#if i ever become a world leader i must have that picture at my desk

[the-spooky-children]

what if

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Diary of the Writing Raven; Birds of a Feather

For the 1100+ follower milestone, here is the next part of the cursed raven’s story!

This time, we revisit entries in Miss Raven’s diary. A familiar face assumes prominence on the stage--what role will he play in this story of ours?

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3 l Part 4

Day 47

I feel like I am being watched.

Uncle says I am just nervous and excited from the ceremony yesterday.

I am not so sure.

Day 48

I ran into that weirdo again today.

The weirdo is named Rook Hunt. He also calls himself the Hunter of Love...? I do not understand what that means.

He said that he will not be fooled again by Mon-sure Mastermind’s tricks again. He said he knows I am a bird, and he will chase me to the ends of Twisted Wonderland to see me in flight.

...Scary.

He shouts many strange words and chases me around. I managed to narrowly miss him by diving into the bushes. He was distracted by some students with animal ears--and I was able to run all the way home safely.

I suppose it is good to be curious, but...Mister Rook is too curious...!!

Why couldn’t I have run into Mister Jade instead?

Day 51

Uwaaah, I saw a very pretty upperclassman today! He had golden hair, violet at the ends.

The pretty upperclassman snapped at Mister Rook and told him to stop scaring me.

I am thankful, but...it seems like that upperclassman was scanning me all over. Judging me silently. I wanted to disappear into my clothes.

Before we part, he tells me that my ponytails are not symmetrical. He adjusts it for me and sends me off.

Mister Rook’s friends are strange people, too.

Day 56

Another run-in with Mister Rook. They seem to happen every day now, though they are not always...eventful.

He says I am too formal, and that I can just call him “Rook”.

He would not stop pestering me until I agreed.

He gave me a toothy grin when I, at last, relented.

What a troublesome man.

Day 57

Ever since I tried Flounder’s Blue, I have been sampling new foods and drinks.

Today, I got a cup of caw-fee.

Silly me, though...I tripped and spilled it all over a Savanaclaw student. He was so angry. He threatened to gobble me up.

I was trembling and sobbing when the Savanaclaw student yelped. Rook had a tight grip on his trail and kept tugging it, saying weird things until he scurried off.

I thank him.

Day 60

It feels like I see Rook around every corner. He does not always approach--sometimes, he is just content with watching from a distance, or he gives a small wave.

Jade has noticed too.

He asks if Rook makes me feel unsafe..

Rather than feel unsafe, I am a little curious as to why Rook is...well, Rook. He is certainly an odd fellow, but when I think back to a few days ago, I can’t help but think he has a good heart.

I do not think he means any harm.

So I tell Jade I am fine.

Day 66

Rook smelled funny today.

He says there was an accident in the Science Club, so he will reek of tomato and basil for a few days. That hunting trip he was planning is cancelled; the smell will alert too many animals of his presence.

I tell him that he reminds me of the pasta served at the Mostro Lounge, and he laughs.

How he is able to stay so cheery is a wonder to me--but it is not a bad thing, I suppose.

Day 72

Rook tells me of a carny-vale in the nearby town, and says I must experience it for myself. I was curious, so I followed.

There are so many bright sounds and sights. It smells like something fried and sweet.

We ride the spinning tea cups and the carousel. They make me feel like I’m flying once more.

I’m no good at any of the game booths, but Rook is. He has impeccable aim and strength. The game booth runners cry and beg him to not run them out of business.

Rook just smiles and asks them for their best prizes. He has no use for most of them, so he dumps his prizes onto me with a part on the head.

My arms are too full to hold any food, so Rook helps feed me. He stuffs funnel cake, cotton candy, and candied apple into my mouth.

The last thing we do for the day is the ferris wheel. We go up and up against the sunset.

In the dying light of day, I realize something.

Rook has very pretty eyes, too.

Day 80

The pretty upperclassman came up and introduced himself.

Vil Schoenheit, Pomefiore’s dorm leader.

The queen.

He remarks that my pigtails are not asymmetrical today, and that I am a fast learner.

“You must be, little Shetland potato,” Vil comments, “if you are to deal with my huntsman.”

Day 84

...Rook was carrying a Pomefiore boy over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes.

He says that it’s his job to capture runaways, in service of his queen.

...I wonder how much he gets paid to do this?

Day 85

I told Rook about my hiking trip with Jade!

He seemed very interested, listening intently and nodding while I spoke.

Rook says that he, too, is a fan of the great outdoors, and that we should go on a camping trip together sometime.

I look forward to it.

Day 90

Today is the promised camping trip with Rook.

The weather is getting chillier, so he reminds me to dress warm. He will take care of the rest of the preparations. After all, he has had much more experience with these sorts of things.

I’m still cold, even when I show up in three layers. Rook tuts and throws his jacket over me, despite my protests.

He guides me through the forest, pointing out tiny things I would not have noticed on my own. That bunny’s burrow, those squirrels storing nuts for the upcoming winter, the rustle of the leaves, the trickle of water, how the sunlight filters through the trees...

Rook has such a poetic way of speaking.

He reminds me of a prince in a fairy tale.

Day 94

Rook told me that he has noticed that my speech has improved. He is proud, puffing up like a proud father. He spouts some nonsense about how “mon petit oiseau” (he helped me with the spelling) is becoming such a refined young lady.

I told him that his own manner of speech is far prettier than mine.

Rook just laughed and offered to help me improve more and more, if I wish.

I should pay a visit to Pomefiore, he said, and the queen will welcome me with open arms.

Day 95

Pomefiore is...beautiful. Violet tapestries, crimson curtains, and gold decorations dripping from every available crevice. And everyone is just as beautiful as their surroundings, skin like glass and eyes set in jewel-colored shadows.

I expected nothing less of the oldest dormitory at Night Raven College. The castle is steeped in years of history.

I was offered tea and a three tiered stand of snacks. Vil introduced me to a boy named Epel, who squirmed in his seat with discomfort.

He made us hold our tea cups all funny and barked at us to exchange words. Rook stands at his queen’s side and just...smiles at us as we suffer.

After that, Vil shepherded us to a large table, where two sets of cutlery were laid out.

I’m drilled for hours on end, until I can differentiate the several different variants of spoons, forks, and knives. Epel, too.

I am told to return every few days, to join Epel for his lessons. “It would do him some good to have someone to go through the motions with,” Vil insists. “It gives him some much needed...’encouragement’.”

More lessons for me.

...Somehow, I feel like Rook has me caught in a snare.

Day 100

Vil quips that we are learning ballroom dancing today.

I do not see the practical use of such a skill, but he will not take no for an answer.

Epel and I mutter apologies as we link hands and step on each other’s feet. Then the queen has us take turns spinning around with Rook.

He is very graceful on his feet--far more than myself or Epel. I’m nervous when my turn comes up, but Rook reassures me that it will be fine.

His arms form a cage to keep me from stumbling.

He clicks his tongue and says I need more practice.

Day 102

We focused on the arts today. Vil was busy with modeling (?) and told us that Rook would be our instructor. He says that the arts are his best subject, so please leave everything to him.

Rook shows us fruit bowls and pictures of scenery (he says he took the photographs himself)! Then he sets out canvases and paint sets and tells us to follow his lead.

His voice is a soft murmur as he beats his paintbrush against a blank canvas, breathing color into an otherwise lifeless world.

I do my best to do as he says.

Rook glances over--and he tells me, through a blinding smile, that my painting needs some work.

I have to agree.

Day 110

Epel is with friends today.

Rook takes this opportunity to grant me a language and writing lesson. He knows that I like writing, so now is as good of a time as any.

Rook hovers over me at a desk and suggests ways to make my writing sound...fancier.

I practice writing sentences like...

You are the light of my life, the lark’s birdsong in the still morning.

You are as lovely as the petals of a rose, lush and delicate and breathtakingly beautiful.

You are the moon and the starlight, twinkling in the depths of the darkness and guiding me to salvation.

I ask him what the point of these phrases were--and Rook answers, “For when you wish to woo whomever has captured your heart!” He makes it sound so easy.

He teaches me a few basic phrases of his flowery language, too.

I tell him merci.

Day 117

The queen puts books on my head and tells me to walk without dropping any of them.

Rook holds my hand and helps me keep balance.

It is warm, and comforting and supportive, just like Jade’s.

Then Vil whips out a pair of odd shoes, with stick-like things instead of a flat sole. He calls them heels and urges me to put them on.

I fall on my face, and Rook has to help me up.

On my second attempt, he catches me. He tells me I have the grace of a newborn fawn--that is to say, none at all.

Still, I feel safe in his arms.

Day 133

It is cold, and snowy.

Rook drags me outside anyway. He says exercise will do my frail little body some good.

But...no matter what I activity I do, I am miserable at it. Snowshoeing, ice skating, sledding. I am horrible at all of them, and more.

We settle for building a snowman.

I try to make it look cute.

Day 140

The cruise ship is boring. The beach is boring. It’s mostly older folks like Uncle sipping on tropical drinks and sunbathing.

I wish I had someone to talk to.

Of course, Jade would be nice and set my heart at ease...but Rook would be able to make even something as mundane as this fun.

I can already hear him shouting in my head about the clear blue waters, and the amber sunlight, and the snow white sand.

Look at me, I’m beginning to speak nonsense.

Well, nonsense it may be, but it is interesting nevertheless.

Rook is...interesting.

Day 149

There are lots of seagulls here.

...They remind me of Rook.

I am not quite sure why.

Maybe it is the incessant cawing.

Though...that is charming, in its own unique way.

Day 155

Rook brought back a souvenir from his home land--a bright blue feather on a beaded necklace. He says it is similar to the one the young prince of his country wears.

It turns out, he is from the Afterglow Savannah! What a surprise; I thought he would be from the Land of Pyroxene.

He regales me with stories of his adventures, of the many hunts he embarked on and his trophies.

His eyes are like emeralds, shining with excitement.

Day 167

I saw a play with Rook.

It told the story of two lovers whose families detested one another. The actors all speak quite frivolously, just like Rook. I can see why he would like this kind of thing.

My favorite part...it was the balcony scene.

The male lead cannot stand to be apart from the female lead, and so he sneaks into her garden at night. He summons her to the balcony and makes a vow that he will, no matter what, find a way to be with her.

...The play ends with death.

I cried a little, and Rook let me lean against his shoulder until I stopped.

Day 170

I penned a little story based on the play.

This one has a happy ending.

I want to put some hope into the world.

Day 185 (Continued)

I asked Rook if he was excited for Valentine’s Day, if he was expecting any gifts.

He gave me a mysterious smile in response and said, “Ah, that is for me to know and for you to find out, mon petit oiseau.”

I wonder what he means by that.

Day 186 (Continued)

I will give Rook some chocolate, too!

As thanks for being my friend.

Day 197 (Continued)

I made little heart-shaped bon-bons for Rook.

Perfect for the Hunter of Love.

Day 198 (Continued)

I want to curl up and die, diary.

Rook saw me crying today, under the shade of the great apple tree that towers in the school courtyard.

He asked me what was wrong, a concerned look on his face.

I snapped at him, told him to leave me be.

...But rather than bombard me with questions or annoy me with overly embellished words...

...Rook sat next to me silently. He held my hand until I stopped crying.

Then I spilled everything. I don’t know why I did. I...I guess I wanted someone to know of my story.

Starting with my arrival at Night Raven College. Ending with Jade’s betrayal.

I told Rook the tale through my tears and disgusting sobbing. It was absolutely pathetic, but...he listened patiently.

When I finished, he told me something.

“Mon petit oiseau, I would never lie to you.”

And I believe him.

Day 200

I cried again.

Stupid Leeches.

Day 202

I am scared of Jade.

I say as much to Rook.

He makes a joke about sharpening a harpoon and going eel hunting.

...At least, I think it is a joke.

Day 215

Rook now greets me as soon as my classes let out. His smile and laugh are reassuring to see.

He makes sure I get home safely, and without being accosted.

I cannot say merci enough.

Day 227

...It is ironic.

The man I once ran from is now the one I willingly go to for shelter, and the man I once went to for shelter is now the one I run from.

What a strange reversal of fortune.

Day 228

I feel eyes on me again.

...Leeches, most likely.

Day 230

Tomorrow is another day.

I will stay at Rook’s side.

It is the only place I feel safe beyond Uncle’s attic.

Day 231

I can trust him.

I can trust Rook.

He will tell an ugly truth right off the bat.

He values honesty, integrity--like me.

And birds of a feather must flock together.

[koalitypop]

broken promises

pairing: soobin x reader

genre: angst

word count: 1.9k

requested by anon

a/n: I started this one shot just before my first exam and I have been working on it for the past few weeks. Hope you enjoy it! What I wrote is a bit different from what has been requested, but I still hope you will like it! Thank you so much for spending your time reading! 

Maybe that was all life was about? Growing. Out of your comfort zone, out of your habits, out of letting people lead you to your doom. Out of not setting yourself first.  

Sitting in your office that day, you found yourself thinking about him once again. You were thankful to him. And you hated him. And yet you loved him, secretly. 

***

Coming back home after a long tiring day, you were excited to see Soobin. Lately, he had been so busy and you weren’t particularly free to visit him at the company, so you looked forward to spending some time with him that night.  

Entering the apartment, you were faced with darkness and coldness. Hasn’t Soobin already arrived? He said he’ll come back home early. Taking the phone out of your pocket, you call him.  

Beep  

Beep  

The person you are trying to reach is busy. Please try again later.  

You sighed and put the phone back in your pocket. It was okay, his job demanded lots of dedication, passion, focus. You took off your coat, turned on the thermostat and headed to the bedroom. All alone, you cosied up on the bed, trying to warm yourself.  

***

Nobody knew that, but you still kept that photo of you two making out on the couch on your bedside table. Framed, just behind the photo of you and your mother. You would open the frame way too often, taking the picture out and staring at, your finger on the place where your hands were, holding ever so tightly on each other. It would take you some time to brace yourself back, put the photo behind the one with your mom and closing the frame.  

Then you would get up, dress up and go back to your office. You’d rather spend the entire night there than looking at that photo.  

A bath, seven episodes of The Big Bang Theory and a half an hour nap, Soobin was nowhere to be seen. You tried to call him once again, but you again couldn’t reach him, so you just ditched your phone in the living room as you didn’t want to bother him. You didn’t want to admit it, but it hurt. He couldn’t find the time to simply text you that he’d be late for your date. That he got more and more forgetful of the things you were talking to him about, of the things you liked, of you. It hurt like hell.  

About an hour later, you heard the door open. You barely found it in yourself to get up and welcome him.  

“Hello, darling,” you greeted.  

***

As time went by, you became stronger, it got easier to hide all the pain, all the love. It felt wonderful to see yourself getting powerful, stoic, even more determined to make your dreams come true. Although, from time to time, it didn’t truly feel that your dream was power and success. But you were now able to stop those thoughts from consuming you and focus on your job.  

Maybe if that didn’t happen you would have always been so nice, so dependent, so scared of the big world. Maybe you should be thankful to Soobin for breaking your heart. Because you were able to pick them up and rearrange them in a way you can fight against the world.  

***

“Yeah, hi,” Soobin murmured, taking off his shoes.  

You came closer to him and tried to help him take his jacket off, when he took a step forward, moving away from you.  

“Actually, I’ll be quick,” he stated.  

“Oh, alright then,” you sighed.

You were disappointed, but nowhere near surprised. That had happened a bit too often the past few months to be taken aback, so you just took a deep breath and swallowed all the pain.  

Soobin sat on the couch and took one of the decorative pillows in his hands, playing with its uneven edges. You watched him closely and took a seat next to him, waiting for him to put his hand over your shoulders as he normally does.  

“I want to talk to you about something,” Soobin said, his eyes stuck to the decorative pillow.  

“What about?” you put on a smile on your face.  

“It’s something serious, Y/n.”

In your heart of hearts, you knew what he meant by that. But you refused to let yourself believe that.  

“I’m all ears, Soobin.”

***

Your heart still skipped a beat every time his name was mentioned. That was why you tried your best to avoid personal use of social media, you stopped watching TV, you didn’t even listen to TXT anymore, although you used to love their music.  

It was all work and success now. Nobody dared to leave you as you were so important, so competent, so powerful, so successful and capable of doing even more. Everyone respected you, tried their best to spend time with you, to reach you. You found yourself in a love-hate relationship with authority and triumph as the desperate need of the people around you to be with you happened to be somewhat annoying from time to time. Yet, it was way better than being left all alone, so you always grinned and let them believe they have your full interest.  

As you were reading the business plans of companies in need of investments, you found thinking yourself about Soobin. You put the business plan on your desk and inhaled deeply, eyes focused on the beautiful view of Seoul from your office. You were about to go back to reading the business plans when the ringtone of your personal phone tore the silence in your office apart.  

***

“It has become harder for both of us to stay happy in this relationship. You are constantly busy with your studies and the more TXT grows, the harder it is for me to find time for you. Believe me, I’ve tried to make you my main priority, but as a leader of a band like this, a band that’s getting bigger and bigger, I can’t run after you and you cannot do this as well.”

“Is it so hard for you to be honest to me one last time,” you laughed at him, looking at him coldly.  

“I am honest, Y/n, we both know that this relationship was doomed from the very beginni-”  

“Soobin, I don’t want to hear any of your poor excuses, they are meaningless to me,” you hissed, "you’ve fallen out of love with me, admit it.”

Soobin remained silent with you watching him as if you were ready to kick him out.  

“I’d prefer you scream. Or hit me. Or blame me. I’m saying the truth, Y/n, with lives like ours it’s just impossible to keep this relationship. The more we lie to ourselves, the more it will hurt,” Soobin muttered.  

You crossed your legs and looked him in the eyes.  

“You are such a coward. A coward for blaming your dream, my dream, everything else but your own emotions for the end of this relationship.”

***

Taking your phone out of your handbag, you wondered who it is. Your parents and the few friends you had knew better than to just call you during the day while you are at work, so it must be something urgent.  

The person’s phone number wasn’t added to your contact list, but you knew it too damn well for it to be unknown.  

***

“Look, I’m sorry, Y/n, I promise I tried to find time for you, but I just couldn’t keep track of everythi-”

“So, you are saying that you are breaking up with me because you don’t want me to feel left out.”

Soobin couldn’t look at you, knowing that you are well aware of what is happening but being fully incapable of telling the truth. Because telling you that the love he promised is gone would break you, as if you weren’t already in pieces.  

“I am so sorry, Y/n.”

“Don’t be,” you smiled.  

***

Soobin.  

You didn’t know why he would call you and you surely didn’t know whether you should pick up.  

Hot waves spread out your body. A breath was stuck in your lungs. Your hands were shaking as you held your phone.  

You picked up.  

***

You felt betrayed. Your body was cold yet hot. You felt like you couldn’t bear looking at Soobin any longer, still, you couldn’t take your eyes off him, somehow afraid he’ll slip away as sand through the fingers.  

Soobin was about to say something, but you knew way too well what his next words were going to be.  

“Don’t you even dare say you’re sorry again.”

“I couldn’t keep my promises.”  

That’s how you knew he doesn’t love you anymore. Promises. All of the time. Being there for you forever. Holding you forever.  

Loving you forever.  

***

“I bet you didn’t expect my call,” Soobin mumbled.  

His voice sounded like a lullaby. So soft, so soothing, magical. You didn’t know you had missed so bad.  

“You can’t blame me. But please, tell me, what’s the reason behind your call?” you asked, your grip on your phone ever so tight.  

“You sound different, Y/n,” he whined, his voice letting you know how tired and maybe even tipsy he is.  

“You can’t expect me to stay at home, crying and waiting for you to fix everything. I grew up and did it all on my own,” you scoffed, going to the window.  

“You’re right, I can’t,” Soobin murmured.  

You had a million thoughts running through your mind, you couldn’t choose which one you should bark out first, angry at him for calling you, making you go through all the feeling you have tried to hide for the past few years. At the very same time, you were glad he called. Because you knew you wanted to hear his voice. You shouldn’t but you needed to.  

“I heard you are a CEO now. Congratulations. I’ve always believed in you and your ideas.”

“Thanks, Soobin.”

It was the first time in years you’ve pronounced his name. You had nearly forgotten how beautiful it was, how your soul trembled by the sound of it.

“W-would it be selfish of me to confess that I miss you?” Soobin stuttered.  

You took a deep breath and sat back on your chair.  

“Yes. Very.”

***

“I-I think it’s time for me to go,” Soobin stated, putting the pillow back on the couch.  

If you were to open your mouth, you were going to start screaming. You wanted to keep your composure. You wanted to look stable. You wanted him to remember you like that. Broken yet strong. Because there was no way in this world, he didn’t know how bad he had just hurt you.

Done putting on his shoes, Soobin took a look at the apartment and at you, making you go crazy, hoping he’ll say that he’s taking his words back, that he wants you to stay by his side. Because that day was one of the last ones when you would’ve taken him back.  

“Goodbye, Y/n,” Soobin sighed, leaving.  

You took the pillow he played with and hugged it tightly, inhaling his scent. As you were looking at the door, a tear fell down your cheek. Thousands more followed.  

***

“Y/n, I promise, I-”

“Soobin, you see, your broken promises have taken me quite far. But please, do not make any more. I don’t think I’ll be able to get any better than that,” you enunciated.  

“So, there is no chance that we ever...?” Soobin couldn’t even finish his sentence.  

A light knock was heard from the door, your secretary asking for permission to come in.  

You laughed bitterly and rested on your chair.  

“The chance you are looking for now was lost a long time ago.”

[realityhelixcreates]

The Mystic Garden: Sowing

Chapters: 1/5

Fandom:  Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG

Warnings: death

Characters: Loki(Marvel) 

Additional Tags:  Infinity War Doesn’t Exist, Everybody Lives, Mutants Exist In The MCU, The Reparations Of Loki Of Asgard

Summary:   Despite S.H.I.E.L.D. becoming a smaller and more selective organization, Loki still finds himself assigned to them upon Asgard's arrival on Earth. Required to perform a kind of specialized community service, Loki is paired up with another outcast, of a kind he is not familiar with: A mutant named Iris.

Loki of Asgard was a very beautiful man.

Loki of Asgard was a very powerful man.

Loki of Asgard was a very dangerous man.

And that was about all that anyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. could agree on about Loki of Asgard.

To some, he was an asshole. To others, perfectly charming. To yet more, he was polite, but distant. Funny. Serious. Sarcastic. Aloof. Morbid. Morose. Intimidating. Shy. Threatening. Angry. Flirty. Each person Iris asked described him in a different way.

To Iris, he was a looming presence, staring her down with searing intensity. Her shiny, brand new partner. Joy.

“So you're the unfortunate one.” He grumbled. “Winner of the worst lottery this organization has ever thrown.”

“I'm Iris Devereaux.” She said, holding out her hand. “Pleased to finally meet you.”

He glanced at her hand with a sneer. “No you aren't.”

“Beg pardon?”

“No one is pleased to meet me.”

“Oh. Well. Here's the thing: you don't decide that for me.”

He raised one perfect eyebrow, tilting his head back.

“I don't tolerate men telling me what I do and don't think or feel. Only I can know that. Now, you gonna shake my hand or not, Mister 'of Asgard'?”

Loki harrumphed. “As you demand, Miss 'of the Riverbank'.”

“What?” Iris took his hand and gave it a firm shake. He allowed it, but drew his hand back the instant she released it.

“Your surname. It means 'riverbank'. Didn't you know? Named after a goddess, and yet you seem to have lived humbly.”

“I'm named after a flower.” Iris corrected.

“The flower was named after the goddess.” He re-corrected. “The personification of the rainbow, a messenger of the gods. She who waters the clouds with her ocean-filled pitcher, flying on glowing, golden wings to carry the pleas of mankind to the gods they prayed to. As she connected the sea and the sky, her rainbows connected mankind to the gods. Just as our Bifrost connected Asgard to Midgard with the beauty and magnificence of the rainbow.”

“Oh, please.” Another agent groaned from their nearby work station. Loki glared.

“Well, that's...informative.” Iris said. Was this what Loki was like? Standoffish, unless given something to talk about? He was certainly well-spoken. “I'm pretty sure my parents just had the flower in mind though.”

“A delicate goddess, an ephemeral rainbow, or a nodding blossom on the riverbank: it all paints a pretty picture, does it not?” He asked.

Iris narrowed her eyes. “What are you trying to say?”

“I wonder.” Loki said.

“Will you two just go get some coffee or something?” the other agent snapped. “I've got to finish this by ten hundred.”

“Fine, jeez, keep your vest on.” Iris said. Loki glared once again. “C'mon, there's a thousand break rooms on this old boat. We can take one over for ourselves.”

   *****

“Who was that cur?” Loki demanded as Iris programmed the coffee machine for two cups. “Who does he think he is talking to? I am still a prince of Asgard, and a god! No pencil-pushing desk monkey speaks to me that way!”

“Hey, cool your chops.” Iris said, getting the mugs. “The pencil-pushing desk monkeys keep this whole show running. Who do you think runs this boat? Where does our intel come from? Who finds out if it's any good or not? Who does the budgets, communication, tech, cleanup, triage, programming, and supplies? The heroes get the fame, sure, but we're ultimately expendable. These guys own this shindig. Do you like caramel?”

“I...might?” He said, and Iris added a squirt of syrup to each steaming mug, then handed him his. “And you might be expendable, but I most certainly am not.”

“Cheers, bro. I'll drink to that.” Iris raised her mug in his direction and took a long gulp of fresh, caramel coffee. Oh boy, this was gonna be fun.

Loki seemed perplexed, either by the flavor of the coffee, or her casual acceptance of his declaration.

“Not that it will come to that.” He backtracked. “As my partner, you will have the advantage of my protection.”

“Joy. So, your highness, what's landed you here? You aren't exactly known as a friend to mankind. Why join S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

He harrumphed as Iris took another long pull from her mug. “You say 'join' as if I was given a choice. This is penance, nothing more. It was decided when Asgard had to relocate here, that I would work for a 'humanitarian' organization. Save lives equal to those whose deaths I was responsible for. Work towards paying off the cost it took to rebuild. And so I perform the Reparations of Loki of Asgard, defending this realm from itself. Once I have accomplished this, I will leave.”

“Mhm. And how far have you gotten?”

“It's only been a few months.” He huffed. “So not nearly as far as I'd like. How did they lure you in?”

Iris shrugged. “Job's a job. This one is steady, has good benefits, and it certainly keeps me engaged. It's no daily grind, that's for sure.”

“But with your power, could you not be a leader of some sort, rather than in a subservient 'expendable' position?”

“Ah. You've read my file.”

“Of course I did. As I assume you've read mine. Prying things. Why do they need so many personal details? But yes. It mentioned that you have an unusual power, beyond others of your type? Why are you not in charge?”

“Hoo boy.” Iris took a seat across from him. “You don't know much about human social structure, do you?”

Loki frowned. “It was never supposed to matter.”

“Well, it matters now. And it's mattered to me my whole life, because I can't just run off home to fairy tale land, so it looks like we both have no choice but to deal with it. You know what a mutant is?”

“I know what the word means, but I don't know how it applies to you.” Loki said, perplexed. “You look like any other human to me, so I assume it is something internal?”

Now it was Iris' turn to harrumph. “Well, you look like any other Asgardian to me, so I guess we've both got something going on under our skin, don't we? Tell you what: you explain to me what a 'frost giant' is, and I'll explain what a 'mutant' is in this context.”

