#well other than bedtime as the old man does value his rest

[gofancyninjaworld]

Six degrees of Stench

I joke/not joke that One-Punch Man canonicity consists of canon and not canon (yet) link. Wild shit just happens because it can and somehow it works.

So, for shits and giggles, a handful of headcanons that I’m fairly sure *won’t* be becoming canon.

First degree: cute

When Genos wants to wheedle a new toy (like a kit car) out of Kuseno, he makes the old man his favourite treat: home-made doughnuts, a chocolate dipping sauce, and freshly-ground coffee made over the stove. Kuseno claims every time that it won’t work. It's never failed.

Kuseno is strict about his bedtime: from the time he retires at 11 pm to when he appears at 6 am, Genos better have a damn good reason for disturbing him. A leg dropping off does not qualify. Most afternoons, Kuseno also has a nap behind his desk. He has always claimed to be just mediating when Genos has asked.

Second degree: unexpected

Although neither man knows it, Kuseno is the reason King quit competitive gaming: there was this one mysterious guy he just couldn't beat. It still haunts King.

Kuseno himself no longer does competitive gaming: between Genos keeping him busy and missing his once-faithful rival, it's lost its appeal.

Third degree: connections

Bofoi was his old student.  They each changed their names for... reasons.

Fourth degree: Chekov's gunman... or there's no badass like an old badass

Manga-only.  Kuseno finally shows up to give his boy a hand. As Genos tells Kuseno to fall back already, the old man levels one of the suit's shoulder-mounted guns and... there's a void where there was once a dragon-level monster, not even a curl of smoke remaining.  Kuseno: yeah, I came up with this last week but I've not yet figured out how to make it small enough to install on you.

Fifth degree: Old man, you scary

Webcomic-only.  The climax of the battle sees Genos and Saitama get to the heart of the Organization and just as things are getting super tense, a third person joins the fray.  It's Kuseno, heavily armed and very much alive. That bring-back-a-dead-person-so-long-as-their-brain-is-intact technology we saw elsewhere?  He was the original inventor.  Genos: but you told me to run away!  Kuseno: And yet, here you are. Be so kind as to shelter behind Saitama-kun, will you? Kuseno (to the enemy): I don't mind if Genos gets beat up, that's how my boy learns. But you bastards made him cry...unleashes hell

Sixth degree: Cruel, cruel world

Like something out of a cruel soap opera, the reason Genos and Child Empror look a bit like each other is that they're siblings but each was so convinced the other was dead that they'd never thought to look into it. In Isamu's case, his foster parents had been very good at gaslighting him so he doubted his very memories.  As they compare notes, suddenly the random attack makes sense... it'd been intended to grab Isamu in the first place. Something else makes sense too: why Kuseno had arrived so fortuitously. Genos: Oh, I was the consolation prize.

And so...

Webcomic edition: Genos finds his inconsolable grief over losing the old man suddenly become consolable, although it's down to Saitama to accidentally on purpose to say something that puts it in perspective, e.g., by pointing out that there was nothing false about the affection he had had for him.  

Manga edition: Since the old man is alive,  Genos confronts him.  He doesn't deny it but says that he'd intended to kidnap Child Emperor alone to forestall the massacre that happened.  And yes, while to begin with, he'd thought of Genos as a consolation, he's long since changed his mind. Yes, it's true that Genos doesn't have the mind of the century, but he's got the sort of intellect one meets only a few times a decade.  His courage though?  That's the sort people write legends about. Now let’s talk about you trying harder to stay alive long enough to become one.

[quietwingsinthesky]

oh goddamnit. fine. old man yaoi.

They are two men out of time, and Samuel doesn’t even bother to look at him when he enters a room.

Henry is used to hierarchy. He’s spent his life working up the ranks, and he’s still- He was still lagging behind, not let in on the greatest secrets the Men of Letters kept within their walls. (All these and more are open to him now. He’s still working through the decades of knowledge stored in here with Sam. It’s the only way he can think of to bond with his grandson.)

Samuel sets off those old nervous tendencies in him to shut up and stand at attention for orders. It’s aggravating. He’s nothing more than a hunter, a prolific one with a base of knowledge that leaves Henry reluctantly impressed, but still as bullheaded and violent as the rest of them.

It hurts Henry that sometimes he sees more of Samuel’s face in his grandsons than his own. Even John’s features always took more after his mother than him. It catches him off-guard in awful ways, Millie’s words in their mouths, the way she used to let certain vowels melt into the same sound until he teased her for it. He can’t say a thing about Sam and Dean doing the same thing, only stand there pale as if he’d seen a ghost and leave the room quickly.

A humanizing quirk of Samuel: sometimes Henry looks up from a book to see his something other than stubborn indifference behind his eyes, his gaze falling on those boys in quiet grief and what Henry recognizes all too well now as horror.

None of them discuss why it is Sam and Dean don’t talk to Samuel like he’s anything more than a business partner, but Henry knows how betrayal roots itself. The Men of Letters require terrible things of those who prove themselves worthy.

Some nights (most nights) they get all to themselves. There’s a lot of old bottles stored in the Bunker. Antiques that Samuel cracks open and Henry doesn’t say a word so long as he gets a glass. They make Henry tolerable or Samuel less ill-tempered, or both too focused on remembering what they won’t get back to care.

“Tell me about Mary,” Henry asks, one night. He’s bold enough, or maybe drunk, or both. The way Samuel’s expression falls almost reels him back to sobriety, but then there’s pride there, too, and a fierce love Henry understands more than anyone else could. Samuel talks about Mary very differently than John chronicled her memory. She’s a hunter herself first, in Samuel’s eyes, and brash and stubborn as he is, but strong, head screwed on right despite it all, despite him, and sometimes, Samuel wishes he’d held on a little less tight. He’s lying, and Henry can tell, but he doesn’t say a word. His last memory of John is a bedtime promise he broke. He’d tear the whole world open if it meant going back for even one more hug.

And so, guiltily, he asks about John, too. There are so many parts of his son he never got to have. Even Samuel’s dim view of him is a welcome one.

For once, Samuel tempers his words. “He was good,” he says, and doesn’t add not good enough for Mary, but Henry smiles at it anyway. He imagines he’d be the same, if he’d been blessed with a daughter rather than a son. (He could have had a daughter-in-law, at least. The world could have been kind enough to give him that.) “Came back from the war whole, took care of his mother and worked hard. A good man.”

“Without me,” Henry says. “Despite me.” His chair seems unsteady. The world is spinning. Samuel catches his arm as he tries to stand and puts him back in his place.

“Too busy reading to learn how to hold your liquor?” It’s not kind, but it’s not cruel. Henry will take it.

“We valued sharp minds at any hour. No time for this kind of indulgence.” Now, their grandsons fight the war, and Henry’s bones are too old for his skin. Samuel looks the part he plays, aged fine and strong.

Henry looks at him too long some nights.

Wonders if Samuel misses his wife the same way Henry does his.

“Don’t throw up,” Samuel tells him. Henry tilts his head back. His world is moving too fast.

“And I could still have been sharper,” Henry mourns. “I never was a man for spellwork.”

“We get psychics to do it for us nowadays. The odd witch you don’t shoot in the back of the head,” Samuel comments, “or do after they give you the goods, if you’re hoping to live longer.”

“You would have made a terrible Man of Letters,” Henry says. What would those he worked with have said about the state of this place now, manned by two barely-legacies, a failure, and a hunter who didn’t bother with his own magic? The upside of them all being dead is that there’s no one left to disappoint.

“And you’re a shit hunter,” Samuel says, like they’re perfectly equivalent. Henry snorts. In this new future, he’s lost enough that they might as well be.

At least there are hunters out here fighting the good fight.

And it must be a good fight, to ask for so much and spit them out broken at the end with nothing in return.

“You’re going to need me to walk you to your bed, aren’t you?” Samuel grumbles. Henry tilts his head towards him. Samuel talks to him, and he talks to Samuel, and both of those boys walk on eggshells around them like they’re hoping to come back to the Bunker one day and find them gone.

Samuel’s right about the drink. Henry can’t hold it. He’s overfull with the details of lives he never saw led.

“I’d appreciate it,” he whispers. With the same strength he shoved him down with, Samuel hauls him up. Henry leans on him. Samuel stinks of gun oil, a compulsive habit of weapons cleaning for hunts he’s never asked on. Perhaps Henry should scan the newspapers (or that internet thing) for a case of his own. It’d do him good to get him out of the house. He could take Henry with him and let him escape this tomb for a week. If he didn’t end up kicking Henry to the side of the road in annoyance, maybe it would even be enjoyable.

“You let yourself get as bad as Deanna used to before she had Mary,” Samuel says. He does more of the walking than Henry does.

“And Millie would drink you under the table.” Henry’s chest aches, loneliness watered well until it chokes him.

He stumbles. Samuel steadies him easily. He has dark brown eyes that might have been warm in a kinder face. Instead, they set the handsome firmness of him in place, from his hard jaw to the top of his head. Henry swallows, trying and failing to keep an old sickness down.

Samuel could push him back first. He doesn’t.

He tastes like whiskey. Henry probably does, too. If the dead look after the living, he hopes they give their blessings. Samuel might not wear his wedding ring, but Henry couldn’t part with his yet. Samuel’s hand fits warm against the side of his face.

“That another thing your organization liked to keep quiet about?” he asks, when Henry’s only pulled back far enough that Samuel’s breath blasts hot across his mouth.

“We worked long nights,” Henry answers, “and if no one admitted to it, it never happened.”

“Funny,” Samuel says, and for the first time that he remembers, Henry sees him smile. It’s a hard and starved beast, and it might try to eat Henry alive. “I’ve known a lot of hunters who’d say the same thing.” Samuel drags him in, and Henry, ever a credit to his lost cause, does not go down easily. Samuel bruises him with reckless abandon. Henry strikes back in ways that make his head toss and groans rumble out of his chest. They make it back to Henry’s bedroom, eventually.

It’s a good thing the boys won’t be back for a while.

[omgsomeonesomewhereonearth]

I know I can’t stand you, but please stay anyway? (pt 4)

Pt1|Last Chapter| Ao3

Warnings: Family Christmas, Arguing (really more like bickering, though), Profanity, a lot of original characters

Pairings: Moceit

Patton hates lying. Patton never tells lies. Patton has told a massive lie. Ethan can’t stand Patton. He has no reason to ever help him. Except, of course, the most obvious one. A fake relationship, a family Christmas, and other shenanigans ensue

“Patton! Welcome home sweetheart, it’s so good to see you!”

“Mum!”

The door opened to reveal a smiling individual in a Christmas sweater who Ethan could only assume was Pauline Hart.

Almost instantly, Patton’s slightly tense expression from earlier disappeared as he embraced his mother, and the two gushed briefly about how happy they were to see each other, how handsome Patton had gotten, how wonderful the lights looked, how fun the week would be, and the possibility of snow later in the week. Neither of them stopped to take a breath or stopped smiling at any point in the exchange. Definitely Patton’s mother.

Patton finally drew away, smiling guiltily at Ethan as if he’d forgotten his presence.

“Uh, Mum? This is…um, this is him. My, um, I mean, this is Ethan.”

Mrs Hart beamed, looking at him as if she didn’t even notice how out of place Ethan’s long, messy hair and dark clothing looked in her incredibly immaculate hallway. Ethan almost felt bad that his entire acquaintance with this woman was about to be based on a lie. Did the entire family possess some kind of weird super power that compelled people around them to be nice?

Well, one could still argue that the goodness of helping and possibly wooing Patton outweighed the badness of lying to a woman he barely knew, so Ethan didn’t feel too guilty for putting on a polite smile and extending his hand.

“It’s an absolute pleasure to finally meet you, ma’am,”

She completely disregarded his hand, instead pulling him into a warm hug.

“Oh, it’s so wonderful to meet you too, sweetie! And please, there are no formalities in this household, okay? When you’re here, you can call me Pauline, or if you’re comfortable with it, you can call me ‘mum’, most of Patton’s little friends do, but either away, I don’t want to hear any of this ‘ma’am’ nonsense, alright?”

Ethan couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Patton to see him struggling not to inform Pauline that they weren’t ‘actually’ friends.

“Come on in loves, you must be exhausted, how was your journey?” She ushered them into a cozy living room, already decorated for Christmas, with what Ethan personally considered an inordinate amount of tinsel on literally every surface. He did appreciate the Santa hats taped over family pictures though.

Patton looked equal parts impressed and mildly annoyed as Pauline pressed tea into both of their hands and Ethan sat slightly too close to him as he complimented Pauline on her impeccable taste in quirky throw pillows.

(His personal favourite was one with scrabble pieces spelling out ‘puns not dead’. He was starting to see where Patton’s entire personality originated from.)

“Oh, Ethan you’re far too sweet. Patton, why on earth would you wait so long to invite him home?”

“Mum…” Patton muttered, turning slightly red.

“What? It’s a perfectly reasonable question, honey. Ethan, don’t you think it’s more than reasonable for a mother to wonder what kind of man her son has been seeing for more than three years?”

“Mum!”

“I’m just asking a question! Especially when your young man is this lovely Patton, I’m almost astounded at your lack of manners here, mister.”

Ethan decided to rescue him.

“Actually Pauline, I’m afraid that in this instance you have me to blame. Patton has been pushing for this meeting for years. I actually kept putting it off, because the prospect of disappointing two people so important to Patton was too daunting to face. I’m so sorry for any concern I may have caused you.”

Ethan gagged internally. He sounded like Roman trying to get his way. It was effective in this instance however, with Pauline giving him a touched look and waving away his apology.

“Well it’s very sweet of you to worry, but I assure you, you have absolutely nothing to worry about here. As long as you’re making Patton happy, I’ve got absolutely no problems with you.”

Ethan ignored Patton’s pointed look. That kind of thing was very easy to say, but he knew better than to take it at face value. Pauline certainly seemed like a nice woman, but so did most sweet old white ladies when one had only spoken to them for fifteen minutes.

“Well, now that you are here, why don’t you tell me more about yourself, Ethan? I feel like I barely know you at all! Every time I tried asking this one more about you, he’d start making excuses and try to get off the phone- I was starting to think you might not be real!”

Patton flushed beet red, opening his mouth as if to protest, before shutting it again in favour of burying his face in a pillow that claimed “Stay Pawsitive” (Complete with an illustration of a corgi).

He grew increasingly squirmier as Ethan made polite conversation with Pauline, about his plans for his future, surprised to find that he was actually enjoying himself somewhat. Clearly, he had a knack for impressing mothers. If things with Patton didn’t work out, he could start a very lucrative career as a fake boyfriend-for-hire.

“Mum, when does Vivian get home?” Patton cut in, apparently tired of having Ethan monopolizing his mother’s attention. “She said she’ll be arriving today.”

“She is, sweetheart, your dad’s just gone to pick her and Andre up. You know, the airport’s so far away, and they have a toddler to keep track of, so I insisted he go and give them a hand.” She turned her attention back to Ethan almost immediately. “But, Patton, you never told me you were dating a lawyer in the making!”

Patton rolled his eyes as discreetly as he could whilst Ethan preened under the attention. Was it petty of him to enjoy this so much despite how much it was clearly irritating Patton? Probably, but he was having far too much fun to stop now.

“Mum, I think Ethan is tired!” He cut in for the second time, now looking over at Ethan. “He was just saying, how he always gets worn out by travelling, weren’t you? Can I show him up to my room, and then you and I can catch up while he gets some rest?”

“That’s really not necessary-“ Ethan protested. He didn’t want to go upstairs when he’d just begun enjoying himself! When was the last time someone gushed over him like this?

“He’s just being shy mum, E’s always so worried about coming across as rude, but he hardly ever gets as much sleep as he should, and it’s really, really important to me that he use this vacation finally rest.”

Almost instantaneously, Pauline’s polite but happy demeanour gave way to a grim look filled with pure, terrifying, motherly concern. Ethan got the feeling that if he didn’t get himself upstairs immediately, he would be forcibly tucked in with a bedtime story.

“Well, Ethan, that just won’t do!”

“Really, ma’am, I-“

“Now, I know you young people are very ambitious these days, thinkin’ you can just stay up all night studying and then go to class the next day-“

“It’s not quite like that-“ It was, in fact, almost exactly like that, but she didn’t need to know that.

“But there is nothing more important than your own health! I’m sure you’re a very smart boy, but I don’t want to hear of you overworking yourself like that, okay?”

“… yes, ma’am.”

Pauline peered at him over her glasses, somehow managing to look far more intimidating than her son ever had, despite the fact that she was probably smaller than even Patton.

“And what have I told you about calling me ma’am?”

“Yes…Pauline?”

“Better. Now, I’ve set up Patton’s room for the two of you, it’s the first door on the left upstairs. I’d like you to go upstairs and rest yourself, please. As I said before, there are no formalities in this household, and I won’t hear of you depriving yourself of much needed rest for the sake of impressing me, okay?”

“…okay.” His voice came out far meeker than he was expecting.

Patton grinned at him far too sweetly. “Do you want me to show you the way?”

Fortunately, the sudden reminder that he was far sneakier than his cat pyjamas suggested only served to make Ethan more attracted to him.

He grinned at Patton, matching the other’s saccharine sweetness perfectly. “Very kind of you to offer, darling, but I think I’ll be okay.”

—

Not that he’d ever previously put any thought into the matter, but Patton’s childhood bedroom was exactly what he’d expected it would be. It had clearly been kept lovingly exactly the same as it must have been when Patton left for uni – from the collection of worn soft toys in the corner, to the collage of notes, postcards, and photos of a young Patton with an assortment of smiling friends. He recognized and took a quick picture of a baby-faced Logan in a too large tie to send to Virgil later.

“You know, you could probably give Ro a run for his money.” He whirled around to see Patton standing in the doorway, a wry smile on his face. “You’re surprisingly good at acting.”

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs bonding, or whatever?”

Patton pouted, making his way over to his bed. “Mum said it would be rude of me to leave you alone like this and sent me up. I expect we’ll be pushed together like this quite a lot over the week.”

Ethan gasped, bringing his hand up to his chest in mock horror. “You mean to tell me your parents expect us, a supposed couple of more than three years, to enjoy spending time together? Tell me it isn’t so!” He sat next to Patton. “You poor thing, stuck with your worst enemy all week long. Next thing you know, they’ll expect you to actually sit through a conversation with me present without getting huffy.”

Patton blushed, frowning down at his lap. “I don’t consider you my worst enemy.” He mumbled.

“Oh? Then you have someone you hate more than me?”

“I don’t hate you, Ethan!” Patton burst out, before immediately being silenced by Ethan’s hand over his mouth. “Mmph, what are you-“

“Oh, I’m sorry, have you forgotten that your mother is in the house? Or is your intention to make her think that we’re on the verge of breaking up?”

Patton looked slightly sheepish as Ethan removed his hand, continuing at a quieter volume. “I don’t hate you, I just,” he trailed off with a sigh “I do wish you were nicer sometimes.”

Ethan hummed, leaning closer to Patton and running his hand up his freckled arm. Patton frowned at the contact, but he didn’t move away. “Right, because you always react so well to my attempts at being nice to you.” He murmured the words softly in Patton’s ear, hoping his quiet voice would prompt Patton to look him in the eye.

It didn’t. He could see that Patton was biting the inside of his cheeks, an action Ethan had come to associate with his nervousness.

“I can never tell when you’re actually being nice.” Patton finally spoke, fiddling with his shirt. “You’re always making fun of me, specifically of me; you don’t mess with the others nearly as much, anyone would think you hated me.”

“As if I could hate you,” Ethan scoffed, ignoring Patton’s disbelieving look, “You’re always so nice, and kind.”

For fucks sake, he knew he was telling the truth and he barely believed himself. Why could he never just be straightforward when it came to this guy?

“See, this is what I mean! This is what I mean, you can’t even say something nice about me without sounding like you’re making fun!”

Ethan opened his mouth to protest but Patton was already shaking his head, clearly unwilling to continue this line of conversation.

“You know what, never mind. I mean, it hardly matters. Either way, I’m thankful that you’re helping me out. I’m sure we can act normal around each other for the next week, right? And then we’ll only ever have to see each other when all our friends are around!”

