#you MUST behave as if there is still something worth saving even when the evidence seems against you

[screechthemighty]

An Essay About Resident Evil: Village That No One Asked For But I’m Posting It Anyways

So, the Beneviento House is my favorite part of Village for two reasons. One: it’s the scariest part of the game, don’t @ me. Two: On a second play through, it actually reveals a lot about the issues in Ethan and Mia’s marriage. There’s a lot to unpack here with that, but the tl;dr of it is this: I believe what Ethan experiences in House Beneviento is trip into Ethan’s psyche rather than an actual, physical event, and this trip confirms that his arguments with Mia were made worse by a) him worrying about Rose more than he worries about himself, and b) him assuming that Mia is worried about the same things he is; thus, his hallucinations of her are more a reflection of himself than they are of reality.

All of my logic and evidence is under the cut. Fair warning, it’s very long, I am so sorry, I really am. Aso, please note this is NOT a Mia-bashing post. We do not engage in Mia-bashing on this blog. Please go to someone else’s blog if you want to engage in Mia-bashing. Thank you.

There’s two important things to establish here. First: I think that 99% of what Ethan experiences in House Beneviento isn’t real, and is at least partially a manifestation of Ethan’s inner psyche. The evidence is as follows:

It makes no sense that Ethan would lose his entire inventory within the space of 0.5 seconds after the lights shut off. It makes much more sense that mind control made him think he no longer had a gun.

Several of the items and information used in the puzzles are things that Donna, logically, shouldn’t have access to. The music box was still in their home when Chris arrived (which wasn’t that long ago, keep in mind), I doubt Miranda cared enough to find out Rose’s preferred toys and the identity of who gifted them the music box, and there’s no way Donna would be able to get that picture of “Mia’s” dead body. Mia’s wedding ring is tentatively on this list, too; Donna would have access to it, since Mia was being held captive at the time, but I can’t remember if Mia is still wearing it when Chris saves her, so put that one down as a “maybe.”

You stab Angie (or, more properly, stab Donna) for the final time in the back room by the elevator. However, right after stabbing and killing her, you are suddenly by the front door again, the main part of the house is in shambles in a way that suggests a struggle, and you’re not holding the scissors anymore. If you try to backtrack to check the elevator, the door leading to that part of the house is locked (presumably From The Other Side, as they often are in RE).

Additionally, your entire inventory is spontaneously back in your pockets. In Biohazard, if you had inventory taken off of you, it had to be retrieved from a box later. Not this time (though, granted, this game doesn’t HAVE inventory boxes, but it’s an interesting detail when combined with everything else).

All of this, to me, points to Ethan having probably never left the main foyer throughout the majority of that mind trip. As for the hallucinations being fueled mostly by his psyche, a diary entry from the gardener mentions that the plants made him hallucinate his deceased wife, and as mentioned above, a lot of the puzzle relates to things specific and personal to Ethan. While I don’t doubt that Donna could and probably did influence the hallucination a bit (she is a puppet master after all), the building blocks were all there in Ethan’s head.

Second Important Thing to Establish: Ethan was completely missing the point during his arguments with Mia in the lead up to Village.

I’m of the opinion that the fights Ethan mentions in his diary were not a constant thing. I think they only started, at the earliest, while Mia was pregnant, but for sure after Rose was born. This is because pretty much all the canon evidence we see about their fights circles back to Rose. The diary entry where Ethan describes the fight they had is dated four days before Ethan’s death; meanwhile, the flashback fight (which is most likely of that very fight) is triggered by a conversation about Rose’s doctor’s visit and uses language that implies a lot of their talks (and presumably arguments) about “staying positive” have to do specifically with Rose and the move.

It’s also worth keeping in mind how much of Ethan’s thoughts about Dulvey and moving past it are related to Rose. Like, yeah, I’m sure he wants Mia to heal for her own good and he’d like to heal for his own good. That’s to be expected. But whenever he talks about moving to Europe and healing from Dulvey, it’s also about doing it for Rose and for her benefit (“so we can live our lives with Rose without it hanging over our heads” in the diary, “We moved here so that she wouldn’t have to deal with any of that” in the argument with “Mia” at the start). Additionally, in the flashback he says, “[Rose]’s going to be fine, I just know it. What else matters?” Rose is Ethan’s #1 priority and much of his concern is focused on her.

But—and this is the important thing here—not all of Mia’s is. The end of the game reveals that Mia knew, most likely as a result of her pregnancy with Rose, that Ethan was a megamycete hybrid.  In the flashback fight, she says, “I keep telling you, it’s not Rose that I’m worried about”, and the one moment when she truly explodes on him is after he implies that the only thing that matters is Rose’s safety. “We matter, Ethan! YOU matter! You just won’t-” Her exact words. We never find out what the won’t is, but I have a feeling what she’s getting at is that Ethan is unwilling to look past his worries about Rose and always circles the argument back to her. Now, we don’t see this directly, as we’re only privy to one real argument of theirs (Miranda being bitchy doesn’t count), but there’s past evidence to suggest this was probably the case.

The thing about Ethan is that he can be single-minded in his protective instinct, and we’ve known this since the last game. There’s a little throwaway moment in Biohazard where Mia thanks Ethan for choosing to save her over Zoe. He responds “Who the hell else was I going to choose?” with like, zero hesitation, and she seems taken aback by the response. Now, of course, Mia being his choice makes sense, she’s the whole reason he came here, But Zoe did still help him out, and she is still a victim in all of this. She deserved to get out of there as much as Mia did. But Ethan chose Mia without any hesitation, would have chosen her every time, and while he did promise (and keep said promise) to help Zoe, Mia was his top priority. He lost a limb (or two, depending) and dragged himself through hell for Mia—and keep in mind, this is despite him being on some level aware of the fact that she was involved in all that mess (he POINT BLANK ASKS, “You had something to do with all of this, didn’t you?”) and after she’d behaved aggressively towards him (granted, that was while she was under mind control, but that would definitely give some people pause).

Ethan cares about other people in his life first and foremost. Ethan barely cares about himself. He focuses on saving Mia at the expense of his own safety and someone else’s, and when things start getting bad again after Dulvey, his sole focus is on how it could affect Rose. I have a feeling a big part of the reasons the disagreements happened, in addition to Mia keeping information from him, was Ethan focusing on Rose’s safety, as if it’s the only thing that they could have to be worried about, and how frustrating that must have been for the woman who has seen first hand what Ethan is like and how much trouble his intense protectiveness can get him in. (Note: this does not excuse Mia from not just like. Telling him the truth, but I have my own theories about that, so we’ll leave it at “they were both talking past each other in a big way and that wasn’t helping the marriage any” because my analysis of Mia as a character is WAY beyond the scope of this post.)

Now, you’d think, you’d think with Mia having repeatedly telegraphed that Rose isn’t the problem here, that Ethan would on some level be aware of the fact that something else is going on. But he isn’t, or at least, he isn’t aware of the right things, and Beneviento House proves it.

So, Ethan is having a hell of a bad trip based off of his own insecurities and fears: his unresolved issues with Mia and his daughter’s safety. We have established above that Ethan has completely been misreading his arguments, and with that in mind, everything that Hallucination!Mia says from the second you see her gets really interesting. Starting with:

“Rose feels different. Ethan, you have to fix her” and “That’s a kick. […] She’s so energetic, it’s crazy.” Mia most likely caught on during the pregnancy that something was different about Rose. They were already ordering medical reports, including fungal pathogen testing by the BSAA, and her health was a definite source of anxiety for Ethan (his response to reading her medical file being a relieved sigh). Mia notices something is different about Rose, probably works it out, and realizes what the wider implications are for the family. Ethan is just plain worried about his daughter’s health, assumes Mia’s worries match his own, and that assumption is reflected in both the memories that come to the surface and the words his psyche put in Mia’s mouth.

“I can’t tell Ethan anything about this”, “Everyone leaves me, even Rose. I don’t want to be alone” and “I didn’t want to keep it from you. I didn’t want to lose you again. I didn’t want to destroy this family. I love you both so much. I had to. I had to do it.” Now, I don’t think the last two are anything Mia has directly said, but they all could be Ethan’s interpretation of her recent behavior. As mentioned above, he’s already aware that she’s kept at least one secret from him, and seems to know something is going on with Rose. If Mia’s not telling me, it’s because she’s worried about both of us, and doesn’t want to break up the family.

This one is a bit of conjecture and my own personal interpretation of Mia, but you’ve come this far, so hear me out: through these hallucinations, Ethan reads the aggressive secret-keeping as an attempt to keep the family together so that Mia won’t be abandoned again. I think he’s probably at least partially correct in that assumption. However, I think it’s also partially a projection of his own desires and motivations (keeping his family together at any costs). On top of that, he’s definitely missing the fact that Mia knows something is up with him as well. Telling Ethan doesn’t just potentially mean wrecking the family; it could wreck him on a personal level, and put him in a lot of danger. So while Ethan assumes it’s just about the family, there’s a lot more on Mia’s mind. That a lot more just isn’t reflected because Ethan doesn’t know.

The final bits of audio you hear are Mia crying for Rose, then repeating to herself that everything is going to be fine. Again, we know that Mia was worried about more than Rose. Ethan doesn’t. Ethan is worried about Rose first and foremost, has misread Mia due to his singular focus and lack of vital information, and in misreading Mia has created this version of events where Rose is the one who’s really in danger. Despite Mia indicating there’s more to it, he still reads what’s going on as being Rose-centered, and the fact that Rose is now genuinely in serious danger doesn’t help with that.

At the end, when Ethan says “Mia. I’ll make things right”, he’s talking about the wrong thing. He’s saying he’ll protect Rose, he’ll save her, he’ll keep her safe in a way he hadn’t been able to with Mia.

What he’s missing is the fact that, while he might’ve been just worried about Rose, Mia never was. That’s one part he can’t make right. Mia would’ve had to; she just never got the chance.

(Sidebar no one asked for, but I personally think she would have, either of her own accord or because the BSAA fungal reports (which seem to be the test results the doctor wanted to talk to them about if I’m understanding the timeline right) would’ve blown the whole thing wide open for her. It was basically inevitable. Doesn’t excuse all the secret keeping up until that point, but I like to think she would’ve come clean. Freaking MIRANDA JUST HAD TO GO AND RUIN IT THOUGH - )

#resident evil #resident evil village #ethan winters #mia winters #if you read all of this you're an MVP for real #fandom meta

[namjooningelsewhere]

The Prince Charming!!

Pairing : Yoongi x reader

Genre: 18+

Warnings: Absolutely nothing!!!!

Summary- You are forced to attend a prestigious homecoming ball which you wanted to avoid but also which you couldn't, you didn't make in any plans on avoiding until you actually meet someone interesting and suddenly everything just seems perfect. Comfortably perfect!

The big thingies weren't quite your scene, specially when all you had to do was look like a freaking doll and stand in poise and behave and watch what you said. Naah please you were done with it.

And today happened to be exactly that kind of day. It was ball at the most affluent family of the city, The Mins. Seems like the so called prince charming had returned to his kingdom after a sabbatical and to celebrate the return his parents had hosted a ball, actually quite grand one at that.

You never wanted to go home because you knew your mother would be waiting with her battalion of stylists, beauticians to make you look like a diva, which obviously you were not. You had features that were standing out but you thought you needed to shine from within to shine on the outside.

You crept inside your own house like a thief tiptoeing to avoid any noise that would attract the attention of your mother. "Rebeca where you think you are going?" Your mothers voice boomed through the corridor. She was your mother alright.

"Give me one good reason why you haven't tried the dresses I've sent to your room? One good reason why you haven't pushed it for the fittings yet?" Umm maybe i came just now, Maybe i was busy trying to prepare for a interview that can get me something real?" You scoffed.

"Very funny, now go to your room and try the dresses and show it to me?" She said. I walked slowly to my room displaying ample amount of disinterest. "Faster now woman, The balls in the evening not tomorrow" you heard your voice once again. How does she know everything? You still couldn't uncover this mystery, You checked if hallways had cameras but nope nothing nada.

You try a lot of dresses but a red one catches your eyes. You try the red one it fit you beautifully amplifying every curve at your body and with a thigh high slits making it look picture perfect. Which also made you look perfect for the gram;).

You finished with a little bit of makeup and a shimmery nude gloss which made your lips look even prettier. You arrived at the ball with your parents and it looked it was more of a met gala type event.

As you walked to the hall you could see girls in all kinds of designers making it a high society designer store, looks like the so called prince charming had a lot of options to choose from.

You were greeted by a cheerful greeting and you grinned by the ear, you knew who it was. Hobi your bestfriend waving right back to him. You gave him a friendly hug, and he gasped for a second "Look at you gorgeous, looking enchanting!! He chimed.

Oh boy didn't have much of a choice you see! You exclaimed. The event turned out to be extremely boring with occasional dances here and there. All everyone was doing was to try finding the guy in question.

You moved to the hallway to use the powder room all you could hear was the gossips about the prince charming, "Where is he ?" I've heard he's hot!! Imagine how will he be?" You were absolutely disinterested in the prince charming and the only reason you had your ass in the room was your mother. That woman was capable of throwing you out of the window if you didn't do what she said. She was someone you would never mess with.

You scanned the room for Hobi, this guy was nowhere to be seen. And somehow you exactly knew where he would be at this moment. You fumbled for the phone but let him just be, At least he was having fun.

The ball was going in full swing yet there was no sign of the prince charming, wishing that man would appear somewhere and this ball would end, so you looked at the exit so that you could have a breath fresh air, you found a exit to a open space down towards the parking.

You moved ahead and went near the garden, and just spread your hands the air felt cold and specially it felt even cold with the strapless dress you had on. "Bored already?" You jumped at the voice behind you.

You turned behind to see a man, a magnificent man. Dark hair on his forehead dressed sharp a tux and those rings in the fingers was the highlight and his sly smile made me loose my breath for a second. Who was this you thought to yourself.

"A lot actually, but I don't seem to have a choice" You sighed. "And why would that be?" He asked. "You friends with the Mins?" You asked in a cautious tone. No he said. "Just that I find such events exhausting not to forget my mother bought me here all dolled up because she thinks I might find a good match and that's downright stupid. You exclaimed.

You could clearly say he was amused. He chuckled and that made you zone out to a parallel universe. "Oh I forgot I didn't get your name?" I didn't give it out yet you chuckled. Rebecca you replied stretching your hand in forward to a handshake.

"Lovely name" he said. Before you could say anything out heard footsteps approaching and next thing you knew he pulled you by the hand and started running towards what looked like a lake house.

I'm sorry people would have misinterpreted and this is a small group of the people here you know, they talk he explained awkwardness quite evident in his voice. "I can understand all these people do is talk. And I'm the last one to be involved. I have a quite fierce of a mother who will not tolerate any such nonsense of this sort" he laughed at my exasperated comment.

"Did someone tell you are dramatic?" He chuckled. "Yeah but then i told them not to mention it again" you laughed. "What are you doing here? Friend of the prince charming?" You asked curiosity taking over you.

"Prince charming?" He asked amused. " Yeah since he has a gazillion girls here who are here for him, must be a charmer I guess you say. He looks like he wanted to have a laughing fit, but didn't do so. "What if he was a charmer? I mean the guy has money, power, mostly looks and what if hes sexy too? Don't you find it appealing?"

"That's not what's all appealing, I mean i cant just doll up and compete for someone who i don't even know and besides my kind of love is more of a personality not the wallet or the pants or the looks. You argued.

"I'm starving!!" he says with a cute expression. Why don't you find something to eat inside I'm sure they have a plethora of options."I said "Nope food inside feels boring, Lets go out." You had your jaw open to the ground at his offer, How were you even supposed to leave this god damn place without your mother knowing.

You planned a hundred scenarios but nothing concrete came to your mind but some voice in your head asked you to throw caution to the wind and go with the tux guy. "Okay you said but there is one thing you have to do for me," You look at him innocently hoping he would agree. "Anything" He replied.

"Can you get me a pair of sneakers? I am going to have my feet cut off if i stay in these heels for one more min." He burst out laughing at your request, "This is the most unique thing someone has ever asked me to do", He chuckled.

He ushered you to the parking lot and opened a car boot to hand you over a pair of white sneakers and you unknowingly threw your heels in his boot. ?He closed it and pulled you towards his bike, You had your eyes out of your head for a minute. "Care for an adventure?" He smirked.

"Haven't you been noticing I'm wearing a gown all this time? You asked amused at this persons innocence. "Oh come on sneaker girl i know you can manage and for all you know this might be the most adventurous night of your life? Be a sport!"

You still could not believe you were doing this as you wore the helmet but it seemed thrilling and you thanked the designers to have kept the slit big enough to manage. The ride was filled with an adventure you have never tried before and most of it for the part that he was a complete stranger and still you felt the urge to trust him like it was inbuilt.

You decided to eat kimchi fried rice avoiding his amused looks for choosing something simple when you could have gone more for a gown and tux place but for what it was worth it turned out to be one of the best meals you and he had in a while. The time was passing by in mere fractions as you planned your last stop on a hilltop, starlit and quite a scenic view of the city.

The wind was blowing in your face calming all the excitement of the night it had really been an interesting one for sure. "did you dance at the ball?" He asked . "No why? You know its a shame that you are wearing such a beautiful dress meant to be to a ball but you didn't dance. I smiled at his thoughts believing that coming to this ball was a decision that was totally worth it. Even worth of getting myself killed by mother the moment i step inside the house. But it seemed worth it.

"Who said we cant change it?" he said. You were shocked when he played the song that was the most perfect fit for the night and pulled me in for a dance. You swayed in his arms like you belonged there and he danced as if you were some queen he was having a dance with. You moved as if it was just meant to be and in that moment strangely everything seemed perfect.

The ride back was just you and him discussing your and his interest and just normal things, just as normally as a night could have ended except he didn't let you go till you handed him your number. "Thanks for saving me from the ball and i had an amazing time really" you said unsure of his reaction.

"Likewise" He replied but with a peck on your cheek. He left you at the door bidding a goodbye. As you stood there in two minds, relishing your encounter of the stranger whose name you had forgotten to ask and second what was the lioness inside the house going to do with you?"

You Froze on your spot when you received a text message:

Sneaker girl, FYI I'm not a prince charming!!!

Something inside you told you this wasn't the last time you were meeting this prince charming.

#bts #bts fanfic #bts x you #bts x female reader #bts min yoongi #bts min suga #suga x reader #suga fanfic #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #bts fluff #bts scenarios #yoongi fluff #yoongi scenarios #suga scenarios #suga fluff

[fanfalc-616]

The Rights Of A Nindroid

This is chapter Two

(Chapter one can be found here.)

Enjoy! (:<

Kai paces around the kitchen, checking the clock again. “Zane said shortly after our normal breakfast time, which is at eight. It’s ten! Why is he not here yet?!”

He knows it’s unlikely that something is wrong, but he can’t help but worry. This isn’t something that normally happens with Zane…

“I’m sure he’s fine.” Nya assures, confirming his logical side. “Something probably came up. He’ll be back soon.”

“He’s never late!” Jay argues from his spot on the table, sitting on the ledge rather than in a chair- and action that Zane would scold him for, if he was home.

“If something came up, he would’ve told us.” Cole agrees as he sits down, staring at his watch. “We haven’t heard a thing.”

Lloyd chews on his lip, kicking out his legs from where he sits on the counter to occasionally mess with Kai’s pacing- something that he would normally be annoyed with, but is too concerned at the moment to actually complain. “Can we track him?”

Jay blinks a few times. “That’s… actually a good idea.” He admits, tapping at his BorgWatch. Then his eyes widen. “His signature’s gone.” He breathes out. “Why is his signature gone?!”

Kai feels himself snap to attention. “It’s gone? What could do that?” He demands, rushing over to his ginger boyfriend.

Nya taps at her own watch. “A lot of things- and none of them good.” She admits, glancing over at Lloyd.

Cole stands up from his seat. “Okay, so we know that something is wrong. We need to find Zane. How can we do that?”

Lloyd also gets up. “Jay, Nya- see if you can find any cameras that show what happened to him.” He instructs, then turns to Kai and Cole. “The three of us will go out and see if we can find any clues.” He decides.

Kai nods, practically vibrating with his worry. They need to find Zane, and they need to find him now.

With his signature missing, who knows where he is…

{ { { { { { { { { { ~ } } } } } } } } } }

Zane is instantly alert as footsteps come closer, and he tenses, preparing to make an escape. He may only get one chance, so he must use it wisely.

When the door opens, he surges forward, using his cuffed hands as a form of bludgeoning weapon.

Much to his dismay, the guards seem to have been expecting that, and no one is there- they had opened the door while standing to the side, leaving the direct forward empty. This results in him stumbling, as there is no force opposing his attack.

This stumble allows the guards to catch him once again, rendering him once again helpless to the whims of his captors.

Despite the way he struggles, they still manage to bring him into a new section of the facility, and-

Zane feels his eyes widen as he comes to a realization of what this room is likely meant for, given the things inside.

A workshop. This in itself would not normally be a cause for alarm, but given the specific tools and the way the work table has restraints…

He picks up his struggling once again, this time finding it within himself to speak.

“Stop! Let- let go of me!” He demands, unable to hide the quiver in his voice. The tools themselves are not inherently threatening; Jay has used many of them in his repairs. However, these circumstances are vastly different from the way his boyfriend would fix him after a mission.

“Stop, I said! Release me!” His pleas fall on deaf ears, it seems, because he is still taken to the table, his handcuffs hooked on a piece of metal and clamped in place, forcing his arms above his head. He attempts to kick the guards, but his legs are restrained just as quickly, leaving him helpless to whatever fate awaits him.

Without any words, the guards leave the room, save for two, one at each of the doorways that could have served as escapes if not for the way he had been bound to the table.

A new man comes up to him, dressed differently from the officials or guards, instead wearing an outfit more suited to a mechanic.

The man comes up to Zane, pulling apart the top of his gi to get to his chest plate.

“Wait!” Zane shouts, struggling in his bonds. “You can’t-“ He fumbles for words, too panicked to figure them out. “Please, stop!”

The man doesn’t listen, instead choosing to open up Zane’s chest plate the rest of the way. Unfortunately, it seems that they had thought this through- he’s almost completely immobilized.

“This isn’t- stop it! Let go of me!” Zane demands, despite knowing that if they’ve come this far, there is only an infinitesimally small chance that they would genuinely listen.

“Please!”

In a surprising but very relieving turn of events, the man does pause in his work, turning and calling out to one of the nearby guards.

“Should I mute its vocals?” He asks.

Zane closes his mouth fast enough that there’s an audible click. Mute him? They- no, they couldn’t do that! He- no, they… they can’t…

He’s not an it, either. He is capable of conscious thought, the same way a human would be. Where did they get the idea that he’s lesser? Despite being mechanical, he’s always been on par with the intelligence of humankind. Why would they think otherwise? There isn’t any evidence to support the idea that-

A wire being tugged on draws him from his thoughts, warnings popping up in his vision to emphasize the issue- though it’s not as though he didn’t notice himself.

“Stop it!” Zane snaps, straining against the bonds that hold him once again. They may attempt to harm him all they wish, but he will not allow this to happen so easily.

His words are ignored. “Give me that scanner, yeah?” The man calls towards the other doorway; the one that Zane had not entered through. “I’m gonna need it; its system’s more complex than we thought.”

A loud sigh comes from a young woman as she steps into the workshop. “I’m going to need it back.” She warns, handing the brunet the device.

The man turns back to Zane. “Yeah, I’ll give it back after this shift.” He confirms.

With a nod, the woman heads back into the side room.

The man returns to examining his wiring in such a way that makes Zane feel almost as though he’s some form of lab rat; a lesser being used for experimenting on.

It is not a pleasant feeling.

No matter how he strains and attempts to resist, no progress is gained, and he remains quite firmly trapped.

Eventually the man seems to grow tired of him, and roughly clangs a tool against one of his sensors, tearing a cry from him.

“Behave, nindroid.” He snarls. “I don’t have time for your delusions.”

“I am beginning to grow tired of this assumption that I am lesser.” Zane snaps. “I am just as sentient as any human, and I expect to be treated as such!”

A wrench is used to hit him across the face, hard enough that his head is roughly forced to the side, slamming into the side of the table.

Zane clenches his teeth and turns back to the man, preparing to unleash a rant- but something peculiar happens.

The man turns to a guard. “Yeah, this one will need training too.” He sighs. “Was kinda hoping it’d behave.”

“Training?” Zane questions. “What is that supposed to mean?” An edge of unease has crept into him. Something is telling him that the ‘training’ he’s referring to will not be pleasant.

No matter what he does, he’s ignored for the rest of the time- his words and attempts at resisting aren’t even acknowledged.

That is quite odd, but Zane would not put it past them to be finding enjoyment in his suffering- he’s found that some humans have the disturbing habits of putting salt on snails and squashing bugs solely because they have power over what is considered a lesser being.

They have blatantly stated that they view him as worth less than humankind- that point was quite firmly driven home by the use of the pronoun ‘it’ to refer to him. Due to the circumstances, it seems that all he can do is hope that they treat him with at least the dignity given to most kinds of laboratory animals- there are laws in place that allow the majority of non-human living beings that are tested to be treated humanely.

Yet even that seems unlikely. Such laws only apply to vertebrate animals, and while not explicitly stated in the legal documents, it is quite heavily implied that this only applies to organic life forms.

This is… less than ideal. Even so, he will do his best to power through until the others come for him- he had informed them that he would only be slightly late. It will not take long for them to realize that something is wrong.

They will come for him. He will just have to be patient… and pray that his captors do not plan to disassemble him fully in the meantime.

#zane julien #zangst #ninjago zangst #fanfiction #ninjago fanfiction #the rights of a nindroid #psychological torture #torture #trauma

[gvbejvmesmichaels]

Task 14: Genderbent

Legal Name: Gabriella Antonia James-Michaels Usually Goes By: Ella Michaels Why: She only kept the James-Michaels because she didn’t want the James name to end with her. She’s never felt as though she was a James or a Conrad. Michaels is the only last name that’s ever felt like hers. Former Names: Gabriella Antonia James (maiden), Gabriella Antonia Conrad (first marriage) Nicknames: Ella (everyone), Briella (Jocelyn) Relationship Status: Married to Jocelyn James-Michaels Past Relationships: Nathan Conrad (ex-husband) Children: Andrew Conrad, Constance Conrad, Arabella James-Michaels (by adoption) Occupation: Professional Tattoo Artist and amateur sculptor. She co-owns a tattoo shop called The Collective with Kaia Johnson where they specialize in Skin Artistry. Higher Education: B.A. in Art History from California State University Los Angeles (prisoner education program), the required certifications to become a professional tattoo artist Tattoos: She honestly doesn’t know how many tattoos she has. She can tell you that all of her tattoos have been done by herself, by Kaia, or by one of the apprentices at The Collective. Her two prized tattoos are 1) her first tattoo she ever did: a crude rendering of her brother’s name on her inner left arm done by stick and poke, 2) the tattoo on her ring finger she talked Joss into giving her. Her wife had been uncomfortable with the idea, and she definitely went too deep in places, but Ella is beyond proud of the shaky Joss printed on her finger. Quirks: Growing up Ella wasn’t allowed to wear pants, which of course means that now she lives in pants and shorts. Ella refuses to wear dresses or skirts. She even wore a fitted pantsuit to her wedding.

Ella James was born and raised in Roswell, New Mexico to extremely conservative parents. Her father was incredibly religious and forced his religious beliefs on his family. He had very strict rules about how Ella was to dress and behave. Her mother was one of those women that wanted nothing more than to be a homemaker. She was more than happy to go along with all her husband’s strict rules because she liked the idea of rules and structure. That was also probably why Ella’s parents only had two children: Ella and her younger brother, George. On the outside, the family appeared to be the American ideal: Husband, wife, and a pair of kids. On the inside, it was hell.

Life in the James household for Ella meant that she was supposed to dress modestly, speak only when spoken to, and only engage in activities that were becoming of women. If her father had it his way, Ella wouldn’t have even gone to school. The only places she was able to go to were school, the family antique shop, and church. So, she took advantage of every opportunity to get out of the house. She signed up for extra art classes, extra home economic classes, and even multiple bible study classes -- anything to get out of the house. Her only saving grace was her little brother, George.

George and Ella were attached at the hip. While Ella’s world outside of the house was art, her brother’s world was aliens. He lived in his own extraterrestrial world, which often brought bullies his way. The worst of the bullies was a boy in Ella’s grade: Nathan Conrad. As much as Nathan harassed George, all it took was a smile from Ella for Nathan to completely forget any bad feelings towards George. It didn’t take long for Ella to figure out that if she dated Nathan, George wouldn’t get picked on any more. As an added perk, her father loved Nathan, which meant Ella was allowed out of the house if she was out on a date with Nathan. So she went with it.

For as long as she could remember, she knew she was a lesbian. She has a very distinct memory of watching Smokey and the Bandit, seeing Sally Fields changing out of her wedding dress in the car and being very jealous of Burt Reynolds. She knew right then and there that she liked girls. The problem was that her family would never accept her sexuality, and she knew it. She’d sat through enough bible study classes to know that her parents believed homosexuality was a sin. So, she knew she needed to play straight until George was out of high school, and they could get out of town. Of course, life had different plans. 

When Ella got pregnant her senior year of high school, she knew she was screwed. Lesbian or not, she knew the only option that didn’t end with her losing custody of her child to her parents would be to marry Nathan. Having a kid at 18 and marrying her high school sweetheart, wasn’t the life she wanted for herself, but it was the life she’d been given. Nathan was very similar to her father so she knew what was expected of her. She was supposed to stay at home and raise their son. It was a miserable life, but it gave her the opportunity to build sculptures as much as she wanted. Besides, as soon as she realized that she was pregnant, she knew there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for her son. She’d never loved anyone as much as she loved George, until she gave birth to Drew. 

As much as she hated being a housewife, she absolutely adored being Drew’s mom. She took to motherhood like a duck to water. Being a mom was the only thing that made life worth living. So when she gave birth to her daughter, Connie, her whole life revolved around her kids. Motherhood gave her purpose, but there was still something missing in her life. So, she started going to parties that the women in the neighborhood used to host: Tupperware, Mary Kay, Avon - housewife parties. Or at least, that was the cover. In reality, they were hook-ups for women needing more attention than what they were getting from their husbands. They would mess around with each other, and go back home to their husbands like nothing happened.

Ella’s life went on like that until 2002. It was just any other normal Thursday. She’d been at a party, and wound up falling asleep. It was two in the morning by the time she stumbled home to a horror show. Her ten year old son, Drew, was sitting in the corner, covered in blood. She followed the trail outside where her brother, George, lay in a pool of his own blood. Immediately, she dropped to her knees and checked for a pulse, but he was long gone. By the time she looked around to see what had happened, it was too late. Nathan had called the police, and Ella was sitting there covered in her brother’s blood. No matter what she said, the police refused to believe her, and she was arrested for her brother’s murder.

The truth was that George was helping her get enough money together to leave Nathan. Her husband was just as terrible as her father had been. All Ella wanted was to escape with her children and start over somewhere she could be herself: like San Francisco or New York. Somehow Nathan had found out, and well… staged George’s murder to frame Ella for a crime she didn’t commit. He could have given a shit about the kids; it was controlling Ella’s life that he wanted, and he got his way and then some.

Her trial ended just as quickly as it started. All the evidence pointed to her, and no matter what she said or what her public defender tried to sell, the jury was primarily made up of men -- and all they saw when they looked at her was a killer. She never had a chance.

Once she was in prison, life got worse -- Nathan filed for divorce and full custody of the kids. As soon as it hit her that she was never going to see her kids again, she sort of gave up. She let herself slip away in prison. She took classes to get a degree in art history, and did tattoos on the girls for cigarettes and juicy romance novels. Ella didn’t exactly take life seriously. As far as she was concerned, she was a lost cause that had nothing to live for once she got out of prison. So, she fucked around where she could and lived in her own world.

Then her stupid cousin, Annie, had to get involved. Annie didn’t believe for one second that Ella would have killed her brother. So she did what she did best: she meddled and needled until 1) Ella was transferred from New Mexico to a prison in Los Angeles County closer to Annie, and 2) she found a lawyer who was willing to reopen Ella’s case -- and that was how Ella met Jocelyn Michaels.

Meeting Jocelyn was the last thing Ella had wanted to do, but hell, was she glad that she’d taken the meeting. Jocelyn was hot as hell, the smartest person she’d ever met, and stubborn as all fuck. Once she heard Ella’s story, she was invested and Ella found herself invested in Joss.

Somewhere between working on the case, they fell in love. If Ella was honest with herself, she never stood a chance with Joss; she’d fallen for her that first time they met. Ella was handling her feelings well enough. It wasn’t like she was acting on her feelings towards the other woman. She’d never actually been in love with anyone before; it was all new for her. And then… she managed to piss someone off in prison. She wasn’t sure what she did, but she’d always been real good at running her mouth, especially back then. One minute she was fine, and the next minute, there was a sharpened spoon sticking out of her side.

There’s not much she remembers about getting stabbed, but when she woke up in the hospital, Jocelyn was there. She knew right then and there that she was going to marry that woman one day. In fact, she must have said that part out loud because then Joss was kissing her, and not even two weeks later, they were married. 

The new trial was probably the most terrifying month of Ella’s life. If they lost the trial, if she lost Joss… She didn’t know what she’d do with herself. But by some miracle, Jocelyn was able to win the case and after serving 8 years for a crime she didn’t commit, she was found innocent, and for the first time in her life, she was free. 

