#felt like he was losing control of the circumstances that arose and that ‘if only they would’ve listened to ME then everything would’ve

[tariah23]

Outside of all of… that happening to Gojo, and finishing Snowfall the other day, eek……..

[shihalyfie]

The Kaiser wasn’t very good at being a villain (and that’s the point, actually)

Ken’s journey of redemption is generally well-documented overall, and it was explicit enough in the series that there’s only so much you really need to explain it, but due to the blurred boundary of what was supernatural influence from the Dark Seed and what was Ken’s own emotional problems wreaking havoc, it’s somewhat more difficult to bridge that gap between the Kaiser and Ken, and how they can be the same person.

The easiest way to understand it comes from both directions. One is that Ken, even in his normal element, is much more assertive than he’s often given credit for -- it’s just that the Kaiser is a (fragile) manifestation of that very carefully cultivated to channel that in all of the wrong directions. The other has to do with the fact that the Kaiser is actually really terrible at being a villain, and the persona itself is very fragile and difficult for him to maintain.

Rewatching the first half of 02 shows multiple indications that, for all he seemed to be the stereotype “evil genius”, Ken was forcing himself into the mold. He was never cut out for it from day one. Even from the beginning, Ken’s actual nature as a lonely and inherently kind eleven-year-old child was tearing apart at the Kaiser persona, and the fateful episode 21 was not so much a single turning point for him as much as it was the last straw in a series of things tumbling down for him.

Before we continue: While all of the meta on this blog is only possible thanks to support and input from a handful of friends (whose names will not be disclosed on account of privacy requests), this one in particular arose from a long and extensive discussion with said friends that I am extremely grateful for. As always, I hope I was able to convey your points well.

Well, firstly, it’s important to understand that, much like nearly any other character in this series, Ken’s surface demeanor is a bit deceptive. The Crest of Kindness has the original Japanese name of yasashisa (優しさ), which has a secondary meaning of “gentleness” (lost in translation, but still apparent with the bubble metaphor in 02 episode 23). That also ties into the secondary meaning of “kind” -- it’s not just about being naturally “soft”, but actively choosing to be gentle with others even when you’re theoretically capable of not doing so. (For those of you who have seen Appmon, the entire point of that series was about what it means to consciously and deliberately choose to be kind, and, in fact, quite a few parallels could be made between Ken and Haru...)

The contrast between Daisuke and Ken goes far beyond just the surface. Daisuke’s surface demeanor is abrasive, but he’s not actually very good at being assertive until push comes to shove, and he otherwise tends to bend easily to others or get overwhelmed; in contrast, Ken has a more polite demeanor and for the most part seems non-confrontational, but has much stronger control of his emotions and is more easily able to be assertive than Daisuke is. (Of course, both of them share the common point of being like-minded when it’s something that really matters, but Ken is much better at imposing his will and getting what he wants done before Daisuke ever gets to that point, which is what fuels the whole punchline of Daisuke and Ken’s Shopping Carol.)

So, the point is: Daisuke is kind out of instinct and just “naturally” being so, but Ken is kind because he consciously believes in treating others well and not causing conflict, and not causing pain to others.

That’s not to say that Ken’s behavior is out of suppression or anything! It’s not a case like Takeru, who’s trying to push complicated emotions down while pretending they’re not boiling under the surface, nor is he like Hikari, who’s compulsively pressing her emotions down out of a desire not to burden others. Rather, even as early as 02 episode 26, he’s very straightforward about what his issue is and what he thinks about it. Ken’s “shyness” during the latter half of 02 is largely due to shame and hesitation from not knowing the other 02 kids well, but as the series goes on and as we go into post-02 material, he indicates that he’s perfectly wiling to be vocal about what he thinks without necessarily fighting any compulsion to suppress it. For someone who claims he doesn’t know much about his own heart, he arguably seems to have the best grip on understanding himself compared to a lot of this cast!

So in essence, the main take-home here is that Ken is theoretically capable of being strong-willed and assertive, and is very good at choosing when he wants to be assertive and when he wants to hold back. And he likes seeing people get along, and he wants everyone to be happy, and he doesn’t like seeing people be hurt or hurting others, and under normal circumstances, Ken has very good control of his emotions for the most part and quite a lot of self-awareness. That’s why Ken is the one to get the unique designation of this Crest; everyone in this cast can be said to be generous and supportive of others in some form, but there’s a difference between being a “natural” doormat who defers to others by default (Daisuke being a very good indicator of how this kind of mentality has a flip side of lack of self-esteem and high insecurity, and Tamers’s Takato being a good indication of how “being deferential” doesn’t necessarily preclude you from having tendencies towards selfishness or cowardice), versus choosing to be kind by understanding everything and still being gentle out of a belief that it’s the right thing to do (again: see Shinkai Haru). And it’s why Wormmon says in the 02 episode 23 flashback that Ken’s kindness can be used against him; being “kind” in this way requires a lot of mental fortitude, strength, and guts, all of which are things that could easily be very bad things when applied in the wrong direction.

This means that all the Dark Seed really needed to do in order to turn him into the Kaiser...was make him lose grip on that self-control.

Actually, Ken says it himself in less-than-subtle words in Spring 2003:

…It was revenge. But who was this revenge against? Did I want to triumph over the ones who made fun of me? The ones who looked down on me and used me? But… In the end, it was revenge against myself. I couldn’t do anything but deny the kind of human being that I was.

So in other words, the Kaiser persona was, effectively, a self-loathing eleven-year-old boy throwing a massive tantrum. A lot of the Kaiser’s actions in the first half of 02 are honestly rather petty -- he’s basically upset at the kids spoiling his holiday in 02 episode 6, he attempts torturing Daisuke out of a petty grudge over a soccer sliding tackle in 02 episode 8, and everything to do with expanding his territory and eventually (hopefully?) becoming ruler of the Digital World is frankly very sloppy. For all he’s said to be a genius, his genius only seems to extend to book smarts, and his “tactical planning abilities” never really expand beyond that of a soccer field sort of affair; his way of locking down control on other things is basically just “brainwash it harder” or “whip it harder” and applying harder brute force instead of doing something in the long-term like, say, trying to rule with charisma and recruiting allies.

(Again, bringing Appmon back into this, seeing Cloud in action will give you a much better example of a charismatic human villain who’s actually competent at his job. Or, heck, you can even look back at Savers’s Kurata, who at least was savvy enough to pull strings with people in powerful positions. Or even the Kaiser’s predecessor Saiba Neo from V-Tamer, who may have been openly sadistic but still had the sense to align himself with background power. Really, compared to all of these folks, the Kaiser is downright pathetic.)

Remembering that Ken fell into the Kaiser persona partially as a desperate attempt to become a “perfect person” like Osamu, Ken “imitated” Osamu’s cruelty to him because he felt that was how he could improve himself to become a “strong” person better than him. But the irony here is that Osamu’s “cruelty” was something that he himself never liked, and mainly came from lashing out at Ken due to feeling like he had a lack of control over his own life. So Osamu was never happy in that position, and Ken, who is indirectly pointed out via the bubble metaphor to be even more fundamentally inclined towards gentleness, is probably even more miserable.

Because everything Ken does as the Kaiser is “unfocused lashing out at everyone”, the Kaiser has less control over his emotions than Ken normally would. Takeru manages to emotionally pin him to a corner by confronting him with enough assertion in 02 episode 19 (this is before he punches him), and correctly points out that the Kaiser isn’t capable of winning with words (i.e. ideologically) and resorts to violence as the first thing he can think of. You’d think that if the Kaiser were actually someone with the self-confidence to consider the other Chosen Children beneath him, he wouldn’t even bother giving them the time of day, but Takeru just happening to be a little assertive is enough to make him lose his composure and start falling apart, and a lot of his shaken “insects!” yelling comes from him seeming pretty desperate to cling onto that rather than being all that confident about his natural superiority over anyone. 02 episode 20 establishes that he’s getting himself in over his head by tampering with the powers of darkness he can’t control, and while, on a plot level, it means that he’s misjudged his own capabilities, on a metaphorical level, it corresponds to the fact that even Ken himself is incapable of getting himself out of the emotional abyss he’s in.

And on the flip side, one of the biggest “tells” that Ken is still miserable during all of this is 02 episode 9, where he’s seen ruminating on the “glory” he’s getting in the real world despite having just decided to leave it all behind. The episode prior, after all, had been called “The Digimon Kaiser’s Loneliness”. The media is using him like some kind of “hot topic”, his parents’ affection (in his mind) is shallow and based only on his achievements, and he has no friends (how much of a role Akiyama Ryou played in his childhood is unclear, but either way, he’s no longer around now). With no emotional support coming from any direction in the real world, he’s resorting to at least trying to have some “fun” in what he perceives to be a “game”, and yet he’s still not having fun at all.

If you look carefully at a lot of the Kaiser’s actions during the first half of the series, one thing you’ll notice is that there are multiple indications that he’s not quite up to par to being as sadistic as you’d think he’d be. Recalling that we learn in 02 episodes 20-21 that the Kaiser is under the impression that the Digital World is like a game that he can “reset” and the Digimon in it not real living beings, it has interesting implications of the fact that he’s actually very hesitant to physically harm other human beings -- he certainly likes emotionally toying with them, but even when he’s trying to take petty revenge on Daisuke in 02 episode 8, he goes out of his way to set up a trap with Bakemon to torture him rather than, well, actually using the kids as hostages. That’s a hell of a lot of work to do, but he instead uses this extremely roundabout way to get them out of the picture in a somewhat less harmful way, risking having them escape (which is exactly what happens).

And in 02 episode 19, when Takeru confronts him and he ends up whipping him, you can hear a slight “...gh?” in the Japanese audio for a split second right after that, meaning that the Kaiser is, for some reason, having a hard time dealing with the fact that he just hit Takeru, and he does a very poor job defending himself against Takeru punching him out despite ostensibly being trained in judo. (Seriously, if you watch the animation of the scene, he’s just lying there while Takeru repeatedly punches the hell out of him, because he’s so out of it.) Regarding the Digimon, he’s convinced himself that they’re not living beings, but regarding the human Chosen Children, who undeniably are, no matter how much he might look down on them, he has a suspiciously hard time harming them as much as he could...

On top of that, one interesting question that might come up to one rewatching the first half of 02 is the strange “contradiction” of why the Kaiser ostensibly seems to hate Wormmon so much, calling him an unworthy idea of a partner in 02 episodes 10 and 19, and yet does remarkably little to get Wormmon away from him or off his case (he hates Wormmon calling him “Ken-chan”, yet doesn’t really try very hard to stop him). He could have easily locked Wormmon away in a cage or something if he really wanted to -- actually, there’s the question, why doesn’t he slap an Evil Ring on him? Because in the end, Wormmon is the only emotional support he’s really getting, and so it’s likely he unconsciously doesn’t want to lose that. Recalling that Digimon are fundamentally linked to the inner self, the Kaiser rejecting Wormmon for being “weak” is analogous to Ken rejecting his own self for being “weak” and “not perfect” -- which means that the fact he still keeps Wormmon around is analogous to the fact that Ken hasn’t really been able to bring himself to completely let his fundamental nature go. And, hence, it’s why he gets so initially incensed at Wormmon’s “betrayal” at 02 episode 10 (and yet still keeps him around despite that), and is ultimately emotionally destroyed by his death in 02 episode 21.

Although, actually, if you look carefully at 02 episode 21, it’s not quite Wormmon’s death that necessarily does it -- the turning point where he sheds the Kaiser persona is right before that (and in case you have any doubts, the animation puts highlights in his eyes for the first time in the series right at that point). Wormmon’s death is the first major consequence of his actions that he has to deal with, but what actually brought Ken back to his senses was his own realization that Digimon are living beings, that his actions have had permanent effects this whole time, and that he can’t take back anything he’d done.

Remember that 02 is a series that is largely about moving on and accepting that you can’t change the past, and that you have to move forward regardless of that. Ken’s fall into sadism was only possible by driving him into extremely deep-seated denial -- he was already starting to face the potential reality of Digimon being real, existing beings in the real world an episode prior. He says, outright, in 02 episode 21, that part of the reason he came to the Digital World to do all of this was escapism -- and, presumably, under the idea that any mistake he made could be rolled back and redone, unlike Osamu’s death. But the Digital World is not a place you can reset like a game, Ken will have to live with the consequences of his actions again, and moreover, every single one of the actions he’d been convincing himself were relatively meaningless had caused severe and permanent harm, and the entire thing overwhelms him.

It’s also important to point out that this was probably where the Dark Seed had to work a lot of magic to get Ken to embrace this kind of denial so easily -- after all, it’s established in the final quarter of the series that it does have a tangible impact on personality and puts a damper on one’s ability to feel empathy. In the flashback in 02 episode 23, regardless of whether Ken considered the Digital World to be a “game” or “able to be reversed” or not, he clearly still didn’t care and treated those around him with proper kindness (even if he did consider it to be all of that, it probably wouldn’t have been entirely unlike how a lot of us have a hard time picking rude choices in video games). It’s a very complicated chain reaction of events that allowed this to be even possible, and it was so against his fundamental nature that once the denial broke and Ken reached his limit, he wasn’t able to do it anymore. The Chosen Children’s main role in 02 episode 21 was really just cleaning up the massive mess he’d made in the form of Chimeramon, but as far as the whole thing about the Kaiser’s persona completely falling apart and Ken being forced to confront his own self goes, that was pretty much all Ken and Wormmon, in a series of dominoes that had already been collapsing for episodes on end.

The following episodes have Ken treat the 02 team with a certain amount of detachment, and this is often construed by a handful of people as being reflective of Ken being standoffish of some sort. The fact that Daisuke and Ken are often promoted in franchise materials as “rivals” mainly due to them being in the “protagonist and right-hand-man” position such characters are in might tempt you to think that way, but they are most definitely not!! (Considering that even saying that Taichi and Yamato fit that mold is a bit questionable, and neither Ruki nor Jian quite fulfill the expectations of the role in regards to the genre-subverting Tamers, Frontier, which is explicitly said to be deliberately written to be conventional, is probably the first proper execution of this trope in the form of Takuya and Kouji.) Ken’s detachment from the group at this time in the series is something he actually gives the reason for quite directly: he believes it’s his fault and doesn’t want to burden them with what he considers to be his job, and in the end Daisuke ultimately breaks through to him and they become completely normal friends who get along. “Rival” what?

Ken is, at worst, distant during this point of the series, but he’s actually very straightforward about what he wants and intends to do; it’s just that he’s being a bit blunt about it because he’s still drowning in his shame and not sure how to approach them. (Also, consider the fact he was rather lacking in friends or a support group before all of this; he doesn’t have a lot of experience in socializing, either.) So he keeps everyone at arm’s length, and the reason he comes off as so standoffish is because he’s so assertive! He directly and bluntly makes some very strong remarks about how he believes everyone else shouldn’t be getting involved! Again, when left to his own devices and not being manipulated into by a supernatural evil seed into multiple levels of denial, Ken is very in control of what he wants and thinks, and is even very open about speaking his mind.

That’s even when they’re not good decisions, mind you. Ken starts off the climax of 02 episode 26 being very firm about wanting to suicidally throw himself into the reactor in order to stop it, and 02 episode 30 has him consider himself a burden to the team after the fallout with Iori and try to stay out of it despite them very badly needing his presence, which Daisuke (of all people!) rightfully calls him out for being childish about. But he also listens to reason very quickly and acknowledges the others’ point very easily, with Daisuke reminding him in 02 episode 26 that his suicidal recklessness is actually pretty self-centered and short-sighted of him, since it’ll prevent him from doing anything else to take responsibility for his actions going forward, and Miyako, uh, slapping him in 02 episode 30. (But he comes quietly right away as if acknowledging his own idiocy, and never holds it against her thereafter.)

Nevertheless, the point is: you can see that this kind of assertiveness is the same kind of assertiveness he had as the Kaiser, just channeled in a different direction and for a different purpose. But as the Kaiser, he was angrily lashing out at anything and everything and stepping on anything he could just so he could have a show of power; once he comes back to his senses, he reserves that force for it being something he consciously believes is the right thing to do (regardless of whether it’s actually the right thing to do or not).

Because of the fact Ken spends a lot of the last quarter of 02 suffering and parsing a lot of trauma, a lot of people have tended to pin him as constantly sad and being a soft crybaby, but that couldn’t be further from the truth! Despite all the emotional pain he goes through, Ken has a hell of a ton of strength through all of this -- he even flings a well-aimed quip at Oikawa in 02 episode 44 despite being in a completely helpless situation, and in 02 episode 45 he himself is the one who volunteers to open the gate to the Dark Ocean, despite knowing exactly what it entails. That takes a lot of guts, and all things considered, his recovery from being the Kaiser spans only four months and is altogether incredibly fast given what he went through -- it did not take long for him to regain his bearings and get himself back on track. Again, it’s the same kind of “assertiveness” and capacity for action that fuels what the Kaiser did, just better controlled and in a direction Ken knows he actually wants.

This is also why I tend to object to insinuations that Ken would be overly touchy about or traumatized by the mere discussion of him being the Kaiser in the aftermath of 02, because the series itself, multiple times, portrayed him as being very able to talk about his experiences bluntly and honestly, at worst maybe considering it a bit of an awkward topic. He has no problems admitting that it was a thing that happened, especially if it involves discussing it as part of taking responsibility or preventing further damage -- it’s just that he of course doesn’t enjoy it either, and is equally as open about the shame he feels as a result. All of the times Ken loses his composure in the latter half of 02 involve either physical pain being inflicted on him, or a lot more actively vicious invocation of his memories and insecurities, and even then he gets himself back on his feet with a rather prompt amount of speed. Poorly timed of a statement as it may have been, Miyako is not incorrect when she says in 02 episode 31 that he has a certain amount of natural resilience that he carried from being the Kaiser.

All the way back in 02 episode 9, shortly after it was revealed to the group that Ken was the Kaiser, Iori, Hikari, and Takeru all label Ken as someone who doesn’t look like someone who could do something so horrible, and Hikari even says that his smile looks “gentle” (note that this is yasashisou, a word derived from the same root word used for his Crest). So in other words, even all three of them were able to catch on to his actual nature betraying himself even during that awful period of time. It’s still poking through, all things considered.

But we as the audience know he’s putting on that face for the camera, and his eyes are still as dead-eyed as they are for the first half of the series, and when Miyako accidentally makes him laugh during the Christmas party in 02 episode 38, it’s very much framed as probably the first time Ken has been this genuinely happy in a long while. He was never able to be this happy even when “satisfying” himself by stepping on others as the Kaiser.

And that’s why it’s so extremely unlikely that Ken will ever be able to lapse back into the Kaiser persona after the events of 02, even with the Dark Seed technically still inside his neck. He wasn’t enjoying it anyway; the Kaiser persona wasn’t a habit that he fell into out of emotional suppression or even catharsis, but rather him forcing himself into a role he was never comfortable in to begin with. He was never truly satisfied with anything he was getting out of it, and moreover, it took the combination of supernatural influence and a hell of a lot of denial to allow it to get that far in the first place, because of how far against his fundamental nature that was.  (Again, for those of you who have seen Appmon: think about what it would take to get Haru to embrace sadism.) Even Osamu wasn’t enjoying being cold; being kind and living your life with positivity is a lot more fulfilling and fun, anyway.

In 02 episode 48, Ken describes the influence of the Seed as “horrible” in retrospect; even if it didn’t involve physical pain and exhaustion the way it did for the Dark Seed children, the entire experience sucked even back then. And while Ken theorizes about the Dark Seed’s influence being countered by the power of love earlier in the episode, when you look at the whole of 02, it’s not just his family’s love -- Ken now has the emotional support of his family, and Wormmon, and his newfound friends, and that’s giving him all of the fulfillment he wanted that putting on a front of sadism wasn’t giving him, and he doesn’t really need anything else anymore.

02 itself is very much about the fact that it’s not a bad thing to rely on the support of others to be happy; the Ken and Kaiser are undoubtedly the same person, but the latter’s existence requires a very specific lineup of events and factors to happen, and one of the massive parts behind that was a severe lack of emotional support or anyone who properly understood him. And by the end of the series, Ken has more than enough strength of heart to accept everything that’s happened and move on, and to stop reaching out to denial and clinging onto the past, and he has emotional support and understanding from a whole new group of friends that thoroughly understand everything he did and went through, and wholeheartedly accept and love him anyway.

He is never going to have a gaping hole in his life like that again.

[writeyouin]

OOOOOO could you bless us with Medical!Reader?!?!? Like V comes back - ALSO COULD IT BE FOR V?!? sO V comes back to the gallery all limping and shit and like reader rushes to get a first aid kit and it’s all sweet and nice and a lil angsty cause V doesn’t wanna show his body and I’m rambling. YOU GET JAZZY WIT IT I LOVE YOU BYE.

V X Reader - Medic

A/N – I hope you find this jazzy enough. I had a lot of fun writing it.

Warnings – None.

Rating – T

You sat on the floor where the Shadow Gallery met the abandoned London underground which V had spent years digging out. Although your voice had long since left you, you still managed to sob. You had begged V not to leave but he had been unable to end his vendetta against Chancellor Sutler who was supposedly going to be delivered to V for execution by Creedy.

You knew Creedy was going to kill V. Even V knew, yet he still went anyway, leaving you instructions on how to work the train laden with explosives should he not be back by midnight. Now, parliament was in flames, you were alone, and V was probably dead. Before he had left, you had told him that you loved him. V had warned you once before that he didn’t have room in his heart for anything more than vengeance, but still you had dared to hope and as usual, hope was the cruellest player that fate had to offer.

Why did V have to kill Sutler? Wasn’t blowing up parliament enough? Weren’t you enough? Your logical mind knew why V had to have Sutler; he would not be able to rest without killing him. However, your heart remained stubbornly illogical; you didn’t want V to go.

Nearby, you heard an awful sound, like a body being dragged against the concrete. You supposed that must be Creedy, or perhaps one of the Fingermen. It seemed that even with parliament in shambles, they would want to find the Shadow Gallery and destroy any trace of V’s existence.

‘Let them come,’ you thought bitterly. Without V, what was there left to live for anyway? You had been his prisoner, his victim, his redemption, and maybe even his love. What were you without him?

You glanced morosely to your left where the sound was coming from, expecting to see a member of the militia. Instead, you saw V slowly limping towards you, leaning against the wall for support.

“V,” You cried out hoarsely, running to grab him.

“Oh my God,” You exclaimed while pulling his arm over your shoulder so you could walk him closer to the Shadow Gallery. “You came back… How? I-”

“You-” V groaned in pain. “You gave me something to live for. I’d forgotten what that felt like- ARGH!”

V held his ribs and even through the black material you could see blood seeping out from under his hand.

“Oh God,” You sat V down against the wall where you had been only moments ago. “Wait here.”

Without explaining further, you ran off to fetch your medical bag. Before you lived in the Shadow Gallery, you were in training to become a surgeon. In the Shadow Gallery, with access to hundreds of banned books pertaining to medicine, you had actually learnt more than you ever would have under normal circumstances; it was awful to think that the government wanted to hide such valuable information in their attempt at totalitarian control.

Running back to V with your bag and a pillow in hand, you laid him down. Placing the pillow under his head, you asked if he was injured anywhere else. Without waiting for the response, you reached down to unbutton V’s shirt. He grabbed your hands with the little strength he had left.

“(Y/N),” He breathed raggedly, “Don’t. That skin is not me. You shouldn’t see it. I just- I just came back to say- to say goodbye.”

“No,” You growled. “You are not leaving me. I won’t let you.”

“Please. Please don’t- Ah-”

“I get it, the flesh isn’t the man, but it does hold you together and I will not lose you again. Now shut the hell up and let me work.”

V would have continued to fight you but he was too weak. He could barely breathe, and any movement now only caused more pain. If only you knew he had so much to say to you, and not enough time left on Earth to say it. He was wrong when he said that he had only room in his heart for vengeance. As it turned out, even someone as warped as him could find love, and apparently have it returned; it was more than he deserved.

You gasped as you removed V’s shirt. It wasn’t the burns which disturbed you, but rather the sheer amount of bullet wounds which he had survived. You were relieved to find that none of the bullets had hit major organs, but horrified to find that most of the bullets remained inside of V instead of passing through him. Removing the bullets could cause irreparable damage to V’s nervous system if you weren’t careful, and that was only if he didn’t die of blood loss first.

You used all of the medical kits adhesive bandages to cover the bullet wounds and stem the bleeding. Then, you set about taking just one bullet out from the only uncovered wound and then cauterising it with a flare you had found. V screamed and you had to fight of tears that threatened your resolve. If only it was anyone else… but it wasn’t; it was V and if you didn’t pull yourself together quickly, he would die.

So, that was how you continued to work. Remove a bandage, extract the bullet, cauterise the wound, listen to the screaming, repeat. If you had counted, you would have found that you had removed twenty-three bullets from V’s torso, but you didn’t count. Instead, you spent the time muttering instructions to yourself and occasionally lapsing into brief monologues to V. You didn’t really care if he was listening or not, just so long as he knew you were there, working ceaselessly to save his life.

“Careful,” You warned yourself. “Take it nice and slow- We should go up top and see the weather after- No, no, don’t hit that or he’ll bleed more and- We could watch a movie together if we- Got to fix that.”

Although your monologue made little sense, it did calm you and help steady your hand.

Finally, all the bullets were out and most of the wounds cauterised. Your work was far from complete however, for some of the wounds were too large to burn shut. Fortunately, V had passed out from the pain which meant you didn’t have to hear him suffering as you set about stitching the remaining injuries shut.

“Careful with the Lembert stitch,” You warned yourself. “Can’t be sloppy.”

While V was still unconscious, you searched the rest of his body for injuries you might have missed. It was hard to tell without an X-Ray but you thought that V had around five broken ribs. Using the non-adhesive bandages, you bound his torso tightly.

Too afraid to move him in case any complications arose, you laid down next to him, listening to his shallow breathing. You wondered whether you ought to remove his mask to aid his air intake, but decided against it, leaving him with the face he had chosen; you could always change your mind if he took a turn for the worst. With a heavy heart, you waited to see if V would survive his trip to Limbo.

Normally, you wouldn’t have expected anyone to awake from such a traumatic event for days, if at all. V however, was a law unto himself and regained consciousness mid-day on the sixth of November, just as you were wondering whether you ought to search the Shadow Gallery for an IV drip.

The first thing he did was slowly reach up to check that his mask was still on. With a sigh of relief, he lowered his hand.

“Try not to move too much,” You said quietly.

V turned his head just enough to see you squatted next to him. “You really did it,” He rasped. “I didn’t deserve to live and yet I was granted you.”