“And if I refuse?” Loki sneered.

“Then I do too.” Iris said simply.

Loki stared at her across the table, the intensity of his gaze as hot as the coffee, and Iris tried her best to pretend to be unaffected by it. It wasn't that he wasn't intimidating, but an unfortunate lifetime of bigotry and constant background danger had given her a skin as thick as wood. Well, her mutation had done that as well.

“I can do this all day.” He warned.

“Alright.” Iris shrugged.

A few very awkward minutes passed, a silence spent sipping coffee, until her supervisor, Chris Timmitz, interrupted.

“Iris! Loki. There you are! I've been looking for you two. Lucky to find you in the same place, you've got a job coming up.”

“Oh yeah? Lay it on me boss.” Iris said. Loki grimaced.

“We think we've got another possible HYDRA shelter, kinda out in the open this time. We need more intel. That's where you come in.”

“It's located next to a forest, isn't it?”

“A meadow, actually.” He said a bit sheepishly. “We need you to, uh, plant some bugs on the property.”

“Ha ha.” Iris said flat-voiced.

“Aw c'mon, I didn't come up with the terminology.”

“Was that some kind of insult?” Loki asked darkly. “Do you degrade your employees?”

“Well, it wasn't meant to be.” Chris explained. “It's not my fault the language is what it is. And what about you? Iris may act tough, but she's really sweet and sensitive, so you'd better act right-”

“Or what?” Loki challenged.

“Chris. Cut it out. We don't have to be chummy, we just have to get the job done.” Iris said. “So give us the details.”

“Right, right. We're starting Tuesday. It seems to be when the fewest people are there...”

                ****

Iris crawled through the tall grass of the meadow, the plants moving naturally around her, so as to not alert her enemies that she was there. The shelter was an old schoolhouse apparently, that HYDRA agents had taken over, ostensibly to restore the historical building and turn it into a museum...all the while sheltering their agents from the law, and pushing revisionist history in an effort to spread their doctrine through yet another small town. They had done this so many times before, changing the narrative, changing the perceptions of the people.

HYDRA had many heads. It was the symbolism of the thing. Some of those heads infiltrated governments, and worked to influence world policy. Other heads overran small towns, influencing the vote, which served to make the jobs of the others easier.

Some people in S.H.I.E.L.D. likened them to a virus to be quarantined, cut out, and destroyed. Iris saw them as a sickness to be cured. Anyone could change their minds, given reason. The trick was to find the reason. That wasn't her job, and she didn't think she'd be good at it, but she knew that there were anti-radicalization support groups popping up here and there now, and no wonder, with the state of the current administration. Iris knew HYDRA must have gotten their voice very well entrenched into the government.

But Iris was more directly concerned with these little heads, with blocking their progress, slowing them down, and just generally inconveniencing them.

She'd gotten the usual stares and glares, upon entering the little town, but it was hard to tell if it was HYDRAs influence, or just typical American small town prejudice when faced with a dark-skinned stranger. Either way, she wouldn't want to live here.

She settled down in the grass, stretched out on her belly, and the sod began to part beneath her. Loki, who had simply made himself invisible with his alien magics, and crept along beside her, was clearly capable of sneaking with the best of them. He barely displaced a blade of grass. He crouched down beside her.

“We are stopping here?” He whispered. “How shall you place your devices? Will you throw them?”

“No, My aim isn't that good.” Iris said, ignoring his smug “Mine is.”, and beginning to sink into the newly exposed soil.

“Uh...Miss Devereaux...are you aware that the earth appears to be swallowing you?”

“Don't worry about it, it's fine.” She wriggled her feet out of her flimsy sandals and into the dirt. She was positioned to just be able to see the old schoolhouse over the edge of the trough that had been excavated beneath her. That was all she needed.

“Certainly. Nothing out of the ordinary here.”

“You're one to talk. Hand me the bugs.”

There were only three of them: tiny things, no larger than the creatures they were named after. Iris took them, then tore a packet of seeds open with her teeth, pouring the contents into her hands.

“This is going to take me a pretty long time. Couple of days, probably. What I'm going to need the most from you is tending. Every hour, give me something to drink. Every four hours, give me something to eat. Make sure no one sweeps through here with a lawn mower or a fire. I'm not going to be able to move, and will likely be in something of a trance. Sorry I won't be better company.”

“That's a lot of orders coming from one little human.” Loki grumbled.

“My life is in your hands.”

“That's...a bit better.”

She pressed her hand against the earth in front of her, and concentrated.

For some minutes it didn't appear to Loki that anything was happening at all. Then the first of the thin, white roots began squirming out from between her fingers, roping around her hand.

Loki stretched out in the tall grass next to her as the roots slowly formed a ragged, grasping ball of pale worms against her chestnut skin. He remained silent for hours alongside her, dutifully holding a small bottle of water to her lips every hour or so. As she had said earlier, Iris lay very still, and very trance-like, drinking without acknowledging that she even knew he was there.

“Hmmm.” He whispered. “I hate being ignored, you know. I wonder if you can even hear me? Could you explain what it is that you are doing, or are you so far away that you cannot even answer? What would happen if I touched you right now, Goddess-Flower of the Riverbank? Would I break your concentration? Would you even notice?”

He opened one of the little ration packs, half of which were specifically labeled with Iris' name. Within were little brown cubes that smelled deeply unappetizing to Loki, formed from a slurry of many mysterious ingredients.

“A special recipe, just for you? S.H.I.E.L.D. must value you more highly than you have previously stated. Here you go, Bright Blossom.” He held the little cube to Iris' lips, which parted automatically to accept the cube. “And so I have become no more than a nutrient dispensary. How far I have fallen.”

He fed her the cubes, one by one. Every brush of her petal-velvet lips against his fingers tempted him to push them into her mouth, a temptation that brought a chuckle to his own lips. There were only so many games he would be allowed to play, before S.H.I.E.L.D. kicked him out entirely. He wasn't attached to S.H.I.E.L.D., or anyone within the organization, but working for them kept him active, kept him relevant, kept him engaged, and most importantly, kept him out of prison. Community service was infuriating, but he had experienced the soul-crushing torment of solitary confinement, and this was much preferable.

A cold, uncomfortable cell? Or laying in the grass on a warm, sunny day, hand-feeding a pretty girl?

He was very tempted to lay his hand on the small of her back, where her uniform had ridden up just enough to show a strip of glistening skin, but it wouldn't have the proper punch with Iris in this deep trance. Without reaction, there was no fun.

The roots winding their way up her arms were somewhat unsettling. Was this what her file had meant when it noted that she was a 'mutant'? That she could cause plants to sprout? Could other humans do that?

Hours later, when the sun had set, and the roots had wriggled into the soil all around her, and crawled their way up to her shoulders, Iris stirred.

“Mph. Man, I'm sore.” She complained.

“Ah, welcome back. There is a powerful desire I need you to fulfill.”

“Not on company time. There's trees over there, go behind them and, uh, work it out? Also, for next time, I really don't need to know.”

“You flatter yourself, or you underestimate me. What I want, is for you to explain what you are doing. Are you making those plants grow?”

“Oh. Yeah, basically. You read my file; you know I'm a mutant.”

“Yes, but I do not know the significance of the term.” Loki admitted. “Is it this? This magic you wield?”

“It's not magic, it's just...it's genetic. I was born this way. At first it was just little things. Gardens grew better wherever I went, I didn't get hungry as much when there was sunlight, I didn't need to drink as much as long as there was water on the ground. I grew up in a way rural community tucked away in the Everglades. We were real poor, so being outside and having wet and muddy feet was just normal for all the kids.

As I got older, the signs got more obvious. I can do things that plants can do. I can direct their growth, and I sorta...change with the seasons, depending on where I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“Eh, stick around long enough and you'll see. Anyway, people aren't too fond of mutants, and it got...tough. To live at home, I mean. So I went out into the wild, and I did pretty well there, but S.H.I.E.L.D. found me and offered me something else. Not every mutant is like me. There's a lot of different ways to be a mutant, it's unpredictable. Some folks can fly, others can turn their bodies into metal, and some can heal wounds to their body in seconds. I manipulate plants, and am, in some ways, like them.”

“I see. And you are causing these plants to grow for what purpose?”

“Spying purposes. It's gonna take a few days, but these vines will tunnel through the ground, all the way up to the school house. When they break ground, I'll send one of them up that tree there, another one around the frame of that window there, and the third down the chimney. You saw those little devices? They're holding those in packets of leaves, and will position them so that they remain hidden, but they consist of audio, video, and heat signature recorders. Once I've gotten them in place, we'll leave. That's all this mission is; bugs on plants.”

“Then why am I here?” He wondered. “You seem to have this well in hand.”

“Someone's gotta feed me. And make sure I don't get found out. There's rumors you can make magic illusions. That's probably why. You can hide us both from any eyes or cameras.”

“And I have.” Loki said proudly. “And fed and...watered you, Little Blossom. What else do you need from me?”

“To do it all again tomorrow.” Iris said. Then she dropped her head into the nest of roots, and settled down to sleep.

                                                                         *****

Iris was awake and in her trance just as the first light of dawn kissed the horizon. Loki had been awake even before that, every swish of grass or crackle of leaves grabbing his attention.

“Rest.” He commanded her. “I have not the need of it that you do. Never forget: I am no weak mortal. You require a large amount of sleep, but I am all the greater.”

Iris had snorted at the bravado, but accepted the cubes he fed her, and fell into her trance, the roots curling further and further around her body.

Loki idly wondered how far the roots would go. Would they cocoon Iris entirely, prompting her to 'hatch' into a new form? Would they drag her down into the earth, entombing her away from Loki forever? Or would they just die back?

He watched people come and go to the old schoolhouse, working on its restoration. They looked for all the world like normal workers; he didn't even believe any of them to be armed. Not all HYDRA agents were combatants, after all. Just as many of them were spies, thieves, politicians, PR specialists and spin doctors.

Ever since what the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents called 'The Big Reveal', both organizations had been frantically rebuilding. S.H.I.E.L.D. more slowly, taking only the best, only the most trustworthy. Loki supposed he should be proud, even though he knew he was only there as a glorified prisoner.

HYDRA's recruits seemed to be skyrocketing, as they took to the internet in search of easily radicalized young men-mostly men, and boys-to bolster their numbers. They found plenty of them, and quickly, but they were sloppy and unpredictable. All too often, one let their ego overcome their loyalty to the cause, an event that almost always led to public confrontation and violence. But the news media-already infiltrated, most likely-was always quick to exonerate or sympathize with a young white man.

HYDRA disgusted Loki, even back when he had 'convinced' a small cell to work with him. No one group knew what the others were doing. There was a severe lack of communication between cells. Yes, Loki supposed it kept them safe from discovery, but he found it inefficient. A waste of potential by people more invested in the pageantry of a secret society, than by the end goal they hoped to achieve.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was little better, in his opinion, but at least its people were more serious about their work. Communication was more open, their goals more achievable. It felt like they made a difference, whether they really did or not. And they didn't waste potential. HYDRA would simply kill someone like Iris, S.H.I.E.L.D. found her valuable enough to spend resources on her. Under Loki's regime, had he succeeded, Iris, and all people like her, would have been of personal interest to him. All of these so-called 'mutants' would have been given places of high honor. Loki did not waste potential.

But that wasn't worth spending more time dwelling on. It was never meant to happen in the first place. When and where he would rule was yet to be discovered, but it would not happen until he was finished with his penance.

He provided Iris with her water, barely able to see her under all the roots. It was no wonder that she could not go into the field without a partner; she could not be ready for combat, couldn't even eat on her own! If they had to run, was he just supposed to tear her from the root wrapping and toss her over his shoulder? Would disconnecting her like that cause her harm?

He would have to ask next time she woke.

A young man approached, wielding an unfamiliar device. Loki was immediately on high alert. Was that some kind of weapon? He wandered all the way up to the verge of the grasses, gazing placidly out over the meadow. This was a HYDRA agent? He was barely out of adolescence! But from what Loki remembered of his brothers youthful declarations of hatred towards the Jotunn, radicalization did indeed start young.

“Naw, I think it must have been a glitch.” He said into his lapel. “There's nothing out here, not even trails in the grass.” He paused, listening. “Naw. Maybe it was a coyote? There's plenty of wild animals that wander around out here. My bro swears he saw a puma last year. Anyway, I'm gonna trim the grass, since I'm here anyway. If you're really worried, come out and check your cameras. I ain't gonna do it for you.”

With that, the young man yanked a long string, attached to a pod on the device, causing the thing to roar to life. Its loud snarl effectively covered Loki's startled gasp, his invisible eyes wide at the noise and the fact that everything within a six inch radius of the device's head was shredded and flung in all directions.

He had to maintain the illusion. But Iris was right in the horrible things' path. It would rip right into her face.

Unacceptable.

Loki rolled over on top of her, covering her body, roots and all, with his own. He ducked his head just as the device passed by. The force was like a high speed whip, tearing at his hair. It would have lacerated his scalp, possibly to the bone, had he been human. It would have certainly injured Iris, whom he kept safely tucked under his body, protected by his armor and tough, godly flesh.

The young man made a few more passes, working his way down the edge of the meadow, leaving Loki with a stinging scalp from his impromptu haircut, eventually leaving after finishing a rough, sub-par job.

Loki kept still, concentrating on maintaining the illusion, now including fresh cut grass. He feared it had wavered under the assault he had suffered, but the young man hadn't seemed to notice. Hours passed with no movement from Loki, just watching as various people came and went, doing their jobs. Eventually they all trickled away.

The sun had grown low in the sky before Loki felt Iris stir.

“Um. Loki? What are you doing? Did something happen?” Iris asked, her voice muffled by his body.

“Pardon me.” He rolled back into the grass as Iris shook her face free of the grasping roots. “Some boy came through here with a horrible device that tore up the grasses. It was necessary to cover you.”

Iris sniffed the air. “Someone cut the grass. Geez, did he hit you? Your hair!”

“Is it bad?” He asked, then covered his vanity. “It doesn't matter. I made good on my word. Here, eat.” He held food to her mouth. It would be almost too bad when this was over. Feeding her was so easy, so satisfying, and his hair would grow back anyway. If only all missions could be this easy.

Iris ate, watching the sunset, Loki laying on his side in the grass next to her, just watching her. Roots and shredded grass decorated her body, cube after cube passing her lips.

“Miss Devereaux, how will you remove yourself from those roots? If I must tear them, will it hurt you?”

Iris shook her head. “No, the roots aren't attached to me. If we pull this off without a hitch, I'll direct them into the soil. But if we have to get out in a hurry, you can tear them; it won't hurt me.”

“That's good to know.” Loki rolled onto his back, hands behind his head. “There is much still to learn about this realm. What is this that you are eating?”

“You sure you wanna know?” She asked.

“I am suddenly less curious, now that you have said that.” He admitted. “They do smell incredibly unappealing.”

“It's fertilizer, essentially. Fish emulsion and seaweed, blood and bone meal, fermented vegetables, all mashed together. Sounds super gross, I know,” She said at his disgusted expression. “But it's really good for me. My body absorbs it so efficiently that there isn't even any waste. Like roots inside me that absorb everything.”

“Are there? Roots inside you, I mean.”

“Sometimes.” Iris said quietly. “Maybe.”

“It bothers you? I see. It removes you from humanity. Sets you apart. And yet, you think that makes you inferior, rather than the other way around?”

“I'm not better than anybody else.” Iris said.

“You think not? Is there anyone else in this world who can do what you can do? How many people have your S.H.I.E.L.D. actively recruited? They came to find you specifically, why would they do that?  Because you were completely average? You are a valued agent of a semi-clandestine organization bent on world improvement. You have been partnered to a god. You are above-average, Iris. Why is that difficult to accept?”

“Are you 'above average' in Asgard, Loki? Have you always been celebrated for it?”

“Mostly.”

“I haven't. I've been despised. I've been misunderstood. I've been coddled and hidden away by my parents in an attempt to protect me. I've been discriminated against by strangers, and teachers, and employers, and neighbors whose kids I grew up with. By those same kids.

I walked out into the wild one day, and didn't come back. I never planned on coming back, never planned on seeing another person ever again. But S.H.I.E.L.D. weren't the first to find me. There were two others. There was a man, a strange old man who could fly. He floated down from the sky, and told me that as a mutant, I was naturally superior to all other humans. He wanted me to come with him, said he was building some grand future for mutantkind, as if we were a different species.”

“Who was this man?” Loki asked, intrigued.

“No idea. I told him to leave. It wasn't long after I had left home, and I really didn't want to go back to any kind of civilization. I was kinda fantasizing about becoming some kind of cryptid, you know? The Everglades Swamp Witch, or something like that.

Then the botanists came. A whole group of them, trying to catalog Ghost Orchids. They're endangered, and people keep stealing them, and wrecking up their habitat. But I knew where they were. All two thousand of them. And I convinced them that I was in contact with all the remaining plants, so if any went missing after their expedition, I'd know, and come hunting for them.”

She grinned. “Like I said, Swamp Witch vibes. They even believed me!”

“So you cannot actually do that?” Loki asked. The stars had come out, forming unfamiliar shapes in the night sky. His eyes could pick out fainter lights than a humans could, and he admired the active beauty of this part of the universe while eating from one of the non-specialty ration packs.

“Well, I can, but not automatically. And not that far away. I have to be closer to a plant to really sense it, and I have to be trying really hard. Like, if I wanted to figure out where the nearest maple tree was, I would have to concentrate on that, and block out all the grass. But a maple has a different...I guess you could call it a signature? A different signature than grass does. A Ghost Orchid grows on trees, and is basically just a ball of roots when it's not blooming. Kinda like this-” Iris nodded at the roots tangled around her. “But way smaller. It looks like nothing, almost. They're very hard to spot. But they have that different signature than the tree they grow on, and I can follow that to where they are.”

“So you found all their plants, as if by magic.”

“Yeah, and they paid me pretty well for it, and I sent the money home to my parents, and then the botanists went home and blabbed. Next thing I know. S.H.I.E.L.D. is on my tail.”

“Because you were friendly to botanists?”

“Well...I might have also...sabotaged a development project.” Iris said sheepishly. “But it was right on the edge of the National Park, and I didn't let anybody get hurt! And I'm pretty sure it was dubiously legal anyway.”

The edges of Loki's mouth curled, even as his eyebrows lifted.

“What's this? You're 'shy and sensitive' I was told. Was I sold a bill of goods? Are you, in fact, a naughty little mutant?”

Iris rolled her eyes. “Ugh, don't joke. Naughty little mutants end up dead.”

The amusement drained from his face.

“You would be celebrated in Asgard.” He said.

“We aren't in Asgard.” She answered. “The only thing that matters is where we are now. Those guys in there? They'd kill us both just for being born. They'd make it so that no one like us could ever be born again. When S.H.I.E.L.D showed up, in their black uniforms and started introducing themselves as 'agents', I thought that's what they had come for. The government was there to kill me.

At that point, I'd been off the grid for over a year, and I didn't know anything about the S.H.I.E.L.D./HYDRA internet explosion. But when they started talking about rebuilding as a humanitarian organization, dedicated to the protection of people-marginalized people-from, like, terrorist groups and hostile aliens, I realized they weren't there to kill me or arrest me, they were just there for me.

So I didn't make them disappear, and went with them instead. I still send money home to my parents. They don't know where I am, or what I do. They don't know the true extent of my capabilities. I'm not sure I do either. The thing about being a mutant is that a lot of these powers don't get replicated exactly, so we each have to figure ourselves out. There's no training regimen or curriculum for this.”

“So all of this is self taught?” Loki asked, impressed. “I'm not even entirely self taught.”

“You were taught? This all didn't just come from being a god or whatever?”

“No, of course not. The power is there naturally, but it needs directing. Like you, I suppose. You're born with it, but need teaching to use it. I had the best teachers the universe could offer, and was exalted and encouraged. You had only yourself, and adversity. I've seen but little of you, but this seems a great feat so far.”

“A compliment?”

“An acknowledgment. It's good to know S.H.I.E.L.D. has become more discerning in its recruitment. I hear it was more than a little disastrous for them last time.”

“Like I said, I didn't find out about that until after. Though, I guess it's not all that surprising that it happened. There's a lot that can go wrong inside an organization that big, and with that much reach. There's just too much going on; there can never be enough oversight.”

“I know.” Loki said. “I used that against them when I attempted to bring down the planet. Somehow, they still didn't notice the traitors among them.”

“You worked with HYDRA?” Iris asked defensively.

“No.” Loki said. “I used them. I didn't...make many distinctions then, in my interactions with mortals.”

���Kinda seems like you still don't.” Iris pointed out. Loki took a breath and hesitated.

“Moreso than I did then.” He said slowly. “Then, you were just tools. A means to an end. Disposable. Interchangeable. There are so many of you, so it wasn't like any of your could actually be important.”

“Right up until barely six of us beat the tar out of you and blew up your entire army?”

Loki scowled. “That is a misstatement. The plan was always to lose.”

“Bull. Shit.”

“No, I'm serious. Earth was the weakest link in the Nine Realms, and it needed to be awakened. And you were. Spectacularly. Look what it's lead to. S.H.I.E.L.D. was purged, HYDRA exposed, and your world made ready for the arrival of Asgard. You've been opened to higher interactions, as a progressing member of the Realms.”

“Uh huh. That was totally the end goal, right? Inter-species altruism? That was what filled your heart while you blew people up?”

“Norns, no!” Loki snorted. “I hated every last one of you. I took a special delight in destroying that which was weaker than myself, never think I didn't. It's just...It wasn't entirely up to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean...I mean that losing was an act of defiance that sparked off the strengthening defense of Midgard, which I continue to participate in. Doing small jobs for S.H.I.E.L.D., rubbing out the likes of HYDRA and A.I.M., all of this contributes to this strengthening.”

Iris regarded him suspiciously through her framework of roots.

“You sound like you're running some sinister, behind-the-scenes shadow plan.” She accused. “You wanna explain?”

Loki smiled, a wan, false thing.

“Do you want some water?” He offered instead.

Iris rolled her eyes. “You're not gonna distract me.”

“And I am not going to elaborate further. Your curiosity will have to remain unsatisfied, or supplemented by your own imagination.”

“Hmph. Why'd you even bring it up then?”

“I? I think you'll find our conversation naturally meandered in this direction. That does not mean it must come to the conclusion you desire.”

“So this is what Abby meant when she said you were a pain in the ass to talk to.” Iris grumbled.

“I was not put here to satisfy Abby.” Loki said airily. “Who is Abby?”

“She asked you on a date.” Iris said. “You don't even remember her? Harsh.”

Loki shrugged. “She sounds frightfully dull. I may have to play nice for now, but I needn't entertain every persons sordid fantasies. Do you leap through every hoop set before you? Or do you also tell unimportant people that you aren't interested in entertaining them?”

“All right, that's fair.” Iris craned her head back to look up at the stars. “Which one is Asgard? Can you see it from here?”

“You can't.” Loki said. “The star is too far away, too small. And it doesn't matter now anyway. Home is gone, and we must rebuild from scratch. But that one, right there-do you see? Another realm orbits that one, the Frozen Realm of Jotunheim. They were our enemies once, and yours, but no more. Partly because they are under 'house arrest' as it were, trapped on their own planet. My father drove them off your planet over a thousand years ago. Your world actually warmed up without their influence, at least for a little while.”

“There were aliens here a thousand years ago?” Iris asked, incredulous.

“There have been 'aliens' here for ages.” Loki said. “Visitations and experiments, and failed colonies, and raids. Your ancestors were still getting the hang of fire, and there were 'aliens' visiting your lush and beautiful world. Making plans. Then your lot discovered agriculture and metal, and ruined a lot of those plans.”

“Seems like we're good at that.”

“Yes, yes, I was defeated by mortals. I am aware. I was the first to know.” Loki grumbled.

“Wait, does that mean the aliens really did build the pyramids?” Iris wondered.

Loki snickered. “The hubris of humanity is not universally shared. You are known for several things, and your inexplicable drive for monument building is one of them. Visitors did not build your great buildings; you did. They did come to see them though, like tourists. Some of them even took artifacts back home with them. Hopefully they weren't too historically important.”

“That's so rude.” Iris said.

“And you would never have known to take offense if I hadn't told you.”

God of Mischief indeed.

“What other realms are there? Just the nine?”

“Eight now, I suppose. But no. There are many peoples out there. The Nine Realms were just those places that were somehow related to Asgard. Allies, protectorates and...penal colonies, you might call them. But all interconnected, and all at least a little dependent on the others, at least some of the time. That has come to an end. There is a very powerful spot now empty. I fear there will be a great deal of turmoil before things even themselves back out. It would be interesting to see how that all plays out, but alas, I am trapped here for now.”

“Where would you go?” Iris asked.

“Alfheim first, I think.” Loki said. “They like me there. They are much less dour than the Dverguar, less serious than the Vanir, not so boastful and bombastic as Asgardins, not vicious as Jotunn, and nowhere near as hectic and anxious as Midgardians...humans, I mean. They like jokes and pranks, and value magic...perhaps I should have been Alfar? If only I could have chosen.”

“Yeah, I think we all feel that way sometimes. But I guess even gods don't get that choice. Hey, how do gods work, anyway? I mean, I stopped believing in any all-powerful force a long time ago. About when the only answer anyone could really give me as to why God would make someone like me was that I was put here to test faith. My own, or other people's maybe. It made me sick. What kind of 'father' puts a burden like that on a little kid?”

Loki scoffed. “The first mistake that humans make is in thinking that anything can be all-powerful, all-knowing, or infallible. It is a ridiculous fantasy notion, immature and irresponsible. That kind of thinking can only lead to two things: complete disillusionment, or harm to the self or others. I am a god, because I have a singular connection to a certain aspect of the universe, as does my brother, but neither of us are any of those things. How boring, to be all-knowing! How banal, to be all-powerful. And I have known people who seemed to think they were infallible, and the amount of misery and suffering they caused is unspeakable.

No, gods were never supposed to be all that. Greater than others, yes, but omnipotent...no, that's only for people who are overcompensating I think.”

“What's that about a special connection to the universe?” Iris asked.

“The universe is ridiculously unstable. Did you know that? I believe it was a human that posited that reality destroys and remakes itself fairly often in the scheme of things, but by the nature of it, it's impossible to ever know if that's true. Because if reality is destroyed, so are you, and so, you would never know. And if reality rebuilds itself, then that is the only reality that exists, so you would never know.”

“Oh hell, I don't like that.”

“Well just don't think about it. In any case, this instability seems to be occasionally expressed through individuals of particularly resilient and long-lived species, by connecting them to certain random forces. For my brother, it is the natural occurrence of thunder and lightning, those two things being directly connected. For me, it is an expression of sophisticated behaviors. Those forces are ours to deploy and manipulate to our will, and we affect them in the world around us, even as they effect us.”

“So you're just born with it too, huh?”

“So it seems.”

Iris settled back down into her swaddling roots to sleep, leaving Loki to stare up at the stars. The grass-cutting human had mentioned cameras. Loki had shielded them from that kind of surveillance on the way in, just in case. They must be hidden somewhere out in the trees. Could Iris detect such things? Would it be worthwhile to disable any, if suspicion was already on them? Or would that merely draw even more suspicion?