Once she was out of prison, there were still a lot of things that needed to be handled and taken care of. As far as she was concerned, the most important thing was getting back custody of her kids. Drew was 18 by the time she was out of prison, but he was a senior in high school -- it didn’t make sense to have him leave New Mexico when he was so close to graduating. And Connie… She was 14 and wanted nothing to do with her mother. Even if Ella had tried for custody, Connie wouldn’t have gone with her. So, she gave both her kids her number and moved to New York with her wife.

Life in New York took getting used to. It was the first time that Ella had the freedom to figure out who she was, and what she wanted to do with her life. The first thing she knew for sure was that she didn’t want to be a housewife again -- that had been awful. So, while her wife settled back into New York like she had never left, Ella took it upon herself to figure out what she wanted to do. At first she was so overwhelmed that everything seemed like it was too much. So, she started taking long walks around Central Park, just enjoying naturing and exploring. That was how she met Zak. 

Zak was going to Central Park for the same reasons as Ella - he was trying to figure out his life. The difference between them, however, was that Zak had recently transitioned from having HIV to AIDS. He was dying, and he was trying to figure out a way to ensure his partner, Kaia, wouldn’t lose their self in his death. Throughout their short friendship, they figured out a solution. Kaia was a tattoo artist who loved creating pieces of artwork that took over their client’s backs. With Ella’s self-taught tattoo skills from prison, it made sense for the two of them to open a tattoo shop together. Sure, Ella still needed certification and training in styles other than stick and poke, but it gave both herself and Kaia a purpose and something to focus on.

Once Ella and Kaia officially opened the Collective, it was like the second half of her life had begun. For the first time, Ella was making friends she wasn’t related to or sharing a cell with. It had taken her a long time, but she’d found herself. She had a career, she had her wife, and she had multiple dogs. Her life was finally coming together, but there was something missing -- something that had been missing from the beginning: her kids.

When he was twenty, Drew moved to New York. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do in terms of school, but he wanted to be near his mom. Ella was, of course, thrilled. Jocelyn was a little standoffish about the whole thing, but having Drew staying in the guestroom made Ella happy so Joss warmed up to the idea of having at least one of Ella’s kids around. Or so she thought. 

It was around 2013 when Ella’s biological clock started ticking out of control. She wanted a baby, and more importantly, she wanted to have a baby with Joss. If they wanted to have kids with their DNA (in Ella’s head she wanted Drew’s sperm and Joss’s egg), they needed to have a baby now. As much as she begged, and begged, Joss was in the middle of running for DA so it wasn’t a good time to add a baby to their life, but they were 39 so… after many discussions, they froze Ella’s eggs at least. It helped soothe Ella’s ticking clock, but the desire never fully went away.

Instead of a baby, Ella put all her effort into her career and her marriage, but Joss’s career had taken off and her wife typically was swamped with work. Her wife must have realized how unhappy Ella was becoming because when Ella brought up having a baby again in 2017, her wife said they could make an appointment to potentially begin the process of surrogacy. Except… the meeting never happened; not really. Sure, they went, but Joss was so busy with work that nothing ever came of the appointment. So, Ella stewed and flashed back to her first marriage and then, after a particularly bad fight about Joss never being home, Ella left her wife and moved in with Kaia.

As much as she still loved her wife, she’d been unhappy, and if she was honest, she’d jumped from one marriage right into the next, so she did some soul searching. It was during their separation, that Ella refound her first love: clay. There had been a time where she thought she was going to be a world famous artist instead of a tattoo artist that people booked appointments for 6 months in advance. And she’d loved working with clay. So, now that she had free time, she found a local studio and began sculpting again.

After filing for divorce in 2018, Ella got a surprise. Her daughter, Connie, had been living in New York for about a year and had been convicted on a distribution charge. As her daughter’s closest relative and blood relation, she was given custody of her granddaughter, Arabella. Once Bella was put in her arms, Ella knew she was meant to raise Bella -- this was the baby she’d been yearning for. Much like the first time, she took quickly to motherhood, even though it had been decades between children. Unlike the first time, she was a single parent, which was a totally different experience.

By late 2019/early 2020, Ella more or less had her life together. She knew who she was, the shop was flourishing, she had an insane amount of YouTube followers who liked to watch her sculpt, and she finally had the single (grand)mom thing down. It was then that she realized that the one thing that was missing from her life was her ex-wife. The problem was that it looked like Joss had moved on, and yet, Ella still found herself trying to reconnect with her ex-wife. 

Falling back into a relationship with the other woman had almost been too easy. It was like going home again. Working on their relationship and getting back together had been great and fine until they were quarantined together with a two year old, and Ella found out they were still technically married. Joss had never filed the signed petition for divorce. If there was anything that could have fouled up their reunion - it was that. But somehow (and with the help of an annoying marriage counselor via Zoom), they were able to reclaim their marriage.

October 13, 2021 will mark one year of being remarried (okay, vow renewal). Ella has no idea where the time has gone, but she knows two things for absolute certain: one - she’s the person she was always meant to be, and two - she’s married to the  absolute love of her life. Things in her life may have been rough, but those things led her to where she was meant to be, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. She hadn’t suffered through the bad, she never would have been able to appreciate the good.

#ES Tasks

[ifyoulovemeletmebinge]

We’re All Monsters

destiel au where everything in canon is used at the wrong time and oh also cas is a monster. 

RATED M 

read it on ao3 here: 

Part 1 

Part 2

Part 3

Dean has Castiel pinned to the wall in a blink.

He’s disgusted and he feels dirty, and betrayed, and he’d rather Castiel had killed him 15 years ago.

“Shut the fuck up, man,” he hisses in Castiel’s face. Dean’s mind is whirling with thoughts, spinning in a hurricane, and he can’t make sense of much at this moment except John killed Cas’s dad, Cas has been stalking him for almost two decades, and now he wants Dean to help him become human?

Dean can’t even count the degrees of fucked up here.

“Dean,” Castiel grunts low, against the forearm over his windpipe. “You don’t have to trust me, you just have to help me.”

“I said, shut the fuck up. You’re lying.”

Castiel clenches his jaw. He grabs at Dean’s shoulders and spins them around, much stronger and faster, and then they’re in the same position back at the bar, and Dean is willing his dick to fucking behave.

“I’ve got no reason to lie to you. It serves me nothing. I need your help, Dean. You’re the only one who can turn me. You and your brother have connections I don’t, spells I couldn’t get my hands on. I need you.”

“How do you know about Sam?” Dean bites out.

“I told you,” Castiel lets up a little, takes a single step back. “I’ve been checking in on you every few months since we met. I moved to Lebanon a few years back when I saw you were here.”

“You’re fucked up, dude. Why would you do that? My daddy kills your daddy and you think we’re friends?”

Castiel looks down, frowns, and Dean sees something real there. “I wanted to keep you safe. Your father, as weird as this may seem… Dean, he saved me from a much harsher existence. I guess I felt I owed it to him. As a thank you.”

Unprompted, Dean’s mind goes back to that night and he sees the bite marks, their ugly texture again, feels the weight on top of his hips pinning him down as dinner on the ground. He’s looking at Castiel and all he can think of is how he’s a monster. One of them.

But if Cas is a monster, just like his father before him, why was he grateful John practically made him an orphan? It occurs to Dean that he has no idea what Castiel’s dad made him do, and then it occurs to him that it’s so ugly he might not want to know.

Dean clears his throat and responds quietly, “Well, Mr. Winchester really appreciates it.” He waits until Castiel looks back up at him to ask: “You said you were half-human?”

“My mother,” Castiel nods, his face somber in an instant. “She raised me until her death and then my father found me. And he tried to make me like him for years, until your father. Until you.”

Dean realizes then that he feels pity, and a lot of it. He realizes that the Castiel he met at the bar might have been covering it up but it was there, and it’s here now. He feels a little breathless because this is something John’s journal can’t help him with. Here, in front of him, is a monster, asking not to be, acting like he isn’t. He’s more than one hundred percent sure no hunter in the history of hunting has ever gone through this before. Castiel is one of a kind.

“What are you, Cas?”

Castiel swallows, turning and walking over to sit on the couch. Dean stays leaning against the wall, needing something real that will convince him to not kill the other (half) man in the room with him until he fully explains.

Castiel’s eyes are blue in all the ways they can be. “I don’t know,” he responds. “I just know I can’t be like this anymore.”

“What does that mean?” Dean’s eyebrows furrow.

“It means that you’re my only chance of living for the rest of my life. Otherwise, I’d rather die.”

Dean knows that look too well, sees it in himself sometimes, and before he can stop himself, he asks, “What the hell did you do, Cas?”

Castiel sighs, looking like his exhaustion runs bone-deep. He swallows, opens his mouth, closes it.

He takes a moment and tries again. “I almost killed a man. He was homeless, and I was trying to help. I bent down to give him some money, and I hadn’t eaten anything of real substance in months…” Castiel’s throat works uselessly. “I guess I lost control,” he finishes hoarsely.

Dean's brain is not connected to his mouth and it’s working on its own to ask the worst questions it can. But Dean tries not to feel too bad, because Castiel is a monster, as he prompts, “What kind of food do you eat?”

Castiel presses his knuckles to his eyelids, rubbing them. “I’ve never killed anyone, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’ve only had deceased bodies. With being half-human, I found I don’t need to eat as much, but if I want to keep living I need to eat eventually. The longest I’ve gone without feeding was 7 and a half months and I was on the brink of death by then.”

“You almost killed me that night.”

Castiel pulls his hand away from his eyes and glares up at Dean. “Emphasis on almost.”

Despite himself and the situation, Dean chuckles. Maybe it’s Castiel’s half-human side, maybe Dean’s still drunk, but it feels easy. It’s exactly like it was back at the bar yet everything’s changed. Dean’s not sure he’s gonna leave with Castiel this time. Dean’s not sure he’s gonna leave a decapitated body behind, either.

In this state of questioning, he decides to sit down next to Castiel on the couch.

“So that’s the why now. Why us?”

Castiel tilts his head, narrows his eyes. “You’re the Winchesters. Surely, you must know what that means within your own circle. Sam is a great sorcerer, and you’re the best hunter in history.”

Dean feels his cheeks heat up a little, embarrassed. “Sheesh, I thought you stopped the sweet talkin’ act at the bar, Cas. We’re just guys doin’ our best. We’re not all that.”

Castiel stares into his soul as he disagrees, “You’re worth more than you think.”

Dean wants to kiss him. He does. He doesn’t have air in his lungs because he’s never heard that from anyone before, and maybe the only source of oxygen left is Cas��s lips. Dean wants to breathe. But he grips his kneecaps tightly, and holds himself back.

He stands up again, clears his throat. Dean doesn’t know why, but he believes Cas. He’s gonna help him. If he can’t help him then…

“Dude,” he turns back to Castiel, crossing his arms. “Whatever happens, you gotta leave us alone after this. This stalking thing is just…”

“I understand, Dean,” Castiel says gravely, resolved. “In any scenario, you’ll never have to deal with me again after this. I swear it.”

****

All in all, it’s not surprising in the least that Sam was excited about the situation Dean found himself in.

He called Sam in the middle of the night, waking him up, and after the grumpy moose-witch sleepily groaned his frustrations out through the phone, Dean told him segments of the truth and what he planned to do. Sam didn’t need to know that Cas had been stalking them, or that they’d briefly met as teens, or that they made out before Cas kidnapped him. Sam just needed to agree to say some of his Latin crap, wave his hands around a little, and try to cure Cas.

Was it really curing if Castiel had never been… evil in the first place?

Dean didn’t want to think about monster ethics, he just wanted to see if Sam could help him solve the problem, so he could be rid of it. Getting rid of Castiel seemed like the best thing to do so he wouldn’t have to think about the mess his dad made. If he had just killed him back then, he wouldn’t be dealing with this now! Dean was having a tug of war in his brain, one side already swinging a machete at Cas’s neck, the other bringing him to the bunker to see where this went, to make him normal, and maybe give him a life.

He hunted to help people, and in a fucked up way, that’s what this was.

But this was also completely unprecedented. Dean didn’t and wouldn’t have anyone else to tell him what is the right or wrong answer. He had to figure this out himself. He had to go with his gut.

Well, his gut told him that Castiel seemed like a good person that just had the wrong blood running through his veins. His nature was good, no matter how much they tried to nurture him to be his worst.

Dean’s evidence? Apart from an excellent guessing streak and a trusty gut feeling that always got him out of the shit at the last minute, Castiel had confessed to have been watching him and Sam for… yeah, 15 whole years. If he wanted them dead, he could have done it by now. That’s just a fact.

Another fact was how… human Castiel was. Is. He is half-human. Dean has to remind himself that when Castiel effortlessly lifts up his living room couch. He also has to remind himself Castiel is half-monster when he delicately hands him a cup of warm tea. Dean only grimaces at it a little, and then he blows on it once, downs it impatiently, and they leave for the bunker. He ignores the burning in the back of his throat and on his tongue, and he lets Led Zeppelin fill the silence on the drive back.

Dawn is still breaking when they get to the bunker. Dean has not slept in over a day, and the back of his head is swollen, and he just wants his bed. He can wake up and deal with Cas after he gets his four hours.

Sam is practically jumping up and down, eyes wide and alert and assessing as he meets Castiel, like he’s the coolest science-experiment-gone-wrong he’s ever seen. Dean feels bad for Cas, who simply stands there in that trenchcoat and lets Sam stumble through asking his questions and studying him. Dean has to remind himself yet again that Castiel is a monster. Then he’s off to bed.

****

Maybe it was the borderline concussion, but Dean’s body ends up needing a good six fucking hours, and he wakes up like the birds are singing him awake. He’s not even that bothered by the thought that there is a human-eating monster in his house. Maybe the night made his newest problem seem worse than it is.

But maybe the monster problem isn’t it. The actual problem would be Dean’s attraction to said monster.

Castiel has stripped down to just his white collared shirt, sleeves rolled up. No tie. They’re in the basement when he finds them, where Cas is sitting on a dentist-looking chair, and Sam is barely fitting in a normal chair right next to him. There are various small vials on top of the table behind them, where a bunch of bowls and needles also sit. Dean feels a little sick at the sight.

“What’s goin’ on here?”

Sam is so engrossed in the conversation with Castiel, he jumps a little, blinking, and then he looks at Dean. “Oh! Mornin’ Dean. I got some blood samples from Castiel, and we were just talking about possible things we could use them for. Like spells and such we could try. He knows his stuff,” Sam can’t hide the surprise in his voice. “He’s actually studied a lot of witchcraft.”

Dean nods. When he looks at Castiel, he’s struck back by his little smile and his bright eyes. He looks… excited. Dean feels something behind his ribs twist.

“Good morning, Dean. How is your head? How did you sleep?”

“His head?” Sam whips his head to Castiel, furrowing his brows.

Subconsciously, Dean brings a hand up to the back of his head. “It’s fine.” Then to Sam, “I, uh. I backed into a tall shelf over at Cas’s. ‘S nothing.”

Castiel seems utterly relieved to hear, and Sam just shrugs after a few seconds of staring at Dean. He goes back to sealing the vial in his hand.

But Dean is looking at Castiel again, and Castiel at Dean. Dean has to swallow to start breathing again. He wants to kick Sam out and jump on Cas. He wants to sit down and ask him if he’s okay, how he’s feeling about being poked and prodded at (even if he said he’d do anything for his goal). Hell, he wants to hold his hand and put a bandaid on him. He wants to get the fuck out of there, where the air is suddenly too thin, and where he sees Castiel’s face fall after his own crumbles.

#hannah how's this i hope it was worth the cliffhanger #i'll try to get part 3 out tmrw but i may burnout but ill try heheheh #my destiel fanfic #destiel fanfic

[p-artsypants]

Arcadia or Bust (15) Area 49-B

(Ao3) (FF.net)

Well...it’s been a minute (over a year). How y’all doin? 

So, I finally got down to watching Wizards and it was just as amazing as I thought it would be! And I got to see my boy!!! My Jim!! And Claire!! Ahhh!!!

For the purpose of this fanfic, I won’t be changing the background I gave Morgana. In this story, the events of Wizards never happened. Nor the events of the end of 3 Below. I already wrote the start of the new school year, jumping passed the timeline of both of those seasons. Though, I might be cherry picking information from both (like Douxie and how much Toby and Eli know about Krel and Aja.)

I hope that makes sense, and thank you! 

I’m dedicating this chapter to @nattikay, because she said she wanted some positive Troll Jim content, and I wanted to get this to you sooner for it!

--

Previously on Arcadia or Bust:

Jim, Claire, Blinky, and Merlin came back to Arcadia, only to find that James Lake Sr. had turned up. Merlin gained favor with the party by turning the man into a pig temporarily. Jim went back to school in a glamour mask, only to be exposed as a troll by Steve, who punched him in the face. Now that everyone knows what he looks like and who he is, Jim continues school as a Troll. He’s been recruited for the football team too. 

Everything would have been great...except James Lake Sr. left a bag of cocaine on top of a trash can, as a drop zone, only for Jim to find it and go on a drug fueled rage across town. Now unconscious, Jim must face the consequences... 

—

When Jim awoke, he was bouncing slightly in the back of a van. Not an ambulance, a van. He groaned to wakefulness. 

“Oh, you’re finally awake.” Spoke a voice. 

Peeling his dry eyes open, he looked around the plain, armored vehicle to find himself surrounded by men in uniform with thick helmets and guns. 

He wanted to ask what was going on, only he was muzzled, and strapped to some kind of plank. If he tried really hard, he could probably break free, but he was still exhausted. 

And he wasn’t sure how trolls fared against gunshots. 

“You’re being escorted to a secure facility where you can’t hurt anyone ever again, you disgusting beast.” 

Oh, that wasn’t good. He’d hurt someone? 

So that dream was real? 

Where was he? Where was mom? Claire? Toby? Did they know where he was? 

“...mmm...” 

“I’ll unlock your muzzle for one minute. Make it quick.” 

A switch clicked and Jim felt his jaw relax ever so slightly. Just enough to talk. 

“Does my mom know where I am? What happened?” 

“Do you think we care about some mother of a beast?” 

Jim swallowed, feeling heat rising to his cheeks from anger and embarrassment. “Dr. Barbara Lake. At the Arcadia Oaks hospital. Please...she’ll worry about me.” 

Someone else spoke. “She was there when we took you. You were unconscious. She knows.” 

Well. She knew. She’d tell Claire, and Toby, and Blinky...but now what? Behave? 

Was he under arrest then? Was he going to have a trial? 

What the hell happened??

—

24 hours previously. 

They did everything they could. Now it was just up to Jim to pull through. His heart rate was down, and his stomach had been pumped of the excess cocaine he hadn’t already thrown up. 

Barbara was on the clock, so she couldn’t just sit and wait. Though, that might have been a blessing. It was agony just waiting. Watching his chest rise and fall with great effort. 

It was supposed to be a tense, quiet waiting game. 

But that all changed with the soldiers that stormed in in full riot gear. 

“Hands in the air!” 

Several men entered the room, and immediately secured Claire, Toby, and Strickler. 

“What’s going on?!” Demanded Claire. 

An African American woman, only in uniform and not full gear, strolled into the room, head held high. 

She stopped right at the end of Jim’s bed, raking her eyes over his prone form. “So this is the menace. I didn’t think they hospitalized beasts.” 

Barbara stormed into the room. “What are you doing?! Who are you?! Get away from my son!” 

The woman just turned and held her gaze. “Colonel Kublitz. I’ll be taking your patient into my custody.” 

“No!” Barbara argued, shouldering passed her. “We’ve been talking to the police! This is all a big misunderstanding! Jim was poisoned! And he can’t be moved! He’s unstable!”

The woman was not dissuaded. “Amazing that you’d be so protective of something that tore up your town, terrorized your neighbors, virtually held your city hostage. Why would you try to save that?” 

Barbara snarled at her. “He’s my son!” 

“I suppose he gets the blue skin and horns from his father? I know a troll when I see one. Last time, I missed them all. I’m not missing this one. He’s coming with me.” 

“And I’m telling you, I will not discharge him!” 

“I don’t need you to.” She snapped her fingers. “Bring in the board.” 

“You don’t have the authority!” 

“You’ll find that I do.” 

“You can’t take him! He’s not a monster!” Claire shouted. 

“This doesn’t concern you, little girl.” 

“It actually does! That’s my boyfriend! And I’m not going to let you take him!” 

The woman shook her head. “Please people, I can only be so disgusted.” She nodded to the men standing by Claire, Toby, and Walter. “Escort them out.” 

“You can’t do this!” Toby shouted as he was shoved forward. 

Out in the hall, they watched in horror as the soldiers wheeled in what looked like a dolly with a flat metal back, with thick straps that wrapped around. 

Barbara was pushed out of the room a moment later. 

“You can’t do this! Stop! Stop! You’ll kill him!” 

“All the better.” Said Colonel Kublitz. “Then we can stop having these apocalypses.”

“Jim stopped Gunmar! He’s a hero!” Claire cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “He’s our protector!” 

The Colonel ignored them, and put her focus back on the room. 

A few moments later, Jim was wheeled out, strapped down by the arms, legs, pelvis, chest, and neck. A horrible muzzle, like the kind Hannibal Lector was forced to wear, covered his face. 

“No!!” Claire shrieked. “You’re killing him! Let him go! Let him go!” 

But the Colonel had enough talking and directed her men, and Jim, out. 

“We can’t let them leave!” Cried Toby, “we have to help him!”

“There’s nothing we can do right now,” said Walter. “They have guns and authority. We’ll find a way to help Jim. Somehow.” 

“Do you think my mom could do anything?” Asked Claire. 

“Local government rarely has anything to do with the federal, let alone the army. But it’s worth a try.” 

“I’ll call Ophelia.” Said Barbara. 

“No, Mrs. Lake,” interrupted Claire. “I’ll handle it. You’re still on the clock.” 

Barbara sighed, and brushed her hair back. “I suppose I am. Thank you, Claire.”

—

The next day at school, the student body was slightly shaken. Rumors had spread, and evidence of Jim’s rage still remained, like the doors ripped off the hinges. 

Most students gave Toby and Claire a wide berth. 

Darci came running the second she spotted them. “So what happened? Where’s Jim? Dad said they weren’t going to arrest him. Is he still in the hospital?” 

Claire frowned hard, lines pulling at the corners of her lips. “They took him. Some soldiers from the army or CIA or FBI. I don’t know. They muzzled him and...” she started crying. 

Darci and Toby were there to comfort her immediately. 

“I don’t know where they took him! I don’t even know where to start! It’s like...Area 51 stuff. I might—we might never see him again!” 

“Excuse me?” A voice cut in. “I’m very sorry, but I couldn’t help but hearing your distressed cries. You said the Troll Jim has been taken to a secret government facility?” 

Claire looked up to the newcomers, sibling students she had shared plenty of classes with, but she blanked on the names. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” 

“My name is Krel.” Said the boy. 

“And I’m Aja,” the girl answered. “It’s okay, in all the end of the world craziness, my name slipped your mind. It happens! But, anyways, if I’m correct, I believe Jim may have been taken to Area 49-B. My brother and I have experience breaking in. Of course, we’ll need a different plan from last time...” 

“Wait wait wait...you know where Jim is?” 

“Most likely,” Krel corrected. “It’s the closest government facility that specializes in the paranormal and extraterrestrial.” 

“And...you and your sister have broken out of it?” 

“Into it...and then back out.” 

“Why?” 

Krel scratched the back of his head. “We Uh...needed something.” 

Toby patted Claire’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Claire, they’re cool. They’ve got secret underground knowledge, like Jim. You know?” 

Claire, quick as she was, made a little nod of understanding. 

These two siblings weren’t what they seemed. 

“The lightning in a bottle!” Claire snapped her fingers. “I’m sorry, I totally forgot about that.” 

“Like I said, end of the world stuff.” Aja shrugged. “We had our own problems to take care of.” 

“Of course, we still do,” shrugged Krel. “But we understand the importance of helping friends when we can.” 

“Well, I appreciate it. And I’m sure Jim will too. Why don’t you guys come with us after school? My mom works in local government and she said she was coming up with a plan. We could use someone with insider knowledge.” 

“Lively!” 

“How dangerous is this place?” Asked Darci. “What kind of stuff are they going to do to Jim?” 

“If he’s lucky, they’ll cage him and observe him.” Said Aja. 

“But, they did try to dissect me, so that’s on the table too.” 

“Oh Jim...” Claire got misty-eyed again. 

“Now, now, no reason to cry!” Krel interrupted. “Area 49-B is mostly about extraterrestrial research. Jim might just be held there...for safety. Yes, for safety. That’s what we can hope for.” 

The way he said it didn’t instill Claire with confidence.

—

Jim remained in and out of consciousness for several hours, fighting nausea, and confusion. When he was conscious, it was all a blur of technology and bright lights. Needles poked at his skin, and he felt the coldness of metal under him.

Several hours later, when he was coherent, he awoke to find himself strapped to a table, naked, and surrounded by several specimens floating in jars and canisters. Slowly, he became aware of the researchers around the room, in yellow hazmat suits. They looked foreign and alien. All of this was drowned out by the bright light shining down on him from above. 

It was like a strange nightmare. 

“Jim Lake Jr.” Said a woman’s voice. 

“That’s me.” He croaked. 

“Who’s Jim Lake Sr.? Another monster?” 

Jim scoffed. “In a way, but he’s entirely human, if you were wondering.” He flexed his cold hands, willing circulation back into them. “What happened?”

“According to our reports, you decided it was perfectly acceptable to ingest a kilogram of cocaine, and go on a rampage through your town.”

Jim’s throat felt dry, and his nausea came back in full force. “I did what?”

The woman held up a tablet, and showed him a video. It was a compilation of security footage from around the city. In each one, his rampaging form tore through the area, upheaving cars, sidewalks, and light posts. Anything in his way. Then towards the end, he saw himself carrying Claire over his shoulder roughly. She screamed out in pain. 

“I…I didn’t…that’s not me.”

“It is you.” The woman snarled. “You hurt all those people, terrorized a whole city. And they tried to protect you, acting like you were one of them. But you’re not. You’re a beast. And that’s all you’ll ever be. No matter what you think.” 

Jim stared at the tablet as the footage started over. It was him, but it…wasn’t. This Jim was erratic, chaotic, and cruel. It made sense why this woman and her team would believe he was a beast if this is what they saw. So now what? He had to convince them that he wasn’t actually that bad? They had video evidence. 

This was all his father’s fault. That had to have been his cocaine on the trash can. 

There had to be a way to convince them that this was a horrible misunderstanding and that he was a victim of circumstance. 

That could take a while.

—

After school, Aja and Krel went with Claire and Toby back to her house to share their knowledge of the government base with Ophelia. 

But what they found there instead was startling, to say the least. 

It was all hands on deck. Blinky, Barbara, Ophelia, Xavier, and even NotEnrique were hard at work making signs and banners. 

“Um, mom?” Claire asked upon entry. 

“Oh Claire! I didn’t even hear you walk in!” 

“What’s going on?”

“We’re campaigning!” Barbara said with gusto. 

“Campaigning?” 

Ophelia held up a sign that said ‘Free Jim Lake Jr.’ on it. “For Jim’s release!”

“What?”

“If there’s one thing the government hates, it’s attention and protests! So we’re going to get the whole town in on it. I have some contacts at the news station too! It’s going to blow up!” 

Claire frowned. “Wait, I thought you went through all that effort to hide the trolls, why would we risk exposing them now?”

“Oh Claire, we’re not exposing the trolls, we’re campaigning the release of a boy that looks different.”

Claire crossed her arms, skeptical, but not in denial. “Go on…” 

“Think about it. Jim’s not a prisoner that’s in jail. There was no trial. No arrest. He was given no rights and kidnapped by the government. This kind of stuff shouldn’t happen in the US.”

“But how do we convince the town that Jim really isn’t a monster? He did do a lot of damage. I know we convinced the city not to press charges as long as Jim helps clean up…but what about all the cars he flipped?”

“That’s where you come in!” 

“Me?!” 

“My apologies, Lady Claire,” Said Blinky. “That would be my doing.” 

“What did you do?”

“I simply explained to your mother that your skills in magic have improved to the point where you were able to restore our truck to a near perfect condition after that accident we had.” 

Ophelia continued. “And I’m going to pretend to not be angry that you didn't tell us you were in a serious car accident on your way back from New Jersey. Blinky said you almost died!” 

“But I didn’t!” Claire held up her hands in defense. “See? All good! Magic and all that…” 

“So, you can restore the cars that were totaled?” Asked her father. 

“Well, maybe…? It might take a little time. Using that much magic is exhausting.” 

Barbara rested a hand on her arm. “Anything you can do to sway the town that Jim isn’t a monster will help. If we have to do a fundraiser to pay for damages, we can do that too. Anything to get the town on our side.” 

“I’m willing to try!” Claire assured. 

“So I guess we’re not needed?” Asked Aja. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Ophelia, approaching them. “As you can see, we’re in a state of chaos here. Are you friends of Jim and Claire’s?”

“Naturally!” Said Aja. “I’m Aja, and this is my little brother Krel.” 

“It’s very nice to meet you, I’m councilwoman Nuñez. Please, if you’re willing to help, we’ll certainly take it.” 

“Well,” said Krel. “We were here to offer a different sort of help…” 

Ophelia raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“What my little brother means,” Aja stated, elbowing him out of the way. “We have some information on the government facility that Jim was taken too. Area 49-B. Mostly used for research into the extraterrestrial and paranormal, but I suppose that could extend to Jim and the trolls.” She rubbed her hands together nervously. “We…had to recover some equipment from the facility. Which required breaking and entering…” 

Ophelia leveled a look at them both. “Is any of this so-called equipment dangerous to the city? Do I need to be concerned?”

“No no no!” Krel waved his hands around. “Well, it’s mostly safe. Unless there’s a malfunction. But even then, that’s a small possibility…”

“Krel…” Aja bit. 

“What? I’m just being honest with the woman!” 

“It’s okay guys, you can trust Mrs. Nuñez.” Said Toby. “She knows all about Jim and the Trollmarket.”  

“I mean, next thing you know, you’re going to tell us to trust everyone in Arcadia.” Joked Krel. 

“I’m working my way there.” 

“Fine,” said Aja. “We’re not...from earth. We're in hiding from our home planet. We’ve come to take sanctuary here.” 

“And we need to repair our ship before we can leave.” Added Krel. 

“Aliens.” Said Ophelia, with the blankest expression and tone. 

“Uh, we prefer the term extraterrestrials.” 

Ophelia just sighed. “Trolls. Wizards. Aliens. What’s next? Gnomes?” 

“Oh, there’s been gnomes,” answered Toby.

“Goblins?”

“So many goblins.”

“Okay, so space invaders.” Ophelia threw up her hands. “I guess we’re just that town now, huh? Great. Wonderful.” 

Barbara smoothly took over the situation. “What can you tell us about the facility?”

“Well, for starters, it’s very hard to get into. 10 foot cement walls, blast doors, motion sensor laser guns, the last time we broke in, we had to fake an alien sighting to lure out some guards, stole their uniforms, and snuck in disguised. And we had our AIs monitoring our every move through security cameras and luring personal outside with tacos.” 

“Hmm…sounds dangerous. How did you sneak out?” 

“We…didn’t.” Aja laughed awkwardly. “We kind of busted a giant extraterrestrial arthropod out to cover our escape. We were only lucky that that woman saw us in our real forms and not these human projections. No doubt, she’s hunting for us anyways.” 

“A jailbreak won’t work anyways,” stated Claire. “They took Jim from Arcadia. If we broke him out, he wouldn’t be able to return here, cause they’ll just take him again.” 

“The woman in charge is Colonel Kublitz, and she’s really mean.”

“So I gathered from her visit in the hospital.” Said Barbara with a scowl. 

“Then the campaign is our only hope,” confirmed Ophelia. “If we can’t break him out, and we can’t appeal to the Colonel’s heart, then we put pressure on her superiors to let him out.” 

“But first, we need to get the town on our side. Which means clean up duty.”

—

“Has anyone seen Jim? I need a library card, and I was hoping to borrow his.” This was said by Merlin, who waltzed into the Lake house as soon as they returned from the campaign meeting.

“What?” Asked Claire. “You mean you didn’t hear?”

“If I had heard any news about Jim, do you think I’d be asking?” He put his arms on his hips. “I don’t have one of your cellphones, I’m not ‘in the loop’ as you like to say.” 

Toby answered, “Jim’s been kidnapped by the government and taken to a secret facility to be experimented on!” 

Merlin blinked once, twice, and scratched his chin. “Well, that’s not good.”

“No, it’s really not!” 

“So are you going to help us save him?” Asked Claire. “It’s your magic that got him into this mess in the first place!” 

“Oh, so sorry for trying to make sure your boyfriend stayed alive. I won’t do it again,” he rolled his eyes. “But yes, I’ll help rescue Jim. What is it that you need? Dimension door? A portal to get him out? Or perhaps some fire power down the front door?” 

“No, we need you to help fix the damage Jim did to the town.” 

“You want me to what?! Do I look like a janitor to you?!”

“Come on man, it’s all part of the plan!” Said Toby, “We’re going to get the whole town on our side, and then we’re going to campaign and make a big stink about him being taken! It’ll give them a bunch of unwanted attention, and they’ll have to listen to us!”

“Oh yes, I’m certain that’s exactly what’s going to happen…and not mass execution.” 

“This is the 21st century, the government isn’t going to execute an entire town.” 

“Oh, they don’t do that anymore? Pity. Anyways, I suppose I can help reverse the damage Jim caused…what damage would that be, exactly?”

“James Butthead Sr. left a bag of cocaine out where Jim could find it and he ate it and went into a drug fueled rage, where he flipped over cars and light poles and scared the bejebus out of everyone.” Toby stated. “The police agreed not to arrest him, because of the circumstances, as long as he agrees to clean up the town…but then the army came in and yada yada yada, Bob’s your uncle.” 

