank made though she didn’t comment on it. He was seemingly gruff, but she was pretty sure he enjoyed her company. Well, at least more so than the rest of the bar’s patrons. Which was fair, she was way cooler and far more adorable. As they walked, she laughed a bit at the mention of paying him. “Thankfully, I don’t need my own bodyguard, not that I could afford one. As it turns out, coaching kids’ soccer a few times a week doesn’t pay enough for a glamorous lifestyle. Not that I want one, but building a cabin one day would still be nice. If my woodworking really takes off, I may have a job for you.” They rounded a corner and something about the sky felt off. She ignored it and added, “I should warn, I’m good at finding trouble.” To be fair to herself, trouble often found her based on her species alone, but she definitely had a knack for following her nose right into some sort of White Crest nonsense. 

It surprised Ariana that Frank hadn’t done much exploring the streets yet. While the more populated parts of town weren’t necessarily her thing, she did know the woods like the back of her hand. Or paw, depending on the day of the month. “Yeah, there’s a lot of good shops and restaurants down here. It’s a good area, I prefer the woods, but it’s nice living across the hall from one of my best friends. So thanks.” She was almost wistful for that cabin in the woods she was supposed to build with Celeste one day. Hell, she even missed the place she helped Ulfric build, but there was a sense of pride that came with having a place of her own. Plus, hiking with her school projects that were often bigger than her was a bit much. She’d been smiling softly when a strange smell hit her nose. She paused in the middle of the sidewalk and looked in the direction her nose was picking up a more animalistic smell. Before it could even register fully in her mind, a raging moose was charging them. “Shit,” she yelled out and pushed Frank out of the way as she barely dodged getting impaled by a fucking antler. “What the fuck,” she grumbled as she regained her balance and stared the moose down, letting out a low growl. 

“Me too.” Frank’s smile hiked a little higher, and there was something knowing about it, like sharing in a secret that they both had, even if it was from each other. Though he did not necessarily indulge in the more cursed aspects of his existence, he always found that it was better to take it with good humour lest he drowns himself in self-pity; the latter being a significantly worse reality.

Frank spent the rest of their walk quietly observing the younger girl, his eyes squinted in a mixture of easy amusement and sharp curiosity. She spoke, a lot, and he listened, filing away pieces of information that he found useful or interesting: her relationship with the woods, her best friend, woodwork, how the three worked together to form an idyllic picture of the life Ariana wanted for herself. The pieces of information that went untold, fueled by a detailed history, alive and well as evidence in how she spoke. It made him wistful for a future that he never imagined for himself (he never tried to), and wanted dearly for her to have—her sudden stop elicited the same reaction in him, though it was obvious that she was sensing something that he wasn’t. Something he couldn’t. He heard the rumbling of hooves on pavement before he saw it, and even then he saw very little as a force, and a very impressive one at that, pushed him out of harm’s way, very nearly knocking him off his feet were it not for the swift sweep of his wings slowing gravity just enough for him to recover his balance—the product of instinct rather than any great skill. And then a low growl, unmistakably animal, and too near for comfort. First the ghost child TV, then the moose, now if he was about to get mauled by a fucking wolf Frank was going to lose his shit. Alas, there was just Ariana, and a very angry moose carving its way through the street before disappearing around the corner. No wolves to be seen…and yet. “Ariana, are you okay?” Concern coloured his words and made his touch more gentle as he reached out to examine her for any obvious injury. “Are you hurt?” And then finally, inevitably, “only in this fucking town.”

As she reoriented herself she swore she saw a flicker of wings on Frank. Ariana blinked slowly a few times and realized it must have been a trick of the light. Not that wings would be totally off base in this town, but the rest of their surroundings still felt surreal enough that she wrote it off. There was still a small lingering suspicion that maybe Frank wasn’t quite so human either. She’d have to observe him more carefully. She brushed herself off and answered, “Yeah, I’m fine. More startled than anything.” The moose kept running and rounded a corner. Maybe she should have been more concerned, but she simply didn’t have the energy to chase a moose right now. Not in this form. She figured she could shoot Kaden a text and let animal control deal with the seemingly pissed off moose. She stood still for a moment as he looked her over and kept her demeanor calm despite the internal ‘what the fuck just happened’ vibes she had going on. “I’m not hurt. Did only narrowly dodge becoming a moose kebab, but it be like that I guess,” she said with a slight laugh. “Yeah, that was super on brand for White Crest, but hey, neither of us turned into moose-pops today, so I’ll call it a win.” She was dying to ask about the wings, but she still wasn’t entirely sure of what she saw, so she’d file that one away for later. “To be safe, let’s keep moving in case he decides to come back for round 2.” She paused briefly as she started leading the way to her apartment before she finally caved and noted, “So… you were pretty good at catching your balance there.”

