#toeing the line of treason [about]

[yanderes-galore]

I'd like to see a yandere concept of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Either romantic or platonic is fine.

I'll do a general pairing and spill my thoughts, then! Sorry for the long wait, I have a lot to get through, lol ^^; I am having fun though, so that's all that matters. Can't wait for HOTD Season 2! I'm so worried her character isn't right but I wanted to lean in on her more unhinged side.

Here's an older concept I did for her.

Potential Fire & Blood/HOTD Spoilers Below

Yandere! Rhaenyra Targaryen Concept

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Controlling behavior, Condescending behavior, Possessive behavior, Murder, Blood, Violence, Mature themes, Possible sexism, Delusional behavior, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Mind break, Dark content, Threats, Trust issues, Forced companionship/relationship.

It's been a while since I've seen HOTD, so pardon me if anything is too off personality-wise.

Rhaenyra is described as strong-willed and independent.

She's always hated being a traditional lady and prefers to fly on her dragon, Syrax.

She wants to choose her own destiny and take her birthright on top of the iron throne.

However, something noted in the book is that her personality is similar to Maegor.

Which implies Rhaenyra is rather ruthless, cruel, and entitled.

Rhaenyra would bond well with someone she knew in childhood, like a childhood friend.

But I can also see her attached to a personal servant or loyal supporter of The Blacks.

That or there's some drama that could happen if you support The Greens when the war comes around.

I feel if you knew her in childhood you can clearly notice her change in behavior.

From child to adult, the whole world has been against her.

Combined with the death of her child(ren), Rhaenyra grows into a cruel queen for The Blacks.

While she holds care for you, she's deceptive and every word carries a threatening tone.

It's said in Fire and Blood that Rhaenyra has trust issues, feeling the whole world is plotting against her due to The Greens.

That along with the betrayal of the Velaryons later on.

So you can imagine she wants to cling to her obsession... but worries they'll work against her.

Due to this distrust, you're forced on your toes.

After all, it takes one order for her to decide your fate.

She could have all you hold dear burned by Syrax.

She could imprison you for treason.

Or even worse, she can have you killed to keep you to herself.

You should know that Black Queen Rhaenyra is unhinged due to what she's gone through.

She'd do anything to keep her obsession and their loyalty.

Every word she says towards you feels like a subtle threat, a warning to keep in line.

Rhaenyra is a dangerous yandere, especially as she begins to lose her mind.

Regardless of if you're a loyal follower or not, ahe worries her obsession will go against her.

Considering how obsessive she is... she may snap completely without you.

If you're loyal to her, she often tries to test it.

She gives you tasks or forces you to make promises with her.

If she loves you romantically, she may make you prove yourself by being... intimate.

One way or another she wants you to kneel before her.

She's desperate for your attention, sometimes even holding your face as she whispers how she can't continue without you.

I only imagine she gets worse when her kids are dead, all except her Aegon.

She keeps you at her hip.

If platonic, she may make you her Hand.

If romantic, you're her secret partner.

If you support The Greens, she's determined to change that.

I'm talking about kidnapping, Imprisonment, and psychological conditioning.

You're fed propaganda, you're threatened, and Rhaenyra no doubt guilts you onto her side.

She wants to make sure she has you on her side... making you reliant on her by neglecting resources so you can beg for her.

A side I imagine Rhaenyra having is a more ruthless and sadistic side.

She hates The Greens, in this case she feels they stole you from her.

She has to find a way to get her dearest obsession back... even if it means breaking you.

She's mentioned to be cruel, so her doing such a thing seems plausible.

She's already burning countless people who oppose her.

You might as well submit.

If you just listen to her, support her, she'll give you everything.

If you don't, she'll find other methods.

If Rhaenyra can't break you, I can definitely see her having you killed.

If she can't have you, no one can.

She's already spilled a ton of blood, by this point she may be delusional enough to think this is how she keeps you.

Otherwise, you'll be forced by her side until she dies.

It's hard to escape from The Black Queen, Daemon and her other supporters no doubt wish to keep her happy.

She loves it when you take care of her children, she loves it when you show you're loyal.

If she has to trust anyone, she wants it to be you.

You're her beloved obsession, a dear friend/partner.

She refuses to give you up...

No matter what it takes.

"Pledge yourself to me... show me I can trust you... show me you'd give your life to keep me happy...."

[tadpolesonalgae]

Demon!Azriel x reader: Teeth and Talons - Part 7

A/N: might be sprinkling in a little foreshadowing for what the next chapter will be about :)

Warnings: biting?

-Part 6- -Part 8-

As usual, you’re left to yourself throughout the day.

As usual, you pillage the bookcase for something new—anything new to read.

It’s been fifty-fifty with the books so far, some have been written in your tongue, while others are indecipherable—scribbles and runes and strange illustrations of caves and creatures and blood. Well, it’s ink on parchment, so you don’t know it’s blood. All you can really tell is that it’s a dark liquid, but knowing Azriel, it’s probably blood.

A couple have proven interesting, in the sense they make you question your faith toward the gods—in a careful toeing-the-line-between-gentle-prying-and-outright-treason sort of way.

Others have contained less heathen-esque content: tales of worlds without deities (how you lament!), stories of chivalry and justice (how romantic!), erotica—you don’t care to comment on some of the passages you’ve unfortunately read.

But it’s been a while since more have oh-so-mysteriously appeared, so you’re left to flip through the illustrations of the books you’re unable to read. You’re more than content to lay on your stomach, but something shifts in the air. It’s difficult to put your finger on the exact change—similar to when Azriel returns near nightfall. That ripple of power that rushes through the room. Like some sort of pulse. Boots scuff on the floor—you’ve never seen another soul in the castle, but have also rarely ventured beyond the confines of your room. Mostly from a mix of fear, and contentedness in the room.

Blood rushes round your ears as you slip out of bed, padding quietly to the door. Pressing your ear against the wood, you listen, holding your breath incase you miss something. It’s completely silent.

You swallow, taking a step back. The door suddenly seems much larger, as if it’s looming over you. Your eyes drop to the small keyhole beneath the handle…

Not allowing any doubts, you quietly step back, crouching down as you peer through the tiny hole…only to be confronted with those familiar hazel eyes.

You exhale heavily, heart pounding with relief as you raise to your feet, turning the handle to greet him, half wondering why he’s back so early—and why he was peeping through your bedroom keyhole. Your shared bedroom keyhole.

“Azriel,” you begin, opening the door, “please don’t do—”

You freeze.

Terror strangles your throat as you stare into two sets of blacked-out eyes, each at least a head taller than you. A female on the left, a male on the right. You scream, scrambling back, slamming the door shut on them.

Hands fly across your mouth as you attempt to regulate your breathing, sight blurring. Boots scuff on the floor, and the handle dips, as if they’re trying to get in. Your stomach lurches as you spin on your heel, nearly flipping over the rug on the smooth stone floor in your haste. You dart to the bed, slipping beneath its large wooden frame, and hold your breath.

Hot water drips down your cheeks as you keep your hands over your mouth, shifting to make sure you’re as concealed as possible, shifting further and further beneath the bed until your feet brush something…granulated. Like sand.

Salt, you realise, but why is there a circle of salt beneath your shared bed? And why is there something drawn across its centre? What looks to be a—

Mother fucking boil and burn.

Thoughts eddy from your head as you realise your lower half is across a pentagram. A pentagram formed with black salts.

A deep snarl sounds from outside the door—raw and beastly, laced with fury. Two sets of feet scramble away, fading into the distance. You don’t dare release a single breath, not as you hear the door snick shut, and something enters. Something scary enough to send those two running.

Your teeth find your lip, and you bite down to keep from whimpering with fear. Four paws stop beside the bed, and you nearly vomit with terror. You squeeze your eyes shut, tears rolling down, splashing on the floor. It’s enough noise to be picked up. The beast stalks closer, until it’s at the edge of the bed—it’ll be able to see you.

“Get out from there.”

You stiffen at that cold command. Voice razor-sharp, merciless. You nearly weep with relief as you recognise him, opening your eyes to take him in.

Sheer horror greets you, mouth dropping as the whites of your eyes bulge at the sight of him. Three-pronged paws, quadrupedal, hind joints—where his knees should be—inverted. Like some hell-beast. You scream, his milky eyes snapping closed, then opening to reveal total black. Snapping bone sounds, and then he’s right again, hand gripping your forearm as he forcefully drags you out, across the smooth stone. You kick and thrash against the brutal grip, salt spraying at your feet, then reforming back into that neat, satanic symbol.

He grips your shoulders with both hands, fingers biting into your trembling muscle as you stare at him with wide, shining eyes, flicking between him and his knees, checking they’re back to normal. “What—?” You stammer, peering at him, hands lowering from your mouth, shaking.

He growls low in his throat, gripping you tighter with displeasure. As if he’s silently reprimanding you for taking too long, for appearing such a state before him. “Spit it out.”

You stare at him, utterly bewildered. “What were—who were those…?” You don’t know what to call them. “Were they more of your ilk?” You manage, focusing on the bite of his nails in your shoulders, the unforgiving glint his hazel eyes.

But he doesn’t answer you. Instead, his brow narrows with what you could swear is anger—rage. “Why did you open the door?”

You stiffen beneath his bruising touch.

His grip tightens and you whimper, instantly covering your mouth. Something dark and evil glints in response to the small noise. Something ancient and predatory—instinctual.

He leans closer, hot breath curling with his lip. “Why did you open the door?”

