#genuinely I have never used a more infuriating tool

[stupot]

I mostly feel sorry for whatever engineers have to keep implementing these dog shit changes because the chucklefucks at WordPress think they're knowledgeable about UX. If you have ever used the commercial version of WordPress to make a website you know this is not true at all

[bitethedevil]

Raphael and his weaponized mortality

I think it’s pretty clear from that “I am no mortal!” quote that his mortal ancestry isn’t exactly a source of pride for him. However, I still think that he utilizes it to it’s fullest. As I have talked about in an earlier post about the whole problematic situation with Haarlep: Raphael knows how to turn shit into gold. I definitely feel like this “pretending to be mortal”-thing is a big part of his character, the more I think on it. Here’s some of my thoughts:

His smell: Weird to start off with, I know but it’s the thing that actually led me to think on this. I read somewhere that cambions are entirely carnivorous, which means they have a predatory stench to them. This is interesting because Yurgir describes him as a “perfumed trickster”. He covers up the thing that would biologically make a mortal think “danger”.

His questionable poetry: While I do think it’s something he genuinely enjoys; I also think it seems like a bit of an unorthodox interest for a devil (I could be wrong). What is interesting is if you bring Karlach to the entrance to the mausoleum, she comments on his poetry and he answers something along the lines of “I’ll admit, it’s not my main interest…not by any stretch”. Poetry is something that speaks to our feelings, so it’s not weird that a devil whose emotional life is a bit different from that of a mortal, would be ‘bad’ at it. Even though the poetry that Raphael recites usually leans towards the macabre, it still sort of humanizes him that he would have an interest in such things. It is also an attempt to speak directly to our feelings (fear often in his case). The way that he says it’s not his main interest also points to the fact that he literally uses it as a tool. I think it’s the same with his theatrical nature: it’s simply him playing a human. I really do wonder how he would interact with another devil if there was no one else in the room.

His ’angelic’ complexion: In Last Light Inn, if you reveal that he is a devil to Mol, he says something along the lines of “She’d never take your word for it…not with my angelic complexion”. I could be wrong, but I’ve also read a few places that when the Flymms (Gortash’s parents) signed over Gortash, it was to a warlock. Some places I’ve read that it was a warlock OF Raphael’s, others say that the warlock WAS Raphael. This makes me wonder: How often does he show his true nature to clients before they’ve already signed, like he did with us? Or at the very least, he waits to reveal his nature until the person can’t run or are out of options. It’s then interesting to think about how transparent he is about his nature to us in comparison right from the get-go. I believe this is because he truly believes that we need the hammer, and thus there’s not as much of a reason to pretend.

I just think it’s interesting and I think it is probably the most terrifying thing about him. It puts the “I am no mortal” quote into another perspective for me. It’s who he is beneath it all that peeks through for a moment. It must also be infuriating to him that the very source of his success is due to how good he is at playing into his mortal side. It also begs the question of how much of all of this pretending has bled into his life over the years, because we see that he still talks sort of poetically (and even almost emotionally) in his private diaries. His allegiance is to the devil side of himself, but I really do wonder how much he has to suppress small aspects of the mortal side.

[sailorblossoms-snowbaz]

Simon chooses Baz

Bears repeating the extent to which Simon didn't think or process, and thus didn't make choices. He's used to being angry or sad (anger being the one big emotion he's grown sort of "comfortable" with so he defaults to that when faced with other big emotions, such as a homosexual longing or an infuriating troublemaking roommate) but doesn't want to examine the source of those emotions. He's very observant – a lot enters his radar – but his traumatic upbringing makes it so he's used to "hiding everything away in boxes," waiting until he has the tools to figure out what that information means... but it's harder to get there if he avoids processing. This avoidance results in him essentially relinquishing control of his life – he relies on expectations and other people to dictate his life (having roles, instructions, a mission or a map). He has a generally idea of what he wants: he wants to be happy, to have a place in the world – Watford has a place for him, and so it's a place that makes him happy... but outside of that, he doesn't know what he wants. How can he know what might actually make him happy if he refuses to process even the smallest things?...

He relies on everyone else to choose so he doesn't have to.

Even Watford, a place that makes him happy... practically every part of the way he exists in that place is dictated by others. The mage gave him a role and controls Simon's relationship with the world of mages – Simon does and thinks what he's told. Even fighting, which is the one situation where Simon is relying on himself... he's fighting in the way the mage has taught him, and the fact that he even fights at all He relies on Penny to make decisions about everything else in his life – he doesn't even want to make choices about his own clothes (liking that Watford has uniforms and hoping Penny might dress him after school is over). He dates because he's expected to with the kind of person he's been conditioned to believe he would want, which is still not wanting (the genuine want comes from feelings of neglect and inadequacy, of wanting to be like her, and not actually wanting her). And when he dates? everything about the way things go down on the page indicates that he relies on Agatha to make all the choices, too. I'll keep bringing this up because the way people interpret/portray these two has been the most constant source of frustration and disappointment for me: she sets the pace. Part of challenging heteronormativity in these books is that typical expectations of boys and girls explain how Agatha and Simon find themselves dating, but don't actually fit them (I never find anyone doubting Agatha's "I don't want to be here" vibe, but the shit I have seen simply because Simon is a boy, even though he gives the same "I don't wanna be here" vibes, and gives you even more to work with because he has more pages...). Even when he feels like he wants to break up (but hasn't processed enough to identify this like this), he waits until Agatha makes the choice for both of them ("The endgame is when happiness starts" he basically says, implying he hasn't been happy with her, "I waited until Agatha gave up on me" implying he was expecting that to come, among other things... it's not an example of Simon's resilience and fighting spirit, no matter what Simon might think, but of his refusal to make choices for himself, which requires processing) (iirc I have posted about this, it really does require it own post)

Then there's Baz...

Even the way Simon is meant to perceive and engage with Baz has been decided for him, but with Baz, Simon starts to want... little by little, he breaks out of the structure, until he has no choice but to choose.

Simon tries to structure his life with lists, but Baz defies all structure: Simon tells (without telling you, he's a very "show no tell" person) that he misses Baz more than anything he mentions in his "things I like and miss about Watford" (way before he specifically says "I missed him so much every summer") because he keeps thinking about him way before he even brings the list (even in life or death situations, where you expect his mind to go to Penny, his partner in crime... there's Baz. What would Baz do, and Baz is so competent and pretty etc). Baz is there before the list, but he also interrupts it with him, which is also a sign of how his feelings for him can't be contained (way before he specifically expresses he feels like his body is not big enough to contain his feelings for Baz).

He has been told how Baz should be defined in his life (nemesis) but Simon never truly defines him himself until he's asking Baz to be boyfriends ("I want to be your terrible boyfriend"). He resists Penny referring to Baz as "his sworn enemy" ("I didn't swear anything" could sound like he's blaming Baz, but his instinct here is to downplay the perception that Baz is his enemy for real – an instinct that persists whenever Baz tries to refer to himself that way, too.

Simon can't stay away from Baz. Even when he says he is, he isn't. He just varies the intensity with which he follows Baz everywhere – it's painful to be so close (yet so far) but to be completely away from him is more painful. He explains it with the tools he has been given, but the truth is that he just wants to spend time with Baz, to be part of his life and his hobbies. He wants to watch Baz play football. He wants to listen to Baz's music. When something is important for Baz, Simon wants to be there. He wants to know what Baz is up to ("is he plotting?" ... is he thinking about Simon as much as Simon thinks about him?). In that sense, the time Simon spends following Baz everywhere is Simon doing what he wants. It's the one aspect in his life when he's choosing something – no one expects him to be following Baz everywhere all them time, and yet... one might say he's even discouraged from doing this, and yet... (I mean, he's using the time one might dedicate to pursue their own hobbies simply to watch Baz...)

Baz knows what he wants, but he won't choose. He won't dare make the choice that would make him happy – his own traumas stop him. Simon chooses before he figures out what he wants – he figures it out on the go. If he can't help following Baz everywhere because he wants to be part of his life, if he misses Baz terribly when he's not actually rooming with him, what would life be without Baz at all? Before this point, there have been multiple signs indicating Simon that he wants Baz. He has had a taste of being without him, not knowing what happened at all. The certainty of losing him forever is the biggest detonator there is – going against years of conditioning, of not making decisions for himself and by himself, of conforming to roles and expectations, of not processing... Later, he says "I've lost everything but I still have Baz, so I still feel like I've got the better end of the deal." As long as Baz is here... that's Simons' choice.

[finniestoncrane]

Your One True Nemesis

Chapter 22: also on AO3 Masterlist Here Arkham!Riddler x Female!Reader, word count: 1k i hurt my own feelings a lil bit i think but it's fine at least eddie's getting better request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: teensy bit of angst, mention of masturbation

“Screwdriver.”

Eddie tossed his hand out to the side, closing and opening his fingers on his palm impatiently.

“Screwdriver!”

The irritation in his voice echoed throughout the workroom. It was intolerably quiet. He tutted before he raised his voice in one final bid to get what he needed.

“SCREW- oh.”

He didn’t even bother looking up at the realisation. What was the point? There was no need to be embarrassed, because he was alone. He’d called for you and you weren’t there. Instead, he walked over to the wall where you had organised his tools, pulling several of them from their pegs and scattering them around.

It felt good, made it seem like he was in control again. His workshop would be the way he wanted it, and if he wanted his tools to be unorganised then they would be. Who was going to stop him? Certainly not you, because you had gone. Like he asked.

“See? I really am in control.”

Eddie looked around the room, waiting for a retort that he knew was never coming. With a sigh, he moped back towards the workbench, where the mess of skeletal metal bones and wired nerves sat, his prototype, finished finally. Screwdriver clenched in a tight grip, he secured the panel on the back of the torso of the robot and took a deep breath. A trembling finger, usually confident he noted, moved towards the switch and flicked it.

A loud bang, a small almost cartoonish stream of smoke, and a whirring sound. And then the bot fell apart. It was infuriating. The kind of thing you might have laughed about, which of course would only have made him angrier until he realised that it was comical. But he couldn’t see the funny side right now.

“No! How did… how did you…!? That dolt must have failed to construct you according to my instructions. If she were here, I’d… I’d…”

Eddie shook his head quickly, as though that would help banish the tender, and frankly lewd thought, from his mind before he spoke out loud. He felt, sometimes, that speaking something made it far more truthful, factual, than what might be the reality inside of his mind.

“I’d send her packing once more. That’s what I’d do.”

He forced a smile onto his face at the notion, knowing deep down that he was only able to feign happiness because he was imagining you. There. With him again.

“Yes, or perhaps a bit of proper punishment might have been in order. That might have been what was needed the whole time. You were too easy on her, Nigma. Not your true self.”

Tossing the screwdriver down onto the bench beside the heap of failure, he walked out of the workroom and into the tunnels.

“It might not be too late to implement that, actually. I could bring her back, set her straight. I could see to that Mark while I’m at it. Maybe I’ll get her here first, and use her to lure him in.”

His grin grew wider at the thought.

“Why, Mister Henchman, you agreeable fool. You must realise that I was going to beat you once and for all, no? That we were inevitably going to fight. To the death! I, of course, am not afraid. But I want you to consider your next moves wisely, for your own sake! It would be unwise to come here expecting to survive. But don’t you want to save the fair maiden? Come back to the sewers. Or she dies.”

He liked the sound of getting rid of that henchman. But a hostage… it felt very… twee. Not him. Perhaps, instead, he could go directly to Mark. Teach him a lesson on his own turf. As the thought crossed his mind he stopped in the tunnel, jabbing the air with his fists and moving quickly as he muttered to himself.

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a lesser giant hunting ant.”

Amused by his own self-proclaimed prowess, he found himself smiling more genuinely, easier than before, until he entered the living area and looked towards your bedroom. His smile fell quickly into a grimace, then a sorrowful frown. He was annoyed at himself for feeling so sentimental. He was losing control of his mental faculties. It made him question if he ever had control of them in the first place. He’d always considered his brain his friend, an extension of him, where his soul would live, if there were such a thing. But it thought of you, often, and in various ways that concerned him. Surely, if he had control of it, he wouldn’t be forced to think of things he had no interest in.

“Stupid.”

Scorning himself, he took another deep, slow inhale before stepping to your door.

He did want to think of you. You were all he wanted to think about, for the rest of his life if need be. It was useless, and futile, and frankly a waste of his energy to keep fighting against himself. His mind was powerful, the smartest ever known. It was always correct.

Opening the door, he took in the space. It was empty, a void. Nothing there that suggested it had been occupied by anyone at all. The cold air completely covering the warmth you brought to the space. His eyes fell to the floor under the bed, where he spotted something left behind. A pair of underwear. Disappointed in himself, he tutted out loud, desperately pleading with his own mind to calm down, arguing that masturbating with them was absolutely not the cure to his woes.

Lust was at least a fair and natural response though. Or a human response. And while he was happy with neither becoming a facet of his person, he could tolerate them more than the other feeling.

Closing the door, he trudged over to the sofa and threw himself down onto it, staring up at the arched brick ceiling. It was one thing to lust. It was another to be sad.

And it was a whole other complicated nightmare to be in love.

[whoppert]

SUNNA 10 (loki/reader) (stephen strange/reader)

◂ previous chapter first chapter ▴

4945 words

warnings: the after effects of mind violation; canon-typical violence. minor gore; depictions of wounded animals

AO3 MASTERPOST

With that, we see the world through Loki's eyes . . . .

Another step towards the shirking Midgardian.

The right side of my face relinquishes the sting for a long steady burn. Oh, I don’t blame her for the slap, not really, she’s shown a penchant for explosive bouts of emotion, but the unexpected pain makes the uncivilized part of my mind react murderously.

"I'm sorry," she says, hands out in apology. "I'm sorry for hitting you."

I actively reel in the desire to kill her. I am provoking her for more than one reason, I remind myself. I need her mad. “I am willing to admit, transfiguring into the sorcerer was perhaps a bit harsh-”

She stops backing away unexpectedly, and I almost collide with her.

Her shoulders draw back, face contorting with anger. “A bit harsh? A bit harsh!? Are men not taught manners in Asgard? God, why are you such a fucking tool?”

AO3

"You know nothing of my background, I think all Asgardians are tools in one way or another.” I match her energy, each one of us refusing to back down, glaring at each other. Good. “I apologize if I upset you, but it certainly wasn’t personal. All in the spirit of fun.”

“That wasn’t personal? If you upset me?”

"That is what I said."

She is genuinely flabbergasted. "God, you're such a-! What did I ever do to you?"

"What do you mean? I'm here! Against my will! Fixing your mess." I gesture around us. This I genuinely believe. This is not my mess.

She's waving her hands in the air in front of her. "Woah, woah, what? You're still half responsible bud! I need you to be like so for real right now, this is your mess." Right fingers tap on her left palm in beat with her words.

“If I caused you harm it was indirect, I'll admit that much culpability, but I have been practicing magic for longer than your bloodline has existed. There's never been a problem before.” It's true.

“Indirect?” She's almost nose to nose with me on the sloped ground.

"Yes, indirect. If you hadn't been enchanted, then my involvement wouldn't have resulted in this. The enchanter - that is where fault lies."

"Okay? You can't just go into people's heads like that!" She's infuriated. I can feel it, feel all her emotions, hear it in all her thoughts. So... so close.

"Huh. Why can't I? Tell me, I implore you." I know how to sound audibly arrogant. I know the affect that has on someone already frustrated.

"You don't really plan to listen, Loki. We met, and granted I was a little rude, but who just meets someone and then stages a whole shitty diversion just to break into their head? How entitled do you have to be to do that to a person?"

Mind magic is a complicated thing. While I'm in her head I'm bonded to her. When entering a truly fragile mind, it's necessary to bond the guest consciousness to the host, it makes it easier to read the connections and to heal broken bonds. It tricks her mind into thinking I am one and the same. My magic will linger on her for days afterwards, stopping her mind from rejecting the supplementing power.

Such a long time has it been since I have attempted to heal a mind... I have been quite unprepared, forgotten what it is to feel as another feels, hear what another thinks without escape.

It means I feel the throbbing of her pain. I don't like it.

"Do you really think that that's okay?”

I am forced to steel myself. There is a higher purpose to this. Her pain as long as I feel it is my pain, and it makes me want to bite like a wounded dog. I channel that feeling, as I have done so for a millennia - from lashing teeth to a single precise blade. "Sunna, I have met hundreds of thousands of peoples, in different realms and different places. Your kind are born and grow old in the blink of an eye to me. You are nothing to me. I care little for the vapid sensibilities of the common man, just as you cannot weep and wail over every insect killed in your presence because you will never be able to carry on. I am a god and you are a girl. Do you blame a gust of wind for blowing down a castle made of sand? No. No amount of tact could make such a truth easily digestible, and you simply will not be able to induce guilt in me for it."

"Fuck you."

Again, I don’t blame her for the punch. It is the risk you take with provocation. Her fist never makes contact with my face though, I am still quicker than she is, wrapping my fingers around the assailing wrist and holding it firmly in my hand. Unsuccessful attempts to wrench out of my grip were made, and it's harder to restrain her than it technically should be. Perfect. Sunna’s anger is making her stronger.

