#who wants a sequel to this guys

[fag-stuck]

discoveries.

[c-rowlesblogs]

the last time I made a post about a character type I really like it went well, so here's another one: I love a character who is a piece of shit loser.

Let me explain: a very specific kind of piece of shit loser. This is a character who is almost never (at least not at first) a major protagonist or a major villain. They might be a mercenary or thief or black-hat hacker or in some other sort of antisocial "bad guy" line of work. They are some sort of henchman, or at least have strong henchman energy: dangerous and/or talented in specific skills perhaps, but also, importantly, undeniably a loser. Their personality sucks. They're uncharismatic and unpleasant. The heroes interact with them only when they must-- and this character deliberately cranks up the cynicism around especially sunny or optimistic heroes. They know the world is a cold, hard place, and the only thing they trust is cold, hard cash (if they're even getting paid for this shit). Things like "hope" and "friendship" are for suckers.

Until... somehow, some incident or confrontation or compounding sequence of events puts a crack in their armor. It's a crack where the light can get in-- and also, alarmingly (to others and to them), shine out. It turns out this piece of shit loser had a little spark of goodness buried deep inside all along, and no matter how much they dig in their heels and insist they don't care, their conscience is steadily pulling them over to the "good" side, and it's winning. And the heroes know it, too: this character might still be a piece of shit loser, but now they're their piece of shit loser, and there's no going back.

[the-meme-monarch]

something i see a lot in books is like. capitalizing a word where it really doesn’t need to be? like for an example in Who Censored Roger Rabbit they spell toons as Toons. and i understand it’s probably supposed to make it clear that this is a deliberate Word For Something That The Author Kinda Made Up but like. to me it stands out too much. humans are just humans. a cat would still be a cat and a dog a dog. but toons are Toons. idk i think it just feels unnatural and unnecessary. if toons are natural to the world here why do you need to capitalize the T

[fromtheseventhhell]

Zutaras are really the original self-insert, "we understand the story soooooo much better than everybody else" girlies and they just never moved on

[methoughtsphantom]

plot bunnies about an idea i don’t have enough motivation juice to write. red hood identity reveal variety

smol jason

So, Red Hood reclutantly working alongside the Bat to take down a child trafficking ring when he is hit with a de-aging spell. It even isn’t the first time Batman encountered the end of this particular spell so he already knows the victim would have no recollection of their memories, so he protects the now child (he guessing 11 estimate age) and guides him through the panic of not being able to take off the Red Hood helmet. the one that canonically has a bomb in it (cause older Jason is a dramatic bitchTM) so like, Batman catches the child’s prying fingers and takes them away from the latches because Hood has implied the existence of a bomb and that’s enough for dread to set in his gut. Bruce gently coaxes the child to let him confirm this with a device he takes out of his belt and raises it eye level to the kid’s head. It beeps. And B feels the ground sweep out under him. Because indeed this child has a bomb to his head. (and he’s suddenly hearing another bomb go off in the distance and a warehouse and —)

anyways, B ends up taking (read kidnapping) this twelve year old to the Batcave so they can pry off the helmet and I can only picture the ANGST because this is Jason and Bruce each unaware of who the other is. Jason still lives in the streets in his mind according to him and well, according to B, he’s dead. So they start bonding, kinda awkwardly at first cuz of the helmet’s voice modulator, but Jay at that age (at any rlly) was a spitfire and like he genuinely makes B forget this is a crime lord for a second (kinda difficult to that when the kid is stuck in the helmet) but whatever. I can only see Jason being his cautious self but kinda being at ends here because he kinda does need Batman’s help to get this thing off him, so he can only, just like narrow his eyes when the Bat approaches him for a blood sample. (“Need to check for magic residue, lad.”)

(Jason’s only allows this because he has a knife he found in the clothes he’d was drowning in earlier)

As u can guess, Bruce was obviously lying and wanted to run the blood sample to see if it matched any from his database (as the Red Hood has also implied that they have met before)

Anyways Bruce just gets the alert that the blood reading was finished almost at the same time they can pry the helmet off, and because he got a little attached, he just wants to see the face of this lively if wary teenager that has the same name as his (dead) son. (he managed to pry it from him earlier, how, i dunno) It’s literally Bruce’s martyr and huge guilt-complex that goes like ‘ah yes let me see the face of a child that was failed so throughly by the people who should’ve taken care of him’. So they pry off the helmet and then Bruce feels like he’s been doused by cold water. it’s like he’s staring at the ghost of his dead son again, the image completed with ruffled hair, slightly upturned lips and blue guarded eyes that look up to him with recognition but not recognition.