“What? When did this happen?” 

“Just yesterday.”

“How did I miss it?”

“You were probably at McDonalds.” 

The man frowned, “I hate that I’ve become predictable. Alright, I’ll get to work doing street repairs first thing in the morning. Until then…does anyone have a library card I could use?”

—

Maybe they’d let him go on good behavior, he wondered. Jim followed every direction to a T, and regarded every scientist or personnel politely. Yes sir, no sir, yes ma’am, no ma’am. Please and thank you. Every ounce of humanity he could muster, he demonstrated. 

In return, he’d been poked and prodded. Blood, urine, sweat, spit and all manner of bodily fluids had been extracted and examined. He had run on a treadmill for hours until he collapsed. He had gone without food and water for the last two days. 

They were treating him like anything but human. 

He was just happy they weren’t using UV lights yet. 

“How are you feeling?” One of the researchers asked. 

“Hungry, tired.” He panted from his table.

“What do you eat?”

“Anything…do you have any socks?” 

“You’ll have to wait a bit longer for food. Until the Colonel gives the okay.” 

“And how much longer will that be?”

“She’ll be here soon, why don’t you ask her yourself?” 

Jim really hated interacting with the Colonel. Most of the personnel were indifferent to him. Some of the researchers actually spoke to him, but most just treated him like he wasn’t even there. The Colonel though, she was cruel. She belittled him, humiliated him, reminded him of the actions that had put him in here. 

She made him feel like an animal, more than anything else after his transformation had. 

“Why is she so much meaner than everyone else on this base?” He asked rhetorically. 

“She’s scared of you.” Said the researcher, not looking at him. “And you’ll never be free as long as she is.” 

Great. Awesome. Just what he wanted to hear. Oh well. He’d just have to up his politeness. Maybe he could convince them to let him cook or something. That could work.

Soon enough, the Colonel arrived, tablet under her arm and a sneer on her lips. “James Lake Jr.”

“That’s me,” he rolled his eyes. He’d been through this every time she’d come to see him. 

“Junior at Arcadia Oaks High School. Nearly perfect GPA up until last year where you got a large stint of absences. Starred in the drama production of Romeo and Juliet. This is you?”

“Yes! I’ve gone to the Arcadia Oaks school district since Kindergarten!” 

“Except Jim Lake Jr. looks like this,” she held up last year’s school photo, with the old him. The human him. The him that didn’t flip cars and trash towns. 

“That was me a few months ago.” 

“This doesn’t look anything like you.” 

“It doesn’t? Not the eyes? Face shape?”

“What I don’t understand is that your DNA samples came back, and they had some commonality to Jim Lake Jr.’s DNA, about half. So, what happened?”

Jim kept a wary eye on her, thinking his answer through. He had been asked something similar by a police chief several states away. Then, the truth hasn’t been too hard to confess, they were far from home and they had treated him like a person. 

A criminal, but a person. And they apologized afterwards. 

But this woman...there was no mercy in her eyes. 

“Well? Are you going to give me answers? Or am I going to have to force them out of you?” 

Would she even believe the truth? 

“Magic.” Jim provided, as a start. 

The Colonel was unimpressed, and growing impatient. 

So he elaborated, carefully, “this amulet,” he gestured to the stone embedded into his chest. “Was created by Merlin the wizard of Arthurian legend. It chose me to be the protector of man and troll.” 

All of the Colonel’s attention was quickly on the amulet, as she studied it. “Protect from what?” 

“Gunmar, mostly...how much do you know about the tornado in Arcadia?” 

“I know that it wasn’t a natural tornado. I know that your town was upheaved by trolls from deep underground, and that when it all went away, the town shut it down tight. There’s only a few amateur videos of the incident.” 

“That was Gunmar. He led an army of evil trolls that wanted to blot out the sun. It was my job to stop him...but I wasn’t exactly a star athlete...so, Merlin turned me into a half troll.” 

Turning this entire exchange, the Colonel never once looked away from the amulet. “I see...and what happened to Gunmar?”

“I stopped him. I killed him. And killing him destroyed his army. Everything is safe now.” He managed to smile. “Now that you know I’m not all that bad, would you ease up a bit? That last incident was an accident...I didn’t know it was cocaine, I just thought it was trash!” 

“Silence.” 

Jim bit his lip, waiting for the Colonel to make up her mind. 

“I want to study this amulet in more detail.” 

“Well, you can look all you like, but it’s embedded in my chest.” 

“That’s never stopped me before.” She turned to the researcher nearby. “Get me some gloves and some forceps.” 

Immediately, Jim started to squirm and pull at his restraints. Forget politeness, she wasn’t getting anywhere near him with forceps! The restraints groaned as he pulled on them, tearing the welding apart. 

“Sedate him!” The Colonel ordered. 

He tried to resist, he really did, but the mask held over his face made him weak. It didn’t completely put him under, but it did make his head a little foggy and his limbs not cooperate. 

“Just sit still, it’ll all be over soon.” The woman’s voice could have been soothing, if it didn’t hold such malicious intent. 

Jim felt the pull on his chest as the cold metal forceps tried to pry the amulet free. 

Of course, Jim had a stroke of genius. “For the glory of Merlin, Daylight is mine to command!” 

It didn’t release him from his binding, but the armor forced the woman away from him, and added extra support over the amulet’s edges. 

And as an added bonus, he summoned his helmet and visor, which pushed the anesthesia mask away from his face. 

Now to just get free! 

The researchers had all gone from the room when he started to glow, but the Colonel stayed behind, unable to tear her gaze away. 

“Fascinating...” 

Hopped up on adrenaline and rage, Jim gave a final heave to his bindings and broke free. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Said Colonel Kublitz. 

“Leaving, preferably. Look, I told you what you wanted to know, I let you poke and prod me for days without water. But I’m done. I’m going home.” 

“And then what?” She asked. “You think we won’t come after you again? Hell, you think you can break out of here?” 

“I can try.” He rolled his shoulders and summoned daylight. “And maybe if I make a good enough of an impression, you’ll find it not worth it to try to get me back.” 

“Try if you can, but now that I know exactly what that amulet is capable of, I’m not letting you leave with it!” 

Thankfully, Jim had a spectacular response time, and darted out of the way at the first sign of the gun, or laser. Whatever that thing was. 

She fired beam after beam, only for Jim to dance out of the way, swiftly and gracefully. He dove behind other specimens and lab equipment, but the Colonel seemed to have little regard for them. Glass tanks exploded, making the floor slippery and sending glass everywhere. 

Before Jim could even reach the door, the room was already surrounded with armed men, all armed with lasers. 

“Give up, Beast! There’s nowhere to run!” 

“I’m not a beast!” Jim shouted back, with a roar. Looking up, he found a large vent in the ceiling. That very well could be his way out. 

But as he jumped to grab for his hold, a beam connected. Bolts of electricity crashed into him over and over in waves, flowing from his horns to his toes, making him convulse violently and unwillingly. He collapsed on the floor in a writhing mess. 

“Don’t touch him yet, the current is still in his armor.” 

Jim felt it too, passing through his very body like he was made of metal. 

Then it all stopped, and he laid exhausted on the floor. He blamed it on his hunger, his thirst, his restlessness. This was a battle not won. 

“Now then, where were we?” 

The electrocution left him too tired to fight, and just awake enough to feel all the pain. 

“You know, a blast at that voltage would have killed a normal human.” She said. “Guess you can be thankful for that, huh?” 

Jim could only let out a weak groan, before his armor faded away. The hands that grabbed him hurt, even just from the residual shock. He was placed back onto a table, and strapped in again. He had no strength to fight. 

“Alright, let’s try this again.”

They didn’t even sedate him, just tore into the flesh of his chest to remove the amulet. 

“Scalpel isn’t going to work, I need a chisel.” 

He could feel the tool cracking into his chest, one knock at a time, carving away. It hurt, oh it hurt, and he cried out in pain. 

And then it was over, and he felt so hollow inside, so empty. 

The Colonel held up the amulet in the light, bits of him still clinging to it. “There now, that wasn’t too bad was it?” 

Jim was unable to answer, his body trembling in pain and shock. His breaths were erratic and shuttering. 

“Clean this up, and then find out what the secret is. I want that armor for myself!”

#arcadia or bust #Trollhunters #troll jim #jim lake junior #claire nunez #jlaire #fanfiction #tales of arcadia

[split-n-splice]

Sometimes those who are bad do good while those who are good do bad with good intentions. A kidnapping and a brief encounter between villain wannabe and a hero-to-be.

Pre-Team Go. Just thinking about origins and adjusting to new powers. I fancy the idea that Drakken and Shego go “way back.”

Chapters: 3 Words: 12k Warnings: violence, language (Updated with revised version Feb, 2020!)

[Chapter Guide]

Chapter 1

Save for the rhythm of her own breath and the hum of a fluorescent she’d grown deaf to, her chambers had been dead silent for hours on end until the lull was broken by the long-awaited click of the lock and the quiet swish of the door opening.

“Subject B?” came the wavering call of an uncertain man.

The teenager’s lip almost quirked into a smirk. Almost. Fresh meat, she thought wryly.

Her arms were bent uncomfortably over her head, shielding her eyes from the infinite light above as she lay on her cot. For quite some time now, she’d had nothing better to do other than sleep until she ached and then some. If only sleep was easy to come by.

The footsteps neared. “I’m your, uhm. Psychiatrist.” He waited. She’d leave him hanging, she decided. “Hello? Are you awake?” Another moment passed. The footsteps began to retreat, and she heard him mutter impatiently to himself, “I must be in the wrong sector.”

The girl sat upright then with great exertion, lifting a heavy cast over her head. She slumped forward and glowered down to her hands secured and bound together in the slipshod plaster cocoon before squinting up against the searing white light as a man in a crisp blue suit came into focus.

“M’name’s not Subject B,” she rasped, voice hoarse from thirst and lack of use. A far more interesting glass of water on the homey little nightstand beside her cot drew her attention away from the stranger, reminding her how parched she was. She’d been encouraged to break her strike for a while now – she’d lost count of the days she’d been on it, honestly – and though she was presently hooked to an IV to treat dehydration, she was still holding fast to her conditions: let her go or she’d find a way to self-destruct. So far the tactic wasn’t working.

Her visitor said something she didn’t catch – the damn water had her fixated. She could have – should have – knocked it over hours ago, or maybe days ago, but what if another glass never came—?

The girl shook her head and tore her eyes away from the tempting glass. She scrunched her nose as if smelling something foul as she studied the spectacled man again. “You look too young to be a psychiatrist,” she deadpanned. “Mommy still do your laundry? Looks like she dresses you too.”

Something she said must have struck a nerve. “Listen, you snot-nosed little brat—” the man began, but she lurched to her feet. The wobble of her knees couldn’t have been threatening but her glare must have done something. She liked to think so anyway.

“This snot-nosed little brat left yesterday’s psychiatrist’s face looking like a Picasso,” she hissed venomously, and raised her trapped hands a little as evidence before dropping them. “So watch your mouth.” She couldn’t do much to him in her present state, but he seemed on edge just enough for threats alone to be sufficient.

When she took a step forward, IV stand scooting along with her, the man took a step back. Her eyes darted to the floor. She almost smiled, but he was talking again. “Is that what that is about?” He gestured with his clipboard to her bound hands. “Why?”

The girl arched her brow at the perplexed inquiry. There wasn’t an inkling of sarcasm. She looked down to the plaster keeping her primary means of defense at bay. She was sure she could burn the cast off, but not without burning herself again in the process. Her skin was already raw and blistered from earlier attempts to burn her way to freedom. Having a go at her last doctor had been the last straw. They’d said the improvised cast was only a temporary quick fix. They’d said it was to keep her from hurting herself, like a cone on a dog – but that had been a load. The burns lacing her palms and knuckles might have gotten the attention they needed if she weren’t so obstinate, but she’d hardly let anyone near enough to check on her in days.

She’d been a lab rat under observation for months – ever since the organization holding her in custody had caught wind of something extraterrestrial practically leveling her neighborhood. She hadn’t been compliant with their studies.

The snapping of fingers made her blink. An almost concerned look crossed the man’s face. He was stupid enough to take a step closer. He opened his mouth to repeat the question but she cut him off.

“If you’d read my file, you would know what it’s for.” She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion as he scrambled to flip through the scant pages on his clipboard. “There was even a hazard sign posted outside the door, last I saw.”

“I – uh – I’m just making small talk. Of course, I’ve read your file,” he said, a tentative smile quivering.

The girl glanced to the floor again, to the painted red caution line marking the boundary behind him, and a second marking a boundary through the center of the barren room between them, her own personal invisible fence. If he was a stuttering idiot because he was scared, he would have taken the proper precautions when confronting her. She did the math. Something didn’t add up right. “Then you wouldn’t have crossed the line,” she stated in a quiet mutter, eyes fixating on the particular warning line three steps behind him. Personnel without guards were unauthorized to cross it, and as of yet, no doctor had even risked seeing her alone.

Dragging the IV stand behind her, she approached the center of the room, the invisible barrier clear only to her. The tingle of a thick mechanical collar around her throat became noticeable, heating up in warning.

“Line?” uttered the young man, face scrunching as he looked down and all around. By the time he’d noticed them, the warning lines, the sound of her hacking something made his spectacled eyes snap back to her.

She really didn’t want to encourage being muzzled too, but she was in a bad mood. Without pausing to think twice, she spat what could only be described as a plasma loogie his way. The man leapt back with a startled yelp, both disgusted and frightened as the green flame bubbled and burned itself out in a tiny pit in the linoleum. Her throat burned like she’d swallowed a hot coal and she choked on the aftertaste, but it had been worth it for the look on the stranger’s face.

Her eyes watered. The glass of water had never been more tempting. “How’s that for snot-nosed, huh?” she coughed, caught between laughter and choking. She smiled wider than she had in days, or maybe weeks. How long had she been here? Long enough for her hair to grow back long enough to tickle her ears again. She didn’t want to think about it.

She focused her heated glare back on the livid man, who now stood a safe distance out of her spitting range marked clearly in the floor by a dozen other divots and of course the red paint. “Why, you little!” he seethed, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth.

“You’re not the shrink they sent to get inside my head,” she decided, making her way back to her cot. “So who are you?” Talking was getting to be too exhausting, but she could use some relief from the monotony of this hell of solitary confinement. They’d tried to give her a television and other enrichment, but that had been one of the things she’d fired at that had gotten her hands bound up. They kept telling her to behave and cooperate like Subjects A and C and they’d let her go in no time – but she had her doubts and had become increasingly volatile since this had all started a month or two or three or more ago. She didn’t even know if her brothers had really been released or if something worse had befallen them. She hadn’t seen them since they were put into custody for observation.

The man said something else she didn’t catch as she flopped down in her cot and instantly regretted doing so a little bit, the jolt making her body ache ever more and the IV tug in her arm. She leaned awkwardly on her elbows to study the glass at eye level, resting her chin on the nightstand. She had the worst case of heartburn right now. Her eyes stung.

She expected the man to be done with this session and leave to tattle on her for spitting acid at him. To at least take some notes if he was, in fact, her new psychiatrist. Something.

But after a moment and a thoughtful hum, his footsteps neared instead, crossing the warning line again.

The girl twisted around to glare back incredulously at him. He held the clipboard under his arm and was fidgeting with something with an antenna in his palm. “Why don’t we take a little walk, Subject B?” he suggested.

She thought she recognized what he held but she wasn’t sure, maybe it was just a radio or—

“No thanks, I’m good,” she said quickly, scrambling to her knees and pressing herself into the farthest corner, folding her legs up to her chest. Her heart started to pound.

What was this sketchy doctor playing at? He must realize he was playing with fire. Was he brave or just stupid?

She tried to swallow as he approached but she was too parched. She couldn’t even draw upon the green alien fire to spit in defense this time.

In the back of her mind, the state of her dress became a concern and she squeezed her legs tighter to her chest. A dress – that was all they gave her – a dress and nothing else, no shoes, no underwear, just the bare necessity to keep her decent. Suddenly the dress didn’t concern her anymore. Pants never warded off grubby hands much anyway, she supposed.

Flight wasn’t an option. Fight kicked in.

The man had a lot of gall to reach down for her, but she kicked out at him, targeting his groin but her heel making contact with his stomach instead. It knocked the wind out of him at least, and for a split second she fancied the thought of cracking the cast open like a coconut on his stupid head – but he was recovering too soon, and frankly she was too exhausted from malnutrition to fight a grown man, even a sort of scrawny one like him.

He glared hard down at her and held up the device to wiggle mockingly. She blanched. It was exactly what she’d thought it was – it went to the damned obedience collar locked around her neck to keep her under control for those special occasions she went batshit. It even kept her behind the invisible barrier. He must have seen the fear flicker in her eyes because he grinned maliciously.

Her stomach turned.

“You know, it’s funny,” he ground out, not particularly amused as he stood back and held the device out of reach when she lunged for it, forgetting for a second that she couldn’t grab at things in this state. His hand on her head was enough to hold her at bay. She could have bitten him. She wanted to. She scowled instead and threw herself back against the wall, legs tucked tight again. “When I stole it, I thought this was the remote to the inexhaustible nuclear weapon I heard rumor of Global Justice obtaining. It goes to something alright, but I’m not sure about the weapon being inexhaustible. Or nuclear. Hm.”

He studied the remote as if it determining the ripeness of a piece of fruit in a produce aisle, and then looked back down at her. “Oh well,” he sang, idly spinning a knob of settings like some sort of wheel of misfortune that made her heart thunder. “I suppose it still functions for the intended purpose, but I wasn’t expecting the weapon to be some kid.”

The sick bastard was just plain taunting her now. “I’m a freshman,” she snapped. Or at least she was supposed to be.

She didn’t have time to argue about it, bracing herself again to thrash when the questionable doctor stooped over her a second time.

The man was wrestling her for her arms now. “Don’t be a pill! I’m as displeased about this as you are,” the man assured her unsympathetically.

She tried screaming, even though she knew her chances of getting any help were slim to none. She’d already cried wolf countless hours before – so any guards in the area were desensitized to her screams and whoever was on monitor duty must be napping on the clock or there would have been an intervention by now.

“What are you doing?” she squawked, writhing and kicking, but her weak legs were useless in prying off her assailant.

“You don’t need this where we’re going. Just – ow! Stop that!”

A headbutt only dealt her more harm than him. She was dazed just long enough for him to get a grip on her, and she nearly resumed her thrashing again until she realized his target was the IV in her arm. She went rigid then. She wasn’t keen on having it simply ripped out. She hadn’t eaten in days but she felt like puking when she finally surrendered, if only for the moment. Pressing her face to the wall, she squeezed her eyes shut against the sight. It didn’t help knowing he was holding the remote carelessly between his teeth now as he worked to remove the catheter – she didn’t want to think about the voltage burns that could be inflicted by the accidental press of a button.

The vinegar breath and entire weight of his presence backed off suddenly, the foreign object dislodged from her flesh as well. She stared at the little piece of gauze taped over the site, a dot of blood blooming already.

“Now,” said the man with an exhausted huff of frustration as he stood back from her. He tried to smooth his hair back into place and pointed the remote at the door. “How about that walk?” His eyes narrowed at her bare feet as the cautious girl put them on the floor. “I don’t suppose you have any shoes—?”

“No.”

“Huh. You know, you’d really think they’d be more hospitable than that,” he uttered, stupefied for a second. She didn’t have a chance to ask him to clarify who they were. The man shook his head then and shuffled away, fidgeting with the controller and then aiming it back at her.

The girl tensed when she saw his thumb hover over the control pad and heard the tiny beep.

She waited.

There was no electric shock, no heat, no choking – nothing they’d used against her to get her under control when typical civilized methods failed.

There was, however, the sudden absence of a barely-perceivable vibration she’d grown numb to.

She started to reach for her throat, blinking in surprise, but remembered about her plaster-bound hands and dropped them. She stretched her jaw instead and tried to swallow, readjusting to the missing sensation. “Would feel better if it was off,” she rasped.

The sketchy doctor was leaned out the door, peeking into the hall. He scoffed as he looked back at her incredulously. “I don’t think so.”

“Can’t blame me for trying,” she sighed.

“Let’s go, Subject B.”

“I have a name.”

He sighed impatiently and rolled his wrist at her in encouragement. “Then what is it?” he demanded in a hiss.

No question about it. Her eyes narrowed at the phony doctor’s back as she followed two steps behind him down the blinding white halls. “Are you kidding me?” she balked. “It’s on my paperwork.” She knew that much, even if she hadn’t been called by name in months. And in any case, phony or not, he should have at least known what he was targeting.

“Yes, well, I didn’t read them, so—”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Of course you didn’t. You’re not a real doctor.”

“Am too.”

“Are not.”

“You little sh— shush!” he snipped under his breath, whirling on her. He might have poked her in the chest with a sharp finger if she was standing any closer, but instead he jabbed at the air. “I demand you behave yourself and act natural. Don’t make me use the, the uh—” He waved the device menacingly. “This.”

“Obedience collar,” she supplied. The young man glowered, nostrils flaring, holding his tongue. She sighed, shoulders sagging. “Whatever. I’ll play along.” It should be pretty fun when he got busted and it sure beat sitting around doing nothing for another day, she decided.

“Thank you,” he said, spinning back around.

A couple minutes passed as she followed the man through twisting corridors and security doors that took a mere sweep of a card to open. It was soon clear he’d lost his sense of direction by his frown. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” she whispered behind him, making him jump. “You didn’t think this through at all.”

“I – I did too,” he hissed back. His hands flailed in the air, gesturing at her in frustration. “I just wasn’t expecting – augh!” He bit back a curse and skulked ahead, hands still flapping. “You were supposed to be a thing. Like a gun or something.”

“Sorry I’m inconvenient.” She rolled her eyes. “What do you plan to do with me?”

The man glared over his shoulder and swiped his pass card again. “Keep moving.”

She wasn’t one to be rushed, and certainly not by a bumbling idiot. He looked about ready to throw her over his shoulder to speed things up, but she doubted he had the muscle to do so. Then again, she’d lost quite a bit of weight recently. She was probably as light as an armful of kindling by now. She certainly felt like a walking stick anyway.

Following the stupid black mop ahead of her became the only thing keeping her legs moving, like following the white rabbit down the rabbit hole. She was zoning out again, the man’s complaints never quite reaching her ears. Every once in a while, the sketchy young doctor looked back to frown at her or wave the remote in threat, and his grip wrapped around her arm at one point to all but drag her along when she paused to rest.

They passed legitimate personnel, typical doctors and science geeks in white lab coats, in the hall at one point, and she was vaguely aware of the intruder beside her straightening up and fixing his pokerface. Act natural. Whatever that meant. She walked along, feet dragging on the cold linoleum, like the prisoner she was, on her way to whatever destination her phony doctor had prescribed for her.

And then they were outside. The hot air hit her like a wall, every fiber of her being soaking up the evening sunlight. She had to stop to enjoy the moment, even if the blacktop was searing hot underfoot. It was nothing compared to the fire she’d been burdened with.

She was being manhandled again, shoved into a car and pushed down to the floorboard. “Hide there until I give the all-clear,” the phony doctor instructed, throwing his jacket down at her face. She got the hint. She was being smuggled out. She had her doubts how well it would work, and almost voiced her criticism from beneath the cover when she heard a spoken exchange above.

She held her breath. Crouching beneath a glovebox like some sort of lumpy painfully-obvious frog had to be one of the stupidest things she’d done, but it was too late to suggest the trunk as a better hiding place.

Moments after the brief chat with the gatekeeper, there was a light rap against her head and she climbed out of the cranny, collapsing back into the passenger seat and heaving a sigh from all the exertion.

“So what flavor of hell does my new captor have for me?” she wondered idly, head lolling to study the man. “Rape, murder, desecration – the standard procedure? Wow me already. Say something. Cripes you’re boring. You’re not very good at kidnapping.”

He pushed his glasses back up his button nose, grimaced, and shook his head. He was chewing on something he didn’t want to say.

As they hit the highway, he almost commanded she put on her seatbelt, but she held up her bound hands before he could finish the word, and he groaned, reaching over to fumble for it himself to stretch over her awkwardly.

“Thanks,” she said dryly.

He only grunted in reply.

She slumped uncomfortably against the window, the vibration of the wheels covering ground soon lulling her effortlessly to dreamland.

#Drakken #Shego #Kim Possible #fanfiction #Bad is Good and Good is Bad #I wrote this within 5 days when I was pretty tired n sick n stressed so some of it’s pretty uhhh *blows raspberry* hazah #also Subjects A and C would've been Hego and Mego just throwin that out there

[mrswhozeewhatsis]

A Woman of Letters (Getting a Feel for Sam Winchester) - Chapter 36

Summary:  You’ve just opened an occult bookstore in Lebanon, Kansas, when you fall for a tall, handsome customer…literally. You soon find out that there’s more to the world than you ever suspected, including you. Discovering your heritage puts you directly in a witch’s crosshairs, though, so the Winchesters offer to take you in and teach you how to protect yourself. As you discover your own family history with the supernatural and your own hidden talents, you can’t help but wish a certain brother was as excited about your interest as you are.

Total length: 43 chapters, 70,247 words - Read on AO3 - Series masterlist

Chapter word count: 1548 words

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Warnings: Canon-level angst and violence

Sam

As Dean was driving them back to the bunker, Sam’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, he found a text from Y/N. As he read the text to Dean, his worry for her welfare calmed a little bit. Sam tried to call her, but the call went directly to voicemail. He huffed in frustration, then told Dean about the text.

Dean hit the steering wheel angrily, then rubbed it with his hand as if to apologize to his Baby for the violence. “Dammit. So, what, is he in love with her or something? Why the hell is he doing this? What’s in it for him?” Dean and Sam both jumped when Crowley’s voice came out of the back seat of the car.

“Well, she stays safe, and I get a Moose and Squirrel heeding my every beck and call. So now all of the resources that are at your disposal are also at my disposal, including the library in that bunker of yours. If my mother wanted it, even though she once had Hell’s library at her fingertips, then there must be something there worth wanting. Really, Squirrel, I would have thought you could have figured all this out by now.”

Dean pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned with Sam to face Crowley in the back seat. “Like hell, Crowley! We’re not giving you anything until you give her back! How do we even know she’s alive? All we have is a text message that you could have sent!” Sam felt his heart thundering in his ears again at the thought that Y/N really could be dead or hurt.

Crowley snapped his fingers, and a piece of paper appeared in his hand. He held it out toward Sam and indicated he should take it. “Here, Moose. Proof of life, and health. I expect the next time I call you, you’ll be more amenable to my requests.” Sam took the piece of paper and Crowley disappeared.

On the piece of paper was a complicated web address and a password. Sam pulled out his laptop while Dean put the car in drive and got back on the road. When he brought up the web site and put in the password, Sam gasped.

The screen was split four ways, and each quadrant was a security camera feed of a suite of rooms. Sitting on the edge of the bed in one of the feeds was Y/N. Sam’s heart ached. She was just sitting there, looking around like she was lost and didn’t know what to do. As Dean was pulling the car into the bunker’s garage and turned to see what Sam was looking at, a message scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

“Behave, and you’ll get sound.” Sam felt his throat close for a moment while Dean slammed his hand on the steering wheel again.

“Son of a BITCH!” Dean got out of the car, slamming the door. Sam slowly closed the laptop, knowing he had to get out the car, and couldn’t carry it open like that, but not wanting to possibly sever the only remaining connection he had to Y/N. He almost held his breath while he walked to the library until he opened up his laptop again, and the security feed was still there. He watched as Y/N started pacing around the room, wringing her hands, and felt tears prick his eyes when he realized she was crying. He watched her until she lay down on the bed, obviously cried out, and fell asleep.

Over the next week, Crowley gave Sam and Dean a few little assignments, each of which they grudgingly completed after Crowley threatened to cut off the security feeds, or remove whatever thing Y/N had found to do most recently to stave off boredom. Sam had watched Y/N refuse food for the first day and a half, until Crowley pointed to the cameras. After a short discussion, Crowley left, and Y/N spent some time just staring at them. Sam watched as she suddenly got up, pulled out paper and a pen from the desk, and started writing. When she was done, she walked over to one of the cameras and put the piece of paper in front of it so he could read it.

“Sam, I love you. I’m okay. This part of Hell isn’t so bad. I miss you, and wish I could see you like you can see me. Don’t worry about me. Stay safe. I love you.”

Sam took a screenshot of the feed while Y/N was holding up the letter and saved it for later. After Y/N threw away the paper in the bathroom, she returned to the camera, and blew a kiss into it. With a teary smile, Sam pretended to catch it and hold it to his heart, even though he knew she couldn’t see him.

When he wasn’t staring at the screen, watching Y/N’s every movement, or running one of Crowley’s little errands, he was trying to formulate an ironclad plan to get her back. It wasn’t the first time Sam had broken into Hell, but instead of unexpectedly rescuing one innocent soul among billions, this time he’d be rescuing what would be considered a high-value asset to the King, and they would be expecting him. Y/N was most likely very heavily guarded, and was probably very close to wherever Crowley spent most of his time. Sam had watched Crowley take many meals with Y/N, even though he didn’t eat. He tried not to be jealous when he saw Y/N relax around him, even laughing at something he’d said a few times. Y/N was kind-hearted, always looked for the bright side of any situation, and could find something to love about anyone. The fact that she loved him proved that.

Sam shook his head to clear it. He needed a plan to get into Hell, find Y/N, fight through the highest security Hell would have to offer, and get out again. All without Crowley finding out. That meant no interrogating demons for the info. Sam sighed.

After a week, and after Sam and Dean had found and handed over a cursed item to Crowley, the security feed suddenly had sound. Sam had been lying in bed, the laptop open on his night stand next to him, trying not to sleep because he was watching Y/N fold laundry. Why she had to fold her own laundry was anyone’s guess, and Sam figured she had begged Crowley to let her do some of her own chores simply to alleviate boredom. As Sam’s eyes were drooping, he heard Y/N’s voice out of the blue.

“If you’d told me ten years ago I’d be begging to do laundry, I’d have called you bad names and had you sent to the loony bin.” Sam’s eyes flew open, and his tired mind tried to figure out if he was dreaming or not. As she kept on talking, letting fly a running monologue on laundry, the clothes Crowley had provided for her, the laundry facilities in the bathroom, and really anything that came to her mind, Sam realized it was really her he was hearing. Sam almost kissed the screen. As he watched and listened, he heard a knock on her door, and heard her yell for whoever it was to come in. A moment later, Crowley showed up in the living room and greeted Y/N.

“Hello, my dear. I’m hoping you’re doing well. I just came to let you know that I’ve wired the feeds for sound, so your beloved Moose can hear you now. No more love letters to the cameras needed.” Sam watched Y/N’s face register the surprise, and then she shrugged. “Besides, you were going to clog the plumbing with all that paper.” Sam chuckled. So much for hiding the evidence of what she’d been doing. Y/N’s eyes kept traveling to the nearest camera while she and Crowley had a pleasant chat about things she needed or wanted. As soon as Crowley was out the door, Y/N rushed over to the nearest camera.

“Sam?” Y/N sighed. “Yeah, I know, you have no way to respond. I don’t know why I keep listening and looking. Anyway, I hope you’re not just spending all day and all night watching me. That’s got to be the most boring TV show ever. And I apologize in advance for the stupid things I say when I’m talking to myself. Godfrey isn’t a talker, Crowley isn’t here much, and the guards just grunt and nod, so intelligent conversation is at a premium around here.” Y/N sighed again and looked around. “I don’t know what to say. I’m here. I’m fine. I love you. And don’t waste too much time watching me, okay? I’m trying to keep busy, I’m reading, I’m watching movies, but I’m more bored than anything, so watching me be bored has got to be doubly boring for you. I love you too much to think of you glued to your laptop 24/7 watching me be bored.” Y/N paused and looked around. “Well, I guess it’s back to laundry for me.” Y/N blew a kiss at the camera and smiled. As she turned away, Sam saw her wipe something from her face and sighed.

#incoherent babbling by mrswhozeewhatsis #mrswhozeewhatsis writes #WOL - GaFfSW #sam x reader #sam fluff #sam angst #sam smut #sam winchester #sam winchester fan fiction #sam winchester fan fic #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fanfic #fan fiction #fanfiction #spn fan fiction #spn fanfiction #supernatural fan fiction #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfic

[azure7539arts]

In regards to chapter 88-89

Because I have seen a few posts around with opinions relating to the revelation that happens in these two chapters, specifically about Wei WuXian’s actions and Wen Ning’s handling of the situation, I’m going to chip in a bit as well.

So for anyone who has NOT caught up with the latest chapters of MDZS and does NOT want SPOILERS, please do NOT read what’s under the cut.

Warning: very long post that’s a combination of analysis and feels. Obviously, everything you’re about to read are my interpretations and personal perception of the characters, so do take it with a grain of salt.

Right off the bat, I just want to state clearly that Wei WuXian has and will never consider himself a hero. His actions have always been more about instincts than actual needs to prove himself; heroism is not the principle on which he operates himself because he has never been conscious of this during the acts themselves. If anything, what he is conscious about are his mistakes and shortcomings, which can be clearly seen via the fact that he slaps himself upon realizing that it was Jin Ling whom he just unknowingly insulted, or the fact that he cringes at the sight of his past self from before his death in Nie MingJue’s memory (and many more, but we are not here to discuss this).

With that in mind, let’s move on to why Wei WuXian never told Jiang Cheng about the golden core business.

Firstly, doing things, especially what will (in retrospect) be considered favors, without never telling anyone about it is basically how the Jiang Clan operates, and Wei WuXian, having nothing other than a couple of fuzzy memories of his birth parents, will of course be influenced by this teaching, too, seeing as he more or less grew up with it.

