#get away from your parents legacies! stop being torn in half by the two of them! take up this mantle instead!

[dancy-nrew]

Thinking about Damian growing up to be Nightwing….

#get away from your parents legacies! stop being torn in half by the two of them! take up this mantle instead! #dick would be so proud of you! #my stuff #damian wayne

[from-the-clouds]

Everything You’ve Come to Expect III - Quentin Beck/Reader

Part I | Part II | Masterlist

Summary: A former employee of Stark Industries hides in solitude from her past, until she is forced to confront it years later. After all the time away, she realizes still hasn’t recovered from her heartbreak. 

Words: 3k

A/N: These two love to argue. And I love to write them arguing. But it definitely wasn’t always that way. And Quentin may have a soft spot for a certain someone…. (I also watched Prisoners for the first time this weekend and holy shit, now I have all kinds of inspiration to maybe even write for that). I hope you enjoy, I realize my characterization of Quentin might be off, but my interpretation of him is a little more forgiving than most...let me know what you think!

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

In their years apart, Quentin’s plan had become more ambitious than she remembered. The consideration for human lives had dwindled. There was no longer a voice of reason, he’d lost his conscious, his morals had slipped. And no one had tried to stop him. His colleagues were fueled only by their bitterness.

Quentin had been honest, which she appreciated. And while she wanted, more than anything, to be disgusted by what he’d become, she wasn’t. It felt wrong. She knew that she should be outraged, but she couldn’t bring herself to be.

Y/N went about her day, as independently as she possibly could. She cooked an easy dinner, and was surprised when Quentin joined her at her breakfast nook for the meal.

Quentin had to be smart enough not to expect small talk while they ate, but even so, she felt obliged to reluctantly put aside the book she had been reading to glower at him across the table. It wasn’t until he spoke up that she even realized she was doing it, lost in thought.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

Snapped out of her thoughts, she met his inquisitive blue eyes, so piercing. He could see through her like no one else could. It had terrified her when they first met, and she sometimes wondered if that was why she’d grown to love him in the first place. It was easier to succumb to the vulnerability, the blissfulness of trust, than it was to resist him. Why not open up?

“I’m disappointed in you,” she said flatly.

Quentin’s expression twisted briefly into a nefarious thing, before he corrected himself. They had already had some variation of this conversation several times. But there was still conflict that had to be resolved. Quentin was desperate, he had no options, and she’d only seen him this defeated once before. He knew, just as she did, that he had no one else, nowhere else to go. So he’d have to listen, she just wondered when he’d finally hear her..

“You’ve already made that very obvious,” was all Quentin said, but he set down his fork, wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin, and crossed his arms as he sat back. There was something very domestic about the way he looked in the flannel shirt she’d let him borrow, sitting at the small table, visibly upset, like they were arguing about the electric bill and not about the lives of thousands of people he’d put at risk. “I won’t be here long, I’ll figure out what I need to do next and I’ll leave you alone.”

“That’s the issue,” she leaned forward. “You’re oblivious to what you’ve done wrong. You’re only here because you’ve failed. You’re looking for another way to make this work, when you’ve already tried and it’s gotten you nowhere,” the angry bite that slipped into her tone towards the end hadn’t been intentional.

Quentin’s hand clenched into a fist. “Thanks for reminding me.”

It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. But deep within her, she was dismal. Was she really trying to convince him that what he’d done was wrong? Or was she just trying to prove to herself that he was capable of the kindness she swore she’d known. Somehow, the thought that she could love such an unfeeling, remorseless man sent buckshot through her stomach. Her voice lowered. “You know, not everything is about revenge.”

Quentin’s expression remained neutral, but his fist loosened, flattened so his palm was flush against the tabletop. “What was I supposed to do?”

Carefully, she mulled over her next words. “I know you think that you’re supposed to leave this legacy. Couldn’t you have just lived your life, found another way to be happy?”

“I’m not a simple man, Y/N,” he crossed his arms. “I wasn’t going to roll over and get a fucking job at a university.”

She flinched at his words, a brief flash of a memory, her head bent over her kitchen table grading lab reports while Quentin worked in the office down the hall from her until the early hours of the morning. The sacrifices she’d made for him had only led to their demise. Her next words bubbled up in time with her anger and were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “I’m sure that would have been enough for you if you weren’t still hung up on meeting your parents expectations.”

Quentin moved to stand from the table, his chair screeching across the hardwood floor. He moved swiftly, but she was faster, anticipating his actions. “No.” she said firmly, her palm facing him. “I’m the one who’s leaving.”

Her heel squeaked against the floor, and she turned without sparing him a second glance. She heard Quentin call her name, once, twice, and it wasn’t until she was at the door pulling on her socks and shoes that he somehow wedged himself between her and the doorway. Instead of backing away, she stepped forward, her chest pressed against his. It was a mistake. He was warm, solid, so real in front of her that her anger sputtered out briefly before firing back at full force.“How the fuck did you find me here, anyways, Quentin? Hm?”

“It’d be better if you didn’t know,” Quentin’s eyes searched hers, and her brain was so clouded by her emotions she couldn’t tell if he was even being sincere.

“Give me a fucking break,” she hissed.

“Fine,” he snorted, voice raising. “You want to know the truth?”

Her silence was all the encouragement he needed. “I’ve known you’ve been here for years,” he confessed. “And fuck, it wasn’t easy to find you. You’re smart. I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

“Wh-Why?” she stuttered. Her nails, which she hadn’t realized had gotten long, dug so hard into the palms of her hands that she thought they might draw blood. But she was trying desperately to hold back the outburst threatening to emerge. But what she felt was no longer rage….it was something worse.

“You wanted to be alone,” he said. “But I had to know that you were okay.”

“I’m not this monster you’ve convinced yourself I am,” Quentin continued. “And I’m not a good man,” he added. Her eyes bore into his, she could have sworn there was something welling in his own. “I know that. But for you, I’ve always tried.”

Quentin’s hand had lifted, his thumb grazing along her upper arm, goosebumps trailing in their wake. Why would it have been so easy to lean forward against his chest and let out the choked sobs she was holding back? Maybe it was his proximity, or maybe it was because she’d somehow wanted this all along. She knew better.

Staggering backwards, she put as much distance between them as she needed, and Quentin’s hand fell to his side. She could still feel where he’d touched her, like it was singed onto her skin.

“Try for your own sake, not for me.”

Quentin stared at her, lost, hopeless. She thought of all the things he was capable of, good and bad, and wondered why he’d wasted so much time creating a catastrophe. He was a man of extremes, and hadn’t been able to find in the gray area where he’d turned wrong. She wondered if he ever would.

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

The apartment was dim, dark, which was strange considering that Quentin had told her he would be leaving work early. She almost expected to find him in the kitchen, preparing an original recipe that would no doubt be inedible -- Quentin was one of the most intelligent, innovative people she’d ever met, but an irredeemably terrible cook. Instead, the kitchen was vacant, as was the rest of their shared home. And it was quiet, too. Maybe he’d fallen asleep.

Heading down the hallway to their bedroom, she paused when she noticed a sliver of light peeking out from underneath the door to Quentin’s office. She knocked once, and heard no response, so she figured he may have left the light on. For her own sake, she cracked the door open with the intention of flicking it off.

What she saw on the other side of the door left her speechless.

Quentin’s office had been destroyed. At first, she thought someone might have broken in -- there was no way Quentin would allow the normally meticulously-organized space to ever look this way. Books were strewn about the floor, some of them with pages torn. Awards and relics that usually decorated his shelves had been toppled over. His desk had been wiped clean of his papers, prototypes, and experimental technology. A large glass mirror that sat in the corner of the room was cracked and shattered.

It was only when she looked in it’s reflection did she see Quentin sitting next to the door. Obscured by the fissures in the glass, his form was split into several distorted images.

Curled in an upright fetal position, his back against a bookshelf, staring into space, she had to check twice to be sure it was really him. One of his hands was curled loosely around the neck of a half-empty bottle of scotch. His hair hung in his eyes, his jawline prominent from the clench of his teeth, evident even underneath his light stubble.

Y/N shut the door behind herself and stepped towards him, careful to avoid the debris.

“Quen,” she murmured softly, he hadn’t so much as shifted his eyes towards her since she walked in the room. Before she could kneel down next to him she smelt the booze. Briefly, she wondered how much of the bottle was gone before he’d started drinking, or if he’d done the damage all by himself in one sitting.

“Quentin,” she said his name again, firmly this time, and his head snapped up, his eyes darting towards her once, wide with whites flashing like a rabid animal, spooked. It was almost as if she’d woken him from a trance.

“Hey,” he said, a forced smile making its way on his visage. Still, he didn’t turn his head to afford her any eye contact.

“What’s going on?” she asked wearily. She’d seen him angry before, and while he’d never directed it at her, it was quite a fearsome thing to witness. There was no telling where his head was at, especially considering that she’d never seen him capable of the destruction that surrounded them.

Quentin didn’t answer right away, his brows furrowed together and his mouth turned down at the corners. “Stark fired me,” his said, eventually, flatly.

“What?” Her first reaction was shock. Surprise. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Quentin had been one of Tony’s most valued workers, and on his own, renowned as one of the greater tech innovators of this decade. All the biggest names in the industry had approached him with jobs at one point or another. But working for SI had been his dream career. They’d offered him the creative freedom and funds to pursue his own projects, the only tradeoff was the rights to anything he’d created. That hadn’t concerned him.