“I thought it was you,” you stammer softly, peering at him beseechingly. He snarls at that, as if insulted. “How stupid can you be?” You reel back at the harsh words, staring.

“It had your eyes,” you mumble, blinking back tears as you attempt to steady your breathing, “I thought it was you. Don’t call me stupid.”

Just like that, he surges forward, tipping you backward onto the stone floor, pinning you down. His lip curls back from his teeth, then they’re sinking into your neck.

Words and sound are ripped from your conscious as pain lashes through you. It’s not like before, not when it sent aching pleasure singing in your blood. This is punishing—agonising stinging. Muscles seize, fingers tremble, eyes wide. Your back arches into him at the onslaught of blazing brutality he’s stamping into your skin.

Surely its no more than a few seconds. No more than mere moments, but it blares through your mind, hammering your bones, crushing your skin as he retracts his teeth. He pulls back, wound already sealed as he grabs you by the hair, yanking you up so your throat is again exposed.

“Never,” he snarls, so gutturally you can barely understand him. “Never do that again.”

Tears spill as more fractures appear. Splintering deeper, cracking open something so raw you don’t know what to do. He’s panting, fury blazing in his pitch black eyes, razor-like talons slicing at your back as they slide from his knuckles, cutting through your clothes.

“You…” You hiccup, hand raising to your neck, feeling the two small indents of scars. “Why…?” He snarls again, and you flinch, eyes squeezing shut, bracing for another wave of that soul-splitting pain. The snarl cuts off, hands stiffening over you.

A beat passes.

Then another.

No pain.

Then he’s pulling away, and you fall back against the stone floor, watching as he stands, looming over you. He stares down at you, distaste shining in his eyes as he looks at your crumpled form. You hate that look. Hate it for everything it stands for, hate it for everything it’s done to you. Hate it on him.

“If I disgust you so much, you know you can just return me to my home,” you cry weakly, “nothing’s keeping you from doing so, so just put me back. Find someone else. We clearly aren’t suited for one another.”

Pain blazes through his chest, contracting, tightening, suffocating the air from his lungs. He can hear your hummingbird heart, can scent the fear drumming through your blood, can see your arms are on the verge of giving out from their trembling. Why are you so weak? Why don’t you fight back? Why are you giving up on him?

“You want to see your home?” He snarls, fury lighting his skin on fire, rage riding his mind, “fine.” He grabs you, hauling you against him roughly, talons slicing at your arms in neat little cuts. Then darkness swirls around the two of you and that weightless feeling overtakes his body, as if he’s plummeting deeper and deeper into that unfillable void.

You hate how you cling on to him despite the small lacerations he’s gifted you, pain stinging your skin as you squeeze your eyes shut in attempts to keep your tears inside. Then the dark clears, and you feel sand beneath your feet—bare feet. And it burns like it’s been heated by the scorching midday sun.

Granules bite at your skin as the wind picks up and Azriel steps away. And vanishes.

You barely had time to raise your hands to reach for him, but now he’s gone. And you’re stranded in the middle of the citadel in nothing but your night clothes. Mortification burns your insides—already people are staring: at your bare ankles, naked collar bones, unclothed arms.

You duck your head and scuttle beneath the overhang of a building, the scalding sand cooling beneath your soles as you try to figure out where he’s dumped you. All it takes is for you to spot the well in the square, and you know. You spin on your heel, and run.

————

Cinders and ash mix with the sand. Fragments of bespoke vases spike the wreckage. The smell of smoke still clings to the desolated site.

Aside from the crushed wall that stands no higher than your calves, nothing remains of your home.

You look around, but everything is in correct relation to your house as you remember it. You’re in the right place, but there’s nothing left. It’s been torched, ruined, and wrecked. At the entrance, the sand is still stained dark from where a cleansing sacrifice would have been made.

How long has it been like this? Left in pieces?

The winds die out, and the world goes silent.

Your feet make no sounds as they crunch over the sharp fragments. The sand doesn’t hiss as you step within the site, neither do you make any noise at all as the granules burn your soles. One step after another you track the obliterated halls and rooms of your home, burned to the ground.

Anything of value has been taken—the coloured stones, the small pieces of softened stained glass you’d found in the river beds. Either the dried plants and herbs were set ablaze with the rest of your home, or they were taken and relocated.

Stolen, a small, wicked voice whispers. Stolen, desecrated, destroyed.

You walk to the tiny room you’d slept in, the heart of your home. Charcoal is all that’s left of the small cot, the sheets and covers long incinerated. You don’t allow the tears to drop, don’t emit anything. The faintest breath dies on your lips, cracked and filmy.

A hand grips your upper arm, sharp nails grazing the small cuts as they turn you. He’s not wearing boots—his feet have shifted to paws, the skin thick enough to brave the scorching sands. Yours must be covered in welts by now, but—nothing.

He shakes you roughly, your teeth clacking together, making your head ring. Then he’s gripping your chin, raising you to look at him. Still, everything’s quiet. His eyes are blazing, not longer that cold, merciless hazel, but burning with something. Something you’ll never let yourself match.

His lip pulls back from his teeth in a flash of white, and it occurs to you his mouth is moving. He’s saying something, but the edges of your vision are blurry, as if muffled by something. In the back of your mind, in the depth of your repressed feeling, something twinges, reaching up a small hand from the crushing pile of guilt and raw emotion. Barely alive.

You shove it down.

You step back, and he releases you, watching.

You don’t look at him, lowering your gaze as you step around him, not even acknowledging him. What is there to acknowledge, anyway? The ruin he’s brought upon you?

You once swore you would survive him, that you would weather him. Well, that’s all you can do. You don’t have a choice but to take everything he gives. It’s not like you have darkness glittering at your fingertips. It’s not like you can shift into a monstrous form, or have skin tougher than leather to protect yourself with. It’s not like you have great, powerful wings, or razor-sharp teeth and talons.

You’re human, and he’s painfully other.

Skin crumbles like sand, bones snap like twigs.

One step at a time, you trace the familiar steps. In desperate need of refuge.

One step at a time, away from him.

————

Enough sound has returned to the world that you can hear the scuff of his paws behind you. Looming at your back like a cursed wraith, set on haunting you until your last breath rasps from wet lungs.

You reach the steps leading to the temple, and the footfalls stop; you do not. One step at a time, you ascend the marble stairs, and it’s only when you reach their peak that you’re approached by one of the acolytes. The devout worshipers who dedicate their lives to the temples and the gods. You’d often found yourself considering giving yourself over to them, too.

“What troubles have you come by, sister?” The acolyte does not touch you, but offers a patient smile, reeking of warmth and soft femininity. Gentle, and welcoming. The tears are falling before you can stop them, but the young woman does nothing to clear them. Merely watches and waits.

“I would like refuge for a few days,” you murmur through quiet sobs, “I have been favoured by malignant misfortune, and she has not treated me well. I would request a cleanse.” The woman’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly, “follow, child.”

Relief sweeps in so heavily you almost crumple then and there, but then he’s manifested before you, wreathed in thin shadows that make him appear as a reflection in water. He’s displeased; angry. “You think an exorcism will take you from me? You torture yourself needlessly.” You stare at him silently, watching warily. “I’ve been through enough at your hand,” you mumble. “You brought me here, and I will gladly rid myself of your presence in any way I can. Let me go.”

Beside you, the young woman stiffens, observing silently. You miss the way she catches another’s gaze, gesturing subtly toward your one-sided conversation.

“So affixed with your religion. Has it ever occurred to you to question it?” You narrow your eyes at him, considering the merit of engaging in this conversation. “What would I need to question?” You ask, “the gods had been merciful toward me until you entered my life.”

“Blind faith counts for nothing,” he counters, “you are good in exchange for exemption from the silver fires of hell. Your insides rot like mine beneath your pristine skin, bride.” You recoil at the title—he hasn’t used it in such a while it had managed to slip your mind.

“I am not your bride. No longer,” you manage, taking a step away from him toward the acolyte—who’s been joined by a similarly robed young woman. Both of them watch on warily. “Let me go—we are not suited for one another.”

“We are,” he insists, “if you would let go of yourself for one damned minute, you would see.”

“I. Can’t. Trust you. Azriel,” you grit out, finding it hard to look into those cold eyes of his. “You belittle, hurt, and taunt me every chance you get. Why would I ever let myself be when you’re around. It’s not like you make it easy for me.”

“You were fine in the air,” he snarls, stepping forward, “and you were fine on top of me, too.”

You’re lucky that someone interrupts, because you have nothing to say to him. No barbs to reach for, no verbal weapons to hurl at him. He’s right. You did enjoy the flight.

A woman—cloaked in the robes of a priestess—steps forward, the two acolytes now dismissed. “I have been told you seek refuge here. Come inside.” You turn to the voice, only to be met with a woman who can’t possibly be older than you. She appears to be slim, and tall, with cascading silky hair that curls lightly in spirals. Her deep cocoa eyes are warm, and open.

Beside you, Azriel has gone rigid.

“Elain.”

