#until it starts caring about the clarity of it's language

[pyroreadscomics]

Got give Batman: Cataclysm it's due, it's been a while since a comic made me spit take

Unfortunately, it due to how baffling it's characterization of Selina is.

Catwoman, famed thief, doing an "Anti-Looter Patrol"? Just No. Sure, Selina being faced with Armageddon and becoming a hero for the during of the crisis, that's in character, that's precedented in this run. Even with 90s Selina being... honestly the most amoral I've read her as post crisis, this works. However the idea that the way Selina is helping in this crisis is by patrolling for looter? Selina? Catwoman? 90s Catwoman? Miss "fuck you got mine"? Selina who had to turn to theft to survive a life on the streets? I had to double check that Huntress hadn't shown up this was so out of character. It would more in character for Selina to help looters looking for food and provisions, or for her to knock over a pharmacy and backpack the supplies over to that field hospital Barbara got set up. She would not decide that now, when some people might have lost everything that had including a roof to sleep under, a second pair of clothes, and food for tommorrow, is the moment to start enforcing the property laws she'd been laughing in the face of her entire teenage and adult life.

[becomingthatgirl111]

organize your week like this to be closer to the best version of yourself

i interpret the process of becoming our best version as climbing a ladder, on each step, we learn something new that serves us, and the next we complement it with something new, and so on until we reach the end and after many small habits we have become that version we wanted to be. little by little we are learning and although sometimes it is complicated to climb because of the adversities that may arise we can always take up the path again and put into practice what we have learned. that said, today i want to share a method that i have created to organize our habits and thus fulfill them more effectively and feel motivated. in this post i will only present some examples, you have to apply it to your own situation and my recommendation is to start now even with small habits that will be the ones that will lead you to success. i recommend that you try it for this week and write down your results, if it has worked for you keep using this "organization method" and adding new habits or increasing its time.

organize by categories.

create groups to categorize the habits you want to implement in your life, for example like this (the habits are examples, use your own)

🌿 health (body and nutrition)

10 minutes of exercise every day

30 minutes of walking every day

drink a lot more water

start eating consciously

one self-care day a week, for example on friday. we can take this day more relaxed and take more care of ourselves, dedicate more time to our personal and mental care.

do massage with the quartz roller and gua sha

make an appointment for nails, hairdresser, spa, eyelashes or even go to a coffee shop with yourself.

use a face mask and hair mask

🌿 personal growth

read 10 pages a day

listen to personal growth podcasts or audiobooks (choose one and listen to it all week long)

choose an affirmation and write it down every day

record in a diary or an app your mood and what you did during the day.

create a to-do list of what you will do for the day (the night before)

choose a video of affirmations and listen to it every day at a time that suits you best

🌿 studies

study about what you are studying or training for.

dedicate e.g. 20-30 minutes each day to study or review.

study a new language, 15 minutes a day, 5 days a week.

🌿 hobbies

1 - 2 hours to what you enjoy doing (depends on the day and your schedule)

you can write down in a notebook the groups you want to choose for yourself and then the habits you are going to implement, even if they are very small, for example 5 minutes of daily exercise, that is a good start.

to stay focused and not fall into old habits we can also replace the old habits with new ones that we want to implement in this way.

old habit: too much time on instagram new habit: reading or listening to an audiobook while i take a walk. or even just 15 minutes of social media a day.

other examples:

drinking soda or alcoholic beverages > drinking a lot more water and starting to drink natural juices.

watch a lot of series on netflix (or any streaming platform) > read or listen to podcasts/audiobooks that nourish my mind.

overthinking, worrying > meditating for about 5 minutes

lying in bed without doing anything > organizing my room

think in negative > think about the things you would like to happen to you

other tips to connect with your best version

write in your diary how you would act, be and what habits your best version would have. this will give you clarity about what you want and you will feel closer to that because you will know how to act.

establish small habits to start with and take it as a kind of game or test during this week. don't push yourself too hard.

at times when you don't know how to act or react, think about how your best version would act and what it would do.

write down things you are proud of or would like to be proud of.

if you are easily distracted or do not know what to do at any given moment, set alarms to know what to do at that moment.

if you use social media a lot, set a limit of use.

choose habits that you know you will be able to do easily, that will make you gain confidence and little by little establish those habits in which you have procrastinated or which are more difficult for you.

think big, open yourself to the possibilities that life offers you every day and keep a positive attitude towards any situation.

apps i recommend: habit: it serves to keep track of your habits and also get organized, it's a kind of to-do list. daylio: you can record your mood, what you did during the day and your habits, it also allows you to write and add photos. it is very complete, it can be used as a digital diary. notion: to get organized.

duolingo: if you want to learn a language a few minutes a day will be enough. i learned a lot of grammar in english thanks to this, which works if you practice daily.

and as always my blog is about this and there will be many more related posts in addition to the existing ones, all to be our best version 🤍 in fact if you try it i would love to know your results.

[vee6lolz]

𝖇𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝖍𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝖇𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬.

summary; after falling in love with spencer reid, you navigate the challenges that come with your relationship. While you cherish your moments together, the rough patches can be hard to ignore. One day, in an effort to find clarity, you go shopping and unexpectedly discover something world shattering. But before you can share the news with Spencer, he comes home with a shocking revelation that could change everything between you.

cw!!; +18 content, minors dni!, spencer reid x reader, angst, cliffhanger ending, breakups, mentions of drug use, mentions emetophobia warning; vomiting -- mentions of pregnancy -- Y/N HAS A GIRL KISSER BSF !

. w/c: 4.1k -- don't forget to like / reblog !! this is not proof read + english is not my first language

You and Spencer had been privately dating for seven months. At first, it was exciting. sneaking around, leaving parties early to go hook up in the bathroom, the birthday sex, apology sex, apology for apologizing with sex sex, it was easy, it was simple—you both met through a party he and his team was invited to by your best friend Ciara, who was friends with the one and only Penelope Garcia. you both got to talking and by the end of the night, you were snuggled up in his bed with his dick in your mouth. and he learned two things that night. 1. he had never had head that brought him so much ecstasy. and two, by the way your outgoing demeanor fit perfectly with being his more shy and non-direct, you were the one for him and he would've been a fool to let you slip through his fingers. those late-night study sessions, stolen kisses in dimly lit hallways, and quiet moments over coffee made you feel like the luckiest person in the world. but the moment that you hit the three month mark, everything went downhill. and usually, at six months, its supposed to be good again, right? wrong.

the past few months had turned into a whirlwind of arguments. It felt like every time you talked, it spiraled into a fight over something that should have been minor. “You don’t understand what I’m going through, Spencer!” you yelled one evening after a tough day at work where he seemed more focused on the case than on how you were feeling. “I do, understand [y/n] I just don't care. Not everything has to be about you.” that night, you both had shouted over each other until the early hours of the morning, hearts racing, voices raised, and emotions running high. the tension felt suffocating. and to ease it you tried to have makeup sex, and he started an argument while literally inside you because he felt like you were faking orgasms and doing it in a obvious way to make him feel bad; you were.

It wasn’t just work stress that fueled the fire; it was the pressure of hiding your hardships relationship from your colleagues, the weight of lying to your friends, and the constant fear of him leaving. and the fear of you leaving for him only made him resent you more. sometimes, it felt like you were living a double life, and you didn’t know how to bridge the gap between your love for Spencer and the isolation that secrecy brought. the make-up moments after the fights were fleeting, filled with hugs and quiet apologies as you tried to mend the shaky ground you were standing on. you’d find yourselves wrapped in each other’s arms, promises lingering in the air that things would change, but deep down, you both knew nothing had really shifted.

but today, everything felt heavier than usual. you had woken up to yet another silent treatment from spencer, both of you too stubborn to reach out to each other first. the anxiety had burrowed deep in your chest, making it hard to breathe. you could sense it—Ciara had noticed. when she came over, she was met with a hurried and agitated spence who only muttered a cold greeting before walking out the door as fast as he opened it for her. her footsteps where light and quick, making her way towards your bedroom where she heard retching and coughing.

you spit into the toilet bowl, groaning in discomfort as everything you had last week came back to haunt you. you looked up at Ciara as she held your hair back, getting her fingers tangled as she took a moment to try her best to untangle them without scalping you. You sat there in front with your head down as you dry gagged, and once you were safe, you reached up and flu shed the toilet.

Ciara rubbed your back for a little before pulling your head to rest on her chest, planting sweet kisses on your forehead. you giggle at the sensation and make tsk sounds. “If you were a man,” you muttered, to which she rolls her eyes at you and lets you go with a smile, helping you stand up, she runs some water so you pat your mouth with it and spit out all the yucky residue left over. she starts asking questions and all you can think back at was this morning. it pained you and you felt your heart sink the more you thought back at it, you realize that him expressing his feelings, yelling, insulting, or even cursing you would've been better. he just left you, in silence. he didn't acknowledge you, and it just made you feel terrible. you looked at Ciara, overcome with emotions which got you a confused look. “What's going on with you--”

“He didn't even look at me, cee.” You muttered as tears filled your eyes uncontrollably. your emotions overwhelmed you as you melted into her arms, you were holding her incredibly tight, she probably wouldn't be able to breathe if you gave her an oxygen tank. She scrambled over her words trying to find away to not pass out from the lack of blood going to her brain because you were quite literally blocking any blood flow possible. She tapped your back and you released your death grip, to which she exhaled heavily.

“Who, What? What are we talking about?”. you stared up at her with a expression of depression, not moving your lips to answer her question. It gave her the answer alone. “That's not... like him.”. Scoffing, you shook your head and wiped your tears, your mood switching from self-pity to pure and undeniable anger. “It's exactly, like him. Actually.”. She tried her best to calm you down but you couldn't, you just walked out of the bathroom and fell face first on the bed, screaming and letting out all of your frustration on his cotton sheets. You started mumbling out of intense anger, and Ciara just stood there, flinching with every curse that flew through your lips as if you were going to reach backwards and bite her.

It took you twenty-and-some minutes to calm down. It took you three to go back to being sad and depressed. Your mood swings were seriously giving her whiplash. You sat up and heaved, sobbed, flew your arms around like a toddler. Ciara sat with you and let you sob on her chest until you start hyperventilating, she blew on your face so you could catch your breathe, shushing you to soothe your tears. Your brain felt fuzzy, your senses has softened.

The only thing that you felt was the immense pounding on your head you couldn't help but feel. “How about we go on a little drive, yeah?” you looked up at her with your red eyes glistening was a tear fell down your cheek, you nodded. you needed fresh air. “Yeah?” She spoke in a soft voice, kissing your head. “Alright go put on some clothes ill be out here,”

Ciara sat behind the wheel, the engine humming softly as she pulled away from spencer's place. The cool breeze wafted through the slightly open window, sending a refreshing shiver through you. You let it wash over you, momentarily grounding you in the present. Still, your mind felt fuzzy, caught in a haze that blurred your thoughts and emotions. It was as if you were floating, untethered from reality, with everything around you blurring into a muddled backdrop.

the streets rushed by, and while the world outside was alive with the chatter of people and the vibrant colors of storefronts, you found yourself lost in your own silence. You stared at the trees lining the road, their branches dancing in the breeze, but even their movement felt distant and out of reach. each passing moment felt like an echo, reverberating through your mind but leaving no traces of clarity.

Ciara’s was talking, filled with energy and it made you feel oh, so worse because you were not listening. “No, dude, I'm being so serious. I told her that she can either get her shit together and stop acting like a little kid or she can pack her shit and leave because I've had enough crazy girlfriends to know it is not for the fucking weak.” you barely registered the words. they floated in one ear and out the other, your focus remaining hazy. you shifted in your seat slightly, trying to push the swirling emotions away, yet they clung to you like a shadow.

“You’d think we were fighting we were fighting over me burning her house down, no. A miss call, a singular miss call and I called her back immediately. And of course, she chose to get her act together because... honestly, would you leave me?” she joked, grinding in her seat to pop her ass a little;

the corners of your mouth twitched, but you didn’t have the energy to respond; the effort felt monumental. As the scenery shifted from commercial buildings to the broader expanses of the mall, you caught yourself wishing you could feel that lightness again. The breeze slipping through the window felt nice, but every now and then, a wave of discomfort coursed through you, reminding you of the things you were trying to forget.

Ciara continued talking, sharing the latest gossip, her voice a steady stream of sound that mingled with the whoosh of passing cars. “and after that, she tried to hookup with me as an “apology”. if she could lick my pussy a couple times and I'm going to immediately forgive her... she's right.”

Still, you remained silent, lost in thought. The feelings swirling within you were too tangled to unravel—the confusion, the sadness, the weight of it all. It felt heavy, and as you drove closer to the mall, the world outside turned brighter, but for you, it remained shrouded in dimness.