“He’s using my tech for self-therapy,” he said, voice void of any emotion. “And he fired me. It’s over.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, carefully pushing his hair out of his eyes. In the few months before he planned to unveil his tech, he barely had been taking care of himself, and hadn’t found time for a haircut. He had let it grow long, slicking it back from his face.

She intercepted the bottle of alcohol as he lifted it to his lips, catching a glimpse of raw, bloodied knuckles as she pried it out of his hand. He offered little-to-no resistance. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

He shook his head. “I worked so hard, I sacrificed so much for this. He said I was unstable. But he could never understand. It was my life’s work, and now it belongs to him, and I have nothing-” Quentin’s voice cracked with the last word, his jaw clenching in frustration along with his fists.

Y/N didn’t answer. She sat the bottle on her opposite side and pulled him into her arms. Quentin leaned forward, a shattered, broken man, and buried his face in her neck. What did you say to the person you loved when they lost everything? She didn’t know.

“Goddamnit,” he mumbled, she felt damp eyes press into the exposed skin of her shoulder. “Fuck.” Her lips grazed his forehead. His hands tightened desperately around her, like she was the last piece of his life that remained.

In her experience with him, Quentin didn’t cry. He never had. And she wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to his frustration as he lost his composure. She heard him take in a shaky breath, felt hot tears stain her shirt. His large hand fisted the fabric that covered her waist, pulling her even closer.

Y/N lost track of time. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, her hands wandering, carding through his hair, massaging the stiff muscles in his neck and shoulders. Quentin was not one to seek comfort, she knew he preferred to suffer alone. It terrified her. She’d never seen him so helpless. Hell, he was the one who usually consoled her when she came home weepy after a bad day at work. This was rock bottom. He was utterly lost. And she knew there wasn’t anything she could do to help him.

Pulling away finally, she held his face in her hands, carefully swiped away his tears. His piercing blue eyes were bloodshot and puffy, void of their steady, determined fix. “Come on, we’re getting out out of here,” she said sternly. “How about you take a shower, I’ll make you some tea, and we can talk some more.”

Quentin nodded, and she helped him up from the floor. He leaned on her heavily, unsteady and warm from the Scotch, and they made their way to their bedroom, where he sat on the edge of the bed as she ran the water and handed him a fresh towel from the linen closet.

Once he was in the shower, she made her way down the hallway, shutting off the lights to his office and closing the door. She’d worry about the mess later, but didn’t think he needed the reminder in case he came down the hallway anytime soon.  Pulling a box of cinnamon spice tea out of their cupboard, she waited for the water to heat up and put her head in her hands.

The question of her own future at SI was now hanging over her head. Quentin had been nothing but a dedicated, focused, and hard-working employee. Even before they’d started dating, there’d been nights she’d had to drag him out of his lab when she’d found him asleep, sitting upright at his desk. So why would Tony turn on him so quickly? It seemed so unlike him. And how long would it be until he turned on her?  Did she even have a future at the place she had come to consider her second home? It wasn’t hard to see why Quentin was so devastated.

The teakettle began to whine and she quickly turned off the burner, prepping two mugs of cinnamon spice tea, turning down the lights and heading back to their bedroom.

The lights were off an Quentin was already in bed, under the covers, his breathing light and regular, the towel from his shower discarded on the floor next to his side of the mattress. She thought maybe he’d fallen asleep, but when she carefully placed the mug on his bedside table, he stirred, rolling onto his back and looking up at her hazily.

“Are you going to leave me?” he asked, a lost, terrified child in his eyes.

“What?” she asked incredulously, the question knocking her off guard. “Why would you ask me that?” she tilted her head.

“I always thought I was good enough,” he said. “But here I am. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I’m not.”

There had been obvious evidence of Quentin’s initial anger….but that was something she could handle. This….this was something else entirely. She didn’t recognize the man in front of her, a tornado of self-doubt and desolation. Burning inside of her was something she didn’t recognize….rage, hatred, as she watched him pick himself apart. And she knew exactly who was responsible for it.

“That’s not going to happen,” she sat down next to him, and his eyes followed her. Y/N tried her hardest to keep her own emotions from bubbling over, opting instead for some dry humor. “My standards are already too high.”

The faint hint of a smile, a real smile, played  at the corner of Quentin’s mouth.

“I understand you have a lot to worry about. But me leaving is not one of them.” Y/N smirked. Quentin pulled her closer, chuckling gently, one hand pulling back the covers to make room, and she curled up next to him, despite the fact that she was still fully dressed in her work clothes. Settling in close, she propped her head on her elbow to look down at him. His hair was still damp from the shower, a few stray droplets of water clung to his bare chest, and she felt a familiar flutter in her stomach as she took in his form, illuminated by the light peeking through the slats of their curtains.

“Thanks, honey.”

“You’re welcome, honey,” she wrinkled her nose playfully, splaying her palm in the middle of his chest.

Quentin’s hand rose to clasp around hers as the smile faded from his face, replaced once more by the dead stare he’d had when she’d first found him that evening. This time, however, it wasn’t so forlorn. His fingers toyed with the ornate band on her ring finger, like he was checking to make sure it was still there.

“What am I gonna do?” he asked after a long beat of silence.

“You’ll figure it out,” she murmured softly, and when he finally stopped fiddling with the ring he’d bought her, she lifted her hand to trace along his cheekbone. “You’re good at that.”

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

TAGLIST (let me know if you’d like to be added!): @mgikwangminwoo @belles-garden @kusooi @ssskeletonsoffun @robynthesavior @yourbiggestspiderfan @onebatch--twobatch @langdonsboots @omgikwangminwoo @emmafrxst @themilkface @mytinybaguette

#spiderman #spiderman: far from home #jake gyllenhaal #quentin beck #mysterio #quentin beck x reader #quentin beck imagine #mysterio x reader #mysterio imagine #jake gyllenhaal imagine #jake gyllenhaal x reader #spiderman fanfiction #ffh #spiderman fiction #marvel writing #mcu writing #quentin beck x you #mysterio x you #quentin beck x y/n #mysterio x y/n #jake gyllenhaal writing

[choupetit]

GOT Recap:  The Last of the Starks

Airdate:  5/5/19  Season 8, Episode 4

Ack! The remaining episodes of Game of Thrones are dwindling as fast as the number of secondary characters – we’re more than halfway through the season and merely two episodes away from the end of the series.  Waaaah, I just want it to last forever!  This latest episode offered up a buffet of secrets, strategy, and surprises, oh my! There’s a lot to unpack, as the writers rush to neatly tie up storylines and set things up for the next big battle, so get comfy, grab a cup of your favorite Starbucks beverage and let’s hop right into the recap for “The Last of the Starks”:

We start off at Winterfell, with a somber send-off of all the valiant heroes who died in the battle against the Night King and his Army of Dead.  Ser Jorah’s body lays on a funeral pyre and a grief-stricken Daenerys Targaryen bids him farewell and whispers something into his ear.  

Sansa Stark stands by Theon Greyjoy’s pyre, crying.  You can’t help but think of all the horror they both endured together at the hands of Ramsay Bolton – the one person who best understood what Sansa has been through is now gone. She places her Direwolf sigil pin in his vest.  Awww, Theon has officially been redeemed in the eyes of the Starks.

After everybody has had the chance to pay their respects, the camera zooms out and we see the enormity of the casualites – rows and rows of multi-leveled funeral pyres stretch across the battlefield.

Jon Snow gives a heartfelt speech and reminds all the survivors of their honor and duty to keep the legacy alive of the brave men and women who died to ensure the safety of humankind. The pyres are lit, and the gigantic cloud of smoke they emit is immense.

With the mass funeral behind them, it’s time for everybody to celebrate their survival with a grand feast in the Great Hall.  Bran Stark, Sansa, Jon, and Daenerys are all steated at the VIP table for the festivities, though Daenerys won’t even look at Jon.  Arya’s absence is noticed by Gendry, who asks everybody he knows if they’ve seen her.  

As Gendry walks past the VIP table, Queen Dany calls him out.  It’s a tense moment as she asks him “Hey, aren’t you the son of Robert Baratheon? You know, the dude who tried to have me killed?” Gendry cautiously replies, “Um…well, about that, see, I didn’t even know my pops and I only recently even found out he was my dad, so…” and then Dany’s all “Dude, I’m just messing with you.” She makes him Lord of Storm’s End – which is apparently a title that is totally up for grabs, and she also tells him he’s not a bastard anymore. Because. She. Said. So.  She also decrees that it’s time for the realm to have access to hand-crafted coffee drinks from entirely different universes and everybody hails both Queen Dany and Gendry, Lord of Storm’s End.  Tyrion leans over to Dany and praises her on the smart move:  It’s both a fitting reward for a war hero and will ensure Gendry’s line will always be loyal to her.

Across the room, Jaime Lannister convinces Brienne of Tarth to let loose and drink a bit, seeing how they have fought Death and survived.  

Meanwhile Tyrion and Davos share a quick chat about Melisandre and the Lord of Light thing that was, actually, weirdly accurate -  and now  it’s all over without much rhyme or reason.  Thanks for acknowledging my feelings, GOT writers, because, yes, it does seem odd that we would have so much cool prophecy-driven stuff and have it suddenly vanish.  Tyrion cynically states that even though the Dead may be gone, they still have people to contend with – and humans are doing a pretty decent job in destroying themselves without the help of the Night King.