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

[starchants]

FORTNIGHT

buffy summers x female!reader ; reader grieves buffy.

word count — 664.

themes + warnings ; we’re in for an angsty one tbh! buffy has been officially dead and in heaven for two weeks currently in this fic! mentions of mental health problems, mentions of drinking alcohol to the point of toeing the line between a normal individual and borderline alcoholic, also this is a pre-established relationship!!

author’s note — this fic had originally started my anthology series for the tortured poets department by taylor swift but i had scrapped the idea due to a mental health crash.

support mention ; if you feel like supporting, a nice ‘like’ will suffice on my blog, i know some writers love to ask nicely if you could reblog or comment etc. yet on my blog (no hate towards them as everyone likes appreciation in different ways), but if you’d like to reblog or comment feel free after all this is a safe space for any fan-individual to have fun :’)

masterlist

a fortnight had changed the fate of everything. a simple two weeks had destroyed y/n y/l/n. she was supposed to be dragged away by the police, upon a legal order that her own mother had called in — out of worry for her own daughter, but no one ever cared to even show up to drag her kicking and screaming to the nearby psych ward in the sunnydale hospital.

her mother only noticed how even more quiet her daughter had become and how she became a hollow version of herself but never tended to notice how much alcohol that she was consuming in unhealthy amounts.

in fact nobody had. not even her dear friends or even frenemies had noticed it despite how much time she had spent with them. living more similarly to a phantom then an individual.

everyone simply assumed why y/n had become more quiet than ever was due to her grieving as everyone else happened to be. they didn’t notice that she would wait til she was alone in her family home during the night and scream as loud as she can, slurring her words and nearly tripping over her own feet, as she would go on and on about how the love of her life had performed her own quiet treason. how buffy summers refused to listen to her girlfriend’s own pleas to not sacrifice herself, once again, especially with the knowledge that she would never make it back alive.

buffy went behind her back and she blamed her. but, oh, how she loved her unabashedly and terribly all the same.

it was ruining her life transforming her into a terrible shell of the woman that she used to be. the treason made her damage everything that made her who she was and made her lose herself to the point of her dreams, whenever she would blackout from the alcohol, were filled with all of what she wished to tell buffy anne summers.

“you finally got me to be yours after years of me pining after you! years of you going to other men, having other lovers, while knowing for a fact that i’ve been in love with you since i met you! it only took that damned weekend trip to florida as you didn’t wanna be alone and you kissed me near the mailbox! you looked so damn cute wrapped up in my favorite sweater and yet i only held you and had you as mine for two weeks! two damned weeks buffy! then you go and ruin it all for what?! saving your sister when we could’ve gone down a different path if you just listened to me for once and didn’t go on to sacrifice yourself like you always do for others that don’t even care for you doing this repetitively!”

just another drink. just another sip. just another blackout sleep. that’s all y/n told herself as she stumbled upon the staircase upon her journey to her bedroom. then she’d stop and let buffy go.

she’d stop loving buffy for the first time in years and just let the pretty blonde slayer go with her very last blackout sleep. one more night to see her in her dreams where she could let all her feelings out. just one more step and she’d be in her room. just one more step and she could let go of everything in the comfort of her bedroom. just one more step.

just one more step and her sorrowful heart could stop beating it’s depressing drum. just one more step and the wooden door creaked open to reveal the pretty deceased blonde sitting upon her bed with soaking wet hair from her shower and grave dirt still underneath her fingernails solely dressed in y/n’s favorite sweater.

just one more step and she could feel her heart starting to sway away from it’s depressing drum. just one more step and she could reach out to touch her again.

[emeraldspiral]

Sometimes I wonder about the amount of Zimfluence there was in Avatar.

Like, I've already talked about how Aang defeating Ozai through sheer willpower is reminiscent of Zim overpowering the Control Brains with raw insanity in The Trial, how LoK's ending resembles the post-cancellation ending comic where Zim and Dib leave earth to go frolicking in space together, and how Mai's sour, apathetic attitude being the result of feeling pressured to behave herself all the time to please her parents is similar to Gaz trying to win her father's approval by being the Good Child to Dib's Problem Child.

But like, more than a few people at Nick, including co-creator Bryan Konietzko, worked on Zim before Avatar, and members of the Zim crew have expressed regrets about the show being cancelled and not getting to explore things that they had wanted to. So it'd honestly be more weird of Zim didn't have an influence on Avatar.

So let's consider some of the similarities between the shows and elements that may have been inspired by things people wanted to explore with Zim but never got the chance to.

Like, to begin with, the premise of both shows is that there's a war instigated by an Imperial colonizing force that wants to wipe out and/or enslave all other races and take everything over. It's not a super original concept but there are more specific similarities.

Both shows, rather than just having one protagonist that the story centers around, have a protagonist and a deuteragonist, who both have their own stories which are separate yet interconnected to form one large picture integral to the overall narrative. Both sets of characters are both boys who due to circumstances are pitted against each other on opposite sides of the war but have the potential to be great friends if they didn't have that conflict in the way.

Both Zim and Zuko are banished for stepping out of line and sent on a fool's errand at the beginning of the story to keep them from interfering in the war and embarrassing their leaders. Both are determined to succeed and willfully deceive themselves into believing that the ones who sent them on their missions really do expect them to because they're so desperate for their love and approval. Zim and Zuko both have a second rival (Tak & Zhao) looking to make a name for themselves by stepping on their toes, and Zim & Zuko both end up committing treason by teaming up with their main rivals to stop their secondary rivals from succeeding and robbing them of the victories their self-worth hinges on.

Dib and Zuko are both obsessed with capturing a singularly unique individual in their world in order to win their father's love, but even if/when they succeed it doesn't get them what they want. With Zuko, he realizes that his father only loves him conditionally, and that's not real love at all. With Dib, he realizes that his father does love him unconditionally, but in ETF, the comic Dib's Dilemma, and the Zimvoid storyline it's made clear that Membrane will never believe Dib or respect his chosen field of science, regardless of whether he defeats Zim or not. So defeating Zim isn't the key to his happiness either, although Dib has yet to come to that realization.

The Membrane family and the Fire Nation Royal family both have a single dad with two kids, a boy and a girl, with the boy being the eldest. The boy is supposed to be his father's successor but he and his father disagree and his father refuses to accept his son's dissenting opinions and makes the son feel that he has to earn his father's love and approval by accomplishing something great. The daughter resents her brother and tries to prove that she's more worthy of their father's love by being a Daddy's Girl who acts more like the child he wants. The son is known for being a loser while the daughter is known for being incredibly scary. Both are strong and talented, but the daughter seems to better at everything with less effort while the son is unfairly maligned. The daughter gets treated better by their father, but he's still not really being a good father to her. Although the son is motivated by a selfish desire to prove himself to his father and fueled by a lot of anger, he has a good heart deep down and cares about doing the right thing while the daughter doesn't really care about anything except pleasing her dad and her own gratification.

Dib and Gaz are also somewhat like Sokka and Katara in that they have to more or less raise themselves because their mom is gone and their dad's preoccupied with important world-saving work that keeps him away from them. Katara feels that she has to step up into the role of a mother, despite being the younger sibling, while Gaz is often tasked with wrangling her brother. Sokka and Dib both fantasize about being heroes and making their fathers proud, but are a bit too cocky and get in over their heads their first time facing a real enemy combatant and have to learn to think more strategically and sort out their priorities.

Many fans see Zim as a victim of the society that created him, who's just doing what he does because it's the only way he can feel valued or loved, and wish that if the series had continued he would realize he was being played for a fool and turn his back on the people he'd been trying so hard to please, realize what he'd been doing was wrong, befriend his rival, and become a hero fighting back against the Imperialist regime. And that's exactly what Zuko ends up doing. Also, something at least one of the writers has said they would've done with Azula had the series continued.

Azula is mostly shown as cold and ruthless throughout the series, but near the end she starts to show more vulnerability, starting with the Beach episode. In that episode, her obsession with competition and asserting dominance to affirm her superiority is played for comedy, which makes the similarities between her and Zim stand out much more than it normally does when the series frames her as dead serious. The scene where she awkwardly flirts by telling a guy they could dominate the earth together in particular always gave me Zim vibes from the first time I saw it. There's also one scene where she makes one of her only friends cry and actually feels bad about it and apologizes, similar to the scene in Walk of Doom where Zim thinks he's made GIR cry and tries to make him feel better. Both scenes stand out as rather uncharacteristic for two characters who are usually cruel and callous and don't care about anyone else's feelings.

Zim and Azula also both have huge, but fragile egos, believing themselves to be better than everyone and unable to accept being less than perfect. They both derive their sense of self worth from having power over others and believing that they were just born better, regard themselves as above the need for genuine friendship, view love as a weakness, and consider everyone in their orbit as either an asset to be used and discarded or an obstacle toward getting what they want.

One of the most popular concepts to explore in Zim fanfic is the idea of Zim's ego being broken by the realization that his mission is a lie and breaking down over it, and that's exactly what we get from Azula when she realizes the control she thought she had over her friends and the prize her father was dangling in front of her the whole time were just as fake as Zim's mission.

Bonus: The most popular ship in the fandom is a Red/Blue ETL ship which the creators hate but board artists draw fanart of in their free time and the voice actors are willing to indulge for the fans. Also, it used to have a large hatedom that was just upfront about not liking it because it got in the way of other ships, but then a new generation discovered it on Netflix and now people dress up their petty reasons for disliking it with purity culture BS about it being "problematic".

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

Jurgen was enjoying a peaceful morning of deep contemplation in his chambers when the sound of a fierce argument arose just outside of his door. Long experience with his compatriots gave him the wisdom to arise and begin to drag his desk in obstruction of the entrance, but alas, he was too slow; the wooden door was thrown open with a violent clatter, and the incarnate of fury roiled into the room.

"I've had enough of her!" bellowed Hoag. The dark, diminutive man was practically frothing at the mouth, frenziedly waving about something Jurgen couldn't quite see. "Enough of her, Wind-Caller, she ought to be stopped! She ought to-- she ought to be put down like a dog!"

