#could nightmare be color blind? or color specific? after corrupting?

[cassiecasyl]

bittersweet surrender (everything is better now)

My first contribution for @whumpay2021!! 

fandom: mcu  relationship: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes  warnings: self-harm, nightmares/flashbacks  add. tags: Bucky Barnes has PTSD, Alternate Universe - Angels, Angel Sam Wilson, Angel Bucky Barnes, Recovering Bucky Barnes, Alpine and Redwing as their pets 

prompts: Day 9 - gentle/brutal + Day 10 - screaming/silence 

note: this fic is based on a headcanon i have about angel wings which i’ve previously written about in this series. I have pasted some paragraphs at the start for better understanding, but I still highly encourage you to check out the original series! 

Read on Ao3. 

“What are those lights?” Dean eventually asked, wonder and admiration on his face, an expression he hadn’t worn since his childhood was stolen.

“The plumage of an angel possesses a glow specific to the angel,” Castiel explained. “Sometimes, when the angel is around someone they especially trust and care for, this glow manifests in those particles. Nobody really knows what they actually are.”

“They look like fireflies,” Dean stated, but his eyes spoke of a question he was too afraid to ask. Castiel chuckled and agreed before he whispered a little word in Enochian, increasing the expression on Dean’s face. “What was that?”

The angel repeated the word, louder this time. “That’s what they’re called,” he clarified. “It means sparks of emotion, which is contradictory since angels aren’t supposed to feel. With the absence of a soul comes the inability to feel, but somehow, emotions found a way into our beings. These fireflies, as you call them, especially respond to strong emotions, but somehow they don’t resonate with hate, which is one of the strongest emotions. Usually, they show when an angel is around someone they,” Castiel made a quick pause, almost unnoticeable to those who didn't know him, “... love. Those little traitors.”

- After the Flight (The Meaning of Home) by @cassiecasyl

~~~

The poison entered him from the veins in his left arm. It’s still bleeding from the impact, and Bucky thought he saw flashes of bone the few times he’s able to blink his eyes open. He groaned in pain, instictly flinching away from their hands, but his body lay still, obedient. It burned through his system, alighting his insides, flames infecting his body and soul. 

Humans always thought of hell as a pit of fire you’re thrown into, or the stake they’d burned witches on. Bucky knew better. Hellfire devoured him from inside. The souls of future victims screamed a haunting melody as they burned. 

He remembers being a comet. His wings caught fire in the wind, the Earth rapidly approached to greet him in a lethal hug.  Feathers danced back towards the heavens, hopelessly holding out for a home lost. 

The inferno inside reached them now, igniting them anew, as if they weren’t injured enough already. It blazed through his grace, touching the very essence of his being, triggering what should never be forced. Tiny blue orbs sprang from his plumage, fighting their artificial light, reflecting in the tears streaming down his face. No. They couldn’t. 

A nasty smile echoes in his mind, darting around forever. His heart sinks as his love sings, but he doesn’t feel it. They jab into his arm, cutting something off. He is a machine, easily reconfigured. No. They fill him with foreign hate, and it burns what’s left of him. Blue turns inside out, ablazes in orange before glaring at him in red. Bucky screams. 

He screams, but there’s no sound, so he tries again, and again, and again, to no avail. His body is no longer his own. They control the very air he breathes, control the function of his lungs. He could die, here and now, and his body would be none the wiser. 

Blood fills his mind, darker than his corrupted sparks. It is splattered all over the place, all over his face and on his hands. He is shaking inside his stoic cage. A tainted feather falls onto the ground, further painting itself with blood. It is surpringly light, considering the state of his wings. They are darkened with ash and charcoal these days, and covered in the grey mud only snow produces. 

Winter. That’s what they call him. 

He comes when it’s most inconvenient, and leaves only coldness in his wake. Wherever he goes, suffering follows, and even the trees shake with fear. None of them hear him scream. 

He tries and tries, screaming until he swears he can feel blood in his throat, and then some more. Louder. Nobody even flinched. Louder. Why didn’t his mouth move, why were his tears only an extension of hellfire? His eyes burn, but winter freezes him before a tear ever leaves his eyes. They are as trapped as he is. Bucky screams, because that’s all he could do anymore. He screams over the roaring flames and the souls haunting him. He screams, but it never passes the barrier of his skin. 

Bucky screams. 

He screams until another voice joins him. “Bucky!” It was familiar panic, or worry. Hands collide with his freezing skin, and it’s burning again, oh god, they’re burning him again. He doesn’t even remember what he did to deserve this. Bucky kicks and flails, blind because they control his eyes, but his body is his. 

A scream thralls through his ears and he stops and opens his eyes, every nerve on high alert. The dark room seems familiar, but Bucky can’t quite place it. There are shadows playing with him, and the moon, ever the creep, smiles into the window. A night light burns on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. 

Brown, worried eyes catch his. Bucky stills, breathing heavily. Sam. His wings are angled slightly in alarm, showing their light brown freckled underside. He relaxes as Bucky stares, the hellfire and ice slowly replaced with softer warmth. 

Hazel fireflies surround Sam’s wings, standing out more now that he had closed them. On the upside, his wings are colorful; his primary feathers are black and white, covered by grey secondaries. In the middle, they meet his back in a golden brown, blending into his sepia skin. He is beautiful, hoping eyes a promise of home, sparks untainted by hate. 

Bucky reaches out, daring to search for contact, for comfort, slowly enough to ask for consent. Silver light reflects on his metal arm, and he is back there, with them in his veins, no, cables, controlling, controlling, controlling. Bucky recoils, scared of what his hands will do when they meet Sam. He can’t hurt him. 

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t—he already did. Red splotches obstruct his vision, much like the blood he shed when they first met. When the hate still fueled him, rage dancing in his bones, hellfire in his veins, so hot it’s freezing him. When his sparks were still tainted red, a supernatural beast scaring its next victim just for fun. Nowadays, they usually don't show at all. He’d lost them to the winter. 

Though, he means to see their glowing eyes in the corner of his own. He shudders, unsure whether his body follows the motion. No. Bucky shakes his head as he fights against the ice in his lungs. He can’t hurt Sam. Not again. Blood fills his vision, or maybe the moon hides behind clouds, too scared of the monster he is. Too scared to witness a murder between lovers, because one can’t trust his mind. His mind that screams for blood. 

Blood, blood, bloodbloodbloodblood— 

Pain stabs through him and he stills. Bucky blinks, looking into worried eyes that break his heart. He’s so sorry. The air he sucks in is a weird mix of warm and cold, of dry heater and cold night. He stares again, and thinks that maybe a tear escapes his eyes. He’s still an angel, not a machine. Machines don’t cry. 

His hand must’ve found his wings, because that’s where the pain pulses from, sharp and attentive. There’s blood on his hands, but it’s his own, so it’s okay. His fingers graze another feather, thumbling on it and pulling slightly. It was the only thing he could do. Tears run down his face, weirdly warm - everything he is, is frozen, so why aren’t they? - and dropping to his chest and he knows he can’t stop them. 

His shaking fingers lose grip on his soft plumes tainted with blood, and he desperately tries to get it back, to get it under control again, to just feel what he deserves— A hand stops him, burning him with the contact. It’s not letting go, even as Bucky struggles against it, but carefully leads his hands forward, away from his wings. Bucky looks up at Sam, blinking through the tears and an apology on his tongue. 

Sam wraps his arms around him and Bucky falls into him as he melts. “It’s alright, you’re gonna be alright,” he assures him, and Bucky latches onto it as he rides through another wave of tears. Sam’s warmth is so drastically different from the one he dreamed about— comforting, soothing, calm, safe. He nudges his head into the crook of Sam’s neck, breathing in his home and the sweet nothings Sam hadn’t stopped saying. 

“Hey, remember when we were racing in the sky?” Sam asks as Bucky’s breathing steadies. He continues after a moment as it becomes clear that Bucky won’t answer—but the fallen angel doesn’t feel judgement coming from his lover. “And the sun kept hiding behind clouds, so you decided to be Icarus?” 

Bucky chuckles. “And you almost flew into a bird,” he recalls. 

“Almost,” Sam repeats, chidingly, but not without a smile in his voice. Bucky glances up at that. Before, he had been staring into nothing, too afraid to look the other angel in the eye, but now, all he could see was the homely beauty. The moon’s cold light clashed with Sam’s warm skin tone, darkening it like a sunset. 

“Anyway, you flew past the clouds and you would’ve flown into the sun, if I hadn’t caught up to you in time.” Bucky grins up at him. He remembers that day. It was one of the the first time flying since he’d escaped, and the first time he’d made it that far up. By the time he was past the clouds he was positively basking in the sun’s glory and in happiness. And then Sam came, almost golden in the sun, and his luck had been complete. 

“If you’re trying to use this story as a moral, it’s kinda working,” Bucky teases, reveling in Sam’s snort. Right when he wants to cuddle closer, they’re interrupted by an ear-shattering screech that’s trying to impale Bucky’s sensitive ears. Sam just sighs as the noise is followed by a cat hissing. 

He rubs over Bucky’s right arm before he quietly stands up, and Bucky whines at the loss of contact, at the warmth leaving him. It’s cold without Sam, but he keeps the thoughts of winter at bay by ignoring the moon in favor of watching Sam open the door. He quickly ducks as Redwing shoots through the opening, and almost stumbles on Alpine in pursuit. The cat has his eyes keenly set on the bird, who is now circling the ceiling in panic, calling out again. Bucky chuckles. 

He welcomes the cat as he jumps onto the bed and lies down next to his angel. Bucky’s hand automatically finds its way to the soft and fluffy body, petting him until purrs erupt. He laughs at Sam’s exasperated face as he tries to get his bird to land or just calm down in general. 

“You really gotta teach your cat some manners, old man,” Sam tells him and he laughs. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky grins innocently. Sam rolls his eyes in response, but the smile playing on his lips isn’t missed to Bucky. Redwing finally lands on Sam’s shoulder and the angel gently offers his hand to him. The bird nuzzles it, chasing the darkness it brings. 

Bucky watches them. He’s staring again, he knows that he does it a lot - Sam keeps pointing it out - but he can’t help he lopsided grin his mouth morphs into at the sight of his family. Alpine had fallen asleep, his fur tickling Bucky’s belly. Right here, at this moment, he is happy. It is weird how fast his weird little family cheered him up. 

Sam looks back at him, his dumbass bird on his shoulder, his eyes undecided between annoyance and love. He thinks his heart might burst with all the love it’s not used to holding. There’s a new light there, suddenly, blue and frazzling. Bucky blinks, trying to chase it from the edge of his vision. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him. 

But then Sam’s whole face lights up. He moves forward slowly, as to not scare Redwing again, and sits down on the bed. Bucky quickly glances back to the side, and then does a double-take. There, caressing his damaged wings, are a few little blue orbs. He cries out in surprise, covering his mouth, tears returning to his eyes. This isn’t real, he tells himself. It couldn’t be. They’d turned them red, replacing all he had with their hate, but now his body is brimming with love instead of hell. 

Bucky looks back at Sam, and sees understanding love reflected back at him. He reaches out, closing the distance between them until their lips meet in a kiss. The warmth is overwhelming, but Bucky doesn’t want it to end. He got his sparks back, he was no longer corrupted, broken. He was happy, sappy enough to cry joyous tears as he kisses the man who made all of this possible, who was the reason for all that was good in his life. 

“Thank you,” he whispers in-between kisses, his heart jumping with every beat, dancing in love. Blinking blue mixes with soft hazel, creating a stylised night sky, completed by the colors of their wings. Bucky puts all the overflowing love into the kiss, his hands flailing to get Sam closer, and Sam returns the favor. 

But then, Bucky moves the leg against which Alpine is resting. The cat wakes up instantly and voices his complaint in a confused meow. He breaks the kiss, softly chuckling into shared air before leaning back to take care of his fluffy child, leaving Sam to do the same with his feathery kind. 

