#expressing it in violence channeled into protectiveness because that’s all he understands

[cobrakatharsis]

bloodsport by raleigh ritchie as a lawrusso song from johnny’s pov [literally lying dead on the floor]

[aspoonofsugar]

there was an error in the ask i just sent im not sure if it went through, but please write something about Belle? 🥺 i loved it so much, its so underrated it doesnt get talked about enough

Hello!

Sorry for the late response and do not worry, this is the only ask I have received from you!

I love Belle as well. It is a really original rewriting and a wonderful story in its own right.

It has been a while since I have watched it, so I am not sure my meta will be as deep or as spot on as I would like, but here are my thoughts :D

THE WORLD OF U

"U" means you. The choice of this name for the virtual world the characters enter conveys the double level of reading the story has.

The movie is about the web, social networks, virtual reality and how all these technologies influence one's relationships and behaviours. Tendencies that are already present in real life are extremized because of the web, both in positive and in negative ways. A person can become an idol, while another can become a monster, just as easily.

The movie is about people's interiority. Specifically, U is symbolically Suzu's own self and her journey in the virtual world is a journey through herself.

This is why the story is full of Jungian archetypes aka universal ideas that can be used to describe the human mind.

In order we have:

AS = the persona aka the mask we wear when interacting with others. In Suzu's case, Belle is her ideal self. She is how she would like to appear, in a sense. This is why symbolically she looks like Ruka, a person she envies and admires.

THE BEAST = the shadow. The idea of an inner beast hidden in everyone is a very famous jungian idea that has been used many many many times in movies and literature. Think about Turning Red, for example. In this case, the beast represents Kei's aggressivity that is born from his father's abuse. The Dragon lets Kei convey all the negative feelings and violence he usually represses.

ORIGIN = the self, who you are as a whole, both how you appear and your hidden parts.

U is the inner world, so in it people can either present a perfect persona or show their inner darkness. Suzu wears a beautiful mask, while Kei lashes out violently. They are the Persona and the Shadow, the Beauty and the Beast.

SUZU'S INNER JOURNEY: BEAUTY AND BEAST

Suzu and Kei have experienced similar traumas. They both lost their mother and are grieving because of it. However, they channel their feelings differently and this is why they have opposite AS. On the one hand Suzu becomes Bell, who is U's idol, while Key becomes the Dragon, who is U's monster.

This difference can be found also in the opposite relationship they have with 2 key figures. Suzu has a protector in Shinobu, who tries to get through her and is worried for her. Key instead has Tomo, who needs his protection from their father. Suzu is protected, while Key protects. Their story, then, is simply Suzu growing into an adult that can protect, while Key can finally be recognized as the kid he is and be protected.

At the same time, the whole movie can be seen as Suzu's struggle to grow into herself by overcoming her mother's death. At the root of Suzu's trauma, there is her mother leaving Suzu behind to save another child. Metaphorically, this is Suzu's inner child being left behind by a parent. This makes Suzu closed off, shy and unable to interact with others or to express herself (aka singing).

However, through her relationship with Key, Suzu becomes able to face her own shadow, her own beast, if you want. Consider this scene:

Here, Suzu is writing a song for the Dragon, but the inspiration comes from her own behavior towards Shinobu. She wishes to have a normal relationship with the boy, but she always pushes him away because she doesn't wanna show her own pain. She understands the Dragon is similar to her in this aspect and this is specifically why she wants to get through to him. By doing so she is also getting through to herself, as well.

And this is Beauty and the Beast in a nutshell. Symbolically, the fairy tale can be seen as the Persona (the beauty, the light) and the Shadow (the beast, the darkness) integrating and becoming One (the Self). This is what happens to Suzu thanks to Key. She is able to overcome her own shortcomings, by trying to reach him.

By the end, Suzu is able to finally rescue her inner child. She symbolically overcomes her mother's death and abandonement by understanding her reasons and growing to be like her. Suzu's mom loses her life to save a child, even if it means leaving Suzu behind. Suzu risks hers for Key and Tomo. Firstly, she does so in U and then in the real world. She grows into an adult and by rescuing Key and Tomo she becomes able to metaphorically save and take care of her inner child, of herself as well. This is why in the end Shinobu comments how he does not need to take care of Suzu anymore. She is strong enough to take care of her most vulnerable parts on her own. She needs no guardian anymore.

All of this leads to Suzu self-actualizing. This symbolically happens in the climax, when she chooses to reveal her origin (her true self) to the world. By doing so, she truly becomes her ideal self. This is why her Belle-form is restored by the end of the song. Belle is not a mask anymore, but who Suzu truly is inside. Bell (Suzu). Belle (Beautiful).

THE WORLD OF U: THE POWER OF CONNECTION

Everyone is both the Beauty and the Beast and the internet is where these opposite tendencies emerge. People either try to appear perfect or they feel free to let out all their repressed stress. The web means freedom to reinvent oneself or to let one's own feelings out. This has both positive and negative aspects, obviously. However, what the story emphasizes is that behind the avatars there are still real people. The world of U is beautiful because deep down it remains a human place. In there people's negative tendencies are extremized, but the same goes for the positive traits.

This is conveyed with the motif of the "voice", that keeps coming out here and there. "Lend me your voice", Belle singing and finding her own voice again, the Voices of U that maintain the system, Suzu's classmates' rumor etc...

Rumors and malicious voices are present even in the aftermath of Suzu's mother's death. People keep talking behind Suzu's back on how her mother was selfish to save a child, leaving Suzu behind. Something that clearly hurts Suzu even more.

However, voices and networks also have a positive impact, especially in the climax.

On the one hand it is because of the web and of Suzu's group of friends that Key and Tomo are found and saved. Suzu's community stands beside her the moment she needs them. They were always there for her, but she refused to open up to them. So, it is just fitting that it is ultimately thanks to them and specifically their passions (Ruka's love for music, Kamishin's kayak, Hiroka's computer expertise, etc.), that Suzu is able to locate Tomo and Key and to complete her arc. Even more in general, the 2 kids would never have been saved if it were not for the internet.

On the other hand the "Voices of U" are none, but the users and in the climax they appear as golden spheres restoring Suzu's Belle-form and taking away Justin's sponsors. The message is clear... the people have recognized that Suzu is indeed Belle (beautiful), while Justin is no justice. The web has seen Belle's real self and has realized it is not a mask anymore, hence the final transformation. Justin instead did not let go of his Persona and is consumed by it. The "voices" recognize it and take away all his power, which in the end came simply by people granting it to him.

These are my main thoughts on the movie! In short, it is Beauty and the Beast... with the main theme being about exploring the masks people wear and the shadows they hide... and how the internet brings to an extreme both tendencies.

Thank you very much for the ask!

[shurelyasreverie]

Okay okay, Omen scenario where his on a mission to rescue reader and in the heat of the battle, reader gets shot once(no death pls no angst I cry) to defend him?

I kinda changed the plot up, for some reason I struggled incorporating both a rescue mission and the reader taking a shot for Omen. Hope this is still alright, though!

Omen x Reader Drabble

T/W: Violence, blood

It was silent on the plane as the agents were transported to the target location. Nobody dared speak and nobody dared send a single glance in the direction of Omen. Although his face was unreadable, the way he sat so rigidly in his seat, how his shoulders were hunched showed how close he was to snapping as he dug himself deeper into his own thoughts. He wouldn't even listen to their words of encouragement or advice. They didn't understand what he went through.

Four days ago you joined Omen on a duo mission, only for it to be abruptly cut short with Brimstone ordering an immediate evacuation. The mission was compromised.

He won't ever forget how the two of you sprinted through the hallways of the building, yet somehow trying to keep your footsteps as light as possible to blend in with the background noise and be untraceable by the hostiles that were crawling all over the site. He was so distracted in getting access to the site that even his inhuman senses didn't pick up that an enemy was approaching. It was only when he heard a gunshot from behind, turning around to see you standing, covering his body with your own.

He won't forget that moment, seemingly slow motion as you collapsed to the ground, red liquid pooling on the ground as you writhed in pain. Immediately he shot the gunner down. He was so determined to pick you up, to find a way to escort you out together, but other enemies heard the commotion and he felt the rumble of their footsteps underway as they headed towards you.

He won't ever forget how you feebly pushed him away. How you begged for him to evacuate, to use his abilities to teleport out of the site, leaving you all alone. He had never heard you speak with such conviction before, so he did as you ordered, not wanting to disappoint you. Instead, he disappointed himself at his uselessness, his incompetency as he was unable to protect you. How pathetically ironic, that the one with the strength to save needed saving, purely because he was a distracted fool.

All of the Protocol felt your absence in the four days where they desperately tried to find your location. For who was going to help Killjoy develop and play with her robots? Who was going to listen to Brimstone rant on and on about the “good old days”?

Who was going to keep Omen's chin up when all seemed lost?

Now on the way to a rescue mission, Omen was a ticking time bomb. He didn't need to listen as Brimstone briefed the others on the rescue mission, he already memorised the entire plan. They were letting him lead the charge for once, pick the enemy apart and whittle them one by one.

They already scanned the building for pulses and heat signatures. Secluded underground in the end of the building was a weak pulse, an individual hunched over, their body running colder than all other signatures in the building. Omen knew it was you. It had to be.

It was confirmed when Cypher managed to hack onto some of the security cameras. There, Omen saw your unmistakable figure through the fuzzy black and white footage, clutching your wounded abdomen that was shoddily bandaged, your chest heaving as you struggled to breathe. Even through the heavily pixelated footage he could see how your skin was bruised, how your clothes were still stained with your own blood. A figure off camera was shouting demands at you, demanding all you knew about the Protocol. You remained silent, eyes down at the ground, unresponsive. As they watched the footage, a few agents sent cautious looks in Omen's direction but his expressionless face was as unreadable as ever. What they could pick up on, however, was how the shadows that simulated his muscles pulsated with rage, his whole form rigid as he uses all his self-restraint to not teleport straight to where you were and slaughter anyone who dared hurt you.

Now landing near the site, Omen stood. Silent as death itself, he strapped on whatever tools and weapons he needed. It was only going to be a matter of time until his wrath was unleashed. All the self-loathing, bitterness and fury that had built up over the four days he was separated from you will be channelled onto his enemies. He will tear them all down, ripping them apart with his bare hands if he has to, until he can see you in person again. Until he can feel you wrap your arms around him and beam that smile that seemed to lighten all of headquarters.

Before exiting the plane, he was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. His head snapped to the perpetrator to see Sova, his expression solemn but determined.

“Omen,” he said quietly. “... do what you must to retrieve our friend. Do not hold back.”

He didn't need to be told twice.

[ygreczed-3]

The Red Guard and the Snow Angel

Hank and Connor’s kiss

Hank and Connor fighting

Hank and Connor having good time with Sumo

Connor’s “I’m not going anywhere”

Gavin and Nines : interface

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

They eventually find something in one of the books : Kamski is known to live in a castle, with 7 beautiful angels to serve him. No one knows how to get to Kamski's castle, since the pike is guarded by the darkness war spirit (actually Kamski being the powerful magician he is, sealed the war spirit to the castle, condemning it to the protection of the whole rock he lives on).

On their first attempt getting to the castle, Hank gets injured, and they're forced to retreat to Nestlepeek

Connor stays near Hank as he recovers, and can't help but touch him with noticeable loving attention. Nines sees him but just decides to say nothing, knowing he's too emotionally compromised with Gavin to give his brother a lesson. Gavin is totally oblivious to that, he's just very bad at hiding his concern for Hank (yes ! he is low-key worried for his human comrade).

X

Nines somehow gets to talk calmly with Nines, for the first time since the street fight.

Nines : I just don't understand. You've always been so ambitious, always training to be more powerful, why don't you use this aspiration to channel the power source and thus use it? It doesn't make sense. Gavin : It's… It's just too fucking much to process okay ? This war spirit is in me, I can feel its thirst for blood and violence all day long, and I know I can't control him because I…

Gavin just stops before he can say he's too confused with his own priorities now to have a defined goal he can use to canalize the spirit's energy. He used to know what he wanted to do with his power, but now, he feels a latent part of him wants to use it to protect his partners, Hank, and the two snowy idiots. He's still not ready to admit it outloud and thus, the spirit having no specific goal to unleash its violence, is in fact uncontrollable. 

Nines, who is a bit more honest with himself than our favorite rat, already knows he cares for Gavin more than he should in regard to his given mission, and just feels so useless when Gavin refuses to talk to him. At this point Nines only wants to help him. He looks quietly at Gavin's nape, where the seal of the war spirit is still noticeable and forms a delicate golden scar. The Golem feels a little contradictory about this scar, one part of him being satisfied and proud of the mark he was able to let on Gavin's body, and the other part of him feeling guilty for it.

Nines : I'm sorry for this. You didn't ask for it and now you have to deal with… a war spirit and unwanted killing desires. I sometimes forget you're only human, it's not in your nature to use magic. Gavin : … It's okay. Let's just… stop talking about the spirit, deal ?

Nines remains carefully silent when Gavin offers his hand in a casual manly shake. He knows humans culturally use handshakes to settle an arrangement, and decides to ignore the deep and intimate meaning of this specific gesture in his own culture. Their hands meet, as Nines' skin unwittingly turns white at the contact, but the golem doesn't pay much attention since a human can't interface anyway. Gavin's smug expression shows he's  about to say something but his grin fades away as Nines realizes their mistake : in a flash, he can feel Gavin's doubts about his unsaid desire to protect Nines despite his hatred for golems. Nines isn't sure what passed through the contact and doesn't have a clue on what impression Gavin had about his inner thoughts, or if he even felt or saw something. The human is the first to break the contact. He looks shocked, as he meets Nines' eyes and for a moment, none of them can speak. 

Gavin : The hell was that ?!

Nines is confused too : … I didn't know it would… interfaces only happen between magic creatures… Maybe… the spirit allows you to connect with me.

Gavin : What the… You read my thoughts ? Nines : It's not… mind reading. I caught a diffuse… "impression".  Gavin : … Shit.

Gavin looks suddenly so betrayed. He looks down and sideways, taking a few steps away, hands on his neck as if he was trying to hide his head between his arms. When Nines tries to get closer, he almost jumps away.

Gavin : Don't- Fuck it, don't… touch me. Nines : I'm sorry, I didn't mean to probe you. Gavin : What exactly did you… hear or whatever? Nines : … I think… I have an answer for why you can't use the spirit's violent spree. Gavin : Fuck you, that was private ! Did you search for it you fucking asshole ? Nines : Like I said, I didn't mean to interface with you ! You too must have seen something from me so stop being a child. Gavin : I didn't-

Nines waits patiently for the end of the sentence but it never comes, as some realization seems to dawn on the human warrior.

Gavin : That nice fluttering in the stomach, when we held hands, actually it was you ?

And for once, Nines is the one to remain silent, his face even but internally too embarrassed to answer the question. No wonder this sensation passed through the connection. For the few seconds their hands touched, Nines was, in a Golem way, experiencing a gesture akin to a kiss, of course he was kind of "emotionally impacted".

Nines : … As I said… let's not embarrass ourselves any further.

And at that exact moment, Gavin realizes that Nines likes him… more than a partner, more than a friend.

X

In their room, Connor is holding Hank's hand. 

Hank : So, what should we do ? Connor : I didn't think about it yet. I wanted to be here when you wake up. Hank : ...I still have three days of bed rest at the very least… Are you sure you want to lose all this time when we're so close to the goal ? I mean, we already went through the desert, you don't need me anymore. Connor : Of course I need you, Hank. Hank : Ahaha… It's nice to go easy on me like this but you don't have to- Connor : You have to trust me, when I say I need you. It's not because I think you can help me go faster or even because I think you can help me cross a specific territory. I just… need you because you mean something to me.

Hank stays quiet but tightens his hand around Connor's, looking down right at them, his large, calloused fingers embracing the golem's white and slender ones. A long and deep look into Connor's golden brown eyes tells him there is more into this already meaningful gesture than he might think.

Connor breaks the eye-contact, and Hank realizes how intense the moment was : Connor's eyes inexplicably make him feel comfortable, as if he was floating in a warm air bubble, and he instantly misses the feeling when Connor stops mirroring his gaze to look down at their hands.

Connor : You know… There is this ultimate quest upon us, something we have to achieve to save our people… And this goal governed us like it was the only thing that mattered… Maybe I'm being a selfish brat, but Hank you're so important to me, I don't want you to be injured or killed in all this. Hank : You're important to me too, Connor.  (And then Hank laughs, giving in to his stupid and unwanted feelings.) Actually, you probably couldn't even understand how much you mean to me.

When Connor meets his gaze with a puzzled expression on his face, Hank decides he has to tell him. If anything, Connor could still change his mind and keep going without him, and then Hank will be able to finally move on. He's too fucking old to pine for a pretty boy, and if it's gotta be painful then he wants it the sooner the better.

Hank : I… recently started to develop… indecent feelings… Connor, purposely obtuse: "Indecent" ? Hank : I mean... in a… hum… romantic way. Come on kid, don't make me say it. Connor : Why would "romantic" be "indecent" ? Hank : Dunno, I'm old and pathetic, you're young and cute, sounds indecent to me. Connor : Hank… I love you too. Hank : ...You, huh... Sorry what ? Connor : I mean every single word in this sentence, Hank, I really do. Hank : … Oh. 

Connor chuckles at Hank's blank expression, as his poor brain processes the information with unprecedented difficulty. And as Hank starts moving again, his brows frowning and his mouth forming an "o" like he was gonna say "why ?!", Connor just leans towards him and brushes his beard with his lips before meeting his mouth, softly.

And god, they love it. Hank leans forward to deepen the kiss, Connor catches his beard, his fingers following the edges of his chiseled jaw until they reach his neck and nestle around it.

And it's a weird sensation to Hank because he used to know what was hot passion and what was tenderness, and at this very moment, he could feel both in Connor's grip, burning fire and smooth touches at the same time. That's it, love, love everywhere.

They separate because the older man needs to breathe and hopefully, Connor remembered it because Hank was just gonna kiss him until he falls unconscious. 

Hank : Am I dead ? Connor : You're thankfully alive and safe, but you need rest. Stay calm. Hank : I can't  believe it… i'm… almost scared of falling asleep and realize you're gone when I wake up. Connor smiles smugly at this : he takes Hank's hand in his own, kisses the palm softly, his deep dark eyes locked on Hank's.  Connor : Sleep tight. I'm not going anywhere.

X

So, as soon as Hank can walk again, the party goes back to Kamski's peek.

Hank : I feel better but I admit that I don't think I'm able to fight anything right now. Maybe we can find another way ? Gavin : Humans and Golems can't beat a war spirit. But, huh… a war spirit could do. Nines : … Is that you you're talking about? Gavin : 'Know another war spirit around here ? Nines : But you… you can't control it… I mean, you're obviously facing a dilemma with your own motivations right now. I don't think you should endanger yourself in this state… Hank : What dilemma ? Gavin : Not your business. It's fine, I just need… I just need to meditate a little bit more. Connor : We don't need much more than a distraction just a moment until we reach the castle. There we'll activate the seal and it should stunt the spirit for some time. Nines : I'm not letting him go alone. Gavin : Still don't trust me, snow man ? Nines : I'm concerned for your well being. I wanna help. Hank : Well then we can do that. Nines and Gavin take care of the spirit and Connor, we get to the castle as fast as we can. You're good ? Connor : … Yeah, that sounds good. I just need to talk with Nines. In private.

Hank and Gavin just look at each other, surprised, but then they leave the brothers for their serious talk.

X

Connor : What was that ? "I'm concerned for you well being" ? Gavin is right, only a war spirit can compete with a war spirit… even if we wanted to, we couldn't help. Nines : Gavin can't control his spirit. I saw it when we interfaced, he truly can't, no matter how much he meditates, as long as he will have this dilemma, he can't make it. Connor : Wait what ?! Interfaced ? How ? Nines : Guess the spirit makes him sensible to magic connections. Connor : What's the deal ? Why can't he control it yet ? He's strong enough, and for what I know, ambitious enough, so it's only a matter of… Nines : He's confused. He grew fond of us, and he knows we're basically enemies. We're all being reckless, he's the only one to keep this truth in mind; if we can't reach Kamski, or if he refuses to help us, we'll have to go back to the war we left, go back to kill each other. He can't resign himself to accept his attachment to us if we're going to be his enemies again. Connor : … Do you think he can make it ? Against the darkness war spirit ? Nines : I don't. That's why he needs me there. If the thunder spirit takes control of his body, I'll be there to hit the seal in his neck. Connor : Oh Nines… You love him, don't  you? Nines : … We're selfish and weak, Con. This mission… our whole kind is waiting for us to succeed. And we're threatening this long awaited deliverance because we fell for humans…  Connor : ...That's why we can't fail. I understand you're worried but maybe… Maybe that's the reason why Gavin wants to try : he knows we can't fail now.

X

In the final act, Gavin and Nines get ready to fight with the war spirit, while Hank and Connor plan on reaching the castle as fast as they can, and find Kamski.

Gavin and Nines are hiding near the war spirit.

Nines : … Are you ready ? Gavin : I don't really have a choice there.

Gavin breathes deeply and steadily, to focus and calm down before entering the arena.

Nines : I'll be flying right behind you, okay ? It's factually stronger than me, so I have to maintain minimal distance with it, but I'll be ready to hit your seal when you need  me to, and help you run away if you're in a bad state.  Gavin scoffs : Thanks Snowman, I feel so confident right now, with you believing in me like this. Nines : … Sorry I just… worry. Gavin : Look, I was right, at that time, I couldn't do it and I was totally right. But today I… I'll do it. And I want to prove it to you. 

In front of Nines' incredulous stare, Gavin offers his hand : Nines narrows his eyes as he detects static electricity all around his fingers, as if his spirit was already eager to fight.

Nines : … Do you know what it means to us, Golems ? Interfacing with someone ? Gavin : Enlighten me, snow man. Nines : ...I'll tell you if we survive this fight. Gavin : Huh… fair enough. Now, take my hand, I'll show you.

Nines gulps nervously and reaches for Gavin's hand, his own fingers turning white as he gets closer to the human's warm skin.

And he can feel everything. It's a lot less blurry and chaotic than the first time, as somehow Nines' first sensation is Gavin's serenity about sharing his deep feelings. He catches a volatile thought that flies through the human mind, saying in a flippant tone "we might die, no need to get embarrassed", and smiles at it. Interfacing with Gavin is very special for some reason : Nines had interfaced with other Golems before but it was never so vibrant, so intense. "Maybe that's because we're about to die" he feels, and for a moment he wonders if that comes from him or from Gavin. Nines feels like Gavin is an extension of himself at that very moment. Suddenly, the realization he's gonna fight against a gigantic, ancient war spirit dawns on him. He feels scared, sure but somehow, confident as well. He can do it. He will do it now, because if he fails, he'd give up on his people in Detroit, his friends Hank and (surprisingly) Connor. He would give up on Nines and he's not ready to. He used to fear that he was making friends with an enemy… That they'd have to separate at some point, and go back to where they belonged, Detroit and Jericho. But if Gavin fails now, Detroit and Jericho are doomed. He used to fear that death was preying upon him… now he fears that his team could die. That Nines could…

If he fails now, Nines and he will be dead, and that is much more scary than befriending a Golem.