"You're over-reacting!" Barfok shouted from further down the passageway.

Jurgen briefly contemplated whether he could push Hoag back down the stairs, but in that moment of hesitation, Hoag had already forced his way past the desk that had meant to keep him out, penetrating Jurgen's previously-serene sanctum. "Deal with her, Wind-Caller!" Hoag spat, "Deal with her or I'll-- I'll--"

"My King," Jurgen interrupted him, pinching his own nose. "Let's all calm down for a moment. What has she done now?"

"I'll tell you what she's done!" Hoag shouted. "She's gone and anthropomorphized my lunch!" And he thrust his hands towards Jurgen.

The object in Hoag's hands was a haunch of roast ox, but it held itself with a dignity that surpassed its humble origin. In the light glinting from its marinated surface it surveyed the room with calm acceptance, observing its crude surroundings with the plain-hearted absence of judgement that set all of Skyrim's peasants apart from their supposed betters. It remained steady as Hoag waved it at Jurgen, unperturbed, as if thinking: 'And you are the so-called leaders of this Empire? You are the men I should call Lord?'

"He's over-reacting!" Barfok had finally appeared in the doorway, panting from the long climb, her pale hair disheveled and falling out of its braids. "It's a joke," she protested to Jurgen, "A silly joke, a prank, that's all!"

"A joke!" roared Hoag, pivoting around. "You bitch, it's a guilt-evoking metaphor for the lowest of my subjects! How am I supposed to eat it now!"

"If you get queasy when your lunch alludes to the petty-folk you send out to die into battle, well, that says more about you than it does about my pranks, doesn't it!"

The ox haunch regarded this argument with bemusement. As did Jurgen.

"She's been at this all day," said Hoag through gritted teeth, returning his attention to Jurgen. "She went and messed with Chemua's soup--"

"Oh that was funny," Barfok guffawed.

"-- Turned it into a complex metaphor for shame. Put him in the foulest mood. And now she goes and ruins my lunch! You've got to make her quit it, Jurgen. Morale's bad enough out there without her turning things into allusions and euphemisms and such!"

Jurgen exhaled through his nose. "Barfok," he said patiently, "Stop turning people's food into literary devices."

"Hey!" Now it was Barfok's turn to push her way into the room, crossing her arms defensively in front of her chest. "Don't you take his side because he's a wimp! It's a joke, Jurgen, a silly little goof-about to make the men laugh. He's the only one who's got a problem with it!"

"Yes, well, he's louder and more irritating. We don't stop a baby bawling because the baby's in the right."

"I'm no babe!" Hoag interjected. "I'm your King even now, Wind-Caller!"

Does this man deserve fealty? the roast ox seemed to say, when Jurgen's gaze fell upon it. He closed his eyes briefly.

"Barfok," said Jurgen, "Please, just-- stop."

A shadow fell over Barfok's usually-jolly face. She narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin at Jurgen, staring at him coolly from over her round cheeks. "Why should I?" she said slowly.

"I'm begging you, Sister in Kyne! Do me a favour and keep the peace?"

"Aye, you hear him? Keep the peace!" Hoag directed his wrath once more at Barfok. "You're toeing the treason line, sabotaging us like that! We're getting our arses beat by the elves and you think it cheers anyone up when their saltrice is a biting allusion to the evils of occupation? Get a grip, woman!"

"Stop yelling at me!" Barfok snapped. "I don't take orders from either of you! Nay, not even you, Wind-Passer! And I ent standing here while a couple old nannies squeal at me to mind my manners! Look, Hoaga, even your ox thinks you're pathetic!"

The ox haunch did, indeed, seem to have taken on a scornful air. It had borne witness to the discourse of Nirn's most powerful men, and it had come away disenchanted with both the airs of power and those that bore it. Its scathing observation was enough to bring them to shame.

"Hoag," Jurgen said tersely, "She has a point. I can't control her. Why not go to Ysmir about her?"

The hue of Hoag's face had deepened to a striking crimson. "Because he agrees with her," he said through gritted teeth.

"Ysmir has a sense of humour," Barfok said with pride.

"He encourages her tomfoolery!"

"I framed his chambers with subtle imagery of a forsaken homeland, and you know what? He liked it."

"Traitors and soul-sick fools, both of you!"

"Well," announced Jurgen, as calm as a man being judged by a haunch of meat could possibly be, "That settles it. You just have to let her do as she pleases."

Hoag's face flushed, somehow, even redder. "Let her!" he roared indignantly. "Let her lose this war with japes!"

"And what can you do about it?" Barfok asked smugly. "I'm the stronger Tongue."

"We can't command her, Hoaga," said Jurgen. "So. You'll just have to live with it."

"Damn you! You're meant to be the peace-making one! Can't you negotiate with her?"

"Oh, keep whinging, Hoaga, I'll turn your trousers paradoxical next!"

"The matter is settled," said Jurgen firmly. "Now, both of you, get out of my chambers."

"To Apocrypha with you, Wind-Caller! You know what?" Hoag turned his attention to Barfok, waving his accusing haunch in Jurgen's direction. "Why don't you mess with him this time? Hey? Why don't you, I don't know, fill his desk with symbolism or something!"

"Why, Hoaga, you know I'd do anything you ask!" Barfok said cheerfully.

Jurgen blinked. "Wait--"

He had barely begun to inhale for a counter-thu'um before Barfok sung out three crisp dovahzul words. Nothing happened, but everything was subtly, slightly different, as if they had just slipped from one dream to another-- disconcerting non-transition.

Jurgen blinked again. "Barfok," he said slowly, "What did you just--"

"Oh, would you look at the time, Hoaga!" Barfok butted in. "I'm late for my lunch! Good talk, Jurgen, dremyollock, make sure to shut your windows!" And before Jurgen could intercept her she had lurched out of the door and was rushing down the stairs, leaving behind only the receding sound of triumphant cackling.

Hoag looked from the doorway, to Jurgen, and then, finally, to the large window that dominated one side of the room. He drew in a breath. "Now that's just grim," he muttered, before taking a morose bite of his ox haunch. And, without further explanation or farewell, he turned and followed Barfok out of the room, leaving Jurgen in much-desired solitude.

For several seconds Jurgen stood facing the doorway. He pressed his fingertips to his temples. He contemplated whether he had the courage to turn around.

Finally, he turned to face the window.

The curtains hung limp against the pane, like the sails of a ship bereft of air, betraying a stagnation, a stranding, a loss of all will to go on. Though the window was open, no breeze stirred them, as if Kyne herself had abandoned the sorry scraps of fabric. Against the backdrop of the clear sky outside, the faded blue of them was outright depressing...

[kosherkept]

i complain a lot about how leftists will think that because they disagree with a law or policy that it automatically doesnt apply to them anymore, and that acknowledging that the law is very much so still real is somehow perceived by them as being unconditional support for said law. and the deportation of khalil is a great example

when you receive permanent residency of the united states you are obligated to uphold the constitution. you do not have the privileges of a citizen but you have all the same obligations, if not more, because you must prove you are worthy of being welcomed into the USA as an outsider. citizens' worthiness is assumed, but prospective immigrants have to work for it. if you break a law, violate certain rules, etc, you will have your green card revoked and you will be deported to your nation of origin. and believe it or not, loudly supporting anti-american terrorism that has been responsible for the slaughter of tens of thousands of people in the past few years alone is in fact grounds for removal. it is quite literally toeing the line of treason.

agreeing with this process or not doesnt change the fact that equal treatment is conditional and a permanent resident is a very easily deported non-citizen. i have no fucking clue why anybody would be eager to fuck around and find out with the united states of america of all entities, but if you want to get yourself deported by publicly praising violence against minorities and the citizens of the country you wish to make your home, go ahead

[fidothefinch]

From Hull, Hell, and Halifax

Whumptober, Day 13: "Til death do us part" Read on Ao3

Dick watched the executioner from his prison cell window.

The masked man was sharpening the guillotine blade in long strokes, the sching, sching, sching ringing in the cobblestone courtyard. The machine was equally beautiful and horrible; a weapon for quick and efficient death.

Dick hoped it would be quick.

The door to his cell opened. No knocking – prisoners were not paid that manner of respect. Still, Dick had been expecting this visit, and he did not turn from the window as several pairs of heavy, metal-laden feet marched inside.

“Kneel for the king,” one of the soldiers commanded.

Dick bit his tongue, straining to keep his posture unbothered as a pair of deceptively quiet footsteps entered. The back of his neck prickled at the feeling of all eyes watching him. He wondered what they saw – the layer of grime on the clothes he had worn since being thrown in this cell? The bruises and dried blood mapping his time in captivity? Or were they focused on the blue bird stitched across his shoulders, a symbol of hope for the community and a source of shame for the throne?

Nobody moved.

When it became clear that he did not plan to turn, and pair of cold armored hands clamped around his shoulders. They forced his gaze away from the window, and slammed him to his knees. Dick barely managed to avoid biting his own tongue. His knees split against the rough stone.

“Bow to your king,” the guard commanded again.

Dick glared. In all of his missions, he had never been so close to the man. He looked remarkably like Bruce – dark hair, the same jaw line, the same nose. Dick tried to imagine his guardian wearing similar attire – heavy velvet, pearls and gemstones, the finest silks. A sickening display of wealth. But the king’s eyes held none of the warmth that his brother’s did. No, Thomas’s eyes were cold and cruel.

“I do not bow to tyrants,” Dick said, voice surprisingly steady despite his weariness.