You ignored the self-depreciating comment, instead choosing to ask V how he was feeling.

“Under your care, I feel protected. A little sore perhaps, but nothing that I cannot handle without you to help me… That is, if you still feel the same way about me.”

Gently, you held V’s hand in your own. “Of course I do. I love you. I will always love you.”

“Always is an awfully long time. I could disappoint you yet,” V replied, thinking of how callously he had left you to chase down Sutler.

As if sensing his thoughts, you caressed V’s mask. “You came back for me.”

“I had to. I never got to tell you… I love you too. I didn’t think it was possible and yet I have found that you have warmed my heart. (Y/N), you brought me back to life long before now.”

You took a deep breath, thinking about the future, “V, where do we go from here? We changed the world by sending that train to Parliament.”

V honestly didn’t know what the future held, but he felt that as long as you were by his side, he could brave anything. “I’m afraid I don’t know what is in store for us. Nothing will be the same as before. The world will attempt to find a new normal, I suppose. I would like you to stay with me through that, if that is your desire.”

You lightly kissed V’s mask, knowing that even if it was just metal, it was still his lips.

“I can’t thing of anywhere I would rather be.”

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[almostkoo]

Reset Character | Kim Taehyung

pairings: kim taehyung x oc

summary: oc gets dared by friends to spend the night in a supposedly “haunted” mansion that used to belong to a upcoming actor in the 70’s, kim taehyung, oc comes face to face with the spector himself and has questions about the broken veil

word count: 2.9k

warnings: unedited language, mentions of death, taehyung is a very angry ghost at first

author’s notes: last story of spooktober !! omg i can’t believe i did this and finished it !! i’ve gotten some nice feedback over the course of whipping up these stories and it’s makes me truly happy that people are enjoying them :) as always i hope you enjoy this one too !!

link to my main masterlist

The darkness of nighttime made the mansion look huge and intimidating in front of you, Jimin and Seokjin. Losing a drunken bet placed you in the circumstances you were currently in, standing in the walkway to the door of the long abandoned mansion.

“Okay fuck it. If I can’t get the dart on the target. I’ll spend a night in the Kim mansion” you had slurred, arm thrown over Jimin’s shoulder as he had looked at you laughing and struggling to hold his composure. “if you guys make it I’ll spend the night but if I don’t I’ll go. Yeah?”

“You’ll go? If you don’t make it?” Seokjin slurred, just as hammered as you were. Jimin, being the only one who’s head was clear and on his shoulders.

You nodded. Standing back and lining yourself up with the dartboard. You had three darts, three chances to hit the target on the nose. Staring hard at the board, one target turned into four that seemed to be moving around. You threw the first one, hitting the far end of the board. You threw the second one, hitting closer to the target. The last one didn’t even hit the board; it actually almost punctured the toe of Seokjin’s Nikes.

“Fuck it. I don’t care, it's just one night. How bad can it be?” you laughed.

Bad. Very bad. Very fucking bad. The liquid courage that those uncountable shots of vodka gave you had you out of your fucking mind to place a bet like that. Now here you were, superstitious as hell and very frightened to get close to the mansion.

The Kim mansion or known to some people as 0613 Morado Dr. had once belonged to a South Korean film star in the 70s named Kim Taehyung. A young handsome actor who started making his big break starring in a few indies and huge blockbusters before his untimely death in 1976. The medical examiner said it was an accidental overdose of pain medicine he had been prescribed a year prior for an injury on set. But a conspiracy theory quickly arose that it was one of his close friends that poisoned him due to jealousy. Rumor has it that his ghost treads the property scaring away anyone who dare enter.

“Are you ready Y/n?” Seokjin asked, wringing your shoulders.

“No and I wish I hadn’t said I was going to do this. I’m never drinking again. I swear to the heavens.” you said, shaking your head. You could feel the bile rise up your throat threatening to spill out all over the dead lawn.

“Well. Anywho, here’s your tote” Jimin handed you a canvas bag, stocked to the brim full of different things. “you have your sleeping bag, portable charger, charger cord, salt, holy water, lighter, sage. You know .. the necessities.”

“We’ll be out in the car camping out in case anything happens-“

“In case anything happens? What would happen? Why would anything happen? Why would you say that?” you rambled quickly, Jimin’s small hand clasped over your mouth stopping you from going any further.

“No rambling. None of that right now. The quicker you get in there and fall asleep the quicker this all will be over! Speaking of, there’s some melatonin in there if you need it. We gotta blast. This big ass house is giving me the heebiejeebies.” Seokjin patted your tote and him and Jimin ran back to Seokjin’s car parked across the street. You looked at the house in front of you. Patting your pockets to make sure your phone was there, taking a deep breath you started up the walkway to the front door.

You pushed the door open, the flashlight Jimin placed in your tote illuminating the way. You stepped around the mansion and it was big. Tall walls with brown wooden panels and slanted ceilings. Old plants in their pots that had since died long ago, old furniture, laid astray stained and in ruins. The shag carpet in the same state. You could see the beauty that this place had once ago. You continued moving forward through the house going up on the steps on the landing to set yourself up for where you’d be sleeping for the night.

The mansion was chilly, that was for sure. For it to be California in Autumn was one thing for you to be sitting in a “haunted” mansion of a deceased celebrity was another thing. Your nerves were on edge. You had called everyone you could think of starting with Seokjin and Jimin separately. There were only so many people you could call this late at night who would actually pick up the phone and answer. Out of the friends you called the only ones that answered besides Seokjin & Jimin, were Dahyun, Yeosang and Changkyun and that wasn’t even half of them. You dug through the tote looking for the melatonin, before finding it and taking it dry.

Even in the darkness your eyes kept moving around darting around, the feeling like you were being watched accompanied you like an unwanted friend. You leaned back against the wall closing your eyes and letting the melatonin do its job.

Slam! You jumped awake with a gasp, heart beating out of your chest. Reaching around for anything on the floor besides you, finding your phone the time read 3:36 a.m. You fumbled to turn the flashlight on. Your deep breaths were the only noise heard in the house. The old mansion looked the same as it did when you first entered. Scanning around when you saw something in the doorway to the kitchen. You whipped your flashlight around, the figure disappearing further into the kitchen almost as soon as your flashlight came it’s way. Your heart felt like it was deep in a cave beating so fast and sending echos up the walls of your chest. You were terrified.

Resisting your senses telling you not to get up you had to ignore them out of curiosity. Standing up and walking down the steps as slow as possible to not make any noise and alert whatever it was to your current location. You turned your flashlight off, stepping into the kitchen blind. The moonlight that slipped into the windows past the tattered curtain illuminated the kitchen, a soft blue glow almost made you confuse the green tiles of the floor to a different color. If anything was in here it would’ve seen you before your foot could completely make it past the threshold.

Chalking it up as a trick of the eye. Knowing that sometimes melatonin messes with people, you turned away to leave. Why would a film star wanna stay put and haunt people. I’d just go and pass on if I were them. You thought to yourself shaking your head that you were being silly about everything.

“Leave!” a voice whispered in your ear, causing you to scream and run away. Back up the steps instead of out of the house. Now everytime you yell at the characters in horror movies for doing that. It made sense now you couldn’t control your legs, it was like your brain put you in reverse taking you back to the last place you were, nonetheless you still felt stupid for not leaving. Everything you needed was grasped right in your hand, everything on the landing could be replaced.

Yet here you were panting like a dog after a run attempting to call Seokjin and Jimin only to be met with endless ringing. Pulling back to look at the screen to discover you had no signal, zero bars. The house got so cold you felt yourself shake. The shutters on the outside of windows slammed back and forth against the house. The sounds of groaning, like multiple voices overlapping over one another. Crawling back into the closest corner you felt your eyes start to water, a sob leaving your lips. You were frozen in place, glued to the wall.

All of a sudden everything stopped. The house became quiet. Lifting your head up you examined your surroundings. A figure stood at the end of the staircase. You locked eyes with the man at the end of the staircase, his strong glare meeting your frightened eyes. His down turned lips parted in a sigh.

“What the hell are you doing in my home?”

You’d straightened up wiping the tears away with a sniff. Staring back blankly at the man.

He yelled, making you jump. “You! I’m talking to you! What the hell are you doing here?”

“I- I’m just tryna honor my end of a bet. I lost a bet that’s it.” you whispered. The man shook his head. You took in his appearance, dressed in all black. Black robe almost dusting against the floor, striped button down and black slacks. Jet black hair styled in a slight middle part.

“My home isn’t your playground.” the man said, gripping the bannister on the staircase.

“You must be Kim Taehyung?” you asked.

“I’m the only ghost living here so I would hope so.” he stated.

“I can leave if you want.” you offered, wanting to facepalm yourself after asking such a stupid question of course he would want you to leave. Taehyung looked a little taken back.

“You’re not afraid of me?” he asked.

You stalled. “I mean yeah. You just did all that stuff just now. I’m actually terrified, but I don’t know if you’re gonna kill me so I figure it wouldn’t hurt to use my manners.”

Taehyung hummed. “Normally the type of people that come through want to vandalize my home or film ghost hunting videos they say, perform seances to try and talk to me. But if you are just here to truly honor a bet I’m sure another three hours wouldn’t hurt.” He walked up the steps sitting a couple of feet away from you on the landing. You kept looking at him out of the corner of your eye at him as he idly played around with his fingers.

“Are you just going to stare at me?” Taehyung asked, coldly.

“I’m sorry it’s just I’m really scared right now. No offense to you Mr. Kim.” you apologized.

Taehyung snorted at your formality. “You don’t have to call me Mr., just call me Taehyung. I’m sure we’re around the same age…” he paused, rolling his eyes “I’m sure we would’ve been or something.. you get what I’m trying to say.”

“I get it. How old were you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“24.”

You nodded in response. You had maybe… 3 hours to finish in the house. You only had to make it until sunrise since that is technically staying the night. If Taehyung wasn’t going to do anything but sit there and be quiet it wouldn’t be too bad.

“So are you tampering with the signal or…” you trailed off. Taehyung made a face like a lightbulb that had gone off above his head.

“I’m sorry. It’s not intentional. It’s just something about me that does that. You’re not the first to complain about your smartphone? Is that what they’re called?” he asked. You held in a laugh, nodding your head.

“I just. I’m confined here. I only see the world when it comes to me. So I don’t really know too much about out there anymore.” Taehyung confided in you, speaking barely above a whisper.

“It’s fine. On the bright side you would’ve been older, maybe you would’ve been the type to dodge this stupid social media shit.” Taehyung looked at you confused.

“Don’t worry about it.” you looked around the house from where you were sitting and up the stairs leading into the bedroom. “Nice house you got here.” Taehyung scoffed.

“Thanks. Didn’t always look this run down.” he said and with a wave of his hand it was like a light came through the place, showing what used to be. The bright orange carpet and brown couch, huge sparkling chandelier hanging from the ceiling, plants live and green. You looked over at Taehyung, seeing the pained look on his face as dropped his hand, making everything return to normal.

“A little trick I picked up over the years.” he mumbled. You couldn’t imagine what he went through. Having everything pulled away from you so quickly at a young age.

“Bet you threw some cool parties here. I know if i had a place this big I would’ve.” you tried to uplift the mood. Taehyung nodded.

“Yeah I was gonna throw a big bash here when I finally got my Oscar nom. I knew it was gonna happen. I was gonna be the first of the first. Start breaking down all types of doors for people to come in and follow up.” Taehyung wiped away a tear.

“What happened? Was it really your friend? Or was it an accident?” you asked. Taehyung looked at you eyes narrowed angrily.

“Why would I tell you what happened? So you could run and tell my business to whoever will listen?” he asked.

“Who the hell is gonna believe my crazy ass? I spent the night in a celebrities haunted mansion and talked to said celebrity and now I have the answers to a decades old mystery? Get the fuck outta here.” you shook your head rolling your eyes.

“It was a mix of both” Taehyung ran his fingers through his hair “a friend of mine, Hyunwoo he knew my knee had been hurting that day he knew it was. He saw me take my medicine earlier. But little did I know that evening when we sat down for drinks he slipped more of my medicine in, letting it disintegrate in my liquor. I had now clue. When I choked on my own vomit, he didn’t yell for help. He didn’t call 911, like a good friend would. No, he laid me back. Stroking my head, saying his apologies and watching the light leave my eyes and that was it.” Taehyung looked at you, your mouth parted in shock.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” you said, holding your chest.

“All that just to steal my role alongside Al Pacino. The big role, guaranteed to get my Oscar. I don’t even know how the movie ended up working out for him.”

“You know to be honest. I don’t even think the movie might’ve went through production because I have quite literally never heard of it.” you confessed. Taehyung shook his head.

“Well this is news to me. I got murdered just for the film to get scrapped or stuck in development hell.” he laughed bitterly.

“That’s fucking tragic. I’m really sorry, Taehyung.”

“What are you sorry for? Don’t be sorry. You weren’t around, wasn’t even thought of when I died. All things happen for a reason. That’s something I had to learn. It’s hard not to be a bitter ghost. I don’t mean to scare people away to be a dickhead. But I’m stuck here. The last thing I want is people poking and prodding around my home. It’s the only place I can get peace of mind.”

“Hopefully one day you can move on. I know I don’t know you but hopefully ya know.” you sighed.

“Thank you.” he said.

You and Taehyung talked for a while. About a whole bunch of things. From you telling him all about the internet and what it can do and him telling you all about his start in acting. Weird shit and secrets nobody knew about other celebrities back then.

You looked down at your phone, not having checked it for a while. 6:47 it read.

“Fuck. I’ve gotta go. My friends are gonna be waiting for me. They’re not gonna believe I made it through the night.” you said, quickly standing up to get your belongings. Taehyung stood up too watching you walk down the staircase. You turned around to look at him.

“What? Are you not gonna be a gentleman and walk me out? I thought people your age were big on chivalry and shit.” you joked. Taehyung smiled, the first smile you saw all night, big and boxy as he made his way down the steps.

Taehyung paused.“May I ask you something?” You nodded waiting for him to continue.

“Do people.. do people still talk about me?” he asked.

“I mean besides the bad stuff yeah. My friend Seokjin, he’s a film major. They talked about you in his class last week. You’re up there with like James Dean.” you stated. Taehyung gasped.

“Really?”

“Really. Although your image isn’t exploited like his. Yeah people know you.” you smiled. Taehyung stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“It was nice meeting you. I hope everything goes well for you. Work and life and stuff.” Taehyung said.

“Same. I hope you finally make it up there because when I die I’m gonna need a tour guide.” you laughed. Taehyung chuckled.

“See ya around.” he said.

“See ya around.” you opened the door closing it behind you. Seokjin and Jimin were waiting for you, car running in front of the house. You slid in the backseat.

“You fucking made it out!” Seokjin yelled, as Jimin put the car in drive to pull off.

“Yeah, I did.”

“So, did you see him? Did you see Kim Taehyung?” Jimin asked.

“No. Thank God I didn’t. I probably would’ve peed on myself.” you lied.

“Wow. What a bummer. I guess it wasn’t that bad being in there.” Seokjin said.

“No it wasn’t too bad at all. I might have to go back home and check out some of his movies.” you said, leaning back against the back seat. Looking out the window, hopefully Taehyung makes it to the sky some day.

[heartless-error]

Broken, not perfect, but together. - Chapter 15

Fandom: DC comics, Batman

Pairings: Jonathan Kent x Damian Wayne (JonDami) & Jason Todd x Timothy Drake (JayTim)

Rating/Tags: Family feels, hurt/comfort, mental health issues, running away, brotherly love, fluff

Other(s) links: AO3

Broken.

The Batfamily was broken.

It was six years ago, and they had barely stood together since then, trying to stand up despite guilt and regret.

Damian  was sure there was nothing to save, not after losing something that he didn’t know he cared about. But when a new opportunity to get back what they had lost appears, he cannot help to doubt as his past decisions haunt him again.

If you love somebody, set them free. But you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

Chapter Summary:

“What did you do? What are you afraid of?”

That question asked by Conner Kent that morning was repeated in Damian's mind over and over again as he could hear every second how the fragile threads that had held his composure together all these years were slowly breaking.

Crack. Crack. Damian listened to him.

Turns out he was afraid of many things, but he thought he wouldn't have to face any of them for a long time. Until now.

“Damian...” Timothy said in a low voice, surprised, and betrayed.

Chapter 15

 Now

 "Damian, what did you do?"

 That question asked by Conner Kent that morning in a pained and curious tone as he stood in the doorway of his kitchen, was repeated in Damian's mind over and over again as the same way a loud and muffled echo could invade the corners of an empty and spacious place.

His head wasn't exactly empty, but there was certainly a great lack of logical thought or reaction that made that conversation with his brother-in-law hit him where it hurt at the right time, reminding him of everything he had wanted to say and yet didn’t.

 Motionless and trying to assimilate the image in front of him, the youngest of the Wayne family swallowed hard to try to get rid of the strong pressure in his throat that was stopping him from breathing normally.

 "What are you afraid of?" Kon had asked, clenching his fists, and looking at him pleadingly, hoping to confirm his suspicions and find out what they had been keeping from him all this time. While he, overwhelmed, used his facade, and turned his back to pretend that everything was going well and didn’t feel the guilt devouring him inside.

 Just like now, he was doing his best to step aside on that avenue and act naturally so as not to stand out. Reaffirming his posture so as not to be noticed by the crowd that had begun to disperse and barely controlling the emotions that invaded him. It was the way to keep his sanity even though he could hear every second how the fragile threads that had held his composure together all these years were slowly breaking.

 Crack. Crack.

 He could feel them splitting in two, falling apart as he looked more at the happy family. It almost hurt him physically, because those threads, those patches, and strings that he had patched up with and tried to fix himself like a broken toy so long ago, had lasted too long. They were old and wrong, badly stitched, and inaccurate. And now they were splitting, falling, leaving the multiple wounds to his heart and soul open and bleeding in a way he hadn't been able to afford before.

 Crack. Crack.

 The girl in Jason's arms was talking about something while waving her hands and her entire body with excitement, the adult listening patiently with a soft smile and his eyes shining with genuine happiness and affection.

 Crack. Crack.

 Timothy laughed at what she said, encouraging her to continue as his hand gently cradled the head of the boy he holds, who had leaned on his shoulder sleepily and listened in silence.

 Crack. Crack. Damian listened as he remembered. Relentless and painful.

  "Damian, what are you afraid of?"

 The question arose within him, with regret.

 "What are you afraid of?"

 Wasn’t sure.

 "What are you afraid of?"

 Doesn’t know.

 "What are you afraid of?"

 Many things.

 "Are you afraid?"

 Yes.

 "You do?"

 Yes. He’s afraid. He is very afraid.

 Or had, rather.

 The answer came instinctively, without thinking. He knew he should have answered the same to Kon that morning rather than ignoring him and pretending nothing was happening. He should have been sincere and said yes, indeed he was worried and feared of many, many things, and although he couldn’t explain what they were he had been dreading them all this time.

 That little part of him that still belonged to the battered young Damian, barely held behind the patches, could say a lot about it. Could tell him that he was weak, insufficient, that he had softened, and that fear was not something a warrior like him should feel because it was stupid, insignificant.

 But given the circumstances, Damian believed that he had a right to have those fears. And, this time, to stop feeling them.

 Let go Tim and Jason was not easy. At all.

 Not because of everything that happened, not because of the dire consequences that had led him to where he was (all of that was already quite clear at a glance), but because it had fueled insecurity within him which had been dragging all these years.

 It wasn’t guilt, nor regret. It was just fear. One so big and magnified that it had paralyzed him to the extreme, that it had fueled his nightmares even more times than deep regret. One he already knew, had already plagued him before in his childhood and whose dominance and poisonous words he had already suffered without being able to avoid.

 "What if you have failed?" It was saying.

 "What if you have made the wrong decision?" It said.

 "If you have, you have ruined everyone's life again." It sentenced with cruelty.

 Yes, Damian had been struggling with his insecurities and fear of failure his entire life. Which had undoubtedly been quite harmful, even dangerous.

On this occasion, not only did resurface strongly, but he saw no reason to stop it. After all, despite knowing that Tim and Jason had to go, that he was doing the right thing by helping them, who assured him that it would turn out okay? Uh?

 No one.

 Once they both disappeared after the airport security check, he was blind, totally, and absolutely blind. He wouldn't know where they were going if they would be safe there, what they would do, how, or if they would be alright.

When he decided to do what he did, he was sure about the reasons, but he didn’t think about what little he would know later and how much that would torture him. And although doing it he was aware of what he was causing around him, the only thing he had in mind was that he would make his brothers happy, that he was giving them what they deserved despite although everything indicated that he would never see them again.

 But that insecure part of him, that part that he had decided not to listen anymore after realizing how poisonous it was, didn’t hesitate to begin and whisper and reveal options that he didn't want to take into account, that he hadn't wanted to think about while helping them.

 But that voice didn’t stop, it didn’t stop talking and resurfacing as time passed without hearing from them.

 What if they are dead? What if they have broken up? What if it went wrong? What if something has happened to them and no one will ever know? They went alone, without equipment, without backup, and nobody knew where they had traveled. The danger was in their lives no matter how much they left it behind, they may have been attacked, or injured, or maybe they had separated, maybe things hadn’t gone well between them when they saw each other in a place other than Gotham, or worse situations could have arisen that nobody has been aware of.

Who knows? He didn't, Damian couldn't because he had said goodbye to them at the airport and hadn't heard from them again. And there was a possibility that he had unconsciously thrown them under the bus or quite the opposite. He couldn't be sure because he was in the dark and that fueled his insecurity, even more, compounding his unease about having made the wrong decision.

 Rationally, he knew that this entire line of thought was born out of deep concern for his siblings, out of an enormous desire for them to be safe and happy. And that it was how much he loved them, how much he needed that all this went well which made him so uneasy and afraid that he had failed, that it had not gone as expected and in the end had also ruined Tim's life and Jason in the process.

 He couldn't bear that, he couldn't.

 He did everything for them, sacrificing himself and the other members of his family for it, not to mention his beloved. If he had failed, if it had not worked, he would have pushed his older siblings out of their life, friends, and family to make them miserable too, and that would be too much.

 There was a quota of lives Damian could destroy.

 The best thing is that he would never know if it had turned out well or not. He would never know if he had made the right decision, or instead condemned Tim and Jason for the rest of their days.

 Damian had resigned himself to being all his life not knowing the truth, to being in total darkness about it, not having a single indication of whether his sacrifice had been worth it or not.

 Until now.

 Crack. Crack.

 He inhaled shakily and then exhaled forcefully, trying to breathe and relax his muscles. His eyes felt burning, he was on the verge of tears of happiness and excitement.

 “I did it. I did that.” He thought, assimilating as he could what he was still observing. “I have helped that.”

 He had no words to describe the relief and deep comfort he was feeling at that moment. It was indescribable, overwhelming, like a balm that drowned him and lifted all the guilt and anxiety of those last two days. That anguishing weight that he had carried so long on his back had vanished in an instant, it had evaporated the moment he saw the scene in front of him and he could finally breathe, feel.

 Barbara had told him that he needed this, that he needed to see it. And as much as he was mad at her for the whole debacle that morning, she was right, she was so, so right.

 He needed to see Tim and Jason in person, without filters. See them together, embraced, with a ring on their finger and holding what was now their own family. He needed to see what he had helped to create, what they had achieved thanks to him, what his effort, pain, and perseverance had resulted in because otherwise, he would not believe it.

 Crack. Crack.

 This, all this, was what he craved and desired. The proof he wanted and now was in front of him.

 Suddenly his father's anger didn't matter anymore, or Grayson's rejection, neither his sadness nor anything else in the world, because he could breathe. He could breathe and he could live, live without problems, and move on knowing what he had accomplished.

 Damian sighed and lifted one of his shaking hands to his face, rubbing his eyes to keep from crying and his cheeks to make sure he hadn't started to do it before. He felt overwhelmed and vulnerable. So many things to think about, to feel. Feelings weren't his strength, but he'd held back so much and it's not like he'd expected to reach any other way when he found Tim and Jason. To tell the truth, it is not as if he had stopped to think about how he would act or behave the moment he met them again because it was not something that he had thought would happen.

 So, there he was, with his father behind him, also quiet and assimilating. Both trying to go unnoticed on the avenue that led to the school. Possibly drowning inside and trying to keep their composure not to run to where the other family was.

 Crack. Crack.

 Quite useless because his threads kept breaking, kept tearing apart.

 With his heart pounding, Damian fixed his gaze on the children Tim and Jason held. Analyzing them carefully as his chest swelled with unexpected pride and affection that he didn't even bother to suppress.

 Both were small and fragile, but they seemed happy and very close, especially in the arms of their parents. They were probably in preschool, four or five years old at most. The girl was a little taller than the boy, but if Damian had to guess he would say they were twins.

 The girl was energetic and smiling from what he could see. Her sleek, shiny black hair was pulled back into adorable pigtails that bounced as she leaned into Jason's arms to call her brother, gesturing with her hands, and laughing adorably as her sky-blue eyes sparkled with glee.

The boy, a little calmer and smaller straightened up and stopped Tim from stroking his short, dark, straight hair as he leaned down to let his sister's hand grip his tightly, causing the girl to let out a small giggle heard from his position.

 However, the boy didn’t seem to mind that, neither did he appear to listen to what Tim or Jason began to say, but rather distracted by something else, almost confused. Raising his head with a surprised expression and still holding his sister's hand, the boy's greenish-blue eyes turned to his left, then to the right, as if they were looking for something. He looked back, again to the right, to the left, and then directly to ...

 Shit.

 Damian froze.

 And Bruce, whose presence hadn't bothered to think until now, did too.

 He was looking at them.

 Double shit.

 The boy was looking directly at them, with intensity and some curiosity in that innocent look.

 Neither of them could prevent a chill from running through them, because how had he noticed them? As much as Damian had been overcome by the situation, he believed that they had moved away from the center of the avenue and had hidden among the people quite well. They were bats, going unnoticed was part of their charm, no one had noticed them, why did the boy?

 Crack. Crack.

 Now the little one was watching them carefully, indiscreet, amazed, and still leaning his little body on Timothy.

 Out of nowhere, the last Robin felt a change of pressure on his arm that would have surprised him if he hadn't been motionless under the unusual gaze of that kid. It was familiar, but not in a good way and he couldn't place it. But not he couldn’t stop and think about it because it wasn't that important when his father, who hadn't let go of his grip on him all this time, pulled back his arm imperceptibly as if he wanted to instigate him to leave.

 That confused him even more, because did he want a withdrawal? Batman? After everything?

 Crack. Crack.