As Ciara pulled into the parking lot, the chaotic colors of the mall surrounded you. She parked the car, casting a glance your way. “Alright, no talk of Spencer with the little dick while we're here alright?”

You nodded slowly, but your mind was still a storm of thoughts and emotions that had yet to settle. The sounds of laughter and footsteps filled the air as you stepped out of the car, but even amidst the noise, you felt like you were still floating, caught between what was real and what was just a distraction.

“There's no reason to lie to make me feel better,”, she laughed.

as you and Ciara stepped into the mall, the vibrant atmosphere enveloped you like a cocoon, yet the comfort it should have provided seemed out of reach. the air hummed with energy: laughter echoed against polished floors, the shuffling of bags blended into an excited chorus, and the enticing aromas of popcorn, pretzels, and fried food wafted through the space, each scent calling to a desire for comfort that you just couldn’t find.

you glanced around, taking in the kaleidoscope of people—the families with cheerful children, groups of friends chatting animatedly as they moved, and couples entwined in conversation. Yet, as the cheerful masses moved past, a heavy discontent settled within your chest, a constant nagging feeling that wouldn’t let up. Your thoughts were tangled, fighting the urge to not talk about spencer.

the urges whooped your ass.

“Ugh, I can’t believe how dramatic Spencer has been lately,” you began, shaking your head as you ambled towards the escalator up to victoria's secret each step feeling heavier than the last. You reached for a sleek top on a nearby rack, your fingers brushing the fabric as you stated, “He didn't even tell me what his problem was this time, Ciara. He's like a fucking kid,”

Ciara nodded, her attention shifting between you and the vibrant clothes on display. “He's exactly like Manny. You know if you were a lesbian, I'm pretty sure you would've been with her by now.”

"Har-har." you let out a fake laugh, pulling the top closer to you and inspecting it in the harsh fluorescent lights. “and its not like I don't fuck with him. Of course I do, but its only okay when I do it! and i never do it first.”

She stared at you.

“Okay, I mostly never do it first.”

you stepped into the fitting rooms, pulling aside the curtain with a little more force than necessary. Ciara leaned against the wall outside, concern evident in her eyes. “Well, it sounds like he’s really going through something. I mean the last time he had a girlfriend was years ago, plus she did get shot in front of him. Maybe, just maybe... he needs time to adjust to having you.”

“It's been 6 months, how much time does he need.” you admitted, slipping into a pair of jeans. “I’m trying to support him, but at the same time, it feels like whenever I need support I'm the 'crazy' one.”

you spun in front of the mirror, checking the fit, and briefly appreciated the outfit, but the satisfaction was fleeting. You couldn’t shake the gnawing frustration and worry that lingered in your mind. After trying on a few more items, you settled on a cozy sweater that draped nicely over your shoulders and a pair of jeans that tugged your ass and thighs perfectly.

Stepping out of the fitting room, you caught sight of Ciara’s bright smile—a thumbs-up that fueled a flicker of confidence despite the dark cloud of your thoughts. “You look great! Food?” she chirped, her enthusiasm piercing through your fog. “I look like I got fat, but, yes.” you giggled.

“Yeah, only in the right places.” she replied, leaving a quick smack on your ass. the idea of food felt foreign to you, your appetite making you uneasy. and the more you thought about it, you weren't really prone to gaining weight. in the last eight weeks, you've gained almost seven pounds. even as you walked toward the food court, the excited chatter and laughter felt like a cruel reminder of the happiness you were struggling to hold onto with Spencer.

as you navigated through the chaos of the food court, the aromas wrapped around you, each scent competing for your attention. You scanned the options—pizza, burgers, Asian stir-fry, sizzling hot dogs—but as much as your stomach wanted to respond, it remained cold and distant.

Ciara and you eventually settled on a plate of asian food. You found a table, and despite the enticing food in front of you, the heaviness in your chest pulled you down, dimming your appetite further.

while Ciara was talking about her sex life, your own thoughts lingered on Spencer: his hands, the way his mind worked like a finely tuned machine, how he would

“when I tell you she had me bent in ways I can't say out loud because I would be put on some kind of list--” Ciara’s words finally broke through the fog in your mind, and you looked at her, your voice barely above a whisper, “I feel… weird.”

Ciara’s smile faded, concern etching itself across her face. “What do you mean weird? ”

The discomfort swelled inside you as the weight of your stomach pressed down further. “I don’t know. It’s just everything… ugh. I really don’t feel good.” The admission felt heavy on your tongue, yet fear flooded through you, mingling with confusion and anxiety.

“Hey, [y/n] uh--” Ciara said, her voice laced with concern as she leaned closer, trying to draw you back into the moment. “Breathe, okay? Just uh--”

her voice did no help, the world around you began to tilt, the bright lights and laughing voices tuned out as your vision began to blur. A rising wave of dizziness crashed over you, swallowing every sense until you felt on the verge of vanishing into the void of darkness.

before you could utter another word, the world slipped away in an instant—darkness encased you, quieting the chaos of the food court and pressing down into a silence that felt weighty yet freeing. You couldn’t tell if you were floating or falling, but nothing remained except an overwhelming absence -- and then your body hit the floor.

“[y/n]? [Y/N]! Someone help, please!” Ciara begged and yelled out as she breathed on your face, checking your pulse. you were breathing, that's all that mattered. being in school for nursing, really wasn't doing her any justice at the moment.

three-hundred-thirty-eight minutes. that's how long it took for you to wake up.

you gradually regained consciousness to the muted buzz of light and occasional distant sounds filtering through the haze of your mind. blinking several times, you squinted against the warm, yellow light spilling through the curtains in the hospital room. the glow felt too harsh against your eyelids, and as you turned your head slightly, a wave of dizziness swept over you.

a sharp ache spiked through your temples, and you instinctively raised a hand to your forehead, feeling the softness of the pillows beneath you. your body felt heavy, soreness settling deep in your muscles—each small movement sent prickles of discomfort shooting through your limbs. you groaned softly, the sound a mere whisper in the stillness of the room.

The room itself was a comforting chaos, the machines beeping, the flowy blue curtains. But it was the smell that truly caught your attention: a mix of treacle sweetness from ciara's half-eaten candy bar on the nightstand, which you grabbed over and took a chunk out of. the clean scent of freshly laundered sheets, and just a hint of the medication. it was oddly grounding, and for a moment, it eased the nausea rising in your stomach like a tidal wave.

taking a deep breath, you lay still, attempting to collect your thoughts. fragments of memory flickered through your mind—little moments of laughter and joy interspersed with the anxiety that had been consuming you before everything went dark. You remembered the bustling vibe of the mall, the annoying feeling of your heart racing, and a sudden wave of dizziness that had pulled you down. panic surged through you as you recalled Ciara’s frantic voice, calling for help when you collapsed.

“there's, no way I actually fainted.” you murmured to yourself, the thought sending a shiver down your spine. “ew, that's so corny.” you felt a flush of heat creep up your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and concern. you turned to ciara, whose face was unchanged the entire time. her face stayed the same -- she looked horrified. concern. something was wrong with you, and you had a really bad feeling about what. it wasn't stress, it wasn't spencer. it was something else.

thirty-eight minutes. thats how long it took for you to find out.

ciara stayed by your side, her face didn't dare to flinch. a nurse stepped quietly into the room, her hesitant movements breaking the fragile quiet that enveloped the space. the atmosphere felt charged, and you could sense the shift immediately, your heart beginning to pound. the light from the window framed ciara, washing over her in a way that felt almost ethereal. as her expression morphed from concern into something more serious, an unsettling tension settled between you, pinning you both in a moment that seemed to stretch on.

when the nurse began to deliver the news her words flowed without sound, each gesture amplifying the weight of what she had to say. you felt your breath hitch as a wave of uncertainty crashed over you, the reality of her news unsettling sinking in like a stone. the room, once familiar and comforting, suddenly felt small and suffocating, the walls closing in as vivid memories backtracked through your mind—laughter, plans, and dreams that now teetered on the brink of change. the warmth of the space became oppressive as your heart raced, fear mingling with disbelief.

in an instant, the safety of your world unraveled, and the gravity of ciara's presence anchored you to an unsettling truth. the air was thick with unvoiced questions, your heart heavy with the weight of responsibility and the unknown. as the silence roared in your ears, every breath turned bittersweet, a reminder of how everything that had once seemed so certain was now tinged with complexity. you stood there, caught between the past and an uncertain future, realizing in that moment that everything had changed.

fifteen minutes. that's how long it took to get discharged.

the car glided smoothly along the dark road, the headlights casting fleeting beams of light onto the pavement, illuminating the otherwise shadowy world outside. ciara sat in the drivers seat seat, her silhouette a quiet presence lost in thought, her silence wrapping the cabin in an almost palpable stillness. each soft breath she took seemed to mirror the steady thrum of the engine, but the weight of her unspoken emotions filled the air, creating a tension that was hard to ignore. the familiar contours of the landscape slipped by in an undulating blur, trees lining the road like silent sentinels.

as the miles rolled on, your mind began to wander, seeking distraction in the rhythmic pattern of passing objects. you started to count the trees, the sturdy trunks becoming a makeshift anchor in the sea of swirling thoughts. one after another, the arboreal figures flickered past, offering a sense of solace as if each counted tree marked a moment of time that moved further away from the hospital. the darkened silhouettes blurred together, yet you found a strange comfort in the repetitive task, allowing your focus to drift into the rhythm of your surroundings.

six hours, thirty-one minutes. and not a single call from spencer.

as the car glided to a stop in the driveway, the familiar surroundings of your home greeted you with an unsettling mix of comfort and anxiety. the sky was turning shades of purple and orange, a vivid sunset framing the moment. ciara turned off the engine and sat in silence for a moment, her eyes fixed on the front door, as if gauging its significance. you both understood that what waited beyond that threshold was life-changing.

you unbuckled your seatbelt and took a deep breath, your mind swirling with thoughts you had been trying to organize all day. today had felt unending, a series of moments stacked upon one another, each one urging you toward this very conclusion. the weight of what you needed to reveal pressed heavily on your chest, and you were acutely aware of the time you had spent wrestling with your emotions.

ciara glanced at you, her expression a blend of concern and encouragement. you could tell she wanted to say something, perhaps offer reassurance, but instead, she simply gave your hand a gentle squeeze. the gesture felt grounding, a reminder that while you were stepping into the unknown, you were not entirely alone.

with a nod, you exited the car, the cool evening air wrapping around you like a cloak. you took a moment on the doorstep, hesitating as you glanced back at ciara, who offered you a reassuring smile before she drove away. the sound of the engine faded, leaving you with the echo of your own heartbeat.

spencer sat there, something heavy on his mind. his shirt was off, and he was stood in sweatpants and the line of his boxers showing. his hair was damp and flew down to his shoulders, his arms clinging onto the back of his neck and he eyed you up and down. you stared up at him with heavy, red eyes. you set down your purse and stared off into the distance.

he stared at you in silence. it was pissing you off. he was acting like a fucking child, and now really wasn't the time. your heart raced as your thoughts spiraled, the weight of everything you had been holding inside bubbling just beneath the surface. You could feel the frustration rising as you realized you were no longer willing to play your eyes met, and in that shared moment of understanding, something unspoken ignited.

“I can’t do this anymore,”

“I'm pregnant.” You blurted simultaneously.

The air shifted, charged with the gravity of your revelation and his confession, and the silence that had ruled the room felt like it was finally ready to crack open, revealing the unvoiced truths waiting just beneath the surface. your eyes widened and jaw feel open, as you grasped what just came out of his mouth. tears welled up at your eyes, and his met with yours with the same expression, and at the same time you both uttered;

“What?”

reblog or comment for part 2 <3

[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 1

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Warnings: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here.

Next

CH.1

‘What is he doing here? Ten years and he comes to Gravity Falls of all places? He must want something… Probably money. I don’t have the time or energy to entertain his neediness or dependency.’

‘Wait, what? Why’d he just walk past me? He’s ignoring me? Is this some mental game he’s trying to play? I’m not playing his games today. He isn’t going to manipulate me into starting a dialogue.’

‘...And he’s still walking away, hasn’t even turned his head back.’

‘Whatever, it doesn't bother me.’ 

‘It doesn't bother me.’

‘It bothers me!’

‘IT BOTHERS ME A LOT!’ “HEY!”

"Woah, stop yelling-. Can I help you?"

"Is that all you have to say, after what you did?"

"You're going to have to be more specific."

"Really, Stanley?"

"Look man if I owe you money, I'll have it by the end of the week."

"It hasn't been that long, there's no reason you shouldn't recognize me."

"Drawing a blank, buddy. Maybe you're not that special."

"...Me? Your twin? Your identical twin?"