Perhaps while Iris remained incapacitated, actions that might bring more enemies out should be avoided. She did not have his durable skin, after all, nor his speed or strength. But with her unusual and largely unexplained powers, he hesitated in thinking of her as weak. More like...a specialist.

He felt her stir, just as the sun was lifted into the sky, and he fed her her morning cubes. She settled into her work trance almost immediately. Perhaps she was put off by the previous nights conversation, and didn't want more of the same. Perhaps she simply wanted to finish this mission quickly. Surely she too found it boring to lay in the same spot for days.

He watched the people come and go about their work restoring the schoolhouse. How many of them were just regular workers, and how many were enemy agents? Impossible to tell by looking, especially if even the youth were involved.

The sun had not risen particularly high when he noticed a difference. The roots that wrapped Iris' body were thinning; as he watched, more and more broke away from the tangle to bury themselves in the dirt at her sides. It was like watching worms escaping danger.

Finally, Iris pulled her hands from the soil, and pushed free of the roots.

“Alright.” She said. “Bugs are in. Now it's time for us to bug out.”

In retrospect, Loki could admit that he had been too eager to leave. He simply didn't do well with long periods of inactivity. So when he walked into the trees surrounding the meadow, and found himself face to face with a shotgun-wielding hunter, he wasn't too embarrassed. No, what really made him kick himself was when the one behind them held Iris at gunpoint. How could he have let one of these yokels get behind him?

“Who the hell are you freaks?” The one in front demanded. Loki recognized him as the youth with the loud grass cutting device who had ruined his hair.

“Gaw, this one stinks!” The other one exclaimed. “Well what do ya expect? She looks like mud, of course she smells like it.”

“We were just out looking for a...private place, if you catch my drift.” Loki said smoothly, getting ready. “Nothing to get worried about. It's just such a nice day, and we couldn't help ourselves.”

“Gross.” The one behind Iris said.

“We don't want you degenerate types around here.” The one in front of Loki said. “Now hands up, freak. You're way too close.”

“To what, pray tell?” Loki said. Almost ready.

“Don't talk about it, dumbass!” The other one hissed.

“Look, let's just kill them, to be sure.” The one in front of Loki said. “World ain't gonna miss a few freaks. And then nobody knows, and we don't get in trouble.”

Loki lifted his hand in a gesture he knew humans considered to be rude. Both men fired their guns.

Neither of them saw the illusions of Loki and Iris fade away, sprawled as they were one the forest floor, bleeding from the bullet wounds they'd inflicted upon one another.

Several yards away, Loki took his hands from over Iris' ears, and approached the HYDRA recruits. One of them was still alive. Loki carefully wrapped his hand in a cloth he manifested from seemingly nowhere, and casually suffocated him.

He then led the horrified Iris back to their rented car, and got back onto the highway as quickly as he could.

The silence stretched on for several hours, Loki watching the road, Iris gazing out the window at the scenery.

“Why didn't we sneak off as soon as you put up those illusions?” She finally asked. “We were invisible. We could have just left.”

“They had seen us.” Loki said. “They could not be allowed to go and inform their superiors. If there was suspicion that we had been snooping around the school, the entire point of the mission would be moot. Besides, they were extremely rude.”

“Don't joke.” Iris said sharply. “You killed that man in cold blood.”

“I killed him on cold practicality.” Loki corrected. “He could not be allowed to live, and let others know that he and the other one hadn't actually accidentally shot one another. Once anyone had seen us, that had to be the end for them. It is understandable that you might not like that, which is why I would not ask you to participate. But if I am sent on a mission as a protector, then that is what I will do. These were men who wanted to kill you just for being born, remember?”

“They were radicalized. They could have been deradicalized.”

“And how do you propose we were to do that?”

Iris huffed. “Damnit.”

“Sometimes we aren't afforded the choices we would prefer. But don't fret. I will take full responsibility in the report. I know the Director isn't keen on too many work-related killings.” It was part of why Loki took such delight in reporting work-related killings. Just to remind them of who he was, and what he was capable of.

Once they had reached their destination and returned the rental car, Iris called their contact agent for extraction. She wasn't exactly distant, but with other things to focus on, and other people demanding their times, the closeness of the last two days was fading fast.

Oh well, Loki thought. It had been nice while it lasted. But nothing was forever, and all affection was fleeting; he knew that well enough.

But it was a little odd to see her so preoccupied with her phone.

“Have you a Tweety account, or some such?” He asked, trying to strike up a conversation once again.

“Since that doesn't exist: no.” She answered, distracted. “No, there's just...I'm seeing someone, and he wants to meet up as soon as I get back.”

Loki frowned. For some reason, he didn't like that sound of that. “You need rest, don't you?” He suggested.

“Yeah, and it's a little last minute, I admit. But he's an agent too, and our schedules don't match up very often, so we've got to meet when we can, or not at all.”

“That sounds like a difficult arrangement.”

Iris shrugged. “I'll take what I can get. At least he doesn't seem to mind the whole mutant thing. That's kinda important when you're in my shoes.”

“You do not sound entirely enamored of this man.” Loki probed.

“Well...I'd like to get to know him better, but he's very private. Mostly, I just don't want to be alone. It's hard for people like me, you know? I can't just throw a relationship away because it's not some perfect storybook romance. Gotta be more realistic than that. But I sure hope I get a few days rest before I get sent out again.”

It sounded...practical. She had to take her opportunities where she found them. It wasn't as if Loki had never been there. It was perhaps a little sad, since it sounded like she really did want that storybook romance.

Perhaps it was none of his business. It was absolutely none of his business. He followed her anyway, curious about what kind of man made this little flower bloom.

The man in question was not impressive, in Loki's opinion. Not much more than average. Maybe that didn't matter to Iris.

“Bet you're glad to be done with all that, huh?” He asked. “Dealing with that creep couldn't be easy.”

“It wasn't really all that bad, honestly. He-”

“I don't really want to hear about him. C'mon, we have the whole evening! Let's not waste it!”

Loki decided then and there that he did not like this man. Not in small part because he wanted to know what Iris had to say about him.

She took him to what must have been her apartment, and there Loki left. There were a few things he didn't want to know after all.

[yyuangss-main]

❝three : nothing we can do❞

You could have guessed Bakugo’s loss of quirk dealt with the famous troupe. Only a selected few knew Kurapika’s soul purpose when becoming a hero. Even Gon and Killua knew. The one hero capable of defeating the troupe was Kurapika. He never told you any information about them or other heroes. He once told you he didn’t because he wants to be the one to fight them.

“The Phantom Troupe?” Sero asked for the other four heroes in hospital beds. “We’re thinking of the same troupe, right?”

“The one that’s considered to be a myth.” You crossed your arms. “And they’re real. More real than you could ever imagine. It’s bad news that they took Bakugo’s quirk. No telling what they want and if they wanted to take his power.”

Bakugo, finally, stayed quiet. Clearly inside he was having a breakdown. It was odd not hearing his hoarse voice shouting. His entire world, collapsed just by getting his quirk taken.

“How do you know?” Kaminari piped up. He’d been quiet during the screaming as well, “You’re certain Bakugo’s lost his quirk?” Leorio flipped up a paper on the clipboard, scribbling something quickly.

“Here’s (Y/N). And this is Bakugo.” Leorio held up the clipboard to Kaminari, twisting his body to show Kirishima and Bakugo. “The circled parts are where their quirks are. When I touch someone and use my own, their whole body is showing me their injuries including their quirks. The quirks are in a dark blue color. (Y/N)’s quirk would be in her brain while Bakugo’s is in his hands.”

“You’re saying you didn’t see that blue in Bakugo’s hands?” You said.

“That’s right.” He pointed with his pin to Bakugo’s uncircled hands, drawing an arrow to the quick stick figure drawing of you. “Every single one of you has the blue shade still. Meaning, you still have your powers. If it were to be taken away, the blue would leave too.”

“Kurapika, all the Phantom Troupe info goes to you, right?” You sat on the edge of Kurapika’s bed. “That adds up to you knowing some of their abilities. Is Chrollo’s takeaway a long lasting effect or will Bakugo get his powers back?” Kurapika shut his eyes again.

“I can’t answer you that. Not now.”

“Please. We’re trying to figure a solution out for Bakugo, not fight the Troupe.” You scoffed. “We have more lives at stake. Like Izuku or Hitoshi.”

“I understand. More the reason why I can’t speak about it.” Kurapika stated, “My information comes from people who are risky dealers. Leads from police officers are confirmed by them. I’m not ready to release this information with anyone. That includes Leorio and you, (Y/N).” Leorio tsked from behind you.

“Stop being a dumbass.” Leorio growled. “Be selfless and help us.”

“Forgive me, Ground Zero.” Kurapika removed the hospital blanket, making sure not to hit you with it. “But I told you to get out. You didn’t listen to me.”

“Kur—”

“Pester me no further.” The scarlet color took arise in his eyes again. “I’ve made my choice and won’t change my mind. Leorio. If that’s all, I’d like to get my bill and leave.”

Kurapika’s motives hadn’t changed when you met him at U.A. It worried you. Having a passion or reason to be a hero is common, but once you’ve fulfilled it, what will happen? You’d spoke about that to Leorio several times. All that was left in the chain hero’s heart was hatred.

“(Y/N).” Kurapika said, now dressed in the hero clothes brought in from earlier. Your eyebrows raised up. “I will help get Ground Zero’s quirk back. They will not get away with this.”

You made all heroes in the hospital room to swear that they wouldn’t speak on Bakugo’s missing quirk. Kurapika promised he would share the information but today wasn’t the day. When returning back to your agency, you lied to Midoriya and told him they all turned fine.

“I’m glad they are.” Midoriya let out a relieved sigh, leaning back in his office chair. “All I have to worry about is this paper work for Gon and Killua’s work studies.”

“I’ll take Kil as my work study student. You can take Gon.” You picked up the yellow file, making your way to your desk and sitting down. Midoriya wrote on the paper, checking out if the typed ink was all correct. Killua’s ID picture stared back at you. There was a nagging feeling like when you waited to hear the condition of the others.

‘What were the true intentions of the Troupe? Bakugo must have been an extra. A ‘Well since I’m here might as well’ kind of thing. I doubt he is their real target. And if he was, they should know they’re going to get into a mess. A mess means more heroes involved,’ You bit your thumb nail, checking to see if Killua’s birthday was right. ‘Involvement means no more hiding. Basically, they didn’t mean to. Bakugo must have attacked Chrollo and the leader had no other choice and fought back. And that must be where the gigantification came in.’ Your fingers snapped, making Midoriya’s head twitch in your direction.

“You okay over there?” The freckles on his cheeks rose with his smile.

“Oh! Thinking!” You tapped the pen against your temple, ‘With the mistake, they’re bound to expect an attack. They know this, right?’

❝When a vicious gang called the Phantom Troupe takes away the quirk of Katsuki Bakugo, Ground Zero, heroes around do their best to protect him and ones in training. They call you in and give you four different options that give you four different outcomes.❞

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[jenovahh]

The Honey Pot - Ch. 23 - Broken Promises

“Oh? A change of heart?” As expected, the Galvus patriarch looks equal amounts pleased and surprised, and of course, arrogant. “Though I knew you would eventually wisen up and come to me, I had expected you would take a bit more whittling down.”

Shrugging, you keep your voice as neutral as possible. “As the election draws near, I realized that I have an opportunity that is not presented to many. Do not be mistaken, you have yet to win me over,” you pause, crossing your arms across your chest, “in fact, you must win me over. I want to follow you on your campaign trail. I want to see if you are truly as great as you claim to be.”

It was risky, tackling his pride head on like that, but it was the only thing you could think of. If the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, Varis would happily rise to the challenge. However, unlike his son, there was nothing Varis believed in more than his own hype.

You stand there, pinned beneath his stare, the warm glow of his office darkening his eyes to a genuine gold. Seconds tick by as he studies you, and part of you is sure he is thinking about your decision from every possible angle. You’re unsure whether to bait him, to mock him for hesitating and not giving an answer immediately, but that would make you seem not only desperate, but suspicious. You opt to stare right back, arching a singular brow confidently.

He chuckles then, clapping his hands together as he stands from his seat. “You drive a hard bargain, Honey.” He purrs, crossing his arms behind him, circling the desk to walk toward you. He towers over you just like his son, sighing deeply as she shakes his head. “I show you my facility, my wealth, my intelligence...and still it is not enough.” He is not stopping, you realize, beginning to back away to keep distance between the two of you. He pursues.

Your back hits a wall, grunting as you nearly knock something over but with swift reflexes, he slams his palm on the stand you nearly tipped over, righting the opulent vase back to a standing position. He does not retract his arm however, instead shifting it to brace against the wall, leaning slowly into your space.

“This was not permission for you to get near me.” You snap, pushing him away from you. Even for the few weeks you had guarded him he had never gotten so close, your heart pounding in your chest.

Varis can hear how your heart drums, but misinterprets it completely. Giving you a sleazy grin, he maintains his distance for now. “Very well, Honey. I will allow you to be my bodyguard. I suppose one could understand your line of thinking. What better way to prove one’s abilities than to become the greatest leader the world has ever known?” Retreating to his desk, he leans against the front, brushing a few stray hairs from his face. “Due to your recent experience guarding me, slipping back into my routine will be easy, and Livia will once again return to Zenos.”

Gritting your teeth, you turn away from him heading to the door. "I'll be here first thing in the morning."

"Excellent. I look forward to it."

Wrenching the door open, you step out into the hall ready to scream. It wasn't fair to have this responsibility thrust upon you, to bear the burden of doing the right thing. It would be so much easier to just duck your head and follow orders. To stay by Zenos' side and follow your relationship wherever it took you.

But you couldn't go on knowing Varis could very well come into power. There was no telling what someone as awful as he could do being a world leader. As long as Varis did not deviate his schedule much, you would have plenty of spare time to yourself to retire to your room and compile your proof in secret. You would pay closer attention this time, writing down names, organizations, locations. You would put a stop to him.

You would make sure Estinien’s death was not in vain, that Cid could finally be free of his guilt.

That the truth of Minfilia was brought to light.

Your only hope was that everything worked out in the end. This was a huge risk you were taking, with no sign of a clear outcome.

When morning came, and it was time to rise, you dressed and ate breakfast, dread already pooling in your belly, but kept your head held high. As much as you wanted to stay in bed, you had to get up. This had to be done...for everyone.

“Good morning, Honey.”

Varis meets you by the grand staircase as usual, suit pressed and hair braided neatly, sitting atop his shoulder. “The campaign trail has yet to start in full, but there is much to be done before then. We will still be going to the office today to sort other matters--”

“What is he talking about?”

Flinching, you turn to find Zenos standing at the top of the staircase, eyes guarded. Guilt shoots through you; how could you have forgotten to warn him?

“Oh? Did she not tell you?” You wince as Varis throws an arm around your shoulder, pulling you snugly against him. “Honey has decided to finally join me as my bodyguard.”

What you would give to never see the betrayal in Zenos’ eyes ever again.

“Zenos,” You begin, but he’s already storming off. “Zenos!”

You try to run after him, but Varis holds you back. “Let me go!”

“We have to get to the office.” His voice is suddenly cold, eyes glinting with restrained anger.

Glancing back up the stairs where Zenos had gone, you bite down hard on your lip, turning away as much as it hurt. Someday, you would make it alright, or at the very least, sit down with him this time and maybe try and explain. You had to do this. He just didn’t understand that right now.

“All right. Let’s go.”

Satisfied, Varis doesn’t release you as he guides you out of the door, and down his path of no return.

The first few weeks start off gaining Varis’ trust.

Despite your prior time stuck with him, it is almost like starting anew. Whenever there is something he doesn’t want you to see, he makes you wait outside the door to his office, usually calling Rhitahtyn to have someone in the room with him. It’s fine for the most part, as you can’t stand to be near him more than you have to, playing games on your phone or checking the news.

For when you do get to stick around, organizers of all kinds flit through his office, showing campaign commercials, flyers, internet ads. Alerting him to check his emails to approve of drafted speeches, to sign off on money to buy material, vendors coming to try and sell their product and what they could bring to the table for his bid for Prime Minister of Hingashi. What surprises you most is how well Varis handles it all, not looking overwhelmed for one second, balancing several plates with calculated ease. Were he not a monster, it would actually be admirable.

But Varis is a vain monster, something you learn quickly. It is a delicate balance of learning how to stroke his ego, but not in a way that makes it seem like you’re trying too hard. The best way you’ve found is to compliment him in a way that makes it seem as if he has taken you by surprise, gaining your favor in small chunks rather than big, flashy shows of his wealth. Something he was not used to, given that many women had probably fallen at his feet the first time they had stepped in one of his many luxury cars.

It works, slowly but surely. Like a trained puppy, he begins to live for those small bits of praise, seeking your approval and somehow, beginning to value your opinion. Just barely past a month does he begin bringing you along to his outings, where you get to see how he really looks out in the field.

“We have a temple to visit today.”

It’s still unbearably cold, snow blanketing Kugane in a sea of beautiful white, never failing to have you marvel at its beauty. Remembering you had been spoken to, you clear your throat. “I was not aware you were religious.”

He scoffs, as if genuinely offended. “Only you savages believe in such myths.”

Rolling your eyes, you continue to watch the city grow a little smaller on the horizon, having come out to one of Kugane’s more historical temples. Despite the cold, you can see several monks outside training, cleaning, or praying, looking like the picture of absolute serenity. As the car pulls around on the loose gravel, you spot who must be the head of the temple, dressed just like the rest with no visible indicator of his station aside from the staff that he carries. He looks fairly young as well, considering you see several monks around that could easily be his senior.

Pulling to a stop, you hop out the car, Varis following soon after. The chilly breeze bites at your skin, making you tug your peacoat a little closer against you. The monks descend the stairs, coming to a stop just as you meet them at the bottom.

"Good day, Sir Varis. The kami welcome you to our temple." The leader bows, prompting you to do so in return. Varis does as well, shocking you, thinking he would be too high and mighty to have good manners.

"We graciously accept your warm welcome, Widargelt.” Varis extends his hand in an offer to shake it and the monk accepts, giving him a welcoming smile.

“I will admit, I had not expected you to come out here personally. I thought you would be too occupied with other matters to visit us directly.” Widargelt continues, giving you a single glance before refocusing upon Varis.

“It is nothing to make time for what could be my future constituents.” Varis smiles, the expression so genuine it startles you. You didn’t think he could smile so warmly, and it looks strangely good on his harsh features. “Especially given that I had heard that your temple grounds had been threatened to be torn down and paved over for land development.”

At this, Widarglet immediately looks heartbroken, turning back to the aged temple. “It is so, Sir Varis. I am not as old as the elders living here on the temple grounds, but still I feel a deep bond with this land. It is sacred, preserved by generations of monks with teachings that feel as old as time itself. That a few wealthy businessmen want to tear it down just to build monuments to their greed tears at my soul.”

Varis flashes Widargelt a sympathetic look, nearing the bulky man, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. “I would hear your plight, Widargelt. Please, if it isn’t too much to ask, I would like to walk around your temple as you tell me of your troubles.”

As the two men begin to saunter off, you follow a safe distance behind, unsure what to think of Varis’s change in behavior. It shouldn’t surprise you, after all, Zenos was able to become the perfect celebrity as soon as he stepped in front of a camera. Watching Varis however, leaves you confused as if you had somehow misread him like you had done his son. Was it possible he really was trying to be a decent leader?

Keeping an eye on their conversation, Widargelt bemoans how businessmen for years had offered him land and money, bidding higher and higher for him to give up the temple. While old, it was not officially protected by the government due to old arguments and forgotten clauses from a time long past. Thus, had Widargelt and the monks before him fought to keep the temple with nothing but pure will.

The businessmen had had enough though, going to the government and making a case that would allow them to use eminent domain to get what they want. It was dirty and underhanded, and Widargelt felt at a loss, for he knew if their temple fell, what few others remained would have the same fate befall them. Varis listened intently the entire time, nodding and offering his own legal advice, proving that his boasts about his education did ring true. With legal knowledge on his side, he would not merely be a businessman trying to play politics, but also have a legal background to work with.

“So will you be able to help us, Sir Varis?” Widargelt pleads, coming to a stop, overlooking the gardens at the back of the temple. It truly is a serene picture, with monks tending to the many bonsai trees and lush waterfalls, training by the naturally bubbling streams.

“To the best of my ability, should I get elected Widargelt.” Varis smiles, patting Widargelt on the shoulder once more.

“Of course, Sir Varis. I will let the other monks know what we spoke of today, to help inform their decision in the upcoming election. I’m sure other temples will listen to my words, and thank you for your help in preserving not just our culture, but our history.” Widargelt bows deeply, rising back up with a smile.

“Of course. I will make sure to let the proper staff on my team know of your plight, so that even when I do become occupied with other matters, one of them may always serve to remind me to give you the attention you deserve.” Varis grins, extending his hand to shake. Widargelt accepts eagerly, looking genuinely thankful and on the verge of happy tears. “We must take our leave for now, my friend. I hope that we may speak again soon under less dire circumstances.”

“Certainly, Sir Varis. I cannot be thankful enough.” Releasing one another’s hands, Varis begins to make his way down the steps to leave. Giving one last nod at the monk you follow him, still unsure about all that you had seen. From the looks of it Varis had seemed as if he would actually make a decent leader. He may crave power, but perhaps he also had issues with how his home had run things, and wanted to prove he could do it better. You still could not forgive his crimes, but had you misjudged him all along?

“Where to next?” you ask, reaching to open the door to the car, allowing him to slip inside. Following after him, you close the door, allowing the driver to start the car and pull away from the temple.

“To a homeless shelter.” Varis states simply, too occupied with dialing something on his phone. As he brings it to his ear, you pretend to be more interested in looking out the window, watching the clouds drift by.

“Gaius? Yes it went well.” Varis laughs, relaxing into his seat as you head back toward the city. “Yes, all the things we had heard about the land development were true.” He is silent for a moment before continuing to speak. “How much were they offering?”

Your brow furrows at that, keeping your face angled toward the window just in case you couldn’t control your expressions. What was he going on about?

“28 million gil you say? That is not an impressive offer, to say the least.” Varis mumbles, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “The land is too picturesque for such a measly offer. I am willing to continue negotiations concerning offers for it, but only if they are willing to make a better deal.”

Is he really--

Taking a deep breath, you reign in your temper, staring hotly out at the barren landscape as you pass by. This wasn’t the worst thing he had done, and honestly, it should’ve been expected given that he was trying to be a politician. Representatives making promises they could not keep was nothing new, and for Varis to be the same as the rest of them is pretty in character. Keeping the details of the temple fresh in your mind, you remain quiet the entire way to the shelter which lies back within city limits.

Coming to a stop, you put on your best mask of boredom and let Varis step out from the car once more. As he steps out, you are approached by a small group of people, and as much as you hate it, immediately move to push the strangers off as they approach.

“Do not worry, Honey, they are supposed to be here.” Varis calls to you, the picture of calm as the group shuffles past you. Taking a closer look two of them are holding professional grade cameras, while another seems to hold a duffel bag full of supplies. “I’m glad that you made it on time. I trust you all have been informed as to what image I would like to present?”

“Of course, sir. All of our pictures will be ready for review at your earliest convenience. “

“Good. You’ve already been given clearance for photography, so head inside. I will enter shortly.” Varis orders and the three nod, trekking inside the building as if he had lit a fire under their ass. Just as they leave, a small auri woman appears, a small tote in hand. “Ah good, I was worried you had forgotten.”

“Never, my lord.” The much smaller woman chirps, coming to a stop before him. “If you would bend a little my lord, so that I may touch up your face before you go inside. The camera should catch your good side.” She grins, and Varis does as she asks, bending just enough for her to pull out a powder puff and begin touching up his face, giving him a slightly softer look. “Wonderful. I’ve lightened how sharp your angles are, which should give you a slightly more amiable appearance, my lord.”

“A job well done, as always. I appreciate your work.” He smiles, grinning wider as the woman seems to swoon slightly. “I must make my appearance now, so I will be seeing you another time.” Waving goodbye, he heads inside with you not far behind.

Stepping inside, it looks nicer than you would have thought, the architecture incredibly updated and the interior remarkably clean. What shelters you remember visiting in your youth were often dilapidated and barely held together, making you wonder by what means this one was in such good shape. Varis seems strangely at ease for being surrounded by the lowest societal rung, greeting the homeless as he passes by them in the halls and shaking their hands. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the photographers from earlier snapping pictures, the shutters so quiet that no one Varis preoccupies himself with notices their picture being taken.

Just like the temple, Varis is the picture of philanthropy, breaking bread with the homeless, listening to their troubles, offering a shoulder to cry on for people who have fallen on hard times. Promises of building more shelters, raising the employment rate, abolishing anti-homeless architecture. You can see hope begin to light within the eyes of the people, even the employees, captivated by the sheer charisma Varis emanates.

Just before you depart, Varis shows off a large check, both in size and the amount being donated.

The shelter is overjoyed, happy tears being shed as a promise of fresh beds being donated access to more food for the kitchens is promised. Varis continues on with his promises of more supplies all the way out the door, leaving a group of thankful people in his wake. Following him out to the car, you hop in after him, silently watching. As you ride back home, your curiosity gets the better of you, turning in your seat to face the pompous CEO.

“That shelter looked a lot nicer than others I’ve seen.” You start nonchalantly, as if to just make small talk. “Most of them usually look run down and on the verge of collapse. Have you been donating to that place for awhile?”

Clicking his tongue, he throws you a sly grin. “I suppose you could say that.” As you arch your brow in confusion, he continues, “It is a nice shelter because it is mine. I had it built about a year or so ago, but funneled the money to a representative to have it under his name. This allows me to make charitable donations without my money being handed out to the poor.”

Your jaw drops, but once again he misinterprets your disgust for awe. “It is quite ingenious, isn’t it?”

Scoffing, you turn away from him again, not believing what you’re hearing. “Wow.” You whisper, unable to fathom how someone could be this fucking vile. “It is...something. Most people would not think to do that sort of thing.”

“Of course not. Most people are not me.” Varis preens, seeming to be satisfied with gaining your favor. Remaining quiet all the way home, you remember to keep the entire day fresh in your mind, making a bee line for your room and locking the door tight. Pulling up the false bottom from your drawer, you begin to scribble in your notepad about all that transpired, wanting to make sure Varis zos Galvus paid for every single one of his crimes.

Somehow the election seems closer than it seems further away, despite being several months down the line. You had to get more evidence before that time, but given that it took over a month to get you to this point, you couldn’t afford to waste anymore time. You had to do something to get Varis to begin trusting you, something that would lower his guard and give up more information. How you would get the information out to the authorities would be hard, given that Varis still kept you on a tight leash, but not so tight that you probably couldn’t sneak off to a new station on an off day.

Stress begins to eat away at you, affecting you mentally just as much as it is physically. You train in the evening since you can no longer train with Zenos, learning your lesson to not lose your edge in any way possible. Without Zenos being your boss Lyngsath no longer prepares your nutritious meals, and you give the chef an embarrassed smile as you request for him to keep the menu you had grown to love. Varis’ offerings of saltier and fattier foods had begun to make you sick, disrupting your focus.

Your routine had suffered, no longer having to wake up in the morning to train and start the day with Zenos. Some nights you would suffer from insomnia, pouring over your notes and what Varis’ end goal could possibly be, being too tired to even do things such as take your daily vitamins or birth control. Not that the birth control mattered. Not like you were getting any, and your sexual frustration had started to take its toll as well.