Tyrion makes his way to Bran and I can’t help wondering what conversation these two had the night before the battle.  When he points out that Bran’s abilities as the hard drive for their world’s memories will surely serve him well as the Lord of Winterfell, Bran shrugs it off, saying he’s not a Lord, and honestly doesn’t have need for wants in this world as he pretty much spends most of his time in the past.  Gah, I really want to see more time jumps!!! I’m really hoping that Bran’s nifty warging days continue and that they will have a role to play in the following two episodes.

As the men and women continue to celebrate and drink heavily, Tormund Giantsbane gives a toast to the Dragon Queen, who in turn toasts the absent Arya Stark as the true hero of Winterfell that she is.  Meanwhile, Tyrion joins Jaime, Brienne and Podrick Payne for a rousing drinking game.

The night wears on and Tormund  is sloshed out of his mind.  He boistrously sings Jon’s praises, listing his many daring accomplishments and at one point Tormund even roars “Who flies a dragon?  A madman!  Or a king!!” and the room breaks out in cheers.  Daenerys ain’t liking it.   She sulks in the corner and gives major side eye to Jon and his group of pals who are all having a blast as she sits alone and friendless.  Varys looks on with suspicious concern.  She rises with a resentful scowl and exits the hall.

Brienne, Podrick and the Lannister bros thoroughly enjoy their drinking game until Tyrion pulls an a-hole move by speculating about Brienne’s virginity.  It’s very Breakfast Club-y  (“Answer the question, Claire!”) and it sobers Brienne up real quick.  She excuses herself and walks off.  Jaime follows after her.

Sansa spies the Hound and joins him for a chat.  At first he’s his usual gruff self, but he soon comes to realize just how much Sansa has changed since her time in King’s Landing.   He points out that she could have been spared all the torment she’s lived through, if only she had trusted him and left King’s Landing with him the night of the battle at the Blackwater.  Sansa – boss that she is – goes full Christina Aguilera and tells him how all those hardships made her stronger and the woman that she is today. It’s really an awesome scene and solidifies why the Hound is one of my faves and also how savvy and confident Sansa has become since the start of the series.

Gendry leaves the hall and finds Arya, shooting arrows by herself in the courtyard.  He shares the news of his Lordship with her and before you know it, he’s professing his love for her and bends his knee to propose that she become his wife and the Lady of Storm’s End. Aw, Gendry! That’s sweet, but that’s also not Arya’s jam at all.  She lets him down super easy, and while it’s kind of a bummer these two aren’t going to settle down and make babies together, it’s totally the right move. Hold on, though – maybe they already HAVE made a baby together?!  I know it seems a bit far-fetched to throw that log onto the storyline fire with just a few episodes left, but it could be an actual possibility.  Just sayin’.

With the festivities winding down, errbody is looking for a booty call.  Jaime comes a knockin’ on Brienne’s door to do some serious follow up on the question about her virginity.  They hook up and it’s the first time for them both – for Jaime it’s the first time sleeping with a knight…and probably also somebody who isn’t related to him.  For Brienne, it’s the first time sleeping with a dude with a golden prosthetic – which might come in rather…handy.  Also, she is a virgin.  Well, she was.  ‘Till Jaime gave her a hand in that department.  Ok, I’ll stop.

As Jon sits in his room, there’s a knock on the door.  It’s Daenerys and he invites her in.  She gets super vulnerable with him and tells him she loves him.   Things start to heat up and they make out until Jon remembers that she’s his aunt.  Weirdly, it spoils the moment.  Dany wishes he had never told her the truth about his parents, and she begs him to keep it a secret. Jon reasons that he has to tell his family and he downplays the significance of putting the truth out into the world for everybody to know. Danerys counters that this will destroy them and he has a choice, but is being a d-bag about it.  “Ugh, why can’t you just go along with my awesome plan to live in blissful repression so I can be queen and everything stays amazing?!” She leaves in a huff.  I’m so torn by the stuff going on with Dany.  The writers are turning her into this unlikeable, selfish, pouty brat.  On the one hand, I feel she is justified to feel and act the way she does.  On the other hand, she’s making a lot of poor and rash decisions lately and really isn’t winning people over.  She needs a PR overhaul to get her mojo back, stat.  

The next day in the War Room, all the important people are discussing strategy as it pertains to knocking Cersei off her Iron Throne.  Daenerys has lost half her Dothraki and Unsullied troops.  Same for Jon and the Northerners.  They are now at an even balance with Cersei’s fighters which include the Golden Company.  Yara Greyjoy has managed to take back the Iron Islands, so Dany has her support. Dorne also stands behind Daenerys’ claim to the throne, because they hate Cersei’s guts.  Daenerys points out that is doesn’t matter that she has half of Westeros’s support if  Cersei remains in power in the capital – she must be removed.  And Dany’s gut instinct is to completely annihilate King’s Landing.

Lord Varys points out that it’s not the best move to kill thousands of innocent people, if they can find a better way to remove Cersei from power.  Tyrion suggests they make use of the Greyjoy fleet and cut off all food from coming into King’s Landing – he’s seen the people revolt against their monarch on their own in the past.  If they show the starving plebians what a crappy leader Cersei is, they’ll handle her  downfall on their own.  He also suggests that Daenerys offer Cersei a bargain, wherein the current queen can keep her life if she steps down without a fight.  At first Dany bristles at the idea, but she agrees to this plan, if only because it will make Daenerys look good to the people of King’s Landing that she attempted to broker a deal with Cersei to minimize the suffering of the common folk.

Sansa speaks up and says that her men – aka the North – need time to rest and heal from the battle against the Night King.  Daenerys snaps back like a petulant child. “Excuse me?? We need to attack my enemies NOW. I lent my forces for the Winterfell battle – and now that it’s time to pony up the North’s soldiers for my pet project of conquering the realm, you don’t wanna do it yet? What do we say to the God of stalling for time?  NOT TODAY, BIATCH!” Jon interjects that they’ll give Dany whatever she wants, when she wants, and both his sisters shoot him a look.   Ugh, I think it’s a really dumb decision on Daenerys’s part, and it is really solidifying her continued descent into becoming an unreasonable tyrant.  Plus, it’s not winning her any favor among the Northerners, which she badly needs. Really, what’s the harm in waiting another week or two?

Everybody agrees that Jon and the Northern army will march south along the King’s Road.  Meanwhile, Dany and her Unsullied will head to White Harbor and sail back to Dragonstone.  As everybody leaves the room, only the Stark siblings are left behind and Arya grabs Jon’s arm. “We need a word, bro.”

In the Godswood, Bran, Sansa, Arya and Jon all talk about how Sansa and Arya don’t trust Daenerys. But why?!  Cause she’s not family.  Ooooo-kay? Jon argues that’s a pretty stupid reason (I agree), as you can’t go far in life if you don’t widen the circle of trust beyond your kin. When Arya remarks the four of them are the last of the Starks and they need to stick together, Jon says he isn’t really a Stark.  Both sisters tell him that they see Jon as their brother, not their half-bro or a bastard.  Jon’s face is all “Oh, crap.  Maaaan, do I need to get this out now???”  “Dude, it’s your call,” says Bran.  And then Jon spills the beans.  Or rather, he swears his sisters to secrecy and then makes Bran fill them in on the details of his true parents.  Sadly, we viewers don’t get to see that part, so I’m left to imagine Bran pulling out a powerpoint presentation with a venn diagram of two circles that say “People Jon is related to” and “People Jon has slept with.”

The Lannister bros are chilling in one of the parlors at Winterfell, when who should walk in, but Bronn of the Blackwater – crossbow in hand.  Tyrion and Jaime ask him what’s up and Bronn tells him of Cersei’s plan to have him assassinate the two of them for a handsome reward.  Only problem is that Bronn doubts Cersei will win the war against Daenerys, and then she won’t be able to pay up.  When Tyrion reminds Bronn of their mutual understanding that Tyrion will double any amount that Bronn is offered to kill him, they reach an agreement. Jaime and Tyrion can live, and at the end of it all, when Dany takes over as queen, Bronn gets to be Lord of Highgarden – formerly the home of House Tyrell.  I don’t really think Tyrion is in any position to make this offer, but it gets the job done and Bronn is out of the picture till the fighting is through.  He’s always wanted that Castle, and now he may actually get it.  Huzzah for Bronn!

Outside Winterfell, the Hound is on a solo ride, when Arya shows up on horseback and joins him. They both disclose that they are each headed to King’s Landing for some unfinished business with no intention of returning to Winterfell.  And since these two travel so well as a duo, they agree to make the trek together. When the Hound asks Arya if she’ll leave him to die again, should he get hurt she quips “Probobaly.”  He grins and they trot off side by side.  It’s such a good scene.  These two are #FriendshipGoals. My guess is the Hound means to kill his big Frankenbrother, the Mountain.  And Arya, obviously, must be planning to murder Queen Cersei.  Hopefully she’ll do it disguised as Jaime and give Cersei the shock of her life when she ends it.  