"I think I'd know if I had a twin - look, sorry if you're mistaking me for someone else. But you're really barking up the wrong tree here."

"Wait, what's wrong with-"

"Woah dude, hands off!"

"Stanley... are you injured?"

"Uh, yeah. But it's not a big deal."

"What's your injury?"

"Keep your damn voice down, guy-"

"Stanford- Ford. You know that!"

"Okay FORD if you must know, it's just a couple stab wounds. Nothing to worry about."

"A couple?! As in more than one? Have you been to the hospital for this?"

"I can't afford that shit. Three stab wounds isn't anything serious- four would slow me down, I don't start to worry until about five."

"That's not how stab wounds work!"

"Please, I've been stabbed enough times to know."

"Somethings very wrong, Stanley- you need medical care, and fast-"

"What are you, a doctor?"

"Yes."

"...A medical doctor?"

"...No."

"Uh-huh, okay PhD, I appreciate your civic concern, but my conditions and lack thereof is none of your business. I'm sure you're a decent conversationalist when you're talking to someone you know, but I got places I need to be"

"Wait, before you go, I have one more question. Does this rag smell like chloroform to you?"

"Pft, you really think I'd fall for that?"

"No."

CLICK

*Looks down and see’s Ford jabbed him in the abdomen with a tranquilizing gun. Looks back up at Ford. Looks back down at the gun slightly longer. Then looks back up at Ford again.*

"Touché, Doc."

To be continued...

[starogeorgina]

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲

Paring: Aegon II Targaryen x reader

Warnings: None

Chapter: 1.01

“Rhaenyra!” You continue to rapidly bang your fist against the door leading into your elder sister's bedroom. “Rhaenyra, open this door right now!”

You hated her.

“You’re a fucking coward to hide from me!” You didn’t care that your language was unfit for a young lady, a princess; Rhaenyra had cut you deeply, and you wanted to make sure she knew it. “Unlock this door at once!”

You hated her.

“I would have never done this to you,” you sob. “I loved you, Rhaenyra, my big sister. We’re supposed to look out for each other, not... I would never do this. Not to you, never.”

You only stop banging on the door when your fist is pulled back by Ser Criston. “You need to stop before you hurt yourself, princess.”

You knew he was right, but it didn’t stop the anger that was radiating through you. Not only has Rhaenyra humiliated you by sleeping with your husband, she has also given birth to his sons. Three of them. Something you were never even given the chance to do. Your brain comes to a heartbreaking realization, one that makes you want to scream as soon as you think about it. Rhaenyra doesn’t care about you and never did. You feel your knees start to weaken, and your stomach drops. The knight whispers, “I know you’re hurting, princess, but they aren’t worthy of your tears.”

You take a deep breath and wipe your fallen tears away, knowing that he was right. “Thank you, Ser Criston.”

“The queen heard about what happened and would like for you to join her in her quarters. She wishes to offer you her comfort.”

You blink away the tears, your vision becoming more clear, and when it does, you see your husband standing down at the opposite end of the hallway. No doubt he was coming to see her. He was staring at you, looking worried. You feel your heart harden, not wanting to give him or her the satisfaction of seeing you hurt. You push back the sob, desperately wanting to escape your throat. “Ser Criston, do you mind escorting me to the queen's chambers?”

“Of course, princess.”

—

“How could she betray me in such a way?”

Alicent wraps her around your shoulder; she seems genuinely concerned about you. You had managed to maintain a smidgen of your dignity by holding your head high as you walked through the castle, ignoring all the side-eye glances and whispers going on around you. One of Alicent’s ladies-in-waiting brings in a tray of tea that’s supposed to help calm nerves.

“Prin-”

“Y/N,” you correct with a weak smile.

Lord Strong nods, “Y/N, I am ashamed to admit that rumors of my brother's betrayal had reached me long ago, but I assumed there was no truth to it. It wasn’t until I learned about the incident in the training yard this morning that I came to realize it was true.”

You had spent the last year defending Rhaenyra and Harwin, insisting that Jacaerys and Lucerys weren’t fathered by your husband before you were married. Because of your age, you had yet to lay with Harwin, and you thought if he was going to stray, it would be in the streets of silk, not with your own flesh and blood.

“She swore to me in our mothers names that they were Ser Lenors true-born sons. How could I have been so foolish?”

“You aren’t foolish, my sweet.” Alicent picks up a cup of tea and hands it to you, giving you a sympathetic look as she notices your hands trembling. “You have been deceived, and I can only imagine what Viserys will have to say when he finds out.”

You shake your head. It was widely known that Rhaenyra was your father's favorite, and learning what she was really like could be the thing that breaks him. “My love for my father is the only thing keeping me quiet. He is sick; finding out the truth about what Rhaenyra has done might be the thing that kills him, and I do not want him to suffer. If I’m being honest, I don’t know what to do.”

“I find that praying helps me find clarity and reassurance. I pray to the mother nightly; you can join me if you wish.”

“Perhaps I should pray to the warrior as well as the mother.” You chuckle lightly. “I could really use the gods' strength and courage."

—

After visiting the sept the night previously, the queen had arranged for you to stay in a separate bedchamber for the night since your quarter was beside Rhaenyra’s.

In the morning, Ser Criston escorted you back to your quarters; with him by your side, nobody dared approach you. The knight made pleasant small talk and even managed to make you laugh. When you reach your quarters, you thank him before walking into your bedchamber. You sit down at your vanity and begin to unbraid your hair, only stopping when you hear the door opening.

“Flora?” You call out, hoping to see your lady in waiting, who has become a close friend over the years. “Flora, is that you?”

When you turn around, you’re stunned to see Rhaenyra and Harwin. At first, you were afraid that the sight of them would upset you, but now, as you sit in front of them, all you feel is anger.

You say nothing; you turn your back on them and shift your attention to taking the remainder of your braids out. You push down the lump forming in your throat when Rhaenyra kneels down beside you with tears in her eyes. You pretend she isn’t even there and get up to go pick a dress to wear once you are bathed.

“Y/n! Y/n, please,” Rhaenyra begs. “It happened before you were betrothed! I never wanted you to find out like this. Sister, please! Just let me explain!”

You had fully intended to continue giving her the cold shoulder, but hearing the word sister caused you to snap. You can’t believe she had the nerve to call you that. You spin around fast, and your expression pulls into one of anger and hurt as you snap, “Don’t call me that again.”

Rhaenyra steps back as if you’d struck her.

Harwin says, “I am sincerely sorry for betraying your trust.”

You scoff, annoyed that he seems upset when it’s you that should be hurt by his dishonorable actions. “Until such a time that I am of age to perform my duty as princess and your wife, I don’t think we need to speak again.”

“Princess…”

“You may leave, Ser Harwin.”

When the knight leaves, you turn to face your sister, whose eyes were bloodshot from crying, which angers you further. “Since the day Jace was born, I have loved him; the same is true of Luke. You’ve watched me play with them and sing to them. I’ve basically grown up with them, and not once did you ever think to tell me they were fathered by Harwin.”

“I tried to spare you the pain of knowing the truth.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips past your lips. “You must really hate me.”

She squeezes her eyes shut as more tears roll down her cheeks. “I love you.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve always looked up to you; I wanted to be just like you. My perfect big sister.” You shake your head, backing away from her slightly when she reaches for you. “Do not touch me.”

“When father told me about his plans for you and Harwin to wed, I tried to stop the betrothal; I really did.”

“I believe you,” you say, wiping away more fallen tears. You hardly knew Harwin; he would occasionally accompany you on walks around the garden, and nothing more than a kiss on the back of the hand was shared between you, but he was still your husband. “Both Jacaerys and Lucerys were born before the betrothal; I would have easily looked past that and done everything I could to help protect them. But Joffrey, he’s only a few days old. Even after I married Harwin, you continued to have an affair with him.”

You see guilt pass over her features before she drops her gaze to the floor and says, “I’m sorry.”

“I still love my nephews; that will never change, but I can’t be around them right now. Not after knowing what I know, it will just be a constant reminder."

“Of my betrayal.” Rhaenyra takes a deep breath; red patches have appeared across her neck and chest. “I hope one day you can forgive me.”

When Rhaenyra leaves the room, you throw yourself onto your bed, pull your pillow to your face, and sob into it. This was too much pressure for a girl of one and five to bear.

When someone knocks at your door, you groan a little, assuming Harwin or Rhaenyra had come back. “Go away,” you mumble into your pillow. You lift your head to tell them to go away, but change your mind when you see who it is “Aegon, what are you doing here?”

He avoids looking you in the eye and shrugs. “My mother said you were upset.”

“So you came to check on me?”

You weren’t much older than Aegon; before you had even celebrated your first name day, your father had remarried, and Queen Alicent was pregnant. You were surprised to see Aegon, considering he didn’t spend much time with any of your siblings.

He rolls his eyes and says, “No.”

“Oh, then what are you doing here?”

“Wanted to know if you’d like to go dragon riding together.”

You smile and say, “Sure, that sounds like fun.”

Aegon on Sunfyre and you on Ghost were exactly what you needed to take your mind off everything else that was going on.

[maudie-duan]

Series Summary: Harry has been fighting to keep his relationship with Olivia afloat for nearly two years. At what point do you choose to either endure or let the strain of the world defeat his ambitious hopes of a lasting relationship? Or will a single night and a fleeting encounter be enough to change the projection of Harry’s path? Maybe our ‘Mystery Girl,’ Shiloh, will just happen to be in the right place at the right time. 

A/N: Happy early weekend! There's something fucked about a drunk dial! hope you enjoy!!

Tag List: @howling-wolf97 @sassamanda77 @babegoalsreads @palmettogal508 @indierockgirrl

@lizsogolden @sexymfharriet @pologoonies

Word Count: 2.3K

Warning: Strong language, minor angst, eventual smut, emotional.

It’s sort of a dazed wonderment getting a call on the cusp of sleep. There’s always that disorienting split-second of—is this real or am I dreaming, but when you choose to answer, you’re taking that risk, right? I knew who it was before his deep voice even filled the line. His sister had given me his number as a “head-up” and asked if it was okay if he reached out for business. She didn’t want me caught off-guard if he called. 

She asked me if she could share my number with him. I thought it bold on his part—dangerous—I wondered how long he would sit with my number before he decided to call—deep down, I almost wished he would call. Maybe it would bring some clarity, maybe even answer the questions nagging at my brain, but there’s a reason they say, “Careful what you wish for…”

“Hello…?” he questions, followed by a muffled “damn…” That’s not as clear because I barely register what was said until I hear, “I think…” his mouth getting closer to the phone. 

There’s a delayed pause, and then the rasp of his voice is back, his thick accent falling heavy on my ear, “Think that’s right…hello?” He repeats, and I hold my breath.

The realization sends me into a silent panic, and I hesitate to say anything because I know that, without a doubt, we should not be talking, “Hi…” I say, weary to continue, because one, it’s late, and two, something about this feels unsettling. 

“Oh—thought it was still ringin’—"

“It’s Harry…obviously…you know from the photo—”

I cut him off, “yeah, I know—” I tell him, my voice firm. “What’s up?” I ask because I’m not sure why he’s calling, even though there are a million things I would love to say, I can’t. I know from experience that nothing good comes from a late-night call, and it’s almost 2 a.m.

“I think this is you…”

“Who?” I asked, wondering if he had called the wrong number. Then I thought it had to be intentional, and here’s where it got tricky—and dammit, there were already a million more questions threatening to send me down a spiral.

“You—because you’re Shi—Shiloh sounds like an “oh” at the end…”

“Harry, why are you calling?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.

“don’t know…it’s hard to tell—"

“Oh no—!” he says, and the excited jump in his voice makes my heart race, a cold sweat covering my palms—Is he alone? 

“What?” I question. 

“I think I’ve been found…” he starts. His boyish laugh perks up my ear, and I’m trying not to smile because I like this silly side of him.

“I think I’ve been—oh…I’ve been…”

“Caught—I’ve been caught by the cutest little kitty in the world…” he laughs, “kitty…kitty.” He’s meowing at the cat that I’m guessing might be in the room, and when I hear the cat respond, it’s confirmation that he’s not talking to another human, but why would I think that in the first place—Maybe I’m overthinking this. 

“Here…” his voice muffles, huffing a laugh into the phone, now sounding further away when he says, “I’m sending a picture…” 

There’s loud rustling on his end as he lets out a playful laugh, coaxing the kitty to look at the phone, “Okay...there…”

“Now tell me Shy—low…because my voice is low…” he says, pleased with his joke his voice going deeper.

“Tell me when you get it—”

Rolling my eyes, I pull the phone away from my ear, open the text from his number, and watch a video of the black cat appear, but I’m not looking at the cat. Instead, I’m scoping out the background, watching Harry’s reflection in a large decorative mirror propped against the wall. The giddy smile stretched across his face has me wide awake, smiling as I rewatch the short clip.