What did you give someone who had it all? As Varis was more than happy to let you know, there was nothing material in the world he could not obtain. Women threw themselves at him. He had cars, money, property.

But he didn’t have you.

“Var--” you begin, clearing your throat as he turns to you with an annoyed look. “Lord Varis.”

Immediately, his expression lightens.

You stand in his office at the high rise, his own room nearly three times as large as Zenos’, and that was saying something. Just like his son, he left you to your own devices, content to do his work quietly at his desk. “Now that I’ve followed you for so long, I’ve realized that you do have the makings of a...fierce politician.”

He seems to glow at your compliment, somehow sitting a little straighter. “Is that so?”

Swallowing, you make your way toward his desk, not breaking your stare off for a second. “Indeed. I’ve found myself watching, wondering what you could possibly be running for. You make plenty of promises for the common man, but you also look out for the upper rung as well.” You pause, running your fingers along the back of a couch. “What could a man who already has so much, possibly want? What would becoming prime minister of Kugane do for you? Your name is already known. You are already on the verge of a technological breakthrough with your research in aether. And yet, somehow I cannot pinpoint your goal.” Tilting your head cutely, you give him a clueless look. “What could it possibly be?”

Varis studies you for a moment, eyes roving up and down your body, desire evident in his gaze. However, he still seems to mull whatever he has to say in his mind. As you near the desk, you sway your hips, watching as his skepticism is overcome with lust. “I suppose my plans would elude you, wouldn’t they?”

The last thing your bodyguard uniform is is sexy, being a simple pantsuit and all. It doesn’t seem to matter to Varis at least, who is looking like he is willing to climb over his desk to get to you. Deciding to save him the trouble just in case he does, you sit yourself upon it, maintaining an aloofness that you hope is attractive. “It’s up to you whether I remain in the dark, Lord Varis.”

Rubbing his chin, he sweeps his eyes over you once more, lingering at the curve of your rear upon his desk. “Very well. I will let you in on my innermost workings, Honey. You do belong to me from now on, after all.” Leaning back in his chair, he steeples his fingers in his lap, smirking slightly. “You were on the right track, looking at what I could possibly be using aether for.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small cube, tossing it in front of him.

A hologram of his factories shines before you, eyes hurting a bit as they adjust to the sudden brightness. “As you know, aether is the very air, water, land. It is renewable, and therefore endless. How does this differ from already existing renewable energy?” The image changes before you, shifting to show several scientific diagrams. “The specifics would be lost on you, but in short, it is the same logic that you gain more nutrients from a raw carrot than one you have cooked. By harnessing aether itself, we are tapping directly into the source, the nutrients so to speak.”

“And you are using this to revolutionize renewable energy?” You ask, sounding as hopeful as possible, knowing he was about to say something absolutely deplorable.

“For the masses, yes. This will revolutionize and rethink how we use energy. We might even be rid of ceruleum entirely.” Grinning, he waggles a finger. “But that is thinking on too small a scale.” The image shifts once again, showing different bits of weaponry, from tanks to jet fighters to guns. “Aether as a source of energy will mean that industrial output will be produced at rates unheard of, once thought impossible. Already, my teams are working on improving upon pre-existing military technology…” He chuckles to himself for a moment, “...To sell the highest bidder of course.”

You can barely hide your fear, hoping he does not sense it as you stare in horror at the images displayed before you. “And...how does this fit into your plans for Kugane as its leader?”

“Ah yes...with my technology, Kugane will be begging to keep me as their leader. The city has suffered under shifting leadership. Garlemald in its glory was a nation to be feared and respected. We brought civilization to savage societies the world over, only possible through the power of the iron fist of the emperor.” You jolt as he smashes the cube, disrupting the image instantly, sending the lights scattering. “A seat that should’ve been mine. A seat that I intend to hold permanently.”

Turning away, you know you can’t control how you look right now.

He was mad.

Reaching up to clutch your heart, it's racing inside your chest, pounding from the terror you feel just being in the same room as this monster.

“It is why I require all staff to address me as Lord Varis.” You hear him hum behind you, hitting a button on his phone that will summon a janitor to clean up his mess. “They should get used to calling me such when I do ascend to my seat of power. One, that I hope you will be there to see, Honey.”

Swallowing, you clutch your chest a little tighter, forcing your best smile on your face. Turning to him, you grin with clenched teeth. “Of course, Lord Varis.”

“The very fabric of the star is beginning to fray. We must do something--”

Is this...a dream?

“The sacrifice of our people is too high a cost! Why save the star if they are not there to see it?”

The sky is burning, shades of reds and oranges glowing overhead. The air smells of ash and fire, and strangely of some sort of meat…

It is to your horror you realize it is the smell of burning flesh.

“It is not permanent! We can bring back those who were sacrificed! By His will!”

Skyscrapers reach high in the sky, though you are not familiar with their style. Even as they begin to collapse and burn before your very eyes, they are still beautiful and...familiar.

“We could’ve avoided all of this in the first place if you had listened! I told you our power of creation had to come from somewhere! It is a finite resource and it is destroying the star!”

Your own voice…?

The world shakes beneath you, a horrid screech fills the air. Your eyes widen as a terrifying creature surfaces from behind the building before you, staring you down as throngs of people try to flee past you.

“I won’t stand for this!”

Your voice continues to echo in your head.

“There must be another way!”

Gasping, you jolt yourself awake, lungs stinging as you nearly hyperventilate, drawing in icy, cold air.

“Honey, please breathe.”

Gentle hands cup your face, soothing in how warm they are despite the bitter cold. As your eyes begin to focus you find yourself looking at swirling red ones, a mote of worry in them as their frostbitten hair blows in the wind.

Reaching up you grab tightly to his wrists, needing something to ground you in reality. The dream had felt so real, as if you had actually been there. The heat of the flames upon your skin, the piercing cry of the monster before you ringing in your ears, never had you had a nightmare so vivid and clear.

“Are you alright?”

Elidibus looks to be genuinely concerned, using his warm hands to heat up your icy ears. Turning slightly you realize you had dozed off at your favorite spot on the grounds, underneath a pagoda in a far corner of the gardens. On your days off it would be your place to go and center yourself, or simply enjoy the sun, but for now served as your place to think and plot with a little less worry of being watched. As far as you could tell, there were significantly less cameras out here, at least ones you could see. Snow blankets the landscape, nearly pristine and untouched if not for your few footprints left behind.

Eyes sliding back to Elidibus, you blink a few times, saying nothing as you gather your thoughts. “What are you doing out here?”

Releasing your face, you let go of his wrists as he stands to his full height once more. “I could ask the same of you.” He frowns, brows pinched together. His worry for you makes you feel a little guilty, forcing you to look away in shame.

“I was just...thinking.” You grumble, shoving your hands in your coat pocket. “I always come out here. Even now that the weather’s grown cold. It’s a good place to organize my thoughts.” Frowning yourself, you take note of his attire as he moves to sit beside you. “Aren’t you cold?”

Taking account of how he still stands in his perfectly white suit trimmed with gold, he gives himself a once over before shrugging. “Immortality leaves you immune to many things.”

Tilting your head, you give him a small smile. “Feeling comfortable, are we?”

“You’ve always been quick as a whip. In fact, I would say this is probably the most you I’ve seen in quite some time.” He beams, snowflakes landing in his near violet hair. “What has you stressed?”

Pursing your lips, you turn away from him, staring out into the falling snow. “I can’t tell you. As...familiar as you feel. You work too closely with Varis.”

Elidibus follows suit, staring out onto the landscape, the wind howling in your ears. “Is that so?”

Growling you give him a heavy shove, baring your teeth at him. “Of course it is! He’s a fucking monster! Even you have to see that, Elidibus!” You snap, unable to explain why you feel so strongly, so betrayed. “How could you possibly stand to work with him?!”

“For the same reason you are, I’m sure.” Elidibus responds without hesitation, red eyes seeing right through you. You gasp, shocked into silence knowing he’s already figured out your game despite you not breathing a word to him about it. “While I did expect you to take action, I did not expect you to do so by partnering yourself with Varis. As usual, you have always surprised me.” His expression softens slightly, finally looking back to you. “As usual, you are one to admire.”

While your heart floods with warmth at his words, you remain focused on what he had said. “Are you...also using Varis?” you ask quietly, eyes pleading for him to tell you, that for once he won’t be so cryptic.

By the smile on his face, you know he’s going to deny your wish before he even opens his mouth. “In a way yes. As I had said, we are not so different, Honey. Varis is merely means to an end.” His expression darkens slightly, turning back toward the mansion sitting upon the hill. “Though, my reasons are hardly so noble.”

By the tone of his voice, you don’t know what he means, and honestly, don’t want to find out. If anything, he’s made you aware that he knows of your plans, but will not interfere. In a way, maybe he’s on your side. “I see.”

Elidibus gives you a comforting pat on the hand before standing, looking every bit as ethereal and ancient as you know him to be. “Though I must keep my interference to a minimum, that does not mean I do not worry about you, now that I have found you.” Peering at you from over his shoulder, he fixes you with a sly look. “That said, I think you should try repairing your relationship with the young master.”

Embarrassment washes through you immediately, somehow feeling like a parent being chastised by their child. “He doesn’t want to speak to me. He doesn’t want me.”

“Anything worth having must be worked for.” He responds, turning to lay a gentle hand upon your shoulder. “Varis has poisoned anything he has touched, including his own son. If anyone can get through to him, it is you.” Giving you a knowing smile, he squeezes you gently. “After all, even your reasons are not entirely noble are they? Even you are a little selfish.”

You want to save him.

Nodding, you take a deep breath, standing to your feet. “You’re right. Thank you, Elidibus.”

Before releasing you, he gives you one last comforting squeeze. “You will find the right path. You always have. That has not changed about you.” Turning once more, he begins to make his way through the snow, his white suit blending in until it seems like he vanishes into the scenery, like he was never there at all.

Sighing, you decide to take him up on his advice, staving off the nausea you can feel as your nerves begin to eat at you with every step you take back toward the mansion. You had no idea if Zenos was even here, and if he was, where he would be. Maybe you could catch up to him another time.

Just as the thought passes through your mind, you trip on a root hidden beneath the snow, falling face first into the frozen fluff. Sitting up as you spit dead grass and frigid water out your mouth, you grumble at the universe, knowing a sign when you saw it. Picking yourself up, you hurry into the mansion, running to change and get out of your clothes now that they have been bogged down by snow. You would make a point to talk to him today, but you needed time to even think about what you would say. A good workout was sure to get the blood pumping and thoughts flowing.

Changed into a pair of biker shorts and a simple tank top over your sports bra, you head to the personal gym, breathing a sigh of relief as you realize it’s blessedly empty. You were nowhere near ready to confront him quite yet, and could use a few more precious hours of solitude to work yourself up to the idea.

You begin by slipping into your yoga stretches, the motions fluid and practiced after Zenos had all but beat them into you with weeks of repetition. In moments you find your center, entering a zen state, body shifting into each position without thinking. Eyes closed, the white noise of the room begins to fade away as your thoughts turn inward, looking deep within yourself. You finish just under ten minutes, taking a moment to decide what to do next, gazing at one of the far walls. Perhaps running through katas with a sword? It had been a minute since you had the chance to practice your weapon skills.

Heading over to the wall, you run your fingers across the intricate scabbards, admiring the craftsmanship beneath your fingertips. You and Zenos had never practiced with real swords of course, making you wonder if these specifically were for show in the room. He seemed fond of collecting them, keeping several of them in rotation whenever you went to visit other gangs.

Just as you begin to admire another, you hear the door open, thinking it to perhaps be a maid coming to clean. Once your eyes land on a mop of blonde hair however, you find yourself desperately wishing it was.You forget to breathe as you make contact with blue eyes, finding they do not look upon you with the same affection they once had.

“What are you doing here?” Zenos seethes, glaring at you with enough malice to make the room feel like it's as frigid as it is outside. He begins to stalk toward you slowly, eyes never leaving you, slinking with all the grace of a predator creeping in for the kill.

You keep even steps with him, forcing the two of you to circle each other, hands gently raised in a show of peace. “I didn’t know you were coming. I had been doing some training, I thought you were out,” you quickly explain, voice trembling, “a-and I’d like to talk.”

“There’s nothing you could say that would be worth hearing.” He growls, trying to close the circle tighter, the hairs on the back of your neck raising as if you are standing face to face with a storm before it grows into a tornado, threatening to destroy all in its path.

“I...Zenos, please, just let me explain,” You beg, throat straining in your effort to not cry, finding nothing of the man you once knew in those eyes. He looks as if he hates your very guts, and truthfully, with how long you had been from his side without saying anything, with how you promised to stay by him--

He just might.

“What is there to explain? Want to tell me how I’m not good enough for you? I hope my father’s dick is worth it.” He spits, growing angrier with each word, the air charged with tension.

Setting your jaw, you try to stand your ground. “I’m not doing any such thing with your father! I only want you--” you scream as he suddenly rushes you, bending backwards at the knee to barely dodge his right hook. Keeping with your momentum you back flip away from his leg sweep, nearly stumbling in your effort to dodge another fist. “Zenos!”

Through talking, Zenos pursues you like a man possessed, murder in his eyes as he gives you no quarter. Gritting your teeth you go on the defensive, blocking his shots, being forcibly reminded just how hard he can hit. It wasn’t to say he totally held back, but the two of you had agreed to never use your full power on one another so you wouldn’t wake up aching and sore each morning. You hadn’t felt this strength since he had first recruited you, your heart pounding furiously as he shows you just why he was feared by all.

His strikes are precise, calculated, leaving minimal openings for you to exploit. Due to the two of you sparring with each other so often, you know all of his favorite moves and what he’s willing to try, but so does he where you are concerned. Any surprise attack you want to try is immediately rebuffed, but you can see his mounting frustration as you give no opening for him to exploit. “Zenos, stop it!”

“I’ll stop after I’ve killed you.” He murmurs, though you can hear the rage in those words no matter how softly he speaks. “I’ve tired of my father taking what does not belong to him.”

Your heart lurches at that, wishing you could just tell him everything. There were too many risks, too many unknown factors at stake. What if he considered you being a cop an even bigger betrayal? What if he--

You’re given no time to think on the possibilities as Zenos comes at you harder, his strikes vicious and fierce, doing everything in his power to break your guard. You up your defense, feeling a buzz in the back of your head that you knew had always been there when you fought, but paid little attention to. The harder he came, the slower his attacks seemed, beginning to move in slow motion before your very eyes.

Yelling with each strike now, he let his frustration show, doing his best to make you falter. “Why are you so strong?” He roars, and somehow his intent to kill is less frightening than watching him lose his cool. You had never seen him this emotional, this vulnerable, this crazed. “Why can I never beat you?!”

“I don’t even want to fight!” You snap, finally finding the opening you need as his guard breaks with his emotional outburst. Grasping him by his wrist as he strikes out, you strike him hard in the sternum with your palm, surprising yourself with your strength as he slides back along the floor, looking shocked himself.

You both stand there in silence, you, looking at your hand, unsure where that sudden burst of strength had come from. Turning to Zenos, he hangs his head, his curtain of hair blocking his face from view. Still keeping your guard up, you think about approaching him until a maniacal laugh bubbles first, building into a crazed crescendo. Drawing himself up, you gasp as his eyes glow a fierce red.

His sclera has gone black, and you faintly notice his tattoo faintly glowing from beneath his shirt, the air feeling charged with a strange energy. True fear fills you now, not at whatever power he is harnessing, but the fact he had hidden it from you all this time. Licking his lips, he stares you down, his frenzied eyes mixed with violence and admiration both. “Oh the things you do to me…” he chuckles, stalking toward you once more.

The buzz in the back of your head turns into an insistent hum now, the back of your neck tingling as if in response to his power. Once again you keep your distance, not allowing him to get any closer to you, hands still upraised, ready to block. “Z-Zenos,”

“As much as I hate you right now, I cannot deny that I am overjoyed.” He snickers, cracking his knuckles before doing the same to his neck. “I haven’t used the Resonant in a long time.”

Your brows pinch together in visible confusion, too many questions wanting to burst forth. At the top of the list being are you okay?

“I’ve dreamed about this. Practically stroked myself raw of what it would be like to truly unleash my full potential in combat.” He grins, his lips pulling in a disconcerting way. “As aggravating it had been being unable to beat you, not knowing the source of your strength, you, a mere mortal…”

Your heart stops as he’s suddenly before you, your eyes too fast to even catch it.

The way he moved--

It wasn’t possible--

“W-What,” you tremble, backing away from him, eyes wide as saucers. “What’s going on?”

Howling with laughter again, Zenos bows, arms outstretched. “Why do you look so afraid? Unable to come to terms with the fact you’ve been fucking a literal monster?”

Despite your fear, you won’t stand for those words. “You’re not a monster!” you cry, more scared than you’d like to admit.

“Oh? You were so convinced before.” He grins, using the same inhumane speed he had before to sock you in the gut, stars dotting your vision as you swear you feel the literal wind knocked from you. Stumbling back you fight to catch your breath, unsure what to do. Nothing could have prepared you for this.

“Zenos,” you wheeze, the humming turning into a full on roar, the burning sensation on the back of your neck increasing, eyes unfocused as you try to regain your bearings. “Zenos, please,”

“Please what?” He taunts, bouncing from one foot to the other. “Please stop? Why should I when I finally have the battle I’ve craved for so long?” He hisses, red eyes narrowing upon your beaten form. “I had refrained from using this power because I wanted to beat you with my own might. I wanted to surpass you with my own strength. I knew that with this power, I could hur--” he pauses, frowning slightly. “Because I knew I could break every bone in your body.”

“We don’t have to fight,” you beg, voice small and afraid, knowing you are pleading in vain, but trying anyway. You can see the pain in his eyes, can see that he is lashing out and communicating the only way he knows how. His blows show his anger, his pain, his fear. Guilt slows your movements, bringing your fists up, eyes sliding closed for just a moment.

Hear…

No.

You refuse to use this borrowed power on him. You refuse to not show him the same grace he had been showing you all this time, while you had used your blessing to stay one step ahead of him.

Feel…

No, no, no!

Even as he nears you, even as he rushes you down, you fight against the burning sensation on your neck urging you to call forth on that ancient power. Even as your bones feel as if they will break, as if you’re losing feeling in your limbs, you refuse to do this--

Not when you hurt him.

“I’m not going to fight you!” You yell, blocking one of his attacks, growing weaker and weaker by the second.

Frowning, his fists clench tighter. “Then you will die.”

Relentless, he pursues you breaking your form until he knocks you into the ground, pouncing on top of you like a couerl. His hands lock around your throat immediately, your own weakly grasping at his as he begins to tighten his hold on your neck. “You promised.” He whispers, growling low. “You promised.”

Tears begin to leak at your eyes, thinking that maybe, you did deserve this. You did break your promise to him. He had confided so much in you, had cherished you in a way no one else could. That for even all his faults, you had dared to imagine a future with him. A future where he didn’t do his father’s bidding, a future where the two of you could be happy.

You had let all the trust you had worked so hard to build between the two of you go to waste.

Going limp beneath him, you accept your fate. If anything, at least you had died by his hand. In your heart, you had found out the truth, even if you could not make Varis pay for it. Cid would be heartbroken to hear about this, but maybe he would understand.

“Z-Zenos,” you rasp, vision darkening around the edges as you gaze up into his pained red eyes. “I-I’m s-sorry.” you whisper, feeling his grip on you get tighter. Your vision gets darker, it gets harder to breathe. Your breath comes in small gulps, no longer able to even try your futile attempts to pull his hands from your throat.

As you lose consciousness, the burning on your neck ceases, Zenos’ eyes going wide in shock. You believe you see the beginning of tears in his eyes, but your world goes dark before you can find out.

Your world is black, no matter where you turn. There is no end, and you wonder if this is what death is truly like.

Cold, empty, alone.

Exhausted.

At least now, you can rest. Though how disappointing is it that you don’t even get the glory of seeing what comes after death? Unless, this is it of course. You had killed men after all. And even the ones you didn’t kill, you had maimed so far beyond repair that surely you had racked up enough bad karma in just over a year than anyone had in their lifetime.

You don’t get to see Minfilia. Tell her you had found out what happened to her in the end. That you were ready to avenge her, but your own heart was too weak.

Do you truly think you have no strength?

Of course you don’t. You spent your whole life fighting to learn the truth and had died because of it, accomplishing nothing.

You are stronger than this. More than this.

Ha. If you were, you wouldn’t be dead.

So many people need you. Are you truly going to give up?

Why wouldn’t you? All you had brought was suffering. To Minfilia, to Ardbert, to Cid, to...to…

They would be sadder without you. They would be miserable without you.

He would be sadder without you. He would be miserable without you.

You need to wake up.

My Warrior of Light, you need to wake up.

Gasping as you regain consciousness for the second time that day, you shoot upright, finding it is still dark. You feel like you’re still in that dark place, except you feel something soft beneath you...a bed?

Reaching behind you, your hands come into contact with the lamp on your nightstand, flipping the switch to let light into the room. The alarm on the bedside table reads that it is nearly 3AM, but the clouds block the moon from the sky.

You’re alive.

Checking yourself over, you find that you feel no aches, no pains, as if you hadn’t battled to the death with Zenos hours ago. But has it been hours? How long has it been?

A little more awake now, you notice the humming again, the burning sensation from earlier now tingling on the back of your neck. Jumping out of bed you dash into the bathroom, grabbing a hand mirror from the vanity. Angling it to where you see your reflection in both mirrors, you see the edge of a tattoo peeking from the back of your shirt, the markings intricate and unnatural. A distant memory tries to surface, but your head hurts trying to bring it forth, and so you let it be.

Just as you let the memory slip through your fingers does the tattoo cease glowing its angry red, fading back into your skin as if it were never there at all. No matter how you run your fingers over your skin it does not appear, and for a moment you wonder if you were hallucinating. Something deep within tells you otherwise, that it is there, just like your powers, waiting for you.

Feeling as mentally exhausted as you are physically, you splash some water on your face, your mind an empty space as you drift back toward your bed. Stepping back into your room, you raise a single eyebrow as you notice a folded note upon your desk that you know had definitely not been there this morning.

Crossing your room to reach it, you pick it up, twirling it in your fingers as if you would find some strange magic on it. Given how the day went, you wouldn’t be surprised, but it is fortunately just a plain piece of paper. Opening it up, you immediately recognize the handwriting folded within.

The next time I see you, I will make sure to kill you for good.

To anyone else, it would be a serious threat, but all you can feel is hope.

Because somewhere inside, Zenos had it bad for you just as much as you did for him, and couldn’t bring himself to kill you.

You would find a way to get you both out of this mess.

That was a promise you were determined to keep.

[mistahstroke]

❝ D E AT H S T R O K E  ❞  … LOADING FILE …

x

S L A D E  J O S E P H  W I L S O N ;

Full Name: Slade Joseph Wilson

Alias: Deathstroke

Age: 54

Gender: Male

Birth date: ████████

Birth Place: ████████ ████████

Current Residence: Manhattan, New York City

S L A D E  J O S E P H  W I L S O N ;

Hair: White

Eyes: Dark Brown

Disabilities: Blindness in one eye, Right

Build: Muscular, Super Soldier Physique

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Nationality: American

Alignment: Neutral, actions can be conclusive to a Villain

Identity: Secret/Not Secret, depends on the individual

S L A D E  J O S E P H  W I L S O N ;

Education: ██ ████ ███████ ██████ ██ █████████

Family: ██████ ██████, mother, deceased Charles Wilson, father, deceased (Killed by Slade) Wade Defarge, half-brother, deceased Adeline Kane, ex-wife, deceased ███████ ██████, mother of rose, alive Grant Wilson, son, deceased Rose Wilson, daughter, alive Joseph Wilson, son, alive

Marital Status: Divorced

Employment (Former): ██████ ██ █████████, Mercenary,  Bounty Hunter, Gun for Hire, US Army

Employment (Current): Bounty Hunter, Mercenary for Hire

Affiliation(s): ██████ ██ █████████, US Army, ███████ █████

Preferred Weapons: Promethium Broad Sword, various guns, knives, and grenades

Equipment: Varies. Sometimes, the Ikon Suit which absorbs kinetic energy. Or Armored Suit with chain metal armor underneath, belts and straps packed with ammunition, knives, grenades, and various other weaponry. Broad sword made of promethium, attached to back. Helmet or mask hides half of his face, because of blindness in right eye. (Picture attached) and (Picture attached)

Abilities:  -Expert Combatant in various forms of combat (martial arts, unarmed combat, etc) -Master marksman in various firearms -Master in weaponry (particularly in swordsmanship and firearms) -Tactical Analysis -Acrobatics -Stealth

Powers: -Super Soldier Physiology (enhanced senses particularly of hearing and smell, enhanced agility, enhanced durability, enhanced reflexes, enhanced speed, enhanced stamina, enhanced strength) -Enhanced Intellect (subject uses 90% of his brain) -Accelerated healing

P A S T

Slade Wilson was born on ████████ in ████████ ████████ to Mr. and Mrs. Wilson. His mother was “weak”, he said, and his father abandoned him as a child. Charles Wilson, a former CIA agent, was believed to be on a mission when he’d gone missing, but no record of the mission was ever recorded, nor found. Charles was later found, defected to the ██████ ██ █████████. He had become something called Odysseus. Slade later found him and killed him. He still believes Charles left because he chose to, and Slade doesn’t seem to remember his half-brother.

Slade has shown in his intellect and personality, that he is an individual capable of survival. His father’s abandonment and unstable home may be why, but it’s not conclusive. Slade may have always been independent. However it may be, Slade Wilson was determined to enlist in the U.S. Army. Later, it was found Slade had lied about his age on his papers, and ran away from home. Instead of being discharged, he was told to stay. His talents and skills in guerrilla warfare were far superior than any other soldier they’d ever seen. He was tested over and over and promoted over and over by his superiors.

His ex-wife, Adeline Kane, was an Army Squadron Leader and instructor, who eventually trained Slade and took him under her wing. He impressed her, demonstrating his combat and skills, while high marks by Kane were left in this profile. In surveillance, you can see his fighting style sometimes resembles Kane’s style. What we did not anticipate was how dangerous their relationship would be. Slade would be promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, and sometime later Slade married Kane. They would divorce, we don’t know why.

His first son, Grant Wilson, would become the first recorded Ravager. We’re not sure what happened, other than Slade finished his contract, after Grant was killed. The death of his son clearly affected him, to the point that he won’t talk about it. His second son, Joseph Wilson, also appears to be a heavy subject, but he is be more willing to talk about Joseph. “Joey” he said, in a psychological evaluation. Joseph Wilson is mute. Maybe Slade had something to do with Joseph’s disability….we don’t know. But Slade has shown signs of guilt, for both his sons. Grant and Joseph Wilson are children from his first marriage to Adeline Kane.

His daughter, Rose Wilson, was born out of wedlock. Her mother, ███████ █████, Slade appeared to have relations with, while on assignment. He won’t say he abandoned Rose, most likely due to the comparison to his father. Because she was raised without her father, it may appear that way. Rose would go on to take up the mantle as Ravager. We don’t know how many there are. From surveillance, she is the one he communicates with, the most, of his family. They don’t always get along, or not at all, understandably. Slade appears to have a disconnect with his children. Just as he is disconnected with everyone else.