From the ramparts, Sansa watches Queen Dany take off with her dragons.  Tyrion approaches and asks “What’s wrong, Buttercup?  How come you don’t like my queenie?”  Sansa considers things for a while and then goes “What if I told you there was a better choice?” Ruh-roh, don’t trust Sansa with your secrets, y’all!  Gurl is savage when it comes to pushing her agenda.  It’s a calculated move on her part, but damn, that is a major betrayal to Jon. I wonder what it’ll do to their relationship.

In the courtyard, Jon is ready to hit the road and bids farewell to Tormund.  His wildling pal is over life south of the Wall, and plans to head back North once the winter storms calm down.  Jon tells him to take Ghost, too.  WTF, Jon!  Rude.  Sam and Gilly say goodbye and reveal that Gilly is preggers.  Yay, Sam will have a legit heir for House Tarly…I mean…if they tie the knot, I guess. They’d better hop to it.  Then Jon gets on his horse and trots off without so much as a belly rub or a pat on the head for poor Ghost who just looks at him like, “Wow.  Ok, so all those times I saved your ass, and protected your dead body and saved your friend AND then ran like a madwolf into a horde of Dead for you…that meant nothing? Screw you, Jon Snow.  P.S. I peed on your entire collection of hair ties. See ya never.”

Dany’s fleet is on the home stretch with Dragonstone in sight. Tyrion and Varys are aboard one of the ships and discuss Jon’s secret and what it means for the future of the realm. Varys questions Daenerys’ state of mind and Tyrion sticks up for her.  Grasping onto hope that Dany and Jon might be able to get married and rule in harmony, Varys shuts it down.  “He can’t marry his aunt, dude!  He’s from the North and that just ain’t cool.  You think his people would stand for that union?”  But Tyrion lobbies hard for Dany and tells Varys she needs guidance from her trusted advisors.  Varys just gives him resting eunuch face.

Above in the skies, Dany flies on Drogon while Rhaegal soars nearby and the dragons both shriek out happy dragon sounds at the sight of their home when…THWACK!  Out of nowhere a spear pierces Rhaegal’s chest.  And then another comes at him.  Holy moles!  Euron’s fleet has been lying in wait and each ship is outfitted with a giant dragon-killing spear launcher.  More shots are fired and Rhaegal gets it in the wing and goes down, crashing into the water below.  Dany is furious and steers Drogon straight at Euron – pure rage burning in her eyes. This is exactly what Euron wants.  He readies the next spear and aims it at her.  But when the spears are launched, Daenerys manages to dodge out of the way and changes course away from the reach of the weapons.  Next, Euron turns the spears on Dany’s fleet, completely destroying all her boats.   Survivors – including Tyrion and Grey Worm –make it ashore, but Grey Worm soon notices that Missandei is missing.

In King’s Landing, Cersei watches from her balcony as commoners file into the Red Keep – she plans to use them as human shields.  Should Daenerys try to lay fiery waste to Cersei and the Red Keep, she’ll have to do so at the expense of the death of several thousands of innocents.  Not a great way to gain the love of the masses, Dany. Euron is there, too, and confirms that Dany’s one dragon was killed.  Cersei smiles smugly and tells  Euron how their child will rule both the land and sea.  Nice way to break the news to him – even if it’s a lie.  Euron is delighted that he’s knocked her up and secured his spot as future king.  As Cersei saunters away, we see she’s taken Missandei as her prisoner.  Ugh, Cersei is such a ruthless biatch.  I don’t understand why she wants to be queen if she doesn’t give a crap about her subjects and hates to be an actual leader to her people.  Seriously, she should just go and be a filthy rich Real Housewife of Casterly Rock and day drink all the time – it would be so less stressful and her quality of life would improve immensely.  

In the War Room at Dragonstone, Daenerys, Varys, Grey Worm and Tyrion all discuss next steps.   Both Dany and Grey Worm are out for revenge and are driven by their emotions, due to Missandei being kidnapped.  Grew Worm pushes for them to storm the city with no regard for the thousands of civilians who will die in the process.  Varys advises strongly not to do this and Dany gets a frightning look in her eye as she says it’s her destiny to free the world from tyrants – no matter the cost.  Somebody call Alanis Morissette because we really need to work this into her “Ironic” song.  “It’s like killing 10,000 peeeeeeeps, so you can be their beloved queen…”

In the Dragonstone throne room, Varys and Tyrion are in for more hand-wringing as they discuss the Daenerys/Jon problem.  Ultimately, Varys has lost faith in the dragon queen and he’s ready to bet all his chips on Jon.  He questions her ability to keep a cool head and worries she’ll get more ruthless and impulsive with more power.  When Tyrion protests that Jon doesn’t even want to be king, and can’t they just rule together, Varys dismisses it as an option.  In the end, Tyrion chooses to stand by his queen and do what a good advisor SHOULD do.   Varys, however, is ready to board the treason train.  When Tyrion asks Varys what would become of Dany, Varys just give him a look.  “Don’t do it, dude.” – “I’ve made my choice – now you make yours”, says Varys.  Oh man.  We already know Varys is gonna bite it, due to Melisandre’s prediction last season. I’m betting Dany is going to find out about his plotting and have him killed.  

Word of Daenerys’s ambush is delivered to Sansa.  When Jaime approaches her, she fills him in and adds “I always wanted to see your sis get executed – looks like I won’t have the chance. Tsk, tsk.”  That evening, Jaime leaves Brienne’s warm bed and saddles up a horse in the courtyard.  When Brienne notices he’s gone, she runs outside and begs him to stay. She believes he intends to save Cersei from Dany’s wrath.  Jaime won’t be persuaded and he gallops off as Brienne sobs, heartbroken. Personally, I think he might just go and try to kill Cersei himself – because, prophecies.  That is, unless Arya beats him to it.  Oooh, maybe he’ll get to King’s Landing just in time to see Arya disguised as him…killing Cersei.  Whaaaaat?  Mind blown. It could happen.

Outside the walls of the Red Keep, Daenerys and Cersei have a parlay.  Cersei stands on her ramparts – which have several dragon-spearing weapons set up – along with Missandei and the Mountain.  Both Hands of the Queen, Qyburn and Tyrion, meet up.  Tyrion informs Qyburn that Dany demands Cersei’s unconditional surrender and that Missandei be released immediately.  Qyburn placidly parrots nearly the same demand back to Tyrion:  Cersei demands Daenerys’s unconditional surrender and if she doesn’t, Missandei will die on the spot.  As Tyrion attempts to reason with Qyburn, he can see it’s pointless and he bypasses him, trotting right up to the gates to talk to his sister directly.  

When Tyrion approaches, Cersei’s archers all pull back their bows, ready to shoot him and oh my goodness, I’m so worried that Tyrion is about to get killed!  Cersei raises her hand, and after a good long moment of  trepidation, she gives her men the signal to stand down.  Whew!  Tyrion appeals to Cersei’s one good side – her loving nature as a mother – and he tells her she and her child don’t have to die if they cut a deal.  She can end her rule, and still have a great life with her child.  But Cersei ain’t having it.  She walks over to Missandei, who stands dangerously close to the edge of the wall. Cersei leans in and places a hand on her arm – is she going to push her?! Will she release her?! Nah, instead she tells Missandei this is her chance for some final words.  Ugh! WHY?  Missandei tearfully stares out at her Queen and Grey Worm and in a cracked voice calls out “DRACARYS!” The Mountain draws his sword and in one fell blow, chops off Missandei’s head while Daenerys looks on in helpless horror.  Her shock turns into pure simmering rage as Daenerys turns away and storms off.  And roll credits.

Ruh to the roh! This episode was rough! Poor Missandei. And poor Grey Worm!  I mean, I did assume one of them was going to die by the end of the series, but my money was on Grey Worm.  RIP Missandei!  I’m so upset that Daenerys is losing her most trusted people who love and support her completely.  I’m not happy at all that the show really seems to be setting her up for a total Mad Queen downward spiral.  Say it ain’t so.

I can’t say I really liked this episode, though I guess it was a necessary one to get all the pieces into place for the last two episodes.  I found it hopped all over the place to get as much stuff in as possible and tie up lots of characters’ stories.   I just hate all the things Dany did in this episode and it feels like a total betrayal to the viewer, if I may say so.  They just had her be this pouty, impulsive and manipulative person who makes a lot of dumb choices. If this is all meant to lay the groundwork to make her seem more and more power hungry and unstable, then well-done, but it doesn’t seem true to her nature at all and feels a bit like a cop out. Unless the writers just WANT us to believe they are going down that track and then they’ll surprise us all. Ahhh, the GOT mind games are messing with me.

Also, I really hope Arya gets to kill Cersei and I’m thinking maybe she’ll even help the Hound kill his bro – because Cleganebowl is starting to look like a sure thing here, right?  I kinda feel like Arya will die by the end of the series, because all four Stark siblings can’t possibly survive, can they?

I’m getting super excited for the big battle episode next week and I’m hoping it doesn’t leave me as disappointed as “The Long Night” in its resolution.  Hang in there, friends, and I’ll see ya next week!

#GOTrecaps

[cbk1000]

Jenn Recommends: Fantasy

All right, kids; it’s that time again. Time for me to babble on for an obnoxiously long time about books I have read and adored, and time for you to just shut the fuck up and take all my advice, because I have great taste.