“So you just mess with people- what- because you can?”

“More or less."

She is preparing another strike.

"Time ever marcheth forth and when you live as long as I do you find entertainment wherever you can.”

I grab her other wrist as well, halting the right hook.

Genuine surprise weaves through the timbre of my voice, “your swings have good form. I refuse to believe that Strange taught you how to fight. That buffoon couldn’t throw a half-decent punch to save his life. Stop it, you’re going to strain a muscle."

She swears at me again.

Something in the air shifts, enough to pull my attention to our surroundings, only for a second but long enough that she pulls me off balance, forcing me to take a step forward. She uses the momentum to grind her heel down on the top of my foot. In real life, this wouldn't have hurt, wouldn’t have caused me to yelp in pain as I did. Every other form I take, I take with me the durability of an Asgardian.

“No matter what I do, what questions I ask, you spin into conspiracy theory, like trying to poison me against Stephen, I know what you're doing-"

"Acknowledging reality is not poisoning."

"You are actually crazy! Like I knew you dressed well, but the way you accessorize the tin foil hat - that's crazy. You wanna talk about bugs? Talk about animals? You’re like a fucking animal skulking around, lying and chipping away at my sanity piece-by-piece. You didn’t put this spell on me, fine, you didn’t intend to cause me harm? Fine! But you fucked up that spell, you fucked up my head, and everything would have been fine if you didn’t feel entitled to other people’s brains and business, so forgive me if I couldn’t give two shits if you did it directly or indirectly. You owe me a solution!” 

There's a pregnant pause while she waits for me to say something, my foot tender and throbbing. “You think I dress well?”

Another shift in pressure. The memory around us fades away.

The night sky around gives way to masonry, mortar appearing before bricks, sprouting out of the ground like some bamboo made of only right-angles, the bricks grow in, strange rectangular fruit. The roof was the final thing to form, snapping on and blocking the newly risen sun.

Encased in the walls of the top of a stone clock tower, she shows Memory-Strange some magic she had learnt as a child, waving a hand through the bell that signaled the changing of the hour. A purple glow has washed over her features. It seemed to catch in the sorcerer’s eye.

“This is my mind,” the real her contended.  “You do not get to act this way in here, this is my head.”

The walls of the tower crack and the ground jolts, shards of another scene loitering behind the set. She is almost there, unwittingly close to a breakthrough.

The automatic door to the local gelato shop slid open with a beep, complete with a welcome mat outside, with the words ‘ice to meet you!’ emblazoned in pink. The inside of the shop was almost empty, but she sat with Wong in one of the shop’s pastel tables, eating their gelato and talking.

“I don’t care what you do out there in the rest of the world but you don’t get to come here and laugh at my memories and torture me because you got bored. Get it together! I have no memories, Loki! My brain is so broken! My body could give out on me any second, everything hurts and my magic is gone. I’m scared, so you need to step up! I need you to step up. You owe me.” Color blooms high across her cheeks.

The gelato shop shudders, splintering away, thrusting us into an intoxicated New York city night.

The lights were too bright, so much so that they hurt her eyes. She could hear every sound around us, every hum of a motor vehicle, the rustle of trash being kicked on the sidewalk, and people speaking to each other in various tones all of which were so intrusive that they thudded against her skull but still she couldn’t make out a single word of conversation.

Ah, here we are. The underlayer.

Her pain transports me. Once when I was small, Odin took me out into the forest to hunt. I did not take to physical endeavors in the same way that my brother did and I was acutely aware of how this made me lesser than Thor. Still I was young, and was always chasing the ghost of approval that Odin gave occasionally - not enough to sustain me, but often enough that I was haunted with the need to make him proud of me. Desperate for more.

I did not rejoice in the killing of animals. More often than not it would do little more than to wash me with nausea, but that day we had laid a trap for a bear, a clamp with so much force that it would be able to restrain the beast long enough for Odin to kill it. We sat in wait until the sun set and rose and set and rose again, the time being of little burden to us.

We sat until a reindeer, antlers freshly shed, wandered near. He called for his kind, but there came no reply.

“He is lost,” Odin said.

So profoundly alone, just as I was.

Odin knew of the magic mother was teaching me, and had forced me to render us invisible to the forest, he had said he didn’t want me to be a distraction when the bear came. Through the lens of an adult as I now am, I can see that it was more important for him to model to me what he thought a great warrior should be, to stroke his own ego, because surely the reason I was such a disappointment is because I had not seen him kill personally. But this was no bear. This was a reindeer, lost and alone, and stepping awfully too close to the trap. For a moment I forgot about the spell and I moved to stop him, to chase him away.

“Halt,” it was a simple command from my father, and it was all that it took to freeze me in place.

The deer was going to step in the trap. “Please, father,” I could not drag my eyes from the beast, “we came to conquer a bear, not this. This is not worth our time,” my voice sounded more practical than I felt.

“Watch.”

The deer made only one misstep, and the teeth of the clamp reared up. This trap was made to subdue a creature much bigger and stronger than a reindeer, so the first sound to echo through the forest was the snapping of delicate bone. The second sound, a scream of agony.

I could not move. I was not allowed to. Odin insisted that I watch. If it were a bear caught, he would have charged in and killed the beast (not without show), but death would have been swifter than the slowly encroaching starvation and blood loss. The trapped animal moaned and cried out. Time passed, how much I did not know, but even now, a millennia later I can see the animals panic and terror shift into anger as though it were before my own eyes once again. Asgardian animals are often more conscious than their Midgardian counterparts and I swore I could see the moment that it decided to gnaw off it’s own limb, now broken in several more places from its wild thrashing. Blood pooled around it. After hours of suffering, it tore through its own sinew and muscle, the gore lashed between its teeth.

It was free... but only managed one shaking step before it collapsed. It had lost too much blood, exhausted and in shock. Even with the lengths it had gone to to free itself, it would die soon anyway. Finally, Odin sent in his wolves to end the deer’s life, and my eyes shut tight, so I could spare myself a fraction of the horror that I had been forced to see.

“Open your eyes and watch, boy.” Odin’s words echoed through my mind, and I am brought back to the scene in front of me, bright lights and loud noises, Sunna standing in front of me, the only respite from the calamity.

“Fine. I agree. I’ve behaved out of line, I apologize.”

She did a double-take, trying to figure out if I was being sincere. It was an expression I had seen on many faces over the years. "Why?" She asks.

I do not answer her.

We had broken through to the underlayer of her subconscious, to the memories she could not access by natural means, and it is represented by the New York cityscape stretching out in front of us.

I swept a hand out gesturing down the never-ending block. “When we first entered your mind, we could only access the memories closest to the surface, the ones we knew you to possess, solidified in your mind, untouched by the spell or by the actions of... unaware third parties. We now find ourselves in the deeper layer of the mind, so to speak. This layer is only accessible through a deep emotional outburst.”

"I guarantee that if you have let me know, I could have had a sufficient mental breakdown without all of that. So I'm still mad at you."

"It has to genuine, raw," I insist.

She rolls her eyes, and the expression is quite attractive on her.

“You're so cruel.” It wasn’t an accusation, more of a statement, without mirth.

She is not the first and would not be the last to tell me this.

“I would say it was unbecoming of a prince, but your reputation is built on cruelty. The old stories, the Battle of New York, the way you treat Stephen. Cruel. An apology doesn't hide it.”

“Did you hope to wound me with that comment?”

She swallows. “Yes.” It's honest.

Each memory we watch is framed with a kind of ease after that.

Nothing flows as it should in here. It is starting to become alarming.

Her mind should respond to her intuitively, but it does not. There are no full memories, only fragments left and distorted.

I can feel her frustration lap at me, threatening to boil over any minute.

For the second time I channel the häxeri, witchcraft. A gift from my dearest mother. The darkness flows as I hum. Let me find the threads of her core. Show me the damage. Show me the bonds broken that I may heal them.

Around us, pieces of her bedroom flow into place like smoke. It is a memory of me, the memory of me.

We watch as she snatches the laptop from my hands.

Suddenly I see her perspective of me, tinged with frustration and fear, as I loom over her. She is a reindeer nearing a trap.

Memory-Loki is forced into the armchair, but her powers are unrefined, and she's using anger as her motivator. A burst of green light knocks her to the floor, and in response she aims a surprisingly well placed kick at my legs, which knocks me down hard next to her. She'd hit her head on the ground, and the memory fabric itself became hazy.

One of my own memories flashes behind my eyes, of Thor killing his goats. A predator. An impending doom approaching a trapped animal.

She jolts as I remove my palm from her forehead. Nothing had appeared out of the ordinary. Sunna stormed out of the Sanctum, her phone shoved hastily in her pocket before getting as far away from me as fast as she could.

The real Sunna stands in front of me, and she regarded the scene in front of us blankly. “I used to remember this, like really clearly,” she chewed on the skin of her bottom lip, “so vividly in the hours after it happened. Out there, I mean. But it disappeared like a slow leak. The details are fuzzier. I still remember, but it feels like all of the memories I've got are so fuzzy now.”

I feel sick.

"So how is what you do different from what Gorron does?" she repeats the question.

The first time she asked escaped my attention. I turn my gaze towards her, hyper-aware of her presence here with me. Every mind is different but this mind is so peculiar. "Gorron looks at your physical brain," I clear my throat. "He can watch a memory via osmosis by pressing on the brain tissue, but nothing so deep as this. I am inside your mind right now."

There is something she is feeling that I can’t identify. "How does it compare to the last time you were in my mind?"

"It doesn't."

"Well, how do we fix it?"

“I don’t know yet,” I answer. It's honest. She didn't believe me I could see it in her face. She feels as though I am holding out on her.

"How do you decide which questions to answer and which ones to cryptically avoid?"

"I flip a coin in my head."

The scenery changes around us. The walls of the Sanctum morphed into a place I have never been.

She was writing furiously on a clipboard, taking very detailed notes of the exhibit in front of her. The dark violet of the museum uniform blazer compliments her well.

It took several long moments for her to notice Strange from where he watched her, his face a mix of emotions. Finally, and with much convincing, he approached, stilling a few feet away. “Excuse me…”

She turns, immediately erupting in a smile. “Hi! Did you need some help?”

It took him a few too many seconds to reply. “Uh, yeah. I- I was wondering if you could tell me where the entomology wing is?” He was nervous.

"Of course!" She rattled off some directions, but when the confused look on Strange's face doesn't clear she endeavored to just show him herself.

We followed them to the entomology unit, watching their very first interaction.

"Big fan of bugs are you?" Sunna strikes up a conversation effortlessly.

"Uh, I suppose. Are you?" He looks at her so intensely.

They arrive at their destination.

"No, afraid not. I can't stand them to be honest, but the exhibit is really cool, there's a lot of really passionate people working that one!"

Strange thanks her, but as she walks away he calls out to her, "actually, this is embarrassing, but I totally, uh, spaced out. I meant- the Babylonian exhibition?"

"Oh, well, that's alright, I'm actually heading that way." She gestures for him to follow. "What brings you there?"

"The art, I guess. Big fan."

"That's cool! I don't think it gets the recognition it deserves."

"Oh yeah, me neither. I don't know anything about it. Maybe you could start me off?"

The pair talked for hours, completely absorbed in each other's company, touring the museum. Their humors seemed to mesh, and they have a surprising amount in common, fiercely academic, competitive, intelligent. Not once did anyone come check on her, to find out why she wasn't doing her job. Nor did her coworkers so much as glance in her direction. Finally, Strange managed to detach himself from her side long enough to leave.

"What woman talks to a stranger for hours at work without attempting to end the conversation?" I ask, turning to face the real her. "What woman isn't uncomfortable with this level of attention? Presumably you have things to do, you can’t just spend all your time talking with patrons, especially not just one." 

She didn't reply, too busy staring at herself.

If there wasn't a soft rise and fall of Sunna’s chest, one might have wondered if she had been instantly petrified. The light behind her eyes had vanished completely. She did not move, had not moved after Strange left, but the other people of the memory continue on about their business, walking through the Cultures of the World exhibit, ignoring her. It was as if she wasn’t there.

We both stare for a few moments, until the background noise of the museum fades and silence grows louder and louder.

"What’s going on? Why aren’t I moving?”

“I don’t know.”

The lights of the museum blink off one by one. The doors are locked and still she does not move.

As though caught on a breath of wind the memory is gone.

“What the hell was that?”

“Do you remember anything like that?” I ask.

“Well I remember meeting Stephen,” she puzzled, “but I specifically remember finishing work, because the whole time I was super distracted by the idea of visiting the Sanctum. The Bleeker Street occultist is kind of a local legend and I had a professional curiosity in Stephen's collection of antiques- anyway, my boss called me out for not putting an artefact back into storage properly.” She ran her hands through her hair. “Like I remember, I never forgot. It was really embarrassing. Could that memory that we just watched be wrong?”

"If your mind is missing a part of a memory, it may distort it. Fill in the gaps, so to speak. Minds naturally do that all the time. It's possible that as sick as you are, it is unable to fill in those gaps and this is what it looks like.

She's uneasy. I'm uneasy.

We continue our way down the block. New York is an ugly, smelly place, and this has translated well into her memory. Still, even to the untrained eye this was, at best, a copy of the city, even excluding the piercing nature of the lights and the chaos of noise. Things hid in the shadows here, intrusive thoughts, feelings that she could not accept - though I drew attention to neither.

Another memory forms, growing from the roots up. A vast field of yellow wheat stretching out as far as the eye can see. Buzzing of insects and the humming of machinery somewhere far off. A cerulean sky spread like drop of ink in water.

“I- I don’t remember this.” Sunna corrected, “It's not in my living memory. Could this be a memory that I lost?”

I speak the word for 'yes' in her language, but I do not know.

The Memory of Sunna is next to us. She was not perturbed by the plants, nor the hot sun on her skin. In the distance appeared a woman, walking through lines of wheat to get to her.

We observe in silence for the five or so minutes it takes the woman to arrive.

She had long curly, light hair that seemed to poof up as though it defied gravity. Her skin was dark and almost tinged blue, as though it was reflecting the cloudless sky. But it was her eyes that drew us in bright with false joy. When she opens her mouth to speak, her voice matches the woman that had visited Sunna in her dream, who had come to warn her and teach her.

Sunna and I exchange a glance.

“You don’t know me, but I know you,” the woman called.

“Who are you?” Memory-Sunna asks.

“A friendly observer,” her laugh was delicate. “But I would like to offer you some advice.”

“Which is?”

“Run. Get away and never look back, don’t come back.”

“Come back where?”

“Home.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The cloud-woman smiled, but it was only a mask over heartache. “And you won’t remember this when you wake. I can only hope that Strange will be able to extract this dream.”

“If I won’t remember, tell me your name.”

“Kuema.”

The field vanishes, giving way to the city again. 

"Or I don't remember it because it was a dream and no one remembers their dreams."

"Some do." I can't help it, but I don't tell her, because Strange can ruin his life on his own. "We have a name that carries a lot of power. It must be her magic that brings your dreams to you. Sister signatures. She must get her power from the same place yours comes from."

“Is she behind all of this?”

“Perhaps, perhaps she is another pawn, much like yourself,” I ran my fingers through the tall stalks of wheat. “On the bright side, this will all be a great story for your memoirs."

She gives me a look and I feel the accompanying feeling, but I can't decipher it.

Another memory begins to form around us.

An apartment. It was small, and had too many coats of paint, but still the light switches have a spot where the grease from hands had rubbed through the unsightly beige. The apartment itself was quite messy. Clothes and takeout containers were spread across the room, the kitchen had a sink of dirty dishes and the open door leading to the bedroom framed an unmade bed and a cold cup of coffee left on the bedside table.

The most curious thing of all was that the apartment is empty. No matter the memory, Memory-Sunna had always been there. This mind is unstructured. It's unsettling.

"This is my old place," Sunna remarked. "I lived here until I moved to the Sanctum. Is there any sign of a signature?"

A wave of my hand and the room is engulfed in purple. The surprise caused her to take a step back, bumping into my chest.

She looked up at me, eyes wide and apologizes.

"It's nothing," I reply but neither of us move. I get the impression that she is too frightened to, like she can feel something I can't.

"I don't think this is real," she said. Confusion.

For a beat everything is silent.

Without warning, the apartment disappears like sand down a storm drain. Again we are plunged back into the city, but all of the fragments that had been hiding in the shadows were emitting a piercing screech. Our hands clamped over our respective ears, but it was no improvement.

"Make it stop-" but Sunna is cut off.

A monster, the color of ash burst through a building, coming straight towards us. I used the seconds before impact to shove her out of the way, but the four legged beast clipped my shoulder and sent me staggering. The creature smashed through the front window of an office and skids across the marble floor.

We run in the opposite direction.

"What the hell is that thing?" She yells over her shoulder.

"Whatever it is, it's in a bad mood." I rub my shoulder. Ouch.

There's an alleyway ahead, I push her down it, following closely behind.

The sound of breaking glass echoes behind us as the monster makes its way back outside.

"Can't you do something about it?" A squeak escaped her when the creature made its way down the too-small alley, powering through the brick like it was snow.

"It's your mind! I have limited powers here," I snap.

"Well, use your limited powers to kill it!"