Slade was a good soldier. Excellent soldier. The perfect soldier. His superiors asked him to volunteer for a secret medical experiment that was said to be a defense against the enemy’s Truth Serum. He agreed. It was really our attempt to make metahuman super-soldiers. He was lied to - but he was the perfect candidate. Something else we hadn’t anticipated: a violent response to the serum. It broke his mind and body, then built him back up. Stronger than before. But that would happen later. The immediate results were Slade’s more aggressive, violent, and enraged behavior. This aggression would remain with him, long after the experiment ended. Slade would go on to continue this as Deathstroke…

We deemed the experiment a failure, and Slade was limited to a desk job. We continued to monitor him, but what was the point? We thought. Our experiment had failed, until it hadn’t. Enhanced, to a human’s peak, we did it. We did it. Accelerated healing healed what else was left, and our perfect soldier was made even better. Slade’s enhanced mind allowed him to use 90% of his brain, and has shown, together in combat and completing his “contracts”. We made a weapon…that even we couldn’t handle. His mind remained broken. Even though we made him smarter, stronger, his mental stability, emotions, crumbled. We wouldn’t call it crazy, we’d call it violent. All Slade has now is aggression, a violent streak, and blood lust. He still has some sort of sense of humor, but we would highly advise citizens to avoid all contact with this man. He is unstable. We’re not sure if humor or violence will unleash out of him, next.

We’re not sure what happened. We were told Slade was discharged, disobeying orders, trying to save another soldier. Wintergreen, his friend. Slade disappeared, becoming what we only know now as Deathstroke.

P R E S E N T

We now have somewhat of a picture of what Slade has been up to. He’s made several enemies of heroes and villains, in Gotham alone. Enemies of the Justice League,  ██████ ██ █████████, and the Titans alike, though he seems to have a personal history with the latter. He is a formidable foe against the Batman, and vice versa. The mobs are afraid of him, but almost incessantly ask for his business. The citizens are oblivious, only knowing him simply as Slade Wilson. Slade has built a system of “contracts” as Deathstroke, research has shown, offering his “services” for monetary value. He is a very weathly man. His rates must be high. 

Physically, he’s gotten better. Mentally, he’s gotten worse.

CLASSIFIED: Although this information is classified and has been redacted throughout this file, for classified reasons, if you can read this, then you have been granted access to this information. If you need to know everything about Slade Wilson, then you have to know about one of the most dangerous groups in the world, the League of Assassins. Created and headed by Ra’s Al Ghul, the League of Assassins are an army of assassins, mercenaries, some of the world’s greatest martial artists, who’s sole purpose is to eliminate evil in the world. They are not superheroes. They’ve had questionable tactics as to how they’ve tried to achieve their goals, and questionable team members too. We’re not sure if Ra’s still heads the organization, we’re not sure if they even still exists. But Slade was once a member. We don’t know why he would join the group, whether power or boredom, it’s important to note because our weapon made it through, he survived the League. This information also makes him a much more violent asset, be careful if your group tries to bring him in.

CLASSIFIED: Slade rejoined the League of Assassins once more, but information told us it was forced. An ultimatum of some sort, we don’t know. Only Slade knows. After one year, he left. He’s an independent mercenary again.

After the Superhuman Registration Act, Slade hadn’t changed his routine. The Superhero Civil War was destructive, we lost contact with Wilson. The mutants fought back, headed by Magneto, still no contact with Wilson. He’s smart, he had to have avoided confrontation with either groups, mutant and hero alike. There was no way he could’ve - I digress. When a second accord ratification occurred and Genosha was born, we found Slade. Back to his ordinary life, if that’s what you would call it. The Accords have not only affected the heroes, it’s affected Slade, to some degree. He’s added an old occupation to himself, Bounty Hunter. This explains why we haven’t seen him don the mask of Deathstroke in some time. Government and hero oversight must make him cautious, maybe. It certainly slows down business, I’m sure, in Slade’s eyes. Our weapon has to survive. If he can’t? That’s when we step in.

N O T E S (OOC)

Hello! I’m Mipsy (she/her)! A gamer girl, Marvel and DC fan, Netflix binge fanatic, anime fan, movie fan especially horror movies, and lover of all things creative (music, art, writing, and rping)! 

Slade is a mix of various comics and my own headcanons. I pull from a little bit of everything, even a little bit from Teen Titans (2003) from Cartoon Network. So don’t ask me which comics I use, heh. There’s a lot of comics, am I right? I took some liberties with Slade. Call them headcanons. Headcanons I’ve established from playing Slade for so long!

Mun ≠ Muse. Slade can be vulgar and rude, but that’s an understatement. He can be sociable, he can carry a conversation with others, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he likes you. Slade very much believes himself to be a good man, and sees Deathstroke as a job. Many of his enemies see him as a monster, a villain, but that’s because many don’t separate Deathstroke from Slade. Which is completely understandable! Slade’s done some pretty bad things, as Deathstroke and not. His character is a complicated one, not a cookie cutter straight character. His true alignment is neutral, but he can play the “hero” or the “villain” at anytime. Depends on who hired him for the job, which makes him an exciting character to rp! He has his own strict moral code that he follows, so he can’t be bothered with squeaky clean heroes or small time villains. But Slade can be reasoned with. He can carry a conversation when he wants to. Anyway, all that to say, Slade rarely likes anyone so please don’t hold that against the mun!

Slade is a simple man. The type of man who enjoys moments of peace in his life. He’s wealthy, but doesn’t flaunt his wealth like other billionaires. When he isn’t working, Slade really isn’t that bad at all. Just an old man who wants to drink his coffee and read his newspaper, thank you. He’s also quite humorous and a bit of a ladies man! Call it charming or not, he’s attractive enough, despite his age, for women to lay in his bed constantly.

He’s got a lot going on in his head. Guilt and being unstable are his biggest problems. As you’ve read, the super soldier serum really screwed him up. His body and mind were broken, and in effect a new kind of aggression was born within him. Makes him a bit of a monster, but it’s a monster Slade has decided to live with.

As you can already tell, I write alot! One reason I decided to join is I saw a few of you who write lots and I thought ‘I won’t be judged! Yay!’. But don’t fret! I can write paras and multi-paras, I’m just no good at one liners. No need to match length with me! Just...don’t be surprised if I write a lot back.

If you’d like to plot, DM me on discord! I’m so excited to be here! Can’t wait to rp with everyone!

[bangtan-madi]

546 Days Without You — One: Negative 41

Pairing — Seokjin x Reader

Tags — boyfriend!Seokjin, older brother!Yoongi, producer/songwriter!MC, military au (ish), idol au (ish)

Genre — fluff, angst

Word Count — 3.1k

Summary — Kim Seokjin is your entire world, and that world falls apart the moment he and your older brother Yoongi are conscripted into the South Korean military.

Part — 1 / 15

A/N — Hey lovelies! This is the first chapter of an estimated 15 part series. Feedback is always welcome! I anticipate a chapter of this story going up every weekend, either Saturday or Sunday. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!!

(gif not mine. credit to original creator.)

Previous — Next

Not every great love story starts with a chance encounter, and not every beautiful relationship blossoms from love at first sight. Sometimes the universe has a sense of humor as she tosses two unlikely people at each other just to see what could happen. 

Sometimes it's not love, but annoyance at first sight.

"All right, again, from the top," you state into the microphone at your desk. "This time, try to nail that middle note. I know you got it in you, Kook."

Jungkook glances up from the sheets of music that line his podium in the recording studio. From behind the glass, he gives you a big thumbs up and boyish grin.

"That's producer-speak for, 'Again...but with passion!"

You don't have to turn to know who's sneaked up behind you, speaking over your shoulder and into the mic so Jungkook can hear.

The youngest member snickers, replying, "Aish, I got it, Hyung. Go back to your own room."

"I finished recording mine!" Seokjin retorts, causing you to finally glance over your shoulder at him. "My vocals were flawless so it didn't take nearly as long as the rest of you."

Without thinking, you pop your elbow back just hard enough to hit Seokjin in the ribs. Being the dramatic fool that he is, Seokjin jumps back, cradling his rib cage as if he's just been shot. The look on his face only causes you to roll your eyes.

"Oh, you're fine," you murmur. "What were you recording anyway? You didn't say."

He shrugs. "Mostly just practice, nothing specific."

"Well, if you're done being secretive, can you go be annoying somewhere else, just for a few minutes so JK can finish his session?"

"What do I get out of it?"

You tap your chin for a moment, pretending to think it over. "My undying gratitude?"

Seokjin scoffs. "I already have that, Jagiya."

"C'mon, Jin," Jungkook intervenes. "Leave [Y/n] noona alone."

"Five minutes? Then I'm off the clock and all yours. Until then, maybe go bug my brother. I know that makes you happy."

At the mention of Min Yoongi, Seokjin's face spreads into a wide smile. He leans down, presses a quick kiss to your cheek, and says, "Okay, okay, I get it. I'll go bug Yoongi until you're done. Then I'm holding you to your word."

Attempting to hide the happiness that simple gesture brings you is hopeless, so you settle for saying, "See you in a minute!"

Seokjin flashes a wink as he reaches for the doorknob. "Don't you dare be late."

Once the oldest member has left the room, you turn back to Jungkook with a grin and wave of your hand. "You heard the man: Again, but with passion!"

After wrapping up at the studio—a task that takes closer to an hour than five minutes, like you initially promised—you turn off the lights and lock the door on your way out. Jungkook had really sung his heart and soul today, and you couldn't help the proud smile that stays on your face on the bike ride home.

You're lucky. Of this, you're very much aware. Not only are you involved in one of the most lucrative businesses in South Korea but the particular company you've dedicated yourself to for the past eight years is truly one of a kind. Big Hit has given you so many opportunities, just like all of the other five-hundred-ish employees. Your CEO, Bang Si-Hyuk who is often referred to as either Hitman Bang or Bang PD, is one of the most passionate and empathetic humans you've ever met. If it weren't for him, there's not a change Big Hit would be where it is today. The co-CEO, Lenzo Yoon, is also a talented man, but he came into the picture far later than Bang PD, around March of last year.

But your luck doesn't just stop with the company or its leaders. Your specific job is one you've always wanted. Not only do you get to manage some of the best music coming out of your country, but you get to produce and write it alongside the biggest band in the world. This is a group that includes some of the most important people to you, including your older brother by two years Yoongi, your boyfriend of four years Seokjin, and your best friends of almost eight years which make up the rest of the group.

You don't like to think of your life as fate or destiny, but hard work and a little luck paying off after years of struggling.

There's no greater example of your success than what you get to come home to. Some people might see the nice apartment in downtown Seoul and think that's what you mean by success. Nice things, nice home, nice location just down the street from Big Hit HQ. But what you mean when you say success is the person, or people, you get to come home to.

On most days, the entire band is at the dormitories a few blocks away, but a couple years ago, you and Seokjin decided to get a place to yourself so you could have some space as a couple. This is where you spend most nights, but Seokjin still splits his time between the two locations. Lately, you've noticed him spending more and more time at your shared apartment, and your heart sinks when you remember why.

The word feels like venom in your mouth, and your hands grip the handlebars tighter as you pull the bike through the front door of the apartment.

Enlistment. 

Everyone knew this was coming. It doesn't make it any easier to accept. Big Hit's had lawyers fighting against the boys' conscription for years. They've tried every argument they could think of: their impact on the South Korean economy, the fact that the Idol projects were started by and are still majority funded by the government and thus they've already served, the Hwagwan Order of Cultural Merit they were awarded by President Moon Jae-in himself.

So far, nothing has worked, but they swore they would keep trying until the very last day.

A string of uttered curse words brings you out of your thoughts and back to your surroundings. The beautiful apartment, simple and elegant as well as lived-in and homey, gives you an immense sense of comfort. As you park your bike in the interior walkway, you hear even angrier muttering from the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Seokjin stands over a set of sizzling pans. Several ingredients are strewn across the counters, and the heavenly scent of traditional Korean food fills your nose. Soft instrumental music plays in the background. 

The sight wouldn't be unusual if it weren't for Seokjin cursing at the pan that's holding what should have been mildly brazened vegetables. However, the greens are charred beyond recognition, and Seokjin's palm is clutched to his chest.

"Wow, that radish must have seriously pissed you off."

Seokjin jumps and lets out a yelp. Knowing how easily scared he is, the sight makes you giggle, much to his dismay.

A scowl quickly replaces the fearful expression. "It's not nice to sneak up on an unsuspecting boyfriend, you know!"

"You'll live," you reply, teasingly popping a small slice of carrot into your mouth. You gesture for him to extend his hand. "Let me see?"

The brunet offers his hand, and you examine his palm. There's a small burn there, nothing too nasty, but it does look like it hurt a few moments ago. You bring the palm to your lips and kiss it tenderly before moving towards the pan of burnt vegetables.

"Burning the food and then yourself. Are you feeling okay, Jinnie? It's not like you to be so careless in the kitchen. I'd expect this sorta thing from Joon, but not you." Lifting your eyes to meet his, you add, "Something on your mind?"

Seokjin's smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but not in the way it usually does. It's not playful or teasing, nor is it caring or empathetic. It's a little sweet, a little sad, and a little bit too revealing of what's going on underneath.

"Honestly? I just wanted to have a nice night with my Jagiya. No talk of the album or tour, no one or several of the guys interrupting, no one but us. And I wanted to impress you by making your favorite meal!" He runs his un-burned hand through his hair, messing with the long black ends absentmindedly. "I guess I have a lot on my mind, and it distracted me."

You remove the pan of ruined food and place it quietly in the sink. "You wanna talk about it?"

"You probably already know, Jagi."

You do. Of course, you do. What else could make the happiest person you know this distracted and frustrated?

It's just like a few years ago, and you feel your chest tighten at the thought of the friend you lost. You felt a similar sense of impending doom just before he left for the military, too. After all these years, you thought you'd forgotten that feeling, only to have it return ten-fold with Seokjin.

Shaking your head, you turn on a different playlist—something more upbeat, and turn back to Seokjin with a grin. "C'mon. I'm hungry, and you need a sous chef."

Seokjin's somber expression melts away. Reaching into the cupboard nearest him, he pulls out two chef's hats that belonged to a couple's costume set you'd worn for Halloween a few years back. Being the goofball he is, Seokjin kept both hats and forces you to wear them whenever you cook together.

Placing the item on your head, tucking your hair behind your ears, he gives his signature windshield wiper laugh at your eye roll.

"You can be my little chef!"

The reference to the animated movie Ratatouille, which you both adore, causes you to chuckle along with him.

"So does that mean if I yank on your hair, you'll do what I want?"

Seokjin's laugh becomes outrageous and uncontrolled. Realizing how your words might've sounded, a deep heat rises in your face, and you pull your sweater collar up to cover your cheeks. 

Your boyfriend claps his hands, thoroughly entertained by your reaction. "Well, you can give it a try, Jagi! I think that jus—"

"—Shut up or I'll stab you."

The laughter didn't stop for another few minutes, and the teasing didn't cease the entire night. If you're honest with yourself, you wouldn't have it any other way.

Seokjin was right; it's nice for once just to be alone together. Not that you don't adore the boys—hell, one of them is your brother—but it is nice to have a quiet night in, filled with good food and great company. Despite it just being the two of you, nights like these are never dull. You doubt there's ever been a dull moment in the man's entire life.

After the meal is finished, you decide to do your usual wind-down routine: shower, skincare, dancing on dangerously damp floors to the sound of your favorite playlist. The usual.

When you are finished, you exit the bathroom and enter immediately into the adjacent master bedroom. What you should've seen is something simple: a few pieces of furniture, various personal items, and a large mattress in the center. However, it seems as if Seokjin's taken the opportunity while you're in the shower to redecorate.

All the pillows are on the floor, in front of the mattress. Several duvets cover the floor. Throw blankets line the space, and curtains are strewn in the air above it, creating a sort of carnival-esque tent. Fairy lights are strung from the ceiling down to the interior of the space. BT21 character pillows line the exterior, creating a walkway of sorts. The whole space looks cozy and enchanting and well thought out.

He's gone way out of his way to make tonight special, you think to yourself.

You grab a notebook from your nightstand before nestling down into the pillow fort. You're unsure of where Seokjin has sneaked off to but are fairly certain he'll be back any moment. Until then, you hum gently a recently crafted melody to yourself, repeating it over and over, until you get it just right. Once nailed, you sketch the notes onto the blank music sheets inside your notebook, knowing that if you don't write it down you'll forget.

Yoongi's notification pings from your cellphone. Placing your notebook on your lap, you read the text before swiping to respond, all the while continuing to hum the newly created melody.

"You can sing like an angel and yet you still refuse to do vocals for us." Your eyes lift to meet Seokjin's as he stands in the door. "Do you like holding out on us or something?"

After seeing Yoongi respond with a smiley face emoji and a thumbs up, you turn off your cell and drop it onto the pillows. "How long have you been standing there?"

He shrugs. "Long enough."

"And...why are you staring at me?"

"So I can have a better picture of you in my mind."

You toss your notebook aside with an exasperated groan, only causing Seokjin to laugh. "You're so cheesy, my god."

His playful smile doesn't fade as he approaches the pillow fort. "Worldwide cheesy is my second nickname, you know."

"I am not calling you that. And I do not sing like an angel. So...no. Not holding out on anyone."

"But you do write your own lyrics and melodies. You don't share most of that with us, either. Except maybe with Yoongi, but that's not fair."

Seokjin plops down on top of you, his weight causing an "Oof," to slip from your lips. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck and slips his arms under the small of your back.

"Are you seriously pouting because I tell my brother, my producer and songwriter brother, about my shitty drafts?"

A muffled, "Yes," comes from your boyfriend's mouth.

Rolling your eyes, you relax into the comforters and relish in the cozy and intimate atmosphere. One of your hands tangles in Seokjin's dark hair, playing absent-mindedly with his long hair. The other rests against his broad shoulders; your fingers dance along the edges of his ocean-blue sweater, the one you often steal for yourself. 

"Tonight was really sweet," you whisper after a few minutes of silence. "You didn't have to go out of your way like that."

"I wanted to. We haven't spent a long of alone time together since we started pre-production on the next album. And before that, there was the tour for Seven. I feel like 2020 has been a year we've spent more apart than together, and it shouldn't be like that..."

His sentence trails off, and you know what his somber tone is implying. It's 41 days until his twenty-eighth birthday. What should be a day of celebration will most definitely be a day of mourning. 

"There's still hope," you mumble, pulling him tighter to you. "The lawyers haven't given up yet. They're still working on getting you and everyone else an exemption."

"Yeah...you're right."

"Hold on, can you say that again? I didn't quite catch it."

Seokjin nips gently at your throat, earning a surprised giggle from you. "Watch it, Jagi."

After your laughter settles down, the peace of the evening returns along with the blissful quiet. It's not often that Seokjin is still or silent, but over the years, you both have found a rhythm that works for you. You have your obnoxious, loud, exciting times, and then there are the serene, still, hushed moments like these. Both are beautiful in their own way, but after a full day of work, this is exactly what you needed.

"I wish every day could be like today," you murmur, half to yourself.

Your brunet boyfriend moves slightly, resting his head on the pillow beside yours. He shifts you so you're curled up against his side, arms and legs tangled under the covers he pulls over you both. A yawn slips out, despite you trying to fight the signs of sleepiness. Your eyelids become droopy, and his fingers rubbing circles on your ribs doesn't help.

When a second yawn escapes, Seokjin chuckles and presses his lips to your forehead. "You can sleep, [Y/n]. I'll be here when you wake up."

Loving nothing more than to spend more time with him, you know he's right. It's been a long day, and you have another one ahead of you tomorrow. Instead of fighting him and slumber, you curl closer, pressing a brief kiss to his lips, then tuck yourself under his chin and wrap your arms around his small waist.

"Promise?"

As if to show you, Seokjin holds you tighter as he continues to run his fingers along your rib cage and spine. 

"I promise."

[zandracourt]

Steve’s Playlist

Written for @the-sad-hatter’s Weird and Wonderful Challenge. This is the first fic I’ve written with a first person narrator. I tried to write it fully as an inserted reader, but that was just too weird for me, so I tried to make the first person as neutral as I could.

Prompt 26: I Put a Spell on You, Nina Simone

Steve’s Playlist

 Rated T/PG

It’s a few minutes before 1700 and Director Fury shouts my name as I turn off the light in my cubicle. 

“Agent, before you leave, can you take this to Rogers?”

I swallow hard, trying to play it cool. “Captain Rogers?” As if there is another one. Well, there is a Rogers down in accounting but I’m pretty sure the Director has no idea he even exists. He barely knows I exist. Though he did call me by name, so maybe it’s not a good idea to underestimate the Director’s pulse on the plebes of S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Yes, that one.” Bingo “Do you know where his office is, on the 3rd floor?” Everyone knew the Captain had chosen an office across from the hanger bay. It faced the interior of the Triskelion, meaning its window looked out mostly on the walls of the other two buildings; nothing but concrete and glass. It was the kind of office some middle manager would have, not the leader of the Avengers. But the Captain liked being close to the hanger, often eating lunch in the Machinists Lounge with the ground crew. 

“I do. Just that then?” I held out my hand towards him.

He passed me a 11”x 17” Manila envelope, about an inch thick. “That’s all. Good night.” He turns away before I can wish him a good night back. 

As I get off the elevator, I can hear the steep trumpet crescendo of the opening stanzas of Sir Duke playing. Normally, the halls are quiet, but someone must be using the after-hours nature of their work to play music. S.H.I.E.L.D. rules prohibit connecting to any streaming services on company computers, so whoever it is has brought in speakers and must be playing it off their personal phone.  Turning down the hall brings the music even louder. 

Music is a world within itself, it’s a language we all understand, with an equal opportunity to sing and dance and clap your hands.

Stevie Wonder’s distinctive rhythm filled my ears, getting louder as I walked.  My mom used to play this song on her Hits of the ‘70’s CD. You can feel it all over. You can feel it all over, people!

By the time I round the corner to the inverted half-circle that makes up the interior of the uniquely shaped office complex, the source of the the music becomes obvious. It’s pretty loud now and I can see him standing at his elevated computer desk, his feet stepping in time to the music as he types that is rather adorable, but I tamp such thoughts down hard. This is Captain America for fucks sake. My knock clearly gives him a slight startle and I feel bad.

“Oh, hey.” He reaches over quickly and taps pause on his phone.

“You don’t have to stop on my account. I was told to bring you this.” I hold the envelope out for him, still standing just outside the doorway like a dumb-ass. It’s just an office, but it’s an Avenger office, which feels more sacred. 

Steve chuckles, “There’s no magic force field there you know. You can come in.”

Crossing the threshold, I can’t help but look around. He keeps his office pretty sparse. There’s a whiteboard on one wall and to the left of his desk, a framed picture of what looks like Benjamin Franklin holding a large balance scale with an old-time baseball player standing on half. Over the top of the players’ images are the words “Brooklyn Dodgers” on the left and “New York Yankees” on the right. Looking closer, you can see it’s from the 1941 World Series.

“Whoa, is that original?” 

He raises his eyebrows and whistles slightly. “Man, I wish. No, it’s a replica poster. But I had the playbook from that series. Went to every game and managed to get signatures on it from everyone but Riggs and Frank. I’d left it at my mom’s place when I enlisted but now it’s lost to time. If it survived, I’m sure it’s in some collector’s wall safe by now. You follow baseball?”

I shrug. “Not like that. I’m always up for a Nationals game if I get a chance. There is an energy watching live games that I enjoy, especially with good friends. But I don’t ever watch on TV.”

He nods. “TV wasn’t an option when I was a kid, just radio. But I agree with you. I still listen to games sometimes, but I don’t like watching them on TV. ‘Course, they aren’t in Brooklyn anymore, so they aren’t my Dodgers anyway.”

I looked down at the only picture on his desk. It’s a plain, pine framed image of three people sitting in what might be a large restaurant booth, but it’s hard to tell. They look happy, and maybe a little drunk. The woman I recognize immediately because her portrait hangs in the main foyer. Margaret Carter, one of the founders of S.H.I.E.L.D., though she’s much younger in his picture. The other two men I don’t know, though one is kind of familiar. “That’s Director Carter, right?” I ask, pointing at it.

Steve picks it up and hands it to me for a closer look. “Yeah. Spring 1944. Peggy. Howard. Bucky.” He points to each face. “That was taken at this restaurant Howard knew. No matter where we were, he knew the best places to go that hadn’t been bombed or raided and every waitress knew him by name.”

Now I knew why the man in the middle was familiar. His picture hung downstairs next to Director Carter’s, but he looks so good this picture. Now that I’ve made the connection, I can see the Stark resemblance.  

“Woah, Mr. Stark didn’t age real well.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them and I wanted desperately to take them back. “I’m so sorry. That was...sorry.” 

My stomach clenches and temples throb with embarrassment. Who the fuck am I to criticize his friends? These people are portraits on a wall to me, but to him, they were drinking buddies. Best friends. The heat of my emotions races under my skin and I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye.

“It’s OK.” He takes the photo back, looking at it as he speaks. “Howard was so full of life and playful energy when I knew him. From what I understand, that changed as he got older. This is my memory of him though. And I’m glad I have it.”

His words shift my embarrassment to shame. “I’m glad you have it too. Can I ask...” He places the picture down and looks at me with such kind eyes I continue. “Where did you find it? I mean, it’s more personal than any S.H.I.E.L.D. photo I’ve seen and you said your stuff didn’t seem to stick around.” I was trying to cover my embarrassment with curiosity, seeking some neutral ground again.

“Tony gave it to me. I shot the photo, but I’d never seen how it turned out.” 

I’d heard that he and Iron Man didn’t always get along. Mostly gossip about how they bicker and would annoy the agents waiting to deploy on an op, so the Director had stopped sending them to the same places if he could help it. In this moment though, it was clear that Tony was a strong conduit to Steve’s past and it was hard to ignore the wave of loneliness that rolled off him. “It’s a great one. They look so happy.” He nods, continuing to look at it. I don’t want to step on his reminiscence so I turn to leave him to his thoughts. 

“Agent?” I stop and pivot just a little towards him. “The envelope?” I realize it’s still tucked under my arm and I look towards the ceiling in a desperate plea for The Powers of All to save me from any more stupid moves in front of this man ever again. 

“Right, sorry.” I say, hoping some old-time stage hook will just come drag me away.

“Thanks. And you don’t need to apologize all the time. You work here, same as me. You have as much right to be in this office as I do.”

O, Captain, that is not at all true. Thankfully, my brain stops my running mouth before I straight up contradict a superior, though I appreciate that he wants that to be true. “Good night, Captain.”

“Good night.” As I leave the office, the music starts again; this time playing playing Earth, Wind, and Fire’s September.

******

In any other context, I might object to being tasked as Director Fury’s delivery person with ever increasing regularity, since I’m an analyst, not a messenger. However, the only person he sends me to is Captain Rogers, so how can I complain? Yeah, he’s the 8th level of Dante’s Inferno kind of hot, but these end-of-work assignments have let me see Steve Rogers for who he is, not just a magazine cover story. Most of our conversations only last 4 or 5 minutes, but they are the best part of any day they happen. He’ll ask about my work and genuinely seems interested the data analysis I do. I don’t ask him about the rumors of missions he goes on because my security clearance is slightly above the kid who delivers our sandwiches at lunch time so I stick to topics of life outside of work. Surprisingly, he never seems to hold back personal stories. Especially ones of his past. Something extremely rare in this building. 