 The boy kept looking at them without paying attention to anything else. And with his grasp on his sister’s hand wavering, she ended up looking at him realizing where his attention was, fixing those icy eyes on them in an instant.

 Bruce tightened his grip, Damian felt trapped.

 Crack. Crack. Crack.

 “Hey, kiddos.” He heard Jason say when neither of them answered what they were saying. “Are you listening?”

 Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

 “What are you looking a...?”

 When Tim asked that, he followed the children's gaze

 And then their eyes met.

 CRACK!

 Everything fell silent. The world around them paused.

 Tim stood still, stiff as a statue and a surprised expression breaking through his features. Jason, noticing his hesitation, also ended up looking in their direction, narrowing his eyes and leaving his face completely blank, indecipherable, listless in disguised but no less latent anger and rage.

 Damian held his breath, feeling completely vulnerable and destroyed inside, waiting for the illusion to break and everything to fall apart. The chances of this ending badly were high and not all results were favorable to either party. From everything that could happen maybe they would flee, or attack, maybe Bruce did, or a scene worthy of a show or even a chase could happen. He couldn’t tell, the situation was complicated and at this moment he felt trapped, undecided, the tension between them was becoming almost unbearable despite being meters apart.

 Slowly, Tim tightened his grip on the boy and cradled his head again to bury his face in his shoulder, ignoring the curiosity of the minor and preventing him from looking at them any longer. In turn, Jason also adjusted his strong grip on the girl and made a move to step back, as if ready to run out.

 A pinch went through his chest, aching and cold, realizing they wanted to flee. Of them, of him.

 But no, he wasn’t the problem. Damian wasn't the problem, he knew it.

 Who they looked at, who they didn't take their eyes off, who they fixed their eyes with distrust, terror, and deep disappointment, from whom they protected the children and who they didn’t want them to see, wasn’t him but who was behind him. It was Bruce who they wanted to run away from, who they inspected with an intense and aware glance each time as if he planned to take their children away or attack them at any moment. To be honest, they had reason to think that, and if they hadn't been caught in these circumstances, they would probably be a long way off by now.

They had seen Damian too, yes, their eyes had met for a few glorious seconds that take his breath away. But they weren't watching him, they hadn't tensed when they saw him, because they knew they didn't have to worry or take care of him, they trusted him but unfortunately, they couldn't say the same for Bruce.

 Bruce realized that he was the only problem here, that it was his very presence that was sabotaging his opportunity to speak to them. Nor was it very difficult to deduce, not only for all the times Damian had reiterated what would happen but because the sharp, cautious, warning glances were directed solely at him. If they fled it was because of Batman if they lost them was his fault.

The grip on his arm became stronger but shaky and almost hesitant. Although surprisingly, after a few long seconds, it began to slowly loosen until it completely disappeared, setting him free.

 It was like a leash was removed and Damian didn't even think about it or deigned to look back before starting to run towards his brothers.

 All he heard was his racing heartbeat, and all he saw was his older brothers getting closer, closer, closer, right there. They still watched their father closely but seemed to relax as they realized Damian was the only one approaching them and not Batman.

They decided to release the kids and leave them in the ground as they hide them behind them so as not to have their hands full, just in case. The kids stayed behind Jason's legs, stunned, and watching him as he got closer.

 By the time he was finally in front of them, he had no words.

 It was curious because during all these years he found himself many times thinking about the things he would say if they met again one day. And now that he was here, he had no idea where to start, or even to start. His heart kept beating too fast and his voice didn't seem to work right, his thoughts were racing that he couldn't focus on just one and he just stood there, looking at the agitated and still assimilating that it was them.

 “Damian…” Tim said in a low voice, amazed and looking him up and down.

 He shuddered because he knew that feeling so well, the one to make sure he was seeing who he thought it was because it was the same one he had since he'd gotten there and saw them ... like this.

Jason still hadn't taken his eyes off Bruce, suspicious and with one arm behind him to make sure the kids were still there, but he knew he was also very aware that he was two feet in front of them.

 “I…" He said in a hoarse voice, broken by nerves. “I don’t…”

 Fuck.

 He didn't know what to say.

 He was one of the most lethal people in the world and yet he was hesitating, not knowing how to talk to them and regretful as well as grateful for having found them. There were no more seams to break, there was nowhere to hide.

 He knew he shouldn’t be here, but at the same time he wanted to be here, and how could he express that?

 Tim's blue eyes kept him in place and Jason was already alternating between watching his father and staring at him in a daze. And at least he didn't seem to be the only one not knowing what the hell to say, because the elders also seemed to have problems reacting, causing silence and a less aggressive tension to settle on them.

 “I didn't want this.” He ended up blurting out. “Neither Jonathan. It was a coincidence, they found you and I tried to stop them from doing this, but they didn't listen to me. They got angry and forced me to...”

 They had to know that, they had to forgive him. This had not been his plan, he had not betrayed them, he would never, never do that and he was so mad at himself for letting this happen.

 And he was going to continue with his pathetic explanation when Tim raised his hand and silenced him by cradling his cheek gently. Didn't walk away, and the fact that he was caressing the side of his face where Grayson had punched him that morning didn’t go unnoticed.

Tim's gaze traveled from his swollen cheek to the other wounds on his face, to his head, then to his side, his hands, his torso, all of him, and then back up, meeting his eyes and repeating the process. Jason, who was no longer watching the bat, seemed to be doing the same silently and with the same disgruntled expression. Damian didn't know what they were doing, why they were examining him like this, and why they weren't scolding and berating him instead. They didn't even seem to have heard him, and if they had they didn't care, but he didn't understand, they should be furious with him.

 Timothy finally sighed heavily and when his indigo eyes met his again, they were wet, shining with pure affection and joy. A soft smile was beginning to adorn his face.

 “Dami.” He said in his voice raw with emotion. “You grew up so much.”

 The next thing was like a dam collapsing.

 Jason grabbed his shirt and dragged him towards them, making Damian lunge as they both greeted him with open arms. He ended up being hugged between the two with more force than should have given his injuries. But it didn't matter, because he, defenseless and without barriers, couldn't help but start shedding all the tears that he had been suppressing so far and found himself sobbing as he grabbed them as if they were the only thing keeping him alive.

 And he didn't care, he didn't care about anything.

 Because there were no more defenses left intact inside of him and fuck, he deserved this, he did. He knew it, he had earned it. He deserved to hold them tight, to feel how they held him in return, he deserved to grab Jason's arm and Tim's shoulder to bring them closer to him, to bury his face in the wide shoulder of one and let everything out while the other ran his hand down his back and cradled his head in that familiar way he instinctively knew.

He had been so afraid of forgetting how those touches felt, those unusual yet characteristic gestures. With each passing year, he had become more terrified of himself as he realized that he could not remember certain things, remember them in the same way. Like the way they smelled, the sound of their voices, how Jason held someone so firmly and securely, or Tim made him calmly lean on him.

 He hadn't wanted to forget any of it, but he couldn't help himself and now that he was experiencing it again, he felt like he was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years old again. And now, he was again the insecure child who couldn’t believe that someone loved him for the simple fact of being him, that they had chosen to be his family and love him despite his mistakes, his past.

And it was in that instant, at that moment, squeezed between his two brothers, that he realized that the seams and threads he had tried to build, those that had been so easily broken a few minutes ago, were not necessary. He felt more complete than ever. The sad little boy locked up behind them was now laughing and the affection that emerged from that embrace made all previous anguish disappear.

 He was so happy. Every tear he shed was of happiness, he was sure he couldn't feel anything else now.

 “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…” He sobbed over and over, now on Tim's shoulder.

 He had so many reasons to be grateful to them. For staying alive, for moving on, for continuing to love and trust him deeply, for missing him as well, for continuing to be his brothers despite their time apart.

 “I'm sorry, forgive me..." He said that too because he felt he had to.

 “It's okay, Babybat." Jason replied.

 “Akhi...”

 "We got you, Damian." Tim whispered. "It’s okay, we got you."

 He didn't know how long they stayed there, but it had to be a long time. With one discharging all the tears that he had saved for six years (and even longer) as if he were a sprinkler and the others comforting him how they could. He was not very clear of the things he had said between sobs and he also didn’t exactly remember the quiet responses of the others to comfort him, but it had to be too much.

 If he had seen it from the outside, Damian would have even found it funny to witness how Tim, who was now much shorter, had to stand on tiptoe to reach his hair or wipe the tears from the face of a brother who was not that small.

But instead, after being able to breathe a little better and realizing that the painful, tearful explosion had been through the worst of it, he found himself busier trying to lessen the damage and rid himself of the silent tears that had been left behind.

 The universe had other plans and wanted to humiliate him even more because he had not even separated from the hug or decently dried his tears -or with dignity- when a light touch on his knee startled him, drawing his attention and of the two elders to their feet.

 Separating a little, it was the sight of the children looking at them with concern and frowns that reminded them that they were not alone in this reunion. Which made them finally pull away and pull themselves together a bit.

The boy had rested the palm of his hand on Damian's knee, curious and pained, while the girl had grabbed onto Tim's pants and gazed between them impatiently, waiting for their attention.

 “Hey, kiddos.” Jason said, sighing heavily, but with a smile. "Too bad of us, we forgot to make introductions, right?"

 Some of them nodded, but Damian didn't see him because he was wiping his face and trying to be decent in the most dignified way he could find. After all, he had just realized that the first image his nephews were going to have of him was that of a pathetic crybaby clinging to his parents.

 “Sorry.” Tim explained to them patiently as he separated the girl's hands from his pants and caressed the bridge of her nose from top to bottom lovingly. “It had been a long time since we saw each other, and we’ve missed him a lot. We were happy and got distracted.”

 “Like Whiskey?” The girl asked then, honestly and without malice.

 Jason bit back a laugh and Tim shook his head, funny.

 “More or less, yes.” He claimed. “But it's not the same. Because Whiskey saw you every day and it’s not a relative. You understand it, right?”

 This time he could see how they both nodded understandingly and with their eyes shining intelligent, understanding the emotion that one of their parents had just explained to them and the why of that dramatic tear-jerker show.

 And Damian didn't know what or who the fuck Whiskey was, so he wasn't sure if he had to be offended or not.

 However, Jason placed the kids in front of him, side by side, and they ended up looking at each other. It was there when Damian was beginning to understand that he was in quite serious trouble as the strong and powerful instinct of protection and devotion towards them came out of nowhere inside him and almost scared him.

 "Damian." Tim started to say, pointing first at the girl. "This is Lynn, our daughter."

 Lynn jumped a little and smiled at him, adorable.

 Damian smiled back at her and held back from looking at Timothy at all. Lynn… It was a pretty name, and he knew the reason for it, the legend of Janet Lynn Drake still resonated in the higher Gotham socialite.

 "And Will, our son." He said this time pointing to the boy.

 Will waved his hand to him but he looked down embarrassed, shy, and sweet.

 Damian smiled at him the same way he smiled at his sister even though he couldn't see him as his chest twisted. Will… Will… It could be because of William, like any character of a book Jason liked, or… it could be because of Willis Todd.

 What the fuck, Jason.

 “Okay. Princess, Snowflake, this is Damian.” Jason continued, smiling, and pointing at him without caring about the nicknames or the obvious surprise on his face. “Our little brother and your uncle. Treat him well and don't eat him.”

 Damian tried not to choke or start crying again at the warmth and excitement that ran through him when he heard Jason introduce him that way. Instead, he crouched down to be at the same level as the little ones and held out one of his hands in greeting.

 “Hi.” He said to them trying to outline a firm smile.

 Damian had no fucking idea what he was doing because he was good with kids in the field, but how did you talk to children on a regular day basis? How did you talk to your nephews? Especially with those you just met?

 Oh my god, he was an uncle, uncle. These children were his nephews, and he was holding out his hand to them, wasn't that very boring? Would a cool uncle do that?

 Did he even want to be the cool uncle?

 Lynn's warm little hand went to his and tried to take it to return the greeting, but he had to grab it because it was too tiny, it barely covered the palm of his hand, and Damian's heart squeezed when he saw his little hand disappear under his.

 “Why were you crying?” She asked, too direct, but still curious and innocent.

 He tensed. He didn't know what to say to her, he thought Tim had made them understand that it was because he had missed their parents. But of course, a child's mind works in a rather curious way sometimes. For a moment he considered lying, but there was not much to say either and with a single look into her crystalline eyes Damian knew he would never be capable of doing that now.

 "Because I'm so happy to meet you."

 That, along with his confession to Jonathan years ago, maybe was the most sincere and clear thing he has ever said.

 He heard Jason snort above them and was about to complain, but then Will walked over to him, and instead of trying to grab his hand as his sister had done, he just lifted his and placed it on his swollen cheek, the same way Tim had done when he saw him, imitating his father.

Damian blinked in surprise, his eyes watering again. His hand was so tiny and soft, so innocent and fragile, trying to comfort him despite having no idea what was going on. His heart clenched tighter and that sense of protection grew more, much more.

 “Shh. Don’t cry anymore.” Will said a little secure of himself and smiling softly. “We are also happy to meet you, Uncle Damian.”

 “Yes!” Lynn exclaimed clinging to his arm. “Finally, Uncle Damian!”

 Uncle Damian.

 Uncle Damian.

 That sounded in his head a thousand times and there was no way in the multiverse to describe how much he loved hearing it.

 He cradled Will's hand still on his cheek and let Lynn hug his side as they both began to speak to him and bombard him with innocent questions, between giggles and jumps of excitement that shook his heart.

And while he was trying to think how to answer questions like "Do you want to meet Whiskey?", "Do you want to play tea party with us?" or "What’s your favorite Disney film?", he looked up to see how Tim and Jason had re-fixed their serious glances behind him, across the avenue, right at the exact spot where he had left Bruce.

 When he turned around and looked, there was no one there.

[thevaultturtle]

Fallout Greatest Fears

Fallout 4 Human and Synth Companions + Maxson

Just a little something that I got inspiration for a few weeks ago. As the title says, it’s about each character’s greatest fear, and I tried to tie most of them into each character’s lore, so if the character has some pretty sad or dark lore, then their fear will probably be sad and dark, too. 

Warnings: Some of these might be a bit sad and dark, as described above.

Cait

Cait is terrified of becoming her parents. Even while they rot in the graves that she put them in herself, Cait's parents still manage to haunt her every day; the memories of abuse and betrayal that they left her with aren't easily forgotten, no matter how hard she tries, and no matter how many chems she takes to try to purge them from her mind. Those memories have also left her with a deep-seated fear of being left behind, betrayed all over again while those who took advantage of her move forward without her. She has a lot of trust issues because of these fears, and the thought of being anything like her parents, of doing to someone else what they did to her, makes Cait more nauseous than any hangover or withdrawals ever could.

Curie

Being useless. Curie put everything on the line, down to her very life, just so she could be more useful to others. Becoming a synth, gaining the capacity for inspiration and a greater ability to learn- all of it was in the hope that she would be of greater use to mankind, and the thought of all of that being in vain never fails to throw her into a panic, and a feeling of aimless hopelessness never fails to wash hover her whenever she goes for any extended period of time without making a new discover that will be beneficial to others or at least making some progress towards one.

Danse

Danse is haunted by the fear of losing himself, which makes the truth of what he really is all the more heartbreaking. Maybe at some subconscious level, he always knew what he really was, because this fear has been with him since his earliest memories. Maybe those memories are what birthed this great fear of his in the first place, those fake memories of a fictitious life that he never really lived; he already lost himself once for one reason or another, whether he can remember it happening or not, and maybe this fear was just his mind’s way of trying to tell him not to let it happen again. Whatever the case may be, the more conviction that he felt towards the Brotherhood's ideals and the more he felt like he belonged with them, the stronger his fear grew, and now that it came to fruition all over again…he's not sure that he can handle it happening again.

Deacon

It's almost hard to even think of what Deacon's greatest fear might be, given that we hardly know anything about Deacon.  He may have told us the truth about his past, but given that he is a known pathological liar, that could have all been a lie as well, but in those lies, you can find the fear that Deacon tries to hide so desperately: the fear of himself. Whether he really was a bigot towards synths, whether his past really did lead to the murder of his wife, or if none of that was true at all, for some reason, Deacon fears himself, what he has done, what he will do, what he wants to do. Even if he has never revealed the whole truth of his past or of who he really is, he obviously did something egregious enough to instill this fear in himself, and he will go to his grave ensuring that no one else sees the entirety of that truth.

Hancock

Hancock is terrified of repeating the past, namely as it relates to what happened to the ghouls in Diamond City. It's a past that he simultaneously tries his damnedest to forget every day yet also refuses to let himself forget. He's haunted by the guilt of this past, but he also tries to use that guilt as motivation to do better. It's a guilt that he's reminded of every time that he looks into a mirror, and he refuses to let that guilt grow any stronger. Because of this past, he will never stand by idly while good, innocent people suffer, and he will do everything in his power to ensure that bad things only happen to those who deserve it.

MacCready

There are two fears that occupy MacCready’s mind, and those are failing his son and becoming a monster, and the two are intertwined in a way. Duncan means everything to Mac; that's his baby, his progeny, and he's one of the last few pieces of Lucy that Mac still has. Mac wants to be a good father more than anything, to do right by his son, and he would die for Duncan in a heartbeat if the need arose, and no matter how hard things get, he lives and keeps going to ensure that his son stays safe. He can't stand the thought of failing his son, and that thought would be an imminent reality if he became a monster, which he was on the verge of doing while he was with the Gunners. The caps were great, and they all went towards saving Duncan, but the actions that he took to get those caps and what he saw the Gunners doing were things that he knew his son would be ashamed of him for.

Nick Valentine

Pre-Far Harbor, Nick feared the possibility of not doing the right thing. The Wasteland is an awful, merciless place, and with memories of what the world used to be like, Nick is even more aware of and impacted by this than most. Even in such a desolate world, though, Nick still hasn't lost hope, and he believes that doing the right thing, that giving people a helping hand when they need it the most, is the only way to make the world better for everyone. After Far Harbor, though, he's more afraid of forgetting himself, and in good reason, too. Not only is it highly probable to happen, but if he can't even remember who he is and why he's doing what he's doing, how can he even remember what the right thing is?

Old Longfellow

Stagnation. Even in his old age, Old Longfellow isn't one to sit around while the world passes him by. Stagnation means death to Old Longfellow, and like most people, he tends to try to avoid that. A life of stagnation means a life with nothing to do, nothing to work for, and that is a meaningless life in his opinion, one that’s hardly even worth calling a life at all. Old Longfellow, even in such a harsh world and even though he may seem so bitter, is still fascinated by life, especially with all of the adventures and twists and turns that it entails, and stagnation would mean that he's lost all of that. It's not necessarily death that he's afraid of since he knows that’s unavoidable, but it's the thought of not having truly lived in the first place that terrifies him.

Piper

Piper fears the unknown, of not knowing when being out of the loop means certain death in this unforgiving world. She will seek out the truth no matter what the cost, although that tenacity has led to a few more fears for her. People turned their backs on her when she became Diamond City’s 'nosy reporter'; everybody has something to hide, and they don't exactly like the thought of her airing out their dirty laundry for everyone to see. She's constantly looking behind her, afraid that someone will betray her in her quest for the truth, and that she'll leave Nat behind in a world full of lies.

Porter Gage

Losing. Gage doesn't like the thought of losing in general, but the lost that terrifies him the most is the possibility of losing to the world and to the life that it put him in. He was born into a pretty rough situation, as most people are in the Wasteland, but unlike many others, Gage refuses to be a victim of those circumstances, and he's going to live his life to the fullest even if it kills him. He wants to conquer the world that wants nothing more than to bring him to his knees, to survive and thrive so he can laugh at the 'fate’ that the world tried to fuck him over with. The thought of failing in that goal terrifies him, and he will avoid that fear at all costs, no matter who else might suffer in the process.

Preston

Preston fears failure. Preston has dedicated his life to the Minutemen, to helping the people of the Commonwealth and trying to rebuild the world. Because of this dedication, failure to him means the failure of the Minutemen, and the failure of the Minutemen would mean the death of the Commonwealth in his mind. This fear has already come to fruition once with the Quincy Massacre, and that nearly broke him. If his saving grace hadn’t wandered out of the Vault shortly after that horrific event, he wouldn't have survived much longer, and he can’t even begin to imagine what a repeat of something like that would do to him.

X6-88

X6-88 also fears failure, although the specifics of his fear are a bit different from everyone else's. X6 specifically fears failing his mission, whatever that may be at the time, because as agent of the Institute, even as a highly trained Courser, failing his mission would mean death, whether that death happens because of the mission itself or because the Institute chose to discard him because his failure made him obsolete. As cold and calculated as he is, X6 still fears death and he truly despises that about himself because there's nothing efficient about fear and he feels like it makes him weak just like the pathetic Wastelanders that he despises so much.

Maxson

Maxson's greatest fear is losing control, whether that be of the Brotherhood or of his own life, but more so the first option, mainly because he feels like he never really had control over the second one. From the day he was born, he never really had control over his own destiny; the Brotherhood always believed that he was destined for greatness because of his lineage, so greatness is what he was pushed towards whether he wanted it or not. Failure was not an option, no matter how much he craved it so he could pursue some sort of normalcy instead of what had been laid before him. Failure was not an option so when he eventually achieved the greatness that he had supposedly been destined for, he feared losing control again, this time over the Brotherhood that was put under his command. Even with that lack of control over his early life, Arthur still loves the Brotherhood, and he fears that losing control again will mean the death of everything that he loves.

[it-stheaulifeforme]

he’d never been one for suckers

Fandom: Playmobil: The Movie (2019)

Characters: Rex Dasher, unnamed vampiric villain and a multiude of black coated minions

Whumptober prompt: October 16th, Pinned Down.

Rated for: blood, unconsensual drinking of someone’s blood, unconsensual turning of someone into a vampire, physical assault, panic, description of someone in pain, swearing, brief mention of guns, fear of losing control and worry over hurting loved ones, implied torture, constant threat, very brief description of injury, mention of a drug-like effect on somebody

Premise: After finding out about some clearly suspicious activity at a notorious organisation, Rex realises he wasn’t one to suspect a more supernatural threat until it’s too late. It doesn’t help that the head vampire of the operations has particular sinister designs in mind for our greatest secret agent, and not ones that he didn’t remotely see coming.

Word count: 2,554

Tagged: @whumptober2019, @unlikelyxmisfit

Additional notes: I got inspired for Halloween and wrote this as a separate AU, a supernatural one separate from my main one but still generally consistent with my own portrayals of already established characters from Playmobil. I simply call this one my vampire!Rex AU, and what used to just be a one-off idea has now turned into a whole universe, so, here we go.

Rex wondered how he’d gotten into this mess, exactly. Sure, he usually put himself in them, because that’s what he did. Especially since there’d been a particular spike in suspicious activity in one of the most notorious organisations he tended to face.

It was why he was standing face to face with the head of it, after he found himself investigating the disappearance of several people and the fact that less people were around during the day. He’d never been one for superstition. There had to be a rational explanation for this, especially after he found out one of them had disappeared before appearing months later as if nothing had happened.

This was besides the fact that he’d been informed that they had his friends.

He'd often been aware that he was always being watched when these circumstances arose. It was different though, this time. He couldn't know that here, the head was berating his minions in one of the strangest ways.

"Don't you dare," he said coldly, pointing at one of his black coated minions, "you know who this is. And I'd be very happy if you stayed away from him. He's mine."

The minion looked sheepish, despite secretly being annoyed. Amongst everyone, they all wanted him to themselves. It was status to do so, with who they were. But they couldn't fight their boss on this, it wasn't their place.

"Yes, sir," he said, trying not to groan.

His boss looked at him with a grin, baring his fangs. "That's good to hear."

So here Rex was, faced with someone with more than enough malicious intent. He knew they had his friends, he knew what they meant. Something else was wrong, though, but it was on the peripheral vision of his radar. His first step was making sure his friends were safe.

But he couldn't quite shrug off the way the man looked at him. Sure, they could be sadistic bastards, but even this made him feel uncomfortable.

"At least tell me where my friends are, before you do anything else." He spoke in a calm tone, despite how much he was being stared at. It unnerved him, but it wasn't enough to shake him...just yet.

"Oh, they're safe," the man said, in a faux affable tone, raising his eyebrows, "it's you who should be worried."

They did this every time. He merely just got angrier, especially as the man made his advances towards him.

He noticed Rex put his hand in his inside jacket pocket by the time he was only a few metres from him, and almost wanted to laugh.

"Oh, really?" he grinned, amused, unable to help baring a set of fangs, "a gun? That's not going to help you here."

Rex had barely found his gun when he was transfixed by the fangs as the man grinned at him. He never felt so wrong in that moment.

He had supposed vampires couldn't be found anywhere near here. They just weren't a thing. Sure, he believed in them when he was younger. Always obsessed with reading about them.

He thought he'd simply grown out of that idea.

"You don't know who we are, do you?" the man asked, a clear sadistic tone in his voice.

Rex almost wanted to say something, but his eyes went from those brilliant white fangs to that...look in his eyes. Oh. Shit.

"I can't tell you just how much I'm enjoying that look on your face."

Rex didn't have time to react as the man was inches from his face, and he was suddenly thrown backwards onto the floor without warning, caged in by the man just about hovering over him.

He attempted to crawl backwards, now fuelled by fear and anger and kicking out at his assailant. The man only laughed, putting his body weight on his legs and pinned his arms to his side via his wrists. He was leaning inches over him now, unable to break contact with those bright, hungry eyes.

"Oh, I don't think you'll be escaping from us this time," the man said with mock friendliness, "you know you're too valuable for us to kill...properly."

"I'm not gonna join your goddamn cult," Rex seethed, although the fear in his chest was palpable, "I don't even know why you'd want me part of it."

He vainly attempted to remove at least his arms, but it was almost effortless for the man to hold him down. He clearly found Rex's comments amusing.

"Oh but I bet you do," he laughed, "you always think you're so clever. You're someone who we've been needing for a long time. And now you're finally scared, and you won't even admit it. Besides, it's not like you have a choice in this."

Rex wondered if there was any possibility of him getting out of this alive. At the very least he wanted to make sure his friends would be alright, even though he couldn't help how scared he was right now. He was always more concerned about others over himself, accepting the idea that someday it might be the death of him.

"Just tell me where my friends are," he said, "they're not going to be a part of this, and that's what matters."

That's who he was here for, right? They wanted him because they had his friends. They had no part in his troubles.

"Oh, but I told you," the man whispered, close to the side of his face, "they're fine. For now. You'll be part of something much bigger, and they won't matter. One less enemy to deal with. Besides, once you're done with, we'll make you deal with them ourselves. None of this stuff you have right now matters."