Nines frowns as he feels Gavin's hand twitching in his, as if he was about to draw it back. He wants to stay connected, he wants to melt into Gavin's mind, because he feels so scared right now.

All he can catch is a glimpse of something that sounds like "I have found some higher purpose in life than my own existence", before Gavin breaks the contact.

When Nines opens his eyes again, they're wet and his breath is short. Gavin too, seems a bit shaken up by the interface.

Nines wonders what exactly the human saw/felt/heard from him and feels very self conscious for a floating second. He wants to kiss the human, he can feel it in his vein, the fire of love rushing, burning his cold body. Gavin must have felt it through the interface… and somehow, Nines wonders if he knows. He doesn't seem shocked or… disgusted. 

Gavin : You okay ? Nines : Yeah… I'm ready to go.

Gavin exhales sharply : Alright, let's do this.

Nines : I've got your back. Everything will be alright.

So they get out of their hiding spot and as Nines takes off, Gavin summons the thunder spirit.

X

We then follow Hank and Connor, who are climbing up the rocky column at the top of which Kamski established his castle. Actually, Hank climbs it and Connor flies around to help him find the safe grips. 

They're constantly attacked by monsters with long members (parts of the war spirit), and can't fight them all back. They decide to run forward, and they finally reach a huge grid in a tunnel : Connor can pass between two bars, but Hank can't. Behind them, the monsters are getting closer.

Hank : Run before they catch us up ! Connor : Wait, there must be a way for you- Hank : I'm sure there must be, Connor, but we won't find the solution in the next few minutes we have. You have to keep going without me. Connor : What are you gonna do ? They're gonna outnumber you, and… and you're still healing from the last injury--- Hank : You have to find Kamski ! He must know how to stop those monsters, and the war spirit out there. He can help us ! Connor : … Yeah, right.

Connor puts his hands on the floor and ice columns grow up from the ground, keeping Hank in a safe space. When the man looks back at Connor with tenderness and gratitude, Connor kisses him through the bars.

Connor : The ice won't last long but it can buy you some time… Hank I… I love you. Don't let me down. Hank : I swear. Now, run, and don't look back.

Connor nods and starts running to the castle, as the monsters start to attack ferociously the ice cage Connor created. Hank knows it's not gonna last much longer, and that he'll have to fight. He prays to be able to see Connor again.

[wingsofkpop]

Hiraeth - I.X: Was it Worth it in the End? Part One

pairing(s): Hybrid!Im Jaebeom x Reader, Witch!Mark Tuan x Reader, Werewolf!Jackson Wang x Reader, Vampire!Park Jinyoung x Reader, Supernatural!Got7 x Reader

genre: Supernatual!AU, Dark Magic!AU, very heavy Angst, eventual Smut

warnings: Mature language, violence, explicit descriptions of fighting, blood and gore, mentions of death and murder, mentions of trauma, some satanic themes, etc.

word count: 7,1k

synopsis: How far are you willing to go to find out the truth about Moon Dye Bay?…

chapter directory

A/N: It’s finally here! Thank you all for your patience and support! Please enjoy! 

“—this plan is fucking insane!” 

“You said anywhere was better than the mansion!” 

“That was before I knew you were claiming sanctuary with the very people that sent Teenage Chewbacca to maul Jinyoung and I!” 

“It was Minho who turned Changbin! How many goddamn times do I have to say that to get it through your thick skull!?” 

The incessant bickering of the two voices gradually lifts Jinyoung from his slumber, reintroducing his mind to the workings of reality. He flutters his eyes open, surprised at the lack of light, and forces himself to sit up. At his sudden movement, his head roars with pain, sending a dizzy spell through his limbs. He manages to swallow the temporary vertigo and keep upright, quickly realizing his current position in the backseat of a car. 

“Jinyoung?... Oh thank god—he’s awake.” 

“It’s about fucking time.” 

“(Y/N)? Jaebeom-hyung?” Jinyoung squints, attempting to map out your and his brother’s silhouettes through the blackness. He manages to pinpoint the annoyed glare of the latter in the passenger seat, thus concluding that you are probably driving. “What happened? How did I get here?” 

“While you were taking a snooze, that fucking superwolf broke into our home and nearly ripped my throat out.” Jaebeom snorts, “Of course, not until after he impaled me with my own landscaping.” 

“I managed to stake him before he hurt Jaebeom.” You pipe in, “But we don’t think it killed him—only slowed him down long enough to let us get away.” 

Jinyoung shakes his head in both confusion and shock, immediately regretting the decision when his brain pounds like a bass drum. He allows himself a moment to pass the ache before cautiously speaking, “And… where exactly are we going?” 

“Yeah, Wonder Woman. Why don’t you tell my brother where your brilliant idea for refuge is?” 

Jinyoung can feel the intensity of your glare from the back seat. 

“I’m taking us to the wolf pack.” You murmur softly, “If anyone has a chance of talking Changbin down, it will be his own people.” 

“And as I was explaining to our dear (Y/N), the wolf pack also has a pretty large bounty over our heads.” Jinyoung hears Jaebeom release a heavy sigh before leaning back in his seat, “We’ll be attacked the moment we step foot out of this car.” 

“Would you stop being so damn paranoid?” Your frustrated demand echoes throughout the car, “Not everyone is out to kill you—”

“I’ve made a lot of enemies over the centuries, little dove… Killed a lot of people—pissed off even more.” 

“Maybe, but I know you didn’t kill Jackson Wang.” 

The car grows dead silent minus the heavy breathing of who Jinyoung assumes to be his hybrid companion. He tries to make out Jaebeom’s expression, but it’s too dark. His imagination will have to do. 

“Everyone says you did, but I know there’s more to the truth.” You say, “I may not know what exactly happened, but Jackson’s death wasn’t your fault—either of your faults.” 

“And how exactly do you know this?” 

“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that the pack is our only viable option at the moment, and I need you to trust me on this.” 

Jaebeom sighs, “Good God—this is not happening.”

“I trust her.” Jinyoung answers without hesitation, reaching across the council to lay a hand on the hybrid’s shoulder. “We have no reason not to, hyung.” 

“And why the hell not?” To his dismay, Jaebeom shrugs away from Jinyoung’s touch. “Give me one good reason why I should trust you with my life.” 

“Because I could have let Changbin kill you… but I didn’t.” 

Jaebeom grows silent again. And although no words are said, Jinyoung knows—and knows that you know—that the conversation ended in your favor. Jaebeom may be a paranoid, narcissistic sociopath, but even he is capable of hope in the darkest of moments. 

A sudden gasp disrupts the hushed atmosphere, resonating from beside Jinyoung a mere foot away. For the first time, he notices a third body propped in the seat next to him. The figure writhes and releases a set of whimpers before growing still once again. 

“We have another issue.” Jaebeom murmurs darkly, “Changbin bit Tzuyu during our fight, and when I tried to heal her with my blood… it didn’t work.” 

Jinyoung raises an eyebrow, “What do you mean it didn’t work?” 

“Minho transformed Changbin into a weapon that would have the power to kill you and Jaebeom—the only two invincible beings in existence.” Your explanation causes Jinyoung’s heart to sink, “His venom can’t be cured by Jaebeom’s blood, so…” 

“So Tzuyu is going to die unless we find a cure.” Jaebeom finishes with a hum, “We better get to it fast cause the hallucinations are already starting.” 

“The pack will help us.” You affirm. “I know they will.” 

Jinyoung truly hopes that your confidence is well placed. Afterall, it is his, Jaebeom and Tzuyu’s lives all on the line. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“I don’t think I’ll be able to do this.” Mark stresses, flipping through the grimoire with enough force to tear the pages. “This spell needs a lot of power—” 

“Can’t you do what Youngjae does and channel something? Like a celestial event?” 

Mark shakes his head. “Even that won’t be enough. I would have to channel the power unnaturally… through black magic.” 

“It’s only one spell—what harm could it do?” 

“Black magic is dark magic, Jack.” Mark directly addresses his werewolf companion, shaking his head even more feverishly. “It’s unpredictable… We could offset the balance of nature and—” 

“I don’t give a shit about the balance of nature, Mark!” Jackson cuts in, “This may be our one and only chance to get rid of the Primes—to protect our town and the ones we love… Don’t you think that’s a little more important than upsetting the magic gods?...”

“You don’t understand—magic always comes with a price.” Mark says darkly, “I can’t trust what will happen if I use black magic… For fucksake, Jackson—I could kill you.” 

Jackson places his hands on Mark’s shoulders, staring deep into the witch’s eyes. “I trust you with my life, Mark… and I know you won’t let me down.” 

Mark debates with himself, attempting to find a solution past the chaos of his thoughts. His gut tells him it's a bad idea, but Jackson, his best friend, is telling him otherwise. He’s right—it is only one spell—and like he said, Jackson trusts him… 

Mark just has to trust himself too. 

“Alright.” He finally nods, “I won’t let you down… I promise.” 

“Mark-hyung—Mark!” 

At the call of his name, Mark’s mind springs from unconsciousness. His eyes snap open, discovering multiple familiar faces staring down at him. He releases a pained groan, just now recognizing the ache running through his entire body, before murmuring softly: 

“What… happened?”

“How much do you remember?” 

Mark attempts to pilfer through his memories, recalling his argument with Minho that resulted in the theft of his magic and the moments thereafter where said witch transformed Changbin into a super werewolf. He closes his eyes shut and leans back with a huff. 

“How long have I been out?” 

Youngjae hums, “At least a couple hours. Minho locked us in the old crypt after you passed out, so we really don’t have any sense of time.” 

“Sounds fucking fantastic.” With a deep moan, Mark forces himself into a sitting position. His spine wails at the movement, but he pays it no mind and instead stretches his arms over his head in an attempt to work out the knots in his bones. He also takes the time to survey his surroundings, discovering, just as Youngjae said, to be inside the dingy, crumbling underground cavern beneath the mausoleum. He can’t remember the last time he’s been down here—how ironic. 

“I’m guessing Changbin made a beeline for the Project Estate?”

“Didn’t even hesitate.” Youngjae answers, “You don’t think he got them… do you?” 

“I honestly could care less about the Primes right now.” With Youngjae’s help, Mark manages to push himself to his feet before finding purchase against a stone pillar. He takes a second to catch his breath, then continues, “There’s an exit down here that leads into a bunch of old tunnels underneath the graveyard. If we can find it, there’s a chance we might—” 

“I wouldn’t think about it, hyung.” Mark’s suggestion dies on his tongue as his favorite witch emerges from a dark corner. Beside him, Youngjae releases a surprised gasp while seeming to shrink in on himself. Mark, on the other hand, doesn’t budge. 

“Enjoying this villain complex a little too much, don’t you think?” 

“You don’t seem very happy with me, Mark-hyung…” Minho smirks.

“Okay—you’ve had your damn fun.” Mark sneers, “Let us all go before I really start to get pissed.” 

“Like you can do anything about it anyway, without any magic and all—” The witch wiggles his finger in which the ancient ring still rests. “—and don’t worry. Once the blood moon fully passes, you’re all free to leave.” 

“You’re a real fucking psycho, you know that? You really think Changbin is gonna manage to kill both Jaebeom and Jinyoung by himself?” 

“I could care less if he does.”

Mark’s eyes narrow, “Why are you keeping us down here? What else could you possibly want?” 

“Well, I want to make you suffer as much as possible… but that was already kind of obvious, don’t you think?” 

“I’m serious, Minho!” Mark’s hiss echoes between the stone walls of the crypt, bouncing back in his ears like a record on repeat. “Why go to all this trouble to kill the Primes? To mess with me? Are you really that desperate for revenge? That you’d hurt your own people trying to get it?” 

Minho shakes his head with a growl, “You all made it very clear that I was never a part of this coven.” 

“That is such bullshit!” Mark peers over his shoulder to find Lia emerging from another part of the cavern, followed closely by a quivering, wild-eyed Jisung. “You just never got over the fact that we chose Mark as coven leader—not you!” 

“At least I could have kept Nayeon alive!” 

“Nayeon’s death wasn’t Mark’s fault! It wasn’t any of our faults!” Lia screams, “Why are you so strung up about this anyway!?”

“Because I loved her!” The atmosphere grows strangely tense at the young witch’s confession, effectively forming the beginnings of a large lump in Mark’s throat. That mass only grows as Minho continues on, “She was the only one who understood me! She believed in me when no one else would!” 

Through the corner of his eye, Mark can see the same shock and pain spreading along Youngjae’s features as his own, as well as Jisung’s. 

Lia’s expression, however, does not change. “I think you forget that all of us loved Nayeon—all of us are still grieving. It’s not just you.” 

“You don’t understand—” 

“Then make us understand for crying out loud!” Lia exclaims while throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “You go on about all this bullshit that we never try to include you, when it’s you who never tries—it’s you who always pushes us away!

“We’re supposed to be a team—a family… We are all that’s left of this coven, and look at us now.” 

Minho remains silent. 

A single tear cascades down Lia’s cheek as she shakes her head. “Nayeon-unnie would be so disappointed… in all of us.” 

At her words, Mark feels his heart practically sink into his stomach. He notices the blank expression etched across Minho’s face, wondering what could possibly be going through the young witch’s mind. For a moment, he has hope that Lia’s speech actually knocked some sense into him—that he’ll actually make amends and set them free. 

But alas… he speaks too soon. 

“Apné sà mene…” Mark immediately recognizes the incantation for a boundary spell, attempting to hurry toward the doorway in which Minho retreated towards. His chest smacks into an invisible barrier, sending his body sprawling back to the crypt floor. Both Youngjae and Lia rush to his side to help him back to his feet—a new pain lingering in his side. 

He glares at the retreating witch with all his might. 

“You’re gonna regret this.” 

“Not as much as I regret ever looking up to you.” Minho waves his hand one final time, making sure to flash his ring, before disappearing up the staircase that leads out of the crypt. With a bitter taste in his mouth, Mark watches as he goes, continuing to do so until he hears the familiar sound of a closing door. 

He turns to the trio. “Any chance one of you can break the boundary spell?” 

“I might be able to siphon enough power from Lia and Jisung to take it down—” Youngjae shakes his head, “—but it will only be temporary. Maybe ten seconds or less?” 

“That’s better than nothing.” Mark nods, “When Youngjae breaks it open, you guys will go through the passageways and head to the Wang Cabin to warn the wolf pack—” 

“No.” Lia interrupts his explanation, “Minho will be able to sense our magical energy the minute we step foot out of the boundary. You, however, do not have any magic at the moment.” 

“You need to warn the pack, hyung.” Youngjae agrees with a nod, “You’re the only one that can get out undetected.” 

Mark feverishly shakes his head, “There’s no fucking way I’m leaving you three here. It’s not happening—”

“Don’t worry about us.” Lia says, “I have a plan to stop both Minho and Changbin.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Minho bound Changbin’s power to his own in order to complete the transformation.” She explains, pointing up toward the ceiling. “Once the blood moon is over, Minho will no longer have the power to uphold the spell, so Changbin will no longer be able to remain in his enhanced form, which means…” 

“Which means we have to stop the spell before the night ends.” Mark breathes, “Okay… How do we do that?” 

“Youngjae can siphon Minho’s magic which should give us enough power to counteract the spell completely… that is, if we can get close enough.” 

“Once Mark-hyung warns the pack, we’ll have more than enough backup to take him down.” Youngjae adds, “We need to do this now, before he comes back.” 

Mark shakes his head again, “I don’t know about this—”

“We can do this. Trust us, Mark.” 

Lia’s determined gaze strikes a chord deep within Mark’s chest. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so serious and resolute… 

He’s never seen her look so much like a leader. 

“Fine.” He reluctantly agrees, “Let’s do it.”  

“Lia? Jisung?” At Youngjae’s call, both of the younger witches offer their hands for the siphoner to take. His own hands glow as he begins the counter incantation, gesturing for Mark to make his move with a nod of his head. Mark does as requested, carefully sliding past a crack in a nearby pillar to enter the secret passageway. 

He spares one final glance at his coven mates, admiring the fierce passion along each of their features, before turning into the tunnel and becoming one with the shadows of the night.

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Sometimes you forget life even existed before your time in Moon Dye Bay. Maybe it’s a result of your newfound interest in supernatural existence, or possibly due to the close relationships you’ve made throughout your stay. In the entirety of your time of living, you’ve never once called anywhere home, and while you still refuse to commit yourself to such a description, you can’t deny that this strange, little town has come pretty damn close. 

Before you moved to Moon Dye, you lived in Chicago for about a year while finishing up your graduate work. Not quite in the city, but in a borderline rundown suburbia on the outskirts. There, you rented a decent condo for dirt cheap and found a well-paying, easy office job right down the street. It was every college student's greatest dream—until it wasn’t. 

To this day, your mind still doesn’t recall the event as vividly as it should. Probably in an effort to ease the underlying trauma and fear. Even so, you don’t like to think back on it too much… Who would—when you’re the only survivor in a massacre of dozens of innocent people? 

But even so, if it weren’t for that day, you would never have ended up in Moon Dye Bay… nor learned that fairy tale creatures aren’t quite fictional afterall. 

You push the thought away to focus on pulling into the nonexistent driveway. The passenger beside you releases a rather loud groan as the car rocks back and forth, but you choose not to comment on his obvious distaste of your driving. You’re too exhausted… and frankly, you just don’t care at this point. 

“You guys stay in the car.” You say while killing the engine and shrugging off your seatbelt, “I should talk to them first just in case, so try not to get yourselves in any more trouble while I’m gone.” 

Jaebeom clicks his tongue, “Says the one who can’t seem to go one day without being attacked.” 

“Hyung—” Jinyoung goes to scold his brother, but your voice beats him to it. 

“Last I checked, it was your girlfriend, your proxy vampire minion, and, surprise, surprise, you who have all tried to turn me into a human blood bag.” You exit the car before throwing one final glare at the hybrid, “Keep treating me like some sort of liability, and the next time someone tries to kill your pompous ass, I won’t be so kind as to save your fucking life.” 

With that, you shove the vehicle door shut with a little more force than necessary and storm toward the cabin, attempting to push the annoyance from mind. You wouldn’t usually waste your breath on something like Jaebeom’s pettiness, but with the combination of the stress of the current situation and fear for everyone’s lives at stakes, you really don’t want to deal with the hybrid’s need to make you feel like the dumbest person on the planet. 

You eventually reach the front door, lifting a hand to knock at the wooden surface. The ominous silence of the nighttime tugs at your nerves as you wait—hopefully one of the wolves is actually up at this hour… maybe you should have called beforehand? 

As each minute passes, your patience grows thinner and thinner. Even after another series of rather obnoxious knocks, no one opens the door. You debate returning to the car and discussing a Plan B with your undead squad, but decide to check the backyard first. Maybe the pack is having some sort of late night bonfire…? 

You carefully navigate your way around the cabin, using the light of your cellphone as a guide through the darkness. Minus catching your toe on a loose board in the decking, you manage to make it to the back of the cabin unscathed. However, the sight that you find is definitely far from that of the bonfire: 

From what little you can see, the yard is completely trashed. Picnic tables lay in splintered halves while other pieces of furniture are either smashed to smithereens or tossed to the side. Even Dahyun’s clothesline is no longer standing, and is instead strewn carelessly across the grass along with its collection of unfolded laundry. A particular sweatshirt catches your attention, appearing somewhat dirty in the minimal light. Once you’re close enough, you take the garment in your own two hands to better identify the mysterious stains… and you almost wish you hadn’t seen it in the first place when the realization settles in your head: 

A large splotch of fresh blood is decorated across the fabric like an unfinished painting.  

“Shit…” You curse, searching the area for any other possible clues of the pack’s whereabouts. Near the edge of the pond, you discover what seems to be an array of footprints in the mud, leading into the black of the quiet forest. There are multiple sets, you find, and you hope they all belong to the werewolves in question… 

You know you should return to the car and report your findings to Jaebeom and Jinyoung, but something in your gut tells you that someone is in trouble. 

Before you can dwell on the cons, you push forward into the woods, following the muddy footprints as best as you possibly can. Between pushing away mischievous branches and stepping over lazy logs, you’re almost reminded of the path you traversed before you met with Mina… You can only hope the events that follow this time aren’t as horrific. 

“Yugyeom!...” You call softly, trying not to mistake each tree trunk as the silhouette of a person. “Bang Chan!... Anyone out here!?...” 

The screech of the nightly breeze is your response. You eventually lose the footprint trail, unable to base your path off of anything but intuition. Your desire to turn back is strong, but you’ve come this far… and you doubt you’ll even be able to find your way back to the cabin at this point. 

Your body tenses as a high-pitched wail enters your ears—a wail that sounds oddly similar to that of a human. Against the siren in your head screaming red flags, you head in the direction in which the noise came from. The silence pesters you as you go, practically electrifying your nerves from the inside out. 

Out of nowhere, your foot catches some kind of large branch or rock, sending your body sprawling toward the earth with a loud gasp. You manage to break your fall with your arms, ignoring the gentle ache in your wrists, and scramble to grab the phone you dropped on the way down. Your anxiety is practically through the roof by the time the device is back in your grasp, but you muster up the courage and move to continue your search. However, the reveal of something that looks oddly like a human limb freezes your muscles. 

It wasn’t a branch you tripped over… it was a leg. 

“(Y/N)...” 

It takes you a moment to identify the voice between the shock and fear, but all at once, your uneasiness shifts to concern. 

“D… Dahyun!?” 

After moving your light for a better view, you discover the female wolf slumped against a tree and covered head to toe in what seems to be a combination of blood and sticky mud. Her clothes are practically stained crimson, which you quickly realize is the result of the large jagged rock protruding from her abdomen. 

“Holy shit… What happened to you?” You drop to her level to better assess her condition. There are more wounds embedded across her arms and chest—wounds that resemble claw marks…  

“It was Changbin…” Your heart practically plummets to your stomach at her revelation. Dahyun pauses to cough—a couple projectiles of blood spewing from her lips—before continuing, “He attacked the pack… but he—he was different… Super strong and super fast and—and… It’s almost like he was—”

“Upgraded.” You finish, “Minho transformed Changbin into a weapon to kill Jaebeom and Jinyoung—the same spell Mark tried to use on Jackson.” 

“It was more than that, (Y/N)...” She shakes her head, “Changbin wasn’t… wasn’t like himself…” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He was a monster…” You allow the wolf to grab your hand, ignoring the sticky feel of her blood against your skin. “I don’t—I don’t even know if anyone else is still alive… I don’t—I mean, I can’t—” 

“Shhh.” You hum gently, reaching up to push away the hair melded to her sweaty forehead. Dahyun somewhat calms at your touch, but just from the wild expression along her features, you can tell the poor girl is scared out of her fucking mind. 

