#there is value in saying 'i had a knee jerk reaction and felt attacked and overwhelmed and thats why i snapped at you' vs 'i have rsd'

[arodrwho]

that pathologizing/humanizing post and all the discourse surrounding it is driving me batty if i never see it again it'll be too soon. post block time

[unmeiokaemasu]

(was gonna reply and then it got too long)

the way PoR tackles prejudice from every angle is so nuanced and good and yeah it kills me that Soren's story is so carefully built out over the course of the game, but if you know him from anything else he's kinda flanderized into "the snarky guy who's mean to everyone except Ike".

Like for example there's nothing wrong with the way that awakening and fates write supports, but if that's what you're used to you might assume Soren's quirk right out the gate is being smart and mean and that in a C-B-A conversation format you’ll get his tragic backstory, but again, Path of Radiance isn’t like that. He’s introduced as a normal valued member of the Greil Mercenaries, he gets nastiest in a moment of high tension where he felt they were being verbally attacked completely unprovoked, and that whole scene is an instrumental piece of world building for Tellius. There are support conversations but you generally learn more about the world through them, and you learn a lot about the characters organically throughout the story.

I had more I was trying to say about the writing but I wrote out 3 or 4 separate attempts and all didn’t work, so I’ll stop here. But yeah like...I guess people are allowed to make knee-jerk reactions to fiction but I’m still going to be sad about it because Path or Radiance is such a masterful story and Soren’s an excellently written character.

Interesting how it's still so common to see people saying "eew Soren said a slur to cat people, he's racist!"

But like, that's not really what's happening there is it? People always look at the scene with Lethe and Mordecai and think cat people=minority but laguz aren't really a minority in Tellius are they?? Half the population of the continent is animal people.

He is being xenophobic, which is bad, but also...Soren is the only character in that scene who actually is a minority and suffered horrific abuse (by cat people!) due to his race, so from his perspective he's lashing out at his abusers.

So still a stinky mean boy but there's so much more nuance going on with the different races/tribes in tellius its a shame some people see Soren being rude once and write off the whole thing.

[charcubed]

I keep seeing posts that are like "interpretations of bi!Dean and gay!Dean are equally valid!" and I used to be like, sure, straight!Dean is definitely wrong but beyond that, see him how you want, who cares.

But now (esp after the Last Call script) I just don't understand the gay!Dean truthers? I follow quite a few on sm, and when I initially followed them I was like "they accept Dean is queer, that's good enough for me." But now they're really starting to get to me and it's not really worth arguing about to them, but I wanted to rant to you about it, cuz you get it.

The script literally included "gorgeous women" in the bar. Dean has canonically been sexually AND romantically attracted to women. He's based off THEE bisexual Neal Cassady.

Like I'm not really trying to defend m/w relationships (lol) but why do even queer ppl insist on erasing his identity when it's so clear? Why do they have to take that away?

Gay!Dean in AUs is one thing, but in the actual, textual canon of the show, Dean is bi. And no, gay!Dean and bi!Dean are NOT equally valid interpretations. And I don't think I'm an asshole for saying that 🤷🏼‍♀️

Sorry it took a few days to get to this. Work and life have kept me busy and tired!

Unironically and non-sarcastically, Anon, I'm glad you've seen the light and seem to understand this topic more now. You are, of course, entirely correct. And you're not an asshole for saying it either.

I'm going to take this opportunity to answer your (potentially rhetorical) questions, and also bounce off of you and lay some stuff out about this topic in general at length for the first time–despite the fact that it may turn me into public enemy #1 again. I am already hated for non-combatively voicing these facts on Twitter (this thread tends to be considered one of the "ground zeroes" of the nonexistent "debate" lol), but I have avoided being dog-piled on Tumblr so far, so... fingers crossed I can miraculously keep it that way!

My hope is that anyone who is predisposed to taking this topic very personally just moves on instead of attacking me (or subposting me?) for any of what I'm about to say. I'm also not forcing anyone to read this, before anyone's like "that's way too many words" or "it's not that serious lol."

I do think this topic is important. I've made the decision to publicly spell out why. And if anyone doesn't want to read it, that's their prerogative.

To your questions, Anon:

I think a lot of this comes down to a fandom-wide problem (all fandoms recently, not just SPN) of not understanding the difference between headcanon and canon, the dimensions as to why that distinction does have its uses and its necessity, and the value in both. I'll get into this later.

But in this fandom specifically, based on observation and lengthy conversations I've had with a dozen long-time fans who are my friends... I personally think it's maybe a new dimension of viewpoint that's branched out from a holdover of "all interpretations are valid" being the party line people have clung to a very long time. (That’s also true in other fandoms, but I think it’s especially true here.) It's a form of solace people don't want to deviate from. No one wants to be seen as or feel like the ~jerk~ who's ~invalidating another person's view of canon~ in response to someone else's knee-jerk reaction of hurt. This is a fandom with early-2000s cultural baggage and context, where people dealt with feeling like the "crazy fangirls" who shipped Destiel and dared to call out queer subtext. Misha's "You're not crazy" tweet exists for a reason. I do feel like a lot of well-meaning people–aside from misunderstanding or being ignorant to the analytical roots of this topic and why they absolutely matter–just know what it feels like to have their thoughts on queer content in a show feel "invalidated," and they don't want to be perceived as doing that to other people. And/or: they’ve felt invalidated before (in this fandom or others!), and so they’re hypersensitive to anything they perceive as doing that to them again, especially if they tied personal identity into the projections they’re making onto the media they enjoy.

I understand that people don’t want to seem ~mean~ or make waves. I also don't want to seem mean or be mean, which is why I try to be as clear as possible whenever I talk about this and I never go after people directly (or interact/reference any of the many subtweets from people who openly talk shit about me. haha). But the facts shouldn't be seen as "mean"; they are simply facts. And yes, they absolutely matter.

Because the thing is... none of the above has any bearing on the nuances of the topic at hand, the indisputable fact that Dean is bisexual in canon and that claiming otherwise is erasure, and the truth that none of this should be seen as a threat to people's headcanons. 

These are all things that people should understand, and I will not apologize for knowing that and saying it. Misunderstanding this–making the false claim that “all interpretations of Dean’s sexually are equally valid as long as you see him as queer”–is an act of bisexual erasure in this context, and it often (unintentionally!) plays into biphobic talking points. And yeah, in my opinion, that’s something people should care about because it’s worthy of both personal and fandom examination. It is, in fact, why “representation” matters at all.

Let’s not kid ourselves: the bulk of this fandom-wide discourse is about Bi Dean vs Gay Dean. So, y’know, that’s the bulk of how I’m going to address it to just get it all out there.

Right out the gate, let me clarify this: I am not saying–now or ever–that those who are self-proclaimed “Gay Dean truthers” or argue that “Dean being gay in canon is a valid interpretation” are deliberately coming from a place of malice and the intent to contribute to bisexual erasure. By all means, I’m sure most aren’t! Nonetheless, intent does not equal impact. I’ve even seen people say “I’m a Gay Dean truther and I’m bisexual, so how could I possibly be contributing to bi erasure by arguing for Gay Dean?”  But in this situation–as in any other–no one is immune from unwittingly perpetuating harm, even including bi people. And it’s important to understand why that is.

“Interpretations” are not opinions, not all are equal, and they do require some level of skill. This is not a personal attack, or a moral judgement on anyone, or somehow a threat to people’s enjoyment of a favorite character. It is just fact.

Gay Dean is not a valid possibility in canon. There is no lens that justifies an argument of it with canonical basis. I have to break down why, in order to sufficiently express why claiming otherwise is a harmful position to take, so bear with me.

(No, this is not an invitation for a Gay Dean truther to treat this like a “debate” with me or waste time writing out a counterargument. Please just exit the tab if you’re somehow here battling that urge.)

For someone to say that Dean is gay in canon, here is an incomplete list of what has to be erased, ignored, or explained away:

• His sexual attraction to, romantic love for, and relationship with Cassie.

• His sexual attraction to, romantic love for, and relationship with Lisa (whether or not one thinks she was ever the ~ultimate love of his life~, attraction and love were present.)

• His stash of and enjoyment of porn that includes women, which is referenced many times.

• The moments where he was seduced by a female-presenting monster.

• Each and every time he made a reference to or joke about his attraction to women.

• Any fling he ever had with a woman on screen, and the enjoyment he had in the process.

The man is canonically sexually and romantically attracted to women, and he has acted upon that and even enjoys that about himself in wildly diverse contexts. It is a blatant part of the text of the show. (The fact that we are at the point where this is somehow a main point of contention rather than his attraction to men does make me feel a tiny bit insane, to be honest.)

Now, in my experience (which I don’t claim is comprehensive!), the people who argue for Gay Dean tend to explain ALL of this away under some form of universal umbrella of Dean being “performative,” a variation on compulsive heterosexuality they ascribe to him. The claim or explanation tends to be that Dean was performing a mostly-faked attraction to women based on his father’s expectations and outward pressures he received in the culture of his life. Moments are often cherry-picked out of context to support this “reading.” 

Who is Dean supposedly performing FOR, even in the moments where he acts on his attraction to women when he is alone? How does this explain his significant relationships with women like Cassie and/or the legitimate visible enjoyments he received from those interactions, as well as his flings with women throughout the show? How does this explain things like the Last Call script, where Dean is very clearly written as attracted to “gorgeous women,” a factoid that is not only very clear on screen but also (of course) written in literal black and white?

(There are no sufficient answers to these rhetorical questions. Once again: please do not waste time trying to give me any.)

And what evidence are Gay Dean people using for comphet or performative Dean? The “evidence” is often a misread of canon, pointing towards the consistent theme and false goal presented in the text of the show of characters’ efforts to strive for an “apple pie life,” aka a heteronormative ideal family. Gay Dean people misrepresent what this theme and through-line in the show is actually about, which is the totality of learning to accept your life rather than striving for something ill-fitting, that what you need and want need not be mutually exclusive (family life including fulfilling romance + hunting life can coexist), family is what you make of it and how you define it, and there are no true limitations on what all of this “should” be. While these themes are inherently queer, they are not about narrow performances of masculinity, femininity, or sexual identity, but about making space for ALL forms of all of the above–AND about identifying what it is that one wants and thinks they can’t have.

Namely, for Dean, that’s a version of settling down in a life that fulfills him in every direction, with an open and honest mutual relationship with the person he is in love with. This latter point would be true whether Cas was a man or a woman (though the fact that he is a man of course adds further dimension of interest to the story). Dean doesn’t think he can have a romantic relationship / family that lasts, and by later seasons that yearning is a key part of his character. The times it didn’t work out for him weren’t because those other people were women, but rather because the “lesson” he internalized from traumatic instances of loss is that hunters don’t get to do ~the love thing~ or get the settled down life. This is stated in the text of the show multiple times, and that’s also why Dean seeing examples of hunters who made any kind of balanced life work (especially masculine queer hunters like Jesse and Cesar) is pointed and purposeful. To say it’s about comphet instead (with no sufficient canon evidence that supports that) disregards a key point that’s central to Supernatural’s story, and in my opinion it disregards it to its detriment.

For Dean’s journey in particular, it is about freedom from limitations of structure, and knowing that he contains multitudes. The things he got from John–loving classic rock and loving his car, for example–are no less core joyful parts of Dean simply because they originated from his father. Dean can love classic rock and still occasionally love a Taylor Swift song, for example. He can love cowboy movies and manly movies, and also enjoy chick-flicks. It’s the idea of learning that there are no limitations, not that masculine interests are not inherently something he loves for himself or that aren’t important parts of his identity. It’s an expansion to openly include more, not a switch or a narrowing. The same applies to his sexual attraction and his queer identity. He can be attracted to cowboys and bikers, and also be attracted to gorgeous women. Him being attracted to / loving women does not mean he cannot and does not feel attraction and love for men; likewise, him being in love with a man does not mean he wasn’t and isn’t attracted to women. 

(“Last Call,” as an episode, exists in part to drive the totality of these points home, and emphasize that Dean’s attraction to men is something he’s known about himself for most of his life and acted on previously. So is most of the queercoding and queer subtext applied to Dean–which is specifically coding him as bisexual. His attraction to men is sometimes established or made clear because it echoes his attraction to women, etc. etc. Dean’s canonical attraction to men is a whole other post.)

So here we come to why saying otherwise and trying to shoehorn a comphet narrative onto Dean in canon is harmful:

Aside from the fact that to claim Dean’s joyful attraction to women is performative is to cut out chunks of the story and is thus not supported by canon, and it relies on making assumptions about and projecting onto the text… unintentionally or not, the implication is that bisexuality is not queer enough, or that being gay is somehow “queerer” and thus more compelling and a preferred concept, and that attraction to different genders is a heterosexual / straight trait requiring removal. No one is queering a text in a more revolutionary way or unlocking a ~secret good Supernatural~ by making a bisexual man into a gay man. That’s simply not how this works.

“Preferring” an argument for Gay Dean in canon requires explaining away or misreading all of those moments Dean has with women, essentially replacing them with trauma or suffering or discomfort that–in my observations–also sometimes rely on stereotypes of gay men. It also involves potentially preferring to twist them into behaviors Dean must have universally put himself through not out of genuine joyful desire but at minimum because he felt like he “should” or at maximum in an attempt to “fix” his “gayness,” even when no one was watching. And it points to the pressures Dean experienced about living a life that fit him fully–pressures that exist not just in his world, but also in our patriarchal world and society–and it implies that queer people can’t authentically experience attraction or love to someone of a different gender, because maybe they’re actually just “performing” the heteronormative ideal. As in: a “visually queer” relationship is the end goal, right? For Dean, that’s an m/m relationship... so surely m/f matters less, or maybe it can’t be a genuine and significant part of a queer person’s life.

Once again: I do not think any of this is intentional on the part of Gay Dean truthers, nor do I think it’s done with malice. Nonetheless, these harmful biphobic viewpoints permeate these conversations and misconceptions when people say these arguments are valid.

There is no canonical basis for explaining away all of Dean’s moments with women, and the story does not provide or point to any kind of cohesive narrative reason to do so. YES, people absolutely experience comphet in real life, and those experiences are valid and exist. YES, real gay men can and do sleep with or have nuanced romantic relationships with women before realizing they’re gay later in life. No, that does not mean that’s how analysis of a fictional character in a fictional story always works, especially in regards to a story built over time like Supernatural’s unique approach and the way it was molded to place queerness and specifically bisexuality at the core of Dean’s story.

Ascribing comphet to Dean in canon–or making any other insufficient justification for explaining away his attraction to women–is personal projection. And yes, it is bisexual erasure.

