#my social perception is low enough that I can’t tell what the right move is but high enough I know when I fucked up

[coldvampire]

ngl. unconsciously disengaging from this website has been hdjfkg kinda good for my mental health overall? like yes im still dhdjfjf left out of a lot of stuff BUT i see it less so that means my feelings don’t get as hurt lmao. functionally that’s more or less the same thing probably?

going recluse isn’t what i ever want to do (& I didn’t even do it on purpose, just got busy and had a low social battery because of it) but aside from me being overall comfortable by myself, it just kind of seems like it’s where people are content to leave me. doesn’t feel great but it is what it is.

#not rly on discord servers for the same reason tbh #got tired of trying to interject my awkward attempts at participation #I mean people can still @ me but i just don’t have it in me for the server stuff #my social perception is low enough that I can’t tell what the right move is but high enough I know when I fucked up #idk if I’m just not built for larger groups or if it’s something else :( #wish I knew so I could work around it but it’s not exactly a perfect experiment #so w/e. I do kind of miss it a bit but I also feel like my absence doesn’t make a difference #which is a sad thought in itself but that’s how it goes #idk I think in general I’m in a weird spot where I make an impression but it’s never a vital one to the dynamic ? #I do sometimes doubt like. what I bring to interactions in general lately #doesn’t feel like much if I’m being honest. I mean I think I’m at least moderately interesting but djfjf who knows #weirdly settled with myself as a person but I’m thinking that cost is probably an isolating one #knowing a lot of people just never breaking past that surface level #sucks. not much else to describe it as. #idk I’m sure this is bad for me but I think I’ve kind of already messed up first impressions #it’s so stupid but I keep encountering the same dynamic of either we Click fairly quickly or we just don’t really at all #and I feel like that’s wrong of me bc I know some people need time but unless that initial click happens I just seem to falter?? #idk idk idk I guess lately it’s like I feel alone/lonely but I don’t feel like I’m wanting to return to anything #bc I never felt like I really had a place there to start with #weird feeling. very weird feeling. #logging back off now dhjfkf

[direwombat]

tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton on this wip wednesday 💕

tagging @adelaidedrubman, @detectivelokis, @strangefable, @strafethesesinners, @fourlittleseedlings, @deputyash, @harmonyowl, @kittiofdoom, @baldurrs, @poetikat, @aceghosts, @confidentandgood, @purplehairsecretlair, @inafieldofdaisies, @vampireninjabunnies-blog, @roofgeese, @passinoutpieces, @gaeadene, and anyone else wanting to share something they've made! No pressure as always and if we're moots and I didn't tag you 1) I'm so sorry and 2) please consider yourself tagged as well lemme see what you're working on

Anyway, been knee deep in plotting kneeling at the crossroads recently so i haven't really written much, but here's a recycled bit from fragile creatures chapter 8 (pay no mind that ch 6 still isnt finished and neither is ch 7) that i posted last week (but not as a wip wednesday) ♻️♻️♻️

Slowly, Jacob lifts his hands and turns around to face his attacker. She stands only a few yards away, her rifle trained on him. “Tell me, Deputy,” he drawls, not bothering to hide the way his eyes rake over her form, and enjoying just how good she looks wearing his jacket. Her posture is tense, as if bracing for the shot she hasn’t even fired yet. But her finger is on the guard, not the trigger. She isn’t going to shoot him, “Was it luck or skill that you found me?”

The Deputy’s face twitches, her nose scrunching in a way that might have been cute on anyone else. She keeps her rifle pointed at his chest. “What’s it matter,” she sneers. “You’re the one in my crosshairs.”

“It matters,” he starts, taking a single step towards her. Testing. Taunting. Her feet remain planted where they are, but she flinches and curls back, ever so slightly. Barely perceptible, but just enough to get a smile to stretch across his lips. “Because luck runs out.” 

He takes another step forward, this time more confidently. And just as he thought, she takes one step back to maintain her distance. 

Unfortunately for her, the log she’s in front of doesn’t move with her. Her calf makes contact with it and her eyes go wide. But at that point, it’s too late. Her upper body keeps moving backwards. Then down. She falls back, and just before gravity finishes the job, Jacob surges forward, snatching the gun from her hands. 

She lands gracelessly on her back amidst the pine and fallen leaves. The wind is pushed from her lungs in an audible “oof” that’s followed by a creaking wheeze. 

And just to pour a little more salt in the wound, Jacob points the barrel of her own gun in her face. “Skill doesn’t.”

If she had put an ounce of effort into applying the murderous look reddening her face, he’d be dead a thousand times over. His smile widens.

Lowering the weapon, he extends his arm, holding out his right hand for her. 

The Deputy stares at it for a long moment, her jaw clenching and lips twitching. “What the Hell are you playing at?” she asks suspiciously. 

“I was enjoying a nice hunt,” he says. “You were the one who came in wanting to play games.”

She rolls her eyes. “Can’t imagine what that’s like,” she deadpans. 

“There ain’t nothing nice about how you hunt, sweetheart,” Jacob snorts. He curls his fingers beckoningly. “C’mon. Get up.”

The Deputy makes a low sound in her throat, something akin to a growl, but it isn’t directed at him. Her hand thrusts out to grasp his, and for just a moment he braces himself in case she tries to get clever and drag him down to her. 

But she doesn’t. 

Her hand wraps around his own, gripping it far more firmly than he had anticipated. He helps haul her to her feet, and she looks pissed off about it the entire time. 

She takes a moment to brush herself off, pointedly not looking at him while she does. “I suppose it’d be too much to ask for my gun back,” she says, glaring up at him. 

He looks thoughtfully at the rifle, making a show of considering a decision he’s already made. With a shrug, he holds her weapon out. “I’ve already got one,” he says, adjusting the shoulder strap of his MBP .50. Then, more seriously, he adds, “You really need to clean that thing.”

“You’re a dick,” she mutters, snatching her gun from his hands. 

#wip wednesday #wip: fragile creatures #the best part about this is that jacob uses no actual skill during his 'luck or skill' spiel #he just kind of goes 'boo' and it works

[rumblelibrary]

The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1  -  Chapter 2

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and sex. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: The story is placed between season 1 and season 2. Thank you for everyone that encouraged me to keep going. I have to wait for my local drop of serotonin to get fully Laszloed to go through this.

Lyra’s Contellation, Illustration taken from Uranographia by Johann Bode

Routine. Routine is comfort. Habit stabilises the character.

If you follow a routine, you won’t ever be victim of imprudence, of evil jokes of fate. The stability earned through calculated and repeated actions brings a sense of fulfilment that forbids other thoughts to come bashing in, breaking rules, breaking hopes that a solid scheduled routine forbids to have. I take my time to begin this week, I planned the things to do, the next steps for the case, the people to meet, the resources I am allowed to contemplate. I feel good, I feel back to myself and the events of the weekend seem far from me and my own perception. I probably got ahead of myself, carried by some instinctual though and random rush of emotion, to be always in contact with the same people and mostly kids probably doesn’t help my stance in the presence of other adults. I feel silly now reading back the last page, I felt tempted to tear it off, but to keep it there should be a small memento of not losing my temper so easily. I read it over and over and I know I am not as charmed as I thought I was. I am just lonely. I have always been and it is normal to face ups and downs even for a man of my age who is more accustomed to it.  To desire a partner is a natural instinct, to find somebody attractive is meant by nature, it is the body calling for the natural fulfilment of the reason we are put on this very Earth.  But even in a state of nature my own condition would be forbidding me to be part of the natural process of growing my own kind. I am the type of male that would be excluded because of his impossibility to give the protection to the pack, therefore it is just more reasonable to me to adapt to my condition. No matter what my Potentia generandi might be (the ability to procreate).

With all the smugness that characterises him, Niki showed off that he passed my challenge. But to be really of an help to his antics I didn’t show any kind of surprise. I treated him like he did the bare minimum, like he didn’t prove me any kind of superiority. He has a natural attitude toward challenging the figure of power, he is trying to overpower me, but I won’t satisfy his need. I have noticed he has a very technical brain, he finds ways to solve problems in ingenious way and not by throwing himself into the task. I proceeded giving him to work on a clock, an old broken one we had in the institute, one of the kids hit it with a ball years ago and nobody ever worked on repairing it. I gave him the clock, a couple of screwdrivers and a book. He called me a number of German names I won’t transcribe, but it gave me a certain amount of satisfaction. If my intuitions are right, I am sure the clock will be repaired by next week.

Analysis of the victim’s body through John’s eyes. The drawings and sketches are as detailed as I requested, all of this thanks to you joining him. I deal with art critic section, I am used to notice these things. You assure me, you play yourself low and I wonder why, nevertheless you did notice things neither John or I did, which pleased me. It fooled me, distracted me from my purpose to not give in to your witchery, as I leaned closer watching your pale hand move across the pages tracing this or that line, showing how this must be done with the killer on this side and not that side, with words so deliciously elaborate, your way of composing your speech is compelling, you could sell the drawing of a kid like it was a Botticelli. I noticed the shape of your hands, the way you move them, I wonder if you play an instrument, or played, some habits just stick with you through life. I focused on taking notes, your ideas and instructions giving me a new point of view, a new stimulus. What if that is the only way the killer can communicate? Or what if this is the communication that works for him? Could our killer be mute or deaf? Or that’s how society made him feel? This man, or woman, needs a listener and I am afraid that now, since he got our attention and the public’s, he won’t stop. Another killing could be just as close.

Scheduled: meeting with the parents of Alex Garel for new admission, Monday next week at 11 am. Love at first is a fetish and like all fetishes it is based onto an object that hides a deeper meaning, like gloves mean hands, to love at first sight means to see somebody that you think, and think only, to have the chance to share not only a sensual kind of bond, but an intellectual. Love at first sight is based onto not knowing someone well enough, but having the time to idealise most of that someone. I can see why I feel this attraction, using a particular phrase that Sara often mutters when investigating: you tick all the boxes. I know you do, your beauty is everything but conventional, you’re the kind of face that painters would paint and musicians would write hymns about, but any animal on the street would never be allowed to see. You have the grace of the body and the fire in the eyes, and then you speak. When you speak, I realise, you could bring the world to its knees. Also, you never speak out of context, and if you do it is to ease somebody’s position. You do it often with John or with Stevie, you say something really silly in order to put them back to a place of comfort. Some women would call it self deprecating, but I see that you only pick wisely your fights and your wins. You don’t need to earn your peace and quiet by neglecting, but by lifting up the others. I wonder if you do it with me too, if your silences are just you allowing me to be in a better place while instead your judgment is tearing me apart. I shouldn’t care, but I keep wondering, sometimes I take my time to answer you, I analyse every shade, every peculiarity of your question, I am looking for sarcasm, for a condescending voice, for something to hang on and bare you open. To prove myself you’re not perfect. But deep down I know that you do, you judge me and you do well.

Mother never said so. That’s what one of the girls in my care said today. Ursula. She is tough. Skin as thick as an alligator and the tendency to pull her own hair at night or when under a massive amount of stress, enuresis alongside erratic episodes of mutism. I tried the soft approach, it didn’t work. She is too accustomed to be indulged. Therefore today I pushed her a bit overboard, I teased her over opinions on the female body, the female role, she is only 12, but she is soon to bleed, she knows, I can tell from the way she clenches to her skirts, from the way she looks at me as a threatening figure. I am the incarnation of danger to her. Under her steady silence, I pushed a bit more, asking how her mother taught her to be nice and submissive. Does her mother tells her she is going to be a good wife? The phrase, which I reported at the top of the page, surprised me.  What is her mother teaching to her then? What closed her so much, locked her soul away, making a small bird like this choose the silence and the retirement of self inflicted pain over, what? Mankind? Or just Men? Is that even a curse? Should I cure her from a truth that her own mother whispered to her ear one night before bed and made a child decide that the world wasn’t a place to share her time with? Am I the man supposed to teach her that men are worth of trust? In the eyes of modern society, who measures its own value over the modesty of the women, she would be a champion, but at what price? I can’t in any way let her parents bring her back home after our recent meetings. Nevertheless, I have to make up my own mind on how to give her troubled soul ease without making her believe in fables. I, as a man, regard myself not worth of any of the trust they expect me to teach her.

In all of my years practicing with people’s feelings and traumas, I challenged myself to find those same traumas within my own mind. It is a tricky game, terrible, anguishing at times. But it straightens me, the pain of others, the pain of kids mostly, so unadulterated and pure, breaks the curtain between me and the lies that I often surround myself with. Pain is made of method, you can open it up, you can scrutinise it, part it piece by piece dividing it in sectors and, partitions, centre part, side part, heart of the problem. Pain is reliable. Happiness is not. It is random, cruelly sudden, unexpected, it washes over you in such deflecting way only to leave you alone a moment after ashamed and alone. I saw you again today. You were in a table full of what I could only guess as your former university colleagues, I saw pain in you, not heavy but constant. Annoyance, a bit of sadness. Your head titling on side and your eyes drifting on the left, you’re imagining something away from them.  A place? An object? Or maybe someone? Your hands play circles at the bottom of the flute of your drink like kids do, your smile only one sided. I don’t see you speak at all, only listen.  What could keep your voice down? I almost gulped down my own breath as you looked up and I realised how I must have looked. I was having lunch on my own, in a very private table and even entertaining myself with a newspaper on the side. I wish you didn’t, but you came over, your eyes shining.  Did I save you? Or maybe I was just a good excuse to leave that painful meeting behind. Don’t be so nice to me, it is not healthy. Don’t look at me like you expect anything more from me than me listening. I won’t smile back at you, I won’t give you care, attentions or thought. I won’t lean for your perfume, I won’t obsess over that dress you wore, that pin that adorned your neckline keeping your undershirt in place, a silver robin, I remember. I won’t remember the number of the buttons on the side of your glove, three. I won’t observe the little moles just under your ear. A small constellation, I later realised, hidden between your ear and the beginning of your neck. I don’t need to check in my books. It is a constellation. It is Lyra. Why? Why you must be like this? Are you the Lyra? Are you the instrument of Orpheus come to me to drag me out of Hell? The Tartarus holds my soul and you should know already, I am not worth the quarter part of Eurydice to be saved and she never came back anyway. I won’t be now recollecting the way your teeth sunk in the inner side of your cheek when you apologised for the annoyance.  You apologised twice, I ignored you both times with a raised hand to request peace and silence. I am not letting you in.

Reserved: Tickets for Wednesday’s evening Traviata by Giuseppe Verdi. The guest female lead promises a beautiful show.

Leonardo, as I am learning through Paul Valery essay, is who I would define as a figure of projective identification of the Subject or, to better explain it, of the knowledge of the Subject that formed and grew through the use of sketches in the experience of the Artist. I have always thought that the finest form of art was the representation of knowledge duly undressed by any personal identification. Leonardo, instead, proceeded to represent the figure through the essence of the artist, a representation technically unlimited on objects and symbols and that keep expressing the transformation and development of Leonardo’s own being.Some artists are testimony of the destruction of the world, of the loss of eternal beauty over decadence. And then you have Leonardo, who creates an art that is the gravity of the world’s system, of the nature, of thoughts and abstractions. I wonder if our killer does the same, if the way they presents the victim through their own personal view, if what we can read there it is their stories, their pains, their needs. Their happiness and troubles. What are they trying to tell me?  I need to know, I need to know to save a life, of course, but I also need to know to be able to sleep at night. Hair, hair are the epitome of femininity in any era. I keep studying Ursula and her habit to pull the. I took notes on it: she picks them by the bottom, slowly separates them until she gains an amount her mind defines satisfactory and then she rolls her finger and pulls, she does it until her finger is empty and there are no hair left. I find her process incredibly interesting. In men’s case the display of physical attributes is not as vital, a beard can be appreciated but does not modify the power of seduction of a grown man. On the contrary, for women hair are a vital part of their attractiveness toward the opposite sex, society sees the hair of a woman as part of their vital characteristics, also in ancient times for a woman to cut her hair or have her hair cut was a sign of deep separation from the society. Only heroines or whores wore that mark and the association of the two is so rooted into the way society always parted the role of a woman in two that it is nauseating to think of. I am still fearing to let Ursula go away, the repulsion that she is showing toward her own body makes it difficult even for me to crack her shell open as a man, but my deepest worry is when that hate will take a scarier and deeper tool on her. How a girl with such  a fear of what her body can do, like sex or pregnancy, can endure in the future to have an husband? Or even to be courted by anyone?

John is helpless and I admire him for that. He doesn’t hide it, he just is. He is vulnerable and exposed, he is an open well bursting with doubts and feelings and troubled waters. He is genuine in a way I could never be. Maybe that’s why I despise even more him talking about you, how he sees you every morning, how you greet everybody, how you behave even with interns, how you like your coffee.  Your talents, your wits, how you said this and acted like that and reasoned through him. How you forbid him to drink even when he felt tempted. How you stayed late over to help him collect all the informations I requested him to get. To him. Not to you. The evil demon of envy scratching in the back of my head screaming like a siren out in the sea, he demands to be heard, he demands to be allowed a part in this game. I won’t allow him that. I won’t allow myself any of that. This is a pure game of chess, if I give in a pawn now, I will lose my knight, and I know it. I advice him to not be so closed minded when he praises you, only to get surprised by the charms of a natural logical mind. I find a way to hurt him, he is an easy target, I look at him as his eyebrows twitch and he summons his patience on me. He lost the plot about you already, his bruised pride taking over. You won’t come into my life.

“Un dì, felice, eterea, mi balenaste innante, e da quel dì tremante vissi d'ignoto amor.”  (“On a day, happy and ethereal, you appeared in front of me and from that day, trembling, I lived on an unknown love”)

The words of Alfredo in the first act of the Traviata keep running through me, a chant that won’t let me go, almost painful. The Opera House, that was my hiding place, a place where in plain sight I could let out myself, unleash. The catharsis of the characters involved running through me, I didn’t need anything but their voices and those musical instruments to let out my fears, doubts and anger. When Alfredo came to the scene tonight, the lights were strong and slightly pinkish, the performer bursting out of the seams with passion. My eyes diverted only to see you there. Alone. Those blinding lights gave you the the radiance of a vision singing the notes of greek myths and heroes, that dark blue evening clothing rang through my eyes like it was a bright yellow, the little shiny details that adorned you so clear against the heavy lighting to look like transparent pieces of water collected to adorn your beauty. I wasn’t me, but Alfredo, and I was helpless against you sitting so far and yet too close from me. I was naked in front of thousands. I am aware of the effect you have on me and our last conversation was barely regarded as one. This is infatuation, this is the pure work of a lonely mind and not something worth of any of all the words that I am dissipating here. Yet. I saw you cry at the climax of the opera, Violetta, the protagonist, heartbroken falling on stage consumed by pain and regret for her lost love and ultimate sacrifice. Your eyes shone as you tried to hide the tears and collect yourself. Through my binoculars, I saw your throat tremble and gulp down something more than just a sigh of pain. Your jaw clenched, your gloved hand moves to hide your shaking lips. I reckon, I have never seen such sad lips look more inviting. You look at the wall on your side breathing through your nose and not even that can save you by the strength of the voice of the soprano. You’re defeated and so you brought a fine silk handkerchief to your eyes, your shoulders bent inward in self defence.  The Opera won. It won you like it always wins me. I wonder if you felt like this because of a past lover, somebody that broke your heart and made you feel wrong in any way.  And because of that little wonder it is even more clear to me why I am a man worth of no trust. Because for a moment, I know, I wished to be the one that broke your heart. That gave you just the pain you’re inflicting on me so mercilessly by offering intoxicating kindness and beauty.  To own your thoughts, tears and shame. To be the one man you have to look away from. I want to own all of that and, maybe, I will be freed of you the day you’ll be just another human being that hates Dr Laszlo Kreizler.

Tagged @cazzyimagines​ @lieutenantn​ @handmaiden-of-mischief​ @thesunflowersutra​ @zemomybeloved​​ @fictionlandslanddreams​ @charistory​ @greeneyedblondie44​ @apparrio​ @hb8301​ @whatawildone​

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#the diary of doctor laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler x reader #dr laszlo kreizler imagine #dr laszlo kreizler x you #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo kreizler headcanons #thealienist #the alienist fanfic #the alienist fanfiction

[nugnthopkns]

dance me to the end of love (iii)

word count: 4.3k

warnings: fem!oc, cursing, potential percy jackson & the olympians spoilers, alcohol consumption, motion sickness and vomiting

series masterpost: here

a/n: this took me a hot sec to finish but here it is! there's a dumb little latin joke in here but that's just because i'm a nerd lmao

Ryan is certainly giving Bette a run for her money in the best friend department.

Magdalene has no intentions of usurping her best friend, but Ryan is quickly becoming the person she talks to most frequently. It started on social media but quickly moved to regular texting, both of them being twenty-five and capable of communicating through more normal channels. The text thread between them isn’t indicative of their newfound friendship – it looks like they’ve been friends since high school. At any given moment at least three conversations are going on, and Magdalene regularly sends him random updates throughout the day. Ryan likes hearing about any interesting artefacts she encounters at work so she keeps mental notes to tell him during their frequent phone calls.

Despite talking to him almost constantly, Magdalene hasn’t seen Ryan since they grabbed lunch at Barn Owl nearly two weeks ago. The lake house trip is a couple days out, and she’s been busy trying to get all her ducks in a row. At work, the current project is coming to an end and Magdalene will be sad to see it go – it’s the first thing she’s been on from start to finish. She’s got a neighbour coming to spend time with Caligula while she’s away so he doesn’t get too upset. Though the days are passing by in a haze as she tries to get ready, Magdalene is excited to get away for a little bit. It’s been a few years since she’s left Denver for more than a night, electing to skip on Bette’s previous vacation invites, and it will be nice to slow down. Life is moving at a comfortable pace, but having some time to pause and breathe will keep Magdalene from feeling too overwhelmed.

Halfway through her last day of work, Magdalene gets a text from Ryan that makes her nearly double over in laughter.

Julius Caesar walks into a bar and says to the bartender “I’ll have a Martinus please!” The bartender replies “Don’t you mean a Martini?” Caesar shakes his head and says “If I wanted double I would have said so.”