He offered him another obviously, horribly, fake grin, and Ethan’s gut twisted.

Yes, obviously, that’s what I want, I’ve agreed to come out with you to the middle of fucking nowhere and interact with your entire family, because I saw you distraught and couldn’t handle it until you were happy again, because I want to stop interacting with you.

Predictably, he didn’t say any of this. Instead, he raised an eyebrow at Patton, drawing away slightly. “Right, because we’ve been so good at acting normal so far, I can’t imagine that’ll present any issues at all.”

Patton frowned at him, “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing; I’m certainly not referring to the fact that you consistently jump ten feet in the air every time I touch you or move near you, in fact, I’m sure most normal couple dynamics also include one person consistently regarding the other as if they’re afraid of them.”

Patton blushed furiously, hissing at him, “I am not afraid of you- no, don’t look at me like that, I’m not! You just, you just startle me sometimes, that’s all! You can’t just randomly start acting all…funny, without any kind of warning!”

“So, you’re telling me that if I just asked you for a kiss right now, you’d have no problem with complying?”

Well, that definitely wasn’t pushing his luck at all.

“Actually, yeah, I think that’d be nice. You know, I’d just like some warning if you’re going to, um.” Patton drew off as he saw Ethan raise his eyebrows.

“So, if I asked you for a kiss right now…” he repeated, a smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t like he expected Patton to say yes, more likely he’d just roll his eyes and glare cutely at him all over again, and frankly, that was fine by him.

“Okay.”

Wait, what?

Patton looked slightly nervous, but he said, “I mean, we probably will have to, um, at some point, and I’d rather the first time at least be without an audience so we don’t get to nervous, I guess, so yeah, if you want to-“

Oh. Well, he was certainly prepared for this. It definitely wasn’t like he’d ever imagined kissing Patton before. In fact, this was exactly how he’d always wanted it to go. It wasn’t like imagining it was any different to it actually happening. Oh, god, his heart definitely wasn’t beating any faster at all.

“Um, E? You okay? Were you being serious about, uh, or-“

Patton was offering him an out. He could just say he’d been joking; he wouldn’t have to-

He kissed Patton.

For someone who’d blushed and stuttered every time he tried to talk about it, Patton was kissing him back with surprising conviction, gripping the front of his shirt as he chased his lips. Fuck, now Ethan really hoped he was able to make some sort of sincere move by the end of the week, because he really didn’t want to have to move on from this.

Patton’s smiled at him shyly as they separated. “Alright?”

Ethan couldn’t resist.

“Oh, more than alright, Patton. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I might even say you’ve done this before”

This time, his teasing had exactly the intended effect.

Patton’s smile disappeared. “I’ve kissed people before, you jerk,” he muttered, before tugging him back in so he could bite at his lower lip.

Ethan was only too happy to return the favour.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry!”

The two men jerked apart, turning towards the door.

“Vivian?”

Taglist:

@lunatatic

[jack-andthestalk]

Our Son, Arc II, Storytime, Chapter 12

@notevenjokingfic​​ took a small idea I had and used her wonderful mind to help me build on it for this chapter. Both she and @balfeheughlywed​ give me their time, advise and support and I really value it all as I know they've hectic lives outside of fanfic land. As usual @laythornmuse​ and @ladyviolethummingbird have been hugely helpful and supportive, and the DM's over our combined fics could fill a novel lol.

7 weeks later. Boston.

    With my phone tucked under my chin and Jenny Fraser’s persistent questioning in my ear, I fumbled in the bottom of my bag in search of the house keys.

  “Jenny, honestly I’m fine. We're back in a routine now, Willie is happy to see his old school friends. – I – am fine.”

    “Ye have repeated fine twice, so ye must be then.” She quipped sarcastically, before her tone softened – “ye are not and I ken it well, mam and Da want to go out to see ye and Willie in a few weeks would that be ok?”

  “Of course, I would love to see them, and Willie would be delighted.”

  “aye,” Jenny agreed quietly. I could almost hear her mind working over the phone.

  “Wot?” I blurted out more testily than Jenny deserved and kicked myself.

  “Ach, it’s nothing Claire, it’s just I ken ye dinna want to talk about him, but I only wondered if ye had heard anything from Jamie? His calls are becoming less and less frequent here, Mam and Da are worrit and I – don’t want to upset ye, but there is something off about what is going on there.”

  I wasn’t capable of answering without sounding bitter, but I heard the weary, worried tone in Jenny’s voice and wouldn’t hurt her for anything.

  “He rings Willie every second day.” I said sighing, since the first phone call after I returned to Boston, I just hand the phone to Willie, so I haven’t really spoken to him myself – I can’t just yet.” I finished honestly.

  “aye – off course Claire.”

  The vice-tight grip on my heart as I even discussed Jamie was the reason I wasn’t capable of holding a conversation with him. My days and nights spent missing him, followed by the wave of gripping pain overcoming me every time I imagined him with Geneva Dunsany, her high pitched giggle haunting my dreams as I saw her, at work, at play and in his bed.

  Willie tugged impatiently on my coat, “Will ye open the door mama, I’m burst’n.” I looked down at him as he danced from foot to foot while holding his crotch.

  Pushing the door open, I dropped my bag and swapped Jenny to my opposite ear.

  “Look I’m sure, he is just busy there Jen, it’s all new – ” I trailed off lamely.  Geneva is new; I thought to myself and felt the lump run from my stomach up to my throat.

  “Claire – “Jenny began hesitantly “I dinna think Jamie is busy for the reasons you do; I have spoken to him – I told ye what he said.”

  I blinked back tears, “Yes you did – but I really can’t think about it anymore – I need to be strong for Willie and working myself into a weeping heap thinking of the what if’s will not help me function.” I admitted in resigned sigh.

  There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few moments, and Jenny’s tone was almost unrecognisable when she spoke again.

  “As mad as I am with him for putting you in this position, to even give people the chance to question him. I don’t believe it. – Claire, I heard him. There is no way that man loves anyone but ye.”

  The bitterness in my retort surprised me as much as Jenny, “He doesn’t need to love her Jenny.”

  I could hear static and the sound of Jenny picking something up and placing it down again. I didn’t need to see her to know she was pacing, a tell when Jenny was thinking, similar to Jamie’s fingers running a rhythm on his thigh. Fraser quirks.

  “Claire – ya ken ye need to speak to him, yer not being honest with him either. “

  “Not yet- its – too ” I cut off mid-sentence when my eye fell on an envelope amongst the post that was  strewn across the welcome mat. 

  Mr William Fraser, followed by our address and in Jamie’s very distinguishable scrawl.

  “Claire, are ye there?”

  “Oh yes sorry- yes –yes I am.” An urgency to get Jenny off the phone made me blurt out “I promise I will talk to him soon.”

  “Jen I have to go Willie needs – “

  “Aye, aye, go on then I will speak to ye tomorrow.”

  I heard a click at her end and grabbed the envelope from the floor ignoring the rest.

                    ___________

    Willie ripped open the package with gusto, tongue hanging from his mouth in concentration. Toppling the contents on to the table, he clutched something resembling a brightly illustrated, bound journal.

  He cast it up into the air and excitedly declared “Da send me a book.”

  “So it would seem” I replied throwing my dubious gaze over it.

  The front cover was a sweeping landscape of fields and meadows, a little mole family standing front and centre arms and hands entwined with each other. I only needed to glance once to know that it was Jamie’s work. He had inherited Ellen’s artistic streak, and often drew funny cartoon characters to entertain Willie, this work had the same detailed sketching but with bright wisps of colour illuminating it. 

  It wasn’t unusual for Jamie to buy or send books to Willie; bedtime story was their thing whenever they were together. Jamie excelled at it, he read animatedly to Willie, giving each character a funny accent, making background sounds and explaining any detail Willie failed to grasp. In the short time he had lived together in Lallybroch I found myself being lulled into Willie’s room at night to hear Jamie read to him.

  The bound storybook I held in my hand now, was a first; Jamie had made an actual book just for Willie.

  The title at the top of it read, The Mole family and at the bottom, it said written and illustrated by James Fraser.

   “Look Mama” Willie was jumping up and down excitedly, “those moles are us, see.” His little finger jamming each animal. “The big mole looks like Da, he is really tall and has red curly hair, and he is wearing a kilt!” Willie’s eyes were wide as saucers as his gaze drifted to the littlest of the moles, who was wearing Willie’s favourite jeans, sweater combo, this mole had the same straight floppy red hair as Willie that made it so easy to pick him from a crowd.

  “That one is me –” he continued voice getting pitcher with each similarity he could find “oh and look” – he almost screeched – “that pretty mole is you, mama.”

  I had never seen a pretty mole before and had to admit the mole Willie was now jabbing eagerly, was quite eye-catching, and there was little doubt this mole was female.

  She stood out from the rest of her family, wearing a pretty floral dress resembling something I owned and wore regularly, a matching flower stuck in long curly hair.  However, what made her different to the others wasn’t just her lack of red hair or feminine wardrobe, it was the detail Jamie went to in adding golden flecks to her eyes making them look like they were glowing. She had long fluttering eyelashes sweeping wide across her upper lid and a wide smile lighting her face.  Her femininity was further emphasised by the usual lack of roundness moles typically possessed, this mole had an accentuated curvy figure with a controversial voluptuous cleavage for a children’s book.

  Jamie had further personalised this mole to resemble me by adding a shiny stethoscope, which hung loosely around her neck.

  I bristled at the happy little family bounding up from the page, suddenly angry at whatever Jamie was trying to pull off. Paint a picture of a happy mole family running through a pretty garden, make it resemble the woman you fucked over and all should be forgiven?

   Willie peeked inside the front cover which had an inscription a printed version of Jamie’s scrawl, he hastily thrust the book into my hand, “what does it say mama?” rubbing his little hands together, smile wide and brimming with delight.

  I inhaled deeply as I glanced at the typescript and cursed Jamie with everything I possessed.

  “Well” I began evenly, “the name is called the Mole Family” I traced my finger lightly over the title. Imagining Jamie bent over a desk plotting his story out.

  Willie nodded his head, “aye and what does that say at the bottom?”

  I puffed out an incredulous  breath and damned Jamie Fraser to hell and back.

  “It says: Mama please read this to Willie, all my love Da.”

  My childish heart felt like picking up my phone and texting him to read his own bloody story.

  However, I wouldn’t deprive Willie of anything and certainly not something that had lit up his whole face the way this book had.

Letting out a shaky breath I told Willie to brush his teeth and to hop into bed, “I will be there in a minute.”

  ________

  Holding Willie under the crook of my arm I opening the first page of Jamie’s book, feeling ridiculously nervous for someone about to undertake what most parents routinely went through every evening.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that this book was more than just a bedtime story.

  Once upon a time, way up in the Scottish highlands lived a mole family.

Da Mole, Mama Mole and Baby Mole.

They loved their home, and their little farm and being together –

    Jamie had illustrated each page, showing the moles living and working happily on their farm, to build the story he had included the moles with different types of dialogue, riding horses, playing with the baby mole,  all lending to the storybook happy family image most children’s books captured.

  I turned a page to find the mole family standing outside a house that looked eerily familiar to what the finished product of our house at Lallybroch should have looked like; Willie didn’t seem to notice my hesitancy at turning the next page, as if I was waiting for something to explode from the book.

  Willie pointed at the smallest mole riding a large black horse, tilting his head up to look at me,

  “look mama I’m riding Donas”  he declared proudly.

  “So you are.” The next page showed the mole talking to a new family of animals. “What are those?” Willie asked, his brows creased in confusion. “Wait until I get to that bit” my curiosity had me skimming ahead quickly, suddenly desperate to know where this story was going.

  One day a weasel family came to visit. They asked Da mole to go and work for them at their home, far away from Scotland.  Da Mole didn’t want to work for the Weasel family, so he said no thank you, he would hate to leave Mama mole and baby mole. However, the Weasels were a mean family and _____

    My heart beat fast in my chest as I read on to Willie, revealing the Weasel family threatened and fought with the moles until Da mole went with them.

  Willie’s brow creased and his chin dimpled while he listened to each twist and turn.

   I couldn’t deny I was more familiar with the beginning of the story but once I turned the page to see Da mole working at the weasel farm and a new character introduced on the page next to him. I almost forgot I was reading a four-year-old story and found my eyes jumping ahead as  I eyed a puffin dressed in a police uniform that Jamie had drawn in great detail.

  The puffin had floppy blonde hair, with boggle eyes, he was dressed head to toe in police uniform.

  Da mole was working one day on the Weasel farm when Puffin the policeman came to see him –

  My lips trembled, and my sweaty palms fumbled with the pages as I read over the piece about the policeman to Willie and again in my head.  The policeman said the weasels had a lot of money that didn’t belong to them, and if Da mole could pretend to be their friend, the weasels might show Da mole where they hid their money.

  I almost forgot to read the bit to Willie where the puffin would watch and listen to everything Da mole did so he could catch the weasels I was so intent on working out what this meant for Jamie in Hellwater.

  “ye skipped a bit mama” Willie pushed his hand to where the puffin was observing Da mole from a distance.

  As the story played out, I found myself ignoring Willie’s requests to put different accents on the animals as Jamie did. Instead carefully piecing  together the plot Jamie was laying out, and the message he sent when the policeman told the mole of the risks to his family should they find out what he was doing.

  Jamie had worked towards Willie seeing how much the mole missed his family, a little thought cloud bubble over the mole’s head, imagining what it would be like to be home again in bed with his family all of them curled up contently in one bed.

  Willie’s head bent solemnly, “that’s like pur Da.”

  I turned the next page to images and text of Da mole befriending the weasels so that they led him to the money. Willie complained I was reading too fast.

   The quality of the bedtime story taking a backseat as I grappled to understand what this all meant.

  As I reached the last few pages, Da mole was stood in a room filled with money, showing it to a little army of puffins. Willie laughed at the funny caricature faces Jamie had given each one.

  I licked my lips nervously as the story concluded with Da mole back and happy with his family. The weasels locked up. Willie sighed contentedly, “that was sooo good mama, will ye read it one more time?”

  I could barely stop myself from tearing out of the room to scan the book alone. Turning off the light I promised Willie I would read it one more time in the morning before school.

  A few minutes later I was bent over the book in the kitchen, going through each detail. Panic rising in my belly as I examined each picture again, this time noticing small details that my addled brain had missed, the puffin pointing at a phone and telling the mole not to use it, ‘if the weasels should find out.”  Written in the dialogue box about the puffins head.

  I let my fingers feel each drawing, feather-light touching the words images of Jamie plotting, planning and taking the time to sketch something to match each twist and turn so that he could tell me a story.

  This wasn’t the action of someone who was cheating with another woman; this was someone who was caught and still found a way – to make me see.

  My fingers suddenly felt something like brail along the last page.

  I traced each letter with my finger before hastily jotting it on a notepad beside me.

  Gaelic words, I knew few but recognised the first two instantly. Jamie used the first one when he slipped his ring on my finger. My bhean, my wife. The second he regularly used when talking about Willie. Mo Mhac, my son.

  I grabbed my phone from the table and typed in the last two, tears flowing down my cheeks when the translation popped up on the screen.

  Mo bhean

Mo mhac

Mo h-uile rud.

Na dìochuimhnich

  My Wife, My Son, My everything, don’t forget.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 2: Horror Film Clichés

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he's tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Taylor and the girls take on the town as festivities kick off in the French Quarter, only to suffer the hallucinations he thought he'd left behind. On the way home things take a turn for the cinematically terrifying.

[READ IT ON AO3]

They’re certainly a trio to be reckoned with. Not that anyone looks in the mood to try.

Vera and a different pair of silk gloves — still in color-coordination with her outfit, which is pretty impressive — gently nursing her second hurricane through a neon straw. Taylor and his version of fun with his own looping straw in a coke bottle. And Kristin completely hammered between them; beads from the night before swinging with the shimmy of her body towards anything that looks even remotely fruity and, more importantly, on a ‘2 for 1$’ Mardi Gras Week special.

Frankly Taylor’s a little surprised. Would have thought his finally coming clean about the only secret left between them might have curbed her alcoholic appetite. He must not be hiding it well either; since Vera comes up beside him while they watch her do that thing drunk girl strangers do where they suddenly find the other girl the most beautiful creature in the world and will die if they don’t tell her.

So, like, typical Kristin stuff.

“She’s been looking forward to this for months,” Vera says with fond exasperation, “had three countdowns; one on her desk calendar at work, one on her phone, and —”

“Let me guess, one on your phone?”

Vera grins. “Old habits, huh?”

“Her exams were on my alarm schedule.”

“Ooh, gotcha.”

“Mmhm.”

He’d thought it would be hard getting along with Vera — the friend of the friend — but it couldn’t have been more the opposite. Vera was witty and charming and had the distinct drawl of a native Southerner without any of the local judgment. She was definitely as fish-out-of-water in the throngs of party-goers as he was; something hard to come by and even harder not to feel ashamed about in the natural, glowing presence of Kristin’s extroversion.

The hard part comes when it turns out most of the local clubs and dives Vera had put on their agenda have adapted to the needs of the season in all the colors of the vodka rainbow.

Taylor keeps insisting he’s fine — “no offense to your keen sober coaching skills but I have lived in this town on my own for a bit now, Krissy” — but she won’t have it. Not until she’s had her shot, had a mysterious game card punched (where did that come from?), and pushes them back out the way they came.

There’s a thoughtful touch to his arm that makes Taylor look back. Vera glances at the streets and their lights with something like recognition.

“I think I know a great lil’ place nearby if y’all are into anything off the beaten path.”

She says y’all like she’s speaking to them both but Kristin’s whoop of delight as she trades beads with a man covered from head to toe in different shades of glitter for kisses on the cheek says she’s long gone.

Which may work in their favor, actually.

“How far?” asks Taylor. Vera gestures airily.

“Just on the other block. It’s nothing special — just a place some friends and I used to hang out in when I was younger. More a place for historical value than something to add to Cookie’s drink card over there.”

But it sounds great to him. “I’m in. You wanna play rodeo this time or should I?”

As Taylor tips an invisible cowboy hat her way Vera giggles open and unafraid; puts on what she probably thinks is a more Texan edge to her accent and pretends the glittering floral piece on her bodice is a belt buckle.

“I think this is a two-man job, pardner.”

He tries to take her seriously — really, he does. But nope, nope, it’s just too silly. He can’t not laugh. “Never — ah! ha! — never do that again!”

Together they successfully corral Kristin back into the safety of their immediate vicinity and head over to Vera’s suggestion. Which, as it turns out, is exactly the kind of place Taylor’s been hoping they’d find all night.

Small and the exact opposite of crowded; filled with wooden surfaces both glossy and in need of a little love. Frames on the walls of years gone by but uncluttered — they leave him with the feeling of wanting to make his own space not just on the wall but in the world outside.

Once Kristin’s safe and snug in a rounded booth Taylor joins Vera up at the bar to bring back drinks.

“Two cokes and a water, please!” Even she sounds cheerier. What happens when you send two introverts out to party at one of the most crowded events of the year, he supposes.

“This one’s on me.” Taylor insists; is already forking out the bills.

Vera sighs but doesn’t exactly decline, waves in thanks as she heads towards the back where a neon sign says ‘LADIES.’ “Lemme go powder my noise for a second, cher.”

One minute he’s examining the bottles decorated with beads and stuffed with themed string lights for the occasion and the next he’s pressed against the bar with a hot and heavy voice husking in his ear.

“Pssst!”

Taylor sighs and gently pushes Kristin off. “I thought we told you to stay put in the booth.”

“Well, yeahduh,” she rolls her eyes like she’s done exactly as asked, continues on; “but this is more important!”

He waits. And waits. Finally has to ask. “What is?”

With drunken subtlety Kristin jerks her head to the last booth in the row. “That.”

“What?”

“That!”

Admittedly the first time he’s only humoring her. The second — and only because if she gets any louder the party outside might hear her — he actually looks. And probably would have missed the stranger and the glass he nurses in the shadows if Kristin hadn’t directly pointed him out.

