#for having the equivalent of a gun to someone's head?

[gyroshrike]

A sequel to this where Brainy doesn’t succeed in fighting off Brainiac’s control. Facing down kryptonite, Superman only has one last ditch effort to reach him

[daycourtofficial]

A Bite Sized Romance

Summary: you offer to make dinner for Azriel, but he gives you half-assed reasons as to why he can’t make it.

Author’s note: I love love love this idea it’s been floating around my head for a LONG time 💕

“Have you ever had ratatouille?” You ask Azriel, taking a bite of the dish in front of you.

Every Thursday, you and the shadowsinger go out to a different restaurant, usually in Velaris, occasionally in other courts. Seeing the shadowsinger could be difficult during the week, especially with your busy schedule, so you two set aside Thursday nights to eating dinner together.

Your brain had a hard time understanding that these were not necessarily dates, even though that is exactly what Cassian, Mor, the whole IC, and even Azriel and yourself call them.

“No, what’s rat patootie?” He says, taking a bite of his pasta.

“Ratatouille,” you correct, sighing wistfully, “it’s a traditional dish my mom used to make when I was a kid. I don’t think annyone in Velaris makes it. This dish kind of reminds me of it, but it’s not the same.”

You sit up, a smile stretching across your face. “Maybe next Thursday I’ll cook it for us. It’s so much better homemade - what do you say?”

He stills at your words, almost choking on his food. Through coughs he tells you, “surely there’s somewhere we can go for it, I wouldn’t want to trouble you with cooking.”

“But I like cooking,” you object. “And despite the copious amounts of meals we’ve shared together, I don’t think I’ve ever cooked for you.”

He doesn’t want to budge, so you pull out the big guns.

You pout your lip, making your eyes look as sad and endearing as possible, “please, Az? It reminds me of being a kid again. And I’d love to share that with you.”

Mother forsake him, he couldn’t say no to your sad, puppy dog eyes.

“Fine,” he grumbles, sure he’ll figure a way out of it before Thursday comes. Perhaps he could find a way to get impaled.

You squeal, “oooh you’re going to love it!”

-

Thursday was fast approaching, and Azriel was trying to use every excuse in the book to keep this dinner from happening. He told you Rhys had to send him on a mission that night, which you immediately turned around and went to Rhys’s office and asked him to send someone else.

Rhys, having no idea what you were talking about, sees Azriel in the doorway who tells him mind to mind, “come on, say you have to send me.”

Rhys sends the equivalent of a smirk to Azriel mentally and tells you, “my mistake, I didn’t realize what day I was telling him to leave.”

Azriel stood in the doorway and gave his brother the finger from behind you.

Azriel made excuses, all ranging from Cassian needing help with training, Feyre needing an escort to the Hewn City, even to Mor needing help with the upkeep of the horses in the guard. Every excuse was denied by his so-called family, not allowing him to use them as scapegoats. It was starting to make you suspicious.

Thursday morning after Azriel’s last ditch attempt to get out of the dinner, involving some excuse about Eris needing rescuing, you sigh, exasperated.

“Okay Az, it was just an idea. Clearly you don’t want to do it, so just.. don’t bother, okay? Go save Eris from whatever it is that’s attacking him.”

You turn, wanting to leave the kitchen before Azriel sees how much this actually upsets you. “That’s not-“ he starts, trying to grab you as you pass him, but you wriggle from his grasp, disappearing into the hallway up to your bedroom.

Az was sitting on the kitchen counter, wallowing in self-pity over how poorly he handled that situation, when Cassian walked in.

“And what do you have to be so upset about, pretty boy?”

Azriel lifts his head, looking at Cassian eating a stupid banana. Gods, he wanted to throttle him. “Oh no, I’m Azriel and a beautiful woman wants to cook me dinner, even though I eat dinner with her most nights and have weekly dates with her even though I deny anyth-“

Cassian stops, taking a bite of his banana. He looks up, and realization dawns on him.

“Oh my gods,” he says, his mouth full of banana. Azriel decides to play the denial game, because surely Cassian did not figure out the secret he’s kept guarded for several months while eating a fucking banana.

Cassian looked at him, turning to look up the stairs where you had left just a few moments ago, “you two?”

Azriel rolls his eyes, “we’re friends, yes.”

Cassian rolls his eyes even harder. “I’m not an idiot. You follow her around like a pitiful puppy,” he says, coming closer to his brother, “you two eat just about every meal together, but the one day she offers to cook for you suddenly you can’t find time for her?”

Cassian narrows his eyes at Azriel, “you ashamed of her or something?”

Azriel’s eyes widen, not only at Cassian’s question that he could ever be ashamed of you, but also at Cassian’s change in demeanor.

Cassian slips into the protective big brother role when it comes to you quite easily, Azriel thinks as Cassian puffs out his chest while he strides over to stand next to Azriel.

“Now why on earth would I be ashamed of her?”

Cassian inspects Azriel for a second before asking, “then why haven’t you told her?”

He pauses, then asks, “how long have you known?”

Azriel huffs, “known what?”

“That she’s your mate.”

Azriel stills at Cassian’s words. They liked to poke fun of Cass, calling him a dumb brute, but Cassian was no fool. If any member of his family were to discover his secret, it would be Cassian.

Azriel looks at him, “a few months. I’ve been… waiting.” He sighs, “I keep wanting to tell her and then I psyche myself out. Once I tell her, things will be… different.”

Azriel hates how quiet his voice becomes as he says, “what if she is ashamed of who the mother picked for her?”

Cassian’s chest deflates, all sense of protectiveness over you gone and replaced with protectiveness over his brother.

“Then she’d be a fool.”

Looking down, Azriel watches as Cassian’s foot gently nudges his own, a silent request from Cassian for him to look up.

“There is no way she would ever be ashamed of you or be upset that you’re her mate.”

The way Cassian is looking at Azriel makes him want to shy away, but Cassian keeps his gaze steady, almost locking Azriel’s eyes into place.

“I’d be willing to bet she has journals full of doodles where she draws little hearts with your names in it, and she also writes “Mrs. Shadowsinger”

The rise in octave in his brother’s voice causes a laugh to burst out of him, but Cassian continues.

“I once tried to sit next to you for a meal and I’ve never seen anyone move as quickly as she did to claim her seat. Honestly, this will come as a shock to no one.”

Azriel looked back up at his brother to find him already looking at him, a soft gaze grazing his face.

“We’re happy for you two.”

Azriel scoffs, “I take that to mean you’ve already told Rhysand?”

Cassian starts walking away, going to pick up the remainder of his banana. “Oh yeah, we’ve had a bet for about a year now. Rhys thought the bond had snapped for her, but I knew it would be you. You’ve made me a much richer man, Az.”

Cassian bows in thanks, ducking out the door as Azriel throws a different banana towards the space he was occupying.

-

You had been sulking in your room for what felt like hours after Azriel’s latest rejection. You spent the whole time flipping between thinking about all the little moments that had you swearing there was something happening between you two, and each and every excuse he had made to get out of this dinner.

Was your cooking that bad? Was he tired of you taking up every one of his Thursday nights?

The two of you spent an absurd amount of time together - you ate most meals together at the house, you saw each other multiple times every day. Were you wrong?

A knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts, but before you can respond, the door is opening and Cassian pokes his head in. He has a hand covering his eyes, but he’s made a slit between his middle and ring fingers, allowing him to still see.

“Are you decent?” He asks, looking around the room.

He sighs at seeing you dressed on your bed, pulling his hand away from his face as he walks in, closing the door behind him.

You giggled, “Cass the whole point is to not see someone naked.”

He rolled his eyes as he plopped down next to you on your bed, “you don’t even want to give me a peak? I’ve had such a hard day, a little skin would make me feel better.”

You laugh, picking up a pillow and hitting him with it. He lets you hit him, pretending to fall dramatically onto his back.

“Tell Rhys I loved him,” he sighs dramatically, pretending to die.

You laugh at his foolish antics, but Cassian continues to pretend he’s dead. You lean into him, about to poke his face, when he grabs your waist, hoisting you over his shoulder.

“Now come on, I’ve got shopping to do and I need your help.”

-

After Cassian had left, Azriel spent some time trying to decide how he could make this up to you. He didn’t want to force you into accepting a bond that you didn’t know about by presenting him with food.

He paced his room, his long legs gliding across the wooden floors making no noise. His shadows were combing through the house, trying to find out where you had gone after your earlier spat.

Azriel replaced with pacing with purposeful steps as he headed towards his bedroom door, the perfect solution coming to him.

-

“Thank you Cassian,” you say, squeezing his arm your hand was tucked into.

“For what? My incredibly charming presence?” He smirks down at you.

You scoff, “I felt awful earlier but you pulled me out of my spiraling, thanks.” You say, nudging him a bit.

Cassian had gotten you out of your room and the two of you walked around Velaris, mostly people watching and talking.

He hums, “well, both of my brothers are idiots,” he says, getting a laugh out of you. “They take turns on who holds the idiot stick. Today it’s Azriel.”

“Do you ever hold the idiot stick?”

“Occasionally, very rarely, I will pass it between the two of them, so I only have it for a moment or two.”

You snort, looking down at your feet. If Cassian thought Azriel was being stupid, does he see what you see?

You start to ask him, to prod him for more answers about Azriel, when he pats your hand, turning your attention to where the two of you had ended up on this walk.

The townhouse.

Your brows crease in confusion as Cassian removes your hand from his elbow, pats your shoulder, and tells you to have a good night.

You start to sputter, wanting to know why you’re here. He shrugs, “I don’t question my orders.” He gives you a two finger salute before turning around and walking away.

You turn back around, looking at the entrance to the townhouse, afraid of what you’ll find on the other side of the door, but going up and knocking anyway.

The door opens, but no one is there. A small shadow swirls around you, moving up from your feet to your face, caressing your cheek before zipping off to the kitchen.

You step through the threshold and a new shadow comes and shuts the door, another two come and help you take your coat off and hang it up for you.

You walk towards the kitchen, where you can hear the clattering of plates and some delicious aromas filling the whole house. Inside the kitchen you find Azriel, with a frilly apron tied around his waist, putting the finishing touches on two plates at the table.

“What’s all this?” You ask him, doubt creeping in that this isn’t meant for you.

“Sit, sit,” he beckons, pulling out a chair for you. You look around the room, covered in flickering candlelight and flowers. He must have been working on this for hours.

You look down at your plate, the bright colors of ratatouille catching your eye. You gasp, wanting to know how much effort he went to find a recipe for it.

He takes off the apron, sitting across from you.

“I… made an ass of myself, and I’d like to apologize first and foremost for that.” You open your mouth to interrupt him, but he holds up a hand. “Let me finish, I have.. a lot to tell you.”

He takes a deep breath, stilling his nerves. You look so pretty in the glow of the candles, and the slight concern you’ll hate him is enough to distract him, but he has to tell you this.

“There’s a reason I didn’t want you to cook for me. A few months ago we were in the library, reading, and I looked up and I watched you tuck your hair behind your ear, laughing at something in your book and I.. felt it.”

You’re in a trance, listening to him speak.

“I felt like I was dying and coming back to life, like your hand was wrapped around my heart, squeezing in time, keeping it beating. I made up some half-assed excuse to leave, because I needed to talk to Rhys.”

You looked at him, hoping your gaze would encourage him to continue.

“Rhys confirmed what I thought it was - the bond snapping. And I was terrified.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I was terrified if I told you, you’d deny the bond, you’d break my heart. So I… put off telling you. I couldn’t.”

He looks down at his lap, fidgeting his fingers.

“I kept trying to tell you, then I’d chicken out. Then when you offered to cook for me, I couldn’t let it happen. I couldn’t let you accidentally accept the bond, accept me without knowing about it.”

He sighs, “I felt awful when I realized you thought I was rejecting you. Far from it. So I’ve uh.. made you dinner.”

You finally speak, “you made me dinner.”

“I made you dinner. And dessert, actually.”

Leave it to Azriel to outdo himself by finding the time to make dessert.

You weren’t letting a single emotion show on your face, and it made a shiver run up Azriel’s spine.

After what could have been hours, you slowly smiled, looking at him, “what kind of dessert did you make?”

He pauses, “I uh made you- us, uh chocolate mousse. I made two, but I thought we could share one.”

He looks at you, still not giving anything away, “if you want to, of course.”

He shifts, your silence making him uneasy.

“If you don’t want to accept it, I understand. I kept it from you, and I’m me, loving me would be rotten work- what are you doing?”

In the middle of his rambling, you picked up your fork, getting a nice helping of food on your fork, bringing it up to your mouth.

“Well, my mate made me dinner, and it looks incredible. Why would I not want to take a bite?”

He looks at you, a rush of emotions flooding him. Surprise, confusion, elation.

“But, but I can promise you to love me, to be my mate, it’s rotten work.”

You smile, “not to me it’s not.”

You pause, “not if it’s you,” and take a bite.

His chest sings, feeling warmth radiating throughout him. Feeling love radiate through him, and he realizes that’s you.

You keep eating the food, that hum getting louder and more vibrant, until you’ve cleared your plate, and stride over to him.

You grab his face in your hands, tilting his head so he’ll look into your eyes. “If you think I am not aware of who you are, what you do, your darkest parts, you are mistaken. And if you think I will shy away from those things, you are a fool.”

He hadn’t realized he was crying until you swiped your thumb across his cheek, swiping it away.

You smile down at him, and he has never felt so loved, so whole as he does in this moment. His mate, the one person the cauldron deemed would understand him, just chose him.

He feels like that little boy, looked in the dungeon, daydreaming about being saved by an angel. And he has.

He stands up, cupping your face in his hands, “I was in love with you before the bond snapped for me. I’m not here just because the cauldron told me to be, let me assure you that.”

You smile, a heat creeping up your cheeks. “I’m only here for the chocolate mousse.”

He laughs, a genuine, roaring laugh.

You pull his face in close to yours, gazing into his eyes. “And I have been in love with you since the day after I met you.”

His eyebrows shoot up, “the day after?”

You smile, “well I thought I was in love with you that first day, but then on that second day I heard you speak, and I knew no one would ever compare.”

You feel his happiness in your chest, as if his heart is also in your ribcage, yours and his intertwined, dancing through your chest together.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, his mouth so close to your own your breaths are intermingling.

You smile at his thoughtfulness, his hesitation.

“Only if you promise to never stop.”

[knavesflames]

Hi, can I request a transfem!bodyguard arle for a mafia princess reader smut. They spend alot of time together with arle teasing reader all the time. They gradually fell in love with each other as time passed. So 1 day, reader got into danger & almost died but arle saved her. Reader then decides to act on her feelings for arle.

⭐️anon

Hello ⭐️ anon 😄😄 I do indeed have an idea for this, I’ve been sat on it since I received your ask. Please enjoy!

Word count: 1275

Contents: fingering, orgasm denial, degradation

Nsft utc!

Both of you remember the day you met so well. In your mind, at least, it could have been yesterday. The day your parents realised you didn’t just sit at home and do nothing anymore. You recall the day your father sat you down at the table, and how your eyes locked onto red crosses, Arlecchino’s velvet voice filling the room as she introduced herself. You were angry, at first. Angry that your parents decided suddenly that you couldn’t do what you wanted, that without warning, you’ll have some woman following you wherever you went. A woman with an oddly short temper, too, it seems.

She’s been a woman of few words since you’ve known her. She chooses to stand in silence behind you as you do what you do, only stepping in with a simple sentence every so often. It almost irritates you, yet somehow is more than you could ask for. You’d rather not have someone following you and obsessing over your every move. You just wish she’d talk a little more.

You make it your challenge to get more than a singular sentence out at once, and you do so by doing reckless things over and over again. Or, if you have nothing to do outside of your home, asking her to do things you already know she hates just by the look of her. Eventually, she speaks more than before. Still, barely, compared to everyone else you know. Only slight teasing and a little conversation. Then again, you have everyone else wrapped around your finger, too. How could you not, when your parents would kill them the second they so much as made you frown? It’s been made abundantly clear since the second you were born; if anyone touches a hair on your head in a way you dislike, they’ll be slaughtered before they can even blink. It’s entertaining to you, really. How the grunts started calling you princess after you decided to be a princess for Halloween aged 8. You might as well be one, at this point. You have the power equivalent to a princess, you think. A mafia setting, of course.

Arlecchino struggles to deny her own feelings towards you. She reveals nothing, not a single hint, leaving you and everyone else oblivious to the way her stomach flutters when you wrap your arms around her in a drunken state, or the way she wants to ravish you when she sees you changing in the mornings. If there’s one thing she’s good at, it’s stoicism. However, she finds herself becoming increasingly frustrated at the situations you place yourself in, how you can easily walk into a room with five men who carry guns, only to flick one of them and call them annoying. She thinks you’re asking for a death sentence.

This time, however, you’ve found yourself in a situation you can’t get out of by charm. You managed to irritate the wrong person, and before you knew it, you were cornered with a pistol pointed at your face. It’s a blur, really. The next thing you can recall is Arlecchino harshly dragging you out of there, stepping over the bodies on the floor. Her grip is different, it’s not as loose or distant. It’s angry, like if you’re not careful you’ll end up joining the people on the floor. There’s no teasing remark from her now, no quiet huff of amusement, just pure, blazing anger.

The second she deems you both safe, her hands are quick to shove you against a wall, a growl rumbling in her throat as she snaps at you. “What the fuck was that? Are you trying to get yourself fucking killed, or are you making my job extra hard?”

Your eyes stare up at her from your position, slightly widened, but you’re not scared. Not really, you tell yourself, but the look on her face is something you’ve never seen before. “It was funny, calm down,” your voice is quick to dismiss her, a snicker leaving your lips. “Did you see their faces?”

“Of course. I also saw their faces when I had to murder them before they murdered you. What the hell is wrong with you? Do you not understand how to be safe? Do you not understand that I don’t wish to watch you die?”

The look on your face can only be described as incredulous. Why does she suddenly care? Why is this the most emotion she’s ever shown towards anything? You can’t find it in you to be serious, for once. You’ve never needed to be before. “Why, do you care? Are you secretly in love with me?”

It was a joke, but the look on Arlecchino’s face makes you falter. The way her cheeks flush a light shade of pink, the way her eyes drift to the side before her face hardens again. She goes to speak, but your mouth is already moving, your voice quieter, almost like you don’t want anyone to hear.

“You’re in love with me.”

Arlecchino’s response? Her own lips crashing aggressively against yours. The kiss is full of tongue and teeth and she clearly doesn’t care you could get her killed with a single wave of your hand. If she’s going to die, let her die in bliss with her hands against your skin, she thinks. Her hands move and wander around the body she’s long ago memorised, ripping off clothes with reckless abandon before her hands wrap around the underside of your thighs, lifting you until she can walk with you in her grip. The angry way she throws you against your bed, filled with soft pillows and blankets, does nothing but serve to turn you on more than you already are.

You let her pry your thighs apart, let her snarl out her annoyances while she begins finger fucking you in harsh movements, unrelenting as you gasp and arch against her. The fingers inside of you clearly know what they’re doing, crooking in the perfect angle to elicit sweet noises from your lips. You’re unsure if this is an act of love, annoyance, or punishment. You don’t care which, not at this second. All you care about is chasing the release you’re so desperate to have. You’re getting there, too, your hips moving at the perfect rhythm while your pussy greedily sucks in her fingers.

A low chuckle is felt against your ear when you start clenching around her, a chuckle that sounds almost sadistic as her fingers move harder and faster, bringing you as close as you possibly can get.

“What, do you want to cum?” Arlecchino sounds positively enchanting, even with the rumble in her voice and the bristled tone of her voice. Even so, you can only manage out a whined “please”.

“I see. Well then,” each word, every single syllable is punctuated with another thrust and curl of her fingers. “Cum for me, pretty whore. That’s what you are, hm? Begging for men’s attention. Cum for me.”