It takes her a minute to catch her breath, which piques June’s curiosity. Magdalene recites the joke and her boss rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but does let out a chuckle.

June didn’t think it was funny, but I did. Thank you for making today infinitely better. You riding with us tomorrow?

Magdalene tucks her phone back into her purse, determined to remain focused for the last few hours, and misses the reply telling her that Ryan won’t be riding with Bette, Tyson, and herself, but rather with Cale and his girlfriend to leave enough space for all the gear getting brought. She doesn’t see it until she’s walking across the parking lot to her car and it fills her with a sadness that doesn’t make much sense. He’ll be there for the entire week, so does it matter that he’ll be in a different car for the four hour drive? Magdalene has a sinking suspicion about why she’s upset, but she pushes it down. There’s no space in your life for a relationship right now, she reminds herself as she unlocks the door to her apartment. Caligula is waiting patiently at the door and distracts her thoughts from the handsome man with the kind smile that’s been all she can think about recently.

The cat is incredibly perceptive and knows the regular routine is going to change, making him particularly clingy. He follows Magdalene as she finishes packing, meowing and begging for pets, and she considers bailing on her friends. Caligula has mild separation anxiety and Magdalene doesn’t go away often partly because of it – though another reason is her homebody nature. Only the thought of seeing Ryan keeps her from hanging all her clothes back up.

“Don’t worry little boots,” she coos, “I won’t be gone long. Maria is going to check on you while I’m away, and I’ll be home before you know it.”

It seems ridiculous to speak to her pet as though it’s a child, but Magdalene knows Caligula comprehends what she’s saying. He’s always been smart, and the two of them share a bond that’s hard to explain. She picks him up, puts him in the pocket of her hoodie, and they spend the rest of the night packing and dancing along to the radio.

☼☼☼☼

Bette forgot to mention that the road to the lake house is winding, and Magdalene spends the entire ride with her head between her knees. Motion sickness is something that unfortunately plagues her during journeys longer than a couple of hours and she wishes she would have thought to take anti-nausea medication before leaving the house. Tyson tries to crack a joke about her being a bad passenger, but his girlfriend swats his arm and passes her friend a water bottle with a concerned smile. The two of them speak in hushed tones, almost certainly for Magdalene's benefit, and she does her best not to throw up on the floor of Tyson’s car. After what feels like two decades the vehicle rolls to a stop at the end of a gravel path.

“Mags, we’re here,” Bette says softly, praying that her friend will begin to feel better after stretching her legs and feeling firm ground underneath her.

There’s an unintelligible groan from Magdalene, but she rises out of the car and stumbles into the house. Tyson and Bette insist that she rest and they’ll handle the unloading of the car, so she crawls into one of the empty beds and falls asleep as soon as her head touches the pillow. It’s a dreamless slumber, one fuelled by the pure exhaustion of battling illness while travelling, and when she awakes hours later Magdalene feels oddly refreshed. Her energy level is still relatively low, but she knows that intaking food won’t be an issue.

Padding down the stairs as quiet as possible in an effort to not break the peaceful atmosphere, Magdalene is met with a quiet house. She’s utterly confused – she didn’t sleep long enough to miss dinner and judging by the way the sun is low in the final car full of people should be arriving any minute. For a moment she thinks the group left her in the mountains alone, but then the sound of a trunk closing breaks the silence.

“I fucking told you bro, you should have let me drive!”

Ryan’s voice echoes in Magdalene's ears and her heart skips a beat. She didn’t realize how much she had missed him or how excited she is to see him. Despite everything inside of her saying she should run into his arms Magdalene stays put in the kitchen, running the tap to get a glass of water. She focuses on the mountain on the other end of the lake, framing the setting sun and creating a postcard ready photo. The camera app on her phone is open and angles for the best shot are found. Ryan tumbles through the door a second later, arms filled to the brim with luggage and bags of food.

He drops them the second he sees her, running up behind her and lifting her off the ground. “Mags! Cale almost hit a deer!”

The shock of Ryan’s onslaught of affection catches her off guard, and Magdalene shakes her hand, forcing the picture to turn out as nothing but a blur.

“No hello?” She laughs as Ryan lets her feet touch down on the wooden floor. “It’s the least you could give me after destroying my chance of getting a National Geographic worthy picture.”

He smiles but doesn’t let his hands drop from their perch on her waist. “There’s six more days for you to nail it. I’ll even help if you ask.”

Other bodies enter the house then, causing Magdalene to slink away from Ryan’s touch even though it was the last thing she wanted to do. They’re simply friends, and she doesn’t want Bette to get any ideas. The last thing Magdalene needs on her plate right now is her best friend forcing her to paint a custom denim jacket with Ryan’s number across the back. “I can’t believe you almost hit a deer,” Tyson sighs in disbelief.

“It wasn’t even close,” Cale grumbles, picking up his bags and stomping off to find a place to claim as his own the next couple of days. A petite redhead follows after him, giving a small wave to those in the kitchen before scurrying away. When she asks, Ryan tells Magdalene the girl’s name is Livy, and that she’s Cale’s girlfriend from back home.

Everyone shrugs at his moodiness and disperses. Bette and Tyson stay in the kitchen to make dinner, Ryan goes to claim the final room, and Magdalene slips outside to sit on the patio furniture. The sun has dropped drastically in the past five minutes, causing the air to chill. She wraps her arms tighter around her legs and watches a pair of birds fly over the lake below. It’s so peaceful, a complete one-eighty from the insanity of her life in Denver, and Magdalene thinks about never leaving. She knows it’s impossible, but as she closes her eyes and listens to the quiet laughter of her friends inside the idea seems like a pretty good one.

The sliding door creaks open and Ryan goes through as quietly as possible. He tosses a sweater in Magdalene’s direction as he walks over, plopping down beside her on the small couch.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, slipping the fabric over her head. “I didn’t realize how cold it had actually gotten.”

He smiles in response and shuffles his body a little closer to create extra warmth. Magdalene leans into him, trying to appear casual even though her heart is beating rapidly, and pulls on the strings of the sweater Ryan gave her.

“So, are you excited for this week?”

It’s more awkward than she thought it would be – seeing him in person again, especially since they’ve been texting almost constantly, and the words kind of stick in her throat.

“Honestly? Now that I’m here I am, but I was a little leery about taking time off,” Ryan explains, detailing how he’s trying to improve some aspects of his two-way play and is worried his progress will plateau. Magdalene understands and shares her own worries about taking time off work even if her boss encouraged it.

After catching up quickly and running out of things to say, the pair of them sit in silence watching the sun set until they’re called inside for dinner. It’s nice to just exist, especially with Ryan beside her, and Magdalene feels her heart sink as they separate and he goes to make sure Cale isn’t actually mad at him.

☼☼☼☼

It storms the first two days at the lake house, forcing everyone to stay inside. Tyson complains about how he has less time to drive the boat that came with the property but the others take it in stride. Magdalene spends most of the time reading for pleasure, something she hasn’t been able to do much of the past few years, and Ryan joins her for large chunks of the time. It turns out that he too is an avid reader, and the two of them discuss their favourite novels and series while the other four play board games.

“So you’re telling me you wish Annabeth would have joined the Hunters of Artemis?” Magdalene shrieks in shock, almost knocking the wine out of her glass as her arms flail in disbelief.

“I think it made sense for her to,” Ryan defends.

“But she’s perfect for Percy!”

He sticks to his guns. “I’m not saying she isn’t. I just think that at the time the offer was presented it was the most logical choice. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about what would have happened if she did.”

She ducks her head in defeat because she had imagined it, on many occasions in fact. When reading the series for the first time in middle school Magdalene had desperately hoped Annabeth would choose the Hunters over Camp Half-Blood, gaining the family she herself never was privy to. They return to reading quietly beside each other, occasionally knocking elbows when trying to turn a page.

Tuesday brings sunshine and clear skies, which means Tyson is trying to corral everyone into the boat as soon as they’re up. Magdalene tries her hardest to get out of it but her pleas fall on deaf ears.

“You’ll be fine, stop being such a wimp,” Cale jests. She knows that he’s just anxious to soak up some sun, but the words hurt more than Magdalene would have liked them to.

Livy swats her boyfriend across the chest. “Enough! If she doesn’t want to come she doesn’t have to.” The smaller girl sends her a kind smile before speaking low enough that only Magdalene can hear her. “I know your book is just getting good and you look like the kind of person who needs alone time to function properly. Enjoy yourself.”

Seemingly excused from the day’s festivities, Magdalene gives a sheepish wave before climbing the small hill to the house. Ryan meets her halfway and is appalled when he hears of her plans.

“Nope, I don’t think so. You’re not leaving me alone to be the ultimate third wheel!”

He has her off the ground and over his shoulder in a millisecond, jogging lightly to catch up with the rest of the group. Magdalene’s laugh bounces off the tree lined shore, and she’s too busy having fun shrieking at Ryan to complain about being forced to spend all day on a boat away from her book. Tyson peels away from the dock before she can regret tagging along, and Bette tugs Magdalene to the bow.

The two girls chat quietly, giggling and sipping on the mimosas they made earlier. Magdalene isn’t a huge day drinker, but Bette makes sure there’s more orange juice than champagne to make her feel less guilty. Livy joins them a while later after becoming sick of the boys and their shenanigans. It’s nice to hang out with a group of girls that aren’t competing for the top spot in a class, Magdalene decides, and she revels in the stories they tell of going to hockey games and babysitting the children of players so they can catch a break. Twinges of jealousy creep up at the wonderful family dynamic the Avalanche seem to have, but she stomachs them. She reminds herself that other people deserve to have support systems and excuses herself from the conversation.

Magdalene slides into the free space beside Ryan, and without thinking he wraps an arm around her shoulder. It feels so natural that she wonders if it’s how he greets all his friends, but the looks of shock and Tyson and Cale’s faces say otherwise. After a bit more cruising they find a small bay to anchor in for a while. The sun had climbed to the middle of the sky and is unbearably warm, leaving everyone no choice but to jump into the water to cool off. Magdalene does her best to float peacefully a short distance away from the group but is somehow brought into a splashing war because the teams aren’t equal.

Eventually the constant barrage of water chills her to the bone, and Magdalene swims back to the boat. She watches from the sidelines and cheers for her old teammates with a towel wrapped snugly around her. Ryan breaks from the group too, insisting it isn’t fair to have teams on unequal strength. Once dry, he picks up the baseball cap he brought and places it delicately on Magdalene’s head.

“Your cheeks are starting to go pink and I don’t want you to burn,” he explains, passing her a bottle of sunscreen as well.

“Thanks Ry.”

They muse about the idyllic beauty of the scene in front of them until everyone rejoins them. For reasons unbeknownst to Magdalene Tyson is in a rush to get back to the house, which leads to him driving very fast and a little erratically. The contents of her stomach threaten to come up but she holds them down, tightening her grip on the leather seat. A wave crests and Tyson hits it head on, causing the boat to lurch and rock. Magdalene knows it’s going to happen before it does and leans over the side to save a mess from being created. All the alcohol and food she’d consumed throughout the day is no longer in her body, and heat creeps up the back of her neck. She’s embarrassed – what twenty-five year old gets sea sick?

“Are you okay?” Ryan asked, not bothering to hide the concern in his voice.

She tries to smile but it comes out more like a grimace. “I just, uh, get motion sick really easily.” Bette passes her a water bottle and she drinks it quickly, eager to get the taste out of her mouth.

Ryan lets Magdalene curl into his side the rest of the way home, and rubs comforting circles on her back to ease her discomfort, doing his best to ignore the stares from his friends.

☼☼☼☼

The trip comes to an end much more quickly than Magdalene would have liked. Tomorrow morning they’ll pack up and drive back to Denver, returning to their normal hectic schedules. Cale and Livy are heading back to Alberta for the rest of the summer, and Bette and Tyson will be going for a visit as well. She’s heard Ryan mention going home in passing, which most likely means he doesn’t have plans to stay. Magdalene will be all alone in Colorado, but she’s used to it. The only issue being friends with professional athletes is that they leave. She’s been dealing with the loss since Bette and Tyson got together years ago – having them around as her support system most of the year and then them disappearing for a couple of months.

Not wanting to think about how soon she’ll be alone, Magdalene heads outside and starts a campfire. It’s a skill she picked up as a kid and it has come in handy over the years. The newspaper crinkles under the flame from the lighter, and soon the kindling is burning well. Everyone else is still inside, cleaning up from dinner and preparing for one last night in paradise. She places a few blocks of wood in the fire pit once there’s a good enough flame and curls up in a chair, lost in thought about what comes next. There’s rustling from somewhere behind her but she pays it no mind, assuming it’s a small animal wandering through the forest.

“Can I offer you some company?” a voice says softly, waiting for a response. The movement wasn’t a raccoon but in fact Ryan, and Magdalene gestures at the chair beside her with a smile.

He passes her a glass of white wine, which she takes with an appreciative hum. They sit in silence for a moment, admiring the beauty of the setting sun. “I’m going to miss it,” Ryan sighs, leaning back in his chair and extending his legs.

She nods. “Me too. It’s so quiet up here. Denver gets too loud sometimes.”

“Tell me about it. I’m not just going to miss the lake though, it’s also lounging around and not having to worry about hockey. And you.”

The ending comes out rushed, and Magdalene isn’t sure she heard him correctly. “Me?”

Ryan looks at her like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yes you. Why wouldn’t I? You’re funny, smart, and catch all of my West Wing references. There’s no one who gets me quite like you, even back home.”

It takes her by surprise. They’ve only known each other for a few months, and only really started associating after the party at Bette and Tyson’s. There has to be somebody who knows him better than she does. When she voices her opinion Ryan just scoffs, saying that people treat him as one-dimensional because he plays hockey. Somehow the conversation shifts to Magdalene, and when she lets it slip she gets lonely in Denver without her friends, Ryan asks the question she’s been dreading.

“So why don’t you get a boyfriend?”

“I can’t just get a boyfriend because my friends are gone,” she laughs, but there’s an edge to it, like she’s unsure of where this will go and how to question the follow ups.

He rolls his eyes. “I know that, but like, I don’t know, wouldn’t it be nice to not be alone all the time?”

It would be, Magdalene thinks, but she just shrugs. “I guess I’m not looking for a relationship right now. I just finished school and for the first time in a long time I can focus on myself.” She leaves out the part where Ryan gives her butterflies and that if he asked she’d probably jump headfirst into a relationship with him.

The topic is dropped then because Tyson comes out of the house screaming about the night is going to be wild because it’s their last together for a while. Magdalene and Ryan share a look of mild panic, but both of them are itching to have fun with friends so they raise their glasses in salute before finishing them in one gulp.

Magdalene drinks more than she should and wakes in the morning with a killer hangover. It seems that no one else is better off though, all stumbling around looking for Advil and coffee like it’s going to be their last meal. Packing up takes a bit longer than expected, but they’re still out before the official checkout time. There’s a bit of discourse on who Magdalene will travel home with. Bette wants her in Tyson’s car, no doubt to talk about how close her and Ryan seem to be, but Cale offers to bring her with them. His reasoning is that Ryan is driving him and Livy directly to the airport, and having the front seat could be good for her motion sickness. It’s ultimately Magdalene’s choice and the idea of having more time with Ryan before he leaves is too enticing to pass up. She bids her other friends goodbye, promising to come over for dinner before they fly out, and climbs into the cab of Cale’s truck.

Once again she’s a less than ideal passenger, but this time it’s because she sleeps the entire way back to Denver. The drinking took it out of her and coupled with the queasiness in her stomach from the winding roads sleep is the only thing that makes sense. So much for extra time with Ryan she thinks as she wakes up in the airport parking lot.

“Sleeping beauty has risen!” Ryan chuckles, “Why don’t you get out and stretch your legs for a sec? We have the parking spot for another fifteen minutes.”

Magdalene does as suggested because truthfully her joints are a little stiff, and finds Cale and Livy grabbing their bags from the back. She hugs them goodbye and wishes them safe travels, which Cale returns with a warning not to get into too much trouble before heading for the entrance. Once both of them are safely inside the confines of the airport, Ryan and Magdalene get back in the vehicle and finish the last leg of the trip.

She directs Ryan to her apartment complex, and he mentions that he’s never been in this area of the city. “That’s because you have no need to be around a bunch of university kids,” she laughs. Once they pull into the parking lot, he offers to help her take up her bag. It’s only a small suitcase Magdalene could definitely handle herself, but she wants him to come up, to prolong her time with him.

Magdalene’s keys jingle in the lock as the door opens. Ryan follows her in and shuts the door carefully, not wanting to disrupt the aura of peace that permeates the space. From what he can tell, the average size apartment is the perfect reflection of Magdalene – packed full of books and plants and feels very put together despite the owner being only twenty-five. After their shoes find a home on the boot rack and the coats they brought for the drive home are hung in the closet she leads Ryan into the living room. There’s a soft purring by his feet, and Ryan looks down to see an animal. He never pegged Magdalene as someone to keep pets.

“Who’s this?” he asks, bending down to pet the small white cat.

“That’s Caligula.”

A puzzled look graces Ryan’s features. “Who?”

“Caligula,” Madalene giggles. “You can call him little boots if you’d like. He’ll respond.” She picks up the animal when it comes to her and scratches gently behind its ear.

“Why would you name your cat something dumb like Caligula, and why does it respond to little boots?”

It’s then the woman realizes that not everyone understands the reference. “Caligula was the third emperor of Rome,” she explains, “But his real name was Gaius. He gained the nickname Caligula as a child and it just stuck. It translates to little boots in Latin.”

Ryan is in awe of Magdalene for what feels like the millionth time. Of course someone as smart as her would have a crazy name for a pet and have the knowledge to back it up. He feels his chest tighten with affection but he wills it away. She isn’t looking for anything right now, he reminds himself. Magdalene’s self-professed inability to reciprocate his feelings is frustrating, but Ryan knows he’d wait forever for her.

☼☼☼☼

additional notes: catch some extra content here!

taglist: @scrunchmakar @marcoscandellas @toplinetommy @ricohenrique @lovethepreds @cutiesara23 @hockeyallthetime @stlbluesbrat21 (add yourself to the taglist!)

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[snowstark]

— you’re my world. —

for @truckloadoffrogs | LINK TO AO3

for @buckybarnesbingo | Y2 - Kink: Wall Pinning

“I… oh, I get it now.” Sam tilted his head, perceptive as ever, goddammit. “All this flirting with my sister, that was just to get my attention, wasn’t it? I know it was. Say it.”

“That wasn’t—” Bucky croaked, but Sam wasn’t having it.

He huffed a low laugh, and bulldozed right through Bucky’s feeble pretense. “You like it when I pin you against the wall? Take away all that power you have, that strength that your arm gives you? Make you feel small, maybe?”

“Stop. Flirting. With my sister.”

“Sam, she’s a grown woman!”

Sam growled. He actually growled, what the fuck. “She’s still my sister.”

Bucky snorted. “Alright, fine, Christ. Sorry.” He raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. “We’re cool now, right? Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Sam eyed him for a few moments, then nodded. His shoulders drooped, like they had lost all the pent-up tension, and he reached out to clap Bucky on the back, hesitating for just a second before going for it. “Yeah, we’re… yeah, we’re cool.” His jaw flexed and he looked away for a split second, like he had more to say, but he didn’t; he just walked off, giving Bucky another pat before ducking into the boat.

Bucky stared after him, sucking the inside of his cheek thoughtfully.

Sam was weird.

Sam pissed him off. From the moment he’d refused to move his seat up in the car, he’d burned right through Bucky’s patience like a hot flame and gotten right on his nerves. Had toasted them to crumbs, in fact. He’d yapped on about that shit about Gandalf and the big three—as if Bucky wouldn’t have read the goddamn Hobbit! And now he was here, being all domestic about his boat, and Bucky was willingly helping him.

Sam was so fucking weird.

But… he still liked him.

He was… they were… it was complicated.

__________

“Hi, Sarah.” Bucky smiled and waved, hearing the waves slosh behind him—nice, he liked that; reminded him of when he and Stevie would go on walks by the bay—and she smiled, waving back. Bucky grinned, and she ducked into the house. She was real pretty. She was. He liked her.

Sarah was Steve’s ma’s name. That was kind of weird, he had to admit. But Bucky found that a lot of things were weird now. Like the internet. Mytube—no, youtube. Social media. Cellphones.

No wonder Steve had written things to discover in the book. It was there in his pocket now, too. It was small and old, but it felt like his whole damn world, because it had been Steve’s. All he had left of Steve were bits and pieces of objects that he could put together to find some sort of remembrance of him, so every part counted. A machine couldn’t run when it was missing a screw.

“So. Why did my sister just tell me you could stay the night again?” Sam plopped down next to him, and despite his words, Bucky could only see amusement on his face. “Oh, hold on, let me correct myself—why did my sister just say my handsome friend can stay the night?”

Bucky’s lips twitched before he could stop himself, and he had to cover his laugh with a cough at the mildly outraged look on his face. He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a charmer.”

“No.” Sam gave him a look, and Bucky tossed him an affronted one right back.

“That was rude.”

“No, I mean—” Sam huffed. “You are a charmer, okay? Whatever.”

Why did that make Bucky’s chest feel warm? Sam was so fucking weird.

“Doesn’t mean you have to be charming my sister.” Sam frowned at him.

Bucky gave him a mockingly sympathetic look. “Can’t help it. Charmers don’t choose who they charm.” He gave Sam a lopsided grin. “Just happens.”

“Okayyy. And now your ego is pissing me off.” Sam rolled his eyes.

“I don’t have an ego,” Bucky said defensively.

“Oh, baby, you do.” Sam let out a bark of laughter. “Please. Charmers always have an ego.” He gave Bucky a pat on the shoulder, a bit harder than necessary, Bucky thought, and strode off to break up the playful tussle his nephews had started with the shield.

Baby.

Sam called him baby.

Bucky let his left hand drift up to his shoulder, touching the spot Sam had clapped, just hard enough for him to really feel the ache. Shit, Sam was strong.

And weird.

Really, really fucking weird.

Baby.

Bucky shivered.