That scared him, made him more angry than everything else. They wanted him to what? He'd rather die. Properly.

"You don't have anything to do with them!" he spat, "I wouldn't hurt them for anybody!"

"Which is why," the man whispered, "we're doing this. Morality be damned. You're no fun otherwise. It’s everything else we want instead."

He'd been slowly nudging his head to the left, making his neck more available to him. Rex could not have imagined even in his dreams that this would be happening. He’d come across a whole range of nasty villains, but this seemed absolutely impossible. And he didn’t have a huge fear of death, did he? That couldn’t be the problem. It was his friends - he wouldn’t dream of hurting them.

That was the problem. That’s why they had them. So he’d be more animal instinct with them than morality. It horrified him what they had already planned - he was usually able to stop plans in the nick of time, but right now it was undeniable just how far too late it was to do anything now. They’d planned much too far ahead, which said a lot about everybody else. It’d be one of the few things to stop him escaping, him of all people.

He was breathing more shakily now, making a last-ditch attempt to extricate himself even slightly. But the man’s body weight was pressing so heavily into him and he was leaning right over his neck. His pulse was racing, which he presumed only made it easier and more enjoyable for the man.

He just about recoiled enough in disgust as he felt a tongue trail up his neck to just around his ear. Almost as if he was trailing a path up along a particular vein, besides giving himself a taste. Never in his life did he think he’d present such a consumable object, which probably was the main root of his disgust besides the sensation.

“It’s promising,” the man breathed against his neck, “exactly what I thought. So don’t worry. You’ll do fine. We’ll make plenty sure of that.”

Rex only managed a sharp intake of breath as he felt the sudden sensation of two fangs piercing his neck. He instinctively twitched, legs almost instantly now kicking from underneath as the man lifted himself up to get a better angle. He breathed hard, digging his nails into the floor as the pressure increased on his wrists to prevent them from flailing  He continued to thrash his legs, directionless, trying not to let it sink in that it was far too late to escape now - pressed to the floor with fangs in his neck as blood was drained from him.

He remembered, vaguely, a drug-like effect that vampires had, as he was hit with a drowsy, heavy feeling as his movements began to slow down, feet shuffling awkwardly on the floor. Sure, that could’ve been down to blood loss, but it felt almost equivalent to a sedative. He guessed it was a combination. His breathing was barely noticeable, slow and shallow, his surroundings almost like a dream when he was still able to keep his eyes open. There was less pressure on him as the effects really began to sink in as he felt more lifeless, even feeling the man let go of his wrists and the brush of his fingers against the left side of his face and against his neck in an almost loving gesture of cruelty.

The man pulled away, but not before gently licking the wound for any blood that decided to spill out. He turned to Rex, who now appeared still and pale, pupils under lidded eyes staring at him but not quite, now with his blood shining on his lips and just around the edges of his mouth. He grinned, slowly licking it all off as he leant just inches from his face.

“Oh, don’t worry, there’s still plenty there. With a particular addition, of course, that’s the whole point,” he spoke softly, voice nonetheless laced with sadism and a hand gently stroking the side of his face, “your blood was just that much harder to resist than I thought. Take it as a compliment.”

Rex was barely breathing, but he felt a deep sensation of rage. His body was still fighting against itself and it was hard enough to express himself. But it was there, and he couldn’t help but feel it. He didn’t want to believe what they were doing to him. To his friends. He felt sick enough without this venom crawling in his veins.

The man finally got up off of him, and roughly grabbed his collar to drag him against the wall so he could look at him better. He sat limply, arms laid out weakly either side of him. He managed to maintain a semblance of a glare at the man who was now kneeling in front of him with an almost caring expression, as if he just didn’t forcibly take his blood and put some venom in there for good measure.

“Whatever the fuck you’ve done to me,” he breathed, with a great deal of effort, trying to sit up, “this doesn’t mean shit. I’d rather die - properly - than do anything to my friends. Or anyone else for that matter.”

The man amusedly looked at him, head tilted in mock sympathy. His expression was drenched in an air of condescension, despite the softness that outlined his features. Rex felt his hand barely skim the surface of his hair.

“You’re still going on about this? Rex,” he smirked, “of course you don’t understand now. Maybe if you weren’t so keen to fight this, you’d feel better. You’ll come round. This is what this is for.”

He didn’t know if it was the drowsiness, but his face registered a baffled look, eyes narrowing at the man. “That’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. You think I’m going to let that happen---”

He would’ve continued, if it wasn’t for a spasm of pain that ran up across his chest, taking what little breath he was still able to have before he was barely able to restrain a broken cry. He swallowed, making every attempt to breathe as it subsided.

“Oh,” the man laughed, “did I not tell you that would happen? Your body’s adjusting to the new change. I mean, that is venom in your system, after all. You’re just making it worse for yourself. You’ve got no choice in what’s going to happen. You’ll know your place in all this, eventually.”

Rex found it difficult to be mad as his whole body seemed almost beset with these agonised spasms, which only subsided momentarily before starting again. He never really was one to feel fear, but his mental faculties now seemed beyond his reach, what with the intensity of pain he didn’t feel himself capable of feeling hitting him in waves and his cries more chokes than anything else. He wasn’t one to cry either, but he’d never felt like this before. At his most vulnerable. It all felt too much as he felt hot tears drip down his face as his body seemed to not be able to give him a break.

In all truth, he had no idea what was happening to him, but frankly, he knew where the real fear lay. After all, he didn’t care so much about himself as he did about others, right? He had to control himself around others. It was one of his worst nightmares to hurt them. He wouldn’t be blurred by instinct. He couldn’t compromise himself, he wouldn’t compromise himself. These instincts would not override him. The uncontrollable pain seemed to remind him of this very real fear.

The man appeared fascinated, not at all concerned with what he observed. It was natural; he’d done this before. This one was a particularly captivating specimen though. He wasn’t just anybody. This was someone he had to keep an eye on. Instinct could not be overriden, he knew that. But he was far too valuable to just see it through. Rex was clearly fighting this; it’d make things worse in a multitude of ways.

He snapped his fingers, not looking away from Rex, who was making every attempt to breathe and not instinctively thrash his limbs from the pain that was less spasms, and more now what felt generally unending.

One of his black coated minions approached him from a doorway, who had been one of many to hear the commotion, and stood a short distance away.

“I think he needs a lot more attention than we thought. If he’s going to fight us like this, he’s going to make things a whole lot worse. He’ll succumb to this and we’ll make sure of it. He should know he can’t possibly fight his instincts now, but he’s far too much trouble to give us less resistance, especially at this stage,” he said, in a concerned tone, a tone which appeared to sound more suited for a scientific experiment than a person, “so I want you to take him somewhere, you know where, away from the others - for now. I’ll deal with him later; after all, I’ve done all I can do with him right now.”

He sounded almost bored as he got up and turned on his heel, swiftly making his way to the exit at the far end of the room, leaving his minion with the now semi-conscious Rex, immobilised in his agony and staring blankly into the distance as he saw the man open the door and disappear.

[sablelab]

Covert Operations - Chapter 41

DISCLAIMER: This is a modern AU crossover story with Outlander and La Femme Nikita. LFN and its characters do not belong to me nor do those from Outlander.

SYNOPSIS: Claire is extremely relieved that Jamie has been able to change the profile as she had her doubts about being able to follow Madeline’s orders on this mission.  She also learns some very troubling information which has her reeling. Meanwhile, Madame Cheung sets up a viewing of all of her best girls for Le Comte St Germain’s selection.

MANY THANKS for reading, reblogging and commenting on the last chapter. It is always appreciated and I loved reading your feedback. THANK YOU so much.  Previous chapters can be found...  

https://sablelab.tumblr.com/covertoperations

 CHAPTER 41

“The target died in transit Fraser, so it is imperative now that this mission is a success.  We cannot have any more lost opportunities in finding the whereabouts and apprehending Sun Yee Lok especially as St Germain’s connection has been lost. Is that clear?” Once Jamie had severed the connection with Section One, Dougal Mackenzie’s words reverberated in his mind and he was not at all surprised that St Germain had died in the accident. Unfortunately his death would have been a lost opportunity in collecting Intel from him that Section could use in apprehending the leader of the Rising Dragons.  Jaime knew that Madeline especially would be not pleased to lose an important connection that she could have exploited.

However, as with any dialogue between himself and Operations the underlying meaning was never lost. His last statement ... Is that clear? ... spoken in the brusque way he verbalised emphasised his superior’s mindset.  The message was always the same and Jamie understood perfectly ... if he screwed up then he would suffer the consequences ... abeyance.  Given that he had managed to change the profile Operations and Madeline were now dependent on him for the mission’s success ... something that was intolerable to his leaders.  He’d outsmarted them yet again and that fact never sat well with Madeline or Dougal especially being at the behest of their top operative.  

James Fraser had outsmarted them yet again. Not only had he prevented his Claire from going through with the original profile but he had placed himself in the driver’s seat to find more Intel about the triad and its hierarchy.  He and Claire would not fail.  The target, Madame Cheung, would be apprehended and brought into Section One and if new Intel led to Sun Yee Lok’s demise at the same time then Madeline and Operations may just pull back on their scrutiny of them.  It was possible that could happen but Jamie knew it would be highly unlikely given their superiors’ past performances in regards to them.

He’d manipulated this mission profile for one reason, and one reason only, and that was for Claire. He had done this many times on a mission if she’d been in jeopardy and on all occasions the mission had still been successful.  Jamie knew that the change in profile irked Madeline but since the same end game was achieved Operations was always satisfied.  However, the more he did it the more the scrutiny increased on his motives. Although their leaders did not have proof that they were in a romantic relationship, Jamie knew that it was suspected, and if Madeline could find affirmation then she would no doubt use it against them. He would however deal with this situation should it arise but now he had a more pressing thing he needed to do.

Knowing how anxious Claire must be Jamie immediately set about contacting her regarding the changed profile for he knew his Sassenach would be waiting for this call. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 Relief … sheer relief! 

Jamie’s timely message about the change in the profile had definitely been a reprieve. She had not been looking forward to her foray into this seedier lifestyle that she’d been groomed for on this deep cover mission with Madame Cheung. The profile Madeline had outlined called for her to valentine the target, something which she would have found exceedingly difficult to do. How could she possibly reconcile her feelings and emotions with what Section One had asked of her?  Could she have sold her soul in order to catch a terrorist?  Could she have prostituted herself for Section One?

The only possible way Section would have been able to make her submissive to any such scenario was if she’d been drugged and not cognizant about what she was doing. However, no matter what the circumstances, she knew part of her soul would have been destroyed ... a part of her that would have been dead forever. Jamie’s call couldn’t have come soon enough. It had eased her apprehension knowing that she’d avoided such an abhorrent anathema. Although he was trained in valentine missions she was certain Jamie didn’t like or enjoy them. They were so demeaning of your feelings, but what would Section care? Where there was a means to an end regardless of the method, their leaders were ruthless in perusing the end game by whatever means necessary. Cancellation did not frighten her; neither did Madeline or Operations’ wrath, for she’d faced them all before. Her personality, integrity and compassion remained steadfast even though each episode of undermining her character chipped away at her persona a little more each time. Nevertheless, through it all, she’d remained relatively unscathed. Operations and Madeline could not break her spirit but she knew they were determined to if the right opportunity arose. This mission to Madame Cheung’s was an opportunity they had seized with both hands. But ... yet again ... Jamie had pulled off the impossible. He’d taken St Germain’s place.  Le Comte St Germain was obviously a person of great interest to the Rising Dragons or Madame Cheung would not have personally overseen her transformation. Just why he was important though, she did not know but she was sure in all good time she would find out. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Claire had been primed and primped for her initiation into the life of a sophisticated call girl, and Madame Cheung had spared no cost in her attire. Even Claire had to admit that she was alluring in a sexy kind of way when she happened to glance in the mirror earlier. Would Jamie think so too? She would find out soon enough. Quietly, Claire observed all the other girls who were waiting for Madame Cheung’s announcement and looking around the room she perused the faces of the women who had assembled there. In attendance were girls of different nationalities, some European, Caucasian and some of Asian origin. All were beautiful. All were impeccably groomed and like her, all wore expensive jewellery and the finest of clothes. However, despite the trappings of wealth, the girls lacked that sparkle in the eye and had the look of acceptance to the circumstances of their lot. In fact there was an element of fear and a vacant look registered on many of their sad faces. Sitting down next to a beautiful Asian young woman who was probably no more than eighteen, she whispered, “Hi … I’m Claire.” Turning her head to look at the woman who spoke to her the girl replied, “Hello. I’m Jessie. I’ve heard about you from the others. They say you are Madame Cheung’s new replacement for Annalise.” “Annalise?” The inflection in Claire’s voice indicated that she was perplexed as to who this might be. The lass saw the look of unawareness as to who this Annalise was and so elucidated what she knew.  “Annalise Rose … but her real name was Annalise de Marillac.” “Was?” “She’s dead ... Once you are here under their control, there is no escape ... Annalise tried and she suffered the consequences.

“I’m a free person.” Claire answered proudly. “There is no freedom here Claire. You'll do what you have to. Just like me.” She replied sadly. “Madame Cheung treats us well but there is no freedom from the triad.” “Have you been here long?” “I really can’t remember that well ... It has been so long.” “How old were you when you first came here?” With her voice no more than a whisper she replied, “Twelve ... I think ...” Jessie’s words disturbingly reverberated in Claire’s head as she asked, “How can you be … be so calm?” “My family were very poor. We had very little and my parents sold me to the Rising Dragons triad for the promise of food to feed my brothers and sisters.” Claire’s voice wavered a little. “But you were only a child …” “Yes … but I didn’t want my family to suffer. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to survive.” “And how did you do that?” “I did what I had to do. People pay quite a lot and there are certain privileges that go along with pleasing our guests. But the choice is theirs, not yours. You understand? Understand?” she repeated. “Yes I think I do.” Claire replied sadly her heart breaking for this young girl. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Claire’s mind was reeling with the information that the Thai girl had just told her and her heart bled for the lost childhood of such an innocent in such an insidious way. Finding a quiet place by herself away from the other girls, Claire really studied them more intently. Were their stories similar to the young woman she had spoken to? All seemed to be young but it was difficult to gauge their age due to their appearance. Just how long had they been here? Who was responsible for the trafficking in young children into servitude and prostitution for the Rising Dragons? Was it just Madame Cheung or were there others involved? Claire felt sick to the stomach as she contacted Section to relay what she’d found out about the situation that these young women faced. “Fergus?” “Yeah.” “Listen, Fergus, this place is more than just an Escort Agency.” “Yeah.” The shock of his affirmation registered in her next words, “You knew?” “Not really … although Madeline and Operations suspected as much.” “That doesn’t surprise me,” Claire mumbled under her breath. “Where does Le Comte St Germain fit in then?” “With Madame Cheung?” “Yes …” “We’re not certain about her relationship with him … but he knows Sun Yee Lok.” “Is Le Comte St Germain integral in some way with Madame Cheung’s business ventures or vice versa?” “Possibly ... there could be a connection or the opportunity for one! Jamie will fill you in on what we know.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ “Madame Cheung I am most interested to see who you have available for my pleasure.” Jamie stated as she finally came to escort him to where the girls were waiting for selection. “You won’t be disappointed I assure you Monsieur Le Comte. Everything and every one of my girls is handpicked and of the utmost quality, class and taste. There is nothing but the best for my clients … and keep in mind that everything you desire is at your beck and call.” “Madame … I am impressed,” Jamie nodded showing his pleasure in what she had told him. “I have several girls matching your request. Each one is a diamond but the choice is yours Monsieur. I’m sure, however, that you will select the purest gem of all.” “I am intrigued Madame ... shall we go?” “Certainly ... this way.” They walked down some stairs and along a corridor until they came to a room located on the lower floor of the mansion. “Ah … we’re here,” Madame Cheung stated enthusiastically, ushering Jamie through the door. On entering he noticed that it was some kind of parlour with lounge chairs scattered around the room in informal settings. The room was tastefully furnished, intimate ... yet comfortable. A liquor bar was set to the side and a manservant waited for when he was needed. “Come … Sit down Monsieur Le Comte. Make yourself comfortable. My man servant Peng will serve you refreshments. Until then relax and enjoy our hospitality. I shall return momentarily. ”

Jamie watched as she exited through an adjoining door then clandestinely surveyed the surroundings and waited knowing that his Sassenach was somewhere just beyond the door in another room. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Madame Cheung entered the room where the women were waiting and clapped her hands. “Ladies … ladies … may I have your attention please?” The girls who had assembled in the room stopped their chatter and turned in the direction of Madame Cheung waiting for what she may say. “We have a very important guest who is with us and he is looking for a lady for companionship this weekend. I have asked you all here so that he may choose the woman to be his companion.” A mummer of interested talk arose as the women absorbed her words. “I will bring him here and then let him make his decision.” Looking at Claire she said, “This will be Claire’s first time and if by chance she is chosen, we wish her well don’t we ladies?” “Of course Madame!” They answered in unison. “Good luck and remember if you are not chosen there will be other opportunities for you. I’m expecting more important clients and guests this weekend also who will require your services like in the past.” “Can you tell us who they might be Madame?” Jessie asked having been the one selected on several occasions when an important guest arrived. “Not at this stage, as I don’t want anyone scheming for favours, particularly if I say who may be paying us a visit. I will tolerate no jealousy or back stabbing of the other girls. Remember your ultimate goal … you do this for the good of the Rising Dragons and bear in mind the consequences if you would fail the triad.” “Yes Madame,” was the consensual reply. “Good that is understood. Come!  It is time to dazzle our visitor with your beauty ladies. I will go and get our guest.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ On her return, Madame Cheung greeted Jamie in the anteroom. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting Monsieur Le Comte.” “Not a problem Madame.” “I hope you were looked after well?” “Yes … Is everything all right?” “Everything is just fine. Shall we go? You have some decisions to make.” “Mais oui ... but of course.” “Good … Follow me please … There are some lovely ladies waiting to make your acquaintance Monsieur. I sincerely hope that you make the correct choice this evening.” “Rest assured Madame … I will,” Jamie replied emphasising the last word knowing that there was only one woman he wanted to see and only one he would choose. Madame Cheung was very pleased with his statement and optimistic that the one person she had chosen would also be his choice. She led Jamie through the door from whence she had come. They went along a corridor and down another flight of stairs before finally entering a room where several elegantly dressed ladies were assembled. Jamie immediately noticed Claire out of the corner of his eye, but made no eye contact with her, instead he aligned his head a little as beside him Madame Cheung whispered; “Remember what I said earlier.” Directing his eyes to her he replied, “Certainement Madame.” Holding Jamie’s attention, she smiled and cast her eyes surreptitiously in Claire’s direction … “I have just the girl for you …” “Merci.” “… You will not be disappointed I guarantee it,” she whispered with a satisfied smile knowing that Claire Beauchamp was indeed the perfect match for this handsome man. Jamie’s intense eyes glanced around the room taking in the eclectic group of women who were trapped under the Rising Dragons’ power, but his mind was on the stunning brunette woman in the corner. It had been over a month since he had seen Claire and what Jamie saw made his heart leap. He was totally unprepared for the piercing ache of desire that stabbed his chest at the vision of loveliness before him. His Sassenach was exquisite. Jamie had wanted to stare and take in his fill but he knew he could not. The sight of Claire dressed so alluringly caused his mouth to go dry, and it was with some difficulty he uttered, “Yes … they are all lovely Madame.” “I aim to please … This way, Monsieur Le Comte,” Madame Cheung said extending her arm towards the women. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It was extremely difficult when he only wanted to drink in Claire’s beauty but with the resolve of the Section One operative that he was, Jamie walked slowly around the room, without making any eye contact with Claire.  He admired each woman from top to toe, nodding politely at every person as he passed by. Each woman in turn focused on the handsome man who had entered and each was a little breathless hoping that he would choose them.

James Fraser was sartorially dressed in a black designer suit, silk tie and shirt. His broad shoulders and muscular chest were defined by the fabric of the suit which fit his torso to perfection. The sight of such a fine looking man made many of the girls weak at the knees as he passed them by.  In their “profession” you were paid to go with whoever had the money but if the man was good-looking it was that much more pleasurable. They’d had their share of ugly men … but here was a catch. A very rich catch too. Without doubt he would be good in bed … he had an indefinable “something” that set him apart from the other clients. They had seen many men come over the time they had been with Madame Cheung … diplomats, politicians, judges, actors … people in high places … even Sun Yee Lok himself, but none had been as handsome or as enigmatic as the man in this room.

The ladies eagerly watched as he made his way around the room until he came to a new girl. When he stopped and gave her the once over from top to toe with bedroom eyes that seemed to undress them, each woman melted, hoping she would be the one chosen.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Claire’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of Jamie as she watched him make his way around the room as well. She had been so worried that she would have to go through with the valentine mission that Madeline had profiled for her, but now that her Jamie was here, things had changed. He’d been able to change the mission profile and substitute himself as Le Comte St Germain. Once again he had manipulated the profile for her but in reality; it was a win–win situation for Section One. Jamie would certainly gain the confidence of Madame Cheung and in so doing get closer to bringing down Sun Yee Lok of the Rising Dragons’ triad. Claire could already see that she had fallen under his charm. What worried her though, was that some of these girls in this room had been in service for many years … some were only children when they came. This loss of innocence was an abomination to her. She was disgusted and horrified. Who was responsible for that? Who organised the girls? Madame Cheung? Or was it Le Comte St Germain? Did he procure young girls into prostitution for the Rising Dragons or was he here to do business with Madame Cheung in the future? She couldn’t wait to have the opportunity to speak with Jamie. Perhaps he could shed some light on St Germain’s activities and contacts that in all probability would lead right to the top of the triad hierarchy. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Continuing, James Fraser did a circuit of the room appraising each woman as he strolled slowly past with a slight smile on his face. Although he examined each woman thoroughly, he made no decision as to his choice. Madame Cheung watched as St Germain deliberated over his preference of companion. As he neared where Claire Beauchamp was a smile lit her face, but unfortunately he was non committal of her enthusiasm. Madame Cheung was somewhat disillusioned when he practically ignored Claire. Although St Germain had given her a quick once over too, he’d passed her by like he had done to all the others. He’d then kept on going to view the other women, in particular another pretty, brunette woman who had caught his eye. He stopped and spoke quietly to her.  Madame Cheung was not able to make out what they were saying but judging by the body language she was crest fallen that Monsieur Le Comte  may have made his decision. Then ... he’d turned once more and moved away again. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ From her position in the room Claire Beauchamp watched James Fraser work his way round each woman for Madame Cheung’s benefit in his deliberation in choosing a companion.  

Her Jamie was a sight for sore eyes. She had missed him so much and now seeing him in the flesh it was difficult to suppress her feelings. Dressed in his signature black … he was magnificent. He looked like an avenging angel to her … come to rescue her from the clutches of evil and Claire watched him covertly. It was as if time was playing tricks on her mind. Everything Jamie did seemed to be in slow motion to her. He also looked resplendent. His strut … his manner … even the cut of the suit hugged his torso accentuating Jamie’s supple, muscular body to perfection. 

Ahhh! Claire sighed dreamily.

She had waited and hoped that this day would come that her Jamie would be able to find a way to reach her and now here he was and Claire was drunk on the sight of him. However she was a nervous wreck and a bundle of nerves just watching him in the room.  He was near but still too far away.  All she desperately wanted to do was touch him to make sure Jamie was real and that he was really here.  Closing her eyes Claire imagined just how that would feel and her nervous system suddenly went into a spiralling dive.  

Despite the nosedive she wanted to savour the feelings of euphoria that coursed through her body. Lowering her head, her thoughts threatened to expose her feelings for this man. Claire knew she would have to control her emotions before they also gave her away completely and Madame Cheung observed that Le Comte St Germain and she had a connection. However, no doubt if Madame Cheung had noticed anything it would only mean that she too had been captivated by this handsome, virile specimen of manhood just like all the other girls in the room.

Nevertheless her heart was pounding in her chest and the nervous tension threatened to blow her cover. Then ... sensing his nearness, Claire slowly raised her eyes. 

James Fraser was standing right in front of her.

  *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ to be continued

[poeticandvaguelysweet]

Prompt #224 - Of Ruined Dates

ANON: Claire has anxiety/PTSD over oceans now, due to the Gyrosphere scene in FK. Owen takes her on a surprise date to the beach, unaware of the fear, and she freaks out. Fluff ensues.

AO3

OF RUINED DATES

He was trying to make an effort.

Consciously, Owen wasn’t the romantic type. He didn’t understand the need for grand gestures and elaborately planned dates. When he had Claire, it was them, raw and real under the sun and stars. They rarely went out. Maybe that had been the problem. He drove her away with a lack of flourish. Didn’t show her off in public enough. Did she want him to show her off in public?

It didn’t mean he loved her any less. Owen just preferred the solitude of his trailer or the comfort of her apartment.

He wasn’t going to risk losing her again. When an opportunity arose in the form of a well-weathered afternoon Owen leapt at the chance to take her out. He called it a surprise when she asked where he was taking them. His hand sat heavy on her thigh while they drove, fingers on the soft bare skin under the fabric of her dress.

The drive from her apartment to Marshall’s Beach was peaceful. It wasn’t until they got there that he thought they could have taken a streetcar instead, made it a little more of a getaway while her bare shoulders in spaghetti straps freckled a little more under the sun. She loved San Francisco’s transport like a child on vacation marvelling at the wonders of another world. The opportunity was missed now as he parked the car and watched her get out.

On the backseat, a picnic basket was already filled with sandwiches and strawberries, a bottle of champagne and her favourite non-alcoholic beverage. He was ready to wow her, sure that Claire hadn’t seen this coming. She was watching the water when he pulled the basket out of the car, her arms wrapped around her middle until she turned to grin at him.

The look was giddy, hiding in the smile on her cheeks. Surprise widening her green eyes as shock made her reaction complete. ‘What have you done?’ Claire asked, the grin spreading as she bit into her lip. It was only small, but Owen swore he caught grasp on the necessities of romance at that moment. The tug of her lip and cloud in her eye that suggested she wanted nothing more than to climb into that car and fuck him until the world faded away. They had been doing too much of that. Their hearts still beating erratically in their chests, another dinosaur related incident not too far from their memory as their need for skin on skin sat as a heightened need in the forefront of their minds.

‘You are full of surprises.’ They walked hand in hand towards the waterfront, Claire picking out a plot of sand to settle on. She helped roll out the blanket, stretching it wide enough that they could lounge full-bodied without worrying about the sand. The water was a distant sound, only a few feet away from them and yet it ebbed back and forth across the shore quietly leaving their minds to speak for themselves without needing to raise the volume.