“We’ll deal with that later, but right now, I need to get you out of here—”

You don’t have the chance to finish your sentence before she’s practically lurching away from you. 

“No! You’re the one who needs to leave!” 

“Dahyun—”

“He will kill you, (Y/N)!” She hiccups, “You need to run before he finds you!”

“I’m not just going to leave you here to bleed out—”

“She’s right.” You whirl around at the new voice, and to your surprise, discover a disheveled Yugyeom emerging from the darkness. Similar to the female wolf, gaping claw-marks decorate his face, chest and lower abdomen. His arm also seems to be broken and his knee badly dislocated—you can almost see the bone peeking out of his skin. 

You hurry to catch the wolf before he collapses, carefully lowering him to lean against the same tree Dahyun is propped against. A pained wheeze passes his lips, but his expression remains as stoic and as determined as ever. 

“If you care about your life, then you’ll run.” 

“And if I care about yours and Dahyun’s lives?” 

“We’re already as good as dead.” 

“No—” You shake your head feverishly, “—I refuse to let you throw yourself to the big bad wolf like some fucking martyr, so you either start moving or I’ll drag you by the skin of your teeth.” 

Yugyeom’s expression softens. “You sound like Jackson-hyung…”

If it were any other situation, you would have allowed yourself the time to respond to the newcomer’s comparison… but you’d rather not stay and risk the chance of encountering any more surprises. 

“C’mon.” You carefully throw Dahyun’s arm over your shoulder, mindful not to push the rock deeper into her abdomen. Once you’re sure she won’t buckle back to the forest floor, you offer your free hand to the third party. “None of us are dying tonight.” 

A familiar, malicious chuckle has your limbs growing numb.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Like a creature of the night, a smirking Changbin saunters into view. His clothes are torn and tarnished with blood, yet there’s no trace of injury along his skin. With the little light you have, you can just barely make out the black veins decorating underneath his eyes—the magic is already starting to consume him. 

“Listen to me…” You murmur cautiously, maneuvering your body so Dahyun is safe behind and out of reach. “You’re under the effects of dark magic, okay? You’re not yourself—” 

“I’ve never felt more like myself than I have now.” Your eyes dart around the area as Changbin leers closer and closer, attempting to find something sharp or heavy enough to knock him out. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be any tea mugs or large branches in sight—

“I don’t want to hurt you, Changbin…”

“Really? Cause I sure want to hurt you…” He smiles devishly,  “In fact, I’m just dying to rip out your fucking throat after that bullshit stunt you pulled back at the manor—” 

“Leave her out of this, Bin.” Yugyeom hisses, clutching his chest while keeping himself supported against the tree. “If you have a problem, then take it out on me… Not her.” 

“Oh, don’t worry… I’ll get to you next, hyung.” Changbin suddenly approaches, providing you no preparation as he snatches your wrist and pulls. With the little strength she has left, Dahyun attempts to defend you, landing a couple heavy hits against the attacker’s head. However, it only takes a good shove to send her flying to the ground—leaving you helpless in the arms of the beast. 

You try to throw your own punches, but Changbin is both stronger and faster by miles. In the blink of an eye, he has your figure pinned to the ground with a calloused hand around your throat. Your lungs immediately go into a frenzy as the superwolf cuts off your oxygen supply. You claw at his fingers, breaking skin and fighting for breath, but his grip remains as firm as steel.

“…Think of…” You choke—your eyes beginning to roll to the back of your head.  “…J-Jack…son…” 

“What the fuck did you say—!?” 

A loud bang erupts through the area, drowning out Changbin’s demand. Through the dark spots of your vision, you notice a gaping hole in the center of his throat. Another bang sounds, and this time, his head is blown to shreds of brain matter and skull. His grip immediately loosens, permitting your intake of oxygen once more. You quickly scramble away from the now unmoving corpse, gasping for air and clutching your swollen neck. 

You’re almost glad it’s dark, so you can’t see the extent to which Changbin’s head had been mutilated. 

Your ears are still vibrating when someone takes your shoulders.

“Jinyoung…?” 

“Are you hurt?”

“No—no… I’m fine.” You allow the vampire to help you back to your feet. “Is… he?” 

“For now.” Jinyoung hums, leading you into a nearby circle of light. To your surprise, you discover Mark carrying Dahyun with one arm and supporting Yugyeom with the other—a large shotgun splayed along his back. “Mark is a remarkable shot… I don’t think you wish to see, but Changbin won’t be bothering us for at least a couple hours.” 

You release a sigh of relief. “Great… But now what?” 

“Yugyeom says the rest of the pack is holed up in a secret bunker deeper into the forest.” Mark speaks for the first time, “We should head there… We all need to talk.” 

“There’s no time like the present.” Jaebeom pipes up, emerging from the shadows with an unconscious Tzuyu in his arms. “I don’t know about you guys, but I really don’t want to be here when this guy wakes up…”

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Jackson is floating, aimlessly traveling through a white fog in which reality doesn’t quite reach. The Other Side is funny like that—Jackson doesn’t exist in the eyes of nature, therefore, when he’s not visiting the land of the living, he’s merely suspended in a state of nonexistence with nothing but the company of his own thoughts. He’ll spot the spirit of a fellow supernatural every so often, but even then… he’s completely alone. 

Until he found you. 

A wave of fondness spreads through Jackson’s veins—as if he had drunk a comforting cup of hot tea. In all the time he’s spent in the neverending nothingness, he never once thought he’d be able to feel again… but like a firework in the black of night, you sparked every bit of hope and passion and liveliness lingering within his mortal spirit. Maybe it was your determination that reminded him of his past self, or maybe it was your eyes—so bright with the stars of mortality—that made Jackson want to live again, to experience the warmth of your smile and the chill of your gaze in the depths of a true beating heart. 

Something about you just makes him feel so… human. 

Jackson snickers to himself before peering over his shoulder, having previously noticed some kind of blurred silhouette in the distance. It’s too far to tell, but he can just barely make out the approaching shape of another spirit—likely a newly deceased supernatural. He prepares to retire back to his thoughts, but is, however, interrupted when an ice-cold feeling overtakes the entirety of his being. Jackson freezes, both from the cold and his realization: 

The witches know about his plan… and they’re not happy about it. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“—so once Youngjae siphons Minho’s power, he’ll be able to reverse the spell and turn Changbin back to normal.” Jaebeom keeps his focus on the witch as he relays his explanation to the many other audience members scattered around the bunker. He never thought the day would come where he would actually be working in tandem with Mark Tuan, the motherfucking magician himself, but here he is—

“What if Youngjae can’t perform the spell in time?” The pack’s beta, Yugyeom speaks up from his seat at a small, cardboard table stationed in the tiny kitchenette. He stretches his newly healed knee out in front of him before sparing Mark an inquisitive glance, “What happens then?” 

“Minho’s power is the only anchor keeping Changbin alive, most of which he's drawing from the eclipse. Once that power runs out, then Changbin’s form will give out, which means—” 

“He’ll die.” Dahyun finishes, pacing from one end of the underground shelter to the other. If it weren’t for the blood stains on her clothing and the large bandage encompassing her exposed abdomen, it would be impossible to tell she had been stabbed only minutes ago.

Being a werewolf certainly does pay off. 

Mark nods, “Yes.”  

“How long do we have then? Roughly?”

“‘Til the moon goes down, so about an hour and a half. Two hours at the most.”

“Shit.” She curses, “We’re so fucking screwed.”

“Let’s not jump to the worst of all evils so quickly.” Jaebeom fights the urge to roll his eyes as his brother, always the hero, appears from the next room before assuming his perch beside your sitting figure. He hands you an ice pack while still speaking to Mark, “You’re certain Youngjae will have enough strength to disarm the witch?” 

“Not really, but it’s the only option at this point.” 

“While this pathetic excuse of a plan is super great and all, there’s still a pretty big fucking elephant in the room.” Ignoring the harsh glare the witch sends his way, Jaebeom continues, “There’s a cure for werewolf wonder’s bite, right? Some sort of witchy antidote or spell—?”

“As sorry as I am for your vampire girlfriend, I never thought of a cure when I designed the spell.” Mark’s eyes flash with something akin to resentment, spilling amusement through Jaebeom’s veins like a toxin. “When I want something—someone dead, I want them to stay dead.” 

Jaebeom snorts. “Still the same punk ass kid you’ve always been, Tuan… It’s nice to see that nothing’s changed.” 

“You’re a fucking prick—” 

“Mark-hyung. Don’t.” Yugyeom places a calming hand on Mark’s shoulder, stopping him from storming over to where Jaebeom is currently smirking like a fool. The wolf glances at the latter before shaking his head, “We have bigger things than petty rivalries to worry about.”

To Jaebeom’s disappointment, Mark agrees with a sigh. 

“Right… It’s just been a real shitty night.” 

“For all of us, it’s safe to say.” Jaebeom doesn’t miss the warning look his brother sends his way, shaking his head scoldingly before turning to the witch-werewolf pair. “Could Changbin’s blood possibly reverse the venom’s effects? Similar to Jaebeom?” 

Mark shakes his head, “Changbin isn’t a hybrid like your asshole of a brother. His blood has no healing properties whatsoever—”

“But there has to be something.” Your voice immediately cuts the former off, allowing Jaebeom some time to suppress the urge to fly across the room and tear the witch’s tongue from his mouth. “Youngjae once told me that magic always has a loophole, so a cure has to exist—we just have to figure out what it is.” 

“I admire your positivity, little dove, but we don’t exactly have the time for trial and error.” Jaebeom peers over his shoulder at a sleeping Tzuyu—who is still showing no signs of possible consciousness or life in general. Her skin is flushed and sweaty with fever, but he can sense how her limbs tremble beneath the poison coursing through her veins. His chest tightens for a moment, only until he returns his focus back onto the conversation at hand: 

“Minho might have an idea, but it’s a long shot.” Mark exhales, “Once we take him down, there’s no guarantee he’d tell us—if there is a cure, that is—and with the combined effects of your and Changbin’s venom, I have no clue how long your girlfriend has until—” 

A sudden clatter has everyone leaping from their seats. Yugyeom flies to the bunker door in mere seconds while Mark snatches his shotgun from the kitchen counter behind him. Through the corner of his eye, Jaebeom notices Jinyoung usher you behind his form before pressing a small pocket knife between your fingers. The blossoming of the black bruises along your throat sparks rancor through the hybrid’s veins, and he readies himself into his own fighting stance. 

“Yugyeom!?... Are you in there!?” 

Yugyeom’s hostile expression transitions into one of relief—the tension melting from his body like snow. Although the voice is apparently familiar to the rest, Jaebeom remains tense as the beta goes about unlocking the bunker door. He almost expects a cackling Changbin to come bursting through the trapdoor, but is pleasantly surprised when a new figure comes into view—another limp body thrown precariously over his shoulder. 

“Oh my god! Chan—Felix!” Dahyun immediately rushes toward the pair. Her gaze practically alive with fear. “Holy shit—is he alive!?”

The newcomer, who Jaebeom assumes to be Chan, sets down the teenager, presumably Felix, on one of the bunk beds with the help of Yugyeom and Mark. He catches Jinyoung helping a third figure, a teenage girl who can’t be over eighteen, into the bunker as well. Judging by her glassy irises and quivering lips, she seems as if she is going to burst into tears at the drop of a thimble. The group’s collective ragged appearance, Jaebeom knows, signifies the aftermath of one hell of a fight. 

“What the hell happened out there, Chan!?” Yugyeom’s demand awakens the hybrid from his trance, forcing him to return his focus to the newcomer. 

“H-He found us…” Chan murmurs darkly, “I… I tried to protect them… but he was too strong…” 

“How is that possible?” Jaebeom frowns. “Sabrina the Witch over here blew his fucking head off—” 

“They had to have been attacked before then.” Jinyoung places a calming hand on his shoulder, which he is quick to shake off. 

The strange werewolf nods in agreement, “We took our time to get here—didn’t want to risk running into him again…” 

“Wait…” The room grows hushed at Dahyun’s exclamation. When Jaebeom turns toward the female wolf, his annoyance falters at the panicked expression etched along her pretty features. “Where the hell is Chaeyoung…?” 

Chan remains silent and still, like a boy fresh out of war, but Jaebeom has witnessed enough in his many lifetimes to see the answer written all along his face. 

Yugyeom stands. His expression grim, almost sorrowful, as if he already knows too. 

“Bang Chan… Where is Chaeyoung?” 

“…she’s dead…” His whisper is barely audible, yet the hybrid can see how deeply those two words wound the crowd around him. “…bled out… there was nothing I could do…”   

“Fuck…” Dahyun shivers before burying her face into her palms and letting out an even louder curse, “Fuck!...”

“I’m so sorry…” 

Your soft voice carries over the female wolf’s sobs. Fascinated, Jaebeom watches as you maneuver your way across the bunker to kneel in front of a now sitting Bang Chan. You take his trembling hands between your own and peer up at the wolf with the most sympathetic gaze he has ever seen—his own heart can’t help but lurch at the sight. 

“I hate to add to the list, but we have another issue—” Mark groans, pulling his hand away from the incapacitated teenager’s neck to press it against his own perspirating forehead. “—Felix was bitten…” 

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” 

“Dahyun—please.” Yugyeom sighs, “I just—shit.” 

“We need to find that cure. Now.” Jinyoung steps forward, turning to speak directly to Mark. “I will go to the graveyard to assist your coven. With my help, it should be fairly simple to disarm the rogue.” 

“Don’t underestimate him. You’re still gonna have to put up a damn good fight.” 

“I can well manage on my own.” 

Jaebeom shakes his head with a sneer, “I seriously doubt that, considering you got yourself poisoned the last time you played goddamn Superman.” 

As much as Jinyoung puts up the invincible front, Jaebeom has known his brother for a long, long time—and also knows that the previous encounter with the superwolf left him much weaker than before. He can see it in the trembling of his hands and the pained lines etched along his forehead. He’ll get himself killed long before he reaches the graveyard. 

“Jaebeom should go too.” You rise from your kneeling position to join the group. “Two pairs of hands are better than one. You can protect each other.” 

“Absolutely not.” Jinyoung disagrees, “Jaebeom needs to remain here in case Changbin resurrects again.” 

“We don’t have the time to worry about that. The witches will need all the help they can get.” 

Jaebeom scoffs, “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but (Y/N) is right. We don’t know what we’re up against—better for us both to be there than just the one.”

Jinyoung stares at Jaebeom for a brief moment, as if searching his face for some hidden secret, before inhaling a deep, yet silent breath and finally nodding, “Fine. But if Changbin attacks—”

“We’ll handle it.” Yugyeom nods, “Thank you… for doing this.” 

“We all have something to lose.” Jaebeom doesn’t miss the glance Jinyoung sends in your direction before making his way over to the bunker exit. “I just wish to make sure that no one else dies.” The last bout of final farewells are shared along with the reminder for everyone to remain on their best guard. In an attempt to follow his brother, Jaebeom moves to climb the ladder, but is stopped by the call of his name: 

“Jaebeom, wait!...” He pauses—his interest piquing as you rush toward his temporary perch. Your gaze is shy, he notices, but still contains the fire of a thousand burning suns. “Just… be careful out there, okay?” 

His response is indifferent. “Not to worry, little dove. I’ll make sure Jinyoung returns to you in one piece.” 

“Promise me you both will return in one piece, please…” 

Jaebeom’s annoyance immediately dissipates at the stressed enunciation of your words. His cold expression melts into a mixture of surprise and astonishment, mirroring the conflict brewing throughout his chest. He clears his throat, attempting to expel the emotions creeping up his back, before nodding: 

“Y-Yeah, sure.” He gulps, “Can you… take care of Tzuyu? While I’m gone?” 

Your gaze softens. “Of course. Just please stay alive.” 

Jaebeom doesn’t respond, untrusting that his words will make sense if said aloud. After providing you a silent farewell, he climbs the rest of the way out of the bunker where Jinyoung is waiting. His brother offers a pointed glance when he completely exits the safety of the bunker.  

“I trust you’re ready for this, hyung?” 

“Let’s get this shit over with.” Jaebeom rolls his eyes, “I’m getting real tired of running from Teenage Chewbacca.” 

[southeastasianists]

According to the World Health Organisation, the first case of COVID-19 was confirmed in the Philippines on 20 January 2020. More than a year after, there are now more than 600,000 confirmed cases, nearly 13,000 deaths and a surge of 5000 new cases in one day. Approximately 41 percent of the total number of confirmed cases are from the National Capital Region (NCR), where Manila is located. The death toll from Duterte’s Drug War since July 2016 ranges from a conservative estimate of 8,663 people according to the UN Human Rights Council, to possibly thrice as high based on statements from the Philippine Commission on Human Rights. The official record from the Philippine Drug Enforcement Agency (PDEA), the agency implementing Duterte’s Drug War, is at 6,011 deaths from July 2016 to December 2020.

Alarmingly, the national pandemic response is even being harnessed in the service of the Drug War with extrajudicial killings registering a 50 percent increase between April and July 2020. Both COVID-19 related deaths and extrajudicial killings linked with the War on Drugs have been popularly represented by the Duterte government as disconnected from, or outside of, all the range and repertoires of repression at the state’s disposal.

Yet prior to the pandemic, Filipinos were already primed for and inoculated to mass loss of life and human rights violations, precisely because of the militarism that has been the logic of security under Duterte’s rule. We can understand everyday life in the Philippines as part of an ongoing continuum of violence, from the first day that Duterte launched his war on drugs, to the present militarised response to the health crisis. The Philippines was already suffering a ‘murderous plague’ which made death paradoxically both an abstract and visceral reality for many Filipinos, even before the disease outbreak.

It matters, therefore, that we constantly articulate how tragedy and mass loss of life are routine and logical outcomes under Duterte and why this government must be made accountable for the murderous plague it has authored. Filipinos must maintain their demands for better leadership, crisis response and management despite the persistent gaslighting by the President, his spokespersons, and enabling members of his regime. The forthcoming May 2022 national elections have prompted discussions on the importance of leadership among specific sectors mobilised by the question, ‘pangulo’ or ‘pang-gulo’ (‘president’ or ‘nuisance’)? At the highest level of power, does the Philippines have someone who leads, or someone who self-servingly obstructs recovery and fuels division?

Drug war and the limits of militarised security

Duterte’s default approach has been to wield the military and police at every crisis. However, this approach generates its own crises because the truncated lens of militarism comes up inadequate in addressing the multidimensional root causes and consequences to much of the global security challenges we are facing today. Based on the best available science, and what COVID-19 is demonstrating globally, state leaders must be able to address a drastically changed security landscape where the heightened intensity and frequency of extreme events will threaten all areas of human life and ecosystems. What has been undeniable is that leaders disastrously fall short of managing crises—whether in the context of armed conflicts, disasters and climate change, or health pandemics—when they do not incorporate a range of perspectives and expertise.

Duterte’s military and police-driven approach to every national decision-making process is exclusionary. He has sought to frame Filipinos, especially frontline health workers who express their discontent, as ‘enemies’ who do nothing but complain. Because he reproduces and invests in militarising crises, he cannot but interpret differing views as an existential threat to his power. The Philippines therefore has a leader that forecloses spaces for civic deliberation and participation at a time when these are most needed.

The drug war has gradually created the institutional and rhetorical foundations that enable other forms of violence: the use of Anti-Terrorism Act of 2020 and ‘red-tagging’ to silence opposition; the compounded suffering of internally displaced communities as resources are diverted away from the forgotten crises in Marawi and Tacloban; and ongoing violence and development aggression against Indigenous peoples and environmental activists. Duterte’s war on drugs has been argued to satisfice the stages of genocide.

Death and disinformation due to ‘infodemic’

The pandemic is also mediated by a pervasive climate of disinformation in the Philippines. The deadly combination of militarism and disinformation has been effective in fragmenting and eliminating political opposition, and in state repression more generally. Over the past years, Philippine democracy has been constantly threatened and undermined by the rapid and increased production and dissemination of misinformation and disinformation. A study has shown how insidious, partisan and curated content is produced and circulated by “architects of networked disinformation”, including influencers, online celebrities, politicians in-house team’s, and marketing companies. These players have weaponized the internet to support and bolster the operations of Duterte’s administration in designing and implementing a political and militarist agenda.

An evident outcome of weaponizing social media platforms is the silencing of dissent. Paid trolls, bot armies and a range of fake news websites run by supporters of Duterte have targeted and harassed individuals and institutions. For instance, in 2018, Maria Ressa, the chief executive of Rappler, was the target of state-sponsored “patriotic trolling”, misogynistic comments and hate speech. Meanwhile, the Philippine government attempted to revoke Rappler’s license in 2018. Notably in 2020, Philippine lawmakers rejected the franchise renewal for ABS-CBN, a Philippine’s broadcasting company also critical of Duterte’s governance.

Misinformation and disinformation also impact the lives of ordinary Filipinos in national and transnational contexts. A report shows that Filipinos spend an average of 4 hours and 15 minutes each day on different social media channels. These online platforms have also been used to sustain ties among overseas Filipino workers (OFWs) and their families. For the ten million Filipinos spread across the world, social media and mobile applications have become valuable tools to remain connected to home. However, these channels serve as key sites for producing and disseminating fake information. For example, a study on the 2019 Philippine election shows how OFWs are targeted by online communities that disseminate falsehoods and manipulative content.

More recently, an ‘infodemic’ has emerged in tandem with the COVID-19 pandemic. The spread of hoaxes and conspiracy theories about COVID-19 and attacks on the credibility of the World Health Organization (WHO) re-victimises all those who have died in the pandemic and the families they have left behind. In a digital environment muddled by falsehoods and inaccuracies, people are afforded narratives that only validate their own pre-existing beliefs and affirm experiences that reflect their immediate or narrow environment. This makes it all the more possible for those in positions of power and privilege to detach (and stay out of touch) from the harsh realities millions of Filipinos are facing.

The use of digital technologies at a time of crisis can stir heightened ambivalence among Filipinos. On the one hand, greater online connectivity affords the maintenance of intimate ties transnationally. However, it is the same connectivity that can potentially be used to distort understanding of social welfare, human rights, and personal and familial futures through the lens of fear. Akin to the pandemic, widespread disinformation is slowly but effectively killing mutual trust and civic participation in Philippine society. It does this by eroding Filipinos’ access to reliable information and their right to thrive in democratic spaces. Crucially, disinformation hinders Filipinos from seeing the structural inequalities, marginalisation and exploitation that implicates us all.  There is neither one person nor a “silver bullet” that can magically vanquish—in six months—what has been built over decades by political and economic systems in the Philippines. It will take care, collective action and mutual responsibility.