__________

See, Bucky’d thought it was a joke, had thought that Sam was joking when he’d said stop flirting with my sister. And that was why he’d kept doing it, because it was funny to rile Sam up, and that was what they did with each other, that was what Sam did to him.

So he didn’t quite understand why Sam was refusing to say a single word to him while they fiddled with the water pipes of the boat.

Or, well, he did understand, but he just— look, the situation was weird and complicated.

All he knew was that Bucky had flirted again with Sarah; she was a nice woman, her smile made him smile, and Sam was upset because he had spent the last couple of days telling Bucky not to. But the truth was, Bucky had thought it was a joke, even more so because he and Sarah had established—just by exchanging a very long look with each other, how strange was that?—that it wasn’t serious, that it was just them exchanging sweet manners, and he’d thought Sam was joking when he said stop.

Bucky had thought it was a joke, and now that he realized that it wasn’t, there was a familiar little ache in his heart, one that he didn’t like to discuss or delve into, one that he knew well because he constantly carried it around with him.

Guilt.

And the fact that Sam was giving him the cold shoulder was making it worse by the second.

“C’mon, Sam.” Bucky scowled to hide his hurt. “C’mon, jesus fuck. If I’d known you were gonna throw such a tantrum I wouldn’t have done it.”

No response, except for another flex of Sam’s jaw muscles.

“Christ,” Bucky muttered under his breath, chest tightening with frustration and anger and resentment and fear because shit, he didn’t have anyone else besides Sam now, he didn’t— he needed Sam, he wanted Sam, he— no.

No. That wasn’t the path he was going to go down. He’d done it with Stevie, he’d done it with— with a billion of others, and he didn’t need to be focusing on whatever this was right now, he needed to be making amends and saving the world—with Sam.

Sam.

It always circled back to Sam fucking Wilson, right there in the corner of his brain, never leaving him alone, always lingering, always reminding him that he was always— always— alone.

He wasn’t… Sam wasn’t his.

And he needed to stop hoping for something that he would never fucking get. Wasn’t this proof enough? Sam refusing to look at him, not speaking to him, turning his head away just when Bucky tried to make eye contact so he could show that he was sorry, because his words were never enough? Wasn’t it proof enough that he was reaching for something he would never be able to grasp in his hand?

Sam didn’t need him. Not the way Bucky needed him. Sam wouldn’t understand, so he would— he would need to leave him alone. Let him be. It’d be fine. He’d just go to his apartment again, he’d be fine on the floor, with the dog tags clinking as he woke up from yet another nightmare, the TV flashing bright enough to make him twitch in his sleep, the bare, cold room, cold like ice, cold like the soldier, cold like loneliness.

It was always cold without Sam, he realized.

That created a lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow, his spit felt like acid, burning a hole into his tongue, and he couldn’t— this wasn’t—

“Okay,” he said, and his voice came out more hoarsely than he’d wanted it to. He cleared his throat, forcing the lump down, feeling it move down to his stomach, and he tried again. “Okay. I’ll just—I’ll let you be.”

Sam twitched, reaching for the wrench to fix the pipe, but… silence.

Bucky took a step back, and still… nothing. He was shocked by how hollow he felt inside.

And when Sam pulled out his phone, like he wasn’t even fucking there, the hollowness in his chest filled, filled with anger, with frustration, with— with—

“Okay,” he repeated, muscles tensing enough to hurt. “Okay, I’m gonna go to Sarah and see if she needs a hand in the kitchen.” He turned, grimacing at the jab—no, bait—he’d thrown, knowing it was fucking stupid, and jesus, Steve definitely hadn’t taken all the stupid with him because here he was, and before he knew what was happening, there was a whirl of movement in the corner of his eye as Sam shot up from his seat and slammed him into the side of the boat.

It rocked precariously; it had been strong enough to rock the whole boat, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, and it went straight to Bucky’s dick, even more so when he realized that Sam hadn’t just shoved him, he was holding him there, with his arm across Bucky’s chest, hard enough to make him wheeze like the 106 year old man he was, and— and Bucky—

Bucky moaned.

Sam held him there, looking taken aback not only by the noise that had left Bucky’s mouth but by the entire situation, and his eyes dropped to the tent in Bucky’s pants. “You—” He broke off, staring.

Bucky’s face flushed hotly at the dumbfounded expression on his face. Shit. This— shit, he should’ve— he’d miscalculated, he shouldn’t have—

“You like this,” Sam breathed, and Bucky couldn’t bear to look him in the eye.

“Sam—”

“No, no.” Sam pushed a finger onto his lips, making his heart skip a beat. “You like this. You like— you like me. You do. I can see it on your face, Buck.”

Bucky twitched and gritted out, “Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever I want to,” Sam snapped, and Bucky’s mouth went dry. “Jesus fuck, Bucky. Look me in the eye and tell me you like this. You like it when I hold you down? When I make you tell me how much you like it?”

“I— no, that’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Sam’s eyes flashed, stopping Bucky right in his tracks. “Don’t lie. You’ve done enough lying.” He stared at Bucky, eyes boring into his, and Bucky wet his lips nervously with his tongue, not missing the way Sam’s eyes flickered over the movement. “I… oh, I get it now.” Sam tilted his head, perceptive as ever, goddammit. “All this flirting with my sister, that was just to get my attention, wasn’t it? I know it was. Say it.”

“That wasn’t—” Bucky croaked, but Sam wasn’t having it.

He huffed a low laugh, and bulldozed right through Bucky’s feeble pretense. “You like it when I pin you against the wall? Take away all that power you have, that strength that your arm gives you? Make you feel small, maybe?”

Bucky stared back, breath hitching in his chest.

Sam tightened his hold. “Say it.”

Bucky groaned, his cock twitching. He couldn’t. He— that wasn’t— he was— Sam didn’t—

Sam… Sam wasn’t weird. He was hot.

He liked Sam.

The full extent of that realization hit him like a truck and he choked on his next breath. “Yes,” he gasped out, trembling, and Sam released him. He fell to the floor, breath still raspy and hitched in his chest.

Sam let him catch his breath, face expressionless, and then said, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

In any other scenario, Bucky would’ve laughed at the potential that pun had, because holy fuck, his dick had never been so hard before. But right now, he was a cock-hungry tornado for one Mr. Sam Wilson, and Sam was going to fuck him into a new dimension, he already knew it.

“I—shit, Sam,” Bucky said intelligently, staring up at the man. Sam extended a hand and Bucky took it cautiously, letting him help him to his feet. “You still mad at me?”

Sam huffed and turned his head to the side, making Bucky’s heart sink a bit. There was a small pause between them, not necessarily awkward, just… there, and Bucky was ready to say something inevitably stupid when Sam beat him to it. “Nah. Nah, I’m not… I wasn’t mad.”

“Yeah, you were.” Bucky felt his lips twist into a bitter grimace, angry at himself. “Shouldn’ta done it. ‘s my fault.”

“Yeah, well.” Sam finally dragged his eyes back to him. “Not your fault you’re, well, you know.” He broke off awkwardly.

There was another silence between them and Bucky’s mind was beginning to go white with panic, because this wasn’t exactly how he’d planned this shit to go down, ever, and he stammered, “Um.”

“Um?” Sam stared back at him.

Bucky licked his lips again, and again, Sam’s gaze moved down to follow the movement. “Maybe we should—‘s too quiet. Maybe—”

“Maybe I like it quiet.”

“I—oh.” Bucky broke off, biting his lip.

Sam just stared, then broke into a wide grin that had Bucky both relaxing and tensing for whatever would come next. Then, just when Bucky was beginning to sweat through his shirt, Sam stepped closer, close enough to press him against the wall of the boat, and tilted his head when Bucky chewed at his lip nervously again. “Don’t do that,” he breathed, and Bucky obeyed instantly because Sam told him not to, “that’s mine to bite.”

That was the only warning he got before Sam pressed his lips to Bucky’s, kissing him soft and tender before Bucky let out a small moan. Almost as though the noise had jump-started something inside him, Sam growled, and the kiss quickly turned hard and wet and sloppy.

When they broke apart, Bucky’s chest was heaving, and he found himself following Sam without even realizing, only stopping when Sam laughed and pushed his hand against his chest, forcing his back to the wall again.

“You stay like that,” Sam told him, and Bucky was pleased to hear him sound a bit winded from the kiss. Good. He wasn’t the only one. “You stay where I put you.”

Bucky nodded eagerly, hard enough to give himself whiplash. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll stay,” he breathed.

“You stay,” Sam repeated, then pulled back from Bucky after one last lingering look to disappear, heading for the exit of the boat.

Bucky’s heart skipped a beat and for a millisecond, he wondered if Sam was leaving, if he’d seriously misread this situation, but there was no way that was the case, right? Sam had kissed him.

Bucky could still taste him.

Sam Wilson tasted like fucking candy.

He heard some rustling, and then a clink and a grunt, and he realized that Sam was locking the door down to the area of the boat they were in, and he swore under his breath.

Sam was serious, then.

Wetting his dry lips nervously, he let a hand fall down to the bulge in his pants, pressing the heel of his hand against his cock, letting out a deep, shaky breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in.

His eyes fluttered shut and he bit his lip before releasing it, remembering that it wasn’t his to bite, it was Sam’s, and fuck, just the thought of that was so fucking heady that it made him dizzy.

“There.” Sam appeared, making Bucky jump. There was a glint in his eyes as he drew closer, then pulled Bucky’s hand away to pin it above his head without a moment of hesitation, the sheer demonstration of his strength going straight to Bucky’s cock, and he caged Bucky in his arms by planting his hands on the wall until everything, Bucky’s entire goddamn world, was full of one Sam goddamn Wilson. “Now we can get started.”

Read Part 2 Here!

#sambucky #tfatws #winterfalcon #sam/bucky #sam x bucky #buckybarnesbingo2021 #bucky barnes #sam wilson #my fics

[fullmarvelheart]

Crossing Lines (1/?)

Pairing: mob!Bucky x fbi!mob!Reader

Word Count: 3,322

Series summary: A sudden and unsettling event rocks the underworld, and Y/N is immediately called in to prepare for what’s to come. What she isn’t prepared for is James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, also known as the new head of the Brooklyn mafia clan. When these two get shoved into a world of danger and deceit, will they ever learn to trust each other? Or will they be doomed from the start?

Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, little bit of angst, slight swearing, slow burn (more to be added as the series progresses)

A/N: I’m finally able to post this today! I’ve been counting down until I could get this out😂 This is the first story that I have written and posted on my Tumblr account. I’m a bit nervous but very excited. I have not entirely proofread this story. Though, I would like to thank my beta reader, Lauren, for all the help and motivation she gave me. The GIF is not mine, credit to the original creator! And a big thank you to the @the-ss-horniest-book-club​ for hosting Mob!Bucky Appreciation Day and inspiring me to post this story.

Series Masterlist

The sharp clicking noise of my heels, followed by the dull thud of several boots, echo on the wooden stairs leading to the basement of my childhood home. I follow the along the long stretch of the twisting hallways until we reach a door that's muffling the slaps and punches behind it. 

One of the men that had met me in the foyer, and had followed me down, knocks twice on the door as I tuck my hand into the back pocket of the curve-hugging black jeans I wore for the day. Moments later, the steel door swings open with a low whine from the give of the rusted hinges. The scent of blood and sweat is the first thing I notice followed by the image of the room. 

Five men stand beyond the doorway. The man who opened the door stands near the edge of steel, gun hanging loosely at his side. Two bodyguards stand in adjacent corners of the room, making sure it’s possible to guard the others with in. Two others, the two most trusted of the household, including the right hand to the leader of the Manhattan Mafia Empire, stand imposingly in front of a man bound to a chair in the center. By the amount of fresh blood dripping onto the floor, this wasn't just some petty offense against the leader. Which draws my attention to the final man, leaning carelessly on a table filled with painful weapons. Nicholas J. Fury, the leader of this mafia clan, and my adopted father. 

"You summoned me from my apartment, Boss?" I say with a smirk while jutting out my hip. 

Phil Coulson, father's righthand, gives me a smirk in return while Maria Hill, his enforcer, just sends a half-hearted glare my way. However, father's face remains neutral.

"I did." He spares me a one-eyed glance. "Tell me what you see?"

I hum in thought to myself as I stalk my way around to see the captive's face. The top half of his once light-colored shirt is now hanging open from being cut by a knife or something similarly sharp. But it's cut open enough to view a tattoo resting on his right breast. 

A red skull surrounded by a halo of octopus tentacles. 

I grunt in distaste. "HYDRA scum."

The man lifts up his bloodied and beaten head to snarl at me. He twists his mouth before lobbing a spit ball at my feet. The glob of mixed spit and blood lands inches from my black, closed-toe heels. 

I scoff at the action and brush my hand into the waistline of my jeans. When I feel the slim metal hilt, I maneuver the object into my palm. With the push of a small button the knife of the switchblade extends before I quickly drive it into his thigh. He screams out in pain as I keep the blade firmly in place. When his screams turn into tired wails of agony, I turn towards my father. 

"Who is he?" I ask, motioning my head towards the man.

"We believe he's behind the hit on George Barnes. Or at least, is attempting to put the blame on us." He explains in his no-nonsense tone. 

My eyes widen in shock, my lips parting slightly. 

"George Barnes was shot at? Is this why I've been called in?" The prisoner painfully chuckles, quietly enough for only me to hear him. 

"He's dead, sweet cheeks." He whispers with a smirk of victory.

I growl at him before twisting my knife and yanking it out while I stand.

"So, why am I here? I assume it's not to attend the funeral because you know I can't. It was just a risk just to even come here." My father gives me a pointed look.  

"I need you to go with them to the warehouse with the prisoner while your siblings and I attend the funeral that's being held in a couple of hours. After the funeral, George's son and I will discuss some business about our alliance with the Brooklyn clan. I'll call you with the details." I nod at his instructions. 

"You know the FBI is going to have me all over this case once they receive word of Barnes’ death, right?" He nods. 

"I'm counting on it." 

"I'll be waiting by the van." I tell him before wiping my knife on the man’s already dirty shirt and tucking the now closed switchblade into the band of my jeans.  

I'm escorted back up the stairs towards the side of the house where the cars sit waiting in father's massive garage. Though the reason for the escort is now clear. My safety. My personal bodyguards, some of my father's most trusted men, meet back up with me to continue through the house. The sounds of nearing footsteps draw my attention to another hallway. My siblings, the twins, round the corner with their own group of bodyguards. 

Wanda, the youngest, according to her brother, is dressed in all black. Appropriate for a funeral. Her brown hair is in casual waves while her makeup is mostly minimally visible. Her natural eyeshadow pairs well with the red lip tint she chose. Her normal red leather jacket is replaced by a similar black one that's draped over a black dress which is cinched at the waist. Her normal array of colorful and seemingly mismatched jewelry has been changed into a long silver chain necklace and a simple dark color bracelet. And to top off the outfit, she put on a pair of high heeled ankle boots. A surprised gasp leaves her lips when she spots me and soon, she's running to me as fast as she can in those heels. Her brother, Pietro, follows not too far behind her. 

Pietro is dressed in a similar fashion. His silver dyed hair is brushed into gentle waves. A black leather jackets lays over a black dress shirt while matching pants and shoes. He also wears a small silver chain with a blue pendant on it. A gift from his twin.

Wanda pulls me into a tight hug with an excited squeal and I laugh, returning her hug with equal excitement.

"Y/N/N what are you doing here?!" She giggles as she pulls back. I laugh while Pietro pulls me into a similar hug. 

"What? Can't an older sister stop by and see her two favorite siblings?" I gasp in mock offense once I'm released from the hug.

"We're your only siblings." Pietro reminds with a roll of his eyes. 

"Besides, being undercover doesn't really allow time for social visits." Wanda points out. I only sigh. Sometimes she's too perceptive. 

"It has to do with Brooklyn doesn't it?" Pietro asks while crossing his arms. As the only male heir of our father, Pietro is often included or informed of current affairs. Again, I sigh in defeat, though I shouldn’t be surprised he knows.  

"Yeah, father called me in. This is a real shit show and I have a feeling this is just the beginning of it." I mutter distastefully.

They both nod in understanding, but Wanda looks equal parts sad and disappointed. But this is our life, we're used to it by now. Even though it's not always what we wish to have.

I gently smile before pulling them both into a big hug. 

"Promise me you two will be careful out there?" Wanda tightens her grip on me. 

"It's not us," She begins slowly. "Who you should be worried about." I chuckle dryly, knowing she's right, as I squeeze her back before pulling away from both of them.

"I suppose not. Still, I do. Now, I need to be going soon. I will see you both later." Pietro nods in acceptance, but Wanda let's her head droop slightly. I give her hand a tight squeeze before me and my bodyguards resume our way to where the cars are. 

I climb back into the car that I came here in, and wait patiently for the driver and everyone to clamber in. The car is started but we remain idling sitting. As a way to occupy myself, I reach into the side door and feel for what I hid in there before I went in. When my fingers brush over the leather holster, I grab it and attach it, and the gun it holds, to a pocket on the inside of my leather jacket. When it's secure, I fold the jacket back over my chest, concealing the firearm in the process. 

A muffled struggle echoes through the once silent garage.

"You want me to take care of that?" I ask the men who sit with me in the car, my fingers brushing over the spot in my jacket where my gun rests. 

"Nah, I'll go check it out." One of my bodyguards, Mackenzie, or Mack as he's called, replies from the passenger seat. 

"Of bloody course you'd be the first one of us lot to check it out." The driver, a Brit, by the name of Hunter scoffs.  

Mack just shakes his head before he opens the door and leaves. When there's a few moments of silence after the car door is shut, that’s when Hunter speaks again. 

"What are the odds of him bringing up something about needing that shotgun-axe again once he gets back in here?"

I chuckle and I see the shoulders of the person next to me move slightly. 

"High." May, the bodyguard next to me and the one that I trust with mostly everything, responds with a slight edge of humor in her voice. Then she turns to me. "Boss, I was going to wait until we cleared the property,-"

"A good idea, May. I don't know much as of now, I can tell you that, but I'll tell the rest once we’re on the move."

She nods and the front passenger door opens at the same time. 

"You'd think the men would know how to handle prisoners, like that one, by now." He grumbles as he settles into his seat. "I swear, one look at a shotgun-axe would scare the life out of those boys. Maybe they'd actually listen to simple instructions at that point."

We all the chuckle as the caravan of cars begins its trip out of the garage and to the warehouse. As we pull down the driveway, I reach into the pocket behind the passenger seat and pull out the object I stashed there and clip it inside my jacket, not too far from my gun. The gold of the badge reflects the light onto the side door while I begin to put on the mask that's essential for my survival out there in this scary world. The letters of F, B, and I revolve in my mind as I stare out the window at my former home. My life is a dangerous one and every aspect has a devastating risk with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The warehouse is a dark place. Even if there is daylight present, streaming through the dirty frosted windows, a dark and dangerous feeling surrounds the place. It clings to it like the smell of a cigarette on clothes. For newcomers, like the prisoner that followed us in another van just a few behind our own, it's daunting. It's certain death. To me and my bodyguards, only our hairs stand on end in anticipation of what is to come.

I informed my guards of what I knew about the situation on the way here. A reverent silence filled the air at the mention of the late George Barnes' death. He treated his men well, was honest and loyal to his allies, and was a good man. Brooklyn and all of New York will miss him.

I stand in the empty warehouse floor, several paces in front of the unconscious prisoner, who's slumped against his restraints. Turns out the men are really in an impatient mood today. I cross my arms while I zone out observing him. Why did HYDRA do this? What did they gain? What's the bigger picture that I'm missing?  

The faint sound of gravel crunching under tires drags me from my head and has me turning towards the opened garage-looking doors. Three black vans drive in and come to a stop not too far from the entrance. Father and Coulson are the first to step out from the center van. My siblings then file out from the one on the right. The rest of the men who were in the cars climb out and seem to form a barrier between the front entrance and the four people headed straight for me.

"I thought I would be receiving a phone call first." I give father a weary glance, noticing his seriousness about something.

"Change of plans." He answers swiftly, and rather seriously. I begin to grow uncomfortable.

The sound of more approaching vehicles has my eyes widening as I turn my curious and nervous expression on my father who gives me a reassuring nod. 

"Fury." I hiss under my breath, not liking the idea of going into a situation blindly. He simply ignores me.

My focus is drawn back to the entrance as car doors closing harshly sound in my ears, though my gaze never wavers from my father's profile. A cadence of footsteps march across the unpaved driveway and into the warehouse, only pausing in front of the line of father's men. It's only when the footsteps draw nearer that I finally look at the party joining us.

My eyes widen, ever so slightly, at the sight of three imposing men nearing closer to where I stand. The man on my left is tall and broad-chested. His shiny blond hair reflects the dim light of the warehouse. His jawline is clean and sharp like a knife, adding to the dangerous air around him. The man in the center is just slightly shorter than the one on his left. A few strands of his long brown hair frame his face while, I assume, the rest is pulled back. However, the stubble on his face and those piercing blue eyes that I can see, even in the dim warehouse lighting, gives me an idea of who I’m dealing with. James “Bucky” Barnes. A man whose reputation for being a cold-blooded killer and a ladies’ man is very well known. However, any idea of seriousness is completely forgotten when I notice the man on my right, James’ left, who’s giving me a hard scowl. The familiar sight of the deep chocolate brown skin, hard eyes, and black hair puts me at ease. I could almost laugh at the situation.

“Samuel T. Wilson.” I chuckle when I see his eye twitch at the sound of his full name.

The trio stops not too far away from my father’s group and me. The sight of those two chocolate brown eyes, that look like they want to murder me, have me smirking.

“Special Agent Y/L/N of the FBI.” He growls, and I feel the tension in the room immediately spike. “I thought I saw the last of ya when I was let go.”

“You’re welcome for that, by the way.” Wilson scoffs and folds his arms across his chest. I also notice Barnes shifting in my periphery and sigh to myself as I think of how to reword things. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have been let go so easily. There wasn’t any substantial evidence against you, but the other agents were going to keep you locked up to send a message. I let it slip to our boss, and he had a big problem with what they were doing. You were let free not too long after. So quit looking like you want to kill me, and maybe offer a ‘thank you’ instead.”