She smiled at him so exquisitely when they sat, the look akin to love drunk as she leant in to press a delicate kiss on his scratchy cheek. ‘This is really nice.’ He couldn’t help but return her smile and kiss, feeling the exact same way as reassurance tugged in his chest. They should do this more often. Should have been doing it to begin with. He just couldn’t wrap his mind around these sorts of things, left it until Claire asked, slightly peeved that they hadn’t left the house for more than groceries and work in a few days.

Under the sunlight her hair shone, vibrant flames burning as they danced like embers with a subtle breeze. She let him slather her skin in suncream, pre-packed into the picnic basket, Owen taking his time to massage it into every pore, ensuring no inch of visible skin was left uncovered. Her laugh was a ticklish giggle when his hands slipped past her clothes as Owen insisted her clothing might shift, his fingers secure around the curve of her breast as he cheekily pecked her cheek with a kiss, lips sliding up her jawline before his teeth nipped at her earlobe.

Nothing was astray for an hour while they ate, talked and basked in the company of the other. Owen was drinking her in, Claire a sight for sore eyes after they had been apart for so long. Despite the circumstances that brought them back together, he was glad they were here, sitting with each other, trading kisses when they felt like it as she finally uncovered where he came from and how he knew what riding a bull looked like.

His skin was hot from baking in the sun, that blissfully warm feeling that filled his chest every time she smiled at him. Their bellies had been filled and settled and Owen couldn’t think of a better way to end their semi-date than a dip in the cool waters of the beach.

Claire shrieked when he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. Her laughter was playful, hands trying to find some grip on the bare skin of his back. The scratch of her nails only made him think of other things he was more than willing to explore later. It was normal, happy, playful until things went awry.

[…]

It had been such a pleasant surprise when Owen drove her to the beach that Claire missed the feelings of dread that slid into her belly. He was there by her side, picnic basket in hand. She could watch the water from afar and wouldn’t have to touch it.

When he picked her up, Owen’s intentions were clear and yet Claire couldn’t help the bubble of shocked laughter fill her lungs and infiltrate the air. She was fine, safe in his arms near a body of water that should not have been deep enough to drown in. She fought him, playfully, arms scratching at his back as he smacked her ass in return.

The panic built when she saw the water rise up over his hips, small tide rolling past them as she felt it slide across her body setting a cold chill in the depths of her bones. Her lungs ceased, heart too as panic took over. The situation was out of hand. The flight or fight receptors in her brain were arguing as Claire felt her body go cold and her fingers turn numb.

‘Owen,’ a whimper fell from her, barely audible as another rise of the water graced her skin. ‘Owen.’ She tried again, voice cracking as her fingers managed to find grip under his shoulder blade. ‘Stop, stop, stop!’ Fell from her, Claire unable to control the stutter as her urgency pushed the word out over and over. It was too quiet, her lungs too weak. He didn’t hear her.

She tried to focus on the warmth of his shoulder under her stomach and the heavy weight of his hand on her ass. He had her. He was there. They weren’t stuck. If she just thought for two seconds Claire knew she could use her limbs to get her back to shore.

Beneath her, Owen was chuckling like he hadn’t realised the severity of her grip or heard her small cries. One second she could hear his laugh, feel his warm skin, could see their picnic basket on the beach and the next it was nothing but water rushing in her ears. She gasped, water flooding into her mouth as she started to choke, arms and legs pushing to no avail, her head remained underwater, Owen’s body suddenly gone from hers.

She couldn’t find purchase on anything. Her feet scraped the bottom of the bay but couldn’t manage to stand as her arms stretched out wildly looking for the body that had been there only seconds ago. Claire couldn’t open her eyes, wouldn’t as the water rushed around her ears sounding like nothing but chaos. She knew, the second she opened her eyes, she would be back in that Gyrosphere sinking into the depths of the waters, dying with the dinosaurs around her.

It felt like she was under for hours, water slowly suffocating her as regrets of wasted time washed over her thoughts. Steady hands grabbed her, fumbling for purchase on her wet skin until the body they belonged to managed to yank her up from her armpits.

‘Hey, are you okay?!’ It was Owen, standing in front of her, salt water dripping from his hair to trail down his concerned face. Claire reached for him, legs jelly underneath her as she stood in chest deep water, unsure of if she was going to hit him or hold on like a lifeline.

She was blinking water from her eyes and coughing it out of her lungs when she caught the realisation hit him, his eyes widening at her shaking form. A hand scrubbed over his face as he swore at himself softly. When he pulled her wet body into his it was with panicked tugs of his arms, Claire half fighting his grip as he crushed her to his chest. She responded by wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck like a hungry snake her hold on him slowly squeezing tighter. He held her, not rejecting her touch or hissing at the feel of his lung capacity shrinking as Owen buried his head against her neck and breathed her in, smelling the salt of the sea on her skin and the unmistakable scent of fear.

Claire was shaking, body trembling like leaves in the midst of a forceful autumn breeze. ‘Hey, I got you.’ Owen told her, his grip as tight as Claires as he pressed a long kiss against the side of her cheek ‘I got you.’ He promised, guilt sitting heavy in his stomach. Owen moved, one foot stepping in front of the other as he pushed through the water, level dropping as they got closer to the beach. Claire didn’t let him go until they were comfortably on land, their picnic blanket only inches from her toes.

He put her down reluctantly, only because Claire had dropped her legs from his, feet hitting the blanket beneath her. She sat, knees pulled to her chest, dress clinging to her skin as she shook in front of him, teeth chattering despite the warm sun shining on her skin.

‘Lets just go home.’ Owen offered, feeling shitty and helpless as he watched her slip into a trauma-induced panic he had a part in inducing. He extended his hand, waiting until Claire took it shyly as he helped pull her to her feet. It took him seconds to pack away the picnic basket, the blanket hung over his arm as his other hand held steady to the small of Claire’s back.

They walked back to his truck quietly, Claire hesitating by the door as her hands found a death grip in the fabric of her dress, water dripping from between her fingers to land on the asphalt. She didn’t want to get in. Not while she was soaked, small drops of water still chasing down the curves of her body making her shiver.

He had planned for this. Not the PTSD, but drenched clothes and the potential for his seats to soak up the salt water. Owen procured a towel, wasting no time in wrapping it around her as he squeezed Claire’s shoulders and pulled her back into his chest. ‘I’m sorry. I should have realised.’ He dropped a kiss to her wet hair, still faintly clinging to the gardenia scent of her shampoo. 'I'm so so sorry.’ The apologies kept falling, not lifting his spirits. ‘C’mere.’ He barely shifted her, one hand letting go of Claire so he could drop the latch on the back of his truck, hands returning to Claire to lift her onto the trailer bed. She didn't protest, only sat there, waiting for Owen to hoist himself up, arms wrapping around her middle as she cuddled into his chest against the warm heat of his truck left baking in the sun.

He couldn’t put her in the car and take her home. She would only sink further into her head, drowning herself over and over until she regressed back into bad dreams they were only just starting to get over. She would push him away, say it was his fault, that they were unfit for each other. Incompatible. She needed something else, someone else, and he would be left with no other choice but to walk away. He did this to her. He proved that he never learnt, that he couldn’t take on the full scope of her needs without fucking up.

He held her, feeling the rise and fall of her chest as Claire’s fingers danced across his skin mindlessly. ‘It’s not your fault.’ She told him quietly, voice dry. Owen shook his head, for himself and not her, making the movement soft enough that she didn’t notice. He should have known something was wrong, should have realised the water and dunking her under it would bring back memories they had been trying to work through. They sat upon far too many nights talking about the gyrosphere and Owen’s quick thinking how, if he wasn’t there, she would have died alongside Franklin and the fleeing dinosaurs. ‘I’ve ruined our date.’ She pulled her head away to tilt it up at him, a mournful smile on her cheeks still holding onto tears.

Owen shook his head again. ‘No, you didn’t.’ He had. It was his fault. He repeated to himself over and over. Claire was being kind, that same sweet-natured woman he got to know under all the fire and ice. He should have anticipated the water being a problem for her. He felt like he should have asked first, proposed the idea and eased her into it. Instead, he went headfirst without thinking into something he once remembered being fun.

‘It really was nice.’ It had been until the water touched her skin. Claire was happy to sit on the beach, watch the ocean move. She just didn’t want to be caught in it.

Owen kissed the top of her head. ‘Do you want to head home?’

Claire moved closer to him, pushing her chest against his as her grip tightened. ‘No.’ She shook her head, happy to sit there in the warmth, soaking it all in. It had all been so perfect until panic ruined it all. ‘Can we stay a little longer?’ They had a few more hours left of light in the day, it would have been a shame to let it go to waste.

He pulled her closer, dropping his nose to the top of her head as he kissed her already drying hair. ‘Yeah, of course, we can.’ He would have happily sat out there with her until hunger claimed their bellies and a new morning rose. Whatever it took to keep Claire present and with him, Owen was willing to do. ‘Whenever you’re ready, we’ll go.’ He told her, another kiss placed on her hair as he tightened his arms around her. She nodded softly, her head under his chin as he let himself relax to the feeling of her breathing. 'Next time we’re just gonna go to one of those fancy restaurants you like.’ He joked, Claire chuckling beneath him, her hand rising up on his chest to sit on his left pectoral, fingers digging in slightly.

He frightened her, unintentionally that afternoon but regardless of that, her heart was still beating beside his. She wanted to be with him, wrapped in his arms, sitting in the back of his truck. 'You need a mattress up here.’ She told him, shifting to find a more comfortable position, half climbing in his lap.

‘I thought you didn’t want to live in a van on the side of the road.’

Owen was sure he felt Claire roll her eyes. ‘We’re not living on the side of the road with your truck. Just napping ... on your property.’ Her fingers scratched lightly over his chest, grazing the surface as she nuzzled her cheek against his.  

He chuckled. Maybe they could make that work. He was trying to be less chivalrous to appease her wants in their earlier relationship. She had driven the van, once, for a whole 30seconds when he needed it moved to a new location. Maybe he could drag the mattress out one night and lie with her under the stars, leaving himself to catch a glimpse of the kind of wooing Claire Dearing’s heart ached for.

‘We can do that.’ Owen promised her with another kiss to the top of her head and a squeeze of his arms around her. 

[adorebughead]

Now or Never - A Bughead Oneshot

Almost two weeks after Betty and Jughead break up, a surprising visitor provides some truths and perspective in the midst of a war between the Northside and the Southside. Can the Romeo and Juliet of Riverdale hop on a motorcycle and get their happily ever after? Or is time just not on their side? A oneshot inspired by the Pop's scene in 2x05.

Read on ao3 here

*

One week and five days.

That was how long it had been since they had seen each other. Since their relationship had fallen apart for reasons beyond their control. Simultaneously the longest and shortest period of time Betty Cooper and Jughead Jones had ever endured in their whole entire lives.

Twelve days. Two hundred and eighty eight hours and counting. The ticking of the clock was suffocating her. Her own four walls now nothing more than a prison that she had allowed herself to be confined to.

When she had finally come clean to her parents and the sheriff about the black hood, it didn’t take long for it to leak to the entirety of the town. She had spent days on end in the police station providing all of the evidence that she could, so much so that she felt completely and utterly drained of all life. The situation was out of her hands now, but that didn’t mean its repercussions weren’t still being felt like a crippling weight upon her shoulders that she just could not shift.

She needed to see him. She needed to make things right.

The opportunity hadn’t arose since the fallout had happened; she was practically on house arrest from the get go, and the distance was tearing her apart piece by piece. Southsiders and Northsiders had been practically forbidden from conversing in any way, shape, or form. It was almost as if it was a crime to do so. Of course, she had been thinking of him. She could barely think of anything else. But she had to put up a front, she had to rebuild the walls. How else could she possibly survive this? Who was to say he wanted anything to do with her at all?

Naturally, when she found out that Jughead had become a serpent, and that he and Toni had shared a kiss, it felt like somebody had punched her in the gut. The news had come to her just under a week after it had happened and, in fact, it was under the strangest and most surprising circumstances. Toni herself had showed up at the Cooper household late one evening, careful not to be seen amidst the brewing Northside and Southside war, being the last person on earth that Betty had expected to lay eyes on upon answering a firm knock on the door; her signature pink hair and leather jacket lit up by the dim light on the porch.

“Toni?” She questioned quietly, the name falling out of her mouth with a bitter taste as she stole a glance behind her to make sure her mother was out of sight and narrowing the gap in the doorway.

“Betty,” she replied awkwardly, the usual hostility in her voice nowhere to be found. In fact, she looked ashamed of the tension she had initially created between the two of them, and in a way Betty had never seen her before. Vulnerable. “I’m sorry it’s late.”

“Is Jughead ok?” She asked immediately, concerned for his safety, forever playing over the worst case scenarios in her head now that he was permanently on the Southside, and feeling her pulse quicken at just the thought of something happening to him.

“Yes,” she replied, looking around nervously, “well, no. He’s not. Not really.”

Betty said nothing in response, instead allowing an expression of anxiety mixed with confusion to create a veil over her face. She wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself as the cool air prompted goosebumps to raise. Toni had really taken a risk coming to her house, let alone the Northside at all, and who was to say Betty had even been the one answering the door at all? Whatever this was, she had to hear her out.

“Can we go somewhere to talk?”

She was hesitant at first, her eyes darting around the emptied road, before nodding and very quietly shutting her front door. The two of them walked briskly to a park bench down the street and out of the way, making sure there was nobody around who could see or hear them. There was a brief silence when they sat down, the both of them unsure of how to act around one another. It occurred to the both of them that they had never actually been alone with one another before. It was alien.

Then, almost like a domino effect, Toni opened her mouth and everything just poured out.

Jughead joining the serpents, her influence, the initiation, the kiss. How, although he momentarily kissed her back, the kiss was instigated by her, almost out of nothing but curiosity in a moment of confusion and meaningless impulsion, and how they both agreed soon after that neither of them felt anything whatsoever. Toni wasn’t Betty. That was it. Pure and simple. How he so desperately wanted to tell her everything, to talk to her himself, but he was terrified. It was all there, all laid out before her. The truth. He didn't even know that Toni was there.

Betty was stunned for a few moments, unsure as to which emotion to let seep in first. She had said nothing, not a single word; just listened. Sure, she was hurt to some extent, but it wasn’t that which overwhelmed her. Her heart ached for him. She wanted to hold him and kiss his wounds and tell him that she loved him and that she wanted to fight for him. For them. She wanted that more than anything, even if she didn’t want to want it. She wondered if he wanted that, too.

“Why are you telling me all of this?” She asked eventually, her voice nothing but a cracked whisper as she swallowed, desperately trying not to cry.

“Because,” Toni replied, as if it was the simplest answer in the world, “he’s in love with you.”

She looked up then, the words hitting her in a way they hadn’t done before. Of course, she knew that he loved her, but with every force in the universe trying to pry them apart, it felt as though they were beginning to admit defeat, and being able to hear those words reignited something inside of her. Hope. An opening to fix what had been broken, if only the smallest.

“And,” she continued, “If he isn’t going to get off his ass and finally come and tell you that, then I guess somebody had to give him a head start. Even if that somebody is me.”

Betty frowned, her gaze diverting to her hands in her lap as she felt a lump appear in her throat. “I don’t know how we can be together. This war between the Southside and the Northside-“

“It’s happening whether we like it or not,” Toni interjected, biting her lip, “we can’t help what we were born into. But I don’t hate you, Betty, and I certainly care about Jughead. So, whatever your next move is, make sure to do it fast.”

Betty furrowed her brows, interlacing her fingers together as a nervous tick. “Why would you risk coming here?”

Toni’s voice was sad but sure. The air wasn’t as cold as she’d first thought.

“Because,” she replied, “it’s the right thing to do.”

She looked back up and finally nodded, exhaling deeply. Perhaps she shouldn’t have trusted Toni but for some reason, in that moment, she did. Whatever had come before, this was genuine. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she just did. It was a feeling in the pit of her stomach that she knew would never lie to her.

When they parted from one another, there was something there. Not quite forgiveness, but a sense of understanding, if only just a flicker. Almost like the calm before the storm. They exchanged a nod, well aware of what was to come with being on opposing sides of the town, but this was something else. This was them as human beings; almost unlikely fleeting allies before unwillingly turning to enemies. If only slightly, and if only for one night on an isolated park bench, doing what was right.

She wanted to talk to Jughead more than anything she had ever wanted in her life, more than just a desire, but an all-consuming longing; she just didn’t know how to do it. And she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to look him in the eye just to lose him again. She didn't know what was right. So, she panicked. And she stalled.

And when his name appeared on her phone screen at midnight five days after her encounter with Toni, she almost forgot how to breathe. Six words. Nothing more. Everything turned into a blur.

Jughead (00.02): Please meet me at the trailer.

Her heart was pounding against her chest as soon as she saw it. She had been reading, desperately trying to concentrate but instead going over the same sentence again and again and again. Her mind was elsewhere. With him, as it always was. She contemplated replying, even calling, asking him if he was ok, desperate just to hear his voice. But she didn’t. Instead, she opened up her bedroom window with hardly even a second thought, the tap of his fingers on the glass just a distant memory now, and she climbed out. She didn’t even close it after her. And she did something she had never dreamed of doing before. She ran, with no intention of turning back around.

It didn’t take long to get to the trailer park. At least, not as long as she’d remembered in the past. The streets were eerily quiet, as if nobody was around, like everyone was waiting for something to erupt. The inevitable war right on the tips of their tongue. She was panting, having not even picked up her phone in the mad rush out of the house, her eyes falling upon the trailer she had visited so many times before. The place where he told her he loved her. The place where his lips had met her skin.

Almost instantly, she saw a silhouette that she could’ve recognised absolutely anywhere. Her breath caught in her throat as her entire body froze. There he was. Outside. Waiting. And here was she.

He was leaning against his motorcycle, pulling himself upright when he saw her, his face completely changing. They stayed still for a while, just staring at one another. They were nervous. In fact, both of their hearts felt like they were about to lunge out of their chests. They had imagined this scenario so many times, playing it over in their heads, wondering what they would say and what they would do. Now that it was here, they were lost for words. She slowly began to close the space between them before she could even stop herself, instinctively cautious with every step, and he didn’t dare move an inch, just watching her get closer and closer. Absolutely no intention of stopping her.

In almost nothing more than a blink, they were so close that they could feel each other’s breath on their faces. She was still panting, although it was beginning to slow. Without even a second thought, she reached out and grazed a cut, one of many, perched above his lip, before allowing her hand to run over every bruise and scrape across the skin of the face had memorised like the back of her hand. He closed his eyes as she did so, wincing ever so slightly at the pain. When they reopened, hers were searching his in desperation as both of their gazes softened.

There was so much to say, but for a little while, their eyes conveyed more than any language could possibly capture. He reached up after a few moments, softly touching her hand that now fell down to his chest, feeling his hastening heart beat through his shirt in rhythm with her own.

“I’ve missed you,” she breathed finally, a tear finding its way down her cheek.

His gaze dropped at the heart breaking tragedy of her simple confession, still holding her hand in his.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, his mouth dry, still refusing to look back up in the fear of everything. The fear of fear itself. The fear of losing the love of his life a second time.

She gently touched his jaw, slowly raising his head so that his eyes would naturally meet hers like two puzzle pieces fitting perfectly into place.

“It’s ok,” she whispered, smiling through her tears, “it’s ok.”

“I messed up.”

She swallowed, shaking her head and fluttering his heart with a smile. “Me, too.”

Jughead allowed his eyes to run over every freckle on her face, the ones that he had joined like constellations on more occasions than one. The only face he saw, and the only face he ever wanted to see. He lifted a hand and gently wiped away the remnants of tears on her cheek.

“God,” he breathed, “I love you so much.”

Listening to nothing other than her gut, she grabbed onto the collar of his leather jacket and surged her lips against his, melting into him as another tear rolled down her cheek. He pulled her closer by the waist, all of the longing and desire and desperation pouring out and closing the gap between them that had been lingering, empty, desperate to be filled. The kiss that knocked the others out of the park.

This was it. This was everything.

They broke away from one another slowly after a long moment, their lips parting like the very first kiss in her bedroom all of those months ago when things were simpler; soft, beautiful; the start of something beyond anything they could’ve ever imagined. So quick, so passionate, now so gentle and so sweet. She rested her forehead against his and felt his warm breath intertwine with her own, drinking each other in, their eyes flickering open once more.

“I’m leaving,” he said almost instantly, so quietly and so low that she thought she might have misheard him.

“What?”

“I’m leaving Riverdale.”

She pulled away slightly and took a moment to study his face, furrowing her brows and trying to digest exactly what he was saying, before her eyes switched to the sight of his duffel bag on the floor beside him. Everything began to click rather quickly. He meant it. He was saying good-bye.

“You’re- you’re what?”

“Come with me.”

Her head was racing. Those three words so unexpected, yet exciting and terrifying and just as wrong as right. Everything Betty Cooper shouldn’t do, yet everything she yearned for. Her heart was in her throat. He wasn't saying good-bye at all. In fact, it was the opposite.

“Wh- now?” “I know we’re going to have to work at this,” he said, “but I want to. I want to do this. With you.”

His eyes were burning into hers in a way they hadn’t done before, taking her back to their last conversation in Pop’s all of those weeks ago. Talking about running away, never truly believing it was something they could actually do. Deep down knowing that there was nothing they wanted more.

“Jug-“

“Elizabeth!?”

The sound of her name coming from afar paired with headlights and the flash of blue from the sheriff’s car caused her to quip her head around in a panic. They hadn’t seen her yet, but they were soon about to. Her mom must've heard her leave, and she must've known where she was going. Her breath quickened as she turned back, the weight of how little time they had crushing down on their perfect moment. There was no time to second guess, no time to pack a bag or say good-bye. This was it. Now or never.

Suddenly, there was only one answer. The only answer there ever had been, and ever would be, and it was dripping from her lips with the sweetest taste.

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Let’s go.”

“Are you sure?”

Her lip quivered as she reached for his hand once more, holding on so tightly and so desperately. She nodded, interlacing their fingers together.

“I’m sure that I love you.”

He struggled to catch his breath, his face mirroring that of when they'd first said they'd loved each other just a few paces away from where they were stood right now. So few sunsets had passed since then, yet so many all at once. How strange, the concept of time. How we long for more, and waste that of which we already have. He kissed her again. Their bodies fitting together so perfectly, so drawn to each other’s magnetic field as though it was the most natural thing on the planet. The sky was the clearest she’d ever seen it. And in the depth of a November night, a night as pitch as black, Betty Cooper had said all that she needed to say.

Hopping onto Jughead Jones’ motorcycle, with nothing but the clothes on her back, securing her helmet and wrapping her arms around his torso. Resting her cheek against his back and shutting her eyes as he started up the engine, drowning out the calling of her name, the thought of her mom, the serpents, the black hood, everything that was approaching, before almost instantly receding. She looked back, just for a split second, her eyes meeting her mother's who had now stepped out of the car, and she liked to think that she understood. That she'd forgive her, in time. And perhaps, just maybe, she would.

Twelve days now down to just a few seconds. They were here, but they were gone. The Romeo and Juliet of Riverdale, closing the page on a beautiful tragedy, to make room for the ending they deserved. Barely any money or plans or ideas of where they were going. Still undecided new names, places, explorations, identities and faces. But none of it mattered; not really.

Because, for now, they were drenched in moonlight, a beanie and a blonde ponytail fading into the night, and fading, falling, flying, into forever.

And that was enough.

[heartless-error]

Broken, not perfect, but together. - Chapter 10

Fandom: DC comics, Batman

Pairings: Jonathan Kent x Damian Wayne (JonDami) & Jason Todd x Timothy Drake (JayTim)

Rating/Tags: Family feels, hurt/comfort, mental health issues, running away, unresolved romantic tension

Other(s) links: AO3

Broken.

The Batfamily was broken.

It was six years ago, and they had barely stood together since then, trying to stand up despite guilt and regret.

Damian  was sure there was nothing to save, not after losing something that he  didn’t know he cared about. But when a new opportunity to get back what  they had lost appeared, he cannot help to doubt as his past decisions  haunt him again.

If you love somebody, set them free. But you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

Chapter Summary: He knew he wasn't a good father, he had always knew. But he was trying, like always. And he knew he couldn't get rid of all his mistakes too, but at least he wasn't alone facing them. He had Clark, he always had Clark, even commiting the same mistakes.

Chapter 10

 Six years ago

 Contrary to what many people seemed to think, Bruce didn’t always have everything under control.

 He was trying, what was different. With all his strength, every day, with all the means and knowledge he had. Even if it was never enough, over and over again. The key was in that, in trying. It didn’t matter how many doubts were around him, how many problems arose against him or how much they tried to stop him, he had to keep trying, to solve it, showing a calm and in control facade so others didn’t know how much his mistakes or indecision haunted him in every step he took.

 Bruce knew there was no need to do it, to be so controlling or to bury his insecurities so deeply and hidden from anyone who dared to look. But he also knew where those problems came from, everything that had fed them, and what brought them to light.

The desire to control even what he couldn’t born in him from the moment in which the sound of the lifeless bodies of his parents resounded in that alley, that fateful night, and since then he lived with it. That desire to watch, intervene, and always be prepared for the worst grew as he did too, and became the man, the supposed hero, he’s now. And it was when those closest to him suffered or were injured by his decisions or failures, which reaffirmed more and more in his being.

 That feeling, that need, was like a vine with thorns. Pointy, infinite, dangerous, and sturdy, rooted within him without any limit, pressing and suffocating him everywhere, ready to hang him. It scratched his scars so that he would always remember them, suffocated his mind so that he would never forget it, and strangled his soul and that of those around him, because it was a double-edged sword where the line of protecting or controlling was easily blurred.

He couldn't get rid of it either, because then, what would be left of him? He was Batman. Batman. The one who always had a plan, a contingency, who stood out for his critical sense and his mind, what always had another alternative. He was the one whom the others looked at when they were trapped in a situation with no way out, the one who kept calm in extreme situations, the one who was able to save the day or the world thanks to his control.

 He couldn't lose that, but it's not like he wanted to, or knew how, either. So, doing his best was all that was left. Keep calm, control. He tries it.

 He tried but the manor was quiet. He knew it wasn’t something unexpected after what happened three nights ago, but it kept worrying him because it was as if everything had turned off suddenly.