I switch the phone to speaker and sit up in bed, “I love black cats—“

“They’re so special…” he tells me, his voice so wholesome and adorable, and I know I don’t need to get sucked in, but I am.

“I’ve always wanted one…” I confess, smiling to myself, because it’s true.

“Well—this is my mums…” he tells me as I rewatch the video. He’s definitely drunk. The video itself is a shaky mess, and I can’t imagine that he would mean to send me a video of him shirtless in a pair of brown corduroys—they’re cute, and he’s cute, and fuck, how did I forget about all the tattoos?

“Your mom showed me pictures of her cats when we had lunch yesterday…” I tell him.

“Mmmm…you had lunch with my mum—”

“And your sister…” I add.

He blows a light laugh into my ear. “I’m jealous…” he says, his voice softening, like maybe he’s finally settling down. 

“I’m also tired...” he says, through a slow exhale, making me yawn.

“Long day?” I ask

“Long life—” he says with a half-hearted chuckle, and he sounds tired—there’s a lot to unpack with that statement alone, but I let it pass.

“Harry…”

“Shiloh…” he whispers, making my heart melt into a puddle.

“Why are you calling?” I whisper back.

“Don’t know—”

And just as I’m about to open my mouth, he says, “Wanted to hear your voice...” in that same soft tone.

We’re both quiet, but I’m at a loss for words, and all I can say is, “Harry…”

“Shiloh, I know…” he starts. “I’m bad…. shouldn’t be calling, right?”

“No…” I answer

“Tell me you felt it…” he asks, a faint plea resting between us, and it takes me by surprise because it’s gutsy, but isn’t that what alcohol is best for? 

“I don’t know, Harry…” 

“You’re so beautiful…and kind—”

“Harry…please…”

“No—I know your kind…I could hear it…in the podcast—god—you and my sister are friends—?” he asks, but it sounds more like a statement. 

“Yeah… she was my friend before this…” I tell him because this can’t be a thing and I’ll choose the friendship before I choose him.

“Before this…” he repeats. 

“Listen—” I say, and then he’s clipping me off.

“I know…I’m a bit tied up…I think—I don’t know anymore…” he says, and it’s confusing because I have no idea what that means.

“Then why did you call…?”

“I’m may—be a tiny bit hammered…” he trails off laughing, then, “It’s you, Shiloh—”

“You shouldn’t have called—”

“I know—I know…but tell me you didn’t want me to…” he says.

“Shiloh—tell me that you didn’t want me to call…” he repeats, a little more desperate, like he wants me to scold him, or maybe he wants me to get mad. I don’t know, but it’s making my stomach twist into a knot. 

“Just tell me—just tell me you didn’t feel anything...” he pleads, and now it’s clear what he’s wanting. He’s wanting me to convince him otherwise—how am I supposed to do that when I can’t even convince myself? 

“Harry, where’s your girlfriend?” I ask.

He lets out a long exhale, “Shiloh—just tell me…” he says softly.

The fact that he’s avoiding the question is making me upset. If you’re going to drunk dial me, at least be real, “Honestly—?” I ask

“Yes—yes…” he answers

“It’s kind of upsetting that you’re calling me drunk, Harry—”

“That’s not what this is…I don’t know—I wanted—” he’s stumbling over his words, and it’s beginning to frustrate me because this was already overwhelming, to begin with, and now he’s calling, and all I want is to talk to him, fill some of the longing that’s been lingering since the Gucci show. Tell him how I felt it then—I’m thinking it now—and how that show felt so long ago, but the pull was there. Would it freak him out if I was truly honest? Because that’s my reality. 

And then he says, “Honestly…” 

“Yes…” I breathe, choking on the word as it slips past my lips.

“I saw you from backstage at the Gucci show—”

“Harry…stop—” I tell him immediately because I know what he’s about to say, and it’s too fucking much—it’s too real, and there’s no fucking way, right? 

“I saw you sitting there…and I don’t know—all night I was just taken by you—and then the photoshoot—god Shiloh…the photoshoot…” his voice is so silky and genuine and I believe him because it’s exactly how I feel or felt—I don’t know anymore the line is becoming so blurry and as he continued, I sat there taken in each word one by one, trying to memorize them.

“The second you kiss my lips…please just tell me you felt it too?” he begs in a gentle whisper. 

“Because the days feel like a lifetime and all I can think about is you, Shiloh—and I’m sorry…maybe this isn’t fair—maybe I’m selfish…tell me I’m selfish—” and he chokes on the last line, breaking open a hollow in my chest that’s trying to swallow me whole because this is exactly what I wanted to hear—but it’s all wrong, none of this is right and I can’t stop thinking about his fucking girlfriend and that part hurts the most. 

“Please stop—” I plead, my throat burning with the effort. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want him to know I’m on the verge of crying.

“You felt it too?” he says, so delicately, so fucking sure of everything.

“Yes…” I whisper as the tears sting my eyes. 

“I’m sorry—” he tells me, “I’m sorry I’m like this—god—I’ve already fucked this one up, haven’t I?” 

“I just wish—” I say, biting back tears, but it’s no use as I draw in a deep breath through my nose, squeezing my eyes shut, and I let the silent tears break way.

“I know—” he says, “I know this isn’t fair…”

“I just wish you would have cared enough to wait…” My words come out as more of a plea, with him and with myself, because where is the respect? I’m worthy; I deserve better than a drunken confession that he may or may not remember in the morning. 

And I don’t even know why I continue, but I do, “Harry—I deserve better than a drunk dial…and god—you’re making me feel so stupid because you’re probably not even going to remember this—

“I will—” he attempts to say, but I’m still talking.

“Whatever I felt before, it was probably just a fluke, okay—

“It was real Shiloh—”

“If it was so real—then why are you doing this?” I force out, “I just wish you would have done this differently…”

“I know…” he whispers, “I’m sorry—please, Shiloh…please believe me…I don’t want to hurt you—”

“But you did—it hurts my feelings that you don’t think more of me. That I wasn’t worthy of the time this would have taken…and here I am trying to explain this to a drunk person who won’t remember this in the morning—” 

And I’m crying—I feel like a fool, crying over a guy that can’t even respect me enough to break up with his fucking girlfriend, “Listen, Harry—”

He doesn’t try to interrupt this time, and as I’m trying to gather my thoughts, I hear him sniffle, a slight murmur filling the line, and I pull the phone away, trying to stifle the sob bubbling up my chest. 

“I wanted to break up with her…” he says, sorrow coating the rasp of his voice, and there’s something childlike in the way he’s confessing his truths.

“I promise you, Shiloh—I did—I wanted to—it’s just—”

“I believe you…Harry…I really do. But it doesn’t change anything, does it? You’re still with her, right? I ask.

“Right…” 

There it was—the ugly truth lying lifeless between us—A mournful truth that he couldn’t take back nor could it be unforgiven—a heavy line we knew would mark our ending. The sad truth that we both would have to live with because I had to be true to myself. The truth is that I would have to let him go, starting right now. I needed to end this so we could both move on from whatever this is, was, or would have been. 

“I feel sad for us, Harry—”

“I’m sorry—”

“No…I’m sorry—but please don’t call me again.

“Shiloh—please—”

“No—Harry—please just don’t call me again, okay…I’m sorry—just please don’t—

“Shiloh—”

“I have to go, Harry…”

“Please…let me explain…”

“No—I have to go bye—”

“Shi—”

I hung up the phone, tossing it toward the foot of the bed, and burst into tears. It was weird because I knew this was going to hurt, but I didn’t think it would hurt like this—like a punch to the gut—a rug being ripped out from underneath my feet. I’ve been on my knees with it, consumed with the strange feelings for days, and now I’ll be crawling on all fours with the “what ifs” tempting my every thought. 

How long will it take to get over someone I don’t even know, someone I was basing on a feeling? But isn’t that how the heart works? 

Am I supposed to trust these feelings? Hold them as truths? Because now I’m lost in it, and I’ll cry myself to sleep, lying in a sea of his words floating around my mind, two ships passing in the night—and now this was his fault, his hell that we will live in, and I don’t think I can forgive him.

A/N: Damn Harry...did you just ruin everything before it could even begin??

Previous Chapters<-

Tag list open!

[simonsrosebud]

also for my second WIP ask PLEASE brussels!!!! im not from belgium but its close enough (to the netherlands) so im really really excited about that one too!!!!

oh gosh I've only been to brussels once for 2 days so im hoping i don't do it dirty. i LOVED brussels and the netherlands!!

-

Neil realized with gut clenching clarity that Andrew would be sitting with him in each and every class that he took.

He and his mother had rules.  Don’t draw attention, don’t ask questions, don’t answer questions, and don’t- definitely don’t make friends.  Neil didn’t have any intention on befriending Andrew, but it was hard to go unnoticed when they sat beside one another for seven hours a day.

Neil had been determined for the last four years to follow his mother’s rules, but it wasn’t often that he went this unnoticed as the new kid.  His mother would never know it, but it was normal for him to be bugged by a good five different students at each new school before everyone learned to leave him alone.  If she knew that, then he’d never be allowed to go to school to all.  Neil didn’t think he could handle that isolation.

So, since he was excelling with flying under the radar, he turned to Andrew two weeks into their introduction.  “Why don’t you speak to anyone?” he asked in English.

Andrew stilled from where he was writing down notes in a mixture of two languages.  Neil didn’t know why he didn’t just pick one.  His own notes were written in French so that no one would know, at least from afar, that he was writing down aimless things instead.  Making lists, like the food they needed to buy when it was his turn, keeping track of the last time he dyed his hair, and sometimes writing “letters” as if he had someone to give them to to tell about their adventures.

Adventures, his mother called them, as if he hadn’t known exactly what this was from the day they left.  That his father was obsessive and angry, and that if they stopped he would find and kill them.

He shivered and tensed so as to not let it show.  After a moment, Andrew slowly sat back in his seat and let his gaze slowly wash over the classroom.  Their teacher, grading last night’s homework at her desk.  Students, mumbling and quietly giggling to one another in favor of doing their schoolwork for as long as they could get away with.

When his eyes landed on Neil, he raised his eyebrow.  “Do you really want to ask that?” he asked in slow, low, Dutch.  Neil wanted to roll his eyes and tell him to fuck off.  He was using the language against him because he knew- he knew that Neil was still working on it.  The exact thing he’d refuted two weeks prior.  “Let me also ask,” he started.  Neil’s heart pounded.  He looked like a deer caught in a pair of headlights.  “How many times are you going to re-wear the same five outfits?”

Neil’s free hand, sweaty and needing something to grip onto that wasn’t the pencil he was close to breaking, clenched around his knee instead.  When he didn’t answer, Andrew kept his eyes on him in uncomfortable silence.  Waiting, and waiting, for what felt like a half hour but was only three minutes, until Neil opened his mouth just as their teacher dismissed the class.

Andrew stood and slung his bag over his shoulder.  “You and I are somewhat alike, I hate to think.  No,” he said when Neil nearly cut him off.  “I don’t care.”

prev / next

[isa-ghost]

Phil and bagi hcs?

YOU HAVE JUST ENABLED A MONSTER.

I AM SO ABNORMAL ABOUT THESE TWO.

Also these will apply to AMFMN!! Because SURPRISE, if no one has checked the fic tags, her name is listed as a main character. ;) She'll be arriving in Chapter 6!! :D

I cannot fucking WAIT to expand upon their dynamic, which is funny because by the time Bagi shows up, Phil is possessed so it won't be exploration through direct interactions until the recovery period waaay later in the fic. Nonetheless it'll be hype! :D

qPhil headcanons masterlist

Phil is a member of the "Bagi can do whatever she wants forever" club. He supports her rights and wrongs and fully believes she could kick his ass no matter how unbalanced of a fight it'd be in his favor (disclaimer I don't actually know Bagi's exact pvp skill level 🤔)

Bagi is a member of the "God I want Phil to take me on a flight some day, I am so sad his wings are fucked up" club. (She would probably be terrified /pos)

I don't know what it is about their friendship but I feel like Bagi is so much more attuned to the way Phil thinks than the average islander. I guess I'd say it's because of how perceptive she is in general, especially with how she's a detective? Whatever it is, Bagi just has this talent for reading Phil like a damn book. And she won't hesitate to call him on his bullshit either. She's much like Fit in that regard. Crow man can't hide SHIT

Like fr if Phil ever gave Bagi reason to be concerned the first thing she'd do is start cornering those closest to him and either ask what's up or be like "hey Phil's on some shit rn, we gotta go force him to confess whatever stupid shit he's shouldering on his own and bottling up"

Phil has definitely been whacked with the frying pan for not venting and acting like he has to brave the horrors alone btw. Bagi's the type of friend that'll kick your fucking ass if you're not self-caring or being mean to yourself. (I am projecting LMAO)

Bagi isn't as Holy Shit We Could Die Any Second about things as Phil, but they're both very protective people, which can manifest in very volatile ways when they're hurt or angered by something (ie: Feds). I would not want to experience their individual wraths simultaneously.