We can see evidences of this problematic behavior in almost every member of the main branch of this family. For example, Yu ZiYuan (who always outwardly expressed her contempt and displeasure toward Wei WuXian without restraints) was harsh on Wei WuXian, yes, but in the end, even during that seemingly brutal whipping that she gave him as ‘punishment’ for his ‘misdemeanor’ toward Wen Chao, she obviously held back to make sure he wasn’t as hurt as she would later claim him to be even though she could’ve gone all out. This doesn’t negate the fact that she had a penchant for verbal abuse, but in that moment, she decided—without telling anyone, fooling even her own son and the adopted one she was whipping—to not make Wei WuXian suffer. There are many reasons as to why she made this decision, but we won’t be mentioning that here.

As for Jiang FengMian: I will only go over this detail briefly because it only exists in the donghua, but he does keep the brooch his wife discarded, most likely unbeknownst to her, with the desire to once again give it to her when they were on better speaking terms, which never happened.

Jiang YanLi herself was no different. When her father and Wei WuXian came back from GuSu Lan Sect, bringing the news of her broken engagement, she never told anyone a word about her feelings for Jin ZiXuan, probably because she didn’t want Jiang FengMian and her brothers to feel bad about this, until a sudden altercation much, much later on revealed this truth, much to Wei WuXian and Jiang Cheng’s complete bewilderment because they had never suspected this.

And finally, Jiang Cheng himself is the same. Jiang Cheng is a complicated character, partly due to complicated relationship (mainly to Wei WuXian), and partly because he is featured prominently in the series, and therefore we know more about him and have more insights into his character. Without spoiling anyone who hasn’t known/already been spoiled/read through the novel before, I won’t be saying what it is, specifically, that he has done to demonstrate the Jiang’s characteristic streak of doing good/well-meaning things for other people without telling them, but please know that he did. He does so with immense consequences, and he does so without telling anyone, particularly Wei WuXian.

Going back to Wei WuXian, with all these examples from the people who brought him up from the age of 9, the very same people whom he interacted the most with for most of his teenager years, of course their behaviors and their conducts would affect him, too. Especially when he feels indebted to them for picking him up from the streets and giving him another home. You may say that all the mentions above may be solitary events, but people do not just decide to do things in a certain way one day, people gradually develop a way of behaving by repeating the same thing over and over—this is why the whole Jiang family exhibits these traits, and not just in certain individuals. And this, probably, plays a part in shaping the way Wei WuXian acts and why he didn’t tell Jiang Cheng about giving his foster brother his golden core either. This is a family of doers, for various reasons, and they do more than they talk, and even when they do talk, they don’t really communicate (e.g., Jiang FengMian and Yu ZiYuan constant fighting instead of talking things through, or Jiang Cheng’s “tough-love” acts toward Jin Ling later on).

Wei WuXian has days to deliberate, though, but he still chose not to tell Jiang Cheng, not because he thought that Jiang Cheng was weak or that he wouldn’t be able to handle it, but most likely because he knew his brother too well, and he knew Jiang Cheng would reject this without considering the option. There are many reasons as to why Jiang Cheng would reject (one of them I won’t be saying here because of spoilers), although most of them would boil down to pride and his inferiority complex. Jiang Cheng would most probably think that Wei WuXian was trying to play hero again (which, again, as we have established, has and will never be in Wei WuXian’s intention or agenda), that Wei WuXian was pitying him, and he wouldn’t have accepted the golden core transfer.

But this, in itself, has its problems and complications, too. Let’s pan this what-if situation out for a bit here: had Wei WuXian had told Jiang Cheng about this option, he would’ve given Jiang Cheng his choice in the matter (which is important because a person’s choice is important), but because there was no way Jiang Cheng, being the person that he was and with the unstable state of mind he had been in at the time, would’ve accepted this from Wei WuXian, he would’ve rejected the option. Would this mean they wouldn’t have any regrets? No. Because Wei WuXian loved (still does) his brother, and combined with the promise he had had with Madam Yu about protecting Jiang Cheng (to death, by the way), he wouldn’t have been okay with watching Jiang Cheng suffer and wither away. 

Remember, at this point, Jiang Cheng was already clearly suicidal. In the novel, and even in the donghua, this isn’t simply lightly implied, the way he behaved and the things he said (asking about why Wei WuXian had bothered saving him instead of just letting him die off because he didn’t want to witness the Wens overrun the cultivation world, and saying that he’d die and come back to haunt the Wens) stated this without leaving any remaining shadow of doubt. As for Jiang Cheng, had he been told, would’ve rejected Wei WuXian’s plan (as we just talked about), but would he have not thought about this every single day for the rest of his remaining days (however long he would’ve managed to live without trying to do something to get himself killed, that is)? Jiang Cheng has an inferiority complex (through no fault of his own, of course), and he wouldn’t have been able to live with seeing Wei WuXian still out there and entirely capable and fighting off the Wens whilst he himself was, more or less, dead weight. The idea that he could’ve restored his golden core at the expense of someone else would’ve never let him go, exactly because of how possibly attainable and absolutely horrifying it was.

And did Wei WuXian in that moment really had a choice? This was Jiang Cheng’s actual life on the line, as well as his own, and Jiang Cheng was his brother—the one he loved, the one he played with, the one who grew up with him and protected him and shared meals with him. The one he promised to protect to the bitter end. It had always been Jiang Cheng’s dream to be the Sect Leader that his father approved of, and he would never be able to become leader and realize his full potential without a golden core. So, Wei WuXian was saddled with a choice: he had to choose between a suicidal Jiang Cheng (which, believe me, is a very hard thing to watch anyone close to you go through) who would very likely try to get himself killed doing something reckless, and a Jiang Cheng who would regain his confidence and take up the mantle of sect leader to continue on the Jiang Clan legacy and rebuild their decimated sect from the group up—like what his parents would’ve wanted, like what Jiang Cheng himself would’ve done had he still had his golden core.

You have to understand that Wei WuXian himself, in that moment, must have been scared, too, scared and desperate, for a multitude of reasons—the Wens finding them and their helplessness in the face of all that power, the operation not working out, him not being able to protect Jiang Cheng and Jiang YanLi anymore. But what must have been the height of his fear (for a teenaged boy who had lost his entire family twice) was losing Jiang Cheng—and he had been losing Jiang Cheng right in front of his eyes because Jiang Cheng—Wei WuXian’s proud and resilient and capable brother—had given up on life. (And let me tell you, it is a very frightening thing that will haunt you for a long time).

Jiang Cheng, a child growing up in the main branch of a prominent, cultivating clan, believed his self-worth to lie in the existence of his golden core—in his continued capacity to keep on being a cultivator. He didn’t know a life outside of that, still doesn’t, and he couldn’t imagine a life in which he couldn’t cultivate anymore. He was devastated. His parents, his entire sect except for his sister, died horrible deaths, and his family home was razed to the ground. Without the means to take revenge, the rage he felt would’ve been nothing but an impotent one, and this was why, the second Wei WuXian told him there was a way, the spark of life returned to his eyes. Because only with the possibility of being able to cultivate again did he actually give himself a fighting chance.

And Wei WuXian saw this because, despite all appearances, he was/is an observant individual.

Consider these passages taken from chapter 60, translated by Exiled Rebels Scanlations, bolded parts by me:

[Wei WuXian] closed the door and pulled out the needle in Jiang Cheng’s head. [Jiang Cheng] opened his eyes only after a long time had passed.

He did wake up, but he didn’t move at all. He was so uninterested that he didn’t even turn around or ask ‘where is this’. He didn’t drink any water, he didn’t eat any food. It seemed that all he sought for was death.

Wei WuXian, “Do you really want to die?”

Jiang Cheng, “I can’t seek revenge even when I’m alive. Why shouldn’t I die? Maybe I’ll be able to turn into a ferocious ghost.”

And:

Jiang Cheng, “If I can’t seek revenge no matter if I’m dead or alive, then what’s the difference between the two?”

After he said this, he wouldn’t speak again no matter what.

Wei WuXian sat by the bed. He looked at him for a while. Slapping his knees, he stood up and began to busy himself.

This, in all honesty, must have been when Wei WuXian finalized his decision. And so he set about to busy himself and try to cook Jiang Cheng a meal, probably trying to think up a believable enough story for his brother in the meantime as well. Maybe he had considered telling Jiang Cheng, maybe he hadn’t. But the second he saw this: “The sentence was only a few words long. However, it immediately lit up the lifeless eyes of Jiang Cheng,” (chapter 60) he had already made up his mind.

As for why he refuses to tell Jiang Cheng later on, it’s a combination of, once again, knowing his brother well, of absorbing the Jiang behavior (something which Jiang Cheng will exhibit later on himself), and of how, in the end, they were two prideful people themselves. Jiang Cheng would’ve been devastated and would’ve felt guilty (as he is now) had this revelation came out after all was said and done, and Wei WuXian hadn’t done this for Jiang Cheng to feel grateful either. He just hadn’t wanted his brother to go kill himself. He hadn’t wanted his brother to live in guilt, and he hadn’t wanted to have received pity from Jiang Cheng either (much like how Jiang Cheng wouldn’t have and had never wanted Wei WuXian to pity him).

We will have our own opinions on this, on Wei WuXian’s choices and whether they were right or not, but in the end, he had only wanted one thing out of this: he had wanted Jiang Cheng, his brother, to live. Actually live and thrive, instead of just dragging a withering existence.

Now, moving on to the second matter in this too long essay, Wen Ning’s handling of the revelation and why he was doing it at all.

Firstly, we need to remember three things: that Wen Ning still feels guilty toward Jiang Cheng for all the wrong things he did; that Wen Ning is very protective of Wei WuXian; and that by nature, Wen Ning is a soft, shy, polite person with a good heart (as demonstrated by him going out of his way to help Wei WuXian and Jiang Cheng back when Lotus Pier had just been destroyed). So this revelation doesn’t stem from a want and/or need to humiliate Jiang Cheng, nor does it have any ill-willed intention at all other than for Jiang Cheng to please just stop going after Wei WuXian for a second.

From the moment Wen Ning woke up from his 13 years of imprisonment, all he heard was bad news. Very bad news. In all of those bad news, aside from the fact that his entire family died, was the one fact that Jiang Cheng had personally led the siege up Burial Mounds himself to eradicate evil, Wei WuXian and those fifty Wens people who had been clearly old and feeble last time Jiang Cheng had checked, and had caused Wei WuXian’s death. (This, Wei WuXian denied, saying that his demonic cultivation was what had done him in in the end, but because Wei WuXian is a liar, we don’t know if Wen Ning actually believed this or not).

Eventually, there was the second Burial Mound siege, also led by Jiang Cheng, also organized by people who wanted Wei WuXian dead. Wen Ning couldn’t have possibly been okay with this, with the way they were treating Wei WuXian, considering that just one nameless junior disciple bad-mouthing Wei WuXian alone was already enough to set him off. But, this aside, Wen Ning had had a tough time, too, what with the blood corpses of his brutally slain family coming back up from the death to help the very same people who had killed them years ago, only to crumple back to dust before his eyes.

This was a lot of stress, and Jiang Cheng has never stopped trying to make sure Wei WuXian sees the disdain, anger, and contempt Jiang Cheng has for him. And because this is Jiang Cheng, he never holds back his words, especially when he has a multitude of complicated emotions when it comes to Wei WuXian, which have been festering for nearly two decades.

(Excerpts, all are what Jiang Cheng says to Wei WuXian during what leads up to their eventual fight taken from chapter 87 and 88, translated by Exiled Rebels Scanlations, and bolded parts by me:)

“Wei WuXian, you really don’t take yourself as an outsider, do you? You come and leave whenever you want. You take with you whomever you want. Do you perhaps still remember whose sect this is? Who’s the owner?”

“If you’re leaving, please go as far as possible. Don’t let me see or hear you fooling around in Lotus Pier again.”

“You really should kneel for them properly, having dirtied their eyes and contaminated their peace.”

“Burn some incense? Wei WuXian, are you really that dense? It’s been so long since you were kicked out of our sect, and here you are taking unwelcome people with you to burn incense for my parents?”

“Look how forgetful you are. What does unwelcome people mean? Then let me remind you. It was because you played the hero and saved Second Young Master Lan, who’s standing beside you right now, that the entire Lotus Pier and my parents went down with you. And that wasn’t enough. With the first time, soon comes the second. You even had to save Wen-dogs and drag my sister down with you. What a person you are! What’s more, you’re even so generous as to take the two to Lotus Pier. The Wen-dog’s strolling in front of my sect’s gates; Second Young Master Lan came here to burn incense. You’re here on purpose to remind me, to remind them.” He continued, “Wei WuXian, who do you think you are? Who gave you the face to take whomever you want into our sect’s ancestral hall?”

“Who’s the one insulting my parents in front of their spirits?! Could you two please understand whose sect you’re in? I don’t care if you act so shamelessly outside, but don’t you dare fool around inside our ancestral hall, before my parents’ spirits! After all, they were the ones who brought you up—even I feel ashamed for you!”

“Mess around outside however you want, whether under a tree or on a boat, hugging or otherwise! Get out of my sect, get out of anywhere my eyes can see!”

And because Jiang Cheng has always had a temper, and this, again, has been festering for years, he keeps trying to chase after Wei WuXian even after the Wei WuXian in question has coughed up blood and had a nosebleed and collapsed.

Wen Ning has probably been watching the entire thing (hence why he manages to jump out and uses himself to block that very damaging whip that Jiang Cheng didn’t manage to pull back in time), and for a person who is very protective of Wei WuXian, who is hurt right then, Wen Ning, with his own emotional stress and psychological trauma, snaps.

Jiang Cheng still blames Wei WuXian for everything, and Wen Ning cannot bear that. Wei WuXian, after all, is the first person who acknowledge him and complimented him, the only person who was willing to extend a hand to help his sister and his entire family, and the one who ended up paying for that choice with his life.

Wen Ning doesn’t fight Jiang Cheng because he still feels guilty, but at the very least, he can’t just stand there and let Jiang Cheng keep chasing Wei WuXian out and away, spewing such hurtful words in the meantime as well. Wei WuXian might act carefree, but Wen Ning knows that these things bothered Wei WuXian—he was there to see Wei WuXian break apart for himself, after all.

And Wen Ning does what he has always done: he defends Wei WuXian.

Wei WuXian, Jiang Cheng, and Wen Ning, are their actions and reactions right? I don’t know. I can’t tell, not when the situation is multifaceted and very complicated, especially when you try to look at the big picture and analyze what is going on at specific points in story and what may be driving these character forward as they progress through the story.

#My writing #i guess?? #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #gdc

[sweetwhumpandhellacomf]

Willow and Grackle’s (Bad) Road Trip

Willow and Grackle settle into a peaceful life at the dorms. Grackle finds employment in acting as a courier for the clinic, delivering parcels of medicine to patients who need regular refills. Willow buys a slightly larger bed for his room, so he and Grackle can both fit more comfortably. Grackle even makes an attempt to socialize with Willow's friends and colleagues, though he still prefers spending time in their shared room when things get busy.

Grackle feels really happy for the first time.

Returning home from a delivery one evening, excited to keep reading the book about the pirate queen with Willow, he hears footsteps behind him. He slows down from his jog, straining to hear. One person, it sounds like, soon joined by two, then three. They slow a bit when he does, then break into a run.

Grackle begins to run as well. Years of experience have taught him that people chasing him never have good intentions. Best to get somewhere more public quickly, then make for home. Three more people dash out from around a corner to block his path. "Not so fast, Blackbird," one of them says. They're all wearing dark clothing, and they look large and muscular. Grackle darts off to the side, making for some shadows he can disappear into, but one of those from behind cuts him off.

"Someone wants to see you, and we suggest you come quietly," the speaker from before continues, drawing a polished wood club from his belt. "Ain't afraid to get rough." Grackle narrows his eyes and he draws two daggers from his hips, backing up slowly. Someone tries to get behind him; he whirls, shifting his grip in a swift movement to slash upwards. The assailant cries out in surprise, staggering back and clutching their face.

"I offered civility," the speaker says with a shrug. "Get 'im."

Six people close around Grackle. He opens his eyes wide, and sees some of them hesitate, probably unnerved by how his pupils reflect the dim ambient light. Someone lunges and he leaps back, jabbing an elbow into whoever tries to grab him from behind. He focuses himself into a whirlwind of steel, waiting for an escape route to open while he keeps his attackers at bay. There--one of them breaks away from the pack, stumbling away with blood covering their face. He darts through the gap and into the shadow of a building, and vanishes.

He moves through the shadows, up to the flat rooftop shaded by an umbrella. He emerges and looks over the edge, watching his assailants try to search for him in the shadows. He grins; looks like that little trick saved him. Without waiting to see if they'd give up, he resumes his way home, leaping between rooftops.

Willow's waiting when he climbs in through the window; he no longer needs to go in that way, really, but it lets him see Willow's face faster. His sweetheart smiles, then looks shocked and rushes to his feet. "Grackle, you're covered in blood!"

"Not mine," Grackle assures him, shedding his jacket so he won't get blood on Willow when the physician runs over to hug him tight. "Got attacked."

Willow looks up in alarm, immediately checking him over for any injury. "You didn't get hurt, did you?" Grackle shakes his head. Willow sighs in relief, pulling Grackle close again. "I'm glad you're safe." Grackle buries his face in Willow's mass of curly hair, calming himself with the scent of herbs and fresh linen.

---

Grackle maintains vigilance for the next few days, but his assailants don't reappear. He hopes they've given up the chase; maybe whoever's paying them wasn't paying enough for the trouble. He lowers his guard, but still keeps a watchful eye out as always.

One night, he's walking with Willow after the physician had a hard and tiresome day at the clinic; taking a stroll through the balmy night air always seemed to re-energize him just enough. "It's really pretty tonight," Willow says, smiling and looking up at the stars twinkling in the blue-black sky. "The ancestors must be happy for us." Grackle feels himself blush, and he squeezes Willow's hand, humming his assent.

He hears footsteps behind them; one pair, then two, then four, all very quick. Heart pounding, he grips Willow's hand tightly and whispers, "Run."

They run, Grackle careful to keep pace with the slower Willow and not leave him behind. He hears a clack and pop up ahead and skids to a stop, using precious time to yank Willow's scarf up over his face to cover his eyes and mouth, to protect him from what he expects to be a smoke grenade. Light explodes at their feet, and Grackle cries out, eyes searing before he gets a chance to close them.

Someone grabs at him from behind, but he yanks away before they get a chance to close their hand. He finds Willow again and pulls him close, blindly sidestepping. "Willow??"

"I'm fine!" Willow holds his hand tight. Grackle squeezes back. He blinks his eyes rapidly, trying to return his vision, but everything is a mess of white and grey. Willow is pulled away from him suddenly and he hears him yell out in protest. "Let go!"

Grackle surges forward, grabbing blindly in an attempt to reclaim him, but someone else pulls him back, calloused hands wrapped around his wrists. "I did offer civility," the voice from the other night says, uncomfortably close. Grackle's heart pounds. "See what happens when you don't cooperate? You get ordinary citizens caught up in your trouble, Blackbird." He hears Willow's strangled cry, hears him coughing. "Could've avoided this."

"Don't hurt him!" Grackle says desperately, trying to escape his captor. "Don't!"

There's a moment where all he hears is Willow struggling to breathe. "Promise to behave if we keep this one safe?" Grackle nods frantically. Willow takes a deep gulp of air and coughs again. His breathing after is wheezy and irregular, but it's there. Grackle relaxes a bit.

"Right," the voice says. "Let's go, lads." Someone clubs Grackle on the back of his head. He staggers forward, what's left of his vision turning black.

---

Grackle isn't sure how long it takes for him to reawaken. The floor under him is rattling up and down. It feels too hot for it to be nighttime still, but he can't see a thing. His head throbs, and so do his eyes. He can't have gone blind from the flash bomb, can he? He blinks rapidly and shifts his head, trying to look around. The sound of cloth covering his head brings realization. A sack or hood is blinding him. Giving his eyes time to focus, he can barely see light through small gaps in the threads. He tries to reach up to remove it, but his hands are stuck behind him. Something coarse binds his wrists together, and tugging on them scrapes his skin uncomfortably. Experimentally, he tries to move his legs, but discovers his ankles are bound as well.

Grackle bits back panic. He's been restrained before. He can handle it. He--

A hand touching his head startles him and he jerks away. "Grackle, it's me," Willow whispers, voice muffled by the cloth. "I-I saw you moving."

Grackle's breath hitches. He wants to talk to Willow, try to reassure him, but he can't find his voice. They'd said they'd keep Willow safe--Grackle hadn't imagined they'd meant taking him along as well. He hears a distressed whine escape his throat.

Willow pets his head gently. "I'm okay," he says, still keeping his voice low. "They didn't hurt me, but--I guess they're gonna use me to keep you calm..." His voice wavers. Grackle leans into the touches, desperate to be as close to Willow as possible. "We're in a covered wagon. They took us out of town, but haven't mentioned where they're going."

Someone barks for Willow to shut up, and Grackle doesn't hear him speak again. He lifts Grackle to lie on his lap, carefully rubbing his back and shoulders. The action does help to calm him, but panic is still rising in his gut. What are they going to do to him? What are they going to do to Willow when they don't need him anymore? He's grateful Willow can't see when frightened tears start spilling down his cheeks and he has to bite his lip to stop from sobbing out loud.

---

Grackle has no idea how much time passes, but Willow lets him know when they stop for the night. He's painfully thirsty and hungry by this point; their captors allow Willow to feed him some slices of crusty bread and give him a cup of water, but not remove the hood. Willow sits in the rear of the wagon with him, massaging his arms to try and keep his hands from going numb from the restraints. It's not unpleasant, but Grackle wishes it was under better circumstances.

"Someone's definitely noticed us missing by now," Willow says after he's settled Grackle up against his side. "I bet we'll be rescued before long."

Grackle hopes so. His panic has faded, but fresh waves of dread wash over him constantly. What kind of person would want to capture him alive? He supposes there are bounties out for him and the other Blackbirds, but they'd made sure to remove every piece of evidence of their identities from their old home. He lived as "Gray" in the clinic dorms, and the others had taken assumed names for their new lives as well. How and why had these people tracked him down?

He eventually falls into an uneasy sleep, wishing he could wrap his arms around Willow just for the night.

---

It feels like another day's worth of travel before the feel of the road under the wagon changes. Grackle listens intently, and determines that they're on cobblestone instead of bumpy dirt. Another town? It seems Willow can't see outside the wagon, but Grackle hears him shifting around nearby.

The wagon eventually comes to a stop. There's muffled discussion outside, then the sound of the wagon's rear covering being pulled open. Willow puts a hand on Grackle's shoulder and squeezes reassuringly before someone climbs inside and pulls him away. "Where are you taking us?" Willow asks, voice brave despite the waver in it. Grackle feels someone pull him out of the wagon and heave him over their shoulder, then start to carry him away. Willow's voice is more distant when he calls out, "Grackle, I'll be okay! Don't worry!"

He's taken indoors, but beyond that he doesn't know what sort of building. Doors open and close; he tries to memorize the layout, but blinded and muffled as he is it's difficult. His carrier drops him onto a hard mattress. He hears their footsteps, hears a door shut, and hears a lock click.

He's alone. He doesn't know for how long.

Some amount of time later, the door unlocking and swinging open grabs his attention and he tries to sit up. He hears footsteps rush over to him and kneel by his side, before they're locked back in again. "Grackle, are you alright?" Willow asks, pulling the hood off. The room is dim, but it still takes his eyes a moment to adjust so he can see. Willow's face is worried. Grackle doesn't feel alright, but he's at least uninjured, and he doesn't want to worry Willow more than he has to, so he nods. Willow sighs in relief. "They said I can untie you. Or, try to. I don't know if I'm much good with knots."

He shifts to kneel behind Grackle and gets to work on the rope binding his wrists. He holds as still as possible, heart sinking every time Willow makes a noise of frustration. He don't know if he can stand being bound for however long they intend to hold him for. Finally, with a triumphant, "Got it!" Willow pulls the ropes loose, throwing them aside. Grackle's up on his knees before he realizes, pulling Willow close and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Willow returns the embrace, stroking his hair. "You're alright now. We'll be alright."

The ropes binding his ankles are easier for Willow, and soon, they're huddled together on the mattress, Grackle with his arms wrapped desperately around Willow. Willow pets his hair to try and settle him, and it works just a bit. Someone slides a tray with bread and water into the room through a small flap, and Willow leaves him just long enough to bring it over. "You should eat more," Willow encourages him. "I'm fat, I can go longer with less. It's medically sound." Grackle shakes his head in protest, looking at the extra two slices Willow's trying to offer him. "You need your strength for whatever's going to happen. Grackle, please?"

He eventually relents, though guilt eats at him more than hunger would have. Once the tray is clear of crumbs, he tries to calm himself down enough to assess the situation.

The room is barren. The only furniture is the mattress and a chamber pot. The door is locked from the outside, and there are no windows. The walls are a solid stucco, and the floor is stone. The only tools at their disposal are some scratchy rope, a hood, a tray, and two empty ceramic cups. His daggers and other weapons and tools were taken away, probably before they even put him on the wagon.

He's tired. He'll try to come up with an escape plan tomorrow. "Do you wanna try to sleep?" Willow asks. "We can push the mattress into a corner if you'd feel safer..."

Grackle nods. He moves the mattress, while Willow stuffs the hood with the rope to form a makeshift pillow. "It's not going to be really comfortable," he apologizes. "But it's probably still better than going without..."

"It's fine," Grackle mumbles. Willow offers a weak smile. Grackle settles down on the side against the wall, and Willow lays next to him. Grackle tucks his head under Willow's chin, closing his eyes and imagining they're back in Willow's dorm room, with the lingering smell of baking hanging in the halls. Willow's warm body against his is just enough to help him feel a little safer.

---

Grackle isn't sure how much sleep he managed to get, but he doesn't think it was enough. The door opens and heavy footfalls enter, waking them both. Grackle is the first to sit up, jumping to alertness and blocking the still-dozy Willow with his body. Two people haul Grackle to his feet by his upper arms, while the third keeps an eye on Willow. "Wha, where are you taking him?" Willow asks, trying to wake up faster. He goes to stand but the third thug pushes him back down roughly. Grackle watches him desperately until he's dragged out of the room and another hood is yanked down over his head.

Cold iron shackles snap around his wrists, binding them behind his back. His breath catches and his heart starts racing, already knowing what awaits him now. Punishment. He struggles wildly in his panic until one of his captors slugs him in the gut and he doubles over, gasping. "You best stop that," she says sharply. "We'll hurt the other one if you don't knock it off."

Willow. He has to protect Willow. With a low whine, he does his best to ignore the cold of the cuffs and stumble along with his captors. "He's so pathetic," the voice says. "Is this really one of the Blackbirds?"

"That's what the informant said," a second voice answers. "And maybe they're not all this weak. Just disappointing that this is the one he wants."

The pair take him down what feels like a straight corridor. His hearing is muffled by the hood, but he picks up on the sound of a breeze outside a window. He makes a note of it as a possible escape route. There's a pause and a door opening, and he's pulled inside a new room. "Wait here." One of them shoves him down onto a rug-covered floor, and as he struggles to right himself he hears them both exit.

Grackle tries to take deep breaths to settle himself. Whatever's waiting for him can't be good, but panicking won't help him now. The shackles dredge up awful memories, but he can deal with those. For now, anyway. Maybe if he can focus on trying to form an escape plan…

The door opens again and he sits up straighter, ready to spring away at the first chance. Heels click deliberately on the floor before coming to a stop. A hand grasps the hood and yanks it off. He blinks rapidly in the bright room, trying to adjust after spending so long blinded and in dimness. He looks up into a face that seems somehow familiar, a man with a streak of white in dark hair. "These mercenaries claim you're a Blackbird," he says. "For their sake and yours, I hope they're correct."

Grackle doesn't let any emotion show as the man, probably a merchant of some kind by his dress, crouches before him. "They also tell me they brought along an extra. Someone you seem very fond of. Do you know what it's like to lose somebody like that?" Grackle says nothing, staring just to the side of his captor's face and trying not to shake. "Hopefully, you won't have to find out. I'm not as cruel as you." Grackle shifts his gaze forward, looking the man in the eyes. "You see, Blackbird, I found out when you murdered my sister Diamante."

Grackle blinks. That explained the familiarity; he'd spent weeks monitoring the late Lady Diamante prior to executing his assignment. "It so happens there's a large bounty out for any Blackbirds caught," the man continues. "I don't necessarily need the money, but if it rids the world of scum like you, I'm willing to hand you over."

Grackle still doesn't answer. "First, though, I intend to exact some revenge of my own. I'm going to make you match the pain I felt!" The man stands swiftly, and Grackle starts to get to his feet as well, fully prepared to dodge any assault, but the merchant is faster. He slams a leather boot into Grackle's gut, knocking the wind out of him and toppling him back onto his side.

The merchant shoves the boot against his back, forcing him to roll onto his front. Grackle struggles to regain his breath and right himself again, but the boot comes again, jabbing into his side repeatedly. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will himself to his feet when the boot comes down hard on the back of his knee. He cries out, immediately biting his tongue after to keep himself quiet. He hears the merchant take a few steps back, breathing heavily. "Not done with you yet," he mutters, leaning down to yank Grackle over onto his back.

Grackle forces himself to sit, thinking that this was nothing compared to what he's been through before. He can endure this kind of beating. He just has to get back to Willow in one piece. The boot collides with his shoulder, interrupting his train of thought. He hisses in pain, instinctively yanking at his shackles in an attempt to hold the newly sore spot. The merchant shoves him back onto the floor, then brings his foot down to rest on Grackle's vulnerable throat. He goes still, staring up at his assailant and doing his best not to provoke him.

"I can't believe how easily I could kill you," the merchant says, eyes wild and hair disheveled from his exertion. He presses down just a little bit more. "Just hold you down like this for a few minutes..." He presses harder. Grackle gasps for air, feeling his windpipe squeezing closed. He starts to thrash against his tormentor, struggling to get free, but this only seems to encourage the merchant to press his neck against the floor.

Grackle feels himself growing lightheaded, and grey and white lights pop in front of his eyes. The pressure finally releases and his starving lungs take in air in huge, unsteady gulps. "That's more mercy than a monster like you deserves, though," the merchant says, wiping at his forehead with his sleeve. Grackle feels sweat and tears trickle down the sides of his face, and he shuts his eyes to avoid looking at him. "And besides, I won't be done with you for a while yet." The merchant gives himself a moment, time that Grackle gratefully takes to recover himself. He lies on the floor, trying to steady himself. Before he can calm himself much further, a solid kick to the side brings him back to dreadful awareness. He doesn't have time to even register it before the merchant finds a rhythm of kicks and shoves, inflicting pain on every part of Grackle's body he can reach. Grackle finds himself blanking out, lost in the pain.

Some time later, he's dimly aware of two people speaking. "I'm done with him," the merchant says. "Get him out of my sight."

"At once, Carvaho." Is that one of the two who'd brought him in? He can't tell. Someone sits him up and tugs the discarded hood back over his head, not that he feels in any shape to care where he's going. He's slung over their shoulder and carried back down the same hall, then thrown down onto the mattress without regard for his comfort. The shackles are unlocked and pulled away, along with the hood.

Willow is immediately in his field of vision, blurry but a wonderfully welcome sight. The physician gathers him up into his arms, and despite the comforting warmth and scent of herbs, he cries out in protest as his battered body is moved again.

"It's okay," Willow whispers. He feels him stroking his hair, and that alone helps him settle down. "I'm here, Grackle. I'm right here for you." It's a while before he can bring himself to move, but he eventually manages to bunch himself up against Willow's body, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

---

Grackle drifts in an exhausted daze until their food is brought in. He makes himself sit up to eat, but he doesn't have the energy to finish chewing through their meager meal. Willow makes sure he at least drinks his cup of water and sets the remains aside.

He doesn't know how long it's been by the time he actually wakes up again. The room is completely dark, except for a dim sliver of light from the gaps around the door flap. Willow is fast asleep at his side, arms wrapped around him securely. Grackle sighs and buries his face into Willow's shirt, trying to imagine they're back in the dorm instead of trapped in ancestors-knew-where. The aches from his earlier beating come to the forefront and interrupt his fantasy, dropping a ton of hard reality on him.

He shoves all thought aside and tries to fall back asleep.

---

It feels like no sleep was gotten at all by the time the door opens an unknown amount of time later. By the time Grackle brings himself to awareness, Willow has already disentangled himself from Grackle and is standing in front of the mattress. "Are you going to hurt him again?" the physician asks, putting on a brave voice.

One of the mercenaries sighs and grabs Willow by the arm, yanking him away while the other retrieves Grackle. "We don't have to play nice with you," she says. "It's only to keep your friend in line that you're even alive. You'd better be damned grateful." She practically throws Willow into the far wall.

Grackle flails against the other mercenary's grasp, overcome with the need to get to Willow again; the shackles close around his wrists and lock them behind his back before he can force his complaining, sluggish muscles to react. He tries to call Willow's name, but his voice is stuck. The last thing he sees before the hood closes over his head again is Willow crumpling to the floor in a heap.

The mercenaries end up having to carry him to the room from yesterday. Grackle finds himself too exhausted to fight them, let alone walk. He's flung to the floor again, and he lies still, waiting for what'll happen next.

It feels like ages before the door opens again, and he braces himself for the click of heels, but it's the thumping of the mercenaries' boots again. Someone hauls him up to stand, and removes one wrist from the shackles. He tries to break out of their grip then, but one of them locks a hand around his throat to hold him steady as another drags his arms up, re-securing the shackles hanging above him. He hears them step back, and his throat is freed, letting him breathe again. "Looks good enough," one says, and they leave.