This is not a position fueled by personal hurt for me, as I would say the same here whether or not I was personally bisexual. It is an acknowledgement that these conversations don’t exist in a vacuum, and that’s something everyone should care to understand. I know what comphet storylines look like in fiction, and I know they are worth defining as such, and in other fandoms I even defend that very loudly. This is not the case here, and to say it is requires mental acrobatics that are objectively unsupported by canon... and invariably insisting otherwise perpetuates one of these harmful biphobic viewpoints whether or not one realizes it.

To say Gay Dean is a legitimate read of canon–which it is not–supports people who are erasing his varied sexual and romantic attraction to a different gender simply because they’ve decided they want to ignore that. “I like the idea of Dean being gay” does not mean that he is gay in canon, and writing meta to that end is a problem. It’s not an invalidation of someone on a personal level or some weird variation of homophobia to say that, and I do think people should maybe examine why they seemingly like the idea of him being gay more than him being bi, or why they staunchly defend it (or any other “different queer reading”) as a possibility. 

I understand there may be the urge to be like “is it that serious” or “this is just a CW show,” but to that I would say… then why are we all here?

Clearly, most people do still care about queer representation on some level and understand that queer subtext is present and acknowledge that Dean isn’t straight... hence the origin of this new prevalent concept of “as long as you say Dean’s queer then it’s fine.”

But in any piece of media, the text is the text is the text. The text can also be compelling, and fascinating, and contain value whether or not it’s an exact reflection of you personally as a fan and as a person. Sometimes there is arguably even greater value in being able to find reasons to relate to the humanity of a character or in a story even though elements differ from who you are personally. It is an exercise in empathy, and it is a pillar of why humans tells stories to each other to expand our viewpoints, and it sometimes results in examining the sources of that empathy. It’s why “representation matters”: not just so we can see ourselves, but so we can see others, and find reason to empathize despite differences. There’s unquantifiable power in that, and it’s also why the diversity of queer experiences and identities should be championed and acknowledged both in fiction and in reality, not turned into a monolith. Our solidarity amongst our individual queer differences and identities is our truest version of strength and authenticity. We are not all exactly the same, and that’s a good thing. When care is taken to specifically convey that in fiction, it is worth not only acknowledgement but also defense.

So: do we or do we not care about why representation is important, and why these sorts of conversations should exist at all? About censorship of queer storylines, and diversity in the queer community, and solidarity in differences? About bisexual men, a vastly underrepresented group in fiction, and the specific censorship that affected Dean’s bi story accordingly? And about how these viewpoints people can place onto fiction through fandom-wide conversation–like implying Dean is ~queerer~ if you say he’s gay, or that you’re somehow sticking it to the CW and “straight culture” if you suggest he’s gay–can influence biphobia that translates into ways people see bi people in real life?

In other situations even in this fandom, people understand the value of diverse queer experiences. No one would dare to say that “you can argue Charlie is bisexual in canon because as long as you say she’s queer it’s fine.” Charlie is a lesbian. It’s very, very clear, and she shows and states that she is only attracted to women. Dean’s attraction to women in canon is equally clear, and is part of his bisexuality. Why is erasing that defendable?

Look: it is people’s God-given right to write whatever fic they want about “what if” variations of Dean’s sexuality through a different lens. It is not their God-given right to make things up about canon and call it analysis.

It is a universal truth that fandom is always going to take canon and mold it into other versions that they love, for their own personal reasons and in ways that have value to them. That’s why transformative works like fic exist, and it’s why fandom is awesome, and I’m glad people use aspects of their favorite stories to tell other inspired stories that are of personal significance to them. But the word transformative is used for a reason: it’s an alteration of canon. It’s not a bad thing or a personal attack on people to say that.

There is a difference between understanding canon and writing actual meta / analysis of the show, and writing AUs for ones own enjoyment and fulfillment. (This is true on AO3 or on Tumblr/Twitter. I often see posts that are positioned as “meta,” but again, are just cherry-picked weirdness.) These differences are important, as is understanding how headcanons and fic affect surrounding conversations and fandom perceptions. And this fandom seems to have a very big problem with understanding the difference between these things, while taking it extremely personally in a negative way when people try to explain why the difference matters.

Confusing analysis and transformative fandom does a disservice to both, and denying the value in the former is not only a form of anti-intellectualism but also removes some of the beauty in the latter. If we can’t distinguish and differentiate between canon and headcanon, we can’t discuss the value in understanding the canon, nor adequately discuss the artistic value and power in creating derivative variations from it in personal ways. Both are different, both are equal, both are vital, and insisting the distinction is needless hampers conversation across every space. And nowhere is that more true than when one is discussing queer representation and queer censorship, like in the case of Supernatural. Again, why are we here? Why do we care? You cannot argue for and discuss the problems of censorship sufficiently if you don’t understand what was censored–and in Dean’s case, that was his love for Cas and his bisexuality.

I leave you with this (probably unneeded) analogy:

Imagine Dean’s a zebra.

(Sorry, EDS community; not that kind of zebra.)

People are trying to say “Dean is a black and white hoofed mammal <3″ and well, that’s accurate, but that doesn’t mean him being a zebra isn’t its own unique thing. A whole bunch of people are looking at him though and saying “well I prefer to say that Dean’s a black and white horse,” because they like that viewpoint better. Close enough, right? A black and white horse is basically a zebra, right? And then there’s the people who are like “I think Dean’s a cow!” and it’s like, okay, no idea where you came from, but whatever.

The point is that those are all entirely different fucking things. They’re different animals. Someone wanting Dean to be a black and white horse doesn’t make him less of a zebra. Pretending otherwise is absolute nonsense.

This debate/discussion/discourse is equally nonsensical. That is the logic (or illogic) that applies here.

Just because Dean is “queer” doesn’t mean any queer categorization underneath that umbrella suddenly equally applies.

Dean is bisexual. And he is “queer” because he’s bisexual.

Those are the facts. 

And for the love of God, please... I really don’t think I’m an asshole for saying it.

So, to whoever made it this far: please do me the courtesy of not hating me for it or trying to bait me into a fight. 

I’m tired. Thanks.

----

EDIT: Couple of good additions!

•  @doctorprofessorsong added some good details about how some of these harmful biphobic concepts translate to real life, and real things that bi people struggle with.

• A lesbian anonymously sent in her perspective as someone who enjoys gay Dean headcanons/fic and agrees with this post, and agrees that the fact that Dean is bi in canon is important.

[itsclydebitches]

You know, bringing Penny back already had the risk of cheapening her death, but NO ONE having an emotional reaction whatsoever and Pietro being like “Yeah, I guess she did die lol :D” just DESTROYED the weight of her death. Just another reason I felt nothing when she died again.

The lack of reaction to Penny's resurrection will, forever and always, be a black mark on the series for me. I'm not at all surprised that she was brought back given her android status and popularity among the fandom, I can't even fault RT for restoring our original Penny perfectly given the latter (as opposed to getting a "Penny" without her personality and/or memories), but the sheer indifference to her cheating death? Not just that, but treating her return like a joke? Oh haha, silly Penny with her overenthusiastic hugs. I sure missed that bubbly girl back when our enemies manipulated our now murdered friend into killing her and that trauma kick-started the destruction of our school :)

And this trend in the fandom of going, "Just wait"? Penny suffered from it too. Massively. Like we were told to just wait to return to Oscar's mystery shopping trip, or for the reconciliation with Ozpin to start, or, now, for Emerald to undergo an actual redemption arc, the lack of reaction to Penny's return was explained away as shock (and haven't we heard that one before). Ruby will need to grapple with these emotions, it's just that she was so stunned by this turn of events! But, quite obviously, that never happened. Ruby and Penny's relationship fundamentally returned to where it had started, with Penny making comments about how she isn't allowed certain freedoms and Ruby reminding her that she's a real girl despite it all. A death and the trauma of losing a friend? Not a part of their Volume 7-8 dynamic, to the extent that the story throws them a party in the arena where Penny died — and where Yang was framed, and where the Battle of Beacon began — and not a single character has anything to say about that. The meaning that Penny's death carried in Volumes 3-5 was, in short, erased... and then Penny's entire journey of learning that she's always been real is erased too in an effort to kill her off for good. Her human body wasn't included because it was something she strove for (it wasn't), or something the group needed (it wasn't), or because it was a thematic culmination of her journey (quite the opposite), or even because it follows her inspiration (Ironwood's Tin Man would have something to say about that). It exists solely so that Penny could be murdered again, this time for good. The mad scramble to theorize that she's not really dead (again) is telling. Even the most complimentary fans, those who were quite happy with Penny becoming a human and took no issue with her story throughout 7 and 8, recognized that her death was a horrific, meaningless scene that served only to drum up shock value and give Jaune something to angst over.

I'd even go so far as to say her time as the Maiden was meaningless too. Not just in terms of her not actually doing anything with the powers and Winter ending up with them as originally planned — those two points have both been covered extensively — but in regards to the fact that the group didn't react to that either. Our formerly dead friend came back and a short time later is one of the Maidens? Neat! And that's the extent of their emotional investment in Penny's change. Neat, we've got a stronger fighter now. I just answered that ask that referenced Yang and Ren's fight and that's literally Yang's entire thought on the matter: "We have the Maiden." The Maiden is positioned as a useful tool in this war; a checkmark in the "Victories" column when your friend thinks you haven't achieved enough. But doesn't anyone care that the Maiden is Penny? It's particularly strange to me given the six years of fandom discussion surrounding Pyrrha's almost-time as a Maiden too. As someone (quite obviously lol) interested in Ozpin's character, his desire to make Pyrrha the next Fall Maiden is often viewed as one of his worst acts, supposedly taking this poor, defenseless student and manipulating her into accepting a power that will ruin her life. So much of this is conjecture and even more is an erasure of Pyrrha's agency, and the hypocrisy here is on full display when we look to the reaction to Penny's acceptance of the powers instead. No one is worried about how this power is supposedly going to ruin her life. Or drive all her friends away. Or make her a target to be murdered (again) which is precisely what happens. Or turn her into a tool for the evil men around her to abuse — even though Penny is the one who actually has storylines revolving around her agency, from Pietro building her to be Atlas' obedient weapon to Ironwood ordering her back to his side. Yet the characters don't react to this change with any of the horror we might have expected, because these views don't derive solely from fan headcanoning — we've got moments in the text too. Like Jaune convincing himself that Qrow and the others forced Pyrrha into this. Or the knee-jerk reaction to "real" magic and the horrible things it must do to you. Yet Penny walks out of that lab brimming with a foreign magic, something that Ironwood had always planned to pass onto one of this allies, a power that they know has gotten numerous people killed, and our group is just like, "Cool. Penny upgrade." Everything about Penny's Volume 7-8 journey demonstrates a lack of forethought; the authors' inability to connect what they're currently writing to what came before and what will come later. The lack of reaction to her death, the framing plotline going nowhere, a total acceptance of her as the Maiden despite complicated feelings in the past (and we can toss Yang's assumed secret about Raven in here too), the ableist and contradictory message of giving her a human body, dying again just an episode later, doing so in a way that throws Jaune back into the same situation we've seen before... none of it is emotionally fulfilling when set against the rest of RWBY.

And Emerald, as you say, is a crucial part of all that. Emerald is the one who originally orchestrated Penny's murder. We see her love for Cinder pushing her to attack Penny again just hours before she joins the group. Emerald pretends to be Penny in order to get close to Ironwood... and the only thing we get from all this is a quip about how "weird" it feels to do good. Their stories are woven together and the fact that RT doesn't seem to realize that does a huge disservice to them both. The question of, "How does Penny grow after being resurrected post-murder?" and the question of, "What will it take to redeem Emerald?" are irrevocably linked to one another... and yet neither character was given the chance to answer those questions in a fulfilling manner.

[kittinoir]

Phantoms Ch. 11

Read on Ao3

With just the two of them on patrol, things felt almost like they used to. Almost. There was nothing familiar about the too-casual, lingering touches between them, or in the way Ladybug looked at Chat Noir and felt her heart swell to bursting with affection, but if this was her new normal, she thought she could get used to it.

If only she didn’t have to also get used to the fear that dogged every glance, every brush, every moment. Even as it faded with every day that passed, it never quite disappeared. She sometimes wondered if it ever would.

But not in that moment. Sitting this close to him on the edge of the roof, closer than she ever would have before, their knees pressed together, fear of the future was momentarily held at bay. Adrien had that effect on her. 

“Don’t get mad,” Chat Noir said, breaking their comfortable, if loaded silence, thick with all the things they couldn’t say to each other, “But it’s been…really quiet lately.”

“Don’t you dare jinx us!” Ladybug said, but she couldn’t help a laugh. “But…you’re right. I don’t know if I should be worried or relieved.”

“With Hawk Moth?” Chat Noir said, glancing sidelong at her. “Always worried.”

Ladybug didn’t say it, but she’d grown so use to worrying that it hardly felt like anything anymore. He had a point, though. Hawk Moth wasn’t taking a break: he was gearing up. Someone like that didn’t just disappear.

Almost as though their thoughts had summoned him, both Ladybug and Chat Noir leapt to their feet as someone shot out of the clouds towards them, faster than anything they’d ever seen.

“Koira,” Chat Noir said suddenly, his baton stilling in his hand. Moments later, Ladybug could spot the details her partner had already seen and slowed her yoyo as well. Had they missed an akuma alert?

“What is it?” Ladybug demanded as Koira landed hard, skidding across the roof. He was panting, having pushed Barkk to his limits, but Koira didn’t give off the impression he was staying as he stalked back to them.

“It’s Hawk Moth,” Koira said, loosing the hammer at his hip. He flipped the hammer head down and revealed the screen on the handle, a small black and yellow icon flashing in the top right corner. “We - Chloe…I think she found him.” He met Chat Noir’s confused gaze. “There’s no easy way for you to learn this, but…your father…”

“You’re wrong,” Ladybug said automatically, though Koira’s announcement stirred old suspicions that she’d never totally managed to put to rest. “Gabriel Agreste was cleared a long time ago when he was akumatized.”

“Then maybe you can explain this,” Koira said, thrusting his hammer at them.

It displayed a photo of a portrait and a hole in the ground of what looked like some kind of sitting room or office. It seemed vaguely familiar, but Ladybug couldn’t place it. She read the message attached instead: Still think this is a waste of time?

“So he has another safe in the floor,” Chat Noir said in a voice Ladybug had only heard once before. “So what? Did she find the one behind the portrait, too, while she was snooping through my father’s office?”

Ladybug turned and was met with the same disbelief, the same anger that had come over her partner the first time she’d voiced her thoughts aloud. Now it all made sense. She supposed she should have been grateful he’d followed her lead at all.

“I hope you have more than this,” she said instead of taking Chat Noir’s hand in her own to offer comfort like she wanted to. 