The hit came so quickly he had no time to dodge, and it landed squarely across his cheekbone, whipping his head to the side. This time, his teeth snapped briefly around his tongue, and blood began to pool in his mouth.

A harsh yank on the chain connecting his shackled wrists to the floor sent his upper body sprawling forward, arms outstretched. “You would do well to show respect to His Majesty, traitor scum.”

Dick craned his neck up to spit thick, red blood out of his mouth and took great pleasure in the disgusted backpedaling of the guards. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked.

Fine leather shoes glided forward and stopped in front of him, toes spreading the drops of blood. “So this is the little bird who has been causing so much mischief?” The king sounded the same way Bruce did when he identified a rare medicinal herb, but with a touch more condescension.

Dick would hardly call his theft, sabotage, and acts of treason “mischief,” but he wasn’t about to confess to his crimes. The chain slacked just enough for another guard to tug his head back by his hair. He grinned without humor, hoping it showed off his bloodied teeth. “Who, me?”

The corners of the king’s mouth tugged down. “Tell the servants to bring a bath,” he told one of the guards, somehow making eye contact with Dick while still not addressing him. “And to mend the clothes.”

Dick’s stomach churned, and for the first time in several days, it wasn’t from the hunger. “I would have cleaned up, if I had known to expect a visitor.”

“Silence.”

Dick’s mouth snapped shut at the word, conditioned by years of hearing it in the same tone from his mentor. If the king noticed, he did not draw attention to it. Instead, he leaned down and gripped Dick’s chin. He tilted Dick’s face side to side, like he were inspecting a prize horse.

“You bear a remarkable resemblance to your parents,” he observed.

Dick’s heart stuttered in his chest.

Something in his face must have shown his surprise, because Thomas’s lips curled in a self-satisfied smirk. “Yes, I saw them several times as a younger man. It was such a shame, what happened.”

He was being deliberate in not revealing Nightwing’s true identity, and the fact only made him more wary. The king had a plan, and Dick was beginning to feel more and more like a pawn.

“Your execution is scheduled for tomorrow.”

Dick swallowed past the urge to vomit.

“I am sure you have seen the guillotine in the courtyard. We had it specially erected, just for you.” The king’s fingers found the divot between two of his neck vertebrae and pressed down, sending a chill down Dick’s spine. It was the position of the cleanest decapitation. “You are well known for your showmanship, so I took the liberty of inviting the entire kingdom to watch.”

Dick stiffened. He knew, logically, that his execution would be made public. It could serve two purposes: a thinly-veiled threat to the Batman’s sympathizers and bid for loyalty from his enemies.

“Of course,” and Thomas stepped back, fingertips leaving burning stripes where he had touched Dick. “There is still time for me to reconsider. You just have to answer my question.”

“I work alone,” Dick ground out, voice steady despite his rising fear.

“Oh, wretched boy. I know that is not true.” Thomas’s thumb wiped away the blood that had dried under Dick’s nose and mouth. “Tell me where your little team of vagabonds is hiding, and I will stay your execution.”

This, at least, was easy. “No.”

“Give me a name, then. Just one name will—“

“Nightwing.”

Thomas was not amused. “You have proven yourself clever. But cleverness will not free you from your fate.” His eyes darkened. “Farewell, boy. Let your guards know if you remember where your friends are located.” His expression took on a dangerous edge as he continued, “I do so hope that they come to tomorrow’s showing.”

The tone sent a chill down Dick’s spine. He felt that he was missing something.

But with nothing more than a final, lingering smirk, the king and his guards left. The heavy wooden door thumped shut, and the lock turned with a thunk similar to that of the guillotine’s blade.

[scarlet-doll-13]

Dulce Periculum - Danger Is Sweet

Lizzie Glass has been running from her family and their empire for many years. Upon hearing her baby brother was in a coma and the world has gone to shit, Bobby Glass drags her back into the chaos once more.

Prelude

Edward was surprised to see a woman with Bobby Glass in the birdcage. She looked a little like Susie from the back, with the same dark hair. But as he approached closer, he could tell the difference. This woman was of similar height but much broader across the shoulders, dressed in ripped jeans and a leather jacket Susie would never be caught dead in. 

“You got some bollocks, ain’t ya? Coming here. Giving my money to the man who battered my son?” Bobby feeds his pigeons. 

Eddie sighs, “I’m sorry about Jack.”

Bobby scoffs; Eddie was toeing a little close to the line in the sand.

“That had nothing to do with me. But I wanted out, so I went to Henry Collins, and that’s why I’ve gone to Mr. Stanley Johnston.”

That little fact intrigued Bobby, “To do what?”

Eddie stands relaxed, hands in his pockets. “To help him acquire your business by obtaining the names of the other lords in your stable so he can take them over. Whoever holds that list holds the keys to the kingdom.”

Bobby turns to face the Eddie, “So you’ve come here to tell me you’ve fucked me twice?”

Eddie tries and fails to hide the brazen look on his face, “Not exactly.”

Bobby turns, gesturing to the woman in the corner. “Eddie. This is my eldest, Lizzie.”

“Susie never said she had a sister.” Eddie held his hand out to shake. 

Lizzie took his hand, shaking with a firm grip. “Technically, I’m dead. But I heard about Jack, and Dad called me back.”

Bobby directed them outside to the table, “Now, tell me your plan.” 

~~~~

Lizzie was impressed by the speech the Duke had given. After some pause and thought, Bobby Glass had agreed to Eddie’s plan. Now the pair stood outside the prison. The clouds parted, and the spring sunshine shone down. Eddie couldn’t help but watch how Lizzie’s hair shone copper in the light. 

He watched her pull a cigarette from the carton with her teeth. “What you’re about to do could be accused of treason in Susie’s eyes. Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I do.” 

She lights her cigarette with an aged Zippo, and Eddie catches a hint of menthol. She takes a deep breath, savouring the rush of nicotine, before exhaling. 

“Well, good luck, your grace.” Lizzie hands him a folded piece of paper, pulled from her jacket pocket, “my number if shit hits the fan.”

Just his luck, shit did hit the fan. Susie was far from amused to hear Eddie was dealing with Henry Collins. One phone call was all it took for his stroke of bad luck to start snowballing out of his control.

~~~~

You can also find it on A03: Dulce Periculum - Danger Is Sweet

A.N. - If anyone can help this old gal with story formatting, would be gladly appreciated. It's been awhile since I've posted on here.

Tag List

@alexa-rae-dreamz

@sabrinareno

[caeli0306]

Violet POV chapter of TFTAB

I mentioned last week I think that I was going to write a Violet POV chapter of TFTAB, and now that I finished chapter 13 of Swan Song, I'm officially getting around to it. A lil unedited blurb below for those of you who I know love this fic as much as I do :)

---

Those eyes of his are trained on me, and I find myself fascinated by them, not for the first time. They’re so dark, they’re practically black, with flecks of gold throughout, and they only add to the unfair beauty of Xaden Riorson. He reminds me of a predator - all sleek lines, powerful muscle, and elegant features. He could be a model with those kinds of looks, but instead he’s committing treason.

My kind of man, I muse to myself without much thought.

I have no doubt in my mind that he knows who I am. I don’t have definitive proof, but something about the way he looks at me changed since he returned from the back of the plane. The intensity of his stare has a very familiar warmth coursing through my bloodstream.

I’m toeing a dangerous line between duty and desire here. My rational brain is telling me to either kill him and go on with my life, or spare him and pray to Zihnal he has the information I want. The less rational part of me is telling me to drag him to the airplane bathroom and find out if he’s as good at kissing as I think he is.

[powdermelonkeg]

I don't know if this has been asked yet, but why is Nellie in Thalmor Jail? What did she do? Why do they hate her?

(I am so excited about her and WILL be adding her to my party as soon as I can, she looks so cool!)

The Direnni clan and the Summerset Altmer don't get along. Summerset Altmeri philosophy, and in turn the extremist Aldmeri Dominion, is based almost entirely around racial purity—something the Direnni clan all but ditched ages and ages ago. They're the elves that are the reason Bretons exist, not to mention that Nellie herself had a Breton grandfather. So, in the eyes of the Thalmor, the Direnni are (for lack of better term) man-blooded mutts. And in the eyes of the Direnni, the Summerset Altmer are stuck-up, prickly, and entitled.

But the Direnni ARE still Altmer. So with the Thalmor closing in on control of Tamriel, they fully expected their "lesser" cousins to fall into line and do their part to extend their influence to Direnni territory. Which has led to some extremely condescending, patronizing, and infuriating talks between Clan Direnni and Thalmor ambassadors that can barely be called "negotiating." (This part isn't canon in vanilla lore, but it can very easily be implied to be so, and a spinoff book mentions that the Thalmor are taking prisoners on Isle Balfiera, which means they're at minimum stepping on Clan Direnni's toes)

Cirinel sat in on one of those meetings at her dad's insistence.

Cirinel is not a diplomat.

She is impulsive, she is dramatic, she has a temper.

So, after watching her dad (whom she loves) be told to stay in line by some two-bit Justiciar, in HER manor, on HER island, Cirinel decided to commit a treason. She messed with Thalmor interrogations and organized a prison break; not out of any sense of charity towards the prisoners, PURELY out of spite. Which then placed her as an easily-identified fugitive of the Thalmor.

She fled to Skyrim to avoid the heat once her impulses had run their course, figuring that the civil war would mean the Thalmor presence here was too tied up to chase her. So she tried to go into hiding, but was caught, interrogated, and tortured.