~~~

taglist: (lemme know if you wanna be added or removed!)  @starrynightdeancas @spookyscarykittycat @sherlock-who-mentalist @lost-lunar-wolf @aniridescentdreamer @aixabi

#sambucky #self-harm tw #nightmares #angst with happy ending #hurt/comfort #fluff #angel au #Whumpay2021 #my fic #tfatws

[fbdo1986]

Everything I've Ever Let Go of Has Claw Marks on It - A Succession Fic

a/n: Admittedly, this isn’t the usual thing I write about! But Succession has thoroughly corrupted my brain and now I care hopelessly about these siblings, so I just have to express my feelings about them. I have to give credit where credit is due, though! I was inspired by @successionsideblog’s post talking about headcanons about Kendall and Connor’s relationship growing up, specifically about Kendall as a little kid and how he would react to Connor leaving for school after they established a really strong bond, so I decided to write something exploring that! (Also, the title is a quote from David Foster Wallace). 

Warnings: Implications of parental neglect and nightmares

Word Count: 2,178

The morning after Connor’s going away dinner—he laughs to himself, somewhere, because he and celebration aren’t usually linked—he wakes with a strange culmination of feelings twisting inside himself. It’s early. Of course, there’d be no savoring his last morning at home, no gradual waking with comfort underneath the softness of blankets. Instead: lengthy, conflicting feelings left to settle in a still room. The house is completely silent, and he’s left to sit quietly. It’s a bit uncomfortable, so he turns to open a window and is met with the calming whispers of a morning still yet to unfold. Of one indicative of the rest of his life, or rather, a dive headfirst into uncertainty; a moment waiting to determine how he could turn out, without the stern, watchful eyes of his father. He wants it to be good. He doesn’t want to admit that this freedom is unlike any type he’s ever felt; he doesn’t want to recognize that he’s afraid, afraid that when he returns, he might not suit the only image he’s ever had for himself, in the second shadowy place beside a man who stands like a mountain range. 

Not far away is the bed of his younger brother, Kendall, who he hasn’t stirred from his sleep. Of all the conflicted feelings, the ones involving his brother burn fiercest in his mind. There’s the push and pull—the escape, finally, the taste of freedom wrestling with the knowledge that Kendall will inevitably be inflicted with the things he faced while he was an only child, and no one deserves to feel that alone. Sure, there’s Shiv, their sister, but she’s just a baby. Kendall will become the eldest son, the darling boy, bearing the strain. 

He tiptoes out of their bedroom, wanting to make a silent goodbye before things burst with life when everyone wakes, when the place will bustle and he’ll get caught in the whirlwind of preparation. The floor is cold underneath him everywhere. In his own room, in the hallway where Shiv’s room sits a few doors down, in hers too. Maybe he’ll remember the cold, even when he’s gone. Something tells him that he will. It’s oddly characteristic of home. 

His little sister’s room is in much the same formation as his own, a wide space with large windows, but with splashes of color—yellow and pink—that are absent on his white walls. He meanders towards her crib. She’s also still sleeping, but he wants to bid her goodbye all the same. He doesn’t see it yet, the physical resemblance to any of the members of the family. Except maybe the blue eyes, the ones Logan gave him too. And he’s not sure if he’s thankful for that—she being so starkly different from all of them. But in time, he’ll find little pieces that tie them together. The same shoulders that stiffen when she’s annoyed are the ones found on Roman, the unintentional copycat. Her downcast gaze when she’s hurt and finds it difficult to speak is just like Ken’s. 

“See you, Pinky.” He smiles as his heart softens. It aches momentarily, since he knows how much he will miss her as she grows, but he’s reminded that she will have Kendall, and if Connor’s taught him anything, it’s the value of protection.

The morning is mundane, all things considered. Mainly because the culmination of sending him off to college peaked the night prior, with all preparations made wordlessly, never by his own family. There are things to be finished, but that’s mainly stowing away what he has packed and getting a car. It’s the normal amount of silence, but knowing that this is how he has to leave it—with everything, including himself, glazed over with a mere fleeting look, shrouded in sealed silence as it’s checked over one last time—sits uncomfortably within him. So he retreats back to his younger brother, and he ensures that he won’t make it an early goodbye. They can pretend, for a little while, that there’s no time ticking until he goes away.

Ken is back in their room, fiddling languidly with a stuffed animal in his arms. It’s a teddy bear that usually sits on top of his bed. He must have grabbed it for comfort. Just another thing to not let dig into him. It’s already hard enough. So when he realizes that his side of the room is so much more sparse than Kendall’s, he pretends not to notice it. For both of their sakes.

“Hey buddy. You look so bored here. Do you wanna do something with me? We could go outside, throw a baseball around. Or I could try to teach you how to play chess again.” He flashes a smile with fondness at his little brother.

“It’s gonna take too long.” Kendall says, his gaze still fixated on the toy in his hands.

They’ve still got a few hours before the afternoon sets in. They’ll make time.

“We’ve got time. Don’t worry about it.”

Kendall’s eyes trace the table in the middle of the room, which holds a chessboard and all the strewn pieces as remnants of their last attempt.