Bagi is one of the top people Phil shows his gift giving love language to. Be it resources she needs, pictures he's taken of her/Em/Tina or of weird island shit, the means to complete cookie tasks, etc. She's one of the first in mind.

GOD Phil wants her to teach him how to wield a frying pan so badly. He's an excellent swordsman and bowman, but PAN?? The enjoyment he'd get out of it would be infinite, he'd love to be kicking ass while getting a laugh out of it bc pan go BONG when it hits a motherfucker.

If one needs something the other says yes no hesitation. They might ask each other a couple questions, but as soon as they have 100% clarity, they trust each other with the rest and know that if something goes wrong, whoever is present at the time will unleash hell on the person or monster that caused it.

I've somewhat already hinted at it but GOD the mutual admiration they have for each other!! Their wits and way with words, their natural sense of leadership, their determination to defend what they believe in, what they think is right, and the people they love, their specific expertise, the list goes on. They just think the other is so fucking cool and brilliant.

Tbh I think in the right circumstances they'd teach each other some lowkey fucked up tricks they have up their sleeves. Like Bagi giving Phil insight on manipulating people into giving the answers you're looking for by asking the right carefully worded questions, or Phil teaching Bagi the best spots to hit/hurt a person/mob to really do some damage just purely as a "hey if you ever find yourself in a Situation, here's a tip" thing

I don't know how better to show this without explicitly saying it: These two are not the other's fucking caretaker. Phil is not Bagi's father figure and Bagi is not Phil's mother figure. Yes, they can scold each other when the other is doing something dumb (cough, 7 hcs ago, cough). Friends do that. They support each other and call each other on their bs. That is not parenting, that's being a good friend. And they are to each other.

On that note, it hasn't come up too much yet but when shit sucks (like when the eggs were lost or lost lives), they're good at distracting each other. But like without halting the process of dealing with their emotions. If they're sad, they'll be sad together, but they're good at picking the right conversation topics to lighten the mood. If they're mad, they'll be mad together, and they'll plan what to do about it with each other.

I think I've sorta demonstrated it well enough in a couple of these hcs already but AUGH, they're just. So on the same page with each other almost all the time. And when they aren't, they're so good at giving each other perspectives they didn't think of before. Which, I don't mean to compare Bagi to her brother here, but is also how Phil and Cellbit can be with each other too; though they've somewhat fallen out of that sync post-Purgatory. The way the Mystery Siblings are so on the same wavelength as Phil makes me so *slams fist on desk*

Phil is normally a very Just Vibin' kinda guy but Bagi can get him into some really deep intellectual conversations sometimes and it's so 🍿🍿🍿 to watch

[suzukiblu]

A bit more of "Match is technically also a Luthor".

Match frowns. Director Beta wasn’t involved in making Superboy, so what is Luthor talking about, “keep” making him children? 

Match and Superboy aren’t his children, obviously, because they’re metaweapons and clones, and no matter whose DNA was or wasn’t used to build them, they’re not anyone’s children or even anyone’s idea of people. But that’s the language Luthor is using, so Match is using it in his head and for clarity of communication. 

For the moment, at least. 

“So this is revenge?” he asks slowly, eyeing the man warily. 

“No,” Luthor says. “I’m perfectly grateful to her for her efforts. But I don’t want her in your lives, obviously.” 

“. . . ‘obviously’,” Match echoes, having no idea what should be “obvious” there. Luthor makes a dismissive little gesture, not looking up from his tablet. 

“You don’t need any other parents,” he says. “You have me. And all joking aside, I don’t like to share, in fact.” 

Match wonders why Luthor would expect him to want to share with Superboy, then, but supposes Luthor just doesn’t care about his opinion.

Which . . . well, why would he? 

He almost asks anyway, but he’s not stupid enough to question his new owner. Whatever the man’s calling himself, that’s obviously what he means. Match is being stolen–has been stolen–and he belongs to him now. 

He could’ve at least fought it, he supposes, but no one told him to. 

And no one has ever wanted him to do anything he hasn’t been told to. The only person Match has ever said “no” to in his life is still Superboy, because Superboy is still the only person he ever could have.

That’s . . . something he’s thought about, once or twice. 

“Now then,” Luthor says, glancing towards his chauffeur and bodyguard in the front seat. “I’m not used to children your age, so what do you need for your living space?” 

“. . . six hours of daily training room access and twelve thousand calories a day, for ideal performance,” Match replies, too mystified to know what else to say. Luthor will want to know how to keep him in optimal condition as a weapon, he supposes. Luthor just wrinkles his nose, though, looking appalled. 

“Only twelve?" he says. “You should be pushing twenty thousand, at this developmental stage.” 

Match has literally never once heard “you’re not eating enough”, but that seems to be, in fact, what Luthor is saying. 

“That would be over budget for the project,” he says, and Luthor immediately looks dubious. 

“I’m worth more money than most countries, Lysander,” he says, and Match feels–strange, being called that designation. Something about the way Luthor says it, maybe. “And budgets are for the board room.” 

“The project doesn’t have a budget?” Match says skeptically. 

“We’re going to start feeding you sixteen thousand and go up from there,” Luthor says. “I know you don’t have dietary restrictions, obviously, but I suppose dietary preferences would be too much to expect?” 

“‘Preferences’?” Match repeats blankly. What does that even mean, dietary “preferences”? 

“We’ll just start with the basics, I suppose,” Luthor sighs, looking exasperated. Match frowns. He doesn’t know what “the basics” are any more than he knows what dietary preferences are. Restrictions he understands, obviously, but . . . “preferences”? 

The drive is long and quiet. Match would be bored, if he were capable of boredom. It’s already the longest length of time he’s ever spent outside of an Agenda facility, but that’s not relevant to anyone but him, so it’s not an observation he voices. 

He doesn’t generally voice his observations at all. 

Why would he? 

It’s strange, though, that something so new and unexpected could be this boring. 

Not that Match can actually feel anything like that, again. 

Match doesn’t know where they’re going until the road signs tell him, and even then he’s mystified, because the road signs say Metropolis, and obviously that’s Luthor’s base of operations, but there’s also literally no way he’ll be useful in Metropolis. Nothing about his capabilities as a weapon is anything that Superman can’t handle, and Superman isn’t going to let Luthor keep a Kryptonian-based weapon around–even one that’s only half-Kryptonian. Match will end up in government custody the moment Superman finds out he’s here. 

He doesn’t . . . want to be in government custody, but it’s not as if he has a choice where he ends up anyway. And it’s not–he doesn’t want things anyway. It’s irrelevant, if Luthor’s being reckless with him. 

But the government might vivisect or dissect him, where Luthor already has his files and designs and doesn’t actually need to. So that’s . . . that’s . . . 

Relevant, Match thinks, and then pushes the thought back down. 

It’s not relevant. It isn’t up to him, and even if it were, it wouldn’t matter. He’s a weapon. If his owners want to take him apart, that’s their prerogative. 

Their right, really. 

It’s not up to him, and it never has been. 

The towncar stops in front of a shining skyscraper of an apartment building, and Luthor gets out. Match waits in the car, because Luthor doesn’t tell him to follow him. He assumes he’s going to be dropped off at a new lab, because obviously Luthor doesn’t intend to take him into an apartment building. Maybe the lab is outside Metropolis, and Match won’t immediately end up in government custody. That would make more sense, so–

Luthor leans down and looks back through the open door, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Problem?” he asks. 

Match stares blankly at him, not understanding the question. 

“. . . get out of the car, Lysander,” Luthor says. 

Match doesn’t understand that either, but it’s an order, so he follows it. He gets out of the car, and Luthor looks him over with a sigh. 

“We’re going to need to get you in actual clothes,” he says, then heads towards the front door as the chauffeur closes the car door behind him. The bodyguard follows him. Match doesn’t know what–“This way.” 

Match still doesn’t understand anything, but follows the order. He heads after Luthor, staying a step behind him with the bodyguard and wondering if he’s assuming too much, but figuring that until he has an actual assignment, he should operate under the assumption that his purpose here is parallel to hers. 

Assuming things doesn’t tend to work out well for him, but Luthor isn’t giving him enough to go off here, so he doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t know much, right now, but Luthor clearly isn’t prioritizing providing him with the necessary intel for . . . whatever he actually wants him for. 

Not like it’s the first time someone hasn’t bothered to do that, though, so Match can work with that.

[gamesception]

What do I want from Batgirl (2024)?

It's a bit late to be posting this, since the first issue is out and everyone but me has already read it, but yeah, Cassandra Cain has a new solo Batgirl title, afaik an ongoing, not a miniseries. And yes, I will be picking it up and following along to post my comments on it, even if comments on the first issue will be a bit late as I try to decide whether and how much of post-reboot Cass's existing backlog I want to refresh myself on before starting this book proper. But I can post a wish list I suppose, and people who already know better can enjoy the dramatic irony.

I'm a big fan of old school Cass, and by that I don't just mean pre-reboot, or before the end Batgirl (2000), but specifically during the run of that book's initial creative team. I have complaints about that team - failing to follow through on some wonderfully set up character arcs, an art style that started almost perfect and slowly drifted in a direction that wasn't worse art, but that imo didn't serve the book as well. failing to consider what Cass meant as a prominent Asian or Disabled hero, which resulted into the book blundering into some negative tropes and over-correcting in ways that blundered in new directions. However, for all my minor complaints, that team absolutely nailed the core of an extremely compelling character and an extremely compelling storytelling style.

You might think that means I want to see a continuity reversion to Cass's pre-reboot history. I do not.

First of all, IMO there's a ton of baggage that comes with that history that I just don't want to see again. The Dragon Lady villain arc. Black-Bat - I know this era of Cass has fans, I'm not trying to pick fights, but it wasn't my thing and imo would be a needless complication now. Lazara. Road Hog. The flanderized, one dimensional, store brand Deathstroke version of David Cain. As much as I'm a huge fan of the original take on David Cain, over time his character got shallower and less compelling until it got to the point in Batgirl (2008) that imo he subtracted from, rather than contributing to, Cass's depth as a character. Reboot David Cain from B&RE is at least so breathless a non-entity that he has the good grace to not matter.

literally who?

Post reboot Cass may not have as much that I liked, but she has way less that I don't like (at least less that I've read, which is admittedly not all that much), so I'd rather her new creative team build on what she has rather than throw it away in an attempt to turn back the clock.

Post-reboot Cassandra Cain is her own character, with her own history and stories and relationships. She has her own fans, who I'm sure care as much about her as I care about old school Cass. I refuse to be the kind of cliche nostalgia-poisoned middle aged comic fan who thinks kids funny-books should cater to my old ass and demands anything new be brushed aside to try to restore whatever status quo is enshrined in the amber of my own youthful memories. That's exactly the sort of sentiment that saw Cassandra's character destroyed, sidelined, and retconned out of existence for years in the first place, the sentiment that was willing to throw away Barbara Gordon as Oracle to try to wind the clock back on Killing Joke. 2000 was 24 years ago.

So I DON'T want the original version of Cassandra's continuity restored.

That said, I WOULD like her current continuity clarified a bit, as it's kind of hard to square the Cass in recent Detective Comics with the Cass in rebirth era Detective Comics with the Cass in Batgirls with the Cass in Birds of Prey. How old exactly is she? What level of language proficiency does she have these days? And because I want clarity, I ESPECIALLY don't want the new book to coyly imply old continuity is restored while leaving it up to the reader's imagination what exactly that includes or how much if anything of her reboot history remains.

....

While I don't want the return of original Cass's history, I do very much want the return of original Cass's storytelling style.

The Puckett/Scott era of Batgirl (2000) was characterized by a particular storytelling style:

Each issue tells a complete story. They'll often reference or touch on longer ongoing serialized narratives or advance developing character arcs and dynamics, and obviously on occasion there'll be tie ins to other books or bigger, multi issue stories, as a treat, but if you pick up a random issue of the run the odds are you should get at least some sort of story with a satisfying conclusion. Obviously I'm willing to relax this for the first issue or two as I expect a bigger story to kick things off, but if you look back at Batgirl (2000) #1, they were still able to tell a complete story with the 'MERC' thug, showing us the course of Cassandra's life in the process.