Every time the elevator doors open on the third floor after 1700, I can hear the music play. Marvin Gaye, Earth, Wind, and Fire, Aretha Franklin, Al Green, Otis Redding, Stevie Wonder, ...he definitely has a specific taste for 60′s & 70’s R&B. Today as I approach, the song plays slow and melancholy. 

You know I can’t stand it. Your running around. You know better, daddy. I can’t stand it, ‘cause you put me down. Yeah, yeah. I put a spell on you, because you’re mine.

Something made me stop just outside his office this time, listening. I can see him sitting with his arm resting on his desk, playing with a metal coin of some kind while looking out the window. The coin is bigger than any currency I’ve seen, and thicker, like a medal or medallion. He idly flips it through his fingers, lost in thought as the trumpet plays a jazz rift.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you anyhow. And I don’t care if you don’t want me, I’m yours anyhow. I put a spell on you, because you’re mine.

A deep, mournful scatting ends the song so I knock lightly, knowing I’m interrupting something. He turns his head a little and nods, so I enter. As I get closer, I see wetness in his eyes. Not falling, just holding a firm tension at the edge of his lids.

“You OK, Sir?”

He sits up a little and shifts his chair so he’s fully turned towards me from behind his desk. “No need to call me Sir. And yeah, I’m fine.” He taps the coin on the desk and lays it down as he reaches over and pauses the playlist, which had shuffled to Bring It on Home to Me by Sam Cooke. 

“Please. Sit and talk to me for bit.”

This is the first time he’s asked me to sit during one of these after-work deliveries, making me wonder if he really is OK. “I’m sorry for interrupting, I just needed to bring you this.” I slid the folder with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on the front towards him. This one wasn’t classified, or I never would have been asked to bring it in an open file folder.

“You really gotta stop apologizing for things that aren’t your fault or responsibility. You’re here because you were ordered to by Fury.”

“I don’t mind, really.” 

“Well, it’s not exactly in your job description to bring me files. It’s probably my fault you keep getting asked. After the first time, I was talking to Nick about the information you’d given me and I told him that I enjoyed talking to you.”

My ears feel warm at the compliment. “I enjoy talking to you too.” This feels so awkwardly intimate that I have to shift gears to ease my nervousness. “What is that?” I point to the coin.

He hands it over. It’s about an inch and half in diameter; punched brass in deep relief. The edges are slightly worn down but readable. The words “107th Infantry” along run along the outer edge with two crossed rifles in the center. 

“It’s a Challenge Coin. They became a thing with the OSS during the war, but after all they’d been through with Hydra, the 107th felt they deserved them too. So the junior officers had their own made.”

“Was that your unit?” I wished I recalled more from 10th grade history class.

“Not exactly. I was kind of my own unit, but I ran missions with the 107th and a few others once the Howling Commandos came together. That,” he gestures to the coin in my hand, “was Bucky’s.” 

I glance at the photo on the desk. After our first encounter, I’d Googled Bucky Barnes so I wouldn’t make any more asshole remarks about his friends and learned he’d been a Sergeant in the 107th. “Wasn’t he enlisted though?”

Steve raised an eyebrow.”You’ve been researching. Yeah, but he was also very good at placing bets he knew he wouldn’t lose. Won it off an LT we both didn’t like very much.”

Remembering his other stories of items lost to the past, I ask, “However did you find it?”

“Never lost it. The night before the mission where...” He paused and took a breath, “before he died, Buck had given it to me. It was still in my uniform pocket when they thawed me out.”

The question floated in the silence and I wasn’t sure if it was one he wanted me to ask or not. In all our conversations, he was profoundly honest, and he’d brought it up, so that seemed like a green light.

“Why did he give it to you?”

“I’ve thought about that over and over since the day he fell. At first, I thought maybe he knew somehow...that he wouldn’t make it back. In the years since... it seems more of a promise. Not sure what he was promising exactly, but that feels more right to me. Bucky never believed a mission would fail, so it makes no sense for him to give to me as a goodbye.”

“And that song? The one playing before I came in? I know it’s an oldie, but I didn’t think it went back to the ‘40s.”

He chuckled. “What’re talking about? To me, Nina Simone’s a baby.”

“That was a woman singing?” I’d heard of Nina Simone, but realized I didn’t know which songs she was famous for. 

“Yeah. Don’t you just love her voice?”

“She’s amazing.” I agree. “You listen to the blues a lot, I’ve noticed. Doesn’t that make you sad?”

“You think my music is sad?” He asks, not accusing, but with genuine interest. 

“Well, isn’t that what the Blues are? Songs for when you’re feeling down?”

“I read a quote once by Etta James, ‘When I’m singing blues, I’m singing life.’ I know a lot of folks around here think my life is sad; ‘cause of what I lost. And there are times I am. But when I listen to the blues, I don’t even think about the time since I woke up. I think about times before. Brooklyn. My mom. Breadlines around the block. Not enough coal to keep the room warm. Bucky. The War.  These songs, they feel like mine, even if it’s music from a later generation. Ya gotta listen to them with your heart. They aren’t sad at all really, just honest. The blues is life. Thanks for this.” He slid the folder over and placed it in his in-box. 

I hand the coin back to him and he places it in the front pocket of his cargo pants. “You’re welcome. Thanks for sharing. I always learn something when we talk.” I stand up to leave. 

“You’re easy to talk to. That’s a real gift. You ever thought of field work?”

I shake my head firmly. “No way. I learned real fast in academy that I’m as likely to shoot you or the wall as any target. I suck at firearms.” He laughs and bestows on me smile that reminds me why everyone loves him. “I like the work I do and I think I’m pretty good at it.”

“Gotta love someone who knows their strengths and weaknesses. You don’t have to limit your visits to delivering Nick’s paperwork, y’know. Come by anytime.”

I nod. “G’night Captain.”

“Good-night.” He’d touched the music back on before I’d even turned around. 

If you ever change your mind about leaving, leaving me behind, Oh baby, bring it to me 

The lyrics followed me out the door and down the hall as I pulled out my phone to start making a new Spotify list. 

[capo-cedes]

Heavy Price

INVOLVED: Freddie D’Angelo and Nicholas D’onofrio TIME FRAME: LOCATION: D’onofrio Estate; New York City, New York NOTES: Freddie and Nicholas have a little talk that leads into a huge secret being revealed, that in turn plants unknowing seeds in several gardens.

Decision… Nicholas sat for quite some time mulling over how to order the house, the empire, the city. The game of chess that was the Capo had become much harder to play in recent months. Marrying the Don's daughter and all but threatening to kill the man for touching her had meant Lollygagging over how much to trust his wife and her men was a moot point. Nicholas had to relinquish control over some aspect of his life, though it pained him to do. He sucked his teeth loudly and rose from his chair, striding over to the door with a stiff determination in his gate. He emerged from his office, and looked over at Paul where he lounged, foot thrown across the arm of the high back chair just outside his office door. "Where is Freddie? I thought I told you to bring him to me." 

 Paul lowered the New York Times he was reading and looked up at his younger brother's face. "He's on his way. You know he ain't leaving his perch outside your wife’s door without a replacement." 

 Nicholas sucked his teeth, then looked lazily at his brother. "Why didn't you replace him then?  When I say now, I actually mean yesterday. Dammit Paul!  When are you gonna learn?"

 Paul swung his leg down to the ground, folding the paper as he moved. His shoulder hunched low, feeling embracement, “My bad, I’ll go relieve him now.” 

 Freddie slowly opened the bedroom door to the room that Red so happily inhabited more so now than ever before. Being her eyes and ears had always been a serious job, but her current condition only kept him on a higher alert than usual. Not to mention other things she nor he dared to speak on. He peered into the room and there she was a picture of beauty nestled under silk sheets fast asleep, just as she had been the last 3 hours. He sighed and closed the door slowly, despite her obviously being out of harm's way and sleeping he could have left her side but then again none of those things ever moved his planted feet before. He placed his hands back in front of him and he stared at nothing in particular as he continued to stand by the door. 

 Paul sauntered through the house making a beeline but in an unhurried fashion to his brother’s bedroom. It was where you would find Freddie. Shit, it was where you could always find the man. He shook his head as the thought of having to listen to his brother bang his wife day in and out must be a mother fucker. He had to give it to the old stone face, he was a loyal motherfucker. He took the stairs with a jog, smiling broadly as he approached Tiny’s room. “Freddie my man. Nicholas really wants to see you. He told me to stay here. While you guys talk.” 

 Freddie heard footsteps and he turned to see Paul, Nicholas brother whom he assumed was the family fuck up long ago. Despite anything he heard he didn’t like the guy, he made him uneasy. He looked him up and down before he looked at the bedroom door. Looking back at Paul he nodded his head and said “she’s sleeping” in an expressionless tone, his facial expression never changing. “When she wakes up, she is going to use the bathroom. Happens every time, like clockwork. She’s going to call out for me” he told the man gazing into his eyes. “She’s going to want one of three things” he said raising three fingers at him. “To know where he is, something to drink, or something to eat” he told Paul. He clenched his teeth not wanting to leave before he walked off without another word, he moved for the stairs jogging - the faster he went the faster he could come back. “If it’s water, fill the cup up with more ICE than actual water” he told the man as he descended the steps and moved for Nicholas. This happened to be another idiot he didn’t care for, but he respected him and Red seemed to be madly in love with the guy, so he obliged. Moving for the office he sighed heavily before he knocked on the door and waited to be granted entrance. 

 Paul grinned, “yeah well it’s a pregnant thing. Making babies require rest.” He smiled, trying to make a little small talk. He almost laughed at how serious the man took his job. “I’m sure you’ll be back before she wakes and if she does,” Paul grimaced looking between the door and Freddie. “I can handle her request.” He muttered in a what the fuck tone. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back against the wall, again wondering what the fuck was wrong with the man. “I got it man. Water… Jeez” 

 Nicholas rubbed at his eyes; he needed a better right hand. But all attempts to recruit his oldest brother had failed. And all the training in the world wasn’t going to make Paul a suitable replacement for Michael. One eye popped open as the expected knock parted Nicholas silent contemplations. “Come in.” He said, getting up from his seat behind the desk, he moved over to the window and looked out at the Atlantic Ocean. 

 Freddie waited to hear Nicholas' voice before he moved into the space. “You summoned me” he said plainly as he shut the door behind them and stood in the middle of the floor. He never sat and today would be no different and he held his hands in front of him looking in the other man's direction. 

 Nicholas stared out of the window for a long moment before he answered the man. He turned to face Freddie and looked him over from head to toe before he moved over to the bar cart. He took the crystal glass from a shelf just above the cart and set it down with a clink, before pouring himself a glass of scotch. He twisted his head slightly looking back over his shoulder, “I did.” He said, finally picking up the glass. “Have a seat, Freddie. We need to talk about a few things.” Nicholas said, walking over to take his seat behind his desk glass in hand. 

 Freddie waited for the man to reply but he never did, instead he simply moved for one spot to the next and poured himself a drink. He didn’t even bother to ask if he wanted one, he didn’t expect it but assumed he would. He licked his lips hearing the instructions, he didn’t want to sit down. He waited for the man to do so first and he then moved forward, he stood behind the chair only for a moment or more. He rounded the chair and sat on the very edge now, feeling out of place and out of his comfort zone sitting here before the man. 

 Nicholas drank from his glass as Freddie took his time seating himself. Even once he was settled, he looked awkward, like a man set to dismantling a bomb, who’d never been trained to do so. Nicholas raised an eyebrow at him then lowered his glass holding it in front of him, swirling its contents as he thought. “Freddie.” He said, setting the glass down now and leaning forward in his seat. “You’re my wife’s bodyguard. Correct?” 

 Freddie looked at Nicholas he wanted so badly to react to this little show he was putting on, but he didn’t. At the man’s comment he corrected him “in our line of work I think they call them right hands” he said simply and straight to the point. He was not just a soldier of hers, matter of fact he wasn’t a soldier at all. He was her brain when she wasn’t thinking, much like the after thought she had of being this guy into their lives even more than he had been. When he wasn’t doing his husbandly duties it was, he who had picked up the pieces several dozen times; he wasn’t just a damn bodyguard. This man was really a dumb rat bastard. 

 Nicholas nodded thoughtfully, rearing back in his chair, he measured the man again. At least Freddie had an idea of who he was supposed to be. Crews were living breathing organisms, but some bosses were horse and other bees. All of it depended on the leader. However, he'd never seen a second quite like Freedie… well actually he had but not good ones. "Second?" He repeated in a flat tone. "I'm adding to your duties. I'm putting you in charge of screening the domestic staff." He said simply. Deciding against his earlier decisions. He slid open the left file cabinet in his desk and pulled out the current roaster of household employees, handing it over. "A list of my personal staff. They have been screened but feel free to rescreen them. Thank you."

 Freddie sat there; his hands clasped in his lap as he listened to the man. When he revealed what he wanted, he raised his brow showing some expression. “May I ask, why?” He asked him curiously “do you not trust the staff?” He questioned him. He never thought once that anyone in the house was capable of anything more than cooking and cleaning, he had ruled their kingdom with an iron fist on her own. And despite her detachment from her duties as both Tiny and Red, he didn’t think anyone would be so stupid to think pregnancy changed the killer reign she had. She’d soften but he knew it took nothing to make the Mercedes they knew as vicious as they all knew her to have been months in the past. He licked his lips slowly however, there was a 500-million-dollar price on her head, who wouldn’t stop at nothing to harm her. Trusted staff or not, he now had to reevaluate everything and everyone around him. Fuck. 

 Nicholas closed the draw, mind already moving on to his next task of the day. He sat back, caught off guard by the fact that Freddie was questioning him at all. Impressed. He would indulge the man’s question. Nicholas smiled, “Trust is a luxury we can little afford. Because we can’t always understand how much it would take to make someone betray us. Though I am not sure that really answers your question.” He said, turning his head lightly, he thought for a moment, “For what it’s worth, I trust my staff, but we can never be blind about these things. Or idle. I believe that you check, re-check, then start all over again. Because the parameters of that faith you put in them can always change. Most of them have been with me for years. So, I don’t really think they pose a threat, but I’m not stupid enough to leave that up to chance.” He shrugged, “Ultimately, like I said I vetted them. But one can never be too careful.”  He could have said more, but that he felt would answer the question. “I hope you understand.” 

 Freddie listened to the man as he lowered himself back down in his seat to answer his questions. Licking his lips, he turned his head at the mention of the price it took to betray someone. He looked back at Nicholas and allowed him to finish before he said “500 million dollars” he replied dropping his head a bit as he looked down at nothing in particular. “The price” he said as he looked back up at the man “for her head that is” he added. “There’s a hit out on her” he said, averting his gaze to an inanimate object on his desk. “I would say the staff are the least of our worries but for that much money the most unexpected person could be capable of anything and I don’t know who these people are” he said shaking his head. “She won’t tell me,” he added. “She did something, and it was a big something, and I wasn’t there for it which is crazy because I am always there. But she can be so damn sneaky sometimes” he said bitterly, all he wanted to do was protect her but even she managed to make that hard for people. 

 “What?” Nicholas asked the moment Freddie throughout 500 million. “Yeah, an amount like that would turn a lot of friends into enemies…” He shook his head in confusion, listening to the rest of words toppled from Freddie’s mouth. “Hold up. You’re telling me Red has a $500 million price on her head. That’s preposterous. Al, the other capo’s, no bodies mentioned a thing. Freddie, you're always there. Shit, you see more of my wife then I do. When could she have found the time to cross someone with that much doe and not set off alarms from here to the west coast?”  He was rambling, head shaking back and forth.

 “Well” Freddie said, trying to not step on the man’s toes at the moment “with all due respect, work is very important to you” he told the man simply and without leading much further into that statement. He wouldn’t know someone was trying to kill his wife because he wasn’t always around. “Why do you think she wants out?” he asked the man. “Or why she doesn’t leave the house unless she desperately has to, she’s scared but she isn't going to tell you that, me that, Al that. Whatever this is she obviously can’t come to you guys about” he said to the man. “I’ve used every resource available to try to pinpoint these guys. But I have nothing outside of the amount they are waving around for her head…” he told Nicholas. 

 Nicholas pushed back from the desk; his long legs stretched out in front of him. He heard what Freddie said, as well as, distilling his meaning. He wouldn’t begrudge the man for being his wife’s zealot. “I’m out there. A part of the underbelly of New York. That’s why this all seems odd. She’s Al’s daughter. Rather or not she tells any of us what is going on, we should have sniffed it out. Nothing and I do mean nothing moves in New York this big without the Don’s knowledge.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head against what the man was saying. In all honesty, Nicholas thought she didn’t leave the house because she was heavily pregnant. “Waving... “ He hummed. “Maybe that’s the angle. It’s someone with no real teeth waving money they don’t have. If there was a real threat of this caliber. No way in hell there wouldn’t have been an attempt made at -hell choose, our engagement party, wedding, or that over the top baby shower. Something doesn’t add up.” He was still babbling, but his face was set with an intensity that didn’t outright rule out what Freddie was saying but needed there to be another answer to the riddle. 

 “He didn’t know she killed Steven Cohen until she told him. Everything doesn’t get to Al, but I get your point. There’s no way Al couldn’t know” Freddie told him. At his theory of what could possibly be going was laid out on the table he furrowed his brows. “They could have,” he told the man, having not thought about that himself honestly. “I don’t know, for the first time… ever” he said seriously, because he didn’t really know anything. “I would suggest us going to Al about it, but a little birdie told me he’s not too happy with… you” he said clearing his throat after his comment. 

 With Freddie's words came a colder more detached thought, that however unlikely, he hoped it was not true. Yet, Al being somehow complicit with half a billion-dollar price tag on Red's head made more logical sense than anything the man had uttered. Chewing on his bottom lip as if it were a exceptional piece of tough grisel. Nicholas grunted, "l suppose." He agreed begrudgingly. He licked his lips then sat up clasping his hands in front of himself on the desk. "Love me or hate me it doesn't matter. We can't go to Al. At least not yet. You said it yourself if Al knows, he is fine with it and informing him now would only make us more vulnerable." He shook his head while tapping out and S.O.S on the desktop. His eyes focused on the monitors behind Freddie's head. "I'd still put my money on someone without teeth but…" he refocused on the man's face. "Set about rechecking the staff. Retightening the belt around here can't hurt. I need to do some digging." Now his gaze moved up toward the ceiling where his very pregnant wife lay. 

 “I can’t imagine Al knowing and being fine with it?” Freddie said back to the man, they were on two separate pages right now. Al wouldn’t do anything to betray Mercedes, would he? That wouldn’t make sense. “But Al could do something about this with a finger snap, not telling him could be a horrible mistake” Freddie said nervously. “I mean there’s a baby in the heart of all of this” he reminded him though he was sure he didn’t need to. As he redirected him as to what he wanted him to focus on he sat there quietly for a moment before he asked a very personal question “why me? Why not Paul… “ he asked him, it was his own way of reading everyone and everything involved with them. 

 Nicholas stared at the man, his own walls of indifference rising smoothly into place. "If there is a price that high on Mercedes' head and I nor Al know anything about it, his days of snapping his fingers are over." He inhaled deeply. He envied his wife her guard dog. "I know what's at stake, Freddie." Nicholas patience had ebbed, "You're here in the house outside of our bedroom day in and day out. Who better to trust with the staff? You are better suited for this task and Paul others." He stated flatly. 

 Freddie looked at Nicholas, his eyes faltered as they flexed to squint at him. Interesting. As he went on to explain to him the roles that he played, and Paul played. Licking his lips, he looked at him and said “right” he replied simply. “Easier than saying you don’t trust him, noted” he added as he got up from the chair. He grabbed the items off his desk he needed, and he turned his back to the man to leave. At this point Freddie could not assume that everyone was full of utter bullshit and considering his only real job was to protect her he’d have to do just that. And eliminate all bodies that stand in the way of him doing so or pose a threat in his gut towards her.

Nicholas tilted his head and watched as the burly man rose to his feet hurling misplaced insults that grated against his already frayed nerves. "I like people who foster independent thought. When they are properly motivated. An associate who is quick on their feet is an invaluable tool. However, I said what I said and if you want to take that meaning from this exchange then so be it. But my second in command ran half of my holdings. He hired brutes to sit outside my door and keep me safe. Oh, he was one of the last lines but not my primary. He was much too valuable to me for that." He paused and let his words take hold. "There is no more Nicholas and Tiny. We are a unit and soon everyone else is going to realize the power we have consolidated around us. Today I needed to measure out a man.  -To decide if he needed to sit just outside my wife's door or command our combined arms. And right now, that is the path Paul is on. Good day."

[markleesthighs]

Black Mamba | Chapter 7 Preview

Pairings: Reader x Mark Lee, Reader x Hendery, Reader x Jaehyun, feat. ot21

Genre: NCT mafia!au, angst, fluff, light smut (suggestive), comical

Warnings: n/a

Words: n/a

Chapter 7 - One Last Time (Preview & Finale)

You let go of Jaehyun and laid down on his bed looking at the ceiling, reflecting on what just happened. Jaehyun joined you and held your hand slowly, not wanting to rush you. But you grabbed his hand and squeezed it back.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I think so.”

You got up from his bed and started to walk to the kitchen.

“hey. y/n...”

“yeah?”

“if you ever need anything or need someone to talk to, just come to me.”

“I know.”

You were hungry and wanted something to eat, you decided to cook yourself an egg white omelet and some bacon. You finished your breakfast and washed your dishes and walked back into your room to change into your clothes for the day. You smelled like Jaehyun, he smelled like a mix of sweetness and musk. He didn’t reek of alcohol or cigarettes and kept his clothes clean. His cologne smelled nice, and you’d probably keep the shirt anyway. You threw it into your closet, grabbing a red leather jacket, black crop top, black high waisted jeans, and red boots. You also tied your hair up into a ponytail and put on some light makeup. You put your lab coat on and walked to the lab. You opened it to find Mark sitting in your chair.

“You’re late.”

“You’re an asshole.”

You put your stuff down on your desk. and turned back to Mark

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to find out if you had finished that rocket launcher I asked about.”

“I finished that about a month ago it’s over there.”

You pointed to a rocket launcher that looked like a handgun, but it had small rockets inside of them. It was in a glass case, but as Mark walked to it, the walls of the class descended, and he grabbed it.

“I’m going to go test it out.”

“Whatever”

Mark walked over to a testing chamber in the back of the lab that was bullet, bomb, and any weapon proof. He shot and hit the dummy perfectly with almost all of its limbs obliterated. He walked out of the testing chamber and looked at the weapon with glee as if it was a new toy. 

“I’m constantly amazed by your work y/n, you can make anything in the world.”

Mark noticed you didn’t hear him as you had your airpods in blasting music, drawing a new blueprint for another weapon. Mark looked in disappointment and guilt as he decided to look around at your lab since he hasn’t been in here since he’s been busy with a/n so much. He saw how perfectly organized all of the weapons were. He loved the simple and modern decor you had done to the lab. He also didn’t realize how lonely you get in a big lab all to yourself. He noticed you also had some flowers to liven up the place. His eyes fell on roses in a vase that was in the center of a table with a card tucked underneath it.

The roses looked like they were healthy but old. He slipped the card from under the vase and realized it was his card for you. It was the day he confessed to you, and you had kept the roses healthy ever since. He glanced over at you, mixing chemicals for what he assumes was for a new weapon. He felt horrible, shit, trash, for what he had done to you. He knew you didn’t deserve to be with someone like him. He was scum, and he did love you at the start, but it soon became a fight for power later on in your relationship.

Mark fought for his spot, asking and to have you as his powerful woman as queen. Having a powerful queen compared to the other mafias in the area was what had become necessary to him. He would brag about your killstreaks while others could only complain about how much their girlfriends are spending on purses and shoes. He had stood you up on several dates and broke your heart that night, the night where he was supposed to love you. Mark had to leave, it would not be his place to even attempt to win you back.

“I’ll be heading out.”

You gave no response as you did not hear him. The only sound you heard was the lab door closing as well as this chapter in your life. Taeyong rang the bell for access into the lab, and you let him in. He came to you with an envelope and sad eyes.

“I’m sorry about your loss y/n.”

“Thank you, Taeyong.”

He left as you opened the letter as it was an invitation to Jackson’s funeral hosted at the mansion. You accepted and decided to attend tonight. You finished a long day of work and notified Taeyong that you would be out for the night as your brothers funeral. You accidentally ran into Hendery as he bumped into you since you were looking at your phone while walking. 

“Oh, y/n, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

You started to walk away, but Hendery called you out in an attempt to stop you. 

“Y/n.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry. For everything.”

“...”

“I’m- sorry we- ended up like- this.”

“Hendery, I forgive you, and I hope you will not feel guilty towards me. You can still come in by the lab for help whenever you want, I have no hate towards you, but I actually thank you for what happened that night.”

“O-oh, of course, y/n, you’re welcome?”

You chuckled at his words as you put a hand on his shoulder. 

“We are good Hendery, just don’t mess it up again with the next girl.”

You walked passed him and up the stairs into the room. A maid was waiting for you in case you needed help with your dress, hair, or makeup. You wore a long black dress with a slit at from the bottom to your thigh and wore silver jewelry. The maid straightened your hair, and as you were doing your makeup, Jaehyun walked in.

“Going out?”

“Y-yeah, for my brothers funeral.”

“Oh, sorry for asking.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“...”

“...”

“Actually would like to at-ttend the funeral with me? It said I can bring a plus one.”

“Do you want me to?”

“I would appreciate it if you did.”

“Okay, let me get dressed.”

Jaehyun left as you put on your heels and as you were walking down the staircase, Jaehyun came down in an all-black outfit and his gold Rolex on his wrist. You both walked out the door and into a limo where it took you both to the mansion where you saw the bodyguards in-front of the house. Jaehyun got out and helped you out of the car holding your hand as you both walked up to the staircase. They stopped you as they scanned your face and did a security check with your outfit. They did the same thing for Jaehyun as well. You both entered and saw all the members awaiting your arrival and hugged you comforting you. 

They revealed Jackson’s casket as you saw his face. It was dripping in flowers around and on top of the casket but still had a walkway to walk up to it. The place looked very modern and white. With white chairs, altar, and flowers surrounding Jackson. His picture stood next to his casket, and he looked as handsome as he did the day before. He looked proud and most likely had a lot of plans for this mafia, and you know he would have great success. You also wondered who would take over this place, since he did not have a girlfriend, wife, or child. 

You walked up to it as Jaehyun observed you. Your tears fell, seeing him like this, and you leaned on his casket sobbing at his sight. You felt guilty that you didn’t spend enough time with him, and you were the reason he was killed. You wished you had made some efforts to had tried to find him back then, but you didn’t. You regret every action you made not towards your brother and felt selfish. Jaehyun almost felt that he was going to cry, watching your beautiful eyes spew tears as the white casket and white lilies surrounded you. The members walked up to slowly removed you from his casket as they all sat down. Others from other mafias soon found out about your relationship with Jackson and many allies with GOT7 had also attended.

Each member got up and gave their speeches mourning Jackson and Yugyeom turned to you and whispered.

“Do you want to give a speech?”

“S-sure”

“Are you sure?” Jaehyun asked worriedly

“Yeah, I can do it, for Jackson.”