Stop the killings; stop the strongman

Crises can provide windows of opportunity to overhaul ossified harms done by this government, and repair what good is left. Deaths and killings may be mundane now but they do not have to be acceptable: not now and not in the future. There is a need to develop antidotes that can reclaim, secure and protect democracy. As the COVID-19 pandemic intersects with Duterte’s murderous plague, Filipinos are faced with clear lessons that can be brought to bear in the next election.

First, there is no path to “rapid” recovery and it takes inclusive governance and leadership to realise long-lasting and “crisis-proof” reconstruction. Moving forward, Filipinos might be more sceptical and suspicious of leaders promising to do everything without demanding shared responsibilities and recognising diverse expertise from the Filipino public. Globally, we are also seeing youth-led protests both from afar such as in the US, and closer in neighbouring Thailand and Myanmar, against police and military violence as well as outdated styles and systems of militarised authority. While their rule may seem inescapable at present, young people are taking the lead in sending a clear message: the myth of the ‘strongman’ is no more.

Second, the killings were indirectly enabled by the political fragmentation and societal division accelerated by digital technologies. What proved most effective in stifling collective action was the framing of political engagements in terms of “camp” politics and loyalties—us versus them / DDS versus Dilawan—instead of under a unifying identity of “the Filipino people.” Duterte’s success in fulfilling an initial populist desire for a ‘strongman leader’ is an outcome of previous failures in crisis response under the Aquino government. Rather than see Duterte and Aquino as oppositional, we need to see the violent continuity between the two different models of leadership.

Third, the rise and resilience of Duterte’s strongman rule is connected with his leveraging of underlying sexism, misogyny, class and regional prejudices in Philippine society. Clearly, Duterte’s misogyny is no laughing matter. Rape jokes are neither humorous nor harmless. His speeches form part of, and feed, societal violence. Finally, the path to stopping the killings will be long and difficult, but necessary. The governance challenges ahead will be more complex and difficult. An indispensable step in this direction is recognising and healing from collective grief on a transnational scale. Then the task of refocusing energies toward building new leaders and political agendas can begin.

[finalsurvivorgrp]

What is your opinion on the movie Split, if you have seen it, with regards to how it depicts DID? Because like I feel like someone with DID would be offended but at the same time don’t KNOW whether they actually would be? Like when I see anti-asexual or anti-Irish sentiment and think “Hmm. Well that is certainly offensive from an objective viewpoint, but am I personally offended?” I do feel like if the twist behind the ‘Beast’ alter being superhuman was that he had been bitten by a werewolf, because there were so many hints towards him being a werewolf and the whole backstory they gave the protagonist about being a hunter, I feel like it would have suited the story better and avoided the ‘all people with DID are evil’ trope. Am I saying this right?

So, the thing with Split and the way it depicts DID is actually harmful to people with DID. Here are some articles that really emphasize how this was harmful x and how it has negatively portrayed DID x. There are also a lot of DID channels that talked about the movie and expressed how harmful it was to them. There's a lot of stigma around DID, and it's been excessively showing that way by shows like Criminal Minds and movies like Fight Club, Identity, Psycho.

It's very important to remember that DID patients are victims of abuse, not perpetrators of violence. Alters are much more focused on protecting the host than causing harm towards other people.

I completely understand what you're saying, and if M. Night Shyamalan had gone in the werewolf/were-whatever idea, then it might have been better received. I think he should have just kept DID out of it together, especially since he wanted to link it to Unbreakable and then make a sequel Glass.

The thing with Unbreakable, is that it was always explicitly about Superhuman strengths (not always physical, in the case of Elijah Glass who has Brittle Bone Disease but is a super-genius/super-villain/master manipulator). So it very easily could have just been this regular guy that just wanted to watch the world get destroyed. The addition of DID to the movie is entirely because Shyamalan thinks that it's scary and he did a lot more harm than good with the movie.

Also, Glass sucked.

[melancholic-pigeon]

WIP Wednesday #12

Set shortly after Percy and Jason meet in freshman year of high school (14/15 years old). Content warnings for domestic violence, child neglect and abuse, alcoholism and food insecurity.

"That's horrifying. You know that's horrifying, right? Please tell me you know that's horrifying." 

Sally hears Percy's voice before she gets to the kitchen. She's heard it like that before, and it never means anything good. 

She makes her footfalls heavier so that the boys aren't startled by her approach. She's ready to appear in the doorway and smile like she didn't hear a thing and ask them how their studying is going and if they'd like a snack— but Percy cuts her off before she can even open her mouth. 

"Can Jason borrow you for a second? I'm trying to prove a point." 

She looks at the two of them, textbooks and notepads and mechanical pencils spread out on the table. From the work on the paper, they haven't done much more than they had the last time she checked in, an hour or so ago. 

Percy's frenetic, though he's trying to hide it. She doesn't know Jason all that well yet, but he's sitting very still, and she gets the feeling he's holding something in, too.

"If he'd like to, certainly." She rinses out her mug and puts on the kettle, her back to them so that Jason has a second to think about it. "Hot cocoa or tea?" 

When she turns around, his face has changed. Not by much, but she can see a tiny shade of nervousness. 

"Cocoa, please. Thank you." 

He's almost painfully polite, much more so than a fourteen year old boy should be in such a casual setting. She keeps hearing her son in her head, and tries not to speculate on what he found horrifying. 

"It really wasn't that bad." 

"I'm gonna make the cocoa." Percy gets up from the table in an explosive movement. "Because otherwise, I'm just gonna interrupt you every two seconds to tell you that it was worse than you're making it out to be."

Jason rolls his eyes, but it makes him relax a little, too. 

"I never said the whole thing wasn't bad, just that I didn't suffer. All of the really terrible parts happened to Thalia, not me. She made sure of that." 

Percy makes an indignant noise. There's a picture starting to form in Sally's head, patchworking together from the pieces she already has, and she doesn't like it. 

"You don't have to say anything until you're ready, sweetheart." 

She doesn't even think about it. It's second nature with Percy's friends by now. Jason, she reminds herself, has only been around for four months; his eyes widen, like it's the first time anyone has ever called him that. 

Maybe it is. Maybe that's why he's so nervous. 

Percy clatters around behind them. She can hear the kettle starting to rumble and the soft exhalation from across the table. 

"It seriously wasn't," Jason repeats, like he's trying to assure himself more than Sally. 

She can remember thinking the same thing, going through the same process, telling herself that at least her first husband only used his fists. 

"Tell her what you told me," Percy insists over the clinking of the spoon as he stirs the cocoa. 

Jason meets Sally's eyes, with a vulnerability she hasn't seen him wear so plainly.

"I don't know how much Thalia's said about it. I'd assume not a whole lot. There's stuff she still won't tell me, either." 

"She's trying to protect you." Percy puts Jason's mug across from him and takes his seat again. "And she's allergic to sharing her anxieties, for a much better reason than I thought." 

"It's a habit. She was maybe nine years old, tops, when she started shoving it all down." Jason frowns, running his fingers over the handle of his mug. "I didn't have a clue how bad it actually was, because she hid it from me. All I knew was that when Mom was gone for a while, we'd play a game where we'd hunt for all of her empty bottles and cans, and Thalia would let me win and take us to the gas station and buy me a snack as a prize so I wouldn't whine at her while she was getting the rest of our groceries." 

There aren't really any good possibilities in a situation like this, but Sally's heart still plummets into her gut. 

"He thought it was fun," Percy mutters darkly. "Like a field trip where he got treats, instead of his third-grade sister stealing, skipping meals and collecting booze receptacles to exchange for coin deposits because their mom was too busy getting plastered to feed them and their dad cared more about his reputation than the welfare of his children."

There are a million things she could say, including every word that's come out of Percy's mouth so far. He's looking at her, weighed down by the same helpless rage he often carries when they talk about things like this. She feels it too, just as bitterly, though she's no longer apt to show it on her face like that.

"That's awfully young to be left on your own," she tells Jason, taking his hand. She can feel her eyes stinging as he squeezes back, hard, his jaw held tense. "And kids notice. It was hard on you, too, even if you didn't know why." 

She feels Percy grab her free hand under the table. She'd tried everything she could think of to shelter him— and all he learned from it was how to keep his own secrets from her. 

If she hadn't found his stash of concealer and powder, she'd never have known he'd somehow learned the same trick she used. If he hadn't walked in on her with the palettes in her hands and tears streaming down her face, he never would have known it wasn't just him.

They don't keep secrets anymore. It's terrifying, but it's worth it; with honesty comes trust, and now Percy doesn't try to hide when something's wrong. At least not with her. 

"Sometimes I wonder if that's why she's so tiny." Jason stares into his cocoa, still holding onto Sally's hand. "I don't think I went to bed hungry more than once or twice. Thalia used to do it all the time. She'd tell me she ate while I was asleep, and since I was, like, two, I didn't know any better but to believe her." 

Suddenly, Sally understands why Thalia was crying so hard.

("He's gotten so tall— I couldn't feel his ribs—")

She can still vividly remember staring at the cupboards while her little boy clawed at her leg, realizing there wasn't enough for them both and she was still two days away from getting paid. She went that long once, and only broke her fast because she fainted at work. 

Her manager— one of the rare good ones she'd had— had kept her clocked in, hauled ass across the street to buy her a peanut butter milkshake and made her sit in his office and rest for the remainder of her shift. After that, he worked hard to push through the promotion that the store manager kept finding excuses to avoid, and with it came enough of a pay raise that she didn't have to do it more than once or twice a month. 

She'd been twenty-four at the time. Thalia wasn't even in double digits, apparently.

"I'm okay, Ms. Jackson. It was a long time ago." 

She realizes she's tearing up only when Jason cuts through her thoughts. He's smiling, and he really does look healthy and cared for, if a little coltish.

"Honey." She lets go of his hand to grip his shoulder, her grip almost as tight as her throat. "I'm not your teacher. I'm a friend who wishes she could go back in time and adopt you. Please call me Sally." 

It lightens the mood like a match illuminating total darkness. Jason slumps in the chair with a breathless laugh, glancing nervously at her. 

"It's a hard habit to break, but I'll try." 

She wants nothing more than to pull him into a hug, but she doesn't want to spook him. She smiles back at him instead, as warmly as she can possibly manage.

"Trying at all is something to be proud of." 

-Untitled WIP from Sally's POV! stellarverse AU, shortly after Jason and Percy meet freshman year of high school. Some additional excerpts of published fics for context below the cut.

On the one hand, it makes him giddy to expose Jason to unconditional parental support, but on the other, the fact that he has to go to Percy's parents for that support because he can't get it from his own is spittle-frothingly rage-inducing. 

When they're at home, the only thing they have to worry about is not getting too handsy in front of the baby or scarring Percy's parents for life, or at most, doing the dishes because Jason felt it was his duty as guest. He'd vehemently insist, saying it was the only way he could think of to express his gratitude, which would make Percy's mom tear up and hug him tight and tell him that being good to her firstborn was all the thanks she needed. 

She's always liked Jason, and she's always worried about him, too. She's certainly heard enough of Percy's ranting to stay on top of the situation, and was already known for remembering everything she's ever been told about someone's tragic backstory. Jason, like most of Percy's friends, was desperately lacking that energy in his life, and by the third visit he'd given her a rundown of his entire life history. 

I feel like I can tell her anything, he'd said to Percy later, thrown off his game by a particularly raw word-vomit. Every bit of it is massively unfair–that Jason's stepmother takes out her anger over her spouse's infidelity on the children who'd had no choice in being born, that his father didn't care enough about him to do anything more than show up once or twice a month and give him a blistering, vaguely threatening lecture, that his mother had barely even remembered he existed, and only by enough to make herself look more pitiable. 

Most upsetting of all was that his sister–seven or eight years old then–had essentially been forced to parent him through toddlerhood by herself, because no one else was paying enough attention to stop a two-year-old from trying to give himself a lip piercing with a stapler. Half the time, nobody else was paying enough attention to feed him, either.

It makes Percy want to throw something out a window. Fortunately for everyone, while she's in agreement, his mom has a lot more experience in channeling her anger productively than he does, and isn't prone to agitating herself into letting it boil over. She focuses instead on making her apartment the coziest, homiest place she possibly can, on showering Jason with all of the maternal adoration and pride he'd been missing out on, and letting him know he could show up on her doorstep at three in the morning without notice and she'd welcome him inside with open arms and a mug of hot tea. 

- I Guess You're Just What I Needed

Thalia had made a game out of collecting the recyclables strewn over the floor, which just meant that she'd cheer him on and make a huge celebratory fuss when he found something plastic. The glass and aluminum were 'big-kid stuff', so she didn't have to worry about him hurting himself on sharp edges or hard surfaces; she diverted his desire to be just like her by pretending his contributions were heavier, so he could feel like he was helping. 

She'd gather them all up in a little red wagon and take Jason to the convenience store down the street to exchange their loot for deposits. His job had been putting the plastic in the machine, one at a time, while she held him up so he could reach. They'd put the change in a coffee can, already rattling with whatever bills and coins she'd found in the mess of the apartment, and use it to re-load the wagon with as much prepackaged, shelf-stable food as it would get them. 

Sometimes, they'd get someone nice behind the counter who asked where their parents were and went thin-lipped when she tried to deflect it by lying that their mother had a migraine, and they'd end up with twice as much food as they had money for. Those trips always made Thalia more nervous, and she'd tended to startle every time the doorbell rang for at least a week afterwards. 

Back then, the routine felt normal, even pleasant; he learned quickly to associate it with a full belly and a feeling of safety. Like so many of his scars, he hadn't realized how deep it was until he related the story in the Jackson-Blofis kitchen, Sally's eyes filling with tears as she took his hand and squeezed until it hurt.

-We Should Have Each Other With Cream, chapter 11

See also my "thundersibs" tag.

[remsmoonlight]

— title : broken facade ( part one ? )

— word count : 2.6 k words

— pairing : john wick x reader

— summary : john thought he could keep his old world dead and buried, he was wrong

— warnings : mentions of death, blood, extremely minor swearing, kidnapping, mentions of drugging.. idk maybe a bit of hurt and angst? idk where i was going with this i spent so long on it lmao im very sorry

Nothing can be heard over the continuous shattering of the fractured pieces of a silent promise he repeated to himself every morning he woke and the last thing that ran through his mind before he would cease to resist the urge to sleep. It’s the only promise kept hidden from you and there was no going back from its state of shards, what kind of man is he if the one thing he kept close to his heart is no more.

Never let that life lay a finger on them.

Now, here he is. Knowing that the life he had previously led has wormed itself back to him, it has sullied your spirit and for that, he can find no forgiveness in his soul for himself. It’s him that is why you have been torn away from him so mercilessly, why you are in the situation you are in. He would give his life a thousand times and a thousand times over if it means you are safe, away from the harsh and cold blooded world he knows so well.

Although, the remnants of his old life is not a friend greeting him after an age has passed, but rather.. a  foe that wishes to lead him down the trail to its murky depths.

He assumes that the steering wheel that is gripped so stiffly by his hands only wish to buckle and crumble under the weight he is setting down upon it, though there is no other way to channel the highly agitated energy that swirls within him. Until you are back in his arms can he find the strength to completely calm the brutal waters that wish to overwhelm him, the only thing saving him is the objective that is removing you from the grasps of the Tarasovs’.

The same is unable to be said for you, the fear that you feel coursing throughout your entire being is the only thing that you can concentrate on. This is the clearest you have been for days, since you had been taken from your refuge from the world. You are sure that you’ve been drugged, though you can’t decide truly if that fact is a blessing or a curse. Being an unwilling participant in whatever you had found yourself in would prove difficult for those who held your life in their hands, and as much as you want to put up a fight, it’s impossible. You can see just how tense everyone in this cold, desolate room is. It’s not ideal to prod and provoke the Devil, especially as it has the power to rip you from the reality you know.

Your heart swells from the haunting image that plays continuously like an olden film, with the grit and burns. It’s a desire that you yearn so intensely for to rid your brain of the bloodied and battered John, you had never seen him so defenseless. You wonder if he is still breathing, if he is suffering from being so broken.

“ hey! why don’t you just let me go? “ you call out to anyone in the room, your fingers fidgeting anxiously with the threads of the scarf wrapped protectively around your neck.

“ shut the fuck up! “

You switch your gaze from the man who yelled, knowing that there is no point in arguing, to the one playing on the game console. Fear and self preservation that rules your body into silence battling with the confusion you find yourself experiencing at how one of the other men could feel so relaxed to the point he can play games.

Though he’s not the one who’s been kidnapped you think with a stern frown deeply painting your features, you simply wished you could be wrapped up in your duvet with a straight to dvd cheap movie playing.

The next moment a colossal bang erupted, spilling through the entirety of the room -- you have no idea where to look, your entire feeling as if it had been frozen in a moment of time. It’s not until a thud pulls you out of your cloud, and it’s one of the men who have fallen to the ground. Your eyes widen at the sight, you’ve seen such brutality in movies and television shows but never could they capture the true horror that lays in front of you.

The crimson liquid is never ending as it exits from the wound, you want to rip your eyes away from the repulsive scene yet you find yourself in a trance, with a magnetic pull that refuses to bend its will to yours. Only when your skin feels fingers digging deep into clothed flesh is your head able to turn, your feet already on the move. Your eyes refuse to acknowledge the further death that lay motionlessly on the floor, the bodies as cold as the temperature.

Rumbles fill your hearing, it’s hardly a chore to know that they’re under attack, by who you have little idea. Though a tiny spark of hope, so small it’s hardly noticeable, hums in your core. Perhaps it may be the authorities, here to put a permanent end to your newfound nightmare. Whatever it is, it has these men scared -- though, when you think back.. they have been on edge since you have had the unfortunate experience of knowing them. No matter how hard you previously tried to decipher some sort of idea, even a faded picture of what you have been caught up in, they were quick to respond with venom and hostility.

“ let go of me! “ words tumble from your lips as you try to dig your feet in further to the metal steps, hands clawing at the railings as if they could protect you.

Nothing is said to you, had it not been for the male’s grip on your arm, you could assume that they have no idea of your presence. Countless nights you had found yourself wishing for such, that they would forget your existence and you would be then able to escape. Never has that wish been granted.

Burns from the metal grasped so firmly scorch your palms, you can feel the need to survive driving yourself to fight and struggle.. opportunities to escape had been bare, the one presented now is one that you refuse to elude you so swiftly. Again, a body drops from a gunshot -- your shock proving more of a force than anything, because the hold that had been so secure on your arm severs without you comprehending it for a passing moment in time.

The leap your heart completes knows no bounds, the disturbance at seeing the violence occur at the man you have only known to be gentle and warm overwhelmed by your exhilaration that he is there and safe. John hardly acknowledges you as he passes your trembling form, his mind focused on one thing and one thing only. It’s no surprise when you decide to turn away, not wishing to have your image of him shattered any more than it has already. Though, you wonder how detrimental protecting your dream like depiction of him is.

A faze, it’s all your mind can think of describing the journey from the harsh confines of the barren property to where you reside currently. The journey from one place to the other mesh together, your memories betraying you in your inability to process everything that happened.

A hand grazes your skin comfortingly, though the suddenness pulls you out from beneath your thoughts.

“ i’m sorry. “ John speaks, keeping his eyes straight ahead on the road.

A frown sketches itself onto your brows as you turn to face him, you are unable to understand what he means by his words. The scenery passes by in a blur, stuck in a timeless state of thinking, you realise that you’ve not responded to him. How do you respond to something like? You wonder to yourself, loathing the fact that you cannot reply, a misunderstanding of rejection isn’t something needed for the moment. Against your better judgement, you need the opposite.

“ John - I - what? “

The feather like weight on your hand is still there, though now there is a contrast of tenderness and peace that had only known violence and blood exploring the expanse of his fingertips, only now a ghostly image not yet faded.

“ it got worse for you, because of me. “ he replies with a pitch as solid as stone, still refusing to make eye contact.

Though it’s not known to you that the reason he refuses to look at you is because he cannot yet come to terms with the fact that the two significant fractions of his life, the past and the present, have collided so effortlessly. He doesn’t yet want to acknowledge his part to play in the scars of his old word being the reason your surface now bears the brunt of being blemished by its cold, callous hands. He doesn’t want to have to bear witness to the tears that have stained your usually bright features, knowing the darkness that had once consumed his life wished to stretch its skeletal grip to you, threatening to eclipse the light of hope you unknowingly provide every chance he gets to set his sights on your form.

“ you’re not making any sense. “ you turn to face him now, trying to read his expression. Though, it’s at a loss. When he needs to be, he can be extremely hard to read.

“ that guy? the one I shot.. I used to work for his father. “

You blink, still failing to see the picture. You’re able to make a mental sketch, but you still need final pieces. Yes, he was connected.. but how is he at fault? Was it some sort of vengeance? Blackmail? The list is an endless trail your mind explores at the new piece of information, however it’s only John who can provide the key.

“ what does that have to do with everything that happened? “

“ there’s a reason why I’ve never told you much about my past. “ he replies softly, his mind wandering to find the most rational way to word the difficult tale, whose twists and turns trailed over it as if they were no more than a line of vines full of poison.

Though, the inner voice belonging to him knows there is no outcome that bodes well for him, the inevitable can’t be written off nor can it be denied.

“ so tell me, please? “ you plead with him, your nervous energy building and building in the tips of your fingers. They tap on the end of the car seat as you wait for his response.

“ before we met, I did things. I killed. “

It has to be quick John thinks to himself. There’s not a way that what he has to say, his past can be primped and perfumed into a pretty little picture, not when that picture is haunted by all the life that had been ripped from the world by his hand.

“ this is a joke, right? “ you laugh, incredulously. Gazing at his form it was as if the energy around him had inverted, there is no way that John, your John could do such things. The gentle smile of his, the thoughtfulness he demonstrates each day would battle his words, but the solidity and lack of humour being shown from him..? You’re tempted to believe.

“ I wish it was. “

“ there’s.. I don’t even know what to say. “ your brows furrow low, a bleakness setting itself into your expression as you try to come to terms with his answer.

“ you don’t have to. “ he speaks with difficulty, while he had expected more hatred from your eyes, he dares not to hope you will stay. Not after everything he has brought down upon you.

Fresh tears build up, until they are no more than a glassy barrier preventing clear vision. You will them to recede, to fade away until they’re nothing more than shadows. You have seen many horrors, more in the past week than your whole life and the man you love has had a direct part in that? You can’t erase the images of him gunning your captor, but you can’t erase all the sweet whispers after nights of lust and love, all the hours spent talking about life and what you would do. A stark contrast to the man you first got to know.

“ this isn’t something I can pretend to understand, but why hold something like this from me? Why wouldn’t you tell me eventually? “ you question, many emotions are clawing over each other to rise to your surface, preventing you from thinking straight.. yet it’s frustration that is victorious.