"I could give it a try and just hope that you don't die when I do that."

We burst from the alley and into a forest, the smell of moss surrounding us.

The monster did not follow.

She doubles over, her hands on her knees while she catches her breath. "You said that none of this is real, so that thing can't hurt us. Right? Please tell me that's right?"

"Would you like to test you theory?" My shoulder aches. "It's real and it isn't. I'm not just trying to be enigmatic. We can definitely get hurt here."

"So if that thing dies, I might die. And if we die in here, we might die out there."

I nod sharply.

In the distance birds begin to cry. Trees are being uprooted. Something huge crushes through the flora.

Again we run, but the beast is on our tail too quickly. It roars are visceral and loud.

A tree falls, the shadow on us growing larger and larger.

I send a wave of seidr at it, throwing it backwards and onto the animal with a disturbing crunch.

Beside me, Sunna yelps in pain. I feel it. She can feel the monsters pain, so I really can't kill it.

The trees began to thin, turning into wisps of smoke.

Fire overtakes the environment.

Fire rages on, and so must our protagonist . . . .

AO3 MASTERPOST

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[redrockbutch]

The Group Therapy Debacle:

This was not my first group therapy rodeo. If you look back on my tumblr archive, you'll notice the singular 6mo absence where I was in residential treatment for Troubled Youths. On the scale of Troubled Youth Industry, I would say it was pretty low. It still wasn't great and there's a lot of stuff I'm still unpacking from that, but we slept indoors and they fed us 3x a day, so. Could've been way worse there.

It continually blows my mind that this group therapy experience, The Group Therapy Experience, was less helpful to my mental health than the one that happened when I was living with teens who had been kidnapped in the night and didn't want to be there.

My living situation at the time was really, really bad. I didn't have any relief from my mental or physical symptoms, or my [redacted]. I was begging anyone I talked to for tools to help process and guide what I was going through. With that in mind, my therapist at the time (also bad) managed to get me a spot in a Group Therapy Telehealth To Learn Skills. It was a specific program but I'm not gonna name it (iykyk) because I'm fairly sure my experience was unusually bad. I know there are much worse things to have happened to people, but when I was literally begging every single mental health professional I talked to to please point me in the right direction because I was terrified I was going to hurt myself, it was genuinely and truly infuriating. So much for "asking for help" and all of that!! I might be alive out of spite about this bullshit tbqh.

When I called to be admitted to the program, I asked the person on the phone for confirmation: this is just like a normal class, right? I won't be expected to interact with anyone else there. I've been in group therapy like that (Troubled Teen Therapy) and I didn't want my therapy to be held up by someone who didn't want to be there, particularly when I was paying a lot of money for it. They confirmed that in no way would I be required to interact with anyone else there. This was a complete and total lie :) Most of the therapy was either interacting with strangers or dissociating while they went over the homework with the group leaders. Everyone hated this. It was so fucking uncomfortable and useless, and I doubt I was the only one who avoided talking about my real problems in front of 7 random strangers who didn't want to hear about them.

Everyone in the program talked a big game about how if someone isn't learning something, the program is the issue and not the patient. When I expressed this to my individual therapist, she gave me the silent treatment until I apologized, and then told me to try being less negative about wasting 3 hours of my life per week and a lot of money on something that was not helping me

If someone didn't do the homework, nobody cared, but in the weirdest and most specific way. The homework was required for understanding what they were teaching, but "understanding what they were teaching and applying it to life" seemed to be pretty low on the priorities, since we never got through lessons at all. Nobody made sure you understood what was going on or asked if there was anything that would make the homework easier. They just publicly shamed you and demanded to know which of Your Issues made the homework impossible and how you're going to make sure that never ever happens again, bc this is your healing on the line!!! They did not seem to be aware of the fact that I cannot use the coping skills I've learned to help make sure I finish the homework when they haven't fully taught any coping skills :)

The group leaders had clear and obvious favorites. They would spend much more time with them talking about anything, and scold the rest of us if we ever piped up. One time I typed a joke in chat to be less disruptive (after several Favorites had been joking aloud and holding up the lesson) and was immediately told to pay attention and stop being disrespectful

I was mocked for not being able to drive as a disabled person. Most of the group laughed. Group leaders did nothing.

Same person frequently made connections between intelligence and straight As and was never corrected. It's honestly very sad to me, because there were times this person was clearly and obviously crying out for help and to view themselves as more than a Strong Academic; their grades had suffered in the wake of a traumatic incident and they now felt worthless. The group leaders encouraged them to stick to their standards of only viewing good students as humans worthy of love bc that was Their Viewpoint uwu

Several people passed through the program and finished it, and during their goodbyes all of them said they felt like they didn't know enough and weren't ready to leave bc they didn't really understand the skills. The group leaders went, "awww!" as though this was cute, and not someone saying to their faces that they were terrible at their job

Every example they had to teach the skills was the most namby pamby little oopsie. "Ohhh I wanted to go to work but there was an icky spider in my car! I don't have a phobia but I think they're kinda gross teehee. What could I have done in this impossible situation???" was literally one of the example situations used. I could never see how their examples of how to apply the skills could possibly apply to my life where I was battling PTSD, chronic pain, and [redacted]. They seemed shocked to hear that their teaching methods didn't really scale to severe traumas

When I wanted to get in touch w the group leaders to talk privately about some of my concerns as opposed to in the middle of group with people who had been ableist directly to my fucking face, I was treated like I was stalking them and this was dangerous and scary. When I was given their emails, it was stressed like 8 times that THEY DON'T USUALLY DO THIS!!! Weird that you don't usually allow people to discuss issues privately !

When I was able to find someone who did skills training individually as opposed to in a group (which was actually helpful and I loved her), I informed The Group of this and they told me they were going to keep charging the card on file even if I didn't show up. They called this a compromise.

When I finally fucking left forever I told them that I felt I had been taken advantage of financially, that them refusing to stop charging my card had made my life genuinely dangerous, and their services were far, far from financially accessible. In response, one of the group leaders told me I'd be welcome to rejoin the program if I wanted

And to cap it all off, I was told several times that this specific program/form of therapy was "the only hope I had"

I have since learned that this type of therapy is useless/possibly extra harmful when you are actively experiencing trauma, and yet none of the mental health professionals involved saw a problem w the stuff I described in my life. I truly feel like they scammed me, and given that I had no source of income at the time and was getting kicked out of my housing, personally I find that Genuinely Evil :)

[slow-button-off]

i'll be honest, the memes about the catering budget are very funny – but the whole situation is also making me extremely angry, because it paints the other 8 (maybe even 9) teams as this bunch of massive tools for actually making an effort and following the rules

besides, when in 2019 ferrari built an engine that maybe! exploited a grey area and helped them win a couple races, they were then forced to endure neverending scorn and two years of driving a dishwasher with pedals — whereas, if this breach is proven true, I'd be shocked if red bull gets more than a slap on the wrist and an inconsequential fine... after developing a car that effectively won them the championship

am i bitter? perhaps; but it's infuriating and it's not fair

For now I don't think it makes the other teams look bad outside of the memes.

2019 being used as an example of no punishment will never not be funny to me. Because firstly the FIA couldn't prove anything. And being slower post TD doesn't mean they can prove what you did pre TD.

They weren't excluded from the Wcc and wdc standings because how could the FIA if they can't even for sure say that Ferrari broke a rule.

And then like you said especially the 2020 shitbox was a lot of punishment for something that brought 3 wins.

For now RB can still appeal which would apparently be considered an aggravating factor when it comes to punishment interestingly.

The FIA has a little problem because if it wants the cost cap to work then it can't just be slap on the wrist. It would have to be a decent fine and reduced development hours next season (which is way late!) And maybe a smaller cap.

We know they're not touching the drivers and wcc points won't hurt them that much.

If the punishment isn't decent enough firstly Merc and Ferrari will riot, but they'll also fuck the cap next year if this a fine is everything that happens.

They used to spend 400 million a 20 million or whatever fine would be absolutely nothing to them.

I wouldn't even be surprised if this whole thing genuinely ends up being the end of the cost cap. Because the big teams don't like it and don't want it.

Anyway, I can't wait for the actual documents to be published because I am so curious to see what really happened because there is no way it was catering and sick leave. That's not how a budget works.

But the memes are too funny

[wretcheddthing]

hi. i would like u to pick your favorite questions for the d&d character ask game and answer them for zelmae please 🫴

hiii! hello my friend!! hello!! hello hi!!!! hi hi!!!!

let's do this

2. Who in the party would your character trust the most with their life? Honestly Probably Mara. She doesn't have any strong feelings for Terei and Alba sorta intimidates her. Also Mara is really strong.

10. If your character had time to pick up any artisan’s tools, game set, instrument, etc., what would it be? She'd sing if she could.

14. Has your character ever been in love? Yeas :) She's a little worried about the status of that relationship atm

15. What battle in the campaign has been most memorable to your character? Do you remember being in the inn on that island at the very beginning and she set a dude on fire? Negative effect on her psyche there. Like, all the times she's died are pretty bad too but. I like to think my slip-up as a player can be played off as pure ignorance of her abilities on her part.

17. What is your character’s favorite season? Spring :) This isn't the most interesting question for her, but I like that I've made a character that genuinely prefers spring over fall for a change.

40. Where does your character feel the most at home? In her room. The walls were paper and that's the only real privacy they afforded her, but it was also quiet and she had no shame. Her cot was comfortable and all of her favorite things were nearby.

48. What aspect of your character’s future are they most curious about? (If they could know one thing about the future, what would it be?) Above all else, she's concerned for Daphne's safety. They've both grown in different ways. She gets the sense they no longer see eye-to-eye on certain things, but that thought tears her apart so she's trying to ignore it, basically. Out of everything going on, she just wants to know Daphne will see the end of it happy.

53. What is your character’s favorite spell? If they don’t use spells: what is their favorite personal weapon/combat maneuver/skill/etc.? Healing Word :)

61. How does your character imagine the way they will die? Oh Buddy. Oh BUDDDDDDDDY. This is a question and a HALF for her. Right now, she thinks something is going to go predictably bad and she's going to be a consequence of it. Whether or not she comes back is not up to her, and that Infuriates her. It also makes her reckless, and she'd recognize that. She almost wouldn't care. That almost is doing a lot of heavy lifting for her.

65. What is your character’s favorite food? Beverage? So we canonized milkshakes

72. Who in the party would your character trust the most to keep an important secret? Alba for sure. Zelmae doesn't keep secrets, but she gets the sense that Alba is someone who wouldn't go around gossiping.

83. How far is your character willing to go to pursue the “greater good”? Do they believe in a greater good at all? She used to think there was such a thing as an ultimate good. She believed it was something to strive for, but being in the real world challenges her in ways she never could have anticipated.

87. What major arcana tarot card best represents your character? The Hermit.

94. What is your character’s biggest flaw? Her naivety. She's so lost when it comes to common sense and even common knowledge. She believes in an inherent goodness, and that's knocked her on her ass so spectacularly she's on the precipice of a total meltdown. It's not even her fault, but the learning curve is steeper than she's prepared to climb.

98. What advice would your character give to a younger version of themselves? "Ask more questions."

[drabbles-mc]

State of Grace (2)

David Hale x OFC (Grace Teller)

Request by Anon: I got a thirst for Hale after seeing a drabble earlier - what about a Hale x reader, where Hale is having an inner battle with his feelings for the younger sister of Jax Teller? Maybe, a situation where both have liked each other for a while, which equally infuriates Clay and Jake respectively, but ultimately, a near miss with Zobelle’s crew pushes them together more, and then it’s used against Hale, and then ultimately there’s fluff?

Warnings: language, alcohol, mentions of violence

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: I think about Hale and Grace on the daily I swear lmao. Another long update because we’re still building out characters and dynamics and everything. It’s not super Hale-focused, but I do want to emphasize and build her friendships and relationships with everyone else, and in my mind Opie has been her day one. Shout-out to @garbinge for listening to me talk about these guys, and all my OC’s and plots all the time. Big loves.

Chapter Index

SOA Taglist: @masterlistforimagines @adela-topaz-caelon @mijop @chibsytelford @thanossexual @xladymacbethx @i-just-read-stuff @kkim120 @toni9 @unicornucopia-fuckers @shadow-of-wonder @punkgoddess-98 @paintballkid711 @black-repunzel99 @lexondeck @jitterbugs927 @mrsstevenbuchananstark @mijagif @frattsparty @winchestershiresauce @bellisperennis0 @crowfootwrites @redpoodlern @beardburnsupersoldiers @mveggieburger @xeniarocks @choochoo284 @littlekittymeow @beardsanddetectives @thewineandthewomen @i-love-scott-mccall​ (If you want to be added to the list just let me know!)

Grace got to the compound after her meeting with Hale. She felt a little better after having talked to someone about it, but not much. There was still a heavy weight in her bones as she made her way into the office at T-M. Gemma wasn’t there, and she had never been so relieved to not see her own mother. The last thing she needed was for Gemma to pry into why she seemed so exhausted.

She was idly flipping through the orders for the day when she heard a faint whistling coming from the doorway. She turned around quickly, pleased to see Chucky walking in with a binder clutched to his chest. He saw her, a bright smile taking over his features.

“Amazing Grace,” he set the binder down, “how can I help you?”

The smile that crept across her face was genuine, “Hey, Chucky. Just looking to see if there’s a spot for me to work on my bike? Just need to keep myself busy today.”

Without hesitation he nodded, “Fourth stall. All yours for as long as you need it.”

“Perfect,” she smiled at him, “Thank you, Chucky.”

He didn’t offer up much more than another nod and smile before she turned and walked back out of the office. Without really talking to any of the men who were working at day, she rolled her bike in and got it up onto the lift. She put her headphones on, hoping to drown out the last of the noise outside her head and give her another thing to focus on besides the tools in her hands as she attempted to distract herself from everything that had happened in the previous twenty-four hours.

The painstaking process of modifying her bike was something that she could only describe as a labor of love. The parts didn’t come cheap, and neither did all of the extra paint jobs and other detailing that she wanted done. It was a long, slow process, especially when she was constantly scraping together the money for it, but it was all starting to come together and it was something that truly never failed to put her in a good headspace. Just like her brother and her father, she was always finding something to tinker with.

Time became irrelevant as she worked, song after song reverberating through her headphones. She half noticed the other mechanics milling about, the guys from the club clocking their minimal number of hours for legitimate income. She didn’t look at any of them, though, and neither of them tried to get her attention either. Even though she didn’t say anything, they knew that now wasn’t the time to try and talk to her.

She was rifling through the tool chest for a different size wrench when she felt someone’s hand land on her shoulder. Without thinking, she flung her elbow back, hard, sending whoever it was tumbling back a few steps. She whipped around, pulling her headphones out as she did. Eyes wide she realized that she’d just slammed her elbow into Opie’s throat.

He coughed, cupping his neck where she’d just connected with it as he tried to figure out what had just happened. Grace shook her head, twisting her hands nervously in front of her.

“Fuck, Ope, I’m sorry,” she stepped in closer to him, “You alright?”

Clearing his throat, he nodded, “Yea, all good,” he took a moment to really look at her, “You alright? You look like shit.”

“Must be going around,” she muttered.

“Didn’t hear from you last night—wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Yea,” she lied, “Sorry about that. Totally blanked when I got home. My bad.”

“You sure you’re good?” it’d been a long time since he’d seen her looking so haggard.

“I’m fine. Just didn’t get to sleep much last night,” she shook her head as she tried to piece together a lie that would be enough to get Opie off her back, “Dude above me was arguing with his girlfriend all fucking night. Was about this close to banging my room against the ceiling and telling him to just dump her ass already.”

“You gotta get your own house, Gracie,” Opie said with a soft laugh.

“It’s on the very long list of things that I’m working on,” there was a long pause between them before she spoke up again, “Sorry about your neck.”

“It was a good shot, can’t lie,” he looked over at her bike, “How’s she comin’ along?”

It got a smile out of Grace, “Slow but steady. Ordered custom rims a couple days ago that should come in in the next week or so.”

“Spinners?” Opie asked with a laugh.

She rolled her eyes, “Not quite. You’ll see when they get here.”

“Can’t wait,” he pulled her into a hug, feeling her body tense for a couple seconds before she finally relaxed, “Go home and get some rest. Gemma sees you lookin’ like this you’re never gonna hear the end of it.”

Shaking her head, Grace leaned farther into him, “Can’t afford to be knocking out just yet.”

Opie looked around, making sure that no one else nearby was listening to their conversation before asking, “You hear anything yet?”

She didn’t realize what he was talking about at first. Her brain was so scrambled from everything that had been happening that she completely forgot about the rest of her life. She stared up at Opie with a blank expression on her face for a few seconds before he realized that she didn’t follow his train of thought whatsoever.

“School?” he offered up one word to jog her memory.

Recognition lit up behind her eyes, “Oh! Shit. Right,” she shook her head, “Not yet. That’s normal, though. Probably in the next week I’ll be getting letters back,” she sighed, “Fingers crossed.”

“You tell Jax?”

“No,” there was zero hesitation in the response, “Love him, but he wouldn’t be able to keep something like that to himself.”

“You think he’d tell Gemma?”