You held his hand and squeezed it as you walked up to the altar and looked at your brother one more time before you took a deep breath and gave your speech.

“As you all know, I am Jackson’s sister, y/n. I was very close to Jackson as a young girl and loved having him as an older brother. However, when my father had passed, we got separated, and I didn’t see him for a while. Yesterday, was the first time I’d seen him in a while and the last day I would talk to him ever again. He didn’t know who I was but treated me well, and I’m sure he ran his mafia with leadership, passion, and kindness. I expected nothing less than him to compete with my own mafia, as he was very hardworking. Although he has been a missing piece in my life, I know he was a good man with good intentions. I now no longer have family, but I will continue to keep all of them with me in my heart. I love you, Jackson, and I will miss you.”

A tear fell down your cheek as you sat back down as many others were sobbing at your words. You grabbed Jaehyun’s hand again and leaned your head on his shoulder, looking at the marble floor. The priest walked up to read Jackson’s will to see what each person close to him would inherit. You had assumed nothing would be given to you since he presumed you to be dead when you disappeared and changed your name. 

“I Jackson Wang hereby give the following if I perish on the ground and will not live to see another day. To my members, you all will have my belongings and have the choice whether to keep them or burn them. My room shall be handed off to the new leader, so it must be cleaned of my remains. You are all free to read my diaries and enter my office whenever. To my sister, if she is still out there, find her, and once you have tell her the following:

‘You as the last living blood of the Wang family shall take the Wang family name with you to whomever you marry. You will inherit the company, and train hard to maintain and run it. You will be led by the guidance of Jaebum, who will be a temporary leader while you train. Welcome to GOT7 y/n.’ “

follow me to get updates on the series!

~n ✧*:·ﾟ

[toshootforthestars]

Yes!

Via Tom Ley, posted 10 Sept 2020:

This site exists because of the events of Oct. 29, 2019, when we all still worked at Deadspin.

That was the day that Barry Petchesky, who had been a writer and editor at the site for over 10 years, and was at that point the site’s acting editor-in-chief, was fired. He was marched back to his desk by G/O Media CFO Tom Callahan, who made Petchesky hand over his keycard and collect his things while I and a handful of my colleagues demanded to know why he had just been fired. We’d all sprung up from our chairs and started barking half-formed questions, to which Callahan responded by pointing at one of our computers and sneering, "Just look at the home page.”

At that moment, Deadspin’s home page featured stories about wedding dresses, three good dogs I recently met, a pumpkin thief—and no stories about sports. This was purposeful, the staff’s response to a memo sent by the company’s executive editor a day earlier that forbade us from covering topics not related directly to sports. Jim Spanfeller, who had been installed by the private equity firm Great Hill Partners as CEO of our company all of seven months before, responded to this act of insubordination by calling Petchesky into his office, firing him, and then telling him to “get the fuck out.”

I spent the rest of that day and most of the next huddled in an empty corner office with my colleagues 27 floors above the 45th and Broadway intersection of Times Square. The conversations we had in that room eventually led to all of us making the decision to quit in solidarity with Petchesky.

At this point the staff was used to navigating various workplace crises. We’d had similar meetings before, following resignations, sales of the company, layoffs, collective-bargaining sessions, and even a bankruptcy. We used to joke about how no new Deadspin employee ever made it through their first few months at the site without some kind of company-wide crisis.

This meeting felt different, though. Through all the other troubles we had been able to determine that no matter what was crumbling around us, Deadspin was still ours, and the ability to go to work every day and make the website we loved was worth holding onto for as long as possible. But suddenly we were confronted with a vision of Deadspin’s future—one without Petchesky and without the editorial freedom our site depended on—that we simply couldn’t accept.

One colleague, vaguely recalling all the other existential threats we’d survived through the years, summed up our situation neatly, saying through his tears, “They got us this time.”

Within 48 hours the entire remaining staff of Deadspin, 20 people, had resigned. Now, 10 months later, we are ready to start something new.

That’s the story of how we arrived at this point, but if you want to truly understand why we are doing this, you need to widen the scope a little bit. The full story is about more than just an irascible staff of writers reacting flippantly to a memo they didn’t like. It’s a story about what will and won’t be tolerated, both by those with the power to shape the present and future of the media industry, and by those who bear the consequences of how that power is wielded.

The version of Deadspin we walked away from was an immensely popular one. Every day, millions of people visited our site—by the end, a good month saw us bringing in around 20 million unique visitors—to see what we had to show them. You could log on in the morning to read analysis of a hockey game, come back a few hours later to a perfectly crafted headline about Lions fans copulating in a parking lot, and then return in the evening to find out that Manti Te’o’s dead girlfriend was a hoax, or why Greg Hardy was arrested, or what kind of person NBA All-Star Kevin Johnson really is.

Every day offered Deadspin an opportunity—to joke, to argue, to critique, and to uncover. The tenacity with which we seized that opportunity is what electrified the site.

Deadspin didn’t acquire all those readers by accident, and the skills its writers and editors needed to run the site every day didn’t spring from nothing. The site grew and became a better version of itself every day because of how seriously those who were entrusted with it guarded and improved upon the folkways and traditions that had been handed down by previous iterations.

Will Leitch launched the site in 2005, and from the very start gifted Deadspin with a clarity of purpose that persisted right up until our departure. The site’s motto from its 2005 launch until our last day: “Sports news without access, favor, or discretion.” In one of his first posts Leitch explained, “There’s a whole side of sports that, because of either corporate obligations or just plain laziness, never makes it into the public consciousness. We specialize in that side.”

After Leitch came A.J. Daulerio, who understood that the more Deadspin burrowed itself into the negative space created by traditional sports media institutions, the more vital the site became. Deadspin looked at ESPN and newspapers and other legacy publications the way raiding Vikings must have looked at the shores of Britain, dedicating an entire section to exposing workplace harassment at ESPN, revealing sports media stars like Jay Mariotti and Sean Salisbury as frauds and hacks, and routinely securing stories in ways that would make a journalism professor faint.

Those infamous pictures of Brett Favre? Exchanged for a paper bag stuffed with cash.

Tommy Craggs succeeded Daulerio, and during his tenure Deadspin’s already venomous bite was imbued with a political sensibility. The scope and ambition of the site also began to expand during Craggs’s tenure, and eventually the site that had started with a staff of one accumulated a stable of editors and writers, reporters with dedicated beats, as well as the budget and appetite needed to publish the sort of reported scoops and features that rivaled anything you’d expect to find in a prestigious newspaper or magazine. The site also established culture and lifestyle sections, which brought Deadspin’s voice and point of view to bear on all manner of topics, like Gamergate and Wile E. Coyote.

A funny thing started happening around this time: The site that had stood itself up by throwing bombs at various institutions was becoming something of an institution itself. This transformation continued under the stewardship of subsequent editors Tim Marchman and Megan Greenwell, both of whom worked to diversify the staff, further expand Deadspin’s coverage areas, and continue landing the sort of big, industry-leading stories that made the site an indispensable daily read.

After a while it was no longer accurate to describe Deadspin as just a sports site (though the vast majority of its coverage remained sports-related) or as a place to find rude headlines about sports columnists. What Deadspin became, what it was on the day its entire staff resigned, was a full-bodied publication. It married muckraking with a 27-word blog post headlined Tony Dungy Doesn’t Think Michael Vick Is Being Haunted By Dog Ghosts.

To an uncommon extent, readers wanted to know what Deadspin had to say. When other people in the industry would hear about how much of our traffic came directly through the homepage (as opposed to social media or search), they would stare in disbelief. Whenever someone left the site to go work at another outlet, they would invariably send a grim dispatch about how much they missed Deadspin’s built-in audience.

What was apparent to those of us who had spent years reading and creating Deadspin was that the site wasn’t defined by what it covered, but by its sensibility.

People liked reading a site that refused to condescend or patronize, that was comfortable telling ugly truths about sports and the world at large, that was rude, that was mean (usually in ways that were more illuminating than gratuitous), and that was whimsical in ways that were never insufferable. Readers didn’t come to Deadspin every day just to get their sports news or find out who won last night. They came because they liked reading Deadspin.

Where did it all go wrong, then?

There are perhaps too many points on the timeline to discuss. Maybe it was when infamous venture capitalist and Donald Trump confidant Peter Thiel, angered over sister site Gawker’s antagonistic coverage of him, secretly funded a lawsuit against Gawker Media from ex-wrestler Hulk Hogan and structured it to cause maximum damage to the company. (A loss at trial in Florida state court in March 2016 resulted in a $140 million judgment and Gawker Media’s bankruptcy.) Maybe it was when debt-laden broadcaster Univision bought the company at auction that August and then spent the next few years failing to figure out exactly what it wanted to do with us. (To wit, Univision seemed to be under the impression that Gawker Media’s sites would somehow be able to create television shows that would prop up their failing cable channel, Fusion.)  

Even if the dominoes started falling years ago, I never felt the end was in sight until Great Hill purchased the company in April of 2019. They got to work quickly, changing our name to G/O Media, and installing Spanfeller, a veteran of Forbes.com and content mills like The Daily Meal, as CEO. During his introductory meeting with the whole staff, he revealed that though he’d spent his career on the business side of digital media, his true ambition was to publish the next great American novel.

Spanfeller moved through the office like a blunt object, always more interested in how to further monetize the G/O Media sites than in the sites themselves. In an early meeting Spanfeller had with the editorial staff, he told us that his plan was to more than double G/O Media’s annual revenue within a year.

He went about executing his plan by firing the company’s top two editorial leaders, wiping out the investigations desk, and installing a coterie of former colleagues in high-level positions across the company. As Spanfeller molded the company to fit his vision, we at Deadspin found ourselves in a heated confrontation with him.

[…]

Soon it became clear that his plan for juicing G/O Media’s revenue involved turning Deadspin into the kind of site it was never supposed to be. He liked to talk about the site’s position in the “sports category,” kvetching about how poorly our revenue and traffic numbers stacked up against those of ESPN.com and SB Nation.

It didn’t seem to matter to him that sports fans would visit ESPN.com and Deadspin for entirely different reasons, or that every site ahead of us in the “sports category” had exponentially larger staffs, or that some of those same sites relied on hundreds of underpaid and unpaid bloggers to hit their traffic numbers, or that Deadspin was one of the few sites that earned its traffic without resorting to SEO plays designed to capture clicks from people searching things like “Mayweather vs. McGregor livestream.”

None of that seemed to matter to Spanfeller, because he didn’t see Deadspin the way its staff and its readers saw it. To him it was just a valuable brand name within the sports category, and with that brand name came unlimited potential for growth and profit.

[…]

Lately I’ve been thinking of Deadspin as a strange machine. For more than a decade, the people charged with the maintenance of that machine were allowed to tinker with it according to their whims and idiosyncratic tastes. The result of all that tinkering was a machine which, for all its apparent wonkiness, worked brilliantly.

The problem with a machine like that is that it’s difficult for anyone who didn’t build it, or doesn’t respect those who did, to understand exactly how or why it works. When Deadspin’s staffers and readers looked at the machine, they saw a wonderful and whirring contraption, but all Spanfeller and Great Hill saw was an odd collection of valves and pistons. They saw parts, but not the whole.

Spanfeller’s disdain for his own newsroom, the “stick to sports” memo, Petchesky being fired, and the cascade of oppressive ads—they were all signaling the same thing: Spanfeller and Great Hill weren’t really interested in preserving what we had spent the last decade building. Maybe a few components would remain to keep up appearances, but Deadspin’s demolition was coming, and we couldn’t stop it. What we could do was refuse to participate in its destruction.

What happened at Deadspin, what’s still happening at G/O Media, isn’t unique. It’s just a particular version of the same slow-motion, industry-wide disaster that’s been unfolding for years.

[emphasis mine]

Everything’s fucked now.

Newspapers have been destroyed by raiding private equity firms, alt-weeklies and blogs are financially unsustainable relics, and Google and Facebook have spent the last decade or so hollowing out the digital ad market. What survives among all this wreckage are websites and publications that are mostly bad. There’s plenty to read, the trouble is that so much of it is undergirded by a growing disregard (and in some cases even disdain) for the people doing the actual reading.

What readers are being served when a sports blog leverages its technological innovations in order to create a legion of untrained and unpaid writers? Who benefits when a media company cripples its own user experience and launches a campaign to drive away some of its best writers and editors? Whose interests are being served when a magazine masthead is gutted and replaced by a loose collection of amateurish contractors? Who ultimately wins when publications start acting less like purpose-driven institutions and more like profit drivers, primarily tasked with achieving exponential scale at any cost? What material good is produced when private equity goons go on cashing their checks while simultaneously slashing payroll throughout their newsrooms?

Things have gotten so bad that even publications that get away with defining themselves as anti-establishment are in fact servile to authority in all forms, and exist for the sole purpose of turning their readers into a captive source of profit extraction.

The truth is that nobody who matters—the readers—ever asked for any of this shit. Every bad decision that has diminished media—every pivot to video, every injection of venture capital funds, every round of layoffs, every outright destruction of a publication—was only deemed necessary by the constraints of capitalism and dull minds.

This is an industry being run by people who, having been betrayed by the promise of exponential scale and IPOs, now see cheapening and eventually destroying their own products as the only way to escape with whatever money there is left to grab.

The ability of Defector to escape these constraints will depend not only on the quality of our work, but on our ability to avoid feebly chasing dollars through a collapsing digital ad economy. We want the freedom to provide you with a site, custom-built by our partners at Alley Interactive, that isn’t clogged with pop-up ads, banner ads, video ads, and chum boxes full of spammy headlines explaining how That One Girl From Full House Looks Like A Damn Snack Now.

Me:

Nothing lasts forever, not even tumblr, and probably not even Defector.  I gave ‘em a lousy $8 this month. Hopefully I can continue to do so.

Defector’s prospects are grim, not at least because of ALL THE OTHER sporps blergs out there plus the Second Great Depression now underway. How will it end? Sued into oblivion like gawker was? Unable to find enough subscribers or advertisers to fund operations? No search traffic from google? Buried by the algorithm on facebook?  The worrying starts IF defector is viable (ie: people have money to give) and churns out not just great stories and thinkpieces but also good #content to goose the Google and Facebook algorithms. Who knows where things will be in a year.

Here’s the thing IMO: The business elite, the billionaire class, social conservatives from every income bracket, GOP acolytes, and our reviled gatekeepers at facebook & google, all are in unison on the notion that what’s posted online must be controlled.

What’s posted online should never impinge upon their collective dominance.  Authority, especially THEIR authority, must never be questioned. Even one’s inclination to question authority must be countered by intimidation and fear.  We, you and I, can have some left-ish “capitulzm sux” schtick, as a treat, but any and all critical writings on the powers that be and the way things work, anything that raises deeply pertinent and uncomfortable questions on the people who have accumulated outsize power and control over the course of our lives, that must be clamped down upon post-haste.

Peter Thiel and crew successfully went after gawker’s survival, and its select shitty posts from shitty people were a conveniently compelling argument that the website needed to go (not just the shitty people).  Later revelations made the case that much more was at play, somewhat vindicating the suspicions of Gawker’s good writers.

As Gawker has noted over the past decade:

[Thiel’s] vaunted hedge fund Clarium Capital was an abject failure, losing more than 90% of its $7 billion in assets, a decline that Valleywag assiduously chronicled.

He is an arch libertarian who believes that central mechanisms of contemporary society—including representative democracy, universal suffrage, and formalized education—are either outdated or incompatible with human freedom.

He is a loud proponent of “seasteading,” the movement to establish sovereign communities on permanent ocean vessels for the purpose of developing legal systems unencumbered by taxes or any other kind of traditional government policies.

He believes death itself can and should be cheated, and even intends to be cryogenically frozen after he passes away, in hopes that science will one day be capable of reviving him. He literally wants to live forever.

He has backed efforts to question the legitimacy of climate change science as well as political groups opposed to immigration—even though the industry that minted him as a billionaire is heavily dependent on immigrant labor.

Gizmodo’s recent coverage of Facebook, in which Thiel was an early investor and on which he has a board seat, launched a congressional investigation into the company’s news curation practices, and inspired a national conversation about the vast amount of power the company wields—with no transparency and minimal accountability—over who reads what.

These stories, which are only a small sample of those Gawker has published about Peter Thiel, largely concern his professional life: Business ventures, political positions, and public statements. But as he noted to the Times, it was concern for his “friends” that Gawker had covered that motivated his secret legal assault: “One of my friends convinced me that if I didn’t do something, nobody would.”

Hm.

The news business is indeed in dire straits right now.  As noted above in the defector blerg post, it’s definitely true that:

“Every bad decision that has diminished media—every pivot to video, every injection of venture capital funds, every round of layoffs, every outright destruction of a publication—was only deemed necessary by the constraints of capitalism and dull minds. This is an industry being run by people who, having been betrayed by the promise of exponential scale and IPOs, now see cheapening and eventually destroying their own products as the only way to escape with whatever money there is left to grab.”

I contend that THIS IS THE PLAN.  No news, after all, is good news.  Money of course is made, “profit extraction” and/or “value extraction” happens, but these companies are one part cynical profiteers but also one part ideologues: an informed electorate is BAD. Fuck this, the public doesn’t need to know jack shit about anything.

Via The New Republic, posted Oct 2019:

This is not to further pan for lamentations over the demise of a website. Splinter and its parent company was already something of a distressed asset—its status as such, in fact, likely played no small role in attracting the attention of Great Hill in the first place. But the wider world of mass media is filled with other such distressed assets, from the websites spawned in the heyday of venture capital media mavens, to long-standing local and regional newspapers, straining to balance their journalistic mission with an ever decreasing supply of capital.

It feels increasingly like the terms of journalism—which kinds of outlets get to do it, who gets paid enough to live doing it, which communities get coverage—are set by the rich.

The best case scenario is that journalists become part of a billionaire’s patronage network.

When Splinter shuttered, former Gawker writer Brendan O’Connor wrote that “the workplace under capitalism is a dictatorship, and the dictatorship of private equity is an especially arbitrary one.” It’s a shame that journalism—something with such obvious broad societal value, and that should be wholly antagonistic to the rich and powerful—should be mostly done for private profit, with all the compromises that come with that. But the sad fact of journalism’s dependence on profit-making becomes far more grotesque and dangerous when the profiteers in question are financial sector wheeler-dealers.

This particular flavor of profiteers seek a higher yield, faster, with no regard for the long-term sustainability of the business.

Alden Global Capital, which owns Digital First Media (DFM) and its publications like The Denver Post, drained hundreds of millions of dollars from DFM for their own gain. It can be confounding to contemplate: How can a hedge fund profit from destroying the value of what it just bought? Remarkably, they can.

As The American Prospect explainedin detail last year, private equity can make big bucks off destroying local papers if it “strips staffing and siphons off cash flow.” Papers continue to make money off local advertisers who still value them, even as the quality of the journalism collapses; cutting costs by laying off staff or centralizing production can speed it up. Essentially, the long-term consequences to profits don’t catch up fast enough to prevent the hedge fund owners from stripping the assets, who then flip the carcass.

That’s how you end up with instances in which Alden executives “rewarded themselves with tens of millions of dollars’ worth of prime real estate in Florida and the Hamptons for their personal enjoyment.”

The “War on Journalism” isn’t a myth, it’s a bone fide pursuit. There has never been a “liberal media” and the corporations that own news organizations very much prefer it stay that way.  Facebook and google siphoning away ad dollars helps immensely to this end.

Take Advance Publications and the Newhouse family!

Via the CJR, posted Dec 2013:

Often represented to employees as an extraordinary worker benefit, The Pledge, in fact, had its roots in the antipathy of the late Advance founder S.I. “Sam” Newhouse, Sr. toward organized labor.

“I refuse to stand by passively and allow any union to ‘bust’ me,” he wrote in A Memo to My Children, a thin, self-published memoir that is apparently the only personally penned record of his life and career.

After acrimonious and sometimes violent contract negotiations and strikes at Advance-owned newspapers in New York, Oregon, Missouri, and Ohio in the 1930s through the mid-1960s, Sam Newhouse, apparently in consultation with his son, Donald, is believed to have crafted the Pledge. (The Newhouses have declined to talk to reporters and authors about the Pledge, including me when I was researching my recently released book about the “digital first” changes at the Times-Picayune and other Advance newspapers.)

Over the years, the Pledge became “so well-known throughout the newspaper industry that it was almost considered legendary,” according to a 2009 lawsuit by former Mobile, AL, Press-Register Publisher Howard Bronson, who sued after he was dismissed from his $745,000-a-year post at the Advance paper while The Pledge was still in force. (The suit was settled for an undisclosed amount in April 2011.)

When originally instituted in the mid-1960s, The Pledge explicitly promised employees that they would not lose their jobs “because of technological changes or economic conditions so long as the newspaper continues to publish and [employees] are willing to retrain for another job, if necessary.”

It was modified in 2008 to cover only permanent, non-union employees of Advance’s daily newspapers “published in newsprint form.” The addition of this fine print set the stage for the arrival of the digital initiative, which began in 2009 at the Newhouse-owned Ann Arbor News in Michigan. Layoffs were now technically permissible under the still-in-force Pledge because that newspaper went from daily to twice-weekly. And in July 2009, 214 jobs were eliminated at the Ann Arbor News.

Advance rescinded The Pledge altogether in February 2010, when the newspaper industry was deep into its long and ugly nosedive.

“We felt that it was the right thing to communicate to people that we could no longer afford not having the flexibility to do something if the revenue challenges continue,” Steven Newhouse told The New York Times in August 2009. “I think the policy was meant for a time when the newspaper business had ups and downs, but was relatively stable. It was not meant for a time when our newspapers, like others, are struggling to survive.”

…

Deadspin, amongst its furious shitposting, and kinda like gawker (when it wasn’t fucking shitty), spoke truth to power.

There is a concerted effort to end that, online and elsewhere.

There’s a concerted effort to control what’s posted online and what information can be freely accessed.

(my bad and shitty theory: The overarching, unifying reasons are power, control & domination. Conservatives want far-left views that threaten them to be vanquished, businesses want preferential treatment to do whatever the fuck they want, the billionaire class want their wealth protected from the guillotines of the working class, the GOP wants political power in perpetuity, Facebook & Google are run by rapacious ghouls and ideologues.  ALL OF THEM want control over what becomes public information and #content just for their individual safety from the rebellious unwashed masses, as recent advances in AI will mean a lot less people employed anywhere, and that + climate change = guillotines for the rich.)

TL;DR: Corporate media sucks. Check out Defector.

[newstfionline]

Headlines

Americans hit hard by layoffs worry about homelessness (Yahoo Money) With unemployment claims at historic highs as the pandemic grounds the economy to a halt, many Americans are struggling with diminished savings, unpaid bills, and worries over homelessness, according to a new study from Varo Money shared exclusively with Yahoo Money. One in 4 renters who lost a job or income due to the COVID-19 outbreak worry they could become homeless, while 1 in 7 homeowners with a mortgage said the same, the survey of 1,234 lower and middle-class Americans earning up to $75,000 found. Among the renters who have lost their income, 2 in 5 expect to make their rent for a maximum of three to four weeks and 1 in 4 expect to be able to afford their rent for one to two months. “Many of these people actually fear if they will be able to cover the rent, and homelessness is becoming a real issue,” Varo Money’s CEO Colin Walsh told Yahoo Money. “We’re talking about people that do not have emergency savings, they really don’t have any backstop.”

Reopening Has Begun. No One Is Sure What Happens Next. (NYT) Politicians and public health experts have sparred for weeks over when, and under what circumstances, to allow businesses to reopen and Americans to emerge from their homes. But another question could prove just as thorny—how? It isn’t clear what, exactly, it means to gradually restart a system with as many interlocking pieces as the U.S. economy. How can one factory reopen when its suppliers remain shuttered? How can parents return to work when schools are still closed? How can older people return when there is still no effective treatment or vaccine? What is the government’s role in helping private businesses that may initially need to operate at a fraction of their normal capacity? “We live in an economy where there are lots of interconnections between different sectors,” said Joseph S. Vavra, an economist at the University of Chicago. “Saying you want to reopen gradually is more easily said than done.”

Advertising adjusts for a new reality: Sweatpants for staying home and toilet paper that cares (Washington Post) “Just stay home” seems like an unusual sell from a hotel-booking service, but these are unusual times. Companies large and small are figuring out how to make ads that don’t seem insensitive or as if they’re from a different time, when people took beach vacations, ate in restaurants and wore shoes. On television, brands are switching to reassuring platitudes, telling viewers, “We’re in this together,” or in the touching words of one toilet paper company, “Together, we’ll keep America rolling.” On social media sites like Instagram, more advertisements are targeting those shut in, with extremely to-the-point messages shilling sweatpants, wine and food delivery, DIY hair dye kits, and home-office gadgets.

Foreign Students Stranded by Coronavirus (NYT) When universities abruptly shut down last month because of the coronavirus pandemic, many students returned to their parents’ homes, distraught over having to give up their social lives and vital on-campus networking opportunities. Graduating seniors lost the chance to cross anything but a virtual commencement stage. But the campus closures have created much greater calamity in the lives of the more than a million international students who left their home countries to study in the United States. Many had been living in college dorms and were left to try to find new housing, far from home in a country under lockdown. A substantial number of international students are also watching their financial lives fall apart: Visa restrictions prevent them from working off campuses, which are now closed. And while some come from families wealthy enough to pay for their housing or whisk them home, many others had already been struggling to cobble together tuition fees that tend to be much higher than those paid by Americans. As their bank accounts dwindle, some international students say they have had to turn to food banks for help. Others are couch surfing in the family homes of their friends but don’t know how long they will be welcome.

Skip college this fall? (Miami Herald) With time growing short and the future uncertain, many high school students are considering skipping college in the fall. The coronavirus pandemic has left many universities uncertain whether they’ll be able to welcome students to campus after summer, and many students don’t want to pay for top-flight universities if they can’t get the full in-person experience. Some say they may skip a year. Some may opt for cheaper alternatives like community colleges. Either way, the coronavirus could leave its mark on higher education long after the pandemic fades.

US senator Lindsey Graham believes Kim Jong Un ‘dead or incapacitated’ (The Independent) US senator Lindsey Graham said he believes North Korean dictator Kim Jong Un is “dead or incapacitated” following unconfirmed reports of his demise. Rumours of Kim Jong Un’s death have swirled since he missed the commemoration of the 108th birthday of his grandfather, North Korea founder Kim Il Sung, ten days ago. North Korean authorities have said nothing to counter media reports that Mr Kim is unwell, prompting concerns about who is next in line to run a nuclear-armed country that has been ruled by the same family for seven decades. South Korean and US officials have repeatedly indicated that there have been no unusual signs that could indicate health problems for Kim. A US official told Reuters the latest rumors about Kim’s health had not changed the US assessment of the information as “speculation.”