Those stories all either directly or indirectly reinforce Cassandra's core character themes, motivations, and relationships, including:

guilt - the burden of it, the value and shortcomings of acts of penance, questioning whether repentance can be real or how much it even matters if it is. How characters respond to it - pretending it's something else as Bruce does with his Vengeance, or trying to hide it in shame and isolating yourself in a cage of lies and secrets as Cass initially does, or drowning it in alcohol and nostalgia and regret as og David Cain did. The different ways guilt can shape a person - making Bruce hard and distant, making young Cass gentle and empathetic.

interpersonal drama - specifically the kind of dysfunctional relationships that come from people who deeply and genuinely care about each other but whose individual flaws and failures interact in ways that sometimes fail to help each other or actively hurt each other or sometimes even make each other worse. When and how these relationships can be salvaged and when they need to be severed - if that's even really possible.

humanity and human connections - Not just fraught familial bonds, but brief moments of human empathy that transcend language. Small acts of anonymous kindness or sacrifice, the support and love of people who care - no matter how flawed they may be. The idea that despite the weight of guilt and turmoil and suffering there's and underlying goodness in humanity that's worth defending. That every human being from the best of us to the worst is an individual person with their own lives and motivations and interiority. No faceless goons! Even background extras should have unique faces and identifying details.

Sombre tone - As you might expect from a character whose founding motivation is bottomless guilt and penance to the point of self destruction, whose relationships with the people who love her most are too often defined by the ways they fail and hurt each other, Batgirl (2000) was, overall a bit of a downer. Not dark, not grim, never ever gross or grisly, but more often than not sad. Or at best bittersweet. And I do want some of that tone back for Cassandra's solo book. Birds of Prey is too wholesome for me. I want angst, I want brooding... or not even brooding, dwelling. I want tragedy. I want inescapable truths that bind and burden rather than setting anyone free. I want those tiny points of human connection and empathy to be bright stars standing out in a long, dark night.

show don't tell - Cassandra's stories should be told in a way that leans on the panel art rather than narration. I know this is a reductive writing advice cliche that doesn't fit all stories and characters, but it IS critical to stories with THIS character. Even if she can talk just fine now, Cassandra should still be a character of actions more than words. Critically, don't *tell* me what she's feeling with blunt narration, *show* it on her face. I don't care if Cass's costume has a full face mask, shrink-wrap that thing to show her expressions anyway. I'm here for the character drama, not realistic fabric physics. Pick a lead artist based on their ability to do expressions, not fight scenes, and pick a lead Writer whose willing to trust the artist and the reader enough to let go.

no shock twists. Build character and narrative arcs, lay groundwork, foreshadow plot points, hammer core themes. The biggest gut punches should grow so naturally out of those well established themes and character dynamics that they feel inevitable. They should hang over Cassandra's (and the reader's) head right like the Sword of Damocles, or like a time bomb ticking down in plain view with no way to disarm it. Like Cass trying to hide the fact she killed a man from Bruce while Bruce tries to deny it ever happened and you just know a major confrontation is coming when that bubble of lies and denial burst (granted that conflict never really did come, BUT STILL), or the promised battle with Shiva. Or the falling out with Barbara (granted that one came way later than it should have to the point of feeling a bit out of the blue). Or the falling out with Stephanie over Cass valuing her as a friend but never really respecting her as an ally. Or David Cain finally making a move against Bruce for taking his daughter.

Small but serious stakes - Keep the stakes personal and emotional rather than large scale and physical. Cass shouldn't be fighting to save the world, a fight with no tension because she can't lose because we already have solicits for next month's DC comics. She should be fighting to save one man, to give a deathrow inmate one more night to live, to stop one boy's desperate father from making a mistake that could mean he never sees his son again. Stakes woth real tension because Cass can and does sometimes fail, and add the weight of those failures to the guilt that drives her.

street level perspective - few to no scenery-chewing costumed or super-powered antagonists, minimal supernatural or science fiction elements that might distract from the human element. The focus of the story should be tight and personal and human. Most of the criminals Cass deals with are far beneath her skill level, which makes most fight scenes short and punchy, leaving more book space for the juicy character stuff, and makes the rarer occasions when she does have to fight a super villain or a martial artist who's actually on her level more special and memorable.

That last point is probably less possible for modern Cass than for old school Cass, due to modern Cass's history being tied up in various super hero teams and their typical genre-crossing shenanigans, and of all the points its the one I'm most willing to sacrifice IF it means building on the relationships and connections that New Cass has built over that time.

Which I guess brings me to my specific requests. Entirely apart from the broader story telling stuff, if I had to list specific things I'd want to see from this book, it would be particular characters returning to build on some of Cass's relationship dynamics with them.

Shiva we already know will be there from issue one, which fits with the more significant roll new-Cass's mother has played in her story in the absence of any version of David Cain worth speaking of.

Barbara yes, though that relationship at least in theory /should/ be more a focus over in Birds of Prey, and I'll leave my dissatisfaction with Cass's depiction in that book for some other post.

Bruce, of course. I absolutely don't want a return to the Black-Bat or even the Bludhaven days when Cassandra was essentially on her own. Her relationships - both the supportive and the destructive - are the core of her character, and none more so than with Bruce, on both fronts. To that point, I don't want to see Wayne Family Adventures Bruce here either. Save that well adjusted self reflective good father in touch with his feelings to the point of being a downright parody of Bruce Wayne (one that I love, mind you, WFA is good) for fan fics and web toons. I want to see a Cassandra so devoted to Bruce that it's overtly unhealthy, like she has 'sacrifice myself in his name' on a dead man's switch. And I want a Bruce who, despite deeply and genuinely caring about Cassandra, either willfully ignores or outright exploits that impulse in ways that make the reader want to reach into the panel and wring his thick stupid neck.

But those are, or at least should be, just the obvious ones. If I had to pick a few maybe less obvious characters and relationships that I want this new ongoing to build on they would be...

Stephanie. This should be just as obvious as Bruce or Shiva, but I'm more than a bit worried here? I will be big mad if Stephanie isn't at least a regular supporting character in this book, and I'd have been a lot happier if she were a co-star or alternating lead. It's not a matter of shipping, either. These characters are best friends, and their friendship on the page is reflected by a shared bond between fandoms that stood together while their faves were both being put down and cast aside by DC editorial. I will not have Stephanie Brown and her fans disrespected yet again, especially not for the sake of propping up any version of Cass as better or more important or more worthy.

Clay Face. Iirc he's back to being a villain? if so that makes him a perfect candidate for the sort of emotionally fraught interpersonal drama mentioned above, even if he's a weird and distractingly unrealistic supervillain. Cass promised to be there to punch him if he ever strayed from the path - a new-Cass moment that was incredibly true to the spirit and character of original-Cass. Have her make good on that promise! Or maybe she already did - I'm not super familiar with current Cass's continuity, but even if she has this seems like a connection worth bringing back.

Harper Row. As far as I know DC's done fuck all with her since Batman and Robin Eternal? I could be wrong again, though, and please correct me if I am. Admittedly there's a Sci-fi bent to Harper that goes against the last point above, but it's more than worth the exception. Harper Row was a close friend from the moment this new Cass was introduced AND as the daughter of the woman new-Cass killed, Harper's mere presence in the book would open up the door to bring back, focus in, and really dwell on that core theme of guilt I was talking about. Plus the Drama of Cass's devotion to Bruce vs. Harper's disillusion with him. Just a ton of room for emotional tension and angst. Just please, PLEASE don't let her randomly show up as a villain. That would be dumb and bad and only recall the time DC tried that garbage with Cass herself. No Shock Twists!

Xanthe Zhou. A more recent connection, and one that again violates the last rule in the 'story style' list above, this time for their supernatural abilities. But I would like to see the new book let Cassandra build more of a cultural connection to her Chinese heritage, and that's not something I can see coming from her mother. That heritage is however a core part of Xanthe's character concept, and I think they worked together well in the recent Spirit World miniseries. I don't think Xanthe is part of any other current titles - though do please correct me if I'm missing something - and if not then I at least would be happy to have them as a Batgirl regular, supernatural elements not withstanding.

[wastelandmoony]

Déjà Vécu: Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four : Not Strong Enough

Summary: Christmas pt II.

Characters: Remus Lupin/Reader, Sirius Black/Reader (no use of y/n), James Potter, Petter Pettigrew, Regulus Black, Marlene McKinnon, Mary MacDonald, Lily Evans

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI; language, violence, gore, abuse.

Déjà Vécu Masterlist

Companion Playlist

Read on AO3

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

Rooted to the spot in the sitting room entryway, she watched as James and Remus lifted an unconscious Sirius as gently as possible. She couldn’t feel her body anymore. All sounds had ceased to register. She could only see Sirius’ pale face, his beautiful features limp and eerily peaceful, a stark contrast from the blood coating his hairline. 

They moved past her towards the stairs to the empty bedroom. 

He was dressed so nicely. She could practically hear him complaining about the fancy clothes, a minor tantrum they had the pleasure of witnessing last year during the Potter’s New Years party. I’m going to asphyxiate myself with this bloody tie! He had threatened as she tightened the knot around his neck. Better not do it in front of everyone, wait until after dessert to off yourself, please, she had rolled her eyes. 

She trailed behind the boys like a ghost, operating fully on autopilot as her two friends lowered Sirius onto the bed while Euphemia gathered supplies. Mr. Potter rushed in shortly afterwards, nodding at his wife that was currently tending to Sirius’ wounds. 

“A healer will be here shortly, Dumbledore is on his way as well.”

That snapped her back to life.

“Why is he coming here?” Her voice didn't sound like her own.

Fleamont looked at his wife, the two of them conversing silently.

“At this point in time, we can’t be too careful,” Mr. Potter said grimly, placing a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder. 

“James, love, will you go downstairs and put the kettle on?” Euphemia said as she dabbed Sirius’ head with a warm cloth. 

James nodded and turned to leave, meeting her eyes as she stood against the doorframe. Walking past, he grabbed her hand, pulling them both into the hallway. They didn't speak on the way downstairs, nor did James let go of his grip. When they reached the kitchen, they both stood in silence, grasping each other’s fingers tightly as they listened to the soft hum of the wind outside, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the sitting room, the almost indecipherable murmur of Mrs. Potter upstairs. She turned to look at her friend, his face crumpling immediately at the sight of her tear streaked face. 

In the dim light of the kitchen, she held James tightly, fingers combing through his dark curls as they both cried in each other’s arms. 

———

Dumbledore arrived a short time later, apparating onto the Potter’s front walk with a loud crack. The sound had made her shudder all the way from upstairs. 

Her and the three other boys sat vigil around Sirius’ room while the healer flitted about performing various spells and incantations, occasionally pouring random potions down his throat. Mrs. Potter had lit some candles, the smell of lavender and thyme clinging to the last piece of her mental clarity. Remus held her hand, running a thumb methodically against her skin in a gesture that she knew wasn’t just for her own comfort. 

After what seemed like an eternity, but realistically couldn’t have been more than an hour or two, Sirius began to stir. His face started to twitch slightly, his eyes scrunching in pain, followed by a low groan as he came to complete consciousness. 

She pressed her unoccupied hand firmly to her mouth, trying to keep all of the emotions inside. 

The healer tutted, pushing Sirius back down as he tried to sit up.

“Now, now,” she said firmly but gently, “you’ll need to take it easy for the next few days. You’ve had quite the night, young man.” 

Sirius looked around the room confused, eyes bouncing between the four of them and then back to the healer.

“W-where am I? What’re you lot doing here?” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been screaming. 

“You’re at my house, mate,” James said softly, “you’re safe.”

Sirius looked at the healer. 

“What’s the last thing you remember, dear,” she said, handing him another potion vial. 

He furrowed his brows in recollection, “I—“

“Ah, Mr. Black, you’re awake,” Dumbledore had appeared in the doorway with Mr. and Mrs. Potter, his face stoic but his eyes sparkling in the low light of the bedroom. 

“Fiona,” he looked over his half-moon spectacles at the healer, “if you’d be so kind.”

She bowed her head to him and quietly left the room, shutting the door behind her. 

“Sirius,” Dumbledore sat at the end of the bed, “would you be so inclined as to recount the events from earlier this evening?”

Sirius stared at him, and she could tell that he was deciding whether or not to open up. His shoulders slumped, and he took a deep breath that sounded a lot like defeat. 

“They tried to make me take the mark…” he muttered, fidgeting with the hem of the quilt.

“The mark?” She asked aloud, immediately wishing she could sink into the floor.

Sirius cut his eyes over to hers, and she couldn’t decipher what she saw, but it shook her to the core. 

“The Death Eaters, they all have it,” he explained, “It’s like a brand, but it connects the wearer directly to Voldemort.”

Remus gripped her arm, feeling her begin to shake.

“They tried to force me, and I said no…I said no so many times…” Sirius whispered. He sounded so tired. “The next thing I knew, I was waking up here.” 