Ariana’s note was like a plunged blade, spearing through the glamour that he has tried so hard to maintain. Did it fall? Did she see? She couldn’t have. Frank’s wings were not little plastic accessories that you found hanging off some rack at some halloween store. They were huge, and not something that usually elicited such a casual response...not that he’s had many experiences to draw from. Yet at her remark, he prompted his face to smooth over any evidence of emotion, trying his best to manufacture the closest imitation to nonchalance. “Oh yeah? Thanks kid,” he said before allowing an edge of gentle humor pushed into the timber of his voice, “I mean I’d be a pretty shoddy bodyguard if I’m tripping over my own damn feet.” This made sense--even if Frank’s history of fighting recorded more losses than wins. “Maybe you should consider getting into the bodyguard business. That’s some arm you’ve got.” Needless to say, had it not been for Ariana’s quick reaction, his day would have gone in a very different, most likely more painful, direction. The reminder beckoned curiosity’s head to surface through the crack’s of his apathy, and despite the strangeness of the TV, the moose, he could not erase from his memory the distinct sound of a dog’s growl.

Curiosity also prompted him to vocalise his next words, but Frank was careful with them, lest he risked sounding insane in a town known for its strangeness. “After that moose, did you, I don’t know, hear anything weird? Like a growl?” Was he suggesting that he heard the moose...growl? Perhaps. But what was the more likely event: the moose growling or Ariana growling? Then again, little ghost girls were crawling out of leaky TVs and only moments ago they were almost ran over by a rampant moose and Frank himself had a literal silver tongue and giant wings stuck to his back, Ariana growling was hardly the strangest thing that happened in that afternoon alone.

“Fair point,” Ariana responded with a laugh. A clumsy bodyguard seemed like more of a hazard than protection. At the mention of having a strong arm, she shrugged. The full moon was quickly approaching so her strength was peaking though even during the new moon she liked to think her athleticism afforded her  a bit more in the way of strength. “What can I say? My natural athletic prowess surprises yet again,” she answered with a laugh. It wasn’t entirely a lie and she was tempted to just throw out the fact she was a werewolf. She was almost positive she had seen the briefest glimpse of giant ass wings on his back when he stumbled from her push. It was unlikely he’d have anything against werewolves. She was trying to have a little bit more in the way of tact regarding this kind of thing, but was pretty much failing at that. Would there really be much harm in telling him? As stoic as he was, he seemed to have a soft spot for her. Not that she could blame him. She was adorable and she knew it. 

As Ariana started to lead the way toward her apartment again, Frank mentioned the growl and she stopped in her tracks. Of course he heard that. Sometimes her instincts were stronger than her common fucking sense. If she was being honest, it was probably more than sometimes. She sighed and explained, “That wasn’t the moose. You did hear a growl. That was me.” She was already most of the way there to telling him, might as well go for it. “I’m a werewolf, that happens sometimes.” And there it was. Did this give her the ground to ask if she saw wings or would he just think she was crazy? She could probably chalk it up to weird teenaged Twilight daydreams if anything else. She watched Frank carefully, looking for any sign of how he was taking that little bomb. 

In summation: little ghost girls were crawling out of leaking TVs, they were almost ran over by a raging moose, flying fishes were a thing, and so was raining dog toys apparently, and Ariana was a werewolf. The truth settled over Frank like a blanket and he was unpanicked and strangely unperturbed, though either would have seemed a more conventional reaction to the news. In fairness, that tends to happen when you have a tongue that is literally silver and giant wings sticking out of your back. She could have told him that she was Irish (considering how often she was at the Irish pub), and his reaction would not have differed greatly from that he had on now: raised brows, mouth slightly parted as if wanting to say something but unsure of what, and a pensiveness had settled over his eyes as he digested this new discovery. “You are…a werewolf.” 