“I almost fell asleep last time.” He hides a smile as he remembers it.

“No, you definitely did.” Connor chuckles, recalling the piece that got tucked under Kendall’s cheek as he slumped forward in his dozing. The knight left an imprint in his skin that he tried to wipe away, but by morning—spent in his bed, not half on a chessboard—it was nearly gone. “But it was nighttime then. Promise you won’t? I’ll promise it’ll be fun, okay?”

“Okay.”

So they start fresh, putting the pieces back where they belong. They line up their respective kingdoms. Once he’s finished with the rules, Connor continues to explain as they attempt to play a game. Yet that takes much more effort than expected, since Connor will occasionally prod Kendall with silly questions, just to take his mind off of things.

“Do you think Shiv is gonna like chess?” Connor asks suddenly.

“I don’t know.” Kendall shrugs it off, he’s mid-move.

“Because I think she’ll hate it. Either that, or she’ll beat the both of us with her eyes closed.”

It makes Kendall laugh to himself.

“What’s so funny?” Already, a grin spreads on the eldest son’s face.

Kendall looks back up at him. “Shiv’s just a baby. I can only think of her now. I’m just thinking of a baby playing chess.”

“You think you could beat a baby?” Connor leans forward, challenging him.

“It’s not my fault you’re not a good teacher.” Kendall jokes. 

- 

When Connor emerges from the house to leave, finally, the sky is a very distinct blue. Airy clouds hang in the sky along with effortless sunshine that reminds him of summers before this. Ones with boats out on a lake, with white curtains swept up in a passing breeze, with the haze of heat in the air and light so blinding that it made him squint, the tennis courts that burned when you hit them if you fell after a missed swing. 

As he looks back up at this house, around the entirety of this place that sprawls before them he can’t decide if he’ll miss it.

He’s broken in his contemplation by the sound that fills the silence. The same sound that acts as an alarm, that jumpstarts his instincts the way nothing else can. He turns sharply and looks down to find his younger brother approaching him.

“Please, please. Don’t go.” Kendall’s brown eyes peer into his heart. At once, as Connor moves his shoulders—maybe, maybe to turn away—he feels the sudden pressure of small but desperate hands grabbing at his leg, grasping for fabric, shoelaces, anything.

Connor’s heart sinks heavily into his stomach as Kendall latches onto him, and he forces himself to look away. Instantly he’s seeing the child he used to be, and the truly small boy that Kendall is. His face is red and blotchy, and his eyes pool with tears that don’t hesitate to run down his cheeks. It hurts. He’s terrified, stricken with grief. Connor’s whole body wrenches with guilt.

“Get up, Ken.” Logan barks. “You’re a grown boy.” But Logan doesn’t pull Kendall up to his feet, so Connor breathes a fleeting sigh of relief.

“Connie…” He pleads. “You can’t go! You can’t!” He feels how Kendall’s hands ache to hold on. It should baffle him, since Kendall’s rarely the type to fight anything kicking and screaming, but he understands.

So Connor stays put. He takes a seat on the steps where they stand and places his hands on his brother’s shoulders gently. “You have to be brave, okay Kenny?”

“I don’t want to be.” He huffs, shaking his head.

“You’ve got to, alright? I believe in you.” He steadies his gaze, looking him in the eyes. “I believe in you. You can. Can you do that for me?”

Kendall nods, shuddering in a breath.

“Good. Cause you’re the big brother now. You have to look after little Shiv, just like I looked after you.” His blue eyes spark with fondness and pride. “Come here.” He pulls Kendall into a hug, wrapping his arms around him tight.

“I’m gonna miss you.” Kendall’s voice is small, so he just pulls him closer. As Kendall tucks himself into Connor’s shoulder, he’s reminded of the nights when Ken would wake up, thrashing and sobbing, and how he offered the same shoulder to cry into, to gain stability from.

“I know, I know. I’m gonna miss you, too. But I’ll come home on holidays, I promise. And you can call and write to me. I’m always gonna be around, in some way. Okay? I’ve always got you. Always.” With one final squeeze he holds Kendall in his arms, then getting up apprehensively to face his father.

“I’ll see you, son.” His father’s eyes shine coldly. Not with pride for his own son, he doesn’t think, but with complacency. The gesture’s sincere, but even as his hands clasp Connor’s face—which is infinitely small in this moment—it’s nearly absent of fondness. It’s barely warm. All the same, he softens, because something is better than nothing. He nods solidly, acknowledging the weight of these hands that ache to be filled, and wonders if he can even come close to fitting that space. 

He turns to Kendall again, giving him a smile. “Remember what we talked about, okay bud? I love you. And remember to tell Shivy you love her too, alright? I’ll miss you.” He sees the whole picture now, his father standing stoically with Kendall at his side. Nobody brought Shiv out to say goodbye—despite his morning ritual he wishes someone did. His family, so achingly small, so disjointed, without his mother. Even as his family will expand upon later returns, they will continue on the path of inheriting the strain, the burden that being a Roy child requires. Even Shiv, when grown, will battle the same leaden shoulders, the same shaky, tormented breath so signature of pretending, and a toughness that only seems to soften in his embrace.

He’s reminded of how young he and Kendall are. Even with ten years between them, and for drastically different reasons. But regardless, they’re still kids thrust into the world with no gentle caress to soothe them. He shouldn’t have to do the job his father can’t. Kendall shouldn’t have to be tormented even in dreams, and shouldn’t have to face the world’s truths at eight years old. But Connor shoves it back, because right now he can’t be plagued with this knowing that he has no choice but to let these cards play out. There’s nothing he can do to stop it: time from moving on, Kendall being subjected to his place, all of it. Instead he has to step away, even as his eyes become glossy with tears. It’s not home, not really, but a sudden force inside of him that stirs once he turns away—into the vastness beyond this place, the world with open arms—tells him that the echoing house, with walls so blinding white, that it’s all he’s ever known. He wishes he had a slice of bravery. Because he wants to be a little kid, he wants to be protected from the unknown, even if it might mean a sense of freedom. If nothing else, he wants to stop it. Just to wrap his arms around all the things that deserve to never find out what the world has in store—claws and all, the things that make you grow up too fast—even though he can’t. Even though the moment’s passed. He can’t even help it. But he’ll swear, swear with every tear that runs down his face—that’s now concealed as he has his back to them—that he’ll try to stretch his arms wide enough to make someone, anyone, proud. Or that he’ll make himself fierce enough that nothing can sink its teeth into what he’s spent his whole life trying to guard. He’s gonna make it good, or lose it all trying. 

#i changed around the order of the siblings for me personally bc i see roman as the youngest but! it gave me a good grasp on how to think of #the dynamics/ages between them and it really helped! #BASICALLY THIS FIC IS LIKE SO YOU CAN TELL IM A CLOWN AND HAVE MY IDEALIZED VERSION OF CONNOR IN MY HEAD RENT FREE #oh for context ken is 8 here and connor is 18 #although at least as the last parts concerned i genuinely think it lines up w canon that connor would be torn between trying to be enough #for logan or just doing something that would make his siblings proud #and i think that its clear which path he chooses #anyway! please do not clown on me i really put a lot into this #succession #my writing

[spiders-hth-is-an-outlier]

Hot Take: Daphne is Castiel

(Sorry if everyone but me has already thought of this.  It made me feel clever; don’t take this from me.)

So I was thinking about that Daphne Loves Fred carved on the bar in Dean’s “fantasy,” and then I was thinking about Daphne in general and who she is to Dean, which actually has some layers to it.

So, Scoobynatural was obviously entirely about childhood innocence, and Daphne is exactly the right Perfect Girl for a pre-sexual, child version of Dean.  She’s pretty and feminine, spunky and game for adventure, loyal and a caretaker -- honestly, she’s one pale pink nightgown short of a full-blown Oedipal issue (not in her similarity to Actual Mary, of course, but to the Mother Mary fantasy that Dean, who grieved his mother and the innocent pre-monster life she represented nonstop throughout his childhood).  Dean’s life was, like an episode of Scooby-Doo, lived on the road, out of a moving vehicle, on an aimless ramble from event to event with a reset button at the end of every “episode” -- but Scooby-Doo remained a fantasy and not a nightmare for him because it showed The Hunting Life not as the grim, marginal existence that Dean actually lived exclusively in the care of gruff man’s men like John and Bobby, but a playful version full of bright colors and giant sandwiches and the Sweetest, Prettiest Girl In the World.