Bruce immediately hardens, shuts down any hope he can feel rushing in and desperately tries to close the dam and let his confusion and rage turn into anguish. “Who are you?”

The boy—the imposter quickly tracks the 180 demeanor change and immediately goes defensive. A painfully familiar scowl appears in his face.

“I’m Jason, I already told you that, what, your old age catching up to you?”

Batman stalks closer and then the boy’s taking two steps back for every one the Bat takes. He tracks the loose outline of a hand closing in tightly around the hilt of a knife in the boy wearing his son’s face and he can only think how dare he.

“Lies! You’re not my son! Who are you?”

Heart in throat, Jason struggles to keep distance between him and the towering black shadow that’s so angry he can sense it in his very bones. He doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t.

“I-I my name’s Jason. Jason Todd. My father is Willis Todd, not—not, Batman.”

And there’s that for the little snippet. Sorry this is so disjointed😭. After that’s just the mental image of Dick cutting in with Zatanna trailing closely behind him and being all “Hey I got your message about a de-aging spell and—“ and just stopping at the scene.

Because that’s Batman towering over a clearly scared kid. Said kid using the distraction to try and stab Batman. The action clearly enraging Batman—that doesn’t make any sense?! B would never— Dick immediately sprints into action and steps in between the two.

like Dick just giving his back to the kid and not seeing. Batman clearly shaking his head in denial and snarling, treating the kid like his crime lord self and Dick not understanding. Having to receive help from Zatanna to get the kid the hell out of here (but like where would they even take him? The manor??)

Zatanna just takes them to the other side of the cave and takes note of the teenager. How he has a dead grip on a red helmet and his gaze is stuck upon it.

Meanwhile Dick has to physically restrain Batman from going after the kid and he raises his voice just enough to demand what the hell is happening?? Why is there a kid in the Batcave? …Batman??? Report. As he is demanding answers Dick had slowly loosen his grip on his dad only to now found him staring at his gauntlet’s data hologram.

The information displayed? 99.98% Match confirmed to Jason Peter Todd.

So as this is clearly pure angst, I want Jason to lash out, sticking only to Zatanna only to realize she’s the magic user that’ll quote on quote will return him back to normal.

Jason is just like on really uneven ground here, even though he doesn’t think he’s ready to retur. But then Batman is just like “Jaylad” … “Jay…” and taking off his cowl and reaching up to him and looking at him like he knows him, like he’s something fragile and precious. Which is sooo fucking jarring you can understand. Jason internally is all what the fuck

Jason just wants them to back off. Jason is an overwhelmed bean. He looks up to Nightwing for help but the man is also mirroring the Bat, domino off and eyes suspiciously bright.

Zatanna is literally the only person in the room not emotionally compromised. She’s with Jay in the ??? train.

Suddenly she looks down and there’s the little boy whose eyes are pleading in helpless confusion. Eyes practically conveying the question you can return me back to normal right?? he pointedly doesn’t rip his eyes from hers as Zatanna puts a hand on his shoulder, pretending she doesn’t notice how he trembles and wordlessly asks if he’s sure.

cut scene

Bruce interrupts because information overload and he can’t compartmentalize this is too important and he and Dick stop Zatanna to which she too is ?? because that was literally what she was called for here. Dick is no help.

Dick is torn.

[pinazee]

I haven’t watched all the livestreams and such, so im hoping to find one person who can answer,

Does anyone know how starkid casts their productions? Cause I’ve yet to see Corey Dorris as a lead and he’s been around since AVPM Me and My Dick.

its always perfectly cast too, but that could just be a product of everyone being versatile and talented

[armando-triplepapito]

Dang crazy how Roberto left part of his acciones to Betty! (not 100% sure but it’s pretty obvious)

Ngl if I were Marcela I’d be pissed but mostly betrayed especially since she viewed him as a second father. In her defense it would’ve been normal to expect she’d get some of Roberto’s share. He knew how much Marcela loved Ecomoda. Tho it’s too early to assume anything.

What I’m guessing is that Doña Margarita died before Roberto so who knows maybe she gave Marcela some of her shares and Marcela then felt entitled to Roberto’s as well? Or maybe Roberto did leave something for Marcela which he thought would’ve been more valuable than his acciones but Marcela didn’t viewed it as such?🤔 idk but I can already sense Marcela is going to blame Betty for not inheriting anything…

Okay prediction time!:

I think Marcela’s overall goal was to win the presidency for her son (or who ever that guy is, he’s definitely a Valencia).