Good enough? For what? Horrid thoughts course through his head, reminders of when he still worked for Rook. This position is uncomfortably familiar, and sends fresh waves of panic throughout his body. He squeezes his eyes shut under the hood, easily falling back into that old mindset. Whatever's coming, he just has to endure it without making a sound. It's just a punishment.

Minutes slide by painfully slow as he waits. His already aching arms complain from being held up so long. Whatever he's chained to, he can't lift his body enough to slip his wrists free. Somehow, the anticipation feels worse than the upcoming punishment surely would be. At least Rook got it over with quickly.

The door opens, and straining his ears, he hears the click of heels. Carvaho--that's his captor's name, he remembers--strides over to stand in front of him. The hood is lifted off, and as Grackle blinks to adjust to the light, Carvaho takes his jaw in his hand. "Is this yours, then?" He holds up a dagger, one of Grackle's daggers. Grackle looks at it, but says nothing. Carvaho holds the dagger to his face, cold blade pressing into his skin. "Is this what you killed my sister with?"

Grackle remains silent, not that he feels any answer would have spared him. Carvaho tightens his knuckles around the hilt and presses down hard, dragging the dagger down his cheek. Grackle hisses in pain, trying to jerk away, but his chin is held fast. The dagger is pulled away, leaving a sharply throbbing mark that's already dripping blood down his skin.

Carvaho steps back, staring down at the bloody blade for a moment. "...Right." He grabs the front of Grackle's shirt and pulls it forward, thrusting the dagger forward. Grackle jerks backwards, afraid he's about to be stabbed, but the blade just cuts down through the fabric, slicing the shirt open. Carvaho slices the hems apart and yanks the sides of the ruined garment aside. He stares at Grackle's torso a moment, no doubt taking in all the old scars, and promptly turns on his heel.

"Oh stars," he hears the merchant mutter, and Grackle feels himself relax a bit. This man was so soft that he couldn't handle a few old wounds? He can't imagine what he'd do if he saw his back. He snorts lightly through his nose.

Carvaho turns back to him, scowling. "Oh, is this funny to you now?" he demands. "I said I'd repay the pain you caused me, and I intend to!" He grips Grackle's shirt, holding it aside with a white-knuckled hand. The knife dances closer to his exposed body. Carvaho takes a deep breath and drags it down his ribs. Grackle winces, but it's no worse than other injuries he's had to endure. The knife shifts aside, and pulls down again, the movement steadier and more certain this time. Grackle cracks an eye open, and is chilled to see an emboldened look on the merchant's face.

"I wonder if it would be more effective for me to cut up your little sweetheart," Carvaho says, dragging the blade downwards again. Grackle's breath catches and he stares at him wide-eyed. "Oh, now there's the reaction I want!" The merchant grins, bringing the bloody dagger up to scrape on Grackle's jawline. "You really are attached to him." The blade bites into his skin, drawing forth more blood. "I didn't think a monster like you could feel anything, with all the killing you do. Is he your little pet?"

Grackle clenches his teeth, but says nothing. Hearing this man talk about Willow like this makes his blood boil, but there's nothing he can do about it now. Just bear with it, he reminds himself. Carvaho studies him a moment, then brings the dagger back down to his chest. "...Let's add to your scars."

The torture is silent from then on, broken only by a breathless gasp from Grackle when the blade cuts into a particularly sensitive spot. His chest stings from over a dozen long, shallow cuts and even more small wounds caused by flicks of the tip of the blade. The smell of blood and sweat saturates the air, and it's all Grackle can do to keep from sagging in his bonds. He slumps back against the post he's shackled to, hoping for it to end soon.

Carvaho steps back from him at last, and Grackle hears him breathing heavily. "I think you've had enough for today," he says, throwing the dagger to the floor with a clatter. He walks to the door and opens it, calling for a mercenary to return Grackle again.

Grackle doesn't fight as he's re-shackled and hooded again, though being flung over the mercenary's shoulder grates on his wounds and he lets out a weak cry of pain. He's flung back onto the hard mattress, and adding injury to injury, a kick is delivered to his gut. "That's for gettin' blood on my clothes," the mercenary says, before removing the hood and shackles and leaving.

He opens his eyes blearily and is greeted with Willow's face, eyes rapidly filling with tears as he sees the state Grackle's in. "Oh, Grackle..." Willow grabs one hand in both of his, squeezing gently. "I'll do my best to take care of you. Wait a minute." Grackle mumbles some vaguely assenting noise, and Willow stands, going over to the door.

"Excuse me, can I have some bandages?" Willow asks, pounding on the door. "I need to take care of him!" Silence answers; Willow pounds on it again. "Is anyone even there?"

The door pounds back, practically slamming. "Shut up in there," a muffled voice answers. "Just deal with it." Willow stands in silence for a moment, then returns to Grackle's side.

"I can do this anyway," Willow says. "I just need your shirt."

Grackle forces himself to sit up, removing the remains of his shirt before collapsing against the wall and closing his eyes. He hears fabric ripping, and then there's a stinging sensation as Willow gently dabs up what blood he can. Willow works quickly, murmuring reassurances and instructions to Grackle. "Just sit up for a second. You're doing really well. Can you hold this down for me?" Grackle follows his commands automatically, too tired to even consider otherwise. When he's done, he glances down to see the worst of his wounds wrapped up in the ruins of his shirt. It seems the smaller ones have already started to close.

Willow helps him settle down onto the mattress. "You try and sleep. I'll wake you when they bring food, alright?" Grackle nods, closing his eyes and shifting to rest his head in Willow's lap.

He tries to sleep, but some of Carvaho's words keep drifting through his mind. "...Willow," he whispers, unsure if his voice would even work again. He opens his eyes to see Willow look over in the dim light. "...Am I... a monster?"

"Stars, Grackle, no, of course not!" Willow reaches down to smooth his hair. "Did you choose to be an assassin?" Grackle shakes his head, leaning into Willow's touch. "And did you enjoy when you had to take lives?" He shakes his head again. "You had to do that because you didn't have a choice. You're not a monster."

Still feeling a bit miserable, Grackle, reaches up to hold Willow's hand. "Promise?"

Willow lifts the hand, pressing his lips to the back of it. "I promise."

---

Willow finds himself a bit disoriented when he wakes on his own the next morning (is it really morning? he can't tell in here), instead of by a sudden intrusion to take Grackle away again. He sighs softly and rubs his cheek against Grackle's forehead, glad his battered sweetheart finally gets a chance to sleep properly during their imprisonment.

His skin feels far too warm, though. Frowning, Willow disentangles himself from Grackle's clutch, bringing up a hand to press against his forehead. He's burning up. "Oh no," Willow murmurs, fear creeping into his heart. "Oh no, Grackle..." He pulls himself out of his arms fully, squinting through the gloom to get a better look at him. He brushes a thumb down Grackle's cheek, wiping away a sheen of sweat. Grackle doesn't awaken from the contact, either.

Willow pushes himself to his feet, swaying a bit; leaving most of the food for Grackle has left him feeling less than his best. He finds his way over to the door, pounding on it with his fist. "Is someone out there?" he calls. "We need some medicine! He's got a fever!" There's no answer. "Please, I'm a physician! I can tell you what we need!" There's no answer. Willow waits a few moments, holding his breath. "Is anyone there?"

There's no answer.

Ignoring the prickle of tears in his eyes, Willow returns to Grackle's side.

---

Grackle comes to awareness very slowly. He's warm, but too warm. His body feels heavy. His cuts are throbbing. He whines lowly, curling around himself. A soft hand caresses his cheek, and he sluggishly grasps it. "Hey," Willow whispers. "Don't try to move much. You have a really bad fever."

Fever? He opens his eyes to look up, and Willow swims into view next to him. "Some of your cuts must have gotten infected. I tried to ask for some medicine, but... nobody answered." He closes his eyes, pressing himself up against Willow. "I'll do my best to take care of you," the physician says. "But you're going to be miserable."

Miserable turns out to be an understatement. Hours later, Grackle is shivering violently, the air in the room chilling his over-warm body. Willow has wrapped him up in his arms, but the scant warmth can only do so much. His brain pops with small jolts of lightning whenever his eyes shift, or even at random. He longs for a real bed and real blankets. Willow murmurs soothing words to him, but he only understands about half the time.

When Willow leaves him for even brief moments, he cries out in weak protest, but can't even get up to try to pull him back. At some point, a cup of water is pressed to his lips, and he forces himself to swallow it. He can't muster an appetite for the stale bread, despite Willow's pleading. He drifts in and out of awareness, sometimes lucid enough to hear Willow telling some story. Just the sound of his voice helps, even if he's unable to really listen. At some point, he wakes to realize that Willow is asleep next to him again, arms and legs wrapped around his shivering body as much as possible. He presses his face into his chest and drifts off once more.

---

He feels worse the next time someone comes for him. He doesn't even put up a token resistance as he's hauled off the mattress, shackled, and hooded like before. He faintly hears Willow calling out in protest, but he can't understand the words.

Before he realizes it, he's tossed to the floor of the room from previous encounters with Carvaho. He shivers weakly in the too-cold air, hoping this time is at least quick so he can get back to Willow's warm grasp.

Someone grabs him by the throat and his eyes flutter open. Dimly he recognizes Carvaho's sneering face, speaking words that Grackle is too sick to understand. He feels lightheaded and can't tell if it's from his air being cut off or from the fever spiking. His eyes slide shut again and something strikes him hard across the face, rousing him painfully.

"--lieve how pathetic you are," he hears the merchant spit. "No fight in you anymore. I should just go ahead and kill that sweetheart of yours and turn you over for some proper justice."

Grackle struggles weakly at the mention of Willow, but all he can do to protest is to shake his head. "And how do you expect to stop me, the state you're in?" He's flung back onto the floor, a boot pressing down on his chest to pin him. "A caged bird like you is absolutely powerless."

He dimly hears the door open, crashing into the wall. Carvaho shifts, managing to sputter "What do you th--" before something cuts him off with a strangled cry. His heels click unsteadily before he comes crashing down, landing across Grackle.

Someone picks him up. He smells leather and blood, and instantly leans into his savior's muscular arms. "Willow," he croaks. "Down the... hall..."

Willow is at his side already, cupping his face in his hands. "I'm here," he says. "They got me first." Grackle relaxes, eyes sliding shut.

Willow strokes his head gently, then looks up at Jackdaw as one of the other Blackbirds frees Grackle from the shackles. "He needs medical attention right now," he says. "Can we do that before we get out of here?" Jackdaw nods, shifting Grackle to hold him more comfortably. "I don't know if they'll have everything I need here, but can you look?" Jackdaw nods again.

They find a spare bedroom, one that doesn't have a dead merchant or mercenary in it, and Grackle is lowered onto the mattress. "Look for echinacea--coneflower," Willow instructs, quickly covering Grackle up with the blankets. "If they have a medicine cabinet, it should be labeled. Feverfew or willow bark will work if they don't have coneflower. I need bandages, some clean cloth, and a pitcher of water." The gathered assassins scatter, leaving Willow with one he doesn't recognize. "What's your name?"

"Raven," she answers. "How can I help?"

Willow smiles. "Raven. If they find the herbs I need, can you make a tea of them?" She nods. "Thank you."

The supplies are gathered, and Willow gets right to work, first cleaning Grackle's cuts with a soaked towel while Raven makes echinacea tea. He re-wraps the wounds in proper bandages, then sits Grackle up with Jackdaw's help and gets him to gulp down the tea, along with a cup of water. He still seems delirious and largely unresponsive, but being surrounded and helped by familiar people appears to help.

With the emergency treatment taken care of, Willow instructs the Blackbirds to bundle Grackle up in some blankets before carrying him outside. They emerge into the heat of the day, Willow taking great care to avoid looking at the slain mercenaries along the way. "Let's get him home," he says, following Jackdaw as she carries Grackle into the carriage they'd arrived in. "How did you find us, anyway?"

"The clinic hired an investigator," Raven says, settling on a bench as Willow positions himself near Grackle. "Hound. He tracked them here, and we..." She shrugs. "We were pissed."

Willow smiles tiredly. "Well, thank you for coming after us. I don't know if Grackle would've..." His voice catches, and he swallows hard. "If he'd have made it."

Raven doesn't answer, but she doesn't have to as the two stragglers clamber into the back, one holding a heavy, jingling sack. "Magpie!" she scolds.

"He's not gonna use it!" Magpie protests, before shooting a guilty look at Willow. "Er..."

"Nobody will hear of it from me," Willow says, turning back to Grackle.

Jackdaw sighs from the driver's seat and snaps the reins, urging the mules forward.

---

They stop for the night hours later, after they're well clear of the town. Jackdaw and Magpie set up a couple tents, and Raven sets to boiling some more tea for Grackle. Willow stays with him in the carriage, accepting some soup and tea from Raven once the food is ready. "Grackle?" he whispers, brushing a thumb down the side of his face. "Wake up, there's food."

Grackle makes a low whining noise, but does open his eyes after a moment. Being bundled up in the blankets has eased his chill, but he still looks very unwell. Willow helps him to sit, giving him a mug of steaming tea to drink before helping him with half a bowl of soup. "We should be home tomorrow," Willow assures him as he rearranges himself to bunch up against Willow. "We'll have a real bed, and nobody will tear you away from me like that anymore." Grackle makes a miserable noise low in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. Willow rearranges the blankets to cover the both of them and wraps an arm around Grackle's shoulders, hugging him close. His shivers abate somewhat, surrounded by the warmth.

Willow leans over, pressing a kiss to his damp forehead. "Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up." Grackle sighs, nuzzling into Willow's shoulder and mumbling a 'goodnight' before falling into slumber.

#willow and grackle #my writing #whump #hurt/comfort #torture

[seenashwrite]

(see HERE for part one of answer)

Ah, mass appeal, that oft elusive lil' stinker. How to get it is one of those age-old questions for us creator-types. We want it, for personal reasons, for perhaps monetary reasons, and determining what constitutes it and how to tap into it and even if we should try to tap into it are all pickles.

No, not that type, those are fabulous. I mean sticky situations. The non-tempuraish bliss with delusion of "Hey, I'm doing great on my diet, 'cause it's a vegetable!" kind.

Spoiler Alert: I'm not going to tell you not to compare yourself to other people, of course you are, and in many ways this is a good thing, it's called having an ideal to which to aspire, except it shouldn't be rooted in popularity, the admiration should be for their work. . . . Thanks for your question!

I'm kidding, Dean, and you damn well know it. Bite me. And fetch me a whiskey. And some Death pickles. I got talkin’ to do.

Part Two: Water Chumming & How That Shark May Bite Your Ass, So Here’s A Bunch Of Other Stuff That Can Be Done From The Safety Of The Shore

C/P for convenience:

Is it worth trying to please the masses when we can't please ourselves? Am I poking the bear?

Let us recap from Part One:

We talked about how to get from a feeling of ineptitude to - at first - just mild trepidation when it comes time to hit "publish",  and started delving into "but how to get there?" so that the path can lead on to an actual measure of confidence, which brings us to the second part of your question up there - which is, I find, a completely normal thought, stemming from exasperation, when it feels like you're surrounded by a ton of people who are having ungodly amounts of success, and it seems like the biggest mystery in the world. So it's natural to wonder: should I follow their lead? Try to do what they're doing?

Maybe - let's unpack that, dig into what that would entail, the pros-and-cons, what some alternatives may be.

Near the end of Pt. 1, we talked about not understanding why some stories/writers gain traction, while others don't, specifically regarding the quality of their stories. As facetious and jokey and snotty and funny as I made that "rant", and said how you could always use the SSDTs [Same Shit, Different Title] stories as a "How Not To Do It" guide, I also mentioned how they must be doing something right - and they are, the metrics we've got (hearts, notes, feedback, asks r/t stories, followers, reblogs) bear it out. It's right there. There's nothing to interpret. It's there. It's fact.

Not to mention, as much as I've tried to drill down on objective parameters for my rec list, to try and smoosh down subjectivity, both on my part and on the part of people who rec to me, there's still a pretty substantial margin of subjectivity. There just is - a story could be ridiculous in plot, could be littered with reprehensible grammar, could poorly represent Sam/Dean/etc., could have a shallow Y/N. Yet if something within the story, no matter how oblique, speaks to the heart of a reader? In the immortal words of Private Hudson:

Game. Over. They’re in. Case closed.

I also mentioned that little number in the corner, that overall snapshot of how much action a given story/that writer accumulated and pondered - does it indicate how great the story is? Also known as: Does that mean their story/their writing is better than mine?

Well. No. Not necessarily. I suspect that - and this would take a huge data mining mission on every single one of a given writer's high count stories to know - in part, some of the number represents a manifestation of a cult following. I'll save you the trouble of clicking the link:

"A cult following is a group of fans who are highly dedicated to a work of culture. A film, book, musical artist, television series or video game, among other things, will be said to have a cult following when it has a small but very passionate fanbase. A common component of cult followings is the emotional attachment the fans have to the object of the cult following, often identifying themselves and other fans as members of a community. Cult followings are also commonly associated with niche markets."

I've no idea why "musical artist" was the only human example they threw in there, because in my experience/observation over **cough** decades of life on the planet, I see cult followings for humans  more than stuff, and public figures of other areas beyond music (actors, politics, etc.) just as much. There are men-I MEAN-people who will never be socially ostracized no matter how inappropriately they behave, no matter the amount of evidence, doesn't matter - their following will absolutely make preserving the (fake) image that person cultivated their hill to die on.

But we're getting negative, and where I'm going with "cult status" in our context isn't negative. The "cult" mentality aspect to which I refer is about loyalty of followers (specifically reader-followers) in general, and then further, the loyalty of that subset of reader-followers who were early readers. They adored "x" number of that writer's stories in the past, and even if the quality of newer stories has declined, they are still gonna hit that heart and reblog it and say it was great. Do they actually believe it? Some of them, to be sure. Do some of them have on cult following rose-colored glasses? Friggin' of course.

Like I said above the cut - I'm not going to tell you not to compare yourself to other people, of course you are, and in many ways this is a good thing, it's called having an ideal to which to aspire, except it shouldn't be rooted in popularity, the admiration should be for their work. But there's admiration owed to these writers for maintaining their follower base, regardless of whether those follower-readers aren't in the admiring-for-the-work mode. So while you can't admire them for their stories, because you think they blow, there is an ideal, a definite modelling to consider: what are some of these writers who are getting huge numbers doing to maintain what popularity they've accrued?

Let's pause here for a recap of what we know for sure:

1. You won't know if telling stories is legit in your wheelhouse or not until you start getting some feedback from readers, which is going to help get you out of Ineptitudeville;

2. Ideally, this would begin with an honest, straightforward editor who knows how to give constructive critique --> in the meantime, use The Nail's guiding standards to serve as an at-home editor til you feel ready to find such an editor;

3. You can't get feedback for your supplemental self-editing documents of "nailed it" and "Achilles' heels" unless you put yourself out there (which, hopefully chipping away at #1 will get you over the ineptitude hump and into a healthy trepidation territory so you can do);

4. There's potential modelling to be done by observing what the "popular" writers are doing outside of their stories to accrue/maintain followers, and trying to see what their loyal reader-followers see in stories you don't find very good.

Again - assuming you've gotten comfy enough to just feel a normal nervousness vs. ineptitude, it's on to getting an audience. So, what could it be? That these mega-number generators are doing? I think it's two things:

(A) They have broad exposure that brings others into the fold (B) There's more at work than just stories

But Nash, are you not paying attention? I don't have exposure, they've got a bazillionty followers - you may say.

Then let's get you some exposure that has nothing to do with follower counts, nothing *inherently* due to the potentially not-so-robust nature of your stories at present, things that just might get you more followers, hopefully turning a chunk of them into reader-followers somewhere along the way.

.

(A) Exposure that doesn't require "popularity":

1. SPN Fanfic Pond ---> 24/7/365 - join it and submit your stories - never know who'll see it - guaranteed reblog

2. SPN Hiatus Creations ---> specific dates - I don't think many people know that they include fics, since they mostly get submissions of art - weekly topics to choose from - join in, submit your stories - the folks behind it most always put a little comment in their tags, so be on lookout for your feedback doc - guaranteed reblog

3. SPN Family Birthdays ---> 24/7/365 - their kindness gets your name "out there" to more people, both the mods behind-the-scenes, as well as that blog's followers - guaranteed exposure - *mandatory* to reblog this with a thank you and at least one point of feedback about it to whomever created that birthday wish for you

4. Bingos:  SPN Genre Bingo - SPN Fluff Bingo - SPN Kink Bingo - SPN Angst Bingo ---> specific dates - variety of topics - guaranteed reblog - good/decent potential reblog from others via their followers and those who follow the tags

5. Challenges from individuals ---> sporadic dates - variety of topics - follow people who you see hosting them, if they've hosted one they'll likely host more - hosts will typically reblog each fic (good chance with a touch of feedback), and/or put your "@" and link to your fic onto a master post - more popular the blog/higher follower count, the more exposure, so high reblog/new reader potential

6. Seasonal Celebrations ---> specific dates - Secret Valentines, secret Santas, etc. - do it and you're also probably making a friend, maybe gaining a new follower, maybe their followers will come visit your place because your assigned person reblogs what you did for them - moderate-to-high potential for reblog *

(*Should be a guarantee but some people are dicks; my Valentine didn't ever send me shit this year, not even an apology through the organizer, but you know what? I don't care. Legit. I made a friend through it, and really enjoyed making what I did for them.)

7. “Bangs”  ---> sporadic dates - a.k.a. Mini-bangs / Big-bangs - focused on a topic/character - guaranteed reblog

8. Appreciation Days ---> specific dates - Angst, Smut, Fluff appreciation days - you can even submit already written fics/don't necessarily have to whip out something new - specific tags can draw readers - good/decent potential for reblogs

9. Prompts ---> 24/7/365 - imagines, those generic prompt blogs - follow some, keep an eye out for the interesting ones - challenge yourself to crank out one a week, short little 500-ish word blurbs - reblogs, maybe, who cares, this is serving to get you out of the funk and get used to posting your work; it's practice, and if it gets love, then great, if not, you still got stuff to put on a master post - and make a master post and get it in your profile so it's easily find-a-ble

10. Outside of Tumblr * ---> 24/7/365 - Fanfic.net and AO3 - join and put fic there and put your links somewhere on your blog - both have stats - both give opportunity for people to comment and to share direct links to their blogs, which is how this connects to the goal of visibility in the SPN fandom here - also a way to self-reblog your story in a “fresh” way/cuts down on repetition popping up on your followers’ dashes (i.e. - helps cushion the ol’ “Oh they’re posting this again?!” feeling)

[* Note: many of us have great distaste for Wattpad because it is a breeding ground for thieves - people will c/p stories from here and present them as their own, some trying to excuse it by “giving credit” in a blanket manner a la “found at Tumblr” or listing the “@” of the writer. The problem is, Wattpad’s method of reporting leaves much to be desired - like Instagram, they only seem to be interested if a published author takes issue. The only real way to call out these thieves is via an immense amount of pressure from the SPN Family commenting directly at their Wattpad page. My point? Your choice, but if you do join up and post there, proceed with caution.]

.

(B) The stuff that's more than just writing:

1. Reblog interesting things that show who you are - fan art is a great start - shows your tastes and what you like - when feeling confident, host a challenge, as what you choose for the framework (one of mine, for instance, was using lines of dialogue from Archer) will also reflect what you like, what you're into - tag people you're friendly with and say something like "Even if you're not interesting in joining, signal boost, please??? [cute emoticon]"

2. Narrow down focus - if you're multi-fandom, drill down on your favorite - start by building up a solid following in that one fandom - keep a ratio of about 80% primary fandom, 20% to cover the others/personal/non-fandom stuff - use a "Not [fandom]" tag for that 20% so your followers can choose to opt-out - or if you can't manage this, do a side blog or two

3. Set your queue to pop stuff out (at minimum) 2 or 3 times/day - stuff it - start with CanonSPNgifs - keep your blog active - unless something you want to reblog is time-sensitive, chuck it to the queue - a wall of posts from the same person on the dash is off-putting - same for constant reblogs of your own stuff*

(* Which you should do, yes, but have an understanding of time zones, will ya? I swear some people are re-blogging for myriad time zones in Oz and Narnia, as well, I've no idea... I've digressed)

4. Send Asks to people like the "spread the love" stuff - if they post "Ask Me" things, send them one - reblog the answered ask and say what you think about their answer/at minimum say "thanks, this was great" - reblog those ask games posts for your followers so they ask you questions - get engaged

5. Respond to a good portion of the comments people leave for you, whether feedback or just funny things they said - specifically, feedback with reblog deserves reply of thank you, whether in the notes or a fresh post; see my blog for copious examples - make a post that says your tags are open/offer to tag folks - anytime your follower count jumps by, say, 5, reblog it - make an OMG!-type post every time your follower count increases by, say, 10 - you’re telling them you actually give a shit that they follow

6. Keep an eye out for folks (especially those who make rec lists, so always check out rec lists for who did it when you spot them) who have said it's okay to tag them - always tag them, even if they seldom reply/reblog/feature you on their list, as you never know

7. When you read stories by other writers that you love, reblog them *with some feedback* - do unto others, etc., etc. This is in huge headline size for a reason. Take the hint.

ETA - I chimed in and gave some tips since I composed this post, and it may be helpful for you/for people who are shy or intimidated or just not particularly comfortable verbalizing feelings.

...and here’s what I suggested:

If you want to get specific, say what your favorite thing/things is/are; in my mind that could go something like this:

I felt like I was right there with them in the ____ [setting]

I felt like I was right there during ____ [part of the plot]

I felt like I was watching an episode of the show

I could relate so much to ____ [character]

My favorite line(s) was/were ____

___ [character(s)] sounded just like they do on the show

___ [character(s)] acted just like they do on the show

And there’s also more generic things, such as:

This story really touched me, I needed something heartwarming!

This story cracked me up, I needed a good laugh!

This story made me smile, I needed some cheering up!

This story got me crying, I needed a good cry!

This story was really creative, I needed a change of pace!

And if you want to keep it really simple? This can apply to any story:

I enjoyed this more than I can say, thank you so much for writing it

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Is full-on blind cult following an "ehhhh" thing? Yeah. But the basis of it, the true, legit loyalty part of it, is wonderful. You want that. The more readers know you, the more they'll feel comfortable interacting with you, and the greater their comfort, the more likely they'll give you feedback and, eventually, some constructive critique* 

(*You gotta make it clear you're fine with critique, though, and don't dare say it if you're just gonna pitch a fit when you get some, however poorly phrased the critique may be; but that's another topic, for another day).

Great, Nash, you still haven't answered my question about pleasing the masses - you may say. 

The answer is: that's a call you gotta make for yourself. To hopefully help, I'll tell you two stories about chumming the waters with (what seems to be) the standard wares that get a ton of followers/reader-followers.

Interestingly, I *just* this past week or so had a great discussion with someone (who I won't reveal, of course, because it was PM) on this very topic. You'd recognize their name, if not follow them/have read their stuff, they've got a healthy fanbase, etc., etc., etc. all that jazz. It would surprise you, is my point, to know that they've been pondering on their writing - specifically, the genre in which they feel entrenched. They accrued their popularity (I hate that word, but can't think of a better one) in a certain, ah, niche. You know the holy trifecta: angst, fluff, smut. One of those.

(I am not going to go down the road of how much I loathe the limitations of those, I know myself, this will turn trash fire and neglect you. But they are the cards we've been dealt, there's nothing to be done to change it, we must play our hands. #flames on the side of my face #haaaate #I'm done)

Anyway, they've sat here "x" year/years later and looked back at their pre-SPN fanfic foray (read: how they used to write/what they used to write), and are like - Where'd my voice go? Where'd my style go? Can I get it back? Sure I can get it back, but if I start being "me", what will my reader base do with that? Will they stick around and support me? Will they bail? etc., etc., etc. You get the idea. Reasonable thoughts, all.

I tell you this next bit because while what is going on with above writer is on the side of Got A Wide Reach, like I said in Pt. 1, I am presently on the other side, the Modest-in-Number, Large-in-Loyalty reader collective. And I *have* chummed the waters, though not entirely purposefully. And it didn't work... well, hasn't, I can't predict the future, could blow up tomorrow, but not likely. I suspect I know why. We'll get to that.

I say not entirely purposefully because I stumbled into Fluff and Smut, one of each. (There is a second fluff, but that doesn't count because it was tailored to a very specific person who gave very specific things to include for a Valentine swap thing.) The fluff was via a thing I did, and my dear friend nailed it, gave me three cringy words that were meant to hit the fluff bullseye, and I doubled down. You can see that here, should you care.

People fucking lost their shit. I repackaged it into its own post in case folks didn't like the snark in the one linked above/would rather reblog sans snark. People lost their shit, part deux. Flattering as hell. I appreciated it immensely, truly.

On the smut*, I lost a bet (I can't even recall what it was, maybe I mentioned it somewhere) with the friend that drew me into SPN because they were (are? yeah, still are) frustrated with the show and I needed a writing exercise and I had (at the start time) eleven years of source material, so hells yeah I said yes. The bet was for smut, and I said - Fine, but I can't not plot.  Great, was the answer, but I had to typical it up, this was a punishment, after all. And typical, for me, means so much detail that it made brain cry. Copious detail works my nerves. Copious pondering works my nerves. Any one thing that’s too much will Work. My. Nerves. And I wrote it (it's five parts now, but part one and two was the orig piece and ended open), and said to friend "This won't get shit response" - "You wanna bet?" - me, the idiot: "Yup" - "If it does, you have to finish it out".

(*no link because I don’t know your age, and it’s set to sensitive)

People fucking lost their shit. On FF.net and AO3, that is. Not the numbers some people get, but holy hell. Hence, parts 3 through 5. Far as here, not so much the hit. But the people here who've liked it have REALLY liked it, so there's that, and it's flattering as hell, and I appreciate it immensely, truly.

And yet at the end of the day, hey guess what, say it with me now:

Now, for all my pseudo-fussing, I was cool with doing it, because at heart I'm wired to think about marketing, and I thought - Oooooh. This will bring people to the goods, the stuff I'm *really* proud of, and then and then and then....

Nope. Some yes, mostly nope. Most of my loyal roundtable were brought into the Nashooligan fold by other stories.

Here's why I think writer above got on the other side of the coin and I'm riding the edge - they went down the rabbit hole on a few, got mega results, and it fills the confidence tank, and why not wash-rinse-repeat? Humans are wired that way, we don't do things that we don't get something out of, it's normal. Thing is, they - as they see it - got lost a bit along the way. It worked, though, that squashing of their voice - "worked" in the sense that it drew the masses. Some people would be completely okay with this, would find it a reasonable trade-off; this writer isn't presently thinking so.

And back to me - I think the reason my smut and fluff didn't hit the stratosphere and draw in the masses (ergo, little motivation to do more) is because my style is still in there. The snark, the focus on accurate characterization, and like I say, I can't not plot. I didn't pullout the recipe, same ol' ingredients, mix up some standard shmoop/standard porn, flop it in the cupcake paper, bake it, then smear a thin layer of canned frosting - flavor: "Meh Plot" - around it. I made that junk from scratch, like I do all my other stories, and while I did use some of the same ingredients, I didn't go all-in. Notably, my evergreen stance that Y/N can die in a fire, ceiling optional, I ain't doing it. 

I am not going to insist you read either of them, I'm just gonna ask you to trust me on this: I read quite a bit, and I've yet to see the ingredients of Reader Mommy Married To Dean Have A Baby Sam Has Dogs scenario mixed together like mine, and I've yet to see a Reader Insert Smut With Dean Smut With Sam Inferred Happy Ever After With Dean mixed together like mine. 

Which, like I say, is what I suspect is probs the issue. I didn't get as far down the proverbial hole as my writer friend in terms of Typical'ing Up my stories. Could I un-ring that bell? Better put: could I start ringing bells? And I mean weekly, if not twice a week, quickie ones, throw in a lengthy once a month? Crank out the recipes? Plenty of templates to work from, after all. It would be hard for me in the sense of voice-squashing, but could be done.

So if I had to give you a vote on whether chumming the waters is a strategy to take, given those potential pros-and-cons, here's why I vote "no", both for myself, and for you, and others contemplating such.

It's partly that cautionary tale of my writer friend (and there's gotta be more feeling like her, there's just got to be), and mostly it's because of three writers I can think of off the top of my head. They're all quite talented, they consistently turn out solid, creative pieces that can be differentiated from the rest of the fodder floating around, and all three have substantial reader and/or follower bases. One has less than the other two, but nothing to sneeze at. The second - another person I've had great PMs with on the topic of wide appeal - attributes part of their success numbers-wise to specializing not in a niche genre, but due to specialty in a subset of the fandom (a specific, very popular 'ship).

The third, who has a *massive* reader and follower base, I can't get my head wrapped around, and I don't mean that in the sense of not understanding why people adore them, they deserve every bit of it. We'd have to dig deep into years of works and chart out the numbers (likes and reblogs and comments and followers - again, the only metrics we got) to see if there's a tipping point, but there's no magic bullet, so likely there'd be nothing in that data - or data from any highly successful writer around here - that's gonna reveal some secret. And this is the only writer I can think of that I'd really love to know a tipping point on, because: reason I can't get my head around it is because they don't do typical, ain't even in the ballpark of typical. Now, they do inject smut into much of their work, but plenty of other times it's just inferred. Consistently cheeky, if not snarky, if not balls-out-gut-bust funny. Consistently original, creative plots, even when it starts out purposefully trope-y, there's gonna be a slant on their take. I may not personally like everything they put out, I'm not saying they're perfect, but if we're trying to keep it objective vs. subjective, applied to The Nail framework? They're nailing it easily 80-90% of the time. I've actually got a soft moratorium on them, between stuff I find and noms I get on their stuff, I only include them sporadically on the list or else they'd be everywhere.