And that's where you come in! You get a chance to break her free, and when you do, she's in your debt.

And a Direnni always repays her debts.

[backjustforberena]

If Rhaenys had been Queen and Laenor her heir and Laenor and Rhaenyra are still matched, I can guarantee that Queen Rhaenys would put the fear of the Seven into Rhaenyra about any notions of illegitimate children. Any notion of an affair or pursuing personal pleasures before an heir and a spare are born healthy. Even if Laenor consented. Rhaenys would not stand for even the thought or possibility. She'd nip it in the bud before vows were even spoken.

Rhaenys would threaten a teenager if it secured her son's happiness and the future of her line. She wouldn't care if it took years before a trueborn heir was made. She wouldn't prioritise Rhaenyra's happiness, she'd tell her that if she steps a toe out of line, she's committing treason. So be very, very careful and understand your role.

[idcwhattheblogisbutmynameiscandy]

October Wind:

Chapter One; The Strange Client

⚠️Content Warning 16+!!⚠️

There will be some violence and mature themes, so if you don't like that leave. -NOT PROOFREAD-

October 7th, 1991

Lady Justice; a symbol of hope, an inspiration of many and the downfall of others. He saw her every day he was cooped up in the courthouse but could never fathom how such a noble figure became so sickening working day in and day out by her statue. She was supposed to be good; why do all good things turn sour?

Tom tried to wrap his head around it before but always came up empty. Today was no exception.

It was a brisk morning, much like any other for Tom Wallbrooke as he paddled down the street, cardboard coffee cup in hand, pondering life's questions as he avoided a puddle, stepping over a curb to straddle his lean, black motorbike.

Upon first glance; Tom is rugged, chestnut curls rustled carelessly about as he rides upon his 'Black Majesty,' as he calls it, leather gloves and jacket in toe. He seems wreckless, possibly even foolish to an outsider. One might be surprised when they hear that he's an inmate's rights defender, working in the criminal justice system. He revs the engine, pressing onward through the city as he turns on some music, making his trip bearable.

Guilty as charged, but damnit it ain't right! There's someone else controlling me!

He pushes onwards through the damp streets, increasing in speed as he overtakes another driver, taking a sharp turn as he inhales a deep breath. It's going to be a long day, he decides. Hearing some street squabble he turns up his music louder, attempting to drown out whatever petty conflict the streets of Crown Point, deciding that's an Indiana problem.

Flash before my eyes, now it's time to die! Burning in my brain, I can feel strain!

He parks his motorcycle outside of the courthouse, pulling up his leather sleeves to expose the tattoos lining his arms as he walks inside, tapping his rings on the front desk.

"Late again, Wallbrooke," the front desk lady, Araya scolds, her lips pressed into a thin line, showing her displeasure. Tom grins at her, exposing his dimples,

"A wizard is never late; nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to," he jests, to Arya's discontent.

"Whatever, dweeb, you have a new case in paranormal affairs," she says flatly and Tom's face falls. This was the one caveat to the job. Paranormal affairs. He could handle cruel prisons, long paperwork and even clients that got short with him- what he wasn't prepared for was the devastation in the treatment of 'the hybrids,' as they call them. They're not exactly human, but they're also not a demon or an angel, they're something in between. The freaks. Tom wouldn't say that, but many do. Tom decided that he'd immediately get to work, rushing to his desk to read the file left on his desk. This one's thick; thicker than normal.

Willow Corey; inmate 420. Tom looked at the name and froze. This can't be right, he thought. Willow Corey is... well, she's a lot of things, a hybrid is one of them, her mom is a high ranking official in hell, deciding upon the punishments and tortures of the sinners, and her father is an angel, known for designing various plants and animals. In the paranormal districts she was practically royalty... that was until 1974, when she was 160, she decided to affiliate herself with some demon rebels, ultimately landing her with charges of treason. Given the sentencing, she shouldn't even be in the prison anymore; she was charged with a lower sentence with a plea deal, conspiracy, which in hell is only fifteen years. He grumbles under his breath and pulled on his jacket, walking to the back room.

As he enters the dark room he looks around, his eyes slowly adjusting to the light until he spots his friend. Tall and lanky, he stands gaurd of a portal red and fierce, his baby face a clear sign of his youth. He was only nineteen, a singular year younger than Tom, but you'd never be able to guess it as Tom's job aged him far more than it should have. He blames the stress.

"Tobi! How are you, you awesome son of a bitch?!" Tom exclaims, excited to be able to work in his friend's sector, Tobi however, doesn't share that sentiment as he scoffs and rolls his eyes.

"Not great, Man, the sitch in hell is bad... Let me guess, you need access?" He asks and Tom nods grimly.

"Yeah man... Another hybrid mis case... This one's high profile," he grumbles and Tobi nods, opening the gate.

"She's all yours," he says grufly, pulling his dark colored bangs out of his eyes and Tom tilts his head in acknowledgement before entering. This is going to be a long day.

[vengefvlx]

CHARACTER BASICS

Faceclaim: Jennifer Connelly

Name: Josette "Josie" Myers

Age: 50

Gender: Cis Woman

Home: District 7

Role: Former Lumbar Worker, Current District 13 Refugee

Personality: Compliant, Co-operative, Hardworking, worrisome, cynical

Song: Unwritten – Natasha Bedingfield

CHARACTER BIOGRAPHY

Death TW

Life in District 7 was hard. Life was difficult in all the districts really. But Josette was unaware of this. The Capitol disliked the districts communicating. So apart from a little in history class, where she'd learnt that the districts were bad and the Capitol was great, she knew barely anything about the other districts. If she had been curious she probably would have wanted to find out more. But she wasn't curious. Or well, her father had told her not to be curious. Josie was to not be curious, to stay in line, and do what she was told.

Those orders came from personal tragedy. Though the Capitol wouldn't call it a Tragedy. They'd call it treason. Her father wanted them to stay in line because of the past. The past where her great uncle had not wanted to toe the line. Josette doesn't know what had actually happened. Her family didn't talk about it. It was almost like they were ashamed of what had happened. But since then her family had been good citiizens. Whatever that meant.

As was not unusual in 7, once she was done in school Josette joined the lumbar industry. It was physical work, involving long days. She went to bed most days exhausted. So even if she had been curious, she probably would have been too exhausted to do anything. Reflecting upon this, she wonders if this is what the Capitol had wanted all along. Tired citizens made compliant citizens since they were too tired to do anything. It was a good plan.

Josette still doesn't really know how she ended up in 13. She hadn't really been watching the games that closely. They still had to sort out all the lumbar after all. And she was used to District 7 never doing well anyway. They were just a District that did not do very well. And so, Josette didn't want to waste her time on watching her fellow district people die. Of course, it was the evening on that fateful day, but for once she wasn't actually at home.

Maybe if she hadn't been at home, she might not have made it onto the hover. She still doesn't really know how she ended up on the Hover. She just did. And the rest of her family did not. They didn't really live in the most central location of 7. If she had been at home she wouldn't have been on the so called rescue.

But she was. And now she is in 13.

Josie is still processing the whole rebellion thing. Her father wasn't here. She couldn't talk to him. But she's been thinking more of her Great Uncle, and his death. Was that due to believing in a rebellion? And if so, maybe that was why her family had never talked about it. But the rebellion was in full force now. And Josie needed to find her place in it.

She just didn't know where to even start.

[seigephoenix]

Happy Friday!!

How about ‘“You’re my best friend.  I love you, I always have.”’ For whichever pairing is inspiring you tonight?

Happy Friday!! For @dadrunkwriting. I was in an Alissa x Garrett brainrot this evening. So here we go!

Content Warning: gets a little hot and heavy, does feature Trevelyan and Hawke's child, ends on a hilarious note Length: ~1k

Alissa grumbled as she gently massaged her arm, wincing at the sharp ache there from where her arm had been taken off.  She was thankful the Anchor was no longer killing her, but now she had to learn to live without her dominant hand anymore.  The loss of her art cut at her the most, she was slowly relearning with her right hand but it was slow going.  Garrett did what he could, but she knew that this would have to be a battle of her inner strength.  She looked at the canvas and tilted her head.  She could see the weakness in the lines in Zephyr’s sketch but she was improving.

Alissa chuckled as the door slammed open behind her and a whirlwind burst through.  She scooped up her toddler with her right hand, tucking him against her side with his squeals of delight bouncing throughout the room.  “Mama!  Mama!”

“I see you escaped your father once again.” Alissa looked up as Hawke slid through the door looking so completely frazzled.  She had to laugh at the look Garrett sent their son.  “You take after your father more and more these days.”  She adjusted her grip and Zephyr climbed up her back and clung to her as Garrett made a grab for him.

“It is time for your bath child.” Garrett’s grumbling had Zephyr laughing and keeping the game going.  Alissa grinned and stepped to the side as Garrett grabbed for him.  “You are helping him commit bathtime treason madam.”  He stood toe to toe with her and she merely grinned at him.

“Well, if I’m already being charged with a crime…” Alissa laughed as she wrapped her right arm around Zephyr and they bolted past Garrett.  “I may as well earn the punishment!”  Zephyr’s peals of laughter trailed after them as they dashed away.

“Get back here damn it!”

Zephyr hung over Alissa’s shoulder and pointed at his father.  “Bad word!”

“You’ve heard your mother use worse than me!” Garrett told him as he followed them down the hall.  He reached out and nipped Alissa around the waist and pulled them back against him.  “Gotcha!”  He eased his arms around Alissa and scooped Zephyr out of her grip.