“Not on purpose,” she gave him a slight defense, “But he’s got no filter and you know how easily she gets inside everyone’s heads.”

“Right,” he gave a slow nod.

Opie was surprised at how well Grace had been able to keep it from everyone. The fact that he was the only one who had any idea what was going on, and that he had found out by accident, was quite the feat. Grace had never been the type of person to be overly secretive. Sure, their lifestyle demanded a certain level of discretion, but she was always open whenever she could be—it was easier that way. She had no time for remembering lies was what she always told everyone. And even growing up, when she felt that she had to hide something from Gemma and Clay, she still always confided in Jax and Opie, or vice versa. The more Opie thought about it, the more he realized that he’d never seen her keep a secret on complete lock before.

“You won’t be sworn to secrecy much longer,” she stepped back from him and ran her fingers through her hair, “By the end of next week, either everyone is gonna know, or there won’t be anything for anyone to know.”

“It’s gonna work out,” he was never overly emotional when he spoke, but there was still certainty to his tone.

She appreciated his positivity, because it wasn’t often that he went out of his way to be optimistic like that, but she still didn’t want to get her hopes up too high only to have them crushed, “We’ll see.”

A couple days ticked by and Grace hadn’t heard anything from Hale. Everything seemed a little too silent. She wanted to stop by the station and ask him what was going on, but she knew that if Unser saw her there again, she wouldn’t be able to get out as easily as she had the first time. She knew that he would ask questions, and if she didn’t give just the right answer, he would head right to Clay, or worse, right to Gemma. The one time that Grace actually hoped that he would stop by T-M looking for Jax or one of the guys, and he was nowhere to be found.

She’d been taking the longest route possible to get home. She knew that it didn’t quite matter, because whoever it was could easily just tail her and try to corner her again, but it was the only thing that gave her any semblance of peace. She’d been sleeping on the couch in her apartment’s living room in an attempt to be closer to the door, hoping that it would clue her in if anything was about to happen. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t a permanent solution, but it allowed her to get some shuteye that she was desperately needing.

After getting home early one evening, Grace popped open her mailbox in the bottom floor of her apartment building. She was idly flipping through the envelopes as she walked up the stairs to her floor. Most of it was junk mail, a couple credit card companies trying to get her to apply for a card she didn’t need, insurance companies trying to tell her that they can get her a better rate on her motorcycle insurance. She was getting ready to rip the whole stack in half when she got to an envelope that had the name of one of the nursing programs she applied for printed in the top corner.

Part of her wanted to tear into it in the middle of the hallway, but she knew that if it was bad news, she didn’t want to be crying where her neighbors might see her. She hastily walked down to her door and slipped the key into the lock. She tossed all the other envelopes off to the side as she dropped her bag and her keys. There wasn’t a single coherent thought in her mind as she ripped the envelope open at the top.

Her hands were surprisingly steady as she unfolded the slip of paper and scanned the first few lines. Her eyes grew wide, a laugh of disbelief bursting through as a smile spread across her face. As much as she had been hoping that things would work out, she didn’t let herself really believe that they would. She read the entire letter a few times over as she tried to register that it was really happening, that this could be a part of her future.

“Holy shit,” she gasped, running her hand back through her hair. She looked around her apartment for a minute before pulling her phone out of her pocket, dialing the first person who came to mind. After a few rings, she was rewarded with a gruff hello and she couldn’t stop herself from laughing, “Opie, I’m in.”

“What?”

“I’m in! I got my first acceptance letter,” she couldn’t believe that she was actually saying the words out loud.

“Holy shit,” Opie chuckled, “Congratulations.”

“You free? Wanna come over and help me celebrate?”

There was a pause and for a moment Grace thought that he was going to come back with some kind of excuse. But after a few moments of murmuring on the other end of the line, Opie came back on and she could hear the amusement in his voice, “I’ll be there in thirty.”

It was hard to believe that such a rush of good luck came after all the stress and anxiety that had been filling her days, but she wasn’t going to turn away from it. She laid the letter out o her coffee table, letting out one last giggle to herself before getting up and going to change into more comfortable clothes. In the span of just a few minutes, she felt like an entirely new person.

Almost thirty minutes later on the dot, the lock on her apartment door flipped and Opie came striding in, slipping his keys into his pocket as he closed the door behind him. Grace knew logically that it was Opie, but she still clutched the spatula in her hand a little tighter as she leaned back to get a clear view of the door.

Opie chuckled as he kicked his boots off, “I come to celebrate and you’re gonna beat me with a spatula over it?”

She let out a small chuckle, “Can’t hurt to be too careful.”

He saw how quickly the nerves disappeared from her face, so he didn’t push the topic. Shrugging the backpack off his shoulders, he walked over and started pulling things out, “Figured you were set for food,” he glanced over at the stove where she was making breakfast for dinner, “and I was right. So I got some other shit,” he pulled out a bottle of vodka, “Something for you,” he reached in and pulled out a bottle of tequila, “and something for me.”

Grace laughed, setting her utensil down so she could give him a proper hug. Opie tucked her tight against his chest, eliciting a quiet oof from her before it turned into laughter. She leaned into him, taking comfort not only in the safety that he surrounded her with, but the fact that she could feel the pride radiating off of him.

“You did it,” he gave her one more squeeze before releasing her.

Running her fingers back through her hair, she nodded with a laugh, “I did it,” her face lit up, “Oh, shit, look at it!” she practically sprinted over to her coffee table, sweeping the acceptance letter off of it as she went by. When she came back, she slapped it against Opie’s chest, “In black and white.”

His eyes quickly scanned over the paper, a small but proud smile appearing on his face. He nodded his head as he looked back at Grace, who was standing there practically vibrating in place, “I’m proud of you.”

The sincerity of his words settled over her and she felt her entire body calming down. It hit her that she never really heard a lot of that growing up. It was implied, sure, because she worked hard to do what everyone around her considered to be the right thing, but no one really ever took the time to say that they were proud of her, or happy for her, except for Jax and Opie. And, even then, it was sparse because they just weren’t built like that.

But, with something like this, hearing someone tell her that meant everything. Getting the green light from someone that building her life outside the club was a good thing, the right thing, to do, cut loose weights that she didn’t know that she was carrying.

Opie could see all the thoughts racing around her head and playfully bumped her shoulder before walking back to the kitchen and sticking the acceptance letter to the fridge, “Don’t let the pancakes burn.”

“Shit,” Grace laughed, snapping herself out of her sentimental thoughts, “Right,” she went back to the stove and got everything under control. She started laughing again when she heard Opie going through her cabinets looking for glasses, “Nothing like pancakes and shots.”

“Like you’ve never done pancakes and shots first thing in the morning,” he shook his head slightly as he opened the bottles that he’d brought.

Celebrating for the two of them looked different now than when they were kids. It was fun, but it was so much tamer than it used to be, especially if it was just the two of them. When they all partied together at the clubhouse, things still got rowdier than they probably should’ve, but when it was just the two of them there was a nice lack of chaos. They’d eat and drink, doing a little too much of both, as they talked and put movies on in the background that they had no hope of focusing on. It was nothing like the wild nights that they had when they were teenagers, nights that were mostly just blurs of laughter and alcohol and hangovers at that point. It all suited them just fine, though.

“Can I still call you Doctor?” Opie asked as he stood up to get himself another drink.

Grace laughed, shaking her head, “No, because I’m not gonna be a doctor.”

“We call Chibs Doctor.”

Rolling her eyes, she smiled, “Yea, and that’s not accurate either.”

She looked over the back of her couch for a moment before getting up and making her way over to the kitchen as well. She hoisted herself up onto the counter next to where Opie was pulling drinks together for each of them. Neither of them said anything for a minute, each wondering what the other was thinking even though part of them already knew.

“When do you think you’re gonna tell everyone else?” Opie asked, handing her a glass.

With a sigh, Grace shrugged, “I’m not really sure. Maybe when I lock into a program for sure. This is only one of the places I applied to. Hell, might be the only place that accepts me,” she let out a dry chuckle, “but I don’t know that yet.”

“Can’t put it off forever, you know,” he took a sip of his drink.

“I know,” she looked down at the glass in her hands, “I just…I wanna really enjoy it for a bit, you know? Before everyone shits all over it,” she laughed but Opie could see the doubt starting to shade her features.

“They can try,” he nudged her knee, “but you already did it. You’re in, Gracie. They can’t…they can’t take that from you.”

It felt good to hear him say it. She smiled slightly, nodding, “You’re right.”

He laughed, eyebrows raising, “Shit. No more drinks for you,” he motioned like he was going to take her glass away, “Don’t think you’ve ever said that before.”

“Fuck off,” she laughed as she hopped down off the counter, “Let’s go see if any of these kids make it out of the house alive.”

“One of ‘em has to,” he followed her back to the living room, “since there’s three other ones after this.”

“Three?” her eyes grew wide as she laughed.

“Yea,” he chuckled, sitting back down on the couch, “Would’ve been more if they had a doctor like you there to patch them up.”

She couldn’t quell her laughter, all the alcohol from the night hitting her full-force, “Not a doctor, Ope.”

He waved her off, fighting back a laugh, “Close enough.”

Despite how late the two of them stayed up, and regardless of the low-budget horror movie screams that were blaring from her TV, it was the best night’s sleep that Grace had gotten in a long time. And even though she woke with a mild throbbing in her head, she felt rested. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she looked down to the other end of the couch and saw Opie passed out still, his head resting back on the arm of the couch. She let out a very quiet, very tired laugh as she forced herself to sit upright.

Swinging her legs so that her feet landed on the floor, she leaned forward and propped her elbows against her knees, letting her head come to rest in her hands. She rubbed circles into her temples for a few moments before she got up and started to put away the leftover glasses and plates from the night before. It’d been a while since the two of them had real fun quality time together, existing outside the constraints of the club or even just Jax. It was refreshing, the kind of reset she’d been needing after everything that had been going on lately.

After her shower, she came back into the kitchen to find Opie awake and making coffee for the two of them. They gave each other silent nods of acknowledgment, both of them not quite awake enough, and just a tad too hungover for real conversation with each other.

She was about to grab a box of cereal for breakfast when her phone started to buzz on the counter. With a sigh, she picked it up, her stomach twisting slightly when she saw that it was Charming PD that was calling.

“Hello?” she tried not to sound bothered, not wanting to alter Opie to the fact that something was wrong.

“Hey, Grace,” Hale’s voice came from the other end of the line, “Sorry for the early call.”

“That’s…it’s fine,” she struggled to pull sentences together, “What’s up?”

“Think you could come down to the station today? I had some questions to ask.”

Grace could feel Opie’s eyes on her and she tried desperately to ignore it, “Um, yea. I can do that—no problem. What time?”

“ASAP, preferably.”

She glanced over at the clock and inwardly groaned, “Alright. Be there soon.”

“See you then.”

She ended the call and fought the urge to groan. Slipping her phone into the pocket of her jeans, she went back to getting herself something to eat for breakfast before she went back to reality. The evening before already felt like it was slipping farther and farther away from her.

“All good?” Opie hated prying but she didn’t offer anything up to him like she usually did.

“All good,” she poured milk into her bowl, avoiding eye contact with him at all costs.

“Need company?” he offered, realizing that he wasn’t going to get real answers out of her, but that didn’t mean he wanted to leave her hanging.

“No,” she finally looked over at him, trying her best to give him a convincing smile, “I got it under control, Ope. Thank you.”

He wasn’t fully convinced, but he also knew better than to try and argue with a Teller. He nodded, “Alright. Well,” he downed what was left in his coffee mug before setting it in the sink, “I’m gonna go home and shower. Get ready to deal with your brother.”

She laughed, shaking her head, “He’s your best friend. You chose this life.”

He shook his head, chuckling, “You’re my best friend. Don’t tell him that, though.”

She laughed, “Never.”

Opie put his boots back on and grabbed his backpack before walking over and wrapping Grace in a tight hug, “Love you.”

“Love you too,” she pushed him towards the door, “Go steam the tequila out of your pores.”

“It’s just part of me now,” he shook his head as he walked towards the door to her apartment. He opened the door, not looking back over his shoulder as he called out before leaving, “Proud of you.”

She went to respond but he shut the door before she could. Grace had to laugh, not expecting anything less from him. However, once the laugh left her lips and she was in her apartment alone again, the smile dropped from her face. There was no avoiding the realities that waited for her outside the walls of her apartment.

Tossing the carton of milk back into the fridge, she shut the door. As she was taking a deep breath, her acceptance letter stared her in the face from where Opie had stuck it the night before. She focused on the words printed in front of her, trying to convince herself that there was some kind of cosmic balance in the universe. There had to be, right?

Walking into the station, Grace tried her best to go unnoticed. Unser was always around, but she hoped that he would be caught up in something else so that she could just slink to Hale’s office without him seeing her. She quietly made her way between the desks, mumbling excuse me to whoever she had to slip by.

She was almost there when she heard the voice of a man who’d known her since birth coming from behind her, “Gracie?”

Taking a breath, she stared up at the ceiling for a moment before turning around with a small, nearly convincing smile, “Chief, hey.”

His brows furrowed, clearly trying to suss out the situation, “What brings you here?”

She jerked her thumb towards Hale’s office, trying to sound nonchalant, “Hale called me in. Guess some shit went down and I might’ve been a witness?” she shrugged, “Not much of a detail guy over the phone.”

“Or in person,” Unser offered up with a chuckle.

The knot in her stomach loosened when she realized she might skate through another interaction with the police chief without having to give up any of the truth, “Yea, right. That too.”

Once he started to walk away towards his office, Grace let out a silent sigh of relief and continued to her original destination. The door to Hale’s office was cracked open, and she could hear more than just his voice coming from the inside. The other voice, a woman’s, sounded familiar but Grace couldn’t quite place it.

“C’mon, Davey, lighten up,” the woman’s tone was dripping with sarcasm as she laughed.

Grace was just about to reach forward and knock on the door to alert her arrival when the door was pulled completely open from the other side, revealing a woman that Grace had already heard far too much about from the club.

Before either of the women could say anything, Hale spoke up, already knowing that Stahl was going to try and pounce on this situation for all that it was worth, “Grace, sorry. Agent Stahl was just leaving,” he tried to speed up the woman’s departure.

“Gracie, Gracie,” Stahl looked her up and down, leaning slightly against the door, “Teller’s little sister, right?”

“Don’t ask it like a question when it’s not,” her tone wasn’t mean, but it was firm.

Stahl raised her eyebrows slightly, “Right. Well, I’ll let you get to your, I’m assuming, very important business with the Deputy Chief,” she turned back to Hale, “Keep me posted on what we talked about, alright?”

Hale physically fought the urge to roll his eyes, “Yes.”

Stahl flashed a smile at Grace, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Can’t wait,” she muttered.

Grace pushed the door closed behind Stahl a little more forcefully than necessary. Hale could see the annoyance on her face, “Sorry about that. She’s—”

“I’ve heard,” Grace didn’t want him to apologize over something that wasn’t his fault. Shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, she lingered close to the door, “What’d you need from me, anyway?”

“Just got some possibilities for vehicles and plates that I wanted you to look over,” he motioned for her to sit down as he took a seat behind his desk.

She sat across the desk from him, watching as he flipped through paperwork to find whatever document he needed her to look over. Watching the focus on his face, she was suddenly transported back to high school all over again. And, while those years were usually something that she would pay money to forget, she found herself smiling at the thought of freshman year David Hale. Same haircut, no muscles to be seen, and coke-bottle glasses to top it all off. He was always quiet, and a little dorky, but even in spite of that the two of them were something resembling friends in school. Grace couldn’t really pinpoint when exactly they’d grown so far apart.

“Here,” his voice pulled her back to the present, “The incident report, and vehicle info.”

She sighed quietly as she took the papers from him, “This feels like it was forever ago now, David. Nothing new is gonna come to mind.”

“Just…read it and see if anything comes to mind. Please. For me.”

He never really tried to pull that card, the do this for me statement was never something that he really kept in his arsenal. That being the case, Grace figured it wouldn’t hurt to reread it and see if it jogged anything in her memory. She leaned back in the chair and started to read it over. Without much of anything else to do, Hale found himself gazing over at her. He could see how tired she was, and he knew that a large portion of that most likely had to do with the entire situation that had landed her in his office only a little more than a week before. He hated not reaching out, but he didn’t know how to go about handling the entire situation and he didn’t want to reach out if he had nothing to offer.

“I can’t remember the plate,” she shook her head as she looked over the information in front of her, “But this looks like the same make of car—same kinda build,” she put the paper down on the desk, pointing to the one that she was talking about.

He nodded, trying to keep his face neutral, “Alright. That’s good.”

“Whose is it?” she asked as she watched him stack the papers back up again.

He shook his head, “Grace—"

“This guy fucking jumped me, David,” exasperation started to bleed into her tone, “I deserve to know.”

“I gotta vet this first. You know that.”

“I’m not gonna tell Jax, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she shook her head, “The whole reason I came to you in the first place is because I can’t go to the club.”

“I’m not worried about your brother—I’m worried about you,” he paused, taking a breath before meeting her gaze, “Let me do what I need to do, okay? When I’ve got some more solid leads I’ll let you know and we can get this all underway.”