His eyes haven’t exactly adjusted to the bar’s dim lighting yet; makes him have to squint with all tact out the window. There’s no pretending he’s doing anything other than trying to map out the face of the lone stranger.

Though there’s no pretending the stranger isn’t staring directly at him, either.

A leather-clad arm grabs his dusky tumbler and brings it up; lets it melt into the shadows he wears well. There’s an angular jaw and dark hair that blends in around him. The heavy tap-tap of a workman’s boot like an afterthought.

Whoever he is he’s definitely not dressed up for the festivities. Looks more at home in the shadows than the shadows themselves. Besides the glint of his eyes in the yellow bottled lights he wears the shadows perfectly.

Or maybe they wear him instead.

As a rule Taylor’s never been one to believe in cliches — things like love at first sight only happen in the movies. And judging by the chill that runs down his spine it’s definitely not love he’s feeling as his world zones in on the stranger and his shadows.

No, he’s quite familiar with this particular feeling; the tension in his jaw and the cold sweat that presses spandex and cotton to his back, the way things go a bit fuzzy around the edges and he’d rather this not happen ever again but definitely not now — not with people he knows.

Only… it doesn’t. As if he’s willed it into reality. Even with a heated face and the surprising tickle of sweat creasing on the outside of his eye.

Taylor waits, and waits, and waits… but the shadows stay shadowy and the man stays, well, manly. No hidden face in the depths — no sharp teeth or pitch-black eyes or, hell, rock-looking mountain skin.

The man is just a man. And as suddenly as the feeling overtakes Taylor it’s gone.

“Now Cookie, stop it — Taylor, hon? Taylor.”

Like the air was made of molasses and suddenly starts being air again Taylor turns his head all-too-quickly. Snaps to attention at Vera snapping her fingers in vain in front of his face. Lucky he’s still leaning against the bartop because the vertigo that follows is not pleasant.

“I… wha..?”

The back of her glove is warm against his forehead. He’ll have to buy her a new pair if he damages that one with his perspiration.

“Sweetheart,” the fact that the worry isn’t letting up in her tone should be evidence enough, “you look like the whole Mardi Gras parade just passed over your grave.”

The situation has the doubled effect of sobering Kristin up. She offers him what was supposed to be her water with a frown. “Damn, Tay, you look like a shadow or something.”

A shadow.

While terror at first sight might not be one of the cliches for the books he’s pretty sure vanishing into thin air is. The only thing left in the corner booth is the now-empty tumbler and a crinkled bill.

And there’s this sinking pit in his stomach that should he ask “Hey, what happened to that man in the corner?” the only answer he’ll get is “What man?” and another thing to tell his therapist about.

With shaking hands he takes the glass and sips it at Kristin’s urging.

“I —” god his throat burns like he’s not had a drop to drink in years, “— I think it might be my bedtime.”

He tries to laugh it off. Can’t even convince himself. Isn’t sure he wants to.

Vera gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. There’s something motherly about her smile. “I think it might be all’a our bedtimes.”

Kristin looks ready to argue — a look from her coworker stops her in her tracks; makes her silently agree.

Right now he couldn’t ask for better friends.

He could, however, ask for friends of a more sober variety.

“I don’t think this is the way to my place, guys. Why don’t we just call a car?”

“Relax worrywort,” Kristin tells him for the umpteenth time, “Vera grew up around here. She knows these streets like the back of her hand!”

She looks to Vera for confirmation but the look they get back is less than reassuring.

“It’s been a while since I’ve wandered these old roads, Cookie.” Vera looks apologetically at Taylor. He can’t blame her — he’s lived here more recently and still doesn’t know the back alleys and rues as well as he should.

“C’mon! Where’s your sense of adventure?” whines Kristin. Taylor’s pretty sure he left it back at the bar in the stranger’s corner.

Wherever they are they’re well beyond the party now. He strains to hear even the most distant sounds of the Quarter but the chorus of silence and accompanying locust orchestra.

Vera’s phone screen illuminates her face in a gaunt digital glow; shows just how quickly it turns into a frown. “That’s funky…”

“What is?”

She shakes her head, extends a hand. “Can I borrow your phone? My carrier must be mad I left New York.”

He offers it without thought. She takes Kristin’s, too, both screens like spotlights.

Funky isn’t the word he’d use to describe the troubled crease in her brow. “Vera; what is it?”

She lifts the phones skywards — points them at the numerous strings of telephone wires criss-crossing over them like a net. “Must be in a dead zone or something.”

Kristin giggles and knocks into his side. “Oooh how spooooky~”

Only he doesn’t share her sentiments. Not spooky but certainly troubling — and immediately his anxiety goes against him and decides to remember what Tilly the tour guide had said the day before about things worse than ghosts that liked to hang around New Orleans at night.

“Well then let’s walk until we find signal.”

There isn’t any three blocks to the right. Or two blocks up and four over. Kristin stops complaining about how much her heels make her feet ache a little while on. The night air’s done wonders to clear her head but he almost wishes she still had the distraction of a buzz to keep her from worrying.

If he wasn’t so concerned with the surroundings getting less and less familiar by the minute he might make a quip about their reliance on unreliable technology.

“What was that?!”

Taylor hisses; pries Kristin’s nails out of his arm like shrapnel. Can still hear her high-pitched shriek ringing in his ears. She sounds like just another cicada.

She’s fixated on the empty street behind them. Nothing moves under the dim lamplight — not even a bit of grass in the wind. Had there been a breeze before? He doesn’t remember.

Vera takes on a little bit of the Kristin-duty — gently coaxes her over to hold her gloved hand tightly and shushes her nice and steady.

“What spooked ya, baby girl?”

“I could have sworn I saw…” She searches the darkness with a scrutiny that doesn’t ease Taylor in the slightest. “There was a movement and…”

“And,” Vera finishes for her, “it was probably just a bird over the moon. You’re only freakin’ yourself out. One foot in front of the other, you know how it goes.”

It’s enough to get them moving again. Taylor rubs his hands over his bare arms and looks up at the cloud-covered moon.

Two more blocks and Taylor’s finally had enough. If they didn’t have any signal closer to civilization then they certainly aren’t going to get any in the heart of shotgun houses and street lights every quarter mile.

“This is getting us nowhere. Maybe we should just double back to the Qu —”

Kristin interrupts him with another shriek and a jabbed finger.

“There it is again!”

But, again, there’s nothing but the night. Taylor sighs. “Okay, no more ghost watch for Kris —”

This her third scream almost breaks his eardrums. Makes Taylor wince and clap a hand over one ear as he glares between the girls in frustration. How the hell she managed it with her mouth closed he doesn’t know, but it’s getting to be too much.

Makes him gawk at Vera who gives a full-body shiver. “Seriously?”

Tears prickle at the edges of Kristin’s eyes and her lower lip wobbles the same as it does when she sees a movie with more than one dog.

“Taylor… that — that wasn’t Kristin.”

“Stop, Vera, yes it —”

“Cher I’m standin’ right next to her.”

He takes a step forward. Feels a sudden cold like the bite of winter on the back of his neck as he places his clammy palm over Kristin’s mouth.

And, as if triggered by touch, the cicadas stop their serenade at the unearthly screech so loud it thins the air around them. The kind of noise that makes blood turn over and go sour. Makes it stop pumping in your chest and, in the void left, lets your heart begin pumping liquid fear instead.

They’ve all seen how this goes down: separation means being picked off, running means there’s something to run from. Like there’s something bred deep into their mortal bones the three take hands and usher one another along with haste.

“What is it?” Kristin whispers thickly.

“I don’t know —”

“— and I don’t want to find out.” Vera finishes for him. Keeps looking back behind them even though the high-pitched howl echoes off the ramshackle homes in all directions.

Taylor knows the logical thing to do would be to pound on doors until some sleepy, confused soul dares to confront them. Knows they’ll somehow be safe surrounded by thin walls and the presence of a stranger. The monsters in horror movies never show up when there’s an unknowing witness, right?

But logic doesn’t exist in horror movies.

And his life just became one.

The housing alleys open up onto a main road — deserted, as per horror movie logic — with a large brick wall across.

He recognizes it immediately.

“Come —” —does the howl that drowns him out sound closer or is it just him?— “— come on! Over the wall!”

They’re in the middle of the street when Vera gets her bearings; stops them all with a surprisingly strong grip despite the slippery gloves.

“No way!”

But the cemetery is so close. “Well we don’t exactly have a ton of options!” He hisses.

“Trust me on this when I say whatever’s locked up in there at night is worse than what might be out here.”

He yanks back his hand as if burned.

“What-ever?”

Taylor doesn’t miss it. Wouldn’t give a slip of the tongue much thought given the circumstances only Vera seems genuinely fearful at the distinction between who and what.

“Whoever—whatever! Just — that’s a dumb idea. You’re gonna get us killed.” She argues.

Kristin looks between them and bites her lip white. “Guys…”

“Vera, do you know something?”

“What — I don’t —”

“Do you know something about this?!”

In the absence of screeching the silence is somehow worse.

Vera looks down and to the left.

“No.”

Fuck. They so don’t have time for this right now.

“Krissy — come on!” Thank god she doesn’t hesitate — looks back at Vera crestfallen before crossing the road to the cemetery with him.

He’ll feel bad about leaving her behind if and when he gets the chance to look back — not fondly, no fucking way — but every nerve and fiber of his being is screaming uncertain about even that.

With grunts and effort he hikes Kristin up enough for her to grab onto the top of the wall. Fights off the paranoia that comes with the suddenly restless shadows around them.

Kristin lays flat on her belly at the top; reaches down and helps Taylor scramble up before his shoes can resist the mossy surface.

Poised to leap down he throws a last look back. Vera’s nowhere to be seen.

“Taylooor!”

He vaults down into the safe entrapment of Lafayette Cemetery Number Two.

Before both feet even hit the ground Kristin’s on him; smacking him with open palms and tears down her cheeks. “I can’t believe you just left her you asshole!”

She left Vera, too, but something tells him that’s not the right thing to say.

“It was her choice.”

“Dude — nobody thinks clearly in shit like this! Oh my god — what did I do? We need to go back.”

He grabs her wrists. “No. Krissy, no. Look at me. Look at me!” Doesn’t mean to shout but it’s the only way to get through to her right now. If anyone was the blonde in the movie…

“Something’s not right, okay?”

“Yeah, leaving her wasn’t —”

“No — fuck — stop! I mean it felt like she… she knew something… someone…”

And here comes the headache again. Maybe just being near alcohol is the problem. Can’t do much about it now — even sober it oozes from Kristin’s pores.

But is it a hallucination if they’re seeing—hearing—it too?

He watches her face crumple and does the only thing he can. Pulls her into a bone-crushing hug both to stifle her sobs and feel the grounding presence of her fluttering heartbeat.

“W-WW-We’re the dumb white teens in-n the gg-gore flick, Tay.”

There’s nothing humorous in his laugh.

“Yeah, we are.” Pushes her back gently and points behind her — across the cemetery to the far wall beyond.

“I was here yesterday. There’s a twenty-four hour cafe on that side. We make it there and by movie logic: no more being chased, right? Right?” He waits until she nods; tries to muster up a smile but knows the twist of it is nowhere near reassuring. “Good. Then come on.”

Only Vera had their phones. And the dead don’t need night-lights.

They use the worn stone tombs to keep themselves steady. Make it all the way to the dividing path of the cemetery under the cover of almost pitch darkness when the moon decides to peek its ugly mug out from behind the clouds.

The wind stops mid-groan.

He’s just being cautious. Just keeping an eye on their surroundings. No matter the who or the what there can be a very real danger posed in cemeteries at night. It’s not just a ploy to scare tourists. So he’s just being cautious.

Only he could repeat that excuse until his tongue bleeds and Taylor would know it’s not the whole truth. Not that he’d admit to knowing he needed to look at the entrance gates at that exact time in that exact place.

No; nothing save torture would get him to admit that.

Long wisps of tattered cloth billow in the still air. Translucent, like mummy wrappings. Trailing outwards from the gaunt and yellowing skull in a burial halo.

No, not a skull. Skulls don’t have flesh but as his eyes adjust to the waning moonlight he can see the rotting, putrid remains of skin still clinging; holding on for dear life against hard cheekbones, sinew holding together a gaping jaw.

The decay makes it harder to tell the difference between organic and fabric the more of the creature he takes in. Could play a funky little samba tune on each protruding rib but can’t see through it to the spine. The bones deform down at the hands; the talons bearing rust-covered manacles ripped from the depths of some place that makes him question his spirituality.

And Taylor imagines the combination might have made the feet of the thing look comical — if it had any. But it ends, stunted, at skin pulled taut over the pelvic bone before it dissolves into writhing maggots and the remains of what might have once been an angelic-white burial shroud.

But he’s an actor — he’s seen what the film industry can do, the magic of stage blood and putty. He’s seen some pretty ugly realities made from fake props.

It’s the smell that isn’t a fake. That same curling, chemical smell bodies have at wakes. Formaldehyde. And under that a sour and metallic odor that literally — no, literally — makes anything living near it wilt, brown, and wither into spidery white fungi and black-spiked mold.

The world is quiet. Almost blissfully so. Like it wants Taylor to let the creature be just another figment of his imagination.

It raises a claw. Warped fingers curled. And points at his heart.

Behind him Kristin gives a shattering shriek. The creature’s jaw falls gaping and meets her at every decibel.

His cries of “Go — go go — GO!” are lost to the ringing in his ears as the skeleton—thing—whatever-it-is raises its arms and tears through the metal gate in one fell swoop. Cuts through it like fingers through a waterfall and with the touch of death that makes the iron curl and twist in on itself; age with rust and years it shouldn’t have been forced to see so soon.

Then it’s floating — actually floating — towards them. Really really fast.

They trip over themselves, one another in their haste to run. Taylor makes sure to push Kristin ahead of him. Doesn’t know if that’ll do anything in the long run to prolong her life or just stave off her inevitable suffering but he can’t not try.

“Keep running!” Don’t look back.

“I am!”

“Don’t look back!” Keep running.

“Wasn’t planning on it!”

In a startling move Kristin grabs the corner of a mausoleum and whips around it — has to grab Taylor by the hem of his shirt so he can follow because there’s absolutely no way they’re splitting up now.

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygo —”

His turn to yank her along through the narrowing paths between the crypts. “Nope — no time for that shit. Move!”

But in the back of his mind Taylor’s screaming at himself; they’re only going further into a cage of their own making. Leaping over the other wall was a good idea when they had the time and the clarity of mind but now, being chased by Jacob-Marley-from-Hell, they were in short supply of both.

And losing more by the second.

Hide. It’s coming.

Common sense, right? So why does Common Sense suddenly have a voice that echoes in his head like a thousand different cries?

Hide!

He spots the gaping void of black like moon gives it a spotlight. Grabs Kristin’s hair — he’ll apologize later — to get her attention. Together they slip between the sliver of space in the open stone door.

“In here!”

“What the fu—”

Taylor clamps his sweating hand over her mouth as their creature gives another howl to the night. Drags its claws against stone because why wouldn’t it be absolutely fucking terrifying like that?

He blinks; lets his eyes adjust to the almost-too-darkness to fixate on Kristin’s trembling eyes. A knowing glance and he lets his hand slip down.

“What do we do?”

Yeah, Common Sense, what do we do? Taylor knows he’s not going to get an answer. There’s no script here — no director and no blocking. Just him and his dumb brain being clouded by panic.

“All right listen,” he whispers back, “whatever… whatever that is it tore right through the gates. If we can get there maybe…”

“Maybe it’ll chase us out there?”

“Krissy.”

“I know — I know. I just…” She gives him a look and he knows. Feels it, too. That cold sweat and the fear of the unknown. But one step at a time.

They wait until the creature’s cry sounds distant; maybe on the other side of the cemetery? Maybe not — not that they really have a choice.

Taylor goes first. Looks left, right, left again and has a fucking heart attack at tree branches looming overhead but it’s enough space to run so they run for it.

Fouled rot his them like a wall and he doesn’t have to look back to know it’s behind them in hot pursuit. He does anyway. What skin is left around its mouth tears and snaps to push out another bellowing scream.

Blood drips hotly from its teeth.

“KRISSY RUN!”

He doesn’t have to tell her twice.

The chase could be minutes, could be seconds. It could be an hour-long montage of weaving in and out of narrow escapes and almost-captureds or something out of Scooby Doo. Whatever it is it sucks the life out of them both but only gives that thing more energy the longer it goes on.

And then—then—he catches sight of a familiar path of dead grass and a molding bereavement bouquet.

“Come on! We’re almost there!” he cries; reaches back behind him flailing for Kristin’s hand in his.

They’re going to make it.

I’m so sorry.

Stop. No. He can see the gate.

I’m so, so sorry.

Kristin’s fingertips like butterfly kisses brush his wrist. Then nothing. And now he knows how awful silence is compared to the cry of the dead.

Taylor skids to a stop. Turns to see Kristin just standing there in rigor mortis — just letting it approach her in undulating rags and spectral death. Watches with open-mouthed horror as one of the skeletal hands reaches out to touch her.

It’s obscene how gentle the touch looks. Soft like a lover brushing from the tip of her forehead to her parted lips. The more it trails the paler she becomes and he’s not crazy when he can see the pulsing, pounding of her veins running black instead of blue underneath her sheet-white complexion.

The hardest part is not knowing whether she turns to him in a last, desperate act or if the creature compels her head to turn. But the milky whites of her eyes are branded into his memory for good.

Kristin crumples to the dirt; another dead thing at its feet.

And it fucking grins at him.

The last thing Taylor realizes is how much the thing is enjoying it; this — the chase. Makes him feel a warmth down his legs through his jeans and leaves him paralyzed.

He’s pretty sure the image of Kristin’s eyes reflected in the abyss of its rotting sockets isn’t a hallucination. But the figure that appears seemingly out of nowhere behind? Oh most definitely.

And the bright white light that shines, radiates, swallows the shadows in a bellyful that leaves him blind? Yeah, that too.

And the weightlessness? Well… now he’s probably just dreaming.

He can’t remember… do horror films get last-minute rescues?

[mizmahlia]

Sing Me to Sleep

Summary: According to Merriam-Webster, delirium is defined as “an acute mental disturbance characterized by confused thinking and disrupted attention usually accompanied by disordered speech and hallucinations”.

In this case, it happens when Batman gets dosed with Scarecrow’s first (and crudest) batch of fear toxin, not long after taking in an orphaned child.

Inspired by Lullabye (Goodnight My Angel) by Billy Joel. If you’ve never heard it, I highly recommend giving it a listen during the last scene with Bruce and Dick.

Note: The songs Martha sings are from Mary Poppins and The Music Man. The one Alfred sings is called “I See the Moon”, as sung by Nancy Sinatra.

AO3 

In the months after Thomas and Martha were killed, there was only one way Alfred could get Bruce to fall asleep when the nightmares frightened him enough he refused to go back to bed.

He sang.

At first, he did it purely for shock value. But it worked.

Martha sang to Bruce all the time; she sang along with the radio when they were in the car, and while she helped Alfred make dinner. While she was a talented singer, her best performances were always at bedtime. Bruce usually stalled while getting ready for bed; on a good night, it took the better part of an hour for him to get from wherever he was in the manor up to his bedroom.

Alfred once told Martha the reason Bruce caused such a commotion at bedtime was to get her to sing. She thought about it a moment, tilting her head in the thoughtful way she did when she pretended to mull something over, before giving him a conspiratorial wink.

“Perhaps. But he doesn’t know that we know that, now, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Then let’s keep it that way.”

“As you wish,” he replied. She walked to the top of the grand staircase and paused. He knew what was coming next and retreated to the shadows to watch Bruce come running. Martha closed her eyes and began to sing.

“Stay awake, don't rest your head. Don't lie down upon your bed.”

Her voice carried beautifully through the entrance hall and soon enough, Bruce’s shoes clambered loudly down the hallway into the room, and he skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.

“Is it bedtime already?”

She nodded and continued to sing, holding her hand out as she waited for him.

“Though the world is fast asleep, though your pillow soft and deep, you’re not as sleepy as you seem.”

Before he took off up the stairs, Bruce looked up at her in awe, beaming. It was the one smile Alfred thought he’d never see again after they were gone- the completely genuine, bright as the morning sun, contagious smile.