“ I never thought I'd be back. “

“ you need to understand, things like that? They don’t go away, they have a way of coming back and biting you in the ass. “

“ yeah, I see that now. “

A groan erupts from your parted lips, dropping your head in your hands. Your fingers drag their way across your scalp, this is something you argue would be seen in a movie.. not your life. The feelings you have are conflicted and inconsistent, any normal person would jump out of the moving care.. but a part of you can’t cast him aside so easily. What you have, that’s what you know is real.

“ John, I - I need time. At the minute.. I just don’t know what to think. With everything that’s happened. “

“ I get that. You’ll be seen to, for your injuries. “

A smile, small in size lifts the darkness from your eyes ever so slightly. Your injuries are bare, save for a few scrapes on your face. It’s the mental ones that begin to frighten you. They’re not so easily treatable. A smile that wishes with all its might that it is so easy.

“ to be honest.. I just want to go home. “ you lift your head up from its concealment as you share to him your one simple desire, your eyes imploring him to follow through with your request.

“ soon. “ he finally turns his head to look at you, to finally see you properly. All he wants is for you to be safely protected in his arms, as he mutters countless apologies that he longs you forgive him for. By no means is he a perfect man, but he can strive for such for you.

“ John, I’m not dead. I’m just tired. “

“ please, don’t. “

It’s curious, the tone in his voice as he replies to you. You can’t place it, though it’s very unlike him. Your left hand removes itself from the warmth of his palm to place yours atop of his, lending your warmth and comfort to him. The fact that both of you have fresh mental scars from the ordeal is becoming promptly evident.

“ I just want to make sure you’re okay. “

“ John, I don’t know what to think, what to feel. This is just.. the craziest thing. “

“ yeah, and it’s my fault. “ he exclaims lowly, as if he’s speaking more to himself than you. Berating himself for something that was never in his control.

You shake your head, hating the way he’s talking of himself. It’s enough to rouse some anger within you, though you know better than to make the situation between the two of you worse.

“ look, I know I can’t make you think otherwise.. but you never took me away. You never hid me from building to building, you were the one who saved me. “ you argue, ferocity cautiously coating your words. Your grip settled on top of his hand growing. “ I can’t stop seeing what you did, but you were the one who got me out. I need some quiet from it all. “

Your words, you hope, are strong. Trying to separate what you have seen that day is not something that will come as light as the clouds above your head do when they shower upon you, the thought that you fear you may never do is something you keep close to your chest for now.

To protect the both of you.

[transrobins]

Some headcanons about the Bats’ natural capacities for empathy, and how that comes out in their work. Under the cut for length

1. Dick has a naturally high capacity for empathy and often finds himself in the role of the Wayne Family Therapist, partially because he has the easiest time understanding everyone’s feelings. He finds it easy to see things from others’ perspectives, and that makes it easier for him to problem solve. This is also why he’s so effective as Damian’s guardian/mentor. Damian inherited Bruce’s allergy to processing and expressing emotions in a healthy and constructive manner (and all the childhood trauma didn’t help either), so he needed someone who could see past all his shit and understand where he’s coming from

Dick channels his empathy into a high level of compassion, and tends to forgive people on the basis that he understands why they did the things they did. Sometimes this is good, sometimes it is Not. However, Dick’s high empathy also makes it easier to read people, and subsequently charm them. This is helpful not only in vigilante work, but in Gotham’s high society

2. Jason also has naturally high empathy, and tends to gravitate toward the role of a protector. As the Red Hood, he’s a fierce guardian of Gotham’s downtrodden. He grew up in Crime Alley, he’s been where these people are, and he can’t help but feel their pain. But it’s not just them that he can get into the heads of. He understands Bruce to a level that even Bruce himself doesn’t. He can’t stop it, even if he would prefer to never think about it at all (especially since Bruce can’t seem to understand him the same way)

Jason channels his empathy into rage. He has no problem using violence as a means of protection, because being able to feel others’ pain makes him so viscerally angry

3. Tim has naturally low empathy. He grew up incredibly isolated and has a hard time reading social cues and understanding others, but his genius-level intelligence makes him much more equipped to analyze people’s behavior and figure them out. He has little trouble distancing himself from the horrors of what he sees, and compartmentalization is second nature to him. He can distance himself from emotions well enough to create contingency plans for the people closest to him thanks Bruce, and fails to realize how that would be hurtful (Dick points this out when Tim says he didn’t think Damian would care)

However, Tim is still very compassionate, he just approaches it in a more logical way. He sought out Batman because he could see him running himself into the ground after Jason’s death, and knew that he was going to get himself killed. He couldn’t understand the pain of losing a child, but he could tell that Bruce was in pain, and went about trying to fix it the only way he knew how. Having Robin by his side made Batman better, so clearly he needs a new Robin

4. Damian has naturally low empathy, but I would say he has a higher capacity for it than Tim. He has the easiest time relating to and interacting with animals, mostly because people confuse him. This was especially hard when he was transitioning from the League of Shadows to the Bats. With the League he knew the score. He knew what was expected of him, and he knew what would happen if he failed. When he joins the Bats, he has no idea what these people want from him. His old rules don’t seem to apply anymore, and he can’t get a good enough read on them to figure out what the new rules are (enter Dick and his years of experience sorting out Wayne family emotional issues)

When he was with the League, his low capacity for empathy was capitalized on in his training. He was manipulated into believing that the reason he couldn’t figure out other people’s emotions was simply because he was better than them, just so he’d have no problem killing them. It takes a lot of work for him to unlearn that (and everything else the League taught him), and caring for his pets is a huge part of that. Since he has an easier time relating to animals, looking after them taught him about having a responsibility to other living beings and bridged the gap for him to start valuing other people as individuals

Once he’s made that progress, he operates with a logic-based compassion similar to Tim’s. He sees a person in need, knows he can help them, and then does so. He knows why it’s important, and does it because he knows these people are in pain even though he can’t feel that pain with them

5. Bruce doesn’t have particularly high or low empathy, but being raised as an isolated rich kid had a big impact on the way he relates to others. It’s not that he just naturally has a hard time getting into other people's heads, it’s that he’s so detached from everyone else. He’s detached from most of Gotham due to his privileged upbringing, but his early childhood trauma and isolation distanced him from the elites as well

This leads to his view of himself as Gotham’s guardian. He sees himself as, essential, an impartial party to all of this. It definitely impacts his relationships with his kids, since he only really understands the parts of them he sees in himself (Dick as a child who watched his parents die, Tim as an isolated rich kid, etc). This type of understanding extends to the rest of Gotham, too. He understands the people who have lost things to crime and corruption the way he lost his parents, and he understands people who are driven toward justice because of it. Like Dick, however, he doesn’t always know where to draw the line. To him, the Joker killing because he’s “clinically insane” ugh and Jason killing because he can’t handle the pain of Gotham’s people are more or less on the same level, and he tries to give them both equal opportunity to redeem themselves 

Cass canonically has extremely high empathy. She can understand people’s emotions even when she can’t process their words, and body language is literally her first language. Other people have a much harder time understanding her than she does them, simply due to the communication barrier, but her high empathy helps bridge that gap for her

When David Cain makes her kill, and she realizes what really happened, she is devastated. She essentially felt the man die. This pain drives her to escape, and eventually drives her to join the Bats. Her empathy still extends to the bad guys, and she’s had to learn how to separate herself from the (necessary) pain she inflicts. She has to tone down (or even shut off) her compassion for them in order to protect herself

[everythinggeeky]

“I’ve already lost her once. I won’t lose her again.” With Steve Rogers x Reader? - @the-wayward-robot

Steve Rogers x reader

Warnings: violence, kidnapping, guns, angst, comfort

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: from this list! requests are open!

masterlist

To say that your relationship with Steve Rogers was unconventional was an understatement. A civilian and an Avenger? Your relationship was destined for disaster along the way.

You had been sitting comfortably at the Tower, curled up in a blanket, watching your favorite movie with your cat snuggled up to your lap. Steve was away on a mission, HYDRA had been taking steps to seize control once again and had to be monitored from a secret location. A secret location you didn’t know of and weren’t allowed to have access to.

This was regular; periods without communication from Steve weren’t unusual because of the nature of his job. And you understood that. You couldn’t deny it wasn’t a little painful, though. It also set you on edge. Uneasy.

When the text pinged through on your phone, there was no doubt a chill ran through your spine.

We know where you are and we’re coming for you.

Taking a look around, securing your entrances, reaching for the gun so carefully stashed in specific places as Steve had trained you.

“Jarvis, is there anyone on my floor right now?”

“There have been no signs of an intruder”

“Thank you, Jarvis. Can you contact Captain Rogers?”

“Unfortunately, due to the nature of the Captain’s assignment, I am unable to access his direct communications. I’ll leave a memo for when he can return to the regular channel.”

You swallowed thickly, running through the routine in your mind that you have practiced countless times with Steve on a Saturday afternoon.

Window. Door. Hallway. Back to the window. Back to the door. Hallway.

In your adrenaline-induced panic, you missed the bedroom door. It happened quickly before you could process it. A man dressed in dark combat clothing came from behind, pressing cloth over your mouth and your nose. Inhaling out of instinct, you went limp in the captor’s arms. 

The next morning when you stumbled out of your drug-laced haze, you lazily tilted your head around the room to see your face over dozens of screens. A man, who you assumed your captor, spoke into a walkie-talkie.

“Cmon and get your pretty little girl, cap. She’s acting real nice for me. I bet she’d love to see your face when you rescue her. Too bad it’ll cost you.”

He strutted over to you, cooly evaluating your state. He cupped your chin in his hand, tilting your face to meet his, making a kissy face.

“You miss your Captain, little girl…? Think he’s gonna come save you like the little princess you are…? I bet you think so.”

He dropped your face roughly, pushing it away from his gaze. With the rough motion, his tone changed dramatically, he turned to face a camera in the corner of the room which you missed earlier during your evaluation.

“You hear that? Your girl misses you. Its gonna be a hundred million. Then she’s yours.”

Pulling a gun hastily tucked into the waistband of a dirty pair of Levi 501s, he cocked it and pointed it towards your temple.

“You’ve got ten minutes. Then she’s gone…and no one will have her.”

Steve stood in the conference room with Tony, Fury, Natasha, and Sam, a line connected in the middle of the room. He stared at the screen at your face. Your beautiful, terrified, confused face.

“Tony, we have to do something. Hand over the money. This has to be worth it.”

“We don’t negotiate with terrorists, Rogers! She is not valuable intel, she is a citizen and just your girlfriend. I can’t hand over the money, there’s going to be another way to get her out of there.”

“She is my girlfriend, Stark. And I love her. The minute you begin to understand that, maybe we can negotiate a deal.”

“Rogers…” the captor cooed to the camera, pressing the barrel of the gun firmer into your temple, dipping into the flesh.

You whimpered, looking to the camera to plead for help; for someone, somewhere to help you.

“Fury?? Anything??” Steve yelped, breaking away from your heartbreaking expression.

Fury chimes into silence the bickering, “we have SHIELD teams on the outside ready to extract in under a minute.”

The extraction had gone smoothly and exactly as planned, the SHIELD teams eliminated the HYDRA threat, executing your captor, and removing you safely from the situation. They returned you to Avengers tower where you underwent an exhaustive medical and psychological evaluation. The entire situation resulted in a few days stay in the medical infirmary.

Steve had come to visit every day, for many hours at a time. When you had regained your strength, he sat beside you to hold long, comforting talks.

Sweeping over your cheek with his thumb, “sweetheart…I am so sorry it came to this. I promise I’ll do better next time to protect you…’m not gonna leave alone like that again. I’ll get you trained up. You’ll be ready.”

You cut him off, “Steve. I’m okay…I’m here now…I’ll be okay.”

He nods, affirming your statement when a chime on his phone pulls him away from the moment. He glances at it and sighs softly.

“What is it?” you ask softly

He presses a kiss to your temple where, not even 72 hours ago, there had been a gun placed in the identical spot. Squeezing your shoulders gently to remind him of your safety, he regretfully chimes in to say, “I’m sorry, but I have to go…I’m going to go over the security measures of the building with Tony to make sure you’re safe. I’ll be back after I’m done, okay?”

You nod in response, knowing he’ll keep his promise.

Steve pulls himself away, blowing a kiss as he leaves, taking the elevator a few floors up to meet with Tony. Tony stood poking at a screen. Taking a seat in the front of the room, Steve piped up.

“You better have good news for me, Stark.”

“I think I’ve found a way to secure all previously private entrances. And, Jarvis will be monitoring all communication channels to recognize triggers like the message that y/n received before the break-in.”

Steve nodded, digesting the new information.

“Good. Because I’ve already lost her once. I won’t lose her again.”

“I know. This place will be a secure fortress. Jarvis will be your personal bodyguard and the first line of defense for those frisky late-night movie sessions on the common room couch.”

“Stark.”

Tony holds his hands up in defense, “sorry.” He pauses.

He continues, “Anyway, I’m gonna make sure this doesn’t happen again. Absolutely not.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, Cap.”

@the-wayward-robot

[toonin4drama]

Emanet (Legacy)

First Impression: Saw the trailer a while back and was like nopety nope!!! but came across a fragmanı recently and thought I’d give it a chance and spent a good two hours watching all the fragmanı that had been released.

I’m certainly intrigued. It’s not a new story line. Nothing edgy or particularly original about it, but I’m somewhat invested. 

Cast: The acting is incredible! Sila (Seher) took a few pages from Ozge’s (Reyhan from Yemin) book...lool...they give this look and purse their lips that I find strange, but it’s apparently a thing *shrugs in not sure* 

But I got serious respect for Sila after episode 30...I believed every look and tear that she produced. Like serious props to her.

Halil (Yaman) has the eyebrow furrows and forehead wrinkling down to a science. And the narrowed eyes!!! Tolga (Ziya) is believable too. Berat (Yusuf) is doing an excellent job as well. I’m always so amazed by child actors. 

Basically, they did an excellent job of casting.

Wardrobe: Yaman’s suits are excellent! I love that they keep him in dark colours. It works!

I love Seher’s style. Wish I could adopt it! It’s so cute! But it’s way too hot where I live to survive in those long skirts.

Yusuf is always adorable. I love his room too. 

Plot: Basically Seher’s sister marries into a family that their dad doesn’t approve of and her father cuts off all contact with her. On her dying bed, she asks Seher to promise to take care of her son Yusuf (named after his grandfather) who will be left parentless at the mansion. 

The problem is that Seher has to get past Yaman, Yusuf’s angry, brooding and heartless (is he really though?) uncle to get to the little boy who is her sister’s, and now her, legacy (wassup title reference!!!).

Favourite Character: Father Arif...he’s adorable...plus I think he’s the president of the Yamher shippers.

Least Favourite Character: Begüm...it’s so difficult to be sympathetic towards her. She’s so manipulative and ughh...it’s not pretty on you darling (I mean that figuratively of course...cuz she’s gorgeous).

My Ship: Kirali? I’m not great at ship names, okay...Even though I haven’t seen much of their story in the fragmanı it’s abundantly clear that the writers want them together...it’s only a matter of time and I think they complement each other well. It’s also been really sweet how he’s protected her.

First…mafia-style (kinda’) Turkish drama

Random Fun Fact: If you were trying to figure out why the lead actress looked so familiar (like I was), then you should know that Sila Turkoglu plays Suna (Emir’s little sister) in Yemin.

WARNINGS: Things to be aware of: dramatic background music, lots of eye narrowing and lip pursing...lol but on a serious note...violence (quite a lot of it), guns (and gun wounds #thosetwonormallygotogether), hostage/kidnapping situations, huge trigger warning for people with claustrophobia.

Bonus Commentary: *minor spoiler alert* I’ve been confuzzled by some of the people in the comments. Yes, as the viewer, we get to see Yaman’s backstory and understand a little about why he is the way he is, and so it’s pretty easy to root for a happy ending for him. But...like a huge BUTTT...explain to me why some of these people are expecting Seher to be in love with him and are upset when she is not showing any signs of affection towards him????? 

In most of her interactions with him, he’s highkey abusive. On top of that, they have nothing in common other than their love for Yusuf. And how Yaman expresses what he feels for Yusuf is difficult to interpret as love (and not control) for people who don’t know his past (read: Seher!!!). She does not have the advantage of looking at him through eyes of sympathy and had we not known his back story, we’d be right where she is in a low-key disgust and high-key mere toleration for him. 

Of course some people would still dig him and ship them though, because he’s good-looking and rich. I guess that’s the Christian Grey/Massimo effect (complex?) for you. 

Tl;dr This show is essentially Yemin’s little brother who’s lost his way and started a life of crime. Same angst with a sprinkle more violence thrown in.

YouTube Channel: Legacy

I think only the bolum fragmanı have English/Spanish subtitles.

[funkzpiel]

Drift

So the original prompt had been lovely, utterly lovely, and asked for Alpha!Jaskier using his nature to help Geralt take care of himself (i.e. using his voice, body language, touch, etc. to help persuade Geralt to eat, drink, sleep, rest, etc.) and I LOVED IT and I sat down to WRITE IT and then whatever the fuck this is happened instead… I’m not sure how it spiraled away from me so vastly or how to even quite describe what it turned into, haha. So I’m keeping the original prompt in my rolodex, cause I’d like to try again per the asker’s original idea some time - but for now, have 13 pages of whatever the hell my non-stop headache managed to put together below…

warning: contains abo dynamics, however, literally focuses solely on the dynamic between Alpha/Omega. Does not contain smut. What has happened to me?

Also available to read on AO3

Little girl, little girl ~ don’t lie to me; Tell me where did you sleep last night?

In the pines, in the pines ~ where the sun never shines; Shivered the whole night through

- In the Pines

“Someone spotted your witcher out by the wood. He’s in a right state. No one’s brave enough to go near’em.”

Those had been the words of the messenger who had tracked Jaskier down at the inn, sent by the alderman. Jaskier had been prepared to go out into the rain and find a soggy, grumpy witcher. But “a right state” didn’t even begin to cover it.

It was raining. Of course it was raining, Jaskier thought petulantly as he braved the weather to find his witcher. It was easy to hide behind his griping. Easier to whine about the cold and the wet than to think too heavily on the messenger’s words: “No one’s brave enough to go near’em.”

He found Geralt at the tree line, as promised. There were at least six trees that had fallen victim to the man, carved up in great hacking lines that bore no pattern or reason. Just vicious, gaping wounds that oozed sap and frayed bark. Weeping splinters atop their roots. Geralt was busy carving up another tree. He was using his steel sword. It kept getting caught in the bark, the blade not made for slipping free of wood as easily as it cleaved flesh or bone. Every time it snagged, Geralt would snarl, shoulders heaving as he yanked it free and attacked again, each time without any of the finesse expected from a witcher. So he wasn’t practicing; not that he should be, so fresh from a hunt.

Jaskier could tell from afar that the man was exhausted. He could hear wheezing in his heaving breaths, see the way his armor struggled to make room for each inhale. His shoulders were low, his arms heavy. He didn’t move his feet more than he had to, instead forcing his hips and thighs to bear the weight of his movements, his attacks. His skin was pale and sickly, and even with the potions having faded off, his veins still showed through his skin like silvery cobwebs.

Something must have gone wrong, there was nothing else to it. Jaskier had seen Geralt like this before. Witchers by nature and grooming were not the most expressive people. They did not know how to tolerate any pain that was not physical. That usually meant their distress got channeled into outlets such as this: calculated violence. As if that stress and that emotion could be worked out of the body like a knot from sore muscles. Each blow exhausted him, each strike winded him – but it kept his mind off whatever had happened. Focused on movement, on the swing of his sword, the angle of the blade’s descent.

Jaskier leaned against the fench a short way from the snarling witcher, elbows braced atop its warped wooden rail. He’d let the witcher tire himself out, that tended to be the best move to make in this particular dance. He’d watch, be there when Geralt—

Jaskier’s thoughts came to a grinding halt as Geralt’s sword buried itself deep into the wood of his victim, then snapped with a clang that rang out like a song in one long, mournful note. The air drew sharp and electric, and Jaskier felt himself tense like an animal suddenly all too keen that a predator was nearby and on the prowl. Water trickled down the slope of his nose, under his collar, between his shoulder blades. He shuddered, eyes fixed on the witcher. Geralt stumbled with the force of the sudden break, and for a moment Jaskier thought that had done it, that had been the last straw of the witcher’s stamina. He waited for the man to fall to his knees. For an opening to go to him, gather him up and help him home. But instead Geralt drew himself up, sides heaving as he panted like an overrun horse, and held the broken sword up so he might better admire the damage.

The metal that remained attached to the hilt was jagged and short. It glimmered weakly, its runes in shambles, its use outlived. Magic popped and crackled along the blade in fits and bursts like a death rattle until finally Geralt tossed it aside – a sneer curling his lip, exposing his teeth. He stood still, like a rock in the middle of a raging river, head down as he glared at the broken sword among the grass. Jaskier prepared to walk to him, guide his exhausted witcher back to the inn, only to freeze when a wounded sound split the air with the same viciousness as Geralt’s sword had split the tree.

The bard’s eyes darted further into the tree line, looking for the source of that animalistic sound – then shot back to Geralt who was moving now, fast as a whip, fist colliding with the tree. Leaves fell, casting him in a veil of baby green leaves and spring petals as the force of the blow shook even a tree as thick as his victim to its core. But the sound, the sound had Jaskier shivering. Wet and fleshy. Geralt’s knuckles – gods above –

Geralt didn’t stop. He reared back, struck again, that howl that had sent icy dread down Jaskier’s spine tumbling from his lips, from behind his teeth, from deep inside his chest. Snarling and blind, Geralt punched again, and again, the sound of his knuckles impacting worsening each time. Jaskier heard a snap and finally that broke the trance that sight had cast upon him, wide-eyed and fawn-legged. He leapt the fence with more grace than he thought himself capable of. Long legs crossed the field, willowy and lithe, and although he knew he was in fact moving quickly, everything felt slow and distant.

“Geralt!” He shouted but could not hear his own words. The rain suddenly worsened, pelted him, as if each sheet might hold him back from his goal single handedly. Geralt either didn’t hear him or did not deign to listen. Petals and leaves kept tumbling down around him in bursts, decorating his hair, littering his armor. Haloing him with life as he raged. Striking, again and again, slap, slap, slap – “Geralt, stop!”

The words came out in a boom, slicing through the rain like a thunderclap.

Jaskier managed to catch the man by the bicep on his backswing, and even through his armor the bard could felt the whipcord tautness of the man’s muscles – the way he held himself, still yearned to strike, but neither relaxed nor continued. Vibrating like a hound snarling at the bit, waiting for the command to launch itself forward and maul its target.

Geralt wouldn’t look at him. His eyes were fastened on the tree, his jaw clenched so tight Jaskier swore he could hear the groaning of his bones, plaintive and grinding. A muscle was leaping in his cheek. His pupils were blown wide, so black and so large that only a thin sliver of amber remained. But he stopped.

He stopped.