Each word sends you closer and the coil in your stomach tightens more until you feel yourself twitching, your moans becoming almost silent. You just about reach where you want to be, and then—

Her fingers pull out of you at record speed, ripping a desperate plea of “no!” from your lips, an almost guttural cry escaping you. Arlecchino is not only in love with you, she is angry, and she’s done the cruellest thing you can think of at this moment. The next time she talks, it’s filled with less venom, and something almost akin to affection. Almost.

“Whore’s can cum when they stop getting themselves into trouble.”

[clean-bands-dirty-stories]

Mercy ~ T.R.

A/n: I haven’t actually watched this far into the show, this is all from second hand understanding, so if it’s a little OOC I apologize :)

Request: “Can you do a Theo Raeken x Mreader where the reader never doubted that there was goodness in Theo’s heart even tho he committed terrible acts, the reader supports Theo because they knew that he was led astray since he was a child. The pack believes that the reader maybe crazy and when they discuss that Theo deserves everything bad that happens to him, the reader defends him, which makes Theo feels like he doesn’t deserve someone like them.” By anon

Word Count: 2100+

MASTERLIST

"Stop that." 

Y/n was a pretty passive person. His strengths came from maintaining focus and calm. Hiding, not being seen, never losing control. When he spoke, it was always even and his gaze gave nothing away. He wasn't particularly comforting, or good at fighting, but he was extremely good at getting out of a tight situation - or sneaking into one without consequences. It left him often as the one who could get reinforcements, deliver information where it was needed, or learn important things others couldn't because he hadn't been noticed or stopped.

Which meant easily enough that when he glared at someone, or when his sharp tone snapped through the room with genuine anger, the pack knew it was a severe reaction. If you didn't know him, it would be easy to dismiss the outburst as quieter than Derek's, or softer than what Isaac or Stiles might have hit with. There was no sass or sarcasm and even very little poison in the words... but the fact that it was so full of emotion was telling.

Especially because all they were talking about was Theo.

Scott raised his eyebrows as he shot Y/n a sideways glace. "Stop what?"

"Don't talk about trauma you don't understand," was all Y/n said.

Stiles' face twisted slightly with an anger leaning confusion. "What are you talking about? Theo tried to kill Scott and take over all of us. Including you. He did horrible experiments on the chimeras he did get his hands on - and most of them died. All he has done is cause pain and misery since he got here. Who the hell cares what he's been through?"

Y/n's sudden pointed look stopped Stiles dead. It was equivalent to a blade being pressed to his throat, or a gun leveled at his head. It was a threat - a promise - and he knew to back down immediately. "You never know what kind of person others' experiences would have made you if you'd lived through them. Theo was a child. And before you go off or dismiss me like you have in the past, Stilinski, no I don't condone or dismiss the vast amounts of harm he has caused the people around him. I'm not saying anyone is required to forgive him just because he had a hard life. I was there when Kira sent him to hell the first time, and I helped every step of the way. I stand by what we did. But he doesn't deserve all the pain and suffering he's been through, and it does matter, and he deserves a chance to get better and be a different person." He grew quiet for a moment, sensing everyone in the room growing tense and avoiding his eyes. He sighed and stood from his chair. "I'll see you guys later - let me know when you need me." He left the room, leaving everyone staring after him with wide eyes and parted lips.

Despite how important he found his message, Y/n knew not to push it. It wouldn't go anywhere to hit a brick wall over and over again. It would just break his hand.

-

"What's your deal this time?" Scott sighed the words, his shoulders drooping. This time Theo was in the room, and they'd been trying to ignore Y/n expression as it grew darker and darker, but Scott was powerful because he cared - of course he couldn't last forever.

Y/n's eyes were trained on the windows to the side of the room they were on, taking in the view of the outside past them. Trying to focus and ground himself. He needed to answer this calmly no matter how volatile he felt; they needed to be united in the face of those who depended on them. Like Liam and Theo. 

When he did speak, he could feel every single pair of eyes on him. "I will not stand for that talk in my presence. Keep your harsh words to yourself, or I will intervene."

Stiles, who had been the one going off on Theo, rolled his eyes. He was still wrapped up in his ow feelings and thoughts and didn't have the wherewithal to control himself - even under such threat from Y/n. He fell back on what he was best at: not shutting up. "Theo killed his own sister-"

Y/n snapped. He rushed Stiles, hands wrapping in his shirt as he slammed the other boy against the wall. Everyone scrambled, but Scott held up a hand and caught his breath, eyes wide. They all paused. They had trusted Y/n to not go too far this long; they needed to keep doing so. This was important to him, and it needed to happen. Stiles looked startled but unhurt, so they could hold their breath for just a second. Each person was coiled though, ready to launch the second Scott gave the signal.

"Derek tried to start his own pack and fucked up Jackson's entire life. He has been universally unhelpful, an all-around dick, and general trouble since day one and we forgave him. Isaac was part of that pack, and actively antagonized everyone in our pack - especially you and Scott. He got into fights, belittled other people, and fell through plenty of times when we really needed him. He's disappeared completely when we need him the most and we forgave him anyway because we understand him and see his perspective and work around it. Jackson actively tried to kill us for weeks, but we wrote it off because he was being controlled. But he was that vicious far before he was a monster, and actively bullied and belittled all of us. He put Scott in danger several times and tried his best to ostracize us and make us hate ourselves. Even Lydia used her intelligence and power to hurt and tear down other people - but she's the most active part of this community just because her powers forced her to be here and we accepted her the way she was after that, allowing her to be truer to herself as time passed until she became a genuinely kind and caring person.

"There have been plenty of people who have actively hurt us that we've forgiven. Don't even get me started on Peter. But we forgave them anyway, and they were far older than Theo was - and most of them did what they did without any outside influence. Theo was a child, and whatever horrible thing they did to the other chimeras for a month of two, Theo got for seven fucking years. I don't care what you think or what you know, shut your fucking mouth or I will shut it for you. He's been given the chance to change, and he's trying his best to. He has done a lot for us since he's been back - especially for Liam. He's one of the only ones who's treated Liam's struggles seriously while you make fun of the boy for what he deals with - and you know what? Now that I'm thinking about it, who the hell are you to say anything? You want to start digging shit up about the Nogitsune? How about Allison?"

A hand landed on Y/n shoulder as Stiles' face went pale. "That's enough." Scott.

Y/n caught himself, letting Stiles' shirt go and stepping back. You don't have to forgive him, or like him, but if you're going to talk shit it better not be where he can hear you. Or where I can hear you, for that matter. Next time I'll just deck you - I'm tired of your bullshit." And with that, he left the room. He knew there would be some kind of repercussions for that... but he didn't care. If he left the pack then perhaps it was just time for it to happen. 

He was sure that was the end of it for now, but he heard the door open behind him again as he made his way down the hall. Of all the people he had been expecting to see when he turned to defend himself - he had not been expecting Theo himself.

The brunette boy slowed out of his jog once he'd caught up, stopping too close to Y/n. There was something in his eyes. Tears, at his water line, but also so many emotions that twisted and roiled - too many for Y/n to even begin to decipher. Y/n was taken aback by the emotion, and froze in place, unsure what would happen next. Final Theo managed a, "Thank you," but it was so thin that Y/n knew there was so much to that than the simple two words would be communicating normally.

So he took a second to think, so absorb it all and try to understand. His expression melted and softened, opened up and allowed sincerity and vulnerability to come through. He had been watching Theo struggle for ages now and he was more than willing to let it show plainly. "I'm glad you're back, Theo. That you've taken this chance to learn new things and become a new person. I knew back then that you were capable of good, and you haven't disappointed."

Theo's eyebrows came together. "You did?"

Y/n shrugged, growing a bit sheepish. "I doubted it in the end... I mean, everyone has some good in them, but I decided that it was over, you'd lost your chance, and it hit me to my core. But you served plenty of penance in hell, and when you came back... I could tell you were so different. And I hoped again. And it all paid off. You're becoming the person I always knew you could be. I'm proud of you."

Those emotions turned across Theo's face again and he paused for a whole second before something snapped, or broke - something. Theo closed the distance between them, grabbing Y/n's face and pulling him into a kiss. Y/n hummed in surprise but the sound turned almost immediately into a moan when their lips actually met. The kiss was hard and passionate. Their hands pulled at each other, both of them losing whatever control they had in that moment to do their best to drown in each other. 

Y/n hooked his fingers in Theo's belt, pulling him closer, and whatever anxiety Theo had about the moment melted away. His hands moved from Y/n's face to his hair, fingers wrapping around the strands and tugging on them, forcing his head back to tuck Y/n flush against his chest as every inch between them was filled. Y/n moaned again and Theo sighed into the kiss, his expression relaxing and a smile coming to his face. He reacted again, forcing Y/n to scramble to keep up with him as he moved them through the hall until Y/n's back slammed against the wall.

It was aggressive and desperate but didn't actually hurt. Y/n found himself surprisingly comfortable and only enjoying every moment they shared now. There was tenderness to the kiss too. Small things, like the tips of Y/n's fingers running across the top of Theo's waistband and ghosting the skin there; Theo's thumb rubbing the softest circles at the back of Y/n's neck where the smalls of his hair grew thinner than the rest of the thicker hair, allowing his skin to feel the contact and tingle at such affection. There was nothing sexual to it, which also made every single kiss and bite as Theo caught Y/n's bottom lip or skated away from his lips and began to trail across Y/n's jaw and down his neck - it was all accompanied with sighs and kisses if Y/n's hissed in pain. 

How long had Theo wanted this? Because the sheer relief and desperation communicated Y/n's own feelings like a mirror. 

After a few minutes they both relaxed and melted into each other, their touches and holds relaxing until Theo simply leaned into Y/n, their foreheads pressed together. It was quiet for a few beats, and then - "I don't deserve you."

Y/n scoffed. He reached up, gripping Theo's jaw between his fingers. "I'll kick your ass too, Raeken."

That made Theo smile. "Feel free." He left another kiss on Y/n's lips, but this one was lingering and soft. It was more intimate that way, and they were both left a little dazed. "Will you go on a date with me?" He still didn't seem entirely sure, which was almost laughable after the kisses they'd just shared, but Y/n didn't say anything. 

Who was he to give someone shit for questioning the person they liked liking them back when they thought it impossible?

Y/n sighed, nodding. "Yeah. I'd like that."

Theo pressed their foreheads together and they sat there for a long time. Y/n got the feeling that neither of them would feel alone ever again... They had each other now. They'd be just fine.

-

Story Tags: @badblondebisexualboy

Male reader Tags: @ravenpuff-oli @sortzz

[evil-peanut-butter-addict-sam]

@shelbygraces

shut your bubble gum dumb dumb skin tone chicken bone google chrome no homo flip phone disowned ice cream cone garden gnome extra chromosome metronome dimmadome genome full blown monochrome student loan indiana jones over grown flint stone X and Y Chromosome friend zome sylvester stalone sierra leone auto zone friend zone professionally seen silver patrone big headed ASS UP You and your splotchy hair dye you can't ever choose what color you want, like make up your mind, lovejoys music is better then what you will ever make because you have made NOTHING against them you have been on YouTube for what over 10 years and almost 20 years? And your just now getting 100,00? Sad that just shows that your own 'supporters' aren't even supporting you and just sending absolute shit on us. For God's sakeI had a BLOODY TAMPON tell me to kms all because I had a Wilbur Soot costume you need to learn to control your subs everyone else can why can't you? With how far apart your eyes are I would be way to long to get from one eye to the other I would have to get a pit stop on your nose before anything, your fashion style is practically equivalent to a 7 year old girls closet. The only reason why they replace William with you in QSMP is because you would have never made it when everyone else got a invite, I'm surprised you even got the amount of support you have gotten because you weren't even known even after the relationship with Wilbur you only started getting your fame is because your a selfish little bitch that doesn't know when to stfu. On the selfishness side of you why didn't you give your fans the merch you absolutely promised them? Was it because you where too small of a creator even then to collaborate with someone? "I'd settle for a gun-" Yeah Wilbur we all would settle for the gun them having to hear her loud annoying voice, Shelby you wanted to say it's weird to be friends with minors because Wilbur was friends with tubbo and Tom when they were kids still but your in your early 30S AND FRIENDS WITH AIMSEY WHEN SHE WAS A MINOR you hypocrite "He had a ant infestation" Oh? Now did he? I would like proof on that. Or if I'm gonna be honest you probably don't even have proof like EVERYTHING ELSE and if you did have proof you would have showed it in the first stream. Wil said that he has many different pieces of proof showing you consented but he's not showing them for YOUR OWN PRIVACY AND SAFETY. " hello! My name is Shubble and welcome bsck to my channel" YOU SOUND LIKE STITCH IN YOUR INTROS WTF?? AND YOUR INTRO VOICE LITERALLY HASNT CHANGED IN THE PAST SIX DAMN YEARS? GET CREATIVE MAKE SOMETHING NEW. "I have alot of opinions about sounds in minecraft, what are the best sounds, what are the worst sounds" 1. Damn right you have opinions i think its obvious with the amount of time you have come out with almost every single popular ex of yours and there's suddenly something that went wrong in every damn one. 2 you are the worst sound not just on minecraft but in mankind. 3 William gold has the most iconic and funny ass minecraft sounds. "Just another thrift hall!" Why? Because you can't afford full priced clothing? "I will not be dying mu hair anymore" Then why the hell is your hair orange rn? Me and MULTIPLE people thought you weren't gonna say anything about ILGWIS because the song it literally directed towards how shitty you are/had been but NO you had the clout Shelby, you had to piss people off like me. "Stream my stream instead" Yeah that's all we can do because one again you have no music to stream. Fuck you Shelby, you clout chasing bitch.

VICTIM MORTALITY AND FREEDOM OF SPEECH

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Part 17: the stars are shining their brightest light

"We can get lost in fears that we make for days that feel black as night, but there in the dark, you'll find that the stars are shining their brightest light." -If You Love Someone by The Veronicas

Regent Masterlist Part 16

“This is my girlfriend, Queen Regent Jasmine of the Infinite Realms.” 

If there was ever a way to silence the Bat-family, it was with an introduction like that. 

Sure, Jason knew the family was fully aware of Jasmine Nightingale (thanks to Replacement), but he was positive that he had just rocked their world by just casually dropping the fact that  Jazz was not only royalty of the same dimension but also ruled it in the stead of the true monarch… He was certain that his family would figure out what he wasn’t saying soon enough. 

Beautifully executed and dinner hadn’t even started. 

The shock that permeated the room was delicious, feeding his ego as he led Jazz to their seats the furthest from Bruce, with Jazz safe at his side where he could intercept any perceived attack aimed at her. He’d ignored the rule about weapons at the table, packing his favorite desert eagle at his back and an ecto-gun strapped to his ankle that was a thoughtful gift from Danny. Jasmine had her bracelets uncharmed for the evening, desiring transparency with his family, and he knew how quickly she could summon her armor and Faithkeeper. They were as prepared as they could be and it made him proud that he had someone like Jazz to watch his back.

(He loved fighting back-to-back with her.) (Almost as much as he loved keeping her safe.) (The Lady and her knight.) (He was in love.)

It was Dickolas that spoke first, barely containing his excitement, “Little Wing, I’m so happy for you!” Which allowed pandemonium to follow from the rest of his siblings. 

“Oh my gosh-” 

“A member of royalty-” “-you’re-” 

“Jason pulled-”

 “gorgeous!” 

“New sister?”

“-is willing-” 

“A queen?!” 

“-to date you?” 

“Nice one man.” 

The once-Revenant could practically taste Jazz’s amusement, relishing in her amusement-bafflement-love as they waited quietly for the others to settle down so the couple could answer the questions no doubt waiting for them.  

The first question Jazz could answer was probably the one that she dreaded to answer. 

“How’d you meet?” Tim asked, eyes switching from Jason to her and back again. 

Jason was swift to reply, “At a bookstore.” “Got to talking and Jason asked me out.” Jazz added with a soft smile at the memory of a blushing Jason. 

The dark-haired girl at the table, Cassandra Wayne, signed something far too quick for Jazz to read completely. Though Stephanie translated right away, “Cass asked how long it took Jason to ask you out.” 

Jazz chuckled a bit and set down her cutlery to sign her response, though the movements were somewhat stilted- she hadn’t used sign language since the last meeting with Heppa, a mute acropolis amazonian that once acted as Jazz’s sparring partner while under Pandora’s tutelage. 

Some signs were muscle memory (stop, peace, fight), but others were difficult to recall. The ghost equivalent of ASL (ESL or ecto sign language) was far easier to fall back into than ASL, given that it also used emotions to communicate. [Two days, nervous, very cute.] Jazz signed, projecting the fondness-love she felt for her soulmate as she did. Cass tilted her head, the faint prickle of curiosity evaporating into the air almost as soon as Jazz registered it, but one of the other men at the table turned the attention away from the two women’s silent conversation. “I can’t believe little wing got a queen to date him!” Dick exclaimed. 

“Tt, a member of royalty should have better standards than to settle for Todd.” That comment came from the youngest Wayne, Damian, where he sat to his father’s left. The head of the house studied Jazz with a quiet air of protect-wariness. 

Ah, yes. They’d met as their alter egos- her the Regent and him the Batman. How concerning it must be for her to find her way into his son’s life and to his dining table with his other children. Bruce no doubt saw the evidence of the extent she would go to for Phantom. 

One slash, two, three Blood is on your hands already. 

Fourth, fifth slash Ask the ghosts if honor matters, buried amongst the ash.  Slash six, seven Sharpen your love into a weapon

“Jason is a wonderful person and partner.” Jazz replied, electing to ignore the DadBat’s stare into the side of her skull. Cass’s hands moved again, a bit slower than the first time, much to Jazz’s relief. [Do ghosts use sign?] 

[Yes. Emotions with words.] Jazz answered with a small smile as she once again projected her emotions, fondness-anxiety-amusement, for those present even if they couldn’t register them. 

“What are those shadows behind you?” Duke blurted out, eyes still locked onto something over Jazz’s shoulder. 

“Shades.” The manor was full of weak shades, no doubt belonging to ancestors of the Wayne lineage. “Weak ones” she clarified. 

Bruce spoke up this time, “The weakest form of ghosts?” he asked for clarification as if he wasn’t in possession of the Ghost Files, which she knew had information on shades. 

(Among other beings.) (She tried not to think about her own file.) (The evidence of patricide and matricide.) 

“Yes. These ones are probably just curious about my presence.” It was true, as far as she could tell. Jazz was the most liminal being in existence, after all, not to mention the Crown of Fire she bared as Regent. Thankfully, she couldn’t make out any hostility from the ancestral shades, not with her permission to be here and an escort of a Fraid member (Jason) was not an intrusion. 

“You are aware we know your identity,” Damian stated, with a glare that would cut down weak men. “And that you know ours.” 

(Well, no shit Sherlock.) (Jason’s Red Hood.) (No need for a corkboard and red string.) “Demon spawn-” Jason growled, but Jazz took his hand in hers to calm down the anger she could feel bubbling up to the surface. He took a deep breath in and out before he squeezed her hand back. “Damian. I trust Jazz with my life, she won’t betray us or our secret identities.” 

“Phantom trusted you with the Ghost Files. If he considers you worthy, then so will I.” Jazz swore. 

Dinner passed far quicker than Jason expected. He sat back and basked in his Lady’s presence at the dining table as she answered questions, as they had agreed before arriving. Bruce hadn’t spoken much, no doubt content to watch the interactions between his kids and Jazz. 

Jason hoped the old man could see how wonderful his Lady was. She was his guiding hand through darkness and fire, made his worries melt away, and offered him peace in his second chance at life. 

Gave him her heart, him, the eight-heads in a duffel bag crime lord. Let him meet her little brother, her reason for surviving thus far, her world. Let Jason’s scarred and bloody hands hold her close to his still-beating heart and Proto-core. 

He couldn’t offer her much, not really, but he could offer her a piece of him- this, his family, his Fraid. It wasn’t a lot, not when compared to what Jazz had given him before he ever knew her name, but it was all he had to give that couldn’t be offered so easily. 