He goes to speak, but that’s when father decides to step in.

“Gentlemen, we came here to discuss a business transaction, not hash out the past. If you three would, follow me. Agent, you too. Son, keep the rest of our guests some company.” There are a series of soft grumbles and complaints, but ultimately, everyone listens.

When the three Brooklyn boys pass the now awake prisoner, his face turns a scary shade of white. And that’s considering the fact that he was already pale due to blood loss. I feel a shiver begin to creep down my spine, but I suppress it. I tell myself it’s because of the type of fear these men can instill, but deep down, I know that it was a low growl I heard somewhere over my shoulder.

Father takes us to one of the few offices in the warehouse and has me shut the door. Barnes sits in the chair across from Fury with both his men flanking either side of him. The only person at my father’s side is Coulson on the right, until I walk up to the vacant spot on my father’s left.

“I think proper introductions should be made before we begin talks.”

“I agree.” Barnes cuts in. “I didn’t realize this meeting would include a dirty Fed.”

I scoff but am interrupted before I can make any smart remark.

“This, gentlemen, is my eldest child. Y/N was the first I adopted and raised in this life. The only reason she is in the FBI is to help us deal with HYDRA.”

“HYDRA is everywhere.” I start explaining. “Like cockroaches in an old building. The only way to make sure every loose end has been tied up is to have all the information. There’s no better way to do it.”

“Hold up. I thought your last name was ‘Y/L/N’.” This time, Wilson interrupts.

“A cover, obviously. If the FBI learned of my ties to the Underworld or to my father, it would be worse than if they thought I was just corrupt.”

“The point is that Y/N will be passing on any information she learns about HYDRA and their plot.”

“I’ll also be keeping a very close eye on anything that may have to do with what happened to your father.” At the mention of him, I see James’ lips twitch slightly while the furrow of his brow deepens. “I am sorry for what happened to him. Your father was a great and very well-respected man.”

The only sign of acknowledgement I get from the new leader of the Brooklyn clan is a slight nod of his head, and I begin to grow uncomfortable in the silence that follows. Luckily, a phone ringing stops the awkwardness from becoming worse. However, it’s not just any phone. It’s my phone. I quickly snatch it from one of the pockets of my leather jacket and glance at the screen.

“It’s my boss.” I inform before answering. “This is Y/L/N. Yes, sir. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” He hangs up. “I’m being called in. Send me the rest of the details later.” My father nods as he motions for me to leave. Before I do, I look over the three new faces and say in the most professional tone I can gather, “It was nice to properly meet you, gentlemen. I look forward to working with you.”

Without waiting for a reply from one of my father’s, hopefully, new allies to say anything, I hurry around the desk and out of the office. Once Hunter receives the word to get the car ready, I tuck my phone away again.

As I leave the warehouse, goosebumps prickle my skin. Not because it’s cold, or because I’m scared, but because of the pressure that’s suddenly fallen around my shoulders. This attack, this changes everything. HYDRA has always threatened the clans, carried out small or petty attacks, but they have never directly attacked the families. The death of George Barnes is only the catalyst. 

A war is coming, and blood will be spilled. But how prepared am I for what I expect to come?

Part 2

#hbc bucky barnes appreciation days #bucky imagine #bucky x reader #marvel #mob!bucky #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #mob!bucky x reader #bucky barnes series #bucky x female reader #mobster bucky #bucky barnes au

[sepublic]

Someone pointed Emira could be Odalia’s favorite being the one with the same hair color, same gender, naturally skilled, more common sense smart, and less empathetic. Being the most like her. So I bring up the potential hc that when Em gets mad, she sounds the most like O. Cold, condescending, she can gaslight, and easily mimic their mom and it kinda sorta freaks Ed and Amity out. But whenever they mention it, Emira completely denies the similarity.

          That is… an honestly terrifying thought. And I kind of love it! Granted it’s worth noting that Amity’s face resembles Odalia’s more, with Emira getting her eyebrows from Alador; But even so…

           I think Emira, alongside Edric, are aware of the flaws and abuse that their parents passed down to them, sort of- They can tell they’re unhappy and that their parents are strict, but I don’t think they have much socialization, and thus much of a frame of reference for what a healthy family looks like, much less others to tell them when they’re being too cruel- At least until Luz came along. So while I see Ed and Em as sometimes working on some flaws passed down by Odalia and Alador –like elitism for example- I can also see them doubling down on the rest… Like for example, Odalia’s gaslighting constantly made the twins doubt themselves and their own judgment, so they’ve attempted to cope by going too far in the opposite direction; And never stopping themselves and asking if what they’re doing is wrong, and doing little to reflect, because they’re afraid that they’ll default back to that same insecurity if they do hesitate.

           Essentially, I can see Emira believing that she’s moved past her parents’ abuse, and thus being vehemently denying of any similarities to Odalia… But I can also see her having that doubt deep down. Maybe Emira lets Amity and Edric’s point get to her, and she tries too much to be TOO unlike Odalia… Focusing on doing things and acting in ways that her mother wouldn’t. Emira might think she’s avoiding becoming like her mother, but in the end she’s still defining herself by Odalia, by defining herself to the exact opposite of what her mother would do- But it’s still in reaction to the kind of person Odalia is, in the end. And obviously avoiding Odalia’s kind of mistakes is helpful, but with Emira, I can see her going too far in the other direction, in her desperation and paranoia.

           Especially since she seems to have the most issues with Blight identity, at least on an open, self-aware scale. Emira seems to want to be her own person separate from Edric, not tied to nor solely defined as one of two Twins with him… And it makes me fear that Emira will try too hard to be her own person, to the point where she might avoid Edric and let a rift form between the two. It’d be heartbreaking, and still allowing others’ perception of Emira to influence her relationship with her brother, to a negative degree. The more I think about it, I think Emira is also very self-conscious in her own right, like her sister Amity… They just go about it in different, yet similar ways; It’s a two sides of the same coin situation, where Amity tries too much to be what others expect of her, while Emira tries too hard to be the opposite. Either way they’re not allowing themselves to exist exactly as they please, completely disregarding others’ opinions as if they never existed to begin with.

           Edric then stands out- Not because he’s a boy, but I because I see him as… Not really caring about how others perceive him, at least not as much. I think if Edric’s fears are any consideration, he prioritizes companionship over any sense of individuality, identity, and uniqueness. Not to say he completely disregards that either, but if Edric begins to feel desperate, like the walls are closing in and his options are cutting off, like Emira is going away from him- I can see him analyzing the situation as an ultimatum of companionship VS individuality, and I can imagine him choosing the former. Maybe he might resent Emira for choosing the other choice… I can see potential parallels between Eda and Lilith, and Emira and Edric respectively.

           Going back to Emira, I can see her denying any similarities to Odalia, and completely shutting out any criticism because she doesn’t want to doubt herself, she’s tired of being reminded of her mother, being defined by her… And on the other hand, maybe Emira becomes too obsessed with her lineage. With the ‘curse’ of being a Blight, of being so much like her mother. And instead of learning to live with this and accept it, maybe appropriate these aspects as part of Emira’s own identity, or at least understanding that this is an inevitable biological process, amidst people inevitably being influenced by abuse –not that they can’t overcome it either- I’m afraid Em will see her Blight lineage and traits as… Something to purge and loathe entirely.

          And I’m just imagining Emira going through a lot of self-loathing, maybe experimenting a lot with her own appearance- And while it’s good she’s trying new things, Emira might reject a particular look if it’s too similar to Odalia’s, or not dissimilar enough. Like, if Emira enjoys having green hair, that’s okay, and she shouldn’t let Odalia ruin that for her- Just as Amity shouldn’t let Odalia and Alador’s expectations ruin her enjoyment of learning. Regardless, I can see Emira being very self-conscious about it no matter what… Either she’s TOO receptive to what others have to say, or what Amity and Edric pointed out bothers Emira so much that she’d rather ignore it and deny it, because she really doesn’t want to start doubting herself again after moving past Odalia’s gaslighting…

           And, it just gets me to this fascinating sort of speculation, and idea, of some characters in this show low-key becoming the very things they swore to avoid becoming. Emira doesn’t want to be like her mother but ends up being too critical of her siblings for avoiding their likenesses as Blights, basically holding them to a standard like their parents did to them… Ed and Em together not wanting to be like their parents, but ultimately being cruel to Amity because she’s not as free-spirited or independent as they want her to be, amidst doing things because they think it’s for Amity’s own good… Combined with my speculation on Boscha, who possibly doesn’t want to become clingy and dependent like her mother, but ultimately is just that, needing the attention and approval of others to feel happy, looking up to Amity too much, and being unable to handle negative emotions because she denied their existence instead of coping with them.

           Overall- Terrifying and fascinating headcanon! Even if Emira quickly turns around to admitting the similarities, I can see her initially denying it in the heat of the moment, because nobody likes to hear that when they know their parents suck. And while I’m not totally sure of Emira being Odalia’s favorite, if only because she can be rebellious and a troublemaker like Edric… There is the possibility that Ed and Em ARE favored, and it’s why Amity is held to such a scrutinizing standard- And not just because Amity was conditioned to be more obedient. Just… someone PLEASE get these kids away from their parents!

#the owl house #owl house #the owl house emira #emira blight #the owl house odalia #odalia blight #the owl house edric #edric blight #the owl house amity #amity blight #speculation #ask #headcanon

[meridiansdominoes]

The Dark and the Loyal

Fives and Echo are decanted out of the same vat. The Force chooses them, as it has done thousands of times before. The Jedi don’t notice... but Darth Sidious does.

I wrote a quick thing for Fives Week 2020, for day 5′s prompt “Enemies”! I’d written out several of these scenes a while ago, and I decided to dust them off and edit them up to support @painkiller80‘s celebration! I’m not completely happy with it, but it’ll do I suppose. ummm... it’s a one-shot, so I’ll post it completely here, but it’s also kind of long for tumblr, so find it on ao3 here too: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24564922

This is kind of dark (it’s not very graphic but be forewarned) and there’s a lot of manipulation going on. Just a heads up!

Fives goes to Coruscant and meets with the Chancellor. It’s his last chance to present his evidence about the chips to someone who can actually help. The Jedi don’t believe him. The Kaminoans are in on the whole thing and can’t be trusted. The Chancellor listens carefully, smiles at him once Fives has said his piece (he’s drugged out of his mind, but that isn’t enough to stop him), and says, very gently, “I believe you, trooper.”

And then Palpatine makes Fives disappear. 

Fives wakes up in a cell, completely alone. There are no windows, and the meals that get pushed into his room are erratic and barely nourishing. Time loses all meaning very quickly. He moves around the room in the beginning, paces and prowls around as he waits for something, anything to happen, but as days stretch on (he thinks) Fives finds himself curled up into the far corner of his cell more often than not.

When Palpatine comes to see him it’s almost a relief, if only because he’s finally getting some form of human interaction. Clones are social, tactile, well-adjusted to a lack of privacy. Without the constant presence of his brothers, Fives feels like he’s drowning in his own thoughts. 

Palpatine is not what he seems. Fives can feel that much. It’s a sensation of wrongness so thick that it roils and clings to his insides like black sludge. Fives hadn’t noticed it before. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t know how to explain it or say why he can feel it with such clarity. He pulls himself to his feet with a weak snarl and braces himself for whatever Palpatine is planning on throwing at him.

Palpatine smiles at him in faint amusement. He reaches out a hand and hooks his fingers into claws. A wave of that horrible wrongness expands to fill the room. Fives shudders. He takes a nervous step back. He feels power hanging in the air, nearly tangible and undoubtedly destructive. It clogs up his throat. Palpatine flexes his fingers—the smallest of movements, but suddenly there’s an awful pressure closing in on Fives’ body that rips away his will and forces him to his knees. 

He pants helplessly but doesn’t struggle once he’s down. He knows how to pick his battles, especially now that he finally understands what he’s dealing with. 

“Sith,” he forces out from between gritted teeth. He tries to ignore the cold terror in his gut at the word. Palpatine smiles, slow and knowing. 

“Very perceptive,” he says. “Do you know why you are here, clone?”

Fives sneers at him. 

“The inhibitor chips are your doing,” he growls. Force save them all. The leader of the Republic is a Sith. Fives can barely breathe. So many lies. So many pointless deaths. The man that he’s sworn his loyalty to is a traitor. When he manages a weak inhale, it feels like he’s sucking ashes into his lungs.    

Palpatine doesn’t confirm or deny the accusation. He scrutinizes Fives for a long moment. Fives tries not to squirm under his gaze, but he can’t help but feel like the Sith’s eyes are piercing him to the very core.

“Curious,” Palpatine finally says. “And utterly foolish, that the Jedi did not notice sooner. Do you know what you are?”

Fives works his jaw and hesitates. 

He’s a clone. He’s a soldier. He’s an ARC trooper. But he doesn’t think any of those answers is what Palpatine is looking for. When he doesn’t answer, Palpatine’s eyes narrow a bit.

Something in Fives’ mind snaps into place.

Suddenly there’s a roaring in his ears and fire in his veins. He cries out. Something rippling and tense and alive sweeps over him. It’s unrefined and rushing and rising and it hurts. His mind buzzes and vibrates with sensations that are completely foreign. It’s too much, a persistent and all-consuming agony. He wants to curl up into a little ball and clutch at his skull, but the best he can do with Palpatine holding him down is close his eyes and wait for it to end. 

The pain settles after a while. Fives pants through gritted teeth and blinks tears from his eyes as the sensations subside—but they don’t leave him completely. He can feel odd little waves thrumming through him still, filling him with warmth instead of fire. He doesn’t understand what that means.  

“You are an anomaly, clone. The Kaminoans did not intend for their projects to be Force-sensitive. Yet here we are.”

No. That’s... impossible. 

Fives feels like the floor has dropped out from underneath him. Suddenly so many things make sense. The strange little tugs in his gut that warn him away from danger. The way can move faster than normal when he needs to, the way how the occasional blaster bolt skims right by him when it should score a hit. The awful cloying dark that left him dizzy on Umbara, that he hadn’t known how to explain to Kix when the medic had asked him what was wrong. 

The realization is accompanied by a fresh wave of fear that claws at his chest. If a Sith is taking such interest in the fact that a simple clone is Force-sensitive, Palpatine must want something from him. 

“I won’t help you,” Fives growls. “I’d rather die!” 

Palpatine’s eyes gleam a sickly yellow. 

“Your brother said the same thing,” he croons. “But he did not last long. And you will not, either.”

Fives feels his heart clench. 

“My brother—?”

Except Palpatine doesn’t answer him. The Sith leaves Fives there, pinned on his knees by the awful pressure of the dark side, and Fives has to focus on his breathing to keep himself from panicking.

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

Palpatine brings him brothers and tells Fives to kill them. Fives could. He knows how. He hasn’t always had the good fortune to only be fighting against droids. 

Of course he refuses. He won’t kill his brothers. The ones that Palpatine brings in are all Coruscant Guards, nothing but terror and horrified confusion in their eyes from the moment they step into the room. 

Palpatine makes them beg for Fives to kill them. 

Their deaths are slow, and their screams seem to echo around the room long after they’ve gone silent. Palpatine doesn’t force Fives to do anything. He allows Fives to turn away and grit his teeth and struggle to keep his resolve and do his best to block everything out. Fives doesn’t know what kind of game this is, but he won’t stoop so low as to kill a brother. 

Except.

Palpatine brings in a shiny. He’s small and afraid and probably just came to Coruscant directly from Kamino. He shakes like a leaf when Palpatine orders Fives to kill him, eyes wide as saucers. Fives just turns away as always, shoving down the urge to vomit, because he knows what’s coming. 

The shiny screams and begs and writhes and sobs and Force he’s so young. He’s so young and he doesn’t deserve this and Fives knows that Palpatine is going to drag it out for as long as the kid’s body will last. The Sith is only just getting started, and Fives—Fives can’t watch this. Not this time. It’s too much. 

Fives takes a hesitant step forward. Palpatine arches one eyebrow at him, unfazed as always. He gestures patiently towards the shiny on the ground and smiles in sick satisfaction when Fives slowly makes his way to the kid’s side. 

Nothing feels real. He knows what he’s about to do but he feels detached from it somehow, like he isn’t even in his own body. When he reaches out to place his hands on either side of the other clone’s head, he realizes that his hands are shaking. 

He’s an ARC. His hands shouldn’t shake. But they do now. 

The shiny jerks at the contact. There are tears still streaming down his face. His expression is twisted in agony. His chest heaves from the force of his sobs, and he’s still begging under his breath for the pain to stop even though Palpatine isn’t doing anything anymore.

Fives doesn’t want to kill him. He doesn’t want to, he won’t, he won’t—

“Please,” the shiny breathes out desperately. Their gazes lock.

Fives breaks.

He makes it fast. It’s the least he can do.

The body slumps lifelessly to the floor. Fives stares at it numbly and blinks back hot tears of his own. 

“Good,” Palpatine tells him, smug and pleased. 

Suddenly, Fives wants to kill him.  

Something surges beneath his skin, red-hot and boiling and angry. He rises to his feet and clenches his fists as the sensation builds and builds and builds.  

He’s afraid and he’s furious and he hates. He hates Palpatine with every fiber of his being. He grabs at the Force and it comes to him easily, like it belongs in his grasp. It whispers to him, feeds off of his fury, grows and ignites into something that Fives can use.

He spins and throws the power at Palpatine with all the force he can muster. To his own inexperienced mind it feels like a tsunami of anger, an impenetrable wall of energy.

To Palpatine, it’s child’s play. The Sith bats Fives’ attack aside with ease and flings out a hand. Fives goes hurtling across the room. He smashes into the side of his cell with a shout of pain and feels the Force immobilize his limbs once more. He gets dragged to his knees again, right in front of the dead clone. 

The anger in him heaves at the sight, struggling to escape. Palpatine laughs. He clamps down on the energy in Fives’ body and rips it from Fives’ grasp. Fives has only just adjusted to the sensation of the Force flowing through him, and to have it torn away from him so abruptly feels like losing a limb. He slumps. His vision flickers.  

“Very good,” the Sith praises. “Your anger will become your greatest strength.”

And he leaves again, keeps Fives pinned even though he’s long gone. Fives stares at the body in front of him and drowns in guilt and fear and regret.

The power that had surged through him had been dark. Fives doesn’t want that. He’s learned enough about Jedi to know that the Dark Side is evil, that it twists and contorts and confuses. He closes his eyes and vows that he won’t do it again.

Except.

Palpatine brings him another shiny. There are intricate tattoos curling around the kid’s jaw that seem brand new. Fives tries not to wonder what his name is, if his batchmates will miss him, what he likes to do during leave. He knows what the Sith is going to asks. He braces himself, steps forwards, and gets dragged to his knees again with little more than a twitch of Palpatine’s finger. He snarls with frustration—he’s doing what Palpatine wants, if only to spare his brothers from suffering, so why is he being restricted? 

“Kill him,” Palpatine orders, and Fives fights, strains against the Force that holds him in place, but he can’t move. 

The shiny starts to scream. The tattoos across his face jump as he does.

And Fives can’t do anything, can’t help, can’t end it, can’t even turn his head away.

The anger builds up again until he can’t contain it. It bursts out of him like a geyser, hot and sharp. He’d vowed not to use it again, but he has to. Suddenly he can grab the Force again. He gathers it around himself until he has just enough strength to fling out a hand and reach. 

It’s instinctual and desperate. There is no finesse, no control. Fives knows that it wouldn’t do any good to attack Palpatine again, but he can use the Force to put the poor shiny out of his misery. The Force swells around him, dark and angry and skittering around his skin as a life is snuffed out. Fives shudders. He drops to the floor. Palpatine allows the motion

“This is progress,” the Sith says in a low voice as he withdraws from the cell. 

He leaves Fives with the body again. He always does, until the cleaning droids come to take them away. Fives is too tired to lift his head and breathe his apology to the corpse like he usually does.

Progress to a Sith is not a good thing. Fives can feel himself fraying, can feel the warmth of the Force inside him beginning to curdle into something dark and cold. He tries to push it away and succeeds for the moment, but he already knows that he’s fighting a losing battle. 

He curls himself into a ball and resigns himself to wait for Palpatine’s next visit. 

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

There comes a point where Fives can’t keep track of anything anymore—of how many brothers he’s killed, of how many times he’s forced to his knees in front of the Sith, of how many times he willingly kneels just so that the pain will stop. 

He begs sometimes, but Palpatine doesn’t listen. If Fives strikes out at him, he’s easily subdued and punished. It never works, no matter how fast Fives is, no matter if he reaches for his anger. He can’t compete with a true Sith. 

Palpatine never explains the Force, never gives him a long lecture about how it functions like Fives had heard General Skywalker and General Kenobi give to Commander Tano during various points of the war. Instead, he throws Fives into problems headfirst and waits for Fives to figure it out himself. 

Palpatine lets a Gamorrean into his cell. The Gamorrean is starving and half-mad. It takes great pleasure in throwing Fives across the room until Fives has at least three broken ribs and a large gash in his side that drips blood on the floor. 

He’s going to die if he doesn’t do something. The dark nags at him, reminds him that it could help. Fives hesitates, but… he’s going to die. 

 He reaches for the darkness. He doesn’t see any other options. The Force coils around him, fierce and ready, filling him with the strength to get to his feet. 

After a long, steady stream of torture and humiliation and frustration, Fives takes vindictive glee in slamming the Gamorrean into the wall with the Force. Suddenly he has the power to end his own pain for the first time in… he doesn’t even know how long. Somehow, it’s intoxicating. Fives kills the Gamorrean ruthlessly, and mercy doesn’t even cross his mind once. 

When the power drains itself from his body and his mind is finally cleared of the foggy darkness, he realizes what he’s done and vomits up every last bit of the meager meal he’d been given earlier. 

He knows that it isn't right. He knows that, he knows that, but he doesn’t know how else to survive. He rejects the dark and shoves it away the instant his stomach stops trying to kill him. 