“No!  Mama!”  Zephyr reached for his mother.

“Nope.  Papa caught you fair and square.  Time to take a bath.  You know the rules, Zephyr.”  The toddler huffed and crossed his arms as Garrett carried him to the bathroom.  She turned to the living area and began to pick up the toys and general mess from having a toddler.  She looked up at the ceiling and spotted some of the remains from dinner and just shook her head.  Alissa truly didn’t want to know how that happened.  Garrett could clean it later.

She sat on the bed going through the reports from her still loyal agents and sighed at the grim findings.  She wanted to make sure Solas didn’t make a damn mistake like he did centuries ago as Fen’Harel.  Was that so awful of her?  Tearing down the Veil wouldn’t do anymore good than raising it did.  Surely there could be a balance struck before the disaster unfolded.  Alissa looked up as the door opened and Hawke stood there looking as though the world weighed down his shoulders.  She set the papers on the small nightstand and turned to her husband.

“Come here.”  He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head on her lap.  She ran her fingers through his hair as he let the stress from everything melt away under her fingers.  “I take it the meetings with Varric didn’t go well today?” Hawke groaned and buried his face in her thighs.

“No.  Sebastian is still demanding justice for what Anders did.”  Alissa sighed and leaned back against the headboard.  “Even after Aveline and the Inquisition trounced him.”

“Perhaps I should attend the next meeting?” Alissa asked and Garrett’s arms tightened around her waist.  She chuckled as she heard him grumbling about it.  She thought back to that misunderstanding back in Kirkwall when Hawke thought she was getting engaged to Sebastian.  She was thankful they learned to communicate with each other now because she truly didn’t want to go back to that point in time.  “Don’t pout.”  She poked his cheek and he opened one eye to glare at her.

“A man does not pout.”  Garrett huffed at her.  “I am sulking.”  He turned his face into her stomach as she laughed.

“Alright then.  Stop sulking.”  She brushed his hair off his temple and he huffed.  She suppressed the squeal when he rolled them to the side, shifting until her back was against his chest.  Garrett was so broad that he practically surrounded her, and Alissa loved it.  She felt safe when she was with him.  Her lips turned up in a smile when she felt him brush his lips across the top of her head.

“You want to know something?” Alissa tilted her head back to look at him.  His lips kissed her forehead as she laughed.  “You are my best friend.  I love you, I never stopped.”  Alissa smiled and flipped over to face him.  Her hand reached up for his face, stroking his cheek with her thumb, enjoying the warmth of his skin.

“And I love you.” Alissa smiled when he leaned down and kissed her.  Her body ached at his touch, she wanted more than just a kiss.  Garrett’s hand slid under her shirt with his fingers brushing the underside of her breasts.  Alissa shuddered as he leaned over and pressed a knee between her thighs.

“Mama!!”  They both froze at the cry coming from Zephyr’s room.  Garrett dropped his forehead to hers and sucked in a fortifying breath.

“Let me go see what he wants.” Alissa murmured as she gently nudged Hawke’s shoulder.  He rolled off with a heavy sigh.  “Don’t sulk.” Alissa reached over and tweaked his nose.

“We haven’t had any alone time in forever.”  His fingers closed over her wrist and he kissed the palm of her hand.  “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.  Look, Bethany, and Matthew are visiting soon.  I’ll bribe your sister and my brother to babysit.  How about that?” Garrett perked up and agreed.  “Good.  Now let me see what our son wants.”  Garrett didn’t release her wrist to her surprise.

“I love you.  You are my family.  The heart of it for me.  Don’t forget that.” Alissa was speechless at the wealth of emotion in Hawke’s voice.  She leaned over and kissed him.

“You and Zephyr are my heart as well.  Now, unless you want Zephyr to sleep with us tonight…”  Hawke’s hand flew off her wrist and he rolled over to face the wall.  Alissa grinned and smacked his ass.

“Woman!” Garrett hissed at her over his shoulder but she had stood and headed down the hallway chuckling at the irritation in Hawke’s eyes.

[pontevoix]

until shiganshina, panic makes his teeth hurt & rattles something shrill within his skull. it shoves cotton down his throat. it makes a perpetual dance of though toeing the line of a cliff edge, & it makes him bristle with nervous shots of adrenaline that never really went away. panic sits on him for years.

it only settles in shiganshina because he sank into himself & settled into the disbelief of colossus. the panic only settles in shiganshina for a moment because he feels bigger than competition -

for a moment ( before arlert had been reckless ) bertolt is confident in a calm. no one can beat him because no one knows of that which he is capable.

it brings him back to old memories - foot races, trees climbed, shooting matches. childish games where the outcomes are something indisputable. old memories - in which he never fully thinks of himself as a sore winner because his victory had just been fact.

in shiganshina, he deflects mikasa's sword . he tests artlert. he loses an ear, but that heals. so he loses nothing. he is indisputable.

at that moment , no one has seen him at his worst. no one has seen him at his best.

even now, he still doesn't think anyone has seen him at his worst or his best. his arrogance ruins him in shiganshina because he miscalculated.

vastly, he miscalculated.

& he stops regretting his arrogance the moment he wakes up captive, treacherous, treason. he stops regretting it. there was nothing else to be done. & panic stops ringing in his ears with the old persistence it showed for years because maybe the worst had happened.

in the place of panic grows a type of presiding paranoia. it’s body-based. internal. turbulent.

paranoia isn’t enough. the panic comes back. the first time he swallows it back is the first month after he had been released - the first time that he is granted a modicum of trust that means that no one is looking after him with the same religious rigidity that had determined his clockwork for months.

the modicum of trust is a taste of an old type of fake freedom, & it had been hard to swallow. the ringing in his ears came back, & bertolt feels like punching a wall - even while he has changed :

he has not changed. he is the same. he is deadman, he is liveman. he rejects deadman, & liveman remains.

he has not changed, he is the same. with paranoia added on top in frosted layers, & it'sthen that he learns that panic paronoia can come in waves.

his confidence & newness can come in waves. his life can come in waves.

for one moment, reiner sees bertolt settled into this space ( traitor ) with fingers laced beneath behind his back, relishing sunbeams & trying to prod at raw spaces.

for a second moment, reiner sees the ghost of skeleton.

his perception comes in waves. bertolt's acceptance of the fact will come in waves, too.

reiner washes with the tide. bertolt does not doubt that reiner will again claim that bertolt wields some kind of power of over his life, some sort of justified means of punishing the failures of a a so-called shield. for a repeated moment, bertolt will question again the deadman & reiner's resentment.

but god - at least reiner thinks about it. he feels reiner loiter behind six paces, argue the question of resentment, & sit within it. he feels reiner try the words that he gives on his tongue before he finally grants that he had not resented his bertolt for his isolation in warfare, that he had not resented bertolt for this one thing.

bertolt appreciates that reiner thinks about it. something in him sags; bertolt thinks it might be relief.

his hands fall at his sides & he spins on his heel again. he lets reiner see the upwards lilt at his lips - not quite a smile, but maybe acknowledgement or acceptance or something in between.

' if it helps. i'm not sure if zeke had an option. not with me. i'm not fond of him. he's been a giant thorn - the way that he talked when you got hit with the spears. but jaeger got me . because i fucked up. not because of anything that would have gotten our nape, nothing explosive. but because i got too personal - '

right when he was learning how to be impersonal.

he faces away, walks with the easy long stride that he has always had.

the reason he makes his peace with the way that he was felled is easy - he had been transitioning. those who transition are vulnerable.

' i know zeke has had control of a lot in marley, that he's ranked higher. but i don't think he could have done anything about what happened in shiganshina. except for taking the captain seriously. so maybe there was no other way it could have gone, you know ? '

empty speech empty sentiments. he shrugs about it. he faces headquarters & his smile dies at his lips.

he makes his peace, but he is undecided about how he feels ( or how he felt ) that : the attack titan had ( in his mortal form ) been enough to ruin him, that zeke sits on too many secrets, that he walks with reiner to the headquarters for the scouts.

it feels like cardboard palace of things designed by other people's fables — it is the product of rhetoric & memory scripted. bertolt feels the tension of how it shapes his memory, has how he has played a role in writing memories too.

colossus: the ruiner.

he huffs a laugh, & it's a private sound.

lies & life & death are all too tightly intertwined. they are the future. ' we'll never be able to stop talking about death. ' they are wasteland. bertolt nods & reiner's hand catches him - makes a quick home in his hair & ruffles it & bertolt's paranoia hadn't been enough to catch that.

so his step drags; he hesitates for a moment to indulge in reiner’s smile.

they come in waves. moments of acceptance & appreciation, ebbing right alongside doubt & duty & deliberate denial.

they come in waves. bertolt watches reiner's youth still sketched into his smile now, into the gold still seeping into him from the sun.

after all of this, bertolt is still comfortable with him.

even if reiner ruins it all with a bow.

bertolt rolls his eyes & presses forward. ' yeah, well. keep doing better, braun, . i'll beat you next time, too.  ' it's the sore winner in him that murmurs.

until then, they enter headquarters ( a cardboard palace ) . their boots start to click against wood. they resettle into politics. bertolt still carries something lighter, relief on his shoulders.

but after all this, they are still war.

they split ways.

bertolt goes into a war room.

adaptive.   he  wonders  if  that's  what  he  is.   if  he  looks  at  what's  around  him   &   just  adapts  to  it.   he  wonders  if  that's  shield  or  if  that's survival   ––   or  if  at  this  point,  there's  an  actual  difference  between  the  two. 