(Jazz would never hurt his family.) (Not unless they hurt him first.) 

One day, the two of them would be comfortable in this manor side by side, but not now with the newness and wariness he could feel from his Fraid

Perhaps he shouldn’t ask Bruce for that favor quite yet. 

A/N: I am thrilled to announce that with this update the Regent is no longer in Hiatus! With the AO3 version comes more fuel to write (comments & kudos) and of course that gives me more encouragement to write. There will be gaps between posts still, but I will be posting parts again. AO3 link in Regent masterlist, parts combined into longer chapters. beta'd by the awesome @meditating-cat

Thanks for reading!

[vvatchword]

In Defense of BioShock Infinite

Although I had preordered BioShock Infinite with all its bells and whistles, I did not actually play it until January 2023. And lordy, I had me another Experience with a capital E. How the hell a bunch of urban Yanks could capture my experience as a queer democratic-socialist atheist struggling with her roots as a rural evangelical-cum-fascist is kinda magical, honestly. As to the game itself, it didn’t hurt how good it looked—the kickass skyhook gun battles—that novel setting—the complex characters—that delicious historical setting—that bloodthirsty critique of America—and to top it all off, they had pulled yet another Cassandra. Hell, speaking of which—not only was the game fun, it was fucking smart. It was intelligent, memorable, and meaningful in a way I hadn’t experienced in video games for years.

Now, back in 2013, when I had realized that I would be spoiled for Infinite, I left the BioShock fandom. After completing the game, I headed to Tumblr to re-engage, wagging my whole body like an excitable golden retriever, only to discover that BioShock Infinite was remarkably absent, and when mentioned, brutally derided. 

“I hate BioShock Infinite and all my friends do, too,” someone said in the tags under a post. 

I was utterly befuddled and deeply sad. I wanted to talk about BioShock Infinite! I wanted to dig into it, uncover unexpected ideas, learn new things, talk shit, make new friends—the full fandom experience. And instead I kept stumbling into hateful diatribes and super-charged disgust.

Obviously, I first looked at myself and my own judgment. Had I missed some obvious problem or misread some theme or dialogue? This wouldn’t be the first time I’d snapped down on a hook. But the more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

There are two parts of BioShock Infinite that are unquestionably terrible: the fridging of Daisy Fitzroy and the false equivalence of violence between haves and have-nots (lol what are the have-nots supposed to do, ask nicely?). Additionally, one could look at the use of real Native American tragedies as tasteless. Personally, I do not—in the same way that I don’t find it tasteless that real war victims were used as inspiration for Splicer deformities. This is what really happened; this is commentary on events that really happened to real people. 

At this point, I’m sure I don’t have to explain why two of these themes are Unequivocally Bad. 

Anyway, I thought that perhaps these were the reasons BSI had been condemned to Super Hell.

I was wrong.

How Criitcsim Werk

This wasn’t the fandom I’d made friends in over 2010. Hell, this wasn’t the fandom of 2013. This was a fandom made up of Babies. They were making their first coltish stumblings into media criticism and with it, dredging up the same brain-dead bullshit from Tumblr circa 2008.

Suddenly I was brought face to face with people who seemed to think that if a character couldn’t be likable or good that the story itself couldn’t be likable or good; that one bad element means the story is unsalvageable (lol u pussies); the implication that one is bad for liking it; the destructive juvenile insistence that media accurately measures its fans’ moral qualities en masse like an astrological sign. This goes far beyond simple like or dislike and plunges head-first into Puritanism: praying loudly on street-corners instead of quietly in a dark corner where God might hear you.

At one point I had a kid go off about how they wouldn’t take time to understand Booker DeWitt’s perspective because he had (fictionally) taken part in a genocide. (That same person said the Native American element had been employed for shock value, a thought that sometimes keeps me up at night, because it is legitimately one of the dumbest criticisms the game has ever received.) At another point I saw someone acting personally offended that (fictional person) Dr. Suchong’s (fictional) data was being stolen (in a fiction) by a (fictional) racist who would (fictionally) take credit for (fictional person) Suchong’s (fictional) inventions “while calling him slurs”. Sure, a better question would have been, “Why would the creative team opt to do this” rather than assume intentional racism from a Jewish creative director with an in-office multi-ethnic team in the year of our lord 2013, but why not handwave the choice with prurient moral dismay so your audience won’t beat you to death with bats? 

It was as though fans were treating these completely fictional characters as real people whose personal gods had opted to torment them, and that their tormentors merited the kind of censure that psychopaths should receive. As I hope all of you understand, this is fucking madness.

More than once I saw people posting about hating the studio or the creative director in ways that seemed intense, unreasoning, and excessive—notably an “I Hate [Irrational Games creative director] Ken Levine” stamp (rofl the more things change amirite). People get so performatively moralistic about it that I started wondering if I missed something big along the way. Was there some secret Voxophone I missed swearing fealty to baby Hitler or some shit?

Double Standards

At the same time, I was utterly confused. BioShocks 1 and 2 both featured some absolutely ghastly bullshit based on real-life horrors and a thick mix of complicated human beings—many of them victims who have become monsters. The fact they are grounded in historical tragedies is a huge part of their appeal. Hell, I don’t think those games would have had half their meaning without World Wars I and II and the threat of a third.

A gay man who feels so cursed by his orientation that he is incapable of intimacy and systematically destroys his ex-lovers—including the man he loves the most. A Korean who survived Japanese occupation and a Jewish Holocaust survivor repeat the violence and traumas exacted upon them and their people, subjecting a new generation to agonies unthinkable. Chasing the shadows of Bolsheviks, a Russian citizen becomes the brutal tyrant that he loathed. A rich lawyer with an easygoing drawl designs a concentration camp and systematically harvests hundreds, if not thousands of political prisoners, selling them out to medical testing for a quick buck.

But a Native man who destroys his own people and class to ensure his own survival and social acceptability is too far? This character is where people drew the line, so much so that the entire game is disavowed? Hell, if you’re just talking about Booker (rather than Comstock), he doesn’t have anywhere near the largest bodycount. If we were to judge on the metric of human misery alone, Booker wouldn’t even hit the top ten. 

Keep in mind that the most-discussed BioShock game on Tumblr is BioShock 2, and that one of the biggest fandom favorites is Augustus Sinclair—the easy-talkin’ Georgia lawyer who sells your character into horrors past all human comprehension, as he sold hundreds before and after you. Sinclair is a motherfucker so vile that BioShock 2 gives you no choice but to murder him. But Sinclair is also pleasant; good-looking to some; spends the whole game making sweet love to your ear; is one of the only true positive experiences you experience in a horror story. Unlike DeWitt, a man who is brutal and awful from step one, Sinclair is smooth and sweet. Unlike DeWitt, Sinclair’s victims are faceless, completely fictional, and carry no political or social baggage.

People fuckin’ ship this guy with Subject Delta, his explicit victim. He’s usually described as a squishy cinnamon roll. In most fanfiction, he often gets to escape to the surface and fuck Delta while helping raise Eleanor as Dad 2. It is rare that I find fanfiction that acknowledges his monsterhood in all its glory. In fact, I can only think of two.

Literacy Comes in Levels

My problem with the over-the-top hatred of BioShock Infinite is along the same lines as my confusion at Twilight and Harry Potter hate: there is so much worse out there (how much do the haters actually engage with media if they think this is that bad—yes, even considering the shitty creators themselves!), the hatred far outweighs the sin committed (in BioShock’s case, the truly bad bits are not central enough to derail the larger narrative), people don’t seem to hate it so much as they want to be seen hating it, fans want to enforce an unspoken rule hating it (bitches this is poison. Stop this), and there’s something about the hate that stinks of poor reading comprehension.

A great metric for general literacy is the newspaper. In journalism, you’re writing for the lowest-common denominator, which for years here in the USA has been about a fifth-grade reading level (about 10-11 years old, for my non-American readers). The AP posted an article a couple years back about how the general reading comprehension of Americans needs to be dropped to a third-grade one (8-9 years), and baby, I’m here to say it’s true. 

Most of the problem is that the American education system is shitty as fuck. The rest of it is from an extremely American disdain of intellectualism and the arts. People are not taught how to interpret art or literature—a difficult and subtle skill which involves accepting such truths as “multiple contradictory readings can exist and yet be simultaneously correct”, “the author can be a complete tool and still be right about things”, “the author can be a great person and still write horrifyingly incorrect bullshit”, and “worthwhile works can be ridiculously long and it really is your fault for not having an attention span”. 

Media criticism must be learned through trial, error, asking questions, confidently swaggering into a public space to announce your brilliant insight only to have your ass handed to you (usually by your older self ten years later), being willing to admit you swaggered confidently into a public space to state bullshit and then amending your bullshit only to produce more bullshit, and otherwise making a complete and utter cock of yourself. We are taught to fear and flee pain and failure, despite the fact this is how we learn and improve. Because we judge our value by whether or not we are “smart,” we are afraid of displaying that we don’t know something or might be mistaken–better not to try at all than to reveal ourselves to be fools. And yet the best way to learn is to crash up against someone else and be proven wrong!

American parents are terrified of hurting their children to the point that they spare them cognitive dissonance of any kind, disavowing difficult art—without any appreciation for the fact that art is how we provide safe spaces to explore key human experiences, better preparing us to face those difficult subjects when there are real-world consequences (sex, gender and social expression, grief, violence, predation, illness, interacting with people of different ideologies, whatever new issue is pissing off some smooth-brained old motherfucker somewhere). 

If parents and teachers aren’t teaching us how to interpret art, we’re probably never going to develop the skill at all, or crash unsubtly into it in a piecemeal fashion (hello it me). Another unfortunate side effect is that these readers tend to be blitheringly superficial: they are literally intellectually incapable of reading deeper than the uppermost layer of a text. The curtains are always blue.

And let’s not forget the role moral performatism plays in media criticism, which although faaar from new, has reached hilarious levels in the age of social media. What’s important isn’t understanding something, it’s finding something to symbolically burn at the stake so everyone knows God loves us: please keep loving me, please don’t hurt me, please don’t throw me on the fire—for performatism is not for outsiders. We long for human connection so fucking much that it’s more important to destroy what might point out our fallibilities than it is to let ourselves stand in the furnace and burn out the dross.

What do you think the point of BioShock Infinite was?

Emotional Machines

Let’s face it. Human beings give a lot more credence to how something makes them feel than they do its complex invisible reality. We are not logical creatures; we are emotional ones. Our logic is too new a biological mechanism to override something as powerfully stupid as our primal lizard brains.

Knowing this, let’s take BioShock’s most popular characters. The first two are Subject Delta and Jack Wynand, the protagonists of BioShocks 2 and 1, respectively; and why not? They’re the characters we play. In the first two BioShocks, whether or not you kill Little Sisters determines the ending you receive. In other words, Delta and Jack can only be as “wicked” as the players are. 

How do people want to see themselves? As good. What do people want to see around themselves? Good. (What is “good”? Uh, well,,,,,,) What do they want? Simple moral questions with simple moral answers. And in the first two BioShocks, what is moral is obvious: don’t kill little girls. It’s actually kind of insulting once you say it out loud.

In-fandom, Jack and Subject Delta are almost never painted as murderers or monsters, but as victims and heroes; I saw someone musing about putting Subject Delta on a “gentle giants” poll and I nearly choked on my own tongue. I only saw that musing because someone put Subject Delta and Jack in a “Best Fathers” poll. Nobody in-fandom really considers the “evil” or “complicated” endings as canon choices, despite those versions being fully understandable alternate readings, with a story that doesn’t make sense without them. (I don’t believe Burial at Sea is necessarily canon; in fact, I would bet good money that it is a huge middle finger lol, mostly because a number of brain-dead motherfuckers won’t take unhappiness for an answer.)

Most fandom art and writing is gentle, sweet, good: the symbolic healing of the damaged, the salvation of innocents, the turning of new leaves. These things are not just saccharine sweet—they tend to be unrealistically sweet. Now, far be it from me to demand these works cease. There’s a reason they exist. People write them because they need hope and happiness; I have enjoyed them greatly myself and intend to enjoy them in the future. But if y’all get to have your dessert, I demand the right to have my dinner.

The Colours Out of Earth

Let there be media where the opposite can also be true: where everything is unbelievably complicated and unforgivably fucked-up. Let there be characters who slide slurs into their speech without thinking. Let there be characters who destroy themselves in a thousand different ways, not all of them obvious, some of them horrifying. Let there be well-meaning people struggling with all their mights to do what is right only to destroy everyone around them and then completely miss the fact it’s all their faults. Let there be wickedness painted as goodness, superficial appearances accepted over essential and inherent values, denial of change and transformation, failure to accept that what is old must die and what is new must live, human stupidity and short-sightedness and cruelty in all their flavors. Let’s smash it all together and see how it plays out. 

Oh, badly? No shit! But “badly” isn’t the point. How does it play out?

Let there be a world of gradients—a place I can float from color to color, hue to hue, value to value, while attempting to figure out where, why, how, and by whom they transform—to taste concepts in a hundred different ways, test their textures by a hundred different mediums, insert them into a hundred different contexts. I need to understand why I feel the way I do; I need to understand morality in all its hideous, fragmentary glory. For I have been sold to a ideology of blacks and whites, and let me tell you: it prepares you for nothing, and it will always destroy what is most precious about human life.

I can no longer believe in a world where what is lost always returns, because that world does not exist. I have a reflexive need to come to terms with Finality: what I have lost, what I have destroyed, what will never return, what will never be better. I have a reflexive need to understand Transformation: what I am now, what is as of the present, what has risen shambling from the ashes, what turns to gaze upon me in the darkness. I need to understand what is wretched about me as much as I need to heal myself. How can I heal if I can’t understand how I have hurt and been hurt? 

I need to shine a light in the dark. Not to remodel it, not to destroy it—because I also can’t believe in a world where the wicked is destroyed forever—but to behold it, to learn from it, to view my own impact upon it, to accept how it has become a part of me, to learn how to do my best (because that’s all one can do). I must learn to love people more than causes, I must learn to love people rather than the act of winning, I must learn to love people rather than battle. I need to stand in that endless black with the lamp off and my eyes closed, letting the agony roll over me, burning with a fire that throws no light, rolling back and forth from an intense self-loathing to a fury at a society that destroys what is most valuable because it didn’t make them feel the way they wanted.

The Unforgivable

I believe that there are only two differences between Booker DeWitt and his equally cursed cohorts.

In the Hall of Whores: The Unmarked Slate

First, unlike the previous two games, where you enter the world as a tabula rasa and might roleplay as what you perceive as a good person, you are explicitly put into the shoes of a monster, and nothing you do can save you.

With other shitty BioShock characters, you are passively watching other people, and you are able to hold yourself apart. Sure, everyone else is crazy as fuck from using biological Kryptonite, but you’re too smart to end up a crazy fucking asshole like them! Sure, you are now technically a mass murderer, but those fuckers deserved it, damn it! 

“Look at this crazy bastard!” you say, rolling your eyes at the Steinmans and Cohens and Ryans and Fontaines. “It sure is a great thing I’m not a crazy bastard!”

You are able to escape acknowledging that you, too, in certain circumstances, might be the crazy bastard. You are being challenged to stand in the body of a person who has committed unforgivable sins. Imagine if you yourself committed those sins. Imagine what sins you have already committed. Imagine what brutalities you cannot take back. Imagine what horrors you have wreaked just by breathing.

“Ahhhh!” said players, probably. “What do you mean I’m not allowed to be good?”

Because that’s what the game was designed to do. Because “good” is a fucking cop-out and if it’s how you live with yourself wait until you find out you’ve been doing horrifying bullshit all your life without question. You can be evil by association through no fault of your own.

Original Sin

Second, the plight of Native Americans is a sin that non-Natives will always carry, and the socially conscious are aware of this even if they don’t know how to put it into words. The state of affairs being what it is, it is unlikely that First Peoples will ever be treated humanely, much less have their land returned. They must struggle for scraps of what is rightfully theirs while we lounge on their corpses. We cannot help but benefit from their destruction; we are made unwitting partners with our forebears; we steal the fruits of their lands and make mockeries of their faiths and identities. We have destroyed part of what made this world fascinating and unique and most of it can never be returned. Even if everything were to be made right tomorrow, their genocide is a sin that we will carry until we die, because the only reason we could be here at all is because they were killed. 

The obvious solution stands before us, but the powers that be are so much greater than we that we are effectively powerless, and achieving anything less than total restoration smacks of anticlimax. 

This is unbearable.

How can one think of oneself as a good person if one sees the good that must be done, but cannot achieve it? If one’s actions are meaningless? Goodness without action is pretension.

We are all Booker DeWitt. We have all set fire to the tipi. We swept the ashes away, we ignored the sizes of the bones, we built a CVS on their graves, and then we made statues and holidays commemorating Native Americans like the world’s cheapest “Thinking of You” card. We have de-fanged them, transformed them into cardboard cutouts, and set them up as cute little side characters in our sweeping American dream.

Booker is not a man. Booker is America and Americans—and America and Americans are monstrous: one part hypocrisy, two parts incessant violence, three parts constant peacocking, and four parts dumb as a stump.

The Monsters We Make

Outside of the message about “choice,” an enormous part of BioShock’s thematic ensemble is the creation of monsters. How are monsters created? Who or what is responsible for creating them? What do the monsters think made them the ways they are? Can a monster be saved? How? Is it enough to acknowledge you did wrong and want to be a better person?

Maybe most people are aware on some instinctive level of what facing one’s own monsterhood means. No one wants it. It’s not fun. It hurts. It’s embarrassing. It’s destructive. It’s admitting you don’t have it all together and might never, ever—that despite your best actions, you can have it horribly wrong at any point. In an age where we demand moral perfection, it demands vulnerability: you must admit that sometimes you’re the racist, the transphobe, the sexist, the nationalist, the classist, the homophobe, the violent, the wrong, the dumbfuck. 

Human beings are not built to be moral; human beings are built to survive. We so rapidly learn how to deal with our contexts at such young ages that we don’t have the time or capabilities to question why those contexts are the ways they are or why it is demanded we perform the ways we do.

In a very real way, BioShock Infinite demands vulnerability of us. It demands you look in the mirror and see what is monstrous in you—how you have been created—manufactured—a tool, a machine, a trained animal. It asks you to recognize that you can be a monster simply by association. And if we can’t look into the mirror and truly acknowledge that monsterhood, we run very real risks of becoming or enabling those monsters in one way or another.

Worst of all: perhaps monsterhood isn’t optional. Perhaps the monster was inside of us from the very beginning. It’s not a matter of if you become a monster, but when, under what circumstances, by whose hand. What is more, believing the “right” moral stances will not save you. Monsterhood can afflict anyone, in any ideology, any political stance, in any social movement, in any faith. The only element that can save you is to truly love other people, and even then, you can fail, for there can be states where there is no winner and ways to misread how best to treat another person.

Environment and Society: Context Will Not Be Denied

BioShock 1’s original ending is Jack-as-monster, regardless of how many children he saves, regardless of your feelings as player. He passes through the gauntlet of Rapture, but he has supped of its poison. And he wasn’t poisoned when he entered Rapture the second time—he was poisoned the minute he was conceived. He was born of it. He had no hope of ever escaping it—he never could have—he’d never had a choice to begin with.

No matter what choices you make in BioShock Infinite, Elizabeth will always kill you. Why? Because she has seen every world—every context—every limitation—every boon. And there is no way to stop what has been; there is no way to undo what has been done. The minute you have committed to a decision, you have split the universe; there is no telling what kind of person it will make you. In fact, there’s no telling which of your decisions will matter at all. Only Elizabeth can see because she is the unlimited future: your offspring stands before you, judge and jury, and you will have no choice but to accept her verdict, for despite your name, you are incapable of controlling how you are interpreted. 