That gives me hope. Not-a-one of those three are cranking out stuff religiously on some frequent schedule, they write when the muse hits. Not-a-one of those three are following recipes. Not-a-one of those three are blanketing their voice.

And this goes back to the very first thing you said, about pleasing others when we can't please ourselves. Part of the reason you're not pleased is because on whatever level, your stuff isn't grabbing an audience, however big or small. I know it, because I've been there, as I've told you. The biggest part, though? It's because you know you can do better. Maybe you're cranking it out too fast. Maybe you're not fleshing out a character enough. Maybe you wished you'd taken another run at the plot before you published. I don't know, truly. But you're not digging the end result somehow. When you get there? To legit confidence? You're not going to care as much about pleasing others, you just won't. And that confidence is going to show in how you interact with others, little notes you make on gif sets when you reblog, things you say when you feedback others, all that stuff I said above.

People are attracted to confidence. It may intimidate them at first, they may linger on the periphery, but then once they see it's not arrogance or something, they'll be bees circling closer to the honey, because it... it... how to put... it rubs off. A kind've What Would "x" Do kind've thing. And most people will always welcome having more confidence, I mean, the real genuine confidence. We choose who are friends are - to be cheesy - not just because of who they are, but because of who we are when we’re with them. I think the younger we are, we get the wires crossed of "nastiness" and "straightforward". It's the difference between those folks, for instance, who snap and go all "You cum dumpster!" on Anons who word things poorly (I don't mean the ones who are vitriolic, I mean the ones who use less-than-elegant phrasing), vs. the folks who plainly reply something to the effect of "That's certainly something to consider. Thank you for your input". That they can’t discern the difference between a person dishing out hate - actual hate - and a misstep in phrasing speaks a lot to their confidence, that they’re taking a complete stranger’s words as such a personal affront.

I say all that to say: it's not about just the stories; the stories are a piece of a bigger puzzle. Personally, when I see folks being nasty in that manner? My knee-jerk thought is - They are so quick to lash out and write that stuff, and are so careless with their words, I bet their story-writing follows suit. And guess what? I have been 99.9% correct thus far. There's no OOMPHs in their stories: there's no brain-chewy, no heart-grabbing, no snort-giggles, no soul-touching. It's as typical as that comeback. It's lazy. It's easy. It's eye-rolling. It's expected.

Put another way: their lack of confidence in general is what is infesting other areas, in this instance, their stories. I wonder if - since you said “anything I’ve ever created” - that even if it was a slip-of-the-tongue, it may’ve been a meaningful one. If it’s the case, that there are other areas of life where you feel less-than-ideally-confident (a.k.a. - inept), I think you’re smart to start in this area, with fanfic, because as illustrated there’s lots you can do that’s in your control, that’s not dependent completely on others, and probably have some fun along the way, getting to know folks, getting encouragement, seeing your stuff get circulated, etc.

Do you keep a tiny notepad on you? Do that. Grab one from a dollar bin at Target or get you a Moleskine if you're feeling fancy, doesn't matter, but keep it on you, purse, backpack, jacket, wherever. I don't want you doing what I'm about to say on the notes in your phone, not yet. I want you to physically jot down by hand a word or two or five or whatever, about things you see/encounter, turns-of-phrase you hear, mannerisms you note in others - all that stuff - things that do please you. Those OOMPHs. And now you have some inspirational story points ready to go. Even if you aren’t able/feeling up to doing that other stuff above? This is an easy, small place to start.

Bottom line: this isn't happenstance. 

It's not happenstance for the subpar writers, and it's not happenstance for the exceptional ones. This is work. Getting confidence is work. Style is a great deal inherent, true, but it can - and should be - honed, and will likely evolve in subtle ways as time goes on. Confidence and proficiency in a skill (like writing) are not automatic "things" that come with age, not even necessarily with experience. Dig in. Take some of the actions listed above. Start with the least stressful to you, then pick away at 'em as you get comfortable. If you're already doing some of those? Then, start again fresh mentally, as if you just today started doing them. Bump up your effort. Push yourself. See what happens. Get confident in the little things, and it will start to add up, overflow into the empty places.

Look at the pickle you’re in presently as an opportunity to alter your current methodology - I mean, we know whatever you’ve been doing isn’t working for you, right? So it can’t hurt. Batter it and deep fry it, tweaking the recipe as needed; it’s still you, but you’ve applied a well-thought-out, well-crafted extra tastiness to it. There’s people out there who will love it, and they’ll turn up.

See? 😉

#Dear Nash #NONNERS #Not Tyler Durden #I swear #Writing Tips #Writing Advice #Queueby Dooby Doo #Dad's on a blog post and #he hasn't been queued in a few days

[redorblue]

Mircea and family loyalty

(spoilers for Shadow’s Bane)

I already mentioned in my general review of Shadow’s Bane that this book contains my least favourite Mircea scene in both the Cassie and the Dory books. It’s the one after the fight at the Consul’s palace, where he tries to talk Dory into banishing Dorina again, permanently this time. For Dory, this scene serves as a catalyst on her way to understanding how Dorina must have felt all these years, finally making her see that Dorina has never, in fact, hated her or been the bloodthirsty monster that Dory made her out to be. Looking at it from the perspective of someone who’d love to see Dory and Dorina bonding, this sudden burst of protectiveness from Dory for her twin is heartwarming. For someone who loves Mircea and wants to see him on the right side of an argument (as defined by the story, and also ethics), this scene made me cringe more than any other so far. He has been shitty towards other characters before, but all his questionable actions came from his deep sense of loyalty for a specific group of people - his blood family, his vamp family, maybe the Senate - and were sometimes fueled by incomplete information. In this case, however, it seems to me that he has all the facts (maybe even more so than Dory because he has more experience with vamp nature and knows how bad the situation was before he put up the wall) and he still wants to take action against Dorina, who is his daughter just as much as Dory is, and who therefore belongs to his innermost circle of people for whom he feels responsible and whom he owes loyalty. Why?

As I see it, there are two reasons. First of all, Mircea harbours a deep hatred for his vampire nature. It’s pretty obvious in his little speech during his and Dory’s discussion in chapter 49:

“We vampires have no choice but to blend our two natures, to come to equilibrium or to go mad - and some do. Unable to reconcile the monstrous part of themselves that every human has, but that every human does not have to feed. We cannot hide from what we are; we have to prey on others to survive. But we cannot give in to it utterly, or we risk becoming the monsters we are so often thought to be. It is a constant balancing act and there are times - oh, yes, there are times - when we would love to banish one part or the other.”

Horatiu even calls him out on it directly in chapter 27, accusing Mircea of not being able to accept what he is because his turning into a vampire indirectly lead to Elena’s death and Dory/Dorina’s abandonment (as a side not, I’ll be using the name Doryna when talking about the two of them because this whole backslash thing is too awkward). This self-blaming is, of course, a natural reaction after going through a traumatic incident which he really couldn’t have influenced at the time, but just because it comes from the emotional side of the brain rather than the rational one doesn’t mean that it feels less true.

Mircea’s attitude towards vampirism is radically different from that of other vamps: instead of seeing it as a blessing, a higher state of being, a superior race, he treats it as a sickness, a curse that is threatening to corrupt his positive character traits by forcing him to satisfy his negative ones. Which, again, makes sense considering how he came to be a vampire in the first place, but it leads him to automatically associate being human with moral (if not physical) superiority. So when confronted with Doryna’s life-threatening fits, which are clearly the results of Dorina straining against the constraints of sharing a body with Dory, he automatically sides with Dory, whom he pictures as what Doryna should have been were it not for his “illness”. Dorina, however, is the direct result of said illness, which not only violently upended his entire life, but is now threatening to take away the “better” part of his daughter, too.

I don’t think that he doesn’t love Dorina - there are a few scenes where he’s quite affectionate with her, and anyways it’s hard to compare this to how he behaves with Dory because all the memories that we have as evidence come from Dorina - but when he’s faced with the choice of saving one of them at the expense of the other or risking both of them dying, his instinct tells him to choose Dory. The fact that it’s the only pragmatic choice, the only one with any chance of helping Doryna, may have influenced his decision, too, but I’m pretty sure that his own issues with his condition played a big part in his decision to separate his daughter’s two natures.

Skip forward 500 years, and he’s faced with a very similar problem: putting Dorina back in her cell, or risking her taking over their body entirely, which would lead to Dory not being imprisoned, but killed. His old biases against Dorina, fueled by his resentment towards vampirism, are still very much there, as evidenced by the speech I quoted above where he calls it his monstrous side. Add to that that he had 500 years to get to know Dory (however fraught their relationship might be) and hear accounts of what Dorina is capable of when she slips her leash, and it’s not surprising that he sides with the more human version of his daughter yet again. He doesn’t want to kill Dorina any more than he did back then - fortunately, although I guess that would have been an option now, too - but if he has to pick one of them, it’s sure as hell going to be Dory. His loyalties are clearly split here, but for the above-mentioned reasons Dory ranks higher on his list of priorities than Dorina does, and one of them dying is a lot worse than one of them being imprisoned, so he’s going to throw his full weight into protecting Dory, even though doing so comes at the expense of significantly reducing Dorina’s quality of life (on a sidenote, this is an explanation for a good part of the incidents when he’s a prick towards Cassie. It’s not that she’s not important to him; only that other people rank higher among his personal priorities than she does).

Second, Mircea really isn’t the type to just fly by the seat of his pants. At some point in Shadow’s Bane, Dory points out that he always has plans A through E in place before he attempts to do anything, and he hates not being in control of events. This is probably as much due to personality as to life experiences: He was brought up to be a leader, the one in charge who’s responsible for the people around him, and the one time he wasn’t in control, everything went to hell around him - something he’s been trying to turn around ever since, as evidenced by his obsession with bringing Elena back to life and basically turning back the clock as much as is reasonably possible.

So it’s understandable, if not exactly commendable, that he’s become a bit of a control freak over the years, which sometimes leads him to rush into things prematurely as soon as an opportunity takes shape instead of waiting how things play out and collecting more information. This is exactly what happens here: he’s painfully aware of a problem - the possibility of Dory dying - and as soon as a possible solution presents itself, he pounces on it, because he’s the one who is supposed to fix things. Especially to keep people from dying, and especially to keep his daughter from dying, whom he has forsaken before (not really, but in his mind) and who is his last living connection to Elena. It may be a risk, but no one has ever accused Mircea of not being decisive enough, and judging from the information he’s got, it would be a much bigger risk to wait and see if Dorina - monstrous Dorina, mad Dorina - might take pity on Dory, the daughter he should have had. Which is too much of a gamble for someone like him, especially when the stakes are this high and the drawbacks at least bearable, and a lot less final than the alternative. Just as 500 years earlier, he picks what he thinks is the least bad option.

Unlike 500 years earlier, however, his daughter gets a say in the decision. It’s this confrontation that makes it clear to Dory that Dorina is, in fact, not the monster everyone (including herself) made her out to be, but someone worth protecting. And as much as I love Mircea and understand his reasoning regarding this dilemma, in this case I’m very glad that he didn’t get his way and that he got proven wrong by the narrative. It doesn’t mean that his actions were necessarily a mistake when Doryna was a child; but it does mean that you can’t always fall back on previous decisions when faced with new situations. It does mean that you have to learn from past experiences. And in this scene, Dory rises up to do just that.

#shadow's bane #shadow's bane spoilers #dorina basarab series #Karen Chance #Dorina Basarab #Mircea Basarab #Cassie Palmer

[orbemnews]

He’s a Dogecoin Millionaire. And He’s Not Selling. Last February, when Glauber Contessoto decided to invest his life savings in Dogecoin, his friends had concerns. “They were all like, you’re crazy,” he said. “It’s a joke coin. It’s a meme. It’s going to crash.” Their skepticism was warranted. After all, Dogecoin is a joke — a digital currency started in 2013 by a pair of programmers who decided to spoof the cryptocurrency craze by creating their own virtual money based on a meme about Doge, a talking Shiba Inu puppy. And investing money in obscure cryptocurrencies has, historically, been akin to tossing it onto a bonfire. But Mr. Contessoto, 33, who works at a Los Angeles hip-hop media company, is no ordinary buy-and-hold investor. He is among the many thrill-seeking amateurs who have leapt headfirst into the markets in recent months, using stock-trading apps like Robinhood to chase outsize gains on risky, speculative bets. In February, after reading a Reddit thread about Dogecoin’s potential, Mr. Contessoto decided to go all in. He maxed out his credit cards, borrowed money using Robinhood’s margin trading feature and spent everything he had on the digital currency — investing about $250,000 in all. Then, he watched his phone obsessively as Dogecoin became an internet phenomenon whose value eclipsed that of blue-chip companies like Twitter and General Motors. The value of his Dogecoin holdings today? Roughly $2 million. On the surface, Mr. Contessoto — who dropped out of college and has no formal financial training — seems no different from a lucky gambler who walks into a casino, bets all his chips on a single roulette spin and walks out a millionaire. But he is also emblematic of a new kind of hyper-online investor who is winning by applying the skills of the digital attention economy — sharing memes, cultivating buzz, producing endless streams of content for social media — to the financial markets. These investors, mostly young men, don’t behave rationally in the old-fashioned, Homo economicus sense. They pick investments not based on their underlying fundamentals or the estimates of Wall Street analysts, but on looser criteria, such as how funny they are, how futuristic they seem or how many celebrities are tweeting about them. Their philosophy is that in today’s media-saturated world, attention is the most valuable commodity of all, and that anything that is attracting a great deal of it must be worth something. “Memes are the language of the millennials,” Mr. Contessoto said. “Now we’re going to have a meme matched with a currency.” Mr. Contessoto, an affable, bearded hip-hop fan who goes by the nickname Jaysn Prolifiq, is a first-generation immigrant whose parents came to the United States from Brazil when he was 6. As a child in suburban Maryland, he saw his family struggling with money, and he vowed to become rich. He discovered a love of hip-hop music as a teenager, and after school, he moved to Los Angeles, where he took a job making $36,000 a year as an entry-level video editor while trying to book gigs for an up-and-coming rapper he knew. His dream was to save up enough money to buy a house — one where he and his hip-hop friends could live while making music together. But that kind of cash was elusive, and he spent several years crashing on couches while trying to save enough for a down payment. In 2019, he started buying stocks on Robinhood, the commission-free trading app. He stuck to big, well-known companies like Tesla and Uber, and when those trades made money, he bought more. And in January 2021, he watched in fascination as a group of traders on Reddit successfully boosted the stock price of GameStop, squeezing the hedge funds that had bet against the video game retailer and making millions for themselves in the process. (He tried to get in on the GameStop trade but he was too late, and he ended up losing most of his stake.) Shortly after the GameStop saga, Mr. Contessoto was browsing Reddit when he saw a post about Dogecoin. He’d heard of the currency before. (Elon Musk, who is to Dogecoin fans roughly what Pope Francis is to Catholics, had called it the “people’s crypto.”) But as he did more research, he became convinced that Dogecoin’s jokey, approachable image might make it the next GameStop. “Dogecoin has the best branding of all cryptocurrency,” he said. “If you put in front of me all the symbols of Ethereum, Bitcoin, Litecoin — everything just looks super high tech and futuristic. And Dogecoin just looks like: Hey, guys, what’s up?” He imagines that newbies investing in cryptocurrency for the first time might gravitate toward something fun and recognizable, and that Dogecoin might eventually become a kind of on-ramp to the larger world of virtual money. “I feel like eventually we’re all going to be buying and selling things with memes, and Dogecoin is going to lead the way,” he said. Strange as his investment thesis might seem, it’s hard to argue with the results. Even after a recent crash following Mr. Musk’s appearance on “Saturday Night Live” (in which he joked about Dogecoin being a “hustle”), Dogecoin remains a very lucrative trade. A dollar invested in Dogecoin on Jan. 1 would be worth $203 today — much more than a comparable investment in Bitcoin, Ethereum or any stock in the S&P 500. Dogecoin’s stratospheric rise has also fueled plenty of grumbling among cryptocurrency buffs, who see it as a tacky sideshow that overshadows more serious uses of cryptocurrency. One of Dogecoin’s original creators has disavowed the coin, and even Mr. Musk has warned investors not to over-speculate in cryptocurrency. (Mr. Musk recently sent the crypto markets into upheaval again, after he announced that Tesla would no longer accept Bitcoin.) What explains Dogecoin’s durability, then? There’s no doubt that Dogecoin mania, like GameStop mania before it, is at least partly attributable to some combination of pandemic-era boredom and the eternal appeal of get-rich-quick schemes. But there may be more structural forces at work. Over the past few years, soaring housing costs, record student loan debt and historically low interest rates have made it harder for some young people to imagine achieving financial stability by slowly working their way up the career ladder and saving money paycheck by paycheck, the way their parents did. Instead of ladders, these people are looking for trampolines — risky, volatile investments that could either result in a life-changing windfall or send them right back to where they started. Mr. Contessoto is a prime case study. He makes $60,000 a year at his job now — a decent living, but nowhere near enough to afford a home in Los Angeles, where the median home costs nearly $1 million. He drives a beat-up Toyota, and spent years living frugally. But in his 30s, still with no house to his name, he decided to go looking for something that could change his fortunes overnight, and ended up at Dogecoin’s door. When Mr. Contessoto recalls the way he used to pursue wealth — working hard, cutting back on expenses, saving some money from every paycheck — he sees evidence of a system that is rigged against regular people. “I feel like those experts on TV, the older generation of old money and wealth, they try to scare people into staying safe so nobody gets too rich,” he told me. His new motto, he said, is “scared money don’t make money.” Many things about Mr. Contessoto’s investing philosophy would turn a traditional financial adviser’s stomach. But wildest of all is that despite his spectacular gains, he has not yet cashed out his Dogecoin millions. He thinks the currency’s price will continue to rise, and he doesn’t want to miss out on future profits by selling too soon. (He does plan to sell 10 percent of his stake next year, once his earnings will be classified as long-term capital gains and taxed at a lower rate.) Instead, he is branding himself as a Dogecoin expert, adopting nicknames like “the Dogefather” and “Slumdoge Millionaire” and making YouTube videos promoting Dogecoin to others. “I’m bullish as they come in the Dogecoin community,” he said. “If this exceeded my expectations of Dogecoin, and I only hit it in two months, imagine where it’ll be in a year.” Of course, as with any volatile investment, there is a real chance that Mr. Contessoto’s Dogecoin holdings could lose most or all of their value, and that his dream of homeownership could again be out of reach. Already, the price of Dogecoin has fallen nearly 50 percent from its all-time high, shaving hundreds of thousands of dollars off Mr. Contessoto’s portfolio. But gamblers rarely leave the table the first time they lose, and Mr. Contessoto’s commitment to “HODLing” — an acronym favored by cryptocurrency traders that stands for “hold on for dear life” — is buoying him through the recent market turbulence. Earlier this week, he posted a screenshot of his cryptocurrency trading app, showing that he’d bought more. And on Thursday, when the value of his Dogecoin holdings fell to $1.5 million, roughly half what it was at the peak, he posted another screenshot of his account on Reddit. “If I can hodl, you can HODL!” the caption read. Source link Orbem News #Dogecoin #hes #Millionaire #Selling

[spinosaurusdex]

Willow and Grackle: Road Trip (Bad)

Read on AO3

Willow and Grackle settle into a peaceful life at the dorms. Grackle finds employment in acting as a courier for the clinic, delivering parcels of medicine to patients who need regular refills. Willow buys a slightly larger bed for his room, so he and Grackle can both fit more comfortably. Grackle even makes an attempt to socialize with Willow's friends and colleagues, though he still prefers spending time in their shared room when things get busy.

Grackle feels really happy for the first time.

Returning home from a delivery one evening, excited to keep reading the book about the pirate queen with Willow, he hears footsteps behind him. He slows down from his jog, straining to hear. One person, it sounds like, soon joined by two, then three. They slow a bit when he does, then break into a run.

Grackle begins to run as well. Years of experience have taught him that people chasing him never have good intentions. Best to get somewhere more public quickly, then make for home. Three more people dash out from around a corner to block his path. "Not so fast, Blackbird," one of them says. They're all wearing dark clothing, and they look large and muscular. Grackle darts off to the side, making for some shadows he can disappear into, but one of those from behind cuts him off.

"Someone wants to see you, and we suggest you come quietly," the speaker from before continues, drawing a polished wood club from his belt. "Ain't afraid to get rough." Grackle narrows his eyes and he draws two daggers from his hips, backing up slowly. Someone tries to get behind him; he whirls, shifting his grip in a swift movement to slash upwards. The assailant cries out in surprise, staggering back and clutching their face.

"I offered civility," the speaker says with a shrug. "Get 'im."

Six people close around Grackle. He opens his eyes wide, and sees some of them hesitate, probably unnerved by how his pupils reflect the dim ambient light. Someone lunges and he leaps back, jabbing an elbow into whoever tries to grab him from behind. He focuses himself into a whirlwind of steel, waiting for an escape route to open while he keeps his attackers at bay. There--one of them breaks away from the pack, stumbling away with blood covering their face. He darts through the gap and into the shadow of a building, and vanishes.

He moves through the shadows, up to the flat rooftop shaded by an umbrella. He emerges and looks over the edge, watching his assailants try to search for him in the shadows. He grins; looks like that little trick saved him. Without waiting to see if they'd give up, he resumes his way home, leaping between rooftops.

Willow's waiting when he climbs in through the window; he no longer needs to go in that way, really, but it lets him see Willow's face faster. His sweetheart smiles, then looks shocked and rushes to his feet. "Grackle, you're covered in blood!"

"Not mine," Grackle assures him, shedding his jacket so he won't get blood on Willow when the physician runs over to hug him tight. "Got attacked."

Willow looks up in alarm, immediately checking him over for any injury. "You didn't get hurt, did you?" Grackle shakes his head. Willow sighs in relief, pulling Grackle close again. "I'm glad you're safe." Grackle buries his face in Willow's mass of curly hair, calming himself with the scent of herbs and fresh linen.

---

Grackle maintains vigilance for the next few days, but his assailants don't reappear. He hopes they've given up the chase; maybe whoever's paying them wasn't paying enough for the trouble. He lowers his guard, but still keeps a watchful eye out as always.

One night, he's walking with Willow after the physician had a hard and tiresome day at the clinic; taking a stroll through the balmy night air always seemed to re-energize him just enough. "It's really pretty tonight," Willow says, smiling and looking up at the stars twinkling in the blue-black sky. "The ancestors must be happy for us." Grackle feels himself blush, and he squeezes Willow's hand, humming his assent.

He hears footsteps behind them; one pair, then two, then four, all very quick. Heart pounding, he grips Willow's hand tightly and whispers, "Run."

They run, Grackle careful to keep pace with the slower Willow and not leave him behind. He hears a clack and pop up ahead and skids to a stop, using precious time to yank Willow's scarf up over his face to cover his eyes and mouth, to protect him from what he expects to be a smoke grenade. Light explodes at their feet, and Grackle cries out, eyes searing before he gets a chance to close them.

Someone grabs at him from behind, but he yanks away before they get a chance to close their hand. He finds Willow again and pulls him close, blindly sidestepping. "Willow??"

"I'm fine!" Willow holds his hand tight. Grackle squeezes back. He blinks his eyes rapidly, trying to return his vision, but everything is a mess of white and grey. Willow is pulled away from him suddenly and he hears him yell out in protest. "Let go!"

Grackle surges forward, grabbing blindly in an attempt to reclaim him, but someone else pulls him back, calloused hands wrapped around his wrists. "I did offer civility," the voice from the other night says, uncomfortably close. Grackle's heart pounds. "See what happens when you don't cooperate? You get ordinary citizens caught up in your trouble, Blackbird." He hears Willow's strangled cry, hears him coughing. "Could've avoided this."

"Don't hurt him!" Grackle says desperately, trying to escape his captor. "Don't!"

There's a moment where all he hears is Willow struggling to breathe. "Promise to behave if we keep this one safe?" Grackle nods frantically. Willow takes a deep gulp of air and coughs again. His breathing after is wheezy and irregular, but it's there. Grackle relaxes a bit.

"Right," the voice says. "Let's go, lads." Someone clubs Grackle on the back of his head. He staggers forward, what's left of his vision turning black.

---

Grackle isn't sure how long it takes for him to reawaken. The floor under him is rattling up and down. It feels too hot for it to be nighttime still, but he can't see a thing. His head throbs, and so do his eyes. He can't have gone blind from the flash bomb, can he? He blinks rapidly and shifts his head, trying to look around. The sound of cloth covering his head brings realization. A sack or hood is blinding him. Giving his eyes time to focus, he can barely see light through small gaps in the threads. He tries to reach up to remove it, but his hands are stuck behind him. Something coarse binds his wrists together, and tugging on them scrapes his skin uncomfortably. Experimentally, he tries to move his legs, but discovers his ankles are bound as well.

Grackle bits back panic. He's been restrained before. He can handle it. He--

A hand touching his head startles him and he jerks away. "Grackle, it's me," Willow whispers, voice muffled by the cloth. "I-I saw you moving."

Grackle's breath hitches. He wants to talk to Willow, try to reassure him, but he can't find his voice. They'd said they'd keep Willow safe--Grackle hadn't imagined they'd meant taking him along as well. He hears a distressed whine escape his throat.

Willow pets his head gently. "I'm okay," he says, still keeping his voice low. "They didn't hurt me, but--I guess they're gonna use me to keep you calm..." His voice wavers. Grackle leans into the touches, desperate to be as close to Willow as possible. "We're in a covered wagon. They took us out of town, but haven't mentioned where they're going."

Someone barks for Willow to shut up, and Grackle doesn't hear him speak again. He lifts Grackle to lie on his lap, carefully rubbing his back and shoulders. The action does help to calm him, but panic is still rising in his gut. What are they going to do to him? What are they going to do to Willow when they don't need him anymore? He's grateful Willow can't see when frightened tears start spilling down his cheeks and he has to bite his lip to stop from sobbing out loud.

---

Grackle has no idea how much time passes, but Willow lets him know when they stop for the night. He's painfully thirsty and hungry by this point; their captors allow Willow to feed him some slices of crusty bread and give him a cup of water, but not remove the hood. Willow sits in the rear of the wagon with him, massaging his arms to try and keep his hands from going numb from the restraints. It's not unpleasant, but Grackle wishes it was under better circumstances.

"Someone's definitely noticed us missing by now," Willow says after he's settled Grackle up against his side. "I bet we'll be rescued before long."

Grackle hopes so. His panic has faded, but fresh waves of dread wash over him constantly. What kind of person would want to capture him alive? He supposes there are bounties out for him and the other Blackbirds, but they'd made sure to remove every piece of evidence of their identities from their old home. He lived as "Gray" in the clinic dorms, and the others had taken assumed names for their new lives as well. How and why had these people tracked him down?

He eventually falls into an uneasy sleep, wishing he could wrap his arms around Willow just for the night.

---

It feels like another day's worth of travel before the feel of the road under the wagon changes. Grackle listens intently, and determines that they're on cobblestone instead of bumpy dirt. Another town? It seems Willow can't see outside the wagon, but Grackle hears him shifting around nearby.

The wagon eventually comes to a stop. There's muffled discussion outside, then the sound of the wagon's rear covering being pulled open. Willow puts a hand on Grackle's shoulder and squeezes reassuringly before someone climbs inside and pulls him away. "Where are you taking us?" Willow asks, voice brave despite the waver in it. Grackle feels someone pull him out of the wagon and heave him over their shoulder, then start to carry him away. Willow's voice is more distant when he calls out, "Grackle, I'll be okay! Don't worry!"

He's taken indoors, but beyond that he doesn't know what sort of building. Doors open and close; he tries to memorize the layout, but blinded and muffled as he is it's difficult. His carrier drops him onto a hard mattress. He hears their footsteps, hears a door shut, and hears a lock click.

He's alone. He doesn't know for how long.

Some amount of time later, the door unlocking and swinging open grabs his attention and he tries to sit up. He hears footsteps rush over to him and kneel by his side, before they're locked back in again. "Grackle, are you alright?" Willow asks, pulling the hood off. The room is dim, but it still takes his eyes a moment to adjust so he can see. Willow's face is worried. Grackle doesn't feel alright, but he's at least uninjured, and he doesn't want to worry Willow more than he has to, so he nods. Willow sighs in relief. "They said I can untie you. Or, try to. I don't know if I'm much good with knots."

He shifts to kneel behind Grackle and gets to work on the rope binding his wrists. He holds as still as possible, heart sinking every time Willow makes a noise of frustration. He don't know if he can stand being bound for however long they intend to hold him for. Finally, with a triumphant, "Got it!" Willow pulls the ropes loose, throwing them aside. Grackle's up on his knees before he realizes, pulling Willow close and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Willow returns the embrace, stroking his hair. "You're alright now. We'll be alright."

The ropes binding his ankles are easier for Willow, and soon, they're huddled together on the mattress, Grackle with his arms wrapped desperately around Willow. Willow pets his hair to try and settle him, and it works just a bit. Someone slides a tray with bread and water into the room through a small flap, and Willow leaves him just long enough to bring it over. "You should eat more," Willow encourages him. "I'm fat, I can go longer with less. It's medically sound." Grackle shakes his head in protest, looking at the extra two slices Willow's trying to offer him. "You need your strength for whatever's going to happen. Grackle, please?"

He eventually relents, though guilt eats at him more than hunger would have. Once the tray is clear of crumbs, he tries to calm himself down enough to assess the situation.

The room is barren. The only furniture is the mattress and a chamber pot. The door is locked from the outside, and there are no windows. The walls are a solid stucco, and the stone is floor. The only tools at their disposal are some scratchy rope, a hood, a tray, and two empty ceramic cups. His daggers and other weapons and tools were taken away, probably before they even put him on the wagon.

He's tired. He'll try to come up with an escape plan tomorrow. "Do you wanna try to sleep?" Willow asks. "We can push the mattress into a corner if you'd feel safer..."

Grackle nods. He moves the mattress, while Willow stuffs the hood with the rope to form a makeshift pillow. "It's not going to be really comfortable," he apologizes. "But it's probably still better than going without..."

"It's fine," Grackle mumbles. Willow offers a weak smile. Grackle settles down on the side against the wall, and Willow lays next to him. Grackle tucks his head under Willow's chin, closing his eyes and imagining they're back in Willow's dorm room, with the lingering smell of baking hanging in the halls. Willow's warm body against his is just enough to help him feel a little safer.

---

Grackle isn't sure how much sleep he managed to get, but he doesn't think it was enough. The door opens and heavy footfalls enter, waking them both. Grackle is the first to sit up, jumping to alertness and blocking the still-dozy Willow with his body. Two people haul Grackle to his feet by his upper arms, while the third keeps an eye on Willow. "Wha, where are you taking him?" Willow asks, trying to wake up faster. He goes to stand but the third thug pushes him back down roughly. Grackle watches him desperately until he's dragged out of the room and another hood is yanked down over his head.

Cold iron shackles snap around his wrists, binding them behind his back. His breath catches and his heart starts racing, already knowing what awaits him now. Punishment. He struggles wildly in his panic until one of his captors slugs him in the gut and he doubles over, gasping. "You best stop that," she says sharply. "We'll hurt the other one if you don't knock it off."

Willow. He has to protect Willow. With a low whine, he does his best to ignore the cold of the cuffs and stumble along with his captors. "He's so pathetic," the voice says. "Is this really one of the Blackbirds?"

"That's what the informant said," a second voice answers. "And maybe they're not all this weak. Just disappointing that this is the one he wants."

The pair take him down what feels like a straight corridor. His hearing is muffled by the hood, but he picks up on the sound of a breeze outside a window. He makes a note of it as a possible escape route. There's a pause and a door opening, and he's pulled inside a new room. "Wait here." One of them shoves him down onto a rug-covered floor, and as he struggles to right himself he hears them both exit.

Grackle tries to take deep breaths to settle himself. Whatever's waiting for him can't be good, but panicking won't help him now. The shackles dredge up awful memories, but he can deal with those. For now, anyway. Maybe if he can focus on trying to form an escape plan…

The door opens again and he sits up straighter, ready to spring away at the first chance. Heels click deliberately on the floor before coming to a stop. A hand grasps the hood and yanks it off. He blinks rapidly in the bright room, trying to adjust after spending so long blinded and in dimness. He looks up into a face that seems somehow familiar, a man with a streak of white in dark hair. "These mercenaries claim you're a Blackbird," he says. "For their sake and yours, I hope they're correct."

Grackle doesn't let any emotion show as the man, probably a merchant of some kind by his dress, crouches before him. "They also tell me they brought along an extra. Someone you seem very fond of. Do you know what it's like to lose somebody like that?" Grackle says nothing, staring just to the side of his captor's face and trying not to shake. "Hopefully, you won't have to find out. I'm not as cruel as you." Grackle shifts his gaze forward, looking the man in the eyes. "You see, Blackbird, I found out when you murdered my sister Diamante."

Grackle blinks. That explained the familiarity; he'd spent weeks monitoring the late Lady Diamante prior to executing his assignment. "It so happens there's a large bounty out for any Blackbirds caught," the man continues. "I don't necessarily need the money, but if it rids the world of scum like you, I'm willing to hand you over."

Grackle still doesn't answer. "First, though, I intend to exact some revenge of my own. I'm going to make you match the pain I felt!" The man stands swiftly, and Grackle starts to get to his feet as well, fully prepared to dodge any assault, but the merchant is faster. He slams a leather boot into Grackle's gut, knocking the wind out of him and toppling him back onto his side.