Right, so but then -- puberty happened, and Dean discovered sex.  And the thing about Dean is that he ISN’T attracted to ingenues like Daphne.  Dean likes frisky women.  Dean likes ladies with experience.  Dean’s adult fantasies are exclusively about strippers and porn stars and One-Night Wonders and tramp-stamp rock’n’roll badasses like Pamela.  And he doesn’t have some kind of gross Madonna/Whore complex, either -- the time he found a woman that he could see in the wife-and-mother role, it was Lisa, whom he remembered with enormous enthusiasm from her younger days, when she used to pick up cute drifters in biker bars and bang them like screen doors for a couple of days then send them packing.  Yeah, Lisa had mellowed with age by the time she was Dean’s actual partner, but he picked someone he associated with assertive sexuality, not just domesticity.  Dean likes women who are going to meet his flirting and come back at him twice as hard, who want him, and who know what they want him for.

Season 13 rolls around, and he slips through what the fuck ever and ends up revisiting his childhood, and his childhood crush.  And in keeping with the theme of the episode, which is about the needs that nostalgia fulfills and the urge we have to protect the innocence of the child versions of ourselves (even knowing that the whole concept of “childhood innocence” is built on a series of illusions), he’s back in that child mindset right away: he wants DAPHNE, Daphne is PERFECT and BEAUTIFUL and everything he missed out on having in his life when he was young -- she’s both Devoted Girlfriend and Team Mommy Figure.  She’s terribly ill-suited to the person Dean actually grew up to be, but that’s not the point; she’s a child’s dream of feminine affection.

So who is Daphne, as “person” within the Scoobynatural universe (as distinct from the character Dean knew on the tv show)?  Well, just like he remembers, she’s brave and cheery and endlessly kind and foxy... but unlike whatever Dean’s half-formed boyhood fantasies were all about, she’s... completely unattainable.  (Oh, look who wants what he can’t have.  Hm.)  She’s completely unattainable for two reasons.

One is that she IS a devoted girlfriend -- Fred’s devoted girlfriend.  Sam calls him out immediately for trying to pick up someone else’s girl, and Daphne is impervious to Dean’s clumsy attempts to disparage Fred (”What a jerk!” “Not really.”)  When he asks what Daphne wants, she describes Fred -- strong, sincere, ascot.  (We’re gonna come back to the ascot.)  Daphne’s wants and needs are simple: she is a one-man woman, and she has her man.  There’s nothing there for Dean to work with.

The second is that... Daphne is a child’s fantasy, and appears to be, completely without calculation, as asexual as a child.  Now, the rules of the Cartoon Universe clearly don’t require that to be the case: Velma is also a cartoon character, and she’s wildly thirsty for Sam from minute one.  Sex, or at least sexual attraction, seems to exist in this reality... but Daphne is wholly unaware of it.  She hasn’t even rejected it; she just doesn’t think about it.  Boys and girls don’t sleep in the same room, silly.

Daphne loves Fred.  But Daphne doesn’t sleep with Fred; Daphne isn’t a sexual being at all.  Her love is loyal and true, but her love is for Fred’s virtues, not Fred’s body.

There’s a whole ‘nother long essay, of course, about Dean’s weird, all-over-the-map reaction to Fred.  Fred is the worst, Fred is a loser, the Perfect Woman is totally wasted on Fred... but of course, Fred also embodies some standard of heroism that Dean wants to be: he is strong, he is sincere, he’s the leader, the driver, the Good Soldier -- not just an obedient soldier, but a good one that people admire and care about.  His fear when he gets the Big Reveal about ghosts is that he hasn’t saved enough people; he’s that kind of guy. (Oh, hey, what does Daphne worry about? Just her eternal soul, whether she’s worthy of Heaven or damned to Hell. Isn’t that interesting.) Not for nothing does Dean end up wearing that goddamn ascot by the end of the episode; more than anything, what Dean aspires to be is someone who is strong and sincere and has done good and is worthy of the love and friendship that Fred takes for granted.

Daphne loves Fred.  Well, why shouldn’t she?  He’s a good man, faithful and strong, her companion and protector and teammate.  In spite of Dean kicking against the post, even he has to admit by the end, Daphne loves Fred because Fred deserves Daphne’s love.  They suit each other.  The exist in this fantasy world, perfectly matched and perfectly happy.  In separate bedrooms.

There’s a perpetual question, after this many years, about why exactly Dean is the only sentient being in the universe who seems convinced that he can’t be with Castiel.  He is not unaware of the fact that the obvious explanation for 3/4ths of everything Castiel has done in the past decade is “he’s absurdly, self-destructively in love with Dean.”  Like, Dean couldn’t be unaware of it, because people keep saying it.  A lot of fanfic has this kind of goofy, YA novel take on it, where Dean is obliviously self-deprecating, where he’s all like, oh, just some regular guy like me, how could he ever want me?  But that’s -- come on.  Dean’s not stupid, and he’s certainly not stupid about people.  The way he blithely factors Castiel into all of his future plans, the way he’s got that beach chair all picked out for their retirement, it’s clear that he know Castiel is here for the long haul, that he’s loyal to Dean for life.  Literally everyone knows that.

Daphne loves Fred.

But Dean can’t have Daphne.  Not in the real world.   Because Daphne isn’t from the real world.  She’s not a human being, although she’s close enough to make an engaging fantasy.

Daphne is entirely, unbreakably, unquestionably devoted to her strong, sincere, righteous man.  But boys and girls don’t sleep in the same room.  Silly.

I think it’s not Castiel’s love that Dean thinks he can’t have.  That’s often fandom’s take, because of some perception that Dean doesn’t think he deserves love or whatever.  And maybe Dean doesn’t think he deserves it, I don’t know, but he’s not an idiot, and it never really made sense to me that he could be that goddamn blind to the fact that he does have it.  Daphne loves Fred, and Dean maybe has some complex feelings about that -- about whether Fred is good enough, about whether Fred deserves Daphne -- but he knows it’s true.  He’s so sure it’s true that he keeps it carved deep in the grain, a sentimental reminder, the kind of thing childhood sweethearts do, a memento of first love in all its purity.

What Dean thinks he can’t have isn’t love.  It’s sex.  Because who he’s in love with is fundamentally incompatible with Dean specifically sexually -- and while I still think Dean’s internalized homophobia is a part of that, I think he’s at least mellowed enough to know that getting over his own shit is an option for him.  What’s not an option for him is Castiel ever becoming the kind of hot-blooded, sexually assertive, throw-you-down-and-fuck-your-brains-out kind of person that gets Dean’s dick hard.  Daphne may love Fred to death, but Fred is never, ever gonna get any ass from Daphne.

Fred seems to be fine with that.  He seems to love in that same pure, childlike way that Daphne does -- that Dean did when he actually was a child with his mother’s voice in his ears, telling him that angels were watching.  But present-day Dean, the man that Dean grew into, is not fine with it.

He wants what he can’t have.  He keeps that purity of love close to him, among the other signs and symbols of his identity that decorate his dumb squirrel bar, because he does value it, and he values Castiel.  But that distance exists between them, and I’m increasingly convinced it’s because of that fundamental incompatibility -- Dean is a guy who likes to get dirty (hell, even his demon-self just had orgies at honky-tonks with world-weary barmaids instead of properly debauching and corrupting the innocent like we see so many other demons preferring to do), and Castiel is (I think almost indisputably) some version of asexual.

Castiel loves Dean and the entire goddamn multiverse knows it, but he’s still something that Dean wants and can’t have.  Both of these concepts always seemed pretty intuitively obvious to me, but I don’t think I ever fully grokked how they connected to each other until the Daphne thing fell into place.

#this ran long #spn 13x16 #spn 14x10 #Destiel #asexual castiel #1700 words about Daphne Blake #you're welcome fandom

[bunchamunchafaunus]

Khromatos History

The Khromatos Family of Ventus.

The Khromatos name itself has been around for centuries, but originally was only the name of a Noble family, not one of Royal blood. The small community it helped lead traveling across lands in search of a land to settle. Eventually hearing of Atlas’s founding, and deciding to join the Kingdom in the snowy continent. 

Once deciding to settle on an island west of Atlas, a vote was passed for the Khromatos family to take the role of their Royal Family. Thus founding the small Kingdom of Ventus alongside Atlas. The first leader of Ventus being the current heir to the Khromatos family at the time.

Giulia Khromatos.

Giulia Khromatos, First Queen of Ventus and the first Khromatos to have grown the extremely rare Quilin trait of the “Qilin Tendrils”. Giulia was also the first to be born with two traits, as she had the signature tail of female Qilin Faunus, and the “Tendrils”.