She didn’t like it, but she knew that she wasn’t going to win an argument against him about it, either, “Alright.”

“Anything else happen since?” he had a feeling he knew the answer already.

She shook her head, “No.”

“Let me know if anything does?”

She stood up from her chair, “You got it, Deputy,” there was no sincerity in her voice as she said the title.

“We’ll get this sorted out, Grace. I promise.”

She nodded, “Okay. You need anything else?”

He shook his head, “No.”

“Alright,” running her fingers through her hair, she sighed, “Thank you. I know it all just…sucks. I just, I want this to be over with.”

His heart felt heavier just looking at the way she deflated in front of him, “I know you do.”

Before he could try to offer up any other words of reassurance or comfort, she turned and opened the door to his office. Hale thought about walking after her, but there was nothing more to be said for the time being. Leaning back in his chair, he sighed and shook his head.

Grace made her way out of the station, quickly going down the stairs to get to her bike. She walked by David’s brother, a man she made a habit of ignoring as they all got older. He was talking with a pair of men who also looked like people she didn’t want to associate with. She’d hung out with plenty of people that would be considered shady by most, but there was something off-putting about the men in Hale’s company, despite the fact that they were in dress clothes.

“All good on the compound, Gracie?” Jacob said with a chuckle, “Not used to seeing you here.”

She turned to look at him, ignoring the fact that the two men with him were staring at her like she was their next meal, “It’s Grace, Jacob. And don’t act like you’re worried about what happens over at T-M.”

She didn’t give him or the men with him a chance to say anything as she continued walking towards her bike. Swinging her leg over, she pulled her phone out and called Opie, who picked up on the second ring, “Hey, Juice in today?”

“Uh, yea, why?” it wasn’t how he thought the conversation was going to start.

“I need him to run a plate for me when I get there.”

“Sure. Everything good?”

“Yea,” she lied, “Just looking into some stuff.”

[baya-ni]

How Ep 7 Gave Us More Reasons to Hate ADAM, Beyond Being a Homewrecker: a Short Essay

Ok look, I know that we all hate ADAM for a multitude of reasons including but not limited to: driving wedge between renga, traumatizing reki, engaging in weird pedophilic bullshit with Langa, and just being a creep in general. But it's this scene from ep 7 between ADAM and Tadashi in particular that really infuriates me...

And I don't see a lot of analysis of the truly horrid implications of this scene so I’ve taken it upon myself. In this essay, I’ll dive into ADAM/Tadashi flashback scene of ep 7, exploring the dynamics of their relationship through a class lens, and demonstrating the true extent to which ADAM deserves to be shot between the eyes. Ok let’s do it.

Early on in the season, we get a clear sense of ADAM's character as pompous and condescending, if not through the way he skates but through the way he treats his secretary; he degrades Tadashi, calls him names, shows no gratitude despite Tadashi’s unfailing service and compliance.

And ADAM's abuse of Tadashi culminates in ep 7, when we learn that ADAM plans on letting Tadashi take the fall for his acts of political corruption.

But what I find truly awful is the reason why ADAM is going to let Tadashi take the fall. In ep 7, we get this flashback:

So these scenes tell us is that ADAM was first groomed by his father (then later by his aunts) to occupy some position of great influence in society, in business, in politics, or something similar. He was probably born into great wealth (since his family could afford to send him to America for school) and was expected to take up the mantel as family patriarch or something like that.

And in this scene, it’s implied that in an attempt to get ADAM to finally “grow up”, his father forces him to give up skating, trashes his board, and sends him away to America. Tadashi witnesses this, and clearly sympathizes with ADAM, but doesn't speak up for him.

And supposedly, ADAM feels so betrayed by Tadashi's silence...

...That he carries this grudge into his adult life, and it fuels his abusive behavior towards Tadashi. This is so utterly fucked up for so many reasons.

This scene takes place when ADAM was still a teenager, which means that Tadashi has served as his assistant/secretary for many, many years. I wouldn't be surprised if Tadashi's family has been serving ADAM's family for generations; Tadashi's loyalty to ADAM despite the abuse seems to imply such is the case- he has an inherited obligation to remain at ADAM's side.

But I also do think that Tadashi genuinely cares for ADAM, at least the person he used to be. If Tadashi has been tied to ADAM's family since ADAM was a teen, it's likely that they grew up together, and were probably close friends. One can imagine that ADAM often confided in Tadashi, trusted him and shared with him his love for skating. And though ADAM had skating friends like CHERRY and JOE, Tadashi would be the only one to understand the full extent of the expectations placed on ADAM to give up anything unrelated to his career and the success of his family.

My point is that Tadashi obviously feels guilty about not speaking up- its probably a big reason why he's so determined to stay by ADAM's side and why goes along with every one of ADAM’s dangerous skating (and skating related) stunts. He failed to support ADAM in the past, so he does so now. But ADAM hasn't forgiven Tadashi and never will...

Rather, ADAM’s bitterness and resentment runs so deep, he sees Tadashi as nothing but a disposable tool.

But here’s the kicker, this backstory is some great drama (and I’ve been dying to know what the whole deal with Tadashi is) but the relationship between ADAM and Tadashi tells us a lot about what kind of person ADAM is, and why we should hate him for more than just being a renga homewrecker.

If we step back for a moment and and analyze the flashback a bit more objectively (that is, without much consideration for either of these characters’ personalities) what we have is a deeply troubling power imbalance.

Fundamentally, Tadashi is ADAM’s employee, and has been for all of ADAM’s adult life. No matter how fond ADAM might have been of Tadashi in the past, the gap in their wealth and class would have prevented them from ever being equals.

Tadashi has always had more to lose than ADAM.

And this holds especially true for the events of the flashback. What ADAM expected was for a Tadashi, who at the time couldn’t have been much older than ADAM, so literally a teenager, to jeopardize his livelihood by standing up to ADAM’s father, essentially the boss of his boss, in a culture that stresses respect for your superiors above almost all else, just so his skinny privileged ass could skateboard. It’s the entitlement and sheer willful Ignorance of that sentiment that really makes my skin crawl.

And again, this office scene illustrates an earlier point I made that Tadashi always has more to lose than ADAM.

See how despite whatever trauma ADAM experienced in being made to give up skating and being sent away to America, he’s now one of the wealthiest and most influential political figures in Japan such that he has police chief in his pocket. He’s one of the greatest skaters the underground skating scene has ever witnessed and the founder of S, the most popular skating race in the region.

He hasn’t suffered one bit, yet Tadashi has lost everything.

Blackmailed and abused, a forced accomplice and fall guy for ADAM’s political corruption, Tadashi is a hostage and a victim, all because of one moment many years ago when a teenage Tadashi dared to choose self preservation over self sacrifice.

It makes me sick.

But at the same time, cheers to the writers for getting me to hate a character so singularly for so many reasons. I’m now very invested in Tadashi’s character and I so hope we get to see him team up with The Gang and the Inspector to get ADAM’s ass thrown in jail.

So in sum, Eat The Rich, Tadashi supremacy, thank you all for coming to my TedTalk.

[ailuronymy]

do you think every disabled character in wc is handled poorly? i understand theres def some cases of ableism but at the same time when i hear ppl say that its usually bc the disabled cat wasnt able to become a warrior due to their disability. and i feel like ppl forget, that not everyone irl CAN do what they want after they become disabled. ex. someone wants to be an athlete, but their legs have to be amputated. a cat like briarlight esp i feel is p realistic and could be a source of comfort

Hello there, thank you for writing in. I’m going to reply to this question with a series of questions I think are a bit more useful, given what you’re trying to ask me. I hope that’ll clarify what is a deeply complex, multilayered issue. 

Do I think Erin Hunter handles anything in the series “well”? Not really. I don’t have a high opinion of the work of the collective and, broadly speaking, I think every right note they play, metaphorically speaking, is an instance of chance rather than effort, skill, or intention. Stopped clocks are right twice a day, mediocre writers will sometimes do something cool by accident, similar principle. That’s not to say Erin Hunter hasn’t ever done anything on purpose--just that overall the underlying drive of the series isn’t so much quality as it is quantity, and speed of production, and it shows. 

Do I think Erin Hunter puts any significant research into how they portray disability? No. I do not think it is a priority for this series. They’re not trying to make a meaningful work of literature, or capture a realistic experience of disability, or tell especially impactful or thoughtful stories, or even make a particularly good or coherent fantasy world. Warriors is a specifically commercial product that was commissioned by HarperCollins to appeal to a particular demographic of drama-loving, cat-loving kids. It’s not really trying to do anything but sell books, because it’s a business, so the text in many ways reflects that. They’re not going for disability representation, in my opinion. They’re including disability in many cases as a plot-point or an obstacle. 

Do I think this means that people can’t connect to these characters and narratives in meaningful ways? No. Often I say that a work is completed only when it is read. Before that point, it doesn’t have a meaning: a reader finishes the work through the act of reading, and interpretation, and filling in the spaces and resonance of the story with their own values and experiences. When people talk about subjectivity, this is what they are talking about. What this means in the context of disabled characters in Warriors is that these characters and their stories can be multiple, conflicting, even mutually exclusive things at the same time, to different people, for different reasons. 

Do I think characters have to be “good” to be significant to someone? No. I think genuinely “bad” (i.e., not researched or poorly researched, cliche, thoughtlessly written, problematic, etc. etc.) characters can be deeply meaningful, and often are. Ditto above: for many people, and especially marginalised or stigmatised people, reading is almost always an act of translation, wherein the person is reading against the creative work of the dominant culture in a way that the author likely didn’t intend or didn’t even imagine. There’s a long documented history of this in queer culture, but it’s true for just about everyone who is rarely (or unfairly) represented in media. Disabled people often have to read deeply imperfect works of fiction featuring disability and reinterpret them in the process--whether to relate to a kind of disability they don’t experience themselves but which is the closest they’re offered to something familiar, or to turn positive and meaningful what is intended as narrative punishment, or simply to create what’s commonly called headcanon about “non-disabled” characters who echo their personal experiences. 

Do I think everyone has to agree? Extremely no. As I said before, people will actually always disagree, because all people have different needs and different experiences. What can be interpreted as empowering to one person might be very othering and painful for another. There is no “right” answer, because, again, that is how subjectivity works. This is especially true because marginalised communities are often many different kinds of people with different lives and needs brought together over a trait or traits they share due to the need for solidarity as protection and power--but only in a broad sense. It’s why there is often intracommunity fighting over representation: there isn’t enough, there’s only scraps, and so each person’s personal interpretation can feel threatening to people whose needs are different. You can see examples of this especially when it comes to arguments over character sexuality: a queer female character might be interpreted as bisexual by bisexual people who relate to her and want her to be, while being interpreted as lesbian by lesbians who also relate to her and want her to be like them. Who is correct? Often these different interpretations based on different needs are presented as if one interpretation is theft from the other, when in fact the situation is indicative of the huge dearth of options for queer people. It becomes increasingly more intense when it comes to “canon” representations, because of the long history of having to read against the grain I mentioned above: there’s novelty and, for some people, validation in “canon” certainty. And again, all of this is also true for disabled people and other stigmatised groups. 

Do I think this is a problem? Not exactly. It is what it is. It is the expected effect of the circumstances. Enforced scarcity creates both the need for community organising and solidarity and the oppressive pressure to prioritise one’s self first and leave everyone else in the dust (or else it might happen to you). The system will always pit suppressed people against each other constantly, because it actively benefits from intracommunity fighting. Who needs enemies when you have friends like these, and so on. A solution is absolutely for everyone in community to hold space for these different needs and values, and to uplift and support despite these differences, but it’s not anyone’s fault for feeling threatened or upset when you don’t have much and feel like the thing that you do have is being taken away. It’s a normal, if not really helpful, human response. But until people learn and internalised that the media is multifaceted and able to be many things at once, without any of those things being untrue or impacting your truth of the text, then there will be fighting. 

Do I think my opinion on disability on Warriors is all that important? No, not really. I can relate to some characters in some moment through that translation, but my opinion on, say, Jayfeather is nowhere near as worthy of consideration than that of someone who is blind. I don’t have that experience and it’s not something I can bring meaningful thinking about, really. That’s true for all these characters. If you want to learn about disability, prioritise reading work about disabled rights and activism that is done by disabled people, and literary criticism from disabled people. And as I mentioned above, remember that community isn’t a monolith: it’s a survival tactic, that brings together many different people with disparate experiences of the world. So research widely. 

Finally--do I think there’s only one kind of disabled narrative worth telling? No. For some people, a disabled character achieving a specific, ability-focused dream is a good story. For other people, a story that acknowledges and deals with the realities, and limitations, of disability is a good story. The same person might want both of those stories at different times, depending on their mood. That’s okay. Sometimes there’s power and delight in a fantasy of overcoming seemingly impossible obstacles and defying all expectations. Sometimes there’s value and catharsis in a narrative that delves into the challenges and grief and oppression experienced because of disability. There’s no one truth. 

To round all this off, I’m going to give my favourite example of this, which is Cinderella. I think it’s a great and useful tool, since for many it’s familiar and it’s very simple. Not much happens. In the story, she is bullied and tormented, until a fairy godmother gifts her over several nights with the opportunity to go to a royal ball, where she dances with a prince. The prince eventually is able to find Cinderella, due to a shoe left behind, and they are married. In some versions, the family that mistreated her are killed. In others, they’re forgiven. 

Some people hate the story of Cinderella, because she is seen as passive. She tolerates the bullying and never fights back. She does every chore she’s told. She is given an opportunity by a fairy godmother, and she doesn’t help herself go to the ball. She runs from the prince and he does the work to find her again. Eventually, she’s married and the prince, presumably, keeps her in happiness and comfort for the rest of her life. 

For some, this story is infuriating, because Cinderella doesn’t “save herself”: she is largely saved by external forces. She is seen as a quintessential damsel-in-distress, and especially for people who have been bullied, infantalised, or made to feel less capable or weak, that can be a real point of personal pain and discomfort. 

However, for some others, Cinderella is a figure of strength, because she is able to endure such hostile environments and terrible people and never gives up her gentle nature or her hope. She never becomes cruel, or bitter. She is brave in daring to go outside her tiny, trapped world, and she is brave to let the prince find her. She doesn’t have to fight or struggle to earn her reward of happiness and prove her worth, because she was always deserving of love and kindness. The prince recognises at once, narratively speaking, her goodness and virtue, and stops at nothing to deliver her a better life. 

Depending on the version, the wicked family disfigure themselves for their own greed--or are punished, which for some is a revenge fantasy; or Cinderella forgives them and once again shows her tenacious kindness, which for others is a different revenge fantasy. 

The point? Cinderella is the same character in the same story, but these are almost unrecognisable readings when you put them side-by-side. Which one is right? Which one is better? In my opinion, those are the wrong questions. I hope this (long, sorry) reply is a set of more useful ones. 

[pynkhues]

. Hi, tbh Im feeling kinda sad lol That ep for me just didn't really give me closure I guess. I feel like the introduction of Nick's character was really just more to serve Beth's storyline than Rio. As we seen from these flashbacks Nick and Rio have such a toxic relationship. Nick Is an abuser!! He had such a hold on Rio for so long. I don't like the implication that Rio only decided that Nick has to go because of Beth it also doesnt make sense . It would have been more satisfying if Rio was the one working towards the entire szn to take Nick down.

Also wish i could have enjoyed the bench scene. I couldn't really because Anne and Ruby were suffering. Not that I want to see any of the girls suffer but I feel like every ch this szn suffered but Beth . She really never faced any consequences. Sure yes she got shot but compared to other injuries shown in the show.(Turner, Rio of course, Ruby etc) I say it wasn't that bad. They rly glossed over it pretty quickly . Now shes in such a power position and has Rio working for her!! Which full circle but this feels off . I guess what I'm saying is that none of what happened felt earned if that makes sense? IMO it all felt very rushed. . Sorry if this comes off negative n sry for how long this is lol. Would love to hear from your perspective?

Hi! I’m sorry you feel sad about it, anon, and I’m sorry that you don’t feel like it gave you closure! I get that – series finale’s are challenging at the best of times, but especially when show’s don’t realise they’re the finale, much like Good Girls didn’t with this season.

You’ve asked a few questions here, so I’m going to break it down into two sections, the first being Rio, Beth and Nick, and the second being that Beth didn’t suffer any consequences, and look, I’m going to prep you early! While I agree with a lot of your minor points, I don’t really agree with either of your major ones. I can absolutely see your standpoint on the first, which I’ll come to shortly; but I’m genuinely baffled at this point by anyone thinking that Beth hasn’t suffered any real consequence across the course of this show. In fact, I’d argue that she’s the character who has suffered the most consequences, and quite frankly, I’m exhausted by the hunger to see her punished.

I’ll come to that point too though.

Okay, let’s start with Nick.

Nick is abusive! I agree with that absolutely. I think he’s a toxic person who has manipulated Rio and positioned him where he wants him for a lot of their lives, but I disagree that Rio necessarily wanted out of that. What we saw of their relationship in s4 was that it was symbiotic. They function in a relationship which is mutually beneficial. Rio makes Nick money, Nick protects Rio and gives him broader professional networks.