“This is the last message Queen Bee sent before she vanished,” Koira snapped, reholstering his hammer. “The Grimoire came from him. She went there, and then she disappeared.”

“Chloe is always disappearing,” Chat Noir said, and edge of desperation in his voice now. “Whenever things gets hard or they don’t go her way, she vanishes.”

“You know that’s not true!” Koira shouted, and Ladybug had to admit, even if Chat Noir didn’t know that, she did. Chloe had stopped running a while ago. That wasn’t to say Chloe couldn’t have a moment of weakness, but this wasn’t adding up. At least not to that.

“You know what, it doesn’t matter,” Koira said, abruptly turning from them. “The only reason I even came here was because she made me promise that… But it doesn’t matter. Sit here in denial if you want, but I’m going to do what you should have been doing all along: take the problem out at the root.”

He’d made it all of two steps before Chat Noir’s baton swept his feet out from under him, sending Koira sprawling.

“If you think I’m going to let you attack my father because of some half-baked investigation you two did, you have another thing coming,” Chat Noir snarled.

“Enough!”

Ladybug stepped between them, trying to ignore the rage pouring off her partner in waves.

“Koira, if there’s even the slightest chance you’re right, you can’t seriously expect we’d just let you walk into the same trap Queen Bee did.” Ladybug didn’t think she imagined his wince, but it was hard to tell. Felix rarely conceded anyone’s point.

“Chat Noir,” she continued, turning to the familiar stranger her partner had become, “I think we owe it to ourselves and this city to lay these suspicions to rest once and for all.”

Chat Noir reacted as though she’d struck him. “Are you telling me you…believe him…?”

“I’m saying we have to be sure, one way or the other,” Ladybug said softly, silently begging him to understand. “We’ve both been in two places before, too.”

Ladybug turned back to Koira before she could register her partner’s reaction. She knew her stance would feel like a betrayal, but she knew even so he’d see the value in confirming his fathers innocence. At least, she hoped it would be innocence. She could hear Adrien’s voice in her head as clearly as if he’d spoken the words out loud: he’d already lost his mother. He couldn’t lose his father, too.

“Assemble the team,” Ladybug said to Koira. “I want everyone here in an hour or less. No excuses. We’ll deal with this, once and for all.” But first she needed to talk with her partner - without his needling cousin a few feet away.

“But Chloe - ”

“Is smarter and more resourceful than you give her credit for.” Ladybug didn’t miss Felix’s wince this time, and she couldn’t help but hope she had hit a nerve. “And will not be thanking us if all we do is get ourselves captured trying to help her. That’s the worst case scenario. For all we know, she just fell down that shaft and is need of rescue. Chat Noir is right; this ‘investigation’ needs more work. Now go.”

Koira scowled but leapt from the roof without another protest, leaving her alone again with Chat Noir, a prospect that had been much more appealing only ten minutes ago.

“You’re not seriously entertaining this, are you?” Chat Noir demanded as she walked back to him. His baton was trembling in his fist and he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “If he were Hawk Moth, I would know. I would…How could I not…”

He trailed off as the implications began to set in. This time Ladybug did step up to him and wrap her arms around his waist, placing her head on his chest, but she felt him lock up beneath her touch.

“We don’t have enough information,” Ladybug said, avoiding his questions. “But Adrien…whatever we do, we have to be sure.”

He jerked in her arms at the use of his real name, but a moment later, she heard the clatter of the baton against the rooftop and then the comforting weight of his own arms around her as he pulled her close.

“It’s not that it can’t be him,” Adrien admitted quietly as he laid his cheek on the top of her head, “But if he’s been there the whole time…and I could have…”

“Hawk Moth’s crimes do not lay at your feet,” Ladybug said firmly, twisting her face up towards him and refusing to let his eyes stray from hers. “I’ve been to your house during Hawk Moth’s reign. Is it my fault I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary? Tikki’s, for not sensing another kwami’s presence?”

“Of course not, but you didn’t live with him,” Chat Noir protested.

“Hawk Moth isn’t sloppy,” Ladybug said. Why couldn’t she find the right words? “If he didn’t want you to know, you wouldn’t. That’s no one’s fault. What matters is what we do next.”

“And what’s that?” he asked with a bitter chuckle as he dropped his arms. “Arrest him? Storm my house? Fight it out in the backyard?”

“We check our facts,” Ladybug said, reluctantly letting him go. “We check everything. Regardless of who your father may or may not be, Chloe is missing and her last known location is your house. Either she fell down a servants elevator, or…or she found something. If nothing else, we have to look for her, or at least some clues as to what happened to her. For all we know, your father could be a hapless pawn in all this. Maybe all he needs our help.”

Chat Noir blew out a breath as he turned to look out over the city. He was still reeling, she could see that. She couldn’t blame him. If it had been her own father, would she have been so calm? No, she knew, she would not. In point of fact, he would have been chasing her across the city, trying to catch her before she ripped the bakery door of its hinges.

“What do you need?” she asked softly. More than anything, she wanted to hold him, love him, support him the way someone who was more than just a friend could. She couldn’t see how their relationship could lead to that horrible future that dogged her sleeping hours, especially now when he was obviously in so much pain. Could it really be so much worse than the present playing out in front of her?

“I need my dad to not be Hawk Moth,” Chat Noir said without turning. “And if he is, I need to do something. Luckily, I’m as clever as I am handsome.”

Ladybug frowned. “Adri -”

He pivoted abruptly, laying a single clawed finger against her lips. “Ah-ah. Your rule, remember, Ladybug?”

Ladybug’s heart gave a painful squeeze as she beheld his face. The light that had danced in his eyes since she’d met him, the warmth and humour, had shuttered and gone out. She may have put the wall between them before, but he was the one putting it there now. 

’No,’ she wanted to beg, ’Don’t. Don’t shut me out. You don’t have to do this alone.’ Was this how he’d felt all those months she’d been missing? Desperately wondering how to fix something when you weren’t even sure just how it had broken? How to help someone who shut you out?

“You have a plan?” she made herself ask, suppressing a shiver as he dropped his hand from her mouth. He wasn’t alone. She wouldn’t allow it. 

“The beginnings of one,” Chat Noir said as he opened the calendar feature on his baton. “My father is hosting a charity auction at our house in two days as a fundraiser for the foundation he created in… Lots of guests, fancy dress affair, the perfect time to do some reconnaissance and a possible rescue. Kagami, Felix, and I are, of course, already on the guest list.” He paused, and Ladybug glimpsed the momentary slip of his calm. “Chloe was, too.”

“Any chance you can get anyone else in?” Ladybug asked. Normally she was the one who came up with the plans, but she could feel how much he needed this in the absence of someone to actually fight. “A…date, maybe?”

Chat Noir’s eyes were narrowed in concentration as he mentally went through his elusive father’s rules and regulations. “I have to bring Lila. Kagami and Felix have an available plus one, though.”

Ok, she’d be lying if that didn’t sting. Little Lila did anymore bothered Ladybug, but being Adrien’s date? She knew how it would look to the press. Judging by Chat Noir’s face, he knew, too. So why did it matter?

The answer was instantaneous.

Because even if it was contractual, even if it was for show, what Lila would have was more real than the moments she and Adrien stole when they hoped fate wasn’t looking. 

“Kagami can bring Max as her plus one,” Ladybug said as though her heart wasn’t on fire. “If he can sneak away, he can open a portal long enough for a few of us to get in. I’ll go with Felix.”

Chat Noir’s head snapped up at that, but he bit back his protest before he could make it. “Makes sense,” he bit out, the cool facade falling back into place. “Who sneaks in?”

“Luka,” Ladybug said, listing them on her fingers. “Juleka, Mylene, Alya, and Nino. Anyone else?”

Chat Noir shook his head. “The fewer there are, the smaller the risks.”

Over his shoulder, Ladybug could see multiple flashes of colour making their way towards them, weaving around one another like planets caught in her and Chat Noir’s gravitational pull. 

“It’s a good plan,” Ladybug said as her gaze slide back to her partner. “I…Adr - ”

Before she could try again, Rena Rouge, Carapace, and Viperion landed on the roof. The others weren’t far behind. She watched her partner greet them, his face a mask of grim determination, no hint of the storm she knew he must be feeling. All this time, she thought she’d been afraid of Adrien’s reaction if he knew she knew his identity. Maybe what she’d really been afraid of was her own feelings about it. Maybe what she’d really been afraid of was the truth. Maybe Adrien was just smart enough to know the difference.

“I heard there’s a major development?” Rena Rouge said as Kele and Aurochs dropped onto the roof as well.

“Possibly,” Ladybug said. “Queen Bee’s gone missing.”

The excitement in everyone’s eyes died immediately. 

“Kidnapped?” Rena Rouge asked.

“Just missing,” Ladybug said. She didn’t want to tell them Felix’s theory, afraid to bias them against a threat that truly might not be there. She’d jumped to so many conclusions in the past, and they’d always lost ground because of it. “Her last known location is the Agreste mansion.”

Predictably, everyone’s gaze swung to Chat Noir. There were even more eyes now, since Phoenix, Pegasus, and Ryuuko had joined them. 

“Why was she there?” Carapace asked.

“We’re not entirely sure,” Ladybug said, skirting the truth. Koira might have said Chloe was investigating Hawk Moth, but they had no real proof of that, though Ladybug could think of little other reason Queen Bee would have for sniffing around the mans’ office. “But her last transmission was from Gabriel Agreste’s office. She hasn’t been seen since.”

“Gabriel Agreste?” Tigress chimed in. “You don’t think - ”

“Let’s wait for everyone,” Chat Noir finally said. Despite his initial reaction, his spine was straight, his voice cool. For a moment, Ladybug’s vision shifted and his suit was white, not black, his eyes a piercing blue in the twilight. 

No. They weren’t the same. Adrien might have that same reckless energy about him right then, but that didn’t mean…he wasn’t…he wasn’t…

They didn’t have to wait long. 

Felix was the last to arrive. Despite the round trip, he still seemed as agitated as before. Ladybug got it; Felix wasn’t the easiest to get along with, but Chloe had been the closest thing he had to a friend amongst them. Hell, she wasn’t in love with the idea of leaving Chloe for another two days, either, but she had to admit it was the best shot at success they had. 

Within seconds of full assembly, everyone knew why they’d been called: one of their own had disappeared in Gabriel Agreste’s mansion.

For once, Ladybug took a step back and let Chat Noir explain the basics of their plan to the team. He seemed to have understood her unspoken wish to keep the ‘why’ of their mission to themselves until the last possible moment, but then he’d always been able to pick up on her silent cues. 

This was different than an after-school slumber party and a candid conversation about what was and wasn’t forgivable, she knew. This was a real mission, and it could have real consequences. She wouldn’t make anyone risk their lives if their heart wasn’t in it.

But one by one, everyone nodded their assent, even Kagami, Alix, and Mylene.

It all came down to the same thing: even bitching and moaning the whole way, Chloe would do the same for them. 

“Alright, then,” Chat Noir said, drawing the meeting to a close as the sun sank over the city behind them. “Let’s go get Queen Bee back.” 

[youngjusticeslut]

Into the Light

Fandom: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power Characters: Catra, Horde Prime. Mentions of Adora. Ships: Catradora Rating: T AO3

“You will not break me,” Catra snarls, and she means it with every fiber of her being.

Horde Prime’s voice chides her from behind. “My intention was never to break you, little sister.” He grabs something off the tray, something that Catra can’t identify. “I only wish to heal you.”

--

Catra suffers at the hands of Horde Prime.

Every one of Catra’s muscles burns with pain, but adrenaline keeps her from fully experiencing the wrath.

Two clones escort her to Prime’s throne room, her hands bound behind her back. It’s not an easy trip. She stumbles often, her legs giving out from exertion. The clones don’t care. Every time she falls, they drag her back up again, pressing forward with their task. Her arms burn from being held in such a stiff position, but the clones don’t seem to care, as they hold them firmly in place.

Catra’s instincts are raging at her. She should be fighting until she really has nothing left to give. At the very least, she should be trying to get out of this situation, just like she always does. Her mind, however, knows better. Fighting is futile at this point; she knows what’s coming for her.

Oddly enough, she doesn’t care. Despite Catra’s defeat in her fight against the clones, she still tastes victory. Adora is safe. She has Glimmer now, and that archer boy whose name she can’t quite remember, and thus, Adora will be fine.

They reach the throne room. Save for the sound of their footsteps on the pristine floor, the room is silent. Every sound, from her ragged breathing to the blood pounding in her ears, is amplified. The clones drop her in front of Horde Prime, and Catra doesn’t even need to lift her eyes from the floor; she can feel Horde Prime watching her every move. Even though she wants nothing more than to run as far as her legs can carry her, she holds herself steady and keeps her face blank.

Horde Prime sticks his boot under her chin, forcing her to look at him. If it were Hordak, Catra was sure he would be screaming, yelling, attacking her. But Horde Prime sits still and merely looks disappointed. “The Etherian ship has changed course,” he begins, getting to his feet. “But your treachery will not save them.”

“Prime casts out all shadows. Prime casts out all shadows.”

She does her best to block out the clones’ malicious droning. Instead, Catra focuses on Prime, whose rage is cool, but collected. “There is no darkness that my light cannot pierce,” he continues. “No distance that my hand cannot reach.” As his tempo rises, so does the clones’ chanting. Her efforts of drowning them out aren’t enough, and she finds herself turning to stare them all down.

“They will not be able to hide from me forever,” Horde Prime announces, more to the clones than to Catra. When the chanting stops, he turns his attention back to the feline. “You were beloved in my sight and this is how you repay me.”

Catra stares him down, then bursts into a laughter so rough it stings her injuries. She doesn’t know what it feels like to be beloved in anyone’s sight, but it’s certainly not this. Her reaction surprises Horde Prime, but he doesn’t interrupt. “What did you expect?” she asks, all too gleefully. “After all, us Etherians are so very emotional.” It feels good to use his words against him.

She focuses on Horde Prime, narrowing her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what you do to me,” she says, because it doesn’t. So long as Adora is safe, he can do anything he wants to her. “Glimmer is gone. And you will never get your hands on Adora.”

At this point in the conversation, Hordak would have barked orders to lock her up, or place her on the next transport to Beast Island. Horde Prime, however, remains still. “Oh, my child, you’re wrong. Everyone has a place in my empire.”

Horde Prime’s grabs her chin, his metal talon grating right against her mask. The action is enough to diminish some of Catra’s bravado; this gesture has never done any good for her. He smirks, almost as if he can sense the uncertainty coursing through her veins. “You will be of use to me yet.”