Since this recommendation list concerns fantasy, all of the following books are actually part of a series, because it is illegal for fantasy authors to write standalone novels: they will be publicly executed for devoting anything less than 3,000 pages to Timmy’s sword and stones. You know this is true because you just read it on the internet.

If You Like: Political intrigue, really hot people, + everyone and their brother being canonically gay as fuck.

Read: The Kushiel’s Legacy series by Jacqueline Carey.

This series starts with Kushiel’s Dart, and there are actually two trilogies worth reading in this world: Phedre’s (the first trilogy) and Imriel’s (the second, which I may like even better). We do not talk about the third trilogy. In this write-up, I’m just going to talk about the first trilogy, but if you enjoy it, I definitely encourage you to read the next three books.

Phèdre nó Delaunay is a courtesan who was born with a scarlet mote in her left eye--a mark of the god to let others know that she’s into really kinky shit. You cannot spank this bitch hard enough. As a child she is sold into indentured servitude, and bought by a man who recognizes the mote in her eye for what it is and what it signifies--namely, that people who sexually enjoy having the ever-loving fuck beat out of them are pretty much up for anything, which means she will make a great spy.

So that is what she is trained in--not just the arts of the bedroom, but the arts of overhearing everything meant for non-State-approved ears. Of course because this is a novel and something has to happen in it, she stumbles upon a plot against the throne that gets a lot of people stabbed multiple times and throws her and her hapless goddammit-this-is-my-first-real-assignment bodyguard into a Perilous Journey that spans Many Lands.

Two things I really love about this series: the world building and the casual approach to homosexuality.

The various different countries are obviously based heavily upon European history and lore, but she’s done enough research to really flesh them out. We don’t just have a few generic descriptions here and there of vaguely European geography, but actual religions and languages and histories which are more than just given a hasty, passing mention to conjure the illusion that the world is more tangible than it actually is: you can taste and touch and hear Terre d’Ange.

As for the casual homosexuality: the main pairing is hetero, but Phedre takes several female lovers, because in Terre d’Ange, the one rule by which everyone must abide is ‘Love as thou wilt’. No one is really straight or gay; sexuality isn’t really a thing, labels aren’t a thing; people bone who they bone and nobody bats an eye. Kind of like Ancient Greece, till it came time for you to stop porking Archimedes during oily wrestling sessions and churn out a couple of brats. Sex work in this world is also considered in the service of the goddess, and those engaged in it are bestowing a blessing on their customers; it is an honorable and profitable line of work.

I honestly could not put these books down. I have two copies of the third book in this trilogy because I ordered it online while halfway through the second, then promptly panicked when I realized it wouldn’t arrive in time for me to immediately begin the third as soon as I finished the second novel. I actually drove an hour and a half to the nearest Barnes and Noble just so I didn’t have to wait two agonizing days for the next book to arrive. The writing can be a little heavy-handed (think purple euphemisms for a man’s steely pleasure wand, etc.), but overall it’s gripping and lush and I could barely stop reading long enough to take bathroom breaks.

If You Like: Bleak stories where probably nobody is ever going to get anything more than a brief glimpse of happiness before it’s cruelly torn away from them and legitimately creepy monsters.

Read: The Banned and the Banished series by James Clemens.

This series on the surface is your fairly generic Evil Dark Lord vs. Savior Newly Awakened To Their Powers. Elena is a thirteen-year-old girl who has just been visited for the very first time by the dreaded Aunt Flo. With puberty comes the blossoming of new powers: a red hand that shoots a lot of fire out of it, a power I would’t mind having while trying to navigate a bunch of idiot-inflicted traffic. Over the course of the five books in the series, she picks up her Adventure Party and they sally forth to do battle with the Dark Lord’s minions (of which there are a metric fuck ton, in scientific terms). Some parts begin to feel a little monster-of-the-week, as the protagonists barely have time to take a breath in between waves of tentacly evil.

So why I am I recommending this series? Because Clemens is not content with just scattering some generic tropes around the page and calling it good: he wants you to go, “What the FUCK, dude??”. A lot. This is probably the only book in which you will encounter a woman letting a bunch of spiders crawl into her vagina. Or later giving birth to those spiders, which have, upon the touch of the Dark Lord, transformed into a monster that smells like dead baby and eats people’s faces. I recently came across this series in Russian and have been rereading it as a 31-year-old adult, and there are scenes which even now thoroughly traumatize me; it really explains why I am the way I am, since I first read the beginning books when I was only 11-12.

This series is surprisingly hard to put down; I suppose it’s because you are compelled (or at least I am) to find out what the hell kind of nasty thing is next going to emerge from the forest and inspire you to check under your bed at night even though you’re a goddamn adult. This series is not for the faint of heart, obviously. But if you like dark fantasy, and you’re into the idea of reading something that on the surface seems a pretty standard fantasy tale before it suddenly starts hurling vagina spiders all up your business, check it out. Also, if you’ve read any of my work and you’d like to know just what the fuck is wrong with me, I believe this series can throw a little light on that.

If You Like: A protagonist who won’t take your shit but also is allowed to be emotionally vulnerable, Chinese history, detailed military campaigns.

Read: The Poppy War by R.F. Kuang.

Rin, a war orphan raised by shitty foster parents in a backwoods village, is accepted into a prestigious military academy where pretty much everyone, teachers included, hates her because she’s a peasant and this school is for the sons of rich people, goddammit. Rin is talented in the nearly lost art of shamanism because she’s the main character of a fantasy novel, and it is only her newly-found powers that have a chance of halting the advance of the Federation as they march upon the Nikara Empire, intent on conquering (and graphically torture murdering) everything in its path. On the flip side: her powers have also been known to turn literally all their wielders into raging loonies who have to be imprisoned for the good of everyone.

My ignorance of Chinese history is absolute, so I’ve no idea where the author (herself Chinese, and an historian, I believe) is pulling from in order to build the foundations of her world, but it’s obvious she has done a lot of research and painstakingly agonized over every little detail. It’s nice to finally step away from the usual Euro-centric world of much Western fantasy, and into one so fully fleshed-out.

This story actually reminds me in some ways of Mulan: the unlikely protagonist bests nearly everyone in all of her training--but only because she works three times harder than anyone else, and no one particularly admires her for it, saving her from Mary Suedom. She’s intelligent and determined, but nothing comes easily (especially when one of your masters is more than a little unhinged). She has exactly one friend, and spends most of her time trying to read her way to a better martial artist. 

This is not, however, a school story; and though the characters are 16-17 when they first enter the academy, it is not a YA story either. It is a story about war, and the author has no interests in presenting war as anything other than it is: revolting, traumatizing, horrific. There are some very graphic depictions of violence, so if you do not have the stomach for that, this is not the book for you.  Neither massacres nor first kills are glossed over; everything is presented exactly as it looks, smells, feels. 

Because life is never one long angst-ridden slog, however, and there was always something, before war, there are moments of legit humor; I actually laughed out loud at several lines. And that leads me to something else the author does very well: dialogue.  Much dialogue is an excuse for the author to sound worldly, wise--poetic. It also often hardly sounds like human speech. Real humans, even articulate, intelligent humans, do not shit a fucking Keats verse every time they open their mouths. In The Poppy War, people, wonder of wonders, actually sound like people; perhaps even more notable: teenagers sound like teenagers.

Stylistically, this book is utilitarian; I won’t be highlighting any phrases because they’ve left me awestruck. But it is not lightweight fantasy; the main characters wield terrifying powers with immense consequences. They are mangled, tortured, killed; some of them are drug addicts because only in opium can they find a momentary release from what they have survived. It’s a hold-onto-your-balls-kids kind of story. This is the first novel in a purported trilogy, and I will definitely be keeping an eye out for the rest of the series.

#books #jenn recommends

[thesarcasticside]

Anything-$00000DE5

NAME Dorian ID 1 9 16 7 ALIENRACE Rhodorium OCCUPATION Doctor

Chapter Warnings Swearing, innuendo, knife mention, gross food mention Chapter Characters Janus, Remus

AO3 Chapter 1 Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Dee was in deadshit middle of nowhere getting his ass whooped by a bunch of cocky punks.

Which was exactly what Remus had told his brother later while twirling his fingers in the cord of his older than dirt phone.

These trashy bandits (or whatever their nefarious occupation was) had been loitering around the shop like a bunch of girl scouts leaning against a grocery store selling cookies. Remus was not sad to see them go, scared off like a bunch of rats.

Remus couldn’t help watching this badass loner guy punch the shit out of those losers like he was decking the halls from atop his watchtower. Not much of a watchtower, more like an endgame Janga Tower made of trash and dog shit, but a tall enough structure to poke some binoculars through.

Pushing the lens through an opening, Remus watched as this JD looking guy got his face torn off by those nobodies. And then he saw his eye glow yellow like an LED on 10 volts and annihilate those posers with a plasma blast; Remus almost shouted “booyah” to Mr. Cyborg Man.

Welp, time to open up shop, Remus supposed, sliding down a pole that ran down his watchtower like a firefighter who was, you know, also a stripper.

Remus bounced around through his junkyard, racing the small distance to the entrance like he was jogging through an obstacle course. The dry dirt was flung into the air as his boots thromped onto the ground. Metal and plastic ricocheted against one another as he kicked spare parts aside. He knocked over a pile of junk, which sounded like a bunch of kindergarteners in a marching band on its way down.