She wrapped her arm around him and steered him toward his bedroom, his steps growing clumsy along the way. A few minutes later, standing outside the door in the shadows, Alfred listened as she sang his personal favorite.

“Goodnight, my someone, goodnight, my love. Sleep tight, my someone, sleep tight, my love.”

Not wanting to intrude anymore than he already had, he smiled and went to check on Thomas before retiring for the evening.

He remembered that night as if it were last night and thought back on it often. For weeks he resisted the urge to sing to Bruce, not wanting to make it seem he was trying to replace Martha. But on the fourth consecutive night of Bruce refusing to even try to sleep, he gave up.

“I see the moon, the moon sees me. Dance in the leaves of the old oak tree.”

Bruce stopped playing under the blankets and froze. Moments later he slowly pushed the blankets back and poked his head out, his hair standing every which way. Alfred had to fight not to laugh as he finished another line.

“Alfred? What song is that?”

“It’s a song from when I was a child.”

Bruce stared at him, his cheeks turning pink in the lamplight.

“It’s different,” he said softly. “But.. I like it.”

“Shall I continue?”

Bruce nodded and settled back against the pillow, nuzzling his stuffed bear with his nose.

“Yes, please.”

So he did.

Alfred sighed and leaned into the high-backed computer chair as he watched Batman’s cowl feed. He was sprinting through the streets of Otisburg in pursuit of Jonathan Crane. Usually, this pursuit only lasted ten or fifteen minutes; but this time, Crane had a bit of a head start by way of a much-too-convenient power outage on Arkham Island.

He sat forward as Bruce rounded a dark corner seconds after Crane had, a bad feeling creeping up his spine. Sure enough, Crane was waiting around the corner and sprayed some kind of aerosol in Bruce’s face. It temporarily fogged the lenses of the cowl before Bruce swiped his hand across them. Alfred opened the software for the mass spectrometer on another screen and reactivated his comm link to Bruce.

“Batman, Agent A here. Are you alright?”

He could hear Bruce panting on the other end and watched as his vitals went berserk. Bruce’s pulse and respiration skyrocketed, and his core temperature increased as well.

“Batman. Do you copy? Are you alright?”

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he felt light-headed. He exhaled slowly to keep his voice calm.

“Don’t know. He sprayed me with something. I feel… strange.”

Alfred keyed up the Batmobile controls and sent it to Bruce’s location.

“I’m sending the car for you. I expect you to get in it when it arrives. I’ll have the medical bay ready.”

Bruce didn’t answer and Alfred waited. The cowl feed was still active. Bruce’s head was turning every which way, making Alfred dizzy as he tried to keep up.

“Batman?”

“Affirmative, Agent A.” His reply was clipped and breathless.

Alfred left the earpiece in and went to prep the medical bay, but not before checking the baby monitor next to his cold cup of tea by the computer.

When Bruce first brought Dick home, he was intimidated by the size of the manor, but insisted he sleep in his own room like the big kid he swore he was. Bruce knew how nervous Dick was, but instead of making a fuss over it, he asked Dick if he could use a video baby monitor to keep in contact. Like a walkie-talkie, but with a screen. Dick was immediately on board with the idea and after Bruce and Alfred tucked him in each night, Dick used the baby monitor to tell Bruce goodnight one more time.

Thankfully, Dick was still sound asleep, and he went about gathering supplies. He had no idea what they were up against, but between he two of them, they usually figured it out.

When the car coasted to a stop twenty minutes later, it took Bruce another five minutes to get out. Alfred monitored his vitals the entire ride, noting how his respiration and heartrate were still elevated, but his temperature was down, and the cowl feed had been disabled. When he climbed out, the cowl was pushed back, and Alfred immediately noticed the tight lines around his mouth and eyes.

Alfred approached carefully and held a hand out in front of him for Bruce to grasp if he needed it.

“Status report.”

Bruce’s glassy eyes took a moment to focus on him, and when they did, they widened in fear and he recoiled.

“No, stay back! I’ll hurt you!”

Alfred stopped and drew his hand back.

“Master Bruce, you won’t hurt me. Can you follow me so I can check you for injuries?”

Bruce seemed to latch onto the logic in Alfred’s question and nodded, slinking over to a gurney and sitting on it. Alfred kept his distance as Bruce removed the armor and stripped to the waist. The exposed skin the cowl didn’t cover was red and blotchy, but otherwise, there wasn’t a mark on him. He was shaking and crossed his arms over his chest.

Alfred moved slowly and only grabbed what was necessary before turning to Bruce.

“Are you cold, Master Bruce?”

He shook his head and refused to look at Alfred.

“Well, that’s good. But I’ll make this quick so you don’t catch cold down here.”

From the corner of his eye, he watched as Bruce scanned every inch of the med bay and the cave around them. If he had to guess, Bruce was looking for exits and threats. He looked like a cornered animal. Alfred donned a pair of gloves and make a show of holding up the lab supplies in front of Bruce.

“I’m going to draw some blood. Is that okay?”

Again, Bruce nodded but said nothing.

He drew three vials and taped a piece of gauze over Bruce’s elbow. As soon as Alfred backed away, Bruce climbed off the gurney and made a beeline for the showers. He left the lights off and Alfred could hear his boots squeak on the tile floor.

Once the blood tests were running, he went to find Bruce. He swiped a blanket from a cabinet along the way and made sure his footfalls were heavy enough that Bruce could hear him coming.

“Don’t come in here,” Bruce called out. “Please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Alfred removed the penlight from his jacket and stopped in the doorway.

“I have a blanket for you, Master Bruce. And I’d like to take one last look at you.”

He switched the penlight on and aimed it at the corner of the shower room, spotting Bruce’s boots sticking out of the last cubical. His legs were drawn up to his chest to cram as much of his enormous frame as possible into the small space.

“Stay back,” he pleaded.

Alfred stopped three feet away, far enough to be out of Bruce’s reach from his position in the shower, and tossed him the blanket.

“As you wish, sir. Can I just watch you for a moment? I’m trying to figure out what was in that concoction, and the mass spectrometer will take another half hour or so.”

Bruce’s eyes were half-open and fixed on the wall in front of him. His movements were sluggish and clumsy, and if he were a normal person, he likely wouldn’t even notice Alfred was there. And if it weren’t for Batman’s boots and trousers, Alfred would guess he escaped from a mental health facility. 

“Bruce, are you afraid right now?”

He got a barely perceptible nod. The dazed look and near-catatonia also concerned him.

“Can you tell me what you’re afraid of?”

Bruce shook his head and somehow curled in on himself further.

Alfred sat down, wincing at the cold tile beneath him.

“Then I’ll sit here with you until your test results are in.”

He took it as a good sign when Bruce reached for the blanket and wrapped himself in it, though he was still shaking and staring at something that Alfred couldn’t see. He couldn’t tolerate seeing Bruce so afraid and being unable to do anything, so he did the one thing he thought would help.

“I see the moon, the moon sees me. Dance in the leaves of the old oak tree.”

He thought he saw Bruce relax just a little and took that as his cue to keep singing.

Two hours and three inoculations later, Bruce wearily climbed the stairs toward the manor. Alfred was one step behind him with another syringe, the baby monitor and a printout from the spectrometer.

Once they were settled in the kitchen, Alfred set out to make some tea and get Bruce to eat something before he went to bed. As Alfred worked, Bruce studied the printout and frowned.

“A toxin designed to provoke a fear response. And an aerosol, no less.”

“Indeed. I’m surprised that it worked, considering the preservatives and fillers in it. They should have rendered it inert.”

Bruce set the printout aside and stared into the baby monitor, a smile tugging at his lips as Dick rolled over. Alfred placed a mug of chamomile tea in front of Bruce.

“Quick thinking on developing a vaccine,” Bruce said. He wrapped his hands around the mug and sighed. “What were my symptoms, anyway? I don’t remember much between getting sprayed and waking up in the shower.”

Alfred set a plate of sandwiches between them and took a seat, sipping his own tea.

“A mild rash on your face, severe paranoia and hypoactive delirium. You were nearly catatonic at one point.”

“Did I say what I was afraid of?”

“I’m afraid not. I asked, but you refused, though you did say you didn’t want to hurt me.”

Bruce stared at the sandwich in his hand and sighed before taking a bite.

“I’ll have to study the compound and watch the cowl feed recording to try and figure it out. I’ll need to be better prepared next time.”

Alfred hummed in agreement and they sat in silence as they finished eating. Just as Alfred stood to clear the table, they heard Dick’s sleepy voice from the monitor. Alfred glanced at his watch. It was three-thirty.

“Bruce? I—I had a nightmare.”

Bruce dropped the rest of his third sandwich and grabbed the monitor.

“I’ll be right there, chum. Turn on the lamp if you need to.”

He reached for his plate and empty mug, but Alfred laid a gentle hand on his wrist.

“I’ll get this, sir. Go check on young Master Dick.”

Once the dishes were washed and put away Alfred went to check on Bruce one more time before he retired for the night. The soft glow of Dick’s bedside lamp spilled into the hallway and when he was close enough, he peered in and leaned against the doorway.

Bruce was sitting on Dick’s bed, one leg tucked beneath him, marching Dick’s stuffed elephant toy Sitka across the blankets. Dick’s sleepy giggle made them both smile.

“Is the nightmare gone?” Bruce asked. “Think you can try to sleep again?”

Dick held his hands out and Bruce tickled his face with Sitka’s trunk.

“It’s almost go—” Dick yawned and Bruce stifled one of his own. “It’s almost gone.”

“What can I do to chase it away for good?”

Dick ran his fingers slowly along Sitka’s back, like he was afraid to answer.

“It’s silly, you don’t have to.”

Bruce leaned forward and waited until Dick looked up at him.

“Whatever it is, if it will help? I’ll try it.”

“My mom used to sing to me.”

“You know, my mom did the same for me,” Bruce said. “Heck, even Alfred has sung me to sleep.”

“No way!” Dick laughed. “Alfred sang to you when you were my age?”

Bruce glanced at Alfred from the corner of his eye. His voice took on a tenderness he rarely used anymore.

“It was more recent than you’d think,” Bruce replied.

Dick yawned again and Bruce reached to tuck the blankets around him.

“Okay, Dickie. One song and then it’s good night. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Bruce leaned over and kissed Dick’s forehead.

“Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes. And save these questions for another day. I think I know what you've been asking me. I think you know what I've been trying to say.”

Alfred wrapped his arms around himself, feeling like he was intruding on such a tender moment, though he wouldn’t miss it for anything.

“I promised I would never leave you, then you should always know. Wherever you may go, no matter where you are, I never will be far away.”

Bruce continued to sing, but he reached and turned the lamp off. That left only Dick’s nightlight. Even in that dim light, Alfred recognized the smile Bruce was now wearing as he watched Dick fall asleep.

It was the smile from so long ago, the one he thought he’d never see again. Alfred felt a tear run down his cheek and made no move to wipe it away as Bruce finished the song and met his gaze.

“Someday we'll all be gone, but lullabies go on and on. They never die- that's how you and I will be.”

[mountphoenixrp]

We have a new citizen in Mount Phoenix:

                                Astrid Han, who is known by no other name;                                                  a 23 year old daughter of Thor.                                        She is a freelance computer programmer.

FC NAME/GROUP: park chaeyoung / blackpink CHARACTER NAME: astrid han AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: twenty-three / jan 25, 1997 PLACE OF BIRTH: manhattan, new york OCCUPATION: computer programmer HEIGHT: 168cm (5’6”) WEIGHT: 45 kg (99 lbs) DEFINING FEATURES: two small moles on her face; one on the top right corner of her lip & just under her left eye. has a birthmark on her right shoulder that reminds her of mjolnir. she’s gotten three tattoos so far (a small thunder cloud with a lightning bolt on her wrist, her mother’s initials above her heart, and a small pikachu near her left ankle).

PERSONALITY: though her family lineage is one left to stories of old recited to a child before bedtime, astrid tends not to focus on the mythical side of her blood. her upbringing shines through, however, as reflected mostly in her body language, poise, and posture in contrast to most around. she regularly dozes off; this is present from her early childhood. astrid’s personality changed following a childhood incident, making her more withdrawn despite having been a lively child before. in her teenage years, she appeared perpetually bored and uninterested in the things happening around her.

her overprotective upbringing has left her with poor interpersonal skills and she comes off as brusque with all but her closest friends. having witnessed her mother work tirelessly, pandering to those with filled pockets made astrid respect the value of work and the dedication needed of a resilient survivor, but also fear for the time she would need to assume the role herself, making conversations with her mother about her father a struggle. those close to her describe astrid as having experienced isolation in her youth and fearing to lose those close to her. astrid’s words and actions often stem from a fear of being unable to meet the expectations of those around her, but as a counterbalance, she desires to please them.

astrid has dealt with a lot of emotional turmoil as her father left when she was young and her mother had to cater to the demands of a career, leaving her to feel alone. nevertheless, she is not bitter over it, accepting that sacrifices had to be made. astrid is still trying to figure out who she is and struggles to articulate her feelings. she keeps a lot bottled up, especially with confronting how she feels about her father being the norse god of thunder, thor odinson.

when astrid struggles to cope with things, she tends to avoid the issue and become even more withdrawn, such as when she avoids her interaction with others or thinking about being her uncertain future due to worry over her mother’s ailing health. when she acknowledges the situation is bad, her first instinct is to focus on others rather than herself, or even her own personal well-being. she doesn’t share the weight of her grief over her absent father leaving his family to fend for themselves and instead tries to deal with it alone, further isolating herself and pushing others away. she enthuses about the things she enjoys, and has a bit of an inflated ego, as noted by previous teachers. she can be reckless, having to be held back by others, though this does not always stop her. she’s playful, especially towards close friends, and is frequently snarky and sarcastic. near the end of astrid’s high school years, her friends noted her increased confidence, and she has become more stern and resolute. she has learned to take on the responsibilities of her position as the daughter of a deity and does so without hesitation.

HISTORY

i. astrid han was born january 25, 1997. she takes her first steps on the cobbled streets near the brooklyn  bridge, and makes her first friend with the other children raised on baxter street, like the twins of the owners of wo hop takeout. the first word out of her lips trickles out when her mother is brewing tea, and astrid wants to get her attention so she smacks her tiny fists against the table and calls out for ‘appa!’ as loud as she can, and doesn’t even flinch when she hears a teacup tumble from her mother’s hands at the clap of thunder. she was raised with a loving mother, as well as loving grandparents, and not many changes - at least, until her sixteenth birthday. that’s when they move into their townhouse in lower soho - it’s not that far from chinatown, but just far enough to keep up pretenses.

ii. her mother would carry her around the house, around the streets, to introduce her to people she’d known all her life, and all those who knew of her father, too. astrid spent nights reading bedtime stories of old norse myths when her mother couldn’t, her mind yearned for the tales of the aesir gods and goddess from the epic battles of thor and the frost giants, the rise of fallen heroes with the aid of valkyries, to the lavish feasts held to those in valhalla.

iii. whenever the subject of her father came to mind, her mother was hesitant  to tell the few memories that she’d heard countless times, with a tiny bit of embellishment, changing up each story whenever she was asked to tell one. astrid’s favorites, though, were the ones of how her parents had met and fallen in love. it always brought a bittersweet smile.

iv. it wasn’t until her eighteenth birthday that her mother confessed the truth, and found that all her strange abilities had come from her father’s side of the family. he was no longer the man who had left because of her, but the norse god of thunder and prince of asgard, and his blood was a gift he gave to his daughter. her first show of power was when she was just a baby - she’d flung her fists out in the middle of a tantrum and as she had done so, the lamp had exploded. it had resulted in less than a minute of clean-up, but many hours of tears and worry on her mother’s part - she was so sure astrid would be as normal as possible, but it only proved that power ran through her bones and veins as much as her love of life would come to.

v. after the revelation of her mother’s confession, it comes as both a relief and twinge of sadness with the implications of the truth. astrid had spent years questioning her sense of distance from those around her, and now the answers came too little too late. at her mother’s request, astrid ventures to her mother’s place of origin to live in safety and spend the rest of her days with those who share similar experiences.

PANTHEON: norse CHILD OF: thor POWERS

astrid can create, shape and manipulate bio-electric currents that exist within all aspects of the body such as in the nervous system, heart, and muscles. she is also capable of finding people by sensing their bioelectrical presence and/or scramble her personal bio-electric rhythms to shock others.

astrid can switch between functions with physical force. at her desire, she can disrupt electronic signals, causing electrical appliances and other objects that rely on electricity to work erratically or fail completely, even when unplugged. biologically, extreme use of her power could cause sensory paralysis by switching off their senses.

STRENGTHS

charismatic

tenderhearted

reliable

WEAKNESSES

naive

brash

reclusive

[thegreenfairy13]

A Gotham Ghost Story - Part 2

A Gobblepot fanfic. Oswald Cobblepot shoots Jim Gordon on the pier. Unable to move on to the afterlife, Jim is doomed to haunt the infamous mobster. Tied to Earth but unable to live, Jim only wants to find peace in death. His path there might be bumpy. Read it on Ao3 here.

Thank you @mexican-texican for the beta <3!

In the year 1901, the physician Duncan McDougall tried to prove that human beings have a soul by weighing them in the exact moment of their death. The result of his experiment was that the human soul, and therefore a ghost, weighs approximately 21 grams.

The experiment had been highly unscientific and if Jim would have read about it while still being alive, he would probably have laughed it off. Given his numerous encounters with people like Dr. Strange, Jim should have been more serious about this particular piece of information but that’s just not the man he is. Which is odd, considering how many times Jim came close to death in his short life. He used to flirt with the idea of suicide, he threw himself into danger’s arms over and over again, he never valued himself all that much, especially in comparison to other people, and yet - he never gave death much thought.

Therefore, Jim doesn’t know he still consists of matter. He’s pure emotion morphed into the reflection of his mind and memories, an earthbound piece of recollections of moments gone. Somebody should have told him while he was still alive that ghosts get stuck on earth when they have unfinished business left, when there’s something keeping them from moving on, from dissolving and becoming one with the cosmos.

But then, if he would have known, what would that knowledge have changed? Jim would still have a debt to pay before becoming stardust. At least, he would have a vague idea of why he is still stuck. And armed with the knowledge that he consists of matter, he would probably soon figure out how to interact with his environment.

However, Jim knows nothing about being a ghost. He only knows he is confused and scared while observing Oswald in his living room. He wants to go home and read his daughter a bedtime story, he wants to fix her hair and prepare a sandwich for her like he does on their mornings together before dropping a kiss on Lee’s forehead and going to work. He wants to walk into the precinct and prepare his and Harvey’s coffee. He would watch Harvey looking around carefully before opening his flask and adding a good shot of Jack to his brew, still thinking no one knows.

It doesn’t matter how desperately Jim wants to do those things, he’s stuck in this house. He can think about his little girl all he wants, his mind isn’t moving through space like when he thought ‘Oswald’ back on the pier.

No, he has to stay and watch. Little tears are dripping soundlessly from Oswald’s long lashes. The gangster is trembling beneath his blankets, searching the warmth of the fire while doing so. He’s biting his nails, chewing them until he draws blood and yelps in his self-induced pain.

Jim almost feels sorry.

Jim almost always felt sorry. Back when they first met, behind Fish Mooney’s club, he felt sorry, too. Oswald was nothing but an exchangeable, meaningless snitch back then. A young, ambitious little wannabe-criminal with just the right amount of luck and intelligence to stay alive.

The moment Jim had seen him he knew exactly what he was dealing with: a frail kid looking for attention and power complete with a massive inferiority complex, someone who had been rejected so often he would literally do anything to belong; and where he wanted to belong, was the mob. They would provide him with power, they would enable him to strike fear into the hearts of his opponents. Jim saw it all, saw the hurt, scared child.

He saw something entirely else, too: a little manic gleam dancing merrily deep down in this child’s eyes gave the other part of his soul away. When Oswald’s club descended on the man lying before him in the gutter, he saw profound satisfaction. Every hit on the man’s body filled Oswald with greater joy, every drop of blood lifted his spirits higher. He reveled in the fact that he was inflicting pain, loved every second of it. The scream’s made him beat harder, his mouth curled into an impish smile, as he enjoyed his power over life and death.