I’m assuming Betty was president before she left for two years. Something happened which Marcela was able to ask for Betty’s head.

While voting for the presidency she probably lost due to majority rule and Armando took over as president. She was fine with it cause she probably knew he wasn’t going to last long. With Betty out of the picture and with Roberto’s death she was certain her son will take the presidency because she assumed she will inherit some of Roberto’s acciones. She probably wouldn’t have won majority vote but she could’ve won cause her vote would’ve had more weight with Roberto’s acciones.

Obviously Betty got the acciones and became president again and which ruined Marcela’s plan…

Obviously Marcela’s pissed and will now go above and beyond for her son to become president.

And that’s where another prediction come in!

What if she convinces her son to seduce Camila?👀 it’s history repeating itself! Camilla will go through what Betty did! A man seducing her for Ecomoda…

^but yea idk about this prediction tho💀 i can already guess that Hugo’s assistant (im assuming) will try to seduce Camila. But I don’t think it’s for Ecomoda but for another sick intention. That will be the difference between Marcela’s kid and Hugo’s assistant.

Also I wouldn’t be surprised if Marcela’s kid actually falls in love with Camila (again history repeating itself) and that’s how Marcela will get her redemption. Having to watch her son fall in love with a Mendoza just like her , watching them end up together just how she wished for herself. She will then understand that the hate she carried is a waste and will finally get along with Betty finally restoring the strong bond between the Mendoza & Valencia’s.

So yea that’s what I’m expecting as subplots for this sequel…

[kazz-brekker]

was chopping potatoes for dinner last night when i had the realization that it was extremely inevitable i would become an adar and galadriel enjoyer during season 2 of rings of power considering the number of books i like enough to have a permanent spot in my brain which contain the romance dynamic of "we are fundamentally opposed enemies who deeply distrust each other but we must set aside our differences to unite against a common enemy, develop a grudging respect for each other, and then fall in love." i am predictable in my tastes but at least i know myself!

[rollercoasterwords]

What other fandoms do you think you’d write for? Or are you strictly an HP writer?

PS. Love ATWMD and THTF. Your writing is impeccable.

i’ve written a captive prince & succession fic as well so! & have also briefly written fics in some other fandoms when i was much younger which r now too embarrassing 2 name lmao

honestly not sure what other fandoms i’d write for it honestly just comes down 2 whether i’m gripped w an idea for certain characters…would love 2 escape hp fandom lol but i think part of why it’s sucked me in so bad is that i like fucking around w the holes in the canon universe…like most of the marauders fic i’ve written has been either canon compliant or canon divergent & me going “hmmm what would these characters do in this context” & now bc i’ve spent so much time thinking abt & writing them it’s just also becoming easy 2 plug these characters into aus 🤧

actually thinking abt my fic writing experience generally the thing that tends 2 make me wanna write fic is if there’s something abt canon that i wanna patch in…like my captive prince fic is just canon but from a different character’s pov & my succession fic is just “what if kenstewy were canon” lol. have thought abt writing aftg from andrew’s pov & the first book of the feverwake duology from dara’s pov simply bc that’s something i enjoyed doing w atyd & captive prince but never actually did…guess i could also see myself potentially writing spn fic if i came up w an idea i liked…& honestly i think if i ever reread trc i might go crazy for real & could then potentially decide 2 write fic who knows. but atp i feel like marauders fic has just become my comfort zone…it’s just a weird balance to strike where a story has to have characters i love but be unsatisfying (poorly written/queerbait/not actually queerbait but i’m delusional/would be fun 2 see from another character’s pov) enough that there r gaps i wanna fill. so like there r various stories/franchises/series i’ve loved where i’ve just never felt compelled at all 2 read or write fic bc i got everything i wanted out of the story etc!