Jaskier didn’t enjoy having to use that trick on Geralt – his voice. It was the equivalent of taking Geralt’s choice from him, his autonomy, and while once upon a time Jaskier used to look on such things with rose-colored glasses and nostalgic ideas of romance and “the way of things”, it wasn’t until he met Geralt that he learned that his voice was a very powerful, very painful thing. A tool easily manipulated into a tactic for control rather than kindness; control disguised as comfort. He was no master. Geralt was no pet.

The thought of trying to control something as untamable, as wild and beautiful as his witcher, made him shiver sickly.

No, he had long ago told himself he’d never use it. Yet here he was, the words tumbling so forcefully from his lips without a second thought. A command. Stop.

Geralt kept thrumming beneath his touch, every inch of him shaking. Trembling so finely that were he made of the fine edges and dangling trinkets of a wind chime, he’d be singing faintly. His nostrils were flared, every breath coming out in a huge, heaving plume from each. From his throat and beneath the falling hush of the storm, Jaskier caught the sound of something strangled emitting from the witcher. Lodged tight and captured behind his teeth; a moan, a whine, a snarl, a plea.

Help.

Jaskier hated to use it. It had been a problem in the beginning – his voice. What it stood for, what it meant, what it took away. A problem that took no small amount of effort to work through. Jaskier had been chock-full of all these ideas and notions of what it meant to be an Alpha, what it meant to have an Omega. The bard had built up this fantasy in his head of what that would look like. How he would coddle them, protect them, nest with them, because that was what an Alpha was meant to do. It took time to pull that structure apart in his mind. To rebuild on healthier foundations, all from scratch. Once or twice he thought Geralt would leave him. The Omega was too wild, too free. Every archaic tradition made him buck like a stallion refusing the bit and saddle. In the beginning, it had been infuriating. Frustrating. Offensive, even. Now…

Jaskier had been so blind. He had seen Geralt as something unique to be tamed rather than the truth – there was only one true way to love, regardless of secondary gender, and it was through respect, communication, and the understanding that tradition was a construct, not a rule.

Geralt stayed. They worked through it. Together, they rebuilt that house in Jaskier’s mind, in both of their minds. They made concessions, they navigated the dark together and created a language all their own with which to define what it meant to have a mate, to be an Alpha or an Omega. And one of those concessions had been simple and clear: do not try to own me or control me. Do not use biology against me.

I am a person, not a conquest.

Jaskier had used it. His voice. But he couldn’t watch Geralt do that to himself. Guilt curled coolly in his guy, greasy and sneering. But it was done. It was done.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, voice raised over the howl of the wind and the rain, but normal. Unaffected, powerless. Pleading. “I didn’t mean to… but your hands, Geralt, gods above, you wouldn’t stop.”

Geralt’s pupils contracted ever so slightly, that mad expanse of black thinning with every word that reached him. His heaving exhales turned into something shaky and stuttered, and finally Geralt blinked. He let Jaskier guide his arm down, slim hands reaching for his pale and quaking one. His knuckles – Geralt hissed, the pain finally registering as he caught sight of them – were torn to shreds. Swollen, broken and bleeding despite the rain that ran over them. Bark stuck out in places. Stung. Geralt groaned, nearly whined, before he caught it behind his teeth and swallowed it down with a grimace of distaste. His hand was shaking harder now in Jaskier’s.

The longer he was still, the more Jaskier saw that panic – that frenzy – begin to take root again. Spreading like vines and weeds that filled Geralt’s eyes, blinding him, choking him. Overwhelmed. Amber eyes drifted from the wreckage of the tree slowly, slowly to Jaskier’s face. And for a man as stoic as Geralt, with expressions so minute and so fleeting, Jaskier looked at him and saw nothing but shattered glass, buried beneath the thin line of his lips, the little wrinkled dip of his brows, the unfocused haze of his eyes. Lost.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, his heart throbbing painfully against his ribs in great, crushing pulses, “Are you with me?”

Geralt clenched his jaw tighter. His pupils expanded. Something flickered – wild and animal-like – in the lines of his body and the tense edges of his bones. Feral and bewildered because his mad fight with the trees hadn’t worked as it should. It had exhausted him, broken him – and yet whatever had caused the panic remained with nowhere left to go.

His gaze strayed back toward the tree. In Jaskier’s hands, his own curled back into a fist even as he swayed on his feet, all color leeched from his skin – drenched and wrecked.

“No,” Jaskier said, softly but firmly. It drew the witcher back to him. Had the man stepping closer, pressing into his space. Drawn to the confidence of his tone. “Tell me what you want. How to help. Anything… just not that. No more. Please.”

Geralt said nothing, but in Jaskier’s palms and the cradle of his fingers, the witcher’s fist went slack. Trembling and bloody. Jaskier nodded at that, tried to think of how far the inn was without looking – too afraid to lose Geralt by breaking eye contact.

“How can I help?” He repeated, but Geralt just grimaced as though Jaskier had suggested plucking his nails from their nailbeds. He was searching for words that the School of the Wolf had never given him, Jaskier realized. So he asked instead, “What happened?”

All at once, Geralt’s pupils contracted to thin slits, then expanded all over again – worse – eclipsing all but the thinnest ring of amber at their edges. As though an electric current had gone through the man, he stiffened. A noise grew and choked him. Jaskier reached up to grasp the back of his neck on instinct and instinct alone, the call to soothe him too great to resist despite their many conversations. It went beyond tradition now. It was a bone-deep need, irresistible. His fingers dug into the witcher’s neck. Urged him down the scant few inches of difference between them until Geralt’s forehead rested against his own, white hair running into brown beneath the rain. Geralt huffed against him, a soft, relieved little sound, and his eyes flickered shut. Ever so slightly, his shoulders slackened, responding to that hand. Jaskier felt himself have to bear more of Geralt’s weight as the exhausted man leaned into him.

Geralt could have pulled away. He had before. But he didn’t.

“Does this help?” Jaskier asked.

The man keened, remained pliant in his hands.

“Do you want this?”

Another sound. Jaskier felt a plea of his own whimper past his lips, so desperately wanting to soothe – needing to soothe – and yet loathe to assume, to take advantage. Not when he had seen the wildness in Geralt’s eyes in those early days. Not when Geralt had asked for more than tradition dictates.

“I need a yes or no, Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, the plea nearly lost to the rain, “Please.”

Geralt shuddered under his hand, all the way down the length of his spine. His jaw worked at something, huffed helplessly, then finally wheezed, “Yes,” like a death rasp. Needing nothing more, that knot of dread in Jaskier’s stomach unraveled – curling out into long, winding tendrils of instinct that directed his limbs thoughtlessly. His hand on Geralt’s neck squeezed a little tighter and a purr rumbled in his chest at the sight of how that little gesture had made Geralt’s eyes soften, relax.

It was like finally flexing a muscle he hadn’t moved in a very long time – a need he hadn’t realized had gone unanswered for so long. Jaskier’s bones thrummed pleasantly at the sight of his Omega – Geralt – responding to him so openly. It wasn’t just that he was feeding into his instincts. There was a level of trust there. A bond that went unsaid. He had no doubt that Geralt would have slunk into the woods by now, fangs gleaming and eyes wild, if he didn’t want Jaskier to touch him, help him.

That was enough.

“Ok,” he said in a hush against the crown of Geralt’s brow. He inhaled the scent of the witcher – rain, blood, Geralt. Then he dipped into the waters of his nature that he had abstained from for so very, very long. He used his voice. “You’re going to follow me to the Inn.”

Geralt nodded, brow still against his, and beneath Jaskier’s hands the bard felt a shiver run through the witcher – electric and pleasant. When he was sure the man would obey, he let his hand leave Geralt’s neck, instead weaving one arm around his own neck so their sides were as flush as possible. Geralt burrowed as closely as possible, and the longer they walked, the more he found the witcher leaning into him not purely for the pleasure of touch alone. Geralt was exhausted. From the contract, from whatever had gone wrong, from his rage at the tree line.

He wouldn’t have made it home alone, Jaskier realized. He might not have even tried. That realization made something strange and uncomfortable twist dreadfully in a place that had never quite twisted before. Geralt was hardly his first partner, Omega or otherwise. Hardly his first trial with instincts.

But never had he felt this; this keen understanding that his Omega was just a man, and that despite every stereotype that insisted that a ‘good Alpha’ could protect one’s mate by will alone, he could not protect Geralt from anything. He could not protect him from this, from his Path.

He could only be there to help him home.

“Witcher,” the alderman exclaimed at the sight of him the moment they returned to the inn, but one look from Jaskier – sharp and feral, daring the man to come closer – had him pause. It was the growl that followed, making Geralt shiver in his grasp, that sealed the deal. It was apparent then and there the man had not even considered Jaskier might be anything more than a Beta. Whether it was from disorientation or surprise or a keen understanding that to push any further would be to invite a fight, the alderman merely said, “Apologies. It can wait.”

Jaskier didn’t realize he had been baring on pearly incisor, lip curled, until he managed to guide Geralt up the stairs and back to their room. He sat Geralt on the bed and when he realized the man would not look him in the eye, he forced his expression, his body language, into something open and familiar rather than bristled and tight as it had become the moment the alderman had tried to conduct business with them.

The village leader wanted to know the status of their contract. Jaskier knew this. Knew that the intent had been benign, one born of fear and concern for his people. But what about Jaskier’s people? What about Geralt? How had the man not known right away that now was not the time? He turned away lest Geralt see how even so much as thinking about it affected him.

Jaskier wanted so badly to ask what had happened. He had seen Geralt return from missions in a variety of states: pleased, exhausted, annoyed, covered in guts, clean as a whistle – and he’d even seen the man fail before. But never like this. Geralt sat on the edge of the bed like a man numbed from a blizzard, still and pliant, eyes staring. It was a drastic change from the feral thing he had found at the tree line, and Jaskier still didn’t know if it was an improvement or something worrisome. The white wolf’s hands quaked on his lap – bloodied, splintered and swollen – and Jaskier decided there was no better place to start than that, once he got the man into dry clothing.

“Let’s get your armor sorted out,” Jaskier mumbled, automatically going to work on the man’s many straps and buckles with the efficiency of the practiced, peeling him apart piece by sodden piece until nothing but a thin, whipcord tight witcher remained. Geralt just let him do it. No grumbling, no grunts, no protests. The bard felt sick, off-kilter.

Jaskier took care to set his swords against the nightstand where he could easily reach them, then to set his armor in the corner in the way he had seen Geralt do many times before. All the while, the witcher didn’t stir. He just sat there, similar to the way he meditated. Distant, detached. Drifting. There, and yet not.

Jaskier dipped into the other room to heat the water he had already ordered be drawn long before his trip into the storm – knowing Geralt would want it when he returned and eager to remove at least this from Geralt’s plate. He let it heat as he returned to the witcher.

“Stay there, Geralt,” Jaskier said idly, the words tumbling from his lips on instinct as he fetched first a stool, then the medical kit from Geralt’s pack and began setting up beside the bed. He placed the stool between the weak spread of the witcher’s knees and automatically placed one hand across the span of one thick thigh and squeezed as he navigated his way around the witcher’s kit. Geralt’s breathing steadied ever so slightly and without looking Jaskier rumbled softly, pleased, “Good, Geralt. Very good. You’re doing so good for me.”

Jaskier and Geralt had played with the merits of praise before. The bard knew firsthand that the witcher was utterly starved of it, that it was an easy way to twist the wolf around his finger and get him howling. But this was different. These were no mere words meant to rile up an affection-starved, stoic cut of stone of a witcher. This was so much more.

Genuine praise for a man who knew not how to ask for help, and yet in his own way was asking for it. Because while Jaskier had made his concessions with Geralt, he had asked for some of his own as well. That was the core of relationships: give and take. I will not pester you, I will not control you, but in return please trust me. Please come to me when you need shelter, no matter the circumstances. Let me anchor you in the storm.

Praise for a promise kept against the witcher’s every independent instinct, giving into a nature he had struggled against the image of for so long. For his health. Because he trusted Jaskier.

Geralt seemed to melt somewhat, the stiff line of his spine curving gently beneath the weighty blanket of Jaskier’s words and touch. The bard did his best to keep at least one hand on the man at all times as he went through the delicate process of cleaning the wolf’s knuckles and bloodied fingernails, plucking splinters and wooden shrapnel from his skin, and applying ointment and sterile wrappings. Murmuring in low tones, so close to his voice but not quite, how good the witcher was. How much he appreciated his trust.

In the cradle of the bard’s working hands, the witcher’s fingers slowly steadied but for the lightest, faintest tremor.

Already Geralt’s fragmented bones were reknitting beneath his tattered flesh; a taxing affair. Jaskier could see it in his eyes as a heady cloud of exhaustion began to overtake the man, but still Geralt fought it, too afraid to give in. Too afraid to loosen the steel trap that was his mind and open himself up to whatever had happened. Whatever haunted him from the woods. Jaskier’s mouth pulled into a taut, concerned line.

“Alright, up now. Out of your smalls and into the tub,” he said, the directions helping him as much as it did Geralt. He braced the witcher by the forearm as he obeyed, disrobing entirely with an eerie, distant slowness. Drifting. Drifting in the current of Jaskier’s voice, his direction. Drifting far away from the woods and whatever lay inside them.

Jaskier guided him to the tub. Eased him in, singing soft praises beneath his breath all the while – smooth and steady.

“That’a boy, Geralt, just like that. Keep your hands out of the water. I’ll handle the rest. Yes, good. So good,” he babbled, draping either of the witcher’s hands to hang over the rim on either side before taking a washcloth, lathering it with soap and beginning an intimately familiar habit. This he knew. This they both knew. In this, they had even, stable ground.

Geralt wasn’t terribly filthy, for once. However long he had spent in the downpour, it had done the trick of washing the evidence of the woods and the fight away. It was more a matter of warming and soothing the wolf now. Easing the tremors from the corded muscles of his shoulders, the tight lines of his arms. He washed his hair, digging his fingers into the man’s scalp gently, scrapping idly with his nails. In the mirror, he watched the witcher’s eyes begin to fall and hood. Dazed and heavy and drifting.

Jaskier had never thought he’d share a moment like this with Geralt. He’d help the man with his wounds before, of course. They’d learned ways to show their affections for one another. But this was different. Primal and organic, impossible to imitate or force. What he had always wanted, so very long ago…

He remembered once – one of their first arguments about their dynamics, back when they were both unpracticed in the art of loving one another – how viciously Geralt had sneered at him when Jaskier had described the way he was supposed to take care of the man, the Omega. Remembered the jagged cut of his teeth, the wildness of his eyes, so unlike the stories he had always been told as a boy about Omegas.

“Shall I swoon for you, too? Lay down and present right here like some animal in a field?” Geralt snarled, outrage breeding a tremor in his bones. Shaking him from somewhere deep the way earthquakes could rend great fissures in the ground.

“Is it really so terrible for me to want to take care of you!”

“You don’t need to take care of me, you like the idea of taking care of me. They all do, until the time comes – but no one wants to clean up after broken glass! You wouldn’t be taking care of an Omega, Jaskier. It wouldn’t be soft. It wouldn’t be a simple matter of building a nest and stroking my hair. You’d be taking care of a witcher. And that’s dangerous for everyone involved,” he roared, “I’m not some item on a checklist to cross off and prove that you’re an Alpha. Don’t debase me by trying. I’m not collateral in your identity.”

There was a wound there, somewhere, just as much as there was truth. It took time for Jaskier to see that, but he did, eventually. He learned to live without a checklist. Learned to bite his tongue when people mistook Geralt for the Alpha, Jaskier for the Omega. He found the beauty in a relationship established not by society, but by communication and trust. Slower to grow, but stronger for it, like a tree with roots that spread and spread and spread.

Roots that led them here – to the moment Jaskier could finally prove himself. Not as an Alpha, not to society, but to Geralt, as a partner. Prove that he was someone who could be relied on. Present and patient, without ulterior motivation. So he wouldn’t ask about the woods again, not while Geralt was like this. He wouldn’t take advantage, knowing that his voice could likely get him anything right now. The witcher was vulnerable, his every defense devoted to protecting his mind from himself.

So Jaskier would guide the man while he drifted until the witcher found his way home.

“Water’s cooling,” Jaskier murmured, rinsing the man’s hair carefully before brushing it back, looking Geralt in the eyes – searching. But the witcher wasn’t there. “Come on. Food, then bed. That’s all that’s left to do, Geralt, I promise. Almost done, you’re doing so well.”

He eased him out of the tub, sat him atop another stool. Toweled his hair – always so much whiter after washing, like freshly fallen snow – and brushed it out. Clothed him, double checked that his wrapped knuckles were still sterile and dry. He coaxed the witcher into eating a few strips of jerky from their packs and a glass of water, unwilling to leave the man alone to order food from the bar. Then, finally, he eased Geralt down unto the bed.

It was hard to navigate how much space to give. The Alpha in him bayed to plaster himself close, cover the man with his body – to protect him. But their arguments echoed in his head, replaying over and over. Was he betraying Geralt in doing this? Was he no better than any other Alpha? Was this right? Geralt’s pleading eyes from the tree line haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

He laid on his side, watching Geralt stare at the ceiling a few scant inches away.

“It’s done. Everything’s done. There’s nothing left to do, Geralt… Try and rest,” he finally said, giving the witcher the initiative to seek that rest however he saw fit – in Jaskier or otherwise. Geralt’s head slowly turned on his pillow then, gaze falling from the ceiling to land on Jaskier’s face. He stared, so far away despite the intimacy of the bed, until finally he blinked. His pupils contracted ever so slightly, focusing.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said.

“Yes,” the bard said, relieved and yet hesitant to hope. There was a long moment where it looked like the witcher was going to say something – eyes trailing across the room, no doubt wondering how they got there, how much time had passed. Instead those amber eyes just fell back on him. Was he mad, or—

Geralt turned onto his side so he might face the bard. He curled his hands between them, then reached until his bandaged hand could properly splay across the span of Jaskier’s chest – right atop his heart. He hummed, eyes closing as the witcher felt the tempo of the bard’s heart, Jaskier realized.

“You stayed.”

Jaskier felt his brow furrow, confused, and breathed, “Of course,” as if there were no other answer, no other possibility. Amber eyes bore into him for a long time. Then Geralt burrowed closer, only so close as to tuck his nose beneath Jaskier’s chin and into the hollow of his neck, and finally the witcher went lax.

Geralt had been right. It hadn’t been simple.

But it had been worth it.

Jaskier fell asleep at some point, the witcher tucked into his arms. One arm had fallen asleep, all numb and swollen feeling and promising the uncomfortable pinch of pins and needles when he finally freed the limb from Geralt. The witcher never stirred, not once, not until he woke.

When he did, he spoke into the long column of Jaskier’s throat, voice rough from shouting himself hoarse – no doubt in the woods.

“I didn’t get there in time,” Geralt finally said, lips chapped and brushing against Jaskier’s skin. Breath hot and steady. A shiver trailed down Geralt’s back beneath his hands, so he chased it with the warmth of his palms.

Jaskier closed his eyes. Now that he had Geralt back, the contract began to return to him. Something about a beast in the woods. Missing children.

Children.

I didn’t get there in time.

“But… the alderman said the children had returned from the wood,” Jaskier asked. He had been certain that’s what the messenger had relayed to him when he came to tell Jaskier about the raging witcher at the edge of the wood.

Under his chin, Geralt swallowed dryly – but when he spoke, the words followed as cool and detached as ever. Clinical and distant.

“Not all of them.”

Distance was entering the man’s voice again. Geralt had told him, once, on a particularly drunken night, about what happened when a witcher failed a contract. If he was lucky, he got to keep the upfront deposit. If he was marginally less lucky, he didn’t get paid.

Generally, he got run out of town. Stoned. Spat on. Cursed.

Geralt knew what lay ahead. It wouldn’t matter that he had saved some of the children. Wouldn’t matter that the beast was dead. Only pain lay ahead. Pain on top of the knowledge that he had failed. Disrespect on top of the memories of those little bodies and whatever had been done to them.

And Jaskier hadn’t a clue what to say. What was there to say. That it wouldn’t happen like that? Surely they couldn’t blame him when he had been the only one brave another or skilled enough to try? No villager would have done better and Jaskier didn’t think any other witcher would have had any more luck either. But that wouldn’t matter to Geralt. Any explanation, any pardon would wilt in the man’s hand, fall away to dust.

Respect for a witcher tended to go hand in hand with their successes, and it would appear that rule had bled into Geralt’s bones like marinade into meat, stewing and soaking until the man’s own self-respect obeyed the same principle.

Jaskier worked his jaw, searching for words, but nothing came. His years of education, his grasp of language, his every beautiful string of words – all of it felt stale and worthless before the witcher’s grief. Children were dead.

Jaskier held Geralt closer, buried his nose into the witcher’s hair, and hummed deep in his chest where the witcher might feel it against the splay of his hands and the tight curl of his body. The grief was Geralt’s to hold, who was he to belittle or speak it away? All he could do was share it. Be present for it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into Geralt’s hair. He felt the wolf let out a hushed breath against his throat, as though he had been holding it for some time. Geralt didn’t respond. He also didn’t pull away. He had been waiting for Jaskier to leave, the bard realized.

No one likes picking up after broken glass. Liable to get cut.

They stayed like that, together – the room silent, yet so full.

[LINE BREAK]

They dozed most of that morning. Jaskier let Geralt lead. After all, who better to navigate those waters than the man who had navigated them before. It was not his place to take it away, nor to numb it from the witcher’s mind. He did made himself present, and quickly realized that’s all Geralt ever wanted all along.

Eventually the witcher dressed. Jaskier thought they would go to the alderman next, but instead Geralt led them out of the village, back to the tree line. He never told the bard not to follow. In fact, he walked quite close to Jaskier all the while. It wasn’t until they returned to the edge of the forest – the bark scarred by Geralt’s outburst – that the witcher finally stopped, momentum faltered.

The bard looked from the woods to the witcher, confused, and asked, “Do you… not remember the way, or…?”

“I remember,” Geralt said, one hand on Jaskier’s chest just as he had done that morning – anchoring himself to the bard’s heartbeat. His gaze was firm if brittle, but he kept the bard’s gaze as he said, “You need to stay here.”

For the first time since Geralt had returned him, there in that inn bed, curled tight to his chest, Jaskier found that instinct to control rearing its head again. He had only just got the witcher back. The thought of losing him to that haze again made his gut clench violently. His eyes fell to the gloves that hid sterile white bandages, pain hidden beneath heavy armor and duty.

He could not stop himself from arguing.

“Oh no, Geralt, I’m not sending you back into there alone after last night, there’s no way,” he babbled, his own gaze turning a touch frantic at the thought, but Geralt just eased a hand to the back of Jaskier’s neck and squeezed – once – to get his attention.

“There are some things only a witcher should see, Jaskier.”

Ah. It was bad then. Messy.