Remus skidded to a halt, chest to chest to this cool loner guy, having overshot his stopping point. Flailing mechanical limbs behind his back, Remus teetered backwards before finding his balance again. The guy bounced back, taking a step backwards. His yellow eye twinkled for a second before he changed his mind.

The man swept dust off his dark brown suit and black capelet, squinting what was left of his nose. Artificial skin on half of his face was torn off, a menagerie of metals. The grooves and lines were scale-like, with bits of patinaed copper here and there.

His cheek ‘bones’ looked as sharp as a knife, which made sense because they were, you know, made of metal and could probably be considered a knife. Face knifes. How cool was that? Remus smiled at him in that unsettling way he specializes in.

They stared at each other for a bit too long; the cyborg looked at Remus, disgusted and appalled at his trash boy apparel.

“Howdy partner,” Remus said unironically, like he was born in a bona fide space western, “what brings you to these parts?”

“Oh, just in the area ‘is all” Mystery man said, you know, like a liar.

Remus was amused by the deliberate, calculated way the guy carried himself. Fancy, he thought, but dragged it out in his head with an obnoxious accent.

“You must be Remus.” The man said, skeptical, looking across at the junkyard.

“Yup. Need your face fixed up?”

“Um, no thanks. I have something else I would like for you to do for me.”

Remus smiled, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “What might that be?”

The man’s eyes rolled like a man after getting pushed down a hill. “I am here to pick up a commission for Dramatica Watt,” which was a really stupid fake name.

Remus blinked, scrunching his face in thought, lips puckering, “Ah!” he said, pointing a finger to the sky. “That one.” Remus frowned. “What a shame, those raw materials are pretty wild. Wonder what Ms. Watt is making with them”

“Nothing good, I am afraid.”

Remus let out a very contemplative “hmm” and turned on his heel towards his junkyard-front-yard. “If it ends up exploding on ‘em, be sure to get it on video. Follow me.”

Traversing the yard and entering his workshop, Remus led Dee to a white room, which looked like it was copy-pasted right out of a medical drama. The blank bright walls, clean floors, and clear surfaces of the room were a shocking contrast to the rest of Remus’ hovel.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, it looks squeaky clean. Pretty disappointing. The room makes me think of my brother sometimes.” Remus laughed a bit, “Not like, he disappointed the parents, ruined the family legacy or anything. That was my doing. He’s just a goodie-two-shoes who thinks white is some cool futuristic aesthetic thing.”

Remus grinned at Dee, whose stern, unamused frown had turned into something more curious. Remus danced as he walked, but Dee walked as if he had memorized the manual on walking.

“I’m no idiot when it comes to medical procedures and shit. Infections are no joke, so I keep it clean in here.”

Remus moved backwards, like a tour guide, as he decided to show off his house—he did not get many visitors.

Passing through the white room and opening a steel door, Remus bent down to search through a large storage closet, creating quite a racket, before emerging with a big, beaten up box. The box was reused. The graphics on the sides looked to have been for something quite questionable looking.

Looking above the large box of L'aundrifoil, Remus looked at the guy again. “So, I know the money is going to be transferred to me, but I need confirmation that you’re the one supposed to be picking this up.” Dee showed the purchase order to Remus, and Remus nodded his head.

“Great, so, uh, you must be exhausted a bit after travelling over here and fighting off those punks. Do you want to chill for a moment? I got snacks.”

“No,” he said, and yet Dee found himself sitting on a bar stool, leaning against a kitchen counter, watching the alien bounce from fridge to cabinet, scooping up snacks by the armful.

“Did you say your name? I can’t remember. I have been calling you Mr. Cyborg Protagonist in my head this whole time.”

“Don’t have one. Dramatica’s goons call me $DEE. It’s not really my name.” Really, the only goon that called him Dee was himself since nobody really called him anything.

“D… D-D,” Remus hummed, “Doesn’t really fit like, you don’t look like a letter.”

Remus dropped everything on the counter, some of the food bursting open and leaking.

“I grabbed the least disgusting shit I had in my kitchen. You don’t look to be of the kind with the refined taste of a bottom feeder like myself.”

On the cold laminate counter, Dee could pick out and read various snacks, including: Istavices, gloop-os, Staopies, and lays potato chips. He popped open the bag of chips and ignored the rest.

“Oh fuck!” Remus snapped, which made Dee jump in his seat, his jaw snapping shut mid potato chip. “I forgot about the livestream today!” Remus slid a smart device out of a pocket—which had been well-camouflaged inside the rest of the man’s eclectic outfit. “You okay with being on camera or nah?” Dee shook his head no, and Remus nodded.

Remus held up the device, the camera aiming at Remus and the rest of the kitchen, as if Janus was in the position of a live studio audience. Dee looked side to side, wondering, should I leave?

“Hey sludges, how’s it going? Might not have a ton of time today to stream, but I promised to show ya the thing-a-ma-bob I finished up yesterday.”

“In the background I got a guest today. He beat up a bunch of punks loitering in my yard. He’s got a cool laser eye.”

“Ah, yep, yah, he is totally a space protagonist. Doesn’t have a name… besides bae.” Remus laughed, looked away from the camera, and winked at him. He was flattered.

“Type in the chat for name ideas for my new space-cow-boy-friend.”

Dee had to leave, but, goodness, he did not want to. He burst into a fit of laughter for what felt like the first time in his life—

#ts (In Other Worlds) #ts (INW) #ts Janus #ts deceit #ts the dragon witch #ts storytime #ts storytime 2021 #ts big bang #ts Virgil #sarcasm writes #sarcasm ts fic #thomas sanders #sander sides #sander sides fic #ts Anything #ts Remus

[amongushq]

Welcome (back) to Among Us, FLEUR! SPYRO ATHANASIADIS ( with the faceclaim of ARAMIS KNIGHT ) has found shelter in CAMP JUPITER, where we hope HE will fit in nicely. Please make sure to check the “after applying” section of our navigation here!

The application is full of details that just letting us get to know Spyro more and more the more we read. His situation with his two mothers is very unique and something we have not seen being pulled off so it would be a refreshing sight to see! It was nice to read about his adventure of getting to know who his godly mother and it was relieving to get to the point where he does discover it so that he isn’t placed in the dark for most of his stay. The shift between Camp Half Blood to Camp Jupiter has always been brutal for those who were trained as a Greek but we’re glad to see that he fared well despite the hardship that he got from the judgment. Hopefully, with the Recall ongoing and with more open people in Camp Jupiter’s government (per se?), he would do better and be more accepted by his peers.

AND YOU ARE…?

What is your full name, and when were you born?

Spyro Athanasiadis, initially Spyridon Ispahani, was born to Amrita Ispahani in Boston on the 22nd of September, 1999.

But not really.

What happened was that Amrita met this smart, graceful, amazing woman named Jane in her Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality studies program back at Brandeis, which she attended as a Classical Studies major. Jane was all that occupied Amrita’s free time, the new colour of the sky, the name of every flower the young woman had ever smelled, the notes of her favourite instruments. Amrita was in love, and to this day she still believes that Jane was, too. She told her so many times, and showed her in many ways. When it was time for her to leave, Jane proved her affection one last time with a newborn child, which Amrita thought looked a lot like her brother in his first days. Jane being a goddess was a bedtime story come true for Amrita who chose not to discuss nor doubt her lover.

Spyridon Ispahani, later to become Spyro Athanasiadis, was born to a goddess named Jane and a mortal woman named Amrita, someplace undisclosed within the United States borders, on September 22nd, 1999.

Have you been claimed, or do you belong to a legacy? If yes, state your godly parent / heritage.

When her lover had told Amrita she wasn’t a regular human, the latter came to the immediate conclusion that Jane wasn’t a name for a divinity, but never got round to asking how to address the one she loved — a name to research her by, to tie to her prayers so she’d be in her thoughts in a way more compatible with the superior nature of her existence. Somewhere deep down, she felt that Jane didn’t want that from a lover, being treated as ‘just’ a goddess. It would only make things weird, after having exchanged jokes and watched romantic comedies, to find her name attached to the mala beads rolling between Amrita’s fingers as she’d recite or chant with her eyes closed.

So this mystery remained until years later, when Spyro visited Camp Jupiter after the war against Gaea. He was sixteen then, and as he alone glowed among his small group of Greek demigod tourists, making their way up to Temple Hill, he understood why for two years he had been left unclaimed while attending Camp Half Blood. The name ‘Jana’ came up, and he smiled. Secrets, mysteries, and hidden things — he knew something about that. And while he was glad to finally know who his other mother was, glad he would be able to pass on the tidbit of information to his mom who had been wondering for so long, gasps and exclamations blooming around him after the claiming ritual from his mother was done spelt the uncovering of yet another mystery.

Gods had truly been responsible for Amrita’s grandmother managing a pregnancy after many difficulties, although not the ones her family would have thought: it was Summanus, god of nocturnal thunder, who found her as she had been standing in the backyard at night, wondering how something as universal as rain could taste and smell so differently in this foreign country she had been one of the few allowed to reach and call home. The storm had called her, as it always did: thunder made her heart thump louder, the rolling sound of it in the distance running through her veins like a call of the wild. She wouldn’t be happy in the United States, she knew, no matter how better off she had been told she’d be. But feverish and torn as she was, standing alone under her favourite weather, she had chalked down the dark and handsome stranger suddenly by her side to a dreamy hallucination, a hazy illusion she had no qualms giving herself to with abandon. He was lightning, she could feel that in her bones: he was her weather, her rhythm, he was the one thing familiar in this place without her gods, her family; where only her and her husband coexisted in silent exhaustion, and suddenly she had felt alive, galvanised. He whispered a name when he faded away.