After having been wed to a man named Dom Garcia, Giulia became pregnant with the child who would be born as he first Prince of Ventus, Regis Khromatos.

Regis Khromatos, First Prince of Ventus, would grow to be the King who lead Ventus during Remnant’s great War. Following which, Regis’ Queen, Aine Gae, would birth the third royal child of the Khromatos name, and the first to be given a color based name as the rest of the world had begun to do in respect and remembrance for those lost in the war, Santos Gast Khromatos.

Santos would become the first in a family tradition of giving Khromatos Descendants color-based middle names instead of first-names.

The Khromatos Family would be mentioned by others from outside Ventus by their middle-name and last name instead of their first name from this point on.

Generations would come and go after Santos, each one ruling Ventus happily and in peace for most of the post-war times. Eventually, however, this would change. 

As time passed, the Twelfth King, Sebastian Charco Khromatos, and his Queen, Sap Valerie, would bring the future “Tyrant King” into being as their only child.

Manus Aesce Khromatos.

Once he had taken the Throne, Manus would begin to change various ways in which Ventus confronted many things. Their peaceful meetings with other kingdoms and countries going from their usual peaceful, and rather generous, ways to those of threats and violence. The rules set for civilians to follow becoming more strict, and the consequences for breaking the laws of Ventus becoming more severe.

Eventually, Manus would take a bride, Cres Marnie, in hope of bringing about the next Heir to the Khromatos lineage. Their son, the current Prince and heir to the throne, Samuel Shade Khromatos.

After two years pass, however, the corrupt King would proceed to enter into an affair with a civilian of Ventus. A woman by the name of Aligar Kaj. Their first of these meetings resulting in Aligar becoming pregnant with Manus’ second child. Though it wasn’t until two more of their “Meetings” had passed that he would come to know this.

Once aware of such, Manus would have Aligar become one of the maids to the Royal Family. Keeping her to smaller chores and jobs about the mansion to keep the truth of their relationship a secret to the Queen.

As time came for Aligar to give birth, it also came time for Aligar to pass on. The child’s birth putting too much strain on the woman’s body. Though the mother would manage to hang on to life the best she could till after her baby was born. Sadly only able to speak one last word to the maid Harley before death would claim her. Smoke. 

With the mother dead, Harley would name the daughter of her friend. Giving the child the name of Emma Smoke Khromatos. Though, knowing the Queen should not learn of the truth of Emma’s conception, she gave Emma a second name. A “Fake” name. The name that she would be known as and called by the King, Queen, and Prince. Smoke Kaj.

Originally, within the first hour of the child’s birth, Emma’s eyes were an extremely pale peach. But as the first hour passed, her eyes began to fog over, eventually becoming the pale glazed white that they have been her entire life since. This change would be the first sign Harley would receive as to the blindness that the child was born with. The confirming fact being how much the child’s eyes would shift from the slightest sounds, and never look at one specific spot or another in later years of their life.

Upon reaching the age of four, to assist her with navigating about, Emma developed a very minimal Semblance. To any who looked it seemed to be a Semblance based around balance, as whenever she would trip, Emma would not fall. Instead, she would correct herself to an up-right standing position. Thus allowing her to continue walking as she was before.

Navigating the world would only become easier for Smoke the next year thankfully, as it was son after her fifth birthday that she developed what she and Harley call “Aura Sight”. Her dark world suddenly being filled with the light of the Auras of living beings, both human and animal. 

Later the same year, it would become even easier for the child to get around in the world. She would suddenly begin seeing pulses of her own aura surging outward from her form. The thin white waves of her Aura rushing over her surroundings and leaving a temporary lingering presence of her aura that would stay for a split second before fading. The objects once covered no longer being visible to her until another wave of her Aura would flow over them. Eventually she and Harley would even discover that such addition to her sight seemed to be connected to her heart beat. Each contraction of the life-giving organ causing another wave of her aura to surge from her.

It was at this time that Harley would begin training Emma. Teaching her to become a maid like her friends and Harley herself. Teaching her some more basic recipes, how to make specific drinks, etc. She kept it to basic tasks at first though with the young girl’s lack of true vision. Only moving to more advanced tasks and recipes after she had begun to get used to different scents and sounds as her queues when something is done or needs to be tended to.

During this time was when Emma would first truly meet her Father, her Brother, and the Queen outside of merely hearing their voices in passing, or short quick glances at their Aura’s when walking past them with Harley. Eventually even becoming Samuel’s sparring partner, as he had demanded after being informed her Semblance helped her with balance. The Prince felt it would be a clever way to help him learn to deal with an opponent that was good on their feet, that would challenge his precision.

Though this would also lead to the nightmare of a day that Emma would remember for years that has left her severely scarred over the back of her neck.

During these years, the Prince would be enjoying his royal life. The perks of being a Prince pleasing the young boy plenty. Listening intently to the various stories his parents would tell him of the history of the Khromatos family. Of Manus’ own various experiences and victories. 

Samuel’s flame would be lit and burn bright early in his life. His desire for power, strength, and to follow in his father’s footsteps burning itself into his very being.

The boy would throw aside social life as he grew older. Focusing himself to studying Ventus History and learning the way of Combat. Looking to his father and his teacher, Councilman Umb Terra, for his lessons in fighting. Eventually even developing his own Semblance which he has come to call “Shadow Wall”.

Given he has a light source providing a shadow at his feet, Samuel grew to be able to manipulate his shadow. Change it’s position, transform it’s length or width, it seemed rather useless at first. Eventually, however, he, Umb, and Emma discovered that his Semblance allows his shadow to block others. Samuel could use his shadow as a sort of shield against physical contact in specific directions depending on where he had directed his shadow. Stopping incoming attacks by using the contact between his shadow and that of the person or object about to hit him to stop the person or object from making contact with him in their attack.

Discovering this, Samuel was determined to work to advance his Semblance. To improve his control of it. To eventually make it so that he could use it at longer ranges, in wider cones of effect, and with dimmer sources of light. His goal, advance the control of his semblance to the point where he wouldn’t need light for it. Though Umb would continue to try to bring Samuel to his senses that such a goal would technically be impossible, as he needs a shadow provided at his feet from a light source to use his semblance at all.

Despite all of this, Samuel was hellbent on improving. On honing his skills and lethality in combat, and eventually getting to the point he would be on par with his father at least.

Years would pass. Emma becoming better and better at living and working without the aid of her Guardian. Becoming better at combat even, her skills slowly beginning to match those of her half-brother. Though as the girl grew more, the Queen’s curiosity grew as well. Noting the tail which the young maid sported, the wrappings she wore about her arms and legs, it brought the Queen to search for answers.

Answers she found.

Furious, with her King’s cheating, Cres demanded that Manus exile the bastard child. That she be thrown out of Ventus and never return to the Kingdom. The King listened to his Queen, a thing he rarely ever did when anyone told him to do one thing or another, and obeyed. Immediately ordering that Emma be removed from the Kingdom the next day. 

The young woman decided to act on her own this night. Sneaking from the Maid’s housing to make her way through the slumbering kingdom, gathering things she would likely need when setting to the wilds. One such item, Samuel’s Scythe. A weapon the Prince had ordered be made, a long staved, four bladed scythe which could double as bo-staff or walking stick by having the blades fold into the staff of the weapon itself.

The day following, the King’s order was followed through. Emma was removed from Ventus, set to mainland of the continent with the clothes on her back, her single bag of supplies, and her “Walking Stick”. All the while during her “Trip” outside the Kingdom, the people of Ventus mocked her, spitting all manner of curses and spiteful words. Throwing sticks and stones. Labeling her with vile names. The memory of the Kingdom’s hate towards her at the time leaving lingering marks across her body. Seemingly countless scars decorating otherwise smooth skin. In many different locations alongside the remnants she has from her sparring with Samuel and his horrid grasp at her neck.

Another few years follow after Emma’s banishment with Ventus back to how it had originally been under Manus’ rule, before the girl’s exile. Though the dark day would come when thunderous boom sounded through Ventus. Glass shattering across marble floor within the mansion’s dining room. The King’s body recoiling, and chair tipping. Crashing to the floor as the crimson liquid would begin pooling on the white stone beneath.

The Tyrant King Manus Aesce Khromatos’ reign came to an end.

Queen Cres Khromatos’ reign began.

Prince Samuel Shade Khromatos’ quest to end his half-sister’s life begins.

As for Emma? The Princess, after hiding for years behind her cover name “Smoke”, the young woman was making her way to Vale. The goal on her mind: Enroll in Beacon Academy.