Before she can ask what that even means, Horde Prime lets go of her chin and glances at his clones. “Please escort our dear little sister to cell number 6.” A slow grin stretches across his pale face, and Prime  reaches forward to smooth down her rumpled hair. Catra jerks back with a hiss, but she doesn’t get far. The clones yank her back to her knees and hold her in place.

Her reaction bears no effect on Horde Prime. He simply sits back on his throne, smiling to himself. “So wild,” he muses. “It is no wonder your Adora does not want you.”

Catra chokes on a bitter laugh. Those words are meant to break her, but she’s been broken long ago by a villain of a different name. “You think that’ll work on me?” she spits out. “Try telling me something I don’t know.”

Horde Prime doesn’t respond. He just sits there, watching her. After a few long, terse minutes, he snaps his fingers and the clones yank her to her feet. “We will meet again, little sister.” He crosses his legs again, giving her one long glance-over.

The look he gives her sends a chill down Catra’s spine as the clones lead her away. Any bravado, any victory she previously felt slowly begins to dissipate. Her mind flashes to the green pool, and Hordak’s screams, and she grits her teeth to keep her jaw from shaking. It’s fine. She can take pain. So long as Adora is safe, and far away from him, she’ll be okay.

She’s just collateral, after all.

—

Cell number 6 is nothing special, but it makes Glimmer’s cell seem like a palace. There’s no bed in it, nor any niceties. Just a white room with a green forcefield, forever emitting a threatening hum. The clones deposit Catra there and leave without giving her a glance. Catra prefers it that way. The less she has to look at those damn clones, the better.

Alone with her thoughts, Catra finally begins to relax. She pushes herself against a wall and pulls her knees to her chest, tail curled around her. As much as she tells herself she isn’t scared, she can feel her ears hanging low on her head. She’s been scared before, but not like this.

With Hordak and Shadow Weaver, she more or less knows what kind of trouble she can get into. Growing up in the Horde has left her with a thick skin— not as thick as she’d like, but thicker than most. She can prepare for those types of consequences at a moment’s notice.

It’s different here. Horde Prime is foreign to her, as are his methods. From her few interactions with him, it’s clear that he values little, and fears even less. Unlike his brother, Horde Prime is not someone who should be trifled with.

Yet here she is. If she thinks about it, the matter becomes almost funny. Here is the most terrifying villain Catra’s ever had to face, and what does she do? She serves him the ultimate betrayal. If it were someone, anyone else, she would have laughed.

With a sinking pit in her stomach, she realizes that it isn’t anyone else. It’s her. Now she’s left to deal with the fallout. Catra rests her chin atop her knees, letting out a low breath. She’s certain he’ll kill her, if only to use as an example. At the very least, she’ll be electrocuted and wiped, just like he did Hordak. It’s not an ideal circumstance, but she tells herself she accepts it.

Seeking greener pastures, her mind wanders to Adora.

I’m sorry. For everything.

Catra meant it, too. Maybe that was the saddest part of it all. What she wouldn’t give to see her one last time before Horde Prime ends her. She wants to see her blue eyes again, her smile. That dumb hair poof.

Of course, these are only fantasies. She’d made her peace with speaking to Adora one last time; she’ll never see her again. Adora won’t get anywhere near the ship, Catra’s done everything in her power to ensure that happens. For now, though, she lets herself indulge in wonder.

If she could talk with her again, she’d give her a real apology. She’d apologize to everyone she’s ever harmed. Glimmer. Scorpia. Bow— of course, now she remembers his name. What a stupid name to forget in the first place.

Why had she sounded so concerned? Catra mulls this over to pass the time, scratching at the floor when her hands become restless. Adora doesn’t care about her. She hates her. By activating the portal, Catra had destroyed things between them. And yet, a part of her dares to hope that maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance. The smallest chance that by saving Glimmer, Catra had found a way to redeem herself in Adora’s eyes. She laughs at herself as soon as she thinks it. It’s a ridiculous thought; Adora will never forgive her for the things she’s done.

The longer she waits for her atonement, the worse she feels. Her ears are plastered to the side of her head, and her hands shake so hard she can’t hold them still if she tries. What’s taking them so long? If they’re going to kill her, there’s no better time. She’s weak, and injured, and will put up little resistance.

Still, no one arrives at her door, and the time passes. Catra pounds at the green forcefield, she screams. No one hears her. No one acknowledges her. Just like every other corner of the universe, no one cares about her.

When it’s clear that her attempts are useless, Catra collapses to the floor and clutches at her hair. Maybe this is how he intends to kill her. Wait her out, starve her slowly. Let her thoughts ultimately be the end of her.

The thought chills her to her core. She never thought she’d die alone.

—

It feels like days have gone by before the clones finally come for her.

Granted, she has no way of knowing how long she’s been in the cell. The harsh white lines bear down on her at all hours of the day, and though sleep is the farthest thing from her mind, she’s frustrated at being robbed of the choice. Her body is wracked with exhaustion and begs her for rest, but between the growling in her stomach, the unsettling cell, and her constant tremors, she refuses to indulge.

When the green door opens, Catra almost believes she’s seeing things. Two clones enter the room. Neither of them hold a meal for her, and her stomach growls pitifully at the realization. They walk towards her, feet clanging against the cold metal floor, and she doesn’t even have the energy to scoot backwards. She flinches when cold hands wrap around her arms and unceremoniously drag her out, not even sparing her the dignity of letting her walk.

It’s okay, she tells herself, trying to quell the fear that bubbles deep inside of her. It doesn’t matter what they do to you. Adora is safe now. She repeats the words like a mantra as the clones drag her through the ship, almost as if willing herself to believe it.

Despite it all, Catra can’t deny that she’s afraid. Her tail bristles, and there’s a chill that hasn’t left since her last conversation with Horde Prime.  

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, hating how ragged and pathetic her voice sounds.

Neither clone answers.

Left to her own imagination, Catra reluctantly lets her eyes close. She knows she shouldn’t. If she were herself, she’d be taking notes of her surroundings and figuring out how to best disable the clones and escape. But she’s tired. All she wants is a few moments of peace without her teeth chattering or her insides in knots. If Horde Prime plans to kill her, a few minutes of rest won’t change anything.

Catra returns to her senses when she hears the familiar chime of a door being opened. Her body resents her, begs her to continue on the path to sleep, but all thoughts of rest are put on hold as she takes in the room. It’s empty, save for a chair.

She barely has a moment to try to understand when she’s shoved into the chair. The hard surface digs into her skin, and she comes to the slow realization that nothing on this ship seems to be designed for comfort.

The door opens again and another clone enters, carrying a tray. His eyes bore white pupils, and he smiles when he looks at her. “Catra,” he greets with Horde Prime’s slithering voice. She cringes, but as much as she wants to look away, she forces herself to keep looking right at him. She’s not surprised that he isn’t here in person; it makes complete sense that her punishment isn’t worthy of his presence.

“No games,” she rasps, doing everything in her power to keep her voice from wavering. “Just kill me and get it over with.”

“Kill you?” The clone cocks his head to the side and hands the tray off. He closes the distance between him and Catra, trailing his finger across her jaw. “No, little sister. I have other plans for you.”

Catra grits her teeth and yanks her face away from his touch. “Not interested. I won’t help you.”

The clone chuckles, a cold, calculated sound that does nothing but intensify Catra’s nerves. “Such fire,” he notes, circling around her. “It must be tamed.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

For the second time, she receives no answer. Instead, the clone pulls off her mask in one swift motion. “What a paltry thing,” he muses, examining it in his palms. Catra winces when he drops it at her feet. “Dispose of it with the rest.”

The rest?

It’s on the tip of her tongue to ask what he means, but she stops herself. She doesn’t feel like receiving silence for a third time.

“Should we restrain her, Lord Prime?” asks the clone holding the tray.

The clone in front of Catra glances at her before shaking his head. “There’s no need for that.” He smirks. “There’s nothing for her to fight. Catra made her choice. Isn’t that right, little sister?”

You made your choice. Now live with it.

Catra swallows, holding back the whimper that rises in her throat. Adora is right. She made a choice to protect her. Now she had to live with the consequences, no matter how much pain they caused her.

When she offers no response, the clone spasms and jerks backwards in an unnatural bend. With Horde Prime’s control gone, the clone’s green eyes return, and he nods to the clone not holding the tray. In response, the second clone stands beside her, close enough to intervene in case she decides to try anything.

“It would be in your best interest not to move,” he warns, emphasizing his point.

Catra’s eyes widen. From her peripheral, she sees the first clone pick up an item off the tray. It glints in the glaring brightness of the room, but the clone to her side blocks Catra from getting a better look. She can only imagine what kind of torture lies in store for her, and her mind goes ballistic with the possibilities.

A hand grabs a strand of her hair and pulls it taught, so she clamps her jaw in preparation. She tells herself she won’t scream, no matter how much it hurts. Catra won’t give Horde Prime, nor his clones, the satisfaction.

However, the pain never comes.

The room fills with the sound of loud, methodical snipping. Her ears twitch in discomfort. She doesn’t understand what they’re doing— where is that sound coming from? Something lands at her feet. When she glances down, she realizes it’s her hair.

She refuses to cry, and bites her lip to keep from reacting at all. It’s just hair. It doesn’t matter, not really. Not when Adora is safe and far, far away from here.

Catra repeats it to herself, over and over, but it’s drowned out by the careless snipping. Her hair continues to drop on the floor, gathering in a steady pile. Catra pokes it with her foot, but it only makes the nightmare all the more real.

There’s a breeze on her neck. She can’t feel her hair on her back anymore, and that scares her. With her mask gone and her hair shorn, what does she have to hide behind? As the minutes go by, she feels herself growing smaller in the chair. Catra is sure that this punishment bears little purpose other than humiliating her., and to her dismay, it’s working.

By the time the clone steps away, Catra is trembling. The room spins beyond her control, but she balls her fists anyway and forces herself to focus.

A disjointed crack signifies that Horde Prime has returned. Catra keeps her face still, betraying no emotion, but it’s for nothing. He doesn’t face her again. “I believe this suits you much better,” the clone says with Horde Prime’s voice, trailing a cold finger down her neck. “Much more ideal for my plans.”

“You will not break me,” Catra snarls, and she means it with every fiber of her being.

Horde Prime’s voice chides her from behind. “My intention was never to break you, little sister.” He grabs something off the tray, something that Catra can’t identify. “I only wish to heal you.”

If she had anything left in her, she would have laughed.

“Unfortunate as your betrayal is, it did come at a convenient time,” the voice continues. “I do hope my prototype won’t cause you too much suffering.”

An object is placed on her neck. Despite her efforts to prepare for pain, Catra hisses as the device leeches into her and sends white-hot flash down her spine. She jumps backwards, hissing wildly and clawing at the device on her neck, but the clones are quick to restrain her.

“All beings must suffer to become pure,” they remind her, and for the first time, she understands.

The pain leaves Catra disoriented. Images that aren’t hers start flashing in her mind, and no matter how hard she struggles, she’s unable to send them away. She doesn’t notice when the clones cart her out of the room, nor when they lead her to the purification pool.

When she opens her eyes again, she’s there, standing at the edge of the green liquid. Horde’s small army of clones circle the pool, chanting, watching her every move. Horde Prime stands at the center, arms open, a smile on his face. The moment Catra realizes where she is she scrambles to leave, but the chip on her neck sends a shock throughout her system and renders her immobile.

Horde Prime starts speaking, but the blood is pounding too hard in her ears for her to register the words. Too many thoughts are in her head, and she swears the malicious chanting grows louder by the second. As much as Catra wants to play brave and hold her head high, she’s terrified. Horde Prime’s screams as the pool shocked him are still etched into her head, and though a part of her knew this would be her fate, she’s not ready to face it.

“Step forward, dear sister. It is time you are free of your pain,” Horde Prime announces. Catra’s legs move of their own accord, and she’s too weak to fight them.

In the center of the pool, for a single moment, there is peace.

And then the electric current begins, and Catra wails in pain. Shadow Weaver’s blows bear no comparison to the torture of the green pool. She reaches out, hoping someone, anyone would make it stop, but the clones just continue to chant, and stare.

Catra feels herself slipping. Within moments, everything goes black.

—

“Why did you do it?”

Adora’s voice lulls Catra out of her trance. The feline slowly blinks her eyes open, finding Adora, her Adora, above her, cradling her head in her hands. Catra whimpers at the touch, and she wishes she had the strength to hold her back.

“I did it for you,” she says, her voice rife with pain. “You weren’t supposed to come back for me.”

“Of course I came back for you!” Adora has tears in her eyes, and they trickle down on Catra’s cheeks as she presses their foreheads together. “I’m not leaving you behind again. Not ever.”

Catra chokes on a sob. It’s all she ever wanted to hear. “You promise?” she croaks.

Adora responds, but no sound comes out of her mouth. The hands holding her start to fade, and Catra fights to keep them with her but it’s no use. Adora disappears before her very eyes, and Catra is left alone in the void.

“How interesting.” She turns to the voice, only to find Horde Prime in the darkness with her. “It would seem that your Adora means quite a bit to you.”

She shakes her head, closing her eyes and trying to will herself awake. This is a nightmare. Just a nightmare, and Horde Prime will be gone the moment she wakes up. She’ll be alone, in her cell, waiting for whatever sick games he has in store for her.

It doesn’t work. Catra trembles and gasps at her hair, but quickly yanks her hands away when she feels the shorn strands. It isn’t a nightmare. This is real.

“You aren’t here,” she stammers once she’s opened her eyes. “You can’t be.”

“Yet here I am,” he answers plainly. Horde Prime steps closer to her, and taps the chip in her neck. “I have freed you, little sister.”

“No,” Catra gasps, immediately backing away. “You aren’t real. You aren’t in my head.”

Any distance she’s placed between them, Horde Prime closes in an instant. He grabs her chin, but unlike Adora, it isn’t delicate. There’s no love there, only control. “Would you like to see?”

He turns her head to the side where a vision appears. She thinks it's her cell at first, but there’s a barrack, so it can’t be. Her cell had been empty. There’s a murmur of voices in the air.

Alpha Squadron set for departure to Erelandia.

Go in Horde Prime’s will, Brothers.

Catra grasps at her ears. The voices aren’t just in what he’s showing her. They’re in her head. “I don’t understand,” she says, looking to Horde Prime for an explanation.

“You will.”

She keeps watching. The bunk moves out of view. Instead, a mirror appears, nearing closer. When the reflection appears, Catra’s eyes bulge in horror. It’s her. No longer in her own clothes, she’s fitted in a white uniform. Her hair is cropped, slicked back, allowing green eyes to take center stage.

“No,” she hisses, lashing out and bringing out her claws, swiping at Prime. He dodges all too easily.

“Are you not satisfied, little sister? I have healed you.”