The merchant shoves the boot against his back, forcing him to roll onto his front. Grackle struggles to regain his breath and right himself again, but the boot comes again, jabbing into his side repeatedly. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will himself to his feet when the boot comes down hard on the back of his knee. He cries out, immediately biting his tongue after to keep himself quiet. He hears the merchant take a few steps back, breathing heavily. "Not done with you yet," he mutters, leaning down to yank Grackle over onto his back.

Grackle forces himself to sit, thinking that this was nothing compared to what he's been through before. He can endure this kind of beating. He just has to get back to Willow in one piece. The boot collides with his shoulder, interrupting his train of thought. He hisses in pain, instinctively yanking at his shackles in an attempt to hold the newly sore spot. The merchant shoves him back onto the floor, then brings his foot down to rest on Grackle's vulnerable throat. He goes still, staring up at his assailant and doing his best not to provoke him.

"I can't believe how easily I could kill you," the merchant says, eyes wild and hair disheveled from his exertion. He presses down just a little bit more. "Just hold you down like this for a few minutes..." He presses harder. Grackle gasps for air, feeling his windpipe squeezing closed. He starts to thrash against his tormentor, struggling to get free, but this only seems to encourage the merchant to press his neck against the floor.

Grackle feels himself growing lightheaded, and grey and white lights pop in front of his eyes. The pressure finally releases and his starving lungs take in air in huge, unsteady gulps. "That's more mercy than a monster like you deserves, though," the merchant says, wiping at his forehead with his sleeve. Grackle feels sweat and tears trickle down the sides of his face, and he shuts his eyes to avoid looking at him. "And besides, I won't be done with you for a while yet." The merchant gives himself a moment, time that Grackle gratefully takes to recover himself. He lies on the floor, trying to steady himself. Before he can calm himself much further, a solid kick to the side brings him back to dreadful awareness. He doesn't have time to even register it before the merchant finds a rhythm of kicks and shoves, inflicting pain on every part of Grackle's body he can reach. Grackle finds himself blanking out, lost in the pain.

Some time later, he's dimly aware of two people speaking. "I'm done with him," the merchant says. "Get him out of my sight."

"At once, Carvaho." Is that one of the two who'd brought him in? He can't tell. Someone sits him up and tugs the discarded hood back over his head, not that he feels in any shape to care where he's going. He's slung over their shoulder and carried back down the same hall, then thrown down onto the mattress without regard for his comfort. The shackles are unlocked and pulled away, along with the hood.

Willow is immediately in his field of vision, blurry but a wonderfully welcome sight. The physician gathers him up into his arms, and despite the comforting warmth and scent of herbs, he cries out in protest as his battered body is moved again.

"It's okay," Willow whispers. He feels him stroking his hair, and that alone helps him settle down. "I'm here, Grackle. I'm right here for you." It's a while before he can bring himself to move, but he eventually manages to bunch himself up against Willow's body, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

---

Grackle drifts in an exhausted daze until their food is brought in. He makes himself sit up to eat, but he doesn't have the energy to finish chewing through their meager meal. Willow makes sure he at least drinks his cup of water and sets the remains aside.

He doesn't know how long it's been by the time he actually wakes up again. The room is completely dark, except for a dim sliver of light from the gaps around the door flap. Willow is fast asleep at his side, arms wrapped around him securely. Grackle sighs and buries his face into Willow's shirt, trying to imagine they're back in the dorm instead of trapped in ancestors-knew-where. The aches from his earlier beating come to the forefront and interrupt his fantasy, dropping a ton of hard reality on him.

He shoves all thought aside and tries to fall back asleep.

---

It feels like no sleep was gotten at all by the time the door opens an unknown amount of time later. By the time Grackle brings himself to awareness, Willow has already disentangled himself from Grackle and is standing in front of the mattress. "Are you going to hurt him again?" the physician asks, putting on a brave voice.

One of the mercenaries sighs and grabs Willow by the arm, yanking him away while the other retrieves Grackle. "We don't have to play nice with you," she says. "It's only to keep your friend in line that you're even alive. You'd better be damned grateful." She practically throws Willow into the far wall.

Grackle flails against the other mercenary's grasp, overcome with the need to get to Willow again; the shackles close around his wrists and lock them behind his back before he can force his complaining, sluggish muscles to react. He tries to call Willow's name, but his voice is stuck. The last thing he sees before the hood closes over his head again is Willow crumpling to the floor in a heap.

The mercenaries end up having to carry him to the room from yesterday. Grackle finds himself too exhausted to fight them, let alone walk. He's flung to the floor again, and he lies still, waiting for what'll happen next.

It feels like ages before the door opens again, and he braces himself for the click of heels, but it's the thumping of the mercenaries' boots again. Someone hauls him up to stand, and removes one wrist from the shackles. He tries to break out of their grip then, but one of them locks a hand around his throat to hold him steady as another drags his arms up, re-securing the shackles hanging above him. He hears them step back, and his throat is freed, letting him breathe again. "Looks good enough," one says, and they leave.

Good enough? For what? Horrid thoughts course through his head, reminders of when he still worked for Rook. This position is uncomfortably familiar, and sends fresh waves of panic throughout his body. He squeezes his eyes shut under the hood, easily falling back into that old mindset. Whatever's coming, he just has to endure it without making a sound. It's just a punishment.

Minutes slide by painfully slow as he waits. His already aching arms complain from being held up so long. Whatever he's chained to, he can't lift his body enough to slip his wrists free. Somehow, the anticipation feels worse than the upcoming punishment surely would be. At least Rook got it over with quickly.

The door opens, and straining his ears, he hears the click of heels. Carvaho--that's his captor's name, he remembers--strides over to stand in front of him. The hood is lifted off, and as Grackle blinks to adjust to the light, Carvaho takes his jaw in his hand. "Is this yours, then?" He holds up a dagger, one of Grackle's daggers. Grackle looks at it, but says nothing. Carvaho holds the dagger to his face, cold blade pressing into his skin. "Is this what you killed my sister with?"

Grackle remains silent, not that he feels any answer would have spared him. Carvaho tightens his knuckles around the hilt and presses down hard, dragging the dagger down his cheek. Grackle hisses in pain, trying to jerk away, but his chin is held fast. The dagger is pulled away, leaving a sharply throbbing mark that's already dripping blood down his skin.

Carvaho steps back, staring down at the bloody blade for a moment. "...Right." He grabs the front of Grackle's shirt and pulls it forward, thrusting the dagger forward. Grackle jerks backwards, afraid he's about to be stabbed, but the blade just cuts down through the fabric, slicing the shirt open. Carvaho slices the hems apart and yanks the sides of the ruined garment aside. He stares at Grackle's torso a moment, no doubt taking in all the old scars, and promptly turns on his heel.

"Oh stars," he hears the merchant mutter, and Grackle feels himself relax a bit. This man was so soft that he couldn't handle a few old wounds? He can't imagine what he'd do if he saw his back. He snorts lightly through his nose.

Carvaho turns back to him, scowling. "Oh, is this funny to you now?" he demands. "I said I'd repay the pain you caused me, and I intend to!" He grips Grackle's shirt, holding it aside with a white-knuckled hand. The knife dances closer to his exposed body. Carvaho takes a deep breath and drags it down his ribs. Grackle winces, but it's no worse than other injuries he's had to endure. The knife shifts aside, and pulls down again, the movement steadier and more certain this time. Grackle cracks an eye open, and is chilled to see an emboldened look on the merchant's face.

"I wonder if it would be more effective for me to cut up your little sweetheart," Carvaho says, dragging the blade downwards again. Grackle's breath catches and he stares at him wide-eyed. "Oh, now there's the reaction I want!" The merchant grins, bringing the bloody dagger up to scrape on Grackle's jawline. "You really are attached to him." The blade bites into his skin, drawing forth more blood. "I didn't think a monster like you could feel anything, with all the killing you do. Is he your little pet?"

Grackle clenches his teeth, but says nothing. Hearing this man talk about Willow like this makes his blood boil, but there's nothing he can do about it now. Just bear with it, he reminds himself. Carvaho studies him a moment, then brings the dagger back down to his chest. "...Let's add to your scars."

The torture is silent from then on, broken only by a breathless gasp from Grackle when the blade cuts into a particularly sensitive spot. His chest stings from over a dozen long, shallow cuts and even more small wounds caused by flicks of the tip of the blade. The smell of blood and sweat saturates the air, and it's all Grackle can do to keep from sagging in his bonds. He slumps back against the post he's shackled to, hoping for it to end soon.

Carvaho steps back from him at last, and Grackle hears him breathing heavily. "I think you've had enough for today," he says, throwing the dagger to the floor with a clatter. He walks to the door and opens it, calling for a mercenary to return Grackle again.

Grackle doesn't fight as he's re-shackled and hooded again, though being flung over the mercenary's shoulder grates on his wounds and he lets out a weak cry of pain. He's flung back onto the hard mattress, and adding injury to injury, a kick is delivered to his gut. "That's for gettin' blood on my clothes," the mercenary says, before removing the hood and shackles and leaving.

He opens his eyes blearily and is greeted with Willow's face, eyes rapidly filling with tears as he sees the state Grackle's in. "Oh, Grackle..." Willow grabs one hand in both of his, squeezing gently. "I'll do my best to take care of you. Wait a minute." Grackle mumbles some vaguely assenting noise, and Willow stands, going over to the door.

"Excuse me, can I have some bandages?" Willow asks, pounding on the door. "I need to take care of him!" Silence answers; Willow pounds on it again. "Is anyone even there?"

The door pounds back, practically slamming. "Shut up in there," a muffled voice answers. "Just deal with it." Willow stands in silence for a moment, then returns to Grackle's side.

"I can do this anyway," Willow says. "I just need your shirt."

Grackle forces himself to sit up, removing the remains of his shirt before collapsing against the wall and closing his eyes. He hears fabric ripping, and then there's a stinging sensation as Willow gently dabs up what blood he can. Willow works quickly, murmuring reassurances and instructions to Grackle. "Just sit up for a second. You're doing really well. Can you hold this down for me?" Grackle follows his commands automatically, too tired to even consider otherwise. When he's done, he glances down to see the worst of his wounds wrapped up in the ruins of his shirt. It seems the smaller ones have already started to close.

Willow helps him settle down onto the mattress. "You try and sleep. I'll wake you when they bring food, alright?" Grackle nods, closing his eyes and shifting to rest his head in Willow's lap.

He tries to sleep, but some of Carvaho's words keep drifting through his mind. "...Willow," he whispers, unsure if his voice would even work again. He opens his eyes to see Willow look over in the dim light. "...Am I... a monster?"

"Stars, Grackle, no, of course not!" Willow reaches down to smooth his hair. "Did you choose to be an assassin?" Grackle shakes his head, leaning into Willow's touch. "And did you enjoy when you had to take lives?" He shakes his head again. "You had to do that because you didn't have a choice. You're not a monster."

Still feeling a bit miserable, Grackle, reaches up to hold Willow's hand. "Promise?"

Willow lifts the hand, pressing his lips to the back of it. "I promise."

---

Willow finds himself a bit disoriented when he wakes on his own the next morning (is it really morning? he can't tell in here), instead of by a sudden intrusion to take Grackle away again. He sighs softly and rubs his cheek against Grackle's forehead, glad his battered sweetheart finally gets a chance to sleep properly during their imprisonment.

His skin feels far too warm, though. Frowning, Willow disentangles himself from Grackle's clutch, bringing up a hand to press against his forehead. He's burning up. "Oh no," Willow murmurs, fear creeping into his heart. "Oh no, Grackle..." He pulls himself out of his arms fully, squinting through the gloom to get a better look at him. He brushes a thumb down Grackle's cheek, wiping away a sheen of sweat. Grackle doesn't awaken from the contact, either.

Willow pushes himself to his feet, swaying a bit; leaving most of the food for Grackle has left him feeling less than his best. He finds his way over to the door, pounding on it with his fist. "Is someone out there?" he calls. "We need some medicine! He's got a fever!" There's no answer. "Please, I'm a physician! I can tell you what we need!" There's no answer. Willow waits a few moments, holding his breath. "Is anyone there?"

There's no answer.

Ignoring the prickle of tears in his eyes, Willow returns to Grackle's side.

---

Grackle comes to awareness very slowly. He's warm, but too warm. His body feels heavy. His cuts are throbbing. He whines lowly, curling around himself. A soft hand caresses his cheek, and he sluggishly grasps it. "Hey," Willow whispers. "Don't try to move much. You have a really bad fever."

Fever? He opens his eyes to look up, and Willow swims into view next to him. "Some of your cuts must have gotten infected. I tried to ask for some medicine, but... nobody answered." He closes his eyes, pressing himself up against Willow. "I'll do my best to take care of you," the physician says. "But you're going to be miserable."

Miserable turns out to be an understatement. Hours later, Grackle is shivering violently, the air in the room chilling his over-warm body. Willow has wrapped him up in his arms, but the scant warmth can only do so much. His brain pops with small jolts of lightning whenever his eyes shift, or even at random. He longs for a real bed and real blankets. Willow murmurs soothing words to him, but he only understands about half the time.

When Willow leaves him for even brief moments, he cries out in weak protest, but can't even get up to try to pull him back. At some point, a cup of water is pressed to his lips, and he forces himself to swallow it. He can't muster an appetite for the stale bread, despite Willow's pleading. He drifts in and out of awareness, sometimes lucid enough to hear Willow telling some story. Just the sound of his voice helps, even if he's unable to really listen. At some point, he wakes to realize that Willow is asleep next to him again, arms and legs wrapped around his shivering body as much as possible. He presses his face into his chest and drifts off once more.

---

He feels worse the next time someone comes for him. He doesn't even put up a token resistance as he's hauled off the mattress, shackled, and hooded like before. He faintly hears Willow calling out in protest, but he can't understand the words.

Before he realizes it, he's tossed to the floor of the room from previous encounters with Carvaho. He shivers weakly in the too-cold air, hoping this time is at least quick so he can get back to Willow's warm grasp.

Someone grabs him by the throat and his eyes flutter open. Dimly he recognizes Carvaho's sneering face, speaking words that Grackle is too sick to understand. He feels lightheaded and can't tell if it's from his air being cut off or from the fever spiking. His eyes slide shut again and something strikes him hard across the face, rousing him painfully.

"--lieve how pathetic you are," he hears the merchant spit. "No fight in you anymore. I should just go ahead and kill that sweetheart of yours and turn you over for some proper justice."

Grackle struggles weakly at the mention of Willow, but all he can do to protest is to shake his head. "And how do you expect to stop me, the state you're in?" He's flung back onto the floor, a boot pressing down on his chest to pin him. "A caged bird like you is absolutely powerless."

He dimly hears the door open, crashing into the wall. Carvaho shifts, managing to sputter "What do you th--" before something cuts him off with a strangled cry. His heels click unsteadily before he comes crashing down, landing across Grackle.

Someone picks him up. He smells leather and blood, and instantly leans into his savior's muscular arms. "Willow," he croaks. "Down the... hall..."

Willow is at his side already, cupping his face in his hands. "I'm here," he says. "They got me first." Grackle relaxes, eyes sliding shut.

Willow strokes his head gently, then looks up at Jackdaw as one of the other Blackbirds frees Grackle from the shackles. "He needs medical attention right now," he says. "Can we do that before we get out of here?" Jackdaw nods, shifting Grackle to hold him more comfortably. "I don't know if they'll have everything I need here, but can you look?" Jackdaw nods again.

They find a spare bedroom, one that doesn't have a dead merchant or mercenary in it, and Grackle is lowered onto the mattress. "Look for echinacea--coneflower," Willow instructs, quickly covering Grackle up with the blankets. "If they have a medicine cabinet, it should be labeled. Feverfew or willow bark will work if they don't have coneflower. I need bandages, some clean cloth, and a pitcher of water." The gathered assassins scatter, leaving Willow with one he doesn't recognize. "What's your name?"

"Raven," she answers. "How can I help?"

Willow smiles. "Raven. If they find the herbs I need, can you make a tea of them?" She nods. "Thank you."

The supplies are gathered, and Willow gets right to work, first cleaning Grackle's cuts with a soaked towel while Raven makes echinacea tea. He re-wraps the wounds in proper bandages, then sits Grackle up with Jackdaw's help and gets him to gulp down the tea, along with a cup of water. He still seems delirious and largely unresponsive, but being surrounded and helped by familiar people appears to help.

With the emergency treatment taken care of, Willow instructs the Blackbirds to bundle Grackle up in some blankets before carrying him outside. They emerge into the heat of the day, Willow taking great care to avoid looking at the slain mercenaries along the way. "Let's get him home," he says, following Jackdaw as she carries Grackle into the carriage they'd arrived in. "How did you find us, anyway?"

"The clinic hired an investigator," Raven says, settling on a bench as Willow positions himself near Grackle. "Hound. He tracked them here, and we..." She shrugs. "We were pissed."

Willow smiles tiredly. "Well, thank you for coming after us. I don't know if Grackle would've..." His voice catches, and he swallows hard. "If he'd have made it."

Raven doesn't answer, but she doesn't have to as the two stragglers clamber into the back, one holding a heavy, jingling sack. "Magpie!" she scolds.

"He's not gonna use it!" Magpie protests, before shooting a guilty look at Willow. "Er..."

"Nobody will hear of it from me," Willow says, turning back to Grackle.

Jackdaw sighs from the driver's seat and snaps the reins, urging the mules forward.

---

They stop for the night hours later, after they're well clear of the town. Jackdaw and Magpie set up a couple tents, and Raven sets to boiling some more tea for Grackle. Willow stays with him in the carriage, accepting some soup and tea from Raven once the food is ready. "Grackle?" he whispers, brushing a thumb down the side of his face. "Wake up, there's food."

Grackle makes a low whining noise, but does open his eyes after a moment. Being bundled up in the blankets has eased his chill, but he still looks very unwell. Willow helps him to sit, giving him a mug of steaming tea to drink before helping him with half a bowl of soup. "We should be home tomorrow," Willow assures him as he rearranges himself to bunch up against Willow. "We'll have a real bed, and nobody will tear you away from me like that anymore." Grackle makes a miserable noise low in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. Willow rearranges the blankets to cover the both of them and wraps an arm around Grackle's shoulders, hugging him close. His shivers abate somewhat, surrounded by the warmth.

Willow leans over, pressing a kiss to his damp forehead. "Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up." Grackle sighs, nuzzling into Willow's shoulder and mumbling a 'goodnight' before falling into slumber.

#willow and grackle #whump #hurt/comfort #long post

[seriestrash]

The Foundation of Doing Good

❄ Day Seven ❄

A/N: Complete AU. In this version of reality Lucas and Zay moved to NYC after college. Zay and Riley kind of know each other but not really!! The two Texan’s are separate to the other four friends (as in strangers). Also for the purpose of this story pretend that Riley was the only one with a relationship with Ms. Rand. Nothing against Maya at all but for the purpose of this one shot Riley was the only ‘Dolly’ in Evelyn’s life! (Crazy hat lady).

Summary: Riley Matthews feels immense pressure to do good with her good fortune. Lucas Friar sees how one stranger who does good for the world needs good done for herself. 

Word Count: 7993

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

At the young age of twenty-one, Riley Matthews’ entire world changed. It was only a month after her birthday that she learnt she was willed a multimillion dollar fortune along with a company worth twice as much.    

It was like winning the lottery in the worst way possible, for Riley’s great fortune came in the wake of a terrible misfortune. It all happened when Riley lost a dear friend, Evelyn Rand. 

Evelyn Rand - or formally known as the crazy hat lady - was one of the richest women in New York - or rather the whole of the United States - but before Riley knew this, she believed the eccentric woman to be poor. Once Riley got to know the woman a little better, their brief pleasantries in passing at the subway station turned into meaningful and regular chats. Riley began to learn more about this woman and her life and as time went on Riley formed a strong bond with Ms. Rand. 

Evelyn watched Riley grow from an idealistic pre-teen into a respectful and kind ivy league college student. Since Riley attended Columbia University it wasn’t hard at all for her to keep in touch with Evelyn before she passed, in fact, the two regularly met up for coffee. 

One week during Riley’s sophomore year of college she sat at the quaint coffee house that had become ‘their spot’ and she waited for the woman. An hour passed and Evelyn still hadn’t shown. Riley grew increasingly worried and tried phoning the woman numerous times. After all the calls were unanswered Riley went over to Evelyn’s building and tried to get information from the front desk. The receptionist on hand was being tight-lipped but then Ms. Rand’s personal assistant spotted Riley and filled her in on the news. Riley learnt that Evelyn had collapsed after arriving at her company earlier that day and was rushed to hospital. In a panic Riley hurried over to the hospital in which the assistant said Ms. Rand was being treated at. 

After finally being allowed to see Evelyn, Riley learnt the tragic news; Ms. Rand had an inoperable brain tumour that would inevitably end her life.

Riley was surprised that she was more upset by the news than the patient herself. Ms. Rand just wiped the tear off Riley’s cheek and told her ‘little Dolly’ that this was just what the universe had planned for her. A calmness Riley is still yet to fully understand.

In the months leading up to Evelyn’s passing she underwent treatment to try prolong the little time she had left and Riley was right by her side during every session. Riley knew Ms. Rand had no family and little friends outside of work and Riley couldn’t bear the thought of someone she cared about going through this alone. She even skipped some of her classes to be with her friend. 

Even Riley’s 21st birthday wouldn’t make her miss a session. Maya had planned a big day of things for them but Riley opted to hang with Evelyn instead. Even though the older woman insisted Riley take the day to celebrate her youth she still showed up right by her bedside to read stories to Evelyn as she drifted in and out of sleep.

That was the day that Evelyn decided to leave everything to Riley. As a girl gave up her twenty first birthday to sit in a hospital whilst a sick woman slept. A month later she was gone and Riley became considerably richer. 

Now at twenty-five, Riley has spent years dedicating her life to making good things come from the fortune Evelyn left her. Riley had no idea how to run a company so she employed people to take care of the empire Evelyn began as a young woman and she used the personal funds to start a charity organisation called the ‘Do Good Foundation’ where it does just that.

❄

Today on one of the last days of school before winter break for most kids across the city, Riley prepares to read a children’s book she wrote to a kindergarten class in a lower income neighbourhood, a book she wrote where all proceeds went towards giving education to children in third world countries. 

This particular school Riley is at today is one she’s been contributing to for a year now. Financially and with hands on help. Riley first became involved in this school after talking to an acquaintance of hers, Zay. Zay’s fiancé Vanessa Kimble is the kindergarten teacher. Riley knew Zay as she had invested in his dance studio which helps struggling youth stay focused and off the streets. One of the many charitable causes Riley has stumbled across and helped keep running over the years. 

It’s the end of year party for the youngsters and numerous parents have volunteered their time to make the day special.

Riley is re-introduced to the class of bubbly youngsters by Vanessa as Miss Matthews. After Riley finishes the children's book she wrote about discovering your own uniqueness, told through the adventures of two feline friends, Vanessa gets the class to thank Riley for her time with a round of applause. 

Riley stands off to the side, her book still in hand as she watches Vanessa address the class again. The pretty and kind teacher checks her watch and announces that there isn't much time left. Riley could tell something was bothering her. Then, a man comes bursting through the door of the class with a small puppy in hand. He’s apologising for being late and the young children grow increasingly more excited about his fury companion. 

“Sorry! I got here as fast as I could, my shift ran late.” He whispers to Vanessa. She gives him a stern look but then addresses her class with a wide grin. 

“Class this is Dr. Friar, he’s a veterinarian and he’s brought a special friend for you all to meet today.” 

Riley wears a small smile as she watches the evidently puffed stranger address the class, his small dog panting with a poked out tongue. The students all lean closer with excitement. The handsome vet meets Riley’s stare for a second and they exchange small smiles before he turns his attention back to the children. 

Riley takes a quick moment to thank Vanessa for having her in today but explains that she best be off. 

The brunette makes her way to the subway station closet to the school. Instead of getting in a cart she takes a moment to sit on one of the benches on the platform. Riley knew she was due back at her apartment to get ready for this special event she has tonight but part of her didn’t feel like moving at all. Part of her never felt like moving again, for Riley had spend the better part of these four years feeling absolutely lost.

With a heavy feeling weighing her down Riley sits and watches the commuters as they busily come and go. Riley is brought back into reality when a yapping puppy approaches her. 

“Sorry.” The man holding the leash picks up the dog. “She gets really excited on walks.” 

“That’s alright.” Riley lifts her gaze up from the puppy to her owner and recognition crosses both their faces. 

“Hey, weren’t you at the school before?” The vet questions. 

“Yeah, I’m Riley.” She introduces herself with a smile. “You’re the veterinarian. Are you one of the children's parents?” 

“No!” He answers a little too quickly and it elicits a laugh from the brunette. “I mean, no. I came as a favour for Vanessa- Uh, Miss Kimble.” He corrects himself. “I’m Lucas.” 

Riley nods lightly. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Are you?... A parent that is?” Lucas asks with a nervous chuckle. 

“No.” Riley shakes her head. “Just a volunteer.” She pats the children book in her lap. 

“You read that?” Lucas asks with a smile. 

“I kinda wrote it.” Riley admits and she leans forward to pat the puppy Lucas holds.

“You did?” Lucas is cutely impressed. 

Riley grows nervous. “So you know Vanessa?” 

“Yeah, we went to high school together back in Texas.” Lucas explains.

“So you know Zay too?” Riley questions without thinking. 

“Yeah he’s my best friend, I’m going to be his best man at their wedding in a few months...” Lucas crinkles his brows. “You know Zay?”

Riley shifts nervously in her seat. “Sort of.. I’d use the term acquaintance loosely... I’ve dealt with him through work...”

“Work?” Lucas asks. “...Do you mind?” Lucas points to the space beside her on the bench. “Please.” Riley shuffles across to free up more space for him. 

Lucas takes a seat, with the puppy sitting well behaved on his lap. Riley resumes the light neck scratching and Lucas continues, “Since I haven't seen you in the catering business you must know Zay through his dance studio?”

“Catering?” Riley knits her brows.

“We’re bus boys.” Lucas admits and it makes him feel awfully lame. 

“I thought you were a veterinarian, Dr. Friar?” Riley eyes the embroidered name on his blue coat. Even though she was curious, Riley was more so trying to change the subject of how she knew Zay.  

“I am a qualified veterinarian but I’m an underpaid lab assistant.” Lucas rubs at the nape of his neck. “I have to work three jobs just to pay the rent for my cruddy apartment.”

“New York City is a killer.” Riley looks down as she says that.

“Tell me about it.” Lucas laughs. “The clinic I work at is so over priced just to keep up with the cost of the lease. I feel like we turn away more animals than we actually save.”

This makes Riley frown.

“Oh don’t worry.” Lucas tries to make her feel better, “I treat strays in secret sometimes.” Lucas motions to the puppy Riley’s been patting this whole time. 

“Really?” Riley gives him a dubious stare.

“Scouts honour.” Lucas says. “Given it’s not that well kept a secret because my boss docks my pay for it but I help where I can.”

Riley believes Lucas to be genuine so she curls her mouth into a small smile as she turns back to the pup. “She’s a stray?”

“Yes Ma’am.” Lucas nods. 

“Well what happens after you treat them?” Riley questions. 

Lucas lets out a nervous chuckle. “I help find families to adopt them...So how do you know Zay again?” he changes the subject back before it gets too depressing. 

“Oh right.” Riley chews her lip, she unsuccessfully avoided the topic. “I uh- I work for the company that helps fund Zay’s dance program.. A real lower tier job... I just toured the studio once on behalf of my boss.”

“You work for a charity?” Lucas asks.

Riley bops her head and avoids his gaze.

“That’s really cool.” Lucas grins genuinely. 

Riley just shrugs a shoulder.

“I know we just met but it seems like something is bothering you...” Lucas treads lightly. “Is everything alright?”

Riley studies Lucas’ face for a moment and eventually asks, “Have you ever seen that movie Pay it Forward?”

“The one where the boy does something good for someone then that someone does something good for someone else and so on?” Lucas raises a brow.

Riley nods. “Do you think something like that could really work?”

Lucas sucks in a breath and holds it for a second, that question felt very loaded, after a moment of thought he releases his breath, “In theory I guess, sure.” He nods.

“In theory...” Riley mumbles more to herself than to Lucas. The Texan could tell she was disappointed with his response.

“I like to believe that kindness inspires kindness.” Lucas tries again. He did genuinely believe that but sometimes it’s hard to remember that with the way the world is. 

Riley smiles to herself. “People change people.” 

“Exactly.” Lucas nods. “I’d hope that the world could change because of one good deed.” 

“But you don’t believe it?” Riley asks quietly. 

“Do you?” Lucas questions not knowing how else to answer. 

Riley turns her gaze forward again. She’s quiet for a second but then she snaps her gaze back to Lucas with a purpose, although her movement was brash her voice remains soft, with a pureness to it that Lucas couldn’t help but find endearing. “If you had all the money in the world what would you do with it?” Riley asks. 

“Why do I feel like this is a test?” Lucas lets out a nervous laugh. 

“It’s just a question.” Riley grows even more sheepish. 

“Um,” Lucas lets out a breath as he thinks. “Selfish or unselfish answer?”

“Whatever the truth is.” Riley says. 

“I think I’d take care of my family and closest friends...” Lucas begins. 

Riley nods. Her first thought was to take care of the ones she loved too and she had. 

He continues, “...Then...World Peace.” Lucas wears a cheesy smile. 

Riley rolls her eyes but she has a hint of a smile. “You can’t buy world peace.” 

“Why not?” Lucas frowns but he’s smiling too. “I have all the money in the world.” 

“Money can’t save the world.” Riley holds his gaze and all lighthearted silliness had left her. The expression she wore brought Lucas down a peg. 

“Wow.” Lucas can’t help but let out a nervous chuckle. “That’s pretty dark for a girl who wrote a story about a purple cat.” He motions to her book. 

“Sorry.” She shakes her head.

Lucas clears his throat and tries a more vulnerable answer. “I don’t need all the money in the world but I’d at least like to have enough for my own animal clinic, at least that way I could feel like I was actually helping animals rather than hurting them.” 

“That’s what you’d do?” 

Lucas nods. “I’ve thought about moving back to Texas after Zay and Vanessa get married. That way I could save up enough money for my own clinic, start helping animals, get back to the reason why I wanted to become a veterinarian in the first place.” 

“That’s a nice answer.” Riley says softly. 

“Thanks.” Lucas smiles. “What about you, if you had all the money in the world what would you do with it?” 

“If I ever figure out my answer I’ll let you know.” Riley lowers her gaze again. 

Then the puppy yaps in impatiently. 

“I have to get this little girl back to the clinic.” Lucas announces, “But if we’re going the same way maybe we could grab a coffee or hot chocolate.. I have to work tonight but I have like twenty-three spare minutes so if we hurry-” 

“I can’t.” Riley jumps in. “I have a thing I’m supposed get ready for.” 

“A.. date thing?” Lucas asks sheepishly. 

“No.” Riley is sheepish too as she shakes her head. “A work thing- I guess.” 

“Okay... Well I know it’s the holidays and all but if you have a free night- or day- maybe we could get a coffee or hot chocolate or some sort of beverage-” 

“Lucas, that’s really sweet but I can’t.” Riley gives him an apologetic smile. “I just don’t think I’m in the right headspace to date..” 

“Yeah, no, or nothing works for me too.” He laughs it off and Riley smiles. 

“Well the subway cart has passed about four times since we’ve been sitting here, maybe we should get on it.” Lucas points a thumb towards the track. 

“I think I might just sit here a little while longer.” Riley shifts in place. “Watch the people.” 

Lucas knits his brows in confusion as he stands up for the train. “Watch people?” 

“Just something I used to do with a friend.” Riley’s smile is small. “Merry Christmas, Lucas and to you little pup. Find her a good family, okay?” 

Lucas’ confused but more so intrigued expression remains as he takes a backwards step towards the subway cart. “I will... Merry Christmas to you too, Riley.” 

❄ ❄

Later that evening Riley is dressed in the prettiest thing she’s ever worn. A gown, blue in colour with decorative floral embroidery all over. A dress so incredibly detailed yet completely dainty looking at the same time.

A pic bc it’s so pretty and would look so pretty on Row/Riley

Her hair is curled and pinned to perfection and her makeup, although subtle, beautifully highlights her facial features. 

Riley’s very modest one bedroom apartment felt crowded with all the makeup and hair tools sprawled across the living space. Riley sits on the sofa all glamed up, trying to keep herself from getting overheated with stress. Even in the cold December month, Riley still managed to feel overwhelmed at a time like this. 

Maya sits to Riley’s left and Smackle to her right. Both women questioning their friend about her upcoming evening. 

“Are you sure you didn’t want a date for tonight?” Maya questions. 

“No. No date.” Riley states firmly.

“I don’t understand why you don’t want any of us there, this is such a huge deal for you, Riley.” Maya says. 

“No. I just want to get this over and done with.” Riley shakes her head. “I don’t need anyone there.” 

“Are you certain?” Smackle questions. “I’m sure Farkle would accompany you.” 

“Farkle hates fancy events even more than I do.” Riley coaxes her head. 

“Take Auggie then, the not so little man looks cute in a tux.” Maya grins. 

“No, I’m going alone okay?” Riley huffs. 

“Fine.” Maya says like a wounded puppy. “But I’m staying here and watching Christmas movies on your television and eating your food whilst you’re out.” 

“Make that the both of us.” Isadora says happily. 

Riley cracks a smiles. “I wish I was staying to do just that with you both.” 

“Sadly you can’t because you’re being wined and dined tonight.” Maya says in a posh tone. “Go on, your car should be downstairs. You don’t want to be late.” 