The first time Patrick told Frank that he was a fae, and that Frank was one too, he laughed (and then punched him again, but that could also be accredited to several other factors), and though the reality of his situation seemed entirely too impossible to be logical, his father’s explanation was the only one that made sense. Frank didn’t laugh this time, but was instead preoccupied with another thought: why was she volunteering this information? He was suddenly very acutely aware of his wings, and the effort he exerted to keep them hidden—like one who was suddenly very cognizant of their own breathing, and the mechanics of that unconscious process. She did see his wings, was the first thought, followed by a question of whether he minded that she did? Was he comfortable enough to let her know of what he was, as she apparently was with her secret? Was it ever a secret? It wasn’t as if the subject came up in a lot of their conversations to begin with. “A werewolf like…Michael J. Fox, werewolf?” 

The news of her being a werewolf didn’t seem to come across as too much of a shock and Ariana was grateful for that. There was definitely some processing happening, but as much was to be expected. At least he wasn’t looking at her like she had five heads or something which meant he most likely believed her. “Yes, I’m a werewolf,” she said quietly. It wasn’t a secret, but shouting it from the rooftops would likely attract hunters that weren’t as understanding as the ones she knew. If she could help it, she’d rather not be a trophy on some asshole’s wall. She wanted to follow that statement with ‘you have wings’ because she was pretty sure she’d gotten a glimpse of them, but if she was wrong, he’d really think she was insane.  At the mention of being a Michael J. Fox werewolf, her features contorted in confusion and she paused for a moment. “Wait, what?” Her head tilted as she looked at him in earnest and said, “I have no idea what that means or who Michael J. Fox is. The gist of it is I become wolfy around the full moon, have a good sense of smell and strength, and really like red meat. Oh, and I guess I growl sometimes.” 

Well, fuck. There’s nothing quite like making an aged reference to remind you exactly of how old you are. “Michael J. Fox...like, Teen Wolf nineteen-eighty—you know what, don’t worry about it.” Although Ariana’s general description seemed to follow, more or less, the general formula of the werewolf myth Frank was familiar with, the strangest part of all of this was not that she was a werewolf but that he felt no distance between them since the discovery. No unease, or distrust; she was still exactly the Ariana he had come to know. The same Ariana who knew exactly which buttons of his to press, and the right words to say to coax a grin or a chuckle out of him, especially when he least expected it. In fact what he did feel was something more akin to relief. She wasn’t a fae but she wasn’t entirely human either—like him. A small part of Frank was almost envious of her. She was so comfortable with herself, she knew exactly what she was, and unapologetically so. She listed her traits with the familiarity and ease of a cook listing the ingredients of a well-known dish: no judgement, no prejudice, just simple facts. The same could not be said of himself. The subject of his fae heritage had always left a bitter taste in his mouth. One Frank washed down with cheap cigarettes and even cheaper alcohol, finished with a  serving of good old fashioned denial. You know, healthy things. “You didn’t have to tell me that you know,” he said, “why did you?”

No one had ever really asked Ariana that question before and it left her a bit curious. Frank definitely did not seemed bothered by her revelation or afraid of her in any way which was good. It wasn’t like she’d ever hurt him. Still, she supposed other people were a bit more tight lipped about their species than she was. The fact of the matter was that she liked Frank and she didn’t believe he’d ever do anything to hurt her. She shrugged as they rounded the corner toward her building and she answered, “I don’t know, it’s not like a big secret or anything. I mean, I don’t like broadcast it for the world to know, but given everything today, I didn’t think you’d be too shocked. Plus, pretty sure you’re not a hunter… not that hunters are automatically bad. I’m friends with a few, but still.” It dawned on her she was growing more curious about what he was so she added, “Plus, you don’t seem too shocked. Do you have like some sort of background with this stuff?” 

Frank kept his eyes forward, his expression betrayed little of his thoughts, but he could not deny the sliver of ice that slid down his spine at the mention of the word. Hunters. He didn’t know why that was. He also didn’t know why he started thinking about his father. Didn’t know why the word triggered the image of him to come to the forefront of his mind, and the fear that he saw in his eyes, or perhaps most frightening: the resignation in them. Most faes were immune to things that otherwise proved fatal to humans; difficult to kill if you didn’t know what you were doing, entirely possible if you did. Hunters would. Was that what happened to Patrick? Frank had never cared to ask, and thought little of that night since, until now. Not that hunters were automatically bad, Ariana had assured him. Frank offered her a smile (it looked off, but then again, it was Frank), though he wasn’t particularly eager to go out and test that theory either. He turned his gaze back down, and for a moment their eyes met. She knows. He lets out a sigh, his fingers raked through the side of his beard, unsure of how to put together the words he struggled to say even to himself in front of a mirror. “Er…yeah, you could say something like that. I mean not werewolves, obviously, you’d be the first, but other things.”