Damian's firm, light footsteps were no longer heard in the hallways, his youngest son hadn’t left his room since that night, he had also refused to receive anyone and was recovering from his sprained ankle. The soft Richard’s laugh had also vanished, he was like a ghost, he knew that he walked around the corridors from time to time because he couldn’t bear the confinement, but he was impossible to detect. Alfred's courtesy couldn’t be seen either, he knew that the man was not only angry, but that he respected his desire to be alone right now. The presence of his daughter, Cassandra, was also lying much in need, as much as she was silent in itself, her stay was always appreciated. Stephanie's jokes had been replaced by cautious and angry looks upon learning what happened. Barbara hadn't even deigned to answer him when he asked for a certain favor the night before. Timothy and Jason had fallen into complete silence, nothing unexpected.

 It was afternoon, but Bruce was in his office in the manor, thinking about how the place he had managed to fill with laughs, footsteps, and life over the years was now as empty and silent as when Thomas and Martha Wayne died.

He hadn't moved much, from the big chair in front of the expensive office desk, because he was still thoughtful and analyzing the argument that had happened in the cave three days before.

 Bruce knew he wasn’t a good father. Like all of him, he was trying, but he was very aware of reality. If someone asked him about the mistakes he had made regarding his children, he could list each and every one of them by heart, classify them by different categories, and then recite them out loud almost without thinking. This, obviously, was because he had them in his mind and insanely at all times and, of course, feed again those cravings for control that dominated him. The fear of losing them was too much, he couldn’t bear it, and that led him back to enter that infinite cycle that dominated his life.

The more he loved his children, the more he needed to protect them. That, in one way or another, involved controlling them and their environment, and the more he tried to do it, the more damage he did directly or indirectly. He always ended up failing, making mistakes. And these mistakes were present again, trying not to be repeated for then commit others instead.

 He was also aware that most of his children hadn’t had an easy life. Everyone came to him as children whose circumstances had been difficult and unfavorable. He couldn’t be responsible for the trauma or abuse that others had done to them, he just helped to mitigate it, give them the happy, healthy home they deserved and tried to change things where possible. But at the end of the day, the adult who took responsibility for them was him, and definitely had made mistakes.

 The worst and what tormented him most at the moment, is that if he listed those mistakes and removed the most obvious and indisputable of the list -how, for example, involve all of them in their crime crusade - most of them involved Tim and Jason in some way or another.

 That certainly didn’t help him.

 If he initially wouldn’t have been so hurt by Dick's departure to the Titans, perhaps he would have considered not controlling Jason the way he did when he adopted him or making the same mistakes as with his first child. If he hadn't been so convinced that the wounded but brave boy from the Bowery, needed Robin, he might not have felt like he needed to fill his older brother's shoes and run away later. If he had made it to Ethiopia in time, to the warehouse, Jason wouldn’t have died. If Jason hadn't died, he wouldn't have fallen into the spiral of self-destruction that Tim had to save him from, and he wouldn’t have turned him into Robin. If he hadn't turned Tim into Robin, maybe his parents were still alive, maybe he would have had a normal and happy life. If Tim had a normal life, Jason wouldn’t have risen with so much hatred and resentment towards them and wouldn’t have tried to kill him. If he hadn’t "died" later, Tim wouldn’t have lost another person, nor fallen into the same self-destruction from which no one could save him now.

 If... If not...

 There were so many events that he could have changed, and others not. So many mistakes, so many things could have been better. Everything turned in his head and had harassed him for three days. His bad decisions, the possibilities, the memories, all of that filled him with guilt and uncertainty, blamed him that it didn’t matter how human he was, how much he felt, because his mistakes always had more weight and consequences in the people he loved, whatever he did.

He remembered the despair he felt while holding Jason's corpse, bloody and broken as the warehouse burned and collapsed around him. The fear that ran through him when he helped to trait Tim's wounds after Red Hood's beating him up at the Titans' tower too, knowing who had done it. He remembered the disappointment and pain that Jason's spiteful words provoked him when he was ready to kill the Joker. Also, the understanding of Tim's tears after his father's death.

 They were his sons. His sons. He felt and suffered more for them than for himself, and for the fact that because of his own crusade their lives have been so affected.

They had big hearts, unshakable will, and unmatched bravery. A potential within them that drove them to help others innately, to fight with everything they owned. It was that light, that ability, why they were Robin.

 However, that didn’t take away the fact that his field-acquired wounds, both emotional and physical, could affect them on a deeper level than they could think. Endangering themselves, the other, and the rest of them with that hidden relationship that was revealed three nights ago.

 Jason was the brave and fighting boy from the streets who decided to fight the crime he experienced firsthand. But the trauma related to the abuse, the streets, and his own death was still very entrenched inside him, shaping his decisions both inside and outside his vigilant life. The Lazarus Pit had made him violent and angry, a killer who lost control when one of his triggers of said trauma appeared, including the bats themselves. As much as he had improved his control, they still had no guarantee that the Pit Rage would appear at any time and become a threat for all of them again.

Tim, the sweet little Tim, was still the smart and kind boy who threw away all opportunity to live a normal wealthy child life to become an extraordinary hero, someone who cared for and saved people in a selfless and sacrificed way. But the experiences that came along with that decision were not as kind as he was, and while Tim gave his all, without contemplation, in exchange he lost family, friends and stability. Bruce was not stupid, he recognizes a severe depression when he saw it, and although no one knows what happened to his third child during the time he was lost in time -or what he had to do to get him out- it had to be bad enough for Timothy became the lifeless emotionless shadow which was now.

 “You’ve been years without knowing anything from us!” Jason said three nights ago.

 It wasn't true, but it wasn't false either. He couldn't deny it with the same force as Richard did, because as much as he would like to say that both of them were still integrated in the family, it wasn’t true. They hadn't been in a long time, and they couldn't run away from it.

For him, it was always easier to treat Jason as if he had been a fallen soldier in battle because doing it as the son he left to die was too painful, it kept shaking him to the depths of his existence, perhaps that was why he hadn’t been able to integrate him among them again, in addition to all the history resulting from those events. He couldn't ignore his morality and methods, destructive and totally different from his. Neither the numerous attempts to harm him or the rest of the family, especially Tim. There was the fact that Red Hood operated in Gotham apart from the Outlaws, yes, but they hardly worked together or cooperated. They had their territories very defined, but he could barely catch a glimpse of Red Hood without twisting things, neither Jason. He knew that sometimes he was in the cave or the manor, but he always made sure not to see him and not stay long unless it was necessary.

For his part, Timothy, after he returned from his "death" and accepted Damian as Robin, he adopted the Red Robin alias and seemed to disappear entirely. He claimed to be in favor of carving out his own name as a hero, but he was elusive, smart, and determined. He went to live alone, to work with the Titans or at WE. It didn’t matter how many calls they made, how many emergencies or meetings would be held. Tim barely stepped on the manor, he didn’t stop to talk about anything other than the vigilant job, and long periods passed without seeing him. He hid his wounds very carefully and his habits began to be dangerous for him. They knew enough to realize that he was trying too hard and something was going very wrong but reaching out to help him without scaring him in the process was hard, complicated.

 Maybe for all that and more, his sons didn’t trust him enough to reveal what was going on between them, that they were dating. He didn't blame them, he really deserved it, because he couldn't figure it out either. He also deserved they were angry with him and his opinion on the matter.

 They could get mad at him, hate him, or yell at him. But he really believed that he had reason to say that relationship was something that should be discussed or thought more carefully.

Relationships on the field were dangerous, he knew it personally, and he still remembered the discomfort that had plagued the team when Barbara and Dick broke up so many years ago, not to mention Tim and Stephanie too. And he also remembers the serious injuries Jason inflicted on Tim, how much Red Hood lost control around him, and how little Tim has always valued himself and his injuries.

 Jason's problems along with Timothy's emotional state were not a good combination at all. It wasn’t. It didn't matter how they looked at it, nor how many years will pass. Their story was too rough, there was too much torment, too much tension between them. They themselves were not in a position to have such a relationship with anyone, much less with the other. And if he already doubted the red team itself -despite its efficiency- he also couldn't help but doubt this.

 He couldn't leave them to destroy each other, he couldn't. He knew that was how it would end, and the simple possibility that it might happen made his cravings for control beg him to take the reins of everything again, to fix all this and do it now.

 However, he had already been too carried away by that feeling to know that it wasn’t a good idea to follow it. So, before he could do anything, he received a call. A call that lasted for hours, most of the night, where he got another perspective on the matter and helped him to decide and ask that favor from Barbara that he hadn't heard from yet.

 Despite knowing there would be no response yet, he couldn't help but check his phone again to make sure, eager to be able to do something about it instead of sitting for hours in that office evaluating and planning the best course of action.

 He was just going to think about that when a few firm touches on the window caught his attention, causing him to straighten and look at the window on his left suspiciously.

 Even though he had told him that he didn't need him to come, there he was, his call.

 Frowning, Bruce got up from his seat and went to the window to open it wide, looking at Clark Kent, who floated in front of him in his civilian clothes as if it were the most normal thing in Gotham in the middle of the afternoon.

Holding back a sigh, he opened the window and stepped aside to let him in, trying to decide what to say first.

 He was debating between a "What the hell are you doing here?" or "I specifically told you not to come here.” before the Super raised his hand and talked.

 “When was the last time you slept?” He asked, looking at him closely.

 Not even a "Hello, how are you?" before starting to enter the matter. It wasn’t necessary, they had already overcome that phase of their relationship for a long time. What's more, Clark didn't have to ask how he was doing, he already knew it, he knew it very well.

It had been him who had finished calling after the discussion in the cave with Tim and Jason because he knew that something happened to him only by his heartbeat. It's not like he could have hidden it from him, because not only would he have found out sooner or later, but because he already did, and he was his best friend, so he finished telling him everything. They talked too much, and the call lasted for hours, with both locked in their offices for more privacy and with Clark insisting on going to see him.

 He said there was no need, but he had ignored it, as always.

 “That’s not relevant.” He replied, frowning further.

 To Clark, that was the fragrant confirmation that -indeed- he hadn’t slept for three days. In his defense, Bruce would say he was too busy thinking about other things to allow himself a little rest. What's more, he wouldn't even have done it if he tried.

Every time he closed his eyes he listened to Tim's choked sobs and his weak voice begging him to leave them alone.

 Clark wasn't going to know that, but didn’t seem to like his answer at all, because he crossed his arms and looked at him the way he always did when he had no idea what to do with him.

 For a moment, Bruce had the slight hope that Clark would let him go, but it was Kent. So, when he grabbed his arm and dragged him onto the couch in the office to make him sit down with him, he wasn't even surprised. He just rolled his eyes and reminded himself that trying to fight Superman for this was not worth it, because he already knew the result, he had tried too many times. So, he ended up sitting next to him on the sofa and sighing heavily.

 “Sleep.” Clark said simply and shrugged. As if it were that easy.

 “I don't think it works that way, Kent.” He replied with a snort.

 Clark looked at him again disapprovingly a few seconds, then his annoyance softened, and his look turned into one of pure concern.

 “Rest, please.” He asked softly. “I know you, and I know there have been rough days, but it wouldn’t be better like this.”

 After a moment of silence, Bruce decided not to answer that and instead leaned on the sofa to look at the ceiling in silence, closing later his eyes and completely ignoring the tug on his chest that Clark's concern caused him.

That seemed to be an acceptable move for the Kryptonian, because then they were completely silent, together. Bruce could feel the warmth of the other's body, sitting too close. Also, how he tried not to move too much so as not to distract him or disturb his rest, which didn’t help much because he couldn’t rest by himself, but the effort was appreciated.

 He didn't keep track of how long they were quiet and just being aware of each other's presence, but Bruce found himself breaking that peace after a few minutes without even hesitate.

 “Why are you here?” He asked without changing his position.

 He felt Clark stir in his seat and his bluish gaze fixed on him.

 “I wanted to see how you were.” He replied directly. “Do I need something more to see you?”

 Again, he remained silent, that tug on his chest appearing again. However, unlike a few minutes ago, this time he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him too, meeting his face closer to his than he had originally thought.

 He didn't look away, neither did Clark. They just looked at each other intently and waited for the other to say something. A tension already known between them leaked into the room.

 If someone had told Bruce years ago that Superman would be his most supportive person in his life, who he would trust the most, maybe he would have laughed, a lot. Now, he would have no choice but to agree and say thanks for it.

Because if it hadn't been for that call and those hours of conversation, things would have been much worse, and the situation would have only exploded after he had done something crazy. It was Clark who helped him see that it wasn’t necessary to carry the burdens of his mistakes alone, but that it was easier to do it together. It made it lighter. It was Clark who told him that even Superman made mistakes, everyone did, and the thing was learning to live with them and fix them after all, but don't let them dictate your life. And, above all, it was Clark who convinced him not to take hasty actions and try to clarify things with Tim and Jason without emotions clouding his judgment.

 It was Clark, it was always Clark. The one who managed to make him reason, the one who broke each and every one of his barriers with ease, the one who gave him hope, the one who saw beyond the calculating and calm façade he showed. Clark, always Clark.

 “My son was here yesterday.” The Super ended up saying in a whisper, they were close enough to hear it.

 “I know.” Bruce answered.

 He always knew when Jonathan showed up at the manor to visit Damian. This time he even thanked him, because he didn’t know the state of his younger son, but he did know that Superboy could cheer him up. As much as he broke Gotham's “no meta” rules and the limits set by his parents, he decided to let it be.

 “And you were okay with that?” Clark asked, more curious than annoyed.

 “Yes.”

 “Why?”

 “What do you think?”

 His answer made that tension, known but unsolvable, grow even more. Clark swallowed hard and Bruce didn't look away.

 The truth is that they would have had to be very blind not to have realized that their sons were in love for a long time and hopelessly they were going to end up together. After all, it was something that had been happening and developing in front of them since they made them team as children, and what they also had avoided talking at all cost.

 If Bruce at this time wasn't so worried about what had happened with Tim and Jason and how to solve it, maybe he could stop to think about how unfair he and Clark were being not wanting to recognize the feelings that their sons had on the other.

 They would like to; they would really like to. But admit that would openly lead to mention Conner's fixation with Timothy, which would lead to the conclusion of that, for some reason, always has existed a connection/fixing between the Supers and the Bats. And to admit this fixation would mean declaring that it really exists, along with that... Something, between them.

 There was something. Something between Bruce and Clark which didn’t want to admit, speak, or recognize. They've been ignoring it for years and had always worked like this, they had no reason to bring it to light, nor act on it. However, recognizing the situation of their sons not only will make it much more real, if not that -in some way- impossible.

That doesn't make sense because it was already impossible anyway. Clark was married to Lois, Bruce was dating Selina, they have been best friends since the League was founded, and their children were going to end up together, so there was no way they could... What?

 Do what? To say what?

 There was nothing to do, nothing to say. It wouldn't do any good because it was too late. No matter how much they tried to ignore it, it was something that hung over their heads and the moment it arrived they had to impose their sons' happiness on theirs, because that was how it worked, that’s what it meant to be a dad.

Although maybe that's why they didn't want to admit it, maybe that's why they tried to postpone all that until they could no longer, because they knew that the moment their children spoke for themselves, the decision of both of them was made, and it was like closing a door definitively that they had never dared to cross, but whose existence knew.

 But that wasn’t the important thing at the moment. The important thing was Tim, Jason, their relationship, making sure they were safe and secure, and waiting until Oracle managed to contact them in order to see them. But that was a matter of time, he just had to wait.

 So, ready for it, Bruce turned away from Clark, snorted wearily, settled back on the couch, and closed his eyes to get some sleep after three days without rest.

And if Clark's hand held his in the process, was something between them and no one else.

 ~0.0~

 When he woke up, he was alone.

 The office was dark, it was already night, the window was closed, and Bruce was lying on the couch.

There was no sign of Clark, but before thinking about how he had taken advantage of the fact that he had fallen asleep to accommodate him and leave without saying anything, he focused on the light of the flashing notification from his phone that he had been waiting all day.

 "Don’t thank me. Say hi to Hood before the patrol.” Barbara's text said.

 She had done it; she had granted his request and had been successful. Oracle had managed to locate the red team to take them to the Cave and sort things out. To have a conversation about it without surprises or threats, just leaving the cards on the table at once. There were situations and secrets in the family that could no longer be ignored more, and this was one of them.

 Bruce didn’t have time to be surprised that it was precisely Jason who agreed to attend that appointment, because he realized that he should head there. It was time to prepare for the patrol and it was better not to make anyone wait this time. He was determined to make his position clear and protect his sons, as necessary.

 He was halfway to the cave entrance when a loud sound made his world stop and a jolt of terror prick him.

 Bang!

 He breathed for a second, and then, recognizing the sound as a shot, he went through the entrance and down into the cave as fast as possible. Everything in a pure ingrained instinct that he had acquired after so many years in the crusade against crime, which tightened his muscles and contracted his bones.

 With his heart hammering hard and thousands of possibilities and explanations piercing his mind, when he arrived at the cave precisely the least expected received him.

 The vision of Dick Grayson, gun in hand, with Jason Todd bleeding out on the floor, made him realize that everything had gone too far.

 There was no longer a solution.

[theothersidepress]

Acceptance Is The Key

https://ift.tt/35j68e3

The state of the world is in turmoil and rather than jump into a new age fad of labeling this time as a great awakening, one has to look at the reality of how we have come to this moment in time and what we can do to move forward. The reality is, man has deceived man and tried to control the balance of human nature for his own gain. Now we see divine law and karma in operation. It is already in motion and people are suffering, and even though great lessons to be learned exist, many are suffering needlessly.

Darkness Awakes!

There is a great saying that in times of darkness there is always a blessing if one can find it. However, that is often easier said than done. No matter what we have come to expect or no matter how much knowledge one has amassed, the playing out of the action of that knowledge is often lost in nothing but theory without action.

At the time of writing this, I have lost count of the number of people who have reached out to me privately to express the upset, anguish, and anxiety they face on a daily basis. Anxiety at this time is at an all-time high and fear which brings forth that anxiety is eating away at many souls; then you have the added aspect of grief and its many faces, even without losing loved ones – we are all grieving the loss. We have lost parts of our identity and life as we perceived it. That loss can become the catalyst to inner turmoil and suffering.

A Call to Action

When this happened to the people of the world, I knew that people would need an outlet for their emotions and to express their grief and anxiety. I made an announcement in social media that I would be available on a private basis to help anyone who needed it, anyone who needed spiritual counsel, and the messages flooded in. Now, this was not for private sittings, nor to feed some need within myself and it cost nothing but time. It was to truly exemplify what Silver Birch meant when he said:

“The greatest gift you can give humanity is the gift of service.”

This was one small way that I could serve privately without pomp and circumstance.

As the messages came flooding in, one individual after another that needed comfort and spiritual counsel – poured out their souls, looking for some kind of direction and to understand – why? Now I am not a person that holds all the answers but I like to be led by the divine power within, and of course, allow the great spirit to lead those that needed words of comfort. One thing began to stand out to me; a pattern began to emerge with everyone, and an awareness of that pattern was all that was needed to navigate these turbulent waters. Most people had no real, true awareness and needed to understand themselves more at this time.

Photo Credit: John Hain, Pixabay

It's all very AAFT

Anything in life starts with awareness, for without awareness we do not truly live, as we have no real capacity to know time in the present and the experience of the present moment. Without awareness, we are an empty dream without a story. We are a story without a book and a book with no audience. Awareness is indeed the key to change, for with awareness we have the choice to unlock that door. Awareness is actually a divine power often forgotten.

Caverns Of Despair

Most individuals that I conversed with were only aware of what they were told or shown according to others’ perceptions. They were not aware of themselves and were merely following what it was that others perceived. The outcome, of course, was deeper entrenchment in the material realm and becoming further separated from the power of spirit or the divinity within.

The type of awareness that arose within themselves was the ego’s awareness and not that of the inner power of divinity within. Therefore, all the ugly emotions and aspects of past actions or grief from loss, all came to the surface. As a result, one begins to question truths and lay the blame squarely at the feet of divine power – while feelings of anger and abandonment surfaces.

Did You Pray

I asked one individual if they prayed for help, and they confirmed they did. I then asked if they considered that their request for help was answered, and they said no. I then asked if they felt abandoned and they said yes, by God. I then replied, if you think you are abandoned and your prayer has not been answered, then who am I at this time? The key to getting through turbulent times is to trust in the power of the divine. The answers will always come but without awareness, they are lost.

Photo Credit: Jills, Pixabay

Acceptance

When we do not accept things as they are, we cannot change them. It is with nonacceptance that we fight with a power external to oneself and we give our power away to material power. In accepting things as they are, we have the power to move forward and come from the inner power of divinity by placing faith in our divinity and understanding that acceptance means to just be at one with the one mind that is the source of all things and supply of all things. We accept and therefore we are. We become the power that is latent within.

Forgiveness

The other emotion or power (depending on how you see it) that many were missing was that of forgiveness. In this time of self isolation, all sorts of emotions such as guilt, fear and a disdain for oneself can come to the surface. In all but one conversation, the reality was that forgiveness was only a pattern of external action that had no real power for the self; it merely became glibly spoken words and thoughts with no pattern, to cause creation. The missing aspect is that none of them had forgiven themselves, for we experience everything in life as an inner experience. Nothing is experienced outside of oneself and so to forgive on an external plane holds no power.

When these individuals realized that all of their desired changes could happen with learning the true power of internal forgiveness, it all changed – at that moment. By learning to forgive from within, you choose acceptance, you choose non-suffering and in that respect, you release that which is holding you prisoner. All the external elements of forgiveness of others are already done because they did not exist in the timeline where suffering exists. You are now beginning to recognize the power of love within you.

Transformation

Transformation takes place when acceptance and forgiveness are brought into harmony, which, in turn, awakens one to the power of love without condition. No matter the changes to your circumstances, you find peace within the acceptance and forgiveness you exemplify. You then find that you are the power within the source and holding the power at that moment means that your external reality is merely what is created outside of you – and the power to change things lies within you. Every experience is within oneself and to become aware of the power within, allows you to bring harmony and peace to any situation you find yourself in.

You are the power, you have the power to accept and to change and to know love without condition.

To this day, I still respond to those in need and I use those same 4 steps to awaken change: AAFT – Awareness, Acceptance, Forgiveness, Transformation.