“My car?” Riley frowns. “Maya I was just going to t-”

“Take the subway, I know.” Maya groans. “You can’t take the subway dressed like that.” 

Riley sighs and admits defeat. She exits her apartment after a taking a deep breath. Here we go, the thinks to herself. 

Once alone with Smackle in Riley’s apartment, Maya lets out a heavy sigh. “I really miss Riley.” 

“She only left five seconds ago.” Smackle knits her brows. 

“I mean the old Riley.” Maya says. “Once she got rich, she got sad...” 

❄ ❄

Lucas arrived at his bus boy job not long after he dropped the puppy back off at the clinic he assists at. As per usual Lucas is running late so he bursts through the staff doors of the venue they’re working at that night still securing his black tie around his neck.

“Lucas you’re-”

“Completely on time.” Lucas says in a charming way as he passes his boss.

“Yeah, yeah.” She intensifies her glare but the slight smirk on her face gives her away. “Where’s Zay?”

“Uh,” Lucas looks around the big industrial kitchen for a second, “He got here before me.. He’ll be around here somewhere..” Lucas lies.

“Sure.” She eyes his suspiciously. “Both of you check in with Danny, this party will be filled with the wealthy in less than an hour.” She instructs.

“Sure thing, boss.” Lucas grins as he quickly tries to get out from under the watchful eye of his superior.

Lucas makes his way over to Danny, the man in charge of coordinating the wait staff for the event. The Texan continues to cover for Zay for twenty minutes before the dancer sneaks in the back door.

“There you are.” Lucas whispers. “I’ve been covering for you!” Instinctively Lucas reaches forward and helps straighten out Zays tie.

“I was with one of the teens in my program he’s having a rough time at home.” Zay explains. 

“Don’t do that.” Lucas folds his arms.

“Do what?” Zay questions.

“Remind me that you’re a decent person.” Lucas says.

“Awww.” Zay smiles sweetly.

Lucas rolls his eyes with a smile and gently shoves his childhood pal.

“Hey, I went to Ness’ class today-” 

“Yeah she told me you were late.” Zay laughs. 

“Something we have in common.” Lucas sports another eye roll. 

“How were the little twerps?” Zay chuckles, “Did they love the little flea ball you’re trying to get adopted?” 

“Yes and not the point- Also don't call them twerps.” Lucas shakes his head as he was getting off topic. “I met Riley today.” 

“Riley...” Zay knits his brows for a moment. “Riley Matthews?” 

“I didn’t catch her last name.” Lucas admits. “She said she worked for the company that funded your program.” 

“Yeah that’s Riley Matthews.” Zay nods. “Cute little brunette with puffy cheeks and she seems kinda sad.” 

Lucas nods too. Strangely it hurt him that Zay saw there was a sadness to Riley too. 

“Yeah I gave her a tour of the studio - not that it took long - and we went through some paperwork.” Zay explains. “She asked me about my life and I mentioned V, I think Riley spoke to her boss about the elementary school.” 

“I asked her out.” Lucas says proudly. 

“What?” Zay is surprised. 

“She totally rejected me but I asked her out.” Lucas says with the same goofily proud grin. 

Zay also adopts the proudness. “You haven't asked anyone out since Kelly dumped you over a year ago.” 

“She didn’t dump me. I broke up with her.” Lucas rolls his eyes. 

“Details.” Zay swats the air. 

“Are you two going to stand around all night?” Danny groans. 

“Sorry.” They both say in unison. 

“We’re just discussing how my boy asked out a girl today.” Zay pats Lucas on the back.

“Congratulations, you’re a big boy now.” Danny says sarcastically. “Please invite me to your wedding.” 

“Well little miss Riley Matthews turned him down so don’t be waiting on the invitation.” Zay chuckles and Lucas shoots him a glare. 

“Riley Matthews?” Danny gives the two Texans a look unsure if they were kidding or not. 

“Yeah, she’s this cute little brunette with puffy cheeks and kinda sad.” Zay uses the same description as before. 

“I know who Riley is.” Danny chuckles. 

“You do?” The Texans say again in unison. 

“You don’t?” Danny narrows his brows. 

Both Lucas and Zay sport confused expressions and Danny lets out an amused chuckle as he pushes his two less than impressive bus boys towards the doors that lead out into the ballroom. Each Texan puts their faces close to the two glass squares in the doors and look out into the Gala they’ll be waiting on later. 

“Riley Matthews.” Danny says and his chuckle increases. 

Both Zay and Lucas have their jaws hanging open. Their eyes find a big poster displaying the pretty brunette as  the guest of honour.

“You mean Riley is the millionaire philanthropist that’s being honoured tonight?” Lucas turns around with shock still written on his face. 

“Actually I think it’s more like billionaire if you count all the assets and company she owns...” Danny says. “Didn’t you two read the information email you were sent about the event?” 

“Honestly we never read those.” Lucas shrugs innocently. 

“You two are the worst employees.” Danny shakes his head as he walks off. 

“Dude, no wonder she turned you down.” Zay says. “She’s way out of your league.” 

“No kidding.” Lucas scoffs. “I was complaining about paying my rent and she's like rich and charitable.” 

“She told me she just worked for a charity.” Zay says. 

“That’s what she told me too.” Lucas frowns. 

“I guess it makes sense... I mean you wouldn't walk around telling people you're super rich would you?” Zay questions. 

“I guess not.” Lucas shakes his head. 

“Let’s read the email on her.” Zay says as he retrieves his cell from his back pocket. He takes a moment to find the unopened email from his boss and read aloud, “The 27th annual exceptional woman of the year award.. blah blah... will be held at.. blah blah...” Zay scans through it looking for the important information, “Awarded to the youngest recipient ever, Riley Matthews. A woman whom at the age of twenty-one was willed Evelyn Rands entire company and fortune and has since dedicated her time to making the world a better place... Wow she’s way way out of your league.”

“Thanks a lot buddy.” Lucas crosses his arms like a hurt little boy.

“I’m just saying.. You should see some of the things she's achieved in the last four years.” Zay says as he continues to read the list of charities Riley has either started or contributed to. 

“Great, if the rejection wasn’t bad enough now I have to go out there and be a lame bus boy at this ridiculously fancy event that’s being thrown for her!” Lucas frowns.

“Don’t worry about it, she’ll be at the important table, Danny won't assign you to them.” Zay says encouragingly. 

“Alright, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb are you ready to actually do some work?” Danny calls both their attentions and Zay quickly slips his cell back into his pocket. The two Texans join the other wait staff around Danny as he assigns sections to work. 

“The guests are arriving now so you’ll all be going out there in a minute to start serving the champagne. Now Lucas, you’ll be on table one.” Danny says through a smirk. 

“Why does that sound like the important table?” Lucas turns to Zay with a clenched jaw. 

“Because it is the important table.” Danny says clearly amused. “You’ll be taking care of the guest of honour. Lucky you.” 

Lucas lets out a groan but sadly there was nothing he could do unless he wanted to quit - which he quite literally couldn’t afford to do. 

Lucas goes out into the grand hall and he calms a little once he realises that Riley’s not there yet. Lucas begins to wait on the table. He’s pouring his fourth glass of champagne when she finally arrives. 

Riley appears in the doorway like something out of a daydream. Absolutely stunning which Lucas doesn’t find surprising since he already thought the New Yorker was beautiful from the moment her spotted her in the classroom but tonight was something else. Lucas is so taken back he over pours the glass of champagne and has to apologise to the disgruntled guest. He scurries into the kitchen for a towel and a new bottle of champagne.

After entering the gala, Riley takes a deep breath and prepares herself for the evening ahead. Almost immediately she’s approached by the events co-ordindater, the perky woman she’s been dealing with since hearing news she was being honoured with the award.

Riley’s lead to her table where’s she's sat next to a well known reality tv star that seems to be agitated. As soon as Riley sits down, the ‘New York Bliss’ star, Candy immediately starts complaining about the terrible service after having her champagne spilled all over the table.

Riley is sympathetic but says she’s sure it’s just an honest mistake. Lucas was hovering close by as Riley said that. Mostly because he saw her sit down after he came back from the kitchen and panicked about going over there.

“Oh look, there he is now just standing there.” Candy sighs heavily as she draws attention to Lucas.

The Texans eyes widen as he notices Riley spot him. Lucas nervously reproaches the table and apologises to Candy again.

“Dr. Friar?” Riley says just as surprised to see him.

“Dr?” Candy furrows her brows.

“Sorta.” Lucas chuckles nervously to the older woman and then turns to Riley with an embarrassed smile. “Told you I was a bus boy.”

“And apparently not a very good one.” Riley jokes lightly as she helps move things for Lucas whilst he dries the mess up.

“It’s alright Miss, I’ve got it.” Lucas says as he quickly pats the damp patch on the table.

“I don’t mind, Sir.” Riley emphasises the formal term and continues to assist. Lucas nods his thanks and proceeds pouring glasses for the table. Even though Riley doesn’t drink she allows him to fill her glass so she doesn’t look like the odd girl out. Riley was just as nervous as Lucas was or rather more so embarrassed that he’d discovered she was lying earlier but she was just far better at playing it cool than he is.

The event really starts to take off. Riley picks at the food presented in front of her and forces a smile to the other guests, some Riley knew through her charity work and others were strangers that still spoke to her as if they were family friends.

Riley listens as other guests discuss their own charitable endeavours, some seem genuinely passionate and others seemed to be patting theirselves on the back. All the while Lucas keeps his head down each time he has to cross paths with Riley.

Finally it comes to the part of the evening where Riley’s to be given her award. The host of the event draws everyone’s attention to a projector screen. Riley has to endure a ten minute video montage of her achievements.

At this point the wait staff were back in the kitchen but Lucas and Zay had poked their heads through the service doors to eavesdrop on the video.

They watch with mouths agape as it lists some of Riley’s good deeds. It includes everything from starting the Do Good Foundation to everything she’s done with it. Things like college scholarships, work in third world countries, her handlings with the homeless and needy families. They shine a lot of light on the work she’s done this holiday season and in the past. They talk about the families she feeds and the amount of children who will wake up with presents on Christmas morning because of her. It also shows some of the many charities Riley feeds money into like the foster care program her uncle Eric runs.

“She’s Mother fricken Teresa.” Lucas whispers feeling pretty down about himself.

Riley’s then called to stage to accept her award. She very nervously takes to the stage and looks around at the faces in the room. She even spots Lucas and Zay’s heads poked through the door and in response they yank their heads back into the kitchen.

Riley gives a well rehearsed speech to the crowd. It’s not that she was ungrateful for the award - she was anything but - it was just the sheer magnitude of this event, the fuss and more truthful Riley didn’t feel she was a deserving recipient.

After her speech, Riley only has to hang around for another ten minutes. Her obligation to be there was over and the guests were on the other side of tipsy so no one noticed Riley pick up her coat from the cloak room and hurry out of the building, no one except Lucas that is. 

Lucas finds Zay and asks why he thinks she left. To him it was strange that she’d leave an event dedicated to her so early. Zay offers up no viable answer so in a spur of the moment decision Lucas decides to follow her. 

“Where are you going?” Zay asks as he notices Lucas put on his coat.

“I gotta go see about a girl.” Lucas grins.

Zay rolls his eyes, Lucas was always quoting movies. “You’re going to get fired!” 

“Cover my table!” Lucas says quietly as he’s already halfway out the door. “You owe me!” 

“For what?” Zay scoffs. 

“I don’t, something I imagine!” Lucas laughs. 

Once outside Lucas quickly circles to the front of the building. It’s as he’s jogging that he realises how ridiculous following Riley out like this was, she was probably long gone by now. Lucas reaches the front of the building and looks  down the street in both directions. Then he spots her. She was only a few feet away from the buildings entrance, sat alone on a bench. Lucas pondered even going over there, maybe she didnt leave the event, maybe she just stepped out for some fresh air. After thinking it over in his mind for far too long, Lucas decides to approach the pretty brunette. 

Riley hears someone approaching and is surprised to look up and find the Texan. 

“You’re missing dessert.” Lucas says as he tucks his hands deep into his coat pockets for warmth. “It’s really good. Zay and I snuck one of the spares whilst on a self allocated break.” Lucas chuckles.

“I hope you’re a better veterinarian than you are bus boy.” Riley laughs. “That is if you’re even a real veterinarian.”

“That I am! Kind of.” Lucas chuckles. “But I already explained that.“

Riley nods with a small smile. Lucas takes the initiative to sit at the other end of the bench as Riley’s award was sitting beside her. 

"What about you though?” Lucas raises a brow. “Miss ‘I work for a charity. Real lower tier work’.”

“I do work for a charity.” Riley shrugs.

“You more than work for a charity.” Lucas scoffs lightly.

“Fine.” Riley huffs. “I run a charity. You happy?”

"Are you?” Lucas asks without missing a beat. 

“Excuse me?” Riley’s is surprised and her voice is quiet. 

“You have a sadness to you.” Lucas says sheepishly. “How is it that someone who is so good is so sad? Is it one of those things where you just give too much of yourself away to the world?” Lucas squints. 

“It’s the exact opposite.” Riley huffs. “I can’t do enough.” 

“What?” Lucas narrows his brows. “We were watching the same video about your achievements in there right?” 

“I can’t cure malaria.” Riley says and it feels completely out of place. 

“Now I’m lost?” Lucas laughs nervously. 

“We did this project thing in high school about charities and investment and I said if we used the money we spent on halloween candy we could work towards wiping out malaria.” Riley says. “I get money and I can’t wipe out malaria.” 

“So you can’t stop a blood disease spread by parasites.” Lucas says. “But I’m sure you help try to.” 

“It’s not just malaria though.” Riley sighs. “Malaria just made me realise that even though I had money it doens’t mean I can help people. I can donate money but I cant cure cancer or other life ending diseases.”

“Alright, you can’t cure diseases but your charity work does help further research for people who one day might find the cure.” Lucas says. 

“I have more money than anyone would ever need in their lifetime. Why? Why do I deserve that money?” Riley questions. “I come from a very comfortable upbringing. A nice warm apparent in a good area of New York City, I always had clothes on my back and food on the table and my best friend grew up in a poorer neighbourhood with a leaky roof... Why do I deserve to be given that kind of money and she doesn’t?” 

“Does your friend still live with a leaky roof?” Lucas question. “Did you help her once you could?” 

Riley is quiet and Lucas knew she had.

“Evelyn obviously saw something in you.” Lucas says. 

“What did she see?” Riley asks and she genuinely wants an answer. 

“The possibility of everything you’ve accomplished today.” Lucas says as a matter of fact. “I didn’t even know her and I hardly know you and I’m sure of this. 

Riley just remains quiet again so Lucas asks, "So was Evelyn your family or a friend?"

"No. I mean loved her like family but she was just an eccentric woman I met on the subway whilst I was in middle school."

Lucas pressed a little for Riley to tell him more and eventually she did. Riley explained how she first met Evelyn on the subway and how she wore crazy hats and how Riley grew very close to her over time. In fact, once Riley started opening up to Lucas is was like she couldn't stop. Riley told him all about Evelyn's brain tumour and how confused she's felt ever since her passing.

Lucas asks a few questions but didn’t interrupt too much, he just liked that Riley was getting all this off her chest, she clearly needed to. Riley continues to elaborate on how guilty this money made her feel. How she wished she could just give it all away but then she goes on to explain how she knows that’s irresponsible, for starters she would never want to disrespect Evelyn’s legacy by giving away her company and she also knew that giving away the money so someone else could deal with it meant that no good could come from it so it was just an impossible burden she had to bear. 

“I think the fact that you feel guilty is exactly why you’re a good person.” Lucas finally feels like it’s an okay time to interject. “You have pure intentions and you’ve put a pressure on yourself to do absolutely everything you can to change the world and this isn't necessarily a bad thing but you need to give yourself a break.” 

“Lucas, there a people dying in the world and there are families living on the streets and I’m sitting here in a ridiculously overpriced dress at a ridiculously expensive event-” Riley is too frustrated to even finish her thought. “When I was a teenager I used to think I should be rewarded for being a good person. I’ve literally been given a huge honour and I don’t want it.” 

“One good deed might not be able to change the world and that sucks,” Lucas shifts in place, “but one good deed can change someones life. You have changed so many peoples lives.” 

“But I could do more-” 

“No.” Lucas cuts in. “I never thought I’d be saying this but you have to focus on the little picture... You’re too consumed with saving the world that you don’t take the time to enjoy the things you’re doing to get there. You need to stop focusing on the people you couldn’t help this year and enjoy the smiles of the people you could.” Lucas continues, “There’s this kid in Zay’s program, Maxie, he came from an abusive home and when Zay first met him, Max was ready to call it quits on everything. Zay helped him with his dance and now Maxie’s just got a scholarship to a dance school. Zay never would have been able to do that if you didn’t help with the funding of his program.” 

“Zay did that, not me.” Riley says. 

“You worked out your own pay it forward system.” Lucas says with a smile. “You help people so they can help others.... I mean and you also just help a bunch of people first hand so you’re kind of beating the movie.” He jokes lightly.

“It’s not enough.” Riley says quietly and her gaze is fixated on people passing in the street. 

“What is enough then?” Lucas questions. “When will you consider your efforts enough? 

“Evelyn used to go to the subway to watch people.” Riley says. “She'd sit on a bench and look at the people and she’d think about what she could do for them. Evelyn used to say that other people were the key to your own happiness.” Riley says. “Right before she passed away she told me if I was ever feeling lost I should look to the people for answers. So that’s what I’m doing.” 

“You think that one of these days someone is going to pass you and all the sudden you’ll have the answer to the universe?” Lucas asks and for a moment Riley thought he might be making fun of her but once she notices the genuine expression on his face she drops the thought. 

“Maybe.” Riley shrugs and a sadness lingers.

“You know that saying, you’ve got to love yourself before anyone else can love you?” Lucas asks and Riley nods. “Well I think it’s the same with happiness.”

“Are you saying I have to be happy to make people happy?” Riley asks with a dubious look.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Lucas grins. “Happiness has to be the foundation of doing good.” 

Riley doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, she felt embarrassed so she changes the subject, which Lucas wasn’t oblivious to but he still answers all the questions she asks about his family back home and the clinic he works at here in the city. 

They talk about their plans for Christmas, Riley explains how she was leaving for Philadelphia tomorrow and she’d be having Christmas at her grandparents house. Lucas explains that he Vanessa and Zay were staying in the city, he neglects to share that the reason behind that was a matter of money though. 

Lucas hated that Riley felt this sadness and he wished more than anything that he could take some of it away for her but he knows he shouldn't push a stranger more than he already has. So after their butts get numb from sitting on the bench so long, Riley accepts Lucas’ offer to walk her home. 

As Lucas is walking Riley home a young girl carrying ice skates excitedly runs up to Riley and the girls mother quickly follows. It takes Riley a second but she recognises the face from Vanessa’s kindergarden class. It struck Riley as odd that they were out so late but Riley brushes it off as Christmas traditions for their family or something.

“Mommy, It’s Miss Matthews.” She tugs at her mothers coat. “She read at my school today.”

“I’m sorry, my daughter has a fascination with you.” The mom says. 

“I want to be just like you when I grow up.” The girl beams. 

“You want to write books?” Riley asks with a smile, naturally she assumed that’s what the girl was talking about since that was what she was there doing. 

“No. I want to be a philanthropist.” The girl says struggling to pronounce the big word. 

Riley is completely surprised by her statement. 

“I work for the hotel that the Gala tonight was held at. She heard me talking about how you were being honoured and she’s honestly been obsessed for weeks about being a philanthropist like you.” The mother explains. 

Riley is completely touched by this. So much that she has to fight the urge to cry. Shortly after they part ways with the mother and daughter. Lucas turns to Riley with a cheesy grin. “Okay for a moment lets ignore the thousands of lives you've already changed and lets focus on that one little girl. Because of you, she wants to help people.” Lucas holds Riley’s gaze. “Proof that kindness can inspire kindness.” 

Riley’s smile is small but genuine. 

“I don’t think Evelyn gave you her money because she thought you could change the world with it, I think she gave you the money because she knew you would change the world and not with the money but with your kindness.” 

“Is your third job like motivational speaking or something?” Riley lets out a nervous chuckle and even though she’s sheepish Lucas did make her feel so much better about things. Just talking about it all made her world feel a whole lot lighter. 

Lucas rolls his head forward with a laugh and then settles upright to hold Riley’s gaze again. 

Once outside of Riley’s apartment the two linger around for little longer than necessary before wishing each other a Merry Christmas and parting ways.

❄

Lucas arrives to work the following morning only after a few hours sleep. Once he unlocked the doors to the clinic Lucas notices an envelope at the foot of the door. Something that could have been slid underneath through the crack. Lucas picks it up and notices his name sprawled across the front.

Lucas rests his things down on the reception desk and opens the envelope. Inside are two things; a cheque for fifty thousand dollars and a simple note that reads ‘Get back to the reason why you wanted to become a veterinarian in the first place.’

Lucas stares at in in disbelief for a moment. Then his homeless puppy starts yapping as she knows Lucas is there. Lucas looks at the cheque again for a moment and knits his brows as he has a thought. "Huh." He says aloud.

Lucas pulls out his phone and texts Riley;

If you haven’t left for Philly yet could you swing by the clinic? It's urgent.

Riley replies almost instantly;

Is everything alright??

Lucas texts back;

Yeah everything's fine. Just please come?

Riley;

I'll be there soon.

Sure enough Riley's there within twenty minutes. The bell chimes as Riley enters the clinic. She's greeted by the receptionist Riley didn't know and she explains she's there to see Lucas but before she's even finished her sentence Lucas pokes his head through the examination door and asks Riley to come through.

Riley enters the small room to find the puppy she's come to know sitting on one of the tables inside an open festive box with a pretty red bow tied around her neck.

"She looks lovely today." Riley smiles.

"She has to look cute for her adoption day." Lucas beams.

"You found a family?" Riley asks.

"I did." Lucas nods. "You."

"What?" Riley laughs nervously.

“Come on.” Lucas says with a smile. “She needs a good family and I’m thinking you’re probably the best.”

“I can’t just adopt a puppy.” Riley laughs nervously as she pats the pup. 

“Why not?” Lucas questions. “You dedicate your life to making the lives of others brighter, you should let yourself have some of that light.” 

Riley stares at the puppy sat patiently in the open box so cute and well behaved. “Okay.” She says quietly as she lifts her out of the box and as she does some torn pieces of paper scatter about. “What’s this?” 

“That’s my way of politely rejecting your cheque.” Lucas says with a wide toothed grin.

“You tore it up?” Riley frowns. 

“I can’t accept your money.” Lucas shakes his head. “I won't.” 

"At least let me give you enough to get you back to Texas so you can save and start your own clinic?" Riley pleas.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Lucas asks with a slight smirk.

"I'm trying to help someone who helped me." Riley coaxes her head.

"That's not how paying it forward works." Lucas matches her head tilt.

"Please?" Riley asks.

"No." Lucas laughs.

"What about going home to Texas?" Riley questions.

"Staying in New York seems pretty good right now." Lucas holds her gaze.

Riley bites down on her smile. “I have about twenty-three minutes before I have to leave for Philly but if you weren’t busy maybe we could grab a coffee or a hot chocolate or a beverage or some kind?” Riley is amused as she uses Lucas’ bumbling proposal from the day before.

“I’m at work.” Lucas folds his arms.

“You wouldn’t have to be if you let me write you another cheque.” Riley coaxes her head again.

“Riley!” Lucas scolds with a laugh.

“Kidding!” She giggles.

“For that you can buy the drinks.” Lucas rolls his eyes with a smile. “I’ll take a self allocated break.” He chuckles. “If we hurry we might be able to swing by the pet store while we’re out, pick this little girl up some things.” Lucas pats the puppy Riley’s been clinging to.

“I suppose she’s going to need a name now.” Riley says.

“You’re right.” Lucas nods. “Any ideas?”

“Yeah.” Riley says as holds the puppy up so she can look her in the eyes. With a smiles she says, “I think I’ll call you, Dolly.” She turns to Lucas with a smile, “What do you think?” 

“I think it’s perfect.” He smiles back.

End Notes: I’m so lazy with editing long posts so I hope this is okay!! Lol... I wish I could make everyday of ficmas this long but I just don't have it in me sighhhh!!! 

@siennese sent me a prompt (last ficmas!!) which inspired this; 

I know I took it in a completely different direction but still giving credit to the lady who inspired it!! 

Until tomorrow my friends xxxx

#rucas #rucas au #rucas imagine #rucas fic

[turtle-paced]

Hi!! I read somewhere that Aegon is not really a Targaryen, but some random child that Varys fed this idea to. And I was wondering what do you think about that? Because all babies kind of look the same, and there is no DNA's test on Westeros to know for sure. Could this be true? Your tumblr is amazing btw!

Thank you very much, anon!

Yeah, there’s strong evidence that the Aegon we met in ADWD isn’t the son of Rhaegar Targaryen. He’s not quite what I’d call a random child, though - again, the text thus far suggests he’s from the female line of House Blackfyre. Going to put this under a cut for length.

Let’s start with the story we’re given about Aegon’s parentage and miraculous survival.

“A true friend, our Lord Connington. He must be, to remainso fiercely loyal to the grandson of the king who took his lands andtitles and sent him into exile. A pity about that. Elsewise PrinceRhaegar’s friend might have been on hand when my father sackedKing’s Landing, to save Prince Rhaegar’s precious little son fromgetting his royal brains dashed out against a wall.”

The lad flushed. “That was not me. I told you. That was sometanner’s son from Pisswater Bend whose mother died birthing him.His father sold him to Lord Varys for a jug of Arbor gold. He hadother sons but had never tasted Arbor gold. Varys gave the Pisswaterboy to my lady mother and carried me away.”

“Aye.” Tyrion moved his elephants. “And when the pisswaterprince was safely dead, the eunuch smuggled you across the narrowsea to his fat friend the cheesemonger, who hid you on a poleboat andfound an exile lord willing to call himself your father. It does make fora splendid story, and the singers will make much of your escape onceyou take the Iron Throne …[”]

- Tyrion VI, ADWD

But how do the logistics of this play out, and how do they fit with the characters involved? Varys could probably execute this switch, it’s true. But the thing is, how was Varys to predict ahead of time that Aegon’s head would be destroyed? A lot of babies and young children look alike, but Aegon had the classic Targaryen hair. That hair would be the primary means of identification, in fact. Finding a boy of about the right age with about the right hair is still possible, but far less likely.

Then consider Elia Martell. We know for a fact that she was in the room with Aegon. Did Varys switch the babies with or without her knowledge? If it was done without Elia’s knowledge, that means she didn’t know what her son looked like. This is possible if she left Aegon’s nursing and rearing to others, but contradicts the version Aegon repeats of a direct handover between Varys and Elia. If it was done with her knowledge…

“It was Ser Amory who brought me the girl’s body, if you must know. He foundher hiding under her father’s bed, as if she believed Rhaegar could still protect her. Princess Eliaand the babe were in the nursery a floor below.”

- Tywin to Tyrion, Tyrion VI, ASoS

If this switch was done with Elia’s knowledge, then she sacrificed an infant to protect her son, while at the same time doing absolutely nothing to protect her daughter, not even attempting to find her, hide her, or have others do so, in this dangerous situation.

The inability to verify this story is itself peculiar; Elia could have put all this speculation to rest had she lived. Thing is, though, how did Varys predict she’d be murdered too? There was every reason not to kill her. This might have been the easiest thing to foresee of the lot given Tywin’s own reputation, but it is awfully convenient for anyone putting up a pretender a decade and a half later.

All in all there are a few big holes in the story. The Aegon we meet doesn’t have access to this information, but the reader and Tyrion both have enough to start thinking of some rather pointed questions.

Then there are the prophecies Dany receives.

A clothdragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd.

- Dany IV, ACoK

“Hear me, Daenerys Targaryen. The glass candles are burning. Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun’s son and the mummer’s dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal.“

- Dany II, ADWD

The straightforward interpretation of this is that some mummer’s making a dragon (read: Targaryen) of his own, for use in his own show. Not finding. Making. This is theatre.

As for why I believe Aegon’s Illyrio’s son…

One of the first things Tyrion does in Illyrio’s manse is explore. To explore, he needs clothing.

He foundclean clothes in a cedar chest inlaid with lapis and mother-of-pearl.The clothes had been made for a small boy, he realized as he struggledinto them. The fabrics were rich enough, if a little musty[.]

- Tyrion I, ADWD

How strange that Tyrion should find a boy’s clothing in the supposedly childless Illyrio’s house. Good clothing.

“Tell me,” Tyrion said as he drank, “why should a magister ofPentos give three figs who wears the crown in Westeros? Where is thegain for you in this venture, my lord?”

The fat man dabbed grease from his lips. “I am an old man,grown weary of this world and its treacheries. Is it so strange that Ishould wish to do some good before my days are done, to help a sweetyoung girl regain her birthright?”

- Tyrion II, ADWD

Yes. Yes it is strange. Especially when it’s followed up in short order by this:

“Daenerys was half a child whenshe came to me, yet fairer even than my second wife, so lovely I wastempted to claim her for myself. Such a fearful, furtive thing,however, I knew I should get no joy from coupling with her. Instead Isummoned a bed-warmer and fucked her vigorously until the madnesspassed. If truth be told, I did not think Daenerys would survive forlong amongst the horselords.”

Somehow I do not find Illyrio’s stated motivation very convincing. Nor does Tyrion, who thinks, “There is something in this venture worthmore to you than coin or castles.”

When Tyrion meets up with Haldon and Duck, the first thing out of Illyrio’s mouth is this:

“How fares our lad?”

- Tyrion III, ADWD

Shortly afterwards,

“There is a gift for the boy in one of the chests. Some candiedginger. He was always fond of it.” Illyrio sounded oddly sad. “Ithought I might continue on to Ghoyan Drohe with you. A farewellfeast before you start downriver …”

- Tyrion III, ADWD

Children’s clothes, a boy Illyrio’s fond of and sad about not having the opportunity to see, the exposition about his late, blonde wife Serra…yeah, I think we can tell what’s in the venture for Illyrio.

But speaking of Illyrio’s late wife, whom we see a miniature of:

Illyrio thrust his righthand up his left sleeve and drew out a silver locket. Inside was apainted likeness of a woman with big blue eyes and pale golden hairstreaked by silver.

- Tyrion II, ADWD

Serra was Lysene, Illyrio tells Tyrion. Which is plausible. The better evidence comes from the people providing the armies for Aegon.

In AFFC, we’re introduced to the Golden Company of mercenaries, who are behaving quite out of character over in Essos.

“Are you aware that the Golden Company has broken its contract with Myr?” 

“Sellswords break their contracts all the time.”

“Not the Golden Company. Our word is good as gold has been their boast since the days of Bittersteel. Myr is on the point of war with Lys and Tyrosh. Why break a contract that offeredthem the prospect of good wages and good plunder?”

“Perhaps Lys offered them better wages. Or Tyrosh.”

“No,” she said. “I would believe it of any of the other free companies, yes. Most of them wouldchange sides for half a groat. The Golden Company is different. A brotherhood of exiles and thesons of exiles, united by the dream of Bittersteel. It’s home they want, as much as gold.[”]

- The Soiled Knight, AFFC

Arianne can think of only one reason why the Golden Company would break its word - a Westerosi invasion. Tyrion gives us a more thorough explanation of the Golden Company.

The Golden Company was reputedly the finest of the free companies, founded a century ago by Bittersteel, a bastard son of Aegon the Unworthy. When another of Aegon’s Great Bastards tried to seize the Iron Throne from his trueborn half-brother, Bittersteel joined the revolt. Daemon Blackfyre had perished on the Redgrass Field, however, and his rebellion with him. Those followers of the Black Dragon who survived the battle yet refused to bend the knee fled across the narrow sea, among them Daemon’s younger sons, Bittersteel, and hundreds of landless lords and knights who soon found themselves forced to sell their swords to eat. Some joined the Ragged Standard, some the Second Sons or Maiden’s Men. Bittersteel saw the strength of House Blackfyre scattering to the four winds, so he formed the Golden Company to bind the exiles together.

- Tyrion II, ADWD

Here we have an organisation specifically founded to preserve the Blackfyre cause, then.

On his deathbed, Ser Aegor Rivers hadfamously commanded his men to boil the flesh from his skull, dip it ingold, and carry it before them when they crossed the sea to retakeWesteros. His successors had followed his example.

- The Lost Lord, ADWD

The organisation’s mythos is built around the Blackfyres, and eventually retaking Westeros. So what the hell are they doing supporting Aegon Targaryen? Over and above their existing contracts, no less? Inquiring minds want to know, which again means Tyrion.

“I admire your powers of persuasion,” Tyrion told Illyrio.“How did you convince the Golden Company to take up the cause ofour sweet queen when they have spent so much of their historyfighting against the Targaryens?”

Illyrio brushed away the objection as if it were a fly. “Blackor red, a dragon is still a dragon. When Maelys the Monstrous diedupon the Stepstones, it was the end of the male line of HouseBlackfyre.” The cheesemonger smiled through his forked beard. “AndDaenerys will give the exiles what Bittersteel and the Blackfyresnever could. She will take them home.”

- Tyrion II, ADWD

Oddly specific about the male line of House Blackfyre being extinct, there. And as Illyrio said,

“Some contracts are writin ink, and some in blood. I say no more.”

- Tyrion II, ADWD

Best answer, Aegon’s no Targaryen but a Blackfyre, from the female line.

#ASoIaF #cw: rape #cw: violence #aegon 'vi' targaryen #illyrio mopatis #elia martell #daenerys targaryen #tyrion lannister #backstory #a dance with dragons #speculation #asks