While it was still a mystery of how Frank knew all of this, he seemed to take it relatively with stride. At least, he wasn’t any more or less stoic than he normally was. Ariana was still curious to know if her hunch was correct, but he could tell her in his own time. She knew not everyone was as comfortable sharing their species as she was. Or maybe he was human and just didn’t try to make excuses for everything weird that happened in this town. She’d sworn she saw wings for a second there, but with everything else that happened, it was hard to tell. Either way, she offered him a warm smile as they neared her building. “Well, whoever said save the best for last was wrong then,” she joked with a smirk present on her face. She took on a more serious tone and added, “I know a lot of people here who have a bit of something extra, so if you ever find yourself in trouble or anything, let me know. Even if it’s not something you can throw a werewolf at, I usually know who to ask for help.” She stopped outside the front of her building and turned to Frank. With a small gesture, she said, “This is my stop. Keep an eye out for angry moose and let me know you make it home safe, alright?” 

The invitation was a door and Ariana had so graciously held it open for him. All warm smiles and not even a glimpse of a shadow to hint judgement or malice or a well to use the knowledge of what he was against him. But Frank’s history shackled his feet and he didn’t move but looked at her with feigned ignorance. He’d as good as closed the door himself and every part of him wondered why. Simply, it was not Ariana he wanted to hide the truth from but himself. So he could play grumpy bartender a little bit longer, supplying banter and alcohol to underage werewolves and deny the responsibility of his supernatural inheritance. It was fucking pathetic, he knew it, and he swallowed the truth with a smile as Ariana was delivered safely to her front door. Although that was perhaps more her doing than his. “I’m not going to ask who or how you know said persons, but I will keep that in mind. Personally, I hope that it never comes to that.” He mirrored the gesture back to her, a reluctant grin cracked across his face in a way only Ariana could force out of him, “yes ma’am. You stay out of trouble kiddo.” Somehow he knew, as soon as he said it, trouble and Ariana were never too far away from each other.

[theliterateape]

The Subjectivity of Historical Revisionism

by Don Hall

The game was simple but difficult.

My first wife was an orchestra clarinetist. I had played in countless orchestras with my trumpet. I never really fit in with the academically inclined orchestra crowd but she did so she would have small gatherings to eat and drink at our home.

I could only handle sitting and chatting with them for a short time before I either started throwing verbal bombs in the mix to keep things interesting (which inevitably set the stage for a fight with my wife after all had gone home) or checked out completely (a different but similar sounding fight later). I finally came up with a game that they could play so I could go into my office and write or drink or drink and write.

I was a middle school music teacher and my curriculum for eighth grade included some college music history.

“OK. I teach a class on the Romantic Period of music for my kids. I get forty minutes to cover composers from 1770 to 1850. This includes Brahms, Liszt, Mendelssohn, Verdi, Wagner, Sibelius, Schubert, and scores more as well as over 5,000 known pieces of music of all genres. Forty minutes. I have to boil the whole period down to roughly six pieces of music at three minutes apiece to encapsulate all of that.

Here’s the game. You have forty minutes to teach a class on the music of the Twentieth Century. You get ten pieces and composers. Go!”

After around thirty minutes, I'd come back in, get another drink, and they'd inevitably have their ten. I'd look at it and comment, "So. You guys don't think jazz should be included?" They'd all growl and go back in to it.

Keep in mind, this game was about determining what specific art would be included for a limited attention span and, in the most subjective way, indicate what art you value first and foremost.

Were I to play that game today with someone my nephew's age, an additional criteria would be added. It would not be enough that the music was important or influential or even good. The addition to the type of person the artist was (or is) has become a part of the game.

It's all revision by exclusion.

Assessing the merit of art or historical significance is more than a popularity test. There have been plenty of popular artists, scientists, statesmen, and entrepreneurs in our history who have become unpopular and even unknown over time and who have been weeded out of curation. 

Why are we exposed to the art we are exposed to? We certainly aren’t the kind of creatures who, when seeking out information, go to a library index file and pour through thousands of entries to find the hidden treasures any more. No, we now have a screen which we type in “What were the best novels of the 20th Century?” and are fed a result.

According to Goodreads.com, there are 164 books listed under the heading The ACTUAL 100 Best Novels of the 20th Century.