Elizabeth sits across from you in the boat and stares without blinking. She sees a million million similar Bookers. Some are a little bit taller, some a little bit shorter, some a little heavier or lighter. Some more-resemble one grandparent or another. They have different colored ties. This one blinks when rain hits him in the eyeball. That one took a brutal beating back on the airship and one eye is swollen shut. That one can’t stop shaking; this one is unable to speak at all; one hasn’t yet lost hope, although even he doesn’t realize it.

They all lowered the torch to the tipi.

The baptism determined Comstock; what determined Booker?

Why Booker Is

In BioShock 1, characters are often stand-ins for larger concepts. Thus Ryan stands in as Ayn Rand’s Objectivist Ubermensch; Bill McDonagh as Andrew Ryan’s conscience; Diane McClintock as the citizenry of Rapture; Captain Sullivan as law and order; Frank Fontaine as the truest expression of Objectivism in its distilled form.

Who is Booker? Most importantly: why is he?

Booker is a fictional character with a brutal background based on historical events, alternative and true. Booker might be Lakota; Booker might have undergone forced Anglicization; Booker might have been ripped from his parents; Booker is a product of violence, perhaps literally. Booker is American exceptionalism distilled. Booker is the past in constant judgment of itself, unable to live with itself and unable to die. Booker destroys what is best in him and around him in exchange for belonging. Booker has sold the future to absolve his sins. Booker has sold his daughter because he is a fictional character in a work of fiction who needs to be propelled.

Booker is a shell, a sluice, an environment. Booker is the broken shape you are meant to fill, horrified. His internal shape should torture you as it has tortured him: the messy slaggy soul of a shitty tin soldier.

Does Booker take the baptism and become Comstock? If so, it might be his second one. His last name literally means “the white.” His first name can mean “author.” It is most likely his second name: an attempt to rewrite himself. And when he was unable to rewrite himself the first time, when the cognitive dissonance boiled at the edges of his skull, he found there was only one way to cleanse himself the second: to remake the world entirely. To force transformation on everyone else. To take vengeance on a world that could never love him, never want him—to create a world that has no choice but to love him. If he can’t change the world’s mind, he’ll change the world.

Note what he opts to do: to take the fight to the environment–to the unyielding universe.

Context Is Everything

It is no mistake that BioShock Infinite occurs in 1912: the sinking of the Titanic is often credited with ending an unfettered optimism, a period when the Western world believed technology had brought the human race into a golden age. With World War I—which would follow a mere two years later—came modern warfare and all the horrors thereof, not the least of which was the realization that humans had created a kind of war that could destroy the entire world. World War I also seeded the rise of the United States: much of the wealth of warring Europe—itself fat on the blood of subjugated peoples and stolen lands—would rattle into America’s coffers.

It is also no mistake that BioShock 1 directly follows World War II. With WWII came a heightened terror—that this war is not the last war, that there will never be an end to war, that war will go on expanding and expanding until it has consumed us all. World War III would not be denied: prettily packaged in the ideals of its children, it simply followed the utopians down to their underwater tombs. According to BioShock 1’s original ending, World War III is not a matter of if—it’s a matter of when.

But even more important than the history in the BioShock games are their settings. Mute leviathans, Rapture and Columbia determine all of your behaviors: from where you can exist in space to all of your desires and goals to how you choose to present yourself to how you opt to behave. Isolated in extremism—whether that extremism is the crushing depths of the ocean or the unbearable lightness of the air—most of their power is that they simply cannot be escaped. You can’t outrun them. They are everywhere. They are everything.

Like Lovecraft before it, BioShock acknowledges the greatest horror of all: you cannot escape your context. Your context does not only involve your immediate surroundings. It is also historical; contains zeitgeists from various cultures and subcultures; is filled with pressures both personal and impersonal, human and nonhuman. Many of these forces can hurt you. Many more can destroy you. What you do to survive depends very much on where, when, and with whom you must live.

Human beings are not built to be moral.

The Death of the Future

In the film Operation, Burma!, a soldier asks Errol Flynn: “Who were you before the war?”

“An architect,” says Flynn.

Who were you? Because that “you” doesn’t matter now. That “you” is irrelevant. So you’re an architect. What the war does to you; what these deaths mean to you; your past, your education, your loves and desires and forward motivation, the you that could have been outside war, the you that slogs alone into the brutal future—all completely irrelevant. Your forebears don’t care so long as you can bleed. 

Children are the manufactured tools of their creators—helpless before the enormous strength of their elders and the zeitgeists that enclose them, poisoned by their parents’ insecurities and flaws, utilized like weapons regardless of the cost—often with great love.

Consider something more than the traumatized culture: consider the society filled with traumatized children; consider the traumatized society. Consider channeling children through that trauma over and over and over again, if you can. Poisoned—poisoned—poisoned—all of us poisoned. Poisoned by those who loved us most. Poisoned by the people we trusted. Poisoned by the people who meant to make a better world.

I believe it is notable that creative director Ken Levine is Jewish; I have read from multiple accounts that the European Jewish diaspora was uniquely traumatized from the Holocaust and passed that trauma down upon their own families. I sometimes wonder if he saw that firsthand.

The fathers eat sour grapes; their children’s teeth are set on edge.

Choice: Player Expectations and Entitlement

For players who experienced BioShocks 1 and 2 with their multiple endings (Good, Bad, and “ok bye then I guess” respectively), it must have been jarring to suddenly reckon with being a monster. How often I see players grousing that nothing they do will change their wicked pasts! These players completely miss that the only meaningful choice had already been made, that it had nothing to do with the player at all, and even if they had been there, DeWitt was still unforgivable. The only way to go on was to bow out and allow the future to redefine herself.

Nobody was ready for that shit. 

Like it or not, BioShock 1 had set a precedent. Not everyone’s going to read up on creator intentions. If any keyword came blaring through the noise, it would have been “choice.” Most players only recognize choice by the ability to make it, not the absence of it, and most of them weren’t equipped to recognize that its lack was the point. The meaningless choices were commentary, and they were as much about the player as they were about DeWitt himself. Not every choice will be meaningful, will it? And there will be choices you make that will be momentous, but they will seem very small when you make them.

Because most players had experienced what they thought was a basic moralistic tale in the first two games, and would see Infinite not as reflection upon America’s destructive personality, its obsession with a meaningless Good/Bad duocracy, and the infinite, cyclical nature of violence, they saw Booker’s death as corrupted artsy claptrap.

“I did the good schuut,” they say. “I want the good schuut end. Where happy end??? Where treat :(”

Bitch the future is here. 

Time to die.

It’s Not Me, It’s You

Generally I despise essays that end with, “But the real fault lay with the clueless motherfuckers who played the game!” Often, if enough people complain, there’s something to it; the message has been obscured somehow. Details or explanations weren’t clear or intuitive enough, some mechanism isn’t working somewhere, some character needs to talk more or less, some setting needs to be transformed. O artist: stop whining and get cracking. If everywhere you go smells like shit, it’s time to look under your shoe. 

But sometimes it’s true that a piece of media is on a level folks aren’t equipped for. Think of every literature and art class you’ve ever had, if you’ve been fortunate enough to have one. There’s always someone scoffing in a back row, like here are all these jokers making more of something than they should. Similarly, some of you have been arguing with me this entire time, saying: “I just wanted a video game. I just wanted to shoot something and feel better and instead I get this bullshit ending that makes no sense.”

First of all, smart bullshit (and even fucked-up attempts at smart bullshit! Hi BioShock 2) gets to exist on this Earth along with Gmod and Roblox or Schuut Big Tits 84 (there are 84 tits and you must shoot them all. They explode into smaller tits) or whatever-the-fuck-else you think is a worthwhile gaming experience. Second of all, miserable bullshit also gets to exist, and what did you fucking expect if you played through either BioShocks 1 or 2? When you hear a football player quavering out in the darkness for his mom to pick him up, how’d that make you feel? What did you think was going to happen to Jack after pounding back the entire Plasmid library, the cancer cocktail that explicitly destroys the fuck out of its users? Third of all, if you missed the smart bullshit going on in BioShock 1 and didn’t think BioShock Infinite might be larger in scope in more ways than one, that’s on you. Fourthly, if you were simply satisfied with saving like, 15 kids from a violently-perishing city of thousands and call it good, I mean… is that really where your thoughts end? Are you really that fucking small?

It’s Not You, It’s Me

You ever meet those motherfuckers who talk shit about Shakespeare or modern art? And you’re just left there staring with dead eyes at this poseur who mistakes playing devil’s advocate for intelligence, cheek resting on your fist, thinking about the fanfic you’re writing, wondering who it’s for, remembering that all your smut-writing friends get ten times the viewers, and considering throwing yourself in front of a bus.

Yeah, there’s a personal element to this: the fact that BioShock Infinite is the kind of art I like and long for and want to make myself, the fact that the game was successful and yet the studio was closed, the way its DLC was so rushed that the story plopped out like half-baked mystery meat—realizing that the same forced rush was at 2K’s behest for BioShock 2, as well, and wondering how good art can ever be made in this unforgiving capitalist hellscape. The game was weirdly niche and I’m not 100% sure I’ll ever experience anything quite like it again. And with the whiners in this fandom, the loud ones controlling the narrative, some fresh brain-dead exec in some brain-dead publisher might be like: “We must keep it safer and simpler for these fuckin babby adult!”

Nah bitch nah. Naaaah. Cry some more while I enjoy me my fucking dinner. I’ll eat it while making loud smacking noises and keeping unbroken eye contact. Come here. Let’s look at each other. It’ll be like Lady and the Tramp but we want to punch each other. What truer form of love can there be here in the modern world?

I keep having to remind myself that this response isn’t new. I keep having to remind myself of my place. I keep having to remind myself why I write, why I read, why I like to experience art to begin with. It’s not for the reasons other people do it. Oh, I want the same emotional release as everyone else, I want the same rollicking plots, I adore the same tropes. I seek out everything and anything for a good time; I’ll read Moby Dick today and a smutty 5,000-word abortion with the world’s most suspect grammar tomorrow. I don’t give a shit if it’s low- or high-brow; there are all kinds of ways to have fun and there are all kinds of ways to engage with art, and lord knows I’ve done my share of smooth-brain criticism. The problem is that I’ve always wandered off by myself, sunk into an all-consuming reverie, on tracks that no one else ever seems to be on, and then looked up to talk excitedly about something only to realize I’m alone. And whose fault is that?

By the same token, maybe I haven’t talked enough. Maybe I spend too much time with my mouth shut. Maybe I haven’t stood up enough for things that are worth our time, worth talking up, worth setting on pedestals.

I tell you, BioShock Infinite will stand the test of time. It’s too good for this. It’s too good for you, warts and all. Some of you will grow to understand that; some of you won’t; many of you will shrug and go on with your lives (and this is fine; it is only a video game). But I’ve truly not seen anything like it. I can’t believe a mainstream video game was allowed to be so fucking brutal about the American juggernaut, and what’s more, that it sold like hotcakes. Plus, I can’t think of any works in recent memory that have struck me so close to my own heart. No creative work has made me start beating a monster’s face into a washbasin for ten hours only to lift her by the scalp and see my own eyes looking back.

Look into those eyes. See your own stupid impulses pouring out. Your own stupid excuses, your violences, your sins—your claws, your teeth, your costumes, your hilarious attempts at interpretive dance. The beast doth protest too much.

O, monster—behold thyself—and tremble.

[zeltqz]

It’s crazy how the smallest of incidents could make you hate someone. Especially from a young age.

There you were, in your own little corner of Utopia, you’re grasping a handful of coins in your palm as you stare down the different soda options at the vending machine.

You were extra happy today, having saved up this amount of coins from doing chores around the house, specifically the living room because that was where the spare change always dropped underneath the couch. 

This was your money, no one else’s. At only eight years old, your handful of coins made you feel like the next billionaire, rich enough to buy almost all the drinks at this vending machine.

It’s pretty dumb to be excited over something like this, but you were bored and thirsty. 

The rest of your classmates play around cheerily, laughing thunderously when they’d gotten hit with the colourful water guns, running around volubly to dodge the splashes of water balloons thrown their way.

They’d all learnt long ago not to include you in their games, giving you the distance and space you wanted because frankly…you were a buzzkill. They weren’t sure what had happened to you to cause you to be such a stick in the mud, a buzzkill they’d murmured to each other when you’d walked past.

You weren’t sure either, you just didn’t want to join them. Their idea of fun was lame to you. Splashing around in water like you’re some kind of pond animal. It was filthy and disgusting, and you wanted no part of it.

You were happy by yourself, with your handful of coins, and your drink. 

You lean forward to press a coin into the vending machine, tapping away at some buttons and watch as the can drops down, bending to pick it up and shove the rest of your coins into your back pocket.

“Hey!” A voice of a young boy calls from behind you.

You don’t even bother looking back to see him, opting on cracking the can open and taking a refreshing sip, downing half the contents of it at the same time it takes him to catch up to the vending machine.

He’s out of breath by the time he’s standing before you, hands on knees and panting like he’d ran the equivalent to a marathon. 

“Hey.” You lift your head, turning slowly to face the boy from over your shoulder. “Can—gimme a sec—” He pauses, exhaling all the dirty air from his lungs and you eye him weirdly, watching him with a stank eye as he huffs and puffs, composing himself before standing up straight and your eyes almost widen at how tall he is compared to you. 

“Can I have some?” He points down to your drink and being the stingy little girl you were, you pull it closer towards you. 

“No.”

If you weren’t so ravishingly thirsty, you almost would’ve felt bad at the way his smile turned into a frown.

 “C’mon please, my brother is thirsty and I forgot my change at home and it’s so hot out here—”

“Well boohoo,” you stick your tongue out and take a step backwards. 

The sound of spare change in the front pocket of your overalls catches his attention, but is lost when you start talking again. “I don’t wanna share, so go away.”

The previous frown on his face is washed away, now staring down at you is a boy with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. 

“You don’t have to be sucha bitch all the time.”

The insult has you seething, now even more determined to not share any of your money with him. Ever. 

Shooting him a flat look that mirrors his own, you say, “Well this bitch isn’t drink-less.”

The two of you glare at each other for a moment and your brows are starting to hurt from pinching them so much.

He walks past you to the vending machine, shoving you so hard with his shoulder you almost stumble back, but you manage to ground yourself and watch as he kicks the machine, one, two, three times, then ten times more soda cans drops down.

A bright look appears on his face and he’s waving over his brother who abandons his friends and runs up to the machine in a heartbeat.

His brother is a little shorter in height, wears glasses and has his hair tied up in a little bun that you would find adorable if it wasn’t for the fact they were currently stealing from the machine, using their shirts as a makeshift basket to carry all the drinks. 

A bitter feeling simmered down in the pits of your stomach as you watched them run back to the other side of the playground, handing all the drinks around to your fellow classmates. 

You knew you shouldn’t care because why should you? You had more change in your back pocket to buy the entire world, (not really but one could only dream, right?). 

You may have been stubborn, but you knew when to accept defeat when you had lost. Which is why you felt sort of relieved when you watched the two brothers hand out drinks to the group. 

The boy glances back at you again, lips curled up into a smug smile that made the bitter feeling return inside you quicker than a heartbeat. 

Except this time, that feeling was only reserved for him . 

You went home even angrier than a usual school day, your mother noticing how you stomped your way around the house and asked what was wrong. 

You confided in her, telling her about that boy and his stupid face and smile and height, how he thought he was better than you just because he was taller and could kick a vending machine.

Your mother only laughed and told you to go bed.

Later on, you found out his name was Ran.

That name ended up being everywhere in your life for years to come. As a kid, he was popular, everybody loved him and wanted to befriend him. That popularity never died down even as you both entered your teenage years, 17 years old and still just as, if not more so popular. 

It had been ear aching walking into class and hearing girls talk about how they flirted with him, how he didn’t hesitate to flirt back, how he gave them his number, how let them ride things other his motorcycle. 

Each time you’d heard his name, you felt like you were slowly going insane. 

Ran would recognise you around town. Whenever he’d be hanging out at with his friends, he’d notice you idly walking, or standing by from the corner of his eye. When you’d both make eye contact for a split second, he’d grace you with that smug smile, one that’s been plastered on his face since young age, one that knows gets your blood boiling whenever you’d see it. The smile only intensifies when you’d roll your eyes at him and continue what you were doing. 

It filled him with an ill sense of joy and contentment whenever he’d see your signature eye-roll, scoff, glare, any other sign that you were utterly disgusted with him. 

Though it’s fairly amusing to him, the only thing in question he’s failed to understand for all these years is why you hate him. He’d never done anything to you. 

Your first interaction ended up being the last, because you both never verbally spoke to each other again. 

Verbally never spoken to each other again. 

Physically—lets say there was some moments where he caught you off guard, and you’d fallen for his charm and wits and spent maybe a couple hours in bed together. 

It was a mistake and you knew that. He knew it, but it didn’t feel like one. 

The only mistake that came from that bed incident, was that you used it as leverage to never talk to him again. 

It’s been a couple months since he’s held you, kissed you, looked at you face to face. He doesn’t wanna say that he misses you, no that’s too desperate, too clingy for a one night stand. 

Besides, you’ve seen to move on anyway, judging by the arm around your waist, kissing your cheek from where he’s stood behind you as you fix a drink for yourself. It’s playful, and frisky the way you laugh when he kisses down your neck by your sweet spot, blowing against it almost causing you to drop your cup. 

You’re telling him to stop lemme pour this, I’m thirsty, but your pleas go ignored when he tilts your face to kiss him. 

He makes a face of disgust when he sees who you’re kissing, a guy that at least scratching college whereas you’re in your final year in HS. 

So he’s one of those. 

Ran can’t help but roll his eyes, his jaw aches from clenching it so hard, chewing the soft tissue of his cheek when you drop your drink onto the counter in favour of wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He uses it as leverage to slide his hands downwards, cupping your ass through your jeans and mutters some inaudible words against your bottom lip. 

You can’t help but smile and nod at his words. 

He needs to stop staring at you, surely it’s been long enough for someone to notice his attention is elsewhere. The last thing he wants to come off as is—

“—desperate. Dude!” A nudge to his arm has Ran turning his head, “Why’re you staring in that direction? It’s been like—” 

It was as if a radar went off in Ran’s head, like he’d sensed movement coming from your area. A quick glance in your direction proves him right; your hand sliding playfully between that guys own, the love struck look in your eye as he’s pushing past crowds of people in favour of guiding you up the stairs. 

He decides to take a shot for courage, and his feet move before his friends could even ask where he’s going. 

The sounds of moans ranged throughout the hallway barely drowning out the music from downstairs. Some ranging from desperate pleas to straight up fake moans one would only hear in a porno. That guy clearly had no idea what he was doing. 

The desperate pleas die down a couple moments later and a girl and her lover walk out from the bedroom. 

So that means—

“ Ooh—ooh like that, fuck! You’re so good—yes, keep goin—” 

No, no there’s no way those obviously fake moans are coming from you. You sound like a cheap hooker . 

Ran has to slap a hand over his face, wondering what he would do in a situation where he was fucking a girl and she was so obviously faking her pleasure. He knows how you sound when you’re about to climax, the soft change in your voice when your actual orgasm hits. 

In all honesty, he’s not sure why he cares so much. Not sure why he abandoned his friends downstairs to come listen to his guy have his way with you. 

Just before he could change his mind and walk away, the door opens, the smell of sex following after the guy and wow he didn’t even say goodbye to you, just walks out and heads back downstairs. 

Asshole. 

Ran peeks into the room and you’re readjusting your clothes with a frown on your face. He can’t understand what it’s there for; the bad sex or the lack of aftercare. 

Probably both. 

He can change that though. 

He heads to the bathroom and fixes up his clothes, makes sure he looks his ultimate best before heading back into the hallway, ready to knock when he hears soft moans coming from the door. 

Oh. 

There’s a frustrated groan and shuffling of clothes, then seconds later you walk out. You seem to walk just fine, meaning he didn’t fuck you hard enough to momentarily pause your ability to walk. 