To this day, Jim can still hear the sickening sound of bones cracking beneath a club, the helpless whimpers of the man. Oswald’s pace never faltered, he never felt an ounce of compassion. This had been a test for him to pass and he wasn’t intent on failing.

Therefore, the very first moment Jim met Oswald, he was instantly repulsed by and disgusted with him. No matter how many times they would get closer in the future, this very first moment would still hold Jim back and fill him with revulsion.

Even when the city would be in shambles one day, only held together by the Penguin’s iron grip, it would be their first encounter that would keep the cop from tripping and falling into the man’s waiting arms.

No matter how much good Oswald would do, he would always do it for selfish reasons, would only grant people safety and accommodation in exchange for power. Given, at one point, Jim had almost forgotten that. One night, Jim would see Oswald solely as a lonely man, struggling with the great responsibility bestowed on his shoulders. That night, Jim would forget what Oswald had done in the past and would continue to do in the future and just reach out for what little human emotion the villain had to offer, for that love that had always been reserved for him, and take it. This night feels like centuries ago, now.

The Penguin loves to inflict pain and Jim knew he would one day inflict this pain on him. Oswald would have never guessed how well he would accomplish this particular task, though.

And yet, Jim would have died for Oswald. In a sense, he did. Jim knew from the moment he put him behind bars, that the Penguin would seek revenge and would only find peace when killing him. That is just how Oswald works.

Oswald has finally fallen asleep. He looks peaceful like this, curled up in front of his fireplace, mouth hanging agape, drooling onto his shirt. Jim snorts when the gangster starts snoring softly. He may enjoy a night at his own home, but he'll be back in prison soon enough, Jim thinks. It’s just a matter of time before cops will come flooding through the doors, demolishing the antiques he’s so fond of in the process, and dragging him back into a dark hole for the murder of the Commissioner of Gotham.

Knowing Oswald will be back in Blackgate doesn’t fill Jim with satisfaction though, but with relief. He doesn’t want him to be locked up, doesn’t want him to be separated from the city they both love with all their heart, but needs must. This city needs protection, and Oswald, though he loathes to admit it, does too. He’d be safe in prison. And if Jim can’t protect him, Blackgate will.

Jim never wanted Oswald to be anything other than a law-abiding citizen. He avoided arresting him in the past deliberately until he had been given no other choice. Back when he brought Sofia to Gotham, he could just have taken him to Blackgate, too. With Harvey testifying to taking bribes from the Penguin, he would have had anything to get a warrant. That had never been Jim’s intention, though. He wanted him stripped of his powers, to be a normal human again. With his empire gone, he would have been just that: normal.

Jim doesn’t doubt that now that he’s out of prison again, nothing will stop him from becoming a master of life and death once more. Especially with Nygma back at his side, freshly released from Arkham and more insane than ever, nothing would be able to stop them. Not unless they both get killed - and that’s the last thing Jim wants.

Oswald mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep and Jim puts a consoling hand on his arm. There’s nobody here to witness him anyway, considering he’s invisible. The cop sighs when the criminal shivers. Pulling up his blanket, he turns over and Jim shakes his head.

His feelings towards Oswald have always been conflicted and now that he’s dead, he should probably be pretty enraged Penguin finally pulled the trigger. The truth is, he mostly feels sad. He will not be there to watch his daughter grow up, to guide her and be a parent. He knows what lies before her, has lost his own father at a very young age, too.

And Oswald will have nobody to protect him. Sitting down, Jim tries closing his eyes, but to no avail. He’s still perceiving his surroundings, still watching the fire and the mobster from the corner of his eye. As he’s dead already, there’s no way for his mind to shut down, to get any kind of rest. Jim wonders if that will continue for all of eternity. Penguin would probably be thrilled if he knew about this kind of torment. Or he’d say it serves him right - for Arkham.

Heaving a sigh, Jim tries focusing on the fire instead. Arkham is definitely something he doesn’t want to think about right now. Or not ever. The moment he not only deserted Oswald but left him to being tortured still fills him with shame. It shouldn’t be an excuse, but when Jim went as far as killing a man for the gangster, he needed him out of his life, whatever the price.

The grandfather clock in the corner ticks terribly loud, giving Jim something else to focus on than his past. He wills himself to count the seconds, listens to every creak of the old house and prays to forget. Should he forever be trapped in this state of consciously being able to observe but not to react? Is that his punishment for all the wrongs he did?

Getting up impatiently, he finally decides to leave the room. He might be dead, he might be a ghost, but he can still think and move. Heck, he’s in Gotham! There must be a way for him to make himself noticed and then he’ll just have to find someone like Strange or Freeze and he’ll come back to life like Jerome or Galavan. It’s no big deal, he tries telling himself. In a city like this, death is nothing but a passing inconvenience, right?

Turning on his heel, he starts walking toward the door with newfound determination. He’s a ghost, so solid surfaces shouldn’t be a problem, right? He might not be able to move his mind through space at a whim but he can take the traditional way and walk out, right?

The answer is, no. No, Jim can’t leave. He doesn’t know that yet, though. He’s unable to leave any room Oswald isn’t currently occupying. The only thing he can do, though, is get back underwater and watch his corpse slowly decay, but that thought doesn’t occur to him.

Jim walks into the solid surface and just like a regular person, he’s incapable of walking on through. He tries touching the doorknob, tries grasping it, but his hand moves right through the metal. Not one to give up quickly, he keeps trying, focuses, tries concentrating on the surface in hopes the power of his mind would move anything . Maybe it would have worked if Jim had been a telepath during his lifetime, but he wasn’t and the matter isn’t willing to bend to his will.

At least not until someone finally opens the door for him. His excitement doesn’t last though, even with the door fully open, he’s unable to step outside, to walk away and seek freedom. Thin air is a solid wall for Jim and his panic flares again. He’s so overwhelmed by dread he doesn’t even notice it’s Edward Nygma who opened the door, currently strolling into the room, a huge grin plastered all over his face.

Jim just wants to get out, reaches out, moves, but doesn’t accomplish anything. When he turns around, he can walk around, sit down, get his limbs to cooperate, but not when trying to escape. He literally howls in his agony, pushes against the invisible boundaries that hold him back, even scratches the air in his sorrow, but it’s no use.

“Jim Gordon,” Edward says, catching the Commissioner’s attention effectively. Jim stops his useless, frantic movements. He turns around in awe. Could it be possible? Can the Riddler see him?

“Jim Gordon is missing,” he announces gleefully, back turned toward Jim. Once the cop stops struggling, he’s being pulled back at Oswald’s side and Jim growls. He wants to go! But he has no choice but to observe the mobster slowly fighting his way back to consciousness.

“Hmm?” he mumbles not all too eloquently.

“I said Gordon’s missing,” Ed repeats, rolling his eyes affectionately at the other man. “Shift,” he orders then, making himself shamelessly comfortable beside him.

“And why would I care about that?” Oswald snaps back indignantly, once he’s composed enough to answer with anything else than monosyllables.

Ed stares at him incredulously for a moment before clicking his tongue and chuckling. “Maybe because he robbed us both of a decade of our lives while living his dream of white picket fences complete with a kid and a trophy type wife at his side?”

The Penguin narrows his eyes at the man in the green suit. “Still a tad bitter she rejected you?” he asks icily.

“No, I stabbed her,” he answers flatly. “We’re even,” he adds without any emotion.

Oswald studies him intently before nodding, seemingly satisfied.

“I thought the possibility of Gordon being in a dark cellar and maybe getting tortured would lift your spirits,” Ed remarks, scooting closer to his partner in crime.

“I’ve been sleeping,” he grouses in response.

Taken aback, the Riddler leans away. Looking the Penguin up and down, he tries making up his mind. Cocking his head, he clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I’m an ocean but I fit onto the tip of a finger. What am I?” he asks.

“Ed, I’m really not in the mood…”

“No,” he interjects. “You’ve been crying!” he accuses. “What do you know?” Ed presses.

“Nothing,” Oswald grumbles unconvincingly while pulling the blanket tightly around his shoulders. “It’s awfully cold in here,” he complains in an attempt to change the subject.

Narrowing his eyes at the gangster, Ed tries assessing the situation. “If they soon find a body it better not be associated with us,” he admonishes with a stern glare.

Huffing, Oswald curls up on the sofa again. “Since when are you afraid of your moronic former colleagues?” he demands to know.

“Since they threw me into the looney bin for ten years!” Ed snaps, jumping from the couch. “Besides, it won’t only be the GCPD but Lee and Barbara too who’ll be coming after us.”

“So what?” the Penguin grouses, peering up at the Riddler.

Gasping, Ed takes a step back. “You did kill him?” he asks, horrified.

Oswald doesn’t answer, just keeps staring into the distance.

“I seriously thought it would make me feel better,” he admits at last.

“You ineffable idiot!” Ed screeches. “Only mere seconds after your release! Barbara will skin us both and bury our remains in Arkham. How could you not have waited for a more suitable moment?”

Slowly turning around, Oswald rises unsteadily to his feet. “I waited ten years,” he hisses. “I suppose I waited long enough. And now get out!”

“But…”

“I said OUT!” the smaller man screams. Hands balled into fists, Oswald looks ready to rip his associate apart.

Ed stays calm, though. “It’s really not the time for one of your emotional outbursts. Tell me where the corpse is and I’ll take care of it,” he reasons.

The Penguin stiffens. Limping to the fireplace, he leans his forehead against the tile above the searing flames. “Where his body is?” he repeats, an eerie smile distorting his features. “Do you really have to ask? It’s where you dumped mine, deep down by the fishes, on its way to the ocean.”

Worrying his lower lip, Ed considers this information. A flash of hurt crosses his face before it turns into a stony mask. “Don’t make dumping your lovers into the river a habit. It has your signature written all over it,” he teases briskly.

“You’re one to talk,” he scoffs.

“And?” Edward inquires, ignoring that last statement. “How did it feel?” he asks with true curiosity.

“I don’t know, Ed,” Oswald replies, smirking. “You tell me. How did it feel dumping your one true love into the river?”

Mouth pressed into a hard line, the Riddler glances towards the smaller man with obvious displeasure. He raises his hand, unsure how to respond and finally settles onto the truth. “Like being skinned alive while burning my mind to ashes.”

Oswald nods. “That sounds about right,” he acknowledges. “And doesn’t even cover half of it.”He pauses. Staring gloomily into the flames he mumbles, “I’m freezing, Ed.” Suddenly, his eyes light up and he turns toward Ed, an awe-stricken expression brightening his face, “It’s the first time you admit that you love me.”

The Riddler snorts. “You can run but never escape me. You can’t touch me but I’m holding you in a firm grip. What am I?”

“The past,” Oswald answers, rolling his eyes.

“Exactly,” he praises. “I’m not going to live in the past because of you,” he adds, a threatening tone to his words.

“Thank you, Ed,” Oswald snaps back, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “You already made that perfectly clear in the past . And now a bit of privacy, please?” Making a dismissive gesture, he ushers the Riddler out of the room.

Sighing, he collapses back on his sofa. No matter how high those flames are, he can’t stop shivering. Jim is still at his side, unable to move anywhere Oswald isn’t going. He feels slightly guilty for listening to a conversation he was never supposed to hear, touched, too. There’s also this little pang of jealousy Jim tries stomping down. He has no right, no claims on Oswald, never had. It had been him who rejected the smaller man, always would. Maybe it���s just his hurt ego.

“I really only wanted to keep you safe,” Jim says into the stillness of the room. “I’m oddly glad Ed is looking out for you,” he adds. “But I don’t trust him,” he mumbles. “Not after what he did to Kristen and Lee. You’ll wind up dead, too,” he grumbles to Oswald’s almost again sleeping form.

“I don’t trust him either,” he replies. “But he’s all I have,” he continues with a murmur before drifting back to sleep.

Jim freezes.

[andystanberg]

haunted [TUA]

A/N This is a fanfic of The Umbrella Academy; Klaus-centric.

Read on AO3

Summary:

Klaus grows up seeing ghosts.

(Or, Klaus through the years learning the horrific nature of his powers.)

Word Count: 2927

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence; minor character death; injuries; implied/referenced incest (Luther/Allison) but we do not condone that thx

-

At some point, they must have been just normal children, despite their powers.

Klaus doesn’t remember that point. Maybe it was the day they were born; when they were still with their mothers. That’s a pretty normal start – though he supposes that their births weren’t typical either.

Maybe it was the days following that. There were 43 of them, after all. Surely some of their mothers adjusted in the short interim before Reginald came and tried to collect them. Surely some of their mothers learnt to love their new children.

Klaus likes to think that his mother fought for him. He envisions her clutching her son, tears streaming down her face. He pictures Reginald yanking him from her arms and throwing money at her feet as a means of compensation, and then his mother, restrained by his new father’s security or whatever, yelling that no amount of money can ever come close to Klaus’ value.

Of course, he didn’t have a name then, so she probably didn’t say that, and Reginald would’ve gotten far more than seven if he had used force, but he dismisses those details.

In this fantasy his young, sober mind has concocted, he is loved.

-

He later learns that fantasies are just that – fantasies. He grows up, alongside his siblings. He is Number Four. He does not have a name. He does not have a living, breathing mother. He does not have useful powers.

He can see ghosts, though.

Four goes on missions and he isn’t just the lookout – no, because Reginald hasn’t given up on him yet. The old man still thinks that if he’s trained enough, he’ll harness his power.

Four is young enough to believe him.

One through to Six don’t question their orders. They are ten years old and this is their first “mission”, as their dad calls it.

Four watches as One and Two straighten up, proud that their dad thinks they’re ready. Three, Five and Six are excited. Four follows suit.

They enter in the bank, no armour on their tiny frames. Guns are pointed at them immediately and the bad guys say something like “move along, kids.” Four tries not to laugh – in simulations, they’re usually being fired at by now. He guesses being so young has its advantages.

The six of them glance at each other, a smile pulling at their lips, and they set out to work.

Being trained their entire lives for this very first mission, none of them stops to consider the ramifications of what they’re doing.

As bullets fly past, Four glances to his left and sees One punching the robbers into walls and snapping their necks. Two’s knives fly with deadly precision, impaling each and every target. Three uses this chaos to sneak up on some other dude. She leans in while he’s still watching the scene, mouth wide open in shock, and she whispers in his ear.

He spins around and shoots his friend.

Four ducks, shots whizzing past and ruffling his unruly hair. He lets out a whoop and tackles the nearest man onto the floor. The impact makes him wince, but it doesn’t slow him down. In a matter of seconds, Four has the man’s hands pinned behind his back.

While he’s deciding the best way to incapacitate his first catch, the rest of his siblings spread out through the bank.

Five teleports at convenient intervals, and bullets rip through the now-empty space he once occupied. They fly straight through some criminal, pummelling into their body. Six is mostly doing the same as Four, reluctant to “release the beast” without necessitation, but he’s still flinging himself with reckless abandon onto the backs of the robbers.

He catches Four’s eye and they grin.

The shots dwindle in number each passing second. The screams lessen too. Two sprints from victim to victim, ripping his knives out of their torsos and immediately whipping around to impale some other poor sod. They delve further into the carnage, and it becomes apparent that there are more in a vault underneath the bank.

Six is nominated for clean-up duty. His jaw tightens, but he enters nonetheless, lifting his shirt.

The howls seem louder from inside the vault than during combat.

Eventually, they finish up and Two cuts the hostages loose. The Hargreeves wait, ever eager for appraise, but the hostages take one look at them and run out the doors.

“Well, that was rude,” Six comments, and Four is inclined to agree.

“Considering the state we’re in, I’d say they were in shock. Also, it’s not every day that six children save the day,” Five replies.

Now that he’s said it, Four looks around. Their neatly pressed uniforms are considerably darker. Similarly, his, Six’s and Two’s hands are splotched with red. Four pulls a face and wipes them on the small part of his jumper that doesn’t have blood on it already. He hopes Mum doesn’t spend too long getting it out.

Any worries about the future fly out of his mind as Three exclaims, “We just had our first mission!”

The realisation sinks in, and the six of them, for the first time, come together to celebrate. They laugh and they cheer and they hug, and oh, Four finally understands what’s so great about hugging.

They break apart when the police burst in. Instantly, their backs straighten as they assemble themselves in a line corresponding to each of their numbers.

-

When they return home, Reginald scolds them for taking so long. They’re also scolded for “unnecessary death”, but they were trained by him, so can they really be blamed?

Four pulls a face and Six stifles a laugh. They’re dismissed without praise.

He retires to his room fairly early. One would be proud – he was always such a stickler for the rules and early bedtimes and whatever other favourite-child-shtick he spouts. He switches off his light and makes his way to his bed.

His eyes have only just adjusted to the darkness when he plonks himself on the edge of his mattress. The only warning he gets that his childhood is about to become even more fucked up is a loud, piercing cry before a man sprints up to him. Four lets out an ear-splitting shriek when he sees that although this man’s face is towards him, his body is backwards.

He’s not the only one, oh no. His room is filled with the dead.

The men leer out at him, all showcasing their horrific injuries while Four scrambles away, pressing himself further and further into the wall against his bed.

The ghosts – the people that they killed – all have mangled necks, or blood spilling out onto the carpet, or chests that have been shredded by bullets, or-

He almost vomits when he sees Six’s victims.

Giant, gaping holes. Chunks missing from chests, from shoulders, from legs, from heads.

He’s forced to look on in sickening, wide-eyed horror at the exposed muscle and intestines and bones and-

Four spots the man that he killed. He killed him. He’s a killer.

His thoughts spiral further and further until he’s gasping for breath, apologising over and over to the countless bodies surrounding him.

He begins sobbing at some point, throat too sore to make a noise.

That night, Four curls up in a fetal position, covered with his heavy blanket and pillow pressed tightly over his ears. It doesn’t block out the screams.

-

They learn to only kill when needed. Four doesn’t bring up the fact that they shouldn’t have to kill at all.

Now, they’re twelve, and they’ve drifted somewhat. Well, not exactly ‘drifted’. They’ve simply split. It happened after Five… after Five left.

They receive names as if that can heal the rift caused by his absence.

Four becomes Klaus.

Klaus and Six – now Ben – are inseparable but not in the way that Luther and Allison are, because, gross. Diego is mostly content to keep to himself, occasionally joining in on Klaus and Ben’s adventures. They become the “Even Squad”, as Ben dubs them. Vanya is alone by default.

It’s another bank robbery. They’re kind of over those at this point, but hey, at least they have a skill. Klaus isn’t exactly sure how “proficient at resolving bank robberies” would fit on a resume, nor is he entirely sure what a resume is either.

This one goes haywire almost immediately. The Umbrella Academy is well-known now, and these robbers don’t have any reservations about shooting at them. Or, at least, the leader doesn’t.

Luther reacts by snapping the closest person’s neck. The rest of the criminals pick up guns and aim them. Klaus tries not to think about how most of them are missing on purpose.

The situation now deemed appropriately violent, Luther, Diego, Allison and Ben jump into the fray. Klaus stands in the middle of it all, trying not to notice how some of these supposed villains take a bullet for one another.

He tries not to notice when one falls and another runs over, skidding on the floor as she kneels beside her fallen comrade, attempting to wake her up. He tries not to notice the desperate cries of “Don’t be dead, please, don’t be dead!” And he tries not to care when the woman stands up and faces him.

“That was my sister,” she tells him before she lunges at him, no gun in sight. Klaus lets her.

He’s pinned to the floor and he stares in quiet fascination as this person, this grieving sibling lifts her hand to pummel his face in. Her fist shakes in the air, knuckles pure white, and Klaus still doesn’t move.

Instead, his attention is drawn over her shoulder to a confused and newly-formed ghost. He watches as she startles at the blood smeared across her chest. She lifts her eyes and sees her corpse. He watches as it clicks.

The ghost then sees them, and Klaus’ and her eyes meet. She ignores him to run over to her sister, whose tears are now falling on his face.

She isn’t angry, like most ghosts. Instead, she seems impossibly sad. Her hand phases through her sister’s shoulder, and she lets out a wail.