As soon as you start to apply the Woke Metrics (you know, the yardstick that dismisses the accomplishments of Winston Churchill because he was a bigot) these lists start to narrow significantly. Using that criteria (which in the newspeak of that progressive cultmind must come before merit, quality, or theme) the only list that exists is The 100 Best Novels No One Has Ever Heard Of by People No one Has Ever Read.

As I wrote, this sort of assessment can't simply be a popularity test. If it were, Fifty Shades of Grey and The Harry Potter books would top the list.

When I play the game, I’m looking for a few things to merit inclusion in the tiny lists:

How influential was the work on those that followed?

How indicative of the time and place is the work?

Is the work limited in scope or more universal in theme?

There is a scene at the beginning of the Amy Poehler film Moxie where the new student challenges the teacher on the assignment of reading The Great Gatsby.

The scene is fun and pointed. Ike is a hoot as the teacher. Had I been her teacher I would have responded by asking what she thought was a better choice. She might have a novel written by a black woman that encapsulates the American response to the 1918 pandemic in excess and mystery. She might have an example of a novel written that explores the notions of class and the very essence of the American Dream following the horrors of WWI. If she has a suggestion of a novel written by someone not white and not male that deals so eloquently about justice, power, wealth, betrayal, and several classes of Americans who have assumed skewed worldviews, mistakenly believing their survival lies in stratification and reinforcing social boundaries, let's read that!

The issue at hand with much of the faddish push to classify certain artists and historical figures as unassailably evil and worthy of complete erasure is that the most strident either have nothing with which to substitute for the thing they deem canceled or they have replacement art that is not up to the challenge. It isn't that they don't have every right to express their grievance. History (and not merely American history) is littered with people passed over for reasons beyond merit or time as well as people lauded and magnified for rationale limited to race, sex, and religion.

Anger and grievance is not a replacement for a solution.

✶

For much of the past year I've been incredibly frustrated with this push for revision in our history. San Francisco schools voting to replace Lincoln with someone more influential historically on the rights of African Americans? That's fucking nuts, man. 

An English teacher in Massachusetts successfully convinced her school's administrators to remove Homer's The Odyssey from its curriculum because of its alleged sexism. Another English teacher in Seattle said he would "rather die" than teach The Scarlet Letter in class. Mark Twain is suspect because of his portrayal of black people in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

To Kill a Mockingbird, once the City of Chicago book of the month, is now considered a no-go because it glorifies "white saviorhood" through the character of Atticus Finch. The novels featuring Sherlock Holmes should be tossed because author Arthur Conan Doyle included racist language. The author of the Little House on the Prairie books, Laura Ingalls Wilder, was stripped of a literary honor because of the "anti-Native and anti-Black sentiments in her work."

Throwing the shade of accountability on someone like J.K. Rowling seems excessive but more legit because she is still alive and reaping benefits from the sales of her writing. I may disagree with the rationale behind the call-out but it is only slightly different from Major League Baseball boycotting Georgia for re-enacting Jim Crow voting law.

Homer? Lincoln? Twain? All dead. No accountability to exact and all we have is the work left to speak for them.

For much of the past year, this stridency has driven me a little crazy but I realized recently that, especially in the digital age where so much art has been transposed into bytes, no one can prevent me from reading To Kill a Mockingbird or watching the Gregory Peck film. No one can prevent me from enjoying a Woody Allen film or a Harry Potter novel or celebrating the heroism of Churchill and Lincoln.

I love the music of David Bowie because it's great music. Does the fact that he had routine amounts of sex with underage girls dampen my enjoyment? Nope. Will it trigger someone else? Maybe. And it is their choice to avoid his music if they choose. It is not within their power to limit my choice as it should not be within my power to force it upon them.

History, as is art, trends toward subjectivity. History, after all, is just a series of stories we tell each other and stories are always told from a lens of the teller. History is less fact than it is an interpretation of existing facts and illusions. Do I believe, as the authors of the 1619 Project suppose, that America was founded in slavery? No. Do I believe that this means I can learn nothing from the stories they tell? Again, no.

Placing things into a larger perspective is as easy as acknowledging the horrors of the Civil War and still being able to comfortably have an Honest Abe Burger at the now closed Lincoln Restaurant in Chicago.

Now I'm going to go curl up and watch The Purple Rose of Cairo, then read The Great Gatsby while listening to Michael Jackson.