It won’t be like caring for an Omega. You’ll be caring for a witcher.

The sound of Geralt punching the trees, splitting his knuckles, breaking his bones – all of it – echoed in Jaskier’s ears, running over him like a winter chill. But for a witcher, there were simply some things an Alpha couldn’t do… Some things they could not be protected from.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Jaskier tried. His eyes drifted to the trees. To their long shafts and shifting branches and dappled shadows, all swaying so innocently, so invitingly. Those children had been lured in by much the same innocence. They had played in the wood, in those trees. Fetched berries for their mothers and kindling for their fathers. Somewhere, back behind those pleasant bows of grass and gentle curves of oak, there were bodies. Small, fragile little bodies. Jaskier shivered.

And Geralt wanted to go alone.

The Alpha in him bared its teeth and paced the cage of his self control, looking for any gap in the bars, any sign of warping or fatigue. Gods above, did he feel fatigued. But Geralt’s warning rang like a bell in his mind and realized, finally, the truth beneath Geralt’s bristling and snarling and feralness: most Alpha’s didn’t want to stick around with someone they could not protect, could not control. A witcher’s Alpha had to be a man willing to go against instinct. It was no easy ask. Obviously, Geralt had been left before.

No one wants to pick up after broken glass that they cannot protect, cannot prevent from breaking. Picking up finer and finer shards, all so sharp and piercing, cutting up their fingers until they could hold on no longer. Dangerous for everyone, Geralt had said.

“I told you it wouldn’t be easy, Jaskier,” Geralt broached with surprising gentleness. With understanding. He was waiting for this to be too much. Braced for it. Expecting it.

Jaskier let his shoulders slump as he found himself at the crossroads Geralt had always known their relationship was leading to. Could Jaskier handle this – handle fighting his instinct to protect – knowing that there was no protecting a witcher?

I told you it wouldn’t be easy.

His career had not been easy. Leaving home and financial security and the royal safety net of his birth right had not been easy. Going against expectations and becoming a bard rather than head of household had not been easy. Loving Geralt had not been easy.

Difficulty was not synonymous for worth or regret.

The bard ran a hand through his hair, looking around, then finding a suitable stump he plopped down with bardly grace, crossed his legs, and said, “Nothing worth having ever is,” with a beatific smile.

The witcher stilled, eyes ever so slightly wide, and stared at him – stunned. Behind him, the trees swayed lovingly. Petals and leaves danced between them, carried on an unknown current. Drifting.

Geralt opened his mouth at that, then closed it – at a loss for words, not that he ever had been a man of many words at all. He looked out over the village, over the inevitable. He’d return to that village soon enough. He’d tell them of the fate of the children who hadn’t come home. And more than likely, he’d be run out of town – and Jaskier with him. Geralt was at a crossroads of his own: could he bear to let someone carry the burden of their scorn with him, knowing they deserved none of it?

Jaskier watched, waited – let Geralt lead.

After a long, searching moment, the witcher clenched his jaw and nodded before finally disappearing into the wood without him.

It took time to bury the dead. Time to make sure they were buried deep enough to be protected from ghouls or anything else that might dig them up for an easy snack. Time to transfer their little bodies from the scarred nook of woods infected with their fear and their death to somewhere deserving of little bodies to be put to rest. To honor their graves with rock markers and holy candles and incense to ward away any creature that might try to make an easy snack of them so early after their deaths. Time, and great care, and all the while Jaskier waited patiently because Geralt, in his own way, had promised to return if he promised to stay.

Petals danced. The woods whispered a hushed lullaby. And on the alter of Geralt’s table, he offered the only thing the witcher had ever asked for: in the face of every difficulty ahead, every non-conventional hurdle, every contradiction of instinct – Jaskier stayed.

Jaskier waited.

He stood only when a slim, broad shouldered figure appeared from the womb of the woods, solitary and wraith-like in that way wolves always seemed to appear when separate from their pack. He paused at the tree line, in that delicate state of existence between the wild and man; and seemed surprised to see Jaskier there. Surprised, Jaskier realized, but also relieved. Some unspoken tension seeped out from the man’s shoulders. Left him like a malicious spirit leaving cursed flesh, finally setting its victim free. His entire body language bespoke of a man finally breaching the surface of some vast, unknown lake.

Jaskier wondered how long he had been drowning.

“You stayed,” Geralt grunted. Stunted and unaccustomed to being proven wrong.

“When have I ever been conventional, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, unable to hold back the volume of his smile, the light of it, the relief. “Of course I stayed. You came back.”

Geralt shifted from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable.

“I did,” was all he managed. And that was enough. That was everything.

Jaskier broached the gap between them and laced his fingers in dirty, grave-soil stained hands; all too aware that beneath those gloves were the bandages Geralt had let him apply when the witcher had been weak, vulnerable and wanting. A symbol of the concessions that bound them. He could not protect Geralt as his armor did. Could not show his care publicly like any normal Alpha might. No one might ever know, may not ever see. But for that price, for that payment, he could have what mattered. He could have what the witcher was too scarred, too wary to offer anyone else.

Yes, he thought as they walked hand in hand back to the village – ready to face the people’s ire together. It was much better to love the man than the idea.

Geralt was real, more solid and more vast than any concept of intimacy or love that Jaskier had ever conceived of as a boy.

Geralt was real, and he was wanting. That was enough. That was everything.

[manesh]

Circumcision is a Hate Crime

Circumcision is a Hate Crime, and it has to stop

A plea to circumcised fathers who might circumcise their sons

Why circumcised men should have mercy on themselves and their sons

Dedicated to my grandfather, who listened when he was ignorant, and taught when he was knowledgeable.

Book Outline:

1. My temptation to commit retaliatory crimes of hate

2. Circumcised men, It’s ok to have some pity on yourself

3. Hope for restoring sexual function & comfort

4. Benefits of being uncircumcised / restored / uncut

5. My memory of circumcision

6. The Book of Michael Asad Manesh

7. Genital mutilation is the worst hate crime, worse than rape and murder

8. Nuance & Errata

9. My Final Plea to Circumcised Fathers

10. A Thank You to Fathers who Choose to Protect Children

11. Afterword & Acknowledgements

1. My temptation to commit retaliatory crimes of hate

I can state, unequivocally, I hate my birth parents. They were cruel and abusive towards me all of my life, starting in my earliest days when they removed a large piece of my penis, leaving me with permanent sexual dysfunction and decades of pain and suffering. Of all the abuses inflicted on me by my parents, the mutilation of my penis was the worst and most permanent. This permanent disfigurement of my penis is called “circumcision.”

I have spent many years wrestling with my own rage, with poor sex education, coping and communication skills to express it. Any pain I communicated about my penis, both to my parents and doctors, was laughed at, mocked, and rejected.

Once, when I pointed out painful callouses that had formed on the underside of my glans due to no protective foreskin, a female nurse practitioner lied and said “all men are like that” while laughing mockingly at me. What a bitch. I still think about cutting a piece of her clitoris off, sometimes - she is on my long list of people I often consider mutilating to make them understand my pain, who were supposed to heal me but only harmed me with their hurtful lies and complete disregard for my expressions of pain.

I was born in a hateful society that oozes contempt for males who have suffered permanent genital disfigurement at the hands of their own parents.

When I was a child, I spent many hours tugging on my penis, unsuccessfully trying to regrow the missing foreskin. I would endlessly try to prod the glans, the head of my penis, back into my body, because it always felt too exposed, cold, and irritated. My parents slapped, pinched, belted and screamed at me to make me stop trying to heal my penis with tugging, telling me I was the worst child who ever lived, a literal demon.

I did not consciously understand that I had been cruelly and wickedly mutilated due to my parents’ wishes until I was 30 - I was ignorant that there was such a thing as an uncircumcised male until then. I had been kept sexually dumb by my wicked mother and father, who fed me a constant and poisonous stream of lies and misinformation, and a wicked government, that censors all information about the harms of circumcision, and images of penises, both cut and uncut, from airing on TV.

I have l lived all my life with constant, low-level rage at my mistreatment, at the permanent disfigurement I have suffered.

I have endless rage at the government of the United States, its doctors that carried out the mutilation on me, and the legal system that protects parents from revenge mutilation, but allows them to cruelly mutilate their sons in an act of pure hate - a one way system where children have no protection or recourse. A system that in 2020 drove children to record highs of suicide. A system that doesn’t even recognize the right of boys to retaliate against those who mutilate their genitals.

Of all the offenses and crimes against children, I judge mutilation the most torturous, because it is a disfigurement that one carries for the rest of their life, even if they should escape the hell of their parents and the country from which the brutal practice is allowed.

But after years of considering shooting, bombing, or mutilating in morally justifiable revenge, I have been lucky to have had enough time, safety and space to come up with a better solution than retaliatory violence.

It is my goal to persuade every human on earth that circumcising an infant boy or child is a hate crime, and a sex crime.

I am starting with adult males like me, who are circumcised, and may be considering circumcising their sons.

I admit it is mostly my hate that drives me to do this, but I have channeled that hate into the primary goal of protecting children from mutilation, and I will do that by convincing every man circumcised as a child that what was done to him was a hate crime, and a sex crime.

Fathers, before you mutilate the penises of your sons as your penis was mutilated, read this book and allow me to convince you that you suffered grievous harm, and you should not pay that harm forward to your sons.

2. Circumcised men, It’s ok to have some pity on yourself

If you were circumcised without your input or consent: have some pity on yourself. You were helpless, and defenseless. The adults that were supposed to protect you let you down. They failed you.

It is truly sad what happened to you. Ask any man- where is he most sensitive? Where does he feel the most pleasure and pain? His penis. Your most fun, enjoyable part, with the most ability to give you sexual pleasure and orgasm - much of it was cut from you in an act of pure hate, meant to sexually disfigure you and render you unable to fully enjoy an erection, masturbation, and sex.

Most men in the world do not have their genitals mutilated by their parents; you are in the unlucky minority with cruel parents that wanted to cripple your ability to experience sexual pleasure.

This is absolutely horrific, the behavior a slavedriver inflicts on his property. You have not only suffered sexual dysfunction, but extreme psychological abuse from those who tell you your mutilation was for your benefit. You have been told endlessly that circumcision makes you “clean” and “prevents infection” and “it has no negative impact on sex”, and these lies make your suffering all the worse, because it was never acknowledged by the hateful sex criminals that cut you.

If you have suffered the injury of circumcision, and then pushed the pain and irritation out of conscious awareness and stopped mentioning it because even your parents and doctors mock you and call you a liar - that is a truly sad and lonely story. It breaks my heart that you could have so much suffering, so much pain, and no one to help you heal from it.

It is ok to say to yourself, “you know what? It was terrible what happened to me. I deserve a bit of sympathy and pity. My tribe, my parents and government, failed me. The permanent pain and disfigurement I have suffered was a truly wicked thing to inflict on me as an innocent child, and I didn’t deserve it.”

As a circumcised male, you deserve compassion.

It is my hope that once you learn to feel compassion for yourself and your own sexual wounds, you will learn to extend that compassion to your sons, and not repeat the act of sexually wounding them.

3. Hope for restoring sexual function & comfort

The foreskin can be restored through tugging - simply pulling hard on the skin of the penis near the head, and slowly stretching the skin out. Topical steroids may help. The process can take months or years.

It is a slow and slightly painful process, but the end result can be a penis that looks and feels much more like it would have if it was never cut in the first place, with better resting comfort, and better sexual/erect performance.

Tugging can be done manually, or with prosthetics (straps/weights that apply constant tugging).

4. Benefits of being uncircumcised / restored / uncut

When I saw an uncut penis for the first time, I was confused at first. But as I became sexually educated, I felt angrier and angrier about how some criminally insane people say circumcision is somehow “beneficial to males.”

A penis with a foreskin doesn’t hurt all the time. Once you restore yours with tugging, even partially, you will be more comfortable when non-erect. Covering the glans, especially the base of the glans, is a significant comfort improvement. For me personally, the first few millimeters regrown got rid of the callouses that used to form around the base of my glans, and most of the pain/tearing I would experience from erections, masturbation and sex.

A penis with a foreskin is better in every way for sex. Erections are not painful when there is enough skin to stretch. Significantly less lubrication is needed for sex because the foreskin adds just enough “give”. Masturbation can be performed painlessly without lubricant. Vaginal sex can be given with no or low lubricant, and will not rip or injure the vagina as a calloused, circumcised penis can - with no tearing, there should be less chance of infection. Anal sex, which many females enjoy, can also be more easily given with a whole and complete penis.

I have observed that women have a natural instinct to grab the excited penis, and gently pull downwards on it to reveal the glans. They do this regardless of whether the penis is circumcised or not. For a circumcised penis, this motion causes extreme pain. For a whole penis, this motion causes extreme pleasure.

It is no wonder to me that so many women in this society are frustrated with the sexual performance of circumcised men, because their natural, instinctive ways of sexually pleasing men instead hurt circumcised men.

Circumcision also reduces the size of the penis in an absolute sense. To have a mutilated penis is to not be able to compete in terms of penis size with an uncut man, who is otherwise similar in build. In a societal sense, this means that women with the biggest vaginas may never be able to find a penis that fits them properly, because all penises have been cut down to an unnaturally smaller size, which is tragic for those women. It also means circumcised men will need a smaller/younger mate than he naturally would for her vagina to fit & pleasure his smaller penis properly.

A man with a mutilated penis will also struggle at sports and battle due to increased discomfort and pain when running and have a weaker sex drive. He will have a difficult time competing with males who have a complete penis. He will lose more often at mating games as is more likely to have infrequent, unsatisfying sex. He is likely to avoid women entirely - this was my personal strategy to avoid discomfort for most of my life. He may be mislabeled as gay, asexual, or transgender, with no reference to his penis mutilation.

This is why I say circumcision is a sexual crime in addition to a hate crime. A parent that chooses to make sex acts hellacious by circumcising their child is guilty of sex crimes and hate crimes against their child for this reason.

It is obvious and clear to me now that the primary purpose of circumcision is to destroy a man’s ability to enjoy sex. Uncircumcised males have better sexual performance and pleasure, and females display more appreciation and comfort when having sex with uncut penises.

If you doubt this, you can easily do your own research by watching porn with an eye for circumcision, male performance and female pleasure. Circumcised men often display pain on their faces in pornography that is uncharacteristic of uncircumcised men; much porn tries to hide this by not displaying male faces.

5. My memory of circumcision

I have an extremely clear memory of my own circumcision, which I have suffered flashbacks to all my life.

Normally, local anesthetic is used for circumcisions in the US. Even so, I have an unusual genetic tolerance and require a triple dose to get a numbing effect, a fact I learned when I was 29 at an elective surgery.

I did not know this or have the ability to communicate it when I was an infant. I was bound to a cold table like a lump of meat, and what felt like half my penis was sawed off. It is the worst pain I have ever felt - words cannot even begin to describe it. I had constant nightmares about it for 36 years, almost my whole life. Any sensation on my penis could make me feel intense fear and a pinching, sawing sensation - a flashback to the procedure.

I am blessed in a way, because deep down, I have always known what was done to me was a cruelty. If you were unfortunate enough to be completely numb for the procedure, there is a possibility it would not make a strong, traumatic impression on you as it did me.

A child will explore and play with his body in the first few days of life. If he has a chance to see, feel and understand his foreskin, then even if numbed when it is removed, he will always know what he has lost. This is why hate criminals try to mutilate the genitals immediately after the child is born, so that he will not have a clear, visual and hand-tactile memory of what he has lost. Instead, he will have constant and seemingly inexplicable pain, a feeling of betrayal, and no chance to grieve for what he has lost. Only when one sees, admits and acknowledges what they have lost and grieves for it can they begin the process of psychological healing, which will free him from psychological enslavement to those who mutilated him and thus do not deserve his loyalty.

I used to be unconsciously triggered by fluorescent lights, the beeping of medical equipment, and doctors’ offices until I learned about circumcision and PTSD triggers, watched a video of a circumcision and understood that I was flashing back to my own.

I used to do any form of self-harm to try to avoid flashbacks to the experience of having half my dick sawed off - the slightest sensation or pressure on my oversensitive, exposed glans could cause me to go into a dissociative trance. So I would fracture my bones, pull out my hair, bite my fingernails until they bled, and twist my body into uncomfortable postures that would rip and strain muscles and leave them aching for hours. I would dive into workaholism, endlessly watch tv, play video games, overdose on drugs, masturbate excessively even though it hurt, or otherwise numb and dissociate myself out with distractions.

The pain of bloody, clipped-too-deep toenails was always better than a reminder of the pain of getting my dick sawed in half.

But now that I’ve been able to view my full memory, this is what I remember feeling in the moments after the intense, torturous pain of my penis being sawed off stopped and was replaced with a stinging & burning, lasting pain that wouldn’t go away:

WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH?

WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?

IT HURTS SO BAD, OH GOD IT HURTS SO BAD, OH GOD IT HURTS SO BAD, OH GOD IT HURRRSSS SOOOO BAD...

PLEASE SAVE ME... PLEASE SAVE ME... PLEASE MAKE THE PAIN STOP... IT HURTS SO BAD... I WANT TO DIE

OH GOD IT HURTS SO MUCH... THIS IS HELL... THIS IS HELL.... THIS IS HELL...

I have never stopped thinking that my life is hell since, and even now while writing this book aged 36 with some but not all of my foreskin restored through tugging, I am still aware and annoyed by the feeling of my exposed glans, which feels cold and painful.

I no longer think that all life is hell, but my childhood, and my life, was a hell until I turned my back on humanity and found God.

6. The Book of Michael Asad Manesh

Consider this a book of a prophet, which should be added to all religious texts as the last testament and will of God.

I have listened to God, at length, and directly. I recognize no mortal as above me - I answer only to God.

The greatest sin there is, the sin that is worse than all others, is to mutilate your own child. If you choose to mutilate your children, you have failed your God-given morality test, and you will be cast into a hell of suffering that you will carry with you in your soul no matter how far you run.

God is a compassionate being, who wishes to teach us the lessons of morality as gently as possible. One cannot be given eternal life unless they have proven they will not misuse that power to create a hell of endless suffering for others.

To mutilate a child is to give him a body on earth that is a hell of suffering wherever he goes. He cannot outrun the disfigurement you have inflicted on him in your cruelty. You have created hell for him; you have failed God’s morality test. You have been given a conscience that knows what I speak is true, but have chosen not to use it.

God will not send an Angel to stop you from sin, because the Angel is within you, as near as the beating of your heart, if you but listen to its voice: your conscience.

If you refuse to repent of your sin of mutilating your child, or if you choose to mutilate another child knowing it goes against God’s will, as I have prophesied, then your existence will be a hell until you repent, because your own children will hate you, and inflict as much torture on you as possible, as you did to them. Even if you kill your children and hide in a cave, your conscience will torture you.

God is merciful, and will allow you to remain alive in hell for as long as you choose to show your children cruelty. If you wish to escape hell, you must choose to show your subordinates mercy and patience, as God has shown you and I mercy and patience.

This is the law of God: you will use the power you have been gifted with only to carry out the highest and best moral good: the protection and education of those in your care. If you refuse your responsibility, you will suffer the pains of hell.

God has a message for fathers: it is unquestionable that men have the strength, and therefore power, to protect children. Women do not have the same strength, and God does not judge women and men equally for this reason. Because men have more power, men have more responsibility in the eyes of God. Do not deny this obvious truth: You must protect a newborn when a woman is weak from birth!

I have written these truths not to punish you - but to explain to you exactly why your God-given conscience punishes you when you harm your children or allow them to come to harm through inaction.

There is a hierarchy of morality in the universe, and only those who have consciously chosen the highest and best moral path shall be gifted the alliance of God.

Thou shalt protect thy children is the highest and most important commandment of God.

There is one final thing I must say about God, as myself: when God was born, just like when a child is born on Earth, God was ignorant, and lonely. Creation of other-souls was an attempt to solve that terrible loneliness God felt as a singular consciousness in an endless, empty universe. Thus, the most divine of emotions is loneliness, it is to be one with God, it is the reason for creation, and that which brings us together and lets us compromise when necessary in spite of the pain of sharing power. It is our God-given loneliness that inspires us to make the world less lonely for each child that should follow. If you should follow your loneliness, you will inevitably arrive at LOVE, which is the combination of: RESPECT, EQUALITY, MERCY, COMPASSION.

7. Genital mutilation is the worst hate crime, worse than rape and murder

Circumcision has always been a crime of hate, used to punish one’s enemies. For a man to mutilate the penis of another man is to inflict the ultimate suffering on him. To inflict the ultimate suffering on an innocent child you were supposed to protect and nurture is the ultimate hate crime.

Rape is less of a crime than genital mutilation. In an absolute sense of which suffering is greater, those who have suffered from rape - a temporary loss of control and discomfort with their genitals - have suffered less those left with permanent discomfort from mutilation of their genitals. This is not to say that rape is a moral good, it is only to say mutilating genitals is worse than temporarily torturing them.

Murder is less of a crime than genital mutilation. A man who can no longer enjoy sex due to his mutilation lives a hellacious life, deprived of his greatest pleasure. I myself have often hoped for death, wishing to leave this broken body, but my conscience will not allow me to die until I speak for the children who cannot speak for themselves, who might still be saved from suffering needlessly as I have suffered. You do not need to mutilate a child to teach him not to mutilate others. The most force you will ever need to use with a child you properly respect to is a firm but gentle push and a word of advice; he will listen if he knows his body is protected by you.

If hatred of evil is your strongest trait, let this truth be your guide: Murderers and rapists are better souls than the scum that mutilate children at birth, never giving them a single chance to enjoy their whole and complete bodies. They are the worst of the worst, the most depraved and morally misguided souls on planet earth, the farthest it is possible to travel from God. Child mutilators deserve the lowest levels of hell, the worst prisons, and the harshest degree of shaming.

Do not be distracted by misdirections or minimizations about the harm done by child mutilation. Do not be distracted by friendly, bright-colored illustrations, when you know how painful it would be to have parts of your penis cut off, and how much you would miss those parts every day. Do not be fooled by those who say rapists and killers are worse.

Child mutilators are the worst people on planet earth, and some of the worst souls in all existence. They are guilty of hate crimes, and sex crimes. Child mutilators have sinned against God by using their power to torture and enslave children, rather than protect and educate them.

I encourage all souls on planet earth of any age to join me in the condemnation of the mutilation of children, including circumcision of both genders.

8. Nuance & Errata

I am not against adult circumcision for reasons of improving sexual performance & male pleasure. If your penis has too much skin, and you have had enough attempts at sex to know this for certain or other problems, you have my blessing to choose to cut off a small and specific amount you know will help you.

Anytime I say circumcision is a hate & sex crime, I am referring to the forced removal of parts a boy’s penis before reaching sexual maturity without his informed opinion being heard, not a procedure done by an informed and consenting, sexually active adult for his own benefit.