teeth  bite  into  his  bottom  lip  for  a  moment  as  he  debates.   as  he  tries  to  find  some  sort  of  answer  for  bertolt  while  actually  having  to  think  about  it.   there's  a  bite  in  his  soul,  the  part  of  him  that  wants  to  lash  out,  wants  to  scream  to  the  high  heavens  that  he's tired   ––   that  he's  tired  of  being  alone.   that  he's  tired  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  for  everything  that  he's  had  to  do  on  his  own.

but  resentment  doesn't  extend  into  that.   there  isn't  a  time  when  he  had  stood  in  the  commander's  office   &   watched  them  look  him  over  like  he  was  shit   &   thought  'fuck  bertolt  for  leaving  me  on  my  own'.   there's  never  been  a  moment  when  he  thought  it  even  when  he  was  taking  artillery  fire.   when  he  was  swimming  in   &   out  of  consciousness  when  healing  in  hospitals.   there's  never  been  a  moment  when  he's  resented bertolt  for  not  being  there.

every  part  of  himself,  since  he  had  been  told  bertolt  had  been  left  on  the  island   &   stepped  off  of  that  boat,  had  been  operating  on  the  numbness  of  regret.   regret  that  he  couldn't  save  him,  regret  that  zeke   &   pieck  had�� chosen  him   &   brought  him  back.   that  at  that  point,  he  had  been  convinced  that  bertolt  was  in  the  jaws  of  a  titan   &   swallowed  by  someone  they  had  called  friend  at  one  point. 

he  has  been  mad  at  the  world,  has  lashed  out  against  it   &   bruised  his  knuckles  from  punching  walls,  only  to  let  steam  rise  in  order  to  hide  the  shame  in  his  explosive  anger.   reiner  was  meant  to  be  shield,  meant  to  be leader,   &   that  meant  that  he  had  to  rein  himself  in.   he  had  to  leash  himself.   he  had  to  swallow  down  his  pride   &   scream  internally  until  he  felt  his  eras  pop  from  the  pressure  of  it.

then  he  had  to  put  on  a  neutral  face  in  front  of  headquarters,  body  straightened,  hands  clasped  behind  his  back.   there  was  steel  resolve  in  a  tense  jaw  even  as  he  was  pulled  apart   &   thrown  tot  he  wolves.   there  had  been  acceptance  in  their  anger.   but  there  had  been  his  own  anger  that  flared  repeatedly,  screaming   &   scratching  inside  his  chest,  begging  to  be  let  out.

there's  a  slow  breath  that  leaves  his  lungs  as  he  watches  bertolt   ––   so  full  of  life   &   actually  there.   not  this  ghost  that  whispers  in  his  ear  at  night  when  he  tries  to  sleep.   he  has  promised  bertolt  that  he  will  stop  thinking  of  him  as  ghost,  but  there's  still  that  bite  in  him  that  finds  it  hard  to  believe.   that  he  has  gotten  something  good  out  of  all  of  this.

he  is  armored,  but  he  can  only  feel  so  much.   he  is  armored,  but  he  can  only  protect  himself  from  so  much.

he  follows  bertolt  as  he  walks,  hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  face  nearly  tipped  up  toward  the  sun.   it  makes  something  warm  whisper  in  his  chest   ––   there  was  a  time  when  he  hadn't  thought  bertolt  was  alive.   it  surges  through  him  again,  that  annoying  need  to  plaster  himself  against  him,  to  hear  a  heart  beat  thrumming.   the  remind  himself  that  life  lurks  there.

〝   no.   the  only  thing  that  i've  resented  is  myself  for  you  being  left  behind.   i  guess  in  that  same  breath,  zeke  for  leaving  you  behind   &   knowing  there  was  something  more  out  there.   but  i  never  resented  you  for  me  having  to  do  it  on  my  own.   you  didn't  have  control  over  it.   i  didn't  either.   〞    he  means  it.   he  doesn't  think  he  could  ever  resent  bertolt,  but  he  also  can't  resent  him  for  being  on  his  own  in  marley,  in  liberio,  in  every  single  war  that  he's  fought  since  he's  left  this  island. 

it's  not  like  bertolt  was  having  a  fun  time  here  in  paradis,  either.

he  watches  the  way  that  his  feet  skip  over  the  dirt,  the  way  that  he  looks  so  at  home  inside  his  body.   the  way  that  he  looks  like  he's  so  full  of  life,  so  thrumming  underneath  the  surface   &   ready  to  burst  free.

he  thinks  maybe  he  likes this  bertolt  more.   likes  what  he  has  to  offer.   likes  that  he  isn't  afraid  to  knock  him  down  a  few  pegs  when  he  gets  out  of  hand. 

the  scrapes  on  his  elbows  confirm  that.   he  doesn't  heal  them.

〝   lets  just,  stop  talking  about  death  yeah?   you  wanna  remember   &   you  want  me  to  treat  you  like  you  aren't  a  ghost.   so  stop  talking  like  one.   〞   his  hand  comes  over  bertolt's  head,  ruffles  at  his  hair  as  they  move.   he  pauses  outside  of  headquarters  though.

he  feels  like  he's  walking  into  a  trap  there.

so  he  just  gives  bertolt  a  light  smile   &   a  sarcastic  bow.     〝   your  new  job  awaits.   it's  been  a  pleasure  getting  my  ass  beat,  hoover.   〞 

[arctrooper69]

Good Soldiers

Orders are orders and Jesse is a good soldier.

A/N: Just something that popped into my head.

Warnings: Order 66. General angst?

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

Jesse's hands were shaking.

Why you? Why did it have to be you?

He was an ARC trooper; his hands didn't shake, they just didn't. He had orders. Kill the Jedi. But why did the Jedi in front of him have to be you?

You stood there frozen, just staring down the barrel of his gun.

"Jesse? What's wrong?" You looked behind you to see what he was aiming at. There wasn't anything there. Logically, that would mean he was aiming at you. But, that couldn't be. Not Jesse. "I'm your protector, cyar'ika. I'm yours and you're mine." Jesse wouldn't ever hurt you, would he?

On any other day, your voice would have been sweet music to his ears, warming his very soul. Today it brought fear, anger, and confusion. Today your voice brought pain that Jesse could feel all the way down to his toes. Traitor. How could you?

"Jesse?" you called again. The usual confidence in your tone wavered. "Jesse what's going on? What are you doing?"

Orders are orders. Orders are orders.

Good soldiers follow orders.

"I..." Jesse swallowed, a feeling of betrayal washing over him like the cold ocean waves of Kamino. His hands shook. He was angry - angry and yet heartbroken.

"You - you're a traitor!" he spat. He let the rage grip him tight between it's claws because the alternative would break him. Jesse was an arc trooper; he couldn't afford to be broken.

"Jesse, I don't know what you're talking about!" The confusion in your voice had turned to shock.

Jesse narrowed his eyes. " You are in direct violation of Order 66. All Jedi will be executed for treason."

"Jesse," you pleaded, hand moving slowly to the lightsaber at your side. "This isn't you! I don't know what's going on so please help me understand!"

Jesse saw your movements. "Freeze! Hands where I can see them!"

You froze obediently and slowly lifted your hands up in surrender. "Jesse you know me! I'm not a traitor. Don't you remember? Don't you remember us?"

Good soldiers follow orders.

"You mean nothing to me."

Good Soldiers....

Jesse blinked at the sudden pain in his head. Memories flashed behind his eyes.

Your lips pressed hard against his. They were soft and tasted of strawberries. He touched you everywhere, exploring everything as you did the same to him. This was a new experience for the both of you. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, Mesh'la." A firey passion set your eyes ablaze as you rode him for the first time. "You are perfect. You feel so good."

His grip on the blaster faltered. You let out a shaky breath that you weren't even aware you were holding and you rushed towards him.

Good soldiers follow orders.

Good soldiers follow orders.

Kill the Jedi.

"Get back!" He commanded, raising the blaster once again. You froze again, stumbling backwards. Jesse was close enough to hear the breath catch in your throat. You were afraid. You, a Jedi, were scared of him, a clone. Fear meant guilt. Guilt meant that Jesse had a job to do.

Good soldiers follow orders.

He raised his head looking you dead in the eyes. Your eyes were wide, tears leaving lines carved faintly down your cheeks. You smelt like strawberries.

Something snapped in Jesse's chest. He gasped stumbling back a step, hands flying to his head.

Good soldiers....

Good...

"No! Please y/n, get away from me! Run! I don't want to hurt you! Please!"

You were fierce in battle, flying effortlessly through the air raining down chaos as you spun, cutting through droid after droid. You were observant.

"Did you know that you clench your teeth when you're concentrating?"

"Can't say I've noticed, General."

You could be so serious at times. So professional, yet there was that cheeky grin you flashed him as you punched a droid in the face. You were compassionate, holding the hand of a brother in pain; brave as you carried a child to safety while the world blew up around you. You were loyal when Jesse fell and you shielded him with your own body, and you were beautiful when you kissed him.

"Fight it Jesse! I'm not leaving you!"

Good soldiers....

He had to fight but it was so hard. The pain in his head nearly blinded him.

Good soldiers follow orders.

Make the pain stop.

Jesse screamed as he felt the electric grasp of a stun bolt hit his chest.

Good soldiers follow orders.

Get up.

Fight.

Another blast and Jesse fell. You caught him before he hit the ground.

"I'm going to help you, Jesse. We can find a way out. Just the two of us. I promise."

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