Photo Credit: PopcornSusanN, Pixabay

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Mike Pence & John Bolton: Cold War Conservatism Clings to the White House The Trump presidency represented a solid break with the longstanding norms of right-wing politics in the USA. Trump campaigns as a foul-mouthed populist who criticized military interventions and seemed champion “the little guy” hurt by trade deals and Washington mismanagement. However, within the White House, Mike Pence and John Bolton seem to represent two dual trends that dominated American conservative politics from the 1970s onward. A Neoconservative National Security Advisor, and an Evangelical Vice President, seem to be working hard to preserve the Cold War formula for Republican leadership. John Bolton: The Heir of Strauss & Kristol A lot has been written about ‘Neoconservatism.’ But what does the term actually mean? Libertarians and paleoconservative analysts tend to use the term as a pejorative for mainstream Republicans who operate against their principles. The New York Times seems to portray “neocons” as a mysterious faction of interventionists that has infiltrated the government, pushing for larger foreign entanglements. In reality, Neoconservatism was the Republican Party getting slick, and marketing itself to a generation of Americans raised on television and rock music. It also involved honestly accepting elitism, something previous conservative trends had shunned. According to the New York Times, Irving Kristol was “commonly known as the godfather of neoconservatism.” Irving Kristol was a Trotskyite Communist in the 1930s who gradually shifted away from Marxism. According to his New York Times obituary, it was contact with actual working class people in the US military that convinced him to drop socialism altogether: “Drafted into the Army with a number of Midwesterners who were street-tough and often anti-Semitic, he found himself shedding his youthful radical optimism. “I can’t build socialism with these people,” he concluded. “They’ll probably take it over and make a racket out of it.” In his opinion, his fellow GI’s were inclined to loot, rape and murder, and only Army discipline held them in check. It was a perception about human nature that would stay with him for the rest of his life, creating a tension with his alternative view that ordinary people were to be trusted more than intellectuals to do the right thing.” After working with the CIA’s Congress for Cultural Freedom program, Kristol eventually moved from liberal intelligence circles to the think tanks aligned with the Republican Party. The other individual credited with giving birth to Neoconservative thinking is Leo Strauss, the Plato Scholar who taught philosophy at the New School for Social Research and the University of Chicago. According to the Brooklyn Rail: “Strauss’s acolytes have penetrated American government and higher education, and have proudly influenced the nation’s social and public policies. In the Bush Administration itself there are numerous people who have been either taught by Strauss or who are disciples of his ideas—most notably Paul Wolfowitz, Stephen Cambone, the Under-Secretary of Defense for Intelligence, and Abram Shulsky, Director of the Pentagon’s Office of Special Plans; and there are those outside of government with great influence.” Leo Strauss, like Kristol, seemed to believe ordinary people needed to be duped and manipulated by a superior group of intellectuals. Describing Strauss’ worldview, The Nation wrote: “Intellectuals, he believed, would have to spread an ideology of good and evil, whether they believed it or not, so that the American people could be mobilized against the enemies of freedom. For this reason Strauss, we learn in one of many telling asides, was a huge fan of the TV series Gunsmoke and its Manichean depiction of good and evil.” Neoconservatism’s birth is traced back to Richard Nixon’s 1968 Presidential campaign, where Nixon appeared to have learned from George Wallace that sticking up for “ordinary folks” who were put off by the Civil Rights Movement and the Anti-Vietnam War Protests was a good strategy. Nixon’s rhetoric about the “silent majority” and “law and order” won him the Presidency. The Presidency of Ronald Reagan seemed to be Strauss’ dream come true. Reagan was a former cowboy actor, and when he described US foreign policy in oval office addresses, he sounded like a Sheriff on an episode of Gunsmoke. The wars in Nicaragua, El Salvador, Libya, Grenada, and Lebanon were simply a battle between the “good guys” and the “bad guys,” with the complex realities hidden from the public mind. John Bolton is widely described as a Neoconservative, and he now holds the post to which Trump originally appointed Michael Flynn. Bolton seems to fancy himself as an expert on who the latest “bad guys” of the CNN narrative are, and why the USA should not hesitate to “spread freedom” by overthrowing them. His bombastic tone, including threats to send Nicolas Maduro to Guantanamo Bay, fit the neoconservative playbook. But these days, the non-interventionist sentiments once espoused by a minority of Ron Paul-types seem to be popular among the Red State base. And just as Neoconservatism is on the decline, a trend that the neocons depended on to exercise their political power, is also losing strength. A New Brand of Religious Fanaticism In 1957, British psychologist William Sargant wrote: “Various types of belief can be implanted in many people, after brain function has been sufficiently disturbed by accidentally or deliberately induced fear, anger or excitement. Of the results caused by such disturbances, the most common is temporarily impaired judgement and heightened suggestibility. Its various group manifestations are sometimes classed under the heading of ‘herd instinct,’ and appear most spectacularly in wartime, during severe epidemics, and in all similar periods of common danger, which increase anxiety and so individual and mass suggestibility.” Sargant’s book The Mind Possessed digs into the nature of propaganda and mind control, specifically exploring aspect of it in religious ceremonies. Sargant’s research was conducted in coordination with the Tavistock Institute, as British intelligence worked to understand the nature of persuasion in the aftermath of the Second World War. The religious movement commonly called Evangelical Christianity is very much the result of efforts to cultivate and refine the phenomena that Sargant’s work described, and utilize the emotional aspects of religion to control and manipulate people. Distinct religious movements and communities have always existed throughout US history. Because the USA originated as a settler colony to which European cults and sects fled, the United States has a much higher tolerance of religious fanaticism. In two US states it is legal, for example, for churches to engage in snake-handling. This is an often deadly Christian ritual in which adherents take turns holding venomous snakes in a group setting, believing that God will protect them from being bitten. Fundamentalist and charismatic Christianity emerged as movements among American protestants in the 1800s. Mormonism, Seventh Day Adventism, Pentecostalism, and other sects with very unique beliefs emerged as well. However, the religious current of Evangelical Christianity that gained a very large amount of political power during the 1980s and 90s, is a distinct trend, separate from other episodes of fanaticism in American history. While it drew from these previous, uniquely American movements and belief systems, it arose due to unique historical circumstances in the 1970s, paralleling and aligning with neoconservatism in the Republican Party. The first incarnations of what became Evangelical Christianity appeared in the late 1960s among the hippie counter-culture. Among drug using, rock music listening, anti-war protesting youth, a tendency emerged known as Jesus Freaks or Jesus People. This was a combination of hippie aesthetics with Christian teachings. Two broadway musicals Jesus Christ Superstar and Godspell, both of which became Hollywood movies, seemed to follow this trend of merging cultural hippy-ism with the narrative of the Bible’s New Testament. Early Jesus Freaks followed the path of leftist Christian Dorothy Day and joined the Catholic Church, despite questioning many of its teachings. The hymn They’ll Know We Are Christian By Our Love was first sung by counter-culture elements the embedded themselves in Catholic Congregations. Record company exec Tony Alamo, who had been largely involved in marketing the Beatles, quit the music business and launched his own church in Los Angeles utilizing the religious/aesthetic combination pioneer by the Jesus Freaks. These counter-culture Christians differed from other religious upsurges in American history because they had a consistent lack of interest in theology. While this was, to some degree, a gesture of rebellion against the “up tight” authoritarianism of existing Christian denominations, it was also an expression of anti-intellectualism. Historical facts, theological arguments, and knowledge of scripture did not matter. To the Jesus Freaks, religion was about the emotions they felt as they prayed, sang, and clapped in unison with other believers. It was about the glow they felt from engaging in acts of kindness, and the emotional relief provided by praying for forgiveness. Throughout US history, Fundamental Baptists, Pentecostals, Lutherans, Mormons, and the various Charismatics took their history and unique interpretation of the Bible very seriously. Adherents of these movements can cite chapter and verse and argue harshly against rival interpretations. However, the Jesus Freaks were known for statements like “None of that matters, man, it’s just about love” and “I just believe the Bible.” Rather than pushing a specific doctrine, the Jesus People focused on a “personal relationship with Jesus Christ.” From Jesus Freaks to Mega-Churches Richard Nixon’s spiritual advisor Reverend Billy Graham, who supported the Vietnam War and opposed the Civil Rights Movement, was not a hippie by any stretch. But starting in 1969, Graham embraced the Jesus Freaks and had TV specials featuring long-haired, guitar playing youthful Christians. In 1972, Reverend Sun Myung Moon, who had founded the Unification Church in South Korea, relocated to the United States. Reverend Moon was a skilled orator and a fanatical anticommunist. He had a very close relationship with Japanese and South Korean intelligence agencies, as was later revealed in testimony before the US congress. Nixon brought him to the United States where he also jumped on the Jesus Freakaesthetic, recruiting teenaged runaways and others to what was often presented as his “Peace Movement.” Like Graham, Moon was also a supporter of Nixon. Moon’s followers staged a hunger strike during the Watergate investigations, claiming they were a Communist plot to divide the United States. Reverends Moon, Alamo, and Graham all experimented with what started to become a very effective political-religious formula by the end of the 1970s. It was Reverend Jerry Falwell, whose organization called the Moral Majority, that became the vanguard of what eventually became known as Evangelical Christianity or The Religious Right. Instead of specific interpretations of Christianity, Non-Denominational churches sprung up across the country. These Mega-Churches as they were called, involved pastors who preached in front of big movie screens that showed images of what they were speaking about. They involved praise-bands that played Rock and Roll Music with Christian lyrics. While the Jesus People had opposed the Vietnam War and supported the Civil Rights Movement, the Evangelicals that emerged to dominate US politics were right-wing in every way. They aligned with the Neoconservative movement, and repeated its talking points. They believed that somehow the USA was divinely selected to rid the world of Communism, and eventually of Islamic Terrorism. The Evangelical Christian movement eventually became very well embedded in the US military, with the West Point military academy becoming a stronghold of evangelicalism. The “know-nothing” anti-intellectualism and lack of depth that defined the Jesus People, along with the hippie aesthetics, survived their movements transition to the right-wing of US politics. While Fundamentalist Baptists generally opposed rock music and men having long hair, and the Evangelical Mega-Churches embraced such things. While fundamentalist preachers like Billy Sunday or Charles G. Finney had certainly worked hard to stimulate emotional conversions with powerful oratory, the Evangelicals used flashing lights, rock music, and movie screens to turn the emotional volume up to a maximum level, while watering the theology down to almost nothing. “I believe only the Bible” Evangelicals were trained to say, “If it is not in the book, then I don’t need it.” A popular bumper sticker says “God said it, I believe it, and that settles it.” The long-standing theological wrangling found in the works of St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Augustine, John Calvin, and Martin Luther is long forgotten. Faith is about explosive feelings of fervor and sobs of redemption, not to be interrupted logical debate or moral reasoning. Mike Pence, who began his career as a radio host in Indiana before being elected governor, is very much an Evangelical Christian. He makes a point of publicly praying and attending evangelical gatherings. Like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson did before him, Pence is keenly interested in foreign policy and seems to take his cues from his neoconservative contemporaries, such as John Bolton. How Much Longer for the Neocon-Evangelical Block? The strength of neoconservatives in US politics has largely depended on a mass movement of evangelicals to back them up. As political leaders present a foreign policy narrative that sounds like a Hollywood movie, voters endorse it and soldiers carry it out, hyped up by a very simplistic and emotional reinterpretation of the Christian gospels. However, since the Presidency of George W. Bush, the Neocon-Evangelical block among Republicans has gotten significantly weaker. Both formulations are politicized smoke and mirrors, asking their adherents to just sit back and enjoy the show. Don’t do your own research. Don’t think too deeply. Let us entertain you and pluck your emotions with flashing lights. Listen to our surface level story about super-heroes battling super-villains. The 2008 financial meltdown made it hard for Americans to simply accept a narrative. Many wanted answers about why their homes had been foreclosed, why their wages were dropping, and why they were drowning in debt. Furthermore, the accessibility of information created by social media, allowed the religious skepticism of Richard Dawkins and Sam Harris to enter every evangelical household with a doubting teenager. Trump won the Republican Nomination and the eventually 2016 election because he was explicitly not an Evangelical or a Neocon. However, Mike Pence and John Bolton seem to represent this longstanding formula for conservative policy-making, holding on to power within the Trump White House. It is doubtful that this political block, formed during the Cold War, will rebound. Populism, not authoritarian elitist manipulations, seems to be rising trend among the American right-wing.

[thetruthseekerway]

Western Thinkers' View on Early Muslim Scientists

New Post has been published on http://www.truth-seeker.info/quran-science-2/western-thinkers-view-on-early-muslim-scientists/

Western Thinkers' View on Early Muslim Scientists

By Mansoor Alam

Reality Check–Today’s Muslim World

If one looks at the general picture of the Muslim world today it is hard to find something positive on the horizon. There is political chaos and regional turmoil all over the Muslim world. Muslims seem to have lost control of their affairs. They feel frustrated and helpless. Many Muslim governments are persecuting their people – in the name of Islam. Can Muslims hope for a better future under these circumstances?

Allah has blessed Muslims with plenty of natural resources. Yet, they are dependent for most of their basic needs – not to speak of their dependence in the field of science and technology, and on knowledge, in general – on non-Muslims. Their resources are being plundered and wasted on an unprecedented scale, while the majority population suffers extreme hardship.

Muslims generally tend to blame others for their problems. Some blame their rulers. Others blame one another. There may be truth in all of this. But what is lacking from Muslim discourse is an honest and intelligent diagnosis of problems facing the Muslim Ummah.

Representing more than a billion Muslims, the Organization of Islamic Conference (OIC) – the official organ of the Muslim countries for discussing such problems – has become no more than a platform for passing resolutions upon resolutions of empty words with no teeth. No wonder it has been dubbed “Oh! I see!” Most other Islamic organizations, more or less, suffer from a similar fate.

In the present environment, Muslims mostly live individual lives (in their own little islands) while using the term Ummah in their discussions. Some seem to cooperate on issues affecting Muslim lives, but that is limited mostly to charity work. Muslims do not have a unifying plan (or, rather, are not interested) to chart out the future course of action for the Ummah. Muslims appear to behave like billions of individual atoms without any strong bonds.

Is there a silver lining in this dark cloud? Will this long, dark chapter in Muslim history ever end?

Muslim Scientist As Building Blocks of Modern Science

When we read the history of Muslim contribution to world civilization, it seems very recent that Muslims were on top of the world. They were pioneers and leaders in all areas of human endeavor. They invented new branches of science and mathematics. They not only laid the foundation of modern knowledge but propelled it to new heights. In particular, their contribution to the world of medicine is legendary.

So what happened? How did Muslims lose this crowning position of power in the world?  And how did they lose leadership in science, mathematics, and medicine?

The history of how this loss occurred is heart-wrenching. One way to tell this history is to describe the extraordinary achievements of past Muslims. This makes Muslims feel proud of their past glory – as, indeed, it should; we try to re-live, mentally, at least, the stages of that glory when we talk or write about the history of Islam and science. And this is what we will also do in this article – with one difference. We will not treat this as an end in itself, but with an eye to figure out how to reclaim that past glory.

We begin with a brief description of the achievements of some of the Muslim scientists, as stated, not by Muslim, but by non-Muslim scholars, to avoid any impression of a Muslim bias. The quotations below may seem extensive but they serve an important purpose to highlight the depth and breadth of the new knowledge that past Muslims created and developed, and which, according to Western historians of science, formed the backbone on which the Western renaissance in science began. This shows that Muslims may have forgotten the lesson of their own past intellectual giants in making science history, but the West has not. It continues to build its scientific superstructure for modern science on the foundations laid by our ancestors.

While reading these quotations, it would be beneficial to reflect and ponder on where we are, and whither we are going.

George Sarton pays tribute to Muslim scientists in Introduction to the History of Science:

“It will suffice here to evoke a few glorious names without contemporary equivalents in the West: Jabir ibn Haiyan, al-Kindi, al-Khwarizmi, al-Fargani, al-Razi, Thabit ibn Qurra, al-Battani, Hunain ibn Ishaq, al-Farabi, Ibrahim ibn Sinan, al-Masudi, al-Tabari, Abul Wafa, ‘Ali ibn Abbas, Abul Qasim, Ibn al-Jazzar, al-Biruni, Ibn Sina, Ibn Yunus, al-Kashi, Ibn al-Haitham, ‘Ali Ibn ‘Isa al-Ghazali, al-Zarqab, Omar Khayyam – a magnificent array of names which would not be difficult to extend. If anyone tells you that the Middle Ages were scientifically sterile, just quote these men to him, all of whom flourished within a short period, 750 to 1100 A.D.”

European Renaissance Drawn From Muslim Civilization

In Intellectual Development of Europe, John William Draper writes:

“I have to deplore the systematic manner in which the literature of Europe has continued to put out of sight our obligations to the Muhammadans [British term for Muslims]. Surely they cannot be much longer hidden. Injustice founded on religious rancor and national conceit cannot be perpetuated forever. The Arab has left his intellectual impress on Europe. He has indelibly written it on the heavens as anyone may see who reads the names of the stars on a common celestial globe.”

Robert Briffault states in his magnum opus, Making of Humanity:

“It was under the influence of the Arabs and Moorish revival of culture and not in the 15th century, that a real renaissance took place. Spain, not Italy, was the cradle of the rebirth of Europe. After steadily sinking lower and lower into barbarism, it had reached the darkest depths of ignorance and degradation when cities of the Saracenic world, Baghdad, Cairo, Cordova, and Toledo, were growing centers of civilization and intellectual activity. It was there that a new life arose which was to grow into a new phase of human evolution. The stirring of new life began when the influence of Muslim culture began to make itself felt.”

“It was under their successors at Oxford School (that is, successors to the Muslims of Spain) that Roger Bacon learned Arabic and Arabic Sciences. Neither Roger Bacon, nor his later namesake, has any title to be credited with having introduced the experimental method. Roger Bacon was no more than one of the apostles of Muslim Science and Method to Christian Europe; and he never wearied of declaring that knowledge of Arabic and Arabic Sciences was for his contemporaries the only way to true knowledge. Discussion as to who was the originator of the experimental method… is part of the colossal misinterpretation of the origins of European civilization. The experimental method of Arabs was by Bacon’s time widespread and eagerly cultivated throughout Europe.”

“Science is the most momentous contribution of Arab civilization to the modern world; but its fruits were slow in ripening. Not until long after Moorish culture had sunk back into darkness, did the giant, which it had given birth to, rise in his might. It was not science only, which brought Europe back to life. Other and manifold influences from the civilization of Islam communicated its first glow to European life.”

“For although there is not a single aspect of European growth in which the decisive influence of Islamic Culture is not traceable, nowhere is it so clear and momentous as in the genesis of that power which constitutes the permanent distinctive force of the modern world, and the supreme source of its victory, natural science and the scientific spirit.”

“The debt of our science to that of the Arabs does not consist in startling discoveries or revolutionary theories; science owes a great deal more to Arab culture, it owes its existence. The Astronomy and Mathematics of the Greeks were a foreign importation never thoroughly acclimatized in Greek culture. The Greeks systematized, generalized and theorized, but the patient ways of investigation, the accumulation of positive knowledge, the minute method of science, detailed and prolonged observation and experimental inquiry were altogether alien to the Greek temperament. Only in Hellenistic Alexandria was any approach to scientific work conducted in the ancient classical world. What we call science arose in Europe as a result of a new spirit of inquiry, of new methods of experiment, observation, measurement, of the development of mathematics, in a form unknown to the Greeks. That spirit and those methods were introduced into the European world by the Arabs.”

“It is highly probable that, but for the Arabs, modern European civilization  would never have arisen at all; it is absolutely certain that but for them, it would not have assumed that character which has enabled it to transcend all previous phases of evolution.”

Muslim Scholars of Medicine and Mathematics

In Legacy of Islam, Arnold and Guillaume shed light on Islamic science and medicine:

“Looking back, we may say that Islamic medicine and science reflected the light of the Hellenic sun, when its day had fled; they shone like a moon, illuminating the darkest night of the European Middle Ages; some bright stars lent their own light, and moon and stars alike faded at the dawn of a new day – the Renaissance. Since they had their share in the direction and introduction of that great movement, it may reasonably be claimed that they are with us yet.”

Again, George Sarton in the Introduction to the History of Science says:

“During the reign of Caliph Al-Mamun (813-33 A.D.), the new learning reached its climax. The monarch created in Baghdad a regular school for translation. It was equipped with a library, one of the translators there was Hunayn Ibn Ishaq (809-77) a particularly gifted philosopher and physician of wide erudition, the dominating figure of this century of translators. We know from his own recently published Memoir that he translated practically the whole immense corpus of Galenic writings.”

“Besides the translation of Greek works and their extracts, the translators made manuals of which one form, that of the ‘pandects,’ is typical of the period of Arabic learning. These are recapitulations of the whole medicine, discussing the affections of the body, systematically beginning at the head and working down to the feet.”

“The Muslim ideal was, it goes without saying, not visual beauty but God in His plentitude; that is God with all his manifestations, the stars and the heavens, the earth and all nature. The Muslim ideal is thus infinite. But in dealing with the infinite as conceived by the Muslims, we cannot limit ourselves to the space alone, but must equally consider time.”

“The first mathematical step from the Greek conception of a static universe to the Islamic one of a dynamic universe was made by Al-Khwarizmi (780-850), the founder of modern Algebra. He enhanced the purely arithmetical character of numbers as finite magnitudes by demonstrating their possibilities as elements of infinite manipulations and investigations of properties and relations.”

“In Greek mathematics, the numbers could expand only by the laborious process of addition and multiplication. Khwarizmi’s algebraic symbols for numbers contain within themselves the potentialities of the infinite. So we might say that the advance from arithmetic to algebra implies a step from being to ‘becoming’ from the Greek universe to the living universe of Islam. The importance of Khwarizmi’s algebra was recognized, in the twelfth century, by the West, – when Girard of Cremona translated his theses into Latin. Until the sixteenth century this version was used in European universities as the principal mathematical textbook. But Khwarizmi’s influence reached far beyond the universities. We find it reflected in the mathematical works of Leonardo Fibinacci of Pissa, Master Jacob of Florence, and even of Leonardo da Vinci.”

“Through their medical investigations they not merely widened the horizons of medicine, but enlarged humanistic concepts generally. And once again they brought this about because of their overriding spiritual convictions. Thus it can hardly have been accidental that those researches should have led them beyond the reach of Greek masters. If it is regarded as symbolic that the most spectacular achievement of the mid-twentieth century is atomic fission and the nuclear bomb, likewise it would not seem fortuitous that the early Muslim’s medical endeavor should have led to a discovery that was quite as revolutionary though possibly more beneficent.”

“A philosophy of self-centerdness, under whatever disguise, would be both incomprehensible and reprehensible to the Muslim mind. That mind was incapable of viewing man, whether in health or sickness as isolated from God, from fellow men, and from the world around him. It was probably inevitable that the Muslims should have discovered that disease need not be born within the patient himself but may reach from outside, in other words, that they should have been the first to establish clearly the existence of contagion.”

“One of the most famous exponents of Muslim universalism and an eminent figure in Islamic learning was Ibn Sina, known in the West as Avicenna (981-1037). For a thousand years he has retained his original renown as one of the greatest thinkers and medical scholars in history. His most important medical works are the Qanun (Canon) and a treatise on Cardiac drugs. The ‘Qanun fi-l-Tibb’ is an immense encyclopedia of medicine. It contains some of the most illuminating thoughts pertaining to distinction of mediastinitis from pleurisy; contagious nature of phthisis; distribution of diseases by water and soil; careful description of skin troubles; of sexual diseases and perversions; of nervous ailments.”

“We have reason to believe that when, during the Crusades, Europe at last began to establish hospitals, they were inspired by the Arabs of the Near East… the first hospital in Paris, Les Quinze-vingt, was founded by Louis IX after his return from the Crusade 1254-1260.”

“We find in his (Jabir, Geber) writings remarkably sound views on methods of chemical research, a theory on the geologic formation of metals (the six metals differ essentially because of different proportions of sulphur and mercury in them); preparation of various substances (e.g., basic lead carbonatic, arsenic and antimony from their sulphides).”

“Ibn Haytham’s writings reveal his fine development of the experimental faculty. His tables of corresponding angles of incidence and refraction of light passing from one medium to another show how closely he had approached discovering the law of constancy of ratio of sines, later attributed to Snell. He accounted correctly for twilight as due to atmospheric refraction, estimating the sun’s depression to be 19 degrees below the horizon, at the commencement of the phenomenon in the mornings or at its termination in the evenings.”

“A great deal of geographical as well as historical and scientific knowledge is contained in the thirty volume meadows of Gold and Mines of Gems by one of the leading Muslim historians, the tenth century al Mas’udi. A more strictly geographical work is the dictionary ‘Mujam al-Buldan’ by al-Hamami (1179-1229). This is a veritable encyclopedia that, in going far beyond the confines of geography, incorporates also a great deal of scientific lore.”

“They studied, collected and described plants that might have some utilitarian purpose, whether in agriculture or in medicine. These excellent tendencies, without equivalent in Christendom, were continued during the first half of the thirteenth century by an admirable group of four botanists. One of these Ibn al-Baitar compiled the most elaborate Arabic work on the subject (Botany), in fact the most important for the whole period extending from Dioscorides down to the sixteenth century. It was a true encyclopedia on the subject, incorporating the whole Greek and Arabic experience.”

“‘Abd al-Malik ibn Quraib al-Asmai (739-831) was a pious Arab who wrote some valuable books on human anatomy. Al-Jawaliqi who flourished in the first half of the twelfth century and ‘Abd al-Mumin who flourished in the second half of the thirteenth century in Egypt, wrote treatises on horses. The greatest zoologist amongst the Arabs was al-Damiri (1405) of Egypt whose book on animal life, ‘Hayat al-Hayawan’ has been translated into English by A.S.G. Jayakar (London 1906, 1908).”

“The weight of venerable authority, for example that of Ptolemy, seldom intimidated them. They were always eager to put a theory to tests, and they never tired of experimentation. Though motivated and permeated by the spirit of their religion, they would not allow dogma as interpreted by the orthodox to stand in the way of their scientific research.”

This approach of describing past Muslim achievements is effective in making us, Muslims, feel proud. It may even motivate a few of us to excel in science – thanks to the West. But in describing the history of Islam and science, should one stop here? Does this approach provide clues about how past Muslims systematically discovered new knowledge? How they invented so much new scientific knowledge without the modern facilities that we have today? Was this the result of their natural instincts or intellectual aptitude? Were they motivated (like most of us) by wealth, career, or fame? Why did they devote their entire lives seeking knowledge of Allah’s creations even while suffering extreme hardships? Most important of all, what was the driving force behind their constant pursuit in advancing the frontiers of new knowledge? Unless we probe these questions, we will not be able to fully appreciate the achievements of past Muslims or learn from their stories.

  References:

George Sarton, Introduction to the History of Science, Vol. I-IV, Carnegie Institute of Washington, Baltimore, 1927-31; Williams and Wilkins, Baltimore, 1950-53.

Robert Briffault, The Making of Humanity, London, 1938.

T. Arnold and A. Guillaume, The Legacy of Islam, Oxford University Press, 1931.

E. Gibbon, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, London, 1900.

———-

Taken with slight editorial modifications from islamicity.org.

[janvba2film-blog]

Post R: Collated Quotes

Never Sleep Again:

“Speaks to these adolescent fears of not having control“ + “you can only trust other kids of your own age“ - These delve into the messages and values of the film, thus relating to themes Craven may repeat in films.

“Universal theme of the bad dream, the nightmare, and the boogeyman“ - Robert Englund. Once again exploring thematic motifs of the film. This is important when approaching the topic of auteur as the theory suggests a director will repeat behaviours and themes across their work to enforce that they are an individual when it comes to filmmaking.

“I wanted to do a strong, female lead who didn’t trip over“ - Wes Craven: this is important as it is one of the classic horror tropes, and there is a line in Scream which directly relates to this. “The survivor girl, one of the classic leading ingredients in contemporary horror“ - Englund: this supports the point but the phrasing brings into question.

“A lot of monsters of the past were misunderstood - they were quite innocent - Freddy was not innocent” - This quote is significant because it brings Wes’ contribution to horror into perspective.

Apparently they had to “soft-pedal” a lot of the sexuality (such as the paedophilic aspect) in the film to get it passed the MPAA and audiences, showing me that sexuality is definitely a strong theme in Wes’ work.

[In regards to NoES 3: Dream Warriors]

“Using a sexuality trap” (in reference to Joey’s trap). This may establish a section on theme.

“If an original character is in the sequel usually they don’t last until the end because they either aged, or the studio would feel like “Now we have to have new characters”” – Craven. He believes this to be a feature of his direction, as an auteur (not self-professed).

“The fact that they made Freddy more and more jokey took him farther and farther away from that child-molester thing that kind of sticks to you in a way you don’t like” – Craven; Wes was not in control and so the character changed

[In regards to New Nightmare]

“Wes has a very narrow mind in the sense that “this is what will scare people” and a very broad mind to “extract”” – Mark Irwin (cinematographer). Commentary of Craven’s style.

“Nancy and Freddy’s relationship has always had a sexual component” – Langenkampf in reference to ‘Lust’ on the wall. Possible link to the topic of theme, in particular sexuality.

“I think it was the pre-cursor to, like, ‘Scream’. ‘New Nightmare’ was made for the people who made the film; kind of adults. ‘Scream’ was made for the audience who watches the film, and those were the central characters.”. An argument against Craven not being an auteur in regards to ‘Scream’, as Craven already had experience in this sort of field.

The Film Genre Book

“whilst drawing inspiration from influential films such as Ingmar Bergman’s ‘The Virgin Spring’“ - This is not the first time Craven’s name has been attached to this director. He is obviously inspired by him, so I must explore how much influence has been taken in regards to auteur theory.

“His films…establish editor/writer/director Craven as an auteur…whose works tested both the censors and audience sensibilities and expectations of the horror genre.” - It is often mentioned that Craven reshapes horror and pushes its limits, perhaps it is not completely techniques that provide him with the titles and more to do with his attitude towards horror.

The book notes how previous horror monsters were a victim of circumstance, or had some sympathetic angle to them, but Freddy does not - “he is ugly inside and out”- yet he is a cultural icon. This not only links to Wes’ innovation but also the public’s contribution to Freddy and the series. “No longer was there a clear delineation between good and bad [after the 70s]. If we could no longer trust our leaders then why not cheer for Freddy?”

‘The Final Girl’: the one girl in the film who fights, resist and survives the killer-monster. The final girl…dominates the action, and is thus masculinised. [In] the slasher film like…Nightmare on Elm Street [1984]…the final girl becomes her own saviour. - Christine Gledhill, The Cinema Book 2nd Edition, Ed. Pam Cook & Mieke Bernink, Bfi Publishing, 1999. This is interesting because it raises the question of if Wes took inspiration or inspired it with his debut film.