A pandemic of corruption mars the coronavirus response (Washington Post) When officials in his home state began giving food boxes to families hit by Colombia’s coronavirus lockdown, lawmaker Ricardo Quintero was struck by the exorbitant prices being paid to the vendors. So he armed himself with pictures of the coffee, pasta and other goods and went down to his local grocery store. There, he bought the same products for roughly half the supposedly bulk-rate prices being paid by the government of Cesar state. The comparison shopping prompted one of what is now 14 coronavirus-related criminal probes in Colombia. The South American country is one of many around the world now seeing a surge in corruption allegations. Countries large and small are shelling out trillions of dollars to combat both the coronavirus outbreak and its brutal economic fallout in what analysts are calling the largest financial response ever to a single global crisis. As governments race to source everything from food aid to face masks, they are prioritizing speed over transparency, dropping competitive bidding and other safeguards to keep pace with the pandemic. Most have no choice. Given the speed of the still unfolding crisis, it’s either buy quickly or put millions at risk. But concern is rising about the percentage of the taxpayer dollars—and euros and yen and pesos and more—lining the pockets of corrupt bureaucrats, crony contractors and crime syndicates.

UK PM Boris Johnson returns to face growing virus divisions (AP) British Prime Minister Boris Johnson is returning to work after recovering from a coronavirus infection that put him in intensive care, with his government facing growing criticism over the deaths and disruption the virus has caused. Johnson’s office said he would be back at his desk in 10 Downing St. on Monday, two weeks after he was released from a London hospital. Foreign Secretary Dominic Raab, who has been standing in for the prime minister, said Sunday that Johnson was “raring to go.” Britain has recorded more than 20,000 deaths among people hospitalized with COVID-19, the fifth country in the world to reach that total. Thousands more are thought to have died in nursing homes.

Kids in Spain relish outdoor hour as virus lockdowns ease (AP) Shrieks of joy rang out Sunday in the streets of Spain as children were allowed to leave their homes for the first time in six weeks, while people in Italy and France were eager to hear their leaders’ plans for easing some of the world’s strictest coronavirus lockdowns. The sound of children shouting and the rattle of bikes on the pavement after the 44-day seclusion of Spain’s youngest citizens offered a first taste of a gradual return to normal life in the country that has the second-highest number of confirmed infections behind the United States. “This is wonderful! I can’t believe it has been six weeks,” Susana Sabaté, a mother of 3-year-old twin boys, said in Barcelona. “My boys are very active. Today when they saw the front door and we gave them their scooters, they were thrilled.”

Japan challenged in working from home amid pandemic (AP) When the Japanese government declared an emergency to curb the spread of the coronavirus earlier this month and asked people to work from home, crowds rushed to electronics stores. So much for social distancing. Many Japanese lack the basic tools needed to work from home. Contrary to the ultramodern image of Japan Inc. with its robots, design finesse and gadgetry galore, in many respects the country is technologically challenged. But the bigger obstacle is Japanese corporate culture, experts say. Offices still often rely on faxes instead of email. Many homes lack high-speed internet connections, and documents often must be stamped in-person with carved seals called “hanko,” which serve as signatures. So many Japanese really cannot work remotely, at least not all the time. A survey by YouGov, a British market researcher, found only 18% of those recently surveyed were able to avoid commuting to school or work, even though a relatively high 80% of people in Japan are afraid of catching the virus.

Netanyahu ‘confident’ US will support West Bank annexation (AP) Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu says he is “confident” he will be able to annex large parts of the occupied West Bank this summer, with support from the U.S. Netanyahu says President Donald Trump’s Mideast plan envisions turning over Israel’s dozens of settlements, as well as the strategic Jordan Valley, to Israeli control.

[freedomartspress]

Three Poems — Tongo Eisen Martin

Kick Drum Only

All street life to a certain extent starts fair

Sometimes with a spiritual memory even

Predawn soul-clap/ your father dying even

Maybe I’ve pushed the city too far

My sensitivities to landfill districting and minstrel whistles/

White supremacist graffiti on westbound rail guards 

-all overcome and reauthored

The garbage is growing voices

Condensed Marxism 

modal gangsterism for a warrior-depressive

Underpass in my pocket

because I am a deity

or decent bid on the Panther name 

revolutionary violence that chose its own protagonists 

or muted stage of genius

A merciful Marxism        

Disquieted home life 

Or metaphor for relaxing next to a person 

Who is relaxing next to a gun

I stare at my father for a few seconds 

Then return to my upbringing

Return to the souls of Ohio Black folks

Revolution is damn near pagan at this point

You know what the clown wants? The respect of the ant. 

Wants a pen cap full of bullets

Wants to see their ancestors in broad daylight

I am not tired of these rooms; just tired of the world that give them a relativity 

My only change of clothes prosecuted

The government has finally learned how to write poems

shoot-outs that briefly align…

that make up a parable

white bodies are paid well, I posit

do white men actually even have leaders?

all white people are white men

white men will only ever be metaphors

all I do is practice, Lord

A rat pictures a river

Can almost taste the racial divide

Can almost roll a family member’s head into a city hall legislative chamber

Knows who in this good book will fly

I have decided not to talk out of anger ever again, Lord

Met my wife at the same time I met new audience members for our pain

We passed each other cigarettes and watched cops win

A city gone uniquely linear

Harlem of the West due a true universe 

 “I will always remember you in fancy clothes,” my wife said 

so here I sit… twisting in silk ideation

  My rifle made of tar

My targets made of an honest language

This San Francisco poetry is how God knows that it is me whining 

Writing among the lesser-respected wolves

Lesser-observed militarization

Dixie-less prison bookkeeping/I mean the California gray-coats are coming 

lynch mob gossip and bourgeois debt collection

I mean, it’s tempting to change professions mid-poem

in a Chicago briefing, a white sergeant saying, “blank slate for all of us after this Black organizer is dead.”

standard academics toasting two-buck wine at the tank parade

bay of nothing, Lord

  nuclear cobblestones, gunline athleticism  

and the last of the inherited asthma

children given white dolls to play with and fear

facial expressions borrowed from rich people’s shoe strings

I can hear hate

And teach hate

And call tools by people names

And name people dead to themselves

no one getting naturalized except federal agents soon 

carving the equator into throats soon

I’m sorry to make you relive all of this, Lord

pre-dawn monarchy 

friends putting up politician posters then snorting the remainder of the paste

minstrel scripts shoveled into the walls by their elders

my children sharpening quarters on the city’s edge

For these audiences

I project myself into a ghost like state

For these gangsters, I do the same

every now and then, we take a nervous look east

Sleep becomes Christ

Sleep starts growing a racial identity

do you ever spiral, Lord?

has the gang-age betrayed us?

be patient with my poems, Lord

So much pain

there is a point to crime… 

There has to be if race traitors come with it

 Lord, is that my revolver in your hand?

Better presidents than these have yawned at cages

Have called us holy slaves

Filled the school libraries with cop documentaries

Baby, I don’t have money for food

I have no present moment at all

/

I Do Not Know the Spelling of Money

I go to the railroad tracks

And follow them to the station of my enemies

A cobalt-toothed man pitches pennies at my mugshot negative

All over the united states, there are

Toddlers in the rock

I see why everyone out here got in the big cosmic basket

And why blood agreements mean a lot

And why I get shot back at

I understand the psycho-spiritual refusal to write white history or take the glass freeway

White skin tattooed on my right forearm 

Ricochet sewage near where I collapsed 

into a rat-infested manhood

My new existence as living graffiti 

In the kitchen with

a lot of gun cylinders to hack up

House of God in part

No cops in part

My body brings down the Christmas 

The new bullets pray over blankets made from old bullets

Pray over the 28th hour’s next beauty mark

Extrajudicial confederate statue restoration 

the waist band before the next protest poster 

By the way,

Time is not an illusion, your honor

I will return in a few whirlwinds

I will save your desk for last

You are witty, your honor

You’re moving money again, your honor

It is only raining one thing: non-white cops

And prison guard shadows 

Reminding me of

Spoiled milk floating on an oil spill

A neighborhood making a lot of fuss over its demise

A new lake for a Black Panther Party

Malcom X’s ballroom jacket slung over my son’s shoulders

Pharmacy doors mid-slide

         The figment of village

                     a noon noose to a new white preacher

Wiretaps in the discount kitchen tile

-All in an abstract painting of a president

Bought slavers some time, didn’t it?

The tantric screeches of military bolts and Election-Tuesday cars

A cold-blooded study in leg irons

Leg irons in tornado shelters

Leg irons inside your body

  Proof that some white people have actually fondled nooses

That sundown couples 

made their vows of love over   

opaque peach plastic

and bolt action audiences     

Man, the Medgar Evers-second is definitely my favorite law of science

Fondled news clippings and primitive Methodists 

My arm changes imperialisms 

Simple policing vs. Structural frenzies

Elementary school script vs. Even whiter white spectrums

Artless bleeding and

the challenge of watching civilians think

     “terrible rituals they have around the corner. They let their elders beg for public mercy…beg for settler polity”

“I am going to go ahead and sharpen these kids’ heads into arrows myself and see how much gravy spills out of family crests.”

Modern fans of war

    What with their t-shirt poems

    And t-shirt guilt

And me, having on the cheapest pair of shoes on the bus, 

I have no choice but to read the city walls for signs of my life

                                                                                     /

The Chicago Prairie Fire

First, I must apologize to the souls of the house

I am wearing the cheek bones of the mask only

Pill bottle, my name is yours

Name tagged on the side of a factory of wrists

Teeth of the mask now

Back of the head of the mask now 

        New phase of anti-anthropomorphism fending for real faces

Stuck with one of those cultures that believes I chose this family

I am not creative

Just the silliest of the revolutionaries

My blood drying on 

   my only jacket

just as God got playful

the police state’s psychic middlemen

Evangelizing for the creation of an un-masses 

An un-Medgar

Blood of a lamb less racialized

or awesome prison sentence

Good God

Elder-abuse hired for the low

dog eat genius

Right angle made between a point

On a Louisiana plantation

And 5-year old’s rubber ball 

3 feet high and falling

like a deportee plane 

to complete my interpretation 

(of garden variety genocide) 

I am small talk

about loving your enemies

A little more realistically

About paper tigers 

And also gold…

I need my left hand back 

I broke my neck on the piano keys

Found paradise in a fistfight

Maybe I should check into the Cuba line

Watching the universe’s last metronomes

some call Black Jacobins

Just wait…

These religions will start resigning in a decade or two

Some colorfully 

Some transactional-ly

In a cotton gothic society

Class betrayal gone glassless/ I mean ironically/ my window started fogging over too 

Wondering which Haiti will get me through this winter

Which poem houses souls

Which socialist breakthroughs

Breakthroughs like ten steps back

Then finally stillness

Stillness

Then stillness among families

a John Brown biography takes a bow

I’m up next to introduce Prosser to Monk

I remember childhood

Remember the word “Childhood” being a beginning 

Scribbling on an amazing grace 

I rented this body from some circumference of slavery

Remember being kicked out of the Midwest

Strange fruit theater

Lithium and circuses

Likeminded stomachs 

The ruling class blessing their blank checks with levy foam…

                            with opioid tea 

Sentient dollar bills yelling to each other pocket to pocket

Cello stands in the precinct for accompanying counterrevolutionaries 

My mother raised me with a simple pain

A poet loses his mind, you know, like the room has weather

Or first-girlfriend gravity

Police-knock gravity 

Mind-game gravity

Or revolution languishing behind 

The sugar in my good friend’s mind

“The difference between me and you

Is that the madness

Wants me forever”

A pair of apartments

Defining both my family

And political composure

Books behind my back

Bail money paved into the streets

Playing:

Euphoria

Euphoria

Cliché

Bracing for the medicine’s recoil

Sharing a dirty deli sandwich with my friends

Black Jacobins

Underground topography

Or grandmother’s hands

Psychology of the mask now

Teeth of the mask again

—

Originally from San Francisco, Tongo Eisen-Martin is a movement worker and educator who has organized against mass incarceration and extra-judicial killing of Black people throughout the United States. His latest curriculum on extrajudicial killing of Black people, We Charge Genocide Again, has been used as an educational and organizing tool throughout the country. His book of poems, Someone’s Dead Already was nominated for a California Book Award.

[luckyjak]

fic: I tend to make it about me

After catching Caleb and Essik kissing, the Mighty Nein have questions. Caleb...doesn't really have answers. [Shadowgast, sequel to "I never leave well enough alone" (AO3 Link) but can probably be read alone]

AO3 Link

It was bound to happen at some point. He knew it was going to happen, ever since he kissed Essik, and Jester and Beau came screaming into the room, interrupting them, he knew this conversation was bound to happen.

He had just hoped his makeshift family would give him a moment to collect his thoughts before the interrogation begun. An hour to himself. Thirty minutes. Honestly, at this point, he would have gladly taken literally any time longer than it took for Essik’s shadowed form to leave the entrance to their home.

But as Essik turned the corner and left, Nott and Yeza turned it, too, and walked up to the porch where Caleb was still standing. There was a little bit of snow falling on the ground. The goblin/halfling pair smiled at him warmly, their arms full of grocery sacks. “He seemed like he was off in a hurry,” Yeza noted, a bit of snow stuck to his glasses.

“A little bit,” Caleb agreed, rushing forward to help carry things, taking one sack from Nott and another from Yeza. (Ah, not groceries--alchemic supplies--although some of it still looked edible.) “He was late for a meeting with the Bright Queen,”

“Ah,” Nott nodded. “Got distracted studying magic and lost track of time?”

“More like got distracted by Caleb’s dick,” Beau announced herself from behind Caleb, waltzing out of the front porch. Caduceus must have put her down at some point. The traitor.

Nott dropped her bag of supplies, causing a small purple fire to erupt in their yard. “What?”

“Your boy-toy’s gone, right?” Beau continued to ask Caleb, even as Yeza panicked to stop the fire. ( “Boy-toy???” Nott cowed). “Family meeting time, then.”

Caleb was certain his face was as red as his hair. He ran his hand down his face to cover it anyway. “Beauregard. Tactful as ever,” He grimaced. “Can’t it wait until later? After dinner, perhaps?”

“Absolutely not,” the monk shook her head. “Should’ve talked about it sooner, but I didn’t realize you two were involved.”

“ Involved???” Nott howled, and Yeza yelped backwards, trying to shield the bag of supplies with his body. “Caleb, he’s a spy!  From the Bright Queen!”

“I know, Nott,”

“He could be trying to kill you! And you’re gonna sleep with him???” Nott yelled. “Did we learn nothing from the Avantika fiasco?”

Yeza looked confused. “Who's Avantika?”

“Oh yeah, Fjord has thoughts about that,” Beau pointed back at the house with her thumb. “Part of the reason for the family meeting. He’s worried about security,” she did give Caleb a sheepish look though, as if she finally realized she might have overreacted to the wrong thing.

“He could be using you!”

“Using me for what, Nott?” Caleb sighed, feeling a migraine come on. “For my impressive collection of outdated Empire secrets? For my magical talents, of which he vastly outclasses me?”

Nott’s face was a darker green. “You underestimate your talents! You are a smart, resourceful, intelligent young man--”

“I am thirty years old,” He interrupted her. “Hardly a young man. I know my worth, and I know what I’m not,” He frowned at her, head pounding against his skull. “Is it really so unbelievable that a man like Essik might actually like me?”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all!” Nott hollered. "Of course Essik should like you! Everyone should like you! But he's absolutely loyal to the Bright Queen, and--"

“I’m going to put these away before we start another fire,” Yeza interrupted, his voice more solid and grounded than Caleb had heard it before. Normally, the halfling was a bit squeaky and quiet, but right now he sounded, well, leader-ish. “Caleb, be a dear and carry the rest of them with me,”

Nott and Beau immediately began talking over one another: “But we aren’t finished--” “Family meeting, right now, Fjord said--”

“--We’re gonna put the supplies away in the lab, and then we’re gonna go have a family meeting,” Yeza interrupted. “Some of these supplies are dangerous,” he gestured to where the smoke was finally starting to go out beside Nott, “It will only take a minute. I think everyone can wait that long, at least.”

Nott looked at ground, sheepish. “I can help put things away--”

“Might be better if you didn’t, though,”

Yeza gave her a look, and Nott gave him a look back, and as far as Caleb could tell they were having an entire nonverbal conversation for the two minutes they stood there, until, eventually, Yeza grinned. “It’ll be fine. Caleb can help me.”

“...Alright,” Nott requested, giving a sheepish look to Caleb, and then to Yeza, “I’ll head to the War Room with the others.”

Beau pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then pointed them back at Caleb. “Five minutes. Then I’m dragging you.”

The girls left then, leaving Yeza and Caleb alone, holding three sacks of alchemical supplies between them.

“...Thank you, Yeza,” Caleb offered sheepishly, as they carried the supplies back to the library/lab. The chair was still broken on the floor, and Caleb felt himself color at the thought of what broke the chair, less than an hour ago.

“Veth means well, but she can be a bit overprotective.” Yeza admitted, setting the supplies on the alchemical lab in the back. “I’m certain the others are probably very similar in that regard.” Caleb started pulling ingredients out of bags to put away when Yeza shoved him. “None of that. You’ve only got five minutes to yourself to figure out what you want to say,” He pushed Caleb gently in the direction of Caleb’s bedroom. “I can put this stuff away. You go get your head on straight.”

It was in that moment that Yeza became Caleb’s favorite member of the Mighty Nein, whether he was officially a member or not.

Caleb flomped onto his bed, snapped his fingers to summon Frumpkin, and buried his head into his pillow. His ginger cat purred, rubbing against Caleb’s stomach before curling into a ball next to him. Instinctively, Caleb began petting him.

What to say, what to say? Caleb didn’t even know where to begin. Calm down, he told himself, taking deep breaths, and trying to calm the racing panic in his chest. It was always easier for him to picture himself as the interrogator instead of the interrogatee. Think about this rationally--what would you want to say if Jester were the one kissing Essik instead?

The thought of Jester and Essik kissing made Caleb’s stomach roll, the familiar sting of jealousy rearing its ugly head, even in a hypothetical situation.

Well, first I would want to know if they were serious. Caleb rationed, his stomach in knots.

Well, are you and Essik serious?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know what Essik’s intentions were. Did the drow spymaster want a relationship with Caleb? Did he want he just want a quick fuck and then that would be the end of it? Did he want a friends-with-benefits relationship? Did he--god forbid--did he wish tocourt Caleb?

Caleb didn’t know the answer. They hadn’t gotten a chance to talk about it before Essik had to leave.

Well, what do you want your relationship to be, then?

...Caleb didn’t know the answer to that one, either.

He tried to imagine, for a moment, what it would be like if he and Essik just fucked. And it was a good image: hard, rough, fast. Satisfying. Over too quickly, but a release of the tension that had been building since he met the man. He would--he would like that.

But then he imagined being with Essik. Holding his hand. Reading together, quietly. Trading soft kisses and quiet conversation. Long walks in moonlight. Discussing magical theory while playing footsies over dinner. Drinking wine and having loud, playful arguments over magical application and spellwork.

The second was...infinitely preferable.

I think I want whatever Essik wants, he answered himself, honestly and truthfully. But I would prefer a relationship, I think.

Gods, he was so fucked.

And the extent of your feelings?

A crush. That was an easy one to answer. He had a crush, and it was a crush that, perhaps, with time and affection, may blossom into something more meaningful. But right now it was just a crush: a rush of affection for a handsome man for whom he was attracted to.

And if you had to choose between him and the Nein?

He’d choose the Nein, every time. He’d had his heart broken before, and he had gotten over it then. He could get over it again. But what he had with the Nein was something special, something unique. He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

After that, it seemed only a matter to figure out what questions specific members of the Nein would ask him.

Jester would be concerned about kissing, ( “Do you like kissing him, Caleb? Is he nice? Is he a good kisser?”) Yes, he did like kissing him. Yes, he is very nice. Yes, he is a good kisser.

Caduceus--Caduceus would be concerned with matters of the heart ( “Has he treated you well?”) .  So far, the answer was yes.

Yasha would be protective ( “If he hurts you, I can break him.”) or maybe soft (“Does he like flowers?”) He didn’t know if Essik like flowers, but it was a thought worth pursuing.

Beau--Beau was a toss up; she could go a lot of different ways (“What’s his dick like?” to “If you tell me literally anything about him I’ll punch you.”) Which, okay, he could deal with.

Nott would fret, maybe, or worse, become over-invested. ( “Does he intend to marry you?”) Which...Nott, please , please don’t say or do anything, he prayed quickly.

Really, it was Fjord’s questions that worried Caleb the most. (“ What if Essik is evil, and he’s planning on using you, like Avantika?”)

He didn’t get a chance to answer; his thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at his door. “Sorry Caleb,” he heard Yeza’s familiar squeak. “It’s time.”

“It’s alright,” he stood up, stretched, and petted Frumpkin one last time. He grabbed his dark coat off of his desk and put it on.

It was showtime.

Notes:

There will be a chapter two, and it will involve Essik's perspective.

[postcards-to-home]

Split Seconds: 2019

Amongst the dozen or so strangers around me I sit nuzzled between rows 6 &8. Philly lies some 10,000 feet below. The engine purrs softly with each flutter my eyes drift effortlessly towards stillness under the perpetuating night sky.

In dreams I see the faces of those I’ve met haphazardly in my travels. The students I bond with over memories of cheap wine and late-night thrills at Manly corso; the elderly who sit and chat with me about their grandchildren and medical procedures; even the uber drivers who share their love affairs found from words with friends. It’s the everything in-between crisscrossing the unconscious mind.

My new life I remind myself is in constant motion and so must I be. Zig-zaging terminals I curse under my breathe, praying to the lord for an on time departure. With my best friend in tow, my dingy gray suitcase, my day is a constant uphill battle of avoiding my ankles and slow-poke people.  A love affair in the constant throws of “F*ck my life,” & “ I have the greatest job of all time,” (said no one ever).

Mentally I was trained for this. Laughably this entire year I have captured a total of 3 weeks combined training from the two firms I have been employed by- and I can say I think I’m doing A-ok. My 1st job out of college I learned its okay to decide if something is or isn’t right for you. Its 100% okay to move on too- and fast, if a better opportunity arises. It also taught me the value of obtaining strong leader figures in the office. Not necessarily how to be a manager but how to observe what works, how to engage with others effectively and ultimately how not too.

Mistakes are inevitable.

On my very 1st business trip to Hunt Valley, Maryland for whatever reason a conversation was provoked among an older gentleman and I and we chatted the entire way. Come to find out this sharp older gentleman was once the CEO of a hospital in the capital district; a professor at USC and was heading south to see family. The value from this conversation will always be intangible. It was  the 1st time in my professional life I was able to speak not only about who I am as a person, But I  had someone engage in a conversation with me for no other reason than pure interest, and in a non- creepy way. We spoke of antiques, my on again/off again ebay career and content of college curriculum. He explained he managed a young Entrepreneurs group on campus and worked with students to gain shareholders in their startups.

Before we departed ways he said , “Thank you for the lovely chat, I feel deeply that you will be successful one day with whatever you choose to do. You should feel really proud of yourself with hat you’ve accomplished.” (Paraphrased)

It was his words that propelled me into an orbit of motion, setting what would be the tone for the year. In that moment I etched realization into my mind that my abilities generate power I never was aware I held. There was my small voice-heard and admired. Channeling it to engage the right audience became possible after that.

I left my 1st job after just 6 months. Without any regrets.  I sincerely miss mid-day banter with some of my co-workers, but thankfully we still stay in touch.

The road leading to my departure was a rocky one. Still living at home, thankful for my parents gratitude and safe haven I couldn’t help but feel left out of the mix from my peers. While they rounded of  their senior years I was strapped to a desk sifting through excel spreadsheets. In no way did I ever want to back track into the college scene, making money is and always will be exciting. But doing what I was doing, well not so much.

I accepted a position as a Regional Manager for the institution I studied abroad at as many of you have recognized. I am sincerely thankful for the support received throughout this half of my journey this year. I travel, I meet with students both future and former, I do paper work sporadically and I idle at my desk when necessary. It has forced me to both think outside of the box as well as use my voice as the ultimate creative outlet and driving force for success. My soundboard-everchanging day to day.

Through my position I’ve managed to make student’s dreams come true a reward I’ll never take lightly. Its become my daily excitement to hear from students their own excitement about their journey ahead, even having the smallest footprint on their pathway to success has become gratifying in its own respects. Then there are my travels, though sporadic they have led me to meet old friends from my own time studying abroad and new friends alike.

The entire essence of meeting people has opened doorways never thought possible. The most delightful part of 2019 has been meeting others and hearing their own words of insight and stories they too long to share. Spending more time than intended on park benches with near strangers discussing their time in an indigenous tribe in brazil is just scratching the surface of my amusement. It’s a small victory for the once shyest little girl ever.

As I write this it has been 1 full year to the day since I have graduated. In that small span of time I celebrated the New Year in Iceland with two of the most important people in my life, Nick & Jay. We managed to survive Iceland in January, watch the fireworks at Hallgrímskirkja church on New Year’s Eve and not throttle each other after every petty argument, including the 20 minute screaming match that included phrases with “fiber one brownies” and “stupid , useless bitches.”

And then there was Australia. After visiting for the first time in a year in a half my heart felt fully mended. The winters chill couldn’t hold me from breakfast by the beach or wearing my heels to dinner with friends. Being reunited with people who changed my sense of self left that full circle feeling. Yes, quite literally I could have floated into the sun. That is until I had to venture home yet again and my whole world felt displaced yet again. I will live here one day I said outloud, despite what my dad whispers to my mom, “that will never happen.”

Even jay, My bestfriend came to Oz and fell in love with my world.Our trip in November couldn’t have been anymore magical. We soaked in the sun on the beaches of Noosa heads, swam in exotic Tea Tree Lake feeling rejuvenated and watched the sunrise at the Sydney Opera House. Skipping through the Royal Botanical gardens smelling flowers I knew life was grand. Nicole Reine was the Queen on the moment, just like my name says. To have jay wander through the castle I lived and Worked in let nothing but utter giddiness in me. Christmas came early and we couldn’t have enjoyed ourselves more. I will live here one day, felt firmer.

Some of my favorite moments were those sitting in the shed with loved ones after their returns from long journeys: Nick, Tommy, Grace and Emily. We all sat and shared stories from far away places as our minds melted to mush, the sun setting lower in the sky and the colors over Willard mountain fizzled from golden hues to cooling colors of the night sky. The small talks lingered near the kitchen table not on or next to but just around, the dogs lied close by, fading to sleep on the hard wood floors mom never could keep quite clean. It’s the comings and going that are hard to keep up with. But those moments always end as quickly as they come.

It’s a strange thing to realize the moment you leave your childhood home it will never be exactly how you left it. The stars you won at an arcade in Myrtle beach and hung on your ceiling will eventually come down. The color of your walls once chosen with excitement, will be painted over with fresh shades of cream your mother likes. And the emptiness of what once was but never will be, will swallow you whole. I realized this sad feeling creep up as I lay on my empty bedroom floor with my mom and dad huddled tightly around a pile of buttons. Not justa a pile but a ginormous, 40 pound pile of buttons once held safely in their jug, now shattered sharply amongst us. That’s what happens when you leave. Everything shifts, and somethings just can’t handle that. But I sure am sad about that jug of buttons, it was a lifetime labor of love collecting them.

There’s no jug of Buttons in our house on Center Street and im beginning to feel okay with that. Gramma’s blue oriental rug keeps our living room feeling nice and cozy. A small reminder she would have adored the space Jay and I call home.I can almost picture her now tinkering with my knick-knacks on the shelves, just ever so slightly so we wouldn’t notice. Marissa comes and goes as she pleases and the porch never does stay dirt free. I now see why mom’s kitchen floors never could stay clean. Its not Herrington Road but I’ll take it