Palpatine comes back. This time he takes great pleasure in tearing Fives’ mind to pieces, shredding into him with sharp edges of Force that send fire rippling through Fives’ skull. Fives tries to call on the Force to defend himself, to put some sort of barrier or buffer against the mental barrage. It doesn’t work. He’s weak and inexperienced and slow. 

Palpatine pulls him apart and puts him back together over and over again until Fives finally figures out how to construct trembling shields around himself, desperate for the agony to end. Palpatine shatters them to pieces anyway before he allows Fives respite. When he leaves Fives’ mind, Fives’ entire body trembles. It feels like there are holes drilled through his brain. He can’t even wrap his hands around the tray that holds his next meal because he’s still shaking too badly. 

He’s long since abandoned any hope of rescue. He’s also submitted himself to the fact that he will never be strong enough to overcome Palpatine. Sooner or later he thinks he won’t have enough of a mind left to do anything at all. 

But Fives has always been stubborn. 

Even through the terrible pain, he clings to a shred of defiance and a sliver of loyalty. Those things have been ingrained in his heart since he could walk, and it’s just enough to keep him from succumbing for now. 

Fives can use the dark, can pull it to him and access that power, but he never lets it stay. He always forces it back down again, and that’s not what Palpatine wants. Every time it’s more and more difficult to get rid of it. The Dark Side clings to him. It doesn’t want to be subdued, and Fives is struggling against it. 

Palpatine knows this. He knows every inch of Fives’ mind by now. Fives has no secrets, no tricks, no ideas that the Sith does not know. 

So naturally Palpatine knows exactly what it takes to get Fives to break.

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

At first, Fives thinks that he’s dreaming. The door to his cell opens. Fives rolls and drops to his knees instinctively, because whatever Palpatine has planned for today will only be ten times worse if he doesn’t. 

Someone laughs at him, quiet and fond.

“You don’t need to do that for me,” they say, and Fives’ head snaps up. 

Echo meets his gaze, a small smile playing across his lips. He’s wearing a black tunic, and he looks completely unconcerned by the conditions of Fives’ cell. Fives nearly chokes. 

“E-Echo…?”

Echo approaches him. Fives shrinks back, eyes darting around the room. It’s a trick. It has to be some sort of test. Echo halts, raising his hands non-threateningly. 

“Whoa, hey. I’m not going to attack you.”

“I’m dreaming,” Fives says through chapped and bloody lips. “You’re dead.”

Echo raises an eyebrow and raises a hand, wiggling his fingers at Fives pointedly. A glove covers almost the entire limb. 

“I’m not dead, Fives,” he says. “But I do have a few fake limbs now, if that makes you feel better.”

Fives shakes his head. He isn't convinced. Echo sighs. 

“Feel me, then. You can do that by now, right? Use the Force.”

Fives closes his eyes and turns away from him. He won’t believe this. Echo has been dead for a long time. 

“Alright then,” he hears Echo mutter, and suddenly something taps at his mind, gentle yet insistent. Fives throws his shields up so fast that he sees Echo wince out of the corner of his eyes… and then Fives has to take a moment to process. He turns back to Echo, eyes wide. 

Palpatine is never gentle. 

“Gonna let me in?” Echo asks him, arching an eyebrow. Fives can barely breathe, but when the tapping comes again, Fives lets his shields drop and suddenly he feels. He knows Echo’s thoughts, recognizes the patterns and quirks that he’s understood since Kamino, and that can’t be replicated by anyone else. Their minds twine together. A connection spins into existence.

Fives feels everything. He feels a curl of light amusement from his brother, a flash of pity, a wave of relief. It feels right, it feels good. Echo slides into Fives’ mind like he belongs there. It’s the first time someone has entered Fives’ mind without accompanying pain. Fives relaxes into the sensation.

Echo is not dead. 

He’s real. He’s here. This isn’t a dream. 

Suddenly Fives feels cold terror. 

He yanks his mind away from Echo’s with a cry of alarm. 

“No, no, you can’t be here,” Fives moans. “You can’t be real, please, he’ll make me kill you, you have to leave—!”

Echo laughs again. 

“Oh, that’s right,” he says casually. “I’d nearly forgotten about that part. Don’t worry about it too much, Fives. It’s not a big deal. Besides, he won’t make you kill me. He sent me here.”

Fives recoils. Suspicion sends awful prickles down his spine, because that… that isn’t right. Echo is real, but something else isn’t. 

He reaches for Echo’s mind this time. Echo raises an eyebrow at him but lets Fives dive into his thoughts.

On the surface, Echo’s mind is bright and intelligent, just as Fives had known it would be. Behind Echo’s normal thoughts and familiar attributes, the dark side swells and ebbs like the tide of the sea. Fives narrows his eyes.

“You’re not Echo,” he says sharply. Echo frowns.

“I can reassure you that I am,” he says, coming closer. Fives draws himself up, calling the Force into his grasp and shoving outward. Echo staggers back. Then he grins. 

“That’s pretty good,” he says. “You’re learning faster than I did, I think.”

Fives stiffens. Echo starts to come closer again, and Fives can feel himself crumbling, falling, struggling to remain defiant because it’s Echo. It’s his twin, his brother, his last batchmate, and he’s right in front of him when Fives thought that he was dead. 

When Echo reaches out and pulls Fives close, all of Fives’ defenses topple. He melts into the touch, breath hitching over a sob. Echo makes a soft noise and guides them to the floor. Fives clings to his brother. He knows that something is still horribly wrong but he hasn’t gotten this type of comfort in so long. It’s selfish, but even if this is a trick Fives is still going to take what he can get. 

“Force, Echo.” His voice trembles. He’s shaking. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, curls his fingers into the fabric of Echo’s tunic and reminds himself to breathe. “How are you alive?”

“The Separatists picked me up at the Citadel,” Echo says quietly. “I was missing three limbs and bleeding out, but I fought anyway. They were surprised to learn that I could use the Force. So was I. Then they brought me here.”

Fives presses his face into Echo’s shoulder. His voice comes out muffled by the fabric. “You’re like me, then.”

“Course I am,” Echo replies. “We came out of the same vat, didn’t we? Why would you have something that I don’t?”

Fives doesn’t have an answer to that. He lets himself drift for a while, burrowing himself in the warmth and comfort and contact that he’s been craving. He can’t remember the last time he was able to hug someone. Part of him is worried that if he lets go, Echo will disappear, and Palpatine will take his place. 

The illusion can’t last forever, because Fives can’t forget what he’s already seen. Echo is real, but he is not the same. 

“What did he do to you?” Fives asks in little more than a whisper. He’s afraid of the answer he’ll receive. Echo shrugs. 

“The same thing that he’s doing to you,” he says lightly. “So I understand, Fives. I know that it hurts. I know exactly how you feel right now.”

“If you understand that, then get me out of here,” Fives says weakly. Echo sighs.

“I know, I know,” he soothes. “I wanted to leave, too. But Fives, you need to understand. It makes everything so much better. It hurts now, but when he’s finished you’ll be better. Stronger. You’ll be free. I promise.”

Echo strokes a gentle hand down Fives’ back. Fives’ stomach heaves. His skin crawls, but he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“He broke you,” he whispers in horror. Echo finally shifts, separating them just enough that Echo can look Fives in the eyes without letting go of him completely. 

“No. He fixed me, Fives. Just be patient. You’ll understand soon.” His eyes gleam yellow in the dark. 

Fives needs to let go. He needs to let go, it isn’t right, if he listens to Echo he’ll break and it’ll be the end. He needs to let go. He needs to pull away from this twisted shadow of his brother and continue to fight. 

But he can’t. 

It’s Echo. 

He curls himself further into Echo’s embrace and sobs. Echo holds him tight, offers him comfort, worms his way into Fives’ mind and sends him waves of warmth and reassurance. 

If Fives closes his eyes and ignores everything around him, he can almost forget that Echo isn’t himself. 

“I missed you,” Echo whispers into Fives’ ear. Fives swallows and doesn’t say anything in return. 

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

Echo is almost always present, after that. He accompanies Palpatine every time Fives gets a visit. He watches, speaks sometimes, and then stays behind when Palpatine is finished to pull Fives into his arms and hold him as Fives tries to remember who he is. 

He’d hoped that Echo’s presence would make things easier, but it makes things worse. He tells Fives to give in, promises him that things will be better, whispers that he can’t wait until they can be together again. Palpatine lets him speak. All of them know Fives’ weakness. All of them know that he’s breaking, that it’s just a matter of time before Fives loses the battle and lets the dark take him as it has his brother. 

Fives, please,” Echo pleads with him, while Fives struggles to cling to his sanity and ignores the dark inside him that’s begging to be used. “Please, the longer you fight, the longer it will hurt. I want you with me, I don’t want you to get hurt anymore. Fives…” 

Fives can’t look at him. Sweat drips down his brow like a river. His mind is combusting. He convulses on the floor, gritting his teeth so hard that part of him thinks that they might shatter. The dark swirls to life. Fives grabs it, pulls it close and feels a bit of the pain fade minutely. 

“You’re so close,” Echo tells him. “Just let it stay, Fives. It’s not just a tool. You have to make it a part of you.”

Fives snarls.

“No,” he hisses. He lets go of the dark and allows the pain to return. 

Dimly, in the back of his mind, he knows that this is the last time he’ll have the strength to rebel. Echo makes a sound of frustration and hurt.

Palpatine doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ever now, really. Fives is sure that the Sith thinks it’s beneath him. He hadn’t spoken much when it had just been the two of them either, and now Echo does the talking. Palpatine’s presence leaves Fives without warning. The sudden freedom so unexpected that Fives gapes in bewilderment. 

He’d been expecting lightning and agony as a result of his disobedience. It doesn’t come. Palpatine’s eyes flicker over to Echo. Echo doesn’t say anything, but he nods once, and Palpatine leaves with a sweep of his robes. 

Fives hauls himself shakily to his feet, confused. 

“W-what—?” he croaks out. 

“You’re not going to like this at all,” Echo says, and for the first time, Fives hears regret in his brother’s voice. 

“What are you talking about—?”

Echo reaches out and grabs him with the Force. Echo’s never done that before. He’ll enter Fives’ mind, press some of the pain away when he’s allowed to, but he’s never used it to paralyze, or to harm like the Sith does. Fives panics, because for a brief moment he’s afraid that Echo is going to pick up right where Palpatine left off. 

Instead, Echo lifts him, brow furrowed, and pulls Fives with him out of the cell. 

Fives doesn’t know what’s going on. He tries to fight. He batters his will against Echo’s because Echo’s strength can’t compare with Palpatine’s and Fives can actually make him flinch. But Echo still has more experience than Fives does, and he keeps mostly Fives motionless as he walks them through a dim hallway and into another room. 

There’s a chair in the center of the room. Echo eases Fives into it and fastens cuffs around Fives’ arms and legs. Fives pants in apprehension. This doesn’t look good. He doesn’t think it could possibly hurt more than Palpatine can make it, but Echo is grim, and that makes him worry.

“You just… need a little push. That’s all,” Echo says quietly. “It’s okay. I needed it too.”

“The kriff is this?” Fives demands, jerking against the metal restraints. “Let me go!”

“You know I can’t,” Echo reminds him curtly. “This is to help you, Fives. Why is that so hard for you to comprehend?”

“If you really wanted to help me, you would have stopped this a long time ago,” Fives gasps out. Echo huffs and ignores that. 

“This device is experimental. Our Master hopes to use it in the future, to show others like us the true ways of the Force. It will let you see things as I do, I hope.”

Echo pauses for a moment. Fives feels him reaching out towards their Force bond, sending him apologies and peace and reassurance that Fives does not want. He recoils from it, pushes Echo away, and he sees Echo’s eyes go wide with shock. 

“You aren’t my brother,” Fives snarls at him. “My brother is dead.”

For a moment, Fives can see past the dark that swirls in Echo’s eyes. Something shatters. Echo tries to reach for him again, tugging at the bond forcefully. Fives flinches and cuts him off. Echo’s side of the bond lights up with confusion and panic, but Fives won’t let him in. 

A moment later, Echo’s expression hardens, and anger replaces the vulnerability. 

Echo slams his hand down onto the control panel at his side. The machine begins to whir to life. Fives glances down and sees needles drawing closer to his skin on either side of him. He swallows.

“Echo...”

“You could have avoided this, you know. You could have stopped it already. You have the power to end it. All you have to do is stop rejecting it, stop rejecting me,” Echo snarls. His eyes flash yellow again. Fives hates it when they do that. It’s a harsh reminder that his brother is gone, that Echo has been replaced by something that has his face but not his heart.

“You don’t have to be afraid. Not of the chair, not of the Dark Side, not of anything. You have me now,” Echo whispers in his ear. “Aren’t you grateful? I didn’t have anyone to get me through these things. I was all alone.” He bares his teeth in a pale imitation of a smile. “It nearly killed me. You’re lucky, Fives. Lucky that I’m here to help.” 

Electroprods blaze to life. Fives hadn’t even noticed them until now, but they’re inching close alongside the needles. Fives trembles. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. He’s so tired of pain.

“Echo, don’t. Please. Get me out of here, this isn’t you—!”

Echo’s expression twists into a distorted parody of sympathy. He strokes a hand over Fives hair in a motion that’s supposed to be soothing before taking a step back so that he’s out of range of the chair’s influence. “I’m right here. You just have to endure it, and hate. Everything will be alright after that. Trust me. I’ll be right here, don’t worry.”

Fives twists, shakes, closes his eyes and tries to shut out Echo’s words because it’s wrong, it’s twisted and horrible and he’s so, so afraid. 

“Echo, let me go. Echo, please! Please, please don’t don’t—!”

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

When he wakes up, his world is on fire. He moans before he can stop himself and that just makes it worse. It feels like there are shards of glass down his throat. He’s curled in a little ball next to someone, and he doesn’t need to see in order to know who it is. 

“Sleep, Fives,” Echo tells him. Fives is too tired, too hurt, too beaten down to even think about disobeying. He drifts off again, but when he comes to once more the pain hasn’t faded even a bit. 

Echo is speaking in the dark of the cell, breathing something out in quiet rolling syllables that Fives doesn’t understand. The words grate against Fives’ mind. They’re… familiar, somehow, but not to him. The dark in him leaps in recognition. 

“Nwûl tash. Dzwol shâsotkun. Shâsotjontû châtsatul nu tyûk. Tyûkjontû châtsatul nu midwan. Midwanjontû châtsatul nu asha. Ashajontû kotswinot itsu nuyak. Wonoksh qyâsik nun.”

Echo repeats it once, twice, three times. Fives doesn’t try to speak just yet. Even lifting his head sends lightning pain skittering through his body. Echo must sense that he’s awake. He prods at Fives’ mind through the bond, and Fives is too weak to resist this time. Echo hums in satisfaction as their minds curl together. Fives pushes at him weakly, but Echo bats his protests aside. 

“You want to know what it means?” he asks quietly. “It’s what you could have, if you’d let us show you. Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall free me.” He pauses. “Do you want to be free, Fives?”

Fives rumbles out a bitter laugh that vibrates through his bones and makes him ache.

“I am free. You’re the one who isn’t.”

Echo doesn’t say anything for a long, long moment. 

“Maybe I’m not,” he finally admits. “But you’ll join us anyway. If it’s true that I’m not free, you won’t leave me to face servitude alone.”

 Servitude. Ha. 

“I’m loyal to the Republic,” Fives croaks out, but he hasn’t actually thought of the Republic in a long time. Echo laughs at him.

“Maybe you were,” he whispers. “But you’ve always been more loyal to me.” 

He’s right. Fives loves his brother far more than he will ever love the Republic.

Fives is done resisting. He’d known that he was going to give in the moment he’d seen Echo. He’s just been putting it off. He closes his eyes and lets every muscle in his body go slack. The barriers that he’s put up to keep the dark away fade. The dark swells, throbs, billows to life. Fives lets it swallow him whole. 

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

Fives understands everything now.

The dark is his friend. The dark belongs with him. It sings contentedly as it thrums between him and his brother, binding them together as they kneel at Palpatine’s feet. When the Sith gestures for them to rise, they do so as one, more in sync than they’ve ever been. Fives shares a victorious glance with Echo as Palpatine’s satisfaction rolls over them.

“You are my prototypes,” he tells them with a slow smile. “The predecessors to my future Inquisitors. Your conversions were successful, and theirs will be, too.”

The Sith presents them with lightsabers. Fives accepts the weapon and licks his lips. The dark curls around him like a blanket. It isn’t cold, not anymore. 

He’s not sure why it had taken him so long to accept it. 

His bond with Echo is alight with energy and power. Fives can practically taste it. He knows that Echo can, too. 

It is better, just like Echo had promised. And Fives doesn’t really care what happens to him anymore, not as long he can stay side by side with his brother.   

#fanfic #fivesweek2020 #THIS IS SO LONG IM SORRY #read it on ao3 if you can that's so much better #tcw #star wars #clone wars #arc trooper fives #arc trooper echo

[narastories]

Happy 291st Birthday, Lord John Grey! - A Natal Chart Reading for our dearest English Lord

This is very different from what I usually share here. By now you are all aware that we are celebrating the 291st birthday of Lord John Grey of Outlander.

For this occasion I took it upon myself to do a natal chart reading for him.

This is astrology applied to a fictional character, you have been warned. Continue at your own discretion.

Disclaimers:

I am not an astrologer

This is made in the spirit of appreciation of this character and his story. The purpose of this is pure fun on my part and hopefully to entertain some of you as well. Plus, maybe to provide some character-study-style insight or inspiration.

The character of Lord John Grey belongs to Diana Gabaldon - duh 

John’s birth date is canon. The time has been arbitrarily chosen by me. Yes, it is important, because there are a lot of moving parts to a natal chart. I have literally cycled through the day by the hour, compared charts and decided on the one that I’ve found most fitting to his character. Which, is by the way best practice, when you do not know your or someone else’s exact birth time, but are somewhat familiar with their character. And considering that even if our dearest Lord John were an actual historical figure, I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t have his exact birth time from 1729, so I don’t feel bad about my process.

The examples I may give here are both from the books and the show, but nothing too specific that would be considered spoiler.

Lastly, this is all my interpretation both about the astrological meanings and of his character. Feel free to disagree with me. Politely, if you please.

So, in good Outlander time-travelling fashion let’s transport ourselves back to the day Lord John Grey was born and look up to the sky to see what it has to tell us.

Sun in Gemini

Lord John is a Gemini, which makes him clever and witty. He takes pride in his intellect and uses it to reach his goals. He is extremely adaptable, and instantly finds his footing in the most various settings, whether that’s London’s high society, a remote village in Scotland, or a two week fishing trip in the wilderness of the Colonies.

As someone born under the sign of the Twins there is a natural duality to his personality, that we can observe many times. He is capable of great tenderness, yet he can also be extremely fierce. Brutal is perhaps not the right word, but as much as he is a gentleman, we do see him engaged in physical fight, where he is by no means unskilled. You can’t say it’s always self-defense either.

He often has an internal conflict between heart and mind, between duty and emotion.

Geminis make good actors, and Lord John is exceptional in that too. He has to be as a gay man in the 18th century, which creates another duality between the life he’s supposed to live as a solider and as a Lord, a respected member of high-society and all the things he craves but has to hide.

As a Gemini he is a great communicator. Good with people, small talk comes easy for him, but engaging in a deep intellectual conversation is what really fires him up (Shakespear, anyone? :P) He is pleasant to be around and has a good sense of humour. His skills are diverse and he makes friends easily as he moves from one adventure to the other.

Geminis are prone to restlessness, which Lord John demonstrates beautifully by fidgeting with every little knick-knack that accidentally lands between his well-manicured hands. (Why does he stash them away in his pockets? I’m afraid astrology has no answer for his accidental kleptomania.)

His Sun is in the Ninth House of mental and physical explorations. Long journeys of the mind and the body are prominent in his life and essential to his personality. He speaks multiple languages and uses them to express himself on a very personal and natural level - aka swearing in the language most appropriate to the level of shit he’s gotten himself into this time.

Libra Rising

His rising sign is Libra, which sheds light on how he presents himself and what he wants to be known for. People with Libra Ascendant have natural grace and a good style. Lord John has all of that and finds himself often in the spotlight for it. He doesn’t have to struggle to be successful, but more than anything he wants to be known as a kind and loving person, and I would argue he succeeds in that.

His rising sign is important, because his natal chart is ruled by Venus, the planet of love and beauty. He has a romantic nature, and has the ability to connect with anyone, anywhere at any given time.

Libra rising people are said to be very attractive and compatible with almost anyone and as we say around here Lord John Grey would have chemistry with a lamppost.

This doesn’t just extend to romantic partners, although he is the happiest when in a romantic relationship. He puts others at ease and is genuinely likeable.

He feels obligated to balance the situations he finds himself in, therefore he is a natural diplomat always striving to harmonize and negotiate. It also makes him a good listener.

He has a great sense of fairness and injustice angers him. He is social, has a generally positive outlook on life and is inspired by nature and art.

Moon in Aquarius

The moon sign represents the hidden side of someone’s personality, their emotions, their needs. It is also jokingly referred to as the “drunk you”, so let’s see who Lord John is after a few glasses of good Scottish whiskey.

At first glance there is nothing scandalous here, Aquarius is the most favorable sign for the Moon to be in. This gives him sensitivity and good perception. He tries to understand others’ perspective, and is rather idealistic.

However, people with the Moon in Aquarius are prone to sudden outbursts. How many times does he put his foot in his mouth and gets punched or called out to a duel for it? Yeah…

He can also push other’s over the edge emotionally, exactly because he is so perceptive, which actually does happen when he is drunk. This is not out of malice, but either out of pure authenticity or just because he knows it will get the other person out of a place of stagnation.

He hides a rebellious, progressive and unconventional soul under that well-tailored waistcoat of his and it does come out sometimes.

Ideally he needs to have a healthy outlet for this, a partner who appreciates his sometimes idiosyncratic nature and occasional eccentricities. In turn he won't flinch in the midst of the most challenging situations, because he’s not afraid of chaos.

He wants to find solutions that work for everyone and can neglect his own needs in the process.