While she died holding his name in her heart, the sound of it never making it past her lips even once, even when she was alone, it was brought to life again as an integral part of Spyro’s family, something he hopes would have made his great-grandmother happy.

Where are you currently based? Are you attending a Camp (Half-Blood / Jupiter), or are you living full-time in New Athens / New Rome? Is it a combination of both?

Camp Jupiter, of which he is a member of the third Cohort. Though it is not thanks to any recommendation letter or famous family ties: even though Summanus, twin of Lord Jupiter himself, is a great ancestor to be affiliated with, being the son of a borrowed Etruscan goddess tends to nip that asset in the bud. Not to mention his previous stint in Camp Half Blood — having answered ‘Greek’ to the "what are you?" question, Spyro was quickly taken to Long Island after a young demigoddess saved him from a katobleps. He remained among the Greeks for about two years, staying in the Hermes cabin all along, as no one would claim him. It was considered at some point that he might be a mortal who could see through the mist, but his and Amrita’s joined explanation was enough for Chiron, who believed an answer would come in due time. And it did, on the day of that fateful visit. While that stay had been a stressful experience for Spyridon, who would see children claimed every so often while he remained motherless, he had still applied himself and learnt how to fight with various weapons. His abilities were refined, mastered to near-perfection. He developed his analytical thinking and sense of strategy thanks to Capture the Flag, all the while hoping he would become someone his mother would be proud of — proud enough to manifest herself.

His very Greek-like fighting and life style wasn’t well received at Camp Jupiter, though, and it is only because the various cohorts have been encouraged to slowly give up on their elitist distribution process that the son of Jana was granted a bed in the barracks attributed to the third Cohort. Having heard of the former order of things and seeing, even to that day, the remnants and direct consequences of the camp’s past politics, his position places a great deal of stress of the boy’s shoulders, as he still aims to make both his parents proud by becoming someone the third cohort won’t regret taking in. Where Camp Half Blood would sometimes pin him to bed for entire days as melancholy overtook him, Camp Jupiter hardly sees him sleep — unless thunder slashes the day sky, in which case he might end up taking a solid nap in the middle of War Games.

Can you tell us a little bit about yourself? ( If you’re applying for a canon character, are you diverging from book-canon? If so, how?)

Spyridon was young when his mother moved to Greece, a country she had always wanted to see with her own eyes. The Master’s Degree program at Brandeis came with great opportunities for summer fieldwork and after a few tastes of it, Amrita was quick to take a job as a classical artefacts specialist within a team of researchers and archaeologists, travelling around Greece for a few years before settling down with Panagiotis, a widower slightly older than her and father to four. Spyro became a step-brother and started attending school full-time, instead of being dragged from one structure to another or being taught by his mom, which turned out to be quite exhausting and demanding changes for the quiet boy. He wasn’t used to talking to anyone but adults, as well as those imaginary friends Amrita’s co-workers loved to laugh about until the ten year old started spouting coherent and precise facts about this or that item’s use or origin, which always ended up verified. They wouldn’t laugh so much then when he said one of his friends had tipped him off. In the same way, he always knew where to start digging first and what would turn up. This Amrita knew to be a gift from Jane, so she wasn’t worried; but her son’s frequent conversation with no one caused her a bit of worry.

He didn’t hear them very loud, he said, until they neared a temple, a shrine, the ruins of their homes. Then the ghosts of who they used to be would speak, and he’d listen. Spyro knew a lot about the gods, and his mother liked to pretend he was simply sensitive to it because of the deity he was related to. He could hear their secrets, their thoughts, he could tell if an object had been revered or cursed or feared just by holding it in both hands. This ability carried on even when his mom’s marriage took him away from excavation sites and museums, but it made his new family ill at ease. They were suspicious, superstitious; so he stopped touching what didn’t belong to him or his mother, stopped scrying inside their head without meaning to. But it didn’t matter: they told him their secrets, in due time. There was something about Spyro that always pushed people to confide in him, because he’d never promise to keep his mouth shut, but everybody knew he would. Teachers stopped asking him if he had seen something when a classmate would do something they shouldn’t have; if one of his siblings wasn’t happy with a gift, they could put on any facade they’d like, Spyro would always know — but keep quiet, because just like his brother or sister, he didn’t want to upset anyone.

Yet aggravation is a feeling one quickly gets accustomed to when two people with entirely different faiths end up living under the same roof, in a country that is obviously on the side of one and raising a quizzical eyebrow at the other. Eventually Amrita’s dreams and aspirations outgrew her love for Panagiotis, whose own will to live his life by rigid codes he found comfort in conflicted with his younger spouse’s views of life. But he had married outside the Orthodox church, they had had no child together; a divorce, while possible, would be a disgrace. Besides, he had adopted Spyro, given him his own name so the child wouldn’t feel singled out. He was still a good man and a good father, a good friend, too; so Amrita took her boy and went back to Boston, then moved to New York, starting a new life without so much as mentioning divorce papers.

That should have been life-changing enough. Except now, so close to the gods he used to hear faintly in his youth, Spyro was overwhelmed by the information: some places had been touched by events so big they shouldn’t be possible to conceal, battles had been fought and a war waged and it was too much. He looked up high and saw something immense looming over them all, gates bigger and brighter than anything he’d ever imagined, a sky-city, and when he looked ahead again… There came the monster.

After Spyridon’s first visit to Camp Half Blood, Amrita moved to Kingston, Canada, so her son would have a safe place to return to whenever he’d want to see her. Over there the impressions were quieter, although there were still many things to hide — for everyone has secrets.

What were you doing prior to The Recall?

After finding out his godly ancestors were Roman and not Greek as he had thought, Spyridon left Camp Half Blood for the Wolf House, where he trained for several months under Lupa’s strict guidance. Once she deemed him ready, he packed his bags and readied himself for Camp Jupiter. Except, why would he leave one camp for another without taking a break to live the life of mysteries and adventures he used to have with his mom, all these years back? So he unpacked, ran back to Kingston, and told Amrita he was going to India instead. There was more to their life than Greece, although Amrita’s love for it had given him his name, and there was more to them than Roman gods, even though those had given both mother and son life. There were the gods Amrita had been told stories about as a child, those whose counsel and guidance she sought out in times of doubt, those she had always kept in her heart even when her whole world had been turned upside down, when she had loved a goddess then a man who thought divinity came under one mask only. There were others, Spyro had thought, and they were just as important, had just as big a place in his life. And he would meet them.

But as he was visiting some Camp friends to say his goodbyes until his return, the president’s address and Zeus’ Recall fell like Damocles’ sword finally giving in. The videos, the articles, all those had been worrying, but never had he suspected it would come to this. If anything, the apparent worry the mortals had for those ‘child soldiers’ (this is not entirely wrong, Spy had thought, but kept his mouth shut) had led him to believe that maybe he would be able to talk about his family more openly, his great-grandfather and his mother. Maybe mortals would find a new respect for the little voices, the plaintive whispers of deities some had thought to be Spyro’s imaginary friends. Those who had no one to remember them, whose name was sometimes mentioned but never got more than a line or two written about them. His own mother, Jana, being one of them.

He had hoped against hope that this would become the first step towards a bigger understanding, a world that would embrace as many truths as there were people. He was tired of hiding, tired of remembering the talks and looks the less welcoming neighbours would shoot his mother, the tone with which Panagiotis would say "I made sacrifices for you, this is how much I love you," like mother and son should have been grateful he allowed them to live their life and hold their beliefs, still. But of course he had been disappointed, shot down and denied by powerful forces who’d rather a cold war or a witch hunt than peace. Some people weren’t made for peace.

Stuck between towns and camps, Spyro chose Camp Jupiter and begged Amrita not to set foot in the United States. He’d go back to her somehow, he would find a way. Someday this would end, surely. Until then he would train and be ready for anything, because there was one fact in life he didn’t need Jana’s help to see: there was something brewing on the horizon, and he needed to be ready when it exploded.

#accepted #spyro athanasiadis

[shame-on-nyall]

[fic] cruel

on the theme of forgiveness, some dialogue between the brothers I had wanted to include in my ongoing piece somehow but could not find a good place to shove it in, so you get to read it here instead. just headcanons written out in a narrative basically...

warning for suicide mention

(2073 words, sorry mobile users in advance)

 Hanzo had known he was wrong to kill Genji, but he had been coerced into the logic of the decision, the justifications repeated into his ear relentlessly until he half believed he had no other choice, that his father even wanted this to happen.  There too had been a genuine fear that the elders would have Genji murdered by someone else if Hanzo refused to do it or if he failed, and then have Hanzo killed afterward to cover it up.  At that time, he remembered the clan’s power and influence were being tested by rival groups, and Overwatch had signaled its intent on bringing down the weapons dealing business in Japan.   No doubt the elders had been waiting for the moment of their father’s death in order to finally eliminate the tarnish the two of them had brought upon the Shimada name.  For as irresponsible as Genji had acted, wasting the family’s money frivolously, getting caught on social media, or worse, with boys and girls who could have been using his favor to extract information, Hanzo had not been able to live up to such impossibly high standards either. There had been several bad omens at Hanzo’s birth, so they had told him, and combined with the rumors that he had been conceived before his parents’ wedding day, it had cost him legitimacy in the eyes of the superstitious elders.  Even after his spirit dragons manifested and cemented his position as the heir, after all of the work he did at his father’s side for the sake of the clan, the pall of impending misfortune never really lifted. Hanzo felt certain that even if he did everything right and obeyed the elders’ every command, sooner or later something would happen to the family business that they could blame on him, and he would be deposed and thrown out.  The council had made it clear years ago they did not love him, nor Genji, not the lowborn woman who was their mother, not even the fool who dared to love his family who was their father.