Her sister lowers her fist. Not in a fast punch, like Klaus expected, but in a slow descent, coming to rest beside his head. His chest clenches when he finally looks straight up.

Her face is twisted in agony. Her body shakes and shakes and shakes, and all he can think about is that they were siblings. And he understands.

So, for the first time in his life, he willingly makes eye contact with a ghost.

She notices this, and whispers, voice-cracking, “Can you see me?”

He nods once, short and almost imperceptible. The woman lights up and kneels beside him.

“You have to- you have to tell her that- let her know that I love her. Tell her to run. Tell her that I’ll always watch over her, please. Please! Her name- her name’s Tanya.”

“Tanya,” Klaus repeats.

Tanya’s shaking pauses and her eyes fly open. “How do you-”

“Your sister told me. She told me to tell you that she loves you.”

“You can see her?” Klaus nods, and Tanya sits up. There’s no sign of disbelief, only the same aching sorrow Klaus saw in her sister. “Nessie, I love you too,” she murmurs.

“She says for you to run. Escape while you can. She’ll watch over you. She promises.”

Tanya’s eyes water again. For a second, Klaus wonders if she’s realised that he’s partly responsible for Nessie’s death and if she’ll kill him then and there, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, she stands up on shaky legs.

And then a knife embeds itself into her back.

He cries out as she makes a choked sound, blood spluttering out onto her shirt. He bolts up to catch her when she topples and then he gently lowers her to the now speckled ground. A low keening sound comes from the back of her throat. Klaus wishes he could ease her pain. Unfortunately, healing is not his power, no matter how useful that gift would be.

Despite himself, he starts crying. He shifts her onto her side and pulls the knife out, shaking all the while. More blood floods out. Klaus gags as he presses his hands against the wound, trying his best to stop the bleeding.

It’s pointless, in the end.

Diego runs up to him, pulls him away from the corpse and asks if he’s okay; if she hurt him. He stutters over his words, worry etched onto his face. Klaus doesn’t respond. He’s too busy staring at his red, dark red, bloody hands.

His brother drags him up and pauses for a moment, waiting for Klaus to say something. He can’t wait forever though, and he rushes off to save another one of their siblings or whatever.

Klaus lifts his gaze in time to see Nessie and Tanya reunite. They look so happy, even though they just died. Happy because they have their sister. Happy because they won’t be apart ever again. Happy because nothing, not even Klaus, can hurt them now.

It’s ironic that he loses Ben the very next minute.

-

He’s fourteen when Reginald decides it’s time for him to get over his fear of the dead. It’s also when he discovers the magic of alcohol. The old man forgets to lock his liquor cabinet and Klaus is the type to take every chance he can to rebel against him. Luther’s still a daddy’s boy, Diego’s a mummy’s boy, and Allison and Vanya like to keep the peace.

Someone’s got to be the fuck-up, right? And it’s not like it can be Five or Ben, Klaus muses with the opening of a bottle of Vodka to his lips. He ignores Ben’s futile attempts at grabbing it.

The first taste burns his throat. He revels in it, hoping that the other ghosts are seeing this so they can at least feel somewhat avenged. Another swig, and another, and soon the bottle’s gone.

Klaus opens his eyes and feels sick. He runs to the nearest bathroom and doesn’t bother turning on the lights before he pukes his guts out. After he’s cleaned himself up, he faces the mirror.

And freezes.

The room is empty. He whirls around, examining every dark crevice. Ben is chilling in the bathtub next to him, muttering “Told you so,” but Klaus waves that off because he can always see Ben. However...

Usually, the dead take the dark as a chance to scream at him. Except there’s no one.

A smile slowly creeps over his face. Ben doesn’t share his glee, especially when Klaus uses his new revelation to rationalise stealing half of Dad’s alcohol and hiding it under his bed.

The next mission they go on, Klaus stumbles over his own feet and is more of a hindrance than a help. He can’t see any fucking ghosts, though, so fuck the others and their glares!

When they come home, Luther rats him out and he gets demoted to the lookout until he “cleans up his act”, which won’t happen. He also gets locked in his room for a week. Klaus doesn’t give a shit – in fact, he takes it as a learning opportunity!

Once the week is through, Klaus knows how to escape the house without making a sound. He also knows the names of quite a few of the local drug dealers.

-

He’s sixteen when he leaves home with as many of Allison’s clothes he could fit on his body and pocketfuls of Dad’s stuff.

The streets are better than the hell-hole he was forced to call home. He can also get high whenever the fuck he wants and, if he accidentally sobers up, fewer ghosts try to kill him anyway.

He may be a homeless junkie, but he’s having the time of his life.

-

He’s eighteen when he gets admitted to rehab for the first time. It’s actually Diego that does this – he gets caught by his brother and instead of writing him up, as a good policeman-in-training should do, he gets sent to fucking rehab. What a fun god damn family reunion.

At least he got to meet his brother’s girlfriend. Euphoria, or something. He hopes that means Diego’s found happiness.

-

He’s twenty-nine when he time-travels to the middle of the Vietnam War. He falls in love and he is loved, for possibly the first time in his life.

He doesn’t hesitate in firing shot after shot at enemy lines, reasoning the entire time that he’s fighting not for himself, but for his comrades. If he kills someone, then that’s one less person who can hurt anyone on his side, and god knows that they need as many troops as possible.

(He fights the part of his brain that whispers that his enemies have Daves too. That they have families and loves and are just trying to protect the people around them. That’s not his problem… Right?)

-

And he’s thirty when Dave dies beside him, his cries for a medic unheard and too late.

Klaus has seen ghosts in varying degrees of dismemberment, decapitation, de-everything for the past ten months – war isn’t a good time to be high as a kite – but this… He can’t bear it. So he returns to the present with Dave’s dog-tag and probably PTSD or some shit and takes whatever cheap drugs and liquor he can get his hands on.

He’s already got his memories. He doesn’t need the ghosts to haunt him too.

A/N @interstellarroadkill you asked to be tag when I mentioned it over on my TS sideblog, so here it is!

Please tell me what you thought + any feedback, as this is my first Umbrella Academy fic!

[skyestones-and-up]

Heroic Tales and Less Heroic Exploits

An au where Izuku Midoriya dies in his second year of Yuuei, and is reincarnated as James Potter. Shenanigans and changes to the timeline ensue. 

It wasn’t anywhere close to immediate; his memories of his past life came back to him slowly at first, then all at once as soon as he was old enough to even slightly comprehend them. But by the time his fifth birthday rolled around, James Potter knew with absolute certainty that he was once called Izuku Midoriya (or rather, Midoriya Izuku).

He’d felt like crying later that evening, when Euphemia Potter tucked him into bed and kissed him goodnight. Not because he’d had a bad birthday, or gotten presents he didn’t like, or hated his bedtime. No, he cried because that was the night it had truly hit him; he’d died young, in only his second year of Yuuei, and had left everyone behind, including his classmates, friends, All Might, and his original mom.

Euphemia was a wonderful mother. But Izuku had had Inko Midoriya as his mom for far longer, and he missed her dearly. He’d never be able to see her again.

As soon as his new mother left the room, he finally let the tears roll down his cheeks, splashing onto the silk bed sheets.

(James Potter would never be wanting for anything material. Izuku Midoriya would never get the things he truly wanted.)

———————————————————

It didn’t take long for Izuku to realize he was in a very different world than the one he had inhabited in his previous life. For starters, when he had glanced over at the newspapers his mother and dad liked to read, he’d learned that the date was several centuries in the past. That was the first clue, as who’d ever heard of a person reincarnating backwards? A far more logical answer was that this world was simply younger than the one he’d come from.

The kicker, though, had come the day after all of his memories had settled in. Sixteen years for Izuku had quickly crowded out his far younger memories in this life, most likely because he’d really been to young to retain them for long anyways. If he’d had, Izuku might not have been as shocked when his mother made the toy trains he was playing with come to life and zoom around the room all on their own. He’d chalked it up to being her quirk at first, but then watched her flick a wooden stick (her wand, his memories supplied), and saw the toys react by flying up in the air and traveling across the room, before settling neatly right where they were usually stored.

Izuku’s little mouth fell open. “How did you do that?” He asked, astonished. Animating toys and levitating objects were two different quirks! Well, he supposed they could possibly fall under a single quirks category of controlling a certain type of object, but it was still pretty wild.

His mother smiled and patted his head. “Levitating charms, sweet. They’re one of the first things you’ll learn when you go off to Hogwarts. But that’s for when you’re older.”

Levitating charms? That sounded like some sort of magic. If this really was a new world, was magic real here? It didn’t seem possible, but then again, a new world could probably have new rules.

Izuku had so many questions, he didn’t know where to begin. If he decided for the moment that magic was real, then it would make sense for there to be a place to learn it, which lead to that ‘Hogwarts’ mother had mentioned. So if he asked about that, he could also know if his theory about magic was correct.

So that was the question he would start with. “Is Hogwarts a magic school?”

“Yes, and a very good one at that,” Mother affirmed. “Your father and I both went there when we were young adults. It’s one of the best magic schools in the world.”

Izuku’s eyes went as wide as the cucumber slices his dad liked to munch on. That had answered a few of his questions, but had also generated about fifty more of them. “Can you show me more magic?”

“Of course!” Mother indulged him. She pulled out her wand again and swished it gently. Small golden lights appeared wherever her wand had been, hovering in the air and shimmering softly. Another wave, and they started changing colors, the ground around them lit up by the glow.

Izuku may have had the memories of a teenager, but at the same time, he was still just as childish as his current physical age would have people believe. Out of curiosity and pure five year old instinct, he reached out and tried to grab one of the lights in his fist. 

Warmth spread from his hand out to the rest of his body, like sitting next to a roaring fireplace, except the fizzling was inside of him and not surrounded by stone. “It tickles!” He giggled.

“It does, doesn’t it,” Euphemia agreed, smiling indulgently. Izuku let go and she waved her wand once more, causing the lights to vanish and leaving Izuku with a faint sense of disappointment. “Come now, it’s bedtime.”

Izuku allowed himself to be picked up in her arms. “When do I get to go to Hogwarts? I want to learn how to do that!” He paused, years of bullying for being quirkless flashing through his head. “Do I have magic?” He whispered, almost too softly for her to hear. “What if I don’t? What will happen to me then?”

“There’s no need for you to worry about that,” Mother chuckled. “Do you remember a couple weeks ago, when that painting burst into flames? Or when the cookies somehow ended up in your room, even though your father and I had been with you the whole night?”

Izuku did remember those things. He’d hated that weird painting from the minute dad had brought it home, and had wanted it out of the house. Just as he’d been glaring at it from across the hall, it had spontaneously burst into flames. There hadn’t been enough to salvage, so dad had thrown it out. With the cookies, he’d been craving them all afternoon, but with his parents around, hadn’t been able to sneak one. Yet they’d somehow shown up in his bedroom that evening. Luckily his parents had found the situation funny, and they’d all shared the cookies that night.

He nodded in response to his mother’s questions. “Well,” Mother continued, “Those were bits of accidental magic you performed. You’ve been doing things like that since you were a little baby. There’s no doubt that you grow to be a fine wizard.”

So those were little acts of magic he’d done? Izuku’s head spun at the implications. Setting a painting on fire with his mind was very different than somehow transporting cookies to his room. Then again, levitation and little balls of light were also two very different types of powers. Was magic anything like quirks were, or was it as unpredictable as it was in some books?

“How does accidental magic work exactly?” He asked. “I mean, do people generally do specific types of accidental magic based on what they end up being best at? Around when does it usually develop? Is there any way to control it before you go to Hogwarts?”

Mother laughed. “So many questions, I love it! Maybe you’ll be in Ravenclaw once your at Hogwarts. Fleamont has been so sure you’d be a cinch for Gryffindor.”

“What’s Ravenclaw? And what’s a Gryffindor?”

“They’re Hogwarts houses, sweet.”

“Houses? Like places to stay in?”

“That’s right.” She was carrying him up the back staircase, holding him tightly so he didn’t bounce around too much. Their house was really, really big. “They’re dormitories, where all the students sleep.”

“Oh, okay.” Izuku was reminded of the Yuuei dorms. This had obviously been around for a long time, however. “How many houses are there? And what does asking a lot of questions have to do with being in the Ravenclaw dorm - I mean - house?”

They had reached Izuku’s room. Mother took one hand away from him to open the door and they walked inside. It was almost as big as the entire bottom floor of his old house, with its own comfy blue couch and chairs, soft gold carpeting, and a giant four-poster bed, the curtains and sheets made of red and gold.

Mother sat him down on the bed, and Izuku crawled under the covers. “There are four houses,” She answered patiently. “Really, you can ask a lot of questions and be in any house, but it’s more of a Ravenclaw trait, because people are sorted into houses based on what they value the most.”

Izuku frowned, pulling the expensive bed sheets up. “And Ravenclaw is the house of valuing questions?”

Mother laughed. “Sort of.” She went to smooth out his hair. “How about your father and I tell you about all of the houses another day. It’s bedtime for you right now.”

Izuku pouted, as five year olds are want to do. “Aww man.” He brightened up. “Can you answer my first question though? About how old I need to be to go to Hogwarts? I really want to know the answer to that one.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “Kids start Hogwarts when they’re eleven years old. So you’ve got six more years before it’s time for you to go.”

“That’s a really long time.” He wasn’t sure if he could stand not being able to properly learn and understand magic for another six years. Then again, maybe he didn’t have to. His own home had a library, and his mother and dad seemed perfectly willing to answer any questions he had. Izuku promised to himself that by the time he went to Hogwarts, he’d be more than prepared. 

“It goes by fast,” Mother assured him, kissing him on the forehead. “Trust me, I’ve been where you are.”

———————————————————

It was much easier to think of Fleamont Potter as his dad than Mother as his mom, hence the terms Mother and Dad respectively. While he loved Mother a lot, and she was a wonderful parent - even if he did recognize that she spoiled him more than a bit - the term “Mom” would always belong to Inko Midoriya, no matter what. She had been there for him at the hardest times of his life, and while there were some times when he wished she had been more supportive of his dreams and aspirations, he couldn’t think of a better mother.

On the other hand, Hisashi Midoriya hadn’t been around in years. He’d been gone when Mom had taken him to the doctor that had told him he was quirkless, he’d been gone when Izuku had found All Might and was given the power to be a hero, and he’d never once showed up in either of Izuku’s years at Yuuei. He was almost always overseas on work, stopping by every few years for a few weeks, then leaving again. Izuku hardly remembered anything about his father's interests or personality, and had only a vague idea of what he looked like.

Dad, on the other hand, was a constant presence in his life, and it made everything so much better. He also worked hard on hair potions that could fix peoples hair the way they wanted in seconds, but he always made time for his wife and only child. He had a nice, if very dad-like, sense of humor, and was always willing to drop whatever book or paper he was reading to play with Izuku and answer his endless questions.

One day, while Dad was reading the paper and Mother was just coming home from brunch with some of her friends, Izuku opened up the line of questioning he had been sitting on ever since his talk with his mother about accidental magic and Hogwarts houses. “Dad? Mother? A few weeks ago, Mother told me about Hogwarts houses, and how different houses value different things. Could you tell me more about that?”

“Of course kiddo,” His dad grinned at him, eyes twinkling. “Learning more about the houses so you know to try for Gryffindor?”

“Don’t pressure him, Fleamont,” Mother pulled her handkerchief out of her coat and tossed it lightly at him. It landed square on his face. Dad chuckled and pulled it off, tossing it back to her. “I think he’s just as likely to end up in Ravenclaw anyways.”

Their son shifted impatiently. “I still don’t know what each house values,” he reminded them.

“Of course.” Dad set his paper down, and Izuku caught a glimpse of the moving photos that had been the subject of his fascination for the last couple weeks (and the reason he had left this line of questioning until today; he’d been far to busy asking how they worked).

“Well for starters,” Dad said, “Gryffindor is the house I was in when I was a boy. Gryffindors value bravery and chivalry above all others. It’s a house that always fights for what’s right.”

“That sounds like a really good place to go,” Izuku noted. He imagined that if All Might were here, that would be the house he’d end up in. Yeah, now that he thought about it, that made a lot of sense. But could Izuku get into a house like that?

“Don’t count the other houses out,” Mother laughed lightly. “I was in Ravenclaw, for instance. We value wit, wisdom, and creativity. That was why I said it was the house for asking lots of questions. I think, with your curiosity, you’d do very well there.” 

He probably would. But who could blame him? Magic was fascinating! Really, Izuku wondered why every wizard didn’t end up in Ravenclaw. Who could look at this world and not want to know everything about it?

“That’s pretty fair.” Dad squeezed his hand. “But most kids aren’t like you, Kiddo. Especially those from wizarding families, they aren’t that interested in how magic works, just what it can do for them.” Izuku winced slightly, he must’ve been mumbling again. While he didn’t do it nearly as much in this life, it still came out now and again. 

“There are two other houses, of course,” Mother continued. “The students in Hufflepuff value things like honesty, loyalty, kindness, and hard work. They’re generally a very nice group of people.”

“I like the sound of that.” Izuku wondered which of his friends would end up there. Kirishima, definitely. Maybe Tsyu? No, she was probably a Gryffindor. Now that he thought about it, Aizawa valued those things more than anything else, so he’d probably be a Hufflepuff. “It sounds like a good house.”

“It is,” Dad agreed, “even if they aren’t always taken seriously.” He sighed dramatically. “And then there are the Slytherins.” 

“Fleamont,” Mother admonished, looking more amused than anything. “Please don’t bring your personal bias into this.” She turned to Izuku. “Slytherin values ambition and cunning above the others.”

Izuku frowned. “That doesn’t sound too bad.” Were Slytherins and Gryffindors rivals?

“You got it,” Dad admitted, somewhat chastised. “And it isn’t bad, per say. Everyone needs some ambition to get places in life. But would you honestly trust someone who made it clear they value ambition itself over things like kindness or bravery?”

Surprisingly, it wasn’t a villain that popped into Izuku’s head, but Endeavor, who valued his own status as a hero over being a hero itself, so much so that he forced his own child to be someone he could live vicariously through, and neglected his other kids. He gritted his teeth at the thought of that man.

“Yeah,” he managed to get out. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound very nice.”

“There are some very nice Slytherins,” Mother pointed out, sitting down beside Izuku at the table. “A few of my school friends were from that house, and they were good people.”

“You just couldn’t trust them,” Dad snarked.

“Fleamont!” Mother chided. Izuku could tell it was teasing on both sides, but he vowed right then that he wouldn’t be in Slytherin. He wanted to be better than that.

But to be better, he had to know how one’s house got chosen, so that he could aim for one of the other three. “How do you get into each house?” He questioned his parents, who were still gently teasing each other.

“Ah,” Dad forced himself to stop laughing. “That’s a secret Kiddo, sorry. School tradition.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” Mother smiled down on him. “Wherever you go, we’ll be proud of you. We may not be able to tell you what the sorting process is, but we can tell you neither of us have heard of an instance where someone was sorted wrong.” Izuku nodded, feeling reassured.

Still, he’d try to find out more later. He didn’t want to go into this at all unprepared. 

—��—————————————————

“James, sweet, it’s bedtime.” Mother poked her head around the door to their library. “Still reading all those books, I see. You haven’t come out of there all day, save for meals. What are you reading that has you so interested?”

“Lots of things!” Izuku picked his head up from the current volume he was reading. Scattered around him were many other books of varying sizes, containing all sorts of different subjects. “Did you know that no one ever figured out a pattern to how accidental magic manifests itself? It can appear at any age, in tons of different ways. But why? Why does it do that?”

“It’s magic, Sweet.” Mother sat down next to him, gently stacking the books up and sending them away with her wand. “Magic does what it wants, it seems. Every magic user is different, so it appears in many different ways.”

“So is magic sentient then?” Izuku wondered aloud. “Is it okay to use it then?”

His mother gave a small shrug. “I wouldn’t call it sentient, so much as unpredictable. But with proper learning, it becomes more and more predictable, and easier to use. That is why we have schools like Hogwarts, after all.” 