If that wasn’t enough air for you, he also has a-

Grand Fucking Trine in the air signs

Which is a pretty big deal. (Moon in Aquarius - Pluto in Libra - Neptune and Mars in Gemini)

These influences all help and strengthen each other. He has a brilliant mind, his Intellect is exceptional, he has a deep concern for law and duty, and an unusually sharp sixth sense of unearthing shocking revelations.

He has a magnetic personality, great ability to express himself, and therefore leaves a lasting impression on others. He is able to inspire and lead others and his need for harmony and cooperation makes him a great negotiator.

Lots and lots of air influence, which also means that in the battle of the mind and the heart unfortunately the mind wins and he lets his heart break instead.

Let’s get back to Venus and love for a sec.

With this much air in the chart for him everything starts in the mind. He experiences desire in the mind first. He must have a great intellectual connection with someone, before their relationship could blossom into a romance (Venus in Gemini). His entry point to sex is also through words (Mars in Gemini). Think about all the witty foreplay and low-key dirty talk in the LJG books. And also, khm chess games...

Where does that occasional intensity and dominance come from, you ask?

Well, he does have Uranus in Scorpio (semisquare Venus in Gemini, semisquare his Sun in Gemini) which would explain why he is not always displaying the lighthearted, fun, fleeting ways of a Venus-in-Gemini lover. He does have a lot of sexual partners. But then we’ve already established that he would have chemistry with a lamppost.

His chart is heavy on the 9th and 10th houses of long distance travel, career and public standing, and these are probably the most important aspects of his life. He is a comparatively lucky person, with a lively social life, charming personality and strong morality (Jupiter in Cancer).

His great trauma lies in what squares Neptune and Mars in the 9th house. There is an opposition between his sexuality and dreams, and what ideas he is allowed to express publicly. He is sensitive to what others think (Mercury in Cancer), picks up signals very well and is therefore acutely aware of what he can and cannot say.

Here lies the greatest disappointment and loss in his life (Saturn in Pisces). He chooses to make personal sacrifices for the benefit of others.

His Chiron is in the 7th house of partnership and marriage, which I also find interesting. This minor planet get’s called the Wounded Healer. It makes me think about what Claire and Jamie says about wounds and Lord John. And it also makes me think about his marriage.

Well, if that doesn’t make for an interesting personality, I don’t know what does. I hope this has been at least half as fun to read as it was to write. Let me know what you think.

#astrology #natal chart #Lord John Grey #Happy BDay Lord John Grey #fictional astrology #fun

[eliss-ey]

Let’s talk about Self-Esteem!

I have been feeling kinda down with myself, I didn’t want to work out, look pretty and cloth pretty anymore because i didn’t want to bring attention to myself. It pisses me off, how my mind manages to think that I can’t look pretty. So I want to put end to that. Here we go!

What is self-esteem?

It’s the opinion we have of ourselves. It’s the way we look into the mirror, and say: I look hot! Or : I look ugly. (which is not truth, beautiful)  When we have healthy self-esteem, we tend to feel positive about ourselves and about life in general. It makes us being able to deal with life's ups and downs. And in my case, I want to improve my point of view on ups and downs, being able to deal with them better.

Signs of low self-esteem

1. Difficulty speaking up and prioritizing your own needs, wants, and feelings

2. Saying “I’m sorry” and/or feeling guilty for everyday actions

3. Tendency to follow along with what others are doing, saying, wearing, and going.

4. Not feeling deserving of, or capable of, having “more”

5. Difficulty making your own choices and, after making them, having trouble standing by them.

6. Negative self-perception and self-talk - not thinking people would like or accept you for who you are, telling yourself that you are not enough when you fail.

If you have low self-esteem or confidence, you may hide yourself away from social situations, stop trying new things, and avoid things you find challenging.

In the short term, avoiding challenging and difficult situations might make you feel safe.

you dont need to read this part, its just my personal opninion

I relatively have an okay self-esteem. I don’t see myself as ugly. I want to improve but I feel that when I do so, more random people from the streets will start looking and yelling at me because i look pretty. You know how these men are? Your shorts are too short! when they are just about the right size. Your skirt is too short! You are distracting me! And stuff like that. Fuck dem. I don’t want to look at myself and say “they wouldn’t like that, its too distracting when it’s not. So, raising my self-esteem might be my first step forward, in moving on. 

How to raise your self-esteem

Recognizing the signs of low self-confidence is an important first step in growing confidence; recognizing your own worth is the next one. To boost your self-esteem, you need to identify the negative beliefs you have about yourself, then challenge them.

Start lifting yourself up!

Leave love notes to yourself around your home, office, car or any other space that you spend a lot of time in.

For example, I am beautiful, I am confident, I am successful, I am worthy! (Because you are). Before long, these affirmations will not feel foreign to you – and you will start to feel it and believe it!

You may tell yourself you're "too stupid" to apply for a new job, for example, or that "nobody cares" about you.Start to note these negative thoughts and write them on a piece of paper or in a diary. Ask yourself when you first started to think these thoughts.Next, start to write some evidence that challenges these negative beliefs, such as, "I'm really good at learning languages" or "My sister calls for a chat every week". Write down other positive things about yourself and positive stuff people say about you.

Aim to have at least 5 positive things on your list and add to it regularly. Then put your list somewhere you can see it. That way, you can keep reminding yourself that you're OK.

How to add magic to your self-esteem raising practice?

Ah, yes. My favorite part.

Meditate or do yoga! On youtube are sure a lots of meditations for self-esteem and confidence. Maybe try listening to subliminals? Be careful with them!

Make a self-esteem boosting tea! 

Valerian root, lemon balm, peppermint or red clover are great ones to start with! Charge your tea with some rose quartz, clear quartz or any other crystal you feel connected to. Maybe make a sigil of self-confidence and self-esteem, and write it on your wrist. While stirring your tea clockwise, try chanting these:

I am intelligent and I can succeed at all that I wish, I will speak calmly, I will speak clearly and I will focus only at the positive things around me today. I will not be shaken.

Crystals to meditate with on self-confidence and esteem:

citrine, sunstone, carnelian, clear quartz, rose quartz, blue chalcedony, tiger’s eye, red jasper, moonstone, amazonite. Have them by your side while meditating, or hold them.

Take a shower and imagine all of the self doubt flowing away with the water. 

I hope you feel better soon!

#self-esteem #selflove #selfcare #witchy #witchselfcare #witchyselfcare

[quicktelling-blog]

Amira’s Vanished Hustle, Perceptions of Missed Opportunities, and What Everyone Should Consider About the Story So Far

[deep dive under the cut]

Some messages I got over the weekend were along the lines of: “No Damira again on Friday whew you must be heartbroken huh?” But, y’all, I wasn’t surprised. And to be completely honest, my reaction on Friday was very different from the ones I saw in the tag. Yeah, I was super happy for the adorable Amira and I was also side-eying the glaring absence of Carlos’s besties at his own housewarming -- but my main thought after the clip was: “LOL OH SHIT HERE WE GO.” Because in my mind Friday was an ENORMOUS RED FLAG that the only substantial thing left to do in Amira’s story arc is the cute Bon Voyage party to send her off on her dream trip. Even before this big POV shift happened, Druck hadn’t given us any reason to expect much more than that in her remaining plot, and I’ll elaborate on that here.

I don’t wanna jump to the conclusion that Druck can’t possibly stick the landing, because hey, they might! We have no clear idea what will happen between now and the final goodbye party, so maybe good things are coming that will subvert all of our worst imaginings! But I feel like this is a hinge point in the season to do a little reassessing of expectations... and to come clean about one big reason why I’ve mostly spoken superficially about this season up until now.

The very first red flag, for me, was when I realized Druck was planning to basically pretend Amira never had a job. That oversight might not seem like a big deal to most, and it’s not like her job was the first thing Druck ever made disappear unceremoniously (remember when Leonie and Sara had other close girl friends? lol) but to me it was a signal that my expectations for Amira’s story (based on her previous strong characterization) had maybe been too high. And I immediately felt a bit cheated.

Amira was already so fleshed out coming into her season. She was demanding, quick-witted, and nurturing. She was fiercely protective of her friends, and even more fiercely ambitious, with a willingness to work harder than anyone to get ahead in life. She was sunny but tough-shelled, with a well-established resistance to trusting any men. And, loving her as much as I do, I felt strongly that she deserved to have plenty of brand new story elements that reflected all those things. To have her own story shaped around her, rather than she herself being reshaped to fit Sana’s story.

But then it was finally her turn to shine, in a Summer season, when it would make perfect sense for her to be on a job grind to earn cash for her trip, and... she’s not working? Huh? She managed to work all through a tough school year, but not her free summer vacation? Why? Because of Druck’s low budget? Because they lacked cohesion in the writing process? Some combination of the two? Yikes. Who knows. But suddenly, nonsensically, they had flushed away the perfect framing to showcase her work ethic, her daily perseverance, and her varied interactions (good and bad) with lots of strange customers around Berlin.

It felt like a bad omen to me somehow. Which wasn’t a great mindset to start the season with. And that was the beginning of me trying very, very hard not to be confused and salty about every little thing I began to perceive as missed opportunities to give Amira a new kind of substance in her story.

For example: While David, Matteo, and Sam began having fun off-screen, working on an bold alien movie, Amira inexplicably had no involvement. She kinda scoffed at the idea when it came up on-screen, then immediately lost interest in the conversation because her man was texting. Fair enough, right? That scene was moving her story forward while generously giving a little shoutout to the meta insta storyline, right? The problem is: the off-screen story ended up seeming much more interesting than watching Amira chilling on her own texting a bunch, and we weren’t even given a reason for her to not be part of it after the whole crew was invited to join in. Imagine if we had followed her onto a shitty little makeshift movie set and seen her reacting to the chaos and strangeness of it. Imagine her finding a resourceful solution to a production hiccup or mediating a creative disagreement while trying to hide her own inner turmoil from her friends. And imagine her having an extremely important conversation with David (and/or Matteo and/or Sam) about the film’s deeper themes of alienation and otherness that they can both sadly relate to.

That’s just one weirdly specific scenario, but there are sooo many other ways I fantasized about Amira bonding with her friends (particularly the ones who aren’t cishet white kids or brand new characters). Talking with one or more of them about what it means to be dangerously marginalized, or to be afraid of letting someone get close to you, or to feel torn in two different directions in life. Maybe something like that could still happen before the season ends, but I’m not counting on it. And I think the time has passed for it to have the biggest impact. It could’ve been amazing (and really narratively useful!) if it happened before the resolution of Amira’s brief conflicts with Kiki, Erva, and Mohammed. We saw a lot of scenes with her looking angry and sad, but we weren’t really privy to much of her thought process during all that reflection, so it felt uncomfortably unearned when problems she once saw as insurmountable were shortly waved aside. I would’ve really appreciated even a short conversation with some good change-of-heart exposition.

And while other people were cheering about all the controversial Sana season conflicts being blessedly truncated or completely stripped away, the whole time I couldn’t stop thinking: “Okay, awesome, but what are they gonna replace that storyline with? Nothing?” And, for the most part, that seemed to be true.

But the problem clearly wasn’t limited to a shortage of well-integrated story threads with Amira at their center. It was arguably also a failure to capitalize on the stories they did use. Instead of getting to watch the emotional fight with her mother about punching someone, and witnessing Amira faced with the threat of losing Australia, we only heard about the drama afterward. Just like we only heard about her family’s religious holiday together. Just like we only got a few texts between Amira and Jonas about the refugee event. And just like how, as I sat typing this, Amira’s mother re-blessed the trip off-screen. On and on goes the list of examples of this unfortunate tell-don’t-show approach, and I’m sure a lot of it can be attributed to low budget and tricky cast scheduling, but the time limit excuse probably doesn’t apply if Amira’s main plot really has been efficiently pared down to 7 episodes.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to reserve final judgment on the season until the credits roll, and there are plenty of good things to say about it in the meantime. Yes, it’s been lovely to see so many gorgeous shots of Tua praying, and boxing, and expressing everything from attraction to anguish to helpless rage. Yes, she and Hassan both did some really strong work selling the magnetic pull between their characters, even in the face of (what I consider to be) an underdeveloped narrative that didn’t totally sell me on the relationship overall. Yes, it was wonderful to have some aesthetically pleasing scenes of the girl squad loving and supporting each other, even if they mostly talked about boys the way Amira hoped they wouldn’t. And obviously just having a story about a strong, kind, devoted hijabi girl is vitally important visibility. So I really haven’t wanted to say anything negative in the face of all that...

... but now I have to say: if you’re feeling cheated and mad about the POV shift, then take some time to consider what else specifically you think should’ve happened to Amira before we entered this resolution phase of her story. It seemed like most people were perfectly happy for her to not face any complex conflict, and not have any lingering hardship to dramatically and triumphantly overcome. Every obstacle getting a relatively swift and easy solution felt underbaked to me, but it was a big relief and source of praise for most people in the tags right up until Amira disappeared from clips. So: in hindsight, how would you have added not just length, but also more compelling drama and greater social impact to her story, so that the extra length felt well-used? It’s really worth thinking and talking about that, even if you’re hesitant to voice any criticism of Amira’s part of the story (even after the season ends, and even if it’s totally constructive) -- because thinking and talking about it is how we’ll get that kind of richer, fuller story in the future.

#druck #amira thalia mahmood #representation #storytelling #amira baby i love you and you deserve the world okay #that's been at the core of my issues all season

[anistarrose]

Don’t Hang Up Yet, I’m Not Done (TAZ Balance AU)

Summary: Tres Horny Boys have the Red Robe’s phone number, continued. This time, Merle and Taako make some calls.

Warnings: Dissociation

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18979621/chapters/45066238

A sequel to this fic, which was in turn inspired by this art by @mspainttaz!

***

The next call Barry gets is in the late afternoon several weeks later, and once again, something tells him exactly who’s going to be on the other end of the line before he even moves to pick it up.

(Then again, it’s barely been an hour since he gave Merle that cryptic nod, so it’s not exactly difficult to guess the reason for the call.)

“You saved my kids,” Merle whispers, sounding dumbstruck even now. “Why?”

“I — I just — why wouldn’t I? I had the power to stop innocent people from getting hurt. Of course I saved them.”

“Well, that’s real altruistic of you,” Merle murmurs. Bit by bit, his normal enthusiasm creeps back into his voice as he continues: “Not sure how you’re supposed to reconcile that worldview with making the Relics, though. Too bad I can’t cast Zone of Truth over the stone, ha!”

“Yeah, it’s a real shame,” Barry replies. “Anyways, you need to teach your kids to be more careful. Odds are I won’t be around during the next… freak accident.”

“Yeah, their passive perception stinks,” Merle agrees with a sad laugh. “Or at least Mookie’s does, as much as I love the little fireball. Mavis is a bright little thing when she’s not busy looking after her brother — she reads at a college level, you know! Probably gonna make a hell of a wizard one day!”

“Give it to me like you would under Zone of Truth, Merle — did you call me just to brag about your kids?”

“Don’t tell my boss,” Merle answers in a hushed whisper. “I’ll get my employee phone plan revoked!”

Barry struggles to stifle a laugh. “Merle Hightower Highchurch, calling up the enemy to have a friendly chat? What would the Director think?”

Merle laughs too, the irony lost on him. “You know, you’re a much better conversationalist today than you were the first couple times we met. What’s up with that?”

“Uh… I dunno, social anxiety? How’s life on the moon treating you?”

“It’s got its perks. Apparently the gravity is low enough up there that my spinal cord decompressed, so now I’m a millimeter taller — and trust me, I know it doesn’t sound like much, but we dwarves have to take what we can get!”

“I can imagine.” An idea occurs to Barry — it’s a long shot, but worth a try. “How about the gnomes — are there any gnomes up there? How are they doing with the gravity situation?”

“Well, Leon doesn’t ‘like’ me or ‘the crew I hang with’ so I don’t really talk to him. And Davenport, well…”

Barry very nearly short-circuits his Stone of Farspeech as sparks of magic course through his form and down his sleeves. “What about Davenport? How is he?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and Barry gets a bad feeling that he came across as a little too invested in Davenport’s well-being.

His fears are confirmed when Merle asks: “What, do you know him?”

“Just heard the name in passing,” Barry lies. “Never met him, but most names from the Bureau that I hear in passing end up belonging to pretty important people. What’s his — what does he do for your operation up there?”

“You know, I’ve never really thought about it before, but — if we could make this our little ‘Truth Zone’ here, for just a second — I’m not really sure why Lucretia hired him in the first place. All he can say is his own name, and he always seems kinda anxious about one thing or another — again, I never know what, since he can’t really talk.”

Barry doesn’t know how to reply.

“Damn good at cards, though! You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find a good game of yooker these days — or even chess, for that matter. You play either?”

“No.” Barry’s pretty sure that Merle and Davenport are the only people in the planar-verse who know how to play the game they’ve dubbed “yooker.” And he doesn’t even want to think about that chess remark.

“Darn. Well, I should probably get going — I can’t miss karaoke night with the boys. We’ve been trying all month to get Lucretia to join us, and she finally let it slip that she hasn’t got anything going on this evening!”

“Oh. Well, uh… don’t let me keep you from that, then. Nice talking to you.”

After he switches his stone off, Barry adds in a whisper: “Wish I could join you.”

***

“Sup, Little Red Riding Robe?”

“Don’t call me that,” the Red Robe groans. From the other end of the line, Taako hears the faint rustling of papers — his call must have interrupted something. He doesn’t feel too bad about it, though.

“What, would you rather be the Big Bad Wolf?” Taako asks. “I thought I was doing you a solid and painting you in a sympathetic light!”

“You know what, fine. Little Red Riding Robe it is,” the Red Robe replies. The hostility in his voice begins to dissipate as he goes on. “Tell me, Taako — is this just another prank call?”

Taako chuckles. “Oh, you wish. See, I stumbled across a piece of info that might just interest you…”

He pauses, waiting to see how the Red Robe reacts, but he’s met with silence.

“I’ve got your number, Riding Robe, idiomatically and literally. So this afternoon I took a quick vacay to the Stone of Farspeech service provider’s offices, cast a few Charm Person spells, and figured out just what name that number was registered to. Pretty clever, huh?”

It might just be Taako’s imagination, but it feels like the silence grows a little more tense.

“Now tell me, who’s this Sildar Hallwinter guy?” he asks. “Is that an alias, or did you just mug a dude and take his phone?”

The Red Robe chuckles. “Huh. That’s some genuinely impressive sleuthing — then again, I should’ve expected as much from you, Taako.”

“Well, uh, to tell you the truth… it was technically Angus’s idea — you ever hear about him? The boy detective? Little snoop was going through my dresser and found the paper I jotted down your number on, and dragged me into this quest to track down your true identity.”

“And does he think this case has been cracked wide open by this new info?”

“No. He’s pretty sure Hallwinter isn’t your real name — and don’t tell him I said this, but I trust him on that one-hundred percent. He’s pretty good with this stuff.”

“What did you really call me about if you’re so sure, then?”

What if she’s just gone?

“Well, I —”

Who?

“I…”

I can’t remember her face, Taako!

Whose face?!

Please, Taako, just kill me!

“Taako? Taako, are you with me?”

He doesn’t feel like he’s with anyone. Even lying on his bed, beneath a pile of heavy blankets he doesn’t remember arranging, he still can’t stop shivering. He’s so cold, and so, so alone.

He clutches the Umbra Staff close to his chest, close to his heart. It’s the only warm thing he can feel.

“Please, Taako, can you say something?” the disembodied voice continues. It sounds like it’s trying very hard to stay calm, and mostly succeeding. “Tell me what’s happening? I have Merle and Magnus’s numbers — I can call them if you need someone to come help —”

It also sounds very familiar, but trying to place it makes Taako feel like he’s teetering over the edge of a void, about to lose his balance and plunge into darkness.

“W-who is this?”

“It’s me, Taako, it’s… it’s the Red Robe.”

Taako’s eyes finally land on the Stone of Farspeech at the corner of his bed, and hesitantly extends a hand towards it. It’s not quite as warm as the Umbra Staff — but it’s certainly not cold, either. He pulls it closer, wrapping his fingers around it.

The Red Robe lets out a short, sad chuckle, which the speaker garbles a little bit. “There are some who call me Little Red Riding Robe. Or Sildar Hallwinter.”

“Sh-shit.” Their earlier conversation returns to Taako quickly, as he tries to sit up in bed. His teeth are still chattering slightly when he tries to speak. “I — I dunno what just happened. I just b-blacked out —”

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. It’s not your fault.” There’s a pause. “Hey, do you think you can you tell me a little more about Angus? He seems like a bright kid —”

“He is. B-been picking up magic real fast too. He’s a nosy little shit who never stops asking questions to all two dozen of his adoptive moon parents and I’m so glad Lucretia hired him.”

“He was right about Sildar Hallwinter being an alias, you know. Did he say what tipped him off?”

“He’s got contacts in the police force planetside like you wouldn’t believe. There was hardly anything in any of their files about Sildar, so we talked to Johann and he told us that name never got fed to the Voidfish. From there, Angus just figured that no real person would have that little info about them floating around.”

“Huh. That makes sense. Did Merle and Magnus come along for this adventure, or was it just the two of you?”

“Nah, Magnus was hanging with Carey and Merle was napping. I could hear him snoring from a room away.”

“What about the Director? I’m assuming you didn’t mention this to her?”

“Oh, hell no. She’d throw us straight in the brig if she ever learned how long we’ve had your number without telling her.”

“Yeah, I figured. I trust Merle and Magnus are doing well?”

“Yeah, they’re… well, actually… okay, look. I probably shouldn’t be telling you of all people about this, but something’s been off about Magnus lately. I thought I was imagining it at first, but now I’m pretty sure he’s trying to avoid the Director — which is actually kinda hard these days, since she’s been overseeing our training more and more. And he’s been really awkward around Johann, too. I’ve never seen him like this, and… I’m kinda worried.”

The Red Robe goes silent for a moment. “Well… what happened in Refuge must have been hard on him. I’m sure he’ll feel better soon.”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s pretty tough…” Part of Taako feels guilty for revealing so much to the Red Robe, but part of him doesn’t want to hang up. Magnus and Merle are already fast asleep — what if he blacks out again, and no one’s on the phone to talk him out of it?