#Emma Smoke Khromatos #Samuel Shade Khromatos #Manus Aesce Khromatos #Cres Khromatos #Giulia Khromatos #Aligar Kaj #Smoke Kaj #Harley Nara #Umb Terra #bunchamunchafaunus #headcanons #RWBY OC

[pixichi]

Stealth and Witchcraft Cp.10

Garrett ended up falling asleep at his work station that night, after carefully removing his metal prosthetic so as not to accidently crush the more delicate components. After the difficult day he'd had, the thief was hoping to enjoy a long and dreamless rest. But his slumber, was far from pleasant: *** A storm was imminent, though not the sort Garrett was expecting as he remained hunched atop that domed rooftop, surveying the expanse of that sullen midnight sky. It was almost numbing, having her so near. He could have reached out and touched her in that moment if he'd so chosen. But like the phantasmic specters of an impossible dream, the thief feared that such an attempt would shatter the precious veil between reality and fiction. For the moment, she was there. And she was speaking to him again, though far from the way he would have preferred. "Have you caught your breath yet, old man?" she asked with that mischievous, uninterested smirk of hers. An expression she'd long ago acquired from her mentor, and perfected over the course of her short lifetime. Garrett glowered up at her, his bi-colored stare far from amused by her little jest. "I wasn't catching my breath, Erin," he sneered. "I just happened to see something down below," he explained, bobbing his head in the direction of the intricate glass skylight. His accomplice  shot him an incredulous look. "Riiight..." she crossed her arms. "And I have a husband and twenty-seven kids waiting for me back home." "Don't be a smart ass," the older thief discouraged her sarcasm. Erin just rolled her eyes. "Come on Garrett. Basso told me you'd help out," she groused, taking a few moments more to survey the billowing smog as it snuffed out the moon. "Okay, first of all, yeah. And I am," he reassured her. "Second of all, take a peek down there yourself if you don't believe me." The thief pointed a thin and smudged index finger, encouraging the girl to peer down over the precipice of the stately manse. Erin did as she was bade, her cyan eyes narrowing as they began to make out the forms of several hooded figures below. Atop a mahogany pedestal towards the center of the room, was a silvery blue stone glinting with an almost otherworldly luster. "Cult activity?" Erin asked, turning back to her mentor. Garrett said nothing, as he continued to survey the suspicious gathering below with pensive eyes. "Perhaps," he muttered, "certainly seems like the sort of layout for that." As he had done countless times over the course of his time with Erin, Garrett was only telling half-truths. Keeping his apprentice--no, his daughter--blind to that which could potentially harm, or otherwise greatly upset her. After all, what sort of parent could possibly do less? Consequently, he knew full well that a ritual was indeed transpiring far below his piercing glare and stiff form. There were other artifacts resting upon similar pedestals, relics which had been used in a sinister ritual fifteen years before. And as he began to recognize each of the objects involved, a trill of primitive dread traversed Garrett's spine with a sinister shock. A gleaming heart of ruby red, impossible luster and impressive in size. A crown of twisted and savage design, its cold silver and aquamarine adornments visible even from this high up. A golden chalice, a mummified paw. The recognition of the four relics gave the master thief pause. He wondered, if it was down there too. The unshakable sensation of disquieted uncertainty which ravaged his person mere seconds after, gave Garrett his answer. As he leered further still down into the darkness of that place, the hooded criminal could see it leering up at him. Silent and frozen, but watching him all the same. The Eye had promised to return to the City one day. To return for that remaining coal-brown optic which now sat mismatched alongside a venin replica. And now, it was finally here. But it wasn't the presence of that sentient nightmare that gave the thief pause. It was the sacrificial podium which the hooded ones now encircled. More specifically, it was the masked soul strapped down atop it. Even from his present height, Garrett could see the victim writhing and trembling within their tight bonds. The green mask they wore was intricate, frightening. It reminded the thief of Pagans, although there was something almost mocking about the peculiar design. The lost eyes which seemed to stare directly into him from that painted smiling face. It genuinely chilled him. Garrett stood from the window, clasping his ward's shoulder in the process. "Nope. That's it. We're not doing this." Erin gawked up at the thief, as if he'd just revealed the impossible to her. And, in some sense of the word, he had. Garrett: The Master Thief, abandoning a job? It was beyond comprehensible for her. She had watched him take risks far greater, and come out even wealthier still. Her blue eyes darkened against the backdrop of gloomy sky and turbulent weather. "What?!" the word was but a breathless whisper. Garrett deigned to respond, having neither time nor interest for her blatant disapproval. As the thief turned around to leave, Erin jolted upright, stomping across the rooftop after him. "Hey!!" she hollered. That, at least gave him pause. A puff of dense mist exited the girl's dark lips, as she began to seethe. "What are you doing?!" Garrett looked over his shoulder at her, the blustery winds tearing at his cloak. "The job just fell through. I'm going home," he remarked. Erin acquired a stunned expression, her mouth wide open as she struggled to process what the thief had just told her. "You're BAILING on me?!" she gaped. "No way!" "Way," Garrett sneered. Erin gestured furiously with her arms, before throwing them up over her head in a blatant tantrum. "I don't get it!" she shouted, "Basso told me you'd be fine with this!" Garrett hesitated, a deep sigh leaving his lips as he massaged his throbbing temples. In his youth, the thief could recall his own mentor, Artemus, doing this quite regularly. Now, Garrett finally understood why. Turning around, the hooded misanthrope walked up to his child, and gave her a most unsettling glare. "Erin. Look, I'm sorry. But I didn't expect this. Not even the greatest of criminals can prepare for every contingency," he explained. But Garrett could tell by the headstrong look on her face, that the girl was far from convinced. Far from sated. "That's why you have skill. Aces up your sleeve," she retorted, "So what if the nobles are dabbling in the unspeakable down there? The stuff we're after is in the East Wing! Why in the hell are you letting what's happening down there bother you like this?!" "You don't get it," the thief growled. "This isn't about feelings, or blind fear, kid. This, is about past experiences. Mistakes that I don't want you getting tangled up in, Erin." Impossibly blue eyes surged through the darkness as the spry young huntress glowered up at her paternal guide. Garrett had been far from an astute role model to her. He'd disappointed at Christmas, and forgotten birthdays. But seldom had Erin been more disappointed in the man, as she was in that intransigent moment. "I don't care," she snarled, blue eyes vibrant in the dark. "I need what's in the East Wing. And I'm not leaving here without it." Erin's attempts to assert herself proved futile at best. Before her stood a man who'd seen much, and suffered so much more. His eyes served as bi-colored windows into that which an imperious child such as she could never hope to comprehend. A dismal, inescapable prison of his own design. One that he secretly aspired to safeguard her from at all costs. "You can always come back for it later," Garrett rebuked, as the midnight rain grew frigid. "Whatever it is, it isn't worth your life..." The young woman stared awestruck at him for several moments, before releasing a raucous, mocking chorale. "My LIFE?" Erin blinked, brushing a strand of jet black hair from her pallid face. "Okay, Garrett. I have time to play. I see...hmm, maybe six gaudy trinkets, a masked sacrifice, and some hooded freaks down there. No offence," the girl grinned up at him. Garrett refused to dignify her with a response. After a while of cold, awkward silence and raindrops, Erin cleared her throat. "Okay, so my point was, just what exactly do you suspect's down there anyway? Just what are you so afraid of?" The thief glared at her, his cloak billowing in the air behind him like an imposing black flag. Garrett could smell the trepidation laced upon those chilling gales as they stung his face. It was as though the nocturnal abyss that surrounded them, was preparing for war. He glanced down at his boots, memories of perilous encounters long since past racing through his head. They were mages, and they knew the baron. He didn't have to ask why--the situation spoke for itself. Something frightfully dubious, was happening down there. Something that involved that sinister winking relic. "It was the first real commission I ever took--and the last. An enthusiastic nobleman and his consort contacted me regarding the thing," Garrett explained. Erin raised an eyebrow. "You? Working for a noble?!" "I was young and stupid back then," Garrett grumbled. "All I could focus on, was the promise of wealth beyond my wildest dreams. What sorts of things I could have done with all that money..." The thief trailed off for a moment, closing his eyes in profound shame. Bitter lament. Thoughts of fine wines, a lavish manse by the sea. His own concubines, and enough treasure to make even a pirate king envious. Such worldly desires had corrupted and clouded his mind, much like Constantine's curious green wine had the eve of their first meeting. Garrett still chastised himself for never recognizing the obvious. The Trickster's façade had been only skin deep, that devilish grin prominently out of place upon the old man's face. And yet, the thief had taken the bait