Otherwise, they live separate lives, something very much established in 4.06 with the fact that Nick had no idea who Beth even was.

Rio has always seen Beth first and foremost as an avenue to opportunity. She was a pathway to a world he hadn’t had access to in s1, then one to the Boland Motors operation in s2, and free money in s3, and then as a way to greater power in s4. Yeah, his personal feelings were in play in the latter too, but Rio only entertained Beth taking down Nick when he saw it as a way of securing a better portion of Detroit himself.

He only talked to her about it when she was already running for city council, had Sweet P’s and the money laundering behind her, and was going after Nick herself.

Every character on this show is, in some way, parasitic, but especially Rio. I don’t even mean that in a bad way! He’s a smart guy who knows what works, knows what’ll run, and he attaches himself to that. He’s been that way since he saw a use for the girls in sending them over the border in 1.03. This is a huge part of the character he is, and him balancing his affection for Beth and his strained relationship with Nick doesn’t – and shouldn’t – change that. So why would he exit out of a beneficial relationship with Nick before he had an alternative?

God, in some ways, it’s probably easier for Rio to have a bad relationship with the person feeding that need for him, because there’s less of an attachment.

I think that the shifting power dynamics between Rio, Nick and Beth were really pivotal to that arc overall and that Rio saw advantage in the same breath that he realised his own weaknesses, and I think the arc let Beth reconnect with Rio in a meaningful way while letting her redistribute her hunger for power in a way that ultimately allowed her to see Rio as a co-captain instead of the lifeboat she’s always hadto see him as because of her circumstances.

Nick was a tool that let the power between them rebalance itself, and gave them both the chance to move forwards as equals, and I think that was felt in both their arcs, not just in Beth’s or just in Rio’s.

Beth has faced no consequences

Oh, anon. I know you don’t mean it this way, but this is something that infuriates me on so many levels.

Beth has, over the course of the season, lost everything.

She lost her parents before the series even began, her house in the pilot, her marriage and financial security at multiple points, the entire contents of her house in season 3, her children in season 2, and her relationship with her chosen family, Ruby, in s2 and s4. She’s been pursued aggressively by the FBI and the Secret Service, turned herself in and was arrested by the FBI, she’s been shot, she’s been cheated on by her husband, betrayed by her husband, set up, kidnapped, blackmailed and threatened by Rio, and strongarmed into a date with Fitzpatrick. She’s had a friend murdered, been chewed out by her best friend’s husband, and now, had her sister arrested for a crime neither of them commit, but a man tried to get her to take the blame for.

What else would you like to see her lose?

How else would you like her to face consequences?

How else do you think she should suffer?

And why do you think she should suffer more than she already has?

Because if you don’t think she’s paid her dues at this point, I don’t know what to tell you anymore beyond the fact that this makes me very, very sad.

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Last Dragon | The Witcher

Chapter 17 | A Tale of Dragons

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Targaryen!OC

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Warnings: Soft Visenya being soft with Geralt and children

Word Count: 5.6k

Note: Click here to read the previous chapters ♡ Also! My tag list is open!

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

She counts out each second, blade in hand as she moves along to her quiet muttering. Each step is like a dance, careful and practiced, as she leaves footprints in the dampened dirt. Every breath is even and quiet, inhaling on the beat and then exhaling on the offbeat. If her movements are a dance, then her breathing and counting is the song she sways to.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

She spins in time with the crescendo to the imaginary music. Her blade slicing through the air, steel whistling in the wind. But it isn’t uncontrolled. She maintains a firm grip on her blade, manipulating how it moves and where. She’s in a trance, captivated by the breeze on her bare skin and the symphony in her head. It’s not the rigorous and disciplined sword training she’s used to, that’s been hammered in her mind from the day she first held a sword. Instead, it’s lighter and freer, her sword becoming an extension of herself rather than a tool she uses separately from her.

“What are you doing?” a small voice says.

The music silences and her movements stop. She lowers the blade to face the ground rather than outward and turns, eyes falling to the ground. A small elven boy stares up at Visenya, curiosity, and wonder gleaming in his wide green eyes,

“Practicing,” she says, staring down at the small boy, no discernable emotion on her face. Despite the bluntness of her words and the blank expression on her face, the boy isn’t deterred.

“Can I try?”

She recognizes him as Rohir, the little boy that got knocked unconscious by the skeevy bandit Visenya killed. Within a few hours of making camp, he woke, restless and unable to stay in one spot for too long, much to the chagrin of his mother.

The corners of her lips twist into a look of amusement, eyes faintly twinkling in the dim light. He’s small, not much smaller than she had been the first time she held a sword - albeit a wooden one. She remembers faint memories of training yards and practice dummies at the Capitol; holding weapons too large for her, whilst onlookers simply ignored her, except for Ser Jaime. He stuck close to Visenya when he could, whether out of a sense of duty or genuine enjoyment, she never knew. As the years go on, she leans toward the latter, but a small part of her still hopes it was genuine liking.

A grin slowly creeps onto Rohir’s face, the prospect of sword training making his entire face light up with anticipation.

“No.” One word, two letters; that’s all it takes. The grin on his face and the sparkle in his eyes immediately disappear, leaving no trace of ever being there. Instead, a scowl overcomes his young features, his hands crossing over his chest. Visenya can’t help the snort that leaves her mouth, only further infuriating the boy.

“Why not?” His voice is petulant, a faint lisp following each letter.

“You’re too small. You’ll only hurt yourself,” she says, a hint of amusement in her otherwise deadpan tone.

“Says you!” he responded, fire and frustration coating each word.

“Says me,” Visenya mimics his words, lacking any of the heat that he possesses.

“But I’m really good!” Rohir exclaims.

She sheathes her blade, turning away from Rohir, eyes focusing on Geralt. He’s sitting on the ground, back against the trunk of a tree that’s on the other side of the camp. He sits so he’s not in the immediate line of sight, but at a vantage point that he can still see everything.

“I am sure you are,” Visenya says, a slight smirk on her lips. Ice cold leaves crack under the weight of her feet as she moves towards Geralt. Her walk is loose and casual, not a tense bone in her body.

“So why won’t you let me hold your sword?” He follows closely behind her, a furious storm, but his anger only furthers Visenya’s amusement.

“Because, you’re too small, and my sword is too big,” Visenya responds. She’s halfway to Geralt, standing in the center of the camp. Rohir huffs an argument on the tip of his tongue, only to be cut off by Amaria.

“Rohir! Come here, En'ca minne,” He loudly inhales only to sigh a moment later. Visenya hears his feet stomping into the dirt as he walks away. Quiet laughter follows Visenya as she closes the remaining distance between her and Geralt.

His eyes don’t move to meet hers; not when her feet appear in his peripheral vision nor when she joins him on the ground and her shoulder faintly brushes against his.

She says nothing and neither does he. Gold eyes focus on the flurry of movement and noises that fill the clearing. It’s more lively and happy than it had been only four hours ago. Amaria switches between tending to her still unconscious husband, only bearing to leave his side when she has to chase around one of her children who are acting up. The two youngest - Elana and Vyron - squeal in glee, chasing each other around without a care in the world. As their forms zip past Visenya she hears faint wisps of their conversation. They’re acting out a grand tale brimming with adventure and happy endings. They’re so free and untouched by the tragedy that was gripping at their feet, begging to pull them under its desolate claws.

She remembers those days. When she’d run around Winterfell like a feral animal, unblemished by the fate of her family. The horrors she was able to bury so deep in her mind they felt more like distant nightmares rather than reality, the box only unlocking when she grew old enough to understand that more than just silver hair separated her from the Starks.

More often than not she wishes she could go back, to be protected by the naivety of childhood.

“I didn’t take you as a fan of children?” Geralt’s voice pulls her from her thoughts. She glances over at him, the small smile that managed to slowly creep onto her face disappearing.

“Why?”

“They seem too loud, I thought you liked the quiet,” Geralt says. Visenya snorts, rolling her eyes. She returns her gaze to the clearing. Rohir sits beside his mother, a pout on his lips, still upset by Visenya's refusal to train him. Elana and Vyron continue to whip through the clearing, with no sign of stopping any time soon.

“I do, but children aren’t terrible,” Visenya answers, watching as the two youngest stop in a portion of the clearing that’s the farthest from anyone. Elana is yelling, the words foreign to Visenya, but Vyron seems to understand her perfectly.

“Do you want any?”

Visenya shrugs, watching as the respite the two children have taken ends as they continue to run around the clearing. She’s never thought about the prospect of children. For most of her life it seemed inevitable; she would be married to some lord or another, bear his children, and then die at some point. But then the war happened, and everything about her life that seemed certain became undetermined.

Visenya opens her mouth, despite not actually having an answer for his question, but is cut off as Elana appears, jumping onto Visenya's lap. Her breath is temporarily lost, and before she can regain it, Vyron quickly follows, landing on the right side of her lap just as Elana moves herself to rest on the left.

Geralt grunts, watching the two rambunctious children with a wary gaze, praying to every god that may listen that they don’t decide to jump on him next.

“Do you have any stories?” Elana asks, her face beaming in the dim light. A wide smile makes its home on her face, wonder causing her wide eyes to nearly glow. Vyron’s expression mimics hers, but his face is softer and smaller, causing him to look more like an excitable puppy. It’s nearly identical to Rickon, who clung to Visyena’s leg as if his life depended on it.

‘How fitting that he’s now dead,’

The thought enters and leaves her mind before she can fully comprehend it. Mentally she clears her mind, opting to focus on the wide-eyed children in front of her.

“What an odd question to ask. Why do you believe me to have any tales to speak of?” Visenya asks.

“You’re an adventurer. Adventures always have tales,” Elana says, her tone not allowing for objections. Her words are fact and she seems set on not accepting any other truths. Vyron doesn’t speak but opts to enthusiastically nod his head in agreeance with his older sister, a matching grin on his face.

“Do they now?” Visenya asks, tilting her head to the side.

“Yes,” Elana says, giving Visenya a single nod.

Laughter bubbles out of Visenya's mouth - the sound so light and sweet it captures the attention of Amaria and Rohir. She throws back her head and her eyes shut, the noise continues to resound in the camp. Geralt watches with less wariness, his face morphing into a less stern expression. On the opposite end of the camp, Amaria stands from her position, quickly making her way to the group of them, Rohir following behind her like a shadow.

“Elana, please, I’m sure the both of them would like to be left to silence,” she says, moving to grab her daughter. Elana’s posture slouches, the smile on her face falling ever so slightly. Visenya finally stops laughing, opening her eyes and looking towards Amaria.

“No, it’s quite alright,” Visenya says, shaking her head in disagreement as she adjusts to get in a more comfortable position. Amaria freezes in place, eyes darting between her children and Visenya as if she doesn’t actually believe the words she’s saying.

“As a matter of fact, I happen to have a tale that I know quite well, but it’s not one that I’ve experienced personally. Would you still like to hear it?” Visenya asks a playful grin resting on her features. Elana immediately perks up, nodding her head so enthusiastically it might’ve fallen off - Vyron following his sister's every movement.

“Yes, please please please,” Vyron and Elana immediately begin to plead, widening their eyes to achieve a more innocent and puppy dog appearance. Visenya’s eyes dart to Amaria, silently asking if it would be alright. The worry melts from Amaria’s face, posture relaxing as she grants Visenya a single nod.

She pauses for a second, racking her brain for a tale to tell that would be suited for an audience this age. She doesn’t think about it for long, a story she’s known since she could read words on a page immediately entering her mind.

“Let me tell you a story about dragons,” Visenya says. Elana and Vyron grow silent, waiting with bated breath for Visenya to continue. Rohir appears from behind his mother, a pout still present on his lips, eyes scowling at the dirt, but he continues forward, sitting right beside Visenya. He grabs a stick and begins tracing symbols into the dirt, refusing to make eye contact with anyone but the ground, attempting to maintain an air of disinterest.

“Many years ago, in a world far far away, there once was a city - Valyria they called it, and what a grand city it was. A place filled with wonder, magic, and dragons.”

Elana and Vyron gasp, audibly portraying their excitement. Rohir is more subtle, his ears only twitching slightly as his movements pause for a brief second. Visenya leans her head back, closing her eyes as she begins to bury herself in the stories she read a million times over, clutching that worn and torn book every night like it was the only thing keeping her on the ground. After a moment of silence and a deep breath, Visenya opens her eyes, staring straight ahead and into the fire that flickers a few feet away from them.

“It was a great city, managing to tame dragons they would ride into battle. They were fearsome and respected, managing to conquer large amounts of territories with their dragon fire. For 5,000 years Valyria was the capital of the greatest civilization, the heart of an empire that ruled half of the world. It was grand, but unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, which leads into this story.”

The children are enraptured, eyes solely focusing on Visenya - even Rohir abandons his guise of not being interested in her tale. She doubts that Vyron is following the story, but his eyes are wide and mouth agape - growing more exaggerated each time she mentions‘<dragons>’. Elana is young, but her eyes are sharpened with intelligence that’s older than her as she seems to follow the story well.

Amaria no longer stands, opting to sit on the ground, opening her arms as Vyron crawls off of Visenya’s lap and onto his mothers. Visenya glances at Geralt, his eyes already on her, his gaze burning into her. Her mind stutters, fog momentarily taking over so she can no longer focus on anything. Eyes snap away, once again focusing on the fire to clear her mind.

“There were many great houses, one of them known as House Targaryen, with shining silver hair and amethyst purple eyes, the family held distinctive Valyrian features. Targaryens were believed to have a closer connection to their dragons, to understand them in a way the other dragonlords never would.”

“Because they had magic, right?” Elana says, her voice firm and sharp. Rohir turns to his sister, a pout on his lips as he shushes her. She turns to face him, a matching glare set on her face.

“If you wait, she’ll tell us,” he says. She huffs, an indignant look on her childish face.

“I just wanted to know!” Elana says.

“Well, you should just wait!” Rohir says, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Rohir, be nicer to your sister, she’s just excited,” Amaria says in a soft and soothing tone, diffusing the argument before it could get any worse.

“But--” Rohir says, but quickly grows silent when he receives a stern glare from his mother. He huffs, slouching his shoulders and looking towards the ground. Amaria sighs, looking at Visenya with a soft smile on her face. Visenya smirks, amusement glimmering in her eyes.

“But to answer your question, in a way they were magical. They didn’t have mages, but they had visions that would come in the form of dreams. The most notable of these came from Daenys the Dreamer, who saw the fall of Valyria.

“But they had dragons! What could beat dragons!?” Rohir says in disbelief, eyes wide in shock. Visenya turns to him, the smirk on her face turning into a knowing look that has Rohir ducking away from her gaze. She chuckles, a soft sound that is carried away by the sudden roar of the fire.

“They did, but dragons couldn’t save them from the natural disasters that tore through the city. Fire, ash, and smoke filled the air, managing to kill even the dragons.”

“So they all died?” Elana asks with a quiet and sad tone, a strong lisp following every vowel.

“All except House Targaryen, who because of Daenys’ dream went west to Dragonstone, an island far enough away from Valyria to escape the desolation,” Visenya says.

“What’s dissolution?” Vyron asks. Elana turns her head to look at him.

“I think it means the end,” Elana says.

“No, it means death. There was lots of death!” Rohir says, turning to face his siblings. Vyron just nods, whilst Elana cocks her head to the side, brows furrowing in thought.

“It’s when something is damaged beyond repair,” Amaria says. “Their homeland was destroyed, just as many homes to the elves have been.”

Visenya looks at Amaria, who meets her gaze. There’s a sadness in her eyes that Visenya didn’t notice before, but it’s familiar. It’s the same look she saw in Filavandrel’s eyes, and any other elf she met that day.

“But they brought dragons with them, right? The dragons weren’t all dead, right?” Rohir asks, breaking Visenya from her mild trance. Before she can answer him, Elana whips her head in his direction, a look of exasperation on her face.

“Of course! They were the best with dragons!” Elana exclaims.

“I was just asking!” Rohir yells back, straightening his posture and face contorting into a petulant expression.

“Well, why are you asking stupid questions?” Elana responds, turning away from Rohir to face Visenya and rolling her eyes. Visenya’s hand shoots up to her mouth, attempting to cover the grin on her face. It manages to muffle the small laughter that escapes her mouth, the noise escaping the notice of everyone except Geralt and Amaria - who looks at Visenya with exasperation in her eyes.

“There is no need for arguing,” Visenya says, looking pointedly at Elana with a single eyebrow raised. She at least has the decency to look sheepish, scrunching her nose and looking down at the ground.

“Sorry,” she mutters at the same time as Rohir.

“You are forgiven, shall we get back to the story?” Visenya asks, a slight smirk on her lips. Elana looks up at her through her lashes, nodding her head.

“Good. They did bring dragons with them - five to be exact. While the names of four have been lost to the ages, one name is known to everyone who knows of House Targaryen; Balerion the Black Dread. He was a massive dragon, who when he grew to full size, could black out entire towns as he passed over them, his wings large enough to cover the sun.” Visenya says. The children make various sounds of wonder, eyes wide and unblinking.

“What did they do next?” Rohir asks.