He can change that though. 

That’s when you bump shoulders with him, painfully apologetic before you realise who you’re apologising to. It’s amusing to him how quick all sense of remorse drains from your body, now replaced with a deadpan glare. 

“Oh,” your voice is flat, “it’s you.”

He only chuckles, and your fists clench when his signature smile is back on his face. He nods over in the direction of the room, crossing his arms and doesn’t miss the way your eyes dart to follow the movement. “You have fun in there?”

“Did I have fun—” you pause, face warped in confusion as you try to make do with his words. “Were you listening in on me?”

Yeah, shamefully so.

 “Did it ever occur to you, that you were so loud, the whole damn party heard you?”

That shuts you up. For the first time in years, you look dumbfounded and embarrassed. He’s seeing your face without that infamous glare. 

Your eyes widen and he can see the embarrassment creep into your body and you hide your face in your hands. “Fu ckkkkkk are you serious?”

No, no he’s not. 

But he’s enjoying seeing you like this. 

He removes your hands from your face and looks down at you with an expression you can’t recognise. It’s oddly soft and concerned, and you hate the way it’s making heat blaze your cheeks. 

“Why do you hate me?” He asks, sliding his hands to your wrists, letting them drop to your side. 

You look down at your shoes and shrug. “You just make me angry.”

“What part of me does?” He’s shifting closer with every word, waiting for you to push him away, tell him he smells or something crazy. 

“Every part,” you shove your hands away from his grip and subtly wipe the sweat from your palms onto your jeans. “You just piss me the fuck off.”

“That so?”

He’s so close , when did he get so close? You can smell him. You’re slowly crumbling when he steps a bit closer, a hand darting out to your waist. 

“Fuck off, Ran.” 

The hand you were going to push him away with is caught in his own, and you’re frozen, watching him pull your fingers out from the fist and eyes the wetness staining your fingers under the low hallway light. 

“What are you—” your words die down in your throat when he drags them up into his mouth, licks and sucks your two fingers. 

Everything falls apart around you, the ground crumbling to pieces when you slowly realise it was the hand you’d used on yourself moments prior. 

You do nothing but blink at him, physically can’t do anything but focus on the feeling of his tongue lapping up the underside of your fingers, the prior wetness now replaced with his saliva. You just stare at him, coming to terms and how fucking hot that was. 

He pops your fingers out of his mouth and licks his lips, smiling cheekily down at your dumbfounded face. 

“You ready to head out, now?”

It’s impressive how casual he can act, as if he didn’t just do that, as if he didn’t just fry your brain for days with that action. Who does he think he is? 

Something possesses you, something creeps inside you and takes control over your limbs because you’re dragging him down to your level and smashing your lips together. 

Almost instantly, his hands move to your waist and lifts you easily, carrying you inside the bedroom, kicking it shut behind him. 

The party ends when you both finish. Laying naked under the soft sheets, you slowly realise what you’d done again . You’ve fallen for his charm a second time. 

“So,” he pants, turning to face you, “was that the best you ever had?”

“I’ve had better.” You curl your fingers in the sheets when you feel his fingers flutter against your thighs. “Stop that.”

He ignores the second part of your sentence, hands sliding higher up your body to your hips. “Who was better than me?”

You clear your throat, tongue sitting heavy in your mouth as you think of a name. When none comes to mind, you shrug your shoulders. “You don’t know them.”

“I don’t know, or they don’t exist?”

He laughs when you glare up at him, dodging your hand when you move to hit him. 

“If I say you were the best, would you shut up?”

He leans in to kiss you and it’s almost embarrassing how your mind goes blank as he works his mouth against yours. The trail of his hands sliding hot along your skin burns addictively. 

That’s what Ran is. 

He’s addictive. He possesses some strange ability to put you in your place without even trying, succumbing to his will with nothing than a kiss. 

“Say I was the best you ever had.” He mutters against your lips, continuing to fry your brain when he does something wicked with his teeth and your bottom lip. 

“The best.” You moan into his mouth when his hand tickles your nipple. 

“Good.” He mouths down your jawline, wet and uncaring of the marks he may leave. 

“Your—” You giggle when his lips graze that sensitive spot just under your jaw, above your pulse, your hands moving to tug on his hair. “Your thrusts were a little sloppy though.”

“They were?” He presses you down onto the bed, hovering above you. “Well, we’re still young. We can try again next time.”

“Yeah, we are still young,” you totally miss the second part of his sentence, only realising when he’s shifting off of you to put his clothes back on. “Wait, next time?” He nods and you shake your head, “no, no this was a one time thing.”

“Uh huh, sure.” He vaguely remembers the last time you’d said that in bed.

“Let’s just blame this on the alcohol.”

He quirks a brow in your direction, only mildly hurt but refuses to show it. “We never drank anything though?”

“Yeah well no shit, Ran. Keep up.” Your shirt and bra is tossed at your face in an attempt to silence you. “Very mature of you.” You ignore his snort in favour of sliding your bra back on. “Just saying that’s my excuse if anyone finds out about this.”

“You really hate me that much, don’t you?”

“Well,” you grab your pants and throw them on, “I didn’t exactly talk all that shit about how overrated you are just to end up in bed with you.”

“But you did though.”

“And,” you crawl up to his edge of the bed and tap his nose, “now nobody needs to know.”

It’s a shame when you avoid him for weeks to come, though he should’ve seen it coming. This was the second time you’ve done this, let him hit then disappear for however long.

This time, the disappearance was shorter than most others. 

There’s a knock at his front door and his brother opens it, spoonful of ice-cream in his mouth as he lets you inside, yelling for Ran to come downstairs.

Ran’s been waiting for this moment, has been waiting to get his hands on you again, hoping you got tired of fucking around with other guys, finally ready to come back to him.

Except, you look ultimately serious when you step inside his house, hands shaking in fear and on the verge of biting off the skin on your lips from how hard your teeth are sinking into it.

“Hey, wait—what’s wrong?” He runs up to you when the tears fall from your eyes, wiping them with his palm and uses this as an excuse to hold you close. You’re sobbing into his shirt, hands gripping onto his back for leverage as he tries to calm you down. “Shhh, you can talk to me about anything.”

“No, I can’t.” Your throat feels clogged and your hands are still shaking even as he sets you down on his couch, ordering Rindou to grab some water for you.

“Look at me.” He’s wiping your face and you flutter your lashes, looking up at him. “What happened? Is everything okay?”

“I’m—” you can’t even look him in the eye, busy regretting everything over the last couple weeks, “I’m pregnant, Ran.”

The silence is painful, gut wrenching, the lump in your throat only getting bigger by the second the longer he doesn’t speak.

“Can—” you clear your throat, choking your words out, “can you say something, please?”

“Just—” He presses his hands against his face, exhaling deeply, “sorry, repeat that?”

“I’m  not repeating myself.”

He pauses for a fraction of a second, staring you in the eye, then stands up and paces the proximity of his living room. It’s an understandable reaction. You’d gone silent as you stared at the five positive pregnancy tests sitting on the floor of your bathroom.

“This doesn’t—how the—what the fuck?! You’re eighteen , you can’t be pregnant—”

“I’m not sure that’s how biology works, Ran.” His brother calls out from the kitchen, ultimately ruining the moment, souring Ran’s mood even further.

“Rindou, shut the fuck up and do something useful for once.”

His brother only chortles, hiding the comeback that knocking up a girl is much more useful than anything he’s doing on his tongue.

If it wasn’t such a serious situation, you would’ve laughed along with his brother at the irony of Ran’s sentence.

Rindou tosses you the bottle of water and bag of chips, tenderly squeezing your shoulder before heading up the stairs and for a second, you regret fucking the wrong brother.

“Are you sure it’s mine?”

You can’t stop the glare that houses its way onto your face. “Are you—” you choke on your own voice, feeling dizzy with how quickly you stood up, the bag of chips falling onto the floor in the process, “—you’re serious right now?”

He stays silent. 

“Oh my god, you’re fucking ridicuous. Yes, Ran,” your voice spits venom when you say his name, “it’s fucking yours.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m lost now, are you deaf or just indirectly calling me a slut?”

He laughs, clearly unamused. “Of course you’d head to that conclusion. Are you always this dramatic?”

“I’m dramatic?”

“I’m asking if it’s mine, or that college junkie you slept with minutes prior to me.”

“College junki—” You rack your brain back to that night, remembering the failed hookup, the way he struggled to even stick it inside for the first couple moments, “—he’s not in college. And he’s not a junkie, what?! He’s in my class, and you’d know that if you actually showed up to school!”

“Ohh,” he scoffs, “so now you’re calling me uneducated?”

“Yeah. I am. You’re a fuckin’ idiot, coming into my life, trying to seduce me with your little moves to get me into bed with you and for fucks sake!” You groan, pulling at your hair, the true gravity of the situation dawns on you. You slept with an idiot, now you’re bound to this idiot forever. This was such a mistake, a pitiful mistake that you have to pay the price for. For the next nine months and the rest of your life.

“You know, last I checked, it takes two people to fuck. You let me, so you’re not about to turn this on me—”

“You should’ve left me alone.”

“You shouldn’t have let me in.”

You pause, and look up at him for only a split second, unable to even stare him in the eye. “Wow. It’s—you’re really—after I told you I’m pregnant with your —”

“Who said it’s mine?!”

“You rlly think I’d lie to you?! I don’t even like you! Why WOULD I WILLINGLY WANT YOU IN MY LIFE?!” You barely manage to push out the tears before they’re falling, watering his wooden tiles. “Coming here was such a mistake. I’m out.”

You tasted blood in your mouth for how hard you bit into your cheek, blinded by sheer frustration and anger alone. His front gate opens before you can get to the front door, and his parents walk inside, carrying grocery bags in hand.

“We’re home—oh, hello dear. Who must you be?” His mother steps out of the way and lets his father pass.

You look over at Ran who looks like all colour has drained from his face if you open your mout—

“Your son got me pregnant ma’am.” 

The tears fall once more from your eyes, except this time it’s deliberate, even going as far as to slip a side glance over towards Ran.

Her face falls and she feels faint, his father drops the groceries and by the time you manage to slip out from her hold, the house has practically burnt up in flames from the sheer wrath of his parents' anger.

idk if i shld do a part two n force him to take sum responsibility 🤦🏾‍♀️

i just had a dream and wanted to write this out before it left my brainnnnnnuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

[petermorwood]

In reaction to this post, @irlactualwizard wrote:

This is beautiful. On the note about maces and the like, they're traditionally horseback weaponry. I'm unsure of the usefulness or practicality of a dagger tucked away in a weapon primarily used from 'higher ground' or where CQC wouldn't be common. I mean, fall off the horse, drop the mace and draw the saber or katar. Although, redundancy is what keeps humans alive. It does strike me as odd that they wouldn't have shoved an extra weapon in just for the niche.

That notion of dropping the mace then drawing something else with longer (or for really close quarters, shorter) reach is something which may well have happened, though not just because it was an exclusively cavalry weapon. All the other weapons were also used from horseback, and in one instance its original Indo-Persian name is pretty specific about equestrian origins.

The zaghnal, that wicked pick-axe thing...

(yup, there's a dagger...)

...has a European equivalent called a "horseman's pick" and supposedly copied from Ottoman weapons which would have been zaghnal-shaped; this one is Polish or Hungarian...

The hatchet-knife bhuj was - per Wikipedia, Bygone Blades and Oriental Arms - a popular weapon with the Gujarati and Sindhi cavalry, who also wore a distinctive style of full armour...

(yup, there's a dagger)

(This time there's a gun, and probably a dagger too because why not?)

Most conclusively, the proper name for Indo-Persian battleaxes is tabar / tabarzin, which means "saddle-axe".

These included some of the few real-life examples of double-headed battleaxes (with daggers, but of course...)

Though popular in fantasy art, IRL usual practice was to have an axe on one side and something different like a hammer or pick on the other side in case the axe wasn't effective enough against whatever kind of armour the opponent was wearing.

And of course even single-headed axes often had the usual dagger tucked away.

Here's yet another with a sword-hilt (also possibly a dagger) and a built-in matchlock gun...

And here's one where some warrior just couldn't make up his mind.

Here's a mace with a similar (khanda broadsword) hilt:

I took a close look at various mace-pics I've posted (here and here), something I should have done before, then searched further on-line, and I'm starting to think they had no daggers because mostly their hafts were solid rather than hollow...

Thanks go to @irlactualwizard for prompting me to track down an answer to my own question - though I'll be waiting for someone who knows far more about Indian weapons to correct me. :-P

Finally, here's a display case showing three more maces, a couple of the double- (here triple-) -bladed daggers called haladie, and a few examples of what Indian weaponsmiths could do with the basic concept of a sword blade...

...including making use of a European hilt, top row second left. Its blade may have been mounted on an Indian khanda or talwar hilt, which happened often enough to create a whole class of "firangi" (Frankish) swords.

There are many more pics on my blog and elsewhere. Once again, for fantasy edged-weapon inspirations, India is a great place to start...

:->

[cerastes]

hey, i'm planning to get armored core 6 despite never playing any of those games before and since you seem pretty knowledgeable about them i was wondering if you have any tips for someone totally new to the series?

Sorry for the super late answer!

The first thing I can tell you about Armored Core is that you have to get comfy because half of the game is high speed intense high octane combat, and the other half is accounting. Brother, I know how much you want to go back to the part where rifles go bang and swords go swoosh and you have enough Gs on your body that you could passably cosplay a plate of mashed of potatoes, but you gotta do the Excel spreadsheet part, too.

It's really not as bad as it seems, and once it clicks, you know exactly what to look for. But if you want to get all the juice out of the tenga, you have to sit down and take a deep gander at how the systems click. Once you do, trust me on this one, an endless horizon of options will stretch before you because that's when you'll know exactly how to tailor your big death machine to your exact specifications and playstyle. It's deep, but also deeply rewarding!

Next up, something universally useful in Armored Core: Turning Speed. If you can mod, upgrade, or otherwise improve your "Turning Speed" (or equivalent) stat, crank that up as often as you can. It's always a powerful tool, it's always very useful, it's never superfluous. This ties in to the next point:

Your strongest weapon is your camera. When fighting other ACs, player controlled or otherwise, your strongest tool, throughout the games, has been to keep your opponent in your camera, and to stay out of your opponent's camera. Movement is huge in Armored Core, you need to move so as to 1) keep your enemy in your sights, 2) stay out of your enemy's sights, and 3) line up shots. We call this "lining up a vector" or "keeping the enemy in a vector". What this means is that you want to set up your enemy in such a way that they are moving in a direct vector relative to you -- directly towards you or away from you -- so that your shot with stronger, single shot weaponry will land and deal significant damage. You set up this vector while also trying to not be 'caught' in one yourself, and as you may think, this is hard, because if they are in your vector, you are in most situations also in theirs. So, the solution? Be outside of their camera while they are in yours. Can't shoot what they aren't aiming at, right? This is a lot to take in, I know, but you don't have to commit all of this to execution off rip, just keep it in mind, develop your playstyle and learn naturally with this in the back of your head until it clicks and you start being able to see, through your own playstyle, how it is you'll do that.

One final thing I want to recommend is that you don't fall for the allure of The Big Damage Number without considering other factors. Especially when learning, you want to make a balanced build: Have your single shot strong weapons, like a grenade launcher or sniper rifle, paired with a weaker but easier to land weapon, like assault rifles or machine guns, and compliment this further with some sort of auxiliary tool or weapon, like flares that give you leeway, or missiles that can put further pressure on your enemy. In general, when starting out their Armored Core journey, I recommend to people the following loadout: Grenade launcher, assault rifle, laser sword, missile launcher. This is a well rounded toolkit that'll keep you effective at most ranges, and more importantly, will reveal to you, your own preferences. Once you become a super Newtype ace pilot fuckhouse, you'll doubtlessly make your own deathkaiser machine with quadruple railguns or missileboats or pure melee builds, but to get to that point where you know exactly what you want to do, a balanced build helps in letting you learn where your heart leans, what kind of movement-to-bulk ratio works best for you, which weapons are your favorite, etc.

[callsign-dexter]

I Apologize

Request: Ohhh mi lord I love your writing so damn much ! So let me be selfish and shoot in an idea ☺️ A Bradley Bradshaw one where you're dating but recently had a bad fight before he left for Top Gun and you haven't talked since then. Everyone notice him being grumpy and moody because if that so Maverick decided to do something. He calls you and makes you come to the base just before the mission starts to surprise Bradley. He's more than happy and you both apologize and it's all just terribly fluffy and cute ? 💕

Pairings: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Benjamin!Air Force Pilot!Reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, swearing, mentions of cheating, inaccurate military talk

Masterlist

A/N: I'm sorry if this is not what you asked for but I figured I would throw in some twists.

A/N Pt. 2: A captain in the Air Force is equivalent to a lieutenant in the Navy.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw knew he had fucked up royally when, you, his girlfriend of several years, when he first went to Top Gun, walked out and didn't return home. It honestly was a stupid fight he should've just told you what he was doing and not keeping a secret. He loved you so much that he wanted to marry you, you being Capt. Y/N 'Fireball' Benjamin an Air Force F-16 Pilot. With you being located in Luke Air Force Base located in Airzona you were only 5 hrs away from California.

Bradley arrived at The Hard Deck in his Hawaiian shirt after the fight in a sour mood looking for someone to take it out on and Jake 'Hangman' Seresin was just the target. The fight just kept playing through his head since he walked out of the house and took the 5 hr drive to California from Arizona after you had stormed out of the house, that you both owned together, to the base housing to stay with a coworker, At this point, he didn't even know if you were still together or not which just worsened his mood. He stood in the doorway of The Hard Deck when he heard Natasha's voice.

"Bradshaw! Is that you? This is how I find out you’re stateside?" She said seeing him in the doorway and walked over to her.

"Yeah, I just thought I’d surprise you. Hmm." He said and Natasha take her shot at the billiards making sure to hit him in the stomach making him double over holding his stomach. She already knew everything that happened and wanted to make him pay for hurting her friend.

"I guess I surprised you back." She said annoyed with him not telling her about being stateside and for what he did to you. If only she knew what he was planning.

"It’s good to see you." Natasha said truthfully but still pretty pissed.

"Good to see you too." He replied.

"How's Y/N?" She asked Bradley even tho she already knew the answer.

"Pissed. Stormed out of the house after a fight we had. She thought I was cheating on her when I wasn't." Bradley told her not telling her the full truth. Then Jake's voice comes through.

"Bradshaw. As I live and breathe." Jake said taking the pool stick from Bob who was about to shoot the ball.

"Hangman. You look… good." Bradley said to Jake.

"Well, I am good, Rooster. I’m very good. In fact, I am too good to be true." Jake said while taking his shot while looking up. "So, anybody know what this special detachment is all about? No, mission’s a mission. They don’t confront me. What I want to know: Who’s gonna be team leader?" Jake continues "And which one of y’all has what it takes to follow me?"

"Hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave." Bradley shot back. Everyone stopped talking and some faces fell as Jake stood up from taking his shot.

"Well, anyone who follows you is just gonna run out of fuel. But that’s just you, ain’t it, Rooster? You’re snug on that perch, waiting for just the right moment… That never comes." Jake fired back. The tension was thick and it didn't help that Bradley just fought with you, the woman he loved and wanted to marry and have kids with. He was wondering what she was doing at this exact moment. The music changed to Slow Ride. "I love this song." Jake said and walked off. Bradley really wanted to be with you right now, you were the only thing that kept him grounded.

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

The fight kept playing in your head as you drove back to your house after pouring your heart out to your wingman and then Natasha. What started the fight was that he was missing some dates and hiding his phone. You even called your mom, Penny Benjamin, and cried until you couldn't anymore.

*Flashback*

Anything that could go wrong. Went wrong. Your jet had engine problems even though it was thoroughly checked over. Bradley had canceled the second time on you for a date night. You had a feeling that he was sneaking around and it was confirmed when his phone lit up while he was in the shower and you checked it.