Then again… is that what the Red Robe is aiming for? To gain Taako’s trust, and act so supportive that Taako can’t help but reveal sensitive information during a late-night, emotionally vulnerable ramble?

No, Barry wouldn’t do that. If he wants information, it’s just because he’s worried about you.

“Well, this has been a great chat, Riding Robe,” Taako says with an exaggerated yawn. “But I’ve got to get to bed. You never know if tomorrow will end up being a long day of saving the world.”

“You do that,” the Red Robe tells him. “And remember, you can always call me back if you need to.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. G’night.”

***

Magnus’s body is gone, and it’s Barry’s fault.

(Strictly speaking, it’s the fault of the Animus Bell. It taunts him even now, tucked safely away in the possession of the Reclaimers, calling to him and promising to ensure his family survives when the Hunger comes. To bring Lup back from whatever worse-than-undeath fate she met. But Barry recognizes enough of his own voice in his Relic to know that it’s lying.)

Barry made the bell, he put it out into a world that was not his own, and both that world and his family paid dearly.

I’m going to find a way to get your body back, Magnus. I promise.

“I think we deserve some answers from you,” Magnus slowly declares, still holding his detached mannequin arm in his remaining hand. Surprisingly, he doesn’t seem angry — just tired.

Oh Magnus, you don’t know the half of it, Barry thinks. He doesn’t say anything, but he nods to Magnus and then holds out his hand, creating an illusory Stone of Farspeech in his skeletal palm.

And one by one, without exchanging any words between each other, the three Reclaimers hand their stones over — first Magnus, slowly and solemnly; then Merle, with a guilty look on his face; and finally Taako, hesitant as he begins to raise his hand but resolute by the time he plucks the stone from his ear.

Barry flicks his hand, and the devices shatter.

“I’ll buy you new ones soon,” he promises. “But let’s get you those answers first.”

#taz #taz balance #barry bluejeans #merle highchurch #taako taaco #magnus burnsides #taz balance spoilers #rosalia writes fic

[hylianfury]

A castle in the woods

So, I’m going with it. Tomorrow I’ll write a new chapter of the zora fic which is my current priority but under the cut have a snipped about the whole Cursed!Link thing. With four major WIP (Sunstone, Zora, Parkour and the kid who doesn’t really like Sidon) and one planned (Concubine Link au) I don’t feel like turning THIS in a complete work but... in the meanwhile  I also won’t shy away from writing bits of it. 

Before we start: the original post and that one fanart that started it all.

Keep in mind this Link is really different from my usual take on him and largely socially inept because he hasn’t really, REALLY been around people for centuries. And this bit here starts after Sidon failed reaching one of the shrines. For the castle itself imagine a building surrounded by a korok-forest like forest. You can find it only if you truly want, you can leave whenever you decide a wish ain’t worth risking your life. Fic is under the cut since for now it doesn’t feel right putting it on AO3. Please check the tags for safety. will be tagged as “Castle!Au”

When Sidon regained consciousness all his body could register was pain, there wasn’t a single muscle that wasn’t aching and the large burn on his shoulder felt somehow even worse than before… and that filled him with relief.

If he could feel pain it meant he was still alive, he escaped the metallic spider abomination of the forest and its destructive rays even if Sidon could only barely remember making it to the castle’s entrance before falling on the cobblestone below the main stairway, he could remember the house’s master looking down at him from the balcony with his usual unreadable expression as he ran for his life, and… nothing else.

He made it inside, uh? Good. Sidon tried to stir, his eyes still closed, only to find out he lacked the energy even to lift a finger. He let out a small grunt as a pang of pain crossed through his shoulder and heard something move at his side. Who… a korok? But they made no sounds beside their ethereal laughters, they weren’t really corporeal enough to interact with anything but their master.

His eyelids were incredibly heavy but Sidon managed to push them open only to find himself staring at an old, purple drape looming over his head and bits of ceiling that could be seen through rips in the fabric. Where… he was on a bed? How. He could feel an old, uncomfortable mattress under his back, the next thing he processed was that his body felt cold and his clothes had been removed. And someone was touching him.

Sidon turned his head only to gasp finding the castle’s owner sitting by his side, he wasn’t looking directly at him but gently passing a towel over the open wound of his forearm. He… he tended to him, didn’t he? Most of the cuts he got were roughly covered in bandages even if it was a terrible work, and even in the darkness of the room he could tell he had been cleaned… more or less.

Oh, Hylia, was it necessary to take all his clothes off? At least he still had his underwear but… he knew he had open cuts everywhere but… not to mention the other man’s fingers were bloody cold, did he needed clothes or what?

No, no, he was in pain and getting angry over nothing, it was already a miracle he survived, Sidon couldn’t complain, no matter how weird and unpleasant the whole situation was. Being alive was good, he now knew what was awaiting him in the castle’s cursed forest and once he figured out how to deal with it he was going to be one step closer to get his wish fulfilled.

Sidon sighed looking away from his host, he knew he was trying to help, only Hylia knew why, but every touch was still painful and he didn’t want to look at his own flesh. Wait… was he in the forbidden room? The only place in the castle he had not been granted access? It seemed so and it wasn’t exactly what he expected.

Unlike the rest of the castle the bedroom seemed to belong to a different era, something he perhaps saw while studying medieval history when he was a kid, and it was falling apart. It wasn’t withered out only by time, furniture had been thrown around and broken into pieces, a sword was stuck in the wardrobe door and all mirrors had been shattered.

It was only when he stopped studying the dust covered curtains, one of the few still intact pieces of decoration, that he realized they were still up for a reason, no matters how time was slowly making them fall apart: there wasn’t a single forest spirit in the room, he couldn’t hear a single laughter, but right behind the window they were gathering in mass, enough to obscure the light coming from outside.

“Hungry. Tasty.”

Sidon’s head slowly turned to look at his host, he heard him talk only twice before and his voice was still more comparable to a low rasp than anything else. The master was still slowly treating his wounds, the basin of water he used to damp towels wasn’t the only thing covered in blood Sidon noticed looking at the other’s robe. And his hands were shaking. He could barely see it, the movement was barely perceptible, but it was there.

The hylian’s jaw dropped slightly as he tried to offer the other a questioning look, useless considering the blond man seemed dead set on avoiding his eyes, focusing instead on covering the burns with a brown, smelly paste.

Why… if he collapsed before reaching the main door how was he still alive? The spirits had shown multiple times interest in tasting his blood and he even noticed the master of the mansion eyeing him like he had a delicious steak in front instead… yet he still breathed, he didn’t wake up with the blonde’s teeth tearing him apart, he woke up on what Sidon could assume being his bed, naked, with most of his wounds roughly treated.

“Then...” His mouth felt so dry and he could barely whisper no matters how hard he tried ”why aren’t they feasting? I’m defenseless right now.”

For the first time since he woke up the owner decided to look at him, a short uncertain glance as he seemed to consider if he wanted to answer or not. His lips parted twice, not a sound coming from them, then he seemed to sigh in defeat.

“Can’t enter.”

“Then why am I here? Didn’t I lose your game?”

No reply came for a long moment and Sidon almost resigned himself once more to the owner’s usual silence when his host’s face contorted in rage. He literally slammed the bowl he was using to hold whatever medicinal paste he made against the floor opting to point a thin finger against Sidon’s chest.

“Big nosed idiot, take guardian here!”

Guardian. The bright spider thing he only managed to escape running zig zag between trees was a guardian, an appropriate name for a killing machine that almost managed to murder him as soon as he approached the shrine of courage.

It still didn’t explain why the other decided to drag him to safety, nor why he was trying to take care of him despite clear lack of knowledge about medicine. Wait. Wait… those black things on his legs were…

“Please tell me those aren’t leeches.”

He couldn’t even feel them biting his skin over the pain he felt on everything else but he was quite sure he lost enough blood as it was. The owner seemed just genuinely confused over Sidon’s reaction, that was probably the most expressive he had seen him since he crossed the gates.

“Always… good?”

“No. Never good. I don’t know how long you’ve been here but leeches aren’t good. I vaguely remember some mumbo jumbo about bad fluids from back in the dark days but it’s been proven false.”

He was greeted by a very skeptical glare but in the end the other moved, thin pale hands gathering the animals one by one, and left the bed. The wooden frame cracked loudly as the owner’s bed was lifted and Sidon almost attempted to offer a small joke, he wanted to take his head off the situation, but what he saw as the other opened the door made him freeze in fear.

There were enough koroks outside to make almost a wall with their bodies and for the first time he managed to see them without their usual mask: their little mouths were gaping holes full of teeth, their eyes empty black dots. They were pressing against each other trying to reach for him, growling and scratching the air but being kept at bay by… something. They scattered when the small hylian threw the blood filled leeches in their direction but only because they started fighting each other to get their hands on the apparently delicious treat.

‘you’re being bad now, Fallen One’ he heard a voice chirping, followed by another. And then another. ‘Fairy Boy is so selfish’ ‘We want to play too’ ‘You can’t keep him for yourself’ ‘Let us in’ ‘She can’t keep us out forever’ ‘Bad, Fairy Boy, bad’

As soon as the door was slammed in front of their face silence fell once more and the blonde man slowly returned to sit on the mattress with a weird expression on his face. Again, that was more feelings in the last ten minutes than Sidon had seen him show in weeks.

“Blood frenzy. Unsafe. When safer, you leave.”

That sounded like an order, not a suggestion like the last two times. He just didn’t understand why the master wanted him to leave so badly, the koroks were clearly awaiting his demise and- oh…

“You...” It was an absurd idea, he wanted to blame how stupid it was on his current situation and the blood loss, but it seemed to tie together some of the other man’s strange behaviors and why he went out of his way to drag Sidon’s bloodied body to his room. “...you are not their master.

Blue eyes widened just a little but the other seemed to regain composure quickly, his face returning unreadable as usual. It didn’t matter, what Sidon managed to see in that short instant was enough to confirm his suspicious. But… how? The blonde man lived with those creatures, if stories were true he had been part of the household from the very beginning as well, he was described as a fae-like creature who existed to lure unsuspecting men and maiden in.

Yet there he was, barely speaking, barely eating and while he couldn’t really deny how fair his features were he mostly wore old robes and didn’t seem to care about what Sidon thought of him. Not to mention he had been nowhere to be seen until he crossed the gate, the blonde didn’t really have a part in him finding the Castle.

“If you aren’t their master… then who are you?”

Not a single word escaped the other man’s lips, he simply got back up on his feet once more, walked to the door opening it again and, ignoring the snarling and loud Koroks he stepped between them, the spirits parting just enough to let him pass and ripping his clothes where Sidon’s blood stained them. He tried to call for him, honestly afraid of being left alone, but the door closed before he could get any word out.

And then there was only silence. 

#sidlink #castle!Au #tw: blood #tw: near death #kind of #sidon just escaped it #koroks look and sound like in the game but are actually preeetty much evil spirits

[quanf99]

Sovereign Citizens, and the Definitely Not Real Global Domination Pandemic

It was 12:40am when I got out of bed to check my mail box, behind yet another fridge magnet from Josh Frydenberg was a postcard from the Protector Party, a political awareness group warning of a ploy by governments to control the masses through the current coronavirus pandemic, or something along those lines. The Protector Party are tied to the resurgence of sovereign citizens, members of society who believe they may choose exemption from the laws of society, a right supposedly outlined in the Magna Carta. While fringe political beliefs have always floated around, they're gaining traction in Australia after strict lock down laws imposed by the Andrews government. I was familiar with such ideas, but this was the first time I'd encountered said ideas in my mail box. I decided to look into sovereign citizenry some more, who were they? And what gave them the right to leave insane post cards in my mail box?

For many residents of Melbourne, Dan Andrews tough lockdown laws herald the rise of an all-powerful authoritarian state. These laws have made it illegal for people to visit other households, or leave home past 8pm, they force Melbournians to wear face masks when leaving home. Democracy is truly at threat when I can't order from the McDonalds drive-thru at 12am. Fighting on the frontlines against totalitarianism is a group calling themselves sovereign citizens or, Freeman of the Land. Freemen argue that laws only apply to corporations, which on their terms include the government. Birth certificates are a contract with the government as corporation and only apply to a person if he or she consents to it. This sort of imaginary legal argument has existed long before the coronavirus  pandemic and Dan "Stalin" Andrews' lockdown, cropping up whenever somebody gets summoned to court for unpaid driving tickets. Recently these pseudo-legal ideas have gained traction via Facebook groups. Through social media, thousands of middle-aged Australians are rallying behind the cause, who else will defend our rights to get pissed in the backyard on a Friday night. I thought I'd join one of these groups to get a read on the sovereign citizens. I found one group, Truth and the Unknown - Australia, it tends to focus on conspiracy theories in general but has recently shifted to uncovering the facts regarding coronavirus. The discussion surrounding the pandemic comes from livestreams of really intelligent looking people explaining to audiences that, coronavirus is not a virus, that even if it was viruses can't be caught by body, that coronavirus mortality rate is so low, no one should be worried even if they do catch it, despite 894 people dying in Australia. Unsurprisingly almost all of the information posted in Truth and the Unknown - Australia, contains no sources backing up any of the information provided. Discussion then shifts to memes explaining how 5G internet connections weaken the body making it more susceptible to coronavirus, a virus that isn't actually a virus, and even if it was you can't catch it. Further down the rabbit hole, GMO foods, vaccines causing autism, Rockefellers and Freemasons, government ties to Satanic cults and Bohemian Grove. All of this was mildly funny and maybe a little disturbing, but I was having trouble finding any concrete political ideas from any of these sovereign citizens. I decided to get in contact with the man who first sent me down this rabbit hole, that's when I got in touch with John Tiger Casley, leader of the Protector Party. Mr Casley is an older man, he speaks in old Australian figures of speech which find a balance somewhere between endearing and condescending, responding to you with phrases like "Alright young fella". Mr Casley used to be a history teacher, he now resides in Brighton presumably retired, spending his time making YouTube videos and sending people weird post cards. I asked "What do you think the end goal supposedly is for this deep state?" to which he replied "I believe their goal is psychopathic humanoid control over human bodies via violent injections and 5G, as well as human perception through media propaganda and AI." Q: Do you think this current climate of politics, sovereign citizens, and a general openness to these ideas will result in positive changes to politics in Australia? J: I believe it depends on the amount of human power given away to the Psychopathic Humanoids in JFK's Monolithic Conspiracy, although I've never known opportunity for political engagement to be higher. Q: How did you first become aware of things like, JFK's Monolithic Conspiracy? J: I began reading, gratefully, the logic, evidence, experiences and suffering of the most amazing mind of this century - David Icke's. While my interview with Mr Casely was interesting it revealed little in the way of concrete political beliefs, again it felt more like I was hearing a conspiracy theory check list be ticked off, rather than any solid politics. I decided to look into David Icke afterwards. Icke is a former football player from the UK, who writes about an inter-dimensional race of reptilians who run the Illuminati and have hijacked the Earth. These reptilians are known as the Anunnaki, ancient Sumerian deities of the Underworld. Again the formula for these ideas feels tried and true, pick an ancient pre-Judeo Christian deity (preferably from Mesopotamia) and center them around a secret shadow government conspiracy to rule the world. Whether its democrats sacrificing babies to Moloch, or underground Illuminati lizard men, the pattern feels obvious. Next I spoke to Zac Galloway, a practicing lawyer with a law degree from University of Tasmania. After moving to Melbourne a few years back, Mr Galloway has become active in promoting the truth about the pandemic through platforms like Facebook. I figured Mr Galloway would have to be well educated if he was a practicing lawyer, and should be able to back up his views better than the average Facebook conspiracy theorist. Q: I'm interested to know, are you connected to any particular groups or organisations? Mr Galloway: I'm not connected with any organisations, although I do follow a few Facebook pages where people share and spread information. I don't believe everything that gets spread in these groups and take most of it with a grain of salt however. Q: Do you believe the virus is real? Or a ploy by the government towards some other agenda? Z: I believe the virus is real but our perception of it is far from the truth. There seems to be overwhelming evidence the virus was man made and originated in a laboratory. Whether this was done intentionally doesn't matter as much to me, I think there's a clear agenda from government worldwide involving mass control and surveillance of the population. Q: Have friends and family been receptive to your message, or do you find a lot of push back regarding your ideas? Z: I find a mix of responses, I've got many people who message me frequently to show support, wishing they were brave enough to speak up. Q: What do you think the rising trend of belief in the sovereign citizen movement says about Australia's current political climate? Z: I think it shows that people are willing to stand up for their rights which to me is a no brainer. There's a very slippery slope between freedom and tyranny and when people voluntarily give up their rights so easily I become gravely concerned. To me it is good that people are willing to stand up for their rights. Although I think much of what he said was shaky at best I was glad someone could give me answers beyond vague gestures to Moloch and vaccines. I don't want to give Mr Galloway too much credit though, perhaps there's something even more troubling in the way he dresses up blatant disregard for the social contract as 'logical reasoning'. It can be harder to discredit arguments about Daniel 'Karl Marx' Andrews using coronavirus hysteria to destroy the economy, when they have more formal validity. And one can't avoid the irony of someone who supports sovereign citizenry, utilising his institutionally given power to practice the law. Regardless of the validity behind  any of the ideas I've gone over here, these ideas and their rising popularity represent something more troubling, perhaps more disappointing. It's undeniable that society is structured to segregate the common person from the powerful, while every day people are led along by the false promise of enough hard and honest work, those born into wealth use loop holes to consolidate their position on the throne. There are plenty of legitimate reasons to be mistrusting of governments and those in power, reasons that don't have anything to do with mass mind control, vaccines, 5G towers or ancient sub-terranean lizard people. I spoke to Dr Lauren Rosewarne, cultural commentator and lecturer at Melbourne University. Q: Do you think the popularity of the sovereign citizen movement ties in with the rise of conspiracy theories coming closer to public consciousness? Things like the death of Jeffrey Epstein, or Russian interference in the 2016 U.S. Elections? Dr Rosewarne: Sovereign citizens are nothing new in Australia. The internet however, has enabled them to connect, recruit and have a public platform for their views thus giving them greater visibility. Q: Do you think the rising visibility of such a platform, and these sorts of fringe political ideas in general, might suggest deeper political unrest in society? L: I'd be more inclined to say that Covid serves as a rallying cry for these people in a way that few previous events have. Whether that persists as unrest in a post-Covid world, only time will tell. When people take up these conspiracy theories, its disappointing to see how close to the nerve they hit, clearly something larger than everyday people puts us on an uneven playing field. Why then, do we look for answers beyond the real quantifiable structural devices that shape society? There are many complex reasons, the simplest one being that its much easier, much less ambiguous to imagine some sinister, wholly evil force is pulling things behind the scenes. It's easy to laugh at conspiracy theorists, a lot of the things I've seen people post are honestly insane. However, I think it's worth remembering too, that when people start believing these theories, a part of them must recognise the way things are really stacked against us, and from that place maybe we can hope that more people are on the path to greater political consciousness. Or who knows, maybe the democrats really do drink the blood of newborns in exchange for eternal youth.

[docfuture]

Princess, part 7

     [This story is a prequel, set several years before The Fall of Doc Future, when Flicker is 16.  Links to some of my other work are here.  Updates are theoretically biweekly–next update is scheduled for February 16th.]