regardless. Erin's cold fingers tapped his hand, snapping Garrett from his disquieting stupor. "So, you stole this dude an artifact back when you were my age? So what?" she snorted," and what the taff does that story have to do with anything?" Her mentor glared at her. "The thing I stole for him--it's down there right now," Garrett responded in a distant, unsettled voice. Erin peered over the skylight again, watching as one of the hooded figures reached for a large and tattered tome. "Which one?" she asked, more curious and casual than the thief was comfortable with. Reluctantly, Garrett pointed out the object in question. Though he couldn't be certain, the thief thought he heard the thing emanate a gravelly chuckle as he did so. "That one. It's called The Eye." "The Eye?" his ward parroted, a derisive grin contorting across her face. "Stupid name. It doesn't look anything like an eye." "That's far from the point," Garrett sneered. "It has one. Two, actually. And it's looking to obtain a third..." The moonlighter fought to contain a hitched shudder, but Erin caught the troubled grimace upon his weathered face. "Garrett? You okay?" she asked, genuinely concerned but still grinning. The thief released a loud, shaken sigh. "No. I'm not," he replied, his gaze never leaving that horrible relic. It was watching him too, and the thief knew it. "Look, we need to leave now, Erin. That thing...it's..." Garrett's mouth went dry, rendering him momentarily speechless. Erin inched closer to where he sat hunched over the edge of the skylight. "It's what?" she inquired, trying her best to sound genuine, and helpful. Garrett shook his head, standing once again from the rooftop. "Never mind. We're leaving," he commanded, starting back towards the  edge of the building again. "Come on." Erin started off after him, nearly tripping herself in her haste. Somehow, she managed to reach and intercept Garrett before he could begin his decent back down the side of the building. "Wait a minute!" she panted, arms outstretched. "You're seriously abandoning this heist because you're afraid of a ROCK?!" Garrett scowled at that, his pupils gyrating in a deep, personal fury. He had always known better than to reveal too much of his past to the girl. But for whatever inexplicable reason, that night, he had. Perhaps it was the overwhelming elation he felt to see her again after nearly four years of alienation. Or perhaps, it was the thief's own distorted brand of paternal instinct, fighting against his aloof personality in order to keep her safe. "It's sentient, and it's very evil. Let's leave it at that," he snapped. But Erin, was far from satisfied. "So what?" she argued. "You're Garrett! You single-handedly blew up the Trickster. You broke up the entire Mechanist order by using their own prophet's weapon against him. Hell, you even destroyed that horrible hag who murdered my parents! You expect me to believe for even one second that you're THIS terrified over a 'very evil' sentient bauble?!" Lighting lit up the night sky, revealing the thief's innermost turmoil to the girl he'd raised since she was twelve. Erin wasn't prepared for what she beheld chiseled there upon his gaunt, grizzled features. The unspeakable stillness, the icy and detached expression of a man who had seen more than his fair share of evils. Garrett ground his teeth beneath stiff, compressed lips. His eyes closed, and as the thunder rocked the foundation beneath his feet, the criminal wrestled with an extremely delicate conundrum. He had never told Erin the specifics regarding the loss of his right eye. The details were far too preposterous for anyone to believe, far too agonizing for the thief to relive. But if he stood any chance to convincing her to abandon the mission that night, risks had to be taken. Sacrifices, had to be made. This reveal, would be his final attempt to try and illustrate the severity of peril to his headstrong charge. It was a moot decision, but one made out of desperation rather than practicality. A part of him knew Erin wouldn't listen. She never did, once the prize was in sight. But another part of him--a part only a handful of souls had ever been privy to--had made the attempt out of some improbable hope that tonight would be different. "It's also the reason I lost my eye..." he managed, his voice low and distant. For the briefest of moments, Garrett's heart surged with hope when he beheld the mortified expression upon the girl's pale features. There was not a hint of skepticism  locked away behind that lapis glare. Erin, believed him. But the thief's hopes were to be dashed just as quickly. Because although she did indeed believe his harrowing tale, Erin still possessed the same regrettable weaknesses that he did: Arrogance. Tenacity. Greed. After all, he had raised her that way. Children often inherit the traits of their guardians--both good, and bad. She did not understand. Why, after all this time, all of her personal sacrifices, should SHE admit defeat?!  Her eyes widened for a moment, before glazing over once more with those less-than-desirable traits. "Alright, I think I get it," she hissed, turning away in an exasperated motion. Again, Garrett assumed that he'd gotten through to her. But hope, often has a way of amplifying disappointment, and pain. Erin faced him, her blue eyes shimmering with brazen confidence. "But I'm not like you. This doesn't effect me," she hissed cruelly. Garrett's eyes grew wide beneath the shadowy confines of his hood, as the grueling ultimatum of the situation overtook him. Despite everything he'd just explained. Despite everything he'd risked and revealed at the sake of his own comfort, his ward would not be stopped. It was as though her mind was deadlocked, her body acting for the sake of another. Even at her most unruly, Erin had never been this blindingly foolish. It made Garrett wonder, with a sickening shift of his gut, just what she was truly after? And why? As the girl proceeded to head back across the rooftops in the direction of the Eastern Gallery, something rough grabbed her arm. Erin whirled around, dagger at the ready. Only to see Garrett, the most bothersome look of severity present upon his face. "Don't..." he snarled, though his features reflected far more concern than anger. Erin broke away from his grasp with a sharp, unexpected strength. She sneered up at her mentor, the midnight breeze ruffling her unkempt black bangs. "Cut it out, Garrett!" she shouted, shoving him backwards. "You know what? This, is beyond stupid. If your gonna be stuck on this roof having  little PTSD episode, then I'm going on without you." A sensation like cold electricity swelled within the thief's chest the moment those careless words left her mouth. He could accept her sassy attitude. He could endure her defiance. But when she dared to make light of the hell he'd suffered, after he'd just revealed a particularly terrible experience with her. That was the one thing Garrett couldn't tolerate. "What the hell do you know about it?!" he shouted, extending his hand and slapping her. "I'll tell you: You don't know shit! So keep your damned mouth shut, Erin!" His outburst was an instantly regrettable action. A last resort to try and get his heedless waif to listen to reason. As the Keepers would have put it, a lapse in judgement. Yet another loss of balance. The look of deep fear and pleading within his weathered face emphasized this, but the girl at his side felt only the burning in her face, and a vicious resentment budding within her chest. Erin grabbed her cheek, growling in frustration as she leered up at the man whom had practically raised her. "I won't. I'm not a child anymore Garrett! And YOU..." she snarled, hesitation holding her venomous tongue for but a moment, before her sinister reprisal bit through those conscientious bindings, "...you, will NEVER be my father..." Her words tore away at him, wounding the thief in a place his headstrong charge could never hope to see. A myriad of callous words flooded the thief's mind like briny water; murky and chilling. But in that conflicted moment, the wounded moonlighter could only bring himself to ask one simple question in response. "Erin, why is this damned gem so important to you?!" The girl's breath hitched in response to his unexpected quandary. It was as though she could once again feel the knife at her neck, smell the bile and whisky upon her captors. Erin's eyes flooded with hot tears, as she recalled what they had said to her at the start of the week: "You dare to defy us?! We lost Vanessa 'cause of you, bitch. Now, you're gonna get us that taffing gem, or I'll have your heart instead!" The Burrick's Soul. One of the largest diamonds in the world. A marvelous prize indeed. Her 'employers' had made their rather passionate request known, but despite all of her previous experience with both thieving and assassination, Erin knew that obtaining the gem would be difficult indeed. That's precisely why she'd contacted Basso, asking him to recruit Garrett onto this little excursion of hers. Despite her arrogance, Erin knew that she couldn't do it without him. But for his sake--and for hers--she couldn't tell him the truth about this job. Thunderclouds rolled overhead, and Erin released a loud, distressed sigh. "Listen Garrett...I-I can't tell you, okay?" she tried. The hooded rogue glowered down at her. "And why the hell not?" "I just can't, alright?" Erin snapped. "It's...complicated." It had been almost four years since they'd last spoken, and suffice to say, the evening hadn't been anywhere as hospitable as she'd hoped. When she first encountered her old mentor atop that roof beneath a vibrant sea of twilight and newly-birthed stars, Erin had expected a look of surprise to overtake his rough features. Perhaps even a smile. But instead, Garrett acted as though time itself had been absent for the last four years. She continued to eye the thief, how his face now displayed such shock. Though for a different reason entirely. In truth, Garrett had his own ways of expressing intense emotion. That was to say, he disliked doing it at all. Outwardly, he preferred his features