“Put me back,” she insists. “I am not yours to control.”

He brings his hand to the back of her head, rendering her immobile. “But you are. I have freed you from your pain, your rage. For that, you should be grateful.”

With an angry cry, Catra shoves him away and begins to run. She has to get out of here. There has to be a way, some way, to wake up. If she was under his control, who knows what he’d use her for.

The poisonous chuckle overpowers her head and sends her crashing to the ground. Still, Catra struggles to her knees and pushes forward. She’ll crawl her way out if she has to. Flashes of the cell appear in her mind. The harder she fights, the clearer it gets.

“Why do you struggle so hard, little sister?” The image disappears, and she’s inside the void again. Voices fill her head, all at once, and it’s hard to concentrate on anything. “Do you wish to feel pain again? To experience betrayal?”

Catra’s memories flash before her eyes in rapid succession. Adora, leaving her, over and over again. Shadow Weaver, abandoning her and leaving her to face Hordak’s punishment without a care. Attacking Entrapta. The portal. Double Trouble. Hordak. The old wounds in her chest slowly start to unravel, and with them Catra begins to feel the emotions she’s worked so hard to bury. “You would so willingly protect the girl that broke your heart?”

Catra fights past the pain, taking a shaky breath before glaring at Horde Prime. “She’s my friend. I’ll do anything to protect her from you.”

“Such brave words.” Horde Prime tilts his head to the side. “But bravery cannot distract from the truth. You said so yourself, your Adora is not your friend. Whatever she may mean to you, it is clear she does not feel the same.”

Adora appears in front of her, blue eyes are clouded with hate. “I don’t want you, Catra,” she states, and the words pierce Catra like a sword to the chest. “You made your choice.”

“No,” she whimpers, softer this time. “Adora, please. I—”

“You what?” Adora laughs, her face twisted with ugly hatred. “Did you really think it would be that easy? That I’ll forgive you? You hurt people, Catra. The only person you deserve is yourself.”

She starts to walk away, and Catra follows her, struggling to keep up. She takes her hand, holding it tightly in her own, afraid she’ll let go. “Please… Stay.”

Adora turns around, but her face changes from anger to fear. She stumbles, and Catra quickly catches her as they both come down to the ground. Something’s wrong. “Adora?” Her voice is shaking. Every part of her is shaking.

“Why’d you do it?” Adora asks, tears pooling in her eyes. What is she talking about? The portal? Catra’s hands are wet, and when she sees the blood on Adora’s shirt she chokes on a sob and pulls her closer.

“No,” she repeats, because it’s all she can think of to say.

“Catra, why?”

“You’re okay. Just stay with me, I’ll get you help. I can fix this.”

Adora shakes her head, her lip quivering. Her skin grows pale, and her blue eyes begin to turn gray. “I loved you,” she says.

Catra holds her tighter, burying her face in her neck. She’s only ever imagined that Adora would say those words, but not like this. Never like this. “Stay with me,” she begs into her hair, clutching her with a desperation she didn’t think she had left. “Please, stay.”

She doesn’t stay. Adora grows slack in her arms, and whatever resolve is left in Catra breaks completely. The apparition disappears and Catra crumples on the floor, tears streaming down her face. A guttural, choking sound echoes throughout the void. When the ringing dims from her ears, she realizes that it’s coming from her. Sobs escape her throat faster than she can keep them in, and they offer no relief.

For so long, she’s buried these memories, the pain she so desperately avoids feeling. All at once, it consumes her. Breaks her. Catra curls up on the ground, clutching at her arms and digging her nails into her skin. She wants the ache to stop, for the memories to go away and close the hollow roar in her chest, but it remains. The physical pain offers no relief for her emotional wounds. Not at this point.

Not when all she can see is Adora’s blood on her hands, her blue eyes turned gray and staring at nothing.

Horde Prime approaches her again, and this time she can’t hold back from whimpering. “So much pain, little sister.” The chip at her neck sizzles with electricity, begging to take full control. “Do you wish for freedom?”

Far away, she hears a voice in the back of her head, screaming at her to keep fighting. But she can’t. She’s so tired, and the pain is too much for her to bear.

She really is useless.

Adora appears again, as a little girl, resting her hand on her shoulder. “I promise,” she says with an innocent smile. Catra rests her hand on top of hers, tears running down her face. She has to protect her. She promised to look out for her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers before letting go of her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

As the chip takes control, the memory slips away. Her attempts to hold it are frail, and Adora’s face slips from her mind faster than she would have liked. When it disappears, she lets go completely, and allows everything to fade to black.

She’s free.

—

The Etherian ship has entered the premises.

Catra feels nothing. There’s a smile on her face.

Pilot is alone. Identifies as She-Ra.

She-Ra is Horde Prime’s enemy. Horde Prime will bring her into the light.

Little Sister, I request your presence.

Catra stands obediently. She leaves her cell, joining two of her brothers. They exchange no pleasantries; those are reserved for Horde Prime. When they arrive at his throne room, she waits at the door.

“I don’t fight for the First Ones. I fight for my home, for myself, and for my friends.”

She recognizes that voice.

“Now for the last time, where is Catra?”

Adora.

She’s here.

For the briefest of moments, the chip ceases its control, and Catra sees her. She’s there, standing before Horde Prime, red jacket, ponytail and all.

“Adora?” she calls out shakily. She has to protect her. Horde Prime can’t get his hands on her. She moves to approach her, but as quick as the chip gives her control, it disappears, and Catra is rendered submissive once more. 

“Catra? Where are you?”

She and her brothers step forward, approaching Horde Prime. The girl in the red jacket, the She-Ra, means nothing to her. She broke her heart. Horde Prime has fixed it, and given her peace.

She-Ra must be brought into the light, just like her.

Catra removes her hood, and smiles. “Hello, Adora.”

[gilbirda]

Payment

After winning their silly little bet, Lucifer had arranged a vacation for him and his detective in a private island. What he doesn't know is that she had plans of her own.

<< Prequel

[Read in AO3][Read in FF.net]

"So," she heard the voice followed by a loud thump of something really heavy hitting the floor. "What do you think?"

Heavenly, was her first thought, but she was sure he wouldn't like the humour behind her words. Instead, Chloe pulled up her sunglasses and stepped into the mansion - she refused to call it a house - by the beach where Lucifer apparently wanted them to spend the rest of the week.

A beach in a private island, because of course The Devil owned a Caribbean island in the Bermuda Triangle. Despite the creepy mysteries behind planes and boats disappearing here, he had assured her that there wasn’t anything supernatural about this place; and as a bonus they had plenty of privacy here. The smile as he said it told her that he wasn’t exactly referring to nosy neighbours or unwanted visits.

She had never been in a private island. Or any island. One would think that with a famous mother she would have traveled a lot, but the fact is that she always been too busy with her studies and acting school to keep Penelope company in her travels.

Chloe smiled, swallowing down the knee-jerk reaction to Lucifer’s absurd wealth shows, and turned to see his buried under an equally absurd amount of luggage. It was his own fault, insisting that he chose everything she would wear or need as part of their bet, so she didn’t offer any help as she would have any other moment.

He didn’t seem tired, anyway.

“It’s nice,” she shrugged with a smirk, putting back her sunglasses and going inside the mansion with a flick of her hair.

.

Chloe was having the time of her life. She knew it was petty of her, but sometimes being predictable was boring and wasn't Lucifer complaining all the time about getting bored? That she could use some excitement in her life.

Seems like teasing the Devil was her new favorite pastime.

Serious teasing. Sexual teasing. Hinting promises and leave him hanging all day, being extra careful with her tongue movements as they ate ice-cream before, making unnecessary eye-contact every time she responded with an innuendo.

She really have been trying to read this book for a while, too, but Lucifer’s glare was too heavy to ignore even if he had been as quiet as a cat as he hovered around her.

A shadow was cast over her, but she didn’t lift her head to look at him.

“The main protagonist is about to have mind-blowing sex with the Dark Lord, so please move. You are blocking the light.”

The Devil snorted. “Why do you read that crap when you can have real-life mind-blowing sex with your own Dark Lord?”

He was trying so hard to conceal his frustration that her mask of controlled boredom almost cracked for it. It was endearing, watching him squirm and get all bothered because of her.

“Chloe…” he practically whined.

The woman smiled and closed the book, taking off the sunglasses. Maybe it was time to stop her game. She knew that they were here because of that stupid bet and that she was supposed to be living the fantasy of a deserted island with her boyfriend; but the truth is that she had been brewing a plan for this little vacation.

Lucifer thought she wouldn’t notice how he tried so hard to meet her needs, sexualy speaking that is; but the fact is that she did notice him withdrawing every time she presented a more active front. She knew he liked going down on her and tending to her every whim and plea, they had talked about it before, but it didn’t mean he didn’t have a preference or two. He had eons to try everything, true, and he must have a favorite position or kink.

So far she hadn’t approached him about it, but she was going to change that.

“Yeah?”

His expression was a mix of kicked puppy and Trixie’s face when there’s steamed broccoli for dinner.

“Please.” She wasn’t sure if she liked how he sounded saying that word; but the sensation surely won over the impulse of comforting him immediately.

Chloe smirked. “Join me for a quick shower?”

His smile lit up like a Christmas tree.

.

Breathing heavily, Chloe considered her boyfriend as he rearranged his bathrobe, his hair beyond salvation after the attack of her hands as he did so many wonderful things between her legs.

“Want more?” his voice made her focus on his eyes. They glinted with mischief.

“Uh-huh,” she shook her head, jumping off the bathroom counter. Didn’t bother with a towel, though. “Just thinking.”

“About?” he offered her another robe, opening it for her to pass her arms through.

“You.”

“Obviously,” she rolled her eyes at his tone, “but what about, specifically?”

She could cower and let it go, she knew; but between with the deep relaxation after a perfect shower followed by a mindblowing orgasm, she felt bold and brave. She came here with a mission.

“What do you want?”

He blinked. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. You mean for dinner? Or…”

“Sorry. Let me rephrase it,” she cleared her throat, looked at him in the eye, leaning in a bit. “Tell me, what do you desire?” she said trying to mimic his accent.

Lucifer snorted and pinched her nose. “Awful. Just awful. Don’t do that ever again.”

“Okay, okay. I won’t,” Chloe batted his hand away. “But my question still stands. What is it that you most want?”

“You. I thought it was obvious,” he frowned like it was a stupid question.

“I mean, hm…” her bravery was vanishing. “In sex. I know you have a lot of experience and everything… Let me finish!” she said when he opened his mouth to, probably, reassure her once more that monogamy wasn’t a torture and she was more than enough and Detective, please, nothing can compare. “I have a point. What I wanted to say is, I have noticed how you do a bunch of stuff for me but don’t ask anything in return.”

“I thought that it was okay to do something without it being a deal…?” Chloe could almost see the question marks floating around his head.

“Yes! Yes, it is. But, trust me I can’t believe I’m saying this, I would do anything you ask of me. Doesn’t matter how kinky or, dunno, weird.”

“Anything…” he murmured the word, taking a step back, analysing her.

“Tell me, I’ll understand,” she looked down at her fidgeting hands, forcing them to stop. Here it goes, she though. Lucifer, the King of weird kinks and forbidden desires. What kind of thing would be the Devil’s kink? His one forbidden desire? The man who spoke of sex as an everyday thing, who had a BDSM dungeon (she knew about its existence, but never been there) fully stocked, who could draw the darkest and deepest fetishes of people without blinking.

Lucifer was still watching, considering, making her more nervous. Was it so fucked up that he didn’t want to talk about it out loud?

“Detective,” she jumped at his voice, “while I appreciate the thought, you don’t have to do anything for me. What you already give is more than enough for an eternity.”

How could he deliver such corny and cheesy phrases without sounding tacky? It was a mystery, but her money was on the accent. And his height.

Chloe took a deep breath. “I know. I’ve had my fair share of guilt tripping boyfriends pressuring me into sex to know you are not one of them.” He smiled dangerously, making it clear that he wanted the names of those ‘boyfriends’. “This is something I really want to do. And who knows, maybe I’ll like it too?” she gave him a tentative smile.

Lucifer relaxed, smiling back, closing the space between them to softly place a kiss on her lips.

“I love you,” he whispered like it was a fact.

And it was.

“Then tell me what you -”

“Stop right there if you value your kidney,” he grumbled. The devil didn’t like her butchering his catchphrase, it seems.

“I wasn’t going go say it.”

“Liar.”

She smirked devilishly, pushing him towards the bed, amazed once more when he let himself be pushed.

“What is it?”

Was it a blush in his cheeks? “Promise you won’t laugh.”

She frowned. “Laugh?” Chloe frowned.

“Yep. Promise.”

“I promise, sure, but I wouldn’t laugh at you anyways.”

He searched inside her eyes for a few seconds before sighing, closing his eyes.

“I want you to dominate me.”

Her eyebrows went to the hairline. “That was unexpected.” But she rolled with it, as she always did with her partner. “I thought Maze…?”

“Dear Mazikeen sure is the dominating type in bed,” he conceded with a slight nod, “and I let her do with me what she wanted more than a few times. But what I crave is more than pain and restraining. True submission is about -”

“Trust,” Lucifer saw the gears work inside her pretty brain. She knew him well, knew about his opinions about free will, about his issues with trust. Hell wasn’t place of trust and friendship, he had told her plenty of times. Maze was his trusted bodyguard and lover, but she was, after all, a demon. “And you trust me.”

“With my whole life.”

Chloe kissed him, hard.

“I don’t do pain, though,” she grabbed his face, looking at him in the eye. “I wouldn’t-”

“I know,” he smiled.

“Good. Then I’m game, if you excuse my inexperience.”

Lucifer moved her so he could stand up from the bed, straightened his bathrobe, and flashed her a charming trademark Lucifer smile.

“Worry not, Detective! We can start with something simple.” With long strides, he glided towards a dresser by the bed, opening a drawer and retrieving some stuff from inside. “Have you ever used one of this?”

Chloe should have expected this. She should, with how the conversation was going. But she wasn’t ready to see a pretty and shiny (and new, she noticed) strap-on with the dildo already attached. She had flashbacks of a moment a long time ago, with a young Chloe awkwardly kissing a woman, a girl who thought that “she was just experimenting” and “just a phase”. Yeah right.

“Once,” her voice didn’t falter, thankfully.

“Nice,” he smiled, showing a lot of teeth, “I want to hear about that story sometime.”

She made a face. Of course he would want to hear about her sex life, even if it wasn’t as colorful as his.

Chloe stood and approached him to retrieve the strap-on, one hand on his chest to push him back towards the bed. He let her, stealing a kiss as he walked backwards. The woman snorted.