[come-see-our-show]

pls tell me in the tags what you chose bc i’m quite curious

[starboundsingularities]

I NEED TO BE OBNOXIOUS ABOUT HOW MUCH I LOVED THAT ACE ATTORNEY LAWBLR SIM YOU MADE BECAUSE OH MY GOD IT MADE ME LOSE MY SHIT. I definitely can tell you put genuine effort into making that silly little thang and I wish that it would have 10,000 notes like right this minute. Hellsite hall of fame if you’re reading this please reblog this person’s ace attorney lawblr sim because it deserves an award

i think this is one of the nicest asks i've ever gotten thank you so so much (I'M RAMBLING IN THE TAGS SO MUCH BTW. if you want insight into the thought process or anything)

[amalagam]

every time i see someone go off on “um ackshually ovid isn’t the real mythology he’s not even greek and he made gods into symbols of authorities that he hated so it’s invalid. and also he hated women” i feel just so deeply tired in my bones and have to rant about the same things again.

like first of all. fellas. that is Not how reception of mythology and reinterpretation through different authorial lenses works. there’s no One True Version Of The Story quite nearly Ever in orally transmitted lore and most of the time ancient religion/mythology didn’t have a set canon as we think of it today. and also metamorphoses is nearly as old as the greek versions of the myths And had a very real impact on how they were transmitted through culture up to today so you cannot just dismiss it out of hand.

second of all if he Did use stories about gods being terrible as a way to criticize irl authority i think that’s based actually. down with the gods of empire are they not just the biggest imperials of all etc etc etc.

finally despite not being a classicist i’ve read enough classicists’ wildly different takes on gender in ovid to know that it was Definitely more complicated than “he hated women.” like i’m not gonna defend this man i don’t know that much about him and i am not a classicist and also he was an ancient roman so he probably did hate women to some extent. but i do know about the reinterpretation of the same transmitted stories and i like to sit and listen to different people’s analyses of history and art.

so basically that’s why i have a very hard time swallowing this rhetoric. every story comes from everywhere and can exist in multiple forms especially if they’re that old and especially if multiple forms are that old and had equal impact. maybe instead of dismissing it you can analyze what the different versions Say and how each might be interesting to reinterpret in some way.

i’m just saying there’s a reason people seize onto wanting to retell the version of medusa who was a rape survivor and not the version of her who was just a monster without anything else. it’s because in the current day the former version resonates with people who see a reflection of many survivors’ trauma in her story of being abused and then blamed for her own abuse and failed by the powers that be. the authorities who she believed were supposed to protect her. it’s not hard to see why people’s imaginations are sparked by it and i think looking at that is more interesting than harping on about “yeah but the oldest version” and ignoring all of the reasons why people chose This version. and i bring this up because this whole post Was prompted by seeing someone be like Um But The Real Medusa WAS Just A Monster. like ok but that’s not the version the retellers you’re talking about chose to retell

(ofc i’m not saying that classical myth retellings aren’t ass a lot of the time though LMAO there Is a big problem where a lot of the ones that claim to be Feminist are somehow less feminist than the ancient versions and also definitely overdone and boring as hell. but that’s not what this post is about)

[luckycaricature]

Just finished the fallout show. That ending was bullshit :/

[randomwriteronline]

What did Kopaka remember?

Quiet in the mountains. Chaos. Endless seas. Clanging of metal. Chills of adrenaline in battle.

Warmth in his chest.

The last one was puzzling.

The first three he could see; the second two he could imagine from a glorious past as a proud Toa, a warrior, a hero - the clear shape of it forgotten, but its meaning still there.

The last one, though.

The last one was puzzling.

He was a Toa of Ice. A being forged in endless blizzards, as unrelenting as the avalanche, the snowstorm, the glaciers - as impenetrable as the permafrost that freezes the roots on their path.

He was not supposed to feel warm in his chest.

He was not supposed to be clumsy or get lost easily, either.

Who had ever heard of that? A hero who could not find his path? Did that mean he would not have recognized his own destiny if the elder had not assigned a Protector to guide him? That he would have wandered aimlessly, confused, if not rescued and merely left to his own devices? That he could have been swayed by the minions of Makuta and turned into a foe of his own siblings with ease? That it could have taken as little as a step in the wrong direction to turn him to evil?

He tried not to dwell on that.

He tried desperately not to dwell on that.

He turned his thoughts to Pohatu.

It always helped, to turn his thoughts to Pohatu.

Pohatu was... Well.

Pohatu was perfect.

He was powerful, stalwart, dutiful. He did not speak unless needed, sometimes not even then. He remained serious, stoic, focused in the face of danger. Nothing could have made him crumble, nothing could have made him doubt or flinch. He was smart, and steady, and strong: he was above them all.

He was a proper hero.

The only one out of all the Toa who Kopaka could truly look up to, aspire to be like.

Tahu was too loud, obnoxious, bossy, Gali too neurotic and self-certain; Onua was kind, but slow to wits and hardly capable of dosing his power; Lewa refused to listen to anyone but himself.