In a past life, I was an outspoken supporter of circumcision, a hateful liar that would say anything to justify mutilating children. For my sin, I have suffered the pains of hell, but my suffering for that sin is now over as I have learned my lesson and repented. If you leave God no other choice, it is my experience he will condemn you to the same torture you inflict on others.

I am not a strong man, nor am I particularly courageous. I have wept alone for many a night in pity for myself. I am still hurt, and still hurting. I didn’t want the responsibility of communicating the horror of circumcision to the world, but my conscience will drive me insane if I do not speak the truth on this matter, because I don’t see anyone else stepping forward to write what is necessary, and my opinions are extremely well-informed.

If you cannot remember or imagine circumcision pain, simply remember the worst pain of your life, your worst physical trauma. Your conscience knows that to carry out the infliction of such pain on an innocent child is a hate crime.

A long-term challenge for all circumcised males who carry rage about it is developing self-compassion. Start with yourself; love yourself. Give yourself compassion at all times. Do not condemn your anger; instead watch and understand the traumatic memory that is the source of the anger. The more self-compassion, patience and non-violence you can practice, the easier it will be to practice other-compassion. Start with self-compassion, recognize other-selves, extend other-compassion.

9. My Final Plea to Circumcised Fathers

Circumcised Fathers, I pray that my words will convince you not to continue the cycle of hate by mutilating the penises of your sons. On their behalf I say, without the slightest reservation: I DO NOT WANT TO BE CIRCUMCISED!

Even if your motives are purely selfish, and you care only for the wealth and labor your son will bring you, I say this to you: if you circumcise your son, he will never love and respect you as his father, and will undermine whatever wealth he brings you. He will always remember that you failed in a father’s most important duty - to protect his children from physical harm. He will know it every time he feels pain in his mutilated penis, and know his father failed him, as your father failed you, and he will hate you, as you hated your father.

It is possible for you and your son to have the healthy relationship you and your father never had, but not if you allow his body to come to grievous harm, such as circumcision. If you do that, you are no longer his father. He may forgive you if you repent, but that is up to him, forgiveness cannot be forced once trust is broken and the body is permanently disfigured.

My life has been a hell because of circumcision. I wish it was banned, and I wish I had a whole and complete penis to enjoy every day. I didn’t deserve to have my penis cut in half when I was an infant, and you, a circumcised adult male, didn’t either.

Circumcision is a Hate Crime and a Sex Crime. Fathers, stop paying the cruelty forward to your sons; end generations of trauma with your compassionate and wise decision to do the right thing and protect your sons from grievous harm to their genitals. Stop circumcision.

MICHAEL ASAD MANESH

10. A Thank You to Fathers who Choose to Protect Children

Father, if you have decided NOT to circumcise your son: THANK YOU. You have made one of the most important moral choices of your life correctly, and earned yourself an easier path to wisdom.

Some frightened, unenlightened souls may condemn you for it and tempt you to harm innocents, but those who possess both wisdom and compassion will always praise you for protecting children, as I do.

You have a lifetime of work and responsibility ahead of you as a father and protector, but there are great rewards as well, and you will find many allies and joys once you begin down the path of respect and compassion for yourself and others.

Fathers, if you protect your children, you will be my son, and brother, and father, and I will love you, and fight for you, and listen to you, and protect you for as long as I live, as your father should have done for you.

Together, we can make a heaven on earth for all our children, and ourselves.

2021-03-14, First Edition

michaelmanesh@gmail.com

11. Afterword & Acknowledgements

I was raised to be a soldier: to focus my knowledge and power into a single strike that would destroy the enemy, and leave me unharmed. For that reason, I consider this book a weapon. But who is my enemy?

My enemy is the unconscious rage in circumcised males, that bleeds out and harms those who did not inflict the suffering on them. Only once the rage is acknowledged can it begun to be healed. If you are a warrior, my book is a compact field guide to identifying the enemy within.

As a circumcised male, I can state that I have suffered, I have raged, and that rage almost consumed me and destroyed me. It has taken me many years to undo the psychological damage alone, and the physical damage of my penis mutilation is still a constant pain.

I have lived many years in poverty. I have begged at homeless shelters. I have been denied medical care for circumcision pain. I have done what I needed to to survive and finish this book, but if my conscience would allow me to die after publishing, I might almost consider it a relief. My life so far has not been a blessing or a gift, and I may have years ahead just to heal my penis.

I feel this book is too important to the future of humanity to put behind an app or paywall, so I am making it available for free in three easy to share formats: TXT, HTML & EPUB. Please save, read, and share. If you find my work helpful and wish to thank me, you can donate to me via PayPal or Zelle: michaelmanesh@gmail.com

This is the future I have seen: if we continue to mutilate our children at birth, a child will soon be born with so much rage and hatred at his mistreatment that he will use technology to destroy the world. We are beginning to see evidence of this, as our kids compete unnecessarily with automated tools. This is the final chance for humanity to act to protect all our children, or none shall survive. I was almost this child, but born a generation too soon, which is why I have foreseen it so clearly.

I can no longer take any action that defends or supports those that mutilate children. I cannot even show my implicit support by remaining silent. We, as a global human tribe, MUST protect ALL children from harm, or perish.

I would rather die than not speak out against the mutilation of a child. I will fight tirelessly for children as someone should have fought tirelessly for me. I will be the solution to the problem, or I will die trying. I encourage you to adopt the same attitude.

I did not know how to describe who I am, until an intelligent, kind, clear-eyed child saw me and named me: I’m a Children’s Rights Activist. Equal treatment is the right of all humans, no matter the age, and the most important protection is that from grievous bodily harm: mutilation.

My book is brutally honest, and will likely be extremely triggering to any other circumcised male reading it. Have compassion on yourself. There will be sadness and anger and other strong emotions that will be released when you process your trauma. It will take time to heal; I have been healing for 6 years and am not yet done.

Zoomers: you are the smartest generation ever. You have incredible access to knowledge in your pocket, and I have every faith in you. However, there is a lot of misinformation about circumcision out there. I hope my book fixes that for you. Good luck, kid. Pay it forward to the next gen, aiite?

There are many alive today, that I need to thank as inspirations to write this book:

@pennjillette @MrTeller, the show you made about circumcision was my first real education on the topic, age 30. I love you as my fathers and thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have made my personal life so much better through your art, attitudes and perspective.

@levarburton, thank you for encouraging me to read as a child and take a look for myself. I once had the pleasure of seeing you from afar at an event, and I have never forgotten your compassionate presence and hopeful vision of the future. You inspired me to write this book.

http://www.pete-walker.com, your book on CPTSD was magnificently helpful to me. I would vote for it as a foundational block of a new school of psychology, dedicated in service to children. Thank you.

@BillBurr, I’ve seen a lot of you and I’ve never seen you lie. As far as channeling righteous anger into helpful advice goes, you are my best inspiration.

@DrGaborMate, your outside perspective of American culture filled in many gaps I was struggling to comprehend. I consider you the bravest man I have ever seen, you inspire me to speak out and attempt to educate others in spite of my fear. You will always have my utmost respect.

@EckhartTolle, you the most fearless, powerful warrior I have seen (please don’t fight me :). Even I could not stand against your infinite patience, tireless compassion and reconciliatory humor. You inspire me to show compassion to others through good-natured, helpful humor, and take joy where I can in life, in each moment, and to be myself.

@JohnMayer, I have cried at the beauty and compassion of your song, "Daughters," every time I have heard it. You inspire me to speak up for, love, and defend women. Thank you for your hard work.

I have many women to thank as well - I believe most would prefer to remain anonymous. You have all been my mothers; you have seen my soul. But especially La, a genius who sagely told me not to let my pain go to waste.

I would also like to thank one individual no longer with us: Osho, who inspired me with a vision of a positive eternity, who taught with thousands of jokes and stories, and went though pain of circumcision as an adult to be able to say firsthand it was “absolutely stupid”. If you seek more reading after my book, I recommend his transcript: “Nirvana: The Last Nightmare.”

[bibliocratic]

(spoilers for episode 160, some tws for violence)

Under the watch of that terrible sky, Jon crumples like something demolished.

Martin catches him. He always will, he remembers thinking.

Arms out like barriers, bundling their bodies into synchronicity, of both of them reaching out for the other. Martin's arms shrouding him in the grip of limbs. Jon's manic laughter is declining into a frenzied wailing. There are words in there somewhere, Martin thinks, wreckage of language washed away by the deluge of desolation cascading out of him.

Martin attempts to shush him, because it's like a scream in an empty room, a misspoken word that turns a spat into something shocked and serious – Jon's so loud, so vocal in the threatening quiet of their lapsed world, and there are more things that could hear him than livestock and wildlife. They might be in danger and Jon's sound is a lighthouse foghorn, an incensed insensate outburst, and if something hears him, Martin will not be ready, Martin can't protect them.

He tries to speak, frustrated at first, a wild alarm that flowers in his chest – he doesn't understand, what happened, what did Jon do? – trying to reason him down from the precipice of his grief – Jon – just, Jon... it's, Jon... come on, I need you to – please, calm down, J-jon please but he doesn't think Jon is listening, can listen, so he crushes Jon against his chest so the sound is muffled against him, and he can feel it shake and shudder through his ribs, the intensity of it contained in such a small body. He lapses into his bewildered attempts to reassure, to comfort. He doesn't know what he says exactly. It's meaningless, more babbling. Jon's adrift and Martin's trying to anchor him to land.

There's crusting blood pooled in Jon's ears, dried as it channelled down his neck. There's the smudged marks of red around his eyes, his throat; his teeth stained like he's sunk them into meat, scraps of flesh dug under nail. The handprint on his cheek is pink, almost quaintly ineffective.  Martin reads the scattered evidence of thwarted violence on Jon's body and feels sick.

They don't have time for this. The cutting chill of the outside is sidling through the smashed window. The audible landscape of the outside is a groaning, wrenching of a broken earth, and they are not safe. But Martin holds Jon for such a long time as he exorcises sound from soul, trying to quieten his hysterical howling against his coat, muddy from when he slipped, running back to the house as the sky opened its lids and blinked. Jon churns out brief interludes of almost incoherent vocabulary – Martin and all of it and sorry and fault – and these landmarks of words never coalesce into meaning, cycling and cycling and cycling until they rust into exhausted sobbing.

It's too much. It's noise and light and rumbling earth and Martin cannot fix these things. He draws himself into a numb cloak of narrowed focus, because he can't, he just can't think about the things outside, the scope of their world gone rotten, how anything could get in.

For the moment, as usual really, Jon has the entirety of his attention.

Jon's crying sluggishly atrophies into mute hiccuping against Martin's coat.

“Jon?” he asks, tentatively, frightened, and finally, finally he is looked at.

The skin around Jon's eyes is puffy, splashed with a hideous artwork of blood and tears. One of his pupils is splayed wide, unnaturally dilated, the white corrupted in coagulated dark shapes from where the blood vessels have burst. The other eye that meets Martin's is dull, empty.

“Jon, can you – talk to me. What – I don't understand, w-what... what happened?”

Jon opens his mouth to speak, and the voice that spills from him is wrong.

“...and when he came at me, his bared teeth fetid with the meat he'd already torn from my leg, I brought the hammer down, caving in his cheek, and my blood, it sang...”

Jon clamps his trembling hands over his mouth in a sparking tumult of horror. He tries again, and Martin watches his mouth try and force his name and he gets a mangled Mar.... before the words are being thrown up out of him like a sickness, like an invasion, his low voice pitching high and off.

“...Francesca stood in the doorway, and she didn't, she didn't move towards me but her shadow poured into the room like spilled water and I tried to scream...”

Jon sobs and slams his hands over his lips again, mushing the sound under his palm for a moment, shaking his head fiercely as though he can dispell the sentences that are jostling eagerly in his throat.

“Are those... Jon, are those statements?” Martin asks, his voice going squeaky – what more, he thinks, what else can this world give them? And that dull pupil now shot with panic meets Martin's gaze. Lowering his hand, face scrunching up again in bottomless despair, and he mouths the shape of words that it takes Martin a moment to understand, I can't I can't I can't.

Martin doesn't understand he's watching an Archive lose control. Panicked and overwhelmed. Not yet.

“R-right,” he stammers. “Right I'll just... Right.”

Jon doesn't need his blathering. Jon can't do anything with his panic. He's falling apart, falling in on himself, and he needs someone to pull him out.

“Right,” Martin says. “J-just... don't speak, OK. Not... not right now. Can you... OK, take my hand, Jon ok?” He offers out a broad palm and Jon practically grabs it,  “Squeeze once for yes, two for no. Can you do that for me, Jon?”

One.

“Alright. Ok. We're going to.... Can you... sense or whatever, is – is anything coming for us?”

Two.

“Are we safe here?”

A pause, then a squeeze. Less strength in it.

Martin nods.

“That'll have to do.”

Jon's hands are beginning to violently shake. Sitting mute and coated in blood, and outside the unforgiving sky watches them.

“Can you stand?”

Jon shakes his head, so Martin helps him up. It takes a flash second before his limbs cave back down, coltish and stumbling and nearly pulling Martin back with him.

“Oh shit... ok,” Martin yelps. “Ok. I'm going to... I'm going to lift you, alright?”

Jon doesn't protest. Maybe he's got no fight left in his bones. Disentangling their hands, Martin leans down and scoops him into a secure grip. Turning his back on that horrible gaze, on the open wound of the broken window, taking them further into the house to the windowless box of the bathroom, sitting Jon down on the closed toilet seat. Martin flicks the feeble lock on the door and knows it won't stop anything that really wants to get in.

Jon sways like a listless drunk where he sits. Martin runs the tap, and there's still hot water in the tank from this morning – Jon had hummed in the shower, a jaunty little tune like a folk song, and Martin had listened and smiled as he buttered the toast. Jon won't stop looking at Martin, as he dampens the washcloth with warm water, starts to clean away the scabbing blood from Jon's face, but that brings no comfort – he tracks the movement as though on a delay, as though he isn't really seeing Martin at all, just reacting to the motion.

In and out of the warm water he dips the cloth, and slowly the porcelain of the sink stains pink.

“What happened?” Martin asks quietly as he dabs at Jon's neck, his ears, his cheeks, and Jon opens his mouth, pauses, and then closes it again, pressing his lips together like he's locking the sound in.

“We can fix this,” Martin says to fill the silence, the guilty weight of it.  “We – I don't know how, but we can... This wasn't – this wasn't your fault, Jon.”

Jon takes a while to hear this. He rouses like a sleeper, and  shakes his head fervently, his expression painted anguished for a brief moment. And Martin doesn't know what he can say to that.

Jon starts to slump forward as Martin begins to clean his hands. Eyes fluttering, bobbing back into wakefulness with a start that looks painful.

Martin doesn't know what time it is. His watch presents a different answer every time he looks. Jon is exhausted, has been carved out and hollowed by whatever has been done to him, and whatever they're going to do next, Martin can't do this alone.

“Come on then,” he says with a gentle sigh, and he's already lifting Jon back up.

He puts him to bed. Takes off his shoes and places him under the covers and Jon's hand goes gripless in his hold within moments. His dark skin still ashen but his face slackening into something that could possibly be a momentarily respite.

Martin needs to do something. His hands itch, and he picks up a knife from the kitchen because it makes him feel safer. There are things he can do now, and they go some way to assuaging the worry clotting in his chest. Locks the front door, drags the hallway table in front of it in a pitiful attempt at blocking. He closes all of the curtains, worries that he can do nothing about the shattered window.

On his mobile, there's no signal. Not that there would be some anyway. He's not even sure who he could call. The radio when he turns it on briefly is an ominous flat line of dead air.  It's just them, he realises dully.

The paper that Jon was reading is on the floor, fluttering from the buffet of wind.

Martin has to sit down to read the awful missive from Jonah Magnus. Who finally got what he wanted. Who used Jon to do it.

Jon who will in all likelihood never forgive himself.

There will be a tomorrow for both of them. Jon will wake up, damaged but alive  and there is food in the house, but some of it won't keep in the rapidly warming fridge. Martin knows with a certainty that they cannot stay here. That if they want to continue having tomorrows, they'll have to leave this den, this island of something like peace that they were allowed for such a short time.  

Martin packs two backpacks with the essentials they have. Carries them with him into the bedroom, props them by the door he quietly locks. He goes and sits by Jon's side in a plush chair made with a smaller man in mind. Jon sleeping like a corpse, drained and unhappy even in sleep. Martin catalogues the marks on the Archive Magnus sought to compile on the body of one shattered man. The chronicles that he has witnessed, survived. The number of scars he suffered alone, cornered and in pain and thinking he would die.

Jon's not alone now. And whatever Magnus has done, Martin doesn't know if he can fixiit, if it can be. But he has to start small. Fix what he can, protect what he's able to.

Martin clutches the knife in his sweaty palm, and waits for Jon to wake up.

[fortune-fool02]

Introducing Love

Jean Pierre Polnareff x fallen angel reader

Requested by: @gonuclear

Fallen Angel AU

Please enjoy.

Contrary to popular belief, Heaven was not as open as people believed. For those who had died and their souls had passed on, they were welcomed with open arms and warm smiles. They were known as The Departed, those who were human before their death. They weren’t angels.

Angels have always been in Heaven, long before humans were, and that separated them from the Departed. Angels were bound by rules to carry out without question, regardless of what it was. [Name] had questioned this, had broken one of the rules and as punishment, was banished from Heaven and forced down to Earth as a Fallen. An angel fallen from grace and left to wander the Earth, a place void of magic and unable to return to Heaven or even crawl down to Hell. 

A prison without walls. That was the Earth to angels.

***

When the crusaders found [Name], she was in the middle of a large crater, body bruised with broken bones. It wasn’t that that caught their attention, it was the ashen grey wings that rested from her shoulder blades and the strange patterns along her face. Avdol recognised those patterns from stories and legends, an angel. 

The group had tended to her injuries the best they could, despite her objections but she was in no condition to argue. Once they had tended to her, she used what little magic she had at the moment to heal herself and give herself a human appearance. Most of her magic had been used to protect her during her fall, normally, the Fall from Heaven to Earth was enough to kill an angel but [Name] didn’t want to die.

[Name] explained what happened to the crusaders and they sympathised her, especially the Frenchman. No angel should be kicked out of Heaven just because they questioned something, how was the punishable? Regardless of it, Polnareff did what he could to help [Name] adapt to “human life” as she called it. Which was surprisingly difficult. 

***

“Why do humans have so much stuff? What purpose does it serve?” the [Hair colour] angel asked as she looked through the hotel room Polnareff was using as it was the only one with enough room for two. He looked to see her holding his luggage bag in her hands. He shrugged lightly, 

“It’s stuff humans cannot live without. Clean clothes and hygiene products are important for humans.” he answered. Sometimes, there were things he struggled to explain and so the others had to help; though it did seem to help [Name] understand the humans more in order to blend in and adapt. 

She accepted his answer and set his luggage back down before taking a seat on the couch, examining the T.V remote. Explaining television was far more complicated than it should have been but they set it to simple answers, yet it was something that absolutely fascinated by it. 

Stubborn as she was, she refused to ask for help, not wanting to seem helpless to humans and figuring it out for herself. Pressing the red button at the top, she smiled when the screen lit up, waiting for a command. She pressed the arrows, flicking through the different channels until she found something that interested her. 

She landed on a channel with a show that presented two humans -a man and woman- sitting together and talking about silly things. She was about to change channel when the two humans suddenly leaned towards each other and began to press their lips together. Confusion flared up inside the fallen angel at this. What were they doing? 

“Polnareff, what are they doing?” she asked, pointing to the screen. Polnareff looked over and smiled at the T.V. 

“They’re kissing. It’s commonly used as a way to express love between two people.” he watched her face shift from confusion to intrigued, curiosity glowing in her [Eye colour] orbs as she turned to the Frenchman. 

“What’s that? What’s love?” Polnareff blinked at her, struck speechless for a moment. Was.... was she serious? She didn’t know what love was? Everyone in the entire world knew what love was, certainly angels must too.

“Well, that’s an excellent question, [Name].” he said, plopping down in the seat beside her, “Love is a wonderful thing. A bond shared between two people that pull their souls together.” the Frenchman spoke with such passion in his voice, this was one of the topics he adored to talk about. His heart plastered on his sleeves, spilling down for those he treasured and valued. 

[Name], however, had not heard of such a thing. Well, she had. She would watch as Departeds would reunite with those they had lost on Earth, embracing one another with tears in their eyes. Even those who came alone were always with someone at some point. She would have asked them herself, wishing to understand this bond more but, as rules had been stated, she was not allowed to. Angels were given the job of monitoring from above, unable to intervene with anything unless ordered to. 

But... was [Name] technically an angel still? No, once Fallen, an angel will never be able to step foot back into Heaven. That no meant that all those rules, all those strings she was tangled in, were nothing to her. Nothing but fleeting spiderwebs she could easily dust off and forget all about. 

“Love is honesty and trust. The mutual respect for one another and seeing the differences of one another and accepting them as, not a flaw, but a part of them. It’s the connection of two hearts.” As Polnareff spoke, [Name] could not help her fascination. Humans seemed so... entranced by this thing. Of course, [Name] has seen bits and pieces of love but not always the good bits. 

She recalled on more than one occasion hearing a Departed sob over how their lover had killed them. With that, she always assumed love had a connection to violence and sinning, which in a way it did, but hearing Polnareff talk about it, it was listening to someone else entirely different.  

“Could...” the [Hair colour] woman glanced to the side for a moment then looking back at him, “Could you show me?” The redness that painted Polnareff’s face put Kakyoin’s hair to shame at her question. His hand rubbing the back of his neck as a nervous smile lifted his lips.

“Yeah, I’d love to.” [Name] sat there, waiting for him to tell her what to do or do something himself. He turned his body to face her, his large hands taking her smaller ones into his with a gentleness. “If you want me to stop or something, just pull away and I’ll stop. Okay?” she nodded at him. 

Slowly, he pressed his lips against hers, his lips were soft against hers with thin traces of the sweets he was eating a few minutes ago. To him, her lips were unlike anything he has kissed before, soft and warm, perfect. Warmth flooded through his body. Slowly, her hands rested on his shoulders and he believed she was going to push him away, only for her arms to slid around his neck, pulling him closer. 

He pulled away after a moment, his body feeling lighter than ever with a tingling sensation. Giddy was all he could feel. [Name] looked at him with those beautiful [Eye colour] orbs that illuminated in the light. 

“I believe I understand why humans are so desperate for this.” there was something in her voice that slithered into his heart, wrapping around it and holding it softly. He smiled, cheeks red, and giggled a little,

“Yeah, you were incredible.” A silence filled the room when Polnareff realised what he said. [Name] gave him a soft smile, 

“Thank you, Polnareff. Perhaps we could do it again sometime? I quite enjoyed it, myself.” Polnareff couldn’t help the smile lift his lips. He could now say that he has kissed an angel, and by God did he feel blessed.