Visenya pauses, cocking her head slightly as she tries to recall. Her only source of knowledge concerning her family is an old book that had been buried in the depths of the library in Winterfell that was tattered and torn from continuous use by the time she marched off to war. It was vague at best, not offering any new or rare information about her house, therefore the time in between The Doom and Aegon’s conquest is blank.

“Well, House Targaryen made a home at Dragonstone, away from the war that ensued twelve years later when Valyria was destroyed. Nothing of note happened until roughly a hundred years later,” Visenya says.

“Well, what happened!?” Rohir exclaims.

“That would be a story for another day. I believe it is getting too late to begin another - much longer - tale,” Visenya says, glancing at Amaria. She stands from the ground, Vyron still firmly attached to her. She reaches a hand towards Elana, who groans, but takes her mother’s hand, getting off of Visenya’s lap. Rohir doesn’t voice his displeasure, opting to silently stand and move to stand beside his mother, but it’s clear on his face. His eyes aren’t as bright as they were when he was enraptured by Visenya’s story and his lips are pulled into a small pout.

“Visenya is right, it’s getting late and we have a long day of travel ahead of us. Let us give our saviors some quiet,” Amaria says, turning her gaze to Visenya and Geralt for a brief moment before herding her children to the other side of the clearing. “Now say goodnight.”

Three ‘goodnights’ resound all at once, in various tones and noise levels; Vyron gifting Visenya with a particularly toothy grin.

She smiles, unable to force away the action nor the laughter that escapes her mouth.

“Goodnight. I promise to tell you another tale tomorrow while we’re traveling,” Visenya says, earning a blinding grin from Elana and causing Rohir to immediately perk up.

“You promise?” Rohir says.

“Swear it on my life,” Visenya responds without missing a beat. He nods his head, turning and rushing across the clearing, eager to sleep the rest of the night away. Elana tears after him - yelling about racing him there. Vyron squirms in Amaria’s arms, the grin still on his face, but Amaria maintains her tight grip on him.

“To bed we go, Dilthen er,” Amaria says to Vyron and places a kiss on his cheek. She turns to give Visenya and Geralt, giving them one last warm smile before she turns to follow after her children. They all gather in one section close to the fire and near the sleeping body of Aldon. For a few moments restless chatter and light giggles come from the children as Amaria attempts to lull them to sleep with a soft lullaby. Eventually, the noise dies down as one by one they all fall asleep, leaving only Geralt and Visenya awake.

“An interesting tale,” Geralt says, after a moment of silence - once the children have all fallen asleep, Amaria shortly follows suit, leaving only Visenya and Geralt awake. Crickets chirp all around them, the low rustle of wind disturbing their melody occasionally.

“I thought so too,” Visenya says, bones cracking as she stretches her body out. She wraps her arms around the tree behind her as she reaches her arms behind her, slumping against the tree a moment later. She continues watching the fire as the flames that used to rise towards the night sky die out.

“Is it real?” Geralt asks. He’s looking at her, she always knows when he is. Something about the way his gold eyes linger on her is so distinct that she'll always know when a gaze is him, even if it seems impossible to know such a trivial thing. Nothing about a person’s gaze leaves any physical sensory that can be identified, and yet, never once has she been wrong about Geralt’s gaze.

“Supposedly. Although, I’m sure some details have been lost to the ages - some purposeful and some not. Books aren’t always incredibly accurate, stories are often skewed to the favor of the author,” Visenya says. She turns away from the fire to look at Geralt, locking eyes.

“Details you knew perfectly,” Geralt says. His tone isn’t accusatory, but she can hear the underlying question in his statement.

“When I was a little girl I had a book that I would read every day. It was the only comfort I had most days. That story was one of the many tales within the book,” Visenya says, a smile that can only be described as melancholic on her face. Geralt grunts, continuing to watch Visenya, but not saying anything further. His eyes are curious, hoping she’ll continue and say something that makes her less of a mystery. Yet he’s also not willing to press her for information she doesn’t want to share. That much they have in common: two people with too many secrets that are wrapped behind scars that they cover up with fury and rage. Because it’s easier to lose people if they were never allowed close to her to begin with. Life is safer when she keeps everyone at arm's length.

Visenya stares up at the night sky, watching the stars as the ambient sounds of soft snores and dream laced giggles resonate through the clearing. She swallows thickly, a lump beginning to form in her throat as her mind wanders farther and farther away.

“They were my ancestors,” Visenya says, shattering the silent air around them. Geralt doesn't move, doesn’t even breathe in fear that it might disrupt the trace that Visenya is in.

“House Targaryen, the Dragon Riders from Valyria that conquered the Seven Kingdoms.” She chuckles after the words leave her mouth, brows furrowing ever so slightly as her eyes briefly meet the dirt before returning to the stars.

“An impressive ancestry,” Geralt says, his gravelly tone unsure, the words fumbling nearly awkwardly out of his mouth.

“Yeah I suppose so,” Visenya says, voice sounding a million miles away as if she isn’t even physically only a few inches apart from Geralt.

“Better than my lineage, anyways,” Geralt continues, looking away from Visenya. He adjusts his body, resting against the tree more comfortably as his eyes scan the dark forest around them, wary of any threats that may linger just out of eyesight. Visenya’s lips curl into a bare smile, he whispers of a chuckle leaving her mouth as she languidly leans against the tree.

“The dragons were the most impressive part,” Visenya says, eyes fluttering shut, the hectic day finally catching up to her as her body grows wearier the quieter their camp grows.

“Maybe we should find you a dragon,” Geralt says, a smirk on his lips and a gleam in his eyes. Visenya snorts, opening a single eye to look at Geralt.

“This world couldn’t handle me with a dragon, Geralt of Rivia,” she says, shutting her eyes.

“That may be so, but I’d still pay good coin to see it.”

She laughs again, cautious to not be too loud in fear of waking up the camp. She opens her eyes, turning her head to face Geralt, meeting his gaze head-on. Their eyes lock, the beat of her heart steadily increasing the longer they maintain contact. A fluttering sensation fills her stomach, one that she’s almost entirely unfamiliar with. The tired smile on her face softens as Geralt’s lips curl into a similar grin.

“But could you imagine having a dragon,” Visenya says. “To ride on the back of one and feel the wind against your skin and to just...be free.” Her voice is far away again, as she dreams of fantasies she stopped having at some point between childhood and having to become an adult.

“Hmm, I imagine it’d be cold,” Geralt says, a teasing undertone in his otherwise deadpan voice. Visenya reaches out, pushing against his shoulder as another round of quiet laughter leaves her mouth.

“That is what warmer clothes are for,” she responds. “It would be foolish to climb onto a dragon unprepared anyways, lest you become its dinner.”

Geralt laughs, a quiet gravelly noise that nearly causes the ground around them to vibrate and it’s so contagious she can’t stop the bubbling of laughter that also leaves her mouth. Eyes shining and grin getting larger, Visenya watches Geralt's normally harsh and austere face grow softer the longer he laughs. He nearly looks like a child, despite the scars across his face - both fresh and faded - and the deep-set bags under his eyes from the lack of a good night’s rest. His voice is hoarser than usual, sleep and exhaustion weighing down his words causing them to slur together. But the way his eyes are alight and the sweet grin that tugs at the corner of his lips are adorable - a word not often associated with a man like Geralt, but Visenya wouldn’t describe him any other way.

“Stop, it was not even that funny,” Visenya says, and despite her attempt at sternness, laughter follows every word.

“I’m not laughing,” Geralt insists, and despite his best efforts at swallowing it, a small grin still rests on his face.

“Yes you are,” Visenya says.

“I think you’re hearing things, Vis. Perhaps it’s time for you to sleep,” Geralt says, moving his eyes to scan the camp. Her laughter immediately dies down as the smile on her face dims just the slightest, but Geralt seems unaware of the sudden shift in tone.

“What did you just say?” Her words are a whisper, nearly unheard by Geralt. He turns to look at her, the light grin on his face disappearing once he notices her expression.

“That you should rest,” Geralt answers.

“I heard, but what did you just call me?” Visenya says.

He pauses, eyes scanning the entirety of her face, focusing on the unreadable glint in her eyes and taking special note of the slight frown on her lips. But she doesn’t appear angry or sad or any of the other flurry of emotions he’s seen on her face in their travels.

“I called you Vis,” Geralt says after a moment of silence.

“Why?”

“Because Vis is shorter than Visenya,” Geralt says. “Should I not call you that?”

She inhales, quietly, eyes moving towards the dirt. It’s the nickname she’s had all her life. Robb, Jon, and everyone else always called her Vis. It was shorter and easier, they’d always tell her. She’d always argue her name isn’t even difficult to say, but they’d never agree and she’d never say how much she secretly enjoyed the name. It’s been so long since she’s ever heard anyone utter the nickname, it’s startling to hear it slip from someone's lips so effortlessly.

Then she exhales, an unknown weight lifting from her chest as she meets Geralt's gaze.

“It’s been so long since I’ve heard that nickname. I wouldn’t mind hearing it again,” she says, lips curling into a shy smile. A small sparkle appears in her eyes. It’s not the fiery gold eerily similar to burning flames that sparks when she’s furious or the sly mischievous glint he’s familiar with. Nor is it a glassy look from tears that she’s trying her best to hold back when she’s drowning in sorrowful thoughts. It’s bright, but not painfully so. Instead it’s sweet and soft, like the first flower blossoming on the first day of spring or the soft wind after a harsh winter.

Geralt nods, his stiff features relaxing as the stress of inadvertently offending her dissipates.

“Now I have to think of a nickname for you,” Visenya says, a teasing smile slipping onto her face. Geralt groans and rolls his eyes, flashbacks of all of Jaskier's attempts at creating nicknames to call Geralt. Much to his chagrin, the White Wolf seemed to stick as his title that the general public knew him as, but Jaskier was determined for another one to call Geralt. And Visenya knows this, as she was there for every failed attempt.

“Please don’t,” he says, only causing Visenya to laugh harder. She quickly rests a hand over her mouth in an attempt to suppress the noise so as to not wake up the camp. But every time she glances at Geralt and sees how truly exasperated he appears.

“What about Ger. We’d be a pair: Ger and Vis; Vis and Ger,” Visenya says. “I should be a poet, did you hear that little rhyme I did?”

“Hmm, you’d give Jaskier a run for his coin,” Geralt responds.

She snorts a small smirk on her lips. Her thoughts wander to Jaskier, wondering what he could be up to and if he is still happy. He probably is, he could find fun in the dullest of affairs.

“As much as I hate to admit it, but I miss Jaskier,” Visenya says. This time it’s Geralt that snorts, an exasperated look crossing his face as he rolls his eyes.

“I can’t say I feel the same.”

“Don’t lie, Geralt. We all know he’s wiggled his way into your good graces, it’s just what he does. You’re annoyed and want nothing more than for him to leave and then one day, you enjoy the constant jokes and mindless prattling,” Visenya says. Geralt hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

She adjusts her body, attempting to get into a more comfortable position, eyes growing heavier as each second passes. The cool wind is soothing against her warm skin, the crickets a lullaby that pulls her closer to sleep.

“What about your ancestry? What family does The White Wolf come from,”

Silence washes over them. And just when Visenya thinks Geralt won’t answer, he does.

“My mother was a sorceress, that’s all I know about my family. She left me with the Witchers when I was young.” His voice is somber and low, quieter than the volume they’d been talking with earlier.

“Do you miss her?” Visenya asks. She’s cautious and careful, taking special care to not push Geralt. Once again she’s met with silence and after a few moments, it becomes obvious he’s not going to answer.

“I miss my mother. I can’t really remember her, but I have this… this void that her death left behind,” Visenya says. She sighs, glancing up towards the stars once again, using the wind to dry the tears forming in her eyes. “And it never goes away, no matter how hard I try to pretend it isn’t there.”

Her breathing stutters and she huffs out a weak chuckle, attempting to cover the slip up of emotional vulnerability.

"I’m not sure how to feel. A part of me resents her for giving me to the Witchers, allowing them to turn me into a mutant,” Geralt says. She looks at him, wide eyes watching him. He doesn’t look at her, opting to stare at the dying fire.

“Sometimes I hate my father, it’s easier to blame him for everything that happened to my family because of his selfish decision. But I can’t bring myself to fully hate him, and I hate myself for feeling so indecisive about him,” she says.

It’s silent again, the air more uncomfortable than moments ago.

Not allowing herself to think on it too much, she begins to move her body, shuffling to sit closer to Geralt, only stopping when their legs are touching. Tentatively, she lowers her head to rest on his shoulder, hand intertwining with his. Neither of them say a word, and the awkward tension dissipates. Geralt’s stiff body relaxes, resting his head on top of Visenya’s.

"I wouldn't mind having children someday, to live a simple life and retire from adventuring," Visenya says. 

Geralt hums in response, drowsiness coating the simple response causing Visenya's lips to turn upwards and her cheeks to glow.

They stay that way, silent and content with the comfort of each other. Eventually, sleep begins to once again pull on Visenya, and she doesn’t resist.

“Goodnight Vis.”

“Goodnight Geralt.”

o0o

Elvish Translation:

- En'ca minne: Little Love

- Dilthen er: Little One

o0o

@lyssstark01​​ | @ayamenimthiriel​​ | @splderparker​​  | @historicallydysfunctional​​ | @stuckupstucky​​ | @aknerdchick​​ | @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​​ | @itskatrinahere​​ | @locht3ssmonster​​ | @alwayshave-faith​​ | @im-catching-feelings​​ | @magic-inthe-stars​​ | @thors-hair-extensions​​ | @seninjakitey​​ | @nevaeh-eden-morningstar​​ | @losers-club6​​ | @queenmendes​​ | @madamwhisper​​ | @deadlydemon​​ | @power-of-words23​​ | @demigoddesofchimichangagod​​ | @howlongtillidie​​ | @notatallfriendly​​ | @i-have-arrived-bitch​​ | @moonlights27​​ | @xxperfectionisdeadlyxx​​ | @why-do-i-even-study-japanese​​ | @possiblyafangirl​​ | @alatairion​​ | @teamcap0221​​ | @rangotangomango​​ | @mikariell95​​ | @rubyliquor​​ | @my-not-so-perfect-reality​​ | @kamrynzam​​ | @kohsongbird​​ | @napoleonisrad​​ | @loubells-stuff​​ | @toribentleyva​​ | @naughty-koala07​​ | @im-a-muggleborn​​ | @scarletmeii​​ | @tangerineliqu0r​​ | @dopeybubbles​​ | @toweavehistory​​ | @honestlystop​​ | @thinkaboutmara​​​ | @amarisjoy​​ | @buriedhatchetcominguplavender​

[questionablygourmet]

"What a cunning boy you are." Hannibal WHY😂

What do you think about this line? I think it's funny (like pretty much everything else that comes out of Hannibal's mouth) because Will is barely 10 years younger than Hannibal and also wtf??😂😂

It’s straight-up a line from the book that gets used in All of the Adaptations (thanks @mlobsters​ for confirming that for me since I don’t have my own copy!), and I honestly think that’s that’s the biggest reason it’s there.  I think it fits other versions of the character rather better than it fits Mads’s.  xD

But to take it as it is, in-universe, Hannibal is bitter as fuck.  He is poking at Will with whatever tools he can get his metaphorical-if-not-physical hands on, because he’s been in this stupid cell for three years waiting for Will, loving Will, and Will’s about to leave him again.  

Will being all cool, calm, and professional with him is also, just in general, probably only slightly less infuriating than Will ignoring him altogether - it’s a repudiation of all the intimacy they’ve shared, and the fact that Hannibal literally went to prison because that seemed like a better idea than never seeing Will again.  Getting Will to react to him in an emotional way, even (or hell, maybe especially) if it’s a negative one, is at least more authentic to their relationship.  So in this scene, he’s taunting Will, trying to get a rise out of him both with the accusation itself, and the derisive language - again, every tool he can get his hands on.

He’s being, as Chilton rather aptly puts it an episode earlier, quantifiably bitchy.  :P

I actually also want to point out, because I think it’s neat - everything I just said is entirely different from how the line hits in the book.  In the book’s context, it’s in a letter to Will, making similar congratulations about “the job he did” on Freddy (correct spelling; book!Freddy is a man) Lounds (which Will is similarly responsible for as he is to what show!Dolarhyde does to Chilton, which is to say not at all, but I think I’ve beaten that dead horse enough already).  It reads as genuinely pleased and congratulatory and chatty, because it’s more in line with how book!Hannibal actually talks, and more importantly because his relationship with book!Will is very different - they don’t have any of the romantic history or personal betrayals from the show.  

[tree-wizard]

I tried writing a fan fic for the first time! I didn’t really know what I was doing but here it is. It’s inspired by @an-aspiring-jester ‘s post about Scroldie tending to wounds in the Klondike(I tried to make the wound description not too graphic). Also have no idea if Scrooge and Goldie are in character, I might have made them too mushy cause I MUST HAVE FLUFF.

Thanks to @promiseddifferent for encouraging me.

And oh the title is a line from the song “Ghost Love Score” by Nightwish.

Redeem Me Into Childhood

Goldie briskly walked into the cabin and carelessly tossed her pickaxe and shovel aside.

“Be careful! If ye break my supplies, you’ll have tae pay me!”