And Kopaka, though try as he might to seem so, was far from perfect.

Pohatu was perfect.

He envied him. He adored him.

So what if he was aloof, what if he seemed to hate them? What if a Scorpio or two got him once? What if he got nervous in the dark, and needed a shoulder to lean on to steady his breathing again? Happens to the best of us.

Of course Kopaka would protect him.

Of course he would jump to his defense.

It was an honor.

A way to show him.

See? I am like you. I am a true warrior like you. I am a proper ally to you. I am worth your time.

What self-centered things to think.

But he could not help it.

Pohatu was perfect.

He truly was.

Kopaka watched him as he slept, warmed by a fire Tahu had set up, instead of focusing on the surroundings of the camp. He watched him safe from judgement, as all the others too were asleep - he could hear their breaths and snores, could tell them apart from those alone. He watched him: he slept sitting up, curled in on himself, hands clamped around his arms, knees pulled to his chest, head dangerously leaning forward always about to fall. The glow barely escaping the sliver between his eyelids was dim. Something in the way they were shut gave the impression he was frowning fiercely beneath his mask.

He looked so strangely small.

He never looked happy.

Why did that hurt?

That was just how he was. Never happy. Never overtly, maybe never at all. Always more concerned with something else.

Why did that hurt?

It was a phantom pain, behind his nape.

He could not place it, could not figure it out.

It must have been something, one of the many things he could not remember, not fully, not completely. Something shapeless, but still there.

What did Kopaka remember?

Quiet in the mountains. Chaos. Endless seas. Clanging of metal. Chills of adrenaline in battle.

Warmth in his chest.

Dark.

Mlexqr?

Mlexqr!

Mlexqr!

Pohatu was looking at him.

It scared him briefly.

His hand had somehow gone, all on its own, to find and hold the Toa of Stone's.

He hadn't even noticed he'd moved closer to him.

He hadn't even noticed he'd woken him up.

He hadn't even noticed he'd held his hand.

Pohatu was looking at him.

Kopaka looked back, silently, stupidly, because he could not have explained himself if he had wanted - and he wanted, stars above knew he wanted.

This was no heroic behaviour. This was no behaviour at all, period.

What would the other think of someone like that? Someone who moves closer to a sleeping person and holds their hand like that, for no reason, waking them up out of nowhere and not offering a single explanation for the trouble?

He was annoyed, certainly. He had to be. He had to hate him by now, for such an incomprehensible inane action.

What was he doing?

What was he doing?

He couldn't even answer himself.

He kept holding his hand.

He should have stopped.

He kept holding his hand.

Pohatu was looking at him.

He did not let go of Kopaka's hand.

The shape of his eyes seemed less furrowed. Slightly, only slightly. But it really did seem a little less furrowed.

Tenderly, comfortingly, uselessly, Kopaka caressed the other's knuckles with his thumb.

Pohatu let him.

They remained like that for a while.

A long while.

Kopaka watched intently as the other Toa's face, what little he could see of it, mellowed out until it was calm. He watched as his breathing turned deeper, more tranquil. As his body unclenched.

It reminded him of that moment as they walked underground, looking for a way back to the surface, before they'd emerged from the empty tomb into the city's cemetery - when Pohatu had suddenly leaned on him, silently, and had seemed to be soothed immensely by his mere presence.

Maybe Lewa had been right. Maybe he was afraid of the dark.

No wonder he had looked so terribly unhappy as he slept. There was nary a light in the sky. Even stars would have barely done anything to help.

He had nothing to worry about now, Kopaka's hand said with a gentle dead seriousness through the gentle chill that it emitted as he kept caressing Pohatu's knuckles with his thumb. He was there with him. He was not letting go of him.

The phantom pain behind his nape cried.

They did not say anything.

But Pohatu's dim eyes took a strange shape, a softer shape. A shape Kopaka recognized.

Beneath his mask, he was smiling.

Smiling.

Warmth in his chest.

So sweet and sudden that it burnt and singed and scarred him beneath his armor, potent enough to make his heart stutter and shake with a violence he wasn't sure anything else could replicate.

Kopaka tightened his hold a tad more.

Pohatu smiled.

Just a little, but he smiled.

Warmth in his chest.

The phantom pain behind his nape wailed.

Pohatu's head laid on his knees, maybe not too comfortable, but no longer at risk of slamming onto them. His hand was slack in Kopaka's, though it held on: it felt like a stone left under the sun, radiating pleasant heat upon a chilly palm.