Scream: The Inside Story

“We took every single horror rule and broke it.” – Wes Craven

“I think what makes the ‘Scream’ films original is the fact that they look at themselves and they look at the horror genre itself, and I think that was a very new concept” – Neve Campbell (Sydney Prescott)

“It was very, very acutely of aware of the genre and kind of slightly announcing to the audience, kind of: ‘We know what you’re thinking and you better hide under your seats because we’re gonna do something different’.” – Wes Craven

“Scream was so brilliant and so smart and funny, but it took the deaths and the scares very, very seriously” - Eli Roth, a new-gen horror director; “It was finally a movie where the characters had seen other movies”. Possible insight into fusion genre (Horror+comedy) or Craven taking horror itself in a new direction.

“One of the most successful elements of the movie was the mystery element, and ‘Scream’ taps into that, and it taps into that beautifully.” - Patrick Lussier. This is important in the exploration of genre as this delves into genre fusion.

Wes craven wasn’t interested for a while. He didn’t want to do “another slasher movie”. This just goes to show the power of ‘Scream’s misdirection and genre-bending. Although it was only because Drew Barrymore came on-board.

“Wes Craven has influenced horror in the 70s, with ‘Last House On the Left’, in the 80s, with ‘Nightmare on Elm Street. You cannot overstate how incredibly influential Wes Craven has been to the horror genre and has continually made horror movies for different generations that feel so contemporary.” - Eli Roth. Such praise from a contemporary horror director indicates the influence Craven has had in the genre. However, Wes did not write Scream, so can he truly be given credit?

Subversive Horror Cinema

As is mentioned in ‘The American Nightmare’, Wes’ disgust for the image of children in Vietnam running after being exposed to Napalm inspired the forced stripping and raping of Mari. Another example of Vietnam inspiring Craven was the 1968 image of the execution of Vietcong soldier Nguyem Van Lem - “That methodical execution style was translated right to the shooting of Mari at the lake”. This is important to me because it makes me wonder if Wes is concerned less with auteurship and more about testing his audiences.

“The Last House on the Left arose partly from the desire, on Craven’s part, to capture the same kind of raw reality as the documentary footage coming out of Vietnam that Craven suspected was being censored” + “It was a time when all the rules were out the window, when everybody was trying to break the hold of censorship“ - Craven relayed to David A Szulkin. This is reflected in the graphic nature of the scenes and truly speaks about what Craven intended his film to do.

“Although the Vietnam footage was censored, Craven felt that it was candid about violence in a way that Hollywood cinema was not. Craven […] objected on moral grounds to the sanitization of violence by Hollywood, and saw it as part of the ideological apparatus that enabled the State to condition Soldiers for warfare. “The more you can know about violence, the more you can walk away from it and not be attracted to it.” Craven stated in 1999.“ This whole passage speaks about the underlying messages and values in the film.

“Part of the film’s power is to create empathy between the audience and the villains, which makes it impossible for us to view them - despite their sadism - as inhuman. Conversely, the film shows the process by which normally empathetic people, such as the Collingwoods, can demonize others in order to justify acts of vengeance. The film examines the way in which a nation casts its enemies as “other” in order to vindicate warfare; and at the same time, in creating empathy between the audience and the villains […], Last House on the Left reflects what Adam Lowenstein describes as the tendency of 1970s counterculture to identify with the demonized other”

The Horror Film

According to Paul Wells, ‘Scream’ is undoubtedly a postmodern horror film, however, to him he feels strongly that by becoming self-referential po-mo horrors “abdicate [their] political responsibility to reflect upon, critique, or challenge its surrounding (and non-generic) culture”. If this it true it contrasts very much with Wes’ earlier style. “Becoming preoccupied with genre conventions rather than external anxieties“. This contrasts with what Wes said - “we need to stop externalizing our anxieties and take a look within ourselves“

Wells goes on to complain that through the safety of franchising (or ‘MacDonaldisation’ as George Ritzer (1998) puts it) horror films lose there socio-cultural vitality and relevance. This is relevant as two of my films spawned sequels, and this is one of the valid comments of this approach.

He also mentions that ‘Scream’ is “sub-Frankensteinian” as its trivialisation of death through conventional arcs cause it to lose its meaning; it is now just a game for the initiated, thus causing it to lose all significance and appeal to the social anxieties of a wider audience. An example of this is Randy’s speech, or the fact that ‘Halloween’ plays during the final murder-spree.

Wes Craven’s Influence in Making the Horror Genre Subversive

“The horror genre, Stephen King once wrote, is innately reactionary, preying on fears of the evil outsider entering communities and lives uninvited. At first, that seems like exactly what Craven is doing here. Krug, with his charisma and hippie-ish affectations, is an obvious stand in for Charles Manson, who’d been convicted only a year before (although weirdly enough, the film is an acknowledged loose remake of Ingmar Bergman’s The Virgin Spring). “Mothers, keep your girls at home,” to quote Nick Cave, appears to be Craven’s message.” - This contains a useful quote by Stephen King, a horror master in the eyes of many, which may be useful when writing about the genre and comparing it to Craven’s style. Not only that but there is a mention of Charles Manson, once again proving that he likes to take inspiration from real-life events. And finally, it makes mention of one of Wes’ key inspirations - Ingmar Bergman’s work - even mentioning that it is a “loose remake”.

“This sounds like it could be part of the same reactionary fantasy—the conservative traditional family unit meting out justice to that which violated it—but the way Craven shoots it, it’s not remotely triumphant.Instead, it’s the same sickness that their victims represent infecting them.” - This is very much related to Wes’ social commentary on the Vietnam war, in which there was no clear delineation between good and bad and there was all-out savagery on both sides. The article also argues that Craven speaking out against “right-wing vengeance that had taken hold in Death Wish-era America— [which] was almost completely lost in the shuffle” was later explored in the Nightmare series through the fact that the ‘wholesome’ neighbourhood burning a paedophilic child murderer alive was somehow okay. This also relates to Subversive Horror Cinema.

Origins of an auteur - Wes Craven

“Wes Craven’s The Last House on the Left was released at a time film directors really began to push the boundaries to what you can show on screen. Much like what Wes Craven did in The Last House on the Left, Sam Peckinpah pushed the censors to braking point with a realistic depiction of sexual and violent content in his sadistic and controversial 1971 film Straw Dogs (which could so easily be mistaken as a Wes Craven film).” - Was this a style start by or adopted by Craven? Was he a product of the times?

“The Last House on the Left was Craven’s debut film, it’s a notorious and quite shocking film but one that’s not actually that good. The film’s biggest flaw is the woeful misjudgement of the tone as the film’s jumps from the torture and humiliation of the girls in the woods to a pair of bumbling cops falling off a truck that’s full of clucking chickens. The film was very low budget (about $78,000) and it shows with its crap sound and visual quality, but there are moments that would be deeply horrifying if Craven didn’t misjudge the tone of the film as much as he did.” - Wes came to become an iconic director for the genre of horror, showing that he had indeed learned from his mistakes, and as he went on he found the balance between comedy and horror showing that this is a recurring technique of his (important for genre), but this brings into question his auteur status when looking at his later films; the filmmaking must be of a higher tier than what is standard, which I fear for in regards to Wes.

“Nightmare on Elm Street in 1984 ($1.8million budget) which, like many films of that era (such as Friday the 13th and Halloween), dealt with sexual promiscuity in teenagers.” - Was Wes’ choice of subject a product of the times or did he already have something in mind beforehand?

“One underlying theme between all three movies is how middle class American suburbia deal with savagery.” - This is an important aspect to analyse in the case of whether or not he is an auteur. {…} “Once again, Scream is set in middle class America and once again deals with violence and once again focuses on a female character under attack by her male attacker”

The Cinema Book

“There have been important variations in the nature and volume of teenpics since the early 1960s. I the late 1960s and early 1970s, ‘youth movies’ rew much more on an imagine of counter-cultural rebellion than on an image of irresponsible juvenile delinquency. And as ‘the boundaries between counter (film) culture and mainstream (film) culture all but evaporated, (Doherty, 1986, p. 233), films like The Graduate (1967), Bonnie and Clyde (1967) and Easy Rider (1969) and Five Easy Pieces(1970) mounted serious critiques of the parent culture. Following a crisis wrought by overproduction in the late 1960s and early 1970s, and in the wake of a counter-culture in general decline, the industry resumed production of teenpicks in regular numbers in the late 1970s and 1980s. Some like Halloween (1978), Night of the Comet (1984) and A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), were low-budget horror, sci-fi and slasher films.” - Obviously I will Paraphrase this, but the basic idea is a question of whether or not Wes’ decisions for his film were of his own or a product of the time. This idea of Wes being inspired by the times is very obviously a key argument I can make in my essay as this idea is present in this source especially. I did not dedicate an entire post to this because I could only find one useful quote in the book.

So the Theory Goes - Autuer: Wes Craven

“Craven almost always worked within horror, with the only real exception being the musical drama Music of the Heart. However, his use of horror is always combined with a range of subgenres which can include thriller, fantasy, mystery or even some elements of comedy.” - This article seems to suggest that he is more of a genre director from my understanding, despite the title.

“One of the more prominent themes within Craven’s work is that of the psychological idea of the villain. His films tend to subvert the idea of the villain/hero leading the viewer to believe they are completely aware of a situation before abruptly leading us in a different direction. One of the clearest examples of this can be seen in his directorial debut The Last House on the Left where our initial antagonists are Krug et al. However, by the end of the film, we see Mari Collingwood’s parents take on this role.” - Many of the sources I have agree with this point.

“Wes Craven’s general style of filmmaking is visually similar to a number of horror film-makers. The conventional use of camera angles, editing to create scares and using lighting to enhance a scene are all evident within his work. However, […] his understanding of the genre and the conventions have allowed him to use them to his advantage. This is most notable in his film series Scream where he dictates to the audience the conventions of the genre which had become familiar to audiences and then used this as a way to drive the narrative, attempting to break each of these clichés. For example Scream’s Sidney loses her virginity despite the fact a friend has already noted that the No. 1 rule of horror-movie survival: “Sex equals death.” Yet this generic convention never comes to pass.” - It is important to note that the sex scene is inter-cut into the rules being explained. This whole paragraph is relevant to the argument of whether Wes is a genre director or an auteur.

The article describes Wes’ filmmaking techniques as generic, stating that it is in fact his use of unique storytelling and character development which offer him the place of auteur. “ With narratives that involve witty villains, the indication of convention, an ability to use sub-genres to great effect and his females are not the dim-witted, hysterical token characters so often seen within horror. Although Craven has directed films written by others, such as Red Eye, the films he chose to direct share similar themes to those he has written and therefore help to indicate his narrative preferences.”. First of all, this quote addresses the important aspects of his narrative style and directorial style (such as the use of subgenres), but, more importantly, it makes mention of the great counterargument for most auteur directors: that they did not write the story. Instead the article shows to us that Wes chose the like of Scream and Red Eye because it suits his directorial style. However, for the case of Scream it has been stated that he only finally came on to the project because of the inclusion of Drew Barrymore.

The article ends by using the term “auteur of the genre”, which is helpful because it offers a blend of both auteurship and genre director. I must do further research into this concept.

Film Genre Reader III

“No critic, obviously, can be free from a structure of values, nor can he or she afford to withdraw from the struggles and tensions of living to some position of “aesthetic” contemplation.” - This tells me that, despite being an individual filmmaker in their own right, people are still confined to some aspects of the process, such as genre.

“One of the greatest obstacles to any fruitful theory of genre has been the tendency to treat the genres as discrete. An ideological approach might suggest why they can’t be, however hard they may appear to try: at best, they represent different strategies for dealing with the same ideological tensions.” - This is relevant because it suggests that, while working within a genre, an auteur cannot help but follow the steps of it. This is important because Wes works primarily in horror, questioning whether or not he can reach the level of auteur.

“It is probable that a genre is “pure” (i.e., safe) only in its simplest, archetypal, most aesthetically deprived and intellectually contemptible form” - This tells me that piece of film may be more than just its genre if it strays far enough from its roots, while still confining itself to its roots. This is important because it saves Wes from being just a genre director.

“The strong contrast presented by the two films [It’s a Wonderful Life and Shadow of a Doubt] testifies to the decisive effect of the intervention of a clearly defined artistic personalty in an ideological-generic structure.” - This helps me because it argues that a director has the ability to take a film beyond its genre by adding in their personality. Could this reign true for a script (Scream) as well?

Trespassing Bergman

“I think more than almost anybody else he was very religious and it felt like a religion that felt similar to the one I had come out of so: very strict and kind of, um, and very channeled lives and, you know, not doing anything that would displease God and having your children in line.” - Wes felt a connection in the way that he used religion in his films. However, Wes defied religion while Ingram embraced it. 

Wes Craven: the mainstream horror maestro inspired by Ingmar Bergman

“he was electrified by the work of directors like Ingmar Bergman: it was this that inspired him to go into film-making and he had the idea of remaking Bergman’s 1960 film Virgin Spring as The Last House on the Left in 1972″ - It brings into question whether or not Wes can claim his influential horror movie as his.

“Wes Craven could be said to have invented, or at least popularised the modern rape-revenge genre and ironically did so in the same era when the name “Bergman” became a widely understood talk-show punchline for jokes about Hollywood trash vs highbrow Europeans.” - Once again, Craven is linked to influence from Bergman.

The ‘Nightmare On Elm Street’ Series Is Deeper Than You Know

“ The viewer is even present for a scene representative of Nancy’s first period. As Nancy lays in the bathtub asleep, Freddy’s clawed glove breaks through the surface of the water between her open legs. This isn’t just one of the most intense scenes in horror history. It’s clear foreshadowing of all the trouble that’s about to happen between your legs.”

New American Teenagers

“Nancy and Glen, who never consummate their relationship despite plenty of opportunity, can be understood better as brother and sister than as boyfriend and girlfriend, which, of course, would not preclude sexual desire”. This is important because I am aiming to support Robin Wood’s concept that a director’s personal touch to a film elevates it beyond a genre film. I plan on linking this to the themes of sexuality in the other films and arguing that this tendency to put violence and sexuality in his films is a rebellion against his repressed religious childhood upbringing. 

[caredogstips]

Isabella Rossellini:’ There is no work between 45 and 60 – you’re in limbo’

At 43, Isabella Rossellini was sacked as the appearance of Lancme. Now, 20 years on, shes been rehired. She talks movies, her father, Ingrid Bergman, and her rollercoaster life

In 1996, when Isabella Rossellini was about to turn 44, she was sacked. After 14 years as the look and spokesperson of Lancme cosmetics, she was told in no uncertain terms that she was past it. Beauty advertising was about the reverie, executives told her , not the coarse actuality, and women dreamed about being young; the actors face would soon become an undesirable remember of the ageing process. And so, despite Rossellinis insistence that eternal youth was neither her daydream nor that of any woman she knew( she replies she told Lancme that the new reverie was to be independent, to be strong, to insist yourself ), she was replaced, preferably humiliatingly, by the very similar-looking Juliette Binoche dark whisker, pale skin, full cheeks, high-pitched cheekbones only 12 years her junior. Heartbroken at future prospects of losing her task, her central generator of income and two seconds family of colleagues, the mother of two expected a elderly executive what she was supposed to do next. He alleged, Rossellini withdraws, I am not your wet nurse.

It was pretty rough , without doubt, it was difficult to, she announces now, as we sit in a grand, flower-filled area at the site of the violation, Lancmes HQ in Paris, where, at 64, Isabella Rossellini is all smiles and once again the ace entertainment. My daughter was 10 and my son was one, and I was a single mum. I announced and was depressed, and I worried financially. As a fortysomething single father of two myself, I tell her I can well dream. What Im struggling to understand is how, when Lancme called her simply eight months ago to ask her to return to the bend, Rossellini didnt suggest they jostle their mascara up their derriere and construction it.

She is unfathomably magnanimous. There was that sense, when a sidekick wants to know why I was going back, she agrees. I said, Because Im flattered, Im exceedingly touched, I miss them. Its very personal, but I dont know whether Im being forgiving. Rossellini says the company from which she was expelled is now most varied. When I was here 20 years ago, the secretaries were women and the bosses were husbands. The manufacture was one of men forming commodities on the understanding that makeup was for seduction, she says. But I employ makeup on even if I go out with my sister there is a pleasure in the gesticulate. I was not understood.

Significantly, the labels CEO is now a woman, Franoise Lehmann, and it was she who obliged the most recent ask. Having propelled expeditions fronted by Penlope Cruz and Lupita Nyongo, she felt it was high time Lancme celebrated older age, more. As Rossellini justifies, Last year , Lancme turned 80, and we were thinking, what was life like for women 80 years ago? They couldnt vote or own their own apartment its stunning. We wanted to reflect the liberation of the status of women that has been so strong in our century.

Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini with Ingrid, Roberto Jr, Isabella and Renzo in 1953. Image: Rex

Having been born into scandal, Rossellini had ensure her “mothers ” drop-off contaminate of sexism and double touchstones. Ingrid Bergman met the administrator Roberto Rossellini on the make of Stromboli, fallen in love and contributed birth to his son while still married to her Swedish spouse, Petter Lindstrom the parent of Isabellas eldest sister, Pia. Despite a profession as an Oscar and Tony award-winning performer, and perhaps because of her likenes as a modest, elegant manifestation of womanhood( Bergman had just played Joan Of Arc ), her success was eclipsed by her adultery. In March 1950, in the wake of the circumstance and her precede wedlock to Rossellini, Bergman was denounced on the flooring of US Congress by Senator Edwin C Johnson as a atrocious lesson of womanhood and a potent force for cruelty; she was, he suggested, an debate that actors should undergo background checks before being employed to entertain Americans. Despite Johnsons belief that out of Ingrid Bergmans ashes will grow a better Hollywood, the proposed bill substantiated futile, but the arguing marred her vocation and family life. Bergman temporarily lost custody of Pia and retreated to the more forgiving European film industry. She and Rossellini later divorced, sharing joint detention of “their childrens”, Roberto Junior, four-year-old Isabella and her non-identical twin sister Ingrid( an academic who educates Italian literature ).

Bergman remarried, but Rossellinis childhood persisted involved. She and her siblings lived between New York, Paris and Rome, remain in hotels and accommodations with a nanny, her parents and step-parents taking it in turns to drop in and spend time with their seven collective juveniles, who were understandably close( Rossellinis trademark chipped tooth arose when her 12 -year-old brother hurled phone calls at her look. Bergman announced for three days, but Isabella decided to keep it ).

With her baby, Ingrid Bergman. Picture: Rex Shutterstock

Before contacting her teens, Rossellini spent six months bedridden and two years in a body cast to correct scoliosis, or curvature of the backbone. She had no intention of following her father into the film industry. I come from a generation of women where, though my mother was a far-famed actress and had a big career, we always presupposed in the family that she was gifted with a tremendous flair so she was an exception, a freak. The other women in their own families might work, they are likely not work but, the majority of members of all, you are a good baby and you marry.

She was, nonetheless, assessed to be financially self-sufficient from a young age. Her father-god, sarcastic of coin and commercialism, had died with merely $200 in his bank account, while Bergman had entrusted her own financial affairs to controllers and been repeatedly burnt. My mom never operated her fund. It was frightening for that generation. Women[ in their own families] ever gave it to the men to take care of. I did say to my mum that I was going to take control of my own fund. I had visualized what happened if you dont.

At 25, while working as a television reporter, Rossellini was sent to interview Martin Scorsese, who was promoting his cinema New York, New York. They hit it off, inaugurated dating and got married. The resulting revelation have all contributed to pattern presents, and very soon Rossellini was working with photographers such as Richard Avedon and Bruce Weber, and appearing on the report of Vogue,( much, she has said, to Scorseses hassle ).

With then husband Martin Scorsese in 1981 in New York. Photograph: Getty Images

Despite this relatively late start in modelling( I didnt know prototypes were 14, Rossellini once announced ), Lancmes contract made her the highest-paid simulation in “the worlds” when it came in 1982. In an sarcastic event of record repeating itself, the contract contained a decency rider( much like the contracts of the 1950 s Hollywood studio system ); this was soon quite scuppered when Rossellini became pregnant by a modelling colleague while segregated from, though still technically married to, Scorsese. Later, she would appear as a drag tycoon in Madonnas 1992 Sex volume, to the fear of Lancme, who worried that beings would think she was gay.

Given the pious moral imposed on her and her mom, I wonder if Rossellini ever reflects on how much weve changed. I have a feeling that its went worse, she articulates. My parents paid a bigger price, but the latter are unique. Nowadays, theres paparazzi everywhere. Its likewise the organised fame thought the red carpet has become a undertaking. Sometimes we insure the actors, and we know their reputations, but not necessarily the cinemas they were in. Its not exceedingly petitioning to me, because I dont been in love do red carpet. Its like a charm contender, and I think everyone appears awkward about it. A mas of performers are very shy parties. There are a few who love public attention, but theyre a minority; I guess performers like to act, and they like storytelling.

Rossellini has often said she opts pattern to action, which minimise her great aptitudes. She tells me simulating “ve given me” the confidence to act. Both my parents were very famous, so I was reluctant, but simulating gave me the be thought that I could dare. Her iconic act in Blue Velvet, as the bereft mother and lounge singer accepting shocking abuse at the mitts of Dennis Hoppers Frank Booth, prevailed her an Independent Spirit award in 1986. Director David Lynch originally missed Helen Mirren for the character, but Rossellini urged him to cause her a chance; the pair went on to become a duet for six years.

With Kyle MacLachlan in Blue Velvet. Photo: Rex

Wild At Heart, her next campaign with Lynch, won the 1990 Palme dOr at Cannes and, ironically, just a year before leaving Lancme molted starred in the critically acclaimed camp-fest Death Becomes Her, in which Rossellinis character sells the secret of eternal youth to desperate ageing housewives in Hollywood. I wonder if, given that role, and the sacking from Lancme soon afterwards, she herself became insecure about her advancing years?

Rossellini cheerfully contends she made a clear distinction between her professional and personal life: When youre young, there is so much pressure, because you work, you need money. As you grow older, the focus becomes clearer and clearer, if you like. Nothing ever talks about that, how wonderful it is to grow older. They ever talk about wrinkles, but ageing is interesting, wrinkles or no wrinkles.

Despite implicit pressings within the movie and beautiful industries, she has repelled reconstructive surgery( as someone with an acute radar for even discreet undertaking, Id stake my reputation on her illusion being wholly without involvement from either needle or knife ). In 2012, Rossellini took part in the documentary About Face: Supermodels Then And Now, and responded, Sometimes I wake up and think, Is this the new technology? Tells go and do the operation. But the majority of members of the time I wake up and think, Is this the new paws bind, is this the new road of being misogynist, is this a new way to tell women theyre ugly, is this a new channel of telling women they should be this and this? And you commit standards that are impossible to be reached, because the underlying problem is misogyny.

She is, she tells me , not interested in chasing perfection. When parties tell me, You seem so glamorous, you search sophisticated or stylish, its fantastic. But when people say, Youre beautiful, I find it a little deigning. Worse now, because they say, Youre still beautiful. In Italian, we say its a bayonet with both hems, because I know that they represent it to satisfy me, but its almost like alleging to a black lady, Youre not so light, you dont seem so pitch-black. I am old-time: this is what 65 looks like. She is irritated that her generation isnt better gratified for. There is no fashion for women my age, Im sorry to say. She tugs at her charming navy silk tunic. This, I designed myself, because its hopeless to find acts that arent for simply one form. It has to be scrawny, or it has to be sexy I dont just knowing that going on in fashion. I point out that sleeves are as easy to find as black orchids. Exactly! “There wasnt” sleeves. I crave sleeves! You cant find them.

I wonder if it isnt old age that Lancme and Hollywood couldnt deal with, but middle age. Geena Davis, Michelle Pfeiffer and Holly Hunter, all big stars in the 1990 s, struggled to get good employment opportunities in their 50 s. Rossellini agrees: My mum told me that there is no task for women between 45 and 60, because you are in-between. You are not young enough to play the young girl, but you are also not old-fashioned enough to play the matriarch, the voodoo or grandmother. So there is a period of 15 times where youre in limbo and they dont has been able to hire you. Then after 60, a great deal of work coming through. That was true for my mum. And you realize, Maggie Smith is the hottest happening on Earth. Helen Mirren is the hottest act on Earth. Then there is this gap.

Rossellini fell right into it. The movie characters thinned out and, while barely in the desert post-Lancme, she was forced to create her own opportunities. She launched a short-lived but very good cosmetics route, Manifesto, for women of all ages and skin colours. She wrote and performed speeches, made a documentary about her father, performed in plays off-Broadway and took on enjoyable activities like a cameo in Friends, as Rosss dream woman. She bought a small organic farm, investigated animal action and preservation, and studied guide bird-dogs, though she lately had to stop after some lead tugging justification her to drop-off and disable her back.

Guide hounds are labradors and golden retrievers, she excuses. I could have broken my back, so I imagined , no more teaching large-scale hounds! So what I do now is whelp and its fascinating. Like a pup doula? Exactly. They communicate me pregnant momma, they have the puppies, then I keep them for 2 month and distribute them to all the voluntaries for guidebook puppy training.

With her daughter, Elettra, in 1985. Photograph: Rex

She had been blithely withdrawing from showbusiness for a year when she was offered a part in Joy, the romantic humor starring Jennifer Lawrence and Robert De Niro, best friend of Scorsese, with whom Rossellini has remained close. She stopped cashing her actors trade union pension cheques, rejoined the workforce and, in the wake of Joys popularity, was offered a estimate gig on upcoming world TV demo Master Of Photography and a role in a drama.

She still oversees the farm. All the person or persons at “the farmers ” thought where I was, because I was hurtling again. For the moment, I try to manage it all, so well see how long it lasts, this burst of wield, she tells, taking nothing for granted. But she affection TV, and thinks it more attractive a hypothesi for full-grown females performers and onlookers alike. The conjecture I have is that the movies forming “the worlds largest” money are realize for young males, and thats why they are these large-scale war movies. Not because full-grown females dont like them, but because we have a family to create and so we work, “were about” babies, we cook, we are the caregivers and we have careers. So at night after dinner, we cant go out and watch cinemas. She detects television streaming on Netflix, Amazon and online boxed situateds please open brand-new and far more inclusive potentials. I think there will be a lot of actresses wreaking again, she smiles. Im doing a series announced Shut Eye, and first of all I never expected to be a leading role in something again. Im a contribute with other actors, but I am a extremely, very substantial proportion. Theres a whole new audience of ripen people who can watch 45 instants of television and then was sleeping. So its highly fragmented. We dont have these large-hearted phenomenon series where you have the entire country watching, but you have enough parties to establish numerous series, tell many stories.

I wonder if Rossellinis story, as the simulation, pastured middle-aged woman and then back again, is one she wishes she didnt have to tell, or so liberally forgive. She smiles. I feel that its a story and this is the last chapter. Its a glad ending.

Read more: www.theguardian.com

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