Previous: Part 6

     Full intragroup and intergroup relative advantage simulation run started.  Estimated time for results: 6 hours at current background priority.       Flicker finished her third high speed assessment of Practical Power Dynamics and supporting information on people and organizations that had used it.  It had sparked insights--it was full of interesting social science--but it was also full of traps.  Many of them seemed to be associated with naive scaling--the book's advice seemed unusually hostile to the incentive structures of large organizations, such as major corporations, government agencies, and international organized crime.  She didn't yet have the context to follow the social changes the book had inspired, other than the notable de-fetishization of gratuitous killing.  A long model run would help, but it would also take a while.       Flicker's focus was more on the personal.  Some of the advice on managing anger was intriguing, but it was unclear how applicable it would be for someone whose emotional processing was not entirely human.  What she had found most useful was the window into the thinking of a smart, astute human who had done serious work on the problem of long-term functioning with a large personal reservoir of anger.       She slowed down, moving herself back into squishy brain again, with active senses other than sight and touch.  Human senses, hearing and smell, for the sound from the high speed workstation fans and the cooling pumps for the server room, and the faint smell of the oil she'd used on a stuck robot earlier in the day.  She flexed her hands, which tingled as the normal flow of blood returned after a long bout of speed typing.       Her emotions shifted back to as normal as they ever got as well.       Journeyman was still watching.  It had been about a minute for him--and almost a day subjective for her, some of it spent thinking on her own while she waited on resource intensive bits of Database analysis.  She stood up from the high speed workstation and moved to the other end of the couch.       "The book's perspective on anger is useful," she said, "and there are some techniques that may end up helping with management--but that will probably take a while.  DASI is analyzing it and running simulations.  There is lots of subtext, and quirks because it wasn't really intended for someone with my level of power.  And we still have to sort through some of the traps, so I'll take my time, and it's securely recorded and backed up."       She handed the book back to him.  "Thank you for the loan."       "No problem."       Flicker exhaled slowly, releasing a bit of the tension she had built up.  "My level of background anger seems to be pretty high compared to most humans.  But not compared to the author of the book, apparently.  The way she talks about normal humans getting angry and calming down sounds like an anthropologist documenting weird alien behavior.  It's kind of funny because I find some of the same things weird.  So I can see why someone with normal human anger might find mine scary.  Like you do."       Flicker waved a hand.  "It's hard to explain because a lot of it isn't conscious.  It's just what I do, I don't know any other way.  But I can tell you something I know I do differently.  A lot of the things I see at high speed make me angry.  How could they not, if I care at all?  And my speed mind is wider than my squishy brain--it has way more short-term memory.  That's why I need to forget so much when I sleep--to keep the human part of me sane.  But some of the anger from the memories stays.  Only a little for each one, but it adds up.  More than anything I can do to calm down does.       "I have ways to dump that kind of anger, but only down to a certain point.  So I tend to be at or above my background anger level most of the time, unless I'm completely concentrating on something.  And new things can interact with the background and make it seem like I'm reacting disproportionately when I'm really not.  Does this help you understand better?"       Journeyman glanced down at the book, still in his hands, then put it back into his vest pocket.  "A bit.  I hope you're ready for some things that will make you angry, because I can't put them off any longer."       Flicker studied him.  "Speaking of traps and subtext, there was a bit in the book about not setting traps for yourself with unresolved conflicts.  We have one.  Have you been avoiding it to sustain your load-bearing social fiction?  Or because you were worried I'd be angry?"       "Both.  The spying you did the next time I was gone after scrambled memory day had some serious consequences."       "It was research on your background I needed to do because you didn't leave me any other options, and you never elaborated."       "You'd already stopped by the time I found out about it, and I didn't want to have that fight while you were my backup for the dicey mess I got myself into."  Journeyman spread his hands.  "You uncovered information about a fair number of my contacts.  One of them was a Diviner.  Doesn't matter how careful you are if you hit a canary secret from a prepared Diviner.  If the number of people who know it is small, and goes up, they can tell.  After I got back, I found a message from her telling me it had been fun, but she didn't want to die finding out the hard way that my new girlfriend was the jealous type.  She'd already disappeared.  I can't blame her--she knew you were my partner and correctly guessed you were the one digging.  Diviners that aren't paranoid about being hunted don't generally live to get old."       "But I wasn't--never mind."  She planned ahead based on plausible assumptions.       "Yeah.  My contacts don't know everything, and neither do you.  And that's the way it has to stay."       Flicker frowned.  "Okay, but I still don't understand the rules for how your magical communities function.  The information quality about them in the Database was really low:  A lot of implausible junk, some weird and disturbing stuff--most of it probably untrue--and occasional records of conflicts that left a body or bodies.  I wanted to find a good enough set of connections and opinions of you so I could see where you fit.  I was not trying to endanger anyone. That was why I put so much effort into preserving anonymity for everyone but you when I was digging.  And stopped when I realized it would fail.  I learned a lot of things I didn't expect.  Including how justified so many of the people you know are in fearing databases.  But only the Database knows who they are, I don't."       "They don't know that.  Limiting access to personally identifiable information can be a matter of life or death for them."  Journeyman smiled humorlessly.  "The torches and pitchforks crowds and burn-the-witch-itis have always interacted with privacy loss in ugly ways.  One consequence is that internal safety is an issue, and yes, that's something I have to balance.  I try not to make things worse.  But I did, when I became your partner.  I needed backup for too long, and you stopped waiting and started spying."       "I wanted to know about you, and if you'd been willing to sit down and talk to me--"  Not productive.  Redirect.  "I use the Database as a social prosthetic to keep from screwing up even worse than I do already.  You were being evasive.  I didn't know enough to tell if you were trying to get me to take a hint, so I used it to try to find out if I was taking the right hint.  There were Database privacy blocks keeping me from finding out what I wanted, and that stupid superhero social taboo against asking directly.  How else was I supposed to find out?  Telepathy?  Osmosis?  It was OSINT, active hacking and monitoring, or ghosting around to spy in person, and I picked the least intrusive option."       Journeyman nodded.  "That's what the Database told me, when I learned about the urgent trust hazard you'd created.  I understand.  But even open source intelligence is qualitatively different with your level of Database access.  Perceptions count for what I do, and it doesn't matter what you or I think, if my contacts start avoiding me because they're worried about a frighteningly powerful 16-year-old with high level Database access who is perceived as immature."       "How did this become common knowledge?  Did the Diviner tell people?"       "I did.  I knew there would be others, so I asked the Database for a list, got in touch with those I still could, and apologized."       Calm.  "Without telling me."       "I told you I'd handle the fallout--that it was a social problem, not a speed or power problem.  Remember?"       "Yes, but this was something I needed to know to correctly evaluate consequences.  And isn't it still a problem, just from us being partners?"       "At the moment, yes.  It's going to take time for me to rebuild trust."       Flicker shook her head.  Staying angry at him for concealing an apology would be both unhelpful and unfair.       "I see," she said.  "Any other unpleasant surprises you want to get out of the way?"       Journeyman clasped his hands and looked down at them.  "Several.  I've had time to think a little more about Doc not telling you things.  And you make assumptions based on what you think he must know.  But there is something I've picked up as a magician that you probably haven't.  Diviners tend to be paranoid and secretive, for good reasons.  A lot of Seers have serious trouble staying mentally healthy.  And true Oracles have to take extreme measures to stay sane and alive, and be really careful how they talk."       "What definitions are you using?  The Database says 'Seer' is used so broadly and vaguely it's almost meaningless."       "Ah, sorry.  Magicians can be sloppy with terminology, but what can you do?  A Diviner is a magician who specializes in information magic.  Seer is a catch-all label for anyone who sees or perceives things not accessible to normal senses that are at least sometimes accurate--they don't have to be trained and Seeing often isn't voluntary.  Breakpoint is an example of a Seer who isn't a magician.  An Oracle is a Seer who can see the future, know it's the future, and possibly affect it.  They are frickin' dangerous.  And rare.  And Doc comes across to me as an Oracle doing a very good job of hiding it."       "He isn't an Oracle, he's just good at long term extrapolation.  He does do some pretty weird analysis and debiasing tricks with Database projections, though."       "I think there's more to it, but it might not matter.  There are quirks he has, ways he talks about certain things, that make me wonder if he has a future-vision-o-mat down in the vaults.  And a way to stay functional as an Oracle is extreme compartmentalization--literally putting some things completely out of your mind.  That's risky if you get attacked, and I think Doc has been.  But he does have the Database, and the support for the kind of compartmentalization he would need was already there when I needed some of it, for the data I just put in escrow."       Journeyman looked back at her.  "So don't assume he has to know something because he knows other things.  And be careful about dismissing warnings if he can't share direct evidence.  Oracles can know without being able to show."       "That sounds pretty speculative," said Flicker, "but I'll keep it in mind."       "That's all I can ask."  Journeyman nodded slowly.  "And now for something else you'll probably consider speculative, but sure doesn't look that way to me.  Did Doc ever tell you how an Oracle duel works?"       Flicker sped up briefly to check the Database, then slowed again.  "No, but it sounds like something theoretical called a dual loop virtual time travel instability.  Does it involve nothing you can really see except strange apparent coincidences?"       "Yeah, that's what Doc called them.  I'm pretty sure now that the entire mess I got dragged into over a year ago--the deciding factor for my agreement to become your partner in the first place--was tangled up with a long running Oracle duel involving at least two sides.  And that's not even counting whatever indirect effect Doc's projections might have.  When I started to realize something was weird, I didn't think it had anything to do with you.  Aaand... I was wrong.  Figured that out last night, but it doesn't help much.  Even if you know you're caught in the gears, it's way too easy to tie yourself up in self-delusion, seeing things that aren't there..."       "Confirmation bias?"       "And a bunch of other kinds.  Multiply the problems in Doc's rant about using Bayesian analysis to catch a probability manipulator by a hundred.  And I'm fairly certain I was targeted to get at you."       Flicker frowned.  "Why?  Why am I not targeted directly?"       "You are--that would be Hermes.  There are multiple things going on, which is what makes this such a pain to try to unravel.  But you have a lot of protection from direct probability manipulation.  A bunch of older magicians that lived through the Cold War still cast regular little blessings against nuclear annihilation.  You get part of them because you can--and would--rip apart a nuclear war with thrown rocks.  And Doc and I still argue about the origin of some less obvious buffers for you that definitely exist.  But there's lot of hostile probability manipulation, too.  Like, everyone who can do it who wants to destroy the world or part of it, because you're pretty good at stopping that, and the easiest way to get it to happen is to trick you into doing it for them.  Now I'm not defenseless.  But it's like..."       Journeyman paused to think, then looked up at her.  "Suppose I'm somewhere with bullets and shrapnel flying around.  I'm better off than the average bystander because I have an anti-bullet ward.  But if I'm standing next to Armadillo and a bunch of machine guns are shooting at her, I'm in danger, because bullets miss and bounce, and my ward can only handle so much.  And if some of the gunners get the bright idea to shoot at me instead, I'm in real trouble, because what might only annoy her can kill me.  I'm the weak point."       He pressed a hand to his forehead.  "I think I'm your weak point.  In more than one way.  And yeah, there are things we could theoretically do to try to handle it all, but you know what those machine gun equivalents are very effective at preventing?  Calm, uninterrupted consideration of anything personal or contentious."       "I think we're managing okay," said Flicker.  "I mean, it's not exactly fun, but..."       "We haven't gotten to the contentious part.  And, uh... I'd kind of like to move somewhere neutral for that.  This is your home, and you may suddenly prefer I be elsewhere."       "I may even more suddenly need to talk to the Database, and the latency is lower here.  If I want you to leave I'll tell you.  And you can port out any time, if you stop feeling safe."       "I'm not feeling particularly safe now.  But I promised I'd stop evading, so...  Do you still want to go ahead?"       Flicker briefly consulted her reminder list, much of which now seemed outdated or inappropriate.  "I had a plan, but you derailed it by bringing up other stuff--important stuff--like you're afraid we won't ever get another chance to talk."       A steadying breath.  "So I'm wondering if I even should, with everything you say is getting in the way.  And you aren't acting or sounding okay.  When you came back to Earth yesterday, you'd been through something horrifically bad.  Forgot you'd been stabbed in the back bad.  Paranoia turned up, reliving things under cover, not all the way back yet bad.  I changed the subject to Hermes, then later botched my sleep-fuzzy attempt to help.  Partner, can you tell me what's wrong?  And how we might go about fixing the Oracle thing if you think it's interfering with you too much?  Because I can wait a little longer if I have to."       Journeyman laced his hands together behind his neck and shook his head.  "You're right that I'm not okay, but waiting isn't going to make it better.  I think bad shit would just keep happening.  And I know you hate incomplete answers, but I've told you as much as I can about what's wrong.  As for fixing things... I don't think there is any quick fix.  I put details in Database escrow just in case, but I sure don't want you going off on a rampage in another dimension because I suspect some of the inhabitants might be responsible for some of our problems."       "Then why bring it up?"       Journeyman smiled wearily.  "Doc's old rule:  Tell you what not to do clearly and first, because there may not be a chance for a 'wait, stop'.  And with the way things have been going..."       "Fair.  So you think we're just going to have to live for a while with incomplete information, bad luck, unfortunate misunderstandings, inconvenient interruptions, and so forth for everything we do together?"       "No."  He took a deep breath.  "We aren't going to live with it because we aren't going to be together."       "...Until?"       Journeyman spread his hands.  "Don't wait around."       Flicker stared at him with a hollow feeling in her stomach.  "What does that mean?"       He looked down, then back up at her.  "First:  You're 16.  I would not be okay with starting anything before you're 18.  Next:  Even if all the interference went away, I still couldn't be Make-Everything-Better Man for you," he said.  "I'm glad I was able to help you as your partner.  But it's not a healthy basis for a relationship.  And those aren't the only problems, but going through a list with the implication that the goal is to find a way around them all would be a bad idea.  Some of the issues are mine.  Getting together with you would not work, and I don't know when, if ever, that might change."  He shook his head.  "You have your own life.  You should feel free to grow, and learn, and become... whoever you're going to be.  And right now there's too much I can't tell you, you have too many good reasons to be angry with me, and I don't want to be used as a weapon against you."       Flicker stood, and looked over at the entrance to the server room.  "So you'll just blow everything up yourself.  It sounds like you want to drop our joint duty shifts, too?"       A pause.  "I wasn't kidding about the load-bearing thing.  At least for a while, I think they would just make things worse for both of us."       "Now that makes me angry.  I put a lot into our partnership, and trusted you to maintain it.  But okay.  It's not like you need your partner's backup anymore."       The hollow feeling had given way to the grim disgust of seeing a tangled mess she couldn't possibly have helped, because it was wrecked before she even started.  But it was best to be sure.  She sped up.       DASI?  Does Journeyman appear to be suffering from mental sabotage, mind control, or anything else relevant?       I do not have sufficient data to judge the soundness of his decision process, but his actions are consistent with his prior behavior.  He is showing signs of prolonged stress.  As are you.       Thanks.  I knew that last part already.       Amelioration measures are still in progress.  Please do not do anything precipitous.       Yeah, yeah.       She slowed back down and shook her head.  "I just don't understand your thinking.  Why even agree to our partnership, if you were going to do this?  And if your model of an attack on me is right, and not just a paranoid overreaction, why pull away... everything I thought we had, without even trying to help?"       "I do intend to try to help, after I spend a while recovering," he said.  "I'll stay in touch through the Database.  But first I need to see if I can track down some Diviners, because half the ones I know are indisposed or missing, and the other half are getting 'future not found' errors or disturbingly ambiguous signs of some sort of global catastrophe that may or may not be happening the day after tomorrow."       A sudden frown.  "You weren't planning on doing anything drastic to the planet that day, were you?"       "Not particularly.  I'm not even going to be on Earth for some of it."       "What."       "I'm going to the Moon to run Speedtest, finally.  Scheduled it with Doc this morning."       "Ah," said Journeyman, his face noticeably paler.  "I don't suppose you'd be willing to reschedule?"       "No.  As you said, I have my own life, and things to learn.  If you are seriously convinced some entity is actively trying to sabotage something specific that I've put off for too long already, tell me where they live, and I'll visit them with some physics.  Before catastrophe day.  Then you can find those other Diviners and see if the problem has cleared up or there is someone else who needs a visit.  An Oracle should be able to tell if their personal future is about to become very short, right?"       Journeyman looked down.  "I... don't think that's a good plan."       "Then maybe you should have raised your concerns before dumping your partner?"       "Priority interrupt," announced DASI from the wall speaker.  "A candidate psychological expert has been located."       Flicker sped up to read a summary on her visor.  It was good news that DASI had managed to identify and contact someone.  But she had conditions for her help and an unusual background...       Flicker puzzled over some of the details, then slowed down to frown at Journeyman.  "All right, if you really still want to help, the Database profile of this person is weird.  There seem to be rumors that she has some kind of magic resistance.   Have you ever heard of a Dr. Stella Reinhart?"

Next: Part 8

#FallofDocFuture #FallMisc

[erikismybitch]

Waiting In Vain: Chapter 9

Long Distance

The bar was extremely packed this night . Marley had finally cashed out her drawer and collected all of her tips. Becky , who kept checking up on Marley every five minutes was worried. She knew about everything, even the police raid . Becky insisted that Marley come and stay with her and her husband but she declined.

“You can save more money that way , I’ve already talked to Pedro about it , he’s fine” Becky rubbed Marley’s lower back and forced her into an odd hug.

“I won’t be in this hotel too much longer , I got some places in the works” she blinked hard , lying .

“Fine!” Becky was outraged by Marley’s stubbornness, she cursed some things in Spanish and started stocking the empty bar .

“I’ll call you in the morning, let’s get brunch” Marley started to make her way out of the bar , knowing that food always pleased Becky.

“You better!”

She clocked her surroundings on the journey to her car . Last night Hakeem had popped up and scared her nearly half to death . After she cursed him out, he left her alone . Besides him, she never knew what other creeps roamed out there, especially after midnight .

Marley locked her doors and blasted the car heater when she got inside . She drove off to the hotel that she had been calling home for three weeks . It was an okay place. It had a kitchen , a bedroom that was closed off and the maids made her bed every day . The pricing was around six hundred a week, so she needed to find an apartment sooner than later .

She entered inside of the hotel lobby, and said hi to Chadwick. The concierge that knew her by her name , helped her bring up groceries and told corny jokes that she laughed at only because he was nice. Marley went into her room, took a much needed shower and put some left over soul food in the microwave. The TV channels at the hotel could be better , so instead she used her laptop . She sat on the bed , ate and caught up with some vloggers she’d been behind on. She thought about vlogging her horrible life , but those never got views . She had to be some semi rich girl , living in the city who went on makeup company sponsored trips. Like Tiana. Marley rolled her eyes at the thought of her cousin. Who at last she heard had landed her an NBA baller boyfriend and was living in his mansion.

Marley sucked on the bone of her smothered pork chop and let out a loud burp . She was full and satisfied . After placing the plate on the night stand, she rested back into the pillows .

Just as she thought she’d would be falling asleep , her phone rang. It was a number she had never seen , an area code she didn’t recognize either . At first she wasn’t going to answer it , it was really late and it was probably a robo call . But whatever.

“Hello?” She pretended to sound tired and unamused.

“Aye” A male baritone spoke through the other line . He didn’t have to say another word, Marley knew it was Erik. “I can’t get you the fuck off my mind”

“That a bad thing ?” Marley sat up, fully alert now.

“I’m tryna’ figure that out” his voice full of contemplation. It was low, the two of them said nothing for a while . The small break had Marley flustered, she put the phone on speaker and laid back down. “You still there?” He asked . Absolutely

“I’m here, where are you ?”

“You know...Around” he seemed amused at his response.

“Not with this scammer ass area code you called me from”

He laughed at her joke, she had never really heard him laugh before . It was low pitched and short . She found herself liking the sound of it . Almost as much as the sound of his actual voice .

“I’m no scammer , baby girl”

“Yeah, okay”

Marley got up, she placed the phone under her chin and grabbed her glass and plate to wash. Erik could hear the clinking of dishes over the line .

“You eating huh?” He asked . Marley cut the sink off , expecting him to hit her with one of his classic jokes .

“Yes , cause I’m fat” Marley was full of sarcasm. figuring she’d beat him to the punch , that way he would maybe back off.

“You not even fat , you not skinny either you just straight”

“So all the jokes about me eating...” She asked for clarity , she didn’t know exactly what he meant.

“ Compared to me, you small. I just like getting under your skin”

“Why though ?” Marley maneuvered herself towards the living room couch, she sprawled her body across the arm .

“I don’t know, to see how much you could take” Erik didn’t laugh after his statement, the way Marley thought he should have.

“So now you’ve seen how much I can take?”

“Trust me, I don’t know any girl who can take all of me”

Marley cleared her throat , unprepared for the sexual innuendos. She thought it may have just been her mind hearing dirty things until Erik laughed again.

“Well...Your dreads are ugly , is it a fade or not ?” She took a jab back at him, hoping to battle it out .

“You know you like them , come harder than that” Eriks arrogance, encouraged her.

“You have weirdly chubby hands”

“I knowww you ain’t talking about chubby!”

“Fuck you!” Marley shouted and released all the bottled anxiety she had pent inside . She laughed , she didn’t know why but she laughed hard . And it felt good . “Oh my god” she took a deep breath and came back down .

“See you can take a joke” .

“You sound like you’re trying to train me” Her feet stretched against the wall , while her body laid against the couch . The phone sat on her chest , still on speaker . Her body positions moved in different ways , similar to the flow of their conversation.

“I’m training you for me”

“Boy please” Marley let out a shocking blow of spit and sat upright now.

“You know you wanna be on my team”

“You called me, sounds to me like you wanna be on mine”

He groaned at her sassiness , that was something he liked about her . If he pushed her enough, she’d bite.

“Marley” He spoke almost too soft , then let out a pause . She eyed the phone . Just watching the phone time add up by the second. She had been on the phone for almost fifteen minutes with Erik. Her face was getting hot from just anticipating what he might say next . The way he said her name , like he needed to get something off his chest . “Nevermind” he said almost too quickly.

She frowned and changed the energy with a new topic . “So..” she settled back into the bedroom. “Our little strip club stunt got me kicked out of my apartment”

“Good” he replied

“Good ?” Marley repeated as if she made a mistake.

“She kept talking about how she didn’t want you there anyway , you needed to get out of there”

“Oh yeah , what else she say ?” Marley was curious to know . She pulled back her comforter and sheets and got into her bed . With a click of her night stand lamp, the room was pitch black.

“We not here to talk about her , fuck her”

“She called you her boyfriend , you know”

Erik sucked his teeth loudly and let out a groan, Marley’s smile was like a Cheshire Cat now. “Tiana has never even seen me in the daylight ”

“Really?” Marley said in disbelief, she had this perception of the two of them totally wrong. Marley told him about what had happened. Erik has no idea on account of the fact that there were no traces of him online. He went into a whole debacle about how social media was dumb and unnecessary. He even suggested Marley deleted hers. She told him she was considering a break anyway.

“You moved into your own spot ?” He asked .

“I’m in a hotel right now , still looking but it’s hard” Marley didn’t even hesitate to tell him she lived in a hotel. She had come to a point where she was shameless.

“Finding a spot is Hard ?”

“My credit is shot from student loans” she admitted.

“Didn’t your mama teach you about credit?” Erik joked

“She passed when I was twelve ,so no”

“Let me teach you then”

“Teach me”

“Credit is everything” Erik said, then stopped talking as if he was finished .

“Is that it?”

“Yep”

“I hate you” she laughed hard again and kept smiling even after the funny was gone.

“Where do you want to live ?” He asked her .

She thought about the question. Where did she want to live in the future, or right now . In the future, she wanted to live an island life in some other country. Costa Rica, maybe Belize and grow old on the beach. Her thought process was taking a little to long so he asked her the question again, louder.

“There’s this small vintage apartment complex near my sports bar job. It’s so cute, with a little garden in the front and a fountain. A lot of old people live there so they take care of it . They had a vacancy, I put in my application a week ago”

“You work at a bar . I thought you did nerdy computer shit”

Marley wondered exactly what else Tiana told him about her. “Both , and what I do is not nerdy computer shit . What do you do ?”

“Nerdy computer shit” Erik couldn’t finish his statement before he let out a laugh . He looked at his phone screen, realizing that he had been on the phone for almost an hour with Marley. “Marley”

He did the thing again, where he said her name as if he wanted to get something off his chest. So she waited again for him to speak .

“Yes?”

“Pick up when I call , aight”

“Okay”

He hung up the phone , with his peculiar way of saying goodbye. Tiana may have had a new baller boyfriend, but the one she was crying over was in Marleys world.

(Sorry for typos)

#its about to go down