“So,” she said, watching him from above, weighing the dildo in one hand as she contemplated what to do next. She wasn’t usually dominating in bed, but… well, it warmed her heart to hear his reasons behind wanting it. “Take off the robe.”

He nodded and did as he was told, making a show of it.

Chloe smiled softly. “Now, I want you to....,” she looked around, considering her words, “kneel.”

His knees made a dull sound when they contacted with the wooden floor, but he didn’t make an expression of pain. Chloe put her free hand on his hair, petting him softly, trying to dictate what kind of dominance she was going for. She didn’t do pain, didn’t do humiliation. He had suffered that enough in his life; and she was absolutely sure that it wasn’t what he was asking for with his request.

“You look so pretty like this, Luce,” her smile was soft, “I love how vulnerable you look around me.” Her hand went down his face, caressing his lips. He leaned into the touch, but didn’t say anything.

“I love kissing you knowing that I am the only one. That your lips are mine,” her nails scrapped his scalp softly when she grabbed a bit of hair, not enough to hurt. “Are they?”

“Yes,” his voice didn’t tremble, but he closed his eyes. Chloe smiled.

“Good. Stand up.”

Being so close to him, his height made him tower above her, but that didn’t make her cower down. It never did.

“On the bed,” she slapped his backside when he turned to do as she told him. “Good devil.”

“Always.”

“Uh-huh, didn’t give you permission to speak,” she stood before him, placing the strap and the dildo somewhere on the mattress and focusing on him.

He arched an eyebrow, but bit down whatever he was going to retort with.

“Now, for your little slip of the tongue, you are not allowed to move,” she locked eyes with him as she kneeled between his legs, her intentions clear. “No words, but you can make sounds. And no touching me.” Her growl was good, he decided. Pasable.

Without preamble, she took him into her mouth, delighted when he jumped and fisted his hands on the sheets. He enjoyed touching her, her face, her hair, her shoulders, anything, as she does her blowjobs; she was sure that part of it was to make sure she was real and was actually doing it. She liked it too, not going to lie, even if sometimes he got a bit rough.

Okay, maybe those times turned her on more that she was going to admit out loud.

She looked up as she bobbed her head up and down his length, smiling around him once she found a very flustered devil, jaw locked in place, trying very hard to control his own body from reaching for her. His eyes were shifting between normal brown and hellfire red, the only sign that she was doing exactly what she wanted.

Lucifer should have expected this, he thought. His Detective was cunning and clever, with a mischievous streak buried deep under her sensible clothes and brown shoes. What he didn’t expect was looking down to find her swallowing him further and further, her face scrunched in concentration as she overcame her gag reflex with the ease of enough practise.

Once she managed to reach all the way up, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Throwing his head back, he moaned loudly, her name on the tip of his tongue, remembering in the last minute that he wasn’t allowed to say words. His hands trembled on his sides, the urge to grab her head and pound into her throat consuming his thoughts until he couldn’t stop imagining it even with his eyes opened.

She kept her head down one moment that felt like eons before withdrawing, taking a deep breath.

“Do you like it?” her lips were swollen as she smiled her question, one hand idly stroking his cock with care. Lucifer nodded hastily, taking the break to breathe himself. “Good devil.” He shivered at her praising. “I love watching you like this, too. I love doing this to you knowing that I am the only one who can touch you like this. Am I? You can speak.”

"Yes.”

He was close, she knew. It was tempting to give her all and make him cum after the teasing, but she was strong enough to ignore the siren’s call.

“Good, good,” she nodded and let him go. Lucifer gasped, looking at her like she had just murdered his puppy. “No talking,” she reminded him when he opened his mouth.

Lucifer rolled his eyes in a very Decker way.

“On the bed,” she made a gesture with her chin, a soft smile on her lips. “Good devil,” the woman said as he did so, ignoring the smug smile when he laid down, hands behind his head, and proudly presenting his Luciferness for her.

Chloe reached for the harness, her hands finding their places in the straps and quickly fastening the contraption between her legs. She felt in control, dominant, and exactly in tune with what she wanted to do. Lucifer watched her with anticipation while she went for the lube and applied a generous quantity over the silicone, stroking the false cock to thoroughly spread the glossy substance.

She kneeled between his legs, reached for a nearby pillow and put it under him, ordering him to lift his hips with a soft slap on the leg, before spreading even more lube on her right hand and grabbing his member by the base, waiting for confirmation. He nodded briefly, letting her hand slid down, biting back a retort about not really needing prep, duh, who has she thinking he was?

“Before you start bitching about it, remember how vulnerable,” she made a point by squeezing his cock almost to an uncomfortable point. He jumped and gasped, but not really for the pain, “you are around me. Trust me.”

The thing is, he did.

Chloe put in a finger, lazily pumping him with her left hand, looking into his eyes as she added almost immediately another finger. She felt him relax into the sensation, not really aroused by it but enjoying the feeling of his Detective touching him in such delightful ways.

The woman added another finger, slowly spreading them, focusing on the rhythm and his reaction to it.

Lucifer gasped when she deemed him sufficiently prepared and withdrew her digits, pouring some more lube just in case.

“Thank you for allowing me this moment, Lucifer,” she caressed his chest as she shuffled closer to him, her fingers leaving wet tracks on his tanned skin, “I love how doing this to you makes me feel. How your body responds to me,” she said as she probed the entrance with the plastic toy.

Without any further warning, she slowly pushed the dildo in, watching out for any discomfort or pain in his expression. He had closed his eyes, one of his hands floating near her hip as if reaching to guide her. Chloe waited for a moment.

Lucifer’s breath hitched when she withdrew as slowly as she entered. No one told him it would be like this. No one could have warned him it could be like this. Sex with the love of his life was amazing and everything but, bloody hell, this woman…!

She thrusted right back in, and he actually mewled in response, his hands choosing to fist around the sheets again. Was he allowed to touch her again…? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure anymore about anything. Why was Chloe doing this? He should have asked sooner. Hell, he should have offered sooner, if this was what got her into his bed.

“You can speak,” her words were like fresh water in the dessert.

“Chloe,” he grumbled, his voice a hybrid of a growl and a moan. “More.”

She didn’t say anything else and picked up the pace a little, her hands searching for anchor in his thighs to power her thrust, searching for the balance of force and speed he craved.

“More!” He arched his back, feeling like something was quite there but not there, making him mad with the need, like scratching an itch he couldn’t reach.

Instead of going faster, Chloe gradually stopped. He opened his eyes, horrified, scared that he said the wrong thing or wanted too much, or she was finally realizing that dating a celestial maybe wasn’t exactly what she wanted-

“On your belly,” her breathing was labored but her expression focused. She slapped his stomach softly when he didn’t move. “I have an idea, one that maybe won’t require cramping my legs.”

In a daze, Lucifer did as told, missing the pressure of the dildo inside of him, missing the reassurance of seeing her face and asses if she was okay or not. His back may not be scarred anymore, and she was allowed to touch him where she wanted now, but he still felt utterly vulnerable in his position. Maybe she knew this?

Chloe run a finger over his spine, right between where his wings would be. “Wings. Out.”

“Chloe?”

She kissed his back instead of answering.

Taking a deep breath he unfurled his enormous wings, careful of not pushing her out of the bed in the process. This wasn’t the first time he showed her his cursed appendages, even during sex; but it was the first time she asked for them. She knew about the conflicted emotions around them, the pain and the loss, about the grooming and what it entailed. What it meant to be touched there.

“I’m going to touch your feathers, maybe pull them. Is that okay with you?” her voice was soft, not demanding at all, breaking character for the one question he knew he could answer truthfully.

The words came easy. “Please do.”

He felt more than saw her nod before feeling the silicone cock touching him again. He angled his ass better for her, delighted when her hands bracketed his hips like they were made to be there. Just as naturally and easy, she pushed in and started to pump in and out again, slow at first as she found the position to power through what she wanted to accomplish.

Lucifer’s arms trembled when her hands roamed up to his wings, her nimble fingers finding places that triggered shivers and sighs and nice feelings; and places that send lighting to his groin, too. He moaned after one powerful thrust, his hand sneaking down, trying to reach that extra completion…

“Uh-huh,” she slapped the hand away.

“No?” he turned his head to look at her beautiful naked body, the visuals of her cock disappearing inside of him giving him the shivers.

“Nope.” She grinned in a very him way, pushing in a bit harder to accentuate her point. She was in control. She did the action.

“O-okay…” he almost screamed, but bit down the urge.

Lucifer closed his eyes, letting himself feel the friction and the delicious sensations she provided. He screamed when she grabbed a handful of feathers and pulled, careful of not hurting him too much even if she couldn’t know that with her human strength she couldn’t really damage his wings. She pulled again, this time accompanied by another powerful thrust.

His arms trembled, unable of supporting his weight anymore, and fell down, losing the last bit of control he held over what she was doing to him, letting himself be held down by the woman.

“Detective,” he moaned into the pillow. She hummed, raking her nails deep into his wings, sending electric currents through his body. Lucifer screamed again.

“My name, Lucifer. I want to hear my name.” Her voice couldn’t be louder than a normal conversation, but it rang loud in his brain.

He didn’t know if it was her tone or how the new angle made the silicone hit just right but he was sure that he was close again. Still, it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. She was enough, but there were so many things he wanted to do with her. It was always like this. He wanted so much, too much, and he wanted all with her. She said she wanted to fulfill his desires but would she really?

He turned his head to look at her delicious form, her focused expression, her lower lip between her teeth in concentration. She was sweating and breathing hard, but she looked… radiant.

“Detec-”, she slapped his ass, glaring at him when she found his eyes. “Chloe,” her name sounded like a plea. “Please don’t stop.”

She was going to ask what he meant, when she felt the resistance to her movements increase, his legs trembling slightly, and she understood now. As he came, she kept moving at a slower pace, guiding her actions by his breathing and the tone of his moans, how he looked at her with eyes switching between dark brown and hellfire red.

He was beautiful like this, she concluded. His hair messed beyond repair, utterly wrecked and helpless under her body. She pulled some feathers again, smirking when immediately he screamed her name, arching his back as much as she let him.

“Don’t stop, please,” he kept saying, this time with eyes glowing red, “Please.”

And she didn’t stop. Chloe kept thrusting and pulling and caressing and slapping; slowing down sometimes, notching the speed a bit up when she found the strength. Her legs were burning, but she kept going. She could do this. She wanted to do this.

It wasn’t until he eventually stopped pleading and mewling and moaning that she ceased all movements. She was tired. And needed a shower. And water.

Slowly, she withdrew the silicone cock, Lucifer’s body falling limp on the bed. She worried for a moment that she had hurt him, but when she rushed to check if he was alive she found him awake but silent, watching her in a daze-like state. She snapped her fingers and he moved his eyes to hers in question, but didn’t do anything else.

Deciding that it was okay as a response, she unfastened the straps and got out of the bed, waggling towards the bathroom as fast as her tired legs could. She wetted a cloth and came back to clean a still unresponsive Lucifer, wrestling with his celestial weight and wings to turn him to clean the bodily fluids clinging to his skin. He would need to shower too, but that was for the them of the future.

For now, napping.

If he agreed or not, she couldn’t know. The only signs that he was alive were his still changing eyes watching her every movement, a blank expression in his face. She had broken him, she knew. For a few seconds, she considered getting this moment captured in a photo for future blackmail, but she dismissed the idea with a smile.

Once they both were clean enough for her standards, she threw the cloth to a nearby table and proceeded to yank the sheets from under the Devil’s body. If she was tired before, she was about to collapse now. Chloe didn’t care if it wasn’t night yet, she was going to nap.

At last she got under the covers with her boyfriend, spooning his unresponsive form, wings and all. She closed her eyes, humming with delight.

“Chloe,” she heard him whisper.

“Hmm?”

“I love you.” His voice broke with emotion. She didn’t comment on it.

“I know,” she kissed the back of his head. “Now, sleep.”

“Okay.”

[whisker-biscuit]

Harley Quinn is Not A Good Role Model: Chapter 18

Rated T-M for language and graphic descriptions of violence

Pairing: Dr. Flug/Black Hat

Summary: Dr. Flug Slys is a successful psychiatrist working at one of the world’s most respected mental institutes for the criminally insane. But this new patient is unlike anything he’s ever encountered. Flug is determined to help him, nonetheless.

Black Hat has other ideas.

Chapter 18: It’s Only Week 2

I had a plan.

It was an excellent plan – one might even look at it and proclaim it as impeccable, or foolproof. Most certainly one deserving the knowledge of belonging to Black Hat.

But, indubitably, I could not have accounted for the sheer fickleness of one Doctor Flug Slys. Oh I attempted to do so, for sure. I was expecting nothing less from the current object of my curiosity, or else he wouldn’t have lived this long.

Perhaps it is just this particular human, or perhaps it is the fickleness of humans in general that continues to baffle me. Either way, I would not lament so much without explaining, in detail, exactly what caused the lamenting. That’s just rude.

It started, in an increasingly disturbing pattern, with our scheduled time together. Wednesdays are always a fascinating aspect of time – they often guarantee a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ rest of the week. If Monday’s breach of personal space was any indication, I might have had more sense to be prepared for the worst.

Flug was unusually chipper this morning, which I suppose should have been my first indication. Of course I had to make it my business, which...was admittedly something I should not have done in hindsight.

“You’re perkier than usual, Doctor.”

I watched with half-lidded eyes and a half-lidded smile as Flug reacted in his more predictable, nervous manner. His hands toyed with his headwear - a truly irritating quirk if I ever saw one.

“Oh, am I? I’ll t-try to curb back on that.” The human straightened, then slouched in obvious retraction. The idea that he was using body language to try to keep me comfortable, in light of the event two days before, was both laughable and insulting.

“No, no please, continue displaying your distasteful emotions for all of the world to see. It really isn’t a bother.” I would have propped my chin along my claws if only my attire could permit it. “I only ask that you share what has you in such a tizzy.”

Flug looked conflicted, and I smiled a little wider.

“Don’t be afraid, Doctor. You certainly weren’t when you disregarded protocol and my personal space on Monday.”

Instead of the flinch or fidget I was expecting then, my doctor gave a groan and put his face in one hand. “Noooo, not you too...why is everyone getting in my grill about this?”

“Getting...in your grill?” Never in my long years had I heard this phrase. I could only imagine the three seconds of horrifying confusion on my face. I was forced to compose myself quickly when Flug saw that as a prompt to persist his grumbling.

 “Yes! First security, then that bast – er,” his goggles flicked upwards to the camera, “some coworkers, and now suddenly you’re grousing at me when you were acting fine with it! What am I supposed to do, not take your word at face value anymore?!”