“Who is ‘they’, Sirius?” Dumbledore pushed.

Sirius flashed a defiant look at the headmaster. From across the room, she knew this wouldn’t end well.

“…My parents,” Sirius mumbled.

“Who else was there?” Dumbledore’s voice had lowered, almost inaudible.

Sirius shook his head, staring back down at his hands fisting the quilt. 

“It’s important that you tell us who, Mr. Black—“

“Don’t you think he’s been through enough for tonight?” She blurted out, no longer able to hold onto the burning anger.

Sirius’ gaze lifted to her, and the gratitude in his face almost sent her to her knees. Dumbledore hadn’t shown an ounce of empathy since arriving, a point that she had tucked away in her brain for unpacking later on. 

Professor Dumbledore returned the slightest glance at her over his shoulder, but it was enough to see the impenitent gleam beyond those half-moon glasses.

He turned back to assess Sirius for a moment, then patted his hand, “Thank you, Sirius. You should rest now.” 

He rose to his feet and asked to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Potter outside. After they left, the rest of them stared between each other, unsure of what to do now. 

“For Merlin’s sake, I’m not fuckin’ contagious,” Sirius groaned from the bed, causing James to smirk and sit at the edge of the bed where Dumbledore had just vacated.

“How d’you feel?” James asked.

“Like shit, if I’m honest,” Sirius sat up slightly against the headboard. She just noticed how dark the circles were under his eyes. 

He hadn’t slept since they left school.

“What happened, Sirius?” She whispered. He had left out information when talking to Dumbledore. After years of him confessing his family’s secrets to her in private, she knew his tells a mile away.

He looked at her and sighed, “It wasn’t a Christmas party, not like the normal ones anyway. It was an initiation party…for me,” he said quietly, “The entire family was there, along with some of my parent’s slimy friends like the Crouch’s and the Malfoy’s. They tried to make me take the mark in front of everyone, said I could ‘redeem myself and bring glory upon our family name once again’, and when I refused, my father dragged me to his study and…well, let’s just say it wasn’t a pleasant conversation. Afterwards, my mother came in—“

She knew where this was going. The Christmas dinner that Mrs. Potter had worked so painstakingly on was now threatening to come up. 

“—she didn’t even speak to me. She just said the spell. Over, and over, and over. I don’t remember how I ended up on the floor, but I remember her standing over me and asking if I’d changed my mind. When I told her to go to hell, she crucio’d me once more, then left the room.”

Tears were streaming down her face silently as she stared at him. Remus’ head was down, James wiped his eyes with his sleeve, Peter hadn’t moved a muscle. 

“Reg found me bleeding on the rug. He slipped in and threw some floo powder into the fireplace, and pushed me in. He knew I’d be safest here.” 

She didn’t want to think about Regulus. Didn’t want to think about what sort of punishment he was currently facing at the hands of his parents when they realized what he’d done. 

The door to the bedroom opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Potter appeared once more, Dumbledore nowhere in sight. 

“Sirius, love,” Euphemia said softly, “How would you like to stay with us for a while?”

James perked up at that, looking eagerly between his parents and best friend.

“I’d like that a lot, thank you,” he said, and she could see the silver rimming his eyes before he quickly willed it away. 

“Brilliant. Well, you’d better get some rest, we’ll sort everything out in the morning. Do not stay in here and pester him,” she pointed at James, who held up his hands innocently. 

Shortly after they left, Sirius settled back down on the pillows. 

“We’ll let you sleep, mate,” James said as he stood, pulling Peter with him. Remus got up as well, still silent and contemplative. 

“Cheers,” Sirius mumbled, blinking heavily. 

The three boys filed out of the room and she stood to follow. 

“No,” Sirius whispered, hand outstretched towards her, “Please…I don’t want to be alone.” 

She despised what his family did to him, abhorred the scars on his body and the pain that lingered in his eyes for weeks. But what she hated the most was the way he spoke afterwards. They turned her usually loud, boisterous, confident friend into a meek, scared, pleading little boy. She knew Sirius hated it just as much. He’d never let the boys see him like this.

“Do you want us to sleep in here? We can all camp on the floor—“ she looked to where the others had just left.

“—I don’t want them, I just want you. Please…”

He sounded so broken. The frailty of his voice melted her bones, and all she wanted to do was hold onto him. 

“Okay,” she whispered, shutting the door and switching off the lights. Climbing onto the bed, she didn’t touch him, not even risking getting beneath the covers in fear that she would harm him in some way. As she laid back against the pillows, Sirius reached over and intertwined their fingers. 

“They’re going to make Reg take the mark,” he whispered into the dark. 

She didn’t know how to respond to that, so they sat in silence for a moment until she chose her words carefully.

“Does he want that?” She asked slowly.

“I’m not so sure what Reggie wants anymore…” he mumbled, and she could tell he was falling asleep. 

She laid there for a while, staring up at the ceiling. Sirius snored softly beside her, his features completely at ease. She smoothed a hand through his hair, feeling the remnants of dried blood caked onto his scalp. When she awoke the next morning, her hand was still in his hair, and his was draped over her body, holding her tightly. 

[raytorosaurus]

i think where people get confused is that mcr did try very hard and very overtly to make their shows a safe space for queer people and women which is not a political act it just feels political because being queer and/or a woman means you exist in a space where your being is politicised by those around you whether you want to actively be involved in those politics or not. but, as you said, the art itself is personal and the message at shows is generally also about personal expression and learning to be yourself and take care of yourself. there's an element of respect each other/respect each others' differences but that's not political there's no call to action there's no fight for structural change and that's totally fine they don't have to be that

yeah no you said it, i totally agree. like i said, they're only political as far as all art is political - maybe slightly more because they made an active effort to engage with a socially outcast audience, tho in their minds that wasn't about specific marginalised groups like queer people, neurodivergent ppl etc - beyond their vocal support of women at shows/in the scene, they were directing their art just at people who didn't quite fit in in general. there's a big venn diagram there (and obviously some contextual cause-and-effect in terms of what kind of people tended to be unwelcome in hardcore scenes lol - even then, mcr never made any statements about race or whiteness) but it's not like gerard started a band to empower or liberate specific identities in a political sense - it was very consciously an effort to sing more about general unifying human experiences - i.e. ones lots of people can relate to. one of mcr's (especially gerard as lyricist) greatest strengths is being able to tap into those "universal" emotions like grief, loneliness, self-hatred etc. and make them a little easier to confront head-on or feel a little less isolating. that's literally why they're popular - if they had been overtly political they simply never would have made it that big! wait i'll let hanif abdurraqib say it because he said it best (brief snippet from his wonderful essay on the black parade in his collection they can't kill us until they kill us - 100% worth the cost of the ebook alone, and all of his essays are brilliant).

that idea is kind of at the heart of mcr and something i really appreciate about it. there's actually very little specificity in mcr's lyrics by design - it's meant to be projected onto and interpreted. that makes it inherently difficult to politicise bc good politics requires clarity of message and intention. that in turn makes mcr pretty apolitical by nature - which isn't a bad thing! different bands (like all types of art) exist for different reasons, and mcr's reason is catharsis and connection far more than it is any kind of activism. we can be pretty assured based on the lyrics and what we know of the guys that their politics aren't terrible and that's enough for me.

the real issue comes in when people act like mcr are political and give them credit for something they're not (and something they've never really claimed to be!). i get that mcr is a gateway band for a lot of people into harder/heavier music - it was for me too! - but even bands one step removed from mcr in the same scene (e.g. thursday) are leagues more political than these guys are.

this goes beyond mcr/bandom now but....tbh i think a lot of it comes from that relatively recent attitude that's common in online circles that activism is heavily rooted in personal identity (which ties in with the harmful pattern of, for example, white queer people acting like they're somehow above other white people in terms of racism) and comes more from individual thought, words, and discussion (in which using the correct language sometimes has more weight than what you're trying to say) than it does from actual community action. this isn't an attack at anyone btw - a lot of the statements about mcr's politics around here are pretty flippant and light-hearted anyway, i doubt too many people are taking them super seriously, but it's probably worth considering. overall, i'm not listening to mcr for politics and i'm certainly not looking to any of them for political guidance, but it's nice to feel connected to them and to all of you guys and to know that they support my identity, but that’s kind of as far as it goes for me.

[candyrain-collective]

what does not having amnesia feel like for u? can u remember the last days and weeks and months? also what was it like realizing u were a system vs these parts not just being personas or normal personality/identity variation? do u have any tips on bringing it up to a therapist without explicitly saying system/osdd/did?

going to split this answer into three parts since i'd like to go more in depth on all of them!

i don't have amnesia between *parts*, which means that i can remember what other members of my system did whenever they were fronting. like, say, if jane was fronting, and jane did some studying while she was fronting, when i front again i can remember the stuff that she studied and what she did besides that. however, i do have general amnesia, such as not being able to remember what happened a couple days ago or weeks ago or months ago. i can get broad strokes if i try really hard, but my memory is pretty shit in general. i don't know if that's a cdd thing or just my adhd, though. i also can't remember much if anything at all about longer periods of time in the past, such as large chunks of my childhood. i dont know if that's strictly a did thing or if that can happen in osdd as well, and i honestly don't care about the distinction too much, but that's just how i experience amnesia.

2. i actually had to get external help with realizing that i was a system, because at the time my symptoms first started, i was barely aware of what did actually is. it wasn't until months after i first started hearing voices/switching occasionally that i mentioned i had voices to a friend with osdd, and they were like. um. that's not normal. i had to do a lot more research into the disorder in order to figure out that was what was going on with me, and even afterwards i had a lot of self-doubt, because it was difficult for me to differentiate between personality shifts and actual switches (i later learned that most people do not have personality shifts at all, which. shocker. that's a sign).

3. the way i brought it up to my therapist was pretty much listing all the external symptoms that i had regarding dissociation and separate parts, using language such as but not limited to:

"sometimes i feel far away or like i am in the passenger seat of the brain, watching someone else pilot my body"

"sometimes it feels like my emotions have names or genders"

"sometimes i spontaneously stop feeling attached to identifying signifiers, like my name, personal style, or key traits"

"sometimes i don't feel human or like i am the age that i am"

"sometimes, my strong feelings are interrupted with sudden clarity, and i am apathetic to what i was upset/euphoric over."

"some days, i am significantly better at some tasks or skills than other days without a clear reason why."

i would not advise opening with hearing voices in your head, because that is a symptom that can easily be attributed to psychotic symptoms or another disorder like schizophrenia. if you feel that is an important thing to mention, mention it sometime after you mention the dissociation and the bodily disconnect.

the main symptom you have to look out for in yourself is absolutely dissociation. notice when you're feeling like your body isn't real, or that you're drifting away from reality, or that there is a barrier between you and the outside world. these are all indicators of dissociation. write down what you notice in yourself and describe it as clearly as you can.

i hope all of these answers help, and i wish you the best, anon.

[prettyflyshyguy]

Oooooooh babey its been really, really hard to be creative recently but I'm trying to break away from incredibly unhealthy patterns of behavior and actually get something done, so while Virtual Ground is in the slow cooker I've gone back to some 'for fun' stuff again

Anyway who wants to read the revised and close to done WIP opening for Live Free Twiharder >:)

Co-written by the wonderful @snackhouse

"Dean, please just listen to me for once." 

"Look at me man, I'm a monster." 

He looked at Sam for a moment before leaning an arm on the wall by the curtained window. Resting his forehead against it, he breathed in slowly. His mind was racing, a million thoughts cascading, all clamoring for attention and action. He had to tell Lisa, he had to prepare, he had no time to prepare, he was hungry, everything was so awfully loud, what about the nest, who was going to clear the nest? What about the Alpha? How would Sam deal with the Alpha without him? What about the car? There was so much he needed to figure out before-

"No Dean, you’re not-”

Sam’s exasperated voice snapped him back to the present, and Dean turned his head to glance back, silencing his brother mid sentence. The floor between them felt like a chasm, a wound reopening that had never fully healed. It never could. Neither had given it the time and care it required. Sam had always tried, to his credit. But he knew how Dean felt about these things - about what Sam was, what he had done, what he had become once. Sam stared at his brother. He didn’t appear any different, his physical presentation and body language was the same old Dean, what was different was that he made no effort to hide his emotions. He looked petrified. His eyes were wide, sweat drenched his face, and the way he stared back, his eyes cutting through Sam’s soul, sent a chill down his spine. Dean’s penchant for stoicism frustrated him, his reluctance for genuine honesty was a staple of how he handled hard circumstances they’d found themselves in time and time again - much to Sam’s chagrin. The lack of his standard machoism had caught Sam off guard, and as he stood there observing Dean, the silence of the hotel room was deafening. 