She turned her head over her shoulder to look at the miserly grungy miner, walking into the cabin behind her and rolled her eyes. He growled and went to carefully lay down his tools, and check on the ones Goldie had thrown.

Goldie slumped down on the bed and started picking the semi dried scab on her hand. An hour ago when they had been mining, Scrooge had yelled at her for being too slow and lazy and in her frustration and determination to show him that she was just as capable as him she accidentally gashed her left hand. That certainly didn’t make her seem any more capable, so she had assured Scrooge that she was fine and when he turned away from her and focused on his own mining, she wrapped her hand in the under skirt from her dress and tried to continue working.

It was pretty bad but she didn’t want to further show him how out of her element she was. She could have used the injury and feigned being super hurt so that she could get out of doing the terrible work and maybe even had time to look for the lockbox. But she knew Scrooge would never let her in the cabin alone. In fact, once he noticed that she was using her pickaxe with one hand and that really wasn’t doing anything he grudgingly, and with a lot of muttered curses, sent her to the cabin and decided to end early for the day himself so that he could go and make sure she didn’t steal anything. Showing weakness wouldn’t do her any good while she was stuck out here with him.

She felt her cheeks slightly burn from the embarrassment and frustration with herself that was starting to swirl in her empty stomach. Ughhh, she had been so foolish. She couldn’t let his angry words affect her this much. She always had to be under control, not a klutzy damsel in distress. But why did she care what he thought of her anyways? She was the Ice Queen of the North. That’s why. She had a reputation to keep. She couldn’t let him see her as less of a formidable threat. But strangely that explanation seemed hollow and almost like an excuse and the implications of that made her feel nauseous.

Suddenly she felt a sharp spark of pain that pulled her out of her thoughts and made her hiss under her breath. Absorbed in her reflections on the events of the day, she had lost attention of her hands and now noticed that she had scraped open a part of the gash that had already been starting to heal. Her hiss spread through the cramped air of the small cabin and startled Scrooge. He was crouched by the stove, putting in wood to build up a fire, and now he looked up and across the room at Goldie.

“There’s some gauze on the table. Ye should go wrap up yer hand.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you cared about me?” Goldie scoffed.

Scrooge lowered his head and Goldie couldn’t see the pink rising on the surface of his cheeks. It's just the fire, he told himself.

“I don’t care about you. Just your ability to dig up gold.”

“Ha! I almost forgot that you’re an inconsiderate and selfish jerk.”

“As if you aren’t,” Scrooge retorted and she gasped, pretending to be offended. She continued to sit pouting on the bed. She was so frustrating. If she didn’t want to deal with her hand, so be it.

She wanted to snap back at him in some way to restore her pride and not let him win but her hand was aching and the part she had just scraped open was starting to bleed. As much as she hated following his advice, she got up and walked over to the table. She took the roll of gauze and tried to rip a portion, but she felt a sharp prickling sensation shoot through her hand and she tried to stifle a shriek.

Scrooge had stood up and walked over to the table by this time and she felt his eyes fixed on her. “Hmm, ye seem to be managing this well” he taunted her and she furrowed her eyebrows in exasperation. She lifted up the gauze to her beak and sunk her teeth into it, hoping to tear a part off. It was way pretty tough though and she struggled to even make a slight rip.

She didn’t seem so vile when she was focusing her neverending fury on something other than him. It reminded him of his younger sister Hortense and that filled him with a sense of warm comfort and tenderness that diffused his annoyance and bitterness. Scrooge chuckled and extended a hand.

“Let me help,” he said, much softer than Goldie expected. He seemed genuine and benign which caught her off guard and made her wonder if she should be cautious. She grunted and reluctantly dropped the roll of gauze into his open palm. He closed his fingers over it and then gestured at one of the chairs by the table. Goldie sat down and watched Scrooge grab a bucket of water, a cloth and a second chair from the other side of the table and bring them over to her.

“Give me your hand,” he said as he sat down beside her. She obeyed and felt his rough fingers grip her hand. He dipped the cloth into the bucket, squeezed out the excess water and started to wipe the blood and dirt off the small matted feathers of her palm. She flinched and jerked her hand when she felt the damp wetness trickle over the ravenous edge of her exposed gash. Scrooge tightened his grip on her hand and continued going over her wound. As much as she annoyed and infuriated him, he didn’t particularly want to inflict her any pain. But this was for her own good.

He finished cleaning her wound and started to wrap the gauze around her hand. He was slow and thorough and the repetition made her feel a bit more relaxed. It was almost hypnotic. Normally it irked her to have her personal autonomy restrained but his strong grip on her hand was actually oddly comforting. She settled into the calmness of the moment and let herself lower her defenses as she raised up her eyes to watch him.

She prided herself for her self sufficiency, her ability to take care of herself after her family kicked her out many many years ago, to survive in this lawless wilderness and build a business and a name for herself. But here was this rough mean miner, holding her hand in his and actually caring for her wellbeing like no one had done ever since she was a very young child and her mother sang to her a special lullaby when she was sick. She had so many painful memories from her childhood that she tried to hide behind tall icy walls and never think about, so even the few happy ones were veiled by a forgetful haze. She was surprised she was even remembering this now. She had no idea when she had last thought about her mother’s song. She couldn’t remember the words anymore but a faint melody floated to the forefront of her mind from her subconscious. Her cold exterior was melting and an innocent peacefulness slowly spread through her.

The cold Yukon winds pushing against the walls of the cabin, all his past failures that always hung over him, his dwindling hope in finding his fortune all faded away as he focused on bandaging Goldie’s hand and her soft humming that curiously almost sounded like a lullaby.

He’d spent all these years mainly on his own and while that generally didn’t bother him, there were increasingly many nights this past year in the Klondike when he’d lay in bed in his small cabin and feel almost crushed by the emptiness, the vastness of the valley around him, the distance and time away from his family. But now he didn’t feel as lonely. She was here with him.

He stopped to take a quick glance at her. Her eyelids had closed over her emerald eyes and she was resting her head sideways on the back of the chair. The light from fire had reached out and hugged around her golden locks of hair, surrounding them in a warm glow that made them even more beautiful than they already were.

Goldie felt Scrooge’s fingers slip from her hand, taking their warmth with them. She opened her eyes and saw that he had finished wrapping her hand up and had neatly tied the ends of the bandages. She reached out with her hands to his, yearning for their comfort again. Scrooge looked up at her as she wrapped her hands around his. He knew she’d never thank him but the soft gratitude in her eyes was enough for him. Scrooge slightly smiled at her and she couldn’t help smiling back. They sat a while longer, holding each other’s hands, in a small warm cabin, safe from the boundless shimmering white snow and deep northern darkness of the desolate Klondike. Two silent souls not alone for once.

[jaskiers-sweetkiss]

Paper Rings - Part 2

Pairing: Carrie Wilson x Female!Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: perceived homophobia (nobody is actually homophobic)

PR Masterlist Masterlist

___

Carrie nearly decides to fake being sick when her maids come to wake her up, it’s only her duty as future queen of her country that outweighs the selfish thought. Still, she pulls herself away from the plush blankets and pillows with extreme reluctance, already dreading what the day would hold.

Her father had arrived back at the castle the previous evening, having traveled to Alberquerque to meet with the monarchs there and bring their son, Prince Nicolas, back with him in order to show him more of the Kingdom of Los Angeles, where he was set to rule alongside Carrie once they were wed. For now though, on his first day in the castle, Carrie would be expected to entertain him and get to know him better— something she had no interest in doing.

But still, she allowed her maids to bathe her and then dress her for the day in one of her less formal gowns, one that would still make her status clear while also being appropriate for outdoor walks or potentially horseback riding. If she was going to spend her day with some boy she had no interest in, she would at least make sure that she was comfortable and having at least a modicum of fun.

Once they had finished the intricate braid work chosen to keep her hair away from her face while, once again, flaunting her status, Carrie shooed her maids out of her chamber. She knew her outfit was incomplete but her designated shoes had already been placed by the vanity table and she felt she was perfectly capable of picking out her jewelry on her own. She shifted through the various pieces she had acquired over the years, various necklaces, bracelets, rings, and hairpieces (though her maids had already chosen and utilized the hairpieces in their work).

It didn’t take long for Carrie to select the necklace she’d purchased on her last visit to Y/N’s village. The gold of the chain matched the hairpins she was already wearing and the pink perfectly complemented the colors of her dress, though the deciding factor in the decision was solely that she had purchased the piece with Y/N. Her ownership of it at all was a small rebellion in that she wasn’t allowed to leave the castle unattended, but it would be even more so to wear the necklace in front of her betrothed, though no one but she would know it. A reminder of her true love in the face of the loveless marriage she was soon to be forced into.

She selected a few matching rings along with the necklace— some with complimentary jewels and others just simple gold bands— along with her signet ring, and a gold bracelet studded with matching pink jewels. Each one (aside from the signet ring) was a piece she had picked out with Y/N.

Only when she was fully content with her appearance did she begin to make her way to the door. She took a breath to steel herself, hand on the gilded handle of her chamber doors, before flinging it open dramatically. There was nobody in the hallway to witness her dramatic entrance, which was perfectly fine with Carrie as it wasn’t for them. As she stepped into the hallway she was no longer the young woman with a penchant for sneaking out and anything pink or shiny, she was Princess Caroline, future Queen of the Kingdom of Angeles, and she carried all the grace and confidence befitting of that title.

She took her time as she walked down to the dining hall for breakfast, though she knew as she passed one of the castle’s many grand clocks that she was already late. Fashionably late was perfectly fine with her, she wouldn’t want Prince Nicolas to think she was eager to see him.

When she did finally arrive, the doors were pushed open for her (quite dramatically, to her glee) and her name was announced to the hall.

“Princess Caroline Wilson!” The voice rang out into the mostly empty room.

It was entirely unnecessary given that everybody in the hall knew exactly who she was, but Carrie reveled in the dramatics of it all as everyone seated at the table stood, turning to watch her as she entered.

“Carrie, nice of you to join us,” her father spoke as she took her seat to his right and he and the prince sat back down. “Prince Nicolas and I were starting to wonder if we’d ever get to eat breakfast or if we’d be forced to starve.”

Carrie rolled her eyes fondly at her father.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” she spoke as the castle’s wait staff began to bustle around them now that she had arrived. “I trust that you haven’t been waiting too long?”

“Of course not, my darling daughter, you were merely fashionably late.” Her father answered with a fond look before turning more serious. “Though I must remind you that tardiness is not befitting of a queen.”

“I thought we agreed that sometimes tardiness could be a valuable tool.” Carrie shot back, one brow raised. This was certainly not a proper conversation to have in front of the foreign prince seated across from her, but it was certainly something she wanted him to hear. “A show of status and power and whatnot.”

“You’re right, but I think we can also agree that delaying breakfast for your guest is not a proper time to exercise that particular skill.”

Carrie shrugged, forcing an appropriately reprimanded look onto her face.

“I trust you weren’t waiting for me too long,” Carrie spoke once more as their meal was placed on the table, finally addressing Nicolas for the first time.

“Not at all, your highness,” he replied with a bright smile.

“Good,” she nodded, “I’d hate for you to think you were unwelcome.”

Her father gave her a curious look after that to which she feigned innocence. Sure she was playing mind games but she would never admit it, that would mean having to admit why she was doing it.

The rest of the meal was spent mostly in silence as they dug into the spread of well-prepared meats and pastries. Any chit-chat was done mostly between her father and Prince Nicholas, though every once and a while a question or comment was aimed towards Carrie which she tried to answer civilly, deciding to put a pause on the mind games for the time being.

Once they were all finished, Carrie set her folded napkin on the table and stood, her father and Nicolas following suit.

“Well, Prince Nicolas, shall we get started on our activities for today?” She asked pointedly and he nodded.

“What do you have planned first, your highness?” “A tour of the grounds,” she replied simply, before turning to her father. “We’ll see you at lunch, father.”

Trevor nodded, watching as the pair left the dining room before moving on to his own day’s tasks of meetings and paperwork.

___

“So, Prince Nicolas, how’re you on horseback?” Carrie asked once they were outside, already leading the way to the stables.

“Nick, please, your highness.” He corrected her, “And I’m proficient enough, why?”

“It’s not very proper,” Carrie sniffed.

“Well, we are betrothed.” Carrie stiffened at the word though she hoped he didn’t notice. “Surely we can move past formalities, your highness.”

“Very well, Nick,” she watched thoughtfully as the boy visibly relaxed at the name. “And I asked because we have a large variety of horseback trails on the grounds and I’d hate to choose one that was too difficult for you.”

“I thought we were doing a tour of the grounds?” “The trails are part of the grounds,” she pointed out. “And I thought it better that we do our riding now before the sun is at its height, that way it will be a much cooler ride.”

“That’s very wise, your highness.”

“Carrie will do just fine, Nick.”

Carrie didn’t wait to study his reaction to her olive branch, merely continuing forward as he paused curiously, leaving him to have to jog to catch up with her.

___

Carrie had a problem. It had snuck up on her sometime between breakfast and the next few days, surprising her nearly a week later when her father made a comment on her change in demeanor since the prince had arrived. Carrie didn’t hate Nick.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. She had tried very hard, looking for any and every flaw she could find and attempting to subtly antagonize him with things such as her stunt at that first breakfast or choosing a slightly too difficult riding trail. However, it was clear to her as they walked through the gardens after lunch that day, Carrie pointing out all the flowers indigenous to the kingdom, that Nick was a genuinely nice guy. It was infuriating.

She learned that he had three sisters, one older and two younger, whom he adored and claimed would adore Carrie as well. Many of his stories about home and growing up involved at least one of them. She learned that aside from being a skilled swordsman, as was traditional for princes, he was also a talented musician. His whole family was, actually, and they often performed together when they entertained guests at their palace. He was mediocre at horseback riding but she had quickly learned that he could, albeit awkwardly, laugh off his mistakes or shortcomings before getting back on the horse and trying again (both metaphorically and literally).

Carrie supposed she could take solace in the fact that while she would never have any sort of romantic feelings for the man, at least she’d maybe have a friend in her future husband. Though, every glimpse at the silver lining of the situation came with a pang of heartache at the thought of Y/N. So, she tried to avoid any thought of her future marriage, a quite difficult feat when Nick couldn’t stop bringing it up. Each time she would flinch or freeze, praying he wouldn’t notice. He did, though. Of course, he did because he was genuine and kind.

“Is everything alright Carrie?”

“Of course, everything’s fine. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s just, every time I mention anything regarding our arrangement you flinch as though the mere notion pains you,” he explained,his face a mixture of confusion and sadness. “Do you not want to marry me?”

“No, well yes but it’s not because of you, you’re a great guy, it’s just- I’m not… into, you know, members of the opposite sex?” Carrie would have cringed at her wording had she not been so afraid of what she had confessed.

“You’re gay,” Nick responded simply.

Carrie opened her mouth to defend herself before she fully realized what he had said. “I- yeah.”

“Okay.” Nick started, nodding thoughtfully and Carrie thought she could see his brain working. “I’ll head home tomorrow morning if that’s alright, and let my parents know this won’t work.”

“What?”

“Carrie, I don’t know what your thoughts or plans were, but obviously you’re not interested in me in the way I am.I’m looking for a partner, arranged marriage or not. And clearly, I’m not what you’re looking for in a partner.”

“I didn’t think I could have what I was looking for,” she muttered softly, not meeting his eyes.

“Carrie, nobody has the authority to dictate who you love,” he replied, his voice comforting but his eyes shining with righteous anger.

“Even if I could marry a woman— which the law clearly states I, as future queen, cannot— there is still the expectation of marrying royalty. If not for love then for strategic value, to strengthen our ties with our neighbors or form new alliances.” Carrie huffed, irritably. How dare he give her hope where she has known for years that there was none. Besides, he was a prince, he should know the rules were different for them.

“You’re in love with a commoner.” Nick made the realization out loud before furrowing his brow and frowning.

Carrie rolled her eyes and turned away from the man. There it was, a flaw at last. Just like the rest. Sure he thought she should be able to be with a woman but a commoner was out of the question.

“Well that certainly complicates things but it’s not impossible,” Nick spoke thoughtfully, seemingly not having noticed Carrie’s reaction to his previous statement. She whipped back around at his words, staring at him in open confusion, her previous anger still not fully leaving her face.

“What on earth are you talking about? Complicates what?”

“The plan.” He stated simply and Carrie looked at him as if he had grown another head.

“What plan, Nicolas? There is no plan.”

“Sure there is,” he spoke simply again, as if the whole situation was simple to him when it had been a tangled complicated mess that Carrie had been unable to clean up for years. “You’d have to be crazy to believe I would leave a friend in a situation like this without even trying to get them out of it.”

“For the record though, I think we can do much better than merely trying,” he added with a confident smile.

“Wha- friend?” Carrie spluttered, feeling small and confused. It was uncharacteristic of her to allow herself to be so openly vulnerable. “I’m your friend?” “We just spent a week doing nothing else but spending time with each other, I think we’ve reached friendship level,” Nick sassed her a little and she found herself smiling reluctantly. “Now, tell me all about this mystery girl, and let’s find a way to get you together.”

___

Part 3