He threw his hands up briefly and then went back to mumbling and pulling at his coat. This session was quickly spiraling out of orbit, and not in the way I had intended at all. As a self-proclaimed master of improv, however, I adapted to it and took advantage of my dear doctor’s peculiar mood swings.

“Why Flug, why would you say such a thing? My word is worth more than anything in this pathetic excuse of an institute. I was merely reminding you of your brashness; your ‘brass balls’, if you will. I never stated I had disliked it.”

The human stopped fretting long enough to give me a stare of both suspicion and some vague thing resembling hope. I saw an opening and I took it.

“Actually, I felt a real connection between the two of us last time. Perhaps we could...continue where we left off?”

To accentuate my supposed sincerity in the offer, I sat down carefully with my back pressed lightly against the cell’s mattress. Flug blinked dumbly at the gesture before realizing himself. He edged closer to the center of the room, with his security chaperone shadowing right behind. My face curled in on itself as when a putrid smell is sensed.

“Doctor, I understand your dedication to personal safety, but I’d appreciate not having that trained baboon looming over us like he’s obviously planning to do.”

The psychiatrist grew more suspicious, as was expected. I gave my most honest, open reaction. Which is to say, I became a blank slate. We watched each other in clear challenge until he sighed in defeat and turned to his guard, who frowned but complied by retreating to one side of the room.

“There. That – does that work?” Flug pointed to a spot on the floor roughly half a meter in front of me. At my nod, he sat down very slowly without averting his gaze away. I smiled.

“Very nicely, Dr. Slys.”

“Okay, okay. Good. So uh, by picking up where we left off, do you mean, uh. We were on...music theory last, right? How’s that sound?”

Now was the time to put the first significant part of my plan into action. I pretended to consider his request, allowing my eyes to drift unfocused to some far point in the room. Then, to keep up the pretense of having an unexpected epiphany, I snapped full attention back to my doctor, faux concern in my lifted eyebrows.

“Oh, but Doctor, shouldn’t we start the way we did two days ago? It would only be proper.”

“I – proper? What?” The human was flummoxed, just as I had intended.

“Why, that lovely invasion of personal space! Surely we can’t have a civil conversation without first initiating a little foreplay.”

“Foreplay?!”

“Oh bother, it seems I failed to tell you what happened last session. What you did my dear Slys, by touching my shoulder in that way, was – in crude human terms I suppose the word is flirt. And you caught me so off guard with that gesture that how else could I have responded? I needed to know you better before I made a decision. Even my German teasing was a testing of the waters, so to speak.”

This was all a fabrication, of course. I have no such courting rituals – in fact none at all, being what I am – but the lie was completely worth the unadulterated shock in every inch of Flug’s body. I let him squirm slack-jawed in that for a moment as I glanced to the unfortunate third party in the room, who was paying the least amount of attention one could give while still being present.

My doctor made a whine high in his throat, and I knew – no, I assumed I had won this round.

“So I think it’s only fair, Dr. Slys, that if you want to continue where we left off, it should start in the same manner as before. And to reach the height of that fairness, I believe I should be the one initiating it. What do you say to that?”

I won’t deny it; I had a few ulterior motives in this play. If Flug refused, we would go back to our comfortable balance of prey and predator under guise of doctor and patient respectively, without a need for further attempts by this human to ‘get to know me better’. If he agreed, I could –

“Ah, okay.” The compliance came with no small amount of hesitance and regret in the psychiatrist’s voice. But it was there all the same. I pulled back my lips, stretched them into almost nothing, and gave full display of my splintered teeth.

“Excellent.”

I moved forward along the flooring. Flug did not flinch away. I came up until our knees were touching. Still he kept his nerve. I played my ace.

“Now that we’re here, I’ve realized I’m at a bit of a disadvantage. You have full use of your arms and I do not. Now,” I cut him off before he could spout some policy nonsense. “Now I’m quite aware about safety and related drivel, you don’t have to spell it out. But I’d really enjoy something I can provide myself, yes?”

I received only a tentative nod in response. If I could only read his mind right now.

“I have a proposition then, Doctor. Let me lay my head against your chest and listen to your heartbeat.”

That was a reaction I would never regret, regardless of bungled plans. Flug jerked like I had placed physical blows to his head, his hands broke the pencil he held in two places, and a sheen of sweat was impossibly visible along his paper bag where his forehead sat hidden. I waited.

“I, you, that’s not-!” The doctor bounced from one sentence starter to the next like a child jumping on a fluffy bed. He blustered in his words for a few moments more, flailing most comically.

“Well, Flug? Deal or no deal?” My smile had not even twitched.

Something steely entered my human’s visage and reminded me of the reason I was so intrigued by him. He straightened his body into his best impression of a wooden plank and set his jaw with an audible click. There was one moment where he took a deep, filling breath. Then he looked me right in the eye.

“Yes. Okay.”

I saw his posturing for what it was and wasted no time. My legs sprung me to him in the blink of an eye, the side of my head hit the left side of his chest in an instant, and my hat fit very well curved over his shoulder. The air left his body in a puff of a whimper.

“Does this make you uncomfortable, Flug? Because I’m having a wonderful time. In fact, I believe this is the best course of action for my rehabilitation.” I physically felt the tremble from my doctor and relished in it. “I think we’re making true progress, I really do.”

Ah, the human heartbeat. Possibly the most wonderful object to ever come from its meatsack container, it is a symphony of refinement and splendor. Whether caught in the slow throes of death or racing to a heart attack, I have always enjoyed immensely the thrill of finding its pulse before its human has left this plane of life. But now, oh now, I could savor it in all its enticing melody as Flug flushed in embarrassment and terror against me.

His organ was a delight, rapid and faint and – there was a flutter, a skip in rhythm! I felt myself salivate unbounded at the sensation. Spittle dripped and splashed to the floor between his crossed legs, interrupting the beautiful beating as it hissed and melted into the padding. My doctor squeaked at the sight of it. I huddled closer against him.

“Not one word about that little detail,” I whispered into his ribcage, mindful not to let my saliva touch his clothes. “We’re doing so well together, Flug. I don’t want a minor thing like acid spit to force you away from me.”

“Acid...spit…?” It was impressive he could form the question, incoherent as he seemed to be.

“Shh, shh. Not strong enough to get through the walls or even these restraints, don’t you worry, but in such an uptight facility like this one, who’s to say what asinine things a paranoid coworker would do. I’d rather not lose my favorite doctor, you understand.”

“I’m your...what?” Flug sounded like he was having trouble filtering oxygen to his brain. You couldn’t guess it from the way his heart was pounding so poignantly.

“My favorite doctor, Doctor. Really, listening comprehension should be a strong suit of a psychiatrist.”

The human began making noises akin to a basset hound, with English words interspersed enough that I could make out things like “favorite” and “what” and “god help me”. Emboldened, I went further.

“Why Flug, don’t you enjoy getting closer to your patients? Isn’t that what you strive for? Knowing them on a more...personal level?” I felt his heart rate shoot into dangerous territory and responded in kind by turning my head and scraping my teeth against his chest.

My plan, if you had not guessed it by now, was to either fluster or freak out my dear doctor to the point that he would never again attempt such a stupid stunt as to physically touch me. Up until this moment, I had been very confident in my ability to do both at once. What I had expected by doing what I did was...well. It was nothing near what happened next.

Flug’s hitch of breath was not unusual; it was a common result of being startled or upset. But as my bared teeth pressed through clothing to human flesh, he shifted in his seat and let out a ‘hmmm’ sound between pursed lips. Believing he was simply trying to feign indifference, I opened my mouth and nipped lightly at his coat; a reminder to this human that he was skirting death by my judgement.

“H-Hang on, wait,” he pleaded quietly. I mistook it for discomfort and pulled at a button in response.

It was discomfort, yes, but of an entirely different kind. Because when I looked up to see the effect my actions had, I saw shaking, nervous wide eyes trying desperately to tell me to stop with expression alone. It made me grin, button still held between two canines.

His hands came up, most likely to ward me away, but the instant the gloves touched my shoulders I heard, felt the worst indignity bubble up through my throat, past the accursed button and vibrating right against my doctor’s heart.

I purred.

Flug’s hands flew off me in an instant, and one sickening look upwards into a disbelieving face showed me more than I wanted to know.

He had heard it.

So I'm probably gonna post just one chapter at the beginning of each month until sometime mid September, cause life has been busy. In the meantime, enjoy this accidental screw-up by Black Hat, ehehehe. For those of you here for the slow burn, don't worry. It's an accident, could happen to anyone, now they have to deal with it. Yay!

Well I'm tired so I'm gonna check out. But I hope you all enjoy!

[ruffsficstuffplace]

Of Rocks, Romantic Rivalries, and Rune Rangers (Part 2): Lessons from Ignorance

As the Actaeon saying went, <Your vision is never clearer than when you are looking over your shoulder.>

It was embarrassing, really, a sign of how far she'd let herself fall from her glory days, a gaffe that if she were still in Jahilliyah have put her career in serious jeopardy and wiped away a good chunk of the reputation, trust, and goodwill she'd built with her superiors and their numerous clients and contacts.

After all, how could you trust an information broker that couldn't see what was right under her nose?

As it stood, however, she just had her heart broken twice over.

It started with a trip to Shiro's room, a week earlier.

She had been planning to ask him out on that hiking trip to Argus for a while, but with the Galra's constant attacks and suspicious activities all over Avalon, it was hard to find a free day where you were reasonably sure that the fate of the realm as they knew it wouldn't be threatened, and you could spend a good chunk of the day outside of Rune Terra—Argus especially.

There were very good reasons that the human settlers had been completely unable to expand Solaris into the swamp region until the Fae let them: it was isolated from the cities and difficult to maneuver even with flying vehicles, full of magical interference that made communications and teleportation into and out of it difficult, and offered no shortage of places for a guerilla force to successfully hide in, waiting for their target to come obliviously waltzing on by, as the Celestian Fae had 1,000 years ago with the First Settlers.

It was a great place for an ambush, a kidnapping, or a covert assassination, with the bonus of the location providing free and thorough clean-up, no need to throw the bodies into a bog—it'd happily do the work for you.

It was also a great place to get away from it all, feel completely and truly in private with little to no risk of people or Fae walking in or overhearing, where if your confession of love to your teammate was rejected or went horribly wrong, you two could promise that what happened in the swamp stayed in the swamp.

And besides, it felt appropriate, confessing where all of their paths had first crossed, when Jahilliyah made good on their promise to help her find her family, if in ways neither expected.

She didn't hesitate, walking up to his room as soon as she found a free moment in her schedule.

Jahilliyah had taught her the value of moving fast, especially because their primary commodity was information at an age where communications were literally at the speed of light, and most everyone had access at their fingertips.

And she stopped in front of his door, spending a minute reviewing how she was going to ask Shiro out, because Jahilliyah had also taught her the value of spending a few seconds to think her actions through, to avoid the pratfalls and the repercussions of those that just clicked and confirmed like Old World gunslingers and their revolvers, even if it meant shooting themselves in the foot.

She was in the middle of debating whether or not to say “There’s something I need to tell you” or “There’s something I need to get off my chest” when the door opened.

“Ah, Pidge!” said Shiro’s voice. “Great timing: how do I look?”

Pidge’s eyes widened, not recognizing the Fae in front of her, before her training kicked in and she recognized all the components of a Fae disguise, and who was wearing it.

“Oh, hey, Shiro, what's up?” Pidge asked. “Another covert ops mission?”

Shiro shook his head. “Oh, no! Not at all! Just have plans of getting outside of Rune Terra one of these days without getting swarmed by civilians asking for autographs.”

Pidge nodded.

Though piggybacking on the nigh-ubiquitous surveillance and recording equipment in all the major city-states was useful for preventing Zarkon from pulling off any major terror attacks or schemes, and knowing exactly where they were if he pulled it off, it also made it pretty much impossible to maintain secret identities of any sort.

“Can I come with?” she asked.

Shiro’s expression looked strikingly like the politicians, executives, and celebrities Pidge had blackmailed over the years with truly incriminating material, which was never a good sign. The fake wolf ears pulling back in nervousness and the tail going between his legs didn't help.

“Ah...” he rubbed the back of his head with his organic arm, “actually, Pidge, I was planning on just going alone. You guys are great and I couldn’t have asked for a better team, but sometimes I need to remember what it’s like to be just Shiro, not ‘Shiro, Ruby Ranger of the Celestian Guard.’

“You know: 'me time.'”

Pidge blinked, before her face fell. “Oh. Okay.”

Shiro frowned. “Is something the matter, Pidge?”

Pidge sheepishly looked away. “Well, I was going to ask you if you wanted to go on a hike with me through Argus sometime, but since you’ve already got plans, and we don’t know when or where Zarkon is going to strike again...”

She felt Shiro’s arm on her shoulder. She looked up at his smiling face.

“Pidge, I promise you that after this, we are going on that hike the coast looks clear again,” he said.

Pidge slowly smiled back. “Thanks, Shiro.”

“You’re welcome, Pidge,” Shiro said, a light dusting of red now on his cheeks and his fake wolf tail waggling in delight.

He turned around and walked back into his room.

“Wait! Shiro!”

Shiro’s fake wolf features both perked up in alert. “Yes, Pidge?” he asked her over his shoulder.

“You should REALLY change your fake Fae stuff,” Pidge replied. “As is, your lack of sharp teeth, your eyes, and your relatively poor sense of smell is a potential give away if someone is really paying attention.

“I’d suggest you change it into a horse—your lack of prominent canines will stick out less, as will your sense of smell. The tail doesn’t move around as much so you don’t give away your nervousness, too.

“That outfit really needs to go, too. Even if it's not what you usually wear in public it just screams your usual style.

Shiro blinked. “Alright. Thank you, Pidge, I’ll do that,” he said, before he walked back into his room. He stopped, and turned around. “Actually, could you spare some time and help me change up my disguise? I'm not the mistress of disguise here after all...”

Pidge smiled. “I'd love to.”

They went into his room, teleporting in one of the fabricators from Pidge's room to make him new clothes on the spot. A little while spent making fashion choices for him, avoiding disguise stereotypes that most everyone could see through, and Pidge pointedly looking away and staring very hard at a wall whenever Shiro was taking off his pants and/or shirt, and they had a disguise:

Partially unbuttoned flannel shirt, distressed jeans, sneakers, and a pair of Old World square-frame glasses, adding up to a very un-Shiro outfit.

“Wow, I do not recognize myself at all,” Shiro said as he looked at himself in the mirror, putting the clunky glasses on and off.

“Rule of thumb with disguises is to be something completely different than yourself—new look, new way of talking, new set of habits and knee-jerk reactions,” Pidge explained. “You'd be surprised at how many amazing disguises have been ruined by people acting exactly the way they usually do.”