“I was wondering about that too,” Izuku admitted. “How does one get accepted into Hogwarts? I mean, how do the teachers know who’s magical, and who isn’t? Especially with muggleborns and squibs.” He’d done research into that subject, and like everything else, found frustratingly little on the subject. It seemed some people were born with magic, and some weren’t. Although the idea of people possibly being exiled from their communities for not having magic was uncomfortably familiar.

Mother folded her hands on her lap. “If what I’ve heard is true, there’s a magical quill and book, charmed by the founders of Hogwarts themselves, that are able to detect when a child is magical, and write their names down. Apparently, they haven’t been wrong yet.”

“Wow.” Izuku thought about that. “I wonder what sort of charm they used to do that?”

“That I don’t know.” Mother shook her head, smiling. “But what I do know is that you can continue your reading tomorrow. For now, it really is bedtime.”

Izuku pouted. 

———————————————————

Izuku always knew technology had been held back by the appearance of quirks, but now that he was so far in the past, he was seeing it firsthand, and the shock of it was even greater.

While technology hadn’t progressed to the point it was at in his past life, it was actually pretty close, with similar cars, radios, and television. Cell phones and the internet weren’t a thing yet, but with the way things were improving, it would only be a matter of time.

Even more interesting than that, however, was the fact that wizards were way way far behind when it came to technology. Sure, they had radio and trains, and could replace things like phones with talking through fires, but wizarding society as a whole was still super far behind!

Izuku had searched their library for information on wizarding technology, but couldn’t find anything. He decided to ask his dad about it. 

“Technology, hmm?” Dad stroked his chin, pondering the question. “That’s a very interesting question. Sorry we don’t have any books on it.” He brightened, and lifted his head up. “Oh, I know! How about we go to the London Public Library, and see if they have anything there?”

“Isn’t that a muggle library?” It hadn’t been a big shock to find out he was now living in England; he’d been speaking English this whole life, after all. Still, it was a big weird, walking out of the house and into the English countryside, like something out of a storybook.

“Sure it is,” Dad agreed. “But there’s a magical section hidden from muggle eyes there as well.”

“That sounds so awesome!” Izuku couldn't help but bounce up and down. “Yeah, let’s go there and see if they have anything.”

They took floo powder to get to London, which was still both neat and somewhat terrifying. Once there, they walked the few blocks to the library, Dad holding Izuku’s hand the whole way there. Izuku looked around at the rows and rows of books, itching to get his hands on them. However, his dad led him to a door in the back, which everyone else seemed to be overlooking.

They entered to find even more shelves filled with books. These ones, however, were flying off the shelves and into people’s hands of their own accord. The people reading the books were wearing robes of all sorts of bright colors, some of which almost hurt to look that.

That was okay, of course. Izuku would much rather look at the books than the people reading them.

A wizard with a bright green robed glanced up as they approached, looking somewhat disinterested. “Can I help you two?”

Dad smiled at him. “Yes, thank you. We’re looking into wizarding history, technology more specifically. My son’s interested in the topic.” Izuku waved at the man.

The man’s bored expression morphed into one of surprise. “Huh. Not many wizards or witches look into that sort of thing. Usually just as a passing curiosity, or to write some sort of article. Follow me then.” He lead them off into a corner, where the books all looked dusty and less used. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Thanks!” Izuku waved at him. He gave a short nod back and walked away. 

———————————————————

When Izuku was six, he finally decided to test out One for All, to see if he still had his quirk or not. It was obvious that quirks as a whole didn’t exist in this world, at least not yet. But he had to try and see if his still worked.

It was late at night when he decided to test if out, after Mother and Dad had both gone to sleep and he was alone in his room. Izuku slipped out of bed and onto the soft carpets that covered his room.

He focused as hard as he could on the feeling One for All gave him, how it felt with all of that power rushing through his veins. Izuku clenched his fists and waited.

At first, nothing happened. But slowly, green sparks started to fly around his body’s coursing through his veins like an old friend. It was light, weaker than it had even been before. But it was there. If Izuku had to guess, he was able to use less than one percent of One for All at the moment. But the fact that he could use it at all was encouraging.

———————————————————

Despite the equal feeling of being loved he received from each, were many differences between the Midoriya family and the Potter family. Besides the fact that he lived with two parents instead of one, and the fact that while Mom was making good money as a middle class citizen, the Potters were sitting pretty on a massive fortune, there was the parents themselves.

Euphemia Potter - Mother - was beautiful for her age, especially considering she’d had Izuku when she was around forty. She had long flowing dark red hair, speckled  with strands of gray. While she was equally kind, Mother was much more self assured than Mom had been, radiating confidence. More than a few times, Izuku wondered guiltily if that had to do with the fact that he was born magical in this world, but quirkless in the previous one. Pictures and stories, however, told a different story, one that said Mother had always been like this. He hoped it was just that.

Fleamont Potter was just a few years older than his wife, with smooth salt and pepper hair and sharp hazel eyes hidden behind glasses. Izuku couldn’t exactly compare him to his previous father, as he didn’t know the man, but a huge difference from his previous life was that while he had taken his looks from his mother then, now they came almost completely from Dad. It still shocked him everytime he looked in the mirror, expecting green hair but seeing messy black.

Another major thing that set the Potters apart from Mom, however, was that the Potters had lots of friends. Lots and Lots of friends.

“Come on Sweet.” Mother gently pulled him along. After weeks of pleading, She and Dad had agreed to take Izuku on a broomstick ride, which had proven to be even more of a thrill than he’d imagined. Now that they were at their destination, however, his nerves came rearing up, threatening to consume him.

“What if he doesn’t like me?” Izuku voiced his hesitant thoughts. “What if we get off on the wrong foot, what if I say something dumb and he thinks I’m an idiot, what if-“

“It won’t be like that Sweet, I promise,” Mother assured him. “I’ve met Frank before, he’s a very nice young boy, and only about a year older than you. I’m sure you’ll get along splendidly.”

That would be nice, except the anxieties wouldn’t leave him. They walked up to the front steps of the Longbottom’s house, a huge estate that almost rivaled their own. 

The door opened as they approached, and a small creature in rags appeared at the door. 

“Miss Augusta and master Frank are waiting for you, Sirs and Madam.” The thing spoke with a deep croaky voice, as it bowed them inside. Mother thanked it kindly as they passed.

“What was that?” Izuku wondered.

“A house elf,” Dad explained. “They work for some rich wizarding families.”

Izuku glanced back at the house elf. “Why’s he wearing rags?”

“They hate clothes. Giving a house elf clothes is essentially firing them, which they consider a great failure on their part. Ah, Augusta!” Dad spread his arms out wide as a sharp looking woman approached, kissing her on the cheek in greeting. The greeting she and Mother shared was equally warm.

“It’s about time you visited. Your son is already six, and I’ve barely met him.” Augusta Longbottom leaned down to meet Izuku’s eyes. “You must be James. You’ve grown since I last saw you.”

Izuku didn’t remember seeing her before, but he nodded his head politely anyways. “Thank you ma’am.”

“So polite! He and Frank will get along splendidly. Frank!” At his mother’s call, a boy came thumping down the stairs, and locked eyes with Izuku. Frank was tall for his age, with brown hair and curious eyes.

Izuku gave a shy wave. “Hi. I’m James.”

Frank smiled. “Hello! It’s nice to meet you.”

Mother gave his hand a squeeze. “Why don’t you two get to know each other better?”

“Right.” Augusta nodded firmly. “Frank, give him a tour of the estate. Be sure to ask what he wants to see the most.”

“Okay.” Frank gave Izuku a smile and motioned for him to follow. Izuku walked with him as their parents talked in the background. “Is there anything you want to see?”

Izuku rubbed the back of his head. “Well, what do you have? I mean, this is your house, after all. Well, actually if you have a lot of books I would love to see them. I’ve read almost all the books in my house, which is both great and frustrating because not many books talk about how magic actually works. And you’d think they’d have something on it in different magical libraries, but it’s like not many wizards seem to care how anything works, and isn’t that weird? I mean-” Izuku cut himself off when he saw Frank staring at him with wide eyes. He winced. So much for making a good first impression. “Sorry, I tend to ramble a lot.”

“It’s fine, that’s not-” Frank cut himself off. “Midoriya?” 

Oh. 

Well this just got a lot more interesting.

[wizardsuniterpg]

CHARACTER BASICS

Name: Nikolai Aleksandrovich Orlov (Nick Orlov) Date of Birth: December 8th, 1983 Place of Birth: Moscow, Russia Actual Age/Age of appearance: 36 Marital Status: Divorced Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual Pronouns: He/him Religion: None Health details: Sometimes walks with a limp from a previous injury on the job Occupation: Auror for the British Ministry of Magic

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION (OR WRITE A COUPLE PARAGRAPHS)

Height: 6’4" Eye Color: Blue-Gray, gray-blue Hair Color/Style: Brown, shorter on the sides, longer up top, usually swept to the side with an off-center part Style: Dresses more modern than the average wizard but still in dark colors; usually wears long coats/robes, with popped collars. Closet probably needs a makeover and colors need to be introduced.  Aesthetic: one last cigarette before bedtime, which is late; smell of cold rain, basil, and cedar wood; late hot showers; black coffee in the morning; early morning rain;  Other: Scars from life, work; birthmarks in particular areas, such as right side of torso, back of the neck, and tiny specs on the forearms. Grown-out stubble or light beard. Play-By Used: Alexander Skarsgard

BACKGROUND AND CHARACTER

Personality: Nick is shrewd, brooding oftentimes, yet loyal and generally willing to absolve those that aggravate him, unless they have grievously crossed him. He is particularly loyal to those closest to him, including co-workers, other Aurors, like Eve Maitland, whom he’d gone to school with. He will do anything for them. However, to achieve such a level of respect from him is difficult.

He has high standards and a strict work ethic. He tolerates those he must tolerate, bureaucrats at the Ministry, for example. He does have an ego and it will often time come out when he’s dealing with junior Aurors or anyone below his rank. An individual must prove themselves to him. Some people, however, impress him without trying. It doesn't happen often, but it happens.  

Being a restrained and methodical individual, he is mostly in control of his emotions. He rarely loses his temper in an outright explosion, but he can show great potential for violence when pushed. He expertly harnesses this while on the job and is a leader, which is why he holds rank as a captain.

He is a very honest man, is known to be blunt, and is generally not sentimental on a surface level; although when the happiness and well-being of someone he cares about is at stake, he will show his concern and care through actions and can most definitely put their needs above his own. At present, there is no one he loves more than his mother, his sister, and his son.

Nick is a good father. He’s such a good father that he ended up divorcing his wife for pouring all of his affection into their son, Thomas. He feels guilty for separating because of how it affects Thomas, but Gloriana was the one that initiated the divorce. She no longer wanted to be with Nick. In her mind, he didn’t give her the attention she deserved, he didn’t understand her, and although she never admitted it, she didn’t understand him.

If an individual is within Nick’s circle, he will return loyalty and respect wholeheartedly. He might not be one who is open and expressive, but it is characteristic of someone who has gone through what he has. He values everything he has. He takes nothing for granted. During moments of happiness and enjoyment, he’ll let his dark, dry sense of humor slip. People have seen him smile, really.

Regarding romance and partners, Nick is also restrained, perhaps even a bit reserved. He doesn’t lament over divorcing his ex-wife, has become jaded, and he has not entertained the idea of another marriage.  

History: Nick was born in Moscow, Russia, but at an early age, he and his parents moved to London, England, where his father started working at Saint Mungos as a healer. Up until attending Hogwarts, Nick had a fairly uneventful life. They were immigrants, and there was always something to prove for his parents. It’s the same whether you’re a muggle or a wizard in a different country. Alexander Orlov worked nights, was always on call, striving to prove himself as a young healer. Valeria, his wife, took care of Nick meanwhile. They never visited Moscow when he was a child. He hadn’t known why then, but his parents were avoiding going back. Something about their extended family that they left behind.

The secret death eater ties on his father’s side didn’t start to unravel until Lord Voldemort made his presence known during Nick’s first year in 1994, which was the year of the Quidditch World cup and the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Nick’s mother, Valeria, suggested taking her son out of Hogwarts. He’d only been in school for a year. It was all right, she had argued with her husband. He could’ve started elsewhere without interrupting his education too much. Beauxbatons, perhaps? Or better yet, they could’ve taken a risk and moved to the United States, and Nick could’ve gone to Ilvermorny.

But at that point, no school was really safer than Hogwarts, Nick’s father was confident in the legendary Albus Dumbledore, and he couldn’t just up and leave his job, start his career anew in America. Valeria lived in a constant state of paranoia because of their decision to stay, and the death eaters in their own family. He suspected the dark ties in their extended family, but he never got answers, not until later.

So instead, Nick’s parents advised him to stay as far away from Harry Potter as he could, study well, and most importantly, to be careful. Nick never spoke to the famous orphan, and it helped that he was in Slytherin. Slytherins stayed away from Gryffindors, after all. However, try as he might, it was impossible to ignore the whisperings about dark magic, prejudice, and the coming change for the betterment of purebloods everywhere. Nick had kept his mouth shut about not being one himself. 

Within the cunning house, the older kids boasted about their own families’ death eater connections. Most were outright lying. Their parents were just blood-elitist. A few Slytherins, like Draco Malfoy, was legitimately in line to become a Voldemort follower himself. Most of the younger years, including Nick, stayed away from such talk, afraid or uncomfortable. Some were intrigued and often snuck into late night conversations while someone in Potter’s year professed their hatred and whispered the name Voldemort with sneaky little smiles. The kids were more often than not caught by the older students and punished. Nick was smart and didn’t stick around to get his ass beat by an older year. He socialized with his own year and those younger.

Eve Maitland, a Slytherin in his year, was in his small group of friends. They kept to the fringes of the house. They were there at Hogwarts to learn, not to meddle with house rivalries, or worse, do anything that could endanger their lives. 1997 was the most difficult year that Nick and his friends had to go through. That was his fourth year and the year of the Battle of Hogwarts.

When things rapidly changed at the school, Snape becoming headmaster and death eaters taking teaching positions, Valeria wanted her son out of there. Out of there immediately. His parents were smart enough to realize that the Ministry was corrupted and that dark things were happening at Hogwarts. Finally, Alexander had agreed, but it wasn’t possible to arrange Nick’s departure when the school was essentially in the control of Voldemort. Nick ended up staying for the full year. During that year, he finally learned that his uncle, his father’s brother, was a follower of the Dark Lord, and this was perhaps what spared Nick the many punishments that were dolled out by the new teachers. 

Mikhail Orlov visited his brother in London while Nick was away and asked him to join the cause. A healer is needed in all situations. Upon Alexander’s refusal, Mikhail threatened to take Nick over to the Dark Lord’s side, by force if need be -  reports from the school mentioned that Nick had much potential, a fourteen-year-old boy could be molded, after all. Alexander engaged his brother in a duel, a duel that took his life. Valeria was spared because she managed to get away with Nick’s sister Vera, who was only a toddler then. When their son heard of his father’s death, it was days later. Unable to do anything, Nick only had the support of his friends and Eve while they waited out the year.

During the Battle itself, they were evacuated with the rest of the younger years while the older students who wanted to fight stayed. Nick wanted to stay, too, he wanted to kill the uncle he’d never met, but of course, there was no way in hell he was allowed to. Instead, finally he reunited with his mother and baby sister. When it was all over, after Voldemort was defeated, all they could do was continue living for the sake of each other. Fortunately, Mikhail Orlov was caught, along with other death eaters who remained alive, and was sentenced to Azkaban for life.

Nick resumed school. The relief of Harry Potter and his friends finally being gone was palpable. He and his friends finally settled in their places comfortably as they should’ve been allowed to all along. The atmosphere within Slytherin lightened significantly. While the other houses avoided them most of the time nonetheless, rumors died hard, all that mattered was that the students of the house, those who simply wanted to learn and graduate could do so with peace without the threat of darkness over their heads. When he graduated in 2000, Nick became an Auror in order to channel his need for justice. Eve Maitland also joined the Ministry. Later in his career, she became his partner in the Auror department. It was almost like they were back in school again. 

During a Ministry party seven years ago, Nick met Babs Mimzy, who wasn’t yet a Hogwarts professor. Despite his standoffish nature, the two hit it off and two years later, they got married. Shortly after, Babs became pregnant and they had a son named Thomas. As soon as he learned to talk, it was clear that he would become a precocious, solitary boy, just like his father. The birth of his son changed Nick for the better, surprisingly. Becoming a father was a good thing for him. He became less of a cold asshole. He smiled more. He laughed more genuinely. His overall physiognomy became less dark. But Nick started to spend more time with his son and less with his wife.

He and Babs divorced when Thomas was three, just two years ago. Nick and his wife were just too different. Babs needed more out of him, more emotion, more attention, just more understanding. It was all good that he doted on their son, but he couldn’t just leave his wife out. In the end, perhaps they were just too different. Their paths were also different. After their divorce, Babs got hired at Hogwarts as their new charms professor and moved away. Distance made it hard on Nick - just knowing that his son is in another country - but he does visit as often as he can.

Presently, Nick doesn’t regret their divorce - there was no way that he and Babs could make it work - but he's aware of how difficult Thomas’ life will continue to be with their parents separated. Also, Babs has a new man as of late - Alex Fraser. They’ve been engaged for a couple months too now. The guy's a ex-quidditch player (with a scandal that had him off the team) and isn’t too smart, in Nick’s opinion. At least he’s nice to Thomas, but Nick swears that he doesn’t have any brains. He doesn’t stimulate Thomas enough. He just buys him things, like that children’s quidditch set on Christmas. Thomas was too scared to try the kid’s broomstick. Nick tries to suppress his irritation for the sake of his son. He’s all that Nick has - besides his job.

When he was offered the opportunity to be involved in the Statute of Secrecy Task Force, Nick hesitated in taking the offer only because doing so would take him away from Thomas - visiting is hard enough. Even Eve couldn’t convince Nick to take a new position. But the little boy, far smarter than most kids his age, told him to go. So with his son’s blessing, Nick is one of the senior Aurors overseeing the task force. 

Connections:  Eve Maitland: Probably his one and only best friend, although Nick doesn’t use the word best friend, he’s not a teenager. She’s been through many things with him together, whether or not they affected her own life. He might not share her self-interest in recognition at the Ministry, or agree with some of her dubious, less-than-legal skills and talents, but she’s been there for him too many times to count - like after his father’s death, his divorce - and her friendship and loyalty mean more than anything. Equally, he’d do anything for her.

Valeria Orlov: His mother, whom he visits but probably not often enough. She’s a reserved, graceful woman in her late fifties who lives for her children and grandson. Otherwise, she works with sick children at Saint Mungos and attends various clubs and activities in her spare time with other witches her own age.

Vera Orlov: Nick’s younger sister with whom he’s not too close with. They have a 12 year age gap between them. He was attending school, then went off to work for the ministry right after. They’ve tried to connect, but they’re just so different. Vera isn’t too aware of the dark times of Harry Potter and Voldemort. She was also born in England. She’s of a different generation. She’s more open, expressive, and has gone toward an art career. She’s lucked out, exhibiting in several cities across Europe for her dancing colors collection.

Babs Mimzy: She once attracted him with her wit, her intelligence, and impressed him by the fact that she wasn’t trying to impress anyone, she never did. Nick was able to open up to her enough that she fell in love with him and vise versa. But they reached a stalemate in their relationship. After five years, it turned out that he couldn’t give her what she wanted, and they couldn’t find a solution to make their relationship work. They divorced. 

Future plot ideas: Purist ties to his family in Russia. His sister, with whom he doesn’t have a relationship with. Drama with ex-wife and her new fiance. 

FAMILY

Mother: Valeria Orlov, 58  Father: Alexander Orlov, Deceased Siblings: Vera Orlov, 24 Pets: None Children: Thomas Miller, 5 years old.  Ex-Spouse:  Babs Mimzy

MAGICAL

Wand: Bog oak, 13.5 inches, Dragon heartstring Basic education: Hogwarts, Slytherin, started in 1994, graduated in 2000 Lineage: Half-blood. Dad was a pureblood. Mom was a half-blood. Skills: Animagus -  borzoi. Best at defensive and offensive spells, including all of the spellwork that his job requires. Spells for the ordinary such as cooking, cleaning, housework, he doesn’t use. They make him feel lazy. But he’s also good at potions, as this was his best class. He was once taught by the great Severus Snape, not that Nick was a favorite of Snape’s. Snape had no favorites. Nick is great at apparating, uses it when in a wand fight.