He had fallen asleep again.

Kopaka continued caressing his knuckles for a moment more, just to make sure he wouldn't wake up immediately.

He looked into the fire, into the night. He should have let go, at some point: certainly the Toa of Stone wouldn't have enjoyed being made fun of by Lewa for needing his hand held throughout the night. Certainly he would have glared at him viciously, yanking himself away from his fingers with a hissed warning of never doing that ever again.

Or maybe he would have said nothing, and only hated him in silence.

Or maybe he would have said nothing, and held onto him still.

He thought back to the shape of his eyes when smiling.

Such a familiar shape.

A familiar look.

A warm look.

Warmth in his chest.

When Gali took over guard duty and allowed him to rest, Kopaka forgot to let go.

[kurokoros]

i hope hollywood collapses under the weight of its own hubris

[kirythestitchwitch]

Unnamed 'No Roses On Your Bones' Sequel - opening pitch

Caroline’s phone pinged loudly as she was leaving work around 1 AM, tired and sore from ensuring the reception dinner for a local politician’s son’s wedding went smoothly. It could have been more of a nightmare than it had been–the parents of the groom were, true to type, a giant disaster waiting for a place to happen–but the actual couple had been lovely and clearly smiling for pictures while waiting for it to be time to bolt for the Bahamas for two weeks. At least Caroline could help the pair out by finding social situations for the parents to solve periodically, thereby pulling them away for a few minutes. It was a juggling act, but Caroline was very good at her job.

Sticky and hot in the muggy July air, the air was practically dead in the underground employee parking lot of The Drake Hotel. Fishing her phone out of her purse, she waved a hand at the security guard in her booth when she passed by. As she walked to her car parked not that far away, she thumbed through her notifications, keeping an eye out around her just in case. Kol had put out a new video, better save that for tomorrow morning. Bekah’s Story said she was at a party at Tao Chicago nightclub, which might be true, but when Caroline had asked her if she wanted to stop by for dinner on her break, she’d said she had to work tonight.

The newest notification was a text from Klaus. Before she could read it, she stuffed her phone into her bra as she unlocked her car and opened the door, tossed her purse in on the passenger seat, and got in. Palming the door locks as she started the car, she sat for a second while the Bluetooth linked up and her music playlist started up over the speakers. Then she pulled out her phone and opened his message. When she read it, she immediately huffed, typing out her own message.

Caroline paused a moment before pointing out that you basically have to commit murder or sign over your firstborn for those tickets this late into the season. Right, she was talking to Klaus. 

Squinting at the screen, Caroline tapped her finger against the side of her phone, thinking. This man held too many cards. Dropping her phone in her cupholder, Caroline tapped the car's touch screen of her contacts until Klaus' name came up. When the sound system started ringing, she pulled out of the parking spot.

"Hello, love," As was often the case when Klaus picked up, his voice sounded like this was the best part of his day.

"I have some conditions," Caroline said as she weaved through the underground parking lot.

She could hear him grinning. "Of course you do." There was a pause. "You're not driving, are you?"

Huffing, she pulled up to the exit and waited while the security bar lifted to let her car out to the street. "Excuse you, glass houses? Those who text and drive do not get to throw stones."

His voice filled with disgruntled pique. "If my insurance agent can't prove I did it, I don't think you should be able to hold it against me."

"Harassment-free technicalities don't include insurance fraud, Klaus." Her way was clear and she pulled out into the street. At this time of night, the streets were free of anything resembling traffic, and it wouldn’t take too long to get back to her apartment. Normally she took the L during the day since there was a stop near her apartment, but the last two times she’d taken the elevated train that ran through most of Chicago at night, she’d been not-so-discretely followed by one of the guys she had one-hundred-percent seen playing bouncer at one of the doors of a Mikaelson underground casino. Which sibling was being an over-protective weirdo might have been a guessing game, if she wasn’t fully aware that exactly one of them had a mysteriously accurate bead on her schedule. 

“Perhaps they should? If you’d only spoken to my secretary after your last accident–”

“Zzzt!” Caroline shushed him with one hand, despite him being unable to see it. “That was a tiny little fender bender, hardly worth Dana’s time. I’m saving my descent into villainy for something really worth it.”

“Like baseball tickets.” The smug tone was back in his voice again.

Caroline tapped her fingers against the steering wheel at a red light. “I am not descending, I’m merely… slouching.” When his soft laugh rumbled across the line, she may have preened slightly. Whatever, he'd never know. "Anyways. My conditions."