“I'll keep that in mind, Pidge, thank you,” Shiro said as he took off the glasses—there was something about his reflection that seemed off to him.

“So, is there anything else you needed my help with?” Pidge asked.

For a moment, Shiro's expression looking for a moment like Pidge's old friends in Jahilliyah, the ones torn between their wanting to help her and the consequences their superiors promised at the dreaded unauthorized information leaks.

“… No, nothing,” Shiro said. “You can go now if you'd like, Pidge.”

Pidge nodded. “Enjoy your 'me time,' Shiro!” she called out as she stepped out.

“I will!” Shiro replied, just before the door closed her.

Pidge stopped in the hallway, briefly wondering just what it is Shiro did for “me time” and why he would want or need a disguise to keep from being recognized on the street.

Then, she shook her head.

“What am I, his girlfriend?” she thought to herself. “I don’t need to know everything he does or where he is.”

She dismissed the thought, but it lingered in the back of her head, waiting, watching.

She sighed and supposed it was some sort of karma for using the same tactic for so many targets, planting the seeds of doubts and dangerous ideas in people who would have gone on just fine if she hadn't stepped into the picture.

Her schedule still free and uninterested in filling it with yet more tinkering, trancing, and training she headed further up to the largest and most heavily guarded of the residential areas:

Allura’s room.

For reasons of security, there were only two other people aside from her who could open its doors. The keys were supposed to be on a rotating schedule with all the other Rangers and Coran, but thanks to a number of incidents, Pidge and Coran had them full-time.

“But wouldn’t it make more sense for you to give it to Shiro, since he’s the leader and all?” Pidge asked.

“If I have important business to discuss with Shiro, it can be easily done in the Core,” Allura replied as she permanently fused the key with Pidge’s rune. “My room is my sanctuary, and I’d rather not taint it with any of that dark business—the rest of Rune Terra already reeks of terrible memories.

“Besides, now you can come visit me any time you want! Really, any time at all~!”

Pidge made a note to clean her glasses afterward, because for a moment it had seemed like Allura was winking at her.

Back in the present, Pidge strode up to Allura’s door and pressed the intercom. “Princess Allura?”

There was a brief pause before Allura’s face came up on the screen—the static image of her used when she wasn’t “presentable” or could do without the holographic projection in front of her face.

“Oh, Pidge! Hello! Please, come in, come in!”

Pidge had a strange feeling in her gut, the one that tended to occur whenever something Seriously Bad was about to happen. She had no clue why it was happening or what was going to happen, but she did know there was only one way to find out.

She summoned her rune to her hand, and waved it in front of the door. The slabs glowed, and slid open, just a little larger than Pidge, and she stepped in.

Like the Core, there was a brief, blinding flash because of how much more radiant were the crystals it was built from, compared to the rest of the castle. Pidge shielded her eyes as the doors slid shut and locked behind her, blinking until her vision returned.

And what a sight awaited her.

Allura looked over her shoulder and smiled. “So, what brings you to my humble abode?” she asked as she finished hooking the bra she was putting on.

“I, uh—actually, I’m pretty sure it can wait...” Pidge said as she shut her eyes and her cheeks began to heat up.

She blindly waved her rune behind her at the doors, wondering why the locking mechanism wasn’t reacting as quickly and effortlessly as it usually did.

Allura sighed as she turned to her, half-naked. “You’ve spent far too much time in the human settlements, Pidge—it's not normal for Fae to be disturbed by something so natural as nakedness.”

“Well, yeah, but you know, it’s kinda important to know all these expected knee-jerk reactions and habits when you’ve spent the past couple of years living undercover with humans...” Pidge said, wondering if she could diagnose and fix what was wrong with the doors by feeling blindly for it.

Allura frowned as she stepped closer. “You’re not hiding anymore, Pidge—you’re living with us now. And frankly, I think it’s quite disturbing how alien you seem to have become to your own species.”

“Okay! I can get the sentiment, and I agree with it, but could we reacclimate me to it a little bit at a time than throwing me right into the deep end?”

Allura bit back another sigh. “Will it help if I put a shirt on?”

“Yes, yes it will,” Pidge replied, eyes still shut.

There was a few moments of silence and clothes shuffling. “Okay! You can open your eyes now.”

Pidge did, and sighed in relief. She could still see Allura’s bare and rather shapely legs, but at least the bigger distractions had been covered up. “Thank you, Princess,” she said.

Allura smiled. “Please, just call me Allura; I want you to be comfortable here, none of the formalities.”

“Sorry,” Pidge replied. “Force of habit again.”

“Like your communicating entirely in Nivian despite the fact that we’re both Fae?” Allura asked. “Are even able to speak Actaeon anymore...?” she asked, frowning.

<Of course!> Pidge replied. <It’s actually a common tactic to encode classified documents in a mix of both Nivian and Actaeon, then encode it; even for bilingual folks like me who work with written and spoken codes and documents all the time, it can get pretty hard to crack!>

<Then let’s talk in that!> Allura hummed, smiling. <It’s been far too long that I’ve been able to have a conversation in our own tongue with someone aside from Coran. So, what brings you to my room, Pidge?> she chirped.

<Well, you know how Zarkon’s taken a break from threatening the realm as we know it, so we now we've got all this free time?>

Allura paused for a moment, before she smiled wider. <Yes?>

<I was wondering if you’d like to do something together while things are all quiet. You know, just the two of us.> She paused. <Like a date.>

Allura’s face looked like the counter-intelligence agents, rival gang members, and aspiring crime-busters Pidge had foiled with ultimatums, pitting them between their sense of moral uprightness and something or someone they held near and dear to them, and that was never good.

Pidge’s face fell. <You already have plans?>

<Yes; I was actually in the middle of preparing for them before you knocked...> Allura replied.

<Oh, well, is there anything I can help with?> Pidge asked.

Allura beamed. <There is actually! I need a human disguise—a look that screams anyone but ‘Allura, Rune Guardian of the Celestian Guard.’ Normally, I'd be an expert at this, but I still have 1,000 years of cultural changes to catch up to...>

Pidge paused, then frowned.

Allura looked worried. <Is something the matter, Pidge?>

Pidge forced a smile. <Oh, nothing—come on, let’s make you a human disguise!>

With the help of a different fabricator warped in from Pidge’s room, they ended up making her a leather jacket, a sleeveless top randomly splattered with paint to wear underneath it, leather pants, and boots that had far more buckles on them than was strictly necessary.

Her bunny ears were easily pulled back and hidden within her hair, her lack of human ears was obscured with a beanie and carefully teased out locks, and her cottontail was easily hidden underneath her top.

<My word...> Allura said as she eyed her reflection, struck poses, and tried to look 'tough.' <This is… nothing like I imagined!>

<Do you like it?> Pidge asked.

<Yes, yes, it’s wonderful! If I myself couldn’t have thought of it, how much more someone trying to get into my mindset and figuring out what I’d use as a disguise?> she smiled warmly at Pidge. <It’s perfect, Pidge.>

Pidge blushed. <You’re welcome, Prin-->

Allura began to frown.

<--Allura.> Pidge finished.

Allura kept on smiling.

<What do you need this for, anyway?>

<Oh, I’m just planning a little stroll through the cities—preferably without causing pedestrian accidents and neck injuries from people gawking at me!> Allura replied.

<Do you want me to come with you?> Pidge asked. <In case someone does recognize you, I can help you throw them off your tail.>

Allura’s smile became tight and forced. <Oh, that’s much appreciated, Pidge, but I’m planning on doing this alone. You know, ‘Me Time’ as you would say in Nivian!>

Jahilliyah had taught Pidge that there were few true coincidences, especially in this day and age; everything is connected, every bit of information a piece to a larger puzzle, and all they needed to do was gather them all in one place, see where each fit, stand back and see the bigger picture.

And sometimes, you needed to seriously underestimate the intelligence and cunning of humans and Fae, understand that yes, there are a lot of individuals and groups that are TERRIBLE at keeping secrets, unintentionally painting giant, blinking signs on their activities that read:

TOP SECRET

KEEP OUT

WE MEAN IT >:(

Pidge forced a smile and nodded. <I understand. Have fun, Allura,> she said as she turned around and left.

<Wait, Pidge!> Allura cried.

Pidge looked over her shoulder.

She bit her lip. <Do you… do you want to help me make more disguises? In case one of these days I have urgent need of one, and then I’d have it ready to go!>

<It’d probably just be easier for all of us to send me, Keith, or Shiro in; disguises are a lot more than appearances, Allura, there's also the location you're infiltrating and the reasons behind it,> Pidge replied as she waved her rune in front of the door.

This time, it reacted, sliding open for her, before dutifully shutting itself as she exited.

The very next day, both Allura and Shiro left Rune Terra at different times; they had done it so far apart that no one was really suspicious—not unless you knew that they had both needed disguises at the same time, had filled their schedules with something urgent that could not be moved, and had both claimed to need personal time.

“They’re probably on a date or something...” Pidge said, finding a comfortable spot in her room she wouldn’t mind being zonked out on for a few hours. “I guess it was only really a matter of time...” she said as she logged into the Trance.

She supposed she really should have made a move on either of them sooner, instead of spending so much time debating who to choose.

[jadednightwing]

Into Thedas - Visions

So I’ve been writing a thing... a Dragon age fanfiction thing that was sparked by reading “There & Back Again” by ElyssaCousland-senpai

Maker, I miss the days when I could post my horrible fanfiction and not worry about how good or bad it is.... I doubt it will get eyes, but let’s try

Title : Into Thedas

Chapter 1 : Visions

[Ao3 Link]

“Sarcasm,” my grandmother intoned gravely, her accent swinging from the practiced posh British to the more guttural Chechnyan of her youth growing thicker with every syllable, hiccuping briefly before continuing, “is a sign of weakness, Genevieve. Perhaps if you held your tongue more often, you would be married as well. You had such a wonderful thing with Nicolas, but you just couldn’t hold your tongue.”

I grit my teeth in silence while watching my brother dance with his new wife. A sarcastic quip about how, despite her and my mother's efforts to the contrary - my name is Jenna. Not Gemini, despite being my legal name. Not Genevieve, as she stubbornly continued to call me. Just Jenna.

I also wanted to point out that I wouldn’t want to bring a pathological liar and remorseless cheater to my brother’s wedding, no matter what his family connections. It would set a bad example.

Ruthlessly I managed to suppress both urges.

Being recently single while attending a wedding sucked.

Pressing against the pressure points along my eyebrows, I glanced around the room in search of something to use as an excuse to leave my grandmother’s intoxicated ramblings. God love her, when she starts drinking, the avaricious snobbery she spent most of her life trying to emulate becomes more than my good humor can stand. Breaking into her tirade about how I’d be engaged by now with a nonchalant, “Excuse me, Gran," I stood and walked away.

Leaving her sputtering gave me no small amount of pleasure.

Retreating to the dark corner behind the table of wedding gifts, I slid down the wall and, after popping a couple pain killers, pulled out my phone and opened the book I had recently picked up. It was a companion story to a game I had finally gotten around to playing, called Dragon Age. My oldest brother, Issac, had picked it up several years ago and had encouraged me to play.

/’You’ll love it, Jen. It’s epic fantasy. And it has 2 follow up games so-far, but you’ll definitely want to play them in order.’/

I’d put it off over and over again, telling both him and myself that I didn’t need another epic fantasy to get lost in. School, work, dating, hobbies; those were more important. But, late one night when I couldn’t sleep, I finally decided to give it a try. From that moment on, I was hooked. I’d recently finished playing the most recent game of Inquisition, and it was my favourite among all the games thus far. Political and religious intrigue, monsters both human and beastly, and magic that was feared instead of valued all culminating in a cliff-hanger ending — I was addicted. I had joined forums, read fan-written theories and head-cannons, and still couldn’t get enough. I’d even started dreaming of Thedas, which was both entertaining and a little irritating. I’d taken fangirl to a whole new level, and my brothers teased me mercilessly about it.

Trying desperately to lose myself in the story, the pounding behind my eyes was growing steadily worse. Turning my phone off, I pressed the heels of my palms against my closed eyes and breathed. I’d been having headaches for months, but this one was tuning up to be the worst yet. I felt more than saw two people pass me, but the snippet of conversation caught my attention.

“Tamlen, we should go back and bring the Keeper here. She may be able to decipher what the writings say,” a young woman said in a hushed voice, as if she was afraid to draw attention.

“Don’t worry so much, lethallan, we should scout the place out first before we bring the Keeper here. For her safety,” came the amused male reply.

Those casual words brought my head up, entirely confused as it was both familiar yet completely out of place. At first, I thought maybe I had misheard a conversation or if my mind was adding hallucinations on top of the migraine, but the swinging door leading to the kitchen and storage rooms caught my attention.

Deciding to investigate, I shakily got to my feet and pushed the door open only to see no one there, all the catering people were manning the food serving stations though the kitchen smelled amazing - and the wedding cake was beyond gorgeous. Following the long hallway leading to the storage rooms, a part of me was beginning to be convinced I’d simply made it up.

‘This is what you get for becoming too much Dragon Age, Jenna; you start hearing things.’ I was about to turn around and once again brave the crowded party when I heard a gasp behind me.

“Look at this!” came an excited male voice, “What do you think it means? I’ve never heard anything about elves living under ground.”

The voice had come from a darkened room, that turned out to be the costume and prop storage closet.

“Hello?” I hesitated before entering the room, “Excuse me, but no one should be back here.”  When no response came, I began weaving my way through the narrow walk space. Using my phone as a flashlight, I called out again and again but never got any response. When I turned a corner, I nearly gave myself a heart attack when motion caught my attention out of the corner of my eye, and had the knee-jerk reaction like I was about to walk into someone. I gave a shaky laugh when I realized it was just my reflection in a full length mirror. Backing up a few steps, my heart skipped a beat. The face was the same; the large bright-green eyes surrounded by white-blonde hair; but my reflection’s clothing was entirely different. Then a figure appeared behind her and I began feeling faint.

“What is it, lethallan?” The young man had sandy blonde hair with pale brown tattoos across his face, and a buzzing filled my ears.

“Let’s get out of here. This place makes me nervous,” he said and backed away.

The pain in my head seeming to pulse with each step, I inched closer to the mirror as if being drawn by a magnet, barely registering my reflection’s murmured, “Just a moment...this mirror... it’s the only thing here that’s unbroken. I want to take a closer look.”

I watched in terrified disbelief as my hand lifted in the exact mirror motion as my reflection’s and the moment both our fingers made contact with the glass, the pain in my skull expanded and ricocheted along my entire body. Crumpling to the floor, I struggled against the pain, only briefly registering that my phone was chirping and vibrating in my hand before my mind went dark.