Some facts

Smoking: Yes, he’s a smoker. He should quit. He likes Muggle cigarettes, Parliaments Drinks Alcohol: Yes, however, no issue with it like alcoholism. He prefers gin.  Religion: None Worst Habit:  Allergies: Most fantastic beasts with fur.  Most Common Misconception about them: He’s aware of how he makes people feel; it’s a matter of whether he cares from one situation to another Biggest Fear: To lose his son - that could just mean losing the ability to see him. Greatest Strength: Confidence, experience, intellect, honesty, loyalty; generosity toward those closest to him Greatest Weakness: Can be ruthless on the job, cold, harsh, closed off emotionally; a difficult superior; can be impatient and not understanding Weapons: His wand

Intimate Facts

One Wish: That he doesn’t lose anyone important to him. Greatest Secret? Ideal Kiss? One that’s deliberate Sleeps In? Never, unless by accident Virgin? He has kid. What turns them on? Challenges, surprises when he expected something else

Random facts

Most Uttered Phase/Word? Tends to Always? Slouch a little, glower Is Ticklish? His feet Oddest Thing?  Most likely to find them? Knows they’re really sorry if? You can see it on his face, even if he tries to hide it. Or in his actions, you can tell that he feels guilty.

[marginalgloss]

a bitter bedtime

Emily Wilson’s translation is the first time I've read The Odyssey from start to finish. I've never really read or studied much in the way of the ancient classics, aside from the occasional foray into extracts from Aristotle and Plato as part of studying English Lit. In my case most of my prior knowledge of The Odyssey probably came from reading Ulysses. Joyce's novel is more generous with its interpretation of Homer than is commonly supposed, but in a strange way I think it helped, though trying to map one directly on to the other is mostly just an exercise in frustration. At any rate, I know very little about prior versions of The Odyssey in English.

Most of the time I was aware that I was entirely at sea in a foreign medium while reading this. It is not quite song, not quite poem, not quite play, not quite prose. Wilson has rendered it in iambic pentameter and in English it reads in beautifully. The language is plain, balanced, unfussy. It has a rhythm which feels deeply old, though I know it’s really only a version of an English style defined in a period so recent it would fit comfortably inside the age of this writing many times over. Something about it remains beyond all comprehension. Some of it is plain confusing: the layer upon layer of myth, legend, rumour; the complex patterns of referentiality and retelling.

Sometimes it’s austere and sometimes it feels like it could have been written yesterday. But the drama of it is very real. The things that worked have worked again throughout all literature and they work again for us now. The terror of lonely isolation; the fear of the small mortal man, at loose in an unsympathetic universe. The precious quality of trust, the gift of welcoming affection between strangers. The fun to be had at the expense of the cruel, and the cruel antics that come from manipulating the ones we love. The pathos of an old dog resting his eyes on his master one last time before he dies. All of this was written some eight hundred years before Christ. All of it is uncannily familiar. 

Reading the translator's note — which is a wonderfully passionate piece of writing in itself — I was struck by Wilson's insistence on producing a translation which was proper, both in the sense of presenting the truth of the original text as far as possible without unnecessary embellishment; but also right, in an ethical sense. She's very precise, for example, in referring to characters as 'slaves' when they might once have been called ‘servants’. And she has written elsewhere about the many interpretations of a sequence so famous as the Sirens, and the myriad layers of gender bias that need to be recognised when approaching that passage. The resulting text feels never less than deliberate, thoughtful. And she doesn't shy away from depicting the immediate brutality in the story, even when this might affect the sympathies we hold for the characters.

This idea of ‘rightness’ — that an author or translator might have an immediate moral duty towards their audience — is perhaps the most modern thing about this translation. I found it easy to imagine earlier translators who might subordinate what is right or what is correct to what is beautiful, but Wilson puts this the other way round. There is no sense here of a writer who has tried to imagine themselves into the moral codes of another era by framing something awful as something righteous. A rose is a rose is a rose: a slave is a slave is a slave.

So perhaps art is no longer entirely for art's sake; some of it might be morally good or bad after all. That this translation has been so positively received is a sign perhaps that it's entirely fitting for our era, in which we seem to expect a higher moral standard from artists (or at least evidence of some moral standard). We don't want the author to be dead; we want them very much alive, and responsible for their texts. Ideally we want them to be good people as well.

It’s impressive. I find it hard to conceive of an alternative approach. I cannot imagine a hypothetical contrarian who could rest their translation on a different set of values. I wondered what a less well-behaved translation would look like; but I suppose we’ve seen dozens of them through the ages. 

Still, I never had the sense, reading this, that this ethical imperative was overriding the aesthetics of the text. It's kind of the opposite: first we have the ethical choice, and what proceeds from that is aesthetic effects that might have unexpected resonance. Wilson has a remarkable talent for creating imagery that lingers in the mind as it might in a particularly affecting horror movie. There's so many wonderful scenes here but the one that haunts me as I write this is the ghastly picture of the slave women brutally hanged by Odysseus and Telemachus near the end of the story: 

At that, he wound a piece of sailor’s rope
 round the rotunda and round the mighty pillar, 
stretched up so high no foot could touch the ground.
 As doves or thrushes spread their wings to fly 
home to their nests, but someone sets a trap – 
they crash into a net, a bitter bedtime;
 just so the girls, their heads all in a row, 
were strung up with the noose around their necks 
to make their death an agony. They gasped,
 feet twitching for a while, but not for long.

But she doesn't loom in judgment over the text. The translator isn't here to tell the reader how to feel about what happens every time Odysseus does something reprehensible. It is just there, plainly.

[megacircuit9universe]

Electro College

THU SEP 25 2020

Well, here I am on another Thursday night... Thursday being the day of the week where the big story of the week hit’s it’s terrifying apex before dying off over the weekend, and giving way to the next big story that starts as a whisper on Monday, and builds steam over Tuesday and Wednesday.

What was last Thursday?  Suckers and Losers? What was it the week before that?  Trump telling Woodward he knew the virus was airborne and deadly back in February and deliberately lied about it?  Don’t cite me on that timeline, because the point is, every week it’s something that makes you forget what you were freaking out about last Thursday... which I guess is why I’m here?

Before we get to this week’s big story, I need to circle back to the last entry, on a Friday, when the TikTok ban was an absolute certainty... which was to take effect on Sunday.

Well... everybody on TikTok was very sad and angry about that, but then news came on Saturday afternoon that... surprise... the deal somehow went through and TikTok is here to stay... (?) (!) (?) (!)

The other big thing that happend on Friday, of course was the death of RGB, and since then, the GOP  has been in lockstep about confirming a new justice as soon as humanly possible... in bald disregard for all the arguments they made in 2016 about how voters MUST have a say in such things... even while their noses have been rubbed harder in that pile of shit, by the media, than a dog belonging to the most proactive house trainer on Earth.

But, just because 100% of the GOP from the highest offices to the lowest, have their faces covered in feces right now in defense of this move to swing the court at the 11th hour... it doesn’t mean they are all slavishly loyal to Trump.  

I’d hazzard a guess that 60% of them are only on board with this, because of the dream to overturn Roe V Wade, which goes back thirty years.  

They’d sooner kill themselves than turn down this once in a lifetime, fleeting chance to so unbalance the court, that the dream can finally come true.

But...

This urgency... from the top to the bottom... this frantic scramble... in which their faces are covered in poop, and their shoes are flying off, shirts coming untucked, tupees taking flight in the political wind... this desperation, in which they do not care what they look like to observers...

...betrays one fact.

And that is, all of them know Trump will not be reelected.

Many of them know the whole Republican Party is on the verge of losing power... for at least a generation, if not forever... thanks to Trump.

But if they can tip that Supreme Court!.. well conservatism may be able to live on for another thirty years... long enough for hyper conservatism to stage a comeback.

It’s not about saving babies, by the way.  It’s never been.  The anti-abortion movement has always been about controlling women, just as all other conservative passion projects are about controlling minorities and the poor, and gatekeeping access to status, wealth, and power.

A conservative court could keep that all rolling for them as they struggle to brainwash a new generation of their own kids to win back seats of power in the other branches of government... or so they hope!  But it’s a gamble they just have to take in this desperate hour.

Now, it is true that the slavishly loyal cabal of Trump loyalists in the Senate and a few other places do want this Supreme Court nomination rammed through for... la la la.. save the babies or whatever.. but in their heads it’s very much more about saving the coup!  

These guys, McConnell, Graham, and friends, saw a different dream within their grasp after Trump won in 2016... 

...the dream of bringing all three branches of Federal government under the control of a single Republican strong man... for good.  It was a bold vision, but... four years wasn’t gonna be enough time.

Tearing down an entire democracy is hard guys!

It takes time!

They worked as hard as they could though!  You have to give them that!

They know just as well as the rest of the GOP, that Trump will not get reelected.  Not after Covid19.  Not with Biden still ahead by seven points this long after the conventions, and this close to November 3rd.

So for them, ramming through a replacement for RGB is seen as a Hail Mary play, to outright reject the election results.  And they’ve said as much this week, as has Trump.  They’re laying the flimsy foundations for this final bid to hold power, as best they can.

Flimsy because it’s both very last minute, and also... relies on people believing their word has any value...

Sure, we’ll support a peaceful transition of power if Trump loses, we promise! But we just want to make sure elections are fair!

...in a political moment where they’re also saying out loud, FUCK WHAT I SAID RECENTLY I’M DOING A 180 AND FUCK YOU!

The idea is... the results will probably be close enough in a couple key states, that they can contest the results and take it to a pre-packed Supreme Court who will grant Trump the victory.

There was even talk of pressuring states to send Republican electors to vote for Trump, even if the popular vote totals in the imagined key states was heavily in favor of Biden.

Again, that might trigger a Supreme Court case, cuz you can’t get on a state ballot in the first place, unless you agree not to try a stunt like that, but... their packed court would rule in Trump’s favor and... American democracy as we knew it would be over.

Maybe not the most ideal way to stay in power, but... still a workable plan... or so they think.

But this plan hinges on the so-called, “red mirage,” to materlialize on election night... which is itself, a delusional theory.  

It’s based on the idea that all Democratic voters will vote by mail, while all Republican voters will vote in person.  Thus, election night results will see most states turning red, and Democrats will be in a position where they’re calling for time, for the mail in votes to slowly trickle in and be counted over the next couple weeks... promising that Biden really won it, once the final count is done.

But that’s not reality.

What is reality?  

Well, first of all, states that are too close to call don’t get colored either red or blue, so in this scenario, it’d just be a bunch of gray states that were not called either way, pending more data.

But setting that to one side, let’s look at what the reality is likely to be, and then let’s look at how things would play out... even if Red Mirage was a reality on November 3rd...

REALITY: Trumps only path to squeak out 270 electoral votes is if he wins both Wisconsin and Nevada... along with... all the states that normally turn red, such as Texas, Florida, etc.

The problem is, Biden is ahead by two to three points in both Wisconsin and Nevada... along with several of the states that normally turn red, such as Texas, Florida, etc.

This means that all Biden has to do is win either Wisconsin or Nevada, and he’s to 270... and any other normally red states he wins (and there are several which are leaning his direction right now) will only solidify that win.

But Trump has already pulled adds in Wisconsin, and Nevada... because his campaign is running out of money... which is astonishing, given how much they had to start with but... criminals like to pocket huge sums of donation money so... now they’re feeling the hurt from that, because they can’t even fight in the two states they definitely need... that Biden is winning.

Meanwhile, Biden’s got massive inflows of donation money, as have all the rest of the Democrats down ballot... thanks to what the GOPs been doing in the wake of RGB, and thanks to, “loser and suckers,” and lying to the public about Covid, etc.

Millenials, and GenZ have also not forgotten about the TikTok ban, even if they’ve gotten yet another reprieve from it, and do still very much plan to storm the polls on November 3rd, along with GenX, who elected Obama/Biden all by themselves before either of these newer, much larger gens were old enough to vote.

Trump already spooked everybody out of voting by mail several weeks ago with his assault on the USPS, and so everybody who can is already early voting... and facing resistance from illicit and illegal militia groups in some states on the early voting fronts which... in this year of bravery in the face of fascism in the streets... means only more storming of polls in every way possible to guarantee a landslide for Biden on election night, before bedtime.

Keep in mind that right now, Trump supporters are also being successfully brainwashed into thinking theres no way Trump can lose.  They have to be brainwashed to think this, so that they’ll go along with the argument (after he does lose) that it was all rigged.  

But this brainwashing beforehand means... they, are gonna stay home and be complacent, just as Hillary voters did in 2016.

The election map is, thus, gonna be so blue, on election night, that Trump’s only recourse will be this:  

“ITS OBVIOUSLY RIGGED, BECAUSE THERES NO WAY ALL THOSE STATES TURNED SO BLUE BY SUCH HUGE MARGINS!”

In effect... he will be crying about a blue mirage, on November 4th.

And while that may play with his stunned supporters... it’s NOT gonna play with the Supreme Court, or the military, or the destroyed GOP Senate, or even Fox News.

RED MIRAGE SCENARIO:  Okay, but what about the other scenario where there IS a red mirage, just for the sake of argument, and Trump immediately moves to block the counting of any absentee votes still out there in the mail?  

Well... the only hope of stopping such ballots from being counted, would be to get the Supreme Court on board.  BUT... even with more conservatives than liberals on the nine person court... they, the Justices, would know, for a certainty, that to rule in his favor... to not count valid votes on the flimsy, proof-free argument that mail in ballots are inherently fraudulent... during a pandemic... would result in a fucking civil war the same day as the ruling.

In other words... Trump would be leaving it on their shoulders, to destroy the Constitution... which is the exact opposite of what the Supreme Court is all about, and the exact opposite of how they maintain their hold on one third of he power in this three-branch democracy.

And even a grade school child knows, if they did that, in this political climate, civil war would begin the next hour... and we’re a nuclear power so... a civil war here could well lead to the end of the world.

They’re not gonna do that, and they don’t have to.

The whole stupid strategy by the right, of packing the Supreme Court with conservative Justices has always been idiotic, because once you’re on the Supreme Court, you’re beholden to nobody.

Not only are you beholden to nobody... but your power to stay beholden to nobody is all about showing your beholden to nobody, by upholding the sacred reputation of the Supreme Court as a body of untouchables who only care about the Constitution, and the correctitude of all the previous rulings by the Supreme Court.

This is why my father, a life long conservative, has been so butt-hurt, all his life, every time the new conservative Supreme Court justice rules in favor of the liberal thing!  Why?  How?  Where is their party loyalty???

Sorry dude, but that’s how the founding fathers designed it.  They get life long appointments without needing to run for reelection, so... they’re free to actually follow their conscience once in a while.

Thanks Trump, for nominating me.  Thanks Mitch, for ramming me through.  Now... fuck you both!  I’m not starting your fucking civil war, go to hell!

The Supreme Court was already doing this to Trump very recently, so... what?... is the death of RGB supposed to make them suddenly fall in line?  More likely, it will make them more determined to respect her legacy, and show the planet that they do not bow to would be dictators.

Trump is toast... stuck in the toaster... getting burnt, and setting off the smoke alarm, because he refuses to eject.  And the GOP senate... is sticking a butter knife in there, to try and help him... just before the sprinklers go off.

And with that, it is time for bed.

[mysmeprotectionsquad]

Hello darling I've been swimming around tumblr for a while and I'm very glad that I found your blog. Are requests still open? How would RFA + V react to an MC who's actually a pretty serious person? Like an MC who isn't cute or sweet but is loyal, intelligent, and outspoken and would enjoy talking about philosophy and history?

Hey there, sweetheart~ I apologize for taking so long with your request! We’re slowly but surely working on the mess that is our inbox right now;; Anyway, I knew I had to write something for this because I’m really digging this MC. Hopefully you’ll like what I’ve written for you!

- Admin Cat Mom.

Yoosung

you can’t even begin to imagine how insecure and inferior he feels in your presence.

after all he’s just slacking off and putting zero effort in his studies.

and you are this well-versed woman with plenty of interests who isn’t easily fooled.

yeah… he’s fucked.

thing is, though, yoosung is more capable of excellence than he believes, he could be top of his class if he wanted to.

he already was back in his high school days anyway?

and so he feels inspired by you to get out of his slump and become better through hard work.

he loves how engaging conversations with you can be and how much he learns about… well, pretty much everything?

philosophy tends to give him headaches but he could listen to you talk about asian history for hours on end.

besides, you are exactly what he needs: someone with a great sense of self who can keep him with his feet on the ground.

Zen

and here we have another bean who’s discouraged by insecurity.

unlike the rest of RFA, he didn’t even finish high school.

he’s more of a street smart kind of guy.

trying to follow conversation with you is the hardest thing he’s ever done, and trust him, he’s been through the hardest already.

is he really good enough for you?

there’s this darker side of him telling him to quit because you deserve someone better.

someone who isn’t stupid and ignorant.

the man his mother wanted him to be.

but regardless of the voice inside his head, he knows it would be an honor to be such a magnificent lady’s companion.

so he fights against it because you don’t deserve someone who does nothing but pity himself.

he admires your confidence and is often amused by how outspoken you are, the world needs more people like you.

and your loyalty is much needed due to his hectic job and public life.

Jaehee

YES.

you are just perfect.

she’s in love with you and your mind and how you carry yourself.

and you seem like such a reasonable, mature individual, it’s almost refreshing for her.

truly completely blown away.

it amazes her how easy it is for her to talk with you.

if she’s not following whatever it is you’re saying, she’ll make sure to look it up when she has the time.

your dates consist of going to museums and several cultural activities.

and don’t forget the musicals.

you were her biggest support system when she had to defy her boss in order to pursue her dreams.

I mean, you were pretty much her role model, and she still, of course, looks up to you dearly.

you guys have each other’s backs yet are fully aware you’re capable of defending yourselves just fine.

she’ll always be willing to kick some asses for you, though.

Jumin

the fact that you’re outspoken can cause a bit of conflict between the two of you, especially during the rockiest parts of his route.

other than that? oh god.

in this man’s eyes you are amazing in every aspect he can think of.

and so different from the women he’s used to deal with.

he values your sense of loyalty, it is of great help when his controlling urges start messing with his head.

because he knows you are not leaving any time soon.

as for what things you enjoy doing together, recommending books to each other is one them.

criticizing them together is another.

he promises to take you with him during some of his business trips, at least to the ones he thinks you’ll enjoy.

he also has a huge room in his penthouse destined for you and only you, where he’s gathered a huge collection of philosophy and history books.

Seven

you may not get along in terms of joking around and acting sweet.

in fact, your outspoken nature intimidates him a great deal.

or amuses him depending on the context.

you’re like a jaehee, or a jumin… a jaehee-jumin hybrid.

yes he does tease you about it here and there, that’s a given.

but he’s secretly fascinated by your knowledgeable self.

he is, in spite of everything that’s been said about him, someone intelligent and remarkable. 

he likes the way you talk about history.

prepare yourself to have him begging you to tell him bedtime stories.

“how about ninjas? or secret agents? know anything about them?”

yeah... just because you’re a more serious person doesn’t mean he’ll stop trolling you.

let’s also add the fact that he won’t be able to push you away because you are not gonna put up with it.

V

a thousand times yes.

we all know this man is way too faint-hearted.

he is in desperate need of someone strong-willed and you come into his life in just about the right time.

and he appreciates your loyalty.

let’s not forget he has many, many scars from his past relationship, both mentally and physically.

so he feels like he can trust and rely on you.

I assume that, because of his upbringing and job, he is quite knowledgeable and enjoys history as well.

that’s enough to have you both talking nonstop, sharing personal views and facts while laying on the grass and staring at the sky.

moments like this help him realize that maybe he will be able to connect to someone new after all.

he likes to take you to museums and art galleries.

and he’ll show you his collection of old paintings and photographs.