 It was for the best that he give Genji a swift and honorable death now, by a traditional duel instead of the execution they would have granted lesser members.  Then Genji would no longer be torn between his freedom and having to stay by Hanzo’s side, he would be released from the tyranny of custom and family ties, and Hanzo would assume his father’s legacy, his burden on his own. The elders would retract their criticism of Genji after his honorable death, they would bury the younger Shimada beside their mother with praise, they would certainly acknowledge Hanzo’s leadership; all this was promised, and Hanzo, so much the fool, believed they would deliver.

 It was for the best, Hanzo had convinced himself, up until the moment he wrapped his shaking arms about his brother’s bloody corpse and realized he had killed the only person left whom he loved and who loved him in return.  Then it was too late, and Hanzo saw with clear eyes how he had been deceived.  The elders did not care if either he or Genji died, for they would simply pressure the remaining heir, weakened without his brother’s support, turning him into a puppet before disposing of him and instating some easily manipulated, dragon-less cousin instead.  Undoubtedly they would have preferred the brothers kill each other at the same time, two birds dead by one blow.

 His suspicions confirmed when he suddenly gave up his position as the leader of the Shimada and exiled himself, and the council moved to take over easily, as if they had planned this years ago. Probably at the same time they resolved to hire assassins to kill him.  But Hanzo avoided death, month after month, year after year, even though he drank himself nearly to the point several times.  Something or someone was keeping him alive for some reason. Genji’s spirit, he had thought, haunting him out of revenge, to make him suffer for his sins.  Only later did Hanzo discover it was actually Genji himself, and it had not been for vengeance.  Not quite, anyway.

 “I mean yeah, for a while it was hilarious to watch you fall to pieces and come back to Hanamura to pay your respects to me once a year, when I could have given you a break any time and let you know I was still alive.”

 Sitting next to him on a courtyard bench, Hanzo stared at his brother’s visor in unhappy silence.  “But…?” he ventured after a pause.

 “What do you mean, but?  It was fucking hilarious.  Still is.”  A harsh, mechanical snigger, a twinkle of neon green lights under a clear night sky.

 He should have known better than to expect a real answer, but Hanzo helplessly closed his eyes and exhaled slowly in an older sibling type gesture he had done a thousand times before, which had Genji cackling in glee.

 “Anija…” he said as soon as he calmed down, his tone almost playful despite his cold, cold words, “you shouldn’t have killed me, you shouldn’t have even thought of it.  Why did you?  Did you hate me that much?”

 “No, Genji, never,” Hanzo murmured, shaking his head in anguish.

 “If you had really wanted me dead, you could have just shot me, two bullets in my brain.”  Genji put two fingers up to his temple, made a sound, bang, bang, and Hanzo flinched.  “Instead you made me suffer, you slashed me into pieces and burned me alive, and you watched me die the entire time.  But I never died!  What even was the point of all that, Hanzo, if you didn’t hate me?”

 “I…”  He had no answer, no words that would mean anything, not from a killer’s tongue.  Genji was right, he knew how to use a gun, it would have been a sure and quick death, if not honorable.  Killing Genji by katana had been for his own vanity…  Trembling, Hanzo stared at the paved ground, though he could not see clearly, as if he had been plunged underwater.  Perhaps he was drowning, that would explain the trouble he had drawing breath.

 Genji made a humming sound, continued absently, “At the same time, if you hadn’t attempted to kill me, we wouldn’t have gotten a second chance like this.  It’s not the same, not ideal, not what we dreamed of together, but… it really was for the best, even if we didn’t think so at the time…”

 For the best.  The same words Hanzo had used to convince himself to fratricide.  Hearing those words from his little brother, from the ruined and rebuilt body that he was partly responsible for creating, made him want to tear out his hair and scream in shameful frustration.  “Genji… how?” Hanzo whispered, agonized.  “How can you sound so light-hearted when I took the best years of your life away from you?”

“Because… these are the best years of my life now, with the two of us together once more.”  Genji’s voice buzzed calm and reassuring through its filter.  “I may not have my own body, but what I have instead is better.  Is this… not what you wanted, brother?”

No.  He wanted his old brother back, the pretty sparrow boy, smooth skin, guts intact, the irrepressible sibling at his shoulder in the photo in the frame.  He wanted a memory that no longer existed, which he never deserved to see again, but which he had clung to like a lifeline, until it was cruelly taken away from him in the admission of a cyborg who would remind him every waking moment of the worst day of his life.  Hopeless, without any way to express even a fraction of what had been churning through his mind since their reunion, Hanzo began to cry.  For the first time in ten long years, he wept.  Ugly hiccupping sobs, hot tears and snot streaming unheeded down his face and throat while he wailed out the sorrow and guilt he kept to himself all this time.

“Anija…” Genji murmured, a little remorsefully, one hand reaching up to rub Hanzo’s shoulder comfortingly.  He held him close in a brief moment of quiet support before saying, “Aww, anija, I didn’t mean to make you cry like this.”

Hanzo stopped mid sob to glare up at Genji. “Yes you did,” he hissed, although through his stuffy nose it sounded far less intimidating.

Out of habit, out of muscle memory, Genji slumped and sighed, concerned, uncertain.  “C’mon, Hanzo, you know I was just… playing. You’re not mad, are you?”

“Of course I am.  But I am angry at myself.”  Swallowing back another whimpering sob, Hanzo scrubbed at his red eyes, breath coming out in uneven gusts.  “Everything you said is right.  I am the worst older brother,” he finally said in a voice barely holding back a quaver.  “I went back on every promise I made to you when we were children.  I don’t deserve this second chance.  I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Enjoy it, Hanzo,” Genji told him firmly.  “Listen, don’t you ever think that maybe this was meant to happen?  Because I do.  And if this is fated, why not make the best of it?”  Incrementally, Genji moved closer back to his brother, his arm creeping up to touch his hair, his cheek, his shoulder, unable to stop himself from making contact.  Seemingly not noticing his brother having entered his five foot personal space bubble, Hanzo dabbed at his swollen nose and eyes with a scrap of cloth, trying to compose his features into something resembling dignity, though the red flush on his cheeks never quite disappeared.

“Is that what you and Zenyatta had decided in the end?” Hanzo muttered, still not looking at Genji directly, just through quick sideways glances.

Genji nodded. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Hmph.”  Hanzo looked as if he wanted to add something probably bitter and deprecating to not just himself but to Genji and Zenyatta and everyone else in the world, but finally deflated.  “I would not say I agree with that entirely.  However, I often wondered if perhaps… I managed to avoid death all this time for some purpose.  If the dragons remained with me because they still had a reason to stay on this mortal plane…”  At last, he turned to look at Genji, leaning imperceptibly forward into his brother’s embrace, sighing deeply.  “If you are the reason…”

“I am.”

“You are not reason enough,” Hanzo concluded flatly.  But he was smiling, if a little weakly, and Genji laughed into the crook his brother’s neck.  

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m not the reason.  We are the reason.  All of us are.  You’re not alone anymore, Hanzo, okay?  I’m strong now, faster than I was before, much more skilled, a little smarter, too. I can support you, like I wasn’t able to when we were younger.  No matter what path you choose to take, I will be with you.  If you find you can’t walk anymore on your own two legs, I will be there to carry you.  And if I can’t walk for the both of us anymore, Zenyatta and Angela will heal me. And if they run out of energy, the others will take care of them and help you and me.”

“Is that the power of friendship?” Hanzo interrupted, looking somewhat amused despite his exhaustion.

“Yes.  Friendship is what you have when your family is gone.”

Lowering his eyes, Hanzo seemed to consider this.  “My family is not gone, though,” he said at last.

Genji accepted Hanzo’s sleepy nuzzle with a pleased noise and a few puffs of steam releasing from his shoulders.  “No. I’m not gone,” Genji repeated. “I’ll be here for you, anija, I promise.”

“I’m sorry,” Hanzo breathed out faintly, on the verge of nodding off to sleep, apparently exhausted from his emotional ordeal.  One hand clutched at Genji’s forearm fitfully, and with another soft laugh, Genji got up to carry his brother lovingly to his bed.  But not before having immense difficulty lifting Hanzo’s weight, for in this way Hanzo was similar to a cat, seemingly graceful and light-footed until you tried to pick them up from where they were sleeping and then they somehow multiplied their weight by 300 times.  Then Genji realized he may have made his promises without understanding the potential difficulty in keeping them.

#my fic #shimadacest #suicide mention