to remain steadfast and stoic. However, what transpired within, was a different story entirely. He hadn't said a word, hadn't asked for even the slightest of details when he'd met her atop the shingles that evening. Garrett didn't bother, because he didn't care. Seeing his girl again after so many years. Seeing her back, not only alive but according to Basso, doing quite well for herself. It filled him with an indescribable joy, a pride which even an arrogant man such as Garrett had never experienced before. Garrett didn't question Erin's whereabouts, because simply having her back was more than enough to satisfy him. But now, how he wished that she'd stayed away. The truth can be a very damaging thing, regardless as to whether or not one choses to believe it. While Erin hadn't meant them, even now as she deeply regretted those words, the tragedy remained. They were still undeniably true. He was but a bereaved misanthrope, trying to pay homage to a dead man he'd never so much as thanked for saving his life. Erin, had simply tried to pickpocket the wrong man at the right time. As the malevolent ritual continued to commence beneath their feet, Erin looked up at her mentor again. Her eyes were large, pleading. Desperate to correct a disastrous slip of the tongue. "Look, I'm sorry for what I said. You...you're the one who saved me. That's more than my biological father could do. I owe you my life, and I don't tell you that enough. I--" Before she could conclude her apology, Garrett held up a hand to silence her. Rubbing his temples, the thief allowed his balance to slip for the second time that night. "--Erin. Just stop. You've been gone four years. You made your choice. You're an adult now. Why the taff should I care how you feel about me?" Upon receipt of those callous words, Erin's entire world crumbled. Her sapphire eyes shimmered with tears there against that rumbling leaden sky, as she stepped backwards. "Is...is that how you really feel?" she gasped, her hushed voice nearly drowned out by the vile storm. Garrett turned to face her, his movements stiff and constricted. Remorseful, yet far too proud to admit his guilt. Another clap of thunder echoed throughout the City, as veteran and apprentice made eye contact. The thief's tongue brushed the roof of his mouth, as though the act would ease the flow of words from his tight throat. But before he could even open his mouth, a shrill crackling sound disrupted the night. Both Garrett and Erin began to survey the area, seeking a culprit for the peculiar interruption. However, it was the blue-eyed girl who found it first when she looked down. A sickening twinge of dread overtook Erin's person, when she at last realized just where she was standing. Before Garrett could react, the skylight began to splinter outwards around her boots. He lurched forward, his instincts overtaking both reason and guile in that horrific moment. "Erin! Get back!" he barked. But his warning came far too late. The world around him faded to a inhospitable grey, as the thief felt the blood drain away from his face. His heart plummeted into his quivering stomach, and Garrett could only watch through his helpless stupor, as his entire world shattered beneath her. *** Garrett sprung from his mattress, panting and drenched with sweat. It ran like blood from his temples, the clammy chill of the clocktower tickling his face. Clutching at the sheets, he stared through one maddened eye at his lap. His body was a trembling mess, his perception hazy at best in lieu of the nightmare and lack of depth perception. But that was until he noticed her. Gwenevere was kneeling beside his bed, and as his vision gradually swam into focus, Garrett registered on just how concerned she actually was. Her cherubic face was riddled with an intense worry, her large green eyes almost luminous against a dismal backdrop of filthy shadows. "Are you okay, Garrett?" she asked, the moment he glowered up at her. "I'm fine!" Garrett barked, catching his breath with a shout. "Why wouldn't I be?" "Because," Gwenevere crooned, resisting the urge to rest a comforting hand upon the thief's quaking knee. "You were screaming." Garrett gawked up at her, the lack of symmetry within his features giving him a frightful appearance. Had he really been screaming? Considering what his nightmare had been about, the thief didn't doubt it. He clutched the bedsheets tighter beneath his thin fingers, chastising himself for allowing the brat to hear him in a moment of weakness. "Yeah, well even if that were true," he huffed, "I'm fine now." Gwenevere scooted away from him, her eyes narrowing in response to his cutting words. "Yes, I can see that you are," she snorted. "Back to your usual, jerky self..." "Then what are you still doing here Gwenevere?" Garrett stared pensively at her. Gwenevere looked up at him, focusing her two eyes into his one. The remaining dark optic seemed to take on an almost sinister tone in the dead of night. She could tell that this sort of prolonged eye contact made her mentor very uncomfortable, but all the same, she needed him to see the gratitude written within her eyes. Furthermore, she had to know why he'd done what he had. "Garrett?" she asked. The thief's brows furrowed at her bell-like voice. "Shouldn't you be getting back to bed?" he sneered. Gwenevere bit her bottom lip. "I-I haven't been able to sleep at all tonight, actually," she admitted. "I mean, I tried yes. But..." "But?" the thief raised a cautious eyebrow. Gwenevere looked down at her crossed legs, and began chewing on her hair again. "Garrett?" she mumbled through a mouthful of red. "What?!" he snapped, feeling beyond uncomfortable by this point. Gwenevere shot upwards, allowing the moistened strand to slip free from her mouth. Once again, she locked her gaze into Garrett's, though there was an glint of skeptisim and intrigue written within her face this time. "Garrett, why did you keep me from those men tonight?" Her question rattled him, causing Garrett's entire face to warp into a look of utmost perplexity. "What men?" he decided to play the fool, knowing full well just what scum Gwenevere was indeed referring to. "The bounty hunters outside of the tavern," she explained. Then, the young woman acquired a authentic bleakness within her features. "I may be ditzy. I may be clumsy and naïve. But I know that you despise me, Garrett. No doubt you've come to understand that there's a reward offered for my safe return, and--" "--considered," the thief corrected. Gwenevere blinked. "What?" "A reward is being considered. That's what your poster said anyway," Garrett grumbled. "Right," the girl nodded. "So, if you indeed hate me so much, why did you hide me back there? Why didn't you just hand me over to those men?" Garrett sighed hard, cracking his knuckles as he contemplated the esoteric reasoning behind that innocent question of hers, and the actions he had taken earlier that night. Truth be told, he'd been asking himself the same question. He did despise Gwenevere. More than anything, he wanted her out of his tower. Out of his life. So why had he allowed such a superb chance to be rid of her to slip from his grasp? "I just hate bounty hunters," he shrugged, perverting his response with both lies and truth. "So don't you go getting it into your senseless little head that I actually care about you, or anything like that." "I...never said you did..." the girl smiled. Feeling flustered, the thief's discontent intensified. Despite her best efforts, Gwenevere soon found herself captivated by the empty void on the right half of his face. It seemed to be pulling at her, dragging her down into the unsafe realms of his morose world. When he noticed her incessant staring, Garrett grimaced. "What is it now?" he barked. Without even thinking, Gwenevere blurted out exactly what was on her mind. "How did you lose your eye?" she asked. The question had been innocent, but it caused a surge of torment to seize Garrett by the chest. No one--not even directly after the incident--had ever possessed the bravery to ask the thief that question. But now, out of all the possible inquisitors he had come across, it was this insolent girl who had just unwittingly requested more than she could ever possibly understand. Her clumsy hands and wanting mouth had just ripped open those horrific scars which Garrett had tried so desperately to forget. The thief ground his teeth. She had no right. Initial chagrin, was soon replaced by a savage fury. "Don't you EVER ask me that question again! Keep your nose in your own affairs!" he bellowed, before abruptly jerking his face away from hers. Gwenevere remained motionless upon the floorboards, her mouth drawn open into an exasperated gape. The girl continued to watch him, feeling for him as he brooded there in the darkness. However he had lost his eye, one thing was now eminently clear to her:  It must have been beyond awful. "I'm so, so sorry Garrett..." she finally spoke up, holding back tears as a lump began to form within her frail throat. "I never wanted to hurt you like this. I-I just--" "--Go. Away," he snarled, his slouched posture heaving with every breath he drew inward. Gwenevere stood, tears shimmering at the edge of her remorseful eyes. "Thank you, for today," she curtsied, before returning to her place atop the stairs. Garrett remained motionless for a time, perched within the serene blackness of his tower like a statue. He shook his head, beyond baffled by the entire situation. Why did she waste those frilly manners on him like that? Why did she stare at him so? And quite possibly the question which haunted him most of all: Why did she--upper crust lady that she was-- want anything to do with a thief like him? When he was sure that she was indeed asleep this time, Garrett felt around the empty socket with the base of his thumb, and stood. Slinking past a now slumbering Gwenevere, Garrett ascended the stairway, and propped his elbows against the window ledge. With his remaining eye, the thief looked out over the slumbering city, lost in a sea of deep contemplation. 

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