Sam knew his brother well enough to recognise that he was still stubborn, and he struggled to listen to reason when he began to panic - and Dean had justifiable reasons to panic. He’d hoped there was a chance Dean had dodged infection by some miracle. Seeing him now, erratic, twitchy, sudden onset of misophonia and light sensitive… Despite the gloom Sam could still make out the streaks of red that stained his skin, marking him, sealing his fate. He’d rushed Dean back as soon as he found him behind the bar, bloody and bruised. Dean had insisted he go after the freak that jumped him, Sam had refused, and dragged him back to the hotel instead, immediately contacting Samuel for guidance.

Dean had scrunched his eyes shut so hard he felt the muscles in his face seize and stiffen. He could block out the light, but not the sounds. They were relentless, overbearing, but one in particular demanded his attention above all else. It filled his ears, drowned out the tv, the cars, the water pipes. The longer Sam was silent, the more he focused in on It as It tore through the background noises, shredding and discarding them until only It filled his mind. The churning rapids of thoughts and images in his head began to fade out leaving only It in their wake.  

The sudden clarity alarmed him, and in desperation he tried to busy his mind again - trying to forcibly overwhelm it with his own self-generated mental barrage. As he racked his brains, a memory snapped into his mind, louder and stronger than anything else. Gordon Walker.

No, he conceded, I am a monster. 

“We can fix this Dean,” Sam started again, “there's a cure! You're gonna be ok!"

Dean laughed. An empty, hollow, forced laugh. 

"Sammy, while I appreciate your optimism, this is not a problem you can just spitball. There's no record of fangs turning back." 

He pushed off the wall turning back to face Sam, pressing his fingers into his face and groaning. 

"I'm serious Dean, if you'd just--" 

"Don't bullshit me, Sam!” Dean snapped.

He took a few steps towards Sam. His eyes were still wide, but the terror had shifted slightly, crossing into anger. Sam instinctively took a small step back, one hand reaching into his jacket pocket in the hopes to find some item of comfort, something sharp. He didn’t want to resort to self defense, but the sensible part of him had accepted that definitively he could not take his brother in a fight, not when he was infected. A few quarters and an old gum wrapper was all he felt. Sam trusted his brother to a point, but Dean looked up at him with an intensity in his eyes usually reserved for glaring at the things they hunted together. It terrified him. It reminded him of the past. It hurt. 

“I can hear your fucking heartbeat and it's racing pretty damn fast." Dean hardly held back the accusatory tone in his voice as he broke the silence. Dean continued to stare as Sam’s face twitched slightly. 

Of course, the lore… You idiot. How could he forget? Sam was usually the one forced into book duty, in the aftermath of the attack, he hardly stopped to think about how quickly the changes would take place. It was hard to lie in front of his older brother on a normal day, and despite his insistence in earnest, he was still freaking out, and Dean had made up his mind with the evidence laid out before him. Sam trusted his grandfather was good on his word when he’d been informed there was in fact, a cure for vampirism. It came as a shock initially, and he mentally kicked himself for not thinking to bring it up with Dean sooner. There was always something more pressing, another monster to hunt, another person to help. He knew Dean hadn’t fed, he’d made sure of that. He knew it could be reversed.

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly as he noted the increase in tempo of Sam’s heart as the stand off continued. This wasn’t the first time Sam had tried to calm him with a hope built off of a faith, but this is where they always found themselves at a fork in the road. Sam could operate on faith and faith alone, he couldn’t. He needed something real, something concrete, he needed proof - and everything concrete and firsthand he’d seen of vampires utterly disgusted him. Lenore was empirically good, he had to give credit where it was due, but she couldn’t change was she was. She just coped with it, worked around it. A life defined by running and hiding, on the knife edge of tipping over should the wrong thing happen, should you slip one day, should you give in. Life continues, the world will keep turning, but a new fundamental universal truth arises – it only gets worse. 

Cutting the thought short, he started walking, raising an arm up as he passed by Sam. Everything was quickly becoming too much again. Every sound, smell and sight was bombarding his brain like a 18 wheeler hitting a squirrel and his brief moment of reprieve ended. 

“Hey where are you–”

“Bathroom. My mouth tastes like blood and creepy-dude sweat.” Dean grunted, closing the door to the small room behind him.

It was a bullshit excuse and they both knew it, but Dean didn’t think he could make it another minute standing so close to a human. Stepping into the cramped bathroom he took a second to breathe in a space where he couldn’t hear all of Sam’s veins pulsing with blood, Dean’s gaze drifted towards the mirror. 

I wonder if I’ll even recognize myself by the end of this… 

He already knew what he was going to find, it wasn’t like he couldn’t feel them. Gently peeling back his lips, Dean struggled against the waves of nausea that spilled over him at the sight. Feeling the fangs where there was different from actually seeing them. It removed any doubt about what he had become in his mind. Lightly poking the exposed tip of a fang poking through, Dean could feel how sharp it was. Moving his fingertip upward, he slightly pushed the gum above the protrusion, pushing the tip of the fang out like massaging a cat’s foot to see its claws. 

The other needle-like teeth seemed to be eager to join their friend, as the rest of the fangs slid from their slits in Dean’s mouth. He wrenched his hand back in horror. He could feel the sharp new additions sliding over his normal teeth. Like the bars of a cage they sealed away any signs of humanity he saw in the mirror. In a matter of seconds he found himself grasping the toilet bowl for purchase has he emptied his stomach.

“Dean, you ok?” 

Sam’s voice was filtered through the wooden door and old brick walls, and Dean’s ears picked it up unnervingly clearly.  “I’m fine.” he responded harshly, between coughing on the acid and saliva in his mouth. He moved back to the sink, cupping his hands under the still running water, sipping from it to try and wash away the taste. It tasted normal, at least he still had that. He glanced back at the mirror. The teeth were gone.

[lumiereandcogsworth]

what was his first birthday like without Maria??? What did he and little Belle do ? and what do they do as time went on?? Did he ever forget it was his birthday because no one was there to remind him when Belle was little????

maurice’s first birthday without maria was… basically nonexistent. those first few years were really blurry and just :(( not great. he was pretty much dissociated most of the time, and really only paid attention to belle and any work he tried to do to get money so he could support belle. everything was about his baby girl, because maria asked him to save her.

i don’t think he really noticed that it even Was his birthday. belle was nine months old and thriving and maurice was figuring out the whole farming thing best he could. he hadn’t made any art since paris. (i headcanon that this depressive episode leads to like, at least two-three years of artist’s block. which SUCKS because it always came so naturally to him. so he’s lost because of that, on top of everything else.)

i think that first birthday in villeneuve came and went without a single thought. and yeah, no one in the village knew, not even his new friend père robert, so no one was wishing him a happy birthday. honestly i don’t think he noticed until maybe some days later. maybe he heard someone mention the day’s date, and he had a moment of clarity that his birthday was four days ago. but that of course sends him into another bout of sadness, because it just makes him think of last year…

BUT LET’S JUMP A BIT FORWARD IN TIME NOW, SHALL WE? 🫠

as time carried on, birthdays did get a tad bit easier. eventually père robert of course learned his friend’s birthday, as well as the handful of other people in the village who don’t SUCK, so he started getting more well wishes on the day. and as belle grew up, and learned about birthdays, she LOVED celebrating her papa!! she started making special crafts for him, as well as ALWAYS picking a bouquet of wildflowers for him. (and maurice would take them and put some in her hair and some in his hair and belle always laughs !!)

as belle gets older, i think she really likes to cook & bake things for him. she inherited his love language of making food for your loved ones. i have a cute idea about her making something for him on his 50th birthday, when she’s almost ten, i’ll see if i can get it written 👀 but it’s Very Cute. [EDIT: i did write it!!] but anyway yeah she always likes to make breakfast for him on his birthday, as well as bake him a blueberry pie (his favorite!!). they also pick up a tradition of having maurice’s birthday dinner at père robert’s house. sometimes it’s just the three of them, but i think it started one year when père robert’s sisters (and their families) were visiting. so he thought his friend could use some familial comradery on his birthday. and maurice did very much appreciate it :”)

overall, maurice doesn’t care Too Much about his birthday, but he’s always appreciative when the people who love him make him feel extra special 🥹

[blam-marie]

A metaphor's Guide to Rewriting Destiny

Like this? Please subscribe to my Patreon!

The door to the room softly opened and closed. I was curled up under the covers of the bed that I had been offered, drenched in a sea of misery. It was my natural state when I was not raging. I was facing the wall; I felt the hard mattress dip under the weight of my visitor, who had chosen to sit without being invited. We both knew that he knew that I was not sleeping.

“Are you done discussing me, then?”

“Jeanne told us that you agreed to help,” Compassion said softly, a question in his voice.

He spoke in Wallen, which told me everything that I needed to know about how thin the walls were, here. Thin enough that our hosts might overhear, and overhear with clarity. It Compassion had truly wanted our words to remain secret, he could have used the ancient language of our first hosts, the nuances of which had been lost in antiquity for everyone but us Exemplars. As it was, anyone with a good enough grasp of Wallen could have parsed out accents and listened.

He was letting them know that we wished for privacy, without worrying them that we might be scheming. I hated that such precautions were necessary.

“Understand how difficult it is for me to not simply go to the palace and start killing people until I find her. It goes against all my instincts to stay my hand. But they would kill her before I even got close.

“You are showing admirable restraint. I am proud of you.”

“Shut up or I will shut you up.”

A hand came to rub my shoulder.

“I promise that we will do everything possible to get her back.”

“Do you dislike having hands,” I asked mildly, “because if so, that is a problem that I can help you with.”

The hand was removed.

“I came to give you more information about the situation now that you’ve decided to get involved.”

“I don’t care.”

“You need to know what’s happening.”

“Do I?”

At last, frustration pierced in his voice.

“You’ve offered help. Do you just intend to do whatever you’re told without knowing why?”

I shrugged. “That is what is usually expected of me.”

That briefly shocked him into silence.

“But you’re Wallen. Aren’t they Planners? We are part of the Goddess’ great plan, her gift to humanity, et cetera?”

“Different branches,” I said. “Here in Theos, and probably for the missionnaries you’ve met in the East, it’s ‘we’re her gift, so we should be listened to and our advice heed’. In Walls, it’s ‘we’re her gift, so we should be used’. Like assets. But it’s not like we’re real people or anything.”

There was another short, baffled silence. “You’re joking.”

“If that surprises you, then you need to get out more. Exemplars are not what we used to be anymore. Many people consider that society has evolved past the need of us.”

“Would that such beliefs came with letting us be, not treating us like things,” he mumbled.

I shrugged again. “Would you not use a weapon, if you had one?”

“I am entirely the wrong person to ask this,” Compassion replied sternly. “And besides, you are not a weapon.”

I felt, quite suddenly, as if I had reached the point where I could no longer tolerate this conversation. I went from midly annoyed to extremely pissed off in two seconds flat, which I knew was not Compassion’s fault but which I decided to blame him for anyway.

“I’m tired,” I growled, curling up tighter. “Tell me what you came to say then leave.”

Compassion sighed, but did not argue. “The main thing that you need to know about this place is that there are two distincts groups agitating for trouble. One who only wants for the Prime Minister to resign and his cabinet replaced, and another who wants to remove the constitutional monarchy entirely and start over with a new system. It’s been impossible to make both side work together so far, which has stalled any progress that either side could make.”

“Let me guess. Our people are the first option, and they need me to appeal to the anti-monarchists.”

“The other way around, actually.”

I turned to look at him over my shoulder.

“You? Youended up with the most radical side of this little debate?”

Compassion gave me a flat look. “I ended up with the side willing to help me find the Exemplar of Rage. The moderates want to force an election, not create chaos in the streets. Even just hearing your name is alarming for them. They would never have helped me.”

I kept staring.

“Remember that this was only meant to be a rescue mission. I was not picking a side, as such. You’re the one who has involved us.”

“Please. Would you really have left Theos, knowing how bad things had gotten here?”

He inclined his head, granting me the point. “I was planning on putting you on a ship to Walls and then return here, that is true. But I’m still not sure of the best way to help.”

I grunted and turned back to face the wall.

“That sounds like a problem for you to solve. I’m not here to help anyone but Astoria.”

“Astoria. That’s a beautiful name.”

For the first time in this conversation, I felt hesitation. Was this a subject that I truly wanted to speak about? On the other hand, could any mother resist the urge to discuss her daughter? Compassion had me in a bind, here. I bit my lips.

“My husband picked it. He was a sentimental. It was the name of a great-grandmother, I think.”

“Would you like to talk to me about him?”

This was a much easier decision than wether or not to talk about Astoria.

“No. Get out.”

“As you wish,” he replied quietly, with sadness in his voice. What right did he have to be sad for me? I kept quiet as he left, but I was seething.