Are we still on for tonight? You're gonna love it!

Your heart sped up seeing those words. You didn’t even see the name of the person who sent it. You locked his phone and got busy cleaning the kitchen over and over again, waiting for him to get out of the shower since he had to go back to Top Gun early that morning. When he finally got out of the shower the kitchen was spotless and you stood at the counter with your hands resting on it. You had a pissed-off look on your face but he didn't notice.

"Hey, Honey!" Bradley said and came over to kiss you but you didn't return it and turned your face so he kissed your cheek. He had started calling you 'Honey' because according to him you were as sweet as honey so he used that instead of your offical callsign. When you moved so he kissed you on the cheek instead of the lips confused him but you were so mad that you didn't see it just kept looking forward. "Everything ok, Honey?" He asked you but you didn't answer, just grabbed his phone and shoved it into his chest. He was confused until he saw the message from Eva and his heart dropped. "Baby, it's not what it looks like." He said dropping his phone you rolled your eyes and started off to your guys' room.

"I really thought you were better than that." You said pushing past him and down the hall to the bedroom. Bradley was behind you following behind you like a lost puppy. "All of these years that I loved you. You've been sleeping with another woman." You said and grabbed your duffle back and started to pack your clothes and uniform for the next day.

"Honey, it's not what you think! I'm not cheating on you. Trust me. I love you wholeheartedly!" Bradley pleaded standing in the doorway watching you pack. You scoffed.

"How long?" You asked looking at him and he looked at you crazily but you weren't paying attention. You rolled your eyes "Not going to answer me.... of course." You said and zipped your bag up and slung it over your shoulder and started walking out of the room and he stopped you.

"Y/N, baby. Nothing is going on between me and Eva." He said and his face fell further when your face paled and fell and tears started to form.

"Oh she has a name now." You said while pushing past him and started towards the door, dinner be damned he can fend for himself. You got to the kitchen and grabbed your keys.

"Where are you going?" He said and you jumped not hearing him come up behind you. You turned around.

"I'm going over to Whiskey's and Kasper's." Bradley's face paled and dropped. Jay 'Whiskey' Kean was not a threat far from it and neither was Ryan 'Kasper' Braxton. He is your wingman and Kasper was his husband and Bradley has met both of them. The reason Bradley's face paled was that you were leaving and he didn't know if you were coming back. He should've just told you what was going on and not have been so secretive. He knew about your past relationship and how to guy had cheated on you for all of the 6 months that you were in a relationship, he promised you he wouldn't do that to you.

"Baby. Honey. Y/N." He tired but you ignored him and walked out the door and to your Jeep.

As you were getting in you yelled over your shoulder "Have fun with Eva." You said you shut your door and started the engine and took off.

First, you called Natasha you had met when she went to Top Gun and you were at The Hard Deck and made instant friends. Second, you called your momma and bawled your eyes out, and told her where you were going. Finally, you called Whiskey and explained everything and he said that you're welcome to come over anytime and that Kasper, loves seeing you.

You arrived at Whiskey's place and he was standing out there with Kasper waiting for you. You pulled in and killed the engine. You got out and they came to you and Whiskey. Whiskey took in his arms and hugged and you hugged back letting the tears flow while Kasper got your bag. They walked you in and you started to tell them everything.

Meanwhile, Bradley was running his hands through his damp hair. He screwed up, big time. There was a knock at the door and he went to answer it hoping it was you but you would've just walked in. He opened the door and Eva was standing there with the ring box in her hand and a smile. Her smile fell when she saw the panicked look on his face.

"Everything ok?" Eva asked and Bradley shook his head.

"I messed up big time." He said and Eva didn't understand.

"Tell me what happened?" She said pushing her way into the house. Eva was from the ring store and she was helping Bradley get the perfect ring, she was happily married with a kid and a kid on the way.

"She thought I was cheating on her with you. She must've noticed that I was being secretive, coming home late, and hiding my phone. I tried to tell it was nothing and it really is. She left before I could explain.

"Oh Bradley I'm sorry. Do you still want the ring?" Eva asked.

"Yes please. I'm gonna give her a few days to cool down and explain to her. I want it to be with me just in case. I love her." Bradley said and Eva smiled.

"She'll forgive you. Here." Eva said and handed Bradley the black box. He opened it and a gorgeous princess-cut ring with diamonds coming up the side stared back at him. It was perfect. It was you.

Bradley waited all night for you to come home. You didn't come home. He knew he had to be in California soon. So he packed his bags for Top Gun and left a note in case you didn't decide to come home.

5 hrs later he arrived at The Hard Deck with the fight still playing and his mood soured. He wanted you back.

*End of flashback*

You wanted to believe him but you didn't know if you could. You should've just listened to him and heard him out but you couldn't take that chance.

"You think I'm wrong for walking out?" You asked Whiskey and Kasper and they shook their heads.

"No, we don't think so. Though you probably just need to cool down and then go talk to him tomorrow." Kasper said and you knew was right.

"I can't do it tomorrow he'll be gone back to Top Gun for a mission." You said and started to bawl again thinking that he could die and you both wouldn't be able to make up.

"Ok well let's get some sleep and get through work and then we can worry about it. How does that sound?" Whiskey asked you.

You nodded "Ok. Yea. That sounds good." And that is what you did.

The next day you got through work and luckily your jet was fixed and no problems arose. When you landed you did the post checklist and then left your jet to work on some other stuff. You went through several hops and each one was successful and you even did some dogfighting which you lost and won some.

When the end of the day rolled around Whiskey and Kasper strolled up to you. You greeted them both with a hug and you all walked out to your vehicles. You broke the silence.

"Thank you, guys, guys for letting me crash at your place. I'm gonna head home for lunch and see what damage was left behind, then meet you both back here. Bradley might not even be there." You said and the last part came out a little sad, both men noticed.

"Anything for you Fireball." They smiled and hugged you. They both came up with the callsign Fireball for you because one you rolled in with fire in your eyes and two when you all went out all you drank was Fireball Whiskey and still to this day you do.

You got in your Jeep and started it while they got in their truck. You rolled out before them. When you got home and didn't see the Bronco your suspensions were right and he had already left for California. You walked in and the house was silent and the only light was the sunlight coming in considering it was only noon. You weren't down with work but were home for lunch. There was a note addressed to you in his handwriting, you went to it and read it.

Dear Honey,

I just want to say I'm not cheating you. You have to believe me. You're the love of my life. I was trying to surprise you with something special and I still want to surprise you.

I love you with all of my heart and wouldn't dare break your heart. By the time you read this, I'll probably be in California at Top Gun.

By the time I get back, if I get back, I hope we can talk and work it out.

Love, Bradley

You rolled your eyes and made your lunch and sat down to eat in silence. You checked your phone, which you had turned on silent, and saw several missed notifications most from Bradley, some from Natasha, and some from your mom. You answered everyone's but Bradley’s. You finished lunch and headed back to base to finish out the work day.

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

2 days after the fight

The training for the mission was going smoothly for the most part but Bradley's mood soured. He hadn't heard from you in two days and was snapping at anyone and everyone and it didn't help that Maverick was his instructor.

Maverick noticed the bad attitude and wanted to get to the bottom of it. He knew that Bradley was dating Penny's daughter so when they had a break he went straight to her to find out the problem. Penny didn't want to tell her daughter's problems but she too had noticed the bad of Bradley and wanted it fixed so she spilled everything.

"They apparently had a big fight before he came here. She called me bawling her eyes out saying that they had a fight and that he was cheating on her with some girl named Eva." Penny told Maverick and he was shocked.

"Bradley? No Bradley wouldn't do that he's too much like Goose." Maverick said as they sat at the bar.

"That's what I'm saying but when she gets her mind set on something you can hardly change it. I tried talking to her but she wasn't listening. There is more to the story, I just know it." Penny replied.

"I want to bring her here and have them talk it out. He needs his attitude to change and work with his teammates." Maverick said and Penny agreed. She gave him your phone number and said if he couldn't reach you that way then try your office number and your extension.

"She may be up in the air if she doesn't answer either phone." She told and that surprised him. Before he could ask Penny answered him "She's a captain in the Air Force. She's an F-16 pilot." Penny said turning and walking away. Maverick was surprised by that, he knew that she was in the military but didn't know what branch or what she did.

He left The Hard Deck and decided when he got back to the base he would call her. As much as Bradley hated him, Maverick cared for that boy.

Maverick arrived back at base and went to his office to start calling. He tried your cell phone first hoping you would answer your cell phone first. Thankfully you answered your cell phone.

"Hello, this is Captain Y/N Benjamin." You said since the number was an unknown number.

"Hi, this is Pete Mitchell. You probably don't remember me but I've known you since you were little." Maverick said and you knew who he was instantly just by the sound of his voice.

"Hi, Pete. I remember you. What can I do for you?" You asked him.

"Please call me Maverick. This may sound strange but I work with Bradley and I know you are together and just had a big fight. But his attitude has been so bad and he hasn't been getting along with anyone. I was wondering if you would come down and talk to him, and see if his mood changes." He almost sounded like he was pleading and he heard you sighed he hoped it was a good sigh.

"Listen I don't know what my mom told you but he and I fought. He was cheating on me and I can't do that again. In my last relationship, my ex cheated on me the entire relationship. I don't know if I can trust him or forgive him." You told him.

"I know Bradley he's too much like his daddy and when he loves someone he loves them hard. All I'm asking is to hear him out and talk it out. Please." Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell was actually pleading. You thought about it.

"Fine. I'll head there after work. I'll be there around 5 PM." You finally said and you heard Maverick sigh in relief.

"Thank you so much. Meet us at The Hard Deck. Bye Y/N." He said.

"I'll listen but we'll see how it turns out. I'll see you there. Bye Maverick." You said and hung up.

You figured you would hear him out. 12 PM rolled around and you were done for the day. You didn't bother changing so you just got in your Jeep and started the 5 hr trip to California. You told Whiskey and Kasper and they wanted to come too but you told them you had to deal with it on your own and that you would see them tomorrow.

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

The Hard Deck wasn't that packed when you arrived at 5 PM then again most people were just getting off. You walked in and took off your cap and saw a bunch of flight suits and khaki uniforms, you really felt out of place in your Air Forced issued tiger stripped ACUs. You looked for Bradley but couldn't see him but you instantly spotted Maverick and Penny and went to them. Your mom spotted you and waves you behind the bar and gave you a hug. Then you turned attention to Maverick.

"Y/N I'm so glad you came!" Maverick exclaimed and you smiled and went to sit beside him and turned to him as he turned to you.

"Anything to help with his mood. Even though I pissed at him." You said mood dampening with the thought of what he did.

"I honestly don't think Bradley was cheating on you sweetheart. He's too much like Goose." Your mother told him and you were going to reply but heard the bell chime and looked back to see Bradley and he saw you and stopped in his tracks making the group he was with stop as well but they went on. Bradley walked up to you.

"Honey." Bradley said in an sigh of relief. You could cut the tension with a knife. "I'm so glad to see you." He continued.

"I'm still incredibly pissed at you." You said turning to look at him in his khaki uniform. You were very well aware of your mom and Maverick watching you. "I'm here to listen. So talk." You said and crossed your arms.

"Not here. Let's go outside." He told you and you let him take your hand and lead the way outside to the deck, where you could feel eyes on you but you didn't pay attention. He crossed your arms and gave him a nod to go on and so he did. "I didn't not cheat on you." He started and you wanted to say something but you said you would listen. "The reason I was missing dates, coming home late, and hiding my phone was because she was helping me with buying an engagement ring." He said and you were speechless. He looked at you to say something.

"How do I know you're not lying to me?" You asked him not wanting to be in another bad relationship.

"Because she's happily married and has a kid and kid on the way. She works at a jewelry store in Arizona." Bradley explained and you started to believe him. "If you don't believe than this might change your mind. I was going to do it at our spot but this is perfect, then again anywhere would be perfect." He pulled out the ring box that he had been carrying around since he got it that night of the fight.

"Bradley-" You began but he cut you off and got on one knee. He was holding the box open to display the gorgeous princess-cut dimond ring with diamonds coming up the side. It was exactly how you pictured your engagement ring.

"Y/N 'Fireball' Benjamin you stole my heart when I walked into this very same bar when I first went to Top Gun and you were at The bar helping your mom. I thought you were gorgeous and I knew that you were the one. I remember the flirting and the failed asks to ask you out. I never want to have a fight with you again and have the possibility of losing you again. I'm sorry and I apologize for keep this from you and not treating you right as a boyfriend should those past couple of weeks. I also apologize for making you think I was cheating on you and making you live your worst nightmare. I just have to ask. Will you marry me?" Bradley poured his heart out to you, you had your hand on covering your mouth and tears were falling. You were about to answer when someone yelled out the door.

"Say yes!" Someone yelled and then you heard a slap on the arm your hand fell and you laughed "Ow! Phoenix!" They yelled. You looked back yo find a blonde male aviator being slapped by none other Natasha 'Phoenix' Trace.

"Shut up Bagman let her answer." Natasha said. You and Bradley laughed and he looked at you.

"Yes, Bradley. I'll marry you." You said and he sighed in relief. He slid the ring on your finger and got up and kissed you both hands coming to your face and yours did the same. You pulled away for air and to say "I apologize for blowing up at you. I had a bad day that day and so many problems with my jet even tho it was checked thoroughly. Then I jumped to conclusions instead of talking to you so for that, I apologize to." You told him and his response was just to kiss you again.

Everything was right in the world of Y/N and Bradley. Penny also took pictures of the engagement.

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

Over the next couple of days and leading up to the mission Bradley's mood changed towards everyone and Maverick. Y/N went back to Arizona and told Whiskey and Kasper what happened and they practically squealed with excitement and a 'Finally! It's about time!' Which made you laugh.

The mission came and went and everyone got back safely. Some scrapes, bruises, and sore bodies were the only injuries. Bradley went home to Y/N and they started to plan a wedding.

They apologized to each other and Y/N got to meet Eva and she thanked her for helping Bradley pick out the ring. She even got to meet the family.

Everything was whole again in the Benjamin-Bradshaw houseold.

[raineandsky]

The Villain's Housekeeper FINALE

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9) (part 10) (part 11)

“Are you ready?”

The villain can barely contain their grin. “Go on, show me.”

The hero appears around the doorway with a teasing smile of their own. Bright, free, unabashed delight shines back at the villain. The injuries on their skin are fading into dulled blemishes, the blood long since scrubbed from their hands. The best part of all though, by far, is the incredible outfit they’ve put together for the villain’s entertainment.

“Wow,” the villain sighs with exaggerated dreaminess. The maid outfit was long forgotten in their mind, but now they kind of want to watch the hero to dust something. “Nostalgic. Is this really what you spent crucial minutes packing?”

They’d briefly descended on the villain’s house in a flurry of bags and unshaped plans. The hero, with no possessions to really collect, had clearly decided to pack the really important stuff.

And now they’re hiding out in a small safehouse the supervillain had pointed them to. Not exactly home, but four walls and a roof will have to do the two of them for now.

The supervillain had finally slowed down a safe distance away from the chaos on that fateful day, only managing to give the hero a sad smile before turning to the villain. “You know we can’t take an informant with us,” she’d said in the low tones of someone trying to stay out of earshot. “They’ll say anything to anyone to protect themself. We can’t trust someone like that.”

The villain had known this, deep down. It’d still sucked to make the choice.

But here the hero is, positively beaming and showing off their extraordinary legs in their tiny little maid’s dress, and the villain can’t help but feel like they made the right decision.

“I tried to pack the hoover,” the hero says with a sarcastic grin, “but it didn’t fit in the suitcase.”

The villain tuts and waves them over to the sofa they’re lounging on. It’s small and dingy (“it’s well-loved,” the hero had insisted) but the hero is quite happy taking up half of the villain’s lap as they settle down next to them. On them. It’s a bit of both, really.

The two of them sink into comfortable silence. The hero’s head rests on the villain’s shoulder, their breath warm on the other’s neck. The villain’s finger similarly finds their leg, tracing idle shapes into the skin the maid’s dress is refusing to be modest about. They don’t bother hiding their smirk when the hero shudders under their touch.

“Thank you for surviving,” the hero says eventually. “I know it was hard.”

The force of the laugh that tears from the villain’s throat jolts the hero slightly.

Thank you for surviving. What a low bar. Surviving is the only goal the villain has ever really strived for. Villainy was for survival. Their work was for survival. The hero was… well, they were a rare exception. They were a death sentence. They were a loaded gun that the villain had practically shoved into their own mouth.

Well, they can’t even give the hero that much credit. The villain had aimed a gun at themself anyway. Their hand had trembled at the solid weight of the thing, their heart had jumped at the sensation of the trigger brushing against their finger, but they’d done it. For the hero.

And survived. Thank you for surviving. The villain could echo it back to them and mean every word of it, no matter how mirrored. Thank you for surviving. Thank you for holding out hope for me. Thank you for giving me a reason to survive. Thank you for surviving with me.

But the quiet is comfortable. That’s too many words. The hero is settled back into them, their fingertip tracing over the patterns in the villain’s shirt. They can’t ruin this moment with the verbal equivalent of spilling a glass of wine. The carpet’s greasy, but it’s still white.

So they lean into the hero’s shoulder and simply say, “Thank you for making surviving worth it.”

Taglist:

@runarelle @thiefofthecrowns @morning-star-whump @epiclamer @tekanparadiae @yourslimeologist @greengrassandflowers @subval01

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 5/21/2024

get a load of this cat

listening

one of my favorite bands, Joywave, dropped a new album last week! it is not my favorite album of theirs but so it goes. perhaps it needs more time to grow on me. Sleepytime Fantasy kicks off my favorite section of the album. video game enchanted ice cave dream sequence music.

i must stay true to my own rules for this series (not a rec series, genuinely what i've been into the most this week) and the song that's been on loop all week is a genshin impact character's theme music (punchy wolf-coded ice cop who is the duke of the prison he. runs? administers? don't worry about it). unfortunately a bop. the character music lately has been a lot more modern and experimental than i expected? this one has a police siren drop

-

reading

thank you mackintosh.

i really, really enjoyed Trouble And Her Friends by Melissa Scott (LAMBDA award winner 1995)! @delta-orionis and i frequently ask ourselves "what if neuromancer was good?" and this scratches that itch for me. it is often difficult for me to take neuromancer's protagonist henry seriously, but this book features a pair of extremely practical dykes. it opens on the passing of a new american law criminalizing big swathes of online activity, passed despite a presidential veto. description from amazon

Less than a hundred years from now, the forces of law and order crack down on the world of the computer nets. The hip, noir adventurers who get by on wit, bravado, and drugs, and haunt the virtual worlds of the Shadows of cyberspace, are up against the encroachments of civilization. It's time to adapt or die. India Carless, alias Trouble, got out ahead of the feds and settled down to run a small network for an artist's co-op. Now someone has taken her name and begun to use it for criminal hacking. So Trouble returns. Once the fastest gun on the electronic frontier, she had tried to retire-but has been called out for one last fight. And it's a killer.

this startled me by how fun and competent it is! i tried reading one of the author's books last year (Dreamships) and had a miserable time with the pacing and flow of information. there are echoes of the pacing issues i had with the last book-- this is a nearly four hundred page hardcover, we have a lot of Next Locations to go to, and we are going to take our fucking time getting there. a road trip book, rather than a destination book. Scott has gotten way way better at fleshing out those locations— an artists' co-op has their skylights set to amber to hide the wear and tear on everything in their central hangout space when the feds show up. i also connected with the inciting incident way more-- someone stealing a female hacker’s name and style is instantly relatable. i am riding shotgun with Trouble. i am ready to throw down with her.

it's a very physical book in many ways, bc it has three brief sex scenes, is very concerned with sensuality in both senses of the word, and overall it's like the background in an anime that’s full of dials and buttons and little blinky lights. written in 1994, fascjnating how much concepts of VR and sensory inputs have not changed, but everyone still has the equivalent of an enormous old school desktop and giant CRT monitors set up. everyone is constantly lugging around so much physical tech. the stuff that makes you better at hacking in the net is quick reactions to VR sensations, the only way to get that cutting edge sensation is to get a physical chip or “worm” in your head, and the only people who do that are the core outcasts and freaks of the internet (the gays, the women, the people of color, the all three, presumably the furries as well). from that day to this…

there's an interesting contrast between Trouble and her old partner Cerise stalking the virtual reality bazaars/being queens of the BBS undergrounds, and the danger they feel and face when moving about in the real world. some reviewers are very cranky about how negotiations on and offline feel the same but i did not feel this particular quibble. communication is communication. it is known both on and offline that they're 1) women and 2) lesbians. they're in less physical danger online but slurs can still happen no matter where they are. also, i am well used to the necessity of having to posture and peacock and be kind of a bitch to establish myself in order to get anything done in coding/hardware scenes, which is something i don't think any of the male reviewers of the day ever had to think about.

some cowboy shit goes down at the end that had me hooting and hollering, and Scott handled the hacking scenes in an interesting way-- a sort of abstracted duel? terrific "fight" scenes. very interesting at how she will move things around in order to treat scenes in ways she's good at-- like establishing very grounded locations that feel real, physical sensations, and fight scenes-- instead of just kind of slogging through a very surface level high-overview travelogue like in her last book. ive been stuck on a fic chapter for like four years and this is making me think about doing it the fun way instead of the way i thought it should be done. this may be obvious but i am an amateur and more importantly an idiot.

this was a $6/1 book special last year at one of my favorite thrift stores, a religious shop with the absolute worst vibes in the greater houston area but some of the best stuff

-

watching

Five Dolls For An August Moon (1970, dir. Brava). sometimes you see a cool title on kanopy and you don't have a better way to kill an hour and a half. plus it had some guys i know from cowboys. tw for a suicide's body in the first fucking ten seconds of the trailer, which is a weird trailer choice bc u don't actually see most of the murders in the movie.

ive watched a fuck of a lot of spaghetti westerns so i feel i am somewhat qualified to tell you this is one of the worst dubs ive ever seen. the lines actors are quarter-heartedly delivering do not always make a lot of sense and only occasionally match the subtitles. i am assuming this is the original dub, bc kino lorber generally does a pretty okay job restoring things?

this is not a good movie (extremely troubled production, director swap three days before filming, made on a shoestring budget, the actors mostly wore their own clothes, etc). it is not very good at maintaining tension, because it is a film that first and foremost Looks. beautiful fucking sets, beautifully decorated. the exterior is a matte painting, a sort of frothy dream-bubble of sixties architecture. most of the interiors are apparently a real house. incredible experimental burbling soundtrack full of Weird Sounds.

sorry about the tubi interface and our old friend the activate windows logo.

there are so many fun directorial flourishes and staging, but it does get a little wrapped up in itself. this made me think of The Secret of NIMH, a beautifully animated talking-animal film that gave me nightmares as a child, where the animation tricks and sparkles and moving parts sort of all get in each other's way to produce something less than the sum of its parts. this sort of happens here. i'm going to yoink this from a review:

Bava’s eye for exquisite compositions is equally evident. One scene in particular stands out in this regard: The filmmaker shoots an otherwise humdrum fistfight through wooden latticework that breaks the action up into an abstracted mosaic effect. The fight culminates with a table being upended, which in turn unleashes a myriad crystal spheres. The camera follows along as the spheres tumble and cascade down a spiral staircase and roll across a tiled floor before plopping like so many bath bubbles into a tub. The scene concludes with the revelation of a recently deceased character caught in what you’d have to call a tableau morte. It’s a dazzlingly orchestrated sequence, easily on par with more famous Bava set pieces.

it's gorgeous! there's also So Much going on. another lovely bit of business: as each person dies they get wrapped in plastic sheeting and put in the walkin freezer. next to slabs of beef. not a subtle film, and i don't mean it as a diss, bc where's the fuckin fun in that?

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playing

i have not been doing much of anything here except listen to podcasts and work toward the two-thousand-fish-caught achievement in genshin. impatiently waiting for Clorinde to be released in several weeks. that one button needs a raise. it is So funny to see genshin characters with fucking guns. very sword and pike based societies so far

-

making

every time i have tried to make one of these samplers for Me it's gone horribly wrong or been somehow destroyed so i'm making this one for my brother's upcoming birthday, bc he will have off-campus housing next academic year, in an attempt to peacefully do some fucking cross stitch and get something out at the end of it. pattern here on etsy

[monodramatic-cannibal]

Renegade!Dust

Info post about the au

(If characters seem OOC ((Out Of Character)) it's beacause I'm going off of my own interpretations/headcanons/fandom versions. So please be aware of that)

More info under the cut (Info is subject to change at any time. Info may be added to as well)

(TW: Mention of murder)

-Jobs in the group: Protection of the base, fighting Wraiths, scouting, hunting

Weapons of choice: duel wielding large bones, bladed knuckle duster, any gun he can get his hands on

-Head canon voice: ???

-Goes by He/Him, but isn’t too picky on pronouns.

-Went to prison and when the apocalypse hit he escaped with Killer. Someone had murdered his brother so he had taken it upon himself to get revenge, ending up going on a killing spree taking out anyone associated with his brother's murderer. (He had blacked out, and didn’t realize he killed his own brother. Didn’t understand when people were accusing him of killing his brother and these random people he killed)

-Haunted by his dead brother? Or maybe it's a hallucination, he isn’t sure, nor does he care, if it means his brother is still with him then so be it. 

-Doesn’t talk much, normally just stands there quietly, may use ASL (American Sign Language) to communicate, might even use his phone or paper to note things down for others to read. Would much rather do those things over speaking. Ink has given him a few random blank books to use to write in. 

-Has a high magic reserve, and struggles to maintain normal levels, so is often looking for ways to use his magic, even if it’s just goofing off with his magic.

-Always has his hood up, has different clothes to chill and sleep in, but there's always a constant hood on his clothes. No one has ever seen his face, not even a hint of glowing eye lights. One time Killer had turned a torch on Dust, despite there being a light shining on the inside of the hood it still remained dark, like the shadow absorbed the light. To add to this Killer is the only one in the group that has actually seen his face. -hands are in his pockets relatively on the regular. If they’re out he needs to be doing something with them. Will hold onto people e.g. holding onto a sleeve, when around people he likes, gives him comfort to see that they’re real because he can touch them. 

-Before joining the group, Nightmare was the one in the group that said to give him a chance. Nightmare treated him normally, which he is grateful for. Nightmare got put in charge of him after that, but Nightmare had made it clear to him that he can do his own thing, as long as no one is harmed. 

-Likes to lean on people he likes, either that be leaning his arm on Horror’s shoulder when stood together, or basically cuddling with Killer when sat down. Luckily the ones he gets along with don’t seem to mind this. He just likes physical contact with others.

-Has set the kitchen on fire trying to make food before, he just stood there and did nothing about the fire though, just watched it burn. From then on Horror took over making food.

-Doesn’t really like people touching Paps scarf, only the ones he likes gets away with it, providing they’re not rough with it.

-Will curl himself as small as possible when he sleeps, this includes if he sleeps next to anyone, he just curls up into their side, good luck trying to move him, the equivalent of Sisyphus’ rock.

-Likes to fight Wraiths, it's a way for him to let out some energy (whenever he has any) and a way to express any anger he feels. As well as a way to use his magic. 

-Most of the time he doesn’t have the energy to do much, mainly spending the majority of the day sleeping, but is awake mostly during the night. Even then he doesn’t have energy to do much. 

-Due to him being so quiet, even having quiet footsteps, he tends to accidentally sneak up on the others, especially during the night, since it's not like anyone can see any eye lights either, so he just kinda appears next to the others with no warning. To add to this his voice is also very quiet whenever he does speak. 

-Mainly hangs out with Night, since Night spends a lot of time up during the night too. If he’s not following Night around like a lost puppy he’s following Horror or Killer around. 

-Really observant, very good at quickly getting to know how other act, is able to tell when someone is lying, not feeling well, etc just by watching their movements and the way they speak. Will also remember things about others, either it be things they did or said. Though the others don’t know he does this. 

-To add to the point above, is really good at finding patterns in things, being able to predict behavior (not just in people), and can make multiple plans to react to things that might happen.

-Is actually really smart, but since he’s so quiet and tends to play dumb most of the others don’t actually know how smart he is. He’s scarily smart and shouldn’t really be messed with. But since he doesn’t really want to scare anyone off from him he plays dumb, it just makes things easier for him.

-Dust likes to be able to plan ahead for things, including basic interactions, he likes knowing what's going to happen, not liking things to get out of control. Doesn’t really like it when others deviate from this script in his head. The ones in the group/around the group that he struggles to predict are Ink, Fresh, Geno, Reaper

-Will leave the ones he likes little trinkets that he collects when he goes out of the living area. It’s one of his ways of showing he cares. 

-Sometimes smokes, but tries not to around others, unless they’re okay with it. May share cigarettes with anyone who asks.

How they feel about:

Nightmare:  Likes Nightmare, likes how he can just be chill with Nightmare. Sees Nightmare as a really good friend of his. Nightmare was one of the first people to befriend him when he joined the group. Due to the others knowing he’s a murderer they tended to avoid him, whereas Nightmare treated him like a normal person. Doesn’t like it when people talk back to Nightmare normally sticking up for him and putting people in their place since he knows Nightmare won’t do it for himself. Also knows that Nightmare has a crush on Cross, but hasn’t told Nightmare that he knows.

Dream: Likes him, Nightmare talks about him often, always saying good things, knows Dream is unsure of him though. Often leaves little gifts for Dream outside Dream’s room, doesn’t let Dream know it's him doing it though. Whenever he ends up being around Dream it's because Dream came to hang out with Nightmare.

Cross: Wants to get along with Cross, since he knows Nightmare has a crush on him, also knows Cross is crushing on Nightmare back as well. Nightmare told Dust that Cross likes anime so often while he's out he will pick up anything anime/manga related to give to Cross in an effort to befriend him. Is aware how Cross feels about him, but he’ll keep trying to befriend him.

Blue: Gets along with him, Blue sort of reminds him of his Paps, so views Blue as family, not so much as a brother, just family, he cannot pinpoint exactly what Blue feels like. Gives Blue star related things.

Ink: Doesn’t really like them, thinks they’re too strange. Despite being really good at reading people Dust struggles to get a read on Ink, and can’t really plan ahead for interactions with Ink. Which frustrates Dust.

Horror: Sees Horror as a good friend, Horror often letting him lean on him or be at his side when sat down. Often when going around with Horror he’ll hold onto Horror’s coat's sleeve. Horror tends to take care of him, making sure he’s eaten and that he’s mentality okay. Knows that Horror has murdered people. When out Dust tries to collect things for Horror’s cat, Fig. He also adores Fig and often cuddles with Fig when he can’t hold onto someone else.

Killer: The guy he escaped prison with when the apocalypse hit. Sees him as a good friend, even if straight after getting out Killer had attempted to attack him. But they’re good now, and Killer doesn’t question things he does. Killer surprisingly has been a good friend once he chilled out, Dust has been able to crack jokes with Killer, even if these jokes are mainly done through showing written notes and stuff to Killer rather than speaking.

Error: Error seems to like him, so he likes Error back. Error is surprisingly patient with him, giving him time to write down notes to show Error. He might hang out with Error once in a while, but normally brings something for him to hold onto since he knows Error doesn’t like to be touched. Likes watching Error knit or sew things, Error has given him a few knitted sweaters with hoods. In tern Dust tries to get fabrics/wool/etc for Error whenever he comes across them (splits the fabrics/etc between Error and Lust). 

Lust: Lust treats him with respect, so he also treats them with respect. He doesn’t know too much about Lust, only really tends to see Lust whenever Lust is around Horror or Nightmare. Lust once gifted him a tamagotchi after hearing about how he needs to be doing something with his hands. Is unsure really what to fully get Lust as gifts, so tends to get Lust fabrics/wool/etc (which he splits between Lust and Error).

Fell/Edge: Unsure on him, doesn’t like how he can be rude to Nightmare, but at the same time Fell hasn’t really done anything that bad. All he has to do really is be around and just stand there and Fell will get super nervous and become on the defensive. Even if Dust wanted to have a normal interaction with Fell, Fell doesn’t seem to like him that much.

Geno: Same case as with Fell, Unsure of him and doesn’t like how rude he can be to Nightmare. And that being around Geno makes Geno nervous. 

Outer: Doesn’t really interact with Outer, so doesn’t really have an opinion of him, feels slightly bad when he’s around Outer though as Outer gets uneasy. 

Sci: Glad that Sci decided to trust Nightmare’s judgment about him, and letting him join the group. So whenever Sci asks him to do anything he will do it no questions asked. 

Reaper/Death: Plays board/card games now and then with Reaper. He will listen to Reaper talk about the past. He’d say that they get along well, but despite hearing so many stories that Reaper tells, he still feels like he doesn’t know Reaper at all.

Fresh: Fresh had scared him, normally he's the one sneaking up on people, but Fresh managed to sneak up on him. Which spooked him, and he tried to stab Fresh on instinct. He doesn’t really like Fresh for that fact. Doesn’t want Fresh near him, and also hopes Fresh doesn’t tell anyone he nearly stabbed him. 

Gans/Echo: Sometimes smokes alongside Echo, neither of them talk, the only time Echo may talk is to offer a cigarette or a light. Dust wouldn’t call him a friend, but doesn’t see him as an enemy either. 

Chief: Thinks he’s bossy but organized, does appreciate the fact Chief tries to also keep him organized too. But normally Chief bothers him when he has no energy, leading to him not really wanting to listen to him.

[averagewriter-inthedark]

Eye of The Storm ⛈| Six of Crows Imagine

Takes place during the events of Shadow & Bone S2

My Masterlists

Characters & Pairings: Crows x Squaller/Saint!Reader (platonic), Kaz Brekker x reader (slight/eventual)

Content Warnings: fighting, blood, profanity, cannon divergence | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 4.9k

Requested 📨: yes/no

Premise: As the Crows make their way back to the Slate following their climatic dethronement of Pekka Rollins, they are ambushed by his supporters with no plan of action to escape. As they slowly accept their fate, what was once a clear night is rained upon with lightning and thunder in its wake. Having beat the odds of meeting one living Saint in their lifetime, the Crows are stunned when their savior, a player in the ever unfolding drama in Ravka, is the legend in stories of restoring life in the world when all hope was lost.

Note: although the Saint name I give is not Y/n, it’s still a reader insert and explains more at the end (it’s not an OC) also I know Zoya is called Sankta Zoya of the Storm but I have yet to get to her arc so for this the reader has powers equivalent to her

————————

The sirens had finally seized, concluding the hysteria in the streets of Ketterdam once it was revealed the Firebox outbreak was a hoax. Constructed by none other than the Bastard of the Barrel and his thieves amongst men, the Crows. After years of heated tension, and guided vengeance, against Pekka Rollins, Kaz Brekker succeeded in his plans of putting down the Lion that had ruined his life. Constant mental torture as he manuevered his players on their chestboard now able to rest.

“Where were you?” His voice was raspy, face still painted with his blood from the beating as he addressed Inej when she appeared from the shadows. They had been making their way back to the Slat. Nina, Wylan, and Jesper were flanked beside him, the dimly lit street light shining down on the group. Inej had been the only one not accounted for, flooding Kaz with anxiety mixed with anger that she strayed from the plan.

“I--.”

A gloved hand came up, stopping her. “Actually, I’d rather not hear what you have to say.” he wanted to shout. Reprimand her for being so foolish. Voice how her actions could’ve gotten her or one of them hurt because they had no idea where she was.

Despite these desires, the pain in Kaz’s body was too much and he was in need of a strong drink. Inej narrowed her eyes, but the man brushed past her leaving the others to send her looks of sympathy. Falling in step, the group followed behind Kaz, making note of how empty the streets were at that time of night. It was eerie. Yeah they may have caused an uproar with their little stunt, but they assumed there’d still be people out and about.

Dance halls and clubs are empty. The markets closed for business. Not a soul in sight. Wylan was the first to speak, “I’ve never seen it this quiet.”

“Very odd if I must say,” Jesper agreed, unconsciously letting his hands fall to where his guns strapped to his belt. His intuition was picking at his brain at the feeling that something wasn’t right.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s plotting now that Pekka is gone,” Inej made note of their surroundings. They were only a block from the Slat. Soon they’d be in the comfort of their home, able to bask in the relief they pulled their task off. A warm cup of tea by the fireplace before it came time for bed. Inej was looking forward to it.

But unfortunately, fate had other plans.

Nina suddenly froze, “Stop,” all movement seized, heads turning to the heartrender. Unease consumed them as they took in the sudden paleness of her appearance. “I hear heartbeats.” There was a subtle gulp, the woman adding in a low tone, “a lot of heartbeats.”

Tensing, they were met with the sounds of footsteps approaching from every angle. Inej pulled out her knives, as did Jesper with his guns. Wylan clutched his satchel to his chest, thinking of what he could use to help them out of this situation, though the odds were not looking good. Meanwhile, Kaz reversed his steps while the others spun around, the Crows forming a circle with their backs to one another, Kaz keeping space between him and Jesper. Allowing them a full view of the square.

They watched the herd of men step into the light. Revealing themselves with menacing eyes filled with vengeance. Kaz tensed, recognizing them as Pekka’s men.

Well the ones still loyal to the King of the Barrel. Several had already pledged their support to Kaz or took the chance to ditch town while they had the opportunity. Yet, here was a group of at least twelve, likely part of Pekka’s inner circle who’ve taken the actions of Kaz more personally. Those who refused to kneel. The young criminal should’ve known better than to expect a sudden shift in power would come easily to him.

“We have no business with you, gentlemen,” Kaz spoke with a level of calm that surprised even him. Deep down he was consumed with nerves seeing he and the Crows were severely outnumbered.

“Oh, but we do,” a gruff voice replied. Kaz’s eyes drifted to the owner, who’s hand mavuevered over his gun. “See, some of us are not too pleased with your little show tonight, Brekker. And we’ll be damned before claiming you as the King of the city.”

Jesper tilts his head slightly, whispering under his breath, “What do we do, boss?” Beside him Wylan was visibly freaking out. Nina raised her hands, ready to counter any attacks while Inej tightened the grip of her knives.

“This is it,” Kaz thought, clutching onto his cane. No ideas surfaced to help them escape. Accepting his time was up. Though he was going to fight for his Crows, the Bastard of the Barrel was ready to come to terms with his fate.

But before anyone could make the first room, a crack of lightning followed by its booming thunder shook the ground. Several flinched, including the crows, some of the Dime Lions stumbling by how close and sudden the element was to them. Rainfall began to pour down the once clear sky. Dark clouds covering the stars and skies.

The rain was thick, drenching everyone from head to toe. Their clothes became heavy. Had it not been for the skewing of their visibility, making them struggle to see where they were, they’d be annoyed by their state. But there were more important things at stake.

The storm made it hard to see. Only getting a glimpse of shapes and figures when flashes of lightning in the near distance hit the earth. Coupled with its thunder. Kaz barely could make out the enemy, bringing his cane up for any sudden attacks.

“What’s happening?” Wylan shouted, gurgling when the water hit mouth. “What do we do?”

“I-I--,” Kaz stuttered, the feeling of nausea swarming him at the cold, wet, rain hitting his face. It brought him back to the worst days of his life. Floating on top of cold, wet, bodies in the harbour, begging the Saints to save him. The man wanted to crawl away and hide. Yet the fear of not knowing what waited for them when the rain stopped kept him from falling to his knees in a panic.

“Hey! You there!” the same man from before shouted, Kaz squinting his eyes to see him raise his gun only to be thrown back by an invisible force of wind. His partner beside him went down next, though what hit him appeared to be a beam of light.

Kinda like a lightning bolt.

“What the hell was that?!” Inej shouted over the thunder.

‘A Squaller?’ Kaz thought to himself, watching another bout of wind sweep his oncoming attacker off their feet. He had not heard of another Grisha roaming the streets of Ketterdam. Surely if a squaller were inhabiting the area he’d know.

Using the butt of his cane Kaz knocked him out unconsious. When he glanced back up, his eyes landed on a cloaked figure standing on the roof of a nearby building. The rain made it impossible to make out their face. But judging by the way they moved their hands, and the fact his enemies were being bombarded by gusts of air, their savior was in fact an Ethereaki.

But what kind exactly?

At first Kaz believed they had to be a Squaller due to the wind. Yet, he then witnessed the rain shift direction, and water from a puddle shoot up to hit a man about to attack Wylan. A Tidemaker would better fit that description, however Kaz wasn’t aware of a Grisha able to control both air and water.

“I don’t know,” Jesper responded, shooting at an assailant he saw racing toward them, “But I’ve never been so happy for a thunderstorm as I am now.” At that moment Kaz realized nobody else noticed the mysterious person on the roof. His attention turned to Jesper beside him, oblivious to the help he was getting from a fellow Grisha. Turning back to the roof, expecting to see the cloaked individual, but they were gone.

As the fight commenced the storm ensued. Thunder overpowering the sound of pelting rain and gunshots. The Crows fought for their lives as the number of Dime Lions against them decreased. Nina managed to incapacitate several as did Jesper and Inej. The fight came to a climatic end with the last one standing was, quite, literally, hit with a lightning bolt causing the Crows to freeze where they stood.

Smoke filled the space, and when it cleared they were met with the mysterious being. Rain pelting down on them, however they seemed to pay no mind. As though it were a natural occurrence. It was still hard to see them. The streetlight candles had been blown out from the rain and wind, and the moon was covered by the clouds. Both those combinations obscured the face of their savior.

Nina raised her hands, ready to defend the group but Kaz motioned for her to stop, causing confusion amongst the rest. Who was this person and what did they want? And why was Kaz not doing anything?

“Well,” their voice, a feminine one at that, breached the once silent square. “That was entertaining if I’m being honest. Been a while since I’ve squabbled with angsty men,” she chucked, “but I was in dire need of practice.” Now hearing the woman speak clearly, they were able to identify her Ravkan accent. For Nina, her heart nearly stopped.

“I know that voice.” she felt the eyes of everyone, including the woman, on her. Hands lowering to her side, Nina's face etched into pure astonishment. Adding more confusion to the group who were at a loss of who this woman was.

“Oh!” The woman chuckled, not commenting on Nina’s words, “Apologies for the storm, let me just--,” they watched in stunned silence as her right hand rose, displaying a motion before the rain slowed and stopped altogether. Then with two fingers, she waved them around causing the clouds above to dissaperate, allowing the moon to shine down.

“Did she just--.” Jesper whispered to Inej, who’s expression resembled that of witnessing a miracle. “Can squallers summon thunderstorms? I thought that was a myth.”

Inej blinked rapidly, voice so low the others barely made out her reply. Tone in absolute awe, “Only one can.”

“One?” Kaz repeated, feeling a wave of unease beneath his skin.

Water from puddles splashed as the woman walked forward, stepping into the ray of light. The Crows, now able to see her fully, were greeted with her (y/h/c) hair and bearing dazzling grey eyes like the storm clouds she’d summoned. She appeared to be slightly older than the group, possibly by a few years. Then again Grisha were known to age slower than regular folk. For all they know she could be in her 50s. Look at the Darkling, who passed as a man in his early 40s to the naked eye but had lived for nearly 400 years.

Adorned in a deep grey kefta, the white and blue embroidery etched on resembled lightning bolts along with tiny drops of rain. It was unlike any kefta the Grisha wore. Those in the Ravka’s Second Army, with the exception of the Darkling, wore certain colored keftas and embroideries to signify their order. But to the knowledge of the Crows, no Grisha wore grey.

“Saints,” Nina gasped, jaw dropping slightly, causing the woman to smirk.

“Now, now,” she playfully tsked, “I’m not above swearing, but considering that applies to me….” her smirk never faltered, “I’m sure you can understand.”

Jesper’s head spun, looking between his comrades to see they were reacting the same way, “I’m sorry, are you saying that you’re--.”

Nina beat him to it, “Sankta Imber of the Drought.” Inej gasped, as did Wylan. The former repeated the name in wonder, falling to her knees in respect, “Sankta Imber….”

Kaz tightened his grip on his cane, mind racing to remember the tale behind the name. Who’s story was passed down from generation to generation for centuries. Who, like the Darkling and the Sun Summoner, was said to be either myth or once lived but suspected of perishing long ago.

Legends say that Sankta Imber of the Drought had been born in the century following the creation of the Fold. A farmer's daughter in the region of East Ravka, her family lived through the period where the country was stricken with a severe drought lasting over a hundred years, beginning not long after the Black Heretic disappeared. With no rain bringing water to the crops came a deadly famine. Hundreds of people and animals were lost, not only due to starvation and dehydration, but also illness. The economy in all of Ravka crumbled. Both States were fighting against each other for resources, as the food supply from East Ravka to West was now scarce. An increase in fires and dust bowls destroyed a lot of ecosystems, further deteriorating the country.

What was left of it that is.

There was little to no hope, with even prayers to the Saints to help them becoming meaningless words. Those still worshiping begged for a savior. The one who would bring the rain and storm. Ending the drought. Releasing them from the famine.

The idea a Squaller could summon a powerful storm was unheard of. Being able to bring forth powerful winds, rain, and possibly lightning and Thunder? Surely a Grisha of sorts would be only known by folklore. Especially given Tidemakers were the ones to control water.

Yet, it all changed one day as the 104th year of the drought approached.

“You’re more powerful than you think, Imber,” Baghra's stern voice echoed in the cave. Sitting opposite of her, with her head down and tear stains painting her cheeks, 15-year-old Imber Egorova made a sound Baghra could only assume was a whimper. “Denying it will do you no good. It will do this country no good.”

“How do you know?” The girl whispered, voice hoarse from crying following another gruesome 12 hour training day. “What makes me different from any other Squaller here?” She referred to the 20 other Squallers residing on the Little Palace grounds. Though some trained with the renowned Gisha teacher, none experienced the level of intensity Imber did.

“No Squaller here has shot someone 80 yards by their power during an exercise,” Baghra rebutted, causing Imber to wince at the memory. The reason why she was suddenly called to Baghra’s cave in the first place. From then on Imber barely got a lick of sleep or time to eat a proper meal.

The older woman gave a pointed look, “nor have they been able to summon electricity.” Ignoring Imbers stunned expression, she continued, “yes, girl, I know what you did when your sister’s heart stopped before you came here. Why your family was so willing to let you go after the testers proved you were Grisha,” Baghra leaned back in her chair, face void of emotion. “Ravka has not seen more than a few inches of rain since this drought began. No storms. And with the famine,” there was a light pause, “It’s claimed more lives than the Fold.”

Imber shuddered at the mention of Ravka’s darkened entity. Not wanting to think about its black abyss swimming with volcra.

“The point is, child,” Baghra captured her attention once more, “Besides the Sun Summoner, you could be the one to end part of Ravka’s suffering. But that will not happen if you cannot believe it yourself.”

Weeks shy of her 16th birthday, Imber received a letter from her father, which would change not only her world, but the one around. After contracting a bacteria from contaminated pond water, her mother and sister succumbed to a deadly illness after only a week. Her father had buried them on their land by the dead oak tree where they used to have picnics before Imber was taken to the Little Palace.

Distraught and riddled with unbearable pain, Imber collapsed to her knees in the middle of the courtyard, crumbling the letter in her hands. Her peers were silent, staring at her with sympathy. Unsure of what to say to the grieving teen, despite many knowing the exact feeling Imber was feeling.

Sorrow, anguish, regret. Never having the chance to correct wrongs or make memories with the loved onces they longed for. The cries of the Grisha filled the otherwise silent courtyard.

Suddenly, a rumble came from the sky..

Imber didn’t hear it over the sound of her sobs. Her companions, however, drew their attention upward, where they were greeted by a sight unimaginable. What once was a clear blue canvas, barely any clouds to begin with, transformed to that of a dark shadow. Wind, so powerful they thought a Squaller was responsible, nearly sent them off their feet.

“What’s happening?” A girl shouted, though they had difficulty hearing her due to the mix of rumbling overhead and breeze of wind.

“I don’t know!” the boy, a Tidemaker, beside her squinted, “Imber!” He lifted a hand to protect his eyes while focusing his view on the kneeled Grisha. A flash of light where her hands were plaed on the ground had him flinching. ‘What in the---.’ The spark occured once more. Chills filled his entire being as his eyes became saucers, falling to a whisper. “Saints above.”

Witnessing the sparks, an Inferni moved closer, ignoring the warning sent by the Tidemaker. “What is she doing?” His answer came by being blasted back by a gust of wind.

Imber let out a broken scream, head tilting back toward the sky as bolts of lightning released from her hands, igniting bouts of thunder in its wake. Gasps and shouts echoed around the Squaller from fellow Grisha and palace guards. The group behind her ran to find cover as the wind became too much, sending barrels and crates flying. Lightning and thunder, the duo reuniting as lost friends.

A sight to behold.

As the tears rolled down Imber’s cheeks, heavy rain soon replaced them. Drenching the lands of East Ravka for the first time in a hundred years.

For hours the girl remained kneeling on the grounds of the courtyard. Alone as everyone had seeked shelter within the Palace walls, letting the water from above coat her. The kefta she bore grew heavy. She paid no mind to it.

It wasn’t until she began to shiver from the freezing atmosphere that Imber retreated inside. Coming face to face with the reality of what transpired. As two guards escorted her to the throne room, Imber barely took notice of her peers watching the storm draw on from the windowsills. Some glanced at her in a mix of wonder, awe, and fear. Fear at the unknown, but wonder at what will be known.

Entering the throne room Imber was greeted by the King, Queen, Baghra, and the General of Ravka’s Second Army. Whereas the country’s monarchs were visibily bewildered at Imber, Baghra appeared impressed in comparison to the General’s excitement. Nerves consumed her on top of the immense grief Imber was experincing. Rain continued pelting the windows and roof of the Little Palace. Every once in a while, the occupants in the room flinched at the crack of thunder.

Upon making eye contact with the King, Imber bowed her head, curtseying as best she could with the weight of her soaked kefta. From there she underwent an hour of intense interrogation at the hands of the King and General. Baghra was questioned as well. Admitting she suspected the scale of Imber’s power but decided to stay quiet until the time came. The General, while pleased to know the world’s most powerful Squaller was among his ranks, voiced concern at the possibility of their enemies discovering her.

“Ravka has been praying for the day storms finally wash over her,” his tone was calm, almost haunting. Imber couldn’t look away as he moved toward her, tear stains painting her cheeks. “To save them from this wretching drought. Bring an end to this famine that has wiped away countless lives. Rain has touched grounds for the first time in over a century, Miss. Egorova. The people of Ravka are going to celebrate you. Erect statues on your name for being the hope they prayed for all these years.” he halted directly in front of her, keeping hold of her gaze it sent another wave of chills not relating to the cold clothes Imber wore.

“You are now the symbol of this dark period coming to its end. You are Sankta Imber of the Drought.”

“The storm lasted a fortnight, dispersing across Ravka’s lands until every inch had been touched by lightning. Yet the rain continued for months on end after the winds disappeared,” Nina recited the story etched into her brain. The crows silent as they took in her words. “Many say it was the raw grief of Imber losing her family that the storms were so strong. The constant rain marked as a symbol of her time in mourning.” The crows familiar with loss could relate. Kaz, Jesper, and Inej looking elsewhere than the Grisha.

Nina let out a breath, “Now whenever a powerful storm appears in Ravka, locals believe it to be Sankta Imber reminding them they will never experience a drought again. Famine will never touch their lands so long as she remains. Rain will be their protector, and she will be its champion.”

At the end of the Heartrender’s tale, Imber clasped her hands behind her back. “Nice to see my reputation still precedes me after all these years.” Chuckling, she took another step toward the group, “Still odd to hear myself spoken like a myth when I still live and breathe the same air as you.”

Again, no words could describe what the Crows were feeling at that moment. No one however was more shocked than Nina herself. And her reasons were far more than just being in the presence of a living Saint. “But you…”

Imber’s smirk turned to a soft smile, “Been some time since our last acquaintance, Nina Zenik.”

All eyes turned to the brunette, Kaz the first to speak, “What?” Not only was his mind racing, but now it was full of questions and doubts. They knew each other? But judging by Nina’s reaction, it was not all that meets the eye. She was stunned beyond belief like they were. “Care to explain, Zenik?”

Tensing by the tone of his voice, Nina sent him a light glare, “I don’t know her as Sankta Imber,” her eyes returned to the Grisha, this time showcasing betrayal as the memory of the woman in a blue kefta like her fellow Squallers appeared in her mind. “But as Commander Y/n Tempestasov of the Second Army.” Everyone felt the shift in the air at the mention of the Darkling’s army.

Why was one of the Darkling’s soldiers, a Saint at that, coming to them in the middle of the night? Traveling across the sea and saving them from Pekka’s men. There had to be a reason.

Kaz tightened the grip he had on his cane. Thinking back to events of the past several months. He would’ve recognized Imber, or Y/n, whatever she wanted to be called--at the Winter’s Fete. The kefta was unique; it would've captured anyone’s attention. As a powerful Squaller, Kirigan surely wanted her close to his side. Yet the Grisha had not been present on the skiff nor did Alina mention anything of meeting another living Saint.

Then there was the fact that the legends of Sankta Imber of the Drought were from nearly 300 years ago. It was believed she had died or dissapeared roughtly 20 years after she brought the storm to Ravka.

Meaning she’s been hiding in plain sight for centuries. A ghost among the living. Playing the role of a Second Army soldier under a false name to preserve her identity.

Another chuckle brought Kaz out of his thoughts, “Allow me to fill in the blanks, Crows,” Imber smirked at their reaction, “yes I know who you are. Do not doubt Nina’s loyalty--the last time we saw each other I was a different person. Roughly eight years if I’m correct,” bringing a hand to her chin, the Saint acted like she was deep in thought, “You’d only just arrived at the Little Palace before I escaped.”

“Escaped?”

Imber retained her posture, more serious than the initial laid back she had presented, “You’ve witnessed the evil General Kirigan is capabale of first hand.” they stayed silent, but each of their expressions faltered. “I discovered the scale of it a long time ago, after he made me a prisoner of the Little Palace under the guise of a trainer.” Nina bowed her head, the memory of Commander Y/n paroling the grounds where the Etherealki trained. She always appeared detached, but was kind to the young Grisha who had not yet succumbed to the corruption of the Darkling. “He was responsible for everyone believing I had died or dissapeared. After instilling fear in me at the thought of being captured by enemies, he had me locked in the caves of the Little Palace.” Inej let out a gasp, face consorting with sadness.

Imber shrugged, “sooner or later people stopped searching for me. Unaware I was close the entire time despire my storms becoming a blanket over Ravka for years. I was all but the myth you’ve heard.” Turning her head to Nina, Imber offered a soft smile, “It was years before he let me out. When he did I was named Commander under a false name and trained Grisha for centuries. Changing my name each time he did because someone asked too many questions and we had to clean up his mess. Y/n Tempestasov is the recent name of the many I’ve gone by. Frankly it’s my favorite if I’m being honest.”

“Would you prefer it if we called you that?” Wylan raised his hand, resulting in a side eye from Kaz at his formality. The Saint, however, smiled at him, “I’d like that. Imber Egorova…” she trailed off, connecting her gaze with Kaz as though she read him like a book. “She is of the past.”

Ignoring the weight on his chest, knowing damn well what the Saint was refering to, Kaz changed the subject. “Enough sentiment. You still haven’t said why you’re here.” The sound of his cane echoed on the pavement when he moved closer to her. “The Darkling might be dead but how are we to trust you’re not doing his bidding.”

The woman scoffed, obviously offended by the assumption, “Believe me, I hate the man more than anyone. Probably more than you and Alina combined.”

Jesper made a face of shock, voicing what they all thought, “You know Alina?”

“She sent me,” Y/n mused, shocking them more when she added, “And Kirigan is alive.”

“How is that possible?” Inej wondered aloud, unable to grasp the news.

“Turns out his own creation did not kill him after all. Instead he used merzost to create shadow monsters. Monsters that can only be destroyed with a certain blade that, like me, is also a legend.”

“Neshyenyer,” Kaz narrowed his eyes, waiting for her to call bluff. Y/n smirked in response.

“That is where you come in. We have some mutual friends, and they sent me to retrieve you lot to find the sword. Said you were the best of the best.” Hand going into her pocket, she removes a rolled parchment tied with a ribbon. “For your cooperation, the King of Ravka plans to generously compensate you.” She held it out to Kaz, “For you, Dirtyhands.”

He ignored the name, deciding not to question the depth of her knowledge on him and the Crows, and instead took the parchment. Once unfolded, he read the message inked onto its surface, detailing the extent of the mission and amount of kruge to be paid. He stopped at the name signed at the very end, ‘Nikolai Lantsov.’

‘Mutual friends,’ he remembered she said. Intuition telling him it was not only Alina and Mal the Saint referred to. Only person Kaz recalled that could likely be said aquaintance was a certain privateer.

Footsteps wandering away had the man look up, finding Y/n to take her leave. Kaz and Jesper flanked to his sides, the whole group watching her depart. “Come along, Crows,” she called out, the playfulness returning. “A storm is approaching.” light rain began to fall once more, followed by the sound of thunder in the distance. Kaz pictured the smile on her face by the tone of her voice. “And we’ve got work to do.”

[tony-starkinator]

Roast Steve.

// @really-steve-rogers @that-punk-from-brooklyn, SORRY GUYS!!! IT'S NOT PERSONAL

Steve? Oh, the classic all-American goody two-shoes who wouldn't even swear if someone put a gun to his head? I mean, the guy is basically the human equivalent of overcooked rice - bland, uninteresting, and just a little bit soggy. The only thing worse than his sense of humor is his costume. It looks like someone decided to make a flag into a jumpsuit and thought it was a good idea. But hey, I guess when you're a walking symbol of freedom, style takes a backseat to… well, everything else. But let's be real. Steve isn't just boring, he's downright cringe. The guy is like a walking, talking motivational speaker ad. I mean, seriously, who talks like that in real life? I half expect him to end every sentence with "Just do it!" like he's the captain of Nike. And his whole patriotic act? It's like he drank a whole bottle of red, white, and cheese sauce. Even his superpower is lame. Super strength? Seriously? That's the best the world's greatest scientists could come up with for a superhero? Oh yeah, let's give this guy steroids and call it a day! I mean, yeah, sure, he can lift a car or whatever, but it's not exactly going to win any awards for creative thinking. Steve is such a little saint that he probably checks for monsters underneath his bed before going to sleep. I mean, the guy is so strict that his version of a night out is attending a church potluck and helping old ladies cross the street. Let's not forget being close-minded, he's got about as much flexibility in his thinking as a brick wall. And let's also not forget the whole "boy scout" persona. Seriously, does this guy ever take a day off from being a saint? I mean, even the Pope is like, "Calm down, Steve, you're making the rest of us look bad." But at least he's consistent, I'll give him that. Consistent, and about as exciting as a bowl of plain oatmeal. Steve has got a serious case of "white knight" syndrome. I mean, the guy thinks he's the moral compass of the universe, and anyone who disagrees with him is automatically labeled as evil. It's seriously annoying, like having a nagging conscience in human form. But hey, at least he's got that whole "I know what's right and everyone else is wrong" thing going for him. Talk about being a pain in the ass.

-Tony Stark